#more hands that beg not to be given close scrutiny

[toolateforus]

Satellite-Officer Does His Work Lying On Bed Like Schoolgirl

[pseudowho]

In Flagrante Delicto

Higuruma Hiromi will fight your help and guidance every step of the way...until one night, he catches himself needing you desperately.

An AU where Higuruma is forced into the employ of Jujutsu High after his role in The Culling Games.

Warnings: 18+, sex pollen!, angst, smut and fluff, Hiromi being willing to argue with anyone about anything, with a little bit of sex pollen needy Hiromi

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Higuruma Hiromi was undoubtedly the most difficult mission you had ever been given.

Tasked with walking Hiromi through 'the systems' of the Jujutsu world, you, a sorcerer who had been introduced to this world more conventionally, had absolutely nothing in your armory to counter the veritable force of nature that this man was.

You argued, constantly. He forced you to acknowledge the hideous insufficiencies and injustices in the system you worked for, at the most inconvenient of times.

Your patience was a finely tuned machine. You had perfected your ability to debate and discuss the ethics and morality of Jujutsu sorcerer activity, both legal and illegal, over a number of years.

But Higuruma Hiromi had driven you to drink. One evening, sat at home, deeper into a bottle of wine than you had anticipated, you received two messages in quick succession; one, from Yaga ("Mission with Higuruma tomorrow. Details to be sent over by Ijichi") and the other, from Higuruma ("I look forward to continuing our discussion tomorrow"), and you groaned, sinking the rest of your wine, and hoping it was enough to get you through the chaos of Higuruma's mind.

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"So," you started, approaching the subway with Higuruma, "lots of late-night civilian disappearances on this one line," you pointed to your map, "and two Second-Grade sorcerers have already disappeared in separate incidents. What does this tell you?"

Higuruma was silent, musing as he tapped his gavel lightly against his hip. Reaching his conclusion, he turned to you with a wry smile: "That your higher-ups knew, by the first Second-Grade's death, that a Second-Grade wasn't strong enough, but sent another Second-Grade anyway."

You sighed, deep and weary, "While that's probably true, we don't know they're dead--"

"Well they're not playing Scrabble, are they--"

"--and that's not the answer I'm looking for--"

"Well, I'm not here to be charitable, or unrealistic."

"Oh, are you here to be insufferable?"

Higuruma half-laughed, "Preferably. God forbid I should be sufferable--"

You swiped his gavel from his hand, and tapped him sharply on the forehead, "Higuruma. Please. I'm begging you," you clasped your hands for dramatic effect as he assessed you, a sardonic half-smile in his hooded eyes, "the quicker you play the game, the quicker you and I can go our separate ways and you can just go out and do this by yourself."

Higuruma's lip curled up in bitter distaste. He wiggled one finger into the knot of his tie, loosening it with an irritated twist of his neck. "I'll reiterate," he said, considered and flat, "that my joining the Jujutsu sorcerer's established hierarchy is a Hobson's Choice."

"If I want to go about making some positive changes to this cesspit," he spat, "I have to prove myself trustworthy in their eyes, and atone for my crimes by playing their game." Higuruma approached you, his chin tilted down as he looked through you, with sombre eyes.

"And the sad thing is," he said softly, now inches from you as you burned under his scrutiny, "you've been playing their game for so many years, you've convinced yourself that the rules are fair."

You swallowed, meeting his gaze; your agreement with him passed as an unspoken pact, but you were, as of yet, unable to betray your established part in this system with words. Higuruma nodded, slowly, understanding.

"So I'll inconvenience you as little as possible," he reassured, "and try to be a good boy today." You closed your eyes, breathing in through your nose, and out through your mouth, counting to ten. Opening your eyes, you caught up to Higuruma, who was already halfway down the empty subway steps.

"Please don't go ahead without me," you pressed, "I know you're not completely inexperienced, but fighting Curses is much more nuanced than fighting Curse-users."

"But they're brainless, right? By all means they're probably easier." You tilted your hand from side to side.

"They fight on instinct. We can be guilty of overthinking something that's primal for them. I'd never assume I can out-think evolution."

Higuruma hummed, satisfied with your answer. You were relieved to have averted another argument. Reaching the bottom of the steps together, your shadows were short in the low eerie glow of the empty subway system.

"So the victims got on a train, but never got off it," Higuruma confirmed with you.

"But it hasn't been the same train every time, so it seems to--"

"--pick a host. Right. And you've asked the station master to keep to the same train schedule tonight?"

"Mhm. No people around though."

"So, we could always just get on trains until we're attacked."

"That is completely reckless, and I won't--"

Higuruma breezed away down the corridor, his slim suited figure sloping away so lackadaisically that you felt annoyance bubble up in your throat.

"You don't have to come," he called back, relaxed and confident, "I've got this covered." You ran after him, grabbing his upper arm. He stopped, annoyed and impatient.

"Just...trust me," Higuruma urged, "try something new. You may be pleasantly surprised." He gripped your hand, firmly breaking your grip as he stared you down.

"How can I trust you? I barely know you."

"Then why are you worried about me?" He taunted, heated and scathing, "Not really what you lot do, is it? Worry about each other?"

"Well I worry about you," you snapped, "I worry about you every day and every night since they tasked me with taking care of you." You swallowed, embarrassed by your outburst. Higuruma hesitated briefly, looking...touched? He spun round, his back to you now, tapping his gavel in irritation against his thigh.

"That settles it then," he said, convicted and grabbing you by the hand, "you've got to come with me. It would be cruel not to let you worry. Come along."

You were pulled through the dim corridors of the subway system by Higuruma Hiromi, protesting the whole way.

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"-- so stupid, you could have died--"

"-- but I didn't, and I'm fine, so stop worr--"

You slapped the wounded shoulder you were currently patching up for Higuruma, and he made a noise of protest as you scolded him, "Stop telling me to stop worrying," you cried, pressing gauze to his cuts, "because I've worked in this shitty system for years, so I know that if we don't worry about each other, nobody else will worry about us, and you have no regard for your own wellbeing--"

Higuruma's head snapped up, smiling, "So you agree," he pressed, excited by the new development, "that the higher-ups have no intention to safeguard any of you--"

"--I never disagreed with you, Higuruma. You just...missed the point. As usual."

Higuruma turned, unable to look you in the eye as you continued dabbing the back of his shoulder. His eyes beseeched you to continue, dark and quizzical.

You continued, your voice tight and upset, "Whether or not we fight back against the higher-ups, makes no difference. Almost every sorcerer in this wreck would go where they were sent anyway, because at least we have a chance of defending ourselves against the monsters out here."

You sighed, taping bandages down, Higuruma's bleeding now settled, "So that's what I decided to do. I expend my energy protecting the non-sorcerers because they're the weakest link in the equation. They can't defend themselves. It's the right thing to do. I'll fight the big fight on my days off."

Higuruma was quiet, allowing himself to be chastised. He rolled the gavel between his hands. He suddenly felt so exposed, shirtless in front of you, feeling every touch of your soft hands as they assessed his ribs, and he gulped, unusually unable to find the words to say.

"Do you, uh...do you want to grab a drink? After we're done here," he offered weakly, eager to spend time with you outside of these roles you were forced to play.

"No," you emphasised as he rubbed his nose, "you'd probably tell me my drink order was wrong." Higuruma sunk his face into his hands, laughing.

"I'm not that bad--"

"You are dreadful. I love the...the passion you have, but I'm just...I'm tired. I'd rather go home." Higuruma nodded, thoroughly shot-down, respecting your refusal.

Sloping home that night, insisting he'd prefer to walk over being dropped home by Nitta, Higuruma considered he may have been fighting the wrong person for weeks now. Torn between 'playing the game' to get out from under your feet as soon as possible, and resisting becoming part of another broken, unjust system, Higuruma found himself erring unusually on the side which benefitted you over anyone else.

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In the midst of battle, you found yourself separated from Higuruma, cold dread seeping into your belly as you realised there was nobody else here to save him from himself. Distracted, you took a major hit, thrown by some sordid thrashing beast down an old brick staircase.

You had largely protected your body in swathes of your own Cursed-energy, but still had the breath forced out of your lungs as you had hit the wall below. The Curse, enormous and puce-coloured, roared down the stairs after you.

Trying to stand on a dice roll, your numbers came up short and you stumbled, heart lurching into your mouth.

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You and Higuruma had been assigned to clear out a growing populace of curses in an abandoned block of flats. Trying to talk to him, to plan tactics and methodology, Higuruma had seemed quietly indifferent towards you on the journey there. Refusing to engage with you on any serious level, he seemed almost bored of you, staring impassively out of the window throughout.

You tried not to be hurt, reminding yourself you were here to assess whether or not Higuruma was safe to act independently as a sorcerer. After his series of murders in the Culling Games and before, he was offered two choices: work for Jujutsu High, or refuse and face being hunted down and executed. But, he was an adult, and his safety was ultimately not your jurisdiction if he refused to take your advice.

And yet...the thought of his death by any means filled you with a sickly dread.

Because in reality, Higuruma represented the idealism, the ethical standards that working within a broken system had steadily stamped out of you. Your anger towards him was a projection of your own shame at having fallen into line when you wanted nothing more than to rebel, to protect the weak, including your own colleagues, despite the resistance.

Even worse, Higuruma saw this, and his disappointment in you only deepened your shame. You were meant to be 'helping him' to adapt to your world, and you felt sick to your stomach as you tried to contaminate this man. You felt sicker still as you felt yourself creep closer and closer to his way of thinking, wondering if you fit in this world anymore.

You couldn't tell him how deeply you admired him for being everything you had fallen so far from.

After efforts to interact had fallen flat, you sat beside each other in stony silence. Still, you felt, despite his feigned indifference, anger poured off him, not cold, but white hot.

"What have I...what have I done?" you asked, afraid of the answer.

Higuruma looked at you, eyes still glowing like little coals in his impassive face; "What have you done?" he retaliated. You sighed, a short breath out of your nose.

"...you're not ready to be sent out alone yet. You're reckless and you've got by on luck so far, but--"

"--so you saw fit to carry on this babysitting charade by telling the higher-ups that I'm a danger to myself and others around me." Higuruma scowled at you, not trying to conceal his fury anymore. You blushed, feeling the shame twist in your throat.

"...you...assume you're going to come out on top in every fight, so you don't assess the danger before you jump in, and it's just a matter of time before-- before you--" You reached out to take his hand, desperate to communicate your fear for him in a way he would understand. Higuruma moved to pull his hand away and you held on harder.

"I just...couldn't stand to see you die some pointless death," you urged, "I need-- we need men like you." Higuruma appeared unmoved, silently allowing you to squeeze his hand. Eventually, his long fingers slowly closed around yours.

"I don't think anyone's cared about me this much in years," he replied, as lightly as if he were talking about the weather.

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Brickwork and rubble clouded your vision as the floor rumbled beneath your feet, the Curse blown sideways, shunted by a comedically large gavel. You felt a taut-muscled arm loop around your waist, yanking you to stand-- "get up, come on-- NOW!" -- and you half-ran, half-staggered through a devastated corridor. Your heart sank as you spotted the staircases downward completely collapsed, leaving you both stranded on the fifth floor.

Higuruma appeared, dusty and spitting, wiping residue out of his eyes and slamming his hand to a button on the wall. In a wild flurry, the Curse turned the corner, screeching and hissing, and with a *ping* the lift doors opened. Not looking back at you, Higuruma shoved you into the open lift, slamming his hand on the button again for the doors to close.

"No-- Higuruma! Hiromi!" You skidded across the lift on grazed knees, wedging your arm between the doors with a yell as they closed around it. The lift didn't move down, and you heard Higuruma's incoherent shout of rage at you as you forced the doors open, reaching out for him and dragging him in by the back of his collar, and hammering the 'close doors' button repeatedly as the Curse, still dazed and staggered, made its headlong rush towards you.

As you fell into the lift with Higuruma, you felt a hand press behind your head, its fine bones crunching as it cushioned your head's strike against the wall. You sat, slumped, Higuruma's body over yours in a protective cage, as the doors slid closed, denting inwards as the Curse hit them with a metallic thud, and a roar.

Silence. Higuruma, silent and seething, reached behind him to press another button. The lift started a smooth descent downwards.

"I had it," he spat, lips curled upwards, nose wrinkled in animated fury, "and you stopped me-- for what? Why?"

You gulped, coughing brick dust out of your lungs as you croaked, "You were lunch. You were that close to being killed--"

"--do you really think I'm that inept--"

"--you're not inept, just inexperienced--"

"I'm not a fucking child!" Higuruma's voice rang, deep and final, around the lift. The lift pinged as you reached the bottom floor. You sighed again, pushing him away from you as you stood, moving towards the doors.

"We'll regroup and consider our plan of--" A wiry arm blocked your path, holding down the 'close doors' button.

"We are not finished," Higuruma pressed, enunciating every syllable with gritted teeth. You rested your hand on his forearm, gentle and weary.

"I am. I'm finished." Higuruma stared at you incredulously, hackles still raised. You continued, "I can't coddle you anymore. You're a smart man, you're happy you know what you're doing. So I'm finished. I won't keep fighting you for your own life, Hiromi."

Hiromi deflated slowly, unable to fight without an opponent. His lip still curled, he refused to move his arm from blocking the door, looking away from you as his fury simmered low.

"I'll clear you with the higher ups. Do what you want to finish up here. I'm done." Still, Hiromi didn't let you go, silent as your hand stayed tenderly on his forearm. A few heartbeats passed between you.

"The thing is, Hiromi...you've already lost the fight when you think the result is the most important thing. Being willing to put yourself forward to defend people, going through that fight for them...that's the really noble thing. Any idiot can win a fight. It takes guts to stand up and decide to fight in the first place."

Reaching past Hiromi to press the 'open doors' button, the lift flooded with daylight, muted by the external veil. Hiromi's arm dropped, beaten. As you moved to step past him, his fingers gently tangled in yours, your hands ghosting together between your bodies.

"Can I...can I buy you a drink? To thank you." You swallowed, throat thick with conflicting emotion. You hesitated, then nodded. Hiromi smiled down at you, something unreadably tender in his eyes.

He leaned slowly down, and pressed a soft-lipped kiss to your forehead; "thank you."

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You didn't get to go out for that drink. After giving the higher-ups your approval for Higuruma to be released, he was thrown headlong into mission after mission.

You sent him occasional texts, and he messaged back, usually dry witty commentaries on the jobs he'd been given. You found yourself missing him, feeling little golden bubbles of joy when your phone pinged, his name on the screen.

It had been a week since your disastrous argument in the lift. You still felt guilty for having abandoned him, still not feeling he was ready, but knowing he had to find his own footing at this point.

Late one evening, you dried your hair with a towel, padding around your apartment in just your underwear as you got ready for bed. You jumped and squeaked with alarm as someone hammered on your door. Grabbing an oversized t-shirt from a pile of laundry, you pulled it on over your head. Approaching the door, cautious, you were alarmed to feel--

"...Hiromi?"

Hiromi leaned against your doorframe, his head on his forearm, and he looked at you with feverish eyes, panting, apparently in pain. His dishevelled suit, and a blossoming bruise beneath his right eye placed him as a man fresh from a mission.

Without hesitation, you gripped Hiromi by the hand and pulled him into your apartment, closing and locking the door. Immediately your hands grasped his cheeks, looking deeply into his eyes, a look of such sweet concern on your face that he gulped, overwhelmed, desperate.

"What happened? Why are you here? You should get to Shoko--"

"I don't want Shoko," he spat, chest heaving as he turned away again, pressing his forehead to his fist against the door, "I want...I want you." You blushed, pleased he had come to you for help, but your medical knowledge was limited.

"What happened?" You asked again, hands cautiously ghosting over his abdomen, checking for injuries.

Hiromi groaned, low and slow, as he burned from the inside out. Your touch shot through him like a thousand arrows. His fingers seared his skin as he fumbled, trying to undo his own tie, and you took pity, reaching round him, your small hands cool against his neck as you removed his tie for him. You felt him tremble against you.

As his collar opened, you spotted a narrow, inch-long dart in his neck, like a cactus prickle. Curious, you plucked it out and dropped it onto the sideboard near the door. Is he poisoned? You questioned yourself in a panic, and you grasped him by the cheeks again, looking deeply into his eyes, terrified you'd watch the life ebb out of him, unable to do anything.

"What do you...what are you feeling?" You took him by the hand, guiding him to your sofa and forcing him to sit as you stood in front of him. His sloped eyes were narrow, taking in your barely-covered legs, the barely-concealed nubs of your nipples beneath the t-shirt fabric. Hiromi reached out with a shaking hand, grazing his fingers up your calf and your breath hitched.

"...Hiromi?" His hooded eyes flicked up to yours as his fingers stayed on your calf. Oh, you looked so uncertain, so concerned for him, and it was...delicious.

"It hurts," Hiromi croaked, "I need-- I-- I need--" His throat was tight, and you took him in, how desperate he looked, how needy, and the realisation clicked into place.

"You need...me?" Hiromi shuddered, recalling how he'd walked directly into an obvious trap while hunting down this godforsaken Curse, not taking in his surroundings, stubborn and certain in his ability to prevail--

"I'm sorry," he whimpered, cock throbbing, trapped against his thigh, his whole body burning from the inside out, "I was wrong."

"Oh, so you do know how to flirt," you teased and he huffed out a laugh, groaning again, in agony, and he begged, shameless, his head leant forward to press against your tummy as his hands crept up, eager to grasp your hips and pull you straight to his mouth.

"Please...please--" he whined, and you shivered feeling his hot breath on your belly through the fabric of your t-shirt, tangling your hands into his hair. Hiromi trembled, letting out a sandy growl against your clothes.

"Don't stop me, please," he urged, "I can't...I can't stop myself." He flipped your t-shirt up and you gasped, his strong hands sinking into the plush of your hips, holding you to his mouth, his tongue tasting you as he swiped open-mouthed kisses just above your underwear.

You felt sweet pleasure throb between your legs, all good sense thrown out of the window as you felt how deeply you had missed Hiromi, how ridiculously grateful you felt to be needed by him in this way, and you breathed to him, "You know I'd always help you."

Hiromi moaned his appreciation, his mouth now slipping down to the front of your underwear, and his tongue traced the shape of your pussy, groaning at the taste of you on the tip of his tongue. Your knees buckled, weak with the feeling of his mouth against you.

His lean arms hooked around the back of your knees, lifting them over his shoulders as he leaned you back against him. You cried out, when leaning forwards to grasp the back of the sofa, your clothed pussy pressed firmly against Hiromi's face.

You blushed as he breathed you in, his hips bucking instinctively upwards, aching to be inside you, cum heavy in his balls and desperate for release. His teeth grazed your pussy through your underwear, and he nuzzled into you, trying to part your folds with his nose through the fabric. Impatient, and feeling your hand sink into his hair again, he used two fingers to swipe your underwear aside, sinking his tongue instantly between your folds.

You whined so beautifully above him, and he undid his trousers, pulling his cock out of his trousers, gripping it tightly as he rubbed his nose and tongue urgently between your soft lips. Hiromi began to stroke himself furiously, squeezing hard at the tip, pre-cum dripping down his fist, shivering at the pleasure.

You allowed Hiromi to use you, your keening voice rising as he latched onto your clit, sinking two fingers into your pussy with no warning, thrusting them roughly into you. You bucked your hips against his face as he whimpered his approval. You blushed as you heard the frantic plaps of Hiromi pleasuring himself, your brain foggy with bliss.

Hiromi's fingers bullied into you, desperate to study you, imagining how deliciously his cock would stretch those plush walls. The constant pressure of his fingers against your cervix and his desperately nuzzling tongue and nose between your folds had you reeling, humping his face as you trembled and shook, Hiromi encouraging it as you approached your orgasm.

Your pleasure peaked, sharp and sweet, and Hiromi held you tightly to his face, still determined to taste you, drawing your orgasm out until you quivered, overstimulated, feeling your heart pulse between your legs. As Hiromi shook from his own orgasm, but not at all relieved and panting, cum dribbling down the front of his shirt, he dropped you into his lap.

You gripped the front of his shirt, his cum sticky against your belly. His hand tangled into your hair as he crushed his lips to yours with bruising force, forcing you to taste him. Nipping your bottom lip between his teeth, he whispered, begging again.

"Inside you...please, please..." You nodded again, and Hiromi threw your shirt off over your head, leaning back to drink you in; panting, trembling, straddling his lap, what the fuck was he playing at by fighting with you for so long--

Your hands worked nimbly at the buttons of his shirt, unbuttoning and pressing it down his arms and you leaned forwards, almost as hungry as him as you took his nipple into your mouth. Hiromi hissed with delight, kicking off his trousers, shoes and socks and rocking your hips against him.

Hiromi grasped your hands, pressing one to his cheek, and one to his chest, forcing you to lean forwards as you shamelessly cast your eyes up and down his lean body, his muscles twitching with the electricity of your core on his aching cock. His teeth scraped against the thin skin on the inside of your wrist, your shivers like a sedative to him.

His eyes burned into yours, hot and pleading in the dark. His body was a furnace against yours, desperately craving a cure for the agony he was in. You lifted one leg off him, intending to stand to remove your underwear, but stopped as Hiromi all but sobbed against your wrist at the sudden loss of pressure on his cock, throbbing and sticky with cum against the neat, black hair on his belly. His fine-boned hands pressed you hard against him, before methodically tearing the sides of your underwear, flinging the scrap of fabric to the side.

When you grasped his aching cock, Hiromi was almost blinded by the anticipation, his hands flinging out sideways to grip the fabric of the sofa, and he panted, whimpering and pleading as you rubbed the angry red head of his cock between your folds, gathering wetness.

When you sank slowly down onto him, crying out as your walls fluttered around him like wet velvet, Hiromi came again with  a shout, faint with bliss and temporary relief, feeling his own seed drip out of you and onto his thighs. He growled in frustration when, after his cock had stopped twitching inside you, he felt the need to cum again build up within his belly, overwhelming him with an almost violent urge to pursue it.

"...Hiromi? Do you...is this...?" You rode him slowly as he twisted in pleasure and anguish beneath you. Reaching up to grasp your breasts like stress-balls, Hiromi shook his head desperately at you, feeling pathetic and helpless. He was corseted by his intense need to not hurt you. You leaned into him, whispering reassurance and soft nothings in his ear.

Hiromi couldn't take it anymore. Standing up, holding himself inside you and locking your ankles behind his hips, he flipped you over, crushing your thighs to your chest. Grasping the back of the sofa, Hiromi snapped his hips against yours with determined precision, his shoulders tight and mouth slack as with every thrust he felt the urge to push harder, deeper, to empty himself inside you again and again, until you were putty in his hands, until he had cleansed himself of this unscratchable itch.

You clawed for purchase on anything as you were pounded into the sofa, drunk on the sensation of being so full, your insides feeling thrillingly bruised, the tenderness building, slow and intense. Reaching up, you plaited your fingers in Hiromi's at the top of the sofa, and he leaned down, nipping and kissing your knuckles in grateful affection.

The air was filled with the wet slaps of your joint bodies, and Hiromi's constant soft whimpers as you came again, this orgasm burning through your body as you hiccuped, tears streaming into your hair.

"Please please please...please, please," Hiromi begged as his next orgasm surged ruinously through him, dropping him to his knees on the edge of the sofa. Hiromi felt his senses return to him with each pulse of cum that left his body, relieved...for now.

Weak, exhausted, Hiromi flopped onto you, wrapping your arms and legs around him in a full-body embrace, suddenly feeling so touch-starved. Hiromi almost wept his thanks into your hair, and you stroked his hair in soft circles with your nails, all reassurance and acceptance.

By the time you had made it to your bedroom and slipped, sticky and spent, between the soft covers, Hiromi's eyes had returned to you, hungry and burning, his fingers stroking through your folds, fascinated by the drips of his seed still leaking out of you. He had flipped you over and pinned you prone to the mattress, sinking into you and moaning your praises as you had clenched, trembling with overstimulation, sucking his cock into your aching body.

Throughout the night, his relief had waned, with longer and longer gaps between him seeking out the warm acceptance of your body. You would wake to his body flush against yours, Hiromi lifting your leg over his hip as he sunk into you, mewling and panting in the night.

Finally, you had woken with sunlight streaming through the windows, Hiromi draped around you, looking soft and exhausted as he slept; Hiromi woke to the smell of coffee and you, very much ready to be cared for...and, occasionally, argued with.

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Ugh, yes. Debate me, lawyer daddy.

[a-sky-of-diamonds]

Disjointed but detailed notes about the new lore on Martyn’s stream

I took a lot of notes while watching the VOD of Martyn’s lore stream, and thought I’d share them if anyone’s interested? They may not entirely make sense in the order they’re in, they were mainly for me to keep track of everything, but why not share it

Notes under the cut because it’s long:

General:

Watchers pay a particular interest in him because

This is why why Pearl asked Martyn if he had Tilly, etc. Martyn showing Pearl Tilly’s ashes really hurt and made Pearl go on a downward slope, and in recognition of that it was the first time the Listeners were able to step in and do a temporary swap, to lighten the load on Pearl’s soul by having Lizzie be the embodiment of it. This is because Lizzie wasn’t there for the whole of Double Life (Watchers didn’t need her ready after Last Life), but had enough left “in the tank” to sub in for an episode.

Google Docs on this: “It was more taxing than usual. Sure, Pearl is a top tier player andr reaches the end consistently, but the trauma she experienced was a new level of [bleeped]. It explains why she’s been somewhat uncharacteristic this season, reeling on the loss of Tilly, begging for her back, and then lashing out when she can’t return to those times.”

The second one is now canon.

Originally: returning the memories of war had happened in Cleo and Pearl’s absence was mutually beneficent to both groups, so Cleo and Pearl were none the wiser as they think they lived it, they were given all the emotions and memories to their vessels.

NOTE: this was changed after Martyn is informed Cleo refers to it as an “amnesia cold”, this is what was imprinted into their minds. They have flickers of memories.

It’s advantageous to the Listeners because that puts less strain on their souls than “I completely blacked out last week what happened”.

However, maybe at some point, one of these players would be able to leave and become a Listener/Watcher (the Watchers were able to convert Grian, after all). It would be very difficult for them to, though –it was easy for Grian because it was his and the Watchers’ intent, the Watchers pulled him out for themselves, etc. However, these players are under such scrutiny and under such close watch from the Watchers, it’s very hard for the Listeners to make a dent.

Martyn’s not sure whether he wants to further Grian’s capabilities much.

Evo:

Watchers were entities that were originally meant to represent the viewers, as a vehicle  to have the viewer’s thoughts able to be brought into the world, as well as as a vehicle for him to leave the series.

When he left, the CCs wanted to explore other places, so brought in the Listeners as a rival entity to the Watchers. They tried to help the players flee the Watcher’s grasp and were unsuccessful. As a punishment for fleeing, the Watchers put the Evo players into these death games. The characters who aren’t in the Life series are canonically in different death games with different creators.

It’s not just Evo cast members because the Watchers have dominion over all Minecraft realms and existences and can pull people in from different servers into the death games.

But the Watchers are particularly angry at the Evo crew for trying to flee.

One of the first things the Listeners said to Martyn and Jimmy: “there are some who watch, we are those who listen, and we do not agree, with their most recent decision” – so seems like listeners always 

Ep 4:

Slight shift in comfort for c!martyn this season because men’s not there (unguided hand as an acknowledgement), ren is always close to c!martyn

“Forever moulding in the sands” – idea that everything was going to be washed up onto the shore and would just be rotting on the beach, again also idea that Scott would be killed

“Fleeting gill” – fleeting connection to Scott, not SUPER super deep

Ep 7:

“Echoes ring for brief exchange”: First part means that with the listeners you hear an echo – echo is a temporary ripple/thing (as in the sub)

“Disruptions by the ones estranged”: a recognition that the Listeners are of the same race/type of existence as the Watchers.

Ep 8 (before death):

Note: cc!Martyn wishes he’d slightly distorted the voice at the end to make it sound more like the voice to draw attention to this.

He’d also have loved to have random voice clips of important moments for character Martyn throughout the entirety of the life series “eg “my lord!”, different betrayals, different moments that made up c!martyn’s journey so far) interspersed throughout the final countdown, but didn’t have the time.

He wanted to do the countdown in the order that people died, with others joining in as they died, but was unable to get recorded voice lines from everyone. It was also a bit empty with just Jimmy, even if he’d included the voice as well. And again, he was pressed for time.

He initially had the Watcher’s voice as the most prominent one, but ended up pulling different people’s voices to become the central channel.

After death:

Their colour isn’t purple (they’re pure bright light), but they’re sort of tainted purple because the games and void are the Watcher’s domain. The void makes everything purple.

One on hand (repaired): limited life

One on heart: double life (closest to heart, tied to someone else’s heart)

One out of frame but same size, somewhere beneath clothing on his shoulder blades at the back: last life

One on cheek: 3rd life, cc!Martyn likes the idea of it being there because that was a tear shed when Ren fell, that was the moment that sort of broke c!martyn and made him more selfish in future series (ouch).

Character Martyn:

He doesn’t know all this is going on. He’s completely unconscious in the void when the Listeners do stuff, and in the world there’s no point in which e knows c!Grian is a Watcher who’s inserted himself into the game. The only time c!Martyn was a glimpse at the truth was at the end of Last Life, when they dropped the veil and spoke to him, but couldn’t comprehend it.

Despite fragment protection, there won’t be much change in how c!Martyn’s games will go. The beings are very very old and powerful, and we as the audience doesn’t know if there have been a bunch of different life series and games that have happened in between of each of the shown Life series. They could have run 3rd Life a number of times, could have run Last Life a number of times, etc, without our knowledge.

Listeners probably won’t be able to communicate with Martyn next season.

Other characters/characters in general:

They still hate Scott, despite him obeying the Boogeyman in session 1, partly because he still holds onto his principles and is still honourable and trusting of others, and doesn’t hold contempt even prior to Watchers feeding on emotions – he’s always happy for others to take the win, etc. They don’t get many negative emotions from Scott, which frustrates them from.

Theory that Grian and Jimmy were pushed off by the Watchers isn’t canon to Martyn’s POV, but still can be in fanon of course.

Any players that haven’t returned yet are absent because they’ve gone through too much trauma and haven’t recovered yet. If they go back in too fragmented and broken, they’d stand to ruin the game – they’d be sort of ‘deranged’, but not the way the Watchers could feed on – they’d be cowering in the corner as easy kills, and it’s not what the Watchers are trying to do – they want people to be calm and calculated and lie and betray, they like feeding on more complex human emotions than just emptiness.

Other notes:

Clips/visuals in the countdown (they were reversed btw):

Lim life 5 (martyn landed on glass), dl 4, ll 9, 3l 8. There are frames of the Red Winter moment too

He wanted to choose episodes of prominence, didn’t think about clips too much (they were randomised?).

Song at the end is a custom song made by sparkles

We’ll be delving into lore late this year! There’s a comic cc!Martyn wants to make about it, and also more he wants to do with Chapter 3.

He’s currently in Chapter 3 of the lore (“Into the Datastream”), which is part Vtuber part Life Series. 

Chapter 4, which we’re not in yet, is called “Fragment Wars” – fragments are still more layered than they appear, but we somewhat have an idea of what they are now.

Chapter 2 was just called “Life” – beginning of Death Games. Chapter 1 was called “Memory Lane” (Evo – trip down Minecraft lane memory versions), using Evo as a launch part to begin Martyn’s story.

There’s a transition he wants to do from Chapter 4 into Chapter 5, there’s a certain something he wants to do (which has something to do with the Vtuber lore, because cc!Martyn said he wishes the Vtuber stuff took off more than it did).

Vtuber lore: Chapter 1 has no interfacing with VTuber stuff, it’s not intertwined with Evo. Chapters 2 and 3 are a weird blend with some sort of transition points with Vtuber stuff between them, and 4 and beyond are properly intertwined.

He didn’t lost fragments in Rats.

Martyn currently has around 12 A4 pages of lore and story, which is all a very condensed version of the events, so there’s a LOT to come!

[docholligay]

I do think there are a handful of missteps in the show, admittedly, and one of them is that Claudia loses a lot of her resonance. I know, if I get murdered by the fandom over one thing, it will be this. I know she's a huge fan favorite. I don't even dislike her!

But aging her up compromised the tragedy of her situation, and honestly, made it a bit ridiculous. I know all of the extra-universe reasons she had to be aged up, but that doesn't change the question of what Claudia is doing in the story as she is presented.

We're asked to swallow this idea of being their daughter, of them using her to repair a marriage. The story of Interview With the Vampire is, in many ways, the story of both losing a child, and the tragedy of hanging onto a child. Claudia's tragedy is that she is frozen in amber. She can never grow up. She can never change. She is locked in that childish moment, seen as a child by her parents forever, and this is her great tragedy.

All of this becomes much harder to swallow about a fourteen year old, specifically given the time period in which she's turned. It's not that fourteen year olds were regularly running around by themselves, but in an edge neighborhood, in New Orleans, in the early 1900s, it's hardly out of the question. People would not have thought of her as a 'little girl'. So as soon as we enter into this, it's already become unserious. Her ruthless killing is not belied by a cupid-like look, because she is too old to look cupid-like. The way Louis and Lestat think of her is entirely out of their position and time.

I will admit to a piece of bias: I think Claudia is as close as Anne Rice ever comes to actually doing something really compelling with the narrative. In any of the Vampire Chronicles books. I think this tragedy of a child who did survive, a child who, unlike her own, will live forever, and the way she works through that as its own tragedy worse than death, and how CLAUDIA. HAS. TO DIE. Because that's what happened, and that's how it must happen, is probably the greatest literary stroke in any of the novels. So it pains me to see it essentially wiped away by child labor laws (The children yearn for the mines).

We have to deal with it, then, in these half measures. She's a child who can do nothing, she runs around on college campuses by herself, she will never be taken seriously and everyone sees her as a child, Madeline being attracted to her is no way unsettling or odd, etc. They try to make a big deal of her being a teenager forever, and always prone to irrational emotions, but she's written as one of the most reasonable people of season two. We are shackled to the Claudia of the books who cannot live with the Claudia of the show. Her character doesn't stand up to much scrutiny, we lose both its tragedy and its monstrousness and we are left with a pretty cool lady vampire in her own right, but someone who fails to deliver on the promise of Claudia's tragedy.

This isn't really her fault, but it becomes even more ridiculous with the actress switch in season two, who looks even OLDER than the original actress. I know that even Kirsten Dunst was too old, and where the fuck are you going to find a twelve year old like Kirsten Dunst again, who looked younger than she was and could act like a forty year old woman? But I do mourn the loss of a Claudia who was a tragic child, for a Claudia who is...inconvenienced. I would have preferred the ol Olsen Twins trick, having twins play a singular role so she could be actually a child, but we can't have everything.

(I will say a change with Claudia I HATED initially, that I came around to really liking, was having Lestat turn her after Louis' begging, and not having had Louis drain her in a moment of weakness. I love that moment in the books, and was SO disappointed that he just...saved her. Saint fucking Louis. But I came around to it, and I am so glad I waited for season two. I think they did a great job in the sketching of it.)

THIS IS THE ONE I'LL GET HATEMAIL ABOUT

[akatsukicross]

Sins of a Unloving God || SAGAU

fandom | genshin impact, sagau

rating | mature

warning(s) | gn!reader, has wing-like ears (reference), implied torture, minor blood mentioned, implied multiple rounds of sexual intercourse

pairing | implied sexual relationship with dottore

word count | 700-800

summary | they were ethereal and majestic—a deity that would be the envy of all with just a glance of their benevolence. Yet that is far from the truth, they're a beast with beauty who cared little about their own creations.

You cannot remember when you began to create worlds, but all they knew was that they were all boorish and gave you no entertainment. The icy waters below flows in wavelets, two koi fishes circulating around before parting their ways—just like the destinies she tore for fleeting pleasure.

You touched the ends of your (h/c) hair that was much longer than in the past. The soaked silken strands of your hair made a sigh escape your lips. Your wing-like ears twitch in irritation as memory that is best to be forgotten resurfaces. Gritting at the thought, hands splatter against the rippling reflection. Your white robe wrapped her drenched body with water trickling down your lasciviously like vine rooting around for vitality.

The moonlight saw through its transparency and rises slightly from the cool pond filled with koi’s that lived in endless serenity.

Your lackluster (e/c)-colored eyes gleam in the false silver beams that nip your cheeks. You let out a breathy chuckle. “So how long do you intend to let your eyes linger?” You turns your head with a impish smile to the man that remained silent even when you advances closer.

Your hand brushed against his cheek with gentle kneads, which he leaned against with closed eyes. You let out a more endearing sigh at his stillness. Her fingers intertwine his locks in a manner that had the other submerged in your chest—not caring of how drenched the robe was. His larger hands wrap around your waist, rubbing them in a circular motion with his thumb, his lips had then made its way to the more exposed part of the robe. You don't stop him and allows the doctor to do his own thing with woeful whimpers for your to lead. And when he looks at you with pleading eyes…you couldn’t help but coo at his pathetic state.

“You're still so needy even after so many rounds.” Whispering softly to the man, not giving in to his pleading. You can feel his fingers digging through the fabric and skin, small spots of gold emerge.

It bleeds through the whiteness of your loose garment. Slits come to view and your grip against his skin strengthened; your (e/c) eyes swirl in a deep-seated depravity that one could evoke that the devil to wither in its scrutiny. Your eyes become like onyx stones of endless night while his gleam with gold-red specs that resemble incandescent bodies of celestials.

Your hand traces the man's face that desperately morphed into one of longing and impatience's. You let out a breathy chuckle once more before her soft lips overlaps his own. You acknowledged his desire to be relieved from the flaring warmth inside. The man topples over her which allowed the two to fall in the cool pond that housed koi’s. Upon their drop in the waters, the koi fishes scatter as if they were never there in the first place. Simple illusions to keep effect to koi's of this desolated chasm in this dimension.

“Please…” He begs for more of your touch that cools down the inferno mellowness that was bridled inside of him. His voice tremble between kisses as he drowns in your addictive nature that was simply too much.

However, you cannot comprehend why you can't fully enjoy this blissful moment of his embrace—just like those feeble other creations that can speak and express themselves.

You knows that you cannot express themselves like the cretins who relish their individual worlds.

Human's were given emotions and thoughts to cry, laugh, or smile whether it is meant for good and bad moments in their short lifetime. Perhaps it is because at the end of the day, you will never… and will never be human. They share nothing but desolation of creating and subjugating interesting individuals that you wish to mimic.

You understood each other the moment they met by pure coincidence—understanding each other’s obsessions and twisted views of what ‘love' was. You took interests by playing pretend ‘naïve god' to gather 'dolls' to cure your boredom; meanwhile, Dottore does the opposite by inflicting pain for his own amusement whether by ethical or non ethical ways.

If they were truly humans, you wonders what words they'd be described as other than monsters.

If they were nothing then in humanity’s vile diction would be that… they were no one's son, no one's child because they would be branded to be too cruel to possibly even have a beating heart.

a/n: it has been a long, long time since i posted on here. for that i am sorry, i had a very eventful 'break' where my family and some relatives had gotten themselves in a dangerous legal situation. although i wasn't directly involved, it did take a toll on me because prior to the legal situation, i was involved helping my eldest sister's wedding that took months upon months of preparation. it also didn't help that i was burnt out with certain stories since i lost nearly majority of my drafts from multiple glitches i've been experiencing. in a way with everything going on, it just burned me faster with the constant hussle and nonstop work.

i've almost given up on the sagau series i was writing here, i lost all of my progress with it so, i decided to post this one i had in my discord convo with my bestie. it might not be the story you all wanted but hopefully it will suffice for now. again, i am sorry for not posting the actual sagau story i promised during april or so.

[targcrazies]

Misgivings (Aemond Targaryen x Handmaid)

Summary: Aemond develops a little crush on his sister's handmaid.

Part 2

warning: foul language

Aemond found himself, strangely, loitering around his sister's chamber. He hadn't been exactly cognizant why he would desire such a thing, something so trite and droll, yet he found it laborious to not wander close to where she could be.

She was one of the many handmaids of Helaena, and she was new, plucked from her father's country home where he had conveniently placed his mistress and their three children. Her father was the Lord of Driftmark, who wanted to ensure that his daughter had access to a better livelihood. She was fortunate to not look exceedingly Valyrian. However, upon mention and with proper scrutiny, her descent could be well-traced in her features. Her father presented her as a trained, courteous, and well-read maid to Helaena after the birth of her third child. He said that he found her lost upon the shores of Lys and was thoroughly impressed by her fortitude and wit. Everyone believed the lie and she was placed in a position of relative comfort.

The young Prince was not aware of all that, he only loitered because he only saw her the night before, making his sister's bed when he barged in looking for her.

"Oh, her Grace has taken the children to bid a good night to the Queen, your Grace." She had merely said, "I shall let the Princess know you requested an audience with her. How urgent is it, your Grace? For it is time for her and the children to sleep."

Aemond had little recollection of what had brought him to his sister, "Quite a little urgency," He gulped, "needn't worry." he turned around to leave. His mind was mired by numerous regrets the moment he exited the chamber, only if he had told that it was indeed urgent he'd have been escorted to meet his sister, and in extension, perhaps, her, too. He hadn't even asked her for her name, but again, it would seem odd for him to care for her name, especially given she worked only for his sister and not him. He made a detour to his brother's chamber, asking him for her name, for he knew every woman in the Keep.

"Oh, she is new. Her name is Vaella. She is good, yes, but quite plain, won't you say?" Aegon prompted.

"Plain? I found her thoroughly pleasing to the eyes." Aemond countered, taking unheeded offense.

"Oh, it is because she speaks well. If you watch her closely and focus less on her words and more on her countenance, you will find her less attractive."

Thus, there he was, waiting for her to exit the chamber after attending to the early morn needs of his sister. He wanted to verify the veracity of his brother's judgment himself. He could not jerk his eye off the ornate wooden door, his shoulders perking up as cries of a little child were sounded from the chamber.

"Your Grace, how may I be of help?"

He jumped on his feet and turned to find her standing behind him, her hands holding onto a basket of nappies for the kids. Her hair was golden brown in hue, yes, and her eyes were such a dark shade of violet that they seemed black from afar. She had a smile so pleasant, it almost reminded him of someone.

"What?" he only managed to muster as soon as he caught himself gaping at her discourteously.

"Your Grace, shall I alert Princess Helaena that you would like an audience with her soon? I shall tend to the children now, she may wish to see you as she sups."

"That-that won't be necessary." he blurted out, feeling his neck heat up in embarrassment. "What is your name?"

"Your Grace, it's Vaella." She smiled, "I shall beg your pardon, for I have to attend to the princelings and the young Princess Jaehaera. Good day to you." She curtseyed, despite the load, and scampered away to the door before quickly disappearing behind it.

He watched the door for a while, "Vaella", he thought to himself, "What a lovely name."

__________________________________________________________

"Helaena, is your new handmaid good at sewing?" Aemond asked his sister, not sparing her a glance as he faux-perused his book.

"Vaella?" your sister confirmed, "Ah yes, she is good. Why, aren't you happy with the stitchwork of your own servants?"

"Not quite, it's either dodgy, or tight, or just unpleasant. I have heard the new girl is good at her stitchwork, so I might have her do some of my stitching."

"Whoever told you that, brother?" Helaena cocked her head to the side, looking positively befuddled.

"Helaena, how daft are you?" It was one of those rare instances that Aegon was present at court and participating, soberly, in a conversation with his sister-wife and younger brother, "Aemond has taken a liking to the girl!"

"To Vaella?" Helaena looked at her husband, then at her brother, "Vaella is a pleasant girl, yes, but I cannot see why you like her so, brother, to request her accompaniment."

Aemond wanted to quip back something dismissive, however, he could not bring himself to muster any legitimate justification. It was indeed true that he had taken quite a fancy to the girl, whom everyone else deemed rather plain to look at. However, upon much observation, it was clear that she was smart and well-spoken, having a rather amusing wit and much knowledge about culture and economy. She spoke the Valyrian tongue somewhat fluently and looked excitedly at the opportunity to hone her speech in the language whenever Aemond posited. He observed her furtively listening to lessons and conversations of history, religion, and even those of stately matters. He had taken quite a fancy to her.

"You can command the girl to come to your bedchamber whenever you desire, brother, you do not have to bypass my wife," Aegon exclaimed, "She has enough support."

"Oh, but I do like her, she is fond of the children and so are they." Helaena smiled, "But, I could spare her for a bit. When shall I ask her to see you, Aemond?"

"Anytime convenient, I do not mind." Aemond quickly answered.

Aegon barked out a burst of horrid laughter, "How rare it is to see Aemond not strictly schedule a meeting. Brother needs his cock wetted."

Aemond stared at his brother with disgust, thanked his sister, and left abruptly.

Part 2

[unofficial-sean]

I've been walking to a nearby university campus every other day for a week, now. My purpose is simple: watch the crows. It's been a magical and contemplative endeavor. My approach changes after every visit as I learn new things, both from the crows themselves, and from Crow Planet, a book I just finished reading.

At first, I brought my camera, a can of unsalted peanuts, binoculars, notebook and stencils, and a raven's gwah I learned to produce and modulate with my mouth and hands.

The first thing to go was the gwah. The crows were indifferent to it. The best result from using it was to attract a group of crows to my areas where they investigated to their content, and then left.

Next, I left behind the camera. Fussing over lighting and settings and capturing the subject took away attention I should have been directing at the crows I was looking at though the viewfinder. I wished to see them, instead.

For my next visit, I will leave the peanuts at home. While the peanuts have been the foundation for some of my most joyous observations, I am at risk to trying to become something to the crows that I can never be: a friend. They will take my peanuts and go, and give me cautious curiosity in return. Nothing more.

I did add something, though; a lyre. The lyre isn't for the birds, it's for me. Unlike the camera, the lyre stimulates my observations. When I cannot see a crow, I stop and I simply play. Crows are perceptive animals, and they know when you are watching them. Such as it is, when you watch crows, the crows watch you. This I have learned. I have attempted some tricks to hide my attention from them, and sometimes it works. If you are focused on something else, it shows, and what better task than the art of music?

As far as I am aware, the crows are indifferent to the music I play. But the same could not be said of the "clack" given off by the camera that once occupied my hands. The crows would always perk up when I took a photo of them; visibly trying to understand what I was doing. But music appears to bear no such cause for alarm.

Yesterday, I stode in through the woods and was delighting to hear cawing. Normally, this cluster of trees on campus is home only to squirrels and smaller birds, but yesterday, it was home to a new group of crows, and my presence was worthy of their scrutiny. No number of peanuts--however carefully laid out--will convince an alarmed crow to ease up. The only thing you can do is move on. It seemed silly to me that these crows, high up in the tall douglas firs, would treat my stroll with such severity; especially with what happened next.

There is a family of crows that I visit every time and can identify immediately. They live in a cluster of douglas firs elsewhere on the campus; tall old things with pathways snaking between them and the underbrush made up of mulch, lawn grass, and some kind of ivy.

This family is raising two fledglings, who I've decided--just now--to name Ebert and Bonnaterre. They can be heard long before they can be seen. They've learned to fly, but their tail plumes have yet to reach their full potential. Their landings are a bit clumsy, and I saw one of them actually trip while doing that hop crows do when hurried or excited. They still rely on the parents and helpers for food, always begging when they swoop by. My own peanuts have fed these two throughout the week, I have no doubt, and I feel a bit proud for it.

This particular part of campus, unlike the woods I walked through to get here, is made for people. There are tables, chairs, benches, open spaces for large gatherings. All of it maintained diligently with a sprinkler system and maintenance staff. The visit on Saturday was over crowded with people, and all the crows were not happy about it. They were weary even to my much desired peanuts and would not come procure them until I gave them more space than normal. The parents and helpers--of which there are about 5--could not forage close to the trees the fledglings stay in. I followed one of them to a different area that was less crowded, and sure enough, there was the family; foraging in relative peace.

To my surprise, my last visit had me sitting at a bench just at the edge of a douglas fir's reach, maybe three yards from Ebert and Bon. The two were playing with one another; games such as "jump and cling to the bark," "mutual beaking," and "look at this piece of chipped bark I found."

I didn't realize they were the fledglings, at first, until I tossed a few peanuts their way, and the adult crow foraging in the open, nearby, flew immediately to the branch nearest to me and. . . watched, silently. It was this that prompted me to look at the pair on the ground, and see that they were indeed the fledglings; with their pink-edged bills and their light gray eyes.

Just the day prior, there was an infestation of people near these very trees, prompting some cawing whenever I walked through the snaking paths. And just a moment ago, I was being scorned by a separate group over yonder. Why, now, is this parent (who can be identified by a missing tail feather) letting me sit this close to her young-of-year without protest?

I considered it an invaluable privilege, though that may be premature. I have no idea why she was so silent. It could be shock that I could have hurt the little crows if I so desired, and she wouldn't have anticipated it. But I think not. She was watching closely; so closely that no time at all had passed between me flinging the peanuts and her arriving on the scene. She must have known it was me--the peanut person--who only ever flung peanuts and watched from a respectful distance.

I got to watch the fledglings continue to play, and it was delightful. I played my lyre for them, and the parent up in the tree sat, watched, listened. It was like this for several minutes until one of the fledglings took flight in a fuss across the field to another fir, and kept cawing. I was genuinely alarmed, as were the two, no, three, parents who were perched above me. They took off after the runaway, and followed, too. The cawing of the young would not stop, and I was very worried it had hurt itself. No doubt the parents and I were of a mind. I didn't get nearly as close, considering the situation, so it was harder to pick out the family in the tree, but eventually I did see the fledgling, now cawing far less frequently, and visibly had no injuries. He simply preened his feathers.

One thing I've learned from observing these crows is that I am always watched. Even if I've scoured the landscape, there is always a crow somewhere; a silent sentinel. They will reveal themselves only when it is most opportune. It was a lesson I learned early. It did make me a bit self-conscious. My actions were being judged by unseen eyes, and everything I did had to have measured intent. Where I laid my eyes, my gait and how fast I walked; Where I walked; where I tossed or placed peanuts; how I slide out my binoculars; which song I played on the lyre; all of it and more was being noted in the brains of the crows. And it seems it all paid off. For a few moments, I got to sit close to their future and delight in their mischief. They allowed me to do that.

This has been an enlightening experience. As I learn, I change, and I see the effects of my decisions in an appreciable time scale. Yesterday was evidence that all I've done has earned me an uneasy trust, and it is the most valuable thing to me.

[venusiangguk]

may we see the fight tae oc scene pls pls please!!! u can delete later🤔🤔🤔🤔😳😳😳😳 i’m really curious. i mean ofc u don’t have to. still 😧🙃

idealizations concerning real life relations: deleted scene

>>pairing: jungkook x reader / icrlr!couple

>>genre: fwb, angst, rated PG

>>word count: 2.5k

>>warnings: alcohol, implied smut

>>notes: this is a deleted scene from icrlr, that i omitted simply because of the length of the final fic!! feel free to skip or ignore, it doesn't change anything, but since u guys are curious about it, i'll post it as a lil ty for helping me hit that milestone <3 it takes place after the tattoo party scene, and before the lecture scene.

this does NOT provide an alternative ending.

>>summary: taehyung tries to make you see things for what they really are, but it's hard to see through the rose colored glasses.

Winter break has been long awaited and it is finally, finally here. The snow has coated the ground thick, making the town look like a winter wonderland. The air is sharp and cold but not to a miserable extent. Just chilly enough to bundle up, to hold a hand a little tighter and soak up their warmth.

Your favorite season is fall, but the later months are a close second. You love seeing the way everyone’s faces get red when snow flurries come down to kiss their nose and cheeks. Love the way pom poms bounce atop little hats as children play and have snowball fights. Winter is surprisingly one of the warmest, sweetest times of the year. Like the hot coco Jeongguk has been swapping your regular macchiato with lately.

There’s a greatly anticipated party tonight- a mashup of Taehyung’s birthday and New Year’s Eve. Anticipated for the simple fact that said birthday boy has steadily been ignoring you for weeks, and tonight was a night where he couldn’t evade your attempts of reconciliation. He hasn’t returned a single call or even sent a text back. You can’t even be mad at him really, you know it’s justified. You know you fucked up. The coffee date you had with Yoongi last week let you know what you did.

Over an iced coffee, you learned that you had unintentionally skipped out on your best friend's Winter Showcase. The important one that he mentioned multiple times. The one you promised to attend no matter what.

It wasn’t on purpose; you wanted to go, to support him. But you just got caught up. In life, in school, in Jeongguk. It happens.

When Yoongi asked you why you had missed it, when he told you how hurt Taehyung was by your absence, your heart dropped, sank deep within your chest as your mouth fell open before closing, a small pursed frown on your lips. You didn’t have a good excuse. You went to get tattoos with Jeongguk and then to a party where you fucked him, and then home after that? You were too tired to make it? You just simply forgot? Those excuses weren’t good enough for you and you knew they wouldn’t be good enough for Taehyung.

Whereas Yoongi was okay with distance, long periods in between hanging out and talking, Taehyung wasn’t. He was the kind of friend that needed support, reassurance that you cared. He liked quality time and hangs outs that were planned ahead so he could look forward to them. He was looking forward to you being at his showcase.

The party is packed, even more so than usual. Students, drop-outs, alumni, and randoms alike, all congregate to bring in the new year, to celebrate the end of finals, and a certain art majors birthday. Bodies are on bodies, music is loud and deafening. Cups, bottles, and small baggies litter the floor and the smell of weed is nauseating.

Jeongguk’s hand in yours is sweet, though. Enough to ebb the distaste in your mouth as you watch the stereotypical disaster that is a college party.

“I’m going to go find the drinks, okay?” you lie, squeezing Jeongguk’s hand lightly.

He squeezes back, kisses the side of your head as he says, “Bring me one back too?”

You nod, and slip out of his view. Scanning the crowd until you see a familiar face.

Jimin is laughing, red cup in his hand, eyes curled and happy. He’s sitting on the arm of a couch, legs swinging as he laughs with a group of people. He takes a drink from his cup and let’s his eyes roam the room like he’s looking for someone.

The way his face changes when he sees you approaching is like a punch in the gut. It goes from happy, and carefree to stony- only a small, irritated, close-lipped smile on his face. Eyes harsh and cold, no longer holding the mirth they were just seconds ago. He says nothing when you step in front of him, he just looks you over like he’s bored and waiting for you to get on with it so he can be done with it.

You shift on your feet under his scrutiny. “Where’s Tae?” you ask.

Jimin narrows his eyes at you and tilts his head. “Now you want to know where he is? Haven’t been concerned with his whereabouts for months. Definitely weren’t worried about it last week.”

You wince but carry on swiftly. “Listen, I know I fucked up. I’m here to apologize.” You look at him expectantly, but he holds his ground. When he doesn’t falter, you resort to begging, “Please, Jimin. He’s my best friend… I miss him.”

You must look pitiful, because Jimin’s indifferent facade fades, and he clicks his tongue like he’s annoyed at himself for giving into you. “He’s getting us drinks in the kitchen.”

A smile takes over your face as you rush out a ‘thank you’, quickly turning on your heel to head in the opposite direction, before Jimin calls after you.

“Yeah?” you ask, looking over your shoulder at him.

“If he’s your best friend, maybe treat him like it, yeah?”

You continue to the kitchen without replying, and you can’t help the little simmer of annoyance that bubbles in your chest. Taehyung has been your best friend for years. And even though Jimin had a point, who was he to tell you anything about yours and Taehyung’s friendship?

Before the thought can fester, however, you see the boy you came looking for, two bottles of vodka in his hand like he’s trying to decide which to use. You see the little party hat atop his shaggy hair before anything else and your heart aches a little. You really did miss him. He lets out a small annoyed sound, and knowing him, he’s probably trying to figure out which has the highest alcohol percentage. You come up next to him, and say his name gently. He jumps, but when he realizes it’s you, the ghost of a smile curls on his lips like he’s happy to see you.

Until it’s replaced with resentment just as quickly. His sharp eyes squint at you before turning back to the bottles in his hands, scowl still in place.

“So you decided you could pencil me in between getting your heart toyed with and your back blown out?” He gives you a side glance and sees how your jaw drops in surprise. He carries on, unbothered. “Or did this just work out because it coincides with New Year’s and because he was invited? Only because he’s Jimin’s friend might I add.”

“Tae-” you try, doing your best to keep the hurt whine out of your tone.

“Save it, __. I don’t want to hear the excuses you have. Just-” he looks at you again, and you think that maybe he softens when he sees your crestfallen features. He sighs like he’s tired. “Just leave me alone. Just for a bit, okay? I’ll get over it eventually,” he finishes, finally deciding on the vodka he wants.

You know his request isn't unreasonable. But it’s already been so long that the distance in your friendship has been eating away at it, that you’re scared ‘eventually’ might take too long and by the time he comes around, there won’t be much of a friendship left. That the damage done, will be irreparable.

“Tae… It’s already been months, can’t we-”

Like night and day, the softness that you were able to pull out of him is immediately replaced with that resentment and anger you were met with when you first stepped into the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he seethes, strong brows furrowed. “And whose fault is that?”

His words are sharp and the sting from them makes you take a step back. That is, until you feel anger of your own creep up your throat like venom. “You’re one to talk, Taehyung. You could have reached out to me, too. You’re no better than me when you’re in a relationship.”

He groans, gives an exasperated laugh before shrugging. “You know what? Maybe I am just as bad as you, but at least I’m actually in a relationship,” he spits, “You’re just fucking someone that doesn’t give a fuck about you.”

You know he’s hurt because of the distance. That he doesn’t intend to be so mean. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, and it doesn’t stop the angry tears from pooling in your eyes.

And although you’re angry, almost shaking with rage at the feeling of being cornered and blamed, your heart aches at hearing his words.

Jimin, who started seeing Taehyung after you started seeing Jeongguk, had already made your friend official. Had given him the title, the commitment, the relationship that you had been patiently and understandingly waiting for with Jeongguk. The bitterness that bleeds into your heart makes you feel gross and ugly.

You know what they say; that labels are superficial and don’t mean that much. But when you don’t have them? It makes you wonder. If a label really isn’t that important, like everyone says, why is Jeongguk so reluctant to give one to you?

“Jimin’s your boyfriend?” you whisper.

Taehyung gives you a short nod. “Month and half ago. You would’ve known if you got your head out of Jeongguk’s ass.”

Almost like he was summoned, the topic of debate waltz into the room, coming up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He nuzzles into your neck.

It’s instinctual now, the way your body responds to him. The way you melt into his chest like second-nature, how your hands settle over his like they are keeping them in place. How immediately in his presence you feel calmer; the panicky, hurt feeling you were experiencing moments ago vanishing as if it were just a fleeting thought and not something that’s always in the back of your head.

Not in a possessive, ‘I need him to be mine’ kind of way, though.

More like, ‘Why won’t he be mine?’

“Hi,” he murmurs into your neck.

“Hi, baby,” you respond softly, out of habit. The room shirks around you whenever he’s near. Makes you feel like you’re in your own bubble with him.

Jeongguk’s about to reply, ask where the drinks are, but then he hears an annoyed scoff sound in front of you both. Jeongguk bristles as he looks up and sees Taehyung taking a big swig from his cup.

“Uh- am I interrupting? Should I go?” he asks hesitantly, looking between you and your friend.

“No-” you say at the same time that Taehyung says, “Yes.”

You cringe, and turn in Jeongguk’s arms, hands resting on his chest. “Just give me a couple more minutes okay? I’ll bring the drinks.”

Jeongguk searches your eyes, before looking at Taehyung one last time before giving you a stern nod and a quick kiss.

You turn back to Taehyung, ready to apologize for Jeongguk’s interruption, when he talks over you.

“You’re pathetic,” he starts, and you roll your eyes with an irritated sigh before he continues, “but I know you love him. And that you can’t help it,” he shrugs. “But as your friend, I have to tell you that it’s not going to end well. You probably don’t even need me to tell you that. You probably already know and are choosing to ignore it for the sake of the delusions you’ve made up in your ‘pretty little head’.”

You pout at him quoting you, and your brows furrow. “He cares about me. And he’s Jimin’s best friend. He’s a good person, you don’t even know him,” you argue defensively. Though you know your arguments make little sense and are flimsy at best.

Taehyung frowns. Pauses like he’s thinking.

“I didn’t say he was a bad person, and maybe he does care about you in his own messed up way. But he doesn’t care about you in the way that you want him to.” His lips are still down turned when he speaks again.

“And the difference between him with you and him with Jimin is astronomical; it shouldn’t even be a comparison, but I will humor you,” he rubs a hand up and down his face like he’s tired. “The dynamic is completely different, for obvious reasons. For one, Jimin is a safe relationship. You are not. Jimin isn’t in love with him, Jimin isn’t sucking his dick, and Jimin doesn’t want things from Jeongguk that Jeongguk cannot give, or does not want to give,” he says with a raised brow as he takes a sip of his drink.

It seems that the anger has died down some between you both, a semi-civil conversation finally being had. You wrinkle your brows in confusion at him. “What are you talking about?”

He rolls his eyes. “Cmon __. Why do you think he hasn’t made you his girlfriend? Why do you think he literally has not been in a serious relationship since high school? Why do you think he never agrees to anything more than 2 months out?” He waits for you to answer but you just purse your lips stubbornly. “He’s scared. Dare I say terrified of commitment, and that’s exactly what you want from him right?”

You stay headstrong and quiet for a moment longer, ignoring his question in favor of asking one of your own when you finally do speak up. “If I’m so scary, why hasn’t he left?”

Taehyung shrugs. “Fuck if I know? Maybe he does care about you like you say he does. I don’t think so, but hey,” He raises his hands in mock surrender, like he is throwing in the figurative towel. “Maybe you’re right and maybe I‘m wrong. Or maybe there’s some fucked up codependency fermenting between you both when you copulate. I genuinely have no clue, and frankly, I don’t care to find out. Don’t text me until you come to your senses. And don’t get mad when I tell you ‘I told you so’.”

And with that, he turns and leaves you to make your own drinks. You hope the smile you give Jeongguk when you find him is believable.

That night when you go back to his place, you voice your concerns to him in between sweet, heated kisses that taste like hot cider. You tell him hesitantly how Taehyung voiced his concerns about Jeongguk not caring about you and Jeongguk got a little irritated, a little miffed as he unlatched his lips from your neck. He asked what Taehyung knew, how he even came to that conclusion when he’s not around you both.

He assured you with gentle touches and tender words that of course he cares about you. He reminded you that he always makes time for you, he always answers your calls and your texts, he takes you out every now and then, too. He asks you what you think and when you contemplate your answer, going over what he said, you can’t really argue with him. Even if an uneasy, dismal feeling settles in the pit of your tummy.

~~~

hellooo!! again, this is just a scene and part of the plot that i chose not to use because i felt like the fic was already so long. i wish that i had ended up including it tho, so i hope you enjoyed even though its nothing special <3 feel free to do the things if you liked it: like, comment, reblog, send an ask~~ love u, ty again for helping me reach that milestone <3

[rotworld]

1: Hellhound

you get an unexpected visitor on the night of a hunt.

->explicit. contains gore, murder, feral behavior, very ambiguous consent (consent not explicitly given but you have a good time), and knotting.

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.

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Molly says there’ll be a hunt tonight.

You’re visiting the village market together when she suddenly stops in the middle of the road, the evening crowd parting around her. Her hands tremble at her sides, her head turned towards the sky. “Do you feel that?” she whispers. “That heat? That prickle in the air? Like a storm, but I know it’s not. They’re coming. Herbs—you need herbs. Can’t be out late.” You don’t feel anything but you take her word for it. They call her Mad Molly, but only when you aren’t around to smack some sense into them. Not just anyone survives being stranded outside on the night of a hunt. You’d like to see them try.

“How do you tell the difference?” you ask her. “Between a storm and a hunt?” 

Molly taps her nose. “The smell,” she says. “Storms are wet. Earth and sky. Hunts are something else. Try and see.” 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Crisp autumn air fills your lungs. You smell the savory aroma of meat pies, the musk of herbs, the sharp scent of pickled vegetables, but nothing like what Molly describes. You trip on an uneven patch of road and she catches you, snickering. Somehow, she’s still twice as graceful as you, even without her eyes.

Dusk settles in the sky by the time you reach Molly’s. She gives you a basketful of herbs from her garden, flowering purple stalks of betony and clary sage. “Put the dill and rosemary over your door. The betony, you’ll want that once the night’s through. Clary sage is for the eyes, but you knew that already.” She sends you off with a stern reminder, “Stay inside. Lock your doors. And don’t get in their way.” She taps the side of her face, the whorls of scar tissue where her eyes used to be. “But don’t be scared,” she says quietly. “They can be surprisingly gentle.”

It’s a long trek home from Molly’s, back through the woods and the village square. The shadows are long and the sky dim. Children chase each other, chickens run loose, and a couple of persistent women haggle with the butcher for cured meats. But when the church bells toll, everything changes. Fear grips the market. People scatter like frightened animals. Stalls are hastily abandoned, artisan goods trampled in the streets. Doors slam and windows are shuttered. A town crier rings his hand bell and shouts to be heard over the commotion. He, too, is running. “Hear ye, hear ye! The hounds come to hunt this eve!” You catch glimpses through the stampede, fur like night sky and eyes like burning coals. The beasts come pouring from dark places, shaking the clinging shadows from their coats. You smell ash and sulfur, see the heat haze fizzling around their claws. The howling starts. You’ve never run so fast in your life.

They’re everywhere, slinking through the alleys and prowling between the trees. You see them watching, waiting, their gazes burning into you as you pass. You wonder if this is how sheep feel under the scrutiny of herd dogs. The crowd thins the further you go from town until you’re alone in the woods, sprinting for the soft glow of a lantern left outside your front door. You’re breathless when you stumble inside, hunched over, legs aching. You realize, belatedly, that you lost your basket of herbs somewhere in the chaos, but you’ll manage without. All you need right now is some tea. 

The water is just starting to boil when you hear an ungodly commotion, a wet sound, a clattering, banging and screaming. It takes you a moment to come out from beneath your table and realize someone is knocking frantically at your door, begging for help. “Please, please help me, please I don’t, I don’t want to die, please—!”

Cautiously, you peer through the foggy glass. You can just make out a young man standing there. You open the door and the sight of him churns your stomach. Vicious claw marks cut through one side of his face, leaving the flesh mangled and hanging limp. That wet sound is the splatter of blood every time he moves, dribbling from his face and his hands. The hounds will smell that, clamor for a taste of it. “I didn’t know,” he sobs. “I’m not from here, I didn’t—I had no idea what it meant! The bells started ringing and everyone ran, and I—I don’t have anywhere to go!”

You let him in. He comes stumbling through and collapses, sinking to his knees against the wall. His cloak is torn and the clothes underneath ragged, everything saturated with blood. The first thing you do is clean the wound and cover him in gauze and bandages, anything to staunch the flow and cover the metallic scent. He croaks miserably, pale as death. You aren’t sure he’ll make it through the night, but you’ll do what you can.

“The bells mean there’s a hunt on,” you tell him, sopping up a red, watery mess oozing from his chin. It makes little difference now, but if it were you, you’d want to know. “The hounds are just doing their job, hunting for monsters and infernal things. But we have to be careful. They’ll attack anything that gets between them and their prey, and blood excites them.” 

“Monsters?” the young man says weakly. “Infernal things? What does that mean?” 

You shrug. “I’ve never seen one. It’s just what I’ve heard.” 

“Then how do you even know it’s true? What if they’re just running amok out there, killing whoever they want?” 

“I just know,” you insist. It’s a common rumor whispered around the village; humans are the real prey. The stories of monsters are just to keep them obedient, never getting in the way of a hunt. But Molly told you it’s not like that. She said she saw something. The hounds, she whispered, weren’t what took her eyes.

“Doesn’t that scare you?” the young man presses. “Not knowing what a monster even looks like? Whether or not you’d recognize one if you saw it?” Thin, bony fingers wrap around your wrist. He has claws, you realize, your heart skipping a beat. “It should,” he purrs. His teeth are inhumanly sharp. Eyes flutter open and shut along the uninjured side of his face, yellow and glowing like a creature of the night. He stands, suddenly steady on his feet. Your blood runs cold as you understand that his corpse-like complexion is natural. More hands unfold from beneath his tattered cloak and slam you back against the wall. 

“Let me go,” you say quickly, a frightened tremor sneaking into your words.

The monster you let into your home leans in close, smirking. A long, forked tongue slithers along your jaw. “I don’t think so,” he hisses. “I’m staying until sunrise. If the hounds come, you will send them away. If you don’t…” His jaw cracks at the joints, unhinging, his mouth opening even wider revealing a maw lined with rows upon rows of teeth. “Then there will be nothing left of you come morning.” Just like that, he drops you, watching you squirm on the floor with cold amusement. “Get up,” he says. “We have to prepare.” He doesn’t wait for you to begin shoving furniture against your door, lifting the heavy oak table as though it weighs nothing. You slowly climb to your feet and stand there, paralyzed.

“It won’t work,” you say.

He stops, dropping a chair and letting it clatter loudly to the floor. You regret speaking when those eyes flutter open in shut again, fixing you with an unnerving glare. Silently, he slinks towards you, backing you into a corner. “It will,” he says lowly. “You’ll turn them away or you’ll die. It’s that simple.” 

You swallow a ball of cold, hard dread stopping up your throat. He doesn’t understand. There is no turning away a hound. A long howl cuts through the silence and you both look at the door. Another howl rises in answer, much closer than the first. A glow like distant fire burns in the woods. The monster grabs you with three hands and shoves you closer to the door. It stands behind you, draped against your back with a claw pressed threateningly against your throat. You hear a beast’s trotting steps, leaves crunching along the path to your home. A large silhouette looms outside. There’s sniffing, and then a low growl. Something scrapes against your front door.

“Huuuuuman,” comes a low, velvety purr.  It almost sounds like a man, distinctly masculine but with a deep, animalistic rumble coloring every sound. “I see you standing there. Good evening.” 

“G...good evening,” you manage to stammer through the shock and fear. You had no idea hounds could speak. You can’t make out a face, canid or otherwise, but you see his eyes glowing in the dark, red and blazing. 

“I smell something delicious,” the hound says. “May I come in? I think you might have an uninvited guest and not even know it.”

You take too long to reply. You hear the sound of flesh peeling, the monster’s jaw unhinging behind your head, and scramble to force out the words, “There’s no one here but me!” 

The hound lowers itself. You hear more sniffing, see unnatural shadows swirling beneath your door and seeping into the house. “Are you certain, human?” the hound says. “I’m not often wrong.”

“I’m sure,” you say, as firmly as you can with hot saliva dribbling on your shoulders. You hear one last frustrated, sniff, a huff, and then the hound’s footstep’s retreating as he slinks back the way he came. Neither you nor the monster can quite believe it at first, remaining perfectly still until the fiery glow dissipates and everything is dark outside. The next howl is far, far away. 

“Good,” the monster mutters, sounding nearly as exhausted as you feel. He shoves you away and begins throwing anything else he can find into the barricade. “Now help me with this—”

He smells it only a second before you do. Sulfur. Burning. Hellfire. The unearthly glow sparks to life right outside your door once again. Time slows to a crawl as the monster turns, looking back at you with a snarl frozen on his half-mangled face. All of his eyes open wide and you hear just the beginning of a frightened whimper before flames erupt from the barricade. The fire is red like blood and the force of it bursting through knocks the monster back, sending him sprawling to the ground where it circles him, engulfs him like a living thing and eats him alive.

You can’t tear your eyes away as the flames take the shape of the biggest dog you’ve ever seen, wolf-like and ferocious, one massive paw on the monster’s chest as its maw tears his belly open and rips into his guts. The terrible, sharp stench of death seemingly burns away, overpowered by cleansing smoke and fire. The screams will haunt you for the rest of your life.

When you come back to your senses, the inferno has disappeared. Rings of scorch marks are seared into the floor around a charred corpse so horribly mutilated you couldn’t begin to guess at what it once was. A man crouches over it, licking his bloodied lips. You know he’s the hound. His wild hair writhes with shadows and the fire is still burning in his eyes. He turns to you, stands to his full height, and you fight to keep your gaze respectfully above his collarbones as you realize he’s completely naked. He takes a step towards you. You take two stumbling back.

“I didn’t want to get in your way,” you say, helpless. If he decides to kill you, there’s nothing you can do. “He told me to lie to you. He threatened me.”

“Lucky for you, you’re a terrible liar,” the hound sneers. He stalks towards you like you’re prey, a snarl pulling at the corner of his lips exposing the teeth that just tore the monster apart. “Did no one ever teach you not to open your door to strangers on the night of a hunt?”

“I didn’t know!” Any further excuses die on your tongue when he shoves you, barely more than a gentle push on his part but it knocks you to the ground. He’s on you before you can squirm away and you realize suddenly just how big he is. He’s enormous, a good head taller, all rippling muscle and faded scars. And he’s—you don’t look, but you can feel that he’s hard. His cock twitches where it’s nestled between your bodies, smearing precum on your clothes. “Please don’t...don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not going to,” he says, but it certainly stings a bit when he rakes his claws down your body and shreds through your clothes. He ignores your protests as he shoves the fabric aside and then his hands are on you. He has claws like the monster, but even thicker and more frightening. Somehow, they barely graze you even as he caresses your skin. You flinch when he leans in suddenly, but he doesn’t bite you. He’s smelling you, you realize. His nose grazes the hollow of your throat and he licks you, a rumble building in his chest. “This is what I smelled,” he murmurs. 

You don’t understand. He doesn’t bother to explain, either, but he pulls back far enough to meet your eyes. You expect him to reek of sulfur, but without the fire, there’s only the lingering scent of the forest. His gaze wanders your body and he presses his hand against your chest, right over your pounding heart. 

“I want you,” he purrs. “I’m going to have you.” You nod shakily. What are you going to do, fight him about it? You just watched him burn his way into your house and kill somebody in a flurry of fire and entrails. “Turn over. Let me taste what’s mine.” You hesitate. He doesn’t ask twice. You’re flipped unceremoniously onto your stomach, breath catching in your throat when he tugs your hips higher. 

You feel his breath, scalding like chimney air, against your sex. The wet press of his tongue on your flesh makes you flinch and whimper. It’s hotter than you expected. The warmth is just shy of painful. You bury your face in your arms, face heating in embarrassment, as he laps at your sex like he’s starving for it, saliva dribbling down his chin. You find yourself shivering, moving back against his face, whining when his hands catch your hips and hold you in place. 

You think that growl is pleased, almost affectionate. He adjusts his position ever so slightly, his thumbs pressing into tender flesh to spread you open. And then his tongue is inside of you. You cry out in shock, the sensation foreign and overwhelming. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. His tongue is long and thick, twisting inside of you, opening you wider as he makes encouraging sounds. “That’s it,” he hisses, licking a lazy circle around your entrance. “That’s it, human. Let me in.”

It’s not long before you’re shivering in his grasp, gasping, even begging. You hear a chuckle, feel his tongue leave you empty and wanting. “You’re ready,” he murmurs. You hear a slick sound. His hand on his cock, maybe, but you don’t get the chance to look and see. His claws land heavily on your head, shoving your face into the floor. He’s going to fuck you like an animal. The thought drifts almost absently through your head as he mounts you, blankets your back with his body and begins rutting his hips against you. His length, hot and pulsing, shoves between your thighs in teasing thrusts, letting you feel how thick he is. What can only be a knot drags against your sex, the friction making you whine. “Do you want me, human?” he growls. “Do you hunger as I do?” 

You make a noise, something humiliating, needy, more animal than human. It’s exactly what he wants. With a playful bite to the nape of your neck, he presses his cockhead against you. He pushes slowly, patiently, his hands smoothing along your sides. You hear him speaking against your skin, rumbling into the side of your neck or your shoulder. The words are low and indistinct but you feel the intent behind them, the desire in every sound. “Fuck me,” you beg him. He makes a bestial sound and with a harsh, forward motion, spears you on his cock. 

It’s blinding, the pain and the pressure, but it’s so good, so filling. Your fingers scrabble over the floor with nothing to hold onto. The hound rocks his hips, driving into you harder and faster, building a rhythm that makes you see stars. “Fuck, just like that,” he pants against your ear. “You take me like you were made for me.” He sinks deeper and your eyes roll back in your head. You can feel him in your stomach, can see the bulge of him through your skin. It’s impossible to hold your voice in, every thrust dragging a yelp or a whimper from your lips. “Don’t hold back,” he growls, nipping at your ear. “Scream for me. I want my brothers to hear you. I want the whole village to know you’re mine.” 

You won’t last long, and neither will he. The exhaustion of the night catches up with you, the primal terror, the relief, the lust burning in your veins. You feel the hound losing rhythm as he loses himself to his frenzy, groaning and growling, driving into you with bruising thrusts. He tries to force his knot inside of you and it won’t fit, you’re sure it won’t. You try to tell him it won’t and he makes a truly inhuman sound, a laugh and a bark and a roar all at once. One of his claws lands on your head again, keeping you trapped and still as he rotates his hips and pushes harder, fucks you harder, drives his cock as deep inside as he can get.

The sound is small. The muted, wet pop of something locking into place. But the sensations are too much, too good, too painful. The force of your orgasm nearly leaves you unconscious. You feel him cum, hear him let out a long moan as his hips move in frantic little thrusts against your ass. He stuff you full and collapses on top of you, his legs hooked inside of yours. You gasp for breath as he keeps rutting, still riding the high of his climax. You smell blood. You feel his jaw come unclamped from the space between your neck and shoulder, his tongue lapping gently at the wound. 

He shifts slightly and your hips are dragged with him, the pull on your insides making you wince. “Sorry. We won’t be going anywhere for a while,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your hair. He soothes you with a hand along your side, peppering kisses between your shoulders. “Hunt’s not over. I’ll have to leave as soon as I’m able. Are you well? I didn’t hurt you?”

You don’t feel terrible, all things considered. There’s a deep soreness that might bring regret in the morning, but mostly you’re content. His heat, the fire at the core of his being, dampens the worst of the pain. There must be some magic at work. You can’t believe he’s still inside you. “I’m okay,” you say slowly.

“Good.” The hound nuzzles his face against you, taking in your scent again. You could almost call the behavior affectionate or gentle, a stark difference from how he fucked you earlier. 

Molly’s words come back to you, the strange little smile on her face. You have some questions for her in the morning.

[odos-bucket]

More Protective!Batdad Fic, With the Pretense that this is a Series Mostly Given Up

They’re returning to the cave after Robin’s first night out since the start of Tim’s parents’ most recent stay in the city. It had been a routine patrol, made noteworthy only by the return of the boy wonder. They’d gotten into a bit of a scuffle with some muggers towards the end of the night, but it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle, and they had both come away from it unharmed. At least that was what Bruce thought at the time. And he paid pretty close attention to things.

But when the domino mask comes off he can clearly see where Tim has a black eye, and a bruise blooming over his cheek.

“What happened?” He leaves his cowl and gloves on the computer, and takes a few steps closer to where Tim is fishing his civilian clothes out of a bag.

“Huh?” Tim bunches up the shirt he’s holding into a fist, and his eyes dart around for a moment without settling on Bruce. “Oh.” Fingers of his free hand fly up to hover over his injured cheek. “Thief got in a lucky shot.” His voice is a fraction of an octave higher than usual.

Bruce’s eyes automatically narrow as he begins his mental recall of the events that had transpired less than twenty minutes prior.

“I didn’t see you get hit,” he says slowly.

Tim just shrugs.

The bruise is too dark to be less than half an hour old anyway. It had to have come from sometime earlier in the day. It had been hidden beneath the mask though, and they’d both already been in full costume when they’d met earlier that evening.

Before Bruce can say anything else, Tim is ducking into a private alcove to finish getting changed. He’s a bit slower at it than usual, and Bruce wonders if that could be indicative of other hidden injuries, or if Tim is just drawing it out to avoid further scrutiny. Several minutes go by, and he finally clears his throat.

“Tim?”

“Just a second.” The words come out quickly.

Bruce goes to change himself, only to find that Tim still isn’t out by the time he’s finished and returned. He knocks gently on the wall that’s partitioning off the section of the cave where he’s changing, and hears a soft startled gasp, before Tim’s scurrying out.

“Yep! Sorry! Sorry! Just a little spaced.”

“Tim.” Bruce hopes his voice sounds gentle. “What happened?”

“What do you mean? I told you-“

“Don’t lie to me. That didn’t come from just now.” Bruce pauses and sighs. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Tim shakes his head.

“I won’t tolerate you hiding injuries from me.”

“I’m not.”

They stand looking at each other for several drawn out, silent seconds.

“Were you patrolling on your own?” Bruce asks after a minute. “I’m going to find out if you-“

“No.” Tim sounds even less like his normal self when he cuts in. “I promise I wasn’t.”

“All right. So what is it? Did something happen during the day?”

As much as Bruce wants to know about it if Tim’s getting into fights at school, or somewhere else, he recognizes that it may not be his place to intervene if this wasn’t vigilante related. That’s fine (at least so he tells himself) but he’d like assurance that someone’s looking out for his Robin.

“Is it something you can handle with your parents?” He tries.

Tim’s eyes widen for half a second, and then he bursts into tears.

Bruce briefly freezes, before returning to himself and rushing to Tim’s side.

“I’m so stupid,” Tim is muttering, barely discernibly. “I’m sorry. I was so stupid.” The words barely come out between bouts of gasping, shuddering sobs.

Bruce wants to beg him to tell him what happened, but settles for reaching out a careful arm, and slowly pulling him close. Tim freezes for a fraction of a second, before melting into his side, continuing to mumbled unintelligibly.

“It’s all right,” Bruce tries to sooth, very aware that he doesn’t really have the voice for that sort of thing. “You’re okay.” He desperately wishes that he could offer some more specific reassurances, but he still doesn’t know what’s going on. “I’ve got you,” he settles for, running a hand through Tim’s hair.

They stay like that for a while, Tim crying, and apologizing, and Bruce telling him it’s okay, and wishing he could be sure that it was true. Eventually the tears dry up, and the breathing evens out, and the tense body beside his goes limp with exhaustion. Bruce doesn’t let go, not until he feels Tim starting to shift around restlessly. And even then he stays close enough to be easily collapsed into again, should the need arise.

“I messed up,” Tim says, after a few false starts.

“Whatever it is, we can fix it.” A ridiculous promise, and one that Bruce normally wouldn’t be making without more information. But somehow- without Bruce meaning to allow him to- Tim has joined the narrow ranks of those capable of inducing him to speak or behave a-procedurally.

Tim shakes his head.

“Tim, I want to help, but you have to give me something to work with.”

Tim is too focused on keeping his eyes dry, and his breathing steady to respond.

“Do you want me to take you home?” Bruce forces himself to offer, forces himself to remember that this child isn’t his, doesn’t need him the way the other robins did.

Another sob escapes Tim, and he buries his face in his hands. There’s a pang in Bruce’s chest as he realizes what he has to ask next.

“Did something happen at home?”

The question is met with heavy breathing, followed by a drawn out silence, and then, finally, a slow nod.

Bruce forces down his rising anger, as Tim finally gathers himself to speak.

“I don’t know if they want me to go back.” It comes out in a hoarse whisper. “Dad was so mad at me.”

Fury coils in Bruce’s gut, and lies in wait for his next question to be answered.

“Did he do this?” He gestures to the black eye.

“It’s never happened before,” Tim rushes to say. “Nothing like this ever has.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Bruce practically growls. Tim, to his credit, seems entirely unaffected by the intensity of the tone.

“I started it,” he says.

“… There’s no way that’s true.”

“Bruce,” Tim chokes out, leaning back into him.

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Bruce pulls him close like he could absorb Tim into himself, like if he holds him tightly enough he can keep him safe- as if he’s actually capable of keeping any child safe. This will never happen again, he wants to say, I won’t let it. His mind is racing. He doesn’t want to let Tim back into that house, doesn’t want to let him out of his sight really. He’s never been able to fathom how the Drakes can have this selfless, determined, brilliant child in their care, and be so willing to spend all their time away from him. He’s been wary of them from the beginning. But he never imagined that they could pose this kind of danger to their son.

“This is so stupid,” Tim grumbles into Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce can’t disagree, though he’s a little worried that they aren’t on the same page about what exactly that means.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Tim continues after a minute. “I thought- I thought things were going well!”

“Telling me was the right thing to do,” Bruce says quickly. “If somebody’s hurting you- no matter who it is-“

“That isn’t what I mean.” He takes a deep breath, and leans back a little bit.

Bruce watches patiently, as Tim calms his nerves, and steadies himself.

“I… told Mom and Dad about Connor,” he breathes. “Not the alien clone thing, obviously. But, I told them that I was seeing someone- a guy- and I don’t even know why I did it! In the back of my head I knew there was no way it was going to go over well. I knew that. I was just, I don’t know, feeling happy, and okay for the first time in a while. So I thought-“ He shakes his head. “I mean I didn’t think; that was the problem. And Mom reacted the way I knew she- the way I should have known she would. And I got mad, and I started yelling at her, and Dad, when I yelled at her, Dad, that’s when he- he…”

Bruce’s heart breaks. It’s not like he’d imagined that Jack Drake would have a good reason for lashing out at his son, but this was nothing.

“I’m still not hearing anything that you did wrong.” He forces himself to stay calm.

“Trying to come out to them was dumb! I didn’t need to do it. They were leaving soon anyways, it shouldn’t have mattered!”

“No. They shouldn’t have hurt you,” Bruce says fiercely. “This is part of who you are, so it should always matter. It’s not stupid to assume that people who are supposed to care about you would want to know more about what’s going on in your life. Tim, you did nothing wrong.”

He runs a hand up and down his back, like he’d done when Dick had nightmares as a child.

Tim glances at him out of the glassy corner of his eye, and scrubs his hands roughly over his face, before mumbling something that Bruce doesn’t catch.

He waits for a beat, before quietly asking if Tim will repeat himself.

“They don’t want me coming around here anymore,” he says more clearly, voice suddenly empty. “They- they saw that interview you did a couple years back, where you came out as bisexual.” His face is tinged pink, ashamed to even be repeating his parent’s words. “So they think that I, I don’t know, caught it from you, like it’s contagious or something. But I didn’t know where else to go! And I- I don’t want to give this up…“ He gestures broadly to the cave around them as hiccuping breaths overpower his speech.

Bruce just holds on as Tim continues to cry, softly repeating that he didn’t do anything wrong, carefully keeping the furious voice raging, ‘those bastards won’t take you away from me,’ under wraps. He doesn’t let himself think about every other instance of his sexuality being cited as a factor making him an unsuitable guardian that he’s committed to precise memory, the vicious arguments that his children should be taken away from him, the fact that if he hadn’t been born so lucky in so many other ways they might have been. Tim doesn’t need him to be angry, Tim needs him to be smart.

They wait out the tears again, until they’re not falling so heavily, and Tim is shuddering occasionally, rather than continuously, and can compose himself enough to speak.

“I didn’t mean to dump all this on you,” he says once he’s mostly calmed down.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Bruce threads his fingers through locks of lightly tangled hair. “I’m so glad you told me what happened. You’re going to stay here tonight, okay?”

Tim is with them often enough when his parents aren’t around that they already have a room made up for him, a room which after less than a year has come to show more evidence of his personality than his bedroom at the Drake’s mansion.

Tim nods.

“Thank you.”

Bruce squeezes his shoulder.

“Do you still have pajamas here? Or do you need to borrow a pair of Dick’s?”

It’s something easy in a moment where everything feels impossibly difficult.

“I brought them with me when I went home.” His breath catches on the last word, and it only half comes out.

“That’s all right. Dick won’t mind.”

Now it’s just a matter of getting themselves upstairs. There will be more to worry about tomorrow, much more, and it will undoubtedly only increase in the days that follow. Bruce will have to figure out whether or not Jack and Janet Drake are looking for their son, and he can’t quite decide which the worse option is at this point. He’ll also need to make sure he understands what exactly is within his power to do to keep Tim safe. Bruce stops himself before he can begin preparing for the future too obsessively. He brings himself back to the present moment, stairs, pajamas, bed, all very manageable tasks.

He just really doesn’t want to let go of the child in his arms. The realization that Tim might need him more than he thought is overpowering, making him feel violently protective, and a little bit terrified.

Some of the strain of the moment breaks when Tim uses the side of Bruce’s arm to stifle a yawn, but it’s still a little while longer before they’re ready to head upstairs.

When they do, Tim wanders up to his room, where Bruce hopes he’ll find easy rest. He stays awake and finds Alfred. There’s a lot they need to talk about.

[slashbitch2]

The Very Nosy Neighbour

this fic was 100% inspired by this one here , but I mean it practically wrote itself I couldn't resist

NSFW

You can't remember much past waking up in an unfamiliar room- though 'room' is really a sugarcoated description, as in reality it qualifies more as some kind of cavern. You're sitting in a chair, ankles and wrists bound by an indistinguishable material. Whatever the binds are made of feels strong, so any attempts to struggle against it are futile. Yet, in spite of what really should be an extremely stressful situation, you find yourself completely relaxed. You briefly wonder whether you've been drugged, but with every sense feeling fully operational, that theory is soon dismissed.

Instead of choosing a more logical response to the circumstances you've found yourself in, you decided to focus more on your surroundings: not to form any resemblance of an escape plan, but simply out of curiosity. Although, the investigation is equally as ineffective. You're unable to name anything around you except for stone walls, strange (glowing?) vines and weird symbols carved above a few archways. Everything beyond that is either entirely lost to you, or shrouded in darkness.

With little else to do, you start to think back on the events that led you there, trying to glean any useful information from the blurry memories. The clearest image, therefore the most recent, is the smirking face of a woman, Agnes you realise. Though the malicious glint in her eyes doesn't quite match your perception of the nosy neighbour. But where is she now? Is she also in danger? You may not have known Agnes for very long, but are reluctant to let any harm come to her regardless.

With a clearer head, you consider calling for help, but a small voice at the back of your subconscious warns you against this. And the voice sounds smart, so you elect to listen to it. But what should you do instead? Where did this voice come from? And most importantly, should you trust it? Luckily, you aren't given much time to overthink the decision.

While trying to tune into this voice, footsteps echo in the distance, gradually drawing nearer. You hold your breath as the sound suddenly stops, leaving your eyes scanning the vicinity for any movement. The unpleasant reality dawns on you all too quickly: the footsteps were approaching from behind you.

“Well, well, well.” Someone says playfully, then snorts as they start walking closer. "Sorry to be a total cliché. I couldn't resist." It's Agnes. She narrows her eyes and smirks, folding her arms as she examines your constrained form. Subjected to her scrutiny, you find yourself swallowing, but your throat is too dry. Other small discomforts also become noticeable; your cramped limbs, aching back and the bruises on your hands. Well at least you put up a fight. The more rational part of you, however, realises that your hands are no longer bound. You stare down at them, flexing each finger as if checking they were all still fully functional.

Something suddenly knocks into your head and you grimace. Left reeling from the impact, you realise that you're slightly nauseated. Though not enough to stop you from reaching out to grasp the floating cup of water. The fact that the glass is suspended in mid-air doesn't go unnoticed, rather ignored, since there's too much happening simultaneously to comprehend any of it in sufficient detail. You swirl the liquid round, hesitant to drink, unwilling to trust your captor's apparent mercy.

"Drink up, dear." Agnes drags a chair forward, which seems to have just appeared out of thin air. She sits backwards on it, legs spread and arms resting on the back casually. "That's all you're getting until we're done here." The tone of her voice is both threatening and teasing. You're reluctant to admit it's quite a turn on.

One glance up at her prying expression and you relent, downing the chilled water way too quickly. Though you aren't given a chance to mourn your impatience, as with an effortless wave of her hand, Agnes refills the glass. While you sip at the water, she refuses to tear her eyes away from you for even a second. It's slightly disconcerting.

“Now," She claps her hands, startling you. "I assume you know why you’re here?”

“Not really.” You confess, unable to pinpoint why anyone would go to so much effort to kidnap you, especially Agnes, who up to this point had been an eccentric yet kind neighbour.

She sighs, more for show than anything else, and rubs at her temple. "Come on Y/N, let's not play dumb now."

Embarrassingly, a heat begins to pool deep in your gut, but you quickly dismiss the unwarranted lust. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh really?" She quirks an eyebrow, sitting upright. "You really have no idea?" The inquiry is ridiculing, and you can see that your naivety is starting to annoy her.

All you can do is shake your head and pray the sincerity is reflected in your eyes.

"Okay." She slams her hands down on her thighs. "I guess we'll have to go about this the hard way then, toots." A sharp gesture and your hands are bound before you once again.

By the time you're looking up, she's striding toward you with purpose, which does nothing to ease the building heat between your legs. Her hands clasp on the armrests either side, essentially trapping you, not like escape would've been possible without the extra precaution. Up close you finally recognize this isn't Agnes- in fact it never has been. There's a feral yet wise appearance to her, the facade of nosy neighbour dissolved in an instance to be replaced by a deranged, frighteningly powerful woman (or witch, you're undecided).

Despite your better judgement, you're unable to stop yourself from asking. "Who are you?" Your voice barely breaches a whisper, but she's standing close enough that nothing less intimate is required.

She looks mildly impressed, the corner of her mouth twitching almost indiscernibly. "Agatha Harkness." She extends a hand, smirking upon realisation that you're a little too tied up at the minute to reciprocate. "Lovely to meet you."

You swallow again, finding your throat to be a little less dry. "Likewise." Then decide to take another risk. "So what do you want from me?"

“Wanda's true identity.” She replies so quickly that you almost miss it, looking at you with an eagerly expectant expression.

Agatha's question confuses you further. “I don’t know what you mean.” Although your answer is honest, something at the back of your mind hisses lies.

"There's no need to lie here." Her patient humour had disappeared. "Trust me, no one will hear you, so drop the act."

For some unbeknown reason, her accusation angers you. "I'm not putting on an act, I don't know why I'm here or what you want from me." The bravery dissipates all of a sudden as you remember that you're not exactly in the position to command such authority. "Please, stop this."

Agatha purses her lips, stands up and turns away from you. She calmly moves forwards a few paces, and in the short amount of time you manage to convince yourself that she's given up. Until in a completely unprovoked move, she swings her hands to the left, sending her chair crashing into the wall in frustration. Whether this is part of her interrogation performance or not, it works. Your heart starts racing, and confusingly, the awkward heat between your legs pulses.

She runs a hand through her hair, still facing away from you. "Don't make this any harder harder than it needs to be." You can practically hear her grinding her teeth, but don't doubt that she was getting some enjoyment out of the situation.

"I can tell you that Wanda is my sister and only real family, that I moved to Westview with her and that I couldn't live without her." You start listing off some basic facts, desperate to prove to Agatha that nothing is hidden. That you're normal.

"What about your brother?" She swivels round, clicking her fingers as she tries to recall something. "Pietro!" She exclaims.

"Pietro..." You falter. Why does the name sound so familiar? The nausea worsens. You shake off the feeling. "Never heard of him."

“Liar.” In one swift movement, Agatha is right by your ear. The feeling of her lips brushing against your skin causes you to close your eyes. The close proximity was becoming overwhelming, and your body had chosen to react in a rather unfortunate way. Admittedly, you'd always had a thing for Agnes, but Agatha was on a whole other level. You dreaded to open your eyes, worried that she'd noticed your current state. Instead, you internally begged for mercy.

“Don't go all shy on me now.” She pushes your shoulder into the chair, compelling you to open your eyes. "If you don't want to talk, I have other methods." Her hand raises, a purple flow emanating from the tips of her fingers. It crackles and sparks, as if the power was barely contained, yet as she shifts closer to brush the hair out of your face, you don't flinch. One finger remained touching your forehead, then traced down to your jaw, and finally along to grasp your chin.

While the vaguely sinister movement terrified you, it also forced you hold your breath and grip onto the armrests for dear life. Why you'd decided this was hot was beyond you considering the many connotations of her words, yet your thighs pressed tighter together as she drew closer. You attempted to turn your head to the side, longing for distraction, but her hold on you kept your head still.

"This won't be much fun for you, dear." She sighed in mock pity, her breath hot against your skin... Which just tipped you over the edge. As hard as you tried to stifle the noise, a broken moan escaped your lips. You'd definitely hit a low point here. Too ashamed to face your apparent arousal, you screwed your eyes shut. Although, at Agatha's silence, you relented and opened them barely a minute later.

To your relief, or perhaps dismay, the woman was grinning like a maniac. Her eyes flickered down to your parted lips as she chewed on her own. Then carefully, as if she were testing the waters, her fingers began to rub against your jaw, and upwards to your mouth. Your breath deceives you by hitching as her thumb slips between your lips, stroking your tongue. At the contact, you can't help but arch into the touch. Agatha chuckles.

"I take it back." She murmurs, removing her hand. "This will be fun." Although the intimidation factor prevails, there's a certain desire mirrored in Agatha's expression which cancels out any remaining common sense. Your entire body felt like it was on fire, and even if you wanted to, there was little you could do to stop her. So, you give into your yearning, sighing as she climbs to sit on your lap. Immediately, her hand switches to gripping the back of your neck as she slams her mouth onto yours. You willingly indulge by opening further, allowing her tongue to slide between your lips. Her other hand lowers to grab at your chest, like she were trying to tug herself impossibly closer.

Without removing her lips, the hand massaging your chest shifts to your thigh. She still keeps her lips firmly pressed to yours, and with the lack of oxygen, you can feel yourself growing lightheaded. It almost feels like a challenge, one which you're determined to succeed at. Though when she eventually does break away, her hand suddenly slips between your thighs, and your breath is stolen from you once more. Wasting no time, she massages you through your clothes, dragging out an inevitable whine. The touch is both too much, and not enough. But judging by her malevolent smirk, that was exactly her intention.

Even though you were currently incapable of producing any reasonable thought, you still noticed that Agatha wasn't entirely unaffected. Her breathing was laboured, hips occasionally jerking against your thigh and eyes struggling to stay open. The influence you were having on her only encouraged you to moan louder, craving to see her equally dishevelled. Your plan seemed to momentarily fail as her hand retreated. But you'd certainly earned her attention.

She licks her lips, then abruptly changes her expression to look disturbingly like that of Agnes. "You wouldn't leave me out of the fun now, would you dear?" Her voice is high pitched as she basically sings her words. Although the question must've been rhetorical as doesn't await a response, instead you find your hands unbound, flung behind your back and bound together all in a matter of seconds. Then, she shifted her position, yanking your bodies closer so that your crotches were pressed together. She grunts, heaving forward to rest against you for a moment and regain her composure. And finally, without warning, starts to grind your hips together.

It doesn't take long for her movement to become more frantic, accompanied by her hair spilling onto her face. She remains impressively quiet, however, or perhaps you were just comparably loud. With the little pride you have left, you decide to take matters into your own hands, and start meeting each thrust with equal vigour. Miraculously, it works. She throws her head back with a remarkably loud moan, proceeded by change in strategy as she starts almost bouncing on top of you, hips losing their rhythm, pleasure overwhelming her. Startled by her lack of self-control, the heat in your stomach begins building exponentially fast. Your eyes slam shut.

A hand grasps onto your face. “Look at me!” She growls, then emphasises her demand by rolling her hips torturously slowly. The movement ceases. She leans her forehead against yours, staring directly into your eyes. “Come with me.” To your surprise, there's an audible plea in her voice.

At a loss for words, you nod. The pleasure had been building for so long that you knew it'd only take a few more grinds to push you over the edge. With your confirmation, Agatha resumes her thrusting, though soon succumbs, throwing her head back and uttering an exceptionally loud, high-pitched moan. She arches her back, pressing herself so far into you that the pleasure peaks. You groan, lurching backwards in a moment of pure bliss. All you can feel is Agatha, all you can think about is Agatha. Coming down from the high, you sigh and collapse forward to bury your face in the crook of her neck.

She tenses slightly at the contact, but soon relaxes into the strange embrace. You gently press your lips against her skin and feel her shiver, confirming your suspicion that it'd been a while since Agatha had received such affection. Motivated by a new, more innocent desire, you continue to pepper light kisses across her throat and behind her ear, simply enjoying the unexpectedly intimate moment.

Agatha finally breaks the silence, leaning away from your touch to look down at you curiously. "Wanda really has you under her mind control too, huh?"

Although still stuck in a post-coital haze, you muster enough brainpower to consider her words. "Mind control?"

"Oh, right." She smirks, a slight sadness perceptible in her eyes. "Forgot to mention." Before you can say anything, she swings one leg to the side, stiffly sliding off your lap and clasping her hands together. "You might want to reconsider where your loyalties lie, dear." She glances at you, then ambles to the opposite side of the room. "That's one fucked up family situation right there." Her voice teasingly calls out.

You feel yourself flush, strangely offended by her comment, and annoyed by her vagueness. "Like you can talk." Your response is a total shot in the dark, but must've hit a nerve since she slowly turns back to you, a suspicious expression upon her face. "Just a guess." You add, unwilling to know the details of whatever sensitive topic you'd just touched upon. Agatha easily shrugs it off, leaving behind a stifling silence. Eventually, it's a mixture of your own boredom and concern that prompts you to end the lull in conversation. "Are you still planning on interrogating me about something I know nothing about?"

"Oh, no I read your mind." She waves a dismissive hand over her shoulder. "Got all I needed."

Again, you're left suffocating in the confusion her ambiguity provokes, with nothing else to ask except. "How...?"

The inquiry must've been exactly what Agatha wanted to hear as she immediately dropped what she was doing to turn around and lean on the wall, arms folded in a casually smug pose. "Sex leaves you vulnerable." She smirked. "All I did was take advantage of the opportunity- but I'll spare you the boring details." With a flourish of her hand and a flash of purple, the binds holding your ankles and wrists disappeared. "You can go now. First door on the left."

Without sparing you another glance, she busied herself with some witchy task, allowing you to see yourself out. Massaging your wrists, you stood slowly, watching her expectantly. Surely she wouldn't just let you leave? Yet as you sauntered over to the door she'd directed you to, she made no move to stop you. "Bye then?"

Agatha looked up at you and winked. "See you around, neighbour."

[creativeashproductions]

Charlie’s New Friend // Charlie Gillespie

Summary: Charlie’s fallen for the casting director and Kenny’s right hand for Julie and the Phantoms. After a day doesn’t go the way it should the cast meets a little newcomer changing the dynamics with Charlie.

Warnings: Swearing, angst, single!parent!reader,  pure fluff

Words: 5.3k

A/N: Hi! In this fic there’s a stuffed animal and it’s important to speak about in this note. I found the stuffed animal on a website for Canadian Wildlife Federation that uses the money from each purchase to support the research and programs for species at risk. The Snowy Owl stuffed animal features in this fic has the proceeds go to protect the Canadian Arctic!

Website to the Canadian Wildlife Federation Adopt an Animal

Masterlist

Everyone has bad days when it happens, you often blared ‘Bad Day’ by Daniel Powter, in their lives. No stranger to those days it seemed today was the recent worse one when your coffee machine broke, your tea cabinet was barren, and Faye decided to dirty your shirt. Then the daycare called informing you of necessary renovations to bring it back to Code. That left you to do the one thing you really didn’t want to do.

You had to bring your daughter to work on the set of Julie and the Phantoms as Faye’s father was filming in England. You had no doubts he would have dropped everything to care for her if he was in the same town let alone state. The positive was that Kenny was aware of your situation and had pleaded for Faye to visit set.

“I need to go to the store after work.” You mumbled over the irritating children’s music that Faye adored. That or the flashing lights on the television during the half-hour each night you got supper ready.

Parking in your assigned spot you made quick work of release the baby carrier from the secure bucket. Faye slept through the entire transition to the stroller with the component that locked the car seat on it.

“Let’s rock ‘n roll Tink.” You told the sleeping infant with the baby bag slung over your shoulder and the pretty light purple blanket covering Faye’s tiny body.

Now while Kenny knew about your daughter, the rest of the cast was definitely unaware given you often passed on dinner. The few times you had joined was when Faye’s father was in town to see your shared daughter.

“Who’s this cutie?” Tori asked, stepping in unison with to view the adorable little baby with brunette curls hidden by her little toque.

“This is my daughter Faye.” You whispered as a suckling sound came from Faye’s open mouth as little snores came out, “Daycare is closed for renovations, and I don’t have a backup plan.”

Tori’s eyebrows raised as you dropped a somewhat surprising fact about part of your life you kept quiet. In no way, shape or form did you feel ashamed by Faye’s existence. Faye’s father was hands-on and very supportive, even if Faye had been a surprise.

“I never knew you had a child.” Tori blinked melting as the infant cooed in the stroller hidden from the sun via the visor.

Tori’s scrutiny of the little baby allowed her to catch the similarities such as the nose and mouth, but the rest was the father. There was something in Faye’s features that tickled her mind as if she had seen them before.

“It’s not something I like to flaunt. I prefer keeping my work life separate from my personal life.” You informed the seasoned dancer and choreographer.

A few more words of conversation commenced until Tori was called over to Paul with a clipboard in hand. The incessant feeling of eyes peering at you on the walk to the modest trailer you shared with Tori. It was easier for crew members to share trailers with the little time you typically spent in them.

With practised ease, your hands unstrapped Faye from her stroller into your arms where she cuddled into your neck. For the most part, Faye was an easy-going baby with an affinity for cuddling, but of course, that didn’t make her perfectly well behaved.

“Best be getting over to the office.” You cooed at the suckling sound Faye made with her fist pressed against her open mouth.

Kenny had personally hired you after working on Descendants as a casting director with healthy mutual respect. Often if at the time you were free, you found yourself working with the legendary man. He was lenient with the new addition of Faye as well, going as far as to see he was a great-uncle.

“Would this be Miss Faye?” Kenny asked from his seat at the head of the table with a handful of filled cars.

Jeremy, Owen, Madi, and Savannah sat with the newest script for the next episode leaving you to avoid looking at Charlie. Now it the typical Wattpad storyline you had fallen for the Canadian actor who reciprocated the feelings. A few hangouts and flirting, but he had no clue about the most significant piece of your life.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t have a sitter, and the daycare had unforeseen extensive renovations.” You spoke softly bouncing as Faye’s little body tensed up with a whimper.

“I’ve been begging you to bring her on set. It’s about time.” Kenny retorted walking swiftly to coo over the little girl. His action bringing the cast members closer, Charlie’s solemn stare never leaving as he came closer.

“She’s so cute! How old is she?” Savannah questioned as the brown-eyed little girl blinked at the multiple faces.

“Eight months now. My little surprise.”

“Definitely a surprise for sure,” Charlie mumbled just on the cusp of everyone being able to hear, but Faye had all the attention.

Within seconds Faye had found herself in the arms of Owen with funny faces to get the little baby to laugh. Savannah, with your permission, had started snapping pictures of Faye’s interactions with everyone. Kenny had retreated to his computer while Charlie pulled you just outside the door.

“You have a kid?” Charlie hissed keeping distance between the two of you as the situation settled, “We’ve been on a handful of dates, and you kept your baby a secret?”

Your heart sank, “Do you know the chances of a guy dating someone with a kid? Joshua Jackson’s character in Mighty Ducks talking with his coach? Guys left his mom in the dust when they caught a glance of him.”

“You know me.” Charlie stressed glancing over his shoulder at the distracted group of young adults. Faye’s giggle drawing awes from every single individual in the room, even Charlie’s lips quirked at the sound.

“Charlie, that little girl is my blood. Every single decision I make has her in mind. I wasn’t keeping her from you maliciously.” You informed him trying to meet his gaze, “Her name is Faye Eloise. She adores music and this tiny fox her uncles got her.”

Charlie’s shoulder lowered slightly, “She is pretty cute.”

“Her laugh is my favourite sound in the entire world. She’s a replica of her father more than me.” Your lips lifted gazing over Charlie’s shoulder to Kenny, engaging in a one-sided conversation with Faye.

Charlie’s green gaze examine our expression pinned on the tiny little human you had bonded for months with. The pure adoration coating your features softened the ball of anger in Charlie’s belly, that didn’t mean he wasn’t hurt. But seeing the fundamental protective instincts you displayed, your body coiled to dash to Faye. Your gaze that periodically ensured Faye was safe.

Charlie saw the maternal love that poured out of you that he often caught in his own mother’s eyes. That very thought led to an in-depth conversation with his mom later when he was in the safety of his bedroom.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jeanette spoke with her phone on speaker. The silence drawing her concern, “Charlie? Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure. That girl I’ve been seeing?”

“Y/N, she’s on the crew with Kenny. She’s all you’ve been talking about lately, and you’ve already told me she may be The One.” The words caused Charlie to involuntarily smile at the call after the second date with you. Charlie didn’t feel half-hearted, he felt with his entire soul.

“I still think she is, but she’s a package deal,” Charlie admitted scrubbing one hand through his hair sending the bandana keeping his hair out his face to his lap.

Jeanette took a moment in cleaning her kitchen to sit at the island to click the phone off the speaker. The phone resting against her ear, she gave her full attention to her youngest son.

“Charles. I don’t want to ask you this, but is she pregnant?” Jeanette questioned, holding her breath in complete anticipation. She’d like a few grandkids but preferably when the time was right for her children.

“No. Mom! I didn’t get her pregnant.” Charlie groaned at the hesitant toe tipping into a conversation he’d rather not relive from his teens, “She has a daughter.”

“And? Is that a deal-breaker for you? You talk like she’s the love of your life Charlie, you’ve never spoken about any of your previous girlfriends like that. You’re not even officially dating her either.” Jeanette replied, watching Meghan settle in for an episode of her current favourite show; the only Gillespie child visiting at the moment, “Are you willing to walk away because she had a child?”

“Faye is absolut-“

“-sounds like you answered the question with the adoration in your voice. You don’t have to run to the nearest chapel to get married. If you love both of them, give it a shot.” Jeanette advised her son smiling when Charlie’s breathing evened out more.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Jeanette knew in her very marrow that in time she would meet little Faye, call it mother’s intuition but she was sure of it.

It was the week of hell with the daycare still shut down, your back up babysitter on vacation and Faye upset. Charlie barely spoke to you as he tried to find his footing in the new dynamic and the space he had rightfully asked for. It was hell seeing him at work and only speaking for work requirements.

“Sh.” You hushed bouncing with Faye curled in your arms as her mouth twisted, “As a casting director and Kenny’s complete faith in me. I made a suggestion to Soyon.”

A line appeared between your eyebrows as Faye’s snuffled against your soft hoodie while trying to focus on the cast. The boys, Madi and Booboo sat in the room for a short meeting during the time the next scene was being set up.

“Kenny and I talked about your personal connection to your characters. There’s the smallest disjoint some of you have. Kenny’s always preached about everyone having a voice and to make suggestions.” You could cry as the ache in your arms increased from holding Faye, she’d cry every time you tried to put her down.

Mom life when you can’t put your baby down to pee alone in peace. Faye getting her shots and recovering from a stomach bug didn’t help.

“Are you okay?” Madi asked, catching the expression that came and went in seconds. The cast watching as you continued to walk around the room with Faye.

“I’ll be fine.” You shrugged the concern off closing your eyes to ground herself once more juggling the concern for Faye with your job, “Soyon and I want you to put a personal detail in your character’s style. If you think of anythi-“

Faye’s sharp cry echoed in the room, “Shh. I’m so sorry guys. I’d put her down, but she won’t settle-“

The cuts ended when Faye was gently tugged from you into a warm chest and soft coos in the little baby’s ears. Your sore arms dropping as Faye’s weight was coaxed into Charlie’s body and your jaw dropped. Charlie’s rhythmic pace and soft coos turning into a lullaby easing the baby.

“Wha-“

“-can’t have the little boss upset.” Charlie shot a coy smile resurrecting the confidence in the relationship. The smile grew when Charlie’s tiny nod at your unspoken question eased you.

“Is there anything you’d like added to your character? Outfit suggestions?” You inquired catching the hesitant gaze of the young actress.

The Puerto Rican teenager had quickly become a game-changer for the production as a first time with such an incredible talent. The second you saw Madi’s audition tape it had sealed the most critical role; Kenny adored the audition tape you had forwarded so fast.

“Could we do something for my mom?” Madi asked, biting her lip as your eyes encouraged her to delve deeper into the request, “My mom is in the army, and I’d like to pay homage to her?”

Your hand landed on her own in a squeeze, “We can absolutely do that. Head over to Soyon when you have a moment. What about you, guys?”

The three boys had gone quiet as Faye settled into a sleep you had been begging for since she missed her morning nap. Charlie had gone from softly singing to humming in the infant’s ear while Jeremy and Owen watched.

“Do you think Luke could carry the Rabbit’s Foot?” Charlie whispered, resting his head against the infant in his arms.

“I’m sure Soyon would have no trouble with that. Jeremy, Owen if you figure something out just let Soyon know. All suggestions are welcomed.” You informed the duo before starting to reach for Faye.

 Charlie stepped back while the 2/3rds of Sunset Curve left with Faye still held securely bouncing a small degree. The scene warmed your heart as Faye slept for the first time in what felt like years.

“I can take her if you want.” You told the actor with arms already reaching out to him but contradicting your expectations he’d back off.

Charlie’s green eyes focused solely on the tiny mouth opened just slightly with the soft breaths wafting from her small frame. At that moment cradling the small life the wall separating him shattered; the love flooded his veins, and he knew. He would fight anyone that hurt the little angel with no consequences in mind.

 “I’d like to hold her longer. I need the practice for when you need a nap.” Charlie replied, shifting his gaze onto your form. Charlie’s heart clenched at the unsure glint in the eye of Faye’s mother.

“Oh.” You simply spoke stepping closer to the man that had easily stolen your heart, holding your entire world in his gentle hands.

“I know it won’t be easy, but I would really like to give us a real chance. No secrets anymore. The minute I saw her, my heart melted, but I got scared, and I’ll always carry that regret in my life. I want to be here for you and for Faye.”

Charlie fell into the father figure as easy as breathing creating a bond that almost made you jealous with the ease. He adored playing music during Faye’s bath time, and in the special bath time with bubbles, he would create a beard; it sent Faye into giggles every time. He absolutely loved when you brought Faye to set.

Leaving Faye in Charlie’s capable hands, you had taken your break from work to freshen up in the washroom. Grabbing a quick bite, you rushed back to Charlie having gone over your time by a complete accident.

“I am so sorry! I got distracted by-“ You were almost surprised the sudden stop in motion would cause a burnout. Working through lines was Jeremy, Owen and Charlie; Charlie new accessory being a baby sling with Faye strapped against his chest.

“Hey, Babe! We have no filming the afternoon of Friday, it’s blocked for Madi. Jer and Carolynn offered to babysit. We could do a date night.” Charlie fully turned to face you lightly bouncing to keep Faye settled.

The sight of Charlie with Faye securely in the baby sling, one that you didn’t own and was the best one on the market, was incredibly sweet. It was at that moment that you just knew that Charlie was The One and you are deeply in love with him.

“They don’t have to. I was planning on telling you tonight that Faye’s father is in town, he has Faye for Friday to Sunday. You informed Charlie as he walked closer to tug you into his embrace with Faye.

Now while you had been dating Charlie for two months at this point, the topic of who Faye’s father hadn’t come up. It was a topic that found its way for discussion, but his name never came up; it didn’t matter.

“Oh. we should give them a moment.” Owen whispered to his fellow actor and friend. With a withering glance, they froze in their places.

“Why? Faye’s father is an amazing guy. He has a specific time for calling Faye, we have a group chat for Faye. We send pictures and updates to him.” Charlie informed them, “There are no hard feelings. We all trust each other even if I’ve never met him.”

When Friday came along, it sent Charlie into a near-constant state of panic with the thought of meeting Faye’s father. He couldn’t sit still, well it’s Charlie he can’t sit still, but this was nervous energy. He’d contribute little to the conversations with eyes periodically checking the time.

Charlie was alone without you or Faye on set, you had let Kenny know the significance of the date. Charlie had left your apartment with a kiss from both you and Faye in order for the apartment to be cleaned up.

“What’s up with him?” Madi inquired as her tray made contact with the table shared by her ghostly trio. Jer sent a look to Owen before answering.

“It’s the weekend that Faye’s father will be in town. Charlie’s freaking out about meeting him.” Jeremy supplied typing a reply to Carolynn from just before lunch.

“Oh, is he worried about Y/N getting back together with him?” Madi asked jabbing the straw into her drink. Her brown gaze watching Charlie’s leg bounce like a jackhammer.

“No. Not about that. His scenes are done so he’s waiting for Y/N to pick him up.” Owen stated, leaning back as the man in question took off running in his street clothes to the parking lot, “Did he leave burn marks with that sprint?”

In the typical routine that never stopped the flutters in his stomach, you leaned over to hum into a kiss. Breaking apart Charlie caressed your finger gently before straightening into the passenger seat. Out of habit, he checks over his shoulder where Faye was strapped in her car seat.

“Oh, one moment,” Charlie exclaimed jumping out of the vehicle to open the back door. He quickly in to kiss Faye on her forehead, “I missed you Bug.”

Faye’s giggled in response as Charlie closed the backdoor to return to the passenger seat with a beaming grin. Charlie loved his girls with all his heart even in the short amount of time he had been in their lives.

“We’re meeting at his place.” You told the Canadian actor focusing on the drive, “He’s been renting a place since Faye was born. It’s easier for everyone to not stay in a hotel or an apartment.”

Charlie hummed in response, watching as you left the general vicinity of the set for one of the gated communities. It wasn’t the incredibly high-end community, but it was on the pricier side, but it was safe. His eyebrows raised at the houses the vehicle passed as he sang for the baby in the back.

“This is where he’s renting?” Charlie scoffed scanning the vast neighbourhood of houses, “Whoa.”

The chuckle fell from your lips as you pulled into the driveway of the address you had received via text messages. You had barely stepped out of the vehicle when Charlie already had Faye’s car seat in his arms. Cradled in the crook of his arm he held out his free hand to intertwine with yours.

“Any advice before we go in there?” Charlie questioned glancing at Faye gurgling with her stuffed Snowy Owl.

So passionate for nature, he had found an organization that sells the stuffed animals of animals in jeopardy. The money from sales of the stuffed animals when to saving the animal bought, so when he got Faye the Snowy Owl, it put money towards saving the animal. Faye adored her stuffed owl just as much as the person that bought it.

“Just be yourself. Tom and you are similar in terms of people down to earth and close with your family.” You informed him of pushing the button for the doorbell while Charlie stared at you.

“His name is Tom?” Charlie asked thinking back to the messages he had added as Faye’s father, he felt stupid he didn’t know the name of the guy who was a big part of your life.

“Did we never introduce you in the group chat?” You questioned as the door opened to the 5’8 brunette and glittering brown eyes.

Charlie’s eyes widened at the first physical appearance of your ex and Faye’s father standing in front of him. Tom was the same height as Charlie with brown eyes and a pale complexion but a childlike aura. Tom’s eyes met Charlie’s before they beamed down to the happy baby.

“’ello. Come on in.” Tom ushered you and Charlie into the home straight to the living room, “I’m Tom, can I get you anything to drink?”

“Charlie.” The Canadian actor spoke, shaking his hand with an equally welcoming smile as you gently took Faye out of her car seat.

“Hi, little Holly.” Tom cooed as his now eleventh-month-old child lunged into his arms with loud giggles, “That’s a cute owl you have there.”

“Y/N!” The overjoyed announcement came from Tom’s young brother Harry holding the camera that you’d never seen more than a few metres from him.

Faye’s uncle quickly squeezed you in a tight hug before pulling away to scan your form as if something drastic had changed. Charlie awkwardly watched as he settled into a little family, he wasn’t familiar with.

“Charlie, this is Tom’s younger brother Harry. Harry this is my boyfriend Charlie who I met on the set of his show.” You gestured for Charlie to come closer and just like that the three guys acted like they’d been friends for years.

You and Charlie didn’t linger at Tom’s house more than an hour to give Tom’s the entire weekend with his daughter. Of course, you would worry about her the whole time, but you also knew Tom didn’t need any help. You completely trusted him, but you can’t help it when the child is yours.

“Where’d you get Faye the owl?” Tom asked, leading Charlie to beam in excitement.

“Oh! Well, I use my platform to bring awareness and support to the environment internationally. The Canadian Wildlife Federation has a website that sells adoption kits for animals. Every purchase of the animal in their Adopt-an-Animal program funds the research and critical conservation programs for at-risk species.” Charlie used his hands as he rambled on, “By adopting this stuffed Snowy Owl it further funding for conservation efforts to protect Canada’s Arctic environments.”

Tom’s lips pulled into a grin, “My brothers and I have a charity we use to host events to raise money for the smaller charities. Maybe in the future, we sit down for a deeper conversation? You can send me a few links that I can share as well.”

“We have dinner plans. Keep me posted?” You interrupted, leaning into Charlie’s warm side with a kind smile to Tom.

Goodbyes shared you left the house with Charlie to the vehicle he adamantly asked to drive with that charming smile. The radio on low you watched the scenery go by.

“Tom’s an amazing guy. Family-oriented, kind, supportive, charitable and a really nice guy. Why did you guys break up?” Charlie asked, glancing at you from the corner of his green eyes. Your eyes, however, kept focused on the blurry landscape.

It wasn’t a way to avoid the question, “We became acquainted on Instagram back before he landed the role of Spider-Man. Over time it developed into a relationship that wasn’t serious or long term. We actually broke up a week after we conceived Faye.”

The two individuals stared stock still at the screen of black, white and shades of grey on the monitor. The tiny little bean moving around with the consistent thudding in the background. Your lips parted as the doctor’s words of a positive pregnancy, repeating like a broken record. Tom’s handheld tight as he digested the news.

His ex-girlfriend of three months, you to be precise, had been the safe place for a fetus to grow. Estimated gestation of eleven weeks it felt the two young adults spiralling with the large what-ifs making their presence known.

“Pregnant. That’s a baby.” The words came out shaky on the British man’s lips, “I put that baby in you. You are carrying my child, but it’s your choice if you want to keep the baby. It’s your body going through the changes.”

“I’d like to keep baby H.” You softly responded, sharing a smile of disbelief as it settled that a life-changing event would come to fruition in six months.

“We tried to make it work, but it became obvious that the spark had been gone for too long. I’ll always care for him and love him, but I’m not in love with him.” You told Charlie as he pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant chosen for the date.

“He’s a really good guy.”

“He’s an amazing father. I lucked out in the romance department, to be honest even if it didn’t work out with Tom.”

The topic was shelved for lighter conversation based on the things you missed on set today. Owen almost broke his nose in some stupid stunt that Charlie was involved in while you recounted the new music Faye had taken to.

Julie and the Phantoms renewed for a second season with a few new characters being introduced such as paramedic Lucy. Lucy would be a recurring character on the show with a connection to the boys. Julie would detest the woman that she believed was trying to replace her mother, and that would cause tension with her father. It would bring in a storyline for Ray manoeuvring his way through the guilt of finding someone attractive other than his wife. Beyond Ray, the boys would know Lucy as she was a rookie paramedic called to their accident site in the ‘90s.

With the new character and some more recurring ones, Kenny had wholly placed his trust in your again. Working from home due to the pandemic you compiled an extensive list of potential actors.

“Supper is ready.” Charlie breathed leaning down to kiss your cheek in the home office you shared together.

In his arms was Faye who had recently turned two years old with bouncy brown volumized curls with your eye colour. Faye loved being outside in the backyard or short hikes with Charlie vigilantly keeping an eye on her walking. Often you let the hiking be their thing together while you had the alone time or worked.

“Smells good.” You breathed kissing over to kiss the little girl, “Hello Tink. Are you excited to see Nana and Papa?”

“Mhm!” Faye spoke with her eyes twinkling at seeing her English grandparents with their silly accents. With her grandparents came their rambunctious uncles Harry, Sam and Paddy and her favourite family member Tessa.

“Daddy can’t wait to bring you to where he grew up.” Your fingers gently pushed the rebellious curl off her pudgy cheek.

“Then Dad and Mom can go on their honeymoon.” Charlie joked with a peck on the cheek of his little girl.

The glint of the ring on Charlie’s finger screamed at you with the recent memory of the intimate wedding. It had taken place a few months ago with your family and friends in attendance with Tom as well. He had even stood up with Charlie and even had a charming speech.

Gillespie Wedding

The Brit shuffled on the stage just before the guests all wearing masks and spaced following guidelines for the pandemic. His own black mask hung off one ear as he stepped up to the microphone.

“Hello, my name is Tom.” He introduced himself setting his eyes on the wedding party table with a grin, “Some may find it off for an ex-partner to be a guest at the wedding let alone being a part of the wedding party. Some of you know that I share an absolutely gorgeous and rambunctious little toddler with the bride.”

Faye waved enthusiastically from her seat beside her mother earning a chuckle from the attendants.

“I was blessed with meeting Y/N and having a daughter with her. We’re not like a lot of ex-couples because we remained close friends. She was open from the moment she knew there was something with a certain Canadian actor. The three of us created a group chat to share updates for Faye like when she popped her first molar tooth. The was a period I never want to relive” Tom laughed shaking his head with his deep brown eyes scanning the crowd, “Charlie had no clue that I was Faye’s father and his expression was priceless.”

“I never mentioned his name to Charlie! I never even realized until we dropped Faye off. Charlie knew Tom is an actor but not one of the Tom’s in Marvel.” You shouted over the laughter from the guests.

“We bonded, and we’ve never had any issues with our places in the lives of these darling young women. Faye has a loving mother and two fathers that will help her navigate life and protect her. I want to tell Charlie this: when Faye graduates from high school and maybe university if she decides to continue formal education and her wedding. You’ll be walking her down the aisle with me. I consider you one of my best friends, and there is no one else in this world I would trust with my little girl. I wish the bride and groom lifelong happiness in the new chapter. To Charlie and Y/N Gillespie!”

Now months later you had moved into a four-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles with Charlie and Faye. For the time being the third bedroom was rented out to Owen when he was in town to lower your rental fees and give him a stable residence. For a four-bedroom apartment, it was on the smaller size, but it was close to areas for Charlie to hike.

“How are you feeling?” Charlie murmured helping you off the couch revealing the bump you had been sporting for a while.

Baby Gillespie was healthy and robust and very much a surprise to the young couple. Charlie was sure the baby would be a boy while you full-heartedly believed Faye would have a little sister.

“Can’t wait for this little bun to be in our arms.” One hand coming to rest on top of his hand over the warm crewneck sweater.

The sweater came from a package of gifts Madison’s family had sent to celebrate the news of the baby on the way. The sweater was a light grey colour with the outline of phantom blobs with their guitars. The only addition was a baby phantom blob with over-ear headphones with a pacifier in the mouth. Absolutely adorable and a gift to be cherished.

“I still think if baby G is a girl, we name her Lucy.” Charlie teased leaning forward with the belly, keeping him at a distance.

“We are-“ The words unheard as Faye made her appearance known on the baby monitor keeping an eye on the toddler. Charlie was turning the corner from the living room to grab the little girl.

“Hey, sweet Angel.” Charlie’s soft words came through the speaker with the same care he’d shown her the entirety he’d known her.

You really did luck out with a beautiful daughter adored by both her fathers she had wrapped around her pinky. The paternity of Faye didn’t matter to Tom or Charlie, both mutually respecting each other with no ill will. The two male actors had grown a lovely friendship on mutual interests and passion for the environment and charity.

The fond smile grew as your eyes found the picture from Faye’s first birthday; her hands high in the ear coated in the smashed cake. Pudgy cheeks a rosy pink with Charlie and Tom on each side kissing her cheeks. Tom’s brother Harry had caught the candid picture with Faye’s infectious smile and surrounded by the love of her family.

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[kikilefangirl]

Phantom Love

Erik Lenhsherr x Reader 

(Word Count: 1.6k)

The knock on your apartment door was frantic and jarring.

You remained perched on your window sill, staring out at the busy street. You inhaled, taking a hit from your blunt. There was a light drizzle outside, and you could feel its pull on you and you pushed back. 

You made the water bend to your will, twisting and turning droplets as they fell. Never anything attention grabbing, but just enough to pass the time. As you exhaled, you pulled your knees up to your chest, and rested your head on them. 

Whoever was out there wasn’t invited, and you weren’t keen on visitors at the moment. 

Y/N, you know we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious.

You perked up at the familiar voice in your head. You sighed at the trouble Charles Xavier would bring to your door. He was interrupting your carefully crafted solitude for his shit.

“Fuck off, Charles!” You shouted. Smoke escaped your lips and up into the air, slowly dissipating into nothing. Your eyes followed its path, staring up at your ceiling.  

Charles knocked again. 

“Y/N! It’s Erik!” He called out. You clicked your tongue.

Of course it was. It was always Erik. Blunt in hand, you stalked over to the door. You stared at it with all the rage and scrutiny you had in you, then haphazardly swung it open. 

One hand sat on your waist as you lifted your blunt to your mouth again. Charles and Hank were waiting for you in the hallway. You let the smoke blow in their faces.

The two men coughed and sputtered as you headed deeper into your apartment without ceremony. 

“Y/N. He’s taken a turn.” Hank said. You snuffed out your blunt in the ashtray. 

Running a hand along the walls, you let the cool surface calm your growing anger.  You could feel the water rushing through the pipes. From there, you were connected to the complex plumbing network that made up the whole block. And the rain, too. 

“I could’ve told you he was crazy as hell the day I met him.” You scoffed. You took your hand away from the wall and sat back in your chair.

Charles frowned at your callousness as he stood in the middle of your living room. All around him, your plants and art were splayed across the room, a calming ecosystem in the midst of his panicking. 

“He’s joined up with someone dangerous. He’ll get himself and everyone else killed.” Charles persisted, “Let me show you.” 

Your leg bounced and you rolled your tongue under your bottom lip. Something in your old friend’s face gave you pause. 

“Fine.” You finally relented. You dropped your shoulders and let Charles place two fingers on your temple.

Images flashed through your mind, rapid fire. And it was worse than you could have imagined. It was Erik, well past his breaking point. His face was red and blotchy, his hair was unkempt, and his powers were in full force. The worst was watching how utterly and completely destroyed he looked. It was bottomless. 

You now understand why we need your help, Y/N.

You couldn’t find the words just yet, opting for a small comfort instead. Strategically hidden in the floorboard, you pulled out a velvet box. In it, was a simple diamond ring set in a platinum band.

“What did he get into, Charles?” You asked, almost absentmindedly. The ring was on a chain, sitting in your palm. It stared back at you, laughing at the phantom love you and Erik had. You met Charles’ gaze, final and resolute.

Your expression darkened. On the right side of you, the glass vase filled with fresh calla lilies shattered into a million pieces. Water sprayed everywhere, dowsing Charles and Hank the most. 

The sound sent you tumbling back into the moment— and you lifted your hand in the air. Water rose up from your apartment floor and your visitors’ wet clothes, gradually growing into a ball of water. You twisted your hand, burning the liquid off in mid-air.

“Thank you.”  Hank offered, albeit stiffly. Charles just nodded—he’d seen the full scope of your abilities before. He knew what you were capable of and that was probably the only reason he was really there. 

“A mutant called Apocalypse is planning something, and Erik is playing quite the role in whatever that is.” Charles spoke at last. Your eyes cut back down to the ring, twirling it between your fingers. You swallowed hard.

“He made this ring for me himself. Asked me to marry him with it,” you started, feeling the special groves and roughness of the ring, “I love him more than anything, and I still walked.  But I’ll be damned if I spend the rest of my life picking up after him just ‘cause I love him.”

You couldn’t bite back the bitterness or the love. It was all there, all the time. You found over the years that your relationship with Erik teetered from one to the other, and you went with it every time. 

“Y/N, we need your help.” Charles begged you. You put the ring back in its place. The box snapped shut. You stared blankly at it, then up at Charles and Hank. 

“No.” 

Your voice was barely audible and it was more felt than heard. You couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not to Erik. 

“I didn’t know all of...please, Charles, just leave.” You were shaking, uncontrollably now. The pipes roared loudly behind you.

Hank protested, and Charles said nothing at all. You could feel his steady anger pulse throughout the room. You sparked your blunt again, trying to get a light to no avail. You were grateful when it finally gave. 

“I’ve shown you everything and you still refuse to act against him.” Charles spat out. The venom in his tone was harsh and unexpected. 

“You’ve been warned, and whatever happens you and I know you could’ve stopped it.” He continued. 

Charles gave you too much credit; he had too much faith that you could change anything. You headed back to your window sill, and turned your back to them. You heard the shuffle of feet and a door slam and then nothing. 

You took another hit, hoping to be nothing, too. 

                                                         …

That night, it rained harder than it had in weeks. Partly nature, partly you. 

“I know they were here.” 

You couldn’t look back at him to retort. It was true, and it was your apartment to begin with. Your anger surprised you, making you turn on him faster than either of you expected. You pulled a wall of water straight through the window. The glass shattered and some minor cuts appeared on your shoulder, but it didn’t matter. 

You caught Erik off guard and had him pinned to the wall. He squirmed under your grip, but he could only do so much. The water reached past his neck, successfully keeping him where he was. 

“If you decide to burn the world down, the only thing I’m doing is getting the hell out the way.” 

The words stung coming out of your mouth, probably as much as they stung hearing them. The two of you were doing that thing you did when you broke each other’s hearts again. 

You slung your bag over your shoulder. It was all you were taking with you. 

“You would leave me, again.” Erik pleaded. You stopped dead in your tracks. Mesmerized, you could feel the blood pumping through his veins. Tentatively, you pressed your forehead in the crook of his neck. You pressed your lips onto his, and he craned his neck as best he could to kiss you back. He tried to put every ounce of desire he had for you in that kiss, and you did too. 

Pulling away from Erik was hard to do, but you closed your eyes and did it anyway. 

“When Charles Xavier shows up to my house and I have no defense, no words to give him about you. I sat up here looking like a goddamn fool and you let me.” Your gravelly voice was weak at best.

Erik couldn’t muster a reply worth shit, so he chose silence. In that, a pained expression took over his features. You ran your palm across his face, savoring the laugh lines, the ridges, the stubble. As you passed over his lips, he kissed your hand and you let him. 

“I love you, Erik, and don’t you dare go around thinking I don’t. But whatever Apocalypse has given you, I hope it was worth it.” You admitted. 

His eyes went wide, first with shock, then they settled on something bordering shame. 

You took a deep breath, and gave Erik your back just the same as you gave it to Charles, slipping out the door and into the rainy night.

[m00nycore]

𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝘼𝙇𝙇 𝙊𝙁 𝙈𝙔 𝙎𝙏𝙐𝙋𝙄𝘿 𝙃𝙀𝘼𝙍𝙏 ;; 𝙛𝙞𝙫𝙚

𝙞𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 .

𝙎𝙀𝙍𝙄𝙀𝙎 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙛𝙤𝙮 𝙭 𝙤𝙘 (𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙪𝙥 𝙩𝙬𝙤 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨)

𝙏/𝙒 : 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙙 𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙪𝙖𝙜𝙚, 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙚’𝙨 𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙢𝙨, 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙝𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙

𝘼/𝙉 : 𝙞’𝙢 𝙨𝙤 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚’𝙨 𝙖 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧!! 𝙬𝙚’𝙧𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙣𝙖 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙢𝙖 .. 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙮’𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙣𝙚 :)) 𝙞 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙞’𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩. 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙩! 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙧 𝙤𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙨? 𝙩𝙗𝙝 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙢𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙚. 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙡𝙡 <3

𝙏𝘼𝙂𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏 : @dreaming-about-fanfictions @lord-byron @drxcomvlfx @neocityslut @gloryekaterina @sunles @cherrytomato2 @confuscita

Draco couldn't help but glare as he descended the stairs from the dormitories.

It was odd, even to him. He couldn't have cared less about Persephone's friendship with Blaise prior to the engagement, betrothal be damned. Now, however... Draco Malfoy was infuriated by the sight of his fiancée cozied up to Zabini.

"Darling," Draco purred, approaching the two, and surprising himself with how genuine it sounded, how soothing he sounded, in contrast to the rage he felt.

Persephone looked up, confusion written on her features for a sixteenth of a second. Her face quickly smoothed into a smile—seemingly genuine, but Draco knew better.

Again, he made a mental note to learn the secret to her happiness.

"Blaise," Draco greeted. The boy nodded in response.

His fiancée was small enough for him to fit in the chair with her. He rested a hand on her thigh and couldn't help but marvel at how his hand dwarfed her leg.

"Feeling better?" Persephone asked, a hint of concern coloring her tone. Another surprise.

"Much, thank you," he replied, managing a smile.

Blaise had his brow furrowed.

"You speak like business partners," he remarked.

Draco was aware of his quick temper—but awareness was not synonymous with control, no, never for Draco.

"You'd do well, Zabini," he seethed, removing his hand from her thigh. "To keep yourself out of our relationship."

"Draco," Persephone warned. "That was unnecessary."

"I won't allow him to speak ill of—"

"You aren't in charge of him."

"I'll leave you to it," Blaise was smirking as he rose from his seat, and Draco resisted the urge to draw his wand and jinx him.

Persephone sighed, closing her eyes.

"Could you not be so sour?" she wondered, annoyed by the display. "He's right, Draco. Every interaction we have is as if...," she paused and ran a hand through her curls, struggling to find the words. "It's as if we're being held at wand-point."

Draco was silent, mulling over her words. Anger, of course, was at the forefront of his mind... but she was right.

But he smirked.

"Your love poem in potions seemed rather genuine."

She exhaled, the slight curve of her lips betraying her amusement.

"I thought I did a decent job of dressing up your... odor."

"Odor?" He asked, offended, and ruining their first semblance of a lighthearted conversation. He sounded the way he used to, pompous, stupid, and the realization dampened his mood.

Frowning, as if she had sensed the flavor of his distaste in the air, she ghosted her hand over his arm.

"Sorry, I just—"

And without another word, he stood and made a move to exit the common room. He was tired, far too tired.

Draco Malfoy was too tired to pretend.

Every day that had passed since the first term began was as excruciating as the first.

Wren recognized that she had became the subject of scrutiny among her peers, and, honestly, she couldn't blame them. She would have been a fool to expect anything different. Between her sudden engagement and obvious personal deterioration, whispers and stares were the least of her worries.

But the unyielding gaze of Harry Potter was fueling her anxiety.

She wanted to tell him, to beg him, to stop, to let her focus on classwork and how to breathe. Green eyes followed her through classes, halls, and mealtimes. He observed her whereabouts, her tone, her gait... he was perceptive, it seemed, in matters related to Draco Malfoy.

Unfortunately, she had fallen under that category.

Wren assumed Draco was off plotting the murder of Albus Dumbledore when he hadn't shown for breakfast. Truthfully, it was bothersome that he was refusing to involve her in any plans he may have. For him, it wasn't out of care. It was his pride.

Blaise had elected to eat in solitude that grey morning. She found herself relieved—her own company was all she wanted. It was hard enough to choke down porridge alone... but with watchful eyes, it neared the impossible. Her status as Malfoy-to-be worked in her favor during such times—an even wider berth was given to her than before.

Until Harry Potter appeared at her shoulder.

"Persephone," he greeted, awkwardly. "Er—how are you?"

It was in that moment, when Wren found herself at the verge of hyperventilating, that she realized she may have needed psychological help.

The stares the interaction had already attracted made her hands shake more violently than they had already been prone to. She gripped her napkin so tightly that she thought her bones would burst through her skin.

He saw you on the train. He knows. You heard his bone crush under Draco's sole. You're not innocent. He knows.

She wondered if admittance to Saint Mungo's following a nervous breakdown would exempt her from the mission.

Breath, she reminded herself. He can't hurt you. You're in control. Act the way you were taught—or you'll end up like mum.

In an instant, she had regained composure.

"Good morning, Harry," she greeted, with a smile that might have been dazzling months ago. "I'm alright—ready for the weekend, of course. Yourself?"

He looked slightly confused, which almost reassured her—but she had hesitated a second too long. She knew he had caught it.

Breathe.

"Brilliant," he responded slightly too quickly. The word had tumbled from his mouth, indicating he had his script written and he didn't want to forget it.

"Um... was that all?" she wondered, mirroring his awkward disposition, and slightly cocking her head to the side. Good, play innocent, she praised herself. You can avoid this. Evade it.

"Well...," Harry scratched the back of his head, looking towards the Gryffindor table. She followed his eyes to the disapproving gaze of Hermione Granger, as well as the scrutiny of Ron Weasley.

"I was just wondering," he lowered his voice. "I was curious about your... relationship... with Malfoy."

"My engagement?" She continued to feign innocence. "What's there to be curious about?" She made a point to glance down at her engagement ring with a smile.

"You've never talked to Malfoy much before," his inflection was becoming bolder, challenging.

"Harry," she exhaled, still smiling. "Draco and I grew up together... I love him, and he loves me. It just... took us a while to realize, is all."

"I don't believe it," he whispered, harsh, an edge to his tone.

"I can't help you there, then," she returned, an edge forming in her own inflection. The stares from other students remained steady. She wondered what Blaise made of it, or if he cared enough to even pay attention. Her nerves had receded, shifting to irritation.

Harry searched her face, but she had molded her mask. She was impenetrable, unyielding.

"Persephone," his tone took on a different tone, one of... desperation. Pleading. "You were on the train. I know you know what's going on—please, just tell me. I-I can help you, alright? I know you're not like him."

Fortunately for Wren, she had settled into her part, and was damn good at playing it.

"Listen, Potter," she hissed, cold, dangerous. "You'd do well to leave behind your delusions about myself, my fiancé, and our relationship. Chosen One or not, you have no right to project your savior fantasies onto me. I don't need your help. I'll be sure your wedding invitation makes it to the cupboard under the stairs," she snarled, standing.

As she approached the exit to the Great Hall, she spotted Draco entering.

It was a snap decision, and she had never been so thankful for the unwanted attention the morning had provoked.

Taking in the tiredness, the irritation, the questioning written on his visage, Persephone Wren Bardick grabbed Draco Malfoy by the lapels of his suit and pressed her lips to his.

[salchat]

Someone Furry

Rodney missed his cat.  He missed the way she’d jump up onto his lap and drape herself over his legs, her soft, heavy weight warming him from inside and out.  He missed the feel of her fur between his fingers, the way he could run his hand the whole length of her body from her nose, over her flattened ears, down her soft sides and then, his hand closed to surround it, all the way to the tip of her tail.  He missed her deep, thrumming purr, the chirps and brips she made in response to his voice, so that they often had far more sensible conversations than he ever did with his colleagues.

But most of all he missed her simple presence, her neutral acceptance of everything he did, everything he was; her wide golden eyes that regarded him, not with contempt as some people interpreted the penetrating gaze of a cat, but with all-seeing, all-knowing recognition of him as belonging absolutely and completely to her.

He’d left her.  Of course he’d left her on Earth.  He’d had to.  And he’d known he’d probably never see her again and it had torn a hole in his heart that he didn’t think was ever likely to heal.  Had her feline heart suffered similar damage?  Or did she regard her new owner with that wide-eyed gaze and then jump up onto their lap and present herself for their attention in the way he missed so much?  Probably.  Cats were pragmatists.  It was a fact of life.

Rodney eased out his back and spun around on his stool, unsurprised to find the lab empty.  He stretched up to peer over the top of Radek’s screen, but there were no tufts of wild hair or glinting rims of glasses or exhausted, propped-open eyes.  And no wonder - it was nearly three in the morning.

He yawned, scratched his head, scratched his stomach and then, because there was no one about, he reached up under his shirt and had a general scratch around, chasing an itch that ran from his questing fingers.  He ran it to ground on his right shoulder blade, his left shoulder cracking as he reached behind himself to wipe the itch out of existence with sweeps of his thumb.  Then he stretched himself out again and adjusted his shirt into some kind of order.

Was Sheppard back yet?  No,  He couldn’t be.  It was more than the Gate techs’ lives were worth not to inform him immediately of any updates in John’s status, when he’d given them such very firm, explicit instructions.  Anyway, there was no need to worry, he told himself - again.  John was out doing good works, overseeing both Lorne’s team and Stackhouse’s team while they helped out a village hit by a mudslide.  And what the inhabitants of the Pegasus Galaxy had done before Intergalactic Rescue had shown up Rodney had no idea, but he thought just occasionally they should go back to doing whatever it was they had done before and leave Atlantis out of it, and especially an over-tired, mission-weary, easily-guilt-tripped-into-doing-whatever-you-want John Sheppard.

“They’re our allies, Rodney - they help us, we help them.”

Huh.  Rodney spent a satisfying ten minutes grumbling aloud to himself about a bunch of rustics who’d never have anything useful to contribute apart from a few inferior, knobbly vegetables that tasted of mouldy turnip, so why should John have to bother helping them?  Of course, Rodney had found the problem in their Ancient aqueduct system.  And there’d been that kid who kept hanging around him and calling him Dr Rodanee-sir and bringing him cups of the local drink which tasted remarkably like chocolate milkshake.  But those things were beside the point.  And John had flat-out denied Rodney’s request to go on the rescue mission.

Anyway, he was tired and he missed his cat.  Because sometimes you just needed someone furry, and that was all there was to it.

He went to bed.

In the morning Sheppard still wasn’t back and everyone in the lab was being more than usually stupid and noisy and so wrong that he had to make them all stop what they were doing so that he could enumerate and elaborate on all the ways in which they were wrong, providing each member of his staff with a detailed verbal list that they should damn well take notes on for future reference.  And yes, he would be testing them on their knowledge of their own wrongness at an unspecified future date.

Then Stackhouse’s team came back, exhausted and covered in mud.  Then Lorne’s team, ditto.  Then (and Rodney thought there might be dents in the Gateroom railing from his clenched hands), finally, Sheppard staggered through the Gate, more exhausted and more covered in mud than any of them.

John looked up at Rodney and Rodney looked down at John.  His muddy right hand twitched in what was probably an attempt at a wave conveying his general fineness and that nobody should worry or fuss or do anything that expressed the remotest kind of concern.  It was a pathetic attempt and merely underlined his not fineness and that everyone and most particularly Rodney, should definitely be concerned.

Rodney found himself at John’s side, unsure how he’d transported himself down from the control level - a giant leap over the crushed railing?  Levitation?

Medical staff harried the muddy men and women away, and Rodney followed, at John’s side, not touching him, because… ew.  There wasn’t a square inch of unmuddied skin.  Even John’s eyes were red, as if they’d got mud in too.  And his hair was just unnatural - plastered to his head, showing the actual shape of his skull, which you just never saw, even when he was straight out of the shower because mere water was nothing against the springiness of John Sheppard’s hair.  A couple of times Rodney looked around in case he was shadowing the wrong mud-monster, but no, this brown figure was definitely the right shape and size and seemed to have that slouchy gait, even though its feet were dragging and its arms dangling in abject weariness.

They wouldn’t let Rodney in the infirmary.  And it was Rodney who’d helped install the roomful of showers for just such an occasion as this, when filthy, exhausted teams came back, probably contaminated with all kinds of viruses and parasites, germs and bacteria and no doubt hiding injuries beneath their assorted filth.

So he sat down and waited.  And no, it wasn’t the same as waiting for news when John had been carried to the infirmary, injured and unable to make it under his own steam.  It wasn’t as if Rodney was waiting, terrified, for life-or-death news, biting his nails and chewing the inside of his cheek until it bled.

But he really missed his cat.  And he’d had a bad day - a bad few days.  Which surely must be all John’s fault, because most things were, or at least they were his absence’s fault because you just needed someone like John around all the time for some reason.  Look, he wasn’t going to analyse it, alright?  It was a fact.  And Rodney missed his cat.

And probably Carson would want to keep John here - for observation.  Rodney snorted, spraying bits of chewed up nail onto the floor.  If John needed observing he’d do it - because who better to observe than a scientist?  Observing was what he did.  He’d watch John like a hawk, he’d take notes and draw diagrams, he’d gather data, both quantitative and qualitative, he’d hypothesise and extrapolate.  What more could any medical so-called professional do?

“Yes, you can go.”  The doctor’s long suffering voice followed a round-shouldered scrub-clad figure through the barely slid-open doors.

“Hey, Rodney.”

Rodney stood up, beginning his scrutiny right here and now.  “Your eyes are red.  You need antibiotic drops.”

“Had them.”

“Has that scrape on your face been disinfected?”

“Yeah.”

“The bandage on your wrist - what’s that hiding?”

“t’s just sprained.  Can we get out of here?”

Rodney folded his arms and conveyed through his most steely glare that John had better not try to hide even the most minor of injuries from him or he’d been in a whole shit-tonne of trouble which would make a mudslide look like that time some idiot had knocked over Rodney’s chocolate pudding.

“You’re coming with me.”

He took John’s arm, because there was no way he was allowing a rudderless John Sheppard to drift away from him.  The exhausted man didn’t wriggle away or even protest, which made Rodney grumble angrily under his breath about societies that couldn’t clear up after their own natural disasters and just had to go and impose themselves upon overworked Colonels.

They made it to his room and he let John slither onto the bed and stacked up the pillows around him until he was approximately upright with most of his limbs on the bed.

“This is your room, Rodney.”

“Yes.  It is.  And you’re in it.”

“’kay.”

“Humph.”  Rodney nodded, glad John had accepted his to-be-pushed-around status.  “First you’re going to eat.  And then you’re going to sleep.”

“Yessir,” slurred John.

Rodney boiled some water and made some instant mashed potato, which was one of his preferred food choices in cases of extreme exhaustion.  It was the cheesy mash type, which was his covetously-hoarded favourite, but John looked like a man in great need of a large bowl of cheesy mash.  With a blob of ketchup on top.  Maybe more than one blob.

John smiled a sleepy smile at the ketchup blobs, which may have formed a crude happy face, but that was, of course, a complete accident on Rodney’s part.  The mash was mechanically consumed.  Rodney took the bowl and then pushed a glass into John’s hand, making sure his scraped knuckles curled around it.  The glass contained chocolate milkshake, but only because he’d been thinking today about that stuff they made on the mudslide planet.  He hadn’t gone out of his way to get the powder or the milk.  And absolutely no begging had been involved at the entrance to the hallowed, jealously guarded territory of the kitchen staff.

He sat down next to John, glad that he hadn’t been stupid enough to take his friend back to his own room with its tiny bed.  This way he too could sit propped up by a bank of pillows, which were necessary to support his back while he carried out his purely clinical observations of his team leader.

John drained the glass and he was too tired and too oblivious to wipe away his milkshake moustache, so Rodney did it for him.

Then John smiled another lop-sided sleepy smile, his eyelids drooped and shut down completely and his slumped body slumped even more, slowly slithering down until his head rested in Rodney’s lap.

Rodney missed his cat.  He missed the way she’d jump up onto his lap and drape herself over his legs, her soft, heavy weight warming him from inside and out.  He missed the feel of her fur between his fingers, the way he could run his hand the whole length of her body from her nose, over her flattened ears, down her soft sides and then, his hand closed to surround it, all the way to the tip of her tail.  He missed her deep, thrumming purr, the chirps and brips she made in response to his voice, so that they often had far more sensible conversations than he ever did with his colleagues.

But Rodney had his friend.  He had John, who had fallen asleep on him, his head heavy on Rodney’s thighs, his newly-washed hair fluffy and thick and dark.  He touched the soft strands and they tickled his palm.  Then he ran his hand over and through the dense thicket, from John’s forehead, curving all the way around his head to the nape of his neck where the hairs were short and usually they looked scratchy, but at the moment they too felt soft and fine.  He lifted his hand and stroked again, the hair running through his fingers, dragging and flattening, then freeing itself to spring up into feathery plumes.  Then once again and again, slowly, gently, with a rhythm of love and peace.

And in Rodney’s chest a knot released and something warm and sweet and caramelly-rich blossomed and spread out until his body was as loose and relaxed as John’s.

He missed his cat.  But he had his friend, who he loved and who loved him in return.  And as Rodney stroked and stroked and watched John’s slow, happy rise and fall of deep-sleep breathing, the exhausted man began to snore, in a gentle, thrumming, rumble, which sounded remarkably like a purr.

[thosewickedlovelies]

AND THEY WERE WALLMATES: The Day Off (a post-series part 7)

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Rating: E for so Explicit lmao

Summary: Remember when Javi wondered if you heard him masturbate through the wall? 👀

Tags: SMUT; f masturbation; voyeurism?; fingering; oral (f receiving); dom-ish!Javi but he’s soft at the end

Word Count: 3,309

A/N: I’m so sorry that this is not part 6, but uh have some alternative smut? <3

Also known as the masturbation scene I’ve been talking about, this scene takes place post-series because I just can’t get these two out of my head.

Masterlist

--

It’s a cloudy day in the city and the air is thick, crackling with energy, a slow-building storm borne in on a mischievous breeze. Despite this, you have the windows thrown open to hear the distant rumbles of thunder. The twisting air makes you restless, and you glance at your bed, wishing Javi were here.

You have the day off, but as it’s a weekday, you’re not expecting to see him until well after business hours. A giddy bubble still swells in your chest at the idea that you can indeed now expect to see him, rather than just hope to run into him in the hall. 

You and Javier have been “together” for several months now. He is infuriating and fascinating and above all, careful- so while you’re both prone to wandering over to each other’s apartments when you’re bored, you’re also perfectly content to take things as slowly as he prefers. 

Your gaze wanders over to the bed again. Biting your lip, you think of how Javi often uses ‘slow’ to mean ‘thorough’. When he has the energy, that man can work on you for hours, taking you apart piece by methodological piece. Nothing escapes his attention- not the slightest tremor of interest in something he hasn’t done to you yet.

Your breathing deepens as you stand there in your bedroom, thoughts steadily spiraling around Javier. You didn’t have any serious plans for the day, you’d just been puttering about doing some cleaning- 

You give in.

You set aside what you’d been doing and go to wash your hands. When you return, you strip off your pants and flounce into bed. Warm air wraps around you from the open window. A closer roll of thunder makes you look to the sky, and you feel an electric, taboo shiver wash over you at the idea that you’re about to masturbate in broad daylight, with the window wide open.

But you grin as you nestle into your comforter. And why shouldn’t you? Better to do it now, while everyone nearby is out at work, than force yourself to be quiet at night.

Not that Javier is very helpful in that regard, you reflect wryly. Plus, you’d hardly had need to touch yourself since you’d started sleeping together. But sometimes a little you-time is nice, even if you have a regular partner, so you run your hands up your thighs and belly, intending to take your time…

--

Unbeknownst to you, Javier isn’t at work either. He’s at home, in fact- rifling through his closet, bedroom window flung open at this rare opportunity to air the place out. Rainy days make him edgy, but with things on standby at the office, they’d sent him home.

He’s just considering taking a smoke break when he hears it: muted and soft, but unmistakably a moan. His head whips toward the wall.

He remains frozen in place, ears straining, until the next thing he hears. “Fuck, Javier.” Slightly louder, and his head turns to the window.

Are you…home right now? Thinking of him while you-? Weather forgotten, Javi silently scrambles closer to the window, heart pounding as hard as if he were out on a bust. Now that he’s listening, he hears more: the faint but utterly recognizable creak of your bed frame, the rustle of sheets. The vocal sighs you make that usually tell him he’s successfully seduced you.

Before Javier evens registers what he’s doing he’s crept into the hall and is retrieving your spare key from where you’d mentioned you keep it. He moves as quietly as he can- which, given his DEA training (and the fact that putting on shoes hadn’t even crossed his mind), is damn near silent. Especially to anyone not anticipating visitors.

The way to your bedroom is one he’s traveled countless times now. Drawn by the alluring sounds you’re making, he has to remind himself that you don’t know he’s coming, that he can’t just barge in.

Finally Javi reaches your half-open door- and the breath leaves his lungs at the sight before him.

He almost doesn’t want to stop you. Legs splayed, hips rocking steadily into your own hand, the other clutching the hem of the t-shirt you still wear. Your head is thrown back against the pillow.

“Javi, please,” you pant dreamily, eyes closed, lost in your fantasy.

Well, he can hardly deny such a request. Javier licks his lips. “Yes, Vecinita?”

Your eyes fly open and you squeak in shock at the sight of him, your body instinctively retreating from the unexpected presence in your doorway. Your thighs snap shut, but not before he’s caught a glimpse of what was between them. The evidence of your activities gleams on your fingers where they yank the t-shirt down.

“Javi!” You swallow hard. Your muscles relax as you recognize him, but you maintain your expression of wary confusion. “What are you doing here?”

His own posture is as casual as they come. Hands in his pockets, he strolls just a few steps further into the room.

“Heard you say my name,” Javier murmurs. He runs his gaze over you, languidly, like he’s got all the time in the world. Which he does, he supposes- it’s the middle of the day, and it would appear that neither of you have anywhere to be.

“Thought you might want some help.” When he looks back at your face, a subtle intrigue has joined the surprise there. Your eyes track him up and down in contemplation as he moves closer.

At last you lapse your protective position, stretching yourself out again and parting your legs slightly. You look at him from under your lashes. “I love having your help, Javier.” 

You still use his full name sometimes. He usually prefers his friends call him ‘Javi' (or ‘Penita’ if they must)- it’s the farthest thing from the curt ‘Peña’ he’s forced to be at work- but he finds himself unwilling to say anything every time he gets a tiny jolt at the affectionate way your mouth curls around ‘Javier’.

“Then why…” he stalks up to you on the bed, his movements decidedly predatory. “…did you start without me? Hmm, preciosa?”

The mattress dips beneath his hand as he leans over you, while the other gently cradles your cheek, stroking it with his thumb. You can’t help but turn your cheek into his palm; but Javi loves the way you shift further onto your back as he approaches, your whole body stilling under his commanding presence. He knows it’s not fear- it’s pure instinct, the way you arrange yourself for him, every muscle quivering in anticipation.

“I didn’t think you were home.” An excuse delivered with honest innocence. But your pupils dilate; your chin tips infinitesimally upward, your body’s every message communicating submission.

“Well then.” Javier leans down further so he can press his lips to yours, teasing them open with his tongue. Your limbs loosen, melting into the mattress the longer he draws out the kiss. You’re both breathless by the time he pulls away.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he whispers. Turning away from you, Javi grabs your desk chair and perches at the foot of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“…what?” All he’s done is kiss you and you already look consumed, eyes hazy with desire, lips parted expectantly.

Javi feels a prickle of pride at the effect he has on you, the curve of his lips revealing a hint of smugness. “You heard me.” He jerks his chin to the apex of your thighs, where only a tantalizing peek of what he wants is visible. “I want to know what you were thinking about. What you were begging me to do.” 

Almost of its own accord, his voice deepens to the gravely rumble it takes on during interrogations.

He’s pleased to see the quickening rise and fall of your chest, the not-quite-trepidation in your wide eyes. He reaches out to rest his his palm on your ankle.

Once you’d gotten over the shock of Javi’s unexpected appearance in your bedroom, you’d been excited. Coyly responding to what you thought had been an offer of assistance.

But then.

Then you’d heard that voice- that husky rasp, like his control was already half-gone. Which was also incorrect, you realize now, as you stare at him seated at the foot of your bed. Waiting. Watching you with those dark, penetrating eyes, half-shrouded by the turbulent light coming through the window behind him.

You shift slightly, aligning your body toward him. Still processing, but by no means saying no.

“You alright, Vecinita? Sounded like you were pretty close before I walked in.” Javier tips his head in a taunting smirk.

Your cheeks flame. You had been close, it’s true, and under his scrutiny now your body burns even hotter. It’s mortifying, electrifying, entirely more than you’ve ever experienced all at once.

You’ve never done this with him before. You’d guided his touch, yes, shown him what you liked, but never blatantly put on a show like he’s suggesting.

But you swear the heat of Javi's caress on your ankle crawls all the way up to your core. Possibly you should be embarrassed that such a tiny touch from him can provoke such a reaction, but all you feel is exhilarated, impossibly aroused by what you’re about to do.

Holding his gaze, you part your legs. Javier’s focus immediately drops. His attention is excruciating, but you slide one hand down and then back up your inner thigh, teasing. Your free hand grips your shirt again as you glide your fingers into your folds.

You think both of you might moan. Your head drops back on the pillow. “Javier,” you gasp, circling your clit.

“Tell me, Vecinita.” It sounds like the chair shifts.

“Fuck, Javi, wish it was your fingers.” You can barely get the words out, despite that he’s heard you say far filthier things under his influence. Already you’re even closer than before Javi’s arrival had stopped you, the muscles of your abdomen almost painfully tense.

If Javi responds to your cries, you don’t hear it. But you don’t need to. Even with your eyes squeezed shut, you’re aware of him, a smoldering presence mere feet away from you. Fueling your own fire, an inferno burning brighter and brighter until-

You keen helplessly as the tension implodes, hips bucking, blissful relief rippling through you. You know that just Javier’s presence makes it better than if you’d still been alone, but your own fingers don’t feel nearly as effective after having his taking care of you for so long.

As you come down, you dare to look at him.

“Feel better, preciosa?” Javi is still smirking at you, but there’s something hollow in it now. His eyes rake over you with barely concealed hunger, his hand on your ankle gripping tightly.

When his gaze lands between your spread legs, you feel it as viscerally as any physical touch. Your floor muscles clench.

Abruptly Javi stands. “Take that off,” he orders, jerking his chin toward where your nipples are peaked beneath your stretched taut t-shirt.

Agitated air currents billow over you at his movement, raising shivery goosebumps on your naked flesh. But the feeling of exposure only lasts until the bed dips at your feet, and then Javier is crawling up your body, still fully clothed. The purposeful intent on his face makes your breath catch. He kisses you hard, but when your hands go to the buttons of his shirt he snarls.

He takes your wrists in one broad hand and pins them above your head. His hips crowd into the space between your thighs, and the weight of him settling against your body makes you whine high in your throat.

“I’m not done with you yet, Vecinita.” Javi's voice is deceptively soft. “Now that I know what you imagine me doing to you…” his hand releases your wrists and slides slowly down your skin, over every curve and contour of you. “…I intend to make it a reality.”

Javier shimmies to the side just far enough to slip his fingers between your legs.

Pleasure erupts at the press of his callused fingers, tearing a moan from your chest. 

Javi groans in satisfaction at the slickness he finds, greedily working it from its source up to your clit, following the same path your own fingers had taken mere moments earlier. Sweat prickles your hairline. You shudder as he flaunts his intimate familiarity with your body.

“Vecinita.” Javi’s face is as close to yours as possible for him to still be able to watch your expressions. You look up at his insistent tone- just as he sinks two fingers into you.

The breath punches out of you as your muscles seize. 

“My job now,” Javier tells you.

His fingers curl inside you, beckoning like his bedroom eyes. Brown locks fall over his forehead as he unconsciously ruts into you in time with his ministrations. You tilt your hips into his hand, and only Javi’s mouth on yours muffles your moans as he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit. He murmurs, hushed and awestruck, as you fuck yourself against his hand.

“That’s it, preciosa.” Bliss rolls through you, unwavering as a rising tide. You’re helpless against the force of it, tingling and surging up your legs, pressure expanding between your hips- 

You come. Devastatingly hard, the weight of Javier’s body the only thing keeping you steady as you lose all sense of self to the blinding pleasure wracking your limbs. He works you through it, wringing every last spasm out of you until your cries fade.

But his movements don’t quite stop. His fingers still achingly slowly, his palm remaining an exquisitely careful pressure on your clit. You can’t seem to catch your breath- you’re so acutely aware of it, like you’re an engine left idling and Javi is keeping his hand on the throttle.

He brushes kisses over your face. His lips place softly on your brow, your nose, your cheek- until lingering at the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

“What else do you think of me doing to you?” The words seem to strike sparks along your bones. You inhale sharply at his implications. “Hmm? I can’t give it to you if you don’t tell me.”

God, what has gotten into him today? Simultaneously demanding and acquiescent, Javier’s voice is an insidious echo in your head. He twists his torso back and forth so his shirt scrapes against your nipples. You almost yelp as your reply bursts out of you.

“Your mouth! Your tongue. On my…” you trail off as he drags said tongue down your neck, doubtless tasting the sweat he’s worked you into. 

“On your…?” Javi exhales on the damp streak he leaves, and goosebumps spring up at the cool sensation. 

“You know where.” It’s a near-whisper. The place where you’re still stretched around him. Where the slightest shift of his wrist makes you tense.

You feel his smile as Javi plants a last kiss on your collarbone. He makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and growl as he works his way down your body, pausing only to nuzzle and nip at your breasts.

Thunder rumbles outside, closer and louder than it had been. You close your eyes at the sound, letting it wash over you like your partner's leisurely devotions. You can only relax so much, however, as your anticipation grows the further south Javier travels…until the flat of his tongue envelopes your clit.

You can sense his satisfaction at your choked whimper. Immediately he has to hold your hips in place to prevent them lifting off the bed as everything in you tightens again. Torturous slowly, his tongue moves, tracing every ridge and fold of your heat with meticulous care. Your thighs tremble.

“Fuuuuck.” It’s nearly a sob, your breathing ragged.

You swear Javi laughs, a smug wheeze in the back of his throat, and it’s as his tongue probes your entrance that you remember his fingers are still inside you. He spreads them so his tongue can slip into the gap, and the complementary sensations all in one place have stars wheeling behind your eyes. Javi definitely chuckles then, a vibration you can feel against your sex, and then his mouth returns to your clit. 

His lips, tongue, and fingers move with a single-minded purpose. There’s no holding back any of the sounds you’re making now, salacious moans spilling out of you, an obscene babble of pleas and praise. Javier breathes encouragement between your thighs. You glance down briefly while his eyes are closed in concentration, wholly focused on his task.

Your head spins. Already familiar tremors pull your muscles taut, Javi’s sweet, relentless attention breaking you down more rapidly than you thought possible. You’re going to come again, you know, long before it’s about to occur. You tell him, beg him not to stop, your release bearing down on you from across an endless distance.

This one shatters you. Your spine bows with the contraction of your muscles, pieces of you scattering far and wide as you splay back against the mattress. You surrender to the ecstasy barreling through you, barely noticing Javi’s wide brown eyes watching with rapt attention.

He brings you down properly this time, gradually, until the aftershocks fade and you’re squirming away from him. You remain sprawled how you are, limp and sated, as Javier crawls back up to you.

His lips touch your cheek. “Preciosa? Vecinita. You okay?” He sounds almost worried.

A breathless laugh huffs out of you. You lazily turn your head toward him, finally opening your eyes.

“I’m fine, Javi. More than.” You smile warmly, gratefully at him.

His eyes crinkle in response. “C’mere,” he says, relieved, gathering you into his arms.

You snuggle up to him willingly, humming in contentment. The thought drifts through your mind that now it would be nice for him to be wearing less clothing. But it doesn’t stop you from drowsing into his warmth as he strokes a soothing hand over you hair and back. After several long minutes, you find the energy to speak. 

“So…what was that?”

Javi doesn’t respond for several more moments, pressing his lips to your forehead as he thinks. Or maybe stalls.

“I…don’t know,” he admits, sounding sheepish. “…was it okay?”

“Mmm,” you affirm. You lift your head just enough to plant a kiss between Javi’s rumpled, parted lapels. “Very okay.” You can't help the faint heat in your cheeks, even though it's silly to blush at the admittance given everything you had just let him do.

“Good.” Javier squeezes you tighter. “because I meant it. Your pleasure is my pleasure, Vecinita.” 

Surprised, you look up at him. He returns your gaze steadily, his sincerity clearly visible even as he watches carefully for your reaction.

You may be talking about sex, but this is a declaration of sorts, for Javi. Hauling yourself up onto one elbow, you place your other hand on his cheek and press your lips to his. You let your affection surge forth, kissing him deeply and insistently, trying to convey without words how dearly you regard him.

You think he understands. He cradles the back of your neck, clutching you to him as the urgency of the embrace crests. 

Both of your grips relax naturally after that. He sighs into your mouth as you release him, but doesn’t let you move from where you’re half laying across him. 

“Stay,” Javi murmurs, draping his arms over your back. His eyes drift closed.

Happily, you indulge. You tuck your nose into his neck and breathe him in, already feeling sleep cloud your mind.

Soft as a shush, rain begins to fall.

--

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