#lines like you can kill me for keeping my alive so long

[tanobatcher]

hello 😊 I love your fics so freaking much!! could I make a wolffe request please? Do you know the scene in the bad batch where rex and wolffe meet up unexpectedly? I was thinking maybe something where the reader is with rex and wolffe thought she was dead but she’s alive and its angsty then fluffy and they get back together 🩷 or anything you want! Ilysm thank you!!

rainfall

wolffe x fem reader summary: you and wolffe unexpectedly cross paths as the empire continues to pull you two apart. warnings: none a/n: HEHE TYSM u are too kind <33 unfortunately i rmb that scene all too well sigh my baby looks so tired :(

Rex didn’t tell you much about his encounter with Wolffe—and the Empire—the night your only base burned down. Perhaps he was afraid you’d go looking for him, only to reach a dead end. Or worse. Whatever the reason for this withheld information may be, it doesn’t stop you from thinking about him every day. That much hasn’t changed since the war ended.

“Try not to fall behind,” the captain advises from up ahead.

His voice is quiet enough not to draw any attention, which is difficult these days. Even the briefest glance can escalate into a permanent warning that convinces everyone to simply pass through instead of causing trouble. But trouble seems to have found you in this new line of work. It’s not so bad with friends.

“I’m right behind you,” you reply, barely dodging a passerby about to shoulder you into someone else. Coruscant crowds are always a different kind of traffic. There’s an additional rush to this one as a drizzle dances along the pavement, easing the city into a louder storm that’s soon to come. You blink away the raindrop that slips from the hood of your poncho and catches across your eyelashes, letting it trace a superficial tear down your face. It’s cold against your skin, but a worse chill runs down your spine when you notice a few troopers in the distance through the sea of bodies trying to get by.

Falling into step with Rex, you ask, “Do you think he’s here?”

He lifts his head, staring in the same direction as you. “Let’s not wait around long enough to find out.”

You don’t believe the attempted indifference in his tone, looking at him from the side as a numb acceptance tugs at your hope to see Wolffe…and get through to him. “He needs our help just as much as the others.”

For a moment, all you can hear is the surrounding rainfall pattering against any nearby surface. You think he’s not going to respond until he says, “I know.” The words sound guilty to your understanding, so you believe they taste bitter in his mouth. They’re conclusive enough to silence you, drawing your attention back to the mission at hand. You eventually break off from him, keeping your orders at the front of your thoughts as an abrupt downpour consumes the streets. They’re nearly empty now, with only a few patrols here and there. You see it all from this desolate rooftop, reminding yourself that the vaguely familiar voices don’t belong to the ones you know. But the exchange of comms is as simple as any nostalgic remnant of your past.

Suddenly, a much closer static noise raises goosebumps across the back of your neck. Shifting away from the ledge, your hand strays near the blaster resting against your thigh. “Try not to kill anyone today,” Rex had requested earlier, “This is supposed to be fast and quiet.”

Luckily for him, you don’t get the chance to take the shot in the foggy darkness. A figure emerges through the rain, also pointing his blaster at you, but it isn’t this lethal threat that freezes you like carbonite. It’s the grainy voice under his helmet that demands to know what you’re doing up here. You know that voice. You also know the faded markings all over his armor. And when you step into the light with your hands in the air to indicate surrender, he realizes he knows you, too.

“Wolffe!” you quickly push your hood off your head, not caring when the rain immediately tries to make you regret this, “Stop. It’s me.”

You can barely see him as the frigid water streams down your face, but you just make out the moment he lowers his blaster. It doesn’t immediately return to his holster, though, simply remaining at his side in his slightly trembling hand.

“You…remember, right?” You ask with hesitation, “You remember me?”

His blaster clatters to the floor, creating a sound so uncontrolled and defeated that you’re surprised. Your eyes cast downward at the abandoned weapon before finding him again, wishing he’d show you his face. Only then will you allow yourself to believe this isn’t a dream.

“Say something,” your voice nearly breaks, “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

You taste salt against your lips as it mixes with the rain, and you know you’re crying. It’s the one thing you told yourself you wouldn’t do for him anymore—not after being told to forget about him—but you’re tired of pretending this isn’t killing you slowly. Excruciatingly. You stand in front him, helpless in the same way he thinks of himself. You would give up on yourself long before even considering doing the same to him, though. If there’s anything he should know about you, it’s that.

“I’ve been trying to find you. Ever since Rex—”

He tenses and cuts you off. “You’ve spoken to Rex?”

You drop your arms down to your sides, shivering as you reply, “Does that surprise you?”

A wordless stare bridges the distance between your bodies, decreasing with every slow step he takes toward you. If it weren’t for the striking cold, you’d already be meeting him halfway and throwing your arms around his neck to make this moment feel real. Instead, you’re as still as a fawn who can’t anticipate the threat in front of her.

Wolffe reaches for you first, carefully pulling your hood over your head before cupping your face. He’s almost fearful as he cradles you like this, hardly applying any pressure in case you might evaporate right then and there. And he just looks at you for a moment, tilting your face up to the light so he can see you more clearly through all of these barriers. Your hands quickly find his forearms, holding him with more of a taut desperation.

“What?” You whisper, unable to bear any more silence from him.

“Just…making sure you’re not a ghost,” he murmurs.

You shake your head with as much room as he’s giving you in his hold. “I’m here.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Come with me, then.”

Your suggestion is so unburdened, so certain that he leans back in retaliation. You feel his urge to run away, but you’re not losing him here. Not ever again.

“If Rex told you anything,” he says bitterly, “Then you already know my answer.”

You brush your hand against his helmet. “It doesn’t matter what he told me.”

“You came here with him. Didn’t you?”

“I—” you hesitate, and the moment is lost. He pulls away, retreating from your touch as he presses a finger to the side of his helmet. You can’t hear what’s being relayed to his comm, but you take him by the hand when his head turns toward you. It’s like a plea for mercy, one that you’re confident he’ll answer because you trust him with more than your life.

“No,” he says to whoever seems to be in his ear at the moment, “It was nothing. And while you’re still here, you can tell your supervisor that he’s one false report away from demotion.”

You wait a few breaths to ensure he’s off the comms before questioning, “Are you really in a position to be handing out threats like that?”

“You can’t be asking about any position I’m in when you decide to show up and cause more problems for me.”

You flinch. “You don’t mean that.”

He squeezes your hand ever so slightly, and it’s hard to tell if he’s trying to reassure you or intimidate you. “I do.”

“I don’t believe that,” you continue, “Just like I don’t believe you really think this is right for you.”

“As opposed to what? You?”

His voice is low but resentful, like he’s trying to sound mean when he’s far from it. He seems to think that if he hurts you just enough, you’ll find the courage to walk away before he does. Your brief stretch of composure betrays you when his words sink into your skin like teeth, craving more than your flesh and blood. This hunger reaches your bones. You look down with a knot in your throat, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Don’t do this,” you plead, “I’m not angry at you. I’m not here to judge you for anything.”

“I know.”

“Do you know what I dream about? Every night?” You continue shakily, “I dream about you. Seeing you again, in all the different circumstances I can imagine. But this is the real thing, and you’d rather push me away? Have you forgotten how much I lo—”

“I know,” he snaps, and immediate regret seizes his figure as he moves backward like he can’t be around you right now. You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, inhaling deeply despite the tightness in your lungs. Quivering in silence, you take a step forward. And then another, until his arms come around you like a shield from the rain. If he won’t hear it, you make him feel it, running your hands across the stiff surface of his armor to embrace him in return. You’re so close to him that you can hear how hard it is for him to breathe, too. But this is all so easy for a sliver of time, enough for this frigid night to feel as warm as a summer’s day.

“You’re cold. You’ll get sick if you stay out here.”

“I’m not leaving without you,” you speak into his chest.

“You have to. It’s not up for debate.”

You frown and place your hands on either side of his helmet. “I can’t live with knowing you were right here, with me…and I just let that go. Can you?”

“Of course I can’t,” he whispers.

His tone is soft, and it unravels something inside of you as you imagine his expression underneath this mask. It’s exactly the one you see when you pull it off, not expecting him to allow you. The rain doesn’t even phase him. There isn’t so much as a twitch to his eyebrows when the water coming down much stronger now soaks his hair before running down his face. You’re slow to lower his helmet to your side, too focused on looking at him for the first time in a long time. You try to look for anything that’s changed—anything that might indicate he’s not the Wolffe you know. Your Wolffe. Then you realize everything in the galaxy could change, and it has, and he’s still your favorite person through it all.

“But…” he breaks the silence, wincing slightly, “Just knowing you’re alive…it’s enough.”

“Not for me,” you shake your head.

He studies your expression before sighing, bringing his hands back to your face. His lips find the crown of your head, and he kisses you there. You feel how gentle he’s trying to be until he pulls back, suddenly looking at you with a graver intensity.

“Rex didn’t mention you’ve been traveling together.”

You nearly laugh at the edge in his tone, finding it unserious despite the circumstances. “Must’ve slipped his mind when you were chasing him across the planet.”

He still appears displeased. “And he’s been keeping you safe?”

“They take good care of me,” you reassure him.

Dropping his shoulders in apparent relief, he nods even though a heavy sorrow darkens his stare. You feel as though he’s trying to apologize for not being there, but to that you only shake your head. The look you give him in return is easy for him to read, asking him for one last reconsideration. One last chance for him to make things right, to be taken care of the way he deserves.

“Come home with me, Wolffe,” you say one last time.

“Where’s that?” He rasps.

You press your mouth to his, kissing him softly as you taste the cold water clinging to his skin. Your wet faces slide together when he kisses you back with more desperation, long and lingering like he can never get enough air. It’s almost as if he never wants to stop.

“Wherever we want,” you gasp between kisses, “But it’s not here.”

He rests his forehead against yours with a sharp intake of breath. Rainwater runs off his eyelashes and down his cheeks, so disastrously beautiful that your heart hurts all over again. And yet, all you can do is smile. It catches him off guard, confuses him even.

So, he asks, “What is it?”

You shake your head. “I’m just happy you’re here.”

He looks stunned for a moment, but you notice the corner of his mouth lift in return. You’re unsure how long it’s been since he’s felt like this, only knowing that it’s been far too long for you. Everything about this moment makes the rest of the world obsolete to your perception, boiling down to the soft giggle you just can’t control. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t have to. Not when you’re finally with him. Nothing else matters right now except for that truth.

“I didn’t think we’d ever see each other again,” he admits, “I keep thinking I’m just going to wake up disappointed again.”

“You won’t. Not tomorrow,” you promise him, “Not ever.”

“Yeah,” he takes his helmet from you before sliding it back over his head, “I believe that.”

You watch him closely as hopeful realization dawns on you like the early sunrise this city will soon see. You’re gone by the time morning arrives, just another forgotten shadow that slipped through the night. Only, you weren’t alone. And you know you won’t be anymore.

[sixeyesonathiel]

all’s fair — ares!gojo x aphrodite!reader

YEARNER gojo, heavy making out. thats it. my pants dissipated writing ts

the air reeks of blood.

a secret war tent, just outside the battlefield. the sounds of clashing swords and dying men fill the air, but inside, there is only the suffocating tension between the goddess of love and the god of war who should know better than to meet like this.

satoru storms into the tent, covered in blood and victory, a grin splitting his face. his white hair, streaked with crimson, clings to his forehead, damp with sweat. his armor is dented, the bronze darkened with soot and gore, but his movements are easy, languid—like none of it matters. the god of war lives for carnage, breathes in battle like it’s the very air keeping him alive. and tonight, he’s gorged himself on it.

“missed me?” he teases, voice rough from shouting commands, from laughing as he tore through men like parchment. his gaze finds you immediately, drinking in the way your posture stiffens, the way your fingers tighten around the stem of your untouched goblet.

you shouldn’t be here. not so close to the battlefield, not so close to him.

you exhale sharply through your nose, eyes flaring with barely contained fury. “you’re a fool,” you spit, tossing the goblet aside, letting the wine stain the furs beneath your feet. the taste of it had turned bitter on your tongue the moment he entered. “my warriors fall like flies because of you.”

he hums, stepping closer, unfazed by the scent of rose oil and wrath curling in the air between you. you’re angry. it sends a thrill down his spine.

“your warriors?” he muses, tilting his head, one blood-streaked hand coming to rest against his hip. “love, they’re not yours once they pick up a sword. the moment they choose war, they belong to me.”

your eyes flash dangerously. “you arrogant—”

“besides, you don’t care about them,” satoru murmurs, voice suddenly lower, quieter. the air crackles. “you care about me.”

“you only ever look at me like this.” he adds before you can even deny with another step. he was so close now, close enough that you could see the cut on his cheek, the golden ichor beading there, shimmering in the dim light.

“like what?” you asked, voice quieter now, betraying nothing.

“like you’re furious. like you want to kill me.” his fingers brushed against hers, featherlight, teasing. “like you ache for me.”

your breath catches.

his smirk deepens, something slow and knowing curling at the edges of his lips. his fingers flex against his hip, his other hand dangling loosely at his side, but you can see the tension in his stance, the way his muscles coil beneath the straps of his armor.

you move to slap him, but he catches your wrist, swift and effortless. it’s not a tight grip—he knows you could break free if you truly wanted. instead, he pulls you closer, forcing you into his space, making sure you can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the faint tremor of barely restrained energy thrumming beneath it.

“let go.” your voice is steady, but he doesn’t miss the way your pulse flutters beneath his fingers.

“make me.” he dares, his thumb brushing lazily along the inside of your wrist, over skin that has been kissed by kings, worshipped by emperors.

for a long moment, neither of you move.

you should hate him. you do hate him. he ruins everything, turns every battlefield into his personal playground, drenches the earth in blood as if it were nothing more than spilled wine.

and yet.

your free hand lifts, nails grazing along the rough line of his jaw. he lets you.

“you’re reckless,” you whisper, gaze tracing the cut along his cheekbone, the smear of blood—his or someone else’s—you don’t know, don’t care.

his fingers slide up your arm, curling against your bare shoulder, tracing the delicate gold chains draped there, the silken folds of your dress shifting beneath his touch.

“and you’re a coward,” he murmurs back, breath warm against your lips. “you play your little games, make men burn for you, but the moment someone plays back?” his grip tightens, dragging you against his chest, metal clashing against silk. “you run.”

you exhale sharply, something wild and sharp flashing in your gaze.

he expects you to push him away, to twist from his grasp with one of your usual coy little smiles and words that cut sharper than any blade. but you don’t.

instead, you shift closer, lifting your chin, lips nearly brushing his. “you think i run?” your voice is soft, syrupy, dripping with something deadly. “when i’ve had you chasing me for centuries?”

his eyes darken, that ever-present smirk twitching at the edges.

“don’t flatter yourself, love.”

“oh?” your fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck, nails scraping just enough to make him tense, to make him feel. weak. “so if i were to walk away now,” you muse, voice a purr, “you wouldn’t stop me?”

his grip around your wrist flexes.

you laugh. sharp. knowing.

“that’s what i thought.”

his patience snaps.

he surges forward, crashing his lips against yours, swallowing your triumphant smile with a kiss that tastes of war and lust and something dangerously close to devotion. the world collapses into heat, hunger, and the intoxicating scent of iron and rose oil. the stench of blood still clings to his skin, mixing with the subtle sweetness of the roses in the air, as if the battlefield had bled its violence into the very fabric of the room.

you expect violence—after all, this is the god of war, the very embodiment of destruction. but what you get instead is devastating precision, an artistry in chaos. his mouth moves with practiced arrogance, every kiss a calculated claim, a conquest, forcing you into submission with the same ruthless determination he wields on the battlefield. your lower lip is caught between his teeth, a sharp, agonizing sting that sends a thrill of heat through your body before melting into a slow, sinful drag of his tongue. you curse yourself for the way your knees tremble, betraying the effect he has on you, but you refuse to pull away.

you have kissed kings, emperors, gods. you have been worshipped in a thousand ways, a thousand times over.

but no one kissed like satoru.

no one kissed like a man who had spent his entire life craving battle but found himself craving her more.

his hands, still streaked with blood, still warm from the slaughter, slide down your waist with a predatory grace, the tips of his fingers leaving burning trails over your skin. you gasp as he grips the filmy fabric of your chiton, tearing it aside with a single, effortless pull. the sound of the silk ripping is obscene in the quiet of the tent, echoing between the tension that coils tighter in the air. but you don’t care. not when his palms sear against your bare skin, rough and possessive, tracing every curve he’s only ever dreamed of touching, claiming you like the spoils of war he’s always deserved.

“look at you,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice thick with victory, dripping with satisfaction. “all this time, i thought you’d taste like honey. but you’re just as bitter as i am.” the words are a challenge, but there’s no real bitterness behind them. it’s just the way he sees the world—always finding something to conquer, something to take.

you retaliate by sinking your nails into the nape of his neck, scoring red lines down the sweat-damp column of his throat. the sound he makes—low, filthy, a guttural groan meant for your ears alone—sends a wave of desire crashing through you. before you can process, he lifts you effortlessly, the edge of the war table digging into your thighs as he slots himself between them, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that speaks of battles fought and victories won.

the cold armor at his chest presses against your fevered skin, an icy contrast to the heat pulsing through you. his mouth is scorching, trailing from your lips to your jaw, and then lower, nipping at the frantic pulse in your throat. every movement is deliberate, a dance of dominance and passion, as if he’s marking every inch of you as his own.

“you—” your breath hitches, his teeth grazing your collarbone, sending a bolt of heat straight to your core. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet,” he breathes, his words dark with satisfaction, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his pupils wide with want. the hunger in his eyes is raw, unfiltered, and it makes your heart race in your chest. “here you are. letting me ruin you.”

his hands slide higher, one tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat. the other traces the dip of your waist, skimming the edge of your hip with a touch so light, so teasing, that it feels like torture. you arch into him, a silent plea, a challenge that lingers between you. and his grin—it’s all teeth, a hungry thing, twisted with desire and amusement.

“say it,” he dares, his thumb brushing the peak of your breast with a featherlight tease that makes your stomach coil tight, an ache that builds with every passing second. “tell me to stop.”

you should. you should push him away, demand he stop. but you won’t. you can’t.

instead, you drag him back by the hair, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that’s more war than surrender, more battle than love. he laughs into your mouth, the vibrations curling straight down your spine, a sound that promises chaos and recklessness, the very essence of him. then—

a trumpet blares outside, cutting through the tension like a knife.

the war calls.

for the first time in centuries, satoru, the almighty god of war hesitates.

his forehead presses against yours, breaths ragged, his fingers trembling where they grip your hips. the air between you is thick with everything unsaid, everything undone, as if the world has paused, holding its breath, waiting for what will come next. you can feel his heart beating against yours, fast and uneven, as if he too has been swept away by this relentless tide of desire.

then, with a smirk that promises retribution, he pulls away, his hands lingering for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s reluctant to let go.

“next time,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, as if he’s daring you to defy him. he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that contrasts with the hunger still burning in his eyes. “i won’t stop.”

and just like that, he’s gone, leaving you breathless, flushed, furious, and aching in the ruins of a war tent that smells like him—like blood, rose oil, and something far more dangerous.

outside, the battle rages on, but inside, you’ve already lost.

a/n : part two is out fellow freakies🫶🏻

[wiishopwednesday]

longing for something you can never return to

[ID: a collection of images relating to nostalgia. the first image is a genius screenshot of the lyrics to car seat headrest's "famous prophets (stars)." the screenshot reads "We gotta go back/We gotta go back/We gotta go back/We gotta go back." the second image is the "we got the torture labyrinth tomorrow" meme template, edited to instead say "We got missing what we can never return to tomorrow/What?/We got the beginning of the rest of our lives tomorrow/Ohhhh/Okay." the third image is a discord screenshot, with the user's username and icon cropped out so that only the text is visible, and reads "Duuudeee you missed out on those 7 days where god created earth you are fucked LOL." the fourth image is a screenshot of a piece of text, which reads in bolder font "You can never leave home." underneath it, in normal text, it reads "You take it with you no matter where you go. Home is between your teeth, under your fingernails, in the hair follicles, in your smile, in the ride of your hips, in the passage of your breasts." the fifth image is a screenshot of a post made by tumblr user ryebreadgf, which reads "YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK! YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK! YOU CAN BITE AND SCRATCH AND BEG BUT YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK!" the sixth image is a screenshot of a piece of text that reads, "YOU KILL YOURSELF AND IMMEDIATELY WAKE UP AS A CHILD ON YOUR PARENTS BED. YOU'VE BEEN ASLEEP FOR HALF AN HOUR. THE SUN IS SHINING." the seventh image is a picture of two uneven dark yellow boxed next to each other on a off-white background. the first box reads, in handwriting, "I'm terrified of change." the second box reads, "I'm terrified of staying this way forever." the eighth image is a screenshot of a post made by tumblr user dakotajohnsongf, which reads "women be looking at pictures of their childhood selves and trying to find a way back to them." the ninth image is a screenshot of a post made by tumblr user bestofgentleearth, containing a screenshot from a forum of some kind. a line of text reads "(16 hours ago) butterfly said:" underneath, an indented section of text reads "today, the world looked beautiful again. i'm starting to remember what kept me alive last summer." the tenth image is another tumblr post by user cursedsuggestion, which reads "the friend you miss comes home for good. you never see another mirror. it's summer forever and that terrible thought you keep having finally disappears." the eleventh image is a screenshot of a reddit post, with the original poster's username and icon cropped out so only the text is visible. it reads "I'm not sure how to word this, but I constantly go through this deep sense of loss. I feel like I terribly miss something I love from the bottom of my heart, but I don't know what it is, exactly. Nothing in life satisfies me, nothing makes me content, but l wouldn't say I'm depressed either. There's just this endless search for something, and at times I feel I can catch a glimpse of it - different sceneries pop into my head at times, like of a particular beach at night, and I'm moved to tears. Or I remember a dream and all the feelings that were stirring while I saw that dream, and feel entirely connected to them." the twelfth image is a screenshot of a tumblr post, but the original poster is cropped out so only the text is visible, which reads "wait i wasn't ready. i never finished that game of tag. i still need to learn how to do a cartwheel. my friends and i never finished making that bridge over the creek. i want to go back. can you carry me to bed one last time? and maybe i'll wake up tomorrow in my childhood room with my pink walls and we'll laugh over this dream at breakfast." the thirteenth image is another tumblr screenshot of a post by user heavensghost, which reads "uhhh yh sure u can go back but no one will be waiting for you there."

the fourteenth image is a screenshot of a reddit comment, with the user's information cropped out so that only the text is visible, which reads "HIRAETH (heer-eye-th) 'A deep homesickness; an intense form of longing or nostalgia for a place long gone, or even an unaccountable homesickness for a place you have never visited. A pull on the heart that conveys a distinct feeling of missing something irretrievably lost.'" the fifteenth image is a collection of 3 rows of black boxes, with 3 boxes in each row. the first box has a white, vague form of a human. the second box pictures the human form stretching its arms and legs out. from the third box onward, the human figure starts to dissipate into white dots until it has completely disappeared and only dots remain. the sixteenth image is a tumblr post by user n1ntendos, which reads "I AM HAUNTED BY A PAST I CANNOT GO BACK TO !!!!!!! anyways." the seventeenth image is a screenshot of text that reads "I cling to everything - CDs that skip, rings that turn my fingers green, the dead ends of my hair, old love notes that turn my stomach over and over. And I'm not proud but there are still boxes under my bed. And I'm not proud but my closet is still running out of space. And nostalgia is a fucking waste of time but my heart is full with it. Tell me I won't hold this forever. Tell me there will be a day where I let gloriously go." the eighteenth image is an image of larger text that reads "It's a summer day, and I want to be wanted more than anything else in the world." the nineteenth image is a photograph of a large white dog standing in a dark, flowing river surrounded by a dark forest and green trees. the dog is facing away from the viewer with its mouth open. the dog appears to be glowing, likely due to a lens flare of some kind. the entire picture feels very melancholy and nostalgic. the twentieth image is larger text that reads "Nostalgia is the aching realization that you can't go back again. The longing, no matter how intense, can never be met." the twenty-first image is a screenshot of an instagram dm, with the user's username and icon cropped out so that only the text is visible, and it reads "well the time passes anyway so I have to." the twenty-second image is a screenshot of the spotify lyrics for gerard way's song "action cat." the lyrics read "Hey/Do you miss me?/'Cause I miss you/Do you miss me?/'Cause I miss you/Do you miss me?/'Cause I miss you/Do you miss me?/'Cause I miss you too." the twenty-third image is a screenshot of text that reads "YOUR CHILDHOOD DOG IS ALIVE. YOUR DEAD BEST FRIEND WANTS TO GET COFFEE. YOU HAVE BEEN KIND AND GOOD. THERE IS NOTHING CHASING YOU. YOU CAN SLEEP. WHAT DO YOU DO?" the twenty-fourth image is a continuation of the lyrics from car seat headrest's "famous prophets (stars)" that were pictured in the first image. these lyrics read "We've gotta go back/We've gotta go back/We've gotta go back/(Don't spend too much time on it)." end ID.]

[tryingonametaphor]

Why Will Byers?

An analysis and theory on why Henry/Vecna targeted Will first in season 1 and his plans for Will in season 5

‼️Contains The First Shadow (TFS) spoilers so please proceed with caution.‼️

This is going to be a little long but I’ve tried to give as much context as I can without actually being able to show snippets from the stage play. This is my interpretation of everything that went down as a member of the audience and not as someone who has read up any theories about TFS before. To understand why Henry took Will first in 1983, we have to start with -

Henry and Joyce

From all the times I’ve watched TFS, the one thing that has stuck with me is the final conversation Henry has with Joyce. It’s just before his last confrontation with Patty Newby and before he joins Brenner for good. Joyce is the last person (who doesn’t know about Henry’s powers) that he canonically talks to.

Throughout the entire play Joyce, Hopper, and Bob are investigating the animals dying at the hands of Henry and come to the conclusion that Victor Creel has been the one doing the killing. They get so close to solving the case. In her last conversation with Henry, Joyce tries to comfort him by saying that Victor will pay for his crimes - which makes Henry laugh because she’s so close yet so far from the truth. He gets a little frustrated and says something along the lines of “You don’t get it. But someday you will.” (edit 28/9: the exact dialogue is [Henry: you’re too nice. that is how they’ll get you. you have to learn to do anything you can to protect the ones you love] [Joyce: I don’t understand.] [Henry: You will.]) The next time we see Henry make a reappearance in Joyce’s life is during -

The Vanishing of Will Byers

Will is taken into the Upside Down (UD) by Henry. It’s not even a question anymore. All of the context clues from 1x1 lead us to believe that Will’s kidnapping was not by a demogorgon. Will - a 12 year old - miraculously survives a week in the upside down with no food or water. Will is even around the demogorgon a few times in the Upside Down. (Joyce communicating with Will through the lights and then the demogorgon coming after her immediately).

Barb dies the night she is taken but Will stays alive and also somehow manages to talk to Joyce through the wall. Joyce is led exactly to where Will was held at the end of s1 and he makes it out alive. It’s almost as if Henry knew all along that Joyce was the most capable of never giving up on finding her son. Like Henry took Will Byers because he was Joyce’s son. And like he was giving her just enough to know that Will was alive. Even when Joyce and Hopper find him at the end in a state of near death, he’s not injured by a creature. He was being prepared for the next stage of Vecna’s plan -

The Possession of Will Byers

The origins of Henry’s powers happen as such - As a kid, he is transported into the UD (originally coined Dimension X by the government) for a few hours because he touched something he wasn’t meant to touch. During his time in there, he came in contact with the Mind Flayer (MF). According to TFS this is the point in his life when he started getting “corrupted”. Brenner’s dad - who was one of the first people to enter dimension X - had mutated blood after but no powers. Henry was the first person to come in contact with the MF and it’s highly likely he got his powers because of this (This would also track considering how most of the party has been in the UD now but show no signs of having powers). The MF controls Henry for the rest of TFS and Henry grows more power hungry the more he kills.

In S2, Henry presumably sends the MF after Will - who has now had a year to heal from the events of 1983. Will is the only other person in all of ST to have had direct contact with the MF and survived it. Henry didn’t hesitate to kill Billy in S3, but he always gives everyone just enough to keep Will safe. Will himself tells Owens in S2 that the MF wants to kill everyone except him. Will once again survives the entire ordeal and is given a “break” for the next 2 seasons. Except I don’t believe he’s been just given a break. I think Will is -

Henry’s Sleeper Agent.

Ready to awaken in s5. I undoubtedly think that Will is going to have powers. And I don’t think they’re going to be the same as Henry and El. El and the other lab kids get their powers directly from Henry. Will’s powers will be directly from the MF like Henry. I believe this has been Henry’s plan all along and it’s further affirmed by what he tells Will in the recent VR game. That Will will be the key to Henry being able to infiltrate his friends’ minds. Jamie Campbell-Bower also mentioned during the S4 press that to get in character, he set up a display with all of Henry’s victims and targets’ faces on his wall(?), and Will was in the center.

Henry is going to use his connection with Will sneakily and midway through S5 he’s going to awaken Will’s powers (maybe in ep4 - which is said to be titled ‘Sorcerer’ and has young Will in it). Henry is going to try and manipulate his way into making an ally out of Will, and it’s not going to work because -

Will is the Perfect Character Foil.

Will is everything Henry could have been if he had a better support system. He is the perfect character foil. Unlike Henry, Will has a mother who loves him unconditionally and more importantly, believes him. Unlike Henry, the person who Will loves the most (the Patty to Will’s Henry: Mike) is going to love him back and stay by his side all season. No one is going to force them to be apart the way Henry was told to stay away from Patty. Will is not going to be easily swayed even though Henry has spent years crafting him into the perfect soldier. Sure, Henry has seen him heartbroken and sad, but that comes nowhere near to the amount of love and support Will is going to get from his people next season. And they’re going to quite literally defeat Vecna with the power of love and friendship. After that, Will Byers is getting the happy ending that Henry could have gotten.

[random-blurbs]

OMNI-MARK VARIANT X READER

A/n- smut with plot maybe or maybe not idk i just be writing

(requests are open)

part 1 kinda/sinister mark imagine/part two of this imagine (pure smut)

Scrambling to sit up, you recognize the variant who seemed very displeased with the one who liked to curse in every sentence. He seemed more mature of the bunch as most of them act like children with a knack for murder. Slightly putting you at ease, but just slightly. “Are you going to want to fight like the other one did?” You barely were able to get your words out wincing at your very audible fear. “There would be no point, I would kill you in an instant.” His gruff voice killed any type of ease you previously had, his floating figure inching closer to you, terrifying you even more. At least he was truthful about it.

“I barely had any time with you.” He confessed sitting at the edge of the bed looking directly at you. He was still the Mark you knew in some sick way. The way his lips tightened in a straight line and how you can see the slight shake of his hand he tried to hide. You saw it all. It was sickening how it tugged at you. “W-what happened to me?” You ask trying to push down the fear you had, his hand slowly reached out to your cheek. Eyeing every moment of yours to see if there’s any sense of disgust, fear, repulsion for him. But all he can see was the same Y/N he loves, that no matter what cares for him. Always wanting the best for him. Always hearing him out, it killed him how no matter what you’re the same. But somehow he lost his, but this Mark gets to keep you alive and well. It was unfair.

“A mission I was supposed to go on, you ended up taking. I was training with my father and you offered to go in my stead. And… I should’ve gone.” Such a strong figure was somehow weakened by the retelling of your death, how was it even possible? “I threw myself into ruling the world with my father but somehow you never left my mind.” He rasped out bitterly as both of his hands now cupped your face. “I don’t get it. I did everything to become the strongest. How can someone like him still keep his.” His own voice wavering as you see the longing in his expression try to reach out to you. How could it not. “I missed you so much.” Not able to respond as his lips quickly connected with yours. He lets your body fall back onto the bed his hand ravaging every part of your body. Letting himself indulge in the body that was once his.

Knowing what parts made your body arch against his hand for more, what parts made you moan out for more as you looked back at him with half-lidded eyes. This was twisted. “W-wait I can’t do this!” You muttered out barely able to push him looking away from his lust-filled eyes. You turned your face away focusing on the blanket underneath you, not wanting to give in. “I’m with this world’s Mark I just can’t-!”

“Stop lying.” His cold tone had you stunned as he now seemed angered by your words. His eyes seemingly now void of emotions as he ripped off his mask, his face was Mark’s but this was expression he never gave you. You thought it was impossible for Mark to ever conjure up yet here it is directed at you. He didn’t hesitate grabbing a fistful of your hair making you yelp in pain your hand shooting up trying to detach his hand away. “Here I am telling you these things. And you’re here lying to me in exchange.” Gritting your teeth he made you turn to him his eyes calculating. They didn’t hold the desperation they once did, fueled with an anger you didn’t want.

“Is this something I’m going to fix about you?” Throwing your head back onto the pillows you soothed the top of your head as you anxiously look at the Mark infront of you. “What do you mean?” You don’t know what he’s so hurt by. “My Y/N never lied to me yet here you are.” Recounting the few words you spoke you refuse to believe there was any type of lie exchanged. Was he delusional. He chuckles dryly as he let himself lean closer to you, his breath fanning your neck making you shiver. “Are you really going to act stupid?”

“I’m not acting stupid!” It was stupid to even argue back with him.

His hand gripped onto your throat, panicking you as you tried pulling his hand away, “Don’t fight it.” Even with his word of advice you scratched at his arm trying to get away as you gasped out to him to stop. But there he was over you choking the life out of you. He was right. He’s perfectly able to kill you.

But he won’t.

Letting his grip go you welcomed the lost air back into your lungs as you let out gasps. “I wouldn’t kill you. But I will teach you a lesson.”

Placing a kiss on your temple he pulled back letting you see his cocky smirk grace his lips, “So let’s try again.” Still reeling back from his attempt he kissed you again, you felt more inclined to let him do so your hands hesitantly wrapping around his neck. The action making him moan as he realizes you’re more than accepting now. This was all he wanted, was that so hard.

Peppering your neck with kisses as you let out a moan of pain, his actions a few minutes ago not letting your neck recover from the tight grip he had. “I’ll make you forget about it ok?” Nodding at his words you felt him smile against your neck as he pulled your shirt off your body, letting his lips linger down your body. He was desperate for you, it’s been so long without you. He had all the time in the world now. Or he’ll make sure he does. Pulling your pants down he let his mouth attach itself to your nipple making you moan. Never letting a second pass where you’re not feeling pleasure.

All the things he wish he had done with you more in his universe now doing it to in this one. Biting and teasing both nipples as he looked up at you with a lust-filled gaze on simply wanting to pleasure you. The thought excited you more as the more powerful of the two was practically on his knees to please you. And only you.

He spat on his hand coating his spit on his fingers, shoving them into your entrance surprising you. Letting out a loud moan before covering your mouth in embarrassment he grinned above you. “Don’t be like that.” Gingerly lifting your hand away from your mouth as he basked in your glowy face sheened with a desperation matching his. You both wanted this.

At a steady pace he plunged his fingers in and out feeling you pull him in with a neediness he knew he can pull out of you. His lips meeting your mouth swallowing all the moans you let out as he plunged his fingers in deeper. The sinful squelches of his fingers filled the room which you ignored as you moaned out feeling him add another finger. How quickly you’re unraveling underneath has him reeling as he knows you can handle him now.

You’re strong.

Feeling empty as he pulled his fingers out he chuckles at your displeasure as he lined himself up against your entrance. “Don’t be like that.” He chuckled as he shoved himself in with no warning. Moaning simultaneously as you both felt every movement of one another. Feeling every ridge of his dick stretch you out he slowly moves against you had you clawing at his back in exchange making him moan.

His forehead fell on your shoulder as he thrusted in and out feeling every time you tried sucking him back in now moving in sync with one another. Kissing and sucking at the spots on your neck had you arching as you held onto him tighter letting yourself back onto his dick making him bite into your neck harder. “God you are something else.” Pulling away with a sex-driven smile you know you probably shared the same look as you let yourself feel every part of him against you.

Gripping the plush of your thighs he brought your hips higher your lower back no longer on the bed confusing you. “Is this still your favorite?” Before you can question him he thrusted forward making the words die out from your tongue as you let out a moan of pure bliss. Mark was able to hit a sweet spot in your cervix making you want more. “Go harder please.” You begged making him caress your face softly before gripping onto it tightly to face him. “Glad that you know how to ask.”

His smile grew as he plunged himself deeper admiring how you take him so nicely as he feels you start to tighten around him more. Your moans were freeing as he admired your close eyed pleasure. How you’re bouncing underneath him no longer caring about the position you’re in. He bit onto your nipple making you yelp and arch your body more into his mouth. Letting himself pleasure you more as his pace got faster reaching his own high knowing your body better than you do yourself at this point. Rutting into you with a desperation he can only muster he pulled his mouth away as you heard him moan out your name. The sound sending you over the edge.

“Mark please…” He already knew what you wanted and he wasn’t that far away.

“It’s ok baby just do it.” His husky voice didn’t help as you felt the euphoric feeling fill your body as you let your body go. Twitching underneath him as he continued thrusting into you harder bringing him closer to finishing as you matched his movements bringing tears to your eyes sending him over the edge as you sought his lips to kiss him back. The understanding you both shared was something that can’t be explained and you don’t want it to be. You hear him moan out your name filling you up with one harsh thrust forward as your nails gripped onto his shoulders making him moan out in pain. He filled you up as if you were his, uncaring for the consequences.

And in this moment you were.

You were all his.

He didn’t pull away leaving himself in you wanting to make sure no drop gets out. You looked dazed as you looked up at the Mark you got to know intimately. His expression softer with still that tinge of sadness. You pulled him into a hug feeling him stiffen underneath you. “It’s strange how I still care for a Mark that isn’t technically mine.”

“I am though. I’m all yours and you’re mine.” Pulling you into his arms he placed a kiss on your forehead as you looked up at him. He was a cruel villain in his world and technically yours. But here he was holding you with a look of admiration that you are too afraid to stray away from. Not saying anything more you indulge in his warmth feeling his heartbeat next to you.

[the-widow-olivia]

Deep breath.

I am a solidly middle-aged fangirl, and my last real fan community before OFMD was the X-Files. (I feel like I am not the only one here who fits that description).

The news that we aren’t getting a new season of Our Flag Means Death is hitting me harder than I expected.

So I am thinking about Scully.

There’s this X-Files episode called “Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose.” The plot is about a guy who can see into the future and tell people how they die.

Scully asks him, "How do I die?"

And Clyde Bruckman replies, simply, "You don't."

I've seen fans speculate that Scully winds up becoming immortal by the end of the series. But, 22 years after the end of the show's original run, that line has taken on a new meaning for me.

Scully doesn't die, she can't die, because I still think about her. Scully is immortal because there are fans still writing her into stories, still making art, still getting inspired by her and pursuing medicine and science.

You cannot truly kill a story. You can cancel a TV show. You can, if you're an asshole, make fun of fan creators and their ideas. If you're really an asshole (and a media conglomerate), you can send them cease and desist letters and tell them to stop making art that breathes new life into that story. But the story will not die.

I draw a lot of hope from the long, long history of fandom. The people who loved stories enough to keep them alive, even when it wasn't clear that there would ever be another "official" work in their lifetimes. The Sherlock Holmes fans. The Star Trek fans.

How does a story die?

It doesn’t.

[o-sunny-day]

@forgettable-au FAN ANIMATION ! LOUD NOISE WARNING!

*What was it all for…?

Song: Vishnu <3 by Peter Cat Recording Co.

…okay.

The main inspiration for this…can be summed up with I LOVE HOW SAD THIS CONCEPT IS. BUT i also adore how WEIRD it is.

This whole thing must be pretty weird and creepy for the characters right??? Like- we dont know for certain what EXACTLY is gonna happen, but we know for a fact that Wingdings finds out hes in a game, then kills himself so he can be closer with god-

THATS PRETTY WEIRD 😭😭 also sad but we can ignore that for now

I also experimented a tad with this in working with silence, so timing things at my own pace! It was really hard! I HAD SO MUCH FUN!!!!!!!

But, time for my FAVORITE PART….ANALYSIS!!!

DISCLAIMER: some things stated as fact haven’t been said in the blog/arent canon to the au itself, just my animation/theories/interpretation, cause i’m silly and headcanoning :3

TITLE:

The proper title ive given this is “To You” which means 2 different and very vague things. What happened to you? and sending a message like “this is To You”.

In that case, “you” is whichever version of Papyrus/Wingdings/Gaster you want- Its not exactly clear which version of him means “you” which is kinda the point. The lines blur together sometimes…

But yeah, Gaster/crazy WD sends messages TOO himself so they’re “To You”

CONTEXT

Wingdings has JUST turned himself into Gaster. Ignore how impossible Sans interacting with him in this moment is, and just hear me out on the angst possibilities-

SCENE 1

As Sans approaches the mess- Gaster is encased in shadow, and looks at him. Expression not telling much- just looking blankly. Doesn’t even look like he’s alive… just… moving. Also the eye thats open, is just a slit. because- perspective. BUT I also had fun putting that there and going hehehehe it looks like WD/Papyrus’ eye

Sans approaches, and getting engulfed in the shadow, leaving the light.

His expression here was REALLY fun and REALLY hard to draw. Angry? maybe. stunned and terrified? DEFINITELY.

In this context (that doesn’t have a lot to go off of with the comics, YET) Sans knows that this was all very much intentional. He absolutely does not want to be angry, and is certainly only feeling it subconsciously.

But… he wanted so badly to understand, and enter his brother world. But now, Sans is just… Baffled. Hes like “what the fuck did you do???”

SCENE 2

Gaster continues to look blank. Looking up at Sans as he approaches, encasing him in even more shadow.

Sans’ hand reaches to Gasters face. From Sans’ perspective, his intentions are like checking for a pulse. Not literally ofc cause pulses arent on our face- but like, feeling for him. For a sign that something is there. (It’s also meant to be something motherly/comforting)

But then, Gaster leans into the touch, somewhat reciprocating this wordless “ive got you” gesture. That’s what makes Sans go from Terrified to just purely grief stricken. His brother is still alive. And he loves him.

But this form wont last for long…For universe fixing screw ups reasons :D 👍

SCENE 3

Gaster then opens his eyes, revealing hes even still got eye lights available for him. Thats what just SHATTERS the dam, and Sans embraces him suddenly.

SCENE(S) 4

Then, the “reset” happens, Gaster is gone, and Papyrus appears in place of Wingdings in his bed.

Nothing is boiling to add to a “frozen in terror” feeling!

Now- drawing all of the differences between the past and present rooms. DESTROYED ME. i HAD SO MUCH FUN BUT I ALSO CRIED 😭 There are no thank-you letters to santa, no racecar bed, no silly bone painting, no action figures, just BORING

I also wanted to keep everything monochromatic, so ofc we’ve got black and white for the void/Gaster, blue for Sans, red for Papyrus, and purple for Sans and Papyrus together.

The tape recorder and lab coat are still greyscale though cause Wingdings still has SOME of his stuff lying around. But the tapes are indecipherable, and Papyrus threw out that lab coat the first chance he got. It gave him the absolute worst feeling, worse than anything he’s ever experienced.

Something I also really enjoy is the fact that the dress shirts were still technically Wingdings’ but they’re red for Papyrus. The lab coat is the only real WINGDINGS thing that Papyrus wants absolutely no part in. Some things that were Wingdings’ are now Papyrus’ cause :D👍

in place of the bone painting are just family photos that I also have extra to say about. Someday I wanna make a comic of what happened to those/what I think would happen to em.

One day Papyrus is like “HEY UH- SANS! THESE PHOTOS! I DON’T LIKE LOOKING AT THEM! CAN WE NOT!?” Aka, he doesn’t remember these things happening/these photos being taken… BUT THEYRE PHOTOS OF HIM.

So he just feels really uncomfortable looking at memories he should reasonably remember, but doesn’t at all- and Sans gets that. But he keeps em in his drawer. Then! they hung up the bone thing in place of it cause SILLY!

But the family photos, I still had fun with. From left to right theyre a photo of Semi with the twins, the twins as baby bones, then as slightly older kids, then WDs graduation photo.

CONCLUSION!

This entire thing was so much fun, and I feel i’ve really grown as an artist over the process of experimenting and not being knocked down by annoying setbacks,

Also, as usual, Works In Progress’ plus extra behind the scenes stuff will be posted shortly after this!! YIPPEEE!!! HAPPY NIGHTMARES!!!!!

OHHHH ALSO EXTRA ART!!!

“AREN’T THEY BEAUTIFUL?”

That silly moment when your clone is really weirdly obsessed with stars and enthusiastically holds your eye sockets open to show you them

[lover-of-mine]

You should use your color theory powers to prove that Bobby is still alive

Okay, not exactly color theory but stay tuned to step into denial land with me.

One thing about the show is that it loves breadcrumbing. They do a lot of stuff that will make you go "oh, that is what that was" upon rewatch.

So, I made myself rewatch the lab stuff and from that we get Argument Number One: we never saw a body. We saw him pass out and a body bag. Bobby passing out does not mean he is dead because Chimney fully passed out and Chimney was bleeding a lot more than Bobby. And Chimney is alive. The seeing the body is important because we usually do see the body. We see Patricia's body, we have focus on Eddie with Shannon's body, we see Emmett's, we also Marcy's.

In other instances, like with Karen, Denny, Buck, we saw a monitor flatlining or some other confirmation that there is no pulse.

With Bobby we cut from him laying on the table to a body bag when they could've done a dramatic shot of Athena against the glass to parallel Bobby losing Marcy.

Argument Two: the song choice. Licensing Work Song by Hozier has to have been extremely expensive. And honestly, that song after the leaked scripts that he was gonna be buried alive was so...

When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

Like, come on.

And not only that but the way the song overall can be interpreted as an suicidal alcoholic finding something to live for in love.

Boys, when my baby found me I was three days on a drunken sin I woke with her walls around me Nothin' in her room but an empty crib And I was burnin' up a fever I didn't care much how long I lived But I swear, I thought I dreamed her She never asked me once about the wrong I did

And the second verse catches my eye when we go back to Sick Day and we go back to bathena's dream house being an empty nest and Athena overall being the thing that tethers Bobby to life. Bobby wanted to die but starting to date Athena is the start of him accepting he found more to life than the things he lost. It all makes the choice of this particular song even more insane. He doesn't want to leave her. He will crawl back to her.

Argument Number Three: Bobby's halloween costume. He's a vampire.

An undead creature. An undead creature that in a lot of versions of the myth needs to go in contact with the virus venom then bleed out to be reborn. And coming back to the leaked script, in a lot of versions of the myth, the person needs to be buried to wake up in their second life.

Argument Four: Still on the buried alive line of thought, this happened in 811. Please note the way she grabs Bobby. We literally had someone be buried alive.

Argument Four bleeds into Argument Five: CDC recomendation for CCHF is to no autopsy, embalment, or do anything with the body beyond put the body bag in the coffin. @muddiedfoxglove has a more detailed post on that here. The situation in 811 is that the husband gave her cyanide, which should have killed her, but didn't, and buried her before checking for sure she was dead. Sounds familiar to everyone assuming the virus killed Bobby and not checking and him being buried with his full gear that includes his phone and will let him call 911 when he wakes up from this thing that should have killed him but did not?

Argument Number Six: the copilot from the plane disaster. In particular Athena's part in keeping him alive. He's powering through because there no other pilot, but then his heart stops. There's the whole effort to keep doing cpr while Athena fixes the situation and lands the plane, and then Athena chooses to stay in the plane, even thought it is on fire, to continue that and he ultimately makes it. Kinda like the way Athena fixes the situation with Chimney and is the reason Bobby has to stay alive.

Argument Number Seven: this parallel.

There's also the way Buck was dead, his light was on, Bobby's isn't on. We also had the full helmet in frame for Buck, and that did not happen with Bobby. But Buck makes it out of it alive.

Argumemt Number Eight: Jesus. 911 has added a lot of Jesus symbolism to Bobby this season. And it makes me wonder after meeting his mother in a church. And the fact that the episode aired on Holy Thursday. And the fact that the funeral is being filmed on the Hall of Crucifixion and Resurrection. The Easter of it all points to resurrection.

Edit: Wait, no, Argument Nine: 808 and the way Brad's character was supposed to be dead but has a "miracle recovery" no one could explain. Also plays into the Jesus of it all.

I think this is all I have for you. Hope you join me in denial land if you read this.

[lustlvii]

May I request a San and Mingi x reader fic? Maybe as a Mafia AU where the reader (fem) is from the enemy family and she’s there to discuss business with them. Something ensues, tension builds.

A smutty one if possible lol. Go wild. Love ur fics and would love to be mutuals!

got some nerve. San , Mingi x Female!reader [MAFIA AU]

Including: Choi San and song mingi

Warnings: Mafia AU, threesome, double penetration, oral (m receiving), like one ass slap, name calling (slut, angel), floor sex basically, spit (MINGI DOES IT LIKE ONCE), This is long and dirty so 😍

Authors note: sorry Anon this took awhile to write!! And yes ofc let's be moots 😽😽🤭 guys I think I enjoy this 🫨 but it's also very long :(

The room smelled like burnt cigars and sandalwood cologne, thick with a silence neither of you cared to break.

You sat, legs crossed at the knee, eyes flickering between the two men at the other end of the table. Mingi leaned back, shoulder brushing San’s as he toyed with a toothpick between his lips, expression unreadable behind the dim glow of low light. San, on the other hand, was all sharp lines and smirking eyes, elbows on the table like he owned the space. Like you were already his, in some twisted way.

"You’ve got some nerve showing up alone," San said first, voice smooth but edged like a blade. "Pretty little thing from that family thinking she can waltz into our territory with demands."

You smiled. Not sweetly. Not apologetically.

"Correction," you said, fingers tapping slowly against your glass of untouched whiskey. "I came with an offer. You want to talk nerves, let’s talk about how you two didn't bring backup either."

Mingi chuckled, low and lazy. "Didn’t think we’d need any. Not for you."

"That confidence is going to get someone killed one day," you murmured.

San tilted his head. "Is that a threat?"

"Not yet."

The silence crackled between the three of you like thunder waiting to break.

San leaned forward now, gaze fixed on yours like he was trying to peel layers back with his stare alone. "You think we’re stupid? Coming in here talking truce like it doesn’t reek of setup?"

You met his gaze evenly. "I think you're smart enough to know that sometimes the enemy of your enemy is worth keeping alive."

Mingi’s eyes narrowed, finally discarding the toothpick. "You mean Jang’s crew. You want us to believe you'd rather help us than see your own family win?"

"Let’s just say…" you said, finally picking up the glass and sipping slow, "I believe in personal survival more than loyalty. And your rivals don’t discriminate when they put a bullet between someone's eyes. Family name or not."

They didn’t say anything. Not for a moment.

Then San’s tongue clicked behind his teeth. "I don’t trust you."

"You shouldn’t."

"But I want to hear more."

Mingi nodded. “You’ve got five minutes, angel.”

You set the glass down with a soft clink, the whiskey untouched again.

"Jang’s expanding. Fast. Too fast," you said, voice even, laced with something just beneath the surface — a dare, maybe. "And he’s not doing it clean. Half of his new muscle is ex-military. The other half? Trigger-happy kids with something to prove. You think this territory of yours is safe?"

San leaned back slowly, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek. "We can handle Jang."

You nodded once. "Maybe. But how many casualties are you willing to stomach first?"

Mingi crossed his arms over his broad chest, eyes still fixed on you, watching every breath, every flicker of expression. "Why do you care? If he takes us out, that just clears the board for your people."

"My people," you scoffed under your breath, lips twisting. "Would gut me the moment it benefits them. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to survive. That’s the difference between me and them."

San’s eyes didn’t leave yours, but there was a new glint in them now. Curiosity. Maybe even respect. "And what’s your plan, little traitor?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Information. Routes. Names. I give you access to what Jang’s trying to hide. You hit them before they move. In exchange, I walk when this is over. Clean. Untouched. No ghost on my back. No bullet in mine."

Mingi let out a low whistle. "That’s a lot of trust you're asking for. Dangerous thing to gamble in our world."

"And yet," you said, standing slowly, voice lowering just enough to tighten the room’s tension like a noose, "you haven’t told me to leave."

You stepped around the table now — not rushed, not fearful — until you were standing directly across from the two of them. San’s hand twitched once near the pistol at his waist. You smiled, slow and knowing.

"Am I close enough for you to shoot, San?" you asked. "Or is it that you just don’t want me to leave yet?"

His gaze was sharp. But he didn’t answer.

Mingi sat up straighter, jaw ticking. "You’re a pretty girl with blood on your hands. We’ve killed for less than the name you carry. And yet here you are."

"Here I am," you echoed.

For a long beat, no one moved. The city outside the window pulsed like a heartbeat, muffled by the glass and the weight of what hung in the air between you all.

Finally, San stood, slow and deliberate.

"Three days," he said. "If the intel checks out, we talk again. If it doesn’t—"

"I know," you cut in. "I’ll be the one in the body bag."

Mingi chuckled again, but there was no humor in it. "You really do have some nerve."

San’s stare hadn’t moved from you since the word “walk” left your lips.

But when you stepped closer, just within arm’s reach, his fingers curled around your chin without hesitation.

“Untouched, huh?” he murmured, tilting your face up. His thumb swept over your bottom lip like he was checking for a lie. “Bet that mouth’s told more stories than your eyes ever will.”

“Want me to tell you one?” you breathed, lashes low.

San’s smirk was sharp enough to cut. “No,” he said. “I want you to show me.”

Behind you, Mingi stood as well—slower, heavier, the sound of his chair scraping against the concrete floor echoing like a countdown.

Your breath hitched.

Two predators now circled.

San’s grip slid to your throat—not choking, just holding, commanding. “On your knees, angel,” he said, voice so low it barely qualified as sound.

You sank without protest.

“Good girl,” Mingi muttered behind you, dragging his palm across your cheek once, affectionate in a twisted way.

The clink of a belt unbuckling made your stomach flutter. San tugged his jeans down just enough for his cock to spring free—hard, flushed, already leaking. He tapped it twice against your lips.

“Open wide. Don’t make me ask again.”

You did.

He slid in slowly at first—almost gentle—but that mercy vanished the moment your tongue flattened against the underside of him.

San groaned, hand threading into your hair. “Fuck… just like that. Traitor’s mouth was made for this.”

Mingi crouched beside you, watching the way your cheeks hollowed as San thrust forward again, testing your limits.

“Sloppy little thing,” he muttered. “Drool’s already running down your chin.”

San chuckled, low and pleased. “You like being used, don’t you?”

You moaned around his cock, eyes fluttering shut.

“Keep them open,” he ordered, jaw tight. “Wanna see that look when you choke on it.”

He shoved deeper this time—faster—fucking your face like you weren’t someone who’d just bargained your way into a war.

You gagged once. Then twice.

And San only groaned louder. “God, that sound... makes me wanna ruin you right here.”

Mingi’s hand gripped your jaw, turning your head slightly even as San’s cock stayed buried in your throat. “Bet your cunt’s soaking, huh? Squeezing nothing but air.”

You couldn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Mingi’s fingers slid down your side, grazing over your ass as he murmured in your ear. “Don’t worry, pretty girl. I’ll fix that real soon.”

San pulled out with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting his tip to your lips. You gasped, swallowing air.

But you weren’t given long.

Mingi had already unzipped, dragging the thick length of his cock along your cheek before slapping it against your tongue.

“Let’s see if you can take both of us, angel,” he growled.

Mingi didn’t ease in the way San had. No warning. No gentle stroke. Just a firm grip on the back of your head and the heavy weight of his cock forcing past your lips, thick and hot and demanding.

“Keep your mouth open, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice gravelly. “Gonna fuck it the way you begged us to.”

San stood behind you now, watching—palms dragging slowly down the curve of your back to the swell of your ass, fingers digging into the flesh like he owned it.

And he did.

They both did.

Your throat protested as Mingi thrust deeper, one hand now fisted in your hair, the other guiding your jaw to take more. Drool spilled freely, strings of it falling to the floor, smearing across your chest as you choked and moaned around him.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “This mouth’s unreal. Wet little hole just begging to be ruined.”

Behind you, San dropped to one knee, his breath hot against your thighs.

“You hear her?” he said, voice thick with lust. “So wet I can smell it.”

Two fingers slid between your legs without warning, dragging through the mess dripping down your inner thighs.

Then—smack.

His palm landed hard on your ass. Once. Then again.

You whimpered, full of Mingi, unable to do anything but take it.

San laughed darkly. “She liked that.”

“Of course she did,” Mingi groaned. “Slut like this was made for it.”

Another slap.

San’s fingers returned, this time slipping between your folds, gathering the slick coating your cunt before bringing it to your puckered hole. He pressed, slow, teasing.

“You ever had both holes filled, angel?” he asked, dragging his tongue across the back of your thigh.

You gagged around Mingi’s cock as your body jerked, overwhelmed.

Mingi pulled out just long enough for you to breathe—and that’s when San struck.

Two fingers plunged into your pussy, curling immediately.

“Say it,” he growled in your ear. “Say you want both of us.”

“I—ah—fuck, yes—please,” you gasped, lips swollen, spit and cum slick on your chin. “Want both—please, San—please, Mingi—want it so bad—”

Mingi chuckled, mean and low. “Look at you. Begging to be split open. Your family's little traitor, getting face-fucked and dripping all over the floor like a whore.”

He slapped your face lightly, just enough to make you blink and gasp.

“Dirty little thing,” he spat. Literally. Onto your tongue. “Swallow it.”

You did.

And when you looked up at him, eyes wide, breath hitching—Mingi’s grin widened.

San was already unbuckling again, stroking his cock slow as he stood behind you, tip brushing the soaked seam of your cunt.

“This is gonna hurt, angel,” he murmured into your shoulder, aligning with no hesitation. “But you’re gonna take it. Because you said you wanted to walk away clean, right?”

He pushed in.

One thick inch after another, until your thighs trembled and your moans turned into desperate little sobs.

“Fuuuck—tight little pussy gripping me like she’s scared,” San hissed.

Your face fell forward against Mingi’s thigh as you tried to breathe, but the stretch, the pressure, the fullness—San was deep. So deep.

Then Mingi tapped your lips again.

“You’re not done, sweetheart,” he said, cock sliding along your cheek. “You’ve still got a mouth to fill.”

And just like that—you were trapped again.

Face full. Pussy full.

Used like they’d been planning it from the moment you walked in with your offer and your little whiskey glass.

San fucked you hard, steady. Deep strokes that made your legs shake.

Mingi held your face still, grunting as he used your throat like a toy.

You took it.

Like the good little traitor you were.

“You’re shaking,” San muttered against your shoulder, breath hot and full of mock sympathy. “Is it too much, baby?”

He didn’t slow down.

Not when his cock was buried to the hilt inside you, forcing needy cries from your mouth every time his hips slammed forward. Not even when Mingi shoved you down farther on his length, grip bruising at the sides of your face as you sputtered around him.

It was too much.

Your body didn’t know what to do—split open, gagging, crying, coming again and again. You were locked between them, wrecked, used, and still begging for more with every broken gasp.

“She’s squeezing me so fuckin’ tight,” San growled, digging his fingers into your hips to slam himself deeper. “Like her cunt doesn’t wanna let me go.”

Your vision blurred. Your knees nearly gave.

Mingi laughed, low and cruel. “She’s crying. Look.”

He tilted your chin up, angling your face toward the mirror on the wall.

And there she was.

You.

Mascara streaked. Mouth red and puffy. Drool and tears all over your face, tits bouncing from the force of San's thrusts behind you.

Mingi pushed back in, down your throat again without mercy.

“She looks pretty like this,” he said, voice a rasp. “Mouth wide. Eyes wet. Body full.”

You moaned helplessly. The pain had long since blended with pleasure. It was fire. Electricity. The kind of fucking you didn’t walk away from the same.

San’s hand came around your throat.

“You asked for this, didn’t you?” he murmured. “Came in with your smart little mouth and your cold eyes—thought you could play with fire. Thought you could handle us.”

He squeezed. Just a little. Enough to make your next moan catch in your throat.

“You can handle us though, can’t you?” Mingi muttered as he pulled out with a slick pop, stroking himself in your tears. “Gonna take both now, baby. We’re not done.”

You barely nodded. Couldn’t even speak. Your body already twitched with another orgasm you hadn’t even realized was coming.

Then you felt it—San's cock sliding out of your soaked cunt, slick and hot against your thigh… and then lower.

“No—no wait—” you gasped.

“Shhh, angel,” he whispered, lining up with your ass. “Just breathe.”

Mingi kissed your temple mockingly. “You wanted both holes, didn’t you? Said it so sweet with my cock down your throat. Time to make good on that little promise.”

The stretch was unreal. Burning.

Your whole body seized as San slowly, relentlessly pushed in—while Mingi slid back inside your raw, used pussy like he belonged there.

Full.

Overwhelmed. Impaled.

You moaned.

The mirror blurred again with fresh tears, your body convulsing with overstimulation and pain and white-hot need.

“Oh my god—fuckfuckfuck—”

“You’re taking it so well, baby,” Mingi groaned, bottoming out and grinding his hips forward. “So fucking deep.”

They moved in tandem now. A rhythm so punishing it left your thoughts in ruin.

Mingi fucking up into you while San split you open from behind.

“Can feel him,” Mingi growled, eyes dark and locked on your face. “Feel him inside through your pussy. You’re stuffed so full it’s crazy.”

You couldn’t hold it.

Your body locked up—spasmed—and then broke.

You came again, harder than ever, your whole form wracked with sobs as you squirted all over Mingi’s cock, soaking both of them, the floor, your thighs.

San groaned, filthy and breathless.

“Fuck— she just gushed all over me,” San groaned, hips stuttering. His voice was wrecked now, your walls clenched around them both. “She’s still fucking pulsing—god, I’m gonna—”

His voice broke off.

You felt it.

Hot. Sudden. Thick.

San’s hands dug into your hips as he buried himself to the hilt and came deep inside your ass with a ragged growl, body locked against yours, breath trembling as he painted your insides with thick heat.

“Fuck—fuck,” he breathed.

Mingi wasn’t far behind. He snarled something sharp in Korean you barely caught—tight little slut—before he was slamming in one last time, grinding his hips as his own release flooded you.

Two loads.

Deep inside.

One in your ass, one filling your pussy to the brim, so much it was already leaking out around their cocks, dripping down your thighs in messy streaks.

Your body gave out. Utterly limp. Muscles twitching in the aftermath.

They stayed there for a moment—San pressing his forehead to your back, Mingi brushing damp strands from your ruined face.

Then San pulled out with a low hiss.

“Goddamn,” he muttered.

Mingi followed, watching the mess leak from your pussy with a look of smug satisfaction.

“Full of us,” he murmured. “Just how we like it.”

You whimpered, still trembling as the overstimulation bled into exhaustion.

San stood and grabbed your chin, forcing your dazed gaze up toward him. “You still with us, sweetheart?”

You nodded weakly.

He chuckled. “Good. Because we’re not done talking.”

He helped you get up, not gently but not cruelly either. Mingi took the seat again, back to lazy posture and half-lidded eyes like he hadn’t just broken you open minutes ago.

San poured himself another drink. Lit a cigarette.

“Now,” he said, voice calm again, collected. “Jang’s main storage hub. You said you know the new route?”

You swallowed thickly, still panting. “Warehouse 39… by the docks. They rotate every five days. Next shift is tomorrow morning. 4 a.m.”

San nodded slowly. Mingi’s eyes sharpened.

“Names?” Mingi asked.

You gave them—three enforcers, one truck driver, a corrupt customs agent.

San blew out smoke toward the ceiling. “How’d you get this?”

“My brother’s burner phone,” you said, voice raw and barely audible. “He left it unlocked. Got sloppy.”

“And you just happened to be looking?”

“I was looking for anything that would keep me alive.”

Mingi smirked. “Smart girl.”

“Dangerous girl,” San corrected, eyes lingering on your wrecked body. “Traitor. Liar. But fuckable.”

You didn’t flinch.

“Still breathing, aren’t I?”

He laughed low. “Yeah. You are.”

Mingi stood and cracked his neck, eyes flicking toward San. “We move before sunrise. Hit the route before Jang even smells a rat.”

San looked back at you. “You’ll be in our custody ‘til it’s over. Insurance. Can’t have you slipping back to your side with a sweet little smile.”

You didn’t argue.

You couldn’t.

Not with your thighs still slick from cum and your body barely holding together.

You just stood there, eyes half-lidded. Waiting. Wanting.

They would use you again. Soon. You knew it.

But for now… business came first.

Writing by @lustlvii please do not translate or publish anywhere

[sparrows4bats]

Damian is Harleys Sidekick AU.

Thanks to @peterchubs for helping with name ideas!

So Talia drops Damian off in Gotham but not with Batman directly. She expects Damian to find his father. He's a smart boy, and there's very little that goes on in Gotham without her Beloved knowing.

The issue is that Damian knows his father is Batman, not that Batman is Bruce Wayne.

So, not willing to wait around for the vigilante to show up, 10 year old Damian decides he will establish himself as a hero first, then introduce himself to Batman and earn his fathers respect.

So, clad in his white training jumpsuit, a makeshift mask, and sword in hand, Damian Al Ghul goes looking for trouble.

He kills one man who was attempting to snatch a woman on the street on his first night as he was trained to do in the League.

He quickly learns that it is a mistake when the woman screams at the sight of blood. She keeps saying that Robin isn't meant to kill and tries to push him away from helping her. The fear in her eyes makes something in him curdle in shame.

Damian decides he has to research his father, mother called him a king, but Damian knows nothing about how he rules his kingdom.

What he finds out from a stolen laptop and the library is much different from what he expected.

He understands not wanting to kill, Damian made that choice with Goliath. If every part of his body wasn't turned into a weapon, non-lethal combat would be preferable until necessary.

But he does not understand keeping people like the Joker alive. A man that kills innocents and the city. How can Batman allow him the chance to do it over and over again?

He wants to meet his father, but something tells Damian he will not be his ideal heir, not yet.

So Damian concentrates on trying to be non-lethal even if his every instinct is to go in for the kill. He makes sure the men he finds trying to hurt other don't get back up, but they are still breathing.

He does this for a few days, and still Batman has yet to make an appearance.

He researches the strange new city, its rogues, and civilians.

Damian sleeps rough in quiet corners when he can find them. He will only be here until his father recognises him. So, not long.

That was the plan anyway, but Harley finds him on the street and wins the little ex assassin over with Hyenas.

She sees a child in white playing hero exactly as Oracle described. The Bats are out of town for a bit, so The Sirens and Red Hood are keeping the city in line.

She must scare him because the little boy turns and tries to stab her. He is talented, and Harley has to work hard to dodge. But the boy is exhausted and it makes him sloppy.

He seems to recognise her after a minute because he stops attacking, merely holding the blade in front of him.

"Are you Harleen Quinzel?"

"Aw, my reputation proceeds me, does it, kiddo?"

"Unfortunately." The little guy deadpans.

Harley snorts, the little hero wannabe is funny. She can appreciate that.

"What can I help you with Dr Quinzel?"

"Oracle told me there's some kid playing in the Bats footsteps, so I'm here to ensure you don't get hurt."

"I'm not a kid! And I don't need you to look out for me."

Harley stares at the dirty bandages on his knuckles and the split lip. Something in the way he holds himself has alarm bells ringing in her head. "Everyone needs a little TLC sometimes."

The boy stares at her. "What does that mean?"

"Tender Loving Care." The therapist in Harley is screaming at her as he is suddenly on guard again.

"I have been trained since birth to survive anything. Gotham, while unpleasant, is nothing compared to what I have done and lived through."

Harley reassesses. This is another Orphan situation, mostly likely, and this kid is fresh from a possibly abusive situation.

Harley chooses her next words carefully. "Would you say no to a sandwich? You are sleeping outside, according to Oracle, and I don't know when you ate last."

Damian, despite himself, is tempted. It's been a while since he has had a half decent meal. According to what he has gathered, Quinn has an alliance with the bat. She can be trusted somewhat. He is also just so tired.

"You can even grab a nap on the couch and meet my Hyenas!" Harley adds brightly.

The kid lights up despite himself. "Hyenas?!"

The boy is convinced after that and reluctantly introduces himself as Damian.

Harley brings Damian to her apartment, where they are greeted by Lou and Bud who seem to adore him.

The boy inhales three sandwiches and promptly passes out cuddled in a hyena pile.

He looks even smaller and younger asleep. Harley can see a multitude of scars on the little skin the jumpsuit leaves visible.

He contacts Oracle, but no one matching Damians' description comes up in her search.

So she tucks Damian in and waits for her girlfriend to get home.

When Damian wakes up it's to the smell of pancakes and Poison Ivy reading across from him.

He blinks "Dr Isley, I am a big fan of your work, and if you are amenable, I would like to discuss applications for biological filtration systems for contaminated water."

The green woman pauses and considers him. "Treat my plants well and I have no issues."

"I was raised by people many call eco terrorists. I would be a fool to harm the plant life you develop. Given its role in the Gotham ecosystem and their rarity."

Ivy looks pleased at the answer. "Who are your parents?"

"Talia Al Ghul and Batman."

Harley, who was walking in with the food, screams, "WHAT?!"

Damian explains how he ended up fighting crime in Gotham over pancakes with maple syrup. He talks about trying to retrain himself to be non lethal so when he meets his father, he will accept him. Harley probes gently into that thinking and praises Damian for his efforts. The boy preens at the praise.

Afterwards, Harley explains that the Bat is out of town right now, but Damian is welcome to hang out with them in the meanwhile.

Confronted by the Hyenas and talking plants, Damian agrees. Harley gets him to open up about his so-called training and childhood. Harley offers coping mechanisms in the form of art and property damage.

After a few patrols, Harley insists Damian have a codename, so she dubs him WildCard after he doesn't like Jester.

She also insists he needs a costume upgrade.

Damian bases his costume on the white jumpsuit he wore when he arrived in Gotham. He keeps elements of it with a black hooded jacket over top with diamond and spade patches sewn on.

Harley calls it boring so she improves his jacket by splattering it in graffiti and neon paint. Damian wears knee-high lace-up boots and starts to draw on them. Little skulls and climbing vines in bright colours.

The two and the sirens patrol Gotham and cause chaos until Batman returns weeks later.

He is not pleased at a stranger in his mits and instead of asking questions or letting Damian introduce himself he treats the boy that moves like League Assassin like a threat.

Royally pissing off Ivy and Harley.

Damian watches his father intimidate him as he tries to get the words 'I am your son' out and feels his heart break.

Instead of doing what he was tasked to when he came to Gotham, training with his father, Damian leaves with Harley Quinn.

Harley has spent weeks at this point trying to give Damian a sense of identity, letting him know he can make his own choices. So, when he asks her if he can stay with her, she doesn't hesitate to agree.

WildCard is still active but he avoids Batman like the plague.

He teams up with Spoiler and Black Bat on the nights Harley is busy.

Even meeting the Superboys when Cassandra and Harley conspire to get him to make friends his own age.

Jon Kent is immediately taken with the quiet boy that wears his paint splattered boots and jacket like a shield.

Stephanie and Cass giggle at how cute they are while Kon enjoys Jon finally rebelling.

He even meets Lucy, Harleys daughter, after a while and adores the little girl.

Ivy takes Damian to plant bomb WE with Superboy when Jon finds out what an ass Batman is and wants some revenge for his best friend.

The Batman still tries to interrogate Damian instead of speaking to him. Going so far as to insinuate, he intends to harm people on Ras' orders. Damian decides the bat doesn't deserve that Batman doesn't deserve to know he is his son. Not if he refuses to see Damians progress.

Bruce only finds out that Wildcard is his kid thats causing chaos with Harley when Talia calls to ask him where the hell their child is.

Bruce then tries to reason with Harley and Ivy somehow have legal custody and let Damian keep a tiger he rescued so the boy refuses to entertain moving in with his father.

Bruce does apologise eventually. He and Damian spend time together when Bruce gets him puppy in a desperate attempt to bond with his son.

Clark and Bruce are in for a hell of a suprise when Jonathan Kent reads Batman the riot act concerning Wildcards' feelings and his intentions as a father.

Barbara thinks it's hilarious. She handled the paperwork for Harley and Ivy.

Talia signed over Damian guardianship after meeting the two sirens. She and Ivy bond over protecting ecosystems, and Harley and Talia talk medicine.

Harley calls them the Mom Squad.

They are all very proud when Damian decides to go to Med School to follow in their footsteps.

Wildcard pops up every once in a while, doing street art and having fun with his moms when he craves the adrenaline. Harley calls it an outlet, but he is pretty sure she just likes causing chaos as a family.

He and Jon get together over rebellion and comfort. They never have to pretend to be anything else when they're together.

And after so long with Harley Damian is a flirty tease. Jon can only take so much until he is kissing the little minx.

Damian has a lot of fun making his boyfriend blush.

Jon earns Harley and Ivys eternal respect for defending Damian from the Bat constantly and takes both boys to pride with them every year.

[mcflymemes]

"EVEN IN ARCADIA" BY SLEEP TOKEN PROMPTS *  assorted lines from the album, some slightly reworked to suit a roleplay format, adjust as necessary

i could die here.

now i know why i woke up here on the shoreline.

everything looks the same.

you'll find me with half a mind to get violent.

don't say it's over.

give me the edge of a blade.

nobody knows where i came from.

how can i already lose my way like this?

i used to know myself.

you used to know me well.

you wish that you could make me whole.

i have a feeling we're close to the end.

come out from underneath.

go ahead and wrap your arms around me.

godspeed to my enemies.

tell me what you meant by "living past your half-life."

you're well-versed in the afterlife.

you might be the one to take away the pain and let my mind go quiet.

nothing else is quite the same as how i feel when i'm at your side.

are you gonna dance on the line with me?

you know it's not a game or a fantasy.

i don't even know who i used to be.

nothing is the same.

some things have to change now.

i'm apologizing for shit that, frankly, i stopped thinking of years ago.

i still need a dark side.

they just need a reason.

keep me alive.

now is the time to take it or leave it.

did i get this far for nothing, or are you the reward?

if this is love, then i am out of hesitation.

i just don't want to be lost again.

i wish i could have known that.

when was the last time i felt like this?

it's like you're dangerous to me.

i notice every time we meet.

you've got me talking in my sleep.

i thought i could resist you.

when's the last time you tasted blood?

i might lose my mind.

won't you show me how to dance forever?

i swear it's getting harder even just to exhale.

i'm sick of trying to hide it.

i'm lost.

i guess that's what i get for trying to hide in the limelight.

everybody wants eyes on them.

if you don't think i mean it, then i understand.

i'm still glad you came.

let me see those hands.

i'll take what i'm given.

tell me, did i give you what you came for?

everything's the same.

somehow i knew my fate.

have you been waiting long for me?

no matter how we feel, we've got a taste for one another and a few good years to kill.

i wanna be your provider.

just let me know that you're mine.

do i wanna go there?

i wanna do more than just bend the rules.

you're the only game that i like to lose.

i'm going under this time.

i can give you what you want.

surely we know the difference.

how will i know if i can't see the bottom?

no one else knows that i've got a problem.

what if i can't get up and stand tall?

who will i be when the empire falls?

nobody told me i'd be begging for relief.

i've learned to live without it.

i no longer feel surrounded.

you never listened to me.

i was your undercover lover.

you never saw me naked.

you wouldn't even touch me.

i'm caught up on the person i tried to turn myself into for you.

i was trying my best.

i was in love with the thought.

do you wanna hurt me?

we used to be a team.

i don't wanna stick around.

please just let me go.

what are you afraid of?

are you the method in my madness?

i have fought so long to be here. i am never going back.

i could be stuck here alone.

i'm so tired inside.

i'm never leaving this time.

[walpu]

walp

hear me out on this

Aventurine's bodyguard (reader), but they are used as leverage against Aven during the 2.1 Trailblaze Quest, if Aven tries to leave the Dreamscape or reveals anything of Sunday's scheme, Sunday murders Reader and makes it seem like a freak accident 😀😀

Sunday when I catch you Sunday

I liked this request the moment I saw it so I rushed to do it as soon as I got enough time to work on it 😭

you being used against Aventurine as his weak spot during the 2.1 trailblaze quest

notes - gn!reader, 2.1 spoilers, angst but nothing bad happens to you, hopeful at the end, sunday is most likely ooc since it's written before 2.2, no beta

Sunday doesn't make a direct threat. It's a very subtle hint, a small warning. Yet it's obvious enough for Aventurine to understand the meaning behind Sunday's words immediately. How can he not when it concerns you?

There's a visible anger on his face when he glares at Sunday.

"You wouldn't dare, you wing-headed bastard. Do you think the IPC is stupid enough to believe that the death of my personal bodyguard tgat accompany me everywhere is a coincidence? Do you think I'll let it slide?!"

Oh, he's seething. Such raw emotions, such obvious worry, such obvious fear. Sunday knew he would get him good but that? Truly intriguing.

But how can he not feel that way? How can he play it cool, cover his fear and shield himself with short on-line answers?

This time he can't hide how much his hands are shaking.

Sunday is quick to remind Aventurine that in his current pitiful state, 17 hours to live and all, he hardly can do anything.

He also graciously reminds Aven that nothing will happen to you as long as he does his part.

Aventurine is such a mess after that conversation. Ratio tries to calm him down a bit by rationalizing the situation. Surely Sunday is bluffing. The Family, no matter how questionable they seem, are not murderers. Plus, surely Aventurine knows his own bodyguard well enough to know that you're not easy to kill. Many has tried and yet here you are, still alive and well.

But how can Aventurine just brush it off when it's you who may be in danger?

That what he was afraid of the whole time. That he'll lose you like he has lost everyone else. That your blood will be on his hands.

He asks Ratio to look after you and to escort you to safety if something happens. The promise doesn't calm him down but Ratio is a reliable and smart person. So he chooses to trust him, no matter how hard it is. After all, Aven doesn't have much choice.

When the two of you reunite, you can immediately see that he's shaken. He tries to hide his pitiful state from you, not wanting you to know that his time is running out. He wants to warn you instead, to tell you that you may be in danger. But he knows you won't take it seriously and instead would insist on taking care of him and protecting him.

He comes up with some lies (aeons, he hates lying to you of all people) and asks you to start your own investigation. To go back to the real world and to team up with Topaz and Jade.

It takes some time to convince you but eventually you reluctantly agree. He sees how much you hate leaving him like this and it's both heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time.

Aven is an even bigger mess now than he was in the game. He tries to tell himself that you're okay, that Ratio will accompany you to the real world and Topaz will look after you once you're there.

But how can he be sure? How? His "future" self asks him this mockingly, pointing out that you're smart, that you'll immediately understand that he has deliberately sent you away to keep you from something.

No matter how msny times he tells this "future self" to shut up, he knows he's right. So he can only pray that he'll be able to deal with the Family before you get yourself in danger.

Image you showing up during the final act just to see him threatening to detonate the Stellaron. Him trying to continue the "show" despite the ache in his heart. You, knowing he's bluffing but being unable to stop this insanity.

After the events of 2.1, he seeks you out as soon as he returns to the real world. He needs to know that you're alive, that you're safe. Even if you're angry with him now, even if you may not forgive him (of course you will he's just insecure like that), he needs to know you're fine.

So imagine his relief when you (safe, unarmed, alive) embrace him and hold him tightly, so overwhelmingly happy he's back.

image his reaction to finding out that you're alive and well and sunday has presumably kicked the bucket 💀

[chronically-ghosted]

i wonder if you stopped his world like you did mine

rating: teen

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 5K

summary: watching the woman he loves be with someone else is killing him, but for your sake, he manages. But when Benny's birthday loosens him up, he can't help but bear his soul over a phone call. Too bad you don't pick up and he's forced to leave the evidence in a voicemail.

tags/warnings: pining, light angst, idiots in love, country music as a catalyst, romance, tw alcohol, tw drinking, hangovers, ultimately very fluffy

a/n: Happy Valentine's Day @toomanystoriessolittletime! I hope you receive and give all the love you need and want! I've had this idea for a while, but once I saw that Frankie was your fave, I knew I had to do it!

one day i’m gonna do the series of all of my favorite country songs with a Pedro boy. This is one of them: Singles You Up by Jordan Davis. Had thoughts of Me and My Kind by Cody Johnson for our ever-fantastic Jack Daniels and Hurricane by Luke Combs for Joel. One day, my loves, one day. 

🤍Masterlist | Frankie Morales Masterlist

Frankie Morales has a problem.

Given the life expectancy in his line of work – all things considered – it really wasn’t that bad of a problem. Sure, his knees were busted, his shoulder aches when it was cold out, and his ex keeps hounding him for money he doesn’t have. But on the flipside, his little family unit of friends and brothers united by combat are (mostly) all alive and healthy. He has a steady job and his little girl, whom he loves and adores, thinks the sun shines out of his ass. All things considered, there’s not much else he can ask for. He’s far better off than some of the men and women at Will’s talks, or in Santiago’s field teams. 

So – really, truly, seriously – all things considered . . .  he can’t classify this as a bad problem.

In fact, this is a problem he would willingly have. Gladly even. Not quite joyously, but if it’s a choice between this problem and not having the problem at all, he will choose having this consistent, thorny, kind-of-hurts-to-breathe-sometimes problem every single time.

And right now, it’s wearing a dress.

Uh, well, you’re wearing a dress. An off-white, hinging-on-cream, dress that sits above your knees, cuts flat and wide across your chest, and puffs out into cotton sleeves that remind him of those conchas his abuela used to make. Sweet, fluffy, and absolutely forbidden. 

Until the time is right, at least. His abuela always made him wait to eat until the time was right.

He calls it – you – a problem, when in fact, it’s the opposite of a problem. There is nothing he would ever want to change about the warm, engulfing feeling that starts somewhere in his stomach and rises like conchas up his spine until it’s somewhere in his ribs, then under his breastbone, right by his –

He would kill anyone who tried to take that feeling away from him. It’s when he feels most alive, most present, most out of his head – like these things in the dark and sleeping corners of his mind that nip and bite at him can’t find him. He’s thrown them off his scent in his search for you and, even for a brief moment, he can step into the light.

There is no problem, in how you look tonight, how you look every night, with your bright shining smile, sweet-smelling hair, cowboy boots, glass of whiskey – you had such a fantastic taste in –

Wait. 

That’s not whiskey. Not even a whiskey glass. 

That’s –

“White wine?” Benny yelps as he leans forward and his chair legs clatter against the concrete floor. “If that’s Moscato, I’m calling the cops because you’ve been replaced by an equally hot body double.”

You roll your eyes as you sit down and take a long drink from your glass, as if to make a point. Frankie’s eyes are drawn to where your dress hangs over your crossed legs, exposing the curve of your thigh. 

“It’s not fucking Moscato, Benjamin,” you say, eyes narrowed, completely side-stepping his compliment, like you always do. “It’s Chardonnay. Nick recognized the vineyard on the menu so he recommended it. Thought I’d give it a try, because I like trying something new, Benjamin.”

He rolls those beautiful blue eyes and leans forward towards you at the table, that grin that brings grown women to their knees plastered across his face. He knocks back his cowboy hat with a tap of his knuckle. 

“Well, excuse the fuck outta me.”

“The fuck outta you is excused.”

You tug his hat back down over his face, smirking back at him, just as Nick saunters over – with what looks to be a wine glass of his own. 

Okay, in hindsight, you’re not the problem. 

His real fucking problem is Nick. 

Your boyfriend. 

Frankie, who has decided to only drink beer around you since The Almost Incident, takes three long pulls so he doesn’t have to watch Nick and his stupid hands slide across your exposed back and sit down in Santi’s empty chair. 

“Happy Birthday, man, thanks for inviting me out.” Nick says briefly, raising his glass to Benny. “But I gotta say, I was a little worried when my girl here said your party was gonna be at a country dance hall. I’ve never been to one of these. I had to buy cowboy boots just for the occasion.”

He sticks his leg out, and rotates his gator-skin boot back and forth as if to illustrate how important to him this whole thing is. 

But Benny doesn’t look down, doesn’t approve the boots, or Nick’s attempt at fitting in. Instead, he just smirks, his smile growing fat and lazy, a bit of the warmth fading from his blue eyes.

“Your first time at a cowboy hoe-down? I had no idea.” 

Nick grins, because he doesn’t know Benny well enough to see the dig for what it is. But you do. You know him and you know he’s ragging on your boyfriend. You narrow your eyes and shame coats Frankie’s chest. Because he knows also Benny and he knows why he’s giving Nick such a hard time.

See, the problem isn’t you, or even your boyfriend – not really. 

Nick is actually a decent guy. He treats you right, if a little delicately, but he buys you drinks, takes you places Frankie could never afford, in a car Frankie could never ever afford. Sometimes, you’ll say something, or tell a story and it’s obvious Nick doesn’t really understand you or your jokes, but he smiles along anyway. He makes good money and supposedly he keeps in touch with his mom. Nick is the kind of guy any brother would want his sister to date.

So the problem isn’t that Nick is a bad boyfriend, but that he’s your boyfriend.

The problem that Frankie Morales has is that he is painfully, achingly, in love with you.

And he’s your friend.

Maybe that would change, if he ever could work up the guts to say something. For fuck’s sake, he’s killed people – asking you out can’t be that much worse (as Santi often reminds him). But if the guys you’re into are like Nick, or even Nick-adjacent, then what fucking chance does he have? He never thought money was important to you, but apparently it is and that’s something he definitely can’t give you.

Or maybe you like the stability of a high-paying job with fucking miraculous health-care. And that’s two things more he can’t offer: stability and health-care. 

So, maybe, maybe his problem isn’t with you or Nick or the fact that Nick is your boyfriend. It’s that he never could be. He, with one failed marriage already behind him and a coke rap sheet, has nothing to give you . . .

And you deserve the world.

You deserve more than he can offer you. You deserve better than him.

That’s his real fucking problem. And one he can't ever fix.

Will couldn’t get off work to come to this, so he owed Benny a beer and a nice steak dinner – according to Benny. Santi, despite absolutely swearing up and down for a week he wouldn’t be caught dead in cowboy boots and a hat, showed up tonight in full gear, belt-buckle included because he lost a bet with Benny over the Thursday night game. Santi, like everything else in his life, researched the hell out of the two teams, their past history, older statistics of both the players and the coach. He was confident, so confident, that he put his pride on the line. 

Never a good idea with Benny Miller. 

I don’t know, Benny said at the sports bar when his team was whooping Santi’s team’s ass, I just had a good feeling. Presumably, Santi did three shots before leaving and with another two in his system at the bar, all anger and frustration and embarrassment and inhibition had melted away and now Santi was doing what Santi did best, especially when drunk: dancing with beautiful women.

“The son of a bitch can dance, I’ll give him that. ” Benny muses as the three of you watch Santi, who despite having been taught the moves three minutes ago by two gorgeous blondes, complete a perfect line dance of Copperhead Road. 

“Oh, shit, I could never do that.” Nick shakes his head. “Not even after a hundred classes.”

“Ah, I find that hard to believe, Nicky Boy. You seem like a natural,” Benny smirks over the lip of his beer bottle. He finds Frankie’s eyes and winks. 

You are not amused. You glare at him over Nick’s shoulder for the second time tonight. 

“It’s really not that hard,” you smile tightly and squeeze Nick’s shoulder. “I can teach you.” 

“Oh, yeah, don’t you know your girl here?” Benny leans back in his chair, balancing against the rung of Nick’s chair by the ball of his foot. “She used to put all of us to shame. Dancing the night away, leading the crowd in line dancing. In fact, if I remember correctly, she and Frankie used to get into all sorts a-trouble on the dance floor. Isn’t that right, Frankie?”

Now he drew a glare from you and Frankie. 

Don’t, man, just don’t. 

Benny shrugs, swallowing his smirk with another sip of beer, hands raised. Just trying to help out. 

Over the speakers, the song winds to a close and the crowd does their final spin. Across the dance floor, Santi bows, his hat sweeping the floor, to both of the girls who giggle like high schoolers. 

“I’m gonna go get Boot Scootin’ Boogie over there some water before he up-chucks all over those nice ladies.” Benny stands and fixes his hat. “You guys want anything?”

Frankie shakes his head, his own hat that Benny insisted he wear, making the line of sweat across his forehead itch. You and Nick decline as well. You’ve barely even touched your drink, Frankie notes with a certain level of satisfaction. 

As Benny walks towards the bar, the next song starts up and you let out a squeal. Bring on The Good Times has been one of your favorite songs since college. And Frankie should know – he introduced it to you. 

“This one is the best! A classic!” You grab Nick’s forearm, but he almost immediately pulls it back. 

“Ah, babe, my first line dance is not gonna be in front of strangers! I’ll embarrass you and me. Why don’t you ask Frankie?”

Fuck, why could Nick just be a raging, flaming asshole? This would be so much fucking easier. 

Frankie swallows his beer empty, an excuse for a refill prepped. He hates cowboy hats, but he’d fucking set fire to the sky for Benny – he just hopes he immolates himself in the process. The giant brim makes him feel like he’s got a neon sign over his head that blinks, I Am A Giant Dork. Only further proven if he gets anywhere near that dance floor with his two left feet. 

Your eyes are unreadable as he tries to coax your boyfriend into taking you dancing.

“Nah, man, you got this. Your girl’s a great teacher.” By some cowboy miracle, his voice is steady as he says those two words. On the table, your fingers curl in, your wine glass still untouched.

Nick makes a face, eyes flitting back and forth to the dancers as they start the dance.

“My feet are already killing me in these new boots. Besides, this isn’t really my song.”

Over his shoulder, you find Frankie’s eyes. He knows that look on you – he knows everything about you – and you’re trying to hide how hurt you are.

He’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing.

You and Nick stare up at him, surprised by how he practically bounded to his feet. 

The sweat at the ring of his hat runs down the back of his neck. Frankie does the only thing halfway-normal and extends his hand.

“Alright, princesa, I’ll fill out your dance card.”

He doesn’t care, or even really register, the darkly confused frown Nick sends him when you stand up, take his hand, and smile at him. He feels warm all the way up to his chest. 

“Thanks, Frankie. Let’s boogie.” 

That was a mistake.

This whole fucking night is a mistake. God help him, he loves Benny like a brother but he should have just said no and promised to take him out later like Will. He would have bought Benny any drink, any ridiculous chicken wing plate he wanted if Frankie didn’t have to be here, right now. 

Because right now, right now, that wall of self-control that he uses to stem the reservoir, to stem the flow of whatever you cause to pour out of him, it’s leaking. It’s busted holes and now he’s drenched with it – with the scent of you, with the memory of hair down the length of your neck, the heat of your skin overworked and flushed, the sweet taste of your breath in his mouth when you leaned forward, into his space, his senses, and whispered,

“C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this.”

But in his defense, he couldn’t feel his feet, much less make them move when he watched you with your skirt rucked up high in your fists, your cowboy boots kicking like fish in a stream, and that smile – that fucking smile – brighter and sweeter than all the whiskey in the world. 

C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this

C’mon, Frankie, you’re better than this.

C’mon, Frankie, tell me you love me.

Kiss me, Frankie. Kiss me now.

His restraint, his resolve that he will never, ever have you – he can feel it throb beneath his palms. Shudder and wobble under the thundering of his heart. It’s so close to breaking. Too close. This is why he doesn’t drink anything harder than beer around you. This is why he rarely drinks around you at all. 

When Nick finally calls it a night because he’s already got a blister from the new boots, you don’t put up much of a fight. You’ve danced with Benny, you’ve danced with Santi and his gaggle of girls, Nick himself went up for a slow dance or two.

Frankie only ever asked for one. 

He knows he disappointed you, has been disappointing you because you can feel him layering you away, brick by brick by brick. One of his oldest and longest friends, barely visible now, and he’s going over it with caulk to make sure you can’t touch this fragile, weak, emaciated thing he calls a heart. 

The instant you walk out of the bar, Nick’s arm across your tense shoulders, he all but rushes for the bar. 

“Six tequila shots, please.”

You wake up where you went to sleep: curled up on your couch, your giant Florida Gators blanket wrapped around you like a mentally-supportive straight-jacket, with Golden Girls reruns on the TV. The empty bottle of 19 Crimes explains the sticky, dry feeling in your mouth and the thundering headache accompanying swollen eyes and cheeks. You’d rather get hit by a train than have to move out of this position, but Nick has always been punctual.

Which, you assume, extends to picking up his stuff from your apartment first thing in the morning, his final threat that ended your conversation last night. 

The sooner, the better, you mother fucker. 

You blindly grab around for your phone, knowing that it’s most likely shoved into the deepest cracks of your couch, hoping against hope Panera delivers on a Saturday morning. There’s a distinct possibility you might start swinging if Nick shows up before you get a baguette and a coffee into your system. 

The things he said about Benny and Santi last night on the drive home. This break up was a long time coming, but fuck, if this is what he’d been sitting on about your friends, what the fuck did he actually think of you? 

And the things he implied about Frankie – how Frankie was in love with you and you were willingly not seeing it – ridiculous.

You fight the rancid taste of hope that anything Nick implied about Frankie might even remotely be true when you close your fingers around the shape of your phone at the far end of the couch. 

22%

Just enough to order then yeet this fucking thing into another room because there is no way in hell you are answering Nick’s calls.

But, as you scroll through your notifications, maybe you should have answered Frankie’s.

He had called sporadically, starting about two hours after you and Nick had left the dance hall, all the way until four in the morning. 

One text at 1AM: com e hang out wit us.i mis s you u 

You smile, despite the obviously drunken text. Frankie rarely texted, only if it was dire need – and apparently, you continuing to party with the boys at 1AM was very, very dire. Judging by the eight missed calls.

Eight missed calls, but only one voicemail. 

Like you’re about to settle down for some good TikTok scrolling, you lean back into the pillows, rubbing your eyes to clear the hazy fog, and press play. 

First, there’s noise. Lots of it. Country music and people laughing and singing. Clearly still at the dance hall. You wish for a minute it is a video instead because you’d pay hand over fist to see those guys falling all over each other.

But then comes Santi. Over the years, you’d picked up some Spanish here and there, mostly enough not to embarrass yourself if you ever went to Miami. 

But whatever Santi is saying, you’re not entirely sure it is Spanish, or any human language. 

“Comotuamiga, teruegoqueselodigas porfavornopuedo hacerestopormucho mástiempo. Estaríasmásfeliz y ellaestaríamásfeliz. Nomemiresasí, sabesqueloúnico quequiereesqu labeses y la beses y luegohagasotrascosas – ¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste?”

There’s a shuffling, hushed voices, the music still far too loud to make anything out.

“Déjame en paz, dude.” Frankie. Frankie, very very very drunk. “I’m gonna – I’m gonna say – voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. She’ll get it. I know–,”

“Then say something now because you’re leaving a voicemail!”

“Ah, mierda – um, baby?”

In two words and two filler words, Frankie’s whole demeanor changes. You can almost picture him curled around the phone, his hand cradling the phone to his ear as he rests his head against a wall. 

“Baby, listen – fuck, sorry, I’m starting all wrong. I shouldn’t even call you that – I shouldn’t call you ‘baby’ because you’re not mine. You’re not my baby or anyone else’s because you’re so fucking independent and I love that about you but I wish you were. Mine, I mean. Not a baby.”

You don’t even remember sitting up, but your feet are on the ground. You’ve dropped the phone onto the table in front of you, staring at it as if it’s been dripping poison into your ear. Your heart is pounding. 

There’s silence from Frankie for a second, the music still loud, but it’s dampened. You can hear Frankie breathing, swallow, and start again.

“You looked so fuckin’ good tonight. You look good every night but fuck, baby, that dress. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Even for a second . . . he doesn’t tell you that you look so fucking good enough, you know? You should hear it all the time. I wanna tell you – tell you all the time – he didn’t say it once. Not once and that’s a fucking crime. He makes you drink white wine when I know you fucking hate it – I know you, baby. I know you more than I know myself because you’re all I fucking think about. You’re in here, all the time, all up in my chest, my throat, my gut – and you can have it. You can have it. You can have all of me, if you just . . .”

His voice breaks and your fingers clench around the edge of the cushion. 

“If you just . . . look, I know this is so fucking outta line and I wanna say it to your face and I’m gonna but . . . when that fuckin’ moron forgets how good he has it, I’m gonna be there. Gonna be right there. Because –,”

And then like someone shoved a speaker right up against Frankie’s phone, as clear as day, you hear Benny yell:

“IF HE AIN’T HOLDING YOU TIGHT, IF HE AIN’T TREATIN’ YOU RIGHT, I’MA BE THE FIRST ONE CALLIN’ HIM CRAAAZY–,”

“Benny, fuck off!”

And then the call drops, along with it your stomach. In fact, it slides out of your body, slouches off the couch and melts into the floor.

Oh, Frankie, do you even mean a word of it?

The hangover rubbing your nerves raw, tears spring into your eyes, the silence and fear and terrible hope tightening like a band around your head and infinitely increasing the pressure in your temples. You want to cry but your eyes already feel too puffy. 

You’re stuck, frozen by every single possible outcome or single next step spinning out like chaotic webbing you can easily catch yourself on. 

This was a mistake, it had to be. He didn’t mean to call your phone. He had accidentally called you when he meant to call another girl . . . also with a boyfriend named Nick. Frankie, sweet Frankie, who you’ve all but outright begged to take an interest in you – said it with your eyes hundreds of times – Frankie couldn’t actually have feelings for you.

Not like you had for him. Not like the ones you’ve slowly plucked out of your ribs over the years because god, even just looking at him seared a scar across your heart. 

Fuck. Fuck!

You snatch up your phone, wiping your teary eyes and frantically hoping he might have said a name or anything – he couldn’t possibly have meant you – when three loud bangs on your front door sends your phone into the air and your heart into your throat.

The way he calls your name is frantic, verging on hysterical. In a daze, you glance at the clock. 9:04. Frankie’s had about four hours of sleep, if any at all.

“Please, open the door! We gotta talk – there’s something – there’s something on your phone you shouldn’t hear – please, baby, open up –,”

You stare at the phone on your floor. 

Don’t they always say you can’t tell the moments that irrevocably change your life until after they’re gone?

Not this time.

You open the door and either way, everything changes. 

“C’mon, please, let me explain.” His voice has quieted, no longer shaking, softer as though wounded. “Just five minutes and I’m gone. I swear. We can forget the whole thing –,”

You open the door to a hungover Frankie Morales, still in the same outfit you saw him last in, but his eyes are rimmed with black circles, his patchy beard even more patchy as if he had rubbed the bristle clean off. He reeks of beer, peanuts, and cigarette smoke. His shirt is loose, wrinkled, his belt isn’t even on all the way, and he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“What if I don’t want to forget it, Frankie?”

You see the realization strike him through the eyes, the throat, the chest, his gut, his brown eyes swimming with shame and horror. He leans over as if kicked and presses a hand against your doorway. His thumb rubs the corner and he swallows.

“So you listened to it already?”

“Yeah, I did.” He closes his eyes briefly, hanging his head, every apology in every language he knows sitting right behind his teeth. “But did you hear what I said?”

He frowns at you through those thick eyebrows. “What?”

“When I opened the door, did you hear what I said?”

“You said –,” that beautiful bottom lip parts from its sensual top and Frankie blinks at you. The oily blackness of shame has evaporated from his eyes, but that stormy fear rages on. 

You inhale, breath getting caught on every knot in your spine, and step back.

“We need to talk.” 

He glances once over his shoulder, as if taking in the hallway to your apartment for the last time, and he steps inside. Immediately his height and broadness fill out every empty space in your tiny living room and you’re launched back into the memory of when the boys came over for Christmas and there was hardly enough room for anyone, but somehow you all made it work and after four rounds of DDR, everyone was so tired and drunk, you passed out pillows and blankets and you spent your first adult Christmas at what could have been mistaken for a thirteen year old’s slumber party. It was one of the happiest times of your life.

His thick fingers clench and unclench when Frankie spies your phone on the floor, like a bomb waiting to go off. 

Your brain struggles to default to hostess mode because you can’t think of anything to say.

Do you want coffee?

Do you want some cereal? 

Do you want to– 

“Tell me what happened last night.” You surprise yourself, Frankie, and your whirring brain by cutting right to it. As with the first question when you opened the door to him, there’s something inside of you that has taken on wings, spread them wide, and threatens to soar out of your body. Frankie’s here, he’s here, and he said he wants you –

He called you baby.

You breathe in, trying to scrape up some courage from the bottom of your lungs, wishing in the back of your mind under everything else that you’d chosen literally anything else to go to bed in than your Tweedie Bird shirt from Six Flags. 

“I don’t understand, Frankie. Please help me understand.” 

With a monumental sigh, he rubs his wide hand across his face and up into his hair, his other hand lifting his cap up off his head so his fingers can dig into his curls. It’s only then that you realize Benny’s cowboy hat he wore last night is gone and his tried and true Standard Oil ball cap is back. Meaning he must have gone home at some point. When did he realize (or remember) that he’d left you that voicemail? 

“I’m gonna get my ass kicked,” he murmurs, eyes darting like a fox to your bedroom door. “Maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.”

“He’s not here.” This great thing arcs between you, the emptiness a presence and clarity all at the same time. 

“What do you mean? Where is he?”

“We broke up.”

“When? Why?”

“Last night, after we left the bar. We got into an argument. He doesn’t like the way . . .”

Frankie – physically, mentally, emotionally, fundamentally – overwhelms you. He’s across the room in an instant, closer than you think he’s ever been before. But maybe this is the first and only time you’ve ever allowed yourself to enjoy it. Revel in his closeness and let this caged feeling in your chest break free. You touch his chest with the flat of your palm, the size of it, the breadth of him, staggering. You literally feel weak at the knees. 

“He doesn’t like the way what?” His voice luxuriates in his throat – warm, deep. He sounds like what you imagine a hot spring feels like against your skin.

“He didn’t like the way I looked at you.” Your fingers make circles where they did into his shirt. His hands have found their way, after all this time, to your waist. “The way I always look at you, Frankie.”

His breath, subsequent to the ghost of his lips, across your forehead is so gentle it makes you close your eyes, to block out one sense to encourage another. 

You feel him swallow even though he’s a foot away from you.

“Why –,” he stops, and starts again, just like on the phone call, “why do you look at me . . . when you have him?”

“Oh, Frankie.” His grip on your waist tightens as if you’re about to disappear forever. “I took him because I can’t have you.” 

You blame the tears on the hangover, the headache, and the way he takes your chin between his thumb and knuckle. 

Grateful.

He’s looking at you, eyes soft, mouth curved into a disbelieving smile, with gratitude. 

“He’s the furthest thing from you because I tried to get you out of my system – I did – I promise. I can’t lose our friendship, Frankie, but it’s killing me . . . not having you. Nick said it was obvious the way I felt about you and that was a problem for our relationship, so he tried to make me choose between you and him and every time, without a doubt, I’ll always choose–,”

This is the right time, he supposes. 

Hand over your cheek, he holds you still in silence to press his mouth to yours. The final word of your sentence dies on his tongue, muffled by a soft groan of surprise. Your breath is terrible, your skin is oily and damp, he knows he stinks like the bottom of a wet bar, but he can’t find himself to care. Your mouth opens to take him and the hand on your cheek sinks to your neck as you both move past the initial shock of I’m finally getting to do this and you’re not pulling away and into an actual, proper, deep kiss that sends sparks into his toes. Your tongue marks the bottom of his mouth, your arms going around his neck like you want more – you need more – and Frankie pulls back.

Not only because he’s slightly dizzy but because he a) won’t fuck you for the first time on your living room floor and b) absolutely will not do it hungover. 

“Breakfast. Do you like . . . uhm, breakfast?” He can’t quite focus on a single spot on your face, eyes half-lidded and gaze blurred.

You giggle, letting his beard tickle your nose as you sneak your face into his neck. He sways a bit with you, his arms around your back, and you don’t think he’s even realizing what he’s doing.

“Yes, Frankie. I like breakfast. I eat it almost every day, in fact.”

He grunts, neck suddenly flushed, embarrassed. “Sorry, I mean –,”

“I know what you mean, baby.” You lean back and run your fingers through the thatch of curls at the back of his neck. Both of you are so grimy but you can’t care. “I’d love breakfast.”

Frankie smiles his Frankie smile and the thing in your chest is illuminated in gold. 

“How do you feel about conchas?” 

Translations:

Como tu amiga, te ruego que se lo digas. Por favor, no puedo hacer esto por mucho más tiempo. Estarías más feliz y ella estaría más feliz. No me mires así, sabes que lo único que quiere es que la beses y la beses y luego hagas otras cosas. = As your friend, I beg you to tell her. Please, I can't do this for much longer. You would be happier and she would be happier. Don't look at me like that, you know all she wants is for you to kiss her and kiss her and then do other things.

¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste? = Idiot! Did you call her?

Déjame en paz. Voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. = Leave me alone. I am going to tell her. She will know.

[thenationofzaun]

Vi and Jinx's Bunny Toy

I was thinking about how bizarre it is that Vi thinks Jinx is dead, and we're meant to see this as a positive thing for her character. The way the writers explain it, Vi will never be able to give up on her family and thus will never be able to choose between Jinx and Caitlyn. So Jinx makes the choice for her and removes herself from the equation, "freeing" Vi from the burden of having Jinx in her life so she can be happy with Caitlyn. This is so unsatisfying to me for a number of reasons:

1) Caitlyn is a godawful partner and the Caitvi relationship is such an equal, abusive shitshow that there's no way I can see Vi ending up in the Kiramman's gilded cage as positive. And the implication at the end that Caitlyn suspects Jinx is alive but is going to keep this hidden from Vi so she can have Vi to herself makes it even worse.

2) The whole "Vi can never give up on her family" doesn't land because Vi as a character is extremely inconsistent in this regard. One second she's letting her girlfriend take kill shots at Jinx, the next second she's shielding Jinx from an explosion, then she's hugging Jinx in the jail cell, then she's shit-talking Jinx for refusing to fight for Piltover even though she's obviously crippled by grief after losing Isha. The extent to which Vi cares about her sister changes every 5 seconds with barely any coherency in the writing.

3) The idea that Jinx is too much of a burden on Vi and Vi would be better off if she were DEAD is............. gross to me.

4) Vi is robbed of any character development. It would be way more powerful to me if Vi accepted that Jinx has grown into her own person and has to forge her own path in life whether that includes Vi or not. Which Vi DOES in S2E5 ("Why did you come get me? You don't actually need my help. You haven't for a long time.") Vi has shown already that she IS capable of this character development! But then the writers just make her regress and now apparently she's incapable of letting her sister go her own separate way and has to be duped into thinking Jinx is dead? Bruh.

So I was thinking about all this, and I thought, the ending would work so much better for me if Jinx left some sort of message or hint for Vi to let her know she's alive, and she just needs time away from Zaun and Piltover. Remember their bunny toy? The one that a bully stole from little kid Vi and threw onto the power lines, then Vi got it back to give to Powder in S1E2, then Jinx kept it with her all throughout Season 1?

I wish Jinx had left this for Vi somewhere Vi would definitely find it. Maybe back at Vi's apartment or something. Imagine Vi goes back there to pack her things to move in with Caitlyn, and she finds her old toy sitting on her dresser. Preferrably with a note from Jinx explaining everything. This way Vi would know her sister is alive, she'd have some character development in accepting her sister has gone on her own journey, and it'd bring the bunny toy full circle all the way back to its original owner. First Vi gave it to Jinx in Season 1 to say goodbye before Vi turned herself in to Piltover, now Jinx gives it to Vi to say goodbye as she leaves Piltover behind. I would also have liked for the show to end on something Vi and Jinx related rather than Vi and Caitlyn. The sisters are the heart of the show. It should have ended with them.

[linkons-most-wanted]

I like your Sylus analysis so much and adore our dragon with all my heart but I steel don't understand why he acted so mean towards mc in the n 109 zone in the beginning 😭 and also it feels like he tried to return his old mc because he loved her but not mc from main story line 😔

Thank you for this ask!! This was actually perfect timing since I was just getting back into working on my Sylus PoV for Long Awaited Revelry which gets into allll this. And of course I will yammer about it endlessly whenever given the chance--this ended up becoming an essay. 😅

Storytelling and genre choices

First, I feel like I need to address the sort of "meta" reason--that is, the storytelling reason. The simplest answer is... it's hot. 🙈 While I'd say Sylus x MC isn't dark enough for most dark romance connoisseurs, his character leans in that direction, so there's a bit of meanness for the fun of it. I'm happy to go into more detail on that--and how liking meanness/darker themes in romance fiction is NOT the same as wanting/deserving those things IRL--but I'll leave it there for now so this doesn't get too long.

So, all that said, good writing hides that meta-layer well by giving you a story you totally believe, and imo the writers for Sylus do a great job of selling it.

MC's curse really is a curse

The biggest thing that stands out to me is how Beyond Cloudfall leaves off. Sorceress MC is being a bit selfish and vindictive (and we love that for her). He's about to be able to go to eternal rest knowing that he managed to defy his fate to kill his beloved. Then Sorceress MC says, "you're about to leave me alone, so I'm going to make you suffer through this same loneliness." I think we can be confident that by the time Sylus is able to "manifest" again, Sorceress MC is gone. There's a theme in Beyond Cloudfall of "if you kill them, they can't suffer" so her keeping him alive to suffer is pretty explicitly intended. (It's a romantic sort of vindictiveness, of course, but it's still vindictive.)

So Sylus is searching the galaxy for her, dealing with this intense love and also intense bitterness, perhaps even hate. (There's the saying that the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference. I really like playing with this idea of love and hate as two sides of the same coin with Sylus x mc.) All the years, all the boredom, all the loneliness, all the pain--she did that to him. On purpose. (It can be tempting to shy away from this, but imo the entire point of Sorceress MC is the power inherent in claiming our own dark desires and being honest about them. Another thing I could write a whole essay on.)

We now have canon confirmation that Sylus was in the N109 Zone by 2036, meaning that by the time they reconnect in 2049, he's been in the N109 Zone waiting for her for at least thirteen years, not to mention the years (or decades or centuries) as a space pirate before that.

When they do meet, Sylus tells her that she owes him "a curtain call grander than death itself". That is, he's not delighted that their reunion means he'll be happy again. He's bitter. He's over being immortal. She's his destined arch-nemesis and maybe she'll finally kill him properly this time. But of course, all those emotions collide with the fact that he still loves her, still cares about her, still on some level wants to treat her tenderly. And we see this conflict in his actions.

Adjusting to a different version of MC

I don't think it's quite right to say that Sylus doesn't love main-timeline MC and is trying to turn her into Sorceress MC. It's moreso that his love and history with Sorceress MC collides with the new reality of main-timeline MC. On some level, he expects to be able to step into their old dynamic, which is only natural. But the key things he loved about Sorceress MC are apparent immediately--her audacity, her stubbornness, her fire for life, her refusal to live by others' rules, etc.

The first thing Dragon Sylus says to MC in Beyond Cloudfall is "I like your eyes. They are beautiful… In them, I can see your hatred, defiance, and greed for life." So when she looks at him in the parlor, he sees all those things--her hatred for him (she thinks he's insane), her defiance of him (she refuses to cower and comply) and her greed for life (which sent her into the N109 Zone to claim her power, despite that being a suicide mission).

She is the same in all the ways that matter to him--and that's part of the problem. It intensifies the desire he has to get her to remember him, so he tramples over boundaries in an effort to recreate events from their past (using his eye to stir her greed for his power, having her shoot him being analogous to the sword, their antagonistic dynamic, etc).

But that being said, if all these things are being done out of love, why be so violent and demanding? That leads to the next point...

Sylus doesn't have "normal" friendship experience

The other key factor is that Sylus has not ever had a friendship or relationship with a "normal" person before. If people are brave enough to approach him, they're not going to be dissuaded by him being grumpy, pushy, caustic, etc. And, in fact, Sorceress MC meets him in this state and ends up falling for him anyway. So, as far as he's aware, she likes his forceful, demanding draconic ways. Being at each others' throats was part of how they fell for each other in the first place.

So, when they meet again, Sylus is probably assuming she's along for the ride. To him, her wanting to kill him is basically flirting. He's showing her all the traits she fell for before--but this MC has a very different early life. She wasn't shunned by society, she was raised by a loving adoptive parent. She has friends, a job, a purpose.

On some level, Sylus doesn't yet understand that it's a problem that MC is afraid of him, since that's how things started before. It's only when Philip tells him that she's disgusted or repulsed by him that he slams on the breaks. Teasing her, pushing her, making her angry--that's their dynamic. But for her to be disgusted? He suddenly realizes that there's a problem.

And, to his credit, we see him pivot and take that into account very quickly. He stops pushing the resonance issue. He figures out what she wants and helps her get it. Yes, he still tells her she needs to prove herself, which leads to my next point...

Why MC needs to prove herself

MC is stubbornly, stupidly insisting on inserting herself into the middle of an extremely dangerous place she's too naive to navigate. It's important to remember how very, very badly getting herself kidnapped into the N109 Zone could have gone. Philip says as much to her as well--and not because Sylus told him to. When Sylus gives her a hard time, wondering if he over-estimated her intellect, he's being blunt but not unfair. For example, she could not have dealt with the Wanderer attack at Elysium by herself, and she would have been up against that or worse if she'd made it any further by herself. As we see in other memories, she's terrible at lying and bluffing at this point.

Sylus has reason to be concerned that she's going to get herself captured or killed if he takes her to the Protocore Auction. It would be irresponsible of him to take her into that environment, where he can't be in two places at once, if she couldn't in some way hold her own. Captivating Moment (the myth) completes this arc where MC fully surprises Sylus and proves herself, and we get his iconic line, "With you here, I only need one plan." (That is, he can trust her and together they can overcome any obstacle.)

Zooming in on the parlor scene

In my opinion, most of Sylus's choices in Long Awaited Revelry can be understood vis-a-vis the above insights. But there's one specific decision that I think deserves a little bit more analysis--his decision to keep her under his mind control for those first 3 days when he's trying to force the resonance.

First off, I think it's meant to be very clear that he's using mind-control to keep her mostly unconscious in that time because there's some similar language in LAR to the Land of Lost anecdote when he's dealing with the Overlord. The writers are really intentional in their parallels, so I think we're being explicitly shown that he can and will keep someone in his thrall for a while.

But why? This requires more reading between the lines, though I'm fairly confident in my interpretation. I think Sylus's main two reasons for this choice are 1) he truly believes that if they resonate, she'll remember him and 2) he knows that if she sleeps normally, she'll have terrible nightmares, so the thrall state is intended as a mercy (like she does when he finally puts her in bed and has Luke and Kieran watch over her).

To Sylus--who is at his most impatient and demanding at the start of LAR--explaining himself is pointless if she won't believe him until he remembers. So, he's trying to take the most direct path. It's always worked for him before, after all. Maybe it'll even help jog her memory.

I really recommend watching closely his reaction in that parlor scene. He closes his eyes and focuses when they're trying to resonate. That little wisp of golden power is new--their previous attempts haven't yielded even that. Sorceress MC's power is depicted as that golden light, as is her soul--so touching that power would be achingly familiar. You see him hold her hand for a moment, feeling it again--but then he catches himself, dropping her hand. That power is so much weaker than it was before--that's why he stops trying to resonate and decides that the issue must be that something is blocking or suppressing her power, hence the trip to Philip at the Odd Workshop.

He's laser-focused on getting her to remember, sure that this will be the solution--until Philip informs him that he's actively repulsive to her. Sylus, who always thinks tens steps ahead, who always considers every contingency, suddenly realizes he's out of his depth. He's miscalculated. He realizes how selfish he's being--and this realization causes him to act differently. There's no doubt that Sylus made many mistakes in his early treatment of current-timeline MC, and yet his humility and decisiveness in changing his behavior shows strong character.

I think the most profound example of him changing course is that when they finally do resonate and she remembers more about him, instead of jumping on that and demanding more, he remains collected. Tells her it's not a big deal--it'll happen more. We see in Continuous Symphony also that he's waiting, he's hoping, but he's no longer pushing. And then in Razor's Dance, he's realizing that maybe her complaints aren't as flirtatious as he thought. Maybe this version of her doesn't want to be in his life. And so, without guilt-tripping or throwing a fit, he tells her clearly that he'll leave her alone if she wants to be left alone. And so she's truly given the choice of whether to continue the relationship or not. It's a poignant moment that, to me, fully sets right all his earlier mistakes and pushiness.

In conclusion

When they first reconnect, Sylus is dealing with the intensity of seeing her again, of her being the same in all the ways that matter, yet having her not remember him. That's painful enough, then add on his feelings of bitterness from the decades (or centuries) of waiting. No matter how mature or collected you are, that surge of emotion is enough to overwhelm anyone and cause them to not be their best self.

He expects his pushy behavior to be as endearing to her now as it was back then--after all, their whole thing was being true to their desires. He desperately hopes that resonating will restore her memory, and he remains laser focused on this goal to the detriment of their earlier relationship.

Sylus's love and essential maturity is revealed by how quickly and profoundly he course-corrects when Philip warns him that MC is repulsed by him. His personality doesn't change--he's still teasing, demanding, sly, smug, etc. (Which we love.) But he takes a big step back and focuses on helping MC get what she wants (the Aether Core) not taking from her what he wants (for her to remember him).

He realizes that asking this version of MC to remember their traumatic past together is too selfish, even for him. His initially mean and demanding behavior reveals just how badly he wants that connection--which makes his willingness to set that aside for MC even more profound. Ironically, we don't get to see the depth of his love without that indiscretion.

Sylus does a profoundly difficult thing--he grieves the loss of their past life together so that he can embrace this new reality with her--falling in love with the person she is now, the person she's become. The one that was quietly transplanted to a garden far away, but has still bloomed beautifully. 🥹

[yoru-no-seiiki]

DOG BLOOD （狗血）

YANDERE! PROTAGONIST x SADISTIC! LOVE INTEREST! READER

tw/cw: everyone’s gender is up to interpretation. dddne, yandere themes, violence, suggestive content

but what if you were never the villain, but a love interest.

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS ARE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN FROM ALL MY POSTS!! LEAVE OR I WILL BLOCK!!

CASSIEL was a bored, lonely person. Through countless of timelines and people they’ve been with, none have piqued their interest in the slightest.

Even you.

But as a love interest, it was your job to keep them well — interested. Engaged. Entertained by the thought of romancing you.

But they never did.

They always ended up completing the game without touching a single person. Not any of the romancable options nor even the concubines offered to them in their conquests. A solitary existence.

You could only smile as a façade to hide your frustrations, as in some timelines they saw it fit to kill you.

“You . . . “

Your lines were as followed,

‘You can use me however you’d like.’

You said it at least a hundred times now. Your diction, tone, gestures were always perfectly replicated. It was the one line you could say that didn’t result in a horrific torture and death.

But this time, you felt nothing. Fear left you long ago. What was the point of being careful when you knew every outcome of every action and decision?

“You’re bored are you not?”

Cassiel’s head swiveled so quickly you were almost worried it would come right off.

You did the same thing you always did. You climbed their lap. Your hand around atop shoulders. Your face next to their ear.

In many other lifetimes, it’d end with them shoving you off. Maybe even, breaking your legs before outright killing you.

And yet this time it was as different. Stiff.

Your pointer finger grazes across their jaw, to their lips, and then their nose bride as you studied their beautifully crafted features. The protagonist was the Gods’ favorite after all, you never truly had the opportunity to savor that perfectly sculpted face.

“Lie down, be good, and we can have some fun. Shall we, your highness?”

The night was long. The two of you were inexperienced, but you weren’t about to let go of such an opportunity — your stamina be damned.

Adrenaline carried you throughout the night. Their highness’s wet eyelashes and swollen lips were another point of motivation. As they came undone underneath you several times, it all ended when curiosity took hold of you once more and your hands reached their throat.

And you squeezed. Wrenched all the air out of their throat.

Finally, a familiar sight greets you as the world collapses. Because what would it be without its protagonist?

[ RESET COMPLETE : BEGINNING CONSCIOUSNESS UPLOAD ]

You awoke again, back to the same place and time. Your eyes flicked to your hands.

Your heart fluttered.

You reached climax after climax with the royal. The protagonist you sought after for what felt like hundreds and thousands of years.

But nothing felt better than the moment you ended their life instead. The power you felt. You were utterly drunk on it.

In any case, after that event, you slowly began realized how soft the protagonist truly was. The conqueror of the world melted like a puddle when you took the charge, and almost evaporated when you’d coddle or pamper them afterwards.

You also slowly began to realize how much more you needed to get that high once more. Simply killing them wasn’t enough. You wanted them to feel betrayed. You wanted them to scream in horror once you flayed them alive. You wanted them to cry out in fear when you’d chase them down and re-create those times when they’d torture you.

But then, you would catch a smile here and there. In moments where it wasn’t supposed to exist. Cassiel moaning during the times you’d cut open his arms in an attempt to study their body’s anatomy better wasn’t something the pleased you at all. It took away the pleasure of your hobby. The joy you’d receive when you had them to play within your hands. The ecstasy of being the one to bring about pain to your torturer’s favorite.

“Stop making sounds you’re distracting me.”

“My . . . hah . . . apologies. It just feels . . . amazing.”

You paused. Your movements frozen as your mind processed what they just said.

Tch. Turn-off.

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