#lines like you can kill me for keeping my alive so long
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“you’re mine“ for alpha 17 pretty please 😮💨🙏🏻
All Mine
Summary: Alpha-17 is a possessive man and everyone knows not to touch when he considers his. It’s unfortunate that the new trainer didn’t get that memo. Well. Unfortunate for him.
Pairing: Alpha-17 x F!Reader
Word Count: 1446
Warnings: Attempted SA. It isn't shown in detail, and it's more hinted around, but please be careful if you think it might trigger you.
Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly
A/N: Alright. So this is, quite literally, the oldest ask in my inbox and I'm so so so sorry that it took me so long to get to it! Please forgive me!
Alpha-17 stretches his legs out in front of him from where he’s sitting in “his” chair in her office on Kamino. His chair, in the sense that no one else sits in it. Partly because the only time people come to this particular office is when they need tech support.
Not that he minds. It means that he has plenty of time to be alone with his cyare.
And he can never have enough of that.
He watches her work for a moment, her gaze focused on the pile of datapads stacked on the desk in front of her. She mentioned, earlier, that these needed to be formatted for the up and coming cadets, and that she’d be working on it all day.
It is her way of informing him that she’s not going to be able to give him a lot of attention while she’s working. Her way of suggesting that he spend the day doing something more worthwhile than watching her work.
Alpha knows that she worries about him getting bored.
As if he could ever get bored when she’s in his line of sight. Even if she’s wearing the formless uniform that the Kaminoans require.
“You’re staring at me, Alpha.” Her voice is light, though she doesn’t look up from her work.
“You don’t want me to stare then you shouldn’t be looking so pretty.” Alpha counters.
She finally lifts her gaze and shoots him an amused look, “Alpha, I’m wearing a formless uniform, and my hair is pulled into a bun, and I’m not even wearing make-up.”
“And yet you’re still stunning, if you were wearing make-up and did your hair no one would ever get any work done around here.” Alpha teases with a crooked grin.
“You’re not getting any work done anyway,” She points out, with her own teasing smile.
“It won’t kill the cadets to wait a little bit before their training starts.”
“They’re not cadets, Alpha, they’re up and coming ARCs and you’re going to give them anxiety.”
“Good. It’ll keep them alive.”
“Alpha!”
He grins at her, “Don’t worry, cyare. I’ll get to them before they get into any trouble.” She looks doubtful, and his grin widens, “What? Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you, but I also know you, Alpha-17.”
He chuckles and pushes to his feet to cross the room in several long strides, before ducking his head to drop a kiss to her cheek, “I’ll see you this afternoon, cyare.”
She turns her head to favor him with a warm smile, “It’s a date.”
Alpha chuckles and takes her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles, before he releases her and saunters out the room, pausing only long enough to tug his helmet over his head.
Wouldn’t do for the little shits to see him in a good mood, after all. He does have a reputation to keep.
Several, very long, hours later—somehow the ARC Cadets seem to get more and more annoying by the day— Alpha keys in the door code to his cyare’s suite and stops just in the door to strip off his armor.
She might not mind having his armor pressed against her, but he doesn’t like the bruises that she gets from the hard ridges of his armor. Not to say that he minds bruising her, because nothing could be further from the truth, but he wants to do the bruising manually.
Does that make him an asshole? Yeah. Probably.
“Cyare, I’m back!”
She pokes her head around a corner, and flashes him a bright smile, “Welcome home, I’m making pasta for dinner.”
“How you manage to work all day and still have time to cook a homemade dinner is beyond me, cyar’ika.” Alpha says with a wry smile as he walks further into the suite and follows her into her “kitchen”, which is really more of a kitchenette, as he’s heard her complain on more than one occasion.
“I am a talented woman,”
“You’ll get no arguments from me,” Alpha agrees, as he bumps his hip against the counter to watch her work. She changed out of her work clothes, and is wearing leggings and one of his shirts, which is curious.
Normally she dons tank tops when she’s relaxing at home, or tee shirts. Never long sleeves.
“Hm...what’s this about?” Alpha asks as he lightly plucks the collar of the shirt, “Since when do you wear long sleeves when you’re relaxing?”
There’s a flicker of something on her face. Not fear, because she’s never been afraid of him in her life, but uncertainty maybe.
Alpha’s eyes narrow, “What happened?”
“Don’t lose your cool-”
“Cyare. What happened?”
She hesitates a moment longer, and then sighs and sets the wooden spoon down on a paper towel. “Before I tell you, I need you to know that I’m fine. Colt stopped...well. Colt helped.”
“Not. Helping.”
“Sorry, sorry.” She tugs up the sleeve of her shirt, revealing a series of bruises on her wrist and up her arm.
Bruises in the shape of hands.
Gently, Alpha takes her arm in his hands and he brushes his fingers over the bruises. They’re smaller than his hands, smaller than any of his brothers too. “What happened?”
“Well, you know how the Kaminoans reached out to a new Mandalorian trainer?”
Something unhappy slides across his face, “Yes.”
“Well...he thought...um...he felt-” She trails off, “Colt stopped him. That’s the important thing.”
Alpha doesn’t say anything for a long time.
“Are you mad?”
“I’m kriffing pissed,” Alpha finally replies, though, as his free hand comes up to caress her cheek, it’s so very gentle, “But not at you. Never at you.”
She presses her cheek into his hand, “I didn’t do anything to encourage-”
“I know, ad’ika. I know.” His voice is low and reassuring before he leans in and lightly brushes his lips against hers, “Why don’t you let me treat this, before we eat dinner, hm?”
She scans his face, “You’re not going to do anything...dramatic? Are you?”
His smile is soft and reassuring, “I will react in a very reasonable way.”
“Reasonable for me, or reasonable for you?” She asks.
Alpha hums thoughtfully, before he brushes his thumb across her cheek, “You’re mine.” There’s a hint of something quietly possessive in his voice, “Don’t worry, ad’ika. He won’t touch you again.”
“...you’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”
Alpha meets her gaze evenly, “Do you really want me to answer that?”
She’s quiet for a long time, and then she smiles softly, “Would you like garlic bread with dinner?”
“I would love some garlic bread with dinner.” Alpha replies, before he drops one more kiss against her lips.
Alpha treats her injuries with a gentle reverence that makes her look at him with adoring eyes, and he remains at her side while they eat dinner, and watch a holo.
In fact, he doesn’t slip out of her quarters until she’s fast asleep in bed, curled around his pillow.
Only then does he drop a feather light kiss to her temple, pull on his armor, and slip out of her suite to deal with the situation.
He runs into Colt first. The younger man straightens and stares at him for a moment, before he produces a blaster and offers it to Alpha, “This blaster vanished from inventory six weeks ago.”
Alpha chuckles as he takes the blaster, “And it’s going to vanish again after tonight?”
Colt shrugs, “It happens.” He steps around Alpha, and then pauses, “Also, there’s been a bug in security. Everything is down for the foreseeable future.”
“Good man.”
“We look after our own, vod.” Colt’s smirk is dark, “Eventually they’ll figure it out. Shoot me a comm when we finish. I’ll help you clean up.”
“Copy that.” The two men go in different direction, Alpha heading deeper into the Trainer’s wing, while Colt headed towards the Cadet Barracks.
The next day, it’s reported that the new trainer has run off, taking all of his belongings and a crate of weapons from storage. It’s also reported that he sabotaged security so no one would see him escape.
When Alpha hears the news, he’s sitting next to her on her bed dressed in his armor.
A smile, slow and dark, slides across his face, and then he’s pressing a gentle kiss against her lips, “Have a good day, Alpha.” She says, soft and sweet, as though she’s not aware that he murdered a man for her the night before.
“I intend to, ad’ika.” He presses one more kiss to her lips, and then he’s gone, it’s time that the ARC cadets learn what it means to be Vod’e.
#star wars#tcw#alpha-17 x reader#star wars fanfiction#x reader fanfiction#f!reader fic#tw: sa#tw: attempted assault#answered asks
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Ok so I started watching the life series when they were all out so I couldn’t rly make theories while waiting for new episodes
BUT
I thought of a scenario that would be rly cool and sad if it would happen
Ok so, since Jimmy always (perma) dies first and everyone says he has to win if he doesn’t, I thought that what if SCOTT dies first and Jimmy wins it for him…
Full on flower husbands angst
#and then when he’s a ghost or at the brink of getting yeeted out the word he says something like ‘for you my love’#or sm like that#a classic sad romantic line before DEATH#can’t have a life series without lines like that#not saying the one I made was good#it’s literally so cliche#but u know what I mean#lines like you can kill me for keeping my alive so long#we can still be friends#they are for your secret soulmate#Tilly death do us part#the whole scene where martyn kills ren to make him the red king in third life#all that good stuff#trafficblr#flower husbands#solidaritygaming#dangthatsalongname#third life#last life#double life#limited life#desert duo#treebark#hermitcraft#mcyt
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Deep breath.
I am a solidly middle-aged fangirl, and my last real fan community before OFMD was the X-Files. (I feel like I am not the only one here who fits that description).
The news that we aren’t getting a new season of Our Flag Means Death is hitting me harder than I expected.
So I am thinking about Scully.
There’s this X-Files episode called “Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose.” The plot is about a guy who can see into the future and tell people how they die.
Scully asks him, "How do I die?"
And Clyde Bruckman replies, simply, "You don't."
I've seen fans speculate that Scully winds up becoming immortal by the end of the series. But, 22 years after the end of the show's original run, that line has taken on a new meaning for me.
Scully doesn't die, she can't die, because I still think about her. Scully is immortal because there are fans still writing her into stories, still making art, still getting inspired by her and pursuing medicine and science.
You cannot truly kill a story. You can cancel a TV show. You can, if you're an asshole, make fun of fan creators and their ideas. If you're really an asshole (and a media conglomerate), you can send them cease and desist letters and tell them to stop making art that breathes new life into that story. But the story will not die.
I draw a lot of hope from the long, long history of fandom. The people who loved stories enough to keep them alive, even when it wasn't clear that there would ever be another "official" work in their lifetimes. The Sherlock Holmes fans. The Star Trek fans.
How does a story die?
It doesn’t.
#our flag means death#ofmd#ofmd season 3#save ofmd#ofmd fandom#x files#this has all happened before and this will all happen again
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walp
hear me out on this
Aventurine's bodyguard (reader), but they are used as leverage against Aven during the 2.1 Trailblaze Quest, if Aven tries to leave the Dreamscape or reveals anything of Sunday's scheme, Sunday murders Reader and makes it seem like a freak accident 😀😀
Sunday when I catch you Sunday
I liked this request the moment I saw it so I rushed to do it as soon as I got enough time to work on it 😭
you being used against Aventurine as his weak spot during the 2.1 trailblaze quest
notes - gn!reader, 2.1 spoilers, angst but nothing bad happens to you, hopeful at the end, sunday is most likely ooc since it's written before 2.2, no beta
Sunday doesn't make a direct threat. It's a very subtle hint, a small warning. Yet it's obvious enough for Aventurine to understand the meaning behind Sunday's words immediately. How can he not when it concerns you?
There's a visible anger on his face when he glares at Sunday.
"You wouldn't dare, you wing-headed bastard. Do you think the IPC is stupid enough to believe that the death of my personal bodyguard tgat accompany me everywhere is a coincidence? Do you think I'll let it slide?!"
Oh, he's seething. Such raw emotions, such obvious worry, such obvious fear. Sunday knew he would get him good but that? Truly intriguing.
But how can he not feel that way? How can he play it cool, cover his fear and shield himself with short on-line answers?
This time he can't hide how much his hands are shaking.
Sunday is quick to remind Aventurine that in his current pitiful state, 17 hours to live and all, he hardly can do anything.
He also graciously reminds Aven that nothing will happen to you as long as he does his part.
Aventurine is such a mess after that conversation. Ratio tries to calm him down a bit by rationalizing the situation. Surely Sunday is bluffing. The Family, no matter how questionable they seem, are not murderers. Plus, surely Aventurine knows his own bodyguard well enough to know that you're not easy to kill. Many has tried and yet here you are, still alive and well.
But how can Aventurine just brush it off when it's you who may be in danger?
That what he was afraid of the whole time. That he'll lose you like he has lost everyone else. That your blood will be on his hands.
He asks Ratio to look after you and to escort you to safety if something happens. The promise doesn't calm him down but Ratio is a reliable and smart person. So he chooses to trust him, no matter how hard it is. After all, Aven doesn't have much choice.
When the two of you reunite, you can immediately see that he's shaken. He tries to hide his pitiful state from you, not wanting you to know that his time is running out. He wants to warn you instead, to tell you that you may be in danger. But he knows you won't take it seriously and instead would insist on taking care of him and protecting him.
He comes up with some lies (aeons, he hates lying to you of all people) and asks you to start your own investigation. To go back to the real world and to team up with Topaz and Jade.
It takes some time to convince you but eventually you reluctantly agree. He sees how much you hate leaving him like this and it's both heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time.
Aven is an even bigger mess now than he was in the game. He tries to tell himself that you're okay, that Ratio will accompany you to the real world and Topaz will look after you once you're there.
But how can he be sure? How? His "future" self asks him this mockingly, pointing out that you're smart, that you'll immediately understand that he has deliberately sent you away to keep you from something.
No matter how msny times he tells this "future self" to shut up, he knows he's right. So he can only pray that he'll be able to deal with the Family before you get yourself in danger.
Image you showing up during the final act just to see him threatening to detonate the Stellaron. Him trying to continue the "show" despite the ache in his heart. You, knowing he's bluffing but being unable to stop this insanity.
After the events of 2.1, he seeks you out as soon as he returns to the real world. He needs to know that you're alive, that you're safe. Even if you're angry with him now, even if you may not forgive him (of course you will he's just insecure like that), he needs to know you're fine.
So imagine his relief when you (safe, unarmed, alive) embrace him and hold him tightly, so overwhelmingly happy he's back.
image his reaction to finding out that you're alive and well and sunday has presumably kicked the bucket 💀
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i wonder if you stopped his world like you did mine
rating: teen
pairing: frankie morales x f!reader
word count: 5K
summary: watching the woman he loves be with someone else is killing him, but for your sake, he manages. But when Benny's birthday loosens him up, he can't help but bear his soul over a phone call. Too bad you don't pick up and he's forced to leave the evidence in a voicemail.
tags/warnings: pining, light angst, idiots in love, country music as a catalyst, romance, tw alcohol, tw drinking, hangovers, ultimately very fluffy
a/n: Happy Valentine's Day @toomanystoriessolittletime! I hope you receive and give all the love you need and want! I've had this idea for a while, but once I saw that Frankie was your fave, I knew I had to do it!
one day i’m gonna do the series of all of my favorite country songs with a Pedro boy. This is one of them: Singles You Up by Jordan Davis. Had thoughts of Me and My Kind by Cody Johnson for our ever-fantastic Jack Daniels and Hurricane by Luke Combs for Joel. One day, my loves, one day.
🤍Masterlist | Frankie Morales Masterlist
Frankie Morales has a problem.
Given the life expectancy in his line of work – all things considered – it really wasn’t that bad of a problem. Sure, his knees were busted, his shoulder aches when it was cold out, and his ex keeps hounding him for money he doesn’t have. But on the flipside, his little family unit of friends and brothers united by combat are (mostly) all alive and healthy. He has a steady job and his little girl, whom he loves and adores, thinks the sun shines out of his ass. All things considered, there’s not much else he can ask for. He’s far better off than some of the men and women at Will’s talks, or in Santiago’s field teams.
So – really, truly, seriously – all things considered . . . he can’t classify this as a bad problem.
In fact, this is a problem he would willingly have. Gladly even. Not quite joyously, but if it’s a choice between this problem and not having the problem at all, he will choose having this consistent, thorny, kind-of-hurts-to-breathe-sometimes problem every single time.
And right now, it’s wearing a dress.
Uh, well, you’re wearing a dress. An off-white, hinging-on-cream, dress that sits above your knees, cuts flat and wide across your chest, and puffs out into cotton sleeves that remind him of those conchas his abuela used to make. Sweet, fluffy, and absolutely forbidden.
Until the time is right, at least. His abuela always made him wait to eat until the time was right.
He calls it – you – a problem, when in fact, it’s the opposite of a problem. There is nothing he would ever want to change about the warm, engulfing feeling that starts somewhere in his stomach and rises like conchas up his spine until it’s somewhere in his ribs, then under his breastbone, right by his –
He would kill anyone who tried to take that feeling away from him. It’s when he feels most alive, most present, most out of his head – like these things in the dark and sleeping corners of his mind that nip and bite at him can’t find him. He’s thrown them off his scent in his search for you and, even for a brief moment, he can step into the light.
There is no problem, in how you look tonight, how you look every night, with your bright shining smile, sweet-smelling hair, cowboy boots, glass of whiskey – you had such a fantastic taste in –
Wait.
That’s not whiskey. Not even a whiskey glass.
That’s –
“White wine?” Benny yelps as he leans forward and his chair legs clatter against the concrete floor. “If that’s Moscato, I’m calling the cops because you’ve been replaced by an equally hot body double.”
You roll your eyes as you sit down and take a long drink from your glass, as if to make a point. Frankie’s eyes are drawn to where your dress hangs over your crossed legs, exposing the curve of your thigh.
“It’s not fucking Moscato, Benjamin,” you say, eyes narrowed, completely side-stepping his compliment, like you always do. “It’s Chardonnay. Nick recognized the vineyard on the menu so he recommended it. Thought I’d give it a try, because I like trying something new, Benjamin.”
He rolls those beautiful blue eyes and leans forward towards you at the table, that grin that brings grown women to their knees plastered across his face. He knocks back his cowboy hat with a tap of his knuckle.
“Well, excuse the fuck outta me.”
“The fuck outta you is excused.”
You tug his hat back down over his face, smirking back at him, just as Nick saunters over – with what looks to be a wine glass of his own.
Okay, in hindsight, you’re not the problem.
His real fucking problem is Nick.
Your boyfriend.
Frankie, who has decided to only drink beer around you since The Almost Incident, takes three long pulls so he doesn’t have to watch Nick and his stupid hands slide across your exposed back and sit down in Santi’s empty chair.
“Happy Birthday, man, thanks for inviting me out.” Nick says briefly, raising his glass to Benny. “But I gotta say, I was a little worried when my girl here said your party was gonna be at a country dance hall. I’ve never been to one of these. I had to buy cowboy boots just for the occasion.”
He sticks his leg out, and rotates his gator-skin boot back and forth as if to illustrate how important to him this whole thing is.
But Benny doesn’t look down, doesn’t approve the boots, or Nick’s attempt at fitting in. Instead, he just smirks, his smile growing fat and lazy, a bit of the warmth fading from his blue eyes.
“Your first time at a cowboy hoe-down? I had no idea.”
Nick grins, because he doesn’t know Benny well enough to see the dig for what it is. But you do. You know him and you know he’s ragging on your boyfriend. You narrow your eyes and shame coats Frankie’s chest. Because he knows also Benny and he knows why he’s giving Nick such a hard time.
See, the problem isn’t you, or even your boyfriend – not really.
Nick is actually a decent guy. He treats you right, if a little delicately, but he buys you drinks, takes you places Frankie could never afford, in a car Frankie could never ever afford. Sometimes, you’ll say something, or tell a story and it’s obvious Nick doesn’t really understand you or your jokes, but he smiles along anyway. He makes good money and supposedly he keeps in touch with his mom. Nick is the kind of guy any brother would want his sister to date.
So the problem isn’t that Nick is a bad boyfriend, but that he’s your boyfriend.
The problem that Frankie Morales has is that he is painfully, achingly, in love with you.
And he’s your friend.
Maybe that would change, if he ever could work up the guts to say something. For fuck’s sake, he’s killed people – asking you out can’t be that much worse (as Santi often reminds him). But if the guys you’re into are like Nick, or even Nick-adjacent, then what fucking chance does he have? He never thought money was important to you, but apparently it is and that’s something he definitely can’t give you.
Or maybe you like the stability of a high-paying job with fucking miraculous health-care. And that’s two things more he can’t offer: stability and health-care.
So, maybe, maybe his problem isn’t with you or Nick or the fact that Nick is your boyfriend. It’s that he never could be. He, with one failed marriage already behind him and a coke rap sheet, has nothing to give you . . .
And you deserve the world.
You deserve more than he can offer you. You deserve better than him.
That’s his real fucking problem. And one he can't ever fix.
Will couldn’t get off work to come to this, so he owed Benny a beer and a nice steak dinner – according to Benny. Santi, despite absolutely swearing up and down for a week he wouldn’t be caught dead in cowboy boots and a hat, showed up tonight in full gear, belt-buckle included because he lost a bet with Benny over the Thursday night game. Santi, like everything else in his life, researched the hell out of the two teams, their past history, older statistics of both the players and the coach. He was confident, so confident, that he put his pride on the line.
Never a good idea with Benny Miller.
I don’t know, Benny said at the sports bar when his team was whooping Santi’s team’s ass, I just had a good feeling. Presumably, Santi did three shots before leaving and with another two in his system at the bar, all anger and frustration and embarrassment and inhibition had melted away and now Santi was doing what Santi did best, especially when drunk: dancing with beautiful women.
“The son of a bitch can dance, I’ll give him that. ” Benny muses as the three of you watch Santi, who despite having been taught the moves three minutes ago by two gorgeous blondes, complete a perfect line dance of Copperhead Road.
“Oh, shit, I could never do that.” Nick shakes his head. “Not even after a hundred classes.”
“Ah, I find that hard to believe, Nicky Boy. You seem like a natural,” Benny smirks over the lip of his beer bottle. He finds Frankie’s eyes and winks.
You are not amused. You glare at him over Nick’s shoulder for the second time tonight.
“It’s really not that hard,” you smile tightly and squeeze Nick’s shoulder. “I can teach you.”
“Oh, yeah, don’t you know your girl here?” Benny leans back in his chair, balancing against the rung of Nick’s chair by the ball of his foot. “She used to put all of us to shame. Dancing the night away, leading the crowd in line dancing. In fact, if I remember correctly, she and Frankie used to get into all sorts a-trouble on the dance floor. Isn’t that right, Frankie?”
Now he drew a glare from you and Frankie.
Don’t, man, just don’t.
Benny shrugs, swallowing his smirk with another sip of beer, hands raised. Just trying to help out.
Over the speakers, the song winds to a close and the crowd does their final spin. Across the dance floor, Santi bows, his hat sweeping the floor, to both of the girls who giggle like high schoolers.
“I’m gonna go get Boot Scootin’ Boogie over there some water before he up-chucks all over those nice ladies.” Benny stands and fixes his hat. “You guys want anything?”
Frankie shakes his head, his own hat that Benny insisted he wear, making the line of sweat across his forehead itch. You and Nick decline as well. You’ve barely even touched your drink, Frankie notes with a certain level of satisfaction.
As Benny walks towards the bar, the next song starts up and you let out a squeal. Bring on The Good Times has been one of your favorite songs since college. And Frankie should know – he introduced it to you.
“This one is the best! A classic!” You grab Nick’s forearm, but he almost immediately pulls it back.
“Ah, babe, my first line dance is not gonna be in front of strangers! I’ll embarrass you and me. Why don’t you ask Frankie?”
Fuck, why could Nick just be a raging, flaming asshole? This would be so much fucking easier.
Frankie swallows his beer empty, an excuse for a refill prepped. He hates cowboy hats, but he’d fucking set fire to the sky for Benny – he just hopes he immolates himself in the process. The giant brim makes him feel like he’s got a neon sign over his head that blinks, I Am A Giant Dork. Only further proven if he gets anywhere near that dance floor with his two left feet.
Your eyes are unreadable as he tries to coax your boyfriend into taking you dancing.
“Nah, man, you got this. Your girl’s a great teacher.” By some cowboy miracle, his voice is steady as he says those two words. On the table, your fingers curl in, your wine glass still untouched.
Nick makes a face, eyes flitting back and forth to the dancers as they start the dance.
“My feet are already killing me in these new boots. Besides, this isn’t really my song.”
Over his shoulder, you find Frankie’s eyes. He knows that look on you – he knows everything about you – and you’re trying to hide how hurt you are.
He’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing.
You and Nick stare up at him, surprised by how he practically bounded to his feet.
The sweat at the ring of his hat runs down the back of his neck. Frankie does the only thing halfway-normal and extends his hand.
“Alright, princesa, I’ll fill out your dance card.”
He doesn’t care, or even really register, the darkly confused frown Nick sends him when you stand up, take his hand, and smile at him. He feels warm all the way up to his chest.
“Thanks, Frankie. Let’s boogie.”
That was a mistake.
This whole fucking night is a mistake. God help him, he loves Benny like a brother but he should have just said no and promised to take him out later like Will. He would have bought Benny any drink, any ridiculous chicken wing plate he wanted if Frankie didn’t have to be here, right now.
Because right now, right now, that wall of self-control that he uses to stem the reservoir, to stem the flow of whatever you cause to pour out of him, it’s leaking. It’s busted holes and now he’s drenched with it – with the scent of you, with the memory of hair down the length of your neck, the heat of your skin overworked and flushed, the sweet taste of your breath in his mouth when you leaned forward, into his space, his senses, and whispered,
“C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this.”
But in his defense, he couldn’t feel his feet, much less make them move when he watched you with your skirt rucked up high in your fists, your cowboy boots kicking like fish in a stream, and that smile – that fucking smile – brighter and sweeter than all the whiskey in the world.
C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this
C’mon, Frankie, you’re better than this.
C’mon, Frankie, tell me you love me.
Kiss me, Frankie. Kiss me now.
His restraint, his resolve that he will never, ever have you – he can feel it throb beneath his palms. Shudder and wobble under the thundering of his heart. It’s so close to breaking. Too close. This is why he doesn’t drink anything harder than beer around you. This is why he rarely drinks around you at all.
When Nick finally calls it a night because he’s already got a blister from the new boots, you don’t put up much of a fight. You’ve danced with Benny, you’ve danced with Santi and his gaggle of girls, Nick himself went up for a slow dance or two.
Frankie only ever asked for one.
He knows he disappointed you, has been disappointing you because you can feel him layering you away, brick by brick by brick. One of his oldest and longest friends, barely visible now, and he’s going over it with caulk to make sure you can’t touch this fragile, weak, emaciated thing he calls a heart.
The instant you walk out of the bar, Nick’s arm across your tense shoulders, he all but rushes for the bar.
“Six tequila shots, please.”
You wake up where you went to sleep: curled up on your couch, your giant Florida Gators blanket wrapped around you like a mentally-supportive straight-jacket, with Golden Girls reruns on the TV. The empty bottle of 19 Crimes explains the sticky, dry feeling in your mouth and the thundering headache accompanying swollen eyes and cheeks. You’d rather get hit by a train than have to move out of this position, but Nick has always been punctual.
Which, you assume, extends to picking up his stuff from your apartment first thing in the morning, his final threat that ended your conversation last night.
The sooner, the better, you mother fucker.
You blindly grab around for your phone, knowing that it’s most likely shoved into the deepest cracks of your couch, hoping against hope Panera delivers on a Saturday morning. There’s a distinct possibility you might start swinging if Nick shows up before you get a baguette and a coffee into your system.
The things he said about Benny and Santi last night on the drive home. This break up was a long time coming, but fuck, if this is what he’d been sitting on about your friends, what the fuck did he actually think of you?
And the things he implied about Frankie – how Frankie was in love with you and you were willingly not seeing it – ridiculous.
You fight the rancid taste of hope that anything Nick implied about Frankie might even remotely be true when you close your fingers around the shape of your phone at the far end of the couch.
22%
Just enough to order then yeet this fucking thing into another room because there is no way in hell you are answering Nick’s calls.
But, as you scroll through your notifications, maybe you should have answered Frankie’s.
He had called sporadically, starting about two hours after you and Nick had left the dance hall, all the way until four in the morning.
One text at 1AM: com e hang out wit us.i mis s you u
You smile, despite the obviously drunken text. Frankie rarely texted, only if it was dire need – and apparently, you continuing to party with the boys at 1AM was very, very dire. Judging by the eight missed calls.
Eight missed calls, but only one voicemail.
Like you’re about to settle down for some good TikTok scrolling, you lean back into the pillows, rubbing your eyes to clear the hazy fog, and press play.
First, there’s noise. Lots of it. Country music and people laughing and singing. Clearly still at the dance hall. You wish for a minute it is a video instead because you’d pay hand over fist to see those guys falling all over each other.
But then comes Santi. Over the years, you’d picked up some Spanish here and there, mostly enough not to embarrass yourself if you ever went to Miami.
But whatever Santi is saying, you’re not entirely sure it is Spanish, or any human language.
“Comotuamiga, teruegoqueselodigas porfavornopuedo hacerestopormucho mástiempo. Estaríasmásfeliz y ellaestaríamásfeliz. Nomemiresasí, sabesqueloúnico quequiereesqu labeses y la beses y luegohagasotrascosas – ¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste?”
There’s a shuffling, hushed voices, the music still far too loud to make anything out.
“Déjame en paz, dude.” Frankie. Frankie, very very very drunk. “I’m gonna – I’m gonna say – voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. She’ll get it. I know–,”
“Then say something now because you’re leaving a voicemail!”
“Ah, mierda – um, baby?”
In two words and two filler words, Frankie’s whole demeanor changes. You can almost picture him curled around the phone, his hand cradling the phone to his ear as he rests his head against a wall.
“Baby, listen – fuck, sorry, I’m starting all wrong. I shouldn’t even call you that – I shouldn’t call you ‘baby’ because you’re not mine. You’re not my baby or anyone else’s because you’re so fucking independent and I love that about you but I wish you were. Mine, I mean. Not a baby.”
You don’t even remember sitting up, but your feet are on the ground. You’ve dropped the phone onto the table in front of you, staring at it as if it’s been dripping poison into your ear. Your heart is pounding.
There’s silence from Frankie for a second, the music still loud, but it’s dampened. You can hear Frankie breathing, swallow, and start again.
“You looked so fuckin’ good tonight. You look good every night but fuck, baby, that dress. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Even for a second . . . he doesn’t tell you that you look so fucking good enough, you know? You should hear it all the time. I wanna tell you – tell you all the time – he didn’t say it once. Not once and that’s a fucking crime. He makes you drink white wine when I know you fucking hate it – I know you, baby. I know you more than I know myself because you’re all I fucking think about. You’re in here, all the time, all up in my chest, my throat, my gut – and you can have it. You can have it. You can have all of me, if you just . . .”
His voice breaks and your fingers clench around the edge of the cushion.
“If you just . . . look, I know this is so fucking outta line and I wanna say it to your face and I’m gonna but . . . when that fuckin’ moron forgets how good he has it, I’m gonna be there. Gonna be right there. Because –,”
And then like someone shoved a speaker right up against Frankie’s phone, as clear as day, you hear Benny yell:
“IF HE AIN’T HOLDING YOU TIGHT, IF HE AIN’T TREATIN’ YOU RIGHT, I’MA BE THE FIRST ONE CALLIN’ HIM CRAAAZY–,”
“Benny, fuck off!”
And then the call drops, along with it your stomach. In fact, it slides out of your body, slouches off the couch and melts into the floor.
Oh, Frankie, do you even mean a word of it?
The hangover rubbing your nerves raw, tears spring into your eyes, the silence and fear and terrible hope tightening like a band around your head and infinitely increasing the pressure in your temples. You want to cry but your eyes already feel too puffy.
You’re stuck, frozen by every single possible outcome or single next step spinning out like chaotic webbing you can easily catch yourself on.
This was a mistake, it had to be. He didn’t mean to call your phone. He had accidentally called you when he meant to call another girl . . . also with a boyfriend named Nick. Frankie, sweet Frankie, who you’ve all but outright begged to take an interest in you – said it with your eyes hundreds of times – Frankie couldn’t actually have feelings for you.
Not like you had for him. Not like the ones you’ve slowly plucked out of your ribs over the years because god, even just looking at him seared a scar across your heart.
Fuck. Fuck!
You snatch up your phone, wiping your teary eyes and frantically hoping he might have said a name or anything – he couldn’t possibly have meant you – when three loud bangs on your front door sends your phone into the air and your heart into your throat.
The way he calls your name is frantic, verging on hysterical. In a daze, you glance at the clock. 9:04. Frankie’s had about four hours of sleep, if any at all.
“Please, open the door! We gotta talk – there’s something – there’s something on your phone you shouldn’t hear – please, baby, open up –,”
You stare at the phone on your floor.
Don’t they always say you can’t tell the moments that irrevocably change your life until after they’re gone?
Not this time.
You open the door and either way, everything changes.
“C’mon, please, let me explain.” His voice has quieted, no longer shaking, softer as though wounded. “Just five minutes and I’m gone. I swear. We can forget the whole thing –,”
You open the door to a hungover Frankie Morales, still in the same outfit you saw him last in, but his eyes are rimmed with black circles, his patchy beard even more patchy as if he had rubbed the bristle clean off. He reeks of beer, peanuts, and cigarette smoke. His shirt is loose, wrinkled, his belt isn’t even on all the way, and he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
“What if I don’t want to forget it, Frankie?”
You see the realization strike him through the eyes, the throat, the chest, his gut, his brown eyes swimming with shame and horror. He leans over as if kicked and presses a hand against your doorway. His thumb rubs the corner and he swallows.
“So you listened to it already?”
“Yeah, I did.” He closes his eyes briefly, hanging his head, every apology in every language he knows sitting right behind his teeth. “But did you hear what I said?”
He frowns at you through those thick eyebrows. “What?”
“When I opened the door, did you hear what I said?”
“You said –,” that beautiful bottom lip parts from its sensual top and Frankie blinks at you. The oily blackness of shame has evaporated from his eyes, but that stormy fear rages on.
You inhale, breath getting caught on every knot in your spine, and step back.
“We need to talk.”
He glances once over his shoulder, as if taking in the hallway to your apartment for the last time, and he steps inside. Immediately his height and broadness fill out every empty space in your tiny living room and you’re launched back into the memory of when the boys came over for Christmas and there was hardly enough room for anyone, but somehow you all made it work and after four rounds of DDR, everyone was so tired and drunk, you passed out pillows and blankets and you spent your first adult Christmas at what could have been mistaken for a thirteen year old’s slumber party. It was one of the happiest times of your life.
His thick fingers clench and unclench when Frankie spies your phone on the floor, like a bomb waiting to go off.
Your brain struggles to default to hostess mode because you can’t think of anything to say.
Do you want coffee?
Do you want some cereal?
Do you want to–
“Tell me what happened last night.” You surprise yourself, Frankie, and your whirring brain by cutting right to it. As with the first question when you opened the door to him, there’s something inside of you that has taken on wings, spread them wide, and threatens to soar out of your body. Frankie’s here, he’s here, and he said he wants you –
He called you baby.
You breathe in, trying to scrape up some courage from the bottom of your lungs, wishing in the back of your mind under everything else that you’d chosen literally anything else to go to bed in than your Tweedie Bird shirt from Six Flags.
“I don’t understand, Frankie. Please help me understand.”
With a monumental sigh, he rubs his wide hand across his face and up into his hair, his other hand lifting his cap up off his head so his fingers can dig into his curls. It’s only then that you realize Benny’s cowboy hat he wore last night is gone and his tried and true Standard Oil ball cap is back. Meaning he must have gone home at some point. When did he realize (or remember) that he’d left you that voicemail?
“I’m gonna get my ass kicked,” he murmurs, eyes darting like a fox to your bedroom door. “Maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.”
“He’s not here.” This great thing arcs between you, the emptiness a presence and clarity all at the same time.
“What do you mean? Where is he?”
“We broke up.”
“When? Why?”
“Last night, after we left the bar. We got into an argument. He doesn’t like the way . . .”
Frankie – physically, mentally, emotionally, fundamentally – overwhelms you. He’s across the room in an instant, closer than you think he’s ever been before. But maybe this is the first and only time you’ve ever allowed yourself to enjoy it. Revel in his closeness and let this caged feeling in your chest break free. You touch his chest with the flat of your palm, the size of it, the breadth of him, staggering. You literally feel weak at the knees.
“He doesn’t like the way what?” His voice luxuriates in his throat – warm, deep. He sounds like what you imagine a hot spring feels like against your skin.
“He didn’t like the way I looked at you.” Your fingers make circles where they did into his shirt. His hands have found their way, after all this time, to your waist. “The way I always look at you, Frankie.”
His breath, subsequent to the ghost of his lips, across your forehead is so gentle it makes you close your eyes, to block out one sense to encourage another.
You feel him swallow even though he’s a foot away from you.
“Why –,” he stops, and starts again, just like on the phone call, “why do you look at me . . . when you have him?”
“Oh, Frankie.” His grip on your waist tightens as if you’re about to disappear forever. “I took him because I can’t have you.”
You blame the tears on the hangover, the headache, and the way he takes your chin between his thumb and knuckle.
Grateful.
He’s looking at you, eyes soft, mouth curved into a disbelieving smile, with gratitude.
“He’s the furthest thing from you because I tried to get you out of my system – I did – I promise. I can’t lose our friendship, Frankie, but it’s killing me . . . not having you. Nick said it was obvious the way I felt about you and that was a problem for our relationship, so he tried to make me choose between you and him and every time, without a doubt, I’ll always choose–,”
This is the right time, he supposes.
Hand over your cheek, he holds you still in silence to press his mouth to yours. The final word of your sentence dies on his tongue, muffled by a soft groan of surprise. Your breath is terrible, your skin is oily and damp, he knows he stinks like the bottom of a wet bar, but he can’t find himself to care. Your mouth opens to take him and the hand on your cheek sinks to your neck as you both move past the initial shock of I’m finally getting to do this and you’re not pulling away and into an actual, proper, deep kiss that sends sparks into his toes. Your tongue marks the bottom of his mouth, your arms going around his neck like you want more – you need more – and Frankie pulls back.
Not only because he’s slightly dizzy but because he a) won’t fuck you for the first time on your living room floor and b) absolutely will not do it hungover.
“Breakfast. Do you like . . . uhm, breakfast?” He can’t quite focus on a single spot on your face, eyes half-lidded and gaze blurred.
You giggle, letting his beard tickle your nose as you sneak your face into his neck. He sways a bit with you, his arms around your back, and you don’t think he’s even realizing what he’s doing.
“Yes, Frankie. I like breakfast. I eat it almost every day, in fact.”
He grunts, neck suddenly flushed, embarrassed. “Sorry, I mean –,”
“I know what you mean, baby.” You lean back and run your fingers through the thatch of curls at the back of his neck. Both of you are so grimy but you can’t care. “I’d love breakfast.”
Frankie smiles his Frankie smile and the thing in your chest is illuminated in gold.
“How do you feel about conchas?”
Translations:
Como tu amiga, te ruego que se lo digas. Por favor, no puedo hacer esto por mucho más tiempo. Estarías más feliz y ella estaría más feliz. No me mires así, sabes que lo único que quiere es que la beses y la beses y luego hagas otras cosas. = As your friend, I beg you to tell her. Please, I can't do this for much longer. You would be happier and she would be happier. Don't look at me like that, you know all she wants is for you to kiss her and kiss her and then do other things.
¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste? = Idiot! Did you call her?
Déjame en paz. Voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. = Leave me alone. I am going to tell her. She will know.
#SpaceSistersSecretValentine#frankie morales#frankie morales x reader#triple frontier#frankie morales x you#francisco catfish morales#triple frontier fanfiction#francisco morales#pedro pascal characters
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under the stars
joel miller x f!reader | masterlist
summary: joel finds that you become a thing of unnatural order, all ethereal as the moonlight kisses your curves.
wordcount: 3.7k
warnings: post outbreak. smut. oral sex (m receiving). tying joel up with rope. cutting joel free with a knife. p in v. jo's spelling. feelings, but joel-feelings. softer!joel
an: i've had this in my head for so long, getting it down on a page has been the whole wonderful, exciting and exhausting thing. i could sing forever about the moon. thank you to the most wonderful, and amazing @swiftispunk who i threw this at last night and made me feel like i am a goddess of the moon.
Joel had learnt early on that you liked the night.
You’d handed it to him in puzzle pieces—flecks of information that he’d eventually be able to make a portrait out of. First, you’d handed him a story, then a statement and then a feeling.
The only times you didn’t like the night was when it was silent.
No wind in the trees, each branch crunching sounding for miles. You didn’t tell him with your words, but rather your body—frame closer, practically against him.
When he’d seen the abandoned train yard coming into view, he’d already considered it. The night had been closing in, the last embers of daylight casting shadows larger shadows across the tall, wiry grass.
“Ever stayed in a train?”
“Can’t say I have.”
He wonders a lot about the things you haven’t done. If you had a list of things you had hoped to tick off from a list before the world went to shit. Whether you had made a new one when you woke up one day and realised it was kill or be killed.
In another life, he wonders if you’d have been a nurse, a doctor, a baker or a typist—because there’s something about your hands. A soothingness about them wasted on holding a gun or slitting a hole in a person from jaw to pelvis. It’s something which passes over you more when the sun goes down. The sharpness in you fading, as though you truly become the thing you were always supposed to be when shrouded in night and the moon comes out to greet you.
He supposes the night is the constant. The unchanged force that arrived and vanished each day—a fixed point, a welcomed relief. Things don’t appear any more threatening in the dark, no more than the world was before.
Yet, Joel finds that you become a thing of unnatural order, all ethereal as the moonlight kisses your curves. It highlights the lines that bend, and illuminates the sheen which coats your skin as you stare back at him in gratitude, as though the way he makes you feel good can make up for all you were robbed of. He hopes to, not by being the thing you lie next to, but the thing which keeps you safe. A protector, a wall of muscle, bone and flesh that would rip if it meant keeping you whole.
It wouldn’t even matter if it were day or night.
Before it all happened, he’d never have considered that the night was more alive than the day. But he’d witnessed how it was. How the darkness provided by the sky was a gift, the moon licking shadows that added an illusion of safety, one he had used to his advantage.
Your words coaxing him, whispered, all hushed, we can take them—won’t even see us coming. You had been right. Staring up at the sky as you caught your breath, stars inside your eyes and a soul full of darkness.
As he glances over, you’re doing it now.
Peering up through the open hatch of the train roof, cross-legged, dragging his jacket further around your body as you stare, and stare, and stare.
Transfixed, lost. Kidnapped by memories, most likely, ones he won’t rip you from just yet.
He wonders if you had ever wished on them, ever stared up at them with hopefulness swimming in your eyes—their twinkle swirling in the pools of your gaze. Joel wonders whether you’d pleaded for something so hard under the night sky that your nails cut into your palms, only for everything to be robbed from you all the same. Had you ever seen a shooting star, and had you prayed on it for a future that included a white dress or a picket fence?
“Don’t they look so pretty, Joel?”
It falls from you like a whisper, almost innocent—far removed from the killer he knows you can be. From the gutless, powerful soul he sees rip through people when they make you spill crimson and try to take what isn’t theirs.
It’s almost easy, he thinks, to tell you that there’s something prettier next to him. Someone who could rival the prettiest of nights and the most gorgeous of days. Something that could have been fragile, but instead is strong, chaos imagined, all wrapped inside eyes he sees when he dreams.
Head tilting, you meet his gaze, and it’s too much—too strong. It's intoxicating. Feeling drunk off it—that feeling of normalcy you make him want.
“You ever had your cock sucked under the stars?”
You know he has.
Know that under leafless branches and an almost full moon you’d taken him in your mouth. All warm, welcoming—his fingers knotted on the back of your head, biting back each hiss, each grunt as he felt teardrops on the crease of his thighs and hips.
It doesn’t matter what his answer is, you’re already facing him, knees digging into the train floor. Your fingers already working his belt—a glimmer in your eye that has him half-hard already.
Because if lust had a look, he swears it would be you.
That look in your eyes always does something to him. It’s more than just being alive, it’s a glint, a spark of something that he swears would have had rows of people to their knees. Right now, it’s all for him. Only his.
A possessiveness rings through him at the thought; rising up in him when he lingers on it, that he has this with you—has this unlabelled thing where he sees all the shards of you, has met each part which makes you whole.
“I want you to try not touching,” you say, tongue dragging across your bottom lip, mouth close to his.
He wants to taste your request. Breathe it in. Have it merge with his insides, all because of the look that accompanies it. One that makes his jaw tighten, almost tick.
“You think you can do it, Miller? Think you can refrain from touching me until I say so.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “Sure.”
The latter catches on his teeth as the cool air brushes over his weeping cock once you free him from his clothing. Your head tilting, holding his stare as you lick a stripe up your palm, before wrapping it around him, pumping him. Tightening your fingers, murmuring about how hard he is for you, how thick he feels in your hand.
“We’ll see,” you smirk, pausing your ministrations, and lowering your head. "Fuck, your cock is perfect, Miller."
A retort brewed, ready to fire, shoot, land. Then, your mouth wraps around him.
Just the tip at first, pausing, all tentative. Your lashes close to your brows as you stare up at him—the moon painting you in a light which he swears he never thought possible. Because it only highlights the appetite you have for him, the starvation to take more of him.
It makes his fingers twitch at his side. Forces his thighs to tense under the need to grasp the back of your head. He refrains, even if it’s a battle he’s prepared to lose. In time.
For now, he wants more of this. Enjoy more of you licking the head of his cock, from humming around him, testing yourself as you try to take more of him, and more, and more—
A groan vibrates around him, making his eyes flutter closed. The battle having appeared sooner, slammed into him as you took more of him. Moaning sweetly around him, tongue swirling around the head when you come up before the tip hits the back of your throat all over again.
Joel doesn’t think of consequences, he just thinks of the need to feel himself in your throat. Letting his fingers move, slide around, brushing up your neck as you take as much of him as you can, mouth so stuffed—
“Hands, Miller.”
He groans, your tongue sliding up the base of him, lips hovering at the head before you trace your lips with him—those perfect, fucking lips—wiping him over you, smearing him.
“I’ll tie your hands down.”
His cock twitches, and you must notice from the way your brow arches, lifting up from him, bottom lip smothered in spit.
Joel finds most of the time, you have heavenly eyes and a hellish smile. A thing which shouldn’t remain, should have been stolen, ripped from you. Right now, you’re nothing but wickedness and darkness.
“Oh, Miller,” you say, voice lower, his name falling like silk. “Do you want me to tie you down? Stop you from touching me.”
He does.
A thing he doesn’t dare deny. His own eyes having caught sight of some frayed rope earlier, pointing it out, instructing—watching in awe as you move swiftly, boots hammering against the train floor, thudding and thudding until you’re on your knees either side of his, holding in both palms.
“Lie down.”
Your instruction carries weight, your body shifting as he lies down, your body crawling up him.
“Do it like—”
“You showed me?” you smirk. “I know how to keep you down, Miller.”
You lean back onto your knees, jean-covered cunt on his chest. Fuck what he’d do to move his hands from waiting for the circles of the knot you’re going to make—and pull you down to his mouth. Lets his breath puff warm air into the worn fabric, forcing it against your likely soaked core. Watch your lashes flutter as you try to make your identical loops, and see if you can think of overlapping them—whether you even make the knot, or let it fall to the wayside as you plead for his mouth, his tongue, his fucking teeth, before he manages to wriggle your clothing down your thighs.
He doesn’t find out, because he doesn’t move. Shadows disguise your expression, all except your smirk as you slide his wrists through the old rope—the frays tickling, brushing over his skin and hair, before with a pull, you tighten it—applying traction.
“Above your head,” you instruct.
You hinge at the hips, falling into the line of the moonlight. And, there’s a little gruffness to your voice, matching the pools of lust currently trying to swallow him whole—readying themselves to consume him, devour him. He doesn’t mind. He never fucking does.
Joel would willingly die in your eyes if he could—in the pair which sees him, all of him. Not afraid of the way he’s worn, the grief he carries, and the array of stories left in scars.
Best looking man I’ve ever killed for.
Only man you’ve killed for.
Fine. Best looking man I’ve laid my eyes on.
He’d succumb to you if you asked. More so, when you slide back down. The seam of your jeans brushing down his cock—the friction pleasant, warranted, needed.
He’s about to ask you to remove them. To bring yourself back up, allow him a taste, something to tide him over, reward you. He’d maybe even beg.
But, he swears your mouth is heaven. That he must have died mere moments ago. Each scrape of your teeth makes him hiss; each hollowing of your cheek makes him want to coat your tongue in his release. His fingers knot around the rope which binds him, hearing it trying to snap under the weight of his own frustration.
It cutting, grazing into flesh, especially as you take so much of him—further than you did before. Barely two fingers worth of him not down your throat, your eyes staring at him, holding his gaze, almost commanding it.
He pulls instinctually, wanting to grab the back of your head, hold you, stroke your neck, cheek—
But, then he ruts his hips into your mouth. Forcing a gag, a cough to arise from your perfect mouth.
“Careful,” he warns, as if it wasn't his doing. His eyes spot them, little streaks of tears which stain your cheeks, all quickly, tumbling and falling to his thighs. “Y’good for me. Fuckin’ perfect, in fact. But, be careful.”
Your tongue licks up the length of him, balls tightening as you graze your teeth over the underside—before he’s enveloped by you again, all warm, inviting, and then your throat squeezes around him.
He’s falling into it, the pool of pleasure—swimming it, bathed to the neck in it under stars and an almost full moon.
He’s sure your mouth is the meaning behind paradise and torture—both perfect and vicious—and he groans, at it. At the way, you swallow around him.
And he can’t take it.
Can’t handle it—
Wants nothing more than to come down your throat and make you taste him until morning.
Cause this is different than last time, and not because it's not a trunk his back is against. But, rather, because you're moon-soaked, kissed by the night. You're a thing he swears glows in the dark, leads a man to shore from choppy waters or could force a man to walk off a cliff.
You're pretty.
It's why he also wants to bury his cock inside you. Wants to feel you squeeze him, grasp for him, whine for him. You make him want, make him desire to possess you. Even if he'll never try to cage you, never tie you down, the thought, the wish, the desire is there. Just the same as how he wants to have you on top of him, under him, even bent over for him. Anything. Everything. All of it, all of you, all—
Mouth lifting off, your eyes glimmer, something there, growing behind your eyes. Spit tying you to him, a bead beginning at the tip of his leaking cock and ending at your swollen, puffed bottom lip.
Then you sneer. Devilishly, all fucking cunningly. “What did you think earlier, Miller?”
Hand taking him, wrapping it around as it moves in fluid motions. Grip how he likes it, a teasing speed that leaves him hovering there, so close to seeing a galaxy of his own and covering your face in his gratitude.
“Miller,” you mutter. "What, did you, think earlier?"
His throat goes dry, bone dry. Like those times when he hadn’t drunk for hours. And he pulls at the rope, wishing to tear himself free and silence your questioning by pushing you down, cheek to the side, sliding his cock inside you until you’re drunk on him, unable to think, ask.
He can feel his skin bruising, marks lacerating against flesh as he grunts at your knot. One he taught you, made you practice—something he knows you must remember from the wink you suddenly shoot him. And he knows from the smirk that cuts across your beautiful face, that the only way he’s going to get any release—is by telling you. Spilling the thing which should die in his throat, blacken, melt down into other things he’ll maybe one day tell you.
“If you want to come—“
Jaw gritting, he swears he could grind his teeth to dust.
Your hand remains poised, but not moving. His name leaves like a spell, but he knows it's draped in poison. Can tell from how it contaminates the air and makes him curse under its potency.
"Joel."
“Fine. I thought—thought y’prettier than the stars. Prettiest—fuck—” Your head dips, sliding the tip of your tongue along his slit, “—thing I’ve ever seen.”
Lifting up from him, bottom lip sliding across your upper lip—painting that in a mixture of his pre-come and your spit too—you slowly smile. “Wasn’t so hard now was it?”
Gritting his teeth, your breath ghosting over his mouth, eyes locked on him. Burying something light, warm, fucking lovely in his soul.
“Cut. Me. Free.”
Tilting your head, he sees your brow lift.
“Now.”
You blink, a thousand universes swirling in your eyes before you move for your knife. “Now?”
“Fuckin’ now, baby.”
You don't blink at the name, you just press the blade against his skin, so close to veins. Yet, he trusts you. More than he thought he would another person, another soul that wasn’t bound to his by blood.
Each slice of the blade against the rope cut through the air, his strangled breaths fading, even as his cock twitched, pleading for release. His eyes just remained on you—the maths of how he’d move you already calculated—watching the vein in your neck, the way spidery shadows cast on your face from your tear-stained lashes.
He felt the rope go slack before your knife stopped, moving in a flash, knife clattering as he flipped you onto your back. Hovering above, likely lit up by the stars and the moon—leering down on you, watching your chest rise and fall.
“So, you think I’m pretty?”
He growls, the button popped on your jeans before he rips them down as much as he can, moving enough to let you kick yourself free, before he plunges his tongue in your open mouth. Tasting, taking, robbing you of the words that you just spoke, the ones which made you cocky. Even if they were true.
But, he wasn’t good—was an animal, a thing carved from grief and the end of days. But then, you were in your own right too. Something that gnashed, scratched, and buried the softer parts of you deep under layers that had taken him months to unearth. To even find, locate.
The animal in you is what made him want to devour, but it was the softness that made him stand in front of you when branches crunched. It was the latter that made him want to pin you down against stiff surfaces and have you feel good, feel adored.
Taking his cock in hand, he drags the head against your soaked folds. Your slick coating him, sliding up and down, watching you, studying you—a sight full of stars, twinkling, pleading. Nails digging into his hips, an order, a demand.
In one thrust, he slides deep into you. Makes you his, like he does whenever you ask him to, when he can, each chance he can get. Never tiring of it, of you.
A thing he could say, fill your pretty little head with it and then fuck it outta you.
“Thinking about how much you like me, Miller?” you whisper, fingers moving up to scratch at his curls, to wrap them around your fingers. “Or, is it more than like, is that what it is?”
A tug, a swallowed groan. His mouth is on yours again—different than before.
A change, a thing the two of you never used to do, but one you do more frequently. Another thing he doesn’t hate. The change happened, and he realised he didn’t want to go back to the time before it. Not when your tongue plunged in his mouth feels good. When you lick at the back of his teeth, flooding his mouth with the taste of salt and remnants of the canned food from earlier.
“Thinking about how y’the most frustrating thing I’ve ever had under me.”
“Would you have it any other way?”
Buried to the hilt, fingers clasped around the space just above your collarbone, he stares into your eyes—wondering if the stars are ever jealous they never get to live in them.
No, he growls.
Your mouth falling open, a moan there, building on your tongue as he hits that spot—knows it, can tell from the way you lightly gasped. It is further evidenced by the way you grasp his hips, almost pinching when he drops onto his forearm above your head, freeing a hand.
“I do like fuckin’ y’under the stars.”
What began as a narrowing of your eyes, ended with a widening. The way it plays out could make him surrender to you every time, render him useless, even heal a shard of him that he thought was long since ruined.
Then, your mouth drops open, a moan emerging—rearing its head in an almost whine-filled cry, as he sticks a finger in, rolling it over your tongue, coating the pad of him in your spit before he slides his hand between your bodies.
And he knows you won’t last long. Not from the way you're clamping down, from the sounds you make—all beautiful, each rich, and fucking sweet. It’s why he drops his voice low, mouth to your ear, grunting your name, that you’re perfect, prettier than a sky full of stars—all the while drawing quick circles on your bundle of nerves, his hips maintaining a constant speed.
“Close, m’close,” you cry out, back arched into him, fingers finding refuge in his hair, face pinned by your forearms.
I know, he thinks, feeling you reach your pinnacle, hovering, hanging, before he delivers one quick thrust and you’re hurtling, spasming. Your body twists as your walls clench around him, coming on his cock, unravelling entirely as he picks up his speed, as he removes his hand from between you for leverage as he fucks into you. Just a few more, knees throbbing even through the pleasure, before his hips stutter, and he’s spilling inside of you, your name cutting into the air, scratching into it, marking it with each letter that makes it up.
Even before he collapses beside you, before breaths are caught, and your head finds that spot on his shoulder, that it’s coming. A look or your tone, that hint of gentleness you otherwise keep bottled up.
So he waits. Listen to the way your heart calms in your chest and your head feels heavy on his bone.
“Your secret is safe with me, Miller,” you whisper, not turning to look at him, just staring through the open hole of the train. “I won’t tell a soul you have a heart.”
Snorting, he swallows. “No one would believe ya if y’did.”
You hum, letting out a gentle breath.
And he just swallows the good he had almost whispered. Because if no one knows, it’s a thing people won’t try to take. And he can’t let you lose another thing, not when he’s sure the whole part of what remains of his heart, belongs to you.
an: hope you liked this. i am a whore for the moon and the stars.
#joel miller x reader#joel miller x reader smut#joel miller x you#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x fem!reader#tlou fanfic#hbo the last of us fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal characters fanfic#joel miller smut#joel miller x female reader
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DOG BLOOD （狗血）
YANDERE! PROTAGONIST x SADISTIC! LOVE INTEREST! READER
tw/cw: everyone’s gender is up to interpretation. dddne, yandere themes, violence, suggestive content
but what if you were never the villain, but a love interest.
MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS ARE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN FROM ALL MY POSTS!! LEAVE OR I WILL BLOCK!!
CASSIEL was a bored, lonely person. Through countless of timelines and people they’ve been with, none have piqued their interest in the slightest.
Even you.
But as a love interest, it was your job to keep them well — interested. Engaged. Entertained by the thought of romancing you.
But they never did.
They always ended up completing the game without touching a single person. Not any of the romancable options nor even the concubines offered to them in their conquests. A solitary existence.
You could only smile as a façade to hide your frustrations, as in some timelines they saw it fit to kill you.
“You . . . “
Your lines were as followed,
‘You can use me however you’d like.’
You said it at least a hundred times now. Your diction, tone, gestures were always perfectly replicated. It was the one line you could say that didn’t result in a horrific torture and death.
But this time, you felt nothing. Fear left you long ago. What was the point of being careful when you knew every outcome of every action and decision?
“You’re bored are you not?”
Cassiel’s head swiveled so quickly you were almost worried it would come right off.
You did the same thing you always did. You climbed their lap. Your hand around atop shoulders. Your face next to their ear.
In many other lifetimes, it’d end with them shoving you off. Maybe even, breaking your legs before outright killing you.
And yet this time it was as different. Stiff.
Your pointer finger grazes across their jaw, to their lips, and then their nose bride as you studied their beautifully crafted features. The protagonist was the Gods’ favorite after all, you never truly had the opportunity to savor that perfectly sculpted face.
“Lie down, be good, and we can have some fun. Shall we, your highness?”
The night was long. The two of you were inexperienced, but you weren’t about to let go of such an opportunity — your stamina be damned.
Adrenaline carried you throughout the night. Their highness’s wet eyelashes and swollen lips were another point of motivation. As they came undone underneath you several times, it all ended when curiosity took hold of you once more and your hands reached their throat.
And you squeezed. Wrenched all the air out of their throat.
Finally, a familiar sight greets you as the world collapses. Because what would it be without its protagonist?
[ RESET COMPLETE : BEGINNING CONSCIOUSNESS UPLOAD ]
You awoke again, back to the same place and time. Your eyes flicked to your hands.
Your heart fluttered.
You reached climax after climax with the royal. The protagonist you sought after for what felt like hundreds and thousands of years.
But nothing felt better than the moment you ended their life instead. The power you felt. You were utterly drunk on it.
In any case, after that event, you slowly began realized how soft the protagonist truly was. The conqueror of the world melted like a puddle when you took the charge, and almost evaporated when you’d coddle or pamper them afterwards.
You also slowly began to realize how much more you needed to get that high once more. Simply killing them wasn’t enough. You wanted them to feel betrayed. You wanted them to scream in horror once you flayed them alive. You wanted them to cry out in fear when you’d chase them down and re-create those times when they’d torture you.
But then, you would catch a smile here and there. In moments where it wasn’t supposed to exist. Cassiel moaning during the times you’d cut open his arms in an attempt to study their body’s anatomy better wasn’t something the pleased you at all. It took away the pleasure of your hobby. The joy you’d receive when you had them to play within your hands. The ecstasy of being the one to bring about pain to your torturer’s favorite.
“Stop making sounds you’re distracting me.”
“My . . . hah . . . apologies. It just feels . . . amazing.”
You paused. Your movements frozen as your mind processed what they just said.
Tch. Turn-off.
©️ yoru.no.seiiki - yun | 2023
taglist: @the-dumber-scaramouche @justkouisenough @rxflen
#yns.cassiel#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere fic#yandere x you#yancore#tw yandere#yandere core#yandere blog#yandere concept#yandere imagine#sub yandere#yandere scenario#masochist yandere#gn reader#yandere protagonist
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spoilers for ep7 !
things about N and Uzi i wanted to point out 2/?
I like that he smiled at Nori's words, as if he himself met his old friend. but in reality it's not that cool. he seemed familiar to her, so did she see him before? again thoughts that it was he who killed her body huh (while her heart remained alive)
Nori turned out to be not as silly and playful as we all thought (which is sad a lil bit), but on the other hand she is quite a badass and confident woman. and it makes me wonder more about what she saw in Khan... but hey, despite some time apart she calls him hunk! i hope that if she is reunited with him, she will find a new body for herself, since it will be awkward to meet only the heart of your wife-
hearing N say Khan's name, Nori becomes tense. what kind of friends does my daughter have huh
after Nori tells a little story, N acts sweet and friendly as always, clapping for her, and Nori throws a rock at him, telling him to stop. i love how much she looks like her daughter, she does things to make N stop doing stupid things
btw it’s funny that she, being a small body, chained him, such a big one, to the wall with a pickaxe for safety
when she asks who is the host of the solver at the moment, N smiles slightly, saying "Uzi", despite the fact that the situation is tense
ok, I didn’t understand this moment right away, but now I understand. "which one (Doll or Uzi) tried to eat us right now?" he realizes that it is none of them
he says in such a joyful tone “she will fall when she finds out that I met her mother” :з
but then Nori pinned him to the wall again, forcing him to remain silent about it. it's funny how she openly admits that she is the cause of all the nightmares in Uzi's life, so she thinks that if Uzi finds out she is alive, it will cause problems.
N says in a decisive tone that he doesn't want to keep secrets from Uzi anymore, since he has already seen what this can lead to - a loss of trust. the moment from ep2 when he wanted to touch her shoulder, but she backed away, and when just recently he went to her, but she stepped back. seeing your loved one afraid of you and losing trust in you is a very painful thing
she presses the cross on him so hard that cracks appear on the ground, she is really serious
N promises, after which she looks a little surprised and as if grateful, but then she realizes that there will be some kind of catch
and she's not wrong. he got out of this situation so that he didn’t have to lie to Uzi and keep everything secret. Nori rolls her eye, realizing that it couldn’t have been otherwise and this guy wouldn’t be convinced
and yeah she said THE LIINEEE
wild N oh........that's something
I think Nori told N that there is a way to weaken the solver so that it does not cause problems. and since he guessed that Tessa knew about this, now her pressure for N to choose the universe and not the little drone sounds strange. if it is possible to weaken/ get rid of/ heal of the solver, then why kill Uzi? and Tessa had a clear desire to get rid of the Uzi. in essence, she gave him free rein, saying that he will make the choice, but at the same time she said that he would have to choose the universe
after which he cuts off her head, with an X on his visor. it was intense. the robot disobeyed his boss and a good friend. not fully understanding who the person you knew for a long time was. did you make the right choice
he immediately woke up from shock when he saw Uzi's hand on the cross and started helping her get up. his voice sounds pitiful, worried, but at the same time joyful, since he saw her again after what happened. N's voice trembles a little, but he still sounds sincere. he doesn't want to scare her off again
oh yeah and now that line is heartbreaking-
he extends his hand to her, he needs her and emphasizes the word "you"
when watching the teaser his "together?..." at the end of the phrase sounded uncertain, pleading, as if he wasn’t sure that she would agree to solve everything together.
but now, watching it, I hear in his “together?” hope and joy, as if he understands that it is with her that he can overcome everything and figure things out, and he is glad that he was able to find her and she did not reject him.
at the words "to figure things out.." he sounds uncertain, lost and a little sad, but then he sees her placing her hand in his. his cross disappears and at the same time he blushes. she was able to calm him down from shock simply by touching his hand.
i know that before this I made a post “if a character blushes it doesn’t mean they're in love” and I’m a little embarrassed, but damn.. it really looks like that in here, right? we know that Uzi was the first one who started to fall in love with him and after some time he started to develop feelings for her. and at this point he may have accepted it
and should I mention that they immediately lace their fingers together, whereas the last time they held hands it was very awkward for them?
and then he smiles
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Thank you for making the schindler post, it perfectly illustrates why I hate the way people will act like people who hurt others (like active nazis and racists) aren't capable of regular emotion and thought. Second chances are often seen as bad when it comes to violence and crime, but if you never give someone the chance to change, form different opinions, or see the damage they or their associates have caused, they'll just keep taking the path of least resistance, keep following orders. I just want people to take a serious look at a nazi who changed his mind. There is nothing inherently evil about anyone, there are only moral and immoral choices.
It helps, I think, to understand that he did not join the nazi party because he hated Jews. Even what research I did on the real man said that for the most part his reasons for siding with Hitler were purely economical. And, as I've said before, Hitler did not start with "I hate Jews let's kill them all" but with "look how bad the economy sucks! And who is doing well while the economy sucks? The Jews. That means they're the ones behind making the economy suck!" to get people on his side.
I think Schindler did have some internalized antisemitism. How could he not? He thought of the plan to use almost exclusively Jewish slave labor as good business sense. Cheaper than Poles, more desperate for the work and thus less likely to complain about conditions or quit, can't fuss about wanting wages or better hours, what's not to like? Supposedly his workers were treated well. I don't know if that makes it particularly better. I wonder how his workers felt, staring at the emblem proudly pinned to his jacket, knowing it stood for the extermination of their entire people.
I wonder if any of them ever considered it might be a trick. An elaborate long game to get them to trust and slip up. To get them to reveal the hiding places and secret messages and the others striving to find or make a way out.
I think the movie played with that concept a little bit, when the character of Stern (who apparently was 3 different real guys rolled into 1) is portrayed as always being a little standoffish and cold to Schindler until close to the very end. He was afraid of him. Schindler held not only his life but the lives of all of the people working there (plus more, irl) in his hands. He rubbed shoulders with high ranked officials and knew personally more than one known sadistic bastard that actively got off on murdering Jews. All it would take is a single word and it would be more than just those in the factory who died.
But then the ghetto was cleansed. In history, Schindler had advance warning and made his workers lock themselves in the factory overnight to spare them. In the movie, Schindler did not have warning, and saw the chaos from atop a vantage point as he'd meant to pass by.
Either way, both in life and in film, that was the line. He was, at minimum, willfully blind and passive to the evidence of what was happening up to that point. Once he couldn't deny it, he put his foot down and said, no more. I'm not doing this. I can't save everybody but you aren't getting your hands on anyone in my charge. Put me in jail if you have to. This is wrong.
He had everything to gain by continuing to look away. In the movie, Stern says something to the tune of "you'll have to hire Hungarians and Poles. They cost a little more but you'll still be rich" when they're both faced with Hitler's final solution. No more cheap Jewish labor when they're all dead, after all. It is at that point that they come up with the list- to get as many Jews as possible out of Germany before they're all sent to their deaths. He could have just said "yeah, sorry. I tried". Stern even more or less gave him permission to do so, like he was expecting it.
But he didn't. He said no fuck that, it's bullshit. It's not happening. I'm not letting it happen. They can arrest me or kill me if they want but if I'm alive for it I'm not just going to stand back and watch.
But I think it is difficult for people to grapple with that level of complexity. Not everyone he saved thinks he was overall a good person. His motives were not always pure. In fact many times his motives were just about lining his own pockets. But when he saw atrocities happen, he put his foot down and refused to participate. Even at his own cost- he had the equivalent amount of money back then as would be needed to retire early nowadays from his factory labor. He spent it on bribes and rations to keep them safe. He went to jail several times for refusing to back down. He risked his own neck by networking with other factory owners to get them to do the same. He could have been executed for this at any point. Nazis loved public spectacle executions for traitors and for collusion with Jews.
He wasn't a perfect ally. But I think I'd rather an imperfect ally do whatever they can to help, than no allies at all.
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Wrong Number 5
Eddie had been having a greatest time eating in his apartment that anyone could have. Because he wasn't alone. He was with Steve. And then he got to share one of his childhood favorite movies with him. Even though it was a first date, Eddie got the feel that casual was okay. So he'd started the video call with a red t-shirt and black jeans. He knew the odds of Steve seeing his bottom half but he wanted to look nice all the way anyway.
When Steve answered the call and Eddie saw him fill the screen with a very respectable "first date" shirt, he imagined the bottoms were probably a good pair of jeans or maybe even khakis. Steve looked like a khaki guy. What Eddie did not expect was to be flashed when Steve got up in the middle of the movie to get a drink.
But he got up, giving Eddie an eyeful of a bulge in navy blue lace. And then Steve turned and Eddie got to see it from the back. He had to have been hallucinating. There was no way he had actually seen that. It had to be an illusi-and he was coming back and those were definitely panties that Steve was wearing.
"....Eddie?" Steve looked at his wide eyes. The man hadn't spoken for a full minute.
"Baby...are you wearing something naughty?"
Steve bit his lip. "I wasn't trying to be naughty. Robin just thought that I could...well, use the confidence?"
"Don't tell me a pretty thing like you is insecure, I won't believe it", Eddie smiled.
"Well those were Robin's thoughts, not mine." Steve turned the movie down a bit and it was clear Eddie and lowered the volume on his end too. "Do you like them?"
"My brain went to moon. I think you're trying to kill me."
Steve's already high confidence jumped to the ceiling. It was nice to be appreciated.
"Can I see them again?", Eddie asked.
"I thought they were fatal?", Steve smirked.
"You know, I've decided I've lived long enough. And if I have my choice of how I go, I choose death by Steve."
"Okay, but if I have a choice, I'm keeping you alive. But if you insiiiist." Steve had returned to his seat on the floor when he got back from the kitchen, and now he rose up to sit on the couch. His legs were crossed, blocking Eddie's view.
The man on his phone whined. "Don't make me beg."
"Hmm, but what if I like begging?"
"Please, please baby, pretty please, lemme see you?" Eddie's hands were pressed together in prayer.
The way he was positioned (in the phone, on the coffee table) it was like he was kneeling before Steve. Slowly, he uncrossed his legs and even spread them a little, smiling when he heard Eddie's intake of breath.
"Shit...Were you planning on showing me this tonight?"
"If you were good...maybe", Steve teased. "What do you think? Have you been a good boy?"
Eddie nodded frantically, hair flopping, jaw dropped as Steve shifted and he got to watch the bulge between his legs move. He would do anything. Beg, kneel, bark, whatever Steve wanted him to do. Fuck, if he was really there, his head would already be in between his legs.
"I bet you could crack my skull with those legs, Jesus."
From his vantage point, Eddie could only make out up to the bottom of his mouth and while he liked his current view, that just wouldn't do at all.
"I've got an idea...What do you say to moving this to the bedroom?"
Steve grabbed his phone and started walking. Eddie straight up sprinted and collapsed onto his bed.
"You're not going to have anyone burst in with a 'code red', are they?", Steve asked as he got onto his own bed, laying down and holding his phone to his face.
"I have blocked out the entire night for you, Stevie. My crew knows that all Code Reds are to be handled by my second in command."
Okay, that made him feel a little special. Steve bit his lip. "I've never really done anything like this before..."
"What? Taking a date to your bedroom? Once again, I won't believe it. You're probably beating them back with a stick." Eddie was literally looking at him. There was no way he didn't have a line of admirers going down the street.
"I meant on like...video. So how do you want me?"
"Well I typically get a burger with my shakes", Eddie waggled his brows.
"Eddie", Steve laughed.
"Wait, I can do better! Can I get a split-top bun, since you've got a whole bakery in the back?" Eddie beamed as the screen shook while Steve was laughing. "Just get comfortable, baby."
Steve did just that, lying on his back, holding his phone above his head. Eddie was in a similar position in his own bed.
"Okay, I think I've done the whole 'teacher is secretly a model' bit before but Christ alive, it's like you've got no bad angles."
"Eddie, I think you're stalling", Steve grinned. At first, he had been nervous about doing this over video, but now it seemed like Eddie was the one who was anxious.
"If I stall by complimenting you, is it really stalling?"
"If you were here...what would you do to me?", Steve asked.
"I would kiss you so hard, you'd pass out", Eddie admitted. "Full on Pepe LePew treatment. I'd start on your hand and make my way up and then I'm not letting those lips go until they're raw."
Steve brushed his fingers against his mouth. It had been a while since he'd been kissed like that, but Eddie wasn't done.
"And don't think I haven't noticed how those moles go all the way down. I think if I get started kissing them now, I can be to your thighs by Christmas."
Steve didn't miss the strong implication of Eddie's physical presence. They hadn't really talked about meeting in real life yet, both of them aware of how risky it could be to meet someone like that. But as time went on, the dangers seemed to melt away.
Steve's hand trailed down his body. He made sure to angle his phone so that Eddie could see just that. "God, I've thought about your hands so much..." His hand came back up to touch his lips.
"I can tell you want to, baby. Go ahead and suck on them. Pretend they're mine."
Permission granted, Steve stuck two in his mouth. Enraptured, Eddie started to paw at himself through his jeans. Steve's mouth was so pretty and it was already so wet. It didn't hurt that he was already moaning. God, he needed to find out where Steve lived and buy himself a plane ticket. He needed to get his hands on him yesterday.
"Mmm, and you know, once my fingers are nice and wet, I like to put them elsewhere. Where do you want me to touch?"
Slowly, Steve pulled them out of his mouth. "Everywhere", he said, lightly panting.
Eddie's canines showed as he smiled. He unzipped his pants, purposely making it as loud as he could so that Steve would know. "I'd like that too. But let's narrow it down, beautiful."
"How's about I show you?"
Eddie's eyes got wide as Steve changed positions and even moved some pillows around and now he had a front row seat to the most prime ass he'd ever seen. Steve was on his knees and bent over slowly. He pulled his panties to the side with one hand and pushed one of his glistening fingers inside.
"Aaahh, Eddie", he moaned, bringing the other man back into it.
"Fucking hell, look at you." Eddie used one hand to pushed the band of his boxers down and bring out his cock.
Steve pushed another into him, pressing his forehead against the bed. He didn't know what he'd been so anxious about. He wanted nothing more than to have Eddie looking at him. Eddie getting hard and jerking off while looking at him.
"Eddie...I need, I need you..."
Eddie spit in his hand and kept stroking. "Tell me, angel. What do you need me to do?"
Steve whined and Eddie watched as his ass shook, fingers sinking in deep before pulling them out and pushing in again. He bet anything if Steve turned around, he'd see a wet spot on those panties.
"Don't worry, Stevie, I'm gonna tell you what to do. Is that okay?"
He saw Steve's head shake in what could've been a nod, but he was glad when he got the vocal confirmation. Eddie directed Steve and soon he had turned (Eddie had been right about the wet spot) so now he was facing the camera. The ass shot was hot but Eddie wanted to see his face when he came. He now also had a pillow under his hips to help with the angle.
And damn if he wasn't an absolute vision, rutting against the pillow, lips parted in a perpetual moan. Eddie had gotten some lube for his hand, but he knew his fist paled in comparison to Steve Harrington.
"Shit, I needa have you Steve. Wanna feel you, make you mine."
"I'm already yours", Steve said, making Eddie whimper. "I'm all yours, Eds, no one else's."
Apparently he was in a really possessive mood because that just put him right over the edge. This beautiful man was pleasuring himself and he only had eyes for Eddie. He made sure his cumshot was in the frame and watched as Steve's eyes glazed over. His licked his lips and bucked into his pillow, Eddie's name leaving his mouth on a sigh.
Eddie swallowed, his throat a little dry. "Can I see?"
Steve didn't need to ask what he meant. He picked up his phone and rose up on his knees, showing Eddie the tip of his cock peeking out of his panties, cum cooling on his stomach as his shirt had ridden up.
"Mmm, fuck. What's that rule in your classroom? About not wasting good food?"
"If you were here, I'd let you lick it all up", Steve said.
"Yeah, about that...can we...?"
"Talk? How do you feel about morning afters?", Steve asked.
"Usually they're pretty awkward", Eddie admitted with a shrug. "But considering I don't need to worry about you kicking me out..."
"Are you free for breakfast?"
"You mean brunch?"
Steve smiled. "It's a date then. Good night, Eddie."
"Good night, my darling."
Part 7
Tag Team (CLOSED)
@anne-bennett-cosplayer @estrellami-1 @newtstabber @omletlove @ifyoudonlysurrender @rehfan @morganski-19 @corvidcantina @dragonmama76 @just-ladyme @tinyplanet95 @goodolefashionedloverboi @idoquitelikebread @kittydeadbones @manda-panda-monium @rhapsodyinalto @paintsplatteredandimperfect @keylime-green @ihavekidneys @samsoble @honorarybrit81 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @aizawa-emma @deleataecount @thesuninyaface @fromapayphone @justmeinadaze @hbyrde36 @queenie-ofthe-void @resident-gay-bitch @bestwifehaver @dangdirtydemons @ellietheasexylibrarian @perseus-notjackson @pyrohonk @holysteddie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @mrsjellymunson @geekymagicalpotato @notaqueenakhaleesi
#apo writes#stranger things#fanfiction#steddie#hurray i finally got to write pillow humping#one of my favorite things ever#next part should be the finale but dont hold me to that LOL
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I don't think I've ever been so affected by the word titties before. omg your last headcanon for Homelander KILLED ME. can i ask you to write something about him sucking titties? it could be that something didn't go right with his day and he JUST desperately needs your tits when he gets home. plus if lactating kink but not necessarily, JUST TITTIES 😩😩🥵
titties is a great word, isn't it? makes me laugh but also like i'd be lying if i said i didn't enjoy phrases like 'such perfect tits'
you heard him before you saw him. the soft whoosh in the air as he landed on your apartment balcony made you smile, but when he entered your bedroom, and you saw his face, your brows pinched together.
he had the saddest eyes you'd ever seen. he looked small, dejected, like his soul had been crushed, and it made your heart ache. you tucked your bookmark into place and shut your book before opening your arms for him.
he moved closer without a word, nearly collapsing on top of you and letting his shoulders slouch. he exhaled and let his eyes flutter shut as you began to stroke his hair, letting out a quiet groan.
"long day?" you asked quietly.
"mhm. i work with the most useless motherfuckers on the planet," he grumbled. "fastest man alive can't run a straight fucking line. keeps getting us into shit. and don't get me started on the dolphin fucker."
"you're doing the best you can with the tools you have," you reassured him, your fingernails gently scratching over his scalp. he hummed and pulled his gloves off so he could be that much closer to you.
"i would do a better job by myself," he mumbled. "who needs those fucking pathetic losers?"
"not my john, that's for sure. but ... i can think of something that might make you feel a little better."
he slowly opened his eyes and lifted his head to look at you. his breath caught in his throat as he watch you unbutton your silk pajama top, the ones he bought for you ages ago. his gaze was hungry as you pushed the fabric aside to reveal your bare chest, the cool air making your nipple harden. his eyes traveled up to meet yours, and you smiled before you gave a single nod.
he adjusted his position so he could lay comfortably across your bed, his head propped up on you, and he took your exposed nipple into his mouth. you exhaled slowly as you felt him trace his tongue over your sensitive skin. you stroked his hair as he began to suck gently, and he brought one hand up to caress and massage your other breast.
he hummed quietly, eyes slowly shutting as he relaxed, and you tilted your head back as well. you knew he appreciated the gesture, it was clear in the way he suckled and his hand massaged.
maybe you both needed this after all.
#atomwritez#homelander x reader#homelander smut#homelander#john gillman x reader#john gillman smut#john gillman
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Here for the angst of neglected batsis, imagine or hc them of moving out if the house when they are 18 and let's say they meet some spirit and they have their memory wiped and transfer to the marvel universe to restart their life and more happy, then the dc/marvel merge together because of a big threat and batfam sees batsis is heavily pregnant and married to our favorite deadpool charater Colossus?
How would they reached if batsis just can't remember them and keeps on telling them they have the wrong person?
I LIKE THE WAY YOU THINK. Guess who's back!! Sorry it took me so long to get this out, I haven't had the motivation to write until recently. Also OOC warning bc I don't really know him well besides the Deadpool movies. I almost freaked out bc I haven't used the tumblr website in so long and it got updated so I thought I lost all my drafts. So glad they're still here, whew. Not beta read so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes!
---
It's been a year since moving into your apartment and you couldn't be happier. College was going well and you were taking classes you enjoyed. However, you haven't made any friends yet which led you to spend your free time reading or surfing the web. Jason didn't come by much due to having his own life and vigilante things, which you understood. It didn't mean you couldn't be a little bit sad about it though.
Even though you were enjoying your life, you still felt as if there was something missing. You'd been trying to figure out why you had felt this way but nothing came to mind. Any time you tried to brush off the feeling, it came back stronger. You did your best to ignore it and continue on with life, but it was always there, nagging you.
It had been a long day. College was so stressful. Your professors kept hurling projects at you that had deadlines that were practically impossible to meet. You just wanted it to end already and be on summer break. Then, you’d be able to sleep how long you wanted to without the fear of being late for class or forgetting to complete an assignment.
You sat down at your desk and pulled out your laptop, preparing to continue an essay that was due in three days. Suddenly, you began to feel nauseous. Confused, you attempted to ignore the feeling in favor of completing the essay. A few seconds after trying to focus on your laptop screen, you saw a bright light.
"My child, you will be saved from this life." A strangely comforting voice said.
Then everything faded to black.
---
"Hello?!"
A voice. A voice? But you live alone and no one has the spare key to your apartment. You slowly opened your eyes, groaning and quickly shutting them again once a bright light blinded you.
"Oh you're alive, thank God. Can you speak?" Whoever this was seemed to have been panicking before, slightly less though now that you had indicated you were alive. You groan as you push yourself up off of what seems to be concrete. Concrete? You're definitely not in your apartment. You crack your eyes open again, this time with less difficulty, and come face to face with white lenses of a mask. Blinking again, you register that the lenses are attached to a red material with black lines.
"Ah!"
"AH!" The figure yells and jumps back, startled by your sudden surprise.
"What the hell are you supposed to be?" You asked, tilting your head slightly to the side.
"What do you mean? I'm Spiderman." His voice was a bit high pitched, he sounded like a teen at most.
"Spiderman? You've got to be joking. There is no Spiderman. Go home kid, crime fighting isn't a game." Sure, you may be a hypocrite, seeing as you are an ex-assassin who began learning how to kill at around 5, but at least you had training. What did this Spiderman have? From how startled he was, you assumed he had barely been trained, if at all.
“What? I'm literally Spiderman! I'm Queens' hero!"
"Queens, New York?" You thought you'd still be in New Jersey at least.
"Uh yeah. I don't think there are any other places called Queens that have a Spiderman."
"Again, Spiderman? Seriously? You couldn't think of a better name at least?"
"Hey! There's nothing wrong with Spiderman!"
"Sure kid, keep telling yourself that."
He was about to protest when suddenly, someone else dropped into the alley.
"Hey Spidey, who's this lovely lady?" A person in an all red with black suit with two swords on his back and guns strapped to his waist called out. The person seemed to be a male, around 30 years old.
"This 'lovely lady' is very confused. Who are you?" They keep multiplying, and you'd never seen this person either.
"Did you hit your head or something? You've never heard of or seen Deadpool? The most handsomest, most awesomest, funniest, killer crime fighter?"
"Uh nope. Also, I'm from Jersey, how did I end up here?"
"Good question. What's your name?"
"Oh, it's-" You stopped in confusion. "I actually don't remember. It was just at the tip of my tongue but I don't remember."
"Oh great! Amnesia! Just what we need. I'll let you handle her Spidey and I'll go stop some bad guys, 'kay?"
"What! No, don't leave me here!" Deadpool was already sprinting away.
"Let's get you to the base. Colossus and the others will know what to do."
---
They did not, in fact, know what to do. Colossus sent Negasonic and Yukio to contact Professor X, while Spiderman went to contact Tony Stark (I'm still emotionally scarred from Endgame so no, he won't be dead, this is my fanfic and I can keep him alive if I want to) and Deadpool went back out to patrol. You were left alone with Colossus.
Uncomfortable silence sat between you. Just as you were beginning to get antsy, Colossus broke it first.
"Do you remember anything at all?"
"I'm... a college student. I live alone in an apartment in New Jersey, I think. I used to fight crime until... I don't know, it's fuzzy. I'm an ex-assassin who has been training since I was 5. That's all I remember."
"You can remember that but not your name?"
"Look, I don't know okay? I don't know what's happening or why I can't remember anything else. I want to remember who I am, but I can't. And it's so... so frustrating! Your suspicion is understandable, but it is not helping."
"I apologize. This is a stressful situation for you. I will be more considerate."
"Thank you."
---
They could not figure out what happened to you or why you suddenly appeared in Queens one day. Your memory remained fuzzy, so you were stuck. As time passed, you and Colossus grew closer. You became so close that he told you his real name, you became a couple, and you got married. Seven years passed, you were 25 and you'd been trying for a baby. You both felt the time was right and that you'd be able to handle parenting.
Colossus came home from work one day, spent and tired. There you were, waiting for him at the door as usual.
"Hi my love, long day?" You fiddled with the positive pregnancy test behind your back.
"Yes darling, when is it not?"
"Well, we're going to have to figure something out, because there's no way I'll wake up every night to take care of our baby."
He looked confused, then realization hit. "You're..?" He looked so happy and hopeful, you couldn't contain your happiness. A huge smile lit up your face.
"Yes, we're finally going to be parents!" You pulled out the pregnancy test and held it up to him.
He laughed a joyful laugh, tears began to fall from the corners of his eyes as he embraced you. It must've been infectious because you began to tear up too. You remained in each other's embrace for a while, just existing in the moment. Time felt irrelevant as you basked in your shared delight.
---
8 months later, your belly had swollen and grown. Everyone was happy for the both of you. You and Colossus were both eager for your little one to arrive. You'd both decided to wait for birth to find out the gender. It didn't matter to you whether it was a boy or girl, just that they were healthy (gender's a construct anyway). The pregnancy had been going great so far, but this time of easy-going was about to get ruined by your husband's job.
---
Your world had merged with another because of some cosmic threat. Great! Your husband would be preoccupied trying to fix the situation, which meant that you'd be alone. Selfishly, you wished that they could let your husband stay with you so close to your due date, but you knew he had a role to play in saving two worlds.
Seeing your loneliness, Colossus decided to bring you with him to the Avengers' base. He hoped you'd be able to befriend some of the people there. You entered the compound and your eyes were drawn to some men standing beside a set of double doors. They all had suits on, black hair (one guy had two white streaks in his hair) and most had blue eyes, except for one man who had green eyes. He was also noticeably the darkest of the group. They felt familiar to you, especially the man with green eyes. Have you met them before? Who were they?
As your husband was discussing some details about the meeting, you couldn't help but watch the group of men. Not knowing why you thought you knew them annoyed you. As if they could feel your eyes on them (they could), they turned around in sync and locked eyes with you.
Their eyes widened and they all exclaimed your name in various degrees of disbelief. They rushed over to you and your husband protectively stepped in front of you
"How do you know my wife?"
"Wife?!" Some of them shouted. They were beginning to cause a scene.
"You're pregnant." The one with green eyes observed. He seemed to be having some sort of crisis.
All their eyes darted to your belly, making you uncomfortable. You placed your hand over your stomach and attempted to discretely hide behind your husband. This did not go unnoticed by them.
"You don't remember us?" The shortest of them questioned.
"No, I've never met you guys." You were very confused.
The man who appeared to be the oldest said your name. You stared at him as he studied your eyes, presumably to see if you were lying. It made you feel vulnerable and unsettled, couldn't they leave you alone?
"We're your family."
The guy with the white streaks in his hair scoffed. "You didn't treat her like she was family. I was the only one who cared for her when she was younger while you all ignored her and let her suffer. I'm glad she doesn't remember what you all did to her. She's clearly living a much better life without you lot in it."
This was getting more confusing by the second, although you felt there was truth to his words. Did you forget these people? They seemed very convincing if they were lying.
"I'm sorry but I really don't remember you guys. Maybe you have the wrong person?"
"No we don't! You disappeared one day and now that we've finally found you, you're saying you forgot everything!"
"That is enough. Please leave my wife alone, she does not know you, and she does not need the unnecessary stress of trying to remember people she's never met. Do not approach her anymore." Colossus guided you away from the men, who stared longingly at you. The heartbroken expressions they had after your husband's speech would follow you often. Were you sure you'd never met them before?
---
Words: 1,847
#batfamily#batfam#batfam x reader#dick grayson#bruce wayne#jason todd#avengers x platonic reader#colossus#colossus x reader#tim drake#damian wayne#batfam x neglected!batsis!reader
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Smallest Drop - Part 3
Summary: Tav knew she was falling for him in some ways but she didn't realise just how bad it had become until she got shot in the leg while killing a vampire hunter for him.
Meanwhile, Astarion really doesn't understand Tav and her strange solutions to problems and ignoring it really isn't working well.
I've already planned a part 4 because I'm addicted. Tav is not mentioned by name.
Content Warnings: She/Her Tav
Word Count: 3k words
╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗
Though she tried her utmost to appreciate every environment they explored (if only because she would otherwise go crazy), she couldn’t find much she liked about the swamp. Not even with its sweetened flowers, warm sunlight, and strange sheep.
She was almost a thousand percent sure those were polymorphed humans but she refused to worry about them yet. Whatever had created them surely would reveal itself and for now, she focused on the bigger problem before her.
A monster hunter standing before her with a friendly smile on his face and a laugh echoing across the swamp as though he hadn’t threated one of her companions.
He may not know what he’d done but it put her on edge regardless.
She made sure not to look at Astarion, a subliminal concern in her. She refused to give too much attention in case it drew his gaze over to those glinting red eyes or faded but very obvious scars nestled against pale skin.
Instead, she stepped forward and demanded all the attention she could with a loud voice and a smile. “Sounds awfully boring,” she said. “To hunt one creature for so long and not make any progress. Hardly even a challenge or thrill to just slowly camp somewhere and wait.”
The hunter chuckled and she seethed. “The first thing you learn in my line of work is never underestimate your opponent. This spawn has been eluding me for quite some time.”
She tried to keep her expression neutral but struggled. Even in her best moods, she couldn’t hide what she thought and the anxiety in her chest was stronger than ever. Maybe he would think the worry in her face showcased a fear of the creature rather than of him.
“Only a spawn?” she asked. “Pity. Not like it’s a real vampire. There’s little glory to be had in such a hunt.”
He frowned at the accusation in her tone and raised an eyebrow, perhaps confused by the hostility in her voice.
Before he could answer though, Astarion drawled, “I don’t know. I’m sure a vampire spawn could still rip your throat out if he felt like it.”
She couldn’t help a slight smile. Though perhaps not happy, he didn’t sound nervous which meant they fight should be easy. Lae’zel, bored as she was, never complained about further bloodshed and undoubtedly this hunter had no experience facing a gith sword.
Her own bloodthirstiness surprised her. Rarely did she feel the desire to spill blood quite as intensely as she did now and no guilt followed. This man dared to threaten somebody she cared for and she immediately moved to murder.
She really needed to be careful of the strange hold Astarion had on her.
“He is right, unfortunately. They’re only weak when compared to their masters. During the day we have the advantage but when night falls, you will not find a more dangerous quarry.”
She pretended to wince. “Awful for somebody like you to hunt something so fierce when you appear barely able to fight one of these sheep. Should I not worry about one of these spawn creeping up on you when you least expect it?”
The hunter appeared thoroughly offended and Lae’zel snorted in what she had started to learn may be a laugh.
“Well, we’ve stayed alive so far so perhaps we can focus on that.” Astarion reminded her of a cat playing with a mouse. But the cat also hovered far away from the potential battle, uncertain.
“It’ll be safer for you to keep patrols at night,” the hunter warned. “Just in case it tries anything.”
“I don’t think I will.”
He tried to be friendly and helpful but now he simply frowned. She almost felt bad for turning rude and abrasive, noticed how her response made him a little more uncomfortable but not enough to reach for a weapon. Her hand however drifted closer to her blade.
Morals said she should provide him a false lead and send him on a wild chase far away from her party.
Her brain said he may be a threat. If he doubled back or found out about her deception, he could sneak into their camp and take Astarion before she noticed.
And her heart told her if she let him go, Astarion wouldn’t relax again. He may not even stay in the area if he thought the hunter lurked nearby – too jumpy and flighty to stick around their group.
Her morals would need to keep quiet until she dealt with this.
“Maybe we should take him up on his recommendation,” Astarion suggested. “Or deal with this threat now.”
“Take him out before he hurts anybody,” she said and it was an agreement.
The hunter waved his hands quickly. “Oh, I wouldn’t recommend hunting a vampire spawn if you have no experience. You may be a strong fighter but I doubt you’d be able to challenge one.”
“I wasn’t speaking about Astarion,” she said. “If he wanted me dead, he’s had ample opportunities so far.”
Astarion hummed, almost chuckling. “You’re not wrong. It’s lucky that you’ve proven yourself far more useful alive.”
The hunter’s gaze slowly drifted between her and Astarion and her grip tightened on her blade. “That’s impossible,” he said as he reached for his crossbow. “There’s no way you’re –“
She stepped forward and slipped the blade free. Steel sunk deep into flesh and he choked out a garbled, surprised sound as his throat split open. Disgusting.
Blood sprouted from his neck and down his chest as he fell backwards, eyes wide with shock. But she had been too confident and she didn’t notice how he’d managed to get his crossbow out; how he pulled the trigger even as the last of the dark red pulsed from his throat.
The bolt stabbed directly through her thigh. It drove straight through the leather and pierced the flesh beneath even as the others drew their weapons to assist in a battle she’d already won.
She collapsed to one knee as his body thumped against the ground with a few ragged gasps. This was scarcely her first time being shot by a crossbow bolt but something must have coated the weapon. Poison or enchantment, she didn’t know but the pain and the weakness spread fast through her body and her blade fell onto the soft grass below.
“Are you alright?” Wyll arrived at her side first, concerned.
“I’m fine,” she reassured him through gritted teeth. “He’s dead right?”
“From what I could see,” Astarion said with a dramatic sigh. “Well, that’s a pity. I wanted to kill him myself.”
She ignored him and put a bit of pressure on the site of the injury. Her muscles burned fiercely as she decided to leave the bolt in for now. Rather not pull it out when she didn’t know what clung to it.
She slowly stood and blood pulsed down her leg in thick rivers. It slicked the area between her armour and left awful, sticky trails.
No visiting the strange old woman it would appear. She refused to explore a swamp when her leg felt like this.
She stepped forward and hissed in pain, just about collapsing once more if it hadn’t been for Wyll’s support on her back. Definitely something strange about this one.
“We do have spare health potions,” he said as he looked at the bolt. “But this has some magic on it. We should get back to the camp to make sure it isn’t going to deal any long-term damage.”
“I like that idea,” she admitted with a strained and uncomfortable laugh. “It’s a little sore.”
Over the past few days, she’d had many close calls with many weapons but this wooziness… she hated it. The air around her swam as she limped her way along the ridiculously long road back to their camp, reassuring her companions with soft words which held no purchase. Even they could see the way the energy drained from her body with each step.
She accepted only the occasional of assistance from Wyll and tried to make it appear as though the injury didn’t bother her.
Honestly, it had been her fault entirely. She should have noticed the crossbow and been more aware of when he pulled it free. Anger clouded her vision then and still did as they walked back.
The audacity of such a man who dared to threaten her friends… he agitated her even now when he lay on the floor, destined to be anything more than food for the various animals in the area.
Astarion didn’t return her occasional glances nor did he offer help.
She hoped he hadn’t become upset at her actions. Though he may have wanted to kill the hunter himself, she had seen an opportunity and taken it before anybody got hurt.
Well, aside from her.
The enchantment on the bold got removed swiftly but her body needed time to recover and the evening passed uncomfortably. Every muscle burned and her breaths came in soft, quick succession. She tried to keep her complaints quiet and not bother any companions. She had the antidote; she had a bandage. Now all she had to do was wait.
And wait.
The night’s hours stretched long as she lay in her tent. She prayed for sleep to find her but the ache in her bones and the burning pain refused to allow her an opportunity forward.
The footsteps distracted her from her twisting and turning. For somebody so akin to sneaking around, Astarion had stopped doing it after he’d given her a heart attack and she ended up headbutting him. He’d complained non-stop over it for at least an hour but now he didn’t sneak around anymore.
He stepped through the entrance of her tent, his hair haloed in moonlight. The night suited him as well as the day did. He looked practically ethereal as he drifted into her tent, every bit the predator she’d been warned about.
“Well, don’t you look like an absolute mess.”
She rolled her eyes and tilted her head away from him. “And it’s all because of you.”
“Me? It’s hardly my fault the man had a poisoned crossbow. You could have dodged it, you know. I’ve seen you twist your way out of worse hits than that.”
Almost always because of luck but she wouldn’t tell him as much. Instead, she offered him a small smile and tried to stop the tremble in her limbs. At least the pain felt lighter than before.
“Aren’t you meant to be cured or whatever by now?” he asked.
“Shadowheart said it’ll heal up by the morning at latest. I just have to last until then.” Exhausted of lying down, she pulled herself up into a sitting position, leaning against her travelling chest with her legs stretched out. “I’m surprised you came to visit. Are you worried?”
He put his hand to his heart and smiled. “You wound me. Of course, I’m worried. It’s not every day I find somebody dedicated enough to slice a man’s throat in my name.”
“The others would have done the same to keep you safe.”
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t trust any of them with catching a spider.”
She laughed. Though he complained, they were growing on him and she didn’t even need to prompt him to join their impromptu gatherings anymore.
“They like you.”
He ignored her comment and instead spoke of something else. “I believe my old master sent the hunter. He wants me back under his thumb, as I expected. This won’t be the only person he sends and not all will go down so easily.”
“I won’t get distracted next time then,” she laughed.
“Distracted?”
She gestured at him, knowing better than to voice the protectiveness for what it was. She didn’t understand it much either. “I’ve always told you how pretty you are. Now look what those sharp eyes have done. I couldn’t stop looking at them.”
She could play his game too. Offer him compliments and flattery instead of truth when he felt vulnerable.
“You can’t distract me with compliments,” he scoffed.
“Oh, I absolutely can.”
If she had the energy to do so, she would have continued but the wound pulsed in pain and she turned her attention to it, pressing against the soft skin to try and make it stop. The red bandage twisted her stomach into knots but it had stopped bleeding after a while.
Astarion appeared close to her unexpectedly, close enough to kiss with the smallest smirk on his face.
“You must try to stop yourself from getting hurt like this,” he said, trailing the faintest brush over her thigh. “It’s a waste of perfectly good blood. I almost couldn’t contain myself when I saw it running over your skin.”
She tried to laugh but it came out more exhausted than anything. “I’ll try but I make you no promises. My blood isn’t only yours.”
“Not yet. Perhaps the next time you give me the opportunity, I’ll drain it all so you can’t waste it.”
She tilted her head to the side to bear her throat, an exhausted but teasing smile in place. “I did say you could feed off me this morning, right? You’re welcome to take a bite now if you’re hungry.”
He appeared to not be able to tell if she joked or not. She smiled to tell him she was. Even if she had the blood to spare right now (and honestly, she didn’t), she doubted Astarion planned on feeding from her when he already felt as though he owed her some strange debt.
She’d noticed that about him. He only propositioned her when he felt as though he had to give her something in exchange.
It made her concerned.
He scoffed. “You couldn’t pay me enough. I can smell that rancid poison in your veins and it’s awful.”
She groaned and rolled her head back. “I hate this. It’s worse than that stupid apple I ate when we first entered the swamp and just as awful as when the goblin managed to sink its axe into my arm the other day. I thought I caught something from that at least.”
He chuckled. “Well, whatever magic was, it was likely intended for me so it probably won’t kill you.”
“If it’s going to kill me, I’d like it to get it over with. This pain is horrific.”
She expected him to leave soon but she took the opportunity to tap the spot beside her, asking him to sit down. What better company could she ask for? Elves didn’t sleep and despite pretending, Astarion certainly never allowed himself to meditate for very long at all.
“You’re very demanding, aren’t you?” Regardless, he took a seat and they lapsed into silence, punctuated only by her soft and somewhat shaky breaths.
She wanted to ask about the hunter. Wanted to know more about his old master and why he would be so desperate to claim a spawn back. Vampires could create as many spawn as they wanted to and he didn’t need to keep one at all times. It felt like a great deal of energy.
But as the silence stretched out, only one really bothered her enough to make her speak.
“Are you alright?”
“Obviously,” he laughed. “I’m not the one who got shot, was I?”
“No but I wouldn’t want to know a hunter is after me. I don’t want you to feel like you’re unsafe here.”
His smile turned bitter and unhappy as he answered that, his mouth twisted into a scowl. “Safe? Nowhere’s going to be safe as long as Cazador remains alive. The reach of a vampire lord goes far beyond what you may think.”
She may be a little light-headed for a proper conversation but she kept conscious, if unable to stop herself from leaning against his side. He was so cool. It felt amazing against the feverish nature of her skin and she wanted to hug him so badly.
“If he tries anything, I’ll make sure he doesn’t take you.”
He frowned at her and shifted his weight, not quite moving away from her but also not wholly embracing it. She hoped he would move away if he felt uncomfortable, as he did to a few of her other casual touches.
“You’re greatly misunderstanding the power he wields,” Astarion warned, his voice soft. “It would never be as simple as what we’ve seen so far. If he wanted to, he could stroll into this camp and whisk me away before you even noticed what had happened.”
Her solutions were a little scattered so she went for the easy one, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together before she could think about it.
“There,” she murmured. “If he tried to take you away now, I’ll notice immediately.”
Astarion’s muscles turned strangely tense and he made a small coughing sound, muttering something about how she would lose a hand then. She didn’t really hear it. Sleep crept up on her fast with the relaxing touch of his cool body and she lowered her head to his shoulder, eyes drifting closed.
When she woke in the morning, she lay alone in her tent beneath almost every blanket she owned and feeling brilliantly better. The pain faded and she felt ready to take on a hag.
Which incidentally is what they ended up doing. She spent the longest time afterwards wondering if she’d dreamed the previous night or not, distracted enough to nearly spill a bottle of unknown potion all over Gale. After a multitude of apologies, they made their way out and if Astarion’s hand brushed against the back of hers for a second, she didn’t mention it further.
Taglist: @venus-wrts @stephmundo @cassiopeia-adaar @escapistoftherealworld @scarletrosesposts @mavix
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Vincent Sinclair HC
Vincent Sinclair hc SFW and NSFW
I’ve haven’t been seeing my boy get repped recently so I have to do it myself. My first time writing something on here or towards this character ,I promise I will get better y'al,l I made this super quickly not proofread oops.
SFW
-While he can be insecure about his face he definitely has an ego from being the favorite child and having perfected his craft.
Lester drags him out to go for a ride around town or force him to come to his place for some quality brother time (Bo joins every now and then but wants peace and quiet dammit )
‘I know a lot of people have him learn sign language but I think he either writes what he wants to say, speaks as best as he can, or gestures, ( he was born in the south to parents that I don't think cared about communicating with him too much but he could have picked it up later in life maybe in his teen years or middle school era)
More sadistic than Bo when it comes to killing, he doesn't care if they are dead or alive when working on them and takes satisfaction in the result of his work
He prefers to work in silence but you can catch him humming now and then some country song or a guilty pleasure pop song from the 80’s( I see you Vince)
I think he partakes in multiple forms of art besides wax work.We see he’s able to paint, draw, but he also takes pictures, , sews, writes, makes videos, anything artistic he’s learning and keeping up with new techniques.
Since he takes video of the killings at times I think they sell them as snuff films to make extra cash on top of stealing and selling victims stuff. (At least that’s what I thought when I first watched the film anyone else or just me)
Rarely happens but will keep victims that interest him like Bo ,but dispose of them when they get boring or no longer match up the ideal version of them in his head.
-Does want a lifelong partner, the white wedding and picket fence, kids, but knows it might be difficult with the line of work he does.
- He can talk but only does when it’s important or to emphasize something. He does have a southern draw like Bo and I imagine his voice to sound similar but raspier, maybe deeper/ quieter from not using it as much.
-like I said earlier you have to really catch his attention and be able to hold it for more than a week, if that happens then he’s obsessed and protective maybe a little too over protective.
Does indeed have a hair care routine I believe this full throttle and no one can can tell me otherwise I'm not listening.
NSFW
I don't know if he’s a virgin, I don't think he is something is telling me he isn't, but i’m not sure
He has no problem with nudity, bodies are seen as art, there's not as much of a sexual connotation with them as with Bo and Lester .
He wants to be in love with the person he is intimate with, he wants to be worship and worship his muse.
Drawings of his partner naked as well as in the midst of a passionate night, he might tease them all night to make sure the sketch is as life like and accurate as possible
Good size and thick that's all I gotta say
Praise kink hard core, hearing his partner call him a good boy or how he makes them feel so good he will crumble
He starts slow and sensual, enjoys the control he has and having someone at his power.
I think he will edge you and leave you high and dry when you act out but he always caves by the end of the day and gives you what you need.
Can last a long time surprisingly
Mainly a giver but someone please for the love of god give this man the nastiest had he’s ever received will make the prettiest noises
Is down to try anything new and more open about sex than you would think.
When he’s horny he comes up behind his partner and starts caressing every inch he can reach, while resting his chin on their shoulder acting as innocent as he can.
#vincent sinclair#house of wax#vincent sinclair x reader#headcanon#horror#masked men#country man#bo sinclair#lester sinclair#x reader
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I’m here to add onto the idea/request of a previous fic with the archons with a reader who is a fallen god/archon. So instead of reader being banished or overthrown like how the archons may think.. turns out reader/old text books were keeping something from them. Reader faked their death (like another certain archon *cough* *cough* zhongli) and when pressed into why they faked their death. All that reader says is ‘I fell in love with a human centuries ago yada yada and gave up some of my powers and status’ yeah turns out they’ve been human for a couple hundred years and still held onto their god like powers and life span😭. So reader is all like ‘I can be an archon if I do desire again. BUT I grew used to living as a human and I’ve gotten used to you 🫶’ (totally not because they don’t want to resume their duties and explain to their citizens why they were “dead” for a couple centuries)
hi i only did venti and zhongli for this because i'm trying to cut back to 2-3 characters per post so if you want to see the other two feel free to requests them! i'll be sure to attend to it quickly since i technically shorted you on this one, which i apologize for, i hope you still enjoy it :D
Warning: this post contains yandere-themes, including delusional behaviors, obsessive behaviors, mentions of implied violence, mentions of nations being destroyed, and other potential topics. Please read at your own risk!
Yandere!Venti feels jealous at first, you had loved someone else? But he quickly gets over it, focusing on the fact that you were in fact, technically an Archon. He couldn’t guess which one you were, so you’d have to tell him, but he’d be fascinated to hear about the stories of who your people used to be. It’s pretty clear that wherever you used to is no longer an existing place, the Archon war having wiped out any nation and their God that could not hold themself up against the powerful beings. Venti feels a sick satisfaction at the idea that he may have been responsible for destroying your previous region, he thinks it’s funny.
Venti listens as you tell of your previous home, your people and their land, your first love. He doesn’t care to think of who your first love was, praising the fact that they were dead right now and he was alive and here with you. He tries to remember back to the Archon War, trying to think of who had been responsible for wiping out your nation. It was a long time ago and with many smaller gods culled so that the strongest seven could remain in control. Venti hopes it was him who had the pleasure of destroying your lands, he thinks it would be a cute little coincidence that he had destroyed your people whilst you pretended to be mortal and ran around with a human man. He tells you that you don’t need to return to Archon status, that no one was waiting for you, and if you weren’t careful one of the others might step out of line and execute you. He would never let it happen, but he uses it as a scare tactic, wanting to keep you weaker and more human, below him.
Yandere!Zhongli would find it curious, his extensive memory bringing back the exact playthrough of what had happened back then. He remembers hearing of a lesser god passing, he remembers smiling, taking advantage of your ‘passing’ back then to overtake your land. He doesn’t bring it up to you, not wanting to tarnish his perfect image of himself in your mind.
It was kind of sickening, that Zhongli could remember way back, back when he still went by Morax, back when killing off weaker gods was something more commonplace. You had passed mysteriously, leaving behind a godless nation with no one to protect it. And Morax was all for having the upper hand. He didn’t bring it up as you reminisced about your days in power, contemplating about returning. “Who left is there to return to? In this day and age you couldn’t gather a following without it being seen as a declaration of war to one of the currently throned seven, me included.” It’s a subtle way of putting it but Zhongli made it clear that it was best you continued to lay low, lest physical action need be taken, Zhongli included. The man much preferred that you say weaker and below him on the food chain, in your place, where he could easily assert his control over you.
#genshin x reader#genshin x male reader#yandere genshin x reader#yandere genshin x male reader#venti x reader#venti x male reader#yandere venti x reader#yandere venti x male reader#zhongli x reader#zhongli x male reader#yandere zhongli x reader#yandere zhongli x male reader#yandere venti#yandere zhongli#yandere genshin
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White Knight Ithaqua who has feelings for a low-nobility reader (who does also like him a bit) 👀 she's the last living heir of the dying family line, and about to be married off by her desperate father to a cruel husband for the money the sustain their status. She cares nothing for status, and knows of both Ithaqua's fearsome reputation and feelings for her...so she asks him to kill her father, so she'll be free of that fate, and in exchange she'll happily be with him.
heheheheheheh
Rated Mature | Warning: none
Ithaqua with the purple blue lipstick save me
“Ithaqua.” You stand in front of him as sits on the chair in the room, his legs open as he relaxes— Content like a cat after being fed a treat. The wedding, the union between himself and you, is complete. Finally, he has you! The lady of his dreams, the only person alive who knows him as a boy who was once shy and gentle. You promised to marry the boy who lived in the woods with his mother, she was the maid you liked the most. Red hair she would let you braid as she would teach you how to read, her smile bright and you try to match it. She was a sweet woman who was like a mother to you while your father was being a fool. Your mother died not long after you were born, the rumors say your father had her killed for having an affair. An affair that was not true.
“Would you do anything for me?
Ithaqua, the fearsome White Knight, stares at you with eyes you know are to be full of a love that would scare anyone else. Without his helmet, you see the face, the change from the gentle to the sharp man who would cut down the mightiest of the White King’s enemies. His dark purple edging on blue-painted lips formed a Cheshire grin. He stands up and snatches you close to him, his hands on your waist as his forehead touches yours.
“Anything.”
You use one hand to guide him to touch your ass, your other hand beginning to open his uniform, and you angle your face to brush against his lips as you speak. “Will you kill for me?” Softly asking with your eyes locked with his.
Your father used to be of high status before his greed got the best of him. He plotted with others to overthrow the White King with the assistance of the Black Monarchy. He was able to worm his way out of an execution and keep some of his status. All he had to do was easily betray those who were trying to betray the kingdom. You hate him for using you as a way to remain in the good graces of the White King. The White Knight was gifted you, an offering to a monster expected to devour you.
“Within reason.” He moves in to kiss you but you pull back. A warning growl but his grin never fades, “Does murder get you off these days, (Name).”
“No, this is not a murder but a way to free your wife.” You tilt your head back as he attacks your neck and squeezes your ass, “My father. I want him to be cold on the ground by tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Then he laughs, “No honeymoon?” Licking the column of your throat before biting into the side marking you as his.
“If you kill him fast enough you can return to me with his blood on your hand and claim me.”
He moves back to look at your very serious face, his grin gone as he is surprised to hear the hatred in your voice, “You’ve changed.”
“Not willingly, I wish I was still the girl who would chase you to play with me.” You yearn for her, for the woman she has turned into these days. Cold and calculating, your loyalty is to the kingdom and now your husband. “Will you free me?”
“Free you? This will only lock the last shackle to me.”
“So be it. You still love me, I know you will not toss me to another.”
He hums before going back to marking your neck, “In silver and blood you are bound to me.” Silver for the ring and blood for the man who will die tonight.
#asks#idv#reader insert#ithaqua x you#ithaqua x reader#idv ithaqua#identity v ithaqua#idv x you#idv x reader#idv night watch#night watch x reader#night watch x you#identity v night watch#identity v x reader#identity v#identity v x you
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