#writer reply

[drfleetflower]

Hi there! I hope it’s okay to ask you a few questions because I really admire your writing and thought it’d be cool to get to know more about your process and your thoughts on The Hunger Games. I hope to someday write for the fandom too. I’ve been super curious about how you approach writing in this universe it’s such a heavy and complex story, and you capture it so well.

Do you have a favorite character to write about, or one you find the most challenging? I feel like everyone has a character they click with or one they struggle to pin down. (For me, I'm super good with Bucky and terrible at Steve for some reason!) Also, what made you want to write about Sejanus specifically? He’s such an interesting and layered character, and not everyone seems to explore him as much as, say, Coriolanus.

When you write, do you plan everything out ahead of time, or do you kind of wing it as you go? I feel like every writer has their own unique process, and I love hearing about how people make their stories come to life.

Lastly, what’s your favorite thing about The Hunger Games as a series? Like, do you love it for the themes, the characters, the world-building, or maybe all of it? I’d love to know what resonates with you personally.

Sorry if this is a lot of questions! I’m just genuinely fascinated and would love to hear anything you’d be willing to share. Thank you so much for your time!

Hello! Thank you so much for taking an interest in my work.

I love all of the Hunger Games characters and think every one was written into the book deliberately and to serve a purpose. I don't really have a favorite character to write about, as I simply enjoy the writing process, but my favorite character in general is Lucy Gray Baird. As for a character I struggle to write about, I haven't written for all of the characters yet, but so far I have had pretty much the same experience with all of them. It's difficult to know exactly what a character would do in a situation that hasn't happened in canon, but I try my best to really get to know every character.

I wanted to write for Sejanus, and I started writing fanfiction with him as the first character, because I wanted to represent him in a way I felt other fanfics didn't. I think sometimes writers pick one aspect of a characters personality and run with that, which makes them lack the depth they have in the books/movies. Also, Sejanus is a wonderful character and I wanted people to be able to read more on him.

Most of the fanfics that I have posted were requested so I have a basic idea of what I'm going to write when I start writing, and I try to have a basic idea when I'm writing something that isn't requested. Outside of having that basic idea though, I pretty much wing it and write until I'm satisfied with where it has gone. I do go back and edit as well, and it usually takes me a few days to finish a fanfic because I want to make sure that I'm accurately portraying a character. (And if it's requested, that I've included everything.)

My favorite thing about the Hunger Games is what it teaches. I think Suzanne Collins did a fantastic job explaining complicated themes in a way that young and old readers can understand and still enjoy other aspects of the story as well. I think it's so important that books like the Hunger Games exist to remind people of history, to teach people to question authority, and to allow people to begin to form opinions on topics of government, just war, etc. There are, of course, so many other great things about the Hunger Games too, but I think that the books are so especially important in this way. I am incredibly excited for Sunrise on the Reaping for this reason as well, since Suzanne Collins has said that it will dive deeper into topics of propoganda and David Hume's idea of implicit submission (the "easiness with which the many are governed by the few"). I also think it's great that she has waited until now to have made these new books, tbosas and sotr, because it means so many new readers and generations will be introduced to the Hunger Games for the first time.

Thank you for your support. <3

[titlemewickedwonderland]

Ask time! (Hopefully your asks are open...if not, my most sincere apologies!)

Here's an interesting topic for you - Ghouls, and dirty talk...

Who's got a natural talent for it?

Who doesn't, but works hard on improving themselves?

Who's less interested talk...and much more interested in action?

Who practices in front of a mirror while they stutter and blush?

Who needs to work on their skills so that they and the object of their affections can stop bursting into fits of giggles with every attempt?

Who has the ability to simply walk right up to you, whisper absolute *filth* into your ear and have you walking in a horny (and wet) daze for an hour afterwards?

👀 😍

Yay! I'm glad to pick at that Dark! So let's see...

Interesting topic indeedy! - Ghouls, and dirty talk…Let's talk about it; it's just from my point of view but let's see what comes up!

Who's got a natural talent for it?

Who's got a talent for it? I'd definitely say Swiss. Because he's very very…let's just say obscene on the stage as is anyway during shows; very high energy and his microphone stand and platform get more action than anything else! I think he'd naturally exude sexuality both off-stage and on-stage with a very flirty personality. I think he'd like to tease the Siblings with flirty pickup lines and some just pure food for thought that'd leave them reeling not sure whether he is serious or not. But if he's serious, I'd definitely think he'd know just what to say to get under your skin to leave you thinking about nothing else but him.

Who doesn't, but works hard on improving themselves?

Now this one was a flip-a-coin sort of question because it could honestly either be Phantom or Dewdrop. Although both have a level of sexuality on stage as well they don't beat Swiss. Dewdrop is just lewd and being a newer member who's practically under Dewdrop's Wing, I think Phantom would take the cake for this one because he's just getting a feel of himself; playing off of body language and subtle hints simply by watching Dewdrop I think Phantom would be the one who isn't good at flirting or trying to be filthy but would seriously give it his best shot to be impression - he is after all, whether subconsciously or consciously, trying to mimic Dewdrop in that aspect to be more appealing to fans during shows; and let's face it. He's doing a great job, try and error make the best results sometimes!

Who's less interested talk…and much more interested in action?

That would definitely be Dewdrop. Apart from Swiss who's all tease; we all see how flustered and up close and personal he gets with Rain during shows! He's always up there behind the little Water ghoul and he has no problem with being handsy whether it's grabbing Rain's neck, smacking people's butts, or even that one time he kissed Rain's neck. Should I say more? Perhaps he has a bit of a shy side when it comes to off stage but he's a Fireghoul after all, I think it comes as part of his nature. He's very handsy and he enjoys making people get flustered with his words as much as his touch. I feel like he'd be the type to subtly touch you some way or another whether it's grazing your neck or leaning closer to be intimidating while telling you just what he thinks about doing to you.

Who practices in front of a mirror while they stutter and blush?

Is this a serious question? Rain, all the way. Although, I'd like to point out he is getting a little more out of his comfort zone while on stage I do believe that Dewdrop and Phantom are rubbing off on him. I feel like he has little bursts of confidence while on stage that lets him get a little more loose during shows but it's a different matter when he's back home at the Clergy. It's one thing being in front of others during a show when he knows he doesn't physically interact with them in comparison to seeing the same faces of the Siblings back at the Abbey. I think he'd be the one to practice in the mirror at home in an attempt to try and be more confident but he's so embarrassed that he can't stop blushing and stuttering out his words because of how ridiculous it sounds coming from himself. But I also think it's a try-and-error sort of thing for him; the more he practices the more confidence he gets but it doesn't mean he won't mess up a pickup line or something when trying to seduce Siblings. It also doesn't help when he gets teased by the more outgoing members of his pack when they catch him trying out his lines in front of a mirror like a high school boy with his first crush.

Who needs to work on their skills so that they and the object of their affection can stop bursting into fits of giggles with every attempt?

Mountain. Plain and simple. He's an awkward tall giant. Not very familiar with other people and is very quiet so he doesn't often try to break out of his shell to try and be more daring with his interactions. He's more of a quiet ghoul who rather shows his affection in gifting others over dirty talk but I'd imagine Swiss and Dewdrop poking the bear a little saying he simply didn't have the ability to woe a girl besides little gifts. So perhaps Mountain takes it personally and puts himself out there; it's embarrassing to him as much as it is to those who try to woe with some uncharacteristic words just to try and prove the others wrong which only leaves the siblings he tries his lines on giggle because it's so out of character it is for him. But he lowkey does have a competitive bone in his body despite what people may think so he is very determined to prove others wrong about their assumption of him and may even surprise a few with what comes out of his mouth.

Who has the ability to simply walk right up to you, whisper absolute filth into your ear, and have you walking in a horny (and wet) daze for an hour afterward?

All of them! This honestly could be either of these three. Swiss, Dewdrop, or Phantom. While most would expect such things from the most outgoing of the ghouls that no doubt would make you dazed and confused with their straightforward attitude I feel like ANY of the ghouls could do that depending on the day. It's a given that Swiss, Dewdrop, and Phantom would be good at it but it would hit so much harder if by chance Rain or even Mountain who'd get a confidence boost would do something like this making your world flip upside down and make you question how innocent they actually where. Most people forget that despite their different personas they are still ghouls. They come from hell and thus, they come from a rather devious and even sexual lines of bloodline. Especially if they are sexually frustrated; we all know they are ghouls, pack dynamics, and even polyamorous with each other so it could seriously be any of them at random times that make you question what the hell just happened and perhaps even give you some wild imagination to ponder over from that brief interaction.

~

Food for thought! It honestly could go any way, shape, or form but those are ones that I personally feel like match but wouldn't it be interesting to swap around them and see what kind of chaos would ensue? Sorry it took a few days to get to this! Thanks for the ask Darkly! Love getting requests and questions from you guys! <3

[sugar-petals]

if you ever feel awkward leaving a long ao3 comment getting no reply remember that at this point receiving any feedback at all will leave most authors too stunned to speak

[museaway]

I hope the fic you are working on right now finds a reader who will think about it constantly for years

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[astarion-approves]

blog owner! what does your tav look like?

I also named him Tav lol

[vinnyvamppp]

Hello! I remembered this trend on TikTok where gfs would pick their bfs up and sit them on the counter. I was wondering how Mark and his variants would react to their normal civilian gf doing that to them (or attempting to—). It doesn’t have to be anything long! It can just be short descriptions (if you end up taking this request). 🙏

“Sit. Stay. Counter.”

Note: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. This is the cutest, thirstiest, most deranged and adorable request you could’ve given me after the symphony of smut I've published.

Warnings: Possible, but minor war crime... Oh, and some sexual tension. (Everybody's a freak-bob cause I couldn't resist.) Special request at the end.

Synopsis: In which you, a mere civilian with either questionable upper body strength or pure audacity, attempt to lift various overpowered Viltrumite men and sit them on the kitchen counter like they’re your pretty little trophy husbands.

Mainstream Mark/Variants x Fem!Reader (could be GN, “she” is only mentioned in monologue moments.) WC: 2,585

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Mainstream Mark You try to play it cool and act like you’re just walking into the kitchen to kiss him, but your hands suddenly slide to his hips. Mark’s mid-sentence when he freezes, eyes narrowing with mild confusion and a flush creeping up his neck. He chokes on air. Like, actually makes a startled noise because he doesn’t expect it—you lifting him?! “Wait—woah—are you trying to lift me right now?? Babe??” He ends up doing a little hop to help you, laughing nervously, and then sitting there grinning while you kiss his nose like you just won a prize. And you do it! You actually manage to get him up there with a grunt and a full-body lift. That’s enough to make him freeze in awe, stammer a protest, and then immediately try to take over. He's bashful but secretly really into it. His legs swinging like a kicked puppy who just found out he’s got a hot girlfriend with strong arms and intentions. He keeps glancing down at you, smiling like he’s trying not to make it a Thing™… but he’s definitely thinking about it during sex later. Internal Monologue: She’s… trying to lift me? She’s actually—wait, she’s serious. Okay. Okay, don’t make a sound. Don’t ruin it. Act casual. Act like this isn’t the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you. Is it weird if I help? No, don’t help, she might stop. Holy shit—she’s strong. I’m marrying her. We’re already married. Is it weird if I say thank you? I’m gonna say thank you. Oh my god, I’m hard—how am I already hard?! FOCUS.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

Mark immediately tries to help you. Like, sweet-boy trying to do a little hop into your arms. When it doesn’t work, he laughs, wraps his arms around you, and says, “You trying to carry me or climb me?” And then he picks YOU up, kisses you stupid, and places you on the counter instead like the princess you are. You’re upset, but this is less embarrassing than the way your knees knocked when you tried.

You two doom-scroll until you’re caught up on the latest trends, his camera roll is FILLED with videos.

｡𖦹°‧ No Goggles Mark You don’t even get a chance to lift him. The moment your hands settle at his hips and you square your stance, his head tilts slowly, lips curled into a "what the fuck are you doing?" grin. He stands there like a little shit, just barely helping, making himself heavy on purpose so you struggle. When you get him halfway and grunt in frustration, he’s already giggling. “Oh no, my weak little arms, I’m too precious to be carried—” BUT he lets you do it ABSOLUTELY. And sits up there all relaxed, legs dangling, eyes wide like you’ve just unlocked a new level of hotness he wasn’t prepared for. He’s biting his lip, watching you like you just grew a second head.  “Dude… that was so hot, I think my dick twitched. No, wait, it definitely twitched.

”You finally get him up there and he melts. Full on spreads his thighs, hands braced behind him, eyes half-lidded like he’s beckoning you to challenge him. He leans in all cocky, asks if you’re manhandling can be a daily occurrence, he strives to irritate and entice. Internal Monologue: Oh my god. Oh my god, she’s doing it. She’s gonna lift me. This is it. This is the moment I fall in love again. God, I love this woman. Look at her face—so determined. So serious. She’s feral. She’s hot. I should say something gross. No, worse. Feral. Say something feral. Should I ask her to grip me while she’s at it? No, wait—what if I fake being heavier so she gets mad? Yeah. Yeah, this is peak romance.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He laughs, obnoxiously loud, and then says, “Okay, wait, no no—do it again. I swear I’ll behave. Kind of.” When you give up through bated breaths, he leans down, “You know what happens now, right?” Then he just drops to his knees, palms on your hips, mouth already moving toward your inner thigh. Failure means nothing. He's thriving.

凸( •̀_•́ )凸 Mohawk Mark You don’t ask or warn, more or less appearing like an apparition to try. The second you do, he plants his feet and makes it difficult on purpose. “The hell are you doing?” he mutters, brow arched, not moving an inch. He’s gonna make you work for it. Full smirk, arms crossed, with an amused gleam in his eyes. He wants to see if you’re serious. “You think you can move me? C’mon, then. Show me.”  If you get him even halfway up? He’s shocked—but laughs.

The second you groan, he grins and not in a mocking way, but like he’s daring you to earn it. Eventually, you throw your full weight into it and manage to boost him up, and he lets out a sharp exhale like he wasn’t ready to be dominated like that. But now? His eyes are locked.

“You trying to flip the script on me, babe?” he mutters, grinning. “That’s cute.” He doesn’t move. Just pulls you between his legs, forearms on your shoulders, already hard from the show of strength. He loves when you challenge him. His chin nuzzles within the splayed hairs of your mohawk, utterly plotting. Internal Monologue: Ain’t no way she’s trying this. There’s no way. She knows I weigh like 180, right? All muscle? What is she—wait, is she gritting her teeth? Oh shit, she’s serious. Okay, hold on—do I let her? Nah, make her work for it. Just a little. Play it cool. Act smug. Maybe flex a little. She likes the fight. And when she gets me up there? Game on. She’s gonna regret this—in the best possible way.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He stares down at you with an amused smirk and doesn’t budge. “Oh, babe. You're adorable.” Then he scoops you up like you’re nothing, walks you over to the counter, and spanks your ass as he sets you down. A genuine cackle crawls from his throat as he watches you squirm. Somehow in that amount of time you produced a bucket of sweat.

This is now free rein for you two to begin mischievous plots together. ദ്ദി/ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\ Omni Mark 

He blinks… slowly, then squints. He knows what you’re doing the second you square your stance. And he lets you try with a silent but palpable curiosity, his expression unreadable. “Are you lifting me?”

Your hands slide to his hips. You push and grunt once before he finally eases up just enough for you to get him seated. He lets you do it, but there’s a heavy pause—like he’s trying to figure out why it’s affecting him so much. He’s used to being the strongest, but this? This little moment of tenderness?

He ends up gripping your waist. Staring at you for a few long seconds with that haunted, love-struck look. Then says, very softly: “Again. Do it again.” He almost uses this as a form of training, his quiet ego making him believe you shouldn’t be able to lift him even an inch, but you’ve made him grow soft… so much so, that he’s willing to give into you. Internal Monologue: Is this a power play? She's reaching for my hips—intentionally. No hesitation. That’s bold. I like bold. Is she trying to prove something to me? Or to herself? It doesn’t matter. She's close now. She's warm. Her heartbeat’s fast—excited. Not afraid. That’s… rare. God, she doesn’t know what this is doing to me. I haven’t felt this way in decades. Don’t moan. Don’t grab her. Don’t break the counter. If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He watches you try and fail with an unreadable expression. Then he slowly smiles. “You tried,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face. Just what did you expect? He's almost pure muscle and you quiet after a few seconds. “Let me show you what that earns you.” And then he lifts you onto the counter as if you weigh nothing but touches you like you’re everything.

ूाीू Sinister Mark There’s two possibilities: He sits himself up there the second you try, smirking the whole time and watching you like prey. Or… your lucky latter where you catch him off guard. You make your move when he’s lounging, of course. And of course, he lets you. Because Sinister Mark? He wants to be put on the counter. Not because he’s submissive, but because it means he gets to lean back, legs spread, hands behind him, smirking down at you like you just set a trap for yourself. “Go on, then,” his expression says. “You touched me first. Let’s see how far you take it.” “Make it worth it,” He says with a cocky drawl. He’s already hard before he sits. And the moment your fingers wrap around his waist, the moment your breath hitches, he’s watching you unravel with strain and loving every second.

And once he’s up there? He stares at you like you just became his favorite obsession all over again. He taps his thigh like it’s an invitation. Come kneel, sweetheart. You started this. Internal Monologue: Ohhh. Look who wants to play alpha. That’s adorable. She really thinks she can lift me? She doesn’t even know what this is gonna awaken in me. Look at her go. Little grunts. All that effort. Shit, it’s hot. Alright, I’ll help her just enough. Give her the win. Let her think she’s got the power for a minute. And then? I’ll spread my legs and watch her come undone trying to handle it.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up: He’s smirking the whole time. He won’t help AT ALL. Just watches you strain with a low, lazy look like “You’re adorable when you try.” Your teeth grind together and just as you’re about to blow the lid, your hands droop to your sides.

And when you give up? He instantly grabs your neck, walks you back three steps, and lifts you to the counter with one smooth motion. “See? That’s how you take control.” Then he spreads your legs. Your plan just backfired beautifully.

♛ Viltrum Mark You’re subtle about it... or so you think.

But before your fingers even graze his hips, Viltrum Mark’s gaze locks on you. He doesn’t move, not even the quirk of his facial expression. Just tilts his head like he’s already dissected your plan six moves ahead. It's usually unnerving, but somehow endearing during displays of affection. He lets you try, but every motion is being filed away with every tug.

You lift, push, and egregiously strain. And finally, he helps, just barely, so you can get him onto the counter. He sits there, legs open, gaze cool, and an imperceptive smirk. Like he’s letting you play at control while deciding how long he’ll indulge you.

But there’s something in the way his knees tighten around your hips… the way his fingers graze your wrist just a little too slow. He’s not mocking you, he’s considering you… and that's somehow scarier. You walked in thinking this was a game. Now you’re between his thighs while he decides whether to devour you or play the long game. Internal Monologue: ...She’s making contact. Hands on my hips. Interesting. Is this an attempt at dominance? Or flirtation? Or both? She knows she’s mine, right? She knows touching me like that wont work, right? And she’s still doing it. God, I want to ruin her. She’s lifting me. She’s lifting me? I should snap her in half. I should worship her. I should bend her over the counter instead. No—I’ll let her have this. It’s killing me.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He watches you strain and your muscles flex as your arms tremble with visible veins. And when you fail, he just steps closer—silent—gripping your jaw like a warning, leaning in until his lips barely brush yours. “Try again,” he’d whisper if he ever needed to speak. But he doesn’t, he’ll wait and let you squirm. Then push you back against the nearest surface and remind you who the apex predator is.

He’ll indulge in these silly trends just to see your reactions.

ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ Shiesty / Hooded Mark

Lets you with a raised brow, hands relaxed at his sides, like he’s judging your form but not stopping you. He wants to see how worthy you are, after all, you’re dating him. The second your hands touch his hips, he knows. He doesn’t help you either, just stares, obviously amused. His eyes showing faintly beneath that veil, teeth flashing beneath the smirk he’s not bothering to hide.

Once you do it, he leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring right into your eyes. “You always this bold?” He rasps, “Mmh. You wanna show off, huh?” he’d say if he were feeling generous. But instead, he just stares until you squirm under the weight of his limp body.

You get him up there—eventually, with him purposefully being deadweight. And now he’s fully manspread, head tilted, fingers tugging on the hem of your shirt with teasing violence. “You wanna be in charge?” his body language says. “Then do it. Impress me.” Internal Monologue: Is this foreplay? It feels like foreplay. It feels like she’s trying to do something reckless and pretend it’s casual. Mm. She’s touching me like she thinks I’ll just let her. Should I let her? Nah. Not yet. Gotta make her work for it. Look at her muscles flex. Look at her face. God, she’s hot like this. If she gets me up there? I’m flipping this whole kitchen upside down. She wants dangerous? I’ll show her dangerous.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

You’re frowning before you know it, staring up at him as if this is his fault for instigating. He absolutely lets you fail. Then he chuckles before grabbing the back of your neck and dragging you flush against him, whispering against your jaw like a threat and a promise. “What a shame. You started this, too.”  He loves that you think you have control. He’s about to take it back too.

He totally endorses testing out strength related trends, this starts a series of public embarrassment of him carrying you.

(╥‸╥) Masked Mark 

He lets you and he actually melts. He tries not to show it, but the moment your arms wrap around him and you lift, even just a little— His cheeks flush. You don’t even make it to his hips before he starts getting nervous. Not scared, just flustered, like his brain short-circuited the moment he realized what you were trying to do.

He says nothing but sits there, blushing, fists clenched on the counter beside his thighs. Like if he says one word, he’ll start whimpering. He’s obsessed with being handled like that, or even, the idea that you want him, even like this? It wrecks him in the softest way possible. His fingers grip the edge of the counter as he stares down at you with a pleased and light chuckle. He watches you like you’ve become something dangerous and perfect.

Internal Monologue: She’s… she’s touching me? Oh my god. She’s trying to lift me. That’s—it’s cute. It’s hot. I don’t know what to do. Should I help? Should I just melt? I don’t want to mess it up. Her hands are so warm. She’s so confident. She’s going to break me. This is embarrassing... I think I’m in love again. I want her to ruin me. I want her to carry me into the sun. Oh god—I’m gonna lose my mind if she grips me again.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He sees you try and panics—“Wait, no no, don’t hurt yourself—” He laughs. He looks down, ashamed. But when you kiss him? Tell him it’s okay? He drops to his knees, hands shaky, mouth open, ready to serve. “I can’t be lifted,” his body says, “but I can worship you just fine.”

A/N: let's be real... everyone's a freakzoid with how much Mark and Eve get it on in the show.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚ SCRIPT FLIP - What if the reader doesn't struggle at all?

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Mainstream Mark 

You wait until he’s brushing his teeth, humming some tune, and mumbling to you. You're mid-convo while he's rambling about something innocent, maybe a new spare costume from Art, maybe breakfast—and you just… scoop him. You sidle up behind him, say nothing, and just lift him, legs tucked under your arm, shift your hips, shoulder to his waist, like a perfect Olympic carry. Before he knows it, you’ve hoisted him over your shoulder like a sack of sex-starved potatoes.

“Wha—babe?? I—I can fly???” He’s flailing a little, holding onto your shoulder like “why is this working???”  He can’t believe this is happening. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t know how. “You can’t just—! I mean, you can, obviously, but—holy shit."

You set him on the counter like you just bought him for sale at a warehouse, and his jaw drops. His face is beet red. His muscular thighs press together instinctively; shocked, SOMEHOW fully hard and ashamed but proud. His fingers run over his eyes, sighing to himself before staring at you through his lashes.

“...Okay. That was kind of hot. Are we gonna talk about it, or…?”

He’s not okay, no, he’s better. You’ve just revealed a strength kink he didn’t know he had. You lean in, hands on the counter beside his hips, and smirk. He’s speechless, eyes wide, trying not to let you see how turned on he is. He fails as his head turns at lightning speed to rinse his mouth in the sink, he returns to his place on the counter like a good boy before his hands roughly reel you in, his minty fresh tongue prodding your lips without hesitation.

His Inner Monologue: Okay, okay, don’t panic. She’s strong. She’s insanely strong. I didn’t know that was possible. I mean, I guess I always suspected but like—DAMN. Is it weird that I’m into this? No? It’s fine. Totally normal. Don’t get a boner. Don’t—oh god. Okay. Smile. Play it cool. Act like you didn’t just get bench pressed like a cheerleader. CONTROL YOURSELF. Everything about her is so… Sweet boy is on his phone the second it’s over, scrolling TikTok with you, stammering the entire time. “I mean, I guess… I didn’t know that was a thing? But yeah, yeah—it’s kinda cool. Cool-cute. Cute-cool. Shut up.”  He’s red in the face. Can’t stop thinking about it.  Absolutely let's you do it again. He now peers over your shoulder whenever you scroll social media. He isn’t sure whether he should prepare himself mentally or physically…or even at all for the charades you might pull. He’s playfully terrified, but oh so enthralled.

｡𖦹°‧ No Goggles Mark

He clocks it instantly, and his head tilts, mouth quirking into a suspicious grin—like a cat who knows he’s pretty. Of course, he would. It's lensless Mark, and let's be honest… he's definitely pulled pranks and made memes out of your reaction to send you during arguments.

You just walk up like you’re on a mission. He doesn’t move when you grab him, in fact, he makes it harder—just to be a shit with no assistance. Just a dry, "this oughta be good" look on his face. But then… his grin falters. “Wait—what are you—Dude. Babe. Babe. You’re not gonna—OH MY GOD—”

You lift him like ITS NOTHING, one arm under his knees, one across his back, like some twisted bridal carry—but halfway through, you grab him by the waist and shoulder, and in one powerful motion, you toss him over your shoulder instead. You sling him easily like you’re about to carry a sack of bricks to hell. He loses his mind. “Oh my god. Okay. This is real now. You’re actually carrying me. I—I think this is working??? I might be in love.” “THIS IS A CORE MEMORY.” “Dude. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I need you to do that again. Take me.”

He’s laughing and moaning and definitely trying to grind against your back simultaneously. Even spitting out things he KNOWS will irritate you. It's like he’s short-circuiting, fighting the urge to beg you to spar with him and wanting to grind himself into a puddle. You drop him on the counter, and he just stares at you—eyes wide, hair tousled, pupils blown.

Inner Monologue: Holy shit. Dude. DUDE. I’m being carried, like, full hoist. I should be fighting this. Or saying something hot. But I’m close to whimpering. Is this what being prey feels like? I like it. I hate it. No, I love it. This is love. This is lust. This is spiritual. Am I about to propose? God, I’m so gone. She’s gonna use this against me forever. ...I hope she does.

You give him a smug once-over, hands on your hips like you just completed a flawless routine. He’s already panting, fingers twitching against the counter, legs spread instinctively. You lean forward, close enough to feel his breath hitch. “Still think I’m too soft to handle you?”

He groans really loud “Okay, wow. That was weirdly hot. That’s it. You’re coming home with me.” He goes full gremlin, and I mean more than usual. He teases you relentlessly about it for a week and starts fake-limping like you injured him. But secretly? He’s watching his back. “Dude, next time just say you wanna dom me. I’ll throw myself into your arms, easy.” He’ll search “dominant girlfriend lifting boyfriend trope” on Tumblr at 2am.

凸( •̀_•́ )凸 Mohawk Mark 

He’s posturing, arms crossed, smirk heavy. You wait until he’s talking shit. He’s leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, mouth mid-rant about something some other variant did wrong. Probably threatening violence or about to call you a smartass.

Something about how you couldn’t handle him and about your “cute little arms,” and how he’d break you before you got the chance to try anything bold. That’s when you step in close, hands sliding around his waist, a dangerous little smirk on your lips.

“You gonna try to lift me again?” he asks, almost with an amused gleam but something that encourages you regardless. 

You don’t give him time to finish. You grab him by the thighs, shoulder into his stomach, and he’s airborne before he can blink. He hits your shoulder with a grunt, eyes wide, palms on your back. He was hauled as if you’d done this a dozen times before.

“The fuck—HEY—what the hell?!”

He yelps, yes, Mohawk Mark yelps. The way his hands grab at your back says he hates how much he likes it. You walk him across the room and drop him on the kitchen counter like he’s not 180+ pounds of alien muscle and attitude. His ass hits the granite with a thud, and he stares at you with a raised brow.

And then he grins, obviously impressed. You were always his favorite version of you. “You really gonna manhandle me like that?” He snorts, licking his lips. “You better fuck me after this, or I swear—”

Inner Monologue: No way. No fucking way she just did that. You let one woman pick you up and suddenly your dick’s got a mind of its own. Nah. Hell no. That’s hot though. Shit. Look at her face—like she didn’t even break a sweat. Damn. Okay. This is happening. Don’t get soft. You are not the prey. You’re the damn predator. You’re just letting her win. For now.

You stared down at him as if granting yourself a tribute. You lean forward, slide your fingers under his chin, and tilt his face toward you. His pupils blow wide. His smirk twitches, more like slants, very obviously. “And if you don’t… I’m gonna rail the shit outta you for that,” he mutters, already half-hard.  “...And I’m still gonna let you do it again.” Acts like he’s over it, but you catch him doing push-ups in the middle of the night. He keeps testing you: “Bet you can’t do it again.” Immediately gets hard when you can. He doesn’t need to search trends when he already knows you unlocked something for both of you.

♛ Viltrum Mark

He’s mid-mission debrief, completely in control, arms crossed, expression unreadable, per usual. You step into his space like you’re going to kiss him. He’s used to your usual distractions, you’ve grown awfully bold recently. As much as he decline to admit, intimate gestures made by you have grown more meaningful.

And then you hoist his royal Viltrumite ass over your shoulder. He freezes and you can feel every muscle in his body go tense. The carry was truly your best efforts. Your hands locked, body braced, hefted over your shoulder before he realizes what’s happening. He’s fully rigid against you.

He doesn’t say a word, but his cock twitches with a jolt . Its sudden, so much that he’s internally disappointed in himself. His hands tighten on your back, his jaw tensing in silence. You’ve just short-circuited centuries of dominant, imperial Viltrumite wiring in one motion.

You sit him down, but still, he stays silent. Watching you and almost… burning? She lifted me. She LIFTED me? You set him on the counter, slow and casual, and step back like it was nothing.

Oh, man. You don’t know what you’ve just awakened in him. “You touched me. You lifted me,” his stare says. “And now I’m going to touch you back—and not gently.”

He says nothing. But he’s hard. Breathing slower. Eyes darker. You’ve just violated the natural order and he wants more.

Inner Monologue: This is impossible. This is unacceptable. This is the most erotic thing that’s ever happened to me. She has no idea what she’s done. She touched me like I was hers. She moved me like I didn’t weigh more than her car. I should punish her. I should worship her. I should bend her over the counter she dropped me on and rut until I forget my name.

You lean in to speak—but he grabs your throat, lips hovering just an inch away. He hust stares, his eyebrow jumping slightly as he scrutinizes you under his gaze. His lips suction to yours as his strong hand keep you tucked away against his chest. And claims you an hour later. He doesn’t talk about it. He doesn’t acknowledge it. But from now on, anytime you walk behind him he tenses. Like you might strike again. He lets it happen once… maybe twice. By the third time, you’re the one on the counter.

Don’t push the boy too far, okay?

ദ്ദി/ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\ Omni Mark

You lift him without warning. Not because he didn’t expect it, but because you did it so easily. One moment he was standing, the next he was over your shoulder, dead silent. He doesn’t resist, but rather watches you as if anticipating your shenanigans. You approach and grab his hips. You lift him over your shoulder, and his eyes flicker, barely, before going wide behind you.

You carry him like a queen dragging her knight back to the throne. Set him on the counter, legs spread, hands braced behind him. 

“...Impressive.” “You know that wasn’t necessary.” His voice drops an octave. Something seductive, maybe even dangerous. “...Do it again.”

It’s not just desire, it's a curiosity, like he’s testing what else you’ll do. More like, what else he’ll let you do. What it means to let go. He killed his father, he continued his mission, and yet you test his patience daily with the full confidence he won't harm you. And he knows… he could never bring himself to. Every day you prove another reason to be useful, even in smaller ways like now. You set him down, and he doesn’t speak. His face simply quirks into something more lighthearted, an amused huff leaving his nose as his arms cross over his broad chest. Rather, he just stares for a long moment.

Inner Monologue: She lifted me. Effortless. Like I wasn’t the most dangerous thing on this planet. I’ve never allowed this. Never wanted this. But with her… I crave it. Her hands on me. Her strength. Her boldness. It makes me feel something primal and unfamiliar. Something terrifying. Something I don’t want to end.

You don’t say anything. You just rest your hands on his thighs causing his muscles to twitch and his breathing to stutter. His voice drops an octave and his eyes are blown wide. He’s calm, so calm its scary. And the way his hand settles on your hip as you walk away? He’s basically obsessed.

He reaches for your wrist and pulls you in. And finally lets go of his inhibitions. He now sits in chairs you can’t reach from behind. He’s not afraid, but every so often, he says—dead serious— “You’re going to do it again. Aren’t you?”

ूाीू Sinister Mark

He knows, you haven’t even touched him yet and he’s knows. That twitch in your fingers, the way your eyes narrow with a plan, or the barely-concealed grin trying to ruin your face.

“You’re thinking about something dangerous,” he hums, not even looking up as he leans back against the counter. “That little face you make when you’re frustrated? Precious. I love that look.” Your funny prank suddenly became something to prove. His eyes followed the line of your jaw, watching as it tensed. “Look at you. All attitude and no plan. It’s honestly impressive how consistent you are.” You don’t answer. You just step forward, plant your hands on his thighs, and hoist him up—full shoulder carry, deliberate, not asking for permission. He doesn’t flinch when you grab him and doesn’t blink when you lift him like a plaything. He lets you as his arms relax, cock already hard against your shoulder.

He doesn’t struggle, albeit he’s surprised, but his all-masking smile is like a customer service blanket from him raging internally. And when you drop him onto the counter like you’re mounting a prize, he stays still for a second. Just looking at you. Grinning slow. “Ohh… oh, sweetheart. That’s dangerous.”

He chuckles in your ear. Voice low. Teeth sharp. “I hope you know what you’ve just done.”

“You lift me. I break you. That’s the new arrangement.” His eyes read, are you trying to start something or finish it? You don’t respond, only smirking, which is worse.

His hands slide behind him on the countertop. Legs part, slow and lazy, welcoming but a trap nontheless. He tilts his head, studying you like you’re a riddle he already solved—but wants to hear you tell it wrong.

“C’mon then. You had all that confidence when you picked me up—let’s see what you do with me now,” he murmurs, gaze growing heavier. Then, smiling, “I like my toys begging and breathless.” You really thought he’d let you get away without consequences? You start, and he finishes; that’s usually how this goes. You were so pretty when you pouted at his light jeers. He was afraid you’d grown boring, yet every interaction pulled something new, something worth taking. He finds this all adorable, but is honestly... kind of a chatty brat during the whole ordeal. Not for long anyway.

Inner Monologue: Oh, she’s bold today. I like it. She wants to flip the script? Let her. Let her think she’s got control. I wanna see how far she takes it before she starts shaking. God, her hands feel good. Confident. Dangerous. Maybe I’ll let her think she won. She didn’t… did she? No. ...Then I’ll pin her down and make her beg to lose again. He lets you lift him again. Why? Because he knows where it ends. If you ever approach him with another trend, expect it to end covered in sweat and tears. It seems you’ve gotten the roles confused on who’s dominant... or did you? (PEG THAT MAN)

ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ Hooded Mark

You wait for the exact moment when he’s halfway into a smug line, something like “You always act brave before you break”—and then you grab him mid-smirk. You two are constantly at odds over who’s stronger without the use of powers. The obvious answer is him, sure, but your ego doesn’t allow you to submit. He doesn’t flinch, but you can feel the slight hitch in his breath as you hoist him over your shoulder, one arm under his thighs, the other bracing his back.

“You’re not—” whoop “Shit—okay.”

He lands on your shoulder upside down and utterly speechless. He respects and resents you currently. Yet, he’s amused. “Oh, this is new. You better start prayin’ once you put me down.”

You drop him onto the counter, and he stays seated, head tilting, smirk twitching. “Fuckin’ hell. You strong now, huh? Pick me up once and suddenly you run shit?” His hand proceeds to keep down your lower back. You nod in response, proud of yourself. “Yeah? That supposed to scare me, babe? ‘Cause all it did was make my dick twitch.”

He doesn’t stop you, nor does he stop the raunchy gestures. Just grinds against you the entire time with lazy amusement. Your perseverance is something he never shies away from, even in the bedroom when you’re determined to match him. Something about it awakens something feral within him. 

When you set him down and he was already scheming. Already licking his lips. There’s a glint behind the lenses of his mask—something hot, wild, and very aware. “Alright. You win this round.”

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw.

“But just wait ‘til I’m on top next time.”

Inner Monologue: Okay. Interesting play. Sudden. Clean form. Surprising core strength. I respect it. She's trying to flip the power dynamic? Bold. Noted. But how far will she go? Is this a one-time power move or a recurring kink? …Is it mine now? I might make it mine. She doesn’t know what she’s started. She’s so hot when she doesn’t ask for permission. He’s acting normal, cocky and unbothered. But the next day, he’s straight petty. He’s watching his back… but he’ll never admit he kinda liked it. (He absolutely jerked off thinking about it.) After a while he accidentally conditioned this as a form of foreplay. Your bedframe is in danger.

(╥‸╥) Masked Mark

He’s mumbling something under his breath. Sitting on the edge of the bed, unarmored, quiet, vulnerable. Which makes it the perfect time to strike. You lift him without warning. You bend down, arms around his thighs, and hoist upwards. His breath catches, and he yelps, a soft and shocked sound, arms flailing for a second like he forgot what stability was. His body locks. “Wait—wait—you’re not really—oh my god.”

He melts physically, emotional… maybe even spiritually. You shoulder him effortlessly and strut toward the counter. He says nothing else. Just goes completely limp in your hold, like a captured princess with bloodlust.

You set him down gently. His fists clench against his thighs, his chest rises and falls like he’s panicking, but also… vibrating. You’re not even halfway done teasing, but he’s almost certain he’s pitching a tent. Sure, he loves you and all the qualities that come with but his body and mind can’t seem to communicate properly. He sighs, this isn't something to be hard about.

He looks up at you like you just saved his life before dropping his head in his hands. “No one’s ever done that before,” he whispers in his head. “Please do it again. Please do anything. I’ll let you. It doesn’t just have to be because of a trend. Deal?”

He doesn’t look up. But if you do, you’ll see the most pathetically hard, desperate expression he’s ever worn.

Inner Monologue: She touched me. She lifted me. I was off the ground. I didn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. She just manhandled me like I wasn’t dangerous. Like I was safe to touch. Like I was hers. Holy shit I’m gonna cry. I’m gonna cry AND cum. Can you do both? What if I sob into her shirt? Is that hot? Please do it again. Please do worse. Please never leave.

You lean forward, kiss the corner of his mouth, and feel him shiver like a wire about to snap. “You liked that?” He nods, tense and oddly quiet and still hard, but he hasn’t said a word. He’s never forgetting this. And he’s never forgetting the horrors your phone allows you to exploit from his sensitivity. He starts flinching every time you get too close from behind. “Wait—are you gonna do it again?” But lowkey? He wants you to. He wants to be your strong little passenger princess on the low. Googles “can strength be sexy” like 6 times. Starts sleeping with one leg over you like he’s afraid you’ll float away or pick him up again.

[lucybianchi]

[journen]

So, I have a couple artworks I did for a fic I wrote / am writing. Au where Simon leaves the army to raise his nephew Joseph. In this installment ahaha Soap, who is still in the army, is visiting for the holidays, and so here is Simon and Jo picking up Soap from the airport, and Joseph giving Soap a hug! Both are of little scenes in the first chapter. 😊🧡

I'm so weak for uncles Simon and Johnny!!!!

[ingeniousmindoftune]

Can you please do Sinners with Sammie x Reader. But please make sure that reader or your of gets bitten but not turned. Basically just do the whole scene with the vampires invading the speakeasy and then reader gets bitten, then sammie sees her and he follows through with his promise of killing her if she gets bitten.

Bite of Betrayal

Sammie x Reader

Warnings: Vampires,violence, emotional angst, betrayal, near-death, protective love, heartbreak, blood, gore, trauma, intense emotional angst, heartbreak, violence, protective/possessive love, emotional aftermath, themes of death and trust.

Note: Reader gets bitten but not turned. This is a bittersweet/angsty scene with strong emotions and gritty atmosphere.

Word Count: ~2,000

The speakeasy felt like a secret carved into the earth—its ceiling hung so low your shoulders brushed the dark-stained beams, and the thick limestone walls swallowed every roar from the street above. Rich burgundy velvet drapes pooled at the floor, muffling footsteps and hiding corners where whispers curled like curling smoke. The mahogany bar gleamed under wrought-iron sconces whose amber flames trembled against chipped plaster. A lone pianist’s fingers coaxed a smoky jazz lament from yellowed keys, each breathy trumpet cry sliding through the haze of whiskey fumes and hushed confidences. Candlelight puddled in brass holders, flickering over brass footrails and stained-glass mirrors, giving the whole room a secretive, golden hush.

You hadn’t noticed Sammie slip in beside you until his elbow pressed against the small of your back. His trench coat still clung to the damp chill of the alley, and the brim of his fedora cast a shadow over his eyes. He leaned forward, the scent of cedarwood cologne drifting against the whiskey in the air, and his lips, cool and deliberate, brushed your temple. He straightened, fingers curling around the ornate brass rail. “Don’t move,” he murmured—so low you might have imagined it. “I’ll be right back.” His smile was a promise you’d never doubted.

Then something snapped.

First, the sconces guttered, their flames sputtering like wounded insects. The pianist’s final chord hovered in the air and died. A woman’s scream ricocheted off the stone, sharp enough to freeze your blood. Crystalware shattered—glittering rain against the polished floor—as cold seeped through the candles’ warmth. Then came the sour tang of spilled bourbon fused with something rotten, like soil left to rot under a forgotten tomb.

Shapes unfurled from the gloom: towering silhouettes, limbs too long and thin to be human, sliding across the floor with a disturbing grace. Their eyes burned ember-red, teeth curved into cruel crescents that gleamed white in the candlelight. A hungry stench rolled off them in waves, sinking into your gut and twisting your stomach into knots.

Chaos ignited. Glass bottles exploded in showers of amber liquid; patrons stumbled, screaming, arms flailing as overturned stools skidded across the boards. A red-faced drunkcareened into a table, sending glasses flying. In the far corner, a man’s howl cut off mid-word as invisible hands yanked him across the floor, his throat opened in a spray of ruby that painted the wood in wicked arcs.

Vampires.

Your heart thundered so loud you felt it in your ears. Instinct sent your hand to your thigh, fingers closing around the slender silver blade Sammie had clipped to your garter. In one fluid motion you drew it free—only to freeze as icy breath ghosted across your neck.

“I always liked sweetbloods,” a voice rasped, low and amused. A gaunt figure drifted into the candlelight, pale collarbones gleaming, a cruel smile curving his lips.

You spun and slashed. The blade carved a burnished arc across translucent flesh; the creature’s laughter echoed like bone rattling. In a heartbeat he seized your wrist, yanking it back until pain flared along your bones. His amber eyes danced with savage delight.

“Feisty,” he growled, tilting you toward the bar. You felt the polished wood bite into your spine as he slammed you forward—glass beneath you shivered and splintered under the impact. Pain exploded up your back in hot shards, but rage blazed brighter. You kicked out, boot connecting with his shin. He snarled and bared his fangs.

Then he struck—jaws clamped down on your shoulder in a vicious arc of white and crimson. Fire surged through you, searing nerve endings with each pulse. You screamed raw, a ragged sound that cut through the din as cold began to snake through your limbs, dulling your world.

Bang! Bang!

Two thunderous cracks shattered the frenzy. You convulsed as the vampire’s weight slumped from your shoulder. The world tipped; your vision fractured into shards of shadow and flame. Through the haze you saw Sammie standing amid splintered glass and overturned chairs, his trench coat ticked with ash and blood. A pistol hung limply in his hand, smoke curling from its twin barrels. He had shot point-blank into the creature’s skull; gray dust drifted down from its ruined face.

“Y/N—!” His voice cracked, wrenching the edges of panic and relief together.

Strong arms swept beneath you, lifting you from the wreckage. Sammie pressed you against his chest, his fingers trembling as they probed the crimson stain blooming at your shoulder. His eyes, wide with horror, locked on the curved silver blade slick with your blood.

“He bit you,” he hissed, every breath rattling like a cracked bell. “If they bite you—”

You forced your throat to work, croaking out a nod. “I—I tried to fight—”

He recoiled as if struck, light flickering in his eyes, turning cold. “Do you remember what I said?” His voice was hollow, like a gravestone.

You did. If their fangs ever broke your skin, Sammie would kill you before you could rise as one of them—a vow he’d fulfilled for countless others. Your pulse hammered in your ears as you met his gaze.

“Sammie, please,” you whispered, fingers clutching the lapel of his coat. “I’m still me. I can feel it.”

He flinched, pain warring with resolve. His pistol arm rose, hand shaking so hard the barrel quivered against your chest. “You don’t know that,” he rasped.

“Sammie, you love me,” you pleaded, voice raw.

His jaw clenched like steel. “I do,” he choked, “and that’s why I can’t let you become one of them.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you reached for his shaking hand. “Then help me live,” you begged. “Don’t—don’t kill me.”

His shoulders trembled; the barrel lifted, wobbling. He stared at you, the weight of every promise pressing down. The gun slipped from his feeble grip and clattered to the floor. Sammie sank to his knees, pulling you into his lap, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath was hot, ragged against your skin.

“I should kill you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “But I can’t. I won’t.”

You closed your eyes against the pain, drawing what little strength you had into a single breath. “Then help me live.”

A fierce determination flashed in his haunted eyes. He brushed your hair back, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. “We’ll find a healer—witch, alchemist, whatever it takes. I’ll burn this city to ashes before I lose you to the darkness.”

Your blood dulled your limbs, but in Sammie’s arms you felt a fragile spark of hope. “I trust you,” you murmured.

He lifted you gently, cradling your injured side against his heart. “Then trust me this: I will save you. If you do turn, I’ll be the one to end it. But until then, I swear I will not let you go.”

With that vow echoing in the ruined speakeasy, he carried you into the night—leaving behind splintered wood and spilled blood. Beyond those battered doors lay a world ablaze and unknown, but in Sammie’s steadfast grip you were still alive.

But little did you know, he planned to kill you once you entered the night. Because he made a promise, a promise he would hold to heart.

[drfleetflower]

Have you stopped writing requested fics?

No, I have not stopped writing requested fics. If you have requested a fanfic, I will get to it as soon as I can. I have many to get to and so appreciate the support and requests. Life has been busy lately and will be very busy in March. Still, I will do my very best to write them but at the same time I want to take my time with the requests because it's important to me to honor the characters and not put out lazy, tired work. Hopefully I will be less busy late March. Thank you so much for your patience and support! ♥️

[titlemewickedwonderland]

☆ put this star into the inbox of your favourite blogs. It’s time to spread positivity! (Have one of these too! 💕)

Aw! Thanks so much Dark! I'm glad you love my blogs and added me to your favorites! Much love friend! <3

[bigfatbreak]

Hi quick question about the host au

Does lila think marinette is being legit haunted?

Because for some reason i could see host tikkis powers (which i think act up with high emotions because of that one post in the manynette au) acting up around her out of anger

yup. I actually have a chunk of fanfic written up for the AU that really goes into it, that I never finished nor posted, and now I'm considering posting it as a standalone just for fun

[technically-human]

Hi i'm absolutely in love with the reverse au!!

I want to know, in this verse does edwin still confesses to charles? if so how is it different? i feel if he did he would end it by apologizing, you know, religious guilt and all

There’s a train that goes through Hell.

Its journey starts in Wrath, and it departs already full of souls. It took Charles far too many years to realize that there were separate, more spacious wagons that demons could board. Not that he could understand why anyone, hellborn or not, would want to get into the damned thing. He certainly hadn’t.

Actually, Charles couldn’t recall ever boarding the train. As far as he could tell, he just appeared there one day, and had spent the next tortuous decades trying to get out. It was part of the torture. Getting out was entirely possible. More than that, it was necessary.

The train had no regular schedule that he could discern (not at first, though he had always been good at finding patterns, and was eventually able to crack it) but it would make quite a few stops before finally returning to the Wrath ring. Souls inside the train were already angry and far too close to each other (close, so close not even air could squeeze in) but when they got really violent was when the train made a stop.

Getting out didn’t mean you were free, no matter where you managed it, be it Sloth or Gluttony, Pride or Lust. No, as soon as the train finished its journey, you would appear back inside, in Wrath where you belonged, suffocating once again, getting ready to claw your way out for the millionth time.

Because if you didn’t get out, The Conductor would get you.

If he thought about it calmly, Charles could probably say that he got out of the train more times than not. Still, being caught by The Conductor once was bad enough, as there was no coal in Hell, and something had to serve as combustible. Souls could not burn to death, and the whole journey always felt longer than eternity when he was caught. Once it was over, he would be inside again, and fight with more desperation than before, not caring who stayed inside so long as it wasn’t him.

He couldn’t understand why anyone, hellborn or not, would want to get into the damned thing. He certainly hadn’t. But as the souls pushed and bit and clawed and punched their way out, Edwin boarded the train. And that wasn’t even the most groundbreaking revelation Charles had that day.

ko-fi

[remyfire]

❛ don’t mind me. just enjoying the view. ❜ with robby/abbot? 👀

YAY thank you my friend I love you!!! I hope you enjoy them :D Subtle Smut Starters [AO3 Crosspost]

The first several times that Jack had come home with Robby and fallen into bed with him had been like a race against the clock, as though there was a ticking time bomb in both of their brains that would go off and make them realize exactly how ridiculous what they were doing was. Robby had no complaints, mind you—that kind of adrenaline rush had been something he thought he might've lost after he turned fifty, but no, actually, his body did still seem capable of getting painfully hard within seconds of Jack's mouth on his, all while rubbing Robby's skin raw with his scruff.

A couple of months into it, they had...settled. They'd stripped each other down with care, indulged greedily in the sensual roll of their tongues against the other's. Robby had found the perfect angle to ride Jack without giving either of them back or leg cramps—which they had celebrated with a fist bump while Jack was still balls deep inside of him, something that continues to make Robby laugh when he recalls it. There was a lot of rocking. Moaning. The kind of sex that if Robby had been foolish enough to think they could be a serious item, he might have considered lovemaking. 

In the past few weeks, though, they've sometimes not even bothered to hook up when Jack is over. They'll flop on the couch, Jack will tug and stare until Robby lies down with his head in his lap, and then they'll watch, say, a basketball game, all while Jack pets up and down his side with a warm, firm hand and Robby tries not to shiver.

Whether Robby likes it or not, he's grown accustomed to Jack's presence, his touch, his taste, his sounds, his gaze that pierces straight through him.

It has been ten days since they had sex. Any kind of sex. No hands, no mouths, no thighs, certainly no asses. And Robby is straddling a very fine line between comfortable and panicked. What else is he supposed to feel? The past two times that Jack has come over, they'd gotten in bed and cuddled, kissing without urgency. They'd fallen asleep in each other's arms. Woken up together. Jack had walked him halfway to the Pitt before they'd split ways, Robby to work and Jack to pick up groceries—and the fact that Robby knows that's what he did, that he was confident about what kind of goddamn milk he'd be picking up, that's ridiculous, right? Why the hell does he know Jack's preferred whole milk brand?

Jack is the first person who has slept overnight in his bed with him in years. The first man in even longer. And it shouldn't work, really, not with their contradictory work schedules or their habit of having a massive bed all to themselves in their respective apartments.

All the same, he's here tonight. Jack has already turned the sheets down so that they're pooling around his waist, his torso bare and strong. When Robby has sneaked peeks at him through the bathroom mirror while brushing his teeth—more glances than he's happy to admit—Jack's been sprawled on his side and idly scrolling through his phone, occasionally typing messages of some kind. He doesn't seem particularly stirred up nor agitated. It's as though he decided before he so much as walked into Robby's apartment that they're going to snuggle up and pass out together. Which is fine. Just...nerve-wracking.

Whatever this thing is that they're doing, it should really stop. Robby already drove off Heather, Janey, and any number of other women over the years for one reason or another, and meanwhile Jack hasn't exactly been making small talk about a whirlwind of dates. He still wears his wedding band, for fuck's sake. It's pretty damn clear that neither of them are good candidates for a long-term relationship right now. So what the hell are they doing? Every time Robby tries to bring it up, the words turn to sand in his throat.

He just needs to stop thinking so hard. Totally something that has always been easy for Robby.

Oh, he's fucked, isn't he?

After Robby finishes flossing and pulls out his bottle of mouthwash, he looks through the glass once more, then pauses for a beat when he notices Jack is watching him. Robby's lips quirk before he flicks his gaze away and focuses on rinsing his mouth, trying to lose his thoughts in the sharp minty flavor. It doesn't work. Every so often, he risks another peek, sees Jack studying him unblinkingly, then glances away again. His cheeks heat, at odds with the comfortable chill on his own bare chest. But though he keeps waiting for Jack to tease him about looking like a chipmunk with his puffed-out cheeks, he doesn't say a word. When he finally spits the mouthwash out, Robby takes a deep breath, glances again, then huffs out a chuckle. Jack is, in fact, still focused on him. And he's smiling. "Got something to say?" Robby asks.

Jack shrugs. "Oh, don't mind me." His gaze travels slowly, slowly down Robby's body, the kind of glacial pace that sends a shiver rippling through his veins. "Just enjoying the view."

Against his will, Robby's hand flies to his stomach. Though he doesn't find himself unattractive, he swears that every week, he'll notice a new wrinkle, gray hair, or plushness that wasn't there before. Time marches ever onward and no one can outrun its effects, not even Robby. His gut is a part of that, the piece of him that seems to get softer by the day. "Take a picture while you can, then. It's not gonna be here forever."

"And what if somebody gets a hold of my phone, sees that I'm starting a collection of Dr. Robinavitch's nudes?" Jack drawls, cocking his head.

Robby pauses. "I haven't sent you any nudes."

"Not yet."

"Ohoho! So cocky. So sure."

"I know you," Jack murmurs with a grin. "You've got the idea planted in your head now. You're not gonna be able to bury it forever."

"You underestimate my power." In truth, Robby has never actually sent somebody a fully naked photo of himself. It's not prudishness, it's just...never seemed like the right moment, and he'd hasn't been asked anyway. Isn't it sexier to receive a picture of someone fully clothed, but maybe with a quick flash of lace under the skirt? Less is more and all that. He clears his throat and saunters toward the en suite's door frame, which he leans into. After he flicks off the light, he presses his arms into the wood over his head to support himself. "Besides, Princess and Perlah wouldn't ever let anybody hear the end of it, if they found out we were..."

Jack lifts a brow. "Sleeping together?"

His heart skips a beat. "I was going to say fucking, but sure, we can be a little more delicate about it, if you're too shy." Robby needs the crudeness, needs whatever their entanglement is to lack as much intimacy as possible. Safe. He has to stay safe.

But Jack narrows his eyes thoughtfully and purses his lips. After a few seconds, he rolls over and grabs his phone from the nightstand. "Well, how about we give them something to talk about, huh?"

"We what?"

Robby is still gaping when Jack snaps a picture of him in nothing but his sweatpants. Jack studies the screen afterward with a small smile, which only makes the heat travel down from Robby's cheeks and into his throat. It'll hit his chest soon if Robby doesn't do anything to chill out. But Jack doesn't exactly make it easy, not when he meets Robby's gaze, cocky and smug. "Shy, you said. Gimme a break."

"You're gonna delete it, aren't you?" Robby asks, voice low and quiet.

Jack gives him a particularly hard stare. "C'mere." He holds his hand out.

It takes a moment, but Robby's feet begin carrying him toward the bed whether he's ready or not. He crawls onto the mattress, studiously avoiding looking at his bedmate. But Jack grabs his arm and tugs him down so they're chest to chest on their sides, then turns his phone so Robby can see it. It's not a great picture. It's too dark. A little crooked. Not zoomed in at all. But it is unmistakably Robby, and though he is loathe to admit it, he doesn't look terrible. Maybe a little awkward, but that's what Jack gets for not giving Robby a second to try and strike a pose.

"It looks like shit," Robby finally verbally concludes.

Jack snorts. "Whatever happened to that delicate bedside manner, huh?"

"Talk to me again when you're sick and we'll see how it goes."

"But I am sick." Jack splays one of his big, warm hands over Robby's chest and nudges him to lie back. Robby doesn't resist. "Sick over how badly I want you. What do you think, is there a cure?"

It is a different experience to meet Jack's stare from this close up. The intensity triples. Robby can see the flecks of lighter brown in his eyes, how they smolder now that Jack is touching him. He's killing him. Saying shit that makes Robby's brain continue to churn out answers to calculations that he refuses to accept as sensible. Because what it sounds like is that Jack really doesn't mind if the two of them made this a serious thing. A relationship. Yes, it's 2025, but the progress that has been made has never fully drowned out child Robby who was growing up while queer men were dropping like flies. He finds it so difficult to believe that a guy would ever consider Robby worth the risk that the two-ton weight swaying above them by a fraying rope won't come plummeting down.

Jack's fingers dance upward until he rests his palm directly over Robby's pounding heart, and he catches his breath, wondering if perhaps Jack can suss out his secrets through morse code in his pulse. He gulps, throat dry as a bone, before letting his mouth fall open and allowing the words to slip free. "I'm afraid there isn't. All we can do is try to make you comfortable."

Jack's eyes sparkle. He slings a leg over Robby's hips to straddle him, leaning in until their noses brush. "I don't know how comfortable you can make me when it's this far gone."

"Does it hurt?" Robby asks.

"Oh, it does. It sure fucking does." Jack shifts his weight, then smirks with triumph when Robby gasps at the feel of Jack's hard cock brushing against his own. "Hurts right here, Doc. What're you gonna do to treat me?"

Sparks fly through Robby's veins from Jack's lazy rolls of their hips together. Fuck. Even without recent sex, Jack knows the exact angle and pressure to turn Robby into a puddle. He never thought he would like it this way, allowing someone else to take the lead, surrendering to their intentions. It doesn't always work—there are some shifts that have Robby so keyed up, he'll refuse to relinquish control—but more and more often, this is the pattern they will fall into. Jack on top. Robby spreading his legs. An open invitation for Jack to take him however he'd like. But Jack has never abused it. Robby never leaves Jack's arms feeling regretful.

Robby has a lot of goddamn regrets. He really doesn't want to consciously be adding more to the tally.

As Robby's muscles loosen up, he stretches his back and legs, little pops of relief that only throw coal on the flames of pleasure. "Whatever happened to physician, heal thyself?"

Jack hums. He bites his bottom lip for a few seconds before he replies. "What, afraid you can't be objective with me?"

Another shudder threatens to shake him to his very foundation. He can't say it. He just can't. They've gotten along just fine for all these months without gumming up the good stuff with serious conversations about what they might feel for each other. "Jack..." Robby shakes his head with a sigh, at a loss for words.

Jack comes to a stop and studies each inch of his face with the intensity of a hawk. What does he see? Is Robby still capable of burying all of his feelings or has Jack found a secret back door into everything that he compartmentalizes? Finally he must be satisfied with what he sees, given that he cups Robby's cheek and thumbs a fiery line along his zygomatic bone. Then he leans in. And God help him, but Robby lets him. Something is changing between them at lightning speeds—perhaps has been there all along—and there isn't a cell in Robby's body that is interested in pulling back.

The confident press of Jack's mouth against his own turns even more of Robby's muscles into butter. It's not a kiss designed to excite him. There is such familiarity in it. Jack knows exactly what he likes. Maybe that's as good a reason as any for Robby to cut and run, but he's so. Goddamn. Tired. Of running. He missed this. Missed the gentle slip of Jack's tongue between his lips as he picks up their grinding again. Robby groans, then throws his arms around him. Fuck it. Fuck it. He wants to soak up everything that Jack will give him. Everything.

Jack pulls back an inch. "You're trembling," he whispers.

He is. Robby releases a shaky breath and presses their foreheads together. "Yeah."

Jack rubs his nose against Robby's, sweet enough that he swears he tastes cotton candy. "Let me handle it," Jack murmurs before drawing him back in.

He'll let Jack take the lead, but he's not going to be passive. He rocks against him too, meeting him in the middle, and they moan into each other's mouths as they find a better rhythm. Faster. Harder. The heat in his sweatpants tells him that he must be soaking the front of them with his own arousal. But it's not enough. The fabric is still rougher than he'd like. Robby growls in frustration as he throws his head back on the pillow, trying to will his body to get with the program.

Jack doesn't seem to be as distracted. He nuzzles the sensitive spot behind Robby's ear, then sucks his earlobe into his mouth. "I know what you need."

"Mmm, fuck..." All at once, he's caught in Jack's trap again, arching his back as he runs a line of suckling kisses down his throat, and Jack takes advantage of it by tugging Robby's sweatpants down to free his cock. Robby impatiently kicks his pants off, then sighs with relief at the feel of so much bare skin pressed together, their legs entangling, their bellies meeting with each rapid breath they take. Robby reaches clumsily between them to get his fingers under the waistband of Jack's boxers. "Get it off."

"With pleasure," he murmurs back. He peels himself off of Robby, making him squeeze his eyes shut for a moment at how his body aches now that Jack isn't crushing him into the mattress. But he only needs a moment before they fly open once more so he can watch Jack's hardness bounce free, curving toward his stomach, throbbing with his heartbeat. It's a good thing that Jack's the one in charge right now, actually, because all of Robby's faculties shut down in favor of basking in the sight of the powerful man above him. All those perfect freckles on his arms, taut and muscled. Shit.

Like he owns the place, Jack stretches out for the nightstand drawer, from which he extricates the small bottle of lubricant. Robby's bought more lube in the past six months than he had his entire adult life. There is, in fact, a whole unopened bottle still in there, along with the box of condoms that they no longer touch. As Jack sits tall on his knees, the streetlights cut through the slats of his blinds and spill dappled light down his gorgeous body, all the way to the dark hair leading to his cock. "Here we go," he murmurs, wriggling a little to get situated, before he pops the cap of the lube and holds the bottle over Robby's length. Robby watches as the thick liquid drips free, then groans as it lands on his hot skin, so comparatively cool. It trickles down his shaft, drop by drop, until Jack tosses the bottle aside and then takes him in hand.

"Fuck, you've got a great cock." Jack's words come out roughly as though he's rubbed his throat raw with sandpaper. "So goddamn thick. Think I need to put it inside me more often."

Robby whines. Whines, like a puppy. How is he supposed to speak when Jack's making sure the lube covers every inch of his hardness? When he's putting images in his head of Jack astride him, bouncing on his cock, right in this very bed?

"Sorry. Not tonight." Then Jack moves in and presses their lengths together, hot and silky skin gliding together like a dream. "In too much of a hurry. Gotta have you. Jesus Christ, Robby, you know what you do to a man?" He tightens his grip around them both, then begins to fuck against Robby's shaft with tight, quick thrusts, getting his own cock covered in the excess slickness that's begun to drip down to Robby's balls.

Robby anchors himself to the moment by running his hands up and down Jack's thighs. They're so muscular, Robby is pretty sure that they could crush his head like a watermelon. Fine hair tickles his palms with each pass. "Oh, shit, that's good..."

"Yeah?" His grin is audible. "C'mon, with me."

He doesn't have to ask. Robby immediately bucks in his grasp, then gasps at the avalanche of sensations—Jack's cock against his, Jack's slick hand giving him something tight to fuck, the answering roll of Jack's hips. Jack is everywhere around him. Robby's bedroom, sheets, and pillows smell like him. He has a specific mug that he likes drinking coffee out of, one that Robby makes sure to always keep clean and near the front of the cabinet. He left a hoodie on the couch a week ago and hasn't bothered to take it home. And it works. It fits. They fucking fit.

Robby's chest tightens like a vice. He doesn't want to watch Jack walk out his front door again. Robby'll procrastinate washing his sheets so that he can bury his face in them and immerse himself in his lover. Because that's what Jack is. Not only in the most literal sense, but someone who Robby knows he could fall in love with so easily if he would only allow it. Hell, maybe he already has. It's difficult to untangle the gnarled mess in his heart to find out.

Suddenly Jack descends to kiss him ferociously, hard enough that Robby thinks his lips will be bruised the next day, and Robby moans into his open mouth as he plants his feet on the mattress for better leverage to fuck his fist. The mattress is squeaking so loudly that he's sure his neighbors must want to murder him, but he doesn't give a single shit. He spends the majority of his life dragging souls away from the abyss of death and suffering from the ones he loses. He deserves this. It's like Jack makes the sun come up every morning as a special gift for Robby when he's on his way into the Pitt. And if Robby wants to drown in his taste, then so be it.

A frenzy overtakes Robby like a bacchanal. He scrapes his nails down Jack's back and eats up the desperate moan he gets in response. He hopes he leaves welts, something that Jack will feel every time his shirt shifts. There is nothing more important than chasing their shared pleasure. But his peak sneaks up on him, and as his balls tighten, Robby breaks the kiss and holds Jack's face between both palms, eyes squeezed shut. "Please tell me you're gonna come, I-I wanna feel you come so fucking badly."

"Look at me."

Robby does in an instant, then flushes at the sharp laser focus in Jack's gaze. Jack loves to do this to him, loves to get him right to the brink, then stare into his eyes as he comes. "Jack, please, please," Robby whispers, on the verge of tears.

"You first, sweetheart," Jack murmurs, then sinks his teeth into Robby's bottom lip, and just like that, the flash of searing pain is enough to shove Robby over the edge.

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuck..." Robby rides the rolling wave hard as he shoots his release all over his belly. It used to be mortifying to be seen in this state, to be looking right back and refusing to close his eyes because Jack doesn't want him to and Robby wants so fucking badly to be good for him. But not anymore. Now Jack is a beacon in what is often a dark, hazy life, and if Robby feels as though he's been thrown out of an airplane and left to free fall, at least he isn't alone. Robby lets out a sob, then pulls Jack in for hungry kisses. The moment their lips touch, Jack groans and joins him, their cum smearing together on their bodies.

They stay just like that for what feels like hours, panting, petting each other's sides and back. Their lips move together languidly. Wrapped up in each other's arms like this, there is no reason to run away. Neither of them are on call. They get to fall asleep together without the fear of being yanked away. It's only when their bodies begin to cool that Robby grunts. Jack pulls away, feeling as though he's tearing their skin apart, and Robby huffs and tries to drag him back in.

"Gimme a sec, will you?" Jack asks, laughing. Robby settles for coming up on his elbows so he can watch him. He admires him physically, yes—still to this day thinks that he should bounce a quarter off of his ass—but there is so much more right beneath the surface that has been churned up. Robby had long ago rearranged his furniture in the entire apartment so that there never had to be a moment when Jack wouldn't have something to support himself on, but Jack only needs to hop a few steps before he snags a towel, then throws it back to the bed. "No, don't touch it."

Robby flops back down. "I'm cold," he complains.

"And I'll take care of it, you big baby." Jack climbs back into bed. He drags the towel over and begins to mop up the mess on Robby's belly. With the utmost care, he wipes their cocks clean. There is a sense of wonder welling up within Robby as he studies Jack's delicate eyelashes, the certain way he purses his lips when he's concentrating. He's so fucking handsome. And Robby is the only one who has him in his bed.

Jack takes a deep breath, pauses, then sighs it all out in a rush.

"What?" Robby touches his face. "What's up?"

"Nothing, it just..." Jack meets his gaze. With another huff, he jerks his head down and redoubles his cleaning efforts on his own body. "My therapist and I have been working on me actually asking for things that I want."

"Oh?"

"Mm. Apparently it's not healthy to be constantly trying to give other people what they need and ignoring myself, or some shit." He clears his throat. After he tosses the towel aside, he rests a hand over Robby's heart once again. "So...here goes, I guess."

Robby blinks up at him. Something is coming. Something that's making his body lighter with hope.

Jack looks at him one more time. "Do you wanna maybe go grab a bite to eat sometime?"

As though a switch has been flipped, Robby begins to smile and finds that he can't stop. "What, like a..."

"Like a fucking date, yeah." Though Jack seems to try and play at being dismissive, the way he rubs the blanket between his fingers puts a spotlight on his nerves.

Things can't stay like this. It is an inescapable fact that they would hit this fork in the road where they have to decide whether they split ways or if they hold hands and journey into the unknown together. A week ago, Robby would've said he was taking the solo path. Hell, maybe even a day ago. But he can't lie to himself anymore. He wants this and he wants it bad. Wants to see what it'll feel like when he's put his heart back in working order and can discern what it's like to fall in love all over again.

Robby drags him down for a quick kiss. "Take me out tomorrow night."

Jack's brows shoot up. "Really?" he asks breathlessly. "You're, you're not shitting me or anything, like, you're saying that because you mean it. Right?"

"Yes, Jack, I mean it," Robby murmurs back patiently, beaming.

Jack opens his mouth. Closes it. Rubs the back of his neck. "Wow. I wasn't expecting it to be that easy."

"Oh, it won't be, trust me. I expect five-star dining, pampering."

Jack nods thoughtfully. "Well, consider it done."

Robby starts to sit up. "Hey, that part, I was kidding about."

"Too late." Jack shoves him back down, then drapes his body over Robby's like a weighted blanket. "I was gonna do that anyway," he drawls, lips quirking.

"Do I get to pamper you?" The moment the words are out, Jack turns his head, and Robby chuckles as he bobs his head, chasing him, forcing him to look him in the eye. Let Jack see how it feels.

Jack heaves a beleaguered sigh. "...yeah, okay, sure, I guess."

Without another word, Robby grabs the nape of his neck and begins massaging the tired muscles.

A particularly sinful moan escapes Jack. He leans into his touch like a cat. "Shit. Fuck, that's good."

"Yeah, well, get used to it," Robby murmurs, still grinning. He's an emergency specialist. He knows more than just about anyone how uncertain the future can be. But right now he is thunderously, incandescently happy, filled to the brim with sunshine, and he swears to himself that he won't let it go that easily. Not this time.

[selunesfavouriteprincess]

you could probably argue it’s just for gameplay purposes but the fact that Clea can understand very clearly what Alicia trying to say even when she can’t physically speak does rotate in my mind permanently