#** not sure if this is the final title or Pins and Needles

[elennemigo]

Benedict is been on hiatus but his new projects keep piling up! 😁

Not including The war magician, Rio, How to stop time, Rogue male, that seem to be dormant at the moment.

More info about these titles!

ERIC

TWSOHS*

TEWSF

MORNING

THE HOOD

39 STEPS

TBOFC *"

LONDONGRAD ***

(i apologized for any mistake made in this poll, i really tried not to😬)

Reblog and/or tag to reach more Benedict fans! 🤗

Thank you!! 💗

:))

[nmyphomania]

╰┈➤ ❝ [Kinktober Day 3: Breeding]❞

Summary: Some advisors piss Zuko off about a baby, and he decides you’re the only one who can fix this situation.

Warning(s): F! Reader, breeding, mating press, messy kissing, rough sex, snowballing, mouth-spitting, minor dirty talk, dub-con if you read in between the lines, creampie, multiple orgasms

WC: 1.6k

•𑁍•

You never really understood how you and Zuko could possibly go from one situation, to an entirely different one in seemingly mere minutes. More appropriately, an hour or two ago. His advisors were talking to him about how they oh so needed an heir to the throne to be conceived at once. How they preferred a boy to become the next to hold the title of the Fire lord, another preferred that he should be taught extensive firebending training to become as powerful as Zuko was by sixteen. Zuko came back to his quarters pissed as ever just listening to the advisors, he couldn’t believe half of the shit that ran loosely from their ignorant mouths.

The more thoughts of the meeting streamed through his head, the harder he plowed his hips down into you. Thinking about the situation never made his temper falter from any less upset he was in those moments, the bed underneath began to thump against the solid walls unforgivingly. Zuko’s hands went to grip at your fleshy hips, hammering himself forcibly into your salivating folds that could only go basically numb from his assaults. She submitted to his every will during his bout of anger, wails somewhat muffled out due to the thickness of the duvets on the bed, eyes going straight to the back of her head each time Zuko would slam dead on her g spot.

“You want a fucking heir, I’ll give you one, maybe even fucking three.” He spat, more to himself than out loud. You, however, heard this and wholly melted into the mattress with a significantly louder sob than the rest. The man above you lifted his leg up to stamp flatly in the mattress to support his impossibly deeper movements, they sped up smoothly with all his preceding thrusts, greatly affecting the ability to intake a proper lung-full of air. It's like he was a different person when he was upset, there was no negotiation on power play, no playfulness, nothing. He just raw-dogged your insides into a thick pulp with your fucking third orgasm of the night.

His hips spanked fat red marks into the underside of your ass, the rough contact didn’t even hurt anymore. The pain had grown so great that now every time he slapped painfully on your skin, the harsh sting was reduced to a dull, numbed out soreness. From your fingers flying all the way down to your toes felt like pins and needles prickling the surface of your naked body, even your throat started to burn from all the screaming your vocals could barely even support. He finally groaned longingly once your walls came in on his dick, spewing out another trail of juices from the couple’s connection. A strong hand gripped until fingernail marks dug into your flesh, aiding him to propel you back onto his length to intensify his hips’ jolts forward.

A burning sensation now stinging at his pelvis from the reckless use of his toned hips along with his propped up leg, the ecstatic crescendo of his orgasm peaking just behind a couple more thrusts. Drilling the head of his cock so deep he was sure he made it to her heated womb desperately asking for his cum to breed her to the brim and beyond. To plant whatever he could produce from his depths in the midst of her beaten up insides. Heaving his angry arousal along the embrace of her gummy walls around him.

“‘m gonna, do it in you. I hope that’s alright..” He muttered out almost apprehensively. You choked out whatever intelligible words you could form, “Y-yes…Zuko.”

Zuko abruptly flipped you around to stay put on your back, legs being pushed back until her knees hit the mattress beside her head. Standing slightly above her, he moved closer to re enter inside of her in such a crude position on the surface of the bed. From over her own body, he planted deeply inside of her messy pussy, roughly molding out his dick inside of her pitiful sex like some hungry animal. Tears accumulated at the corners of your eyes from the physically demanding position you were now forced into, your legs felt like they could give out from being pushed beyond their flexibility limits. All liquids being forced out of you splashing on his face, creating a wet sheen over his body.

Long, drawn out keens from the both if you sounded into the atmosphere of the room from your mutual stomach-caving finish. Zuko fucked his orgasm inside of her even further, plunging whatever wasn’t already balls deep inside of her. It's like his cock touched the very part of her soul that made something snap in her mind, continuing his jarring pushes downward. So deep, so big, so amazing, you could virtually feel the thickness of the base of his dick in your throat, never letting up fucking you as passionately as he did.

“Give me another I know you can do it f’me love.”

Everything went impractically faster leaving you a filthy mess, you couldn’t even think straight without thinking about how his dick is currently beating down your guts at the moment. Drool seeped steadily from the corner of your mouth, eyes twitching from the immense amount of pressure and jerks from the overwhelming senses of their sex. You could barely wrap your arms around him as he had you mostly pinned down in this foreign position, so deciding it was best to just lay there and take it like some desperate bitch. Sputters, some bubbles and your eyes glued to the back of your head, your mouth left gaping as he leaned over to kiss you gently on your exposed neck.

“Good angi, give it to me Zuko!”

The breathed-out comment sent something rushing through his veins, he couldn’t decipher it but god, the way she looked him into his eyes taunting; hell even daring him to get her all sorts of knocked up. As knocked up as he could even get her, filling her up until her stomach bulged even more prominently. He grew dizzy, legs failing to keep him up through the process of gaining one more blissful finish, his voice nothing more than hoarse whispers of sighs, pants, all telltale signs of him getting so much closer.

Zuko strokes decelerated gently, allowing him to continue to delve inside her deep, relaxing his body so that he can place a firm hand to wrap itself on the base of her neck.

“Open.” She listened wordlessly, he conjured up a petty strand of saliva to spit into the warmth of her open mouth. Letting her lap at his dribble by sticking her tongue out wide, and flicking at anything that came from him. This urged you two into a languid kiss, breathing frantically against each other’s mouths whilst Zuko resumed his previous pace from before. Their lips would meet every now and then, but not for long. You sucked in his bottom lip, licking up into the unexplored space of his mouth. He took the chance to wrap his lips around your tongue, bobbing his head unhurriedly, almost methodically.

As the night dragged on, the both of you were nearly drunk off each other’s lips, hands, skin even. Another couple of orgasms came out of the time and effort both of you put into loving on each other all of his cum only reserved for going inside of you, now working on the final one of the night, the two of you were pressed on the wall rutting into each other like some hormonal teenagers. She threw her head back on the wall with a thud, swallowing thickly, a slightly painful climax ripping through her sobbing pussy. Zuko pulled out of you entirely once he finally came, making you drop on your knees to catch his cum in your mouth. His whole figure tenses and jerks erratically in the heat of the climax, clouding his mind and any thoughts that seemed to run rampant. He huffed, bringing his hand up to bite down on a fist while he blew his literal bodily capacity inside your tight mouth.

As you took all of the stripes of white flinging all over in both your mouth and throat, his abs convulsed and rolled under his pale skin. You watch as he furrowed his eyebrows, dropping his fist out from between his teeth in awe at how hard he came.

“Don’t swallow, c’mere”

Going to pull yourself up with the use of the nearby nightstand, he brought both of his hands to snake around your neck before pulling you into a deep kiss. He swirled around his own essence with his curious tongue, wiping away the stray trail falling from the side of your mouth. It was thick, sloppy, and almost sweet tasting; and the two of them shared how ever much could be evenly distributed between each other.

His right hand went to trace around your figure that outlined your body he knew all too well, traveling across the stuffed swell of your stomach. Maybe, and hopefully so, that a few healthy babies could be conceived from your bred and worked out body. Some of it dripped along the plushness of your thigh, running out from between your naked folds from the overfill he bestowed on her from the events of that evening. Just beautiful, he never said this aloud but he thought it, sliding his hand down even further to fully palm possessively at your throbbing heat he could most definitely lose his mind over.

•𑁍•

Tags:

[lovesickeros]

☆ even the gods bleed

{☆} characters furina, neuvillette {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, injury, light angst {☆} word count 2.3k

What was justice?

Focalors had asked herself that question many times during the long nights she spends awake pouring over the prophecy of a dead God, words replaying in her mind like a broken record until the sun rose like a blooming flower.

She was the God of Justice, an Archon, yet she herself lacked the answer to such a simple and yet so very complex question.

How does one define what is just and what is not? How does she know that what she believes to be just is right? Is it justice if one being alone may sway the scales of justice on a whim? What justice is there to be found in the cold, watery grave that awaits her nation?

She does not know.

Perhaps she may never know.

What she does know, at least, is that this is not justice.

It is a mockery of it.

She stands before the bloodied, broken body like the judge, her sword held so tightly in her hand her fingers feel stiff, a dull ache adding to the weight of what she's seen. For a long, horrible moment she almost thinks they are dead – something she would have reveled in, only a day prior – before she sees the subtle rise and fall of their chest. Breathing, but barely.

The rain felt heavier upon her shoulders at the realization – she was not sure if it was in relief or horror.

Her nails dig into her palm, mind stuck somewhere between that abject horror and confusion so palpable she swore she could hear the gears in her head turning.

For a long, silent moment as she stares upon the body beneath the heavy rain..she wonders if this is how it all ends instead. If the world itself will simply crumple in on itself and cease – without its heart, it will wither, after all – long before the waters ever swallow her nation whole.

Because, try as she might to rationalize it, for every drop of rain that hits her like pins and needles, soaking her down to the bone..the body of the imposter is completely dry. Even the water pooling along the stones dares not to leave so much as a splotch against their ragged, torn clothes.

She remembers the meeting so very clearly, and she thinks she is a fool to not have noticed sooner – the Creator upon their gilded throne, finger pointed in accusation at the visage far too similar to their own. The imposter. She remembers the lilt of their voice as they called for their death as easily as one would speak of the weather – and to no one other then herself would she admit the spark of fear it had ignited within her. Because beneath the divine charade there was a sick enjoyment in the way they looked upon the imposter – like a bug beneath their shoe.

She understands, now.

She had thought that perhaps finally – finally – she could do right by her people, by her Creator, if she rid Teyvat of this..intrusion.

Now she sees herself as what it all really is – blind lambs following the herder.

Perhaps she would be considered a heretic under the eyes of the law – beneath the weight of justice, heavy as the heart that bears its sins. Perhaps this is a mistake, one she would come to regret.

But for now, she sheathes her blade with unsteady hands, the sound making her ears ring – for what she had almost done, what she had already done – as she stumbles like a newborn lamb towards the broken body of..

..What, exactly? Human? Divine? She is not so sure what to call them. Creator? No. The name is bitter upon her tongue, now, burning like liquid flame down her throat.

Where once she had spoken it in reverence and admiration, it felt hollow and empty, now.

Her vision wavers as she kneels down against the rain soaked stones, the rain upon her back growing heavier as she reaches a shaky hand forth – and for a moment, however brief, she feels the weight of expectation, of a title she fears she may never live up to, wash away with the waters that fall from the heavens.

The bruises and blood smeared across their skin are like strokes of a paintbrush, their body the canvas from which such horrid art is created. It makes her ill.

Doubt wavers her composure briefly – her position is already unsteady. She has never been seen as an equal to many of the other Archons. Her own people do not see her as their Archon, but an actor in a grand play that they shall simply toss aside and replace like a broken doll the moment she bores them.

What does she have left to lose?

She reaches out again, her hand settling onto their shoulder and turning them onto their back. She..isn't sure what to do, actually. She's never been particularly physically capable – she tended to avoid fights, even if she oft provoked them – and she was certainly no healer.

Yet what choice does she have but to march on anyway? She is in the heart of the city, it is far more dangerous here then anywhere else..she had little time to make her move.

Fontaine was, after all, a nation founded on the principle of justice. To know an injustice has been made against the most Divine..the entire nation was in a frenzy.

Her eyes dart around nervously, hands clasped tight on their shoulders and her lips drawn into a taut line – someone would notice her absence. One of the Archons would point out her absence in the coordination of the search.

Her options were just as limited as her time – she couldn't just take them out of the city. Security was tight, and as much as she fancied herself an escape artist – Neuvillette could hardly keep her in one place for too long – she doubted she could do the same with the limp body of the imposter in tow.

..The Palais Mermonia it was, then.

Her room had a secret entrance that few knew about, and even fewer would dare to traverse. She just..had to hide them there for a bit and hope Neuvillette wouldn't notice anything different.

Probably.

Still, there was the problem of actually..transporting the body. As grim as it sounded. Her only solace was the fact she didn't have to worry about them catching a cold, at least, and their breaths were still audible, if only barely. So she had to resort to some..unexpected methods.

Seeing the limp form of, well, the imposter – she'd really have to ask for something else to call them when they woke up – stuck in a bubble of hydro wasn't exactly on her bucket list.

Then again, neither was treason.

Well, first time for everything, right?

It wasn't breaking the law if no one else knew about it.

..Neuvillette didn't have to know about it, really. It was fine.

She could, of course, technically try to talk some sense into Neuvillette – he'd listen to her, right? She thought she was pretty close with him..but he was also the one person more obsessed with justice then she was. Such a stickler for the law..so maybe she's breaking a few, it's fine.

But he was also pretty devout, as much as he tried to keep his worship private – with Focalors around, nothing was really secret. Maybe she could get him to settle down long enough to prove it.

..How was she going to prove it?

An exaggerated groan escaped her lips as she led the bubbled imposter – she really wished she didn't have to resort to that, it would be a lot a more awkward to explain then dragging the body around – through the winding streets of Fontaine. She's just glad she's already memorized the entire city like the back of her hand..and a little dramatics went a long way. People listened when the Hydro Archon spoke, and she was suddenly very, very glad for that fact, even if they treated her more like a mascot then a God.

And partially because she, maybe, just a little..stole a few documents detailing the layout and a little personal exploration of her own – but what Neuvillette didn't know couldn't hurt him!

After what felt like hours, though was really no more then half an hour at best, she'd managed to drag herself – soaked to the bone with rain – and the conveniently bubbled imposter up through the secret entrance and into her room.

The perceived safety, as flimsy as it was, was..comforting. Until she heard the rustle of fabric, the clearing of a throat and the pop of a bubble as she, in her surprise, popped it – and then the thud of the imposter hitting the floor.

She felt a bit of regret about that part, at least, wincing.

"Lady Furina." His voice was as sharp and cool as she remembered it always being – like fresh spring water, she'd heard it described. Soothing. It did not feeling very soothing right about now.

She turned sharply on her heel, a forced smile tugging at her lips on reflex, every muscle in her body tensed – she probably looked like a wet cat right about now, soaked with rain, but that was the last thing on her mind.

"Do you mind explaining what, exactly, you did?" Not what you're doing, she notes – what she did. He was mad. Oh, she was really in for a scolding now. She twiddled her thumbs, laughing weakly, though it quickly dies out at the awkward, tense silence.

"Well, you see – it's rather complicated! I can– I can explain." Her attempts to diffuse are met with a raised brow and the sharp tap of his cane. Every single thought is plagued with the urge to run, but the unsteady breathes of the 'imposter' keep her rooted in place. "Well?"

She was sweating bullets, her nails digging into her palm as she scrambled for any excuse that could warrant her not getting hauled off and scolded thoroughly at best – she was coming up empty. How was she supposed to prove that the 'imposter' was very much not what the 'Creator' said they were? Their unconscious body was doing no one any favors, certainly.

"The Creator is lying," She blurts out, immediately regretting her impulsiveness when she feels the sudden weight of his stare – the piercing hues of his eyes that remind her just who is the strongest between them. It is not her, she knows. It never has been. "You can see for yourself! Don't you trust me, Neuvillette–?"

Her voice is cut off by the sharp click of his cane as he strides across the room in only a few steps, his height making her feel like a child about to scolded. She hated it, but she grit her teeth through the exchange. She reminded herself that this was for the sake of the 'imposter' and any affront to her ego was..tolerable.

To her credit, too, she didn't immediately lash out when she saw him poke at their body with his cane, turning them onto their back – she wanted too, though. She considered it, but the thought was quickly shot down when his stare turned back upon her, and she felt frozen in place again, her tongue a heavy weight in her mouth.

Yet she couldn't shake the sudden tenseness to his shoulders, his brows furrowed and a distant look to his eyes. It was..haunting, in a way.

She knows it well, she realizes. The realization and acceptance, the crumbling of every solid foundation you've ever known – leaving you to flounder in the waves, alone and afraid.

The gentleness in which he picks up the limp body surprises her though, his cane set aside. The rain howls like a horrid storm outside, but she cannot focus on anything but the furrow of their brows, the soft noise that escapes their lips.

"I trust that you know that this must stay between us," His voice is soft, like the gentle lap of waves against the shore, as he sets their body down against the bed, his hand lingering against their cheek with something almost like reverence – and if her eyes do not deceive her, affection. "Lady Furina."

She does not hesitate to agree.

"Well– well of course!" She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning at the feeling of her wet clothes clinging to her skin, a heavy weight that feels like it's dragging her down. "Just what do you take me for?"

He doesn't deign to respond.

It only makes her fume more.

Not that he seems to notice, unbuttoning his heavy outerwear and tossing it on the bed, rolling up his sleeves and focusing on the injured– er..yeah, she really needed a new name for them. Calling them imposter felt wrong.

"So long as you understand, then we will have no problems." She huffs again, pouting and puffing up her cheeks, sitting down on the other end of the bed with only an occasional glance towards him as he worked at peeling away the ragged clothes and examining the injuries marring their skin.

She suddenly felt out of place.

..What was she supposed to be doing?

As if noticing her sudden quietness, Neuvillette sighed, his back turned to her though his attention very much falling upon her. She really hated the feeling like she was being dissected whenever he looked at her. It was unnerving. She doesn't know how anyone else handles it..

"If you are so eager to do something, Lady Furina, then please have something brought up for when our..guest awakens. They will need to recover their strength."

Finally! Something she can do. She perks up, her heels clicking on the floorboards as she darts out like a bullet, unable to stay still for so much as a moment.

Neuvillette, for his part..

Feels an odd sense of serenity as he stares upon the troubled features of the..guest. A peace that lessens the burdens upon his shoulders, the weight of a nation upon his back.

He cannot hear the rain, anymore.

..It must have stopped.

[fic-over-cannon]

The Ghost of You

jason todd x f!reader

summary: you’re in love with jason todd but he doesn’t know you can see ghosts. he finds out.

tags: fluff, off screen sex, angst, supernatural elements

rated mature | wc: 4.2k

a/n: finally got around to writing up the fic idea I sent in this ask. there will be a happy ending (eventually) so please bear with me

It’s cold in the apartment. The curtains are blowing in the empty breeze, window open from when it was wrenched wide. I should close that, you think numbly to yourself, but you’re not really sure that your legs will hold you long enough to cross the room. There’s pins and needles racing through your calves, spreading up to your thighs but you don’t have it in yourself to care. Jason’s gone, maybe never coming back.

On the day you met Jason, his grin was bright like the sun. You’d met at the local library when you dropped your stack of books heading to the return desk. Scrabbling to pick up your books and get out of the way, you’d bumped hands with someone. Looked up to meet his eyes and seen the sun. Jason had helped you gather up the fallen books, accidentally knocking his knuckles into yours the whole time. He’d picked up The Scarlet Pimpernel from the scattered pile and started an enthusiastic conversation about it. By the time you’d left the library, you’d gotten his number in your phone and a new book under your arm.

You’d been so distracted by your conversation that you’d forgotten to stop by and say hello to Ms. Einarsdottir in the romance novel section. Given that she’s been dead for 38 years, she probably won’t mind you missing your weekly greeting, but it’s the principle of the thing. You end up going back to the library the next day to make your apologies but the old ghost is so excited to hear about your meet cute that the two of you end up discussing it for almost an hour. The lovely woman even helps you write your first text to Jason, hovering over your shoulder and gently trying to dictate to you.

You had first seen Ms. Einarsdottir when you were six years old and looking for your mother after losing her in all the tall bookshelves. Despite it being a summer’s day this particular section of the library had been cool, a lure for any overheated child. Rounding a shelf, an older woman with her thick white hair in a braid and half-moon spectacles perched on her nose had been reading a book with a bright cover.

Tilting your head to make out the title better, you had asked, “Whatcha readin’?”

The poor woman had startled, badly, then scolded you for being in a section for grown ups. She’d relaxed when you’d asked if she’d seen your mother, placed her book down on the little reading table and engaged you in a conversation all about yourself. Your mother had found you there nearly 20 minutes later, sitting cross legged in front of an empty chair and discussing your new favourite hair bows in an excited whisper. Your mother had squeezed your hand tightly as she walked you out of the library, so engrossed in scolding you that she didn’t notice you wave over your shoulder to the incorporeal woman.

That had been your first meeting with Ms. Einarsdottir, though certainly not the last. She’d become a grandmother figure to you over the years, and nearly every week you were in Gotham you had made a point of going in to see her. She had been your first ghost.

You can see ghosts. You’ve been able to ever since Ms. Einarsdottir, and for you they’re as real as any living person. There’s no great trauma or origin story for this ability. One day you had just woken up, walked into the Gotham Public Library, and started seeing ghosts. You don’t tell anyone, really. There’s enough flavours of weird in Gotham that people would probably believe you, but it would feel strange to go around announcing this ability. As a child you were scared you’d be bullied for it, still were for seemingly talking to yourself until you’d gotten better at disguising whispers. As an adult, you’re not sure how much good it would do to say anything. You can’t summon the dead to help those grieving a loss, and most of the time the ghosts you meet simply need to be reminded they’re dead in order to move in. Most people wouldn’t want others digging into their business while they’re alive, why would they feel differently when they’re dead?

So for the most part you live an ordinary life. You wake up and go to work at the hospital. You go out to dinners with friends and on disappointing dates. Maybe sometimes in between you remind an old man that no one else can see that he’s no longer living, or give directions to a little boy that everyone else just walks right through. Occasionally the Gotham Police might get an anonymous tip on a years old murder. It’s your normal.

Your new normal with Jason is so, so good. You fit together in places you didn’t even realize were missing. The first date quickly turns into five, laughter bright and constant. Jason volunteers on the weekends, then comes to pick you up from your shifts with your favourite sandwich from the deli near Crime Alley. He brings flowers to every date and his hands tremble the first time he unzips your little black dress. He’s downright adorable when you kiss him on the cheek after offering to drop you off for brunch with your friends. Your friends giggle over him as he pulls away from the curb, demanding details. It’s easy loving him and being loved by him.

You move into his apartment, too quickly according to his little brothers. Dinners out with friends turn into entertaining at home, and taking it in turns bringing dishes that fill the apartment with mouthwatering smells. Nights out at the movies ending with heated discussions about how “the physics of explosives don’t work like that” curled up on the couch. Jokes from Dick about domesticating Jason, as the man himself childishly sticks his tongue out behind his brother’s back. Agreeing to be a plus one at a gala only if there will be french fries after. Hiding smiles behind glasses of champagne as you watch him try to navigate the crush of flirtatious socialites. You love him so much, and if the completely unsubtle questions about your taste in jewellery are anything to go by, you’ll get to love him forever.

Jason doesn’t so much tell you he’s the Red Hood as dump the evidence in your lap by accident. You’re home early (or late as it is), having been bumped to an earlier return flight from a girl’s trip after your best friend got dumped over text. You weren’t supposed to be back for another 16 hours, a fact that Jason clearly was counting on. Juggling your purse and your suitcase, you’re not paying attention as you walk through the door, trying to put your keys away. There’s voices in the living room that go dead silent as you turn the corner. Looking up to see who’s visiting, you freeze.

Dick’s sitting on your couch, a bag of frozen peas held against the bruise blooming on his cheekbone. He’s wearing Nightwing’s suit and the blue domino is on the coffee table, pushed out to make room for all of the people currently invading your living room. There’s Stephanie right next to him, frozen mid-bite, pizza almost falling out of her black-and purple gloves. Tim’s on the floor, leaning against Steph’s legs, looking more exhausted than usual and horrified. Lastly, there’s Jason. Sitting in the far corner of the couch, feet in Dick’s lap, with the Red Hood’s damaged helmet cradled in his lap. You stare at each other, and you can feel your jaw physically drop. The cheese on Steph’s pizza slips right off, landing in her lap with a wet sound breaking the moment.

“I can walk right back out and come in again?” You offer up weakly.

It breaks the hold of silence on the room, suddenly everyone talking at once. Except for Jason. He stares at you and you can’t look away, the clamour of voices fading away under the strength of your gaze. He swallows, hard.

“Stay, please? I can explain.” And he does.

It takes hours, and you steal slices of cold pizza for yourself. Tim and Steph are fast asleep on each other by the end and Dick’s had to switch out the melted peas for an ice pack you’ve fished out the back of the freezer. Jason’s scared, you can tell. Keeps starting and stopping, lets Dick take over the threads of the story, fidgets with the hem of his jacket and keeps turning the helmet over in his hands.

“—so that’s everything. Uh, I’m the Red Hood.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? Just ‘okay’?” He repeats in disbelief.

“Yup. I’m probably going to have a thousand questions for you once I’m not exhausted from traveling all day, but okay. You’re the Red Hood. Which, actually explains a lot of things, if I’m being honest. But,” and you clap your hands together, “that’s going to wait because I’m pretty sure we’re all going to pass out any minute. Dick, you’re welcome to the couch if you can help Jason move those two,” and you point at the sleepers, “over to the guest bedroom.”

Guests taken care of, you push up off the floor, grab your bags, and head to the bedroom. You drop your bags just inside the door, a task for future you to deal with. Stumbling over tired feet, you manage to wash your face and change into pyjamas before falling into bed. Jason comes in, stands in the doorway hand on the knob, like he can’t bring himself to get any closer. You flop your arm out and pat his empty side of the bed.

“S’cold. You coming to bed soon?”

It takes another breath before he starts to move, a silhouette in the light from the hall. He shuffles around, the sounds comforting in their familiarity. The mattress dips under his weight, but he doesn’t curve to the shape of you like he usually does, stiff as a board instead. Huffing out a breath, you wrap an arm around his torso and pull at him until he’s arranged around you the way you like.

“I love you, y’know. You running around in a onesie getting shot at doesn’t change that.” You mumble into the side of his neck.

He says something in reply, but you’re already drifting off to sleep. As far as you’re concerned, anything else can wait. And it does. The next morning you ask as many questions as you can think of as Jason makes a late breakfast for the both of you. You unpack your bags, and he’s still answering questions as you throw in your travel laundry. You can’t hold keeping a secret against him, not when there’s still your own small part of you that you haven’t shared yet.

His revelation does answer the questions you’d been holding onto about late night disappearances, mysterious bruises, and secretive looks over your head with his family. It puts some of the ghosts you’ve seen hanging around into context, tragedies crystallizing in your mind. It brings you closer, even if he’s not willing to share some of the more horrific details of his cases with you. He asks you, once, how you feel about dating the Red Hood. You laugh and call him silly. You’re not dating the Red Hood, you’re in love with Jason Todd. His slow look of quiet wonder is possibly the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, you tell Ms. Einarsdottir (you elect not to tell her about how he’d laid you out in your bed after and eaten you out for hours after, your thighs trembling around his ears).

Together, you piece together a new normal. Jason texts to let you know he’s going on patrol and if he’ll be back before morning. You insist that he lets you know about all of his injuries, even if it’s just a scratch. He stops hiding his work from you, brings home files and folders (without pictures) to spread out on the coffee table and pull out his hair over. He’ll ask you for your input sometimes, a medical perspective on how Scarecrow’s newest fear toxin works biologically or if there’s a pattern between post-mortem reports. It’s not the life you envisioned for yourself, but you love it nonetheless because of who you are building it with.

The thought crosses your mind, occasionally, that you could help more. That instead of calling in anonymous tips on pay phones to the GPD, you could just talk to Jason. But no ghost has told you anything for weeks, or at least nothing related to their deaths and so the urgency to tell him passes. You grow complacent in this new life.

A few months later, and you’re running out of the hospital on your break to try and buy a cup of coffee from the stand in the courtyard. It’s the only place marginally on hospital grounds with half-way decent beans and you need that extra hit of caffeine to get through the last three hours of your shift. In your rush, you almost run through a young boy, managing to stop yourself just in time. He doesn’t seem to notice you at all, staring off at the small slit of the basement window.

“Hello?” You ask, tentative.

He turns, slowly, like he can’t quite be sure that someone’s talking to him. He’s painfully young, scrawny in a way that implies older than he looks but chronically underfed. It’s his eyes that get to you, large enough to swallow up his whole face and blearily lost.

“D’you know the way home, miss?” It’s a whisper on the breeze, barely a sound at all. Something catches his attention then, steals his focus away to an unseen threat that causes his incorporeal body to lock up in fear. He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out.

“Honey, I know you’re probably really scared and confused, but I can see you, okay? Now you might not know this yet, but you’re a ghost now.” There’s horror in the little boy’s eyes, and it’s growing fast. It’s not directed at you, but somewhere behind you. You turn, trying to see over your shoulder, but there’s nothing there but sunshine.

“Listen to me, you’ve died and what is happening right now is you’re caught in a loop of your own death. You just need to realize you’re dead to snap out of it.” It happens sometimes, ghosts caught in the rip curl of their deaths, repeating echoes of it in their disbelief at dying. You reach out, desperately wishing you could hug this child because terror is swallowing him whole. He turns, desperate, and starts running, mouth moving in unheard screams. He runs into an invisible obstacle, scrambling on his hands and knees, and then winks out of existence.

The sunny day is suddenly cold. You look around, but everyone else in the courtyard is unbothered by the sights they did not see. On autopilot, you make it through the line, adding your change to the tip jar and burning the palms of your hands on the hot paper cup. The coffee’s tasteless, only notable for the way it burns down your throat but it gets you through the last of your shift. You can’t erase the image of the boy’s face, young and deathly afraid. It haunts you; you couldn’t forget his face if you’d tried and you’re not sure you should.

Over the next few weeks, a case takes hold of Jason. It possesses him and drives him out of your bed to pour over files he won’t let you see in the dead of night. He won’t speak of it, red-rimmed eyes and stony faced. He can’t sleep over it, mumbles something about not being able to get the images to leave him alone. You push the issue only once, over a shared lunch you had to badger him to take a break for. It goes badly, Jason freezing you out. He apologizes later, for ruining the lunch you’d gone to the effort to make and for hurting you. The two of you have agreed to never go to bed angry with each other, and you never do. It hurts to see him like this. You keep showing support in whatever small gestures he’ll accept, hoping that eventually he’ll open up.

He does. Shoves the files away from him on the coffee table and leans into you where you’re curled up on the couch reading. You wrap your arms around him, fingers curling into his hair as he breaks down.

“I know you know there’s a case. Couple’a weeks ago a kid’s body turned up in the harbour, died on the way to the hospital. He wasn’t the first to be found, but this kid, he would’ve died in so much pain. And it’s tearing me to fucking pieces because every single lead has turned up short.” He has to pause before he can go on, breath thick with emotions. “I care about getting justice for every last one of those kids, but this one, this kid was personal.” You’re pretty sure that there’s hot tears burning a patch on your shoulder, but you say nothing, just keep stroking his hair.

“His name— his name was Matty. You know that community centre I volunteer at on weekends? That’s where I met him. God, he was such a bright kid. Had his whole future planned out, was gonna get out of Crime Alley and become a pianist. Just, he was so young and so full of hope and now none of those dreams are gonna come true.”

It’s evident in the way his voice cracks and his body shakes that he’s taken it so personally that someone so young and under his protection has been snuffed out. Something about this dead boy reminds Jason a little too much of himself. Maybe because they died at the same age, or he was once that scrawny and featherlight too. The police have no leads, chalking it up to just another Crime Alley street kid meeting an inevitable end. He’s got none either, all the evidence drying up and trails gone cold.

Jason tells you more about Matty, how he hated playing sports but was really good at soccer. How he’d been introduced to music in school and found what felt like his purpose in life. How Matty’s parents had worked and saved up to afford lessons for him, sending him down to the community centre to practice on the available piano. The first time Jason had met him, he’d been trying out to play in the orchestra for the musical the community centre was trying to put together and Jason had been helping to run it.

Jason pulls out his phone, swipes with clumsy fingers to find a video from one of Matty’s impromptu concerts at the community centre. The music is a little tinny front the beat up speakers of Jason’s phone, but it’s beautiful. The video’s shot with a shaky hand, and it takes a few seconds for you to really register Matty’s face. When you finally do, your heart plummets and your fingers involuntarily tighten around Jason.

“I know him. I saw him, just the other day.” It comes out before you can stop it, tongue and lips moving before you can stop yourself. The worst part is, it’s true. The Matty in the video is smiling, hamming it up for his audience, but those are the same wide eyes you saw swimming with terror at the hospital. The same bird-like bones and long fingers that had scrabbled at the ground before disappearing. You know this boy’s ghost.

Jason’s looking at you like you’re speaking in a language he’s never even heard of. “If this is a joke, it isn’t funny.”

“Wait, wait. It’s not a joke. Jason, I wouldn’t— I’d never joke about this.” You sit up and draw back, need to see his face, need to let him know exactly how truthful you’re being. “I saw him, the other day, at the hospital.” Jason tries to interrupt you, but you don’t let him speak. “I saw him because he’s a ghost and I can see ghosts and speak to them and I recognized Matty in that video because I saw him the other day and he looked so scared Jay.” You reach out to Jason, not really sure of what you’re looking for, but he pulls back.

“Okay, so maybe this isn’t a joke but I think you need to go get your head checked out if you’re seeing things that aren’t there.” His voice is uncharacteristically thin, like he’s trying to convince himself that this is just a psychological problem and not reality. You’re frustrated and desperate now, needing him to believe in you more than ever because this might actually be the thing to break you if he can’t believe.

“Jay I’m not crazy, or impaired, or suffering any head trauma. Okay? This is real. I’ve been seeing them since I was a kid and I’m telling you I saw Matty the other day. The first time we met, I was heading to the library because there’s a ghost haunting the romance section that I like to visit once in a while. I’ve been calling in tips to the GPD about abandoned bodies for years for the ghosts that can’t do it themselves. With all of the things that go on in Gotham, do you really think that something like this is impossible?”

“Okay, so you can see ghosts. What, do we need to get a Ouija board in here and Matty’ll just tell us what happened?” The words say that he believes you, but his tone screams uncertainty. It’s a start though, even if it’s a misguided one.

“No— ugh, it doesn’t work like that. Ghosts, they get tied to places, people. I can’t call them, I have to go to them.”

“What do you mean, tied to people?” He asks, eyes narrowed and voice tight.

“Like they get attached to a person, maybe someone they have unfinished business with, or maybe that they really cared for. You know, when you told me you were the Red Hood, and I told you that made a lot of things make sense? This was one of them.” And that, that was the absolute worst way you could have tried to explain it.

He jerks back and there is such a look of horror and fear in his eyes. Not of you, never of you and your abilities, but for what and who he fears you might see clinging to him. The choking sensation of grave dirt. The faces of the people he’s killed to make Gotham safer. The enemies he’s made and buried, and the people he was too late to save. Literally the blood on his hands in a twisted parody of Lady Macbeth. He is terrified that you can see the monster he has always feared himself to be. That all of his sins are arrayed around him, inescapable and unforgivable.

“I don’t— I can’t. What— what do you see?” He whispers, almost inaudible. You open your mouth to answer, but the fear of what you might say is too consuming.

Jason is up and running, prying open the window on the fire escape and escaping out into the winter’s night. You can’t do much more than reach after him, sliding off the couch and landing hard on to legs that don’t work.

You don’t get the chance to tell him that all you see is a 15-year old with a gap toothed, blinding grin wearing the Robin colours with pride. You don’t get to tell him that that 15-year old boy always tells you when Jason comes back hiding an injury or asks you to make sure he’s eating more than cigarettes. You don’t get to tell him that even from beyond the grave, Jason Todd never stopped saving people.

“Go, go after him. He needs you more than I do right now.” You whisper.

The ghost of Jason Todd gives you one more desperate look, before running out into the cold after his older self. Now, now you’re truly alone. That’s the thought that shatters you, rips sobs from where you curl in to your gut. Tears burn then grow cold on your face. You lose track of time, sitting there in a heap on the floor.

The wailing of a distant siren finally jolts you from your stupor, enough to start trying to stand. Using the couch, you pull yourself up, stumbling and tripping from the numb tingling in your legs. It’s cold out tonight, the first few flakes of snow starting to drift down. You wrestle with the window, curtains whipping into your face and arms. This window has always been difficult usually it’s Jason’s job but you manage to force it down. Leaving the glass to clean up tomorrow, you stagger off to the bedroom, the hole where your heart was aching. The window stays unlocked though, that night and every other night after. Just in case.

[croimilis]

King of My Heart

title: king of my heart

rating: 16+

characters: robert ‘bob’ floyd x pilot!reader (callsign ‘siren’)

words: 5.8k

themes: friends to lovers, idiot in love, fluff, mutual pinning

warnings: alcohol, cursing, minor injury detail (bruises, cuts), plane ejection, use of petnames (sweetheart), mentions of illness and parental death, mentions of needles, making out, mentions of anxiety

summary: "and all at once, you are all I want, i'll never let you go"

An accident during training and a little liquid courage has Bob finally making his move

tags: @sebsxphia​ 

a/n: part of the fly me to the moon universe. 

Falling in love with Robert Floyd was like standing in the eye of a hurricane, the world around you being torn apart at the seams and yet there is calm, serenity in the way he holds your hand when he’s nervous, in the way his eyes never leave yours when your talking, in the way he always makes sure to smile at you when you enter the room as a small way to say ‘hey, i’m here’ because he knows that despite your outgoing personality you can get overwhelmed in social situations and he wants to remind you that he’s a safe space where you can just sit in enjoy each other presence without committing to a conversation, in the way that he can read your body language and knows you better than yourself. 

Realising you were in love Robert Floyd was like walking through a soft spring rain, you don’t realise how intense it is until you’re soaked through to the core, until the feeling is so all consuming you can barely breath and you feel it seeping through your bones, setting every nerve on fire until it settles deep in your heart and you suddenly know that is love. 

It was five months ago that you realised you were in love with Bob, well, five months since your sister came to visit you at Lemoore and practically scolded you for not snatching Bob up because he was the perfect man. Five months since you insisted that you were just friends. Five months since he held you in his arms and let you cry your heart out over the fact that your fathers health was getting worse and you couldn’t be there. 

Five months since your sister looked at you watching Bob one night and said to you, “He looks at you like mom looks at dad” and you had never known a purer love than your parents. Five months since you looked over at Bob and saw him already watching you, that soft smile he reserved only for you on his face, and the realisation came crashing down that you were in love with Robert Floyd.  Five months since you decided you were going to do absolutely nothing about it, afraid of ruining the close friendship you had developed over the years. 

Bob thought the realisation that he was in love would be electric, like every nerve would be set on fire, he thought it would be like getting lost at sea and being swept under by waves over and over unable to catch his breath. He thought love should be wild and alive, coursing through his veins like it was adrenaline. 

But it wasn’t. It was peaceful and soft, seeping into the very fibre of his being, it was like being wrapped in a warm hug, of warmth and safety, of coming back to a warm house after walking through an endless storm, it was the feeling of you. 

Of holding you close to his chest when you curl up together during a movie night, of the sound of your laugh and the brightness of your smile, of how your hand slips into his and gives it a gentle squeeze to reassure him that you're there beside him during any event. 

It was two months ago that Bob realised he was completely and absolutely in love with you, two months since Phoenix practically smacked him across the back of the head when he started moping around the hanger when you told him you had a date (one you were going on in a half-hearted attempt to get over him) and explained to him why he was so upset about you going on a date. 

Two months since Bob looked over to you in the hanger, working on your own plane smiling and laughing with your wingmen, and he thought to himself that it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen with the way the sunlight filtering through the hanger danced across your body and made you glow so beautiful Bob could have swore you were a goddess incarnate, a flush spreading throughout his entire body with his heart thundering in his chest and the only thought flashing through his mind being, “I’m so in love you”. It was two months since Bob decided that he was going to take the realisation and the feelings and bury them deep inside himself, the fear of losing you as a friend overriding his desire to pursue you romantically. 

It was 12 hours ago that the world crashed down around Bob, 12 hours since he had last seen you. 12 hours since you had to eject from your jet after an engine failure and were admitted to hospital for a check-up to make sure you were okay, 12 hours since his heart almost beat out of his chest and anxiety swelled throughout his body to the point it was painful and he felt like he was going to throw up, bile forming in the back of his throat every time he thought of you being hurt and alone in the hospital. He knew you hated them, hated the clinicalness of it all, hated the fake smiles doctors and nurses held. But most of all he knew you hated the memories that came with them, of your grandfather and, most recently, your father hooked up to machines, their eyes and bodies lifeless as they finally lost themselves to their illnesses. 

He wanted to be with you, god he wanted to but Maverick had informed him no one was allowed in to see you and that you would only be in for a few hours while they ran some tests, some bloods alongside a CT and MRI to make sure you didn’t suffer from any internal injuries because on the outside you seemed completely fine, a few cuts and bruises from the landing but otherwise fine. Bob should have felt relieved at the news, but his anxiety only grew, despite being one of the best naval aviators that top gun produced and one of the bravest people he knew, he knew of your fear of needles and medical testing, again associating them with the failing health of your family members. 

The anxiety grew and grew throughout the day, turning from a sapling into a horrible monster that wrapped its claws around his heart and squeezed until he was sure it was going to stop, that wrapped a hand or tail around his throat and squeezed so tightly that he thought he was going to pass out because of his inability to breath. The worry planted itself in his heart and spread its roots throughout his veins until he could feel it in every fibre of his being, the heaviness of it making it hard to move until he suddenly couldn’t, as if the roots had spread from the veins in his legs and out through the soles of his feet and wormed their way into the ground beneath him, knotting over and over under the hardwood of the hard deck floors so it kept him anchored, unable to take even a step away from the bar where he currently sat, a bottle of beer in his hands and an empty whiskey glass to the left that he had finished within his first few minutes of entering the bar. 

Phoenix could see the tension in her back seaters shoulder’s, the way he sat hunched over with his eyes trained onto the grains of the countertops and how he was gripping the bottle of beer with all his strength (to the point she was afraid it was going to break in his hands), and it worried her. She had never seen Bob like this, not even when they flew the uranium mission did he hold this much stress in his body and she was concerned. To the point that she was quick to abandon the game of pool she was playing (and winning) against Hangman to go and see if he was okay. Which he obviously wasn’t if the way he jumped out of his skin when she placed her hand gently on his shoulder was any indication. 

“Hey, you okay?” 

As Bob’s nerves settle a little, the scare from Natasha’s sudden appearance dissipating and mingling with the anxiety already overwhelming his body, he puts the beer to his lips and gives a gentle nod. A nod that wasn’t all that convincing as Natasha raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest, showing she wasn’t leaving until he spilled. As Bob places the beer on the counter he sighs and dips his head forward a little so he’s once again staring down at the counter tops. 

“Jus’ concerned about Siren s’all.” As Bob speaks a little bit of his southern twang slips through, something he was usually careful about, but the small amount of alcohol seeping through his veins alongside the anxiety makes him long forget about hiding his natural accent, and if Natasha notices it she says nothing and just nods her head. Instead, she leans on the bar beside Bob, propping her chin in her hand as she does. 

“Hmmm… and that’s just friendly concern, right?” Natasha’s eyes watch Bob from her periphery, and she smiles as a blush spreads across his cheeks and some of the tension eases a little at her teasing, she didn’t really know how to help. She had never had a friendship like the two of yours, never had a love like what Bob held for you, but if she could take his mind off it for just a little bit then she could. 

“Of course… of course… just friendly concern.” Natasha smirks to herself as she watched Bob down the rest of his beer, it was one of only two times she had seen the WSO drink the other time being the celebration after the success of the uranium mission and even then he limited himself to just a couple beers over the many hours of celebrating but here he was a whiskey straight and a beer already finished in the space of 30 minutes. 

“Right…right.” A deep sigh falls from Natasha’s lips as she fully turns toward Bob once again, her hand still propped on her hand though now it was by her cheek instead of her chin. “You should tell her.” 

Bob eyes Natasha suspiciously, the tension eased a little bit more as he orders another whiskey and Natasha a beer, “Tell who what?” 

“Tell (Y/N) that you’re in love with her” 

Bob nearly chokes on his own spit at Natasha’s words, his face growing redder than it was before, though it's hard to tell if that was from the alcohol or his embarrassment. He knew that Phoenix knew he was in love with you, she had been the one to point it out to him after all, but this was the first time she had encouraged him to actually say anything. Clearing his throat, Bob begins to pick at the label of the empty beer bottle in front of him.

“I can’t do that…” Though his voice is quiet, Natasha still manages to hear him and she offers him a sweet smile and squeezes him on the shoulder gently. She knew his fears, knew he was scared of losing you but she also knew how you felt. Had seen the way you looked at Bobby (you were the only one allowed to call him that) like he placed the stars in the sky himself and was responsible for the rise and fall of the sun every morning and night, how you always looked at him like he was the most interesting person in the room even as he rambled on about the jets and his systems (something that put most people to sleep). She knew you were as hopelessly and desperately in love with him as he was with you. 

“Can’t do what Bobby?” Your voice surprises them both as they whip around and see you standing just behind them in your civies, your bomber jacket on and your aviators slipped into the neck of your shirt. 

The sound of your voice is like the whiskey he was drinking, warm and honey smooth as it warms its way into his heart and spreads a heat through his body that burns the roots of worry that had made a home in his body and the sight of you, healthy and alive with a smile on your face that is reserved only for him, turns the monster gripping his throat and chest into something soft and fluffy and warm and suddenly he can breath again and can move freely, feet taking him one step closer to you and then another and then another until he’s standing within arms reach and all he wants to do is reach out and pull you into his arms and never let you go until the world falls apart around him. 

“C-can’t handle my alcohol.” Bob lets out a nervous chuckle as Penny sets his second whiskey down behind him and rubs at his neck as Phoenix steps forward and takes you into a hug. 

“Glad to see you’re okay Siren.” 

“Thanks Nat.” Your voice is soft and there’s a little bit of strain to it, like you had been crying and your throat was still tender. To anyone else, it was the only indication you had been crying, your eyes bright and clear,no redness or puffiness around them. But Bob knew better, looked closer and could see the streaks that stained your cheeks no matter how much you tried to wipe them off. 

Natasha gives you one last squeeze and a peck to your cheek as she pulls away, eyes drifting between your form and Bobs with a small smile as she steps back, “We’re in the usual place if you're up for joining us.” As she turns to walk back towards the group crowded around the pool table in the corner, Phoenix mouths at Bob “tell her” and gives your shoulder a gentle rub as she passes by. 

You both smile at her as she walks away, eyes following her until she’s back with the rest of the squad before turning back to one another. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, all the stress and anxiety you had been harbouring all day bubbling to the surface once again and threatening to overwhelm you with tears once again welling in your eyes as Bob opens his arms up to you to bring you into an embrace. One you are quick to take, arms wrapping tightly against his torso and burying your head into his chest, taking deep breaths to try and try and stop the anxiety welling inside you, as Bobs wrapped his arms around your shoulder and places his chin on your head. 

As you took deep breaths through your nose, you’re overwhelmed with the scent of Bob. His cologne is almost over powering but underneath the sharpness is the smell of him, of engine oil from working on the jet all day and the lingering smell of cloves and cinnamon buried underneath the harshness of the engine oil. It was strange but it was grounding and in combination with Bob's strong arms around you, applying pressure in the right places, the anxiety inside you starts to slowly melt away. 

It starts in your shoulders, the tension in them all but evaporating as they droop a little and then it moves down your arms, a feeling of warmth spreading underneath your skin and through your veins as you feel your muscles relax, to your hands which spread themselves against the panes of Bobs back, and down down your spine, legs, and feet, as if it was dripping through your soles and into the floorboards below. 

You're so focused on your breathing, on erasing your anxiety and worries that you don’t notice Bob gently rubbing his hand down the column of your spine and him whispering in your ear that you were going to be okay, but that was more for his own reassurances than yours. The weight of you in his arms, the pressure of holding you against his chest, the scent of your perfume and shampoo invading his senses all serve as a reminder that you were alive, that you were standing in front of him and you were okay. It settled any anxiety that remained in his system. 

If Bob was being honest, he didn’t want to let you go, wanted to hold onto you for the rest of time. But he couldn’t, so instead he lets you go but keeps a hand on your arm as he leads you to the bar and moves it so it's sitting just between your shoulder blades as you lean on the bar and order a (preferred drink) from Penny, who gives you a sweet smile that lets you know she’s glad your okay and offers Bob a questioning glance as she notices the closeness between the two of you. 

It wasn’t unusual for you and Bob to be close, unless your training or on base the two of you were never too far from one another but you were usually the one to initiate any kind of affection, be it a hug or having a hand on his arm or shoulder as you stood next to him, and the affection from Bob wasn’t unwelcome, you relished in it and enjoyed it every time he initiated it. But something about this was different. 

It was soft and warm, and yet you could almost feel the desperation and fear behind it, almost as if you were going to disappear in a cloud of smoke between his fingers if he wasn’t touching you, if he couldn’t feel the sensation of your heart hammering against your ribcage (even if it's muted through your back). And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t so sure you wouldn’t disappear, even if it was just to an unwelcome headspace, if Bob wasn’t there grounding you to reality. 

Bob wanted to ask how you were, if you were okay, what the hospital said, but one look at the slight dissociation in your eyes and he drops the thought, not wanting to distress you any further, instead her lifts his glass of whiskey and downs it one go which causes your eyebrows to shoot up as you looked at him. 

“You okay Bobby?” The genuine concern lacing your tone sends butterflies coursing through Bob's body, his nerves tangling in his stomach until it felt like it was flipping over and over. You had your personal day of hell, and yet still found yourself worried about little old him. Bob loved your caring personality, he just wished you focused on yourself for once instead of other people. 

Bob is quick to nod his head and place the glass back down on the counter, the burn in his throat and the heat of the alcohol coursing through his veins a welcome distraction from how he had previously been feeling, as Penny places your own drink down on the counter in front of you, accompanied by a shot courtesy of Maverick which you are quick down. The burning sensation is welcome and your body already feels lighter as it makes its way through your bloodstream. 

“I’m good sweetheart” A blush spreads across your face, Bob had never called you sweetheart before and it felt so good coming from him, you associated the word ‘sweetheart’ with condescending men who thought they knew better than you or thought you owed them something, with them it was a weapon. A word sharpened at the edges and used to dig under your skin to cause annoyance or cause you to bleed for compliance. But with Bob, it was like whiskey, honey sweet and smooth, spreading a welcome warmth through your entire body. 

You wanna question him, wanna know why he called you it, but he’s ordering another drink before you can, seemingly doing it by complete accident, just a slip of the tongue brought on by the whiskey he had downed, so you leave it. Instead lift your drink, taking a small sip as you turn and lean against the bar while waiting for Bob's third whiskey to arrive before you join the rest of the crew. 

It's easy to find the rest of the dagger squad in the room of full of khaki uniforms, the tall forms of Rooster and Hangman easily standing out amongst the other aviators in the room, even if they weren’t the booming laugh of Rooster is loud enough for you to follow. You watch in amusement and the disbelief on Hangman's face and the pride on Phoenix’s as she stands from the pool table, she had obviously beat the tall blonde and you could see his mouth moving already demanding a rematch because there was no way in hell he was gonna let Phoenix have her win. 

You smile to yourself and take another sip of your drink, jumping a little as Bob places his hand on your shoulder to let you know he’s ready to head over to the others. Though he’s quick to remove it given your response, but you can still feel the warmth of it even through your bomber jacket almost as if it was scorching your skin. You shake the feeling off though and instead follow behind Bob as you head towards the usual pool table with a smile on your face, giving everyone a tight hug as they greet you. 

It’s three hours later that you move away from the crowd of aviators and towards a little corner to just watch them. You were a social person, enjoyed a good get together but sometimes things got a little overwhelming, a little too loud, a little too much and suddenly anxiety would crawl its way up your throat and take root and you would panic. You didn’t want that. Didn’t want to ruin people’s nights, especially with Maverick bringing his daughter in, just because you were a little anxious. So you took a step back, moved away from the source of the anxiety and attempted to soothe yourself.

Bob sees you’ve moved away from the crowd, he seems to be the only one who has noticed, the rest of the team too preoccupied with getting to know Mavericks daughter and so he was able to slip away and join you in your little corner. As he joins you, he notices your eyes are glazed over slightly and you look like your mind is floating a million miles away. He offers you a small smile and leans against the wall opposite you, content not to speak but be able to offer you some company, keeping you grounded to reality.

You offer Bob a soft smile and tilt your head towards the ceiling, taking a slow deep breath as you do to try and calm the anxiety that was threatening to boil over the surface. Bob reaches a hand out and runs it down your bare arm (your bomber jacket long abandoned and under the bar away from where it could get ruined), hands wrapping gently around your wrist before moving to lock his fingers with yours. 

The feeling is grounding, bringing you back down to reality before your mind can spiral completely and you're lost in the waves of anxiety. Your skin feels warm where Bob’s touch lingered and you can feel your palm heating up and almost becoming clammy as he brings it up and holds it against his chest where you can feel the gentle beating of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes in and out. 

What you don’t know is a similar feeling is brewing inside Bob, his thoughts spiralling a little as the thoughts from earlier returned. About how he could have lost you, how absolutely terrified he was over the fact he could have lost you, how his heart got closer and closer to shattering into a million pieces the longer he went without seeing you and how all the cracks seemed to heal over the minute he laid his eyes on your form when you arrived at the Hard Deck that night. 

You come back to reality, moved so you were no longer staring at the ceiling but instead looking at Bob only to see he was now floating away in his thoughts. You untangle your hand from his, placing it flat against his chest and giving it a gentle tap to draw his attention to you, “You’re floating away Bobby, everything okay?” 

Bob cleared his throat and shook his head a little as if that would help dispel the thoughts swirling around them before he replies. “I-I… fuck” With the way you were looking at him, eyes all soft and full of adoration he hadn’t seen before and how you moved your hand away from his chest and down his arm to take his hand in yours and give it a gentle squeeze to ground him much like he did you, he knew he needed to tell you. 

Bob was never poetic and he wasn’t very good with his words, with telling people how he felt about them. He knew what he was feeling, his mama made sure he was emotionally mature enough to identify his feelings, he just had a hard time vocalising them. This was no different, he knew he was in love with you. Had been for god knows how long before he realised it himself and he wanted to tell you. God, he wanted to tell everyone, wanted to climb to the highest mountain and shout it for the world to hear. 

But fear ate away at his heart. Fear that you would think he was weird, that you would withdraw from him, that you would hate him, most of all he feared losing you completely. He would much rather have you in his life as just a friend than lose you completely. But with the alcohol coursing through his blood stream, the fear ebbed away and what was left was an overwhelming desire to let you know. He wasn’t sure where it came from, if he was to rationalise it in his sober mind it would be the fact that you could have died when you ejected from the plane and then you would have ever known, your ejection serves as a reminder that seeing the next sunrise wasn’t promised and he didn’t want to die, or see you die, without you knowing how he felt. 

Bob's eyes dart from the floorboards to your face, your usual soft smile gracing your lips as you look at him questioningly, but never prying. You knew what Bob wanted to say was important, could see it in the tension forming in his shoulders and how the vein running along his jaw jumped, but you weren’t going to push. No, you trusted Bob and he trusted you, so you knew that it would come out eventually, be that five minutes or five years from now. 

As Bob's eyes reach yours, for a second he thinks he can see the love he has for you reflected back at him, the same love Phoenix had insisted you felt for him, and it spurs him on as he steps closer to you. Your breath hitches as he does, a flush spreading across your cheeks as he stops so close to you that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. 

“(Y/N)...I’m in love with you” The silence that followed Bob's declaration seems to go on forever, a pregnant pause as you let his words sink in. Your heart starts to flutter and your every nerve lights up, making you feel like you’re vibrating, heat spreads throughout your body as a flush turns your cheeks red. You're stunned, you never thought you would see the day where Bob Floyd loved you back, had convinced yourself it was impossible no matter what your sister had told you, but yet he does. 

As you stand in silence, letting the shock course through your system, you search Bob's eyes for any hint that he was lying. That it was the alcohol in his system making him say things he doesn’t mean, but all you find is truth and love. The same love you had seen in your dad's eyes any time he looked at your mom, the same love your sister had spoken about when she met Bob all those months ago. 

Bob takes your silence as a negative, the previous flame of confidence dwindling until it was nothing but embers burning in the pit of his stomach, suddenly he starts to stammer. Starts to say “You don’t-” going to tell you it was fine, you didn’t have to reciprocate his feelings that he just needed to tell you, but you’re quick to cut him off. 

“Bob! You place a hand to his chest, just over his heart and you can feel the beat of it against your palm and it feels like it's ready to break out of Bob’s ribs. Bob shuts his mouth tight, lips turning into a straight line, it had been a long time since you called him by his name, usually sticking with Bobby or even Robert when you wanted to tease him, keeping the name ‘Bob’ tucked away for when he was in trouble or you wanted his attention.

You step back a little, letting go of his hand in the process but keeping one on his chest, and throw your head back against the wall with a little huff of laughter. An action that leaves Bob speechless and confused, his mouth hanging open almost comically. Your quick to regain your composure and you tilt your head forward once again to look at him, tilting it to the side almost innocently. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh”

Bob shuts his mouth and gulps at the sincerity of your words, adam’s apple bobbing as he does. 

“I just… I have been dreaming about you saying those words for so long that it feels almost surreal to actually hear them” Bob swears his heart stops as he listens, you had been dreaming about this? The confusion must have been clear on his face, so you continue on. 

“I’ve been in love with you since our first days at Top Gun Bobby.” 

Bob stands like a gaping fish, mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the words to match your confession. After all he never thought he would get this far, thought you would run away at first mention of the ‘l’ word and yet here you are, loving him back. He’s drawn out of his thoughts once again by your voice.

“Bobby?” Your eyes are wide as you look up at him, and with how you have a hand on his chest with the other behind you to take your weight, you look the picture of innocence and sweetness and Bob can’t help but think about how he wants to absolutely ruin you, but that would be for another time. A new found sense of confidence, born from a compilation of your confession and the whiskey in his system,  previously not experienced by yourself and the other pilots left behind at the pool table drives him even closer to you. 

His hand reaches to grab at your waist, giving the flesh a gentle squeeze which forces a small whimper to fall from your lips, and the other ghosts against your jawline before settling on the corner of your neck. His chest presses against yours, he’s as close as he possibly could be and yet you want, no need him closer to you. 

Yeah sweetheart?” His voice is husky and just that little bit deeper than normal, the southern twang he tries so hard to hide slipping through and sending desire flooding through your bloodstream to the point you have to hold back the whimper that is desperately trying to make its way past your lips. 

“Kiss me…please,” your tone is pleading, almost begging and Bob swears it's the prettiest sound he’s ever heard and it sends desire fooding through his system. He wants to hear it again.

Instead of making you beg further, he tilts your chin up with the hand that was on your neck and slots his lips against yours in a gentle kiss. It's so soft and featherlight, leaving you desperate for more and after spending so long pining and wanting, you think you have the right to be greedy and demand more. So you remove your hands from behind your back and instead twist them around Bob’s shoulder, one hand tangling in the little baby hairs at the base of his neck as you push him in closer to you and deepen the kiss. Bob nearly moans at your eagerness.

The kiss is all tongue and clashing teeth, years of pent up frustration and wanting finally spilling over and showing itself, and Bob is gripping your waist so tightly you're sure there's gonna be some bruising tomorrow. 

You pull away from Bob, just barely with your lips still ghosting over his and your noses bumping into one another as your foreheads touch, with panting breath and lust blown eyes. Your hands travel down from the nape of his neck and across the expanse of his broad shoulders to lightly grab at the flesh of his upper arms that are exposed in his service uniform. 

“Take me home.” Your breathless from the kiss and adrenaline coursing through your system, with your words coming out barely above a whisper but Bob hears you and he moves his hand from your hip and neck to take your hand in his, using it to guide you through the sea of people now gathered at the Hard Deck. He stops at the bar and closes out both your tabs as you order an uber, not wanting to be driving even with the small amount of alcohol in your system. He guides you outside and pushes you against the exterior of Hard Deck, hands moving under your shirt to grab at the soft flesh of your waist as yours wrap around his neck and pull him down into another kiss and this time you don’t stop until the uber pulls up.

As the two of you make your way out of the Hard Deck, you miss the smiles from your fellow pilots (especially Phoenix) as they watch the two of you leave, giddy smiles on your faces and hands tangled with one another, happy to see you two finally getting together, and miss Hangman handing money out Phoenix and Rooster with a grim look on his face.

[solomonssock]

To Capture A Demon's Heart

Mammon lovers I bestow upon you my apology fic. Please, rise up and come get your boy.

I fell for him a bit more writing this frfr

Pairing: gn!reader x Mammon (romantic feelings heavily implied, no established relationship, but don't you worry - you're working on that)

TW: Mention of Lucifer's punishments, Uhuhuh awkward discussion of infernal courting behaviors, mentions of violence, lmk if there''s anything else to add, ty!

Word Count: ~5,000

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On the rug before you lay two options: “The Wicked Woes of Demonessa” or “To Capture a Beating Heart”. 

You flip over both DVD cases to skim their synopses, fingers trailing over the printed leads in all their infernal glory. You snort to yourself at the crossroads Asmodeus has supplied you with and wonder which would be better: an all-demon romance or a demon-human romance?

Ah-actually, the question should be: which would be easier to convince Mammon to watch with you?

The answer, as always, is neither. But that won't stop you from trying.

You shake your head, a smile pulling at your lips at the thought of how he'll react to your movie selection tonight. He's late, but with good reason, so you'll forgive him. Punishment by Lucifer is punishment enough. 

You kneel up from your position on the floor, rubbing out the pins and needles that had started to form. When all feeling returns to you, you reach under your bed to drag out the thick faux fur blanket Mammon had gifted you for your birthday this year. Custom-made, a pattern of your favorite hideously-cute zombie iguana plushies are plastered across the golden spread. You push your face into the fabric, its velvety softness tickling your skin, and inhale. It smells of the same smoky cedarwood that sticks to his skin. 

You toss it onto your bed and climb up after. One-by-one you adjust your pillows so that they rest upright against the mossy wall and face the TV. You take care to put more support on your side, anticipating he'll eventually stop resisting and cuddle up to you as he often does. When you're finally satisfied with the distribution, you hop off the bed to snatch your wallet from the table nearby. You dig inside until your finger bumps into what you're looking for; a golden grimm coin. 

Both titles are appealing enough that you're impartial to either, so you'll just do a coin toss. You're more interested in the cute expressions Mammon will show you tonight anyway. 

You flip the coin off your thumb, catch it in your palm, and lay it flat on the back of your hand. You lift your palm and grin - it's head. “The Wicked Woes of Demonessa” it is. 

A knock sounds at your door.

"Hey, Human, It's me. Open the door!" You hum to yourself, bending down to pick up just one of the DVDs. You stash both your wallet and “To Capture a Beating Heart” into your backpack and plop it into the chair farthest from the bed. You look over your room one more time and nod before walking over to open the door.

There waits your pouty demon, hair all mussed up with arms crossed over his broad chest. 

"Some nerve you got, making me wait!" He huffs. You flash him a toothy smile, tugging him inside by his elbow and shutting the door behind him.

"Happy to see you too, Mam." A light flush rises to his cheeks.

"Y-yeah..happytoseeyatooidiot," he grumbles. "Did'ya pick out a movie yet?" His eyes skitter away from you to appraise your set-up. 

Dimmed fairy lights, honey-scented candle sticks lit on golden candelabras, and the golden pendant he'd gifted you during your first year in the Devildom rests proudly over the collar of your pajama shirt. Everything is intentional. Everything is for him. 

"Sure did!" You saunter over towards your bed and bend over to pick up the DVD case from off the rug. You go to open the case, but a lack of following footfalls distracts you. You look over your shoulder to find him fidgeting in the middle of your room. 

You frown. "What's wrong Mam?" 

"W-what's that smell?" His eyes flicker to and fro, scanning your space for the source.  

"Uh, well I lit some scented candles. If they're too sweet for you I can turn them off, no problem." You toss the case onto your bed before heading for the coffin-shaped bookshelf in the back. You pick through a small black lace basket filled with spell tools you're borrowing from Solomon. 

You forget sometimes how heightened their senses are compared to yours. 

"You don't gotta go making a big deal out of it. A little sweetness ain't nothin' to the Great Mammon."  He chuckles loud and proud, but you catch the way he clenches his fists at his side.

"It "ain't nothin'" if it bothers you, Mam." You admonish. You finally find the candle snuffer and lift it out of the basket. "Your comfort is my priority, alright?"

He sputters, eyes wide, and you shoot him a soft smile as you move over to the first candelabra. "Really, it's no trouble."

Before you can snuff out the first candle stick, a firm hand wraps around your wrist. "Nah, s'fine. I..I like it." Your heart does a little flip at the admission, but as you glance down at the back of his hand you frown. 

"Aw, what happened here?" Your free hand traces the indentations pressed into his skin. They aren't too deep, but they seem a little aggravated. 

"Tsch," he releases you to shove both his hands into his jacket pockets. A slight crinkle catches your attention as they settle into the tight space, but you'll worry about that later. 

"Hey, none of that. No hiding." You place the snuffer onto the table and turn to him. You hold out your hands, palms up, and wait. Mammon can only shuffle his feet and avoid your eyes for so long.

"He's getting all creative now! Damn sadist."

You purse your lips and sigh out of your nose. Lucifer only had his brother's best interests in mind, but his methods could be awfully draconian at the worst of times. You'd seen in the group chat this morning that Mammon had tried to sell photos he sneaked out of Diavolo's private chambers. You haven't a clue of how he got past Barbatos of all beings, but you don't put it past him, he certainly is one of the most driven individuals you'd ever met. Undoubtedly, Mammon tested his luck and crossed several boundaries, but your heart aches for him. He's always hated sharing the weakest parts of himself.

"We don't have to talk about it. Will you just let me help you out a bit?" You bat your eyelashes when he finally meets your gaze. He scoffs and shrugs his shoulders.

"Can't keep your hands off me, can ya?" You quirk a brow at him, a knowing look on your face. You start to lower your hands slowly, purposefully.

"That's alright, Mam. I wouldn't want to force you." Before your hands can drop to your side, he clutches them in his own.

"Who said anything about force?! See," his hands squeeze your own, "all good to go." You drag your thumbs over the knuckles encasing your own.

"Go ahead and sit down, I'll join you in a sec." You gesture to the bed and your heart does happy little flips when he gravitates straight to the zombie-iguana blanket.

"Ya still got tha damn thing?" The question comes out soft, too soft, that you wonder if it was for you to begin with.

"Course I do. My first man gave it to me!" You can't stop yourself from laughing at the way his shoulders shoot up to his ears.

"Y-yeah," he attempts to catch himself as you walk back over to the bookshelf and dig into another basket, "It was a hassle to get it made, so don't go lettin' anybody else mess with it."

"Don't worry," you tease from the other side of the room. You can't resist the opportunity to rile up his greed, "I only take it out for our movie nights."

Sparing his dignity, you don't look up from the basket as you hear him choke a bit. When he calms down you grab the lotion-salve you'd made about a week ago, good for healing any minor wounds. Smelling of bergamot with hints of lavender, it's your proudest achievement thus far.

"Actually, speaking of our movie nights...," you stand and make your way over to the bed. Already, he's shoved off his jacket and shoes, making himself at home among the pillows. As your eyes scan his toned arms you're reminded that you quite literally have a model in your bed.

"This is the first one we've had in a while, huh?" He spreads his legs as you come closer, signaling for you to sit in between them. As you join him, his eyes soften and he holds out his hands for you to take. You're humbled by the trust he places in you.

You squirt some lotion into your hand and rub your palms together to warm it up before you reach for him. He sniffs the air and sits up a bit.

"The hells that?" 

You cock your head. Does he really not like the smell this time?

"You mean the lotion?"

"Yeah! Did Asmo give you that? I don't want that flowery shit." Ah, the real issue isn't the lotion itself . Rather, that another demon may have given it to you. Despite the laugh begging to spill forth from your lips, you manage to cool your expression.

You slowly massage the cream into your skin, biting your lip at the low warning growl that leaves him. You just had to be sure. "No, Mam. Asmodeus didn't give this one to me. I made it myself." His posture relaxes considerably.

That is, until you open your mouth again.

"But, if you don't like the smell I can go give it to him. He'd probably like it, right? I can go real qu-" You don't get to finish your sentence as his hand grasps the front of your shirt, tugging you forward until you're trapped in his arms.

"Ya ain't goin nowhere."  Goosebumps prick at your skin in response to this growl. It's not a warning. It's daring you to try your luck. You move quickly to return his embrace, smoothing your hands over his backside to reassure him. "You're stayin' here with me, understand?" Warmth flows through you from head to toe. 

"So, you don't find the scent completely and utterly repulsive?" Your hands trail upwards to massage his shoulders, pushing and prodding the tense muscles. He flinches, but doesn't stop you. 

"Ah, hold on!" Something clicks as he snaps back from you, holding you back by your shoulders. "Nobody said anythin' about being repulsed! Who said they're repulsed? Not me!" 

"Oh, good!" You pull his hands off your shoulders, dropping them onto your lap as you reach over for the lotion. Again, you warm it up between your hands. "Then just sit still, alright?"

He goes down quietly, too quietly, that you make sure to watch his face for any discomfort as you reach for the first hand. A touch to his skin surprises you. His hand is rougher than you expect, but you mask your curiosity and don't hesitate to place your hands atop his. The last thing you want is for him to recede into himself when you've finally gotten this far into whatever is happening between the two of you. You can ask about the rough calluses on his palm another day.

You start with the lines indented over his fingers, carefully kneading the skin as he hisses under his breath. His eyes, a blend of ocean and golden sun, remain transfixed on where your skin meets. But, his face is marred by a deep frown that makes your blood run cold. Did you overstep somewhere? 

"What's running through your mind?" You work your way onto his palm, tenderly rubbing the faded scars littered across the expanse of skin. The lotion can't heal something that has already come to pass. Nor can you, but you'll hold him here for as long as he'll let you. 

A sigh leaves him. "Don't go treatin' me like I'm fragile. I'm supposed to protect you, got it?"

 He's right, he's not fragile. Beneath the glamor he's taut, tough skin, with sharp fangs and leathery wings that could tear you to shreds. But, he's also the same demon who seeks you out for comfort after punishments or a big loss at the casino. The same demon who sits through horror movies if it means he'll have an excuse to spend the night with you. The demon who would truly do anything you asked of him - and that's not a power you wield lightly. 

You pat his hand with a smile to let him know you're finished and hold out your hands for him once more. You'll let him decide if he wants to continue.

"Hey, don't you dare ignore me!" Plopping his hand into yours immediately defeats the tough tone he's put on. You start from the top and repeat the motion, fingers to palm. A rush of boldness overcomes you as you press into the callouses. You adore this demon. You wish he could see himself the way you see him. 

"I know you're not fragile, Mam." You finish up the massage, but don't let go. You watch as the indentations gradually fade into even skin. "But, you're precious to me. I treasure what's precious to me. You get that, don't you?" 

Your stomach drops as silence greets you. At the very least, you think, it's a good sign that he hasn't pulled his hand away from you. You drop both of your hands into your lap and fidget with his fingers.

"You mean that?" You never knew Mammon's voice could sound so meek. 

You lift your eyes to his, grasping his hand tightly between your own. Wide eyes, mouth parted, and brows furrowed. Even like this, he's a vision.

"I mean it, Mam." 

At once, his cheeks are aflame. "I-you!" He stammers. A laugh rips from your chest, relieved that he didn't a) run out of the room or b) hide away from you. You want to tease him more, but you hold back. Instead, you reach over to pick up the DVD from off your comforter and savor this milestone between the two of you.

"Ready for the movie?" You ask, getting up from the bed.

"Huh? Oh that, yeah, yeah." He seems a bit dazed. 

"You feeling ok?" You lean over, lifting your hand to feel his forehead, but his hand catches yours before you reach him. 

"I'm fine! The hell we watching anyway?" You use your free hand to show him the DVD cover. The two demonic leads stand before each other, hand in hand, leaning in for a kiss under the title. 

"The Wicked Woes of Demonessa?!" He sounds exasperated. "W-where'd you get that junk?! We ain't watching that!"

"What, why not?" You pout, giving him puppy dog eyes.

"That's some mind poison! All it's good for is rottin' ya brain." He snarls, but you know you've got him. A little nudging is all he needs.

"Oh." You sigh, purposefully. "Well, if you don't want to watch it with me, I'm sure Beel or Mo wouldn't mind." "Like he-" "Or-" You counter before he can start running his mouth. "We can watch another movie I borrowed as a back-up."

Mammon eyes you suspiciously. "What other movie are ya hidin', human?"

You have to be a little evil in this back-and-forth or you'll never get anywhere. So, you shuffle over to the TV stand and grab the unopened DVD case resting next to the DVD player. You show him the cover and watch as he immediately recoils.

"ARE YA CRAZY?!" He shrieks. A myriad of ghosts with tormented expressions erupt from the house that rests above the title that reads: The Horrible Haunting of Hollow Hill Manner. 

"What?" You ask like it's not the most peculiar and pointed selection to ensure you two watch your movie of choice this evening.

"What?" He mocks your casual tone. "Who're ya borrowin' that from?"

"Satan." Your smile comes easy. "He recommended this one, it's a murder mystery that takes place in a haunted house. Apparently, it's based on a true story."

"A TRUE WHAT?!" He throws the fur blanket over himself, leaving only his head submerged. 

"Mammon," you snort, "you're literally one of the most powerful beings in existence. Fourth most powerful in all the Devildom."

You can't see his chest puff up, but you know him well enough to know it does. 

"E-exactly!" He exclaims. "I can take on anything. Some cheap old trick movie like that won't scare me, nuh-uh, it'll  just be a snoozefest."

"I see," you smirk, "then some cliche romance flick shouldn't be too bad, right? Wouldn't want you falling asleep on me." Hook, line, and sinker.

You pay Mammon's complaints no mind as you open the DVD case and pull out the disk. You pop it into the DVD player, thrilled you get to watch a classic demonic romance unfold. You've been curious for some time now about how romance in the Devildom differs from the Human Realm. The plot seemed entertaining enough, but really you were curious about the customs. You wanted to woo him on his terms, in a way he couldn't blow off as some human schtick. 

You press play and pad back over to your bed. He's pouty, so you decide to sit next to him and hold out on getting under the blanket with him.You'll wait until the mood passes and give him his space.You can feel his stare digging into you as the opening soundtrack plays, but you manage to keep your focus on the screen. For a couple of minutes you two sit like this.

"Why're ya bein' like that?" He accuses.

"Like what?" You snap your head to him, eyes widening as you see him sit up, blanket falling off his shoulders and into his lap.

"Distant." He huffs, looking away from you. "Y-you said you treasure what's precious to ya, right?" 

Your heart is about to fucking explode. You don't waste a minute, wrapping your arm around his and tugging at him to face you. 

"You looked upset, so I wanted to give you your space." You utter, softly. "Would you be ok if I joined you under the blanket?" 

He scoffs, lifting the blanket up and over you. "Like ya even hav'ta ask." Earlier in the night than you've anticipated, he cuddles into your side with his head resting on your chest. You can't read his face from this angle, but a subdued purr rumbling through him assures you he's comfortable. 

You two sit like this throughout the first half of the movie. It's an interesting premise concentrated on the love between a demon of nobility and a commoner of great strength who has been hired to train the noble in the art of war.  Later on, it's revealed that the commoner's unprecedented strength is due to them being an illegitimate child of a Great General of the East. The noble's father, a Recordkeeper, has hidden away documents proving the commoner's lineage at their father's request. Thus, they come to the castle under the guise of an instructor and soon find their plans disrupted when they begin to fall for the Recordkeeper's heir. 

Your curiosity is piqued as displays of what you presume is affection come onto the screen. "Hey Mam, I thought they liked each other, so why are they wrestling like that right now?"  

It's a more violent display than you expect, but you're entranced as their jaws snap, teeth are bared, and claws dig into skin. The leads throw each other against any surface within the weapon storehouse, stopping the other before they can plan an escape.  You look down at Mammon to find him hiding his face into your shirt, the tips of his ears tinged red.

"It's a show of strength." He mumbles into your shirt.

"A show of strength...," you repeat thoughtfully, "is that common in courtship here?"

Mammon groans, hiding further into your shirt. "I don'wanna talk about this. Don't they teach ya shit like that in your Demon Studies course or somethin'?"

"Unfortunately, no. The topic has never come up." Demon Studies has solely focused on social, political, and institutional relationships within the Devildom. Nothing interpersonal as far as you can remember.

"What?! Well they should, some silly 'ol human isn't gonna just pick up on that." 

"Well," you drag your fingers through his hair, "think you could enlighten me?" 

He peeks up at you with a glare. "Whad'ya wanna know?" The topic seems sensitive, so you tread lightly.

"Could you tell me what a common courtship is like here? You don't have to be detailed or anything. Like, are there steps?" Most of the romance movies you've seen during your time here have been pirated by Leviathan from the human realm. 

Again, Mammon hides his face from you. You are about to suggest you two move past the topic when he finally speaks up.

"Yeah. Yeah there are steps." You stay silent, but keep running your hand through his hair.

"Y'noticed how the noble started sendin' letters? Or how once they got a response from the sword swinger they started includin' trinkets or whatever with 'em?" A moment of silence passes and he peeks up at you. It hits you that he's waiting on you to respond.

You smile bashfully. "Oh, yes! Yes, I noticed."

He huffs. "It started then. Goin' all out with gifts, tryin' to impress each other like lunatics."

"Are trinkets usually given?" You ask.

"Mm," he hums, "yeah, but gifts are as varied as demons. Some prefer other things: food, poems, flowers, the heart of your greatest enemy, buncha stuff."

"Huh-" Did you hear that correctly? 

"The heart of your greatest enemy?" You parrot.

"What, ya sayin' humans don't do that anymore?" You shake your head. 

"None that I've met at least." You don't doubt that humans have done it at some point in time, but it sounds more like some distant wartime practice from the Middle Ages or earlier. 

"Still happens here. It's a show of strength and dedication, proof ya can kick any ass that comes threatinin' your potential mate." He seems to be relaxing more and more as you delve deeper into the topic. 

"So, the wrestling...?" 

"Show of strength. They're pretty equally matched, even though the lovebirds run in different circles. Makes 'em decent partners at least." You feel your mind expanding with the revelation that this scene is way deeper than you've realized. Despite the commoner's standing, they've been in control for most of the wrestling match. 

"Ooooh!" You take a minute to ponder. 

"So, demons won't usually go for someone weaker than them?"

"Bingo."

You wonder what this means for you two. You certainly aren't as strong enough as a demon, and especially not as strong as the Avatar of Greed. 

You lose your train of thought as Mammon sits up more to face you, poking you in the forehead.

"Doesn't mean they never will." You relax your face at his touch, you hadn't realized it was scrunched up so much. 

"It's not all about how tough ya are. It's 'bout how they make ya feel too. A courtship is pretty serious stuff, you don't pursue somethin' that intense with just any old schmuck."

Mammon's eyes follow your hand as it reaches to fiddle with the golden pendant he gifted you. In the middle lies some gemstone you can't find in the human world. It's clear with specks of gold and blue. He blushes and coughs into his fist.

"If it continues after that, it gets pretty serious pretty fast. Ya start scentin' each others stuff, which is a pretty ballsy move."

Your eyebrows jump up at this unexpected development. "Scenting...?"

"Yeah, puttin' your scent out so they know who ya belong to. No human nose is gonna pick up on somethin' subtle like that, but it's there." Wait, so does that mean-

"Is the house scented? Can it just be anything?" Mammon looks at you as if you've just grown another head.

"Huh?! No!" Embarrassment warms your cheeks.

"Why would we go wastin' energy like that? That's crazy. If anything is scented, it's intentional and nothin' time consumin'." You shrug your shoulders.

"Ah, ok. I didn't know." You fiddle some more with the pendant, looking away from him.

"Ack, no don't feel bad!" His face is just as flushed as yours, but he continues. "You didn't ask anything stupid. There's no way ya could've known!" You can't stop the giddy grin that pulls at your lips as he attempts to comfort you. You face him again.

"So, what happens next? If you're already doing something like that, aren't you practically together?" 

"Practically, but not officially." He grumbles. "Buncha kids go around scentin' each other thinkin' they're in love. The scent fades as fast as the feelin's." He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh.

"It's official when ya make it official. A spoken agreement between partners. No bullshittin'."

"That's it?" You try to sidestep the microscopic lens of human tunnel vision, but a spoken agreement feels less official than marriage in the human world. Joint assets, joint families, and rings as proof of being claimed.

"Whad'ya mean "that's it?"?! All and everything you really feel. Ya gotta say it and ya gotta mean it. It's a bindin' contract that's a bitch to ever try and break." It clicks for you then. A demon's word is binding.

"Like a pact, but for romantic partners?"

Mammon ponders for a moment before he nods. "That's not too far off. Little more goes into it, but it's complicated." The lull that comes after feels like the end of the conversation, so you take your chance.

"Mammon, has anyone tried courting you before?"

"Hah, of course!" His grin is as smug as it always is. "Who wouldn't want to take a chance to be with The Great Mammon?" He laughs to himself, but you wonder-

"Have you ever accepted an attempt?" You're curious.

"Uh-" The question catches him off guard. "Y-yeah. A handful of times, but it never went anywhere." You're a little disappointed, but you swallow down your pride. It would be more concerning if he'd never tried to find love throughout the milleniums he's lived. 

You shift your line of questioning. You'd rather focus on the present and this momentous opportunity lined up before you.

"So, say I were to get you something. What would you like?" You've never seen his head whip around so fast, truly inhuman speed as he jumps back from you and slams into the headboard.

"The hell, MC?!" His face, ears, and what you can see of his neck, everywhere is flushed at your implication. This is just as embarrassing for you, but you feel emboldened by the security of your room, the sweet scent of honey in the air, and the declarations of love coming from the movie that still runs in the background.

"What about a pendant to match mine? Would you wear something like that if I got it for you?" You've come so close. You won't give up now. 

"W-why would I want somethin' like that?" You know it's a deflection. He wouldn't have stayed with you, here and now, if it wasn't. But, you're tired of it. You only want it if he wants it too. No bullshitting, right?

"Nevermind then, Mam. Don't worry, I won't get you anything. I don't want to make you uncomfortable." You reach for the remote that fell to the floor during all the commotion. "We don't have to finish the mo-"

You squeal in shock as Mammon throws himself into you. It's enough force to knock you back onto the pillows sprawled all over. You're speechless as he hides his face into your neck. He's never gotten this close to you. 

"S'fine." His grip on you tightens. "A matching necklace, s'good."

You can't contain yourself. "Mam, look at me."

He hums but doesn't move.

"Mammon, look at me." You're gentle with him as you cup his cheeks. 

"Seriously, you would accept it?" 

"Now you're just bein' cruel. I said it's good, didn't I?!" You can feel the sting of tears building. You don't think you've ever been this happy. 

You rub your thumbs over his cheeks. "Hey, Mam?"

"Whatd’ya want now?" 

"Can I kiss you?"  

In an instant, you're pressed back into the pillows, Mammon's lips on yours. It's not fireworks like humans talk about, nor the clashing of fangs as demons might do. It's tender and filled with a longing buried deep within the soul. It's messy. It's unexpected. It's perfect. 

You pull back to catch your breath and are touched by the unshed tears in Mammon's glassy eyes. It seems the sensation was mutual.

"I love you, Mam." 

You can figure out what this means for you two going forward tomorrow. You can ask about the callouses on his hands or for the stories of hardship behind the scars. You can discuss where courtships went wrong for you both, talk through your communication struggles, and love each other openly without fear. You're just so happy, really, that he'll let you love him. 

"I love ya too, MC."  He settles back into your arms, and you two lay there for some time, movie all but forgotten.

It's when the credits roll that Mammon shoots up, rushing to grab his jacket.

"Ah, shit!" He digs into his jacket pockets, pulling out a couple bags of hellfire twists. Your shared favorite movie treat.

"I meant to give this to ya earlier. So, ya know, we could have a snack during the movie." You chuckle at him as he rubs the back of his neck.

"We still can. Ever heard of ``To Capture a Beating Heart”?"

[winterbuckwild]

New Fic!

Based on this post, part 1 now up! READ ON Ao3 HERE

Title: I Can Be Flexible

Rating Mature (eventually)

Pretty much nothing hurts (except Eddies back) pure fluff. Streamer/Youtuber AU.

Eddie groaned as he switched the camera off, stretching his leg out from where it had been folded on the seat under him. He shook his foot pathetically as the fuzzy pins and needles feeling took over his lower leg.

That was the issue when he really got into the game he was streaming; he crunched himself up on his expensive ergonomic gaming chair, completely nulling any actual orthopaedic benefits that had sounded so good at the time. No more back pain, no more cricked neck, no more knee aches.

Lies.

When the feeling returned to his foot enough for him limp out of the box room he used as an "office" he beelined for the kitchen and narrowly held back the urge just to stick his head under the faucet and let the cold water deal with his dehydration and blood shot eyes from the outside. He grabbed a semi clean glass from the side instead and congratulated himself a little as he downed two glasses in quick succession and refilled a third time, scrubbing at the back of his sore, stiff neck.

He carried his water, a tube of Pringles and the leftover pizza from lunch to the worn, dipped couch pushed to one end of his small living area and lowered himself down with a sigh, propping his legs up on the beanbag he used mostly as a footstool.

He was pretty sure at twenty seven he shouldn't be aching so damned much but here he was, knees cracking and jaw clicking as he shifted to find a semi comfortable position. He'd spent four hours on live, alternating between crunched up in his chair and half hanging out of it and he definitely hadn't been thinking at the time about how much he was going to be paying for it afterwards.

He shook two painkillers out of the bottle by the side of the couch, downing half the glass again before shoving a piece of pizza in his mouth before the pills could make his stomach hurt again.

It took four slices before he felt human again, the water and the food with the painkillers making him sleepy and soft. After the cacophony of the game he'd been playing, the silence of the apartment emphasised the faint ringing in his ears that he only noticed when all the other noise stopped.

He nodded off a few minutes later within head tipped back against the couch cushion.

**

Steve knew that it was the review of the computer game that he should be watching; after all that was the reason that Dustin had shoved his phone in Steve's face to begin with. He'd been on another rant, trying to convince Steve that the game was absolutely suitable for Nancy and Jonathan's young son (it wasn't) “It hardly has any decapitation in it Steve, look!”

Look he did, but Steve was completely distracted from the actual game part of the video by the very pretty man in the thumbnail off to the side who was playing said game and gesturing enthusiastically every time he had a second to take his hands off the controller.

Even more distracting was that he had his foot propped up on the chair, arm hooked lazily around it as he leaned forwards in concentration. His whole upper body looked like it screamed discomfort, and Steve's shoulder blades throbbed in sympathy.

"Does he know how bad for his back that is?" he commented, feeling older and older with every word that left his mouth. "If he's not walking like he shit himself when he gets off that chair, it will be a miracle."

"What about the game, Steve?" Dustin sounded exasperated and just a little bitchy.

"Nancy will hit the roof, and not in a good way." Steve mentally noted the gamers handle and handed Dustin back his phone. "Time for a present rethink."

Henderson tried one final time to get Steve on side and convince him of the games suitability but gave up at the thought of Nancy's displeasure which was clearly much scarier than Steve's. They finished up lunch and left the café hugging tightly before going their separate ways.

It was only a short walk home, the autumn air crisp and clean as it actually got in the city. He really was going to go straight up to his apartment above the little gym that he owned and ran, but he detoured to walk the floor instead.

Robin glared at him from where she was manning the reception desk.

"What are you doing here, Dingus?" She glared harder "you do know the place won't explode if you take an afternoon off? I'm starting to feel like you don't trust me."

Steve held his hands out in a placating gesture and slipped past the reception area.

He made his way around the counter, deliberately avoiding the main floor. Didn't even look at it. He knew what was good for him. "I thought of a thing, I'm not even here, I promise." She gave him a look, clearly nor believing a word until he slipped into the back room.

It was meant to be a small one on one yoga studio, or at least that's what he designed it as when the builders were talking specs but it was rarely used as such. He usually used it for filming so his camera setup was mostly a permanent fixture from where he filmed his videos for his fitness channel.

When his own YouTube channel gained some followers that weren’t friends being supportive, he’d started putting out videos semi-regularly from his apartment while he was waiting for the gym space below it to be finished. He gained followers slowly but surely until he’d had Robin film one of flexibility workouts (where he had ditched his shirt about a quarter of the way in) to track his progress and she had sneakily given it a sound track and posted it. He’d been mad for all of five minutes before the thirst trap had worked and his follower count had skyrocketed.

After the gym had been finished he started just using the smaller room for full body shots and movements (god damn it, Robin, not every video requires abs) since there was more room than in his little apartment. He was a tall guy and he needed the space if he didn't want to smack something important on something immovable.

Since the gym wasn't exactly advertised leaning towards the yoga crowd the room didn't really see a lot of use even though most of his videos centred mainly on stretching and flexibility these days and he plugged the gym fairly regularly.

Steve stretched out a little before he settled down in front of the tripod, phone in place and pointed at the right angle. He didn't feel the need for pricey cameras or super complicated lighting when the overheads at the gym could go brighter than the sun when he wanted them to, but having to not dick around with tripod angles was always welcome when he had something stuck in his brain.

His thoughts had never quite left the beautiful, enthusiastic streamer from Dustin's phone and the pretzel shape that he'd contorted himself into on his gaming chair. Steve clicked the little Bluetooth button and smiled winningly at the camera, getting his usual intro done on auto pilot.

"If you are like this fine gentleman here and get into your game or work a bit too much, I'm going to show you how to mitigate some of the damage and hopefully make your back and neck feel a bit better after a long session." The tracking pod that his phone rested on moved with him as he sat gracefully on the floor, legs held wide to stretch out his hamstrings. He mimed leaning against a chair for the beginners poses and then gradually sunk lower until his chest nearly hit the floor and he could grab at his bare feet, explaining all the while about the stretch and how it released the lower back.

He shot through a twist, grabbing a firm bolster cushion to rest his upper body on while his hips twisted the other way, and then the more advanced version of the pose, and then twisted so that he was laying on his back with the bolster snugged up under his shoulder blades with his neck supported and his arms out to the side. He suppressed a groan of pleasure as he talked, his voice getting a little breathy as his own back stretched, courtesy of the truly horrible café chairs he'd been forced into for the afternoon.

"And to finish off if you have a bit of trouble sleeping, try some legs on the wall from my last video for ten to fifteen minutes, I'll link that in the description below. It'll help lower your cortisol levels and set you up for a good night." Steve smiled again at the camera feeling a little lighter than before now that his brain worm of an idea was fully formed and done. He did his usual outro and added a little extra that he hoped no one would notice was aimed at the pretty gamer. "Hope you feel better, sleep well."

[fanfic-is-a-godsend]

Hello my loves! I'm so down bad for Leon, and also I feel like he would be into overstimulation. Hope this satiates some of your guys' thirst for a little while <3

Scenario: Leon has been on a mission for a while, and you decided to tease him relentlessly for the entire time. He comes home after all that time and decides to eat you out like it's his last meal.

Leon Kennedy x FTM!reader (reader is referred to as Leon's boyfriend)

Content: porn without plot; smut; crying (it's from being overstimulated but I thought I should add it); Cunnilingus; established relationship; usage of the pet names baby/babe, sweetheart, and love; use of good boy; cockwarming mention; honestly Leon is very soft as he overstimulates you

MDNI PLEASE READ SOMETHING ELSE

The day had been rough, but in all honesty there wasn't anything that should have made it that bad. Sure there were a few annoyances: a flight delayed by an hour, paperwork that lasted for longer than an attention span could handle, a favorite fast-food place being closed for major repairs. None of it was that bad; at least not compared to what Leon dealt with on a practically monthly basis.

But there was something else. Something that gnawed at the back of the back of his mind and seeped, sluggish and heavy, into his chest.

Longing.

All day Leon was antsy, on pins and needles, wishing he could get home faster. If he could only just finish that last bit of paperwork faster, if only that flight hadn't been delayed, if only he hadn't had to go find a different place to grab a bite, then he would have gotten to see his boyfriend faster. He would've gotten to feel him faster, to taste him faster.

It had been so long, four months to be exact, since you had seen each other. Of course he stayed in contact when he could, but you had been such a tease recently. Pictures that were provocative but not quite nudes became the norm, and late night calls where you were already two fingers deep inside yourself when Leon answered had gotten more and more frequent.

It all left Leon feeling incredibly frustrated, wanting his boyfriend so badly yet not being able to have him. That frustration lingered beneath his skin for the entire time you two were apart. The last place he needed to be was in some country halfway across the world for a mission. He wanted, no needed, to be between his boyfriend's legs.

By the time he finally got back to your shared apartment, he was bursting at the seams with frustration and desire. The entire day he had been wishing he had your warm skin on his, fantasizing about making you cry out his name. Leon needed you, and he needed you now.

Hard boots hit the floor, and a heavy leather jacket was thrown haphazardly at the coat rack. The smell of something savory cooking on the stove filled the air, mixing with Leon's already strong hunger for things he knew he'd have.

You were on the couch reading something Leon didn't catch the title to when you turned around to see who had just walked into your apartment. Curiosity was quickly replaced with joy as you caught sight of Leon. A bright smile cracked across your face, and you moved to stand up. Leon was already right there, pushing you back down onto the couch.

You opened your mouth to ask what Leon was doing, but were promptly cut off.

"You can't do the shit that you've done for months and not expect to be pinned to something when I get back, babe." Was the answer to your unasked question. Leon's words came out in a huff. The irritation that had built up all day was evident in the slight gruff quality of his voice.

You, in turn, snorted and rolled your eyes, threading your fingers through Leon's hair and pulling him closer. "Well hello to you too, my love." You snickered before leaning up to capture Leon's cracked lips in a kiss.

You should have never agreed to indulge in Leon's desperation. That thought , though, was barely a musing when Leon circled his tongue around your puffy red clit over and over and over again. Your brain was foggy, so deprived of reprieve that you could barely think anymore. As your body burned, nerves screaming out for Leon to stop, all you could do was weakly, pathetically attempt to push Leon's face away. Did you really want him to stop?

"Ngh... Leon," you muttered out breathlessly, voice raw from screaming out in pleasure for the last hour. Tears streamed down your cheeks from how overwhelmed your senses were. "Can't- can't go anymore. Don't have another one in me."

And for a moment, Leon stopped. His mouth hovered mere inches away from your sopping, abused cunt and looked into your eyes with a more relaxed expression than he had all night. Strong arms looped around your thighs, holding them open yet close enough that Leon could feel their warmth on his face

The sight of Leon's relaxed yet hungry face, glistening with the tangy slick of your arousal caused a wave of pride to wash over you. God damn it Leon really knew how to make you do what he wanted without even trying.

"Awh, but sweetheart," Leon began, his voice a slow drawl of honey and syrup. "You know you do. Can I please just get one more? After that you can sleep or cockwarm all you want."

A sigh escaped your lips and you laid back against the couch, the springs creaking under your shifting weight. You gave a whiny noise that was something akin to a "fine..."

Leon frowned at that, reaching out and gently grabbing your jaw. His hand, worn and calloused, held you as though you would break. The touch was a stark contrast to the way he was completely devouring your poor pussy just a few moments ago.

"Is it 'fine' or is it 'yes', love?" Leon asked, soft and gentle in a way that made your stomach fill with butterflies.

And you crumbled like burnt gingerbread cookies. Despite your overwhelmed senses, you really did love it all. Beneath the overwhelm that scratched just under your skin was glee, waterfalls of joy and pleasure that you just couldn't get enough of. You would honestly probably beg for Leon to continue if you weren't feeling so prideful that night.

"Y-yes, you can." You looked away like this was the first time you two had done anything together. Your face burned a pretty red color, only made prettier by the way your face glistened with tears.

"Thank you, baby." Leon hummed, the noise sounding similar to a purr. "You're such a good boy for me." Leon gave you a light pat on the cheek and a kiss on the thigh before leaning back down.

He pressed his tongue between your folds, savoring the taste like he hadn't gotten the chance to before. Once satiated by just holding his tongue there for a few seconds, he unhooked an arm from one of your thighs and slid two fingers into your warm pussy.

The action caused your hips to jerk up and a whimper to escape your throat. The cold of Leon's fingers was a sharp contrast to the searing warmth of your pretty cunt. You squirmed and writhed, overwhelmed whines spilling from your lips as Leon relentlessly thrust his fingers in and out of you.

"Good boy. You're taking it so well." Leon cooed before dipping his head down. His lips captured your clit as he lapped at it like a starved man.

The only real way you could respond to the assault was to arch your back and cover your face as you sobbed in pleasure. Your legs trembled, trying desperately to close around Leon's head. Yet Leon held them open.

You were practically melting. Or were you exploding? You couldn't tell the difference. Maybe there wasn't a difference at that moment.

Your body dug into the rough fabric of the couch. It creaked and groaned under the movement, threatening to break as it did every time anything remotely heavy was placed upon it. Maybe it was just as worn out as you were, taking in some of the exhaustion for you.

God this was just what Leon needed: his face buried between his boyfriend's thighs as he made him come undone over and over and over again. Everything about this just made everything else worth it. He couldn't get enough of the way you sounded, so overwhelmed with pleasure you were whining like a dog. He couldn't get enough of the way you looked, face contorted in ecstasy, tears streaming down your face, taking everything just so well.

"So perfect." Leon mumbled against your clit. The vibrations of his voice made you cry out in surprise. "You're so fucking perfect..."

Then you were coming again, your cunt clenching hard around Leon's fingers. Your palms dug into your eyes as you screamed for the uptheenth time that night. Of course, Leon led you through it, cooing soft praises as he gradually slowed his fingers.

You relaxed, the couch giving out it's last creak for the night as you did so. Your hands slid from your face up to your hair then moved to Leon's shoulders. The glow of the shitty, dim lightbulbs in the apartment made the sweat on your skin glint with the rise and fall of your chest.

You were so close to just passing out, fatigue weighing down on your body like a weighted blanket. To your surprise, Leon pulled away, giving your thighs a little kiss as he did so.

"Let's get you cleaned up, sweetheart." Leon reached out and gently grabbed your hand, pulling you off the couch. Leon was a man of his word, always.

Your body felt like jelly, shaky and unsteady. Leon gladly shouldered the full weight of his boyfriend leaning on you as he led you to the bathroom, his feet shuffling on the hard, carpeted floor.

"Once we do that we can go to bed, okay?"

You just mumbled something close to an "okay" In response. You tried to nuzzle your face into Leon's neck, but the angle made it difficult. Instead, you gently rested your head on Leon's shoulder as Leon nudged the bathroom door open. Once inside, you sat down on the floor as Leon started a bath, the cold tile floor uncomfortable against your bare skin.

"Hm, thank you for letting me do this, baby."

"Of course, my love. We both needed it."

Edited for formatting reasons. Idk what the fuck I was doing.

[malice-ov-mercy]

Somewhere Along the Way

Pairing: Will Ramos x Reader

Content Warnings: some one sided angst

From my lyric prompt list:

@circle-with-me asked for #4

“Well I won’t die for love, but ever since I met you, you could have my heart and I would break it for you.”

A/N: I absolutely did not cry or get any kind of emotional writing this at all.

Word count: 489

Tag list: @circle-with-me

If you would like to be added, please let me know for who! If you tell me everyone/everything, just know that ALSO includes anything I may write for Will Ramos.

————————————

Will Ramos masterlist

Somewhere Masterlist

————————————

Somewhere along the way, I fell hopelessly and profoundly in love with Will. It could have happened when we were dumb teenagers. Maybe it was when he was just a temporary fill in. Or perhaps when he fully joined and after he introduced me to everyone. I definitely knew by the time he left for Europe the first time.

How does that saying go?

“Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

The day I finally realized came crashing down around me. It felt like a semi had destroyed every wall around my heart. Even though I’ve known it forever, I still tried to brush it off and deny it. There was no way in hell I could tell him. I buried it inside my chest, swallowing every pin and needle as I dug the deepest hole I could. I filled it with cement, hoping that would be enough to keep it contained. This had to stay way below the surface. The risk was too great to take—

But the way he enveloped and embraced me when I picked him from the airport tested the integrity of my burial. The love and care in his soft brown eyes and the warmth of his smile made the feelings in my heart’s grave swell back to life. Tears pricked my eyes. I was overwhelmed with emotions. Will’s lovesick expression shifted quickly into concern. His thumbs brushed away my tears as his hands cupped my face. The tender gesture made me choke on a sob.

“Woah, hey. What’s wrong?” His voice was soft—so soft.

The worry on his face was palpable. I screwed my eyes shut, not wanting to see Will. I couldn’t bear it. Another sob ripped from my throat when he titled my head back.

“Look at me, please.” He coaxed. Reluctantly, I did as asked, blinking away more tears that clouded my vision. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I—“ My voice cracked before I could form a full sentence. I weakly cleared my throat. “I just missed you.”

Will stared at me for a beat, then smiled sweetly. He stroked my cheeks.

“I missed you too.”

The crude structure I built in my heart started cracking and crumbling when he pressed his lips to my forehead. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me snug against him. I hooked my arms around him and sobbed into his chest. His hands rubbed comforting circles on my back. He let me cry for a while. I’m not sure how long we stood there, but it was a long time.

I didn’t fear Will would break my heart. I knew him well enough. He would handle it with so much care. He already had it entirely anyway, he just didn’t know. But I couldn’t dare tell him I loved him. I take great care of this beating bleeding muscle—but I would break my own heart for him if it meant I didn’t lose him.

[fullerthanskippy]

For those who prefer to read on tumblr over AO3, here is the newest chapter I posted today! I'll be posting in both places to get maximum eyes on the work. Now do enjoy, because I made myself horny on the LORD'S DAY to write this, as Skippy would have wanted!

(tagging those who showed love on the original post! @itsalinh, @fanfic-keeps-me-sane, @alexgraphyy, @arrpegio, @hawklovesskippy)

Here are some important visuals for you lovely readers: Picture 1950s Hawk and Tim for the 2012 flashbacks, okay? That innocent little dorky Skippy smile melts my fucking heart. And I personally find Hawk to be very daddy in the 50s (before he was actually even a daddy). I'm thinking up titles, and I have a playlist of songs going that will inspire certain chapters of the book, so chapter titles will be coming soon as well with lyrics of songs that inspired each installment. Gird your loins, we're jumping right into some light to medium smut. ***

The loud music thumped in Tim’s ears as he pushed through the crowded bar. It was the first weekend of his graduate program at Georgetown and he, against his better judgment, agreed to meet up with some classmates he met at orientation. He never went out much in undergrad, mostly opting to stay in his dorm room and study or catch up on his shows while his other peers stumbled through the streets of the small college town.

Now that he had one degree under his belt, he felt like it was time to be a damn adult and see what the bar scene was like in his new city. Besides, at least he was now 21 and didn’t get that pins-and-needles feeling across his skin when he handed a bouncer his ID. Even if his fake that he’d acquired through his freshman roommate did look enough like him and he had memorized the address and date of birth of the man on the card, it still made him extremely squirrely and anxious and usually resulted in ducking out of the line and telling his friends he forgot he had work he needed to catch up on.

The bar was dark and filled with bodies, Tim’s brow already beginning to sweat as the music pulsated with his heartbeat. He finally shoved his way up to the bar and shouted for the bartender to bring him the same beer the guy before him had just ordered. He set down enough cash to cover the single beer as well as a tip, and turned his back toward the bar.

Tim leaned back against the counter, elbows propped up behind him on either side. He perused the crowd for anyone he recognized from orientation this past week. His gaze failed to fall upon any familiar faces, but he did catch the eye of another man across the bar. His heart leapt into his throat and he took a sip of the amber colored ale to try to push it down.

The man was older than him by at least ten years. This was not a concern for Tim, as most of his past lovers were well above his own demographic. The man was sipping his cocktail through the skinny black straw bobbing over the top of the drink. His blue eyes were locked on Tim, and Tim could feel his cheeks getting hot.

He subtly tried to look to his right and left to make sure that the man’s eyes were, in fact, trained on him. The man removed his lips from his drink and one corner of his mouth drew upward, indicating that Tim’s attempt at being covert had definitely failed. Tim let out a breathy chuckle to himself and threw the man a wink. Taking this as an invitation, the man began to walk towards him.

Tim pushed his back off the bar and began walking to meet the man on the dance floor. Though he did not go out much to the college bars with his friends over the past four years, he had plenty of experience meeting men in bars around his hometown. He knew the game and he had to admit, he played it well.

The man’s eyes never broke contact as they squeezed through a sea of bodies to get to one another. Once they reached each other in the mass of drunken college students, the man leaned down into Tim's ear, and just loudly enough over the music, said, “Your lips look so pretty wrapped around that beer bottle.”

Tim’s breath caught in his throat at the man’s forwardness. He’d encountered many a pickup line, but none that sent the blood rushing from his head and into his pants quite like that one. The man towered over him by at least 5 inches, to where Tim had to crane his neck up to meet the man’s gaze. Using his thumb and forefinger, Tim adjusted his thick framed glasses and on tiptoe, he placed his mouth right next to the man’s ear. His voice came out deeper than he expected, and thank God, because inside he felt his heart squealing like a little girl.

“So you think I’m pretty?”

With his one free hand, the man grabbed Tim’s waist and pulled him close. Tim was pleased with his choice of words, as he could now feel the man’s hard-on pressed against his leg. It took every ounce of self control Tim had not to rip this man’s clothes off in front of all these people. The man read Tim’s mind, or perhaps recognized the animalistic look in Tim’s eyes, as he grabbed Tim’s hand and began leading him off of the dance floor.

Once they reached the edge of the crowd, the man wasted no time before setting both of their drinks down on an empty table and pushing Tim against the nearest surface, which was the wall next to the men’s bathroom. Tim’s back was against the wall with the man’s massive hand cradling the back of his neck. The man used his other hand to place it under Tim’s stubble and tilt his chin up until their lips were millimeters apart, both men breathing heavily.

“Do you do this often?” Tim asked breathily. “Cruise for younger men at the college bars?”

“Ouch,” the man had a pained expression, though the sultry smirk never left his lips. “How old do you think I am?”

Tim gently nipped at the man’s neck, trailing light kisses upward until he reached the man’s ear. “Old enough to know better than to start something unless you want to finish it.”

The man pressed his hips against Tim’s, closing the space between the two of them and kissing Tim so deeply that he nearly choked on his breath. “How about this,” the man said as he pulled away from Tim’s desperate lips. “I’m gonna go close my tab, and when I get back here, if you’re still here, I’d like for you to come home with me.”

Tim rocked his hips against the man one more time before pulling away, “I’ll go get us a cab.” The man practically growled in Tim’s ear, placed a sloppy kiss just below Tim’s earlobe, and turned his attention back toward the crowded room. Tim watched as the man’s broad, muscular shoulders and back towered over the tiny women he had to push through to get back to the bar. He felt a surge of pride as he watched these college girls ogle at the man he was about to go home with. If only they knew, he thought, that the man’s stature clearly translated to other things of impressive size, if the feeling against Tim’s thigh had been any indication.

Tim finally tore his gaze from the man as he turned and exited the back door of the bar. As he stepped out into the hot August night, his ears still ringing from the loud music, he looked down the street and held up a hand to hail a taxi. A handful of other people were on the curb trying to do the same, a group of raucous frat boys jumping in the first cab that pulled up. Just as well, Tim thought. His suitor had not met him out back yet anyway.

Just then, the back door of the bar opened and his conquest emerged into the dark night. It did not require many strides of his long legs before he was back in front of Tim, grabbing his face and driving their lips together. The man’s lips were hot on Tim’s as he closed the space between their bodies once again. Tim felt something twitch in his pants at the thought of onlookers in this dark alley behind the bar, watching the two men, all hands and lips and teeth.

The man leaned down to kiss and bite at Tim’s neck, just above the collar of his shirt. While the man was sucking and licking at a spot of his skin, Tim took in the surroundings. He was sure the man was going to leave a mark, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying a bit of voyeurism. Groups of girls whispering as they passed the men, missing available taxis that passed by because they were too busy in their moment of passion.

Then, Tim saw a man leaning up against the back door of the bar, having a smoke just under the bright security light that lit up the back alley. With two fingers, the stranger removed the cigarette from between his lips as he kept his eyes locked on Tim, his expression unreadable. Tim threw his head back as his own stranger placed his hand on his ass, clawing desperately at the smaller man. The man with the cigarette ashed it on the brick wall of the bar, ran a hand through his hair, and folded his arms. He wasn’t even pretending not to watch. He was enjoying the show that Tim was putting on for him.

Tim created a fantasy in his head of the stranger joining himself and his suitor in the back of the cab, the three of them fervently swapping sloppy kisses on the way to the original man’s home. Though he already had one man locked in for the night, the man who was whispering absolute filth in Tim’s ear about all the things he wanted to do to him, Tim couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to have the two men worshiping his body at once. The dimly lit stranger shifted on his feet, appearing to become uncomfortable at the tightness in his own pants.

The fantasy world Tim had created was fractured when his suitor pulled away and finally flagged down a taxi. He opened the car door for Tim like a gentleman and slapped Tim’s ass as he climbed into the back seat. The man told the driver the address of their final location for the night. As the cab began pulling away from the bar, Tim watched as the stranger stomped out his cigarette, turned on his heels, and disappeared into the dark of the night.

[addisonstars]

"baby im yours, until the end of time"

written for days 19/20/21 of september for @jegulus-microfic with the prompts "content"/"waterfalls"/"miracle"

459 words

The rain was pouring outside, waterfalls of water droplets running down their windows and doors. James and Regulus' plans were ruined. They were supposed to go out down to the London beach while it was cool for the last few days of summer, but the rain stuck a pin in those plans. 

Instead, the two of them were laying down in bed, curled up in blankets together sipping on their tea. A vinyl was playing in the background, soft, crackly music filling the air. Regulus was reading his book, one that Remus had lended him. James was doing absolutely nothing, and he was content with that. There was nothing that James would rather do than spend quality time with his love. 

Regulus wasn't complaining either. He preferred the alone time that the two of them had together, rather than their little plans they had planned. Of course, Regulus was disappointed because he was excited, however; the cancellation of these plans gave Regulus a chance to spend time with James, and James alone. 

James shifted from where Regulus’ head was resting on his chest. “‘M gonna go make some tea love, would you like a cup?” 

Regulus smiled, “I’d love some thank you dear.” 

James kisses Regulus on the head before he gets up to go brew some tea. He shuffles out of the room, with one of the blankets wrapped around his shoulders. Regulus smiles even wider at the picture. 

The door opens, followed by James entering the bedroom with two steaming mugs of tea. He gives one to Regulus and puts the other down on the nightstand. He walks over to the door and shuts it closed. He turns off the lamps and ceiling fan, turning on the fairy lights instead, casting the room in a yellow glow. He flips the vinyl over, and sets the needle back down on it. 

He finally makes his way over to the bed, and opens his legs for Regulus, as an invitation. Regulus scoots backwards into James' open legs, his back leaning against his Jamies’ chest and his head rests at the hollow of his throat. 

He sips his tea, relishing the way the warm liquid moves down his throat, warming him from the inside out. James picks up his own mug and sips contently from it. He hands Regulus back his book and says, “read to me would you Reggie.”

Regulus starts reading his book and James is tempted to fall asleep, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain on their bedroom window, Reggies’ smooth voice lulling him to sleep. It would take a miracle to get him up from the bed now. He never wants to leave the warm, safe, and loving arms of the love of his life.

writers block still isnt finished with me, but i sure am finished with it. anyways, enjoy 3 prompts lumped into 1 lolol

fic title inspired from "baby i'm yours" by the arctic monkeys <3

-a.s.

[gale-sized-hole]

round and around, this time for keeps

What is routine, without memory? (cw: mentions of canon-typical violence/Dark Urge)

~750 words title: "Little Amsterdam," Tori Amos

--

There’s little Vissenta can remember; that she remembers to wake, to move, to be what she thinks is a human being with most of their faculties intact, is a miracle in and of itself. 

Crafting a reasonable morning routine? Well, that’s completely unknown.

None of the little pinpricks in the fractured void of her mind, those brilliant needle-sharp bone-shard fragments that stab and startle her every time they pierce through, have offered up anything useful. No, useful is the wrong word; normal, is what she’s desperately searching for, every time she opens her eyes to the muzzy gray light of dawn, up and moving before any of her traveling companions.

—they would be so easy to kill, even Astarion, now that she knows that all it takes is a stake, all she’d have to do is take a knife, and another, and another, and—

She can’t completely quell the voice that whispers in the back of her mind, but she can calm it by tending to the steel she’s plucked from every body on the road. Vissenta whets her daggers beneath her shabby excuse for a tent, breathing in with each stroke, then back out again, drinking in the verdant air. No memory of wilderness, not at all, not like this - crisp, green, teeming with life (ripe for slaughter) - and she wants to pretend, for a moment, that she’s always been part of it.

A huntress, that’s all. A huntress sharpening her daggers, because there’s no use at all for a dull knife.

But with every pass of steel to stone, her head also thrums, a faint, pulsing agony, roiling her gut as she perfectly - exquisitely - pictures the cruel, slow twist of a blunt-edged blade. The way it rends, the way it pulls the flesh along when it finally catches hold. The way it skips and scrapes, the way its removal is a source of even more pain than its slow, wriggling insertion.

She remembers: a dull blade does have use, if there’s questions that need answers.

But she isn’t sure she even wants those answers.

Vissenta puts down the daggers before she can whet them down to even more useless slivers, then turns her attention to more mundane matters of the head; her hair’s still down, long, too long, long enough for someone to take hold of it in their fist and drag her—

—cruel fingers winding through her braid, hand and hair alike soaked in blood, her cries of pain strangled on a sickening wet bubble in her throat that refuses to burst, and another long plait swings in her vision, as bone-white as hers is coffin-dark—

—but she won’t cut it. Her hair has always been a point of pride; she knows this, somehow, even if she doesn’t know the rest, even though she knows it could be her undoing. Still, there’s a solution.

This is what people do, Vissenta tells herself, as she weaves together a plaited crown, starting just behind her ear, careful to avoid the ridges along her scalp that she discovered on the first night she scrubbed intellect devourer viscera from her skin and watched it float away downriver. They wake up. They tend to themselves. They—

—plan all you want, wretched thing, but you never could have planned for this, could you—

—face the day. And she won’t face it alone; she hears the crackle of the campfire’s embers as they’re stoked back to roaring life, and already her belly grumbles in anticipation of whatever magic Gale’s done - and she almost smiles at her own little joke, there - to turn their provisions into a hearty breakfast. As Vissenta pins and tucks the braid in place - lock-tight, no grabbing, no pulling, no swinging behind her as steady as a pendulum to count down the seconds before another untimely end - she sees the flash of silver out of the corner of her eye, as Lae’zel fixes her armor in place, as Shadowheart walks a wide circle to avoid the githyanki, as they all ready themselves for the day, just as she does.

There is no past; she can tell herself that for now, at least. The now keeps her alive, and keeps her blades sharp, and keeps her hair pinned, and keeps the voice—

—easy, so easy, cut them all and run—

Quiet.

Vissenta stands, and sheaths her daggers, and tucks back the loose strands of hair by her ears with shaking hands, and strides out to the sharp unknown of now.

This much, she’ll remember.

[perexcri]

go out in the world to start over again and again (as many times as you can) [byler week 2023 - day 1]

title from: heaven’s gate by fall out boy

dedicated to: @cherryisgone for writing in the comments of the truth beneath the rose that Mike should kiss Will’s magic-warmed fingers and infecting me with that image :) thank you friend i have not known peace since :)

here’s a short ficlet for my fantasy au A Flower That Resembles You!! it can be reasonably read on its own without having read the original fic, though i do think that would remove some context for it,,,either way, it’s all going under the cut in case people are concerned about potential spoilers~

A breeze rolls down the cliff face, rustling its fingers through their hair as they’re both preoccupied with their tasks: plucking weeds, sifting through the soil, carefully shaking seeds out of jars and into pockets of dirt to be covered up. In rhythmic intervals, one scoops dirt over seeds while the other sprinkles water upon the fresh mound, over and over, all throughout the land that surrounds their new home.

And that’s not even to mention their neighbors–lovely people, of course, and the houses in this coastal village are spread out enough so that nobody’s toes get stepped on, but after nearly a year left to themselves in a shack on the western coast, pinned between the sea and the citadel, they’re still growing used to the idea that people are nearby, that eyes wander, and that ears, of course, can hear.

Regardless, nobody stops them now as they work the land behind their new home. The people of the village wander back to their abodes in their close-knit families, dangling off the arms of lovers or else pulled by the eager hands of children. Their murmurs mix with the chirp of cicadas and crickets to create a sweet song of spring, nature and people alike heralding the advent of warmer temperatures and brighter days.

They’d talked about a fence when they’d first arrived, but, tired from their journey and trying to acclimate to their new surroundings, neither had gotten around to the task, and neither seemed to particularly care. As such, there are no clear demarcations for where their new garden will end and the empty grasses of the land surrounding them will begin.

Neither of them say a word, but their gazes occasionally snag on each other, or else one’s eyes catch the other’s wandering towards the other villagers or the distant line of pine trees which house the unruly insects and perfume the air with the sharp musk of their needles.

“I think that’s it,” Will finally says, the first to break the serene silence that had settled over their humble plot of land. He pushes the sleeves of his shirt just over his elbows from where they’d fallen, and when he swipes his arm against his forehead, it leaves a light streak of dirt that the blue hour nearly makes fade into his skin.

The jars filled with the seeds they’d taken with them sit empty on the stoop, but Mike knows better. Sure, he’d loved hearing about the flora from Will–distinguishing between blanket flower or lavender seeds, how much water to grace each one with, and, please, if you have any questions, either ask Will or consult the book–but there’s only one flower he ever had any intention of planting when Will had mentioned beginning the garden sometime last week.

Mike had no choice but to heartily agree–how could he not? Will asks for so little and gives all too much–planting a garden together at their new home, where the sun rains freely upon the lands unshackled from the domineering shadows of the citadel’s walls, is the least they can do. Hell, Mike had even encouraged him to ask for more: they’re free and they’re together, and what’s to hold them back from taking hold of the whole world?

Just a garden would be nice, Will had said as he’d traced a fine ribbon of light between their entwined fingers, let it tickle at Mike’s nose and send that pleasant warmth of magic trickling from the crown of his head to where their ankles locked together beneath the quilt of their bed.

And now, they've done it.

Well, with two exceptions, the first being that, technically, they simply had a bunch of seeds in the ground, though the garden will surely come given enough care, patience, and time.

The second, of course, is the glaring absence of the only flower Mike had ever cared about for more than just the light Will coaxes from their starlit cores, or how their scents elicit memories of summer evenings, secrets withheld, and some heady blur of necklace cords, salt-slick tears on cheeks, and the crunch of an apple between his teeth. It’s an odd mixture, to be sure: when he thinks about their floral perfumes, he can’t discern whether it’s wholly good or wholly bad, for all he can discern is that it’s simply overwhelming.

So, in the few heartbeats of silence that pass between them, Mike lets a wry grin twist at his mouth, and he gently reaches forward to smudge the dirt away from Will’s forehead, which earns him a playful smack against his arm. “No, oh wise one. This garden is far from complete.”

“If you’re referring to the lack of flowers currently, I can assure you that I can’t make them grow any faster.”

Mike rolls his eyes and gently knocks his head against Will’s. “Well, perhaps if you’d been a better minister.”

“I was never a minister, and even if I was, I’d be an even worse one now since I’m here with you.”

“But then you’d have nobody to grow the flowers for! See, it all works out–balance for the divine which lives in all, or whatever those old men used to preach about.”

Will wraps his finger around one of Mike’s stray curls and gives it a gentle tug. “You’re fresh on your way to being taken back to the arms of the universe earlier than planned.”

Mike reaches up again and pads the last bits of dirt away from Will’s forehead. “Then let me make it up to you?”

Will tilts his head back to consider the dusky sky, dragging Mike’s eyes up his neck, the curve of his jaw, the messy strands of hair ruffled around his head. The last stains of magenta sunlight melt against the blue of the sky overtaking the world in this quiet hour, and Mike’s eyes are drawn up to the pinpricks of stars which, if he squints at just a little harder, seem to be glowing brighter.

“Make it up to me how?”

“However you’d prefer.”

Will’s eyes cut back down to him, narrowing slightly. “You have a plan.”

“I do not!”

“You never concede that early. You already have something planned.”

Mike gives an exaggerated scoff. Then, under the weight of Will’s scrutiny, slowly drags his arms away from where they’d begun to encircle his love. He crosses them over his chest instead, hunching his shoulders as if to shield himself from a chill that isn’t there. “I do not. You just like to pretend like you know everything, and you like being mysterious–you know, I have my theories, and I think it’s all that tea those damned ministers made you drink since you were, what, a baby? It must’ve done something to your brain chemistry.”

Will shoots him a glare, and it speaks loudly enough on its own as to not require any further explanation.

Several more heartbeats pass, the scars on Mike’s chest begin to prickle, and with Will’s eyes turning dark in the evening’s blue hour, Mike finally concedes; his arms fall to his sides, he spins on his heels, and he makes it to the back door of their house in just a few strides, huffing a sarcastic Fine over his shoulder.

And when he comes back out, his hands behind his back and trying not to slip against the object he cradles so carefully, he catches Will’s mouth curved into a warm grin.

“What?” Mike asks, fingers already fumbling against the jar. He winces as he tries to pull the door closed, some last whiffs of woodsmoke and heat from the hearth escaping out into the night and sticking against his back.

“You just look nice in the firelight,” Will notes, his voice simple and earnest in that way Mike has always loved.

And it’s been months now–almost a full year–and yet, Mike still feels his face begin to glow, as if it was the precious object pressing into his back at this moment.

“You also look nice against the light of the flower,” Will notes with a more playful grin.

Mike looks down, notices the glows of blue and lilac against his clothes and skin, how they shift and sheen like the face of the sea in sunlight, and he groans. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“You thought I wouldn’t feel the light?”

“Not all of us are magical healer prodigies and artful manipulators of the divine which lives in all like you, oh wise one.” Mike crosses the distance now, and he holds the jar between them. He’s not sure if it’s the darkening sky or Will’s magic, but its petals seem to bloom more in the dusk, its colors to shine more brightly in the air between them. Mike’s fingers feel clammy against the jar, his hands shaking slightly from overuse and hunger, though they finally still when Will’s fingers reach over them, careful and calloused and warm from magic. His thumb rubs small circles against Mike’s hand.

“We should plant it,” Mike says, tilting his forehead down to lean against Will’s, letting his magic’s warmth coat his face, for it to fill his lungs and tug him just a bit closer to the one person he’s unwilling to let go of again.

And how could Will devise an argument against such a proposition?

They fall into their previous rhythm, one last time for the season: it’s as if they’d both already thought of a spot for the flower, its precious blue petals handspun by Will out of starlight, kept alive by Mike’s refusal to lose hope. Mike’s knees press into the dirt near the window as he leans over, digs through the soil, and tries his best to make room for the flower and the roots which sit tightly bunched against the confines of the jar. Will crouches next to him, his leg pressed against Mike’s. His fingers play with the remaining well water in the bucket, ready to soften the soil with its nourishment.

His other hand reaches out, though, and as their fingers brush together, Mike realizes Will is helping him make room for the flower, too.

And make room they do. The flower’s stem is strong enough to let it stand upright without the support of the jar, its roots taking well to the soft soil on this cliffside. They bury them beneath more overturned soil, and just as the last vein of roots disappears, as Mike rests his hand against the flower and in the dirt, Will’s reaches across, their fingers nearly threaded together around the flower’s stem.

The action brings to mind hazy images of a life now long left behind. There had been a minister, yes, and the girl, and a flame that violently seared against his wrist, leaving a trail of welts and blisters across his skin that had seemed to spell out the word liar.

He shakes his head to rid himself of clanging bells and flower petals crushed underfoot; he focuses his eyes on the reality in front of him instead, of being with his best friend and love in a garden of their own making, proof of their devotion blooming right between their hands beneath the moonlight.

“Now is it a garden?” Will asks, voice only half-teasing. He’s watching Mike with careful eyes, studying him as if for a charcoal drawing.

Mike meets his gaze, the corners of his mouth poking up. “Only by your magic’s touch.”

And as they remove their hands, in the light of the flower as it burns nearly incandescent, Mike takes Will’s hand and connects their fingers again, refusing to let go. When he presses a kiss to the back of Will’s hand, it glows with the warmth of his magic, though it’s no match for the light contained in the shape of Will’s smile, in the fondness of eyes, in the way he pulls Mike’s hand towards him and presses a kiss right back.

[subtlysubby]

New Pinned Post / Blog Update (finally)

Obligatory DNI to minors, TERFS/SWERFS, bigots, etc.

DMs/Asks always welcome from anyone not part of the above

29M, He/they, Bi, single and not currently seeking new play partners. Always happy to chat though, so please feel free to DM!

This blog started as a way to explore my submissive side, but lately I'm realizing I have more dominant tendencies than I thought once I get comfortable expressing them, so very much a Switch blog with lots of both sides. (Suuuure it is 😂) Main is @alabasterandpitch

Still figuring my shit out, but I suppose I would describe myself as a service sub & pleasure dom, though I'm flexible there

The rare bit of personal content/selfies is tagged #sluttyme

Tags

#subposting/#male sub/#subby thoughts - Posts/reblogs about my submissive kinks

#domposting/#dom thoughts - Posts/reblogs about my dominant kinks

#switchposting - Posts about kinks that I love from either side

#Odysseus- You know who you are 😏

NSFW preferences/limits below the divide

Kink list is a WIP as I continue to sort my shit out. Despite my shyness I'm generally understanding and open to trying most anything once, plus I'm looking to explore, so if it's not on the 'Hard Limits' list it's probably negotiable, just ask.

Kink List

Sub Kinks: GFD, ABF, FLR, JOI, facesitting, collars & leashes, free-use, conditioning, clicker training, orgasm control, tease & denial, praise & mild degradation, pegging, choking, service kink, pet play, mild chastity, somno, body writing, sensory dep.

Dom Kinks: Collars & leashes, orgasm control, tease & denial, overstimulation, praise & mild degradation, free use, conditioning, intox, sensory dep., somno, pet play, clicker training, generally whatever makes you needy and embarassed and desperate, save hard limits

Not sure if I have any preference vis a vis titles yet. If there's something you'd like to call me, I'm sure I can be persuaded 😉

Hard Limits: Infidelity/attached people, blackmail/findom etc., cuckolding, SPH, sissy stuff, extreme violence, scat, ABDL, anything illegal, minors, raceplay, needles/heavy bloodplay (scratches/welts are more than fine though)

This list is not exhaustive; I find I get off on turning other people on and making them feel good, so even if a kink itself mightn't do much for me, hearing about how much it turns you on can certainly give me a new perspective and pique my interest 😏😘

[reeshyz]

Title: No one should be alone on Christmas Pairing: Paul landers / Richard Z. Kruspe   Presentee:@phanaticdoctor Prompt: The Grinch Warnings/Tags: Richard being the grinch | mutual pinning | just fluff Word Count: 2.280 Summary: Richard hates Christmas and he really doesn’t want to celebrate it. Somehow Paul makes him change his mind. Read on AO3: here

♪

Every band member of Rammstein liked Christmas a lot But Richard, who sat in their studio, did not.

Richard hated Christmas! The whole Christmas season! Now, please don't ask why. No one quite knows the reason.

It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight. It could be that his head wasn't screwed on just right.

But I think that the most likely reason of all May have been that his heart was two sizes too small.

*

“And then I thought we could decorate the studio and…,” Schneider says as Richard enters the kitchen and the guitarist can’t help but roll his eyes. Of course. It’s nearly Christmas.

Richard shudders visibly and Schneider squints at him.

“Are you okay Richard?” Paul asks and he sounds worried. Richard wishes he could tell him and maybe even… you know, sit on his lap or something, but Richard isn’t the best at talking about his feelings and… maybe he is afraid that Paul is not interested.

“Sure, I just don’t like the whole Christmas-thing,” Richard mutters and then at least sits down next to Paul, who frowns at him.

“Richard, I know you told me your last Christmases weren’t great but we could all have some fun together here before Christmas. Maybe it gets you in the right mindset,” Schneider says and he fills Richard’s cup with nice smelling coffee. Richard looks at his friends for a moment.

“So, you’re saying it’s me ruining my own holiday season each year?” Richard asks and he crosses his arms in front of his chest,

“Richard, I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, but Schneider is right. Christmas is such a great time and I know that maybe you’d even enjoy it. I’d love to help,” Paul says slowly, his hand on Richard’s thigh now. Richard can’t concentrate on anything anymore because his hand is so warm, it feels as if he wants to burn Richard’s skin through his jeans.

This is just… rude. How can Richard even say ‘no’ to Paul, when he phrases it like this. Richard grumbles.

“Maybe you can convince me,” Richard finally says and he rolls his eyes for good measure. Paul and Schneider look at each other and then they start to grin.

“Sure, Mister Grinch,” Paul says and gets up. When he leaves, Richard stares at the open door. He’s not sure if that was just a joke or if Paul was hinting at his bad mood. Maybe Richard should really try to relax.

Schneider laughs, when Richard huffs and drinks his coffee. He already knows the next few days will be super exhausting, but what can he do, when the other band members want to have fun? Apparently being a Grinch.

Richard never wanted to turn out like that, but maybe he did.

*

Two days later Richard already has a headache that seems to be permanent at this point. There are candles lit everywhere, it takes him hours to find them all so he can blow them out before going to sleep so they wouldn’t burn the whole studio down.

“Richard, look! Paul and I got a tree,” Till says and he proudly shows Richard the huge tree in the living room. Richard almost faints because of the size. He can’t even walk around the damn thing, without sliding against the walls. Even his guitar is pressed against the wall.

“Yeah, amazing,” Richard grumbles, saving his guitar before he then picks some fir needles out of his collar. He can’t wait for january.

“And watch this Richard!” Paul says and Richard hadn’t even seen him. Paul is wearing a bright red jumper with a not-really-funny joke written on it and while it looks soft, Richard would never wear such a stupid thing.

Paul points at some of the ornaments, they are tiny guitars. One even looks like his RZK-II. Richard can’t help but smile at that.

“Okay, uh cool,” Richard says and Paul grins so widely, while Till continues to decorate their Christmas tree. Richard doesn’t really want to see that, so he walks to the kitchen in the hopes of finding some food.

“Still not in a Christmas mood?” Paul asks, while he walks next to Richard, who shrugs. He wouldn’t tell the idiots that he had already gotten them some gifts. They are hidden underneath Richard’s bed and he really had thought a lot about what to get them.

They are kinda personal, but Richard knows that they will all be very happy about them. Okay and maybe he is also excited for his own presents, whatever.

“Not sure,” Richard says and opens the kitchen door. It smells heavenly and Richard almost drools all over his shirt. There are so many cookies on their tables and the counter, Richard walks a bit faster over to them.

“I made them together with Flake,” Paul says and Richard has already one in his hand. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he had homemade Christmas cookies. They smell so wonderful and Richard hums when he bites into a chocolate one.

“Holy fuck. So good,” Richard mumbles between bites and already takes the next few ones into his hands, when he sees what’s in the stove. Oh fuck yes.

“You cooked Dinner, too?” Richard wants to know and he wishes the chicken would be done already, because it looks amazing. Richard takes another cookie and smiles, yeah now he feels a bit like he could enjoy Christmas.

“Ollie helped me,” Paul says and then he kisses Richard on the cheek. Richard raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth, the half eaten cookie almost falling out of it. What had just happened? He slowly puts his hand on the spot Paul just kissed.

“Mistletoe,” Paul says and Richard blushes. Oh, of course, that was all. He is so stupid for hoping it could be anything more and he had almost liked Christmas… Richard’s brain almost stops working, when Paul smirks at him.

“Too bad though that you hate Christmas,” Paul says and walks out of the kitchen again. Richard watches him leave. Still a bit confused about all of this.

He doesn’t even understand why Paul wants him to have a nice Christmas in the first place.

*

Richard really enjoys the next few days, even though he would never admit that. At one point Flake even shows him how to decorate a gingerbread house and it looks kinda cool. 

But sadly everything good comes to an end. 

By now Richard feels like he should’ve gotten used to that.

“Alright, I’ll call you on Christmas,” Till says and he hugs him once more. Richard nods and then looks down at his shoes. He knows that Till has people who he wants to see on Christmas. They all do.

Besides him.

Richard sighs and then walks back into the studio. He would stay a few days longer and just think about new music, while he doesn’t have other stuff to do. He’s kinda glad everyone had put the decorations away.

“Rich?”

“Ja?”

Paul is suddenly behind him. Richard had hoped that he would’ve already left without saying goodbye. Richard hates saying goodbye to him, but it seems worse this time. They had spent too much time together.

Richard had never been so close to him and even though he had spent the last few years wishing for this, he knows it will hurt even more now that it’s over. 

Sometimes he had pretended that Paul was really flirting with him. 

“Aren’t you going home?” Paul asks and he sounds so sad. Richard feels a bit uncomfortable. He’s not sure that Paul would like to hear the truth.

“Not yet, later maybe,” Richard finally says, trying to be as vague as possible. 

“Oh okay. Well… I will miss you a lot,” Paul says and he almost sounds a bit shy. He’s smiling though and Richard can’t help but smile as well. He’s so in love it’s ridiculous.

“I will miss you too,” Richard whispers back and Paul holds up his arms. They hug for way longer than they should, but Paul in his arms feels just perfect and Richard doesn’t want to let go.

He’d never let Paul go if he could prevent it in any way.

“Merry Christmas,” Paul says and with another kiss to Richard’s cheek he is gone.

Leaving Richard behind. 

Alone.

Two days for Christmas.

Nothing is new. 

Maybe he’s really a Grinch and deserves this.

*

Richard sits down at one of the windows of his own apartment and looks out to the streets. It’s finally Heiligabend and he’s annoyed. He had left the studio behind, but only because the housekeeper had been so weird about him staying over Christmas.

As if that mattered to him.

Even as a kid he had run away a few times at Christmas, because it wasn’t like his mother cared and it didn’t bother him what his stepfather thought. But it had never felt as sad and exhausting as it feels today.

Just as he finishes his coffee, there’s a knock on the door. Richard groans. He is still dressed in his pajamas and puts a blanket around him, before opening the door. It’s Paul. 

His heart stops.

“Hey Richard,” Paul says, smiling all sweetly and even though Richard’s heart beats a bit faster, he doesn’t show it all. Instead he stands there almost motionless. He’s not really sure what to think.

“Hi,” Richard isn’t sure what else he could or wants to say. Paul’s smile falters a bit, like it always does, when Richard is so short with him. 

“I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas on the right day this time,” Paul says and he holds up a box, wrapped in red and gold paper. Richard is a bit surprised, but he takes the gift from Paul, who is back to smiling so adorable.

Something is wrong with Richard’s heart, it beats even faster. Maybe he is dying?

“T-thank you, Paul,” Richard stammers and then he makes a huge mistake and invites Paul into his home. Paul steps inside, looking around for a moment.

“You didn’t decorate for Christmas?” Paul asks and Richard shakes his head. While he has to admit that he did enjoy the decorations after a while at the studio, it makes no sense to hang stuff up if he’s alone anyway.

“Not really,” Richard says, while they walk into the living room. The walls are white, his couch and most furniture is black. 

“So it didn’t help? You’re still not in a good mood?” Paul asks and he looks sad at that. Richard doesn’t really want to disappoint him, so he just shrugs. It feels a bit awkward, but Richard still sits down with Paul on the couch.

“A bit maybe,” Richard lies, even though he has to say, Paul looks cute in his Christmas sweater and with snowflakes in his hair. But then again, Paul always looks cute, so it’s not a surprise.

“I’m sure I can change that!” Paul says then, sounding as if he really has a plan. Richard snorts for a second. 

“And how do you plan to change it?” Richard asks, a smile on his face. He already feels a bit better and he hates himself for pushing Paul away before. 

“Well, I talked To Till a bit and he told me you’d be alone. And… nobody should be alone on Christmas, especially not you. Uhm… you deserve more,” Paul says and he fidgets a bit nervously. 

“What do you mean?” Richard asks, because he doesn’t deserve anything good. He knows that. Paul takes his hand again.

“I mean if you want me here, then I’d be happy to stay. There’s… probably nothing more that I wish for than celebrating Christmas with you,” Paul says and this time Richard smiles softly at him.

Maybe… maybe he could be this lucky.

He should stop being such a Grinch on Christmas and give Paul a chance.

“Open your gift,” Paul says and Richard opens it very carefully. He pulls out some Christmas movies, some recipe books for Christmas cookies, some tea and a soft blanket. Richard snorts at all the things, while Paul blushes.

“And you will stay for all of this?”

“If you want me to stay, I’d love to,” Paul whispers and Richard nods. He wanders off to the kitchen and starts to make them tea, they could start to bake some cookies later and somehow Richard already feels a lot better.

He smiles widely to himself. So wide that his whole face hurts.

When he comes back they cuddle down underneath the blanket. Richard can’t help himself and he pulls an arm around Paul’s shoulders. Paul doesn’t seem to mind, he cuddles even more against Richard.

For a moment they’re just looking at each other.

“Please kiss me,” Paul whispers and Richard finally does. He shyly presses his lips against Paul’s warm ones and sighs happily. Paul tastes like tea, peppermint and something else, but Richard had never gotten such a sweet kiss before.

“And Richard, do you like Christmas now?” Paul asks and he fucking winks at Richard.

“Hell yes.”

Richard kisses him again.

* Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more!

And what happened then? Well, in the band they say That Richard’s small heart grew three sizes that day!

*

Paul pinches him.

Richard whines in pain.

“I knew you had the biggest heart the second I first saw you. Stop lying to the Readers,” Paul says and Richard smiles.

Maybe Paul is right.

Richard’s heart had always been so full of love for Paul (and his music).

[crow-the-unknown]

Comfort - an 829 fic from Cale's POV

Cale blamed himself for every mistake, it was just part of who he was. It had become a real problem, flooding his mind even during games. Cale hated it with a passion, but the only thing that ever seemed to fix it was… well, Nate. They’d been going through a bad slump, painfully close to a six-game skid. Nate had powered him through all of it. Even when Cale had gotten off a bad shift and had simply put his head down trying to regain his breath (the panic in his mind not helping, of course), Nate had come over and acted casual as he took his hand out of his glove and held Cale’s. No one else would have noticed how Cale then magically seemed to sit up more attentively, but he was glad for that. Even when Nate had gone as far as to make it look like he was explaining some play when in reality he was saying something encouraging. Cale couldn’t have loved him more for it if he’d tried.

 It was the night after their fifth straight loss when Nate had walked in and found Cale anxiously twiddling his thumbs, leg bouncing out of control, staring at nothing. Cale could barely breathe, he didn’t even notice Nate was there. Cale couldn’t think. He instinctively drew away from Nate when the forward sat next to him. Nate rubbed soothing circles on Cale’s back, unspeaking. “Cale,” Nate began softly.

“Hey,” Nate said a bit more firmly, catching Cale’s attention, “it’s okay. Just breathe.”

No. He wasn’t okay. He couldn’t just breathe. Cale’s mind was in a scramble, his chest hurt and it felt like his heart was being squeezed by a cruel and unrelenting hand. And the worst thing was he didn’t even know why he was feeling like this. They’d taken worse losses. None of this really even mattered. So why did it hurt so damn bad? Cale stared at Nate, eyes pleading.

Nate took his hand in his own, just like he would during a game. “You’re here, right now. That’s all that matters. Just focus on me, okay? Focus on breathing. Can you do that with me?”

Cale nodded and Nate moved the defenseman’s hand onto his chest, taking rhythmic breaths so that Cale could feel the rise and fall of his chest. They sat like that for a while, Nate being patient as Cale’s mind finally cleared enough for him to think. Nate smiled when Cale finally moved his hand away because it had gotten pins and needles in it. “See? It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault,” Nate expressed and laid down, pulling Cale with him.

Cale flopped over to face him, hand still clasped in Nate’s. He closed his eyes and took a shaky breath in, thumb moving repeatedly over Nate’s knuckles. “Thank you.”

Nate smiled a bit sheepishly. He nodded and gazed lovingly at him. “Yeah… I owed you, you know? You forget how kind you are.”

“What do you mean?”

Nate laughed, oh, how Cale loved that laugh. “‘What do you mean?’ he says. Cale, you’re oblivious sometimes, did you know that? You’re more of a leader than you think. Give yourself some credit.”

Cale shook his head. Says the future captain… he thought. Nate stared at him in disbelief. “I can’t believe you. Y’know what, get over here,” Nate said and pulled Cale in for a kiss.

Cale grinned, cheeks flushing. Nate shoved him dramatically away and pointed accusingly at him. “That’s a prove-you-wrong kiss by the way. You’re fucking brilliant, Cale. Like seriously. No one is better than you, you’re not even human out there.”

“Tell that to our losing streak, Mister Competitive himself,” Cale remmarked with a mischievous smile, anxiety finally fading away into playful banter.

Nate wasn’t buying it. He waved his hand with disregard. “It’s all of our fault for that shit. Not just you, stupid. Also, I’m gonna tell Sid you said that and he won’t have it. No one takes that title from him, not even me.”

Cale eyed him speculatively and nodded sarcastically. He sat up and put his hands up in false surrender. “Yeah, yeah. Sure, Nate. I was very convinced that when you called the other team quote-un-quote ‘fucking douche canoes’ that you weren’t just as competitive as Sid. Or when you literally fell off the bench in frustration, or all the times you’ve scored purely out of spite against Saint Louis—”

“Fine. I get it, I get it…” Nate replied in defeat, before adding, “we did make a hell of a comeback after I called them that though—”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

They’d laughed again, and the next night they’d broken the slump. If Cale was being honest, it’d been glorious. It was like the world was back to normal after that, even though Cale still cursed himself after every little mistake. However, that didn’t seem to matter much when Nate was there ironically enough. Nate had told him that pain often didn’t last as long as he’d expected and he’d been right. All Cale had to do was look at Nate to know it. They could overcome any mountain, reach any peak. They could rely on each other and that was all Cale needed to know that he’d be okay. That they’d find a way, no matter the storm.