#I really wanted to draw your deign !!

[unproduciblesmackdown]

billions(tm): it's incredible how we just provide a little snippet of material designed to be "guy we all want to push down the stairs immediately somehow" and through this amazing acting alchemy it becomes gold. electric. magnificent. we can't get enough so we will just keep writing this loser character and the actor will somehow keep bringing the dazzling transmutation through his ability

actor will roland: [is aware autistic people are real]

[dazzlerdrawer]

🍒  @iyote​ ‘s Kakyoin kitty design!  🍒

[annwrites]

—midnight oil

i want a fire & a steady man. come on, show me if your love can. write my name in crimson red. cross my heart & back again. i want a kingdom where my love can stand. come on, show me if your love can. we're burning that midnight oil. — dark!jacaerys x servant!reader ; ✶:·•

↳ read more

You tug against the soft black and red velvet ropes which bind your limbs to his bed, leaving you entirely at his disposal to do with as he wishes—as he desires.

He presses down with his palm on your lower stomach, his long, slender fingers arching upward, gently massaging that ledge inside of you before plunging away once more—mercilessly.

Dark curls fall over his warm brown eyes, which glance up to your flushed face, stricken with tears due to your sexual frustrations by his hand...among other parts of himself. He admires your soft feminine form, illuminated only by flickering candlelight.

He leans down, giving your swollen red clit a quick swipe of his speared tongue and your back arches as you quietly sob.

"Please, Jace...."

He chuckles. "A dragon's heat, I think, is very little, as compared to your own, my love."

You curl your toes, that wanton feeling building in your lower belly, fire racing through your veins at his measured touches.

Thunder booms overhead, reverberating through you, bringing you closer, rain pelting against the glass windows.

Somewhere, a dragon roars a familiar call.

He groans, his erect cock twitching between his legs as he sees solely to your own pleasure, deigning that his shall wait until you've reached that marvelous peak.

You bite your lip, unable to contain yourself any longer as you begin to draw in uneven, shallow breathes, panting in desperation.

"Jace... Ja—Jace, I—"

He raises a brow, continuing his ministrations. "Close are we, darling?"

You nod fervently. "Y—yes, My Prince."

He quickens his speed, then, setting a punishing pace, making you all the more sore between your trembling legs.

"Oh, gods," you whisper, breathless. "I—I can't—"

He hums. "But you must. Because I want you to," he states with a gentle shrug.

His eyes meet your own. "Māzigon."

For many moons, Jacaerys has been gradually teaching you High Valyrian. And this one word you know better than almost all the rest: come. And you obey, ever his faithful servant.

Liquid shoots out of your hot cunt which squeezes and contracts around his slick digits, soaking the dark silk sheets your naked body lies upon as you cry out his name over and over again.

"Jace, Jace, oh gods, Jace!" You say between pleased squeals of delight.

Eventually, his movements slow, his bed and bare lap covered in your arousal.

He smirks, crawling atop you, not nearly done. "Something meant to quench a fire only serves to stoke mine own," he mutters, sheathing his throbbing member inside of you and crushing his lips to yours.

the daughter of a chambermaid, you have resided upon dragonstone all your life. playing on the beaches, in the water, & exploring hidden caves & caverns are the means by which you entertain yourself.

once you grow into a young woman, however, you are put to work, same as the rest.

one of the rooms which is made your responsibility? prince jacaerys'. this fact does not change even after he & his family's arrival to the island.

rather quickly, he takes notice of & a subsequent liking to you, & the two of you become fast friends as you show him your secret places around & near & beneath the castle. he seems very sweet, if not shy & a bit unsure of himself. but once the dance begins, the boy quickly grows into a man.

and thus develops a man's appetites, which only one comely young maid may satiate...

headcanons:

gets off on spoiling reader. spends disgust amounts of coin on her: purchasing her new gowns, lovely undergarments, jewels, slippers, etc. really whatever her heart desires, even if she insists it's all too much (it gets him hard seeing her flustered)!

dominant as hell in the bedroom. loves tying her up & teasing her until she's a dripping mess.

likes to dine with her—prefers sharing all his meals, when able, with her. adores feeding her fresh fruit from his own hand.

'jokes' about wedding her.

trusts her implicitly.

she's terrified the first time he takes her to meet vermax, but the dragon, too, likes her instantly. jace tells her the creatures share a deep bond w/ their riders & are capable of feeling as they do.

secret sex in secret beach caves! with her dress up around her waist as he grips reader's thighs—keeping her legs wrapped round his waist as he pounds away inside of her.

moontea for days.

just loves & adores her like no other.

def purchases her ben-wa balls at some point. she's confused when she opens the small box held within his hands. "what do they do?" he smirks, shrugging. "they're for...pleasure." "o—oh." "will you lift up your skirts?" she does & he gets on one knee, placing one in his mouth, quickly wetting & warming it for her before he licks her between her legs a few times, then easing it in. "how does that feel?" "a bit cool...but good. i...i like it." he nods, repeating the action with the other. he then orders her to keep them in all day until he commands otherwise.

[brigdh]

I want to talk about Izzy's rant to Ed in episode 10, the one that brings out the Kraken. I've seen a lot of different descriptions of what is going on in this scene – death threat, homophobic slurs, etc – and I don't think either of those are what's actually what's happening.

Let's look at it closely, line by line, and the way Ed reacts, from the very beginning of the scene.

Ed: Well, feels nice to tidy up a little. Can't believe I was living like this. Can you, Iz? Izzy? Izzy: I'm going to speak plainly. Ed: Wonderful. You know we share our thoughts on this ship.

Izzy, cont: This, whatever it is that you've become... is a fate worse than death.

Okay. So there we've got what some have interpreted as a death threat. But does Ed seem threatened? He's startled, certainly, put on his back foot – literally – but he doesn't look afraid or alarmed to me. He draws in a slow breath, assessing the situation, but overall seems more confused than frightened.

In fact he laughs it off with his next line:

Izzy then escalates the level of aggression in the conversation:

But Ed, again, looks more confused than anything. Check out that furrowed brow, that head tilt! This is a man going "what is your deal?", not a man thinking "uh-oh, you might kill me!".

Extremely noticeably, even when Izzy storms right up into his face, Ed holds steady. He doesn't run, doesn't lean back, doesn't hunch his shoulders or drop eye contact – there is no vulnerability or defensiveness in Ed's body language at all. Ed is in supreme control of this confrontation – look at the slow way he deigns to turn back to the paper Izzy's holding! As though he's making the point that he chooses when to turn, not Izzy:

Then we have the "homophobic slur". But watch closely:

Ed does not react to "namby-pamby", "silk gown", or "pining" at all. He doesn't even blink. He barely seems like he's hearing Izzy. His entire attention is on the picture.

Ed's body language and behavior changes at one word and one word only, and that is "boyfriend". As soon as Izzy says it, Ed's furious:

(It's even easier to notice when you actually watch the scene instead of using gifs, because Izzy really draws out 'piiiiiiining', putting a lot of time between the first half of the sentence and 'boyfriend'.)

Why is the use of the word 'boyfriend' so important?

Well, what has Ed been doing all episode? He's been crying in a blanket fort and singing sad songs, yes, but he's been keeping a careful level of mystique about why he's doing it. Ed often uses distanced circumlocutions instead of directly acknowledging his emotions, but he's doing it in this episode even more so than usual:

Here are the lyrics to his song:

(Version one, with Lucius) Hanging on By a thread Hanging on Shouldn't let go If I let go, all will fall Fingers bleeding down to the bone now Can't let go Nothing makes sense Hold on Hold on Hold... on

(Version two, performed for the whole crew) Just let go Make yourself let go Make it go away Away, away today Life's a hard sad death And then you're Deaaad

Notice something? There is no mention of Stede, or love, or break-ups, or abandonments, or relationships in general. All Ed discusses is a vague life-sucks attitude, which could apply to basically anyone under any circumstances. He seems pretty okay with people knowing that Blackbeard is having some sort of weird emotional breakdown as long as he convinces himself that no one knows it's specifically from having his heart broken

This is true of everything Ed says and does for this entire episode. He never once even mentions Stede's name, unless "Farewell, Bonnet's playthings" at the very end counts. The only thing Ed openly admits to feeling bad about is a fictional character who's having a hard time "holding on" (holding on to what? he never says). There are no allusions to heartbreak or romance anywhere in his dialogue.

Now, Ed's not stupid. I'm sure he knows Izzy and Lucius and the rest of the crew can connect the dots and realize that something bad happened with Stede, even if Ed doesn't fill them in on the details. But Ed is also traumatized, and has a whole host of coping mechanisms set up to help him avoiding thinking about things that he doesn't want to think about. If he's not a murderer because "technically the fire killed those guys", then no one knows he's heartbroken because technically he hasn't acknowledged it.

Until Izzy says the word 'boyfriend'. Suddenly the secret is out, and Ed can't handle it. Izzy knows his weakness. That's why this word effects Ed more than anything else Izzy says in the whole scene.

At the end of the confrontation, he hears the crew calling for another song. Look at Ed here. He looks as haunted, as disturbed, in this moment as he does at any point in Izzy's rant.

This is an important part of the scene, not just a closing note. Because if Izzy (the Caribbean's most emotionally constipated man) can see through him, obviously the whole crew can too.

Obviously Lucius – who advised Ed on his and Stede's relationship, who played along with Ed's 'fictional character' claim, who wrote down Ed's lyrics – can do so most of all.

There's a direct emotional logic to Ed killing Lucius because he had a fight with Izzy, and it doesn't involve Ed having been threatened or hate crime'd at all. Ed doesn't deal well with his own feelings (from Stede), so he chooses to become Blackbeard/the Kraken and gets rid of all the witnesses who saw otherwise.

[shalomniscient]

ARCHIVIST’S RECORDS: FAFNIR [HSR], 001

cw. suggestive at the end

NOTE: This record involves @spirit-lanterns’s amazing HSR Casino AU that I highly recommend checking out because 1) it’s amazing and 2) for additional context.

“You’re tense.”

At the sound of that low, dulcet voice, the Boss only sighs. She could recognise that insufferable tone anywhere. She takes a drag from her pipe and slowly exhales, not bothering to turn around and keeping her eyes fixed on the pit. Her bunnies flit about, doing everything from entertaining the gamblers to mixing drinks.

Her Golden Bunny is, of course, nowhere to be seen.

“What do you want, Fafnir?”

The dragoness laughs, a rumble deep in her throat. The Boss hears her tail swish over the carpeted floor as Fafnir moves to stand next to her. The other woman’s hands are clasped behind her back, her posture ramrod straight, yet at the same time exuding a calm, nonchalant air.

“Must I want something to speak to you?”

“You wouldn’t save a drowning person unless you got paid.”

Fafnir hums at that. “You and a stranger are vastly different in value, my dear.”

“Of course,” the Boss says dryly. “Should I consider myself lucky, then?”

“Visit Gniteheath and find out,” Fafnir offers in return, a grin more teeth than anything pulling at her lips. “Who knows, you might be the one to break the bank.”

The Boss snorts at that. “You forget that I own a casino as well. I don’t harbor such delusions even for my own establishment—much less yours.”

Fafnir’s grin widens, sharp and dangerous. “Accusing me of rigging my machines? My, my, something really has gotten under your skin.”

She shrugs, not deigning the dragoness’s prodding with an answer, but the woman presses on. Gloved fingers tap rhythmically on the railing they both lean on. She can feel Fafnir’s golden eyes boring into the side of her head, as if trying to discern what was running through her mind.

Then, she snaps her fingers, tail swishing eagerly. “Oh, I know. Your little bunny left you high and dry, didn’t she?”

The Boss has an excellent poker face, but if Fafnir is anything, she is experienced. The dragoness has centuries over everyone in this casino, and with those years comes a notoriously sharp eye. Fafnir laughs like a hissing snake, moving to lean with her back against the railing, so that she can meet the Boss’s eyes. And so she notices when they narrow almost imperceptibly, which only fuels her glee.

“Oh, how tragic,” the dragoness coos, although it is more of a sneer. “Which one was it today? The little runt, or the demoness?”

It was Firefly, but the Boss wasn’t about to admit that. Instead she takes another drag from her pipe, and exhales the smoke right in Fafnir’s face. The other woman allows it to pass right over her, not flinching at all.

“If that was your attempt at a smokescreen, consider me disappointed,” she drawls.

“It wasn’t,” the Boss says coolly. “But it did shut that mouth of yours for a few, blissful seconds.”

The dragoness faux pouts, placing a hand on her chest as if she’s hurt. “You wound me, my dear.”

“You can take it. And if you can’t, you’ll just come back again in a few years.”

“Ah, the joys of reincarnation,” Fafnir snickers. For the next few moments, they stand in silence together. Fafnir looks over her shoulder at the pit, and the Boss takes the oppurtunity to study the other woman.

If she had to choose a single word to describe the dragoness, it would be domineering. Ridiculously tall, with broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist and a deceptively defined body beneath that form-fitting tailored suit of hers, it is evident that Fafnir draws attention in any room she walks in. Paired with that charming smile and warm, deep voice, it is no wonder that Gnitaheath has gained the reputation it has.

The Boss takes another drag of her pipe, but to her dismay, no smoke fills her lungs. It seems that in the time she’d spent idling, the embers in the bowl had died out. With a sigh, she fishes in her sleeve for a lighter—only to realise she left in in her office.

Perhaps noting her chagrin, Fafnir looks to her and quirks a brow. “Need a light?”

“I didn’t consider you the type to carry one with you,” the Boss replies, cocking her head. Fafnir rolls her eyes, and steps closer.

“I do not,” she confirms, but leans in nonetheless and cups her hand over the bowl of the pipe. Up close like this, the Boss can see every fine detail of the dragoness’s face—from the small smattering of freckle-like scales along the ridge of her cheekbones, to the way her dark hair falls almost perfectly to frame her eyes, the corners ever so slightly lined with crow’s feet. Eyes like pools of molten gold, speckled with lighter flecks.

Close up like this, the Boss might even consider the dragoness handsome.

Then, Fafnir breathes out, the column of her throat glowing like hot coals. Warm breath cascades over the bowl, warm enough that the fine tobacco ignites once more. With her job done, Fafnir pulls back, and the Boss takes a drag, letting the smoke filling her lungs distract from the scent of Fafnir’s cologne lingering in the space between them.

She blows out the smoke, again, but this time it is a smokescreen—if only to hide the dusting pink across her cheeks.

“Better?” the dragoness drawls, letting the smoke pass as she did before. The Boss only hums approvingly.

“When do you leave?” the Boss asks, her tone casual, non-comittal. Fafnir blinks, momentarily surprised by the question, and her tail flicks against the carpet, almost petulantly.

“So quick to be rid of me?”

The Boss pushes herself off the railing and shakes her head. “I have a vintage in my office. If you are staying, it may be good for, hm... relaxing.”

“Oh?” Fafnir says, a sly grin creeping onto her features as she picks up on the implication immediately. “Is that an invitation?”

“What will you do if it is?”

Fafnir’s eyes go half-lidded, and a large, gloved hand finds purchase on the Boss’s hip. “Why, I’d graciously accept, of course.”

Later, if any of the bunnies pass by the Boss’s office and hear rattling furniture accompanied by low grunts and groans, they do not say anything.

[porcupine-girl]

I had the weirdest possible Check Please dream.

Ngozi was going to do another volume, and we were all excited because Shippy and Taylor were finally going to get together.

Who tf are Shippy and Taylor you might ask?

Shippy, I immediately realized upon waking up, is Tater, but in this dream world somehow he got a different nickname and I don’t even know how. Idk if my brain was just like “he’s part of this popular ship and I’m lazy” or “Tater and Taylor would sound too cutesy and I really want this girl to be named Taylor for some reason” or what.

Taylor was not Vanessa with a different name. She had spiky lavender hair that looked a bit like this animal crossing hairdo:

But longer, like if it were lying flat it’d be about chin length, and of course in Ngozi’s drawing style.

I didn’t find out much more bc I woke up due to my husband getting up to get ready for work, but somehow when I got back to sleep, for once my brain deigned to continue my dream from before. It is apparently very invested in Shippy/Taylor (although after I woke up and realized Shippy was Tater my brain went back and forth between the two names).

So in the continuation, I learned that Taylor was already dating another member of the Falconers (I’m not sure I ever got his name), but he was very controlling and emotionally abusive and everyone on the team was hoping she’d leave him and kind of shunning the boyfriend socially due to his behavior.

Tater ran into her in like… a mall food court sort of location? And somehow their conversation led to him confessing his feelings but saying that it was fine if she didn’t want to be with him, just begging her to leave the controlling guy and saying he’d help her however he could just as her friend. She was clearly not quite ready to leave yet, but then her boyfriend called and when she said oh I’m at the mall and I ran into Tater so we were just hanging out he got really pissed that she was hanging out with another guy (in a totally public location, and being honest about it) without him and demanded she come home right away. And when she hung up you could see that having that conversation right after the conversation with Tater was kind of making her realize that she really did need to get out of it.

Tater saw that too and jumped on it, like “If you don’t want me to help I’ll call Jack and Bitty (which my brain then corrected to Zimmboni and Little B, it was like my brain was like helloooo this is Tater unlike you Ngozi would write him correctly) right now and they will come help you get your stuff, you can stay in their guest room, they would love to help.” And she was kind of mortified by this, like oh god does the entire team know??? And he was like, well. Yeah. Kinda. Everyone’s rooting for you to leave him, that’s why nobody talks to him or hangs out with him outside practice, we all know how awful he is. And she was like oh god, great, everyone knows how stupid I am for staying with a guy like him, but Tater was like no no no everyone knows how hard it is to leave that kind of thing but we all know you’re strong enough to do it as soon as you decide you’re ready.

And that was about as far as I got in the Shippy/Taylor saga before I woke up for good. I can only assume Jack and Bitty did come get her and let her stay with them, and eventually once she was over the nasty breakup she got together with Tater.

What’s really funny was that when I went to start writing this post I couldn’t remember her name, only that it started with a T and was like 6-ish letters long. I started the post calling her Tricia and was like no that’s not right, so I googled girl names that start with T and was just hoping that if I read enough lists of names something would click and maybe I’d recognize it if I saw it. Then I opened the first list and the very first name was Taylor and I was like OH RIGHT MY BRAIN NAMED HER AFTER TAYLOR FUCKING SWIFT HOW DID I FORGET THAT??

[st-danger]

saint. please. this video. sub swiss with the biggest heart eyes for mean top rain, he'd do a n y t h i n g for that ghoul, on his knees just from the tone in rain's voice

The first connection of Rain's hand to his cheek makes him gasp. The second slap, harder than before, makes him moan. He stares up at Rain from his knees, which will be stiff and sore by the time Rain deigns to allow him up. Looks into indifferent eyes and a nasty smirk, glittering behind curly strands of hair that fall into his face.

"Can't help yourself, can you." Not a question.

"You're gorgeous," Swiss says, reverent, and braces himself for another slap when Rain reaches forward. This time, however, it comes to rest gentle on his face, and then Rain's shoving long fingers between his lips, petting at his tongue. Swiss throbs.

"You're going to suck me off, right here," Rain tells him, and immediately Swiss is reaching for his belt buckle, so eager to please. He really can't help himself; Rain gets under his skin like no one else, makes him want to fall at his feet and bare his neck like a sacrifice. He pulls Rain's cock out, only half hard still, and begins stroking him, coaxing him hard. Unable to use his mouth yet as Rain still has his fingers inside of it.

"You're slutty," Rain announces. "Not like Dew. He just wants to get his dick wet. You, though..." He pauses to draw a long, pleasured breath. "You get weak." He pulls his fingers from Swiss's mouth, wet with saliva, and wipes off directly on Swiss's face.

"Want you so much," Swiss agrees.

"What's it like, having this little self-control? Does anyone else know?" Then, mean, "Should we tell them how your little cock gets fat for me and all I have to do is relax and enjoy it?"

"Anything you want," Swiss says, and means it. Means it with every fiber of his being, down to the marrow of his bones.

"I'm gonna fuck your mouth," Rain says, and grabs a nasty fistful of Swiss's hair and tightens until he pulls a hurt, sad sound from his lungs, pulls his head forward and grinds his cock right against Swiss's face. "Open up. Hands behind your back."

Swiss is fine with cruelty, because nothing soothes the teasing like feeling the warm ropes of cum streak his face after.

[scarlettjohanssons-mistress]

idk if requests are open but i was wondering if you could do a fanfic about lady lesso having a secret family

Family

Warnings: PURE fluff

Word count: 1.9 K

Pairing: Lady Lesso x Fem!Reader

Prompt: Leonora deserves a little love.

Requests: OPEN

[Main masterlist] [Charlize Theron characters masterlist]

It was known that evil could never have a happy ending.

At least, that is what has been taught for centuries and centuries, from generation to generation. It was unheard of to think that some villain, from any story, would return to a nice cabin with his family, after trying to poison a princess.

Any 'Ever' student could have that same thought about anyone belonging to the 'Never' school, incapable of love. And if the name of the dean of evil slipped into the conversation, the answer was an obvious and resounding NO.

While any human being with two eyes and a few centimeters of a brain could confirm that Lady Lesso is an extremely beautiful woman, they could also classify her as someone 'terrifying'; considering anyone brave who could spend more than five minutes with her, without being scared.

——————————————————————————— 

The weekend was slowly approaching, which made the redheaded woman extremely excited. She was already sick of her incompetent students, of Dovey's constant complaining, of the thousands upon thousands of papers waiting in her office to be reviewed, causing excruciating headaches.

Everything about to end…

Until Emma reached her office, opening the door a little and sticking her head out.

"Leonora?"

"What do you want?" the woman asked without taking her eyes off the exam in front of her. Anastasia, an incompetent who would fail her class for the second time.

“Clarissa requested your presence at the meeting”

The dean's eyes rolled wearily, making her disappointment known.

"Really? Why do you need my presence with… 30 minutes to go before the end of school hours?"

"I don't know, she didn't give me an explanation…"

Before Emma could begin to ramble, Lesso abruptly stood up from her chair and began to pace, hitting the ground next to Emma with her cane, causing the smaller woman to jump.

Quickly, Leonora walked to the room where the meeting was taking place, opening the doors violently, making her arrival known.

"Oh, Lesso," Dovey interrupted, "it's good that you're here."

Leonora didn't even deign to answer, she simply sat in her usual chair and with the help of her magic, materialized a notebook, to scribble and avoid getting bored.

It took her a few minutes to realize that she had brought into the meeting room the notebook she used for her most private matters. Full of vibrant colors and children's drawings.

With a quick movement, and with the eyes of some of her colleagues glued to the notebook, Leonora opened it, hiding the cover and beginning to draw, not listening to Dovey's chatter.

The meeting lasted forever, almost 3 hours after their usual time to leave; but when Dovey finally called the meeting to a close, Leonora was among the first to rise from her seat, until Dovey's voice reached her ears.

"Actually, Lesso, I need to talk to you."

With a great grunt, Leonora watched as her companions left the room, to be left alone with Dovey.

"What do you want?" asked Leonora tiredly

"Relax, I don't want to entertain you" Dovey turned her back on the redhead to take a small basket full of sweets and baked goods "I remembered that last week was Y/N's birthday, so I thought I'd give she her favorite desserts"

The basket reached Leonora's hands, who awkwardly gave a grimace, which she tried to pass off as a smile.

"Thanks suppose. I'll give it to her"

"All right. So… see you on Monday”

"See you on Monday" and just as the redhead walked back to the exit, Dovey's voice interrupted her again.

"By the way, tell Rose she did a good job." The brunette pointed at Leonora's notebook with her eyes, drawing a grunt from the redhead.

"Whatever"

——————————————————————————— 

When Leonora had finally reached her house, she was surprised to find all the lights on; Normally, when she arrived at this time, the only light that was on was the one in the living room, where Y/N was reading a book.

Wearily she opened the door and stepped inside, letting the homey warmth and the smell of the oven reach her face.

The redhead didn't even have to make her arrival home known, to hear those little footsteps on the wood.

"Mom!"

Little Rose ran down the stairs, laughing, until she reached the open arms of the redhead, who quickly picked her up, thanking everyone for how small the girl was.

"Hello little monster"

From the back of the kitchen, the Dean's green eyes collided with Y/N's, causing the latter to show a beautiful smile, seeing the two girls together.

"You're late" Y/N joked

"Go to your room, beast, mommy and I have to talk"

The little girl quickly climbed back up, making the redheaded woman walk until her back was to her wife and hugging her hips.

“Blame it on Dovey” Y/N laughed as she took the food out of the oven “I'm serious Y/N, if I hear another 'Ever' complain again, I'm going to have to cut my ears off.”

“Relax, the good thing is that you are home now, and dinner is ready. Go call Rose, and set the table."

——————————————————————————— 

Dinner was one of Leonora's favorite moments. The feeling of warmth, the delicious food, Y/N's voice along with Rose's giggles and games made her cold heart feel what the warmth of a true home is.

“Today I saw my friend Erick”

Until that wretch's name left Rose's little lips.

The story was very long and very exhausting to tell, but to summarize. Y/N had graduated as a great 'Ever', giving her first kiss to a handsome and gallant prince named Erick. As a good 'Ever', it only took her a few months to commit to the man. But when the man found out that a baby was on the way, he didn't hesitate for a second to abandon the woman with the baby.

Leonora met her almost two years later, while she was on an emergency trip through a town near the school.

She doesn't even remember what made her fall: Y/N's shy look or little baby Rose's babbling.

How had the jerk come to contact his women? Leonora had no idea, but she tried not to get into the subject. She just enjoyed the little girl.

"Really? And did you have a good time?" asked the redhead, seeing how everyone finished dinner, so she got up and took the dishes to wash them.

"Yes. But… I missed you, mom. I like hanging out with him, but I miss when you and I go out to play."

Yes, Leonora could confirm that Rose was one of the few people who could make her believe that she still has a heart.

"Oh honey" Y/N interrupted her by kissing the girl's head "the good thing is that mom is going on vacation, and they can go out to the field every day, to play"

"Don't forget Lily" commented the redhead causing both women to laugh

"Sure, let's not forget Lily"

The baby's cry began to sound, warning that he had woken up.

“Talking about the queen of Rome”

"Come Rose, let's go for her"

——————————————————————————— 

"Are you ready to sleep?" Leonora asked as she tucked in the little girl, who was already beginning to yawn and rub her eyes.

"Yep"

"You stayed up very late today, little naughty" the redhead stroked her hair, trying to make her fall asleep even faster.

"I told mommy I wanted to wait for you"

"I know baby, thanks for waiting for me" the older woman planted a kiss on the girl's forehead.

"I love you so much mom"

"I love you too"

"Tell Lily and Mommy I love them too."

"They love you too, monster"

The girl quickly fell asleep, for which Leonora got up leaving the room, closing the door, to enter her own room, finding her wife and the little baby playing on the bed.

"You don't seem like she want to fall asleep anytime soon, do you?"

"She just wanted to see her mom"

Small emerald eyes met those of the taller woman, eliciting little squeals from the baby.

"Hello, little fairy"

Admitting that little Lily had come into this world thanks to Dovey's kindness and care (and magic), it was very difficult for the redhead to show her gratitude, so she decided that calling the baby 'fairy' was more than enough.

Out of the corner of her eye, the redhead could see how her wife was beginning to yawn, already very tired, and apparently, baby Lily had enough energy to keep her awake for a few more hours.

"My love, go to sleep, I'll take care of Lily" the woman murmured as she snatched the girl from her arms.

"No, I can…"

Leonora interrupted her wife's protests by planting a kiss on her lips and on her nose.

"Honey, you've already done a lot here, let me take care of my girls."

The woman soon fell asleep, so it was Leonora's job to play with the little girl to tire her out.

"Hey, beast, you have to shut your mouth, you're going to wake up mommy and your little sister"

The girl ignored it and tried again to stick her finger in her mother's nose, while she burst out laughing.

As much as she wanted to deny it, her heart vibrated every time she heard her youngest daughter's little laughs, as well as her oldest daughter's voice, and without a doubt, Y/N's kisses only put the garland on the cake.

Some time later, the baby was finally able to fall asleep, so the redhead quickly tucked the girl into her little crib and lay down on her own bed, but in the process, she woke up Y/N.

"Hmm, are the girls asleep yet?"

"Yes, sorry for waking you up"

"Don't worry, let's go to sleep"

A silence settled in the room, but still, Y/N could tell that her wife wasn't asleep.

"Leo, what's up?"

"Do you think… that they hate me?"

"What?"

"Girls, do you think they'll hate me when they find out I'm the dean of evil?"

Y/N got up so he could look at her wife's glassy eyes.

“My love, of course they won't hate you, you're their mother” Y/N began to caress Leonora's face, to keep her eyes from leaving her “You're their favorite person in the world, they love you. We love you, we know that you are not a bad woman. Even if you don't believe it yourself, we know you have a heart; that you feel, that you deserve affection, love. Nobody is completely good or bad, you are not black, nor am I white, we are both gray scales, and they will be able to see that "

The redhead gave her wife a smile and a kiss on the chin

"You know, I'm starting to think that I married you because you always know what to say."

Y/N started laughing as she planted kisses all over her wife's face.

"Admit it, you married me because you love me"

Both women lay back down, ready to go to sleep. Leonora embracing her wife's body from behind, planting kisses on the woman's bare shoulders.

"I love them, so much" confessed the redhead already half asleep

“Your family loves you twice as much”

Because it was known that evil could never have a happy ending.

But, no one is completely good, nor completely bad, and despite that, we all deserve a little love.

Leonora deserves a little love.

Note:

I'm starting to believe that I LOVE writing about Lady Lesso. Thank you for submitting this request.

I hope you enjoy it

I appreciate the reblogs, the likes and the comments

taglist: @littlebitchsposts // @xxsekhmet

message me or send an ask to be added to my taglist!

[onejellyfishplease]

do you wanna know the origins if Open your shell? and the idea of Donnie turning into a beetle?

well too bad im gonna tell you!

basically i had been drawing the turtles as dragons (as u do) and my design for Donnie took inspiration from beetles, cause i wanted his wings to look unique and interesting. i also wanted him to still be able to store stuff on top on his wings (a battleshell-esque thing attached to the elytra) which i was taking some inspiration from decorator crabs to be honest. and i thought there was gonna be more to this story but there really isnt. the idea of shell -> beetle wings just stuck with me until i made a fic around it

so yeah! the first concept drawing of beetle donnie was actually just me drawing donnie as a dragon!

this is the part where i would show u some old art of dragon donnie, but unfortunately, i couldnt fond any! i gad lost a lot of my old art and the paper doodles are strewn about somewhere :/

so i did some redrawing based on what i could remember!

he also had four arms (for extra tinkering) and a prehensile tail!

i also redid the deign for leo because it was also really good

hes so sharp :] also the feathers on his neck are a bright blue. he takes a lot of pride in them.

[northern-polaris]

Memento Mori

hey so I know its been the better part of a year since I wrote any fic stuffs but I managed to finally crawl out of my writing funk long enough to make this thingy. I was supportively bullied into posting this so blame a CERTAIN SOMEONE(THEY KNOW WHO THEY ARE): 

Summary: Tamlin may be the only living thing in the ruins of the manor, but he is certainly not alone.

“See, it’s shit like this,” Andras seemed to have gestured to the carnage that surrounded them both. The debris and broken remnants of the once pristine room laid scattered across the fractured marble floor, “that makes people have trouble warming up to you.”

Tamlin didn’t deign him with a response, not bothering to look up from the bloody deer carcass he was sluggishly gnawing on.

Andras continued, “I’m pretty sure there’s these things called plates, y’know?”

Silence stretched on save for the wet sounds of slurping and crunching.

“How about silverware, hmm?”

Still nothing.

“At least a napkin, no?”

A loud swallow echoed throughout the remains of a chamber, followed by more chewing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tamlin saw movement drawing near. The other was meandering closer to him, seemingly exasperated with the lack of response or reaction.

“I ought to tell ya’, Tim-tam,” the old nickname sat comfortable on Andras’ tongue. “This is really fuckin’ hard to watch.”

Tamlin tried to center all his focus on the entrails and innards of the doe, how the flesh, blood, and bone slid down this throat and gave reprieve from the agonizing hunger. He carefully did not think about the fawn that had been accompanying its mother before she ended up on this cold, dirty floor.

“Hey, Tam,” There was a strange hesitancy in his voice that wasn’t there before in the other visits. “Do you want me to leave you alone?” Tamlin finally closed his maw, blood slowly leaking down his stained chin. The rhythmic dripping was the only thing that dared to break the silence. Lifting his head by a fraction, he deliberately kept his eyes glued to where the floor met the wall across from him; away from the other presence that occupied the room.

Finally, Tamlin spoke, “No.” His voice was scratchy and gruff from disuse. Another long period of nothingness persisted before Andras crept closer.

His friend charged the air with a huff of amusement. “Good.” he breathed out. Andras crawled even closer, but Tamlin kept his gaze glued away–he couldn’t bear to look.

Andras was right in front of him now. No, No–don’t look tear your eyes away don’t look it hurts please–

A bloody, meaty thing resembling a hand gently touched his chin and lifted Tamlin’s head upwards.

One eye a vibrant yellow, the other a gaping hole occupied by an arrow.

A face, body, corpse devoid of skin.

Andras tilted his head with a chuckle. “I wasn’t plannin’ on going anywhere anyways.”

Tamlin felt the other's hot breath dust his face as the phantom leaned in.

A giggle.

“Us ghosts have to stick together, right?” 

[al-astakbar]

Thrawn + Spanking?👀🫶

Hcs or wtv your feeling! I love your writing!

> title ☆ Commander's Discretion

> summary ☆ Grand Admiral Thrawn provides correction.

> pairing ☆  Thrawn x reader ☆ word count [2.8k] ☆ warnings ☆ spanking; vaginal fingering; D/s elements; fraternization; power dynamics; power imbalance

> posted on ao3

Disciplining you is beneath him. You both know it. The wide gulf between your ranks, the time it takes out of his very busy, very important schedule. The application of the punishment itself. 

Why should a Grand Admiral waste his time administering correction personally to one out of the thousands aboard his ship? Why should he rouse himself from his chair, interrupt his meditations? Why should he exert himself?

He asks you each of these questions, from time to time. 

You never really have an answer for him. But each of you need this, in your own way. For Thrawn it’s a diversion. A delicate game of power and control, but a diversion all the same. For you…

“In this room, we will address the matters of your misconduct, and resulting discipline.” 

It takes you a long time to understand what you want. He always makes you ask for it. Makes you say exactly why you’ve come to his office at 22:30 when the ship is dark. You swallow hard. Don’t know what to say or how to say it. You know how it feels, you know the want, the deep, essential need to be at his mercy, to submit to his touch, but it is somehow more than that. And you need him to guide you to it. 

And so, you’ll be in his office, wearing your pt uniform, a t-shirt and shorts, and waiting for him to look up from his desk and acknowledge you. It takes all of your concentration not to fidget. His aloofness, his disregard, always puts you on edge. This could be the instance he decides you’re no longer worthy of his time.

When he does deign to notice you, finally, greeting you by your first name, with a quiet ‘good evening’-- your heart skips. 

You respond in kind, good evening sir, with your eyes cast down respectfully, though you ache to look at him directly. Only glimpses from beneath your lashes. That had taken time for you to learn. If submission is all he wants, you wonder sometimes why he still tolerates your imperfections. But eye-rolling and pouting have only ever earned you harsher treatment. He’s never sent you away untouched.

He stands, coming around from his desk, his gaze impassive. He likes to see you squirm. Drawing out the anticipation and uncertainty is part of the game. There is a formality to it. 

“Here, you will never speak unless spoken to.”

“Tell me why you’re here.” His voice is soft, but he allows no equivocation.

Once you get the words out-- for your attentions, sir-- he brings his white-gloved hands from behind his back, and pulls the glove off just his right hand, finger by finger. Blue. Seeing the skin bare makes you yearn for his touch. 

He is very good at instilling that slightest bit of fear each time, to make you wonder if you really did something wrong, to make you feel like you have at least earned what he’s giving you even if it hurts. Even though it’s humiliating.

“And you believe you are deserving of such attention?” 

You freeze. The question is a trap, of course. There is no good way to answer it. You think he just wants to see how creative you can be, though it feels more menacing than playful. He circles behind you, moving at a rather lazy pace that only makes your heart beat faster. You have to will yourself not to turn your head to follow him. “I-- I can’t… I don’t know that I deserve anything, sir. But I want…” the words stick in your throat. You feel warmer the nearer he is to you. Knowing that his focus is on you, and you alone. You feel almost painfully aware of him behind you. 

He gives a low ‘hmmm’. 

“Please spank me, sir.” You manage in hardly a whisper, the bare need in your voice making your face hot, your eyes sting. You’d never said it outright before, never like this. 

“Of course.” He says courteously. He sounds pleased. 

“You will do as you are told, without question.”

The commands are familiar and practiced. And yet, it’s always the simplest ones that are the hardest to obey. He’ll have you bend over his desk or the arm of the couch— probably the nicest piece of furniture on the entire ship— and he’ll yank your shorts down to mid-thigh. So typically efficient and practical of him. You swallow thickly, arousal already humming through your body at the thought of it, eager and ready for his correction. 

Tonight is different, though, and the twisting knot of anticipation tightens more because you haven’t yet figured out why. Tonight he sits on the couch and orders you to place yourself over his knee. It feels vulnerable, and personal, to feel the warmth of his skin so close to yours.  

He pulls your shorts off, down to your ankles. Smooths his hand up one thigh, then the other. When he speaks to you, he is calm and polite. “You’ve done very well.” He traces his fingers over your skin, too lightly, making you squirm. “You remembered how to use your words.”

You manage a quiet thank you. 

“However. there is the issue of your pattern of misbehavior over the past week. You have been insubordinate and disrespectful. ” He runs his finger under the seam of your panties and then lets it snap back. “Explain yourself. And be warned, a flippant attitude will not achieve the result you want.”

And what result would that be? Surely he knows. You always get embarrassingly wet as he spanks you. And he never comments. You leave every time with your ass welted and pink and your pussy dripping and go back to your stateroom and cum hard on your fingers. If this is all he’s willing to give you-- the privilege of his time-- you’re willing to take it. It’s enough. It has to be.

Teasing and slow, he pulls off your panties, gets rid of them and your shorts so you’re totally bare and a hot, dark thrill goes through you, knowing he can see everything. With his other arm, he scoops you more securely onto his lap, and you feel his erection pressed against your hip. 

You gasp. “Sir—“

He goes back to drawing his fingers across your skin, indistinct patterns that distract you from the answer you’re supposed to be giving. There is a line he has never crossed. Pretending this is all just strictness and punishment and not a flirtation with something more. You want to spread your legs wider. 

He never fails to surprise you with the first blow. It’s never as hard or soft as you expect. It’s never when you expect, and he likes to keep you on edge sometimes, anticipating it. You never know if he’s going to take his time, stroking gently over your skin before starting to turn it red. Or if, as his boots tap on the deck as he walks over to you, he won’t hesitate even a second. On many nights prior to this one, he’s stopped next to you, put a firm hand at the small of your back, and delivered the first blow so hard it made you yelp. And he won’t relent. Not when you scream. Not when you cry. Not when you try to writhe away from him. He uses his superior strength and weight to keep you pinned. No escape.

“Nothing to say for yourself?”

You can’t even manage a word, despite the invitation.

The Grand Admiral continues, listing out your transgressions, and you realize, with a pang of dread, that he actually sounds reproachful. “You have failed to show up at morning muster. You’ve neglected the most basic of military courtesies and decorum. Your conduct is to the prejudice of good order and discipline aboard my ship…

“And you roll your eyes every time Assistant Director Ronan speaks.” His voice goes dangerously quiet. “Or did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

So that’s what this was about. No longer just a game, played out with imagined misbehaviors and slights. Being a brat got you the attention you craved, but you aren’t sure if you should be so excited about it. “I--” 

Without warning, he brings his hand down and the sound of the impact rings throughout the room.

You bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning too loudly. The first stinging slap feels like it makes every right. It clears your mind. Purifies your senses.

The second actually hurts. 

Distantly you wonder what kind of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into. He’s never actually been displeased with you, and just like that your bravado withers. You’ve made a mistake. He really is angry.

You try to be good. Do your best not to struggle. Take your punishment well, show him that you can be obedient, and play the game you think he wants you to play. But he will, eventually, strip you of your composure. He doesn’t quite hit in the same place each time, alternating blows from side to side on your ass cheeks and the tops of your thighs until your entire backside feels like it’s on fire. 

“Thrawn--” you pant his name, vaguely aware that you just addressed the Commander of the Seventh Fleet by his first name.

He makes a low sound in his throat. What did he just tell you? The harsh rhythm of his hand is unceasing, and the power behind it grows stronger, every slap making your nerves sing with pain. 

He hits you again, harder, and again, and again, until he gets the reaction he wants and a cry wrenches from your throat. Each strike makes your core throb and it’s mortifying. You feel your face wet and you’re torn between begging for it to end, and asking him for more.

“You need this,” he reminds you ruthlessly when you start to strain against him. He shows you no mercy, only bars his arm across your back, delivering unrelenting blows-- you can’t help whimpering at the strength behind them-- and tells you again, he is giving you what you need.

The release of pain and emotion-- the spanking, and his displeasure with you--  finally break you. Inhibition falls away and you sob openly, tears streaming down your cheeks, all of your pride and frustration, the petty irritations and concerns of your day all burned off. Leaving you empty of everything except sensation. 

At last, long after you’ve lost count, he stops. For a time, the only sounds are your quiet crying and his breathing. 

You know what will happen now. You have to brace yourself for it, remind yourself not to be disappointed, and be grateful instead that he deigns to give you even this consideration. He will fetch the ointment you like, and rub it on your skin. If he’s feeling indulgent, he’ll do it slowly, but very soon he will help you up, see that you’re properly dressed, and then dismiss you.

Once again, though, he surprises you. He does not urge you off his lap yet. He begins stroking his hand over your reddened, tender skin. With a soft ‘hmm’, he squeezes each cheek, molding the flesh in his hands, prying you open to his inspection. He can see everything now, you’re sure, and he nudges your thighs open wider. When he shifts slightly, you can feel his erection, hard and hot pressed against your stomach.

You stay quiet, all at once embarrassed, relieved, and unbelievably aroused. 

“You’re very wet,” he observes.

You almost choke. Before you can formulate a response, he goes on.

“You enjoyed that as much as I did.” You can feel his hand, hovering, ready to dip between your legs. “Shall I make you come?”

Your voice catches in your throat. 

“You must tell me…” 

“Please,” you gasp.

“Tell me with your words,” he commands, his hand stroking along the curve of your ass, along your upper thighs, everywhere except where you really want his touch. “And I will reward you.” 

You give a high, desperate moan, trying to lift your hips, legs cast wide and wanton, all dignity abandoned. “Please make me come.”

He obliges you. He moves you swiftly, sitting you up on his lap with your back to his chest. You feel small against his large frame, small with his arms around you and before you can think too much about how he’s never held you like this before, he’s spreading your thighs over his. 

You tip your head back on his shoulder as he pushes one finger into your slick pussy, then a second. With his fingers curled in you and his other arm wrapped around you pinning your arms at your waist, he lets you grind on his palm. 

He exhales a low, quiet laugh, as if he can’t quite believe how much you like this. He murmurs something about how you’re delightfully responsive, such a beautiful sight, so wet and hot and tight on his fingers. How pretty your ass looks after he’s turned it red. His lips close to your cheek-- if you turned your head, you’d be kissing-- and he praises you, his voice like a caress, encouraging you in the most obscene terms to take your pleasure. 

He breaks off, moans against your neck when he feels you start to come apart, and answers your need, slipping his other hand down to make clever little circles on your clit. You squeeze your thighs, shaking, pleading his name until you lapse to incoherent sounds. The release he gives you is exquisite, more intense than you’ve ever managed alone, as you give over control of yourself to him, completely. Panting, unashamed, wild with desire, you come hard on his fingers. You clench and spasm around them, riding the feeling out until you’re too tender to be touched and shivering from overstimulation. 

Soon, he lifts you gently off him, leaves to another room and returns with the familiar ointment. All quiet, he rubs it on your tender, pink skin which still bears his handprints, and though he says nothing, you think he seems very satisfied. When he is finished, he fetches a blanket and wraps it around you, then arranges you on his lap with your head tucked under his chin. 

Slowly, you drift in and out of light sleep. Occasionally voicing a thought to him while he has one arm around you and the other holding his datapad.

“I left a wet spot on your trousers,” you say into his chest.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I would expect contrition, but you sound rather proud of yourself.”

You don’t know how long it takes you to come down. To come back to yourself. But after a while you can’t ignore it anymore… “Sir…?” 

His cock is achingly hard. You feel the line of it pressed against your ass, but when you wiggle a bit he slaps your thigh sharply. “No. Be still.” 

You let it drop, though even that rejection is not enough to jolt you out of the feeling of warm, safe contentment you have, gathered as you are in his embrace.

“Do you understand now?” He asks after a time. He’s stroking your hair absently, still reading.

You nod. You do, you think, and you mumble against his shoulder how you had felt, the relief of expressing precisely what you wanted, and the freedom to enjoy it. “But you still…rewarded me and I didn’t deserve it.”

“Perhaps not. Though, rolling your eyes at the Assistant Director can be excused.”

You aren’t sure if you’re allowed to laugh or not. 

Many would say he is hard to read, but to you, having spent so much time with him in the most unlikely circumstances, he hardly seems expressionless. Enigmatic, certainly, and with a streak of cold pragmatism that rarely endears him to anyone. But if you turned your head, you’d see him smiling. 

All too soon, it is time to go, though you really don’t want to. Thrawn shifts you off his lap, watches you dress. You feel a little shy again faced with his imposing height and sharp red gaze. He is still in full uniform. This time, and every time before, he’d never so much as unfastened his collar . 

You’ll see him tomorrow morning on the bridge. That, at least, is a small comfort. He will stop behind you, looking over your shoulder at your workstation. Speak to you with the same quiet restraint, but as you shift in your seat, sore, he will give you a knowing look. Gesture at something on your screen, large, elegant hands in crisp white gloves, and all you can see is the familiar, intimate motion of him pulling the glove off, finger by finger, to deal with you at his discretion. 

And from over your shoulder, he’ll remind you, in a low voice, whenever you have need, Lieutenant. You have only to ask, and I shall provide. 

☆join tag list☆ <- this is the easiest way to make sure your request is recorded, however anyone is also welcome to dm me if they want to be added.

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[midnightsun-if]

How would the ROs react to the MC saying to the main villain "first of all, bitch. Secondly, how dare you interrupt my pizza time? I'm hungry right now dammit."

Koda: Even he’d look at you oddly, Koda may have some interesting priorities himself, but you’d give him genuine pause with that one. Of course, with his nurturing nature, Koda would offer you a warm smile. “I think I have some trail mix in my pocket. Would you like some?”

Scarlett: Would have a brief existential crisis about the fact that you’re the person she chose to spend eternity with and those were the kind of priorities you have. However, if you were actually upset, she’d pat your arm, a sincere, albeit strained, smile on her lips. “We’ll go out to eat once this all done with, my heart.”… If we don’t die first…

Cyrus/Cyra: They’re completely focused on the literal villain standing in front of them, so they don’t truly give your comment any actual thought. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about getting hungry again if we don’t get out of here.” They chance a brief look at you, brow furrowed in concern. “Given that your stomach will likely be laid out on the floor in front of us.”

Quinn: Their eyes would slide shut in absolute exasperation, as their wolf snarls at them to do something because it’s obvious their chosen mate doesn’t have any survival instincts to speak of. “I think the general lack of pizza is the least of our concerns at the moment, sweetheart.”

Caden: Wouldn’t even deign the comment with a response, as they’d be cataloguing the person in front of them. Trying to figure out if there’s any chance that they’d be able to slip past them, or find an escape route that be beneficial to you both. However, after all is said and done, they’d turn to you, remembering what you had said, completely astonished. “You were thinking of food during a time like that?”

Sloane: It’s at that very moment that they’d want nothing more than to pull a cigarette out and finish the entire thing in one draw… They’d be holding back from yelling at you— seriously what the hell are you thinking(?)— but the sheer exasperated annoyance in their tone would give them away. “You’ve really achieved a level of dumbassery I wasn’t sure you’d be able to get to. Congrats.”

Blake: The brief crackle of plastic would fill the air before something is being shoved towards you… Blake, being a literal squirrel, always has some form of food on them and it’s of no surprise that they had grabbed a couple of slices to go when everything went to shit. At your own look, they shrug. “Who wants to do anything on an empty stomach?”

Reginald/Regina: For a moment, they’d turn to you with a wide smile on their lips, forgetting the kind of predicament they’re in, as they bounce in place. “We’re having pizza tonight? Do you know who’s making it? Blake isn’t going to try another one of their ‘specialities’, right?”

[canmom]

i was a very online teenager. i struggled with in-person interpersonal relationships and spent a lot of time on a much less sanded down internet than the one we have today. and my peers at school were on that same internet.

so of course i saw porn of various kinds, from goofy flash videos to the standard catalogue of shock images (goatse, meatspin etc.). like most kids my age, we took it mostly as a big joke. it was exciting mostly only because it was forbidden, like swearing. so people would talk about something like 2girls1cup, and whether you'd seen it, in much the same way you'd talk about having seen gory shock horror films like Saw. none of this was particularly upsetting or shocking. (i found gore way more discomforting, in general.)

even so, the whole environment was rife with repression. and frankly, 'imply someone is gay' ('batty boy' is one especially goofy slur i remember) being a default category of joke did way more damage than knowing some people are into scat or playing a flash game where you can see a drawing of some boobs. implicitly sexual insults would be common, often playing on someone's naivete. i got very used to 'do you have ginger pubes'. tricking someone into saying something 'sexual' without understanding, and then laughing at them, was another one - i suppose it functioned a way of showing your proximity to the mysterious adult world of knowing about sex.

so after a few years of that, i went through a whole period of just... trying to distance myself from having anything to do with sex. we didn't have 'asexuality' language back then, but i probably would have jumped on it if it had been available. 'sex is gross' was the only frame i had to distance myself from how my classmates talked about sexuality, because i didn't have a handle on what was really up, just that i didn't like it. projecting 'i am above it all and find it disgusting' was a form of armour that calcified around me and ultimately did tons of damage to my ability to understand my own feelings. as i got older, this got mixed up in the moralistic rhetoric of online 'social justice'.

when i got to university and finally started to knock down that wall, i had to speedrun figuring out "how to do relationship". (i dived into polyamory head first, and of course that all went as badly as first relationships usually do.) it's been messy.

i reckon if i'd been willing to approach subcultures as a teenager that had given more room to experiment with like, desire and expression and so on... like if i hadn't let the background contempt get under my skin, for the emos and furries and whatever other 'having too much of the wrong kind of fun' social group we were all supposed to hate... i would probably have been a lot happier! if i'd had any out gay people around me before age 17!

the idea of trying to make sure people never see anything ever related to sex until they're 18, outside of whatever the government deigns to allow to be said in sex ed class, is so hopelessly arse-backwards. it's not going to work - a generation that grew up on the internet is going to be way better at getting to what they want to see than the censors are at blocking it, so the main function of the censorship is to reinforce the idea that they're looking at something shameful and secret. it's not going to protect kids - if anything i suspect it's going to make them more vulnerable to exploitation and mistreatment, either by adults who can offer 'access to the forbidden secrets of sexuality', or by their peers by producing this dumbass hierarchy. and tbh i think knowing about all the weird fetishes there are in the world is actually a really beneficial thing, in the same category of 'seeing your grandma's tits at the spa'.

unless, i guess, what you really want to do is teach everyone how to bypass censorship and distrust authority figures? i think there might be better ways to do that, though!

[jess-moloney]

I majored in design and marketing in college and those candles are very much on the “minimalistic” side of design. It’s a bit disappointing considering Jaime is a flamboyant dandy (that’s my best description for him, correct me if I’m wrong). Anyone can buy a candle anywhere. As a celebrity you want to market your product as a unique good / experience. You really don’t want to assume that your fans will just blindly buy something because they love you. I feel like this is such a common problem in the entertainment industry with celebrities and probably something that Jess is trying to exploit (if she’s involved). Especially, because of how cheap-looking the clothes at Ice Studios are. In my opinion, a minimalistic design can SOMETIMES be an excuse for less effort in a product. The more effort you put into deign of packaging and the formula/ingredients of a product, the more money you need to put into production.

Minimalism as a design can still look nice. He could have included an artistic logo or something that was also minimal. He could have done something that wasn't easily replicated by anyone else with a couple dollars who can access the internet. I doubt it would be that hard to replicate the look of the candle. Is the scent something custom? I kind of doubt it.

If he was going to go this route there were a lot more ways to make this special and worth the money but instead, it's just like any other generic candle you can get anywhere. I'm guessing even the type font isn't custom. Seeing this candle compared to his merch drop last year, that looked like more effort went into it, this just seems like it's a cash grab. That he's drawing out the anticipation as much as possible so when people do see the price they'll just buy it and not question it.

I'm so disappointed that he can't do a better job. It may mean spending more time on designs or money but it would pay off in the long run because more people would want to purchase it. I wonder who's advising him on this and it really wouldn't surprise me if it were Jess since she doesn't have an artistic bone in her body but is still somehow in his back pocket.

[selfproclaimedunicorn]

❝ don’t you see the danger this puts us in? ❞ — for aldreda

They had them all crammed into the same room in spite of Harrenhal being so overlarge that they could have been spread out enough that each crewman of The Silent Selkie would never be able to find their comrades again without aid. There were knights outside the doors, too. Even weaponless, damn near toothless, and with their captain tentatively brought into the fold of the usurper king they weren't trusted. The faithless greenborn were desperate enough for aid, but not enough to trust who gave it. Typical.

With a sigh, Vickon pushed himself off the cot he'd claimed for himself and crossed to the other side of the room where Aldreda sat on her own bunk, back to the wall and knees up to her chest. Gidyon spit out some teasing jape when Vickon sat across from her, a reminder of having seen them come from the same room the morning they'd stayed at Old Wyck on the hospitality of The Stonehouse.

“Shut your flapping maw, Pyke!” Quick as a cat Aldreda unfurled, leaned over the side of the cot, picked up her boot, and lobbed it at Gidyon’s head. He ducked in time for it to thud against the wall, but it still shut him up.

“A bastard wouldn't understand.” She grumbled, leaning back against the wall and drawing one leg up again, draping her arm across her knee.

“I doubt anyone besides me would.”

“Should you really be throwing things at him? Shouldn't we be presenting a united front, Mistress of Turncloaks?” Leofric's taunt was hollow, but it still made Aldreda wince. Vickon straightened, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose as he turned to glare at the other man. He had come to talk to Aldreda about what happened, to question and lecture as much as everyone else wanted to now that the shock had worn down and left nothing but raw nerves, but others saying such things drew out the closeness of his bond with Aldreda. She was Vickon's captain, his friend, his sister-in-arms that he'd shed blood with since he was four and ten; she did not need protection, but he still wanted to do it.

“We hadn't taken any stance on the Targaryens’ damned war, The Silent Selkie was neutral.” Vickon fought not to yell at him, but he was still an extension of the defensiveness radiating off of Aldreda.

“We weren't doing anything different from normal, but The Greyjoy still swore the Islands to Queen Rhaenyra.”

“Both of you shut up! What's done is done, Aldreda made her choice…and we all live with it now.” Toav glared at them, quieting them all as effectively as Aldreda would have. She was commonborn, with no noble name or even a family to speak of, but the rarity of her words and her status as the oldest among them gave an air of authority to everything she deigned to say.

Aldreda nodded at her, but Toav went silent again, brown eyes hard and judgmental. She sighed and slumped in on herself, hand at the end of her arm that was on her knee clenching into a fist so tight her knuckles went white. Aldreda winced again, but no one said anything else on the matter.

Satisfied, Vickon turned his attention back to her, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his legs. “Aldreda…”

“Don't you fucking start too.”

“Don't you see the danger this puts us in? We're not just in the middle of the dragons making war, we're in the direct line of the queen's fire.”

“What was I supposed to do, Vickon? Have all of you killed immediately? Die right then because of the whims of fucking Dalton Greyjoy? Since when am I beholden to The Red Kraken?”

“Since he took Pyke. What kind of question is that? The Greyjoy has always been in charge.”

“The Farwynd certainly doesn't act like it.”

“You aren't The Farwynd yet.”

“And if I had not taken the offer given to me, I never would be.”

“You think King Aegon will give you Lonely Light when The Farwynd dies?”

“He'll at least give me a chance to fight for it and keep my uncle from taking Lonely Light.”

And Westley after him.

The unspoken continuation hung heavy between them. The man who'd given them everything and then driven them from their home. They both wanted to lash out at Westley, clawing and spitting for the happy little lies of subservience to The Farwynd that he'd spun before yanking them away to show how he only cared for himself. He'd been a brother to Vickon, had mended his ways for Aldreda, and then he turned around and wounded her thinking no one would choose The Farwynd's rightful heir. It made him sick; made all of them sick if the insults hurled over nights of drinking were to be believed, and Vickon did believe them. They had all left with Aldreda, had ignored the war when she did, had silently gone along with her taking the offer to be Master of Ships to King Aegon until they were alone and could talk without the greenborn listening in.

“We would be in danger no matter what I did, Vickon. I may as well see if the mainland king we’re saddled with has enough honor to keep the word given in his name. I’ll take his silly little title and win his fucking war, and when it’s all over I’ll sail home and take what’s mine…and then I’ll kill that whoreson for what he did.”

[usermischief]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags/Warnings: mentions of rape, mentions of murder, explicit content ♞Words: 6233 ♞BTHB - Breaking a Promise | Kinktober '23 - Cock Warming

ao3

---

this thing between us

“You’re fucking yourself up like this.”

Stiles closes his eyes and lets out a breath. It’s almost five in the morning. His body aches, he hasn’t eaten in almost a day, and all he wants is to collapse into his bed. He doesn’t need a lecture from Theo Raeken of all people. Scoffing, Stiles shoves his key into the lock. “You always preferred the fucked-up version of me.” His door clicks open, and he pushes it out of the way of his escape.

“You know that’s not true.” Theo gets to his feet.

Stiles considers slamming the door in his face, but the thing about Theo is, he used to appreciate a lot of his persistence. “What are you doing here?” Although his first question should’ve probably been ‘how did you find me?’. But this is Theo, and Theo always finds a way. It was just a matter of time until they crossed paths again.

Dodging questions is another of Theo’s strange talents. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Because the tips are fantastic.” Stiles turns around, trying to fill out the doorway as much as he can. Theo doesn’t need to get the impression he’s allowed in.

The message seems to be clear because Theo’s expression darkens with annoyance. But the worst part is, Theo still looks hot as hell and so much better than anyone Stiles has ever hooked up with in the past four years. “You don’t need the money,” he accuses in a hushed tone.

“And since when do you know what I need?” Stiles knows he’s right. After everything that has happened, he doesn’t have to lift a finger for the rest of his life — he doesn’t have any friends or family either. So, what good does all of this money do? It doesn’t erase the memories. It doesn’t stop the nightmares from finding him in the darkness. It doesn’t prevent people from whispering about him behind his back. “I haven’t seen you in almost five years, and now you’re here, acting like— acting like you’re my savior or some shit.” He’s been alone for too long now, he doesn’t need anyone; especially not Theo.

Drawing his brows together, Theo studies him for a moment. “You’re drunk.”

“Stellar conclusion.” Stiles rolls his eyes, “if only I drank alcohol.” And that’s true, although it’s not always easy as a bartender when everyone else around him is hammered.

Theo uncrosses his arms. The worry carved onto his handsome features makes Stiles want to punch him. “Did you take something?” As if he couldn’t be any more condescending. Looks like the past few years without him caused Theo to pick up some of his mother’s annoying mannerisms.

“I haven’t slept in 48 hours, I’m starving, and I just had mind-blowing sex—“ which isn’t entirely true, but Theo doesn’t need to know that “—not that that’s any of your business, by the way.” Although Stiles knows he doesn’t need to explain himself to Theo or anyone, really, he cannot deny himself the petty revenge — and he knows it hit home, can see it in the way a flash of pain cuts through the worry on Theo’s face. If only it would make Stiles feel any better or could undo what happened to and between them.

Unsurprisingly, Theo doesn’t deign this with a response. Instead, he doesn’t hesitate and wrestles Stiles into the apartment. It doesn’t take him a second to overpower him, easily forcing Stiles back enough so he can kick the door closed with his foot — like he owns the place.

“Get the fuck out,” Stiles snaps, nearly elbowing Theo in the face as he wrenches himself free from his ex-boyfriend’s all too familiar grasp. It’s a shame he missed.

The light flickers on. Theo neither moves nor reacts when he’s faced with a flight of stairs. He shoots Stiles a look before climbing them, making it abundantly clear he’s not going to leave any time soon. Because why would he? He’s Theo Raeken after all. Beloved and cheered on by his adoring fans. Everybody loves him. Everybody wants to be with him — even the person he hurt the most by breaking his fucking promise.

Stiles hates how much he still yearns for his touch.

Too tired to fight him or deal with the cops, Stiles shoves past Theo and hurries up the stairs. He hates them with a passion, especially after long nights, but they’re a pretty good advantage if someone decides to break in.

“So, what. You let random strangers fuck you for a few extra bucks every night?” There it is. Of course, Theo couldn’t just let it go. Five years, and the jealousy is still as strong as it used to be.

Stiles spins around at the top of the stairs. The moment Theo popped up at his bar, he should’ve had him kicked out. But that probably would have caused even more issues. “Are you pissed about me having sex, or are you pissed it wasn’t you who bent me over the bar and fucked me?”

Theo’s face darkens, which is already answer enough. As well as he may be able to hide his feelings, anger has never been an emotion he could control. “I’m not here to argue,” Theo tells him coolly as he steps onto the main floor. His gaze scans the room, slowly traveling from the immaculate and pretty much unused kitchenette, to the dining table with a bowl of fruit, the clean couch and empty coffee table, and the little office in front of the French windows.

Stiles can see the things Theo is seeing, the black exposed brick walls, the half empty shelves, the way his loft apartment doesn’t seem to be lived in if it weren’t for the clothes thrown over the steps of the ladder leading to the bedroom, and the mouth wash by the sink. No pictures. No personal items. Nothing that needs to be packed in case of a hurried departure.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, kicking his sneakers under the coffee table. “Make sure to be gone when I wake up.”

“You need help.”

Stiles whips around, and Theo can only consider himself lucky, he doesn’t own anything he could potentially throw at him right now. “No,” he snaps. “I needed you. Needed. You hear that? Past tense. So, you can fuck off.”

Theo’s anger visibly deflates. “Stiles—“

“You know what I needed? You, keeping your promise five years ago.” Stiles advances on Theo, and he’s never realized how much he wanted to get everything off his chest. “I needed you by my side, but instead you’re in your private clinic while I’m being stitched up and sent home. I was fucking alone, and you didn’t bother returning a single call or text. Instead of getting through everything together like you promised, I got a money-hungry guardian who sold the rights to my life to a journalist who gets off on other people’s trauma. I had to get a lawyer who couldn’t do anything to stop the publication of the book, but hey, at least I got a bunch of money while my worst nightmare is being read and discussed by people I’ve never seen. So, I was eighteen, and I was alone because my friends and family have been slaughtered by a fucking psychopath. I fired the person who got paid to make sure I stay alive, and the person who I thought loved me hadn’t bothered to talk to me in over a year.” Sties shoves Theo, and Theo doesn’t do anything. He merely stumbles back a couple of steps, catching himself on the railing. “I moved to LA only for your cunt of a sister to release the snuff film her psycho fiancé filmed. Just that he didn’t get to kill me like he wanted to. No, instead the world gets to see how I stab him twenty-five times. I packed my shit up again and moved to New York, and after I went through all of this by myself, you have the fucking nerve to come here, take one look at my life and decide I need help?” Stiles grabs Theo by the collar of his expensive leather jacket and slams him against the kitchen counter. “Your fucking family ruined everything for me. I’m 21. I should have a college degree. I should be on the way to the FBI, but do you think they’d hire the guy who stabbed someone over twenty times? No, they don’t. Not when the world doubts it happened in self-defense because Tara only released what she wanted the public to see.” Taking a shaky breath, Stiles yanks Theo closer. “So, get the fuck out of my life.”

Tears start burning in his eyes, but the last thing he wants is allowing Theo to see how he really feels. Stiles shoves him once more for good measure and turns around. Part of him hoped he would feel better after finally getting to tell Theo most of the shit he wanted to throw in his face for years. But he isn’t. Not even a little bit.

Stiles is about to climb the ladder to his bedroom when Theo finds his voice again. “I never knew.” His voice is soft, almost inaudible.

It makes Stiles stop in his tracks regardless. “I wonder why,” he mutters under his breath, fingers tightening around the ladder. Just move. Still, his body refuses to cooperate. Something keeps him drawn to Theo, like a part of him refuses to let him go. Stiles lets out a breath. “Knew what?” But he knows the answer, deep down, he knows exactly what Theo is going to tell him.

“That you tried to contact me.”

Stiles lets go of the ladder and decides to collapse onto the couch instead, face in his hands. He’s tired and exhausted and not even close to ready to have this conversation. His life got turned upside-down five years ago, but his wounds are still bleeding as if it happened mere hours ago.

Theo crouches in front of him, one hand gently placed on Stiles’ knee — a touch just as familiar as the pain. “You were the first person I asked for when I woke up. My parents said you didn’t want to see me, and when I finally got my phone—“

“I had changed my number.” Stiles crosses his arms over his thighs. “I didn’t want to believe your parents when they told me you thought it would be better to go separate ways, but the silence from you… it got to my head.” Perhaps he should’ve tried harder. Perhaps he was the one who broke their promise.

Theo is shaking his head lightly, gaze fixed on something over Stiles’ shoulder. “I never saw any calls or texts… I don’t…” He draws his eyebrows together and looks at Stiles again. “I don’t understand why they would delete them.” When it comes to trusting Stiles or his parents, Theo doubts his family.

It should make Stiles feel good, instead he feels hollow, like someone carved out every single emotion. Theo never particularly liked his parents because they had his life planned out for him, yet he never distrusted them, always believed that they wanted what’s best for him. Becoming a famous football player deviates from that what they wanted. So, his parents either changed their tune after almost losing him, or Theo stood up to them.

Stiles smiles, and he knows it looks as empty as he feels. The Raekens didn’t want their son to pursue a career in football, and they had very specific expectations for his partner — expectations Stiles didn’t even come close to. “Theo,” he says in a soft voice, cupping the other man’s cheeks, “your parents despised me.” While they never cared for Theo dating a guy, they very much disliked that said boy was not from the same social bracket and struggled with ADHD and anxiety, which was decided not up to their standards.

“They never said anything.”

“To your face.” Stiles bites his bottom lip and puts his hands in his lap, tugging at a loose thread at the hem of his hoodie. Swallowing heavily, Stiles looks down at his fingers. “Do you know why… he did what he did?” All those years, he can’t bring himself to say the name. It’s easier to think about him in describing factors.

Tara’s fiancé.

He.

The monster.

Theo grabs his hands, squeezing his fingers gently. The touch alone makes Stiles’ heart beat in a way it hasn’t in a long time — almost like it just now remembers how to be alive. “He had a criminal record.” Which really begs the question why he was welcomed into the Raeken family with open arms, after all, his criminal record was impressive. Then again, he came from a family with old money, and boys that age simply make mistakes. Nothing to worry about. Theo squeezes his hands softly. “People think he wanted to get back at your father… but it doesn’t make any sense because…” Theo trails off, unable to look Stiles in the eye any longer.

It’s something people tend to do mid-conversation when they suddenly realize who their bartender really is. Theo doing it hurts more than he’s ready to admit. He swallows the pain, something he’s accustomed to do. “Because why keep me for last?” Stiles finishes the question in a hoarse whisper. The tears threaten to return, and he pulls away from Theo, curling into the corner of his couch he’s always hiding in when thing become bad. His throat aches with unspilled tears, but he can’t stop. Not now. Not when he can finally say all the things he’s buried for too long. “Your mother knows the truth.” Stiles wraps his arms around his shins, pulling his legs to his chest. “You can ask her.”

“My mother?” Theo repeats slowly, drawing his brows together in confusion.

Stiles nods, staring at a single drop of coffee in the white fabric he’s never noticed before.

“Why would my mother know?” Theo stands up and sits down next to him, the dip in the cushion almost causing Stiles to fall into him.

He curls his fingers into his jeans, barely resisting the urge to get up and leave. Where would he go? Where could he go knowing exactly what’s going to happen in a matter of minutes? The dam broke open. This isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. The memories will return whether Stiles says it out loud or not. “Do you remember Tara’s 21st birthday?” Every word feels as if it is ripped out of his throat.

Theo nods slowly. “You left that night. I still don’t know why.”

Taking another shaky breath, Stiles keeps his gaze fixed on the coffee stain. He can’t look at Theo, not now. “I excused myself to the bathroom because I needed a break from everyone.” Social gatherings still get to him. His job as a bartender doesn’t make it easy to deal with but the bar separating him from everyone else helps. “He followed me upstairs.”

Next to him, Theo stiffens — either because he remembers that night, or because he can tell where this story is going.

“I went into your room. I didn’t lock the door.” Why would he? Why? At that point, Stiles didn’t need to be afraid. He licks his lips, curls his fingers tighter into his jeans. “He found me there. At first, he was sweet and understanding. He tried to coax me back down… but then—“ The words get stuck in his throat, choking him; one of the dirty secrets nobody is allowed to hear.

“Miecio.” There’s a crack in Theo’s voice, cutting the nickname in half Stiles hasn’t heard in more than five years. Fingers dance ghostlike over Stiles’ back, waiting for a reaction, for permission. Theo understands what he’s trying to tell him.

“Your mother came upstairs. That’s when he stopped.” His knuckles turn white, his joints aching from the pressure. The coffee stain is the only thing he sees. “I tried telling her what happened. She told me to leave before I ruined her daughter’s party. So, I left, and I didn’t tell anyone, and eight days later, Melissa found her son’s body on the front porch.” Stiles wishes he could point a finger at Theo’s mother, blaming her for his secret, for the silence that killed everyone he loved.

Almost everyone.

Theo cups his cheeks again, gently tilting his head and forcing Stiles to look at him. “This isn’t your fault.” He knows him too well, knows the inner working of his mind — sometimes better than Stiles does himself. “You couldn’t have known.” But Theo doesn’t know the whole story, and he certainly doesn’t know the ending.

The memory hits hard, but it doesn’t come out of nowhere. It does, what it always does when his mind can’t stop wandering; wrecking him.

Stiles tears away from Theo and rushes to the sink, throwing up bile and guilt, but the memory claws itself into every fiber of Stiles’ being, refusing to leave, ready to make him suffer for the rest of his life. It burns his body with shame, and it’s something he can never purge, no matter how many strangers he’s going to fuck in the back of his bar.

In an instant, Theo is by his side, trying to calm and comfort him. But there’s nothing he can do, nothing to stop the memories from coming back, from reality crashing in on him like an avalanche.

When the worst is over, Stiles runs the water and rinses his mouth with the mouthwash until he can’t taste the bile burning on his tongue any longer. Then he collapses in the corner of his kitchen, the one space in his apartment that lets him see everything and pulls his legs to his chest again. He really hoped the high of an orgasm would help him through the night. It barely lasted long enough to get home.

Theo kneels next him, brushing sweaty strand from Stiles’ forehead. “Something else happened that night,” he says, and his voice is even, almost as hollow as Stiles felt mere moments earlier. “And my sister knows.”

For a long time, Stiles wanted to tell Theo exactly how fucked up his family is. Theo’s always been aware they’re far from perfect, but Stiles doubts he knew how far they’d really go to protect their reputation. Now, that he knows the truth, Stiles doesn’t feel any better — not with the flashbacks, and most likely not without them.

Stiles leans against Theo, pressing his face against his chest. Then he’s in Theo’s arms, shuddering, curling his fingers into his soft shirt. A strong contrast to the rough hands tearing off his pants and boxer briefs, rolling him round and pressing his face against the dirty floor, an arm’s length away from Theo bleeding out. He told him Stiles could save his life as long as he behaved. So, he whispered, “okay,” and didn’t make another sound, didn’t dare to move as the monster claimed his body, tainting him for the rest of his life. But that was okay as long as he got to keep Theo. Because that’s what he promised; Stiles’ body for Theo’s life. It seemed like a simple trade at that time.

Theo rocks him softly, protecting him from ghosts.

“We’re going to get through this,” he had promised, bleeding from his wounds. None of them lethal. They were supposed to kill him only if Stiles didn’t behave.

“You promised,” Stiles whispers.

Because he behaved. Stiles behaved. He said so too only to decide that Theo needed to die anyway. It would be better that way, he’d said.

To this day, Stiles doesn’t know why the knife was left on the ground next to him. Maybe he thought Stiles to be too broken to do anything. But he forced himself to move, and he got dressed, grabbed the knife, and hid it behind his back.

You promised.

The words ring in Stiles’ ears, making it impossible to understand anything Theo is saying to soothe him.

Because he’s stuck in the past, stuck with Tara’s fiancé crouching in front of him, smiling as if he’s won their little game. Stiles didn’t smile back. He rammed the knife into his throat instead. He still remembers the feeling of the warm blood on his face just as much as the rage that took a hold of him as he stabbed him twenty-four more times before he collapsed, unable to move for what feels like an eternity.

Just like he is now.

Theo kisses the top of his head. “I’m here,” he whispers reassuringly. “I’m not going to leave, okay?” It’s a promise he’s heard before, a promise that was broken by outside force — it’s a broken promise, nonetheless. But Theo’s arms feel safe, and Stiles wants to believe him, wants to trust that this time nothing is going to come between them again. “How about you go to bed, and I find something to eat for you?”

“Sure,” Stiles whispers, although he’s neither hungry nor tired, however, he’s aware when people need a minute to breathe. Theo’s life has been crumbling too when Stiles was having his mental breakdown. His life will be falling apart for a little longer while the truth carves its place.

Stiles gets to his feet, Theo’s hand secure at the small of his back, and then he crosses the room, alone and feeling just as empty as every single day of his life.

Upstairs, Stiles tosses his clothes in the hamper and slips into his sweatpants. He doesn’t go to bed though, instead he crouches by the opening, listening to Theo looking through his kitchen. For a few moments, that’s all he hears.

Then Theo’s icy voice cuts through the apartment. “I don’t give a shit about how early it is, Tara.”

Stiles swallows and backs away. He should’ve known. Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles curls into bed, trying his very best to block out Theo’s voice. It should be easy. Theo doesn’t yell when he’s angry after all. But his cold tone crawls into his consciousness, and there is nothing Stiles can do about it.

“You know exactly what video I’m talking about.” A drawer slams shut, the only outbreak Theo will allow himself to have. A Raeken does not lose his temper. They are composed and always in control of the situation. That’s why Theo is made of repressed rage. “Tell me what he did, and don’t you dare lie to me.”

Biting back a sob, Stiles curls into a ball and pulls the blanket over his head. That’s how the monsters stay away. He covers his ears with his hands. That’s how Theo’s words won’t reach him.

That’s how he stays until the mattress dips.

Stiles lowers his arms, moving the blanket enough that he spots the sandwich Theo placed on his nightstand. He doesn’t say anything, neither does Stiles. Both waiting for what will happen next. Theo told him he wouldn’t leave, but that was something he said before he knew the full extent of what happened.

The mattress dips again. This time, Theo is crawling into bed with him, slipping under the blanket and back into his life as he wraps an arm around Stiles’ middle. His warmth and body are familiar, safe, a remnant from a time that was easier, happier, hopeful.

Sleep refuses to come regardless. Theo doesn’t fall asleep either, Stiles can tell by the way his body never fully relaxes, and how he tries to breathe softly enough as if not to startle him. With the truth out in the open, Theo considers him fragile. Stiles wonders what the world would think about him if they knew the whole story.

When the first rays of sunshine find their way into his bedroom, Stiles turns around only to find Theo already looking back at him. “Hey,” he whispers.

Theo’s eyes crinkle slightly. “Hi.”

Stiles watches as the soft morning light draws patterns on Theo’s cheek. He traces one, unable to stop himself, and smiles as blue eyes flutter shut. He looks peaceful like this, as if nothing bad ever happened in his life. But his body speaks a different language. Stiles trails his fingers down Theo’s chest, eyes never straying from his face when he finds his scars; scars he got because of Stiles, because he’s stubborn and needed to learn which battles to pick.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Stiles kisses Theo. Everything from the shape of his lips to the way they fit against his makes his whole body ache — and Theo kisses him back, arm tightening around his waist. The familiarity is breathtaking. Suddenly, no time has passed. They’re in Stiles’ bedroom, trying to be quiet, trying not to wake his dad.

But when Stiles slips his fingertips underneath the waistband of Theo’s boxer briefs, he grabs his wrist and stops him inches away from his dick. He doesn’t pull away. Not yet, at least. “What are you doing?” he asks, lips moving against Stiles’.

Drown out the memories. Reclaim his past, his body. Trying to be whole. “What do you think?” Stiles replies instead, casual, like this is something that happens every other day. It doesn’t. Not like this. People don’t usually stop him when he tries to hook up with them. Usually, they can’t fuck him fast enough. Theo used to be like that. He couldn’t get inside him fast enough, and usually, he enjoyed his afterglow still buried deep inside of him.

This is new.

Stiles doesn’t like new.

Theo pulls away, not far, just enough to study his face. “Stiles…”

“I’m not broken.” Stiles dragged himself out of the gutter too many times to be broken. He won’t deny that he’s damaged, but he is fine. After all, he has survived so far – and most of it, he did on his own. Stiles doesn’t need to be coddled, especially not by Theo; not years after everything has already blown up in their faces. 

Smiling, Theo brushes his thumb over the back of Stiles’ neck. A soothing gesture. The exact opposite of what he needs. “I know.”

“Do you?” Stiles yanks his hand free and sits up, anger and shame and desperation swirling inside of him. This is why he fucks strangers. Commitment causes issues. Commitment means people look at him and see him for how fucked up he really is. Commitment means allowing someone in the way he let Theo in, and Stiles can’t go through that again. “Maybe you should leave.” Stiles closes his eyes and falls back into the mattress.

Theo rolls over and leans over him. “I don’t think so,” he whispers before bending down again and crashes their mouths together. It’s too hard, a bit to clumsy, not the way Theo would usually kiss him. But there’s something desperate in the way clings to him; almost like he’s afraid that if he lets go, Stiles will force him out.

Perhaps he would.

But Stiles is just as desperate for this than Theo. “Good,” he mutters into the kiss, pushing a hand between them again. This time, Theo doesn’t stop him when he reaches for his dick. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

Theo shudders above him, either because of his words or because Stiles is dragging his thumb over the tip of his dick. He still remembers what Theo enjoys, what gets him hard the fastest, how to wrap him around his little finger and make him cum so hard he forgets his own name. Today, however, isn’t about Theo.

And Theo is aware of that.

He pulls away and grabs Stiles’ waist, easily turning him onto his stomach. “Lube,” he commands in a low voice as he pulls him onto his knees. There’s nothing particularly gentle about it, not his touch, not the way he opens Stiles’ pants and yanks them over his ass, or the way presses a finger against his rim.

This time, Stiles shudders and closes his eyes. It’s easy to forget how well Theo knows his body too. He needs a few seconds to remember that he’s supposed to grab lube. Although Stiles doesn’t take anyone home with him, he keeps a bottle of lube in the box next to the bed. He pushes the lid open just enough to push his hand in, fingers brushing over pill bottles before he manages to fish out the lube, which he tosses unceremoniously at Theo.

The hands vanish from his ass, and Stiles uses the time to get rid of his clothes. In his hopeless dreams, his reunion with Theo always ended up being a bit softer, full of longing and love. There’s love still, somewhere deep inside of him, but as of right now, there’s lust and despair, the desire to drown with hard sex what he’d usually use pills for.

Theo’s hand returns, grip tight on his hip and stilling Stiles, as two wet fingers push against his rim without any hesitation. He pushes into him until his second knuckle, making a sound that’s somewhere between annoyance and want. It’s not too hard to figure out that Theo’s thoughts are wandering to what he saw earlier tonight.

‘Your fault,’ Stiles wants to say, but he merely groans and pushes his face into his pillow. “Warn a guy,” he utters against the fabric, sounding way too breathless already. They’ve barely started.

Theo huffs and pulls his fingers back. There is even less softness now that Theo is clearly pissed off at Stiles sleeping around – as if he has any right to be angry or hurt. Nobody forced him to watch. He’s free to leave. But he doesn’t. He stays and buries himself in Stiles with a quiet grunt. When they’re pressed together so close nothing could fit between them, Theo stills, and Stiles reminds himself to breathe because he forgot how good it felt to have Theo inside him.

There used to be a time when Stiles could relax like this after a stressful day. Sometimes, he even managed to fall asleep with Theo balls deep inside of him – for a while, at least. Usually, he woke up to his boyfriend’s resolve breaking.

Ex-boyfriend.

Stiles licks his lips and looks over his shoulder, watching Theo staring down at him. “Do you need any help?” he asks and quirks a brow. “Or are you going to fuck me anytime soon?”

For a few heavy heartbeats, Theo simply looks at him, eyes almost searching for something. His lips curl into a disapproving line as he isn’t successful – and then he pulls back, only to snap his hips forward in a way that’s so familiar, so achingly hard, so right. Theo fucks him confidently and without further hesitation. His mouth explores every inch of Stiles’ body he cans reach – as if he doesn’t know him inside out. His fingers leave marks, reclaiming ownership of something he thought has left him.

But it’s worse.

Someone stole it.

The desperation and anger are clear in every thrust, in the way his fingers press into his skin, short nails digging in enough to leave little half-moons.

It’s hurts just right. The edge of pain making him harder than he’s been in the past few years – since he’s lost Theo. There could probably something be said about him, said about the way this type of sex feels so much better than all the other random hook-ups with strangers in the back of his bar. Maybe it’s the pain, or maybe it’s simply Theo; his body remembering everything.

His name rolls over Theo’s tongue, and this hurts in a different way. It cuts deeper, memories cursing him, a future that could never be trying to drag him under.

Stiles bites into his pillow and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to match Theo’s thrust as best as he can. Although he doesn’t have to do much. The hands holding his waist in an iron grip are doing the work for him. They’re having sex, yes, but in a way, they both are chasing their very own needs that simply seem to line up in some way.

Theo keeps fucking him in the same all but violent pace. Hips snapping forward, slapping against his own with an almost obscene sound, and nailing his prostate with almost every thrust.

Stiles spits the pillow out, propping himself up enough that he can see. A gasp escapes him, every sound punched out of him by Theo's dick. He grabs his own, fingers cool against the hot skin. Opening his mouth, Stiles watches the muscles in Theo’s thighs work, how his fingers dig deeper into his skin – as if he’s scared, he might vanish. Theo is chasing something, something he lost years ago, something Stiles gave away to protect him.

Part of him hopes he’ll find it again.

Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Stiles moves his hands up and down his dick, fingers tightening near the tip. He’s chasing his release, the moments of freedom it gives him from his thoughts.

His muscles tighten when Theo’s thrust turn shallow, more irregular, and he’s so fucking close to cum. But Theo beats him to it. He moans his name, a sound somewhere between a curse and a moan.

Stiles cusses under his breath, struggling to keep up on his legs and arm with Theo’s weight splayed on top of him. He’s jerking himself off, desperate for his orgasm. His brain all but short-circuits when it finally hits him. For a few blissful moments, Stiles is in heaven – no thoughts, no memories, just his body, unchained.

Perhaps that’s part of the reason he’s chasing this so much.

But the return to earth is never fun.

This time, however, Stiles feels Theo’s hands brushing over his sides, his mouth placing soft kisses over his back, on his shoulders, the very bottom of the nape of his neck. He’s also still buried deep inside of him.

Stiles lets out a breath. For the first time, he prefers that his hook up hasn’t moved an inch. He embraces the weight of his body on top of his, although he’s gained some muscles in the past few years while Stiles isn’t much more than skin and bones. “Theo,” he says anyway, trying to get the word ‘move’ out of his mouth but it refuses to pass his lips. Things can’t be like they were before. Theo can promise him to stay all he wants, too much has happened, too much has changed. Stiles is too much.

But he can’t bring himself to end it.

Very carefully, Theo eases them both on their sides without pulling out. “What happens now?”

Stiles closes his eyes. So much for his afterglow. “You go back to being a football star, I go back to fucking myself up further. Everyone’s happy.” The lie burns on his tongue, but it’s easier to pretend than to open himself up emotionally only to lose Theo again. He’s not going to survive that. It’ll be a miracle if he survives this night.

“What if I don’t want that?” Theo runs his left hand up his chest, resting it above his heart. “I didn’t come here to walk away from you again.” His breath is hot on the back of his neck, the arm around him pulling him closer. 

Despite himself, Stiles grabs Theo’s hand and intertwines their fingers. It comes so easy, so natural. “You don’t want that.” He would like to pretend it’s more instinct than his fear of losing Theo as well. Everything with Theo feels so natural, like nothing ever happened, like they’ve never been apart for even a fucking second. “My life’s a shitshow, and the world’s going to drag you into it.” I’m going to drag you into it a nightmare.

Theo kisses his shoulder. “I don’t care.”

“Don’t—“ There’s a part of him that wants to pull away, to get out of bed, but Stiles doesn’t want to lose the feeling of Theo against his back or his dick inside of him – despite a bit of cum sticking to his thigh, cooling against his skin.

“I promised we’d get through this together,” Theo whispers, running his fingers up and down Stiles’ sternum.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Even though it still feels like it. Five years of believing Theo simply dropped him aren’t going to vanish overnight. Stiles places his hand on top of Theo’s again, squeezing his fingers tightly.

Theo kisses his shoulder, lips curling into a smile against his skin. “I’m never going to leave you again.”

“It’s not worth it.” Stiles can see the headlines, can already tell what the world is going to think if their golden boy is seen with him. The stories they spin. They’re going to dig deep. They’re going to find out Theo’s been there too; keeping his name out of the media is the one thing Stiles and the Raekens could agree on.

But Theo pulls him closer, body so warm and safe and comforting. “You’re worth it. You’re worth everything and more.” 

Stiles hums and closes his eyes, allowing himself to believe Theo.

At least for one day.

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