#and utterly baffling first chapters

[i-will-not-be-caged]

Have you ever seen an author you really like recommend another author and get a chapter or two into the book and wonder “how can someone who wrote something so brilliant recommend this???”

Anyway, that’s two books I’ve DNFed so far today and it’s not even noon

[smile-files]

new kind of torture unlocked: forcing someone to read 100 pages of a meteorology textbook when they're hungry and sleep-deprived

[thomamaru]

Hierarchy of Intimacy (Chapter Rin)

Synopsis: Rin wasn't the type of person to be using slang words. After months of spending time with you, he started picking up on your vocabulary, but this would be a problem if one of them slips up during a match. (Copying their vocabulary)

Tags: Rin Itoshi x gn!reader, fluff, teasing from his teammates, brainrot humor

Author notes: this is a series based on a trend of tiktok. characters that will be included is nagi, yukimiya, rin, chigiri, isagi, reo, kunigami, sae, and bachira. If you want to add a character, you can request with a prompt :) BONUS: shidou

Rin Itoshi was a mystery wrapped in indifference.

On the field, he was cold, calculating, and intense, the kind of player whose sheer presence could send shivers down anyone's spine.

Off the field, his personality was much the same—stoic, distant, and utterly uninterested in small talk or social nuances.

His silence wasn’t an invitation for company; it was a shield. Rin didn’t care for relationships or connections. For him, it was just noise that distracted him from his goals.

Then you came into the picture.

At first, Rin didn’t know how to categorize you. Your quirky sense of humor felt out of place in his otherwise rigid world.

You would say the most ridiculous things with a straight face, unbothered by whether anyone found it funny. Rin thought it was strange—annoying, even.

“What does that even mean?” he’d mutter after you dropped yet another baffling slang term.

“You’ll get it someday, Rin,” you’d reply with a laugh, your tone teasing.

To his utter confusion, he did get it. Over time, your laughter wormed its way into the corners of his quiet world, filling it with a lightness he hadn’t known he was missing.

You didn’t push him to open up, but your sheer presence made him want to try. It was subtle at first—small changes, little words that crept into his vocabulary without his consent.

And everyone noticed.

It started during practices, with his teammates throwing occasional looks at him when he would respond to something with a term or phrase that seemed out of character.

The tipping point, though, came during an intense match.

The tension in the stadium was palpable. It was Rin’s chance to break the stalemate and seal victory for Blue Lock.

With precision and focus, he lined up the shot, but the ball veered just slightly, slamming into the goalpost with a loud clang.

Frustration twisted in his chest as the missed opportunity echoed across the field.

“My bad, sigma,” he muttered, barely loud enough for anyone to hear.

But someone did hear.

Isagi’s head whipped around, disbelief written all over his face. “What… did you just say?”

“Sigma?” Bachira echoed, already on the verge of laughter.

Karasu didn’t hold back, bursting into a fit of chuckles. “No way. Did Rin just say sigma?”

Otoya smirked from the sidelines, adding, “We got Rin saying sigma before GTA 6 came out. Someone write that down.”

“Shut up,” Rin snapped, his ears burning as the teasing continued. His usual sharpness was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by a rare sense of embarrassment.

From then on, “sigma” became a running joke among the team. Rin tried to brush it off, but the damage was done.

The fact that he’d unconsciously adopted one of your favorite phrases only reminded him how much of you had embedded itself into his life.

---

When Blue Lock was granted a three-day break after the U-20 match, Rin didn’t hesitate to make plans.

There was only one person he wanted to see. He set off early, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and something uncomfortably close to nervousness.

It wasn’t like him to feel this way—restless, eager, and borderline desperate—but weeks away from you had taken their toll. He needed to see you.

The moment he spotted you waiting at your usual meeting spot, the weight in his chest dissolved.

You stood there, bathed in the warm light of the setting sun, looking just as stunning as the first day he’d met you.

Relief flooded his features, softening the tension he always carried.

He didn’t bother with words. Walking briskly toward you, he wrapped his arms around your waist and lifted you off the ground, holding you tightly against him.

The familiarity of your touch, your warmth, calmed the storm that had been brewing inside him.

“I missed you,” he said quietly, his voice rough with unspoken emotion.

You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I missed you too.”

Without thinking, Rin leaned down and kissed you—soft, unhurried, as though he wanted to memorize the feeling.

It was a grounding moment, reminding him of everything that mattered beyond the chaos of soccer and expectations.

The two of you were lost in your little world until a familiar voice shattered the peace.

“Can’t believe Rin got a girlfriend before the rest of us,” Otoya said, smirking as he and a few of Rin’s teammates approached.

Rin glared at him, his arms still around you. “Get lost, Otoya.” “Relax, we’re leaving.” Otoya glanced at you with a mischievous grin.

“By the way, you should teach him more of your humor. He needs it. Bye, sigma!” he called out, retreating with the others amidst their laughter.

You blinked, startled by the comment, before turning to Rin. “Sigma?” you repeated, a grin tugging at your lips.

Rin stiffened, his cheeks turning pink. “It’s… not what it sounds like.”

Your grin widened. “Have you been using my jokes?”

“I said it once,” he muttered, glaring at the ground.

“You said it during a match?” you asked, barely able to hold back your laughter. When he didn’t respond, you burst out laughing, holding onto him for support as tears formed at the corners of your eyes.

“Stop laughing,” Rin said, his tone flat, though the flush on his face deepened.

“Oh, Rin,” you said between laughs, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You’re so cute sometimes.”

“Tch. It’s not cute,” he grumbled, though he leaned into your touch without realizing it.

You smiled, your voice softening. “It’s just funny to think how much you’ve changed since we met.”

He frowned slightly, considering your words. It was true—you’d changed him in ways he didn’t entirely understand.

But what surprised him the most was that he didn’t mind. If picking up your strange humor was part of keeping you in his life, then he’d happily adapt.

Though he’d never admit it aloud, a part of him even wondered what other habits he might unconsciously pick up from you.

For now, though, he was content to stay in this moment, holding you close and savoring the sound of your laughter.

[writersdrug]

Tea and Cigarettes

Chapter 1. Tea Party

Masterlist

Summary: Out for a late-night walk to clear his head, Simon stumbles across an open bakery. All he wants is a tea. Instead, he gets a tea party.

Warnings: mild cursing, reader doesn't do the smartest thing in this situation

It was a common thought in Simon’s head, if not the most common. He shouldn’t have survived that mission.

It’s what was engrained into his head from the very first mission he’d been a part of. It’s what he repeated to himself at the end of every mission thereafter. Lady Luck was too forgiving and magnanimous to him – he should have been killed long ago, well before he reached his thirties and climbed up the ranks to lieutenant. It’s one thing when you have something to fight for, to come home to – it’s another when you have nothing but an undecorated flat.

And, for tonight, a cup of tea.

It was another night between missions; another restless moment in time where Simon found himself walking the streets of the city, rather than trying to get some shut eye. It wouldn’t have worked anyways – it never did. His neurons were too busy firing off at every mistake, every memory, every single thing that haunts him, for him to get a restful sleep.

So that’s what brought him here: standing inside a bakery late at night, staring at the toddler behind the cashier’s counter. His overactive thoughts had certainly taken a backseat to the one, prominent question in his mind; who the hell is this kid, and where is her mother?!

“Hello.” She said, standing on her toes, already balancing herself on a small step-stool. Her head barely poked over the counter for her to look at Simon.

“… ‘ello…” he said cautiously, eyeing the girl like she was a ticking time bomb. “Where are your parents?”

“Mummy’s in the back with Sean.” She said, turning her head and pointing to the doorway to the left. Simon leaned his head over the counter to follow her line of sight – he heard the sound of some sort of machinery echoing from the kitchen-like backroom, but he didn’t see anyone.

“She’s making biscuits!” The girl said, looking back at Simon.

He was utterly baffled. Who would leave a kid at the front of a shop? After hours, with the bloody door unlocked?! “Where’s your dad?”

“He lives with Nancy!”

“Nancy?”

“Yes – she used to stay at home with us, when Mommy had to work – then she took daddy home with him!”

Oh… that’s unfortunate.

He sighed. “Sorry ‘bout-“

“Would you like tea?”

Simon stared blankly back at the girl. This is ridiculous. “D’you have black tea?”

The girl nodded. She hopped off the step stool – Simon followed her little ponytail as it barely bobbed above the surface of the countertops. She rounded the corner and headed to a small, pink play kitchen. She grabbed two cups, one pink and one a royal purple, before carrying them over to a sink back behind the counter. She placed them on the countertop, then trotted back to the cashier area to grab her stool.

“I’m sorry.” she said with a giggle.

“’S fine, take your time…” Simon mumbled, stupefied by the whole situation. He watched the girl as she dragged her stool to the sink and clamored up onto it, filling the two cups with water. This was a very… unnatural situation. He wouldn’t be entertaining it, if it wasn’t for the fact that this girl was clearly alone. He would have gone back to the kitchen to see where her mum was, but he didn’t want anyone to think he was robbing the place and pull a gun on him. If anything, the least he could do was watch over this little girl until someone came around to claim responsibility for her.

So, there he was. Five minutes later, sitting at one of the tables in the bakery with this toddler. “Eating” a fake croissant and drinking “tea” from the little plastic cup (he got pink; purple was her favorite color).

“Do you want butter?” she asked, holding him a plastic plate and knife, with a plastic slab of butter on it.

“Yea, why not.” He replied. He picked up the tiny knife and pretended to slather butter over the one half of his croissant (it intrigued him that the manufacturer of the toy had thought to make the damn thing dividable into two pieces). “Ya got a name, kid?”

“Mummy says I can’t tell strangers my name.” she replied, looking at him with the same stern expression her mother had most likely given when telling her the same thing.

Simon nodded. “Your mum’s smart.” He said, taking a sip of his tea.

“You can call me Pony Princess!” she offered instead, biting into her croissant rather realistically.

Simon held back a laugh. “Pony Princess it is, then.” He said, clinking his cup against hers when she held it up for a toast.

You sighed, shoving the third and final tray of biscuits into the commercial oven. It was hot and humid in the kitchen, and you were thankful that the most toiling part of the batch was over. Glancing at your watch made you grimace at how late it was – Christopher was for sure going to complain about how late you had him stay, especially past closing. You knew he was most likely out for a smoke, but you didn’t have the energy to reprimand him tonight. As long as the doors were locked behind him and the front lights were off, you didn’t care. No one would be trying to enter a bakery this late at night.

You looked to your left, fanning the heat from your flushed face. Sean was fast asleep in his carrier, his little mouth open and fingers twitching as he dreamed. You gently scooped him into your arms and wiped his nose clean with your apron, before maneuvering your way through the kitchen to the front. It had been a while since Christopher came to nag you about hurrying up, and you wondered how long he’d been out smoking – or if he’d come back at all. Ellie wasn’t in her usual spot, coloring in the office chair in front of the computer… you frowned a bit, speed walking into the café as an uneasy feeling settled in your stomach.

“Christpher, are you in here?” you called, adjusting Sean on your hip. “Ellie? Where are-“

You audibly gasped when you walked into the seating area. A man, a brutish man, was seated at one of your tables, after closing. He was dressed in all black, with a black surgical mask dangling from one ear, and his hood up. He stared back at you with a shocked expression on his face, holding an absurdly tiny, pink plastic cup in his hand, and a toy croissant on the table in front of him. Right across from him was your daughter, Ellie, with an aloof grin on her face.

“Hi Mummy!” she exclaimed. “We’re having a tea party!”

A million questions were running through your head. Where the fuck is Christopher? Who is this man? Is he robbing you? Is he trying to steal your child?!

“Ellie…” you said, a slight waiver in your voice. “Sweetheart, come here please.”

“But I’m having tea with him!”

You sent another fearful glance to the behemoth of a man at the table. He looked back at you, seemingly just as taken aback by the situation as you were. He looked back down at the table and cleared his throat, taking a tiny sip from the hot pink plastic cup.

Your daughter was having tea and crumpets with a fucking burglar.

“Ellie. Now, please.” You repeated sternly, holding your free arm out to her.

She reluctantly slid down from her chair and padded over to you. As soon as she was within arm’s length, you grabbed her tiny hand and dragged her into the back kitchen.

“Ellie, what are you doing?!” You whisper-yelled, kneeling down to her level and looking into her eyes. You tried to stress the importance of the situation. “Who is that man?!”

“He’s a customer, Mummy!” she said, with a beaming smile on her face.

“What did he want from you?!”

“He wanted tea.”

“What else? Did he ask for your name?”

“I didn’t tell him.” She said, resolve thick in her tone. “Just like you told me not to.”

You sighed frustratedly, adjusting Sean on your hip. “Where is Christopher?”

“He went outside.”

Un-fuckin-believable.

You pulled her close to you and planted a kiss to her forehead, then looked her in the eyes once more. “Listen to me, sweetie. Go to the desk and color for now, ok? I’m gonna talk to the man. I’ll be right back. And if you hear Mommy yelling or crying-“

“- use the phone and call 9-9-9.” She said.

“Good girl – now go on.” You ushered her further into the kitchen, then stood upright. With Sean still sound asleep, cradled tightly into your side, you grabbed the phone from the wall mount and slowly tiptoed back into the café.

Simon was still at the table, except now both of his palms were flat against the wooden surface. He watched as you emerged back into the lobby; maybe it was an inappropriate time to admire someone, but he couldn’t help himself.

You. Fierce you, you mustering the angriest face you could make (it was quite cute, by the way – you really need to work on it if you’re trying to intimidate anyone). You with your hair hastily pulled back into a messy updo, you with that baby boy on your hip, you with batter on your face that Simon was just dying to lick up. You stayed behind the counter

“Who are you?” you demanded.

“Simon.” He answered. He could tell you were a bit disappointed in that response, given you didn’t know who the hell Simon was. “Not a burglar.” He added after a few seconds.

You pouted even more. “Why are you in here? How did you get in here? We’re closed.”

Simon looked towards the blinking “open” sign by the front door. “Well… mam, the sign says otherwise. And the doors were unlocked.”

You looked at the sign and cursed internally, taking another peek into the back kitchen. Ellie was still back there. Good. Christopher was nowhere to be seen. Fuck.

“I’m sorry about the confusion…” you said, looking back at Simon and adjusting Sean on your hip, “but we’re closed. My clerk should’ve turned that sign off hours ago, and locked the door behind him. In fact, when he gets in here, I’m about to give him a piece of my-“

“Mam, please-“ Simon said, starting to stand up. Your eyes widened a bit and you took a step back; he held his hands up as a peace offering, before stretching up to his full height. You gulped – you’d never seen anyone so large before. How did he fit through the damn door?

“I didn’t mean t’ cause any fuss.” He spoke quietly, slowly approaching the counter you stood behind. “I really am sorry – I thought th’ place was open, n’ I was out lookin’ for a tea. ‘Lil squirt back there was very hospitable. I jus’ stuck around to see where ‘er mum was.”

He pulled his hood down to seem more approachable, and lord, was he. You couldn’t fight the way you were immediately attracted to the cropped, blonde hair, the strong jaw, the few scars that marked up his face… fuck, the way he could’ve been a building next to you, with how much he shaded you from the light…

Didn’t you think this man was a burglar not five minutes ago? You thought. You quickly forgave yourself, once you remembered how long it had been since you were with a man.

You sighed. “I’m sorry, I just- you know, with two kids, you freak out about everything-“

“Perfectly understandable.” He interjected. “But I’ve caused enough trouble for one night. ‘ll be out of your hair-“

“Could I at least get you a tea?” you asked. “Since you’re here.”

“You really don’t need-“

“No, I insist- just, give me a moment-“ frazzled, you disappeared into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind you.

Simon exhaled heavily, clearing his throat. He tried to recuperate himself – he couldn’t be falling for the woman he nearly frightened to death, let alone a woman he’d never met before. You were probably scared shitless of him. The way your wide, glossy eyes had stared at him, those pouting lips… and Christ, the way that baby boy fit perfectly on your hips. He imagined his hands tracing over them –

He huffed, glancing around the café to distract himself. Should’ve listened to Price and gotten a hobby-

You came back out, baby-free, and snagged a paper cup off of a stack near the drip machine. “Just had to put him back with Ellie. Don’t like them being near the- the urns, and such-“ you fumbled, looking for a cup sleeve, before sliding it on and reaching for the tea cabinet. “Black or green?”

“Black’s fine – please and thank you.” Simon grunted out. He shoved his fidgety hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt, watching as you grabbed a tea back and dropped it into his cup.

“Cream? Sugar?”

“None, thanks.”

“Do you always roam around this late at night?” you asked, pouring the water into the travel cup. Steam billowed up and in front of your face, and you scrunched your nose from the heat. “None of the shops are open this late – tea shops, I mean. Or, they shouldn’t be, but most of them have a clerk who knows how to turn off the “open” sign and lock the damn doors.”

Simon huffed. “Figured something was off. I jus’ couldn’t sleep.” He said, accepting the cup as you handed it to him. “Never can get much after comin’ home. Takes a while t’ get used to civilian life.”

“Military?” You asked, placing a hand on your hip as Simon nodded. “I get that. Nick used to have the same problem.”

“Nick?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, an embarrassed flush on your face. “Nothing. Ex-husband. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Simon mumbled, taking a sip of the tea. Don’t be sorry at all…

The two of you stood there a moment, a bit of awkward silence hanging in between you like a thick wall of glass. You cleared your throat – Simon saw the time on the clock hanging on the wall behind you, and decided he had taken up enough of your time.

“Well” – he said, fishing in to his pocket.

You smiled. “I appreciate it, but you really don’t have to. I’m paying you back for assuming you were a burglar – and for watching my daughter. Which, honestly, I really do appreciate.”

“Nonsense.” He said, pulling out a waded up bill. “’S what any good man should do. And I insist – if anything, give it t’ the little squirt for the excellent customer service.”

You chuckled, smiling as he handed the bill to you. “I can’t thank you eno-“ you stopped, glancing at the two £50’s he’d just given you. Words failed to come to you, your tongue tripping over itself as you tried to get past the initial shock.

“Th- I- wait, Simon!” you called, swinging around the edge of the counter – but he was already at the door. “I can’t accept this!”

He held up a hand. “’M not takin’ it back. And it’s not for you – give it to Ellie.”

You huffed. “What’s a five-year-old going to do with one hundred pounds?!”

He shrugged. “Start a college fund. Or get herself a handful of biscuits from the store.”

A chuckle escaped your lips – the sound warmed Simon’s soul. “Yeah, sure. When she’s got plenty of biscuits here. I don’t-“

You stopped, just as the bell above the door chimed. Simon followed your narrowed, angry gaze to the bloke who had just entered. He was tying an apron around his middle, reeked of cigarette smoke and body odor. He jumped when his eyes landed on Simon – he could see the gears turning in the man’s head as his face suddenly fell, right before he turned to you. Simon read the name on the tag pinned to the man’s apron.

Christopher.

A deep, throaty laugh escaped his throat as he clapped the man on the shoulder. “You’re in trouble, mate. ‘N lock the door behind ya.” He then exited the café, sipping his tea and shoving a hand into his pocket, chuckling as your angry voice echoed through the doors.

Thankfully, the nagging voices in his head didn’t return that night.

[starwrighter]

Dude, get a restraining order

(Masterpost) (Ao3 link) (previous)

(Chapter #5 Ya'll)

Just like he said he would, Damian walked Danny to his earth science classroom. Guiding him through labyrinth-like hallways with a firm grip on his sleeve. It’s as if he thought Danny would slip through his fingers and be swept away by the crowd of students. Embarrassingly enough, that’s an accurate assumption of both his luck and his situational awareness. If he dared to imagine the future, prison bars, sigils, and the outline of a body immediately came to mind.

Forever he’d be thanking the ancients for Damian expert skills in navigating. Without him, he’d probably be curled up at the bottom of a staircase by now. Or in a death cult keen on taking over the world. It might seem ridiculously pessimistic, but freaky escalations like that happened to him all the time! He’d gone from searching for a gift he’d accidentally knocked into the zone to staging a massive prison break! Needless to say, he appreciated the company.

“Since your map is half a century out-of-date; I’ll pick you up around lunchtime,” Damian declared, curtly waiting for his response.

”Sounds good,” Giving the other boy a small wave and a thankful smile Danny headed into the classroom.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips as he read the cheesy geology jokes scrawled onto the board. The jokes were stupid in a way only teachers or dads could make them. Puns that could do psychic damage if you dare read them aloud. It’s beautiful. Leagues above a certain English teacher who butchered slang so brutally the lingo died on the spot.

The typical classroom posters lined the walls. A clear bucket full of rocks just sitting on the teacher’s desk as she started taking attendance. He sat close to the front furthest from the door. His blindside faced the wall, nobody could sneak up on him and he wouldn’t be trampled when the bell rang. Nobody could gawk pityingly at his face this way. Yeah, you could pry this spot from his cold dead hands.

It might seem extreme but people were…Weird when it came down to his disability. Some people treated him like he was utterly useless, incapable of doing anything on his own. They tried to “help” without bothering to ask about his condition or if he even needed help. It was so much worse the first few months after the accident. He was wheelchair-bound for that. -1/10 wouldn’t recommend.

He could say with certainty nobody wanted to be paralyzed. It’s jarring how differently treated him back then. They’d point out the obvious like he’s completely blind. Annoying, but understandable considering how gnarled his facial injuries were before they healed. It looked like somebody shot him in the face with a firework. The fact that he didn’t lose an eye was a medical miracle backed by new ghostly powers.

What wasn’t understandable was the complete lack of boundaries strangers had with him and his wheelchair. No amount of warning could’ve prepared him for the first time someone grabbed his wheelchair and moved him. He thought it’d been a one-time thing but it happened again and again without fail. Somebody would move him out of the way or try to “Help” him get to where he’s going. Several times without so much of a “Hello! Do you need some help,” people he’d never spoken to would grab the handles of his chair and start pushing him.

It’s infuriatingly dehumanizing and their heartbroken faces when he called them out tugged at his heartstrings. So many times he’d guiltily stewed over his responses. Jazz killed that guilt without so much as a thought when she put things into perspective. Even though Jazz had a habit of psychoanalyzing him it felt good when she said his anger warranted.

Nothing would ever feel as good as taking those first shaky steps outside his wheelchair though. The wave of overwhelming emotion when a group of baffled doctors told him his paralysis wasn’t as permanent as they previously thought was unparalleled. He cried a lot that day. Tears of joy, he’s not ashamed to admit that.

Never in his life would he have thought he’d be grateful for Dash’s bullying. But after a full two months of extensive physical therapy and multiple surgeries, he now knew were unnecessary anyone treating him like they did before was a godsend. Dash believed in a twisted kind of equality when it came to bullying, he’d pick on anyone he deemed a loser. For him, it’d been verbal harassment, but regaining the ability to walk gave him confidence. He was extremely cocky, snapping back with sarcastic venom at every dig made at him.

Slowly but surely, people stopped babying him. It was harder to argue that someone was helpless when they were actively picking fights with the star football player. After all the shit he’d involved himself in people treated him like normal. Normal in the sense he was picked on for being a loser with crazy parents.

He’d take that kind of bullying over the underhanded insults drowned in infantilism. As the months passed it felt like everyone forgot about his accident. His classmates would get angry at him when he couldn’t keep up with them and go green with envy when he got extra time for his assignments. People acted like he was getting special treatment just for the sake of it.

Like full body electrocution was something he could just walk off. They didn’t understand how walking and running were easier than standing in place. He was accused of faking it whenever he stood up from his wheelchair. People were offended that he still considered his left side blind when he could still see light in his peripherals.

Everyone he talked to said he was lucky. Lucky to survive, lucky to walk again without aid, lucky to have all the sweet powers, lucky lucky lucky. He didn’t feel all that lucky when his joints locked or when reading gave him migraines so bad he questioned if being alive was worth it.

He knows it could be worse. Dear god does he know it could be so, so, much worse. He could be fully dead. Charred to a crisp without even a blast shadow as evidence of his death. He should’ve been paralyzed from the neck down for the rest of his life. Braindead, hooked up to a machine as his family mourned their loss. The consequences of walking into that portal chamber were so much lighter than anyone could’ve imagined. So he dealt with it.

Things could be worse. At least he wasn’t in Gotham directly after his accident. Slipping through solid objects around people 100x more fearful of their surroundings was a wonderful way to speedrun getting his spine shattered by a guy in a bat suit. Or trafficked. Danny winces as he scribbles on a sheet of lined paper.

Someone is staring at him. The boy beside him was shooting daggers into his very soul. Hadn’t even bothered to hide the way his face twisted in suspicion when Danny turned to look him in the eyes.

“You need something?” Danny probed, praying this was just him misreading facial expressions.

“What the hell happened to you?” The other boy whispered, his tone harsh and accusatory.

“A shocking experience,” His half-assed response earns him a sharp glare and a sneer.

“No really, what happened?”

“Got zapped,” He shrugs, hoping his classmate would take the hint and drop it.

“That’s not what I meant,” The other seethed. “How did you get electrocuted?”

”Electricity,”

“The fact you’re dodging my question makes you look more suspicious,”

“Not trauma dumping on a stranger makes me suspicious?”

“It’s Gotham! We don’t get transfer students outside major cities and we certainly don’t get ones willing to stay for months! What are you planning?” He hisses, voice cracking as he tried and failed to make it sound lower.

“Trust me, if I had a choice to stay home I would’ve,”

“I don’t think I do trust you,”

“That's not my problem,” Danny shrugged. This guy spoke with the delusional confidence only the stubbornest flat earther could rival. He’s not a gothamite by any means but wasn’t the key unspoken rule of the city “Mind your damn business unless you’re a bat,” It’s on par with Don’t dig straight down but this guy clearly hadn’t learned of the former.

“Why do you have fangs?”

”Genetics,” What kind of question was that? Plenty of people had fangs. It’s a common trait, almost every person in amity has it!

”I don’t believe you,”

Heh? What’s the point in asking if he wasn’t going to believe him when he answered? It reminded him of a certain annoyance back home.

“Why do you-“

”Leave me alone!” He snaps. It’s like his classmates doing his best impression of a toddler! “Why?” “Why?” “Why?” Desperately trying to catch Danny in a lie and refusing to believe any response that wasn’t a confession of guilt. World's greatest detective over here, interrogating him for having the audacity to show up to Gotham with “Gasp!” Scars! Oh, the humanity! What a delinquent!

Ancients’ weren’t these prissy private schools supposed to be better than public schools? He walked to school today expecting to be murdered and or indoctrinated into a weird death cult not interrogated by Walmart Batman over here!

What was this guy expecting to drag out of him anyway? Blueprints for a deathray? A secret plot to break everyone out of Arkham? Secret rogue plans? He just got here today! What could he possibly be planning when his apartment didn’t even have toilet paper yet? They hadn’t even hit the 24-hour mark and he already had a conspiracy theorist pestering him.

“Why are you-“ Copycat Wes starts.

”Leave him alone you fucking moron!” A female voice snaps behind them.

“ You don’t understand! He-,” Sputtering to defend himself the girl glowered at him.

“Has done nothing to warrant your harassment,” She finished the sentence for him.

”No! He’s up to something I swear! Just look at him,”

The girl looked him up and down, her hazel eyes shooting daggers into his soul. “He looks like he’s a strong breeze away from a heart attack,”

Ouch.

"There is something wrong with him, you're just too dim to see it," He spits.

 

“Listen here you toe-eyed spaz, I don’t want to have to deal with Lightning Rod over here frying people to death because you wouldn’t stop tormenting him!” She seethed, jabbing her finger into Offbrand’s chest.

“How do you know he’s not going to do that regardless?”

She turns her attention back to him. “Are you going to start doing rogue shit?” She speaks calmly as if she’s asking about the weather.

He pretends to ponder for a second, checking his phone for dramatic effect. “ Nah, My sister says I’m not allowed to be a criminal outside my hometown. It’ll affect her chances of getting into a good college,” To his surprise, that’s an acceptable response for her.

”See, he’s fine.”

“Did you not hear a word he said?” Copycat sputters. “He just admitted to being a criminal,”

“And?”

“What do you mean, and?” The boy is red in the face now.

”That’s not our problem,” She replied bluntly.

“How is it not our problem?”

“It just isn’t,”

“It clearly is “ He emphasizes.

“This is why you keep getting mugged,” She snaps. “You’ve lived in Gotham your whole life, how have not learned how to mind your damn business,”

“I know how to mind my business. This is my business. You’re the one who butted in,”

“I’m a nosy bitch too. But I’m not the one who’s pretending to be Batman.” She’s smirking now, tapping her fingernails on her desk.

“I’m not pretending to be Batman,” He defends, hands clenched into fists. “I’m just doing my civic duty!”

“You’re delusional,”

“Well- at least I’m not a criminal,” Offbrand Wes sneered, whipping around to glare at him.

Oh great, he’s directly involved again.

“What a scathing remark, I’ll be sure to cry about it while I build my deathray,” Maybe he shouldn’t keep antagonizing. Offbrand looked about ready to strangle him.

“Now you’re pissing him off on purpose,” The girl behind them deadpans.

“ I am, thanks for noticing,” He’s giddy, a shit-eating grin on his face that would immediately get him shanked if he were outside right now.

Their conversation continues. The three of them whisper-yelling at each other. Offbrand Wes fumed at every one of Danny’s sarcastic responses, doubling down on his suspicions. With every absurd accusation thrown his way, the girl defended him. But if you listened in for more than a few seconds you could see she didn’t step to his defense for the sake of being nice. She just really hated this kid. Who could blame her?

The argument devolved into the two gothamites insulting each other in a way only rich kids could. Family names Danny barely recognized as important were thrown around like dodgeballs. Maybe if Danny kept up with celebrity drama he’d be able to tell who’s winning?

“Daniel Fenton? ” He almost jumps at the sudden interruption. He’d been so awestruck watching these two go at each other's throats that he hadn’t noticed anyone approaching them. The teacher is staring down at him; he smiles politely. Better to garner goodwill now rather than later.

”I’d like to see you after class today,” Oh god, already? What had he done to peeve this teacher? Did she hear them arguing? Offbrand was grinning, vindicated as Danny stumbled over himself.

“Oh- uh, will it take long? A friend said he’d help me find my classes since my map is a little off.” He offered up the map as proof. A sacrifice in hopes of leniency for whatever crimes he’s about to be accused of.

The woman looked over the paper, her relaxed expression dropping with the growing confusion.

“Can I see your schedule?” Danny hands it over without a word. Slowly, she ran her fingers against the brail of his schedule. The slow shift in her stance as her face paled felt like it’d been ripped straight from the trailer of a horror movie. He’s heard a lot of crazy things in his life but nothing would ever shock him more than what his teacher said next.

“We’re going be sued into the fucking ground,” Her words were barely audible, whispered behind a closed fist. Danny’s stunned silence was a thousand times louder. Teachers could swear here?! Isn’t that illegal? He sits speechless for an agonizing minute, unsure if he’s in trouble.

Wordlessly, she drags him to the front of the classroom. It feels like he’s being walked to the gallows.

“Do you mind if I keep this?”

”Yeah? I need to know my schedule,” Was wandering around clueless detention for Gotham schools? He hadn’t even done anything. Sure, he was a tad bit tardy this morning. That’s the plane's fault, not his!

“You don’t have a school iPad?” She sounds utterly exasperated.

“No,” He’s supposed to have a school iPad?

“Did they at least give you a proper school I.D.?”

”I hope so ” He shows her the plastic card he’d been given alongside his schedule. She scrutinized the card, glaring intently at every word. It’d taken hours to get a decent photo for that stupid card.

“There’s something wrong with it isn’t there?” Screwed over straight from the get-go. He’ll be haunting the front desk for the foreseeable future.

“No, no it’s fine,” She waves him off. “Leave the map with me and drop your schedule off at the front desk when you leave for the day okay?” He nods, that’s all he can do at the moment.

When the bell finally rang their teacher practically shooed his classmates out the door. Students clogged the doorway, a glob of tangled backpacks that slowly oozed into halls separating with miffed expressions. The tile floor couldn’t be more appealing as he waited for the bomb to drop. In a fancy school like this, the punishment for tardiness could be public execution. You never know.

The punishment for seeing the school guidance counselor had been public humiliation with a side of attempted murder. So capital punishment being carried out in schools wasn’t something he’d be surprised about. They’d better have a guillotine, he’s gotten pretty sick of the electric chair.

“Is your friend coming to get you?” The woman asks, still studying the map with a furrowed brow. She squinted at the paper holding out in front of her face like the distance would change the image.

“I think so, he dropped me off here,” Danny pauses, fiddling with the buttons on the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’m not in trouble, am I?”

She shakes her head much to his relief “Somebody’s going to be in trouble but it certainly isn’t you,”

Patterned knocking at the classroom door draws his attention from the woman. Green eyes met blue as Damian quietly entered the room.

“That’s him!” Beaming, he turns back to the teacher. “Can I go now?” She nods wordlessly. With her approval, Danny doesn't hesitate for a second. He darts over to the other boy with a relieved grin on his face.

“How was class?” He asks as they step out of the classroom.

”Unnoteworthy,” Damian hummed.

”Same,” I mean, technically he did get into a fight. But it wasn’t exactly something to write home about. Blows hadn’t been exchanged and he wasn’t gut-punched with a month's worth of detention. Yet.

The walk to the lunch room is heavily crowded. The cafeteria echoed with the chattering of a sea of teenagers. Their navy blue uniform made clusters of students indistinguishable from one another. Sam would hate it here.

“Hey, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate lunch here?”

“Ten. I bring my food from home,” Damian responds quickly pausing afterward as if he’s contemplating a second answer.

“Fair,” He shrugs “nothing beats some home-cooked edible food,” Memories swirled through his brain like he’s a soldier fresh out of war. Reanimated turkeys, living mashed potatoes, gallons of milk that glowed bright enough to light an entire room.

“I reckon your parents’ aren’t the best chefs?” He can barely hold back a wince at the question.

”They try to be…” He sighs “Dad can make some killer fudge but everything else he cooks looks radioactive,”

“I suppose I can relate to that” Damian drawls, “Most of the family is barred from the kitchen without supervision,”

“That’s probably a good idea, learning to cook can be pretty messy,”

” I take it you’re the cook of your family?” Damian asks, eyebrows raised.

“Eh, kind of? I’m not the best but I can make edible food,”

“The bare minimum you know?” He laughs. “My parents are scientists so there wasn’t exactly time for cooking lessons while they were drilling us on safely handling their machinery,”

Damian looks him up and down, eyes locking on his face. “I don’t think those ‘drills’ did you well,”

“They did. I deliberately ignored what they taught me; fucked around and found out,” He shrugs. The past is the past and he’s learned not to change it for his own sake.

“I see…”

“Soooo…” Danny starts, the silence between the two of them awkward. “How would you rate the school-provided lunch?” He reiterated.

”I’ve only eaten the school-provided lunch once but I’d say it’s a four, maybe four point five if I’m being generous,”

”I’d settle for edible,” It’s a private school. Sure, it being in Gotham threw him off a little but what’s the worst that could happen? He dies? A bit too late for that.

“Your standards concern me,”

“Take that up with my school cafeteria; they gave me those standards,” To be fair, his parents contributed to that too. So had Nasty Burger. He had a love-hate relationship with food especially when it’s from a school cafeteria.

Call him paranoid but Casper High fed people dirt and grass plucked from the football field as a “Vegan option” Don’t even get him started on the rocks. Whole ass stones almost as big as his fist. They’d been expected to eat that?! Anyone who’d gotten nailed with one of those suckers when ‘food’ started flying, forever had his sympathy. Nobody was hospitalized but he’d seen the dents in the wall when they made him clean the cafeteria. Rocks were chucked in that food fight.

He’d gathered his lunch without much of an issue. The salad wasn’t sentient and his sandwich hadn’t screamed at him yet. He’d even managed to remember his lunch number at the end of it! Today’s a good day to be pleasantly surprised by the bare minimum. God knows he's gonna need the extra positivity.

Walking through the cafeteria, he spots Damian pretty quickly. The other somehow found himself one of the only empty tables in the whole cafeteria. When Damian waves him over it takes all his self-control to stifle a grin. For a split second, he’d thought he’d overstepped. Thought he’d missed the signs that Damian wanted him gone like Dad missed the signs that Vlad was a psycho.

“Are you really the chef of your family?” Damian questions.

“I am,” he grins, as Damian eyes him skeptically. “Does this-“ Danny gestures at himself. “Not look like the textbook example of a five-star chef to you?”

“Absolutely not,” Damian replied coldly without skipping a beat. “You look like you could burn a bowl of cereal,”

“I can cook, it just took a while to learn how,” You could only learn so fast when every ingredient is contaminated by a mystery cocktail of chemicals.

Even if he wasn’t a master chef he’s better than he was those first months after the accident. So many dishes shattered against the floor. He’d been scolded for each one. Anything he tried to hold slipped from his grasp before the ten-second mark.

“Could you give me any advice?” Damian asked.

“Try out some pasta recipes,” He comments between bites of his sandwich. “They’re hard to screw up and almost every cookbook has about a dozen you can practice,”

“Don’t go with overly complicated recipes straight off the bat. If you’re trying to make a three-course dinner when you can barely make a peanut butter jelly sandwich you’ll end up with a whole lot of wasted food and some scratched pans,” Danny warns, he’s lost count of the hours he’d spent scrubbing the charred food out of pots and pans.

“Alfred wouldn’t be happy about that,”

“Maybe you should ask ‘Alfred’ to teach you,” Danny comments, he wasn’t a tutor. That’s Jazz’s job. Sure, he’d like to be helpful but his journey in the kitchen involved resurrected coleslaw and radioactive dairy products. An experience few could relate to.

“I taught myself with YouTube tutorials, cookbooks, and spite; I’m sure you’d learn better with someone with someone there to give you feedback on what you’re doing.”

“Tch,” Damian glowered, shooting daggers down at his food.

“I’m serious!” He emphasizes, “Trying to wing it straight off the bat just isn’t a good idea,” He knew from experience. Food poisoning isn’t fun. Neither were the blisters you’d get from boiling oil.

“I’m sure many people ‘wing it’ in the kitchen,” Damian insists. “What if I’m a naturally born chef?”

”Didn’t you say you’re barred from the kitchen?” Damian’s cheeks turn a flustered red.

”I said most of my family is barred from the kitchen!” Damian defends like Danny’s ‘accusation’ is a slight against his character.

”Are you included in that ban?”

”…yes” The other boy whispers begrudgingly. He tries, he really does, but there’s no stopping the quiet giggle that erupts from his chest. Damian glares daggers at him cheeks rosy with embarrassment.

”I swear I’m not laughing at you,” He wheezes. It’s a lie and both of them know it.

”Go ahead and laugh, I’m not the one who fried myself,” Damian huffs.

Danny made jokes about his accident all the time. Much to everyone else's dismay his lab accident was his go-to event to joke about. No matter how many times he got scolded for “Making people uncomfortable” he kept it up. This wasn’t the first time someone had made a comment but there’s something about the way he said it. Something about the way he emphasized his words made Danny lose all composure. Collapsing into his folded arms, shoulder shaking with silent laughter.

”Hey…” The other boy’s voice is weaved with concern a guilty lift to his voice. Gently, he pokes Danny’s arm. Any worry drained from his features when Danny lifted his head to look at him.

”I thought I'd upset you!” Damian half shouts.

”Nah, I’ve got thicker skin than that,” He reassures.

”You're the first, Others tell me I come off rather… cold,”

“Really?” That’s a surprise. Danny couldn’t see it, then again he hasn’t known Damian for very long. After all that’s happened, he’d like to think he’s a better judge of character. The other boy didn’t give off Penelope spectra vibes. Nor did he act like a miniature Vlad. If anything, he reminded him of Sam.

“You’re a liar if you think I’m friendly,” He snaps scowling at Danny as if he’d just spat in his lunch or something.

”I’m not a liar, I just have a different definition of friendly than you do,”

“Does your definition of friendly happen to be rich?”

“Fuck no!” He snaps without thinking. Raising an eyebrow Damian stares at him green eyes scrutinizing his expression like there’s deeper meaning in his words. “Eat the rich,” He clarifies, as if that’s supposed to explain anything.

“Friendliness is compassion, a willingness to help, not sugar-sweet conversations with extroverted compassion,” It’s easy to put on a sweet voice while you screw someone over. Even easier to insult someone with a snidely worded ‘compliment’.

“You helped me without hesitation when you could have left me to fend for myself,”

“The situation was ridiculous, I had to help.” Damian defends

“ You didn’t have to,” he points out.

“Listen, I’m not trying to challenge your view of yourself; I’m just saying you’ve been nice to me so far,”

Damian relaxes, staring down at his lunch. “I pity you,”

“Pity me enough to give me a bite?” Danny asks, batting his eyes obnoxiously.

“Absolutely not,”

“Fuck.”

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

I saw you take requests? Would it be alright to ask for Four?? I‘m thinking either something similar to the heat cycle you did with Hyrule, but with the minish instead of fae? Or maybe a fivesome with the colours?? If none of those spark inspiration, it‘s alright if you do something else, tho!

Okay, this is such a brilliant request because DAMN, I completely forgot Four was part minish, so this'll be fun!

Update after 5 hours of writing: yeah, so this is going to be a small-form fic. I'll put the first chapter here and have the other ones ready in separate posts. I can't thank you enough for this request, It's utterly amazing :)

Burning Love

Pairing: Four x Reader

Warning(s): None for this chapter, but the theme of this story is explicit (which means I'll tag all chapters as smut), so please don't read unless you are 18+!

Main Masterlist | Fic Masterlist | Next Chapter

Four was not okay.

He had woken to a perfect, cloudless day--with just enough of a breeze to make the approaching summer heat tolerable--with the appalling urge to do... absolutely nothing!

Four liked to think he was one of the more responsible Links in the chain, not that he would ever say it, so it was starting when he awoke, groaning, and immediately rolled back over to sleep. It didn't help that Wind chose that exact moment to yell some ineligible sentence to him, fraying Four's already frazzled nerves. Hylia, if he hadn't been so damn tired, he might have given the Sailor a piece of his mind about common decency.

"Four!" the hero of the seas tried again--t wasn't like Wind to be this loud, Four thought disgruntledly, sealing his hands over his aching ears–while following with a significantly quieter: "Why isn't he up yet?"

"Leave me alone," Four hissed into his bedroll without any real heat. Speaking of heat, when had it gotten so damn hot? He could have sworn the temperature was at least a few degrees cooler when he woke up.

There was more concerned whispering as the other heroes began to take notice of his predicament, Twilight and Warriors looking especially perturbed. Four buried his face in the bedroll when Time cocked an eyebrow in his direction, beginning his heavy approach. Four could feel the exact moment Time sidled up to him, swatting lightly at the hand that fell upon his head. "Four? Are you alright?"

"Mmmph," was Four's eloquent response, only replaced by a surprised gasp when Time's fingers caught his hair in a stern grip, pulling his face up. "What–"

Time placed his free hand on the smaller hero's forehead. "You feel warm," he stated plainly.

"Who feels warm?" A new voice joined the fray and Four wanted to scream. It was you, because of course it was, already dressed in your adventuring clothes, hair slightly damn from what he assumed had been a recent bath in the nearby river. Your eyes narrowed in concern as you took in the sight before you. "Oh no, is he sick?"

"Very well could be," Legend answered, pinning Four with a gaze that had him gritting his teeth. "No offense, but you look terrible."

"Everything you say is an offense," Four muttered, hissing when Time gently smacked him upside the head with a quiet 'behave yourself'.

Four stilled when you approached, laying a cool hand on his burning forehead, eliciting an actual shiver from him. "You've definitely got a fever," you stood, clicking your tongue in sympathy and cocking a delicious hip. "Don't worry, I've got some herbs in my pack with your name on them!" and you were gone from his sight, presumably to rife through your medicine bag,

Dumbstruck, Four lay prone, baffled by the reaction his body had from a simple touch. Maybe there was something wrong with him, because there was no reasonable expiation to the spikes of heat coursing through his veins. The voices typically bouncing raucously around his head were eerily quiet... until you returned with a wooden cup full of sloshing green liquid. It was almost embarrassing how quickly his mouth opened when you came within reach, offering the drink. Four downed it without a second thought, only pausing to take cough when the bitter flavor invaded his mouth.

"Gross, isn't it?" he could have died when you patted his back comfortingly, retrieving the now empty cup. "I appreciate the lack of fight," you joked, sending a short glance to Wind and Legend, who immediately began to defend their honor.

"H-Hey, it's not my fault you make it taste disgusting!"

"But (Y/nnnnnnn)–"

"Butts are for sitting," you interjected, turning your head in Time's direction. "Is there a town nearby we can take him to?"

The oldest hero put a hand on his chin, humming lowly. "Castle Town is a day's walk from here, if we start in an hour, we should be able to make it by sundown."

You nodded, patting Four one last time before rising to your full height, casting a shadow over grounded hero. it was almost embarrassing how quickly his eyes snapped to your strong legs, traveling up to scope out your frankly enchanting hips, which would be perfect for carrying his children–

Smack!

You jumped when Four slammed his head back down on the bedroll, already bending down to examine the fallen hero. "What in the–"

–Only to be pulled back by a slightly-scowling Twilight. "Is there anything else we can get for a fever?"

"I–" you glanced at Four, then the hand wrapped around your wrist, with a worried expression. "I saw some willow trees a few minutes from here."

"I'll get it with you," said Hyrule, who had been on the outskirts of the concerned circle formed around Four's bedroll. While his magic could heal physical ailments, it wasn't nearly as effective with colds and infections–that was why they had you, a retired field medic from Warrior's Hyrule that had fallen through a similar portal a few months ago.

"Alright," you gestured for Hyrule to follow you as soon as Twilight released his grip. As the two of your retreated into the grove, Four allowed himself to relax, mind still spinning with thoughts unknown to even him.

Camp was packed by the time you and Hyrule returned, burdened with nearly a pound of willow bark between the two of you. You found yourself immediately searching for Four, because, while you would never admit it out loud, Legend's assessment of the shorter hero's physical state was quite accurate. You'd known something was amiss as soon as you glimpsed the heady flush practically overtaking his face, not to mention the distinct blurriness of his pupils, which had blown considerably as your interaction progressed.

It wasn't like Four to be so... uncoordinated, and you were genuinely worried that there was more going on than met the eye. You'd seen more than your fair share of sickness and death, so you were going to be damned if you let one of your dearest friends suffer the same fate as those unlucky souls during the war.

Your heart jumped when you found him sitting atop Epona, arms wrapped loosely around her sturdy neck, eyes closed and hairband half-heartedly tied to his forehead. Twilight stood close by, reins in one hand while the other cheerfully waved you over. You approached quickly, already fiddling with the willow bark in your satchel. "How is he?"

"He'll be fine," the rancher grunted, "Hylia knows we have our own troubles ta' work through."

You nodded slowly. "I wish I knew how this could have happened... and it's strange that no one else is feeling unwell."

Twilight sighed, laying a hand on your shoulder. "Don't worry your head about it, darlin'. He'll find ya in time."

"Thanks, Twi," you smiled softly. "I needed that."

A grin broke through his unusually stoic expression. "Anytime, darl', ya know we're here for you."

"Same here," you peeked over his shoulder to study a snoozing Four. "Do you think it was those mushrooms from two nights ago, those were nasty."

Twilight hummed. "I ain't sure about that, Wolfie wouldn't have brought it if 'e didn't think it was safe."

You tapped your chin. "True, but what if it only affects Hylians, like those berries Wild tried to eat back in Legend's Hyrule?"

A short left Twilight's mouth at the memory of a berry-drunk Wild declaring war on bananas, he rocked back against Epona's shoulder, causing the horse to nicker softly and bump her nose against his chest. "Ya could be on to something, but he ain't drunk."

"Obviously," you rolled your eyes before finding yourself studying Four once more. "I'll take your word for it, though. Hyrule and I got enough willow to last anyone through a lifetime."

"Atta girl," Twilight clapped your shoulder, and you laughed together, only stopping when Warrior's called your name from the other side of camp. "Don't worry, I'll take care'a him."

You tipped an invisible hat. "You're the best, Twi!"

You turned on your heel to see what madness Wars had gotten himself into, not noticing Four's narrowed glare from atop Epona, irises swirling in a dizzying kaleidoscope of color.

The journey to Castle Town was a long one. You walked with Warriors and Hyrule, just before Twilight and Four in case one of them needed something. The only stops made were for Epona or the bathroom, which you had no complaints toward; your friend was sick and you knew bedrest was the best cure was illnesses like his.

"You don't think it's contagious, do you?" Warriors asked between chews of the lynel jerky Wild blessed everyone with a few minutes ago.

"I don't think so..." you trailed off, taking a bite of your own jerky. "Someone would have already gotten sick if it was."

"I agree," Hyrule joined in, tone strangely knowing. The traveller caught your curious gaze, quickly amending: "...That doesn't make it any less worrying."

...Why did you feel like he knew something? Hyrule was a healer, so you wouldn't be surprised, but it was strange that he wasn't coming forth about it. "I'm especially worried about the fever, it means he's fighting something."

"You think?"

"I do," you hummed, resisting the urge to look behind you. "I asked Twilight if it was those mushrooms, but he's not sure."

Warrior blanched with a muttered: "Don't remind me..."

You and Hyrule chuckled simultaneously, just as Wind chimed: "those were gross!" from the front.

The sky was high in the sky by the time you came across a raging river, the only thing across it being a rickety bridge that had even you cringing.

"Just look at that," Hyrule whispered to you and Warriors. "I've seen better bridges built by children."

Time stopped just before the first plank, holding up an armored hand, just as Legend interjected, eyes narrowed in disgust at the 'architecture', if it could even be called that.

"We are not crossing that."

"I didn't say we were," Time replied evenly. "There is another bridge to the south, but it will take an additional few hours to reach."

"Wait," all eyes turned to you. "Will we still be able to get to town in time?"

"No," Time said slowly. "There's a gorge near the town that can't be crossed in the dark."

Well, that wouldn't do. You gestured to the bridge. "Can we cross it if we go once at a time?"

Time's expression turned contemplative... until a small smile broke through the fog and you knew you were on to something. "I believe we've found ourselves a solution."

Get read for some slow burn, y'all.

[consultingskeletondetective]

Virginal, chapter 2

Michael had left you alive, and you couldn't begin to fathom why. You know all you can do is try and forget it and move on with your life.

Except...Michael has followed you home.

masterlist ❤️🖤 ao3

chapter tags: serial killer, murder, death, violence, blood, gore, weapons, knife, female reader, non con, stalking, hair pulling, forced orgasms

The police hadn’t caught him yet.

It had been almost a week since your encounter with Michael Myers in the woods on your way home from work, and he’d been on the run ever since. You hadn’t reported what had happened to the authorities, even if you’d been on the verge of it many times. You’d spent the whole week waking up in cold sweats with a gooey and shameful mess between your legs at the memory of Michael’s large hand on your neck, or the sense-memory of his cock pressed heavy and dangerous against your core. The way he’d used you, fucked you, like his own little plaything haunted you.

No one could know what he’d done to you, no one could know how you felt about it, even if the guilt gnawed at you. Maybe if you’d told someone, they might have caught him by now, and people might still be alive. But there was a part of you, a part of you you wished you didn’t have, that reminded you that if Michael wanted someone dead, then there was nothing any earthly power could do to keep that person alive. Michael left no survivors.

Except for you.

It had been on the news religiously all week; police were baffled by his location and utterly at a loss for his motivations and patterns. Michael, it seemed, cared not a bit to cover his tracks. He even seemed to decorate his murder scenes artistically, propping bodies up and, blurred though they were on the television, reminding you of a sick and gruesome game of action figures. They were Michael’s bodies, to do with as he pleased. Twelve people he’d killed since he found you. Twelve. That the authorities were aware of, anyway. The thought chilled you to the very core.

You’d learnt from the heavy reporting that Michael Myers had been being held at the Westbrook Sanitarium for the criminally insane, not four miles from where you worked, and he’d escaped that night he’d taken you - thrust against your weak body until he came on your cunt like a wild animal. 

You were the first person he’d come across, apparently, and after years of solitude, Michael had some frustrations to take out on you. You knew well who he was, you recognised that mask and that boiler suit the second you’d seen it. You’d grown up with stories of the boogeyman who’d murdered his sister the same as everyone else, thrust into the spotlight when he’d escaped from Smith’s Grove Sanitarium a few years ago and murdered a bunch of teenagers on a spree. You’d seen the youtube video essays and buzzfeed articles on the stoic killing machine who’d baffled psychologists and doctors up and down the country, maybe even the world. You’d walked past books in shops written about this monster, his silence, his rage, his gore and death and damnation were a part of your culture. It made it easy to forget that Michael Myers was real, and not just some fictitious product of a sick mind. He became very real to you that night, your own personal boogeyman.

You’d learnt that Michael Myers was no man, he was an evil spirit, a hell-sent silent demon, a ghost - one that was haunting you. 

You turned the television off and went into the bathroom, shucking your clothes into a messy pile by the bath as you stepped under the cool spray of the shower.

It was a warm day, your skin over-hot, and you welcomed the clammy dribbles down your back. You washed quickly, fingers pressing too familiar over the lips of your pussy, you expected them still to be swollen, puffy from use where Michael had rutted his scorching and elephantine cock against you like a beast in heat, but it wasn’t. It was like it hadn’t happened. Except it had, of course, because you still wore him on your skin. His fingertips were in every bruise, his grip was the ache in your bones with every groan of your sore body. It was like he’d marked you, made your tiny body a part of his eclipsing form. 

You shook your head frustratedly to yourself in the bathroom mirror before flicking the lightswitch off and making your way to your bedroom. You couldn’t think of him every moment for the rest of your life, you couldn’t live in fear of the boogeyman. He had left you alive, and you had to live with that. Michael was gone, and you’d never see him again. 

You pulled a short nightdress on, the flimsy material to combat the hot and sticky night you anticipated, and you made your way to the kitchen to fill up your water bottle to take to bed. 

The outside light was on.

It wasn’t yours, but your neighbours. It was motion-sensored, you knew that because it blinded you every time you stumbled back from a night shift.

You frowned before crossing to the door, to close the blinds over the glass so no one would be able to see into your home in the middle of the night. Your hand tangled in the string before it froze, along with the rest of your body. Like your blood had frozen to ice inside you and made you a dead weight to the floor.

Michael was standing under the light, 50 yards away from your door. He was staring sightlessly at you through the empty eyes of his mask, utterly emotionless. His hands rested unclenched by his sides, his back razor-straight as always. He was just watching. His form gave no indication of how long he’d been there. Maybe hours.

Fear shot through you and the string began to shake violently in your grip as you stared at him. He’d come to finish what he’d started, you realised in horror, he’d noticed his mistake in leaving you alive. Was it so you couldn’t tell the police? Was it just that you needed to die, he’d had you in his grasp and that was that, a rageful itch under his skin that wouldn’t be quenched until your blood was soaking his hands?

It didn’t make sense. He was stood in the street, bathed in your neighbours motion light like a bloody homing beacon. Surely they’d seen him. Surely someone had seen him and called the police? Why weren’t there any sirens? It was deathly quiet. Just you, him and the wind. Maybe it was a fever dream, a sleep paralysis nightmare and your demon had returned to you.

He began walking leisurely towards the door, his pace bone-tinglingly unhurried as ever, before he stopped at the glass and peered down at you. You shrank, paralysed with fear. You’d somehow forgotten just how big he was. He might have been two foot taller than you, and just as broad, taking up the whole of the door so he blacked out any light behind him. That was as good a metaphor as any to describe Michael. The darkness followed him. 

You didn’t know why you weren’t moving, dazzled, you supposed somewhere in the back of your mind. A monster brought to life, in front of you, enough to convince yourself that you were dreaming.

His fist shattered through the glass, shards of glittering ice hitting the kitchen floor as his hand curled down to find the handle. You screamed, backing off so violently your back hit the fridge and tears wept down your cheeks until they were quite literally soaking the front of your nightie. This was no dream. It was a nightmare incarnate. 

Even his violent outburst seemed calm somehow, shattering your backdoor into shards of glass like it was nothing. His large hand found the door handle and began to rattle it, and the noise caused your brain to snap back to where it needed to be.

You forced your eyes from him, pushed yourself away from the fridge and scurried into the living room. The front door was in your sights. You didn’t know precisely what you planned to do with yourself when you got outside, your brain hadn’t made it that far yet. All you knew was that you needed to survive, and you had no chance of that locked in the same cage as this rabid animal.

You grabbed for the front door handle with a hiss of accomplishment, throwing your gaze back over your shoulder to ascertain how much time you had. No time. Michael was already in the living room, walking towards you like he had all the time in the world. You shrieked in pure terror at his towering form as you flung the door wide open, the concrete of your front step was cool on your barefoot but the sensation barely lasted a second as fingers tangled roughly in your hair and yanked you roughly until you fell onto the carpet. The open-palm of Michael’s free hand slammed the front door shut, cutting off your exit, and the oak creaked under the force of it, the foundations of the house damn-near shaking.

You scrambled onto your knees, screeching, crying, grasping at his hand in your hair, wincing when every flex of his fingers yanked at your scalp, tearing individual hairs out by the roots. He had to bend his back to hold you to the floor, his emotionless mask looking down on you. His breathing was barely audible over your devastated screams. You couldn’t move.

“Please, please, please, Michael, please don’t kill me. I didn’t tell anyone, I swear! I won’t! I don’t want to die, please let me go, please, please-”

You could barely beg, your throat hoarse, your words sobs. He didn’t respond except to drag you into the middle of the room by your hair, kicking the coffee table aside to make room for you both in the middle of the floor. One of the wooden legs of your poor table snapped under his boot before he tossed you down like a ragdoll. Your back hit the carpeted floor and it shook your whole frame. You instinctively planted your palms on the floor behind yourself, to crawl back, to spring up, you didn’t know.

Michael’s boot came to rest on your bare thigh, his weight utterly solid and you wailed as he pinned you to the floor. Your nightie had ridden up, not to the point of indecency, but enough that his boot kissed your flesh. You froze as fresh tears streamed down your face, remembering exactly what he’d done the last time he’d had you like this, as if just realising how acutely vulnerable you were in this position. Were you even wearing underwear? You didn’t think so. His boot was mere inches away from your exposed cunt, all he’d have to do was push your dress up and he’d see everything. See how fucking wet you were. You hated yourself.

“Please,” you tried again, voice barely a whisper as you looked up at him. Submissive, you realised, prey before a predator, begging for its life. “What do you want?”

He didn’t move, you could barely tell if he was breathing, just staring down at you as everything else in the world fell away. His hands were still loose by his sides, no knife, you noted, but a grim red-hued dirt on the rough palms of his hands you could identify without too much guesswork. Your stomach rolled.

His hand raised and you jolted, expecting pain, to be struck, stripped, killed. 

How long had he been searching for you? Maybe he’d never left, maybe he’d been one step behind you all week, watching you sleep, watching you shower - were those twelve people dead because they lived close to you? Did you kill them?

His large hand came to rest over the front of his crotch and your mouth fell open. Not again. Why me? You were already shaking your head, breathy hitching sobs racking through you.

“No, Michael, please -”

He toed your thigh with the steel-gap of his boot, shoving it to the side, affectively opening your legs and you wanted to close your eyes, the feeling of vulnerability and shame as he spread your legs for him hurt something deep inside of you, you felt dirty and shameful in every one of your nerves. Your slick was soaking the back of your nightie and probably your carpet too. What the fuck was wrong with you?

He fell to his knees in front of you, in a way that could only have hurt, but he didn’t make a sound as his large, gore-stained hands gripped your bare thighs and tugged until you were lying in front of him. You squeaked, your legs not quite touching his, more left hanging in the air as he scraped his calloused hands down your thighs in a way that definitely didn’t make your heart speed up, no more than it was already hammering, before his palms were flat on your inner thighs, pressing them apart and into the floor. You tried immediately and desperately to close them and his grip on you tightened to the point of extreme pain, your femurs tremoring dangerously like they might snap if you moved even an inch.

You stilled completely, you couldn’t tell where he was looking, but it seemed to be right at you, that emotionless masked expression, or lack of, giving you nothing, but you could feel the rage and the dangerous power wafting off of him, you could feel the coiled strength in his fingers, the strain of his bicep muscles in his boiler suit as he held you immobile and you swallowed, shivering in fear and pitiful acceptance as you stopped struggling. If you had any hope of getting out of this alive, and as uninjured as possible, you had to stop fighting. 

His pathetic, mewling hole, your brain supplied almost bitterly.

Once apparently satisfied you’d stopped struggling, MIchael’s grip on your thighs lessened somewhat, leaving deep red bruises regardless, and he shifted forwards on his knees, taking up more space between your legs, as he rucked your nightie up to your belly, sitting back a little just to stare at your pussy, exposed and dripping and vulnerable, as if getting a good look at the wet little hole that had made him come so hard the last time. 

Your cheeks burned boiling hot as he looked at you, your thighs twitching conspirately to close but you forced yourself to try and calm, utterly impossible, you trembled like a newborn foal.

He dipped his head between your legs and your back arched, startled, wondering what he possibly meant to do, particularly, your horrible brain chipped in, with a mask over his face. You could hear nothing but that breathing, before it was sucked in, the nose of his mask just nudging your folds and making you jolt. 

Was he - was he smelling you? 

He made no noise, his body shifted an inch. What was he doing? It was like he was searching for something. He kept his nose buried against your soaping heat for a few more moments before he apparently found it. Then he was sitting back up again. Your knees were nearly knocking together in terror when his hands, fuck, how were they so big? framed your cunt, pulling at the flesh of the tops of your thighs, spreading your folds, revealing the vulnerable pink flesh of your seam, your clit.

Oh fuck.

He prodded you with a long finger a few times, painful sharp jabs until he caught the rim of your opening and sunk in to the knuckle. It burned, it burned so hot, you clenched painfully around his finger. Fuck, it felt like the size of a cock all on its own. But the finger was withdrawn as quickly as it had breached you, like a fucking dip test, but no less rough on the way out and you grimaced. You had a pretty good idea about what was to follow, and the anticipation of the pain alone was enough to make you cry again. 

“You don’t have to do this,” you tried again pathetically, wondering somewhere in your mind why you were trying to distract him from fucking you, when the alternative was his heavy hands shattering your collarbone until your heart was pierced by your own brittle dagger. Survival, you kept saying to yourself, one day you might believe it, you were trying to live. Nothing else. Nothing else.

He’d already unzipped his boiler suit, you could just glimpse a sliver of pale flesh beneath but he undressed himself no further, reaching down into his trousers and pulling his cock free. 

Fucking hell.

It was a goddamn fucking monster. It sat snug in Michael’s large hand, long and thick, crown red with blood and dribbling precome, it curved up slightly, in a way that was designed to attack that spot inside of you, and when he dropped it, it dipped, bobbing against his boiler suit, so heavy under its own weight it could barely hold itself up, but it did, his cock stood proud and to attention, ready for action, as he shifted down a little, hands once more finding your thighs and hauling you practically into his lap. He threw your legs over his broad hips, stretching your thigh muscles, as his cock rested hot and heavy on your pelvic bone, like a leaden weight on you. Oh fuck, you were so fucked. It was near enough the size of your thigh, and you knew it was going to wreck you.

You jerked your hips uselessly, trying in vain to put some distance between you and Michael’s thick cock, you’d never had a partner that size before, you’d never even had a toy that size. It wasn’t going to fit, it was as simple as that. Except he didn’t care.

He pressed his hips up, taking you with him, lifting your back clean off of the floor so your spine was arched uncomfortably. He paid you no mind as he gripped the base of his erection and slipped himself down through your folds.

He was silent, calm and ferocious as he pressed forward against you with so much pressure that it hurt. You could feel his heaviness hard against your pelvic bone and you trembled in fearful anticipation of what was about to happen.

Finally, Michael found what he was looking for and his thick cockhead breached your hole barely a centimetre but still you gasped, already undone by being so violently penetrated by not even a goddamn inch of that fat unforgiving head. 

Michael surged forward, in triumph perhaps, or just in a hurry to get his cock stuffed deep into you as quickly as possible, but your traitorous cunt was wet enough that he slipped straight back out again, whole cock fucking upwards and jamming through your folds, gliding gloriously against your clit. You let out a loud moan and he stilled entirely except for the throb of his cock against you. You clapped your hands to your mouth and forced your eyes to the ceiling. You hadn’t meant to do that. You didn’t want to give him the sick satisfaction. It was the last thing you could keep for yourself.

Michael was a fast learner, it seemed, because this time he inched a little more slowly inside you until a good inch of solid cock was spearing you open. You thought you might die, knees knocking against his hips helplessly as he forcibly stretched you obscenely around him. You will take me, I will make it fit.

Only when he was firm in you, and you were surely going to pass out from pressure alone, did he plunge his hips forward, his whole cock sinking to the hilt in one brutal thrust. 

The pain, fuck the pain was indescribable, burning, aching, stuffed full, stuffed beyond full - he didn’t care - he didn’t care that he’d probably just ripped you in half, stretched you so full you were more cock than you were yourself anymore. He didn’t care you were crying, shivering, he cared that you were an open, wet heat to warm his cock in. 

Those blood-stained, murderous hands gripped your hips and an ache blossomed in your bones, your skin beneath his skin turned white to red to near-black with bloodied pressure-bruises as he gripped you hard enough you fully believed he intended to shatter bone. He could, you knew he could. It was enough to lose yourself to, you were going to pass out, you were going to die from the stress and agony forced upon your weak and small body. This was how he was going to kill you.

He moved, shifted his heavy length inside you, nudging spots of your flesh where a cock was not meant to be. He pulled out incrementally, shoved back in and oh - oh .

Your thighs shook again, trembled, as spiralling pleasure mixed with pain and your pussy clenched around his cock, contracting around it as he thrust in again, as if traitorously and deliriously pulling him in to you, to where that thick and hot pressure felt the best. He thrust in again, harder than before, faster than before, immediately picking up an athletic, robotic pace as if he were half-way through a marathon fuck, thrumming with energy. You had no time to adjust, no time to build-up - you were there immediately, clenching uncontrollably on Michael Myer’s mercilessly hard cock, your cunt fluttering and clenching on every brutal, animalistic intrusion, until you couldn’t take it anymore. There was no edge, there was just falling.

You yelped, back arching up even more than it already was, legs squeezing the small of Michael’s back as your poor cunt spasmed, coming hot and hard until you felt your own slick dribbling down the backs of your thighs. Michael didn’t stop for a second, he didn’t even slow, you nearly choked on your own spit.

He was utterly devoid of anything, breathing heavy and focused, no movement except the piston of his hips as he fucked you deep and unforgiving until you were sure his thick crown was kissing at your cervix. 

Your head was hazy, eyes unfocused, you had absolutely no control over your overworked cunt anymore, whining pitifully as you came around him again, lathering his cock in your traitorous spend, praying every time that he’d slow, but he didn’t, and you felt that molten lava in your core building again until you were covered in a sheen of your own sweat, spent, exhausted. He didn’t care. He wasn’t done yet, he wanted more. He took it.

He angled his hips up, chasing a sensation, you weren’t prepared for it. He hammered into you until his hip bones were slamming against your inner thighs with enough force to shake your entire body. His cock against your sweet spot was like a punch to the gut and you screamed. Pain, pleasure, you didn’t know anymore as your hips convulsed and jerked, clamping down on him hard enough that if he were a normal man, he wouldn’t have been able to move.

But Michael was no normal man. 

He held your hips down, taking your clenching orgasm for himself as he slammed into you. Being fucked into your leg-shaking release was like being volted off of this ethereal plane and into another, your eyes whitened, your brain slowed to juddering holt as dizzying, mind-numbing ohmyfuckinggodthisfeelssogood short-circuited your entire being.

Michael slammed into you one final time, unable to withstand the vice-like grip of your velvet walls any longer before he was stilling completely, his cock an erupting volcano inside of you that spurted hot white heat against your walls, filling you utterly.

Your mouth opened in shock, or exhaustion, as your whole body trembled, jerking uncontrollably in the aftershocks.

He didn’t linger. His hands left your hips first, the bruises behind ached immediately, black and devastating to your skin where even taking a breath in bothered them. Then he snapped his hips back, swollen cock slipping free of your drenched heat, sopping with white. He let it hang there, between his legs, a stark contrast against his boiler suit, and you trembled with undignified arousal. Your cunt felt wrecked, stretched wide, forced open to accommodate him, and yet your body still somehow ached for more. No, you were terrified, fighting for your life, this wasn’t real. None of it was.

He stood, using core strength alone, leaving your legs to fall heavily to the floor. They ached where the muscles had been stretched, kicking the pain in your back and your hips into eleventh gear. You’d been twisted like a pretzel for too long. You frowned. How long had he been fucking you? It felt like no time at all, it felt like days.

You pulled your nightie down as far as it would go, scrambling your legs together despite the way they twinged. You could feel him squelching between your thighs and your untouched clit twinged pitifully.

When you gathered the courage to look up at him, you saw that he’d tucked himself away and zipped himself back up. He stood tall and menacing over you, gargantuan in your living room, his head near-touching the ceiling. He was peering down at you, that devoid mask giving nothing. The utter silence was as terrifying and deafening as any death cry.

He cocked his head ever so slightly and you winced, fight or flight response, before he was turning on his heel and heading back to the kitchen.

Terror rocked through you, vomit-inducing, head-spinning terror, and you were on your feet in a heartbeat. Your mauled insides and your ruined hips complained at you but you ignored it. They would mean nothing if you were dead. Which you were about to be. He was going for a knife, surely he was. He -

The creak of the kitchen door caught you by surprise, but it took a few long minutes for your heart to stop thudding loud enough for you to realise that he wasn’t coming back in. After a few breaths, your curiosity got the better of you and you crept into the kitchen. The back door was shut, except for the hole gaped in the glass by his fist, of course, and the kitchen was empty.

You were careful with your bare feet to avoid the shards of glass on the floor, not that it would make massive amounts of difference to your ruined body, before you shakily peered through what remained of your door.

The motion detector light was on, the street was empty.

Confusion and shame rocked through you with enough force to make you tumble and you had to grip the countertop to keep yourself upright.

How on earth were you still alive? For a second time? What did the most infamous serial killer in the country get from keeping you alive?

A hot, wet hole to come in.

You could feel the ache between your legs like Michael was still there, it was a glorious, horrible burn, trembling pleasure, irrefutable depravity - the best fuck of your life.

What did that make you?

Everything was eerily quiet. Your water bottle still sat on the side. If it weren’t for the broken door and the shards of glass, it would be easy to imagine that Michael hadn't been there at all.

Except for the warm come dribbling down your thighs where he’d marked his territory inside you. You swallowed. Whether you were his next victim or his fucktoy - you couldn’t escape that you were his. And you knew, even now, with terrifying certainty, that Michael Myers was not going to let you go.

link to chapter 3

[satureja13]

This is the last post on this simblr/tumblr for a while. The Boys and their mentors entered the Therapy Game 2.0 (= inZOI) I got my hands on the Creator Studio where I can already enter Build Mode and the Character Creator! The new tumblr/ZOIblr where I will post about their future adventures is -> here

Since the corrupted Therapy Game save file made them forget everything, we will start with a whole new story line!

If you won't follow us there: Thank you so much for participating!

tumblr is my safe place. And it's you who make this possible. Thank you also for your patiece. For kindly answering my weird questions and polls. I'm autistic and I'm having a very hard time acting properly and I often failed and made people mad.

And If you'll ever miss the Boys, check their -> pinned post hub with all the links to the 30 chapters with hundreds of episodes ö.ö (You can also find lots of additional facts about the Boys and their friends there. Also our other stories.)

This story alone contains 1716 posts! Not all of them full episodes though. 'Underwater Love' started end of July 2022! And went on and on for 2 Years and eight months! Unbelievable! Some of you might know I deal with ADHD and this is a huge achievement for me. And I'm still so obsessed with them ^^'

I leave this simblr with 376.310 given likes (in ~ 12 years though ^^') I don't know how many I've received for my 3886 posts, but I'm thankful for each and every one of them <3

So, I won't log in here as soon as I start inZOI. (Since it's a completely other blog and I won't log back and forth ö.ö) Which will probably be sooner than expected! I'm trying to get my hands on one of the keys that drop from 20th March on. And if I'm lucky, I can enter Create a ZOI again and build mode! (Edit: as mentioned above, I was lucky!) I'm over and over baffled again how well my timing was! I think it turned out quite well with the story and we can leave the Boys with a good feeling. There was a time when I feared they'd get sucked ingame against their will and that would have left me with a heavy heart. So them all entering of their own free will was a relief for me and I can move on. And I still have the possibility to come back anytime (= the manage to get out of the Therapy Game) Not only the Boys needed a break. I'm so utterly fed up with the Sims 4 but it was impossible for me to leave without the Boys. So I hope inZOI and maybe also Paralives will keep us busy for a while until I calmed down again ^^' I say 'hiatus' but it's also possible that I will never touch the Sims 4 again. I can't tell right now. But maybe I'll miss the goats and log in anyway hahaha

We still had a lot of fun :3

'When I first saw you, I was deep in clear blue water The sun was shining, calling me to come and see you I touched your soft skin and you jumped in with your eyes closed And a smile upon your face Você vem, você vai, você vem e cai E vem aqui pra cá porque eu quero te beijar na sua boca Que coisa louca Vem aqui pra cá porque eu quero te beijar na sua boca Ai que boca gostosa

After the rain comes sun After the sun comes rain again After the rain comes sun And after the sun comes rain again'

Smoke City - Underwater Love

From the Beginning 🔱 Underwater Love 🔱 Latest

Current Chapter 'Goats in Space': starts ▶️ here Last Chapter: 'Piglets in Space' from the beginning ▶️ here

📚 Previous Chapters: Chapters: 1-6 ~ 7-12 ~ 13-16 ~ 23-29

[hrefna-the-raven]

Hot as Hades

Masterlist - Misc. masterlist

Chapters 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5

Words: 1444

Notes: I'm still not in the right mindset to continue this story so it might feel a bit off but I promised another chapter so here it is ☺️ [also might rewrite this chapter as I'm not quite satisfied with it😅]

Chapter 6 - The tapestry of fate

"Come around again, Cinyras", Clotho purred with a sly wink.

Cinyras ran as fast as his legs could carry him until the realm of the Fates was out of sight. The body began to split with a rather undignified squelch, morphing into none other than Pain and Panic. The imps frowned in disgust as their shook their heads.

"I need several showers", Panic shuddered rubbing his arms nervously.

Pain nodded eagerly but before he could utter a word both of them were being pulled into the fabric of reality.

It had felt like an eternity when you last heard of the Lord of the Underworld and you almost laughed at the irony, given that you were now just as immortal as the god who held your heart hostage. Worries had been dominating your mind ever since he so hastily dropped you off without any explanation. Were you truly immortal? You didn't dare to try out of fear of ending your life way too early but then again, if you'd end up in the river of Styx, he'd actually be forced to talk to you. Thoughts after thoughts raced through your mind but before any of them could conclude, your physical form was warped away, falling through endless swirls of colours and stars before your feet hit a soft cloudy ground.

"Hiya love", you heard a familiar smug voice drawled.

Your eyes slowly wandered up, blinking in utter disbelief at the towering figure who stood before you, looking rather pleased with himself despite the peculiar circumstances.

"Hades?", you asked hesitantly.

Before you could ask yourself whether this was some sort of bizarre nightmare or reality gone completely bonkers, you felt the imps, who appeared a second after you, cling to you on each arm, clutching your hands tightly as they looked up, a glimmer of terror and suspicion dancing in their wide eyes.

"B-b-boss?!", both stammered, afraid he'd maim them on the spot for even asking.

Your gaze wandered over Hades' figure and he looked....ridiculous. He wore a magenta tunic, much as Zeus when you had seen him the first time. And speaking of unfortunate similarities, his signature flaming blue hair had vanished, replaced by absurdly styled white hair, again just like Zeus' before. However, both colours clashed rather horrendously with his naturally gloomy and melancholic aura that stubbornly refused to be brightened by his new ensemble.

"Of course it's me, babe. Who else would have the audacity to pull off this stunning look?", Hades declared, arms spread wide like he was expecting applause, "I suppose you're wondering what on earth is going on."

Hades noticed that you had been unaffected by the change in the tapestry and he let out a nervous chuckle, flashing you a toothy grin that seemed more desperate than charming.

"Underworld, actually," you corrected him dryly, "but yeah I do wonder quite a bit", the words slipping out before you could stop them. 

You stood there utterly baffled, your next words trapped in your throat as your gaze drifted towards Pain and Panic who now wore Hermes' signature outfit. Both imps seemed to be equally confused as they looked down in disbelief at the white tunic they were wearing. Hades heaved a sigh worthy of a third-rate tragedy actor, clearly improvising, trying to come up with a plan as he went on. 

"Well, my little flower, my little bird, my dear, you see it all started with a rather grandiose plan concocted by my ever-so-underwhelming brother, mister Hey-got-off-my-cloud, Zeus."

You couldn't suppress a snort of laughter; beneath this bizarre exterior, your Hades was still very much present, sarcasm intact.

"Zeus? A grand plan? Are you quite certain you haven't mixed up your own plotting with his?"

Hades flashed another grin, though it seemed more hesitant and forced than joyful. 

"You see, darling, he's finally done it - decided to acknowledge my superior management skills and switch places. Can you believe it? The old thundercloud actually came to his senses and practically begged me to take over. Now that I'm here, properly installed as God of Gods and all that marvellous jazz, I thought we might make this little arrangement... mutually beneficial. If you catch my drift, babe?"

His words oozed with suspicious charm, like a snake oil salesman trying to peddle bottled lightning to Zeus himself. You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you tried to decipher the meaning behind his words, wondering if he'd finally lost his marbles after centuries of dealing with the dead. Hades’ expression was more earnest now, but a hint of sadness still glinted in his eyes. He strolled towards you, slowly reached out a hand, and when he got to you, he gently caressed your cheek, his touch light and warm.

"Don't worry, I didn't forget about you. In fact, you're a part of the plan, too."

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you tried to decipher the meaning behind his words. Hades, the usually overlooked ruler of the Underworld, now stood before you on Olympus with a confident air, one that was both unsettling, oddly charming and almost ridiculous, while looking like a caricature of Zeus. His grin widened, revealing sharp teeth that seemed to gleam in the dim light of the clouds around, looking rather like a shark who'd just spotted lunch.

"Alright, spill it," you demanded, swallowing the unease that had settled in your stomach, "what have you done?"

Hades chuckled darkly, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. 

"Oh, it's simple, really - a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. Ol' Zeusy gets a taste of what it's like being trapped down in the Underworld, and I, well deserved I might add, get to run Olympus. But more importantly”, he sidled closer, waggling his eyebrows, “I get to spend some quality time with you."

You couldn't push that gnawing doubt away that bloomed within you. There was something very wrong about this situation, and Hades was clearly hiding something behind that thousand-watt smile.

"Seriously, what have you done? Where is Zeus?", you asked in a stern tone as you carefully observing Hades.

"Zeus? Zeus? What is that, a candy or something?", Hades chuckled rather nervously, his usual charms failing him as he stuttered.

"The real king of Olympus."; you insisted.

Hades looked at you with a big smile but the sadness and despair in his eyes couldn't be hidden. The realisation that, despite him ruling the other gods now, his plan had not worked as planned, and he ran out of excuses to make this whole mess look good.

"Now, now, I've always been the king. Yeah yeah thank you. Hades has left the building.", he tried to joke, theatrically waving a hand.

"Yes honey, you've always been", Hera purred as she walked up to Hades, caressing his cheek lovingly. You blinked in disbelief at the scene unfolding in front of you. Pain and Panic saw your expression and before your mind could comprehend the incoming heartbreak, the imps flew towards you and swept you away, bringing you back to your home.

Hades shoved Hera away with a snarl that rivalled the one of Cerberus. Oh, this was just brilliant. Somewhere along the line, whilst playing master puppeteer with the Fates' precious tapestry, he'd managed to botch things up spectacularly. The grand master plan had been absolutely perfect in theory - he was supposed to become the illustrious king of Olympus, make you his immortal bride, and the two of you could have spent eternity lounging about in the fluffy clouds, sipping nectar and watching Zeus rot away in the dreary Underworld. But nooo, the universe just had to go and muck it all up, didn't it? Hades slumped down on throne that spontaneously formed out of the clouds and pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to set everything ablaze. This was a divine disaster and a fear slowly rose within him. After witnessing Hera's little display of affection, you'd probably rather marry a river guardian than become his bride.

"Well, if it isn't the strapping new ruler of Olympus Hades", Atropos's mocking voice cut through his self-pity party as she sauntered towards him, holding the eye in her hand, "not quite the mastermind you thought you were, eh?"

"Come to have a laugh at my expense? Well, go on then, knock yourself out!", Hades scoffed, flicking his hand dismissively.

Deep down, beneath all the snark and bravado, he felt like he'd lost you forever and though he wanted to blame everyone else for it, he knew in his heart that this tragedy was entirely his doing.

Chapter 7

Tags: @makanirock05 / @dd122004dd / mythirdlife235

[inkedinfusions]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐲 | eren jaeger chapter 8

⊱𖣂⊰ | In which you fall into a fictional world with the key to Pandora's box.

── ★ ˙ ̟ . 🗝 .ᐟ.ᐟ masterlist

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𝟎𝟖 | 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

chapter word count: 3.3 k

content warnings: blanket warnings

a/n: So we are doing this again, where I say that I'm too busy and the next chapter will take a while and then I turn my back and upload on schedule. Anyway. I hope ya'll enjoyed last chapter's cliffhanger!

Thanks for reading!

𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 are taken aback is a gross understatement; you’re utterly stunned. Your eyes widen a fraction, and for a millisecond the air, the ocean, and your heart all still. 

Never in your dreams –well, maybe some of them– would you have thought that your name would come out of his mouth seconds after meeting you. There are no introductions to serve as prelude to his words, no past interactions to serve as crutch for rationalization. 

The gleaming moonlight is suddenly much more brilliant, bathing you both in silver rays. Your hair sways in the salty ocean breeze, and so does his, matching yours in a gentle rhythm. The wind is much calmer than the storm that heralded your arrival, air strangely warmer despite the environment that would suggest otherwise. 

Your name in his lips is not a question, but rather an answer. 

He, somehow, knows who you are, as his tone does not ask if that is your name, but instead states it with the certainty only someone familiar with another can. It is strange, how his eyes speak of understanding, how his stance speaks of kinship.

You are frozen in place for what seems like eternity, but is likely just a couple of seconds. Hange’s enthusiastic voice is lost in the pulse of the sea’s waves, in the drum of your heart, in the whisper of breath of your unasked questions. 

How? Is the first one your mind asks.

Zeke, you reply, before discarding the idea. It is neither logically sound nor something coherent with the instructions and warnings you were given. The Scouts never knew about the Volunteers before they set foot on the island, never considered such an organization's existence in the first place, and much less one that Zeke led. 

Invariably, you know him. 

Unexpectedly, he knows you. 

“What?” you instead ask out loud, when you notice that he is searching your response for confirmation.  

You hesitate with your question, not unlike when you first asked Yelena who she was. It is terrifying how, just when you feel you have a grasp on what is happening, the rug is pulled from your feet and you are left dazed and confused on the floor. 

It makes you think that when you reweave a new carpet from your loom, when you believe you can see the whole picture it depicts, a loose thread will ultimately be pulled by an unknown force, sending you tumbling down once again. 

You are a bit embarrassed of yourself when he gives you a small smile and your stomach flutters just as your cheeks heat up. Maybe this is a dream you think, and it's not the first time that you are hesitant to accept reality, but it is the first occasion that you don't compare it to a nightmare. 

“Don’t pretend like you dont know me,” he says, further baffling you. “We both know way too much for that.”

“We do?” you ask, before correcting your tone. “We do.”

Eren tilts his head slightly, transferring his weight from one foot to another. “Yeah.”

You’ve noticed that there is a lot of space for silence in your life. Whether it contains unsaid secrets, unasked questions, or unresolved doubts, it always lingers behind you, never broken, never explained. 

And yet now, even with the uncertainty with which you approach the newborn conversation, there is implied solidarity in his words, in his actions. Eren didn’t try to pretend he was ignorant of you for the sake of having aces under his sleeve, nor did he attempt to trade that tidbit of information for another. 

Instead he came down the hill –because you are certain he was given explicit orders to not approach the ship’s crew– and talked to you, making it known that you had a connection. One that may only be just brought forth, but that came to life months before your first meeting, when he received his medal and his memories and his burden, and when you watched his story and his rage and his salvation.

You hear a whistle in the distance, and you whip your head towards its source, the sand and rock shore where the two Volunteers and two Scouts remain. You glance at them, too far away to distinguish their faces, their number, but knowing anyways who it is that stands there. Or maybe not, but you couldn't bear to think that your information was now obsolete. 

“I have to go,” you confess as if it is a great sin. 

Eren, who also turned his eyes to the shrill whistle, looks at you again. You swear his eyes soften, and gleam with something akin to… beholding? As quickly as these thoughts enter your mind you dismiss them, because, even if he could claim to know you through his future memories, it doesn’t excuse what you think you see. And so, you conclude it must be a trick of the light and of your perceived closeness to him through his story. 

He nods, not moving from his place between the dunes. You swallow, also not wanting to withdraw, but then you blink and the spell is broken on your end. The sand once again crunches underfoot, but then you stop when he calls your name again in a soft voice that is carried your way by the salty breeze. And so you cast your eyes upon him again, humming questioningly.

“Tell them your name,” is what Eren says after a moment. “They don't know,” he continues, infusing the word with weight, “but they learned.”

And it should be painfully awkward, how blunt questions and half finished answers are being thrown about, but there is no discomfort in the exchange. You know, and he knows, and you hadn’t realized how refreshing it was to just be, not relieved from the burdens but breathing in spite of them. You wonder if he has come to the same realization. 

“I will,” you say. “Thank you.”

“I’ll find you later,” he says. 

“Yeah,” you answer, almost tripping over your words. “Okay.”

You dont think to ask why until much later, when your feet have already taken you to the other side of the pier, sand crunching rhythmically under your robotic footsteps. Why he would tell you, and why now, and why in that way. But the more you delve into it, the more obvious it becomes. 

Eren knows what is supposed to happen (giant footsteps and crunching bones and the spray of blood and–) and is, in his eyes, powerless to do anything but follow the path already established by his future self, who is likewise chained by the same revelations. Perhaps you are as well, if the haunted look in his eyes is any indication of the unstoppable future that will be realized in a little more than three years. 

Still, everyone seeks salvation, even those who sacrifice themselves in order to save others. You and him are no exception. 

You will save him from his preordained fate, determined by his past, by his future. He will save you from your uncertain destiny, shrouded in mystery and paradoxes. 

Maybe you don't need to reweave a new tapestry just yet; maybe it's enough to only untangle the yarn. 

Hange Zoë is no less enthusiastic than the character you used to watch on Tv. Levi Ackerman is no less distrustful than the man you read manga about. They haven’t greeted you yet, as you’ve only just arrived to stand behind Yelena, next to Onyankopon. 

He glances at you when you arrive, silently asking with his eyes what held you back. You shake your head almost imperceptibly, imploring that neither he nor Yelena press the issue. 

“Is that her?” Hange chirps, curiously referring to you. 

You almost want to look behind you, to see if there's anyone else they might have been talking about, but you know there is no one else in your vicinity, and you're the only one who has approached recently enough to warrant the question. 

“She is the last one.” Yelena says. “Please excuse her tardiness.”

“Oh! Well, in that case it's so nice to meet–” 

“Four eyes,” Levi interrupts. “Now's not the time for chit-chat.” He turns to glance at you, before returning to look at Yelena, the de facto leader. “Expect the ship to be searched while we escort you three to our base.”

“I would expect nothing less,” is what Yelena responds. “Your caution is commentable.”

“Sure,” Levi says dryly, not an ounce of belief in his voice, signaling unnamed Scouts to march onto the ship and its crew. “Get walking.”

You all file in, walking amongst the dunes and rocks, with Yelena at the helm of your little group. You feel eyes on you, but when you turn to look no one in your direct vicinity is watching. Instead, you trip when going up some slippery rocks, too preoccupied with searching for nonexistent eyes, but fortunately Onyankopon catches you, grabbing your arm to prevent your fall. 

The rifle slung over his shoulder rattles with the commotion, and you feel how the others turn to look at you, before registering both your actions as non threatening. 

“Careful there, kid,” Onyankopon says. 

“Thanks,” you say breathlessly, heart still reeling from your near slip. “Sorry for the, uh, tardiness.”

“It's all good,” he reassures you, although you know your notoriety for being late is only growing. 

You also know –well, maybe not know, but you are smart enough to deduce– that Onyankopon does want to ask you about your reasons for not heading directly to the pier after the Volunteer in charge of letting you out of your small cabin reported to his post. 

But he won’t pose the question right now, where there is a great chance of being overheard, and where exchanging secrets would only cause more suspicion from the Scouts. 

There is no idle chatter as you make your way to the multiple tents that make up the Scout’s base, scattered around an open field in an orderly fashion. Small yellow dots light up the entrance flaps of each green structure, and there are multiple barrels strewn around. 

You once again feel eyes on you, only this time you are aware of who those eyes belong to. It is a given that the other soldiers would be apprehensive about the Volunteers sudden appearance, but you notice how their attention lingers a tad too long on you. 

You force yourself not to squirm under the weight of their curiosity, of their judgment. Yelena and Onyankopon get noticed as well, but it is you that garners the most attention. Because, well, adults are what they expected Marley to send, but a teenager? Even if you are older than some of the recruits and Marley didn’t actually send you, it was still something they didn’t account for. 

So it is strange, even to you, who was made aware of this prematurely, how you are included in the small group with the proclaimed leaders of the Volunteer faction. Yeah, you can see why all eyes are primarily on you. 

Hange reaches a tent that seems larger than all of the others, and enters through the flap, and the rest of you follow, flanked by Levi. They grab at the knob of the hanging lantern and the space is coated with light. On the inside there is a table and red chairs, two on one side, two on the other. Hange brings a third one from a corner, raising the total to five.

“Sit, sit!” they usher you, taking their place on the other side of the table. 

“Weapons on the table,” Levi says, less enthusiastically. 

You don't have any weapons to turn in, so you walk towards the chair on the far right and sit, fiddling with your thumbs before you remember to quash the anxieties bubbling inside of you. There is a strong sense of deja vu when you reach for one of the teacups gingerly placed on the table, noting with some sourness how bitter tea always seems to follow you in interrogations and introductions. 

You disassociate for a moment, choosing to retreat into your thoughts, rewinding your earlier interaction with Eren over and over again, not unlike what you used to do with his older brother. 

What sets it apart is the intention with which you are dissecting it, turning his words upside down to squeeze more of that refreshing understanding (You know, and he knows, and you hadn’t realized how refreshing it was to just be—) out. 

There is silence again, but this time it is filled with tension. You blink, unsettled by the lack of discussion between the two Volunteers and the two Scouts, only to find the later ones looking at you expectantly, Levi’s expression disguised with more finesse than Hange’s.

“…Sorry, what?” you ask. 

“Your name,” Hange clarifies. “I asked for your name.”

“Oh,” you say. “It’s Y/n.”

There is something almost imperceptible in the way Hange fiddles with Yelena’s gun, a recognition in both their and Levi’s eyes that you might’ve missed were it not for Eren’s insistence in presenting yourself with your name. 

You risk a glance at Yelena but her eyes are on you, not them, as are Onyankopon’s, so you let yourself breathe, halfway convinced they didn’t notice.

Hange does not miss a beat. “It’s nice to meet you Miss Y/n!” they say, drowning out your protests of Just Y/n please— and placing the gun back on the table, next to the rifle.

You nod, hesitant. “It’s nice to meet you too, uh, …?” You trail off, not remembering if they already introduced themselves or not.

“Hange Zoë, at your service!” They say, nudging Levi when he doesn’t say anything.

“Levi Ackerman.” And if you notice the distinct lack of add on like Hange’s introduction, well, that is to be expected.

Yelena takes the opportunity to steer the conversation away from pointless (to you) introductions and unimportant (to her) dialogue.

“So, about our proposal…”

She launches onto the plan you rehearsed and memorized with Zeke, drilled into your mind enough times as to prevent any slip ups of the scheme only him, Yelena, and you know.

It’s not different at all from the one presented in the series, and although you now have it branded deep in your mind, back home you had to watch several videos and read several posts in order to understand. 

The beauty of Attack On Titan was in the convoluted yet intriguing plot and themes, yet sometimes you needed outside help to comprehend half of the stuff that was going on. The fact that each character has their own motivations and their own secrets on top of the changing allegiances do nothing to help.

Still, hours and hours spent scraping the wiki and watching compilations finally pay off, and you’re confident in your ability to not only remember each plan, but also the people involved and the moments in which their loyalties shifted.

The motions are well rehearsed; Zeke will contact the nation of Hizuru, and Hizuru will contact the outside world, advocating for Paradis, as well as provide the blueprints necessary to help advance the island’s technology.

The plan would take around fifty years to reach completion, the amount of time that is estimated as enough to take to bring Paradis to a similar level technology wise to the rest of modern society. There would be a small-scale Rumbling to show off the island’s power, acting as a deterrent for nations with wishes to invade. 

Hange takes the gun again, pointing it directly at their face. It is unloaded, but it still unnerves you. You weren’t a gun savvy by any means, but the first thing you had been taught by Zeke when going over gun safety was to never ever point the gun at yourself, not even when it had the safety on, not even when it was unloaded. 

Yelena lists off the numbers of personnel in the army, counting all the divisions; the infantry, the navy, and aerial forces. Despite Hange’s and Levi’s best attempts, it is evident how frazzled they are by the revelation. 

One million foot soldiers, three fleets of twenty one battle ships each, new technologies and aerial weapons. Those are the new enemies that they must now fight against, a stark contrast to the mindless but brutal titans they are used to dealing with. 

“If Marley had such capabilities the whole time, why haven’t they attacked in over a year?” asks Hange. 

“There are two main reasons,” Yelena begins. “One; the Pure Titans. Even with the latest weapons available to Marley, they would hinder a land assault. Quite ironic that the very thing that is used to confine Eldians to the island also protects it from outside forces.” 

“Yeah, well, ain’t that funny,” Levi says. 

Yelena sips her tea. “Still, I’m impressed.”

“Impressed?” Hange asks.

Yelena doesn’t answer, choosing instead to take a sip from her cup. She looks at her right, directly at you, as if she wanted you to answer in her place. And you can't and won't ever be able to read her mind, but you’re pretty sure you can guess what she is playing at. 

“It's almost dawn,” you point out. “And we are sitting in a tent drinking tea. There is no commotion outside, no one hurrying to their fighting posts. There are also no protective structures around the base, suggesting that you have exterminated almost if not all titans on the island.”

It's clear they weren't expecting you to speak. Even if Eren told them something, the most logical approach to your presence in the tent was as a buffer, something for the Scouts to pick at, to find weakness in. Yelena is helping you overcome that, because, even if it would be easier to infiltrate them if you are deemed as non-threatening, the trust that would be placed upon you should you be assessed as capable makes them want to take the gamble. 

“And the second reason?” Hange asks. 

“Currently, Marley is at war with multiple nations,” Yelena says. “The loss of the Colossal and Female titan, as well as the defeat of their Warrior unit has given many of their enemies the chance to unite and retaliate against Marley.”

“If you guys are secret agents who infiltrated Marley, I’m guessing you came from conquered nations?” Hange asks. 

Yelena’s and Onyankopon’s faces harden– one fake, one true. 

“Oh, I’m right?!,” they exclaim after. “I bet you’ve got some pretty big backers to go up against Marley then.”

“Not quite,” Yelena says, and after a moment she clarifies. “Onyankopon and I are from conquered nations, but Y/n is Eldian.” There is only one truth in her whole statement, a new record. “We were powerless, forced to play soldiers for the nation that took our homes, but Y/n was deemed a devil the moment she was born.”

The fake backstory you're using makes you a little uncomfortable, but it sure was convenient. They wanted to paint you as smart, but not too intelligent as to outsmart Paradis. Dependable, but not a pushover. Eldian, just like them, facing obstacles even when outside the walls. 

You tune out Yelena praising Zeke for organizing the Anti-Marleyan Volunteers, calling him a god amongst mortals. You hoped that small, subtle discomfort showed in your face, so the two members of the Scouts present would notice that you weren't lost in reverence for Zeke. 

“We are the Anti- Marleyan Volunteers,” she finishes. “Our goal: To free the Eldian people.”

Levi and Hange share glances, no doubt discussing the answer they would give. 

“We would like assurance of your allegiances,” Levi says. “You will not be able to contact Eren, or any of the others for that matter, but we want the girl to come with us.”

taglist: @dressycobra7 @xngelsau @bloodchapell @i-think-im-adorable13 @luna4mnoon

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[joshdonnas]

do you have any j/d fic recs? :D

Absolutely!! This fandom is really blessed with some of the best writers I've seen, so there's a lot of really good content out there to read, but I'll list some of my favorites under the cut ☺️

FAVORITE AUTHORS 💛

I thought I'd start by listing some of my authors, I’ll also be listing some of my personal favorite fics from theirs down bellow, but any of their works are totally worth the read: 

jessbakescakes | sam_writes_fics | BeneathAnOrangeSky | thotsandfeelings | littlefoolswritings | thefinestmuffins | joshatella (shuuuliet) | hanyolo | flowersinapril | spooky_spacegirl | hufflepuffhermione | mikaylawrites

FAVORITE FICS (in no particular order) 💛

running, by andyoureturntome (work in progress, rated M): "Matt Santos is running for president. Josh and Donna are just running away. Augmented canon for seasons six and seven. Ventures into AU territory from 6x18 on." (when I say this is one of my favorite fics ever you have no idea how much I mean it. it’s honestly so good, a must read in my opinion. it’s still in progress, and it’s not updated very frequently , but it’s still so so worth it (here’s to hoping we’ll get a next chapter soon!!).

the other side of the door, by sam_writes_fics (finished, rated M): "Donna wanders out of the bathroom, baffled by how late it is for the hundredth night in a row, and she drapes her coat over a chair before moving to plug in her cell phone. The blinking light catches her attention, and she flips it open. One missed call. From Josh. Perfect. Post-ep for 7x13: The Cold." (I honestly read this one every time I watch the cold)

say you’ll never let them tear us apart, by hanyolo (finished, rated M): "what would it be like in the santos era for josh and donna to get media coverage as a couple?"

love grows (where my donnatella goes), by sam_writes_fics (finished, rated T): "the first year of the santos administration in four parts"

how i love the view when i'm beside you, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated E): "Josh and Donna on Valentine's Day; Chiefs of Staff era J/D"

cutting me open then healing me fine, by hufflepuffhermione (finished, rated T): "Josh and Donna are in the press room when it gets shot at, and the trajectory of a bullet changes the trajectory of their lives. Evidence of Things Not Seen AU."

there ain’t no need to go outside, by mikaylawrites (finished, rated E): "A lazy, rainy morning at home."

even cnn is wrong, sometimes, by BeneathAnOrangeSky (finished, rated M): "She snakes her hand between them, high instead of low, wrapping it around his bowtie. Starts to pull. And it’s this that snaps him out of it. Because Josh Lyman isn’t a press secretary and he isn’t a communications director and he isn’t Sam or Toby and he sure as hell isn’t Will, but he’s spent enough time around enough writers to appreciate the art of analogy (at the end of the night you wanna be able to pull it open like tony bennett), to recognize symmetry (donna? my tie’s falling apart), to understand that codas don’t exist merely in cello suites or stump speeches; that life makes space for sartorial bookends, too. Like bowties being tied, then untied." (utterly obsessed with the way this author writes)

gather ye rosebuds, by thefinestmuffins (finished, rated E): "A one and done smutshot, canon-divergent from 20 Hours in LA, in which Josh realizes where his rosebuds are and goes back to his hotel room to gather them."

we've been living on a fault line, by sam_writes_fics (finished, rated T): "6x02: Josh spends five days at Camp David, and every night all he thinks about is Donna."

burning slowly, my one and only, by thotsandfeelings (finished, rated T): "I can't stop thinking about you."

sacred new beginnings, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated G): " But now, he doesn’t need her anymore – or he shouldn’t, anyway. So she’ll go back to her apartment, and he’ll go back to work, and things will go back to normal, whatever the hell that means. There’s something about that idea that makes his stomach churn."

an act of charity, by thatTWWgirl (finished, rated T): "A date with the White House Deputy Chief of Staff is put up for auction at the First Lady's fundraiser, and he's not too happy about it."

domestic days, by spooky_spacegirl (finished, rated G): "One day Josh and Donna look around and realize that, somewhere along the line, they have slipped into something that can only be described as Domesticated. One-Shot collection. Post-Canon." (so so so cute, never fails to bring a smile to my face)

this is the wonder (that's keeping the stars apart), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (work in progress, rated T): "A soulmate AU".

I want It all or nothing, no more in between, by scarmophogoghs (finished, rated E): "Want to go to Hawai'i? With me? Please?” (huuuge Hawaii fit we all cheered)

stuck with nowhere to go, by littlefoolswritings (finished, rated E): "what if it was only Josh and Donna who'd been left behind by the motorcade? just the two of them?)" (I love this one my god)

a pathological avoidance thing, by yanak324 (finished, rated M): "Josh isn’t sure what to make of the lack of surprise on the President-elect’s face when he explains why he’s taking time off. He has bigger fish to fry though." (this one is from Josh's POV, and this one is from Donna's!)

when a woman loves a man (who loves a woman), by BeneathAnOrangeSky (finished, rated M): "“You’re sensitive. It’s sweet.” She bites back a smile at the image she’s evoked. Everyone thinks they know the real Josh Lyman. Bartlet’s bulldog, political wunderkind, the man behind Washington’s curtain. But they don’t know him like this. She brushes a sweaty tangle of hair from his forehead and pretends not to notice when he leans into her touch. No, this side of him is reserved just for her. His mouth opens in surprise, voice pitching up a notch, “I am n—” “Your system,” she amends. “Your system is sensitive.”"

of the united states, by violet_storms (finished, rated G): "Fifty states, fifty sentences, fifty snapshots of Josh and Donna falling in love on the campaign trail."

on the line, by hufflepuffhermione (finished, rated G): "Josh and Donna and a pathological inability to hang up the phone."

you can run (but only so far), by swancharmings (finished, rated M): "The room is quaint, if a bit tacky, one sad sprig of holly greeting them at the door. A fine representation of how she feels this Christmas."

love is the only thing, by mikaylawrites (finished, rated T): "The Moss-Lyman girls read Little Women; Josh has a lot of feelings."

it was like autumn, looking at her, by cmbing (finished, rated T): "His eyelids flutter open, gentler than usual. Blearily, he catches the alarm clock blinking a red 7:48 a.m. If this were five years ago, he would already be on his third cup of coffee. If this were five months ago, he never would have made it to bed in the first place. But it’s now—and he wraps his arm tighter around Donna’s waist."

it's paradise as long as I'm with you, by thotsandfeelings (finished, rated E): "Hawaii."

only bought this dress so you could take it off, by hanyolo (finished, rated M): "josh has a thing for donna in red (as he should)"

nothing that i wouldn't do (to make you feel my love), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (finished, rated T): "Josh re-arranges his priorities. A Gaza hospital fix-it fic." (I'm always thinking about this one)

hell was the journey but it brought me heaven, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated T): "On the drive, it starts to hit him. Leah was born on the anniversary of the Rosslyn shooting. What would this mean for him? Leah deserved a father who wouldn’t be absolutely miserable on his daughter’s birthday every year. Of course, he’d love to think that her birth could erase all of the negative feelings he’s ever had toward this day, that it could make all of the anxiety and trauma melt away. But if he couldn’t pull it together on the day she was born, the day she came into the world, what evidence does he have to support the idea that next year will be better? Or the year after that?"

there ain’t no need to go outside, by mikaylawrites (finished, rated E): "A lazy, rainy morning at home."

how to say I love you in subtext, by RhapsodyInProgress (finished, rated T): "If you know where to look and what to listen for, Josh and Donna have been telling each other how they feel for years. A series of vignettes on a theme."

annus primus, by hufflepuffhermione (finished, rated T): "The first year of the Santos administration, in twelve movements."

sit with you in the trenches, by swancharmings (finished, rated T): "”So you’ve got health and strength.” “And we’ll steal the rest?” “Bet your ass.” // Four ways they did exactly that."

oversight, by thefinestmuffins (finished, rated E): "War Crimes angst + hooking up" (a MUST read!!!)

can't call you a stranger (but i can't call you), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (finished, rated T): "King Corn. The elevator gets stuck."

for a long time, by onelargecoffeepls (finished, rated M): "Seven short glimpses into Donna falling in love with Josh based on "Love You For A Long Time" by Maggie Rogers."

this is how mythology is written (or: shards; scars; and whole again), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (finished, rated T): "The mosaic of Josh and Donna." (GOD this one!!!)

where the lovelight gleams, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated E): "Donna brings Josh home for Christmas and has some thoughts about him in a holiday sweater; takes place during Transition" (OBSESSED!!!)

the way old friends do, by mikaylawrites (finished, rated T): "Donna, Toby, Charlie, and the chaotic people they love."

the first 100 days, by BimadaBomily (finished, rated T): "100 moments in Josh/Donna's relationship during the first 100 days of the Santos Administration."

like we were in paris (we were somewhere else), by BeneathAnOrangeSky (work in progress, rated M): "Josh, Donna, and the worlds they transform together // or: an ode to Paris (Taylor's Version)" (again, the way this author writes??!!?!)

find ourselves in the winter snow, by swancharmings (finished, rated E): "It’s when he leads her to dance, holding her impossibly close and swaying gently through the upbeat tempo, that she truly doesn’t know what to expect of the evening."

please linger near the door, by cmbing (finished, rated T): "They’re definitely not dating when there is a presidential dinner and they don’t think to invite dates. Instead, they assume they’ll go with each other. Him in a black tux, her in a red dress. Their arms are interlocked as they enter the ballroom, and Donna even goads Josh into dancing with her. It’s friendly, nothing more. They’re just having sex. That’s it."

with one hello, I'll never be the same, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated T): "Josh and Donna and how 'hi' means so much more than 'hello'."

all you ever wanted from me (was sweet nothin'), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (finished, rated T): "Donna hadn’t had a nightmare about her ex since she started dating Josh, since well before she moved in with Josh after their week in Hawaii, since her life became better than it ever has been, since she became happier than she ever thought that she could be. Which is probably why she’s so shaken when the nightmare returns. Set post-series, in the Santos CoS era." (soooo sweet)

AUs 💛

i like shiny things (but i'd marry you with paper rings), by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated T): "In the aftermath of the First Lady's birthday party, Josh, Donna, and the rest of the Senior Staff deal with the fallout of Donna's realization that she's no longer a U.S. Citizen. CJ, Sam, and Toby have taken it upon themselves to get this figured out, and it’s a good thing, because Josh’s brain can only present him with one solution: Marry Donna Moss."

my days now end as they began (with thoughts of you), by flowersinapril (work in progress, rated T): "A new neighbour moves in next door to Josh and she isn't happy with how loud and chaotic he is." (can't wait for the next chapter of this one!!!)

sometimes it's like you grew up down the street, by starsontheceiling (finished, rated G): "Afterwards, he’ll say he did it without thinking and all their friends will laugh at him in disbelief, and he understands why but it’s still true."

you came like a resolution (under a starry sky), by JessBakesCakes (work in progress, rated G): "Donna, this is my brother, Josh. Josh, this is Donna. She lives across the hall"

an everlasting love, by sam_writes_fics (work in progress, rated T): "best man and maid of honor au" (has not been updated in a while but I love the idea of this pic so so much and I think about constantly)

think i missed the gun at the starting line, by ansatz (finished, rated T): "After qualifying for the Olympics in 2016, but being unable to compete due to an injury, Donna Moss is back, ready to run, and completely focused on earning a medal for Team Canada. Enter Josh Lyman, reigning Olympic champion with a heart of—you guessed it—gold. Two countries, two sports: one chance to fall in love?"

what if i told you, i feel like i know you? but we never met., by donnatellamoss (finished, rated G): "Donna Moss meets an unfamiliar face when she knocks on Sam Seaborn’s door for their English project. His name’s Josh Lyman and he’s good at bothering people."

absolutely smitten (never let you go), by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated G): "Josh feels all the air whoosh out of his lungs when he sees the teacher standing on the other side of the door. She looks at the group standing outside her door, puzzled for a moment, until her blue eyes lock with Josh’s. Her blonde hair is tucked neatly behind her ears, and pumpkin earrings dangle from her earlobes. She’s wearing a copper-colored fall sweater, adorned with leaves around the collar that match her bulletin board. Her ID badge dangles from her neck, one of those ink pens in a bright, funky color clipped to her lanyard.  “Miss Moss,” CJ says. “This is Mr. Lyman from the high school."" (always thinking about this one honestly I need more!!!)

the campaign around the corner, orphan_account (finished, rated G): "Donna Moss is working for Howard Stackhouse's presidential campaign in 1998. Josh Lyman is working for Jed Bartlet's presidential campaign in 1998. The two cannot stand each other. Little do they know the person each of them is beginning to fall in love with over email is the other." (you've got mail au!!!!!!!!!!)

everybody talks (it started with a whisper), by JessBakesCakes (work in progress, rated G): "Being the White House Press Secretary, Josh realizes, is one of the toughest jobs in the administration to begin with. But with her co-workers' propensity for going viral, CJ certainly deserves a raise. The West Wing, set 20 years later." (soooo obsessed with this one MY GOD)

darling, so it goes (some things are meant to be), by mikaylawrites (finished, rated M): "The story of rising country singers Josh Lyman and Donna Moss." (so good!!!)

ballerina, you've must have seen her, by thababes (work in progress, rated G): "It was always supposed to have been Josh and Mandy. After their successful run of Carmen, it had been expected that The Washington Ballet would stick to what worked. There was never supposed to be another audition. Company principles seemingly traveling from role to role was the usual. It had been an unusual season — schedule conflicts and last minute alternate class partners — and suddenly, everything seemed to have changed. And it had all started when he had danced with her." (I think about this one constantly)

[totallynottinsel]

Good evening Bagginshield enjoyers, I've come to share the start of my silly fix-it fanfiction. The first chapter is now on AO3!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63176023

@Lord_Tinsel

-----------

An Unexpected Opening

“How do you think mum’ll react?” Kili asked as he and his brother strolled through the greatly large halls of Erebor, now somewhat starting to look like it's good old self once more. It had been a little over a month since the dwarves reclaimed their homeland, as well as doing some much needed recovery after such a gruesome battle. “Based off last time? Not well…she probably won't like seeing us with, y’know, broken everything.” Said Fili in return, already picturing the enraged look on their mother's face once she learned they hadn't exactly come out unscathed. The thought was certainly enough alone.

“Hey! We're doing alright now, if I do say so myself.�� Kili placed prideful hands on his hips, as yes—the two prince’s were indeed much better than months prior, they were not yet given permission to walk about so freely as if they hadn't had fractures and healing wounds all about. “I haven't even fallen over once today!”

“‘Cause you used me as a crutch!” Fili gave his brother a gentle yet playful shove to his shoulder. The boys' laughs echoed through the empty stone halls, prompting them to quickly shudder and keep quiet, not wanting anyone to catch them and practically drag them back to their beds to lay sick all week. “Your lady elf stopped by yet? You keep mumbling about her in your slee–”

“Don't say that so loud!” Kili dived in to cover his brother's mouth before any more dreadful words could come out. Oh, he felt even stupider when his face flushed. “And no, she hasn't…and she's got a name, y'know! Tauriel.” He placed a hand behind his neck, though in truth, it felt rather relieving to say her name aloud. Fili was truly the only person he’d confided in, and he’d planned to keep it that way. His brother was the only one who understood in his mind. “I sent her a letter not long ago, and I promised I'd see her again once I recovered. Or…at least whenever I can sneak out properly.”

“Are you ever going to tell Uncle about you two?” Asked Fili, though he was met with a groan of disapproval from the other almost immediately. Well, it was worth asking, in any case. “He might–”

“No! Nope. Not for as long as I live, will I tell our Uncle, that I'm in love with his so-called mortal enemy!” The brunette shook his head, not leaving much room for an argument to be even thought of. “He’ll skin me alive if he finds out!” He fumed, flying his hands up in defense; curse his Uncle’s blasted, utterly stupid feud with Elves! Just because he didn’t favor them doesn't mean he gets the right to tell Kili who his heart does and doesn’t belong to.

“But maybe he’d–”

“No!”

“Alright! Don't get your pretty braids in a twist, it was just a suggestion…” Fili gave a weak shrug, accepting his defeat in the matter for now (as he would most certainly try again later). “That’s one thing you ‘n Uncle have in common, Your dramatic love lives… it's getting harder to watch!”

“What? Am I missing something here? Why’em I out of the loop!” Kili was baffled, and the strangely smug look covering his brother's face wasn’t much of an answer. Between nearly dying and swooning for a beautiful lady, he’d say he was plenty distracted to not notice something so shocking.

“Oh, come on! You must’ve hit that head of yours harder than I thought. Uncle’s grossly smitten with Bilbo, of course! I thought it was obvious.” That made Kili stop in his tracks completely, silently staring at his brother before he gasped, finally seeming to come to his senses. “Ki, you were there when he gave him Mithril—”

“I know I was! But he was sick, so how were we supposed to know he was in his right mind to make a half-assed marriage proposal! The way they get all touchy with their eyes was enough to make me look away…” As love struck as Kili was himself, he took no pleasure in watching his very own Uncle try to shamelessly court an unsuspecting hobbit, who is no better than he is. “I'll believe it when I see it.”

“Your loss, I always win our bet’s.” Fili only smiled as they stopped at a large pair of cold stone doors, which of course housed their dear Uncle’s chambers. They each took turns promptly knocking and kicking and hollering for him to wake up, and when that didn’t quite work, they decided on simply barging on in instead. “Wakey wa—ow!” Kili was put to a fast halt, attempting to simply shake his Uncle’s shoulder, but only got as far as his wrist being seized by a strong hand.

“Have you ever considered knocking?” Grumbled Thorin, shifting his head to eye his nephews, who, tried keeping themselves innocent, regardless of the fact that Thorin had repeatedly told both of them, over the course of their entire lives, not to wake him from out of his eyesight, or else they gained the chance of likely getting something cut off.

“We did! Just this ways more funny–” The two boys began to laugh, but coughed it back at that unamused stare their Uncle gave them when his patience ran thin, especially if he was awoken rudely. Which was more often than he liked. “Fili said we should've brought a horn–”

“It would be wise, if you got to your point.” Said the King, pinching the bridge of his nose with a deep, weary sigh.

“Oh, yes! We've come to tell you that Mother will likely be on her way soon.” Fili eagerly explained, while his brother gave ample nods of approval beside him. Though Thorin wasn't exactly beaming at the sudden news.

“I thought she wasn't set to arrive for another week?” As Thorin sat himself up, a fourth, though just as familiar figure appeared from under the sheets with a pleased hum. It was none other than the fabled Bilbo Baggins, blinking a few times before he could take in exactly what he was staring back at. “Oh,” He nearly squeaked out, clearing his throat as the two prince's gaped at him as if he was missing his head all together. “Er…good morning.”

“Well, now I see it.” Kili thus handed over a bag’s worth of coins to his brother later that day.

[lightdancingwords]

Second Chances - Part Four of ?

Pairings: Beau Arlen x Y/N Female reader

Series Summary: A chance meeting in a grocery store brings a second chance for you and for Beau. The only thing standing in your way are your respective pasts... and a tiny little roadblock.

Word Count: 3,070

Tags/Warnings: So much fluff, mentions police work, toddlers/children and parenting, a touch of profanity

A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! I couldn't resist--I gotta have me some Beau while writing Dean! This is a brand new story of Beau and female reader! Surprise! A new chapter so soon! I just had to get it out!

Divider: credit to @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter Four: Friendly Fire

Beau wrote and rewrote the text message a dozen times, each one sounding more pathetic than the last. It was supposed to be simple, easy. Just a sweet message to ask Y/N out. Instead, it was a jumble of trying to sound casual and collected, but more like desperate and needy.

God. He should’ve just asked her out when he saw her at the farmer’s market, but noooo…. He had to just kiss her and wish her well. Just a smooch and see you later. A wham bam thank you ma’am.

Beau groaned when that thought crossed his mind. He wasn’t that crude, that… Hell, he couldn’t even describe it. He just knew he hadn’t been the type to take a woman to bed and never call her again. Even before Carla, he was the serious type, not the player.

With Y/N though, it were as though all sense left his brain. He couldn’t function around her. The farmer’s market made him clutch, made him think of starting over in a big way. Little Eliza, God, that kid was worming her way into his heart. In the privacy of his mind, he knew he wouldn’t mind being a father to her.

Too soon. Far too soon… right? He almost called up his mama just to see what she’d say. Maybe knock some sense into him, get him to slow down. But Christ,… the heart wanted what the heart wanted.

“You groan one more time I’m going to do a Gibbs to you,” Doris said, his whirlwind of a secretary, as she walked into his office.

Startled, he looked up. “A what?”

Doris rolled her eyes. “Mark Harmon had been acting as Leroy Gibbs for over a decade and you never heard of him?”

Baffled, Beau could only stare. “Who?”

Doris rubbed her forehead. “You truly don’t watch television, do you, Beau?”

“No, I don’t,” he said with a wry chuckle.

Doris shook her head and came up behind him to perform the Gibbs slap—lightly—on the back of Beau’s head. “That was a Gibbs,” she said fondly.

“You wanted to smack me because I groaned?” Beau regarded Doris dubiously. “Doris, I may like your lasagna but that don’t mean you can hit me anytime ya like.”

Doris chuckled and flashed a smile at him. “A shame. You might like a spank or two.”

“Doris!” Beau knew she took more liberties than most of those in the sheriff’s department, and he allowed it simply because she had the right instincts. She knew and saw things that others might miss. Occasionally though, she crossed into a boundary that felt a little too intimate for comfort.

“Oh all right,” she said, apologetic. She tilted her head at him. “Still… what has you all riled up?”

“Not a what, a who,” he admitted.

“Ohhh…” Doris looked intrigued. She honestly thought he’d live as a monk after his divorce. She grabbed a seat and sat down, leaning forward with interest. “What’s her name?”

Beau told her the whole tidbit—how he met Y/N at the store, felt utterly charmed by her daughter, how the first date went, the meeting at the farmer’s market, and how incapable he seemed at asking her out again. Doris heard him out, never once making commentary. When he finished, she sat back and regarded him with an expression he couldn’t read.

“Texting,” Doris said at last, “lacks class, Beau. You should know better.”

He blinked at her. “Well…” He stopped, glanced at his phone. He thought back to how his mama regaled him with stories of how his father had asked her out. One of them stirred in his mind.

“Doris… you know everythin’ about everybody in this town,” he said slowly. “Do you know where Y/N works?”

“I might. Why? What are you thinking?”

Beau tapped his finger on the desk. “I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna send some flowers. Sweet ones. With a note askin’ her out.”

Doris smiled, pleased. “I’ll track down her employment,” she said. “That’s a much better idea.”

He debated roses. Red ones, maybe, for love, but decided against it. He decided Y/N deserved better than the standard, stereotypical roses. He opted for white wildflowers that were softened by sprigs of lavender. When Doris found out, he worried she’d give him another Gibbs slap. Instead she merely nodded, pleased.

Still, he was a nervous wreck until Y/N called him shy of him closing for the day. When he saw her name on the call display, he nearly dropped his phone.

“Beau Arlen speaking,” he said, answering the phone.

“Hi,” Y/N replied, her voice shy and touched with wonder. “It’s me.”

Beau debated pulling a sad joke and wisely kept it to himself. “Good to hear from ya, darlin’,” he said, and meant it.

“I got your flowers,” she said, and he could hear the smile, picture the soft expression on her face. “And the card.”

Beau felt his heart clench. He knew she all but made it clear that she was interested in another date. Even so, feelings could change. He waited with bated breath as she continued.

“They’re beautiful,” Y/N went on. “And yes. My answer’s yes.”

He felt the smile, slow and warm, spread on his face. “Darlin’, you just made my day. My night. My week.”

She chuckled, her voice dropping to a soft level. It did things to his groin, pulled at his heartstrings. He wanted to see her spread out beneath him as he touched her. Oh God, he really was done for.

“What day are you thinking?” she asked.

“How about Saturday afternoon? I was thinkin’ a picnic at the park,” he said. He was a master at picnics.

“Oh Beau…” The way she breathed his name almost undid him. “That sounds lovely.”

Beau cleared his throat, fought to keep his composure. “Then I’ll see you Saturday,” he said.

“Saturday,” she agreed.

When Saturday came, he was a knot of anxiety. He wanted the date to go well, so very well. Especially considering what happened during their first date. Or to him. His knuckles were healing, but it looked as though he’ll have scars. He’ll wear them proudly if it meant he got to be with Y/N.

He packed a basket, brought several blankets, and a cooler with sparkling strawberry. He texted Y/N asking what allergies she had, if any, so he didn’t unintentionally trigger an allergy attack.

Then the time came. He was such a mess. His nerves prickled with seeing her again, kissing her. He drove to her home, his thumbs tapping the steering wheel, a pattern to ease his nerves.

When he knocked on the door, he smiled when she opened it. Then the look on her face made his smile drop and concern wrinkle his brow.

“Hey darlin’,” he greeted. “What’s wrong?”

Y/N heaved a sigh. “My babysitter canceled,” she said. “I’m sorry, Beau. We’ll need to reschedule.”

He frowned, baffled. “Why? Bring her with. I won’t mind.”

Y/N gave a start. “Are… are you sure?” She seemed so surprised that he wanted to bring a toddler to a date. Eliza was prone to wild energies that would undoubtedly make any intimate moments impossible. That Beau not only decided not to cancel or reschedule, he wanted to bring the toddler with them.

“Yeah,” he said firmly. “Bring her with. I love the kid. You might have to bring somethin’ she can eat, but I ain’t gonna mind. She’s a darlin’.”

Y/N stared at him, thoroughly stunned. “O-okay. Give me a moment then.”

The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the sprawling park, where a checkered blanket was spread out under the shade of an ancient oak tree. A wicker basket brimming with sandwiches, fruit, and cookies sat in the center, surrounded by scattered toys and a half-empty juice box. Eliza was giggling uncontrollably as Beau pretended to lose a tug-of-war match against her tiny but determined strength. His exaggerated groans of defeat sent her into peals of laughter.

“You’re too strong for me, Eliza!” Beau said dramatically, falling back onto the blanket with a hand over his heart. “I surrender!”

Eliza crawled over to him and tapped his forehead. “Bo-Bo funny,” she declared triumphantly.

Y/N watched the scene from her spot on the blanket, her lips curving into a soft smile. The way Beau interacted with her daughter tugged at something deep inside her—something warm and unsettling all at once. He wasn’t just playing; he was present, fully engaged in a way that made her chest ache. Eliza adored him, and it was impossible not to see why.

“She’s got you wrapped around her little finger,” Y/N teased as Beau sat up, brushing grass off his shirt.

He grinned, his green eyes sparkling as he glanced at her. “What can I say? She’s irresistible.”

The sincerity in his tone caught her off guard. She shifted slightly, turning her attention to peeling an orange for Eliza, but her mind was spinning. It was too soon, wasn’t it? Too soon for him to be this good with her daughter, too soon for her heart to be so drawn to him.

Beau leaned back on his hands, watching Eliza toddle off to chase a butterfly. “She’s a good kid, Y/N,” he said softly. “You’ve done a hell of a job with her.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She wasn’t used to compliments like that, especially ones that felt so genuine. “Thanks,” she murmured, not trusting herself to say more.

Beau shifted closer, his knee brushing hers as he reached for the thermos of lemonade. The casual touch sent a jolt through her, and she forced herself to stay still, to not pull away. This wasn’t like her. She was always cautious, always guarded. But Beau… he had a way of making her feel safe in a way that terrified her.

Eliza’s laughter had quieted, and her energy, boundless only moments ago, was beginning to wane. She rubbed her eyes with small fists and toddled toward Y/N, then changed course mid-step and headed straight for Beau.

Beau noticed her wobbling steps and opened his arms just as her little legs gave out. “Whoa there, wolf-child,” he said, catching her easily. “Tuckered yourself out, huh?”

Eliza mumbled something incoherent, her cheek pressing against his chest as her small hands clutched at his shirt. Beau adjusted his hold, cradling her securely against him. Her head fit perfectly beneath his chin, and her soft, even breaths began to slow.

Y/N watched from a few feet away, her lips parting slightly in surprise. Eliza wasn’t one to fall asleep in the arms of just anyone. She needed her familiar comforts—her blanket, her mom, the quiet hum of a lullaby. But now, she lay completely still in Beau’s arms, her little body curled against his warmth, her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt.

Beau looked over at Y/N, his green eyes warm and filled with something she couldn’t quite name. “She’s out,” he whispered, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

Y/N nodded, her voice equally quiet. “That’s… rare,” she admitted, watching them with an expression that wavered between awe and disbelief.

Beau shifted slightly, one hand supporting Eliza’s back while the other smoothed over her tiny curls. “Guess she feels safe,” he murmured, his tone tinged with reverence, as though he understood just how precious the moment was.

Y/N swallowed hard, her chest tightening. Seeing him like this, so tender and natural with her daughter, was almost too much. She looked away briefly, busying herself with packing up the picnic blanket, but her eyes kept drifting back to them.

Eliza stirred faintly in Beau’s arms, a soft sigh escaping her lips before she settled back into slumber. “All right, darlin’,” Beau said softly, standing slowly to avoid waking her. “Let’s get this little one into the car seat.”

He walked with careful, measured steps toward Y/N’s car seat, as though carrying something impossibly delicate. Y/N followed, her heart thudding in her chest as she watched the way he held Eliza, as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

When they reached the car seat, Y/N stood back, giving Beau space. He crouched low, still cradling Eliza as he examined the car seat with a practiced eye. “You mind if I?” he asked, glancing at Y/N.

“Go ahead,” she said softly, her voice catching in her throat.

Beau gently lowered Eliza into the car seat, his movements deliberate and smooth. She stirred only slightly as he buckled her in, her little head tilting to one side. He grabbed the soft blanket, tucking it snugly around her. “There we go,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Y/N sat on the blanket, her arms crossed loosely. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, the way he checked and re-checked the straps to ensure Eliza was secure, the way he adjusted the blanket one last time. It was such a simple act, but it carried so much weight.

Beau straightened and turned to her, his hands on his hips, a faint smile playing on his lips. “All set. She’s out like a light.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said, her voice quiet but filled with gratitude. “You didn’t have to—”

“Didn’t have to,” Beau interrupted, his gaze steady and sincere. “But I wanted to. She’s a good kid, Y/N. And she’s lucky to have you.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, and she looked away, suddenly self-conscious under the intensity of his gaze. “You’re too good at this,” she said lightly, though her voice wavered.

Beau chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “Had my practice with Em. But I’ll admit, it feels different with her.”

“Different how?” Y/N asked, her curiosity overcoming her caution.

Beau hesitated, his smile softening as he looked at her. “Different like… I don’t know. Feels like she could be mine. Like this is how it’s supposed to be.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Y/N’s breath hitched, and she looked down, her fingers tightening on the edge of the blanket. It was too much, too soon, and yet… it didn’t feel wrong.

“Beau…” she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?” he asked, stepping closer.

Y/N opened her mouth to respond but stopped herself, shaking her head slightly. “Thank you,” she said instead, her voice soft but steady. “For today. For… everything.”

Beau nodded, his green eyes holding hers. “Anytime, darlin’. You just say the word.”

Y/N smiled faintly, her heart thudding in her chest. She wasn’t sure what to do with the feelings he stirred in her, but one thing was certain—Beau was different. And that terrified her in the best way possible.

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. Y/N looked away, focusing on the way the sunlight danced through the leaves. She couldn’t do this. Not yet. It was too much, too soon.

The sun dipped lower in the sky. Beau turned his attention fully to Y/N. “You’re quiet,” he said, his voice low and warm.

“I’m just… thinking,” she replied, avoiding his gaze.

He reached out, his fingers brushing hers, and when she finally looked up, his green eyes were steady, searching hers. “About what?”

“About how easy you make this look,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “And how that scares me.”

Beau leaned in, his hand sliding up to cup her cheek. “It’s okay to be scared, darlin’,” he murmured. “I’m scared too. But this? Us? It feels right.”

Y/N’s resolve crumbled in the face of his quiet honesty. Before she could overthink it, she closed the distance between them, her lips capturing his in a kiss that started tentative but quickly deepened. Beau’s hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer as the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them in their bubble of warmth and longing.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads resting together, Y/N let out a shaky breath. “You’re impossible, Beau.”

He chuckled, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “And you’re irresistible. Guess we’re even.”

Y/N laughed softly, the sound carrying a hint of surrender. Maybe, just maybe, this was worth the risk. “I wish we could stay longer,” she whispered to him. “But Eliza can’t nap long and… I have to be a mom.”

“You’re a mom, darlin’,” he murmured. “That ain’t gonna change.” He searched her face, took her in, brushed his thumb across her cheek. “If anything, it’s one hell of a bonus.”

Y/N smiled shakily. “You’re a rare man, Beauregard.”

“You’re one hell of a woman, Y/N,” he murmured, his breath feathering over her lips as he drew closer again. “You and your kid. God. Stole my heart when I wasn’t lookin’.”

Her breath hitched. “Beau…”

“I know, darlin’,” he said quietly. His green eyes were stunning, arresting. She couldn’t look away. “It’s damned fast, but I’m finding it hard to resist. Because it’s you.”

“We need to slow down, Beau,” she whispered, resting her forehead against his. “Please.”

Beau swallowed hard. He knew she was right. He had to slow down. God, it was hard. He wanted her; not just for sex, but for just being with her. “We will, darlin’. May I kiss you one last time?”

She smiled. “Please, God yes.”

He smiled, and met her lips in a slow, sweet kiss. He brought his hand up to cup her face as he deepened it. He felt her hand come up on his shoulder, curl behind his neck. He tasted her, savored her sweetness. When they broke, he knew he had to stop and pull away before he took her then and there.

“I should take you home,” he murmured. “Let you get the little wolf-child ready for bed, whatever it is ya need to do.”

“Yeah….” She pulled back with a warm smile. “Beau?”

“Yeah?”

“This was a lovely date,” she said, her eyes sparkling in the sunset light. “I’d absolutely love to go out with you again.”

“Is that a hint I should ask ya now?” he said with a grin.

“Absolutely.”

“Darlin’… I’d like to take you out Monday night. Will you come out with me?”

She did this thing with a bite to her lower lip and oh God, he resisted the urge to kiss her again. “I would love to.”

Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2

@foxyjwls007, @katastrophicmind, @globetrotter28, @deansimpalababy, @daisychaingirl

@nancymcl, @deans-baby-momma, @kickingitwithkirk

[clarityroses2]

Chapter 13 and 14 actually got me FUCKED UP right now omfg

Unraveled spoilers ahead!!

Thoughts:

- godDAMN I hate Cassius but godDAMNNNN is he an interesting character

- FUCKING DISNEYLANDDDD???????

- the end of chapter 14 is so beautiful omfg “But first…a little more human magic” SHOOT AND KILL ME RIGHT NOW

- give my boy a cellphone 😔💔

- Im giddy with excitement at all the little human things keefe has now

- I fucking love this book it was totally necessary after Stellarlune it’s like the opposite of Stellarlune. Stellarlune was a filler episode, yknow like the b plot. This is the main plot for this part of the keeper story.

- KEEFE SLAKLSMDKDODKEK 💔💔💔

- I love keefe and this book soooooo muchhhjjjjsklqksjske

- boy experiences Disneyland and is utterly baffled (real honestly)

Okay that’s all

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (24) Imperfect

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 24)

Summary: Rosie meets a young man in Paris. Love is in the air but one thing gnaws on Rosie's nerves. She need to warn Timothy of her protective relatives without making him run for the hills.

Twenty-Four Years Old

When my first year in Paris was coming to an end, I went with a group from my school to a party. It was held in a big apartment that apparently belonged to some ridiculously rich aunt. The amount of red wine I’d drunk before we arrived, made sure I didn’t remember the details of the family tree.

What I do remember was the young man reading French poems with a British accent, and afterwards, the beginning of an interesting story about two men finding each other in a dream, and later apparently meeting in real life. I desperately wanted to hear more, but when I got him talking, he said that he wasn’t sure the idea was good enough to pursue.

“You wrote this?” I asked baffled. “I thought it was brilliant!”

“That’s probably the Pinot talking,” he retorted with a lopsided grin. “People normally say that it’s utter bullshit.”

I huffed at this ludicrous statement.

“So, why read it out loud, then?” I challenged him.

“Dunno. Perhaps I hoped that someone like you may turn up and like it” he quipped.

“That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard,” I muttered and rolled my eyes.

***

Timothy and I were thick as thieves after that evening, and it soon evolved into more than friendship. He was studying literature and creative writing at Sorbonne Nouvelle, which was located quite close to Marguerite’s building. After our first official date, I pondered bringing him to my place, but uncle’s surveillance made me reconsider. Dad and Papa planned on visiting soon, and I knew it was futile trying to hide anything from Papa.

You’d better prepare the poor sod, before meeting the British Inquisition, I thought with a grimace.

After David, Papa wouldn’t make the same mistake of failing to observe even the tiniest flaw.

We hadn’t talked about our families at all, because there were so many other topics that were interesting, but I knew time was running out. I decided that after a good meal with some wine, it would be the perfect time to tell him about my fiercely protective family.

Rinsing and eating mussels, is a sticky and quite down-to-earth affair, and a better opportunity would be hard to find, so I plunged in with both feet so to speak.

“I…um…think it’s time to tell you about my…family,” I started.

“All of them, or just your fathers?” Timothy said while dipping a bite of bread in the creamy sauce.

I almost dropped my spoon in surprise. Had I told him that I was raised by two men and no mother? Not to my knowledge. Perhaps some of my other friends…

“Rosie?” Timothy said softly.

“Do you know who they are? Have you…”

Timothy lifted his hands, motioning me to calm down.

“Sorry, I assumed you knew,” he murmured. 

“Knew what?” I snapped. “You’re worse than���”

“I know who you are, Rosamund Watson-Holmes. A dossier, I think will suffice as a description, was delivered to me by a courier after our first coffee date. Four “letters” from each of your watchdogs. I didn’t know there were so many ways to threaten a person…”

“Damn, them!” I exclaimed. “Always, they have to meddle just because I had one bad boyfriend. Jesus, they’re incorrigible.”

“No matter how imperfect you find them, they love you dearly, or should I say fiercely,” Timothy chuckled. “After the initial shock, I must say I found it quite amusing and adorable. Four grown men, with the careers they have, your dad even an ex-military, and they’re all softies. Your police uncle was probably the scariest, come to think of it. Not that he doesn’t love you to bits, but he was the only one who stayed somewhat professional. He certainly didn’t bring any medieval torture methods or mafia tendencies into the equation if I hurt you purposefully or otherwise.”

“Oh, God,” I growled utterly devasted of my protective relatives.

Timothy chose to call them The Fab Four, which still earns him stern looks, but I know the four protectors are quite proud of themselves.

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[raisindave]

[Chapter 73] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

This is just an entire chapter of unhinged, depraved smut, idk what to tell you. Come get y’all juice I guess. Enjoy <3

There's something so exciting about pushing someone's buttons. It's no fun when it's someone who doesn't want to be fucked with; it's also no fun when there's no reaction. But Ghost always has a reaction. You just have to push the right buttons. He might play stoic at first, feign ambivalence like he always does, or flex his authority if you happen to forget his exalted rank. There's something so exciting about tipping water droplets onto the surface of an overfilled glass of water, testing how far you can push the surface tension. And push things you have. What's he gonna do, tell Price that you were mean to him with a quivering lower lip? 

You weren't expecting him to withdraw entirely, but he lifted himself from over you leaving you shockingly empty and cold both metaphorically and literally. Maybe it wasn't wise to spit in his face when he has your arms tied in a way that you definitely wouldn't be able to free yourself from if he happened to up and leave. Fuck. What's scarier is that he doesn't even look mad, just dark. Like his chin is tilted slightly downward and the whites of his eyes glint just above his waterline. The thought of apologizing never necessarily crossed your mind, but it did for a moment as his hand flashed toward you, harshly swiping the pillow from under your head and making you flump back into the mattress. 

In your daze, you didn't even connect what he was doing with his neatly folded clothes until he pried free a grey rectangle from the pocket of his jeans, wiry headphones dangling in tow. He almost instinctively measured the chords against his forearm like he does for all other ropes, an act that even made him blink in confusion; what you wouldn't do to know what was going on in his head right now. His phone, headphones, and a pillowcase he shucked from the pillow you'd been robbed of. At least you got a glimpse of a heavily cracked screen- a well-loved piece of technology, to put it lightly. Cleanliness and durability don't always go hand in hand. An odd glimpse into his personal life makes you wonder whose numbers he might have saved in there. While he was occupied by tapping away at his small, bulky personal cell, you thought to clear the unsteady silence. 

"Listen, it's not that serio-"

"Shut the fuck up," he barked. 

A chill ripped through your body; that's his this is serious tone. You held strong to your belief, owning what you'd done rather than submit like he's expecting. If he has the gall to step into your field of view again, you'll happily grace him with another spatter of saliva across his face. Fuck, his arms look so good. He stepped forward again, seemingly satisfied with whatever he was up to, an utterly unreadable expression in his eyes. 

There was a tenderness to how he placed the sheet over your eyes, and it all clicked into place. He made the pillowcase into a blindfold, tying it carefully behind your head in a thick knot. For some reason you could feel air flashing past your face. Seconds later, it connected with you that he was probably drawing punches to see if you could see past the blindfold. You couldn't, and now you'd lost access to two of your major faculties, your arms and eyes. For a second, you could hear him let out a low chuckle, and a sudden wash of eager anticipation crashed into your system. Your wrists writhed under your spine. He still wasn't touching you. Even worse, you've been stripped of the privilege of gawking at his form. The more time passed, the more you craved his touch, any touch in this void you're now floating in, and he finally caved. Of all the places on your body you were anticipating his hands, your ears were the last. Carefully, he was tucking your hair behind your ear to clear the way to place those earbuds in either of your ears. As much as you might baffle him with your so-called unprofessional attitude, he too baffles you with these wily schemes he gets up to. 

Just as you were about to say something snarky, the sound of deafening noise came through the flimsy speakers, startling you enough to make you flinch. It took you a second to recognize the noise as blasting metal music, and suddenly his hands were all over you. Pinching taut skin and ropes over your chest, cool air flooded over your tongue as you gasped. To say his touch was ravenous would be an understatement. Much-needed contact on your skin that made you crazy, and the feeling of his teeth over your collarbone made it worse. Teeth? He's taken his mask off, or pulled it up at least. An excuse to bite and nip at your skin while you're particularly susceptible, stripped of sight and sound, expertly crafted torture. He slipped himself back within your folds without any effort, another gasp torn from your throat that you couldn't hear past the squealing guitar and thundering drums. 

You did it to yourself, really. It's probably pretty not the best idea to piss him off when he has you in a state like this. Though, maybe that's the best part of it. Inciting his wrath to be taken out by fucking your brains out. That sounds like a win-win, except you are winning both times. His trusts weren't kind, even if they felt like a gift. They left your body shaking after every push against your cervix. Out of nowhere, his two fingers hook under your lower teeth, prying your jaw open. You do as you're bade, only because you have no other option. His other hand closing around your throat made you flinch at the additional unexpected touch. If you could hear what he was up to it would make all the difference, but unfortunately every action came as a shock to you. Heat grew over your face, more than what's already there. What came next was once again confusing at first, but it was a sensation you were all too familiar with. He'd spat in your mouth he pried open, spattering his own hot saliva over your tongue, returning your insubordination. All while he continued to punish you with his pace, fuck, the friction he created was divine. Worse yet, his hand tightened around your throat, disavowing you from swallowing the act. This was an act he'd done on your last birthday, an act that set your blood on fire all the same. Hopefully this won't end like that night did. 

He really is cruel to no end. You could only hear him whenever the music would pause between songs; once the screaming guitars and vocals withdrew, his rhythmic panting and gasps made your heart flutter, just as another crashing drum riff returns to command control over your senses again. All these sensations and lack thereof were all too much. The elevation to your senses from the denial of others made heat quickly grow in your core, and his palm finally withdrew from your throat, permitting you to swallow his spit. Once again, those fingers hooked under your teeth, and for a moment you rejected the second lashing of punishment, but he persisted. After considering biting down on his fingertips, he pried your mouth open again, and that free hand returned to the side of your head with an unanticipated air of clemency. It seems your expectations might never match reality because you swore you could feel his nose touch your cheek for an instant. Something hard touched your teeth, and you instinctively recoiled. Hot breath swept over your damp lips. Breath? Reluctantly, you opened your mouth fully, and shuddered as he placed some small item in your mouth from his own. A million thoughts and more surged through your neurons, and the taste of blackberries swept over your tongue. A candy? He'd placed a hard candy in your mouth, one of those German fruit-shaped sweets Laswell gifted you with the candle. It tasted so sweet, so sweet from his mouth; it felt like lightning had struck your body and left your skin electrified. 

That familiar tense energy between your thighs built, and his mouth closed around the side of your neck as you came undone around him. The sensation was slow to fade, leaving you twitching and trembling as he continued. For a few beats, he carried on, only to withdraw entirely. Spatters of hot seed spilled over your stomach, not nearly as hot as candle wax, and you could only imagine the look on his face right now. You were so used to him spilling himself within you that the thought of him withdrawing almost came as a shock, but it's no matter. You crunched the hard candy you'd lapped at with your tongue, a satisfying crack across your molars and smiled at the sweet candy. 

Heat had been sapped from your body, and the energy receded, he seemed to have stepped away. Blasting metal music continued, allowing you to catch on to what must be lyrics once your attention was free. Just as you started to grasp the actual rhythm of the tune, a hot fibrous cloth on your belly made you flinch as he swiped away his sin. A few more seconds of oblivion, and he lifted the blindfold, so too removing the headphones from your ears. The world spun for a short while, brighter than ever before. Blinding light from the lamp at your side made your pupils strain to catch up to the world around you. Your ears were ringing, and his mask had been pulled back over his face, he was neatly wrapping the headphone wires around his cell phone. It hadn't even occurred to you how out of breath you were until the music wasn't blaring in your ears anymore. 

He looked more exhausted than you'd ever seen him, a thin sheen of sweat over broad shoulders that challenged your unwinding hormones. He, too, was gathering his breath, but after another pause he rose to hook an arm under your spine. Your eyelids were heavy, but he was unravelling the ropes that bound your arms behind your back, suddenly acutely aware of the strain they'd left along your shoulders. That tenderness had faded, and he roughly twisted and tugged at loose chords, one by one unravelling his masterwork. Finally, your arms were free. He sat himself at the edge of the bed, and the discarded sheets felt more heavenly than before once you wrapped them around yourself. Warm, sated, with the taste of sweet blackberries lingering on your tongue. You even spotted the torn candy bag beside you on the table, assorted candies splayed over the wood. The relief you'd felt from the orgasm that ravaged your entire system let you easily consider this one of your top-ten birthdays of all time. Even if it's otherwise miserable. At least a minute was spent in blissful silence, catching up on your breath and peace before a series of sinister thoughts clicked into place. Your voice finally caught up, and you put your pieces on the board. 

"Are you satisfied now?" you croaked. 

"Quite."

"Well, I'm not," you sighed, rolling on your side. 

"No? You sounded pretty satisfied," he boasted in that gravelly accent you knew all too well. 

For a beat the thought occurred to you that his spit and the candy might have been an attempt to silence you, that these thin walls might invite some privy voyeurs. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe that's part of his psyop, and he wants you to be doubting yourself right now. There's this thought that's lingered in your conscience since you had a taste of it with your first encounter with him. It's both within grasp and entirely out of reach, a pipe dream that you'll have finess from him. This man won't comply of his own volition. You can't overpower him physically, that one time you did was a fluke. 

"If you want to make this birthday extra special, I was think-"

"Not happening," he grumbled. 

"You don't even know what I was gonna say," you raised your head from your now bare pillow in outrage. 

"I know what you want," he shifted to face you from the end of the bed. "You're not tying me up."

"Why not?" you pout. 

"Security."

"Security? What, you don't trust me?"

"Don't trust anybody," he shrugged, "life's easier that way."

"How righteous of you," you scoff. "How about this, if you let me do this, I'll give you one I-Owe-You. And If I-"

"Deal."

"That was fast," you shook your head in confusion. 

"The mask stays on," he held steadfast, making sure you caught the gravity in his tone. 

"Deal."

He probably thinks he can easily break free of whatever scheme you have in mind for him. He's probably right. But that doesn't mean you don't have a few tricks up your sleeve to keep him compliant. There's no reason this can't also be beneficial for him. Your knots might not be as pretty and neat as his, but they'll get the job done. It's your turn to turn the tables, but you won't forget the kindness he offered you while you were under his control. And you won't forget his brutality either. 

You stood uneasily at first, but the pads of your feet eventually landed on the grainy carpet. Even your shoulders ache, and your ears are still ringing. He eyed you cautiously as you rose, even more cautiously as you gathered his clothing from the wooden chair in the corner and tossed it to the floor. That one looked like it stung, and his eyes lingered on his jeans and shirt, now splayed on the ground. You also made sure to grab the black survival rope he'd neatly ravelled into a tidy loop, cocking your head to the side as he, too, watched you with skepticism. He seemed more bold and challenging than you were, though. The tables have turned. With the chair within reach, you repositioned it to sit at the foot of the bed, right next to him. 

"Sit," you order sweetly. 

"Am I going to regret this?" 

"It's likely."

He rose from his position and for a snapshot in time you stood face to face. All this time, you'd encountered him from the context of you being on your back or something of the sort, but he lazily met your stance. Even standing at your tallest, you couldn't even clear his shoulder, and his bare skin in your peripheral made your heart skip at the size of him. You swallowed hard. For a moment, it looked like he recognized your internal struggle, satisfied by his evident effect on your heart rate. Brown eyes met yours, and you swore his pupils dilated. He leaned forward and it made your stomach lurch, but instead he sat down in the creaky wooden chair, tilting his head back to easily meet your eyes. 

"Don't break the chair now," you manifested your sweetest voice as you aligned his wrists to align with the chair's wooden arms. 

"Why should I care about an old chair at a run-down motel?" 

"It's a charge on Laswell's credit card that will require an explanation." 

"Chairs break all the time," he watched your hands move with a smug expression. "Just say you sat on it and it fell apart."

"You think I want to take responsibility for your mistake?" you frowned sadistically, drawing a black rope around his wrist. 

He doesn't really have a choice to argue back since you're already tightening the cord that secures his wrists to the chair, haphazardly looping twice, thrice around his wrist to make sure it's extra tight. If you're honest with yourself, you're not entirely clear on what you're doing, but basic logic suggests you fasten his wrists and forearms and loop around the back of the chair to secure the other side. Unfortunately there isn't enough rope to secure every limb, but you'll have to settle with this with your limited resources. It's becoming clear that it'd be a miracle if you can secure him at all with how quickly this rope is being used. 

Around his back, and now it's time to secure his tattooed arm. Swirling inky imagery of skulls and weapons, how sinister. No match to your gruff ties along the curves of his bicep. His muscles are so warm under your fingertips. Focus, he's watching you actively stoke his ego, his chest even flexed as he laughed at your lingering eyes. Asshole. Both arms were secure, held fast by black ropes hard as iron, looped half a dozen times each over his arms to ensure he wouldn't break free without at least some breakage. A new heat in your core sparked. He looked heavenly, even if he didn't have the same shock he did that first time. Not to worry though, you have a plan. 

There's a certain arrogance in his look, like he thinks you can't outdo his previous act. While that was one for the history books, you have every intention to test the ego in his level gaze. 

At first you felt a twang of guilt at the thought of defacing the chocolate birthday cake your comrades had supposedly been up at the crack of dawn for, but at the same time, it's not their business how you want to consume it. Still, you couldn't help but cringe as you swipe your fingers across the delicate icing, scooping exquisite chocolate frosting on your two fingers. Without a moment of hesitation you transferred the treat onto his molten skin; heat from tight muscles radiating under your tongue as you lapped up the sugar. You'd always had a sweet tooth. He cocked his head to the side as he watched you glide your tongue over his shoulder, his pectoral, even haphazardly spreading a palm of the sticky treat across his abs. At least you avoided the gauze, an obstacle you were considerate enough to steer clear of. Your enjoyment of this birthday treat was made extra sweat by the rippling surface, he couldn't seem to take his eyes off you. Sitting back upright, you spared a glance to consider his expression, still arrogant and brash. It made your breath hitch, stepping further to rest your shins on either side of his thighs, straddling his lap. 

"How's this for too sweet?" you purr, slipping the decadent fingers under his mask, despite some resistance, and past his lips. 

He should consider himself lucky that you're loyal enough to respect his wishes, not lifting the mask above what's necessary to slip your fingers into his mouth, concealing his jaw with your palm. His tongue was warm over your fingers. Once he detected that you wouldn't betray his trust, he leaned in, lapping at your fingers with sultry eyelids, a foreign sensation that felt so unbelievably erotic around your fingertips. But he, too, wasn't so quick to forgive. He bit down on your fingers hard. Pain shot through your fingers and up your arm and your jaw tightened in agony. It seems you're each taking turns trading blows, and soon you won't even know who made the first slight. 

You'll return the courtesy if he wants to toy with the unexpected. If he wants to bite down on your fingers in protest, coy as he might think he is, you won't tolerate the insult. Shifting your posture to rest on one shin, and lifted your other leg while his gaze remained transfixed on yours. Candlewax would have a negligible effect on someone like him, so you'd have to up the ante. You had the wisdom to withdraw your fingers from his mouth before you slammed your knee into his groin, sending an explosion of anguish to wrack his body. 

He gulps in a gasp, holds shakily, and lets out a low, creaky whine. There's something so thrilling about it, though, so invigorating. You'd never thought of yourself as a sadist, but something about how he whimpers and groans when you hurt him like this makes you feel alive. More alive than ever. You'd seen needles get drawn through his skin just hours ago, gauze on his stomach that only slightly softens your heart, but only you can rip this reaction from his lips. Transfixed, you can't take your eyes off how his Adam's apple flexes on the column of his pale throat as he whines. For some reason, the thought occurred of hovering your mouth over his as a distraction. Through the cloth, you can feel the void of his open mouth, gasping hot air as you can only imagine the level of pain he's in right now. Your lips only technically making contact with his through the cloth of his mask, you breathed with him as he heaved for air. It feels so good. You'd never heard him groan or show any signs of distress until now, even if by a normal man's standards he's still remarkably tame. 

Your glory gained a twang of pity as he gasped. You barely saw eyebrows knit together in agony as he strained to tilt his head back. Gentle fingers caressed the side of his face, along the cloth on his jaw, around the skull-shaped plate across his nose. No reaction other than agony, except for when you softly took his cock in your palm. For a moment, his eyelids fluttered in recognition, but he only sucked air between his teeth and flexed his shoulders. Still in agony, you felt an odd twinge of pity for betraying him, even if it was all in the name of particularly sadistic sex. It still lit a fire in your core, and your own ache became clear as his muscles buckled against your restraints, you lifted yourself to straddle his lap again. Without even thinking, you did it again. Slamming your knee into his sensitive balls, he doubled over despite his arms being securely fastened. Not even for any particular reason, just call that one preemptive.  

Another cry tore from his throat, gruff and low. The pain threatened to make him go soft, but you still sat down gently on his cock with a sigh, taking him within you once again. He winced, and gulped, and his fleeting gaze finally focused to meet yours. His shoulders were tense when you wrapped your forearms around his neck as you had to wrangle this mechanical bull. The entire encounter started to feel like a song, slow and rhythmic, as you worked electric muscles to sow pleasure back into his body. He slowly gave in, letting his head fall back again and exposing his neck. And his neck tasted delicious along your tongue, even if he didn't have chocolate frosting along his skin that made it extra sweet. His agony was delicious, it just made you want to ride him harder. His voice was creaking in his throat, whining words like 'oh fuck’ and 'shit,' music to your ears as you took him deeper within you. 

You found yourself grinding down into his orgasm as your own found your system in turn. He poured himself into you, straining and bucking against you to dig himself further. For a brief instance, you were connected, no matter how briefly, thanks in part to what some might call guilt. It's definitely something he won't forget, and it's easy fodder for dialogue if he ever wants to get petty in the future. 

You furthered your makeshift apology by palming a circular container of sweet-smelling lotion, pistachio and salted caramel, and swiped it over his broad chest. Something you'd picked up in Italy at one of those boutiques before the gala. You eventually lifted yourself from his lap, watching his eyes as you took your fingers to re-administer his dripping succour back within you. If anything, he looked like he blushed at the action, a reaction that you’d never expect from the likes of him. Carefully and tenderly, you worked the balm over his skin; his breath finally started to steady after a few minutes of your kindness. It's only fair. You did just technically brutalize him with cruel torture that even Narcos debt-collectors might not consider. Not that you have any guilt, though. He smelled so sweet, sweeter than the usual musk and grime and sweat and gunpowder. He was even such a good boy when you loosened your dodgy ropework around his wrists. 

"Are you satisfied now?" you repeated your question from earlier.

"Fuck you," he groaned weakly.

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