#the deeper lodged in my brain they become

[crows-of-buckets]

Being plagued by Visions (the silly little guys in my head)

[dyeher]

Warnings| slight size kink, slight cervix fucking, mirror sex.

“You’ve never had anyone this deep,” Katsuki muses. You assume he must have deduced this from your expression. From what you can make of it through your blurry vision, you look stunned. Disbelieving of how far inside you his cock is lodged.

He shifts his hips and your eyes cross. Katsuki chuckles. “Oh, sweetheart,” he coos. “That’s really fucking sad.” He withdraws from your body, hips sticky with your mixed arousal and slams into you with enough force to jostle you up the bed. Your lips part on a silent scream, your reflection in the mirror above Katsuki’s bed mocking you. His head blocks your view as he drags his tongue across your parted lips, dipping it inside of your mouth to coax you into a kiss.

Katsuki savors every shift in your expression. Gaze trained on the way your lips tremble each time he bumps into your g spot. The way your brows twitch downward when he grinds his cock into the sensitive, gummy walls. “Can’t believe no one has ever reached your g spot,” he laughs. He adjusts you slowly, lifting your thighs from around his waist to perch them on his shoulders. His weight sinks you into the mattress like this his cock reaching somewhere even deeper.

“This—” he smirks near your ear, grasping the fleshy lobe between his teeth as he cups your ass to hold you steady, his cock catches on something inside of you, a place that feels weird and sensitive, that has your legs threatening to kick out “—is your cervix, angel.”

Your lids flutter and Katsuki tuts. “Eyes open, baby,” he warns, words shaky. “Look at yourself,” he reminds you and your eyes immediately rise to the mirror on his ceiling, you can barely focus on anything but the bruising of your pussy under Katsuki’s fucking but your expression becomes burned into your brain. “You look so good getting good dick,” he laughs. “Fucked out and adorable.”

Some sort of your brain registers that you’ve scratched red marks into he pale skin of Katsuki’s back. That you can see the shifting muscles of his back with each of his thrusts. That you have a perfect view of his tight ass and the way those muscles flex. But in the forefront of your mind you can only hear Katsuki’s words.

“Good dick has you glowing,” he gloats. And you have to agree. You look good spread under him, eyes hazy and lips parted to gulp air into your lungs. “My dick has you glowing.”

You can only whine your agreement. You don’t think you’ve ever looked this debauched or felt this sexy getting fucked but once again Katsuki takes a first you don’t even know existed. You’re creaming around his cock before you even notice it and his pace barely even falters. He fucks you right through it words of encouragement whispered into your neck.

You lock eyes with your reflection and you swear it winks back at you. Finally, we’re getting the dick we deserve, echoes in your mind but you’re too cock drunk to decipher whether it’s a conscious thought or not. All you know is you agree.

[justaz]

as much of a fan as i am of arthur falling head over heels for merlin in the lower town during their fight and knowing the entire time while merlin reluctant to admit he actually finds arthur sometimes pleasant to be around until like a year later when he's like "fuck i kinda like him as more than a friend" when he's actually in love with him,,, the alternative has been plaguing my mind recently.

merlin is like "aw man he sucks but destiny is destiny" until like around the poisoned chalice when merlin drinks the wine and falls unconscious and he's wondering to himself why he would do such a thing and like yeah nimueh probably cursed it so he would drink it but also he's not really that upset about it?? he's kinda relieved??? why???????? oh bc arthur didn't drink it so he's fine and alive and oh he's checking up on me and his voice is soft and not at all mocking or brash like normal and his hand is on my shoulder and my heart is racing and i'm blushing and his touch is so warm and- oh fuck. so merlin is like reluctant about feeling this way but makes his peace with it, hoping that one day it'll just fizzle out. but the thing is: it doesn't. merlin continues to fall deeper and deeper in love with arthur and it just becomes a part of him like his magic. it's a simple fact. he has blue eyes, he has black hair, he has magic, he's in love with arthur. it becomes intertwined with his very being and he can't imagine ever not loving arthur.

meanwhile, arthur is fond and protective of him idiotic, bumbling servant. he's also a good friend not that arthur would ever call him that but anyways arthur keeps him safe bc if it weren't for him, the fool would trip over air and impale himself on his own thumb. so arthur grows more fond and protective of merlin as the series progresses and yeah at some point he finds it in himself to murmur the word friend to merlin but he blames that on the wine and the late hour. then he finds out merlin has magic and it hurts. arthur isn't entirely sure why either but he knows it hurts to be around merlin, to hear him, to see him, but it also hurts to be apart. so he swallows it all down and sits with merlin to lay it all out. anyway time skip and he sees merlin as he truly is without all the hiding and lying and the fondness and protectiveness just continues to grow and grow and grow. he watches merlin cast spells and watches his eyes light up gold and gods isn't he just beautiful. no wait- okay he's in love and gods is he fucked because now he can't managed a damn sentence around the man and morning and evenings are torturous in the best way. merlin bodily dragging him out of bed, his touch never leaving as he strips him of his night clothes and dresses him for the day and sits him down at the table before sharing stealing his breakfast. at night he's much slower as he strips arthur, his fingers dragging across his skin and his words spoken low and soft. the sweet heat in his blood isn't new but the force of it almost knocks him on his ass.

just merlin being his usual enamored self while arthur is flooded with these feelings he couldn't name before but now that he knows just what they are, they lodge in his throat and block his words from escaping him, they block air from filling his lungs, and they keep blood from flowing through his brain. arthur shutting down while merlin is oblivious and concerned and pressing his hands to arthur's face and pulse and leaning in close and asking all these questions as his eyes shine with worry and this isn't helping-

disaster!arthur x oblivious!merlin is actually my new favorite dynamic. forget what i said at the beginning. this is it.

[queermarzipan]

I just had my 18th birthday party and my friends literally bought me a CARDBOARD CUTOUT of the TENTH DOCTOR and every conversation from now on is gonna start with 'how's David' and I'm not even concerned about that rn cause I left myself alone with it for FIVE MINUTES and I've already HUGGED HIM I am going to be completely unable to forget the existence of the Tenth Doctor and it is going to KILL ME I am not kidding I was able to. Fkn. Shift my obsession to David Tennant in general, which is a deeper rabbit hole but not a SPIRAL OF DESPAIR, and now every time I'm IN MY ROOM FOR MORE THAN TWO MINUTES I'm gonna get EMOTIONAL

Update I fucking left and came back and HUGGED HIM AGAIN and both times I did it because I looked at him too long and got Sad and wanted to hug him and this time he was fuckin. THERE. Physically IN FRONT OF ME. and both times I only stopped because I could feel he was made out of cardboard and that was enough for the fact that he couldn't feel it to lodge itself in my brain which made me too sad to continue the hug and yep this is definitely becoming a pattern

[mamichigo]

Title: pull of the void (1,1k)

Pairing: Childe/Scaramouche

Tags: Pre-canon, Unresolved tension, Fighting

Summary: On a mission to Inazuma, recruit Childe realizes his curiosity for the 6th Harbinger runs deeper than he thought.

*

Inazuma is a breathtaking place. Childe watches everything with eyes bugged out, taking in the scenery down to every little detail so he can recount it to his younger siblings once he gets the chance to write them a letter. Around him, the other recruits aren't quite as enthusiastic—tense and wary, they watch the lord Harbinger more than they do the Inazuman countryside.

Childe follows their gaze to their leader: the Balladeer is a column of tightly wound muscle—his fists haven't unclenched since the moment they stepped into the Land of Storms. The mission itself doesn't warrant that much vigilance: it was nothing more than a little scouting. The only reason a Harbinger is with their small group of five is because there are orders to be relayed, the kind that can't be trusted to be passed on where it could leave a record. Apparently, Scaramouche's ties to Inazuma had settled the matter.

He doesn't know what the needle in between his ribs mean—a stab of curiosity, maybe, but much more fierce. A desire to know that's never quelled, not with the shards of information that Childe can obtain about the Balladeer. He licks his lips, realizes he bit it raw, blood strong on his tongue. Under the Inazuman sun, Childe imagines what he would find if he were to pry Scaramouche wide open.

As the tension rises throughout the day, the physical distance between the Balladeer and the other recruits grows. Childe is the only one brave enough to walk exactly three steps behind him. Due to this, and his tendency to challenge Scaramouche having become part of his growing reputation, his colleagues are glad to let him deal with the Harbinger's mood by himself.

He can't say what compels him to come closer, to slide up to the Balladeer while he's blankly watching the leaves fall from the courtyard of their current lodging, but he does it all the same. As he sits down on the wood flooring, he sees the severe expression hidden under Scaramouche's hat.

"Bad mood?" He comments lightly. "And here I thought the mission was going well."

Scaramouche snaps his head up, but quickly lowers it, casting darker shadows across his cheeks. Childe realized, not too long ago, that the Balladeer doesn't like when others can see his face clearly, for whatever reason.

"None of your damn business, brat," Scaramouche hisses. It lacks heat, lacks fight. It sounds wrong on him. "Go find someone else to bother, I'm not in the mood."

"So I've noticed. Are we gonna need reinforcements or something? If we're about to head into a dangerous battle, a warning would be nice."

Scaramouche stares at him as if he can't make sense of a single word coming out of Childe's mouth.

"Did you not hear what I just said?" He says slowly. "I'll report to Pierro that I've given you permanent brain damage, at least then they'll release you from the ranks and I can be rid of you."

"My head is fine, I just can't figure what else could put that look in your face. Didn't think you cared about anything enough to be this upset."

"I'm not upset."

Scaramouche's eyes blaze, and Childe has fought him enough times to see the strike coming from miles away. The wrist in his palm is small, and Childe stares at it in surprise—managing to catch the Balladeer is a first to him.

"Too slow," Childe says darkly.

"Get your filthy hands off me!" Scaramouche shrieks, and there's a note of desperation that Childe doesn't understand.

He thrashes and squirms, currents of his electro delusion singing along Childe's skin, leaving behind branches of lightning that glow under his skin. Somehow, the one who has often left Childe bleeding and twitching, brain paralyzed with adrenaline, that same person can't break himself out of Childe's grasp. Unease settles heavily in his gut.

In a single motion, he throws Scaramouche to the ground, his head making a sick echo as it collides with wood, then slings a leg over his waist. Scaramouche is trapped beneath his body as Childe grabs the dagger inside his boot and holds it to his neck. Hat fallen to the side, Scaramouche watches him with far too much vulnerability, his entire body frozen.

"If you don't defend yourself," Childe whispers, "I'm going to cut your throat."

A flicker of something crosses his face, barely a twitch of Scaramouche's lips. Then, it's gone, as is everything else: his face is empty, eyes dull. He looks at Childe with something akin to resignation.

"Do it, then."

It's silent, then—unnaturally so. Childe wonders why he feels wrong-footed, as if something is missing. Then, he leans a little harder on the hand spread across Scaramouche's chest as he lowers the daggers, and stops altogether. There's nothing under his fingertips. Not the subtle rattle of working lungs, nor the constant thump of a heart. Childe, shocked, presses harder, as if he's trying to reach all the way inside.

He understands, after a moment.

I hate hollow kids like you, Scaramouche had once said when they first met, eyes cold as he looked down at the new recruit.

They're alike, in a way. A chill runs down his spine.

"You're not allowed to give up now," Childe tells him coldly. "You can be cruel and vicious, but never boring. Break as many of my bones as you like, as long as you still amuse me."

But this isn't like him at all. Childe can't quite comprehend his own words, or the dread pooling into his ice-cold veins. He only knows this: the Balladeer doesn't believe in gentleness, the only language he speaks is treachery and ill intent, the sole foundation of his world is to use or to be used.

What would he do, then, if grew into a being without any worth?

"What am I, your personal jester?" Scaramouche laughs sweetly, melodically, dangerously. Whatever button Childe pressed, it was the right one: anger sets Scaramouche's eyes alight. "I will break your pretty face, one day. I'll leave you disfigured so your family can't even tell who you are anymore."

"I'd like to see you try!" He barely gets the words out.

As he feels his nose shatter and blood invades his airways, as his brain rattles loudly against his skull, Childe laughs maniacally. As his eyes roll to the back of his head, he thinks, good.

He'll live with the bruises, he'll kiss the trail of blood across Scaramouche's knuckles. If there are enough marks left behind, then Scaramouche can't disappear without a trace.

(Every night after that, he sleeps to the image of the Balladeer's vacant, empty gaze. 

If Scaramouche wants a heart so badly, then maybe Child would rip his own out of his chest.)

[theshipsfirstmate]

Bridgerton Fic: I Never Got Used to Watching Horses Die

Newton dies of old age a few weeks before Christmas in 1822, and Anthony feels Aubrey Hall go strangely still, in a way that he has not for many years.

(future Kathony fam, with a dose of angst bc it’s how my brain works)

A/N: hiiiii I know some of you may be wondering about Hate to Be Lame, and I promise I'm still working on that, but unfortunately this one grabbed a hold of me and wouldn't let go. It's angsty and I'm truly appalled at myself for committing corgi-cide, but I just have a lot of feelings, OK? If that's your jam, I hope you enjoy. If not, I totally get it and I hope to be back to AU fun very soon.

title from “Dead Horses” by The Local Honeys.

I Never Got Used to Watching Horses Die (AO3 - wc: 3821)

Newton dies of old age a few weeks before Christmas in 1822, and Anthony feels Aubrey Hall go strangely still, in a way that he has not for many years.

He feels foolish at first for even thinking it — to compare the losses. But there is something similar in the stillness of mourning, in the agonizing silences that make his palms itch helplessly. There is something about hearing the heartbreaking cries of his second son echo down the hall from the nursery that makes a stone lodge in the pit of his stomach. 

It’s familiar, that is why he loathes it so.

But it’s different this time, too. It is perhaps the first time he’s seen death come in stages, and up close. First, his wife’s beloved beast could no longer hop to his preferred blanket at the foot of their bed. Then, he could no longer play with the boys or climb the stairs. When he stops eating, that is when Anthony feels the inevitable pang, a lance driven deeper into his heart as he watches his children grapple with their grief.

Edmund receives the news and disappears silently to the sitting room, to a favored spot by the window, returning later with red-rimmed eyes and a pout he desperately tries to tame. Miles is too young to understand all of what they tell him, but he quickly realizes from his family’s somber demeanors that there's something worth getting worked up about -- and he’s never been one to spare his tears. Charlotte, mercifully, is still just a baby, but Anthony would swear she could sense it too, with how fussy she’s been of late.

But Kate…

Kate doesn’t cry. 

His wife, his stunning and stalwart viscountess, isn’t the same woman she was when they married -- and Anthony is grateful every day for that. She doesn’t hide herself away anymore, at least not from him. 

Long past their early miscommunications, they’ve taught themselves how to lean on each other through good times and bad, and they’re stronger for it. They’ve also become all too skilled at reading one another’s emotions, usually before they even need to be spoken out loud. Their years together have, mercifully, been almost entirely happy, but still, Anthony has seen Kate break down about everything from a weaning baby to a frostbitten tulip bed to a starving stray kitten -- the last of whom was, of course, immediately provided with luxe accommodations in the Aubrey Hall stables.

This is why he worries so much when she doesn’t cry for Newton. Not when they finally accept that his health is declining, not that first night that the little beast’s family -- all five of them, now -- stand at the top of the staircase, waiting for him, realizing. Not even when she takes him out for one last turn about the gardens, just the two of them, in the frosty early hours of his final morning. Kate carries her furry companion in her arms for most of the way, and when they return, she lays him down to sleep and he never wakes. 

And still she doesn’t cry.

Anthony follows his wife’s lead and attempts to go about his day, though he knows he’s only practicing the motions. But Kate, she doesn’t even seem to flinch. She nurses Charlotte, meets with the cooks, cheers Miles up with some playtime, finalizes the holiday decoration plans, and takes lunch with Edmund in between his lessons. She does what she always does, and maybe everyone else would miss it, but the rock in Anthony’s stomach rolls itself into a boulder when he realizes that the only thing that’s off is that she won’t meet his eyes -- not once, all day.

He follows her up the stairs that night after dinner, Charlotte nestled asleep in his arms, and watches carefully as his wife presses a quick kiss to their daughter’s forehead before stalking away towards their chambers. Anthony looks after her for a moment before turning for the nursery, laying their daughter to rest in her crib. Mercifully, she hardly stirs. So he knows it can’t be more than five minutes before he follows, shrugging off his valet as he enters their bedroom. And he sees her.

“Kate?”

She’s still fully dressed, curled pitifully in the fetal position around Newton’s favorite blanket -- the one at the foot of their bed. And she’s sobbing so hard he worries she might not be able to breathe. 

“Oh, darling.” 

“I can’t… I just can’t believe he’s gone,” Kate gasps between breaths as Anthony quickly makes his way to sit on the bed beside her, rubbing a comforting hand down her back, undoing the buttons to her dress and loosening her stays, trying to provide what little comfort he can. “I thought I had prepared myself and I--”

“Kathani,” he whispers, brushing back her hair and leaning over to press a kiss to her temple, a murmur in her ear. “Sweetheart, it’s all right. You’re allowed to mourn him, of course you are.”

Her shoulders shudder to a slow stop, and she finally takes in a deep breath that seems to relax him more than it does her.

“There was a time when I thought it was going to be just him and I,” she admits after a long moment, so soft it could be a whisper. Anthony’s chest aches, as it always does, at the memory of the lives they could have had, of the people they had been before they had each other.

Even still, there’s a part of him that preens at how willing she is to show this side of herself to him. They’ve built their home on a foundation of love and trust -- he’d die for her in a second, and so he must be grateful for each hardship he’s lived through with her at his side.

“Back then, I thought Newton might be all the love I was ever going to have, and now-” she hiccups, and her tears start again in earnest. “Now I have so much more, but he’s gone, and I…”

“Kate-” Anthony starts with his heart in his throat, not really knowing what he’s going to say -- but he doesn’t even get the chance. His wife’s watery next words hit him solidly in the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs.

“And the boys...” 

Of course, Anthony realizes instantly. Of course that’s what’s pushed her so far.

Newton’s devotion to Kate had carried over immediately, each time they welcomed a new member to their family. But the most extraordinary part -- the part that still makes Anthony’s eyes go misty at the memories -- was how it often felt like the pup knew the children even before they did.

He knew to be gentle with Edmund. Their firstborn was a serious little sir from the moment he entered the world, and Newton approached with caution. His wiggling backside would often betray his excitement, but he somehow understood, instinctively, that the best way to endear himself to the boy was to simply curl up next to him. As Edmund grew, the pair could often be found seated side by side, peering out a window -- more than once Anthony had caught his son with his forehead pressed gently to the dog’s, quietly detailing his thoughts to a most patient listener.

When Miles was born, Newton was guarded at first, following the lead he had with his older brother. But he learned quickly. They all learned quickly with Miles. The first time his second son rolled over onto his stomach, he celebrated by grabbing his tiny hands onto each of the dog’s ears and letting out a joyous squeal. In Miles, the corgi soon found a devoted playmate — or “littermate,” his parents were fond of saying, when their toddler would curl up right alongside the pup on the floor.

And Charlotte… He had been waiting on Charlotte, Anthony realized. Just as they all had. It hadn’t even occurred to him at the time, but he remembered now how the corgi had stayed up all night with him, waiting in his study as Kate labored with their daughter. Even in his old age, Newton didn’t rest until Kate did, until he got a chance to see that she and her newest little one were healthy and safe.

“I am glad that you had him,” Anthony murmurs as he gently, chastely, strips his wife, and then himself, down to their underclothes and crawls into bed beside her. “I am glad that we all did.”

“Oh, you didn’t even like him,” Kate teases, grabbing at his hand when he slings it across his waist, and he’s grateful to hear the tiniest bit of levity in her voice. 

“We didn’t get off to the best start,” he admits with a smile. “But surely you know that I loved him -- if for no other reason than his devotion to you.”

Her sobs have started to soften, but she presses her eyes together and fresh tears still track down her cheeks. “I do. I know.”

Anthony leans up again to press another kiss to her temple, but she turns in his arms to meet his lips with her own, bittersweet and searing. It floods every part of him with heat. It makes him brave enough to ask.

“Kate, what happened today? Why---”

She’d been moving beneath him, but she freezes at the question, hands stilling on his cheek and shoulder. Her eyes drop from his, and Anthony would be lying if he said it didn’t make his blood run icy for the same moment.

“I couldn’t let them see me like this.” she admits quietly, with another tearful gasp. “I knew if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop, and I didn’t want them to worry.”

This happens sometimes. For as good as they are together, for as much as they’ve healed one another, sometimes the scars of their past, of their duties and their grief and their mistakes, start to itch at them until they feel the need to scratch themselves bloody. Anthony’s quite sure that they’ll never be totally free of it, but it comforts him that the moments have started to come fewer and far between since their wedding, since their children, since this happiness he never thought he’d know again.

Tonight, though, he scolds himself silently. He should have expected this. He should have remembered earlier, when he knew that something was off, when he glanced at the portrait of his late father and thought himself silly.

“Kathani, you are the strongest person I know.” Anthony murmurs, carefully tucking back into her side. “God bless the both of them, but that includes our mamas. You are brave and steady and fiercely protective, and there’s not a single part of me that doubts you, ever.”

“You are so good to our children,” he continues, wrapping himself around her as tightly as he can. “So good to this family.”

The words don’t quite reach her. Anthony can feel it in the tension that’s keeping the muscles of her back taut against him. The wound is too fresh today, the memories returning in brilliant color. He understands how it feels -- if he thinks about it for even a moment, he can still see the bee land next to her lapel in the garden that day.

“You remember how it felt back then, with Mary, when you thought you might not get her back?” He knows she does, even before she nods against him silently. They’ve talked through it so many times before, the isolation they’d shared too young, how it feels to look for your mother and find little more than tears and ashes.

“I’ve never once -- not with everything you’ve been through -- never once worried that you were gone for good,” he assures her  “And neither have our children. You’re too strong for that, my love.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath before turning fully in his arms to face him again, and he can finally feel her starting to believe him, their hearts so intertwined that his chest warms sympathetically.

“You give us so much of your best,” he adds, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose, “you can let them see a little of your worst.”

She nestles her forehead under his chin and it's finally his turn to breathe deeply with relief. 

“It’s not as if it will stop Edmund from fretting over you, anyway,” he adds, feeling her cheeks curl up just a little against his throat.

“Our little worrier,” she mumbles in agreement. “You know, he gets that from you.”

Anthony decides to leave that debate for another day as their bodies begin to still towards sleep, wrapping himself around his wife and contently pressing his lips at that spot next to her earlobe until they drift off together.

______

The next day is Friday, which means Anthony’s only appointment of the day is with his eldest son. 

Edmund is indeed their little worrier, seemingly seven going on 70, smart and serious in a way that makes his father most proud and also breaks his heart a little. He is a consummate first child just like both of his parents -- sharp and stubborn and dutiful -- and Anthony and Kate love to bicker over who their eldest takes after the most.

More than a year ago, when he learned what his father’s title meant, and how it would one day be his own, young Edmund had dozens of questions about all of the responsibilities that, God willing, he would not have to take on for many years. But naturally, he didn’t find that an acceptable reason not to know everything now, and Kate had rolled her eyes at how easily -- how proudly, to be truthful -- Anthony had decided to cancel his son’s regular Friday lessons in favor of a weekly father-son day, spent learning the (for now, very basic) ropes of the viscountcy.

Sometimes they visit with tenants, or supervise an ongoing project on one of the farms.  Sometimes they go over the accounts, with Edmund working out his own sums on old scraps of paper Anthony saves in a special desk drawer. Kate didn’t like the idea at first, worrying that it felt like pushing their son into his duties far too early. But instead, it’s seemed to have the opposite effect, helping to ease the anxieties all three of them know too well, and giving Anthony and his eldest some treasured extra time together, under the proud gaze of the viscounts that came before them.

Today, however, with the cloud of grief still hovering over Aubrey Hall, the two of them simply take tea in Anthony’s study while he signs some leftover ledgers.

“Amma is still in bed?” his son asks when he’s quietly polished off his scone.

“Yes,” Anthony nods. “She is sad about Newton, but she will be feeling well again soon.”

Edmund nods to match, his father’s mirror image. The boy’s chin is tight with worry, but there is nothing in his expression that betrays his belief in his mother, and the corners of Anthony’s eyelids go a little misty at the sight. He thinks for a moment that perhaps he’s doing something right with this parenting thing, before chuckling privately at the idea that he’s had anything to do with it at all.

For all their playful bickering about his dutiful nature, there’s no question that their eldest has been Kate’s since the moment he was born, when he gave her a gift no one else could.

“My mother’s eyes...” 

Anthony will never forget the awe in his wife’s voice when she took one look at their firstborn -- or how she promptly burst into tears moments after. It’s those same eyes that look at him pleadingly now, and Anthony steels himself. 

“Papa, do you think we might have another dog someday?” This is also a specialty of Edmund’s, processing his thoughts silently, at a superhuman speed, and leaving his family to figure out the road map.

“I would think it highly likely, yes,” Anthony answers, leaving open the benefit of a doubt, even though he knows it’s unnecessary. “I will be surprised if your mother doesn’t insist on it. But not just yet.”

Edmund nods once more, agreeing solemnly. “And Charlotte can know that dog.”

That had been one of their eldest’s chief concerns after they explained to him that Newton didn’t have much time left -- that his baby sister wouldn't remember their beloved dog in the same way that he and Miles did. Anthony remembers how tightly Kate had grabbed for his hand under the dinner table as they realized what he was asking, how his own mind had conjured up an image of Hyacinth as an infant.

He must have nodded again, because Edmund’s questions continue. “And Papa? When she’s older, can I still tell Charlotte about Newton?”

Anthony hopes his son can’t see how his chin wobbles as he grins, silently saying his usual prayer that these will be the only kind of responsibilities that plague the boy for years to come. “You certainly can,” he answers. “That’s something a very good big brother would do.”

His son takes that in, serious as ever, and then melts another bit of his father’s heart when he asks, “I’ll be like you?”

Anthony eyes flash to his own father’s portrait on the wall, and has to clear his throat before he answers. “Far better even than me, my boy.”

Edmund looks up then, those special eyes wide with wonder. He has heard plenty from his aunts and uncles about the kind of brother Anthony is and has always been, despite his father’s humble protests. “How?”

“Well for one, I never had a good dog like Newton to accompany me when I was growing up,” Anthony notes with a smile at his son. “I didn’t even know what I was missing.”

One more serious nod, a quick brush of a traitorous tear, and his boy seems satisfied for now. 

“Come, let’s go check on your mother and siblings.” Anthony’s heart broke a little the first time his eldest son refused to be carried, but he counts his blessings when the boy will still take his hand. They wind their way to the second floor, identical nods tipped at the staff, who keep their own private smiles about Lord Bridgerton and his proper young shadow.

“Kate?” one voice calls as they reach the viscount’s quarters, while the other echoes, “Amma?”

No matter how many times Anthony opens the door to his bedroom to a sight like this, it still makes his breath catch in his throat. Kate, sat up in their bed, nursing baby Charlotte. Miles tucked into her side solemnly, a thumb in his mouth Anthony can’t even bother to admonish him for right now.

Their eyes meet and it’s the most relieved Anthony’s ever been to see that his wife’s been crying. Because behind the shiny gloss of her grief, there’s also something that looks like comfort, relief, a catharsis that feels like she’s miles away from last night, on her way to the peaceful side of mourning. 

“Hello, my loves,” he says softly, adding another count to his blessings.

Edmund crawls up to sit beside Miles, and Anthony and Kate break their gaze only to notice their eldest wrapping a comforting arm around his younger brother -- while also stealthily brushing his thumb from his mouth.

Kate’s eyes widen slightly with bemusement as she turns back to whisper at Anthony. “Yours.”

“Absolutely not,” he protests, choking back a laugh so as not to make too much noise. 

“Papa!” Restless without his pacification, Miles stands on the bed and toddles his way to Anthony, who’s barely able to shrug out of his waistcoat before his second son is wrapping his arms around his neck with a soft whimper.

He’s all emotion, their sensitive soul. His middle name is Benedict, after all -- perhaps they doomed him to it. But there’s not one part of Anthony that minds when his boy buries his curly head underneath his chin and gives him the tightest hug his tiny arms can muster.

“Papa,” Miles repeats when he pulls back, sounding too solemn for his handful of years. “Amma sad.”

“Yes, my darling,” Anthony soothes. “Your Amma is sad about Newton. We all are, but it’s going to be all right.”

Miles nods, pulling his features into a serious frown that Anthony knows is a copycat of his big brother’s. “Amma love Noot.”

“Yes I did, my darling,” Kate agrees softly, and the sound of her voice is enough to make Miles turn back towards his mother, devoted as any Bridgerton man has ever been. Anthony smiles as he takes a seat on the other side of the bed, curling himself around his wife and children and marveling at a world where even the darkest days can feel like this.

“I loved him very much.”

______

The day after next, they say goodbye.

Kate asks three times if he’s certain, but Anthony insists, and a medium-sized stone is moved to a familiar cropping of woods -- not far from the larger monument that has served as his life’s compass. 

“They were both excellent judges of character, after all,” he tells his wife, with a reassuring smile and a comforting hand to her cheek, brushing away another stray tear. “I think they would have liked one another very much.”

They walk out together, the five of them dressed in white and clutching handfuls of flowers -- though most of Charlotte’s scatter to the ground before they reach the site. Anthony watches with tears in his eyes as Edmund presses his forehead to the stone, murmuring a few last words to his faithful friend. After a bit of prompting, Miles toddles towards the marker, planting a sloppy kiss right to it that leaves dirt on his nose. 

“Bye, Noot,” the boy says softly. “I love you.”

Anthony hears Kate whimper softly beside him, and he takes Charlotte from her arms as she steps forward herself, letting her flowers fall to the ground as she says her farewell, speaking softly to her old friend in a language Anthony can partly understand. And when her tears begin to fall, and the emotion takes her to her knees, Anthony’s vision blurs as his sons step forward even before he can, wrapping their arms around their mother and supporting her with the pure comfort only they can provide.

“My darling boys. I love you so,” she murmurs, to them all, and Anthony says his own private prayer of thanks as something long gone returns to his very soul.

He realizes that he was wrong on the walk back home -- his wife’s hand clutched tightly in his own, their children surrounding them, broken hearts held tight enough together to feel whole once more. This isn’t at all like it was before. 

[absurdthirst]

Okay okay okay okay

I have a thought stuck in my brain....but I can't do it justice I've triedddddd.

If you connect with the idea, I would like to hand it over to you. If not? No harm at all. Not in the slightest.

But like basically pero tovar having to leave for a battle and trying to get his wife pregnant before he leaves so no man can mistake his claim on her while he's gone. Okay bye I love you. Bye.

***Hmmm Pero asserting his claim on his wife? OKAY!  TW:Breeding Kink

Before The Spring Comes

You collapse against the sheets, breathless and sweaty, your arms buckling after your husband releases your hair. His lips press against your shoulders, tongue soothing the marks he had left on you with his teeth. Pero was always a very vigorous lover, especially when he was pent up.

This time he had been home for months. The frantic couplings had slowed down as the snow fell, becoming less about frequency and more about touch. The warm and cozy cabin making both of you forget that spring was coming, and with it, Pero was leaving.

His sword had been promised to a nearby lord. His ongoing feud with a neighboring lord had reached a boiling point and it was determined that blood would be spilt. William had told Pero that he didn’t know how long it would last this time, but expected to be gone for a while when he had made the trek from his own winter lodgings to give Pero the news.

“Again, mi amor.” The impatient rasp in your ear makes you shudder, turning your head to see his dark eyes watching you, lust and something else burning in their depths.

“What has you so riled, Pero?” You ask him, feeling the way that he twitches deep inside you, his hips thrusting forward to push his softening cock deeper and you clench around him. His hiss of pleasure at the pressure.

“Going to leave soon.” He grunts, his hand sliding up your stomach to cup your breast. Molding and kneading the flesh, you moan when he pinches your nipple with his calloused fingers.

You wait, knowing that he will tell you the rest of it if you are quiet. Your husband might not have much to say to others often, but he does like to talk to you. “I want to breed you before I leave.” He growls quietly.

Children were not something that was never discussed. You knew Pero wanted you to carry his children, it was one of the first things he had told you when he was courting you. He was looking for a wife who would give him children and make him a home to come back to while he was not off selling his sword.

“You think you haven’t?” You ask, looking over your shoulder to smirk at him. His eyes narrow as he glowers at you.

“I want every man in the village to know that you are bred.” He grunts, pushing his hips forward as his cock hardens inside of you again. “That you are mine.”

You moan, pushing back against him with your fingers twisting in the sheets. “The fact that we are married would tell them that.” You remind him, the thin silver band on your hand proclaiming that you are his.

He growls, rolling you onto your stomach and reaching up to thread his fingers through yours, pinning your hands to the bed as his thighs frame your ass.

You cry out as his thrusts become hard, deep. His cock grinding deep into you over and over as his teeth mark your skin again. “Not enough.” He pants between thrusts. “Need you filled with my baby. Growing my child, carrying me with you.” You moan at the thought of taking him with you. Far more than bearing his name or wearing his ring. Growing his seed inside you.

“Do it.” You whimper. “Fill me again and again until you are certain it takes.” You beg him, desperate to feel his seed paint your walls again.

Pero groans, his nose as your neck as his hips slap against your ass, driving himself into as if the hard he fucked you, the deeper his seed would go. You moaned, pushing your ass up and encouraging him to take you exactly how he wanted, the feeling of him shredding up inside you pushing you closer to the edge.

“Pero.” You whine and he growls, swinging his hips faster as he feels your walls start to flutter around him.

“That’s it amor. Cum for me.” He whispers harsh, grinding up into you as you fall over the edge. Crying out and soaking his cock as you squeeze him, making him hiss, his pace becoming frantic. Eight harsh thrusts later, he pushes deep, burying his cock inside you as rope after rope of his hot seed spurts into your womb. Curses come out in his mother tongue as he rides his high until he is slumped on top of you, breath puffing against your skin.

You let out a small sound of disappointment as he pulls away, gently pulling out of your body to flop onto his back. You turn over when he reaches for you, pulling you against his chest. “Before the spring comes, you will be carrying my child.” Pero says softly, his hand drifting down to your stomach. “My babe in your belly will let them know to stay away.”

You giggle at him, making him frown. Leaning forward you press your lips to his. “My love, they stay away because they fear you already. They will probably trip over themselves to run away from me. Or annoy me with making sure things around the cottage are perfect so nothing happens to me or the babe.”

“Good.” He grunts, a hint of a smirk on his face. Happy that you would be claimed for all to see, your swollen belly proclaiming that you had been bred by your husband and for all those that wanted to sniff around your skirts to back away, lest they wanted his sword at their necks.

MasterList

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[mahvaladara]

Paul shook his head and looked away from her beautiful warm eyes as she looked at him with such hope and trust. He wasn’t worthy of the feelings he knew she felt for him, that warmth and devotion, that care. 

Paul: I know that. I don’t fault them...

Anika: But you do blame someone. 

Paul didn’t answer.

Anika: I can feel the guilt, Paul. It’s gnawing at your inside, like a heavy rock over your chest or fist lodged down your throat, a pressure constantly nagging in your brain. Unbearable, eating you from the inside...

Paul: Shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t I feel guilty? Is it not my fault Arlo ended up the way he is? It’s my fault! I took him to that roof! I wanted to play hero and look how that turned out! My brother is half dead, and you’re forever bound to the weight of my mercurial emotions.

Anika smiled a little.

Anika: Paul-

Paul: No, Nika. I did this. This is all my fault! It’s my fault that Alcina and Dimitri are disgusted by him, it’s my fault they don’t want to touch him. It’s my fault he has to walk around like this. I caused this.

And he sighed.

Paul: I don’t know if its the pain or the lack of a heart or the Eye that does it... He’s also becoming... harder to be around. He’s so much like Mal, he always was sassy, bratty even, but he’s a flat out dick! And a cunning one to boot, he knows exactly where to hit me! Where it hurts more! Like he knows I feel guilty and just keeps stabbing me deeper and deeper with it, until all that’s seeping out is poison and wrath and...

Anika: And?

Paul: I hate him. Everything is always about him, always him and I hate him! And it’s my fault... I’m an evil person...

[all-about-seggs]

False Love-

Rating: ❌ 18+, Explicit ❌

Pairing- Timeskip! Yandere Oikawa Tooru x fem reader

Word count- 1.8 K

Warnings- Aphrodisiacs, fingering, dub-con, vaginal sex, Oikawa is delusional and sad.

A/n: This is my fic for the Valentine's day Collab that @ultimate-astridwriting hosted. I hope I was able to live up to their expectations (ᗒᗩᗕ).

Roaming around the busy streets of Palermo, ginormous heart shaped props occupying the narrow lane paints Oikawa's vision in scarlet. Love is in the air, as they say, was quite literally true for the beautiful city of Argentina.

In the midst of giggling couples and warm twinkling lights, the annoyed click of his tongue gets drowned out; Unnoticed ;making him recognise his own solitude.

Normally he'd have hoards of girls vying for his attention, trying to take him to their place but maybe it was because of his age, or the mountain of experience with the momentary flings that made him want to search for something deeper.

He used to be fine with superficiality of his relationships, the repeated cycle of getting himself off of any faceless women who came onto him then forgetting her existence the next day was fulfilling in itself. Afterall, his career has always taken priority.

Though the last remaining brain cells of his body tries to rationalise the situation he is getting himself in, Oikawa had already decided what kind of connection he wanted and and was just going to let himself have that. Selfishness is not something he ever disliked anyway.

He felt no need to hide his disdain, Oikawa wasn't one to be subtle about his pettiness either, that's why the contrasting emotions of his own, clashing with the jubilant ones of his surrounding annoyed him to no end.

The chocolates wrapped up neatly in his hand felt heavy, causing his fingers to tremble slightly. It wasn't the weight of the box but what he intended to do with the said item that made his insides twist with excitement.

Yes. It was excitement. Happiness and pure bliss that he felt when he rang the doorbell of your modest appartment in the costal side of the city. Despite having the sea right next to your place, the cold February air still made you shiver as you opened the door to see Oikawa standing at your doorsteps, all smiles with a dash of extra in his typical 'hand on the hip' pose.

Surprised wouldn't even being to describe your current state of shock. You spend the next few seconds just starting at his ever confident form before his voice brings you back to your senses.

" Yooohooo~ babe, I'm sure I don't look 'that' good. I just finished with practice so my hair's probably a mess right now", he continued on with his cheery tone,

" Come on, It's not like you have anyone else to spend Valentine's with, so why not just let me in already and look", dangling the expensive looking bag in front of your eyes, his expression took on a slightly sinister turn in their features, the kind that went away as soon as they appeared not leaving any trace of its original condescending vibes.

" I made these chocolates for you", emphasizing on the made part he stares right into your eyes, as if waiting for his well earned praise. Heaving a sigh of defeat you release the door know you didn't knew you had in a death grip, opening the door completely in a gesture to usher him inside.

Oikawa quickly makes himself at home, plopping down on your couch with his long legs stretched.

This was the first time you had seen him after the rejection of the high in demand position of his girlfriend. The face he made when you turned him down was of utter disbelief so much so that you almost reconsidered your decision. But you weren't that wishy washy in your opinions and his was a type you made sure to ignore.

You were aware of his salty personality and the habit of holding grudges, so you thought after that fateful day he'd ignore you like the plague, but for all his arrogance Oikawa's face was the epitome of gleeful.

" Soooo", starting off with an awkward note you casually try to sit on the furthest arm chair from the couch Oikawa was currently occupying and tried to ask what exactly was he expecting out of his current visit but he quickly cut you off by his own booming voice.

" Before all that, why don't you try these?", Pointing to the chocolates he starts unwrapping them, as he pulls the decorative ribbon, two rows of brown, heart shaped delicacies appeared.

"Don't be shy, I made these for you afterall", he remarked, pushing the box on your side of the table.

You didn't think much of it, afterall, 'making' chocolates just means buying store bought ones and just melting them into different shapes right?

Popping one small cube in your mouth you let it dissolve, your taste buds filling up with the sweetness of the treat. Just as it finished you heard Oikawa speak again.

"You probably know why I'm here, but I'll tell you again", readjusting his posture, he sits straight, both the look in his eyes and tone taking a more serious turn.

" I thought about why turned me down that day and I finally realised......You were just scared weren't you?", rather than upset he sounded relieved as he continued with self assuredness ,

" Of commitment? Or because of my job? Either way I can already assure you that I was already prepared to put you above everything else if the situation calls for it".

You were just sitting, listening to his outrageous conclusions when you felt your heartbeat increase. The sweaty palms of your hand to the moistness in your core, your entire body started reacting in ways you'd never experience before.

"You thought that I'd keep our relationship on the back burner and only focus on my career? You were just lonely weren't you?", With every passing second his delusional words seemed to work with more and more intensity that didn't helped your hyperventilating state at all.

"And you rejected me because you didn't wanted to have an absent boyfriend right? So in reality-", by the time he finished he was already in front of you, the fire in the depths of your core made your mind hazy and eyes unfocused. You wanted to ask what was happening or what he put in those chocolates but forming any coherent words was a feat on its own in your current condition.

He smoothly takes one of your burning hand in his cool ones, the contact making you instantly lean onto him for more. You're sitting in a daze when he pulls you up from the arm chair and places you on his lap back on the longer couch.

In your already aroused state, the soft strokes of Oikawa's fingers on your scalp made you succumb further into the need for release as you sit on his lap with your head resting against his shoulder. The room was now quite safe for his soothing voice that came from right about your head.

"You love me right?", the words that come out of his mouth in the heated moment betrayed all his attempts at feigned composure. He may have spiked the chocolates with some sort of aphrodisiacs but the way your heart hurted after hearing this made it seem more like a love potion.

With his barely audible voice they sounded almost like a plea, another desperate measure to get what he wanted.

Before you could even notice, your vision tilts and you find yourself pinned to the couch, with Oikawa hovering right above you. His hands on your sweatpants, lowering them all the way to your ankles. And the weirdest thing?

You didn't wanted him to stop.

Not when he spread you out completely in front of him. Not when he was shamelessly staring at your naked pussy with a maniacal glint in his eyes and definitely not when he shoved two of his thick digits up your leaking pussy that covered his entire palm in your slick at the slightest of contact.

Your soft walls clenching around his fingers was all he needed before he stared unzipping his own pants. He gazed at your panting body while he pulled his cock out, flipping you on your stomach with your ass up and face shoved down.

You barely cared about anything but getting fucked good at this point when you heard some rumbling behind you, as soon as Oikawa was done putting on a condom he lined himself up against your entrance.

Not wasting any more time he slips past your folds until he is buried to the hilt. The feeling of being stretched out and filled to the brim coaxed out a few lewd moans from your mouth.

Your slick was enough to make Oikawa pick up a hard and fast pace, your entire body shook with every thrust of his. He kept his hands on your waist, pushing himself as deep as he can before pulling out until only the tip remains. Your own orgasm started building up with his every action.

His member throbbed against your insides and the moans that slipped past his gritted teeth indicated he already came but his cock showed no signs of softening as he kept going with his brutal pace.

You bury your head sideways, tongue lolling out and covering the fabric beneath it in your drool as Oikawa lodges his cock further into your pussy from behind. He moves in and out of you with ease, the slick from both your pussy and his previous release was more than enough to keep his memeber going.

Gripping your ass cheek in one hand, he trails his other one in between your thighs. Quickly his digits grazes your clit, the pressure they added along with the heavy thrusts pulled you closer to the edge. The anticipation of your impending release was all your lust laden head could think about the feeling of ecstasy that you desperately needed.

The intensity of your orgasm made your eyes roll back, and if it wasn't him holding you firmly in place, you probably would've fell down the couch. With your entire body shaking your panted heavily from your mouth to calm yourself.

Oikawa doesn't make any attempt to pull out or move and even after your breathing becomes even his member is still lodged deep inside you. He gently starts gyrating his hips against your pussy again and it becomes obvious that you weren't the only one under the effects of aphrodisiacs.

As cum trickles down your inner thighs, all you could decipher was the overwhelming bolts of pleasure Oikawa's cock provided and the sounds of your skin smacking against eachother's.

With his hands on both of your sides, he lowers himself down until your back was flush against his toned chest, his raspy voice rumbled through your ear as he spoke in a dark possessive tone,

"Don't forget..... we are in love"

[1997devil]

deals with the devil

pairing: mingyu x reader

w.c.: 2.8k

includes: incubus!mingyu, mentions of alcohol, unprotected sex, dirty talk & degradation, daddy kink, oral (fem receiving), fingering, creampie

a/n: this is me being self indulgent because that’s what got me 1k after all 🥵😛 i promise i’ll work on requests after this! i just needed to get this out of my system 🖤  also to clarify some things that may appear dubious, the drink the reader is holding is a potion by mingyu that he uses to lure her towards him! a lil fantastical touch i added to upkeep the demon theme lol

-

you mutter expletives under your breath when the dj hollers and shuffles to the next song on his shitty playlist of trashy holiday remixes. 

you’re only here because your friend had begged you to come along with her, pleading with such vigor she might as well had just dragged you by your wrist. she ditched you the second she set foot in the house, latching her arms around her boyfriend’s neck, the one throwing the party and the one who hired said dj. it really just reaffirmed how your best friend had a shitty taste.

when you entered what appeared to be a bar area someone had shoved a solo cup into your hand, the inside sloshing with a liquid you knew was strong, would blow your mind away from the scent that wafted from it, and would leave you with a killer hangover tomorrow morning. you didn’t dare take a sip from it, though you held onto it so that your hand wouldn’t look so lifeless, hanging by your body.

the shitty music didn’t pound against your still sober mind on whichever floor you were currently on, which you were thankful for. you wander through the house – perhaps the one thing your friend’s boyfriend was good for was the expansive mansion his family lived in – stumbling past locked bedrooms and powder rooms. people who were already trashed, no doubt from the same drink that remained in your cup, lingered about in the hallways. you gingerly stepped beside them, getting further away from where the party was mainly situated, not really having a concrete plan in mind or any sense of direction in what appeared to be a labyrinth standing as a house.

a bedroom you happen to pass by left its door ajar, and something called you from within to look in. it didn’t hurt to take a rest for a bit from the killer heels your friend shoved your feet into. you’d call a cab from there and you’d finally return home, within your safe space underneath your duvet.

there appeared to be no one, and you braced yourself to let yourself in fully. your heels sank into the carpeted floors as you slowly headed towards the bed. it was still clean and neatly made, and you wonder how no one has stepped foot in this bedroom amongst all the other ones you just passed by. you heave a sigh as you gently sat down on the plush bed. you hadn’t had a single bite or drink since night befell and painted the sky pitch black. the cup that’s in your hand still remains untouched, and you take a small sip, the alcohol burning like fire down your throat as you swallow.

something in the corner of your peripheral vision catches your attention, flickering, appearing transparent then returning to opaque in a moment you’d miss if you blink. it appears strange, fascinating, and you sense a stirring sensation throughout your body the more you rest your eyes on it. a voice that begins to resonate in your mind beckons you to come closer.

it feels like you lose all your senses as you face the man standing before you, and your brain eventually feels more muddled when you try to recall just where and you’d seen him before.

“had my eyes on you since you walked in,” the unnamed man hums, stepping closer to you, an arm circling around your waist. it presses you closer against him, letting out a soft gasp. your arms seem to move on their own accord, resting on his chest as he looks down on you. “wanted to taste you so bad,” he mutters, voice dropping to something lower than a whisper like you were the only one meant to hear him.

“w-who are you?” the lump that’s lodged in your throat since you swallowed whatever had been in that cup clears up just enough for you to brokenly rasp out words. you meet the man’s eyes, dark as midnight, glows and keeps your attention on him. you feel as if all your senses are heightened as he runs his warm hands on your body.

“call me mingyu, angel,” he smirks, a wanton intonation lacing his voice, “though you’ll call me many other things later.”

“l-like what?” you whimper when his head drops to your neck, gently sucking on your skin, fierce enough for you to feel but not enough to leave marks yet.

“are you gonna stay to find out?” his lips tickle at your ear, nibbling on your earlobe, placing a kiss to the skin right below it. it hits a spot you didn’t know felt good, a high pitched whine leaving your mouth. you nod frantically, and mingyu lets out a dark chuckle at how desperate he’s already gotten you.

it feels like mingyu controls all your movement, taking over your senses as he leads you around the bedroom and slams you to the door. his hand places itself firmly on your waist, and the other hand goes to circle your neck, almost like a priceless accessory that decorates the clean space of skin, like an empty canvas. it’s tight, hot, and you’d happily die like this, under his hands.

tears line and spring from your eyes, rivulets tracking your cheeks and dripping from your jaw. mingyu laughs, a snarky sound that is lined with fire and hell.

“haven’t touched you at all, pet,” he purrs, leaning closer to you, his tall figure towering over you. it is only fitting that the title of the king and ruler of the underworld is crowned to someone built like him. he commands attention, creates control in any space and room he enters, and right now he was playing with yours. “what’s making you so needy?”

he gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ears, a contrast to just how rough he’d been with you before.

“you,” you whisper in response. the smirk that remains on his lips is taunting. “what about me? i haven’t done anything to you.”

he continues. “what would you like me to do with you, angel? would you like me to make you feel good?”

the affirming nod you give is all the permission he needs as he presses his lips to yours, licks on your bottom lip as you easily grant him access.

–

“you wanna know a secret, angel?’ mingyu teases, slow and relaxed, unlike you who’s the spitting image of desperation and need for him. he’s been teasing you for what feels like hours now, reducing you to putty in his hands, just begging with whatever energy you have left for him to fuck you already.

you nod, masking your sounds as the pillow underneath you swallows your whine. you feel mingyu’s hand return to your body, slowly tracing a path of its own on your thighs, inching closer to your wetness but not quite reaching it yet.

“i’ve known you since before tonight, darling,” he mutters as his legs bracket your legs, fingers carding through your hair. “i’ve seen and watched you, even when you thought no one could see you.”

his gentle touch on your locks turns into a searing grasp as he pulls you up by your hair, making you stand on your knees. your hands try to grasp at something, until it travels to behind you, pressing your back to his chest.

“even when you thought no one could hear you as moaned and whined until you made yourself cum.” he bites out directly against your ear, hot breath fanning on your skin until the hairs on the nape of your neck arose.

“so damn pretty when you got your fingers fucking yourself fast and hard, hm?” he continues, punctuating every few words with a wet kiss to your jawline. “or when you think that dumb little toy you have can make you come. it’s comical, darling, that you think anything can make you feel as good as i do. you’ll come to know it, angel.” his hand comes down to your ass, gentle for a start, though mingyu knows you’ll beg for him to go harder. you let out a little yelp at the contact, and mingyu just feels even more fired up as he sees the red mark deepen on your skin.

he pushes you back down onto the bed. “m-mingyu-ah, d-do it already, pl-please,” you brokenly mutter, and mingyu delights in the way your voice cracks at every other syllable.

“do what, angel?” your hands firmly grasp on the sheets as you feel his lips travel downwards, tracing down your spine and the small of your back. he moves back just a bit so he isn’t sitting atop your legs anymore, then holds you by your hips to pull you up. your knees are barely strong enough to hold you up, and mingyu scoffs at what you’ve become under his touch.

“this?”

he runs a finger on your sopping wetness, and you loudly keen at his touch, finally. you momentarily remember that you’re nowhere near your own bed, yet you continue to release loud noises, not caring if anyone can hear you from outside. 

his mouth falls onto your pussy next, accompanying the ministrations of his fingers weaving in and out of you while he sucks and licks until you’re shivering. the anticipation that finally erupted with him pleasuring you produces moans and groans that mingyu absolutely revels in.

“what do you want, angel?”

you keen loudly with your eyes shut, taking deep breaths to not come early even though it seems mingyu wouldn’t even mind.

“w-want you in me, gyu.”

you feel mingyu’s grin deepen as he eats you out. “good girl.”

he lifts his mouth from your wetness, though his fingers don’t pause. he adds another digit, your wetness coating them up to their knuckles, dripping down to your inner thighs as well. you whine, impatient, and mingyu calmly shushes you, his other hand traveling up your body to pinch and play with your nipples.

“need to prepare you first, angel. you need to be able to take all of me, right?” he quickens the pace of his fingers, three of them now fucking you. your response is cut off by a whine. his feels better than when you do it yourself, going in deeper than you ever would’ve reached yourself.

“look at you,” he mutters in disdain, “can barely even take my fingers. d’you think you can take my cock?”

“pl-please, no more teasing, f-fuck me already!” you snap at his teasing, though mingyu seems unbothered, barking a familiar mocking laugh as he slowly pulls his fingers out, sucking on them, letting your sweetness coat his tongue and whole mouth, savoring your taste. he smacks your ass once more for good measure.

“demanding. be fucking grateful i’ll let it slide,” he growls, running the head of his cock on your entrance, as he slowly pushes in. he chokes on his own moan as he can barely push in up to the head of his cock. you’re so tiny underneath him, barely even fitting his dick, yet your pleading drips out of your mouth so easily.

your impatience takes over as you fuck back on him, and mingyu groans at how more of your tight cunt is enveloping his cock, warm and feeling so good. a gasp leaves your lips at how big he is, and mingyu’s hands bracket your waist, seemingly trying to stop you from going further.

“angel, y-you’re too tight,” he choppily huffs, a light sheen of sweat perspiring on his skin.

it appears to be your last straw. “please, please, i need you! n-need your cock,” you gasp once more, “please, d-daddy!”

you don’t even seem to notice the name falling off of your lips, but it reinvigorates the fire within mingyu. all his composure, the control he’d worked so hard to maintain so he doesn’t just fuck and break you, ebbing out of him and traveling far.

“you asked for it.”

he finally fully pushes in, his cock fully inside of you, your ass pressing against his hips. you gently swivel your hips, easing the stretch when it feels like his dick is splitting you.

“sweetheart, you’re driving me insane. what a greedy ‘lil slut, huh?” he grinds up against you once, and your arms feel like they’re about to give out. “getting off on daddy’s cock like this.”

his hands leave your waist, traveling to your nipples, flicking and pinching down on them. your whole body feels like jelly, letting out what you think are the most pornographic moans you’ve ever heard in your life. all your senses have been overtaken by the demon hanging above you, reveling in all the energy he’s feeding off of your pleasure.

mingyu bends over to press his body against yours, then straightens back up, bringing you with him. his hand tangles into your hair, keeping you upright as he finally begins fucking you, building up a pace. the sounds of skin slapping against each other resound in the room that feels larger than life, like no one can bother you.

he feeds dirty praises to you, and every syllable he bites out is almost competing with the noises you make. he tells you he loves how dirty you are, how wet and warm your pussy is, how soft your breasts feel, how you’re such a whore who so easily breaks when daddy fucks her.

his words tether back and forth between praising and mocking you, telling you that you look so gorgeous like this, brokenly sobbing at the pleasure, wetness dripping onto the sheets.

“do you like it, angel?” it is an understatement, and you can only express it through your dirty whimpers. “i l-love it, daddy. love it so mmm-much, ah, daddy, m-mingyu, ah!” you hate how mingyu keeps his composure so well, a sharp contrast to you, ruined and wrecked beyond comprehension.

“fucking you stupid, hm?” mingyu taunts.

then, in a smooth stroke, he pulls out of you, and you gasp at the loss of contact. mingyu leaves no time for regret. he moves back, turning your body around, letting you rest on your back. his fingers wrap around your ankles, pushing your legs up until he’s got you practically bending in half. he enters you again, easily picking up the pace he set beforehand. the new position easily leads him to the spot that makes you see stars.

your jaw falls as he continues to prod at the spot, hitting it perfectly every time. “right there, baby?” you deliriously nod, head lolling to the side.

mingyu’s lips on yours are soft and gently prodding, overwhelming you with the different sensations he’s subjecting your body and mind to.

“f-fuck, break me, daddy!”

mingyu’s lips stretch into a devilish smile.

mingyu slams even harder into you, pushing you to your limits. you see red, hot, and you know you won’t last much longer. you whimper, trying to work your voice up to warn mingyu, though you fail. he reads through you, his pace unforgiving as his hand comes to play with your clit, and you howl at the surge of pleasure that throbs through your body.

mingyu tightly grabs onto your thigh, pressing it down to keep you in position. “where do you want me, angel?”

“mmm, inside. f-fill me up, yeah, feels s-so good,” you’re completely out of it, slurring your words, not registering anything but mingyu’s warm hands running on your body and wetness, completely enveloping you until you’re teetering off the edge, ready to let the winding coil in your stomach burst.

mingyu groans, long and drawn, and makes the tension in your boy snap. you come from him coming, feeling him fill you up with hot spunk and pushed in deeper from how he doesn’t stop thrusting. sparks and sensations overflood you until you’re left with a gaping mouth and dripping pussy, as mingyu finally pulls out.

he coos as he watches you clench around nothing, his come dripping out of you. he bends down, using his tongue to clean up whatever had spilled out of you, then fucking the remnants back in with his finger. the overstimulation makes you keen once more, and mingyu finally takes mercy on you.

his lips gleam in the dark light, coated with the liquids dripping from your wetness. he kisses you again, and you taste the way yours and his come mix together in your mouths. your eyes flutter shut, feeling as if you’re suspended in mid-air as mingyu transforms from the ruthless dominant earlier to something much more gentle, lazily clashing his tongue with yours and pressing his digits down on your thighs to soothe the strained muscles.

it takes a while until he separates from you, and you can barely keep your eyes open as he smirks at you.

–

(you wake up the next morning in your bed, a sated soreness plaguing your entire body so great you feel like such pain would’ve only erected if you had thrown yourself off of a cliff.

a sigil that would’ve been invisible to anyone else but you brandish itself on your right pinky finger.

a feeling sinks into you, one that tells you he’d return soon.)

[pedro-pascal-love]

Prologue

Prologue to The Black Viper

Series Masterlist ❖ Main Masterlist ❖ Join My Taglist

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 1k

Summary: Dave faces some unlikely competition.

Warnings: Language, descriptions of death

A/N: Oh, look! Another Dave York fic? Who would've thought!?😁

Next Chapter ⟹

  Dave was ready to rip something, or more accurately, someone, apart. When Resnik had delivered the news that they had failed to complete the mission, Dave flew into a rage, throwing his cup of coffee across the room and flipping the table over.

This was not supposed to happen.

Things like this do not just happen.

Not on purpose and not by accident.

Especially not to me.

He was extremely pissed, to say the least, bordering on the edge of fury.

This was the third assignment he had taken in the last five months, and someone had eliminated each of his targets before he had a chance to. Five months of dealing with some unknown person getting the task done before the team could. He had spent countless hours finding the perfect opportunity to take out the names on the papers, whether it be by the bullet of his gun, a seemingly ordinary accident, or a dispute gone wrong. Still, this particular individual was showing him up.

He sometimes questioned his choice to become a mercenary, but the money was just too good. At least it usually was. He and the boys were always able to get jobs done with no issues, but that was not the case as of late. Contracts were starting to dry up from the lack of results, and his reputation was now on the line. Dave was growing vengeful and cursed the one stealing all of his hits, a formidable opponent.

Dave would utilize all his resources to track down this unknown character and lodge a bullet in their brain. Nothing was going to get in his way, and he would do everything in his power to put an end to this madness. He was willing to put everything on the line to achieve his goal, even if it killed him. He had spent the last month and a half looking into this mysterious rival, but each lead turned out to be a dead end. He had made use of his agency contacts, hoping to uncover something, anything, but each attempt was futile. The only thing someone had managed to scrounge up was a moniker.

The Black Viper.

Dave was determined to piece this puzzle together and unmask his anonymous foe, pulling some strings to acquire the autopsy reports on his failed assignments. He wished that there was something he would find hidden amongst the paperwork. Each autopsy reported minor puncture marks on the victims’ necks, about the size of a small needle, accompanied by swelling and bruising around the injection site.

According to the information, all of the victims showed signs of paralysis, asphyxiation, or heart failure, sometimes all three, in addition to excessive bleeding from their gums and the hole in their neck. He dove deeper into the material and read that some of the peoples’ internal organs had such severe tissue damage that their insides had essentially been eviscerated. Scouring the data on what could kind of substance was responsible for such grotesque deaths, he found the toxicology reports, raising his eyebrow as he scanned the words.

The moniker is very fitting.

Each of the people had an unnaturally high of venom in their bloodstream. The poison was a lethal hybrid concoction of cytotoxins, hemotoxins, and neurotoxins from the test results. The various toxins could be found in different families of snakes, but never all three types within one family. The coroner surmised that the neurotoxin was derived from the Elapidae family of snakes, the most famous being the black mamba, and the cytotoxin and hemotoxin from the Viperidae family, more commonly known as vipers.

The Black Viper.

Impressive.

Usually, the median lethal dose from a viper, depending on the species and the size of the human, varied from 40-70 mg for every kg of body mass. In contrast, the median lethal dose for a black mamba was estimated to be between 0.03-0.04 mg/kg. This particular venom combination had a cytotoxin and hemotoxin dose of about 4500 mg and a neurotoxin dose of about 3 mg, enough to kill a person between 150-200 pounds. This meant all the victims suffered painstakingly excruciating deaths, possibly succumbing to the poison within a matter of hours or maybe even minutes.

The Black Viper certainly wanted them to feel agonizing torture before they died.

That’s pretty fucked up, even for me.

Dave flipped through the papers, finding the police statements describing the condition of the bodies. Some had collapsed in public, appearing to suffocate, gasping for breath, while others were in more private spaces, bodies crumpled to the floor, a look of anguish upon their face. This type of method was well thought out, and the people had probably been doused well before they died, giving the Black Viper enough time to disappear from the scene.

Whoever this person was, they were undoubtedly skilled and knew their poisons, something that not many people had such intimate knowledge of unless they worked with those animals consistently.

Someone who worked at a zoo, perhaps?

No, too easy.

They wouldn’t be able to figure out the ratio of toxins needed in the venom to be lethal, and they definitely would not know how to escape the crime scene undetected.

No, unless they were some kind of specially skilled zoo worker, it was highly.

Maybe someone who reads a lot of books? Or knows their chemical compounds?

Hmmm.

This, without a doubt, will be an interesting case of events.

Better watch out, Black Viper; I’m coming for you.

Next Chapter ⟹

[irasciblesoul]

@captbenscn​ asked:

“You’re destroying yourself this way.”

Eyes full of pain looked up to her from his place on the floor. He had been thinking a lot lately. About his family, about the rift between his siblings, how his mother is refusing to drink her medication again and how his father is destroying what little sanity he had. It all impulse him into a behavior he's not proud off and Olivia's words expressed the same sentiment as well. Hanging his head, Elliot's leg lift, arms around them and face hide away in the space they create. How is he supposed to look at Olivia, his best friend, his heart, the person who has probably suffered more than he has? Someone who makes the most of everything, even the bad? He wished to be like her. To not get lose in his own self pity but everyday it gets harder, especially around the holidays where he isn't even able to enjoy it with his family without a war breaking out. It is the reason why he hasn't stepped into the Stabler household. It is /why/ he hasn't seen his mother is weeks now. He always visits at least twice a week to make sure she is alright, but the last time he had been there it almost broke him...

Olivia had to talk him off the ledge he was standing on.

"What else can I do...?" he question, face still in hiding in shame. Because his thoughts aren't kind and he hates whenever it happened in front of her. Liv didn't deserve to watch him so defeated, so ready to quit and just become an echo, a sound that will drift away with time. The last thing he wants to do is hurt her, but him hurting will always injure her heart as well. Even before they decided to take their relationship further, she had been his saving grace and he is forever grateful but now... now he is just feeling hopeless. "I can't do anything about the pain I'm feeling, Liv. I want it to go away, let me be but it is mocking me, lodging itself deeper in my heart. Taunting me, arguing with my brain who is inclined to agree on darker thoughts I'm trying really hard to not entertain."

[rina-cyarika-writing]

Prologue

Prologue to The Black Viper

Series Masterlist ❖ Main Masterlist ❖ Join My Taglist

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 1k

Summary: Dave faces some unlikely competition.

Warnings: Language, descriptions of death

A/N: Oh, look! Another Dave York fic? Who would've thought!?😁

Next Chapter ⟹

Dave was ready to rip something, or more accurately, someone, apart. When Resnik had delivered the news that they had failed to complete the mission, Dave flew into a rage, throwing his cup of coffee across the room and flipping the table over.

This was not supposed to happen.

Things like this do not just happen.

Not on purpose and not by accident.

Especially not to me.

He was extremely pissed, to say the least, bordering on the edge of fury.

This was the third assignment he had taken in the last five months, and someone had eliminated each of his targets before he had a chance to. Five months of dealing with some unknown person getting the task done before the team could. He had spent countless hours finding the perfect opportunity to take out the names on the papers, whether it be by the bullet of his gun, a seemingly ordinary accident, or a dispute gone wrong. Still, this particular individual was showing him up.

He sometimes questioned his choice to become a mercenary, but the money was just too good. At least it usually was. He and the boys were always able to get jobs done with no issues, but that was not the case as of late. Contracts were starting to dry up from the lack of results, and his reputation was now on the line. Dave was growing vengeful and cursed the one stealing all of his hits, a formidable opponent.

Dave would utilize all his resources to track down this unknown character and lodge a bullet in their brain. Nothing was going to get in his way, and he would do everything in his power to put an end to this madness. He was willing to put everything on the line to achieve his goal, even if it killed him. He had spent the last month and a half looking into this mysterious rival, but each lead turned out to be a dead end. He had made use of his agency contacts, hoping to uncover something, anything, but each attempt was futile. The only thing someone had managed to scrounge up was a moniker.

The Black Viper.

Dave was determined to piece this puzzle together and unmask his anonymous foe, pulling some strings to acquire the autopsy reports on his failed assignments. He wished that there was something he would find hidden amongst the paperwork. Each autopsy reported minor puncture marks on the victims’ necks, about the size of a small needle, accompanied by swelling and bruising around the injection site.

According to the information, all of the victims showed signs of paralysis, asphyxiation, or heart failure, sometimes all three, in addition to excessive bleeding from their gums and the hole in their neck. He dove deeper into the material and read that some of the peoples’ internal organs had such severe tissue damage that their insides had essentially been eviscerated. Scouring the data on what could kind of substance was responsible for such grotesque deaths, he found the toxicology reports, raising his eyebrow as he scanned the words.

The moniker is very fitting.

Each of the people had an unnaturally high of venom in their bloodstream. The poison was a lethal hybrid concoction of cytotoxins, hemotoxins, and neurotoxins from the test results. The various toxins could be found in different families of snakes, but never all three types within one family. The coroner surmised that the neurotoxin was derived from the Elapidae family of snakes, the most famous being the black mamba, and the cytotoxin and hemotoxin from the Viperidae family, more commonly known as vipers.

The Black Viper.

Impressive.

Usually, the median lethal dose from a viper, depending on the species and the size of the human, varied from 40-70 mg for every kg of body mass. In contrast, the median lethal dose for a black mamba was estimated to be between 0.03-0.04 mg/kg. This particular venom combination had a cytotoxin and hemotoxin dose of about 4500 mg and a neurotoxin dose of about 3 mg, enough to kill a person between 150-200 pounds. This meant all the victims suffered painstakingly excruciating deaths, possibly succumbing to the poison within a matter of hours or maybe even minutes.

The Black Viper certainly wanted them to feel agonizing torture before they died.

That’s pretty fucked up, even for me.

Dave flipped through the papers, finding the police statements describing the condition of the bodies. Some had collapsed in public, appearing to suffocate, gasping for breath, while others were in more private spaces, bodies crumpled to the floor, a look of anguish upon their face. This type of method was well thought out, and the people had probably been doused well before they died, giving the Black Viper enough time to disappear from the scene.

Whoever this person was, they were undoubtedly skilled and knew their poisons, something that not many people had such intimate knowledge of unless they worked with those animals consistently.

Someone who worked at a zoo, perhaps?

No, too easy.

They wouldn’t be able to figure out the ratio of toxins needed in the venom to be lethal, and they definitely would not know how to escape the crime scene undetected.

No, unless they were some kind of specially skilled zoo worker, it was highly.

Maybe someone who reads a lot of books? Or knows their chemical compounds?

Hmmm.

This, without a doubt, will be an interesting case of events.

Better watch out, Black Viper; I’m coming for you.

Next Chapter ⟹

[ginwhitlock]

Southbound : Chapter 6

After the Cullens leave her behind, Bella is left to pick up the pieces by herself. A year after her eighteenth birthday, a split second decision lands her in her truck, running far away from everything she has ever known. She decides to go south. What will she find in San Angelo, Texas?

After Peter left, the air between us felt stagnant, cold, like a pond left uncovered in the first freeze of winter. The man in front of me didn’t smile, didn’t even fake a breath for my own comfort. I know he could feel the shard of glass slowly sinking into the pit of my stomach; the fact of its direction changing, resigning, surpassing my throat to lodge itself in my skull as a sharp ache not lost on me. 

And I’m sure, not on him. 

I knew Jasper. I had sat feet from him not even years before. What had changed in those aching months? What kind of lust seeped into his unbreakable bones since? This man was toothier, slumping shoulders spread wide against the settee. Who was this brother of his and why did he have Jasper now? I mean— he had explained just moments ago the short extent of Alice and his separation, but the questions were tar in my brainstem: unmoving, guilty, painful. The faint imprint memory of his hand on my knee softened the creases under my eyes. His eyes were nothing if not full of memories.

He scared the shit out of me. The worst part of me liked it. 

The keys in my hand were jangling as I wrung my hands against the metal. They were ice cold from Peter’s grip and yet I never shied away from them, I rested into their cut, their steel mill scent. It’s all the comfort I had left in this unfamiliar sandy home. 

“You never told me where you meant to end up, Isabella.” 

The look on his face hadn’t changed from its hawk-like gaze, his mouth upturned in what was made to be sincere questioning.

My teeth seemed to buzz in my jaw as they clenched. I was stuck between trying to find the answer that made the most sense— but this far away haunted house was nowhere close to where I was headed. To be honest, I hadn’t even made a plan for my drive, the road had been a black licorice rope pulling me deeper and deeper south, its vines unswervable. 

Those damn carmine irises were still on my face. My hand settled on the silver scar.  “Somewhere without you— your kind.” There's a horrible dread that sinks deep into the pit of my lowest bones, down past the acid lining of my stomach. It wasn’t mine in the first place…

He smiled again. That fangy lip twitch he implemented earlier in his bedroom, his searing white canines glinting in the southern sun. Jasper did some twist of his knuckles as they rested on his denim knee, the bareness of the marble flesh punctuated. 

“Do you truly think your life will not continue to be… supernatural?” He paused something big and let his lashes point away from me, his gaze settling right behind my head, “The world has never been that kind. Especially to you, Miss Swan.” The way his tongue curled around my name made something twist in my gut. Something that felt like finally breaching the top of a rollercoaster after clunking around in the seat for several minutes. 

I took a breath, “No hope for me then, Mr. Cullen?” 

“Whitlock, darlin. Mr. Whitlock.” 

His correction was daring and quick, like a dare. The scared shitlessness was starting to turn. 

“Oh?” I’m sure my eyes were the size of dinner plates served on the damn moon. 

His quirk faltered as he refocused on the skin of my neck. “The Cullens aren’t the biggest fans of the ousted members keeping their name, I’m sure. Whitlock was my human name.”

My lip twitched, “Like Peter?” He did say they were brothers, it would make sense the tanner man kept it while Jasper stayed up north. 

“He adopted it when I changed him in the twenties. He didn’t need to remember his own.” 

The paint covering the living room walls was starting to feel warmer and warmer. There was a sort of mysticism in the air, the kind of feeling Phil said he got standing on the pitcher’s mound. This charge of electricity. And if I felt it— did the man in front of me do too?

“You changed Peter?” 

A hum came from his Adam's apple. I quickly stopped staring at its vibration, focusing on my still hands. “Is that where you got that name? The ‘Major’?” My legs felt like salt blocks sat out for the new fawns. 

Jasper kicked his foot out, inches from my own. “All in time, Isabella.” 

Why the hell was that the question he kept dodging?

I nodded against my own snooping judgement and sat up straight, gripping the cut key again. “Peter said something about seeing my truck?” As if on cue the sound of a backfire sounding across at least an acre of dirt, the laugh of the man in question following in direct response. 

He reminded me of a wilder, leaner, Emmett. 

I didn't know if that was a good thing. 

The blond rolled his eyes, something I would’ve passed out seeing months ago, which now just made him more and more intriguing. His hand raised without fantastical speed and made an ushering motion, inviting me silently to stand and follow him to the front door, not even twenty feet to our backs. I did as I… wasn't… told and raised to my shuffling feet, watching with barely suppressed intensity as he did the same, his shirt unbunching as his long legs swept past me. His strides were unhurried yet strong, quickly reaching the exit without me. Jasper’s slim fingers turned the knob gently and allowed the now open door to rest against his shoulder. 

“I’m sure my brother will find you the moment you start walkin’. I have to get to some business caused by my early departure earlier.” My shoes scuffed the hardwood as I passed by him, the scent of firewood and malt whiskey light in the air of the threshold. I nodded again as I looked back at the giant southerner. 

“So I’ll be making it back?” Half joking, half fearful the words slipped past my lips. 

He smiled truly that time, his teeth hidden behind his smile. “Of course Isabella. No one plans to kill you… for as long as I can see.” 

The door closed slowly as I turned away from him in only slight ease, the sound of his footsteps behind it unrecognizable. Texas dry wind called to me from the bare porch, wooden planks creaking ever so slightly underneath my weight. The world was quiet— in only a way nature could be quiet. Silence without loneliness. 

Another diesel racket sounded over the slight hill in the property, some of the only patches clustered with shruby, overgrown trees.  

“Bell!” 

There was a smile hiding under the surface of my skin, not the least undetectable. My stride started up again as I half jogged through the crab grass and rusty dirt. It had to be almost two or three o’clock now, the sun high and bright in the cloudless sky. 

Had the day gone by so fast— or so slow?

I couldn’t decide which it was. Not yet. Not now.

The baked exterior of my cab was just in sight over the small hill, somehow further away from the bare dirt trail than it had been this morning. Had the black eyed man… moved it? It didn’t run, at least not by my hand, he would’ve had to have pushed it… or picked it up. 

God, Peter was starting to turn out more and more like the biggest Cullen boy by the second. 

My shoes were caked in dead weeds and clay dust by the time I reached the freckled vampire— an attribute I still hadn’t made sense of. His cowboy hat was a stark black against his darkened porcelain skin. He smelt rough like a redwood forest, something private. Secluded. Peter’s hands were covered in the ink black of motor oil and grease, the solutions clinging to his perfect fingernails. 

He had to be related to Jasper somehow, there's no way he wasn’t. I was sure of it. 

Or maybe I was just hoping.

Silly girl. 

His eyes could’ve mirrored his brother’s and I wouldn’t have noticed anything past the sight just behind him: my truck was pulled at the seams. 

“Sorry bun, I think your baby might need some extra attention before it gets anywhere near a highway.” My breath was loose in my throat, air whistling behind my eyes. The transmission was the only thing complete under the hood. The engine block was propped up by a chain tied to a lone pecan tree, the rest of the assembly laid out on a blanket on the pitted ground. The well of tears hit the back of my eyes before he started to speak. 

“I had to take the engine apart to diagnose the problem— something to do with some coils. It ain’t as bad as it looks, I promise, Bell.” I nodded for the fiftieth time that day, my words fleeting in the paralysing tunnel that had become my voice box. The only thing I had kept when I left was now in pieces at my feet, the soil unforgiving and rough against the cotton blanket they sat on. The downpour of fear came down my sinuses and filtered out through my spine, the tips of my fingers pulsing with thunder. Peter stood, apathetic to the storm raging through my body, his stance curling around my own slightly, as if in defense to the world around us, to the truth in front of me. 

“How long will it take to fix?” My voice was weak and pitiful, stripped of its playful kick Peter initially instilled. 

He twitched his shoulders in a shrug. “Could be a week or more. Maybe two.” His own speech didn’t reflect his burdening appearance. It was almost airy, a light glee hidden subtly behind the consonants. 

My brain stored the small inflection for a much later time. 

“You know,” he started, his massive wiped hand drawing to my shoulder, “me and the Major don’t mind some company around the house. The old thing could use some life in it while your truck gets some beauty work done.” His suggestion wouldn’t have sounded like such a question if anyone else had uttered it, but the draw of the Whitlock boys held a certain power over my otherwise powerless existence, at the moment. I wanted answers, stories, the in and outs of the clan I had called family as a younger girl. 

I wouldn’t admit to anyone else my other wants. 

Hell, I couldn’t even admit them to myself yet. 

I made a sound in the back of my throat that made up for another nod and pursed my lips in false thought, the field stretching before me in an unwavering sea of curiosity. 

“Only until she's fixed. I’ve served my time living with vampires for two lifetimes.” 

There was an explosion of a laugh from Peter’s tan lips and I smiled in turn. The truck was a cesspool of terrifying possibilities, insecurities. But for right now, the horrible itch in my brain led me further into the immortal light. 

The cold digits of the human drinker felt featherlight against my back as he sputtered to an airy stop. “You are truly something Bell.” My teeth poked through my lips as I looked into his face and found simple lineless skin and sandy curls. My eyes rested back on the rusted out birthday present and sighed. “Do you want any help?” It sounded almost like a plea, the time splitting me farther and farther. 

He shook his head with vigor. “Baby doll, I’m not sure you’d make it go any faster.”

I had half a mind to slap him on the chest, no matter the bruising I’d sustain. 

“I’m not that dimwitted.”

He sucked unneeded air through his teeth and let me go, stepping towards the hull. “Just believe me.” 

I shook my head like a dumped dog and looked back towards the house, just barely noticeable at this distance. The question bounced around my stomach before it left my mouth, “What is Jasper up to?” 

Peter raised a brow and picked up an impact wrench.

“I’m not sure you’d want to know.”

[basilone]

There are so many things I want commentary on, so I’m just going to stick with this part from To Babel, In Ruins before I change my mind yet again 😅

“I’m sorry,” murmurs Speirs, voice so soft Chuck almost thinks he has misheard, “I never meant to wake you. My nightmares are” – an exhale, noisy and shuddering – “my own.”

“Bullshit, sir.” He may have forgotten the words that allow him to solve crossword puzzles, but he can find the words for this idiocy just fine. “You never once said that to me. Not once.” He shakes his head. Tightens his grasp around his captain’s sleeve now that he means to force a point. “I fought you. I screamed. I cried. I couldn’t.. I couldn’t look at you for a week because I hated how much I needed you.” He designs his words to cut. To claw their way out of his chest and lodge themselves beneath the other man’s skin. Needs to know why he feels so raw, so shaken, so unsteady from just looking at Speirs. “Why don’t you let me help you?”

“I’m your commanding officer.”

“You’re my captain,” he shrugs, “and you keep me from falling apart.” He sighs. Oversteps the line that Speirs just drew for him. Wonders how much of a line it really is when the man leans in to the touch of his hand on his arm. “Let me do this for you.”

You can ask for more than one thing it's okay-- 😂 I love that you asked for to Babel, in ruins though. When I say this fic wrote itself.. This was one of the very rare moments that everything came together in one flow. It was an unprompted work, born purely out of the love I have for this pairing, and out of everything I’ve written for this fandom I think that this might be my own favorite.

It is set in Austria right after the war, which means that I could lean into recovery and trauma healing for this piece a lot more than I could’ve done in a mid-war setting. No soldier in Easy is free of war, but the narrative in this fic doesn’t sprawl out to the whole company. Rather, I chose to focus on two very distinct types of war trauma in two very distinctly-voiced characters.

Chuck’s trauma is very physical overall: he was grievously injured, so much so that his brain and body don’t always cooperate with him now, and he is re-learning speech and dealing with hazy flashbacks to the event that caused the injury. For a character as chatty as Chuck, it’s tough to find himself struggling with words that would normally have come easily. It’s a rough gig to find that things that normally came easily to him don’t anymore, that he grows tired faster than before, and that he is at times besieged by his own shards of memory.

Speirs’s trauma is less apparent, but still very present. I don’t think anyone rolls out of war unscathed and with a character like Ron Speirs, who’s very tightly in control of himself, this would normally be quite subtle. It’s in him never turning his back on any door or window. It’s in him walling his sleeping space in until it resembles a foxhole. It’s in him not being able to sleep on a mattress in a bed.

It’s also in him waking up screaming from a nightmare, just like Chuck, and in this excerpt you picked Chuck just figured out that they heard each other through the walls. And perhaps it’s uncharacteristic for Ron to apologize, but the thing is.. Ron wants to deal with everything on his own. It’s why he secludes himself and why he withdraws into this space he inhabits in this fic. He can’t abide the thought of being seen as ‘weak’ – or, even, being seen as human – because he’s spent years in that soldier mindset of living life as though he’s already dead. His nightmares, as he says, are his own. And though he doesn’t want to share, it’s as though he can’t hold back from letting Chuck see some of it. He tries to distance himself – “I’m your commanding officer” – but.. that’s not really going to do much.

Because Chuck, well.. Chuck’s spent night after night fighting against himself and against Ron’s strong hold on him. Because Chuck’s been vulnerable all this time. Because Chuck has bared his throat to Ron and told him where to place the knife’s cut, so to speak, and he has hated the fact that he needs Ron there. Because Ron was right there beside him every night he screamed out, and sat with him until the worst abated, and never once gave him any sort of shit for it. Because Chuck knows how it feels and he knows that Ron knows he knows. (What a sentence, lol. 😂)

So Chuck ain’t gonna stand for that, no sir. He’s going to try and help. And he’s unmoored about it, really, and something inside him isn’t steady because of the idea that Ron might need him as much as Chuck needs him, the recognition he feels in that moment, the connection they have between them that Chuck’s tried to fight and only now realizes he never needed to fight after all. There are feelings there despite the formality of their address and Chuck physically reaches for Ron so strongly that Ron leans into the touch before he can control his response.

“I’m your commanding officer” is this line being drawn in the sand, because of course Ron’s aware that these feelings go far deeper than that of captain and staff sergeant. And Chuck acknowledges it with a shrug of “you’re my captain”, all casual the way Chuck always is about such things, and then oversteps the line anyway. Ron lets him. Lets him come closer. Lets him connect. Lets the feelings exist, and.. becomes curious about how Chuck thinks he can help, exactly, because he knows Chuck is quietly competent at doing the right thing at the right time. And Ron trusts that, even when he finds it difficult to confess to needing or wanting anything real and connective, and he desires the closeness more than he fears it in the end.

They’re figuring each other out. They’re reaching for each other through that shared sense of trauma that manifests differently and yet the same in each of them. And they’re.. being gentle, really, because they’ve spent too long a time at war to want to keep fighting now.

[immortalonus]

Where You Belong: Chapter One.

So in case you guys were wondering where I vanished off to, the answer is mostly work. This chapter also took way, way more brain power than I really intended, so I didn't really have the energy to post much else.

I could probably edit this more, but I swear if I spend one more hour editing this I will go insane, so here it is, chapter one of my first multi-chapter fic in, *checks calendar,* four years!?

Jeez, time really does fly, doesn't it?

Read on AO3

If I were Where I Would be, Then I Would be Where I Am not. But where I am, There I must be. And where I would be, I cannot.

-American Folk Poem.

________________________________________________________

As soon as Valerie had flown out of sight of Plasmius’ portal, she made a point to dump everything he had given her for the trip.

First, the communication devices. She had no desire to talk to anyone, much less the creepy, lying, traitorous ghost-thing masquerading as Vlad Masters. She gave the DALVco edition headset her best fast ball, taking no small satisfaction in watching it break piece by piece as it clattered against the frames of one floating door after another before finally vanishing into the mists below.

If Plasmius wanted to talk to her, he could crawl out of his portal and find her himself. Which he wasn’t going to do, because he had a cover to maintain. After all, what kind of delicate, elderly gentleman would throw himself into a dimension of rarified death? Not Mister Masters, oh no.

Especially not when he had a willing pawn to do it for him.

The more surreptitious listening devices went next. Fat, disgusting, bloated insects they were, bugs in function as much as form.And they were everywhere.

She found them wedged between her armor joints, the soles of her boots, in the crevices of her guns, and, after putting her systems through an intensive self-diagnostic, her hair.

When had he touched her hair?

She made a point to crush them all. Either plucking off the parasites directly, or, in the case of those lodged beneath her suit, pulling them into her storage unit and spitting them back out again into the open atmosphere where they could be destroyed.

She removed everything else Plasmius had given her immediately after: Several days worth of food, a large pop up tent, a sleeping bag, a map, several spare weapons, a well thumbed biography on Vince Lombardi and more spewed out of her storage units like a sickness, purged in gouts down to the waiting abyss.

Any thing he'd handled, all his supplies, every “present” he'd ever bestowed, she made a point to dump them all.

But God, when had he touched her hair?

Once she was finished, it felt almost like a victory. With no material proof of her obligations, it was easy to imagine she was already free.

She would finish this mission on her own. No outside aid, no puppet-masters, no regrets.

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

/Sorrysorry-soverysorry!/

“Shut up!”Valerie had regrets.

/sorrysorrysorry/

So many regrets.

“I said shut up, you stupid bug!”

She emphasized her point by kicking the target of her ire right in the soft parts of its creepy, eye studded thorax.

This was stupid, she was stupid, but more than anything, she was pissed.

Valerie took a few steps closer to her target, gait slightly uneven for the lack of both her usual boots. While she wasn't going to die anytime soon, as the black leather that fit snug as skin across her body, the true barrier against the toxic atmosphere of the Zone, remained fully intact, it didn't stop her from being mad about it.

The bug, which had finally stopped gibbering in that vile, hissing tongue that had become more and more common the deeper she ventured into the pea-soup hellscape otherwise known as the ghost zone, took the opportunity to cower against the calciferous outgrowth that had halted its pitiful attempt at flight from Valerie's relentless pursuit.

She had hunted ghosts stronger and faster than this every day back in Amity, and could not help the faint sensation of disgust that came over her at the sight of a figure so unexpectedly pathetic. Did she appear so weak that this creature, along with the half a dozen or so of its less successful, but no less kleptomaniacally inclined ilk see fit to prey upon her? Did she seem so low indeed, that even the meanest, most beggarly of the Zone's inhabitants should see her as some object to pilfer and mock?

It was the work of a moment to summon her laser cubes, pulling them from the pocket dimension from which they resided to slide noiselessly over to the insect lying prone before her. With a thought, they flew forward, two each to press down on the thing's chitinous skull, heightening the artificial glow of her suit as she did for that extra sense of intimidation.

It was an ability she'd never had the need for back on earth, only to find herself putting it to use with unhappy frequency not a day after she'd set off on her journey.

Everything in the realm of the dead glowed, and the capacity to put off and manipulate one's own aura was a hallmark of the creatures that 'lived' within it. Those that didn't stood out strangely, casting shadows upon themselves and the world in a way that made them an obvious anomaly in the otherwise antumbral reaches of the Zone.

While Valerie didn't enjoy wasting her resources on glowing like she was her very own spook, she also hated wasting time, which advertising her humanity to every ghost that glanced her way very much did; a lesson that she'd learned after fending off an entire assault squad of ghost police, who had chased her for ages while screaming about her criminal possession of so many 'real world objects' within their territory.

That it also made sure any enemies never anticipated her ability to phase through objects came in handy from time to time as well, such as when a would-be thief, for example, tried to duck into a thicket in an effort to snarl its pursuer.

As expected, the bug shuddered in response to the cold touch of the barrel against its skin, curling into itself as it looked up into the dark panel of her faceplate.

Valerie leaned down, pinning it between herself, her guns, and the stony trunk of what, on this particular island, seemed to serve as some kind of tree.

/Alright, Manbug, one more time./ Her voice crackled and popped through her translators, adding even more intimidation to a tone already modulated down to something lower and crueler than her natural snarl. /Where. Did you. Put. My Stuff. /

The insect whimpered a little harder, oozing something suspiciously close to snot from the hole above its writhing mouthparts. It remained otherwise silent, however, as it shook.

Valerie pulled back her leg and kicked it again.

The imitation flesh buckled beneath her toes, causing the creature to squeal, a nonverbal expression of pain peaking just beyond her range of hearing as it flickered invisible, writhing in a hopeless gambit to escape the weapons still clamped against its head.

Funny how ghosts kept so many features they really shouldn't need anymore. Like joints, for example. Was it a subconscious matter, or some kind of deliberate choice, Just one more means to mock the living, their very forms a cruel parody of everything they once had been?

She silenced the voice which whispered how she should know by now, that it wasn't that easy. There were more important things to focus on.

/P-please./

The bug focused its myriad gaze on the huntress' visor, all six limbs twisted over themselves, wrapped tight over its oozing midsection.

/In error, Milor- Milord. Your place, held, not neutral. Shall honor, please. /

It was leaking from the eyes too, now, viscous fluid pouring from its dozens of eyes, wetting it bodily, puddling down onto the dark purple earth, adding to the halo of scattered goods and tchotchkes that had spilled out from the overstuffed bags that it had clung to for dear life even as they toppled, overbalanced from a too-fast turn, dragging the creature headfirst into ruin.

/Mer- mercy./

This wasn't fair. This miserable thing, begging in the dirt like it hadn't gotten anything more than what it deserved.

Valerie grimaced, rubbing the heel of her palm against her faceplate. Phantom's visage, not long past, looked up to her from the depths of her memory, face just as desperate, just as indisputably, distressingly genuine as when she'd first seen it.

“Valerie, You don't want to do this.”

“Like I have a choice, spook.” She muttered.

She took a deep breath, sucking in the same recycled exhalation she'd been breathing for nearly a week now, and took a moment to actually think her situation through.

She wasn't lost. She had no idea where she was, but she wasn't lost: That would imply a level of helplessness she could not bring herself to admit. What little food and water she had brought with her had been eaten a while back, reducing her to scavenge among the portal droppage scattered through those areas not patrolled by mad policemen, hoping she could find something sufficiently sealed against ectoplasmic encroachment to remain edible.

She reconsidered her captive, still trembling on the ground. A ghost zone native, utterly at her mercy, and, by the looks of things, a serial hoarder of goods.

/You want mercy? Fine. But you do what I say, exactly as I say it, M'kay?/

While the guns pinning its head in place were something of an obstacle, the bug did manage a spasmodic sort of jerking motion, forebody pushed back and forth with desperate, eager haste.

/(Enthusiasm,) (enthusiasm,) assent! Lord, generous, gratitude, respect./

“Good, now-”She held out one hand, palm expectant.

/Give 'em back./

It responded slowly, still slobbering at the maw, all eyes fixed on the huntress as it unwound its uppermost limbs, which reached up towards those tattered bundles still clustered fungiform over its heaving thorax, rifling between twine-like bindings for what seemed an age.

Patience had never been a skill of Valerie's, and she found herself torn between wanting the moment to last forever and wishing go faster instead, tightening her mental grip over her laser cubes, fingering the internal triggers in anticipation of some sudden, traitorous motion on the part of her captive.

Ghosts were deceptive, dangerous creatures, except, of course, when they weren't.

Without any ability to tell the difference, she could do nothing but pace at the bars of her patience, waiting for the moment to act.

Finally, a claw submerged itself into one of the parcels, pulling out one boot, and, just beside it, a single leather fold.

This was it. Valerie snatched the wallet from its pincers. The boot was replaceable, her construct engines could make another now, if she wanted to waste the resources for it, but her wallet-She flipped open the small leather parcel, noted immediately that the contents were not any state remotely akin to how she had left them.

/Milord?/

The bug was still subtly trying to wriggle its way out from under her guns. Her systems noted, then deleted, increased energy expenditure from her laser cubes as they were forced to adjust to its motions.

Useless data. A ghost of so low a caliber could never hope to escape so easily.

Debit card-broken, bent until the plastic whitened from an excess of pressure; Dollar bills balled together and crammed into a single pocket, still damp with a kind of ectoplasm that looked disquietingly similar to the slobber still dripping from the mouthparts of the bug before her; Plastic wrappers, spare coins, a concert flyer for a band she'd always wanted to see.

/Ah, Milord? Pardon, Excuse?/

All of it. This vile, twisted excuse for an insect had messed with all of it. It had played with her most important cards and documents like they were toys, then shoved them back in with utter disregard for any sense of their value once it was done.

/Goods, returned, trust?/

Dread crept into her heart as she reached into the backmost pocket of her billfold, the place where she kept the picture of her.

/more goods? Information? Information on goods? Release, please?/

It was shoved in the very bottom of the wallet, balled into the crease where the two halves of leather were joined into one. She pulled it out, fingers shaking only slightly as they smoothed it back into a more flattened form.

The Red Huntress had no face, and never had Valerie been more grateful for that absence than in that moment, when she beheld the true extent of the damage done to Polaroid before her.

Soft white creases were everywhere, shattering the image into isolated fragments of its former self. It had been torn, too, at the edges, a grip too hard, twisting too far, integrity compromised as a result.

The worst of the damage by far, however, were a series of punctures, scattered at random through the center of the photograph, small to medium perforations forming little absences where there had once been trees and grass, where there had been a woman's face. A hole sat primly above her dark neck, arched back into nothing, a yawning gap where once there had been laughter.

The Huntress turned her blank visage back to her captive, who froze in the act of trying to pry her weapons out of position. Cowardly, but expected. Trusting a ghost was a fools game she had no intent on playing.

/Ah, haha, (nervous) (nervous,) (respect.)/ The target pulled its claws back up against itself, fiddling with the tips as it looked up to her absent regard.

/...Milord?/

The Red Huntress had no face, could betray no emotion, could reveal none of the cold black welter that rushed up through the depths of her breast and pressed against her throat. An impassive machine, possessed of a will stripped free of feeling.

No sliver of her intent showed through, no shudder passed from her shaking fingers to her gauntleted hands, not even the psychic senses of a ghost could hope to detect the lava that boiled up from her guts, pressing against her skin in an sheet of living fire even as the pits of her stomach chilled to ice.

The bug was still looking up at her, eyes all expectant, when she commanded her one of her guns to fire.

A bright streak of energy shot through the top of its head, hard pink flash cutting through a wave of green.

It squealed, jerked all six limbs towards the missing portion of its skull in a hopeless effort to stop the thick chunks of ectoplasm from slopping down the side of its face. Valerie brought her foot down at the same moment, crushing its forelimbs down into the dust. Forelimbs tipped with little claws, just large enough to fit the holes in a certain photograph.

/Why!? Ancients, why, why!?/

Why?

“Why the hell not?” she snarled, “Ain't that how it works here?”

If a different ghost wanted to rob her blind every time she tried to sleep, they could. If Valerie wanted to chase down the one that finally succeeded, she could. There were no laws here, there were no rules, there weren't even morals. There was nothing to stop anyone from doing anything, so why should she be the one to hold herself back?

She lifted her foot off its claws, then swung it once again into its thorax, only just crusted over from where she had kicked it before.

It squealed, just like she imagined another ghost would, red eyes wide and frightened, vampiric teeth shattered against her fist, choking as she wrapped her fingers around his blue, blue, skin.

He deserved this, it deserved this, she was in the right. She had been tricked, mislead, mistaken maybe, but she wasn't wrong, she was in the right.

And if there was some dark curl of satisfaction there, a self righteous flame alighted just where she'd been coldest in that moment of hate, then that was proof, wasn't it? Of just how right she was.

She bent down to her target, which had started drooling all over again, ground speckled green and wet as it heaved against itself. It was disgusting enough that she would have shot it in the mouth instead of the head, but she still needed information, which meant it still needed to talk.

It's upper set of antenna had survived the cranial blast, making for an easy handhold as she yanked its drooping head up to face her once again. At the same time, she sent her guns down to its chest, where its energy levels peaked their highest.

Ghosts, much like the cockroaches they resembled, could survive well enough without a head, but none, not one could ever hope to make it without their precious ghostly core.

“Listen up spook.” She hissed. /Here's how this is gonna work. You lie, I shoot. You run, I shoot. Got it?/Its head twitched up and down, the smallest possible motion of assent.

/Good./

This was what it took, when it came to ghosts. Cooperation proceeded pain, loyalty from the threat of it, and mercy not at all.

/We'll start with the questions./

She allowed her guns to charge power, deadly, scintillating hum filling the air with the sound of her malintent.

/I like what I hear, maybe I let you keep talking./

Author's note: If Sam is more pride than wrath, then Val is more wrath than pride, IMO. I've done my best to write her accordingly