#enemies to something between the lines of loss and lust

[stripedstarsblueflags]

LET HIM COOK (me) (respectfully) anyways enjoy the second installment!! :D

[ramzawrites]

requesting an angsty fic where reader is schlatts kid and they have the same features as him, namely the horns so people avoid them because of what schlatt did, it leads to reader hating their horns and cutting them off/ ripping them out and someone finds them crying, covered in blood with their horns just on the ground or smth, set after schlatts death btw

A Painful Reminder - Dad!Schlatt and Reader - Part 1

Part 2

GN

Pairings: none

Characters included: Quackity, Niki, (mentioned) Schlatt, (mentioned) Techno

Warnings: self harm (destroying own horns with a blunt object), mention of blood, abondenment, depression, cursing

Series: an angst request!

Summary: Y/N is the child of Schlatt and after his death tried their best to deal with the grief. Hoping to connect with people only to painfully realize that their horns are a painful reminder to everyone for Schlatt’s rule and therefore try to stay as far as possible from them.

Words count: 2428

Authors Note: I hope this is fine! I struggled a bit with it and I think you can tell, I apologize for that. I’m honestly not that good with angst but if you enjoy it I’m happy!! Please give me feedback on how to get better at angst :o

I love you guys and please take care of yourself 💙

After Schlatt died and Pogtopia effectively won the war against Manberg only for the nation to get blown up by Wilbur, the people tried their best to rebuild with the help of Tubbo as the new president.

There was a new sense of hope that swept through the nation. They all suffered greatly to get to this place but this was a turning point for most. A time for healing. A time for rebuilding what was lost. A time for grief.

While Y/N spent most of their time building up their own home inside L’Manberg, they were struggling a lot with grief.

They mourned for the loss of the only parent they had in their life, Schlatt.

The president of Manburg, the tyrant that died surrounded by his enemies inside a van. The only parent of Y/N.

The relationship between the two was complicated to say the least. Deep inside they still loved their father but he brought so much pain and even bloodshed on people that they couldn’t in good conscience support him.

For the longest time they tried their best trying to persuade him, that he would change his way but he never listened. Either too full with his own ego or too drunk to care. The last straw that broke the camel’s back for Y/N was when Schlatt ordered Tubbo’s execution.

The emotions they felt while they yelled and wailed at Schlatt to stop this madness was still fresh in their mind whenever their thoughts lingered back to that day. Quackity had to  physically restrain and pull them back on Schlatt’s orders.

It was the moment they realized that there was no way for them to reach Schlatt anymore. He was set in his way and nothing could change that.

After their death to Technoblade’s blood lust during the festival, they ran away and spoke with Tommy. Y/N didn’t want to kill Schlatt but they saw in Pogtopia a chance to stop him. Make him see what he has done. Make him responsible for his actions.

Only this never came to pass. Schlatt died inside a dirty van. A heart attack or a stroke. Y/N didn’t know, nor did they care. He was dead either way.

While everyone was rebuilding and trying to fall back into a normal day to day life. Y/N was lost. They didn’t feel particularly close to anyone nor did the other seem to trust them. Their eyes were always drawn towards Y/N’s horns resting on their head.

During Schlatt’s rule they became somewhat of a symbol. A symbol for himself, for pain, for blood, for tyranny. So when Y/N walked around town the others couldn’t help but stare at these oh so similar horns that reminded them of a past best forgotten.

It made Y/N unsure of themself. It was a physical proof of their connection to their father. It was a double edged sword. In the past they loved that they inherited similar Hybrid traits like their father but now it was the reason why everyone seemed to avoid them.

The people wanted to move on but these damn horns pulled them back whenever their eyes fell on them. Y/N wasn’t stupid. They noticed this pretty fast.

Hell, if anything the funeral was the best proof for that. Bad tried his best to keep everyone under control and have a proper funeral but everyone was too busy celebrating. Talking about stealing his bones. Destroying a picture of him.

All while Y/N sat in the back. They had hoped they could use this funeral as a way to finally say goodbye, let go off the pain and regret but all this chaos just made them realize that the people will never properly accept them due to their relation with Schlatt.

Schlatt may have put all of the people through a horrible and unforgivable time but he effectively snuffed out any chance for Y/N to live a normal life between these people. This legacy of his for Y/N stung almost deeper than all the time he insulted them or flat out ignored them. It made them wonder if he ever realized what he did to his own child. Even if he did Y/N wasn’t sure he cared enough to do anything about it.

Y/N wrung their hands as they stood in front of Niki’s and Puffy’s flower shop. The money ready in their hands so this transaction could happen faster but even so they were too nervous to step in.

After some mental pep talk they finally slowly pushed the wooden door open. To their horror it begun creaking which made them wince. There was no way Niki hasn’t noticed them walking in seeing how she stood at the counter but still Y/N didn’t want to put more attention on themself than they absolutely had to.

“Oh.” Was all Niki said. She almost sounded disappointed. Y/N realized that she probably would have happily greeted anyone else coming into the shop but them.

Their eyes were glued to the ground. As they suddenly became overly aware of their horns, it felt like their weight increased immensely. Almost as if they tried to press down on Y/N. It made them feel as small and worthless as possible under the gaze of other people.

Y/N put the money on the counter as soon as they reached it “A full bouquet of purple hyacinth, please.”

“Alright.” Niki immediately moved away in order to make the bouquet ready. Though Y/N didn’t watch, they were now staring at the wood of the counter. Following he natural lines of it with their eyes as they patiently waited.

After a few minutes Niki placed the flowers in front of Y/N which pulled them out of their thoughts and made them look up. Niki forced a smile on but she still looked almost stern. Soft crevices building up as her eyebrows formed a painful frown.

“This is too much.” Niki begun pushing some of the money back towards Y/N but they shook their head.

“It’s a tip.”

Picking the flowers up into their arms they tried to put on a genuine smile before turning around to walk out of the shop.

Before they exited the shop they could hear Niki say a soft “Thanks.”

That was basically how every conversation with anyone went. Only short and the most necessary words. At first Y/N tried to start genuine conversation but they soon noticed how the others wouldn’t react. Just trying to get as fast as possible through this conversation. Their eyes always directed on Y/N’s horns.

After Y/N placed the flowers in front of Schlatt’s grave, like they did every week, they made their way towards the river.

Sometimes they would spend their time there since it’s a bit farther away from the city, so it was rare to see someone else hanging out there. Y/N mostly used this place to fish in peace. If they fished anywhere near the others their stares and frowns weighed too heavy down on them.

As they sat at the bank of the river, preparing their fishing line, their eyes fell unto their own reflection.

Dark circles adorned their eyes from their countless restless nights. Only falling asleep after hours of crying.

They couldn’t help but put the blame on their horns. Their god damn horns. Y/N hated them. Hated them so much. What would their life be like without them? Would the others still eye them so incredibly cautiously? Would they give Y/N a chance? After all Y/N was vocal about the fact that they didn’t support any of Schlatt’s decisions. For the longest time they tried to help the others through the hard times!

Yet, now as he was dead, they only showed Y/N the cold shoulder. If it wasn’t Y/N themself then the reason has to entirely lay on the horns. It was a too strong reminder of Schlatt.

A sob escaped Y/N’s lips. Tears now falling down their cheeks onto the green grass. No one was around so they didn’t mind crying loudly like this.

It was just so unfair. They did everything they could and yet all they reaped was disdain from the people and in a sick twist Y/N couldn’t even fault them for it. Whenever they saw their own reflection, their own eyes would be drawn to their dark horns after all.

Back in the day they were always happy looking at them but now they were the reason for Y/N being abandoned by everyone. They used to be somewhat good friends with Quackity due to his position as Schlatt’s Vice President and even he ignored them as soon as Schlatt was dead.

They had no one and at fault were these stupid, ugly horns.

Y/N let the fishing rod fall to the ground as they continued staring at their reflection. Trembling as they sobbed. Feeling so lonely with no way out.

What could they do? Put on a hat? There is no hat big enough to hide their horns. No, the horns had to go. There was no other way.

Shakily their hand snaked through the grass towards the water. Slowly submerging it into the ice cold liquid as the hand continued searching for something. As their hand landed on a stone that fit perfectly in their palm they held it in front of their face. Inspecting it.

As if to test it they softly tapped the stone against the tip of their horn. Their head moving with it. It felt weird. It didn’t hurt, of course, but it was still a weird feeling as the soft vibration traveled through it.

Letting out a shaky breath they reached back with their arm. The stone in an iron grip.

They hated this.

They hated everything about this but what could they possibly do? What could they do to get a proper chance at a normal conversation with Niki while buying flowers? A proper chance to talk with Quackity again, the man who was right there with them as all the bullshit happened.

All they wanted was a real chance to connect with people.

Y/N let out a sobbing scream as the stone collided with their horn, ripping off a good part of the tip.

It softly splashed into the water. Getting stuck between rocks, slowly rocking with the water stream.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.” They stammered between sobs as they once again pulled their arm back in order to strike the horn again.

Again.

Again.

And again.

Their arm and hand hurt from constantly colliding with the hard material. A huge headache was now spreading through their head as they were sitting between broken pieces of what used to make up their horn.

But they weren’t done yet. The other side had to go as well.

With every new blow their whimpers would increase as well. At first a result of their hopelessness but it soon turned into an expression of pain. But they couldn’t give up. They had to keep going.

They had to get rid off this legacy Schlatt left them with.

After a particularly harsh blow they suddenly felt something warm slide down the side of their head.

Letting the stone fall down onto the ground they frantically stared at their own reflection in the water. It was blood.

Shocked they let out a shaky laugh. As much as it hurt and was horrible to look at, there weren’t any rest pieces of the horn resting on their head. So they picked the rock back up and with a blood curdling scream they slammed it into the other horn again, trying to get rid of the rest properly.

And it worked.

They were light headed from the pain, bleeding and crying but the horns were gone.

They were finally free of the curse.

“Finally.” They mumbled to themself only to finally take the time to rest and cry. They cried their god damn heart out. It was as if all the stress from the last couple of months finally jumped off their back.

Y/N’s back hit the soft ground as they slammed back, staring at the leaves up above them. Dancing with the wind and only occasionally giving away to the sun that was shining down on them.

Dark red blood staining the green grass. Their eyes growing heavier the more they continued to cry and hyperventilate. This pain is nothing. From this point on everything has to get better. It has to.

There was an audible gasp.

It wasn’t Y/N but they were too tired to look where it came from.

“Y/N? What the hell did you do? What happened? By Ender you are bleeding!” it was a male voice. Quackity? They weren’t too sure. Too delirious to tell.

Strong hands fell on their arms and pushed them up in a sitting position. Their head rolled back and they finally looked into Quackity’s pale face. So, they were right after all.

One of his arms went around their back in order to hold the crying Y/N upright as he took a better look at the wounds.

“I have to get you to someone who knows how to make healing pots. Maybe regeneration? Hell if I know. Did you do this? Your hands are covered in blood.” He was frantic.

Y/N shakily moved their hands up in order to grab Quackity’s hand that was holding their head in place and pushed it away from them, smearing his hand with their own blood “Don’t worry. I freed myself. The horns are gone. Now, you guys don’t have to be reminded of him anymore. We can all finally live in peace. No more reminders to him.”

Quackity’s eyes widened. His mouth opened up in an expression of pure shock. He hated that he could tell immediately what they meant exactly. After the war he did avoid them as much as he could. As Y/N said they, or rather their horns, reminded him too much of Schlatt and he needed time to heal but he never imagined this could lead to this.

He felt incredibly guilty. Realizing that he never really thought about what everyone’s behavior did to Y/N.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. We’ll find a way to help you.” His arm went under Y/N’s legs and with some straining he managed to get back up, holding them in his arms. Y/N leaned their head against Quackity’s chest, staining it with their blood in the process.

“See. It’s already working.” They whispered just before passing out.

“Fuck.” Quackity had to find someone who knew how to heal them as soon as possible. Jogging back into the city calling frantically out for help.

[jennagrinsoverml]

ML Fic Recs - Ladynoir

I think most readers can appreciate a good rec list, but it’s often the same fics that I see recced again and again. I get why they’re recced - they’re amazing! But I want help finding fic I haven’t already read. So I decided to be the change I want to see in the world. The rule: the fic must have less than a thousand kudos on AO3 (but I’m trying to limit to fics that have less than 500.) Obviously this means a lot of my favourites are not included here, but you’ve probably read all of those already anyway. 

If you enjoy these, please reblog so more readers can find these awesome fics!

To get things started and in honour of the quality ladynoir content we just got (which I’m hoping will inspire even more quality fan content!), let’s have some ladynoir recs. Fics are in no particular order.

Amnesiac? More like Amnesi-Chat by therealjanebingley

Oblivio's back, and this time only Chat Noir gets hit. Based on his limited knowledge and the way Ladybug acts towards him, he makes some assumptions.

One-shot. This is hilarious. From Chat’s genuine glee about his superheroes to Ladybug’s affectionate indulgence to having Chat provide an “outside perspective�� on Ladybug’s non-platonic behaviour towards him to the teasing... I could see this actually happening in an Oblivio 2.0 episode.

Experimental Kisses by @komorebirei

Ladybug watched him. Maybe it was guilt, maybe sympathy, maybe a streak of playfulness. Maybe the traumatic akuma experience had softened her up. Whatever the reason, a thought wafted lazily through her mind and out of her mouth. “You know… you’re right. It isn’t fair, is it?”

Chat Noir looked up.

“I remember my first kiss, but you don’t.” She hummed and tapped her chin, making a show of remembering. “It wasn’t a bad kiss, but we were in the middle of fighting an akuma, so I didn’t get to enjoy it much, either.”

Oops—that came out sounding a little, no, a lot more flirty than she had intended. Anyway, if she was going to commit to this idea, she may as well go all in.

One-shot. Ladybug offers to kiss Chat since he doesn’t remember their kiss and the way she reacts to the kiss...it lives in my mind rent-free. I have fallen asleep many a night fantasizing about what the repercussions of the kiss might look like. 

What's your favourite colour? by @hermionemonica

Ladybug and Chat Noir sit on a rooftop, watching the sunset.

One-shot. This fic is short and sweet and absolutely lovely. It’s set post-reveal and despite only being 566 words it’s full of sweetness and feeling.

Margins of Error by orphan_account

“Do you…” Ladybug's voice is at an almost-whisper. He can feel her breath fire-hot against his face. “Do you want me to show you how I think they should write our kiss?”

Adrien isn’t here anymore, leave a message after the tone.

--

Adrien was raised on order. His life is meticulously planned, each day as reliable as the equations he studies in physics and calculus. But Ladybug- Ladybug always has him at a loss.

One-shot. Okay, so I know the author of this one since I download all my favourite fics, but since they’ve orphaned it I’m going to respect that. However, since the author was kind enough to leave the work up so people can continue to enjoy it, I’m going to suggest that people do so! Ladynoir kisses featuring my absolute favourite dynamic: sexually assertive Ladybug and receptive Chat Noir. (Don’t take this to mean the fic has sexual content - it’s just kissing.) AMAZING.

Liquid Luck by @somethingvaguetodo

Ladybug enlists Chat Noir's help in decoding the remaining ingredients for the power-up transformation potions. Together, they work on creating them, and possibly destroying the barriers between them.

Multi-chapter. The riddles of the secret potion ingredients are fun to think about, Ladybug and Chat Noir both get to show off their smarts, and the trust and support between the two of them is showcased. Perfect ladynoir.

when you weren't mine to lose by @bugsandchatons

Change is a scary thing, especially when it feels like nothing has stayed the same.

It's been a year since Marinette became the Guardian of the Miracle Box - a year of struggling beneath a burden she never asked for, a weight that has her leaning on her partner more and more as the hours fly by, of letting him come to her, too, when he needs a soft place to land. A year of falling for the boy who takes on the world by her side with a smile made of sunlight, and fighting the growing urge to tell him what he means to her.

After all, they'll have time enough for that when Paris is safe.

But when the unthinkable happens, Marinette learns the tragedy of loving someone quietly, and the lines she'll cross to save him.

Multi-chapter. This is what happens when Ladybug loses Chat Noir. It hurts in all the best ways and the writing is absolutely gorgeous and somehow we still get a happy ending!

well if i'm beautiful and you're beautiful then who's saving paris? by celebreultimaverba

Chat flirts. Surprisingly, it works.

And then it backfires.

One-shot. This one is so cute and sweet! It’s a quick read but you’ll be smiling by the end of it.

sometimes the dreamers finally wake up by magesamell

"Four days ago a mermaid flooded Paris and an ancient guardian introduced himself to his father as a substitute Chinese tutor. He had thought that would be the end of it."

Ladybug tells Chat Noir all of her secrets.

One-shot. Post-Syren. The fic we all desperately need about Ladybug actively working to restore the balance of her and Chat’s relationship after Fu messes with that. It’s not overly romantic, but it’s absolutely perfect.

i fall in love just a little, oh, just a little by @mlady-noir

If she was asked, Ladybug wouldn't be able to give a specific date when her heart decided to fall for her pun loving partner, but she could point out the night she realized it.

One-shot. Sofffffttttttt. This is just a beautiful narrative of Ladybug’s fall for Chat with a sweet, sweet ending.

Someone I Can’t Fall In Love With by @yslen54

Ladybug agreed with Chat Noir when he suggested that they should finally share their identities with each other, but she’s been dreading it ever since.

One-shot. This is short and sweet. An identity reveal that explores Ladybug’s feelings for Chat Noir and then plays with the divided heart trope.

The following fics are amazing and absolutely worth reading, but do feature sexual content, so minors beware.

You can’t stay away from me by plikki

When Adrien sides with his father, he expects to protect Ladybug and buy some time. He doesn't expect that his emotional state will make it so much harder to resist the girl that he loves, until he just gives in.

Multi-chapter. Rated M. Not-quite an enemies AU, but with all the beautiful angst and tension of one. There’s a fair amount of sex, so be warned but it’s SO SO GOOD. And all of the pain and angst is followed by a sweet happy ending.

baby, we don't have time to be coy by Molebear

"What are we doing?" Chat breathes, the words sending a tendril of lucidity back into Ladybug's hormone-addled brain.

It's a fair question.

The origins of this tryst are a little hazy in her mind at this point. Something about a lovesick akuma, maybe? Ladybug vaguely remembers Chat Noir getting struck by something, only seconds before it hit her too. There was a fight, or... there was something she and Chat Noir had been in the middle of doing - something important, like.... save-the-world important - before she'd dragged him underground with the sole intention of climbing him like a tree.

A scorned lover gets akumatized and gains the power to cast Lust. When it comes to distracting Paris' beloved superhero team, this power turns out to be... rather effective.

One-shot. Rated M. The UST of this one damn near killed me. It’s hot AF and I would commit homicide to read the conversation these two have after that lmaoooo

Charmed, I'm Sure by @chatonne-rousse

Friends with benefits. It's right there in the name, and it's what they are - friends. Best friends. This is just a way for two consenting adults to relieve stress after akuma fights, with the only person they'd trust with this level of intimacy. Really, what could go wrong? (The real question is, what could go right?)

Multi-chapter. Rated E. The sex is really, really hot. It’s in character and full of emotion. And there’s an amazing identity reveal followed by “I’m so happy it’s you!” sex. 

A Little Too Far by imploder

Ladybug gets handsy, and Chat Noir lacks self-control. Alternitavely: "Plagg's Worst Nightmare".

One-shot. Rated E. This one is hot and in character and just absolutely amazing steamy ladynoir content. Features my favourite: sexually assertive Ladybug. Because who doesn’t love playing with gender role stereotypes?

[imaginedhaven]

Give In and Get Away

a smutty Rowaelin oneshot

Link to Hot Professors Collection Masterlist

Summary: Aelin observes one of Rowan’s classes, but pays more attention to him than to the content of his lecture. Afterwards, she proceeds to show him exactly what she knows.

Rating: E for Explicit- not intended for readers under 18!

Contents/Warnings: College Professors AU, Enemies With Benefits, Semi-Public Sex

Here we skip back in time a bit, before even the first oneshot, though of course as always this is intended to stand completely alone with no comprehension of the rest of the ‘verse needed. Enjoy!

~*~*~

Aelin smirked from her position in the rear of the classroom, chewing on the top of her pen as she pretended to take notes. It was the first day of classes at Doranelle University, and as the newest teacher in the psychology department she had been assigned to sit in on one of the upper-level seminars to observe.

She understood, of course, that the department wanted to ensure she was comfortable with teaching a more advanced class in her first year and as well-prepared as she could be. After all, in her previous position she had only taught larger introductory lectures. It was perfectly reasonable to observe a class before she went to teach her own that afternoon.

She had been infuriated to learn that the course she would be observing was Professor Whitethorn’s early-morning seminar on cognitive psychology, but she felt she was making the best of it.

She had been off-kilter the day she’d first met him, and she was sure he’d known he was at an advantage with the way he taunted her. She was less certain why she’d snapped and dragged his face down to hers by his stupid tie when they’d run into each other again near the copier, but she’d assumed it was something they would bury and never speak of again.

Then he had found her in her office three days ago, and the smirk he’d worn as he let himself into the room had told her he was absolutely not going to let her forget it. The things he’d done to her—the things he’d made her feel—had only confirmed it.

And so she’d made a decision that she was going to make him as uncomfortable as possible today. It was only fair, really.

She’d woken up extra early to make certain that she was perfectly presentable, dark pencil skirt perfectly paired with a white blouse and hair neatly braided back. A stop by the campus coffee shop had granted her a large iced coffee with a truly obscene amount of whipped cream, and she’d made sure to pack a notebook and one of her favorite pens as well. To anyone else in the department who’d happened to see her, she would be the epitome of professionalism.

Five minutes into the lecture, though, she’d unbuttoned the top two buttons on her blouse, making eye contact with him the entire time.

She was carefully toeing a line; if anyone other than Whitethorn looked back at her, she needed to appear professional. Similarly, she couldn’t actually disrupt his teaching without getting herself into trouble. But she could deliberately purse her lips around her straw as she sipped her coffee, or lean forward and chew on the end of her pen in a performance of concentration.

By the end of the lecture, Whitethorn was looking thoroughly annoyed. Luckily, she’d checked out his ratings on various websites beforehand and this seemed to be par for the course based on the words of his former students. No one else would have to know.

She casually crossed her legs as students began to file out of the room, feigning innocence when irritated green eyes found hers. Instead of saying anything, she took another sip of her coffee, deliberately ensuring some of the whipped cream lingered on her lips before grinning at him.

As the last student left the room, he walked to the door, closing and locking it before openly glaring at her. Perfect. He was exactly where she wanted him.

She met his glare with an innocent smile. “Do we have a problem?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what you were doing.”

She finally stood, slowly sauntering toward him with swaying hips. “I was paying attention to your overview of cognitive functions, of course. What else could I possibly have been doing?”

He met her by the lectern at the front of the room, hands resting on either side of her and effectively pinning her against it. “I think we both know you didn’t actually write a single thing down. I’ve had a lot of practice watching how students pay attention, and you decidedly were not.”

“Oh, I was paying attention,” she replied, letting her voice drop to a low purr. “I just may not have been paying attention to what you were teaching, per se.”

Before he could say anything she wriggled away from the lectern, flipping their positions and reveling in the fact that his gaze immediately went to her partially-open blouse. His brow was still furrowed with annoyance, but a closer look revealed a pink tinge to the tips of his ears and his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. Yes, she had him now.

Or, rather, she was going to have him.

She licked her lips and watched as his eyes tracked the movement, then arched her back slightly as she undid another button of her blouse. The movement allowed the fabric to slip off of her shoulders, revealing an edge of red lace.

He growled, though he was openly staring by this point. “What on earth are you doing, Galathynius?”

She smirked. “I think you said it best. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

Without another word she dropped to her knees, watching as he gripped the edge of the lectern with white-knuckled hands. The position put his belt at roughly eye level, and she immediately got to work on undoing it.

He inhaled sharply as she freed his cock from the fabric that had been restraining it, and she grinned as she wrapped her hand around it, carefully weighing her options.

Given their previous interactions and the fact that he had to know she was looking to even the score, he probably expected her to toss him over a desk and ride him into oblivion. The thought was certainly tempting, but if she wanted to really catch him off guard…

Aelin smirked. She knew what she had to do.

Slowly, she leaned in and let out a slow exhale, lips parting a mere inch away from the head of his cock. When she saw him grip the lectern more firmly with a hissed fuck, she gave herself a point and glanced up at his face. His head was thrown back in a way that she couldn’t quite see his expression, though she imagined it was somewhere between shock and arousal. At least, she hoped it was. She’d have to wait in order to find out.

That was all right, though. She could be patient when she needed to be.

Finally he looked down at her, brow furrowed in confusion but green eyes hazy with lust. Aelin winked back at him before slowly extending her tongue and laving it over the tip of his cock, never once dropping her eye contact with him. His jaw dropped in a sharp intake of breath before he bit his lip, and if she had to guess he was torn between growling at her to get on with it and waiting to see what exactly she would do.

Luckily for him, she didn’t plan to make him wait any longer.

With one final smirk, she slowly lowered her gaze to the cock before her and wrapped her lips around the tip of it, tongue flattening against the underside. She hummed as if pondering her next move, awarding herself another point when he hissed at the sensation before getting properly to work. They didn’t have long, after all.

Aelin gave him absolutely no warning before sucking him further into her mouth, lips descending as far as she could reach. Once there, she paused for a moment of begrudging delight at the way his cock filled her mouth—just as well as it had filled her elsewhere the last time they had met. The thought made her shiver, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her moan, not when she was the one meant to be tormenting him this time.

His hips twitched in reaction, as though he was trying and failing to hold himself completely still, but Aelin was already pulling back. Before long, she was grinning up at him again with the tip of his cock resting against her lower lip as her hand wrapped around its base. A flick of her tongue against the slit earned her a muffled groan, and when she looked at his face he was staring back down at her, teeth gritted and lip red as though he had been biting it.

Good. She had him exactly where she wanted him now, and she pressed her thighs together against a wave of arousal at the knowledge that she had undone him so easily.

Knowing that time was short, she got back to work, gently sucking and working her lips in tandem with her hand. Her free hand slid its way under her own skirt, and she pressed a fingertip over her clit through her panties with a gasp. She couldn’t do much to herself in her current position, but that didn’t matter in the slightest, not when she was already so aroused from the situation alone.

A tug on her braid pulled her off of his cock, and she glared up at him to find him doing his level best to glare back down at her. “What are you doing?” he hissed. “You realize we’re in a classroom, I take it.”

She smirked. “Come on, Whitethorn. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“If someone sees—”

“You locked the door, didn’t you?”

“The door has a window, Galathynius.”

“And we’re not in plain view of the window. As long as you’re quiet, I don’t see the problem.”

He growled, but finally relaxed his grip on her hair, and for a dizzying moment Aelin mourned the loss of the sensation. She didn’t stop to allow herself to examine the feeling, though; there would be plenty of time for overthinking this later. Instead, she took his cock back into her mouth, sucking and licking in earnest now as she worked to get him off as quickly as she could.

Soon enough, he was tugging at her hair again, this time more gently. She looked up at him as best she could with a mouth full of his cock and lifted an eyebrow, only to find he was staring at the ceiling. “Shit, I—”

Oh. Oh, he was trying to warn her. She wasn’t sure whether to be oddly touched by his consideration or offended that he thought she couldn’t take him coming in her mouth. She supposed it didn’t matter one way or the other right now, though. All that mattered was proving to him exactly what she could take.

Determination renewed, she focused her efforts on the head of his cock, sucking firmly as she moved her hand up and down his shaft. Within moments he let out another muffled groan, hand cupping the back of her head as the taste of him flooded her mouth. She swallowed around him a few times, using her hand to coax the last few drops out of him before neatly tucking his cock back into his pants. A few moments rearranging his clothing and soon enough it would’ve been difficult for anyone else to tell anything had gone on to begin with.

Aelin knew, though. She could see it in the way his fingers still gripped the edge of the lectern, in the pink tinge to his neck and the wildness in his eyes.

It was easy enough to button up her blouse again and straighten her skirt once she stood up, and a quick smoothing of her hand down her braid told her he hadn’t yanked any of her hair out of place. She was as put together as she reasonably could be, though she was sure that her lips would be red and swollen and that she would be wearing a satisfied flush. She was unbelievably wet, too, but her clothes were concealing that readily enough and she could take care of that momentarily.

For now, she simply shot Whitethorn another lazy wink. “You’re welcome.”

Before he could muster the brainpower to reply she was already sauntering out the door, closing it behind herself with a grin and a triumphant sip of the last dregs of her coffee. Yes, that had gone even better than she’d hoped.

~*~*~

Tagging:

@ireallyshouldsleeprn @queen-of-glass @fangirlprincess09 @sassys-world @morganofthewildfire @superspiritfestival @perseusannabeth @sis-it-dont-add-up @jlinez @julemmaes @emilyoftheshadows @thegoddessofyou @mymultiversee @swankii-art-teacher @rowansfirebringer @livsdriverslicense @courtofjurdan @danibutterr @woollycat22 @rowaelinismyotp- your tag isn’t working! Sorry! @sleeping-and-books @acciowests

[heloisedaphnebrightmore]

hello friend! do you know if any wonderful romance books that are set at a beach town, or during the summer?

[Photo credit]

Hello lovely, as I said before, I do have some recs for you. Sorry about the late reply. I will add trigger warnings just to make sure you know what you are getting yourself into if in case you decide to read any of them. As you are on anon, I can't possibly know your age. These books are all 18+ though so keep that in mind.

‘Heloise the book addict’ masterlist | Heloise’s map

If anyone recognises trigger warnings I have missed, feel free to let me know and I'll add them :)

My Killer Vacation by Tessa Bailey [Stand- alone]

About: This is a spicy contemporary mystery romance between a grumpy bounty hunter and a sunshine primary school teacher. Insta-lust but no insta-love. Genre: Fiction, Adult, Contemporary Romance, Mystery, Thriller Age recommendation: 18+ Trigger warnings: Sexually explicit scenes, Murder, Dead body, Blood, Gun violence, Assault

It Happened One Summer by Tessa Bailey [Bellinger Sisters series #1]

About: This is a spicy contemporary romance between a spoiled socialite and a rugged captain/fisherman. Genre: Fiction, Adult, Contemporary Romance Age recommendation: 18+ Trigger warnings: Sexually explicit scenes, Medical emergency, Grief and loss, Mention of death of a spouse, Mention of death of a parent, Drowning

Hook, Line, and Sinker by Tessa Bailey [Bellinger Sisters series #2]

About: This is a spicy contemporary romance between a sexy playboy fisherman and a hopeless dreamer. Genre: Fiction, Adult, Contemporary Romance Age recommendation: 18+ Trigger warnings: Sexually explicit scenes, Mention of death of a parent, Slut-shaming

Okay, that maybe a bit much Tessa Bailey, so here are some other recs

The Unhoneymooners by Christina Lauren   [Stand-alone]

About: This is a spicy contemporary romance between miss unlucky and her sworn enemy. Genre: Fiction, Adult, Contemporary Romance Age recommendation: 18+ Trigger warnings: Cheating (not between FMC and MC), Food poisoning, Fatphobia, Manipulation, Toxic relationship, Sexually explicit content

The below books I haven't read yet, but they are on my shelves, waiting, so I trust they won't disappoint me as I've heard loads of good about them.

Beach Read by Emily Henry [Stand-alone]

About: This is a spicy contemporary romance between a romance author who doesn't believe in love and a literary author stuck in writer's block. Genre: Fiction, Adult, Contemporary Romance Age recommendation: 18+ Trigger warnings: Sexually explicit content, Mention of past abuse, neglect and cheating, Mention of cancer and chemo, Grief and loss, Death of a parent, Mention of suicide cults, Alcohol abuse, Mention of drunk driving and car accident

Book Lovers by Emily Henry [Stand-alone]

About: This is a spicy contemporary romance between a cutthroat literary agent and a brooding editor. Genre: Fiction, Adult, Contemporary Romance Age recommendation: 18+ Trigger warnings: Sexually explicit content, Death of a parent, Grief

Well, I hope you will find something you like amongst these books :)

[philliamwrites]

koi no yokan

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Pairing: Kazuha / Aether

Tags: boys kissing, slight angst with happy ending, simping aether, practice sparring

Words: 2k

Summary: “A healthy mind in a healthy body,” Kazuha said, crossing the little circle they used as their practice area to the maple tree where they left their stuff. He took a dark cloth from his backpack and began wiping his body. Aether looked pointedly at the clear sky as if checking if one of Baal’s bolts would spontaneously flash and smite them. “Whatever thoughts trouble you will affect your performance and slowly but steadily deteriorate your physical capabilities.”

“Did the wind tell you that?” Aether wasn’t really into the idea that the gentle breezes cooling their hot skin spilt all his troubles. Be it his mourning for his absent sister or how horny he was for Kazuha. “Maybe the wind should just mind its own business.”

Notes: Inspired by @jeruki's fanart. My twitter: @philliam, my ko-fi: philliam

koi no yokan(恋の予感) (n.) lit. "Premonition of Love"; the sense one can have upon first meeting another person that the two of them are going to fall in love. It is the feeling that future love is inevitable.

In his journey through Teyvat, Aether had seen a lot of things. Dragons, assassins, sentient flowers shooting their frozen or burning seeds at him which never made for a funny joke when he and his party sat around the campfire in the cool evenings. Catboys grown into men who paid their taxes and lived a humble life near calm Springvale. Name it and Aether had seen it.

But Kaedehara Kazuha was something else entirely. When he fought, it was hard to look away. He had a dancer’s grace and a seemingly unerring instinct for what his opponent would do next. His sword wasn’t simply a weapon he swung to cut through enemy lines. It was part of him. Like Lumine completed Aether, Kazuha was only fully himself with a weapon in his hand. This kind of commitment Aether only knew from Xiao, but Kazuha made his devotion for battle look divine; so much purer. Almost innocent in a way that did not speak of foolishness or guilelessness or the innocence of a child that simply waited to be consumed by the world. Kazuha’s innocence was something honest, linked to the making at the heart of the world.

He looked happiest with his sword slicing through the air. He looked graceful plunging from the skies like a hawk pouncing to catch its prey. He looked deliciously fuckable with his hitatare slipping off his shoulders and revealing smooth, white skin glistening with sweat. Aether had noticed a little scar winking at him whenever the fabric slipped and wondered how it would taste like near that elegant curve where Kazuha’s chest turned to solid, firm abs. He imagined leaning over and tasting Kazuha’s skin and suck—

A harsh blow swiped his feet from under him. The world spun and for a moment Aether was flying again, soaring through the sky before golden eyes flashed in malice and his sister was taken from him. The reality of Lumine being absent would come to Aether in flashes. He knew it to be so, but he could not feel it to be true except in these sudden bursts of realisation. The light of that strange, unthinkable truth would dazzle him for a moment and then it would be gone again, a fleeting sense of terrible loss. The pain almost always felt the same, and all he could do in that moment was take it, endure the unbearable and bear it.

It ended as quickly as it stared. Aether’s back hit the hard ground, the impact punching the breath out of his lungs. He stared up at the beautiful crimson sky stretching overhead—red like so many things in Inazuma which was fitting for the country governed by a goddess with a taste for blood.

But then, Kazuha’s even more beautiful face bent over him.

“Focus, Aether,” he said, offering his hand. Aether imagined pulling Kazuha down next to him where they would roll in the dirt like two puppies, drunk on adrenaline and intoxicated with the addicting taste of defiling these sacred lands where the cries of helpless, innocent men would never be heard over the ever-present roar of thunder. Where neither of them was welcome.

Instead, he allowed Kazuha to pull him back up on his feet, slick skin against slick skin, with a swift ease that left little room for imagination how else he could manhandle Aether. He swallowed, his mouth dry.

Kazuha exhaled softly, and even in that companionable silence Aether had grown used to, it was loud enough to catch his attention. “Where are your thoughts, Aether?” Kazuha asked.

Aether kicked some pebbles. He could hardly confess how he imagined sucking Kazuha off. Somehow he didn’t think someone as versed, with a soul consumed by wanderlust like Kazuha, would like to hear that. So he simply shrugged, inspecting the hilt of his wooden practice sword as if it could be held accountable for his lack of focus.

“Oh, you know,” he said, shrugging. “Archons and Visions and the like. The usual stuff.”

Kazuha’s eyebrows rose. Aether held his stare for a long minute but ended up turning away first. Somehow he didn’t believe secrets could be kept hidden for too long from those keen scarlet eyes, and while he wouldn’t mind presenting his body to him, he wasn’t too comfortable bearing his very soul to someone he’d known for less than a month. He wondered if that even mattered. He had let Kaeya rail him in much shorter time than that.

“A healthy mind in a healthy body,” Kazuha said, crossing the little circle they used as their practice area to the maple tree where they left their stuff. He took a dark cloth from his backpack and began wiping his body. Aether looked pointedly at the clear sky as if checking if one of Baal’s bolts would spontaneously flash and smite them. “Whatever thoughts trouble you will affect your performance and slowly but steadily deteriorate your physical capabilities.”

“Did the wind tell you that?” Aether wasn’t really into the idea that the gentle breezes cooling their hot skin spilt all his troubles. Be it his mourning for his absent sister or how horny he was for Kazuha. “Maybe the wind should just mind its own business.”

The wind picked up, tossing Aether’s hair left and right so it came even more loose after their sparring. He was sure his mind played tricks on him, but somewhere in the distance it sounded like Venti’s clear, bell-like laughter. If this was his weird way of trying to set him up, Aether was not happy with it.

“No, you just did.” Kazuha finished cleaning himself, but was in no apparent hurry to tie up his hitatare. When he looked back up at Aether, his smile was a little mischievous but still gentle, and Aether wanted to kiss that stupid grin away. He flopped down next to Kazuha. Dry maple leaves rustled under his body and he took one in his fingers, turning it this and that way just so he could observe the crimson and stall time.

If he met the Raiden Shogun and she didn’t have the answers he desired, then what? How much longer would he have to journey, to tread foreign countries and dangerous lands until he found what Lumine needed him to see? Why was this arduous task better suited than simply telling him? The only logical answer was that during her own travels, Lumine had grown to not trust him in a way only she understood and couldn’t confide in him. The thought closed like a cold fist around Aether’s heart. There was nothing logical about that, for if Lumine chose to hide her heart from Aether, where would that leave him? Loneliness spread like a dark stain inside him, a horror that stole his breath and tightened his chest. Black dots danced across his vision. Aether noticed his body moving without his will, he sat up, afraid he might suffocate. His heart. His heart wasn’t in his chest anymore. It was in his throat, making it hard to breathe. Just thinking she doesn’t need me, Lumine is gone forever and all I have loved, I have loved alone—

A warm hand grasped his, squeezing his fingers painfully until his splintering mind reassembled to the present. Aether stared at Kazuha with wide eyes, filled with horror, with fear, he just couldn’t understand how anyone bore that loneliness without a twin, without another part of their soul bearing the harsh world with them and give comfort and respite.

“Aether?”

Aether flinched, only noticing then how close Kazuha hovered near his face. When he looked down, he saw how his golden strands were caught between Kazuha’s slender fingers.

“There was a maple leaf in your hair,” Kazuha said, not taking his eyes away from Aether.

“Oh.” Aether’s reeling thoughts momentarily halted at this whimsical observation, so simple and apart from his anxious feelings. He looked up at the grand tree above them, crying red leaves. “Really?”

Kazuha still looked at him. A gentle tug lowered Aether’s head back down.

“No,” he said, and then kissed him. His soft lips brushed against Aether’s once, then twice and then he pressed his mouth to his, pushing Aether to the solid, hard ground. One leg stole between Aether’s, pressing a knee against his crotch, and Oooh. Until now, Aether had thought Kazuha to be soft and restrained, a man more servant to the voice of nature than his own desires. But there was nothing soft or restrained about the way he pinned Aether to the ground now, stole his breath and swallowed all those little huffs and moans, making Aether go crazy with lust.

Swift fingers dug into his bare waist. Aether was looking forward to the bruises he’d see blossoming the next morning. Their bodies pressed together hard; Aether arched his back, hoping that if he just willed it hard enough, he would become one with Kazuha and fill that gnawing black hole inside him. Kazuha reached out and put his thumb to Aether’s jawline. The tips of his fingers brushed the hollow of his throat and pushed against the pulse point where Aether’s blood visibly thundered in exalting beats against his skin.

Kazuha’s tongue darted across Aether’s lower lip. Willingly, Aether opened his mouth, longing to savour his taste and finally quench his thirst for the exquisite being that Kaedahara Kazuha was.

But Kazuha remained still, their mouths inches away from each other, each inhaling the other’s breath. Aether opened his eyes, meeting Kazuha’s that had turned so much darker. Wilder.

“You don’t even know what you do to people, do you?” he mumbled against Aether’s lips. His nose grazed his cheek as he dove for Aether’s jawline, his neck, mapping Aether’s face with his lips and teeth. Aether remembered Kazuha saying once that he smelled like stars, and wondered how that worked.

“What—“ Aether exhaled a long, shuddering breath. “—do you mean?” He tried to buck up into Kazuha, to create some delicious friction between them, but Kazuha’s grip around his waist was like iron. Aether whined, but Kazuha made with one, sharp bite pretty clear that whatever happened would only happen on his volition.

“The way you move, the way you look and think no one notices.” Amusement stole into Kazuha’s voice. “Or might you think only I don’t notice?”

“I am anything but subtle,” Aether acknowledged, planting a kiss on Kazuha’s temple. He chuckled against Aether’s skin. “And you don’t necessarily make it easier, fighting like this.” His hands sneaked inside Kazuha’s hitatare, fingers trembling with excitement spread against his warm chest.

Kazuha inhaled sharply. His own fingers trailed a path up Aether’s waistline, nails scratching the sensitive skin and sending shivers all over his body. “Look who’s talking. It’s hard focusing on anything else with you walking around like this.”

Aether laughed, dark and rich. “It’s my pleasure.”

“No.” Kazuha tugged the fabric of Aether’s black collar down and kissed his neck. “It’s mine.”

Aether didn’t know how long they stayed like this, cradled against the maple tree’s trunk, growing drunk on kisses and lust and the taste of each other until their lips were bruised. At some point, they had dozed off under the setting sun that made way to twinkling stars that winked at them in mischief. Only they knew the secrets and confessions they shared, absolving one another from their darkest sins.

“I know you seek your sister,” Kazuha said, studying the joints and bumps on Aether’s fingers before he brought them to his lips. “We both follow steps of people dear to us, choosing to ignore we only run after shadows. I think that is why my soul refuses to leave you.”

Familiar pain throbbed in Aether’s chest, but where it once was sharp and overwhelming, it now had softened to a dull song. Bearable. “I’m sure one day we’ll catch up to them.” He intertwined his legs with Kazuha’s, felt the warmth radiate off his body. “Together.”

[catxsnow]

AFTER HOURS chapter eight

Summary: Enemies to the public, friends to their close ones, friends with benefits between them. Rival companies and an attraction that can’t be ignored.

Tim Drake x reader

Warnings: swearing, mature content, smut, 18+ only, mention death of parents, car crash mentions.

A/N: a little earlier than my usual posting time but I didn’t get the chance to post last night so! 

Word count: 3.5k

"What?"

Fuck.

Fuck, she hadn't meant to say that out loud. (Y/N) didn't know what came over her to blurt the words out. Hell, she didn't even know if she meant them. It was only two weeks ago that she realized that maybe there was more to their relationship than fucking. Then again, her feelings were probably there for a long time and she just couldn't accept them.

It was easier to push people away than it was to be hurt by them. Pushing Tim away was so easy for so long. It was easy to say that any feeling she had for him was simply just lust. They're long chats were always supposed to be 'just business' but the more she thought make, the more she realized they weren't.

They were about family, hardships, dreams, aspirations. Their chats were filled with so much knowledge of one another that she forgot that everything she knew about him wasn't just common to everyone. Tim opened up to her more than he did to anyone else - including Bruce, or Kon, or even Steph.

"Fuck," She muttered. (Y/N) pulled herself off of Tim, ignoring the sticky layer that covered them both from just having sex. She pulled a shirt of hers over her head and aimlessly searched the floor for some pants. Tim was still in shock by what she had just said to him. She loved him?

The same kind of love that he had in his heart every time he thought of her? The same love that kept him up at night wondering, hoping, that one day it would be reciprocated? 

He finally snapped out of his daze and stopped her frantic movements. Tim gripped her biceps, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes were glossy as she tried to hold herself together from this utterly embarrassing moment. How could she say something like that too him at a time like this?

Tim's jaw was tight as he thought. She couldn't guess what was going on inside that head of his. Judging her. Trying to figure out a way to let her down easy. Ways to escape and never see her again. Maybe he was wondering how she was stupid enough to fall in love with her fuck buddy.

Fear of losing him - not the same kind of fear that she felt only an hour ago. This loss would hurt far worse. Knowing that he was within arms reach and never being able to grasp him again. Fuck, that hurt more than any other loss she could bare with him. 

She was shocked when he harshly crashed his lips against hers. He was so rushed that their teeth and noses clanked together - something that never happened with them. They were always so perfectly in sync, knowing the movement of the other person before they even did it.

Tim pulled away as she never reciprocated the kiss. Truth was, she was far too surprised to even move. She expected harsh words and abandonment. Even after all his promises, she still found it hard to believe that he would keep them true. Not because she didn't trust him, but because she knew herself, and that people tended not to stick around.

He slid his hands up her arms until they cupped the base of her neck, thumbs against her jawline. For the second time that day, he wiped the tears that spilled down her cheeks. While before she was scared that he had left her, now she was petrified he would leave her for good.

"I love you, (Y/N) (L/N)," Tim confessed. His voice was barely above a whisper but it was clear as ever. Her bottom lip trembled at the sudden change of emotions whirling. She went from frightened to complete adoration. Tim loved her. She felt her heart swell with every feeling she had been bottling up.

She broke out into the biggest, happiest smile he had ever seen her give. Tim Drake wasn't the man that she thought she needed in her life, but he was the one that she was sure as hell lucky enough to have. He built her up without giving her false hope and was there for her when she couldn't achieve something herself.

Tim tilted her chin up. He brushed his lips against hers, testing to see if this was what she truly wanted. This wasn't a game or a joke, this was his heart on the line. As much as he trusted her, the sinking feeling of weariness and doubt always struck in the back of his mind. He couldn't get his heartbroken again, not by her.

She found herself reaching towards him as he pulled back. She didn't crave his lips, she need them. His kiss was soft at first, until the intensity of all their feelings finally exploded. She held onto him like he was the only thing keeping her from collapsing in the whirlwind they were caught in.

"I love you, Tim," She never wanted this kiss to end. Being in his arms, filled with the love she never thought she'd feel again, it was life changing. Tim pulled her back again, unable to stop. His need for her kiss was greater than anything, more powerful than the sun. He needed her like he needed air.

"Why now?" Tim blurted out. After all these years, why was now the time that she finally admitted that she had feelings for him? What had caused this shift? (Y/N) sighed as Tim dropped his arms. She ran a hand down her face and sat on the edge of her bed. Tim grabbed his pants from the floor and tossed over hers before joining.

"A month ago you told me that we've been doing this for years and that ruining it by letting emotions take place was unacceptable," Tim thought back to that night. She was so head strung about not attending his gala. "What could have possible changed over a single month?"

"Everything," she looked over at him. Truth was, she couldn't pin point the exact moment of change. She didn't know when she truly cared for him as more than a companion - but she knew when she realized it. The day of that stupid gala. The stupid gala that led to their picture being everywhere and hearing him say that she was nothing in his life.

Feeling that hurt made her realize how important he was to her.

"You're the only person that's always been here for me, Tim," she played with her fingers, trying to calm her nerves. It didn't work. "My parents, my company struggles, self-doubt. Every time I'm on the verge of giving up, it's you that's there to help me back up. You've supported me for so long and... and I was never able to give that to you.

"I'm sorry, for being so cut off for so long. I'm sorry that for the entire time that I've known you that I've been so held back by fear that I wasn't able to realize what you mean to me. You deserve better, you deserve the world. Everything changed when I saw the way you lit up because I went to your gala after four years. I didn't realize how much it meant to you.

"I'm sorry that-"

"Stop," Tim cut her off. He grabbed her hand to stop her from fidgeting. "Stop apologizing. I know why you were the way you were, and I'm not upset at it. I understand the struggle of not being taken seriously and I don't want you feeling guilty over something like this. I had my part to play as well - I could have told you long ago how I felt and I never had the guts to."

"How long?" she asked, suddenly curious. She might not have been able to remember the time she looked as him as more a fuck buddy - but he might have. Maybe his answer would have sparked her own memory.

"Two years ago," he chuckled to himself. His cheeks were tinted pink with embarrassment at just how long he had been keeping this to himself. "The night that you told me your favourite memory with your parents. Seeing your face light up with pure happiness and the way you spoke of them so highly. It reminded me of my own parents - and how much they would have liked you."

"We ordered Chinese food and stayed up till four in the morning talking about how easy life was when we were kids," she remembered that night. Tim nodded - it was the first time that she had stayed for hours. "I got scared by a bird hitting the window and dropped my entire plate of noodles on myself. You laughed so hard that you started snorting."

"It was the first time I got to see you wear my clothes," Tim smiled. He didn't realize how hot she could wear one of his shirts and a rolled up pair of basketball shorts. "After you left I couldn't sleep. I couldn't stop seeing your smile or hearing your laugh. I realized in those endless hours of staring at my ceiling that I wanted to spend my life with you."

"Why didn't you say anything?" She asked.

"You never wanted anyone to know what we did - much less if there was anything more between us," Tim shrugged. To be honest, he still didn't. "I didn't want you to feel pressured and I certainly didn't want to risk losing you. The wait was worth it."

She smiled at how lucky she was to have Tim. He was so patient with her that she felt like she didn't deserve someone as good-hearted as him. Tim kissed the back of her hand, followed by her forehead, and lastly, her lips. The wait was well worth it. He'd wait a thousand lifetimes for her.

"What now?" He asked. What was going to happen between the both of them? A hidden relationship? A risk that Gotham would spread hate because the CEO's of rival companies loved each other? Things were complicated in their lives, and he wasn't sure what she was willing to put on the line.

"Now... Now I stop living my life in fear."

><

"We don't have to do this."

(Y/N) paced back and forth trying to calm her nerves. Tim sat on the edge of his bed watching her movements. She was nervous, but that was to be given. After years of working hard to make sure that she was going to be taken seriously, she was just going to tear it all down. Today was going to be the make or break of Gotham's faith in her.

It was a simple plan. Go to a coffee shop together, let the paparazzi's take their pictures, see what the media was going to say. It was the best way to dip their toes in the water to see what the people of Gotham would think of their 'new relationship'. There had already been speculations since the gala - this would just confirm some of them.

She was scared. Horrified. Not because the people would react badly, but if they reacted well to the news. For over four years she felt as if she needed to cut herself off from anything personal - these were the best years of her life and she had put all of her energy into her company because she felt like it was needed.

What if it wasn't? What if she had wasted all these years for some bullshit stigma the city made her believe? She didn't know if she could live with that guilt. Her parents wanted her to experience her best life, she would have let them down if she had deprived herself of love for years.

"Yes we do," She stopped her pacing to look at him. The cuts and bruises on his face had finally healed over, but the ones lacing his body still held him back. Tim still refused to tell her what really happened. "I've been lying to myself for too long about these feelings, I can't lie to the public anymore too."

Tim patted the spot beside him. She reluctantly sat, though her leg wouldn't stop bouncing. He grabbed her hand and brought it up to his lips before setting them back down on his lap. (Y/N) had every right to be nervous. This wasn't just her own life on the line, it was her company's - and his.

Just as she was worried for her own company, Tim was nervous for his. Bruce entrusted him to keep it going, and he couldn't let him down. They needed that money to fund their activities, they needed Wayne Enterprise to keep at it's highest potential.

"Whatever happens, we're in this together, okay?" Tim assured her. "I'm not going to leave you. I promised you that already and I'm sticking with it. Vicki Vale can say all she wants, she doesn't know the truth unless we want her to know the truth. We've got a plan, right? Start off easy and go from there."

"You're right," she nodded. They were in control of this situation, no one else. With Tim by her side, she could accomplish anything. When she was with him, she always felt in control of her life. He had a way of making her feel confident in herself without even realizing it. "We can do this."

She looked over at him, the nervous smile still on her face. It melted away with his kiss. His kiss that always made everything better, that always felt so right. Being with him, actually being with him, she felt as if she was on the clouds. These past few days had felt so surreal that she couldn't tell when she was dreaming and when she was awake.

Nights together, mornings in each others arms. Cooking meals with each other and being able to relax at the end of a long day with shows that neither of them knew they both liked. Mundane tasks that made her feel like a normal adult, not one with the weight of a billion dollar company on her shoulders.

It was a life she didn't know she needed until getting a taste of it.

Tim Drake was her life, for a long time, she just didn't know it at the time. He was the one that was there for her no matter what. She just hoped that when the time came, she could be there for him as well. Tim was a strong man, he didn't emotional easily and she feared that when he did, it would be when he was truly broken.

><

"Everyone's staring."

"Let them."

To no surprise, as soon as one person saw them together, everyone crowded around. Whispers from tables beside them. Camera flashes from inside and outside the coffee shop. Stares and not so secret glances. People were shocked to see them together - and everyone knew damn well who they were.

From the moment he opened the door for her until now, they had all eyes glued to them. She felt the pressure to act like the people always wanted to see her as - prim, proper, and professional. It was Tim that kept assuring her to act like herself, to show the real her for once.

The barista wasn't sure what she was more shocked by - Tim buying himself and (Y/N) coffee or the one-hundred dollar tip he left. Either way, she served them with a smile on her face and a whisper of 'I knew it'. She didn't sound judgmental - she sounded supportive.

More people accumulated but no one dared to interrupt.

Tim reached across the table to grab her hand. He could feel the tapping of her foot and the nervous shake that she had. This was the most horrifying thing she had done in her life and it should have felt so easy. She was spending time with the one she loved, and it was still petrifying.

"Hey," Tim called. "We're in this together. No one else here matters. Whatever comes next, we're going to get through. I promise." She nodded her head at his words. He was right. There was no need to worry when she had him by her side. Her parents would be proud of her no matter what and she was still making Gotham a better place.

He suddenly drew a small heart into the back of her hand, silently telling her that he loved her. She smiled at the action.

The same barista from before came back with a hot pot of coffee in her hands. "Refill?" They both nodded at the same time. She poured them each another full mug, but hesitated before leaving. Tim looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to spill what she had to say. "I know this isn't my place - like at all - but, I always thought you guys would be good for each other."

Tim looked between both the women. "Thank you," he smiled. The barista matched it and headed back towards the counter she was stationed at. "See, there's nothing to be worried about." Tim squeezed her hand while sipping his coffee with the others. He shot her a wink over the lip of his mug.

There was that stupid flutter that filled her chest again. The one that only happened when she was with him and the one that she brushed off for years thinking that it was nothing but lust. God she felt so stupid for pushing him away for as long as she did.

Tim always filled her heart with emotions. Fear, anger, lust, love. It was always easy to clump it all into one emotion that she knew how to control. She knew that sex with him always seemed to fix her problems when in reality, it was just making everything worse. 

Her heart dropped at the sight of an unwanted, familiar face. 

"You spoke too soon," she muttered, watching as the person she dreaded most walked up to them. Vicki Vale had a snide smile on her face and a notepad in her hand. There was no hesitation in her eyes as she approached them, fully ready to impose on their date and turn it into an interview.

"Mr. Wayne," Vicki looked over to Tim, not even meeting (Y/N)'s eye. He slowly retracted his hand from hers - hoping that it wouldn't upset her. The movement went unnoticed by Vicki. "A pleasure as, always. I was hoping to ask you a few questions."

"Actually-"

"Actually, Ms. Vale," (Y/N) cut Tim off. Her voice instantly went from nervous to assertive. She sat up straight and narrowed her eyes as Vicki looked over to her. Tim bit into his bottom lip to stop the smile from spreading on his face for what was about to happen next. This was the moment that she dreaded most and she was taking it so well.

"Tim and I are in the midst of a date," she emphasized using his first thing - something that she had never done in the media before. It was always Mr. Drake - or Mr. Wayne. "If you have any questions about either of our companies, feel free to stop by during business hours."

"Personal questions.... actually," Vicki pursed her lips. Her hand was on her hip. If looks could kill, she'd be dead ten times over already. "And I was asking Mr. Wayne."

"That's a shame, Ms. Vale," Tim coughed, catching her attention. "You could have gotten the story of the year if you hadn't been so rude to my lovely date." He stood up suddenly, ushering her to do so as well. They walked past Vicki, her eyes latched onto them and their joined hands. "Have a nice day."

It was the fakest smile that she had ever seen him make. The two left the coffee shop without another word, waving to the barista as they passed. She held his hand with a death grip, worried that they might have been too rash against Vicki - she had lots of influence over the city, enough to make her worried.

"Holy shit, Tim," she breathed out as soon as she got a breath of fresh air. Her heart was racing from the confrontation. The strictness in Tim’s tone and the way that his hands bundled into fists from how rude Vicki Vale was being. "That was so hot."

"Glad you think so," Tim hid his grin. Her grip loosened as she became more relaxed. The distinct sound of camera's shuttering behind them could still be heard, but that was to no surprise. "What do you say, should we give them a real show?" He raised an eyebrow, referring to the paparazzi's behind them.

"Why not?" Tim stopped her, cupping her cheek with one hand and getting his hand firm against her waist. His lips were hesitant against her for the first time since they had met. He didn't want to give the cameras too much, but if they wanted to prove a point - that was the best way how. "I love you," her voice was so quiet he barely heard.

"I love you."

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[aurora-the-kunoichi]

Ruined By Raphael

Warning: Dubious Non-Con you have been warned

Raphael and Karai

Karai awoke to darkness and the thick musty odor of rotting wood and as luck would have it, her hands bound above her head. Great, how did she end up in this mess? The last thing she remembered was trying to procure a shipment for her master and then a fight, a bloody drawn out brawl with the big one, Raphael.

By her current situation it did not end in her favor which angered her even more, bested by those beasts. The red one had been alone and separated her from her ninja. His fighting style was different then Leonardo’s. Leo’s had more finesse, light, like a dance but the brute’s was more hands on. Close quarters, it was difficult to avoid getting his hands on her. Always bringing her body to his, pressing into her whispering his sarcastic comments with flirtatious intent.

She would have found it appalling but the bass in his voice had a certain roughness to it, raw and gritty. She hadn’t noticed it before, but it had pulled at something deep within her belly, something that she didn’t know was there; a forbidden fire she had concealed. Karai had to grind her thighs together to quell the ache he had created. That had to be the reason she was strung up like a piece of meat at the moment. He had distracted her with his, wiles, his rugged charm, whatever it was she was fucking livid.

“Come out beast!” she screamed into the void of darkness. “I know you’re there.”

It took a few seconds but a flame erupted into a warm dancing light as a large figure set a torch a glow. Another followed across the room too quick for a normal humans speed but that of a ninja was possible. For being so bulky Raphael was fast, she had to give him that.  

“What do you want?” she hissed yanking at the ropes that bound her wrists finding the fibers soft and non abrasive. It was as if he was trying to keep her comfortable but yet tight enough to hinder her escape.

A dark rumbling laughter came from the beast as he came into the light. He was massive, intimidating and dear god he was impressive. His green skin seemed to glisten in the flames light and his honey green eyes flashed with something she hadn’t seen before.

“I think the question is, what do you want Foot Princess? You see I’d like to consider myself an observant kinda guy. Always aware of my surrounding which is a must for this line of work I’m in, bustin’ bad guy’s heads and protectin’ this city from scum like you and your old man. But now I want you to remember something, I’m part animal, I can smell things you humans can’t. Like the scent of arousal, thick and inviting like a burst of heady flavor when it hits the taste buds. I smelt ya back at the docks when I had you pressed up against the wall. There was no mistaking it.”

Karai snapped her teeth in protest trying to deny his ridiculous accusations. “You must be brainless then you bothersome creature. To think I would have any inkling of attraction for you, you……brute. Why the very site of you makes me sick!”  

He was so close now, so fucking close and she could smell him, damn he was quick. She expected the putrid aroma of sewage but it was leather and cedar with a light hint of grease that took over her senses. Did he work with machines with the genius, good with his hands? And the heat, now that they weren’t fighting she could feel the heat that was radiating from his massive frame. It was dizzying.

“Back away!” she squeaked as his mouth come within inches of her throat. What was happening?

His nostrils flared as he took in a long pull of her scent and his chest fucking vibrated. She could feel the waves of it hit her skin, she had never heard them make that sound before.

“I don’t think that’s what you truly want.” His large mitts rested on Karai’s hips gripping tightly, just enough to cause slight discomfort gaining a gasp from his prey. “I think you’re curious about us, with a thing for a little bit of pain…. aren’t you foot brat?”

“Fuck you! Release me!”

Another dark chuckle came from the brute as the tips of his callous fingers hooked under the fabric of her pants pulling them down to expose the black lace of her panties. “Oh I plan on giving you release. But not until you beg me for it.”

“You think I will beg for you to defile my body?! Not l-likey..” the last bit came out more breathy then she intended as the large mutant sunk to his knees his smiling beak now in line with the apex of her thighs. Raphael pulled the rest of her pants down and off her body making her suddenly aware her legs were free. She had been too distracted by Raphael to know her lower half was free for attack.

She tried to bring her right leg around to knock at the brute from her person and fumbled as he anticipated her move. Which in turn only brought her leg up and over his wide shoulder subsequently bringing his beak to the sopping fabric of her underwear. His breath was molten against her core and his tongue snuck out running the broad appendage along the slender line of her sex. Just that little tease made her arch up gasping back at the moan that threatened to crawl up her throat.

It was beginning to eat at her how much she was enjoying this. Don’t let him know you enjoyed that you stuck up little bitch, how would daddy react to you with his mortal enemy between your thighs?

“You’ll die for that.” Her voice wasn’t her own, a whiney mess that resembled someone weak not the confident second in command of the Foot Clan, the daughter of Oruko Saki.

“Empty promises Karai.” His hot tongue returned pressing into the fabric coming more in contact with the hidden bead. His wide beak enclosed around the mound blowing hot air into the aching flesh beneath as his tongue pressed harder making quick little circles.

“NAhh-st---aahh-fuc—kk-k!”

“I’m sorry, what was that? I couldn’t make that out.”

“What are y-you doing to me?” her breathe was coming in quick short bursts and her hand clenched and unclenched trying to regain some composer but he gave no reprieve. This time, oh god this time his finger pulled the thin black fabric to the side exposing her absolutely dripping cunt to his mouth. God what he did with a barrier what could he do with full access.  She should be fighting him, she should be, but the turtle was right, she had always been curious about them.

They were formidable enemies on the battle field, determined, focused and their brute strength unparalleled to anything they had ever seen. What were they like as lovers? She imagined Leo a very dedicated lover, focused on his partners pleasure, knowing exactly where to touch, where to kiss and taking his time making every second count ending in a shared orgasm. Michelangelo would a fun and pliant partner, both submissive with a kinky side that left his lover on a perpetual high. Donatello would no doubt a perfectionist in bed, with years of research under his belt. He would know just how to work the human body guaranteeing an explosive end each time. But Raphael, he was made of anger and strength, a perfect solider and a very physical lover. Hands on, and able to use his force for all the right reasons. He could inflict pain and pleasure at the same time. Intense would be a good word for Raphael.

Suddenly he was there, his lips, his tongue, devouring her like she was the last thing there was to eat on this plant and he was starving. His hand hooked under her other leg bringing it up to rest on his other board shoulder and she was helpless to resist. His tongue swirled over the throbbing bud before sucking the tiny flesh into his mouth pulling an inhuman cry from deep within her lungs. She would have been embarrassed the way she mewled and screamed as the brute worked her cunt. Raphael was everything he was in battle as he was as a partner (if you called it that at this moment); relentless, skilled and as his hands came up to her bottom sinking his digits into the plump flesh he held her firmly to his exploring mouth, he showed his strength. He held her up like she weighted nothing mouth covering her folds his tongue delving into the warm heat of her body.

“Y-you fool! I’ll have your head on my mantel after this! Jesus f-f-uucking Christ!” She felt his tongue dive deep stretching pulling the start of her orgasm as it raced with warm undertones until her skin was on fire and her belly was in pleasant knots. As she began to topple over the peak the rush was cool air and the loss of his oh so talented mouth Karai howled in frustration.

“Savage! Insolent insect! I’ll fucking kill you!”

Raphael’s mouth glistened with her essence and the white of his teeth appeared in the dark as his devilish smile widened. “I love it when you talk dirty. If I was mistaken the way your thighs pulled me in closer I would think you were enjoying this.”

“I-I would never…”

His tongue darted out again teasing her throbbing flesh, so close to the end so fucking close.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispered pressing his lips to her inner thigh before sinking his teeth down.

“Argghh I want….”

“You what?” his mouth enclosed around her again pushing his tongue deep into her body bringing the ach of her climax back to the surface once again. He worked with fervor making wet sounds against her soaked core until she was just at her peak. The heat rolled up and up, her throat tightened as it swarmed her and the insufferable beast was gone again along with her climax.

“What do you want Karai?” the expanse of his board tongue swiped up through her folds making her mewl in aggravation again. “Do you want me to make you cum?”

Karai’s eyes were wild with hate, lust and murder. Each breath was labored as her shoulders heaved this mutant was infuriating and irresistible all at the same time! Her whole body was throbbing with two unspent climaxes and she needed the release.

“Or maybe you want something else, maybe something bigger, thicker? Something that will ruin you for every other human.” Raphael pressed another kiss to both of her inner thighs before slipping her quaking thighs from his shoulders. He stepped back a little and cupped the massive bulge in his shorts rubbing his trapped cock until he was groaning from the friction.

Karai watched him finally push his shorts to the floor allowing his engorged cock spring free. It bobbed heavy between his legs the tip already moist from his excitement. It was huge, the biggest she had ever seen and god it was glorious. Despite the green color fading to a pinkish tan at the tip and the apparent mouth watering size it looked like a normal human cock. He even had two tight green globes hanging just under the heavy rod of flesh.

She squeezed her thighs together again, god she wanted to see what it was like. But she couldn’t say it out loud, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t give this smug son of a bitch the satisfaction. If anyone found out at foot head quarters she allowed Raphael to fuck her she would die.

Raphael was there again but this time we had Karai against the wall and urging her legs around his waist. He was so warm and his smell was overwhelming her senses dulling them until she was shaking against the large mutant with need. His beak pressed into her neck breathing into her heated flesh while his hand gripped the base of his throbbing cock. “I promise it will only hurt for a few moments. You’re pretty little cunt will adjust to the size quickly.” Pressing forward the red banded terrapin glided the glistening tip threw her folders circling around her hidden jewel.

Karai squeezed her eyes shut drinking in the warmth of the helm of his length as it passed so close to its destination. Then his mouth descended to her pulse point sucking at the skin rocking his hips forward giving them both a bit of much needed friction.

“You’re so wet Karai, I bet it would slip inside without any resistance.” He brought the tip to the tight channel and circled the opening without entering. His smile grew wide along her throat as the princess of the foot clan’s hips rocked forward trying to gain some of him. “Nuh uhh princess, you need to ask for it before I oblige you.”

“Beast….”

“That’s not asking for it Karai. Tell Raphael what you want.”

“Never, I’ll never….shhit—aghfu-ah.”

Raphael let the tip of himself slip just into her heat giving Karai a taste of it, what it was like to have a mutant inside her. “Say it nice. If you do maybe I’ll let it hurt a little. I know you like a little pain with your pleasure.”

Karai couldn’t think, every part of her was screaming at her to allow it to happen. The sweet tingling pressure of just the tip was enough to make her body involuntarily start to shake. He was so big, so warm and she could feel the throb of it.

When she felt the flesh begin to recede she cried out, “Stop!”

“Yes?” Raphael’s face came level with hers his eyes boring into her very soul and his mouth millimeters from her lips. Even his breath was pleasant. Fuck him! Fuck him!

“Please……”

“Please what?”

“I want…I want you inside me, I have to know…god help me….please.”

Raphael’s smile grew with each syllable she pleaded in breathless want and gave her exactly what she wanted. Pressing forward Raphael sheathed himself within her body inch by inch stretching her core to its near breaking point.

Karai hissed at the dull pain and rocked forward to take the brute into her body. The slide was slow and sweet and ever ridge and vein that adorned his beautiful cock could be felt as he glided inside. It was painful, overwhelming and god it felt like heaven.

As he bottomed out his lower plastron came flush with her body with a grunt. Gripping her hips Raph leaned further in making sure every inch was incased and he was balls deep. He even pulsed the embedded flesh for good measure hearing the foot brat gasp at the flex.

“Oh fuck.” Her eyes were wide and mouth open taking in deep heavy breaths adjusting to the massive intrusion. She had never felt to full, so wide open like this, it was nothing she had ever experienced. The pain was a low steady ache but when the mutant started to withdraw, it soon ebbed away to an electric wave of pleasure.  Then, oh god then he slammed forward and every ounce of oxygen in her lungs expelled with an undignified moan. More, she needed more and with what voice she had left she let him know.

“M-more.”

Another withdrawal and brutal snap forward the brute growled into the shell of her ear. “Louder.”

“MORE!”

“That’s my girl.”

The next drive was straight and true and Raphael buried himself to the hilt and Karai arched and screamed. “Oh god! Fuck me you god damn beast!”

He obliged, using the strength in his thighs and his ass he rammed into her body starting a rhythm only he could maintain. The lost climaxes she was denied came back with a vengeance and rushed through her spine like a freight train overtaking every cell with an explosive fire. It started at the very tips of her toes; heat crackling and rolled up and up until her belly was clenching and screaming. The force of it hit and her mouth opened to scream to release the energy that came crashing over her but nothing came out. The pent up climax stayed and erupted blinding her. She felt like ice and fire and Karai tensed up as he continued to rut into her fucking Karai through her climax and into the long crawl to the next.

The sounds coming from the mutant were just as exhilarating, his grunts and rumbling only heightened this weird fucked up experience. His mouth moved over her collar bone nipping and kissing leaving wet trails of his saliva as he feasted upon her flesh. Through the haze of her fading euphoria she could hear him talking.

“Gonna make you so fucking messy inside.” He moaned after a particularly brutal snap of his hips. “You’re gonna smell like me for weeks so daddy knows whose fucking claimed his princess.”

She should have been pissed at his lust filled rambling but the truth was she was feeding off of it. The thought of getting caught, disobeying father was taboo, thrilling. Suddenly the beast hooked his arms under her knees and brought her legs over his shoulder folding her in half all the while not missing a beat.

This new angle allowed the spongy head to drive directly into the roof of her heat striking the bundled nerves dead on. The sensation was all new and sent Karai’s body into over drive. The steady rise of her next climax intensified and she keened and thrashed against the mutant with each battering strike to her cervix. No man had ever given her what Raphael was currently subjecting her body too. Every cell in her being felt like it was being torn apart and sewn back together all at the same time while being burned with this all consuming fire. The obscene sounds of their bodies colliding reverberated through the hollow space, echoing high into the rafters.

The crest of her orgasm raced her down as her body rocked against the wall and by the way his breathing shuttered against her throat Raphael was close as well. His grip tightened and a low dark sound came from deep within his chest.

“Y-you’re gonna crave me.” He voice was rough and dark. “No one else is gonna be able to satisfy this pretty little cunt of yours.” His breath caught in his throat as his rhythm faltered. “I’m gonna fill you so fucking full of me.”

She could feel his cock swell and then he was looking at her, his pupils were blown wide and his mouth parted struggling to breath. “If you want this again.” He punctuated his words as he drove forward with brute strength. “If you want this again you’ll scream my name when you cum on this cock.”

The rush of heat came quickly washing over her body as she peaked and peaked hard. Her back arched nearly snapping her spine as she came undone around him. Everything went white and Karai felt her body die and come back to life. She could feel him, feel him as he erupted inside her body, his cock pulsing each load of white hot steams of his seed bathing her inside with his essence.

The heat of his release, the weight of him as he brought their bodies as close as he could as his filled her to the very brim until she felt him spill down her backside, she let go, let him in. “Ra-RAPH-EAL!!!!!!!”

The last thing she remembered was his mouth crushed against her, kissing her, his tongue moving with hers as he emptied himself into her womb. For a mutant even his talent for kissing left her breathless.

With a start Karai lurched forward sitting up on the cot she was perched upon. The morning light was trickling through the broken windows of what looked like to be an abandoned church. She was free and very much alone. The dull ache of her wrists brought her back to the night before. She was now dressed but the soreness between her legs made her very aware that it wasn’t a dream. Even now she could Raphael him spilling from her body.

Slowly a smile graced her feminine features as she rose to her feet wincing at the remembrance of being stretched by the brute. He had been right, he had ruined her, the thought of coupling with another human man gave her no joy. The only thought was Raphael and how she would mange getting him alone again. But the next time would be different, the next time she would be the one in control.

 @imthegreenfairy88​ @waterstar2016​ @hollybunch95​

[tarithenurse]

If I succeed - 9

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader Content: Past events, pining, smut, secrets revealed, more questions, softness, distractions. None of this necessarily in that order. A/N: Writing’s going a bit slow due to illness, but a few chapters more are waiting for you. Also: I’m combing through the taglist to remove those who aren’t showing any interest. Want a tag? Send an ask or reblog! I’d love comments and feedback – even if it’s corrections on language or whatever. I’m not picky as long as I know my work brings joy too.

9 – Something good

...   Geralt   ...

If something as fleeting as luck exists then it has smiled at the little group: just before nightfall, they happen across a ravine with a cave at the very top and what at first glance appears to be a narrow, wet hideout opens into a large chamber with a couple of niches and a stream of fresh water running through the middle. Even Roach accepts being led in after her owner has made sure the premises are vacated.

Dinner is cold – the only heat and light is from a slow-burning torch jabbed into a crevice between two rocks – and silent as each is occupied by their own worries. In Geralt’s case, his mind has been filled with half plans which he cannot finish until he knows more about the enemy. He has told just one of what he saw before overcome with his injuries. Vampires. Hm. There are many subspecies of the monsters, some less intelligent than others, and too many are unbothered by the rays of the sun as well as most commonly known repellents though silver at the very least can wound them.

“Well, this’s been wonderfully cozy but I’m gonna turn in,” Jaskier breaks the silence, standing to stretch before hurrying towards the niche furthest away which he has claimed for himself, “g’night,” he adds over the shoulder.

“Sleep well.”

Of course Geralt cannot help but glance towards [Y/N] as she speaks. There is always a kindness to her voice that softens the features of anyone who listens, even now when she is deeply engrossed in the work at hand. Spread out on a cloth in the flickering torchlight are bundles of semi-dried herbs, a few pouches of powder, and several small vials. Working nimbly with a small blade, she separates leaves from stems before loosening the bark with the longer dagger by rolling and crushing the plants between a flat stone and the flat of the weapon – the torchlight glinting in the metal and her eyes.

“Lemme see that,” the Witcher extends a large hand in a silent command for her to bring him the knife.

There is a fire from within, gleaming dangerously as she looks over. Slowly, deliberately, she finishes the task rather than handing over the weapon right away, and when she finally does she merely holds it out. It is a silent challenge. A waiting game to see who might give in first and cover the distance for the exchange.

Neither gets up.

Then, with a flick of the wrist, [Y/N] tosses the dagger is a soft curve, hilt first and easy to catch. Was that annoyance? Whatever it was, Geralt decides to study the metal rather than comment upon her demeanour.

“This’s silvered.” He had expected as much after noticing the gleam reflecting off of it.

“Yes. It was my father’s,” she explains, hesitating a fraction before continuing as if to consider whether to reveal something at all, “look at the crossbar.”

Curiosity wins. Leaning forward, he turns the weapon over and over for the dancing light to illuminate it until: “Witcher’s seal.”

“Vesemir’s.” The sigh she lets free is one of exhaustion – years of keeping a secret, perhaps. “Vesemir found my parents in Beauclair...helped us get outta there without a trace. The dagger was to serve as a token of truth if they needed his help.” Again, she sighs but this time with a sadness that threatens to break Geralt’s heart. “All father ever used it for was teach me how to fight.”

Well...where to begin unravelling all of that? Practicality wins. Few possess the agility and strength of a Witcher, of course, but now it does makes sense why the maiden from a tiny village is able to hold her ground slightly better than others when the two of them spar. Has she held back? It would explain how she moved so swiftly when the wolf attacked.

“Show me.” When [Y/N] does not respond, he walks over and places the knife in her hands. “Show. Me. And don’t hold back.”

She takes her time to pack away the antidotes and other healing remedies, tugging them neatly into a side pocket on the rucksack. She even takes the time to tie back her hair and roll up the sleeves before turning to Geralt who has been standing patiently, his own dagger still in the belt but eyes upon every movement of hers to witness the dawning acceptance of something unspoken – a mind made up despite some unexplained concern.

Geralt is prepared when she moves. He is not prepared for the torch’s fire flaring out towards him with a ferocity that makes him jump aside. In a flash, [Y/N] is upon him in a whirlwind of attacks he barely has time to parry while recovering. Oh. Now this is an interesting development and not only does the man want to know more, he wants to test the limits. Push her. Get her blood boiling.

“You’re a mage.” A grin accompanies the flash of his own dagger as he no longer worries about holding back.

“No.”

True or not, she does increase the efforts to outmatch him, turning the sparring into a dizzying dance where they often are close enough to taste the breath of the other as chests heave and sweat begins to bead on brows and lips.

“I’m not...some...political pet,” the woman huffs icily as they lock themselves in a knot of limbs and steel.

He might have her body in a strong grip, but her cold blade is resting against Geralt’s throat, tip digging slightly into his jowl. Still, there is no fear in his heart because death is not in her fiery eyes. Cockily, he taps his own weapon against her ribs.

“Tied.”

The way her eyebrow arches is a sinful challenge. “Try again.”

What...? And there it is, the added pressure of a tiny knife against the uninvited swell of his cock. Conceding to his loss by sheathing his own weapon, the Witcher is acutely aware of the lingering gaze when [Y/N] reciprocates and he can feel the burn of it when she turns away to stove the little knife back in its place. Fuck. In two steps he is right behind her when she straightens up, her back against his chest and the ass fitting neatly into the dip and poke of his crotch.

If he had expected any objections – or hoped for them as the last effort to keep from succumbing to temptation – every remaining concern is dashed as she leans into his arms and allow the hands to roam. Soft curves contained under wrapped fabrics and tiny knots are palmed. Fingers dig into the flesh of hips and thighs. [Y/N]’s scent is intoxicating, dizzying as he breathes in deeply at the crook of her neck between the hundreds of kisses and teasing bites which each puncture the silence in the cave with a gasp from her lips.

Shivers run down the length of Geralt’s spine when she reaches back to tangle a hand in his hair, nails scraping softly against his scalp. It is immediately followed by another as yellowed eyes catch a glimpse of what her free hand does.

“Let me,” the rasp is barely audible yet the woman hears it.

Her irises are almost swallowed by lustful darkness, watching while she backs towards the last niche and Geralt works quickly to rid her of the tunic before slowing down to take time to savour every moment as, a tiny knot at a time, the last layer is unfastened and releases a bosom he has dreamed of for too long.

A second of breathlessness.

“Hmm.”

The familiarity of the soft skin against his calloused fingers, the sweet-and-salty taste as his tongue sweeps and circles the hardening nipples. It is bliss, soothing the aching corners of his soul without softening the bone-gnawing hunger.

A single word falls in a whisper from [Y/N]’s soft lips. “Please.”

Cooperating hurriedly, it becomes a race to reveal the shape of each other. Bulky muscles against smooth lines outlining curves and expanses. Somehow, in the middle of the almost fevered rush where hands begin to explore, Geralt manages to unfurl a bedroll, using the other as a pillow for the magnificent female as he lowers her onto her back with an extra layer of a pelt for comfort.

Looking at the beauty bared beneath him, the Witcher momentarily feels transported to the field under the sun when she was revealed to him for the first time. Oh, he has lain with pretty people before, all too often finding that their outer grace is unmatched by their minds and souls. Not [Y/N]. Everything about her was and is a reflection of her call as a healer in the village, kindhearted, clever, funny. Untainted. He had hesitated that day, afterwards promising himself not to ruin her by dragging the spirited maiden into his life of monsters and darkness...even if it was excruciating to part.

She’s here. Slender hands caressing his form, sometimes conjuring goosebumps by the drag of a nail along a sensitive line. Geralt gasps as fingers curl around the strained shaft, using it to drag him closer. Closer. Lips finally meet and he damn near melts at the sensation of her tongue sweeping across the seam of his mouth to gain access – which he gladly gives.

...   Reader   ...

You are out of breath, dizzy, when Geralt backs out of your reach with a strained moan and dark eyes that wordlessly relay why he pins your wrists to your sides. He is right there – body brushing against your thighs and strong arms weighing your hips to the furry layer beneath you...still he feels further away than ever.

“Geralt...” you plead, trying to keep quiet as to not wake up Jaskier, “please.”

“Always,” is the mumbled answer as he dives between your legs and licks a long stripe upwards to your clit.

You are aware of his chuckle even as you arch your back to breathe in sharply, it just does not matter because the man refuses to relent in his newfound quest to drive you mad with coiled-up lust growing stronger with each lick, each thrust and twist of his fingers when he finally lets go of your wrists. Scrabbling for purchase, his silver locks becomes an anchor and a rudder directing his mouth to where it is needed and you can barely contain a mewling scream as the tension inside snaps and drops you into earth-moving ecstasy.

“Hmmmm.” Was that a sigh or a groan? In your delirious state, you cannot tell which. “You’re...” Sloppy kisses trail up your sensitive abdomen to breasts that ache for his attention. “[Y/N],” he sighs against your lips as his cock nestles between you drenched folds, “I...you...no one else.”

Both his words and manhood sinks in slowly, agonizingly perfect in the stretch and depth as though made for you specifically. Always meant for you. The words must have slipped out because he stops to cup your cheek, golden eyes burning with an emotion you never have seen within him before. The kiss is different too, familiarity mingled with a new understanding.

A slow roll of your hips spurs Geralt on. Resting on an elbow to still cup your cheek, the other hand is freed to roam your body as his thrusts set a slow pacing. You can feel each vein and the fold and head of the cock drag along the ridges in your cunt. Almost frustratingly lazy as he pulls back to the very entrance each time. No. Not “almost”. Arching into him, pulling him deeper with the hook of your heels against his ass and knees pinching against his torso – all you want is him without any veils. Still, it is impossible to complain as long as he keeps looking into your soul the way he does. Geralt is teasing you, yes, causing your toes to curl with pent up need yet simultaneously providing you with the most intense experience in your life.

A calculative gleam shimmers in the blown pupils. “You’re...much stronger than I’ve been thinking...”

“Don’t hold back...take me.”

There is barely time to register how the Witcher flips you onto your knees, hands braced against the rock wall, before regaining entrance to your (due to the position) much tighter cunt with a groan bitten into your shoulder. His chest is heaving, sweat-slicked against your back as he holds you pinned in place for a second. A large hand finds a breast to toy with. Another hand grips your hip so tight it feels as though there is no flesh between his fingers and the bone, but you are glad for the restraint as the man draws back only to ram into you hard, knocking out your breath on a keening moan before he has a chance to cover your mouth.

“More?”

You nod frantically against the calloused palm, eager for the feel of a second release as the greedy urge already builds in the pit of your stomach. It grows bigger, warmer with each thrust until breathing is nearly impossible and...it is Geralt’s hand, strong and calloused that has slid along your jaw and found your throat to squeeze just enough around your windpipe for you to feel dizzy and heighten each sensation in a rush. Almost.

Maybe Witchers can read minds. This one certainly seems to as his other hand abandons its purchase, fingers reaching for the nub at the apex of the slick folds. Teasing. Circling. Tweaking. His breath is hot against your throat, fanning your ear as he tells you to come undone for him. Pleads you.

How can you deny that husky voice? It is impossible to stop the explosion that starts in your core, ricocheting with incredible force through your body which contorts until the storm recedes, leaving your blissed-out in your Witcher’s arms, gasping for breath now that air flows freely.

Hair sticks to faces, necks, only stubbornly brushed aside once Geralt has laid you down, tugging you close.

“My wild flower,” he mumbles against your cheek and you can feel the smile on his lips, “get some rest.”

There will be a lot to talk about, secrets to explain before anything can begin to make sense, but right now...rest sounds good.

[galadrieljones]

That he may hold me by the hand - Chapter 14

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Albert Mason  

Rating: Mature (Adult Themes and Situations, Violence, and Sexual Content)

Summary: After saving Albert from stumbling off a cliff in the Heartlands, Arthur invites him to Valentine for a drink. What ensues after that is a quiet love story, in which both men find themselves completely undone.

Masterpost | AO3 | Epigraph

Chapter 14: My love.

It took a moment, in the saloon, like the clenching of a fist. The pianist switched songs, to something slower and darker. Albert shook Dutch's hand.

“I assume that, based on your acute sense of surprise, you have heard of me," said Dutch.

“Yes, I know who you are,” said Albert.

Dutch studied his knuckles. “I am surprised to find you alone,” he said, “without Arthur.”     

Albert placed his hands in his pockets under the table. He raised his chin but continued to look down at the filigree of the place mat beneath his newspaper. “He’s not here,” he said. “He was out, on a job. He hasn’t yet returned.”

“That’s right,” said Dutch, nodding, admiring the end of his cigar. The smoke filled the air between them. “The Rhodes bounty. How did it go?”

Albert didn’t answer. He just stared, waiting.

“I asked you a question, Mr. Mason.”

“Yes, I am aware,” said Albert.

"I just thought that, given the opportunity, I should meet you,” said Dutch. “I wanted to meet the man who has…somehow convinced my partner to leave his life, everyone and everything he knows, behind. Many have tried in the past, and failed. It is truly magnificent.”

“For what it’s worth,” said Albert, “I gave him every out. He did not take much convincing.”

This struck a nerve. Dutch’s eyes got dark. “How much has he told you?” he said. “About me?”

“Some,” said Albert. “Mostly good things.”

This seemed to confuse him. “Good things?”

“Yes,” said Albert. “He told me how you saved his life in Jackson when he was a teenager, how you helped him and gave him a second chance. He told me you were like a father to him for a long time. He told me that he thought you had lost your purpose in recent years, something that worries him, but that he relates to. He told me that you would be okay, as long as you have your partner, Hosea, by your side. He also told me that you would try to find us, and that you would succeed if we were not careful. I have to ask, how long have you been keeping tabs?”

Dutch was leaning now, way over the table, his face at less than a foot of distance. He looked intrigued. His voice was quiet. “I have not been keeping tabs on you,” he said.

“How did you know I would be here.”

“I didn’t,” said Dutch. “I followed John, out of Rhodes. He led me here. He is not as smart as Arthur. Never was. I know that Arthur is at Shady Belle. Or, that is where I assume he has gone, to see Mary Beth, or to pick up his belongings.”

Albert blinked rapidly. He tried to calculate the best way to proceed. “If you knew Arthur was at Shady Belle, and you wanted to see Arthur, you should have gone to Shady Belle. As it stands, you followed John.”

“As it stands.”

”Your use of subterfuge is advanced, Dutch,” said Albert, “but I’m well-versed in the verbal acrobatics of sociopaths. I come from money.”

Dutch took a deep breath and smiled. "Pretty goddam bold, Mr. Mason."

“I’ll pay you off,” Albert continued, adjusting his sleeves. “Arthur wouldn’t like it, but if that’s why you’re here, for my money, just say so. I have little use for it. Perhaps I should have just started there.”

“I know all about your money,” said Dutch. “I know all about you, now that I’ve met you. You need not say anymore. I would wager you are from the eastern coast. Philadelphia, or New York.”

“That’s correct.”

“Modest wealth,” continued Dutch. He leaned back and looked at the ceiling, holding his cigar in the air. “You’re not a Rockafeller, but it’s always been silver spoons in your mouth, hasn’t it now?”

“More or less,” said Albert.

“I don’t want your money, son. The only thing I want,” said Dutch, running a hand over his hair, “is to understand what you want with Arthur.”

“What do you mean.”

“I mean, he’s an outlaw.” He placed his hands back on the table, forcefully. It shook beneath the impact. “He’s got a price on his head in two states, Mr. Mason. The federal government is willing to pay for his apprehension, dead or alive. He’s dangerous. Isn’t that what your people would think?”

“I’m not sure,” said Albert. “Most of my people are unaware that men like Arthur even exist.”

“How did you become aware of men like Arthur?”

“I met him, randomly, one day in West Elizabeth. He helped me on a project for many months. You can see the fruits of our labor in the St. Denis Art Gallery, if you are so inclined.”

“I understand that,” said Dutch. “The two of you became friends?”

“That’s right.”

Dutch studied him. “You must be pretty close, if he’s leaving the gang for you. Getting on a train with you, going west.”

“We are very close friends,” said Albert.

“The kind of friends who…see the night through with one another? Who welcome the morning light from the comfort of one another’s arms?”

It was a strange way of putting things, almost pretty, thought Albert. He knew enough about Dutch not to lie. “Yes,” he said. “In a most poetic sense, yes. That is true.”

“Arthur’s done well for himself then.”

”Whatever you say.”

”Why so coy, Mr. Mason.”

“Because I don’t trust you,” said Albert.

“Smart man. I can understand what Arthur sees in you. You're more assertive than you look."

“You don’t have to act this way," said Albert. "You can just approach men, normally, and have conversations, even awkward ones, without attempting to intimidate, or manipulate them into saying something unwise, which you’ll then use against them later.”

“Excuse me?”

“Where are you from, if you don’t mind my asking?” said Albert. He folded his hands on the table. “You may talk with an affect that rings of the prairie, but your methods of persuasion remind me of the eastern coast.”

“I’m from Philadelphia,” said Dutch, squaring up with him unexpectedly.

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” said Dutch, almost like he was proving a point. “A lucrative dairy farm, outside the city line. My mother came from some money, but not like yours. My father was in the Army of the Potomac. He fought and died in Gettysburg when I was a boy. After I came of age, I left that place. I have never returned.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” said Albert.

"Thank you.”

“My father is also dead, though he died on no such heroic terms. Still, he was a good man.” He wiped his forehead again with his handkerchief. Then he tucked it neatly into his pocket. “I just want you to know that this is not about you, Dutch.”

“What is not about me.”

“Arthur leaving. I think you care about Arthur, and that is ultimately why you are here. You need to make sure, on no uncertain terms, that he is not making the mistake that you are sure he must be making. But please realize that he is not trying to hurt you, and I am not trying to hurt him.” Albert looked away. He was not ashamed, but he didn’t know how to say it, what he needed to say. He was never lost for words. He told the truth.

“You love him,” said Dutch.

Albert took a deep breath. He said nothing.

“As do I.”

"Fine,” said Albert. “But you should know that he came to me, after he was tortured by one of your enemies. He was injured and alone, and he needed to be cared for. Why is that? You’re supposed to be his family, aren’t you?”

“We cared for him,” said Dutch. “His life was saved. I cared.”

“You may think that,” said Albert. “And I know there are people in your gang who care deeply for Arthur. I’ve met them, but in my detailed observation, and based on the information I’ve been given and have gleaned for myself, those people are not you.”

“Do not presume to know anything about me, boy,” said Dutch, growing cold with suspicion. He brought his face in so close now, Albert could smell his cologne. It was expensive. This surprised Albert, though it made sense, now that he knew more about him. “Do not presume to know anything about me, or my relationship to Arthur."

"I apologize."

"I’ve known Arthur for twenty-two years," Dutch went on. "How long have you known him, Mr. Mason? Five months? Maybe six? You are but an infant in the grand, roaming scheme of our lewd and licentious lives. You abide your privileges, your tasteful living of the upper crust, achievement without struggle. You lust freely in and out of the filth that lurks beneath your immaculacy, for kicks, taking what you desire, and leaving the rest to decay.” He scooped his hand through the air between them, abruptly, snatching an imaginary prize. Then, he proceeded to point. “Arthur is not your pet, or your project. He has struggled his whole life simply to survive, dear boy, and I have been there, every step of the way since he was barely more than a child. Do not tell me whether or not I care.”

“With respect to my relationship with Arthur, I have undertaken no such actions, and certainly never for kicks."

“Arthur will say anything to defy me," said Dutch, ignoring him. "He is full of drama for this life, and he always has been, even as he has managed to excel. You know so little.”

Albert cleared his throat. He realized it was a mistake, as it sounded like he was trying to interrupt, but he didn't care. “I saw what happened to him,” he said. “A close-range gunshot wound in his shoulder. He had to remove the bullet and cauterize the wound himself, which left so much scar tissue, it still hurts him sometimes. He had so many broken ribs, it took him weeks to be able to ride a horse again without significant pain. Did you know that?"

Dutch said nothing.

“I am not trying to—he is not a project,” said Albert, trying to understand Dutch's point of view, even as the night was getting long, and he was angry. “I can see how you might think that, but that is not what this is. And I may not be familiar with your way of life, but I know enough. Prove as you may that I was not a part of Arthur’s tragic teenage landscape, or that I am a product of privileged, societal hubris—a fact of which I’ll not argue, mind you—I know Arthur very well, as a man. He tried to hide it from me, what happened to him, as he hides so much. It took him a long time to open up, and he is still opening up. More every day. All of this is to say that Arthur is anything but dramatic. He never complains, nor does he exaggerate his ills. You claim to know him so well, and yet, it seems that every time you try to describe him, you are simply describing yourself.”

Dutch was staring now, his mouth hanging open, as if he aimed to catch flies. He looked nonplussed, having been done an egregious wrong. “What did you say?”

“I took care of him,” said Albert, “when he came to me that night. I will continue to take care of him, always. I will do it because I love him. But more than anything, at the end of the day, I just want him to be safe, unhurt, and while I believe that you may, in your way, love him, too, Dutch, I am not sure that you can say the same of the latter.”

Dutch changed then. He became dreamy and disconnected. You could hear the sounds of the piano and the dancing girls, almost distant. “You are right,” said Dutch.

It was a strange thing.

“What?”

Then, Albert watched as Dutch was dragged from the booth and tossed, violently, unsuspecting, to the flat of his back on the floor. Albert stood as soon as it happened. It was Arthur. He must have snuck in, snuck past them both, somehow, without being seen.

“What are you doing?” Arthur said to Dutch, shaking his head, with his hand on his gun. He didn't address Albert yet, not at first. He seemed too incredulous. “Dutch, what are you doing?”

Dutch looked up at him. Seemingly confused as to how he had gotten there, he held his hands up, in surrender. “We was just. Talking.”

“Just talking?” said Arthur. He glanced at Albert now, assessed his physical person, then back to Dutch. He seemed profoundly disappointed, verging on a kind of concentrated, past-protocol anger that Albert had not really witnessed before. “What else would you be doing?”

“You think I’d hurt your gentleman friend here?”

“Maybe,” said Arthur. “You’ve hurt a lot of other innocent people in these final months of our reign together. Why the hell are you here, Dutch?"

Dutch hauled himself off the floor, proceeded to dust off his pants in a gentlemanly fashion. He looked at Albert, and then he looked at Arthur. He said, "I came to see you."

Arthur took a deep, harsh breath in through his nose. He closed his eyes momentarily, as if gathering his will power. “Did you follow John?” he said.

Dutch sighed. “You know he can’t cover a trail to save his life.”

“Well I guess I shall keep holding out hope then.”

"Hosea told me you was leaving," said Dutch. He put his hat back on his head, still visibly shaken from having been tossed to the floor. "He let slip that he had seen you at a photography exhibit in St. Denis. All I had to do was ride into town, walk by the art gallery, and I had a name. The bartender pointed out Albert to me. With very little convincing, might I add. I believe he's inebriated. You ought to beat the breath from his lungs."

“I ain't gonna do that," said Arthur. "I ain't like you."

“I came to beg you stay, son,” said Dutch. "That's all."

“Why?" said Arthur. "Why on earth would you beg me to stay? You ain't shown me nothing but contempt since we fled Blackwater. You don't trust me, Dutch, and I don't trust you. Not no more. So just be rid of me. Let me go."

"How can I do that?"

"You just do it," said Arthur. "That's all. But I'll tell you what you don't do. You don't come here and threaten him. You threaten him again, that’ll mark the end of my composure, and there ain’t gonna be no glory in it for you, Dutch. No glory. Do you understand?”

“I did not. Threaten him.”

“You was raising your voice to him,” said Arthur. “You put your face pretty goddam close to his face. What am I supposed to think? Where I come from, that’s a fighting distance.”

“Where you come from?” said Dutch. He looked around, as if being met with an audience. The saloon did not notice them anymore, not really. There had been some attention paid, initially, when Arthur had put him to the floor, but that sort of thing was part and parcel in the saloon after midnight, even in St. Denis. “It seems to me you have forgotten where you come from, Arthur. Leaving, going back west, without us? Without me? We was partners. Partners. For twenty-two years. How can you do that, to us? How can you forget, after all we been through.”

“I ain’t forgotten.”

“All this…struggle. We was a family.”

“I will never forget,” Arthur corrected him. “Don’t you make that misunderstanding. I will always be grateful for what you gave to me. I’m just gonna make the most of it now. That’s all this is. It ain’t about you, Dutch. It’s about me this time. Me. That’s why I was leaving without saying goodbye. I knew you would not understand. I had hoped that Hosea would be able to convince you to see reason, but I can see now, with you here, trying god knows what with the person I love—that was foolish.”

“Arthur, please.”

Arthur turned toward Albert, ignoring Dutch, and his pleadings. He was looking at the floor, striving for calm. Albert could see it in his eyes, in his fists, clenched tightly by his sides, one of them lingering very close to the volcanic in his belt. In a plea to bring him back to stasis, Albert clasped his hand to Arthur's shoulder and shook him, just a little. Arthur looked right at him then, and Albert said, "It's okay, dear friend."

"You don't know him."

"I know," said Albert. "I know."

Dutch had backed away, a couple steps. He still had his hands up.

"You gotta go, Dutch," said Arthur, wincing like he was in pain. "I am finished. Tonight, more than ever."

"Arthur—"

"If you follow us," said Arthur, "or try to find us, at any point in the future, I swear to the holy that I will not hesitate to end your life. Now, go."

Dutch looked upon him as if teetering on the edge of a high cliff. Albert did not know what was going to happen. He did not know. But even as the room was still filled with voices and bravado, nobody cared. Nobody looked to see. The bartender had put on the gramophone while the pianist smoked a cigarette and laughed with a women in a smoky corner. The gramophone was playing something obscenely French. Josie, the saloon girl, came back around again, looking for orders. She stopped just before the stand-off, uneasy. She had long, dark hair that fell in a soft braid over her shoulder. She was very young and beautiful, probably only nineteen or twenty years old. She looked at Albert. She said, "Is everything okay?"

Albert nodded. She looked at Arthur. "Hey, Mr. Morgan," she said. "You look like you need a drink. Whiskey? You want water?"

Arthur realized then that he had become more familial with the saloon girls of St. Denis than he had with anyone from his former life. It snapped the moment in half, like a bone. He said, "Yes, ma'am."

"I'll be back." She touched his wrist, didn't go yet. She glanced to Dutch, but she sensed something now and stayed quiet. She didn't yield to him, like she had before.

Dutch cracked his knuckles, looked at her, sadly, his eyes as shell casings. He looked at Arthur, too. "I have lost you," he said, almost like he was talking to himself.

Nobody said anything else after that. Or maybe somebody was talking, but it was all static. Dutch reached into his pocket. He tossed a handful of coins onto the table. He staggered to the bar, where he stood for a moment, alone, with his head down, leaning on the counter. Arthur looked at Albert for just a moment, and when he looked back, Dutch was gone.

"Albert," said Arthur.

"Everything's fine," said Albert, after a moment. "He surprised the hell out of me, got in my face a little bit, but he tried nothing."

Arthur was silent, filled with regret for having separated from John, for having left the opportunity open at all. He wished away the fears that overtook him that night. "Okay," he said.

"Who was that man?" said Josie. "He looked so familiar. I think I seen him in the paper."

Arthur thanked her, and he tipped her generously, even as he cancelled his whiskey order.

The altercation had been bitter and upsetting. He and Albert went upstairs to where they could finally be alone. Arthur sat down on the purple sofa in the light of the Chinese lanterns, looking up at them, like they were gods. They knew all. They had seen all.

"You're sure you're okay," said Arthur.

"I'm sure," said Albert. "Did you find Mary Beth? Back at Shady Belle?"

"I did," said Arthur, holding his hat in his hands. "She is set to go."

"Where will she go?"

"North," said Arthur. "She wants to go to Wisconsin. Supposed to be nice up there, real free. I told her to write me when she was safe."

"Good," said Albert. "That's very good."

"Al, I'm so sorry," said Arthur. "I should've come back. I shouldn't've gone to Shady Belle without telling you first."

"I wish you would have," said Albert. "But it's all right, I understand. I wasn't afraid of Dutch. Not really. I see how he could be extremely dangerous, but tonight he seemed...disorganized. Unhinged. I almost felt sorry for him. I was more worried he had done something to you, to be honest, and that that's why he was here."

Arthur smiled with a slight abandon, put his hand on Albert's knee. "You've come a long way, Mr. Mason."

"Have I?"

"First time I met you, you nearly fainted at the sight of a coyote," said Arthur. "I have saved you from alligators, O'Driscolls, wolves, ledges. Tonight, you looked the goddam devil in the eye. You weren't even scared. You sure you still need me around?"

Albert kissed him, softly. He lit a cigarette, his eyes tired, glazed. "You know that I love you," he said.

"Of course."

"You know that I love you," said Albert. "That I know your past, and that I accept it. That I'm not afraid of it, nor do I want to change who you are. You know that my only motive for being with you is just this, love."

"Where's all this coming from?" said Arthur. He held his arm along the back of the sofa.

"Nowhere," said Albert, happy. "I just wanted to make sure you knew. And of course I need you. I may have faced Dutch like a man, but I couldn't take him, not in a million years. Don't be silly."

Arthur laughed, kissed him in the dim light. It was very late. "You have eased my strife, Mr. Mason. We can talk more about it in the morning."

"Do you believe he'll stay away?" said Albert.

"I do. For now."

"All right."

It would be their last night in St. Denis.

[thegreenfairy13]

8. In a rowboat... you know me, I love your Gobblepot. So Gobblepot please.

I hope you like it! 

The afterlife is nothing like Oswald imagined it to be. But then it’s exactly like he imagined it to be, too. 

He comes back to his senses ever so slowly, opens his eyes carefully against the onslaught of light and heat, tries sitting up only to drop back again, more tired than he has ever been. Debris and fire are raining down, Gotham’s skyline, practically engulfed in flames, stands proudly in the distance, unreachable to his touch. 

He wants to sob. 

A steady stream is taking him away from the lost city, and it’s not the fire burning his skin that pains him but the loss of what has been a part of his being, what has been etched into his veins, and flesh, and heart like nothing else. 

It’s a pain worse than back then when they had smashed his leg into pieces so small no one could ever piece them back together. 

He’s in a boat, that he notes, as it gently rocks him to a sleep he knows will never come again. 

Slowly raising his head, he finally opens his eyes fully, and sees a man he never would have expected to be here. 

Jim Gordon, Gotham’s likewise loathed and loved hero, rows their boat. Jaw set tight and sporting an expression full of unwavering determination, he fights the tide’s stream, forces a tiny nutshell cutting through the very waters of hell to obey his command. 

It’s fitting, in a way. In life he bent everything to his will as well - just like him. 

“Finally awake?” he grumbles, taking in Oswald’s surprised expression. 

He merely gawks in response, pushes a hand through his sticky hair, stalling for time. 

“Wh..What?” he stutters. And isn’t it funny? The former King of the City Now Burning is being reduced to a teenager again. 

“The city went to hell, literally this time,” Jim offers as only explanation, continuing to row against the stream, like he always does. Why Oswald ever thought his stubbornness would change in death is a riddle even to him. Jim would never take the easy way, would never simply float or drift. 

It’s not right, though. Despite all his flaws, Jim is a good man, tried, at least, to be good. Unlike him. He always strived for being anything but, put money and power above anything else. He had always been greedy, even and especially in love. It brought him nothing but pain, though. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Jim raises his head. “I jumped after you. When the bridge collapsed. Again.”

Oswald vaguely remembers: the fear, the rush of adrenaline, Jim stepping between him and the city’s enemy of the week. Except, this time, nothing went according to plan. 

“Something pulled you under,” Jim elaborates, undeterred. “It wasn’t easy, diving so deep,” he muses and Oswald’s breath hitches. He has a pretty good understanding just how hard it must have been sinking into the darkness when he could have just swum towards the light.  

He says it though as if he was talking about the weather. 

It’s too late now, Oswald thinks bitterly, how he only now understands who Jim really is, that all his gruffness hides kindness, compassion, and that a good chunk of it had always solely been reserved for him. Cause it means something, doesn’t it, following someone into limbo? 

He scrambles forward, practically throws himself into Jim’s arms, clings to him as if he was his anchor, and he probably is. There had been a time, long ago, when he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could be someone else, for this man. It was a shortlived fantasy. 

“Why did you follow me?” he has to know though, cause, despite the tangible evidence beneath his hands, he still has doubts.

Jim merely shrugs in response. “I never wanted you dead. Stripped from power, maybe. Harmless, not wreaking havoc, for once,” he tells him with a half-smile, sweating profusely as he navigates their little boat towards the harbor, back to where they started. He tells him all these things as if they had been clear for everyone to see. 

Oswald focused too much on his betrayals those past few years. He wishes he could come up with a suitable apology. 

The corner of Jim’s mouth twitches as he’s unsuccessfully trying to hide a bemused smirk, despite their dire situation. 

And finally, Oswald snaps. Leaning forward, he catches Jim’s lower lip between his teeth, climbs fully into his lap, and kisses him until he has no other chance but to reciprocate, until he’s breathless not only from the exertion but Oswald’s onslaught. It’s an awkward kiss, messy, and probably inappropriate. Someone in hell probably adds ‘lust’ just now to the endless list of his sins.  

Jim pulls free, looking younger and happier than the mobster has ever seen him before, gestures at the paddle, “I can’t continue with you kissing me,” he says and carries on, takes them somehow back to the shore. 

“How do we ever get out of here?” Oswald wonders out loud when Jim takes his hand, pulls him from the boat, and starts walking toward the city.

Jim shrugs, as if the answer meant nothing to him, and throws his line back at him. “I don’t know. But I guess it’s better walking with a friend through the fire than walking alone through the pits of hell.” 

[cherry-flavoured-thot]

The Dream

Fandom: Fire Emblem

Pairing: Plumeria x Summoner! Reader (sorta) 

Genre: Angst with like softish undertones 

Word Count: 600+

Summary: Plumeria enters the Summoner’s dreams but she doesn’t find what she expects. 

Warnings: Death Mentions, Canon Related Trauma. 

A/N: I haven’t even played FEH in like months now, but i saw this pretty fairy lady, saw her abilities and was like ‘hmm what if i used her horny powers and made something not horny’. 

Plumeria has seen the worst sides of lust, the way it flurries and then sours in the dreams of man. The desires that subconsciously linger in the minds of man and appear in dreams, some so foul that the first time she witnessed them she felt sickened. All men have a desire they wish no one to see, but lust for in their dreams, the simply is the way mortals are, how they always have been. She assumed the great Summoner would be no different, vile dreams that would make the heroes the follow them disgusted.

But that’s not she sees, she’s honestly taken back by what she sees, beautiful indigo forget-me-nots litter the ground, there’s a glass wall higher than she can fly, it stretches upon your dreams, on the opposite side of the wall she believes it’s your home world. You sit in front of it, staring sullenly knowing that you will never be able to reach what sits on the other side of the wall. You notice her in the reflection of the wall and turn to her, she wonders if this will be the moment your dreams turn foul. But they do not, you look up at her with wide eyes and she decides to land close by to get a better look at you.

“Have we met before?” You question, peering at her with genuine curiosity. It’s almost refreshing to be looked at like that, compared to the looks of wanting or lust, or the eyes that rake her body to undress her with their gaze.

“Not yet, but I have a feeling we will.”

“I see,” you pause for a moment, grimacing, when you do so Plumeria feels the dream darken slightly, sorrow flowing from you. “We’re going to be enemies, aren’t we?” you ask, the question surprises her, you surprise her, she’s never had anything like this happen in any dreams she’s visited before.

“Why does that bother you so much? We haven’t even met yet.”

“I’ve had to take so many lives here. I never did anything like that in my world.” Guilt. Remorse. The small sounds of pleads that echo in the dream. She smells smoke, then decay, then it disappears into the flowery fragrance that lingered around before.

“The world that you cannot reach. How sad.” She ponders upon the events from moments ago, the strange occurrence of memories resurfacing in the dream but then disappearing as if they were being forced back down. Then it dawns upon her. “Tell me Summoner why do you have such control over your dreams?”

“Gunnthra, she had the Rite of Dreams and passed over the remainder of her power to me before her death, ever since then I’ve had more control over my dreams.” The dream feels warmer, fire, smoke, an anger that bubbles but disappears, what a strange mortal you were. There’s a silence between the two of you, your gaze returns to glass wall in front of you.

“Why not remove the glass?” She questions.

“I can’t. I don’t have that much control.”

“You don’t seem to be quite as dirtied as the rest of your fellow man, so I’ll take pity upon you this once,” your surprised to hear such a thing from her, going to turn to her at a loss for words.

“I-“ the glass wall disappears, but she does as well. “Thank you,” you murmur regardless of her no longer being in your line of sight. Plumeria watches from a distance, far out of view, a smile threatening to appear on her features, gaze focusing on the small smile as you walk through what once was your home. For a moment she considers that perhaps you were different from the rest of man, before dashing the thought immediately and leaving your dream and not looking back.

[exofiction09]

ChanSoo Au

Answering the following prompt,

Title - Play With Me

Pairing - Park Chanyeol / Do Kyungsoo

Side pairing - Kim Junmyeon / Zhang Yixing

Opposite poles always attract. It was a universal notion that two people who had varying personalities always jelled well. Now, the phrase made sense if it was between two people who were friends or lovers, but it was strange when it also applied to two people who were on opposite sides of the law.

In the mysterious town of Exion there lived two superhumans who often crossed each other's paths on a nightly basis. The noble one, named Do Kyungsoo, took on the disguise of D.O. who was known for his superhuman strength, while the mischievous one, named Park Chanyeol, took on the disguise of Loey who was known for his control over fire.

The altercation between them usually began with Chanyeol setting something on fire, which would lead to Kyungsoo going over to to the affected area in order to help. Kyungsoo would then become the target of Chanyeol's unforgiving teasing which would then lead to a physical fight between them.

The night would end with scars, bruises, burns and charred remains of whatever Chanyeol set fire to.

On certain nights, their physical fights often led to something more playful and passionate.

Chanyeol was known for playing tricks on Kyungsoo, and it was well known that he was madly attracted to the shorter superhuman. Chanyeol would purposefully goad Kyungsoo until the shorter one would snap at him. Riling him up was Chanyeol's favorite pastime activity. This would lead to Kyungsoo becoming distracted and ultimately, to his capture.

Once captive, Chanyeol would mercilessly flirt with him and successfully seduce him until Kyungsoo gave in. Chanyeol was tall, with well toned muscles and a handsome personality. His fiery hair and mischievous eyes only added to his charm, and Kyungsoo fell for him every single time.

He knew all of Kyungsoo's weak points and used them to his advantage.

Park Chanyeol was also a prodigy with his music. He could compose tunes that often left the listener at a loss for words. He was employed by a theater production company to produce songs for musicals. And every time he belted out, people were almost hypnotized. What people did not know was that his vocal chords held a sense of magic about them. 

Whenever he sang, his voice had the power to hypnotize people to the point where they would find themselves frozen and dazed. Chanyeol had always used this attribute of his to lure and seduce Kyungsoo. The shorter guy always fell for his musical charm.

Tonight was no exception.

Earlier in the night, Chanyeol had started a ruckus by setting a barn on fire. The barn belonged to a perverted old man whom Chanyeol had hated for years. The old man had troubled Chanyeol’s older sister several times when they were growing up, and he had recently taken to bothering other young girls. This old man surely was not loved among people, but Kyungsoo had still gone to save him.

Why? Because he had a moral obligation to save every person in the town.

Presently, Kyungsoo let out a growl and kicked the barn door open. The wooden frame gave away easily as it was almost consumed by the fire. Outside, the courtyard and the house was silent.

Kyungsoo was not surprised to find Chanyeol standing calmly at the center of the burning barn. But then, he did freeze as he saw the situation on the inside.

Chanyeol was wearing a black sleeveless vest, so the skin over his biceps shone in the fiery light. His red hair resembled the embers of the very fire consuming the wooden framework around them, and his eyes reflected a hidden sense of excitement. He grinned at Kyungsoo as the latter found himself stupefied seeing the taller one's striking features. Chanyeol brought his palms together and rubbed them with a smirk. The next moment, Kyungsoo felt himself being bound by invisible ropes. No doubt, another trick of Chanyeol's.

"Release me, Loey. I won't ask again," he growled in a low voice. The redhead just smirked and raised both of his hands. He looked about the burning inferno around him for a moment before he smiled at Kyungsoo.

"My passion for you burns like this barn, and you tell me to let you go? Impossible. Tonight, I'm gonna have some fun with you," he said mischievously. The fire had almost burnt down the entire barn, yet the two remained unscathed. Kyungsoo struggled hard but the rope was indeed tied firmly around his body.

"Did you forget? Two nights ago, you were writhing in my arms as you moaned my name. I want to hear that again," he said, winking at his once-sworn enemy.

"D-don't wink at me," snapped Kyungsoo in an annoyed voice. Yet his entire face flushed and he felt goosebumps rise up on his skin. His stomach twisted and he felt a lump settle in his throat. "Your tactics aren't gonna work," he said bravely.

Chanyeol grinned and walked to him, not giving any regards about Kyungsoo’s personal space. He firmly gripped Kyungsoo's chin and raised his face so that their eyes could meet. Chanyeol's gaze was unwavering and his dark eyes shone, reflecting a hint of mischief and lust.

Suddenly, he embraced Kyungsoo and bent down to kiss his neck. He wrapped his long arms around the shorter man's form and sucked arduously over the latter's warm skin. Kyungsoo sucked in a breath as he felt Chanyeol's warm lips on his neck. He closed his eyes and tried to will away the feelings of pleasure he felt as Chanyeol kissed his neck sensually.

"G-get of-f...." He murmured weakly as he felt his own body react to Chanyeol. The latter only murmured an amused ‘no’ before he slowly kissed his way up Kyungsoo's neck.

“What did you do to the old man? Did you burn him too?” He asked harshly, trying to settle his mind on matters other than the feeling of his enemy’s lips. Although, at this point Kyungsoo wondered if he considered Chanyeol as his enemy.

Chanyeol then moved back a little so that a hair's breadth of space separated their lips. He grinned and gently nipped on Kyungsoo's lower lip.

Kyungsoo growled at him. 

Chanyeol sighed and pulled away from him, taking a few steps back. He pressed his lips together and stared at the shorter one in disbelief. “Are you seriously thinking about that old bastard right now?”

Kyungsoo only glared at him pointedly until Chanyeol gave in with a scoff. “I just knocked him out. He’s misbehaving with the young girls of our town, Kyungsoo-ya. I can’t let such lecherous old perverts to live peacefully,” he said in a strained voice, tugging at his own hair in frustration. 

Kyungsoo’s brows raised comically at that. “So, your brand of justice for such a pervert is to burn his barn?” 

Chanyeol nodded and pointed around the blazing barn. “Yeah, I heard that his father built this barn. So, I decided to burn it.”

Kyungsoo shook his head and turned away. His voice when he spoke next was softer without his usual sting. “If you wanted justice, you should have let the authorities deal with him.”

Chanyeol scoffed and narrowed his eyes. “Screw the authority. They don’t do anything when this old asshole tormented my sister. I had half the mind to burn him to a crisp, but I stopped myself,” he said in irritation.

Kyungsoo raised his brows at that. "And what stopped you from doing it?" He asked. Chanyeol then shrugged his shoulders. "It would have upset you. And I can't have that, given the fact that I'm courting you," he said in a low whisper.

Kyungsoo blushed to his roots and his face turned red at Chanyeol's words.

His entire demeanor then underwent a drastic change as he smirked seductively at Kyungsoo. 

“Let’s put this matter behind us. The authorities can arrest that knocked out old pervert, and we can continue with our little situation,” he said with a wink.

Kyungsoo scowled at him and thrashed within the ropes. “I said stop with the winking!” 

Chanyeol did not even listen to him. Instead, he started to hum a song to himself. Hearing this, Kyungsoo’s face paled. His eyes widened and he tried his level best to free his arms so that he could cover his ears. But it was all in vain.

Chanyeol switched from humming to singing as he saw the expression change on Kyungsoo’s face. His voice was deep and resonant, his notes rich and proper. The song was about two lovers spending the entire night with each other, and there were hidden innuendos in every line. 

Kyungsoo felt his heart beat wildly as he heard the baritone of Chanyeol’s voice. The words pierced through his mind and turned his entire being numb. His song drowned Kyungsoo’s entire being in a soft daze, and he felt all his muscles go numb in relaxation. Chanyeol chuckled as he saw Kyungsoo fall for his spell. He drew closer and closer until Kyungsoo was wrapped once more within his arms.

Kyungsoo’s dark eyes were hooded and he was very pliant in Chanyeol’s arms. The latter took advantage of this and pressed his lips over Kyungsoo’s. Sparks flew around them as Chanyeol tilted his head and kissed him deeply. Kyungsoo was powerless against him and he too gave in. The fire consuming the barn burst forth with more force as Chanyeol's emotions were being affected.

Just as things were getting heated between them, a worried voice cut short their passionate love making.

"Goodness! Chanyeol you've really done- Oh, my God,” a person in blue robes yelled in a hollow voice as he saw the scene before him. The man in blue robes was Kyungsoo’s partner. He had the ability to manipulate and control water. His interruption did not deter Chanyeol, but they did part. 

Chanyeol placed a softer kiss against Kyungsoo’s lips and smiled at him. He moved his lips near Kyungsoo’s ear and whispered in a tone laced with promise and mischief. “I’ll see you later tonight, my love.”

With a parting smirk, he pushed a dazed Kyungsoo towards Suho, who gracefully caught him. “He’ll be fine. The spell wears off in an hour,” he said with a chuckle as he then disappeared in a burst of flames. 

Suho sighed and gently shook the superhuman in his hands. “Soo? Soo, it’s okay, I’ll get you home to Yixing. He’ll fix you right up!”

He placed Kyungsoo on the hay covered ground and set forward to putting off the flames. With a wave of his arms, he lashed out water at the areas where fire had taken over, and soon he had put off most of the lit areas.

Two hours later, the cops had arrested the old man, but the firemen were not able to save the barn. Suho took Kyungsoo to Yixing who assured Suho that Kyungsoo was unharmed.

"But he was surrounded by flames! Are you sure there are no burns? No toxins?" Yelled Suho in concern. Yixing soothed his worries by embracing him. "My love, nothing's wrong with him. It's almost as if this Loey was protecting Soo from his flames. Well, it's definitely interesting. We have to ask Soo later about this Loey character," said Yixing.

Suho and Yixing had always taken care of Kyungsoo. They were lovers and their love often gave Kyungsoo hope that love was a good thing.

Kyungsoo recovered from Chanyeol's spell quite quickly and he returned back to his penthouse. He had just entered when he felt the presence of another man inside his house. He sighed to himself and switched on the lights, only to find Chanyeol sitting on the couch.

The moment he saw Kyungsoo, he stood up and walked over to the shorter male. He was quick to wrap his arms around him.

"I was wondering when you'd return, Soo-ah," murmured Chanyeol affectionately. The mischievous glint of Loey, the miscreant, was gone and replaced by the clinginess that was characteristic of Chanyeol.

Kyungsoo wrapped his own arms around his waist and looked up at Chanyeol. His lips almost curved up into a smile. "Well, I had to convince Suho and Yixing-hyung that I was fine."

He then swat at Chanyeol's shoulder which earned him an exaggerated yowl of pain. "Kyungsoo-yah, what was that for?" He asked, pouting a little.

Kyungsoo's smile widened by a fraction now as he stood over on his toes. "For casting that spell on me, you big oaf," he mumbled as he drew himself closer to Chanyeol's lips.

Chanyeol's large palms pressed Kyungsoo closer to his body, and the shorter male felt a stirring low in his body. Their kiss was passionate, their tongues moving wildly against each other's in a fight for dominance.

Kyungsoo pushed Chanyeol backwards so that he sat on the couch. Chanyeol sat down promptly and Kyungsoo climbed over him, straddling him. They did not break the kiss even once as they settled in their position.

Kyungsoo blinked his eyes open slightly and gazed at Chanyeol. The fiery haired man had his eyes closed as he kissed Kyungsoo. The latter knew that he was charmed and that there was no going back. But then, he figured that maybe it was not so bad to be desired like this. He liked the clumsy idiot more than he wished to.

Outside in the city, they were on opposite sides of the law. But within the confines of Kyungsoo's penthouse, they were just two men who chased after companionship and love like any other person.

[momaeder]

LETTER

LETTER

My dear friend Gutiérrez Please forgive me for having left the vatican without a word to you. I just could not bear the thought anymore of remaining in this situation I felt constrained. constrained by this system the ubiquitous logics and regulations of the economy, the legal system, the political system, the mass media, the church [1] Bound to a mortal body, by bonds as strange as they are powerful, my care for the preservation of this body tempts the soul to think only of self, and gives it an interest opposed to the general order of things, which it is still capable of knowing and loving [2] The only place where I was at peace was in my garden. Where I would watch the songbirds on their travel to africa. So free and close to the sky. Moving freely not because they had to but because they wanted to. I watched in silence over our mortal agonies, guide of messengers, bonds and cords, angel flying in limpid air, nimble as a rocket, leading us toward the other world. [6] it was on one of those afternoons when I heard a bird chirping, singled out and trapped between the branches of a bush the heaven had sent an ortolan So sweet that bird, and dear to me, May it sing on ever sweetly sang, among the blossoms free, Singing with such mastery. [4] I felt a youthful, holy, vital bliss In every vein and fibre newly glowing. [19] But not in holy reverence to our Lord, but in lust. [20] I could not let go of the images that arose in me and that came along with the thought of consuming the bird with all its feathers and freedom. The memory of an angel, or rather the becoming of a cosmos. [5] With this thought it dawned on me If moral precepts seem laughable, if the person preaching is irritating, for no one lives like an absolute angel, then vital experience matters eminently.The foolish life doesn’ t expose itself; the good one puts himself in danger, like intelligence when it wants to invent.It dives into this experience, into this adventure, exceptional and everyday, in which destitution, suffering, failure, frustration, mistakes and sin itself teach us more than every other thing in the world. [7] Religion connects the disconnected. But I will unbind the connected, unbind the priest more than he unbinds himself; unfasten the shackles, knots and connections.It is in this way that in space and the world atomism is profoundly irreligious : principles separated by the void. but if I disconnect the connected, then physics comes back down to religion.Then the atom is indeed the same word as templum, the temple, the distinction of local variety within the global space. [3] The restaurant I opened up. The palais ortolan. For my getaway I found a perfect site, bringing with it it’s own luggage like I am, yet willing to turn things around. The house that used to be an absolute identity, [...] in a determined guise, that is, as identical absolute

, it was posited as such by reflection over against opposition and manifoldness; [...] the negative of reflection and determination in general. [8] but it has grown tired of the Absolute anonymity of the representer and absolute loss of the selfsame [9] it wants more. It wants to understand me and my doings and moreso it wants to unveil to the world what I try to do secretly. Reversing the processes of becoming in my restaurant as to present it to the world. It has become a tracing element; it reveals the network of unobservable relations in the box. Because it’s not their sum that produces the cooks and ingredients. It’s the trace of blood on their shirts. It traces routes in the black box. [10] On the line that it is tracing, there is only  matter and movement, movement which is more or less complicated, more or less delayed. [12] Yet The moment of the exclusion of madness in the subject who seeks the truth is necessarily hidden from the point of view of the architectonic ordering of the system [11] it does not completely get what I am doing, unveiling the goods and guests that enter my place, tracing the fumes and scents through the building projecting the red light of my pandemonic kitchen onto the veil I put up. But yet it cannot fully grasp my intentions, my way of dissolution. But somehow even if we do not work together, we work between the two. [14] It’s better to find a symbiotic equilibrium, even fairly primitive, than to reopen a war that is always lost because we and the enemy find renewed force in the relationship. [13] Even if it is a bit unconfortable for me that all the traces of my workings are reveald to the city it provides me with the spaces to hide in plain sight behind the veil of my apparent workings, to cultivate as much of my land as I require to grow the figs I need for [16] the birds to gorge on. To collect Locked in frozen layers, a universe of ancient creatures that awaits another chance at life. [15] To Transform substances into a dissolution of forms, a passage to the limit or flight from contours in favor of fluid forces, flows, air, light, and matter, such that a body or a word does not end at a precise point. [17] To move freely between earth, water, fire and air. Growing, cultivating, conserving, dissolving and cooking the artefacts I collect on my way. To create something that has never been sensed before. To witness the veil of maya being torn apart [21] as all the symbolic faculties of man are stimulated to the highest pitch of intensity; something never before experienced struggles towards expression, the annihilation of the veil of Maya, unity as the spirit of the species, even of nature. [22] To stare my guest in the eye as his whole world unravels and witness the revelation that. Dreams and madness then reveal themselves to be made of the same substance. [18]

on another note As my actions have drawn attention, the media, members of the public, and politicians have begun to pay attention. [23] Recently I have gotten a reservation from a name familiar to me from the Michelin Guide. I will report to you how it went as soon as possible. My dearest regards go out to you LENNY

[1] Schumacher, The Autopoiesis of Architecture Vol 2 [2] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau [3] Serres, The Birth of Physics [4] von Strassburg, Tristan and Isolde [5] Deleuze Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus [6] Serres, The Natural Contract [7] Serres, The Incandescent [8] Hegel, The Science of Logic [9] Derrida, Of Grammatology [10] Serres, Rome [11] Foucault, History of Madness [12] Deleuze, Bergsonism [13] Serres, History of Scientific Thought [14] Deleuze, Dialogues [15] Braidotti Hlavajova, Posthuman Glossary [16] Montesquieu, Persian Letters [17] Deleuze Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus [18] Foucault, History of Madness [19] Hovestadt Buehlmann, Quantum City [20] Zizek, Less Than Nothing [21] Costelloe, The Sublime [22] Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy [23] Zimring, Encyclopedia of Consumption and Waste

[kmomof4]

POV? #askgame

Hi there nonnie! I’m sorry it took so long to get this together, but I wrote it two nights ago, finishing about 1:30 in the morning. I went back and looked at it last night, then proceeded to revise about 75% of it. Then today was just a busy day and I couldn’t get here to get it posted. But I thank you PROFUSELY for your patience!! 

This scene is from a prompt I received last summer from @teamhook asking for a smutty neighbors/enemies to lovers fic. Originally told in Emma’s POV, this is in Killian’s. I hope you enjoy it! You can find the original prompt here.

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

A pounding on the front door greeted Killian Jones as he stepped out of the shower. Wracking his brain for who might be at his door in the middle of the afternoon, he wrapped a towel around his waist and made his way toward the front door. He could see his fiery neighbor, Emma Swan, through the sidelights on either side of the door. Her green eyes flashed with her ire and the effect on him was instantaneous. He had been enamoured with the gorgeous blonde ever since he’d moved in two years ago, but she was always quick to shoot him down. That didn’t stop her appearance in his dreams, however.

He opened the door and couldn’t keep the smirk off his face as he watched the normally quite loquacious woman at a complete loss for words as she watched the progress of a single drop of water from his still wet hair trail down his chest and abs before being absorbed by the towel around his waist. Her mouth hung open before she unconsciously licked her lips and shook her head.

His raised eyebrow joined the cocky smirk on his face just as her eyes met his. “See something you like there, Swan?” he crooned.

“Hah!” she scoffed, “You wish, Jones.” She crossed her arms over her midsection, emphasising her breasts, further compounding his issue underneath the towel.

“Oh, I very much wish, Swan,” he murmured seductively, swaying into her personal space. He watched as her pupils widened and a small gasp escaped her lips. “Having you come over here all hot and bothered over something…”

“The branch,” she interrupted, stepping back away from him.

“Ah, yes, that infernal branch,” he agreed. “Having you over here all hot and bothered over that branch, well, you certainly have my,” he cleared his throat, “attention,” he finished, waving his hand over his middle, bringing her focus to his obvious arousal. He smirked again at her huff.

“Oh my god,” she groaned, rolling her eyes again. “Can you please be serious for one second?”

“Oh, I’m always serious when it comes to you, Emma,” he assured her before backing away and crossing his own arms over his chest. “So you want to yell at me about the branch again?”

“The key word there being ‘again,’ you asshole,” she yelled. “Why haven’t you taken care of this before now?” Her voice got higher with each word until she was nearly screeching at him. “I asked you, nicely, to have that limb, just the limb mind you, cut down before the leaves started falling so that I wouldn’t have to deal with all that. And here it is, September, and the leaves are falling, into my yard, for me to deal with.” Killian was helpless to keep his eyes from roaming over her face as she gesticulated wildly during her rant, down to her heaving chest, and then to her lips before returning to her eyes.

Firmly pushing his desire to the side, he closed the space between them again and spoke with all seriousness. “The people I’ve called to take care of it can’t be here until the first week of October. I’m sorry, I should have told you,” he apologized, sincerely, “I’ll take care of the leaves in your yard this weekend,” he continued. “But in the meantime,” his smirk was now firmly back in place, “may I suggest another way to work off all that residual frustration.”

He watched her internal struggle parade itself across her face. The desire in her own eyes mixed with trepidation nearly took his breath away. Open book, he thought. Her demeanor this afternoon told him that she wasn’t completely immune to his flirtations as he had believed and he couldn’t help but hope that this time, he might finally be able to break through that wall she kept around her heart.

Emma suddenly reached for him and slammed her lips into his. It only took a moment for his brain to catch up and send the signal to his arms to crush her body to his own. Lifting her into his arms, he backed up into the foyer and kicked the door shut behind them. As he made his way toward the bedroom, she broke the kiss and bit down on his earlobe. He let out a hiss before planting open mouth kisses down the slope of her neck. “Don’t you get any ideas now, Jones. This is only a one time thing.”

“We’ll see about that, darling,” he murmured back before capturing her lips again in a hot slide that set his blood to the boiling point. He tossed her on the king sized bed and thanked his lucky stars that this beautiful, amazing woman was exactly where he had always wanted her to be, in his bed with desire in her eyes. He unwound the towel at his waist and let it fall to the floor before taking himself in hand and giving himself a couple of strokes. Her eyes widened when they landed on his hard and weeping cock, bobbing against his stomach. “See something you like there, Swan?” he asked, repeating himself from earlier.

She rolled her eyes at him again before answering. “Get up here and fuck me, Jones, before I change my mind.”

“As my lady wishes,” he replied, climbing up beside her on the bed. She pulled her hoodie over her head, revealing her lace clad breasts to his sight. “You are so beautiful, Swan,” he murmured.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she scoffed. “Less talking, more fucking.” She grabbed his shoulders and drew him to her capturing his lips again.

Tongue tangling with hers, he reached behind her and unsnapped her bra. He pushed her down onto the comforter, one hand fondling a newly uncovered breast, while the other made its way down to the button on her jeans. He swallowed her moan as he circled and plucked at her nipple until it was a sharp peak just begging for his mouth. Releasing her lips, he worked his way down her neck and chest, while his hands were busy pushing her jeans and panties over her hips and down her long legs.

She gasped and writhed beneath him as he sucked her nipple into the warm cavern of his mouth. Small hands buried themselves in his hair, tugging and pulling as he continued his ministrations on her breasts. He was determined to find and memorize all her secret places that made her shiver and moan under the sensual assault he was inflicting on her.  Concentrated as he was on bringing her to bliss, he could feel his control starting to unravel. He thrust himself into the comforter, creating delicious friction that was nowhere near enough.

After removing the last pieces hiding her pale skin from his sight, Killian’s fingers played along her sides, before reaching down to where he knew she wanted him. Her mewl of pleasure and arch toward him as he finally touched her folds nearly rendered him speechless before he slid one finger into her soaked heat. That was all it took for her to start riding his hand, seeking her high. “Yes, that’s it, my Swan,” he crooned, his voice low and gravelly in his passion. He added a second and then a third finger. “Take your pleasure.”

“Yes, Killian, yes!” she screamed, as her walls clamped down on his fingers like a vice. He rode her through her climax before gently bringing her down. Her eyes slowly opened, lust glazed and unfocused as he grinned at her.

“Still with me, Swan?” he teased.

Her eyes focused as she smirked at him. “You’d better believe it, Jones.” She stretched languidly and turned on her stomach, before pulling her legs up under her and raising her hips in the air. She wiggled her ass in his face, before winking up at him. “Well?” she asked.

He raised himself up behind her, bringing his hand down on her cheek. The smack resounded around the room as her gasp turned into a moan of pleasure. “Ohhh, you like that, do you, you naughty girl?” he taunted. He brought his hand down again on the other cheek, turning it a nice pink to match the other.  Emma buried her face into the comforter to muffle her pleasure filled groan. “Oh no, you don’t, Swan. I want to hear you. I want to hear you scream my name as you come all over my cock,” he cajoled, as he lined himself up and took her with one long stroke. He twisted his hand into her golden mane and pulled, raising her from the bed.

“I hate you,” she gasped, as he held her to him with one arm around her middle all while he pounded into her relentlessly.

“Oh, but you love what I do to you, don’t you, darling,” he purred into her ear. “So warm and wet for me. You feel like heaven around me. So tight. So perfect. Taking me so well.” His other hand released her hair and snaked around to cup her breast. He could feel her walls primed for another high, just beginning to flutter around his length. “Come for me, Emma,” he demanded, reaching down and flicking her clit.

“Ahhhh, Killian,” she screamed as she climaxed again. The pure bliss of her walls clenching down on him only spurred him on chasing his own high. He buried his face where her neck joined her shoulder as bliss consumed him, her name a loud groan on his lips.

He shuddered behind her before releasing her to fall on the bed. Laying down next to her, he pulled her back into his chest, and nuzzled into her neck while placing a kiss to the sensitive spot behind her ear.

“Ugh,” she complained, trying to pull herself out of his arms.

“Ugh what, Swan?” he murmured, pulling her closer, nuzzling into her neck again. “You were the one to kiss me, if I recall correctly. And after all this time, I’m certainly not going to let you get away that easy.”

“What?” she asked, turning in his arms. “What did you say?”

He pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes filled with confusion. “I said, ‘I’m not going to let you go that easily.’”

“Wh- what do you mean?” The way her voice shook slightly, filled him with the courage he needed to fight for what he wanted.

“Don’t you know, Emma?” he inquired, his heart in his eyes. “It’s you. It’s always been you. I’ve wanted you ever since I moved in. The more I’ve seen you, the more I’ve wanted to get under that armour of yours.” He traced the apple of her cheek with his finger and smiled at her gasp. “The more I’ve seen you, the more I wanted you... to care for me. The way I care for you.” By the time he was finished, his voice was nearly a whisper.

“You care about me?” she asked in a whisper, “You want me?”

“Aye.” He nodded, drawing her close again and pressing his forehead against hers. “And not just for enjoyable afternoons, such as this. If you’ll allow me, I’d like the opportunity to… win your heart.”

Emma’s mouth opened and closed several times, but not a word came out.

“Could be fun,” he insisted. “I promise you can still come over and yell at me whenever you’d like. I quite fancy you, even when you are yelling at me. Unless of course, you’d rather go on hating me…”

“Well, maybe I don’t hate you as much as I thought I did,” she relented teasingly, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

The joy that exploded in his heart at that moment broke into a broad smile over his face. “Do you need some more convincing, Swan?” he asked, drawing her in for another slow, languid kiss.

When he finally released her lips, a soft chuckle escaped her. “Mmm, maybe a little. Just to be sure,” she replied before rolling him onto his back for round two.

Thank you again for the ask nonnie! It was a lot of fun to write! I hope you enjoyed it!

Send me a No Excuses Writing Meme Ask

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[archiveddvrpg]

Congratulations, BRIDGET! You’ve been accepted for the role of POMPEY. Admin Minnie: I had some trouble writing Piero in the beginning; in fact, I rewrote him a few times because I couldn’t find the right words to describe the core of him. But you, Bridget, nailed it exactly in ways that I had not even seen myself. You made him utter real — sometimes uncomfortably so, all of that feeling and pride, As I was reading your application, I immediately felt like he was already yours. I really tried to pick out my favorite line in your application, the detail that really drove it home for me — but the truth is, Bridget, you won me over so thoroughly that I love it all. I cannot wait to see you on our dash again, Bridget, and I’m so happy you’re back! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Bridget

Age | Twenty-two

Preferred Pronouns | She/they

Activity Level | I’m either gonna be on every three minutes or three days apart, there is no in between, but I promise to keep my activity constant and in line with your standards and let it be known if I am having any struggles with meeting them.

Timezone | EST

How did you find the rp?  | Hazel

IN CHARACTER

Character | Pompey ; Piero Montrelle Ruiz

Piero ; italian: rock

Montrelle ; italian: mountain

Ruiz ; spanish: famous ruler

What drew you to this character? |

Listen, I made a meme when I was apping Hazel, Imma show y’all right now:

It’s a dumb meme and I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but share it.

I honestly play characters like Piero more than I play nicer, more morally-sound characters like Hazel, but I wanted to try something new, so ultimately I decided to pursue Hazel at the time. That said, as much as I love Hazel and would love to write her again, I kept thinking about Piero and his youth and ambition, and so now here we are, me obsessed and wanting to write him.

Okay, rambling ? Done. Let’s do this.

Something about Piero just screamed to me boy king, and that’s just my style. It was in the way he put himself above other children, his pride and his ego. He was born to be something and, in his youth, before he knew of his parents’ empire, before they told him who he was meant to be, he was searching for it. He couldn’t find in it eager kiddy games, he couldn’t find it in chit chat or childhood experiences. But there was something that rushed through him when he saw them stumble, he found satisfaction in figuring things out ages before them. It was in feeling better than them, feeling stronger and superior, and — simply, just being better. He had no time for laughter, for foolishness. What was the point of that, if not to waste time ? ( He was a mean boy, but his parents never pushed him not to be. If he caused another to bleed, it was their fault for not defending themselves. If his whispers of cruel words caused them to weep, they needed to strengthen their mental fortitude. No fault was to be found in Piero ).

I also want to pinpoint there’s something about Piero that also reads naivety to me. He considers himself wise and intelligent, and to some point I do agree ( books and tutors can teach, and they do ) but there are other notions that bring out his youth. It’s in his eavesdropping on his parents — yes, he was young when it happened, but still someone wiser would have understood that some secrets are such for a reason. Instead, he lusted for the unknown, something bigger than himself ( this — as well, is something I’d like to focus on, but I’ll come back to this later. ) and he found himself frenzied until he was finally privy to the family secrets. I see him as being inexperienced, someone who doesn’t have quite the worldliness as someone twice his age or even someone who had to struggle for basic needs during their childhood.

( Also, there is the fact his parents groomed him as being special. He never earned the title, instead it was bequeathed unto him from the very start. His parents claimed he walked younger than most, talked younger than most. He excelled in classes, he excelled in his physical ability. Again and again, his parents claimed him remarkable. I think, amongst the Veronesi, it might be time for him to realize that maybe he isn’t more than his name. This probably should go under plotting but I’m imagining him seeing others with skills he was never taught, maybe those his mother would have considered barbaric and uncouth. Piero wouldn’t see that, though. He would see force and deadly talent and he would see the areas in which he holds deficits. Also, just the ability and skill that comes with time and practice beyond natural talent. I keep reminding myself that, although a little bit weary with a lot of trauma, Piero is still nineteen. I used to think that was so old and so mature, but he’s barely more than a kid. Fun Science Fact: brains aren’t developed fully until their mid-20s !!! Some studies suggest early 30s !!!! Piero hasn’t even reached 20s !!!! He’s still baby !!!!! He’s going to make mistakes and learn and he might be reluctant and angry to do ( please see trauma re: parent death and assassination attempts )  so but he’s gonna do it to better himself which is what he wants to do !!! )

Piero learned so much from his parents, from tutors and teachers alike, but there is something more about experiencing things for himself and not just from the words of others and that’s where his youth shows. The first time he fought, really fought, not for practice or for fun ( something about him just coded him as a bully in my mind, one who’d pick a fight with someone who, one, would fight back, and, two, someone he would definitely beat, but I digress ), in my mind, was when Tiberius came to kill him. There was a fight or flight reaction and he was proud and cocky and pumped up on adrenaline because — this — this was what it was all for. He fought with a flurry of fists, frenzied, wild. In that moment, he knew this for certain: Ruizes were powerful and forceful and they would not flee. If he died right then, so be it, but he wouldn’t have looked death in the face and accepted it.

Okay, so this has turned into a rambling character analysis, and I apologize because I said I was done rambling, and clearly not. That said, I don’t regret it. I just have so much passion and fervor for Piero and I could write a ton more. I might. Later. We’ll see.

I just can’t help but be captured by how striking he is. He’s new to Verona, new to this scene of criminal seediness because this is when he’s finally beginning to get his hands dirty, beyond the basics of opening his eyes. His parents were introducing him to this life, but they didn’t let him delve too deep. They were bringing him in slowly, and then they died. He had nothing right then, nothing but his name and its weight. That wasn’t enough, but his brutality was. When death came for him, it made a mark on Tiberius for him — maybe all of the Capulets, too — and now he’s determined to leave a stain on all of Verona, perhaps Spain and the rest of the world, too.

I originally saw him as something of a blank slate when it came to his being in Verona, but after thinking it through a tad more, he isn’t. His parents wrote his future for him with the very incident of his birth, and now he is filling in the blanks that have been left for him after their deaths. Verona — the Capulets — they are a step in his path to power. Here, he could find allies — he already has enemies — and he learned at a young age the value others could be in company. Over time, maybe they will see that he is someone with a bright future, someone who should be watched carefully because blink and you’ll miss his grab for something better.

He should not be overlooked and that is something I think people might do. Sure, his family had a reputation, one that might cause some pause, but they might think he isn’t them. He is young and inexperienced, but there’s a chip on his shoulder and in his mouth is a taste for blood. He won’t go down quietly or without a fight. He is watching and waiting for chance and opportunity. He’ll prove any doubter wrong, he’s sure of it with all the self-confidence and egotism a princeling could have.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

1. Emotional Motion Sickness: Something that struck me about Piero is how he once wore his emotions on his sleeve. He fought for his life, fueled by loss and grief. He has a practiced void in his eyes and locked tears away. In my mind, this is not him, it is not in his nature. He was the sort to be fueled by idle amusements, wanting satisfaction, his eagerness knowing no bounds. He feels, and he feels immensely. It could be said it’s what he does best.  But now? He is quiet, showing little. It’s vacant and a little numbing, and the void in his eyes is cold and distant. What his cards are and what he intends to play are known to him and him only. I can’t help but think that maybe, one day, he is going to break, the facade dropping, eyes blazing. Anyone caught in the crossfire surely would regret their taunts and jeers.

1. I just have this vision of him snapping. It would take a lot — honestly, a lot — because he’s created this solid version of himself, almost patient, somewhat mostly obedient ( I do imagine he chafes under rules a little — more than a little bit actually, but he bites it back time and time again ) but unfeeling. Jibs and jabs don’t get to him. They seemingly roll off of his back. I have to say that isn’t the case. He’s proud and he can only take so many insults. If — actually, when — he breaks, it’s going to have been a long time coming. The facade will start to break, cracks showing in the twitch of his fingers, the tension in his jaw. Maybe it will earn him respect from those around him when he snaps and demands more for him  — he’s more than just the last of the Ruizes, living off of the faded glory of their name, and he’ll be damned if he’s not allowed to show it — but maybe it will only be a reminder that he was a loose end, and he was meant to be dead to begin with.

2. Who Am I? You Decide: He comes to Verona and what’s most obvious is that he has offered himself wholly to the Capulets. It’s not what his parents did — they were owed power for their allyship while Piero is now owed nothing. At the beginning, he is dutiful and obedient. He’s got nothing to lose but he has everything to gain here. He has to prove himself, really it’s his main goal. To do this, he finally understands words his parents told him so many years ago. Detener la marea y esperarar al momento adecuado: Hold back the tide and wait for the right time. He’s trying to listen and be quiet and wait and watch, but he’s never known patience well. He acted and reacted in his youth — power and privilege granted that ability — and this restraint is taking a lot of effort.

1. The facade crumbles and falls slowly, piece by piece. It starts with remarks and quips that are a touch too dry and that have too jagged an edge to people who don’t matter. It then escalates. He tries to manipulate situations where he sees a chance to take hold. He bites when he should be muzzled ; he acts of his own accord. I have no doubt that his own desires and whims to take action will get him in trouble. He is a wicked boy and always has been, soul stained black by birthright and only darkened with time. He found thrill in other people getting hurt, whether by his hand or not. He found glee in twisting his words to twist knives in others’ hearts. Maybe he learned it from watching his parents — they were by no means good people — but maybe it was part nurture, part nature. It was fate to be bad, or at the very least unkind.

2. His true nature shows in these ways: he speaks when he shouldn’t, he becomes too comfortable around Tiberius, a man who is like a friend and a brother, but ultimately was the man who was meant to kill him. It shows in his interactions with Vivianne, charm oozing, frenetic words of grandeur and idyllic plans slipping from his lips in eager commentaries about Verona and Spain and the whole world further. He speaks to them as if they are not his betters — as if he is more than even an equal — and soon it is not only them. It will become everyone.

3. Throwing Rocks Around Your Room: Everything in his life has been destroyed or taken from him in irreparable ways. This new life, this new existence, a part of him wonders how long it will last ( there is, of course, a certainty that this has to last. It’s this life in the mobs, or death. No middle, no escape. All or nothing. Black or white ). He seems so neutral, so unmoveable, but his head is a wrecking ball. He thinks of ways to destroy not only himself but all those around him. A part of him thinks the Capulets are to blame for the ruination of his family and their name — exceedingly childish, for sure — but he wonders what it would be like to see them crumble, perhaps making a martyr of himself in the process. The one flaw to this is that he does not want to die. For what use was him surviving this long if it comes not to a head ? He needs to make a mark. He needs to be known not just by a few Capulets and other Veronesi — but by everyone. He wants parents to shiver when their babes utter his name. He wants his name in history books, imprinted on pages that will survive longer than their maker.

1. Destruction has followed Piero. At first, it was only others, starting with children who crossed him, and then it turned to the enemies of his family. He did well when it was his hand casting the stone. And then, it turned on him. His family’s empire turned from masterpiece to rubble. Another turn took and his family was whittled down to one. The idea of erupting and destroying who he thinks hurt him ? Somewhat appealing. But he can’t do it. He wants more. He’s hungry to become bigger than he is. I want him to find a way to do it ( and while he’d consider acting Brutus within the Capulets, his own pride and ambition would be champ at the bit, rendering him unable ) or at least consider his options. He’s restless as part of the Capulets. He feels like they are keeping him down, not letting him be enough.

4. I Don’t Have a Fancy Title for This One I’m Sorry: When it comes to Tiberius, Piero wants to impress him, to prove him right, that sparing him was the right choice. But at the same time, bitterness remains and finds itself seeping into his blood, the feeling intensifying, every time Piero finds himself being held back by the scruff. With his … befriending ( that isn’t the right word, and it doesn’t convey what I want to say ? Admiring ? Infatuation — not romantically, of course ) of Vivianne, he wonders if impressing her over Tiberius is the way to go. He considers ignoring Tiberius, going off on his own and making his own choices. Maybe that’s what he needs to do to shake off the status of initiate, to become a soldier.

1. tl;dr: Eventually, if Tiberius doesn’t let Piero have a little more responsibility and things to do, he’ll find someone else who will grant him that.

Current State of Being

→ Piero is trying to stay in line, keep quiet, and do what’s asked of him. But he’s antsy and he’s simmering. There’s so much he has to say ; he’s so not used to being at the bottom of the pecking order. It’s not going to last. He’s got a lot to say, he wants to do things. Sooner or later, he’s going to stop waiting for permission ( and, in turn, he’ll beg for forgiveness if need-be )

Character Goals

→ Have Piero use his voice. He stops listening to the jeers and taunts of everyone who thinks they know all there is to know about them, and he tells them off. He’s no longer silent and maybe people will look at him in a different light. Or maybe he gets in trouble. Either way would further. I’m leaning towards having him react and get angry, raising his voice in a way he shouldn’t.

→ His true nature shows. Wicked is as wicked does. He gets comfortable in Verona. He acts on instinct, he lashes out. Maybe someone gets hurt — maybe it’s him, maybe not. He starts to abuse his ability to talk to people, twisting words and twisting hearts and feelings. Manipulation is in his blood. He acts out, he steps out of line and does something for people to see him as more than just a little initiate in the Capulet’s gang.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? |

Don’t kill baby jk do it i dare you

IN DEPTH

( i’m replying to some of the questions & i did a para sample )

What is your favorite place in Verona?

He gets lost more often than he’d like. He wanders down streets he’s never gone down and through alleys with unknown endings. A part of him would be delighted if it wasn’t overtaken by the idea that he needed to know these streets better than he did. There was no time to be idle, no time to do anything with purpose. Most of the Capulets, surely the Montagues, knew this city like the back of their hands.

He wanted to know it better than they did, better than those naturally Verona-born. It was more than a want, it was a need that burned within him.

Still, the streets were beautiful.

It was different than home, than Spain. There, his family had resided just outside one of its largest city. From his room, he could hear the sounds of cars whizzing by on nearby highways. If he didn’t close the curtains, he would be bombarded with the lights of the city, no stars to be seen.

Here, despite its age and all of its magnitudes, Verona seemed infinitely smaller to him. He was refusing to allow himself to like it, to find a home.

It’s a long time before he finally answers the question, and his response can hardly be considered an answer. He only gives a shrug of his shoulders, absent, vague, and his gaze turns towards the window. His eyes are dead and shark-like as people pass by.

That’s not an answer, Piero.

He sighs, a loud and exasperated sound. There’s another pause on his part, this one longer and emphasized by his ability to not look at the asker once. This person — the soldato — means nothing to him. He’s sure they’ve already passed their prime. They’re as likely to ascend further as he is to fall flat — which is to say unlikely. And because of this, he cares little for them. He waits to say something poised and clever until perfect ears are listening.

Finally, there comes an answer, the barest bones of respect he’ll give, one with a little more substance to it. That doesn’t mean his voice has an affect that is more than flat. It doesn’t mean he seems to care. “ There’s a little flower shop that I can see from the window of my flat. I’ve never — “ his nose wrinkles at the thought “ — I’ve never bought anything from it, but it reminds me of when I was living another life. ”

It reminds him of the day his parents died and he was left standing alone to face their destruction, his shoes sticking to the hardwood floors as blood dried on their soles.

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

“ Ambition is my folly. ”

It’s said lightly, airily, as if it doesn’t matter. Look closer, see how the muscle clenches in his cheek, how there’s a sparkle momentarily flashing in his eyes before it fades to dullness. He wants to do something that has weight ( — like the heft of a gun in his hand, the feeling of his body atop another’s as his fists bear down ) and yet he is relegated to simple tasks only. He feels like a page, or perhaps worse, a pawn, unimportant and oh-so-easily replaceable.

Maybe his mistake has been living.

It shouldn’t seem like that.

But he hates being an underling. He hates being told what to do and when to do it. His life is now dictated by another, not even a Ruiz. When it was his parents instructing him, it felt different, less like someone was making all of his choices for him and more like — more like he mattered ? There is no need to convince himself that he did matter to his parents — he was next in line, preened and primed, being readied to take the throne his family had been sitting on for generations — because he knows it’s true. Here ? One wrong move can cost everything.

Perhaps he should have allowed himself to have been martyred, killed in cold blood despite fighting to prevent it. He would have been the last of the Ruizes ; they’d have been remembered for not going down easily. Now ? He thinks a wrong glance cast could mean his throat will be slit.

You don’t seem so ambitious to me.

He supposes most won't have seen it. Tiberius knows — Tiberius has heard him ask over and over for something to do, something bigger and better, with meaning, and so has Vivianne, he would be remiss to forget her — but everyone else ? He doesn’t suppose it’s important enough information for his sponsor to pass along that he wants to do more, so he rationalizes that most think he’s just a good little soldier-to-be, keeping his head down and toes in line. It’s not time for people to fear him, not just yet. That time will come.

“ Then maybe my biggest mistake was that lie. ”

Para Sample

He has been being followed for sometime now. It is always a shadow in the periphery of his vision, disappearing when he turns to see, a jacket billowing behind someone who had just walked out of frame. Piero wonders if this should make him nervous. He’s considered it, the idea that someone must want him dead to end the Ruiz family once and for all. They came for his parents, now it’s his turn. It’s a horrifying thought at first light, but there is something dangerously satisfying to him within it, at the idea of someone considering him that necessary to end. Perhaps it’s dark and twisted, but not all boys born to wear a crown come out golden.

Nearly a week passes, and by now he’s on edge. Every knock on the door of the shitty motel he’s staying in, every blow of wind against the glass windows, sets him on edge. There are purple circles under his eyes, dark as can be. He hasn’t been sleeping well. He tosses and turns, his deepest worries allowed to fester and grow in unguarded dreams, until he wakes unrested. He can’t go on like this much longer. He’s wondered if it’s worth it to flee Spain, to call on distant relatives, begging on bent knees for salvation and charity. His own pride sets him straight. Cowardice is not an option. Ruiz blood has reigned over Spain for generations. He will not be the one to bring that to an end, bringing shame to his name and the memory of his parents.

It’s just past three in the morning when he hears the turn of the doorknob. He sits up straight in the rickety armchair in the corner, his eyes adjusting to the darkened room, and he stares and he waits. He considers running. There’s a window in the bathroom, already open. He’s slender enough to squeeze through it if he really wants to, he’s given thought to it already — the doorknob rattles again, a thump echoes through the room as something hits the wood of the door — but he thinks to himself he doesn’t have the time. If he tries it, he’ll be caught halfway out. He cannot flee if it will lead inevitably to his demise. It’s embarrassing and shameful and wouldn’t do. Even in the face  of death, Piero is as proud as ever.

The moments before the door cracks open, broken by the weight of another’s body, seem to last forever. He thinks of himself. He thinks of all the things he has yet to do. He thinks about his parents, their dreams and expectations for him. This becomes painfully clear: he cannot die without a fight. This is his moment. No matter the outcome, someone will remember the Ruizes. They were once noble and strong, but they didn’t allow their fire to go out so easily. It’s all he can do.

The door breaks, and he’s on his feet finally. The room is still dark but he can see motion in the darkness. He will let his attacker come to him. To tire himself out, to make all motion, seems like it’d be a mistake. Though he’s expecting it, the first hit knocks all of the air out of his lungs. Another hit lands, then another. Finally, something snaps within him. Elbows in, chin down. That’s what his mother taught him. He’s wild and frenzied, suddenly hits aren’t met with pause, and he begins throwing blow after blow, some hitting, some not. He’s all in. There is no hesitation, not anymore. It’s become apparent, right then, after this week of waiting, that perhaps another motivation is a fear of death.

It’s not an unreasonable thing. He is barely nineteen, hardly an adult, barely lived. He thinks there is so much more for him to do, to see and to experience. In his head, his mantra becomes I will not die today. Over and over, he says it to himself, despite blows hitting his body, his own strikes meeting their targets, muscles pounding against flesh.

Thoughts continue to rush through his mind. Why is he fighting ? For his parents. Why does he need to ? They’re dead. There are tears welled up in his eyes, out of pain and anger and grief. They shouldn’t be dead. They should be here. He shouldn’t be fighting. A choke sob escapes through swelling lips, but he doesn’t let himself falter. This is life or death, and he is doing everything he can to choose life.

His mouth tastes of iron and salt, but it isn’t from his own body. A fist met his lips, teeth scraped against gentle flesh, and Piero had drawn first blood. Though there were bruises forming on his own body already, though his muscles ache and scream, there is something satisfying about that. All he can do is manage to stay standing, quick on his feet, landing in jabs where he can.

The sounds in the room are heavy breathing and the noise of flesh hitting flesh. He wonders if the neighbors have been disturbed. He wonders if they care.

He isn’t sure how long has passed. He isn’t sure how much longer he can last. This fight, this rush of adrenaline coursing through him, it’s all new. Before this, it had always been fights that ended when someone hit the ground or time was up. Never had stakes been so high. A part of him is screaming for it to stop ; another wonders why this is only the first time. There’s something fulfilling in it, and maybe that’s monstrous, but Piero thinks that maybe he was born to be brutal and bloodthirsty. For so long, he had been charming and a pseudo-intellectual, clever and cunning. There had been merit to that, yes, but this ? Every fist that connects with skin sends a rush through him, a thrill like never before.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed when the man takes a step back from him, a thrown swing causing him to fall off balance. For a second, his heart leaps to his throat and he thinks this is it. But the man doesn’t take the misstep as an opportunity. Instead, he’s looking at him, interest crossing his features. Piero doesn’t let his fists fall to his side, he doesn’t know why the man has stopped, and he is too in the moment to care. He takes the chance the man doesn’t and swings, his fist meeting the man’s jaw. It lands with a satisfying thwack, but again the man doesn’t retaliate.

“ That’s enough. ”

Piero can’t help but flinch under the tone of resolve and authority, but when he looks up again, the man is still staring at him. No, he is studying. Piero can’t fathom what he can be looking for or why their fight has stopped. His body is screaming, surely if he wakes tomorrow the pain will have increased tenfold, and his most basic reaction is still fight, fight, fight.

He’s winding up his fist again but again the man speaks. “ I said, enough. ”

Piero knows when words spoken are no longer suggestions — when instead they become commands. His fists fall, his shoulders do, too. His expression turns petulant, childlike in its quick and open displeasure.

He is silent, waiting — for what ? He wonders briefly. It could be death and damnation that awaits him. A part of him, however, thinks differently. He has never been idyllic, seeing the world through rose-colored glasses with glee and a grin, but something inside him is waiting not for death’s hand to grip him.

Instead, he waits. Blood is rushing through his ears still, his pulse is throbbing. Finally, finally —

“ Sit down, boy. Let’s talk. ”

Extras:

FAST FACTS

( i looked up spanish naming customs for this and i might have gotten it right but i might not have i need to do more reading to be 100% sure but i still wanted to include it )

→ Full Name: Piero Ruiz Lorca

→ Mother: Marcella Blanca Lorca de Ruiz

→ Father: Piero Ruiz Zapatero

→ Siblings: None

→ Birthday: July 12th ; this makes him a Cancer

→ Hometown: Cordoba, Spain

→ Dominant Character Traits: harsh, ambitious, bloodthirsty, rash, driven,  

HEADCANONS

001. For generations now, men wore the name Piero, his grandfather the third, Piero the fifth. There were expectations to meet, legacies to exceed. Live up to your namesake. Piero’s father was speaking of his own father at the time and, while this weight of that bore heavily down, the young boy could only think of becoming instead like his father. His grandfather died before memories of him solidified in a young child’s head, and so he only knew of him through tales and rumors. For his father, though, he watched as all stood when he walked into a room, his presence commanding respect, his reputation demanding it. While his hands were stained bloodied red, he was a beacon of light that people looked to, he captured attention easily. Once he understood, Piero craved that same state of existence. The children he grew up around, he had their attention, but in a different way. They whispered about him when his back was turned, they ducked their heads and left the room once he entered. It was a shame, really, but he was sure he would grow into his father’s shoes, filling the role the elder Ruiz did easily. For some time, he believed he was doing exactly that. And then, his parents were slaughtered, and the role he had to fill was that of a ghost. Now that he is human once more, as part of the Capulets and their crew, he feels like he once did as a child, unliked and not very seen. It’s digging at him, shoving splinters under already broken nails, causing him to grit his teeth and try a thousand times harder to earn a little bit of the damned respect he so desperately craves. It’s one of the few things that his father told him to do, this living up to his namesake. His father might be dead, rotting in the ground, with most of his words forgotten to time and space, but his spectral voice lives on in Piero’s head.

002. I have this image of Piero, maybe no older than fifteen, sixteen, at a table surrounded by compatriots of his parents. An older man, in his fifties, or perhaps, his sixties, is chewing tobacco. It’s disgusting. His gums are coated in black spit and when he smiles there are specks on his teeth. Piero cannot hide his disdain. But he’s chewing something, too. With all of his egotism, his thoughts that he is better than those before, he’s found a better option. Mint. It’s fresh and better and — the adults around him, most find him insufferable. For good reason. Anyway, it’s stupid and dumb, but god, I imagine it’s a habit he hasn’t broken. It also means mojitos are his favorite cocktail. No, I won’t elaborate on this or give any good reason for it besides please, I want it, and it’s just youthful arrogance, you know ? Before Verona, before his parents died, I feel like he had just come into himself — he felt sure and he was certain that life was grand. Era una vida tan buena. He was cocky and a little … I don’t know. Smarmy ? That’s not quite the word I want, but god, Piero was living each day as it came. Nothing could faze him. He lived under the shield of his parents and their name, of his own youth. There was privilege in that. He had seen the taste of power and luxe that his parents’ world — the one he was set to inherit once he was of age — and it delighted him. He revelled in it. He wouldn’t have to unlearn his innate cruelties, his hubris. He was a prince set to ascend, his crown was never askew.

003. As a child, he was raised not only to be smart, wisened by words of the experiences and the words in books, but to be cultured as well. His mother took him to parties with him on her arm, where his smiles never quite reached his eyes under the coos and remarks of her friends. He talked when spoken to, he never raised his voice. He could be charming when he needed to be, grins and chubby-cheeked, with words uttered that they desperately wanted to hear. He never enjoyed them, especially not when his parents would slip away into back rooms to have their own meetings. He would wait resting under the doorknob, eyes desperately seeking for some revelation under the door’s crack, ears yearning for words through the keyhole. The door would open at midnight, if not later, and he would fall into the room because of how he’d been leaning against the door. On the rainiest of days with no other plans, they would find themselves lost in museums all over the continent ( they had money, and while they didn’t quite flaunt it, they didn’t have qualms about traveling ). Beautiful things never caught his eye. They were nice, sure; but they were idle and dull and fleeting in his mind. Were his mother not guiding him ( in another life, one without bloodlust and bloodshed, she would have been a curator — a stunning one, establishing beautiful collections that many would travel to. alas, this is not our story ), he would have been lost in statues of gore, in paintings of wars and hatred. There was something about them that caught his attention and never let go. Is there beauty in being brutal ? Piero would say so.

004. The Ruiz home was decorated with exorbitant quantities of flowers while Piero lived there with his parents — why wouldn’t it be that way ? Their front for their operations was a massive floral establishment, it was only fitting for their home to be decorated accordingly. As a child, he loved their scent filling the halls and rooms — roses and lilies and all sorts of magnificent blooms. They were pretty and they weren’t long-lasting, but they were always something that represented his family, and he would be remiss to say a part of him wasn’t fond of them. However, from the day his parents died, all he can remember besides their shouts in frantic Spanish is the scent of blood and flowers. Now, any breath of anything floral makes him gag. It’s unfortunate.

005. The first time he held a gun — the first time he did so with meaning, it loaded, intended to be used against another — he was fourteen. He followed behind his mother, into a meeting with a man who owed the Capulets money. She knew he was unlikely to run or cause a fuss ( he had pride and character, his mother told him, and though he had wronged them, only a coward would have fled or refused his fate ) and thought it perfect for Piero’s first attendance. He stood behind his mother, just beside her shoulder, and listened as she talked. He stood on the balls of his feet, eager and ready for his chance to do something — anything. It never came, much to his disappointment. His mother said everything she needed to. She demanded payment. The man refused, citing he couldn’t. His mother nodded, then she fired one shot into the middle of his head. They left quickly after that, someone would be coming to clean up the mess, and the weight of Piero’s gun felt heavy in his hands having gone unfired.

006. He has nightmares. Nobody knows — he refuses to tell anyone for fear of it being seen as weakness or a vulnerability — but surviving two assassination attempts ? It should come as no surprise that it’s affected his psyche. But there are nights, more often than he’d like, that he wakes up, thrashing, sweat-coated legs and arms tangled up in bedsheets, and his heart is beating in frantic panic. It takes a moment for Piero to realize that his life is in no danger ( at least, not at that specific point in time ) and then he lets his head fall back to the pillow. The days after, he finds himself more on edge than normal, dark-circled eyes narrowed and angry.

PINTEREST BOARD

Rambly Bits That Didn’t Fit Anywhere Nicely But Still Provide Notion Of Character And I Didn’t Want To Delete Permanently For Fear Of Regretting That Decision Later

2. His parents were not good people. They never had hope of cleaning the blood off of their hands and fingers, but they never had desire to burn them clean. At his birth, he was blessed by aunts and uncles in hopes he’d have a fraction of his parents’ abilities — their cruelty, their decisiveness, their skill with gun and blade. He grew up in a home that never knew weak submission ; it was eat or be eaten, and he learned that quickly. He watched friends of his parents cry for mercy after failures — ones he didn’t understand in the moment, not until years later, when he crept downstairs in the midnight hours to watch their meetings through stair railings — and he watched as they were met with slaps to cheeks and sometimes worse. He was too young to understand the permanence of death, but he understood that a hole in a man’s temple meant he was never getting up. He saw the cool poise his father wore as he held a smoking gun — he imagined himself, older, in the same position. He echoed the steely edges his parents’ voices took ; he repeated the words they said that meant nothing to him until his cadence and tone matched theirs.

3. His parents praised him while he was in school when teachers and tutors reported that he was harsh in the face of sadness or whining and unable to handle the wrong answers of others.  It only worsened ( bettered ? ) as he grew older. His harshness seemed less precocious and began to unsettle others. Tutors and teachers began to dislike being in the same room as him. He wore a smile that said let me do as I please and his temper echoed I mean it. He asked them questions about things they didn’t know, baiting them with their insufficiencies until they had no other option but to quit. His parents would only hire someone new with no question. No one was spared. He asked personal and probing questions until they shifted in their seats. He was like a needle under their skin, sharp and uncomfortable.  )

4. Being a part of something bigger than himself. Isn’t that what a king does — or in Piero’s case, a princeling ? They are a large part of their kingdom, surely, and, though they might be its head, it cannot exist without its body. There needs to be support. When he was young, being a god amongst the other children wasn’t enough. He wanted something more. He wanted to be something more. He knew his parents did something that made them special, and their dis-including him ( for whatever reason it could be, he wondered night after night, staring up at the stucco ceiling, sleepless and agonizing ) just wouldn’t work for him. He needed to be involved, he needed to know. His knowing parts of their secrets, the whispers he overhead, was enough to build up his patience until it came to know more.

5. He has his eyes set on the crown his family once wore ; he was born and bred into a vicious line.

6. It’s a game of chess. Where once he was perhaps a knight or a bishop aside his parents’ queenhood, someone who could advise and assist, he feels now hardly more than a pawn. There are others in charge and he acts in their stead to do their bidding. He knows it’s what he must do. He must build his power back up, but gods above, the wait is agonizing. He wants to feel the rush of adrenaline that power brings surge through him again. He wants to make his own choices and decisions.

7. His peers had it worse. Unlike teachers whose authority he undermined, he knew he was better and above his cohort — a king amongst sheep. He ruled conversations even when no word slipped from his mouth. They needed to entertain him or he’d find another way to spend his time. ( A brief interlude: his “ friends ” didn’t like him but were scared of telling him no — also, they were most likely the children of his parents’ friends and associates, so there was need to make good with Piero. ) He’d pit them against each other with lies and rumors he’d overheard or made up. It was interesting to see them scramble, like ants under a magnifying glass. So long as he was amused, where was the harm ?