#change in script bob

[michaelscorneroftheinternet]

for smg3: would you rather kiss smg4 or get your search history leaked to the internet?

(hehehe I’m so evil😈)

.

.

.

...1 Ask Remaining...

[blondwolfart]

I made a gift for @michealscorneroftheinternet I read their story "Change in script" and I got really into it so I decided to make a art gift for them I hope you like it.

[hide-your-bugs-away]

A Dont Look Back edit I recall making three years ago amidst a migraine episode... COMFORT MOVIE!!! FAVORITE MOVIE!!! 🥹

Song: "Joe Blazey" by Dominic Fike

[arwenkenobi48]

Wish Upon A Star: Plot Breakdown (Wish Rewrite Project)

It starts out practically the same as the original, except Asha is telling the origin story of Rosas to Valentino, who is her familiar, as she’s already Magnifico’s apprentice. (Asha has the rare ability to talk to animals.)

Welcome To Rosas is sung from the citizens’ POV and is generally very upbeat, with them all singing the praises of Magnifico and Amaya. It becomes a little sad towards the end, as Asha gets her own verse about how she feels like her magical powers make her an outcast and even though she has the privilege of being Magnifico’s successor, she still longs to fit in with everyone else.

Magnifico is introduced, rushing about and getting everything ready for the ceremony, with a number of well-meaning but clumsy servants providing a little comic relief.

When Amaya is introduced, along with her pet Sphinx cat (haven’t thought of a name for him yet), she’s shown to be a vain and jealous woman, envious of all the positive attention her husband receives from the kingdom. She always pretends to be innocent whenever Magnifico or Asha is around, although Valentino can sense something off about her, frequently getting into scuffles with the cat. (Haven’t figured out what sort of animal familiar Magnifico will have yet.)

Asha is incredibly excited, as this is the first time she’ll be partaking in the wish-granting ceremony. Magnifico also lets her see the wishes for the very first time, reminding her that she’ll soon be responsible for all of them.

Much like in the original, Asha and Magnifico argue about their different viewpoints on granting all of the wishes vs only granting some of them.

Asha, in an act of defiance, decides to grant a wish that Magnifico didn’t approve of at the ceremony and it predictably ends in disaster. Asha feels deeply ashamed of what she’s done and the fact that she let down her mentor and her future kingdom.

She runs away in the middle of the night, with Valentino by her side. Singing This Wish, Asha looks up at the stars, recalling the days when she was younger, when Magnifico used to tell her all sorts of wonderful stories about them and the ancient magic they hold. She basically prays for guidance, for someone to understand her and to help make amends.

In a blaze of light, a star descends from the sky. The people of Rosas are amazed and excited. Magnifico, on the other hand, is terrified of the blinding light, as it triggers a flashback to when his home was destroyed. Even in such a vulnerable state, he still worries about Asha.

Asha finds herself face to face with a handsome young man with bright eyes and glowing golden hair. They’re both fascinated by one another and when Asha asks him who he is, he explains that he’s a star. Both Asha and Star are, well, starstruck, even more so when Asha finds out that Star can understand Valentino. She thought she was the only one and as they travel through the forest, Asha feels comforted, knowing that she’s not alone.

Meanwhile, Queen Amaya is secretly delighting in all the chaos that’s been happening. She sees this as the perfect opportunity to steal the limelight from both Magnifico and Asha. She conspires to essentially poison Magnifico against his apprentice, wanting all his attention to be on her and nobody else, even though it’s already been established that Magnifico loves her deeply and hasn’t been neglecting her at all.

Amaya’s evil monologue is interrupted by Magnifico, who confides in her about how worried he is and how he feels like he’s losing control of the situation. “I can’t find an answer in any of my books!” “Well, there is one you haven’t tried…yet.” Amaya refers to the grimoire. Magnifico is horrified at the prospect of using it, but Amaya just laughs it off as a joke, pretending that she’d never consider using it. Magnifico decides to take his best knights with him to the forest to find out what’s going on and bring Asha home.

Meanwhile, in the forest. Asha and Star are learning more about one another, with Star being incredibly curious about the human world in the same way that Ariel is in The Little Mermaid. When Asha speaks so highly of Rosas, Star wants to travel to the kingdom and see it for himself, but Asha sadly explains how she messed things up at the ceremony and how she feels like she can’t go back. Star comforts her and assures her that everyone makes mistakes and the important thing is that she learned from it. They dance around the forest and sing At All Costs. Their magic combines and spreads throughout the forest, making everything beautifully vibrant and colourful and giving humans and animals the ability to understand each other.

Magnifico and his knights come across the beams of magic and are initially frightened, with Magnifico trying not to panic, but the talking animals assure him that they won’t hurt him. They can tell he’s got a lot weighing on his mind and sing I’m A Star to cheer him up. Magnifico calms down and feels safe, realising that he doesn’t need to be afraid of something he doesn’t understand.

Meanwhile, back at Rosas, trouble is stirring. Queen Amaya, after going through her villainous plan with her cat and Dahlia (who has been her long-suffering maid for most of the story) in the form of This Is The Thanks I Get?, has decided to address the people and is using the dark magic from her grimoire to corrupt the citizens, turning them against Magnifico and Asha.

Admittedly I got a bit stuck here, but essentially Magnifico is forced to return to Rosas, only to find the people up in arms and determined to dethrone him. He turns to Amaya for help and she lies to him, telling him that Asha was the cause of the anarchy, that the people never loved or trusted him. When he asks her if she does, the evil queen simply laughs in his face, breaking his heart. Magnifico tries to stand his ground, but Amaya targets all of his insecurities, including the fact that he never had his wish granted (his wish for a child). Magnifico falls into despair and Amaya has him possessed by the grimoire.

Asha, Star and Valentino return to Rosas, determined to set things right, only to be greeted with a sight of ruin and despair. Dahlia, who has managed to sneak away from Amaya, hides the trio in a secret room, where she explains what’s happening and they all resolve to save Magnifico and the citizens from Amaya, while singing Knowing What I Know Now.

Dahlia briefly mentions that the evil spell Magnifico’s trapped in can only be broken by true love. At first, all seems to be lost, but then Asha realises something; it doesn’t have to be romantics love that breaks the spell. It can be familial love, too. She basically has an epiphany, realising that not only is Magnifico the father she always needed, but that she’s also basically his daughter. In other words, his wish was granted without him even realising it. This revelation gives her and her companions a new burst of courage.

Star uses his shapeshifting abilities to confuse/distract the castle guards as the heroes try to locate Magnifico and Amaya. They are unfortunately captured and taken to the tower, where the final battle takes place.

The possessed Magnifico attacks Asha, who fends him off with Star’s help and tries to get through to him. Amaya traps Star inside the mirror-topped magic staff. Just when all seems to be lost, Asha sings a reprise of This Wish, as she explains to Magnifico that his wish was granted. Amaya’s arrogance crumbles as she sees the spell weakening. Magnifico breaks free from Amaya’s control, Star is released from the mirror and Amaya is pulled into it, vanishing forever.

The people of Rosas are freed and everyone rejoices. Magnifico and Asha reconcile, admitting they were wrong and accepting that they’ve both still got a lot to learn from one another. Asha and Star embrace, while Magnifico has a proud dad moment.

At the very end, Star is asked what he could possibly wish for and he replies that he wishes to be human. He’d rather spend a finite life with Asha than be immortal and alone. Magnifico grants Star’s wish, then passes the mantle of Wish Granter to Asha. Star and Asha kiss and Magnifico concludes the narration that opened the film, saying: “And we all lived happily, ever after.”

[br1ghtestlight]

im still not 100% sure when season 14 of bob's burgers is going to release like they SAY episode one will allegedly premiere on october 1st but beyond that im just imagining a 6 month hiatus bcuz both the writers AND the voice actors of the show are striking and they couldn't have got that far into production honestly

[kizo2703]

i have been revisiting a bunch of bellarke fan videos from season 6 and wow that season was LOUD. of course bellarke is loud in every season, but season 6 is the first one where it would have made actual sense for them to get together in the finale (or at the very least by the premiere of the following season). think about it. in the season 1 finale, it's just too early and also, there was a lot of shit going on and bellarke were separated and there was the finn of it all. in the season 2 finale...after finn and lexa and the GENOCIDE....yeah i think that would have been too much. in the season 3 finale, lexa was too fresh (with the way they went about writing that story). in the season 4 finale, okay i could have seen them realistically getting together here and then being ripped apart. that's the only other time other than season 6 that i see it making sense. in the season 5 finale, it feels too soon. but by the season 6 finale?? my GOD they have always been the center of the show, but season 6 took that to a whole new level along with the romantic development. it's just WILD. in my head after the season 6 finale, the only thing that makes sense is them getting together. whereas with every other season, it makes sense why they're not together yet. of course they could have made slight changes to the story and had them get together sooner and i would have been ALLL about it, but with season 6, there are no deviations required. from start to end, that season was constructed with the goal of them getting together, and that makes season 7 all the more jarring.

[blindmagdalena]

You Let Me Complicate You

18+ 4k homelander x f!reader. bickering, post-breakup sex, dubcon/coercion, angst, jealousy, emotional manipulation, implied murder, stalking, boundary smashing, breaking and entering, cunnilingus, penetrative sex. read on AO3. written as a follow-up to the breakup, but can be read as a standalone. gif credit.

Breaking up with Homelander is... complicated. After all, it is a god that loves you.

"What do I taste like?" You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over. "Love," he said at last. "Like you love me." You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you. If that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier.

Homelander is an aberration.

Stronger than a hundred men, faster than a bullet and sharp as a tack all paired with a teaspoon’s depth of emotional maturity. He’s volatile, twisted, broken in ways no amount of therapy could ever hope to duct tape back together. He’s no better off than a dog that bites to kill. No matter how he got to this point, the best thing for him–for the world–would be to put him down by any means necessary.

Too bad you can’t seem to stop fucking him.

It’s late when you hear the front door open with a distinct crack. You’re sprawled out on the couch in the living room, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. What comes next is no surprise to you–a shock of primary colors filling the narrow doorway, a handsome face made ghoulish by the haunting light of the television in an otherwise dark room.

“You nailed the door shut,” Homelander says, the inflection of his voice somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Because you broke it,” you throw back, a stale Twizzler balanced between your lips. It had tasted good enough when you started eating it, but now–in his presence–the sweetness of it has turned sour.

“You changed the locks,” he says with a light shrug, cape swaying as he meanders towards you. “My key didn’t work.”

“Your key? Stealing a key to my house does not make it your key,” you say tersely, lifting your foot to press it firmly to his thigh, stopping him in his tracks. 

He glances down, a mirthless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he catches your ankle in his gloved hand, yanking you down the couch so suddenly you lose your Twizzler to the floor with a gasp. It’s one thing to know that Homelander has strength enough to throw cars like frisbees. It’s another to feel it. It sends a rush of adrenaline through you like a jolt, followed swiftly by something hotter low in your naval.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, dropping your ankle. He lifts his knee and slots it between your legs, his opposite boot on the floor, his hand braced on the back of the couch, pinning you in place.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you cut in dryly, moving to shift up the couch, away from him. He snatches your shoulder, halting you with ease. His thumb strokes your skin idly, goosebumps erupting beneath his touch.

“And I’ve realized that this whole… thing between you and I, this ‘will they, won’t they,’ ” he says, bobbing his head side to side. “It’s getting stale. Don’t you think it’s about time we progressed the plot?” He asks, leaning in close.

You brace your hand against his chest, holding him in place as ineffectually as you did earlier. You both know it’s all a game. It’s all pretense. There had been fondness between you once–love, even–but you’re done with that now. You have to be done with it, or Homelander will swallow you whole. He’s a black pit, a murderer, and his need knows no end. He’ll destroy you and everything you know and love if he thinks it’ll satiate that need.

You’ve lost enough. You can’t afford to lose any more of yourself to him.

“Jesus Christ, you even think in TV script,” you say, pushing on his chest. He leans back, but not by much. It sends a terrible little chill down your spine. “I’m starting to think the only thing that might actually kill you is an original thought.”

His eyes narrow and his bright white teeth flash predatorily in the darkness. “You’re lucky I haven’t broken your neck,” he says, hand slipping from your shoulder to your throat. The sharp press of his thumb into your windpipe steals your breath, makes your thighs tighten on either side of his leg snug between yours. His lips split into an unkind grin. “Or maybe not. You’d probably like that.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, gripping his wrist with your other hand. Your pulse is starting to throb against the leather of his glove. He moves his thumb from your windpipe to your jaw and turns your head away, leaning in with a deep, pointed inhale along your neck.

“Is that why your hormones are going haywire? Because I disgust you?” He asks, grinding his thigh between your legs in a way that makes you gasp. “Y’know, given how full of it you are, I was sure I’d smell the bullshit on you. But all I smell… is how fucking wet you are.”

He grabs your hip and the memories come to you like muscle memory. How good it feels to be gripped and fucked and loved by someone beyond your comprehension. To feel as if you’ve stopped the world turning and called the sun itself to shine on you alone.

You twist your chin out of his grip and level him with a heated stare. “I hate you,” you hiss, grasping for the knife you know will twist the deepest. 

It works for a second, his smug expression faltering, but only for an instant. His jaw sets, and his lips curl into that same unkind smile. “C’mon, babe,” he coos, the intimate familiarity woven into that pet name making your skin crawl. “We both know that I can always tell when you’re lying.”

He kisses you like he always has. Like you belong to him. In a way, you suppose you always will. There’s nothing you can do to pry your throat from Homelander’s jaws. Nowhere you can run that he won’t eventually find you. Like quicksand, the more you fight, the tighter he clamps down. Truth be told, though, that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is that the tighter he grips you, the less you want to fight him.

His tongue slithers into your mouth like a serpent into the garden and you bite down hard. While pliant between your teeth, the flesh doesn’t yield. It never will. He never will. Instead he moans a little chuckle that fades into a rumble against your lips.

“That how it’s gonna be?” He asks, the words rasped into your mouth. “Y’wanna bite and claw? Play hard to get?” He laughs, the sound of it reedy and light, like it’s all a silly little game of make-believe. “I can do that.”

He reeks of his own desperation for what he says to be true. More than anything, he wants to dress up his desires as yours. He wants to believe he’s giving you what you want. That way, he can trick himself into believing you need him.

He bites the middle tip of his glove and tugs it off with his teeth, tossing it aside. His bare thumb brushes your lip, smearing his spit and yours. “I saw you with that fucking loser,” he says, the airiness suddenly gone from his voice.

Your stomach drops. Two days ago you’d been with a man. You’d been so desperate to forget him that night that anyone would have done the job. You stumbled out with some nobody from the bar who’d been good enough for a sloppy makeout session in the back of his truck, but not good enough to bring home. It hadn’t ended well.

How close of an eye is Homelander keeping on you?

“I’d be angry if it hadn’t been so fuckin’ pathetic,” he says through his teeth.

“Liar,” you say tightly. You feel his fury in the tension of his body. He’s pissed that you’d seek this out anywhere else. As if he still has a claim over your body. Your pleasure.

His eyes flash up to yours. He sneers, pushing his thumb between your lips. “I watched you bite his lip until he bled. I watched him slap you,” he says, dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridges of your bottom teeth. The memories come to you as he speaks them, every moment of it made bleary by alcohol. “You wanted it rough, but he couldn’t handle you, could he? Because you’re used to something better. You’re used to a god.”

You sneer right back at him, yanking your head to the side, his thumb slipping from between your lips. “Could you be any more in love with yourself? Go fuck yours-”

“I still had to kill him, of course,” he continues nonchalantly, grinding your thoughts to a screeching halt. He laughs humorlessly. “For kissing you. And, well–for everything else, obviously. Slapping you,” he says, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. The same one the man had struck. “Humping your leg like a fucking dog.”

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, throat tight. Bile burns at the back of it. All you wanted was to get away from this. The blood, the horror of it. Yet no matter what you do to dissuade him, he brings death to your doorstep. “You have everything. You could have anyone. Why are you–”

“Because I want you,” he hisses, words so sharp his sharp teeth snap together. “Because I love you, and that’s what you do when you love someone,” he says. You can feel the accusation building in his words. “You don’t give up on them. And if that means cleaning up every dirty little mistake you make,” he says softly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “So be it.” 

A cold shiver rolls down your spine. You stare woundedly at him, lips parted, brows pinched together, the misery of it all etched into every line of your face. He stares at you in turn, and after a beat, his own hard expression softens.

“Hey, hey,” he says, the heat of his breath a ghostly kiss on your lips. “It’s okay,” he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. “I forgive you.”

He kisses you again, more tender now. Your eyes prickle with tears. His gentleness hurts so much more than his violence. It disarms you, carries you to a time when things were simpler between you. Sweeter and warmer. 

Homelander makes the world feel wonderful and dangerous, like standing in the middle of an electric storm. Being loved by him is the feeling of having your ribs cracked open, your heart cradled in his bare hands, possessive and bloody. What had been thrilling grew stifling, a feeling you realize now never truly went away.

He’s inescapable, literally and figuratively. Even when he isn’t inviting himself into your home or lurking in the periphery of your vision, Vought’s hero is plastered on every billboard and screen in the city. You haven't been able to breathe without inhaling the thick miasma of him.

Tears roll down to your temples as you kiss him back, both hands fisted in his soft hair, tugging. He makes a pleased little sound against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He’s always kissed like a man possessed–like every brush of your lips is a drop of salvation–but the hunger he’s developed since you tried to leave him is unparalleled. He kisses you like he means to devour you whole.

You bite back a sob, but the hiccuped noise of it catches his attention nonetheless. He breaks from you, looking down at you with a feverish mix of yearning, impatience and something that almost resembles pity, which might be the closest thing he knows to sympathy.

“Hey,” he coos, dusting your jaw with feather light kisses. “Don’t cry.”

“It’s awful,” you choke out.

“What is?”

“Your love.”

“I know,” he says after a prolonged pause. “It’s all I know.”

You look at him, the image of him bleary through your tears. There’s a morose resignation in his ocean-storm eyes, a distance that makes him seem far, far away from you, even as you taste the heat of his breath on your lips.

Focus returns to his gaze, and suddenly he’s present again. “It’s all I know,” he says again, his tone made of wood, stiff and splintering.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lift your palm to his cheek, hovering just shy of touching. He’s pulled to it like a magnet, nuzzling into your palm, eyes closing. His hand slides down the familiar slopes of your body, settling at your hip, where his fingertips sink in like claws, the pressure of them shy. For as vicious as things have gotten between you, he’s never hurt you. A fact he lords over you as if he should be applauded for it.

I love you more than anything. You know that, right? That I would never do anything to hurt you? He’d asked you during that first fight. When everything went wrong. 

You’d only been able to nod then, trapped with a man you didn’t recognize wearing the face of the man you loved.

That’s right. Of course you do. Because if I wanted to hurt you, I would have. It would have been easy, huh?

Despite how desperately you’ve tried to fortify yourself against him, it’s still so easy.

Homelander is an aberration, but so too is he a man, and there was a time when the man was all that you saw. When the monster at the core of him reared its head, bloody and unrepentant, that became all you could see in him. Now, the two are so irrevocably tangled in the sinew of the other, you’re never sure which you’re looking at.

“I miss you,” you confess to the man in him, voice so soft only his ears possibly could have discerned the words. As if you can hide the words from the monster lurking behind if you speak them quietly enough. 

He looks as confused as your own aching heart. “I’m here,” he says, everything in his tone willing you to believe it. He doesn’t understand that you miss who he was before you knew what he was.

A mournful noise swells in your chest, but he kisses you before it can escape. “I’m here,” he says again, the hand at your hip turning into a fist in the fabric of your clothes, tearing them at the seams. “I’ll make you feel better,” he says between presses of his lips, hungry and rushing, like he can outspeed your miserable grief. “Let me make you feel good.”

Sex has always been an avenue of redemption for Homelander. Whether he’s frustrated, anxious, wounded or a combination of them all, he’s sought to remedy it through a good orgasm. He treats you as though the notion should hold true for you: the fight doesn’t count so long as he makes you come.

Yet again, you’re left stricken by him. As you have a dozen times before, all you can do is nod. Deep in your core, you know he’s right. He can make you forget this horrible ache in yourself, the grief and the fear. He can take you away to the dream you’d lived before you met the beast in his shadow. 

Coherent thought turns to water slipping between the cracks of your mind as Homelander’s bare fingers brush your inner thigh. You suck in a sharp breath that leaves you as a shudder and you clutch at his collar, twisting the fabric, unsure if you mean to push him away or pull him closer.

Homelander makes the choice for you, closing the distance and kissing you too gently, too sweetly. You spur him with your teeth, needing it faster, harder. Needing it to hurt just enough to not feel entirely right. He ignores your prompt, focused wholly on tasting you, on sliding his fingers up into the waiting warmth between your thighs. He presses the pad of his middle finger to your clit, deft and familiar.

You sigh, closing your eyes, ready to lose yourself to the feel of something good. He slides serpentine down your body, kissing you through your shirt, nipping at your skin through the fabric for the way it makes you jump. His lips trail down until they pass the hem of your shirt, finding where he’s stripped you. His mouth is unbearably warm, breath hot huffs on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting everywhere.

He mouths at your hip, sucks the skin dark before trailing further down, leaving a constellation with his lips. The scorching wet heat of his tongue feels like a brand on your clit, replacing his hand with his mouth. 

You thread your fingers into his hair, widening the spread of your legs to allow for the way he shoulders under and between them, lifting your lower half. He nuzzles into the nectary sweetness of you, moaning unabashedly for your familiar taste.

What do I taste like? You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. Everything about him fascinated you; did his super smell lend itself to super taste? Could he pick out each note of you, dissect your profile into sections?

He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over.

Love, he said at last. Like you love me.

You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you, if that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier. If he plunges his tongue to the core of you in the hopes he might discover lingering shreds of what the two of you once had.

A moan escapes you. His fingers bite into your thighs, tongue coaxing more. Restraint dissipating, you tighten your grip on his hair and tug, grinding hard against his mouth. He knows the stepping stones of your pleasure as well as you know yourself, knowing just when to suck, when to lick. He’s more relentless than any other man could hope to be, never needing to stop for breath, never succumbing to aching muscles. He maintains a pace that sends you careening so viciously towards release, you give a choking gasp when it hits you, your head thrown back against the couch as euphoric relief rolls through you in waves.

Homelander shrugs out from under your trembling thighs, his mouth slick and shining, eyes predator wide. You’re both panting, silently gauging the other. You’re first to break the standoff, his hunger infectious. You climb onto your knees and grab his shoulders, pushing his back to the couch, straddling him. He keens when you kiss him, an addictive sound that gives you a deceptive sense of power.

He murmurs your name in fervent repetition, dragging his mouth along your skin, inhaling you like a drug. You unbuckle his belt with the ease of experience, unzip his pants and slip your hand inside. Curling your fingers around his cock, you find it already hard and dripping in anticipation.

“Anything you want,” he breathes, the words coming between the prayer-like recitation of your name. “Money, diamonds, anything, I’ll make you a queen,” he says, eyelids fluttering at your touch. He pledges these things like an act of devotion, but you recognize this Faustian bargain for what it is. It will cost you your heart and soul.

“I’ll make you a god,” he moans at a particularly deft twist of your wrist.

Making you come will have to be enough for now.

“Fuck me,” you tell him breathlessly. “The way I like it.”

Like flipping a switch, the dazed pleasure in his eyes sharpens. The corners of his mouth tug, his upper lip twitches, eager tension slipping into his touch as his hands slide up your thighs, grasping your hips. His fingers sink in tight enough to bruise, despite the gentleness of his touch. The immeasurable power lurking within his unassuming frame is a novelty that never wears off, a thrill that shocks you to your core no matter how many times you experience it.

Like a vicious storm, he’s beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Caught in the eye of his maelstrom, the only thing left for you to do is weather him.

He guides you down onto his cock in one slow, agonizing pull. Even with his spit and your orgasm easing the way, it’s too much all at once. Relishing the aching burn of being split apart by him, you make a noise that gives him pause. You don’t let him stop. You brace your hands on his shoulders and lift off of him almost entirely before sinking back down deeper than you had before, wringing a moan from him in turn.

Homelander’s fingers dig securely into your back as your bodies slot together and find an old, familiar rhythm. By now he knows exactly the angle to take to best pleasure you. You let out a shaky sigh at the warmth that spreads through you, the pressure of your climax building, his heat sinking into you like the light of the sun itself.

You’re used to a god.

You cup his face and kiss him. You bite his lip until you should taste blood. You dig your nails into his skin so hard your knuckles ache. If he notices it, he’s only pleased by it.

“I’d move heaven and hell for you,” he swears between kisses, ripping the shirt from your body. The cool air hits your damp, hot skin like a shock. 

“I don’t want them,” you say, voice catching on one of his sharp and sudden thrusts. He’s close. You can feel it in the tightness of his muscles, in the erratic, merciless way he drives into you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice reedy, tight. He kisses down your chest, scrapes his teeth over the swell of your breasts. “They’re yours. It’s all yours. I’m yours.”

Those words should hit you like a prison sentence, but they don’t.

They make you come.

Homelander holds you tightly as he, too, breaks into pieces, filling you with light and heat. He chokes more promises against your skin, kisses the salt from your skin and licks it greedily from his lips. You spin in place in his arms, dizzy on your own orgasm, riding out the aftershocks with his cock throbbing against the quiver of your cunt.

For a long while there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths and the distant din of the television. The tremors wracking your body gradually fade, and the chill of the open air begins to set in.

Homelander holds you tight as the sweat on your skin cools. He kisses a trail from your neck to your shoulder, nuzzling there before he rests his head down, face tucked into the crook of your neck. You feel wrung dry, eyelids heavy. You card your fingers absently through his hair, body boneless against his. Your eyes ache from crying, but you don’t mind it. Strung out like this, the aches left in the wake of pain and pleasure both feel equally good.

“It’s late,” he says warmly, a smile in his tone. He sounds lovesick, the way you both did once upon a time. Back then, you thought you knew every dark corner of his insatiable heart. “We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you agree, voice frayed. He lifts you gingerly from his lap, adjusting to cradle your naked body to his chest. Despite how Homelander unspools himself before you, you’re always the one left reduced. Bare and vulnerable both physically and emotionally. You slip your arms around his neck as he stands, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I could take you to the tower,” he whispers, sending a chill down your spine. “My bed’s bigger.”

“No,” you say, remembering a door you cannot reach, no matter how many times you grasp for it, and the god’s hands that sent you spinning. He’s already so capable of turning your home into a prison. You’re not sure you’d ever escape his penthouse. “I want mine.”

Perhaps the most terrible fact of all is that Homelander is neither a god nor a monster. 

He is simply a man without limitation.

“Sure,” he says, kissing your cheek. The touch lingers, dripping with his adoration. “Anything you want.”

So long as it includes him.

[dduane]

Hello! I have been a long-time fan of your work in Star Trek, and then while watching Transformers G1 I was startled to see your name appear on the title screen of Webworld. Most of the episodes of G1 are a little all over the place, but Webworld GOT me. It’s so fascinating to see Cyclonus essentially bring Galvatron (against his will) to a mental health clinic?! My question is, how did you get involved to help write an episode of Transformers? What was it like? Thank you so much for all the amazing work that you do!

You're very welcome!

About my work on Transformers G1: Developmentally speaking it's kind of a complicated story, so bear with me here while I set the scene.

In 1985 I was a pretty busy girl. The Door Into Shadow had just published. Deep Wizardry had gone to press for publication in Delacorte's fall-'85 schedule. My first computer game, Star Trek: The Kobayashi Alternative, launched (in the Rainbow Room on top of 30 Rock...) in the summer of '85. I was then scripting my first comics work for DC (the "Double Blind" two-parter and "The Last Word"). And after taking a brief breathing space from four or five years' worth of animation work across a number of shows (scroll down here for details), I'd just turned in an episode of My Little Pony.

In memory all this work tends to get tangled together somewhat (which is probably no surprise). One thread that shows persistently through the tangle, though, is how much time I was spending in New York at a time when I was living in Philadelphia.

A surprising amount of that has to do with the research surrounding Deep Wizardry, which required specialized materials not readily available anywhere else. Because I had a contract for that book, in early 1984 I applied for (and was granted) access to the Frederick Lewis Allen Memorial Room at the main branch of the New York Public Library. As a result, for the guts of a year I was "up in town" at least every other week or so, sometimes for two or three days at a time—taking notes from the Woods Hole oceanographic resources there, drawing copies of them (like this one) when xerography wasn't available or when otherwise necessary, and—when there was time—writing.

But on those stay-overs my evenings were my own, and fortunately there were some really nice people to meet up with, every so often. Back when 666 5th Avenue (now 660) was DC Comics' home, a lot of the writing and editorial talent had a habit of heading down to street level and around the corner on Friday nights, to meet up and relax at the bar in a local steakhouse on the E. 52nd Street side (IIRC: that neighborhood's much changed now). That's almost certainly where I first met Len Wein—most likely introduced to him by my editor on the Trek comics at DC, Bob Greenberger—and we quickly got to be friends. Each of us was interested in the writing (and kinds of writing) the other was doing, so we had lots to chat about.

Now during this period I'd recently finished work on that My Little Pony script. A production company called Sunbow was then handling the screen side of the property, along with shows based on various other IPs. To this day I can't remember who it was over there who said to me, "So listen, now that you're done with that, we've got some slots unfilled on another show—would you be interested in doing a Transformers?" My answer was naturally "Sure, why not?"*

So shortly I was talking story, in a general way, with my new story editor over there, Steve Gerber. The thought of doing something a bit personal, and getting into some of the characters' heads a bit, was as usual on my mind. The idea of getting Galvatron some psychiatric care had already crossed my mind at that point... though I had on first impulse pushed that (for the time being) onto the back burner due to possibly being a little too "on the nose."

At some point pretty early on in this process, though, a different idea hit me as it had hit me before. Len was plainly perfectly cut out for animation storytelling (as other comics writers have also been: but the fit has rarely seemed quite so perfect, to me at least). And he'd have a party with this, I thought. Why not invite him along for the ride and let him get a feel for how it's done?

So I did. To my great pleasure Len promptly said "Yes!" And having cleared this with Steve Gerber, we dove in as co-writers.

Collaboration can sometimes be a rocky road, but I've always been lucky in mine, and that lucky streak held true with Len. I have rarely had a co-writer who right out of the starting gate was more willing to stretch hard to get things right, and one who was more effortlessly funny... even when the humor turned dark (as it repeatedly did in this episode). He unquestionably brought things to that script that I wouldn't have thought to try, or would have been nervous about my ability to pull off, solo.

...So after a couple/few weeks we turned "Webworld" in, the checks cleared, and we both went on to other things. But that episode keeps coming up as many people's favorite... and I can't say that I mind a bit. :) (If you want to look at it, the whole episode's online: just follow the link.)

BTW, because people do ask "Why does Len's name appear first on the credits screen?", the answer's simple: Because I insisted. He was the newbie here, after all. I thought it only right that the junior partner in this medium should be put in pride of place on that credit, his first time out. (I routinely do the same with @petermorwood, for anyone who's watching. Collaborator of thirty-plus years he may be, but he's still newer at this than I am. Heh heh.)

In any case, I wear that particular joint credit with great pride. It's an honor to be associated with someone who went on to become—entirely separate from his already-stellar career in comics—one of the strongest and most prolific animation writers of the last few decades.

...So that's how it happened. (And as for the story of how Bob G. and I dragged Len out of that restaurant one night and made him buy his first computer [an early Macintosh]: that's true too.) :)

*Also, after this they asked me the same question again, but this time about a show called GloFriends. Same result, due to the house rule: "If someone offers you work, take it!" :)

[o-sn4pple]

“Neuvi, I need you to approve this for me.”

Neuvillette barely looks up from his papers, nearly signing off on the form until he reads the neat script printed at the top. “A…marriage license? Why would you need this?”

“I need this to scare someone off,” you say with a shrug. “I’ll shred it later, but for now-”

“Why shred it?” Neuvillette casually signs the fine line and returns to his own work. “We’ve been married for quite some time now. Having it in print would be useful for tax returns-”

“What?” 

Neuvillette dabs his pen into the bottle of ink beside him. “It would make filing for taxes easier-”

“No, I mean-” You step around his desk, bending over to stare the Iudex in the eye. “What do you mean we’re married? ” 

Neuvillette hesitates, glancing at the handmade necklace dangling from your throat. The shell is clasped shut, but he knows quite well that the romaritime petals and lone pearl are still nestled within. “You are still wearing the necklace.”

“Yeah, I always do.”

“I gave that to you.”

“Yes, you did.”

Neuvillette stalls again, this time looking at the marriage form he’d so casually approved. After a moment, he says, “You are wearing the necklace that I put on you. That is how a dragon courts its mates.”

Finally, your own expression falls, brows pinched and eyes darting to and fro. The longer you think, the worse your expression seems to grow. 

Neuvillette is no better. He sits up straighter and sinks his ink pen into its stand. “Is that not how marriage works?”

Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out. It closes, then opens, then closes again, each time accompanied by a vastly different expression. He’s seen this before. You had done the same thing when he asked about human breeding seasons. 

(That had been a fascinating lesson in its own right. To think humans were so embarrassed by their natural instincts…)

Eventually, you sigh and massage your face, setting the paper aside. “ No, Monsieur Neuvillette. That isn’t how marriage works.” You give your temples one final knead before opening your eyes. The genuine curiosity is expected at this point, but it still eases the storm clouds building outside of the window. “Have you never seen a marriage proposal before?”

“None that I recall,” he says. “Though I’ve presided over many trials regarding divorce.”

“Ah, yeah. Makes sense.” You clear your throat and lean against his desk, the same posture you’ve always done whenever his ignorance rears its head. “So, marriage doesn’t exactly count if the person you’re marrying is unaware that you’re marrying them. You can’t just lay claim to them and expect other people to know…not other humans , at least.” 

Neuvillette nods, a trickle of amusement in his thoughts. So, you must have been aware enough to notice the Melusines’ sudden change in addressing after you’d donned the necklace. Good. “But if the other party is aware?”

Your throat bobs, shifting the necklace resting so openly against your skin. “Then sure, that’s marriage. In the court of law, though, it wouldn’t be recognized without the proper paperwork. Also, that would be very…uh…dehumanizing.”

“How so?” 

“People have the right to choose who they’re marrying. It isn’t exactly a union of two people if one of them didn’t even know they’re being married. That’s like marrying a fish.”

“...I see.” Neuvillette rises from his seat, stepping forward to remove the necklace. Outside, the storm clouds seem to thicken at an alarming pace. “Forgive me, then-”

You casually slap his hand away and cover the necklace with your own. “What? No, I’m still keeping this.”

Neuvillette hesitates once more, hands awkwardly returning to his side. He…didn’t exactly ask you if you wished to be his mate. You had readily accepted his offered gift, even allowed him to drape the chain around your neck when you claimed you wouldn’t be able to clasp it. If all of what you said is true (which it is, he’s figured long ago you aren’t one for lying), then you still aren’t ‘married’ by your standards. What is he to do, then?

You clear your throat, and the storm clouds nearly rupture as he watches you remove the necklace. Then you grip his wrist, dump the necklace in his waiting palm, and say, “Just ask me if I would like to be your mate” 

“Would you like to be my mate?” Neuvillette repeats automatically. It feels silly, having to verbalize such primal instincts, but your amused smile makes it worth it.

“Why, yes, silly dragon, I would love to be your mate!” you tease before turning your back to him. “Would you do me the honor  of putting it on yourself?”

Sunlight bursts through the dark clouds beyond the window as Neuvillette loops the necklace around your throat. A flick of his thumb locks the chain in place, and you give it an experimental tug before turning back to him with an equally warm smile.

“There,” you say. “Any other questions?”

Neuvillette glances at your necklace and shakes his head, the last of the gathering storm vanishing entirely. “None, my love.”

[michaelscorneroftheinternet]

This is an urgent message to SMG4: Mr. Puzzles has taken SMG3 hostage and forced him to open his Guardian Pod!!

...(Part 1/2)....

....0 Asks Remaining....

[ang31ixx]

Byler Endgame

Disclaimer: I don’t hate Mileven or Mike and El’s relationship. I genuinely love both characters and everything they’ve been through together. This isn’t about bashing ships or invalidating their bond—it’s about exploring the quiet, unresolved emotions between Mike and Will. Sometimes people outgrow each other or hurt each other without meaning to, and that doesn’t make either of them villains. It just makes them human.

There’s something about the way the show frames Mike and Will's relationship that feels different from anything else in the series. It isn't loud or overtly romantic, but it has this unspoken intensity, a quiet weight that builds across seasons. In contrast to Mike and Eleven, who are written with clear, verbal expressions of love and more conventional romantic beats, Mike and Will’s dynamic is laced with silences, hesitation, and layered meaning—hallmarks of a relationship built on something unsaid.

Take the painting in Season 4, for instance. It’s not just that Will paints Mike as the heart of the party, it's that he uses the language of fantasy—something they both bonded over as kids—to express his feelings. It’s coded, both for Mike and for the audience. He attributes the painting to El, masking his own emotions in a gesture of protection, but when he starts explaining it, you can see him coming undone. He talks about how Mike makes El feel safe, needed, not like a mistake—but the camera lingers not on Mike reacting to El, but on Will, visibly trembling, struggling to hold back tears. He’s not just talking about El. He’s trying to say everything he’s carried alone for years. That speech is a confession disguised as encouragement. And Mike looks at him in that moment with a softness that isn’t confused, but deeply conflicted.

Will has been positioned from the very beginning as different—not just in terms of his connection to the Upside Down, but in how the people around him perceive him. Joyce calls him "sensitive," Lonnie tries to push him into traditional masculinity, and Mike has always protected him with a kind of fierce loyalty that borders on something deeper. That "different" isn't just about his trauma or his powers—it’s about his identity. The show is gradually unfolding a queer coming-of-age story through Will, and his feelings for Mike are central to that arc.

There’s also the way Mike behaves around Will that’s subtly but significantly different from how he is with anyone else. In Season 2, when Will is being tormented by visions, Mike is constantly by his side, almost obsessively so. There’s a moment when Joyce says “he’s not going to get better if you’re hovering over him like this,” and Mike responds almost angrily. That level of concern and protectiveness is more than just friendship. It feels personal. When Bob takes a supportive role in Will’s life, Mike becomes jealous and withdrawn. It’s not framed comedically. It reads like someone being edged out of a space that means more to him than he’s ready to admit.

Then there's the infamous Season 3 line: “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls.” This line alone changed everything for a lot of viewers. The line isn’t dismissed, and Mike doesn’t deny it. He just freezes. The moment is so raw and real—it doesn’t feel like a scripted jab in a teenage argument. It feels like the kind of accidental truth that slips out when emotions are high. And the fact that the show never revisits that moment directly makes it feel all the more intentional. The silence that follows is heavy with meaning.

When we look at Mike’s relationship with El in contrast, it begins to feel performative, especially in Season 4. He struggles to say "I love you" until he’s almost forced to, and even then, the delivery is hesitant. His interactions with her often feel emotionally distant, as though he's trying to convince himself that this is what love is supposed to feel like. Compare that to the way he looks at Will, especially in the van scene. The tension in that moment isn’t just about Will crying. It’s about Mike watching him fall apart and being unable—or unwilling—to truly acknowledge the reason why.

All of this comes together to form a slow-burn narrative that’s rooted in repression, longing, and emotional depth. The Duffer Brothers don’t write in a way that hands everything to the audience on a platter. They’ve said they want Season 5 to resolve the emotional arcs that have been building since the beginning. And among those, few are as rich or as quietly devastating as Mike and Will’s.

It’s not about whether they kiss on-screen or even say “I love you.” It’s about what’s been brewing beneath the surface. The way Will looks at Mike. The way Mike looks back, like he’s seeing something he can’t quite name. The way the story has always kept them circling each other, unable to connect fully, because the world isn’t ready—or maybe because they’re not ready. But when the story ends, it feels inevitable that they’ll have to confront the truth. Because if Stranger Things is about anything, it’s about confronting what’s been hiding in the dark.

And Mike and Will? They’ve been hiding in plain sight all along.

[shangrila11]

Silver lining // Brant (Wuwa) x Reader

(Congrats to those for who pulled for this gorgeous man! For those who haven't, may all Brant wanters be Brant havers! :D)

(CW: Mention of alcohol towards the end)

Splash!

The cold ocean water enveloped you as you sunk. You frantically swam up to the surface. With your head bobbing above water, you looked around for anything to cling onto. Fortunately, there was a driftwood floating not too far away from you. You swam towards it and struggled to hold onto it for dear life against the turbulent waters. You shivered, feeling your eyelids drooping but you tried to stay awake.

Just then, you spotted a ship. In a hoarse voice, you called for help but you weren't sure if the people on board could hear you over the howl of the wind. Your eyes slowly shut, exhaustion finally getting the best of you, and everything went dark...

xxx xxx

" -- alright?"

"I can feel a pulse so hopefully they are. Hey, can you hear me?"

You slowly opened your eyes. Two figures looked at you in concern. One was a male with short teal hair, purple eyes and a feathered hat and the other was a female with long, two-toned hair tied in bunches and heterochromia. The two of them heaved a sigh of relief seeing you had regained consciousness.

"You're awake! How are you feeling?" the male asked, smiling.

"W--what happened?" you mumbled, disorientated. You combed through your memories, trying to remember what had happened before you lost consciousness. When you finally remembered, you asked if they were the ones who rescued you.

"That's right. Lady Luck smiled upon you. You were suffering from hypothermia. If we came any later -- "

It was then that you realised that you were covered in layers of blankets and was wearing a new change of clothes. They must had done that to alleviate your hypothermia. A warm feeling coursed through you at the thought. The male shook his head, his smile fading for a brief moment before returning. "Anyway, we've made some soup for you. I'll go get it. While I'm at it, is there anything else you need?" You shook your head.

"No, I'm good. Thank you --?"

"Ah, yes. Where are my manners?" the male took off his hat and bowed. "I'm Brant, captain of the Troupe of Fools. And she's Roccia, my First Mate." Roccia shyly nodded her head in greeting which you reciprocated.

"Thank you, captain," you smiled weakly. You introduced yourself to him and Roccia.

"A pleasure to meet you, (Y/N)," Brant grinned. "I'll go now. Rest well. If you need anything, Roccia will be here." You watched as he exited the room, leaving just you and Roccia. An awkward silence filled the air. You hesitantly asked about the well-being of the people who had boarded the same ship as you. Roccia informed you that they had rescued a few people who might be them, much to your relief. You were, of course, devastated that some could not be found but at least there were survivors. The two of you moved on to other topics and you even got to meet the adorable Pero.

Brant eventually came back with the soup. You gratefully took the bowl and had some of the soup. You nodded your head in approval.

"It's delicious," you remarked, having some more of it.

"Glad you like it," Brant smiled. His face turned serious. "I assume you and your crewmates were sent on a pilgrimage by the Order?" You nodded silently, hanging your head.

"I figure as much. Only those going on the Pilgrim's Sail would pass through there," the captain sighed. The corners of his lips curled into a grin. "Since you're already dubbed a Fool by the Order, why don't you join our Troupe?" You pondered for a moment. It wasn't like you had anywhere else to go anyway since you were essentially an exile. Besides, Brant seemed genuine. You nodded your head. The male's grin widened.

"Welcome aboard, (Y/N). I look forward to seeing your performance, both on stage and off stage."

xxx xxx

"What do you think, captain?"

"Impressive. You have a talent for script writing," Brant grinned, giving you a friendly pat on the back. "With that said, it could use a little tweaking to make the dialogue flow more naturally."

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind as I edit the script," you smiled bashfully, your heart fluttering.

"Splendid," the captain nodded, a twinkle in his eyes. "By the way, how is life with us so far?"

"It's been great so far. There's always something interesting going on and the people here are very welcoming. It helps that a few of my crewmates are here as well."

"Good, good," Brant smiled, his expression softening. "That reminds me -- " He snapped his fingers. In a burst of purple flames, a mask materialised. He handed it to you.

"For you, my friend. Roccia and I came up with the design and we think this best suits you. Now you're officially part of the troupe!" he grins. You took the mask from him, thanking him and remarking how gorgeous it looked. You attached it to your belt.

"My pleasure," the male bowed. "Come on. Let's go have lunch. All this work as captain has worked me up an appetite!" Taking your hand, the two of you headed to the dining area.

xxx xxx

"I'm sorry, you want me to what?"

"You heard me! I want you to play the lead role in our upcoming play," Brant beamed.

"B--but I've never done this before. What if I mess up?"

"That, my dear (Y/N), is what rehearsals are for!" the captain assured you. He looked at you sincerely. "I can't think of anyone more suitable for the role than you. Besides, don't you wanna act out the script you worked so hard on?"

"Well..." you considered for a moment before nodding. "Alright. I'll give it a go."

"That's the spirit!" Brant ruffled your hair. "Don't worry, I'll be here with you every step of the way." He winked. You smiled a little, anticipation bubbling inside you despite still having a little reservations.

"Aye, captain."

xxx xxx

You peaked out from the backstage. The audience was abuzz with excitement, chattering away. Your heart thudded wildly against your chest and your hands felt clammy with sweat.

"Is nerves getting to you, dear (Y/N)?"

You whipped your head around to see the captain, his usual easygoing grin on his face. You nodded.

"There are a lot of people out there. The last thing I want is to disappoint them and the troupe. What if they don't like my performance? What if I say the wrong lines? What if I --?"

Before you could continue, a familiar-looking hat was placed on top of your head. Surprised, your attention found its way back to the now hatless Brant. He gave you a gentle smile.

"Look. You've been doing wonderfully during rehearsals. Also, do you remember what we stand for?"

"Freedom and bringing laughter through tales."

"Mmmhmm. And to get the audience to enjoy themselves, we ourselves have to enjoy performing. So relax and have fun. You got this!" he winked. You smiled a little, feeling the tension in you loosening.

"You're right. I can do this. Thank you, Brant," you said softly. Brant took his hat from you and grinned.

"Then let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

xxx xxx

"To yet a successful show!"

The clinking of glasses resounded through the dining hall as everyone made a toast. Everyone was in high spirits, you could pratically feel it in the air. A broad smile crossed Brant's face. He lifted his glass once again.

"All of you did great tonight, from the actors to the backstage crew. It's because of everyone's efforts that the show was a success. Let's keep this up and may our future performances be just as spectacular or even more than this one! Cheers!"

Everyone raised their glasses, cheering. After taking a sip of his drink, the teal-haired male walked towards you.

"Amazing job earlier. Told ya you can do it!" he grinned, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

"Thank you. You did great as well," you beamed. It had still rather been nerve-wrecking at first but heeding Brant's advice helped. There were, of course, still areas of improvement such as your line delivery needing to be more smooth and expressive. With that said, you hadn't done too bad for your first performance if you did say so yourself. Overall, you were just delighted and relieved that your hard work had bore fruit.

"Glad that you like my performance!" Brant laughed heartily. His expression turned sincere. "Seriously though. I applaud you for being able to get over your nerves rather quickly."

"Haha. You flatter me," you laughed sheepishly, your cheeks flushing.

"But I mean it and it isn't the alcohol talking," the captain chuckled. The two of you then happily talked about other things, taking sips of your drinks in between.

"Nothing beats a good drink and good company on this fine, celebratory night," Brant remarked, swirling his drink. You nodded, sipping your drink.

"Yeah. I look forward to more of this," you beamed. Brant returned your smile.

"Same here," he agreed. Hearing Tina calling his name, he excused himself and told you to enjoy the rest of the celebrations. You assured him that you would. You smiled, watching him leave. Despite having the misfortune of becoming an exile, a couple of good things came out if it: meeting the captain and finding a group of people whom you could call family.

[hyuuukais]

⋆.˚𖦹°‧✮‧°𖦹˚.⋆ ERROR 404

pairing ~ yang jeongin x fem reader

synopsis ~ y/n starts getting messages from an unknown number after buying a used phone for cheap. as she finds out more about the boy she's talking to, it turns out there's much more to this than a wrong number --- he died, and she's talking to his spirit, yet he has no idea what happened to him. will y/n have what it takes to solve the mystery of his death? or will the boy's spirit remained trapped in his phone?

warnings ~ gen, erm dead body, blood, fighting, innie death reveal 🤯

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

Ch 9 ~ BLACKMAIL (1.9k)

Hyunjin is frozen in front of you, the memory ending there. With your eyes glued to Hyunjin, you don't notice Jeongin approaching you from the side, hand outstretched and hovering over your arm. Thinking better of it, he drops his hand and clears his throat instead. Through unshed tears you look over to him, an expression on his face that you can't quite read.

"There's more," Jeongin says softly, the air around you fragile. "Any second now..."

A pounding on the door catches your attention, your head snapping toward the sound. Your eyes find Past-Jeongin walking in the front door, calling out for his friend. When he sees Hyunjin on the floor still covered in blood, his eyes widen, and when he sees the body in the kitchen, he freezes by the armchair. The air stills, Jeongin glancing back and forth between the two, throat bobbing and hand now clutching onto the chair.

Slowly, he joins Hyunjin on the floor. Soft sobs escape Hyunjin's lips as his head is pulled onto Jeongin's lap, arms wrapping around the boys torso. For a long time, they sit like this. It's hard to read the expression on Present-Jeongin’s face, but the one of the past looks calculating, like he’s weighing something in his mind.

"I'll be right back," Jeongin whispers, helping Hyunjin into the armchair.

Handing his friend the box of tissues off the coffee table, he instructs the boy to try cleaning himself up as much as he can. After Hyunjin accepts the box, Jeongin heads up the stairs to the right, eyes looking at anything but the body on the kitchen floor. You follow him up.

As soon as the bathroom door closes behind him, he's clutching onto the sink and trying hard not to get sick. Jeongin takes a deep breath, body trembling and no longer able to stand. You join him on the floor as he slides down, back against the cupboards. There isn't a lot of time before Hyunjin will come looking for him.

"God, Hyunjin," Jeongin whispers, face crumpling. "What are we supposed to do?"

It takes him a few more minutes to stand again, his face still pale and hands still shaking, but he flushes the toilet and leaves the room. You follow Jeongin into Hyunjin's room, looking around to see all the little bits of your brother you never got to see- and probably never will.

The walls are decorated in art prints, both original and bought mixed together. An easel sits by the window collecting dust, and you spot another copy of the script he had in his bag peeking out from underneath his bed. Papers litter the desk, but you don't have time to take a closer look as Jeongin is quick in the room, only coming in to grab some new clothes.

Following Jeongin back down the stairs, you almost collide with him, not that you really can, as he stops suddenly before descending. His hand pauses above his jeans pocket, as if trying to make a silent decision. With a nervous swallow, Jeongin slips his phone out and opens some kind of recording app. He hits the button and shoves the phone into his hoodie this time, the loose fabric allowing for the microphone to pick up more. You can’t help but wonder why.

"What took so long?" Hyunjin's voice shakes as he accepts the clothes from Jeongin with clean hands, freshly washed. The blood on his neck and arms is gone too.

"Couldn't decide on a good outfit," Jeongin tries teasing lightly, but it's strained. "Get changed, okay? Then we can figure something out."

Hyunjin nods and gets to it. You turn around as he tosses his shirt off, clearly comfortable in the presence of Jeongin. Unfortunately, this has you facing the gruesome scene in the kitchen. Tiles are stained with red around the body, a large pool of blood now formed. How do humans have so much blood? Before your mind becomes stuck in these thoughts beginning to swirl, something blocks your view.

"You shouldn't have to see that," Present-Jeongin whispers, shaking his head.

Everything in you wants to leave this place with him, say screw it, who cares what happens? But another, bigger part of you needs closure, and he needs it too. You need to get to the bottom of this. A sick feeling pools in your stomach, unrelated to the dead body barely hidden from sight- something about this situation feels wrong. Your eyes don't leave Jeongin until the conversation behind you starts back up.

"I-I was thinking, while you were upstairs-" Hyunjin's breathing is coming in short, panicked gulps. "We have to move him. Maybe- maybe the lake?"

"Lake Haven?" Jeongins eyebrows furrow; Hyunjin nods quickly. "Just... dump him there? Won't that be suspicious?"

"No." A bitter laugh escapes Hyunjin's throat. "He's been drinking. They'll just think he finally had a bit too much."

Jeongin's lips part to say something, but close again after a moment of silence. Silently, you watch as the two of them head into the kitchen, Jeongin walking over to the small closet while Hyunjin crouches next to his fathers- no, your fathers body. A small noise slips from Hyunjins lips and he covers his mouth, new tears forming in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, pressing his palms into his eyes as he stands back up. "I'm sorry."

A hand rubs up and down his back gently as Jeongin joins him. It's hard to watch as they attempt to pack the body in trash bags. When they leave the house, you can sense the memory is over. There's no more blood on the floor, no more hints of the life once lived here... only you and present-day Jeongin.

"What now? We go back to the lake?" You ask, breaking the silence.

Jeongin shakes his head. "No. We need... we need to go to the bridge."

You don't question his sudden sureness, only nod and let him guide you out of the house. Taking one last look over your shoulder at the empty house, you swear you see someone in the upstairs bedroom window. If it’s anyone, it won’t matter soon. You’re almost to the bottom of this mystery.

Night sets in as you drive to the bridge, Jeongin by your side the whole time. How he’s still got enough energy to be here right now is beyond you, especially with the emotional toll this evening’s events have taken on you. You can’t even begin to imagine what he might be feeling and thinking, discovering something as big as this happened just before his own death. The bridge is quiet as you pull over, hearing the sounds of the highway underneath as you exit your car.

“Here we are,” you exhale, leaning against the railing and waiting for something to happen.

“Here we are.” Jeongin repeats, settling in next to you. He looks over to you, a sad smile on his face. “Thank you. For everything. You didn’t have to do this or go this far, but you did. I’m… I’m gonna miss you.”

“Oh, Jeongin.” You turn your body to face him better, unable to find it in yourself to tease him in what could be your final moments together. “I’m going to miss you too. I wish we could have more time together.”

“Kinda sucks, this whole dead thing,” Jeongin lets out a breathy laugh. “Especially after meeting someone as lovely as you.”

There are tears forming in your eyes, and for a moment, you think the figures coming toward you are a trick of the light before shouting follows. Wiping your eyes, the two of you are alert now, watching one of the bodies come into view.

“Admit it!” Hyunjin stalks behind Jeongin, now looking extremely similar to how you first met him, the same clothes on his body and the same shaggy haircut. “You knew it was down to us. You- you were going to use that against me-”

“Why would I do that?” Jeongin whirls on Hyunjin, hands in the air. “Is that what you think of me? A- a liar? A cheater?”

“No, that’s why I’m so hurt,” Hyunjin says, his voice low. “There’s no other reason you would have something like that saved after so long.”

“It’s been what, a few months?” Jeongin shakes his head. “That isn’t long-”

“And that isn’t my point!” Hyunjin snaps, throwing something to the ground.

Jeongin’s phone lands by your feet, and you’re a little surprised it didn’t even crack with how hard Hyunjin threw it. Now you can see what Hyunjin was looking at, the saved recording staring up at you. Oh. This does not look good for Jeongin at all.

“I figured out your plan.” Hyunjin takes slow steps toward Jeongin, venom in his voice. “After everything, you wanted to steal this from me too. Hwang Hyunjin, always second to his best and only friend.”

“What-” Jeongin starts, but is cut off by a loud, frustrated noise from Hyunjin.

“Don’t interrupt me!” There are hysterical tears now streaming down Hyunjin’s cheeks. “Don’t! I worked so hard for this role, and you were going to show them that recording and take it all away from me, right?”

“No.” Jeongin gives Hyunjin a panicked look, his friend now practically pinning him against the railing. “Hyunjin, I would never do that to you. I can back out if that’s what you want.”

Hyunjin groans loudly, clearly frustrated. “I want you to admit that you think I’m pathetic, that I’m a monster after what I did. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me now.”

“How I- what?” Jeongin steps back, the railing hitting his back. He glances over, realizing the dangerous set up, and speaks frantically. “Hyune, I only listened to it again because I couldn’t remember what it was, and I only recorded it in the first place just in case! In case of- of- I don’t know!”

Hyunjin laughs dryly, followed by a choked sob. “In case you needed to testify or something? Turn me in?”

“No! No, not at all.” Jeongin places a hand on Hyunjins chest, fingers trembling ever so slightly. “I was going to delete it, I swear.

“Problem is, I don’t believe you.” A sob leaves Hyunjin’s lips, his head now resting on Jeongin’s shoulder. “I can’t let you have this role, Innie. It’s my only way out of here. I can’t.”

Jeongin wraps his arms around his friend, trying to comfort the best he can. You watch from the side, seeing Hyunjins expression change from one of sorrow to a scarily blank face. He pulls away from Jeongin, hands gripping the boy's upper arms tightly. For a second, everything looks okay. Only for a second.

Hyunjins grip tightens. “I’m sorry.”

A scream is trapped in your throat as the rest of the memory plays out, seeing Jeongin struggle against Hyunjin in his final moments. You find yourself clinging to ghost-Jeongin’s arm, your other hand covering your mouth as Hyunjin shoves his best friend over the edge, almost falling down himself. Although the memory isn’t quite over, you can’t stop yourself from running to look over the railing as a car horn goes off, the sound of the crash beneath the bridge fading as you get closer.

There’s nothing. Nothing but a voice behind you.

“You shouldn’t have come here.” You recognize the cold tone of Hyunjin’s voice without having to turn around and see him. “I tried to warn you.”

Before you can do anything else, something hits your head-hard-and you go sprawling on the pavement. Your phone skitters away from you, but you manage to crawl to it and type out a final message as black dots swim in your vision. Someone is humming in your ear as the world turns to darkness.

notes ~ almost done! second last chapter- how are we feeling?

taglist ~ @chaeryred @toplinelix @channie-143 @bloomingstay @sona1800 @dollschan @defnotfertilizedtoesw @thisisnotjacinta @kayleigh-28 @kayleefriedchicken @lailac13 @linocvp1d @ilov3jeong1n @mooseung @kkamismom12 @sillyhal @rensahazard @estella-novella @emi-han

[bcacstuff]

Summary Day 1 at Land Con Paris (part 3)

via [Live] blog rostercon.com

note: Disclaimer: This live is automatically translated from the French version by Deepl. Translation errors may be present in the content. Une version française du live est disponible ici.

New trios at Land Con 7

David Berry & Caitriona Balfe pose for their duo photos

Tim Downie's team wins Trivial Pursuit

At Land Con 7, it's time to learn more about Highland costumes

Tobias returns to the stage at Land Con 7

Tobias says it was easier than you might think to go from Frank Randall to Black Jack Randall. Firstly, because he wasn’t playing both characters on the same day, and secondly, because the characters’ stories were so different that it was easy to switch from one to the other.

Tobias had indicated this morning that he’d like to do more comedy, but he knows that he’s a bit of a period drama actor. He also points out that he regularly films in these types of projects, as their stories and scripts are generally very interesting.

If he could change lives for a week with another celebrity, who would he choose? He says it’s a complicated question and asks what the fan who asked the question would choose. She answers Taylor Swift for the pop star aspect. For his part, Tobias thinks it would be stressful to live Taylor Swift’s life for a week, so he opts for Bob Dylan, who has had an interesting life.

Time for the traditional cosplay contest at The Land Con 7

A trio takes to the stage to answer questions from Outlander fans: Richard, Diarmaid & Chris

Which other character would they have liked to have more scenes with? Richard humorously replies that he would have liked more scenes with himself. He then adds that he would have liked to spend more time / have more scenes with Chris Fulton. A sentiment shared by Chris too.

Diarmaid would have liked Jerry MacKenzie’s story to have been more fully developed in the series. He would have liked more information on this character and on the relationship between Jerry and Roger.

Chris and Diarmaid report that the Outlander cast and crew were really welcoming, like a family who welcomed them with open arms. They were attending their first convention this weekend and feel lucky to be able to meet Outlander fans.

To round off the day, the cast meet Outlander fans for autographs

[slutty-transformation-stories]

The Black Book

Francesca had always been a creature of routine, her life meticulously organized and predictable. Her fiery red hair, usually tied back in a neat ponytail, bobbed as she jogged through the park. Her eyes, a piercing blue, darted from tree to tree, taking in every detail of her surroundings, yet seemingly lost in thought. Her body, a delightful combination of petite and curvy, moved with an athletic grace that belied her passion for books.

Aaron, her boyfriend of four years, watched her from a distance, his heart swelling with love and pride. He knew she was the one for him, and he had spent weeks searching for the perfect gift to show her just how much she meant to him. When he stumbled upon "The Black Book," he knew it was it. The title alone, a tale of betrayal, deception, and lust, whispered promises of excitement and intrigue, a stark contrast to their quiet life together.

The night of her birthday celebration, as the last guest departed, Aaron couldn't contain his excitement. He watched her face as she opened the gift, her eyes lighting up with curiosity as she read the back cover. The room grew quiet as she opened the book, and the air thick with anticipation. But as the pages fell open to reveal nothing but blankness, confusion clouded her features. She turned to him, a question in her eyes. He shrugged, feigned ignorance, and suggested it was a joke, hoping she wouldn't be too disappointed.

On her birthday, Aaron gifts Francesca a mysterious book titled "The Black Book." Despite being empty, the book promises a tale of passion and deception. Aaron watches her reaction with excitement, hoping it'll bring change to their predictable life.

As they lay in bed, the emptiness of the book weighing on her mind, she felt a strange tingling sensation. The room grew colder, the air heavy with an unseen presence. She looked over at Aaron, his chest rising and falling steadily in sleep, and felt an inexplicable resentment towards him. Why hadn't he given her something more substantial? Something that could satisfy the desires that had been simmering beneath her surface for so long.

The next morning, as Aaron kissed her goodbye and left for work, she felt a thrill of something dark and delicious. The book was still there, on her nightstand, calling to her with a silent siren's song. She picked it up, and for the first time, the pages weren't blank. They were filled with lush, flowing script, detailing scenes of passion and deceit that made her heart race. She read on, unable to tear her eyes away from the words that seemed to dance before her.

The story followed a woman named Isabella, who looked eerily similar to her, as she embarked on a tumultuous journey of self-discovery and sexual awakening. Each page turned brought a new chapter in Isabella's life, and with it, a deepening sense of discontent in her own. The more she read, the more she found herself identifying with the character, her thoughts becoming entwined with Isabella's, her desires mirroring those written in ink.

The book starts to reveal its story the next morning, detailing Isabella's sexual awakening and deceit. Francesca feels a growing resentment towards Aaron and becomes increasingly engrossed in the tale, her own desires aligning with the protagonist's.

Francesca felt an unsettling warmth spread through her body as she read, a heat that started between her thighs and radiated outwards, making her skin tingle. She found herself craving the touch of a man, someone who could give her what Aaron never could. Her mind was a whirlwind of malicious thoughts, a tumultuous storm of resentment and desire. Aaron, with his short, unassuming stature and his penchant for video games, was the epitome of mediocrity to her now. He didn't deserve a woman like her, not when there were real strong men in the world.

With a deep breath, she tore herself away from the book and glanced at the clock. Time was slipping away, and she had work to attend to. She reluctantly tucked the book under her pillow, feeling its seductive pull even as she turned her back on it. The shower was cold, a stark contrast to the heat of the story that still lingered in her mind. She dressed quickly, her thoughts racing with the images of Devon, her muscular, dark-skinned colleague who had always made her feel so small and vulnerable.

Her heart pounded as she stepped into the office, her eyes immediately seeking him out. He looked up from his desk, a knowing smile playing on his full lips, and she felt the blood rush to her cheeks. The book had whispered his name in her ear, painting him in a new, tantalizing light. His eyes, usually so professional and detached, seemed to see right through her, to the core of her newfound lust.

Reading the book, Francesca's thoughts darken, and she despises Aaron's mediocrity. She obsesses over Devon, her colleague, seeing him as a symbol of the strength and passion she craves. The book fuels her malice towards Aaron and her desire for Devon.

As the hours dragged on, she found it impossible to focus on her work. Every keystroke, every phone call, was a torment as she imagined Devon's hands on her body, his mouth on hers. The book had unlocked something within her, a hunger that could no longer be ignored. She caught his gaze more than once, the heat of his stare setting her skin alight.

The tension between them grew with every passing minute, a silent dance of desire that seemed to suck the air from the room. She knew she couldn't last much longer, not with the book's whispers urging her to give in to her darkest fantasies.

Finally, she could take it no more. With a tremble in her voice, she leaned over the desk, her breasts brushing against the wood as she spoke. "I need to talk to you, Devon." The words were out before she could stop them, a declaration that sent a thrill through her body.

He raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Is everything okay, Francesca?"

Her pulse quickened as she nodded, standing up from her chair. "It's about lunch," she managed, her voice a mere whisper. "Do you... do you want to grab a coffee?"

Devon's smile grew, the knowing glint in his eyes sharpening. He leaned back in his chair, his muscular arms folded over his broad chest. "Sure," he drawled, his deep voice resonating through her like a bass note. "I'd love to."

Overwhelmed by the book's influence, Francesca can't focus on work, craving Devon's touch. The tension between them escalates, leading her to invite him for a coffee break, her voice quivering with desire.

The walk to the café was a blur of stolen glances and racing thoughts. Every step brought her closer to the precipice, the line between reality and the dark fantasies that had consumed her thoughts. The sun was high in the sky, casting a harsh light that did nothing to diminish the shadows that had begun to stretch across her soul.

The café was crowded, the air thick with the scent of coffee and the murmur of hushed conversations. They found a table in the corner, the shadows playing across their faces as they sat down. The book's whispers had grown louder, the words echoing in her mind with a seductive allure. She could feel the weight of Devon's gaze on her, the heat of his desire palpable even through the fabric of her shirt.

As they talked, her thoughts drifted back to the pages of "The Black Book." The protagonist's journey of betrayal and passion had become her own, the lines between reality and fantasy blurring until she wasn't sure which was which. The story had twisted her mind, filling her with malicious thoughts about Aaron and a burning need to feel something more, something darker.

"So, you and Aaron, how's that going?" Devon asked casually, sipping his coffee.

Her heart skipped a beat at the mention of her boyfriend's name. The book had painted a picture of Aaron that was less than flattering, one of a man too timid to truly satisfy her. "It's... complicated," she replied, her voice tight with restrained desire.

In the café, the book's whispers intensify as the reality of her relationship with Aaron pales against the dark passion in her mind. She feels torn between her love for Aaron and the burning desire for Devon that the book has instilled in her.

"Complicated, huh?" Devon's smile grew more predatory. "Well, if you ever need someone to make things less complicated, you know where to find me."

Francesca's cheeks flushed at his suggestive tone. She took a sip of her own coffee, the heat of the liquid doing little to quench the fire that the book had stoked within her. She felt a strange sense of empowerment, a feeling that she had never experienced before. It was as if the pages had imbued her with a newfound confidence, a hunger to claim what she truly desired.

"You know, Devon," she began, her voice low and seductive, "I think you're right. Aaron... he's just not enough for me."

The words hung in the air like a declaration of war, and she watched as his eyes lit up with victory. The book had led her here, whispering sweet nothings of rebellion and desire, and now she was going to act on it. She didn't feel guilty, not anymore. The malice that had been festering in her heart had blossomed into something beautiful, something she didn't want to fight.

He took her hand, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her, and led her through the crowd. The bathroom was a tiny, cramped space, the light flickering overhead as if in anticipation of the illicit act they were about to commit. She felt like a moth to a flame, drawn to his darkness, unable to resist. The door swung shut behind them, the final barrier between them and their secret.

Empowered by the book, Francesca confesses her dissatisfaction with Aaron to Devon, who responds with a knowing smile. She feels no guilt as they slip away to a bathroom, ready to act on their desires.

On her birthday, Aaron gives Francesca an enigmatic book titled "The Black Book," which fills with text as she sleeps. The book's content, detailing a protagonist's dark sexual journey, begins to influence her, filling her with malice towards Aaron and desire for her colleague Devon. Despite feeling guilty, she acts on her urges, inviting Devon for a coffee break and confessing her dissatisfaction with Aaron.

He pinned her against the wall, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss so fierce it stole her breath away. His hands roamed her body, exploring every inch of her with a possessiveness that made her feel like a treasure to be claimed. He was everything Aaron wasn't—strong, confident, and with a cock that made her knees quiver with excitement.

With a growl, Devon lifted her onto the sink, her legs wrapping around his waist as he plunged into her with a force that made the porcelain tremble. She had never felt so filled, so alive. Each stroke sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, washing away the memory of Aaron's mediocre love making. Her nails dug into his shoulders, leaving red trails on his dark skin as she met him thrust for thrust, their bodies moving together in a dance of passion that was as natural as breathing.

The book had promised her an awakening, and it had delivered. With every grind of Devon's hips, every deep penetration, she felt her soul unfurl like a blossom in the sun. It was a feeling that went beyond physical satisfaction; it was a rebirth of desire, a revelation that she had been living a lie. Aaron's gentle caresses and sweet nothings were nothing compared to this primal claiming.

Overwhelmed by desire, Devon takes control, fulfilling the dark promises the book whispered. Their intense encounter in the bathroom marks a pivotal moment for Francesca, revealing the lie she's been living with Aaron.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, the pleasure so intense it was almost painful. His cock was a beast that filled her in a way she had never thought possible, stretching her to her limits and then some. She could feel the thickness of him, the heat, the power, with every inch that he claimed. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, and she knew that she would never be able to go back to Aaron's small, unassuming member that had always left her feeling...less than satisfied.

The world outside the bathroom stall had ceased to exist. All that mattered was the frantic rhythm of their bodies, the wet slap of flesh on flesh, and the desperate gasps that filled the air. Her pussy was a vice around his dick, clenching and releasing in a symphony of passion. She felt the muscles in her core tightening, the beginnings of an orgasm that was already promising to shatter her world.

"Fuck me harder," she begged, her voice hoarse with need.

His response was a grunt, his thrusts growing more powerful as he claimed her with every inch of his being. The sound of their union echoed through the bathroom, a testament to the passion that had been unleashed by the dark whispers of The Book. She could feel the walls closing in around them, the very air thick with the scent of their desire.

Lost in the throes of passion, Francesca revels in the difference Devon's size brings, admitting she can never return to Aaron's mediocrity. Their encounter becomes a symphony of desire, echoing through the bathroom and cementing her betrayal.

As she had her orgasm, a crescendo of sensation that washed over her like a tidal wave. She bit down on her lip to stifle her screams, not wanting to be discovered in this moment of raw betrayal. Her nails dug deeper into his back, leaving half-moon imprints in his skin as she bucked against him, her body writhing in ecstasy. It was a feeling she had never experienced with Aaron, and she reveled in the power of it.

With a final, earth-shattering groan, Devon emptied himself into her, his cock pulsing with the force of his release. They remained entwined, panting and sweaty, for what felt like an eternity. The cold porcelain of the sink was a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies, but it was the only thing grounding her in reality.

As they both regained their composure, a sly smile spread across Devon's face. "You know, I've wanted to do that for a long time," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. "Aaron doesn't know what he's missing."

Francesca couldn't help but laugh, a dark, throaty sound that was so unlike her usual giggle. "You're right," she murmured, stroking his cheek with her fingertips. "He doesn't know how to fuck a woman like you do."

Their secret affair culminates in a powerful orgasm, confirming the vast difference between Devon and Aaron. Devon's comment reinforces her belief that Aaron doesn't satisfy her, and she whispers her agreement, savoring her newfound sexual freedom.

They cleaned up, the silence between them filled with the unspoken understanding that they had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. As they left the bathroom, the tension was palpable, the air thick with the scent of their lust. They walked back to the office, the smell of sex clinging to them like a second skin, a secret that thrilled her to her very core.

For the rest of the day, work was a blur. All she could think about was the feel of Devon's cock inside her, the way he had made her body sing with pleasure. She felt a strange sense of superiority, knowing that she had something that Aaron could never give her. The book had shown her the way to true satisfaction, and she was eager to explore it further.

That evening, she waited for Aaron to come home, the book open on her lap. As soon as he walked in the door, she could see the excitement in his eyes, expecting a warm welcome. Instead, she greeted him with a cool smile and a casual "Happy to be home?" Her voice dripped with the same sarcasm that had become her new second language thanks to the book.

The illicit bathroom encounter leaves them with an unspoken understanding of their new reality. Throughout the workday, their secret fills the air, and she feels empowered by the knowledge that Aaron can't give her what Devon does. When Aaron returns, she greets him with sarcasm, hinting at her newfound sense of superiority.

He looked at her, puzzled, and she felt a twinge of satisfaction knowing she was hiding the truth so well. She told him about her day at work, leaving out the juicy details of her rendezvous with Devon. Aaron listened, nodded, and even laughed at her stories, completely oblivious to the tumultuous thoughts and emotions churning inside her. She served dinner, her movements calculated, her eyes lingering on his crotch with a mix of contempt and amusement. How could she have ever settled for this?

They sat on the couch together, the TV flickering with images that neither of them truly saw. She was lost in the memories of Devon's touch, his smell, his taste. Aaron was lost in his own world, scrolling through his phone, occasionally glancing at her with a smile that made her stomach turn. She could feel the book's presence, heavy and potent, on the coffee table. It was as if it was watching her, egging her on, whispering sweet nothings of betrayal and lust.

When it was time for bed, she didn't bother with the usual ritual of kissing him goodnight. Instead, she climbed into bed and turned her back to him, the book nestled in her arms like a lover. She could feel the heat of it, a silent promise of the dark delights that awaited her when she closed her eyes. Aaron, oblivious to the change in her demeanor, climbed into bed behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, his hand resting just above her ass. She tensed, her body recoiling from his touch, but she didn't push him away.

At home, Francesca maintains the façade of their relationship while thinking about Devon. Despite Aaron's affectionate gestures, she feels only disdain and is consumed by thoughts of her new lover. The book remains a constant presence, a silent accomplice in her betrayal.

In the bathroom, Devon fulfills the dark promises of "The Black Book," providing Francesca with an intense sexual experience she's never had with Aaron. Their passionate encounter solidifies her betrayal, leaving her feeling empowered. Back at home, she maintains a façade with Aaron, her mind filled with thoughts of Devon, feeling disdain for Aaron's inadequacy.

The next morning, Aaron was up early for work, and she was already dressed and ready to leave when he kissed her cheek. "Love you," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. She forced a smile, whispering the words back, her heart feeling like it was made of stone. As the door clicked shut behind him, she felt a weight lift off her shoulders, the book seeming to pulse with excitement. She grabbed her phone, sending a quick text to Devon. "Missed you last night. Let's do lunch."

The days turned into a blur of secret meetings and stolen glances, their bodies finding refuge in each other whenever Aaron was out of the apartment. Each encounter with Devon was more intense than the last, his cock filling her in ways Aaron never could, leaving her craving more. She began to despise Aaron's very existence, his small frame and his pitiful attempts at manhood. The book had shown her what a real man looked like, and it wasn't the man she was living with.

Her hatred for Aaron grew with every passing second, festering in the pit of her stomach like a disease. She would lie in bed beside him at night, the book open to a random page, its dark whispers feeding her malice. The words danced in her mind, painting a picture of a world where she was free to indulge in every carnally depraved whim she could imagine. And Aaron, the man who was supposed to be her rock, was nothing but a pathetic excuse for a partner.

The affair with Devon continues, with each encounter increasing in intensity. As Aaron remains clueless, the book fuels her contempt for him, and she finds herself craving the freedom to indulge in darker desires that Aaron could never satisfy.

When Aaron announced that he had to leave for a work trip, a thrill shot through her. Finally, a chance to explore the dark delights that Devon offered without the fear of getting caught. She kissed him goodbye with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, watching him leave with a sense of relief so profound it was almost tangible.

As soon as the door closed, she turned to the book, feeling its power surge through her veins. She knew what she had to do. The book had shown her the way to true pleasure, and she was eager to follow it, no matter the cost.

That night, when Devon arrived, she was already naked on the bed, the room dimly lit by candles she had arranged around the room. He took in the sight of her, his eyes hungry, his cock already swelling in his pants. She didn't bother with pleasantries, reaching for him, pulling him down to her. Their kisses were rough, desperate, as if they had been starved of each other's touch for an eternity.

He tore off his clothes, his muscular body moving with a fluid grace that made her heart race. She watched him, her eyes greedy as she took in the sight of his cock, thick and hard, the same one that had brought her so much pleasure in the office bathroom. He climbed onto the bed, his hands pushing her thighs apart, his mouth finding her clit.

Upon Aaron's departure for a week-long business trip, an excited and malicious Francesca prepares for a night of unbridled passion with Devon. The book has empowered her to seek true pleasure, and she is eager to explore her darker desires without fear of discovery.

Her moans grew louder as he worked her over with his tongue, her hips rising to meet him, her body already slick with need. The book lay open on the nightstand, its pages fluttering slightly in the breeze from the open window. The candlelight danced across the words, casting eerie shadows on the wall that seemed to writhe in time with their passion.

When he entered her, it was with a fierce growl, his body claiming hers in a way that Aaron never could. The pain was exquisite, a sharp contrast to the gentle love-making she had endured for so long. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him deeper, her nails digging into his back as she gave herself over to the feeling of being truly filled.

Their love-making was raw and unbridled, each thrust a declaration of war against the façade of her life with Aaron. Every touch, every kiss, every moan was a victory over the mediocrity she had suffered for too long. The book's influence grew stronger, whispering in her ear, guiding her every move, pushing her to explore her darkest desires.

Their rhythm grew more frantic, their bodies a tapestry of sweat and passion. She could feel the malice in her heart swell with each stroke, her thoughts of Aaron becoming more and more distant, replaced by the primal need to be claimed by Devon. The book's whispers grew louder, more insistent, until she was no longer a bystander but an active participant in the destruction of her old life.

Their climax was explosive, a culmination of weeks of pent-up desire and anger. As they lay panting on the bed, she felt a strange sense of peace wash over her. The book's power was undeniable, and she knew she could never go back to the life she had with Aaron. She was a new woman now, reborn in the fires of lust and betrayal.

The days stretched out before her, a canvas of opportunity for her to paint with the dark colors of her new reality. With every stroke of Devon's cock, she felt more alive than ever before. And as she looked into the mirror, the woman staring back at her was no longer the shy, obedient girlfriend she had been. No, this was a woman who knew her worth, who knew what she needed, and who wasn't afraid to take it.

Aaron's trip was supposed to last a week, but fate had other plans. Three days in, his business concluded early, and he found himself eager to return to the embrace of his beloved. He picked out a bouquet of lily's, her favorite, and a box of the chocolates she adored, feeling like the hero in a romantic film. He couldn't wait to see the look on her face when she opened the door to find him standing there, a surprise in the mundane.

His thoughts were a blur of happiness as he drove home, imagining her eyes lighting up and her sweet smile as she threw herself into his arms. The flowers and chocolates were the perfect tokens to express his love and show her how much he missed her. Little did he know that his return would be met with a scene that would shake the very foundations of their relationship.

As Aaron stepped into their apartment, the air was heavy with the scent of candles and something else, something primal and musky. His heart racing, he followed the sound of muffled moans to the bedroom. The door was ajar, and he peeked through the gap, unable to believe what he was seeing.

There she was, his sweet, innocent Francesca, her body writhing under the powerful form of Devon. Her red hair, usually kept neat in a ponytail, was a wild tapestry against the pillows, her eyes rolled back in pleasure. Aaron's grip on the bouquet tightened, the thorns of the lilies biting into his palm as he watched his girlfriend take Devon's thick, black cock with a hunger that made his stomach turn.

The sight was like a punch to the gut, the realization that she had been lying to him, using him, all while he was away. The book lay open beside them, its pages fluttering as if in approval of the scene playing out before it. The malice it had filled her with was palpable in the air, a thick, cloying scent that made Aaron's blood boil.

He stepped back, the bouquet of lily's crumpled in his hand. The sound of their passion was like nails on a chalkboard, each grunt and moan a testament to her deceit. The book's whispers grew louder in his mind, taunting him, telling him he never truly knew the woman he loved.

But amidst the anger and the betrayal, something strange began to stir within him. His cock grew hard, straining against the fabric of his pants as he watched her take Devon's cock like a whore. The sight of her, the woman he had held so dearly, now reduced to this, was perversely arousing. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He was truly pathetic.

The book on the floor caught his eye, its pages now open to the final chapter. The title, "The Awakening of the Cuckold," taunted him from the shadows. The words swirled before his eyes, and he could almost feel the malicious glee emanating from the pages. It was as if the book had known all along, had been waiting for this moment to reveal its true purpose.

The End

[yiangchen]

it's still so fascinating to me that bellarke was supposed to happen in 6x10/6x11, bob was informed of this, but then he received the script and it didn't happen. that's just so sketch. truly what was going on behind the scenes. it's just so WEIRD the more you think about it. also makes me wonder if that was the first time that had happened. i mean, we already know that there were changes to the 1x08 script to get rid of the line where bellamy asks clarke to run away with him, so i don't think it's that far outside the realm of possibility to think that there were other romantic lines/scenes that were cut throughout the series. i honestly think every season they probably toyed with the idea of them happening, wrote a first kiss or a confession or maybe an almost kiss, decided against it and thought hey actually let's push this to next season, drag it out a little longer.