#*my writing

[moonlight-prose]

a request, if i may, of praising old man logan as he filfthly eats you out and it makes him combust the more you praise him? okay running away again

speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life

a/n: look at him taking off his glasses in absolute shock of this ask- no okay does old man logan have a praise kink? i would raise it higher and say every version of logan has a massive praise kink. this is a man who wants to know he's doing good in life. his love language is acts of service so he might get to hear a pretty thank you. also i'm not sorry for how feral this got. i have no explanation.

summary: he knew he loved you when your words begin to piece his heart back together. he knew he loved you when he flourishes at your praise. he knew he loved you when nothing in this world could matter but the sound of your voice telling him you love him too.

word count: 3k+

pairing: old man!logan x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, oral (f receiving), praise kink, logan is obsessed, dirty talk via reader, he is so pretty when he blushes, manhandling, cumplay, cumeating, overstimulation, crying, he's needy in this one, angst, tortured soul of an old man, reverence, religious trauma + greek mythology hints.

He can feel the strings of fate pull tight around his broken heart. In a failed attempt to draw him back together. To piece together an organ that barely beat for him anymore. He might have felt it once, before it broke. Before it gnarled itself like the branches of a dying tree, one half twisting away from the other in a desperate attempt of survival.

He deemed it a useless part of his body until you came along. You with your smile that held enough cloying sweetness to choke him as he stood helpless. Silently begging for you to say his name. To bring him back to life.

Whatever horrors that plagued his mind—endless nightmares that promised nothing but anguish—suddenly came crashing to a halt at the sight of you. So pretty in your denim jeans and velvet top. An angel seated in the center of a bar that held more filth than you deserved to be near. Logan couldn’t fathom that luck struck him this hard.

Not when death had already claimed his soul; notched yet another tally in the endless wall of people that came before.

He felt the dirt pack under his nails as he clawed his way out of the grave he put himself in. Years spent alone—a man lost to the ravages of time—had turned him bitter. With rough edges and biting words that stung far more than he intended. How could he believe he deserved to live after he contributed so much to the endless pool of blood that tainted his soul? How was he allowed such softness after biting off bits of brutality his whole life?

Logan was pretty sure he survived on borrowed time that had already run out. He could feel death breathe down his neck as the days went on. A reminder that what little of his life remained would be spent suffering. And he found that accepting it was easier than battling against the will of God, or whoever toyed with his lifeline.

It was far easier to die than find a reason to live.

Until you said his name.

Softly. Sweetly. Reverence wrapped in a tight grasp of need.

You brought him back from the edge—took his hand and refused to take no for an answer. You and the safety of your touch; the promise in your kiss. You dragged him into a life he didn’t earn; one that almost tasted too sweet—too sour.

After near a decade of being buried beneath the dirt, he felt himself collapse above ground and suck in his first real gasp of fresh air. Alive, once more. Hell spit him out with a vow of love and who was he to argue against it.

His fingers dug into your plush thighs, tugging them open to see what lay between. He marveled at their softness, eyes wide and awestruck at the sight of you spread beneath him. You practically glowed in the dim light of the bedside table. Yellow, musty, yet angelic when it caressed your body with its heavenly touch.

He wondered if this was real life; your nails digging sharply into his shoulders gave him the answer.

"Logan," you sighed, voice high with need.

The strings pulled taught. A vice like hold that drew him to you.

Maybe that's what this unutterable feeling was. The gnawing pit at the bottom of his heart. A greed he'd never indulged before—too afraid of what it might ask for next. He wasn't a man who asked for much. Rather someone that found himself far too content with nothing. But tonight he found his lips forming the words of a false prayer that his mother taught him as a child.

Hail the angel in his bed. Hail every good fucking thing you brought into his life.

His teeth sunk into your thigh, body jolting at your responding moan. Fingers dug into his hair, tugging at the mussed locks with a high pitched whine. You were a needy little thing, but Logan found he desperately wanted to be needed.

He smiled laving his tongue over the tender spot, working his way up to where you dripped for him.

So slick. So perfect.

Saliva filled his mouth. "What do ya want baby?"

Your chest heaved; he could feel the heat of your body under his palms. "Your m-mouth Logan."

His eyes trailed along your brow covered in a sheen of sweat. The room was thick with the humid air of the outside world. But that didn't deter him from craving your skin near his. The pressure of your thighs around his head a welcome weight. If he sunk his teeth in where the curve of your leg met your hip he knew he could draw out that soft choking noise he longed to hear on days spent driving alone.

If he had his way he'd crawl into you to seek your serenity straight from the source. He'd never divulge about the ache that chewed him up on the inside, but Logan wondered if you knew. Could you tell how much he craved you? How much he couldn't live without you.

When your glittering eyes met his, the resolve he spent years building cracked like glass. You peered into him as if he was a stained glass window. A god you were more than happy to worship.

"You want me to lick this pretty pussy?" Fuck, he sounded drunk off your taste already.

His mouth hovered over your throbbing clit, your scent now filling his senses. Overwhelming him with what he wanted most. But he needed to hear it. The lilt of your begging; the soft echo of your need that washed over him like soothing river water.

He couldn't live without it.

"Yes," you sobbed, thigh twitching.

The string sliced his heart open, blood pooling onto the white bed sheets. Oh what a sweet death your love made. Oh...what a bittersweet way to go.

He'd die right now if you asked him to. Hand over his heart on a silver platter if you so wished it. Maybe that made him far too gone for his own good, but Logan couldn't remember a time in his life where he got this. Safety. The hope of love burning far too bright and far too hot for him to fly near it.

Yet there he was. Icarus happily soaring in your sun like glow.

"I got ya honey," he murmured. "Gonna take care of what's mine."

You nodded frantically—tears welling up in your eyes. "You take care of me Logan."

The breath in his chest stuttered, eyes dark as the words fell past your swollen lips. He wanted to explain why his cock twitched against his stomach. Why he now leaked into the sheet with heavy panted breaths. But every time he came up short with the words needed to form an answer.

"Yeah I do sweetheart," he breathed. "Don't I?"

"Uh-huh."

"Take care of what belongs to me."

There was no warning when his hands dragged you closer with a rough tug, mouth closing over your clit with a desperate suck. A cry wrenched from your mouth, sparks sharply traveling down your spine. He licked through your slick with a growl. Hands an unbreakable press against your thighs.

The sight of your body bowed, mouth open for small gasped breaths that never came, snapped something in his mind. He was an old man. Well past his years. But the taste of your pussy along his tongue brought back a ferocity he often tamped down in his younger age. He felt the feral want claw at his chest, and answered it with a broken snarl.

Swallowing down every drop you gave him, he plunged his tongue into your entrance, thrusting messily until a smear of your shiny slick began to coat his mouth. It covered his cheeks and clung to the hair of his beard. He'd clean it out later, taste you on his tongue until he was aching for another go. But for now he was preoccupied with the way you cried for him.

"Oh fuck!" Your thighs trembled over his shoulders, hips canting down to drag yourself along his tongue. "So good."

He shuddered, eyes rolling back at the sound of your praise. You caught it within seconds, lips pulling into a breathless smile that left him gasping for air. His teeth nipped at your thigh briefly as his hips ground into the mattress below.

"You like that baby?" you breathed, thumb smearing your own slick against his cheek.

Something hot washed over his body. A needy sick and twisted ache that he'd never indulged in before. He wanted to be a good man to you; longed to be needed. And fuck if you didn't give him everything.

You were his walking wet dream. His future handed off and wrapped in a neat little bow.

"L-Love your tongue Logan-" A high gasp tore from your throat when he dived back in. Slurping at your clit with a heady moan as you dragged him closer. "Taking care of me so well."

His hips canted down into the bed, fucking his cock along the warmth of his stomach, as you gushed into his mouth again. Eyes zeroed in on your face, pupils dilated as he growled into your flesh. You no longer could see the man you loved, but the feral side he tamped down during the day. The animal he longed to release in your presence.

"Fuck I'm gonna cum."

His arms looped around your thighs and with a sharp yank, he had his face buried deep enough to suffocate himself. You sobbed an incoherent version of his name. Nails clawed at his shoulders, but Logan could feel the pulse of your clit under his tongue.

He sucked it into his mouth with a grunt, rolling it along his tongue as you trembled with the oncoming shocks of an orgasm that threatened to destroy you.

Tears dripped down your cheeks and Logan felt the satisfying part of his heart begin to stitch itself back together. The strings were tight enough to numb his pain. To quell the flare of agony.

That used to be all he knew, all he counted on most days. When there was nothing left and he'd propped the shovel in the dirt—his grave open and waiting—he stumbled right into your arms. He found his reason for living.

Heat curled around his spine as you shook with the impending orgasm—the stimulation on your clit practically debilitating. He grunted into your soaked flesh, eyes narrowed as he chased the release that pulled his stomach taut. But this wasn't for him to indulge in; this wasn't his pleasure.

So with a throaty moan you felt reverberate along your body, he scraped his teeth along your clit and watched as your body went stiff.

"Logan!" you cried, fingers scrambling for purchase on any part of him you could reach.

You gushed into his awaiting mouth, praises of it's so good, you're so good falling upon his ears like the whimpered prayers of a devout worshiper thanking your god.

"Taste so fuckin' good," he mumbled, drunk on what you gave him.

He didn't care that you were jolting with each pass of his tongue along your pussy. He didn't care that you were shocked with overstimulation, small broken cries of his name muffled by the press of your thighs against his ears. He licked at you until he couldn't breathe. Buried his tongue into your twitching entrance and sucked out your cum with a happy hum.

"P-Please." You tugged at his hair, pulling him off you with a sob. "I-I can't anymore Logan."

"'M not fuckin' finished," he said, eyes glazed and face coated in your slick.

You made a mess of his face. The light catching along where you spilled into his mouth and along his throat. And still he wanted more. He'd spend hours between your thighs, burning your skin with his beard, if it meant he could divulge in your sweetness.

"It hurts-"

A grunt rumbled in his chest, his arms tugging you back even as your feet kicked along his back. "Just one more honey. Yeah?"

You shook your head. "B-But-"

"Thought you said it was good."

"It is."

"Then lemme be good for you." He wanted to tell you that the world went quiet between your thighs. That all his grief, all his pain, lessened when you sobbed his name.

He wanted to show you the string that looped his heart to yours—the only thing keeping him alive—and thank you for bringing him back from the dead. But words weren't his forte. Violence had become the only tenderness he knew and you didn't deserve the rough edges of an old man. You should have more.

But when you let him touch you like this—caress your skin and lick between your folds—he felt as if he was a man who finally was worthy of someone as precious as you. He could pretend he didn't bear the brunt of a fucked up soul.

The weight on his chest lifted when your tear filled gaze met his and you nodded. Small, barely there, but it was enough for him to seal his mouth back over you with a ragged moan. Your body shook as his tongue slid through the seam of your pussy. The tip nudging against your clit—careful to draw the pleasure from your body slowly.

He didn't want to give you pain. His heart wouldn't survive that. But he was a broken man; someone who begged for more even as his teeth sunk into what was already given.

You were his meal. His sacrament in the midnight hours until dawn broke across the darkened sky. You were the other half of his soul.

How could he not indulge in your sweetened tang until his tongue went stiff?

"I love you," you sighed, eyes rolled back when he sucked at your pussy, a wet low moan echoing in the air. "My p-perfect husband."

The cold press of his wedding band against your thigh drove him over the edge. You weren't officially married. Didn't have the backyard wedding with a preacher to match. But Logan had placed a ring on your finger near a year ago, sliding one over his own with the vow of forever cemented in his words.

Even if that didn't mean much in the eyes of a god who abandoned him near a century ago.

"Oh-"

Your head tipped back, mouth dropping open as his fingers dipped into your wet heat. Thrusting lazily until he found the spongey patch along your walls—driving the pad of his middle finger into it with a needy moan.

He knew it wouldn't take long for you to fly off the edge of a second release. That didn't make watching you climb to that peak any less satisfying. The sight appeased his soul. It gave him a chance to breathe; let him know that after so much bad—after so much pain—he could do something good. He could bring you to the edge of pleasure and drag you over again and again.

He could finally be the man you believed he was.

Not the animal they created.

"C'mon," he muttered. Eyes fixed on the shape of your breasts as your body curved off the bed. Hips dragging along his face with a stunted cry.

A wail bounced off the walls, piercing his eardrums with the symphony of your cries. His fingers rapidly pumped into you with a squelch that had heat burning his cheeks—lips pulling your throbbing clit into his mouth as you broke. The climax slammed into you; battering your already swollen pussy.

Logan could feel his cock swell at the sight.

"Fuckin' perfect," he grunted, teeth bared as he clambered to his knees and wrapped his fist soaked in your slick around his leaking cock. "'M gonna cum sweetheart."

Your eyes fluttered open, fingers digging into his thigh. "Please. Wanna see it baby. Look so pretty when you cum Logan."

His chest tightened, body shaking while you watched in rapture as he fucked his fist rapidly. He wouldn't fucking last, could feel the burning consume his body, but something held him back. The string around his heart yanked him away from the edge, tearing a cry from his throat when his frustration peaked.

You could see it—the glimmer of need in his dark eyes. This wasn't the first time he longed for your words. It certainly wouldn't be the last.

So you spread your legs and sat up slowly—arms wrapping around his shoulders to bring his lips down to yours. A soft moan was muffled by your mouth; the peak of his release within reach. He could practically feel the tips of his fingers graze it.

"Cover my pussy baby," you mumbled into his mouth. "Be good for me and mark what's yours."

The growl came from the very bottom of his chest when he finally came. Your name was a bitten out snarl pressed to your mouth in an open mouth kiss as he spurted over his knuckles. He pumped his cock to milk every drop; eyes fixed on the way it covered the swollen lips of your pussy. Dripping down to your entrance that fluttered at the sight of his sweaty and crimson tinged face.

"I fuckin' love ya honey," he murmured, hand cupping your chin to drag your lips back to his. "Best thing that's happened in my life is you."

You smiled, thumbs pressing to his cheeks. "Love you too Logan."

Clutching you close, he felt the string go loose. The breath finally rushing back into his lungs at the sight of your eyes glowing with the kind of light that brought him back to the first day The night he met you in that shitty bar—alcohol the only thing on his mind until he saw you.

The night you spoke his name over his covered grave and dragged him back to life with a smile.

[breannasfluff]

The doorbell rings, marking a customer, and Danny is jerked from his thoughts as he half-dozes on the counter.

“Hi, welcome.” Straightening up he brushes off his apron and gestures at the table. “Can I get you some water?”

The flat look he gets in return isn’t promising. “No. I need to talk to the boss in the back. Watch my daughter for a minute, would you? Brat keeps running off when I ain’t looking.”

“Ah…” Danny shifts, awkward, and glances around the empty room. 

Customer rolls his eyes and slouches out the door. Then he’s back, bell dinging cheerfully, with a girl’s arm in his hand. “Sit,” he tells the girl, shoving her into a chair. “Stay.”

She’s not a dog. Danny grits his teeth and thinks about the taser, behind the counter he was sitting at. She doesn’t look scared, just huffs and shakes chunky bangs out of one eye. 

Customer looks them both over again. “Talkin to the boss. Watch her.” With that, he vanishes back into the kitchen.

Danny looks at the girl. 

She stares back. “You know what this place is, right?”

“A Chinese restaurant?” he tries. 

The girl blows her bangs out of her face again. “MSG, sure. The good shit.”

“Language,” Danny snaps because she can’t be older than twelve. 

He gets a considering look. “You’re new to town, aren't cha? I’m DeeDee.”

“I’m Dan.” He’s not going to give out his full name, not here. “And what gave it away?”

DeeDee cackles, throwing her shoes up on the table. Danny grimaces at the motion. “You got this…shininess to you. Gotham hasn’t got its dirt in your cracks yet.”

Danny glances at the kitchen where her father went. “Are you…safe?”

“It’s Gotham, dipstick. Nothing’s safe here.” DeeDee reminds him of Ember. A younger, ruder version, maybe. “But Pops ain’t the worst. He’s not my real dad, but street kids don’t get a lot of choices, ya know? I help, he gives me a place to sleep.”

“You help…”

“With the MSG.” Her grin is all teeth. “Gotta keep it on the DL though, you hear? Not supposed to have kids involved.” It’s the first time her cocky manner fades. “Don’t wanna be out on the street again. It’s hard to find a gig. Too young for shit.”

Danny’s frown is going to be permanent if he keeps this up. DeeDee is just a kid, even if she’s had to grow up fast. She's only a few years younger than him when he started ghost-fighting. 

He tears off a scrap of paper and jots down a number before handing it over. “That’s for Tony’s Pizza. If you lose this gig, you call the number and say you want to talk to Dan, got it?”

DeeDee takes it with a sneer that looks forced. “I don’t need no charity.”

Danny just shrugs. “You don’t. But sometimes it’s nice to have the option.”

Read the rest here

[davinawritings]

Werewolf Husband that is obsessed with your ass...

Werewolf husband that is obsessed with your ass. His hands are on it at all times of the day. It’s not even always super sexual. Sometimes it’s just a loving little slap as you pass him in the hallway or a firm grab as you bend over to reach for something. He always makes sure to give your ass a big squeeze as soon as you wake.

Cuddling= Hand on ass

Sleeping = Hand on ass

Bending over to tie your shoe laces = Hand on ass

Walking away after placing his food in front of him = Ass smack

Walk past him in the hallway= Ass smack 

Fucking: Ass smack, bite, grab and occasionally fuck

This werewolf is obsessed with your ass.

You have come to expect having your ass in his hands in some way, shape or form. So, when you woke up this morning and he didn’t grab it, you were completely thrown off. You didn’t say anything because maybe he just forgot, but then you walked by him in the hallway and he just gave you a small smile.

Once again you brushed it off, you know he has been working hard lately with the pack. Maybe he is just tired. 

Then you brought him lunch in his office. You made the food perfectly and put on a cute little skirt that practically screamed look at my butt and squeeze! Placing the food down you stood right next to him and angled your body so you were easy to reach and your ass was on prime display. He just thanked you and went back to work while taking bites of his food.

Now you know something is wrong. You spend the rest of the day trying to figure out what you did wrong. You cannot think of anything but surely you are missing something. Everything was normal when you went to sleep last night. He fucked your brains out then pulled you to his warm chest. You even felt his clawed hand stroking your ass as you drifted off to sleep. What could have possibly changed between then and this morning?

When your husband finally emerges from his office he finds you pouting on the sofa. He calls your name and as soon as you look at him the dam breaks and tears start pouring from your eyes. 

He is kneeling in front of you in seconds grabbing your smaller hands in his own and asking what is wrong.

When you tearfully say, “You haven't touched my butt today”, he just looks at you confused. You go on and try to explain, “You always touch my butt. You love it. Everytime you are within arms reach you grab it or smack it. You didn’t do it at all today. Not once! What did I do wrong? Do you not love me anymore? Do you not love my butt anymore?”

He looks at you in complete shock for a moment before howling in laughter. Your sad tears quickly turn into irritated tears and your small fists hit his chest.

“That’s why you’re crying? You think I don't love you anymore because I haven't grabbed your ass today”, he says between bouts of laughter.

You glare at him for making fun of you and refuse to say anything further, knowing he will just laugh more.

He finally controls himself before scooping you into his arms, his hand going straight to your ass to hold you up. His hands massage your ass as he sticks his long tongue down your throat, earning a needy moan from you. He begins walking towards the bedroom and says “Come on my little mate. Let me show you how much I love your ass by stuffing it full of my cock. Cant have my precious wife feeling unloved”.

You smile as he lands a firm slap on your right ass cheek, everything feeling right once again.

[avocado-writing]

I think the prompt "opening the door for them or pulling their seat out for them" works great with Logan since he did come of age in the early 20th century. Surely he retains some of that courtesy!

he’s holding himself up straighter, you think.

Logan, realising it or not, tends to walk with the hunched posture of an animal. ready to strike if a threat should arise; constantly poised to jump into action.

but the other night, when the two of you were shooting the shit on the apartment block roof and getting real close after a couple of beers, and you’d asked him if he wanted to grab dinner sometime? well, since then, he’s acting like he has a board glued to his spine.

genteel isn’t quite the word you’d use for the mannerisms he’s displaying, but it’s not exactly wrong either. his jacket folded and laid across his arm as he waits on the corner, the way he holds open the door to the diner for you, how he calls the waitress “ma’am”? oh, it’s all so adorable.

he pulls the goddamn chair out for you, dusts the errant crumbs off. it’s such an… upscale gesture for the greasy spoon you’re in, totally out of place. you can’t help the huge smile that crosses your face.

“what?” he asks, looking around as if trying to see what’s wrong.

“nothing. you’re a cutie, that’s all.”

“cutie…” he huffs, but waits until you take a seat and helps scoot it back against the table, too.

“I like it. never had someone be so gentlemanly before.”

something passes over his lips, a twitch in his jaw like he’s not sure whether to speak - then lets it slip out anyway.

“you deserve it, darlin’,” he confesses. you hold up the menu to try and distract from the heat rising in your face.

[rowanisawriter]

legacy

patrochilles / F1 iliad AU / ~12k words

inspired by @wolfythewitch’s gorgeous F1 art

After Achilles unexpectedly storms off the track during the last race of the World Championship, Patroclus is tasked by members of his own team and beyond to bring him back to the race as the threat of a Trojan victory looms.

.

“You really think I could get Achilles back on the track with all of you disrespecting him like this?” Patroclus almost laughs but it gets stuck in his throat. “And anyway, I shouldn’t even be here talking to you. I should be cheering on my own team instead of listening to you shit on yours.”

“Patroclus, we are all on the same team under Agamemnon. And we are about to get fucked if we lose Helen’s sponsorship to the Trojans. I’m telling you, you might not even have a contract next year.”

Patroclus’s incredulous laugh is a choked sound that bursts past his lips. He looks at Odysseus, the permanent lines across his brow, the silver hair catching the sunlight pouring in from the open bay doors, and tries to find some of the good humor that’s usually there. It’s not here today. All he can see is worry and a hint of fear. It slides across the space between them, burrowing itself into Patroclus’s chest, as cool as the wine from earlier.

“There are two races left,” Odysseus says, his voice barely above a whisper, snatched out of his mouth and weaving in and out and around the crowd that presses in waves of Ferrari red and Mercedes black and Red Bull blue. “Achilles needs to be there for at least one, otherwise we’re cooked.”

[ckret2]

Chapter 69 (lol) of human Bill Cipher being a prisoner with terrible fashion sense: beach episode!!! Well, lake episode. Close enough.

And a few other people come to town.

Just after dawn, a sleek, nondescript black government SUV, now dusty from a long drive, parked in front of the Gravity Falls Police Department. Three agents in sleek, nondescript black suits stepped out.

As they left the car, Blubs came out to meet them, Durland trailing behind him. "Agent Powers, Agent Trigger! Good to see you again." He shook Powers's hand, then glanced at the new agent. "And you are...?"

"Agent Dale!" The rookie shook Blubs's hand next, beaming. "Very pleased to meet you. I was just saying in the car—you have a beautiful town here, just beautiful."

"Wouldn't stop talking about it," Trigger muttered.

Blubs chuckled. "Why, thank you. We're quite proud of it ourselves."

Durland said, "Say, Agent Dale—don't you agents usually have tougher-sounding codenames?"

"Agent Clyde S. Dale. Like the horse."

"Ohhh. Yup, that'll do it."

"Sheriff Blubs," Powers said. "I trust you have the requested materials?"

"Right inside," Blubs said. "We've got the readings on last week's gravity anomaly from McGucket's scanners, and reports on this weekend's power surge."

"No overlap between the incidents?"

"None anyone here detected."

"Hmm. Has anything else strange happened since we were last in town?"

Blubs hesitated. "Well—never mind all that." He quickly shifted topics, "Say, I like your 'honk if you want to be arrested' bumper sticker." ("Oh is that what it says?" Durland asked.)

Agent Powers said solemnly, "I can get you the contact information of the shop where I bought it. It's a very nice small business run by art students."

"Would you? That'd be delightful."

Powers paused before following the cops and his agents into the police department, glancing out at Gravity Falls' town square—the modest little main street shops, the town hall, the statue of the town founder, the distinctive water tower with the faded muffin graffiti, and the familiar mountains surrounding the little valley town.

And then he let out a long, frustrated sigh.

"Fine," he muttered grumpily, glaring at the town as though it were an old rival as annoyed to see him as he was to see it. "Let's just get this over with."

He followed Blubs into the police department.

####

"Attention, everybody," Stan said, standing in the entryway with his fists on his hips, Soos beaming behind him. "I've got some great news!"

Abuelita and Bill glanced up from one of Abuelita's soap operas; Mabel and Dipper craned their necks to see Stan from where they were having dinner at the kitchen table.

Stan announced, "It's finally time!"

Dipper and Mabel blinked. Bill said, "Great. I'll get the ritual daggers, you can set up the blood red candles. Dolores?"

Abuelita said, "I will put out the good sacrifice altar." Bill laughed in delight.

"Yeah, yuck it up, you two," Stan said. "We're going fishing tomorrow! I've got the bait, I found everyone's rods, Soos and I patched up the old boat, I even—" He paused at the sound of the vending machine opening. "Hey! Ford!"

Ford ducked in from the gift shop. "What?" 

Stan chucked a hat at him. "I made you a fishing buddy hat! See, it's got your name! That's pretty good!"

"Oh." Ford inspected the letters haphazardly stitched onto the hat. "Why?"

"Fishing tomorrow! Half the summer's gone by, and we haven't gone fishing once! The guys from the lodge probably think I'm too ashamed to show my face. But it rained this weekend, the weather's just cleared up, now's the perfect time for fishing!"

"Oh," Ford said again, trying to drag his thoughts from magical tapes to fishing. "If you'd let me know earlier, I'd have built another fish-summoning beacon like the one on our boat." (Bill glanced curiously at Ford at the mention of an invention he didn't already know about; then stubbornly refused to be interested and dragged his gaze back to the TV.)

"No beacons! This isn't fishing for survival, this is about the sport! Asserting our manhood! Just the skill, strength, and patience of three men—and some women and children—against the lake!" (Soos beamed at being included amongst the men.)

Ford considered that. He didn't assert his manhood very often; usually he just sort of let his manhood hang around minding its own business, like an old cat that wants to be in the same room as you without socializing. It sounded like an intriguingly novel experience. "Okay, great. What time?"

"I want everyone on the road tomorrow morning! By six thirty at the latest."

The kids groaned.

"C'mon, dudes," Soos said encouragingly. "It'll be fun! After about three hours, once you're awake enough to think."

"No griping, we've gotta be there early to get a prime fishing spot," Stan said. "Tomorrow's a lodge fishing day. We're going home with a haul so big they'll be embarrassed they kicked me out!"

Dipper asked, "You mean the lodge for the Royal Order of the Holy Mackerel, right? Why'd they kick you out?"

Stan sighed, "Once the town found out about Ford, they realized I'd spent the last thirty years attending lodge meetings under his membership. Since I'd never undergone the—" He rolled his eyes and made finger quotes, "'sacred angler initiation rites,' they booted me. And they said I can't try to join again, just because of that one dumb little white lie! And my extensive criminal record."

Ford hurriedly crossed the living room to avoid blocking Abuelita's TV view. (Bill looked through him like he wasn't there.) "Stan got a lot more out of my membership than I did—once I'd finished my initiation I probably only ever attended three meetings. I tried to petition the Mackerels to let him rejoin."

"How'd they respond?" Mabel asked.

"They kicked me out too."

Bill scoffed. "Big deal! The Fishmasons and all their subordinate organizations are just a big boring social club that got you hotel discounts three hundred years ago. The mystique around them is more interesting than anything they actually do."

"Figuring that out is why I stopped attending after three meetings," Ford said. "I joined to learn about the dark secret underbelly of Western politics—not sit around eating charcuterie and fancy nuts while everyone talks about baseball and makes fun of me for not knowing what a fly ball is. It's a stupid term! Doesn't the ball always fly?"

"Really, they aren't even worth joining," said Bill Cipher, the only person to have ever been kicked out of seventeen separate Masonic lodges in seventeen separate bodies.

Reminded of the fancy nuts he was missing out on at this very second, Stan set his jaw in determination. "Yeah, well, they're a big boring social club that'll rue the day they kicked out Stan Pines! Out the door, six thirty, on the dot!"

"I don't have an alarm," Bill said. "Hey star girl, wake me at five."

Mabel shuddered at the thought of setting an alarm that early. "No way. You can borrow my radio."

"Hold on, I didn't say you're invited," Stan said. "We've already got a full boat! Me, my brother, the kids, and Soos and his girl. Nobody wants to sit on the lake with you for eight hours."

"I wanna sit on the lake with Bill!"

"Nobody but Mabel wants that."

"Relax! I don't want to sit on a boat with you underpainted clowns either," Bill said. "I just want to sit on the beach! I miss sunlight! Sunlight without being forced to hike through half the valley on no food or sleep."

(Ford decided that was his cue to make himself scarce. He scooted into the guest room.)

"Well," Stan said, "we're not staying thirty feet from the shore, we're not leaving anybody behind, and we don't trust you to stay put on the beach without your dumb magic bracelet—so how do you expect that to work."

"I'll just stay with Dolores."

Stan and Soos stared at Abuelita. Soos said, "Abuelita? Do you want to come?"

Abuelita considered it. "Sure. The weather is nice. I can catch up on my reading."

"Yes!" Bill hopped off the couch. "Then it's a plan!"

"Hey, hold on," Stan said as Bill breezed past him, "I didn't agree to—"

"Hey star girl!" Bill leaned into the kitchen. "Need your fashion services! I need a swimsuit before tomorrow."

Mabel gasped in delight. "What kind?"

"Whatever exposes the most skin without getting me arrested. I'm absorbing as much sunlight as possible."

"With sunscreen, right?" Soos said.

Bill turned and gave him a blank-faced stare.

Soos hopefully repeated, "With sunscreen?"

"Don't need it."

"You totally do, dude. Not many people talk about this? But having more melanin doesn't totally protect you from sun damage, it just slows it down," Soos said. "Trust me on this. When I was like eight, I went to this water park—

"Uh-huh, and three days later you were peeling off flakes of your own dead flesh," Bill said. "It's cute how you think you know more about humans from 23 years of passively being one than I do from 500,000 years of actively studying them."

"Oh."

"C'mon, star girl! No time to waste!" Bill grabbed Mabel's hand and tugged her off her chair.

"Wait, my sandwich—!" Mabel grabbed the rest of her dinner off her plate and shoved it in her mouth as Bill dragged her upstairs.

Abuelita shot him a dirty look as he passed, but turned back to her soap opera.

####

Just past five in the morning, Bill crept by the guest room door. He glanced through the wall as he passed; good, both of the Stans were in bed and sound asleep. Bill wouldn't have had a chance to get up to his mischief if Ford had decided to sleep downstairs.

He snuck behind the vending machine; paused to squint toward the future and confirm that when he looked at the stairs, he could only see himself using them anytime soon; then down to the elevator; and down, down to Ford's study.

Bill sighed in relief when the elevator slid open and he saw that Ford had left his study door ajar. He crept into the room, feet socked, hands gloved—Ford was the kind of paranoid to actually check for prints if he suspected anything, and Bill's triangular whorls were very distinctive—and looked through the objects piled on the shelves and furniture for any concealed sensors or cameras. The coast was clear.

He idly scanned the nearby shelves for any sign of his stolen time tape, didn't find it, but didn't expect to. That wasn't what he was here for.

He knelt in front of a half-disassembled filing cabinet, flipped through the files in the removed bottom drawer until he found several folders together about curses and hexes, and flipped through them until he found the one labeled "Curses & Hexes (w/ ingredients)". Good old Sixer, left everything exactly where Bill remembered it.

He rifled through the pages—"aha!"—until he found the paper he was looking for and pulled it out. Handwritten at the top of a ragged-edged piece of notebook paper were the words "Reverse Sunscreen". Bill read through the list of ingredients—"Oh, pepper juice, not pepper flakes, right."—then put the paper back.

He glanced back and forth between the past and present to ensure he put the files back exactly where he'd found them—again, considering Ford's paranoia, he might notice any difference.

And then he returned to the elevator and headed upstairs.

The whole time he was in the study, Bill didn't let himself glance at the back of the room where Ford's shrine to him used to be.

####

"Heya, pal," Bill said. "It's been a while! Where have you been hiding all summer?"

Gompers blinked up at Bill.

"I guess we both look different than we did the last time we met, huh? I think your makeover went better than mine, though! You didn't fall as far as I did." He didn't have as far to fall.

Gompers accepted the backhanded compliment with utter indifference.

"But hey, why talk about the past! Let's let bygones be bygones. Here." Bill knelt, pulled one of Ford's nutrition pills from the folds of his beach towel, and held it out. "A peace offering! A little snack for you."

Gompers eyed it warily.

"Come on, you've eaten worse things than this."

He delicately ate the pill out of Bill's hand.

"Thaaat's right. Tell me how you like that thing later."

Leaning on his car, Stan—the only other person who'd actually been ready to go at 6:30—looked over Bill's shirt and trout slippers, and asked warily, "You didn't forget that humans need to wear pants, right?"

Bill got to his feet, shoved his makeshift umbrella-cane under the same arm as his beach towel, and pulled up the hem of the puma shirt he'd stolen from the gift shop to reveal his bikini bottom. It was teal with little puffy gold triangles painted on. "Cover-up dress. Your arbitrary fashion rules are different for beaches."

Stan considered whether a t-shirt counted as a dress, decided he didn't know enough about dresses and he might as well give this one to Bill, and grunted. "Fine, you're legal."

"Am I free to go, officer?"

"Never compare me to a cop again."

"Stop acting like one!" Bill trotted off to his ride to wait for the other humans to assemble.

There wasn't room for all eight beachgoers in one vehicle; the Pines piled together in Stan's car, while the Ramirezes (including Melody—honorary future Ramirez—and Bill—magic braceleted to Abuelita) took Soos's truck. So that Abuelita didn't have to squeeze past the front seats into the back, Bill and Melody were assigned the back bench; when Bill greeted Melody and she only responded with a vague mumble and an averted gaze, he scooted closer to the middle of the bench, spread his knees to take up more space, and smugly pretended not to notice how Melody squeezed herself against the door.

By the time the Ramirez vehicle parked at the beach, the Pines family was already out of their car: Stan was glaring up the beach with his fists on his hips, the kids were unsuccessfully searching Mabel's supply bag for Dipper's sunscreen, and Ford was lingering back at the car, pretending to check the contents of their tackle box but actually trying to shake the sudden memory of weightlessness and water in his throat. As Bill passed, Ford muttered, "I'm surprised you wanted to get this close to the lake so soon. Considering." It had been less than a week since their joint near death experience.

"Why not? Nearly drowning was the most fun part of that hike." (Ford wondered whether that was a red flag, an underhanded comment about how unfun the rest of the hike had been, or just Bill being Bill; and, for his own peace of mind, decided it was probably the third thing.) "Looks like you got something fun out of the trip, too." Bill snapped the shoulder strap of Ford's waders.

Ford shoved Bill's hand away. "As long as I have them, I might as well use them."

When everyone caught up with Stan, he was scowling at four men, ages ranging from 50 to 80, wearing fishing vests and hats with the Holy Mackerel's distinctive stylized fish symbol. "Eugene," Stan muttered. "Eugene and his goons wanted to kick me out of the lodge for years. Just because I have a grating personality and am generally unpleasant to be around! And tried to get the lodge to pick a local affordable housing fund as our charity for fundraising one year!"

Ford gave Stan a surprised look. "You never mentioned you worked with an affordable housing charity."

"Yeah. The Compassionate Angel's Fund For Gravity Falls Tourism Business Owners Who Are Behind On Their Mortgage Payments."

Ford snorted. 

Bill said, "I think you should've gotten away with it just for being funny."

"Don't even look at them," Stan instructed the group. "These jerks aren't worth it." The collected group studiously avoided looking at the Mackerels, except Bill and Abuelita, who didn't care.

As they walked up the beach toward the pier and veered around the Mackerels, Stan suddenly stopped, turned straight toward them, and said loudly, "Why, Eugene! What a coincidence! I almost didn't notice you!"

A tall, elderly man with a fishing rod over one shoulder and a black wooden cane in his other hand glanced over at the Pines/Ramirez party. "Oh," he said, with a voice like he'd found a fly stuck in gum on his cane. "Hello, Stan-ley. We haven't seen you out on the lake this summer."

Stan laughed loudly, as if Eugene had told a hilarious joke. "Oh, that! I was just waiting for perfect fishing weather! I'mnot about to waste my time out on the lake on a bad fishing day!" He gestured behind himself, "Besides, I had to wait until my whole family was free to come along."

(Soos elbowed Melody and whispered excitedly, "He called us his family!")

Stan clapped his hands proudly on Dipper and Mabel's shoulders—who looked like they hoped the sandy beach would swallow them whole—and said, "I don't see your family, Eugene, where are they?"

"Dead." With mournful dignity, Eugene said, "I outlived my wife and all three of my children. Remember? You ate potato chips during my daughter's funeral."

Stan opened his mouth, shut it, and said, "Was that the really boring one that went like an hour?"

Ford, who didn't always have the best social instincts but could tell when Stan had screwed up, started shooing the rest of the family away from the scene, elbowed Stan, and said, "Let's get to the boat. You wanted to get a prime fishing spot, right?"

Eugene looked at Ford. "Ah. You must be the real Stanford Pines?" he said. "So I'm assuming, anyway. Apparently it's hard to tell you two apart."

Stan scowled; but before he could retort, Bill pushed past him to butt into the conversation. "Is it ever! Listen, take it from someone who's made this mistake—you've got to count the fingers on these two, every time."

Eugene huffed sardonically. "So it seems." (Ford self-consciously hid his hands in his pockets and shot Bill a dark look as he shuffled off with the rest of the family.)

"Say, while I've got your attention—name's Goldie, by the way—I couldn't help but admire your cane!" He tapped the tip of his umbrella against Eugene's cane. "I'm in the market for an upgrade from this substitute I've been using! That's no blackwood, right? That looks like true ebony."

"Good eye," Eugene said, surprised. "Yes, genuine Gaboon ebony."

"Must've dropped a lot of gold on this thing," Bill said appreciatively. "You've gotta tell me where you got it."

"I'm afraid I don't remember off the top of my head..."

"That's fine! Look it up—" (he twisted around to speak over his shoulder as Stan grabbed his arm and dragged him away) "—I'm sure we'll meet again!"

About fifteen feet away, Stan growled, "What was that?"

"Networking. I've got plans for that guy," Bill said. "Hey, did you hear him? Gaboon ebony?" He laughed condescendingly. "Easiest way to make a guy look like a moron, start talking about 'true' ebonies. Didja know the word 'ebony' comes from Egyptian? And when they talked about 𓍁𓈖𓏭𓆱, they were talking about African blackwood. Wood so hard it sinks and you have to tool it like a metal! Gaboon ebony is a flimsy usurper!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"But you don't pretend you do, and that's what makes you better than that guy." Bill tugged Stan down by the shoulder. "Listen, Fisherman. I can't tell you where the fish are biting but I can tell you where they're swimming. It'll give you an advantage, but you'll need to do the rest."

Stan squinted mistrustfully at Bill. "What's the catch."

"The catch is you have to accept my help. Do you want it or not?"

"And why are you offering?"

"Because I think these lodge guys are a bunch of snobs. And they should've chosen your charity. It was funny."

That, plus Stan had been the most reluctant to let Bill live; Bill had to convince him he'd made the right choice.

Bill gave Stan directions to a bunch of fish he could see underwater by the Island Head Beast's right earhole; and then, his good deed for the day done, he headed off to claim a spot on the beach.

Ford had gone into Tate & Backle's to properly purchase the clothing they'd borrowed after the eclipse, and Soos was helping set Abuelita up with a low beach chair and a large umbrella. Bill smoothed out a patch of sand about ten feet from Abuelita so he could lay out his beach towel and dump his supplies for the day beside it. While Mabel and Melody got the boat ready, Dipper wandered around looking for sunscreen to borrow. He saw Bill's tube, snatched it without asking, and generously coated his arms, legs, and face. Bill fought back a grin and pretended not to notice.

He tossed aside his t-shirt and fish slippers, settled down on the towel in his bikini, carefully squeezed several horizontal lines of reverse sunscreen across the front of his abdomen and thighs, and drew a few vertical lines in between to break them up.

Ford trudged over from the bait shop to tell Bill, "I thought you'd like to know those ridiculous fish slippers were thirty dollars."

Bill laughed. "Whoa! Seems like a lot of money for some cheap novelty shoes! It's too bad you decided to trap me in a position where I'm too destitute and powerless to make my own purchases, isn't it?"

"All right, all right." Ford's gaze caught on the bruise-blue line discoloring the skin from Bill's left shoulder to his right hip—had he gotten injured during one of his hikes the past week? Or had that always been there? Ford didn't think he'd ever seen Bill's body shirtless, maybe it had always been here—but then he noticed Bill's lines of sunscreen and barked a laugh. "I suppose you're not planning to rub that in."

"Brilliant observation." Bill began smoothing down the lines with a finger, maintaining the pattern he'd drawn.

"You wanted to come out here to suntan? I'm sure you're already aware of the cancer risks from tanning."

"If I'm in this body long enough to get cancer, I'll welcome it." Bill lay down, laced his hands behind his head, and gave Ford an obnoxious smile. "Anyway, basal cell carcinomas are delicious. There's something kinda romantic about them, you know?"

Ford ruminated on that with thoughtful bafflement, shushed the voice in his head trying to point out that Bill was waving ever more red flags, and concluded that this was perhaps humans weren't meant to comprehend the romanticism of skin cancer. "Fine."

"What's everyone standing around for?" Stan asked, trudging up to Soos and Ford. "C'mon, we're burning daylight! Let's..." He trailed off, staring at Bill.

His bikini top consisted of two triangular red cups. Each cup had an enormous staring eye.

"See something ya like?" Bill asked dryly.

Stan quickly looked away. "Ugh. That's indecent."

"What is?"

"That—design!"

"What's indecent about eyeballs?"

"It looks like...!" He gestured vaguely but emphatically.

"What? What does it look like? Tell me what it looks like, Stanley."

"Never mind!" He turned away with a huff and muttered to Ford, "Can you believe him?"

"I honestly didn't notice anything until you pointed it out." Ford waved back at Bill dismissively as he followed Stan toward the boat. "Enjoy your sunburn."

"I will! I haven't had a good sunburn in centuries! That's one of the best features of earthling bodies!" Bill got comfortable and shut his eyes.

Soos finished getting Abuelita settled, headed toward the boat—but hesitated as he passed by Bill. Bill opened an eye a crack to glower up at him. "What?"

Soos mumbled, "You could've just told me you wanted to get sunburned. I mean—yesterday."

"But you didn't ask if I wanted a sunburn," Bill snapped. "You just assumed I didn't know how they work. And that's the point: you assumed I was stupid instead of considering that maybe you didn't know my plan."

"Oh. Uh... sorry." Soos rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to make you feel stupid."

Bill's irritation flared higher. He sat up. "I didn't say you made me feel stupid," he hissed, voice low, talking fast. "There's nothing that you could do to make me feel stupid. But that doesn't mean you aren't treating me like I'm stupid, does it?"

"Whoa—!" Soos raised his hands defensively. "Chill, dawg. I didn't mean—"

"What's the phrase, do ut des? 'Do unto others'? Your species's phrase. Don't treat me like I'm stupider than you and I won't have to return the favor—sound like a fair deal, Question Mark?" Bill stared up at him challengingly, brows raised.

"But th— I w— You..." Soos's protests that he'd been doing nothing but trying to do-unto-others Bill got jumbled all around under the force of Bill's spotlight glare. His shoulders slumped. "Sure," he mumbled. "Sorry."

"Good." Bill lay back down. "Get out of my sun."

Soos trudged away; and Bill took a deep breath, tried to get in a meditative mindset where he could shut off his mind, and focused on the feeling of sunshine on his body.

He'd just about managed to drop into a proper trance when Abuelita called sweetly, "Bill? Would you grab a bottle of water for me?"

His face twitched toward a frown as he was dragged back to full consciousness. Hadn't Soos left them close enough for her? Some grandson. 

"Bill?"

He tried to think of an excuse to stay where he was; then growled in irritation and sat up. "Okay, okay." He couldn't afford to offend the chef with access to the poisons.

The bag with the water bottles was right behind Abuelita's elbow; but maybe her joints were stiff. Bill knelt to unzip the bag. "Another bodice ripper?" he asked, glancing at her book. 

"A powerful sorceress queen has been captured by her enemies. She just learned they are led by her former apprentice."

"I can sympathize with that." Bill dragged the bag up next to Abuelita's knee so he wouldn't need to grab another bottle for her later. "Who's the love interest—guileless guard? Heroic rescuer?"

"The apprentice."

"Sympathy's gone." Bill glanced toward the boat to see what the rest of the household was up to.

They'd already reached the spot Bill had indicated and started fishing. Soos was excitedly reeling in his line; the boat listed to one side as everyone crowded around him to see what he'd brought up. Stan dipped a net in the water to scoop up his catch.

It was a boot.

Everyone's faces fell in disappointment.

Except for Ford's, who gleefully snatched up the boot he'd kicked off during the eclipse when he fell in the lake. He dumped the water out of his boot, switched places with Soos, and began fishing the same spot.

Abuelita said, "My grandson has been very nice to you."

Bill looked at her warily.

"Hasn't he?" She had a polite smile and daggers in her eyes.

He had the oddest feeling that this was going somewhere dangerous. "Yeah yeah yeah, sure he has," Bill said. "Nothing but nice. I think I'll take a little stroll, stretch these legs! See ya!" He stood to escape.

He only got a step away before the enchanted bracelet pulled tight around his wrist. He turned around to stare in amazement.

Abuelita had wrapped the slack of the bracelet thread around her hand.

Bill had made a severe miscalculation.

"So," Abuelita said. "Why are you being mean to my grandson." It was a trap all along. She'd agreed to be handcuffed to him so she could corner him for an interrogation.

"Whaaat," Bill said. "Me? No way! I'd never!"

Abuelita stared at him patiently.

"I don't even talk to him," Bill said, trying to think of a conversational escape route.

She raised a brow.

Got it. "He's just too nice, you see! I don't know how to talk to a guy that nice," he lied. "Makes things awkward!" How could any grandmother complain about her grandson being called too nice? "Yeah—not Jesús's fault at all. I don't hold it against him."

"Ah," Abuelita said, "you aren't used to people being nice to you?"

Sure, they could go with that, try to get him some pity. "Yeah! You know how it is. King of Nightmares, scourge of the multiverse—I'm not a popular guy."

"But you have friends, don't you? The scary ones you brought with you to town last year? Are they not nice to you?"

Bill hesitated, trying to figure out his story now. "Sure—they're nice to me. They're my friends! They love me! They'd do anything I say!"

"Oh. So, you're only comfortable with people being nice to you when you can control them." Abuelita smiled sweetly.

Swift, efficient, and brutal. Bill gaped at her.

"I'm glad you have nothing against Soos," she said. "And that you won't be rude to him."

Bill snapped his mouth shut. "Of course not." He gave Abuelita a tight smile. Played like a fiddle. Even though he'd been lying, she still managed to make him look like a loser. How embarrassing. "If you don't mind, I've got a sunburn to get back to."

"I'm not stopping you." She let the extra thread on the bracelet cuffs unwind from her hand and drop to the sand.

Bill trudged back to his towel, snapping as he went, "I hope this is one of those books you hate where the couple only gets hitched because they've got a baby coming."

"The sorceress has magical birth control."

"Course she does."

Bill flopped onto his towel again and stared at the sky. Ouch.

####

(I've been promising Agent Powers AND a beach episode for ages, and we finally get to them both at the same time. Let me know what y'all think so for!)

[whumblr]

Hands cupping their face, hurried kisses and touches, words of comfort, fearful glances back over their shoulder, footsteps getting closer, foreheads touching and a whispered "I'll be back for you" when a character is restrained or stuck is just 🤌 *mwah*

[axeeglitter]

Uber Frat

Tom had driven this route a hundred times before. The streets near the university were alive with students barhopping, loud music booming from nearby frat houses. His Uber beeped as a new ride request came in from Delta Sigma Gamma, one of the more notorious frats, known for their cocky jocks and constant partying. He sighed, not particularly excited about the prospect of dealing with another drunk frat boy.

The rider’s name popped up on his phone: Ryan.

"Another one of these guys," Tom muttered to himself, already dreading the ride. At thirty-five, Tom was happy with his life. He was engaged to Sarah, his high school sweet heart, and they were planning their wedding. Driving Uber was just a way to save up a little extra for the wedding. He was a simple guy; routine, stability, and a future with Sarah. He had no interest in wild parties or the frat life he’d never had.

When he pulled up to the massive Delta Sigma house, a shirtless, muscular figure stumbled out, carrying the telltale swagger of someone who had downed far too many beers. Ryan was massive, broad-shouldered, thick arms, chest bursting out of his soaked tank top. His feet dragged a little as he approached the car, and when he opened the door, the powerful stench of sweat and musk hit Tom like a truck.

Ryan collapsed into the backseat, reeking of alcohol, but worse than that, his scent was overpowering, the smell of sweat-soaked skin and dirty gym socks filling the car immediately. Tom gagged but tried to keep it under control.

“Yo, driver!” Ryan slurred, kicking off his sneakers without a care and slapping his socked feet right between the two front seats on the arm rest “Take me to the next bar, bro.”

“Uh, can you put your feet down?” Tom asked, his voice tight with irritation.

Ryan didn’t even glance at him, wiggling his toes lazily. “Nah, man, you’ll get used to it. Just like everyone else. This is how it is when you’re part of the brotherhood.” His voice was thick with drunken confidence, a cocky grin spreading across his face.

“Look, man, I’m just trying to do my job,” Tom said, irritation rising as the smell intensified, like sour sweat and musk combining to form something nearly tangible.

Ryan chuckled, the sound low and mocking. “You think you’re better than us, huh? Driving your Uber, going back to your little pathetic, boring life, playing it all straight and safe. You don’t even know what you’re missing, bro.”

Tom glanced in the rearview mirror, trying to keep his temper in check. “I’m just trying to get you where you need to go.”

Ryan leaned forward; his eyes gleaming. “Yeah, well, maybe where you need to go isn’t where you think. You ever think about that? You’re just waiting for someone to show you the way.”

Before Tom could respond, Ryan started to laugh under his breath, a weird sound emitting from his mouth. The air in the car shifted, growing thick, almost suffocating. Tom felt his heart rate spike as a sudden, intense heat spread through his body, followed by a strange tingling sensation.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tom snapped, panic rising as his muscles began to twitch uncontrollably.

Ryan smirked. “Don’t worry, bro. You’re about to find out what it’s like to really live.”

Tom’s breath caught in his throat as the tingling spread, intensifying into sharp, searing pain. His body felt like it was on fire from the inside out, muscles spasming and bones popping. His hands, gripping the steering wheel tightly, began to thicken before his very eyes. His fingers lengthened, widening as his palms became rough and calloused, swelling with new, brute strength.

“No… what’s happening?” Tom gasped, watching in horror as his forearms bulged, veins popping out against his skin. His arms were growing, muscle piling onto muscle, forcing his sleeves to stretch tight against his biceps and forearms.

Ryan leaned back, grinning. “It’s starting, bro. You’re just getting jacked like the rest of us.”

Tom could feel his chest expanding, pecs pushing out as his once-slender frame grew broader and wider. His shirt strained against the sheer bulk of his chest, the fabric barely able to contain the growing mass of muscle beneath it. His ribs cracked, reforming to accommodate the new size of his upper body.

With a groan of agony, Tom’s spine elongated, forcing him to hunch forward in the seat as his height shot up. His back rippled with new muscle, his shoulders broadening into massive slabs of strength. The pain was unbearable, every bone in his body felt like it was being stretched and reshaped.

“Stop! Please, stop!” Tom begged, his voice shaky with fear, but his words only made Ryan grin wider.

“Why stop, bro? You’re looking real good now. Imagine how much the boys are gonna love you.” Said Ryan as he wiggled his toes.

Tom’s legs began to throb, his thighs thickening, swelling with raw power. His jeans ripped at the seams, unable to contain the bulging muscles that pushed outward. His calves, once average, now bulged with definition, covered in a layer of thick, coarse hair that sprouted up his legs, across his thighs, and up to his groin.

He felt a strange tug in his groin, and his breath hitched as his penis twitched, growing harder, swelling in size. His balls, once normal-sized, ballooned larger, filling with an almost unbearable pressure. The musk of Ryan’s feet, the overpowering scent that had once repelled him, now seemed intoxicating, and Tom could feel a growing hunger building in his chest.

“No… this isn’t me. This can’t be happening,” Tom whispered, his voice deepening, taking on a more masculine, gruff tone.

Ryan wiggled his toes again and crossed his feet, brushing Tom’s forearm along the way “Oh, it’s happening, bro. You’re gonna be just like the rest of us. You’re gonna love being with your bros. Trust me, man, it’s what you’ve always wanted.”

Tom’s mind screamed in protest, but his body continued to betray him. The hair follicles on his chest started to burn as Tom saw in the reflection of the mirror that his faint dark brown hair was turning clearer, taking a golden hue, almost disappearing in his skin. He saw the same happening in his armpits as they grew thicker and denser there. The scent of his own sweat mixed with Ryan’s musk, creating an overwhelming cocktail of testosterone that filled the car.

His abs rippled beneath his torn shirt, each muscle growing more defined until his midsection was a solid, chiseled six-pack. His body was drenched in sweat, the salty tang of it filling the air, and to his horror, Tom realized he didn’t hate the smell. He liked it. He craved it.

His face contorted in pain as his jawline shifted, becoming squarer and more pronounced. His cheekbones sharpened, his nose slightly thickened, and his brow became more prominent. His once-neatly dark brown trimmed hair grew wilder, curlier, messier style that looked perfect for a frat bro.

But the worst was yet to come. Tom’s groin pulsed with heat, his penis swelling to an obscene size. His balls hung low, filled with a primal need, a hunger for something more. His underwear strained to contain the sheer mass of his manhood, and Tom could feel his arousal building, stronger, hotter, and more insistent than anything he had ever experienced.

“No… no…” Tom moaned, but it wasn’t just the size that scared him. It was the desire. The growing lust, not for women, but for men, his bros. The idea of being surrounded by them, feeling their bodies pressed against his, touching, tasting, servicing them, it sent waves of unwanted pleasure through him as he was trying to restraint those foreign pulsion. Tom turned his head back to throw a look of pleading to Ryan, but the only thing he saw between his locks of curly blonde hair was Ryan gripping his own groin through his jeans while licking his lips looking at him.

Inside his mind, Tom was screaming, fighting to hold onto his old self, but his body was changing too fast, too much. His cock twitched, a bead of precum forming at the tip, staining the inside of his underwear turned into a kaki speedo. His new, massive muscles tensed, and every part of him screamed for release.

Ryan watched him struggle, a grin of satisfaction on his face. “You’re almost there, bro. You feel it, don’t you? You need to let go. Just blow it in your speedo, man, and it’ll all be over. You’ll be one of us.”

Tom’s mind rebelled, but his body was beyond his control. The overwhelming musk, the power coursing through his muscles, the heat in his groin, it was too much. He could feel his balls tighten, his cock throb, and his heart race as the tension built inside him.

“Come on, bro, I gave you a chance to really enjoy this all. Way too long…” Ryan urged, his voice low and commanding. “Fuck it, you wanted this. CUM!”

With a shuddering gasp, Tom’s body obeyed. His cock spasmed, and with a grunt of pure, animalistic pleasure, he came hard, his seed spilling into his speedo in a hot, sticky mess. The sensation was overwhelming, waves of ecstasy crashing through his entire body. His muscles flexed, his heart pounded, and his new frat bro self-emerged in full force. As the orgasm was subsiding, Tom’s clothes torn clothes started to vanish into pure manly musk, evaporating straight from his body and pushing the musk in the car even further. Tom stood there, his new kaki speedo damp with his cum. The outline of his huge cock still visible in the dampness of the tissue. Tom trying to find his breath as Ryan was still boringly stroking his cock and riding the hangover of alcohol and musk.

Tom’s conversion was complete, his body now entirely foreign to him, yet every part of it felt strong, powerful, and, worst of all, desperately needy. His new muscular frame was drenched in sweat, his speedo sticky and soaked with his release. His broad chest heaved, the musky scent of his own sweat mingled with the fresh cum soaking his crotch, the stench filling the car.

Tom opened his eyes after a while when his brain could connect the information around him. He tried to move to take a look but to his surprise he couldn’t do anything. IT was like he was frozen on his car seat. As he started to panic, Tom heard Ryan’s voice from behind him as he felt hands on his muscled sweaty shoulders. “I told you you should have let it go and accept it. But no, you had to fight… I’m sorry bro, but if you had accepted the changes, your soul would have been assimilated. Now you’ll have to live your life from the passenger seat. Too bad for a driver to be a passenger of his own life.” Inside, Tom was screaming in pure, abject horror. He could still feel everything, the slick wetness in his shorts, the stench of his own musk, and the weight of his massive muscles. But it was like he had been shoved into a tiny corner of his own brain, trapped as a mere observer while his new frat bro body had taken full control. He could see, hear, and feel, but he was no longer in command. “See? You should have accepted way earlier Tom, or should I call you Carter!”

Ryan leaned forward, inspecting his handiwork, and laughed. “Oh yeah, bro. You’re one of us now. Look at you—fucking perfect. Just wait until the other guys get a load of you.”

Tom wanted to scream, to shout at Ryan, but his body refused to respond. Instead, his lips parted into a cocky grin, and his voice, deep and full of arrogance, spoke words that Tom didn’t want to say. “Hell yeah, man. I’m ready. Let’s fucking go.”

Inside, Tom’s soul wept. He tried to fight, to claw his way back to control, but the frat bro instincts that now filled his brain were stronger, overpowering his old self. He couldn’t stop the way his muscles flexed instinctively, couldn’t stop the pulse of desire that rushed through him at the thought of being with his bros, couldn’t stop the way his cock throbbed with excitement at the idea of being used by them.

Ryan clapped him on the back, his grin wide. “That’s the spirit, bro. Let’s head back to the house, just got a text from Cassidy and she cancelled our date. That’s okay though, looks like our brand-new slut just arrived. The guys are gonna fucking love you.”

Carter shifted in the seat, his large, muscular frame barely fitting in the compact space now. His legs stretched out, thick thighs brushing against the dash as he shifted, adjusting his still-hard cock in his shorts. His skin felt tight over his new muscles, the hair on his chest and legs sticking to his sweaty skin, adding to the overpowering scent that filled the car. His body, now perfect for the frat life, responded instinctively, craving the approval and attention of the bros waiting for him at the house.

After a while, they were both back at the frat house, every step sent a fresh wave of musk into the air, the smell clinging to his skin, marking him as one of them. Tom hated it, despised the way his new body seemed to revel in the scent, in the sheer masculinity of it all.

The door swung open, and the other Delta Sig brothers were already lounging on the couches, drinking and laughing. As soon as Carter walked in, all eyes were on him, and the room erupted into cheers.

“Damn, Ryan, you did a fucking good job on this one!” one of the bros called out, eyeing Carter with a mix of approval and lust.

Ryan grinned, clapping Carter on the shoulder. “Told you guys I’d bring us a new hole to fuck to replace the last one. He’s fucking perfect, right?”

Carter’s frat bro instincts kicked in, and he flexed his arms, showing off his massive biceps with a cocky grin. His body responded to their approval with an almost addictive high, a deep, primal desire to be wanted by them, to be used by them.

Inside, Tom was screaming, but his body was lost in the moment, his cock already twitching in anticipation as the bros crowded around him, patting him on the back, feeling his muscles, and welcoming him into their ranks.

Ryan leaned in close, his voice low and teasing. “You feel that, bro? You’re one of us now. Doesn’t it feel fucking amazing?”

Carter’s mouth opened, and his voice, deep, confident, and undeniably turned on answered, “Yeah, bro. Feels fucking incredible.”

Ryan smirked, satisfied. “Welcome to the brotherhood, man. Now, let’s get you upstairs and really show you what it means to be a Delta Sig.”

As the group led Tom toward the stairs, the weight of his new life fully settled in. Inside, his old self screamed and fought, desperate to break free. But his body, now a slave to the desires of the frat, couldn’t wait to submit to his bros, to be used by them in every way. ______________________________________________________________ Hey guys! Hope you'll enjoy this story based on this prompt from an anonymous: "An Uber driver picks up a drunk guy with smelly feet who taunts him with his scent and tfs him into a bro to go out drinking with." Hope you like it! As always feel free to message me in dms or ask if you want me to write prompts or just talk. Have a good day! :)

[frogstappen]

𝐳𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐯𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐭, 𝐧𝐥

best friend!max verstappen x reader / 3k

you watch max's home race from the red bull garage.

⚠️: description of major crash, some mentions of injury. sickly sweet friendship with a hint of something more. jealous!max, soft!max, cheeky!max.

“Headset?”

“Yep.”

“I got some snacks for you. Where are the –?”

The bag rustles as you lift it. “Pretzels. Got them.”

“And you know where the bathroom is? Out that door, down the corridor –”

“Max,” you push his arm down, “You know who we sound like right now?”

His eyebrows lift. “Who?”

You giggle. “You and GP. Radio, check. Headset, check. Bathroom, check.”

Max sighs, propping a hand on his hip. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just – listen to me, please, okay?”

“I’m going to be fine,” you assure him. “I’ve watched you from the garage a thousand times before.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t been down here in a while. I’m just making sure.”

The track is already deafening. The roar of tens of thousands of bloodthirsty Formula One fans isn’t quite as earthshaking as that of twenty racecars – but Jesus, there’s not much in it.

The attendance in Zandvoort this weekend has reached well over three hundred thousand. Earlier, you stood out front to watch the drivers’ parade with some of the team.

Max lifted his head as the bus turned the last corner and trundled down the main straight. The crowd thundered all around. He caught your eye and, with a smirk, lifted a waggling hand – and you felt your bones vibrating with the cheering.

An orange sea parted by a strip of black asphalt; they twirl flags between thick clouds of tangerine smoke. They paint their faces and wave their banners, topple their drinks with the thrill that just a half-second glimpse at their Dutch Lion ignites.

Formula One fans go hard. Max Verstappen fans go harder.

An assistant taps Max’s shoulder. She flicks up the mic on her headset as he turns. “Three minutes to anthem.”

He nods, and she totters off.

“Promise me,” he takes hold of your elbows, “that you’ll stay right here. I’ll find you after, okay? One of the guys will bring you to the podium.”

“Confident,” you snort, though his expression tightens.

Your phone buzzes on the desk. You flip it over and the screen lights a name adorned with a heart emoji. Beneath, a picture of the classic overhead of the grid, stretched across a flatscreen TV.

Bet your view is better than mine! Miss you. X

Max grumbles, grabbing his balaclava. “I should go.”

“Hey, wait.” You tug on the sleeve of his suit, dangling from his waist.

He sways back into your side, the weight of him familiar and gentle. “Mhm?”

“Have a good one, okay? Be safe.”

“Safe?” He smirks, toying with the cord of your headset. “That’s no fun.”

“I’m serious, Max. Don’t be a dick.”

Okay, he mouths, patting your head. “Speaking of dicks,” he taps your phone, “Better reply.”

His head tilts back in laughter when you shove him off, and he swaggers out of the garage. An assistant hoists a parasol in the air and scurries down the pit lane at his side.

He’s so calm, you think, that he may as well be out for a Sunday drive. It comes naturally enough to him.

He’s on pole today. The car has been good, Max’s form even better. The sky is clear (save for the fans’ fluorescent flares), and there’s no chance of rain – though, sometimes, you find yourself praying for it.

He’s Dutch, okay? The rain is always on his side.

It’s been a decent weekend, for once. No hiccups, no setbacks. He’s soared his way around the track, producing lap after perfect lap. The way he always does, when he knows you’re somewhere nearby.

His lucky charm, since his first go around a karting track. So Max says, anyway.

He’ll say it with humor; that wit of his that you’ve learned like a second language. Still – sometimes, after his hardest races, his toughest battles, he wraps his arms around you tight enough to convince you that he might just be telling the truth.

Just for a moment.

You’ve been best friends for as long as you can remember. Never one without the other; always whispering into each other’s ears or otherwise communicating through flashes of eye contact, kicks under the table.

Wherever he goes, you go. You bicker like a married couple, and trust each other much the same. From the school playground to the Circuit de Monaco – and everywhere in between.

The orchestra swings to life, sending the sound of Wilhelmus skyward. Onscreen in the garage, the camera focuses in on Max: calm, composed, staring off down to the first corner like it’s his next meal.

Nothing has ever happened between you. Not really. No secret rendezvous nor dear diary crushes. Once, and only once, a chaste kiss during a high school game of spin the bottle.

It was about as awkward as it should’ve been. This quick, electric shock of a kiss. Over all too soon and not soon enough. He tasted like the lager he’d been drinking. He steadied himself with a hand on your thigh.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your lips with the sleeve of your sweater, and aped Max’s look of disgust. You snickered with your girlfriends as the circle moved on – but anytime you snuck a glance at him, he was already looking straight back.

He never brought it up again, though – and so neither did you. As far as either of you were concerned, it never happened. You’re just friends.

Best, best friends.

This new guy you’ve been seeing – you met him in a bar in London. He said he liked your dress, said he liked your smile, then offered to buy you a drink. It’s been no more than six weeks, but Max had already quietly decided his thoughts over summer break.

He’s a nice guy, he said, deliberately bumping his rubber ring into yours.

You pushed away from him, floating across the pool. Nice? That’s all you got?

What do you want me to say? I’m not the one dating him.

I just don’t believe that nice is all you have to say. You’re not that good at pretending. I know you too well, Verstappen.

Okay, fine. Too much styling of the hair.

Too much…What?

Yeah. And he wears weird shoes.

Well, he likes F1. Said he’s a fan of yours.

Ha, Max clicked his fingers, That’s the biggest red flag of them all.

Your phone buzzes again. You turn it facedown without looking, and pull your headset on.

The circuit shudders as the anthem comes to an end. The drivers split up, pulling off ice vests and zipping up their suits. The mechanics prop chairs in front of the screen, thumping their helmets over their heads.

Almost ten years in, the anxiety still hangs heavy in your stomach. The rumble of the engines, the babble from the loudspeakers. The rapid-fire orders shot over your head in the garage.

It comes naturally to Max, sure – that doesn’t mean it’s easy for you.

You watch him as he lowers into his car. Eyes narrow and focused, blurring everything but that first bend from his vision. All good humor shaken off, replaced by a vicious hunger to hit the end of the straight first, to be a speck on the horizon before the first lap is through.

Your thumb picks at the 33 sticker on the side of your headset. You burst open the bag of pretzels.

Max checks the radio and GP replies: “Loud and clear.”

“Beautiful day,” the driver says, weaving through the formation lap. “Simply lovely.”

You smile, suckling on the salty snack. As nervous as you may feel, at least he’s having fun.

He brings the car to a soft stop on his line and waits as the others follow suit. The lights flick on one by one, a painful pause between each. One sharp breath, held at the bottom of your throat, – and the red dissolves.

The Red Bull fires down the track.

Your lungs fill with a gulp of fuel-fumed air. Veins flood with warmth – the ice-cold grip around each nerve thawed as soon as Max begins to lead the flock.

He fights off contenders for first all the way to turn four – snuffing the flame of a Ferrari here, squeezing the papaya of a McLaren there. He catapults ahead just past Hunserug, and the garage springs to cheerful life.

In your headset, the pit wall is serious, fixed on the race. They murmur over wavelengths, static fizzling between words. Voices flat and emotionless; statistics on top of statistics, strategies on top of strategies.

You crush more pretzels between your molars, watching, unblinking. You twist the cord around your index finger, draining the tip of blood, then loosen again as Max puts more than a second between his car and the next.

He’s doing good. He always does good, as far as you’re concerned.

He’s doing what he always says he was made to do. He was raised this way, weathered into shape by each storm he powered his way through. Not born, not destined – Max doesn’t believe in any of that shit.

God doesn’t drive F1 cars, he’ll say. I do.

A couple tense laps pass. The Red Bull is still up front, though he’s tussling with the Ferrari now hot on his tail. Each chance his pursuer takes, each split-second jab at his lead, Max has already squashed before it materializes.

He rips around turn fourteen, following the track through its widest bend down to fifteen, and hits the main straight to thunderous applause. The cars scream past the pits, a roar sliced in two as they barrel straight for Tarzan.

The gap is barely two tenths. The mechanics clutch their helmets. Max taunts the corner on the outside of the track, eyeing his target.

“Defend,” one of the mechanics growls. “Hold him, Max.”

The Ferrari tucks behind, its front wing edging closer and closer.

You blink.

The red car swings out, shuddering with the force of the maneuver. He steadies himself and floors it, each closing centimeter perilous.

Blink again.

They’re side by side. Almost wheel to wheel. There’s no way Max can’t see that scarlet smirk from the corner of his eye. The apex is right there, though, it’s right fucking there.

Another blink, and –

He’s gone.

He’s gone. He’s –

Hurtling off the track. At almost two hundred miles per hour. The gravel spits at him as he spins; smoke and dust billow from beneath. He slams straight into the barrier, and, finally, the moment ends.

Your chest shrinks; a weak wheeze passes your lips. “Oh, my God.”

The mechanics leap to their feet. They bark amongst themselves like a pack of angry dogs, though you can’t make out a word.

Your hearing is shot. Every sound bleeds into the next; one long, high-pitched scream. You move without thinking, without feeling; slip off the stool and tug your headset. It hits the desk with a distant clatter, though you’re already wandering away.

The sound of the crowd rattles against your skull. Numb, muted. An awful groaning sound as the cloud lifts, revealing the chewed-up car.

It’s bad. It’s the worst one in a long time. He must’ve hit that barrier at near-enough full speed. The dread fills your lungs like torrents of heavy, black water. Sickly salt, suffocating sea. Oh, God.

You scan the garage for any of his mechanics. Matt. Ole. Chris. Fucking – any of them. Who did he say would bring you to him when this was over? He said he’d meet you at the podium. He said he’d find you –

A rough hand grabs your elbow.

Max’s face flickers across your vision. Blue steel gaze, freckle above his lip. The dust pulls him away from your grasp. He hits the barrier again and again and again.

“Max –”

The voice is calm – too fucking calm, you think, when it tells you, “He’s talking. They’ve got him talking.”

“Talking,” you echo, begging it to solidify in your brain. “Can you put me on to him?”

The engineer pulls you over to the exit. He plucks at his mic, murmurs some response down the line to the team. He takes your wrist and leads you out, muttering, “C’mon.”

“Hey,” you tug on his arm, “Please let me speak to him.”

“You will,” he replies, snaking through the tight corridor. “Once he’s out, they’ll check him over. He’ll be taken in for evaluation, hitting the wall at that speed. Force must be bloody nuts.”

The thought sends another bitter stream of panic through your blood. “Can he move? Is he –? Can he get out of the car?”

He gives one quick nod. “Medics are there. They’re helping him out.”

Sunlight floods overhead, dazzling as you follow him out front and towards a sleek car. An attendant opens the door for you, and you slide into the backseat.

The engineer gives your shoulder a friendly shake. “He’ll be fine,” he says. “He’s done worse.”

The door falls closed and the car moves off, purring through the paddock towards the medical center.

You slump into your seat and press your fingers into your eyes; a headache already blooming between your temples.

He’s moving. He’s moving and he’s responding. They’re helping him up out of the car. He’s probably already being checked over.

He’s probably already asking for you.

“Jesus Christ,” you groan, fingers dragging down your cheeks.

The center is a polite little hut inside the circuit. By the time you pull up, the race has already resumed. The remaining cars whizz by as you jog over, slipping inside behind a couple guys from Max’s team.

He’s had his fair share of scraps on the track. You don’t make it to the top without a sincere sense of dare, and an even sincerer lack of fear. Some call it idiocy. You’re often one of them.

Sitting on the other side of the clinic door, though – knee jerking, nails picking at the skin on your fingers – you’d be thrilled to never see these four walls ever again. Idiot or not, you care about him.

More than anyone else in your life? Jesus. Probably.

The door clicks open, and your blood jumps.

A pale woman in a pale coat steps out. She peers over her glasses, eyes you from the sneakers on your feet to the worry on your face – and says your name.

You push yourself up, squeezing past her into the room.

Max is perched on the edge of the bed, still in his fireproofs. Hair disheveled, face flushed and exhausted. Translucent with shock or concussion or worse, he lifts his head and flashes a lopsided smile.

It’s weak, barely there – but it’s him.

You care about him more than anyone else in your life. Definitely.

He opens his arms, fingers beckoning you in. “C’mere.”

“Oh, my God,” you sweep over, already in tears by the time you meet his body, “Oh, my God – you fucking idiot.”

His shoulders shudder with a bottled laugh. He wraps his arms around your waist, turning his head against your chest. “How was I supposed to know he was going to turn into me, huh? I had the line, I was –”

“Max,” you pull back, staring into his bleary eyes, “I don’t care. Just – don’t do that ever again.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he whispers, corners of his mouth twitching.

You sigh, collapsing onto the bed at his side. You lean against him and he winces a little, before pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

“You really scared me,” you admit, turning in to his chest.

Max slings an arm around your shoulders, holding you tight. “I’m fine, no? I mean, everything’s blurry and I can’t really hear much, but – it could have been worse.”

He props the pillows against the wall and pushes himself back gingerly, reaching past you for a paper cup of water at his bedside.

You move slowly, carefully, waiting for him to get comfortable before settling back, too – leaving a safe gap between his battered body and yours. Your cheek rests on the curve of his shoulder; fingers trace the logos on his sleeves.

Max breathes in the scent of your hair. He turns his hand and watches as your fingers trail down his wrist, circling his palm. He sucks in a deep breath, sighing to the ceiling.

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” you whisper, and he hums.

“Nerves,” he mutters.

“From the race?” You lift your head. “You don’t get nervous.”

He takes another breath and turns to you. He’s blushing, and doing a shitty job at hiding it. “No,” he says. “Not from the race.”

You gulp. “Are you sore?”

“Yeah. My back, my ribs.”

“Do you want me to get up?”

“No. Stay.”

He wears the same expression he did all those years ago, sat too many people apart from one another in that drunken circle. The same expression you only allowed yourself fleeting glances at: bashful, a little awkward – all the more endearing for it.

Maybe he actually doesn’t remember that night. Maybe he was just too tipsy – alcohol gone straight to his teenage head. And maybe he won’t even remember this, what with the concussion and all.

It’d make things a hell of a lot easier, that’s for sure. You could go back to your old ways: arguing over the best flavor of chips, screaming while playing video games. No second-guessing, no jumping to conclusions. Hell, maybe you hope he doesn’t remember any of it at all.

Somewhere, though, deep down – you know that’s not true.

“How’s, uh…whatshisface?” Max asks, nudging you with his elbow. He takes a feeble sip of his water and offers you the cup.

“Oh,” you shrug, “No idea. I left my phone in the garage.”

He scoffs, staring at your lips as you take a drink. He takes the cup from your hands once you’re done. “I don’t mean to give him shit, you know. If you like him, I like him.”

“Well, there’s liking someone,” you pout, “and then there’s willingly watching them crash full-speed in a racecar.”

Max smiles, lifting his cup.

“Whoever that is, sounds pretty cool to me.”

[kisakis-boyfriend]

any juice for baby boy shinichiro?

when ppl put him with a partner who is taller, extremely attractive and just generally insanely out of his league...ive seen some ppl write this exact trope for both male and female readers and omg its so satisfying for the soul. + his friends reacting to how the fuck did shin pull a big dick supermodel. godtier trope

nsfw but genuinely do what you prefer either way!! love to read everything you put out, regardless of the contents or characters haha

♦️

Author's Note: I made the reader a literal model because I really like that idea, hehe. HCs + scenarios filled with plenty of sub Shin getting his entire world rocked, just for you, anon! 😜

Pairings: Shinichiro x male reader

Warnings: Male model!reader, dom/top!reader, sub/bottom!Shinichiro, risky sex, sixty-nine, size kink, mild hand fetish

• Who would ever think that Mr. Handsome who visits the local mechanic shop was actually dating the shop's owner?! No one, clearly

• Customers whisper amongst themselves after you and Shinichiro step into the office in the back, and, if they're lucky, they might catch a glimpse of you two locking lips

• Or a glimpse of your strong arms bending Shin over his own desk. They try to avert their gaze once they realize that you're about to pound the store owner's brains out right then and there

• On many occasions, he's had to take off work the next day because his legs have become jelly… and if you really feel bad for him, you'll give in when he sniffles “You'll need to take care of me while I recover :(”

• It's not any different when your lovely partner comes to visit you at work. Photographers can be impossibly picky some days, and when you pose for hours in little to no clothing for, yet another, underwear ad, it is nice to see your lover's smiling face walk through the door

• Shinichiro brings you lunch—made by his own hands, of course—complete with a note or doodle. And when he doesn't cook, you'll jump at the opportunity to leave the studio for a lunch break together

• The crew at the studio are always annoyed at how long you're gone, but what they don't realize is that more than half of your "lunch break" is just you and Shinichiro banging in the public bathroom

• Shinichiro isn't short, though when he stands next to you, he sure feels like it… you're nearly a foot taller than him (or more) and quite muscular to boot. And yes, you will use these facts to tease him

His arm stretches as far as it can, but it's just not enough to reach the item he needs on the tippity top shelf. He calls out to you for assistance, and you stroll into the room, grinning mischievously as the gears turn in your head.

“Aw, shorty can't reach it all by himself?”

Shinichiro pouts, “I'm not short, you're just too tall! …But I do need help getting that down please…” he relents.

“Of course.” to his surprise, he's suddenly lifted up by his waist, now at the correct height to reach what he needs. With embarrassment quickly setting in, Shinichiro snatches the item then stammers for you to "put him down, now!"

He thinks himself safe when his feet touch the floor again, but it's only for a second. As quickly as you let go of his waist, you spin him around and plop him on top of the counter. The blush dusting his cheeks begins to show as you still tower over him, even now. His eyes slowly close as you kiss him—eagerly pushing your tongue past his lips and pulling a few moans out of him.

…aaaand just like that, you pull away and leave. Leaving behind a lightheaded mechanic with a newfound throbbing sensation between his thighs.

• If it's not obvious yet, I do think Shin would have a bit of a size kink. Maybe he doesn't realize it until he's actually with you, but it's definitely there

• Someone larger than him, laying their weight on his back while a massive cock fills him so much that it creates a stomach bulge? Yeah, that's the good shit 🥴

• I just had an image of 69'ing with Shinichiro pop into my head… ugh

Wrapping your lips around his pretty dick while he struggles to take half of yours. His tip is leaking already, and you gladly accept everything that drips out and onto your tongue.

Shin arches his back, enjoying all of these sensations; your hot mouth around his cock. Your cock pushing further and further into his mouth. Your hands spreading his cheeks apart and–

“Mmgh~ babe, please…”

“Please what?” you ask, popping off his dick long enough to ask a question that you already know the answer to.

A groan echoes within his throat, garbling the words attempting to escape through his lips. “D-do it… I can take it.”

With a serious fire lit within you, you suck his cock deeper into your mouth. Gently, at first, a finger eases its way into Shin's hole, making him arch deeper and dig his nails into the skin of your thighs. Soon after that, a surge of cum surprises you, shooting down your throat as you're forced to swallow it. Poor baby is apologizing when he hears your choked moaning… he didn't mean to cum yet, you just made him feel so fucking good 🥺

• He looooves having your hands on him~

-> Hands holding his waist while you slide into him. Breath heavy and right in his ear, whispered words of praise and how fucking tight he is

-> Hands connecting with his as you pin him down and steal (yet another) kiss

-> Hands working their magic on his erection. Both hands wrapping around his cock, milking more out of him like a relentless living fleshlight

-> Hands combing through his messy hair after a ride in the town. Detangling the knots as best as you can before he takes a shower

-> Hands on his lips, sliding into his mouth while you coo “Good boy~”

-> Hands scissoring his hole open. Making his knees wobble as you take it nice and slow, rhythmically pumping in and out with your thick fingers

-> Hands wiping tears from his eyes on your wedding day ❤️

• Uh um, yeah… moving on 😵‍💫

• Now, since you're a model, Shinichiro has gotten some unwanted attention from random strangers and paparazzi. It's mostly when you're seen together, but some fans have even shown up at his shop just to ask if you were there 🤐

• You're very quick to tell anyone off though. Polite, if possible, yet stern all the same. Because gods help any person who's dumb enough to lay a hand on your man, or even make him uncomfortable in the slightest. All of your muscles aren't just for show

• And, as a model, you have been known to pull a few strings. Only a few times. But you were able to have Shin as a guest for a few magazine covers or spreads

It's hard to act professional when his beloved is basically nude—nothing except the brand's boxers to cover that thang that makes Shinichiro squirmy and wet.

The photographer wants some rather intimate shots of Shinichiro sitting on your lap, facing you. The makeup on his face does help hide the growing blush, but to you, as you sit merely inches apart—it's quite obvious.

You also notice the semi-boner underneath his own set of boxers… you have to remind him that this is a professional setting, and he needs to calm down or you'll both get in trouble. But honestly, how can he? Even staring into your gorgeous eyes would be enough to turn him on!

Gently, you rub his back and whisper to him “Keep it together here, and I'll give you a private show later tonight, ok?” To which Shinichiro enthusiastically shakes his head, nearly making himself dizzy.

Oh, the things you do to him later~

• Now, about his friends and family……… yeah they have no idea how the hell Shin is dating you

• They don't mean it in a rude way either. It's just, you're literally actually a model… you're insanely attractive, handsome, breathtaking, kinda fuckin rich?, and so on and so forth. So, what made you choose to stay in Shinichiro's hometown (save for business trips and vacations) as opposed to, oh I don't know, living in some mansion or beach house surrounded by other models?????

• Every single time, your answer is the same: “Because I love him and want to spend the rest of my life with him”

• Yes, your career is important to you, but you can travel when need be for that. Shinichiro Sano lives here, and you're not willing to give him up

• As siblings do, Shinichiro's younger ones definitely make fun of him for being with someone way way waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyy out of his league. But it's all in good fun. Besides, they're also protective of him, and make sure you know that, if you ever break Shin's heart, they'll break a leg or two :) (especially Izana… that guy kind of scares you… except he's also a sweetheart once he realizes that you also care about his brother)

[the-raindeer-king]

Honestly, you should've known better. Soap was never one to take a joke and drop it, and joke like this? You should've know he'd take it and run with it. You just never thought it'd go this far.

Someone had brought cupcakes, the kind that come with those gaudy plastic rings meant for little kids. You and Soap had ended up with the same ring on top of your cupcakes.

"Oh, hey. They're the same. Guess we're married now."

It was a joke. Something you had laughed off, before ducking out of the break room, missing the way Soap's eyes followed you. Missing the way he stared at you, something dark and hungry in those baby blues.

The next morning, Soap's waiting at your desk with flowers and a coffee. He gives you a bright smile, watching you as you take the flowers with a smile.

"Oh, my favorite! How'd you know?"

"I know all yer favorites. Part of bein' a good husband, aye?"

That makes you pause, coffee halfway to your lips. Husband? It takes you a second to realize he's referring to the joke you made yesterday, and you give him a sheepish smile, shaking your head.

"Johnny, that was a joke. I wasn't -"

"I've got to go. But I'll get ye later. Make a proper wife of ye before the day's over," he promises, leaning down to kiss your cheek.

You don't even have a chance to argue. And when he shows up with Ghost at the end of the day, all you can think to ask is why Ghost is there.

"Johnny said you needed a witness," is Ghost's reply.

[breannasfluff]

Samantha Manson,

My teacher says that we must continue our correspondence. While she will not read our letters, she is trying to stretch the assignment longer. I suspect she is drinking in the evenings to deal with her life choices rather than creating lesson plans. 

People treat me as special because I am special. That’s all there is to it. You are a fool if you don’t embrace the rights life has given you.

Amity Park? That sounds like a backwater in the countryside. What is your exercise, running away from cows? Not that cows are bad creatures, mind you. It’s only that I heard the hillbillies go cow-tipping for recreation. That seems like an activity you could do. 

Painted nails would never ruin my image, only enhance it. 

Ah, name-calling, the most childish insult in the book. Some of us have more experience in nine years than others do in 20. Just look at Gotham’s vigilantes!

Sincerely,

Damian Al-Ghul Wayne

~~~

Damian-stick-up-his-rich-butt-Wayne,

If no one is reading these then I don’t have to hold back.

Okay, listen here you brat: teachers are underpaid and have to put up with little monsters like you. No wonder your poor teacher is drinking; I’m not even legal and talking to you makes me want to start. 

Hate to burst your bubble, buddy, but people only pretend to care about you because of your money. You lose that and what’s left? Some snobby little rich boy clinging to his daddy’s coattails because he has no personality outside his money and position. 

You’re so right, Damian! All my life I thought I lived in a fairly normal Midwest town, but you’ve shown me the error of my ways! I’m just a little country gal out here collecting eggs and chewing on wheat. Ugh. You probably poach endangered animals on vacation and wear baby fox pelts when the temperature dips below 60. 

I bet you are too chicken to paint your nails to say ROBIN SUCKS in purple glitter for the next formal event you attend. 

Gotham’s vigilantes? Don’t even get me started on Nightwing! He’s the worst of the group. If you look up “trying too hard” in the dictionary, his photo is there. He doesn’t even take his job seriously! Why else would he move to a different city? Couldn’t compete with Batman and just had to be in the spotlight. It’s like those pop stars that go solo and fall flat on their face. 

Man, how embarrassing. I think I actually feel sorry you have to claim that guy as one of your heroes. He does have a nice ass though, so it’s not a complete dumpster fire.

Also, stop calling me Samantha.

It’s Sam.

Sam

Find the rest here

[davinawritings]

Could u do a bunny girl or nb with a bear guy ? <3

Hello! Thank you so much for the request! I hope you enjoy 💕

Pairing: Male Hybrid Bear x Fem Bunny Hybrid

Warnings: Sex, Creampie, predator/prey, oral (fem receiving)

💕💕💕💕

Foraging in the forest was an almost daily occurrence for you. You enjoyed walking through the trees and usually found it very peaceful. You are especially grateful for the beautiful weather right now. The temperature has finally warmed after a long and harsh winter.

You probably should have been more cautious as bunny hybrids have many natural predators, but you have never had any problems in the past. The woods near your small burrow are pretty isolated, not many creatures come to this area. Not paying attention to your surroundings was your first mistake.

You are already far from your home when you register the feeling of being followed. You get ready to make a quick escape, a bunnies speed being its greatest asset when it comes to predators. Unfortunately before you can take a single step, a large claw wraps around your stomach and pulls you harshly against a large hairy chest.

You freeze in fear and the chest behind you rumbles in quiet laughter. “Don’t worry little bunny. I am not going to eat you. Although that was my original intention I have other needs I think you are more suited for. I’ve had a long sleep for winter and a perfect little bunny like you is just what my cock needs right now”.

Struggling proves to be futile when the bear hybrid lifts you easily with one arm, tearing your dress from your body with the other. He turns you to face him and your eyes look up and up and up. Everything about him seems massive. His height, his muscles, his large hands and claws, his cock that hangs heavy between his thick thighs.

He walks you over to a tree and lifts you so your thighs rest on his shoulders. He pushes you against the tree and the bark scratches at your back. His snout pushes against your clit as he buries his large tongue in your cunt. He eats you like a starved animal and in a way he is.

He moans almost as much as you do as he continues to devour you. Your hips move as you try and press harder against his face. His snout is teasing your clit relentlessly and you dig your hands into his fur at the slurping noises coming from him.

Just as you feel yourself about to explode on his tongue, he pulls his tongue from your pussy. You let out a frustrated huff and try to thrust your hips upon his snout harder, needing the orgasm he so rudely took away.

He laughs and gives your slit a long lick before bringing your legs off his shoulders. He slides your body down his own until your opening is sitting above his large cock. Your legs wrap around his thick waist and his cock slowly sinks inside you.

You both let out a groan of relief and you immediately use your hold on him to begin bouncing up and down on his cock. You speed up quickly, chasing the release he tore away from you.

He grips your hips and his claws dig into your love handles but you don't care. One of his hands moves to the tree, his claws cut through the bark as he says, “Fuck bunny. I need you to slow down. I ca-can’t… fuck… I haven't had pussy for months and I’ve never had a tight bunny pussy before. I nee-need a minute”.

You smirk at him but don’t slow the drop of your hips, the feeling of his cock slamming into your special spot too good to stop. He growls and shoves your back into the tree once more snapping his hips into yours without restraint, his only focus is his own pleasure.

The feeling of his large chest closing you in on the tree should be frightening but you only find it hot and comforting. His cock slams into you hard and you cry out in relief at your orgasm crashing over you. He only lasts one more thrust before he cums with a loud growl, pumping you full of his seed.

He moves you in his arms so he holds you bridal style and begins to walk back through the forest. At your questioning gaze he says. “I have no intentions of letting you go bunny. That's the best pussy I’ve ever had and for all we know you could be carrying my cubs. I’m bringing you home and fucking you all over again. Well first I'm going to go out and hunt. Wouldn’t want to accidentally eat my bunny”. He gives you a smirk and you can't tell if he’s joking or not.

Honestly as long as you get to ride him again, you can’t find it within yourself to care.

❤️🖤💕💕🖤❤️ Let me know what you think! ❤️🖤💕💕🖤❤️

[xlovellydreams]

Reuniting 2

˚˙⋆.☾.✮.˙˚ Pairing: Rhysand x Fem!Reader

˚˙⋆.☾.✮.˙˚ Summary: Reuniting with Rhysand after Under the Mountain

˚˙⋆.☾.✮.˙˚ Words Count: 6.1k

˚˙⋆.☾.✮.˙˚ PART 1

Note: Hi guys! Let me say – Thank you so so so so much! I did not expect so much love under my first post, so again, thank you so much!!! Here is part two!

𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 ⟡ ☾ ⟡ 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃

He sat in the bath for what felt like hours. The water was hot. Scorching hot. But it felt good.

His skin was still tingling from the feeling of your touch and his body ached at the loss of your presence after holding you for so long. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily.

Gods, he was losing his mind. Fifty years had clearly not been kind to him.

Fifty years of being Amarantha’s plaything. Fifty years of being forced into submission. Fifty years of watching her, listening to her, touching her.

Fifty years without you. Not having you, not holding you, not being able to listen to you sing or hear your laugh.

Fifty years of her touch, fifty years of her voice. Of being forced to satisfy her. Of being her whore.

Fifty years without you, his mate.

Rhysand didn’t open his eyes again, just exhaled slowly, attempting to calm himself. To push the thoughts of that woman from his mind.

He was home. He was free. She wasn’t here.

You were.

He scrubbed every inch of his skin. Trying to get all the traces of her away from him. He wanted her scent gone, wanted to smell like himself, like you. Reaching for the sweet-smelling body wash you always liked so much, he rubbed it against his skin.

For fifty years, all he’d think about every waking moment was you. Your face, your laughter, your smile, your soft touch, your scent. He had clung on to the memory of you, just to keep himself sane. Just to keep himself alive.

Gods, he was tired. So, so tired.

He pushed that thought away for now. He couldn’t give in to his exhaustion yet. Not when his family was waiting for him, downstairs. And most importantly, not when he owed you a kiss.

A kiss. So much more than just a kiss. He needed to kiss every inch of you, worship your whole body, hold you, touch you. He needed to feel you in his mind again, to be connected with you in every possible way.

Rhysand stepped out of the tub and grabbed a towel, using it to furiously dry his skin. He looked better, that was for sure, but he still looked worn and tired. Grabbing a pair of dark pants and a shirt, quickly threw them on. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to get the unruly locks to stay down. Once his hair was somewhat in order he took another look in the mirror. Deep down he still felt dirty and definitely not convinced that he looked anywhere near presentable. His skin was paler than usual, looking almost sickly in comparison to before he went to Amarantha. He looked like he could benefit from another fifty years in bed.

Rhys felt almost hesitant as he left the bathroom and stepped back into his bedroom. A small part of him was scared that this whole day had just been a dream. That he’d get back into the bedroom and find it empty, or worse, find that witch there. Deep down he was so damn afraid that it is just a nightmare. Another horrible nightmare.

But then he smelt you.

His shoulders immediately relaxed a bit when the scent of you hit his nose. He immediately knew you were still here, waiting for him.

A second later he heard your laughter from downstairs. Rhys smiled at the sound of your laugh, that beautiful, sweet, sweet sound. The idea of seeing you with his family, his Inner Circle made his heart fill with warmth. It just felt right.

𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 ⟡ ☾ ⟡ 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃

The Inner Circle was sitting around the table, as you brought another warm dish, wine already poured in every glass. “Just, don’t overwhelm him too much,” you said, mostly to Cassian, knowing he would be the first to throw punches.

Cassian let out a scoff as he heard you say that. He was already bouncing his leg impatiently, fidgeting eagerly in his seat.

Azriel sat silently, seemingly calm but with a hint of worry in his eyes. He, like Cassian, also seemed eager to see his High Lord, to see his brother after fifty years.

Meanwhile, Amren was quietly sipping on a glass of whatever was in it, seemingly unimpressed. Mor on the other hand was already reaching for another bottle of wine, clearly nervous.

Cassian let out a scoff at your words. “Who, me?” he asked, as if insulted by the fact that you would suggest he would ever do that.

“Don’t pretend as if you wouldn’t be the first one to go and tackle him” Azriel let out a small snort.

“I just want to give him the greeting he deserves!” protested Cassian, his arms out in the air.

Azriel let out another small scoff, clearly not very convinced. “That doesn’t mean you have to literally tackle him to the ground as soon as you see him, Cass.”

“You two behave” you glared at both Cassian and Azriel. “I am being serious here, give him space, as much as he needs.”

That was the main reason you told him to relax in the bath. The main reason you did not kiss him more. He still had his shields up, not letting you in. You had no idea what he had been through and all you wanted, was to respect his boundaries. Give him the space to breathe, and move around freely.

You wanted him to remember, that it was all over.

That he was home.

Both Cassian and Azriel fell silent at your glare. It was clear that you’d have no problem telling them off if they made any unwanted, unnecessary, or overdone gestures toward Rhysand. And the last thing either of them wanted was to upset you.

They both looked down silently, mumbling out a quick “yes ma’am” as if they were scolded children. Nothing new.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs drew everyone’s attention, and the air in the room suddenly became thick and tense with anticipation.

Rhysand finally appeared at the door, his eyes darting around the room. He took a deep breath as he took in the sight before him. The table, filled with his favourite foods, his family sitting around it all looking absolutely stunned to see him there in the doorway, alive and well.

No one spoke, everyone was silent, all eyes on him. It was as if they were all too scared to say something, as if they didn’t quite believe that he was truly standing there.

Like one wrong move, and everything would be gone.

Rhysand’s eyes landed on you, standing in the corner. Alive, safe, and unharmed, he thought.

And then, by some weird instinct, you reached, taking the hot soup out of the way, the same moment Cassian stood up, shaking the whole table, already charging at Rhys.

You rolled your eyes, groaning at that.

The movement of Cassian standing up immediately caught Rhysand’s attention. He knew his brother well, and by now, he knew what was coming. Cassian was out of his seat, and charging at him within seconds. And all Rhysand could do was brace himself for impact.

The impact came soon, and Rhys suddenly found his arms full with his massive, buff-ass brother. Cassian slammed into him so heavily, tackling him to the ground. His breath was knocked from his lungs and he let out a groan as his back hit the hard, wooden floor. The other Illyrian was on top of him, pinning him into place. Cassian’s chest heaved with emotion. A strange mixture of anger, worry, and relief.

“Get off!” Rhys forced out, pushing at his brother. But Cass was stronger than him and was sitting firmly on his chest.

“I’m just trying to give you a damn welcome,” he said with a huge grin on his face. “Fifty. Fifty years,” he breathed out, gripping Rhysand’s shirt tighter. “Fifty years you were gone.”

Rhysand felt his anger turn into guilt as he looked at his brother. He had known it would be hard on them when he was gone, when he was under her control, but seeing the pain in his eyes, knowing he was part of the reason for it made his heart ache.

He wanted to push Cassian off, to tell him to get a grip of himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Especially not when his brother spoke again.

“Fifty years of thinking we’d never see you again.”

Rhysand felt his heart ache more at Cassian’s words, his head was already spinning.

Fifty years. Fifty years he’d been forced to abandon his family. For fifty years he’d had to act as Amarantha’s whore. Fifty years of pretending to be anything other than free. Fifty years he had spent being tortured, and now he was here, finally here.

Finally home. Finally with his family again.

“Get off of me,” Rhysand grumbled. “You’re crushing me.” He looked up into Cassian’s hazel eyes, the pain behind them clear.

“Hell no,” retorted Cassian, not budging one bit. He was not moving away, not until he’d got that message through to Rhysand.

His breathing was coming out in short pants as he spoke. “How the hell do you think I feel? Fifty. Years. Fifty years I’ve had to deal with Az’s moodiness and Mor’s constant bitching, not to mention Amren. I nearly went insane, you prick.”

Rhys did not miss the tears that started building in his brother’s eyes.

“Cassian” you finally decided to chime in, your voice surprisingly soft. “Get up, food is still warm.”

Your soft but firm voice seemed to get through to him, and he slowly loosened his grip on Rhysand’s shirt. He stood up, not taking his eyes away from his brother, as if he was scared of him suddenly disappearing.

A second later, Rhysand was again a little overwhelmed as his family all stood up, wanting to hold him and hug him. But he allowed them to do so, knowing that they had needed this.

He needed this.

He felt Azriel’s hand on his shoulder, gripping him tightly, as if making sure he was truly here. Azriel let out a shaky breath at the sight of Rhys. “Thank the Mother you’re back,” he said quietly, he pulled him into a hug, his embrace strong.

The second to reach him was Amren, who punched him on the shoulder, clearly trying to keep her facade of calmness together. But he could see the relief in her eyes.

Mor was the last one, hugging him so tightly he was certain she’d suffocate him. She was whispering something in his ear, and he could faintly hear the words, “I’m so sorry”. “Stop apologizing” he mumbled in her ear.

Rhysand felt overwhelmed with emotions. Seeing his family standing around him, holding him, squeezing him so tightly it was as if they were scared he’d disappear.

His eyes landed on you. Seeing you stare at everyone, at him, with a soft expression in your eyes, made his heart pang painfully, and all he wanted to do was to have you in his arms.

But he could wait, he reminded himself. He had waited fifty years, he could wait a few more hours.

Once everyone had finally released him, you gently pulled him to the table, and you all sat down.

Rhysand still couldn’t quite believe this. He was surrounded by his family, sitting down at a table filled with his favourite foods, and he had you with him.

It was so utterly surreal that he almost pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

You reached your hand for his under the table, and he immediately closed his fingers around yours. A simple touch. Rhysand’s body immediately relaxed. He let out a small breath, closing his eyes as he felt the familiar rush of comfort and calm he always felt whenever you touched him.

He gently stroked your skin with his thumb as he opened his eyes, turning to look at you.

“Good?” You whispered, only for him to hear, making sure he was alright.

Rhys felt a small thump in his chest. Gods, he was so in love with you. So in love with your soft, sweet voice whispering to him. So in love with the gentle concern in your tone. Still afraid of waking up suddenly, waking up with that red-haired monster.

Home. He was home. With his family. With you.

He let out another breath, feeling the last of his tension and stress drain out of him at your question. So he squeezed your hand slightly in response, a smile on his face. “Good,” he whispered back, his eyes never leaving your face.

You smiled more, nodding your head as you reached for a glass of wine. He leaned back in his chair, his hand still in yours, as he watched the banter go back and forth between everyone. Watching as they all ate some of his favourite foods. The rich, warm stew you had made, along with a variety of other dishes.

Rhys couldn’t believe he had been the luckiest bastard in Prythian. Getting to come back home and seeing you, his mate, still here, waiting for him. And he’d be damned if he didn’t make good on his promises.

HOURS LATER.

You laughed so loudly, so hard that a few tears rolled down your cheeks. Just because of one of Cassian’s stupid jokes. But you were laughing for the first time in forever. Rhysand couldn’t help but crack a small smile. It was so good to see you laughing again.

His body felt warm, full from all the food, and light after the many glasses of wine he had drank. But more than anything, he felt utterly at peace for the first time in fifty years. There were no responsibilities weighing him down, no Amarantha forcing him to perform. He was simply relaxing, at home with his family, like he should’ve been fifty years ago. There was still a small part of him that couldn’t believe it. A small part of him was scared this was all a dream, or just a hallucination, or something else, and that he’d be yanked back to the reality of Under The Mountain. But the feel of your soft hand on his shoulder, the sound of Amren’s amused scoff at one of Cassian’s jokes, it all felt so real, in a way that could only mean that this was, in fact, very much real.

A small yawn escaped his lips, and he quickly tried to cover it up. It wasn’t that the late hour was affecting him too much - he had been forced to stay up much, much later than this on multiple occasions - but rather that all the food and wine, the relaxed atmosphere, made him feel sleepy. He tried not to let it show, not wanting to break the relaxed mood, not wanting to go to bed.

“I’m glad you find it so entertaining,” came Cassian’s voice from the other side of the table, a pout clear on his face.

Rhysand snorted. “And I’m glad to see your sense of humor is still as bad as ever.”

You giggled softly, shaking your head, “Perhaps we should go and rest,” you said, of course noticing the tired look in his eyes. He felt a pang of affection in his chest as he heard your suggestion.

Of course, you would notice that he was tired, would worry even if he didn’t say anything. You were always so aware of his every need and emotion. And the last thing he wanted was to worry you.

He gave a small nod, a slight yawn escaping his lips.

“Perhaps that’s a good idea,” he said, giving you a small, tired smile.

The words had barely left his mouth before Cassian let out an exaggerated sigh, clearly not happy to hear the fun was over. “Gods, just go make out already,” he said, a suggestive smirk on his face. “We all know that’s all you two want to do tonight anyway.”

You blushed softly at his words, “Cassian!”

Rhysand let out another low chuckle as he saw you blush at Cassian’s words.  You were so cute, he thought. He missed seeing you blush.

Cassian let out a small huff at your reaction, his smirk growing bigger. “Oh come on, you can’t tell me I’m wrong,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his arms behind his head, his wings relaxed behind him.

You groaned, looking up to Rhys. He noticed your gaze on him and immediately realised what you were thinking. He saw the blush on your face, and the pleading look in your eyes.

He then let out a huff and looked towards Cassian. “And on that wonderful note,” he said, “everyone out. Go find somewhere else to be for the night.”

He didn’t wait to see if they obeyed. Rhys gently took your hand and winnowed you both back to your bedroom. To the room, you couldn't bring yourself to be in for the last fifty years.

This was the same bedroom he hadn’t seen for fifty years. The same bed where you had both slept peacefully together for so many years. The same room where he had shared so many quiet, intimate moments with you.

His eyes scanned the room as he looked at everything, taking in how much it had stayed exactly the same. It was almost surprising just how much it reminded him of better times. He took a deep breath, taking in the familiar scent of you, of the room. It was all so incredibly you, and it made him feel so at home that his eyes fluttered shut for a moment in contentment.

You squeezed his hand gently, “It was so cold in here without you.”

Rhysand instantly felt his body tense at your words. “Don’t...” he breathed out, his eyes still closed. He didn’t want to hear about how cold the room had been, how cold and lonely you had felt. The mere thought of it twisted his gut unpleasantly, making his heart clench.

He forced himself to open his eyes, turning to look at you. Your eyes had grown slightly glassy as you spoke, the memories obviously fresh in your mind as he saw it. Your shields of course down and you were trying to push the thought of you lying in this cold and empty room away. Of you lying in bed every night, not getting sleep, not getting rest. How you only were able to stay in here for three days until it was too much.

He clenched his jaw as he spoke again, his voice quiet. “I don’t want to talk about how cold you were without me,” he said, reaching to your cheek. “I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to imagine you in here, missing me, needing me…” He took a small step closer, his eyes dark with something. “Just don’t, okay?”

“I am still mad” you admitted suddenly, looking up into his eyes.

A frown immediately appeared on Rhysand’s face. “Mad?” he echoed, his eyes narrowing. “You’re mad?” His tone of voice was almost dangerous, defensive almost. He was not in the mood to deal with his mate being mad at him. Not after everything he had just endured down under that mountain.

“Yes,” you said immediately. “I am mad.”

A small scoff left Rhysand’s mouth at your words. He stared at you, his expression hardening. “You’re mad? You’re mad at me?” he repeated, his voice raising now. Why in the world were you mad at him? He had just spent fifty years trapped in hell, being Amarantha’s toy. What right did you have to be mad at him?

“Did I say I am mad at you?” You whispered, tilting your head slightly.

Some of the anger in Rhysand’s expression faded as he realised his mistake, the meaning of your words finally hitting him. His shoulders relaxed slightly and he let out another breath, running a hand through his hair.

No, no you hadn’t said you were mad at him. You had just said you were mad. He blinked at you, almost feeling silly as he realised how easily he had let himself get worked up and angry.

He paused for a second, taking a deep breath as his heart rate slowed down. He let out a long breath. “Perhaps explain why you’re angry then?” he asked, his voice softer now.

“I am mad at myself” your voice barely above whisper, as you reached for his hand.

Mad at yourself. Not at him.

He took a soft breath as you reached for his hand, and he gently laced your fingers with his, feeling the familiar comfort of your touch.

“I couldn’t help you,” you said, frowning a little. “I should have helped you somehow…”

Rhysand’s heart ached in his chest as he heard your words. So that’s what you were angry about. You were angry because you thought you hadn’t helped him. That you could’ve done more.

“You did help,” he said, his voice softer. He gently squeezed your hand in his, his eyes roaming all over your face.

Your frown deepened, as you looked up into his eyes, slightly confused. Not understanding what he meant by that. Rhys saw the confusion on your face, the furrow in your brow. He realized that you were not grasping what he was trying to tell you.

A smile appeared on his face, the one that made his eyes shine. “You did help me,” he repeated, saying the words slowly. “You helped me every single day that I was away. You gave me hope, a reason to live. Without you, I would’ve lost my mind down there.”

Lifting his hand, he gently cupped your jaw, smiling more. “By the Cauldron,” a sigh left his lips as he rested his forehead against yours “Do you have any idea how many times I thought about you? How many times the memory of you, of your face, your body, was what kept me going?”

“Fifty years,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “Fifty years of living in hell, and the only thing that kept me going was you. It was your face, your smile, your laugh, your scent, your voice, all playing in my head over and over and over again. That was the only thing keeping me sane.”

Tears started to build in your eyes at his words. “Idiot…” you mumbled, sniffling a little.

A soft smile appeared on Rhysand’s lips as he heard the word. He knew you only ever called him an idiot jokingly. And he knew that if you were now calling him an idiot, it was a good sign.

“And yet you love me anyway,” he said softly, his thumb gently caressing your cheek, catching a fallen tear.

You wrapped your hands around his neck, hugging him, as you sniffled again “Don’t leave me, ever again.”

Rhysand’s arms wrapped around your body immediately, holding onto you tightly as you buried your face into the crook of his neck. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling your scent, letting it wash over him.

He let out a sigh. “I won’t,” he promised, holding onto you so tenderly, as if he was scared he might break you. “I’m never leaving you again. Ever.” His hands started to slowly caress your back, gently going up and down, just feeling the smooth skin under them. He took another few deep breaths, your scent, and your body against his almost making him feel dizzy.

Rhys gently guided you backward until the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed, causing you both to topple down onto the bed. He hovered above you, looking down at your face, looking into your eyes. His heart was pounding against his chest, his body almost aching with desire as he took in your face, looked at you laying out beneath him.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, gently reaching out a hand to brush some hair out of your face.

He lowered his head, slowly making his way down to your neck, peppering kisses along your skin.

“I was yelling at everyone” You mumbled, already unbuttoning his shirt. “That we had to do something. Save you.”

Rhysand’s heart thumped in his chest as he heard your words. Despite knowing that you had never given up hope, the thought of you fighting for him, of you trying to save him, was almost too much. He could so easily imagine you yelling, demanding that everyone do something, demanding that everyone save him. He could practically see you standing there, his fierce, tiny, determined mate.

Mate. His mate.

Chuckling a little at your words he shook his head “Of course you were.” His hands were working quickly to take off your own shirt, needing to feel your skin underneath his touch. “I expected nothing less.”

“Oh yeah?” You chuckled too.

Rhys smiled, his lips against your neck. He continued to plant soft, open-mouthed kisses on your neck, leaving a trail of burning kisses up towards your jaw. He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help the need he felt to mark you, to leave you something as proof of it being real, of him being back home.

“Of course,” his hands were all over you. “You’ve always been so fiercely protective of me,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your neck again. “So very, very protective.”

“Because you deserve it” you whispered quickly. “You take care of everyone. You do everything to make everyone happy and safe.”

It was so true; those were the things that mattered to him. Making sure his people were happy, and safe. And most of all you. His heart clenched, shields still so high in his mind, hiding the memories from you. You still believed that he was worthy of being taken care of, that he deserved to be protected. And as you said the words, he felt his chest ache with overwhelming affection and love for you.

Rhysand felt a lump rise in his throat at your words. He couldn’t believe that you were here beneath him, saying these things to him. Praising him, loving him. It seemed too good to be true.

“Gods, you’ll make me cry if you keep saying things like that,” he said, his voice a bit rougher than usual.

You pulled him down by his neck, your lips not yet touching “But still, you are not being honest with me” you whispered, searching his eyes.

Rhysand let out a soft breath as you pulled him down, your bodies almost pressed together. Gods, he could practically taste you, he was so close to having you.

But then you stopped him from kissing you.

He raised his eyebrows at your words, now looking into your eyes, feeling a wave of uneasiness wash over him.

“And what are you talking about?” he asked, his voice careful.

You sighed, guiding him, so you both were sitting on the bed, still close but you did keep a small distance. “You are keeping me away.”

Rhysand frowned, feeling a pang of hurt run through him at your words. Keeping you away? That’s certainly not what he was doing. He was aching, aching, to have you close, to be with you, to have you in every way possible. He shook his head quickly, trying to banish the hurt from his eyes. “I’m not keeping you away, sweetheart,” he said, trying to find the right words. “I just want to go slow, I want to be careful. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No, not like that,” your voice was quiet, vulnerable. Raising your hand, you placed it on his temple, “You are keeping me away from you”. Feeling how high his shields were, how strongly he kept you away from his mind, it hurt you.

It hurt, not being able to feel him that way.

He felt his heart stop in his chest as he heard your words, as he felt your hand on his temple. It hadn’t even occurred to him how much you must have missed feeling him down the bond, feeling the connection.

But… he wasn’t ready for you to feel all the pain and fear he had endured, all the trauma from Under the Mountain.

“I want to help you, to give you everything you need. But I can’t do that while you keep me away. Not letting me in” You brushed your thumb over his knuckles. “I want to know, what she did to you. How she hurt you.”

You wanted to comfort him, to comfort and help him. But he felt so broken, so ugly, so used. He was scared, he was scared that you’d never look at him the same if you found out how Amarantha had touched, used him, and made him do those dirty things.

He squeezed his eyes closed as he heard your voice. No, he didn’t want you to know. He didn’t want you to hear about what had happened, he didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want you to know about how weak and broken it had made him, how pathetic he had felt.

“You don’t want to know,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You don’t want to be saddled with the horrors and trauma of it all.”

“Rhys I am your mate-“

“Exactly,” he interrupted, suddenly snapping. “You are my mate. I am supposed to protect you, to keep you safe. To take care of you, not the other way around. This isn’t-“ he stopped himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as he realised that he was being an idiot. He was just feeling so damn vulnerable right now, so damn raw.

You shook your head, pulling him closer, “I just don’t want you to have all my horrors sitting in the back of your mind,” he said, his voice quiet now. “I don’t want that for you.”

“Look at me” You murmured softly “I won’t look at you differently if that is what you’re afraid of” You caressed his cheek. “I love every part of you, no matter what.”

Rhysand felt the knot in his chest tighten as you caressed his cheek, as you spoke such sweet, tender words to him.

And his heart, his heart ached.

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes roaming all over your face as he spoke. “You don’t understand, you don’t… I let her do it. For fifty damn years, I let her use, touch, and hurt me. And I just... laid there and endured it.”

“No, no, no, no, Rhys, my love no,” you shook your head again, searching his eyes, your heart breaking. “Everything you did was to save your family, to save your people, and I would never, look differently at you. You sacrificed so much, so much for other’s happiness” You rested your forehead against his.

Hearing the utter determination, the absolute conviction in your voice, made Rhysand want to cry. Feeling your forehead against his, your soft touch, the closeness.

Those goddamned words. The way you said them so honestly, with so much love, so much understanding.

“I let her use me… for fifty years I-“ He did not want to cry in front of you. “A whore, that is exactly what I am”

You gently took his hand, pulling him slowly, so carefully down, so you could both lie down. In your mind, there were already so many thoughts, as you slowly guessed what he meant, and your heart broke even more.

You felt sick that he had to endure all of that.

“Don’t. Don’t you ever dare call yourself that” you whispered.

Rhysand felt his chest tighten, his body shivering as he followed you. He desperately, desperately, wanted to bury himself in you and simply take comfort in your scent and your presence.

Yet, you did not make that kind of a move towards him. You just pulled him close, hugging him so gently. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, not being able to look into your eyes. He swallowed hard as the memories assaulted him again, making his stomach turn into a painful knot. “Fifty years,” he repeated hoarsely. “I let her use me, abuse me…”

“One day I felt so bad, that Cassian and Azriel literally dragged me out of my room” You spoke suddenly, stopping him, and changing the subject, just like that.

Caught by surprise by the sudden change of subject, Rhys blinked a few times, “What are you talking about?” He asked, his eyebrows furrowed, not understanding.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, “I did not want to eat, or sleep, or move.” You murmured, playing gently with his hair. “They decided that it was time for me to… pull myself together. So they dumped me into the river.”

Feeling how hard it was for him to talk about what Amarantha did to him, you decided not to push him, to let go. Deciding that, it was not the time yet for him to open up about it, and as his mate, of course, you understood.

A small hint of a smile appeared on Rhysand’s face. The image of you being dragged out of bed by Cassian and Azriel and being thrown into a river was a very fitting one. He sighed softly as you tangled your fingers in his hair, enjoying the feeling of your touch.

“How long did they have to keep doing that?” he asked, now gently caressing your side.

“Two weeks straight” you laughed a little, feeling him relaxing in your arms.

Rhys started laughing too, the thought of you being dumped into a river every single day for two whole weeks was both amusing and amusing.

He was relaxing, but he still felt so on edge. On one hand, he was enjoying this moment with you, enjoying your touch, your laughter, feeling the bond flow through you both. But on the other hand, there was a part of him that was aching with the need to talk, to unload the past fifty years onto you. He did not want to keep hiding those memories from you.

“And then, next month came, the same story. It happened a lot” you murmured softly, nuzzling your face in his hair.

Even though he was enjoying this moment, enjoying your soft, gentle touch and your sweet voice, there was a part of him still feeling so raw, so disgusted with himself. He suddenly let out a soft sigh, his fingers gripping your hip a bit harder. “You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you?”

“Hell yeah, I am” You laughed with a bright smile.

And Rhys couldn’t help the laughter that broke out of him at your words, feeling a burst of warm affection. Gods, he had missed this. He had missed laughing, making sarcastic comments and jokes just like that.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your sweet scent. “Clever girl.”

“When you are ready. One day, I will be here to listen,” you started quietly, still playing gently with his hair, curling the soft strands around your fingers, “But for now, can we just, stay like this?”

Deeply you wanted to know what exactly happened Under the Mountain, what Amarantha did to him. How much he really sacrificed. How broken he really was, and how could you help.

But not yet. Not when you finally could hold him, rest with him, laugh with him. Not when he was so alive, so real, lying next to you, breathing, not a hallucination, not a dream.

As you spoke, Rhysand felt a sense of relief wash over him. The fact that you weren’t forcing him to talk about it now, that you weren’t pushing him to unload all his trauma and pain onto you.

Instead, all he had to think about right now was the fact that he was home, that he was in your arms.

He pressed a few gentle kisses on your shoulder, before he spoke, his voice gruff. “Only if I can hold you like this every day for the next fifty years.”

You giggled softly, “Fifty years is not enough.”

Rhys chuckled softly, feeling a rush of affection towards you once again. Gods, he would never get tired of the sound of your sweet giggles.

“Alright, a hundred then. Two hundred, even,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your shoulder, followed by a small love bite. “That’s still not enough, though.”

“Still not enough.”

“Forever” This time, he connected your lips in a soft kiss.

“Forever.”

[avocado-writing]

8 anon here! Could I request "kissing off the crumbs from their cheeks when eating" from quiet acts of love that make me cry prompt list for poly Wade and Logan with gn s/o please?

Logan finds that, occasionally, you and Wade are so in sync that it's... weird.

when the three of you are cuddled up on the couch together watching some dumb movie, you'll come out with the same quip when the protagonist does something reckless and then exchange a huge giggly grin across the expanse of Logan's chest. or if he's going to the store and asks if you want a drink, you'll often both chorus that you want a mountain dew (a terrible soda, Logan will always scoff at the choice... but bring back a couple of cans anyway).

no wonder the two of you are so fuckin' in love. you're basically the same goddamn person. at first when you'd opened your bed and your hearts to him, he'd been a little intimidated about where he might fit in. now, several months later? he knows exactly where he belongs. right between the two of you.

he's eating a couple of slices of toast this morning, skimming the paper as he waits for you to get out of bed. he's the earliest riser and uses it to his advantage - read the headlines and do the abandoned washing up from last night.

a shift from the bedroom. you walk out sleepily, Wade in tow. two lit-up smiles from your faces when he's spotted.

"mornin', peanut. aww, look at how tidy everything is! thank you for being a good house husband!" says Wade, noting the lack of dirty plates. Logan grunts at this but doesn't bother responding further. in fact he only looks up from his article when he feels one of you either side - a flanking position.

"what are you..."

he doesn't get to finish asking his question before you both swoop in, dropping a kiss on either corner of his mouth: you on his right, Wade his left.

"you had a crumb. just cleaning you up, Lo," you hum, peppering his cheeks with more little pecks. Wade just goes straight to nibbling his earlobe.

"can't have our peanut going round looking messy, hmm? it's our job to do that to you..."

Logan tries to hide his blush and fails. when your hands get involved too, he abandons the paper altogether.