#Thread Lift Experts

[itsappleexpert]

Experience a Subtle Lift with Thread Lift

As we age, the natural elasticity of our skin begins to decline, leading to sagging, wrinkles, and a loss of definition. This is particularly noticeable around the face, jawline, and neck. For many, the idea of invasive surgery to address these issues can be daunting. Fortunately, there’s a non-surgical alternative that provides a subtle, natural-looking lift: the thread lift. This minimally invasive treatment is gaining popularity among those who wish to rejuvenate their appearance without undergoing a full facelift. If you're seeking a way to restore a more youthful, lifted appearance, a thread lift may be the solution you’ve been searching for.

What is a Thread Lift?

A thread lift is a cosmetic procedure that uses specialized threads to lift and tighten sagging skin. The threads are made from biocompatible materials such as PDO (Polydioxanone) or PLLA (Poly-L-Lactic Acid), which are safely absorbed by the body over time. The treatment involves the insertion of these threads beneath the skin using a fine needle. Once placed, the threads are gently pulled to create a lifting effect, instantly tightening the skin and enhancing facial contours.

What makes thread lifts so appealing is that they provide a subtle lift. Unlike a traditional facelift, which can result in dramatic changes to the face, a thread lift provides a more natural outcome with a refreshed, youthful look. The procedure is designed to rejuvenate your skin gradually, with the added benefit of collagen stimulation, which improves skin texture and elasticity long after the threads have dissolved.

How Does a Thread Lift Work?

The thread lift process begins with a consultation, during which your practitioner will assess your facial features and discuss your goals. The procedure typically takes 30 to 60 minutes, depending on the areas treated.

Once you’re comfortable and the treatment area is numbed with local anesthesia, the practitioner will insert the threads into your skin using a fine needle. The threads are then gently pulled to lift the skin and stimulate collagen production in the targeted areas. The result is an instant tightening effect, but the benefits continue to develop as the threads naturally dissolve over the next several months, promoting long-term skin improvement.

Thread lifts are often performed on areas of the face that show early signs of aging, including the jawline, cheeks, and neck. However, they can also be used to lift and tighten the skin around the eyebrows, forehead, and nasolabial folds (the lines between the nose and mouth).

The Benefits of a Subtle Lift

Natural-Looking Results One of the primary advantages of a thread lift is that it provides a subtle, natural-looking lift. Rather than creating a dramatic change to your appearance, it refreshes your look, giving you a more youthful, relaxed appearance without the “tight” or “pulled” look often associated with traditional facelifts. The results are gradual and blend seamlessly with your facial features.

Non-Surgical and Minimally Invasive Unlike traditional facelifts that require large incisions and a longer recovery time, a thread lift is minimally invasive. The procedure involves no cutting, no general anesthesia, and very little downtime. This makes it an appealing option for those who want to avoid the risks and long recovery associated with surgery. Thread lifts are performed in-office, and most patients can return to their normal activities within 24 to 48 hours.

Immediate and Long-Lasting Results A thread lift provides instant results. As soon as the threads are in place and pulled, you’ll notice a visible lift in the treated areas. The results will continue to improve over time as collagen production is stimulated by the threads. On average, the results of a thread lift last between 12 to 18 months, with some patients experiencing longer-lasting effects due to the collagen boost.

Minimal Downtime Unlike traditional facelift surgeries, which can require weeks of recovery, a thread lift has minimal downtime. While mild swelling, bruising, and tenderness may occur in the treated areas, these side effects are typically short-lived and resolve within a few days. Most patients can return to work or other activities within a day or two, making it a convenient option for those with busy schedules.

Collagen Stimulation for Skin Improvement One of the most notable benefits of a thread lift is its ability to stimulate collagen production. Collagen is a protein that provides structure and elasticity to the skin. As the threads dissolve, they stimulate the skin to produce more collagen, which improves the overall texture, elasticity, and firmness of the skin. This collagen boost continues to improve the skin long after the procedure, resulting in smoother, firmer, and more youthful-looking skin.

Customizable Treatment The beauty of a thread lift is that it can be customized to meet your individual needs. Whether you’re looking for a slight lift along the jawline, a subtle lift in the cheeks, or tightening in the neck area, your practitioner will tailor the treatment to target your specific concerns. The procedure can also be combined with other non-surgical treatments, such as dermal fillers or Botox, to enhance the overall results and create a more balanced, youthful appearance.

Areas That Benefit from a Subtle Thread Lift

Thread lifts can be performed on a variety of areas to target sagging skin and restore a youthful appearance:

Jawline: Lift and define a sagging jawline for a more sculpted, youthful appearance.

Cheeks: Restore volume and lift to hollow or sagging cheeks for a fuller, more youthful look.

Neck: Tighten loose skin on the neck and reduce the appearance of a "turkey neck."

Eyebrows and Forehead: Lift drooping eyebrows and smooth forehead wrinkles.

Nasolabial Folds: Soften deep lines between the nose and mouth for a fresher look.

Who Is a Good Candidate for a Thread Lift?

Thread lifts are suitable for individuals who want to address early to moderate signs of aging without undergoing invasive surgery. Ideal candidates typically have mild to moderate skin sagging and are in good overall health. If you’re looking for a treatment that provides a subtle yet noticeable lift, a thread lift could be an excellent option.

However, it’s important to have realistic expectations about the procedure. While a thread lift can provide a refreshed and youthful appearance, it is not a replacement for more extensive surgical procedures, such as a full facelift. A consultation with a qualified aesthetic practitioner will help determine whether a thread lift is the best option for your needs.

Aftercare and Maintenance

After the procedure, there are a few simple aftercare guidelines to follow. While the recovery process is quick, your practitioner may recommend avoiding intense physical activity for a few days to allow the threads to settle into place. Mild swelling, bruising, and tenderness may occur, but these side effects typically resolve within a few days.

Thread lift results generally last between 12 to 18 months. Over time, the threads dissolve, but the collagen they stimulate continues to improve the texture and elasticity of the skin. For long-term results, periodic maintenance treatments may be recommended.

If you’re looking for a way to rejuvenate your appearance without the invasiveness of traditional surgery, a thread lift is an excellent option. Offering a subtle lift, a thread lift provides immediate results with long-lasting benefits, all while stimulating collagen production for smoother, firmer skin. Whether you’re targeting sagging skin along the jawline, cheeks, neck, or other areas of concern, a thread lift can give you the youthful, refreshed appearance you desire with minimal downtime and recovery.

For those in Calgary, a thread lift offers a non-surgical option to turn back the clock and achieve a natural-looking, rejuvenated appearance. Consult with a qualified practitioner to explore how this treatment can subtly enhance your look and boost your confidence.

[lvrsturniolo]

HIDE THE RAZORS- M.S

beard Matt’s getting to my brain(pussy) atp

warnings; established relationship. softdom!matt x sub!reader. praise. beard.. kink?(not a clue). pet names(sweetheart, baby, sweet girl)

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

You were squirming before Matt even touched you.

It had been weeks since he stopped shaving, letting the scruff along his jaw grow into something fuller. More defined. Dark and just long enough that every time he spoke close to your ear, it sent a full-body shiver through you. And tonight, when he walked through the front door wearing the most insanely dilf outfit you’d seen him in WITH his beard long like that, you’d LOST it.

You practically cornered him in the hallway, voice low and desperate. “Matt…”

His brows lifted in amusement, tilting his head. “Yeah baby?”

Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, breath catching. “I need you— please jus-jus need you so bad.”

He grinned, slow and devastating. “That what you’ve been thinkin’ about all day, sweetheart? Thank you for askin’ so nicely.”

—————————————————————

That’s how you ended up like this—flat on your back in your shared bed, thighs spread, your boyfriend sliding down between them, a smirk tugging at his lips and his hands gripping your hips like you’re the only thing that’s keeping him in place.

“You’re shaking already,” Matt teased, beard scratching softly against the inside of your thigh as he kissed his way up. “So needy, huh?”

You whined, trying to press your hips closer, but his grip held you steady.

“Be patient, sweet girl.” He glanced up at you, voice lower. “Wan’ take my time with you.”

The first drag of his tongue was slow, his beard scratching gently against your soft skin, every movement of his mouth sending sparks of pleasure straight to your core. You moaned, back arching, and his hands tightened on your hips, keeping you in place.

“G-God,” you gasped. “F-feel’s so good. Y-your beard feels—nghhh— so good”, you manage out.

Matt chuckled against you, the vibrations making you clench around nothing. “Yeah? Wan know sumthin baby? Been growin’ it out just for you.” His voice was gravelly, low with hunger. “Wanted to see how crazy I could make you get, I know how much y’love it.”

He buried his face deeper, tongue working you with expert rhythm, switching between soft licks and firm pressure. He was relentless—lapping you up like he was starving, beard brushing perfectly with each motion until you were trembling under his touch.

“Pussy tastes so good, sweetheart,” he murmured against your folds. “Could stay here all night.”

Your hands flew to his hair, fingers threading through his curls, tugging just enough to make him groan into you—and that sound sent you spiraling. The pressure built fast and sharp, and you whimpered his name like a prayer.

“Matt—please, I’m so close—”

His eyes met yours from between your legs, dark and intense. “Cum on my tongue, baby. Been so so good for me.”

It was all you needed.

Your orgasm crashed over you in waves, thighs shaking, cries spilling from your lips as Matt held you down and kept licking, dragging it out until you were nearly sobbing from overstimulation.

Only then did he finally slow down, pressing one last kiss to your thigh before crawling back up your body. His beard was glistening, lips swollen, and the proud, cocky look on his face made your head spin.

“Think I’ll keep it a while,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek as he kissed you. “Seems t’really benefit me too, hm?”

requested by @ellssturn <33

beard Matt come home please, my ovaries miss you 😔😔

if they love us they broke all their razors in half and made a pact to never shave again

[cinnamqns]

ON THE COUCH IN THE BED KITCHEN COUNTER OR STAIRS ‼️‼️‼️‼️ WE NEED MORE IZUKU 🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀🙀

Sure thing...lets pretend i dont know who wrote it..

“Couch Confessions”

aged up!Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Reader – NSFW – Couch, Praise, Overstimulation, Creampie. (For the izuku simps)

Warm lamp light spilled over the living room as you sank into the cushions of the old couch, legs draped over Izuku’s lap. His gym shirt clung to him with faint sweat, and you could feel the solid heat of his body beneath your thighs. You’d both collapsed here after a late night of training and paperwork, but neither of you were ready to call it a night.

Izuku’s hands trailed along your hips, fingertips brushing under the hem of your dress. “You look so beautiful,” he murmured, voice husky with need. “Every curve… every breath you take.” His green eyes shone with genuine admiration, and your heart fluttered at the softness in his expression.

You glanced up, cheeks warm. “I—I love how you look at me.”

He smiled, leaning in to kiss your temple before sliding a hand down your side. His thumb found its way to your clit, pressing light circles that had your back arching and breath catching in your throat. “You’re so perfect,” he praised, fingers moving in slow, deliberate strokes. “So wet for me.”

A soft moan escaped you as he added a second finger, curling them in that spot that always made you shiver. Your legs began to tremble—left and right, unable to stay still under his expert touch. He chuckled, pressing his forehead to yours.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “You take me so well.”

You clutched the fabric of his shirt as he withdrew, only to replace his fingers with the head of his cock, brushing against your entrance. You gasped, hips lifting to meet him as he sank in one smooth push.

“Yeah?” he murmured, voice thick. “Does that feel good?”

You nodded, words lost in the haze of pleasure as he began to move—slow thrusts that gave you time to savor every inch before speeding up into a relentless, overstimulating rhythm. The couch creaked beneath you both, leather pressing into your legs as his hips met yours with each snap.

“Good girl,” he groaned, one hand gripping your hip, the other threading through your hair. “You’re so tight… so beautiful.”

You cried out, head falling back as he pounded into you, each thrust pushing you higher. “I’m close,” you managed, tears of pleasure in your eyes.

“You’re gonna come for me,” he promised, voice rough. “Show me how much you love it.”

At his command, your orgasm crashed through you—muscles clenching, vision white—and Izuku followed with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside you without pulling away. Warmth pooled between your bodies as you both rode out the wave together.

When your breathing finally slowed, he collapsed beside you, arms wrapping around your trembling form. You nestled into his chest, a soft smile on your lips.

“I love you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“I love you, too,” you replied, tracing lazy circles on his arm as the night settled around you.

[bijouxcarys]

Peace of Mind, Piece of Mine (Roman Reigns x fem!Reader)

Masterlist WWE Masterlist

Description: It's not often the Tribal Chief willingly allows someone else to take the reins. But when he does, it's nothing but sublime. Set immediately following the main event of WrestleMania 41 Night 1.

CW: NSFW, minors do not interact, smut, dirty talk, comfort sex, unprotected sex, oral (f recieving), slightly submissive!Roman, slightly dominant!Reader.

Words: 2.2k

Title inspo: FE!N by Travis Scott, Playboi Carti (x)

Tags: @expert-texpert @thefairyloveschaos @haloreigns @teamchasez @reignsxlove @eringobragh420

@thealliasylum @electronicwitchsandwich @haloreigns @reignsnblack

(If you would like to be tagged in any future fics, please let me know!)

April 19th, 2025

Stupid.

That’s how I felt.

Stupid for not noticing the glint in the eye of the Wiseman. For not seeing what was to come. For being so hyper-focused on what Punk might do that I completely missed it.

The catalyst. The enabler. The perpetually burning match. The constant thorn in the Tribal Chief’s side.

Stupid for the anger I could not contain. Refs holding me back as I screeched after that Judas, as I launched the steel chair I’d been sitting on in their direction. 

That was before he came back through the curtains. Before I had to switch modes. I was ready to kill, prepared to take the brunt of the consequences, ready to wreck everyone and leave hand in hand with my Tribal Chief.

But he needed me now.

“Does that feel good, baby?”

His fingertips dug into my hips—I could feel how they itched to take control and rock me how he wanted. But it wasn’t the time for that. It wasn’t the time for taking control. He’d held on to control as long as he could until it hung by a thread. And now the thread had snapped.

He had to let go.

All I had to do was run my fingers through his hair, scratch my nails gently through his beard, leave small butterfly kisses along his raw back, specks of red still remaining from the familiar brutal attack. Like chocolate on a hot day, he just melted into me.

Relinquished all he was, all he tried to be. There wasn’t much left, everyone had taken a piece in their departure, but he gave the rest to me. Because he knew, above all, I would keep it safe in my pocket, keep it close to my chest, cherish it, and return it when the time was right.

“You look so pretty like this,” I hummed gently, admiring how the dim light cast shadows along the column of his throat as his head leaned back on the armchair. “So beautiful…” I added in a whisper, circling my hips on his, flinching as his mushroom tip massaged that sensitive spot deep inside me.

My fingers traced the patterns of his tattoos, feeling the pride of his legacy, the dynasty from which he sprouted. My Tribal Chief, my life and soul, my whole universe.

“K-keep going,” he managed to grunt, his eyebrows knitting together as he fought to lift his head to look at me. A small bruise on his forehead, the bags under his eyes, the sorrow still tugging at his mouth even as it fell open to release a moan or a pant. 

“Just wanna feel better,” he mumbled, leaning up and hiding his face in my chest and wrapping his hulking arms around my body, keeping me pressed flushed to him whilst I rode him in his hotel suite. 

“Shh, I know, baby, I got you…” My hand came round to caress the back of his head. “I got you,” I repeated. “Doesn’t it feel good already, sweetheart?” He nodded, clumsily pushing the neckline of my dress down with his chin. “Good… ‘Cause I can’t get enough of my Tribal Chief…”

At that, his arms tightened around me and his lips wrapped around one of my stiffened nipples, sucking and nibbling as I sped up ever so slightly.

I enveloped him completely with my warmth, both literally and figuratively. Sitting snugly, the entirety of his length filled me to the hilt. My clit, swollen and throbbing just from watching tonight’s match, brushed against him, feeling the coarse hair that trailed down his abdomen.

Reaching behind him, I guided him back to his original position, but his mouth stayed attached, refusing to let me go.

“Ro…”

He released my nipple with a quick kitten lick and angled his head up, meeting my gaze. My heart faltered, fluttering in my chest, at how gorgeous my man was. Even with the alterations he’d made over the years; the reconstructive surgery on his nose after busting it in a brawl with his boss, the veneers that straightened his jaw and brightened his smile even more. The faint freckles you could only spot if you were within close proximity. Full lips. Salt and pepper king.

The most perfect man in the world.

But the more I looked into his eyes at that moment, the more I saw it. The reddening in the whites, the glittering of his waterline. Lower lashes grouping and laying flat. A quiver in his mouth.

“Oh, baby,” I sighed, moving to hold his face in my hands, rippling my body against him, causing him to blink and let out a little grunt, a lone tear rolling down his cheek and onto my right hand as he did.

“Don’t,” he responded through clenched teeth. “Please, just… just take it away.” Swallowing hard, he lowered his hand to grab onto my ass, urging me to lift up and off of his cock, just to bring me right back down and engulf him again.

“I’ll take it away, Ro,” I reassured him, nodding and resting my forehead on his head. “Wanna take it all away from y—fuck, you feel so good,” I moaned, my nails digging into his beard. One hand dropped to his shoulder, tense and bulging with pure muscle. 

He couldn’t stop himself from writhing his own hips, feet planted firmly on the carpet and using them to pivot upwards. “That’s it, baby,” I mumbled against his head, meeting his movements.

“God, you’re perfect,” he groaned, “So fuckin’ perfect for me… takin’ care of me like this…”

The grin was automatic, and I felt my cheeks burn at the praise, despite the fact it was supposed to be the other way round.

“I’m always gonna take care of you, Roman…”

“Yeah?” He sat all the way back, both hands grabbing at my hips, muscles flexing with every motion. 

“Yess… fuuck,” I whined, my head hanging back. “The best…” My eyes fluttered shut. 

“I’m the best?”

“Yeah, you’re the best, baby… never had dick like this. So fucking big,” I smirked, peering down at him through hooded eyelids. “Always making me cum so fucking hard.”

“Damn straight, sweetheart.” For the first time that evening, I saw the glimmer of a smile at the corner of his mouth, but it disappeared as soon as it came and was swiftly replaced with what can only be described as a look of complete ecstasy. Jaw jutting forward, teeth on show, nose scrunched up. 

“It’s all you tonight, baby,” I continued, placing my palms flat on his shoulders and bracing myself. I didn’t fuck about for much longer; I bounced on his lap, milking him for everything he had, everything he wanted to give me.

“All me… Fuck, gimme that shit.”

Biting down on my lips, I groaned low in my chest, purposefully squeezing onto his cock. Lewd noises filled the room, and just by those alone, it seemed there was no limit to how wet this man could make me.

I watched as his pecs pulsed, the veins in his arms stood prominent, and his hair started to frizz endearingly, wildly, giving me the rawest glimpse of the Samoan in his blood.

One would be lucky to have such passion in a partner, bred of the Italians and the Islands.

“Don’t stop—don’t you fuckin’ stop,” he growled, releasing a harsh breath out through his flared nostrils.

“Not gonna stop… not ‘til you cum inside me, Ro, I fucking need it,” I hummed, taking his chin in my hand so he had no choice but to look up at me. I hovered my face over his, our lips parted as we panted into each other’s mouths. “Fucking beautiful, you realise that? Needing to fill me so fucking bad…”

“You keep talkin’ like that, babygirl, I’mma nut all up in this pussy.” 

His filthy words encouraged me, adding more swing to my hips, fucking him so roughly—so passionately—that the armchair we sat in started creaking under us. I swiped my tongue along his open mouth, dipping it beyond the threshold to kiss him fully. Sloppily, loudly, clumsily.

“Mmm, I love you,” he grumbled almost incoherently, grabbing my ass to aid me as I bounced. “You’re so good to me, mama, you ain’t got a clue.”

“Shit, you deserve it, baby,” I answered, my words shaky and stuttering with my movements, each collision of our bodies reverberating in my chest. “You deserve the world, e-everything–fuck, I want you to cum so bad.”

Growling, he smashed his lips back to mine, tongue immediately attacking mine, and his hips thrusting up, chasing a high he so desperately needed in lieu of the one he was denied in the ring tonight. 

“Come on, Ro, take it,” I moaned, “Right in this pussy, do it… take it all.”

“Oh, I am, it’s all mine. You ready, sweetheart?”

“Always ready for you… cum for me, my Tribal Chief.”

His teeth snapped down on my lip, and an animalistic groan erupted from deep down in his chest. Thrusts became inconsistent, muscles twitched, and he did what he promised he would; he gave me every ounce of him, inside and out. 

Didn’t care how messy it became, because it was mine. Ours.

The Tribal Chief wasn’t selfish. He always gave after he took.

That’s why, within five minutes of busting inside me, it was my turn; seated, legs forced open and resting on the chair arms. Frizzy Samoan mane slotted perfectly between my thighs, whilst his mammoth hands pushed them open.

His tongue rolled over my clit, and his head angled up. Doe eyes watching my every response, a smirk appearing as I sank further into the chair.

Lips wrapped around my nub, and he suckled, cheeks moving along with his tongue. He allowed his saliva to coat me completely, messily slurping.

“Ahh fuck, that’s it, baby,” I breathed, reaching down to hold his hair from his face so I could see his undying devotion. He hummed against me in response, flattening his tongue to drag it all the way up from my tight entrance, where I seeped with him, and all the way back to my pearl. Then repeat.

“Such a perfect man.” I arched my back as he went back to assaulting my clit. “You eat this pussy too good.”

“Just wanna make my girl feel like a million dollars, mama…” He pressed a kiss to my inner thigh. “‘Specially after makin’ me nut like that. Gotta make sure this pussy gets eaten. Gotta keep her happy.”

I couldn’t hold back the smile as our eyes met. He was so special. Nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for him.

Nothing in this world he wouldn’t do for me.

“I can assure you, you’re making this girl very very happy, my Tribal Chief,” I whispered, stroking my fingers through his hair before tightening my grip. “Now, get back to it and make me cum, okay?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said through an excited huff before diving right back in. 

He spread me open, explored every inch of me, stimulated and edged me more times than I cared to count. It was obvious by the mischievous glint in his eyes that he enjoyed when my legs began to shake, when my core started throbbing against his tongue, when my moans turned to whimpers, and my whimpers turned to whines.

“Goddamn, I fuckin’ love those sounds,” he spat, yanking me closer to him.

“Don’t stop, what are you doing??” I asked breathlessly. And my heart nearly fucking stopped when he looked up at me with such a determined glare, the aging around his eyes making him look far more brooding than he perhaps intended.

“Ain’t stoppin’, baby, just wanna make sure I get it all when this pretty lil pussy cums all over my fuckin’ face.”

“Fuck,” I gasped, tugging on his hair as he fervently flicked and swirled his tongue around my clit. “Oh shit, shit… right there, fuck I’m gonna cum…”

“Yeah? Right there on that clit, baby?” He sucked on me, and hummed harshly, knowing the vibrations would go straight to my head, would dumb me down and take me out.

Clenching my jaw, I focused on him and his pussy-drunk expression. Our eyes were completely glued to one another. Wide and… innocent.

He looked innocent.

Desperate.

Almost pathetic to a degree.

“You want me to cum for you, baby?” I panted, using the grip I had on his hair to rock his face against me. “C’mon, tell me, Ro, you want me to cum?”

He let out a small sound of struggle as he tried to answer with his mouth magnetised to my cunt, but it was followed by a little grunt that told me everything I needed to know to keep going.

“Mmmph–fuck yeah,” I barely heard.

“Gonna have to do better than that, sweetheart.”

He stopped his licks and sucks, just to snarl back, albeit still with his lips dragging over my drenched folds—thanks to my control over his head.

“Please, mama, I need you to cum. Need this pretty pussy to nut—just wanna make you feel good, please…”

It was more of a ramble, and it gave me great satisfaction to see him beg for my release, to see him work for a single sentence, as sadistic as it was. 

For someone who was so accustomed to being in control, he was so good at giving it away for a moment in time…

Just for a little peace of mind.

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"Fight or fight." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

The Dixon brothers know there are only two options when faced with a problem: fight or fight, but maybe that lesson isn't such a bad one for Marley when she tries to defend her friend.

A/N: I'm not satisfied with this story but it's 4am in Peru and I didn't want to go to sleep without writing something. I hope you like it♥ (I'm sorry if anything Merle said was offensive, I really tried to think like him but I apologize anyway)

The smell of coffee and maple syrup fills the Dixon home.

There’s a faint scent of cigarettes too, permeating Daryl’s clothes as you pass him in the kitchen, (Something Daryl only did when he was very anxious) him grunting a good morning in response as his hands (experts at holding guns, making arrows, and killing walkers and people) clumsily attempt to make the best lion head pancake: scraps of strawberries for the fur and blueberries for the smiley face. When his mom was around and not drowning in alcohol and substances, she used to make Daryl and Merle those breakfasts, (a caress in the middle of the blows, a show of peace to cushion the fact that there would be more pain) distant but never blurry stories from their childhood, good stories they could count on their fingers—but there’s something about Daryl’s frown, the way his concentration is about to pass the limit of fixation.

“Why are you so grumpy, huh?” You chuckle, playfully slapping his butt.

“I ain't grumpy.”

“Oh, no? Tell that to your brow. Are you like this because Marley’s leaving again?”

The thought makes Daryl’s heart clench.

“She ain't leavin' me. Ma baby’s goin' to preschool.”

You giggle, but you realize you’ve hit the nail on the head about his irritability because you never said leaving him, even though Daryl saw those 3 hours of classes, with a neighbor in the community who used to be a teacher, as she leaving her home, even though Marley was 5 years old and still had trouble tying her sneakers, which prevented her from running very far. But with breakfast ready, you and Daryl walk to the dining room table where Marley is sitting next to Uncle Merle, who, with his vast experience in street fighting and multiple arrests, shares with his niece some street smarts as he calls it.

“And listen, honey, if any of those uptight pricks try to mess with ya, ya clench yer fist and lean back to get some momentum 'fore ya hit 'em. Always go for the nose, ya hear me, lil' bunny?”

Marley smiles, oblivious to all kind of conflicts, arguments, and fights outside the walls because she grew up in a close–knit, loving, non–dysfunctional family—quite the opposite to the men’s previous lives in their house.

“Don’t tell her that, you ass—” You press your lips together, just to avoid the torrent of unfiltered words Merle easily earned. “It’s preschool, not a battlefield.”

Daryl shrugs, elbows on the table and chin on his hands.

“I had ma first fight at 6.”

“Me at 4.” Merle replies, not wasting a second to pick up the thread of the conversation, full of pride. “Marley is a Dixon, sweetheart, so s' only a matter of time 'fore she uses those knuckles. Ain't that right, bunny?”

Merle uses a finger to tickle her, and Marley lets out a giggle. With a mental slap, you ask your child to finish her breakfast, but as the minutes tick by, your daughter’s dormant curiosity awakens with every second, asking you if you ever did that, too.

“I’ve never fought anyone.” You try to defend yourself, to create a safe space for her, but you can’t help but narrow your eyes when they scoff, almost in sync.

“Didn’t yer grandfather teach ya how to punch?” Daryl chuckles, one corner of his lip lifting into a smirk.

“And don’ even get me started on that girl who tried to hit on ma baby brotha.” Merle lets out a laugh at the memory, tense seconds after that girl said she could handle you when Daryl told her he was married. “Poor soul. Those sugartits of hers must be rottin’ away now.”

He even makes the sign of the cross over his face, almost convincing you that Merle believes in God, even though Merle only believes in Merle. But the table falls into an almost tactile silence when the baby of the house’s gaze saddens, blue eyes turning cold like her world.

“What do we do when someone is bullying someone, mama? Daddy?”

The promise of physical or mental pain in Marley makes Daryl hold his breath, but when silent gazes meet wondering what to do, he manages to let out the air before speaking.

“Is someone bullyin' ya, angel?”

“S' that damn Chinese kid, ain’t it?” Merle leans in toward her, like he’s trying to get information out of her like the bad cop. "Tell me the truth, honey, Uncle Merle will take care of everythin'."

“Uncle Merle, Hersh is Korean!” Marley frowns in frustration, but she shakes her head to ease all your concerns. “No. Miss Elena teaches us about bullying and that it’s bad for self–esteem.”

An hour later, the sun is shining and fluffy clouds adorn the endless horizon when you open the door as Daryl kneels to tie his daughter's shoelaces at the entrance, and everything is painting in beautiful shades of blue like Marley’s eyes, as bright as the promise of living a different life outside of home, learning from books like her mom, and enjoying games with other children her age like her dad and uncle when they were kids. Hershel is 6 and walking down the street, accompanied by Matty, a 5–year–old boy with caramel–colored hair like candy, sweet like his shy personality when he sat reading on his porch with his round–framed glasses, but he's a little gentleman, always saying hello and have a nice day.

“Hey, Auntie (Y/N)!” The eyes of Maggie and Glenn’s son narrow adorably as he smiles, happily taking in your greeting and the way Daryl waves back and nudges Merle to make him swallow his racist comments. “Are you ready, Marley?”

Marley smiles at them and takes a few steps toward the porch stairs until she stops as her mind screams at her to do what she always does before she left home.

“Bye, Mommy, bye, Daddy, bye, Uncle.” She waves, turning on her heels then to head down the stairs.

Daryl watches her go, her brown hair like his own rocking in the spring wind with her excited walk, her brown capybara backpack following her movements. Colors have no gender, and neither did the clothes you two dressed Marley in, always neutral because she never liked bright dresses or tiaras for her unruly hair like her father's.

But the moment Matty and Hershel take his daughter’s hand, Daryl and Merle’s scowls become more prominent with the surprise and the overflowing anger that is born within them in a single second.

“What the fuck?” The brothers say, in unison.

“I knew that damn Chinese boy wanted somethin' with ma bunny.” Merle’s words sour his mouth, but he makes the monumental effort not to spit out.

“Hershel is Korean, you fuc— racist.” You grimace in disgust, free to blurt out those words on an empty street.

“Whatever.” He answers, without a drop of regret, his voice deepening with the confidence in his words. “We have to do somethin' 'fore one of those bandits steals our baby, lil' brotha, that Chinese boy or the nerd one.”

You exhale, because your body can’t take any more of the stupidity you hear from him.

“Matty is sweet and he’s not a nerd just because he wears glasses. I wore reading glasses too.”

“Yeah, but ya looked cute, he looks stupid.” Merle scoffs, looking back at Daryl. “Whatcha sayin', baby brotha? Are we makin' it look like an accident or not?”

You want to roll your eyes at all the nonsense you hear, but alarm bells go off with a panicked expression from you, eyes slightly widened in response to Daryl's silence, who, you can see, is seriously considering the idea.

“You two are damaged, really.” You squint, but annoyance makes you shake your head in disbelief. “Although their names do in fact rhyme, Marley, Matty…”

Your laughter dies when Daryl narrows his eyes at you, because the bile by that confusing feeling in the pit of his stomach makes his mouth sour as well.

“Stop it, woman, m’ warnin' ya.”

You chuckle, tilting your head slightly to look at him sarcastically.

“Or what?”

“Or there is no sex for ya tonight.”

He says it so seriously, because he means it, normal words that cause a big laugh in Merle, so open because time had given Daryl the confidence to joke about your intimacy in front of his brother.

You scoff.

“You know what? It would be better if you slept in Marley's bed or with your dear brother tonight.” With your head, you point to the accused present, although Merle frowns in displeasure. “Leave those children alone, you assholes. Now go do something useful with your lives instead of killing Marley’s friends with your eyes. I have to go back to work so please wait for her for lunch. And I beg you, don’t do anything stupid.”

With a tired sigh, because life had rewarded you with 3 children and not just one, (a titanic task of raising them because the older ones were already programmed with wrong ideas) you go to work at the infirmary. But in the company of their primitive thoughts (although not wrong ones unfortunately) their eyes meet and they come to a revelation.

“We’re doin’ it. Hell yeah.” Merle chuckles. “But if yer dear wife finds out, she’s gonna kick yer ugly ass an' mine as well. An' I ain't even married to that scary woman!”

Daryl wants to say no, but that sixth sense of fatherhood that awakened in him when Marley was born is sending too many signals to his body to ignore.

“Whatever, m’ sleepin' in ma kid's bed anyway whether this goes wrong or not.”

“That’s the attitude, brotha!" Merle smiles. "Cause I ain't lettin' ya sleep with me, over ma dead body.”

An hour and a half later, the Dixon brothers are standing to one side of Elena’s house, in the shadows of the wall where the sunlight can't reach, while a small group of children are playing in the makeshift playground in the backyard. Marley runs around the place like a free soul, laughing in a world rising from the ashes. She loved to walk barefoot in the dirt outside Alexandria’s walls, exploring and discovering with her body what Mother Nature still had to offer.

But the picture in from of them darkens when a boy bigger than Marley’s size that Daryl recognizes well, (a ghost of the typical bully Merle used to be), pushes Matty to the ground to take away the toys he was sharing with his daughter.

Beside him, Merle laughs watching the scene.

“The lil’ prick can’t even protect himself.”

Daryl's choice is to intervene now or see the altercation unfold, but his fatherly instincts kick in hard when Marley steps in front of the boy to protect Matty, earning a shove to her fragile body that the green grass receives. As if the world were painted red, as if his little girl's life were in mortal danger, Daryl runs to defend Marley, but he stops short (Merle's body crashing into his) when Marley stands up alone cleaning her small hands on her brown pants, only to push the boy as well with a force that is more than physical, the adrenaline that shoots through and makes her stronger than her short 5 years.

“Eat dirt, asshole!” Above his body now, Marley pushes one side of his face with her hands towards the ground.

It’s crazy to Daryl, crazier than thinking the dead came back to life when he grabs his daughter by the waist to remove her from the boy, away from the confusion and blurry vision, though her eyes remain fixed on her target—I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Daryl thinks proudly.

But on the way back home, it’s still absurd to Daryl that he heard his baby girl say a bad word after having protected her innocence from anything offensive all her life.

“Marley…” Daryl looks down to meet his daughter’s curious eyes, blue ones that are as deep as her feelings at her young age. “Who taught ya to say asshole, sweetheart?”

Now that the word is free in the wind, Daryl didn’t see why he shouldn’t say it. But holding Uncle Merle’s hand, Marley’s innocence leads her to look at the eldest Dixon, only to then look at her daddy with a shrug, saying silently: I don't know.

“Ha! That's ma lil’ bunny.” Merle smiles, proud.

But when the men see you sitting on the couch on the porch of the house, Daryl looks down again.

“Good news, angel, daddy's sleepin' in yer room tonight.”

Oblivious to reality, Marley smiles.

@fluffy-dixon

[mrsmangi]

black dahlia ! <3

denial - luigi mangione

♡ flower prompt: black dahlia - lie - meaning: symbolic of betrayal and sadness ♡ w.c.: 2.4k ♡ a/n: wrote this sick af. angsty. hope you guys enjoy!

♡ send me a flower & i'll write a drabble based off the prompt ! ↪ prompts that have been requested

It began with a fleeting look. Luigi never meant to linger, to observe, to hold his glance for just a second too long; but you had a way of drawing people to you, like moths to flame. 

Luigi convinces himself that his attraction to you is harmless, that there’s no real damage in observing the details that make you who you are. He tells himself it’s not a crime to notice the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re bored or how the corners of your eyes crinkle into crow’s feet when you laugh. Those things were small, he reasoned–details anyone could notice, nothing out of the ordinary. He tells himself he’s just being attentive, but the more he notices you, the harder it is to pull away. 

There’s safety in silence, in pretending he doesn’t see what’s so plainly in front of him. Luigi has always been measured with his words, careful not to betray anything more than what’s expected of him. He’s an expert in deflecting, in shifting the conversation to avoid focusing on himself for too long. He offers vague smiles and light-hearted quips that leave questions at bay to his friends–to you. When you ask him about his day, he chooses his answers with precision, giving you just enough to keep the conversation alive, but never enough to come within arm’s reach of him. 

“How was work?” he recalls you once asked, leaning against the counter as he fiddled with a loose thread on his sleeve. 

“Fine,” he replied quickly. “Busy, but you know, the usual.” 

You tilted your head, clearly unconvinced. “You say that every time. Is it really always the same?” 

His lips twitched into a small smile. “Pretty much. Routine keeps the place running, I guess. Not too much room for excitement.” 

You chuckled softly, letting the conversation drop, but he noticed the way your eyes lingered on him. How your smile had faltered at the edges, like you were waiting for him to say something else. Luigi noticed, and he felt the weight of it–your expectation hanging in the air, but said nothing. Instead, he shifted slightly, breaking eye contact like the moment didn’t matter; as though the silence between you didn’t carry all the words he couldn’t bring himself to say. Just like that, the moment slipped away, like it had never existed at all. 

Some moments, though, aren’t so easily brushed off. 

It’s a Thursday evening when you ask Luigi a question he isn’t ready to face. The sun has already set, and the two of you sit across from each other. The faint sound of cars and incoherent conversation passes outside. You’re relaxed, leaning back slightly, but your expression is steady when you speak. 

“Luigi?” you call. 

“Yeah?” he replies, looking up from his phone, eyebrows lifting slightly. 

There’s a pause as you fidget with the hem of your sleeve, gathering your thoughts. You lean forward, gaze meeting his. “Do you ever think about us?” 

For a moment, Luigi stares at you, his brow furrowing as though he doesn’t quite understand the question. “What do you mean?” he asks, voice light, nearly playful, as if you’ve just told him a joke he doesn’t fully get. 

You don’t waver. “You know what I mean, Luigi.” 

He blinks, tilting his head as if he’s searching your face for a clue. “Are you asking if I’ve ever thought about us like…more than friends?” He keeps his tone casual to distract himself from the weight of the question. 

“Yes,” you answer, plainly. 

Before he can help it, he lets out a short, breathy laugh–the kind that sounds more like discomfort than humor. “What?” he says, brows knitting together as he leans back. “You mean, like us? Together?” 

You nod, expression calm but insistent, and Luigi shifts in his seat. “I mean,” he stares, trailing off as he scratches his head, forcing out another quiet chuckle. “I don’t know, I haven’t really…thought about it.” 

He’s lying. He knows it, even as the words leave his mouth. He keeps going, keeps up the casual façade because he can’t tell if admitting the truth would make things better or worse. “We’re just good the way we are, right?” he adds, his voice a little too light. He really hopes you’ll just agree and let the conversation die, just as you have so many other times before. But you don’t. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, watching him with an expression that makes it clear you’re not buying into his act. 

“You’ve really never thought about it?” you press, your tone soft. 

Luigi’s heart gives a sharp twist, but he keeps his face neutral, or at least he tries to. “Not really,” he says, forcing another shrug. His smile feels thin, stretched, like it might just snap under the heaviness of his words. “I just… I guess it’s never crossed my mind, you know?” 

Lie. Lie, lie, lie. It’s a flimsy excuse, and he can see the way your face changes–how your lips press together, the way your eyes narrow, and how your nose scrunches in disbelief. He’s convinced you’ll call him out on his bullshit, but you only nod, sitting back a little. 

“Right,” you say simply, but your voice holds an emotion he can’t name. 

Luigi isn’t ready to carry the weight of the silence that follows. He taps his fingers against his knee, movements precise and practiced, as if he’s trying to convince himself he’s unaffected. Every second that you hold his stare feels like another crack forming in the wall he’s spent so long building. He shifts again in his seat, glancing at the door, the table, anywhere but you, because he knows if he looks at you for too long, the truth will slip out before he can prevent it. 

Have you already figured it out? Have you noticed how his voice falters when he says your name or how he catches himself glancing your way even when there’s no reason to? Maybe you’ve been keeping a record of the times he’s brushed you off in conversation, every moment he’s chosen his words carefully to avoid giving himself away.

His knee bounces once, then twice, and he forces himself to stop, planting both feet firmly on the ground. He clears his throat, but it doesn’t help or ease the tension coiling in his stomach. He knows he should say something, anything, to break the silence, but every word that comes to mind disappears before he can voice it. 

“You okay?” you ask quietly, and Luigi’s stomach twists at the way your words cut into him. 

“Yeah,” he replies quickly. The sound of his own voice feelings foreign, like it doesn’t belong to him. He forces another laugh, but it doesn’t sound convincing. “I just wasn’t expecting this conversation, that’s all.” 

Your eyes linger on him, and he swears he can feel them peeling back every layer he desperately tries to keep intact. Can you hear his heart pounding? See the way his hands are clenching to keep himself from fidgeting? 

“I didn’t mean to throw you off,” you say softly, and your voice is so honest, Luigi finds it harder to keep up the charade. 

He nods, not trusting himself to speak. The only thing he can think about now is how much he simply wants to tell you the truth, how much he wants to admit he thinks about you more often than he’d like to admit, how much it kills him to act like you don’t mean more to him than you should. 

It’s for the best, he thinks as you finally look away. He says nothing. Your attention shifts to something else and Luigi tells himself that keeping his distance will protect you–the both of you–from the complications of what could be. The space between you feels wider than it ever has before, and Luigi knows it’s his fault. He’s created this distance, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear. 

“Thanks for your honesty,” you add, though the words sound hollow. 

He wants to say more, to explain himself, to pull you back from the space that seems to have opened between you at that moment; but Luigi only watches as you smile–polite, but not warm. You shift back slightly, to create distance from him, even as he sits with you in the same room. 

After that, things change. 

Luigi notices the way you pull back, the way your laughter becomes less frequent around him, the way you seem to hesitate before starting conversations you once dove into effortlessly. He hates it, hates himself for putting that distance between you. Still, he tells himself it’s what’s right, that keeping you at a distance spares you both from destruction. He can’t stop himself from having moments of weakness. 

A few days later, it’s a late afternoon when the two of you end up on a park bench, although neither of you is entirely sure why you’re there. You had sent Luigi a text earlier in the day, asking if he wanted to get some fresh air. He hesitated, staring at the screen for longer than he should have before replying with a simple, “Sure. Meet you at the park.” 

There wasn’t a plan to say anything heavy–it was supposed to just be a walk, casual, quiet conversation to fill the gap that had been growing between you. As the two of you meandered through the trails, the silence felt heavier than usual. Every lighthearted comment you attempted to make seemed to fall flat, and Luigi couldn’t help but give clipped, almost distracted responses. 

When you spot a bench tucked beneath the shade of an old oak tree, you gesture to it. “Want to sit for a bit?” 

Luigi glances at you, observing you, before nodding. “Yeah. Sure.” 

So, here you sit, side by side, the quiet stretches on. Neither of you speak for a while, and it’s only when the silence finally becomes unbearable that Luigi breaks it. “You’ve been quiet lately,” he says, voice soft, but his words carry an unrecognizable edge. 

“Have I?” you ask plainly, your foot nudging a stray leaf. 

“Yeah. Feels like…you’ve been pulling away,” he nods, exhaling a breath. 

You don’t respond, tracing the grooves of the bench’s armrest with your fingertips. Your lips press together before you finally speak. “Maybe I am,” you admit. 

Luigi’s stomach turns. He forces himself to look at you, brows furrowing. “Why?” he asks, even though there’s a knot in his chest that tells him he already knows the answer. 

“I’ve been so stuck, Luigi,” you say, looking at him. You hold his gaze longer than you have in weeks. There’s a look in your eye that he can’t place–one of hurt, maybe, or resignation. “I’ve been standing still in the same place for days, weeks…and you’ve already made up your mind.” 

He opens his mouth slightly, as if he’s about to argue, to tell you that you’re wrong, that he hasn’t decided anything, but no sound comes out. The truth–messy, tangled, and heavy–lodges itself in his throat, impossible to force past the weight of the lie he’s been holding onto: he doesn’t have feelings for you. Instead, he looks at his hands, jaw clenching. 

“You know, it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way,” you continue after a beat, gently. “I’m not trying to…force anything, but it’s hard to keep pretending everything’s fine when it feels like you’re not being honest with me, Luigi–or with yourself.” 

He knows he should give you an answer, something solid. A part of him wonders if this is the point of no return–if saying nothing will just make you drift further away from him. His mind churns with half-formed thoughts, excuses he doesn’t even believe, but all that slips out is a weak, “I don’t know what to say. I didn’t realize it felt that way to you.” 

Luigi hears your sigh. From the corner of his eye, you shift slightly, leaning away from him on the bench. As much as he’d like to reach for you, he stays in place, hands interlocked together in his lap. 

“Um,” you begin and pause. You sigh again, leaning back against the bench. “I think I need a fresh start.” Your voice is tinged with sadness, and Luigi suddenly feels uneasy for a reason he can’t explain. “Somewhere new. Different.” 

Luigi feels his chest tighten, stomach falling at your words. He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there’s a finality in your face that he isn’t ready to confront. He manages a small nod, voice strained as he mutters, “That makes sense.” 

You gaze at him, softly and with resolute, and then glance down at your shoes. “My mom has been asking me to come stay with her for a while,” you confess, sounding uncertain. “She thinks a change of scenery might be good for me. She’s in California now, close to the coast, actually. She’s been saying I could take some time to figure things out, you know? Clear my head and whatnot.” 

Luigi says nothing. He should say something–ask you not to go, tell you that you don’t need to figure things out on your own, he’s here for you–but he only nods again, forcing himself to meet your gaze. “That sounds nice,” he says softly. 

“Yeah,” you say, smiling faintly. It doesn’t reach your eyes. “I think it might be what I need. It’s not forever, just a little while, but it feels like the right thing to do.” 

His heart sinks further at his words, and he watches as your gaze drifts, your mind clearly elsewhere. Maybe you’re daydreaming about the possibilities of what a fresh start could mean for you. Luigi wants to tell you that he’s sorry, to apologize for the reason you’re feeling lost, but he doesn’t know how. 

Finally, you stand, movements slow as if you’re preparing to leave something behind. Leave him behind. “Take care, Luigi,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. Then, without another word, you turn and walk away, footsteps light. 

Luigi stays on the bench, rooted to his seat, hands clasped tightly in his lap as he watches you disappear down the path. As the sun dips lower and the world around him continues to move, Luigi remains frozen on the bench, clinging to the fragile hope that this isn’t the end—holding on to denial, even though deep down, he knows you’re already gone.

[ryleektv]

Sleepless Nights

Lorenzo Berkshire x f!reader

WARNINGS: 18+, smut, more smut, even more smut, no plot, language, oral (f!receiving), not proofread!! SUMMARY: waking up bf!enzo to help you "relax"

WC: 765

"Enzo," You murmured, pressing small kisses to his neck with a smile. "Enzo, wake up, sleeping beauty."

He groaned groggily and fluttered his eyes open for a moment, blinking for a moment as you pressed a kiss to his lips before kissing you back slowly. "Time s'it?"

"I don't know. Early." You whispered, yelping in surprise as he pulled you down on top of him. 

"You're a demon, you know. Waking me up at God knows what time, for this." 

"You told me to wake you up," You smirked as he slowly turned you both around and propped himself up over you, his eyes fluttering back closed for a quick second before kissing you forehead. "If you're too tired we really don't have to. I just thought-"

"Shh." He hushed you, running the pad of his thumb along the cut of your cheek with a tired smile. "I'm never too tired for you, 'promise. I'm glad you woke me up."

You cupped his face in your hands with a small sigh. "I'm not over how attractive you are. It's to a disgusting extent."

"You'll never let me forget." He yawned, drowsily brushing his hand through his soft brown hair to push it out of his eyes. "Thought you fell asleep before me."

"I did, then I woke up. Couldn't fall back asleep."

"Mhm," He hummed, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before trailing more sloppy kisses down your neck and moving up your (his) shirt to press more kisses along your stomach as he propped himself and your legs up.

"What's keeping you up?" His voice was soft, loving, quiet. Lorenzo's hands held your hips for a moment with a small admiring smile before hooking his fingers in the waistband of your panties and gently pulling them down.

You lifted your hips a bit before resting back down as he slipped the fabric off of you and discarded it somewhere you didn't see.

"I don't know," You shrugged, your heart beating faster as he slowly let his middle finger drag through the pooling wetness between your legs. You let out a satisfied hum and watched him prop your thighs over his shoulders. "Just stress, maybe."

"Why're you stressed, darling?" He breathed out, sucking small marks to your inner thighs contently before pressing a kiss to your clit, smiling at the soft whine escaping your lips.

"Fuck," You whispered. "Don't know, Enzo."

"Well," Lorenzo murmured, eyes locked with yours as his lips pulled up into a small smirk. "I'm sure I know a way or two to help take your mind off of things."

"If I remember correctly, you know a lot more- shit, Enzo!" You let out a gasping moan, fingers threading through his silky brown hair and holding onto him like a lifeline as he promptly buried his face between your legs, cutting off your sarcastic (and true) remark as every lick merged with the next.

Enzo was great with his hands, but an expert with his mouth. He sucked and licked at heavenly paces, switching between slow and gentle before going right to pushing you to the edge faster than you ever thought possible, then just to drag it out for the fun of it.

"Taste so good, darling," He groaned into your core, holding one of your thighs against his shoulder to stop you from squirming. The vibrations of his words only heightened it all, one of your hands tugging rougher at his hair with the other sunk a deadly grip in the sheets beneath you.

He worked harder, if possible, at the feel of your fingers in his hair, his tongue circling your clit before he sucked in pulses.

Between Enzo's clear expertise and your previous mood, you were already close, already right there, practically begging for that one push, to tip you over into pure ecstasy.

"C'mon, love," He looked up at you through his shading eyelashes, his dark eyes sparkling with desire as he brought two fingers to your entrance and pushed them in, quickly curling up.

Your back arched as you moaned his name, thighs wrapping tighter and head tipping back onto the pillows. "Enzo, Enzo- oh, fuck,"

Without warning you came hard, lips parted as you panted for air, pleasure coursing through your body as hot flashed all over.

Enzo's gentle touch was quick to ground you, his smile meeting you as he rested his head on your thigh, his hands loosely holding your hips.

"Still stressed?"

"Not nearly as much," You sighed contently as he stood up to get a small towel and clean up the mess you two had made.

He laughed from the bathroom. "Feel free to wake me up anytime,"

omg guess who just fucking got back from grippy socks vacation!!!!! meeeeeee

im good tho in all seriousness

anywayssss

hope you liked it pookies

and please for the love of everything send in some requests!!!

[ranticore]

I wanted to keep drawing some pern dragon stuff because I'm now writing a full AU set in weyr but I didn't want to put this stuff on my main blog or patreon due to it being basically for my own reference, though i felt others would like it too! so here is My Take On Dragon Wings By Type...

It's no secret I love drawing bird wings and prefer them a lot over traditional dragon wings. Growing up, I read the pern books featuring cover art of dragonfly-like wings with lots of little translucent panels, which I always loved. So I thought I'd try to nail down some wing shapes & structures by blending those two things i like together. I am aware dragons fly by telekinesis but I prefer a more realistic type of creature design so I will be choosing to ignore that fact. I do not care about strict canon compliance but I do like to keep some of that framework there as well, for fun.

The wing is made up of three main sails, as well as a propatagium sail (in front of the elbow). They are relatively polymorphic and can expand or contract to an extent to change the shape of the wing in response to flight demands, like the wing of an airliner. The trailing edge can expand and the slots between the spars of the 1st wingsail can deepen or become shallower (where those are a feature). The main structural matrix is opaque, while the membranous 'sails' are translucent and let light through like stained glass. These are a bilayer of membrane with air sandwiched between, which forms part of the air sac & respiratory system.

It makes sense for the original engineers of dragons to diversify dragon wing types by colour so that when fighting Thread, there's a dragon for every conceivable aerial job.

[individual descriptions under the cut]

Queens have the longest wings, though the largest bronzes can rival them for surface area. Gold wings are high endurance - a queen can fly further than any other dragon in active level flight, leaving even the swiftest bronzes behind if they can't muster up the energy reserves to catch her. She is an effective flier at all elevations and can pass very low over terrain without issue as well; she is an expert at taking advantage of the ground effect, where extra lift is generated within one half of a wingspan above land. This way, she can pass low below the main wings fighting Thread to catch any stragglers without expending too much energy. However, she is not very agile and may need a bit of a run-up or cliff-edge to get airborne.

Bronzes are suited for command positions during Threadfall, rising highest and maintaining that altitude effortlessly by soaring on thermals. From this vantage point they can easily survey the wings of riders below and make tactical decisions to direct the tide of battle. They have the size and stamina to chase queens, but might find it difficult to keep up on the flat, so they continually select for fitter hatchlings as only the best manage to mate. It takes a very clever and agile bronze to catch a green, if they are so inclined.

Browns are swift, highly agile, and the fastest vertical fliers, ideal for diving through the Thread mass from top to bottom while the other types pass horizontally. During earlier Passes, browns were capable of using their speed to catch queens, but as queen & bronze endurance gradually increased, browns struggle to keep up if they haven't managed to immediately catch their mate in the starting scrum, which is unlikely due to the bulkier bronze dragons being able to shove the browns aside.

Blues are fast on the flat and nicely manoeuvrable, with enough endurance to last a full Threadfall. Good all-rounders with a characteristic vertical take-off, they work best in the horizontal plane in battle but really they can do a little bit of everything. They often beat browns to catch greens, being very precise in flight and almost as manoeuvrable as their green mates.

Greens make up for their low stamina with their extreme manoeuvrability. Their short and elliptical wings let them turn on a dime, hover, and even fly backwards if they are sufficiently skilled. They have the fastest wingbeats, flying with a distinct thrumming sound. Of all the types they are least likely to be hit by a stray Thread, but they tire easily on the flat and have no soaring ability at all, often tapping out midway through battle in favour of replacements. In battle, greens excel at catching odd and skewed clumps of Thread that don't fall as predicted, or ones that are missed by the other riders. Green mating flights are a whole different beast to gold mating flights, where extreme aerial acrobatics are favoured instead of endurance and altitude, and these flights may be over within seconds. You need to be able to withstand a Lot of G-force to be a green rider.

[w0rmss]

Dinner with Roy harper (nsfw)

This is just roy harper eating you out cause I can.

Also feel free to request something my inbox is empty :(

Tw: oral sex (f) afab reader and roy has a tongue piercing cause I'm a slut for roy harper covered in piercings okay

Enjoy

You knew dating a single dad wasn't going to be easy, but you loved roy and lian and could image a world without them. That being said date nights were rare between lian and roy being gone for missions so often the two of you rarely had time for just the two of you. Date nights were non existent sex was quick and quiet while lian was asleep or the rare times you were both home while she was at school. Tonight though it was just the two of you.

Lian was at a friend's for a sleep over roy had made sure no one was to call him unless aliens were invading and even then. And you turned off your phone amd work things ready for a night of just the two of you. "What take out do you want." You call to him from the kitchen looking at all the menus. "Thia pizza sushi Indian." Then you feel him come up behind you wrapping his strong arms around you. Next thing you know you've been turned around and lifted onto the counter top. "You." You grins and kisses you hard.

Your hands grab at his hair tugging him closers as he makes his was down your body. He's stripped you and played you down on the counter like you're his whole meal. "Roy." You gasp as you feel his breath hot against your soaked pussy. He grins placing a kiss to the sensitive area before moving to kiss along your thighs. You whine tugging at his hair once again trying to bring him back to your aching cunt. "Be patient. I'm trying to savour my meal here baby." The red head looks up at you with a shit eating grin. You want to kill him and fuck him at the same time when he gets that look. "You're enjoying this too much roy." You grumble which turns into a loud moan when the man finally takes you swollen clit into his mouth with a happy hum.

One thing about roy harper is he's good at what he does. Archery crime fighting being a dad. And God is this man good at eating you out. He knows exactly when to kiss to nip to lick to suck and you see stars the whole way. Your fingers and threaded so deep into his hair you're afraid you might rip out his scalp. "Roy please fuck fuck." You moan and writhe against his face earning a chuckle from the man below you. His tongue piercing only adds to the pleasure the feeling of the metal against your entrance mixed with his expert tongue makes your head spin.

Your legs start shaking hips start bucking and it's taking everything in you not to crush his head with your thighs. "Come on baby. Come for me." His voice is low but sweet and with one last suck of your clit and stoke of your thigh you're done for. Your thighs calmp around his head shaking. Your hands pull his head further into you as your hips buck while his tongue never once stops is onslaught on your pussy.

Once you've calmed down enough for him to pry your thighs off his head roy takes his time licking up every last drop of your release moaning at the taste. "So fucking good." You let out a breathless sigh your head falling against the counter as you let him and his tongue clean you up.

Roy harper eats pussy like it's his job and he is too fucking good at it.

Hope you enjoyed

Feel free to request something rules are up

Have a wonderful day night afternoon etc

[hexwhore]

HIII BRIIII I’m so excited you’re doing this AUGHH Smooch kiss

How about 148 + trans Viktor? 👀

Yee-haw baby, your wish is my command 🧚‍♂️🤠

Tags/Warnings: 18+, Trans!Viktor x G!N Reader, modern flavored, public sex, shotgunning the devil's lettuce, frottage. Terms used for Viktor: Tits (pre-op, pierced), cunt.

The split vinyl groans as he levers himself up, felt more than heard. Sounds get lost beneath the mixtape of chatter and heavy reverb, bass like a second heartbeat. You catch the raw hem of his sweater, tugging, shouting, asking: “Where are you going?”

“To smoke,” you read off his lips, invited to slide out of the booth and follow him through the humid churn of darkly dressed bodies. He leads you deeper into the bar, shouldering into the drop-ceiling, checker-tiled bathroom. But this isn’t new, and while you may snort, there’s nothing to say. It’s not as if he’s going where you won’t follow. 

In the second stall, farthest from the door, Viktor props open the inset window like a nimble-fingered expert. And he is—at avoiding the aching cold. He’s considerate about it, nonetheless; convinced that the scent of his vape is present enough to be off-putting, though you hardly ever smell a thing. 

Music melts through the plaster walls, the pulse running through your companionate silence. There is only you, hitched on the sink’s edge, ankles crossed, and him, leaning neatly against the wall, taking a meditative drag from the pen between his fingers. 

You watch his head fall back against the tile and have to wonder: “You wanna go home?” 

“No,” seeps out with his exhale, angled out the window. “I only needed an intermission. This is… fun.”

Your brow lifts.

“I’m having fun.” And his lithe little smile is earnest enough that you believe him. 

Your eyes drift to the door, returning a smile of your own—this one wry. “Not as much as them,” the undisputed champions of PDA, of course. Last you saw, Caitlyn had her hands in Vi’s patchy black, spray-dyed hair, and they were getting hot and heavy in front of the sound booth like the main characters of emo night at The Last Drop. 

“Mm.” He offers out the vape, drawing you off the sink and into the stall. “Their definition seems somewhat different.” 

“Not that different,” you shrug, plucking it from his cold fingers. “Just less subtle.” 

The shade of interest that darkens his eyes certainly is, something warm sparking to life between your bodies inching closer. You meant it to be heady, but your slow pull, holding his stare, is not as pretty and graceful as his had been. It tickles at first before the burn in your throat, your lungs, registers. Makes you sputter into your arm like you’re green as he takes the pen back—the cheap one that runs too hot—with a soft laugh.

“I forgot to charge the good one,” he apologizes, touch soothing over your shoulder. 

With one final cough and your watery eyes wiped, you begin to step back and grieve the ruined moment. (Which, yes, is completely his fault.) 

But his hand fits to the curve of your jaw. “A solution,” he murmurs as he shapes his mouth around the intake, and you follow the intimate thread of his logic. He breathes in, you breathe out. He leans back, you crowd closer. And when he seals to your lips, in accordance with this tidal push and pull, you drink deep of that earthy vapor and let his breath pool in your lungs. 

You pull away, barely able to exhale, before he’s hauling you back by the jacket and licking into your mouth like he wants to taste your teeth. You have the good sense to fumble the door closed, catching a split, smudged second of yourself in the mirror, framed in the stall, tangling into him.

Viktor pants into your mouth, and your hands grope beneath his sweater, eliciting a breathy, “Fuck,” out of him. His tits are subtle and sensitive, malleable in your hands like supple dough—a  harsh contrast to the ball-capped bars lanced through the center of each.  

“Don’t make too many noises or we’ll get caught,” you hush, as if thumbing his steel shot nipple helps. 

His jaw falls open, throat cinching around a fractured sound. Still, licking his spit-slick lips, he manages to chide, “That’s part of the thrill,” urging his chest into your hands for more. 

But you want more too. 

More takes shape to be his long, bird-boned arm draped over your shoulders, his pants shoved down and the thick, crude smell of sweat and slick in your nose; it is your grip on his narrow hips, at once setting the pace and letting yourself be used. His dark hair bobs starkly against the white tile, silver earrings glinting—all in the periphery of your focus. Because when you’re not watching him rut bare against your thigh, his swollen cunt catching and dragging when it meets skin through the rips in your dark jeans...

You can’t stop looking at his hand, clapped over his own mouth.

[bradleysass]

Spring - @black-brothers-microfic - wc: 691 - Starchaser

James had always been a classical music guy, but not in the way Regulus was. James was a piano prodigy—he could make the keys sing, could command an entire room with nothing but a melody and his hands. But there was no piano in Vivaldi’s Spring, and for once, James was content just to listen.

“You’re staring,” Regulus muttered, not looking up from his sheet music.

James grinned, unrepentant. “I’m admiring.”

Regulus sighed, but there was a telltale dusting of pink on his ears as he adjusted his grip on the violin. He stood in the music room, posture perfect, bow poised over the strings. The room was dimly lit, a soft golden glow from the overhead lights giving everything a warm hue. James was perched on the old piano bench, fingers tapping absently against the closed lid, watching.

“You’re supposed to be helping me,” Regulus reminded him.

“I am helping,” James argued. “I’m providing moral support.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but he lifted the violin to his chin and took a steadying breath. Then, he played.

Vivaldi’s Spring filled the room, notes tumbling over one another like raindrops against glass, bright and sharp and alive. James felt his chest tighten, caught in the sound, in the way Regulus swayed just slightly with the movement of the bow. His eyes were closed, lashes casting shadows against his cheekbones, completely lost in the music.

It was unfair, really, how beautiful he was.

When Regulus reached the more intricate part of the solo, he faltered, a frown flickering across his face as his fingers stumbled. He pulled the bow away with a frustrated breath. “That part is impossible,” he muttered.

James sat up, leaning forward. “It’s not impossible,” he said. “You were just overthinking it.”

Regulus arched a delicate eyebrow. “Oh? And you’re an expert now?”

James smirked. “I know you. And I know that when you get stuck, you get in your head about it.”

Regulus pursed his lips, considering. Then, with a small sigh, he repositioned the violin and tried again. This time, James didn’t say anything, didn’t interrupt. He just watched as Regulus took a breath and played, letting the music guide him instead of chasing perfection.

And this time, he got it right.

Regulus’ eyes flickered open when he reached the end of the passage, expression somewhere between disbelief and satisfaction. He turned to James, who was grinning like a fool.

“See?” James said, triumphant. “Told you so.”

Regulus exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are, letting me watch you play,” James pointed out. “I must be doing something right.”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He just looked at James, something quiet and unreadable in his gaze. Then, so softly James barely caught it, he said, “Yeah. You are.”

James’ heart stumbled over itself, and he wondered, not for the first time, if he was absolutely doomed.

Regulus set his violin down, stretching his fingers. James watched the way they moved, slender and nimble, the same way they danced over the violin strings with effortless precision. He had a sudden, absurd thought that those fingers would be equally at home pressed against his own—against James’ hands, guiding them over piano keys, threading through his hair.

“Play something for me,” Regulus said suddenly, nodding toward the piano.

James blinked. “What?”

“You always make me play,” Regulus said, tilting his head slightly. “It’s only fair.”

James huffed a laugh but didn’t argue. He shifted on the bench, lifting the piano lid, letting his fingers hover over the keys for a moment before pressing down. A soft melody filled the room, something slow and warm, entirely improvised. He wasn’t sure what he was playing, only that it felt right.

Regulus leaned against the violin stand, eyes closed as he listened. “It’s not Vivaldi,” he murmured, a hint of a smile on his lips.

“No,” James agreed. “But it’s for you.”

Something flickered across Regulus’ face, something James couldn’t quite name. But he didn’t look away, and James didn’t stop playing, not even when he realized he was completely and utterly in love with him.

[itsappleexpert]

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[strawberrystepmom]

touch me so i know i am still here | two

cw: description of murder, age gap between dante and reader. detective dante sparda x investigative journalist f!reader. | word count: 1.9k, reading time: approx. 7 min.

notes: for the purposes of this fic, dante's last name is sparda. i know this is not his canon last name. thanks for suspending disbelief for my sake <3 uh. this series is violent and dark but it's not heavy, it's actually pretty funny and cheeky considering the subject matter so i hope you like it!

this is the second part of a series. each post will contain warnings that pertain to that particular chapter. | part: one

8,456 days or the equivalent of just a touch over 23 years. 

That’s the last time Dante Sparda saw his mother, her skin luminous with life while blood thrummed through her veins. Her smile was bright, her hair was as golden as the sun, her love warmer than the dog days of summer. 

8,455 nights of terror have forced him to witness her gray and lifeless, a red pool around her form and staining the skirt he clung to for far too many years every time he closes his eyes. 

8,456 nights if he counts the dream that just startled him awake. 

He doesn’t know what time it is and he doesn’t care, the light shining through the crack in his blackout curtains lets him know it’s daytime either way. Digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, he groans and grumbles while rolling around amongst disheveled sheets and blankets. Feeling around blindly, eyes still partially closed, he manages to find his phone and lifts it to his face.

+1 (331) 555-9952: get some sleep.

That was received at 3:31 am. It’s now 8:15 and he scrambles to unlock and look at who on earth he was talking to, furrowing his brows and slowly sitting up. His head is pounding, probably from lack of sleep and too much whiskey both, body slowly coming alive. His heart is also pounding, a little nervous to find out what the emboldened man of a few hours ago must have said through the course of this conversation.

Tired eyes fall to the first blue sent bubble in the thread. Message sent at 2:01 am. 

Me: This research is something else. Do you even have a life?

Morning Dante can’t be bothered to scoff at night Dante’s antics so he keeps swiping down, seeing your reply came at 2:05 am. Are you a night owl? Perhaps just a fellow alcoholic?

+1 (331) 555-9952: detective sparda?

Next message was sent at 2:10 am, probably while he was standing at his kitchen counter shuffling through the maps and notebooks you provided to him. 

Me: You can call me Dante

Now there’s a bit of a gap between responses. 3:18 am is the stamp on the next message.

+1 (331) 555-9952: and you can call me in the morning. It’s a little late for this.

At the very least you’re a tough egg to crack, clearly. His next message came at 3:20 am.

Me: Or early depending on who you ask

Thankfully, it appears he was spared by your gentle response, the message he saw on his lock screen, to this text from saying anything further. Or he passed out. Either could be true but now he’s left in the harsh light of day wondering - genuinely wondering - how many hours of your life you’ve devoted life to solving this case. 

Most likely as many as he has. 

You’re probably 28 or so, maybe a little older if his expert opinion yesterday was correct. It usually is so that means there’s at least a decade of time between your lives. That would’ve made you around 20 when you lost your sister and the sheer volume of notes, journals, and alleged sighting print outs you handed him scream that this has been your life since then. 

Have you ever had an opportunity to be normal? Young? Free? He was 15 when his mother died so he knows that your youth dies quickly and often unceremoniously when tragedy occurs. 

Swiping out of the messages app, he opens the browser that exposes he was apparently also looking you up when he fell asleep last night. You don’t have a social media presence that he was able to find, only locating a little bio and photo of you on the newspaper’s website. You started as a crime beat reporter and have worked your way up to being officially called an investigative journalist which is impressive in such a short time if he’s correct about your age. 

This too is closed, swiped away so he doesn’t have to think about it. Immediately his phone rings and he scrambles to answer it, making a poor attempt to clear his dry throat before speaking.

“Hello?”

Dante isn’t entirely sure how he knows it’s you by giggling alone but he knows. 

“I told you we’d talk today. Did I wake you?”

It’s definitely you. There’s amusement in your voice, clearly committing to rolling with the punches after his slightly inappropriate after hours text messages. 

“No, of course not. I just got done working out, a five mile run, you know.”

You hum flatly through the other end of the phone.

“Call me once you’re alert, alright? Sorry for bugging you so early.”

Staring at his reflection, the detective contemplates the man he sees looking back at him. He hates his job and the oppressive loneliness that comes with it though he’s realistic enough to admit that most of the loneliness is self imposed. They ask him to come out for drinks and dinner but he declines knowing he prefers his own company. He doesn’t have to explain why he’s like this to anyone if he keeps to himself. 

But you…you understand at least in an abstract way. Profound loss leaves profound scarring meaning there is no way that you don’t have some of your own, wise beyond your years due to no fault of your own. Unpacking all of this means doing it alongside you. 

Can he ever put the pain back if he lays it out for you to look at, just like you have allowed him to see yours? 

Leaning over the sink, he flips on the cool water and splashes some over his face. He looks up and groans at the dark circles, the overgrown stubble, the hair falling over his eyes. If this is what pretending like it never happened has made him maybe talking about it can make him better.

It’s not that your unexpected presence has wounded Dante, no. It’s that you’ve reminded him to look down to witness the wound he already has gape and ooze for the first time in a very long time. He can cauterize it with this.

Drying his face on his t-shirt, he picks up his phone and calls back the last number that called him.

“He–”

“Let’s get lunch today.”

You don’t like being interrupted so you huff impatiently. The ticking seconds of silence feel awkward enough that he steps into the role he plays best - daytime Dante, smiling to himself jovially.

“Sorry. It’s Dante. Let’s get lunch.”

The smile falters when your silence continues. A reassuring but clearly caught off guard laugh comes through the speaker causing that smile to pick back up.

“I do happen to have caller ID. What time?”

So he hasn’t ruined his chance to help you get closure and you’ve saved his contact information in your phone. Score.

“How’s one? I can swing by the paper and pick you up.”

Sucking your teeth, you hum through the speaker and pretend to think. 

“I guess I can make some time. Don’t be late.”

Your mind was already made up the moment he stepped foot in front of you.

—

“I was serious last night when I asked if you have a life.”

His statement seems a lot more charming on a bright afternoon than it did before the sun had even risen. Laughing despite yourself, your hand absentmindedly spears pieces of lettuce on the tines of your fork but never quite lifts the utensil up to your mouth to eat. 

You’re too busy talking to really be preoccupied with an overpriced salad. 

“If you consider a life to be texting a woman you’ve known for less than a day at two in the morning to accost her about her life choices then no, I don’t have one.”

The one thing you’ve learned about Detective Sparda in the very short time he has been in your life is that he’s funny. Impeccably sharp and quick witted, anything you lob at him is met with equal vigor and a smirk to match. It sort of pisses you off. 

Dante takes a sip from his water and shrugs at you, smiling lopsidedly.

“Listen, I was simply amazed by what I was seeing in front of me. You have almost decade old journals preserved perfectly and newspaper clippings from a time when you were probably still playing hopscotch. Can’t a guy get excited?”

Excited. It feels like a strange word to summarize this situation but frankly, you feel it too. There’s excitement, a spark of belief that the two of you can send the other on a trail to peace by working on this together. The fact he feels it as well makes you relax, posture softening while a lazy smile comes over your face. You drop the fork, instead propping your head up with your fist.

“That’s just one folder. I have boxes and boxes and boxes if you’re interested in seeing them.”

Your apartment is home to a box for each of his seven victims. Each box houses their journals, photos, and mementos their families have given you over the years. Only one of them has remained remarkably bare boned and that’s the box belonging to Eva Sparda, one of her sons totally unlocatable outside of some strange mutterings about his links with a rumored cult that is based a few cities away and the other is sitting in front of you. It feels voyeuristic and strange. 

It doesn’t stop you from smiling at her son all the same.

“Unsurprising,” he teases, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back in his chair to get a good look at you. “I’m sure you have one for every person who has ever been on your bad side too.”

Snorting, you shake your head.

“That’s where you’re wrong, I’m pretty good at living and letting live for petty things like breakups and cheating and whatever else.”

Petty is such a curious word choice, Dante thinks. Relationships and heartbreak and success and failure all seem petty when the weight of what happened really bears down on your life. He’s felt this way for years; it’s a dull and familiar ache.

“So you only stalk murderers, good to know.” He nods, crossing his long legs out in front of him. “Why aren’t you a detective? You clearly don’t mind the work…”

Laughing, you finish it off with a wistful sigh. “I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Crime came later than that dream so it’s where I landed. Besides, being a cop sounds really shitty.”

There’s no hiding the displeased look on your face and the man next to you laughs at it openly, shaking his head.

“It is. It’s really, really shitty. I only decided to do it ‘cause, well - you know why.”

And know you do, nodding sympathetically. 

The pair of you had dreams before they were ripped away from you cruelly. You’ve managed to mutually make do ever since which deserves its own applause but your lunch break is running out leaving little time to ruminate upon the circumstances you’ve found yourselves in.

“I do.” You confirm, sitting up in your seat and shifting uncomfortably. “And I’m going to assume from this point forward that you are actually agreeing to work with me on this.”

Extending his hand across the table, he nods toward it.

“I’m all yours until we figure it out and the return policy sucks.”

His mind was made up the minute he walked around the corner and saw you standing in front of Trish’s desk.

[butmakeitgayblog]

Medusa and The Blind Woman

First Kiss

(spoilers!!!! Not posted yet so read at your own spoilage)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lexa takes a deep breath, feeling her hands turn clammy as the idea suddenly takes her. Because the moment is so peaceful and Clarke feels so, so good pressed this close. And she doesn't want to overstep, doesn't want to break these tendrils of forgiveness she feels being woven thread by thread between them.

But she wants this and she wants, needs, Clarke to know. 

Scooting back just enough to lift and slip her leg over to the other side, Lexa ignores the questioning look Clarke gives her at the sudden shuffle and readjusts in small shifts until she's sat right behind her.

She keeps her movements slow as she nestles in closer around Clarke's hips, bracketing her there in the loose safety of her arms and legs.

The air explodes in a burst of perfumed lilac that scent Clarke's hair as Lexa leans over her shoulder to see the world before them. She scoops up Clarke's other hand and holds it the same as the first, careful not to let the shake of her nerves betray the steady yield of her hand. 

"And over here, along this path, are the berry patches and gardens. The wild berries sit there, then the grapes and rows of herbs, and finally the blackberries you so love with your wine." Lexa keeps her voice light with each subtle movement, afraid to startle away the calm that had settled over the moment as she uses Clarke's hand to mark the air from the farthest plot of land, inward.  

"I certainly know that place too," Clarke says, turning just enough for Lexa to catch a glimpse of her lopsided smile, undoubtedly sharing the same memories of Clarke lounging amongst the greenery as she plucked stray berries and popped them into her mouth instead of actually helping. "Although, you are right. They're much better with your— What did you call it? Degenerate wine?"

Lexa feels her ribcage expand with the rush of emotion at the mention of that night. That evening spent sprawled out under a blanket of stars as they passed back and forth a jug of too-sweet wine and finally began to let each other in. 

It's a terrible wonder how she could've been so blind to what was happening; to have not seen what was so clearly right in front of her. Her stomach swoops with a pang of guilt at every mistake she had made since, and sinks at the thought of what time she has wasted. 

How she had broken the trust of the woman in her arms, the trust that had been building from that night onward. How she'd let it get muddied by her own idiocy and stubbornness. By her pride. By her fear.

Her thoughts are interrupted by Clarke's heavenly sigh. The one she saves for the dying end of her laugh, the one that sounds sweeter than most. "Well. For what it's worth, from a non-expert at least… I like your wine."

It's overwhelming but so welcome when Clarke leans back heavier against her chest, nestling herself tightly into Lexa's arms. Swallowing against the sudden lump that's taken up residence in her throat, Lexa tips her head to the side in a brush against Clarke's temple and rests there. 

"I'm glad."

The distant crash of the ocean echoes off the rockface and suddenly the world feels like it's made up of only them. Two forgotten souls on a long forgotten island, perched on the precipice where the earth ends and the cosmos littered skies begin. 

Lexa looks out to the horizon and makes a wish she hopes rings through the hills of Olympus that for once, just this once, her daydream didn't have to end.

"What's next?"

The soft call of Clarke's voice breaks Lexa from her reverie. She shifts back to find twin pools of blue turned toward her. Unseeing, and seeing right through her. 

"What?" she breathes, shaken in such wonderful ways.

The way Clarke smiles is like a salve. Like she understands Lexa so perfectly in that moment, and Lexa wonders when she stopped understanding anything about herself at all. 

Silently, Clarke takes Lexa's hands and slips her fingers tightly through her own, and guides Lexa's arms more securely around her waist. She presses Lexa's palm against the soft swell of her belly and holds her touch there. 

Her head tips sideways to find Lexa's again. "I asked what's next."

"Right…" Lexa says in barely a whispered haze, lungs squeezing tight at the feel of her so close as she accepts Clarke's weight as her own. 

Because Clarke is letting her hold her, is holding her right back, when just the morning prior even a hand to Clarke's shoulder would've been brushed away with a flinch. All the nights of idle longing rush through Lexa's mind, nights of fanciful dreams that felt as though they laid well beyond her fingertips despite the embodiment of them sleeping soundly on just the other side of her bed. 

Now that dream and this girl is sat right there, tucked safely in her arms. 

"Well… There isn't much left. You know the rest."

Clarke twists her head and nuzzles closer. Presses her nose to the blush of Lexa's cheek. "Tell me anyway."

Smiling into the skin of Clarke's neck and smelling the sweet notes of lilac and sunshine stronger there, Lexa doesn't bother to look as she slopes their hands downward. "After the garden, you follow the main path past the hen coup. Follow the bend around the storage sheds, and you'll find your way back to the cave… Back… home."

"Home." 

The pulse beneath her lips quickens as Clarke echos the word in a sigh barely second after Lexa utters it. 

The air thickens with the sound of Clarke's echoed whisper of the word. And she knows, oh goddess does Lexa know how Clarke must feel the thunderstorm raging beneath her breast at hearing her refer to their cave with such affection. The cave that had felt like nothing more than a tomb, until Clarke had crashed into her shores breathed life into it.

Into her.

She feels reckless and bold as she nods that, yes, this is Clarke's home. For however long she may want it. And she seals the vow and every wordless prayer that goes along with it in a gentle press of her lips against the bend of Clarke's neck.

Clarke shudders in her arms as her skin erupts in warm goosebumps at the brush of Lexa's mouth. The hands holding Lexa in place, keeping them so tightly tangled together, squeeze her tighter at the attention. Lexa dares for another kiss. Another slow press of her lips. She slips her hand free from Clarke's, because it's not enough. Because she needs Clarke closer. Because she's spent too long without falling headfirst into oceans of crystal blue. 

Her body trembles down to her bones as she runs a hand along Clarke's neck and feels the curve of her jaw beneath her fingertips. Cheeks brush and lungs sigh with matching shallow breaths as Lexa guides Clarke toward her. It feels selfish how she loses herself in watching every shadow and emotion play across Clarke's face. From the flutter of dark blonde lashes that all but sparkle in the fiery death of sunlight, to the gentlest cleft of her chin that's held Lexa's heart captive for days. 

It's terrifying and more real than any moment Lexa can ever remember having survived before.

She closes the small space between them. Lets her eyes fall closed as she traces her nose against Clarke's in a gentle touch. It's something soft, something simple. Just to let her know she's there if she wants this too.

Clarke doesn't pull away. 

The huff of breath against her lips makes Lexa's heart skip out of beat, and it's all she needs to tip Clarke's chin up into her kiss.

It's as tentative as it is resolute, mouths coming together in caresses that linger before breaking, only to crest and press forward in search for more. Her palm cups Clarke's jaw with more demand and she moves her to her whim. Holds her steady as Lexa adjusts the angle to kiss her deeper.

Clarke pulls back an inch, to break the kiss or to breathe, Lexa doesn't know. But she can't and she won't let her because, no. Because Lexa isn't ready to let this moment and this feeling go. She chases Clarke's lips and kisses her again. Moans at the taste of Clarke's surprised noise and swallows her gasp to keep for her own. Wind chapped lips become pliant under the lap of Clarke's tongue as opens for her and welcomes her in.

And she could blame the wind and salt for the sting that sears behind her lashes if only it weren't for the fact that her eyes remain so tightly shut through it all. But the truth lies in the thick and wet rhythm of her heart. The one that beats out every rush of longing for this woman in her arms.

The years she's spent on this island. Years alone and without another human to touch; an endless string of days spent knowing nothing but work, sand, and stone. Sleepless night after sleepless night spent feeling so small in her too-large, empty bed.

It's so much, and yet not enough, and leaves her drowning in the honeysuckle of Clarke's kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[jenthebug]

Today felt like a NORMAL DAY.

I did things.

I walked 1.35 miles.

I washed a couple sinkfuls of dishes.

I went to Joann to get fabric and stood up for 30 minutes waiting for the cutting table attendant.

It was like I was all recovered!!

It was proof that I’m getting better! There are still a few lingering issues, my drain hole and my scars, but I have normal person energy again!

When I go back to work, I’ll be able to stay the full 12 hours! When I go to Seattle, I’ll be able to keep up with the guys (as long as I keep walking, which sounds fine instead of impossible)! When I get off restrictions, I’ll be able to start lifting!

So Joann is going out of business. Still plenty of fabric, but everything else was picked over. Hardly any yarn, almost out of thread, sewing notions were pretty much gone. Still, I got enough fabric for a dress, a skirt, and enough tulle for a bisexual flag tutu to wear in the pride parade. I’ll be making the tutu, Cory will do the rest—he’s the household sewing expert.

For now, it’s time to start going to bed so I can practice waking up at 0430 again. Thursday and work will be here before I know it.