#What the dog doing?Getting tlc

[horrifichaunts]

@greatsealed asked: it takes ten times longer to put yourself back together than it does to fall apart. - @protectivepsyche for mangle... i think they'd also be really cute friends. i can picture metis saying this while patching mangle up , you see

The fox’s ears wiggle as his broken leg is being gently tended to. A curious tilt of the head before she gives a nod of understanding. Tail slowly wags, gears and mechanisms struggling with the simple function.

There’s a static sound from Mangle’s voice box, but even for as harsh as it can be it sounds….pleased and like they agree.

[allbark-no-bite]

good boy.

art donaldson x reader (wc: 2.9k)

summary: as Art’s personal physical therapist, it’s your job to fix what Tashi has torn apart, by whatever means necessary. or in which Art just needs some TLC

warnings: 18+ smut, it could be worse tbh, mentions of disordered eating

author’s note: i’m back ig?? im out of uni for the summer and challengers has me in a chokehold. Art Donaldson the man that you are

————————————————————————

You're standing just within earshot of the doorway, passing a sanitary wipe over one of the tables in the athlete treatment room when you hear the door abruptly open. Tashi storms in with a purpose and Art trails meekly behind her. Even if you had been clueless to how the match had gone rather than on the sidelines beside Tashi not even twenty minutes ago, you could have guessed by the hard line of her mouth that Art was in for it. Not that her displeased scowl was much different from her usual scowl, but you'd been around long enough to know the difference.

She stops abruptly, and Art heels obediently as Tashi turns around to face him. "I need you to tell me when you're going to fucking get it together so that I can stop wasting my time."

Weary and sweat soaked, Art just stares at her with that pitiful look on his face and says nothing in reply. His blue eyes solemnly take in her harsh disappointment as though beyond used to it. At this point it's not all that foreign to you either.

"You may as well be fucking asleep out there," she snaps.

This time his mouth opens. "I- I'm just tired-" he begins, although there's hardly any argue to his voice at all.

"No, I'm tired, Art," Tashi interjects. "Do you have any idea how much fucking work I've put into getting you back onto the court this past year?! I've done everything! The least you could do go out there and try to act like I've done anything for you at all!"

Art swallows, the slight frown on his face deepening. "I am. I just- I don't-"

Before he can even finish his sentence. The open palm of Tashi's hand connects with his cheek as she pops the left side of his face. Art closes his mouth. You pretend to concentrate on wiping down the table. It's not the first time you've witnessed one of these conversations but it still feels private, like you shouldn't be here. You keep wiping the table.

Understanding that anything else he says is only going to make Tashi angrier, Art resigns to once again watching her in silence. His blue eyes are sad. The usually fair skin of his cheek is tinted pink where she popped him. Although it wasn't very hard, you're sure it still hurt him all the same.

"Quit wasting my time," is all she says before she finally turns and leaves, walking right past you and out the other door. You hold your breath as she passes you. Art watches her go but makes no move to follow. You release an audible sigh. It's been a frustrating day for everyone. As Art's personal trainer, physical therapist, and close friend, you felt every loss, every ache and pain, every bad play. And there seemed to be a lot of those lately.

Art is still standing there, watching the closed door that Tashi left though.

Not knowing how to break the silence, you finally pat the freshly sanitized treatment table. "C'mon," you call gently, as though beckoning to a wounded dog.

It takes a moment for him to budge, but eventually he does, his disheartened spirit apparent in the way he walks over. Used to the usual routine, he tugs his damp shirt off over his head as he takes a seat, the lean muscles of his torso flexing as he does so. You allow yourself to ogle at him, only for a brief moment before stepping in between the bracket of his knees. Gently, you cradle his chin, tipping his head back to look up at you as your thumb smooths over the redness of his cheek. His blue eyes blink up at you, sad and dog-like.

"It wasn't terrible," you reassure him. "You had surgery six months ago. You're still getting your feet back underneath you. Most people wouldn't have come back." You're right. The still-pink scars on his shoulder are still fresh on your mind. The stitches weren't even out before Tashi had him in physical therapy. Even though his medical team had released him, it was still a bit early to start doing rehab so soon after surgery, Art's comfort being your biggest concern. But when Tashi wants something, she gets it.

Wordlessly, Art sighs, the weight of his head settling into your palm as he finally lets go of the tension he'd been carrying. It was always like this. You fixing what Tashi had torn apart. You understood where Tashi was coming from. Art needed a firm voice in his training, and you had a lot of respect for the way she put her foot down and never let up, not even once. But there was only so many times you could kick a dog while he was down.

So if Art needed someone to coddle him, you would coddle him.

He trusts you. He needs you, is what Tashi had told you when she asked you to stay on as his trainer full time. The three of you had been in the same year at Stanford all those years ago, Tashi and Art on the tennis team and you helping out as a student trainer as part of a class requirement. Three peas in a pod, the trio of you were. Of course then they both graduated, leaving you to finish up your schooling, meanwhile Art set off to go pro.

A few years later, once Tashi officially took on the position as Art's coach, she began building his team, and that's where you came in. You were hesitant at first.

'I already lost to you once, Tashi. I won't come in second to you again.'

She had paused on the other end of the line. Back in your Stanford days, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that you were head over heels in love with the blonde tennis player. But loving Art was like accepting the participation ribbon for a game you knew you weren't going to win in the first place. It was like standing next to the podium, just lucky enough to be included in the picture while Tashi and tennis took first and second place. And so you let him go.

'I'm not asking you to. This is different.'

Your hand slips from his face, and he forces his eyes open.

“Have you eaten?" you ask, stepping away in order to put some distance between the two of you and look for the granola bars that you keep especially for him. The gels were good sources of quick fuel in between sets, but they were hardly enough to even begin to make up for the calories he burned while playing.

Slowly, Art shakes his head, but he makes no move to take the snack from your hand when you offer it to him. Ever since his injury, nutrition became all the more important. So much to the point that every single thing that he consumed was mapped out to the exact calorie. Although he would never admit it, any sort of change in this routine made him incredibly anxious. Some days it was better not to cause him the anxiety than to force him.

Today, you insistently hold out the bar until he begrudgingly takes it from your hand. You don't move until you've seen him tear open the package and take a bite.

"Were you still feeling tight?" you ask as you walk around the table, stopping at the slouch of his turned back. You reach out to grasp at the joint of his neck and shoulder, your thumb smoothing over the kinesiology tape that's peeling away at the base of his neck.

He half turns his head to glance back at you. "You watched the match. You tell me."

His response is meant to be snippy, but it comes out more defeated than anything. To be fair, you've been his trainer long enough to know that if something was bothering him physically, you would have picked up on it.

"I want to hear it from you."

"I felt fine."

Your left hand follows suit on the other side of his neck, and you use both of your thumbs to apply pressure to what you assume will be a tense spot along the upper part of his traps. Predictably, Art groans at the attention. The muscles of his back contract as he fights the urge to shake you off. Relaxing the muscle hurts as much as it feels good. Besides his obvious discomfort, the rest of his body has gone lax under your touch. His shoulders have dropped at least an inch, and his chin has fallen to rest against his chest.

"Finish your granola bar," you reprimand him, your firm fingers working across his back until you find another spot that nearly has him jerking away. He releases a whine but obediently takes another bite of the bar. This time he finishes it before you have to remind him again.

You spend a few more minutes torturing him before you're satisfied that a majority of the tension has left his shoulders.

"Okay, good boy," you murmur, leaning forward so that your chest is close enough to brush against his back. One of your hands trails up to squeeze the back of his neck reassuringly.

You're close enough to hear him swallow at the name. The skin on the nape of his neck shivers despite how hot he still is from the match.

"Was I?" he asks timidly. "Good today?"

'I can be his coach. Or I can be the person he cries to after a bad day. But I can't be both. That's why he needs you."

Without removing your hand from his neck, you walk around the table so you're standing in front of him. Art widens the spread of his legs so that you can stand between them. His chin is still pressed to his chest, blue eyes focused on the ground.

"Art," is all you say, shifting your grip on his neck to tug lightly at his golden blonde hair. At your voice, he lifts his head just enough to look up at you through the pale wisps of his eyelashes. The irises of his blue eyes shine are wet with uncertainty.

Your fingers loosen their grip to allow your nails to scratch at his scalp. "You're good, Art. You'll always be good."

Art twists his head to nuzzle his cheek along the inside of  your outstretched arm. His lips kiss the crook of your elbow. He swallows again. "Even if I don't play tennis?"

You can tell the question's been bothering him, eating at his nerves, and messing up his game. You know him well enough to know that retirement isn't what he wants, not really. At least not right now. What he wants is the reassurance that it's going to be okay if he can't swing the comeback.

"Look at me."

He lingers a moment longer with his lips pressed lovingly against your skin before he reluctantly shifts his gaze up to you. His look is anticipatory but reserved, as if to preemptively conceal his disappointment should you choose to crush his heart with your answer.

His fear is understandable. Art's relationship with Tashi has always been entirely built off of his tennis career. By being the driving force behind his success, Tashi has vicariously lived out the life she would have had had her injury never happened. Without tennis, Art has nothing left to offer her. He knows that if he gives up tennis, he loses Tashi.

Your relationship with Art was a little less conditional. Hell, you'd been in love with him since the first time you'd laid eyes on him at Stanford. You can still picture him standing there on the court, barely nineteen, scrawny, nervous smile, backwards cap over his strawberry blonde hair. Before he was the Art Donaldson. But when Tashi had stepped into the picture, you figured that was where your fairytale ended.

"I don't love you because of tennis. I love you because you're kind, and thoughtful, and you're passionate about what you do." You smile a bit before adding, "And you're my good boy."

The name turns him bashful again, and he's quick to turn and hide his smiling face against your arm, only the flushed tips of his ears visible. "[Y/n]," he mumbles, likely meaning to be threatening, but it doesn't come out that way.

Art Donaldson lived to be praised.

You laugh, pulling him closer so that his face is held against your chest. The hand that you don't have threaded through his hair trails up the muscle of his defined quad. "You're my good boy. Aren't you, baby?"

Art whines, squirming when your hand reaches the apex of his thigh and hovers over the forming bugle of his shorts. He's not quite there yet, his dick only half chubbed up in interest, but given the day that he's had, you won't make him wait.

"Please?" he mumbles, his face still buried into your collarbone, as if attempting to curling into you, like a small child needing their parent to hold them for comfort.

You rake your nails lightly up the inside of his thigh. "What, baby?"

Not only did Art liked to be praised, but he was masochist even on his worst days.

"Want you to touch me," he mumbles, his voice muffled by your shirt. "Please."

Your hand still scratching through his hair, you press a kiss to the side of his head, unable to suppress your smile at his timid politeness and how it never seems to fail him. The only time he ever resembled anything remotely voracious was on the court.

Palm finding his tented shorts, you cup him through the fabric. Art responds immediately to your touch, his hips shifting further into your grasp. You continue to pet him through his shorts, appreciating the way you can feel him actively responding to your touch.

His nails dig into the padding of the treatment table when you give his now fully hard dick a less than sympathetic squeeze. His breath is hot as he pants against your collarbone, alternating between laving open mouthed kisses to your skin and whining when you pause fondling him just to feel his hips rut up into your palm.

Art was so in control on the tennis court, that often after a match, putting the control into someone else's hands was just what he needed.

When his hips start to stutter, you ease up but continue to stroke him through his shorts. The front of his shorts are damp with the musk of residual sweat and precum.

His breath is shallow—anticipatory.

"Gunna come?" you ask softly, speaking into the blonde mess of his hair, cradling him. He right there, you can tell by the lackluster buck of his hips, his building fatigue, and the change in his breathing.

"Can I? —Please?" Art asks breathily. He hiccups out the last part, his voice catching.

"You know you don't have to ask."

There's a brief pause, as if coming to the realization, before he meekly murmurs, "I know.

It should be sad really, his unwavering obedience, but there are two sides to Art, two polar extremes. On the court, every match, every set, every debilitating second is up to him. No one else can help him out there, and up until about a year ago, he played like it. That was the side of Art Donaldson that Tashi wanted. After the match is a different story. In private, Art needed someone to do the thinking for him, to pull him into a reality where he could believe that it didn't matter whether he won or lost. Tashi had not the sympathy nor the patience for that kind of fragility.

Art comes with a brief cry into your chest, his body arching into yours. Your hand palms at his pulsing dick until he's oversensitive and pulling away. When you relent, the front of his shorts are sticky and wet.

Finally, Art lifts his face from the safety of your chest. His blue eyes are glossed over, but it's an improvement from the detached look they held ten minutes ago. His cheeks are flushed, a mixture of his own embarrassment and satisfaction. 

You can't help the soft smile that creeps onto your face at the look of him, and immediately Art is abashedly trying to hide his face again, his own smile starting to appear. Before he can, you bring your hands back up to cradle his face, thumbs wiping away the wetness from under his eyes. This time he lets you.

His eyes study your face for a second, admiring you, appreciating the love he has for you.

“I don’t want to play tennis anymore.”

You can’t tell if it’s more of a statement or a confession. Either way, you know he’s telling you the absolute truth.

“Okay,” you reply softly, not hint of judgement in your voice. Maybe some disappointment, but that was understandable.

Retirement would be a kindness. Art would finally put back on some healthy weight, start smiling again, put on a real, actual smile. You could already see it, a nice house for the two of you to settle down in, with a picket fence and a dog in the backyard, the kind of things the two of you would have never had time for on tour.

Tennis had brought the two of you together, but it wouldn’t end you.

[lxvvie]

Couples Shit with Simon Riley, Part 2:

Thinking Simon is asleep when he isn't. Or so he says. Case in point: Simon in all his cattiness made you his pillow. Your nails were working miracles scratching along his scalp which had him dozing off and lightly snoring. Or so you thought. You heard him grumble, "Why'd you stop, luvie?" when you moved your hand. He'll deny he was asleep, too, like the peepaw that he is.

To piggyback off the first point, Simon will sometimes quietly grab your hand and put it back on his head if you stop scratching his scalp. If you stop a second time, he will have experienced a betrayal man and cat were never supposed to know, and it's Affection Denied™ for the rest of the day lmao.

Texting each other when you're in two separate rooms because you don't feel like talking out loud. Sometimes, you'll text him some crazy shit that'll warrant him leaving the room he was in to silently judge you.

Absolutely loving to watch him shave in the morning because Simon is so sexy when he's concentrating, eyebrows furrowed, and those brown eyes staring intensely in the mirror.

You and Simon shit-talking each other in bed because you'll complain about being hot with the covers and cuddle pile you two have going on but never really doing anything to change it. You two actually can't get a good night's sleep without being up under the other.

Simon banning you from watching horror films because, for the hundredth bloody time, he didn't hear shit, love. He actually did and it was the neighbors but he can't be arsed to get out of bed.

Speaking of neighbors, it's you and Simon lying in bed, listening to the neighbors make sex and when it's done, Simon goes, "Mm. A new record," and he sounds so unimpressed which causes you to guffaw. Oh my fucking god—

Getting in the dog house with Simon because when your hands are cold, you stick them down in his pants to rest on his thighs because it's hilarious to see him jump and that's what he gets for not turning the heat up. Simon counterargues that he did turn it up. Three degrees.

Introducing Simon to the wonders of Spa Day at home because his skin needs some TLC. Simon looking like someone's stressed auntie with a ciggie dangling from his lips, wearing a really comfortable bathrobe you got him, and eye masks on.

You two treating it like the end of the world whenever one of y'all gets sick (Simon to a lesser extent) because how in the hell will you get your daily dose of affection?

Going all out and having a whole-ass reveal party for your newest edition to the family, Pup. You gave the boys shirts to wear in celebration. You wore Dad, Simon wore... Mom????, Kyle got Uncle, Soap got... Big Brother??? and Price got... Grandfather. Grand. Father. "Congrats, Cap'n." "Shut up."

Pranking Simon by calling him some random guy's name just to see his reaction. Simon stops what he's doing, judges you in Ghost, and goes, "Who the fuck is Anthony?" After that, it's on sight for Anthony. Whoever the fuck that is. Simon gets you back, though, and he's all, "Ask Anthony" "Oh? You love Anthony, too?" "Sorry sweetheart, Simon is taken. Better go to Anthony." Real funny, asshole.

Simon thinking you're about to go down on him. Not the way he thinks, though. You've situated yourself between his thighs, put his legs on your shoulders, and lower your head to... blow raspberries in his tummy. Like... whole-ass tunes. The disappointment on his face is immeasurable. But then you have him chuckling because you're fuckin' adorable looking up at him like that and your raspberries are ticklish.

[retroaria]

♡ "All the little things..."

⟡ itoshi rin | oliver aiku | michael kaiser ⟡

summary: gn!reader, things that they’d look for/love in a partner! pure fluff! (i do describe something as ‘sexy’ but it really isn't that serious)

˗ˏˋ written for arias 1.5k follower event! ˎˊ˗

he’d never admit it, but rin would want a partner who can take him down a few notches. someone to calm his nerves and balance out his animosity. he can come to you at the end of every match and immediately release all tension and frustration. but also, someone to ground him and his ego a bit off the field. someone who can remind him to take things slowly and relax when he can and should.

he’s secretly very attracted to kindness. it’s a weird thing to be secretive about but rin is a weird guy what can i say. it makes his heart flutter to see you treating others with such grace, it even tugs a small smile at the corners of his lips which he quickly tries to pull back down into his usual blank expression.

rin tends to be a more private person himself, and he likes others that can keep their peace in that same way. he wouldn’t want to tell the whole world about your relationship, not because he wants to keep you a secret, but because he feels like you’re relationship is even more special the more it exists only to serve the two of you. he likes the idea of having you all to himself.

as a runner up for sassiest man of the year (lost to kaiser lol), oliver tends to find that same snappiness attractive in other people as well. he loves someone who can speak their mind and be confident about it, someone who can stand their ground and not let themselves be belittled. he thinks it’s hot, sexy even.

he likes people that are more outgoing then he is. while oliver doesn’t usually shy away from any fun, he can tend to back out of things because he feels it may be “too much” or an over exertion. he wants someone who can push him out of his comfort zone and get him to try new things that he wouldn’t have otherwise done on his own.

out of the whole cast, oliver is probably one of the most comfortable in his own masculinity methinks. he loves doing self-care and other beautification rituals (lol) with you! would let you do his eyebrows, dye his hair, make him smell like a strawberry shortcake; he fucking loves it. “Can’t turn down a bit of TLC and relaxation” he’d say. he totally does call a lot of it “goop” and “slime” or “sticky stuff” and can only remember to categorize it by color. “Babe, come feel my face, that pink goopy stuff made it so soft.~”

similar to mr. aiku, kaiser also loves a bit of sass in his partners, in a more subtle way though. sarcasm and brutally honest humor make him wanna bark like a dog. he loves it. he’s like the girl in a romance manga that falls in love with the cold and stoic upperclassmen. wants to break your hard exterior, but also wants to be the only person who ever could.

he loves being on the receiving end of ‘acts of service’. if that’s your love language, he’s all for it. he already thanks you just for putting up with him on a daily basis - considers that an act of service lol. making him food or planning a date for him would make his heart swell to the point of explosion.

physical and emotional intimacy need to be a huge priority for him. similarly to how rin likes things to just be between him and his partner, kaiser also needs certain things to be private, though he's more than happy to let the whole world know you're the person he loves. as long as he gets to have those quiet tender moments with you, wrapped in each others arms, he's a happy boy.

dividers: @cafekitsune vv cute :3 | header by me !!

@bllk-tv

[semisolidmind]

Drops these thoughts in exchange for absolutely mauling your art.

Saved catnap would be down right horrifying to encounter in the woods-

If your just going for a quick walk, I think he’d just stalk you, ensuring you never get close to Angel’s property.

If you’re there for other reasons……well….CatNap has been debating making a new shire for Angel….(much to everyone else’s dismay and horror…)

And if the person sneaking onto the property has features resembling Angel (hair, eyes, clothing, etc), it gets a little…..off putting to into the barn….

(Also the image of CatNap just licking poor Angel while they’re sleeping beside him is so strong. Even more if he’s doing it to annoy DogDay and rub his scent on angel. Gotta lay your claim to your savior somehow!)

(oh god...catnap barn shrine.... consists of some stolen shirts, a comb, perhaps a throw blanket and some pillows, a picture (with anyone other than y/n scratched out) stolen from the mantle, a spare hairtie or two...anything catnap can get his paws on while the others are distracted or out of the house)

and the idea of catnap occasionally "borrowing" his savior has been on my mind. like, he'll get just close enough to them, quietly from behind, to subtly breath a little red smoke on them. just enough to knock them out. then he'll gently carry them up to his nest in the barns' hayloft. he just wants to hold them, but knows y/n doesn't trust him enough to really let him close.

he spends that time where they're knocked out nuzzling them and purring up a storm. he knows the stupid dog will be breaking down his door to retrieve y/n as soon as he realizes they're gone, so....catnap makes the most of his time with them.

–

ive also been imagining a scene where y/n leaves dogday and the girls inside to make dinner, and goes out onto the back porch. it's dark, and they can't really see much beyond where the porch light can reach, but...they know catnap is out there. they can see the barest trace of his lanky silhouette in the trees beyond the barn.

his white pupils glow through the gloom. his heavy stare pins y/n in place.

with no better ideas, y/n sits, legs dangling over the edge of the deck. they maintain eye contact with catnap. after a beat of silence, they make the one noise no cat can resist.

pssp pssp pssp.

catnap is confused, if the perk of his ears and small tilt of his head is anything to go by.

but, he does take a slow step out of the trees, recognizing the sound as a summons. he begins to cross the yard, getting closer, never taking his eyes off of y/n. his slow stalking gait is anxiety inducing, but y/n tries to keep it together. they have a plan.

they want to get catnap more comfortable with them, with the house, to help better integrate him into their little family. perhaps a little TLC will make the stray cat more personable.

he looks ready to run despite his intimidating facade. his long tail flicks from side to side. curious, but cautious. his eyes never leave y/n.

catnap slowly gets closer and closer, eventually coming into the light. y/n always forgets how big he and dogday actually are; that sheer size is less threatening on dogday, who y/n knows won't hurt them. they're not so sure about catnap.

the massive toy looms over them in spite of his cautious, low posture.

y/n slowly raises their hands, palms upturned. an invitation.

catnap's eyes flicker to their hands for a second before returning to their face. y/n can only hope he understands what they're inviting him to do.

the feline slowly, carefully, steps forward. he sets his heavy head into y/n's palms. he begins to purr when they ever so softly begin to scratch his chin and behind his ears.

moving out of y/n's space, catnap backs away. quiet and uneasy, y/n lets him go. they know that the process of "rehabilitating" him will take time and patience. getting him used to them and the others will be a struggle. but for now, they're just happy that they could get him to accept touch at all.

he knows that the small, tentative smile on their face is...proud, perhaps. happy that he's accepted their care. despite his hesitation, he soaks in the feeling of his savior's hands on him. he can't remember the last time he'd felt a gentle touch. catnap leans into the motions, eyelids drooping a little in contentment. his white eyes remain locked on y/n's face, his pupils dilating a bit. they seem more at ease with him like this. he basks in their simple affection for several minutes, his purring the only sound; he's thoroughly enjoying the peaceful moment between the two of them.

however, a crash from inside and the raucous voices of the other toys startle him into alertness. his eyes widen, pupils shrinking back to slits and his ears lay flat against his head. he hears y/n gasp in surprise, pulling their hands back. catnap's a bit disappointed at the loss of their touch, but knows that it's better not to invite the ire of the other toys by lingering too long. the moment has passed, and he can feel y/n's unease growing again.

the large toy stalks off into the darkness. y/n waits until he's safely beyond the trees to stand and open the door. they cast one last look into the night before heading back inside to mediate whatever accident just occurred.

catnap, as standoffish as he appears, treasures the small gesture he's just received. he returns to the woods, pleased and purring to himself; thinking about the scrap of affection he's been granted from the hands of his beloved savior. he'll be sure to seek them out for more.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hey I was wondering if you would be up for writing a fic where the reader just showers Buggy in affection and just takes care of him. He could definitely do with some tlc

When you first shown Buggy any form of affection or love, his natural reaction was to pull away, to flinch, to push you away for the sake of upholding the gimmick he had thrusted onto him by others. He just wasn’t use to someone being genuine, being so kindhearted, patient and filled to the brim with unconditional love and adoration towards him like you have that it made him fearful, for the first time for he finally had something he was so scared to loose.

Buggy knew now that he couldn’t run away from this fight against letting himself drop his guard and fall apart within your arms forever, no matter how much he wanted to. He knew that one day he’d have to raise the white flag and admit defeat, little did Buggy know that he’d wave that white flag long ago and had admitted defeat whilst in the comfort of your arms and your sweet honeyed words. You provided Buggy with the safe space to be vulnerable, to be able to be rid of his make up, allow for you to see the beautiful man beneath the flashiness, the gimmicks and the theatrics; He even remembered the words you told him when he first allowed himself to sink deeply into your embrace, which opened his eyes to the route he was leading himself down towards.

‘Just because one person destroyed your ability to put your trust in others doesn’t mean that everyone else is going to do the same.’ You whispered into his ear as your hands ran through his beautiful blue hair with care. ‘The actions of one person isn’t a reflection of others. You can choose to not trust but live to regret to be open with that one special somebody or open up to everybody and blindly hope that they don’t use your kindness to stab you in the back.’

Not that Buggy would ever tell you but you held his glass heart within your hands and instead of smashing it like he originally thought you would, you surprised him by holding it close to your chest; looking down at it adoringly and so full of love that it made Buggy a tad teary eyed, for if someone as beautiful and downright perfect as you could ever love someone as flawed as him without being forced into loving him…then he guessed that he was finally doing something right. Soon enough your arms and being smothered in your kisses and honeyed words had become Buggy’s most favoured place to lay his aching self to rest after a seemingly stressful day, where nothing seemed to go exactly to plan.

‘You look comfortable there? Hard day?’ You asked softly as Buggy grunts as he buries his head into your neck, his arms quickly latching onto your waist tightly. Normally you’d have to be the one who initiated affection, which you still do on most occasions, but you also wanted Buggy to feel comfortable to come seek you out on his own terms rather then force him to. ‘Just cuddle me will ya?’ He said groggily and you couldn’t help but chuckle at his neediness.

‘What’s the magic word?’ You teased, trying so hard to bite back your snickers when Buggy lifted his head from your neck to glare at you softly but before he could say anything, you pressed a quick kiss to his cute nose, rendering him wide eyed and speechless before going in to plant a kiss directly to his lips. ‘Cute.’ You whispered against him, getting off on the expressions you pull out of him from gifting him basic levels of love and affection, before pulling away to look back into his gorgeous eyes that you never went a day without complimenting.

‘I’m not cute.’ Buggy said, his cheeks warm as the arms at your waist tightened their grip. ‘Dogs are cute, cats are cute, but I am not cute. I’m terrifying, people look at me and shit themselves from running away with their tails between there legs. And even then the ones that are stupid enough to stay behind are made examples of, so please tell me again how I’m apparently cute.’ He finished, choosing not to look into those soft, understanding and patient eyes of yours that he oh so loved. ‘You’re always cute to me Buggy,’ you started, raising his head to look directly at you by his chin, allowing your hand to drop back to his waist when you were confident he wouldn’t drop his gaze again.

‘Just like how you’re not only just cute but you’re also handsome, strategic, expressive with the way you talk and how you move your hands whilst you talk, flashy, dramatic, and above all you’re beautiful.’ Between each word you’d press a kiss to some part of his face, ignoring his adorable squeals and squawks of surprise that were music to your ears, not caring that you were smudging his make up and getting it on yourself as you held nothing but pride in your love for your Buggy, for as on rare occasions you would openly express your love towards him but saved a majority of it for behind closed doors; Not as though Buggy was anything but boisterous of his love for you and would shout it to the rooftops for all to hear in a possessive sort of way.

‘Really?’ Buggy asked once the flurry of kisses came to an end, looking at you with bright, hopeful eyes it melted your heart. ‘Yes, of course I do Buggy. How could I not? I’m extremely lucky to have you in my life and I couldn’t be more happier.’ You told him, watching as a goofy smile graced his lips as a chuckle fell out from his lips before Buggy decided to burying his head back into your neck, where he whispered against the skin there. ‘If either one of us is the lucky one, it’s me because you could’ve listened to everyone else and avoid me like the plague but you didn’t and I’m glad you didn’t because without you I wouldn’t know where or who I’d be. So thank you for never giving up on me…I love you.’

[buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger]

Post-Mission TLC

Beefy!Bucky x GN!Reader

Description: Just you and Bucky, in the tub, and you taking care of him

Warnings: unapologetic fluff!, Nonsexual nudity, me-typical gratuitous use of pet-names, Everyone is alive, Bucky is an Avenger, cuddling,

A/N: I've been writing a lot of hurt/comfort as of late, so let's get some No Hurt Just Comfort.

((18+ only below the cut please and thank you!!))

Bucky stumbled through the door of your shared apartment of the Avengers Compound, exhausted

The mission had been grueling, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse in bed beside you

You broke into a huge smile when you saw your boyfriend, racing to him and wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Welcome home, Sweet Boy,” you kissed his lips, “how’re you doing?”

Bucky let out a little groan, and you noticed that he was leaning against you

He never slept well on missions, you knew that.

But what you didn’t know was that he hadn’t been able to sleep longer than about three hours collectively over the last two days

When taking the HYDRA base he, Steve, and Sam had ended in a long string of guerilla attacks from their goons, leaving all of them taken out.

You looked at him with concern when you looked him in the eyes, “Baby, are you okay?”

“Tired,” he hummed, fighting to keep his eyes open.

You took his face in both hands and stroked his cheekbones.

“Oh, Baby Boy…” you cooed, brushing his hair behind his ear, “c’mon, Buck. Why don’t I run you a bath, and after we can get all cozy in bed?”

He hummed, and you helped him kick off his boots before carefully removing the harnesses, belts, and holsters from his body.

“Come on, Baby. Follow me.�� You took his hand and led him to the bathroom.

You sat him down on the toilet, turned on the water, and began to gently remove the layers of leather and Kevlar until he was bare chested in front of you.

As you worked you caught your boyfriend looking at you with sleepy, loving eyes, and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose.

“My handsome soldier,” you stroked his cheek with your thumb, “I love you.”

Bucky gave you that dopey, lop-sided grin you couldn't get enough of, “l’ve’y’too.”

You smiled at his slurred words and helped him to his feet, helping him out of his socks, pants, and boxers.

“C'mon Baby Boy,” you said, gently helping him into the tub, “let's get you washed up.”

“Get’n’wi’me?” he asked, giving you the biggest puppy dog eyes you've ever seen.

You nodded and slipped off your clothes, “of course, Honey.”

Once you were fully bare, you sat down in the tub behind him, pulling him into your arms.

It was a little difficult, since Bucky was so much larger than you, but eventually you managed to get him nestled against you, his back pressed against your chest

You grabbed the plastic cup that you kept by the side of the tub for instances like this and smiled, “alright Sweet Boy, head back. I’m gonna wet your hair, okay?”

He did as instructed and you dipped the cup in the water, shielding his eyes and pouring it in his hair over and over.

Bucky’s eyes drifted shut and he melted at the feeling.

When his hair was sufficiently wet, you grabbed his shampoo and began to massage the soap into his scalp

He sunk down as you continued to scrub.

Bucky loved the way that your hands felt in his long locks, how your nails gently scratched against his headIt made him melt

“Alright, Baby Boy,” you cooed, “let me rinse, okay?”

Bucky nodded, and the warm water was poured on his head again, your hands working to rinse him, and your lips peppering little kisses along the scarred skin of his back.

Once his hair was free from bubbles, Bucky felt you running your hands through his dark locks, gently finger-combing the knots out

His hair had gotten so much longer since he’d joined the team, growing well past his shoulders and making it hard to keep it free from tangles on missions

(He was still too nervous about having scissors or clippers near his head to cut it short again, despite his wants)

You always made sure to take extra care with his hair when he returned, and it made him melt.

Always so gentle, so loving and tender with your touches

Bucky could cry, it felt so good.

He didn’t even realized he’d dozed off while you were working until you nudged him awake

You had a soft washcloth in your hand, you’d washed his back while he’d napped.

“I know you’re tired, Baby Boy,” you cooed, kissing his shoulder, “but you need to stay up just a little longer, okay? I gotta finish getting you washed up, you’ll sleep a lot better once you’re nice and clean.”

He nodded, blinking sleep out of his eyes as you helped him turn to face you

You gently washed the dirt and soot from his face, ending with a a little peck on his scruffy cheek

His eyes were getting heavy as you cleaned every inch of his body with the utmost care, so once you were done you took him in your arms and let him rest for a few minutes before helping him out of the tub.

You towel dried him off and guided him to sit on the closed lid of the toilet.

“Alright, Honey,” you smiled, “I’m gonna get you some clothes–”

“Nooooooo,” Bucky whined, looking at you with puppy dog eyes again, “wan’skin-on-skin…”

“Alright, Baby, whatever you want.” He made a happy little hum, “I’m gonna comb your hair and then we can lay down, okay?”

He stayed so still for you as you carefully worked the knots out of his long, dark locks, finishing by spraying some leave-in conditioner into his hair.

“C’mon, Bucky,” you took his hand and led him back into your bedroom, “come lay down with me.”

While you turned down your bed you handed him the water bottle he kept on his nightstand

“Can I get you to drink something for me, Sweetheart? We can lay down in a minute.”

Bucky took some long sips off of it as you got settled in bed. You smiled.

“C’mon Darling, come lay down with me.”

You took him in your arms the second he laid down, pulling his large, warm body to you.

Bucky laid down on top of you, and you let your one hand rub his broad back while the other stroked his hair

He was asleep within minutes, his peaceful little snores filling the room.

You smiled softly and kissed his forehead, cradling his head against your chest.

“Good night, Baby Boy. Sleep well, I love you.”

[topazadine]

Writing Research Notes: Horses

I have complained before about fantasy writers (and others) using horses without really knowing anything about them, so I'd like to share some basic Horse Facts. These aren't things about horse physiology, because you probably don't need that for your specific story, but things that you can add into your story for verisimilitude.

I'm not a horse trainer or Horse Expert, just someone who loves horses and rides on a regular basis. This is a casual guide to help give you some inspiration (and know what to look up for more information.)

So, what will we discuss in this embarrassingly long post? This.

General horse knowledge

Approaching and sanitizing Horse

Tack, the Horse Accessory Kit

Putting the tack on Horse

Getting on Horse (second best part!)

Riding Horse (best part!)

Being nice to Horse (most important!!)

General Horse Knowledge

Horses are generally classified as hotblood, warmblood or coldblood.

Of course, being mammals, they are all actually warm-blooded. This is more about temperament and size.

Hotblooded horses are lighter, bred for speed and maneuverability. Thoroughbreds and Arabian horses are hotbloods. They're known for being a bit more temperamental, but they are also very fast and responsive.

Coldblood horses are larger, stockier, and more even-tempered. This includes draft horses like Percherons, Gypsy Vanners, and Clydesdales.

Note that a big horse doesn't necessarily mean they're a good war horse, because war horses need to be fast and light. Draft horses are meant to pull, not carry. In a military series, you can use them as cannon horses or cart horses.

Warmblood are crossbreeds of hotblood and coldblood, giving them a good temperament but also relatively good speed. They're often used for hunting, dressage, and showjumping: disciplines that require both maneuverability and a strong working relationship between horse and rider. Quarter Horses, Tennessee Walking Horses, and Irish Sport Horses are warmbloods.

Horses are herd animals and need friends.

Having a singular horse all by themselves is going to cause them distress and lead to mental problems. This is why people who only own one horse often stable them so that they can get social stimulation and professional care.

Like humans, horses have buddies, acquaintances, and enemies.

There is often a pecking order in a herd, with a leader and followers. Horses may make friends, break up with them, reconcile, etc, just like people do.

And horses, of course, have people they like more than others. To get a horse to like you, be gentle and mindful of their boundaries, pay attention to their feelings, groom them, and speak in a soft friendly voice.

Horses aren't mindless animals: they think, feel, and strategize.

They're actually very sensitive and empathetic animals who can get jealous, have their feelings hurt, or need a little bit of TLC on a hard day. And yes, they can scheme.

Similar to dogs, horses are a bit like toddlers: they need firm but compassionate guidance.

This is why you need to think both for yourself and the horse when riding, keeping your mind clear and focused on your goals. Horses can notice when you're not paying attention and they will do their own thing.

Therapy horses are chosen for both their good nature and their sensitivity to human emotions. They will notice when the rider is getting upset or losing focus, and they will stop what they are doing until the rider is back in the right mindset.

They should get as much outside time as possible.

Horses will come to accept and even like their stalls because it's a safe, quiet space for them, but they should be allowed free time outside as much as possible.

It's important to make sure that their pasture is clean, free of dangerous plants or pesticides, and safe from tripping hazards (horse legs are very delicate).

Make sure they are not gorging themselves on grass, though, as this can cause colic. Horses cannot throw up: they've got a one-way digestive system. Intestinal blockages are a medical emergency.

Horses do like working with nice humans.

This isn't cope, I promise. Just like dogs, they have been bred over thousands of years to look to humans for guidance and to see us as caretakers.

Horses who are treated well like having a job, just like dogs who are treated well will like training sessions. Jobs offer them mental stimulation, offer them praise and rewards, and keep them busy so they're not bored.

You can see this in happy horses. The therapy horse I use, Truly, used to be a jumper and hunter before she came to the therapeutic stable, and she gets really excited if she sees vaults because she loves doing that! She gears up for the trot; you can feel it in her stride. She's ready and wants to go.

But, this implies that you're treating your horses well, praising them regularly, and bonding with them outside of sessions.

Horses that are being mistreated will balk at work because they associate it with pain and fear. Horses that are treated well will happily come out of their stall, ears forward and eyes bright, because they associate work with fun and stimulation.

Approaching and Sanitizing Horse

Horses have a blind spot in front of them and directly behind them.

Unlike humans, their eyes are on the sides of their head because they are prey animals. This means approaching a horse directly from the front or directly behind them may make them spook - and, if you are by their butt, kick you.

Generally, younger riders are taught never to pass behind a horse for safety reasons, so you go around them in a wide circle or duck under their neck. You can also walk behind them if you are out of kicking distance (about 3-4 feet) or right up against them so they can't get their leg up to kick you.

When tacking up or grooming, you should keep a hand on the horse as you move.

This lets the horse know where you are if you are in their blind spot and is especially important if you are around their butt so they don't spook and wonder where you went.

With grooming, you go with the curry comb and hold the bristle brush where you intend to go next so they know what to expect.

Grooming improves circulation and is a good bonding activity.

You use a curry comb, which is a rubber comb with little nubs, and then a brush. The curry comb is moved around in a circular motion to lift dirt and shedding hair, then the brush is angled with the grain of the hair to sweep it away.

Don't use a curry comb on a horse's face, legs, or stomach, which are sensitive areas. If you do want to use a curry comb in these areas because they are super dirty, be VERY gentle and light.

Horses generally like to be groomed because they do this to each other in the wild. It's a good way to make a horse like you.

Picking a horse's hooves, and having regular farrier checks, are crucial for their health.

Like human fingernails, horse hooves grow continuously; they're made from the same material as our hair and nails, keratin. They have a V-shaped "frog" in the middle of the underside of their hoof that is sensitive, but the rest of it isn't very sensitive unless you, like, stab it.

Farriers will file down a horse's feet so they are even, and they will also apply horseshoes if necessary (not all horses wear shoes). You can't just put any old horseshoe on a horse: it has to be fitted to their particular foot. This is a specialized job that not everyone can do, so if your character is not a farrier, they're not going to apply horseshoes themselves.

Cleaning a horse's hoof involves a hoof pick.

When picking a horse's hooves, you take an angled piece of metal called a hoof pick and dig out any dirt or manure or whatever has gotten stuck around the frog, then brush it out with a small brush. If they wear horseshoes, you also need to make sure you get the crevices underneath the shoe.

Generally, we pick feet both before and after riding.

Horses need to be trained to give you their leg. This usually means leaning your body weight into their shoulder, sliding your hand down their leg, and squeezing at the soft indent right above the hoof. You might also need to say "pick it up" or whatever command they've been taught to use.

It's a little scary for a horse to be off-balance like that; how would you feel if someone made you stand on one leg while they clipped your toenails? Be mindful that they may get nervous or put their foot down before you're ready. If this happens, just try again until their feet are clean.

Keep your feet and hands out of the way of the horse's hoof!

Pay attention to where your feet are in conjunction with the horse's hoof so they don't slam their hoof down on your toes. Horses may not even realize they stepped on you because they don't have a lot of sensitivity down there.

Never curl your fingers around the horse's hoof; that's a surefire way to break your hand. Hold it like you're cradling a baby's head.

Do not wear steel-toed shoes in a stable.

It's a common misconception that you should wear work boots or steel-toed shoes; after all, big horse very strong very heavy smash on foot!

Yeah, but a furry hydraulic press will crunch that steel right into your damn foot, and then you have guillotined all your toes.

Wear special riding boots instead. These don't have the ridges that hiking shoes or tennis shoes have, so they won't get caught on the stirrup. Cheap short ones cost like $40 and will last you a few good years. No need to go whole-hog on the long dressage boots if you're a casual rider.

Horses are usually taught to be groomed, tacked up, and mounted from one side.

This may not apply to therapy horses, who are trained to accept whatever way is easiest for the rider.

For dressage horses, they are taught to be groomed, tacked up, and mounted from the left. You should stand on the horse's left side when leading them. You'll dismount from the right.

Tack: The Stuff That Goes on Horse

No matter your discipline, you'll have these general things:

Halter. This is for leading the horse around before you tack them up. Generally, you will tie up the horse to cross-ties while you're grooming and tacking them. It is removed right before you put on the bridle.

Saddle blanket/pad. Western uses saddle blankets, but with English, you'll use a pad. Sometimes, with older horses or those that need a bit more comfort, you will have a blanket and a pad. This goes on before the saddle.

Saddle. Western saddles are very big, made for riding long distances. They are made mostly of leather, including the stirrups, which are attached directly to the saddle. English saddles are much smaller and lighter, and they have more removable parts. I won't get into all the specifics of them because it's probably irrelevant to your story.

There are also more specialized saddles, like jockey saddles.

Girth. Old-school Western saddles have cinches that you tie with the same knot you use for a necktie, but modern ones that detachable girths just like English saddles. They have buckles on both sides. One side will have leather straps; this is the one you put on first, from the left. The other side has elastic so it's a bit stretchier. This goes on the right side.

Bridle. How you control horse. Goes over the face and you hold onto the reins. This is put on last, right after you remove the halter. Put the reins over the horse's neck so you have something to hold onto after you remove the halter!

Bit. This is a metal bar that goes in the horse's mouth, over the tongue. Snaffle bits are the most common; they are made of two parts that meet in the middle. They aren't as uncomfortable for horses as other types. Some people are moving away from bits entirely and using bitless bridles.

Putting Tack on Horse

English stirrups are "run up" when tacking up and leading a horse.

The metal stirrups can bang against things and hurt the horse if they are not pulled up against the saddle by running them up the leather strap they hung from. You'll then tuck the excess strap into the stirrup to hold them in place.

Stirrups can be adjusted with a buckle hidden under the saddle seat. You'll run them up, pull the buckle down to a comfortable height, and then adjust as necessary. Then pull the stirrup down to the bottom, put your hand against the seat, and lift the stirrup up to run along your arm. It should brush against your armpit for most people.

Most dressage stirrups have numbered holes so you can remember what your height is.

Western saddles have leather stirrups that may or may not be detachable or adjustable.

Never tie a horse's reins to anything.

Don't listen to old Western movies that show this. If the horse spooks and they are tied up, they could rip the bit out of their mouth and really hurt themselves.

Horses have bars in their mouth - a blank space with no teeth. This is where the bit sits.

To get a horse to accept a bit, you can stick your thumb into this blank spot to make them open their mouth, just as you can do with dogs.

You then pull the bit up over their front teeth and settle it in there so it's comfortable.

There should be a small bit of pull you can see from the wrinkles around their mouth, but it shouldn't be squeezing them to death. Gentle pressure, happy horse.

Tighten the girth (the strap around their tummy) right before you get on.

Horses like to "bloat," meaning they suck in a bunch of air when you're putting the girth on, then relax so that the girth is loose. You don't want this, because then you can slide off. So put it on loosely at first, then put it up a few slots once you're about to get on.

Don't rachet it up to the highest possible setting you can reach, and don't yank on it, because this hurts the horse. Gently pull it up until it's tight enough to hold on, but not so much that it becomes a corset. You should be able to slide three fingers between the girth and the horse's stomach.

Getting On Horse

Lead the horse to where you want to go by bringing the reins over their head and holding them under the chin.

Do not use a death grip! You don't need to. Loose and happy. Keep the excess in your other hand so it's not a tripping hazard.

Then, of course, put the reins back over their head when you're ready to get on.

Mounting blocks are convenient and safer for the horse.

These are kind of like step stools, and they get you closer to the horse's back. Mounting from the ground puts a lot of pressure on the horse's back and should only be used sparingly.

The procedure is like so for English:

Gather the reins in your left hand, which should be placed near the front of the saddle.

Put your right hand near the back of the saddle for balance.

Put your left foot in the stirrup.

Swing your right leg over.

Settle your right foot in the stirrup.

Don't jump up; you might fall the hell over, lmao. Gentle easy swing.

The stirrup sits on the ball of your feet, with the heel pointing down.

This is true for both Western and dressage. You want it on the balls of your feet so you have leverage and can pivot your ankle to lightly tap the horse on the side, and you want your heel down to help maintain your balance.

A lot of riding boots, including cowboy boots, will have stitching that runs across the top of the foot. You can align this with the stirrup so you know that you don't have your foot too far back in the stirrup.

Your leg is slightly bent when in the saddle.

You do not have your legs straight out, because then you don't have leverage and can't maintain balance.

My instructor says it should feel like you're kneeling, and then when you post (rise out of the saddle during the trot or canter), you should feel like you're coming out of a squat. You're not springing all the way out of the saddle and standing up, because then you will fall over.

Your leg should stay as still as possible, with your heels pointing down to the ground. You shouldn't move them up or forward when you're trotting, a common beginner mistake.

When training in a ring, you don't have a right leg and left leg: you have an "outside" leg and "inside" leg.

Outside leg is the one closest to the wall (or fence), and inside leg is the leg closest to the middle of the ring. This keeps you from getting confused when you change directions.

Horses also have an outside leg and inside leg that you use to determine when to post or perform other maneuvers.

Horses need to be trained to go both clockwise and counterclockwise.

This helps them maintain balanced muscle tone on both sides of the body; otherwise, it's like doing leg exercises with only one leg. When getting a lesson, your instructor will ask you to change directions once you've done a certain exercise so that you can try it the other way, too.

Actually Riding Horse

You shouldn't yank on the reins like you're in a tug-of-war.

This can really hurt the horse and, paradoxically, make them more disobedient. It's like someone put their fingers in your mouth and then stretched your lips as far back as possible.

Keep your body loose.

Your horse is listening to your body language and will feel when you're tense. Every little movement means something to the horse. If you're tight, they think they should be nervous too.

Stay calm, upright, and loose. Legs slightly bent, elbows flexible, hands in line with the sides of the horse's neck and a bit above the front of the saddle.

Squeezing or tapping the horse is called impulsion.

It should be used lightly and with just enough pressure to get their attention. Don't kick the horse with all your might. The more movement you need from the horse, the more intense your impulsion will be.

Don't squeeze with your knees.

Pressure on the horse comes from the thighs and calves, not the knees. Your knees are there to bend.

Yes, your inner thighs will be super duper sore when you're done. It gets better though, prommie.

In dressage, you post at the trot in rhythm with the horse.

This reduces pressure on their back so you're not banging on their spine with each hootbeat. You post when their outside shoulder comes forward and lightly land back in the saddle when their inside shoulder rises: not sitting all the way down, just crouching a bit lower.

When you want the horse to walk again, you will sit down and pull (gently!!) back on the reins. The added pressure makes them not want to trot anymore because it would hurt them when you bump around on their back.

Being Nice to Horse (so Horse Is Nice to You)

Respect a horse's personal space and power.

They are big strong animals that can break your spine if they buck you, or crush your foot, or give you brain damage if they kick you in the head. Healthy respect (not fear) is crucial.

If a horse is pissed off, leave them alone. If they're scared, treat them kindly and speak soothingly. If they're not doing what you want, find a way to redirect them instead of screaming at them and making them more anxious.

And remember that they are prey animals despite their size and power! They may get nervous about things that you wouldn't even consider. Truly, the horse I ride on the regular, gets freaked out by jackets hanging over fence posts and barking dogs.

That's okay and natural; I just have to reassure her that she's going to be alright. You are the leader and caretaker of the horse, making them feel confident.

Training tools like whips, crops, or spurs should be used sparingly.

Any trainer who tells a beginner to use spurs as soon as possible is an asshole who doesn't actually know how to train horses. They don't know how to teach riders to control their body pressure, so they go right to the aversives.

I left a stable because the trainer demanded I buy spurs after like two lessons; my current stable doesn't use these at all, ever.

You should be able to control the horse with your hands and feet without these tools before adding them, and they should always be used as gently as possible: a slight tap with the spurs or crop, not beating the horse with a crop or digging your spurs into their sides. Horses are very sensitive animals and will respond well to a light kick with your heels if they are properly trained.

I've developed such a good rapport with the therapy horse I use (and she's such a good girl) that she can tell when I want to her trot. I start working her up to her "party walk" as my instructor calls it, and then click my tongue, and she's off. No kicking necessary.

Reward, Don't Punish

Same as when training dogs. Don't yell at them and say "no!! bad horse!!" Instead, offer a small correction, like checking the reins, or redirect them.

Do not hit or kick horses when they don't do what you want. They are trained that tap means go; you're going to make them gallop instead of stop.

Give them a pat on the neck and say "good horse!" when they do a good job. You can also talk to the horse while you're grooming and riding, offering them compliments and assurance.

Again, horses look to riders as leaders. They want to know the're performing correctly; if you've built up a good relationship, they want to make you happy and perform well.

Most of the time, horses are not trying to make you mad. You're just miscommunicating with them and need to figure out how to make your commands clearer.

Abusive training tactics are counterintuitive in the long run.

This makes for a nervous, flighty, disobedient, and anxious horse who may become dangerous. They're 1,200 pound animals, and if they don't like what you're doing, they will kick, buck, or bite.

Kicking, hitting, excessive use of spurs or crops, and screaming at horses doesn't make your horse respect you: it makes them fear you. You want your horse to be excited to work with you, to look forward to your training sessions, and to have fun.

I've created a masterlist of writing resources that you can peruse at your leisure, all for free.

The posts I write can sometimes take me hours - they're always intricate, always thoughtful. This one took me about three hours to complete.

I do this as a labor of love for the writing community, sharing what I have learned from almost 15 years of creative writing.

However, if you'd like to support me, maybe you'll consider buying my book for $1.99?

9 Years Yearning is a gay coming-of-age romance set in a fantasy world. It follows Uileac Korviridi, a young soldier training at the War Academy. His primary motivations are honoring the memory of his late parents, protecting his little sister Cerie, and becoming a top-notch soldier.

However, there's a problem: Orrinir Relickim, a rough and tough fellow pupil who just can't seem to leave Uileac alone.

The book features poetry, descriptions of a beautiful country inspired by Mongolia, and a whole lot of tsundere vibes.

Oh, and horse!!! Horse love!! SO MUCH HORSE LOVE.

You can also check it out on Goodreads for a list of expanded distribution.

If you do purchase my book, don't forget to leave a review!

Reviews are vital for visibility on Amazon and help to support indie authors like me. Whenever you love a book, be sure to let the author know! It's much appreciated.

[ktsumu]

When Nanami first shows you the house he bought for the two of you, sat right next to the sea like he promised, you tell the movers to bring the mattress in first.

You sleep on the floor of the living room for the first night, scribble your plans for every room on the back of a takeout napkin, and tell him that you’ll go pick out paint tomorrow.

"Just a little TLC, Kento," you tell him with a smile, "that's all it needs."

You fix your home yourselves — some old friends help you paste the backsplash tile in the kitchen, you clean the wood floors and the fireplace by hand. You host a dinner for each room you finish, drinking wine and toasting to the life you’ll there. Nanami's lips taste like cherries when you kiss him and say 'thank you' without letting go.

The last room you finish is the bedroom.

There's plastic protecting the floors and paint covering his hands and clothes when you rush into the room wielding a camera.

"What's that for? The room is a mess,”

"Documentation, Ken. We'll look back one day and be proud of our work. Come and smile for me!"

He’ll do just about anything you ask, so he walks over with a small grin, wrapping an arm around your waist and leaving a big, painted handprint on your side. You kiss him when the flash goes off, shaking the picture that pops out until you see yourselves and the chaos behind you.

Nanami asks you for the picture, and you (begrudgingly) say he can have it — but you get the next one; he promises you that much.

When you go back downstairs, Nanami walks over to a crack in the doorframe, and he folds the polaroid in half before he jams it inside. He wedges it in with his screwdriver, pushing until there's only a sliver of it you can see, before starting to seal the crack shut.

(He hopes you won't hold it against him when you eventually ask him where the picture went, and he tells you he stashed it in the door.)

"Kento!" he hears from downstairs, "Dinner!"

"Almost done, dear."

The crack seals shut.

Someday, when all that's left of the both of you are children who have your laugh and dogs with your names, there will at least be comfort in knowing that you'll always live in this home you made; inside the bedroom you built last.

"Kento!"

"Coming," he laughs. "I'm coming, honey."

[discoscoob]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ COPS AND ROBBERS

˙ ✩°˖💰⋆｡˚ Marlon James x Reader

CW: fem!reader, pregnant!reader, criminal!reader, bank robbery, angst, slightly (or very) melodramatic, mentions of addiction, not very pretty descriptions of withdrawal, violence, threats, tons of swearing, my attempts at comedy.

synopsis: in desperate need of a large sum of cash, you and Marlon stage a bank robbery. It doesn’t really go to plan. Featuring an appearance from Tom Ludlow. - Inspired by @scarlettspectra’s Marlon James fic. Thank you to @casuallyobssessed for proofreading! 6.1k words.

The neighbourhood looks like it could use a little TLC. Patchy lawns with yellowed grass sit behind chain-link fences, not a single mailbox stands straight along the entire street with cracked sidewalks and potholes dotting the main road.

Dead leaves pile up along the curbs and under the windshields of the cars parked in the driveways: everyone of which is at least a decade old. A few houses still have crooked Halloween decorations and rotting Jack-o’-lanterns with drooping smiles slumped on their porch, even though November has already settled in.

It’s not the nicest neighbourhood in town, but it’s quiet. No sirens or neighbours screaming bloody murder, just the creak of a loose screen door, the squeak of a rusted gate, and a dog barking somewhere on the next street over.

Tom pulls up at the curb and kills his engine. Tapping his fingers upon the leather-bound steering wheel, he stares out through the tinted windshield.

He’s not even sure why he came here.

˙ ✩°˖💰⋆｡˚

“Everybody freeze!”

“Everybody down on the ground!”

You and Marlon shout simultaneously as you bust through the doors of the bank with your guns raised, expecting panic, screaming and mayhem. Instead, the customers and the bank tellers just… stare at you.

A heavy silence settles over the room. You could hear a pin drop over the faint whir of the AC.

Marlon shifts nervously beside you, tightening his grip on the revolver. His bandana sits askew over the bridge of his nose and his dark eyes dart skittishly around the room from beneath the tattered brim of his faded baseball cap.

“Babe, why ain’t nobody doing nothin’?” He hisses, leaning towards you, hoping you can shed some light on the situation, but you’re just as perplexed by the lack of chaos and panic.

“Well, son, if I may,” a middle aged man with a moustache that could rival Tom Selleck’s, politely steps forward, adjusting his oversized bifocals.

Marlon lets out an audible yelp, damn near jumping out of his skin.

“Holy shit, man! Where’d you even come from?!”

The man takes a step back, holding up his hands placatingly with a genuinely apologetic expression. “Woah, easy! Didn’t mean to startle you, son. It’s just– you and your err… wife?” He gestures vaguely at you.

“Huh? Oh! We’re not– I mean, I haven’t, y’know, not yet–”

“Right, besides the point,” the man cuts off Marlon’s rambling, “I’m just saying, this is clearly your first time robbing a bank, am I right?”

Marlon nods, earning a nudge and a tilted glare from you, silently warning him he probably shouldn’t be admitting that you’re a pair of amateurs.

“Well, the problem is the fact you gave us contradictory orders. One of you said freeze and the other said get down. Now, son, logically speaking, you do understand that we can’t very well do both at the same time, don’t you?”

You and Marlon blink as it suddenly dawns on you how out of your depths you both are.

“…Excuse us for one moment.” Marlon clears his throat, the sound echoes through the quiet room as he tugs you by the wrist.

Before you can react, you’re right back outside with the doors swinging shut behind you.

“Marlon, what the actual fuck?!” you hiss, yanking your arm back.

“I’m sorry! I panicked!” He removes his baseball cap to run a hand through his dishevelled hair as he paces in front of you. “I thought it’d be easier once we were in there, that I could just rely on the adrenaline to get me through it, y’know? But then we fucked up and they were all just staring at us! Then that dude started giving us advice. Who even gives the robbers advice in the middle of a stick-up? I think– I think I got, like… stage fright? Or the bank robbery equivalent. Robbery fright?”

You tug your own bandana down until it hangs loosely around your neck and you rest both your hands on Marlon’s tense shoulders, halting his nervous pacing.

“Hey, look at me. Just breathe, okay. Nice and slow. You’re fine. You just got a little spooked, that’s all.”

He follows your soothing command, his chest slowly expands with a deep inhale and then deflates with a gently controlled exhale.

“We looked like a coupla boneheads in there.”

“We did,” you agree with a shrug, “but it’s not the end of the world.”

Marlon doesn’t look so convinced but he appears slightly less panicked than he was a few moments ago.

“Ready to try again?”

Marlon looks like you just asked him to jump into a pool of hungry sharks. “You think we can still pull this off?”

“Honestly? I have no idea.” You answer plainly instead of feeding him some sugar-coated bullshit. “But we already got this far so we might as well keep going.”

Marlon puts his baseball cap back on, a silent confirmation that he’s ready to give it another shot and you nod, securing your bandana back over your nose.

“When we go back in, this time we’ll both shout ‘freeze!’” You instruct him, calm and steady.

“Right. Freeze. Got it.” He nods, psyching himself up with a shake of his limbs before adjusting his hold on the revolver.

You grab his wrist. “Let’s go rob a bank!”

“Let’s go rob a bank.” Marlon repeats, a little quieter, lacking the same enthusiasm, but you’ll take it nonetheless.

You storm back inside, guns raised as you bust through the doors again.

“EVERYBODY FREEZE!”

Silence.

You and Marlon sneak a glance at each other like a pair of kids in an elementary school play trying to remember who says the next line and then…

“Young lady,” an elderly man at the counter pipes up, frowning at your swollen belly disapprovingly. “You oughta be at home with your feet up, not runnin’ ‘round robbin’ banks in your condition!”

Silence. You stare at the man in disbelief, momentarily stunned by the sheer absurdity of the situation, wondering how much more ridiculous it could possibly get.

“Jesus fucking christ,” you mutter, “everyone’s a critic today!”

˙ ✩°˖💰⋆｡˚

The duffle is bloated with a generous helping of cash when the first distant wail of sirens reaches your ears, turning your heart into a cannonball that sinks straight to the pit of your gut.

“Shit– come on, babe. We better split.” Marlon swings the duffle over his shoulder, nearly toppling over with the weight of every dollar adding to the gravity of what you’ve both just done. He grabs your hand, surprisingly steady, despite the clammy palm betraying his nerves. You know him too well, inside he’s panicking just as much as you are, if not more. But the second he sees it on your face, he shifts, forcing himself to take the lead, because if he can hold it together, maybe you can too.

You crash through the fire exit, the weighted door slams behind you with a bang that echoes through the narrow alley. The scorching air hits you with a thick wave carrying the stench of piss and sun-baked garbage, but that’s the least of your worries. Wailing sirens close in, piercing your ears, spurring your scruffed sneakers over the cracked, uneven pavement towards the crookedly parked old Chevy that’s coughing out exhaust fumes like a chainsmoker.

The car door groans on its rusting hinges as Marlon yanks it open, releasing a billowing, swirling cloud of thick and skunky smoke, reeking sharp and earthy.

“Jesus, Harlan!” Marlon wheezes, swatting at the haze while steadying you as you lower yourself into the backseat. “The fuck you hotboxin’ the getaway car for? You tryna bake the damn baby or what?”

You keep the bandana secured over your nose, shuffling awkwardly over the hot vinyl seats to make room for Marlon. Clambering into the funky, soupy smog after you, he drops the duffle with a thud between your feet.

“Rich comin’ from you,” Harlan mutters, arching an eyebrow over his scratched-up sunglasses, while Marlon is cranking the window like his life depends on it. “Didn’t you have, like, half a pharmacy in your system when you knocked her up?”

“Okay, first of all, me being high didn’t have nothin’ to do with my decision to sleep with Y/N, alright. That was a conscious choice. One I woulda made even if I’d been sober. Let’s just clear that up right now.” Marlon jerks forward, wedging himself through the gap between the two front seats.

“Jesus, babe…” you whine, slumping down like a mortified teenager, palm dragging over your face.

“I ain’t sorry for speakin’ the truth. You walked in lookin’ drop dead gorgeous, I’d’ve had to be blind to not wanna be all over you.”

“Dude, c’mon. Save it for the wedding vows.” Harlan snorts.

“Second of all,” Marlon’s attention snaps back to his cousin, tone dipping sharp. “You really wanna bring that up now? My nerves are fucking shot and I’m- shit, I’m fucking armed, man!” He yanks the revolver out the waistband at the back of his sun-bleached jeans with a flair he clearly thinks is threatening.

“Like you’d ever use it,” Harlan scoffs, flicking the roach out the cracked window. “Fuckin’ pussy.”

“Hey, don’t talk to him like that! He ain’t a pussy,” the knee jerk response flies from your lips instinctively.

“Oh yeah?” Harlan chuckles smugly like he knows something you don’t. “He ever tell you ‘bout the time we got hired to pop some dude, and Romeo over here spent the whole time shittin’ himself? Guess who actually pulled the trigger.”

“That doesn’t fuckin’ count, man!” Marlon snaps. “The dude didn’t even die.”

You glance between them, eyes narrowing. The getaway car (if you can even still call it that) hasn’t moved an inch, meanwhile the sirens are getting louder still, and these two idiots have decided now is the perfect time to take a stroll down memory lane.

“Shit, how was I s’posed to know? I ain’t no doctor.” Harlan shrugs, smoothing his long hair away from his face. “Lucky for you, too. Else we’d be in county right now, fightin’ over who gets top bunk.”

“Ain’t no way you’d beat me to the top bunk.” Marlon jabs a finger at Harlan, in a last-ditch effort to save face and salvage some dignity in front of you.

“Please, you wouldn’t even stand a chance.” Harlan says, slow and smug, easing into a shit-eating grin.

“Would too,” Marlon fires back, just about climbing through the seat gap.

You flick a glance out the rear window, catching the flicker of red and blue lights veering into the far end of the alley, seconds away from being rammed further up your ass than a colonoscopy.

“Would not.”

“Would too!”

Your nails dig crescents into the busted vinyl of Harlan’s seat.

“I swear to Christ, if you two don’t shut up and get this fuckin’ car moving—”

You slam your palm against the back of Harlan's headrest. The thud jolts him and his foot hits the gas, abruptly lurching the car forward.

Marlon’s cheek smacks the passenger headrest and your body is thrown sideways as the rear tires fishtail across the uneven terrain.

The stream of red and blue lights bleeds through the rear windshield as the vehicle bounces over potholes, putting its suspension to the ultimate test. Harlan punches the gas, veering into the main road and weaving through traffic like he’s playing a game of Mario Kart. If only you had a stash of banana peels to chuck out the window to shake off the cops tailing behind.

You rest your forehead against Harlan’s seat, closing your eyes. Your heart pounds harder with every screech of the tires. The car swerves past another vehicle, its horn blaring, still the sirens howl behind you, ever present.

“Harlan started it.”

You blink your eyes open. Slowly, you lift your head and turn.

Marlon is looking at you like a kid tattling to his mother. Like he really thinks that matters right now.

You stare at him, too stunned to speak.

The father of your unborn child.

BANG!

The sound pierces violently through the air. Your whole body flinches, lodging your heart firmly in your throat. Marlon is on you in an instant, shielding you with his body, his arms cradling your head. His heartbeat rivals your own, pounding fast and frantic against your back.

“They’re fuckin’ shooting at us!” he hisses, voice strained with panic in your ear with his head ducked low against your shoulder.

You hold your breath. His weight is crushing, but it’s nothing compared to the realisation that Marlon would take a bullet for you without hesitation.

This is the father of your unborn child.

Behind the wheel, Harlan’s laugh cuts through the tension.

“Chill out, man. Ain’t nobody shootin’ at us.” he calls over his shoulder, patting the dashboard like you would a loyal dog. “She just does that sometimes when I shift too fast.”

It takes a moment for Harlan’s amusement at your expense to sink in before your frazzled nervous system catches up to speed and registers that your close shave with death had been nothing more than his old clunker backfiring.

You don’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream at Harlan for thinking this rickety death trap masquerading as a getaway car was at all adequate for a grand escape against a squadron of blazing cruisers tearing up the freeway in hot pursuit.

“Marry me.”

You whip your head towards Marlon.

You’re pretty sure that when most people hear those words and turn to the person saying them, they’re not met with the pasty, terror-stricken face of a man who looks like he just saw his life flash before his eyes.

“What?”

“Shit, this ain’t how I planned to ask you.” Marlon curses. “Until I met you, I never even saw myself as the marryin’ type but that changed the moment I laid eyes on you. I swear, I woulda dropped to one knee right then and there if that was, like, not totally weird… but I went and accidentally put a baby inside you instead… which is strangely more acceptable, I guess?”

Marlon’s brows set in a deep frown, his eyes glazing over, lost in deep thought, while the chaos swirls around you. His face is still pale, drained of colour; you’re not even sure he heard what Harlan said, or if he’s still convinced that bang came from a gunshot. You rest your hand on his thigh, offering him a tether so he doesn’t drift too far away and his dilated pupils meet yours, full of gratitude and lingering anxiety.

“Maybe it’s dumb,” Marlon continues, as if he might choke on his words if he doesn’t get them out fast enough, “but after that I was scared you’d think I was askin’ you for all the wrong reasons. Outta, like… duty or guilt or, I dunno, just ‘cause it’s the decent thing to do, y’know? And that’s the last thing I wanted you to think. So I was waiting for the right moment. I wanted there to be no doubt that this is what I want. Absolutely none. You’re what I want. More than anything, it’s important to me that you know that.”

You gulp back tears, your focus locked in on Marlon’s desperate, wide-eyed sincerity, forgetting about the wailing sirens, screeching tires and Harlan cussing behind the wheel.

“I thought if I got you a proper ring, real diamond and everything, with the leftover cash, that’d show you how serious I am. How much I love you. How much I wanna be your husband. I had this whole thing in my head, I was gonna make it real special with, like, candles and shit, though, I don’t even actually know why candles are romantic, knowing me I’d probably just fuck it all up and start a fire–”

He’s spiralling, eyes wild as the words tumble out faster than his train of thought.

“Marlon–”

“But I just realised,” he barrels ahead, taking your hand in his tight grip. “If I keep waiting to ask you, then I might never actually get the chance–”

“Marlon, babe,” you cut him off, reaching out to cradle his slightly stubbled cheek as you understand what he’s really trying to say but you don’t even dare let that thought enter your mind. “The car just backfired.”

“I know, I know. I heard him,” he sighs, screwing his eyes shut with a shake of his head. “But I’m not just saying all this ‘cause Harlan’s piece-of-shit car backfired. We ain’t outta this yet and those cops are just gonna keep chasing us and if– if anything happens…”

His voice gets hoarse, and you’re already shaking your head, refusing to accept what he’s trying to tell you.

“I just– while we’re both here, while I got the chance, I need you to know how bad I want this. You. All of it. You, me and our baby. I know we ain’t exactly conventional but I want us to be a proper family, whatever that is. Something solid. I never wanted anything more.”

He glances away, his face shadowed with shame.

“I took a big fuckin’ risk today. I put us both in danger. And if somethin’ happens–”

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” you firmly interject, pressing your forehead against his with determination. “You hear me? We’re gonna get out of this. We’re gonna make it.”

He tries to speak again, but you gently press your thumbs to his lips.

“And then– then you can propose to me properly. With as many candles as you want. We’ll keep a fire extinguisher handy just in case.” You muster a shaky laugh. “And I’ll say yes; even if the ring is from a gas station vending machine. I already know how much you love me; you don’t need a fancy diamond ring to prove it…” you pause before adding with a small shrug, “Although I’m not going to pretend that wouldn’t be nice.”

You begin to feel some of the tension melt from Marlon’s shoulders, just a little, as his body instinctively leans toward you like a flower seeking the warmth of the sun. His lips twitch into the briefest hint of a smile before he softly and suddenly presses them to yours.

You kiss him back earnestly without hesitation, threading your fingers into the scraggly strands of sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck. It’s clumsy and a little uncoordinated, both of you just desperate to be close and feel the other's solid form beneath your fingertips, scared they might slip away at any moment.

Just as you were finding your rhythm, the car lurches forward, sputtering violently like a choking cat, then emits a slow, defeated wheeze before rolling to a stop.

“Uhhh…” Harlan mumbles, tapping the fuel gauge with the edge of his yellowed fingernail. “Well, would you look at that. Empty.”

“Empty?” You whip your head around in your seat, “what the fuck do you mean empty?”

“We’re outta juice? Ain’t got no fuel? She’s running on fumes? Spiritually exhausted?” Harlan starts listing off increasingly ridiculous ways to say the car is out of gas and you smack the back of his seat hard because he’s not taking this shit seriously.

“You were supposed to make sure we had a full tank! You had one fucking job!”

The sirens howl in the distance; it won’t be long until they find you. Out the rear window you spot them cresting over the hill.

“Fuck!” You snap, flinging open the creaky back door. A blast of the thick, sticky hot summer air smacks you in the face. Your sweaty palms slip against the busted vinyl as you try to pull yourself out, struggling with the weight of the almost full-term baby pressing low and heavy in your belly.

Before you can exert yourself too much, Marlon is at your side with the duffle securely swung over his shoulder. He hooks an arm under yours and helps hoist you up and out without saying a word.

With no choice left but to escape on foot, you link hands, your grips tight and unbreakable as you bolt, or rather waddle, towards the abandoned bowling alley up ahead.

“Am I still getting my ten percent?!” Harlan calls after you, half-hanging out the driver’s side window.

˙ ✩°˖💰⋆｡˚

The bowling alley is still. The faint scent of stale beer and mildew lingers in the air, and dusty lanes stretch beyond the visibility of Tom’s flashlight.

Tom’s not expecting much, this place hasn’t been open since before he left high school, and he doesn’t even want to try and remember how long ago that was. But dispatch said the suspects ran this way, so he was sent to give the building a sweep.

Broken glass crunches beneath his boots as his flashlight slices over smashed-in claw machines, a retro jukebox, and fallen bar stools.

A scrap of paper near the bar catches his eye.

He crouches, picking it up between his fingers to get a closer look. He shines his light on the crumpled pamphlet with crease folds and curled up edges from being stuffed into a pocket too many times.

Shore View Rehabilitation Center.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Then he hears it. The faintest sound of quick, shallow, panicked breath.

Keeping his footsteps light and his hand hovering near his holstered weapon, he rounds the bar, sweeping his flashlight towards the sound.

The beam lands on them.

Two people, huddled together on the floor, holding each other tight but something stops Tom in his tracks.

The girl is pregnant.

˙ ✩°˖💰⋆｡˚

Marlon gulps. He should’ve kept you out of this. Put his foot down. Grown a spine for once in his worthless life.

What kind of man lets his heavily pregnant girlfriend assist him in a bank robbery anyway?

The old floor creaks when the cop shifts.

Marlon snaps.

Before he can second-guess himself, he yanks you closer, pressing the cold, hard barrel of the revolver against your temple.

“Back the fuck up, man, or I- I swear… I swear, I’ll fucking do it!” His voice cracks. Frantic. Desperate.

Your breath hitches.

What the fuck?

For a split second your heart plummets. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

Marlon would never.

His own heart slams against your back, like it might crash straight through both of you. Hot, shaky nicotine laced breath fans against your ear as his chest heaves in quick, erratic bursts.

His arm curls tighter around you.

You’re smacked with a wave of shock.

Realising.

The slight tremble in his voice. The way he’s shaking like a leaf as he holds you. Not hurting. Not gripping.

He’s clinging onto you for dear life.

It’s an act.

He’s trying to protect you.

Trying to make you look like an innocent hostage instead of a willing accomplice; shouldering all the blame himself.

The beam of the cop’s flashlight blinds you, erasing everything beyond it into an inky abyss.

You expect him to start negotiating, try and talk Marlon down. But all you hear from the void is a tired exhale, like this whole thing is

nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

“That right, huh? You gonna blow her fucking brains out?” A gravelly, almost bored voice travels from behind the light.

Marlon stiffens at the vulgar choice of phrase, and your stomach churns. If you didn’t know (without a shadow of doubt) that Marlon would never hurt you, you’d start praying to any god who’d listen right now, because this cop sure as hell isn’t going to save you.

“You must think I was born yesterday.” The flashlight finally lowers, revealing a face set in a hard, unimpressed glare.

He takes a slow step forward before he crouches to your level, fixing Marlon with a dark, challenging stare.

Marlon draws a jittery breath and pulls you tighter against him.

“Go on, then. Do it. Pull the trigger. Let’s see it.” The cop calls Marlon’s bluff.

Your head whips towards him and Tom sees it, the way you look more terrified of him than of the man holding an actual gun to your skull. You think he’s unhinged.

“You’re fucking crazy, man.” Marlon’s breath staggers out quick and panicked against your ear.

“I’m not the one holding a gun to my girl’s head.” The cop deadpans.

It hits Marlon like a punch to the gut. His whole body caves as he slumps against you, forehead dropping to your shoulder, hot and sticky with sweat. The gun falls from his grip with a thud.

“M’sorry, baby,” his voice breaks, quivering with the force of his tears as he crumbles. His lips find your forehead, then your cheek, trailing clumsy and sloppy kisses to remind you how precious you are to him. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words spill from him in a broken loop, like they’re the only ones he remembers how to say.

“Jesus Christ.” Tom mutters.

He scoops the revolver from the floor, inspecting the cylinder. Just as he figured, it’s not loaded.

Marlon clings to you, his head tucked against your shoulder, sobbing out barely coherent apologies. Your own silent tears get caught in his messy hair where you nestle your cheek.

Tom shifts, growing visibly uncomfortable with the raw, intimate display of emotion unfolding before his eyes. “Alright, kid, c’mon. You need to calm down, yeah?” He grumbles, gruff but not heartless. He tries to remain objective, not allow his sympathies to overrule his duty to the law.

Marlon peeks up, his red-rimmed eyes lock onto Tom’s, desperate and pleading. “Please…” he chokes, “please, man, just- just leave her out of it, okay? Arrest me, charge me, I don’t care. Just- please, you gotta let her go.”

Your lungs burn. The air thins. You choke on sharp, shallow breaths, clawing at Marlon’s oversized jacket, trying to breathe.

“She didn’t do nothin’, okay?” He frantically insists. “I made her come with me. I- I fucking forced her, man. She- she was against the whole idea.”

“Marlon–” your stomach twists.

He shushes you gently with trembling hands caressing your face, his thumb sweeps across your quivering lips.

“Shh, baby, shh. It’s okay, it’s okay, I promise. Everything’s gonna be okay.” His voice shakes, on the verge of cracking but his touch anchors you.

Your trembling fingers clutch his wrists in a white knuckle grip with no intention of ever letting go. His pulse pounds strong and erratic under your palm.

“Just trust me, babe, okay? You know I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you or our baby.”

His breath staggers, like the weight of it all has just struck him in the chest. His gaze drops, and his hands shift to your belly, rubbing over the curve of your bump with a touch so gentle your heart crumples and tears like a piece of paper.

“We’re having a baby girl.” He forces himself to whisper around the lump in his throat, his voice sounds thick and raw. “A little girl, man. And I- fuck-” He chokes on a sob, squeezing his eyes shut. “She ain’t even here yet and I- I already fucked it up for her.”

Tom’s gaze remains locked on the floor because how can he bring himself to look at you, look at the condition you’re in, and still do what he’s supposed to do? He’ll be the monster who tore a family apart. After all his years on the force, this is still his weakness.

Despite his best efforts to keep his face blank and impassive, the way his throat bobs when he swallows betrays his inner conflict.

Marlon sniffles, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve like a messy kid, then turns his puffy, tear-stained face back to Tom. “Please, man.” he continues to beg. “You can do whatever you want to me, you can lock me up. I don’t give a shit what happens to me. I’ll take the fall. I’ll say it was all my fault, I’ll confess to everything, plead guilty or whatever you want, yeah. I’ll do it. Just- just, please, let her go home.”

He’s just a junkie, just another waste of space who’s got no one to blame but himself for the mess he’s made. That’s the narrative Tom is supposed to believe. But the pamphlet in his pocket says otherwise. It tells the story of a man fighting tooth and nail to claw his way towards something better, against a system that’s rigged to see him fail. A man desperate enough to take such a dangerous gamble, fully aware of the risks. A man who is loved by a woman, so fiercely and stupidly that she is willing to risk it all alongside him, believing that they might find a better life along the way.

Tom exhales with a sharp huff, pinching the bridge of his nose as he reluctantly commits to the decision he’s about to make. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the crumpled pamphlet.

“You dropped this.” Turning the pamphlet over in his hand, Tom raises an eyebrow with mild interest. “Shore View, huh? That place sure ain’t cheap.”

Marlon barely glances in Tom’s direction, the fight has already drained from him. His shoulders slump with a sigh of defeat. “Yeah, well, I guess I ain’t got much chance of goin’ there now.” He sounds exhausted.

Tom observes the way Marlon is leaning against you with his head tucked against your shoulder, absentmindedly tracing patterns over the swell of your tummy. When he feels his heart clenching at the sight, he drops his gaze back to the pamphlet.

“So that was your grand plan, huh? Rob a bank to pay for rehab?”

Marlon licks his chapped lips, blinking slowly. “Yeah.”

“That’s a dumb fucking plan.” Tom scoffs bitterly and something inside you finally snaps.

“What the fuck would you know?” Tom and Marlon’s heads snap in your direction at your unexpected rebuke, it’s the first time you’ve spoken to the cop directly. “No, seriously, tell me what the fuck do you know about the shit we’ve been through?”

“Babe–” Marlon tries to interrupt you but you just keep going.

“Do you think we did this shit for the thrill of it? You think we woke up this morning and said, ‘hey, let’s rob a fucking bank! We ain’t got nothing better to do.’” You choke out a bitter laugh, feeling the fury boiling in your gut.

“We fucking tried. We tried every clinic, every program, every charity. Filled out stacks of forms, got passed from pillar to post, jumped through every fucking hoop – just to get told no. Over and over and fucking over again. Because he’s got a record, because we don’t have insurance, because we don’t meet some bullshit requirements made up by some dumb fuck in a suit who’s never had to watch the person they love most puke their fucking guts up and piss themselves because they’ve no choice but to try and quit cold turkey. Never had to tie them to the fucking bed just to keep them from running out to score because–” your breath catches, choking on a sob that’s crawling it’s way up your throat. “Because you’re fucking terrified that- that the next time you’ll see them, it’ll be in a morgue, identifying their body.” Your chest heaves and burns as a hot flood of tears slips down your cheeks.

“Do you have any fucking idea what that’s like? Huh? Knowing that if he died in some alleyway tomorrow, no one would give a shit?” Your voice cracks, rising several octaves as the words tear out of you. “Maybe you don’t give a fuck, maybe you think he’s just another junkie who’s got what’s coming to him but what about our baby, huh? You- you wanna punish her too? All we wanted was a chance at giving her a better start in life, so she didn’t have to grow up watching her daddy struggle and suffer and maybe fucking die because no one was willing to help.”

“So don’t fucking stand there and preach to us about dumb fucking decions because you’ve got no fucking clue. You’ll slap the cuffs on him, and get your pat on the back for taking another ‘low-life’ off the streets; because that’s justice, right? Tearing a family apart to protect some bloodsucking corporation that thrives on keeping people like us down in the gutter where we belong.”

When all the rage, fight and months of pent up frustrations have been spilled out of you until there is nothing left, you crumble like a house of cards, slumping against Marlon’s chest, trusting him to catch you. And he does, swaddling your trembling frame against him as the hot, relentless tears pour straight from your broken heart.

Marlon is stunned. He’s never heard you sound so raw, so broken, you’ve always been his pillar of strength. His breath hitches, he knows he should say something, offer some kind of comfort, but words fail him. Instead, he presses his chapped lips against the top of your head and holds you tighter in his warm and solid embrace. Silently communicating everything he struggles to put into words.

Tom’s face remains stoic, unreadable, except for the slightest raise of his eyebrow, which could mean anything. It’s enough to make your stomach tie itself into knots.

Then his hand reaches for his radio, deliberately slow.

Your breath catches.

Your heart drops, your whole body tenses in Marlon’s hold. It’s over. You ran your damn mouth, and as usual, you just made everything ten times worse.

“Wait–” you struggle to whimper, your voice weak with exhaustion.

With his eyes locked on yours, Tom clicks the button and raises the radio to his mouth.

“The bowling alley’s clear.”

You’re suspended in a moment of disbelief. Everything is still. Even Marlon’s hand, which had been stroking through your hair, freezes mid-motion, like someone just hit the pause button.

Carefully, you lift your head from Marlon’s chest, blinking away the teary blur as if it could offer you clarity.

“What?” There’s a raw ache in your throat from all the yelling, leaving your voice frayed.

Is he… letting you get away?

Surely it couldn’t be that simple.

“Well? What the fuck you waiting for? Get outta here!” There’s a sharp edge of authority in Tom’s tone that’s hard to ignore.

Marlon doesn’t need to be told twice – he’s already stumbling to his feet, tugging you up with him in a near-desperate rush.

“Babe, c’mon! Before he, y’know, changes his mind.” He urges, slinging the duffle full of stolen cash over his shoulder while dragging you along with a firm but gentle grip around your wrist.

Neither of you look back.

˙ ✩°˖💰⋆｡˚

FIVE YEARS LATER

Tom pulls up at the curb and kills his engine. Tapping his fingers upon the leather-bound steering wheel, he stares out through the tinted windshield.

He’s not even sure why he came here.

Over the course of his career, Tom has done a lot of things he’s not proud of; too many regrets to name. He’s not exactly the poster boy for a respectable, clean-cut cop. He’s made mistakes, some of which still haunt him. The rest, he does his best to wash away with a bottle of vodka.

Sometimes, he just needs to be reminded that not every choice he has made was a bad one. That sometimes bending the rules is the right thing to do.

He pulls up the record again on the department laptop, just to be sure he’s in the right place.

Marlon James. There are no recent charges, not even a speeding ticket. No drug offences, no DUI’s, no theft charges. Apart from his historic charges, his record is squeaky clean.

He looks up at the modest bungalow across the street, and there they are.

Marlon’s in the driveway, wearing grease-stained overalls, wiping his hands on a rag. A little girl, no older than four or five, bolts out from the screen door towards Marlon, who scoops her up, lifting her above his head. Tom hears her squealing laughter, even from across the street.

Then the woman steps outside, laughing at Marlon’s antics with the little girl. Carrying his daughter under his arm, he jogs up the porch steps and plants a kiss on his wife’s cheek.

The gold bands on their fingers catch in the light of the setting sun as they join hands and head back inside.

Tom already feels lighter.

He knows he made the right choice.

Starting the engine, he drives away without anyone seeing him.

A/N: The whole ‘freeze’ v ‘get down’ thing at the beginning of the fic is straight up stolen from the film Raising Arizona, if you knew that already, I love you! 🫶 and I feel like the book Anxious People by Fredrick Backman was also a massive inspiration. I love that book! Thank you for reading!

[lonewisteria]

Damage Control

Chpt. 3

☽ chpt. 1 | chpt. 2

☽ wooo I have never posted smut publicly before. I hope it’s good for y’all, mwah. More to come. There will be a softer smut scene, I swear.

☽ notes: MINORS DNI, smut, alcoholism, fem reader, gn pronouns, ram!Schlatt x dog!reader, use of ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’, fingering, size kink if you squint, kind of pet play (use of ‘pup’ and ‘mutt’), rough smut, eating out, edging, hickies/biting, unprotected pnv, soft aftercare

☽ summary: you leave Schlatt the next day to go to work, stern about the fact he needs to not drink. But when you return, to see he had alcohol, things get heated.

☽ words: 3,750

It was the following day after babying Schlatt in his cabin. Since your little intervention, he holed himself up in the main bedroom, even as you tidied up and washed his work clothes. Whatever, you can’t be there at every moment to fuss over him.

That’s what you keep telling yourself, yet your mind drifts to him all day at work. You promised to check on him later and now, you’re nothing but a heaping puddle of anxiety. Schlatt is more stubborn than he appeared, but you hope, just this once, he’d lay off the alcohol.

As soon as the clock strikes 10pm, you’re out the door before anyone can say goodbye. Your ears are twitching and your hands fumbling with your keys as you approach your car.

And while you drive, your fingers fidget on the wheel, the image of him leaning into you lingering in your mind, making you reluctantly flustered. You felt like you were losing it. No one would believe you if you said Schlatt stared at you with kindness. He gazed at you like he needed you, and not solely the TLC sense.

You park your car next to his and scurry to the front door, knocking before stepping inside the cabin. Your eyes immediately zero in on the half-empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table. There Schlatt was, head lolled against the couch cushions, some rap music flowing from the radio, proving you wrong about trusting him alone with his vices.

“Fuck, Schlatt!” You growl as you stalk over to him (not without frustratingly slipping your shoes and coat off first) with your tail lashing, “I thought we said no more booze until you’re a bit better?”

Half a bottle is practically nothing for him, but alcohol is alcohol. Trust is trust. Your canines flash in a snarl as you snatch the whiskey, glaring down at him.

“I’m not going to stand by and watch you destroy yourself. I won’t-“

“Don’t you dare fuckin lecture me,” he snarls, surging to his feet in one smooth motion, towering over you as he jabs a finger at your chest, “I didn’t ask for your help. And I sure as hell don’t need your pity.”

He grabs the bottle back from your grasp, causing your fingers to touch. The brief contact sends a flutter in his stomach, a heat that has nothing to do with alcohol.

“I’ll drink when I damn well please, you bitch. I’ll do whatever the hell I want, consequences be damned,” he snaps.

He leans in, so close you can feel his whiskey-laden breath on your face as he continues. “You think you can fix me with your pretty words and concerned looks?”

His proximity makes your ears pin back and your tail bristle at his harsh tone. The racing of your heart going against your will.

“You’re the fucking President!” you growl, “you should be at the capital, not in some cabin trying to kill your liver!”

You know you should push him away and leave him wallowing in his own turmoil, but you keep rambling. “You’re so fucking arrogant. Why can’t you think of people other than yourself, huh?”

Ouch. Schlatt can’t lie, that one bruises more than any punch. He masks it with an icy stare as his hand shoots out to take your ears in one hand, like he’s holding a squirming animal. The action causes you to bare your teeth at him, desperately withholding your urge to fuck up his pretty face.

“I am thinking of my people,” he hisses, “every fuckin day, I’m thinking of em’. I’m trying to keep this country from falling apart at the seams.”

Now your foreheads are touching. Your breaths mingling. Your shared pique simmering together. His voice drops an octave as his gaze bores into you.

“But sometimes, I need a fuckin break. To let loose, forget about the weight of everything,” his hands release your ears to move to your face, thumb brushing over your lower lip.

“And right now, I want to forget about everything. Except you.”

As much as you want to lash out and tell him to fuck off, everything about this —and him— is intoxicating.

“You’re a fucking mess Schlatt,” you growl, “a drunk, self-destructive mess and you’re dragging me down with you.”

Even as those words leave your mouth, they’re only partially true. You aren’t being dragged anywhere – you’re choosing this. You’ve chosen to help him, fully aware it’s a mistake.

You’ve chosen to fist your hands in his shirt and pull him in for a demanding kiss. Schlatt groans into your mouth and is quick to draw you into his lap on the couch, setting the whiskey down so his selfish hands can wander freely.

Nothing else matters. Not the presidency, not Manberg, not the consequences. There’s only him.

He breaks the kiss, leaving you both panting, his hands flying to undo the buttons of your shirt. His fingers fumble, and in his eagerness, he snaps a button off and rips the fabric, prompting you to smack him upside the head.

“I’ll buy you a new fuckin’ top,” he pants, pushing the shirt off your shoulders to fall on the floor, “I’ll buy you a fuckin’ hundred of em’.”

You connect lips again and his hands dig into your ass to pull you closer. You swallow his groan as you grind against him, his bulge straining against his sweats. Now, you can’t see the damn thing, too prioritized on the sensation of his lips and hands, but it’s unmistakably thick. The butterflies swarming in your stomach are incessant at the thought.

Schlatt’s hands slide around to undo the buttons of your slacks to slide them down your hips. Before he slithers past your underwear, he brings two fingers to your lips, which you obediently take into your mouth. He finger fucks your face, groaning as he grows impossibly harder while your tongue swirls around his digits. When he withdraws, he promptly trails them down and circles your entrance past your underwear. You’re so wet. So horrifically wet that perhaps he didn’t need to leave your lips a saliva ridden mess.

“You’re so fuckin soaked already,” he teases, barely brushing your folds, “what? Ya like when I’m a dickhead to you?”

You grit your teeth, ready to bark a retort, but his fingers shut you up as they slide into you. Slowly he pumps them, adding a gentle curl as he does so. Your hips involuntarily buck against his hand, your walls desperately clenching around him. Reaching down, you wrap your hand around his wrist, guiding his fingers deeper. You practically hold him in place as you rock your hips in time with his thrusts.

This man fantasized about you far more than he cares to admit. He’s experienced with a fair share of lovers; dainty rabbit hybrids, his playful asshole of an ex, and cocky traitors of the nation. But never such a dominant, forthright guard dog like yourself. This is proving a delightful challenge and he is relishing it.

In retaliation for his arrogant comment, you lean into his neck and start marking up his skin. Your moans rumble against him and he responds by increasing the tempo of his fingers. There’s an attitude in how you bite and suck his neck, but of course he savors it, sinking further into the couch and closing his eyes momentarily.

His thumb starts pressing and rubbing your clit, causing your hips to sputter and heartier moans to escape you. Unable to endure the sight of your bra any longer, he unhooks it and tosses it carelessly over his shoulder. A large hand presses onto your chest, pushing you away from his neck so he can fully appreciate the view. Your tits are moving with each grind of your hips and he grits his teeth to suppress his desires.

You continue to shamelessly grind against his hand and grip his shoulders. “Fuck…you just gonna sit there…” you demand breathlessly, tail thrashing behind you, “and finger me?”

In one swift motion, Schlatt acts on your taunt and stands with you in his arms, withdrawing his fingers from you without a second thought. He barges through the bedroom door and practically tosses you on the bed, watching as your body —especially your tits— bounce from the impact. His hands make quick work of your bottoms, pulling your slacks and underwear all the way down to throw aside. This leaves you completely bare to his gaze while he hovers over you, fully clothed.

“Shit, your rack is nice,” he mumbles aloud, reaching down to grab your breast, but you seize his grabby hand.

“Hey, asshole,” you snap, “I’m not gonna be the only one naked right now.”

“Oh, right,” he mutters, surprisingly compliant as he strips his shirt, leaving you to drink in his bare torso. Seeing him yesterday in a mere towel was quite enough to ignite your imagination, but this was a completely different experience that had you clenching around nothing.

And when he shimmies his bottoms off, letting his cock slap against his stomach, your eyes widen. Your observation was correct. He was far bigger than anything else you’ve taken. Of all the times you’ve faced this ram, you haven’t had an ounce of fear glazing your eyes – until now.

Schlatt is quick to notice it too, a light laugh leaving him as he climbs onto the bed. “So, you’re not scared of me when I’m drunk and yellin at ya, but you’re scared of my cock?”

“Shut up and touch me already,” you growl, the gentle flush across your face betraying your bravado.

He snickers at you and cups your tits in his large hands, feeling them up, only subtly touching your nipples. You can sense his restraint, which goes against his character, but you’ve also come to truly comprehend him from recent encounters. Beneath the harsh demeanor lies a ram seeking a tenderness he somehow found in you.

This progresses for another minute before he leans down, leaving wet kisses on the flush of your breasts. Biting, sucking, and kissing everywhere except your erect nipples. Your hands tangle in his hair, urging him to pay attention to them, but he only grunts, lost in his worship of you.

Ultimately, he relents, pressing the flat of his tongue against a nipple, eliciting a relieved sigh from you. He licks and sucks on it before shifting to the other, his hand massaging the abandoned breast.

After lavishing you with attention and saliva slicked skin, Schlatt kisses downward. His lips leave a heated, sloppy trail as they traverse your stomach, hips, and mound, ending it off with a fleeting kiss to your clit that has you squirming.

Unlike earlier, he dives right in, tongue probing your entrance, nose nestled in your folds, and facial hair rugburning your inner thighs. A choir of moans and whimpers rise from your throat. Your hands instinctively grip his hair. The lewd noises he’s producing down there vibrate against your core, making you curse and whine.

His hands clutch your legs and push them closed around his head, allowing you to squeeze. The way he’s devouring you makes it clear he’s been starving, with nothing but alcohol fueling him for days. Right before you snap in ecstasy, he removes himself. Your arousal glistens on the lower half of his face, the shit eating grin he’s wearing is slick and soaked. You’re left in shambles on the sheets, body neglected and thrumming with arousal.

You’re not given a minute to regain yourself before his cockhead is bullying your entrance. Seems like his restraint has limits considering he’s now sinking in you, fast, causing you to jerk up and claw at his abdomen. Your eyes are wide and a gasp escapes your lips as he shoves himself into you.

“Fuck, Schlatt!” you hiss with your ears pinned back, “slow down you fucking jerk!”

Despite your harsh words, you feel yourself responding eagerly to his switched harsh treatment. It’s been too long since you allowed yourself to feel anything and Schlatt’s awakened desires you thought were long buried.

“Sorry, doll,” he grunts out, removing a couple inches from you until the burning sensation dissipates.

“Sorry, doll?” you mock and raise your eyesbrows. There’s a coy smile plastered on your face at his sudden shift in demeanor. He’s apologizing and calling you ‘doll’? Who is this man?

Though he disregards your banter, save for a quick glare, before shoving a pillow under your hips and throwing your legs over his shoulders. His thumb lands on your clit, carefully pulling it up to grant him an unobstructed view of him thrusting into you inch by inch, little by little. His movements are shallow and controlled, but you see his muscles tense as he fights himself from slamming into you.

The feeble movements are enough to coax strained whines and moans from you. You lean your head back and close your eyes, focusing on the pleasurable way he’s easing himself in.

“Nuh-uh, look at me,” Schlatt demands, his hand grabbing your hair and pulling your head back up.

“Wanna see that pretty face,” he adds and you obey. You watch as his thrusts grow longer and more brutal, until he’s fully sheathed in you, causing your jaw to go slack and eyebrows knit together. As much as your eyes want to roll back, you keep them trained on your joined bodies.

The gentleness he presented fades away when he starts moving. He’s ramming into you now, the lewd squelching from your sopping cunt is music to his ears. His eyes never leave you, drinking in the way your cunt stretches around him, how your tits bounce with each thrust, and your face contorts in pleasure. Fuck, he’d only ever dreamed of witnessing your usually stern face go tight with ecstasy. Now that it was happening, he couldn’t stop himself from driving into you.

“I’m gonna fuck that stupid attitude right out of ya,” he growls, letting his elbows cage your head and his hair tickle your face, “you got no idea what ya do to me, mutt.”

Oh, but you did have an idea, and it was playing out right before you. “Make you a whore?” you can’t resist teasing him.

“Fuck, that attitude,” he growls, delivering a particularly harsh thrust, watching your back arch and hands fist the sheets.

You could barely thrust up into him with how your thighs were pressed against his stomach, sticky with combined sweat. Each thrust makes the bulge in your stomach noticeable, a testament to his size compared to you. Finally, he has control over you and that defiant mouth of yours. Even if it’s simply in bed, it’s more than enough.

His cock is virtually abusing your cervix, the pleasure-pain having you emit pornographic moans. The pressure makes your eyes water, but god, you love it. This was everything you imagined and then some.

He’s pistoning in and out of you, causing your arousal to leak down the curve of your ass and soak the pillow and sheets. At this point, you’re utterly brainless, his cock sending you reeling under him. Your tail wags furiously against the sheets, the noises your making only spurring his momentum on. His horns whack against the headboard with how rough he is, an evident reflection of his behavior outside this room.

“Shoulda fucked you sooner,” he grunts, burying his face into your neck, biting down harsh and sucking your skin between his sharp teeth. You’re completely encased by him now. His heavy balls are slapping your ass as a white ring builds at the base of his cock with each rut.

Honestly? He’s pissed it took so damn long to train this stupid dog into submission. Pissed that your cunt feels nothing but perfect gushing around his cock, sucking him in. It’s almost like a reward for putting up with your defiance for so long.

“See? All fuckin quiet,” he huffs against your skin, landing a brutal thrust that brings you slightly back to reality. Just enough clarity to bite back.

Literally.

You snap at his ear, the fur standing on end when your teeth connect with it. He curses against your neck, but continues to plow into you and mark you up all pretty for your coworkers to see.

His hand snakes between your bodies and finds your clit, rubbing and pressing your attitude back into place. He finishes his work on your neck with a lingering kiss before pulling back to watch your face. You had released his ear and were back to a fucked out slump on his bed. Damn dog.

Your eyes meet and a grin stretches across his face. You bite back a moan, only to hiss at him. “I fucking hate you. Keep going.”

The laugh that leaves Schlatt’s lips resonates off the walls, mingling with your joined squelching sounds and your moans and whimpers. His ministrations on your clit persist and he brings his free hand to your thigh, clawed fingers digging into your skin.

He adjusts his angle, all the while fucking you, so he can thrust in an upward motion to hit that sweet, rough spot in your cunt. Your thigh winds tight beneath his touch, signifying just how close you are. If that isn’t enough motivation to keep going, then how you claw at his back, leaving red welts, certainly is. The variety of noises you make higher and louder definitely are.

“You like this, huh, pup?” he growls, fingers deftly rubbing your clit, eyes fucking your body alongside his cock.

“Lettin the emperor fuckin ruin ya, fuckin shit-“

When you clench around his stupidly fat cock, an orgasm hitting you sharply, he groans. Your eyes start to roll back and flutter shut, but he’s quick to grab one of your ears to redirect your attention. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your claws dig into his back for support, eyes trained on his as he keeps fucking you.

Even though you’re finished, left limp against the sheets, he isn’t. He’s using your poor pussy like a damn toy now, chasing higher and higher, thrusts erratic, until he ultimately breaks. He buries himself as deep as he can, his cum shooting loads into your cunt as his face stuffs back into your neck.

Both of you linger like that, Schlatt still shoved inside you, his body acting like a weight blanket against your’s. It’s silent, the only sound being your shared panting.

Well…you didn’t expect this entire runaway situation to evolve into this. A traitorous part of you is glad it did though.

Without a word, he pulls out and sits back on his heels, watching your combined releases grow the wet spots on the sheets and pillow. He shuffles off the bed and into the connecting bathroom, the sound of running water making your limp ears perk. He returns with a damp rag — and is that Benedictine? Does he have alcohol at his disposal everywhere?

“Thought I said no more drinking,” you huff. He watches you push yourself into a sit, body slow and clumsy as the high fades.

When he reaches the bed, he hands you the bottle. “For me, but not for you,” he laughs, “drink. You deserve it.”

Your fingers tremble as you take the bottle, letting the alcohol burn your throat as you take a sip. No wonder he had boxes of this lying around; it’s delicious.

As you go in for seconds, your eyes scan him as he towers over the side of the bed. Bruises and bite marks adorn his neck, one in particular with broken skin, along with the glisten of his slick cock, his tousled hair, and clawed up shoulders. Damn, he’s fine, even after an intense fuck.

He notices your fawning and smirks, his fingers pressing against the worst bite to examine the meager smear of blood. No way he was going to parade around Manberg like this, as much as he wanted to flaunt it all. You’ll work on hiding it later.

He leans over and brushes strands of hair from your flush face. His touch is gentle, tender even, a crazy contrast to how he was fucking you raw minutes ago.

“You good?” he asks, searching for any hint of regret or pain on your face. But all he finds is bliss.

“Yeah. I’m okay,” you reassure him.

“Good pup.” He gives you a soft pat to your cheek that causes your tail to wag softly and ears to twitch. He notices and smiles a bit, watching your eyes soften at his praise.

After adjusting the towel, he leans down to start cleaning you up, the cloth warm on your skin. He takes his time, wiping away the cum smears on your thighs, chuckling when he reaches your folds and you suck in a sharp breath.

“What was that earlier? Calling me doll?” You tease, setting the Benedictine on the nightstand.

“Fuck off and let me take care of ya,” he grumbles.

You let him finish without added remarks and he cleans himself off before disposing of the rag in the corner of the room. He herds you off the bed momentarily so he can tug the top blanket and pillow off to join the rag, considering the fabric was soaked from both of you. Wow, he’s actually taking care of things for once! Granted, it’s all aftercare, but you’re not complaining.

You pull the covers back and crawl under them, Schlatt following in suit. You’re unsure if cuddling was his thing, but he proves you wrong by wrapping his arms around you and resting his head on your chest. Of course he likes cuddling; you should know by now that the whole tough guy persona was mostly that, a facade.

Your fingers start to fiddle with his hair and trace the lines of his horns, while his hand draped over you traces patterns on your skin. He knows he shouldn’t indulge in this moment of vulnerability, but your warmth, your tenderness, no person could come to resist it.

You nurse on the same thoughts. You’re always so guarded with everyone, but something about his gentleness, the warm intimacy after being railed, makes it difficult for you to maintain those walls.

And a part of you wishes tomorrow would never come, that you both could avoid returning to Manberg and leaving behind whatever is blossoming between you two.

[pinkfluffacttuff]

Speculative Vampire Biology Headcanons

Hey y'all! I'm still floundering over Queen of the Night 2, so please accept this lore dump as my humble offering. These are just my interpretations and added world building for my AU. Please don't take these too seriously!

Vampires are cold blooded. The ability to produce body heat is a gift only living creatures can possess. This makes unlife a delicate balancing act. Sunlight kills, and nights get cold. The spring, summer and early autumn nights are the best times for midians, and their religious events revolve around the changing seasons. Blood (and blood magic) freezes just like any other liquid. Dangerous ice crystals will form in the bloodstream and slowly damage the heart, thus killing the vampire just as effectively as a good stake. (Think of it like losing one hit point every few minutes.) To combat this, vampires will enter a semi-conscious state of torpor. Their hearts will stop beating and their metabolisms slow to a near halt. Of course, torpor isn't hibernation. You have to know where your enemies are, after all. Winter turns the hungry undead into opportunistic predators, killing whatever wanders too close to their resting places. Most midian cultures recognize winter solstice as the halfway mark of torpor season, and gregarious cultures will usually celebrate with food and drink for the longest night of the year before going back to sleep. Vampires are more often than not solitary, but will still wake a handful of times to feed themselves so they don't starve. Keep your vampires warm and dry!

Super-senses are a pain in the ass. Part of this one is me projecting hard, but hypersensitivity would be a colossal drag. Loud noises, flashing lights, and strong smells would be extremely off-putting for a fine-tuned predator. Vampires toting firearms is rare. Alucard is able to handle it because most of his powers are sealed away. He learned to keep his nerves dulled after years of experimentation, so while he can feel pressure, he cannot feel the pain of getting dismembered, changes in temperature, or getting delicately touched without consciously lowering his guard. (The man needs a lot of TLC. Hug the vamp.) Seras has to learn what her limits are the hard way. Flashing lights and the scent of garlic give her migraines. Sheets have to be smooth and silky or they irritate her skin. Her showers have to be a specific temperature or she throws off her delicate homeostasis, and soap has to be for sensitive skin. It's hard to be itchy when you suddenly have claws. Dog whistles and wool clothes are low-effort torture. The sensitivity isn't limited to physical stimuli, but holy ones too. Silver on bare skin feels like getting electrocuted. Holy water is like molten acid. Hearing scripture quoted makes their heads pound. Be gentle with your vampires!

No bathroom breaks. This only applies to vampires in this AU. Because their diets are limited to liquids only, vampire digestion is weird. A lot of their human organs are no longer needed and shrivel up inside them. They use blood magic for everything, from regrowing body parts to blinking their eyes. Once all the magic potential is drained from a drop of blood, it's excreted as sweat. Another cursed fact: since solids are indigestible, swallowed flesh and bone must be expunged like owl pellets. It's unsightly and considered bad manners to do this in front of other vampires. Normal feeding aftermath looks like an anemic corpse. A very, very hungry vampire's prey looks more like a shriveled, fleshy prune. A tarantula bolus is the most apt comparison. Efficiency was key when Andras redesigned humans into vampires, so yes, even their sweat is useful to them. All vampire magic and blood smells uniquely like the vampire it's sourced from, blood sweat included. This means clothes, possessions, lairs, and even loved ones will smell like the vampire that claims them. Pheromones are also dispersed through sweat, and can convey intent. (Part of being a Night Queen means Seras' powers are exponentially stronger than a regular midian's. Her pheromones in QotN can be picked up hundreds of kilometers away and are strong enough that humans can smell them. This is not normal.) If a vampire is touchy with you, you belong to them. Mated pairs are practically joined at the hip when they can be together, taking comfort in their combined scents. Unfortunately, because the byproducts of vampire biology and magic are still made of human blood, they are considered a biohazard and can spread disease to living humans. All of the Manor's blood bags have to be disposed of like medical waste. The vampires have their own blood storage fridge. In the 30-year gap, tidying Seras' room required servants to wear disposable gloves, and vacuuming requires a respirator.

4. Posturing

These dorks are cat-coded. They sleep in boxes and can't swim, ffs. Vampires can manipulate their clothing to make themselves more intimidating. It appears as if capes, long coats, dresses, and draping fabric will sway in a breeze no one else can feel, but the breeze is just blood magic channeled into their outfits. Alucard uses this flex excessively. This behavior falls into one of three categories: a. Tarantula threat pose- the vampire is displaying their power against smaller enemies. Fangs are out, capes are flapping, and there's usually hissing involved. b. Halloween cat- The vampire is posturing for an adversary. Hair will usually join the magical breeze. Jaws will snap and claws will grow out. If it's a 1v1 fight, the pair often caterwaul alongside issuing threats. c. Peacock's tail- If the vampire's powers are flexed outside of an imminent fight, it's often a courtship display. You want a partner that's physically capable of defending you, after all. If Alucard's feeling flirtatious, he'll probably be shapeshifting, fighting with his hands, or bringing back prey for his beloved to eat. While tendrils are common, growing hands and eyes out of them is not. It requires a lot of concentration to make so many fingers move naturally. Forming dozens of eyes is easy, but using them to see is even more challenging than extra hands. More than that--eyes are a redundancy when you have a mystical third eye at your disposal. It's a power play, and Alucard is all about showing off.

5. Effects on humans

Living with a vampire has its drawbacks. For example, telepathy is migraine inducing. Unless you're a thrall, it's gonna hurt any time a stranger shoves their thoughts into your brain. If said vampire has claimed the structure you share, the walls are full of tendrils as a way to mark their territory. This is conducive to the feeling of being watched, even if the vampire isn't paying attention. The hypervigilance this feeling creates in humans leads to fatigue, paranoia, and insomnia. Whether these symptoms are part of a psychosomatic response or caused by someone's literal lifeforce being drained unintentionally is unclear. As a side note: You never want to invite a vampire inside unless you have a death wish. Outside of your dehydrated demise, you would also be handing over all the natural shadows in your house for the vampire to manipulate to their liking. It's basically handing over your head and a power up on a silver platter. As stated above, vampires mark their territory with blood magic and sweat. If that vampire were inclined to protect you, thrall or not, you would be marked. If any regular platoon were to march into midian territory, they would be gutted on the spot. Because Hellsing troops have a hint of Seras' scent on them, they can get much closer to midian settlements before the locals become agitated. Every human that stays within the manor walls must undergo thorough physicals bimonthly to check for blood-borne illnesses. Normally a vampire can sniff this out, but Integra is a stickler for record keeping. If any illnesses are found, the soldier is either honorably discharged or transferred to another branch of the military. New recruits can choose to have a "V-DNR" on their record if they don't want Seras to heal them in battle. Those that allow her to do so reap some rewards, but the consequences of this are still unknown...

And there you have it! This is a sample of the kind of stuff that I keep in my "lore dump" document. I'm happy to share more at some point.

Thoughts and constructive criticism are appreciated.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Sensei, I know you're into classic cars, how many do you own? I hear even Sam has a hard time fulfilling your orders of rare parts. Have you ever rewarded him with a free ride?

Sorry, I couldn’t not have Crewel talk about his car like he’s dating it/j

Sometimes you’re just so passionate about your interests that it comes off as weird to people who don’t Get It… I wanted to capture that feeling here.

If he doesn't scare you, no evil thing will.

Crewel held up a single finger. “I’ve tinkered with and stolen glances at other classic cars, but in my heart, I’m a committed man. There’s a favorite of mine, my one and only.”

“Oh, the red one?”

“The very same, yes.”

The image of it was almost automatic in your mind. Numerous times you had witnessed Crewel pulling onto campus in that iconic car. Deep crimson, like the skin of a fruit forbidden. For a vehicle so vintage, it was in mint condition, free of dirt and dents, shining like a brand new medal.

“It’s a real beauty,” Crewel continued proudly. “I’ve of course lavished it with plenty of TLC—tender love and care. Sam is my primary supplier of parts, though even he can find it a challenge to meet my demands.”

“Wow, you give him a real run for his money!”

Crewel gave a soft laugh. “I never find a bad thing to say about him though. The goods Sam procures are of the highest quality and he is always willing to work with me to find a compromise. He’s highly competent, and that’s something I can appreciate.”

“It sounds like you two have a strong relationship. That’s good, because I was beginning to think you had beef with all your colleagues!”

Trein and Crowley automatically came to your mind. Crewel often butted heads with them in the hallways—like a cat and dog, you thought, or a dog chasing down a bird.

“Sam is an exception. I don’t mind his company.” Crewel shook his head. “The other day, I happened to find him walking along the road in the direction of the town. He said he was taking ‘the scenic route’ to enjoy the springtime, pointing out the lily pads and the frogs.

“… I immediately ordered him into my car and drove him the rest of the way. Typically it’s just my dogs that ride with me, but I couldn’t let him make that steep trip on his lonesome. I consider the lift payback for his painstaking efforts to acquire rare parts for me.”

You chuckled to yourself, and Crewel noticed.

“What’s so funny, pup?” he demanded.

“Nothing, it’s just…” you swallowed your giggles, composed yourself. “It’s nice to see your soft side come out. Crewel-sensei can be as kind as he is cruel.”

He folded his arms, but he did not look displeased. Instead, he offered a sly smile. “Damn right.”

[dandydrunky]

Dog days are over

Ill!Rafe x gf!reader

Summary: Rafe's your patient

Content warning: fluff, symptoms consistent with a cold, soft-ish Rafe, medication, meditation, and some TLC, Cameron sibling dynamic

A/n: Happy Valentines Day

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Something is off.

You felt it.

With infrequent visits from your boyfriend, texts over calls, and no contact otherwise you were concerned.

He's expressed a text is nice, but it doesn't properly demonstrate his disapproval, if any. That and he doesn't like to miss you on the phone. If you needed to talk then and there he'd do it.

You usually see him around when you're not hanging out, but the last two weeks have been different.

Last week you caught him at the bonfire, and he kept you in his sight while chugging a barrel of beer, and Tuesday he arranged lunch plans for you two, but that was the last time you actually saw him.

Since then he makes sure to send a text a day at least, in between those. It's not always coherent, but it's something.

Today would mark the third quarter of a week in which you haven't had physical contact.

Rafe, on the other end of that was miserable. His head was killing him, palm pressed up to his forehead as he sat in the kitchen, squeezing the life out of a water bottle, letting some of it dribbling down his chin.

He was encouraged before seeking a medical fix to try drinking water since he and hydration have history.

Advised by you, the one time you played doctor.

Maybe you could cure him, you've done it before right?

But, by the way your phone hasn't rang, he's decided against it. Until you got a text from an unknown number.

Unknown

Unkn: Please come get my brother

You: Sarah?

She's who you immediately thought of because you were considering a house visit.

Once she confirmed it was her, you immediately edited the contact name.

Sarah <3: Yes

You: what's wrong?

Sarah <3: I'll call you

And when it rang you picked up. Sarah initially didn't say something, but you could hear her footsteps, and the wind faintly in the background.

You listened on, curious about what was happening, and then you heard it.

A suppressed cough followed by a sniffle, but that wasn't all. "Sarah, get out," Rafe rasped on the other end, his voice clear in the background.

And then her retreating steps.

Once she was out of earshot she adjusted the camera to face time, her blonde hair whipping into frame.

"How long has he been like that?" "Who knows?" She shrugged, adjusting her shirt. She didn't have much to say on the matter, she simply flipped the screen around, revealing Rafe on the couch.

He's on his stomach, face pressed into a pillow and a blanket pulled up to his waist. Visually his surroundings were clean, no tissues, pill bottles, no indication he's been on the couch longer than it looks, but if you squint you could see the crease in his forehead, and chest moving with his labored breaths.

Then it switched back to Sarah, "get him out of here, please."

"I'll see what I can do," you said, kicking off your covers.

You were on the road soon enough, driving to the Camerons's house.

When you arrived, you pulled into the driveway, backing symmetrically against the curb, turning off your engine.

Sarah tip toed outside, skipping over to your car with the biggest grin. "So?" She asked, hopefully placing her hand on her hips.

She had a lot of faith in your ability to influence Rafe to do anything.

"I need to see him first," you dodge, stepping up to the porch. Your knuckles rapped against the door, stopping when you heard a groan from the other side.

You pressed your ear to the door, hearing Rafe's grumbling and dragging feet. The lock clicked against the door, Rafe's fingers gripping the door frame, a couple inches above his head, which was hung low.

You looked up, your fingers sifting his hair out of his face, your eyes looking up to meet his tired, droopy ones. He straightened his lousy posture, turning his head away, "What're you doing here?"

Sarah called, but that's not what he wanted to hear. "I've been meaning to visit," you step closer, wedging your foot between the door. "Let me in?"

He again grumbled under his breath, shuffling back, keeping an eye in you as you walked through the door, closing it behind you.

Now you were looking around. You could see Rafe's makeshift palate on the couch, the living room furniture spotless, and an air freshner fuming in the corner.

Mint?

"So, how are you feeling?" "Fine."

You had dropped your bag off on the loveseat, across the way, sitting down in the corner, keeping him in sight.

You figured your staring had made him uncomfortable with how much he shifted around once he "settled". Not long after for the one second you turned away he got to his feet, gathered his blankets and lugged them over his shoulder, heading up the stairs.

You waited to he disappeared to give him a semblance of space, too getting to your feet.

Sarah peeked her head back in, scanning the coast landing on you, shimmying the belt of your jeans up a little higher. You shot her a playful look, unhooking your car keys from the chain of your purse, tossing them to her.

"Got it," she whispered, popping out.

And so you went up.

Rafe's room was in poorer shape than the living room. Bed disheveled, laundry tossed over, his pillows stripped, curtains tied, his closet had seemingly flooded into the room, and the picture above his bed was crooked.

"Rafe..." You offered a sympathetic look, tilting your head at him. He rolled his shoulders back, plopping onto his bed, hands folding over his abdomen.

This was so unlike him, the bed like him, but everything else was usually neat. Some superstition about the state of your mental. Right now his is crowded, stuffy, and in need of a little tidying up.

You trudged through his sock pile, stepping into the clear tile of his bathroom floor, eyes immediately drawn to the trash overflowing with tissues. Empty boxes parked on the sink, floor, in the tub.

Unlike some people, he's not too kooky about being sick. In fact he'll lie in it.

You didn't need to check his temp to know he was burning up, despite the goosebumps littering his arms.

He was sick. Not a doubt in your or his mind.

You peeled back his foggy mirror, looking at the many yellow prescription bottles he's got lying in a row, twisting the labels around.

Some of these are for low blood pressure, not of course prescribed to him.

"Bae," you called, swiping a couple up, "which one of these is Tylenol?" Probably none.

And you were right, not Tylenol, ibrouprophen, not acetaminophen, nothing you could think of off the tip of your brain. "Okay," perhaps you were being too specific.

"Which one of these is a painkiller or reliever of sort?"

Finally, Rafe thought. A broader spectrum to work with. Over the counter meds wouldn't do it for him. Part of him wanted the high.

"White pills, red label," he coughed.

White pills red label, white pills, red label, white pills, you repeated to yourself, swatting the other bottles away. You found it far off in the corner. "Vicodin?"

"Yeah,"

"Two, right?"

"Three,"

"Nice try," you chuckled popping the pills into your palm. You know he'd take one every 30 minutes if he didn't feel they were kicking in fast enough.

Before you could ask about water you stepped forward until a mound of them, all crinkled up, empty, there had to be at least 10.

Poor baby, he was really suffering.

"Sit up and lean back," you instructed, holding your hand out, watching him look down at the pills then to you.

He attempted to grab them, but you closed your hand making him grumble, "I'm fine where I'm at," he grumbled for the umpteenth time.

"Choke," you wished, tossing them at him.

He wheezed out a broken laugh, making you almost regret your request, "if you insist," he smirked, watching you scramble to the edge of the bed, reaching for the medicine.

He pulled away.

Of course.

Your knee slipped beneath his as you climbed on top of him, sitting on his thigh, the other leg propped up beside you. "Finally, some urgent care," he leaned forward, abs crunching beneath your hand pinning his waist down.

"Not that kinda rodeo," you insisted, slipping your fingers over the crevice of his shoulders, squeezing them, pinching at his collarbone.

His brows unfurled, loosening at the feel of your attentive touch working over some tense spots.

Once you got him mellowed out you scooted off his lap, settling beside him, running your fingers through his hair.

You would've made tea, or got an him an ice pack, but his body temperature was so out of wack he may not be able to handle anymore chemical changes.

When you were done your fingers found their way through his hair, sweeping it back from over his eyes, combing it back, giving his scalp a nice scratch the had his head tilting over your shoulder.

He huffed against you, defeated the simple act had tamed him considerably.

"This all you wanted? Just a little loving?" He opened his eyes, cocking his head back, "Why are you talking to me like I'm a dog?"

"I think all partner talk was derived from talking to dogs," you concluded, shrugging it off.

You sat there for a while, acting out terrible scenarios of how talking to a partner could feel like treating/taming a dog.

While you were talking, you put the rooms trash to use, sifting through what you could reach from the bed.

And Rafe made a game of shooting balls of socks into his laundry bin.

"This feels poguey," he comments, leaning his head back against your lap with a genuine smile.

"Doesn't make it less fun," it just meant he wouldn't admit to anything that's happened in the last two hours.

His wrist flicked back, hurling the white socks towards the bin, landing beside it.

"Oh, big talk there," you winced, pinching his side.

"Alright, hotshot, let's see you make a basket," he challenged, looking up to you.

All was in good fun and while kisses may have been contagious you stuck to scratching his chin, placing your palm over his forehead and kissing the back of it for the time being.

[fullofbees]

Obey Me Brothers with an AroAce MC!

I know it's technically July 1st but shhhhhhhhh

CW: None!

»»----------► Reader is Gender Neutral

He would be the most nonchalant about it. When you first come out to him, he lifts his head from the desk, staring at you confused. You sweat, about to overexplain before he interrupts you with a question. 

“Will this affect our relationship as it exists now?”   You shake your head, “Of course not, I’m more than content.”  He nods, returning to the paperwork on his desk, the silence only broken by the scribbles of his pen. You remain in place, now the one staring in confusion.  When he notices you haven’t left, he raises his head, “Everything alright?”  “I’m just shocked. Most people have a few... follow-up questions.”  Lucifer shrugs, “Lust isn’t my department.” 

He would first ask a million questions trying to understand. It’s not that I don’t think Mammon couldn’t understand, I think it’s more that he genuinely does not care what you identify as, but he wants to learn about you so he’s going to pester you about it. So long as you remain his friend, and he gets to retain his bragging rights as your first demon, you’ll always be cool. 

You try to keep up as he drags you down the street.   “Mammon, why do I need to go the casino with you again?”  The demons rolls his eyes like you just asked the most ridiculous question in the world, “Pffft! You’re my lucky charm of course.”   “I am not playing the slots for you!”  You almost ram straight into his back when he abruptly stops.   “Don’t need ya to. I’ll be sure ta win with an ace up my sleeve!”   Now its your turn to roll your eyes, at least so you don’t have to look at his smug face. It’ll only encourage him. 

When you first explain your orientation to Levi, he is excited. You know Levi gets easily flustered when it comes to emotions, but he’s made great strides to let you see his vulnerability, so in the end you decided to show yours too. It still doesn’t mean you were expecting him to start on another anime ramble. 

“That makes so much sense!! I mean in My Whole Life I’ve Been a Cat but A Wizard Recently Made Me Human and Now I Have to Attend High School Where a Pack of Dogs Is Out to Get Me Because I’m The Adopted Daughter of Their Rival Gang Leader, the protagonist never receives a love interest! I totally thought they were retconning the manga when they had her turning down every declaration of love but her being aroace would fit the storyline so much better--” 

Already understands; you don’t even have to explain the terms to him. 

“Wait, you.. Know what I’m talking about?”  The demon glances up at you from his book, “That is what I just said.”  “Wha- from what- how?” You hate blathering incoherently, especially in front of Satan, but his reaction is not what you were expecting.  The demon raises his book so that you can see the cover, “Sherlock Holmes.”  You process the comical nature of this interaction before quipping back, “Yes, I suppose it is elementary.” 

Would probably go overboard in his support. Of course he means well, he’s just excited!! He goes out of his way to stay up-to-date on the tea news of the community; and honestly, he probably finds you the most obscure pride merch. 

“You should let me paint your nails the colors of the flag, hon!”  You stare down at your plain, dry nailbeds. They are definitely overdue some TLC.  “I don’t know if I want to be that on the nose about it...”  “Oh hush, I’ve never disappointed you before, have I?” He says with a giggle and a wink, “C’mon, chop chop! Off to my studio!”   “You mean your room?” You tease.  “Studiiiioo~”  

Finds out because he overheard you discussing the garlic bread and cake memes.  

“Aroace cake.... sound delicious, what’s in it?” The hungry demon asks just after his signature stomach growl.  “It’s not a real cake, Beel,” says Levi.  The poor demon’s face drops, now pouting as he looks down at his aching stomach.   “Beel, you okay?”  He dejectedly sulks out of the room and towards the kitchen, muttering to himself about the cake being a lie. 

I think Belphie would understand it to a startling degree. He has never had any serious relationships himself, finding that he already feels fulfilled with his friends and family. Perhaps you can help him explore this new revelation.  

“Mmm, it must be nice, actually. Less time wasted, more time for naps.”  “I never thought of it like that before... I should take more naps.”  He nods with a sleepy grin, patting the cushion next to him, “Who needs a thirst trap when you can have your first nap?” 

•••✦ ❤ ✦••• Submit A Request •••✦ ❤ ✦•••

A/N: Happy Pride Month from your fellow aroace author! Wishing you all the best <3

[geethingy]

TLC

fandom: the falcon and the winter soldier

w/c: 1149

summary: How Sam convinced Bucky to sleep on the couch AKA Bucky is introduced to ASMR.

a/n: I love TFATWS and I want to write for them more but I cannot for the life of me think of good scenarios. Inspired by my own love hate relationship with asmr.

~~~~~~~~~

“Paid good money for that sofa you're disrespecting.”

Bucky sat up from his position on the floor. Sam's silhouette stood with crossed arms in the doorway, outlined only by the kitchen light behind him. He looked ridiculous. Bucky stretched to reach the lamp switch.

“I’m kind of an active sleeper. Figured I’d do less damage starting on the floor.” Bucky rubbed at his neck.

“Mm-hm.” Sam walked over to the couch and sat, meaning he didn't intend to let Bucky sleep just yet. “Sarah’s concerned.”

Embarrassed, Bucky dropped his hand slowly. From the moment he stepped inside the Wilson family home, he wondered if he was completely overstaying his welcome. He wouldn't have blamed them for feeling uncomfortable housing an ex-assassin. There were children in this house.

“She sent me in here to convince you to get off the damn floor. ‘C’mon Sam! Give the hobo your bed if it's better on his old joints than the couch.’ Hmph.”

Bucky smiled. “That’s kind of her.”

Sam glared at him. “Keep dreaming. You're funny if you think you're sleeping on my bed.”

Bucky shook his head with a frown. “No, the couch is comfortable. Very comfortable. Feels like I’m gonna sink right through it.”

Sam’s glaring expression changed to something more real. Was that a rude thing to say?

“Look, I get it. But you're making me look like a bad host. Sarah won't even let the cat sleep down there.” Sam said softly. “You’re just not used to feeling comfortable yet. All it takes is some TLC.”

“TLC?”

“Tender love and-”

“I know what TLC means.” Bucky said, more guarded than his therapist would have approved of. Sam was brave for this, Bucky thought. By now they had gotten comfortable, perhaps even extended their boundary past ‘a couple of guys with a mutual friend.’ They were friends, yet even so Bucky didn’t know what to do with clear affection. Sam knew this. It was brave in the same way as sticking a hand out to a dog known to bite.

Bucky sighed and looked up at Sam. “Are you offering?” he asked, genuinely.

“Just get your ass up here.” Sam said.

--

He pulled out his phone and a pair of earbuds as Bucky sat next to him.

“We can start with this.” Sam said, holding out his tools as he explained. “Have you heard of ASMR? Stands for auto sensory… something or other. People listen to it to go to sleep, sorta like whale sounds or white noise. You know how certain sounds make you go all relaxed and tingly?”

Bucky frowned, not liking how that sounded. But Sam continued with an eyeroll.

“Well, that's the gimmick. It's pretty awesome and knocks me out like a baby. Gotta be careful not to find the freaky ones, though. There are a lot of weirdos out there..” Bucky’s frown deepened skeptically.

“Man, nevermind. Just, here-”

Bucky violently ducked his head away from Sam’s hand, instantly snatching the earbud Sam started to shove into his ear. Sam chuckled, to which he scowled at.

“I don’t know about this, Sam. I'm not a big fan of…” He squinted at the title of one of the videos on Sam’s phone. “Brain tickling? That doesn’t sound relaxing at all.”

Sam reached over to tap the video immediately as Bucky made a noise of disapproval. He stood and patted Bucky’s shoulder.

“Alright, now lay back and close your eyes. Ugh.” Sam reached forward, smoothing out the dubious eyebrows on Bucky’s forehead. “Relax your damn face. Trust me, man! This stuff is powerful.”

Bucky was entirely unsure about this, as nothing about what Sam had been trying to sell sounded appealing. But because Sam was good at this sorta thing, he obliged. He laid back and shifted to get comfortable, snatching up the blanket that was on the floor with a metal hand.

He looked up at Sam, who was staring the whole time he adjusted himself.

“Are you gonna watch me sleep?”

Sam scoffed. “Sounds exhilarating. Sleep tight, Buck.” He switched off the lamp for Bucky, and left him alone with the ASMR.

As the video played, Bucky was caught off guard by the quality of the sounds.

There was a sweet spot in Bucky’s lower back he hadn't known about. And for reasons unbeknownst to him, the amplified scratching sounds coming from the video ignited the nerves in the same spot. Over and over again. He felt ridiculous for flinching, but he could hardly control it.

skrich skrich skrichskrichskrich.

It sounded like it was right behind him. His eyebrows pinched together in discomfort. He surprised himself by not throwing the earbuds across the room.

As weird as it was, it was also kind of nice. A tingle would start at the base of his skull, before shooting down that dip in his back. Relaxing chills overtook Bucky’s body after each ticklish pulse that sparked his spine. He found himself embracing the sounds and their unbearable, incredible effect. It reminded him of nails on his back, a sensation he had trouble remembering with how long it had been since he received such tender treatment. But he knew it was enjoyable. Even when the nails strayed to spots that were too sensitive to stay still for.

Bucky couldn't stop the smile that followed after the next jolt, so powerful it made his leg jump. Like when you pet a dog just right. He wondered if this ASMR garnered the same reactions from Sam. If that was why he liked it so much.

A laugh startled Bucky to open his eyes. He thought it might have come from himself until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His face flushed as he tore the earbuds out of his ear.

“How long were you standing there, you creep?” Bucky asked, worried about how much Sam might have seen - and clocked.

“Just came out for a bit to see if it already put you to sleep. Looks like you were loving it.” Sam said, grinning. There was no judgement in his tone, only teasing. Bucky can handle teasing.

“It's nice. It’s freaky, but it's nice. I was almost asleep till you came back out.” Bucky said accusingly. Sam started to say something back, an apology about interrupting his tickle-time, but Bucky wisely put the earbuds back in and flipped over on the couch to ignore him completely.

“Alright alright. Get your beauty sleep, White Wolf.” Before finally leaving him alone for the night, Sam fluttered his nails up and down Bucky’s exposed back and neck. He shrugged him off with a giggle-laced fuck off.

“Goodnight Sam,” he called out before he shut his bedroom door. “Thanks.”