#there are THREE LETTER Es

[honeysuckle-fae]

Thank you for the tag, @tastyfiddle !

The rules are: pick a song for each letter of your url

h - Her Sweet Kiss from The Witcher s1 soundtrack

o- Orange Juice by Noah Kahan

n - Not Yet/Love Run (Reprise) by The Amazing Devil

e - Eastside by Benny Blanco ft Halsey and Khalid

y - Youth by Daughter

s - Sleeping on the Blacktop by Colter Wall

u - Unraveling by The Crane Wives

c - Cuando Los Ángeles Lloran - Unplugged by Maná

k - K by BUMP OF CHICKEN

l - Love in the Middle of a Firefight by Dillon Francis ft Brendon Urie

e - Extraordinary Girl / Letterbomb by Green Day

f - From a Cage by Envoi

a - Abstract (Psychopomp) by Hozier

e - Eyes Wide by Meadowlark

I turned it into a playlist if you're interested!

I'll go ahead and tag @cure-teacup , @beef-wellingay , @goosemixtapes , @harehearts , and @burialcloth ! And whoever else would like to participate!

[lethalchiralium]

hi!! just a sweet little thing for @ave661 for their birthday!

happiness canon 🤍

“Alright, try again.”

Three year old Winnie scratched her little crayon against the paper, her face full of concentration as she followed the guide to write a capital ‘G’. The paper was filled with squiggles that barely resembled the letter, but Simon wasn’t going to let her give up until she got too frustrated.

“How can you do this so nice, Daddy?” Her little voice was full of frustration, her hand let go of the crayon as she looked up to Simon.

He smirked, taking out a green crayon and coloring a section of paper he had been for the last half an hour. “Daddy’s old, duckling. Had a lot of practice.”

“Will I get to be as good as you are?”

He paused, his head moved to look at his daughter as she gazed up with him with mirroring brown eyes. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “You’ll be better than I’ll ever be. Especially with how kind and clever you are, my duckling.”

Her little head of curls shook as she bounced in her seat, her smile as big as the sun as she chirped, “Thank you for saying that.”

“You’re welcome.” He gently pet her head before he pointed at the Es again. “Alright, can we try another letter for a little while?”

Copyright © 2023 lethalchiralium. All rights reserved.

[loquaciousquark]

Cazador's Ritual Runes, Translated

Inner: AMPLIFY + HIM + FLOW + EMPOWR [sic] Middle: WE OFFER THE FORCE OF LIFE Outer: WE GATHER HERE TO INVOKE THE POWER OF BLOD [sic]

Mephistopheles can't spell for beans.

(Detailed analysis & conjecture regarding this text, the Rite of Profane Ascension, & Astarion's translated scars under the cut.)

The second ring was the easiest, as the characters are very similar to Latin letters and clearly read out "WE OFFER THE FORCE OF LIFE." Characters were now known for C, E, F, H, I, L, O, R, T, and W. It wasn't clear yet if there were cases.

I was struggling with the first ring, though after decoding the second, I could get a likely "_M_LIF_ + _IM + _LOW + EM_OWR". Guessing the character for P, Y, and A based on context gave me "AMPLIFY + _IM + _LOW + EMPOWR", but I had doubts over the first characters for words two and three. I suspected they would be HIM and FLOW, but the H and F characters didn't match the H from the second ring's "THE" or the F from "AMPLIFY". Also, "empower" was misspelled, which made me pause.

Abandoning those for a moment, the third ring mapped well onto "WE _ATHER HERE TO I__O_E THE _OWER OF _LO_". Ruling out known letters which were not present, I could guess "WE GATHER HERE TO I__O_E THE POWER OF _LO_", but again the P from "POWER" was not the same as the P from "AMPLIFY" in the inner ring. However, it was very, very similar, and nothing else fit, so I committed, now suspecting there were capital versions of some letters included in the text.

At this point I went digging for resources. I found a copy of an Infernal alphabet on the Forgotten Realms wiki, and while it looks like the typeface Larian used is a bespoke creation for the game rather than a 1:1 copy of this alphabet, the letters for lowercase G, N, K, B, and D were nearly identical. Y (from AMPLIFY) also matched perfectly, confirming that earlier guess. This gave a clear "WE GATHER HERE TO INVOKE THE POWER OF BLOD."

This resulted in: AMPLIFY + _IM + _LOW + EMPOWR WE OFFER THE FORCE OF LIFE WE GATHER HERE TO INVOKE THE POWER OF BLOD

Looking at the wiki for capital letters, the only ones I could find which might reasonably fit the _IM missing character (assuming the Larian alphabet was based off this wiki typography) were A, B, H, O, T, V, and Y. Of those choices, only AIM, HIM, TIM, and VIM were words, and as cheesy as Cazador is, I couldn't imagine him saying AMPLIFY TIM FLOW EMPOWR. Given the alternatives, HIM was the only choice which made sense.

I went through the same process for _LOW, but this character seems unmatchable to me. By far it looks the most like the E from the Infernal alphabet, with maybe a capital Y being a distant second. However, ELOW and YLOW are certainly not words, and absent all other comparatives, the character in question does resemble a fancy F. Barring other languages, FLOW with a capital or unique F fits best.

AMPLIFY + HIM + FLOW + EMPOWR WE OFFER THE FORCE OF LIFE WE GATHER HERE TO INVOKE THE POWER OF BLOD

I did double-check the texts available in Cazador's mansion just to make sure this hadn't been translated elsewhere (after I'd done all the work, of course), and the only written text of relevance is from the Black Mass scroll you find near Vellioth's skull. It reads:

The Rite of Profane Ascension Oh, piteous dead! Oh, ravenous dead! Immortality is your gift, but darkness is your prison and hunger its gaoler. The Rite of Profane Ascension will release you. Walk in the sun. Suffer not from hunger. Grow your power beyond anything you imagined. A pact has been made with the Lord of Hellfire. Deliver unto him seven thousand souls, each bearing an Infernal mark, and you shall be free of your chains. You shall know true power. Deliver the souls. Speak the words. Ecce dominus, Has animas offero in sacrificio, Nunc volo potestatem quam pollicitus es mihi.

The Latin translates (as best I can tell with my incredibly weak Latin) to:

Behold [the] Lord, I offer these souls in sacrifice, I want the power thou hast promised me.

Which is interesting, but not clearly mapped to the Infernal above. Then I started wondering what relationship Astarion's scars have with all this, but thankfully, someone else has done the work here!

Astarion's scars have been transcribed and translated in a wonderfully detailed Reddit post by northpaw_s in 2020, but the salient points are that they appear to be in a mishmash of mangled Latin and Romance languages ("Infernal") and read:

Hoyc inferiu non iurare per igneu Naec virba loquor Eoai mundo muoat

Which appears to roughly translate to:

This soul swears no oath by fire Nor words does he speak In the realm of death

This makes sense if it's a fragment of a contract. I suspect the other spawn's scars are all identical to Astarion's for game mechanics/development reasons, but it'd be wild if they did have minor differences to complete the rest of the phrases! I know the scars don't show on their backs they way they do on Astarion's outside of the moment of the ritual, but it really does make me wonder if there's a complete text of the poem in some writer's documentation somewhere.

Anyway, what did you do with your Thursday night?

[worldsunlikemyown]

THE 'ENLIGHTENED SCRIPT'

Warning: This will end up becoming a VERY LONG post. Also it turned out to be vaguely academically phrased — so warning for language too formal for how not-normal I am about this

Disclaimer:

This isn't for the 'actual' Enlightened Language — only to write stuff out in English with a different set of symbols in art (or, let's be honest, just for fun).

I have no proper knowledge of how to make scripts (such as if there are any common conventions to follow). If anything here offends you in terms of its accuracy or correctness, please don't come at me with pitchforks :)

I've done my best to make this explanation simple and thorough, but obviously there may be things that I have forgotten to mention (or things that I've perhaps not even considered). If you want clarification on anything or just have questions about the script, asks are welcome! (any discussion of the script will be tagged '#the enlightened script')

If you wish to use this script, feel free to do so! (I only request that you credit me (@/worldsunlikemyown) if you do). I would prefer it that you do not repost this to other social media sites, but if you do, please credit me clearly.

Introduction

The term 'Enlightened Script' (ES from now on) is technically a misnomer, because we know nothing about the Enlightened Language (EL from now on) and thus cannot make a script 'for' it. This script is, however, built upon the little we know about the aesthetic appearance of the actual script of EL, and contains the same twenty-six letters as the Latin Alphabet. It is made primarily for use in writing Modern English (it contains no diacritics, and will thus have little utility for writing in many other languages that use the Latin Alphabet). ES can be used to simulate the actual writing of EL, and represent this simulation in art and inscriptions where desired.

The Enlightened Script

This script has been designed with a view to the aesthetic of the actual script for EL, modelled somewhat from the unreliable example of Vespera's signature. It features heavy use of curls for this reason in the alphabet, with numerals and punctuation marked out by their relative lack of curls and embellishments. Note that symbols may vary from example to example in some small ways, as they are hand-written. If you wish to write ES in any of its forms, follow the general form of symbols from the three examples below).

**Click for a better resolution**

LETTERS

PUNCTUATION

(yes, I'll explain the square-bracketed symbols later)

NUMERALS

Modern ES

'Modern' ES refers to the version of ES that would be used in the modern day by elves and the other Intelligent Species in their daily writing — what we might call the 'normal' version. It is written with the same writing conventions as English, keeping the same spelling and orientation (left to right, then top to bottom). For example:

Here in the top-right of the image, the word 'suldreen' (chosen because it is the only real EL word we know) has been transcribed into Modern ES. It can be seen that the letters have been written out without joining or cursive elements in the manner of an English word. In the bottom half of the page is a quote: 'No reason to worry' (yes I used an Alden quote — it'll be easier to remember and was the first typical Keeper thing I thought of). This has also been written out in keeping with the conventions of writing in English.

NOTE ON PUNCTUATION: You will notice that in the PUNCTUATION section, some forms have been given in red square brackets. These are to be used for Modern ES (such as the colon represented in the image above, as well as the dash in the example). The version of the form outside of the red square brackets is to be used for Traditional ES. Symbols with no variant form remain the same in both versions of ES.

Traditional ES

Traditional ES is the oldest version of ES currently in use. It is the 'old' writing of the elves, which is used in the modern day mostly for adding a sense of grandeur to the atmosphere through its use on signboards, meaning that only its display version, which will be in the next section, is still well-known. I shall explain the proper form of Traditional ES first, however, because it is commonly used by the Ancients and as a basis for many of the codes and ciphers of the Elven world.

You may have noticed in the LETTERS section that the vowels (a, e, i, o, u) of ES are represented by symbols that open to the left, while the consonants are represented by symbols that open to the right. This is a 'remnant' (hush I don't know how to model change in writing systems and besides this is a simulation) of the system of Traditional ES, shown below.

Here is the word 'suldreen' again, transcribed in Traditional ES. The change in orientation is at once apparent, for Traditional ES, unlike Modern ES, is written from top to bottom, then from right to left. As seen in this example, letters branch out from a trunk that forms the word, with each letter's connection to the trunk referred to as a branch. Consonants are written on the right of the trunk, and vowels are written on the left, resulting in all symbols opening outwards. The topmost branch on a trunk is to be read first.

An example of longer text in Traditional ES:

Note that the punctuation orientation for the quotation marks has changed, and now uses the symbols given outside the red brackets. The question-mark remains unchanged, and is written in the same way in both Modern ES and Traditional ES (along with the comma, full-stop/period and exclamation-mark symbols). The sentence starts on the right, and the second line is the next one to the left, which is to be read from the top again.

Signboards in ES

The use of Traditional ES in the modern day remains mostly limited to signboards. To write on a signboard, a line of Traditional ES is, so to speak, rotated 90 degrees anti-clockwise, with the vowels now written on the bottom of a horizontal trunk, and the consonants written on top. It is read from left to right, then top to bottom if applicable (perhaps this may have influenced the left to right orientation of Modern ES). An example below:

The word written in the examples above is 'Everglen', first given in standard Traditional ES, then in the signboard version. In terms of the appearance of this 'signboard version' to elves, it would be read by Ancients as a vertical sign in English is read by us (see the right of the image). To most modern elves, it would simply register as an archaic version of their script, with no particular orientation difference observed.

Numerals and Mathematical Operations in ES

In-universe, the base-ten place-value system was (in my HEADCANON, and I cannot stress this enough) brought to the humans by elves. The writing of their numerals, as may be noted, has some similarities with Roman numerals (which in-universe, the Romans would have learned — again, only as a plausible headcanon — from elves). I have created the numerals to be written somewhat like Roman numerals (with the combination of symbols — I'm not sure of the right term for it). Operations are conducted in the same was as in the base-ten place-value system we use. For example:

In the example on the left (which reads 'Book 9.5'), it can be seen that numerals in Modern ES are written with the same orientation as the letters, with an un-filled dot representing the decimal point. The same applies to Traditional ES, but there is no trunk for numerals (just as there is no trunk for punctuation).

Operations have always been done with a horizontal orientation. Addition, subtraction and multiplication operations are done as shown in the middle-right of the image. The only thing drastically different from our own method of carrying out these operations is that the operation symbol is always to be put in a circle. The same applies to division, which is shown on the far-right. Fractions are written as shown bottom-right. (I don't know about special numbers and stuff okay let's pretend elves can't do math or just use the human symbols and say we got them from elves)

Handwritten examples (for a better understanding of sizing and possibly nicer-looking symbols) have been given under the cut, along with explanations and some interesting notes.

MODERN

TRADITIONAL

Note that the trunks for Traditional ES have been marked on each line. For numerals and punctuation, the portion of a line on which they are written will not be 'dashed through'.

Notes:

It is possible to 'reverse' Traditional ES to read from left to right by using mirror-forms of the letters, resulting in the vowels written on and opening to the right, and the consonants written on and opening to the left. Punctuation may or may not be used.

Modern ES could be 'reversed' in any of the many ways things written in the Latin Alphabet can be 'reversed' (one of these was likely used by Jolie for her mirror-written diary. Do with that as you will).

Taglist (tagging anyone who has interacted with the original post): @mee-op, @im56bithc, @lgbtqforeverything, @bookwyrminspiration, @camelspit, @strs-rndrps, @thefoxysnake, @kingkrakie, @keeperofthelostswiftie, @fintan-pyren, @brontekotlcyan, @vesperas-mirrors, and also @acanieve and @theefrenchcroissant, whom I can't seem to be able to tag properly)

[morallyinept]

Birthday Cake - A Frankie Morales One Shot

Summary: It's Frankie's birthday and you make him a birthday cake.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 3.1k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️ “It's the emergence, of.”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Explicit - Established relationship/oral M & F receiving/unproteced PIV (wrap up, folks!)

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

Author’s Note: Written for my birthday. Completely self-indulgent; Frankie's the best gift, right? For anyone else celebrating their birthday today, I'm sending you the biggest smooch. 💋🖤

Frankie speaks some Spanish in this, I've not provided translations as there's not much and it's easy enough to Google.

Check out my other birthday story, featuring Joel Miller, called Candles.

MASTERLIST | FRANKIE MORALES MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

“Feliz Cumpleaños!” You call enthusiastically as you step out holding the cake, wearing nothing but his favourite lacy underwear that he loves on you so much.

And heels, don’t forget the heels as you totter closer to him. The candles flicker, so you slow your pace.

“¿Qué es esta sorpresa?” Frankie baulks, tossing down his jacket and keys, and grinning from ear to ear. 

He looks you up and down hungrily like a sexual predator. His mind runs through all the scenarios on what he could do with you right now, and from the look on his face, they’re all filthily obscene.

It makes you shudder and clench.

“Make a wish, baby,” you smile at him as he leans in to blow out the candles.

The cake is three layers, covered in fluffy white frostng, with his name written on the top in squiggly blue letters. A DIY crank job, that you’ve painstakingly spent hours making clandestinely, whilst the boys took him out for a birthday brunch, even though it looks like something a two-year-old has smooshed together. 

Once the candles are blown out, he wraps his thick arm around you, pulling you in close for a sweet kiss.

“Muchas gracias, hermosa, this is amazing!” Frankie murmurs gratefully, squashing you close to his warm, strong body where you inhale bergamot and beer.

“Careful, you’ll get cake on you.” You giggle as you move it out the way onto the table before it’s flattened between the two of you. Although, judging by the state of it, it would probably do it a favour to die a quick death, you think.

“And what would be the problem in that, hmm?” Frankie rasps hungrily as he kisses up and down the side of your face; his soft scruff tickling at your skin leaving tingles in your gums, and gives your pert ass cheeks a long, tight knead inside those giant hands of his. He groans as he looks over you again.

“I made it just for you,” you pout “to eat.”

“Looks delicious.” Frankie compliments, and he reaches for it, swiping his index finger into the frosting and sucks up the puffy cloud on the end of it. “Mmm,” he sighs.

You smile up at him, pleased with your efforts.

“You look fucking amazing.” He pants, losing words on the steam of his breath.

“It’s all for you,” you smirk up at him as he pulls your chin towards him, inside his thumb and wet forefinger, and smooches delicately onto your lips.

He slips his tongue inside your mouth and you can taste the sweetness from the frosting.

“Mmm,” he groans as he continues to paw at your ass. “Lucky me.”

You watch as he runs his finger around the side of the cake again and a mound of white frosting gathers on the tip once more. He sticks his finger inside his mouth and sucks it clean, all the while maintaining a hypnotic eye contact with you. “Tastes better than it looks,” he grins.

You roll your eyes at him as he chuckles. “I love it,” he confirms. “Es perfecta y tan pensativa.”

“It took me all morning to make this for you.” You sigh and look at your clumsy handiwork despondently. The kitchen is a complete wreck and the thought of cleaning it up later isn’t a welcome one.

Frankie swipes his finger inside the cake’s frosting again, then holds it out for you this time. You lean forward and lick the it off his finger, sucking the thick, calloused digit clean.

“Good, no?” He asks you. 

You nod. “Not too bad if I say so myself.” You grin proudly. There’s no denying the taste of the cake is exquisite; it’s just the putting it together that’s the issue. It looks incredibly lopsided on the plate and as though it will topple over at any moment.

Frankie looks down at you hungrily and watches as you gasp when he squeezes your butt more lavishly now. Massaging your cheeks, he starts to nuzzle into your neck; breathing in the scent of your body lotion and perfume, kissing and mouthing up to your ear.

You can feel how hard he is as he tugs you closer to him, through his jeans. Your fingers hook into his belt loops as you crush him closer. 

With his other hand, he reaches the mound of your breasts; so pert and bouncy in your bra, and gives them a good fondle too. 

“You look so hot,” Frankie whines like he’s drunk, as he kisses across your cheek.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah.” He then kisses down your collarbone, running his hot, wet tongue towards your cleavage and smooches over the front of the cups of your bra whining, until his fingers pull the material and reveal swollen areolas waiting just for him. 

He looks up at you as he sucks and tongues your nipples awake; flicking them, teasing them and gnawing on them around his teeth.

Your legs feel like jelly as they buckle underneath you to watch him do that. It drives you bat shit crazy when he sucks on your nipples like this. The tingles and swirling pleasure that centres through them pulls tight and heavy, and you can feel that delicious ache between your legs start to bloom and throb. 

Frankie reaches for the cake, and jabs his fingers into the frosting. He then runs his cakey fingers around your nipples, covering them in frosting, pulls you closer and opens his mouth.

He sucks and licks it off, groaning in delight as he swallows it all down.

“Mmm, my God.” You mewl as you watch him clean up your breasts. He stands up right, licking his lips.

“Sit on it,” Frankie prompts you. “Sit on the cake, hermosa.” His eyes are flashing dangerously at you, turning darker as the seconds tick on.

“But, it will get squashed.” You protest with a wry grin.

“It’s my birthday, right?” He cocks his brow at you.

“Yeah-”

“So, what I really want for my birthday is to eat this cake off your pussy, tu me entiendes?” He states with a bright, pink smirk under his moustache.

You grin wide, your body starting to prickle with sweat, as he brings the plate down to the floor, and supports your back as you sit on top of the cake after removing your panties.

You feel frosting go everywhere. 

“Oh my god,” you giggle, and then he pushes you gently onto the couch on your back and spreads your legs wide.

He kneels down in between them, his eyes darting all over the sight of you with cake and frosting smashed all over your cunt and the insides of your thighs.

“You look good enough to eat, fuck…” Frankie flicks his tongue through the flumps of frosting and cake bits as he sets to work feasting on you.

You take his cap as the rim gets cake on it and toss it across the couch. His hair is all curly and messy underneath it and you run your hands through it, raking it back as he tastes you. 

He licks all up the inside of your thighs, cleaning you up. Around the outsides of your lips, slowly teasing you. Then, when he can tell you’re gagging for him to just do it already, he licks his tongue all over your clit.

“Oh yeah…” You coo as you close your eyes, feeling his magic tongue cast entrancing spells on your body and mind alike. 

He sucks gently, but firmly, on your clit; wiggling his tongue around on the tip through the plumes of frosting, and the insides if your thighs jolt and jerk. It's all over his chin as he pops his head up to grin at you; licking around his lips like a hungry dog just rewarded with a treat.

You can’t help but giggle at the sight of him, reaching to wipe some of the frosting from his chin and sucking it off your thumb as he laps back at your slit and makes your back arch.

“Fuck, Frankie!” You groan as he slips his two middle fingers inside of you; finger fucking you deeply as he gnaws on your cake covered cunt.

“Sabes tan bien… so fucking good,” he mewls looking at you from between your legs, and you can hear his pants and groans as he opens his mouth and tongues your swollen nub to death.

“I’m gonna come,” you breathe, tensing your legs to which he holds them open at the thighs weighing them down and sucks your clit as you peak. “Fuck. Oh my God, yes… yes!”

You start squirming when it gets too sensitive, and you hear his raspy chuckle from your centre as you tug tightly at his curls.

“Oh God, it’s too much… Frankie-” You giggle and try to squirm away, but he’s too strong.

“Nu-uh,” you hear him say as he sucks and thrashes his tongue around on your clit harder.

You writhe and buck against his face and his fingertips are prodding into your thigh meat keeping you in place.

“Oh God, Frankie… please!” You pant arching upright, your head off the cushions and straining; your hands fisting harder in his scalp, your whole body is tense and locked as you come again.

He always knows how to get you off with his tongue, knows your body has it in you to have more, even if it feels like you can’t.

You flop back into the couch, breathless as he crawls up your body and smirks at you licking his lips. He has cake crumbs smeared up his scruff, and even some peppered in his eyebrows.

Frankie swipes his fingers inside the frosting from the crushed cake on the floor, and sticks his fingers inside your mouth; swirling them around your tongue and in the sides of your cheeks; watching with open lips as you suck and swallow the it down.

He still continues to run his fingers around your mouth long after the cake fluff is gone from them. Just enthralled by the way you suck, tease them and nip on them, just like you would with his cock.

You push him upright so he’s sitting on the couch now, reaching for his belt. He holds his hands up out of the way smirking, and watching you as he lifts his hips off the sofa momentarily so you can tug his jeans and boxers down.

His cock thunks up against the soft swell of his belly. He pulls off his shirt and tosses it to the floor, eagerly anticipating what’s to come as you take off your bra.

You reach for the cake, clawing your fingers into it and take a fist full, and smear it all over his hard, weeping cock, and balls.

He holds his cock out to you at the base as he’s sat slouched back into the cushions; his long legs running parallel either side of you as you kneel between them. You scratch up the back of his calves as you lean forward and take his fluffy, snow coated dick inside your mouth; the frosting clouding around your lips.

“Fuck,” he drones, his head leaning back and closing his eyes as you suck hard on the head of him, and stripping him of his breath.

He whines as you start the clean-up job, running your tongue up and down him and taking mouthfuls of cake as you lick his cock.

“Mmm,” he whines watching you and biting onto his bottom lip through droopy, mesmerised eyes. You run your tongue all down his shaft; the icing becomes pearly and more fluid as it mixes sticky with your saliva.

It’s sweet and cloying, and as you run your tongue over and around his balls, you’re looking up at him and sucking one of them gently into your mouth as you pump his cock slowly with your hand, tightening around him as you go.

“Ah fuck… yeah,” Frankie coos as he watches, utterly beside himself, as you lick all the cake frosting and suck and play with his plump balls. Swollen and throbbing with that need he has for you; that need to cover you in that frosting of his own.

You pop the tip of him back inside your mouth and suck down deeply on him, feeling him at the back of your throat. The husks of his grunts, like a whisper pelted in wet gravel, echo inside your ears.

Frankie has no words when you take him all the way down to the soft fuzz of hairs at the base of him; instead, the noises puffing out of him makes your pussy plead on its knees in subjugation of him.

His huge hands massage inside of you hair and soon you feel him fucking your face, pushing his cock deeper as he thrust his hips, forcing himself further down your throat.

Heaves roll up from your stomach but you don’t choke fully on him; inhaling deeper through your nose that it whistles somewhat as he pants, bucking into your face as you open wider. 

Gug-gug-gug... an unrelenting rhythm of sticky suction, and satisfied grunts flow from his mouth around the lounge. You mouth him and suck, driving him utterly wild as he gasps and groans in delight.

“Come here,” he grunts, reaching for you and hoisting you into his lap where he angles his cock at your pussy and slips inside you without wasting a second.

“Ah yeah!” “Fuck!” You both chime and gasp at the same time.

“You’re so wet; you’re drenched.” He’s panting, grinning and beside himself with the state you're in. 

You breathe out into his face as he fills you up and packs you out.

You wrap your arms around the back of his thick neck, slipping up and down on him. His skin is sticky from the cake; crumbs and frosting trails are everywhere.

Your breasts taste so sweet as he takes your nipple inside his mouth and swirls his tongue around it before reaching up to kiss you on the lips. You ride hard, feeling yourself slam down on his cock each time he fucks up into you.

Both of you are frantic, hungry for each other. 

He reaches for the remainder of the cake and grabs it, and slathers it all over your tits and chest, then crushes you towards him.

The cake and frosting is smooshed between your bodies; the sugary cream and frosting splurge out everywhere, and pieces of the sponge are wrenched apart as you both become utterly covered in it.

It’s all over the sofa, the carpet; in your hair. It would be worth the clean up later.

Frankie smirks at you as you run your hands in the cake, smear it over his chest and slip your fingers into his mouth.

He sucks and licks them clean with some urgency and you kiss and lick each other’s faces, gorging upon one another hungrily whilst you fuck deeply and intensely.

“Mmm, Frankie... Please, oh God!” You groan, feeling your body tighten and clench again. 

“You close, baby?”

“Mmmhm.”

“Come all over my cock.” He encourages. “Soak it with that tight, little cunt, hermosa.”

He's in deep, plunging that cock right up into the hilt of you, and your body begins to shake and tense once more.

You cry out as you peak; your pussy contracting all around him. Riding him hard to get your rocks off and feeling dizzy and hot.

“Fuuuccck!” Frankie yells out; his head thrown back into the sofa cushions and eyes rolling into the back of his skull.

He loves it when you come like this around his cock. The squeezing and the convulsing against him, oh it feels divine.

"That's it, baby. Yeah, like that.” He encourages you, watching you lose your shit all over him. His thumb strokes your clit and you sonic boom.

“So good,” he hisses as you move around and around. “Right there... that’s it. Oh fuck, that’s so sweet!” He grunts. “I’m gonna come so deep inside of you, te voy a inundar llena, niña!

He has a nub of cake smeared on his cheek and you bend forward and lick it up and he grips onto your butt, squeezing it fondly whilst you ride him through the shakes.

“I want you to come in my mouth, Frankie.” You pant.

He nods, “I’m almost there,” he whines.

You slip off of his lap and sink to your knees, sucking on his cock. You can taste your sweet slick, and you run your sticky, frosted hands over his shaft once more and taste the cake inside your mouth alongside the thick track of his dick.

You massage his shaft, pumping up and down as you suck hard on him and he grips the sides of the sofa cushions, thrusting his hips into your mouth.

“Shit! ¡Sí! Sigue adelante!” He calls, his neck and thighs tensing, then he shoots plentiful bursts of his creamy, thick ejaculate into your mouth.

You work his cock; his come bubbling around your lips as it drips and leaves pearly strings dangling from his shaft.

You continue to suck on him long after he’s come. Just gently massaging and mouthing him and running that tongue over him as he watches enthralled, and like he’s died and gone to fucking blow job heaven.

“Mmm,” Frankie breathes, fingering through your cake laden hair, as you look up at him doe-eyed and wink as you clean him up and swallow him all down.

You’re both a sticky, crummy mess. The sofa and the carpet are a fucking mess. Cake explosions everywhere.

Frankie takes your hands inside his giant ones, and pulls you back into his lap where you sit on his frosted and crumb covered thighs.

“So, you liked your cake then?” You nuzzle into him smirking, and smooching on his hooked nose, then onto his pink lips, for a kiss that seems like it won’t ever end.

“Best birthday cake ever,” he whispers back to you with a breathy grin.

Thank you so much for reading this lil' birthday fic of mine! 🎉 Re-blogs & comments are always appreciated & fuel me. 🖤

MASTERLIST | FRANKIE MORALES MASTERLIST

[givemeanaccountalready]

"Undercover" Makes Me Suspect Things

I went into watching "Undercover" thinking I could make a fun analysis post, and now I just have a Tumblr post with enough red string that I could make scarlet letters for all the Milgram prisoners.

Let me just address the elephant in the room: I understand that Es's "Undercover" probably just serves as a hook to get people's attention and that I am probably reading too much into this. But consider this, wouldn't it be great if I'm right? Now, right about what exactly?

Well, namely, I think Es's song is either a prophecy/warning, or it was not extracted until the three trials ended or at least after the first trial concluded because Es seems to know far more than they should about the prisoners if this song was extracted after the first day of Milgram when Es and Jackalope's voice drama took place.

Now, “Undercover” is very fast, and even at 0.25x speed, I constantly had to rewind and pause to take screenshots. A picture is worth a thousand words and holy guacamole, there were so many frames. To be honest, even if I don’t have the words for everything, I will be showing off what I found to be the most interesting.

The Song Extraction Device & the Panopticon:

First, I want to get into the Song Extraction Device (SED). We know from Jackalope’s “This is Milgram” that the SED can pull mental images from a person’s mind and turn them into a music video. Thanks to Jackalope, we also know the SED can’t pull them all in one go, hence the three trials. Jackalope also states that the verdict of a trial will affect what the SED will pull in the succeeding trial. In the opening and closing shots of "Undercover" we can see that 000 is stamped in its red button/latch.

When I rewatched the “This is Milgram” video, you can see the rooms in the Panopticon spinning on the projection board. In the first voice drama with Es and Jackalope, “Es”, Jackalope tells Es to think of the Panopticon as a clock, with the entrance being the 12 o’clock position and the prisoner rooms being the rest of the corresponding numbers. You can see the room numbers on each room. The first room moving clockwise from the entrance is 001, but the first room moving counterclockwise from the entrance is 000, not 011.

In “Es”, Es asks if there was someone in that room at the 11th o’clock position. They even note that the door looked even older than the others thanks to the rust, and it didn’t even have a lock like the others. Jackalope tells Es not to worry, and before Es can even respond, a bell rings, and Jackalope diverts the conversation by announcing that the prisoners should be waking up soon.

The normal pattern is voice drama, then musical number, but to be honest, I don't know for 100% certainty if the voice drama came before the musical number. I would assume so, but you know what they say about assuming. It would be interesting if Es, because they are different from the ten prisoners, had a musical number and then woke up to have their voice drama with Jackalope. The 000 room is very suspicious to me. It's the oldest room, and if it used to be Es's, then that is a point to the Es is the eleventh prisoner theory. My only point detracting from the Es is the eleventh prisoner theory is that Es didn't get a second song during the second trial like the ten prisoners receiving. That, and besides the amnesia, what made Es so special that Milgram inducted them into their odd prison? Did Es prevent a murder?

Bookend Frames & Chalk Es:

Let’s kick things off with the bookends. We open up on Es walking towards the SED with Jackalope following him, and then the song closes with only Jackalope in view.

Bookends are a framing device primarily used to link the beginning and end of a story in a satisfying way. The ending can be a word for word copy of the beginning, or it can be a mirror of the beginning.

The most obvious mirror moment is the beginning shot ending on the SED opening up and the ending shot starting on the SED closing. The location of both shots are the same and the fog seems to be about the same amount and concentrated in the same area in both shots. Jackalope is on the viewer’s left at the start, facing the viewer, and then at the end, he’s on the viewer’s right with his back towards the viewer. But Es is gone.

Where is my child cop, Jackalope?

Let’s focus on the opening shot. We have Es and Jackalope entering from the viewer’s left, which is stage right. While I was trying to get a good shot of the two in the opening, I noticed that Jackalope spends a considerable amount of time in the fog compared to Es. It could just be that Es is considerably bigger than our most honorable warden, Jackalope, and that the mist is heavily concentrated on stage right. Since Es has amnesia, perhaps the fog he walks through is literal brain fog or just the intrigue of Milgram in general. Intrigue fits why Jackalope is so hidden in the beginning. It's not deep or hidden, but it is nice and straightforward.

Right before the third chorus, Es sings, “losers please exit left.” Did Es exit stage left from the frame? Did Jackalope follow him across the stage but didn’t step offstage? But here is what really skeeves me out about Es not being in the ending. The song ends after the last chorus, and once Es finished the third and final chorus, we see what looks like a chalk outline of Es. Es is not wearing their full prison guard uniform. Their hat and cape/cloak are missing.

Now, chalk Es first has their back turned to us and is watching the prisoner montage. Their silhouette is hazy at first, but it becomes more clear as the montage continues. And then they turn around. I don't know what causes Es to turn around, but they look like they are trying to figure out what caught their attention. Then, what seems to be a spotlight directly overhead turns on, blinding Es so they shut their eyes. They bring up their hand to their eyes and they open them again. Their eyes adjust, and they make something out. Whatever it is/was, it appears to have surprised or shocked Es.

Now, Es isn't exactly stoic. They're very touchy about their role as prison warden, and they become very agitated whenever the prisoners throw them for a loop. But chalk Es doesn't lash out like Es does in the voice dramas. They may not have had the time to react, but even when Orekoto was beating the crap out of them, Es was still taunting him. Something definitely caught chalk Es off-guard. The question is what exactly is capable of rendering him silent.

I think it has to do with whoever is running Milgram. We know Es relies on social hierarchies to maintain a sense of control. They lash out when the prisoners, their social inferiors, disrupt that hierarchy and act familiar with them. I don't think Es would lash out if it was their superior in Milgram. Es can be short with Jackalope and even tease him, but they tend to take Jackalope at his word, albeit with exasperation for the not-rabbit's antics. Perhaps, it's not a superior calling for Es's attention, but something Milgram is doing to the prisoners. Something that goes against his firm belief that Milgram is all-good.

The Prisoners & the Choruses

(EDIT: WHOOPSIE DAISY. It turns out that Milgram had changed the subtitles for the third anniversary. The vibes between the lyrics quoted below and the original one are quite similar, but let me do a quick review and reblog for corrections.) While the lyrics played over the prisoners aren’t directly pulled from their respective Trial 1 songs themselves, all of them reference the titles to their respective Trial 1 songs (see bold).

I only highlighted one of Kazui's "half"s since it was not doubled like MeMe was for Mikoto.

The information presented in each two line sets is not something Es could have known before the trials began. Es can only remember their name and age. This is what got me thinking that maybe "Undercover" takes place between the first and second trials, or after all the trials had been completed. At first, I thought maybe "Undercover" took place before the three trials had even started, and this was what Milgram was erasing from Es's mind: his knowledge of what they had done. Because during the third and final chorus, we see the prisoners 'kill' Es just like how they killed their victims. Did Es learn of their crimes and had to have his memories removed to ensure a fair three trials? Or is this even the first time these prisoners have been tried through Milgram's system?

Here are the two line sets overlaid on the prisoners during their respective mugshot montage.

Haruka: “If you say INNOCENT, you’re complicit and weak / I’m so lonesome, please love me”

Yuno: “My cord is being pulled but nothing’s ever enough / Contractual desires, oh what to do”

Fuuta: “Hiding and seeking from sin / Bring it, submit, and also shut your trap”

Muu: “Clutching a broken heart / The pain’s still there, after all this time”

Shidou: “Which way will you throw down your weight / To be the deceived, or the deceiver”

Mahiru: “I don’t wanna just give / Giving and taking, this is how to be in love”

Kazui: “I just keep on dreaming / half in, half out, I’m doomed”

Amane: “The magic is in believing / There is no righteousness in broken promises”

Mikoto: “Don’t you lie about Me / Me, I’ve done nothing wrong”

Kotoko: “Dedicating my life / Harrowing, burying the thing I want erased”

During the third chorus of the song, we get a rapid sequence of frames that are supposed to clue us in to each prisoner’s murder. But what I did not notice during my previous viewings was that the expressions and the positions of the prisoners during the first chorus change to something different in the second chorus.

Haruka & Yuno:

Fuuta & Mu:

Shidou & Mahiru:

Kazui & Amane:

Mikoto & Kotoko:

You can see that the lyrics overlaid on the prisoners in the first and second choruses match, but that may just be luck on my part. Or maybe it means something, I don't know anymore.

Something clearly happened between the first and second choruses. I think that the first chorus images were the prisoners' reactions to being dropped into Milgram, but what caused their second chorus expressions? Is this supposed to be their reactions to being moved out of Milgram? Something is clearly happening, and they are restrained. Kazui looks like he is avoiding a hit while Kotoko is rearing up to charge full-steam ahead. They're both the heavy hitters of the ten prisoners. Amane, the youngest, smallest, and weakest prisoner, is stumbling backwards like she was hit or she was scared enough to try and retreat from harm's way. The remaining prisoners look scared and/or worried. What exactly is going on here? Is something happening to them? Or to Es? Mikoto (must be Bokuto) and Mahiru are leaning over like they are checking up on someone. Are they escaping? Do we get an escape musical number to conclude the series? How baller would that be?

Very, but in all seriousness, something is up. There's just something about "Undercover" that is making me pause. This very well could all be useless speculation, and "Undercover" is canon in the way that the timeline conversations are canon without actually aging the characters.

TL;DR: Milgram is sus, and come the conclusion of this series, I have a <2% chance of being vindicated.

[morganbritton132]

Eddie posts the outtakes that he got while trying to catch Steve singing as he cooked.

In one Steve is cutting up vegetables. Joan is sitting on the other end of the kitchen island, watching him. Once Steve is done, he puts the knife in the sink and holds up his hands to Joan, “Look, see. Easy-peasy no injur-rie-es.”

In another one Steve peels and cuts potatoes and then instead of throwing the peels in the trash, he throws away the potatoes. Steve pauses, stares at the trash for a second and then just puts his head in his hands and groans, “We’re ordering pizza.”

There’s a video where he’s FaceTiming Robin. She’s reading a recipe for him because the letters are moving around too much for him today.

Another one where Steve is juggling some eggs. He learns he can juggle three eggs easily, four with a bit less grace, five with a bit of a struggle, but not six. He dropped four of them.

In a different one, Steve pulls a pan out of the oven, turns around and gets startled by Eddie being there. He says, “Stop, I could’ve dropped the croissants.”

[sgiandubh]

Machiavelli took a day off

... when the Telegraph article was written in great haste, by someone blatantly given a last minute task, who had no fucking idea to whom she was talking and what exactly meant the PR vetted or even prompted questions.

Instead of a line-by-line analysis, we'll take things differently, on this page, using the '5 W rule of journalism' (or even non-fiction writing, in general, if you ask me):

Who? SRH, EP of the OL series and one of the two male leads of the TCND series, which will be shortly broadcast by Channel 4, in the UK and IE only (and Movistar in ES). The rest of the world is not concerned.

What? A promotional article, focused on the actor's personality, CV and projects.

When? At a particular moment in time, just after the SAG-AFTRA strike and before shooting OL's eighth and last season.

Where? Crucial to place it in LHR (to imply he is 'just visiting') and God forbid it would be in GLA, which (for some curious reasons) seems to be off-limits.

Why? An actor with solid credentials hopes to keep agents and employers interested, after above OL project is done, which is rather sooner than later. Also addressing (as per the actor's PR agent specific requirements) three particular issues: the Palestine letter, the Bond project and his 'private life'.

Onwards to the three issues at stake, which probably prompted the article. In chronological order, this time. And no, I am not going to address the Scottish independence mention, because this is a sincere, well-known position of his and this page never bitches about people's convictions - also because I educated myself on it and I agree with S.

Palestine:

It was important, for obvious reasons, to push damage control a tad further. Also, strictly from a hypothetical POV, I would be very curious to read your compare and discuss thoughts with regard to this particular post on this page:

A sort of answer came in the Telegraph paper, too. Not only to me (I am less than nobody), but to all the people (of which we were many) who thought he should not get involved in this type of debate:

This is not the first time he uses this specific talking point. Last time known to me was on the day the Queen died, on X (I looked for that post, but can't find it, because I am just a filthy lurker, like that: but it is there).

The really interesting question, therefore, is: does he/somebody monitor what is being said on Tumblr? The answer is, I think, yes, and it shows. Will it stop me talking in here? Nope, as I trust my discerning abilities, for the moment. Other than that, his damage control op does not bring anything new to the table.

Bond:

What can I say, Sir? While there's life, there's apparently hope. But that doesn't translate well, given the context of your interview. That spells desperate and it's not a great picture. Also, let us keep a pious moment of silence in fond memory of a 25 year old who had a dream and the dream went to Daniel Craig (who I detested as Bond, because every girl has her Bond and mine is Pierce Brosnan, amen).

I know people still speculate about it. I have very high reservations and I cannot, for the life of me, seriously consider even thinking about the possibility. He could do it with flying colors, no doubt. Does he stand a chance? I prefer to have zero expectations on it and be floored if it happens. If he naively still yearns/pushes for it, this interview could very well be as abysmal as C's VF tantrum.

'Private life':

Ugh. Slippery when wet. I have already touched the subject in a reactive re-blog of @samheughanswife's post about it and I will not get back to what I said even without reading the article.

Some more extraordinary wording, in here: 'there might even be space for a personal life' - begs the question 'when?' In general? (in general, all men are created equal, too - it's practice that kills the theory) Now? (it is my staunch belief the answer is yes). After OL? (then and now and after Hiroshima, too). Can you program these things? (nope, stars simply aligned) Heh. Enough said. Also, 'might' spells cheap insinuation to me. But that's just me, a blonde voice in the audience.

Now, onwards to the daughter thing. I believe this specifically addresses the cheap, abundant clickbait content on You Tube, hence the vague 'online' reference (not Tumblr, not fans, not blogs - he is not C, he kept it clean). Such as this very recent one (last 'clip' on the topic was five days ago):

The two I chose to share here, which are very conspicuous FAKES, are originating from the same 'source', an account that seems obsessed with S&C and has no problem changing its narrative three times a week, if needed. My opinion? PR induced shite, to prod numbers/interest and see what sticks.

No newborn daughter? I hear no lies.

As for OL leaving 'no time for relationships', ahem. *urv will be thrilled to read that, I bet the farm. As will Flukenzie Floozy, at least her - damn, she was persistent! Also, hello, back to 2014-2016 playbook, aren't we?

No new relationships? Whatever for, when IYKYK? I hear no lies.

'I want a cat' ('because she's great', says my shipper brain on autopilot), 'but I am too scared even for that'. Humph. A very poor lie. But admitting you wanted and got a Ca(i)t scares the bejesus out of you, since 2016. I hear no lies. Yes, I am being tongue in cheek and damn the consequences.

Morality of it?

The easiest solution is never to take personal questions in interviews or panels. Why These Two still do it completely mystifies me.

[hedgehog-moss]

hi! Just wanted to ask what you’ve been reading lately? I love seeing your book recs! Also what are some of your favorite books ?

Hi :) I've read some disappointing stuff lately, so I decided to start two books from my to-read list that felt like safe bets—Samantha Shannon's A Day of Fallen Night and Elsa Morante's Lies and Sorcery. I'm enjoying both so far!

I've read interesting nonfiction this year—Empire of Pain, about the Sackler family; Erich Schwartzel's Red Carpet about the role of the movie business in cultural hegemony; and Laure Hillerin's biography of the Countess Greffulhe, who was a fascinating woman. She was the real-life model behind Proust's Duchess de Guermantes character, and a really influential figure in the arts & sciences in the early 1900s—she financed the first productions of Diaghilev's Ballets Russes, frequented Rodin's studio, helped Marie Curie find the funds to start her Radium Institute... It was a good read. I also read a biography of Anne Perry by Peter Graham, which was so-so—the story of the murder is morbidly fascinating but the way it was told had too many trivial details and not enough depth.

Worst nonfiction books of the year so far were Niall Ferguson's Doom: The Politics of Catastrophe which didn't seem to have any point to make, and François-Guillaume Lorrain's Scarlett which was marketed as a fascinating new look into the making of Gone With the Wind but actually the author just watched his DVD's behind-the-scenes bonus content and diluted it into 300+ pages of rehashed anecdotes, it was so pointless. I found it on the "Vos libraires vous recommandent !" shelf and now I feel betrayed by that bookshop.

As for fiction, I've enjoyed Ira Levin's A Kiss Before Dying, it felt very dated in a fun way, everything about it felt intensely 1950s. Was very disappointed by Silvia Avallone's Acciaio, I'd heard good things about it but it was so joyless and meh. Álvaro Enrigue's Ahora me rindo y eso es todo was a bit disappointing in the second half, but the first half was good so I'll try other books of his. Pierre Lemaitre's Miroir de nos peines was fun in an expected way—I mean those who enjoyed the beginning of his Au revoir là-haut trilogy will enjoy this one too as it's more of the same. And I also had a good time reading Catherynne Valente's Radiance— similarly if you already like her writing style you'll probably enjoy this book. (I was listening to this as I read it and it fit really well with the floaty-nostalgic-unearthly atmosphere of the book, it's always nice to accidentally find a good book-soundtrack that enhances the experience! Now I can never listen to it while reading again as it's too intertwined with that story.)

And I really liked Madame de Staël's Delphine but I wouldn't recommend it to just anyone, it's very 18th century (though it's from 1802). If you enjoy idle noblewomen writing each other 20-page-long letters in gorgeously long-winded 18th-century prose about how the Viscount of Something glanced at them from the other end of a salon and nothing else happened and now they're having agonies then you'll love this book, it's 900 pages of this. I can't get enough of it personally, and I found it hilarious that these aristocrats had such low-stakes problems considering the story starts in 1790. They didn't notice the Revolution, they were too busy writing tormented letters about extramarital glances.

Some books I've added to my kindle recently: Virginia Feito's Mrs. March, Simon Schama's Landscape & Memory (someone I follow on GR described it as "monstrously bloated" while the NYT blurb diplomatically calls it "a work of enormous scope" which made me laugh), Seyhmus Dagtekin's To the Spring, by Night, Margarita Liberaki's Three Summers, Maggie O'Farrell's The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox, Dawn Powell's A Time to Be Born.

This got long, sorry! You can have a look at my 5- and 4.5 star shelves on goodreads, for some of my favourite books of the past few years :)

[mistydeyes]

tuberose and rose tinted glasses

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

summary: A work trip to France lands you in a bar in Grasse. But it's the actions of a masked British man that puts him next to you with brandy in your hands.

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader

warnings: swearing, harassment

a/n: literally writing this on my lunch break, pining over the idea of taking a trip to grasse and submerging myself in their fields of jasmine

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

Grasse, France the world's capital of perfume. As you walked the late-night streets filled with fragrant, floral air, you couldn't help but feel melancholy that you were here on business and not for pleasure. Your head flooded with the smells of the city as you noted the various notes of tuberose and jasmine as you walked. Despite your frequent trips here, you still fell in love with the rows of flowers in peak bloom.

Your heels clicked on the ground as you saw a red awning with the letterings of a bar on it. You sought refuge after a long day of discussing new fragrances with your colleagues and creating the perfect blend for another company.

You pushed the doors open and sat at one of the velvet cushioned seats in the dimly lit place. As you patted the soft fabric with your fingertips, you admired how the bar was lit with a warm rose light. You noted only a small amount of patrons in the place. It looked to be only you, the bartender, and maybe three other men in this entire pink atmosphere. However, you paid them no mind as the bartender approached you.

"Qu’est-ce que je vous sers?” ("What can I get you?") He said, giving you a moment to comprehend what he was saying. You couldn't blame him, you were far from a stereotypical French woman. Maybe it was the way you carried yourself or just looked so typically American that tipped him off to your presence. However, your years working with your company and traveling from the US to France made you thankfully bilingual in the romantic language.

Just as he was about to ask the answer in English, you responded, "Je prends un un verre d'Armagnac Aristocrat, s’il vous plaît." ("I'll have a glass of Armagnac Aristocrat please.") Your clientele had refined your tastes. Never one for wine, you preferred a strong drink to accompany you.

"Fille chanceuse, je viens d'ouvrir une bouteille pour le monsieur là-bas," ("Lucky girl, I just opened a bottle for the gentleman over there") he replied and signaled to a man also sitting alone on the far side of the bar. Unknowingly, this man had luckily ordered a bottle of the spirit and allowed for your drink to be served immediately, the Armagnac being perfectly oxidized in the French air. The man in question was broad and had his head down. As the rose light illuminated his figure, he seemed more interested in his drink than the atmosphere around him. His eyes looked concentrated on the caramel liquid in his glass. You wondered what his full expression was as, despite his eyes, his face was primarily obstructed by a black mask.

Your eyes left the man as the bartender gently set your drink down on a scarlet napkin. "Merci," you said gently and he left you to enjoy your purchase. As you sipped on your drink, you savored the smokiness of the brandy coupled with the sharp bitterness of the Lillet. You swallowed the liquid, enjoying the subtle sweetness of the ginger ale. This was a drink to be sipped, not greedily drank as you enjoyed how the flavors came together to create a perfect beverage. You gently traced your fingers on the edge of the glass and smeared your reddened lipstick on its rim.

However, your moment of solace would soon be interrupted by a man who took an abrupt seat next to you. You could tell by the way he was swaying and leaning on the counter that he had one too many. He smelled like cheap cologne, probably something he bought as a souvenir and beer.

"Ma chérie, tu es very sexy" ("My darling, you are very sexy") the man leered over you. You couldn't help but roll your eyes. His poor mixing of French and English made you feel embarrassed for him. He acted like this was the epitome of flirtation and almost expected you to throw yourself on him.

You attempted to ignore the man, turning your body away and protectively hovering over your drink. He was determined, grabbing your shoulder to face him. "You smell expensive, tell me do you put your perfume where you want to be kissed?" he spoke sultry in another crude attempt at flirting.

"Not interested," you said, waving your arm in a dismissive motion. You just wanted to enjoy a night with some liquor and the smells of the town. Your gold bracelets clanked as you brushed him away. However, they soon clattered together as he aggressively grabbed your wrist.

"Oh so you speak English, sweetheart," he began, breathing his hot alcohol-laced breath in your face. "Lucky for you, I can speak French between your legs," he finished as you tried to free yourself from his grip. You pushed against his chest and elbowed him but he was relentless. Your eyes looked wildly around as you tried to receive any help, but seemingly the bar had emptied and the bartender was nowhere to be found. "C'mon sweetheart, let me show you a good time," he said and pressed harder on your wrist. Your arm pricked with pain from his grip. Suddenly his hands were pried off of you and he was thrown back.

You turned to see it was the man from across the bar, now standing next to you and glaring at the downed man. "She politely said 'fuck off, asshole', do you understand that?" he barked at him in a deep voice. The drunk man looked ready for a fight as he stood up. But something about the masked man's aura made him rescind. As quick as he came, the drunkard left. He ceremoniously flipped him off and with a string of profanities, exited the bar in a huff.

"Thank you," you said and motioned for the man to take a seat, "I think I owe you a drink." He briefly glanced over to where he sat and you both saw the empty glass. "Looks like you need a refill, anyways," you remarked. It seemed like he agreed as he took a seat to your right.

You signaled to the bartender, who for some reason had not acknowledged the entire fiasco that just occurred. He came over and you asked, "Un autre de ceux-ci pour moi et le monsieur," ("Another one of these for myself and the gentleman") and pointed to your dwindling glass. He nodded and went behind the counter to prepare both your liquid vices.

"So what brings you to Grasse? You don't seem like a Frenchman to me," you asked turning to face your new companion. In the bar's lighting, you could see him slightly better than before. His light eyelashes glistened in the light and contrasted with his amber eyes. You also noticed how his face mask had some kind of skull design painted on it.

"Business," he answered plainly, a man of few words you presumed. Somehow when he spoke, you were comforted by the smell of cigarettes on his lips and hints of brandy as they mixed in the air. "Me as well, but I always love coming here," you sighed. The bartender quietly came back with your drinks and you cheered the mysterious man next to you.

After savoring the liquor for a few moments he sparked up another conversation. "What is this? It's strong but good," he asked. "An Armagnac Aristocrat, bitter orange Lillet Blanc, and smokey Armagnac topped with a refreshing, crisp serving of ginger ale. C'est manifique" ("It's magnificent") you finished and gently placed the chill crystal glass on your bruised wrist.

"Well that is quite a description, I would guess you have these a lot," he joked and you could see the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiled. "I'm a perfumer, my whole life is based on knowing the key elements to an ingredient and being able to illustrate it for others," you replied, practically telling your life story to this stranger.

After another long string of minutes, he spoke up again. "Makes sense why you're here, beautiful city," he said quietly. "Yes, it is. If you ever get a chance, a perfume tour would be worth your while." With that, he shook his head slightly and you knew this was a way of saying he was on his way out of the town.

"Next time, love, I appreciate the recommendation though." Maybe it was the inclusion of the nickname but you picked up on his British accent. London you thought, maybe Manchester, regardless it was as intoxicating as the liquor that was warming your insides.

As the time waned on, you ordered another drink. This time it was his recommendation, a Brandy Smash. Feeling slightly tipsy you joked, "Mhmm, I can taste the smokiness of the Armagnac with a subtle hint of cooling mint leaves and the sweet tang of sugar and lemon."

"And I would've thought perfumers are only good for the sense of smell," he replied. With his mask pulled up to his nose, you could see how beautiful his smile was. As you talked, his rosy lips formed into a calming curve and you could see some silvery scars dance in the bar's overhead light.

"I'm much more than that-" you stopped short. You realized after two hours of talking about yourself, you had not even asked his name. He noticed your hesitation and replied, "It's Simon."

Simon, meaning 'to listen' you thought to yourself, what a perfect name for a man who let you occupy his time with botanicals and knowledge of scents. "I'm Y/N," you said, "And thank you, Simon. This has been a perfect evening," you smiled gently.

"Yes it has, a perfect evening with perfect drinks," he replied and clinked his glass with yours. As he finished his drink, he slowly prepared to leave. He signaled the bartender over and you both paid your respective tabs. As he adjusted his jacket, something about Simon made you want to see him again. Maybe it was his chiseled features or his attentiveness to your words but whatever it was, it made you gently place a hand on his arm.

"I know this is a little forward but mind if I give you my number? Maybe I'll run into you here again or stateside?" you asked, preparing for rejection. This chance encounter was a plot device in movies, almost too good to be true. "Sure, love. Let's find you a pen," he said and pushed a napkin toward you.

"Puis-je avoir un stylo s'il vous plaît?" ("Can I have a pen, please?") you asked to the bartender who was polishing glasses. He slid one over to you and you wrote on the small red napkin you had been given. As you wrote on the napkin, you could feel Simon's eyes on you. He knew you were writing more than just a number based on the various lines written on the cloth.

You finished writing and leaned forward towards him, gently tucking the red item into his jacket pocket. If you had been any closer, you might have heard his rapid heartbeats and quickened breath. "Au revoir, Simon," you said and saw yourself to your hotel for the night, savoring the smell of jasmine and lavender in the air.

Simon took the napkin out of his pocket, the color reminding him of your sanguine cheeks and burgundy lipstick. His calloused fingers gently held the note as he read, "Pleasure to meet you, Simon. Thank you for listening and sharing a drink. Just a recommendation but a refined man like you should try, Gentleman by Givenchy. Until we meet again," followed by your number. He too walked out of the bar to embrace the late-night air. But as he walked the quiet streets, he now had a new appreciation for the intoxicating scents of Grasse.

[spectre-requisitions-exchange]

Sign-Ups are Open!

Sign ups for the Spectre Requisitions exchange are now open and you may sign up from January 27th to February 10th. You must fill out at least three unique requests and three unique offers. (Requests and offers do not necessarily have to be the same!).

Important links:

Sign-up Form

Nominated Relationships Spreadsheet

View and search requests in the app

Countdown Timer

A couple of reminders:

Treats are now considered OPT-IN. "Treats" are works that are given to you that are not your main assignment. To opt-in to treats, you will need to enable treats on Ao3 AND declare you are open to being treated. If you do NOT specify treat preferences, we will assume you do not want to receive any treats!

To enable treats: Go to “My Dashboard” on your Ao3 account, select “Preferences” from the sidebar, scroll down to “Collections, Challenges and Gifts,” and make sure that the “Allow Anyone to Gift Me Works” box is checked.

You can use the following template in your sign-up box to state your treat preferences if you would like: Open to Treats: Yes / No Open to Treat types: Fanart, Fanfiction Open to Multi-recip treats: Yes / No If you are open to all types of treats, you can simply say "Treats welcome!"

There is a RATINGS box for sign-ups! The box is not mandatory and non-binding but will help with determining who is or is not interested in smut. If you are open to potentially creating or receiving smut, SELECT the "Explicit" option for that offer/request. Please note that this is NOT a guarantee that you will be matched, in either direction, with someone who has opted into smut; and even if you do match in that manner, you're not obligated to create smut (nor are they obligated to create smut for you).

NOW THAT SAID: SIGN UP! SIGN UP! SIGN-UP! CLICK HERE TO SIGN-UP!

You can go back and edit your Sign-Up Form up until February 10th, 8:00PM EST.

How Do I Sign Up? Instructions beneath the cut:

1) Go to the Sign Up Form at AO3.

2) Start writing in the name of your favorite character/pairing from the nominations. Don’t forget to check the spreadsheet if you need inspiration!

3) The box should start to autofill your pairing as you type (if it doesn’t, that is a known Ao3 bug, and if you type it exactly as it is in the tagset, it will accept it). Select your pairing of choice. You can choose two pairings per request, and may have ten requests total.

The two requests do not need to be related; it is simply a way to try to get around the Ao3 restriction of only having 10 sign-up boxes.

4) Decide whether you would like to potentially receive fanart or fanfic, or both. Check the applicable box(es).

5) The RATINGS box on each request indicates whether or not you are open to receiving smut. The box is not mandatory and non-binding but will help with determining who is or is not interested in smut. Please CHECK the "Explicit" box if you want to receive smut; and leave it unchecked if you do not want to receive smut.

6) In the "Description" box, you MUST include: -Any Do Not Wants (DNWs) for the requested relationship(s). We cannot enforce DNWs that are not contained in your Ao3 signup. -Whether you are opting in to treats or not. If you are opting in, you must say which kind of treats you are open to receiving. If you do NOT specify treat preferences, we will assume you do not want to receive any treats!

You can use the following template to state your treat preferences:

Open to Treats: Yes / No Open to Treat types: Fanart, Fanfiction Open to Multi-recip treats: Yes / No

If you are open to all types of treats, you can simply say "Treats welcome!"

You MAY include: -Prompts, general likes/dislikes -- this is used to help your assigned creator know what sort of gift you would most like to receive!

7) Repeat between 3-10 times, as you like!

8) You may write a letter that goes more in-depth and post it to your tumblr, dreamwidth, public google doc, or another platform, and then fill in the URL in the letter box.

9) Fill out your offers. You must fill out at least three unique pairings you would be okay with writing and can choose one or two pairings to fill in per request.

10) The ratings box on each offer indicates whether or not you are open to receiving smut. The box is not mandatory and non-binding but will help with determining who is or is not interested in smut. Please CHECK the "Explicit" box if you want to create smut; and leave it unchecked if you do not want to create smut.

A BIG WARNING ABOUT USING ‘ANY PAIRINGS’: You may choose to offer ANY, but this means you could be matched to ANYONE who has signed up for the archive. Exchange participants beware of this, do NOT pick Any Pairings if you are not up for a challenge!

The only limits we will allow on "any" requests by are the following parameters:

the category of relationship, eg Gen, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, or Other: you will get a sign up with at least one request of the chosen category. Can be combined with setting.

the game setting: at least one request will be set in Trilogy or Andromeda, depending or your pick; this can be combined with the above, e.g. "Any trilogy Multi" or "Any Andromeda F/F"

ANY Protagonist Shepard pairing: At least one pairing will feature a Commander Shepard (this restriction will not match Hannah Shepard or Clone Shepard.) You may combine this with a relationship category, e.g., "any Female Shepard F/F".

ANY Protagonist Ryder pairing: You will be matched with a sign up featuring at least one sign-up with a Ryder character (this request will not match Alec Ryder or Ellen Ryder requests). You may combine this with a relationship category, e.g., "any Male Ryder M/M".

No other limits may be selected so chose this CAREFULLY.

11) In the notes, please include any notes for the mods that might help the mods in matching you. For example: "I won't write varren fighting" or "Please do not match me to Councilor Udina". These notes are confidential between the mods and you, and are not shared with your match (or anyone else). You don't have to give reasons; just letting us know what your boundaries are is enough for us to hopefully better match you, and we don't share any information given with other people.

12) Click submit! And welcome to the Mass Effect Spectre Requisitions Rare Pair Exchange!

[celtic-crossbow]

Hand in Hand, to Hell and Back, I Will Follow You

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Carol Peletier

Setting: France

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; blood and injury; poorly written smut

Summary: Finally.

A/N: This can stand alone or be the third part following Two Sinners Can’t Atone from a Lone Prayer and You Wanna Shut Away the Pieces of a Broken Heart

©celtic-crossbow 2024. I do not allow for my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or placed on any other platform without my consent.

“Here! In here!” Carol held open the door, watching the surrounding area nervously while the people she had led away from the battle filed into the small room. Three men. One woman. And a boy. She made sure they weren’t followed and closed the door, pulling down the yellowing shades before pushing a desk in front of the entrance. The papers, letters long forgotten, scattered onto the floor. She took but a moment to consider if they were meant for a loved one who would never read the words. 

“Qui es-tu?” The blonde woman was shielding the child behind her, as if Carol meant them harm after running into the fray and leading them to safety. Well, at least some form of temporary safety. 

Regardless, she had no time for questions. 

Her focus was on the man hanging between the other two. The reason she had crossed an ocean and fought her way through an unfamiliar land on just a single thread of hope she would find him. 

“Daryl?” Carol took his face in her hands, lifting his head, her thumbs stroking his cheeks. She had hoped her voice would have been enough to rouse him. “Shit.” Frantic blue eyes took stock of the room, filled to the brim with books and documents, everything coated in a thick layer of dust and entirely useless. 

“Who are you?” The woman spoke again and was once again ignored. 

Moving quickly, Carol swept her arms across a table, sending everything onto the floor to be forgotten. “Put him here.” The men took a moment to regard one another. “Now!” She barked, reluctant but not unwilling to pull her gun. Daryl obviously knew these people if he was willing to fight with—for—them, but she didn’t. 

“How do you know him?”

Carol gritted her teeth. She wasn’t out to make enemies but she wasn’t striving for friends either. Placing Daryl’s crossbow on the desk, she unshouldered her bag and dug through it for the medical supplies she had gathered along her journey. 

“It’s okay, Isa.” Carol spared a glance toward the boy, but then gathered her supplies, all she could carry, and returned to the table where Daryl lay prone, pressing two fingers to his neck just to reassure herself he was still there. “She’s his lady Carol. She isn’t here to hurt us.”

She froze for a moment, knife in one hand and the other hovering over the bullet wound in Daryl’s thigh. Focus. Cutting through the trousers and wiping away the blood with a piece of fabric torn from her own shirt and several alcohol prep squares, she could get a better look at what she was dealing with. Through and through. There was no way of knowing if it had hit the bone but it had definitely missed the artery or she would be putting him down rather than patching him up. With any luck, it had gone through the muscle alone. His limp would likely be more profound but it was preferable to a shattered femur. 

“Bullet went through.” She sniffed, holding back the tears that so desperately fought to fall. He was there, alive and breathing, and she was going to make sure he stayed that way. Carol unbuckled her belt, granting the room’s other occupants a moment’s worth of her full attention before she slipped the leather through the loops and worked it beneath Daryl’s leg. 

“My name is Fallou.” One man offered, stepping closer while she secured the belt as a tourniquet. She didn’t respond and wouldn’t. Daryl may have been less than truthful about his life and family in order to protect the ones he’d left. Without him awake, she wouldn’t risk unweaving the tale he may have told. “This is Losang.” Her eyes flitted up from the gauze she was applying, following Fallou’s gesture toward the other man. 

“I’m Laurent. This is Isabelle.” 

Carol couldn’t help but nod and give the kid a tight-lipped smile. 

“And you’re his Carol.”

His. “Yeah? And how do you know that?” She was genuinely curious. Winding the bandage around Daryl’s thigh didn’t take much focus aside from trying to do so without cutting off the entire pant leg. The wound would need stitched whenever they could find the supplies necessary. 

“I can just tell. Monsieur Daryl spoke of you.” She chuckled quietly but said nothing else. She should have been wondering what he had said about her but all she could think about was his facial expression at being called a monsieur. Carol froze again when the boy continued. “You have the same look on your face as he does when he speaks of you.”

Everyone else in the room disappeared and there was only Daryl, peaceful behind the blood and bruises in a way she wished she could see without injury. Finally able to relax, she pulled over the office chair and collapsed into it, leaning forward with one elbow on the table, the opposite hand smoothing the hair away from his face. 

“Everyone rest. We have to wait this out.” She instructed, words given on autopilot that she wouldn’t remember later. 

He came to gradually and then all at once, a burning, jolting pain in his left thigh that radiated down to his toes and back up to his hip in a hot gasoline trail. “Fuck.” He rasped before even opening his eyes. He was disoriented, feeling everything spin behind closed lids. Where was he? Had they lost? Had the Nest been taken?

“Easy.” Isabelle’s voice broke through the barrier of pain, a relief enveloping him to know she was alive. The steadiness in her tone told him that Laurent was safe, but there was a hesitance there as well, a heaviness that was out of place. 

Daryl turned his head toward the soft call of his name and blinked open tired eyes. They had been outnumbered, that much he could recall. Codron has switched sides, offering them knowledge of the attack and thus time to at least form a line of defense. He remembered the blinding pain when the bullet struck his leg. He had only just struggled to his feet after a blow to the head, taken right back down in a cocoon of agony. Then there was nothing. 

Almost nothing. 

He’d heard Carol’s voice. It wasn’t unusual. He always heard her when he slept. Her soft syllables reminded him of why he continued fighting to keep the boy safe. He needed to finish what he’d started and then get home to her. France could never be home. Not without Carol. 

He’d be lying to them and himself if he promised to stay, even when the mission wasn’t complete, when any opportunity to make it back to the Commonwealth might present itself. He’d leave them behind the tide and never look back. 

So he never promised. 

He had promised Carol he’d make it home. And he’d never lie to her. He didn’t intend to start now. 

An electric current of pain snaked out from the wound, and he jerked, attempting to shake it, somehow grasp it and hold it at bay. 

“We will return soon and you can rest and heal.” Isabelle was holding his hand and though he didn’t pull away, the touch felt wrong. 

“Did—is anythin’ still there to go back to?” Her blurry silhouette shrugged, distant shouts and gunshots muffled behind a closed door. 

“We had to run. You were injured and the hungry ones came. She came then too. She led us here and we’ve been safe.”

She? “Who?” Isabelle didn’t answer, forcing him to wait until his vision cleared before trying again. “Who?” She smiled sadly with a distinct jerk of her chin, indicating the other side of him. Daryl rolled his head and his breath hitched before stopping completely. He’d know that crown of silver hair anywhere. “Carol?” Her head was on the table, rested atop her arms just beside his elbow. If he was going crazy, he was taking Isabelle with him. She could see the woman too. It was all enough to have him ignoring the pain and scrambling upright. “Carol? Carol!” 

She jerked awake, finding his gaze with ease, her own eyes wide as her hands began to flail in ill fated attempts to subdue him. “Daryl, wait! Calm down, you’re hurt—stop it!” 

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

Carol didn’t resist when he found her upper arms, damn near pulling her onto the table with him to crush her against his chest. He was crying, pride be damned. She was there and whole and there and he couldn’t let go. “Carol.” His voice shook and cracked as he held onto her, not realizing nor caring that she was returning the embrace. He just needed to feel her there. The shame of being so desperate for her would come later. 

“I’m here. I’m here.” She soothed, petting the back of his head. She was shaking, sobbing softly into his shoulder. 

It wasn’t long before his body reminded him of his injuries, his energy waning, but he refused to let go and sagged against her, clumsily holding on and adjusting his grip on her jacket each time it failed him. 

“It’s okay, Daryl. I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.” Her voice was fading as he was left no choice but to give in to the pull of exhaustion and blood loss, still clinging to her with weak fingers while she eased him onto his back. “Rest now. I’m here.”

“Carol.” He croaked, hands falling away, one thudded against the table while the other fell right into her waiting palm. He was so tired, overwhelmed by the strong notion that she could still be just a dream. As darkness crept into the edges of his vision, he whispered the same words he always did when he’d seen her while he slept. “I love you. Don’t go.” 

He was no longer on a hard table the next time he clawed his way into the waking world. Though the mattress wasn’t much of an improvement, it still eased the ache in his muscles and the throbbing pulse in his leg. She was his first thought, his hand squeezing the soft weight of fingers curled around it. 

“Easy, Daryl.” 

He let out a sob, uncaring of the weakness he displayed. Carol was really there. His eyes found hers, tired and red-rimmed. “You’re here.” He breathed, struggling to sit up. She didn’t stop him but slipped an arm behind his neck to assist his efforts. “How?”

Once he was upright, still holding tightly to her hand, Carol rubbed at her eyes with her free forearm. Her jacket, he noticed, was discarded on the undisturbed bedroll behind her. “I found a clue and followed your trail.” She smirked and placed a palm against his cheek, rubbing her thumb over the stubble there. “Getting sloppy in your old age.” She chuckled and he blushed, feeling the burn of it all the way to the tips of his ears. 

“Glad I was this time.” He admitted.  

Carol gave him that gentle smile that always turned his heart inside out. “Your color is better. You were cold as ice when we got you here. I stitched up your leg. Everyone was worried but I know you. It’d take way more than this to take you down.” She gestured toward his leg. 

Daryl nodded, grateful for that bit of praise when he truly felt as if a strong breeze could knock him over. He hadn’t had the presence of mind until that moment to look around. The room was unfamiliar but definitely one found within the walls of the Nest. It still stood. 

He had grown accustomed to a thin mattress or bedroll on the floor of the shared sleeping area. This room was nice, private and bright with a balcony. One of the upper rooms he’d never been curious enough to explore during his time there. He’d never wanted to, not even in brief stints of boredom. The unfamiliarity of the place had kept him centered, focused on going home. 

“I have a way back home. Back to the Commonwealth.” He turned back to her and she flinched, eliciting a tilt of his head. “That’s if you wanna go.”

“Course I wanna go.” He stated firmly but not unkindly. He was confused. “Why wouldn’t I wanna go?”

“Seems like you’ve got something here.” Carol released his hand. He thought he caught the shine of a tear as she turned away and stood, approaching the door to the balcony. Arms crossed, she looked out over the place. “Like you have someone.”

Now he was beyond confused. “What the hell’re ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

She looked over her shoulder at him, the sun warming the side of her face in a way that made her look unreal, like a painting that belonged in a museum before the end of the world. She smiled, that same know-it-all grin she had given him when she had suggested he settle down with Connie. “Isabelle. She loves you, you know?” 

“Nah, I don’t know.” He was having trouble keeping his tone level in the face of her assumptions. She turned away again. 

“I could see it back in that office. The way she watched over you, held your hand.” A beat of silence before she sighed heavily. “You told her you loved her.”

Daryl’s face twisted into a grimace, trying to pull together any recollection. He remembered going down, the pain. He remembered Isabelle when he woke. He remembered being consumed by Carol, nothing but her once he had set his eyes on her. 

I love you. Don’t go. 

Shit. “Carol, I—”

She chuckled. “You’ve got nothing to explain to me, Daryl. I’m glad you’ve found happiness.” Her shoulders slumped a little, and he could see the defeat in that posture. “I said I wouldn’t leave without you, but I only meant that if you wanted to leave. You don’t have to leave her. Or the boy.”

He hated letting his silence linger but he needed a moment to get himself off that damn bed. Everything hurt. His body had been given one taste of proper rest and had then decided it liked it and didn’t want to cooperate. Finally, finally, he made it to his feet and limped his way across the distance, stopping just behind her. 

He didn’t touch her even though his body was being drawn to her like a painful magnet. “Wasn’t sayin’ that to her, Carol.” Her back straightened, but she didn’t move. “Look at me.” He wanted to sound sure of himself, had really tried. It still came out as a weak request. Regardless, she turned around, her head bowed. Daryl hooked a finger beneath her chin and guided her up to where his gaze waited, hoped she could read the honesty on his face, the naked longing. “Not to her.”

“Daryl.” The way she said his name both broke his heart and made him shiver, the combination sparking a flame to life beneath the desire that morphed into courage he wasn’t sure he’d ever gather again if he didn’t tell her right that moment. 

“I love you, Carol. S’always been you.” His knuckle caressed her jaw before his palm opened just below it, his large hand cradling the side of her neck while his thumb stroked her cheek. “Wasted so much time, made so many mistakes when I could’a told ya so many years ago. Maybe could’a saved ya some’a the pain ya’ve been through. M’sorry. I was a coward.”

Carol gasped, and even though he’d never taken his eyes off her face, it was as if he was seeing her for the first time. “Daryl Dixon, you are anything but a coward.” She said it with such conviction that he had no choice but to believe it. “You’ve done more for me, for everyone, than any of us ever deserved from you.”

“You deserved it.” He said more forcefully than intended but Carol never even blinked. “Ya deserve everythin’, Carol.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Do I deserve you, Daryl?” 

He snorted weakly. It wasn’t funny but the very idea that she didn’t deserve the entire fucking world was ludicrous to him. “Better than me.”

Carol took that last step forward, pressing them chest to chest, forcing her head back to look at him properly. “There is no better than you.” Her eyes followed her hand as she cupped his cheek, fingers trailing over the stubble and gliding to brush his hair behind his ear before stilling on the side of his neck, almost mirroring the way his hand still laid against her. “I’ve had my man of honor all along.”

It was instantaneous, the way he bowed his head and she tilted hers, their lips coming together in a kiss that was way overdue. It felt electric, the hairs rising on the back of his neck beneath her fingertips. She shivered and sighed into his mouth when his lips parted in invitation, her tongue delving inside with no further prompting. They were moving before he’d even realized it, his limp playing a substantial role in the unsteady course toward the bed. 

Carol fell first, her hold on his biceps dragging him along with her. Daryl caught himself easily enough, keeping his weight off of her but failing miserably in protecting his leg from bumping the mattress. He hissed a breath through his teeth and arched upward to favor the injury while she overflowed with apologies. “M’fine.” He grumbled, taking a moment to allow the ache to subside. When he opened his eyes, crystal blues were trained on him. Her mouth was turned down, worry and disappointment visible enough in the lines. “Said m’fine, Carol.”

“Maybe we should wait.” She hadn’t made a move to shift from beneath but her body was rigid and ready to spring the moment he gave the word.

Daryl shook his head before jerking his chin toward the area above her, silently demanding that she move more onto the mattress. “Waited long enough.” With a curt nod, she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and complied, watching him with such intensity as he gingerly followed that it made him slightly uncomfortable. Tilting and holding his weight more on his right side, he lowered to his forearms—his hips settled between her thighs— to press his mouth back against hers. He knew he was already hard, his poor body trying to figure out whether his pulse should be in his injured leg or his throbbing erection. His hopes that she hadn’t noticed were quickly dashed.

He pulled back, breathless, to find her smirking at him. “What?”

“I think we’re entirely overdressed for this occasion.” Rubbing her lips together behind that same smug smile, she snapped one of the suspenders and he dropped his head. He was never living that one down. “We’re going to talk about these later. And by talk, I mean I’m going to tease you until the end of time and you’re going to say stahp on repeat.”

“Shuddup.” He griped through a lopsided smile while pulling up the bottom of her shirt.

Getting undressed was more challenging than it should have been. The wound in his thigh made moving difficult, several colorful words finding their way past his lips. He was pale and sweating, leaning heavily on the wooden nightstand by the time he was down to his underwear. 

“You sure you’re up for this?” Daryl’s eyes lifted to find Carol sitting on her knees, bare save for the modest, mismatched bra and panties hiding the things he wanted to see most. Her eyes skirted down for a moment and then back to his face, that smirk firmly back in place. “Well, parts of you are definitely up for it.”

“You’re killin’ me with the commentary.”

“Sorry, Pookie. Come over here.” She moved back to give him room. “Lie on your back.” Her hands were out, ready to assist if he needed but he wasn’t a fucking invalid. He could manage getting onto a damn mattress.

Maybe.

He groaned once his head hit the pillow, physically and sexually frustrated. He was quite literally aching for her but his body was one giant ball of pain. She noticed his plight. Of course she did. Daryl opened his eyes when he felt her moving beside him and then her hand on his ribs, just over a deep bruise. She had some contusions and lacerations of her own, each with a story he wanted to hear but knew it was not something to ask about at that moment. She was about to give him an out and he wasn’t having it.

“Nah, don’t even.” He shook his head. “Want this, have wanted this. Not willin’ to wait if its what ya want too.” Carol seemed to mull over the words, eyes narrowed but not arguing. He took that as a good sign.

“Fine, but you let me do all the work.” 

His mouth fell open to retort but clicked shut when she leaned over him to press a kiss to the skin above where his pulse raced and then to the front of his throat, dipping her tongue into the hollow between his collarbones. When she shifted to circle the wet muscle around his right nipple, he drew in an unsteady breath, the adrenaline flowing from her attentions giving him both the will and the energy to push her onto her back. Goddamn, that hurt. 

Worth it. 

“I said to let me do all the work!” He was already sitting back, balancing awkwardly on his right knee, and pulling her panties down her slender but strong legs. 

“I didn’t agree to nothin’.” He smirked, hooking a finger beneath the material of the bra, just over her sternum. “Take it off.” He had no idea where this confidence was stemming from but he rode with it, would until it fizzled out. 

“When did you get so bossy?” She quipped, opting to pull the garment over her head in lieu of wasting the time unfastening it. The sight of her breasts had his mouth damn near watering but he had an agenda to keep before his leg gave out completely. 

He fell forward to catch himself with a hand on either side of her hips, wrapped an arm around each thigh to spread her open. 

“You don’t have to do—oh.” Carol collapsed back, her protest forgotten once his mouth descended on her. His tongue pushed through her folds, trusting her reactions more than fearing his own lack of experience. He was nothing if not adaptable. He made note of her cues; each twitch, each sigh. The places that made her hips jolt and the motions that made her keen. When his tongue flicked across a stiff little nub, her hands shot up to twist into his hair. He repeated the action, over and over until her thighs were shaking and his name was a broken prayer from her lips. He had originally planned to bring his fingers into the mix but when she arched off the mattress, singing his praises in a chorus of sounds and words that made no sense, he was almost disappointed not to have the opportunity. 

Well, that time anyway. As long as she was willing, he wanted to explore every inch of her, inside and out. 

He lapped at her languidly, helping her ride out the aftershocks while drinking down her nectar, an exquisite offering he would gladly indulge in as often as she’d allow. He didn’t stop until she pushed him away and pressed her thighs together to smother the sensitivity he’d left behind. 

Balancing just as he had before, he grinned and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Told ya I’d go down first.” The way her eyes widened and her mouth fell open was plenty enough reward for his lame attempt at a joke. 

“You are unbelievable.” She laughed, actually covered her flushed face with both hands and laughed. He could only watch her with a fond smile for a moment longer before his leg waved the white flag. 

“Ah, fuck.” His tumble to the pillow beside her was anything but graceful. His arm was thrown over his eyes, his way of shielding himself from what would likely be disappointment on her face. That, and if he looked at the pale skin of her breasts with those dusty rose nipples, he thought he just might really embarrass himself. 

“Are you okay?” There was residual laughter in her voice. The mattress moved as she shifted next to him, her curves pressed to his side in a way that made him groan. 

“No.” He sighed. After years of skirting around their love for one another, he was finally where he was meant to be and he couldn’t perform for her. Not for the reasons some men his age couldn’t, no, he was definitely not inept in that department. His cock was painfully hard and with very little persuasion. He was injured and it was just too painful to give her everything he wanted to, show her exactly how she made him feel. 

Carol’s small, warm hand came to rest on his stomach, her fingers kneading the skin there, softened by time but still covering strong, capable muscles. The contact was nice, a balm to the fresh burns of his own self-deprecation. 

“Daryl.”

“Hmm?”

“Stop that.”

He lifted his arm to peer from beneath it, not moving it away entirely. “Stop what?” Carol ducked below that same arm for a chaste kiss, hovering there with her thumb stroking his bottom lip. 

“Doubting that you can please me.” God, she could read him like a book. “You just did something no one else has been able to do. Ever.” He let the barrier between them fall away completely then, his hand coming to rest on her bare hip. 

“No one’s ever—?” His eyes flickered down in broad indication of their lower halves. Carol chuckled. 

“No, that’s happened.” She clarified. Daryl waited, arching a scarred brow while his fingers drummed on her skin when she simply remained silent. 

“You’re usually ‘bout as subtle as a shotgun. Can ya at least pretend to acknowledge that m’clueless here an’ throw me a bone?” The second the words left his mouth, he knew he’d opened himself up for another teasing retort and shut her down before the smirk could even fully form. “Not one word.”

Carol ran her pinched fingers across her lips as if closing a zipper, that same hand then finding its way to his forehead to brush back his unruly hair. “No one’s ever—got me there without my—” Daryl squinted and followed her hand as she made a vague gesture while trying to find the right word, “participation.” And then she waited while his head tilted and he pieced together what she was trying to say, nodding with a smile the moment she saw it click. 

“Well, least I did somethin’ right.” He shrugged a single shoulder.

“You do a lot of things right, Daryl. They may not be in the category of sexually intimate but they’re just as important, if not more so.” Before he could object or even move to stop her, Carol was straddling his shins and pulling down his faded boxer-briefs. 

She knew what she was doing. He was much too focused on the damp heat he could feel hovering above his skin to realize that she was stripping him bare. When his brain finally caught up, Daryl fisted the duvet to avoid the strong urge to cover himself. He had never really worried about his size before, never had a reason to feel inferior. Now he was on display in front of the woman he loved and he couldn’t get it out of his mind that he wasn’t enough for her in absolutely every way.

“Daryl.” That was a warning tone if he’d ever heard one. He forced himself to relax. If Carol had a problem, she’d tell him. He trusted her to do that. Swallowing hard, he watched her crawl back up to sit beside his hip, her gaze not on his obvious need for her but on the square of gauze taped to his left thigh. “Always giving for everyone else.” Her tone was distant, laced with sadness as her fingertips hovered over the bandage. Just like that, her focus was back on him, the smile back on her face. “Now will you let me do all the heavy lifting?”

Daryl snorted at the phrasing, earning an arched brow. “Fine.” He grunted. Blue eyes shot wide when Carol wasted not a single second in throwing her leg over him to straddle his hips. He wasn’t sure when he had grabbed hold of her thighs but he was squeezing for dear life to keep himself in check. She was holding herself over him in a way that he could see the slick glistening on the tuft of hair just above where his cock was hovering over his lower abdomen. If she touched him at the moment, he was coming apart and he knew it. “Won’t—ain’t gonna last, Carol.”

“I know.” Her voice was soft, her eyes overflowing with a million emotions that he couldn’t name but the ones he could calmed his anxiety almost instantaneously: love and acceptance. He knew both to be true already. She had always loved him in some way from the moment he had handed her that pickaxe, just as he had loved her. They had accepted one another, faults and strengths, broken pieces and methods of mending. It’s why he was always drawn to her; why he trusted her when he was hurting.

The moment her fingers touched the velvety skin of his cock, Daryl went rigid, wound tighter than an eight day clock. It took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to cum before he even had the chance to be inside of her. It was unnerving, the effect she had on him. 

“Relax.” Carol cooed. Easier said than done. She didn’t tease him, though it was quite apparent she wanted to, a frustrated restraint in the beautiful lines on her face. His hand was on her cheek before he realized he had even lifted his arm. 

“You’re beautiful.” He whispered, watching in awe as she bowed over him to bring their mouths together, entrancing him with a kiss while shifting his cock to notch against her entrance. His gasp was swallowed eagerly, his tip stretching her open, his hands fumbling for her hips. “Fuck. Fuck.” Every word brushed against her lips while he filled his mind with anything and everything to keep from filling her that very moment. Walkers. Saviors. Fuck, even Mercer made an appearance with that expression of disappointment that was followed up with a reprimand. 

She sank another inch, then another, and another until she was flush against his pelvis, her ass tilted to keep any pressure off his injured thigh. 

“Gimme—goddamn, gimme a minute.” And she did, occupying herself with tracing the lines on his face, his scars, his collarbones. It was barely working for her, the fluttering of her walls around him making his hips jerk. 

She bent down to nuzzle her cheek against his, the shift in angle prompting a sound from him that he wasn’t aware he could even make. “Please,” was all she said and he couldn’t deny her, he had spent too many years doing that trying to keep her safe, to try and choose her path for her when the easiest one would have led them to each other all along. 

Fingers flexing on her hips, he encouraged her to begin rocking, the groans leaving both their throats were sinful. If any sisters overheard, they had surely fallen to their knees in prayer. It didn’t take long for him to pull her higher, closer, allowing his lips to finally indulge in a pale pink nipple while his hips lifted to meet each of her downward pushes. Sucking and flicking his tongue over the pebbled nub, his other hand massaging the otherwise neglected breast with movements somewhere between desperate and tender. 

The breathy call of his name was enough to assure him that he was doing things right. Still, the sudden buzz at the base of his spine brought everything to a level of urgency. There was no time to revel in how beautiful she looked bouncing over him, her head thrown back with breathy gasps of ah ah ah yes oh my god. He was close and by fuck, he was taking her there first. 

Finding her swollen clit was simple from this position, the angle of her hips and his cock splitting her open had the little bundle of nerves pushed out. A large hand splayed over her lower abdomen, his thumb flicked over her and then pressed firmly to rub tight circles. “Need ya to let go, Carol. Need to feel ya.” He was barely hanging on, his hips already losing any rhythm. 

“Oh god, Daryl, I—” She clung to him, nails biting into his chest as her body spasmed.  Her cunt hugged him tight, squeezing and milking until he shouted hoarsely, his single grasp on her hip, holding her still through the initial waves, the contractions of her inner walls pulling each warm rope of him deeper and deeper inside. 

Urgency softened into lazy thrusts and gentle rocking, his hands on her sides squeezing with reach aftershock. He knew the shame and embarrassment would come soon enough but for that moment, he simply watched her with hooded eyes. Her breaths were shallow but quick though the slightest partition of her pouty lips. Her eyes were closed, brows raised ever so slightly. The agonizingly slow rhythm of rising up and sinking back down as she continued to pulse around his softening cock was mesmerizing. Overstimulated as he was, each movement making him fight a jolt, he couldn’t tell her to stop. He wouldn’t. She was too beautiful soaking up that pleasure, the limited bliss he was able to give her. 

“Daryl.” She breathed with a smile, eyes still closed. He slipped out of her when she fell to his chest, her face immediately burying in his neck. Just as the shame began to crest, her lips pressed against his pulse point. “I want to do that again and again. You made me feel so good. God, it’s never been like that.”

He reared back and angled his head to see her, content and smiling into his skin. “You shittin’ me?”

“Nope.” She still straddled him, wiggling and slithering her arms underneath his back to press herself closer. “You make me feel new again.”

“Was like—a minute an’ a half at best.”

Carol chuckled. “This time. Next time, you’ll give me a run for my money. Unless you’ve been making the French women say oui oh mon Dieu, it’s been years for you.”

“Don’t wanna know what that means but I ain’t made ‘em say nothin’.” He wasn’t offended, knew she was jesting, but he still felt bad. Still felt like she could do better. He could only offer her a broken man who was mediocre in bed. He had made her wait until they were older and worn. 

“If I have to say stop that one more time, I swear, Daryl Dixon—”

“Ya threatening me?” He shot back playfully, out of reflex. “Just—Carol, ya—”

“Do you know what a refractory period is, Daryl?” Carol folded her arms on his chest, rested her chin on them. 

“Pfft, course I do.” He didn’t. 

She smirked, pushing her ass back against his cock. He was half hard in an instant. His fingers pressed into her ribs, a groan pressing eagerly against the back of his teeth. “Well, yours is impressive.”

“Thank you?” Carol laughed, Daryl sighed. He was just lost in her joyful sounds, the lines on her face that came with age and not pain. “Are ya mine, Carol?” He blurted out, it was unintentional but he didn’t want to take it back, even when he tasted her tears as she kissed him. 

“I’m yours. Are you mine?” 

“Always have been.” She was laughing when she buried her face in his shoulder again but it was different. It was relief, a gratefulness for something desired for too long, regret for time wasted, and excitement for things to come. Daryl pressed his face into her hair, inhaling the scent of home. His heart echoed all that she was expressing and then some. He didn’t believe in god, not even after his time with nuns and prophets, but something or someone had given him his Carol, and he silently thanked them. 

When she finally pulled away and sat up wiping at her red rimmed eyes, he lifted a hand to help, swiping his thumb over her cheek. Of course, Carol being Carol, she wiggled her ass on top of his cock, bringing him to fully hard in no time flat. “Let’s spend a little more time making the nuns blush.”

Daryl chuckled. “Alright. After that,” he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her mouth to his, each syllable a whisper against her lips, “an’ then we fuckin’ go home.”

Carol nodded. “Then we fuckin’ go home.”

[pherelesytsia]

Coming Home for Christmas

Pairing: Modern/Thomas Shelby x female/Reader

Summary: Returning home late after a rough day, Thomas arrives in an empty living room and not even the dog greets him.

Warning: Just Fluff

Word Count: 1.5k

a/n:. Requests are open!!!

Thomas Shelby Masterlist

The smell of gingerbread, mulled wine sweeter than honey, roasted apples and a hint of cinnamon was lingering in the air and greeted the blue-eyed man into the stone walls he called his home. The fairy lights, a soft yellow hue, illuminated the hallway, and the man placing the shoes next to the door heard hush voices singing a Christmas song.

Reindeer with stately antlers, fluffy scarves and red hats stood on the high and low wooden shelves next to elves with dangling feet in high brownish boots and wide smiles. Snow melted under the warm touch. His hands were tucked in the trouser pockets, and Thomas walked on with an ever-growing smile on his lips.

No barking, no friendly voices greeted him, but Thomas felt her presence in the tranquil house at the end of the world. He peered into every room, hoping she was there, but to his horror, Y/N was not in any of the lavishly decorated rooms connected by the long hallway leading into the living room.

The three nutcrackers in red uniform saluted. The sound of burning wood filled his mind. Dark strands stuck to his forehead. The tip of his nose was shimmering red as his cheeks. The fairy lights were switched off and the only source of light except the dying fire was the moonlight seeping in narrow streams through the curtains, but Thomas saw clearly. The mantelpiece seat, which once held pictures in wooden frames, was decorated with elves, wooden figures, and a small gingerbread house with crooked windows and missing candies. The Christmas tree, decorated with red and burgundy baubles, some of them adorned with trees, presents, bows and various vine-shaped ornaments, stood in the far corner.

Thomas tiptoes around the house, hoping and guessing his wife was resting on the sofa, waiting patiently for his arrival wrapped in a soft blanket in a bed of cushions. The smile faded away. Crumbs were on the plate with golden shimmery appliques. The blanket was warm, and the Shelby knew his wife and children had spent the night on the couch watching clad in ugly Christmas sweaters movies. Her name did not escape his lips. He turned to the table and strolled towards the stairs leading to the first floor, guessing the children were sleeping. He undid the buttons of his coat, took it off and threw it over the chair, loosened the tie and undid the darkish buttons of the waistcoat matching the rest of the well-fitting suit. He rolled up the sleeves until his muscular upper arms stretched the fine material.

At the sight of the richly set plate, a bad feeling spread through his heart. He pressed his lips to a fine line, gasped, cursed like a banshee and wished he could be a wizard and turn back time with the wave of a wand and return in time for dinner, as promised. The fork was stuck in the depths of the dish. Y/N had eaten little, but Thomas knew his wife, knew she had lost her appetite at the sight of the empty place at her side. Swiftly, he followed the stairs, took two steps at a time, and slowed his pace as he passed the closed doors leading into the children's rooms. He leaned to the side, exhaled, heard nothing and did not open the doors adorned with letters shaped into names.

With every step he took towards the bedroom at the end of the long corridor, the voices telling a story grew louder, a fairy tale he knew almost by heart. Thomas could not count on two hands how often he had watched the movie with the children and if he had to watch it again, then he would it without a mobile phone in his hand, would not comment on the wish but enjoy the joy of his children, and would even encourage them to watch it again.

Thomas braced himself. A weak excuse mirroring the others rested on his lips. The two simple words did not escape. His heart and the cares of everyday life melted away, turned to gold touched by flames. His fingers brushed back his hair. Thomas smiled, leaning against the doorframe with a frown. The candle spreading, the scent of apples and cinnamon burned. The sleeping, peaceful, nearly untroubled faces were lit by the dimmed glow of the television. He muffled the chuckle with his hand.

The three of them were all in the same pyjamas, red with presents, green dotted and with cheering elves, and the mother among them was wearing her hair like the daughter in pigtails. The wood moaned under his touch. The children were sleeping peacefully. The dog was snoring. Gasping, Y/N´s eyes shot open, but before she could scream for help and beg for mercy, her heart calmed. Smiling, the young mother huffed and leaned back into the pile of dozens of pillows. The drowsiness was gone. She stretched, and shook her head in disbelief. Y/N freed herself from the strong grip of the children hidden under various blankets, sleeping peacefully, and crawled closer to her husband.

            "I didn't mean to scare you, my love." Thomas breathed.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, the feared Shelby approached the bed, couldn't take his eyes off of the children sleeping with legs and arms outstretched and he wouldn't be surprised if Y/N asked him to massage her aching back the next morning.

            "I called you. I was worried about you." Y/N whispered.

She didn't want it to sound like an accusation, but it was.

            "I'm sorry, my love. My phone ran out of battery, I couldn't charge it and there was traffic. I was stuck downtown for at least an hour. I didn't forget and I'm sorry, I should have left earlier." he spoke low.

Thomas settled on the edge of the bed, exhaled and leaned forward, reaching for her hand adorned with a ring mirroring his.

            "Tomorrow, I will make it up to you, to all of you. I have a day off. And I've left my work phone in the car, it'll be there all day.", "I'm sure the kids will be happy and I doubt you'll find a place here." Y/N joked, pointing at the children taking up more and more space.

Thomas laughed, a wry grin spreading across his lips.

            "I thought.", "That I would be mad? I am yet I know you are working so hard for your family.” she started.

Exhaling, she settled in front of her husband, clasped his hands and smiled.

            "I would be lying if I said that I am not upset and the children are not disappointed. We were waiting for you. We couldn't reach your brothers. I nearly called the police and the hospital." Y/N gulped.

Fear spread in his gaze and before he could pronounce another apology, she silenced him.

            "You are an adult, but we should have rules. Maybe you can come home around seven. The children go to bed around eight during the week. They would at least see you for one hour in the evening. Perhaps we could take the children to school and kindergarten in the morning and have breakfast on some days, once or twice a week. At the weekend, you could cut down on work." Y/N murmured, not frightened.

He smiled weakly, nodded, knew she was right.

            "Will you at least think about it?" she asked. "I don't demand an answer today, nor tomorrow, or in the next few hours. It would do the children, you and our marriage good." Y/N added briefly.

Her fingers brushed over his skin, saw in his eyes that he was thinking about what she had said.

            "I will think about it and I will try to come home on time and take the children to the schools with you twice a week.", "I'm looking forward to it, and the children will be surprised to see you seated at the table tomorrow," she spoke.

Closing her eyes, Y/N leaned into his touch as his thumb danced over her cheek.

            "Are you tired?" he breathed into her ear, and Y/N answered with a shake of her head.

            "I fell asleep before the children." she added.

She brushed the traces of the thawed snow away.

            "We haven't seen each other all week. I could order us a pizza and wine; we could sleep on the sofa and watch a movie like in the good old days and tomorrow I'll surprise you and the kids with breakfast." Thomas asked.

No answer escaped. Clasping her hand, Thomas helped his Y/N to climb out of bed. He embraced her, cradled his wife against his chest and guided her quietly out of the master bedroom, closed the door, breathed a sweet kiss on her cheek and whispered sweet nothings into her ear.

[freneticfloetry]

So I'm two days late with Starbucks, but I'm here. (Does this count toward Seven Sentence Sunday?)

The Reyes family has opened their hearts to him in so many ways. Tonight, TK’s determined to open their home in return, no matter how clueless — or Carlos-less — he might find himself in the process.

Three days of discovering new traditions.

“Okay,” TK says, frowning up at the underside of his favorite jawline, “I’m confused. I thought there were twelve days of Christmas.”

In general, this is a love letter to the mass insanity that is the Mexican holiday season. Specifically, it's a @tarlos-santa gift especially for @sugdenlovesdingle!

esta noche es de alegría (read on AO3)

It’s technically a three-parter, but could be read as a slice-of-life standalone. Will update again on Saturday, and finish up the Saturday after that.

As always, huge thank you to @ambiguouspenny for all the support in my time of flailing (especially since they were plotting in the process).

Merry Christmas Eve to all those who celebrate!

[scribespirare]

Love the way you write flowerfang! Request: Miguel actually meeting Miles' parents! people always avoid it (for valid reasons) but I would love to see that confrontation. Maybe with 18+ year old Miles? So it's more of 'oh no age gap' rather than just 'oh no it's illegal'

Been getting lots of requests for Miguel to meet Miles' parents so I'm filling two at once here!

Also yallre so sweet ily 🥺 the sketchbook idea is one of my absolute favs b/c its just so sweet and fun.

The inevitable happens about a month before Miles turns 19.

“Tu casa es muy bonita,” Miguel says when he shakes the hand of Miles’ mom.

His mom turns that quick, sharp look of hers on Miles, part surprise part exasperation, before turning back to Miguel. “Miles no mencione que hablas español,” she says in that way that’s simultaneously a compliment to Miguel and an accusation to Miles. “Please, come in.”

When Miles was 15 he’d gotten this new sketchbook, right after all the fighting about the multi-verse had died down. He hadn’t bought it with anything in particular in mind, and he hadn’t even known what he wanted to draw the first time he’d cracked it open.

An hour later he’d been staring down at Miguel’s sharp features and was honestly a little confused about it.

The second and third times he’d drawn Miguel  had been even more confusing, and he’d shoved the book into the back of a drawer and tried to forget about it, limiting himself to practicing his graffiti letters on the margins of his notes.

The sketchbook saw light again when Miles and Miguel had gotten together right after Miles had turned 16. Miguel isn’t the only thing or person Miles draws in it, but he’s on basically every single page. Maybe it’s a little weird but hey it ain’t hurting anyone and Miguel is pretty okay? Not like, conventionally so. But the way he moves, the way he carries himself, the sharp, long lines of him in his suit…those things deserve to be committed to paper. That’s all Miles is saying.

Anyways, nobody was ever supposed to actually see this sketchbook. Miles still kept it in the back of a drawer most of the time, and had a primary book that he used more often too. But he’d taken it with him to the dorm and it was still in his bag when he’d visited last week and it had fallen out and open and…

Well, Miles is grateful the more explicit art hadn’t been on display, but Miguel is sill here for dinner. Miles wants to melt through the floor, or perhaps set off another collider just to get out of it. He’d talked to Miguel first of course, and they have their story straight about where they met (Miguel is a graduate student at Miles’ college), when (at the start of the year), and how long they’ve been together (five months).  They definitely didn’t get together when Miles was underage, no ma’am or sir, and Miguel totally isn’t a superhero from another dimension nope.

“Miles does have a tendency to leave things out,” Miguel agrees amiably as he comes inside. “Thanks for having me.” Out of his suit he’s not quite so a striking a figure, but he fills out his button-down and jeans well and practically towers over Rio. Even more surprising is when Miles’ dad, Jefferson, steps up to shake Miguel’s hand as well, and Miles has the realization that  Miguel towers over him too. Miles is the same height as his father now, even if he’ll never have Jefferson’s wider build, but in his mind that’s still his dad. Larger than life and stronger than anything. He doesn’t look fragile next to Miguel exactly but it’s a near thing.

Miles feels an elbow in his side and glances down at his mother, finding it difficult to shift his attention from where Miguel and his dad are exchanging awkward pleasantries. Sizing each other up, Miles thinks. His mother is also watching them but she glances up at Miles from the corner of her eye, smirks, says, “Eres como tu mama.”

She’s already heading for the kitchen by the time Miles catches her implication; that she chose a man three times her size, and now her son is following in her footsteps. He feels himself heat in embarrassment, and when he glances at Miguel he knows the man’s superior hearing picked the comment up too. Jerk.

“Vamos, boys!” Rio calls, successfully breaking Jefferson and Miguel apart. Miles isn’t even sure what they’d been talking about at this point and raises an eyebrow at his boyfriend in silent question. Miguel just shrugs as he falls in just behind Miles’ shoulder, following him into the dining room.

“Te pareces a ella, también,” Miguel murmurs, nearly making Miles trip.

Everyone please stop comparing me to my mother he thinks desperately because there’s no time for him to reprimand Miguel or his mother out loud. At least not without embarrassing himself further.

Rio hands them each a plate as they pass her on their way to the table. And because she will forever be Miles mother through and through, the first thing she says when she sits down is, “So, Miguel, ¿cuántos años tiene?”

Miles nearly does a spit take and his first bite hasn’t even reached his mouth yet.

If Miguel is put off by the question he doesn’t look it. Well, he looks mildly constipated but that’s kind of just his resting bitch face. “I’m thirty-six,” he replies evenly.

“Thirty-six!?” Jefferson repeats, aghast, and looks between Miguel and Miles. “No wonder Miles hasn’t said anything about you. Christ, you’re twice his age.”

Miles cringes, dropping his fork entirely. “Dad, please.”

“You father has a point,” Rio reprimands, but still turns and tells Jefferson, “Relax, baby. I’m sure Miguel is lovely.” Her gaze is sharp and warning when she tacks on, “But we’ll see.”

The table descends into awkward silence. Miles notices that Miguel isn’t eating, just pushing his food around on his plate. He clears his throat after a while and Miles wants to groan. This can’t be good.

“If it helps,” Miguel says haltingly, “I didn’t pursue him.  He’s…persistent.”

His parents give slow, reluctant agreement with this statement and Miles rolls his eyes. He wants to remind Miguel that he’s been more than enthusiastic since they got together, but then decides this is probably not an appropriate place nor audience. Instead Miles just awkwardly tries to get a conversation moving. One that doesn’t involve the elephant in the room, but still draws Miguel out of his shell a little so his parents see exactly how amazing he is.

Unfortunately, Miguel’s resting bitch face really doesn’t give up. Miles knows it’s because he’s nervous as hell, but his parents don’t.

By the time the plates are being cleared, the air is a lot less awkward. at least His parents seem reluctantly impressed by the fact that Miguel’s a geneticist and listen when he explains a few of the tamer experiments Miles knows he has going on. He makes it sound like they’re happening in an lab on campus and not in another universe, and also like he’s a PhD student. As far as cover stories go it’s pretty good.

“So how did you two meet?” Rio asks as she’s stacking everyone’s plates and passing them to Jefferson to take to the kitchen.

Immediately Miles perks up, because they practiced this. “He’s part of the mentor program for the undergrads! He got assigned to a friend of mine.”

At the exact same moment Miles says “Genke,” Miguel says, “Gwen.”

They both pause, Miles swiveling to stare wide-eyed at his boyfriend. “Uh,” he says. When he glances back at Rio her eyes are narrowed suspiciously. Thank fuck Jefferson is already in the kitchen and didn’t hear that. Mom senses are even better than cop senses but at least now it’s two on one instead of an even playing field.

“Gwen!” Miles corrects, smiling like nothing at all is wrong. “I meant to say Gwen! Man, it’s so hard having two friends with Gs names. Gotta give em nicknames or something,” he finishes lamely with a small, awkward laugh.

Rio’s suspicious look hasn’t eased. “No me digas,” she says, in that way that clearly means uh-huh, yeah, sure. Usually Miles hears that right before he’s grounded. But seeing as there’s company and also he’s eighteen, she just shakes her head. “I’m going to help your father clean up in the kitchen. There’s dessert though, so no te escapes, claro?”

“Si, mami,” Miles says obediently. “We’re not going anywhere.”

He sits very, very still until she’s finally out of the room. Then he drops his head head to the table with a long, dramatic groan. A moment later he feels Miguel’s big hand on his nape, squeezing gently in that way that makes Miles boneless.

“It’s not so bad,” his boyfriend murmurs. “I like them. They obviously care for you, and I’d be suspicious too if my kid brought home someone like me.”

Miles rocks his head to the side and glares up at Miguel. “You’re fucking amazing, and I want them to love you like I do.” He pauses, considers the words that just left his mouth, then adds, “Well, not exactly like I do, but still.”

The corner of Miguel’s mouth tilts up in a small smile, and it’s the most relaxed he’s looked all night. Miles desperately wants his parents to see this softer, caring side of Miguel.  “They’re certainly closer to my age than you are.”

Miles sits up so quickly it dislodges Miguel’s hand from his nape, and he narrows his eyes playfully. “Hey! My parents are off limits, old man.”

Miguel just smirks, the asshole, and then Rio and Jefferson are back so Miles can’t even say anything else without thoroughly embarrassing every single person at the table. He almost considers doing anyways it just to spite Miguel.

[gamebird]

A post about my Murderbot Diaries fanfics

A lot of my TMBD fanfiction links together. Someone called it the 'Gamebird Cinematic Universe'. So you'll see events referenced across fics, backstory fleshed out, and missing scenes filled in, with the information spread out across a lot of stories. I also ship Murderbot and Gurathin, but not within the canon timeline. Thus, there are a lot of fics where that hasn't happened yet, or where they are not both present.

I've put them all together in a single series for convenience, and broken out the ones that are separate AUs or unrelated one-shots.

.

Gamebird Cinematic Universe stories in (mostly) chronological order:

After Hacking - This is pre-ASR, a series of stories that track Murderbot's growing personhood and abilities during the 4 years after it hacks its governor module to before the events of All Systems Red. Each installment is around 1,000 words and they are all designed as stand-alone stories.

It's Only a Cleaning Process - Murderbot enjoys a particularly thorough cleaning process that can definitely be interpreted sexually. Murderbot declines to interpret it that way.

Two Ships, Passing in the Night - ART shows off for another ship. Seth is not amused.

Ratthi's Proposition - At the start of the ASR survey, Ratthi propositions Gurathin. This is an event referred to in various other fics.

[ASR happens here]

Rogue Trends - This is a data analyst digging into the circumstances behind Murderbot going rogue, and what happened to the other SecUnits that were in Ganaka Pit. It was my first TMBD fic and is much acclaimed.

Gurathin's Side of the Story - A retelling of ASR, ES, and other portions from Gurathin's point of view, along with key elements of his backstory. There is a little MB/G in it (occasional badly-veiled one-sided yearning; Murderbot doesn't know or care, as per canon).

BATNA - This recounts Mensah's captivity in Exit Strategy.

Things SecUnit Will Never Know - Missing scene at the end of Exit Strategy, tells the story of how the group restored Murderbot's brain after the gunship collapse.

Trust Fall - Set in the flashback scene of Network Effect - Overse and Arada argue about being cut out of the need-to-know list regarding the assassination attempt on Dr. Mensah.

Resignation - This is an elaboration of this line from Network Effect: Since I'd decided to stay (temporarily) on Preservation Station, Dr. Mensah had asked me to go places with her seven times. Six of those times were just relatively short boring meetings on ships in orbit or in dock. The seventh was when she had asked me to go down to the local planet's surface with her., telling the story of Mensah's slow crumble after the events of BATNA.

The Skinny - Murderbot sends a letter to Bharadwaj about the ways SecUnits are misused on contract. This would be in Network Effect, after the festival and before the water planet survey. This was another of my very early TMBD fics.

A Funeral for Killware - At the end of Network Effect, before System Collapse, those in orbit over the Adamantine Colony have an observance for those who were lost.

Retrieval - Three retrieves one of its fallen fellows.

Tarrathi - Tarik and Ratthi get together in System Collapse, missing scene fic.

The Talk - Perihelion's crew talk to it about how it met Murderbot. Or try to.

[post System Collapse, nebulous undefined mission with ART; in other words: canon that hasn't been published yet]

Repeat Deletion Protocol - Back on Preservation, SecUnit confronts Ratthi about a suspicious situation with one of Ratthi's partners, only to discover this isn't the first time it's confronted Ratthi about this.

De-constructed Feelings - Ratthi realizes/discovers Gurathin's past with constructs, and his present feelings toward one construct in particular. Gurathin swears him to secrecy, because he intends to take this secret to his grave. After all, Murderbot has no interest in him whatsoever and that's fine.

Skulk - This consists of the origin story for a rogue Combat SecUnit named Skulk, and then an adventure with Murderbot, Ratthi, and Gurathin.

Murderathin - This follows immediately after the end of the Skulk series and is my attempt to separate the MB/Gurathin material from the non-MB/G stuff so those readers who want to avoid shippy stuff can do so. Upon leaving the planet Skulk was on, Murderbot confronts Gurathin about certain feelings it has unexpectedly detected from him. This is where Gurathin's Side of the Story is told, although the events of it (ASR, ES, etc.) happen earlier.

[Young Gurathin section not in chronological order]

What is Love? - A late-teens Gurathin explores his sexual interests with a standard ComfortUnit in the Corporation Rim. Even back then, he wonders if there is more behind those eyes, or if he's just seeing what he wishes was there.

To Like or Not to Like - This is Gurathin in his mid-20s (I headcanon him around 50 in ASR) with a ComfortUnit. Nothing sexual or romantic this time, just two beings trying to understand one another and themselves.

[Back to chronological order]

Depends on Viewpoint - Gurathin and Bharadwaj discuss differences between the Corporation Rim and Preservation.

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Other series:

Last Client Standing - ASR, but GrayCris attacks PresAux first instead of DeltFall. This is disastrous. Murderbot is only able to save Gurathin. They escape, eventually, returning to Preservation where there is grieving and therapy, with a hopeful ending.

TMBD Metas and Headcanons - What it says on the tin. Most of these are analyses of canon, but a few are my headcanons for ComfortUnits, Combat SecUnits, and Preservation.

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Other stuff (one-shots or nearly so):

Freeze Response - Murderbot tries to figure out where a little girl went. Few words, many kudos.

SexUnit - Two versions of the same outline, one with Murderbot, one with an OC SecUnit. Both are used for sex. This is rape.

Two Peas in a Pod - Murderbot and Gurathin work together to retrieve two gestational units that have been locked in cryofreeze pods. Although both MB and Gurathin are in this fic, it isn't shippy in any romantic way. Barely even platonic.

Imagine Dragons - Murderbot tries to guard Gurathin from hostile fauna. I don't think this is particularly shippy. I think Murderbot would act the same way with any of its clients.

Personalized Security Services - Murderbot and Mensah fuck. This is not rape.

If Hostile One Had Bit Ratthi Instead of Bharadwaj in ASR - Just what it says on the tin.

Just a Piece - A man and an obliging SecUnit fuck. This is not rape.

Preservation Alliance, Politics, and World-Building - This is included in the Meta series, but is important enough for me to call it out individually. It's the background for nearly everything I've written in TMBD that has a setting in Preservation. It tells about languages, planets, and cultures.

There are also some drabbles and a couple longer one-shots I didn't count. You can find them in my AO3 works list. I have participated in two collaborative writing events, one Counting Down (combined PresAux and Perihelion crew get contaminated by alien remnants while planetside and have to fight off a CR sanitation team) and the other is Enemies, Closer (MB/G/ART/Echo). The first is not shippy in the least; the second is all shipping all the time.