#batter core post

[hannie-bees]

Pieces of you || c.hs

Pairing: Vernon x Reader

Genre: Fluff, domestic, romantic, comfort

WC: 1.9K

Theme: Its your 2nd anniversary and you gift your bf a jar of 100 reasons why you love him. 

Song Recommendation: 10000 Hours

Two years.

You’d been with Vernon for two whole years.

And yet, somehow, when your anniversary rolled around, your brain decided to take a vacation. The “what to get him” panic had set in early—weeks of browsing, scrolling through Pinterest boards titled “Anniversary Gift Ideas for Your Lowkey Emotional Musician Boyfriend", and endless Etsy deep-dives later, you caved and bought him a Rolex.

Now…

You were this close to a breakdown.

It was two nights before your second anniversary with Vernon, and you were dramatically sprawled across the living room carpet, surrounded by Google tabs, half-finished card drafts, and a fancy black velvet box from the Rolex boutique that now made you want to scream.

“Why did I do this?” You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face. “It’s so low-effort boyfriend-gift-core.”

To be fair, you’d panicked. Vernon had mentioned once in passing that he admired classic timepieces, and your brain short-circuited into: oh my god, fancy anniversary = man + watch = love. But the more you stared at the sleek, expensive thing, the more you hated it.

Because Vernon wasn’t a Rolex kind of boyfriend.

He was the boyfriend who saved the last bite of every snack for you even if he was starving. The boyfriend who left you post-it notes with doodled hearts on mornings he had early schedules. The boyfriend who wordlessly held you until your anxiety stopped clawing at your throat. Who remembered you liked your toast golden brown and your strawberry milk with extra ice cubes.

A watch didn’t cover all that. He deserved more.

And that's how you found yourself in your sweats, surrounded by crumpled sticky notes and a half-eaten box of cookies, trying to figure out how to tell him what he meant to you.

That’s when it clicked.

Words. Words were always the answer.

He’d once told you that you had a way of making ordinary things feel important, and maybe—just maybe—writing them down would remind him how much of your life he lit up.

You counted out a hundred sticky notes. Soft pastels in a mix of pinks, blues, and greens. And you began writing.

Your gummy smile. The first thing I fell for. It’s unfair. You smile, and I forget how to function.

The way you think. You process the world so gently and deeply—it makes me fall in love every day.

The way you love. Not loud, not flashy. Just right. Just… you. You don’t say it often, but you show it, always.

You understand me—even when I don’t make sense. Especially when I don’t.

You’re patient. With my bad days. My weird moods. You never make me feel wrong for needing time. You just… get me. You listen between the words.

You never make me feel stupid. Not when I forget things. Not when I panic. You just hold space.

You’re weird. The good kind. The dancing-in-the-kitchen, talking-to-cats, doing-a-fake-British-accent kind. The I’m-gonna-marry-you kind.

You send me memes when I’m upset. Usually cursed ones. It works.

You’re honest. Always. Even when it’s awkward or hard.

You give me the aux cord without even asking.

You laugh at my bad jokes like they deserve Oscars.

You kiss my forehead when I overthink.

You listen. Like, really listen. Like, “remembers things I said 4 months ago while half-asleep” listen.

You let me take the first bite of your food even when you’re starving.

You say, “Text me when you get home,” even if I’m just going to the convenience store.

You kept going, hour after hour. You wrote them curled up on the couch, with lo-fi playing and your legs tangled in a blanket you stole from his side of the bed. You wrote them the next morning, stirring pancake batter with one hand and scribbling thoughts with the other.

Each note was like a breadcrumb trail back through your relationship. The quiet mornings. The messy fights. The making up. The comfort.

The you-and-him-ness of it all.

27. You let me warm my hands on your stomach in winter, even though you hate it.

39. You rap under your breath when you’re concentrating. I pretend not to notice. You pretend not to see me smiling.

41. You never let go first during hugs.

57. You carry my bags without making a show of it.

69. You tell me “I love you” like it’s a fact, not a performance.

72. You say “I got you” instead of “it’s okay.” And somehow it feels like both.

88. You’re just… you. And that’s more than enough.

99. You remembered I always wanted to be seen. You saw me. Even when I couldn’t see myself.

100. You’re my safe place. My home. My favorite person.

You folded each sticky note carefully into a tiny square, dropping them into a clear jar one by one until it was full—your love made tangible, note by note, word by word.

___

Anniversary Morning

You woke before Vernon did, still tangled up in the shared comforter. His hand was loosely curled on your waist, chest rising and falling in that steady, sleepy rhythm that always grounded you.

You turned slightly to look at him.

His features were soft with sleep, lips parted just barely, hair tousled and flopping into his eyes. Your eyes trailed down to the tiny mole near his cheek—the one he always forgot he had until you kissed it and your heart squeezed.

Happy anniversary, you whispered in your mind. To the boy who doesn’t need to say much to make you feel everything.

___

You gave him the Rolex first.

He blinked at the box, then at you. “...Babe.”

“What?” you said with a grin. “You love watches.”

He opened it slowly, then whistled. “Okay, I do. But this is—this is a lot.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “You deserve nice things.”

He leaned in, kissing your cheek with a quiet, “Thank you, really,” but you could tell from the way he pulled you into his side that he knew something was up.

___

Later that Evening

The sun was setting, casting honey-colored light through the apartment windows. You stood awkwardly in the living room, the jar tucked behind your back, your stomach flipping.

He was lounging on the couch in a hoodie and sweats, the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, a bowl of cereal in his lap even though it was almost dinner time. He looked up when you stepped in.

“Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly.

Then, without a word, you walked over and placed the jar on the coffee table in front of him, before diving onto the couch, grabbing a throw pillow, and hiding behind it like a kid caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

He stared at the jar. Then at you. Then back at the jar decorated with little cloud stickers and a label that simply read: 100 Reasons I Love You (and Counting)…

His brow furrowed slightly as he set his cereal aside and picked it up. “What’s this?”

Your voice was muffled behind the pillow. “Read it.”

He opened the lid and pulled out one of the tiny folded notes, unfolding it carefully.

1. Your gummy smile.

The reason I fell for you. It makes everything else feel softer.

You peeked out from behind the pillow.

He blinked. Then pulled out another.

2. The way you think.

You have such a beautiful way with words; I could listen to you talk for hours and never get bored.

And another.

 3. The way you love.

Not loud, not performative. But steady, gentle. I always feel it. You don’t need to say a thing.

By the time he’d reached the fifth one—

5. Your patience.

You’ve never made me feel stupid for not knowing something. You make me feel safe enough to ask.

—His hand had slowed.

He looked over at you, eyes glassy.

“YN… What is this?”

You hugged the pillow tighter to your chest. “I felt like a Rolex wasn’t enough, too boring. So I made this too. It’s a hundred reasons why I love you.”

Vernon stared at the jar in his hands like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever touched.

Then he laughed softly, almost breathless, shaking his head in disbelief. “You wrote me a hundred love notes.”

“Every single one?”

“Every single one.”

You mumbled from behind the pillow, “It was either that or a custom rap verse about how hot your hands are. I figured this was less embarrassing.”

He laughed, soft and disbelieving, and then took another.

 12. You send me random memes in the middle of the day, and somehow they’re always exactly what I needed.

Like, you just know.

18. You never force me to talk when I’m not ready. You just sit next to me. That’s more comforting than anything.

29. The way you rub your thumb over the back of my hand when we’re holding hands. You probably don’t even notice you do it.

He swallowed, and his voice came out a little choked. “You remembered all these things?”

“Of course I did,” you whispered. “They’re pieces of you. How could I forget? ”

38. You tell me you’re proud of me—even when I haven’t done much.

43. Your hoodie always smells like you, and I secretly steal it when you leave for the studio.

52. You once offered to watch a horror movie just because I wanted to, and you ended up hiding behind my pillow. Adorable.

 68. You once said, “You’re my favorite place to be.” I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

He pulled another one out, smiling through teary eyes.

Then he got to one that made him pause.

 73. That night you thought I’d leave you… I wish I’d told you then how wrong you were.

I’m not going anywhere. I’m always here.

He paused at number 73. His hands stopped moving. For a moment, the room was quiet except for the sound of his breath.

He looked at you then, completely undone, the kind of emotion that Vernon rarely let the world see.

Gently setting the jar aside, he leaned over and tugged the pillow away from your face.

“Babe,” he whispered. “Come here.”

You climbed into his lap with a shy smile, arms looping around his neck.

His hands cradled your waist. “You’re insane. You know that, right?”

You tucked your face into his neck, grinning. “Only when it comes to you.”

He laughed, pulling you in tighter. “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten. Like, ever.”

You pulled back slightly, brushing his hair out of his face. “I just needed you to know. In case I don’t say it enough. I love you. A lot.”

His eyes searched for yours, warm and shining. “You show it in a hundred ways every day. I just have proof now.”

He kissed your forehead.

Then your cheek.

Then, finally, your lips—slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world.

___

Bonus:

He started carrying one note in his wallet every day like a lucky charm.

Whenever he traveled, you’d get a photo—your jar of pastel notes sitting right on his nightstand.

And six months later, you opened your laptop to find a document named Reasons I Love You: Draft Version 1. He never let you read it. Not then.

But a year later, he printed it out. Bound it like a book. Gave it to you on your third anniversary.

The title?

Chapter 1 of Forever.

🌸 Masterlist 🌸

[grugruel]

His Little Killer

Pairings: Cooper howard x f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

Masterlist

Summary: in reluctant companionship with a ghoul, which turns out to be exactly as dreadful as you'd thought. You find yourself in a shoot-out where–post battle–one of your usual fights end way more pleasurable than usual.

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: (violence, blood, death, in typical fallout manners), enemies to lovers, choking, pinv sex, rough sex, fingering, creampie, pet names (darlin', honey, killer, sweetheart), praise, a pinch of degradation.

AN: not yet proofread! Hope yall enjoy! (Yes, I'm unwell.'

Wood shattering, explosions booming–and charging footsteps heading straight for me. 'At my right!' I shout, gesturing in the direction of the steps. My voice barely registering above the racket of the fight.

Nonetheless, he heard me, I knew he did. Because bullets suddenly whizz past my makeshift cover in every direction except to my right.

The ammunition creating sick squelching noises as they collide with their targets, bloodsplatter spraying the walls a horrifying deep red. Meanwhile, in my corner. The heavy footsteps were left wide open to plough through the old wooden barrels I was hiding behind, 'Holy shii-' I squeak as im tackled to the floor with enough force to knock the breath out of my lungs. I try to cough, try to make my lungs open up as the man grabs hold of me. I hit my chest hard, desperately hoping it would do something–

He grabs my boots, pulling me toward him and finally- I get a breath of air. 'Stupid, fucking asshole.' I mutter through clenched teeth as I lunge and wrestle my attacker, our quarreling bodies kicking up a cloud of dust to swirl around us.

The man was big and foul-smelling, maybe it would've been better refered to as an it, considering the animalistic growls, snapping teeth, and fraying lips that bit and lunged at my face. He attempted to pin my arms to the ground while aiming its teeth at my jugular, but I was quicker. My knee smashing into his balls before he had a single thought of defending himself. He cried out in pain and I took my chance to roll him over, pinning him down with my weight instead, and I began throwing a wave of punches to his face, over and over again. 'I said MY right!' I shouted over my shoulder, weeks of fury and frustration bubbling up inside me as it fueled me into beating the ugly mut unrecognizable–when a second force slammed into my back, knocking me onto the ground once again. Another man, now climbing on top of me, his dirty fingers slithering around my throat and-

Another splatter, this time it's his blood–the second man's, and its sprayed all over me.

'Finally. . .' I exhale heavily, thudding back against the floor, splaying out with relief.

'Were really polishin' up on our teamwork.' A gruff voice announced, words coming out slow and steady with that self-satisfied tone which never failed to get on my nerves.

I heaved myself up on my forearms, angling my body so what remained of the man slumped off of me, and the source of the voice appeared like a specter from the dead man's shadow. 'You're a real pretty sight when ridin' a man like that.' He said, nodding to the guy with a bashed face.

I rolled my eyes, unbelievable. 'You mean while beating the shit out of him?' I ask, my voice pitching higher as I couldnt quite fathom the nerve of that man, despite forcing myself to get used to it over the past few weeks.

He hummed. 'Mhm, really got me goin' for a sec.'

My face scrunched up in disgust. 'Fucking cowboys.' I spat, renouncing the idea loudly. But, quietly, inside my mind, the thought had my core purring unwillingly.

'I shot right, just like you asked.' He shrugged, stalking closer, the drawl in his voice washing through the barren and now battered bar.

'The hell you did!' I hissed. He stopped at my feet, looming over me with his tall frame, frayed coat swaying around his chins, and that stupid cowboy hat covering half his face just like always. We'd been forced travelling companions for a while now, and I could say a lot of nasty things about him, but it was hard to deny- he was a real fucking apocalypse cowboy. Pretty cool if you cut his personality out of the picture.

'I said my right, what the fuck else do you think I ment with "my"?' I kick the lifeless body with my boot, emphasising my point.

'Well. . .' He shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. '. . .my, right.' He smirked.

I shook my head, shooting him daggers. 'Not even you are moronic enough to get that wrong, ghoul.'

'Well, you're right.' He admitted, shocking me for a second. But then, the problem I've always had with him, inescapable and always the same–he never shut his damn mouth. 'You need to work om your phrasin', honey.'

I shut my eyes, screwing them together so tight I began wishing I could disintegrate from annoyance and seep through the cracks between the weathered floorboards like a corn of sand. But no, I was stuck with him, and had to lay there listening to his idiocy. 'How–?' I sighed a heavy, exasperated sigh. '–is it possible for a man to be so full of himself, yet- never talk about himself?'

'Tricks of the trade, sweetheart.' He winked, clicking his tongue while those forsaken eyes roamed my body like a predator sizing up it's prey, and extended a hand toward me as if it were no big deal.

Exhausted as I was, accepting his help seemed sorely tempting to my tired body. After a moments hesitation, I decided–once, wouldn't harm my morals. So, I grabbed his hand with reluctance and let him pull me to my feet. 'I could've died, I hope you realise.'

'Yes. . . But you didn't.' His lips pulling into a grin. 'I wouldn't let that happen'.'

'You're a real bastard, y'know that?' the words left my lips with an unintentional drawl, damn that man.

The ghoul cocked an inexistent eyebrow. 'If I didnt know any better, I'd say im rubbin' of on you, honey.'

Another scoff from me. 'The only thing you're rubbing–is me the wrong way.' I spat, this time making a point of speaking as plainly as possible.

His eyes lit up suspiciously, filling with mischief as his widening smile creased them. 'Well, tell me how you like it then and I'll do it the right way.' He smirked, his voice gravely as it scraped along my spine with a shiver. He always did this, He'd call me nicknames, flirt with me. All cause he knew I hated it. But now he's just bordering on harassment. It did however, not, stop the heat from rising to my cheeks, or for a blush to seep through my skin. He'd staggered me, I truly didn't know how to react. What happened next was purely instinctively driven–

The palm of my hand made contact with his cheek, a crisp slap sounding out through the room. I even confused myself for a moment, almost as I was the one who'd been hit. But I would've been furious, how he reacted, well. . .

'There you are. . .' He purred, his tone lethal. '. . .my little killer.' A grin spreading across his face as he took a step closer.

He was pure poison, somehow both hot and cold as he ran through my veins. 'I ain't yours.' He wss the only person- ghoul, who could get on every nerve I possessed, lighting it ablaze with frustration.

'No. . .? You ain't?' He chuckled, 'You're sure startin' to sound like it, sweetheart. I see the way you look at me, the way you blush when I call you pretty little names.' He nodded toward my eyes, his hat tipping with the movement as he took another step, gaining on the precious distance between us. I feared he was right, too, my cheeks burned in a way I'd never noticed before. Had I always reacted like this? Before I knew it–I'd flung my palm for his face a once again-

Only this time, he caught my wrist. 'Tsk tsk tsk, you can do better than that, killer.' He let go off me, forcefully shoving my arm back to my side with a scoff.

But now, I'm the one stepping closer, pushing him away by the chest simultaneously. 'I hate you.' I spit, taking another step and push again, but this time he doesn't budge, and I was left standing mere inches away from him, my hands pressed firmly against his chest as my own heaved with frustrated breaths, strands of hair hanging over my face from the ordeal.

'Good. . .' He whispered, brushing wild strands of hair from my face. '. . .Now, show me how much you hate me.'

I could've slapped him again, pushed him again, done anything else than what I actually did. But my body acted on instinct, again-

I crashed into him, my hands grabbing his face as our lips met in a battle for control. He released a breathy moan, his trigger ready hands finding my waist impossibly quick to pull me flush against him, our bodies clashing together in a thud. He hummed. 'That's right, killer. Show me.' He whispered in the air-swallowing gasps between our kisses.

I put pressure behind my hands, walking him backward while my fingers found the buttons of his vest. Undoing them along with the shirt, then slid his coat and vest down his shoulders in one go, right before his back collided with the bar top. My hands found themselves making their beneath his shirt, feeling the dents of his scarred chest as I sucked his lip between my teeth, and bit down. A sharp hiss escaped him, quickly being replaced by a wide grin. 'Naughty girl.' He breathed.

Smiling, I pushed myself off of him. 'You bring it out of me.' I panted, pulling my shirt over my head and unhooking my bra, letting it fall to the floor.

He leaned back against the bar, bracing himself on his elbows as his eyes roamed over my bare chest and flushed face. 'Those are the prettiest fuckin' tit's I've ever seen. . .' He spoke in a low voice, too filled with lust to allow him anything else. 'Now, would you mind.' His hand gestured below my waist, his index finger sliding through the air as he traced the buttons of my pants from a distance.

And an idea struck me, suddenly feeling like I wanted to indulge myself in a little torture. Turning around, I did as he told me and began unbuttoning them, slowly. Terribly, terribly slowly. Sliding them over my hips and down my thighs, bucking my knees and bending over slightly as I pulled my panties down along with them. Just as I stepped out if them and looked over my shoulder to give him a coy little look, perhaps revel in the feeling of his pained expression–I was in for a surprise.

Turning my head over my shoulder, I came fave to face with him, but he wasn't just standing there- no. He collided with my back, his arms already wrapped around ny front to catch me. His shirt bow nowhere to be seen. 'Enough.' He growled, one strong arm wrapping around my breasts as the other wrapped around my waist. He raised me off the floor, held tightly against his chest. I squeeked, giggling as I pulled my legs up. Completley overcome with the anticipation of what was about to befall me–then I all of a sudden found myself pushed over the bar top, chest against the smooth luke warm surface. The quality off it telling me it hadn't been bought when fitted into this weathered building.

Then, the clanging of metal, leather groaning, friction, and his belt hit the floor. Gruff hands ran over the swell of my ass and down the arch of my back, taking his time to feel all of me. 'Been thinkin' 'bout this, how you'd feel falling apart beneath me, on top of me–' he leaned over me, hand wrapping around my neck as he pulled me flush against him only to whisper in my ear. '–around me. . .' He breathed, dragging the words out. '. . . All wet 'n messy with my cum fillin' you up.'

A moan left my lips. 'Show me.' Was all I could get out, a silent pleading to make all those thoughts a reality–and so he did.

Before I knew it, a hand had disappeared to line himself up with my entrance, pushing inside me without as much as a warning.

'Fuck!' I cried out, my voice breaking as my breath left me. It felt never ending, he was huge. But oh, he felt so good.

He groaned, finally stopping as he'd sunken all the way into my core. 'So wet for me already.' His hand slid over my back and shoulder, molding itself to my throat as the other grabbed my hip. Already flush with my back, he inclined his head, leaving trail of kisses along my spine and neck.

'Fuck me, please Coop-' it was the first time I'd called him by his name, and I realised it the second it left my lips.

His lips curled against my skin, a smile-

He thrusted into me, again and again. My back arching into an angled I had no idea it was capable of, helping him hit my core at every rut of his hips–not that he needed it. The 200+ years of experience really showed, and they were definitely felt.

The bar was dead silent, no noise except for our joint breaths of pleasure and the sound of slapping skin. It was lewd and brutal, and It made me absolutely delerious. His low, pained grunting in my ear did nothing to ease the matter. He'd created an aching so strong within me I wasn't sure It'd ever be able to be tamed.

'Harder, harder, please.' I stuttered, the words barely coming out between my heavy pants. Fuck, he made me feral. Without even trying, that's just what he was capable of. It annoyed me, he managed to annoy me while fucking me senseless. Oh, how I wish I could hate him, but there was no going back now.

Coop left little love bites all along my shoulder, and up the side of my throat, nipping and kissing in equal meassure as his breathing warmed my skin deliciously. Doing it all with such precision I couldnt understand, his thrust were rocking my emtire body, his chest rubbing againdt my back, yet he could be so delicate. I side ive never seen before. 'Little killer ain't so tough no more, is she?' He whispered, placing a kiss behind my ear before biting the lobe, tugging in it gently.

'. . . Mmh- 'm not, I'm not.' I got out. I was whatever he said I was while he delivered this type of pleasure on a silver platter. I didn't care, my morals had been thrown out the window the second his lips touched mine.

'Well, look at that. Admittin' defeat already?' I could feel his stupid grin again, his pace slowing- still ruthless, but it did enough for that feeling of building pressure to wain inside me.

I shook my head, shutting my eyes hard as I tried to focus on his member moving inside me, desperate not to lose that red string that'd lead me to climax.

'Words, sweetheart. Use em'. .'

'Dont fucking care.' I cried. 'J- just- Fuck. Me. Harder.' I ground out, my teeth clenching real hard from a mix of desperation and frustration for the pressure to start rebuilding.

'That'll do.' He groaned, squeezing my throat. All the while his other hand slid down to my cunt, starting condensed circling around my clit. And just like that, he'd made me into a whimpering mess for him to steady, falling apart beneath him just like he'd thought. Then he simply took up right where he left off, without missing a beat he thrusted so ferociously I was sure I'd be bruising on every single part of my body from the vibrations that rumbled through my muscles alone.

The darkness of my lips were specking with white, a wall of pressure building brick by brick in my abdomen. 'Close, so fucking close.' I whimpered.

'Good- Good job sweetheart. Doin' so good for me.' He burried his face in my hair, nuzzling his nose into its scent, inhaling it as he too approached climax. And there it was, that sudden softness. It was almost unsteadying my senses more than his touch, more than his thrusts, but only almost. 'You sound so sweet for me, honey. Let me hear ya'. . .' He moaned, exhaling warmth against the nape of my neck.

I obliged, of course I did. 'Feels so good, Coop- so close. . .' I panted, tears burning my eyes as they began rolling down my cheeks.

He slid his hand upward, keeping it between me jaw and throat, still choking me as he angled my face over my shoulder, enabling him to kiss me properly. And I've never been more thankful because I was about to cry myself dry as the wall broke. Pleasure flooding through my body in tidal waves, my knees bucking beneath me. 'Good girl.' He praised, voice muffled against my lips. Fingers stopping to instead cup my aching cunt. 'My good fuckin' girl, my little killer.' He moaned softly, my lips vibrating from the roughness in his voice as he caught me, delivering a final few ruts of his hips before he too came. Doing just as he promised, filling me up with his cum.

He loosed his grip around my throat and slit, letting me depend on the counter for support while he held me. 'Still hate me?'

'Yes.' I didn't, but it'd be a long time before I admitted that to him.

'Good.' And then there was silence, our lungs catching up with our breaths. 'Still wanna see those pretty hips ride me.' He murmured as he hugged me from behind, his hand sliding lower, pinching my hipbone.

'Ow! Asshole.' I yelped, and he kissed my shoulder to make up for it. But the thought was alluring nonetheless. I wriggled in his embrace, looking around at the destruction we'd caused, at the- dead bodies. And a pang of guilt hit me. 'Fine, but not here.' I agreed, actually wanting nothing more than to get out of there and sit in his lap, maybe ride his thighs too.

We redress, and share a kiss before leaving. 'Can't wait to taste that cunt of yours, killer.' He murmured suddenly. Leaving me staggered once again.

Ugh, I'm done for.

[fayes-fics]

The Secrets We Keep: Pt I

Part II >>

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you…

Warnings: none yet… fluff and angst. Childhood friends, yearning, arranged marriage, kissing. Pt II will contain a warning/rating change.

Word Count: 5.1k (this part)

Authors Note: Part 1 of 2. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. I won't post your ask yet, as it contains spoilers for the second half. Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. I’m in the process of writing Pt II, so there will be a gap between instalments. Enjoy! 🫶

-i-

For as long as you can remember, you have loved one man secretly. To the point that you cannot imagine your life without a deep, burning affection simmering in your very core, as fundamental to your existence as drawing air into your lungs.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Your families have been neighbours in Mayfair and Kent for many generations—two aristocratic dynasties that, despite enduring friendships, have never seen intermarriage. There have been attempted matches down the years, according to family lore, but nothing came to fruition. 

So when you were brought to Aubrey Hall as a mere babe in arms, the eldest daughter, there were many good-natured jokes that Anthony’s future wife had been born. But the Viscount, wonderful as he is, was not the man who stole your heart just a few short years later. A bright sunny day in June that you suspect Benedict may not even be able to recall, but you can with perfect clarity, even now, some fifteen years later. 

He picked you as the first person to join his team for a round of garden games. Paying you heed and ensuring you were included, patiently showing you the ropes and applauding your achievements, ignoring the ridicule from the other twelve-year-old boys for letting a girl - and a little five-year-old at that - join in their games. 

Ever since that day, all you have ever seen is his enormous heart and steadfast empathy: always the one to reach out to those excluded, to be supportive, and to love harder and more expansively than his siblings. Thus, unsurprisingly, he became the focus of your singular devotion—a childish adoration transmuting into something more profound and complicated as you matured.

On your fourteenth birthday, your mother gifted you a thick notebook. And it became your refuge, the private canvas on which you outlet your innermost secrets and thoughts. The beautiful but now slightly battered, silk-covered tome is still your most treasured possession even now, more than six years later, so close to filled now, with only a couple of blank pages left. Never long from your hands, but when it must be, carefully stashed under the floorboards of your bedroom. Its pages the reflection of a naive, growing heart. There is one person who features frequently on its crammed, jumbled pages. Sketches of his handsome face, mostly from memory, interspersed with ardent notes and poems that, while they may not mention his name, are written for him. Adoration writ large in every pen and pencil stroke.

Little were you to know that the secrets you keep within its hallowed pages would one day alter the course of your life…

-ii-

It's the evening of the Bridgerton Ball, and usually, you would be brimming with anticipation for such an occasion, a chance to see the man who holds your most ardent admiration. Instead, you find yourself glum, mechanically stepping into the dress your ladies' maid Rachel assists you with, staring blankly into the vanity mirror as she adorns your hair with jewels. Still reeling from your father's shocking announcement the previous day.

The inheritance of a European title had seen him spend eighteen months abroad. In his absence last spring, you were able to persuade your more indulgent mother to delay your societal debut—a yearning to be free in the ways you know no woman really can be for long. A compounding factor was spending the summer in the Highlands with her sister, your Aunt Eliza, a spirited, independent woman who taught you many things and encouraged your artistic whims. And when you were back in London, your mother’s somewhat inattentive running of the house meant you were often able to slip away in the evenings, spending your time deepening your passion for art. Frequenting galleries and conversing with artists led to you being drawn into the bohemian, artsy underbelly of Bloomsbury, a beguiling, exotic contrast to Mayfair. Another secret you keep.

Upon his return to England, your father was not best pleased to learn that not only had you been allowed to skip the previous Season, but Eliza had also taught you to fish, fence and hunt—most unladylike pursuits in his opinion. He, therefore, made it his mission to ensure not only would you debut this year but also a swift match should be made, lest you “get other fanciful, dangerous ideas”.

Perhaps that is why, yesterday, nary two weeks into your first season, he abruptly announced over afternoon tea that he had secured a match for you and the man in question would be dining with you all that evening. A deal no doubt brokered in a private gentleman’s club as if you were merely chattel to be traded.

Revulsion filled your every fibre as you were introduced to Lord Farringdon a few hours later. A wiry man twenty years your senior with a hawk-like countenance and a disdainful disposition. Apparently, a brilliant intellectual mind but accompanied by a mercurial, malevolent reputation. You had read in Whistledown rumours about his mistreatment of his household staff and his previous wife. A forlorn figure who became a recluse long before she died of consumption tragically young. The idea of being betrothed to this cold, abusive man turned your stomach—a seemingly outsized punishment for your rebellion. Once the man left, you had begged and pleaded with your father to reconsider the arrangement, but sadly, your appeal fell on deaf ears. 

And so here you are. Going to a ball at which your father plans to announce your engagement. The stately beauty of Bridgerton House is not as heartening of a sight as it typically is. Tonight, it feels more akin to a gallows.

As soon as you arrive, you are scanning the crowds for the only friend you know will understand just how ghastly your predicament is—Eloise Bridgerton. A kindred spirit whose interest in marriage is as scant as your own. Bonding over your similar yearnings for freedom, you have been good friends since you were little, many a day spent together as children running through the Kentish fields, escaping expectation and flouting convention.

Acutely aware of time running out until your father speaks up, you fiddle distractedly with your fan, impatiently awaiting her entrance.

“For heaven's sake, y/n, please cease your fidgeting!” your mother chastises under her breath, snatching away the item. “I do not see why you are so agitated. Tonight is to be a wonderful occasion for you!”

A myriad of caustic comments are on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them down. The last thing you want is to draw attention, and you certainly don't want to be gossip fodder; these ballrooms are a veritable hotbed of eavesdropping if Whistledown is anything to go by. 

When the collective Bridgerton family finally enter their ballroom as hosts, however, your eyes can't help but drift to Benedict instead. A reflex from years of longing, even though it is his sister,  arm looped into his, whose counsel you seek tonight. You excuse yourself to fetch a lemonade as soon as you spy a window of opportunity—Eloise standing alone, looking excessively bored. Abandoning your glass, you hurry over to her.

“I have news…”  You try to keep your voice neutral but grab her arm and practically drag her away from anyone within earshot.

“Well, it cannot be good if you are willing to rip my arm off to impart it,” she remarks dryly as you lead her down a hallway.

“It is not,” you pull a face that you know will convey to her the gravity of what you need to divulge.

With a nod of understanding and a look to a nearby footman, she leads you beyond him into an area of the house off-limits for guests. 

“Tell me…” her tone is sincere as she ushers you into the library and closes the door.

“My father has seen fit to arrange a marriage for me. He is planning to announce it tonight, right here at your family ball!”

She says nothing, only a sympathetic noise as she pulls you into a consoling hug. The emotions you have been tamping down for hours escape as a couple of bitter tears, her arms banding tight around you. You are not sure how long, but you stand in a hug, just grateful for her steadfast support.

“What am I to do?” you whisper.

“I do not know,” she confesses. “Have you tried to reason with your father?”

“A hopeless cause…”  

Her mouth twists in understanding, knowing you will have put up a spirited defence as much as she would have. She detangles from you and goes to a nearby brandy decanter.

“It's the very least you deserve, frankly,” she points out, handing you a glass and pulling you into a loveseat with her, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, clinking her glass against yours in a silent but bittersweet toast about your seemingly futile situation.

-iii-

Half an hour later, your parents are distracted across the far side of the room with friends when a large hand grabs yours out of the blue. You startle when you realise it is Benedict, your heart suddenly in your mouth. Before you know it, you are wordlessly being pulled out of the French doors behind you and into the night air.

“Where are we going!?” you demand when you recover from the initial surprise, his gloved hand tugging yours along through the darkened gardens. 

“Shh, make haste, we must not be seen,” he hushes you but keeps moving, furtive and fast, your feet having to take extra steps to keep up with his long stride over the lush, dewy grass.

“Benedict…” you try again once you round a thick hedge into the rose garden.  “What is going on?”

He slows a little but does not relinquish his tight hold. Gravel path now crunching under his boots as the honeyed scent of damask hangs heavy in the air. 

“Eloise told me,” is all he offers. “So we are escaping.”

“W-we are?” you stutter, frowning, a claggy tumult behind your ribs at his use of ‘we’. 

“Yes! Or at least we would be if you would keep quiet… please…” he amends, sounding a touch contrite about his initial brusqueness, but speeding up again, headed straight for a small wooden door in a high stone wall, almost hidden behind long, draping ropes of ivy, glowing silver in the moonlight.

When you reach it, he releases his grip on your hand and shoulders the door open with considerable force. The weathered wood creaks loudly, almost splintering under the duress. He signals to the inky blackness of the deserted mews behind Bridgerton House.

“It is now or never, y/n,” he warns as you look back at the house, lit up with the life of the ball inside. “So what is your choice?”

He may be presenting it as an option, but really, you know there would only ever be one answer. You would accompany him to the ends of the earth if he so much as asked. And so wordlessly, you step through the doorway and into the narrow street beyond.

“Good choice,” he compliments as he follows suit and closes the door behind him. “You may stay at my friend Granville’s tonight,” he offers sagely, “I have not seen him in a while, but I will explain when we arrive; I am certain he can provide shelter.”

“Benedict, I already know Henry… Quite well, in fact.”

He looks taken aback as if it had not occurred to him that you may move in the same clandestine circles as he does. To be fair, you have always been discreet in your outings, and it’s not something you have divulged to anyone, including Eloise. Still, what confounds you more is why he is suddenly so seemingly invested in seeing you escape from your predicament. It doesn't entirely make sense.

“Well, then,” he cuts into your brief reverie, “you know Henry is a generous host and discreet about the affairs of others. Your father will not come looking for you there. It will buy some time to figure out what to do next. To ensure your freedom.”

“Freedom?” You scoff. “Benedict, as much as I may wish it, there is no other path open to me. Tonight is merely a delay tactic at best. The only way to stop my father’s pursuit of this union is if I marry another….”

The admittance of this truth out loud makes you restless, belatedly realising that it truly is your only way out. You stalk towards the main road, the faint glow of the street lamp guiding your way over the cobbles. You soon hear Benedict’s footsteps behind.

“That is ridiculous!” he exclaims as he attempts to catch up with you. “There are other options available to you…”

“Such as?” you whip around, raising your hands, countering his assertion. When he falters, you return to walking, throwing a tart addition over your shoulder: “Unlike you, a man, I do not have the freedom of choice.” 

“You should always have a choice…” he counters earnestly, still catching up to your furious pace.

“Should and do are different things, Benedict. You do not even know how lucky you are!” You add bitterly, rounding onto the main street.

A gust of wind causes you to pause and a shiver to run down your arms, your gauzy dress not enough to ward off the unseasonable chill in the air tonight. Ever the observant gentleman, Benedict shucks his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. Uncharitably, your ire makes you attempt to shake it off, even while knowing it is intended purely as a chivalrous gesture. You are surprised when he seems to grasp your shoulders tighter, holding the heavy velvet in place. It is cloaked in his woodsy, citrus scent, your vexed state turning into an entirely different type of flush as he crowds closer to you.

“My birth has allowed me certain privileges, I concede,” he replies, his stare seemingly far away as you are unable to look anywhere but the dampness of his bottom lip, shimmering slightly in the lamplight. Then he tilts his head down to meet your eyes. “But that does not mean I am able to have everything I wish for in life, y/n…”

Your tongue burns to ask what it is that he wants but cannot have, yet you do not allow yourself to pry. But seeing the wistfulness in his gaze deflates your irritation, your long-held adoration for this man taking over, making you sigh.

‘You deserve the world, Benedict….’

His face morphs into one of breathtaking intensity, and you realise, horrified, you spoke those thoughts aloud. 

“As do you, y/n,” he murmurs, eyes sincere, your heart beating wildly as his chest vibrates against your own. 

The upheaval of the last day, the man you secretly adore abetting a somewhat daring escape, your heated exchange of words, the lateness of the hour, and the feel of his tall, lithe body pressed against yours…. It's all a dangerous cocktail that culminates in you being utterly impetuous, pushing up onto your tiptoes and mashing your mouth against his with no thought.

His lips are plush and warm, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. It's like a cannon firing in your chest as his warm mouth opens yours. Suddenly, you are urgently taking from each other. A sweeping tidal wave through you obliterates any kissing experiences you have ever had before. It’s a desperate slide of tongues, a passionate continuation of your sparring. His hands are like a hot brand through your thin dress as they sweep around to your back, tugging you into him, his heat, scent and taste overwhelming.

But all too soon you are pulling apart, a need for air in your lungs overriding the spontaneous, reckless moment. For a few seconds, you stare at each other, breathing each other's panted air, hands still grasping onto each other, almost confused by what just occurred… until the whinny of a passing horse carriage has you springing apart as if burned. 

Realisation engulfs his entire being. “Oh god! Please, please forgive me!” he stutters, backing away, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture, almost tripping in his haste to put space between you, even though it was you who kissed him. “Please, just go to Granville,” he counsels rapidly before turning heel and disappearing into the night, leaving you standing alone, unmoored and breathless, utterly turned upside down.

-iv-

You drift home in a daze, your family’s London residence only a few hundred yards away. Your escape plans are forgotten in the haze of tumbling thoughts about that blistering kiss. How fervently and immediately Benedict had kissed you back, how wonderful it felt to be caged in his arms….  Climbing into bed and passing out, still bewildered. In fact, it’s only the rude awakening of your bedroom door slamming open the following morning that brings you crashing back to your senses.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!” Your father roars, holding aloft what looks like the latest copy of Whistledown. “You have brought shame upon our family and likely ruination to your prospects!!”

Utterly alarmed, you sit bolt upright, blinking, taking a few moments before you can find your voice. “What are you referring to, father?”.

He glares at you, then throws the paper onto your bed and stalks out of the room without another word, puce with outrage. You know there will be crossed words at the breakfast table. The sight of your name on the crisp ivory page immediately draws your eye, and your stomach plunges as you read the paragraph:

The annual Bridgerton Ball last night was, once again, resplendent. A triumph that the dowager Countess can be rightfully proud of. Although less contentment could likely be gleaned from the behaviour of her offspring. The second eldest of whom was allegedly seen escaping into the unlit gardens hand in hand with none other than the most reluctant of this season's debutantes, the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. Perhaps the rebellious Miss will not have to endure many more of society’s events that she so patently abhors, should a proposal from the most wayward of Bridgerton sons be forthcoming? I, for one, however, Dear Reader, am not holding my breath…

Hiding in your room as long as you can, hunger drives you to join the frosty lunch table, apologising for inadvertently ruining your father’s plans to announce your betrothal and meekly explaining the incident with Benedict as a complete misunderstanding. It was merely an old friend helping you to gather some air before the big news was to be proclaimed. His taking your hand was out of benevolent concern, nothing more, and when you suddenly felt unwell, he chivalrously saw you the few hundred yards home. The lies feel odd on your tongue, your thoughts only of Benedict’s mouth and body moulded hotly to yours as your father lectures about appropriate behaviour for a young lady and your family’s long-standing friendship with the Bridgertons not being an excuse for a lackadaisical attitude to impropriety.

“There is nothing else to be done now—I must secure you a special licence to be wed tomorrow before Lord Farringdon hears about this,” he decrees with finality, his tone brokering no argument.

You slump silently into your chair, dread creeping through every cell, silently chastising yourself for not following Benedict’s advice and running away. If only you hadn't been impetuous and kissed him, you might have been in your right mind to do so. It feels cruel that the one moment you chose to throw caution to the wind is the one moment that sealed a worse fate.

-v-

That afternoon, your mother ushers you to the Modiste, paying handsomely for a very rushed wedding dress. Something simple that can be finished at such a late hour. It will only be your family in attendance anyway; so much else seems unnecessary. As you stand forlornly upon the raised dias, ivory silk tacked up around you with pins; your mother announces she needs to depart to secure other last-minute arrangements, leaving your trusty ladies' maid to accompany you home once alterations are complete.

“You do not look a happy bride…” Madam Delacroix mutters after the tinkle of the bell above the door signals her departure.

“Your observation skills are certainly not lacking,” you respond quietly, craning to double-check that Rachel, your maid, is out of earshot, sitting listlessly in the front of the store, staring out of the window.

“I do read Whistledown, my dear,” she remarks delicately, “and this does not appear to be a dress someone marrying a Bridgerton would wear.”

Your stomach vaults at the implication; the thought of marrying Benedict has your heart going haywire, even as you know it would never happen. The crestfallen look as your mind flits to the awful man you will be marrying instead is one you cannot hide as she meets your eyes in the reflection.

“It is not indeed,” you sigh, “but Whistledown has rather accelerated my unfortunate fate. Hence the rushed dress…” you gesture to your outfit.

“Mr Bridgerton is a friend?” she digs delicately.

“Lifelong,” you admit, “but Lady Whistledown could not have been more erroneous in her assertions…”

“That you and Mr Bridgerton are together? Or that he would marry you?” 

You look away from the mirror and down to where she is crouched by your hem on your left side, taken back not only at her astuteness but her drive for information. Almost as if she were Whistledown herself.

“I do not mean to pry,” she modifies, “merely to understand your predicament. Maybe I can be of assistance? I have privately counselled many a young lady on the eve of their wedding. Be it a happy occasion or not. And have kept many a secret of the Ton. ‘Tis the reason my business is so successful, Miss y/l/n. A good modiste can be a trusted confidante.”

“W-we are not together,” you stumble out without meaning to.

“But you wish to be? Or perhaps something has happened between you?”

Your eyes dart furtively, and your cheeks heat at the memory, but you say nothing. 

“You need say no more,” she chuckles and offers a knowing smile that appears as much reminiscent as sympathetic.

You rapidly attempt to deflect. “I do not wish to be married to anyone, really. I do find it so unfair a man is free to pursue his passions in life, but merely due to my sex, I am not.”

There is a nod of understanding, and she stands up with her hands on her hips. “I keep a certain array of refreshments for special clients such as yourself.” She nods to what looks like a liquor cabinet partially obscured behind a curtain at the back of her shop. “If you can dismiss your maid, I can assist you on your last night as an unmarried lady.”

The suggestion is too intriguing to refuse. And Rachel will greatly appreciate your pin money.

A few hours later, you are sat upon a circular conversation chair, Gen, as she insists you call her, pouring you another snifter of brandy.

“Tell me, what is your passion?” she inquires, her polished French accent slipping a little, sounding far more East End than Parisian. Something about that makes you like her more.

“Art,” you answer wistfully, “not that I have many opportunities to practice beyond a private notebook. But it is my most prized possession.” You gesture to your pelisse, hanging on a nearby hook. “I have it with me always. I have sewn a secret pocket into all of my coats myself.”

“Ingenious! ” She declares. “You shall have my job one day!”

You laugh, feeling light for the first time in what feels like days, as Gen leans in, raising an eyebrow. “I can also see well why you may have bonded with Mr Bridgerton…”

You giggle and lower your eyes, taking a fortifying sip.

“But it is not just that, is it?” Her tone is thoughtful, delicate even, as she continues: “A life outside the boundaries of so-called polite society can be so very beguiling, can it not? I have seen you, Miss y/l/n, at parties in Bloomsbury…”

A panicked bile rises as your head snaps up.

“As I said before, I am always discreet,” she reassures, “your secret is more than safe with me,” she winks before taking a generous sip from her glass.

Possibly, it's the alcohol, but her understanding of your predicament and the fact she has, unbeknownst to you, moved in similar circles brings an odd sense of relief. Having a confidante, someone to finally share your secrets with, albeit a somewhat stranger, lifts a burden from your shoulders. Wonderful as Eloise is, being the sister of the man who secretly holds your heart is not without complications in many ways.

“Another?” she chimes animatedly, holding aloft the bottle.

You cannot resist that offer.

-vi-

It’s close to midnight when Gen loops her arm in yours as she guides you, quite inebriated herself, away from the hackney cab to the familiar abode of one Henry Granville. Her declaration that a party is what you need on your last night of freedom is definitely not one you would dispute. A myriad of heightened emotions roil inside as you await the door being answered: contentment at your newly cemented friendship with Gen, bewildered every time you think of your kiss with Benedict and abhorrence for tomorrow. 

As you wander into the debauched tableau of a party in full swing: the air thick with smoke and merriment, the sounds of pleasure, people consorting together, a hedonistic swirl of self-expression unfurling all around you—it all consolidates into a yen to be reckless. Take part this time rather than just observe as you have before. Alcohol mutating the simmering rage about the injustice of your circumstance into a yearning to experience pleasure, especially physical. To get lost in sensation on your one last night of liberty.

So when you encounter Sir Simms - Matthew - friend to your older brother, renowned rake, but quite handsome, you throw caution to the wind. He seems delighted to see you, instantly flirtatious and familiar in a way you would rebuff any other night but this one. Whispering in your ear how very bold you are to be at such a bohemian event and pondering what other adventurous experiences you might be willing to indulge in. At one point Gen pulls you aside, her breath sweetened with fermented fruits, as she leans in and counsels you to be cautious. But you rebuff her concerns, swatting away her hold and returning to Matthew, allowing him to pull you into a kiss. 

It’s not the same as with Benedict; your mind screams at the altogether more jarring experience. A wet invasion of tongue that is less pleasant and certainly doesn’t fire anything inside you the way that he had. Merely kindling a defiant resolve to rage against the dying light of your freedom. And so when he slurs into your ear, you consent to his invitation upstairs, knowing fully the implications of what will transpire—feeling vaguely detached from yourself as he pulls you along by the hand towards the staircase. 

Suddenly, your field of vision is filled with dark blue velvet, a strong arm wrapping around you, caging you into a warm body mass, disconnecting your hand from Matthew’s—crossed words in two male voices. A momentarily confusing blur that only begins to make sense when you tilt your chin up… and the breath is quite stolen from your lungs.

Benedict.

At first, it feels like a cruel mirage, the man you most desire here to stymie your last gamble at impulsivity. His hold is strong as you sense Matthew shrink away, defeated by Benedict’s threat to expose some dalliance or other. But as he whisks you to an empty room within the house, all you feel bubbling up is anger.

“Stop trying to rescue me!” you rail, reeling out of his grip and stamping your foot to emphasise your point, uncaring that you may be behaving more akin to a petulant toddler.

“Stop making foolish decisions!” he lobbies back after a fleeting wounded look.

You glare at him momentarily before turning your back and staring out of the window into the inky blackness of Granville’s garden, frustration prickling a tear in the corner of your eye.

Behind you, there is a sigh; then his voice turns softer. “Why did you not follow my advice? I came here this morning only to be informed you never arrived…”

That he came to check on you weakens your bluster, although you still have no earthy idea why, once again, he is so invested in your actions. But you are not done saying your piece. 

“What does it matter now?” you bite bitterly before spinning around to face him. “Benedict, we are in Whistledown. My father would have arranged a special licence for tomorrow regardless of whether I had come here or not…”

“He did what?” he splutters, shock almost choking the words.

You square your shoulders and cross your arms defensively. “I am to be married in the morning. 11am at St George’s.” When all he offers is floored silence, you uncharitably dig the knife in. “No thanks to you...” 

Your words are like a body blow, a world of hurt in his quiet tone as he stares at the ground. “I was only trying to help.” 

Regret floods your every cell; why you would choose to lash out at him, even you don't know—so many conflicting feelings and strong liquor coursing through you.

“Please… let me return to the party,” you sigh wearily, after a beat, gesturing to his blocking your exit from the room.

“You would regret what you were about to do until your dying day,” he attests, lifting his head, a vein on his forehead pulsing as his jaw tenses.

“Perhaps,” you shrug. “But that is my burden to endure, not yours.”

“I am your friend,” he frowns, “I will always want to alleviate your burdens…”

“I do not want a friend, Benedict, not tonight. I want a beau.” If you aimed to shock him, you are successful; a cavalcade of expressions warring on his face as you plough on. “So please move so that I may continue with my most inadvisable plan….”

“No.” It's soft but unequivocal, resolute.

When you realise he is not going to budge, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What do you want from me, Benedict?” 

There is a gruff noise in the back of his throat, and then, with two determined strides, he is pressed up against you, his breath hot on your face. Then he is kissing you, ferociously, wantonly, opening your mouth with his, his hands encircling your waist and pulling you roughly into him.

And you are lost.

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[bunny-jpeg]

Hi Bunny! Could I request a croissant with a side of mocha coffee & champagne + Fernando please? 🙏🏻

bakery menu

want to suggest your own order? look at the menu for more information! i love getting requests in! please if you can reblog and comment! this bunny feeds off praise! as for this one, thank you lovely anon! i hope you love this! enjoy!

croissant ("i wonder if your father knows what happens during the off hours. if he knows you're here with me.") + mocha coffee (breeding kink) + champagne (sugar daddy au) served by fernando alonso (formula one)!

cw: smut/pwp, daddy issues, age gap (20s/40s), daddy kink, sugar daddy au, breeding kink, pregnancy, bimbo!reader, missionary, fingering

you'd go to visit 'friends' in spain during the off season of formula one, and you'd always come home with some kind of bruise. mostly on your face or knees, your father knew how clumsy you were, and didn't really bother him too much. his poor, simply daughter got another bump and bruise.

you were just happy that fernando's cum didn't stain the front of your shorts.

madrid was beautiful even in january. it wasn't particularly warm, but it wasn't freezing like your father's home across the atlantic. but that just gave you more of a chance to be closer to your lover, fernando alonso.

the much older formula one driver that was working with your father's marketing firm on a new collaboration. it meant you saw a fair bit of fernando when you were 'helping' your father around the office. (your father thought that since you couldn't get into post-secondary that some working experience would bridge the gap!). but, you were doing less organization of paper work and more having the formula one driver fuck you over top of the photocopier. (he even got a photocopy of your pretty tiddies out of it).

the world was such a big place, and you were just a simple girl.

but, you never did have to worry. not with fernando by your side, letting the older man keep you like a perfect little pet. and that meant spending your time in spain, letting the driver just make you feel like the most perfect princess in the world.

the house that fernando lived in was beautiful and gave you plenty of room to explore. you'd be by the pool or snuggled up in front of the large flat screen television.

you were a pretty live in toy that frenando enjoyed nothing more than to fuck the living daylights out of him. currently you were in the bedroom on your back with your sugar daddy crowding your space, with his fingers buried inside of you.

he said softly, "i wonder if your father knows what happens during the off hours. if he knows you're here with me." he knew it riled you up when he mentioned your asshole of a father.

you squirmed and said, "nando! c'mon! no fair?" your back arched a little when he rubbed against the perfect spot. your pretty pains dug into the covers as he continued to finger you.

he shook his head, "no, no. you are just too cute under my thumb. your father gave you your job to keep you busy, but i think that you work harder on your knees then in the office."

you whined, "i'm a good employee."

he leaned in and kissed you on the cheek, leaving a wet mark on your skin, "sure, beautiful. you're the employee of the month." he chuckled as he slipped a third finger in, which made your core throb.

you squirmed a little more and reached for your lover. he went in for a searing kiss which made you moan loudly. you felt your heart batter in your chest as he continued to sink his digits into your pussy. the wet sounds made him hot all over.

"you're so pretty like this." he said as his cock twitched in his boxers as he continued to pleasure you. he licked his lips, "such a dumb little thing, you think you get by because you look so cute. but, just know, you're all mine."

you squeaked and nodded, "yes, daddy."

he took his fingers out of you then slapped your pussy which made you almost cum right there. he got himself out of his underwear soon after and got between your legs. his cock was impressive in size and made your skin burn as you watched him get comfortable between your plush thighs.

you looked up at him and said, "please, daddy. i need you." then kept your eyes on him as he shifted your hips up to meet his cock. he sank into your pretty pussy with relative ease, the entire process made the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

"my pretty princess." he purred, "so beautiful. so good under me, you are so painfully sweet. and stupid." he said as he placed both hands on either side of your body and started to move up against you. he felt the thump of pleasure in his head with every hard thrust.

"i'm not dumb, daddy."

he chuckled and grabbed you by the face to look at him, as he moved against you. he grinned at you, "not when i'm done with you, princess."

fernando was a rough lover, he was the kind of daddy dom who kept you on a tight leash. he had to, you had a habit of getting into trouble. maybe next time he'd get you a collar to yank on when he fucked you.

when he bred you.

that was what this all boiled down to. fernando had to make sure that his special little princess didn't stray too far. it was hard to do that when a plump little baby in your belly. maybe it'll smarten you up to be a mother. your father would be happy that his dumb little daughter married rich.

you whined as he continued to move against you.

fernando felt the sweat drip down his back as he continued to rut into you. the painfully sweet thing that he managed to trap, to keep under his thumb while he reamed your sweet cunt. he could feel his heartbeat in the back of his throat as he moved against you.

"you're so perfect.' he said.

"thank you daddy." you whimpered as you felt hot all over.

he loved it, he loved the control he had over you. the sweet little girl that he found, the place to leave his seed. let it spit into the back of your womb. it all belonged to him.

you whimpered, "please daddy." most sugar daddy's would pay to keep a baby quiet, but not fernando. he'd pay for you to raise his little baby properly. be a good mother and wife. it was a roundabout way of making sure you'd marry him.

he was a possessive old bastard like that, make sure he nabbed himself a pretty young thing he can empty his balls in and watch care for his brats. it was quite a charmed idea.

and you had no idea what was going on. only that it felt good when fernando fucked your cunt with heavy thrusts that made your mind swim.

"so precious.' he said, "and all mine."

you felt the moan get stuck in your throat as you arched your back. you clung to the soft covers of your shared bed and clenched around his dick.

"fuck, pretty girl. my princess." he groaned as he continued his heavy thrusts. your cunt felt like a dream around his cock as he buried it to this hilt, made sure that every inch was snug inside of you. he continued to move you up and down the bed as he fucked you.

with one last heavy thrust, he finished inside of you. you gasped heavily as you felt his cock throb inside of you. he gave it a few more thrusts of his hips before he stopped and relaxed. his shoulders were curved over top of you and panted heavily.

you looked up at him, still feeling a little blissed out. you said softly, "thank you, daddy."

he looked down at you and took in the sight of you. he smiled briefly at you and said, "that's a good girl. remember to take all of it."

-

your new years was in spain then became spring in spain, then summer in spain. now you were expecting a baby girl in october and you had a nice ring on your finger.

you spent most of your time around the house, mostly tending to things around it. you rubbed your lower back and soon felt the arms of your husband around your middle.

fernando came closer to kiss you on the cheek, he cupped your swollen middle and said, "how is my beautiful princess?" he melted against you, love the feeling of his child in your womb. he sighed contently as he said, "the most perfect woman." <3

[smileysuh]

ride night TEASER

🌙 starring. Lee Donghyuck x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. “You always told me you had a thing for older men. Said I wasn’t your usual type- not daddy enough for you, well, here you go, baby. Let daddy hear you moan for my cock.” You seriously can’t believe this is happening. All you can do is try to relax while Hyuck fucks you stupid in some dive bar bathroom stall, your core still throbbing and desperate after six orgasms from a vibrator while on his bike. The fingers on your oversensitive bud are unrelenting, just like your boyfriend, and at this point, you can’t even bring yourself to care that his ride night dad is listening in, only a few feet away. 

tw/cw. Exhibitionism, riding a Harley with a vibrator inside of you, multiple orgasms, fucking in a bar bathroom while someone (John) listens in, overstimulation, unprotected sex, vibrator as a ball gag, voyeurism, dirty talk, praise, choking, brief pussy eating, Hyuck has tattoos, etc… I pet names: (hers) princess.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 4.9k

🍭 aus. Established relationship au, motorcycle au, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. The I love Harleys saga continues but this time with NCT

You close your eyes, giving in to the onslaught of sensations. 

The air ripping at your tight riding jacket, gravel buffering your knees ever so often, music ringing through your helmet, the powerful vibrator in your pussy, and the even more powerful machine that Hyuck maneuvers like a God-

If you focus too hard, if you allow yourself to enjoy all of this, you might just cum, and part of you wants to resist that, so you open your eyes, looking over at John on the bike next to you.

Hyuck might be the notorious dare devil, but John’s not all that angelic either. The man is standing straight up on his foot pegs, his butt raised completely off his seat. The wind is tearing at his leather jacket, and you can’t even imagine the pressure of the air he’s cutting through, battering at his body-

Even so, he looks as free as you’ve ever seen a man look.

Your pussy pulses pathetically around the toy and you grip Hyuck’s hips, legs shaking around his own.

His hand lands on your thigh, squeezing, as if to say ‘cum for me,’ and your body can’t help itself this time. You release all the pressure, your muscles going slack for a moment of peace before contracting from the power of your orgasm.

Your core throbs desperately around the vibrator, your eyes closing to enjoy the sensation.

Hyuck takes his hand away from your thigh, revving the engine and kicking into an even higher gear. The bike purs below you, as if she - like her master - is amped up from the energy of your release.

☀️ to read the full fic AND 3.9k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

👹 or wait till the fic is posted on tumblr Friday June 14th, 2024

🔮 see what’s already available to read on my m.list

There are limited spots available on the taglist, if you want to be notified when this fic is posted, please reblog, comment, or reply- those three actions will be prioritized in taglist creation :)

[whileyoureinschoolidothisallday]

Fixing MHA's Ending So It Follows Through With Its Core Themes (And It Basically Fixes Itself)

I don't like retconning at the best of times, but turning what started as essentially a Hope focused narrative into a "realistic" tragedy at the very last second is some wild work.

So I'm gonna do what I do best as a fic writer and fix it!!!!!

The Summary

So, I'm pretty sure all of us were on mostly the same page up until the very last panels of the Shigaraki fight (Having AFO being just "born evil" was probably the start of things not being great, but I'm willing to let that slide because it doesn't really effect the overall function of the story that much). Once that and the epilogue started is where I mostly saw people being like ????????? to a lot of choices, so I'm going to focus on those two sections only.

We're gonna be rewriting:

-The deaths of the Villains + Kurogiri (obvs)

-The overall post-War actions and reactions

-The continued existence of the Commission and the Hero Rankings

-Hawk's fate

-Spinner's fate

-A liiiiitle tweak to Chisaki's fate

-Slight tweaks to the Todorokis

-and finally What to DO with the Villains + Kurogiri now that they're alive

And we'll be starting with...

Toga

Now for a battle that was so beautiful, this really did end up completely falling apart.

I'm not gonna justify every single Villain Rescue I do, but Toga's really comes down to one simple reason for me:

Her bullies literally wanted her to die as atonement.

You don't...typically make your character's fate agree with their bullies or abusers (otherwise???? why are you explicitly portraying them as bullies and abusers to the audience if you want us to ultimately agree with them?????)

Throughout most of the story prior to this, Hori made it a staple in the show that dying for the cause, hurting yourself for the cause, martyring yourself or otherwise telling someone to kill themselves for the cause is a vile thing to do. So, it makes ZERO sense why he would suddenly retcon this at such a critical moment, especially since he already set the stage for it to be wrong in the first place.

(also does anyone also think it was weird/creepy that Hori LITERALLY has her do this with Twice and she very explicitly says "Don't be stupid I don't have to give all of my blood away"? No? Just me?)

Everything happens the same, she still thinks she's sacrificing herself, "If only, if only", blah blah blah

AND THEN...

Hawks

This is such low-hanging fruit plot-wise it actually feels offensive that it went nowhere

Nothing happens with Hawks. We all say it, fans and non-fans alike. He is wasted potential incarnate. His story is a circle and it so easily did not have to be that way because of one simple writing decision:

Hawks and Toga share a blood type.

Up until now, it really did seem like Hawks learned nothing from Jin's death. The first thing he says when he sees the clones is, "We have to kill them now!" But then, picture him still battered and broken from his fight with AFO, wingless, but there is still SOMETHING he can do to save someone's life.

And he puts the needle in his arm instead, and before she can question it, he tells her Jin would want her to live. He's not gonna make the same mistake twice.

(I also think it'd be nice if he said something like how lucky she is, to really go full circle with the Jin story, but I'm not trying dialogue here lol)

And that leads us to...

Shigaraki (and Kurogiri!)

This is a double feature because with the way I'm doing it, I can't save one without the other.

So, something that happens during this and is super anti-climactic and seemingly pointless is Midoriya losing his hands. He gets em back in like 2 seconds, because Eri gives him a surprise rewind almost immediately after. The actual point of it was just to show the brand new rule that physical damage that happens in the vestige world also happens in the real world, so that killing Shigaraki a few chapters later would still make sense.

We're gonna get rid of that rule entirely and just say that Midoriya does not lose his actual arms in the fight, and psychological damage in a ghost world does not reflect physically in reality (or idk. If you DO want that to happen, then just say the embers of the vestiges protected him one last time or something).

And because he doesn't lose his arms, Eri still has a surprise rewind to use.

But before we get to that, we actually have to save Shigaraki. So, here's the super complicated rescue rewrite I came up with. Ready?

Kicking AFO out of his brain and giving him back full control over his body simply does not kill him.

That's it!!!! That's really all that needed to happen!! It was a very conscious choice to make that kill him! It's actually more work and details to kill Shigaraki than it is to save him!! Hori already went out of his way to say that Nana's vestige protected him so that he wasn't completely swallowed by AFO, just so he could say goodbye before fading away anyway. What if, considering the fact that hatred of Nana is what damned him, love FROM Nana actually just plain ol saves him? Full stop? We come full circle. It would make it a fantastic mirror to the Todoroki fight and solidify the theme that love from your/a family, even a broken one, will save you!!

And then further in the background, Bakugou doesn't randomly kill (?????? Even after reading it again I'm still really confused about how Kurogiri dies. I think this is what happens?????) Kurogiri, and instead starts to lose control like they feared. But then, refusing to give up on him, Aizawa hits him with the now-available Rewind Juice and it finally, finally stabilizes his mind for good.

The day is saved.

And that just leaves...

Touya

Unfortunately my stupid husband can't stop trying to kill himself for 2 seconds despite my best efforts to convince him otherwise, so there's really nothing I can do about the extent of his injuries

However, there's LOTS I can do about the way we're treating said injuries! =D

First of all, because Touya is my favorite, I do wanna allow myself the space to briefly rant about how his entire situation was handled because brother. first of all. It's so incredibly obvious that he was supposed to die on the battlefield with his comrades. That man had no fuckin eyeballs by the end of that fight, bffr. And then it was like Hori remembered the thing about the noodles and was like 'oh shit I better at least wrap that up lol' so he brought him back--eyeballs and TEARDUCTS magically intact btw so naturally the audience with reading comprehension was like 'oh he's healing somehow I guess'--just to get that specific moment on the books (and maybe just to draw Touya in his Batman Who Laughs era because I mean he does look pretty sick in the tank) and then turned around and killed him again. With no explanation what the random functioning tearducts and magical regrowth of eyeballs was about.

Like...my guy, you ain't gotta do all that. Again, it's so much harder and more complicated to kill him than it is to keep him alive. Not to mention he was killed OFF-SCREEN. WE DON'T EVEN GET TO SEE ANY--IF ANY--CONVERSATIONS HE HAS WITH SHOUTO OR HIS FAMILY, WHICH WAS THE WHOLE POINT OF NOT KILLING HIM ON THE BATTLEFIELD. INSTEAD OF THE SEXY SHIRTLESS SERVING-FACE-AT-A-FUNERAL IMAGE OF TOUYA WE COULD'VE SEEN A FLASHBACK OF THEM TALKING AND HIM SMILING AND BEING HAPPY WITH THEM FOR WHATEVER TIME THEY HAD AND THAT STILL WOULD'VE BEEN MORE SATISFYING. Y'KNOW. BECAUSE THAT WAS THE WHOLE FUCKING POINT OF THE TODOROKI PLOTLINE?????????????VSSSBBNM,.;;PUSAAXXGHIIRWDFGG

But anyway.

Fixing Touya's death is really simple. We can do two things, actually.

Work with the deus-ex Ice Quirk a little bit, make the Phoenix Theory canon. Ice heals him, the tank is a giant fridge. Lo and behold, it would explain why he magically healed eyeballs and tearducts. It's an incredibly slow process, but eventually he'd heal enough to be out of the tank and in a normal hospital setting for the rest of his recovery. It also gives him a goal to pursue for the future, I.E learning how to control the new side of his powers and mayybeeee getting interested in studying Quirk Biology in the process 👀

He simply!!!!!! Doesn't die!!!!!!!!! Out of ALLLLLLL the MHA characters, I would 100% believe you if you told me that Touya Todoroki nevertheless persisted. That's like...his entire character. You don't even need to give me a reason. His entire character up until now has been 'the one that's somehow still alive' to the point that the fucking Dr. Eggman lookin ass mad scientist that brought him back to life in the first place (in WORSE condition) was like 'yeah no idea how he's still here that's scary'. I'm sorry, the entire fucking show I've had to see A. An old man without a face with a back alley ventilator system shoved directly into his stoma that's somehow fine and talking perfectly, and B. Another old man missing his ENTIRE digestive tract for years and is still up and walking around somehow with no G-tube or colostomy bag to be seen, so I think by the power of God and Anime, Touya could probably survive his injuries and it would be within the realm of believability for the show. In fact, it's LESS believable that he stayed alive through all that by spite alone and then when he finally gets offered love and acceptance, that determination and tenacity to stay alive suddenly goes out the window. If anything, it should've made him MORE determined to live.

Sorry I got carried away with that one. But there. Everyone is saved and the core themes are intact.

Now we just have...

The Overall Actions and Reactions Post-War

Gonna sum this up really quickly:

-The cameras never turned off. They're built for Quirk resistance because they're a fucking newscast in a Hero society if their technology broke every time there were heavy Quirk exchanges there would never be any fucking news. Making them conveniently lose footage so none of the civs can see the Villains humanity is just rubbing salt in the wound and serves no narrative purpose in line with pre-established themes. Everyone saw what was recorded, and it helped the Villains' cases for rehabilitation.

-We do not censor out this battle in future history books. Everyone is very familiar with the final fight and the events and circumstances leading up to it. It is not erased from public memory as soon as possible. In fact, it's frequently studied and referenced when making new policies to avoid making the same mistakes. Hori. Wtf.

-We do not reinstate the Hero Rankings in any way shape or form, and Shouto is the biggest voice in dismantling this system. Voila, this is now actually the story of how they all became the greatest Heroes, because they aren't ranked. They're all literally the greatest Heroes, and so will everyone after them.

-This IS actually portrayed in the epilogue, but yes, let's be LESS reliant on Heroes and police and MORE invested in the community!!!!!!! Even more so than what's portrayed!!!!! Take another bit from Spider-Man: Anyone can wear the mask!!!!!! Let's make a world where Heroes have too much time on their hands and not just make more of them, right????????? Remember that????????

-WE DO NOT REINSTATE THE COMMISSION. WE GOT RID OF THEM CORRUPT HOES FOR A REASON!!!!!! NO A CHANGE OF THE GUARD IS NOT ENOUGH TO FIX IT WE'RE NOT 7YRS OLD!!!!! HORI. WTF. The only thing I want them to be in charge of is licensing Heroes. I want these fuckers to be the DMV of the Hero world and that's IT!!!!!!!

Which brings us to...

Hawks' Fate

I don't even fuck with this man like that, but he did not deserve to become CEO of the organization that groomed and abused him since he was a child when all he wanted to do was chase tail and fuck off to a beach somewhere. Considering the fact that he also, like, killed people he shouldn't have, let him retire like Endeavor, please. We're done giving the old guard power and privilege, especially when they explicitly did not and do not want it (and when they did have it, they misused it). The only thing I want this man involved with is Toga's recovery alongside Uraraka. Specifically, I want him paying for it and anything else she might need. Fuck it, you know what, make HIM Endeavor's personal aide instead of Rei!!!! He gets to be a little simp and Endeavor gets a replacement son to fill Natsu's spot. Everyone wins.

(He does deserve that hairline tho. I ain't fixin that.)

So that leaves...

Spinner's Fate

I'm not changing much here, besides the fact that now Shiggy is alive and I think they should be ✨Roommates✨ eventually (and obviously he's gonna be much less riddled with survivor's guilt). I still think he should write that book, but I also think that with his multiple Quirks, he should team up with scientists to understand how Quirks work in the body (and maybe get some of them removed from his).

And next...

Chisaki's Fate

I just think this guy needs to be in the same place as the other Villains, at least for a fraction of the time. Why is he just...out. He was also in that daycare and could definitely use some help before we just let him loose in the streets because he said sorry (Can the League just say sorry then??????????).

I do think afterwards he should get involved with something chemistry related tho, cause those bullets of his came in clutch.

And on that note...

The Todorokis' Fates

And by Todorokis I mean two of them, specifically Rei lol

Yeah, she's not gonna be Endeavor's nurse for the rest of her life lol. That man has more money than God, he can hire an aide like everybody else. In fact, they're not even living together. Do you remember how earlier in the series, he gave them a new house? So they could live away from him and he would be in the old house by himself? I liked that plan. Let's go back to that plan. I'm not gonna go as far as to make them divorce, if they're together they're together, but I think separation is a necessary must at this point because if they MUST stay together, they should at least try dating for once???????? Girl was actually bought like maybe they figure out if they even still like each other at all, or ever did.

(Also, I have to laugh as a motorized wheelchair user that Hori drew her pushing Endeavor all happy and blissfully. Motorized wheelchairs are not meant to be pushed like that lol. They have push features for emergencies and small around-the-house distances of course, but uh, mine's 350 pounds without me in it. It's not usually anyone's first choice.)

But there is one more Todoroki I have a lot to talk about, so that finally brings us to...

What Do We Do With The Villains + Kurogiri Now That They're Alive???????????

We take everything from comic books except what would actually makes sense with the story lol

Surprise!!!!!! We're doing Arkham!!!!!! This is another low-hanging fruit thing that I'm almost a little offended that it wasn't implemented. Obviously Arkham has its problems in the Batman canon that we're gonna try to avoid, but I honestly think Batman villains and the core MHA Villains are pretty similar in their execution in that they are primarily mentally ill victims of society who have done very terrible things, but the audience (and Batman himself) is actively rooting for them to get better over just rotting in jail or being killed. Two-Faced has killed sooooo many people and has relapsed a ton, but I ultimately still want to see him get better because he was Batman's best friend once and a good man, and what happened to him was a tragedy. I think all the Villains deserve a space where they can humanely heal from their issues and gain support, while also being safely separated from society while they're still dangerous to themselves and others.

Oh, but Batman and his endless money bought Arkham. Who do we know who has access to trust fund money, an investment in the mentally ill, and the bonus of a medical background that could fund such a thing?

Ladies and Gentlemen, please put your hands together for...

Natsuo Todoroki!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My mans graduates from college and immediately uses his money as a doctor and his inheritance to open up Rindou Sanctuary, in honor of his mother Rei and named after her favorite flower (I don't think he'd want to give Enji the satisfaction of his last name attached to his greatest achievement). He's head doctor on site and the board, and visits Touya every shift once he's healed enough to be transferred to the facility. He is very invested in his brother's treatment and refuses to lose him again--at least not until they're proper old men.

It is publicly funded by donors and taxes alike, and Enji, naturally, is always the highest donor. Call it reparations.

And there you have it! That's how to fix the epilogue. It took longer to type than think about. I could care less about canon shipping, so y'all can keep that (or not). I'm just here to fix the structural problems that have no reason to be here at this point. As I said, once I redrew lines Hori already set up and just abandoned, it pretty much fixed itself.

Hope you enjoyed it and I hope it eases the grief a little!!!!! They're alive look I fixed it!!!!!! <3

(also feel free to use anything I said in here in your own fix-it fics!!!! Just tag me so I can read them 👀)

[lore-grandma]

Oh boy time for a recipe that’ll probably be thrown into the forgotten depths

Chocolate lemon cupcakes

Chocolate cupcakes

* 1 cup (130g) all-purpose flour

* 1 cup (207g) sugar

* 6 tbsp (43g) unsweetened cocoa powder

* 1 tsp baking soda

* 1/2 tsp salt

* 1 large egg

* 1/2 cup (120ml) buttermilk

* 1/2 cup (120ml) vegetable oil (I used a majority of olive oil and used about 1/4 cup vegetable oil, I didn’t specify any better because fuck you and I don’t wanna)

* 1 tsp vanilla extract

* 1cup (120ml) hot coffee

Lemon Curd:

* 4 large eggs

* 1 cup granulated sugar

* 1/2 cup lemon juice fresh squeezed, from one large lemon

* 1 Tbsp lemon zest from one large lemon

* 6 Tbsp unsalted butter cubed

Frosting

* 1 cup (240 ml) heavy cream, cold

* 2 tablespoons (16 g) powdered sugar

* 1 teaspoon (3 g) cornstarch

* 1 teaspoon (2.5 ml) vanilla extract

For the cupcakes

1. Preheat oven to 300°F (148°C) and prepare a cupcake pan with liners.


2. Add the flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt to a large mixing bowl and combine. Set aside.

3. Add the egg, milk, vegetable oil and vanilla extract to another medium sized bowl and whisk together to combine.

4. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients and mix until well combined.

5. Add the water to the batter and mix until well combined. The batter will be very thin.

6. Fill the cupcake liners about half way and bake for 18-23 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out with a few moist crumbs. (I have a shitty oven so I added ten more minutes to the bake time after I checked if it was fully cooked, just start off with 5 minute increments, if you want to be more cautious) 


7. Remove the cupcakes from oven and allow to cool for 2 minutes, then remove to a cooling rack to finish cooling.

Lemon Curd:

* Place eggs and sugar into a small pot, whisk to combine. Add lemon juice, zest, and butter. Cook over medium-low heat whisking constantly until mixture thickens and coats the back of a spoon.


* Transfer to a glass bowl and lay plastic wrap directly on the surface to prevent a skin from forming. Chill for 1 hours to almost set. 


Frosting

1. Chill the Bowl and Whisk: Begin by chilling your mixing bowl and whisk (or whisk attachment) in the freezer for at least 15 minutes. This helps the cream whip up faster and increases volume.

2. Combine Dry Ingredients: Mix powdered sugar and cornstarch in a small bowl. This ensures even distribution of the cornstarch in the whipped cream.

3. Whip the Cream: Pour the cold heavy cream into the chilled bowl. Using an electric mixer, start whipping the cream at a low speed, gradually increasing to medium-high as it thickens.

4. Add Sugar and Cornstarch: Once the cream starts forming soft peaks, gradually add the sugar and cornstarch mixture, continuing to whip.

5. Add Vanilla Extract: As the mixture thickens to stiff peaks, add the vanilla extract and continue to whip until well incorporated and the cream holds stiff peaks. (Probably make the frosting after the cupcakes have fully set)

Assembly

1. Remove the core of the cupcakes with a knife or a cupcake corer, you need a hole

2. Put almost solid curd in the center of the cupcakes, preferably with a piping tip.

3. Let curd set fully in the cupcakes for 1 hour more

4. Pipe on frosting, and serve

**note that this is posted on the same day is was baked, I can’t say how well the whipped cream frosting will hold up.

**a large cookie scoop helps with filling the cupcake liners. I used 2 scoops of the largest one I had

**normally you’re supposed to fluff your flour, but I was worried it would be too liquidy so I just scooped the flour from the container, like a heathen.

** I know I should half the recipe for the lemon curd, because there was a little left and it was overflowing out of the cupcakes a little, but it could be the fact the cupcake holes weren’t big enough. It wasn’t that much plus, you could mix the cake that’s left over from the removal of the middles with it, so idk.

I suppose I should put a useless story like all other blogs.

It was my possible step brother’s birthday and there was a mix up with the 2 cakes. Instead of chocolate raspberry and vanilla lemon cake, the bakery mixed up the flavors and reversed it. And me being weird I kinda liked it. So here’s a recipe that basically makes that cake. Why are these so long? Like that story was simple and easy. You could easily just say “my mom made this a lot when I was a kid.” Like I’m pretty good at writing a whole essay about something that doesn’t matter, evidence and an explanation, everything you could need. Would anyone even read this? It’s a recipe on tumblr, if I posted this on Pinterest maybe but even then most people I know don’t like citrus and chocolate. I offered some cupcakes to my grandma but I actively left out that the custard is lemon flavored, because I knew she’d make a virtual face at it. I want to show my creations but I can’t do that when no one is willing to try it. My mom was easy to convince because sugar. This is long because that’s the whole joke, for this whole piece about a simple story to be far too long when people just want the recipe. Would this bit even work? It’s all at the end, not at the beginning like every other blog does but I understand how frustrating that shit is. And like since I’m dragging it out it’ll only be more of a nuisance to the people wanting to see the recipe. Should I just half the lemon curd recipe? Do people even read the notes about the recipe? I sure don’t also. I also should’ve put proportions sizes but I don’t wanna put effort in remembering or counting. 8+6+1…. Uhhhh 15 cupcakes that I made. How likely is it that government secrets are put in these long bullshit paragraphs? I hope I get some criticism on this recipe there was a fair amount of research and rewriting. I forgot the name for cupcake liners btw, I had to ask my mom what they were called so that was a little awkward because I was making some more notes on the recipe while doing so. I wonder how I’m going to transport those cupcakes, I mean my grandma’s house isn’t that far of a walk but also it’s kinda hot and I don’t have any boxes also it’s night. Is this paragraph long enough that the joke gets hammered in? I don’t think it’s long enough but I could be wrong, I suppose I should write some more nonsense to add to the word count. Anbdndjdjelskxnjskwjsjzjksnsbsjkwksbhsjsksnsbsjkwndnzjsknwnsjsksks. Space. Ajkdndjoelndkkpl high ndkskskskndjjdksksnnsjsk. I got my cats some new toys recently, they’re touch activated and they make noises and move around. Of course I think they primarily like them because of the cat nip. I think I’m going to stop writing this, I’m getting bored and I don’t have much to say rn.………………………………………………………………………………………… I hope I don’t explode after this…………………………………….. my phone is spacing out this out weirdly, idk what that’s about…………………………………………………………………..do you think aliens are real?………………………………………are ghosts real?……………………………………………………………………. How do food bloggers end these anyways? I’ve never read the paragraphs but they have to at some point, right? ……………………………………………………………………..I think half the reason why food bloggers have such long paragraphs is because we’re encouraged to make a whole essay whenever we’re writing something. I know I am…………………………I’m probably wrong……………………. It probably forces more ads onto the screen at once………………….aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…………… I know it doesn’t matter but I wonder how the tumblr algorithm works, like do they prefer to show longer or shorter posts? Of course it could be our decreasing attention spans. I like spam, it’s not that bad, of course I’m probably a couple of sprinkles of salt away from death……………..I’m tired……………………… I think it’s time to stop typing, I think my space button is starting to die.

[radiance1]

Linked to this post about Billy, Danny, and Vlad meeting in a dream. Tagging @puppetmaster13u because I think they'd like this!

The world was being invaded, taking the chance that some of the core members of the Justice League were away off-world to take the world when it was down on its defenses.

Billy is fighting and saving as many people as he could along with the rest of the heroes presents, they just had to hold out for reinforcements, which is the last few members of the League off world to rejoin their ranks. Billy may have the magic of gods on his side, but he is severely outnumbered and, being one of the powerhouses, has been targeted consistently over and over and barely given any time to actually rest.

So, there he is, battered, bruised, and overall exhausted but still putting up a decent fight. He tries to lead them away from basically everyone else, attacking as he flew away to a secluded enough area but there's just too many to actually do any notable damage.

So, he pulls out one, final, Shazam.

It works. But it also doesn't.

Whatever damage that lightning did, more just flowed in to replace them and Billy knew that even if he fired off another one, the result would be the same.

This is where he will die.

And he accepted that.

He didn't, but what else was he supposed to do?

So, he screwed his eyes shut and hoped that being ripped apart wouldn't be too painful.

Only, nothing happened for a moment. Then another. And another. Until he finally opened his eyes to see the enemies stopped still in their tracks and, for some reason, everything seemed darker somehow.

They looked up in fear and apprehension, so Billy looked up too.

Something had risen from his shadow.

A being of never-ending black that towered over them, its head tilted at an angle that made Billy cringe with eyes that seemed to see through and at them all at once. Then, it lit up with red, and Billy, the closest to it, could suddenly see the stars upon stars inside of its body.

Like a Christmas tree. Billy thought, chuckling at his own joke. If he was going to die anyways, might as well have a bit of fun, right?

One of the invaders tried to make a dash and grab for him.

Then, the overwhelming sound of silence deafened him. Billy didn't even know that was a thing that could happen but as soon it screamed? Roared? Whatever it did, every other sound just... ceased to exist.

A tendril of darkness wrapped around him, and Billy accepted his fate.

Nothing happened.

Instead, the ones who tried to kill him were killed without mercy. Tendrils of darker yet darker lit up with red and containing stars that looked so much like too many eyes crushed, slashed, stabbed, consumed the waves upon waves of enemies that Billy struggled against from pure number alone.

It was swift, it was deadly, it was even brutally efficient but above all.

It was confusing.

This... being. Whatever it was, wasn't doing anything to him, the red glow it gave off just faded, leaving back the true darkness that was its body and shutting off the stars. It slowly, ever so slowly, shrunk itself down from its towering height, as if wary of another attack coming from somewhere.

Not for itself, but for him.

For Billy.

He didn't know how he could tell that, but somehow, he just did?

It was looking at him, curiously? He thinks? And with the adrenaline fading from his system, being replaced by confusion, it finally sets in just how tired he was. With a yawn forcing itself from his lips and his eyes trying to close on their own when his body apparently decided it was safe enough to just rest.

Before his mind jumpstarted itself as he suddenly remembered that they were in the middle of an invasion, and he need to leave. He tried too, at the very least, but another tendril, and another one, wrapped around him as soon as he tried.

He struggled to get himself out, but nothing he tried worked. He barely had the strength for another Shazam, but he was prepared to try-

A tendril wrapped itself around his mouth.

Well.

That was unfortunate.

Then, the world turned dark.

---

He was dreaming, again. Or at least he thinks he was. Usually, he wasn't aware of it most of the time, but this was also one of those weird dreams he's been having for a while.

There was no ground, there was no sky. There was only the vibrant colors of space with the 'ground' being rolling clouds of all sorts of colors that twinkled with stars and the 'sky' was just an endless expanse filled with constellations.

"Billy." A voice echoed his name, and Billy turned around to face a familiar sight he's always seen inside of his dreams. A large, large merman with scales and flowing hair akin to that of a galaxy that glimmered with stars and a large golden mask floating above his head stared down at him. Eyes filled with both concern and a overwhelming relief. "I'm so glad you're safe."

"Um, hey Danny!" Billy greeted, awkwardly waving at the large celestial being that has been occupying his dreams as of late. For some reason, he was a bit embarrassed? He really hopes he didn't see how he was getting jumped actually. "Yea I'm-I'm fine!" He struck a familiar pose that he always did as Shazam and flashed his signature smile as while.

Danny was, unfortunately, not amused.

"Child, you need to rest." Danny said, more like thought because his mouth wasn't moving at all. "You're exhausted, stay here and rest."

"But they need help!" Billy countered, dropping his pose to cross his arms and, well, scowl. He tried to imitate one of Batman's glares, when the celestial above him looked unimpressed he could tell he most likely failed.

"And help they shall receive." Danny inclined his head in a direction, clouds parting to reveal an inky blackness that had something instinctual in Billy's body shy away from it. He glanced down at his feet warily. He didn't even know that was there! "Vlad." Danny called out, and red eyes peered out from the void, before the familiar, towering body of complete and utter darkness rose from the pool of, well, emptiness. It looked at Danny curiously and, yep, Billy was still cringing from the way it angled its neck.

"A piece of him there," Danny said as Vlad shifted around him, wrapping its body around Danny's before resting its head on his shoulder and looking down at Billy too. "Unfortunately, I cannot help you, it is too far for me to make it there myself. But Vlad was able to send a piece of himself to help you and I believe that is more than enough to turn the tides in your favor."

Billy shrunk into himself as Danny's gaze turned into a stern glare, not too dissimilar to the way he's seen parents scolding their children and, what made it even worse, Vlad looked at him and mimicked him! How was he supposed to defend himself against that!?

"So rest." Danny's voice was stern, and he thinks Vlad chimed in as well, if these random feelings basically telling him the same thing were anything to go by. Billy still didn't know how he could tell that. Billy could fight against this; he could say no and try to wake himself up to back out there and help people, but looking at the stern, parental glares he's on the opposite end of he just huffed. "Fine."

---

When Billy woke up, everything seemed okay, thankfully. The sky wasn't filled with fleets anymore, so that was a plus. He was in the aftermath of a battle, corpses strewn about along with rubble and pieces of shattered armor.

Billy blinked.

'Vlad' was wrapped around him, in a protective sort of way he thinks, and Billy let the thought 'Okay, this is actually pretty comfortable' run across his mind. He was still pretty tired, actually, and-

Oh hey, he actually still had his communicator? He thought that fell off or was destroyed the lightning.

Billy turned it. He cringed a bit at the way it flashed with static, before letting out a small sigh of relief when it cleared up. He looked over the messages from -apparently the last few hours (and wasn't that crazy?)- the time he was asleep and slumped against Vlad's form seeing that, yes, nothing bad happened and everyone else was safe.

I'm alive! Was the first message he sent before he yawned and rubbed at his eyes. Instantly, messages exploded and caused a series of dings on his communicator, all of which were asking where he was, if he was okay, and if he knew what that creature that suddenly joined their battle was.

A friend! Was what he typed, muting his communicator while shutting it off. Did that answer anything? Nope! Did Billy feel like clearing that up right now? Also no!

That is a future Billy's problem! Present Billy is going to go back to sleep!

[jollyhunter]

"Love me the way you need me" - Part 2.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE BadWolf!Dean x SweetVixen!Reader 🍓🥃 -> MASTERLIST [Special Forces AU, SquadLeader!Dean]

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS SMUT (light) 18+ MDNI, established relationship, age gap, fluff, teasing, dom!Dean, needy!Dean, slight somno, sleepy!reader, Dean being desperate for reassurance, slow build up!, petting, (almost) fingering, praising, pet names, arguing, angst, cliffhanger for part three smut (hehe). POV's all over the place. lmk if I forgot something!

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Dean returned home pretty rattled from the last hunt. But it's nothing some good morning sex couldn’t fix, right?

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 5k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTE Might edit later?? My partner's holding me at gun point, "just post it" - okay sir 😭

Previous: Part 1. <- -> Next: Part 3.

Stubbles prickle the shell of your ear. Scratch your sensitive skin to make your cheeks twitch. Your eyelashes flutter, but the heavy sleep holds them down.

You must’ve fallen asleep again.

For just a split second, you allow the living room to come into view. The warm, golden light of the room filters through your eyelashes before you quickly dip back into the comforting darkness of sleep.

Early morning still, you figured.

But something claws at the inside of your chest. Wiggles its way down to your subconscious. Invading your peaceful slumber.

Then realization hits you; Dean.

In an instant, the drumming of your pulse hammers in your ears and your breath catches in your throat.

Memories of Dean, battered and beaten, resurface, the images pulsing and fading across the darkness of your inner eye. It has your stomach contract with knots and the heat shoot under your skin as the void surrounding you slowly morphs into a nightmare and —

Soft breaths interrupt your spiralling thoughts, right next to your ear.

Your heartbeat slows again;

He’s here.

Against your back, the drumming of his heart mixes with yours.

And he's okay. You remind yourself, and allow the tension to fade away as his warmth seeps through your thin fabrics like a calming blanket.

A deep exhale leaves your body. The familiar smell of leather, as well as Dean’s faint musk and the subtle remnants of his last salt-and-burn fill your senses. Reassuring you of his presence.

Below you, the leather of the couch creaks softly. You stir slowly from kisses trailing a way up to your left cheek, each movement accompanied by the familiar whisper of the chain clinking around his dog tags. Another sign that he’s returned safely from the mission.

Dean’s chest is still pressed against your back, his strong arms enveloping you from behind, pulling you flush against him. Shifting in his protective embrace, your body nudges further into him as it searches more of his body heat. As if to calm your mind, to reassure yourself that he’s still here, he’s not going anywhere.

Another deep breath leaves your lungs and you relax into his firm chest.

His left hand responds by sliding down your front, lightly massaging your thighs through the fabrics of your pyjama. A shiver runs through your body, making your dozy mind buzz in excitement. Still halfway asleep, you instinctively tip your head to the side, gaining him better access.

Dean takes the cue.

Leaning over you, he places a few tender kisses to the crook of your neck. Here one, there one. Slow. Teasing. Mapping the slope of your neck. Ghosting your skin before his chapped lips wet and he steals another patch of your body by claiming it as his. Just like a wolf marking its territory.

You feel him hum, the sound tickling your ear.

He sounds content.

A tired smile creeps onto your lips.

„Mornin’, sunshine…“ Dean’s voice is deep and thick with that early morning huskiness.

The raspy tone vibrates through your body, tingles your core and has your head roll back into his shoulder in submission.

Even with your eyes closed, your sleep-addled mind can perfectly picture the way he looks down at you right now.

How the corner of his lips tug at the rough stubbles covering his jaws, playing at his lazy smile. How his hair’s dishevelled from burying his head in the crook of your neck. How his hooded eyes keep changing colour in the soft light. Like golden speckles dancing across emerald glades.

You keep slipping in and out of consciousness. Sleep just seems as alluring right now as feeling Dean’s touch.

“...You good?” you hear his low voice somewhere next to your ear, his weight pressing into you.

You manage a slurred “Hmm” in response, lips melted into a content smile as sleep clings to you and coaxes you back to dreamland.

“...Just relax for me…” he says soothingly, his breath brush your ear shell. Prickling and soothing at the same time.

And you do relax. Knowing that he's here, with you. Feeling his content smile rest next to yours. It has every part of you melt into his touch while you mentally pull the blanket back over your head.

With a soft sigh, you give in to the weight pulling you down and you sink back into your light slumber.

“...That’s my girl…”

Meanwhile more kisses make their way across the side of your face.

Slow, sloppily, as he drags his lips along your jaw. Open-mouthed and wet once he reaches the corner of your curved lips, where the tip of his tongue maps the silent content which still embellishes your face.

Your lips part with a soft moan.

In response, Dean groans against you. The sound hoarse and the smell like whiskey when it enters your mouth.

His fingers leave your thigh to slip under your pyjama’s hem, forcing the top to make room for his large, warm palms. He pushes further up, his fingertips tracing the curves just below the swell of your bosom. You shiver and subtly arch your back into his touch until he finally cups your breasts.

A moan shakes through your chest when he starts to knead your tits, perked nipples pinched between his fingers.

The noises that slip past your lips has Dean’s low growl rumble next to your ear.

He twists your pokies between his thumb and trigger finger – until you gasp. Then feel him nip at your earlobe, cheekily, while his groping picks up in intensity.

Oh okay, someone's clearly in the mood.

As if to proof you right, Dean starts to grind his hard erection against your back while he drags a lazy trail with his tongue all the way up to the underside of your jaw. Silently telling you ‘I licked it, so it’s mine.’

You shudder.

„De…“ his name tumbles out, with your tongue still heavy with sleep.

„Mmmh-hm,“ he hums.

The kisses grow in intensity, his breath picking up in excitement.

You feel his teeth graze your skin as his mouth works his way along the crook of your neck again. Wet, sharp, the breath of his mouth hot. Whatever part he can reach, he makes sure to coat your skin in slick, to mark his path. Tasting you like it's his first meal in weeks. Which, sexually speaking, is the case.

With every exhale through his nose, the cold puffs of air elicit a trail of goosebumps along your damp skin.

You shiver and squirm. Eyes shut, still caught somewhere in a state of light slumber.

Dean’s grip tightens. Rakes his teeth across the soft flesh at your pulse point – like a playful warning – but the familiar pinch of his bite remains absent.

You still. Breath heavier, shaky. The heat’s pooling between your legs, unconsciously rubbing them together to find some form of friction.

“Ah-ah-ah… let me do the work…” he chides. One of Dean’s knees slips over your side to trap your restless legs under the weight of his strong calf.

“De… please…” you push the words out, thick with need and heavy from drowsiness.

“I know, baby… I know…” he murmurs, and places a tender kiss to the corner of your lips.

Before he gets to tease you any longer, you angle your shoulders and turn your head to the side to capture his lips, needing more of him.

The first real kiss since he’d came stumbling home. The first in two long weeks.

Dean doesn’t protest. Instead he moans against your mouth, the sound close to a strangled, hoarse whimper, like he’s secretly been waiting for you to do this ever since he returned.

His tongue pushes past your lips, demanding and hungry as it dances with yours, drawing a row of wanton noises from you.

You taste the hint of aged whiskey still clinging to his tongue. Iron briefly mixes into it when your teeth graze his split lip. His nose presses into your cheek. Teeth chasing your lips to pull you back into a passionate kiss. His facial hair scrapes your soft skin - has your lips buzzing when they brush across stubbles to tug at them teasingly.

His sounds, his taste, his plump lips on yours, the familiar beardburn - it all has you gasp for air. Like a firework’s burning inside you, threatening to unleash a whole wildfire.

You revel in the way your other senses seem to be sharpened with your vision still wrapped up in darkness. The heavy, but comfortable weight of sleep mixes with your arousal. It’s intoxicating. It’s exciting. It turns every touch of Dean’s into your only connection to the outerworld. Your only source of pleasure.

Whenever Dean wakes you with his kisses and hands exploring your body, it makes something inside you want to stay in this vulnerable position. It has you give in, ready to hand over complete control. To entirely submit to him. To let him do with you whatever he pleases, while you hang in the sheets and just let him claim you all over, again and again.

That man, he could truly make you want to be at his mercy with just a single touch of his fingers.

And worst? He knows. Oh he knows. And he loves to take advantage of it.

One of his hands abandons your breasts to slip out of your top, sliding back up your body to your throat. At the same time you lift your arm over your head to blindly thread your fingers into his hair, tugging him down.

“C’mere…” he groans against your lips and grabs your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face for a better angle. The kiss turns fervent, both of you fighting the urge to catch your breath.

When he finally pulls back, just enough for you both to suck in the hot air that has gathered between you, your eyes flutter open and your gaze locks for the first time.

The air catches in your throat. First thing you see through your eyelashes; Intense emerald orbs hold onto your hooded eyes.

It’s raw. It’s intimate. It’s calming as much as it’s hot and sending sparks flying.

Your chest’s heaving, just like you can feel his press into your back heavily. Dean’s breath blows against your face. The hot puffs of air are flooding your senses. The distinct smell of his cologne, a taste of his last liquor, a tinge of motor oil and gunpowder- mixed with that musky smell of raw Dean – it fills your lungs, clouds your still sleep-addled mind. And it makes you weak – has your head reeling.

“There you are, gorgeous,” he murmurs huskily, his split lips still hovering above yours.

You giggle softly, your lips brushing his by doing so. “Hi there, handsome.”

The air between you feels charged. Hot with lust and yearning.

But there’s also a flicker of something else in his eyes. It passes by so quickly that you can’t be sure whether it was of any importance or you’re just overthinking again.

Yet you feel like the air shifted for a beat. There was a flash of – what was it? Uncertainty? You couldn’t tell – and before you get to comment on it, Dean suddenly moves.

His hand grips your hip like a handle, using it to roll you over onto your back while he slips between your legs to hover over you. A surprised gasp gets knocked out of your lungs when your shoulder blades hit the leather and the ceiling comes into view.

Dean crawls over you like a predator, lowering himself until his forehead rests against yours, propped up on his forearms on each side of you, chest hovering over you and his dog-tag’s jingling at his neck as they find purchase in the valley of your covered breasts.

“Look at you… You’re so perfect for me… you know that?” his voice comes out deep and low. Intense eyes search yours, his breath hot when it mingles with your own as his nose brushes yours.

The response forms on your lips but he dips down to catch them before the words make it out.

He swallows your sounds before he pulls at your lower lip with a low groan, close to a growl. Eyes darkened with hunger.

You lift your hands to card your fingers through his hair. The nails scrape his scalp, earning yourself a strangled whimper. Your lip slips from his teeth and his head drops to your shoulder as he succumbs to your touch like a tamed wolf.

Leaning in, you push the fabric of his white shirt aside, just enough for you to place a row of tender kisses there.

His tense muscles twitch from every contact.

The reaction has your eyebrows furrow.

“You’re so strung up, honey…” you coo, searching his green eyes for a hint of an admission. It’s clear as daylight that the last hunt must’ve rattled him more than he’s willing to admit. And sure enough, his gaze averts yours, as if the fuzzy rug under the coffee table’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room.

You sigh, your focus back on his shoulder. “Lemme ease you up…” You let a hand slip from his hair and down to the crook of his neck, your fingers rubbing into the taut string of muscle there.

“’M fine.” he says gruffly, his face turned your way now, eyebrows pulled low.

Your hand stills at his pointed look. Yet you cannot help but let your eyes flit across his lined face in concern.

“Just le-”

“Nuh-uh.” He perks his lips and shakes his head. “None of that crap now.” Before you get to say another word, one of his hands dart up to capture both of your wrists, guiding them above your head and pinning them there.

“Sweetheart,” Dean sighs, “I said I want you to relax.” His lips twitch into a crooked smirk. It makes him seem cheeky, but you don’t miss the hint of an underlying plea to it. “Think that stubborn ass of yours can do that for me?”

You huff in response. When he narrows his eyes and tilts his head in that reprimanding way of his, you give in and nod.

“That’s my girl.”

Shifting his weight to the other arm next to your head, he switches hands to wrap his fingers around your wrists again, freeing his other, so he can run his large hand over the bumps and valleys of your body.

Whenever the tips of his fingers brush a part of exposed skin, a shiver runs through your body.

While his palm starts to dip down your pants to stroke your stomach, his darkened eyes are on yours the entire time.

Dean watches you closely. Not just the twitches and shivers that run through your body when his fingers dip between your legs teasingly. But how you let go, how you give him full control, how your body’s at his full mercy, how you trust him -

The thought has his stomach twist.

You trust him without a second thought. Out of all people – with all the things he has done in his life. After what he'd done on his last hunt.

He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. His focus returns to you.

How your body responds to his every touch as he skims the insides of your thighs, how you moan at his words, his voice, his hands, his lips and teeth – all of him leaving love letters scattered across your innocent body like he‘s ruining you with his love.

Could he ruin you? His muscles tense up at the idea.

The fingers hover over your slick folds, hesitant.

Your body twitches from need for some form of relief. “Please- Dean… don’t stop-” you beg him breathlessly, your eyes fluttered closed as you’re trying to fight the urge to buck your hips up.

“Right- yeah... yeah, I got’ya baby, I got’ya…” he mutters, voice gruff as he snaps out of his spiralling thoughts once more.

His fingers run along your folds, the slick coating his digits as he spreads your wetness across your flesh all the way up to the bundle of nerves that’s itching to be touched.

A guttural moan drops off your lips, head tipped back, hands straining under his firm grip.

The reactions he can coax out of you has him bite back a groan, eyes fluttering close for a moment.

God – It makes him want nothing else but to claim you all over again. Mark you. Have you mark him.

When you suddenly buck your hip up and start to rub yourself against his covered erection which is throbbing and straining his boxers, he goes stiff, his eyelashes fly up and a low growl rumbles through his chest.

“Don’t,” he warns gruffly while his hand leaves your wrists to lock your hips in place, “Don’t move. Just… lemme take care of you… Wanna make you feel good… Please.”

You still, taken aback by the way he added a weak ‘please’, like it just slipped his mind due to every fraction of his will being trained on keeping control over his body.

“Dean,” you whisper softly but he seems too much lost in thought, his fingers idly circling your clit again.

“Dean, stop.” You try to get his attention once more and this time the latter word seems to cut right through to him.

His hand stops mid-motion and his head snaps up, eyes searching yours in concern but also befuddlement. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m fine,” Your hands rush down to grab the one holding onto your hip, squeezing it in reassurance. “But your head's not in the game… and you’re holding back,” you state, your thumbs gently tracing the coarse bumps of his battered knuckles.

He stiffens. Of course you’d noticed.

“I just really missed you...’n I’m tired… Wanna take it slow. S’all.” His jaw clenches after the last word, realizing that probably didn’t sound as convincing now that he said it out loud with his words rough and strained from the effort to keep his crotch from grinding against you.

“You sure you alright…?” you ask softly, and you know he isn’t. You witnessed him, felt him how he’d clung to you like a drowning man no more than an hour ago.

"Nothing some good morning sex with my pretty girl couldn't fix." He chuckles as he tries and fails to add to his credibility.

“De,” you smile at him knowingly, “You’re pent up… I can feel it. You were pretty shaken-”

“Oh, come on!” he cuts you short, hands pulled from your body and suddenly he’s off the couch and on his feet the same beat, “I said, I’m goddamn fine.” The sudden movement has you flinch – more out of surprise than anything else. You quickly regain your breath and slowly sit up, meeting his gaze again as he turns to look at you.

Now glaring down at you with that gravel tone of his would have had most cower, but not you. You know he won’t bite.

“You wanna talk about it..?” you offer, after giving him a moment to steady his breath, your own voice still slow and hoarse from sleep.

“No, damnit.” he says firmly, his face hardened in the way he always does when you can practically watch him raise his walls around him. “What good s’it gonna do anyway, hm? Want me to ask for your insightful advice, Dr. Laura?” And of course his sarcasm doesn’t miss to snap at you next.

It was always the same with Dean when it comes down to this.

You shake your head softly, sigh, and shift to rest your shoulder against the backrest, the silence stretching between you until Dean suddenly speaks up again.

“Okay. Look, we’re going in circles here. When I got back… can we just pretend I didn’t”- he vaguely gesticulates with his hand towards the couch, where you’re still settled in between cushions and a twisted blanket, struggling to find the right words to describe his previous behaviour without getting anywhere near the word ‘vulnerable’ – “whatever the hell that was.”

“You mean when you came stumbling through the door like an hour ago?” you say flatly and slip your feet off the couch and onto to the fuzzy rug.

“Yeah. Whatever. Just forget about it, okay? I wasn’t in my right mind. Probably some blood sugar thing.”

“Blood sugar,” you repeat in a deadpan and now you’re up on your feet as well.

“Right,” you scoff, “What do I look like to you? Five? Come on, cut the crap. It’s me you’re talking to. You keep telling yourself you’re fine, but I’m not an idiot, I can see that you’re barely holding it together. Hell, I can feel it the way you touch me!” Dean tosses a hand in the air at that and rolls his eyes, ready to fire the next sarcastic remark when you soften your voice and sigh, “Please, Dean, talk to me.”

The hand drops and slaps down onto his thigh with a groan, the other rubbing his mouth while he’s turning his back to you, taking a few steps across the living room, muttering angrily under his breath.

“Dean..?” you prompt once more. His hand slips off his face before he whips around to face you again.

“Fine. I screwed up. Big time. That’s all there is. Alright?” he snaps, voice deep and rough from pent-up emotion. “You happy now?” You huff in response and this time you can’t help but roll your eyes with a sarcastic remark under your breath, “Damn, don’t go overboard with the details.”

You turn to face him again, voice sobered up. “Just because I’m rarely working in the field, that doesn’t make me any less of a hunter. Whatever the hell happened, you can talk to me about it, you know that, right? After all, I know how ugly it gets, I work with you guys day in day out.”

Dean’s eyebrows knit together and he raises his voice, firm and sharp, “Yeah, and believe me, not a day goes by where I wish you didn’t.”

You suck in a sharp breath, lips press into a tight line.

His eyes flutter close and he takes a breath to reign in his anger. “I mean, dealing with me, with all this crap? You don’t deserve that, okay?” His emerald eyes lock with yours again. Intense, raw, voice cracking at the last sound.

You blink at him.

“And you do?”

He just stares at you.

The unexpected words of yours seemingly having taken the heat right out of him.

You can watch how all the determination slips right off his face, how his shoulders slump and his eyes search yours in disbelief.

Your heart sinks.

All of a sudden, he looks more like a lost teenage boy, not knowing where to go with himself, than the hardened hunter he was seconds ago.

With gentle steps you walk over to him and without a word wrap your arms around his rigid body.

After a moment, his hands move to the small of your back and he pulls you in.

“It’s okay…” you murmur, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.

He sighs heavily.

“I just don’t want you to deal with my crap,” he admits, his voice a low, raspy murmur next your ear. “That’s my job.”

And that’s what you love and hate about him at the same time. He’d carry the world on his shoulders while he’s knees deep in blood and guts, and still tell you he's fine.

You sigh in resignation.

“Want me to make us some breakfast?”

Dean shakes his head, burying it in the crook of your neck.

He inhales your scent and fuck – his fingers twitch around your waist – it makes his boxers uncomfortably tight within seconds. The adrenaline’s still pumping through his system and the blood’s collecting in his hard length which is twitching to be freed from its confines.

“I want you...” he drawls huskily, the admission backed up by his fingers slipping under your pyjamas hem, the blunt nails sinking into your skin. A shiver goes down your spine, the heat pooling between your legs again.

You bite your lips. Maybe it’s time for me to poke the wolf.

"You want to blow off some steam, Bad Wolf? That it?" you suggest playfully, your lips curving into a mischievous smile as you’re well aware of the effect you have on him when you use his callname.

Sure enough, Dean’s eyes flutter shut at the way his nickname rolled off your tongue.

He’s silent. Your words do all sorts of things to his body. And none of them help his desperate attempt to control his pathetic needs.

You don’t need to see inside his head to know what’s going on.

Dean’s way to deal with his emotions has always been physical instead of verbal; The more vulnerable and helpless he feels, the stronger the need for control grows inside him. You notice it by the way he seeks your touch after a hunt gone wrong, the way he longs to be even more physically and emotionally close to you again, the way he sometimes comes back from a mission frustrated and silently asks for your permission to just fuck you until he’s satisfied.

And now was no different.

Except that this time, his mind and body was so goddamn conflicted.

Something feels different.

He wants to be gentle. Be slow and careful, savour every kiss of yours and melt into it – but at the same time that snarling and pent-up wolf inside him wants nothing more than to take control. Bend you over the next surface and take you. Hard. Without having to think or hold back – just being in the moment, grounding himself, feeling alive. Feeling good, making you feel good. And mostly, feeling all of you.

Damnit – Now the images flood his mind, while his blood checks out of his control centre to head south.

Yeah. He wants nothing more than to feel you underneath him, feel you clench his cock while he fucks you into the couch, have your wanton whimpers and whines drown out the screams that are playing in his head in loops like a broken record – Gods, I need you so damn much… it’s kinda pathetic. He mentally punches himself.

You tilt your head sideways to watch him rub his head against you, like he’s fighting an inner turmoil, his rough beard scratching your skin in the process.

Unaware of his circling thoughts, you feel his shoulders tense up and his hands subtly clench and unclench with the bunched up flesh on your hips still squeezed under his calloused pads.

“I… yeah.” he finally admits, the truth sounding raspy.

Dean doesn’t want to ‘talk about it’, alright, you accept that – at least for now. Doesn’t want useless words to remind him of what he’d done.

He wants actions to distract. Because sometimes, words just make things worse, as he’d once told you.

“Then let go, baby… s’good… I’ve got you… Take what you need from me…” you say soothingly. Then start to rub your stomach against his hard erection.

Dean nearly doubles over at the sudden friction, but what hit him even more, was that goddamn offer of yours.

It makes his breath stutter on its way down to his lungs, now clawing at his vocal cords instead. A low growl vibrates at the back of his throat, the sound sending a shiver straight to your core.

“You - you sure you want me to be rough, sweetheart..?” he warns you, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hipbones to hold you still, “‘M not exactly in the best of moods…”

“Dean,” you hum his name, “You’d never hurt me… I trust you. Please, just... don’t hold back because of me.” You move both of your hands to reach for his hair on his crown. He groans against your ear when your fingernails start to scrape his scalp in a calming manner and you continue in a low voice.

“Love me the way you need me.”

Fuck. A strangled moan escapes him. And his tired body shudders against yours at your words.

Despite all the lust that’s coursing through his system right now; His heart swells. You trust him.

“You’re a goddamn angel, y’know that..?” Dean’s eyes flutter shut, his head tipped back with a sharp inhale as he tries to steady his breath.

Next moment Dean’s grip on your hip moves down to your bum, grabbing your ass-cheeks firmly as he heaves you off the floor in one swift, unceremonious movement. A gasp slips your lips, your hands flying to his neck to hold onto him while his hands slip under your thighs and he carries you over to the couch in three hurried strides.

His back hits the backrest as he drops into the cushions, your knees coming down to straddle his hips, your lips seeking each other out as you dive into a passionate kiss once more.

Dean swallows your moans as his hands roam your body, running up and down your sides, slipping under your shirt. Hungry, desperate, like he can’t wait to devour you. Meanwhile your fingers tangle in his hair and he hisses from the sharp pain as you tug his head back to deepen the kiss.

“You’re driving me mad,” he husks out, his eyes fluttering close as your tongue swipes his lips and your nails scrape his scalp while you begin to grind down on his hard erection.

“Show me how mad,” you challenge him, breath hot against his coarse lips before you tug at it with darkened eyes.

That draws a low rumble from his chest and the whiskey-chipped emeralds of his eyes darken even further as he warns. “Careful there, little vixen.”

The taunting smile on your face falters when his fingers dig into your hips possessively and he leans in, his beard rasping across your skin, his voice dropped to a deep timbre, his hot breath licking at the shell of your ear as he speaks into it.

“I might just fuck you like I own you.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTE Writing this was one hell of a rollercoaster. It's my first time writing a dom!Dean and I had to navigate between angst and smut and I'm still not happy how it turned out to be honest, but this thing's been collecting dust in my drafts from the many times I've rewritten it and I need to let go.

Also, it blew up to over 11k and I decided to part it again, so the steamy smut is for the last, third part. sorryyy <3

“The Bad Wolf & The Sweet Vixen” + Dean Tag List

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell

@lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @livya99

@supernotnatural2005 @ms-kayla-readinglover

❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Fill out this form!

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Dark Baker

Debut: Princess Peach: Showtime!

Hello! Remember Princess Peach: Showtime!? Because I forgot about it. Whoopsie-do! But even if I don't play or care to play a certain game... it can still have some funny guys in it, can't it? It can, and it does! This is Dark Baker, who I have been informed is Evil, Bad, and all-around Unkind. Don't you forget that! It's very important.

First of all, I want to mention that, as far as I can tell, Dark Baker uses they/them! "They" is the only pronoun I have seen used for them in-game. Yahoo! How fitting that they are an eyes-in-a-void character. That's what I look like! Unfortunately, I don't remember the last time I wore a chef's hat... but I have done it! And I will again.

So what is so Dark about this Baker? Well, they do possess this funny actor and lock her in the basement, so that part is rude, I will admit. This is the star actor of the the... baking plays. I guess. A core pillar of this theater's plays are about baking. Sounds strange, but I will admit I've never seen a baking play. Maybe it would change my life! Maybe they sing about muffins! I would sure like that!

So they challenge Peach to decorate a cake and the deliciousness exorcises the Theet (the funny little nose guys are called Theets). Hooray! Peach is praised for her baking, when in actuality all she did was decorate it. Now that's what I call eye candy! (cake is not candy)

But remember. We're dealing with a Bad Guy here. A guy so bad they have Dark in their name, and an ominous purple glow. Now, in their true form, Dark Baker reveals their true intentions... they want to bake! Together! Now, if it were me, I would love to. That sounds delightful! But the game thinks "I don't think so, buster! That baker is bad news!" so the exit is blocked off. This is a bad guy! We swear! Wait until you see the twisted, deadly depravity they consider "baking"...

It's baking. But using a glowing purple whisk! Jeepers! That's no batter, that's BADDER! What will that vile substance become?

It's some cookies- I MEAN, some CROOKIES! Watch out for these ones! I have been jesting throughout this post, but I actually would not eat these cookies. There was no actual baking involved! These are raw, and I do not want salmonella. But that's just me. If you're a salmonella fan, go ahead. I don't like seafood, I don't like cilantro, I don't like salmonella, but I'm not going to prevent anyone else from enjoying things! Anyway, Peach also does not apply any heat to HER cookies, so this cannot be held against Dark Baker as an evil thing.

The only other Bad thing they do is jump around and ground pound, and I suppose that is a hazard. But a gleeful chef is one of nature's treasures. I say not guilty!

So that's about all the "bad" stuff Dark Baker does. No intended harm, just a wee bit overboard with ze passion. If I had to punish Dark Baker, I would administer a "please just ask next time when you want to bake with someone, you silly goose". And then we would bake together, reasonably, and everyone would be happy! So what happens after they are bested in a cookie contest?

Well, they are rather annoyed, but mostly just want to taste Peach's winning cookies to judge their quality. So Peach makes an extra special cookie for Dark Baker to try!

It's so delicious that they start to glow with heavenly light! And then they disintegrate. Whuh oh! I guess they are dead now, as punishment for enjoying a cookie, but I don't think a pastry chef would want to die any other way. That's how I want to die, actually! From a cookie being unearthly delicious, I mean. Not just from eating a cookie. I don't want to be poisoned by a cookie!

It's good to know Peach didn't decide to kill Dark Baker just for being kind of rude, but it's funny that the game overall seems to feel they must be Defeated, since they are a Bad Guy in the end. They come off as less hostile than some TV chefs! One shudders to imagine what punishments Nintendo would have in store for Gordon Ramsay!

[lambmotifz]

i don’t consider post s5 spn as canon but it’s still a bit funny to me when people are horrified by post kripke dean’s actions towards sam. if you actually watched the show paying attention to the core of their relationship and all its nuances (especially when it comes to power dynamics) then you know that said horrific actions aren’t ooc at all. kripke era dean did fucked up things to sam without his consent (bringing him back to life, locking him up in the panic room & obsessively stalking him) and he did that for selfish reasons (keeping sammy all for himself at all costs even if it meant nonconning sam or even killing him). also sam’s “submissive battered brotherwife” era didn’t start post kripke, actually you can see the glimpses of it throughout s4 (4.04 where dean hits him and threatens to hunt him and sam just takes it). it’s especially blatant when ruby says “dean was wrong, saying what he said to you” (referring to dean calling sam a monster) but sam chooses to metaphorically submit to dean, answering “no, he was right to say it”. at this point he’s already drowning in guilt & self hatred because of his fight with dean earlier, and then it gets worse and worse throughout the whole s5, to the point where he says “you can think whatever you want. i deserve it, and worse. hell, you’ll never punish me as much as i’m punishing myself” and “believe me, i know exactly how screwed up i am. you, bobby, cas...i’m the least of any of you”. and dean actively fuels his guilt by punishing him with mistrust, being pissed at him for “choosing a demon over his brother” and forever blaming him for trying to run away from their family (except this issue is more personal than it might seem at first glance because it’s not about family so much as about dean and his desire to have sam all for himself, and his own words make it pretty obvious — “dad wasn’t the only one you got away from”)

[milkyrrr]

FOUND FAMILY!AU (part 2)

I guess it's my turn to tell about another characters from this AU, huh?

LINKED POST (PART 1) AND MAIN INFO ABOUT AU

Well, let's start with Sun

Story:

...It all started when the sky in his world shook. Sun only recently received his new body (for the third time) and tried to adapt to new conditions with the help of Eclipse and Lunar.

They… They were too kind to him. Sun was very ashamed of his actions in the past. Because of him, Eclipse suffered with every move Sun made when he gained control of his body with the help of his brother, Moon. Moon was kind to him in the beginning. It's a pity that all this was a sweet lie, so that Sun obediently obeyed him.

The first time he was stabbed in the back was when Roxanne said she would give the star to Moon if he killed Sun. He didn't understand what was going on. All he could see was his brother's face, smiling endlessly as a long, sharp dagger plunged into the very core of his and Eclipse's bodies.

He didn't remember anything. The first thing he saw when he woke up was Eclipse's face. They were killed. They were killed because of Sun, who trusted his "brother" so much and did not feel a trick until the last moment. They were literally on the verge of death, and they were saved only by the magic of Eclipse, who secured himself with a special hidden spell that allowed him to return from the dead and at the same time accidentally drag Sun with him. Sun swore that he would help them and would never make a mistake again.

He was not a welcome member of the family, and if he had really died then and never returned, no one would have noticed. But they let him live. He was given a second chance, and Sun clung to him with full force. After defeating Moon, he had his own body made. Sun might not admit it out loud, but he want to be tall like everyone else not because he wanted to be on the same high as them. He wanted to be like his brother. Who was no longer his brother, but secretly Sun was still reaching out to him.

When Bloodmoon took control of Eclipse's body, Sun was very worried. He was no longer a part of his body, but he knew what Eclipse was experiencing. He wanted to help, but can't. And when… When he found out that Killcode, who helped them defeat Moon and then escaped, returned with Moon, something flashed inside Sun. He remembered on a clear day that moment when he found Killcode, all dirty, battered, when he spoke in the voice of his brother, trapped in the body of this killer, reaching out to him and begging for help. He swore that he would stand on their side and help defeat Bloodmoons if Sun believed him. And he believed it. Sun held out his hand to help his brother up, and then his own cry rang out. His eye was torn out. His vision completely shut down for a couple of moments, his head was sparking with tension, and Sun only for a moment saw the silhouette of a rising Killcode and the deep voice of his former brother.

"Stupid. Life doesn't teach you anything. That's why you'll always be a pathetic and naive fool. They will betray you the same way I did. Although no… You're the traitor. You went against me. You doubted me, your creator and your brother. Jerk."

A kick in the stomach and he passed out. He was found only three days later in the pouring rain, he could barely move, as if something had locked in him and did not allow him to get up and run.

But then a lapse in consciousness. As though… As if something had influenced him. He remembers his brother laughing, in a new body of his own, standing on the balcony with a star in his hands. He's just… He froze. He froze in fear. He felt great fear towards his former brother. Only later did he find out that he had been blown up. And the most terrible thing is that he does not remember his second death at all. Moon simply changed his mind, making him horrified at the thought that he was dying and did not remember how it happened. And Moon can easily repeat it. Over and over again. Because he had a star. He had power over consciousness, time and space.

Space…

…

They defeated Moon. The star was split into myriad fragments, which simply scattered in the air like the remnants of a once powerful source of energy. It would seem that a new life has begun.

And then a black streak cut through the sky. Sun saw it all. It was very fast and abrupt. He saw how everything was spiraling with terrifying speed, the outlines of the surrounding world were lost, sound and colors were disappearing, his head was buzzing, his eyes were rippling. His eyes close by themselves, all sensors abruptly give out an error, and his body is thrown into the air with a powerful push…

Moon

Story:

Light.

Bright light and iron rays sticking out of the round head.

It was the first thing he saw in a clear mind for the first time in his entire existence.

Moon called this day his "new birthday."

His creator was an extremely disgusting person. He created Moon in order to carve out all of humanity, kill everyone on this sinful earth, and implement his plan to build a new, ideal world filled with advanced machines and robots.

Moon was the perfect killing machine. Always cold, aloof, he never communicated with any of the Glamrocks. The daycare was just a cover for its true purpose.

But... there was something bright in his life.

Something sunny.

Sun. Creator created it from the remnants of the materials he spent on Moon so that Sun would be cover for Moon. He didn't expect the stupid defective animatronic to gain intelligence. Too much… An advanced mind.

Sun tried to establish contact with Moon, but Moon always brushed him off and grumbled. Sun saw that something was wrong here. And his desire to understand what was happening was so strong that it allowed him to develop his artificial intelligence. He broke out of the looped code of his program and was able to see clearly. I was able to understand what was really going on.

He saw Moon suffer. He saw how his work partner felt bad, he was clearly not himself and never talked to him for a long time and clearly. He wanted to help.

On his own, Sun learned the basics of programming and was able to get into Moon's head, albeit for a short time. True, he had to pay for it with a ray torn out that day, but Sun did not give up. He became even more determined.

With Montgomery's help, he was able to figure out Moon's code enough to disable the killcode forever.

And then, for the first time, Moon saw the world around him without a cloudy veil in front of his eyes. The burning in his head subsided, his hunger faded, and he was finally able to hear the sounds around him without the constant ringing in the systems.

And the first one he saw was Sun. He saw his slightly tired, worried, but happy expression.

"Are you... are you okay?" Sun asked uncertainly, still fearing that he had done something wrong and the virus had not shut down.

Moon looked at himself in amazement, touching his own hands as if he had never seen them before in his life. "I see… And I hear… And I feel… And all without pain," his voice trembled with relief. Sun smiled wider.

"Welcome home, brother!"

Brother… Sun was a wonderful brother. After Moon started his new, real life, Sun was always with him, he always supported him, helped him socialize, study everyday trivia, and so on, so on, so on. Sometimes it even seemed to Moon that Sun was more than just a puzzle made of leftover materials. It was as if he had been specially created to be his missing piece. It's like Yin and Yang.

He has always supported Moon. Even when he began to get involved in technology, magic, and programming, which were difficult for him, he still tried to support his brother's interests. Moon sometimes wondered why Sun didn't understand programming so well, despite the fact that he was the one who disabled the most difficult and aggressive part, the killcode, which was firmly tied to his main code.

But one day... something... Something happened... something broke. And Sun slowly began to wither away before his eyes. At first, he discharged faster, which made him tired and had to shorten shifts in daycare, or look for an opportunity to change as often as possible so that the Sun could charge while Moon was sitting with the children.

Then came the technical errors. Sun could accidentally fall, sometimes his hands could suddenly turn off without control right during games with children, which made it necessary to close the entrance to the upper floors of the labyrinths so that children could not fall out of there and there was no risk that Sun would not be able to catch them at a dangerous moment.

And then… And software errors. Sun could forget some little things, sometimes whole days with memories were abruptly removed from his head. He could mistakenly start cleaning an absolutely clean daycare, rub the same place on the table for hours, as if falling into a trance, and much more.

And Moon was very worried about it. He tried to figure out what was happening to Sun, but all the diagnostics claimed that he was fine. No virus. No errors in the code.

And then, during another scan of Sun in Parts and Maintenance, Moon saw this.

The blue screen of death. As if from nowhere. A variety of errors abruptly appeared from everywhere: from easy ones that were solved with a couple of button presses, to severe and serious ones, such as a damaged hard drive, video card, and so on.

Moon remembers how his hands trembled when he, staring intently at the screen, heard Sun's quiet voice.

"Moon... come here, please…"

Moon didn't want to scare Sun and talk about the death screen. He would always remember that soft smile.

He already knew everything.

"I feel I'm dying," he said softly, "you remember that I was only created as a cover for you, right? My systems are not perfect like yours. And sooner or later they had to fall into disrepair. I don't have such cool software like yours Glamrocks, or anyone else.…"

"No, Sun, don't say that, I'll fix it now, just let me," Moon whispered, shaking his head negatively.

"You can't fix anything," Sun smiled sympathetically, squeezing his brother's hand so that he would not leave, "just promise me that you will be there when my systems finally break down and I disconnect. Please."

That day, Sun passed out forever. It happened in the dead of night, when he was sitting next to Moon and sorting pencils with him, sorting them by color.

After that, everything seemed to turn gray. The daycare has closed. The lights went out. And there was eternal darkness.

The eternal darkness in which Moon was trying to find answers. To find a solution to a question that had no answer. He threw himself into his work, trying to do everything possible to bring back the Sun. He spent hours, days, weeks, months, constantly sitting at computers. He didn't need a new Sun that he could make himself. He needed HIS Sun. He was trying to fix something that was broken from the beginning.

He could feel the burning sensation in his head increasing over time. He's getting more irritable. More short-tempered. He stopped communicating with the Glamrocks, avoided meeting Montgomery, who became his best friend... he avoided everyone. He felt like he was going crazy. Like something snaps inside and tries to pull out.

A damn piece of code that's causing so much trouble. Moon tore it out of himself with hatred and deleted it from all systems. He was ready for his systems to collapse into oblivion too. But surprisingly… He's not dead. He felt his systems bursting at the seams, saw system errors flashing before his eyes, but not the blue screen. He survived. And there was no killcode in it anymore.

But he was still alone.

Moon left the pizzaplex. He decided to bury his past deep in the ground and start life anew. He bought himself a laboratory far from civilization and became a hermit. Gradually, his life took on colors, albeit not so bright. He discovered the ability to move through dimensions and visited them with curiosity. He has seen a lot of good, a lot of bad, but he has revealed his new purpose.

He wanted to help all Suns in all dimensions. He wanted them to be happy. Happy as his Sun was happy when he was alive…

Bloodmoon twins

Story:

Every day was like a bright holiday. Bloodmoons are used to loud applause and the attention of the audience. They loved it. They loved to see the approval of the circus guests and were happy to perform various circus acts for them.

The dimension of Bloody and Harvest was wonderful. Like other members of the heavenly family, they were created to perform. To be more precise, they were created by Eclipse and Killcode as a joint project approved by Creator. Creator… They've never seen this guy, to be honest. They had heard from Moon, Eclipse, and KC that he was constantly busy with some of his projects.

The creator created a circus. First he created Sun and Moon. But something strange happened, Moon discovered something strange in his code. Some part of the code was like… Alive? Moon created a separate body, and allowed this code to gain a full-fledged mind. The code was named KC and became a brother to Sun and Moon.

KC, along with Moon, created Eclipse as an experiment. Eclipse was grumpy, but he liked the role of magician that he was given in the circus.

And then Bloodmoons appeared. They became aerialists. They flew like fluff under the dome of the circus, they were always nimble and active. Their family was quite funny, and the twins liked everyone. They liked to annoy their older brother Eclipse, who tolerated all their antics, but sometimes still lost his temper and started chasing them away from his room. They liked to annoy Moon with eternal questions about what he was doing, and laugh out loud when they were immediately kicked out the door. They enjoyed spending time with Sun, who always enjoyed playing computer games and many other games with them in his spare time when there was no one in the circus and the arena was empty. They loved being with KC, whom they considered their theoretical father. He was a strongman, and they liked to hang on his arms like they were monkeys.

Their life was carefree and happy.

Until suddenly everything stopped and they were thrown out of the universe.

Of course, that's not all! Let me and @nosleepygay know if you are interested in the universe, because we are going to make content with these funny guys :D

[loredrinker]

Solas - Original Choice

My thoughts have shifted a bit since writing this post. I was viewing through the lens of the veil, but Solas took a corporeal form from lyrium as I discuss further in this recent post.

---

Thinking/mulling/reflecting on a piece currently in development. I'm sure this has been discussed...

Solas chose to take a body. Mythal did what she could to cajole and convince - but in the end, the choice was still his. Let's call it the Original Choice (original sin).

That choice braced himself for impact:

Cole: Is there a way to save more spirits, Solas?  Solas: Not until the Veil is healed. The rifts draw spirits through, and the shock makes demons of them.  Cole: Pushing through makes you be yourself. You can hold onto the you. Being pulled through means you don't have enough you. You become what batters you, bruises your being.  Solas: Yes, exactly. Deliberately crossing the Veil requires that a spirit form will, personality. That concept of self gives a spirit the chance to maintain its nature. 

Solas pushed through.

Cassandra: I knew demons and spirits were similar, but I did not know one could become the other so easily. Solas: Not similar, Seeker. The same. The Chantry sees black and white, but nature is, and always has been, grey. A spirit is a purpose. A demon is that purpose perverted.

Spirits have purpose - this implies an inherent core essence – an identity that they are defined by.

That choice...

It's what allows him to keep his core essence (purpose) - wisdom. It's what prevents him from becoming wholly pride.

He is both wisdom and pride - a man.

He is a duality - a beautiful, messy being of dualities dancing together. Balance - complementary contrasts - integration - not a division but sums that make up a whole.

What he says in Veilguard:

'I am not a god' - I AM - declaration of self-identity - not spirit, not demon. He is not them (the Evanuris) - he is not omnipotent, not infallible - rejection of godhood - but neither is he saviour - he is an individual shaped by his own choices.

'I am what I have always been - a man' - I AM - an immortal defining himself in the most human and 'mortal' term - not denying his humanity, not running from his flaws - always - his nature, his humanity - has remained consistent, constant - roles, choices, perspectives shift, but not who he is.

'...all too aware of his failings' - aware = wisdom, core essence - introspection, centuries of reflection - self-aware - but the 'all too' - it's too much awareness, he knows deeply, reflects deeply - failings - not mistakes but failings - an ongoing reckoning and reflection of his flaws/traits. Always reflecting - cause he's wisdom who's aware of his pride.

He accepts what he has always been - acceptance of duality leads to wholeness (complete in understanding).

I love this character.

Please feel free to link to any discussions already out there on this (or share your own thoughts) so I can read more and absorb and digest and think.

*Bioware image

[snowyquokka]

MESSY GIRL

cw: mature themes MDNI, oral *f receiving, swearing, praise (😫😫)

wc: 0.6k

a.n - i haven’t posted in wayyyy too long. im also sorry that this is very short. forgive me ? 🥺

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

As part of your Saturday date night you and Felix decided to make brownies. Though, that’s not what you hoped would happen. That thought is exactly how you ended up slowly licking the spoon you used to mix the batter with while maintaining eye contact with Felix the entire time.

No matter how much he tries to ignore you, you always find another way to grab his attention.

“It’s good,” you hum in approval and nod. You hold out the spoon to your boyfriend, “Try.”

He hesitates but reluctantly covers your hand with his own as he tastes the mixture.

Such a tease.

Felix takes the spoon out of your hand and sets it back in the bowl before returning to his spot in front of you.

“Messy girl,” he grins softly as he reaches up to wipe flour off of your cheek. You smile back and lean up to plant a small, teasing kiss on his lips.

Well, you didn’t mean for it to stay small.

Felix circles his arms around your waist as you loop yours around his neck. The kiss turns from sweet and tender to hot and needy.

Within seconds he lifts you up by the backs of your thighs and carries you into your room. Somewhere along the way, you both lost your shirts as well as your bra.

Felix gently leans you back onto the bed while dipping his head down to resume kissing you.

“Lix,” you squirm underneath him as he takes his time licking and sucking your nipples.

“Tell me what you need,” his voice deepens to match his blown out pupils.

“Don’t care. Anything, baby.” Your response earns you a grin followed by his hot breath fanning right over exactly where you need him. He looks up at you for permission.

Frantically, you nod your head, desperate for any kind of touch.

Felix pulls down your shorts and tosses them across the room before turning his attention back to what he looks at like a man starved. You swear you could come just by the way he looks at you.

Felix has always made sure to make it very clear how much he loves every inch of you. He gives you zero time to second guess yourself. When you do, he usually ends up spending more time than needed praising you.

Felix leans in and pulls down your panties with his teeth, adamant to not break eye contact.

“My baby’s always ready for me. Such a good girl.” His praise along with the way he licks a flat strip up your soaked core push you further and further off the edge.

“Taste so good, love.” his groans reverberate throughout you making you squeeze your thighs around his head in return.

One of his hands snakes overtop of your hips, pinning you in place while the other searches for your hand that’s gripping the sheets.

“Fuck fuck, almost there.” you whine and squeeze his hand.

Felix gently bites your clit and hums, unfurling the knot in your lower stomach.

“Lix,” your free hand moves from your side to intertwine with his hair, pulling at the roots.

“That’s it baby. You’re doing so well,”

You peek down at your boyfriend who is still in between your plush thighs.

He tuts, “Messy messy girl,”

tags: @godslino @skzstarnet @anakin-sweetheart

divider: @chaeneuu

[thesassypadawan]

Like Rabbits *part 1* (Hayden x FemReader)

Summary: After realizing that Hay and you share the same desire, you two have been acting like a pair of horny rabbits. ‘Hopping’ all day and night long. (Hope you enjoy the sequel, Maple Flavored Sausage ❤️)

Warnings: 18+ (mdni), because there sooo much of the smut. Breeding and, as always…Hayden’s big dick.

Notes: Hoppy Belated Easter, my lovelies! And Happy First Day of Hayden's (And Mine) Birthday Event! In honor of the man, the myth, the legend; I will be posting nothing but Anakin, Vader, and Hay stories all of April!

- Thirty-two hours. Thirty-two hours of nearly non-stop raw passion, of carnal desire. All in the hopes of…successfully knocking you up.

- After the whole ‘milk someday’ affair, as it came to be known, Hayden and you have a nice long chat. One that makes you both quickly realize that you’re clearly on the same page.

- And, well, since that’s the case, you two have been, um, rather busy. Especially during those magical thirty-two hours when you’re at the peak of your fertility.

- Yeah, let’s just say you’re like a pair of horny rabbits. ‘Hopping’ all day and night long…

- Eyes flutter open and a soft moan escapes you. You’re awoken by his cock pumping slowly into you, fingers playing and teasing your clit. “Haay…sleepy.”

- “Nope, rise and shine, angel. Nap’s over; it’s baby making time,” he chuckles in your ear. Free hand slides to grasp your ass firmly. Pulling your hip over him, so he can thrust deeper.

- You whine a little in protest, but, nonetheless, happily accept your fate. Hand moving up his throat, coming to rest on the back of his head. Fingers tugging his hair gently, causing him to growl…the sound rumbling in his chest.

- Cunt clenches hard in response, which only spurs him on. Pace picking up, dick practically bottoming out with each plunge. “Fuck. How are you still this tight?”

- Whimpering, your face grows flush. Orgasm approaching embarrassingly fast, overwhelming your brain. “Hay… Hay…”

- “Cum,” he mutters. Pinching your clit, sending you soaring. Head tilting upwards, crying out. Chest pressing against his while you clamp down around him.

- Hayden stills, gripping you as your body goes limp in his hold. Face burying into his neck, the fog in your mind rolling in. All you can think of is… “Sleepy.”

- A good smack to the butt jolts you back to reality. “Not yet, babe; we’re not finished.”

- Grasping your sides, he pulls you fully on top of him. Knees instinctively parting, setting on either side of his thighs. Upper body laying flat on his, you let out a small squeak. “Haaayden!”

- Arms wrap around your waist, and he starts to move again. Almost rapidly, eagerly pounding into your soaked cunt. Hips bouncing off his while he smirks. “What? I haven’t given you more of my baby batter yet.”

- Fingers dig into his shoulder; whines fly from your mouth. He’s stretching you out so deliciously, slapping against you so wonderfully. Both sensations overstimulate you further, another release quickly building in your core.

- His grip on you tightens. Rocking back and forth, he bucks up into you wildly. Grunting, voice low and gravelly. “Going to pump you so full…to the absolute brim. Going to stay in this perfect, little pussy…all through the night and into the morning.”

- Walls flutter at his words. Whines now more high-pitched and needy. Clawing and scratching at him desperately. “Yes… Please…”

- “You’d like that, huh?” Hay growls, slamming into that sweet spot deep inside over and over. “Me cumming in you until it takes…until you have your own cute bump to show off.”

- Nails sink deeper into his skin and his hips stutter. Hands grabbing your ass harshly, holding you firmly in place. Cock twitching, shooting rope after rope of hot cum into you.

- While you mewl and pant. Quivering and trembling, back arching in ecstasy. Milking him greedily for every last drop…before collapsing.

- Stroking your back, his heart racing underneath you. He kisses the top of your head, muttering. “You okay, angel?”

- Spent, your body is so spent. Totally exhausted from cumming back-to-back, not counting all the times prior to this lovely session. “Sleepy…so sleepy,” you mumble into his chest.

- Eyes grow heavy and just as you’re drifting off…you feel him start to lazily thrust. “Come one, we only have like twelve hours left until you’re done ovulating. Don’t want to waste a single minute, do you?”

- You hate it when he’s right. Groaning and grumbling, your hips begin to move in sync with him. “Better make it twins then.”

- “Can’t guarantee that,” Hayden chuckles, speeding up a bit. “But I promise to have you round…those tits milky and swollen soon enough. My adorable baby mama.”

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @wifeofasith, @princessswifie, @kenobiskywalker16

[hikarry]

I...I think I just spent 13 hours processing my newest trauma through Aziraphale and ended up writing the most serious and fucking real break up scene between Aziraphale and Crowley I've ever even considered writing

I...Fucking hell

Just-

I sat here, tears in my eyes, and I chose them to help me procress and I just wrote the most real thing that ever came out of my lil fingertips

I will not throw this away. I will figure out a way to write a story around this scene alone, but I'm just going to leave it here for now. Cause, fuck.

It's still not refined, mind you. I just wrote this and felt like posting it here, so nevermind the mistakes and whatnot

Crowley awoke to sunlight spilling over him, casting a warm glow that he immediately tried to escape. He groaned, pulling the blankets over his head, desperate to keep the world out a little longer. But as he tugged the covers, he noticed a strange weight to them—not quite right, somehow softer, smelling faintly of old books and tea. The dissonance nagged at his half-dreaming mind, until the realization hit him, sharp and sudden.

This wasn’t his bed. This was Aziraphale’s.

Memories surged, each one a jolt to his drowsy senses. Aziraphale collapsing into his arms, Raphael’s sombre warning about the angel’s deteriorating core, the fear that it might devour him from within. Crowley recalled their painful conversation—Aziraphale pressing his pinky ring into his hand and giving him an ancient box, packed with letters, photographs and sketches. Each drawing was of Crowley—his eyes, his smile, his hands—captured in Aziraphale’s tender, attentive gaze. They were relics, moments preserved over centuries, a farewell gift for Crowley to remember him by if…

Then he remembered the new attack at night. Aziraphale’s body trembling, his essence struggling against itself, and Crowley, desperately holding him close, trying to soothe the angel through the worst of it, following Raphael’s advice as best he could.

Finally, exhausted, Aziraphale had drifted off, leaving Crowley to watch over him until sleep claimed him too.

Crowley reached across the bed, expecting the familiar warmth beside him, only to feel the cold emptiness of the sheets. Panic surged through him, flooding his senses and banishing any lingering sleep. His heart pounded as he sat up, scanning the room with wild, searching eyes.

“Aziraphale!” he called out, his voice hoarse, thick with fear. He pushed himself out of bed, stumbling, as he searched the flat in a frenzy.

He dashed down the stairs, heart racing with every step, calling Aziraphale’s name. His voice echoed through the stillness of the bookshop, each unanswered call intensifying his dread.

Then, he spotted him.

Aziraphale sat at his desk, removing his reading glasses with that calm, familiar gesture, looking up at Crowley with a mildly perplexed expression, as though yesterday’s horrors were nothing but a forgotten dream. He was impeccably dressed, the picture of serene composure, as if-.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, achingly gentle, piercing through Crowley’s panic and grounding him in a way only the angel’s presence ever could.

Crowley freezes, his breath catching in his throat as a rush of disbelief floods through him, quickly followed by an overwhelming tide of relief that he barely knows how to process. His heart is a frantic drumbeat in his chest, each thud like a battering ram against his ribs. The word escapes him in a choked whisper, almost too quiet to hear. “Aziraphale…” His name sounds foreign on his lips, trembling, as if he’s afraid speaking it too loudly might shatter this fragile moment. Without thinking, he takes a step, then another, his feet moving quicker than his mind can catch up.

Aziraphale watches him, his expression a study in calm, but there’s a subtle sorrow hidden behind those soft eyes. He sets his book aside with deliberate slowness, as if aware of the weight of the moment, as if he understands how badly Crowley needs him to be real, to *be here.* When Crowley reaches him, he stops, every inch of his body tense, his eyes scanning Aziraphale’s face like a desperate search for any crack, any fracture, anything that would suggest the angel is not whole. He’s afraid to blink, afraid that when his eyes open again, Aziraphale might disappear.

“I-I thought…” Crowley starts, the words stumbling from his lips, each syllable trembling as if the very act of speaking could unravel everything. His breath is shallow, the air thick with an almost suffocating fear. His chest is tight, constricted, and his heart thunders in his ears as he struggles to form a thought that makes any sense at all. But the fear that clings to him like a shadow has no words, no logic. All that remains is this raw, pulsing panic, the lingering horror of something worse just out of reach.

Aziraphale’s eyes soften, a glimmer of understanding passing through them. He steps closer, slowly, deliberately, as if every movement is meant to reassure, to calm. His hands rise, gentle, placing themselves on Crowley’s shoulders with a touch that feels both familiar and distant. It’s cold. The coolness of Aziraphale’s fingers seeps into Crowley’s skin, a stark contrast to the warmth he craves, and something inside him snaps. He’s here, yes, but there’s something wrong. Something’s missing.

“Forgive me, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice gentle but carrying a depth of sorrow, as though he, too, feels the weight of the unspoken words between them. “I woke hours ago and couldn’t bear to disturb your rest.” His hand moves up, his fingers brushing a lock of Crowley’s hair away from his forehead with such tenderness that it almost aches. But the coldness of that touch, too, is an unforgivable reminder of the fragility of this moment, of how close they came to losing everything. Yesterday lingers between them, a tangible thing, and Crowley can almost taste the terror that still clings to the edges of his mind.

Crowley’s breath shudders in his chest, his hands moving on their own to grab Aziraphale’s wrists, the action almost frantic, his fingers trembling with an urgency he can’t control. He holds on as if the simple act of touch can anchor him to this reality, to the feeling of Aziraphale being alive, being here. “You… you scared me, angel,” Crowley breathes, his voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of the emotions he’s barely able to express. “I thought…” He falters, unable to finish the sentence, unable to voice the horror that still simmers in the pit of his stomach. His pulse races, but the relief he should be feeling is tangled with something darker, something deeper that refuses to let go.

Aziraphaletakes hold of Crowley’s hands, his fingers cold, trembling—just as they were yesterday. The coldness isn’t just the absence of warmth, it’s something else, something more. A coldness that seeps into Crowley’s bones, that gnaws at his soul. The tremors in Aziraphale’s touch are like a faint echo of the nightmare they just survived, a reminder that whatever they’ve survived—whatever they’ve won—isn’t over. Not yet.

“Take a deep breath, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice low and soothing, yet edged with something brittle, something that tells Crowley this calm is fragile, as if one wrong move could shatter it. Aziraphale’s thumb traces circles on Crowley’s knuckles, slow, deliberate, trying to steady him. But the touch is faint, delicate, like the fluttering wings of a moth in the dark, and Crowley feels the tremors of Aziraphale’s fingers under his own, an unmistakable sign that the danger still looms over them. The same cold fear claws at Crowley’s insides, pulling him down into a place he doesn’t want to go, a place where he can’t save Aziraphale, can’t stop whatever is coming.

Crowley inhales sharply, the breath caught in his chest, but it does little to calm the panic roiling inside him. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hands harder, his knuckles white with the effort, trying to hold on to something, anything, that might give him control over this suffocating fear. “How can you stay so calm?” His voice cracks, thick with emotion, the words escaping like a ragged plea. “How can you act like nothing’s wrong when you…” He can’t finish the sentence. It’s too much. The thought hangs in the air, suffocating him, a silent terror too vast to voice.

Aziraphale’s lips form a smile—gentle, almost pitying—but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a smile that feels like a lie. He lifts Crowley’s hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to it with the same chilling coldness that’s invaded every inch of their world. The touch is wrong. So wrong. Crowley feels it deep in his bones, the absence of warmth, the emptiness where something vital should be. Aziraphale’s warmth has always been his anchor, but now it feels like a lie, like something pretending to be real.

Aziraphale pulls back slightly, his gaze meeting Crowley’s with an intensity that sends a shiver down his spine. “We said what we had to say yesterday, remember?” he whispers, his voice soft, but the words heavy with unspoken truths. “It’s done, my dear.” He kisses Crowley’s hand again, the coldness like a knife to Crowley’s heart. “Now we just have to keep going and see what happens.”

Crowley feels his heart twist at the words. Keep going? The question hangs between them like a stone. How could he go on, knowing that at any moment, the coldness might take over, that Aziraphale’s life might slip away, like sand through his fingers? How could he keep living in a world where any breath might be the last?

“Keep going?” Crowley repeats, his voice raw with emotion. “You want me to just go on, knowing I could lose you at any second? That any moment might be your last?” His hands tighten around Aziraphale’s, his fingers pressing into the cold skin, trying to hold on, trying to do something—anything—that might stop the inevitable.

Aziraphale gazes at him, soft and steady, though Crowley sees the weariness in his eyes, the fragility beneath the calm. “I’m here now, Crowley,” he whispers, his voice carrying a quiet, almost tragic certainty. “I’m still here.”

“But for how long?” Crowley’s voice cracks, the words slipping from him like sand through a sieve. He can’t stop the tremor in his voice, the panic that tightens around his chest. “How much longer before…” He can’t finish, his breath catching in his throat, his chest constricting under the weight of the unspoken. His grip on Aziraphale’s hands tightens, desperate, as though holding on tighter could keep the inevitable at bay.

“Remember what I told you yesterday,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice imbued with a quiet strength that Crowley can’t quite reconcile with the coldness in his touch. His eyes are gentle, but there’s a firm resolve there, the kind of determination that makes Crowley feel both comforted and frustrated. “Let’s make the most of the time we have left. Worrying won’t change anything right now.” His words are like a balm, meant to soothe, but they sting, too, because Crowley knows the truth buried in them—their time is slipping away, and there’s nothing either of them can do to stop it.

With a fluid motion, Aziraphale gives Crowley’s hand a tug, a silent invitation to follow, and Crowley moves almost automatically, his feet dragging slightly as though his body’s trying to delay the inevitable. Aziraphale leads him into the kitchen, the familiar hum of the backroom falling away as the warm, homely space embraces them in its quiet comfort. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, but it does little to erase the heavy, anxious weight that still clings to Crowley’s chest.

“Come now. Sit down. Just breathe, okay?” Aziraphale’s voice is still calm, still that gentle pull to something more grounded, more present. It’s almost maddening—the way he seems to accept everything with such grace, such peace when all Crowley can think of is the clock ticking away, each second closer to the end. Aziraphale releases his hand, and Crowley’s eyes linger on his retreating form as the angel moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, opening cupboards and retrieving mugs as if this is just another morning as if the world isn’t crumbling in slow motion around them.

“Coffee?” Aziraphale asks, his back turned as he busies himself with the preparations.

Crowley nods, but the action feels hollow, the sound of it a thin echo in the stillness. He can’t tear his eyes away from Aziraphale, the fluidity of his movements unsettling in its normalcy. It’s so strange, so disorienting, to see the angel functioning as though nothing is wrong when everything feels so terribly, undeniably wrong. The sense of detachment gnaws at him—like he’s floating, disconnected, watching this moment unfold from a distance.

“I can’t just…” Crowley’s voice breaks the silence, raw and jagged. His words feel like they’re being pulled from somewhere deep inside, something ugly and vulnerable. “Sit here and enjoy our time together, knowing…” His throat tightens, the words strangled with an emotion that refuses to settle. “Knowing that every moment could be our last.”

The words hang in the air between them, thick with fear and pain, but Aziraphale doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, he finishes making the coffee with the same unhurried precision, then carries the steaming cup over to Crowley, setting it gently in front of him. The warmth of the cup contrasts sharply with the chill that still lingers in Crowley’s veins, the tension that hasn’t yet loosened its grip.

Aziraphale pulls out a chair and sits down beside him, the movement smooth, almost comforting. For a moment, they’re both silent, the weight of everything unspoken pressing on them like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Then Aziraphale speaks again, his voice soft but unshakable. “The more you focus on that fear, the less you’ll appreciate the time we have.”

His words cut through the silence, and they settle into Crowley’s mind like stones dropped into water, sending ripples through the chaos in his chest. It’s not what Crowley wants to hear—not at all—but there’s something about the way Aziraphale says it, with that same quiet conviction that has always grounded Crowley in a way he’s not sure he understands, that makes him stop and think.

Crowley looks down at the cup in front of him, the steam rising in delicate tendrils, and for a moment, he allows himself to inhale deeply, the rich scent of the coffee filling his lungs, pulling him away from the frantic, spiraling thoughts. The world feels still, as if time has bent around them, waiting, uncertain. But no matter how much he tries to center himself in the present, the fear lingers, clawing at the edges of his mind. Every moment could be their last.

“You don’t understand,” Crowley mutters, the words barely above a whisper. He takes a sip of the coffee, the bitter warmth hitting his tongue like a small comfort, a brief distraction. But it doesn’t change the heaviness in his chest, the pit of dread that refuses to let go. “I can’t just forget about it. I can’t just…” He trails off, his voice faltering, before adding, softer, “I can’t lose you.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything at first, his eyes searching Crowley’s face, reading the depth of the fear that lingers there. His fingers move to rest lightly on Crowley’s hand, the touch tender but insistent. There’s a stillness in him that Crowley can’t quite understand, a quiet acceptance that doesn’t sit right with the storm of panic inside him.

“Then don’t,” Aziraphale finally says, his voice low, a thread of sadness woven through his words. “Don’t lose me. Not yet. Not here.”

Crowley wraps his hands around the cup, the warmth of it almost mocking as his fingers tremble around the edges. The heat is a stark contrast to the chill gnawing at his insides, and he presses it to his lips, taking a sip without truly tasting it. The burn on his tongue barely registers—his mind is too consumed with the weight of everything else to care about something so trivial.

As he lowers the cup, his eyes find Aziraphale, and in that moment, the frustration he's been holding back finally boils over. He doesn’t even try to hide the sharpness in his voice, the edge that has been growing with each passing second. “You can’t just expect me not to worry,” he spits out, his chest tightening with the sting of helplessness. “You can’t be so… accepting of your own fucking death. It’s… it’s not fair.”

Aziraphale doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away from the heat in Crowley’s words. Instead, he places his hand on Crowley’s forearm, the coolness of his touch seeping through the fabric of his shirt, sharp and unmistakable. The contrast of it hits Crowley like a punch to the gut, a reminder that nothing is normal, nothing is safe. The weight of Aziraphale’s touch is gentle, but there’s a certain finality to it that makes Crowley want to recoil.

“What else can I do?” Aziraphale murmurs softly, his voice as calm and steady as ever, almost too calm. His thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles on Crowley’s arm, as though the gesture alone can somehow fix everything. “I’d rather focus on living—on cherishing you while I still can, reading the books I still can read—than worry over what may or may not come.”

The words fall over Crowley like cold water, and for a moment, they don’t make sense. He watches Aziraphale, still not entirely grasping the serene acceptance that emanates from him, the angel so resigned to a fate Crowley can’t even begin to wrap his mind around. He wants to scream, to shake Aziraphale, to make him see reason, to make him *fight*. But the words that come out instead are hoarse and raw, brittle with frustration. “You could… try. You could look for some way to fix this, to—”

He falters, the rest of the sentence dying on his tongue. The weight of Aziraphale’s cold hand on his arm pulls him under, like sinking into the deepest part of the ocean. He can barely breathe as he looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him, and for the first time in a long while, something like doubt, something sharp and ugly, pricks at his heart.

Aziraphale’s expression is unreadable as he stares back, that familiar calm still settling around him, but Crowley can see it now—the faintest tremor in the angel’s eyes, a flicker of something deeper, something resigned. It’s that same quiet acceptance, but now it feels different. It feels like… giving up.

Crowley feels his chest tighten with something dark and unbearable. His breath catches in his throat. “But you’ve already… given up, haven’t you?” His voice cracks on the words, the realization settling on him like a weight he’s been carrying for far too long. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows it now, deep in his bones. He knows that Aziraphale isn’t fighting anymore. And that thought, that cruel truth, makes his stomach churn with helplessness.

Aziraphale doesn’t look away. His hand lingers on Crowley’s arm, but it’s colder than it should be, colder than Crowley remembers. “No,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice steady despite the weight of Crowley’s words. “I haven’t given up. I’ve simply chosen to live as fully as I can for however long I have left.” His gaze doesn’t waver, and Crowley feels the weight of that look, like the angel is daring him to understand, to accept it. But all Crowley can think about is the absence of hope in those eyes, the stillness that has settled in Aziraphale’s soul. It cuts deeper than anything he could say. Aziraphale shakes his head slowly, almost as though trying to rid himself of the weight of Crowley’s words. His voice is softer this time, but the strength in it is undeniable. “I haven’t given up, Crowley. I’m still waiting for the right moment to meet with Raphael—to finally get concrete answers about what's happening to my core, my True Form…” He takes a slow, steadying breath, as if gathering every last bit of strength. His grip on Crowley’s forearm tightens ever so slightly, a silent anchor. “But… the risk of it all… It’s real. I can’t just live my life in fear.”

The words hit Crowley like a stone sinking in his gut. His chest tightens painfully, the breath in his lungs becoming thick, difficult. He sets his mug down with a soft clink, the sound somehow more jarring than it should be. The porcelain seems too delicate in his hands, too fragile for the weight of what Aziraphale is saying. “So, we’re just… waiting?” he asks, his voice rough. “Waiting for this thing inside you to slowly eat away at you until… until everything is completely gone?”

He reaches out for Aziraphale’s hand, his fingers trembling, but he grips it firmly, unwilling to let go. His touch is desperate, as though holding on to this one moment, this one piece of Aziraphale, might somehow stop the inevitable.

Aziraphale’s hand trembles beneath his grip, and the sight of it breaks something in Crowley. He swallows hard, forcing down the bitterness rising in his throat. “We wait… until Raphael can get me to Heaven and do a thorough examination,” Aziraphale says quietly, the words almost a whisper, as though speaking them aloud makes them too real to bear.

Crowley’s knuckles whiten with the intensity of his grip, his breath coming in shallow bursts. “And if he finds there’s no cure?” he forces out, his voice cracking as he dares to ask the question he’s been too terrified to face. “If he tells you that your core is… is set on destroying you?”

Aziraphale meets his gaze without flinching, the sorrow in his eyes as clear as the day itself. “Then… we’ll have to accept it.” His voice is steady, but Crowley can hear the hesitation, the barely contained fear beneath it. He leans in closer, his forehead almost touching Crowley’s. “That’s why we need to cherish this time we have now, Crowley.”

But the words only make Crowley’s chest tighten even more, as though an invisible weight is pressing down on him, squeezing the air out of his lungs. “You say that like it’s easy,” he rasps, his voice breaking with the rawness of his emotions. “Like I can just… sit here and enjoy each second, knowing it might be your last. That… that at any moment you could be gone.”

Aziraphale raises his cold hand, gently cupping Crowley’s chin, his fingers sending an icy shock through him. The touch is tender, almost too tender, and yet it leaves Crowley feeling more alone than ever. “If it comes to that, you’ll regret not making the most of the time we had,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice soft but filled with a quiet urgency, as though he’s begging Crowley to understand.

Crowley’s heart aches at the angel’s words, the raw pain in his chest spreading like wildfire. He stares into Aziraphale’s eyes, searching for the warmth he’s always known, but all he can see is that cold acceptance. The thought of losing him is like a jagged knife twisting in his soul. His voice is hoarse as he finally speaks, his words trembling with emotion. “Enjoy what, angel?” he whispers. “Living each moment terrified it might be the last? Knowing you could… disappear, just… just like that?”

His voice catches, and he swallows hard, fighting to keep himself together. The ache in his chest is unbearable, and yet it pales in comparison to the crushing fear that threatens to swallow him whole.

Aziraphale brushes his cool thumb over Crowley’s lower lip, the touch soft, almost tender, but it feels like a cruel reminder of everything they stand to lose. “That’s why you have to push those fears aside. Live in the moment.” He gives Crowley a sad smile, his gaze searching the demon’s face as though trying to piece together a way to make him understand. “I’m here right now. I don’t want you looking at me and already seeing a memory… while I’m still right here.”

Crowley’s heart aches at those words, a heavy, suffocating ache that feels like it might split him open. He closes his eyes, a fresh wave of tears threatening to break free, but he keeps them at bay. The thought of Aziraphale slipping away, of losing him before he’s even had the chance to truly *live* with him, is more than Crowley can bear.

“How am I supposed to do that, angel?” he whispers, his voice cracking with the weight of it all. “How can I just act like everything’s normal when I know it’s… it’s not?”

Aziraphale leans in, his lips pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, and then another, gentle and lingering, on his cheek. The kiss is cold—so painfully cold— the warmth of Aziraphale’s breath against his skin is the only warmth left in him. “Why?” Aziraphale asks softly, his voice almost a plea. “Why do you look at me here, right next to you, and already think I’m gone?”

Crowley’s eyes remain closed, but a fresh wave of emotion surges up from deep within him, breaking free in a burst of frustration. “Because I’m terrified!” he snaps, his voice a harsh rasp. “Because the thought of losing you… it’s unbearable. And I feel so… so helpless, knowing I can’t stop it.”

The words come crashing out of him, raw and unfiltered, and as soon as they’re spoken, he feels them settle in the air between them like a weight neither of them can escape. Aziraphale doesn’t pull away, doesn’t recoil from the outburst. Instead, he just stays there, his cool hand still cradling Crowley’s cheek, as though trying to hold him together even when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Crowley opens his eyes, and the sight of Aziraphale, with his eyes wide and sad, feels like a cold slap. There’s anguish in his gaze, a raw, unrestrained dread clinging to every feature. His heart aches, and his words catch in his throat, the simple act of breathing becoming a struggle. “Seeing you like this—feeling how cold you are…” he begins, his voice shaking. He swallows hard, and when he speaks again, the words come out in a ragged whisper. “It’s like you’re already slipping away from me.”

Aziraphale steps back just slightly, and with the gentleness that only he can muster, he reaches up and wipes away Crowley’s tears with his cold fingertips, the chill of his touch cutting through the rawness of the moment. His eyes are tender but laced with sorrow. “You’re grieving me before I’m even gone, Crowley,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, almost too soft. “This is why I didn’t want you to know.”

The weight of Aziraphale’s words presses down on Crowley, settling deep into his chest like lead. His throat tightens, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak. Aziraphale’s voice drops to a whisper, laced with something deeper, a sadness that feels almost like resignation. “You’re looking at me, but you’re not really seeing me anymore, are you? In your mind, I’m already dead, aren't I?”

Crowley feels a sharp ache slice through him, a twisting pain that threatens to overwhelm him. He tries to form words, tries to push through the suffocating knot in his chest, but they come out cracked and broken. “I see you, angel. I do.” His voice falters, and his eyes begin to burn. “But I can’t forget that you’re… that you’re not well. That you’re not…” He trails off, his voice a mere breath, as if he’s afraid to even say the words.

He looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him—searching, searching through every inch of that familiar face, the one he’s known for over six thousand years. But now, those features seem different. Fragile. Temporary. Like they could vanish in a blink. Like they’ve never been more precious, and yet so delicate.

Aziraphale gently runs his fingers down Crowley’s jawline, as if touching him like he would one of his most treasured books—careful, reverential, and full of a quiet, unspoken sadness. “I may be the one who’s sick,” Aziraphale says softly, his thumb brushing over Crowley’s skin, “but you’re the one leaving me before I’m even gone.”

Crowley’s heart gives a painful lurch, the air catching in his chest. He fights to breathe, but it feels like there’s too much weight pressing on his lungs, too much hurt lodged in his ribs. “I can’t help it, all right?” he spits out, his voice cracking like shattered glass. He grips Aziraphale’s wrists, holding on like a lifeline, the coldness of the angel’s skin sinking deep into him, grounding him in the unbearable reality of it all. “Every time I look at you, it feels like I’m standing at the edge of an abyss, just waiting to fall.”

Aziraphale’s gaze drops to where Crowley’s hands are clenched around his wrists, his breathing shaky now, like he’s caught between something painful and something beyond his control. “Crowley…” His voice is hesitant, breaking in places, though his words are measured. “You can’t go on like this.” He pulls back, just enough that the space between them feels unbearably large. “You’re torturing yourself by staying with me. Every time you look at me, all you see is what’s coming—and that’s going to destroy you too. I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

Crowley’s chest tightens painfully as Aziraphale carefully, deliberately pulls his wrists free from his grasp. The loss of that contact—the absence of the only thing that’s felt real in this moment—almost knocks the air from him. Aziraphale takes another step back, and the space between them seems to stretch, pulling Crowley’s heart with it.

“You should go.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, but there’s no mistaking the finality in it. The words strike Crowley like a blow, the weight of them enough to shatter him entirely. Every instinct in him screams to hold on, to keep fighting, to do whatever it takes to stop this. But Aziraphale’s eyes—those kind, eternal eyes—hold his gaze, and for the first time in forever, Crowley isn’t sure whether he’s staring at the angel he’s loved for millennia, or the ghost of the man he’s losing.

Crowley stands frozen, his mind struggling to make sense of the situation, his heart beating erratically in his chest. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, can’t comprehend the words that just came out of Aziraphale’s mouth. The ground beneath him feels like it’s slipping away, pulling him into a void he doesn’t know how to escape from. His voice trembles as he whispers, barely managing to get the words out. “What..? You… you’re telling me to leave?”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to face him, but Crowley can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a thousand-pound stone. He swallows hard, his throat dry. “You can’t be serious. You’re asking me to leave you now, when you’re… when you’re like this?”

The silence between them is deafening, broken only by the sound of Aziraphale’s slow, measured breaths. Finally, Aziraphale stands, his posture stiff and fragile, as though each movement is costing him something precious. His heart is pounding in his chest, every beat a reminder of the pain he’s trying to keep buried. The sound of it echoes in Crowley’s mind like a ticking clock. He can see the anguish in Aziraphale’s eyes even without looking directly at him. “I can’t watch you tear yourself apart like this, Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly, his voice a little too controlled, too careful. “I can’t keep looking into your eyes and seeing you staring past me, into a future that hasn’t even happened yet.”

He walks toward the sink, taking Crowley’s empty mug and placing it with mechanical precision in the basin, as though it’s the only thing he has control over right now. “Go.”

Crowley stumbles, his body aching as he tries to steady himself, his legs weak, unsteady. He feels as though the floor is slipping out from beneath him. “No,” he says, his voice rough, desperate, and it cracks at the end like a dying breath. “No, angel. You can’t… you can’t tell me to leave. I can’t just walk away, knowing you might…”

His voice trails off, his chest tight with fear, with a dread that he can’t push away. “I won’t leave you, angel. I can’t.”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to him. His voice comes cold and distant, like an echo from a faraway place. “Why?” he asks, his eyes never leaving the sink, his voice as measured and distant as a thought long past. “Is it because you love me, or because you’re feeling guilty?”

Crowley feels the words hit him like a slap, the coldness of them sinking deep into his skin. His heart clenches painfully at the accusation, at the ice in Aziraphale’s tone.

“Both,” he admits, his voice cracking, rough with the weight of the truth. “Of course, both. I love you. I’m in love with you, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” He takes a step forward, though the space between them feels impossibly wide, like a chasm he could never cross. “Sitting here, absolutely powerless, is driving me fucking insane, Aziraphale.”

But Aziraphale doesn’t move. He remains still, picking up a dish towel and methodically drying the mug as if the act of cleaning is the only thing keeping him grounded. His voice, when it comes, is soft but unyielding. “Leave.” He dries the mug with a slow, deliberate motion. “If you truly love me, come back when you can look at me without seeing my True Form being destroyed. Come back when you can see me.”

Aziraphale turns then, his face streaked with tears, and Crowley’s chest constricts painfully at the sight. “The angel who’s still here,” Aziraphale says, his voice catching. “Not just an empty shell.”

Before Crowley can say a word, Aziraphale turns again, his movements precise, almost mechanical as he places the mug back in the cupboard. “But if you realize your reason for coming back is just fear and guilt—not love—then don’t return.” His voice remains steady, but there’s a subtle break, like a crack in glass, that Crowley can barely hear. Still, Aziraphale doesn’t look at him. He closes the cupboard door with a soft click, and the sound echoes in the stillness of the room.

Crowley stands there, his heart a tangled mess of emotions, his chest tight, suffocating. He wants to argue, to fight, to deny everything Aziraphale just said. He wants to scream, to tell him that this isn’t right, that he can’t leave him like this. But deep down, he knows Aziraphale is right—his love, tangled as it is with fear and guilt, isn’t enough to change the inevitable. He isn’t strong enough to fix what’s broken.

Aziraphale brushes past him then, moving toward the hall. For a brief moment, Crowley catches sight of the tears streaming down Aziraphale’s face, streaking down his cheeks, disappearing into the collar of his coat. The sight of it sends a knife of pain through Crowley’s chest. He wants to reach out, to pull Aziraphale close, to tell him that none of this is fair—that he can’t lose him—but his limbs feel as if they’re weighed down with lead. His heart is an anchor, pulling him deeper into the darkness of helplessness.

Aziraphale’s figure is distant, slipping away, and Crowley feels that cold void widening between them. And in that moment, despite every instinct screaming at him to reach out, to fight for them, he feels the weight of a loss that hasn’t even happened yet.

Crowley stands frozen in the middle of the kitchen, the weight of Aziraphale’s departure pressing down on him. He watches the angel’s retreating figure, each step a reminder of the growing chasm between them, an abyss he feels powerless to cross. The silence in the room is deafening, and every breath Crowley takes seems to echo louder in the emptiness

A faint metallic sound slices through the quiet, drawing Crowley’s attention downward. His eyes fall on the Bentley’s keys, lying innocently on the kitchen table. Aziraphale must have miracled them there—another sign of the angel’s quiet control, even in the midst of his own heartache. The keys glint in the dim light, a small, seemingly insignificant object that suddenly feels like everything.

Crowley feels a wave of emotions crash over him, each one more overwhelming than the last: a searing anger, raw and unjust, directed at Aziraphale for pushing him away; a deep confusion, questioning everything that’s brought them to this point; a heart-wrenching hurt, knowing that Aziraphale is slipping away, piece by piece; and a sorrow so profound, it makes the air feel thicker, harder to breathe. But there’s one feeling that cuts through it all—a deep, hollow acceptance. He knows this is the way it ends. He knows he can’t stop it, no matter how much he wants to.

He picks up the keys, clutching them tightly in his hand, feeling their cool weight anchor him to the present. Without a second thought, he snaps his fingers, summoning the pair of shades from Aziraphale’s nightstand. He places them on his face, the familiar, dark lenses a mask he can hide behind. The world outside the shop suddenly feels sharper, colder, and yet somehow farther away. The door swings open with a heavy, final sound, and he steps outside into the crisp November air.

The cold cuts through him, biting at his skin, but he doesn’t feel it. He’s numb, each step feeling like it’s dragging him through quicksand. His mind is consumed with Aziraphale—his face, his words, the unspoken pain that lingers between them. But the more he thinks about it, the more it all becomes a blur. His mind is spinning, trapped in a vortex of grief and helplessness.

When he reaches the Bentley, his hands shake as he fumbles with the keys, his fingers betraying him, too unsteady to get the door open. He grits his teeth, frustration rising in him like a storm, but finally, the door clicks open. He slides into the driver’s seat, the familiar leather creaking under him, and the cold touch of the steering wheel does nothing to ground him. His fingers wrap around it, gripping it too tightly, as though trying to hold onto something that’s slipping through his fingers.

The engine rumbles to life, a low growl beneath him, but it feels distant, hollow. He pulls away from the curb, his foot heavy on the gas. The city stretches out before him, its lights blurring in the rearview mirror, but everything feels like a dream—too surreal to grasp, too far away to hold onto.

Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Crowley willingly lets them fall, his vision a mess of blurry streetlights and the endless dark of the road ahead. The tears come in waves—familiar, aching, unstoppable. There’s no destination. No plan. No reason for driving, except to escape the suffocating weight of what’s left unsaid, of what’s been broken beyond repair.

The city blurs past him, its sounds muffled and distant, as he drives aimlessly through the night, trying, and failing, to outrun the heavy, suffocating grief pressing down on him.