#sorry it's me with malcolm pace

[megamindsecretlair]

Let Me Hold You

Pairing: Tyrone x Virgin!Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. PWP, virginity loss, shy reader, cursing, PIV, oral (fem receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, possession kink if you squint, Soft Tyrone, all consensual. Mentions of religion, God, and Christian-leaning faith. Sorry if I miss any!

Summary: Ask: ...the reader is a virgin church girl, who, finds herself entangled in a predicament when her parents forbid her to be with the charismatic Tyrone. Despite this, the reader has a genuine friendship with him. They have crushes on each other but do not know how to tell each other.

Word Count: 5,803

A/N: Welp. This healed and broke some things in me! LOL. This was a wonderful ask from @notapradagurl7. I'm SO sorry this took forever to get out, I felt so bad. I hope this was worth the wait. Please, please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! And please put ages in bios! Or get blockt!

Taglist: @planetblaque @dayjlovesromance @sevikasblackgf @melaninpov @amyhennessyhouse @henneseyhoe @honeyoriginalz @justheretostan @black-fairy3 @superhoeva @jarfulloftears @hereformiles @montysstuffs @westside-rot @blackerthings @blowmymbackout @euphoric05 @miyuhpapayuh @nicolexnight @8ttached @judymfmoody @wakandas-vibranium @soft-persephone @justabovewater20 @mcotton0928 @soapjay @heyauntieeee @theyscreamsannii @mybonafidefeelings @eggnox @honeytoffee @thadelightfulone @tranquilfandomer @kindofaintrovert @l-auteuse @browngirldominion @sunkissedebony97 @lovedlover @issahyland

“And we don’t want you hanging out with that - that boy!” Your father paced the living room floor, his loafers kicking up the delicate fibers. 

“What?” You shrieked. Already, fear spiked into your heart. The thought of not seeing Tyrone? It was inconceivable. You looked toward your mother who perched on the end of the plump chair, proper as you please. She kept her eyes on your father. You wouldn’t get any help from her.

“I’m an adult, you can’t ban me from seeing my friends,” you protested. Did he really think he was serious? 

“It’s not appropriate for you to spend time with someone like him. If you’re to entertain anyone, there are plenty of nice young men at the church.” 

“Malcolm just returned from college to be an engineer. I always knew that boy was smart,” your mother chirped in. 

Your eyes darted between your parents. You half expected aliens to burst from their necks. These people were foreign to you. Unique in their united anger for Tyrone, a boy you’ve known your entire life. 

“Judge not lest ye be judged,” you quoted. Your mother scoffed and glared at you as if you said you wanted to shake your ass for Satan’s minions. Your father stopped his pacing and gawked at you. Like you were the foreign one. A daughter he didn’t recognize. 

“No daughter of mine will hang around someone like that boy. Peddling that poison to people in this community,” your father said. 

“That boy has been nothing but nice to us. A boy you watched grow up. A boy you assume is doing dirt,” you countered. What episode of the Twilight Zone was this? 

“I have eyes,” your father said. “And I see what’s going on. All the people running in and out of his house, his mother’s house I might add, and bumping that music…”

“I still live at home. Are you going to judge me for that too?” You asked. Your father pressed his lips together. 

“It’s different for women,” your mother said as if it were a fact. 

You tuned your parents out as they tried to tell you the difference between young men and young women. You didn’t have the heart to listen anymore. Your blood roared in your ears and you stared off into space, trying to calm down. 

You stood up suddenly. You needed to be anywhere but here. Looking into their judgemental faces. You made one mistake. Funny how they didn’t take into consideration all of the times you were a “good girl”. How you minded your Ps and Qs your entire life. Never did anything bad. Never wanted to do anything bad.

And now, they wanted to effectively place you under house arrest. Only leaving for school or church. This was not the stone ages. You couldn’t sit here under this oppressive weight. Constantly holding yourself to a higher standard. 

What higher standard? Did God really think that oppressing women was the ticket into Heaven? Placing all of these restrictions was the ultimate symbol of propriety? What happened to love thy neighbor? 

Your parents called after you, but you kept moving. You’d never defied them. You always deferred to them. They had experiences you didn’t and just wanted you to have a good life. Bullshit. They wanted a little doll to dress up and tote around town. 

At the door, you slipped into your flats and left the house. No purse, no phone, no keys. It felt…invigorating. That type of freedom was intoxicating. Your parents’ indignant shouts followed you out of the house but they didn’t come to the door. 

You took that opportunity to head down the block towards Tyrone’s house. You hoped he was home. You hadn’t had a chance to check your phone before your parents ambushed you.

His house looked dark for once. There were no cars bunched up in front of the house or thumping music coming from the front door. You ran up the steps and knocked on the metal door.

The cold air caught up to you, edging past the heat of your anger. It could only warm you up so far. There were no sounds coming from the house so you knocked again. It was still earlyish but you didn’t want to be loud and disrespect his mom. 

“Yeah,” Tyrone called out sleepily. You suppressed a smile. Just hearing his voice instantly calmed you down.

You heard a series of locks and bolts being undone. Tyrone swung the door open. He called out your name and looked behind you. 

“What’s up? We were s’posed to meet?” He asked.

“Can I come in?” You asked.

“Always,” he said. He moved out of the way and let you enter his darkened house. You took in the space and got a chilling sense of loneliness here. You didn’t know why. Tyrone closed the door and locked it.

“I was sleep. Come on,” he said. He took your hand and led you to his room. Inside, the sudden light gave you a tiny ache in your eyes and you rubbed them. Tyrone sat on his bed, leaning one leg up onto the mattress. 

You remained standing, suddenly shy. You hated feeling unsettled wherever you went. Even in the company of your friends, you paid attention to everything you said. Were you being weird? Were you not talking enough? It was all incredibly awkward whenever you tried to join the conversation and people had already moved on to the next topic. 

“What’s up?” Tyrone asked.

You sighed and recounted everything that happened with your parents. You paced his small but comfy room, poking at random objects on his desk or hanging on his wall. He had wrinkled Lakers posters torn in one corner. You picked at it as you spoke, not wanting to look him in the face while you spoke and ranted and raved about your judgy, overbearing parents. 

Tyrone was a great listener. He never interrupted you, he kept his comments to a minimum, and when you were brave enough to look at him, he’d nod for you to continue. So you did. You told him everything, even the part about your parents judging him for his side hustle. 

“They don’t want you to see me anymore because of that?” He asked. 

You nodded and sat on the bed next to him. “I told them they’re nuts. They can’t ban me from seeing you, I’m not sixteen,” you said.

“You were pretty cute when you were sixteen,” he said.

“Shut up! I’m trying to be serious here!” You pushed his shoulder. He moved as if you were strong, but you knew that he let you. Tyrone had always been an immovable force. He moved through life like it owed him money and he was coming to collect. He had a surety about himself that kept you up all night thinking of him. 

Your hand lingered on his bare arms, taking in his large biceps. His navy tank top hung just so, highlighting his broad smooth chest. He wore his signature black basketball shorts and you quickly removed your hand. You should not be having these thoughts about your best friend. 

“I’m serious too!” He said and chuckled. He quickly sobered up and glanced at you. “I’d miss you if I couldn’t see you.” 

You smiled slowly. “You’d only miss the chips I bring you,” you said. 

“Naw, I’d miss you. I’d have to stage a breakout or something,” he said. 

You laughed, picturing hopping into Tyrone’s getaway car just to drive a few houses down. Bonnie and Clyde ya’ll were not. 

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “There’s nothing that can keep us apart,” you said. You stuck out your pinkie finger. Tyrone looked at it and laughed, shaking his head and licking his lips. 

“Really?” He asked.

“Yeah, so you know I’m serious,” you said. You pushed your hand into his chest to urge him to do it with you. He shook his head again and wrapped his pinkie around yours. 

“So what you gonna do since they dropped the hammer?” Tyrone asked. 

“I don’t know,” you said. You tucked your legs under you, holding down your dress so no one got a free show. You played with the hem. “I wish they’d see me as an individual instead of an extension of their dead hopes and dreams.” 

“I feel that. You’re just gonna have to prove that you grown now,” he said with a shrug. 

“There’s nothing I can do. They’ll only see me as a goody two shoes who’s always ready with a smile. Like, I don’t have feelings or something? I’d have to rob a bank or have…” You trailed off as the intrusive thought came to you. 

You became very interested in your dress as you played with the rolled hem. “Have what?” Tyrone prompted.

You hummed and shrugged. “Lost my train of thought. Point is, I’m tired of living and dying by their own expectations,” you said. 

The thought didn’t leave you though. In fact, the more you turned it around in your head, the hotter it got in the room. Your imagination ran away from you, providing images of a naked Tyrone standing over you. Bending you over. Calling you dirty names. You shifted on the bed as the images became a little too vibrant.

You usually indulged in your fantasies late at night, safe and comfortable in your head where no one would know except you. It was harmless to be as nasty as you wanted, getting yourself worked up and needy but ultimately not doing anything about it. Could you imagine trying to order a sex toy and have it sent to the house? Trying to hide the buzz buzz as you got yourself off? It was either the towel on the pillow or your own fingers but once you felt awkward, it was hard to get back into the mood. 

“So don’t live by their expectations. What do you wanna do?” He asked. 

You glanced at him. He treated it as seriously as possible and that only made your heart melt. He was the bestest friend you could have hoped for, growing up together. But would you always be someone he grew up with? Forced to talk about his conquests over and over and wishing it were you? 

You licked your lips and faced him. You sat up straight and looked him in the eyes. Your heart thundered in your chest. You felt the steady beat all over, thumping in your arms and in your head. Now or never. 

“What would you say to a crazy idea?” You asked. 

Tyrone shifted to allow you more room on the bed. “What kind of crazy idea?” He asked slowly. 

You smiled at the mistrust in his voice. You were kind of known for some out of pocket schemes. It was not your fault that Mrs. Edwards came home early that one time. How were you supposed to know? 

You lost a bit of your nerve, looking down at your fingers. You gripped your dress hard, your fingers pressing the thin fabric. “What would you say if I asked you to take my virginity?” 

You risked a glance at him. He was frozen solid, gaping at you. After a moment, he blew out a breath. “Wait, what?” 

“I am tired of doing what people expect of me. Nothing is ever good enough and I never get anything out of the deal. I want something for myself. I want to have sex. I want to have sex with you,” you said. 

He tilted his head so you forged on, explaining why you wanted to have sex. “And I know it might be a little weird considering we’re friends but I’m pretty sure you’re not seeing someone right now? Right? Because I’d rather it be with someone I trust, at least the first time…” You rambled. You were rambling and you couldn’t make yourself stop. You heard the words. You said the words. But you couldn’t find a way to disconnect your brain from your mouth. “And you’re totally free to say no. Like, we can totally forget I asked.” 

After you crawled into a cave or yeeted yourself off of a cliff, surely you could be around Tyrone and not think of this stupid situation. 

You opened your mouth to ramble more because he was just sitting there, but he captured your lips with his. His hands cupped your jaw and pulled you into it, moving your lips against his. Your hands gripped his, but not to push him away. You held him there and kissed him back. Tyrone ran the tip of his tongue to trace around your lips. You gasped and he pulled away, pressing his forehead against yours.

“You have no fuckin’ clue how long I been wanting to do that,” he said, his voice hoarse. 

“Wait, what?” You asked. Your head was pleasantly fuzzy. Like you were full of fluffy clouds. “You’ve been wanting to kiss me?”

“Every time I see you. You got kissable lips,” he said. He made his point by kissing you again, humming low in his throat. He pulled away and ran his thumb across your lips. Each pass of his lips on yours or his calloused fingers on you only made your head fuzzier. You squeezed your thighs together, feeling yourself get more and more worked up.

“Why didn’t you ever say? Especially after ninth grade!” There was once upon a time where you two had danced at the high school you attended. You had found a dark-ish corner away from the chaperones and told Tyrone that you’d never been kissed. He had laid one on you, probably not well now that you thought about it, but it had been so precious to you. He ended it by saying, “Now you have”, and walked away. 

The memory was always bittersweet. But hell, it was still your first kiss. 

“I was a dumb ass kid. I didn’t know how to tell you I liked you more than a friend,” he said. 

Warmth spread from the tips of your toes to the top of your head. This lonely torch you’d been holding for Tyrone wasn’t one sided. You looked into his molten brown eyes and smiled, not knowing how to properly process this new information.

In fact, it blew you away that you were here at this moment. Who knew your holier-than-thou parents were good for something? 

“And now?” You asked.

Tyrone removed his hands from your face and you missed them instantly. He grabbed one of your hands, pulling it across his lap so that you could cup him. You gasped at the sheer size of him. Despite common myths, you have seen a dick before. But you’d never touched one. Held one. Sucked on one. 

Your mouth went dry at the thought. You wanted to suck him, but what if you were bad at it? Your lip rolled in between your teeth and you bit down, wondering the mechanics of it all. 

“Well, you did ask me for something huge. Are you sure?” He asked. His voice held a strange, raspy quality to it. You flicked your eyes back to him and he was breathing a little faster. Oh shit, he really did like you. How the hell did you miss it? 

“I’m very sure,” you said. You pressed your hand in more, stroking him over his basketball shorts. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, he opened them and grinned at you. 

“I’ll do it. But I want you to promise me that you’ll tell me if you don’t like something or if you want to stop, okay?” 

You nodded. “I promise. I’m a big girl, I can use my words,” you said. Your hands still moved over him and you must’ve been doing something right because his breaths left him in quick bursts. He rubbed his face and gripped his jaw, eyes tightly shut. 

“Okay, okay,” he said. He stilled your hand on him and moved it off. “Okay, okay. Virgin. Have you done anything? Gotten eaten out?” He asked.

You sighed and shook your head. “Yeah, I just snuck them up to my room while my dad was busy in the kitchen,” you said.

Tyrone chuckled. “Okay, smart ass. Give me a minute. I’m like…I don’t wanna just jump on you even though I want to,” he said. He stood up and rubbed his hands together, jumping in place. 

You giggled. “I thought I was supposed to be the nervous one,” you said. And you were! Your nerves were shot. Your hands trembled thinking of what the hell you were about to get into. You had fantasized it so many times, wondering who it would be. Sometimes wishing it were Tyrone. And while you didn’t think it would be all glitzy like they do in the movies, you did think you’d be married. Or at least in a steady relationship.

As you looked at Tyrone though, you were glad it was with someone you were comfortable with. Someone who took your usual anxiety from 100% to about 65%. 

Tyrone smirked. “If you knew the thoughts I be having about you…you might run out that door,” he said. “I’m trying to do this right.” 

You reached out and grabbed his hand. “Don’t treat me like some glass doll,” you said. You titled your head and stared him down. “You forgetting I know all your nasty little secrets?” 

Tyrone chuckled and squeezed your hand. “Shut up. That’s different. I ain’t care about them, but I do care about you. Don’t ever treat this shit as casual,” he said. 

You sucked your teeth. “Not you too. I promise, I’m not going around opening my legs for any man that wants it,” you said. You were about to go on a tirade about how it was your body and your rules. Tyrone shut you up with another kiss, tugging on your bottom lip. 

“The thought of anyone else in between your legs makes me angry,” he whispered against your lips.

“Angry?” 

He nodded and continued to kiss you, sliding his hands up and down your arms. His warm, big hands chased away any lingering chill from outside. He slowly knelt so that he wasn’t bending at an awkward angle. 

His knees sank to the floor and he nestled himself in between your thighs. His hands continued to travel down, squeezing your hips, your outer thighs. Your hands held on to his shoulders, kneading and massaging his back. He moaned into your mouth and a delicious tingle went up your spine. 

“Mhm, so don’t say that shit no more,” he said. 

“You can’t expect…”

His hands crept closer to your pussy and you ended your sentence on a squeak. Heat rose up your neck and cheek. “Relax,” he said. You took a few deep breaths, nodding, but you were as stiff as a board. Tyrone stopped moving his hand and kept it on your thigh.

“You gotta relax. And let me do this for you,” he said. His thumb pressed into your thigh and your body caved in. He somehow zeroed in on a knot and his thumb worked it out. “Oh fuck,” you said. 

“Mhm, you’ll feel better in a minute. But you gotta relax for me,” he said.

Sure, as if you could snap your fingers and relax. Wouldn’t you know it, anxiety was a light switch you could flick on and off at your leisure. Tyrone must’ve seen your thoughts play across your face, because he chuckled. 

“Do you have any fuckin’ idea how sexy you are?” He asked.

“What?” You asked. The question caught you off guard. You knew you were gorgeous, you knew you were working with some thick thighs and a pretty tummy. But sexy? Somehow, you missed the memo about sex appeal. You swore that guys could see “virgin” stamped across your forehead.

“Mhm. Whenever you walk out the house in one of these dresses, I just keep picturing how you look underneath. If that pussy nice and pink and wet.” His voice went deeper, harsher, bringing with it dark, carnal promises.

Your thighs tingled. Your hands shook. You bit your bottom lip to keep from moaning like a ho. Tyrone kissed your jaw, then moved up to your ear. “You nice and wet for me? You want me to play with it right?” He asked.

“Yes, yes, play with it,” you said.

Tyrone moved his hand up. Your thighs were burning hot from where they rested against each other. Tyrone nudged you to open your legs. He hummed while he kissed along your ear. “I wonder if you taste as good you feel.”

You dropped your head against him. “You can’t be saying shit like that,” you said.

“Look at you, with your little potty mouth,” he said.

“Shut up, Tyrone!” 

He only laughed and finally, blessedly, reached your core. He played with the edges of your panties, seeing the way you squirmed and moaned. He slipped his finger past the material and cursed under his breath.

“Damn, all of that for me? How you gon’ run home to Daddy with panties this soaked?” Tyrone asked.

You stuttered out a response. How were you supposed to form a coherent sentence when his fingers were on you? His fingers glided in between your slick folds, pushing past your pussy lips, and tracing the outside of your clit.

Your eyes bugged out of your head. Your mouth dropped in a tiny little ‘o’ and Tyrone’s eyes narrowed as he took in your expression. He kissed you once, too quickly for your taste, and smirked at you.

“You gotta stop being so damn cute,” he said. “Makes me want to do all kinds of nasty shit to you.” 

You moaned, picturing those disgusting things. His thumb rubbed over your clit and you scrunched up your face in pleasure. 

How was it that this felt infinitely different and better than when you did it to yourself? He knew exactly what to do, taking cues from your moans and grunts and pretty gasps. You sent up a prayer, thankful that this was with someone experienced. Then again, God probably wasn’t listening right about now.

Tyrone traced slow circles on your clit. You looked through your lashes at his smug face. He knew he was driving you wild. You hissed and jerked when he got to a particularly sensitive spot. “Shh, shh, breathe,” he said. 

He held your gaze as you took in deep breaths. Your belly flipped and tightened, the beginning stirrings of something naughty making its way to the surface. Your gaze traveled down. Tyrone’s hand was completely under your dress. It was somehow hotter that you couldn’t see what he was doing to you.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” You moaned.

“Mhm, pray to him for mercy. Because you ain’t gettin’ that shit from me,” Tyrone’s raspy voice was like its own arrow of desire. Your thighs shook. Your feet dangled over the side of the bed. Your toes curled. 

“Tyrone, please,” you said. You gripped his shoulders. His smooth brown skin shone with its own light. 

“Let me take these panties off,” Tyrone said.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you said. 

Tyrone stopped rubbing your clit. “No,” you growled. What the hell was he doing? You were so close! Your belly still felt tight, overripe like at any moment you would burst. 

Tyrone chuckled and lifted your dress. The fabric drew across your thighs like scorching fire. You hissed. You were on a precipice and any movement would hurt or hinder. You didn’t want to find out which. 

Tyrone pushed your dress up to your hips. Then, he grabbed the top of your panties and moved it down. He held you as you lifted up and slipped them off your ass. He smiled. “Never thought I’d get to see you like this,” he said.  

“I’m glad it’s you,” you said and smiled.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he said. “Remember to breathe for me.”

He kept your gaze as he pushed your legs over his shoulders. He grabbed your hips and pulled you forward until your ass was half hanging off of the bed. You cried out and he kissed your thighs until you calmed down.

Your heart beat in your pussy. The throb throb throb drove you mad. You were needy. You needed something more, anything more. 

Tyrone blew a breath across your wet pussy and you cried out, jerking your hips. Tyrone only locked his arms around you, curling his biceps around your thigh. “Oh fuck,” you moaned. 

Tyrone flattened his tongue and licked you from your pussy to your clit and back down again. A choppy moan left you. Your back bowed off of the bed. Your hands gripped the front of your dress. It wasn’t enough to hold so you moved your hands down to grip the bunched up hem. 

He ran his nose through your folds. He inhaled. “Smell so fuckin’ good, got damn,” he said. “Pretty ass pussy.”

He then drew his tongue in a slow circle around your clit. Locked as you were, he didn’t leave room for movement. You barely wiggled. Squirmed underneath his sinful tongue. With each new circle, he moved in closer. He tongued you closer to your clit and you whined and moaned and cried.

Your belly tightened once more. A cresting inferno built and built, radiating waves of heat throughout your body. 

Somehow, this too was more potent coming from him. Your body jerked out of your control, twitching every which way, as he created magic around your clit. He slurped up your juices. Slurped it loudly and greedily. He tongued it all down, getting his juicy lips wet with your essence.

You spoke in tongues, muttering and chirping. Tyrone’s tongue moved downwards, rimming your entrance and pushing his tongue inside.

“Oh god. Oh fuck. Tyrone, Tyrone,” you moaned. Your hands flexed. You searched for Tyrone’s head, his neat cornrows were going to get messed up tonight. You palmed him anyway, pushing his head into your pussy and started to gyrate on his mouth. 

“Mhm, mhm,” he encouraged. “That’s my good girl.”

You came with a loud yell. You could barely breathe. The sounds and words were dragged out of you. A hidden instinct buried in your DNA to say something, to help ride this awe-inducing wave. A flood of pleasure moved through you. 

Tyrone held you down through it all. His biceps flexed with your movements back and forth. He still ate you out, flicking his tongue around your nub. 

“F-f-f-.” Fuck it, you couldn’t say it. 

You flopped onto the bed, spent. You moaned as you twitched and calmed down. Tyrone leaned up. You looked at him. His face was slick across his jaw. A spit chain drooped. He licked his big lips and moaned.

“Ready for this dick?” He asked.

You sniffled and nodded. “Please. Please, I'm so ready,” said.

“You don't’ need a break?” He asked.

“Hell naw. Please,” you said. 

He nodded and placed a wet kiss on your thigh. He cleaned off his face on his tank top. He stood up. He grabbed your hands and pulled you into a sitting position. You put your chin on his stomach and looked up at him. 

He sighed and rolled his neck. “What I tell you about lookin’ so cute?” He asked. 

“I can’t help being cute,” you said. 

“Lyin’ ass. Yes, you can,” he said.

You sucked your teeth. “How am I supposed to do that?” 

“Ion know. Burp or something,” he said.

You giggled and hugged him around his middle. You grabbed a handful of his ass and squeezed. 

“You really have no idea,” he whispered. You grinned. 

He stepped back and pulled off his shorts. His dick bobbed twice, standing at attention. He was definitely thick and long and perfect. Your shyness tried to budge back in. Your heartbeat sped up thinking of that getting inside of you. 

He twisted and leaned over. You admired his body as his muscles bunched. He was solid, stocky. A thick man with amazing thighs and ass. Cool air blew across your pussy and you bit your lip. Fuck. 

He grabbed a condom. Watching him was its own brand of sensual torture. His fingers moved deftly to open the package. He rolled on the condom, pulling the latex over the length of him. He pinched the top. 

He stalked closer, running his eyes over you. “Let me take this dress off,” he said.

You smiled and nodded. He helped you pull it off. Your bra went next. “You’re so damn sexy,” he said. 

He palmed your breasts, rubbing and pushing them together. He leaned down and brought your nipples into his mouth. He moved between your boobs, suckling and placing that warm mouth around the peaks. 

Your legs jerked up. You wrapped them around his waist. His shirt got trapped beneath your legs. He pulled it out and the shirt draped across his chest. His dick brushed against you and you cried out. He was so close to giving you what you needed. Your nails dug into his sides. He ignored you. He played with your nipples until you were a bumbling, squirming mess. 

“T-T-Tyrone,” your teeth chattered.

“Mhm, I know. Ready for me?” He asked.

“Yessss,” you moaned. 

“Sure?” He asked. He rubbed his dick through your arousal. You soaked him instantly. There was so much on you. The cool air hit across it on your skin. You knew exactly how much of a mess you made. It made you hornier. How did you go through life without this? Without this feeling?

Without this obsession running in your veins. This deep-seated need. This lustful shot of adrenaline threatening to burn your skin off. 

Tyrone’s hand wrapped around your hip. His other hand guided his dick towards your entrance. He pushed in and you gasped. He slipped in thanks to how wet you were. But fuck! He filled you completely. 

“Breathe,” he commanded. He stopped and moved his shirt out of the way. “You gotta breathe.”

You nodded. He helped you take deep breaths. “That’s right. Be a good girl for me. Good girls get dick,” he cooed. 

That should piss you off. But you wanted to be a good girl for him. You wanted to listen and get praised some more. 

Your breathing evened out. Tyrone leaned down and kissed you. As he kissed you, he pushed in. Your hand flew to his chest, pushing at him. Fuck. It kind of hurt, but it was a good hurt? You could tolerate him pushing in. You clenched around him and he hissed. 

He sank inch by inch into you. He cursed the whole time. “Fuck, feel too good. Feel too good,” he muttered. “Gripping the shit out of me.”

The praise made you moan and you clenched around him. A drop of his sweat fell onto your chest. Your own sweat slick skin pebbled in the cool air. 

Tyrone moved out and then pushed back in. The slide in would hurt briefly but then morph into pleasure as you felt him move inside of you. He was deep, stretching you out. Molding your pussy to the curve of his dick. 

He began to speed up. He flipped his shirt up and held it in his mouth. He moaned. “Can still smell you,” he said, though his voice was muffled. 

Both hands held onto your waist. He moaned as he sank deeper, you welcoming him better. “You okay?” He asked.

“Yuh,” you nodded. 

“Sure?” 

“Yu-uh,” you moaned. He was doing nothing more vigorous than moving back and forth, but he felt amazing. He filled you up. He hit that deep seat of emptiness inside of you. A place you hadn’t been able to get to on your own.

The feeling brought tears to your eyes. He twisted and brought you down on his dick a little faster. “Ohmygod,” you cried. He reached a spot that made you explode all over him. 

You cursed the heavens, you cursed hell. You cursed the world in between. You felt large. Humongous. You felt like you could grab the world with both hands. Power and pleasure suffused you. You moaned out loud, heedless of anyone who could hear. 

“Oh fuck, so tight,” Tyrone hips jerked. His fingers dug into your hips. The pressure made you moan. He jerked and thrusted one more time, going as far as he was able, and you felt him pulse inside of you.

You imagined him filling you up with his cum. You moaned as the thought made your pussy throb. Tyrone twitched and panted on top of you. He left you slowly, sliding out in a way that wouldn’t hurt you.

You missed him immediately. He wiped his sweat on his shirt and took off the condom. He tied it and threw it in a nearby trashcan. 

“Are you okay?” He asked.

You flopped onto the bed. Looked up at the popcorn ceiling. Were there words to describe how okay you were? How fantastic you felt? “So good,” you murmured. 

And you did feel really good. You expected to feel shame after having sex. You’d avoided it for so long, you started to feel like a freak for still being a virgin at your big age. But you didn’t. You were mostly sore. You were going to feel this in the morning and right now, you couldn’t care less. 

Tyrone left for a moment and you just focused on your breathing. On trying to recapture that euphoric feeling of that orgasm. Chasing after it like the wayward string of a balloon. 

He returned and placed a warm cloth against your pussy. You hissed at the unexpected sensation. He cooed at you while he cleaned you up. You smiled at him. “You didn’t have to,” you said.

“Yeah, I did. I was raised to clean up after myself,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. He left once more, getting rid of the washcloth. He took off his shirt and hopped into bed with you, pulling you chest to chest. He rubbed your back and looked into your eyes.

“You’re so cute,” he said.

“You are,” you said. You bumped his nose. 

“How you really feelin’?” He asked.

“Honestly? I feel really good. Sore, but tired.” 

“Would you want to do it again?” He asked.

“Hell yes! Are you kidding? There’s so much I want to try,” you said.

Tyrone laughed, shaking his head. He pecked you on the lips. He moaned and then pressed in for longer, licking your bottom lip and rolling it between his teeth. 

“Mm, does that mean I can get back in that pretty pussy?” He asked.

You caressed his cheek. Running your thumb across his supple skin. “That’s exactly what that means.”

&&&

Psst, there's more! The Secret Tyrone Files

[adaineabernantsfrog]

60 of 100 ways I love you, for Grimoria and the rest of the circle of crimson mirror (many her first birthday after joining the new circle?)

Grimoria was still considered ‘delicate’ by Candela’s standards. It was what they called the teenage orphans they took advantage of helped out of rough and tumble situations. She was no longer curled up in Leo’s apartment, instead she walked around it as she thought, pacing, like she couldn’t sit still with her thoughts. Her orange skirts wafted around the floor, staying only a second after her she had already moved on to the next spot. She had a notebook in her hand and was writing something in it, research of some sort. The boys came home to find her rushing about, almost frantic. 

“Grim, whatever is the matter?” Edgar said, taking off his shoes. Leo nodded at him approvingly as he put them in a neat stack (Grimoria’s own boots were removed but flung about. Malcolm picked them up.) “You seem on edge.” Grimoria shook her head, her curls going everywhere as she did. Malcolm held up her boots. 

“These are way too small for you.” He pointed out. 

“They get the job done.” She said, scribbling in her notebook. When the scribbling became too frantic to be healthy, Malcolm walked over and held out his hand for the book. She sighed and yielded it to him. 

“Maybe so. But did you forget what today is?” Leo asked, holding his arms behind his back like he was hiding something. Grimoria searched her mind for any reason to have today down in her mind. It wasn’t one of the boy’s birthdays, and it wasn’t a year since she joined Candela. 

“Yes. Sorry.” Her voice was so quiet, Malcolm almost missed it, and he was standing right next to her. 

“Mori, it’s your birthday.” He said. “Zora told us this morning.” 

“Hm. My birthday?” She said, staring at them all. It was almost uncanny. Her eyes didn’t seem to blink. Leo held out a hand, and in it there was a small orange cake with a candle shaped like a one and a seven on the top. The candles were lit. “Oh!”

“Are you…Happy?” Edgar asked, and Grimoria nodded. He smiled. “Blow out your candles, then.” She walked forwards and did exactly that. “Make a wish.” Grimoria nodded at him. 

But nobody gets to know her wish aside from her, and the small pile of plushies she whispered it to later. (And Leo who went to check on her and accidentally overheard. It was a wish for a new pair of boots. They appeared before she woke up the next day.)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It is my personal Headcannon that Grimoria joined the circle at 16!! a baby. if anyone wants to play the game is send me a candela duo/trio/group (platonic or romantic) and a number from this list and I'll write it!

[fangirlvibez]

The Bradshaw son and Seresin daughter - part 10

Characters: Bradley Bradshaw x female!OC Madison Ella Hanscott, Son!OC Nicolas Peter Bradshaw, Jake Seresin x female!OC Quinn Kelsell, Daughter!OC Hazel Alexandra Seresin, Son!OC Benjamin Jacob Seresin, OC!Connor Malcolm Oxland

Warnings: in this chapter: mention of running away, inaccuracy in military terms (let me know if I forgot something)

Summary of the story: The 16 year old daughter of Jake Seresin gets pregnant. The dad: the 18 year old son of Bradley Bradshaw. How will the dads react to their kids becoming teen parents.

A/N: English is not my first language, so if there is any spelling or grammar errors: please let me know. (Spelling checked by ChatGPT)

Previous part - next part - masterlist

“Well..” Hazel turned to the source, a wry smile on her lips. “That went better than expected” Nick mused, his gaze lingering on his girlfriend. Leaning in, he ended the day with a gentle kiss on her lips.

A young man paced nervously in the small living room of their rental home. He'd had the ring for years, but it hadn't graced his finger fot half an hour. He was too preoccupied with his nerves to resist fidgeting with the round piece of jewerly. A young woman stood in the doorway of the living room, observing her boyfriend walk a tear in the carpet. Today was the day. The monday he was so nervous about. The day his mom, dad, mom-in-law and dad-in-law would join him and his girlfriend for dinner after five long years of leaving their respective homes.

"Babe, you're making me dizzy with all this pacing" Hazel gently remarked as she stepped into the room. Her arms found their place around Nick's neck, while his hands settled on her hips. "I'm sorry sweetheart. It's just ..." He looked down at the carpet. "I haven't seen mom in so long and I only really talked to our dads during training. I don't want this to go like the last time we all sat together" he explained, resting his chin atop her head. "I know, I'm nervous too. And I am absolutely certain our parents are as anxious as we are" she reassured him. "I don't want this to be akward" he admitted. Hazel remained still, her cheek nestled against his chest, listening to Nicks heartbeat. She was certain his heart was going faster each minute. "Let's hope for the best" she said, lifting her head to rest her chin ons his chest. Nick looked down at his girlfriend, offering a small smile as he gently kissed her nose. He couldn't help but love how her nose would scrunch up when he kissed it.

The couple had distanced themselves from each other. Nick had settled onto the couch in front of the TV, where a baseball game played in the background. Who was winning? He had no idea, and he didn't even bother to check which teams were playing. All his attention was fixed on awaiting the sound of the doorbell. Meanwhile, Hazel was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the casserole she had prepared. She anticipated her mom's delight upon seeing her again, and she was confident her mom would also be thrilled to have Nick back. However, she couldn't help but worry about her dad. How would he react when he saw her? Would he shed tears like her mom? Would he greet her with a bone-crushing hug? Only time could provide the answers, and that time arrived sooner than the young adults had anticipated.

The chiming of the doorbell brought Nick and Hazel to an abrupt pause in their activities. Hazel slowly emerged from the kitchen and entered the living room. Nick had already positioned himself at the front door, which opened directly into the living room. He peered through the peephole and said, "It's your parents," while taking a step back. Hazel nodded before making her way to the door. She couldn't quite recall the act of opening it, but she vividly remembered the joyful expression on her mother's face as two arms immediately enveloped her in a warm hug.

"Hey, Mom," she smiled when she recognized the person hugging her. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm so happy to see you again. I cried happy tears when I heard you wanted to have dinner together," she explained, planting kisses on her daughter's cheeks. Quinn's gaze rose to meet Nick's eyes. The boyfriend stood behind, allowing the small family to savor their moment. "Oh, Nick, come here. It's been so long, and you've grown so much." Quinn released her daughter from the hug and wrapped the young man in her arms. Nick briefly hesitated before embracing the older woman. "It's good to see you too, Mrs. Seresin. Hazel was overjoyed to see you again." "Mrs. Seresin? Please, call me Quinn again. I know I have grandkids now, but I don't want to feel old," she chuckled.

As Quinn enveloped Nick in a warm embrace, Hazel stood face to face with her father. "Hey, Dad," she said quietly. Nick was right – apart from a few grey hairs on his head, Jake Seresin looked just the same as he did five years ago. "Hazel," Jake said, scanning his daughter from head to toe. "You've grown so much. You've become such a beautiful woman," he said, tears forming in his eyes. Similar tears welled up in his daughter's eyes. Before Jake could fully comprehend it, a weight was thrown at him. His daughter clung to her dad, shedding tears of happiness at the sight of her father's return after five long years.

After a minute-long hug, both Seresins released each other. Quinn stood beside Nick, tears of happiness in her eyes as she watched her daughter reunite with her father.

"Nick," Jake greeted. "Rear Admiral Seresin," Nick greeted back. Jake let out a subdued chuckle, saying, "Jake is just fine, Nick. We're meeting outside of work, and you're my daughter's boyfriend." A weight lifted from Nick's shoulders, and he cleared his throat while gesturing behind him. "I'm going to get a drink; I'll leave you to catch up a bit." The small Seresin family settled on the couch, while Nick disappeared into the kitchen.

Half an hour had passed, and Bradley and Madison still hadn't arrived, having gotten stuck in traffic. Nick sat beside Hazel on the long couch, with her mother, Quinn, on her other side, and Jake in a chair opposite Nick. The Rear Admiral could see that the young man was nervous. His knee bounced up and down, his fingers fiddled with his ring, and his gaze frequently shifted towards the front door. Meanwhile, Hazel and Quinn shared stories about their sons, talking about how Benji's favorite cartoon was Bluey and how Mac loved to read and create his own stories. The twins were having a sleepover at Connor's house.

Jake was ready to reassure Nick that he had nothing to worry about. He wanted to convey how his dad had been proudly bragging about his son to other Rear Admirals, Captains, and even Admirals. He also wanted to share that his mom had been inquiring about him every day, and she had spent hours baking brownies, Nick's favorite dessert. Furthermore, Jake wanted to reveal that the delay wasn't due to traffic but because they were struggling to get Sparky, their dog, into the car, intending to surprise not only their son but also their furry companion.

For the second time that night, the doorbell rang through the room. The conversation between Hazel and Quinn hushed, and all three Seresins turned their attention to the young Bradshaw. Nick swallowed hard before rising from the couch and moving toward the front door. As he opened the door, there stood his mother. Nick quickly noticed that his father wasn't by her side. Before he could search for his dad outside, his mother had already pulled her son into a tight hug.

"My son, oh my son. How much I've missed you," she cried into Nick's chest. Nick, now a head taller than his mother, couldn't hold back his own tears, and his arms pulled her even closer to his chest. "Hey, Mom, I missed you too," he said softly.

The Seresins watched the mother-son duo embrace for a full minute. Nick gently pushed his mom out of the hug but didn't release her completely. "Where's Dad?" he inquired, and Hazel detected a hint of anxiety in his voice. Was his father reluctant to see him outside of work? Did his father regret this meeting?

Madison smiled and turned around, pointing behind Nick. "Oh, he's just retrieving your present from the car," she said with a grin.

"Present? Why would you bring me a pres—?" Nick's sentence was abruptly halted by a loud bark, and a magnificent husky leaped out of a blue Bronco, heading straight for Nick. "Oh my God, Sparky!" Nick exclaimed, crouching down to greet his dog with joyful licks. The sound of the dog's tail vigorously wagging against the hardwood floor filled the room. "Yes, yes, buddy. I've missed you too," Nick laughed, losing his balance from the dog's exuberance and landing on the floor.

Taglist: @comfusedpimp @dempy @michael-loves-chickens @massivedetectivestudent @starkleila @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @memoriesat30 @mirrorball-6 @corriegrace06 (if your username is crossed out it means I couldn’t tag you) (let me know if you want to be tagged)

[hotchocolatefanfics]

Hi I really loved your fanfics they are so interesting and quirky! I hope you continue to write and explore those ideas and your writing in general. I can empathize with your sentiments about your dad, my father also passed away a few years ago and IK what you mean by being angry with the world and its continuous pace. I really resonate with your statement about being angry about how the world can keep moving when your father is not in it. I really love the PoTA films as I also used to watch them with my dad as well! A question I guess I have for you is if the movies could be played out differently how do you think Koba could be reformed? In other words if things were different how do you think Koba’s story could have gone? Do you think he could ever be written as a reformed character? Thank you for reading and my sentiments and condolences go out to you ❤️

Hello, and thank you! I’ve really grown to love angst and romantic themes since writing PoTA fanfics so I hope to explore them in the PoTA world soon. I’m sorry about your dad too. It feels weird that things keep happening without him there, doesn’t it? I hope re-watching the PoTA movies remind you of good times with your dad as they do with me. 

And now for your question! 

If there were to be any reform in Koba, something would have to change his mind about humans. Thanks to Rise and the Firestorm book, we get a very in-depth idea of Koba’s backstory leading up to his escape in Rise. We know that Koba faced years of abuse and torture at the hands of humans which caused his deep hatred of them to begin with (which I think we can all agree is valid but still). 

Koba rarely encountered a friendly human during this time and when he did they didn’t stay long enough to show him kindness that could have changed his mind. Because of this, Koba has a very narrow view of humans. The ‘all humans are evil and dangerous and must be killed’ mentality we saw in Dawn. 

He was willing to listen to Caesar and express his concerns to him but I don’t think this could have been enough to change Koba’s mind (like even if Malcolm and the humans never entered the forest, I do not think anything Caesar said or done would have convinced Koba otherwise).

Basically, the only way Koba could have changed his mind about humans was if one of them were to show him kindness. For example, what he were the one who got sick instead of Cornelia and Ellie helped him? It doesn’t have to be Ellie specifically, but something serious would have to happen to Koba and he’s put into a vulnerable state and the only one to help him is a human for him to actually see that humans aren’t all bad. 

This isn’t necessarily a solid theory because, for all we know, Koba could very likely still try to kill all humans and just spare that one who helped him but this just means it would have to be more than one human involved (like maybe a few humans and some of the apes). Even if this does happen, Koba would still have to actually chose to change and do what he can to stop the war from happening. 

Plot-wise, I do not know how something like this would have fit in the movies but I could see it easily extending into Revelations (where Koba’s followers sort of picked up with where he left off-mainly Red, Grey…(other apes who’s names I can’t remember at this moment lol). Before War was released, there was some idea of bringing Koba back (that he somehow survived his fall) which could be utilized for this as well but it all depends on how much of the original plot you want to keep or change and what actually happens to Koba.

There’s actually a really good fanfic called Dawn of War on FanFiction that explores all this beautifully. To briefly explain it with no spoilers, Koba isn’t the one who started the war but is involved (sorta) in it’s creation and has a solid redemption arc. I highly recommend it if you haven’t read it!

[orchidsncrake]

where were you when i was out of line?

pairing/fandom: joe goldberg/rhys montrose, you (2018)

rating: explicit

tags: pwp, dom/sub, dom!joe goldberg, sub!rhys montrose, power bottom joe goldberg, service top rhys montrose, rhys is the eat-the-rich killer, degradation, praise kink, punishment, anal sex

word count: 4,664

summary: rhys gets jealous and kills kate, and joe is not best pleased. how else are you meant to reprimand your psychopathic stalker but turn him into a lovely service top?

ao3: where were you when i was out of line? - orchidsncrake - You (TV 2018) [Archive of Our Own]

fic under the cut :)

“You’re fucking impossible, Rhys,” Joe hisses, ushering the other into his apartment and slamming the door behind them. He takes off his coat in a huff, hanging it on the hook. He reaches out his hand for Rhys’ overcoat, but when the other only raises his eyebrow at him, mouth slightly agape, Joe tugs it off him himself. 

“That’s expensive wo-” “Shut the fuck up.” Rhys’ mouth snaps shut, and he cooperates. He tosses it into the hook next to his own and paces it deeper into the apartment, hands waving wildly. He runs them through his hair, messying it. He finally stops, hands on his hips and eyes boring into Rhys, who hasn’t moved from the entryway.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” He spits, trying and failing to regulate his breathing. He feels he may burst an artery. 

“I’m so glad you asked,” Rhys responds, sliding all too easily into his usual playful demeanor. “I was thinking that I was sick of that bitch getting in the way,��� he snaps, slipping from playful to venomous in half a second.

“So you kill her?” He asks, voice pitchy and shrill. Rhys slides further into the apartment, presumably to try to soothe Joe, but Joe holds a shaking finger at him, and he stills.

“Come on, mate. It’s not like you to care so much about some girl ,” Rhys says, rolling his eyes with the last words. He stands with his palms outstretched, almost supplicating. 

“That ‘girl’ is Katherine fucking Galvin!” He all but shrieks. “Now you haven’t only killed Malcolm, but his girlfriend, too! Who, need I remind you, is only the heiress to one of the most famous, powerful companies in the world.”

“Was.”

Joe’s eye twitches. “What?” “Was. Was the heiress,” Rhys responds, looking up from under his brows. Joe could kill him.

“I should fucking– I don’t even know! What do you do when your psychopathic stalker murders your neighbor? Spank him?” Joe rambles.

“If you’re nasty,” Rhys snarks, apparently suicidal. Joe stares at him, astonished. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve upset you, alright?” Rhys tries again, eyes trained on Joe’s clenched fists. “But she really was a problem, mate. The whole lot of them are-”

“No. Do not tie this to your Robin Hood killing-the-wealthy bullshit because that’s not what this is.” He paces around in tight circles, tugging frantically at his hair and sweater. “This is you being a fucking wackjob that can’t go a week without murdering someone because you have the self-control of a hormonal teenager.”

Rhys’ eyes narrow at the last comment. “It’s not hormonal.”

Joe flounders. “That’s what you’re latching onto? You just killed a woman because, what, she might’ve looked at me once, and you’re pissed that I said it’s hormonal?”

Rhys waves his hand dismissively, unwilling to explain himself. “She didn’t just look at you once, did she? She leered damn near constantly, always gawking at you from across the room. You just didn’t see it.”

“You,” Joe starts, pointing a shaking finger at Rhys again, “are out of your goddamn mind.”

Rhys only deadpans him, though the corners of his mouth pinch in suppressed annoyance. “She had to go. She wasn’t going to do you any good.”

“She wasn’t going to do me any good, or she was doing me better than you?”

Rhys’s lip curls up in a sneer, and Joe is almost surprised by the hostility. “She isn’t better than me,” he bites out.

“I don’t know, Rhys,” he presses his palm to his forehead. “She doesn’t go around killing people, does she? Didn’t she?”

“I did it for you!” Rhys shouts suddenly, pumping his fist down. Joe blinks, taken aback. He never gets angry, and certainly not to the point of yelling. He’s never seen Rhys with any other expression than vague sadistic pleasure. At least he knows what to do with that (namely, stare blankly at him until he goes away), but this – his jaw clenching, eyes squinting, and neck tendon pulled tight – this he has no idea what to do with. He stares at him, speechless. “Can’t you see that I’m doing it for you?” Rhys says, voice cracking slightly. “I got rid of her for you! For us.” He swipes a hand over his face as if trying to pull on his usual cool veneer.

“Why would killing someone be good for me?” Joe asks incredulously, his voice soft. He doesn’t have any more energy for yelling.

Rhys laughs a bit hysterically and throws his hands up. “I don’t know, Joe . But it’s what I know how to do.”

“Well, you can’t anymore,” Joe says. “No more killing, no more body part harvesting, no more anything but your crochet needles and mayoral campaign.” He knows it sounds strikingly similar to putting his foot down – actually, he knows that’s precisely what this is, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He can’t just forgo telling him not to kill people.

“You cannot be serious,” Rhys scoffs. He rubs his temples impatiently. “This is what you are, Joe. You’re a killer, and so am I. That’s why we work! Your other girlfriends,” he spits the word, “didn’t know you like I do.”

“The last one did, but she kept fucking killing people with wild abandon until I had to kill her,” Joe groans, the memory an old wound by now.

“Is that what you’re going to do, Joe? Kill me?” The way Rhys hums the words is nauseating.

“You’re jealous. That’s all this is,” Joe says, skipping the argument — no point in fighting with a psychopath about morals.

“Jealous?” Rhys parrots, raising his brows.

“Yes, jealous. You already admitted it. You killed Kate because she allegedly looked at me too often. You killed Malcolm to get my attention, and it worked, and when you didn’t keep every fucking ounce of it, it was Simon, then Gemma. Honestly, I think you just killed her because you were bored, and it had nothing to do with protecting me. And now, Kate.” He pauses to take a breath, tapping his foot. An insane idea occurs to him, and he’s too pissed not to say it. “Is getting you to stop killing as easy as giving you more attention?”

Rhys stares at him, and Joe watches as his expression morphs from anger to poorly concealed embarrassment. Joe barks out a hysterical laugh.

“You killed Kate to get my attention ?”

“Well, you were distracted, weren’t you?” Rhys explodes. “Always worried about Kate and her stupid fucking billion-dollar sob story. I did you a favor!”

“You disobeyed me,” Joe seethes. “I told you, we do what I say when I say it, and you went and did whatever you wanted anyway. You see how that’d be upsetting, don’t you?” Rhys shrinks away from him, looking almost timid, though Joe isn’t crazy enough to think he’s capable of that. “I did it for you,” he repeats feebly. 

“What do you want, Rhys? When you planned to kill Kate, how did you see this going?”

“I had hoped you’d appreciate the effort.”

“Like a cat owner appreciates the disemboweled half of a mouse, right?”

Rhys pulls a face. “Not exactly.”

Joe huffs and then points at the bedroom. “Go.”

“What?”

“Now is not the time to test me, Rhys. I’m still pissed with you and would very much like to beat you senseless, but I’m choosing to be the bigger person here. Now go.” He shakes his hand again for emphasis. Rhys gives him a sidelong look but turns on his heels and makes his way towards the bedroom. “Shoes.” He freezes and sighs, then two dull thuds of dress shoes hitting the rubber mat. Then Joe is alone in the living room.

How the hell does he get himself in these situations? Only he could move to London with the distinct purpose of not killing people and instead end up in a situationship with an Englishman with a penchant for mutilation. A possessive one, at that, who occasionally behaves how Joe expects an evil labrador would. He has to be cursed or something similar. He combs his fingers through his hair, haphazardly smoothing it down, and takes a deep breath to steel his nerves. We will not kill Rhys. We will not kill Rhys. He doesn’t know any better, like an untrained -  oh, who is he kidding? He knows better. He’s just out of his goddamn mind. He walks down the hall and into the bedroom.

Rhys is sitting on the bed already, one ankle resting on the other knee, trying too hard at nonchalance. When he comes in, he looks up at Joe, but his eyes dart back down at the sound of the door latching. Joe stands at the edge of the bed, a few feet from Rhys, and crosses his arms.

“Look at me.” Rhys, for his part, obeys, but not without an attitude. He looks up at Joe with a faint smirk, brows raised in challenge. Then he sits back, hands folded in his lap, and cocks his head at him. “Don’t be a brat,” Joe says quickly. That, at least, gets Rhys to falter. He smiles incredulously.

“What?”

“You wanted my attention. You have it now. Don’t make me kick you out.” That gets him to shut up, and the slight timidity from before returns. Joe steps forward until his shins press against Rhys’, and he runs a hand through the other’s hair. He uses it as leverage to tilt his head up to look at him. “I’m going to talk now, and you’ll keep your mouth shut. Understand?” Rhys looks like he’s about to make some comment, but a sharp tug at his hair silences him. He nods his head. “You disobeyed me, Rhys, and I’m tempted just to leave you to your thoughts tonight to punish you.” He cards through Rhys’ hair again, almost grinning at how the other leans into it. “But I won’t, because then you’ll just go and kill someone else, won’t you?” He asks almost angrily, digging his fingers into Rhys’ scalp. “And I can’t have that. So, I’m going to allow you to make it up to me in a way that benefits us both. How’s that sound?”

Rhys blinks up at him a bit slowly. His clasped hands are untangled, and they rest limply in his lap. “Good,” he says roughly. Joe nods agreeably.

“Good. Now, I know you aren’t good at resisting your impulses, as you’ve proven one again,” Rhys’ lip curls for a moment before relaxing, pacified by Joe’s petting, “but you are good at the other end of the instinctual spectrum.” Rhys cocks his head, smirking a bit as he immediately understands Joe’s point, the pervert. He nods, and Joe echoes the movement. “Do you want to fuck me, Rhys?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Rhys breathes cockily. He gets his hair pulled for it.

“I will let you. It is a privilege, especially after that stunt, and you will have to earn everything up to and throw it. You will do everything I tell you to to the best of your ability as a lesson in obedience because–?” Joe trails off expectantly. Rhys’ nose wrinkles.

“Because I killed Kate.”

“Right. And not only did you kill Kate…”

“I killed her after you told me not to,” Rhys all but pouts.

“See, you are smart. Now undo my belt.”

Rhys jumps at the order, forgetting the humiliation from moments before in the face of something he wants. He really does have a one-track mind when you think about it, Joe muses. His belt clangs and Rhys immediately goes to undo his slacks, but Joe tuts. “Did I say you could unbutton my pants yet?”

Rhys sighs, shoulders drooping, though his fingers don’t move from Joe’s fly. He looks up at Joe with his best puppy dog eyes. “No.”

“Do you want to ask?” Joe coerces. Rhys rolls his shoulders.

“May I please–” he starts, voice dripping with sarcasm, but Joe cuts him off by pulling his hair painfully. “ Ah – may I undo your slacks?” He tries again, sans sarcasm.

“Yes, you may,” Joe says, smoothing Rhys’ hair. Rhys undoes his slacks, then looks up at Joe for more permission. Joe nods, smiling softly, and Rhys pushes his slacks down until Joe can step out of them, leaving him in his boxers. “Now sit up at the pillows.” Rhys slides up the bed, still fully dressed, sitting with his back against the headboard. He watches as Joe strips off his sweater, then his button-down and undershirt, leaving him in only his underwear. Rhys’ eyes rove over his body shamelessly, then flick up to meet Joe’s.

“Do you think you’ve earned preparing me?” Joe asks just to be a dick. He’s entitled to it. He watches Rhys battle himself in his head, caught between saying yes to be a prick or saying no and getting the night on with. Finally, his better judgment wins out, and he shakes his head. “I’m glad we agree.” Joe gets up on the bed on his knees and slides a hand down his torso teasingly, dipping his thumb into his waistband and pulling the slightest bit, but not enough. “Get the lube from the nightstand, then set it on the bed.” Rhys complies, his more basal desires winning out over his common sense, as always. Joe picks up the bottle and toys with it, then beckons Rhys forward. “Take off my boxers.

Rhys’ eyes flit between Joe’s midriff and face as he dips his fingers into his boxers, pulling them down slowly. As soon as Joe’s cock is visible, though, he gives up eye contact altogether and settles to gawk. He’s still soft – in all honesty, he’s still pissed, and he’s never been one to get it up out of anger – but Rhys seems wholly unbothered as he helps Joe out of them and then tosses them on the floor. Joe gets off the bed and walks around Rhys before settling against the headboard, taking his spot. Rhys turns around, still on his knees, and watches as Joe lubes his fingers.

“You’re going to stay right there,” he starts, spreading his legs and sliding his hand between them, “and watch me. You’ll only touch me when I say you can, understand?”

Rhys nods, resituating on his knees. “Yes.” He gawks at Joe’s hand, and Joe smirks, pressing his middle finger into himself. He lets out a shaky breath, settling deeper into the bed and letting his legs fall open further. He sinks his finger into the knuckle and rolls his hips down, acclimating. Rhys makes a strangled sound and Joe opens his eyes, not remembering having let them slide shut, to grin at him.

“Do you like watching?” He taunts, pumping his finger carefully. Rhys sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and nods stiffly. “I bet you’d like to be the one fingering me more, though, wouldn’t you?” “Yes, fuck, of course, I would,” Rhys breathes.

“And why aren’t you?” Joe draws his finger out and pushes in with two, grunting softly. Rhys’ tongue laves over his lip.

“Because I killed that bitch, Kate,” Rhys hisses. Joe kicks him quickly in the side, not too hard, but enough to make a point. “Because I killed Kate, and you told me not to,” he corrects, rubbing his ribs. 

Joe hums approvingly and lets his head loll back, hips rocking gently against his hand. He fits a third finger in and then calls it good. His cock has chubbed up a bit and lays against his hip. He takes it in his fist, pumping slowly, torturing them both. “Stand up and strip.”

Rhys does as he’s told, quickly shedding his slacks, sweater, undershirt, and boxers. Joe watches the show hotly, languidly jacking himself, exhaling when it feels too good. “Now up here, between my legs on your knees.” He spreads his legs to welcome Rhys, releasing his cock to stroke his shoulder. He uses his left hand to pet down Rhys’ chest, tracing the lines of his abs, purposefully avoiding the gaze that’s boring into his skull. Finally, he looks up and grins at how wide and pleading Rhys’ eyes are. He cups his cheek.

“There he is,” he murmurs, stroking his cheekbone. “Isn’t it better when you listen to me?” Rhys, testament to how beside himself Joe has gotten him, only nods and greedily looks over Joe’s body. Joe chuckles and spreads his legs more. “You’ve been good so far, Rhys. Do you think you’ve earned fucking me?”

“Please,” he whispers, forgoing the question. “Please, can I kiss you?”

Joe raises an eyebrow. “You want to kiss me?”

“Yes,” Rhys rasps, eyes darting to Joe’s lips. “Please let me.”

Joe laughs and pets Rhys’ hair when the other makes a face. “You’re going to have to prove you deserve it.”

Rhys grumbles unhappily but accepts the answer. He falters, not knowing how exactly he’s allowed to prove it. Joe answers his unasked question by shifting further down the bed until his head rests on the pillows. Rhys follows, settling between Joe’s legs. He makes for the nightstand drawer, but Joe stops him. “You’re not using one tonight.”

Rhys furrows his brows but decides not to question it, apparently worried that mentioning the irregularity will change Joe’s mind. Joe slicks his hand again with lube as Rhys positions himself above him on all fours, bracketing him. They’re about the same size, Rhys even a bit leaner, but he looks small to Joe like this. Staring down at him like he’s worried this will all be taken away in the next moment, like Joe will admit this is all a cruel joke, and of course, he wouldn’t let him fuck him after he outwardly disobeyed him, was Rhys stupid? Joe softens his gaze and scratches Rhys’ nape, enjoying this raw version of him more than he’d ever admit. Just like he’d never admit that Rhys killing Kate did mean something to him, that the gesture, if it could even be called that, didn’t only anger him. It was thoughtful on some twisted level. He likes being wanted so consumingly by someone that they’d kill for him, and he likes even more being able to trust them to clean up their mess. Still, he can’t very well encourage that kind of behavior, and so he’d needed to have a firm hand. It was for Rhys’ own good. 

Joe carefully takes Rhys into his hand, humming when the other gasps into his ear. He strokes him slowly, squeezing a bit at the head the way Rhys likes, careful not to set him off too early. He tends to get overexcited when Joe takes charge, and while it’s sometimes adorable, Joe would rather not have prepared himself for nothing. Speaking of, he’d better get a move on.

“Are you going to fuck me nicely, Rhys?” Joe says filthily, rolling his wrist to hit a sensitive spot. Rhys bucks into his hand. “Hm? Are you going to listen to me like you should have in the first place?”

Rhys squeezes his eyes shut above him, panting hotly. “Yes, Joe, I will.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. Please, I’ll listen.”

“Tell me how much you want it,” he teases, enjoying keying up the other.

“So bad, Joe. You’re incredible. I need you, please,” Rhys presses his nose into Joe’s neck and inhales, which had been weird initially but something Joe quickly came to appreciate. Any display of devotion was fine by him. “Please, I’m sorry. Please let me.”

It’s the former apology that finally wins Joe over. He releases Rhys’ cock and grabs his hips instead, pulling him further between his legs. Rhys looks up at him wide-eyed, looking for reassurance, which he gets in a nod. His mouth drops open as Joe guides his dick to rest against his hole, making him into little more than a tool, which Rhys is very obviously enjoying. He likes to feel useful. Rhys lowers himself onto his forearms and presses his hips forward far gentler than usual, and Joe guides him, drawing him in with both hands on his ass. Joe groans low in his chest as Rhys slides home, cradling the other’s head to his neck, letting him breathe him in. 

“Good boy,” Joe praises when Rhys’ hips press flush to his ass. He strokes his back soothingly, rolling his eyes at the ceiling as Rhys insists on keeping his face buried in his neck. He feels wetness and recognizes it as Rhys’ tongue and considers scolding him but decides against it. It’s better that he just licks than bites – he doesn’t know how he’d hide the bite mark of a grown man. Or worse, explain it when someone sees.

“Can I move?” Rhys rasps, hands flexed at Joe’s side.

“Yes, Rhys, you can move,” Joe says, trying to steady his voice. Rhys nods, and Joe can hear his saliva crackle when he swallows thickly. Rhys draws back slowly and rolls his hips just as tentatively. “It’s okay, Rhys. I’m not mad,” Joe admits, deciding he can’t take upsetting him any longer. He’s pissed – or was – but he doesn’t hate him. He could never afford to.

“You’re not?” Rhys asks, sounding pitiful.

Joe pets his hair and gropes his ass a little firmer, spurring him to thrust deeper. “No, I’m not. I wa–” he cuts himself off with a gasp when Rhys angles his hips lower. “I was before,” he starts again, swallowing to contain himself, “but I’m not mad at you. You worried me.” Joe cups Rhys’ face and draws him up to see his face. He kisses Rhys’ cheek and pets his hair. He wraps his legs around his hips, guiding his thrusts more.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys whispers feebly, hiding his face in Joe’s neck again. Humility isn’t his strong suit, and Joe again allows him the comfort.

“I know you are.” Joe digs his nails into Rhys’ ass a bit, adding a bit of deserved pain but not able to bring himself to really hurt him. “You can make it up to me now, Rhys. Don’t you want that?”

Rhys nods and tries to say something in the affirmative, but his voice only cracks and fails. His thrusts get a little rougher. Joe tuts, and he gentles. Rhys tests different speeds, waiting for Joe to praise or scold him, until finally, Joe scratches his head pleasantly and moans openly. He tilts Rhys’ hips a bit until he’s hitting his prostate more often than not, then relaxes into the pillow.

“Good boy. Just like that.”

Rhys finally pushes himself up onto his hands to gawk at Joe. His blue eyes are

half-lidded and hazy, but the way he’s staring at Joe is so loving that he smiles up at him and runs his thumb over his bottom lip. Rhys welcomes it into his mouth happily, sucking on it as he keeps fucking into Joe. The warmth coursing through his belly and surrounding his thumb makes Joe sigh in pleasure, his head rolling to the side. He keeps his eyes open no matter how desperately he wants to let them slide shut because Rhys isn’t forfeiting eye contact, and Joe doesn’t want to deny him. Rhys mumbles something, and Joe slides his thumb from his mouth, resting it on his bottom lip.

“What’s that?”

“Can I kiss you now?” Rhys asks desperately as his hips stutter. He catches himself immediately and forces himself to still, steadying himself with a deep breath before resuming his earlier pace. Joe smiles appreciatively, doesn’t bother answering properly, and just pulls Rhys into a kiss. He keeps it gentle, focusing on Rhys’ lower lip and licking into his mouth occasionally, tracing his teeth, and Rhys just takes it. He kisses back weakly but only to follow Joe’s lead, chasing his tongue lazily or pressing into a particularly insistent kiss. Joe rumbles happily.

“You’re doing so good for me.”

“Please,” Rhys begs incoherently. Joe can feel his muscles tensing and knows he’s close. 

All things considered, he has lasted reasonably long, so he decides to indulge him.

“Get me off first, and you’ll have earned it.” Rhys nods, gasping, and hovers his head over Joe’s cock. With a confirming nod, he takes Joe in his hand, tightening the pleasure in Joe’s gut. His legs clamp around Rhys’ hips and bucks into his hand, making Rhys chase him. “Lick your palm,” Joe gasps. Rhys complies, licking a messy stripe across his hand and wrapping his fist around Joe’s dick again. The slide is easier, and Joe shudders, panting at the ceiling as Rhys devotes all his attention to getting him off. He can feel himself spasming around Rhys’ cock and shushes him when he cries out, doubtlessly painfully close. Rhys starts begging Joe to come, which is something in itself, then gently dips his finger into Joe’s slit. He moans as his legs go limp, then his body surges as he releases over Rhys’ hand. It’s barely dribbled onto his belly before Rhys is babbling breathlessly in his ear to join him. He nods, still coming down, and Rhys shoves his arms under Joe and holds him to his chest. He jackhammers into him, and then he stills, ramrod straight. Joe pets his hair as he comes, shushing him and kissing his temple as he chokes out odd sounds and gasps. Finally, Rhys grunts and shifts his weight to one forearm. Joe croons, still catching his breath.

“Good, good boy,” he praises, petting and caressing his back. He uses his free hand to press his head down to his chest, and Rhys goes happily. Joe’s face scrunches up when he slips out of him, squirming a bit at the feeling of his cum dripping out. They’ll need to shower, both because of that and that now Rhys’ chest is pressed against Joe’s cum covered abdomen. Rhys is either unaware or unbothered, entirely content to listen to Joe’s heartbeat and have his hair played with. Joe feels slightly absurd, laying his legs open for Rhys to cling to him because his hands are still trapped under his back, but it’s pleasant enough that he pushes the thought away. Rhys trembles with an aftershock, and Joe laughs softly.

“You okay?” He murmurs, tucking his chin in to see the half of Rhys’ face not squished into his chest. The other nods against him and kisses his collarbone.

“Are you?” Rhys asks back.

“Yeah, I’m good.” Joe pets him a bit longer, then lifts Rhys’ chin to look at him. “You can’t do that again,” he states simply. Rhys nods and shuts his eyes.

“I know.”

“Will you do it again?”

Rhys hesitates. “I don’t know.”

Joe nods slowly and guides Rhys’ head back down. He scratches between his shoulder blades. “I’m not going to leave you.”

“I’m sure you’ve said that before,” Rhys mumbles, surprising Joe. It hurts, but he knows the other is right.

“I have,” he admits, “but I never will again.” He lets them lapse into silence, trusting that Rhys understands him.

“You promise?”

“Just as long as your corpse offerings stay between us and don’t get me stuck with a red notice, then yes, I promise.”

Rhys hums, apparently satisfied. “When are we going to shower?” Joe chuckles. “When I can feel my legs.”

“Mkay,” he mumbles. Joe watches Rhys’ eyes slide shut, glad he’s stayed calm this long. He knows he can’t expect Rhys not to be, well, Rhys. And he knows just as well that he can’t lie to himself and say he doesn’t like Rhys for who he is. He just has to accept it and occasionally degrade him when he steps out of line – which is never the solution he expected he’d have to take when dealing with a murderous psychopath. But, whatever works. And this, in some sick, twisted way, definitely works.

[freddie-77-ao3]

And Everyone All Comes Home (This Is My Greatest Wish)

Summary:

Connor’s still looking out the window. They look vacant, hollow in a way they have no right to look. Connor’s meant to be light, summer days spent happy. Malcolm murmurs another apology. Is Connor there at all? When Connor speaks, it isn’t their voice. It’s older, more broken. “You said you wouldn’t leave me.” “I didn’t want to—” Malcolm chokes on the words as Connor shifts. “Why did you leave? Why does everyone keep leaving?”   Or: Connor has a little bit of a mental breakdown, and Malcolm's there to help.

Tags:

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, The Trials of Apollo - Rick Riordan

Relationships: Malcolm Pace & Connor Stoll, Malcolm Pace/Connor Stoll, Connor Stoll & Travis Stoll (mentioned)

Characters: Malcolm Pace, Connor Stoll, Travis Stoll (Mentioned)

Additional Tags: Pre-Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Non-Binary Connor Stoll, Malconnor, Connor Stoll-centric, Literal Sleeping Together

Malcolm wakes up to sniffling. Not of sickness, at least of the physical sort, but of Connor, crying on the floor. He rolls over to face them. He tries to remember what day it is, if someone has died recently. Missed deaths or birthdays. His head’s so heavy. He wants to go back to sleep, but–

“Connor,” he says gently, “Connor, what happened?”

Connor doesn’t respond. 

“Connor,” Malcolm repeats, his voice gentle but demanding, “I need you to tell me what happened.” 

 “You left,” Connor whispers, blinking their eyes open, “You left and it hurts and I don’t know how to make it stop hurting.” 

Malcolm’s face crumbles. “Oh, Connor. Connor, I’m so sorry.”

Connor’s still looking out the window. They look vacant, hollow in a way they have no right to look. Connor’s meant to be light, summer days spent happy. Malcolm murmurs another apology. Is Connor there at all?

When Connor speaks, it isn’t their voice. It’s older, more broken. “You said you wouldn’t leave me.” 

 “I didn’t want to—” Malcolm chokes on the words as Connor shifts. 

“Why did you leave? Why does everyone keep leaving?”

“I don’t think they want to. I didn’t want to.”

“But we keep doing it. We all just keep doing it. Malcolm, I want to stop leaving . I want everyone to stop leaving. I want to stop leaving, Malcolm, I want a home.”

“Oh Connor,” Malcolm whispers, “Connie, no one can promise anything.”

“I know ,” they choke out. “Don’t you think I know that? Luke promised he wouldn’t leave, Lee promised he wouldn’t leave, Chris left , and gods, Malcolm, Travis left.”

They loosen a sob from their throat. “ Travis left me. He was never meant to leave. He left.” 

He left them, he left them, he left them .

Everyone always leaves , to death or betrayal or hatred or tiredness , and Connor’s never had the chance. They don’t have a home to leave. Don’t have people to leave. Everyone else always leaves first.

Malcolm opens his mouth to say something, anything , but, is there even anything to say? They’re demigods: at their cores, they are nothing more than filthy monuments to crumbling gods. They are born to fight, born to die. They will always leave each other. It’s a very old story. Death never has another ending. 

Connor looks at him closely. “You can’t think of anyone who hasn’t left. Who won’t leave. We’re all leaving , Malcolm, and I’m so sick of it.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I? I love you.”

Connor scoffs. “Weren’t you the one who said it? That love is worth nothing? That love is worth five pennies, and trust maybe twice that? That it’s dead?”

He did in fact say that. Malcolm, unfortunately, is cursed with ranting about inane things, and even when they’re at unimportant times, Connor always remembers. It’s very hard to get anything past them. And now, well, it’s coming back to fuck him over. 

“You know I–”

“Meant it? Yeah, I do know. And it’s true , you don’t lie. Didn’t lie.”

“I won’t leave you.”

“You always do.” They respond, snapping. Malcolm always leaves. In Connor’s dreams and nightmares, in their visions– even in their memories. Malcolm was always a flighty thing, and sure, he came back , but that never stopped the pain of being left. 

“I won’t leave you again,” he offers, his voice gentle– much more so than usual. “I’ll swear it, if you want.”

“You’re lying . You’re lying and I hate it.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you!” He shouts, wanting to be offended, but Connor simply pins him with a glare. His voice loses its edge as he adds “not about this, at least. I won’t leave again, Connor, if it matters that much. Not until I die.”

“But everyone else keeps leaving too.”

“I can’t control them. But I know I won’t leave. I know I love you.”

Connor finally sighs, and settles on the bed next to him. “I know… I’m sorry. I just– gods, Malcolm, with Apollo and–”

“I know,” he tries to soothe. “You’ve always cared. But we can’t control anyone else. I just know what I’ll do. I promise, even if I do leave, I love you.”

He pauses, waiting, and admits. “Sometimes I think that I’ll never stop loving you.” He smiles sadly. “Other times I know I won’t.”

Connor just looks to him. 

“I’ll go get breakfast, ‘kay?”

“Don’t leave. Don’t.”

“... Okay.”

“Just lay with me for a bit.”

They settle back on the bed. Connor waits for a while, at least an hour, until Malcolm’s breathing slows. With their hand to his chest, they whisper: “I love you too.”

Malcolm Pace and Connor Stoll love each other. Tragedy, for demigods, may be inescapable. Leaving certainly is. 

But in the meantime, in the warmth of the covers, no one is leaving, and no one is dying.

[agaypanic]

I loved your Malcom x male reader story! Would it be possible for another? Maybe he’s a new neighbour or an exchange student from England or something? Go wild!

The New Neighbor (Malcolm Wilkerson X Male!Reader)

Masterlist

Request Something!

Summary: When Malcolm sees a new family moving in next door, he’s ecstatic for a clean slate. But a clean slate isn’t the only thing Malcolm’s getting from you.

A/N: im sorry but i did in fact not go wild, this feels pretty bland tbh lmk if yall would want a second part, i just cant think of a way to continue this rn :/

***

It wasn’t every day you got a new neighbor. Most people wouldn’t think much of it; maybe send over some kind of baked goods if they were feeling nice.

But for the Wilkerson family, new neighbors meant new chances. They didn’t exactly have the best reputation in the neighborhood, mainly because of all the boys’ crazed antics. The family just had to make sure they got to the newcomers before anyone else in the neighborhood.

“Hi, can I help you?” You sounded exhausted, probably because you kept walking back and forth, unloading heavy ass boxes. Your parents were starting their new jobs today, but you didn’t start school until next Monday. So you decided to do a bit of unpacking when a boy about your age popped up on your lawn.

“I, uh, I was just coming back from school, and I noticed you weren’t there.” He scratched the back of his head, and you set down the box you were ready to carry inside. Realizing that what he said sounded a bit stalker-like, the boy adjusted his backpack straps and stood up slightly straighter. “Sorry, I don’t mean that in a weird way. I’m Malcolm, by the way. I’m your neighbor.” He pointed to your right, to a house and lawn that definitely stood out from the rest of the block.

“Oh! Yeah, I think I saw you and your brothers yesterday.” You walked down the lawn to get close enough to hold your hand out to Malcolm. “I’m Y/n. I’m starting school on Monday.”

He shook your hand, giving you a polite but somewhat nervous smile. Why he seemed nervous, you had no clue.

“Do you need, like, any help with this?” The two of you looked around your lawn. The movers your parents hired didn’t really care about putting the boxes in the rooms they were labeled for, or the house itself, for that matter. You were lucky it didn’t rain.

“If you don’t mind.”

Having Malcolm around turned out to be a lifesaver. He may have looked like a string bean, but you got the rest of the boxes in the house and in their respective rooms faster with him than you could have by yourself. Plus, he was able to unpack some of the stuff with you, which led to multiple conversations about different things that you apparently had in common.

“So why did you have to move?” Malcolm asked, flipping through one of your comic books.

“Parents got new jobs. Better pay, better school district, hopefully better people.”

“Did everyone at your old school suck?” You laughed lightly, sitting on your bed next to him. He closed the book, thumb between the pages to save his place, and looked at you.

“You could say that. Heard California’s more liberal than where we’re from, so there’s that, I guess.” You leaned back until your back hit the mattress, and Malcolm did the same. You both looked up at the ceiling.

“Why would that matter?” He asked. You took a deep inhale, and Malcolm panicked. “You don’t have to tell me. You know, if you don’t want to.”

“It’s fine.” You said before he could go into a fast-paced tangent. “It’s cool. Um, where I’m from, people aren’t really too fond of… They don’t like gay people that much.” There were a few beats of silence, and you panicked. What was wrong with you? You just met this guy, and here you were, telling him everything about your life.

“So… you’re gay?” Malcolm asked, fiddling with his flannel.

“Enough to not like me.” 

“Well, a lot of people don’t like me or my family. They think we’re kinda crazy or something.” You laughed. From your interactions so far, Malcolm seemed pretty normal. 

“I guess that if I get outcasted again, I have at least one person to hang out with.” You turned your head to see Malcolm already looking at you. You both smiled lightly at each other, as if in agreeance.

After a bit more chatting, you realized how late it was getting. You walked Malcolm out the front door and to the sidewalk. Before you could wave each other goodbye, you decided to bite the bullet.

“Hey, Malcolm?” He raised his brows, waiting for you to continue. You kicked invisible rocks, calming your growing nerves. Why you were nervous, you had no idea. “Do you wanna hang out sometime? You’re the only person I know right now, and you seem pretty cool.” Malcolm nodded almost immediately.

“Yeah, that sounds awesome! How does tomorrow sound? I can show you around town and stuff.” 

You grinned, nervousness washed away by Malcolm’s excitement.

“Sounds good to me. I can give you my number if you want; we can work out a time or something.” He nodded, so you held up a finger, signaling for him to stay and wait, and ran back into the house. You came out a few seconds later with a sharpie. “Roll up your sleeve.” Malcolm tilted his head questioningly but did it anyway. “Couldn’t find any paper.” You elaborated as you scribbled your number on his arm. You capped the marker and started to back away towards your house. “Text me.”

***

Malcolm in the Middle Taglist: @rattilol

[noforkingclue]

By Any Means Chapter 22 (Malcolm Bright x reader)

Not long now until the end of this fic! Thank you to everyone who stuck with me :)

By Any Means tag list: @shadowluna25

Prodigal Son tag list: @queenoffandom08, @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky, @stilestotherescue

Malcolm Bright tag list: @v0id-sp1rit, @fansformentalydistroyedmen

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

“Are you ok?”

“What do you think?”

“Well in the way you’re tidying up I’d say that you’re pretty pissed.”

“Observant as always, Dick.”

“Richard.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed a towel as you began the drying up. Richard winced when you almost dropped a mug and slowly approached you. You jumped slightly as he put his hand on top of your and gently lowered it.

“Why don’t you put that down?” he suggested

“Why? Nervous I’ll drop it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I bet you’re happy I’m not holding a knife.”

“I’m always happy about that.”

Richard moved closer and took the mug from your grip. You sighed in defeat and sat down at the kitchen table. You watched as Richard started on the pile of drying up and you said,

“Sorry about what Malc said.”

Richard shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, “I’ve certainly had worse things said about me.”

“Worse than being accused of being a murderer?”

“It’s more about who said it. Why should I care about the opinion of someone I don’t know. I know that the two of you are… close.”

He raised his eyebrows and smirked at you. You felt your face get hot and looked away.

“But Malc and I aren’t. So why should the opinion of a virtual stranger hold any weight on me?”

You smiled and stood up. You walked towards the window and looked out at the view of the city.

“I wish I was able to be a bit more like that,” you said, “guess I hold onto grudges too easily.”

You felt your phone buzz in your pocket and pulled it out. You saw a text from Malcolm but before you could reply your phone was knocked out of your hands. You stiffened as a pair of arms wrapped around you and a cloth was pressed against your lips.

“Besides,” Richard said against your ear as your vision because to swim, “it is true after all.”

*

“Something’s wrong,” said Malcolm as he paced about, “y/n hasn’t picked up her phone.”

“Well can you blame her?” asked JT, “you did accuse her friend of being a serial killer.”

“No,” Malcolm looked down at his phone, “this… this feels different. Usually she’d reply by now.”

“Do you think something has happened to her?” asked Dani

Malcolm hesitated for a second before nodding. If you opened a text you always replied to it immediately, even if it was just a brief message. You didn’t like to leave people (although Malcolm suspected that you just did this with him) hanging. 

“Yes. I do. I have a bad feeling that something very bad is about to happen and that we need to find her now.”

*

You were vaguely aware of being lowered into water however you were too weak to open your eyes. You shifted slightly and a cool hand gently stroked your forehead.

“Damn it,” a familiar voice said, “you’re waking up. I was hoping that you wouldn’t. I didn’t want you to be awake for this. I just wanted you to slip away quietly. For you to know nothing about what was going to happen to you.”

“Di-”

“Shh, relax. For once, just relax. You don’t have to worry about anything ever again.”

You heard someone get into the water beside you. You fought to keep yourself awake and not fall into the inky, welcoming darkness.

“And then, this’ll be all over and I can finally move on with my life.”

[writingquestionsanswered]

so something i seem to have an issue with is pacing (?) im sure youve got this question before so sorry if its kinda repetitive!

but when i had a friend of mine (who is amazing at writing) read something i wrote, they pointed out that i sort of rushed through it (i’ve already fixed one of the issues that caused this) and that i didn’t really explore the characters’ feelings and thoughts — i suppose you could say it was just showing what was going on from the outside, if that makes any sense.

anyway, i’m not exactly sure how to turn this into a question, but do you have any advice for this?

love your blog btw, you’re doing gods work

Pacing a Story That Feels Rushed

Stories, and scenes, need to be a balance of exposition (narration, explaining), action (things happening), and dialogue (conversation.)

If your story reads like showing things happening from the outside, you're probably lacking exposition, which is used to explore character thoughts and feelings and provide the reader with description and information they need to understand the story.

Here's an excerpt of a scene that illustrates a balance between exposition, action, and dialogue:

The door swung open, revealing Sally in a sequin tube dress. "Sarah, you came! Welcome to my party!" Sally stood aside to let me in, and three feet through the door I was swallowed by a sea of gyrating party goers. The beat of the music pounded between my ears, and special effects lights lit up the makeshift dance floor. I had to hand it to Sally--it was one heck of a party. Too bad I didn't want to be there. A fleshy mass bowled into me, almost knocking me over. "Oops! Sorry, Love... are you okay?" I gazed up into the bright blue eyes of Malcolm St. John, Sally's longtime boyfriend, and my crush since grade school. "Oh, hey, Mal. Yeah, I'm fine!"

Now, let's break this down by paragraph:

The door swung open (action), revealing Sally in a sequin tube dress (exposition/description). "Sarah, you came! Welcome to my party!" (dialogue) Sally stood aside to let me in (action), and three feet through the door I was swallowed (action) by a sea of gyrating party goers (exposition/description). The beat of the music pounded between my ears, and special effects lights lit up the makeshift dance floor. (exposition/description) I had to hand it to Sally--it was one heck of a party. Too bad I didn't want to be there. (exposition/character thought/feeling)

A fleshy mass (exposition/description) bowled into me, almost knocking me over (action). "Oops! Sorry, Love... are you okay?" (dialogue)

I gazed up (action) into the bright blue eyes of Malcolm St. John (exposition/description), Sally's longtime boyfriend, and my crush since grade school (exposition/information). "Oh, hey, Mal. Yeah, I'm fine!" (dialogue)

See how action, exposition, and dialogue work together to accomplish this scene? This is what you should strive toward in building your scene.

Pacing is a special kind of magic that happens when you play with the specific ratio of exposition to action to dialogue, as well as the type, as well as other elements like sentence and paragraph length.

Action and dialogue usually move more quickly than exposition, so a faster-paced scene should probably have a little more action and dialogue than exposition. Exposition can really slow things down, so if you need to slow the pace of a scene, you can make sure to work in a lot of exposition where it's needed. And, although dialogue normally moves quickly, long, in-depth conversations can have the opposite effect. So that's also something that can be used to slow a scene down. For really fine-tuned control, you can use shorter sentences and paragraphs to speed things up, and longer sentences and paragraphs to slow things down.

I hope that helps, but if you need more help, here are some previous posts that explain things further:

Balancing Dialogue with Exposition and Action Balancing Dialogue with Action and Narrative Exposition, Action, and Dialogue, and How to Pace Your Story Slowing the Pace within a Chapter Pacing Feels Too Fast How to Increase Word Count (Meaningfully!)

Have fun with your story!

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[cleolinda]

Varney the Vampire: Chapter 10

Chapter 9: Flora Bannerworth blasted a vampire, twice, then swooned into an Undisclosed Someone's arms, and personally, I think she earned it.

CHAPTER X.

THE RETURN FROM THE VAULT. -- THE ALARM, AND THE SEARCH AROUND THE HALL.

James Malcolm Rymer actually has a fairly cinematic eye despite this being the 1840s; just after Flora dramatically raising her arm to shoot a vampyre in the face (okay, it didn't say "in the face," but I live in hope), we cut over to:

George and Henry Bannerworth, along with Mr. Marchdale, had just reached the gate which conducted into the garden of the mansion when they all were alarmed by the report of a pistol. Amid the stillness of the night, it came upon them with so sudden a shock, that they involuntarily paused, and there came from the lips of each an expression of alarm.

Whereupon her brother Henry SPRINGS THE FUCK INTO ACTION,

he cleared the gate at a bound, and at a terrific pace he made towards the house, passing over beds, and plantations, and flowers heedlessly

legit ducking bullets and my laughter the whole way, and flails back into the family mansion only to discover his SISTER in the ARMS of a STRANGER:

To grapple him by the throat was the work of a moment, but the stranger cried aloud in a voice which sounded familiar to Henry, -- "Good God, are you all mad?" Henry relaxed his hold, and looked in his face. "Gracious heavens, it is Mr. Holland!" he said.

THAT'S RIGHT, IT'S CHARLES MOTHERFUCKIN HOLLAND, BABY

You... you know...! The guy! The guy they couldn't move away for! Who saved Flora when she swooned off a cliff! He's come to reunite with his beloved and he has no idea what the fuck you people are going on about.

Such a strange scene as that small room now exhibited had never been equalled in Bannerworth Hall. There was young Mr. Holland, of whom mention has already been made, as the affianced lover of Flora, supporting her fainting form. There was Henry doing equal service to his mother; and on the floor lay the two pistols, and one of the candles which had been upset in the confusion: while the terrified attitudes of George and Mr. Marchdale at the window completed the strange-looking picture.

Listen, I give Rymer a lot of shit, but the man can paint a picture (which is, in fact, worth one thousand words).

Having exhausted all his executive function, Henry goes limp again:

"What is this -- oh! what has happened?" cried George. "I know not -- I know not," said Henry. "Some one summon the servants; I am nearly mad."

I also give Henry a lot of shit, but I'm not packing a whole lot of spoons on a daily basis, either, so: fair enough. Although he could do better than subsequently telling the servants, "Flora's dead, or fainted, or whatever, someone else figure it out."

Marchdale, however, is focused on The Stranger Present in the Room, straight-up pointing his finger at Charles Holland. Like, he might as well be snarling. Charles Holland retorts, "Sir, I may be a stranger to you, as you are to me, and yet no stranger to those whose home this is," so who the fuck are YOU? Henry tries to placate everyone by fawning over Charles Holland (you have to say his full name. It just sounds right. I don't make the rules), and it... does not work.

"I am proud to know you, bitch sir," said Mr. Marchdale. "Sir, I thank you," replied Holland, coldly. It will so happen; but, at first sight, it appeared as if those two persons had some sort of antagonistic feeling towards each other, which threatened to prevent effectually their ever becoming intimate friends.

I want to say this might actually pay off later, but I can't remember for sure. Meanwhile, the servants WAIT! WAIT THE FUCK A MINUTE! I THOUGHT THEY ALL QUIT? Sorry, going back to chapter 6 to check this—

[Henry] calmly paid the servants, and allowed them to leave him at once without at all entering into the matter, and, for the time being, some men were procured, who, however, came evidently with fear and trembling, and probably only took the place, on account of not being able to procure any other.

Well, at any rate, Some Guys don't know what happened with the fainted ladies and the vampyre, which well they might not if they're just there for the paycheck and are staying out of this. I know all these thinkpieces nowadays are giving people shit about "quiet quitting," but listen, if I am working for the Bannerworth family just to scrape by with ye olde healthe insurance, I am keeping my head down under the bullets flying and my nose out of their vampyre business. So, exit the unconscious Mrs. Bannerworth, borne away by Some Guys, because she only functions to scream and faint. (It's not an issue Stoker much improves on with Mrs. Westenra fifty years later.) Flora, on the other hand, begins to revive in the mansome arms of Charles Holland, who is, uh, still embracing her. Like. You could set her down in a chair or something? No?

"Oh, do not now take her from me, after so long an absence. Flora, Flora, look up; do you not know me? You have not yet given me one look of acknowledgement. Flora, dear Flora!" The sound of his voice seemed to act as the most potent of charms in restoring her to consciousness; it broke through the death-like trance in which she lay, and, opening her beautiful eyes, she fixed them upon his face, saying, -- "Yes, yes; it is Charles -- it is Charles." She burst into a hysterical flood of tears, and clung to him like some terrified child to its only friend in the whole wide world.

Maybe I've just gotten maudlin in my middle age, but: ;_;

Has Flora been ill?? Oh, brother, we've ALL been ill, say George and Harry Henry (Rymer, buddy, pay attention), and "nearly mad," because no one has ever gone through anything as terrible as having a sister bitten by a vampyre. And in the middle of Charles Holland standing there with his erstwhile ladylove sobbing on him, like, what the fuck are you two talking about, Flora suddenly "extricates" herself and demands that Charles Holland break up with her, now, immediately, posthaste, forever!!! NEVER LOOK UPON MINE ANGUISHED FACE AGAIN!!

"I -- I am bewildered," said Charles.

Ayyyy, it's a reader proxy. Flora and Charles Holland argue about about this a weepy minute, until Henry interrupts to ask Flora what happened in the previous chapter while the menfolk were looking for matches, in an exchange that I would call wonderfully naturalistic if I did not want this book to hurry the fuck up and get on with it:

"Has it been again?" "It has." "You shot it?" "I fired full upon it, Henry, but it fled." "It did -- fly?"

That is to say, the vampyre has fled; it did not fly like a bat per se, because that would have actually been cool. I did forsooth merc that motherfucker, avers Flora, but surely it will come again! Marchdale ventures to suggest that perhaps she actually killed it, maybe for good this time. And meanwhile Charles Holland is like,

…you

you did what now

George offers to explain ("'You seem to be the only rational person here,' said Charles"), but Flora interrupts to break up with Charles Holland again: 

"Hear me, Charles," said Flora. "From this moment, mind, I do release you from every vow, from every promise made to me of constancy and love; and if you are wise, Charles, and will be advised, you will now this moment leave this house never to return to it." "No," said Charles -- "no; by Heaven I love you, Flora! I have come to say again all that in another clime I said with joy to you. When I forget you, let what trouble may oppress you, may God forget me, and my own right hand forget to do me honest service." "Oh! no more -- no more!" sobbed Flora. "Yes, much more, if you will tell me of words which will be stronger than others in which to paint my love, my faith, and my constancy."

If you tell me of... stronger... I don't know how Rymer manages to say something that I can technically understand, but still makes me go all blonde math lady dot gif. Dig the emotionally available love interest, though. But Henry's like, buddy, not now—

"Nay, upon such a theme I could speak for ever paid, by the printed line. You may cast me off, Flora; but until you tell me you love another, I am yours till the death, and then with a sanguine hope at my heart that we shall meet again, never, dearest, to part."

What happened to me since 2010 that I kind of love this now? It's 2023, I've had covid five thousand times, and I want this man to sweep in, go "You live like this?," and start swearing his eternal love to me while promising to fix everything. And I'm not even straight.

Flora sobs that him being such a dreamboat just makes it harder to break up with you, Charles [Holland]—

"Oh, say that word again!" he exclaimed, with animation. "It is the first time such music has met my ears."

What—his first name? That she's said seven (7) times since he got here…?

See, this is the thing. Continuity aside, the problem with Varney the Vampire is that it's not difficult to summarize a chapter in maybe three sentences, tops, if you really put your mind to it. But you start explaining it, and paying attention to it, and then the quicksand gets you. You start quoting it for the absurdity and then... the endless, real-time dialogue... you just... start... sinking:

"It must be the last [time I say your name, Charles] [Holland]." "No, no -- oh, no." "For your own sake I shall be able now, Charles, to show you that I really loved you." "Not by casting me from you?" "Yes, even so. That will be the way to show that I love you." She held up her hands wildly, as she added, in an excited voice, -- "The curse of destiny is upon me! I am singled out as one lost and accursed. Oh, horror -- horror! would that I were dead!"

Love it. Quality gothic content. Had to wade through fearsome verbiage to get there. Charles Holland blanches, he staggers, he reels! "Is -- is she mad, or am I?" Henry, tell him I'm mad! No, Flora, I'M mad! Mad at the very thought! MAAAAAAD!! You'd think they were all clawing their eyes out over some cosmic Lovecraftian horror and not one (1) tatty vampyre falling on his ass, over, and over, and over. Seriously, they've already shot him three times and killed him at least once, the Crawling Chaos over here ain't that deep.

At any rate, it's time for Henry, as the head of the family, to take his would-be brother-in-law aside and Tell Him All!!

Never was mortal man so utterly bewildered by the events of the last hour of his existence as was now Charles Holland, and truly he might well be so. He had arrived in England, and made what speed he could to the house of a family whom he admired for their intelligence, their high culture, and in one member of which his whole thoughts of domestic happiness in this world were centered, and he found nothing but confusion, incoherence, mystery, and the wildest dismay.

Can you imagine—you've spent a couple years off doing fuck knows what, and now you're finally returning to look up your apparent fiancée, only to have her wild-eyed brother buttonhole you in a tiny side room and start ranting about matches. That's going to be the entire next chapter. Good luck, Charles Holland!

(Chapter 11 will go up Friday, April 21.)

[yanderemommabean]

the yandere saying "the dumbest thing I ever did was let you walk out", is definitely Adrian after graduation when Malcom tries and fails to disappear.

Oh 100%, he’d be so pissed thinking he almost lost the love of his life in such a big, crowded scary place! He turns his back for a few seconds and suddenly he sees other people trying to take Malcolm away! (Which isn’t true at all. They were simply trying to help him to the exit)

He’ll get ahold of him once again, tightly, and make sure to keep a hand clamped on his wrist or arm the rest of the evening. Malcolm feels his world shatter when he’s caught, but it breaks even more when he gets into the car and Adrian is silent the whole drive. He’s never this angry, always having something to talk about or telling Malcolm about his day.

Now they’re at Adrian’s apartment, with Malcolm twiddling his thumbs nervously on the corner of his bed while Adrian is pacing back and forth in the kitchen. He doesn’t bother asking what’s wrong- he knows he fucked up trying to sneak away, honestly his entire plan to escape needed one more walk through, but he didn’t expect the crowd of people to be so large of an obstacle.

He winces when he feels the bed dip next to him, so used to angry outbursts from his home life that he expected to be hit. Adrian just sighs and drags his fingers across Malcolm’s cheek lovingly, kissing his temple.

“I’ve done a lot of dumb things in my life” he starts softly, one hand rubbing up his side as he admires the trembling man. “I’m not a genius by a long shot. But I’m smart enough to admit my mistakes, you know?”. He inhales deeply in Malcolm’s shoulder, finding the scent calming as his other hand begins to move and unlock something Malcom can’t quite see.

Before he can sit up and ask what’s happening, a cold metal is clamped around his ankle, restricting his movements as the other end is cuffed to the bed frame. “One of the dumbest things I ever did was let you walk away” he comments with a sinister tone, staring daggers at Malcolm as he tries to scurry away into the corner.

“Easy, baby, easy! I know graduation is a big night full of life questions. You had a little escape plan because you’re worried about where we’re heading right?” He chuckles fondly, gripping Malcolm’s shirt tightly before he can answer. “I thought I made it clear that I’d never leave you. Or that you, could never leave me”.

Malcolm can’t think of anything to say. He grips Adrian’s hand tightly, kicking and trying to squirm away as much as the cuffs would allow. His chest is pounding and he can’t hear anything but the beat of his heart in his ears, petrified and near the brink of dissociation.

Adrian just forces a kiss, cupping his face roughly as he presses their heads together. “It’s ok, it’s ok. Now that we’re here, I won’t have to take my eyes off you ever again. I won’t make that mistake twice”.

(Sorry for the ramble! I just really like the idea! -Mommabean) ((ain’t slept all night sorry for any typos!))

[themimsyborogove]

I find myself wondering more and more about the Downworlders, particularly those in the Hell Ruelle - Hypatia, Malcolm, Kellington, Lily Chen, even Magnus - and their perspectives during and post Chain of Thorns. Are you finding the same?

In particular, I’d love to see a scene between Hypatia and Magnus discussing Cordelia’s paladin status, Malcolm’s state of mind post-Cornwall (do they notice anything?) and the impact of Belial’s attack on London. If that spurs any creative sparks? 😊

Sorry, this has been drafted for days, but I haven’t been able to get it cleaned up enough to post until now 💖 I have definitely been wondering about a lot of those things too.

Cordelia asks Hypatia to keep the paladin thing a secret from Magnus, and I think Hypatia would probably honor that. Magnus might find out anyway, but I don’t know if they’d discuss it with each other.

I’m really interested in how Malcolm’s personality change comes across to the other warlocks. When Malcolm is first introduced in TMI, Catarina says something happened to him at the turn of the century and he’s been weird ever since, so they know something happened. And when we’re in Magnus’s POV in RSoM he thinks something about Malcolm’s persona being an act that Malcolm is very good at. I think warlocks just go weird from grief sometimes, so maybe the others just didn’t look to hard at other reasons Malcolm might have gone weird.

Also the main warlock-centric thing I’ve been thinking about since the book came out has been how Ragnor would react to Christopher’s death, and that worked well with this setup (and it fixes the plothole where Ragnor is still high warlock in TBC that got retconned in the newer canon) so I put it in the ficlet too.

——

Magnus pulled open the door of the magic shop, slightly out of breath from his sprint from the closest spot outside of Hypatia’s wards that he was able to Portal to from the Institute. The message Hypatia had sent him was brief, but urgent, and he had rushed out at once.

The bell on the shop door chimed cheerfully, an odd contrast to Hypatia herself, pacing back and forth in front of the counter, clearly agitated, with a letter clutched in her hand.

She looked up at the sound of the bell, and relaxed slightly when she saw that it was him.

“If you’re done with your Shadowhunters, we have a problem.” She waved the letter in her hand at Magnus. “Malcolm is stepping down as High Warlock.“

Magnus wasn’t as surprised as he would have been under normal circumstances. He had seen Malcolm only briefly since they had been able to return to London and start putting right the chaos that had been left behind with the death of Belial. They had only exchanged a few words, but Magnus had noticed that Malcolm had seemed shaken and distracted, his usually well-tailored clothes unkempt, marks of stress and exhaustion on his ageless face.

There had been so much to do—and Malcolm had always been very quiet and private in his grief—the other, louder, problems had taken priority.

Magnus regretted not talking to him sooner, but he could not blame Malcolm for his decision to step down. Magnus knew the story of how the girl Malcolm had once loved had left him to become an Iron Sister, after all, and privately, he suspected that seeing the way Belial had used the bodies of Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers to attack London must have been a shock to Malcolm, even if his love hadn’t been among the Iron Sisters whose bodies had been possessed.

Magnus might have wanted to flee the city under those circumstances as well.

“I think it may be for the best,” Magnus said gently. “Malcolm did not seem well when I spoke to him. I hope a change of scenery helps.”

“I understand why he wants to leave,” Hypatia said, and Magnus saw the same flash of concern he felt for Malcolm on her face as well, “But Magnus, he wants me to take over.”

“I would congratulate you, but you don’t sound pleased by the idea,” Magnus murmured, reaching for her. Hypatia let him pull her into an embrace.

“I can’t do it,” she said into his shoulder, letting the regal and perfectly in control persona she liked to project down just a little bit. “I don’t have the experience, and it would ruin my business.” She pulled back a little so she could look up at his face. “I need you to ask Ragnor Fell to come back, at least until all the mess is sorted out. He knows the High Warlock duties better than anyone currently in London. And he’ll listen to you.”

It seemed unfair to call Ragnor back from his own vacation—especially after he had already interrupted it once to come to Idris to help with the ultimately futile effort to open a Portal to London while it had been under Belial’s control— but Magnus found it very hard to say no to Hypatia’s pleading eyes.

“I’ll ask him,” he said, earning him the smile that made the stars in her eyes twinkle, just for him. Combined with the deep navy dress she was wearing, he felt like he held the entire night sky in his arms, glittering and beautiful.

And that was how Magnus Bane found himself in Capri, walking up the sunny hillside to Ragnor’s villa, which overlooked the deep blue waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

He found Ragnor already standing in the doorway, with his arms crossed.

“I see you were expecting me,” Magnus smiled at his old friend.

Ragnor scowled back. “I had an ominous feeling that trouble was approaching.”

“You saw me walking up the hill from your window.”

“I saw you walking up the hill from my window,” Ragnor confirmed. He sighed and stood aside to let Magnus in. “Well, out with it then. What bad news have you brought me?”

“Malcolm has stepped down as High Warlock,” Magnus said. He briefly considered telling Ragnor his suspicion that seeing the possessed Iron Sisters had been too much for Malcolm to bear, but he wasn’t sure it was his business to share. “With the state of things in London, the warlocks desperately need a leader who already knows what they’re doing, and who the Shadowhunters already trust,” he said instead.

“Absolutely not,” Ragnor said. “I was in Idris when exploding messages began to appear all around us, and I was unsurprised to hear the name Christopher Lightwood tied to them. One nearly set my sleeve on fire, Magnus! I want no part in whatever madness Christopher Lightwood is currently unleashing, I refuse to return to London as long as that menace—“

“Ragnor!” Magnus interrupted loudly before his friend could get going on his usual rant, and stick his entire foot in his mouth in the process. “Did you not hear? Christopher Lightwood was killed during Belial’s invasion. The London Shadowhunters brought his body with them when they evacuated London.”

Ragnor gaped at him, momentarily stunned, a brief expression of horror crossing his face before he got it under control. “I didn’t know,” he said at last. “I wasn’t called until after the London enclave had already appeared in Idris, and they only spoke to me about the Portals. I’m sorry to hear he was killed.”

Magnus must have look unconvinced because Ragnor sighed and ran a hand through his snowy hair. “I didn’t like the boy, but I didn’t wish any harm upon him,” he muttered guiltily. “Nor did I wish that grief upon his parents or his sister.”

Ragnor had gotten along rather well with Anna Lightwood, Magnus knew from his conversations with Anna—what felt like ages ago now, when things in London had been calmer. Or rather well for Ragnor at least, which meant he generally tolerated her.

Ragnor sighed again. “I’ll return to London and help sort out the mess then. But I don’t intend to stay, and I expect you to help me find a new High Warlock to replace me as soon as possible.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Magnus said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. It seemed like all any of them could do.

[the-fiction-witch]

Work Shift

Media Pistol

Character Malcolm

Couple Malcolm X Reader

Rating Smut

Kinktober Day 22

Kinktober Concept Glory Hole

Smut Glory hole/ prostitution/ Bj/ Full sex/ raw sex/ Jizz

I ordered myself a drink from the bar trying not to listen to the band currently playing when I felt a tap on my shoulder or more well a hit. "Hey!" "What!" I asked turning to see her "It's your shift" "Fuck no I have an hour still" "Yeah well I have to go I got to pick my kid up, you've got two waiting already" "Fine" I sighed getting my drink shooting it and heading to the bathroom and the usual stall I headed inside and locked the door sitting on the closed toilet lid, I rubbed my jaw a little and moved the little cardboard sliders away to open the holes in the wooden stall wars. I waited for only a moment before some money was passed through I snatched it and counted the money, checking it was all enough and shoving it into my pocket and tapping on the door I moved to my knees and slipped my hand up stroking his very eager, very stiff erection. I worked gently stroking his shaft, I did my best to be slow even if his hips were bucking towards my hand, precum flooding down his shaft, gave his tip a little kiss before I moved and took him into my mouth sucking gently and moving my head slow and steady, he moaned but quietly so as to not be too loud doing my best not to slow and soon enough I felt him soften so I quickly moved away and let his jizz sputter onto the floor. "Thanks, babe," He says before scampering away so I close the wooden slider and sit back on the seat waiting for a while until another roll of cash arrived so I grabbed it and counted up everything and tapped the wall, erection came through the hole, so I head back to the floor he was nervous it was obvious from his grip and general shaking so I was gentle not wanting to overwhelm him pressing little kisses to him and stroking his shaft but that seemed to only wind him up more, so I took him into my mouth being so gentle as I began my sucking and gentle licking which made him utterly melt bucking his hips towards me and it didn't take long for him to soften so I moved back and he sprayed across the other wall "whoa" I gasped "Sorry hun, you were too good" He smirked before he headed away. I continued with my work for a good while until I was nearing the end of my shift and one final handful of cash so I grabbed it and counted but he was short "Hey! You owe me another two pounds," I said slapping the wall "No, I don't" His voice smirked "Yeah you do, you want attention pay up" "It's me" He smirked, "I thought I always got a discount" "Malcolm?" "Yeah" "Ohh sorry I didn't know it was you" "So?" "Alright come on just don't tell my boss," I told him and he happily pushed himself though I smirked and eagerly peppered his shaft with kisses "Ughhh fuck" he groans I smiled and stroked his shaft giving his tip a few fast licks, before fully wrapping my lips around his head and gently sucking "Fuck- don't be gentle darling come on I've been waiting all night for you" he smirked I blushed a little and took him into my mouth fully and sucked moving my head back and forth "Ughhhh faster darling" I smirked and moved faster sucking as hard as possible "Fuck open the door" He growled banging on the wall I moved back and smirked unlocking the door and he quickly came in with a wide smirk and still an erect cock, "Come here darling" he growled locking the door behind him and helped me up to sit on top of the toilet he held my thigh high tugging up my dress and slipping himself inside me "UGhhh fuck I've been looking forward to you all night" "You have?" "I always do" He growled moving fast and hard "Ughhh Malcolm" I groaned pulling him into a kiss doing my best not to scream as I knew I was getting close he noticed and began rubbing on my clit as we heavily made out which quickly brought my high I bit his lip hard tightening around him, he kept as his pace for a good while after until he smirked and pulled out letting his jizz sputter across my dress "Fuck- I love visiting you" "I love it when you visit too, Will I see you again soon?" "Soon, I promise darling" he growled slapping my ass before he fixed his pants and gave my head a kiss "see you around" "see you Malcolm"

[hummingbird-of-light]

Against All Odds

Part 827

McCoy

McCoy was silent as Granddad began to drive. The older man had a stern set to his jaw, and after what trouble McCoy had already caused, he knew it was best if he said nothing until Granddad spoke to him.

“Elizabeth’s death hit Harriet the hardest,” Granddad finally broke the silence. “In a home full of boys she and her mum were very close.”

McCoy turned to look at Granddad, but the old man kept his eyes on the road.

“She was there with me when Elizabeth left us.” His voice wavered. “She cried, then got angry. She thought we hadn’t done enough.” He sighed. “Malcolm paid for the best doctors, but even they can’t stop death when he comes calling.”

“She never moved on past that grudge. She turned to the drink and it all went down from there. William and Clara live with their dad and stepmom.”

“How old are they?” McCoy ventured to ask.

“William is fifteen now and Clara thirteen. I see them from time to time.”

“Oh.”

“Harriet and John had never got along very well as children. And when he died and I went to help Francine with her two young ones, Harriet grew more angry. She thought I should have helped with her children.”

He looked firmly at McCoy. “I did what I could to help her, but it takes the other person wanting the help as well.”

The rest of the ride was quiet as Granddad had said what he wanted to say. McCoy’s blood went cold as the car stopped and he looked at Harriet’s house. He didn’t want to be back here. As icy as his blood currently felt, his face was heating quickly.

Granddad strode purposefully to the door and knocked. McCoy followed behind him, straightening into his best posture. Even from outside the door the alcohol could be smelled where Harriet had thrown the bottle.

“What’s he doing here?” Harriet scowled as she opened the door.

“We’re going to settle this,” Granddad said firmly and walked past Harriet into the house. The woman glared as McCoy followed.

“Sit down. The pair of ye,” Granddad ordered as he stood in the middle of the living room.

“He isn’t welcome in my home,” Harriet said sitting at one end of the couch as McCoy sat at the other. “I don’t need his type around. It’s a sad thing this family has come to.” Her words had a slight slur as she held her head high.

McCoy wanted to say something, but one look at Granddad had him biting his lip.

“And ye’re so high and mighty yerself?” Granddad said, eyes blazing. “Where were ye to help after the fire? Where were ye when they lost their home? Who was there for Francine when her sons were kidnapped? The people you think are rich snobs. The ones who opened their home and their family to make sure we were alright.”

“But—”

“Ye had a problem with yer brother, not his sons,” Granddad continued. “Leonard here loves Montgomery through and through and he only wants to protect him. Ye’ve read the papers, ye saw the clips from the trials. What they went through.

“Now Leonard here was in the wrong to talk to ye so. But ye were wrong and always have been to talk to Montgomery so. Ye were out of line Harriet.” He held up a hand before Harriet could try to speak again. “But Leonard was out of line as well. He’s quite a one for a mouth before brain moment, but his only notion was to protect Montgomery.”

Granddad looked over at him and McCoy’s eyebrows went up. He turned on the couch to face Harriet.

“He’s right. I’m very sorry. I said things I never should have said; that were not any of my business to say.” He hung his head before looking up again. “I promised to take care of Scotty, to protect him and- and I went too far. I’m not that person who was here earlier and I’m ashamed that I spoke to you like that.”

Silence filled the room.

“Fine,” Harriet finally said.

“Lass,” Granddad said in a warning tone.

“I said fine,” she snapped at him. “I accept. Whatever ye’re here worried about- yer perfect public image- I’ll leave it be.” Harriet stood and paced the room.

Granddad turned back to McCoy. “Go make us some coffee please Leonard. Through there.” He pointed down the hallway.

“Ok,” McCoy said, hurrying to his feet and out of the room. He heard the low rumble of Granddad’s voice beginning to speak to his daughter, but couldn’t make out the words.

Part 828

Scotty

He was pacing up and down his brother's room, anxiously waiting for Leonard and Granddad to come back home. It was just horrible to wait for their return.

Not only did Scotty want to apologize for the way he had talked to Leonard, but he also wanted to know how their talk with Harriet had gone.

"Monty, sit down," Robbie once again tried to calm him down. He was still sitting on his bed, watching his brother as this one seemed to lose his mind.

"It's going to be okay, they-"

Robbie didn't get to finish for suddenly they heard quick steps running upstairs and only moments later, Jim and Spock were standing in the room.

"Guys! Turn on the TV! Hurry!" Jim exclaimed with wide eyes. He looked horrified.

Spock's face didn't exactly show his emotions, but Scotty knew him long enough to tell that something was horribly wrong.

"Wha-" Robbie wanted to ask, but Jim once again interrupted him, already searching the younger Scott brother's bed for the remote control.

"Now!"

A moment later the TV screen lit up. It wasn't even necessary to search for a channel in particular since apparently every channel in Scotland showed the same.

‘A horrible mass pile-up occurred on Aberdeen's biggest motorway. Several people were injured. The cause is yet unknown, but-‘

The voice of the man on-screen faded away as Scotty stared in horror at the images.

Badly damaged cars, people running around trying to help others, injured people.

"Oh my God," Robbie breathed out in shock.

For a moment, Scotty feared that something might have happened to Leonard and Alasdair, but they hadn't left the city itself.

However, someone else had.

Someone who drove down that motorway every single day.

"Monty! Monty! That's... that's-"

Scotty felt Robbie, who had jumped up, grabbing his arm tightly. The lad gasped for air.

"Mum's car," the older brother finished the younger one's sentence in a shocked whisper.

"What?!"

Jim stared at the two of them, then looked back at the screen.

Even though Scotty couldn't see the car too closely on the helicopter's camera, he was certain that it was Francine's car.

For a moment, it felt like his legs were giving in beneath him, so Scotty quickly sat down, pulling Robbie with him.

"We... we need to call her! We need to call Francine and check on her!"

Jim was already searching for his communicator, but Robbie was faster. He grabbed his communicator and quickly dialed his mother's number.

They all waited, anxiously staring at the comm.

Scotty could see Jim swallow, fear written across his face. Robbie's face mirrored the expression and Scotty was quite sure that he looked just the same. Even Spock's eyes seemed to be wider than they usually were.

When they didn't get a response, everyone knew that something horrible must have happened.

Scotty ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.

No... no, no, no. This couldn't be happening! This couldn't be true!

An accident.

An accident had taken one parent already. It couldn't take another, could it?

Memories of the news of his father's accident flashed through Scotty's mind and it felt like he couldn't breathe.

Not again. Please, no...

"We have to call Granddad," Robbie muttered in shock.

Aye, they did. And they would.

[fansformentalydistroyedmen]

Last Names

A Malcolm Bright x Reader

Beans get spilled, whoops

Chapter 4, Liars

Life sucks, make a new friend and boom you lie to him. Now you are being blackmailed, how great is this. Maybe his mom is right, he doesn't need all my bullshit. I run my hands through my hair frustrated. Should I even try to fix this, he doesn’t want me not if he found out the truth. The truth about my parents, my past, and maybe even these hidden and suppressed feelings I get only around him. I groan and stand up walking to my kitchen. I grab a glass and start to get some water so I can start taking some of my pills. After dowing the glass I lay down trying desperately to fall asleep. After countless hours of tossing and turning I finally fell asleep. 

“Don’t be a wimp just pull the trigger!” 

“I told you she’s too weak to do it.”

“Pull it or I swear I will kill Samuel!” *Gun shot* 

I sit up fast panting, sweat dripping down my face. I rest my head on my wall slowly trying to steady my breath. After a couple minutes I checked my phone, to my sadness no case for right now. That's when I heard my doorbell ring, I groaned but got up to open it. To my shock Malcolm smiles and holds two cups of coffee up, how perfect. I open the door for him and smile.

“Hi, umm what are you doing?” I ask

“Well last night my mom definitely said something to you so I figured I make it up to you.”

“Oh wow that's so sweet.” I rub my face.

“Please come in.” I smile as he hands me the coffee, I 

might need something stronger if I am going to tell him. We walk over to my kitchen island and he sits down. 

“So what did my mom say, I’m really sorry by the way.” He says sympathetically.

“Umm I- Malcolm I need to tell you something.” I bite my lip.

“Are you ok?” He asked, concerned. I stand up and run my hands through my hair and he follows me as I start to pace.

“I am but you're gonna be really mad and you have every right to be and I am really sorry.” I take a deep breath and see him staring at me trying very hard to profile me. 

“Malcom my parents aren't dead, I lied. My parents are actually in jail, I am a Scott, as in Maggie and Lenoard Scott. The serial killers and experimental child abusers. I am so sorry for lying.” He just stares at me, gears turning.

“Please say something.” I plead. 

“ Why would you lie if you just found out I'm a Whitly?” He questions.

“ I was scared but then your mom told me that she would tell you if I didn’t stay away from you.” Tears now streaming heavy and hot down my face

“Did you lie about your brother as well?” He asks

“No not at all, he drowned, they killed him. “Are you mad?” he bites his lip like he’s thinking then he starts choking? Laughing? He's laughing! My eyes widened in horror and my mouth opened as I taste the salty tears. 

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry.” He says while laughing.

“What the actual hell is happening?” I yell as he continues to laugh.

“Did you really think I didn’t know you were lying?” He laughs

“I- yeah.” I say exasperated.

“Please you are a terrible liar and this is literally my job. I knew as soon as you told me they died.” He smirked.

“Why didn’t you tell me!” I yelled, still having tears running down my face.

“Well you did lie to me also I am genuinely sorry about my prying mother.”

“You jackass!” I smack him and walk off. He grabs my wrist and pulls me towards him. My eyes widen as they meet his bright blue eyes. I swallow hard and wait for anything to happen, it would be so easy to just. No! 

“Y/N I’m sorry I didn’t think it through. I didn't think it would upset you.” He said sincerely.

“I thought I ruined the only relationship with someone who gets me I have ever had, so sorry I got emotional.” I said roughly.

“Y/N I’m sorry I shouldn't have.” I was having a hard time focusing since we were so close to each other I could hear his heart beats. 

“I mean… you forgave me, I think I can forgive you.” I continue to stare at his eyes, he slowly lifts his free hand and wipes the tears that were resting on my cheeks. This is wrong. I work with him, emotions are messy, he’ll leave me. I cough and pull away quickly and start walking away. 

“Breakfast?” I ask, walking over towards my stove.

“Uh sure.” He says following 

“What do you want?” I ask

“Umm, I mean I’m not sure I don’t eat breakfast a lot.” He laughs 

“Makes two of us.” I laugh while grabbing some eggs.

[grumpylia]

assigning the characters in my 100k word pjo fic a sad taylor swift song

1. Katie Gardner - the archer

my girl is the most the archer character to have ever the archered. who could ever leave her?? but who could stay?? they see right through her. she sees right through her. she cuts off her nose to spite her face and then she hates her reflection for years and years. she never grew up and its getting so old. all of her enemies started out friends. do you see right through her?

2. Malcolm Pace - this is me trying

he is me and i am him. he doesn’t know if you’d care if he came back. he has a lot of regrets about that. he doesn’t quite know what to say. he has gifted kid burn out. his words shoot to kill when he’s mad (and he has a lot of regrets about that, too). he had so much pressure put on him at a young age. he is trying. 

3. Josh Sarr - mirrorball 

he is the ultimate mirrorball. he can change everything about him to fit in and he will change everything about him to fit in. he has never been a natural all he ever does is try try try. he is loved but not known. he’s still on that tightrope and he’s still trying to keep you laughing at him. he’s still a believer - he’s not quite sure why. 

4. Louisa Williams - my tears ricochet

she is a daughter of ares and war is in her blood but her tears will always ricochet and she will never have it in her to go with grace. if she is dead to you, why are you at the wake? you curse her name. you wish she’d stayed. she is free. she can go anywhere she wants. she can never go home. 

5. Silena Beauregard - peace

her coming of age has come and gone. there are robbers to the east and clowns to the west and the rain is always going to come if you’re standing with her. all of these people think that love’s for show: she would die for you in secret. the devil is in the details. the devil is always in the details. she never had the courage of her convictions. your integrity makes her feel small. she’s a fire and she loves you and she is sorry. she could never give you peace. 

6. Michael Yew - ephiphany

there are some things he just can’t speak about. he is a doctor by necessity. he is a soldier. keep your helmet on. keep your life, son. he dreams of some epiphany. he would never tell anyone.  

7. Travis Stoll - forever winter

he says he doesn’t believe in anything much he hears these days. the war has come and gone. his laugh is a symphony, but he’s been through too much and there is a bomb in his head that he can’t disarm. he’s too young to know it gets better. it would be forever winter if he left.