#thread: every bubble's got to pop

[fxirytxlcfxtc]

For @descended-from-fairytales - Every Bubble's Got to Pop Starring Ash Waltz/Cora Vaguely Guest Starring Caladium "Cal" Waltz, Marella Cipher, Mary Delilah Rubinstein

"And just like that," Marella cocks her head to herself, as Iris climbs into her car to go back to the rehab, "We're ready."

"Ready?" Delilah looks at Marella. "Are you sure?"

"Completely, angel. She'll call ahead of her arrival, and when they remove him from his room, I'll--"

Blue fire flashes across the grass, forming a circle around the group. "--know. Now."

And with a snap of her fingers, ignoring Cal's overemotional reaction...

Waking up in her bed to the sunlight streaming in the window, she stretches and sits up, yawning and rubbing her face.

And, sitting there a moment, it all starts to hit her again.

Growing up in something that could count as a house, tight on space for the number of people in it. Her father's smile when she came in the door, last in line, whenever she and her siblings went out.

Joining Hemlock's gang, Aneela, the struggles she'd faced trying to keep her sister safe.

Kate, "Katie" before, someone who needed a friend, who needed people who cared.

Yarrow being released, the subsequent disappearance. Insisting to anyone who would listen that he hadn't run away, not really.

Learning the art of dance, learning to dance.

Meeting Ciri.

Meeting Basil.

She remembered.

Ash launches out of her bed, barely stopping for anything as she goes scrambling downstairs to see if anyone else was up yet. Cal looks over from the stove where he's apparently undertaking making breakfast for them. "Cora?"

"Uh-uh." She bounces lighting up. "Cal, Cal it's me. It's me, I remember, I--!!"

[bloodrvvvsh]

I Have No Shame. | Spencer Reid x GN!Reader

Synopsis: Spencer joins the Mile High Club with your help.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader

Warnings: Handjobs, semi-public sex, they get caught (sort of?), soft sub!Spencer, soft dom!Reader, Spencer being a whimpering whining mess, facials, cum eating, established relationship, pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel, honey, good boy), literally so much praise, a little bit of crying from Spencer, like one (1) use of Y/N, slight dumbification, begging

Word count: 1.5K

Notes: My first Spencer fic wow!!!! It’s been so long since I’ve written an actual fic, I missed it so much. Anyways I hope you all enjoy! For this I imagined like s1-s4 Spence but could technically be interpreted as any season

Cross-posted on A03.

Spencer Reid was not a bold man.

In fact, he would go as far to say he was the total opposite. At least, in his personal life he certainly was. He never made the first move, always waiting for that perfect time that never came.

He didn’t like taking risks. Even calculated ones were too much for him sometimes. So he stayed in his little bubble of comfort and safety. He liked it there. Sure, it might make him the subject of a bit of teasing and he missed out on a few things, but at the end of the day he still liked it there.

Until he met you.

You were everything he wasn’t. Outgoing, daring, bold. In some ways, you could even be described as a bit of an adrenaline junkie. It’s actually partly what led you to joining the FBI. You liked the thrill, the high stakes, the way it got your blood pumping when you had to chase down a criminal on the loose. 

You lived for taking risks. The idea of never truly knowing what might happen made your spine tingle, every one of your hairs stand on. There wasn’t a better feeling than feeling a little sick to your stomach with nerves and excitement for you.

It's an interesting dynamic you and Spencer had - he was all for playing it safe and keeping to himself, while you could be a wildcard. Spencer learned that very quickly after you two started dating. And while it wasn’t that you were trying to change him (you would never!), you were simply opening him up to things he wouldn’t have thought twice about.

Everyone else on the jet was fast asleep. Slumped over and curled up in positions that would certainly give them a knot in their neck later. Spencer had his head laid over your lap, curls sprawled across your thighs while you mindlessly twirled the strands around your fingers. 

You were still wide awake. The rush of the case just closed still ran hot through your veins. You’d most definitely crash later once in the sanctity of your apartment, but for now you were full of energy. You tried to distract yourself by staring out the jet window, watching the world go by, but it wasn’t working.

You glanced down at the pretty boy sprawled across you like a sleeping angel and a little thought popped into your head. You shifted in your seat, sitting up straighter, before you gently threaded your fingers into Spencer’s hair. Your nails scraped across his scalp and you almost swore you could have heard a little purr rumble in his chest.

You leaned over him, breathing slowly in vain attempt to settle your already racing heart. “Spence,” you crooned softly. “Spencer, wake up, baby.” Once Spencer actually fell asleep, he was a fairly light sleeper. It didn’t take much before he was stirring awake with a quiet groan.

“What is it?” he asked, voice thick with sleep. His hands raised to rub at his eyes and you could only smile. “Did we land?”

“No,” you said a little too quickly, “No, I just..” You trailed off a little as your teeth sunk down on your bottom lip. “I had an idea.” You stood to your feet and offered your hand out to him. He quirked an eyebrow, glancing between your face and outstretched hand, before slowly placing his in your grasp.

There was a little bit of a bounce in your steps as you led him in the direction of the bathroom and in that moment, Spencer regretted agreeing to whatever you were about to do. He squeezed your hand and you tossed  him a smile that reeked of mischief over your shoulder.

It was a tight squeeze once inside. Because, like most airplane bathrooms, it was meant to only fit one person at a time. That didn’t stop a lot of people, though. And you were one of them.

You crashed your lips against his the minute the door locked behind the two of you. It was hot, full of passion and lust as your hands roamed over his body. He whimpered softly against your lips before relaxing into the kiss. His hands were warm and broad against your body, sending shivers down your spine.

You didn’t waste time when you wanted something, and you wanted him right here and now. Your hands drifted until they hit their target - his belt. You broke for air, panting heavy and hard, as you tried to make quick work of shedding the layers between you and his dick.

“Y/N-” he gasped. “Wait, wait-” He took hold of your wrists, halting your movements. His eyebrows pinched together and his bottom lip jutted out ever so slightly. “What if we get caught?”

You grinned at him. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to be quiet so we won’t.” You knew just how much of a struggle it was for Spencer to keep himself under control when he was feeling good. The noise complaints from your neighbors were proof enough. 

Your hand dipped into his pants and underwear and you tried to suppress the smirk that threatened to spread over your face when you wrapped your fingers for his half-hard cock. He gasped, but quickly slapped a hand over his mouth when you shot him a look.

His eyes rolled back as you began to stroke along his length. Your thumb brushed over the tip, smearing the pre-cum gathering and Spencer’s knees buckled. Your pace was slow, almost languid, teasing.

“Please,” Spencer whined. You grinned once more.

“Please what?” you murmured. You leaned even closer to him, somehow, hovering over his lips. You were both breathing heavily and practically sharing breaths. You took a moment to look over his adorably flushed face. “You’re so pretty, Spence..”

“Please.” He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for, pleasure clouding his usually bright mind. “Please, please, pl-ease.” His voice cracked when you sped up, his head lulling back. “F-feels so good, oh god.”

You cooed at the state of him. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Faux pity coated your words, making Spencer whine again. “Come on, use your words, honey. I can’t read minds.” You snickered.

His hand jumped to grab your wrist, not to stop you, no. He was too far gone to stop you now. He simply held it there, keeping a tight grip on you as you jerked his cock. 

He looked like a total mess. An absolutely stunning mess, but a mess nonetheless. Curls sticking to his forehead and cheeks, plush lips parted in soft moans, eyes squeezed tight, face flushed shades of red. His hips arched into your touch, cock twitching in your hold.

“Are you gonna cum?” you asked and he nodded frantically. His lips twitched into a soft frown as tears began to well in his big brown eyes. God, he always the prettiest he was all dumb and fucked out. “Good boy,” you crooned at him.

You dropped down to your knees. You finally freed his dick from the confines of his underwear and he hissed at the feeling of the cold air. You didn’t waste a moment to resume your ministrations.

“Look at me, Spencer,” you commanded and he immediately followed the order. He nearly lost it at the sight of you on your knees before him. “Good boy, that’s it..” You picked up the pace even further, hand almost a blur stroking him.

“I’m- I’m gonna-” he stumbled over his words, unable to even form proper words as the pleasure grew. You shook your head.

“Do it, Spence,” you commanded again. “You can do it. Cum all over my face, pretty boy.” And that’s all it took for Spencer to tumble right over the edge. He tightened his grip on your wrist, back arching as he spilled over your face in thick spurts.

You worked him through his orgasm, stroking slow and gently, until he began to whine from overstimulation. You slowly rose to your feet and Spencer was already offering you paper towels to clean yourself. You ran a finger through one of the streaks of cum on your face and brought it to your lips, eyes fluttering shut and soft groans escaping you as you tasted him.

When you opened your eyes again, he was beet-red and looking oh-so shy and cute. You giggled. You gladly took the paper towels and began to wipe away the remnants of his cum.

You connected your lips in a chaste kiss when you were finished, making him blush even more. “You did such a good job, angel,” you praised before pressing another kiss to his lips. He tucked himself back into his jeans and buckled them back up. You entangled your fingers together, leading him out of the bathroom.

You made your way back to your seats, a sense of satisfaction settled in your chest. “Reid?” The call of your boyfriend’s name had you both glancing back to see Hotch awake in one of the jet chairs. “Don’t do that again”

Heat washed over both of your cheeks and you had to slap a hand over your mouth to hide the growing smile on your lips. “Yes, sir,” Spencer said with a nod of his head.

At least you had fun.

[kumkaniudaku]

Pop Quiz

Summary: When Asia's in need of a few lessons regarding matters of the bedroom, her colleague and friend, Kelvin, offers his expertise.

Pairing: Kelvin Harrison Jr. x Black!OC

Warnings: Mature Content (18+)

Word Count: 6.2k

MASTERLIST

Noise complaints ran $25 a pop in Asia's building. Twenty-five dollars from her bank account and an awkward conversation with Alister when they crossed paths on Asia's way to the parking garage early the following Thursday morning. 

"Please, don't take this wrong, but you and your friend are…loud. You gave our book club quite the show last weekend." 

Asia could still feel the rise of bile in her throat while she listened to her usually quiet next-door neighbor explain every single sound and shout from her and Kelvin's escapades in extremely graphic detail. The taste seared into her tastebuds, following Asia into the afternoon's internal review. At the same time, Savannah, the brand lead, ran through slides outlining the wonderful world of influencer marketing to sell mid-tier poison their client called alcohol. 

Desperate for a break from endless droning and word soup, Asia carefully took a screenshot of her noise complaint charge and copied it into a message for Kelvin to reawaken a thread that regularly kept them up into the wee hours of the morning. 

Her mental vacation ended before it could start, forcing her back into the action. She placed her phone face down on the large conference table and tried to refocus while waiting for any sign that he'd received her attachment. She didn't have to wait for long. Asia's lips curled into a goofy grin when Kelvin broke eye contact from the presentation to glance at the message notification on his laptop screen. He maintained an impenetrable poker face to take pretended notes, exaggerating every deliberate tap against backlit black keys. 

Kel You lowkey were kinda loud when we got back. It was cute.  I'll pay. Zelle or ApplePay?

Asia bit back a smile at blurred flashbacks of the wall clock above her television ticking down the seconds til midnight with Kelvin's face back between her legs, pushing her past her limits for his pleasure and hers. Her fingers danced across the phone's digital keyboard.

Pretty Girl 💖💚 Don't worry about it.  I had to be loud to cover for you.

Kelvin's grey bubble appeared and disappeared twice before vanishing altogether. Asia tried not to stare at the side of his head, hoping the telepathy she swore existed as a child still worked.  She looked at Savannah and noted the color on her perfectly shaped nails. Then, she counted the grey hairs in the strategy director's beard, stopping at 35 before growing tired of the neverending task. Her attention shifted to the typo on the recap slide as she made a mental note to flag it in her post-meeting notes. A cough in the room made her ears perk for a second to determine if the offender was sick or dealing with a dry throat. Definitely sick. What she could make for dinner floated around with other fragmented thoughts. Potatoes, maybe? Pasta? 

Unfortunately for her, nothing could hold her attention quite like the man coolly clicking-clacking on his sticker-covered laptop, seemingly unconcerned with her last text. 

Kel I like the way you taste. Sue me.  ApplePay: $28 Extra for the transfer

Static enveloped Asia's entire body, sending shock waves straight to the apex of her thighs until she was forced to cross her legs to stifle what she was sure would sound like a kitten's purr if she didn't put a muzzle on it quickly. 

A smug smile graced Kelvin's otherwise expressionless face to add further insult to injury. In his periphery, Asia sat perfectly flustered with no outlet for all the squirming she tried to hide. Squirming that instantly reminded him of how he couldn't let her leave him on Saturday night without kissing both sets of lips one more time. 

"Asia, can you update us on the timeline?" 

Time lost to reliving every atom-splitting, toe-curling moment from the weekend left Asia scrambling to rearrange windows on her laptop to fulfill Savannah's perfectly reasonable yet ill-timed request. "Uh, yeah! One…one second." 

She silently thanked the creator for protecting her screen from prying eyes while she tried to cosplay as a serious businesswoman. Sweat beading at her temples attempted to crack Asia's facade. Still, she recovered with a dancer's grace with nanoseconds to spare before a quick pause turned into awkward silence. 

"Alright, cool. Sorry about that. Thursday is basically Friday for my brain," she apologized, earning mumbling agreement from her peers. "So, yeah, we're tracking toward Friday's round one client review. Andy, you'll take over copy duties for Kelvin since he's moving on to greener pastures at the end of the week." 

Varying degrees of disappointment bubbled from the small group, forcing Kelvin to clarify Asia's intentionally vague announcement. "Greener pastures as in new business, y'all." Kelvin used a charming smile to douse burgeoning speculation sure to follow news of his departure. He shot Asia a warning look meant for her understanding alone. She shrugged to play innocent, and he chuckled at her act. "But, I'll take one of those goin' away happy hours like Ty's if y'all wanna give me one." 

"Speaking of Ty's thing, are we cool with La Chila down the block? My wife says I gotta get more steps in for our family weight loss challenge. A walk to an early dinner counts, right?" 

"Walking off ten calories to eat 700 in one sitting is insane, Chris." 

Savannah's patented matter-of-fact quip generated enough uncontrollable laughter to distract the team from Asia's half-baked project timeline and Kelvin's air kiss in response to her middle finger emoji sent via Teams. 

For all the time spent discussing boundaries and ways of working through their unconventional arrangement, remaining purely professional during their three days in the office was by far the easiest line in the sand to stay behind. They kept a careful distance, never spent time without another party present, kept electronic chats on work devices to a minimum, and never ever discussed their weekends as two parts of a whole when the topic inevitably reared its head during group lunches. 

But, try as they might, rumors swirled in private pockets of office gossip until all interested parties were gathered over creamy, spicy queso and post-work margaritas.

Kelvin sat next to Asia as innocently as he knew how, ignoring the urge to rest his hand on her thigh while they whispered over which entrees they'd choose for the evening. Asia leaned into his body to share one menu despite having her own inches from her fingertips. She listened to Kelvin's recommendations with a soft smile and starry eyes, making sour cream and pinto beans seem like the most interesting inventions since the portable CD player. They were like magnets pulled together by an unseen force, unable to resist the other. 

Already two shots and a celebratory sombrero dance number in, Ty used his privilege as the guest of honor to point in the duo's direction. "You two are super cute together. Aren't they super cute together, Sav?" 

Always his partner in crime and cocktails, Savannah excitedly agreed as she waived an uneaten tortilla chip around in the air. "Oh my God, yes! I always thought that but, like, didn't want to be the blonde white girl shipping the two black people on the team." 

"Well, I am black, and I think so too." Asia and Kelvin shot individual glares in Sidney's direction. She shrugged and smirked. "What! I can spot two hot people who need to be hot together from a mile away. I'm the one who hooked Ty up with Eric in analytics." 

"And, while we despise each other now for reasons I won't share, it was fun while it lasted!" 

Kelvin played it cool for both of them, calmly shifting his torso away from Asia to pluck a chip from the communal basket. "I hate to break up the love fest, but nothing is going on between us. We're work friends." 

"At best," Asia added. 

Ouch. Kelvin internally bristled at her unprompted callout with his cold beer bottle's amber tip pressed against his bottom lip. "At best." 

If they'd tried harder, maybe they could've convinced Chris, Savannah, Sidney, Maddie, or a very tipsy Ty that what they had was a surface-level, totally uninvolved friendship. And, though they had no proof outside of speculation in a side chat, they all vowed to keep an eye on Thing 1 and Thing 2. 

"Yeah. Alright," Sidney scoffed. "Friends at best. That's what we'll go with today. Everybody starts off as friends until that regular hug turns into a mouth hug. Ask my fiancé." 

Chris groaned and ran both palms down his beet-red face. "Ya know, every time we have one of these, I leave knowing way too much about you, Sid. Fuckin' gross!" 

_______________

Though margaritas had long been finished and Ty's desk was now just an empty surface waiting for a new tenant by Friday morning, Asia couldn't roll into her girl's night at Sabrina's without Sidney's accusation searing a hole into her memory. 

Were they just friends? She'd long reckoned with the reality that physical intimacy wasn't enough to swing the pendulum in the dating direction. This was an arrangement for experience's sake, not one designed to turn weekend touching into date nights and meeting the parents. 

But, she couldn't shake how Kelvin tensed at the mention of their working relationship or how acknowledging there was no room for more wilted the sprout of hope she'd been watering since the art show. He didn't correct her, and she couldn't bring it up because, well, they were playing by her rules. And you can't switch the rules in the middle of the game. That's cheating. 

"Wings or pizza? Or and? Wings and pizza?" 

Sabrina contemplating their options for "cheat day" yanked Asia back from a rapidly progressing mental spiral. She sipped from her glass of white wine before responding. "Depends. You getting it from the spot around the corner?" 

"Duh," Sabrina scoffed while scrolling through the restaurant's online menu. "If I'm gonna cheat, I wanna enjoy it! Give me something to look forward to for next time." 

"Um, are we still talking about food?"

The pair eyed each other from opposite ends of the couch, sporting grins threatening to explode into a fit of giggles. "I am if you are," Sabrina answered before slurping from her glass. Her eyes shifted to the ceiling to avoid facing Asia's judgment. "But, I'm not if you're not." 

"Let's not even go there! You turned over a new leaf this week." Asia was more than privy to her friend's past transgressions. Old Sabrina was ruthless in her pursuit of happiness. New and Improved Sabrina was more settled in her relationship. Or, if nothing else, a better liar. 

Before Asia could remind her host about the edibles she promised to furnish for their all-night Living Single binge, her phone buzzed beneath her thigh to steal a second of her attention. 

Kel ??? My place this weekend? Pls Wanna make you a better steak than the one at the restaurant

Each short buzz in her palms made Asia giddy as she suppressed a squeal and mulled over how to reply. Her thumbs typed, deleted, typed, deleted, hovered, then typed again to craft a worthwhile response. 

To: Kel Might need to actually hear you say pls. idk. sounds fake.

Sabrina watched her friend's grin outshine the LED lights bathing her in a faint blue glow from her crossed-leg position on the floor. She tried not to snoop but felt left out. She used a drawn-out sigh to pry Asia's attention away from her phone screen. 

"Is that the boy? Art Hoe?" 

Asia kissed her teeth and rolled her eyes. "I said that as a joke! His name is Kelvin, and yes, that was him. Just confirming some plans for tomorrow." 

"So, is he like…your boyfriend? Y'all dating? Catch me up!" In their decade as sorority sisters and close friends, Sabrina knew of only one romantic interest in Asia's life: Joshua. Tall, dark, and effortlessly flirtatious, what started as innocent flirting while completing their work-study program crashed and burned into weeks of snotty crying. Mary J. Blige cranked to ungodly volumes inside their shared off-campus apartment. Six weeks of heavy-petting caused a lifetime of hurt Sabrina was sure ruined Asia for good. 

Until three weeks ago, when text messages began interrupting their evenings of alone time. Sabrina would consider all the pesky interruptions water under the bridge if Asia was willing to come off of her secret lover and fill out the details of their peculiar relationship. 

Asia wrestled with sharing until the buzz of Sauvignon Blanc convinced her that someone should know about the man keeping her holed up inside her place once a week—for safety purposes, of course. 

Sabrina scooted closer to the edge of her floor pillow once Asia opened her mouth to speak but eeked out a girlish squeak instead. Asia calmed herself with a deep breath and then dished in one breath. "I don't know what the fuck we're doing, but damn it's good." 

"Oooooh, Asia's got a boyfrieeeeend!" Sabrina teased. 

"Not a boyfriend! We're just hanging out. He's…helping me with something?" 

The murkiness in Asia's 'something' made Sabrina press for more. "Something like what? He hanging TVs or laying pipe?" The end of her question awakened a twinkle in Asia's eye like a code word, effectively dropping Sabrina's jaw to the floor. "Oh my God! Are you…are you having sex?" 

Asia shrank back, finding herself no match for the immediate shyness sending heat to her face. "Kinda? He offered to help when we were out one night, and I said yes. We have a lesson every weekend, and he –" 

"Wait, wait, wait, wait," Sabrina interjected as she waved her hands in front of her face. "Hold up. That man is teaching you how to fuck every weekend? That's where you been for damn near a month?" When Asia sheepishly nodded in the affirmative, Sabrina stood to dramatically throw her body on the couch. "Bitch. Spill right now, or I will kick you out of my house!" 

There was no sense in hiding the truth. Sabrina would press until she was satisfied with Asia's answer, completely unraveling any suspected lie thrown her way. Asia needed to be thorough. No stone left unturned. No racey detail left untold. No story too insignificant to go unshared. 

In the middle of Asia, recollecting how Kelvin had her gasping for air the previous weekend, her phone buzzed with an incoming message. 'Kel' lit up the screen. 1 Audio Message sat underneath his contact name like gold at the end of an unexpected rainbow. 

Asia chewed her lip, tossing the idea of opening his gift with an additional set of ears in the immediate vicinity. "He just sent a voice note."

"You gon' play it?" Enthusiasm sent Sabrina inching closer for a better view of Asia's phone screen. "Play it!" 

If not for curiosity gnawing at her mind and her friend's insistence, Asia would've left the message unplayed until she returned to the privacy of her own home. She had to know why a one-word request took three minutes and a few extra seconds. What was so important that he needed an entire song's length to get it all out? 

Her finger quickly tapped the play button to pop the cork on Kelvin's response.

Rustling greeted Asia and Sabrina first. Then, a steady, deep breath filled an otherwise silent recording. 

"Fuck." The audible squelch of skin on lubricated skin mingled with strangled moaning until he could speak again. "You just want me to beg? That's okay. I'll beg for you." 

Sabrina's hand floated up to cover her open mouth. "Girl, is he…?" 

"Shh!" 

Asia couldn't pry herself away from the primal nature of each grunt and groan, no matter how much she attempted to will her body into action. Long, drawn-out moans quickly grew into choppy gasps. Curses devolved into fragmented pleas. Her name became a breathy chant until he'd worked himself into a tizzy. "Please, Asia?" 

Registering coherent thoughts turned into a chore, leaving Sabrina to undertake stopping the recording before she knew more about Kelvin than she planned for one sitting. 

They sat in stunned silence together, waiting for the other to break the ice. Asia slowly turned toward Sabrina to do the honors. "I need you to teach me how to suck dick. I'm talking 2014 Sabrina levels." 

"Okay, first of all, that was a special time that can't be recreated," Sabrina answered before taking a long sip of wine. She'd long retired from legendary status on their college campus. Her jersey was in the proverbial rafters, making her a first-ballot Hall of Famer, able to bask in her long list of accomplishments and leave the game behind. But duty called. Asia watched her friend's lips slide into a smile before Sabrina sat back against the couch. "Second of all, Asia," she cooed as she lunged forward to wrap her friend in a hug. "You like him! Oh my goodness, this is so cute!" 

Asia released a pitiful sound into her hands that eclipsed Sabrina's excited squeals. "I do. Fuuuuuck, I do!"

Realization felt like a prime Muhammad Ali punch to the face. She did like Kelvin. Try as she might, through all the so-called boundaries and walls she'd built for protection, the growing vines of feelings continued to grip her into its warm embrace. She liked him.

"Let's go. I got you!" 

The couch shifting and lightening under Sabrina's retreating weight made Asia's eyes open in surprise. "That's it?" Confusion knitted her brown as she sat up straight to catch Sabrina sliding a light jacket over her arms and sliding her phone into her pocket. "Wait, where are you going?" 

"We are going to the sex store. You gotta drive, though. Eric has my car." She answered while sliding her feet into slippers. When Asia didn't immediately make moves to venture into the chilly night air, Sabrina looked her up and down. "Or you could practice on the dick I got back there, but I have to boil it first. Me and Denzel had a time last night!" 

Asia didn't mean to gag at the thought of putting her friend's used dildo in her mouth as she gathered her keys and phone from the coffee table, but she couldn't control the reflex. "You're nasty," she mumbled en route to the front door. 

"Oh, baby, you haven't seen nasty yet. Just wait." Asia passing in front of Sabrina to exit provided the perfect opportunity for the taller woman to land a hard smack on her friend's ass and laugh, earning a sharp gasp in reaction as the sound reverberated against the hallway walls. 

"Ugh, I'm about to make a mini-me! I'm so excited!"

_______________

All three minutes and a few seconds of Kelvin's begging weren't in vain. 

With the sun setting beyond his floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking bustling downtown streets, Asia couldn't help but pat herself on the back. If she was going to choose any acquaintance to casually fuck and try not to fall for on her way to self-discovery, she was glad it was one with impeccable design taste and a view. 

Canvas art and eccentric sculptures in every corner turned an ordinary space into something of an art gallery. Incense burning near the souped-up entertainment stand filled the room with something rugged and masculine Asia couldn't place but loved all the same. Family photos hung in the entryway gave her a glimpse of his life outside of the buddle they'd created. They looked like a jolly bunch, each with identically toothy grins and peanut butter skin tones. A look at his waffle boucle couch had her wondering what it'd be like to spend a rainy Sunday morning cuddled up with Kelvin's chest pressed to her back and his lips leaving soft kisses on her neck.

She hadn't seen much beyond his open-concept floorplan and the large kitchen with enough appliances to make Martha Stewart light up with joy. Before she arrived with dessert, she doubted Kelvin's ability to whip up anything outside of boy dinner or the occasional pancake. Never did she imagine the fragrant aroma of handcrafted cowboy butter spread across expensive cuts of steak. Creamy mashed potatoes sat steaming beside perfectly cooked broccolini, waiting for the entree to finish and for Kelvin to remove his hand from Asia's bra. 

He kept her pressed against his island, one hand holding him steady against cold quartz and the other palming one breast while their tongues and lips danced a coordinated waltz to share the citrusy bite of orange-flavored sparkling water.

Asia broke their kiss first for a deep breath to treat her weak knees. "You're gonna burn the food," she warned as Kelvin drug his lips down the side of her neck. 

"I'm paying attention. Got about a minute. Come here."  

Their plans for a "more intense" session were doomed by Aunt Flo and her scheduled appearance. Asia insisted on calling the evening a wash and rescheduling for a better time, but Kelvin refused. More than anything, he liked spending time wrapped in her presence. Her prancing around his apartment in her helper's apron and a matching lounge set felt just domestic enough to imbue his mind with thoughts of her being around more permanently. Maybe a few more visits. Perhaps a spare key and a drawer or two for her things. 

Asia returned to Kelvin's lips eagerly to sigh and keen for more against him until time slipped into an abstract concept for two minutes that felt like twenty. Rapid beeping from his microwave timer shocked them into pulling away, eliciting silly smiles and embarrassed chuckles. 

Kelvin left Asia with one more peck before taking quick steps toward the stove to lower the blue flame. Asia watched his back tense and ripple beneath a crisp white T-shirt while he transferred a piping hot steak to a cutting board to rest. 

"Babe, come over here and taste test for me?" 

The word had already tumbled from his private thoughts into the open air too quickly for Kelvin to take back. He clamped his eyes shut to briefly pray God spared him from explaining his slip to the woman he wasn't supposed to fall for. 

Asia calmly closed the distance between them, an easygoing smile showing no indication that she'd heard Kelvin's blunder. He let the moment pass without drawing attention to himself to carefully feed his dinner guest a juicy piece of medium-cooked steak. 

He held a hand under Asia's chin to catch any spillage, and his eyes sparkled with intrigue as she took a small chunk into her mouth to judge his skills. 

She dramatically hummed in approval and nodded. "Mmm. Okay, you were right," Asia complimented after slow chews to savor the taste. "That is the best steak I've ever had. I underestimated you. Forgive me." 

"I'll forgive you after you rate the potatoes. Lowkey, I put my foot in those. Ankle deep."

"Gross, Kel."

Asia's rating for the potatoes? 10/10. For the chef? There wasn't a scale to convey how far he'd shot off the charts. 

Easy conversation, full of budding inside jokes and the right amount of flirting, kept their time together lively. Quiet intimacy worked well for them. When chatter dwindled and cleaning took center stage, they fell into a wordless routine of washing and drying dishes side by side until the job was done and tired legs intertwined to rest from a long week. 

Shadows dancing across Kelvin's face as he focused on some documentary he'd begged Asia to watch stole all her attention each time she looked at the other end of the couch. She tried to subdue Sabrina's voice in the back of her mind, trying to convince her to break the seal on all the knowledge she'd crammed in one night. Rushing into a skill she hadn't quite mastered sounded like a great idea when she had a front-row seat to his goosebump-inducing self-pleasure session. Seeing him innocently learn about the feeding patterns of nocturnal jungle ecosystems and considering a plan to renege on their decision to exist in non-sexual harmony felt wrong. 

 "But he started it." Asia thought to herself. The fondling. The kissing. The innuendos during dinner. The voice note is an invitation. He wasn't looking for sex, but he wouldn't mind it…right?

She had to make her move while she still felt confident. Otherwise, she'd allow Samira Wiley's voice to lull her to an embarrassingly deep sleep. 

"Hey," she whispered to get Kelvin's attention. He didn't budge, finding too much interest in the luminescent carnivorous plant luring insects into its trap. Asia called to him again using a different method. "The potatoes weren't that good. I lied." 

Kelvin scoffed. "Yeah, right. You cleaned your plate. Twice." 

"My mama taught me manners, babe." She sassed, accentuating the pet name on purpose. 

Kelvin kept calm with his signature charming smile while his pulse spiked internally. So she did hear me. He wasn't sure how to respond. Stopping to have a pow-wow about what exactly they were doing now that the rules of engagement felt wildly different would needlessly slow a good thing to a screeching halt. 

So, he swallowed every question to redirect his nervous energy into gently tugging Asia's ankle to bring her a centimeter closer. "You should come down here with me." 

Jackpot. 

Asia didn't expect her plan to unfold so quickly. Swapping sides to lie face to face opened the door to more touching, kissing, shared breaths, and head highs under the twinkle of skyscraper lights. 

Tensions rising brought flashes of Sabrina and her boot camp back for Asia with renewed ferocity. Now or never. Grab that dick by the horns or something along those lines. 

"Can…can we try something tonight?" 

Kelvin tightened his grip on her ass cheek and pulled away from her neck. "Try what?"

"I wanted to try, um, you know…fellating…you?" Asia mentally scolded herself for sounding timid as Kelvin snickered against her collarbone. 

"Fellating? What is this, sex ed?" He chuckled, earning an agitated smack from Asia to the back of his head. He nuzzled closer to kiss a spot at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. "Seriously, you don't have to do that. I'm okay with what we're doing. No pressure." 

He was right. No pressure. She knew that already. But pressure wasn't guiding her off the couch and onto her knees between his thighs. That was curiosity. And the pressure wasn't what drove Kelvin crazy as she helped him out of his sweats and briefs to carelessly toss them to the side. That? That was untamed desire flooding every bone in his body. Pressure had no dominion in his living room. Only the spirit of exploration and freedom. 

And nervousness. Definitely nervousness. 

Give him eye contact. Cover your teeth. Use your tongue. Relax your jaw. Suck, don't just glide. All of the sage advice from the previous night blurred into one incomprehensible ball of incessant chatter across the grooves of Asia's brain. 

She chose to kiss her way into confidence, dropping slow pecks across Kelvin's thighs like he'd done to her in their last session. Delicate touches and soft lips made his muscles tense while he watched her watch him.                                                                                  

He draped one arm across the back of his couch and rested a hand on her cheeks to run his thumb along the spot. "That's perfect. Go as slow as you want. Stop when you want. It's your choice." 

Reassurance and an encouraging smile convinced Asia to test her high school-level knowledge of anatomy. No amount of videos linked in her Girl's Talk Reddit thread or hands-on, dildo-led speed runs with Sabrina could prepare her for an up close and personal view. At least they both seemed happy to see her. 

His dick stood at half-mast, waiting for Asia to make a move. More kisses took her from muscular inner thighs up the length of his shaft and to a tip already glistening as if to welcome her into an event where the host was awaiting her arrival. A spark of wonder made her swipe her tongue over the spot to taste, but the quiet curse from Kelvin kept her there for more.

Spit on it. Sabrina's voice reminded Asia as she debated what to do next. Not a gross factory worker chewing tobacco spit. Slow. Make him watch. Asia used the saliva coating her mouth in a Pavlovian response to connect with Kelvin once she pulled away to get a better look at her subject. 

A slightly above-average size. It wasn't close to her practice dummy, but 11 inches was ridiculous, even by Sabrina's standards. Well-groomed. Prettier than any she'd ever seen on the other side of a screen. Heavy in her hands, but not enough to make her think twice about eventually working it down her throat. A work of art waiting for her oral appraisal. 

Kelvin's head lulled back against the wall as his jaw dropped to make space for a shuttering breath. "Fuck, that's sexy." He used all the strength in his neck to look back down at Asia. "Where'd that come from?" 

"I wanted to surprise you," she answered, round-doe eyes peering back at him. "So, I took a little lesson." She leaned forward to wrap her lips around his tip and suckle for a few seconds to see if Sabrina was right about the expected reaction. Kelvin's hand sliding from her jaw to her chin to hold her steady was all the confirmation she needed. 

At some point, Kelvin would come off Cloud 9 to inquire about Asia's mystery teacher. Not out of jealousy or to accuse, but to find out who should receive the flowers and card he'd already mentally purchased for their service. 

He'd be lying if he said Asia had reached pro status. Every tentative lick and split second of disjointed rhythm reminded him that she was a novice in the game. It didn't stop him from singing her praises while she worked double-time to get the hang of things. 

She listened to instructions and turned them into action, taking every "Just like that" and "Slow up" in stride as she learned the ropes. Asia allowed Kelvin to guide her head up and down until she no longer needed his help to maintain a toe-curling one-woman show. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat to provide positive reinforcement. "There you go. Wow, you look so pretty right now."

Asia felt like she had the entire world in her hands. What power. She could command his every movement with her mouth and illicit unfathomable sounds with a flick of her tongue. Older women made the act sound so degrading as if engaging with a man in this way made her more property than a fully realized woman. And maybe the men they dealt with hadn't been partners willing to treat them like equals. But Kelvin showered her with so much affection and care that it made her want to go the extra mile. 

The twisting motion of her palms against slick skin made Kelvin curse to the ceiling, undoubtedly disturbing the unfortunate soul above him. The sight of him beginning to unravel sparked an idea. "Is this what you like?" 

He blinked his eyes back into focus and nodded. "Hell yeah. You think you can try both?" 

She'd give it a valiant attempt. 

For a moment, Asia mulled over how to maintain harmony between parallel work streams. She observed her hands for the right moment to bring her mouth into action as if waiting for her cue to jump into the center of double dutch ropes. 

Up and down. Twist. Suck. Go now! Shit. Kelvin observed while the wheels turned in her head, trying to split his attention between how cute she looked with her brow furrowed in thought and how that tell-tale pit in his stomach was starting to tense his abdomen. 

Her leap of faith caught him by surprise, dragging out a long, throaty moan as she quickly settled into what looked like an effortless working relationship between body parts. 

Arousal awakened goosebumps across his skin. His nipples ached for touch, and he satisfied them by slipping a hand under his shirt. His brain began to cloud, robbing him of words he knew he should've offered as encouragement. His head felt like a boulder on his neck as he rested against the back of his couch. 

Bursts of light played behind his eyes as the inevitable greeted him with open arms. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chanted, desperate to get Asia's attention. He couldn't surprise her with the release approaching hard and fast. "Fuck! I'm gonna cum. I don't wanna –" 

Asia didn't need the explanation. Thankfully, Sabrina had already prepared her for the endless possibilities once an eruption seemed imminent. She slowly removed her mouth and added a second hand to twist in the opposite direction. The grand finale. The moment they'd both been waiting for. 

Kelvin thrust into her palms to coax out warm spurts of semen over Asia's fingers and down her knuckles. She caught herself moaning with him, unable to contain the sound as she watched the reward of her work slide between each digit until her lover was spent and heaving for more oxygen to soothe his burning lungs.  

"Stop, stop." His pleading reminded Asia that she was still pumping, still milking him for all he had left. Her inner voice told her to prolong the moment and see how far she could push him until he was a babbling mess that only she could control. Kelvin saw the monster in her grin and rushed to kiss her, hoping she'd consider a different option. 

Their tongues and lips returned to each other in a panting, sloppy kiss while Kelvin used the distraction to push Asia's hands away before she started something they both knew she wasn't ready to finish. He had plenty of towels and wasn't opposed to breaking a rule or two. 

Sticky fingers growing increasingly uncomfortable made Asia pull away. "This is starting to feel weird in my hands," she laughed. 

"Oh shit, my bad." Kelvin forced himself to forgo one more kiss as he rested his forehead against hers. "Washcloths are in the bathroom closet. Bring one for me?" 

"Of course." 

Asia sported a goofy, proud smile while staring into his bathroom mirror, warming a bathing towel to take back to Kelvin. She wondered if texting Sabrina immediately would be in poor taste. Should she drop an emoji in the broader group chat full of their line sisters and go ghost waiting for them to decipher her cryptic message? Or would it make more sense to try and gather as many of the images flashing through her mind as possible, like reels passing through a view master, and store them for her alone time? 

She pushed all the options elsewhere in favor of returning to Kelvin with a wet rag to gingerly clean all traces of their unplanned romp from his still blazing-hot skin. 

He watched her with infatuation, coloring his gaze and a grin on his lips. His girl. At least for the few hours they got to spend willinging sharing their bodies with one another each weekend. He could pretend they were two people dating in pursuit of the elusive love he'd seen up close once before but couldn't hold on to. She'd be so beautiful sitting across from him on a night out, her fingers interlaced with his while they traded sweet everything over candlelight. He'd learn her favorite colors and her deepest fears. She'd listen to him go on and on about nature docs and make him go to bed when the wee hours of the morning crept up on him and his latest project. 

Asia's gaze flashed up to catch him transfixed in a daydream she needed to know about. "What's going on in that brain of yours?"

Wanting to tell her the truth and wanting to maintain their mutually beneficial relationship pulled him in opposite directions. He took a deep breath to roll the dice, hoping that once he uncorked the words, they wouldn't create a stain big and messy enough to make what they'd created unsalvagable. 

"If you're up for it," he started, cautiously choosing as he spoke. "I think we should try the real thing next time."

--------

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[snail-day]

Oh I KNOW gojo is really good at sucking dick and eating pussy

OKAY ANON. I LOVE YOU FOR BRINGING THIS TO ATTENTION. MDNI

I’ve gone on and on about how Gojo eats pussy. He's a filthy, greedy bastard who whines into your cunt anytime you even attempt to pull away. He’ll suck, slurp, and lap until your thighs are clenching around his head, until your back’s arching and your voice is cracking, and he smiles through it. Tongue dragging over your clit, savoring every twitch and tremble, pushing the thick muscle deeper just to see how far he can take you before your body gives out.

But his dick-sucking game...oh, baby. That’s a different beast entirely. There’s a reason Suguru keeps that brat around.

Because Satoru is fucking gorgeous with a cock down his throat.

He’s got a gag reflex, sure, but he likes the struggle. Loves the way his eyes burn, glassy and red-rimmed, while Suguru threads thick fingers through his snowy white hair and forces his cock deeper. There’s resistance, that sharp inhale, the little choking noise Satoru makes and then he’s taking it, lips stretched wide and spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

Suguru groans above him, hips rocking forward. “That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and dark, “Take it like a good boy.”

And Satoru just whimpers.

His pretty slender hands grip Suguru’s thighs, nails digging into muscle, tears spilling down his cheeks as he tries to breathe through his nose, taking every thick inch that’s fed to him. And when it gets too much - when his vision is swimming and drool is dripping from his chin - he starts tapping rapidly at Suguru’s thigh.

Suguru doesn’t pull out gently.

No, he drags his cock out in one long, wet motion. There’s a pop when it leaves his throat, and Satoru gasps for air, pale face flushed, tongue hanging out, spit glistening down his chin and onto his bare chest.

And somehow, even like that, he’s smiling. Lazy. Dazed. So damn proud of himself.

God, I could write pages about how pretty Satoru looks with a cock in his mouth, or eating ass, for that matter, but we’ll save that for another morning.

[jaegeraether]

The Runaway - Chapter 8 (Alexia Putellas x original character slow-burn)

Jae's Masterlist

(Disclaimer: I do not speak Spanish, or Catalan, so go easy!)

CHAPTER 8

DELANEY

Delaney was at war with herself. Alexia had made a mistake - a small one. One she hadn’t meant to make. And Delaney knew that. Rationally, it was okay. But what wasn’t okay was the way Jenni clung to her like she still had a claim, as though some invisible thread still tied them together. And Delaney hated how much it twisted inside her. She didn’t want to feel this - didn’t want to be jealous, didn’t want to be the kind of person who flinched every time Alexia stood beside someone even remotely her type. But the feeling came anyway, sharp and hot, feeding all the old fears she worked so hard to keep buried.

Worse than the jealousy was the loss of their privacy. Delaney didn’t care about being seen naked; she cared that Jenni had popped their happy little bubble while they were still trying to grow it. Still trying to grow into something safe. Secure. She didn’t need that kind of drama in her life.

Following the New Years Eve celebrations, the photos began to come out. Group shots filled with Alexia’s friends, family - and both of her exes, Jenni and Olga Rios. Looking at it from a Spanish perspective, there was nothing wrong. They were all equally intimate. The touches were casual, the kisses on cheeks affectionate, the smiles genuine. But through Delaney’s damaged lens, they felt heavier. More uncertain. Like shadows on everything Alexia had promised her. The opposite of the quiet stability Alexia had been offering since the very beginning.

She was ashamed of how she’d reacted after what had happened. She felt it. Her walls coming up. Her platonic demeanour becoming default to avoid hurtful emotions. She thought she’d run.

And yet, here she was again - phone in hand, screen glowing, Alexia’s name sitting there patiently. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t replied. She had. She’d kept the conversation soft, simple, friendly.

But Alexia was patient. Alexia waited. She gave her space, and reminded her that she was still there simultaneously. And that’s what got her heart racing. Because Alexia was exactly the kind of person who could ruin her.

The missed call sat there, a gentle reminder that Alexia was still waiting for the conversation Delaney was avoiding. Not because she didn’t want to talk - but because she didn’t know what her reaction would be. Would she push her away? Would she open up again, only to be hurt constantly? She wouldn’t ask Alexia to change the way she lives, and who she lives it with. And was this all just her overreacting?

She groaned and threw her phone on the couch. She was now home in London - as was evident from the horrid downpour outside - and waiting for Mariona who’d just flown in and had asked to stay the night. There were ‘too many’ people in her apartment, but Delaney knew she most likely just wanted to see how she was doing. She just wondered if it was her decision, or if Alexia had asked.

She wandered over again to the stew she’d made for their dinner, stirring it in the slow cooker. It was her favourite home cooked meal that her Mum made them as kids and thought it would be appropriate for a wet day like today. She wondered if the Spaniard would like it. How could you go wrong with a warm stew with fresh bread and butter?

Her phone buzzed from the couch and she wandered back over to it.

‘I’m here.’

Fuck, Mariona was supposed to give her some notice to get the umbrella. Abandoning that idea, she ran down her entryway, seeing Mariona’s car driving away and was confused until she opened the door.

Standing there, dripping wet, was Alexia.

She took in a sharp breath. Alexia was not meant for the rain. She was a sunshine princess. Every part of the image in front of her was wrong. From her soaked jacket hood - attempting to cover her drenched hair, to the visible breath leaving her perfect pink lips and the shiver that ran down her body.

Delaney grabbed her by the jacket and pulled her inside, in the warm.

“Ale? What are you.. fuck.. you’re soaked.” She took the dufflebag from her shoulder, dropping it to the floor with a wet thud. She unzipped her jacket, pushing the hood back, and sliding it off her shoulders. All the while, Alexia just stared at her, like she’d forgotten everything she had to say.

She noticed her fingers shaking the worst and took them in her own, realising they were like ice. Turning, she dragged the footballer through her apartment and to her bathroom. She assumed she’d just gotten off a plane and wanted to unwind and get clean anyways. She turned the shower on, the steam rising quickly throughout the room.

“I’ll bring you some clothes, leave your wet ones in the sink for me to wash.”

Alexia opened her mouth to talk, but Delaney was quicker to leave, all the while thinking to herself that it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her.

She came back in the bathroom while Alexia was showering to bring some clean towels and her dufflebag. She set it down and opened the top for easy access, seeing that she must have come straight from Ibiza to London.

She turned to leave when Alexia spoke. “Danny..”

She didn’t reply but also couldn’t seem to will her feet to move.

“I yam so sorry..” But why was she sorry when she didn’t even know what to be sorry about? She had no idea at how insecure the photos of Alexia and her exes throughout social media had made her feel. She thought this was all because of-

“-I yam sorry she took from us.”

Delaney looked at her then. Not her naked body, spattered with tattoos and water running down her.. but at her. Her melancholy expression – that funny little frown she had on her face often, especially whenever she was thinking.

“Olga was there too.”

That surprised her. She tilted her head.

Delaney had no idea what she was about to do next, and went with whatever her emotions pulled out of her. She approached her – the glass shower door in between them.

“I don’t care that Jenni almost saw me naked. I care that she took our privacy. I care that there are photos all over the internet of you and two of your exes, kissing each other and flirting and looking like you and Olga and not in fact, broken up.”

Alexia listened, still surprised, reacting to the words she recognised.

“I get that it’s a cultural thing. I understand that. But we haven’t spoken about our pasts. Our exes. I don’t even know if you’re single! This-” she gestured between them. “-has developed out of nowhere! Fast. Maybe too fast.”

Alexia shook her head. “No too fast i I yam not dati-”

“-I’m not done.” She squeezed her fists as Alexia closed her mouth to listen. “Everything in my head tells me to run. Because that’s what I do. I find one small thing and use it as a reason to protect myself. But for the first time, I don’t want to run. Because it’s you. Because you do everything right. Because you are there. You’re consistent. You’re reliable. You say and do all the right things. You’re patient. You understand me without words. And you accept me for who I am.” She realised just then that she was crying. “This is such a fucking struggle between my heart and my brain right now. I want to run but I want you. I want to run to you. I want whatever this is. But I’m scared you don’t know me well enough to like all of me.”

“Tell me..” Alexia rasped, her hand against the glass between them. Delaney wondered how much of the conversation she’d understood.

“I..” She put her hand against Alexia’s, her forehead touching the glass. “You asked me before what I need? Ale, what I need is not healthy. I need everything. I need someone so reliable that it borders on obsession. I need to know you won’t leave me like my dad left me. Again, and again, and again. Always building up hope. Just like my ex. Only to realise I was too much. I need to not question whether we’re all in together. I need too much. Love and support. I need to show my emotions through sex. I need.. fucking.. t..too much.” Her voice broke, and she let her tears flow.

To be honest, it felt better than therapy. But Alexia didn't deserve any of this. God - how could anyone put up with so much emotional insecurity and baggage?

She wasn’t sure how she came to be in her arms, only that she was. Delaney leant into her damp body, clutching her like a lifeline as she cried. She felt like she could with her, because Alexia had lost her own father – albeit that was not his choice to leave.

She felt the water flowing down Alexia’s strong back. Felt her own clothes getting soaked. There was not a single care there beyond how the woman holding her felt, how she made her feel safe to let it all out. She cried until there was nothing left; Alexia whispering sweet nothings against her skin, some in English, some in Catalan.

At some point, Alexia helped her out of her clothes and fully under the shower. She let her wash the sadness away and was there when she came out. She was there in every single step, until they were curled on the couch together, Delaney against the side of her body, her head against collarbone. She reached out to stroke the artery that throbbed whenever she spoke.

Alexia’s eyes fluttered. “There are nothing with me i Jenni, Danny. No for long.. long time. I care.. for her. I always wheel. But only as a friend.”

“I know,” Delaney whispered, but the words scratched at her throat.

“I left Jenni because it was not.. sana.."

She rubbed her tummy.

"Healthy?" Delaney offered

"Sí.. no healthy. It was muy controladora. I do not like... this."

Delaney understood enough. Jenni was unhealthy. She was controlling. Alexia liked to be in control. To make her own decisions. “And with Olga... that was different. Soft. But still it was not right.”

Alexia rarely spoke about her past relationships. This was new.

“I hurt Olga when I leave. I don’t liking to hurt.. people. So I keep them close.” Delaney swallowed hard at the thought of being in the same position as Olga. “But this.. this is new, carinyo. This is especial.”

God, the way her tongue made it sound like a lisp on the 'c' sound was enough to make her stomach flutter. Delaney nodded against her and took a breath. “My dad first left when I was twelve.” The words came out before she even realised she was saying them. “Just... disappeared. One day, he was there. The next, gone. No warning. No explanation. Just gone. He came back a few times, making promises he never kept. The most reliable thing about him was knowing that he’d leave again.”

Alexia rested her head against her own, but she stayed silent, listening.

“And then my ex... I thought she was different. She knew what my dad had done. But she did the exact same thing. She came. She left. So many times I should be embarrassed. Finally she said she couldn’t handle the distance. But I knew she couldn’t handle... me.”

The weight of those words hung between them. Heavier than anything they’d shared before.

“This is why you move.. country i club.. so you not getting close to people. It why you are scared.” Alexia’s voice was quieter now. “Why you.. pull away from me.”

Delaney felt her lip tremble. “Because everyone leaves, Ale. Eventually. And if they don’t, I leave first. It’s easier. Safer.”

Alexia didn’t speak right away. She let the words settle.

“You no think you are worth staying…” She said rhetorically, as if just realising it. She inhaled sharply. “I yam not them, carinyo. I don’t leaving people I love.”

Delaney froze. The word hung there. Love. Alexia hadn’t said it accidentally. But she hadn’t forced it either. They were not ready for that. They didn't know each other well-enough just yet. But they could both feel the potential, and it was.. terrifying. Amazing.

Delaney closed her eyes, feeling both the warmth of the words and the icy fear they triggered inside her.

“I don’t know if I can trust that yet,” she admitted, her voice breaking.

“Then don’t..” Alexia said gently. “Trust me and with.. time you see. I will wait long. I yam here.”

Delaney wiped at her eyes before they could spill over. “I don’t deserve you.”

Delaney didn’t understand Alexia’s muttering in Catalan, but from her head shaking, she knew she disagreed. Her long fingers drifted up over her jaw, cheek, and tilted her head back to make sure she was looking at her as she spoke Catalan. It felt as if it were all of the words she’d been wanting to say, but didn’t have the English vocabulary for. Delaney could do nothing but listen with a look of wonder in her eyes at Alexia’s beautiful face as she spoke. The way her eyes creased at the corners, her artery throbbing in her neck, her lips moving with the melodic tone of her voice in her first language. The husky emotion to it.

“Sí, el meu carinyo?" She said gently as she brushed a loose strand of hair from Delaney's face with a gentleness that melted her.

It was rhetorical, but Delaney was far emotional, too turned on, and responded anyways. Gliding her hand from her neck up to her still damp blonde hair, she pulled Alexia towards her, whispering against her lips like a beg to taste her, “Sí, Ale.”

TBC..

[sapphiremusings]

THE GIFT OF VENGEANCE | aemond targaryen

summary: Aemond replayed this image on a loop, squirming in his seat every time he got to the part where her eyes popped out of her skull.

Two eyes for his one, and the eight years he went without his revenge.

8.5k

cw: female!lucerys velaryon, au-modern setting, explicit sexual content, dubcon, graphic depictions of violence, sadist!aemond, obsessive!aemond, dark!aemond, choking, p in v, oral sex (fem!receiving), blood kink, biting, mentions of childhood trauma, breeding kink, uncle/niece, kinda DD:DE? not that dead though… u might be able to eat…

He hears her first, that soft tittering which haunted his childhood, piercing straight into the marred socket of his left eye, down the monstrous scar she had left him with.

She sits behind him, planked between her brothers, the only daughter of his half-sister, and therefore the most beloved. Maybe Jacaerys had whispered a joke, his lips sticky against the shell of her ear, laughter bubbling up her throat at whatever inane quip he made. A part of him, the one that dominated his childhood, leaving him cowering along the sand and crying fat tears into his mothers skirts, thinks that maybe they’re whispering about him– their stoic, one-eyed uncle, whom they once taunted and teased as children. Her amusement echoes around the corners of his mind, running along every ridge of his spine and settling deep within him, into an endless pool of festering hatred.

It had been years since Aemond had seen his half-sister and her litter of bastards, but now that he has, he’s ready to never see them again. The rift between their families is slowly starting to mend, threads of green and black pulling together to stitch up the hole that was left after Laena’s funeral, and the taking of his eye. His mother, once reverent in her hatred for Rhaenyra, now holds onto her arm with a newfound longing, fingers rubbing circles along the long scar she had given her that same night, when she had demanded an eye for an eye. It was one of his fondest memories– Lucerys crying out in terror as Alicent rushed towards her holding a dagger, her darling face twisted in fear, hiding behind her mothers skirts. Even when his empty socket was throbbing with an intense pain that not even milk of the poppy could cure, he still relished in the sight.

His father had been slowly dying for years before he finally succumbed to his illness, something Aemond had anticipated every time he walked past his room, the sour stench of rot and sickness permeating through the shut doors, along with the constant beeping of medical machinery. The funeral had been just as droll as his last days, with Aegon slumped beside him, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, stinking of the bottle he had downed beforehand. Helaena was busy slouched over, peering down at the iridescent beetle that crawled around her fingers, muttering to herself, ignorant to the snorts Aegon would give and the shushing their mother hissed. And Daeron, the youngest of his siblings, was perched between mother and their grandfather, in which he had spent most of his childhood with, a good boy who listened steadfastly to the sermon. Behind him, the Velaryon siblings sat, from eldest to youngest, hands clasped together as they mourned in a way Aemond hadn’t.

Her presence seared into him, burning down to his bones, etching itself into the very marrow of him. The gods were feeling particularly cruel this day, and he listened to the sound of his niece’s sniffling, soft sobs leaving her lips in the place of the laughter he was once used to. He had wanted nothing more than to turn around, to peer upon her darling face, flushed a splotchy pink as tears streamed down her cheeks, the tip of her nose red and her brown eyes wide and watery, eyelashes clumped with tears. He imagined himself grabbing ahold of the chub of her cheeks, squashed beneath his fingers as he plunges his thumbs into her eye sockets, the white mush mixing with her crimson blood, a beautiful concoction made just for him. The thought dizzied him, and while speeches were given and prayers were sung, Aemond replayed this image on a loop, squirming in his seat every time he got to the part where her eyes popped out of her skull. Two eyes for his one, and the eight years he went without his revenge.

He remembers how those eyes, big and glimmering with a certain mischief, would peer at him with the curiosity of a doe, as if trying to figure out what made him tick. A brush of her fingers against the back of his hand, the warmth of her breath against his jaw, her gangly limbs stumbling over his own. These small tortures she’d inflict on him, only to turn and laugh in the wake of his trauma, when their older brothers would taunt and tease him incessantly. She’d trail after them, giggling at their antics with a small hand held over her mouth, the apples of her cheeks flushed red in mirth. He had hated her for it. Her ignorance hurt more than any push or shove Aegon or Jacaerys could bestow upon him.

“D’you think mum will notice if I leave?” Aegon slurs in his ear, spittle fanning across his jaw as he leans heavily against his shoulder, already in a drunken stupor. “She seems rather occupied, right?”

Aemond has to force himself not to sneer, eye twitching in annoyance as Aegon sways on his unsteady feet. His older brother has long been the family’s drunken embarrassment, but to see him act this way in front of their half-sister and her clan irritates him more than it usually would. Aegon’s beady eyes are glazed over, partly focused on their mother, who stands at Rhaenyra’s side like a leech, mouth twisted into a pitiful smile as she hangs onto every word that leaves the silver-haired bitch’s lips.

Aemond hums. “She’d notice eventually.”

He expects Aegon to stumble off, his clipped tone hinting to an end of the conversation, but instead, he chuckles. “Our little niece has grown into quite the woman, wouldn’t you say?”

The brothers watch as she chats with Daemon, their uncle and her stepfather, his towering figure dwarfing her smaller one. As Targaryen’s, hailed from Old Valyria and of an ancient bloodline, rumored to be connected to fantastical dragons, incestuous relations were once common within their family. After the turn of the century, their house which was once full of riches and immense power, halted in this practice. That is, until Rhaenyra whored herself out to her father’s brother at a young age. Despite this scandal, his half-sister steadily remained their father’s favorite, even after her marriage to Daemon and the birth of two sons.

“Come, brother. There’s no need to play shy,” Aegon snickers in Aemond’s silence, the alcoholic stench of his breath lingering under his nose. “We are Targaryen’s after all… surely you’ve thought about giving it to her. I know I have. Especially after the… incident.”

“I have no taste for such depravity.”

His brother groans, hand slipping off his shoulder as he wobbles off, unsatisfied with Aemond’s answer. Before he can leave, Aemond reaches out to stop him, leaning down to whisper in his ear. “You’re embarrassing us, lēkia.”

Aegon merely shrugs him off, stumbling over his feet as he walks out of the room, barely making it through the archway without tripping. The sight makes him grumble, jawbone tense as he grinds his teeth, returning his attention to the window, where a mess of dark curls now sits, face hidden from view. He has only glimpsed her once, when leaving the funeral, her eyes watery and nose tinted a shade of pink, tear tracks staining her cheeks. She had smiled at him. The image has been playing on a loop inside his head, a never ending reel of her pretty face and that ringing laugh, ever since he saw it.

Lucerys Velaryon has always been beautiful, he thinks. The features he has always hated in her brother– that stubby nose, the freckles along their cheeks, their dark hair and dark eyes– sneering down at him as he pushed him to the ground, were always devastating in her. As children, he had imagined she was the Maiden reincarnated, the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on, even when she’d laugh in his misery, carrying out her small tortures with every lingering look and every brush of her skin against his. After she took his eye, her face began to haunt him for different reasons, and his dreams of her becoming his bride turned into nightmares where her laugh would echo around his head while her blade cut into his flesh once again, this time taking his other eye as well. His hatred grew into a cruel thing, festering deep inside him until it started to rot through his bones, and every thought turned violent.

Rhaenyra would send their father pictures of her and her bastards, and he’d hang them around the house, in every hallway and on every fireplace mantle. Every year, they’d have a new picture, and as if to taunt him, Lucerys’ was always hung on the wall across from his bedroom door. He has always suspected Aegon of this pettiness, for his brother would often catch him glaring at the portrait from his doorway, eye tracing the curls of her hair and the curve of her jaw. Her eyes seemed to follow him as he walked, up until he would slam his door shut, locking her away from view. His hatred, still burning bright, had mixed with a different feeling that left a tight coil in his stomach, one which twisted more and more each time he saw that damned portrait.

Her face is etched along the inside of his eyelid, forced to see her every time he closes his eye. He has memorized every freckle, every curve and dip, even the milky scar that sits near her hairline from an accident when they were children, when Aegon had bumped into her, causing her to fall and hit her forehead against a jagged rock. The sight of her blood along the stones had nauseated him at the time, and so did her tears, fat as they dripped down her cheeks and into her wailing mouth. Now, he thinks he would quite like to see her blood again, to hear her cries as he inflicts the same pain she had once inflicted on him. His pants grow tighter at the thought, but he can’t find it in himself to be ashamed.

The air in the room grows thick, and he watches as Jacaerys stands above her, hand resting on the crown of her head, fingers slowly caressing the strands. She looks up with a small smile, eyes glowing in the midday sun that shines through the window next to her. His hands curl into fists, knuckles turning white as she laughs again, the sound ringing in his ears like a persistent bell. He quickly makes his way out of the stuffy room, shoulders tense as he passes by his mother and half-sister, neither of whom have looked away from one another since their reunion. The hallway is empty, and so is the looming staircase, which he climbs in stride, farther away from the center room and her lingering laugh. Beneath his eyepatch, his empty socket begins to throb, a searing pain shooting through the wound until his vision nearly goes white, and he’s left stumbling into his room, collapsing on the bed.

His curtains are still closed, shielding him away from the blazing sun, leaving his room dark with only slivers of light shining along the floor. He lays among rumpled sheets, tugging off the leather patch fastened around his head, bringing a shaky palm up to cover the aching hole. He is used to this pain, which plagues him more often than not, but within the presence of the one who created it, it seems to swell over him like a tidal wave. He barely hears the knock on his door, and when he doesn’t answer, a few seconds go by, until someone barges in.

Even in the dark he can still make out her wide eyes and the sheath of curls around her shoulders, her steps timid as she comes to a stop at the edge of his bed, fingers curled together in a nervous habit. “Are you alright, uncle?”

Her soft voice rouses him, his palm pressing deeper into his empty socket, while he looks up at her hovering figure. Her eyes dart over his face, lingering on his hand which covers his wound, and he wonders if she is remembering how he had covered his eye that night she had taken it, how he screamed and cried atop the sand, blood seeping through the cracks of his fingers, a perfect match to the blood dripping from the dagger in her small hands. When she quickly averts her gaze to a corner of his room, he feels a smug satisfaction rumbling in his chest.

“I… I’m sorry to bother you,” she murmurs, voice faltering slightly in his silence. “I was asked to come check on you.”

He hums. “By who?”

She’s quiet, eyes flicking back at him as if she is surprised by the sound of his voice. He merely stares back, palm growing sweaty in its position. Like a deer caught in headlights, her mouth opens and closes, before she finally speaks.

“Our mothers wish for our families to make amends. Given the death of Viserys.”

Aemond sits up at this, dropping his hand to his lap, stare hardening as her eyes dart to the now exposed scar, to the gaping hole where his eye once laid. She swallows, but makes no attempt to back away or close her eyes. Instead, Lucerys draws closer, head leaning over to get a better look at her work in the dim room. His stomach churns, fingers inching towards the eyepatch that sits beside him, yet he stops himself from grabbing it. No, he wants her to see what she did to him.

“You want to make amends?” he pushes, voice raspy from his dry throat. He sits up farther, leaning closer to her hovering frame. She nods. “And how do you plan on doing that, riñītsos?”

She looks at him in trepidation, lips tugging downwards and her brows furrowing above her dark eyes. The black dress she wears is short, hem stopping in the middle of her thighs, the material tight around her waist, and his eye snags on the motion of one of the straps falling off her shoulder, resting above a small freckle. She doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she just doesn’t care, her stare not wavering as she makes no move to fix it. There’s a look in her eyes he’s never seen before, something gleaming and intoxicating, drawing him into a pool of soft velvet. He wants to hold them, those delicate globes, in his hands, feel the warm slime of them like two marbles.

In a quick motion, spurred on by his vivid imagination, he grabs ahold of her jaw, tugging her face close to his. “Will you take out your eye, hm? Give me what’s been owed all these years?”

Lucerys surprises him. Instead of falling back in fear, she merely smiles. It’s sardonic in nature, and he watches in trepidation as her eyes flicker down to rest upon his lips. So quick, he barely registers it, yet the action shocks a bolt of lightning down his spine, and his grip on her jaw tightens in a mix of dubiety and fury. Her smile only seems to grow wider at this, as if she is aware of every thought crossing his mind, nestling their way into the mush of his brain.

“Is that what you want, uncle? My eye?”

It is, he thinks. And so much more. He wasn’t lying when he told Aegon he has no taste for depravity, always the dutiful son despite what has befell him. Aemond tries hard to wash away his vengeful urges, the stirring of his cock when he imagines his little niece writhing in pain, covered in bruises and bleeding cuts, her eyes wide and tearful as she squeals like a piglet, under the might of his fists and his knife. His thoughts have only grown darker, crueler than he cared to admit, with flashes of his suckling on her open wounds like his mothers tit when he was a babe, warm blood resting along his tongue instead of milk. Nothing would taste as sweet, he was sure of it.

With a tug, Lucerys topples over him, her body plush against his own, and he quickly flips them over, his knees up against her ribcage. Her face is flushed from exertion, her hands scrambling against his chest and shoulders, legs kicking out from under him, though her efforts are in vain as Aemond merely tightens his grip around her. Stubbornly, her lips pursed into a sour smile, she stops her struggling and stares up at him in defiance.

“Go ahead then,” she goads, raising her chin and bringing her hands up to rest against his back, fingernails digging through his shirt and into his skin. He hopes they leave marks. “I won’t scream. I won’t fight. I refuse to give you the satisfaction of my pain, uncle.”

A deep, twisted rage sits within him, rising in plumes of smoke like the molten lava from an exploding volcano, and as he glares down at his sweet niece, the image of their homeland flashes across his vision. Their ancestors once lived on the island of Valyria, a prosperous place that had been home to the largest mount, which erupted and destroyed the land, as well as all those who resided there. A few Targaryen’s were lucky to escape just a few years before, and he thinks about this luck now, bringing a hand up to wrap around the width of Lucerys’ neck. She keeps her word; she doesn’t fight back, doesn’t try to scream, even as his fingers tighten enough to bruise, cutting off her air circulation. Tears gather at the corners of her eyes, and Aemond finds himself groaning, arousal splashing over him like ice water.

He removes his hand. Lucerys gasps for air, nails no longer digging into his skin, hands now limp around his waist. Her gaze looks down, chest heaving as she slightly tilts her head, focusing on Aemond’s lap. With a flush, he realizes she’s staring at his erection, which is pushing against his trousers, its heaviness resting against her abdomen. Her eyes glimmer at the sight, pink lips tugging upwards into another smug smile, hands inching towards his thighs that are still wrapped around her. When her fingers press against his thighs, he jolts back.

She sits up with a small laugh. “I thought you wanted to put out my eye, Aem.”

The nickname, one he hasn’t heard since they were children, running along the beach together, toes nestling along the sand, salty waves lapping against their ankles. It makes his chest twinge, an ache forming under his ribs, and he quickly turns away, resting his hands on the wooden surface of his desk. “Get out.”

It’s quiet, with only the sound of their families downstairs, chatting and laughing, which does nothing to help the tension of the room. He hears her sigh, short legs twisting beneath her as she climbs off his bed, shoes hitting the floor softly. She lingers at the door, hand resting on the doorknob while her eyes burn holes into his back, willing him to say something, but he doesn’t. He merely waits in silence, solemn in the dark corner of his room, among his books and journals. It’s only when he hears the door open and shut, and the sound of her footsteps retreating down the hallway and onto the stairs, does he sit back on his bed, lowering himself down to press his nose against the spot where she once laid, the scent of her still fresh on his sheets.

*

She’s taunting him, eyes avoiding his own one-eyed stare, dark hair fanning over her face every time she turns to speak to her brother, as if she’s hiding from him. As if she hadn’t smiled as he sat atop her, hands around her neck, a threat on the tip of his tongue. Now, she sits across from him, at the far end of the long dining table, nothing but wood and various dishes separating them.

Perhaps he should’ve taken her eye when he had the chance, he thinks. In the moment, he had doubted she wouldn’t have screamed. He knows the pain of losing an eye all too well, searing and bone-deep. Despite her promises, Lucerys Velaryon would’ve cried out the minute his blade touched her skin, and their families would have rushed into the room and stopped him in his act of revenge. No, if he was to take her eye, he needed to do so in a secluded place, where no one could interrupt him.

Helaena, sitting beside him, mumbles something, her hand feather-light against his own. He looks over at her, and she merely lifts out her other palm, showing him the fuzzy caterpillar that slowly moves along her skin. He can’t help but smile, though his sister doesn’t notice as she keeps her lilac gaze on the small critter she holds, moving her hand from him to run a finger gently down its spine. Next to her, Aegon snorts in his cup, taking another swig before leaning back in his chair, a slimy grin on his face.

“Have you given any more thought to what I said earlier, little brother?”

His words are slurred, and Aemond decides to ignore him, lifting his own cup to his lips and taking a sip. In the middle, his mother sits beside Rhaenyra, their heads bent towards one another, lips pulled into wistful smiles, as if they are old friends, or perhaps lovers. Daemon had gone home, taking their three youngest with him, as well as his twin daughters, leaving his niece-wife and her two eldest in the hands of the woman they both once despised.

Aegon, never one for taking hints, continues. “If you don’t want her, I’ll be happy to show our dear niece a good time. I have hopes she’ll be… pure.”

Clenching his jaw, Aemond finally looks over at his drunken brother, giving him the attention he seemingly craves. Aegon smirks, head tipped forward as he leans over Helaena, who is still too busy with her caterpillar. From the corner of his eye, he can see their mother looking over at her eldest son cautiously, though when Rhaenyra whispers something in her ear, she looks away.

Aemond opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the sound of Lucerys’ laughter, and the breaking of glass. Him and Aegon advert their gazes to the opposite end of the table, where Jacaerys stands with reddened cheeks, holding the broken stem of a wine glass. Lucerys is hunched over, laughter bubbling out of her lips, tears dotting the corners of her eyes, reminding Aemond of when he had his hands around her throat only a few hours earlier. The thought makes him shift in his seat, a sliver of heat darting through his abdomen.

“Jace… oh my God,” she stutters out, still laughing, hand lifting up as she shows the table her palm, where a shard of glass sticks out, blood trickling down her wrist. Jace immediately darts forward, grabbing her arm, tilting her hand towards him so he can inspect the wound, eyebrows furrowed in worry. “It’s fine, brother. I’m okay!”

Rhaenyra also rounds the table, cradling her daughter's head against her chest, smoothing a hand down her curls. Lucerys continues to laugh, though it slowly starts to turn into giggles, which eventually die down until she’s left hiccupping, ruddy cheeks stained with tears from her outburst. His mother had run off, and now she returns, first aid kit in hand, which she gives to his half-sister, who puts her hand on Lucerys’ shoulder, pushing her to sit back in her chair. Aemond watches as her blood continues a path down her arm, before beginning to drip onto the surface of the table, leaving small dots of crimson.

She watches with watery eyes as her mother grabs a pair of tweezers, going for the glass jutting out her skin. “Shh, it’s okay, my darling girl.”

The shard is slowly pulled out, a bubbling of more blood rising to the surface, and Aemond watches with a hard cock. It’s placed on a napkin atop the table, next to the pool of blood that now seeps into the wood, yet no one moves to clean it up. Or maybe his mother does, her scabbed fingers wiping the liquid away with a cloth, always one for cleanliness. Aemond wouldn’t know, as his eye is trained on the cut along Lucerys’ palm, as her own mother tends to it. A wipe is swiped across, turning from white to red, and then comes the gauze, which is wrapped around continuously, until the blood ceases to seep through the material. The whole time, his little niece sits without flinching, eyes watching him as he watches her.

When she’s finished, the wound now covered, the room is quiet for just a moment, before a booming clap of thunder echoes against the walls, and the sound of pouring rain pings off the roof. Jace is on his knees beside his sister, hands holding her wrist, whispering apologies in her ear, ones which she doesn’t reply to as she continues to stare across the table. It isn’t until Jace follows her gaze that she replies, before picking up her fork and stabbing at a lone carrot that sits on her plate, bringing it up to her lips as she finally looks away, giving her older brother a smile.

Dinner continues as before, and by now, Aegon has slumped over his chair, fast asleep in his drunkenness. Their mother, surprisingly, pays him no mind, and neither does Helaena, who excuses herself to her room, eyes still focused on the crawling insect she holds. Rhaenyra continuously peeks over at Lucerys, face glossed in worry, but she merely listens to her brother talk, occasionally nodding her head or laughing softly at whatever it is he was droning on about. With nothing to distract him, Aemond is silent in his suffering as he watches her, eye flickering down to her wrapped palm every few minutes, as if willing it to peel off and show him that red slice once more.

The storm has gotten worse, lightning flashing through the closed windows nearly every second, the thunder becoming so loud that it interrupts his mother and half-sisters conversation, the both of them wondering aloud on whether it will pass or continue through the night. It is already dark out, the ticking clock reading nine o’clock, and it is his mother who proposes the idea.

“Please, Rhaenyra,” her fingers rub against her scar, eyes pleading. “Stay. It is too dangerous to leave now, in the dark while it’s storming so heavily. We have more than enough guest rooms for you, Luke, and Jace to stay in.”

His mothers use of Lucerys’ nickname jolts him. Beside him, Aegon lets out a snore.

Despite her wariness, Rhaenyra agrees to stay the night, and Aemond thinks he has never seen his mother so happy before. With a huff, he stands, and when his mother doesn’t even look at him, too busy staring at his whore half-sister with stars in her eyes, he takes that as his cue to leave. He glances over at Lucerys once more, both her and Jace now watching him, their matching eyes and noses making him want to sneer. Instead, he makes his way out of the dining room, his steps heavy as he trudges up the stairs, head throbbing in tune with the pattering rain.

*

He can barely sleep, his body restless as he tosses and turns among rumpled sheets, nose twitching against the scent of her that still lingers. Aemond swears he can feel her, even as she sleeps just down the hall, and his skin is slick with sweat, a pulse running through his swelling cock. He teases himself, brushing a hand between his thighs, coiling away when he only gets harder, silver hair sticking to his flushed face as he lays there with the heavy weight of shame bearing down on his chest. His only solace being the plip-plop of the rain against his window, the storm now passed, leaving only that soft sound in its wake, soothing along his headache.

Something wriggles beneath the skin of his chest, insistent as he sits up, looking around the dark room, a warning bell ringing within his ears. When he looks out the window, a flash of white crosses his vision, and for a moment, he thinks the storm has started again. It isn’t until he sees her curls, slightly damp and sticking to her shoulders, does he realize that it’s her, not the storm. She walks across the backyard, towards the small woods that sits behind their estate, clad in nothing but her nightgown. Without thinking, Aemond is slipping on a shirt and his shoes, his steps rushed as he sneaks down the stairs and out the backdoor, gaze trained on her retreating figure.

The rain is merely a drizzle now, yet it still dampens his clothes and hair, leaving raindrops along his skin, as he walks between trees, swiping at hanging branches and leaves, holding his breath as he stalks after her. She doesn’t seem to hear him, as she continues on, not faltering in her pace. The path she’s leading looks familiar to him, and he realizes that it’s the same path they used to trek as children. It leads to an old lake, full of tiny fish and swampy water, which they used to dare one another to jump in, all too afraid of what lurked below the muck. When they make it to the clearing, Lucerys doesn’t hesitate to walk up to the bank, standing along withered stones and tall weeds. The sight of the water stops Aemond in his tracks, a memory rushing to him like a vision.

It had been the hottest summer of their young lives that year, and they all spent it among the trees, lounging under the cool air the shade provided, playing trolls and goblins. When they had first discovered the lake, it was Aegon who pushed Aemond in. He had flailed within the dirty water, pale arms splashing through algae and brine as he gasped out for help, not yet knowing how to swim. Jace and Aegon had stood on the bank laughing, and to his horror, Lucerys had disappeared. It wasn’t until she rushed out from the trees, Uncle Daemon in tow, that Aemond was saved, laying along the grass and coughing up water and vomit, shivering under the stares of those around him, Daemon’s hand hard as it slapped his back. His mother had scolded Aegon, who swore he didn’t remember that his younger brother couldn’t swim, and he only became more cruel in his anger after she grounded him.

As he remembers the look on Lucerys’ young face, pinched in worry, cheeks flushed pink and bright eyes teary, he thinks perhaps he had just imagined that part. It was what he once dreamed most of; his niece caring for him. He knows this is far from the truth, as she spins around, arms held out in front of her, gaze locked on his lingering figure. Her lips curl into a sweet smile, and she wiggles her fingers, as if she is beckoning him over. Aemond finds that his rage has made another appearance, replacing his pondering with a rising fury as he makes his way towards her, swaying on her bare feet, her grin brighter than the full moon in the sky above them.

He reaches out for her, hands tight against her arms, and he watches with a curious gaze as her flesh pebbles beneath his touch, her damp skin dotted with raindrops and gooseflesh. Her head is heavy as she beams up at him, eyes hazy with sleep, her lashes fluttering under his stare. She whispers his name, lips plush around the word, dropping her head to rest against his thumping chest, nose nuzzling along the cotton of his shirt. For a moment, Aemond allows himself to revel in her warmth, his own nose resting within her hair, dark curls tickling his cheeks, and he inhales deeply, the smell of lavender and honey and rain intoxicating his senses. Lucerys presses herself closer, and as the minutes tick by, he realizes she has been sleepwalking.

Aemond has only heard tales about Lucerys’ supposed sleepwalking habit. Years ago, according to Rhaenyra, Lucerys had nearly walked out the top window in her room, her eyes open wide in an unwavering stare, bare feet pressed against the sill. It had taken Daemon picking her up and carrying her to her bed to get her to safety, and the next morning, when asked about what had happened the previous night, Lucerys hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. Daemon took to installing locks on all the windows around their home, and after that, Aemond hadn’t heard much else about his niece’s sleepwalking. He figured it was a thing of the past, something she has grown out of in the shedding of her adolescence.

Now, she stands slumped against his chest, breathing steady and her lips parted as soft sighs and snores escape her throat. The rain picks up, drizzling harder than before, and a rumbling of thunder is heard along the horizon, yet Lucerys looks peaceful in her slumber, even as Aemond’s grip on her becomes tighter. A twisted part of him thinks about how easy it would be to hurt her now, as she lays in the mercy of his hands, the same in which once easily wrapped around her throat and squeezed until her face was red. Another part of him, one much darker and persistent, wishes to slip the thin straps of her nightgown down her shoulders, to suckle on her pert nipples which press against the sheer satin, to dip a hand between her supple thighs and caress the hottest part of her.

Her neck is bare, and as he looks down, he realizes with sudden certainty that there is no one here to stop him. The moon is aglow, locusts buzzing within the grass, an occasional hoot from a lone owl, and they are in the middle of the woods, in a place unknown by anyone but them as children. She is pliant within his hold, lashes resting against her cheeks, heartbeat steady within her delicate chest. It is something he had once dreamed of, swathed in sweat-soaked sheets, cock spent along his taut stomach. And with a single dip of his chin, he is able to press his lips along the skin of her neck, right below her thrumming pulse.

She doesn’t stir, not even as his lips form a path down to her collarbones, the bones jutting out just enough for him to bite around, the feel of it between his teeth making him groan. His tongue slicks against the mark, dipping into each indent, before making its way up to her jaw, where he nibbles and sucks on the skin. His hands have moved to rest upon her hips, but as she starts to slip from his grasp, he wraps his arms around her waist, pressing her close to him once more, her breasts plush against his soaked shirt, nipples scratching between them.

He barely hears the gasp. “A-Aemond…?”

Her hands come up to his shoulders, pushing frantically as he bites down on the skin of her jaw, the sharp ache making her yelp. When he tastes blood, he finally softens, lips now wrapped around the skin, tongue lapping over the small wound. As Lucerys continues to squirm, fingernails now digging into his skin, he wrestles her to the ground, hands squelching in the mud beneath her as he holds himself above her, lips stained with a single drop of blood.

“Where are we? How did…” she trails off, realization clicking as she takes in the dark sky and the pajamas she still wears. Her eyes are glossy as she gazes up at him, the mark on her jaw shining like a beacon, encouraging him to press himself against her again. This time, she doesn’t struggle, still confused as she looks around the clearing, catching sight of the familiar lake.

His cock is pulsating as it rests between them, and he barely notices as he cants his hips to rub along her clothed cunt, white-hot pleasure shooting up his spine, making him close his eye and press his lips to her throat once again. Her breath hitches at his movements, her own legs unconsciously spreading wider, opening herself up for him to rut against her like a hound in heat. Shame twinges within his brain, yet Lucerys wraps an arm around his back, as if encouraging his ministrations, and he forces it to the back of his mind as he digs his fingers into the slick mud, hips rocking faster. She whines out, “Aem.”

In a frenzy, he brings a hand up to paw at her dress, tugging down the straps until he bares her breasts, mud staining the fabric and her skin. His lips are quick to wrap around them, going back and forth between the two, before slipping a pert nipple into his mouth, groaning at the taste of her. He imagines them swollen with milk, her stomach round with his child, her hands smoothing down his hair as he nurses from her, her sweet liquid warm as it pools in the pit of him. He grows harder at the thought, teeth nibbling at the bud, his body weight crashing atop her as he brings his other hand over to caress her other breast, fingers tweaking the lonely nipple. Her back seems to arch beneath him, her own hips matching the rhythm of his, her breath hot against his head.

“Please,” she whispers, tugging at the strands of his hair. When her pulling becomes harsher, he allows her to tug him up, her mouth agape as she tilts her chin, searching for his lips. She kisses him, wanton as she juts out her hips against his, hands frantic as they run down his shoulders and under his soaked shirt, nails scratching along his skin. Her tongue slips over his, and he thinks she tastes like the sweetest poison, of cherries and arsenic.

He pushes himself up once more, knees digging into the earth beneath him, and he doesn’t think as he rips off her dress, pulling it down her legs in one swipe. Her underwear is purple, a pretty shade of lilac that reminds him of his own eye, with a little rose in the middle, now stained with mud and grass as she writhes, trying to hide the patch of wetness that seeps through the dainty fabric. Aemond is quick to lean down, pressing his nose against her navel, the smell of rain and sleep tainting her flesh, and he gives her a small lick, from her belly button to the hem of her underwear. She whines, bare chest heaving as she looks down at him, eyes pleading underneath a cloud of wariness, brows furrowed as if she is fighting a battle within her mind. When he comes face to face with her clothed cunt, he doesn’t hesitate to press his tongue against the spot of her arousal, the cotton soft along his tongue as he laps at it, trying to taste her slickness.

“Iksan jāre naejot qogralbar ao,” he grits out over the rain, his cock aching as he lays flat against it, head still between her thighs. “Yn jaelan naejot sylutegon ao ēlī.” (I am going to fuck you. But I want to taste you first).

He doesn’t ponder over whether she knows High Valyrian, the language of their ancestors, but when she lets out a moan, her head nodding against the ground, a sense of pride settles within him. He pulls the last remaining piece of clothing off, bringing his hands to her thighs, which he pushes up so that her knees are pressed against her chest, leaving her wide open for him. A groan leaves him at the sight of her wet cunt, and when he lays his tongue flat against her pearl, he nearly creams his pajama pants at the pulsing of her and the taste of her arousal. Like a man starved, his tongue laps over the whole of her, licking and sucking as she writhes and moans, a flush starting from her chest to her hairline washing over her like a veil. His hips grind into the earth below him, his eye focused on her wet face, strands of her dark hair stuck to her cheeks and across her gaping lips. He thinks she might look even prettier like this than when she cries.

She’s wanton in her moans, head lolling back and forth, eyes squeezed shut as Aemond presses a finger into her wet cavern, his own eye fluttering shut at the tightness, a ring of soft muscles clenching down. His tongue focuses on her pearl, which throbs as he flicks and presses against it, engorged in its pleasure, and as he crooks a finger up inside her, her hips buck up in a spasm, though the grip he has on her legs, which still press up to her chest, stops her from moving. A loud whimper leaves her lips, and her peak comes quickly, her arousal gushing around his finger. When she finally calms down, going slack under him, he pulls his finger out and immediately licks her cream off it, before going back in to clean up her now sensitive cunt.

Her fingers tangle within his hair, tugging to pull him off her as she wriggles under his licks, and when he finally pulls away, her grip is strong as she whines before he gives in and rests his weight above her, lips hovering her own. Her tongue comes out to lap at them, small kitten licks that grow more greedy, until she’s slipping between them and pressing him close to her. She groans, perhaps at the taste of herself on his tongue, her hips already jutting back up against him, brushing over his aching cock, desperate for more like his own ravenous whore. His hands are quick as they push down his muddied pants, cock springing up against his soaked abdomen, bringing the head to rub along the seam of her. Lucerys seems to tense under him at the feeling, but he pays no mind as he presses the tip against her tight hole, still slick and warm even after her peak.

“Aem-“ she gasps out, hands against his shoulders, eyes wide in fear at the feeling of his cock pressing into her. “I…”

He slams his hips flush against her with a grunt, a yelp escaping her quivering mouth, fingernails digging deep into the cotton of his shirt. Tears immediately start to stream down her flushed cheeks in rivulets, soft sobs building up within her closed throat. Aemond has never felt such dizzying pleasure, white hot and shooting through every nerve in his body, until he feels like he’s aflame. He doesn’t falter as Lucerys cries, his pace fast and deep, pulling out until just the tip of him remains, before slamming back in, his sack slapping against her ass. When he looks down, he can see her blood on his cock, and the sight of it, as well as the confirmation of her virginity, makes him grow frenzier, tongue running along her salty cheeks, moaning at the taste of her tears. He wants to bite her, to draw blood, to taste the very marrow of her.

A growl leaves him as he bites down against her wet cheek, the chub of it soft between his teeth. Her hands are quick to shove at his chest, though her moans and the sounds of her slickness, sticky against him, makes him believe his sweet little niece likes it just as much as he does. When he pulls away, he revels in the sight of the marks he left, bright pink and sure to turn a purple-blue after. Her sobs slowly turn into hiccups, which turn into moans that she tries to hold back with a bite to her lips, but when Aemond wraps one hand around her throat, they turn into gasps. He squeezes hard, holding for just a few seconds, before slackening his grip, letting her breathe if only for a moment, hips digging painfully into the back of her thighs with every thrust.

“You’re h-hurting me, uncle,” Lucerys cries out, doe eyes red from her tears, peering up at his grunting face above her own flushed one. “Kostilus.” (Please).

“Mazemilā ziry hae se sȳz byka līve iksā,” he sneers, bringing his body down to rest against her shivering frame, arms wrapping around her back, slick along the mud. He presses her flush to him, and she is quick to hold onto him, legs curling below the crook of his arse. “Mirre ñuhon.” (You will take it like the good little whore you are. All mine).

Her moans are sticky against his neck, lips brushing along the damp skin every time she opens her mouth, the sounds ringing in his ears above the pittering of the rain and the grumbles of occasional thunder. His fingers scratch down her back, hips stuttering as her cunt squeezes around his cock, warm and slick and unwilling to let him go. When she pulls her head up from its spot against his neck, hands scrambling to rest along his jaw, bringing his face up to look at her, eyes zoning in on the empty socket where his left eye once sat, it is then that he realizes he didn’t put on his eyepatch. He nearly shrinks into himself, jerking his chin away from her grasp so he can sink his face back against her hair, but she doesn’t relent. Instead, her fingers trace along the jagged scar, lips open in awe as she admires the work of her own hand.

Lucerys presses her lips right below the gaping hole of his eye, tongue gentle as she licks up the length of his scar. With her mouth resting just above the dark cavern, she whispers the words he has always wanted to hear, “I’m sorry, Aem. Iksan vaoreznuni.” (I am sorry).

He pushes her down to the wet ground once more, head slamming into the slush below, and she lets out a squeal, hands scrambling to push herself up. His hips snap into hers, palms tight against her wrists as he holds her down, vision a red haze. It isn’t enough. Her apology means nothing to him now, all these years after. Years spent mourning the loss of his eye, ruminating in the humiliation and injustice of that night, listening to the whispers of his classmates as they pondered over what sight sat beneath his leather eyepatch. Years of sharp pain shooting through his empty socket, of headaches that never went away, of dreaming of the one who caused this agony, her pretty face and that ringing laughter. Nothing she can say will ever be enough.

Tears stream down her pink cheeks, repainting the tracks left previously, her moans now gasps of pain and pleasure. He sits on his knees, her ass across his thighs, hips lifted upwards as he fucks her pliant body, like his own little doll. Her hair is matted with a mix of rain and mud, lips quivering and her eyes squeezed shut, a flush of shame and arousal settling across her bare chest. She looks so beautiful, so much like that young girl who has haunted his dreams since they first met, when she was just a babe and he a little boy who couldn’t yet form a sentence.

One of his hands slides up her bruised wrist, to rest along the gauze-covered palm, drawn to the wound that will scar her. His fingers dig beneath the wrap, lifting it up until the cut is bared, and as he feels her clench around him again, a breathy moan leaving her lips as her release washes over her, he leans his head down to lick along the seam. Dried blood flakes away, and as he presses his wet muscle harder, the cut reopens, blood blossoming out of it like a stream of water, which he doesn’t hesitate to lap over. His own release hits him like a tidal wave, the taste of her blood intoxicating him as he presses into her with one final thrust, his other hand going to grab onto her waist, thumb brushing against the bulge of his cock in her abdomen. She lays motionless as he uses her, until only small dots of blood remain along the reopened wound, and his cock has softened inside her, his seed hot against her womb.

Aemond rolls off of her with a grunt, hissing as her spent cunt seems to grasp at him as he pulls out. Between her thighs is a mess of blood and semen, a mix of their essences wet along his cock, and he almost hardens at the sight. He brings his fingers up to gather the pooling of the liquid that seeps out from her hole, roughly pushing it back in with a groan, her whimper sending another wave of arousal down his spine. She twitches beneath him, and when he is confident that his seed has stuck, he removes himself from her, rolling over onto his back and gazing up at the full moon, no longer covered by storm clouds. Beside him, Lucerys is quiet, only an occasional sniffle, and it seems like they lay there for hours, not speaking, not moving. Just waiting, three eyes focused on the night sky above them.

When she finally gets up, he watches with a hazy eye as she pulls on what remains of her nightgown, now a tattered, muddied mess of silk. She starts to walk off on shaky legs, but she pauses, turning back to look down at him.

“It was an accident, you know,” her voice is raspy, throat sore from the moans and cries that left her lips that night. “We were kids… I thought you were gonna kill Jace. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, Aemond.”

He doesn’t say anything. She waits a few more moments, before finally walking off, her figure disappearing among the trees, leaving him alone by the still lake. He brings his fingers up to his lips, still wet from their mixed concoction of semen and blood, and takes his time licking them off. The taste is enough to slowly fill the gaping cavern in his chest, one full of rage and violence, images of his niece's body beneath him, naked in the moonlight, flushed from head to toe, racing through his mind in a kaleidoscope of memories.

Perhaps it was enough. Her apology, those saccharine words that dripped from her tongue like honey. He thinks maybe he can forgive her.

An eye for her innocence, for the blood that stains his cock and teeth.

*

a/n: this is crossposted to ao3 (user finalgrls)! kinda the darkest thing i’ve written so far, but it’s definitely the work im proudest of. i’d LOVE any feedback, even if it’s negative <3 i hope u enjoyed!

[nathandrakeisabottom]

What Lovers Share: Nathan Drake x Reader

Summary: Nate tells you historical fun facts while you warm his globes. Huevos in French. Besties who just happen to enjoy swapping spit. Warning: Explicit. C*ck-warming, B*ll-suckin', B*kkake, C*m-eating, historical fact jumpscare, ***, ***, ***, f*ck Tumblr censorship.

“You, uh… you happy down there?” Nathan goads warmth with a tender smile, holds a book in one hand and your cheek in the other, smile lines kind and traced in the barest flicker of demurity. He forces his eyesight back to script before your answer; his nerves obviously need distraction when your request needles beyond nudity. A proposition you had dreamed of since Nairobi. 

He’s warm and gooey, and you respond with no treat, no reply but your tongue laving soft around the shape in your mouth. You love him in here. You always have. To the point of obsession, mindless, ravenous, lazy and dumb, you beg him when he claims there’s no time. He’s gross down there right now. Sam’s around, he’ll catch you two. And he won’t survive a goddamn minute if they just let him wander wild for however long she eats: a lonely little girl lapping and suckling his baby brother’s balls like the last water left on Earth. 

Only because the iodine got lost in the shipwreck, you snort in facetious rationale to yourself.

But there’s no shortage of time, of air for gasps and moans when you gently pull back, and tug with your lips wrapped softly around, eyelashes fluttering dotingly up at him. He makes you feel like a dog— an overeager puppy begging for attention. Touch me. Pet me. Play with me. Let me taste you. 

Let me make you feel something. 

You snap to when his graveling baritone soothes over your shoulders in a hiccuping wave. 

“Y-You know, you make me nervous when you’re this quiet.”

Your pussy stokes a fire, squeezes tight when he speaks. You know. And you like. 

And you draw out further when you nuzzle deeper to suckle the fold of skin between his balls. Brush the tip of your nose teasingly along the underside of his shaft, just in the way you know he likes. You run races like tortoises and suck him so gently that he mewls in a breathy chuckle diluted of comedy and even less oxygen. Nerves. A man whose own pleasure still frightens him. 

“Heh. But… uh, something tells me you like me when I’m nervous.”

Whose own weakness still surprises him with every day you wring it from your touch. 

“Fucking def-in-it-lee.” You pop from your purpose below just to tell him, gasps in much needed breath and your joined spit still tangling below your lip. You damn held it in for long enough. 

He laughs so beautifully at that, handsome features splitting open into intricate crows feet and pink, plump, pretty lips into grins. You love the way he smiles. You love the way he laughs— and you make sure to detach to smother it as fast as possible. This irony is not lost on you. 

It’s a slobber at this point. But Nathan only meets you harder and clutches the back of your neck with a warm, meaty palm. Tugs you into him; isn’t afraid of anything. Big, gentle hands with strong grip that cradle your love and usher his second ball in your mouth everytime the first accidentally pops out. 

“Why don’t you tell me some fun facts, smart cookie?” You tack a wet kiss to his cheek when he finally allows you to break. “You know how much I love the sound of your voice.”

“Oh.” And his residual shyness has your mouth watering. It always does, his heart baring open like rushing spring water and making you hungry for more. To sacrifice for his every satisfaction. “Sure thing… got any requests?”

But you’re already back home before your answer even grows wings. Glinting skin and bubbles popping wet where veins thread like delicate, splindling cracks in a pane of glass venture past your lips. You lost restraint forty five minutes back. There is no shame in your love. Your devotion. You’d suck him all day if you could: splashing South African summer heat in translucent coats down your cheeks, hollowed out in every place you’ve decided he deserves to have tighter. Harder. Wetter. Better. 

He shudders. His hand abruptly clamps onto your own.

But no… lighter this time. Softer. Sweeter. He’s sensitive, especially down here, so you tread gentler paths with the tip of your tongue lapping in tickling hints, and his skin pulls up and up and up in adorable wrinkles with the motion. His taste: addictive. There once was a time when you would tease and complain at the oceanic sting, full body dips when he grew too lazy to tie the boat closer to shore and ‘Shit, it’s a hot one! A jump in the water sounds perfect.’ Without even bothering to take his clothes off first.

“Did you know that—” He wets his lip, a flicker, the tender pink point of his tongue. “Um…”

But those days are no more. Now, it’s a quest, a joy, a desperation to clean him. Everyday, you beg to. Please, Nathan, please let me clean you. It looks so lonely. I want it warm. I want it shiny. I want it inside where it’s safe. Where no one else can take it from me. And now, there’s a parameter for how long is not long enough. You don’t stop until you no longer taste the tang of sea against his skin. Not until he’s clean. It’s your duty.

It’s your devotion to him. 

“Heh—” He recovers with a hand to your cheek and a kiss to his palm. You remind him there is no difference, only sensual circumstance. You asked for this. Prayed for this. “Did you know that Thomas Edison didn’t actually invent the lightbulb?”

…What?

“Hm?!” You squeak from your station. He chuckles in reply.

“I know, right?!” His words jeer agastedly, giddily, eyes twinkling. “Isn’t that crazy?”

Giggles form in place of a needless answer. The things he says, the way he is, even his desire for a reply at all, to hear your voice beside his own: they only make you want to please him more. Wetter. Tighter. Better. 

Man, that shit’s crazy. 

History is so cool. 

“It was actually Warren de la Rue, almost f-forty years before Edison…”

You swoon into his wet folds and he stutters when you settle into the warmth, the wet. The place you call home. You love your man; fucking sue me. Hungry palms wrap ‘round the meaty, milky skin of his thighs without warning, toasted sun-kissed tan like roasted smores in between campfire kisses, soft nudity and plains begging for hickies. 

“He was just the one who p-perfected and p-p-patented it.” His cheeks swelter over roasting red when you lean further to tongue at the soft skin of his perineum, stutters for air in a swiftly fogging tent you both refuse to unzip. You like the way your love changes the color of his skin. “S-something about bamboo fiber…” 

“That’s amazing, baby.” But your lips are already back on his before he can elaborate amongst filaments and time periods. You swiftly ponder if he can taste his own precum on your kiss. A deeper press, a swift curl of your tongue against his, slobbery and wet, salty and sweet. Just to up your chances. Every fact he shares your way, every sense you share in return. “You’re so fucking smart.” 

And you worship his body in the only interruptions you find no shame in speaking.

He moans thick and molten below you when you wrest one hand around his neck, the other around his shaft. Force him to keep kissing you in the minute space where he tries to break for air. And your pussy clenches around nothing but the imaginary when he groans in place of resistance of another. The control and capture his every delicate sound inspires beat your man to dust.

You wring your wrist around his head, and he chokes out despairingly. 

“Honey… Do you want me to—?” He’s finally able to split, chest heaving hard against your own, your mouth itching to taste its suffocating heat, his collarbone beading with sweat, pleasing arcs in place of jewelry. An answer feels pointless.

“Yes-yes-of-fucking-course-I-do-are-fucking-kidding-me—” But you give him what he wants, anyway. His mouth tinges in laughter. 

Because you always give him what he wants.

He makes it impossible not to. 

“I fucking love you.” His lips meet yours head-on, but this time, starvation sets in. You two gasp and bite and tear right through each other. His fingers fly to the back of your neck, his arms swallowing your body into his. And you twist your purpose further down so the world knows who he belongs to. 

You’re not sure if it’s the sweat, the humidity, his taste, or simply your own gaping awe that requires your wrist high to collect a drool of spittle when you first watch it bloom. Red and raw and beautiful, just like him. A single placed hickey.

You both decided unspoken that Sam could fucking deal with seeing them. Just jealous he’s not getting them, too.

“Oh, hun.” You swear it’s your entire fucking soul that swoons when Nate’s voice resounds, little trembles like tinkling glass. He breaks beneath your touch. “My precious, little angel.”

Your tongue darts across the sharp slant of his neck before delving in for seconds. He’s so pretty, and so perfect, and so… free. Your heart can’t stand it. You’re not strong like he is. And so a second bruise quickly joins the first: higher this time, the crux of his jaw. Proof, ownership, protection. You love him too much to leave him empty, markless, unwon. There is no strength in the love you have for him.

He cries, breath releasing hot against your cheek when you roll and nestle his sack into your palm. It’s still wet with spit, stuck with sweat in every place your chin dipped a little too low. Your thumb smoothes straight down the middle, presses into his skin like a thumbprint. His whines make your mouth water against every mark. Pink, red, purple, yellow. The ones you left on his sternum on Monday, the couplings beside each nipple on Sunday, magenta on his folding tummy, yellow and pink alike on the insides of his thighs.

You kiss each and over again. An encore. A map. 

I belong here.

“Honey…” He sings so sweet. His grip, his thumb grazing at the base of your neck even as you ease back down to lave your lips over his skin. He’s heavy below. Full and warm. You’ve tasted him dozens of times before; and you know he’s a giver. You instinctively flinch from your spot below in wild anticipation when he thrusts in briefly-presumed release. Despite the shy bastard being too polite to ever try it.

But tonight, you swear you’ll remedy.

You twist left to sink your teeth into the plush skin of his thigh, swallow Wednesday’s accompanying bruises like fresh berry, and he bucks masochistically. 

And you’d give more, you’d brand him with your fucking name if you could. If he could so forgive. In every place you call him yours.

“W-w-where do you want it?” This time it’s his hand that changes for your own on a jerking ring around his shaft. He bears a teasing pace, even as his fingers clearly twitch for more. His second hand comes to cradle your head when you return, and you twist quick to press another grateful kiss into his palm before he replaces it. He’s an instinctual nurturer at the best of times: his touch warm and steady. And somehow, despite every insanity, every pitfall, every obnoxious joke and even more obnoxious beauty— he grounds you. He keeps you safe.

He’s home.

You want him to brand you, too. 

“Anywhere.” You mumble with his gifts in my mouth. Your answer is a lie.

“A-anywhere?” 

Even in sex, he’s the same: searching for answers, proof. But he doesn’t stop jerking himself, quick and smooth, whining as he cups his hand across your cheek and thumbs over where the corner of your lip drools. Holds you where he wants you. You plead you already know where he wants it. 

“God-you’re-so-pretty.” It’s fucking heaven he speaks. Your pussy throbs, fucking sings; you feel the wetness through your poor excuse for shorts. The ones you wear for him. Minimal coverage so he has more room to pull the stripe of stitch of fabric aside whenever he needs it. You love him, you love him, you love him, you love him. “So-fucking-pretty.”

And so you are cruel to him. You clamp monstrous nails into his pink, plush skin and keep him trapped, grounded, no way from escape, from shame, from want when you speak—

“Nathan, please—” “Sh-shit—!”

But of course, in your time of need, you both interrupt in the same mundane way you always do. You look up with love. He jerks himself empty. And he’s coming hard across your face before you can even give him permission to do it.

Four times. Four begs til’ he finally obeyed your pleas: a fucking record. Fucking finally. To be branded by him. And even as the warmth and wet slathers over the bridge of your nose, your forehead, the cusp of your hairline where blonde meets brunette, you’re not thinking of how dirty it is. How guilty and hysterical he’ll certainly be about it afterwards. How you have no fucking clue how you’re going to be able to sneak all the way down to the river to wash up without being caught by a Shoreline guard. 

But instead, as you move further down to wet his balls in grateful kitten-licks, and desperately pursue his prolonged pleasure, you’re only swimming in the hazy and the humid— in the impossible idea that someone so pretty could think you were pretty, too. 

He huffs for air, eyes squeezed shut, body quivering and thighs shaking, even as you hold them down. His voice breaks even, beautiful, only makes clearer the stark, pretty lines of his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. He’s always so pretty. 

And only prettier— your heart wrests in affection bordering on pain— when he forces his eyes back open just to watch you. The way he releases his only sound of pleasure, shyness submissing beneath that beautiful voice you love so much, it almost makes you believe:

“...Wow.”

That someone so lovely could think you were lovely, too.

As if the sight of your own devotion surprises him.

Then again— you think as his trembles begin to slow, your kisses ease the highward trail up his chest— he’s always surprised. Because his deepest gift has always been uncovering— every day, before every map, every sunburn, every bruise you’ve placed— another hidden reason to love the world. And he’ll never go unsatisfied, unfed again.  

Thomas Edison didn’t invent the lightbulb. Nate only knows that because he loves. 

His movements finally come to a certain stop, and all the oxygen he’s must’ve ever breathed in his life comes rolling out. One last dying gasp before he registers your mouth hovering before his. His eyes: desperately blue. His lips: pink and shiny, no longer lonely, your heart pangs swooningly, purposefully. And his fingers reach to cradle your jaw, steer you into a brutally romantic, death-defying, earth-shattering—

He twists your face away at the last second, so where you expect his lips upon yours, you are instead met with his tongue down your cheek. 

Another stripe. Wet and clinging. And your pussy throbs manic with want. Because he’s cleaning you. 

He’s eating his own cum off you. 

And you get to taste it together when he finally plunges you forward into a kiss, grip steady behind your neck, heart racing against your own. His other thumb mindlessly smears the leaking remnants of spit and cum down your chin and presses his lips to yours. Passionate, aching, hungry. And you share. You always share everything.

“Fuck, that was soooo hot,” You gasp once you part for air.

But Nathan isn’t thinking about a need for air, not even at all. Because the first words that leave his lips:

“Your turn.” Without even a pause in-between.

You’re already falling back into nylon before your thighs are immediately yanked apart, and your seeping shorts, those god-damn nearly non-existent shorts, the tan ones he’s already stained with a frantic quickie and a near-hysterical apology (they were one of your favorites; they still are) and you’ve had to cuff even higher to hide, are torn down your legs.

And when next you come— with the adorable, pink flat of his tongue and his affectionate eyes gazing up from your horizon— the only thoughts that cross your mind are how deeply you love him.

How deeply he shares with you.

And how he makes you feel something.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

remember what you're staring at is me

jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader

originally for Febuwhump 2024 Day 8 - found footage | Febuwhump masterlist

words: 2.9k

summary: A videotape is left on your porch one morning, and it changes everything about your budding relationship with Joel Miller.

warnings: Jackson!Joel, some dark!Joel, some soft!Joel, we love a man who contains multitudes, ambiguous ending, I wish I had made this a much longer one shot but oh well, references to The Hospital Incident, oral (f & m receiving), implicit p in v

dividers by @saradika-graphics

You find it on your porch one morning in an old paper bag. Someone’s written right onto the brown wrapping with black crayon—”you need to know the truth.” It seems rather dramatic once you peel back the paper to find a videotape. 

It's not high quality—the footage is fuzzy and crudely edited together. But there’s just no mistaking the man on the screen. 

Joel and Ellie came into your life when they arrived for the second time in Jackson. You had heard the gossip the first time, but never met the pair. 

You met him fairly quickly when he swung by with a torn jacket, gruff and blunt but polite. Steady. “They, uh, said to ask you about some mending?” 

“Sure thing,” you say easily, smiling at the very handsome stranger. “Let me take a look.”

It was a casual thing, the sewing, and you liked it that way. You didn’t make anything, didn’t haul things to the market. You spun the wool for those who did craft things, and then you kept to your little projects at night.

The push and pull of the needle was the meditation you needed to keep going every day, even now, even safe here in this bubble. Something productive, something to keep your trembling hands busy and your mind blank. 

And in return, you got company and conversation. Most folks knew your services could be bought with a warm drink or baked good, a promise of a favor you’d never call for.

“How long?” he asks, voice flat and serious, but it didn’t prick at you, didn’t land as rough as it set out. 

“Not long,” you muse, looking over the tear—a knife gash of some sort, and the thin lining that peeked out. “Ten minutes if you just want it sewn up, or if you give me a day, I can get it properly stuffed.”

“Sewn, please.” 

Please. You like that. Manners at the end of the world. 

“You sure? Be a lot warmer if I fill it out.” 

“I don’t—” he scowls at the ground. “I barely have anythin’ to offer ya for the mending.”

You want to tell him it’s on the house, call it a welcome basket, but he’s holding out what he does have to offer and your jaw drops just a little, lips parting to make way for a soft, pleased “oh” that has him straightening up. 

“I can find somethin’ else,” he says.

“Oh, no. That’s… amazing,” you say, taking the jar into your hands and popping the lid. They certainly aren’t potent, not like you remember, but oh, you could die from just the faint smell of the cinnamon sticks. “This is… more than enough. I’ll owe you, I reckon.”

“I dunno about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Seriously,” you say, eyes wide. You set the jar on the counter. “For that, I’ll get the whole thing done tonight.” After all, the delay had only been so you could go to bed. 

“Y’ain’t got to do that, I don’t mean to be a bother.”

You brush him off and start gathering your supplies. If you steep the thread in tea for a bit, you think, you might be able to get close to the color of the fabric.

He turns down a cup when you offer but does take a seat at the table. He’s as stiff as your late husband’s favorite bourbon, but the blunt edges grow a little duller when you don’t try to keep up small talk.

The bright overhead light casts him in shadow, deepening the circles under his eyes and drooping his wrinkles in inky black. But his eyes are bright and curious as he watches you start to add unspun wool from your stockpile into the jacket, trying to shape and layer it evenly through the inside. You have to make a couple incisions but keep them tight to the hemlines and existing stitching.

The thread dries quickly with the hearth raging and he speaks for the first time as you weave it through the needle’s eye.

“What’s that?” 

“It’s a threader,” you say, offering it to him to see after you’ve pulled it loose. “I, um. I’m not as dexterous as I used to be and I can’t say my sight’s as keen, either. Makes it easier to use these damn tiny needles. Luckily, it wasn’t a very in-demand item when people were raiding shops.” 

“Huh,” is all he says, sliding it back across the table to you. 

The stitching is quick and rote. You’re used to people pouring out their life stories and desires and drama when they sit at your table or on your sofa, feet kicked up on your coffee table while you sew. 

But this silence with Joel is warm, too. You’re almost regretful the job didn’t take longer.

You stand up and he follows, pushing his chair neatly back into its place. He takes the coat and runs a gentle finger across the original wound.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. 

You give him a wan smile, never having found those words to settle right in your skin. “Nice meeting you, Joel,” you say instead. “You know where to find me if you need anything else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and lets himself out. 

You lock the door behind him and wonder why you feel so energized. That tea was decaf, after all. And a little fuzzy, if you were totally honest, but you weren’t going to dump it down the drain just over a few fibers. 

One day when he comes, it’s with a bundle of thick socks and another, smaller jacket. Not a difficult job, but the gift he brings to trade knocks you off kilter so hard that you have to sit down.

“Not sure if it’ll be any use to you, but figured you’d know someone who can use it if you don’t,” he says, looking at the floor.

You’ve gotten to know him a little better, though his visits are few and far between. But he’s gotten more comfortable around town, more interested in following that wild daughter of his than hiding away. 

Sometimes, he’ll even sit at your table in the mess. You’d even go as far to say that the two of you were friends.

So you can tell what he’s trying so hard not to project. He’s nervous.

It looks almost like a desk lamp with its sturdy base and bent wooden arm, but in place of a shade and bulb is a hoop. You recognize it immediately and your stomach swoops. It’s an embroidery stand and you might faint just from that, just from having a steady way to hold the fabric tight as you sew. 

But that isn’t all. He shows you how to turn the peg that loosens the grip of the handle on the side, a raw hewn thing that doesn’t match the worn stain of the stand. You’re burning, head spinning, and the fuzzy darkness at the edges of the world stop you from focusing on the gift. 

The carved handle, he says, with hands curling around either side of you, has been partially hollowed to accommodate the end of the magnifying glass. You can raise and lower it with the peg and rotate the handle to use the other side of the glass.

“Joel,” you say uncertainly. He doesn’t really seem like he’ll want the attention drawn to it, but you have to know. “Did you make that?”

“Nah,” he scoffs. “Just added the glass is all.”

“Just added the glass,” you echo in a whisper. But you know he doesn’t mean he only attached it. He made the entire attachment and fit it onto the stand. 

His ears are red and he won’t look at you. 

You set a cautious hand on his arm where it reaches across your shoulder, still resting on the table. He’s caging you in from where he leaned over to demonstrate. “Joel, this is incredible. This is… this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Ain’t a big deal,” he mumbles but he doesn’t shake off your hand. “Just saw it and thought it might be useful.”

You feel emboldened by his kindness, so you curl your hand around his bicep. “Can I thank you?”

He looks down at you now, seeking something that he must find, confirmation in your blown out pupils and parted lips, and nods. 

He doesn’t break away as you slip from the chair to sink onto your knees or when your fingers loop around his belt to pry it open. 

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” you say, voice tight. 

He shakes his head. “You’re not.” His voice is the rumble of thunder breaking a tense summer night. 

You don’t bother removing his belt, simply knocking it open to reach for his zipper. 

You’re about to tug his pants down when the door opens. 

“Hey sugar,” Tommy drawls, “all my fuckin boxers have holes. Can you help a guy out? Promise they’re cle—“

His loud mouth gave just enough warning for Joel to pull his shirt down over his belt and for you to fumble at rolling the cuff of one pant leg up just so, reaching for a pin. 

“Oh hey, Joel!” Tommy says happily. “Finally fixin’ those ratty old things?” 

It’s a fucking miracle that he’s in these jeans, his favorites. Actually, it’s not, he wears them all the time, and they’re just a little too long so the bottoms are torn up. 

“Guess so,” Joel scowls. He’ll have to finally let you hem them now. 

“Just leave ‘em on the table, Tommy,” you say around the needle between your teeth. “And tell Maria to stop bein’ so rough with them.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “She can’t help it, sugar. I’m irresistible, see?” He claps his brother on the back and takes his leave. 

You slump a little, sighing as you set the needle on the table before moving to resume your activity. 

But Joel steps back. “I should get goin’,” he says. The line between his brow is cavernous and his lips are tugged down at the corners. 

“Oh. Okay,” you say, and pull yourself up with a hand clutching the table. 

“So. Thanks again,” he says. And then he’s gone. 

You let yourself drop dramatically into a chair, groan growing as it turns physical when your tailbone hits the seat wrong. 

You’re rubbing your forehead and thinking about going to bed to give yourself a pity orgasm when the door opens. He’s quiet and cautious, but he pushes the door shut behind him and locks it. 

“M’sorry,” he says. “I…”

“It’s okay,” you say with a tired smile. “I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, offering you a hand. 

You take it and let him pull you to standing. 

His other hand finds your waist. “I was bein’ a coward.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“Darlin’, you couldn’t,” he says. His arm slides further around, pulling you to him in a gentle embrace. He looks down at you through heavy lids, watching the way your lips part just a little. “You still want this?”

You bring a hand up to cup at the hair that curls down the nape of his neck. “Please,” you whisper. 

He matches your motion, cradling your head in his palm as he dips his head to kiss you. He wastes no time, licking into your welcoming mouth, seeking out the earthiness of the tea still lingering on your tongue and the sweet shiver of goosebumps prickling across his skin as you wind your fingers into his hair.

“Shit,” he mumbles when you break away for air. “What do you want, baby? What can I have? You gotta tell me now, before I can’t think straight.”

“You can have whatever you want, Joel,” you say, hot breath brushing his swollen lips before he presses them to you again with a growl.

It’s a much quicker kiss, and he breaks away to drop to his knees and push your skirt up to your hips. You have to lean back with both hands clenching the edge of the table not to fall over in shock.

He nuzzles against the soft cotton of your panties and groans at the smell of your wet cunt. He mouths at it gently over the fabric before hooking his finger around the gusset and pulling it aside to part your lips with his tongue. 

“Not fair,” you gasp as he feasts. “I was supposed to—supposed to do that for you.”

“You said whatever I want, darlin’,” he says against your pussy, chasing the taste of you. 

“Fuck,” you pant. “Fuck.” 

“Gimmie one and I’ll let you suck my cock if ya want it so bad,” he says, plunging two thick fingers in and basking in the way you squeal and squirm. He doesn’t give you a chance to adjust, pistoning in and out like he’s trying to win a race. 

It works, with his tongue on your clit and his fingers against that soft, secret part of you that no one has touched before, you gush around where he spreads you. “That’s it,” he croons, “good girl. Good fuckin’ girl, give me another.”

“You said—”

He cuts you off by sucking on your clit and your hips rock, wobbling the table as he takes another from you anyway. 

“Couch or bed?” he says, tugging your panties down your legs now that he’s sated the immediate urge. 

“Don’t care,” you say.

“Alright, bed,” he says. “Wanna do this right.” 

“Don’t think you could do it wrong,” you say, a lazy, sated smile on your face and a lightness to your eyes that he thinks he could get addicted to. 

He does let you suck his cock, and thinks maybe he could die happy from the warm, wet of your mouth and the way you look up at him like he’s the only thing in the world. 

At that moment, he is. You had resigned yourself to keeping your little crush a secret until it faded, too fond of him to risk it, but here? Now? Now that you’ve had him, you don’t think you can ever go back. 

He’s gentle in a way you can’t quite name. It’s not that he’s soft with you, but just aware. Like he knows where you’re capable of meeting him and settles there. He makes room for himself in you like you’d done for his coat, opening you up and stuffing you until you’re warm and full and renewed. 

He doesn’t leave you to stitch yourself up, either. He buries his face in your tits and holds you tight after, cleans the both of you up with a warm towel, and kisses you before he leaves.

Neither of you want him to go, but he’s got Ellie at home and won’t—can’t—worry her by not coming home. Not without warning. Next time, he whispers, and it carries a question and a promise. 

There is a next time. And another. And another. You think you might be in trouble. You do far less mending jobs once your evenings are taken over by Joel. You still take them, darning socks on the soft with your feet in his lap, or basking in the way he looks proud and satisfied when you use the stand to fix up bigger projects. Some of your favorite nights are when he sits and strums his guitar while you sew, just two people finding peace by creating it themselves. Together. 

So when eight months later, that tape finds its way into the VCR you’ve only used twice, you’re more than familiar with the bulking shape of him. The way his hair sticks up when he runs worried hands through it. The grip of those hands, sure and steady.

He finds you there on your third viewing. You didn’t even hear him come up the porch, didn’t realize the sun was starting to crest over the mountains, that he’d be coming by with breakfast just like he promised.

The little Joel on screen is working his way to the operating room. You’ve stopped flinching at each crack of the gun or collapsing body. 

“Where the hell did you get that?” 

You do startle when he speaks, unaware that he’d been watching you watch the tape for a minute. His voice is low and slow, something lurking beneath the baritone that trips an alarm. 

This isn’t your Joel. This is that one, the one from the TV. 

He moves like a jaguar, slinking and graceful. “Where,” he snarls, breath curling off your clammy skin, “did you get this?” His hand curls around your shoulder at the base of your neck. 

“It was on my porch,” you whisper. 

His fingers dig in a little where he holds you in place. “Try again.”

“It’s the truth, I swear. I didn’t know what it was.” 

“How much did you watch?”

“All of it,” you whisper, though it feels like the click of a lock.

“Goddamnit, baby. Why’d you have to do that?” 

There’s an actual click, the unmistakable flick of a release. 

“Joel, please,” you say, voice breaking. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“I can’t take that chance,” he says. 

He still hasn’t brought the knife close to you, though, so you hazard a glance over your shoulder. You wish you hadn’t. He’s gone, his sweet eyes dead to the world, no whisper of his gentleness to be found. 

“I swear, please. You can trust me.” 

“Can’t trust anyone in this world, darlin’. You shoulda realized that by now.”

*title from "Through Glass" by Stone Sour

[nerdyelff]

Traditions

Pure tooth rotting fluff because Adar deserves it.

Summery: The resident elf in Adar's camp teaches the Uruk about her family's yule tradition.

Warnings: fluff, female reader, author's first time posting fics on tumbler.

Adar was drawn to the excited chatter and laughter of his children, it was rare to hear such joy in the cold months, and to hear them laughing brought warmth to his chest. He expected to find a sparring match or some typical game that was played to cure the boredom, so when he rounded the corner and came face to face with a large group of uruk huddled around their resident elf who was showing them how to make little embroidered ornaments, he was surprised. He watched as she patiently helped one of the younger ones untangle their thread and showed them how to hold it, so it didn't get tangled again, she showed Glug how to make little stars, and helped with making a tassel for someone else, all with an easy smile. He felt warmth bubble in his heart when a child proudly showed her his lopsided star, and she examined it exclaiming how beautiful it was and sent the little one bouncing away with a bright grin. 

"Oh, other way my dear, don't want the needle to poke you! There you go!" she directed, too focused on the uruk to notice Adar approach and only popped her head up when Glug greeted him. "Oh! Adar! have you come to join us?" she flashed him a bright grin, her eyes sparkling and cheeks slightly flushed from the cool air, he shook his head "I don't know, what are you doing?" he asked, feeling a grin of his own tilt his lips when the whole group excitedly told him that they were making ornaments, showing him what they had made, (Y/N) laughed, bright and clear. "As they said! We're making yule ornaments out of cloth scraps, a good way to enjoy a break. Are you joining in?" she asked, the Moriandor sat down crossed legged next to her "I fear that I am inexperienced when it comes to embroidery. I'm rather poor at it." he said, (Y/N) shook her head "Nonsense! That's only because nobody taught you! Here! I'll show you!" she said and handed him a needle and thread. She showed him how to do simple stiches and how to make little stars and leaves, laughing with him when he managed to knot the string and guiding his hands gently until he got the hang of it, before turning to praise a warrior who had made a little ornament in the shape of a sword, giggling when he puffed out his chest in pride, Adar watched as she fell back into the chatter of those around them "Why are we making ornaments anyway? It's fun, I'm just curious." he asked and had the pleasure of seeing the tips of her ears turn red.

"it's my family's tradition. Every year we'd each make ornaments and hang them on the evergreen in our yard, for yule. It was always something that we had done. And well..." she blushed brighter and looked down "There's an evergreen on the edge of town, and I wanted to share the tradition cause' you're my family." she trailed, Adar melted and he was sure that the others did the same, she saw them as family, loved them enough to share a precious tradition with them. A fond smile tilted his lips as he watched the shy elleth fidget with the ornament her hands for a moment before taking her hands in his own "We are honored that you would share this with us. We would be honored to hear more of your traditions if you're willing to share." he said and the uruk around them cheered their agreement, that got her distracted and she launched into all that her family did during the season, from making sweets with her mother to how she snuck around in the late hours of the night and left little gifts for her younger siblings. Her eyes sparkled as she excitedly told them of her people's songs and dances, the mulled wine with cinnamon and cloves and the candied pecans, and Adar fell deeper on love with the woman next to him, as she sang silly little tunes about snowmen and jingling bells told his children about her life and culture, she softened his heart when she stitched a little Warg wearing a silly scarf, he fell even deeper when she pulled a little girl into her lap to show her how to stitch a snowflake, praising the little one when she got the hang of it, the perfect representation of someone whose heart was full of joy and kindness. He laughed when she gasped in mock offense and launched the stuffed Warg at a teasing Glug's head, they sat and stitched until the dinner bell rang and the crowd raced off for their share of the warm stew.

It was later when they were walking back to their home with a handful's worth of ornaments each, that Adar brought up a thought he had "What if we pulled the evergreen into the center of camp tomorrow, that way everyone can see it." his proposal had the desired effect, (Y/N) seemed to shine with her joy "Really!" she asked, her tone going a pitch higher with her excitement, he nodded as they entered their home "I think it would be good to start new traditions now that we're settling. Winter has always carried cruel memories, it's time to change that, I think." (Y/N) gave an ecstatic squeal and hugged him "Oh! Thank you!" she cried before skipping off to put away the ornaments. Adar watched her go with a fond smile; she truly was the greatest gift he had ever been given. 

They settled, covered by a warm blanket with a book in hand, basking quietly in each other’s presence warmed by the fire that casted a gentle orange glow throughout the room. "You know, I left one tradition out." (Y/N) suddenly said from her place curled into his shoulder, he looked down at her and saw the mischievous grin that only worn when she had planned something, he raised an eyebrow "Oh?" she lifted her arm above them. He looked up and saw the single sprig of mistletoe and felt his own grin take over his face and bent down to kiss her. "I believe I like this tradition most of all." he breathed when he pulled away for air, before pulling her in for another kiss.

[bnsni]

"They were clearly checking you out and you didn't do anything, that's why I'm mad!" + prowl (i want see what are you doing with this 👀👀)

😈😈😈 ehgekjekek

—THE outfit you wore today was surely different from the ones you had every other. The change in tone irritated him and it was little too flattering for Prowl's taste : tight in every manner, inappropriate at certain angles, and it was definitely a sight for sore eyes.

Attraction comes with that, too — magnetic to the point, he'd roll his eyes at loony idiots tripping over their feet.Sometimes, ramming against walls and pouring a little too much coffee in their mug, it spills.

Is this the state of the Autobot faction? Only a mere change in fabric deters their focus entirely? Inefficient idiots. He wasn't letting this go. You're breaching a standard protocol and confrontation is key, even if it meant he'd have to express his disdainful displeasure at your new attire.

Though, everytime he pushed that thought away, opting to focus on how own reports — another sparing ogle from the bots clamps up his spark and he lets out a frustrated growl. It's not so hard to look the other way, is it?

You swivelled around in time for the Cop-bot to appear, frowning in all his glory. He doesn't say anything. A pinched expression is all he's got. More glaring. Silence. Just glaring. Glaring, and.... more glaring?

You interject before he could process a word.

"Is this your 'you forgot to put margins in your reports again' scowl or is it another scowl that's conjured up on a whim because you're mad at something different entirety?"

He shuts his mouth then opens it. "One that is nothing significant." He clips, strutting past you.

"Sure, nothing." You pottered after him with a grin. " Ratchet says you're hot to the touch, a little frisky today if he had to term it nicely."

"I wouldn't have to be if you're just as modest as every other day." He strides faster. "And, will you stop dragging your feet? It's very much irritating, thank you."

"Modest?" You retort. "Hide's got the most checks in the swear jar, prowl. I barely got a penny."

He halts, let's out a vent then turns around. "I meant modest as in your appearance."

You look down to your outfit, then up. "What's wrong with it?"

"That's entirely the point." He hissed. "You're too ignorant to realize what effect your attire is having on others. Clearly, there isn't enough optics in this base that would rather ogle at the resident liaison than do their work."

"You're blaming me for their inefficiency?"

"I'm blaming you for not taking accountability."

"I can't just tell them to stop looking can I?" You said. "Better yet, gouge out their eyeballs so they couldn't see anymore. Is that what you want?"

He leans in close and says lowly. "The least you could do is tell them off."

You look up, frowning. The urge to throttle his neck cables is threading on a thin line you're sure it'll break. That is until, a bubble of enlightenment popped.

"You're not....jealous, are you?'"

Prowl immediately clamps up. A blue-ish hue spreads across his cheeks, all the way up to his forehead. He leans away, huffing. His doorwings twitched irritably and his response is strangely sulky, almost child-like.

"Don't ask questions you know the answer to."

[sam-keeper]

Susan Twist: Word Lord?

Many* people** are wondering about the theory held by certain Doctor Who fans*** online that the actress Susan Twist in the new season of the long running franchise is playing what's known as a "Word Lord".

Now, granted, many more are wondering whether she might, in fact, be Susan, the Doctor's granddaughter. That, my friends, is exactly the kind of question a Word Lord would want you to be asking.

Lemme break this theory down for you.

Throughout this whole new season of Doctor Who, the protagonists have been haunted by the recurrence, in different roles, of a stage and character actor who happens to have the delightful name Susan Twist. Like, not in the show, in real life. According to Russel T Davies, she was the only actor they could get due to an "actor shortage", which seems like a pretty terrible and even implausible dilemma, but luckily Davies has made lemonade out of this very real production constraint! Twist popped up in every episode this season, in some form or other. That's versatile writing! No wonder they brought Rusty back as showrunner.

But perhaps there's more to the story than just the unfortunate realities of filming in a country ruled by a failed regime...

The Doctor and his companion Ruby started noticing Twist's recurring roles over the past few episodes, though the plot of each episode intervened before they could put anything definitive together. It's one of a number of nods to the metatextual content of the show--literal winks to the audience, another character (Mrs Flood) directly addressing the viewers, a whole musical number about how there's "always a twist at the end"--that suggested maybe some authorial tomfoolery was afoot, that maybe something a little tricky or tongue in cheek was happening.

But what could the explanation be? Could Susan Twist really be playing THE Susan, a relative of the Doctor's that hasn't been seen in the franchise since the 60s? That seems a little silly, surely! Or could she be playing another character, like... the Rani? or the Monk? Both of them got namedropped alongside Susan at one point. Or maybe she's the portended head of Maestro and the Toymaker's extracosmic family. I guess there's a theory this is Sutekh, the evil alien god from Pyramids of Mars? Sure, seems fun.

But no. Fuck all that noise. I know what's really going on here and it just coincidentally involves a character that I'm feral about, and that no one else has even heard of, a guy called, somewhat fittingly, Nobody No-one.

No-one shows up in just one and a quarter stories by Steven Hall for Big Finish's series of audio dramas, first as a minor opponent (in 45) and then as a much more motivated and fearsome one (in A Death in the Family). In the latter story, he manages to--no points if you worked this out from the title--kill the Seventh Doctor. How did a character with such a low profile manage such a feat? Well, Nobody No-one has powers comparable to a Time Lord: he is a Word Lord.

Word Lords are one of the most delightfully bonkers concepts to come out of the early exciting and experimental period in Big Finish's line of audio dramas. Hailing from another universe, they're the equivalent of Time Lords for a reality where narrative rather than chronology drives all existence. It's like if the Anchoring of the Thread established not linear time but, I guess, TV Tropes instead. Nobody No-one regenerates like the Doctor, and has his own equivalent to the TARDIS: the CORDIS, or Conveyance Of Repeating Dialogue In Space-time, which is a memetic construct transporting the Word Lord through repeated phrases, jokes, coincidental number recurrences, and so on. The CORDIS is heralded by the number 45 popping up, and you'd better believe I sat up and noticed how many times that number recurred in the code pattern in Dot and Bubble! In Death in the Family there's a whole military organization the Doctor's mucking around with--No, not UNIT. No, not Torchwood. A different thing, one run by a human supremacist vampire hold on we're getting off topic--and Nobody casually reveals at one point that his CORDIS was bouncing around inside their "For King And Country" mantra for years.

Nobody No-one's real fun as a villain comes from his special Bullshit Powers. He's a Word Lord, so he's basically a memetic being, right? He IS language in some sense. Like, apparently his CORDIS crashed into the alphabet after his first encounter with the Doctor, annihilating the 27th letter of the alphabet and causing the English Great Vowel Shift. This story does a ton with the concept of "what if a guy was words".

But what makes him so dangerous is a quirk of his own identity. To grasp what a Word Lord can do, you have to think linguistically, dialogically. Imagine someone haplessly says: "but, nobody could have gotten into that locked room to kill the ambassador!" What would that allow a Word Lord to do? And imagine further:

"No-one tells the sun whether or not to shine." "Nobody could survive that!" "Nobody could just kill the Doctor!"

One slip of the tongue, that's all it takes for Nobody No-one to gleefully command godlike power.

That's Nobody, though. I don't think Susan Twist is just Nobody. I mean, No-one could seriously ask you to believe that this character who appeared in an (unfairly, given its quality) obscure audio adventure, written by an author who only ever wrote those two stories for Doctor Who, with a bunch of wild over the top and no doubt difficult to write around powers, is going to suddenly come back as a major character in the third tv revival of this 60 year old franchise. Like, Nobody would expect Davies to start referencing, I don't know, the Shalka Doctor either, surely. And I wouldn't ask you to make that kind of totally absurd leap, not even if I happened to be writing some sort of tongue in cheek article.

No, what I'm--I mean, what the fans are suggesting is that this concept of a Time Lord but for stories, who comes from a Borgesian narrative dimension, appearing in one and one quarter obscure audio dramas by an author who never wrote anything else for Doctor Who... what the theory proposes is that there's a SECOND one of those guys.

Just think about it, think about it like a Word Lord. What has the fandom asked itself about this season? Surely, one of the foremost questions is simply: what about Susan, the Doctor's granddaughter? She's been name dropped a few times, the Doctor doesn't say she's definitively dead... could there be some reveal here that Susan is alive? There's got to be, right? That's what they're leading up to!

There's just got to be a Susan Twist.

That, my friends, is exactly how she snuck into this reality.

Now, maybe the "Susan Triad" slated to appear next episode isn't this Word Lord proper but a kind of, I don't know, fictionsuit or vessel or entry point. I'm also not sure what a "Susan Twist" would even want, what the grand scheme would be. Unlike Nobody No-one, there's not a lot of word games you can play with "Susan Twist" beyond the obvious. But, maybe that's part of the point. Nobody No-one was a megalomaniac, a guy who really did just want to watch the world burn. The Doctor's companion Hex accuses him of being "proper mad", and he responds, "Mad? I'm FUUURIOUS!" followed by an explosion from the grenade he had tossed into the duck pond. Nobody is a brash, arrogant, chaotic, and... probably not that bright guy, who has the advantage of his CORDIS's many tricks and his incredibly versatile name. Perhaps this new Word Lord wants something other than chaos and destruction. Maybe she simply wants what we've already seen her achieve in the show: universal ubiquity. There's always a Twist at the end.

Actually, this would weirdly parallel another beat from Death in the Family. In order to trap Nobody, the Doctor weaponizes his own narrative against the Word Lord, tapping into the universal internet and googling himself in order to build a whole proxy universe based on his own life. From another perspective, he basically uses the entire narrative of Doctor Who--all the episodes, all the Big Finish audios, all the Doctor Who Monthly comics, all the Virgin New Adventures--as an ideatic missile. This is such a cool concept I'd feel guilty about giving it away, only it happens about a fifth of the way through Death in the Family. Seriously, this audio GOES places. Anyway, the suggestion is that the Doctor is so entangled with the history of the universe, so threaded throughout all these other narratives, that his history effectively is a world unto itself that a being of narrative like Nobody might get completely lost in.

That's a kind of narrative ubiquity if there ever was one. If I was a Word Lord I'd be sorely tempted by that. Nobody is: he appears a perverse counterpart to the Doctor (and personally I think David Tennant would do a GREAT job playing him if he ever appeared in the show). I can't help but notice, incidentally, that we just got an episode where the shapeshifting Chuldur quickly became obsessed with cosplaying as the Doctor, and Wild Blue Yonder also introduced a couple of not-things trying to copy him. Could this Word Lord be seeking to build a narrative as strong and inescapable as the Doctor's?

It would be an interesting way of incorporating some of these meta elements without slipping too far into a kind of self-referential morass. It feels like Davies has been dancing right up on that line this entire season in a way that's exhilarating, but that also has been a bit nerve wracking for me. The more metatextual storytelling has exited the realm of weird independent art and entered the mainstream, the more cloying it's started to feel. Like, when you engage the audience, entreat them directly to care about the characters or write tearful paeans to the necessity of the Hero as a Symbol, the more it can start to feel like a bit of a desperate exercise in brand management. Clap if you DO believe in fairies, and all that. Doctor Who certainly has some history of guilt here--sorry, Steven Moffat, but sometimes it does get to be a bit much. And it does risk standing the purpose of literature on its head, where ironically through characters lauding the virtues of storytelling within society, the virtue of having participated in a transaction consuming art becomes the foundation of fandom, and the actual literary content is assumed, but treated as an afterthought.

Davies has thus far instead treated the meta content in two ways: as a unique physics to be solved, and as a way of exploring a particular bit of social commentary (sometimes more than one at once). Goblins use a "language of luck" and a physics of rope and knots, the Toymaker brings the world into a State of Play, and Maestro introduces a State of Musicals. To challenge these beings, the Doctor must understand their particular ontology and exploit it. As soon as the Bogeyman in Space Babies faces real peril, all the children who were afraid of it rally to its defense, which doubles as both a commentary on the "Teatime Terror for Tots" charge thrown at children's media like Doctor Who--children LIKE scary stories and creepy, gross monsters!--and reinforces Davies's acidic anger at social and political abandonment of people who are inconvenient to the bottom line. Rogue plays gleefully with fanfiction tropes, and its positioning of the Chuldur as "cosplayers" would riiight up to the edge of being a little too navel gazing about toxic fans... if not for the fact that the Doctor and Ruby are also explicitly cosplaying as Bridgerton characters, and the episode is still giving fans exactly what they want in the form of a whirlwind gay Doctor/Rogue romance. This season is concerned with these sorts of metatextual games, without being subsumed by them and becoming entirely about self-referential brand building.

A Death in the Family is also, notably, only partly about Nobody No-one and his machinations and the counter-machinations required to stop him, set into motion by the Seventh Doctor and carried out beyond his death by companions Ace and Hex. Like I said, a lot of the seismic action of the story is over within the first 25 minutes. The Word Lord is really just used as a jumping off point to talk about a bunch of other stuff: truth, lies, choices made for ourselves or made for us by others... we see multiple information-worlds built in the story, some of them more subtle than others. At one point Ace tearfully proclaims that traveling on the TARDIS with the Doctor "is the only life I've ever wanted!" The Seventh Doctor retorts, with some audible guilt and distress, "No, it's the only life you've ever HAD!" In a very real sense, the Doctor has created the notional worlds that Ace and Hex inhabit, defining the contours of Ace's life since she was a teenager, and deliberately staying silent about Hex's traumatic family history, deciding for both of them "what's best". Nobody No-one in that sense is a pretext, in the best tradition of Doctor Who, to dig into questions about power.

The metafictional is risky, but it's a narrative tool like any other, and it fits with a long history of Doctor Who as a franchise reflecting on itself and its place in culture, with everything from the Mind Robber's suggestion that the Doctor himself might be an escapee from fiction, to Vengeance on Varos and Trial of a Time Lord's dramatization of Doctor Who's conservative culture war critics, to the Last Great Time War as metaphor for the show's cancellation. In a sense, behaving as though cosplay or fandom or whatever don't exist and couldn't possibly be the idiom through which characters--even weird alien characters--interpret their reality and act upon it might equally alienate the show from being about any wider culture beyond itself, endlessly, the same dalek and cybermen and Master stories recycling forever. My hope is just that as Davies barrels into the finale at full speed, it's this sense of a meaning for Doctor Who beyond its own lore driving him. The anger we've seen from him about social issues, the commitment to changing the show where it needs to grow, and the willingness to take big swings at continuity all give me some reason to feel confident.

Confident, of course, that he has seen the wisdom and logic of building his arc around Susan Twist being a Word Lord. What? That's what this article is about, remember? That didn't stop being a thing. Anyway, I'm excited for friday, when all of us pulling for this theory will be proven indisputably right, and you will all, in deference, subscribe to my Patreon.

* alleged ** hypothetical *** me, specifically

[chemzee]

Hand headcanons

Yeah you heard right, basically the headcanons I have for how kiddos' hands look. Posted them a while back on Twitter, I suppose it would hurt posting it here too. Added a lil more info than original Twitter thread + other characters I didn't include.

Daniel: I like imagining him having long, slender but calloused fingers, his hands big and veiny as an adult. The tips and knuckles are a little rosy and he has some small healed scars from small cuts he made while cutting ingredients for potions and small burns from popping bubbles.

I also headcanon that Daniel has a bit of a habit of biting his nails and the skin around them when nervous, so his fingers look accordingly. Sometimes forgets to heal them, not until they get inflected (I do think he eventually unlearns that behavior as an adult though). Because of that, his nails never grow out long, but he prefers it that way for convenience reasons. Doesn't paint his nails himself, but never declines when one of his friends suggest to paint them (usually Lottie, Cassandra or Ivy).

Ivy: has soft (if not the softest) big warm hands, but shorter fingers. Her knuckles and tips of her fingers are rosy, she keeps her nails short but likes painting them in pastel colors, although the polish wears off pretty fast, it's rare to spot her with perfectly painted nails. Not because she doesn't care, but because she often forgets to apply the nail polish again and only remembers at most inconvenient moments.

Winifred's hands are similar to Ivy's, but her knuckles and fingertips are a little less rosy and she keeps her nails a little longer. Although unlike Ivy, her hands are often cold. Usually wears a light blue nail polish, I like to think that Cassandra likes to do her nails. :3

Cassandra: keeps her nails short for convenience, to be able to wear gloves, peeling her nails into an oval shape. Bc of that, she usually uses transparent (?) nail polish (although there are days when she paints them black or emerald green), but still takes really good care of her nails, as expected. Her hands aren't particularly big, but her fingers are slim and long. Her hands surprisingly warm and soft under her gloves, but she does have little almost unnoticeable scars from the cuts she got when tending to her plants.

Lottie: probably keeps her nails the longest out of all girls, but they're still not really long. Always paints them in different colors each time, usually every few weeks, sometimes with patterns. Often has rests of paint under her nails, but she does clean under her nails before lunch. Her hands are pretty small and a little calloused, she also has an "artist bump" on one of her fingers.

Robyn: her hands are pretty big and calloused, mostly on the palms (bc of her constantly holding the broom or a bat). Her fingers are neither long or short, somewhere in the middle I'd say and her knuckles are the sharpest there are around. Keeps her nails short for convenience, doesn't use nail polish mostly bc she's not particularly interested in wearing one. Has a bunch of scars from cuts and bruises related to quidditch accidents.

After being hit by a lightning in one of Y2 side quests, her whole body got covered in Lichtenberg scars, including the back of her hands.

Kevin: has probably the biggest among all kiddos, his fingers long. Has a tendency to bite his nails when nervous, although he doesn't go out of his way to obliterate his fingers into the bloody mess the way Daniel does. Tries to unlearn this habit and regularly cuts his nails short. I feel like he's the kind of guy who's skin often gets dry, so he often uses one of those hand creams (potions? There's gotta be something like that in the wizarding world). Has small, almost unnoticeable healed cuts on his fingers (from papercuts).

Abigail: her hands are pretty small but she has long fingers. Her hands, especially her knuckles, are full of scars and bruises. Keeps her fingernails short, but they're hard to cut bc her nails are thicker due to her lycanthropy, not to mention that they grow out a lot faster, so they're cut/peeled pretty irregularly. Still, does her best to keep them good looking.

The Freys: both brothers have big but slim hands with long fingers. They both have a few scratches anc bruises on their knuckles, left by whatever antics they did, but Colby a little less. Their nails are trimmed irregularly and they're really dirty. Like, black line underneath dirty. There's always dirt underneath their fingernails which they don't bother cleaning, much to dismay of Cassandra who has a misfortune of having to see their hands on daily basis.

Wenshi: big hands with long, slender fingers and sharp knuckles. Takes good care of his nails, keeps them the longest out of all the boys, but still regularly cuts them. Similarly to Lottie has a calloused bump on one of his fingers, a "writer's dump".

[fruitcoops]

Debut

Day 5, ft. our black-cat lucid-dreaming king. Characters belong to @lumosinlove (sorry not sorry for what I did to your favorite boy) and header belongs to @noots-fic-fests!

Yesterday's movie: It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! (1966)

TW for mentioned movie-murder (nobody actually dies)

Regulus spared the glass double-doors hardly a glance before wrinkling his nose. It was hot out, sticky and steamy, and the direct sun pummeling the entire courtyard reeked of early September. Busy chatter ran rampant around him between flashes of color and blurry faces.

“I’m dead,” Regulus said decisively.

Next to him, Leo rolled his eyes and caught his tennis ball on the downswing. “You haven’t even been to first period.”

“This—” Regulus gestured at the main building, blindingly bright and stuffier than any high school had the right to be. “This is hell. Ergo, dead.”

“Tell me again in pre-calc and I’ll believe you.”

“You tested out of pre-calc,” Regulus reminded him, laying back on the hood of Leo’s car. The blue paint was unspecific and unassuming, almost black in certain lights. “And that’s an ugly sweater you’d never wear.”

Grey cotton switched to thick stripes by the time he looked at Leo next; the stupid silver chain remained around his neck. Leo frowned down at himself. “I like this sweater.”

“Hmm.” The characters didn’t tend to care whether Regulus interacted with them much or not. The plot plodded on until he shook himself awake or the blare of an alarm did it for him. It rarely came to a conclusive end.

“Natalie got a phone call last night from some weirdo on the landline,” Leo continued, tossing his ball back up in the air. “They were talking about…I dunno, I think he was asking her questions? Sounded like a guy, anyway.”

“Horrifying.”

“Kasey’s going over tonight with Finn’s brother to keep her company.”

Regulus stretched his back against the windshield and looked to the vast sky. No matter how far he tilted his head back, the old tin roof was always visible. It was a mutated version of his memories—he hadn’t tried very hard to remember what it looked like from the outside. Sirius had excelled there. Every professor remembered his name.

A thread on his baggy jeans was coming loose. If he allowed the dream to progress, Leo would no doubt call him later to inform him, distraught, that Kasey and Finn’s brother (whose name slipped Regulus’ mind constantly) and probably Natalie had died in some explosively gory fashion. It would be distressing despite the fallacy of it all, he’d drag himself awake, and then it would be three o’clock in the morning and he would be sweaty with adrenaline. Regulus had enjoyed the party at Leo’s new house. He’d prefer not to pay the cost of attendance (a rare seasonal hangover) before he absolutely had to.

Denim-on-denim warned him of a new presence before he could actively pick a new story. “O’Hara.”

“Babe, is he bothering you?” Finn’s voice dragged and drawled with California haze. Under his arm, Tremblay narrowed his eyes at Regulus. His bubblegum gave a violent pop.

“Not too bad,” Leo said playfully.

Did Finn even own a denim jacket? God, he probably did. Even Regulus’ imagination couldn’t have pinned something that specific from nothing. Maybe he should just let the rest of this murderous Riverdale-ass nonsense play out in its original form to punish that fashion nightmare.

“Can you wear a hoodie like a normal person?” he yawned. Apparently, he was overtired even in his sleep.

Finn fixed him with a comically disgusted look. “Why are you even here?”

Where the fuck had Regulus picked that accent from? “This is my high school,” he said. “I spent the whole night at your house, can I have some peace and quiet here?”

Logan popped another bubble. His scowl held far too little legitimate danger; if nothing else, that would have tipped Regulus off. The original outright animosity had rested much heavier on him than teenage pouting.

But there—on the steps. “Calisse de crisse,” he muttered, swinging himself down from the hood of Leo’s car.

The courtyard was almost perfect under his feet, as if he was feeling the asphalt through his old loafers. He had hated those goddamn shoes. He came to a sharp halt, right as his shadow fell across lined paper marked with meticulous, infuriating lines.

“Go away.”

Sirius blinked up at him. “Hi.”

“Stop,” Regulus insisted. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Why?”

“We didn’t go to high school together.” Honestly, it was so embarrassing for his brain to mix it up this badly. Valley-Girl Finn O’Hara was a nightmare in and of itself; the least his imagination could do was keep track of a timeline. “Put your physics away and leave.”

Sirius’ brow creased. “How did you know I was doing homework?”

“Unlucky guess.”

“How did you know it was—"

“Because you’re always doing your fucking physics in my nightmares!” Regulus dragged a hand down his face and gripped the back of his own neck. It felt like nothing, not even air. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face toward the clouds. “Yes, I understand, I hated the classes Sirius excelled in as an extension of my own complex inner world, merci, au revoir.”

When he looked down again, Sirius was gone. Remus Lupin leaned on the railing by the bay windows, looking out over the river. He had a book in one hand and a bloody knife in the other.

Regulus stared at him.

“No.”

It was Leo when he blinked. A dark robe and everything, and that tennis ball instead of a book. His face got a little fuzzy in profile, but cleared up when he looked at Regulus head-on.

Regulus tipped his head back and forth. “Better.”

He walked with Leo through the never-ending halls. Some were direct rip-offs of his actual high school, down to the navy lockers and their silver buckles. Others had been borrowed: a staircase from elementary school, a music room from Steinhardt, the artificial glow of Sirius’ basement skating rink around a corner. His stomach swooped at the sight of the broken dumbwaiter he and Sirius had used for hide and seek, and he ground his teeth hard.

He had his loafers on. His khakis were tight on his thighs. Leo’s footsteps made no sound.

“I think you’re supposed to be a serial killer,” Regulus noted on their third circuit of the second floor. “With a mask and everything.”

“Oh.” Leo sounded almost disappointed. “I mean, I could?”

“I might just be bad at imagining that.”

“Should’ve stuck with Lupin,” Leo agreed.

“I can go off and find him—”

“Don’t leave me here,” Leo groaned, walking backward for a few floppy steps that made him look more like himself than he had the whole time.

Regulus huffed. “Neither of you pose much of a danger to me.”

“I think we do, in a way.”

--

No.

The thought was forceful enough to pull Regulus to the surface. He exhaled hard, blinking fast until his left eye decided to get with the program and open properly.

The stove’s electric clock told him it was just past two in the morning. Not bad.

He sighed. His feet, tangled in the fresh sheets Leo had laid out for him, still felt too compressed. That explained the loafers. He could get up for a few minutes; make a snack, take a walk around the still-sparse main floor of the house. He didn’t hear anyone else up yet.

Or he could stay here, burrowed in a quilt that smelled lightly of magnolia. The sheets let his legs free when he stretched, still shaking off the scent of bubblegum and industrial cleaning solution. He was tired. Perhaps a little drunk, enough to dull the oncoming throbbing behind his temple. The sugar rush was long dead.

Regulus tucked his nose down into a butter-yellow square and shut his eyes. Being asleep was an exhausting business. He had too many questions. There was too much to nitpick. Too much psychoanalysis to avoid.

The sheer audacity of Leo to pull some therapy trick in Regulus’ own dream. As if he wouldn’t be aware of it, as if he’d fall into the trap that easily. Regulus muffled a frown in the quilt. If Leo, the real one, was an actual danger to anything but the occasional low doorframe, he wouldn’t be on the foldout in the first place. Really, it was just lazy writing.

Do better, Regulus thought as he shuffled deeper into his cocoon. From the top, this time.

[mothduchess]

Trans Prom: The Precession

It was timeless. A Polaroid of hours. It would appear in no yearbook, yet it felt like it could. The venue was nothing special, a large building prepared for just the occasion. But there were still puddles in the parking lot and leaves crumbled upon the rug. This wasn't a perfect prom. Some might even call it fake or unreal.

But, it was ours.

Our arrival began with a fat tongue of clouds darkened by night lolling down from the heavens. From the billowing folds of the undulating softness came what else, but a fox; resplendent and devious, orange white and black. But this fox begat two, then ten, then a teeming tango of tangerinic troubles. They were, are, and always would be the Swarm, and each little fox was dressed with a charming bow tie for the occasion - all cockeyed of course. They're foxes. So they tumbled over one another as a tide of screams and shrieks across the dark asphalt until the swarm reached the staircase. And suddenly.... they were still. Stiff as statues every one of them, a path forming from an inner circle formed of the foxes.

Then, a flair of motion! A little girl, dressed in a delightful yellow color, came hopping out. Her tail and ears fluttered in the company of ribbons. Her felt skin caught and hugged the light, thread curling with her smile from a bounded snout. A single button eye gazed upon the doors of the building with such unbridled happiness as her tiny paws tip tap tapped upon the ground. "We're here! We're here we're here!" The Little One squealed. The ragdoll spun happily sending her dress twirling into a circle. The Swarm's tide carefully made sure she never hit a puddle in her dancing. She was going to run to the doors, yet a trio of obsidian-black-sharp claws took hold of her tag loop, causing her to fall onto a fox's back. The claw then slipped back into the collective as another figure arose.

In contrast to the Little One, whose every fiber and thread read as soft, huggable, and a touch scuffed, the Creature was.... different. Light fled from its presence and its irrationally towering stature cast a cloak of shadows, its body monochrome like a rough sketch. Dark compound eyes beheld the scene as previously hidden mandibles clicked and clacked in anticipation. Rail thin legs propelled the lepidopteran horror forth as gaunt arms swung lazily in time. The frightening moth of tooth and claw, with its gangling neck and vivid terror of a form would not be constrained by dress nor suit. Instead, the figure's massive wings formed a gleaming gothic garb that flowed effortless from the monster's full neck fluff, clearly sprinkled with golden dust.

The Creature whirred and chittered, addressing the Little One. The living doll whined and crossed her arms.

"But I don't wanna wait! We missed the last one!!! And all the dumb dances before that!"

A croaking click came in response. The plush softened and hugged the Creature.

"I know I know, I just wanna show you a fun time too big guy. You rarely come out with us."

"Oh this one'll be fine Lil One! Iiiiiiiiii PROMISE!"

A streak of ink laced with colors streamed out of the foxes like an oil slick before swirling into a twister. Stuttering and flailing, a third regained their balance. Similar to the first, there were hints of a fox. But unlike the young doll, this figure was a living cartoon, and less of an animal - more the implication of one. A beaming pearly smile cut through the muted colors as two large paws adjusted a set of suspended straps and a cozy set of britches. Every action was accompanied by a sting of sound and popping black bubbles.

"Has she come out yet?" asked the Little One. The Talker produced a new button and some thread. They jaunted up smoothly with a bouncing bob and got to work - Little One sat on a concrete railing adjacent to the staircase. "Oh no no no the Lady is getting herself ready! Think she's the most excited of any of us yesiree! Looking like a fine beauty our girl." "But last time I saw her she was looking on her phone!" "Oh that's just her anxiety you know how she is. But take it from me, she's shinin' like a star! And now don't I always tell the truth~?" The Talker grinned like the moon as Little One giggled, her new button eye blinking good as new. They always had the right words, the living cartoon with the argent tongue. The Creature stared down at the two, then across the lot for threats. But all that was found were other prom goers. A cow, a dragon, a rat; some came in crowds like this, others came alone, others came with friends. But no one judged who anyone was. Yes, most here looked rather different any other night. They weren't so many, they weren't as smooth or likely as confident. But such was the magic, such was the dream. For one final time did the foxes part. Little One held her breath as the Talker snickered. And reflected in the Creature's eyes was a white figure garbed in a light pink robe emerging from the swarm of foxes. A vixen of pearly fur and red markings that swam across her surface, occasionally floating off the tips of her many tails. Wrapped about her large ears were headphones, providing a soundtrack to this wonderful day. Sharp and strappy heels clicked and clocked across the lot as she walked in a strut, a nervous chuckle bubbling out of her snout. "Do I look good?" the Lady asked. Her paws laced and weaved through each other, tails squirming behind her with every anxious buzz. But the smile on her snout slipped her feelings to be here. Little One nodded excitedly as the Creature clicked mysteriously. "You're lookin' wonderful!!! You dressed up great hun, you're gonna knock em dead!" "We're so pretty! Do you think we can meet some friends here?!" Little One chirped. The Lady patted the small girl. "Hehe, I'm sure we will. We didn't arrive early. But I don't think we're late." The kitsune strolled on forth as the rest of her trailed behind. The Creature lurked and shadowed as the Talker bounced and strutted. Little One scurried and scampered to and fro with the energy of youth, all the while the Swarm fled to places the eyes don't see. But it was the Lady who took the front; her chest pounded with excitement and a long repressed joy as tears danced at her eyes. Her ears twitched - music pumped from the vibrating heart just beyond the double teeth of the mouth of the prom venue. Chattering, foot steps, the faint whiff of punch and chips. Her eyes screwed shut before the rest of her patted her softly on the fur. As confidence returned, she pushed open the doors! All together, the group hollered! "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, ROSE HAS ARRIVED!!!" ====================

@zaigg is the creator of trans prom! Check out the tag for other creative types!

[patchworkgargoyle]

oc fic: if i could hold you for a minute

Have something I've been working on for a few months and that made me cry multiple times while I wrote it.

If anyone's curious about the context, I would be extremely happy to explain!!

Featuring Sam: original male character, @steves-strapcollection's. Dominik: original transmasc character, mine. Mentioned: Vinny, Tig (also Ger's); Willow (@tboygareth's); Pond (@stobinesque's) Rating: E || Words: ~7.8k || CW: major character death, semi-graphic descriptions of said death, hurt/no comfort, cunnilingus, penetrative sex Title from Francesca - Hozier

Sam’s knees ache. He’s known for a while he’s getting too old for this shit, and if anything’s going to remind him, it’s this. Shifting, he feels his shoulder brush against Dom’s. And though he knows it’ll give too much away, he still caves to the need to lean his shoulder against him.

It’s all he can do. His hands are tied, after all.

When Dom takes his weight easily, pushes back into him—a knowing, reassuring presence—Sam’s lips tick up in a brief, bitter smile, remembering how different things were barely a day before.

♣♣♣

Sam’s hands held Dom’s slender hips firmly against the door while he slowly pressed his body closer, effectively trapping him. Dom didn’t fight it. He arched into the weight of Sam’s body instead, as best as he could under his strong grip. Each point of contact made Sam crave more. And Dom was smirking in that infuriating way of his that made Sam hot under the collar, chin tilted up defiantly, head to the side, his stormy eyes dark and smug like a dare. A challenge he’d been issuing all damn night.

He’d managed to control himself, even as Dom hovered around him like an annoying goth hummingbird in the kitchen while Sam had cooked dinner. And because Dom could never keep his hands to himself when they’re alone, Sam had to endure every touch and caress without his resolve breaking. If he broke, he’d never get dinner ready.

Dom knew it, too, and proceeded to be a massive fucking pest.

He’d dart into Sam’s space and steal a slice of cheese, a chunk of tomato. Popped it into his mouth with a self-satisfied grin before Sam could slap his hand away and obscenely sucked his fingers clean. He’d had to re-tie his apron twice because Dom had sidled up behind him, wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist and distracted him by nipping at his ear so his clever fingers could loosen the knot. Sam should’ve learned the first time, but feeling Dom’s chest against his back, his teeth on his skin as he murmured about dessert, was too much of a distraction.

It was more annoying that Sam couldn’t even be annoyed at him. As much as he tried not to, every time Dom slinked up to bug him, touch him, tease him, Sam smiled, begrudgingly fond. It fed the desire slowly burning in his belly, the tension between them simmering like the sauce bubbling away on the stove.

Even dinner was a trial. Sitting across from Dom at the kitchen island—their kitchen island, in their new condo—and not even bothering with the dining table, they traded jokes and stories about their day and heated looks over their wine glasses. He’d wanted to kiss Dom so badly when he’d laughed loud and bright at Sam’s dry humour, black hair threaded with silver spilling over his shoulders when he threw his head back. Getting that sound out of him felt like he’d won the lottery, made him want to test his luck again, especially because Dom had this habit of hiding his mouth behind the back of his hand, or turning away, when he smiled or laughed that much.

He got shy. That was more thrilling than anything else Sam had ever done, no matter how often he’d seen it.

So once their plates were cleared and the last of the wine had been sipped, Sam’s resolve crumbled. He left their dirty dishes on the island so he could coax Dom off the stool and towards his bedroom for dessert, and this time, it was Sam who wouldn’t keep his hands to himself. He felt he’d earned that.

Now he had this addictive man under his hands, against his body, in their room, and Sam couldn’t get enough. He had to stop and stare at Dom almost in awe, taking in the mirth that wrinkled the corners of his eyes, the light flush on his cheekbones, his wine-tinted, kissed-red lips. Moments like this bowled Sam over sometimes; he had known Dom for so long that in one look he could catalogue all the changes that time had caused against all the things that stayed the same. And he loved every bit of it. Every bit of Dom.

“I know I’m pretty, my darling, but you’re starting to drool,” Dom said, looping one long finger through the simple gold chain around Sam’s neck. He tugged at it and Sam followed easily, thoughtlessly.  “Why just stare when you could be fucking me brainless?”

Sam scoffed. “Christ, you're so full of yourself.” He wanted to sound annoyed and was only half successful, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And yet.” Another tug brought their faces so close that each low, syrupy word Dom spoke made their lips brush together, just slightly. Temptingly. “I want to be full of you. Been waiting all fucking day for this.”

Dom's free hand reached down between them to palm at Sam's half-hard cock. He let out a small groan, twitching into the touch as Dom slowly stroked and squeezed him over his jeans. Deft fingers left light, teasing touches along his cock that only made him want. He needed skin on skin, craved the feeling of sinking into Dom's wet, warm cunt. More than that, he just wanted to be closer, always closer. Sam groaned again, this time frustrated.

“Then why are you teasing me?” he complained gruffly, though he knew the answer.

“Because it's fun,” Dom said.

Sam shook his head, unable to shake off his smile. “You’ve had your fun all night.” Leaning in, he brushed his nose along the tattooed column of Dom's throat, pleased when it pulled a shiver from him. The scent of his cologne—something musky and sharp, refined and animalistic—was strong here in the tender places of his body. Sam breathed it in deeply from his pulse point and hummed.

That Dom willingly bared his throat for him made Sam insane every time. It took over ten years to get through all of Dom’s carefully constructed walls and the reward was so sweet. 

Sam took his time kissing up Dom’s neck, across his cheek. He poured his adoration into soft, scarred skin, letting Dom soak it up. When Sam reached his lips, instead of kissing him, he pulled back and smirked at the look of annoyance he got for it. Dom tipped his chin up, a silent question, but still Sam didn’t kiss him.

His smirk grew wider when Dom said, tetchy, “Do I have to ask?”

Sam shrugged. “I like hearing you say it,” he said. It took a lot of restraint not to laugh when Dom’s eyes narrowed further. He’d cave. Sam saw it coming in the twitch at the corner of his lips. Dom sighed.

“Please kiss me, Sam,” he asked, irritated and sincere, and like every time Dom had asked before, Sam lit up inside and immediately gave him what they both wanted.

Kissing Dom was the best fucking thing. Sam was gentle at first, basically chaste, kissing Dom again, and again. Slowly, deliberately, revelling in the feeling of his soft lips. Dom melted into him, matching each kiss with the same kind of affection. He gasped when Sam’s hands inched up under the hem of his untucked shirt, and Sam deepened the kiss, their tongues meeting softly, hungrily. The arousal burning in his belly grew steadily hotter as Dom’s tongue caressed his, their breaths mingling, kisses turning messy but no less thorough. Sam chased the taste of the Sangiovese that still lingered, acidic and sweet.

Sam grazed his fingers along Dom’s skin as each fiddly little button on his stupidly expensive black shirt came undone. Dom slipped out of it, letting it fall to his feet, and Sam began moving down, pressing his lips to the familiar angles of his collarbones, the planes of his chest. Flicked at one of Dom’s pierced nipples with the tip of his tongue and then caught it between his teeth and pulled; smirked at the small, cut-off whine that followed, then soothing him with the flat of his tongue.

When Sam dropped to one knee he looked up at Dom to see a flash of shock, quickly hidden by a complicated expression he couldn't make sense of.

“You okay?” Sam asked, resting a hand on Dom's thigh.

“Yeah…” Dom reached out to brush a few locks of hair away from Sam's forehead, twisting one around his finger to make it extra wavy before he tucked it in with the rest. The smile that broke out across his face was so painfully tender Sam couldn't help but return it. “I really am.”

He kept that hand in Sam’s hair and undid his belt with the other, the hiss of leather on fabric making Sam’s cock twitch as it reminded him of the times they used that belt in other ways. Dom tossed it out of the way though, and Sam helped him out of his pants, broad palm cupping his pale, wiry calf while he eased the fabric off of Dom’s foot. 

Once he was naked, Sam’s eyes and hands eagerly followed the long, angular line of Dom’s body, stopping when he had his hands on Dom’s hips. Guided by the gentle hold on his hair, Sam kept his eyes locked on Dom’s as he kissed up one thigh and along the sensitive crease of his hip. He ducked down to tease the tip of his tongue along the seam of Dom’s cunt, finding him already slick. Sam groaned at the taste and delved deeper, making Dom gasp as he slowly lapped at his wet folds, then over Dom’s entrance to his dick.

“Taste so fucking good,” he murmured, and Dom huffed a laugh.

“You always say that,” Dom said like he was annoyed, but Sam knew it was fondness.

Sam smirked as he lifted Dom’s leg over his shoulder, making him shudder as he grazed his fingers along the inside of his knee before holding his hips again. “And I always will.”

“Fucking—oh—sap.” Dom went breathless when Sam dived back in, chuckling. Dom wasn’t any less sentimental. He was just as bad, if not worse, but Sam wasn’t going to interrupt himself again to say so when he’d much rather be eating him out.

He laved the flat of his tongue through Dom’s folds, just barely dipping into his entrance each time, toying with the hood and head of his perfect dick before repeating the process, tasting and teasing. He kept making these small sounds that drove Sam a little crazy. The grip on his hair tightened, the slight pain stoking his desire, and Dom’s leg started to squeeze his shoulder, asking Sam for more before Dom could even get the words out. But Sam kept it up until he heard a hollow thud and a frustrated whine.

“Sam, fucking—please,” Dom begged. Sam paused, glancing past the dark, trimmed hair he had his face buried in. Dom was breathing in a deep, measured way that Sam knew was his way of keeping level-headed, but his head was thrown back against the door and he covered one of his squeezed-shut eyes with one hand. Christ, he was gorgeous, and he always said please so prettily. 

Sam wrapped his lips around Dom’s dick with a groan, sucking and licking at him. His hips tried to buck against his mouth but Sam held him still. The moans he was pulling out of Dom now had his cock achingly hard and he didn’t care. They’d get to it. Dom deserved all of his attention.

It wasn’t long before Dom’s legs started to tremble, the heel in Sam’s back digging in urgently. Sam slipped one finger into Dom’s cunt easily, then worked in a second, a third, until he was keening desperately as Sam found his sweet spot and didn’t relent. He was so fucking wet every thrust of his fingers made a squelching sound. Sam licked lower just to taste more of the familiar tang of him, dipped his tongue in alongside his fingers and made Dom heave a sharp breath. When he got his mouth around Dom’s cock again, Dom started babbling.

“Fu–fuck, Sam, darling, don’t fucking stop, g-god, I love you and your fucking mouth,” he said, panting, and when Sam gave an amused hum Dom whimpered at the sensation before continuing, “perfect fucking mouth, perfect man, shit.” Dom’s voice trailed off into frantic breaths. Each exhale carried a needy sound and his legs were fully shaking now. The praise made Sam giddy. Every time Dom called him perfect, said I love you, Sam wanted to hide, kiss Dom senseless, something. Dom loved him. Sam would never get tired of hearing it.

Slick began to pool in the palm of Sam’s hand. Nails dug painfully into his scalp. Sam knew he was close and eagerly sought the prideful high of making Dom come. When he did his whole body went rigid, a loud, deep groan rising from his throat as he twitched against Sam’s mouth and clenched around his fingers. Sam kept sucking and fingering him through it until Dom pushed him away with a shuddery gasp, his knees wobbling so much that Sam rasped, “C’mere,” and took Dom’s weight as he half collapsed onto Sam’s lap.

Laughing breathlessly, Dom tucked his face into Sam’s neck as they held each other. Sam kissed his shoulder and rubbed soothing circles over his back, more than content to let Dom collect himself even though he strained painfully against the fly of his jeans. But he’d wait, not expecting anything. He’d wait for him forever.

Dom pressed leisurely kisses up Sam’s throat before he reached his lips and shifted up Sam’s thighs to sit tantalisingly close to his dick. But he paused to look at Sam and cup his face in his palms, thumbs caressing his cheekbones, so openly, deeply loving that Sam felt… divine. Dom kissed him then and the whole world fell away. Sam couldn’t describe the way Dom’s lips touched his as anything other than devout. Breath hitching, Sam’s brows knit together as he held Dom close and kissed him back just as gently, as devoted.

“I love you so much, Samuele,” Dom whispered reverently when he broke away.

Sam kissed him once, his lips lingering before he confessed, “I love you too, Dominik, so much it hurts sometimes.”

“I don’t want you to hurt, my darling.”

“It’s a good kind of hurt.” Sam looked up at Dom, brushed his thumb over his bottom lip and said, “But another kiss could help.”

Dom rolled his eyes a little, but kissed Sam’s thumb through his fond smile. Wrapping his fingers around Sam’s wrist, he took Sam’s hand and kissed his palm, then his wrist, then the familiar knife tattooed on his forearm. He wondered if Dom could feel the way his heart beat for him under his lips.

“Better?” Dom asked, and Sam hummed thoughtfully.

“Might need a few more,” he said, and caught Dom’s lips in another kiss as he hitched him higher on his lap. Dom gasped into Sam’s mouth when his cunt rubbed against the bulge in Sam’s jeans. Groaning low and hungry when Dom started rocking his hips, Sam murmured, “Wanna be inside you, sweetheart, please.”

“Then we should get off the floor, unless you want to fuck me here.”

“You deserve the bed.”

Dom huffed, amused, but Sam tightened his grip around him and, easily keeping Dom in his arms, stood in one smooth motion despite his knees popping. The sound made Dom laugh more, mouth pulled into a teasing smirk as he said, “Watch your knees, old man.”

Sam scoffed but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he walked the short distance to the bed, knelt on the mattress, and carefully laid Dom out on the bedspread, following him down to lick into his mouth, slow and sweet, before he stood to undress. Dom shuffled up the bed to get comfortable, lounging against the pillows, legs spread to show off his soaked cunt as he lazily stroked his dick between two fingers.

He was so gorgeous, spread out on their bed like that, lithe and relaxed. Dim light from the window made his skin glow like silver, the deep blue of his eyes bright and intense as he watched Sam strip. He preened a bit under Dom’s attention, flexing as he shed his clothes and smirking when Dom’s eyes darkened with want. Sam sighed once his cock was finally free from his jeans, stroking himself just enough to make Dom lick his lips.

“Come here,” he demanded, stretching out enticingly, and Sam, always helplessly drawn in by him, obeyed.

Climbing onto the bed, he took the hand Dom was using to touch himself and brought it to his mouth, sucking his fingers clean. It pulled a needy groan from Dom’s chest. He took his fingers from Sam’s mouth and wrapped them around the back of his neck to drag him close, and Sam laid his body along Dom’s in one sinuous line. Finally they were skin to skin and Sam’s nerves lit up at the touch. He asked, “What do you need, Dominik?”

“Need you to fuck me,” Dom said, rocking his hips up. Sam’s cock rubbed against Dom’s pelvis and he exhaled shakily, grinding down on him.

Humming, Sam traced his nose down Dom’s cheek, kissed his jaw. “Not gonna fuck you tonight, kitten.” He waited for Dom’s offended, bewildered noise before he continued. “Gonna make love to you.”

Dom glared and shook his head, unwillingly smiling the whole time. “Ugh, you’re such a romantic,” he complained, but there was a blush to his face that wasn’t there before. Sam kissed his cheekbones where the colour was darkest and felt the warmth against his lips.

“You love it.”

“Only because it’s you.” 

Sam grinned, painfully fond. “Guess I’m pretty lucky then.” 

It was so easy to slip into Dom. Sam barely pulled back, didn't need to look down; he knew Dom’s body as well as he knew his own. His cock slid through Dom’s wet folds, and Sam kept his eyes on him as the head caught on his entrance and he sank in. Dom’s eyelids fluttered and they both sighed at the feeling of being stretched open. Sam wanted to take it slow and savour this, to sink all the way into Dom’s cunt and stay there in that tight heat he’d been longing for all night. Reaching up, he brushed some of Dom’s hair out of his face, cupping his cheek as they moved together. 

He loved watching Dom’s face like this. Every twitch of an expression, nothing hidden anymore between them. Dom couldn’t hold his gaze like this for the longest time. He’d eventually look away, make Sam break eye contact, anything to avoid being seen. But he didn’t look away anymore. And the way Dom looked up at Sam now, like he saw something sacred in him…

Sam had to kiss him. He pinned Dom down gently and poured every bit of love into the kiss, feeling more than hearing Dom moan against his lips. When he fully sank home into Dom Sam gasped into his mouth, Dom licking into him with a needy whine.

He stayed there, just like he wanted, feeling Dom clench and twitch around him. And Dom didn’t squirm, didn’t complain, even brought Sam’s hips in closer with his leg and kept him there, buried so fucking deep they could’ve been one person. They just laid there, surrounded by each other, kissing for so long that Sam lost track of time. He lived for this intimacy, the feeling of their lips and tongues, sharing adoring touches, and the way he fit so fucking perfectly in him. He really was at home, here in Dom’s arms. Anywhere Dom was, Sam wanted to be, always.

“My darling,” Dom murmured so sweetly that Sam had to kiss him again.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“If you don’t move now,” he said with a threatening tilt to his head, “I’m going to throw the worst tantrum you’ve ever fucking seen.”

Sam’s loud laughter shook them both, and when he did as he was told, pulling out deliciously slowly, Dom’s smile widened even as he hummed thickly, his head falling back against the pillows. “God, I love you,” Sam confessed for the hundredth time.

“And I love you. Now make love to me, darling.”

“Anything you want.”

Sam pushed back in just as slow, both of them sighing in relief. He kept up that pace, letting his pleasure build like warm coals instead of a blazing fire. Dom met his thrusts with languid rolls of his hips, his fingers raising goosebumps where they roamed over Sam’s body, only sometimes using his nails as more of a tickle than a scratch, making Sam shiver at the faint sparks left in their wake.

The only time they looked away from each other was when they kissed, messy and slow and needy. Sam wanted this forever. He drew back and saw the raw, staggering adoration he felt reflected in Dom’s face and thought of the rings he’d been looking at a few days ago. Taking Dom’s left hand in his, Sam brought it to his lips to kiss his knuckles.

“I’m yours, Dominik. You know that, right?” he said, grinding into Dom harder, deeper, his voice getting rough and desperate. “All of me, every piece. For as long as you want and past that, even.”

Dom’s mouth opened around a low moan. “I know, fuck, I know. I’ll want you for as long as I can fucking have you.” He pulled their hands to his chest, guided Sam’s face closer with an insistent hand in his thick hair, and looked up at Sam with possessive, defiant love as he said, shaky but unflinching, “You’re mine, and I’m yours, and I’ll die before that ever changes.”

Sam blinked away the sudden wetness in his eyes and caught Dom in a searing kiss. It felt like a vow. He couldn’t describe the feeling overtaking him, other than overwhelming need. Not just for Dom’s body, or the bliss of coming with him, inside him, but for everything he was, all that they were to each other. They were as close as they could possibly be and it’d never be enough.

“Sweetheart,” Sam rasped, almost pleading, but for what he didn’t even know. 

“Samuele,” Dom said his name with a shuddery whimper. “I’m here, I’m yours. Fuck, please.” 

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” Sam hiked Dom’s hips up one-handed, his right hand still holding tight onto Dom’s left. The new angle had Dom crying out, his back arching, eyes going unfocused as Sam’s cock dragged relentlessly over his g-spot. Dropping his head, Sam rested his sweaty forehead against Dom’s, words finally lost to instinct and the need to breathe each other in as their lips brushed in an open-mouthed kiss.

Dom’s thighs began to tremble again and he babbled Sam’s name in between his whining and swearing. As Sam’s climax drew nearer, his slow, hard thrusts lost their steady pace. He was so close he shook with it, and so in love with the man below him he could burst, a dam about to collapse, ready to be swept away by the impending flood. 

“F-fuck, Sam, my darling, my lo–” Dom gasped and cut himself off with a loud whine.

“Your love?” Sam said breathlessly.

“Yes—god–” Dom’s face twisted with pleasure, looking almost wounded by it, but he held Sam’s gaze as he panted and shuddered and bore down on Sam’s cock and sobbed out, “my love.”

He clutched at Sam as he came with a choked-off cry, like he couldn’t bear to have any space between them, Dom’s free arm wrapped around his shoulders and keeping their bodies as close as possible. His cunt clenched so tight around Sam that he hissed as he fucked him through his orgasm, tumbling right after him, the dam breaking as he spilled deep inside Dom. His hips twitched helpessly at the feeling of Dom's cunt fluttering in the aftershocks, pulling him in as if to keep him there. Not that Sam would pull out until he had to.

“Your love,” Sam whispered reverently, kissing Dom even though they were both gasping for air and trembling. Dom nodded, his expression heartbreakingly tender.

Slowly, Sam manoeuvred them so they laid on their sides, chests still heaving in an unsynced rhythm. Dom closed any distance between them, making sure to keep Sam inside for as long as he could, and snaked his arms around him in a firm hug. It made Sam chuckle weakly. He loved the rare times Dom got clingy after sex instead of needing space. Returning the embrace, Sam held him just as tight, giving him a bit of a squeeze as he nuzzled into Dom’s sweaty hair and kissed the top of his head.

It was so easy to drift off like that. Sam could feel Dom’s heartbeat in his own chest as it slowed, and even Dom’s aimlessly wandering hands eventually stalled as sleep came for him, body going lax in Sam’s arms. The last thing Sam saw before he fell asleep too was Dom’s beautiful face in the moonlight.

As always, Sam woke first.

If given the very rare chance, Dom could sleep in well into the morning. That was something they’d both discovered: how soundly they slept together. Sam was still an early riser, but today he dozed in and out, half-awake as he watched his sweetheart sleep peacefully, safely. Supporting his face with the back of his hand, Sam smiled softly while Dom breathed steadily and drooled a little on the pillowcase. He looked forward to teasing him about it, could perfectly picture the sleepy, bitchy glare he’d get for it.

Scant few people could say they’d ever seen Dom like this. It amazed him, sometimes, that he was one of them.

Sam lightly traced the sharp features of Dom's face with the back of his index finger. So much of him was sharp, pointed; honed to a knife’s edge out of necessity. In contrast, Sam thought of himself as a hardened, blunt force, like a sledgehammer in calculated hands. Fear and pain and need had made them both tough and slow to trust in their own ways.

But somehow, even if it took years, they did trust each other. They'd both rolled over, shown their bellies, and instead of being gutted they felt gentle hands and careful lips on their most vulnerable places. Sam had fallen in love so quickly with the man he’d found beyond sharp teeth and sharper words.

It was almost surprising at first how sweet Dom could be, once he shed his armour. He really was a sweetheart underneath it all. Mostly. Sometimes. Like sour candy. The thought made Sam’s smile widen, got a quiet chuckle out of him, and Dom’s brow twitched.

“Mmm… what’re y’laughing at?” Dom grumbled as he brought his sleep-clumsy hands up to rub at his face.

“You, drooling,” Sam said.

There was the glare. It didn't do much when Dom’s face was still half tucked into the pillow.

“Fuck off.”

As Dom stubbornly wiped at his mouth, Sam coaxed him across the sheets, pulling their naked bodies together. He was so warm as he snuggled into Sam’s arms with a lingering glare for appearance’s sake.

“G���morning, sweetheart,” Sam said, quietly but full of love as he pressed their foreheads together, and Dom’s façade cracked easily, breaking into a wide, groggy, brilliant smile.

“G’morning, my love.”

His voice was a soft rasp of deep adoration. It made Sam feel buoyant, helium-filled. He kissed Dom despite their morning breath; he couldn’t help it, not with the way his heart felt like it needed to crawl into Dom’s open hands. Dom smiled against his lips as he returned the kiss, before tucking his head under Sam’s chin and curling in close with a sigh. Sam pressed a kiss to the back of Dom’s head, nuzzling into his hair again and breathing him in.

They laid there in each other’s arms for countless minutes, sharing soft touches that grew less innocent as the sun rose bright and golden outside. Dom’s sigh when Sam slipped his cock into his cunt sounded like contentment, and they rocked together lazily, indulgently, trading kisses and I love yous until Sam came. Then he crawled down the bed and cleaned up his mess from Dom’s cunt with gentle determination until he came too with a quiet groan. Resting his cheek on Dom’s thigh with what must be the most corny, sentimental expression he’d ever worn, Sam watched his love’s breathing even out as he came down.

“Should I get breakfast started, sweetheart?” he asked, and Dom looked down his torso at him, chin and neck all scrunched up by the angle. Sam’s grin widened at the sight.

“Thought that was breakfast,” Dom said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Snorting, Sam nipped at Dom’s skin to make him squirm. Dom scoffed melodramatically and tried to move away, but Sam trapped him with his arms and kept biting his inner thighs until Dom was wriggling and cackling and shoving him away, swearing and yelling about being betrayed. Sitting up, Sam yanked Dom down the bed and leaned over him to kiss him quick and filthy one more time before he said, “I’ll get it started. Take your time, kitten.”

He left Dom still laughing in their bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants before he went to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth, then the kitchen to get the coffee going, smiling to himself the whole time.

He was so fucking happy. In his darker moments during the years Dom was gone, heartbroken and aching over the distance between them, he’d desperately wished they could have a life like this. Not that he believed they ever would, most of the time. The idea was enough to keep him going though, to keep him fighting for it by taking down every mark that Vincenzo said would put Dom at risk. That it’d happened, that they were here in their home—only half unpacked but still theirs—felt like the best dream he’d ever had. His only regret was that he couldn’t make this happen sooner. 

A door clicked shut down the hall. Dom was up. Sam seasoned and whisked up some eggs, pouring them into a pan. They’d just started to cook when he heard Dom walk into the kitchen, footsteps quiet from training and habit. Sam jumped when he felt a pinch on his ass as Dom went by, and caught the mischievous smirk on his face when he turned to give him a scolding look.

“Do you want to eat or not?” Sam asked.

Dom grabbed the mug Sam left out for him, pouring himself some coffee and turning to lean against the counter. All he wore was a pair of his own black boxer briefs and one of Sam’s old shirts that hung loosely off his shoulder, the faded grey of it making him look soft in the morning light. Sam’s mouth went dry at the sight. This was clearly a targeted attack, but he wasn’t about to complain.

“Your threats are very empty, my darling,” Dom said flatly, still smirking as he sipped his coffee.

“They are, huh?”

Dom hummed and shrugged, so Sam set down the spatula. Planting his hands on either side of Dom, he leaned into them to loom into Dom’s space, one eyebrow cocked. Dom, of course, looked like the cat that got the cream as he placed his mug out of harm’s way.

“Well, shit. Seems I’ve been proved wrong,” he said with blatantly false surprise. There was a tick at the corner of his lips, a flash of a genuine smile breaking through.

“Seems so,” Sam said.

When he reached up, Sam thought he’d be pulled in for a kiss. Instead, Dom gazed at Sam with a slight tilt to his head while he played with his hair, his long fingers straightening out the strands messed up by sex and sleep. Then he moved down to lightly scratch his nails through Sam’s beard, making him grumble and close his eyes at the pleasant sensation.

“Have I told you I love the beard?” Dom mused.

Sam chuckled lowly and said, “Yeah, every few months.”

“Ah. Good.” Dom’s imperious tone made Sam smile, growing wider when he felt Dom pulling him in for a kiss that tasted like their toothpaste. 

“I’ve got eggs to scramble, Dominik,” Sam said, but he kept kissing Dom anyway, muffling his laughter.

“Then scram.”

Groaning in agony, Sam rolled his eyes and pulled away from Dom as he cackled.

They ate at the kitchen island again, almost mirroring the night before, but instead of sitting across from each other they sat side by side, shoulders brushing as they talked about their plans for the day. Dom had his foot hooked around Sam’s ankle the whole time.

Halfway through breakfast, though, Dom’s phone rang.

Vinny’s name appeared and, frowning, Dom answered with a short, “Vin?” Sam couldn’t hear what Vinny was saying, but he saw the instant change in Dom’s body language. His loose, relaxed contentment fled as he straightened up and his face hardened, turning grim. Family business, then. He asked a few terse, one word questions. One of Vinny’s responses made Dom’s eyes dart to Sam, something close to fear in the tenseness of his face, and Sam felt a chill.

“Pond?” he asked quietly.

Dom nodded, but quickly followed it with, “She’s alive,” and relief and dread both threatened to choke him.

“We’re on our way, Vin. Ten minutes, tops.” Dom ended the call and stood, beckoning Sam to follow him as he explained that Salvatore was holding Pond, Willow, Gareth, and a few others hostage to lure them to the vet clinic. They dressed in a hurry, grabbing their weapons and checking them over. He felt numb, mechanical. Sam kept his mind carefully focused on each task—grabbing his guns and extra ammo, checking the magazines—so that the images of River that haunted his mind wouldn’t overtake him.

“Sam.”

Dom’s hand covered the back of his own as he held his pistol in a painful grip. Meeting his eyes, Sam saw concern shift into raw, stubborn, pissed off determination on Dom’s face as he stood there fully dressed but still wearing Sam’s shirt, and if it were possible Sam loved him even more for it.

“We’ll do what we can,” he said, squeezing Sam’s hand, and Sam nodded. Dom knew there was no point in lying to him about this. There were never any guarantees in this business. But just having him at his side made Sam feel a little less numb, a lot more steadfast.

Pressing a quick kiss to Dom’s lips, Sam said, “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too, darling. Let’s go.”

♣♣♣

Sam takes a deep breath, and takes comfort in Dom’s shoulder against his. But there’s something wrong.

This whole thing reeked of bullshit from the start, but now that Salvatore’s worked his way from Vinny all the way to Tig, and not one of the five of them has been shot, Sam knows something, somewhere, has been rigged. There’s no random chance in this, and that bullet may as well have a name carved into the casing. It sure as hell isn’t Salvatore’s, no matter what the slimy fuck promised when he started this “game,” and Sam’s next best guesses send fear clawing up his spine.

He turns his head and finds Dom facing Vinny. They’re sharing a look, and he knows they’ve figured it out, too. Shit. Shit.

Salvatore saunters away from Tig. “Wow, tough luck for me, huh?” he says. Sam can hear the insincere pout in his voice and wishes he could beat his face in. “Guess that's the risk with a game like this.”

Maybe he should be looking at Pond instead, but he can't. He doesn't want his last memory of his daughter to be of her horrified face. So he waits for Dom to look back at him, knowing that he will. 

Dom turns after he has one more look at his brother. His eyes are as calm and blue as the sea after a storm, resigned in a way Sam hates. It looks wrong on the most stubborn man he knows. But the longer Dom looks at him, the softer his face becomes, crows-feet deepening in an expression Sam’s seen thousands of times now.

He knew what it was probably before Dom himself did, or at least before he could really acknowledge it. Love. Just seeing Dom look at him like this always made every set-back and argument and years of separation worth the frustration and heartbreak. It was all worth it, every moment, and Sam so selfishly wishes he could’ve had the rest of time to see it again and again. Pressing further into Dom’s shoulder, he feels him return the gesture.

Salvatore’s footsteps stall behind Sam and Dom, the distinct mechanical clicking of the revolver’s cylinder sliding into place, the final chamber inevitably filled with the only bullet. Sam hears a quiet, surprised chuckle. “Risk and reward,” he draws out the syllables like he's mulling them over, “that's been the game, the gamble, our whole lives. Only this time, I've stacked the deck in my favour. Luck doesn't fucking matter today.”

The words I love you are choking Sam’s throat, desperate to be said just one more fucking time, so he can be sure Dom knows because they’ve only been saying it for too short a time. He should’ve said it the first moment he thought it. He wants to keep saying it forever. He really fucking wants forever.

“Might wanna look away for this one, Sammy,” Salvatore says casually.

A flash of silver creeps into Sam's periphery and his heart plummets, lead-heavy.

And Sam, God help him, he does. He listens. He closes his eyes against the image of the gun being held to the back of Dom's skull.

♠♠♠

Dom’s already ran through every scenario he could think of. None of them get everyone out alive. It’s a fucking bloodbath at best. The civilians make it harder; easy weak points for Salvatore’s soldiers to take out. He can’t see any other way for this to go other than to let Salvatore’s insane power-trip play out. 

And of course it’s fucking Russian Roulette. Such a cliché.

He can’t control the fear when Salvatore aims at Vinny first, the silver pistol buried in his golden hair. Every bit of Dom’s training and resolve go towards keeping himself still, but he instinctually pulls at the ropes binding his wrists anyway. The only thing going through his mind is not him not my brother please God not my brother—so he can’t watch. He can’t. He’ll do something really fucking stupid if he does.

Glancing at Willow instead, Dom sees they’re still miraculously keeping their cool—the only tell is the tension at the corners of their mouth—and wishes they didn’t have to be here for this. They’d been kept as far away from the business as any of them could manage, the one thing in Vinny’s life that wasn’t part of the hardships of the Family; it’s shit luck that this is their grand introduction.

Will makes the tiniest sound and Dom closes his eyes when the gun clicks, empty.

“You live to see another day, cousin!” Salvatore gloats.

Dom wants to gut him, split him open from the balls up, grin as his entrails spill out, hot and stinking, and feed his corpse to the pigs. Even so, he’s breathing steadily, pushing the panic into something useful, something that keeps him ready. But as Salvatore keeps going down the line, aiming that tacky revolver at each person and pulling the trigger with an anticlimactic click, the more he feels like being ready won’t do any good.

When he survives his own turn Dom barely reacts, too concerned that Sam is next. Any movement could ruin this, putting Sam’s life at even greater risk, but it's just as hard to keep himself composed when the trigger is pulled uselessly, unable to hold back the heavy breath of relief at the sound. Dom fucking aches with the need to hold Sam, for reassurance that he’s still there and alive beside him, especially when Sam leans into him.

All he can do is grit his teeth, return the touch, and swallow down the lump in his throat.

Tig is last, before Salvatore himself, because of course he is. Dom doesn’t watch the boy. Keeps his eyes on Pond instead as Salvatore makes some speech. The way Pond’s reacting, though, breathing heavily, panic and rage and realisation plain on faer face, Dom knows something is wrong with how Salvatore’s acting with Tig. And with the rest of the rumours he’s heard about that sick fuck, Dom makes a mental note to tell Vinny to be extra fucking brutal to their cousin when they get out of this.

If they get out of this.

No. When.

The telltale empty click goes off in the clinic and Pond flinches with a wounded sound before going slack with relief. Dom wishes he could’ve trained that reactivity out of her, hopes he’ll still have time to. Mourns, for the thousandth time, that he would even need to. She deserves a safer life than this hell that took her brother from her.

Dom takes a steadying breath and takes stock. If none of them were shot, that leaves Salvatore himself, as he’d promised. But there’s no way he’ll keep his word and blow his own fucking head off, not when he’s got this much of an upper hand. So he has a target. And he rigged the game to put on a show. The three best targets—Vinny, himself, and Sam—are lined up beside each other. Salvatore’s soldiers shoved them to their knees in that order specifically.

So it’s either himself, his brother, or his lover. Dom knows which of the three he’d rather it be, instantly. There’s no way Salvatore would listen if Dom started snarling at the fucker to provoke him to kill him, he’d know it was a last ditch effort to take the attention off Sam and Vinny; even if Dom was the target, Salvatore, the vindictive shitbag that he is, would just shoot one of them instead. That’s not a risk Dom can take. He has to see this through, however the cards fall, and that knowledge sits like a dead weight in his chest.

He leans further into Sam’s strong shoulder as Salvatore’s heels click slowly across the linoleum floor. Quickly, Dom looks at Vinny, who must’ve caught on too and is already watching him and Sam. Fuck, it’s such a relief that Kez and the baby aren’t here. That’s the only good thing, out of all of this: that Salvatore didn’t find out about that precious secret.

Dom shoots Vinny a sad, tired, wry smile, since he can’t tell Vinny he loves him one last time. Vinny’s eyebrows twitch upwards, a flash of despair swiftly hidden before he nods and turns to look at Willow. He knows, and that's enough. 

And then Dom turns to Sam. His darling, his love.

Dom’s surprised to find himself so calm when he looks at Sam, but there’s nothing he can fucking do, no plan, no great escape. The only thing he can do is memorise the handsome face of the man he loves so fiercely, so deeply, that he wanted to spend his whole life with him. Fuck, Dom wanted that so badly. Wants it. He wants to tell Sam about the ring in his desk. He wants to tell Sam how much he loves him, that he’ll always love him, but there’s no fucking way words can even express that properly anyway, not here.

There’s so much sadness in Sam’s eyes, but even more love. It took Dom so long to see it because he’s a goddamn idiot, but it’d been there almost as long as they’d known each other. Love makes Sam’s eyes crinkle a little, the warmth of his gorgeous brown irises that much more intense. If only Dom could get that smile out of him one more time, the one that’s just for him. He wants to hold Sam, desperately, not just push a little harder into his shoulder and hope that he understands.

Salvatore’s droning on and on about luck as the revolver’s final chamber slides into place but Dom couldn’t give a shit. All that asshole wants is attention and Dom won’t tear his away from Sam, not for the world. When he stops behind them with a delighted little chuckle, Dom starts begging a God he doesn't believe in, one more time.

Please not Sam not my darling let him live please–

“Might wanna look away for this one, Sammy.”

Thank you, God.

The relief hits Dom hard when cold metal kisses the back of his head and he sags into it with a sigh.

I love you Sam I love you I love you I’m sor–

♣♣♣

Sam feels Dom's shoulders sag, hears his relieved sigh–

Cut short by a bang.

Dom–

The.

His.

The body.

His sweetheart falls to the floor.

His heart is on the floor.

Sam can barely hear the limp wet thud past the ringing in his ears.

He does hear Vinny’s broken choked-out “No.”

His chest is caving in.

There’s a black hole there now the size of a bullet wound.

He opens his eyes and sees red. 

Everywhere.

Pooling under what’s left of Dom’s beautiful ruined face.

He hates getting blood in his hair. It’s all in his hair.

Oh god. Fuck. Oh god.

Why?

Why?

Dom is dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood with his face blown off and Sam can’t lie there with him.

Dom is wearing his shirt and it’s soaked with blood.

Something’s happening in the room but Sam doesn’t care.

A door shuts and there’s movement around him and he’s shaking he thinks but the blood is spreading.

It’s red everywhere. In his pretty hair. On his shirt. Leaking from the crater of his face and–

“Sam.”

Pond’s hands rest gently on Sam’s shoulders and he flinches.

“Sam, don’t look.”

“I didn’t though.”

He didn’t look so he has to now.

Someone cuts the zip ties around his wrists and he reaches out a trembling hand to touch his shirt on Dom’s limp body.

Sam knows what dead bodies are like but he thought this time Dom might be cold not warm because Sam’s gone cold now.

Sam’s cold but Dom’s still warm and that’s wrong somehow.

“Dad.” Pond’s voice trembles.

I don’t want you to hurt, my darling.

He has no choice now.

[thebibliomancer]

Universe X #7

With the Supreme Intelligence, Thor, skinless Aaron Stack Machine Man, and Uatu the blinded Watcher on the cover!

Wait, holy crap, does Aaron have the Ultimate Nullifier?? Don’t point that thing at me!

Are the bubbles in the Supreme Intelligence’s Zordon tube little screaming Supreme Intelligences?

Also, looking at the stitched together version of all the covers, the Supreme Intelligence is covering up giant cosmic Mar-Vell’s crotch. Thank you, the Supreme Intelligence.

Anyway.

To recap in brief: Mar-Vell is leading a revolution in the realm of Death. His living child self is gathering powerful items on Earth. Earth is tilted on its axis and is freezing. Pope Immortus has raised mobs to prevent Reed Richards from curing the mass Terrigen mutations. A cult is gathering pieces of the Absorbing Man. A mysterious man called Mr Church seems to be influencing both Immortus’ group and the Tong of Creel. Aaron Stack has been pondering the multiverse and has dug up the Supreme Intelligence to ask him questions.

I hope some of these plot threads weave together soon so the recap can be shorter.

The issue opens with some more Nighthawk narration over double page spreads, elaborating more on the relationship between Galactus and the Celestials.

The previous universe was destroyed because the Celestials overpopulated. Every Celestial born destroyed a planet or star and… weakened the firmament? Is that how physics works?

Knowing this, Galan decided to become a counter to the Celestials when he was reborn in a new universe as Galactus. He slurps the Celestial yolk out of the egg and leaves the planet intact. Probably not capable of supporting life anymore due to the planet’s energy being stolen by the Celestial. But intact planet means the firmament stays strong! I guess!

I mean, I guess Galactus has eaten a planet and left it intact before. He did that to Silver Surfer’s planet. So more arc welding.

Anyway, the Supreme Intelligence explains that sure, Galactus saved this Earth. But there are many Earths all across the multiverse with their own Celestial growing within. So thats the deal with the multiverse.

But it’s not what the Supreme Intelligence is concerned about. No, the problem, according to the giant green head, is Mar-Vell.

If he gets the complete cosmic consciousness, he’ll have complete knowledge of the whole multiverse and of time. And that will make him a cosmic dictator.

There’s… a weird democracy vs autocracy theme popping up. Weird because the big democracy rep is the Supreme Intelligence.

Anyway, remember that American democracy is dead. And Captain America died not trying to save it but protecting Mar-Vell’s vision of the future. Superpowered beings rule the nations of the world now as monarchs.

Democracy is basically dead and the only person arguing for it is a gestalt intelligence who (spoilers) dies off-panel in this issue and whose death gets a ‘good, fuck that guy’ from Aaron Stack.

Anyway, Mar-Vell and co arrive on the Moon looking for the Ultimate Nullifier and the Supreme Intelligence. Aaron tells them where the Watcher is hiding with the Nullifier and then also immediately tells Mar-Vell he knows where the last piece of the cosmic consciousness is hidden. The piece of information that the Intelligence begged Aaron not to share.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the last piece of the cosmic consciousness is in the eyes Nighthawk got from Mephisto, which let him see the future. Which Mephisto benefits from without having to interact with directly. Since he’s worried about catching compassion from that sliver of omniscience.

Mar-Vell and co pursue Uatu the Blind Watcher into the depths of his home. Uatu tries to divert them by throwing up big splash page illusions of random things.

I kind of wonder if there were deadline problems with this issue. There’s a lot of splash pages. Not just in this sequence but throughout the book.

Anyway. They corner Uatu. He threatens them with the Ultimate Nullifier but Mar-Vell is like c’mon. Sounds like interfering tbh.

Elsewhere, the Tong of Creel returns to Japan and this time beats Xen and swipes the hand-flail of Creel from Tao.

Leaving only the head of Creel being held in Latveria. Which is currently under siege with the Richards and Grimms running for safety.

Reed leads the group to the chamber with Doom’s time platform only to find it missing (stolen last issue by Mr Church). Without that escape, Reed, Sue, and mini Thing 1 and Thing 2 are cornered in a dead end by the mob.

The uprising in the Realm of Death continues.

Mar-Vell rubs it in Thanos’ face that everyone has kissed Death. Thanos isn’t special.

And he finally, explicitly, states his goal for this uprising. Mar-Vell is going to kill Death.

We are in strange aeons, I guess.

But, hey, we know part of Mar-Vell’s grand plan now!

Speaking of things being confirmed…

Hurt by Nighthawk telling him what a fuck up he made, Gargoyle goes back to Mr Church and tries to break their deal.

Because Mr Church is Mephisto!

World’s most obvious theory has been confirmed!

The plot is coming together. As one would hope, considering this is issue 7 out of 12, plus some specials.

Next post, issue 8. Then, another one of those wacky Universe X specials.