#and it gradually was becoming darker and darker while I still needed skin tone for corrections and stuff

[mayspicer]

Actual mini vs trying to take a photo of said mini.

(Still a WIP)

[theelderhazelnut]

Rise of the Villains: Darker than Black

Pairings: Ombra x Quan Chi, but they’re still not a thing

Warnings: Just a bit angsty.

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: These two have been teleported to an unknown island. They’re both miserable, but also have butterflies. Ombra is more miserable at the end.

Author’s Note: The first silly little drabble! Day 1 of @writersmonth ! “Setting: on an island”

Taglist: @neonneurons @roofgeese @vivilovespink @scentedcandleibex @darialovesstuff @confidentandgood @spacestephh @takiisieju-moved @sstewyhosseini @maddenedroses @inafieldofdaisies @jillvalentinesday @shegetsburned @bloody-arty-myths @zoetheneko @inc0rrectmyths @hi-thisiszira @admin-pipes @saito-mitsuko @malewifefirestar @krysta-cross

The vast ocean gently caressed the ivory sands, the white foams cautiously touching the heel of her boots. The humid breeze danced drunkenly through the wide leaves. The last images living in her mind was a white wall of energy enveloping the reality, and a few moments later, she was standing on the sands of an island.

Ombra turned to look at the dense jungle which protected the center of the island from the piercing, hot sun, hoping to catch someone ready to attack. But the song of the nature was the only audible sound.

Gradually, the temperature on her black coat began to increase, melting her skin underneath, but her mind was too saturated with racing thoughts about how to find a way back that she had almost become numb.

The crackling sand made her crane her neck towards the sorcerer. Quan Chi’s chalk white skin shimmered ten times brighter under the intense sunlight. His frown lines deepened, making him look even more intimidating.

“Where are we?” Ombra asked, her voice weak with skepticism. She hoped that this feeling inside her telling her that he must be aware of everything going on around them wouldn’t remain unanswered.

“We wouldn’t be here if I was aware the slightest.” He began blundering toward the trees, taking each step as though his legs weighed hundreds of pounds.

“Are you alright?” Ombra trailed off, trying so hard to stiffen her tone to avert any emotions to leak out, but she still failed to not ask him about his condition. Seeing him appearing even slightly unwell punched her heart through her ribs.

Quan Chi took a swift glimpse in her direction, his expression unreadable. “You will melt if you keep standing there.” His weary fingers beckoned her to follow.

Ombra wanted to run after him like a tiny duckling, but she briefly shut down the urge, and walked behind him steadily while also ignoring the deadly temperature.

The large bushes surrounded a circular spot which was suitable for sitting down and shelter from the sun.

“We can rest here.” Quan Chi stated as he gently tapped the sands with the tip of his boots.

Her knees let go of her weight and she collapsed. She leaned on her ellbows, allowing her aching legs to stretch out, and her neck to fall back. Her spine cracked in a few spots. She would pay the Elder Gods dearly to let her have that moment for the next several years, away from any cultists thirsting for her blood.

When she didn’t hear anything from him, she opened her eyes slightly only to catch him staring down at her, face stone. She couldn’t pinpoint if his eyes were fixated on her own, or on her neck.

“Not now. We must search for food supplies.”

Her brows knotted. “What do you mean? We…we must escape. Not stay here…” it sounded so stupid to her ears that not even words couldn handle it. He actually planned to stay there in the middle of nowhere? With no one but her? No, that last part was even more stupid.

“We will, but first we need to be certain that if the situation compelled us to linger, we have foods to eat and a place to rest, so we suffer less.” He explained.

Lost in an unknown island in the middle of nowhere was the hell itself, but there was only the two of them, alone. Her heart was begging to stay there with him for much longer, to have nowhere else to go but his direction. That spot wasn’t too big either, so if the both of them lied down, their arms would almost touch.

Ombra wiped away her calculations, and brisked on her feet again. He was right, they had to gather some supplies just in case the way back bargained and stayed blocked.

“Wait.” She said, and took off her coat. Quan Chi’s eyes roamed briefly accross her figure. Ombra held back a smirk and pretended not to notice, and began rolling up her shirt’s sleeves.

They toiled through the bushes and wide leaves. Being cautious not to stumble on the thick stems was a consuming harmony practice between her mind and her limbs. Ombra had to admit that she had no clue what to search for. This part of her badge of survival skills was ridiculously lacking.

Ombra slammed to his shoulder as he suddenly decided to cease. She backed away and mumbled a “Pardon” under her breath. She sewed her gaze to the ground, mentally forcing her cheeks to cool down.

Quan Chi bent down to cut a certain plant he just saw. His strong hands worked gracefully, his forearm muscles shifted as each of his fingers curled and straightened.

An itching sensation on her hand popped the bubble of her thoughts. Goosebumps spread across her body as her stomach shrank and pressed against her back. Her instinct told her that it was an insect, a large one, in fact.

Ombra slightly jumped as she aggressively rubbed her hand on the other. She felt so lucky that the little squeak was suffocated on time in the back of her throat.

“What is it?!” Quan Chi’s wide eyes darted towards her, and he sighed as he found her in one piece. His eyes swiftly returned to the predator mode as if they blamed her for worrying him all of a sudden.

He sighed and held up the piece of plants. “Look for these, but there may not be a considerable number in this area.”

They continued their way in utter silence for a peacful fifteen minutes until Ombra took the opportunity of starting a conversation, and asked him about almost any plant she laid her gaze on. To her surprise, Quan Chi gave his explanations thoroughly and without a sign of annoyance cutting his tone. He would be the teacher her younger self craved desperately.

+++

Quan Chi twirled the stick on top of the flames, letting the unknown vegetables be well roasted. The golden light dancing on his pale face made him look less sinister, and peaceful. Ombra sat still, careful not to attract his attention while stealing peaks. The sorcerer was actually spending his time for cooking, with the least ingredients, and most surprisingly, for her.

The warmth of his presence distracted her observant vision that the glittery sky above, and the soothing cracks of the fireplace were strangers to her senses. It was only him; he was the center of the world around which she orbited. Ombra mentally confessed her gratefulness to the cultist who banished them to this lost location. She could stay near him, and look at him as much as she wanted. He couldn’t protest because there were only the two of them; at what else was she supposed to stare? The celestial nature surrounding them appeared ugly to her eyes when he was around.

“I wonder why Metalrealmers did not teach you the basic survival skills.” Quan Chi began, giving her the most gentle look he was capable of along with his signature smirk.

Ombra raised her eyebrows. “I never had to memorize the entire encyclopedia of the eatable vegetables.”

He handed her the stick. “You shall do so after we return. I will not always be by your side.”

The thunder of his last sentence striked her heart, its smoke flying all the way to her sight, blinding her for a few painful seconds. They never promised anything; nothing was ever guaranteed. He was there merely because the cult was their shared enemy. But also, he never spoke a word about leaving her once things were settled down, if such future for them was even possible.

She wanted to slap herself for being such a romantic fool for a demon necromancer. The door to her heart had been opened for emotions, and that was unacceptable for her.

The gray clouds subsided, and her vision was clear once again. Her eyebrows fell down on her eyes, the corner of her lips turned downwards, her empty eyes glued to the flames, all in their natural positions. Her chest was never a place for emotions, especially not for a sociopath sorcerer who had took his chance to destroy her a several times before.

The compliment about his wonderful recipe was never heard. The cute chuckles she had saved for these moments were buried alive in the cemetery of her throat.

“How does it taste?” He asked.

Ombra nodded slightly, not bothering to speak. Anything beautiful slipped out of her grip. She only needed to find it somewhere, and it would run away in the speed of light. However, she was used to drowning in this ocean of gray.

[michimichim]

in fall & bloom | doyeon

disclaimer: top!fem reader x bottom!doyeon, mention of blood.

your shouts of glee resonate through the bustling streets of the city, pedestrians barely catching glimpse of your zooming figures. the autumn breeze is welcoming against your face, the sunlight warm on your skin as you veer the wheels of your bike onto the next street. your eyes occasionally gaze up at the bleeding tangerine sky through the palm branches without crashing into cars, or worse, have you and your passenger tumbling down the descending street.

“wait!” the latter suddenly yelps into your ear. you press the bike to a stop, both feet coming down to graze the gravel, then to finally land firm on the ground.

“you okay?” you ask when the bike’s stabilized, craning your neck to give doyeon a curious gaze just to find her eyeing the small dip laying a few feet away down the street. there's a pretty blush dusting her cheeks, chestnut hair outlining her forehead and even, darker lashes when her eyes glide back to yours in a form of uncertainty. she's wearing green contacts today, further accentuating her piercing gaze along with the dipping sun highlighting streaks of orange and yellow on her features.

“no way we’re going down that path.” she answers, a tone of incredulity in her voice.

“what?” your brows shoot up as you slightly look back at the road – it is a bit steep, but not dangerously so. you turn back to doyeon. “why not?”

doyeon’s eyes squint back at you, fully glaring, face scrunched – most likely wondering how insane you must truly be. but the endearing and dopey smile you offer back is enough to melt her rigid posture.

“they’ll kill you if i die.” is what she ends up saying instead. the light wind sweeps lightly through her hair, conveying the lulling scent of cotton candy and peach perfume.

you laugh, playfully bumping back into her. “wimp.”

“i’m sorry, is my death a joke to you?” she whispers menacingly into your ear, hooking her index through the belt loops of your jeans.

“hilarious, even.” you tease, tilting your head back to pucker your lips. “kiss.”

“no.” she deadpans, encircling your waist. “first, get me down that road in one piece.” you snort at that, “we can just walk our way down, yeonnie. i was kidding.”

“no, i somehow trust you with this.” she gags out, reluctantly. “why do i trust you?” she mutters right after.

“that’s rich, coming from an arsonist.” you muse, sounding utterly contented, a sharp contradiction to doyeon's allegation.

“shut up,” she starts and you just know she’s about to read you. you furtively feign a roll of your eyes, yet, an infatuated smile stays on the edge of your lips. you'll never tell her, but there’s nothing more attractive than when she gets like this. “–told me you would come and pick me up for a walk, not a bike ride. and unless you have short-term mem–” she stops. “stop staring at my lips.”

you laugh, sheepish, then avert your gaze back to the road ahead. “i'm getting my kiss once i drop you off.”

“if i'm still alive.” she says, hooking her chin on your shoulder.

you whine about her being a pessimist bitch and she lightly, though discreetly presses her lips against your jaw. “kidding.” she singsongs, squeezing your mid.

so you kick off once again. aside from the air being squeezed out of you, you make it down safe and sound. you cycle the both of you through lush paths, to open green fields and watch butterflies fly above, occasionally slowing down the pace of the bike to take it all in. with the scintilla feeling of just the two of you on a bike — blissful with the speed, with the fresh wind in your faces – you’re at home.

doyeon leans the side of her head against your back, letting her eyes take in the beautiful scenery that nature brings. it was nice being able to hold onto you like so, not a care in the world whether she’ll wake up to her name trending on social platforms, or worse, being questioned about her affectionate nature. south korea still has its outdated ideologies, teaching her to enjoy the beauty of whatever it is you’ve started, drawing as much as she can from the light and secretive touches.

unlike her, you no longer seem to focus on the picturesque surroundings. doyeon's hands start having a mind of their own, palms flat on your abdomen, they brush with each movement of your legs on the pedals – and she wastes no time noticing. it's a position she very much enjoys. her eager hands begin to venture areas they’ve never had before. she skims her way up and down your stomach, smiling to herself when she senses you tense. they map their way lower, to the button of your jeans, and without warning, slide up under your sweater. your heart nearly burst from your chest.

the noise that escapes from your throat is a mix of a choke and guttural sound. “christ, doyeon!” you breathe, scandalized. “we’ll fucking crash!”

the frigid feel of her fingers on your skin almost swerves you off the damn bike.

she only laughs, kissing the back of your neck in an apologetic gesture. she resists the urge to tease for the remainder of the ride, only cooing and every so often – she can’t help herself. she’d caress the area over your ribcage, feeling your heart jump beneath the dainty sweater. you can always excuse it as the intensive exercise you have so willingly put yourself through.

you park the bicycle in front of doyeon’s building and lean slightly forward so your elbows rest onto the handlebar. except doyeon doesn’t budge, she stays put, only shifting to press herself further against you.

“you need to keep your hands to yourself, ma’am.” you reproach with a shake of your head, glancing around to make sure no one, especially from her company, is sighting you. “we really could’ve died, and it would’ve been your fault.”

needless to say, that’s no news to you; doyeon has always been quite blasé towards prudence and authority matters. she has a flair for rebellion, not so much that she wants to go against the grain, but she sustains an innate drive towards doing so, and that includes the blatant flirting she would put on at random times.

“but i can’t keep my hands to myself,” she titters and you feel the vibration all throughout your body. you look back at her with narrowed eyes, and she leans her head comfortably against your shoulder, freely gazing at you through long lashes, a smoldering smile on her pouty lips. “plus, i believe i owe you a kiss.”

there's a shout down the street as kids chase after each other, loaded backpacks swinging and feet banging against the gravel.

“i believe you do, yes.” you concur, squeezing her arms that are still wrapped around your mid. “too much people, though.”

and that’s how she ends up dragging you up to her dorms, barely leaving you time to shut the door close behind you – her lips are on yours. thankfully, no one’s home, or at least in the living room because there’s no scientific reason you could come up with to explain why you’re lip locking with one of korea’s favorite girls.

by some miracle, she manages to maneuver you down the hall and into her room, all the while remaining busy giggling and kissing on each other. you throw yourself on her bed, and she ensues, settling down beside you. your feet dangle off the bed as you both lay horizontally – it’s a comical sight that she makes sure to point out.

you're getting progressively mindful of the warmth in your lower belly, the tingling feeling somewhere in your stomach when you engage her into another kiss. the kiss is wet and slow, experimentally tasting the apricot balm coating her plump lips as you leave the sweetest of promises on them. you tentatively stroke her thighs and in turn, her hands resume its trail under your sweater, across your abdomen in a series of affectionate caresses.

you make certain to be slow and considerate as always. after all, this is the farthest you’ve gone. there's only been kissing so far, nothing more, not even touching. you figured if doyeon is ready, she’ll initiate it. which is exactly what’s happening when she leans slightly over you to unbutton your jeans.

“hey,” you whisper against luscious lips, now swollen and tender, while tenderly cradling her jaw into your palm. “no pressure, okay?”

doyeon stills under your earnest look and runs a hand through her locks, pearly teeth toying with her bottom lip. “i know. i just – i need this.” there isn't so much as a slight hint of uncertainty when the reply escapes her lips. more of an emphatic assertion.

you gently push her back down to hover her body, slowly peppering her neck with kisses and tiny licks. doyeon pushes the rear of your head forward, urging for more, however, you take as much time as necessary. your kisses become unbearably slow, irritating her while also lighting up every nerve and muscle within her body. each wet path your tongue leaves further drenches her panties.

you rise back to her mouth, gradually driving her insane with the laid-back, sluggish brush of your tongue on her lips all without fully pressing them. you tease, altering the angle of your head each time she'd drive forward to capture your lips. without much warning, doyeon’s teeth are sinking into your lip, biting harder when you take her sensitive nipple between the spaces of your fingers.

a dainty spill of blood streams down your lip, further startling you when she soothes over the texture with her tongue, gaze darkening as she stares directly into your hooded eyes. “stop fucking with me.” she hisses.

“and since when are you so fucking demanding?” you moan, there’s no denying how turned on and heated the little backtalk makes you. she grinds her hips against yours as your lips crash into hers in a searing fiery kiss. your hands cup her face, both of your tongues rolling, playing and sliding against each other. she’s sucking and biting at your bottom lip, tongue thrusting forward. you close your lips around it and suck with an appreciative moan. god, you could eat her right then.

in the midst, your hands roam over her breasts, fingers pulling her nipples through the thin fabric of her shirt. she breaks the kiss to throw her head back and gasps as you pinch and pull harder at them.

“oh fuck.” with that, she’s once again snaking her hands up your shirt, feeling over your warm skin and bunching the fabric up for you to take off. you grab the hem and slide it off you while the rest slowly comes off in the middle of feverish kisses and explorative touches.

you take to straddle her hips, admiring the pale skin of her tight abdomen with a rapacious curiosity. you gently fondle her pert breasts into your hands, pondering whether to tear the bra keeping you from making skin-to-skin contact. compelling, but an attempt at it will cost you your head – so you contempt yourself by sneaking them underneath the band, relishing in the pretty little sounds rippling out through her lips.

“you like that, don’t you?” you purr out quietly, rubbing your thumbs over the aching, hard peak against your hand.

“harder.” she mewls, torso arching and pushing just to feel more of that pain mixing in with pleasure.

you lean down, a dark glint in your eyes as you bite and tug at her bra’s fabric, she grows wetter at the sight and feel of your warm breath ghosting on her nipples. she wraps her legs around your mid to cage you in, her hand tangling into your hair when you bite down onto her nub. she's letting out a soft cry when your tongue pokes at the tip before sucking the nub into your mouth, pulling on the flesh and grazing the surface, just enough to leave reddened markings on the flesh.

“ooh–” she gasps, breath labored, gripping tightly into your hair as you give the same treatment to the other pair, rolling the tender flesh between your fingers. you're positioned much lower so you rise slightly back up her body so your cores are touching and snap your hips down against hers. it turns her world upside down; everything tingles from her head to her toes as you repeat the motion over and over again.

you lean up to peck her lips, setting an accommodating pace for you both that has doyeon rising up to meet each grind.

she watches you with unfiltered lust; hands coasting down your face, to your shoulders and arms for a few moments, then cupping around the back of your neck and back down to squeeze your breast. she truly cannot keep her hands off of you. “i want it from behind.” there’s always been something impressive, fervent, in the classic simplicity and directness that is doyeon. it still catches you off guard, agape and sputtering. you stop.

with the majority of your thoughts gone, head clouded with wanton pleasure, you’re unsure of what you exactly heard; you ask again, throat closing around the words. “from behind?”

doyeon's brow quirk in a form of amusement, seeming lucid enough to poke fun at you, but still far from collected. the column of her neck is flushed red, eyes low and glazed – she’s beyond gorgeous. “i don’t have a strap, but your fingers will do,” she shoots you a coy look. “so, fuck me from behind.”

you blink slowly. “alright.” you say, heart clenching in what could only be a mix of amazement, lust, anticipation and anything that can match up a synonym in the dictionary. "roll over for me.”

and she does just that, not before unclasping her bra. it falls down her shapely shoulders, exposing her tiny breasts that your mouth begs to take back in. she gets on all fours, back arching and head craning back to stare you down, challenge in her gaze. “better do your best.”

goose bumps break all over her body as you seize her by the shape of her waist, almost taking her up on the challenge. unfortunately, there was only so much you can leave on doyeon’s body. as much as you want to taint her body red with unique markings, she has an image to maintain so it’ll simply have to wait.

you pull her panties down the gracious curve of her ass, leaving it to slip softly down her thighs then off her legs. your hands caress the silky, supple skin appreciatively, tracing over the dip of her waist to the back of her thighs. you give each of her ass cheeks a hard slap, heart pounding with each moan of hers – you’d think she’s used to this.

"come onnn," she whines, pressing back against you.

"relax." you hum, stroking your hand up and down the long of her back, relishing in the way it freely glides. you gently nudge her knees apart and kneel down behind her. the slight bit of slickness trickling down her lips prompts you to give her a few long strokes of your index, doyeon moans and arches her back further down as the same finger gives hot pleasure within her.

“you’re so pretty.” you compliment, fully admiring all esoteric aspects of her body like a tulip about to bloom – the ones who shimmer in the afternoon and reaches to glow of sunshine- as you start licking between her folds, taking your sweet time to lap every drop of her slick melting down her center. you mouth along her swollen clit through the poetic pleasure rolling into every part of her body, spiking in every nerve ending.

you bury your face farther amid the girl’s puffy folds, licking with passion in your movement, your hands gripping her thighs as you lap away at her hole, occasionally reaching up to flicker across her clit and fling her whole body in a mass of spasm.

your sleeked fingertips gradually begin prodding her entrance, easily sliding between the folds, remaining slow and cautious as to not hurt her. doyeon's nails dig into the comforter, unfamiliar pain lightly shooting up her core and spine.

“you alright?” you ask; there is a tiny waver in your voice, concern and apologetic.

“i-” she sucks air through her teeth, “yeah. keep going.”

reluctant, but complying, you extract your index to replace with your thumb. you hope this helps to start small and later on, prep her to take more. she pants softly, eyes teary and unfocused as her body attempts to choose whether she wants to rock back into your hand, stay rooted at the feeling of being stretched or flee from the unfamiliar pain that’s snaking down her thighs.

you thumb through her opening with consoling words along soothing circles of your hand on her lower back. it diverts her from the pain and creeping pleasure probing inside of her. you extend the process, her gradual whines climbing in octaves when she’d try jerking away from a certain spot being brushed by your inquisitive finger. you'd have to grab her by the elegant curve of the waist, pull her back and keep her in place.

it's just a matter of time before she’s past dripping, pleading and moaning for more. hips inclined back, accentuating the fluid lines of her back; she's crying in nothing but divine ecstasy as you switch back to your index. you draw it out until just the tip is in, then plunge it back in her wet tightness. needless to say, she doesn’t simply see the stars but the cosmos in all its entirety before her eyes.

reiteration of strangled sounds and gasps spill from her lips when you start steadily pumping in and out. she tries stifling them by shoving her head down in the covers, not because she wants to be discreet but rather her embarrassment in hearing those sounds coming from herself – they're melodic, symphonic even, to your ears.

it's something doyeon finds herself loving – the feeling of being handled and taken care of. the knowledge that she can easily be reduced to a messy state if you so desired (as one would expect, you’d have to work for it). doyeon's thighs shake with more thrusts of your fingers reaching deep – and she takes it all, with great difficulty, but it’s a start. her eyes flutter closed as the thick stretch that your fingers amply provide, turn into blissful pleasure to bring her closer to her release.

"how about another?" you ask over the high pitched whines. "can you do that?"

"i don–" you swipe your thumb over her clit and her breath catches in her throat before going back to ball the sheets into her hand. you encourage her with a squeeze on her thigh. "yes, yes."

you add your middle finger, cursing at how tight she is, her spasmic muscles start clenching around you. that's all it takes.

in less than a second, your digits are coated in juices and sleek is sliding down her legs as you easily coax her into a slow, staggering orgasm. she bucks her hips up with one last startled moan and you look on, smug, gently twisting your fingers through the slight burn of her orgasm until she slumps down on her stomach with a silent scream.

[squishybellies]

You'll be safe with me

So... I was talking to a friend about Pepper Monster earlier and I kind of wanted to write something with him, so here is that something! I wanted to write something nice and fluffy ::3 (with vore because, of course)

You had been lost in the woods for hours now, the light above you beginning to dissipate as the night awoke. You looked around nervously, beginning to give up hope that you would ever find your way home. The trees almost seemed to twist in an unnatural manner, almost becoming unrecognizable to you as your vision became darker. You fell over onto the soft ground, back hitting against something that didn’t quite feel like a tree, but certainly looked to be the size of one. Whatever was behind you moved, and as you turned around you met face to face with a terrifying creature. 

He towered over you at 18 feet, a monster resembling some kind of anthropomorphic pepper, his slick, red skin standing out among the dim green of the trees. You yelped as he reached for you with his long arms, running away with all the strength your body could muster. You barely looked back as you booked it in no particular direction, swearing you could hear the creature behind you say something, although you were far too frightened to make out what exactly it was.  

You curled up behind a tree, trying your best to hide for what felt like forever, until suddenly you spotted a pair of bright green eyes right beside you. Before you had a change to scream, you felt vines tangle around your mouth. “Shh… shhh… don’t be alarmed,” the creature spoke, gradually lifting the vines from your body, “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

You looked at the beast with a bit of confusion as he sat down in front of you, in what you could only assume was an effort to look less intimidating. He patted a spot on his lap, seemingly indicating he wanted you to sit there. You did as he suggested, albeit with a bit of fear still swirling in your mind, although that quickly went away when you noticed just how comforting he seemed to be. You asked the monster what his name was as you quickly got cozy, finding a spot that your body fit nicely into where you were perched in the crevice of one of his legs. 

“I don’t really have a name…” he replied, watching you get cozy, “but my friends call me Pep,” he explained. He pet your head a bit with one of his hands, and you could swear you saw him discreetly lick his lip for a moment. “What are you doing out in the woods all alone?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. You explained that you entered the woods to explore for a bit, but got lost and couldn’t find your way home. His eyes seemed to glimmer with concern when you said this, and his cheery expression seemed to relax a little. 

The two of you sat in silence for a while, until he eventually spoke up again, “I’m sorry to hear about what happened, I think I may have a way to help you, but you need to trust me, alright?” His wording alone seemed pretty suspicious, but your mind grew weary with more concern as he plucked you from where you sat and held you at eye level. “If it gets too scary, you can always close your eyes and rest, alright?” he said in a very genuine tone, although you weren’t sure what exactly he was talking about. 

You yelped again as you saw him slowly open his mouth, teeth parting to reveal a pitch black void, only vaguely indicating the presence of a throat within due to the bright green, leaf-shaped uvula hanging in the back of his throat. 

You tried to wiggle your way out of his grip, but he almost immediately pushed you into his mouth and closed his teeth. You began to panic as you were thrown into the dark abyss and quickly swallowed up, you slid down his throat almost effortlessly and quickly plopped into what you could only assume was his stomach. 

You feared the worst and began to punch at the stomach walls, begging Pep to let you out. Your attacks seemed to do very little though, as the most you got out of him was a slight chuckle. You could feel him pat his belly before speaking, “No need to fight, like I said I’m not going to hurt you. I just wanted to give you somewhere nice to rest while I take you out of here.” A look of bewilderment spread across your face as you questioned why he didn’t tell you that before eating you, although the response you got was simply a sheepish, “Sorry, I was really hungry.” 

You had no reason not to believe your new friend, so you did your best to get comfortable, snuggling against the surprisingly soft and cozy folds of his insides. You soon fell asleep, the last words echoing from the outside being, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe.” Something told you that you were going to like your new pal.

[johns-prince]

John also had a lovely mix of masculine and feminine physical traits, though this wouldn't become obvious until 1968. When he was on the skinny side (which I loved, sue me) you could tell how beautifully delicate and dainty his bone structure was, way more than Paul's imo. He had those gorgeous long legs and graceful narrow hips that you most commonly find in fashion models. And I love that until at least 1975, he showcased his body beautifully, especially those legs.

Ironically I feel as if people didn't embrace John's femme beauty as well as they did with Paul. I don't know why. Most people seem to prefer him with the more masculine look of 1966. Which was great as well, he was gorgeous but I am a big fan of the 1968 to 1974 run. Btw, note to fanfic writers: please, show John's body some love, I know Paul is stunning but it's kind of exhausting reading 10 pages about how pretty he is and when it comes to my boy John he barely gets a paragraph 😂

Alright, I feel like I’m probably gonna rub a lot of people in this fandom the wrong way with what I’m going to say but this is my blog and you did send this to my inbox so here we go; At the end of the days these are my thoughts and feelings and I might not articulate them very well or I often ramble till I do!

I have my issues, and a complicated relationship with 1968-70s John Lennon. I love John, and thought him healthy and just right in his body type, basically up until 1968, and it’s spotty onward throughout the 70s. To me, John was naturally masculine looking, there’s not exactly an era or year that I could give you like you gave me [Specifically 1966? What about his teddy boy days? All of the early 60s? Hell even throughout the 70s, to me John still was masculine looking to me] He was a bit awkward in his teenhood, but all the boys were, and gradually grew into his adult body. Boy was built and sturdy, naturally thick and strong. 

So we’re probably split on this, because while you see the positives in 1968-1974/70s John, I only really see the negatives. You say skinny, I say malnourished and/or sickly. Depressed druggie who was pushing everyone and everything he loved away, and becoming pathetically dependent on an individual like Yoko [and the other vultures during that time who were terrible influences] 

George was skinny, John was not well and either starving himself or simply using drugs and alcohol as the basis for his diet. And diets.. don’t even get me started on that, the diets he was on, the unhealthy lifestyle that his wife only seemed to enable and help him get on. 

When I look at George, sometimes I get the need to feed him, like an old Mexican mother. When I look at John, who’d lost an unhealthy amount of weight for what it looked like for his body type, I don’t see delicate and dainty bone structure. I see a man who just, he’s not well, something’s wrong.

I’ll give it to you that 1974 New York photoshoot looked very nice, he had muscle again in his arms, though he was still relatively skinny, he didn’t look sickly, or depressed. So I can give you that period during the 70s, I will give you that [hey he was away from Yoko during this no fucking wonder he looked pretty good here] and that shoot was definitely a model moment, wasn’t it? [Not like he didn’t have many of those moments throughout his life] 

So there moments in the seventies where I think John doesn’t look half bad? Even relatively fine? Certainly, I’m devastatingly attracted to this man, dear God almighty have mercy on my soul yes I am. So I’ll agree that yeah, there were periods during the 70s in which John seemed to hold himself fairly well, I’d still climb it.

But I’m at least willing to admit that when John started his spiraling, in 1968, that he was Not Okay. And I personally believe he wasn’t all that okay throughout most of the 70s too... Maybe my issue isn’t with him being ‘skinny’ as it is I don’t like the underweight/severely underweight look on John, I just don’t. The incredibly unhealthy way he went about losing weight... Physically frail doesn’t fit him, and it only upsets me whenever I see photos of him that show how thin his legs became or how you can see his ribs, just how wasted away he’d look at times throughout the 70s, up until the last days of his life. 

You want a “skinny” or ''skinnier'' John Lennon? A healthy, ‘’skinny/skinnier’’ John Lennon for his body type, is ‘66 and ‘67 in my eyes, and even then it wasn’t a radical change in weight loss; John still looked like John.

And speaking of 1968-1969, or the White Album era; don’t think it isn’t lost on me when I see people making light of John’s unhygienic appearance during the making of the White Album. Boy was depressed and hurting for whatever reason, again, spiraling, and getting lost in Yoko and heroin as a means of escapism and someone to tell him ‘it’s alright it isn’t your fault it’s everyone else’s fault’. Of course he didn’t care much for his personal appearance or hygiene... I will say I appreciate your appreciation for him during that period, instead of getting the whole ‘stinky/smelly rat man.’ Maybe I’m too much of a ‘’stan’’ but I don’t find it very amusing or endearing. 

Don’t find me mocking or ‘’teasing’’ Paul’s depressed ass and his appearance during the breakup period/white album era-- but I suppose it’s because Paul actually tried and wasn’t on hard drugs, and had a good wife, so he was able to wear his depression and struggle with alcoholism a bit better, hmm? I don’t like Paul’s beard simply because I know it was the result of his lack of energy, depression, and falling into the drink-- he simply didn’t feel the need nor had the energy to care for himself, so that’s why he let it grow out. I don’t like it because of that, but that’s as much as you’ll get from me. 

Anyway... Maybe I just don’t see John as characteristically feminine/effeminate as Paul, although he has his moments of acting and wearing clothes that are campy and elegant or give off a softer appearance, specifically around 1968 and throughout the 70s. But otherwise, I can’t agree, John didn’t have the same mixture, or balance of masculine and feminine traits as Paul-- and if it’s only made obvious during the downfall turning point of The Beatles and John (1968), then I don’t think that really counts as a ‘’lovely’’ mix of masculine and feminine traits for the reasons I mentioned. So I’ve got to disagree. John's always come off as much more masculine, or naturally masculine, both physically and characteristically, to me.

You know maybe it’s just the blogs I interact with, but I feel like it’s the other way around. I know I can sometimes come off as aggressive but at the end of the day I don’t necessarily care what one person thinks or believes, since it’s all relatively subjective to our own ideas of things and biases, etc... I have my thoughts and beliefs and theories and whether people agree or disagree with them on tumblr dot com... Well, what’re you gonna do? Nothing, it’s not my problem. 

What I 100% agree on you with is about showing Johnny’s body a bit more love and attention to detail when it comes to writing about him in fanfiction! 

There’s his auburn red hair, a darker ginger, which was thick and fun to watch as it lit up like fire when sunlight hit him, and could easily go wavy and curl when left unkempt and natural. The splattered and scattered galaxies of light freckles up and down his arms, his shoulders, his back, even a couple on his face. His aquiline nose, a relatively square jawline and facial structure, thick, heavy eyebrows which really intensify expressions of rage and hurt, almond shaped eyes which are the color of honey-amber when the light hits them just right and outlined with thick, long lashes, blind as a bat without his glasses but can give a mean squint which either helps scare off trouble, or brings it right to him, especially when he’s got thin bitten lips that could pull off a devilishly cheeky smirk or a no-good, charming grin to showcase teeth with the upper front turned slightly in towards each other, gives that imperfection which truly just perfects it-- a face like that of a tragic hero in a Greek Romance, distinctive and handsome. How he just oozed filthy sex and genuine trouble, sweaty leather and smoky dancehalls and rock & roll that crawls up your spine like an orgasm. Hips that could roll like Elvis and strong legs, thick thighs which would make a lovely place to sit. Broad shoulders, strong arms that could easily manage to lift you up and manhandle you in any way he’d like. Big hands, almost like shovels-- beautiful hands, with fingernails usually bitten short and occasionally had black ink or charcoal under them from when he’d be working on art, and rough, callused fingertips from playing guitar till they split and bleed, add a lovely roughness to any gentle touching he might do. A naturally thick midsection, a normal, healthy layer of fat which covers the sinewy just beneath. Any hair is light, light and lightly colored, on his arms and legs and chest. Cute tush, nice butt, a nice boy butt, slightly muscular bubble butt. 

Fun facts; he had the largest feet out of all four Beatles. John isn’t circumcised. John and George share the same height. John has a surprisingly long tongue. John’s skin tone may be light, but for comparison, he’s much tanner compared to Paul-- he’s a bit more olive or wheat to his skin tone, and tanned very, very well. John’s cheeks could become easily red though. John liked the scent of citrus to wear--  he was also self conscious about the fact he could easily sweat and so usually wore such colognes or scents, didn’t want to smell bad. He started smelling of witch hazel when with Yoko. Despite his issue with sweating, he didn’t smell bad naturally. John was a true romantic, being an artist outside of being a musician/rock and roller-- he just didn’t like to show it, and growing up in his time, you couldn’t. John’s a swimmer, he loved to swim and loved the ocean. 

[parkeraul]

Pleaseeee a quick write about reader sitting on Toms face and getting eaten out while also fingered

ann’s note — i’m assuming you requested this during the mob!tom week i suggested. if you didn’t, i’m sorry but i made it slightly mobster–styled. it’s filth so i hope you enjoy though.

pairing: tom holland x reader

warnings: dirty talk, swearing, smut (fingering, oral — female receiving) & mobster–related stuff.

masterlist ┊add yourself to my taglists ┊give me feedbacks.

→ IT’S A MOB!TOM WEEK.

The wind is chilly and she feels the temperature of the house contrasting with the warmth of her body, trying to get used to the feeling of not being under the comfy blankets anymore. 

Her middle is still snug under the cotton baby–pink blouse she’s wearing, but her legs are mostly bare, her long socks covering all the way up from her feet to the beginning of her knees being the only thing hiding her lower half — besides her black underwear hidden by the hem of the blouse.

When she reaches the slightly–open door of Tom’s office, she can feel a hotter atmosphere due to the heater that must have been on ever since the day has begun. The sight in front of her eyes is his meeting table, excellently cleaned and empty; to the right, she can catch the view of him editing worksheets with one hand and taking packets of money from an enormous plastic bag to put on a black briefcase beside the laptop with the other hand. His hair is brushed back impeccably, suit open and tie resting around his shoulders as his jaw clenches and relaxes.

She steps inside, as silent as possible not to disturb him but Tom doesn’t need to look back to know his baby is there. Her scent is stuck in his memories in a way he recognises her just by the way she smells, the unmistakable fragrance of her shampoo combined with her favourite hot drink she drinks every morning invading his nostrils, making him drop his tensed shoulders immediately and chill unconsciously.

“You up, pretty girl?” He asks, eyes still glued on the screen as she tiptoes to stand behind him, arms embracing his chest and bringing his body closer to hers. Tom cocks his cheek to the side, knowing that her next action is to leave a sweet kiss on his skin — and so she does, bringing them both to smile simultaneously. “Did I wake ya?”

After the kiss, she gives him a warm and quick head–rub as she speaks, “No, baby. I just wanted to see you before you go downtown.”

Tom softens, quitting his current responsibility to give her some attention back. He takes his hands off the stuff to turn around in his chair and move his slender fingers to hold the sides of her thighs, meeting the cold flesh and studying the way her body lacks clothes in such a breezy day. 

“Your thighs are clenching like this because you’re cold?” Knowing the answer, Tom asks keeping back his smirk. Then he looks her in the eyes, finding in those pleading irises the neediest request for relief. He swears his heart grows three sizes while she blushes and tucks the front strands of her hair back behind her ears, legs rubbing together harder as his hands start to knead her skin provocatively. 

She shakes her head in denial, chewing on her bottom lip and lowering to straddle him, “Mm-mm.”

Tom stops her, travelling his palms to grab handfuls of her ass and slide his fingers under the fabric of her tight underwear, feeling all the extension of her icy flesh starting to burn because of his slow touch and the eventual scratch of his small nails. One of his hands comes to the front and slides her blouse further up, lips wetly kissing her stomach and taking his sweet time to work her up — tongue licking his lips before each smooch, mouth dragging along the skin exposed and the very edge of his tongue leaving soaking and tempting trails wherever he goes. She gulps, closing her eyes and resting her hands on top of his head, his gelled hair being the only cold thing matching the temperature of her hands.

While Tom keeps planting wonderful kisses along her body and giving all the possible sensations to her skin (grabbing, scratching, caressing up and down, pulling towards him), she closes her eyes and feels her clit throbbing, her core clenching around nothing and craving everything.

“No, baby?” He whispers in a raspy tone against her silhouette, looking up as his mouth goes down and his fingers start to wander along her inner thighs. The tip of his index finger traces her clothed slit, noticing how the wet spot down below her entrance was increasing rapidly by the way it soaked all the way up to her clit. “You looked out for me because you want me to play with you a little bit, hm? Want me to fix this little mess you’ve made in here, don’t you?” 

He looks down to see the black fabric turning even darker because of her wetness, feeling his mouth watering to look up at her then, and watch her tortured expression nodding affirmatively like she would die if he denied such thing to her.

Tom stands up from his chair, discarding his tie and taking her gently by the legs, making her tiptoe and then wrap her legs around his body as he ends lifting her frame up.

Tom walks to the white and giant sofa of his office and sits down, having her hands cupping his face and kissing him deeply, grinding on him as his tongue slides against hers lazily. Their lips lock and unlock, making the kiss wetter and louder, needier. Tom grips her ass mightly, dragging her sensitive core against his growing bulge and landing a sharp slap onto her cheek, making her jump lightly and groan against his mouth. His index pulls the elastic band of her panties and releases it, making the material spring back as he breaks the kiss with a bite on her lower lip, “Up on your feet. Take this off.”

She instantly complies, taking her panties off and holding it in her hand while she straddles him back again. Tom helps her get down on him once more and his fingers search for her bare pussy as they map her spine, going to the small of her back, ass and then her slit, playing with her from behind, “Bloody hell, darlin’, you’re drenched.”

Of course she squirms and moans into Tom’s mouth when he adds pressure to his movements. His two fingers go up and down deliberately, stimulating her aching clit down to her entrance and then back up again in a loop. When on her clit, his skilled fingers draw circles right in the middle of her bundle of nerves to make her pant desperately, looking him in the eyes while his jaw falls shortly — it’s priceless to watch her unraveling under his control, the perfect way to please her that only he knows best; when on her entrance, he threatens to insert his digits after circling the region temptly, causing her to cry lowly with her lips pressed together and forehead dropped onto his. 

He grabs one of her cheeks to make some space and finally thrust two fingers inside, “Shh... Take it, little thing, take it. Nice and slow.”She plants both palms on his chest and moans, closing her eyes and trying to take like a good girl the indescribable feeling of Tom pumping his long fingers inside her pussy, turning her on impossibly harder. Her legs go numb and she drives her hips against his movements — and Tom helps her, still moving his fingers in and out and pulling her down onto his digits by the firm grasp he still has on her ass, guiding her. As he starts to pump faster with short thrusts, she gradually becomes a whining mess. Tom loves every single second of it, watching her face contorting due to the amount of pleasure she’s receiving. The coil in her stomach is growing and making her nerves sparkle, attempting to savour the multiple sensations travelling all around her sweetest spots. “Eyes on me, babygirl, hey,” He calls out, making her look at him once more with her lips parted and swollen, so close to his and blowing gracefully the filthiest sounds into his mouth. “Eyes on me. Look at who’s fucking you this good, princess... That’s a good girl.” 

Her walls clench around him as he hits her g–spot and the first wet sound echoes throughout his office loudly, “It’s here, right?” 

“Yes,” She breathes out faintly, gasping and clutching onto his dress shirt for life. “Yes, yes, yes...”

Tom then begins to massage her spot quickly, hand bouncing up and down as her soaked pussy turns into a squelching mess. She would have screamed for the entire mansion to listen if Tom hadn’t glued his mouth on hers, muffling her now broken groans and sobs as his fingers bring her to a state of bliss. She can’t stop moaning and that’s how he knows she’s close — when she’s a noisy and dripping mess, gulping repetitively so she won’t drool all over herself as the soaked sound of his digits rubbing all of her sensible spots and grinding up and down becomes too much.He waits until she suddenly goes quiet, knowing that this is how she does when she’s about to cum to remove his fingers gently. She displays a confused face, cheeks flushed and hairline wet while Tom manages to lay down with her on top of him.

“On my face now, doll,” He says as she climbs further up, still unsure. “Want your taste on my tongue, c’mon,” While she reaches his mouth, Tom holds her by the waist with sight switching from her wet pussy to her teary eyes. “Just drop down real slow, I got you.”

She complies and lowers her hips, Tom kissing every possible inch of her inner thigh before his lips are busy on her clit, “Like this, baby. Just relax, come down a little bit more. You won’t hurt me, you’re okay.” 

Before she can notice, his tongue slides along her slit and rubs her nub, lips enveloping it in a gentle suction. She sighs almost deafeningly, trembling on top of him while he pulls her down, mouth totally immersed on her pussy. Her pleasure multiplies infinitely from the good minutes being worked up, her whole body giving into the delicious way that Tom’s tongue laps up her juices and traps her pulsating clit for a mind–spinning time, suckling and licking devotedly. All of a sudden, his hand makes the same way it did before along her back and his digits find her entrance once again, breaking into her pussy and finding her spot again, rubbing it mercilessly as he sucks her clit repeatedly. Smack sounds from his wet action fly around the office along with her desperate cries, the quick pace of it all becoming too much for her to handle.

“I’m gonna c—”

She can’t even finish the sentence, shivering in a way she’s never done before while her orgasm bursts out and gives her chills. Her clit now throbs in the most delicious way against his tender and wet tongue, flat under her nub and moving in circles. Her entrance pulsates, feeling her high taking a longer time than usual to bring her back down to Earth and she swears that her blurry sight makes the dizziness grow more. Down in there, Tom is watching her with a boyish glance, upper lip perfectly molding the beginning of her lower lips and the tip of his crooked nose bumping into her soft skin. He closes his chocolate eyes to focus on the taste she’s left on his tongue, using it to lick a last long trail on her pussy and finish it with slow and breathtaking suctions. That’s the way he reminds her that a good girl gets whatever she wants if she asks nicely.

TAGLIST: @outlandishnerd — @jilanaholland — @space-holland​ — @hollandraul — @tomhollandseverything — @mcuspidey — @iam-thevillain-of-thisstory — @peterspideysense — @fanficscuziranout — @parkernerd.

TAGGING MUTUALS AND BLOGS: @madmadmilk​ — @angelic-holland​ — @fallinharry — @keepingupwiththeparkers​.

[jumpship90]

2 and/or 11 for kisses prompt please

apologies this took forever but I had this whole scene pop into my head for Jaq and Phin and needed a little more time to get it right! It ended up 1500 words, so more under the cut to spare you all scrolling

11 - “welcome home kisses”

Phineas grumbled to himself beneath his breath as he stalked down the corridors of the Hope, the lights about him gradually dimming to a glow as the ship entered its night-cycle. Usually, he paid little heed to the processes programmed into the ship to aid with the regulation of circadian rhythm. His own lab ran on a perpetual day setting that allowed him to work as long and as late as he pleased and he was quite happy keeping to his own schedule. To his displeasure, that had recently become disrupted.

The source of his consternation had started near two weeks ago. It was the first evening after Jaq had returned to their work at the New Hope Centre and he had sought to distract himself from the inevitable homesickness that plagued him after their departure by ploughing ahead with his work. He’d been leant over a microscope when he had realised he was struggling to see the specimen on the slide below. At first, he had blinked in confusion, then he had realised, no, his ageing eyes were not failing him just yet, everything really was suddenly beginning to grow darker, the lights powering down around him in a simulated sunset.

“Computer, lights up,” he barked, still squinting at the specimen.

“I must remind you that the Hope is now entering its approved night-cycle, Dr Welles,” the flat mechanical voice intoned, echoing about the laboratory.

He scoffed. “Override it then.”

“Negative, Dr Welles. I am unable to override the health and security programming for this ship. To do so would be a violation of employee wellness protocol 3.14 subsection a.”

“Nonsense.” He straightened up, hands on hips and glaring at the speaker mounted on the wall. “This is my lab and I am in my personal time. Override.”

“I am unable to comply. This unit cannot overrule administrator updates.”

“I am the administrator!” He tapped his foot in frustration. A warm orange glow now filled the room. He would never be able to work in this.

Phineas huffed and shuffled over to a terminal to check the settings, there had clearly been some kind of engineering error. He tapped through the controls for the lab – air scrubbers, chemical cleaning processes, heating, security logs – ahh, light settings!

*error, password required*

“What in the void?” he muttered. “Computer, who last updated these settings?” Someone was going to regret interrupting his work.

“Settings last updated by; Captain Jaq Evenshaw.”

He sighed heavily at that. He should have guessed. There was little the two of them disagreed upon but his lack of sleep was the main catalyst for the few arguments they had.

Phineas’ fingers flew over the keys as he inputted password attempts. No, it wasn’t their anniversary, nor was it Jaq’s birthday and his own didn’t get him anywhere either. He tried again using variations on “The Hope” until eventually, the screen locked.

*error –too many incorrect passwords entered. Access denied. No further attempts may be made for 24 hours. Please contact your administrator*

“Fine,” he growled. “Two can play at this game.” He would just have to attempt a manual override then.

But when he had made his way to the panel beside the door and popped it open, Phineas had discovered Jaq had done something fiendishly complicated with the electronics that even several hours of tugging at wires and messing with the circuits hadn’t been able to untangle. He’d felt a tiny spark of pride flare even as their work vexed him. It was excellent craftsmanship after-all and it was difficult to be too angry when their heart was in the right place. They worried about his health, he knew. All the same, he would be having stern words with them when they returned. Well, after the two of them had caught up and he’d had them explain the clever little trick they’d pulled.

Defeated, he had given up that first night and been forced to turn in at the ridiculous hour of 20:00 and it had been the same every night since. The enforced curfew was irritating but he had to admit, he had managed to get caught up on his reading and even played several hands of cards with his colleagues that had proved surprisingly enjoyable. If Jaq were here, he supposed it would have given them a little more time to indulge in other activities, though he did pride himself on always ensuring he finished work a little earlier than usual when they were back. A sharp pang of longing gripped him as he made his way back to his quarters. Hopefully, it would not be too long until they returned.

Distracted as he was, at first Phineas did not notice the glow of the lights from beneath his door. He swiped his security pass and stepped inside, halting abruptly at the sight of a familiar tatty rucksack sat beside the wall. His heart leapt in his chest. They were back!

He shuffled into the room, expecting to find his partner sat at the desk typing up notes on their project or perhaps lounging on the bed watching an aetherwave serial. Instead, Phineas was rather surprised to be greeted by a half-naked figure sprawled atop the sofa, a copy of tossball monthly open on their chest and their mouth hanging open, soft snores escaping them. It wasn’t the first time he’d returned to his room to discover Jaq passed out on the sofa but they were usually dressed.

He padded across the room as quietly as he could. Jaq slept quite deeply but they were prone to startling if awoken suddenly – an old habit that he could sympathise with. He crouched beside them and smiled down at their sleeping form. Their skin had tanned a little from their work planetside, darker at their calves, fading to pale at mid-thigh then back to a darker tone across their torso and arms. It must have been hot down there over the last few weeks and he knew Jaq had been focused on getting the dormitories built. He guessed they’d stripped down to their shorts, sweating under the Terra-2 sun, muscles straining whilst they laid the foundations of the buildings he’d seen in blueprints scattered across the desk. That was a rather lovely image, he thought as he settled a hand against their shoulder. He did so enjoy watching them work.

“Jaq?”

They didn’t move other than to give a snort that really shouldn’t have been as endearing as he found it.

“Jaq?” he tried again, running his thumb over their skin, and this time they stirred, bleary eyes cracking open. They blinked up at him several times before their eyes sprang wide and Phineas abruptly found two arms flung about his shoulders and Jaq’s enthusiastic embrace sent him toppling forward onto their chest. He could only laugh as their lips met his temple then left a trail of hurried kisses down his cheek before eventually finding his mouth. Phineas sighed and returned their eager kiss. Jaq’s leaving was always an unhappy necessity of their lives that Phineas’ never relished, but their return was always so sweet it made it that much easier to bear.

“Missed you,” Jaq said eventually, drawing back just enough to press their forehead to his own, keeping their arms wrapped tight about him. Phineas hummed in amusement.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Jaq sniggered and kissed him again and he caught a faint hint of toothpaste on their tongue. It seemed they had been getting ready for an early night.

“Whatever are you doing on the sofa?” he asked, disentangling himself a little to get a better look at them.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Jaq said and gave him a sheepish grin. “Only, I guess I was more tired than I realised.”

It was now that he registered the humidity in the room. Clearly they had indulged in a long hot shower before his return. He noted Jaq smelt of his favourite shower gel and the briefs they were wearing were the same ones he had previously suggested complemented their build. Ahh, so they’d scrubbed up in anticipation of an evening together.

Jaq stifled a yawn with the back of their hand. “I’m not sure I’ve got the energy for anything besides watching a serial though, sorry.”

He smirked down at them lounging atop the cushions. Regardless, they were certainly a welcome sight to return to and he appreciated the effort.

“Not to worry. We have plenty of time for catching up. You are staying a while, aren’t you?” he enquired, suddenly concerned this was going to be one of their flying visits. He braced himself for disappointment but to his relief Jaq nodded and stroked at the stubble on his cheek. He’d have shaved if he’d known they were coming home.

“A few days at least,” they replied and grinned up at him. “Why? Got something planned for us?”

Phineas pursed his lips in response, tapping a thoughtful finger against them. “Oh yes, I have some particularly interesting activities in mind for you. Starting with fixing your tampering in my laboratory.”

“It’s not tampering, it’s updating in line with the new government regs on workplace wellbeing,” they said with a shrug. “Sleep is important, Phin.”

“Ha! So says the person passed out on my sofa in their underpants!”

“Because I’ve spent two weeks grafting on a building site,” they shot back. “It’s completely different.”

He sighed. “Fine. But as you have disrupted my work, you’re going to be making it up to me during your visit.”

Jaq grinned at that and he kissed their nose. “Now, off to bed with you,” he ordered with a chuckle.

He rose to his feet, Jaq scrambling up with him and wrapping their arms about his waist. “Only if you’re coming with me.”

[crash-cinematic-universe]

Abed Nadir and his need to count the seconds

pairing: abed nadir/troy barnes (it’s Light but I wrote it with the intent for trobed)

summary: Abed Nadir hates being alone in general, so when his friends disappear and leave him alone in a sea of job-seeking students he struggles to keep his head above water. 

request:  okay wait ur abed headcanons got me thinking. abed angst. kings gotta have abandonment issues cuz of his parents YES I'm projecting a little bit. u don't have to do this if it makes u too sad tho - @ghost-butch

warnings: abandonment issues, anxiety attacks, s/h (kinda; in the form of clenching ur fists too hard)

notes: writing abed angst makes me sad ): why did i do this to him he deserves better. also im about to punch evil abed in the face ):< just over 2k words with this one so thats Cool also its midnight and i have school tomorrow arent i epic and cool. 

taglist: @simonsbluee

  _____________

            Fifteen minutes and twenty-two seconds. Abed had been lost for fifteen minutes and twenty-two second. Abed’s eyes were trained on the clock hanging on the wall, each tick of the second hand amplified in his head to a piercing shout. Everything was bigger; the lights were blindingly bright and his clothes felt as if they were clawing at his skin. With each passing second Abed became increasingly worried, his breath getting shallower and shallower with each rise of his chest. His eyes returned to the clock on the wall, his stomach jumping at the reading-- sixteen minutes and fourteen seconds.

            The study group had promised Abed they’d accompany him to the job fair. They promised they’d be by his side the entire time; Abed didn’t do well alone in large crowds, especially in new environments. He’d gotten distracted by an engineering booth in the corner with a large lego replica of the millennium falcon hanging in the corner. He looked away from his friends for no more than thirteen seconds, but in those thirteen seconds, they disappeared in the sea of students and booths and interns. Thus, leaving Abed completely alone in a mass of strangers in a building that he’d never seen before. 

            His anxiety had built up with every minute he was lost. It was gradual; he started with the initial panic, followed by frantic searching for familiar faces in the crowd. It wasn’t long after that when his heart rate began to pick up, and within minutes his skin felt as if it was on fire. Abed couldn’t really pinpoint exactly when he’d begun to shuffle backwards out of the large venue the job fair was held in. Before he knew it, he was at the end of a dimly lit hallway, completely alone. He slunk to the floor and pulled his knees to his chest.

            They’ll look for me, he thought. They’re probably looking for me now. Abed reached into his pocket for his cellphone before he realized he’d left it with Troy. The emptiness of his pocket felt endless, his hand tingling where the fabric of his shorts met his skin. The familiar whine that Abed let out when he became overwhelmed filled the empty hallway, the tone only making his anxiety worse. He cursed himself for not thinking ahead-- he’d left all of his fidget toys and putty in his messenger bag which he also left with Troy. 

            It was then that a tiny voice in the back of his head spoke up-- maybe they left, it called. Abed shook his head, but the voice persisted. They left you. They’re gone, and no one is coming for you. A familiar figure materialized in the vast shadows at the other end of the hallway; Evil Abed smirked at him from where he stood.

            “They’re gone,” He repeated. “They were waiting for something to draw you away for them so they could slip away,”

            “That’s not true.” Abed’s fingers absentmindedly dug into his palm. “They wouldn’t do that-- Troy wouldn’t do that. Jeff and Britta, maybe, but not Troy. Not Annie.” Truthfully, Abed didn’t believe that Jeff or Britta would leave, but he wasn’t thinking clearly in the moment.

            “Riddle me this, Abed, who does Troy respect more: you or Jeff? Who does he think is cooler? Who does he idolize more?” Evil Abed’s voice was smug and cruel. It felt as if his words were burrowing through his brain and fogging up his thoughts. “Sure, Troy might tolerate you, but he worships Jeff. If Jeff wanted to leave, then surely Britta and Annie would tag along. It’s inevitable that Troy would join them, isn’t it?” Abed shut his eyes tightly, but that didn’t do much to ward off his evil counterpart.

            A film played behind Abed’s eyelids, the poetic irony of his worst fears being portrayed through his favorite thing making his heart ache. There they were: Jeff, Britta, Troy, Annie, all standing in a tight group as Abed wandered off. Their expressions and movements were exaggerated, but Abed didn’t care. He just sat and watched as the scene unfolded.

            “God, I can’t believe he roped us into this,” Jeff groaned, his hands gripping his cellphone as if someone were going to take it from him. “What kind of loser can’t go to a damn fair by himself? I could have a hot redhead hanging on my arm at a sports bar and instead I’m babysitting a twenty-five-year-old.”

            “C’mon Jeff, we’re here for Abed. God knows if he came here alone he’d probably drive everyone here crazy with his “Inspector Spacetime” BS.” Britta chimed in, a tired tone in her voice. Annie looked antsy as always, while Troy looked unsure. Abed wasn’t sure of what, exactly. 

            Slowly, Abed  wandered a few feet away from the group. Jeff’s face lit up the same way it does when he sees an attractive student in the hallways. A borderline cartoon-ish grin grew on his face as he pulled the group tighter.

            “Hey, Abed’s gone. Let’s take this window and get the hell out of here while the cat is distracted by the lazer,” He chuckled. Britta smiled and nodded, quickly grabbing Annie’s hand in an attempt to pull her out. The three of them made their way to the exit, leaving Troy alone. He turned around to glance at Abed before rolling his eyes and running after Jeff. Abed was alone.

            The image faded away, and to Abed’s surprise, Evil Abed faded away with it. For a split second, Abed was disappointed. He really, really, really didn’t want to be alone-- even if his only companion was an evil version of himself. A minute passes before Abed realizes he was crying, that revelation followed by the realization that his fingernails dug into his palm so hard he broke the skin. His tears blurred his vision and made his surrounding seem much smaller, much darker, much lonelier. His eyes no longer portrayed a dim hallway. Instead, Abed saw the same tiny locker he was locked in so often as a teenager.  He could smell the rusted metal of the locker hinges. He could feel the chipped paint rubbing against his skin. He couldn’t breathe. Abed couldn’t breathe-- the entire world was closing in on him. He was cold and alone and no one was coming for him. His friends left him and they weren’t coming back. Everyone who he cares about leaves him, why would they be any different? He watched the world pass by through the tiny slits in the door before his eyes screwed shut again as he choked on air.

            He was in agony. His entire body shook and his heart pounded so hard he felt as if it were going to burst. Abed wanted to go home, he wanted to be back at Greendale with Troy and the rest of his friends but he was trapped. His arms began to cramp up from how hard he had tensed, his knuckles a pale white from how tightly he was clenching his fists. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak or sob or scream; he was stuck. Locked away. The outside world faded away as Abed retreated into his mind. He tried to hide away in his head forever until a janitor stumbled upon his frozen shell of a body tomorrow morning. There was an echoing sound, however, that kept drawing him from the abyss of his brain.

            Footsteps. He could hear footsteps. Abed couldn’t tell whether or not they were real, but he could guess who’s footsteps they were. They were frantic and uneven-- they had the potential to be rhythmic, but the walker was urgent. Worried. The biggest identifying factor, though, was the quiet sound of plastic aglets on the tile floor; their shoes were untied. Abed smiled weakly as he recalled the fact that Troy almost never had his shoes tied. A glimmer of hope shone through the small slits in the locker door as the footsteps grew closer.

            “Abed?” Troy’s voice cut through the silence in the hallway. He turned the corner and froze as his eyes landed on his friend. “Abed? God, there you are! You scared me half to death, and Jeff was already boring me to death with his lame lawyer stories, so now I’m only, like, a fourth away from death!”

            Abed didn’t reply. He couldn’t-- he still didn’t know if Troy was real or just another image. He was still locked away, after all. Troy could tell something was wrong; Abed’s eyes had glazed over and he looked like he’d seen a ghost. Troy hurried over, his eyes frantically assessing the situation at hand. He saw the blood on Abed’s palms and his stomach lurched. 

            “Hey, Abed, are you alright?” Troy asked softly. “Did something happen?” Abed did not reply, instead releasing a small, high-pitched whine. Everything was foggy-- it was all too foggy for Abed to know whether or not he was simply envisioning this angel of a human.

            “Alright, uh, I’m going to touch your wrist. Is that alright?” Abed hesitated before nodding ever-so-slightly.

            Gently, Troy wrapped his hand around Abed’s wrist. The contact was startling, but not unwelcome. Abed was becoming more and more sure that this Troy was real. The tight locker melted away to reveal the same dark hallway; his anxiety was eased a bit,but he still couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that settled over him. He glanced at the clock once again-- he was alone for thirty-two minutes and forty-seven seconds in total. 

            “I’m sorry I lost you,” Troy spoke quietly. His voice was comforting and genuine, his face soft and kind. He didn’t match the Troy that Evil Abed created at all. “I know this place is overwhelming, I’m so sorry. We should’ve been more attentive and more careful, this place is like a maze.” Abed soon realized he was too tired to respond verbally, instead opting to hold Troy’s hand. A silent reassurance was exchanged through their intertwined fingers. Abed’s palms stung a bit, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. He was just so tired. His muscles were sore and his chest ached and his head pounded. He wanted to go home. 

            “Britta was practically running across the building looking for you, ya know,” Troy said. His hand was still holding Abed’s. “Annie started crying after 10 minutes, and for a second Jeff looked like he was going to cry, too. They were all so worried. I was worried, too. The thought of something bad happening to you was too much to handle.”

            “I know you hate being alone, too. I guess you probably thought we ditched you or something. Jeff thought you ditched us, but I knew that wasn’t true. It doesn’t really matter, though, because I’m here now,” That final phrase echoed in Abed’s mind as he sat beside his friend. “I want you to know that I really care about you. I want-- I need you to know that I would never ever ditch you like that. Not in a million billion years, not even for a million dollars,”

            They sat there for a few more minutes before Annie turned the corner and shouted, sprinting full speed towards the two men at the end of the hallway. Britta and Jeff followed closely after, a wave of relief washing over their faces. They all gushed about their worries and concerns. Annie was quick to tend to the small indents in Abed’s palm, and Jeff and Britta talked about how freaked they were when they realized Abed disappeared. Jeff mentioned stopping by every directing booth in the entire building to see if Abed had landed there-- he even grabbed a few pamphlets for him to flick through later. Finally, Abed gained the energy to stand up, and he walked down the hallway with his friends beside him and Troy’s fingers still laced with him.

            On his way out, Abed glanced at the clock on the wall-- twenty-two minutes and twelve seconds. Abed had been surrounded by his wonderfully chaotic family for the past twenty-two minutes, and he’d never felt more secure.

[thatgamefromthatad]

Seen these ads? (9 Months Review)

This is an idle game. But you really do grow a baby from scratch.

Most of the ads show some fake gameplay elements like feeding the embryo/fetus or a non-existent storyline, but the embryo/fetus model and other interface elements shown in the ads are actually pretty accurate; in fact the graphics are even better in the real game.

P.S. The “Emily Paris” verified Twitter account shown in the ad isn’t a real account and that handle is actually taken by someone who hasn’t been active since 2009 lol. That part of the ad isn’t that relevant but I thought maybe they had set up an account under that name to promote the game.

Read my full review below:

*****

*****

*****

🤰　Is the game still fun? It’s a pretty solid idle game concept, the fetus models are actually really cool and it is fun in the beginning, but the fun is very short-lived. After a while it becomes very difficult to go any further without watching a lot of ads or paying money. Obviously idle games involve waiting, AFK time and mindless clicking/tapping by design, but this one is especially drawn out. The increasing costs of upgrades (purchased with gradually accumulating “cells”) don’t feel like they balance out with the benefits of the upgrades, and since there are almost no means of boosting cell production without watching ads or paying real money (at least not for a while), you are forced to tap away for a long time (sometimes several minutes straight) before you can grow your offspring any further.

On top of this unbalanced and very limited resource/upgrade management system, offline “cell” production is very low, so putting down the phone for a while and picking it back up after a few hours doesn’t help as much as in most other idle games I’ve played. You have to watch ads to claim the rewards for reaching certain growth stages, and watch ads or use diamonds (premium currency) to activate most of the temporary powerups that become available from time to time. I ended up giving up after I realized that using the small amount of diamonds provided at the beginning of the game to activate growth powerups shot my growth costs up to an unsustainable level. At that point it’d probably take me 9 REAL months before I could finally pop out my virtual baby.

Also this game has darker skin tones for the baby locked at the beginning, with pale skin being the default. You do start out with a “DNA” point that can be used to unlock a new skin tone at the beginning of the game, but it’s still really sus that they start out locked (plus that means someone who uses the default skin tone gets to spend that free DNA point on something else, like hair or eye color).

If you like idle games you’re much better off playing something like Egg, Inc. which has an abundance of upgrades and other features that keep you interested even while you’re waiting for eggs to accumulate. And if you’re interested in the fetus growth aspect just watch a playthrough of the game on YouTube, there are a ton.

🍼　Is this a free game or a “free” game? It’s a “free” game. The amount of waiting/ad watching needed to complete the game for free is just not worth it. Also if you want a baby with any skin tone darker than cream of wheat you have to pay real money or forgo other customization options. It’s ridiculous.

👶　Features

Idling to accumulate “nutrition,” which is used to grow the fetus, and idling/tapping to accumulate “cells,” which are used to purchase various upgrades

Growing your fetus by clicking the “grow” button, which costs nutrition (the organs and body parts grow in what I assume is the same order as a real fetus, so tapping the grow button might grow the fetus’ digestive system by 10%, for example)

You occasionally get the chance to answer a trivia question about fetal development/pregnancy etc. and you get a small reward if you answer correctly (trivia/“fun facts” about fetal development and pregnancy are also continually cycled on a banner on the main game screen)

Paywalled, racist baby customization (as mentioned before darker skin tones cost “DNA” and you only get one free DNA point to start out)

Baby raising/accessorizing (I never got this far but from what I saw when briefly skimming through playthroughs on YouTube, once you get the fetus to full term you actually get to interact with and dress up the resulting baby)

⚖️ Ad Honesty Rating: 3/5 (ads are a combination of real/near-real gameplay mixed with other elements that are not in the actual game)

⭐️ Overall Rating: 1/5 (the only thing the game has going for it are the realistic-looking fetus models; the monotony, greed and racism really spoil everything else)

▶️ Ad Example:

▶️ Gameplay Example:

Follow me for more reviews of those free mobile games you’re always getting ads for! Thanks for reading! 🥳

[mythicamagic]

Mirror image: Yui Komori oneshot

Another writing commission for @s-e-kwan

Yui’s personality drastically changes, to the point that Ruki takes it upon himself to find out the reason. Even if it means confining her to a darker cage. NOT a Cordelia fic. Mild RukiYui vibes.

Rated T for the usual darker themes in DL such as abuse. 

The bathroom had become a welcome reprieve, her own personal sanctuary from the Mukamis. Were she still in the Sakamaki mansion, Shuu would probably be lounging in the bath, but right then Yui leaned against the sink alone, sighing.

She inspected the bite marks on her skin, wincing tiredly.

Lately she’d been stretched a little too thin. Every inch of clothing scraped over the raised bumps of past marks. There were too many, to the point that her body didn’t even feel like it was hers anymore.

Yui swayed on her feel, quickly gripping the sink tighter. Tears strung her lashes. “I’m so tired.”

Her reflection stared back with surprisingly hard, apathetic eyes, “No, not tired. Pathetic.”

“But what can I do?”

The mirror Yui’s lips curved up into a sneer, tilting her chin up to gaze down at her. “Anything is better than nothing, worm. Oh no, wait. You’re Livestock, aren’t you? A Sow, a bitch, a slut. That’s exactly what you are if you’re just going to roll over and take it like a good girl.”

“B-but I’m powerless against them. And everything…hurts, I don’t want any more pain that would come from fighting. I’d rather…” she trembled, the tears finally escaping to roll hotly down her ashen cheeks. “I’d rather just stop existing.”

“…That can be arranged.”

------

It started out with minor things. Small snips in her voice, a slight sharpness in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

But gradually it worsened, or perhaps she’d been holding back.

“She bit me! All I was doing was taking some blood and she bit me! What the hell is wrong with her lately?” Kou snapped, gripping Yui tightly by the hair while turning to glare at Ruki, waiting for his input.

The elder Mukami looked on levelly. “Normally I’d encourage punishment, Kou. But the Livestock is looking frail. Allow her time to re-cooperate and then act.”

Kou tsked and flung the girl down to land hard on the floor, before leaving. Ruki observed her carefully, blinking slowly when her body shook with quiet laughter.

-------

“I’M GONNA KILL HER!” A voice thundered through the mansion.

Glancing up from his book, Ruki watched as Yuma stormed in, looking around the room frantically.

“Problem?”

“Yeah there’s a fucking problem, she DESTROYED my garden!”

Blue-grey eyes widened marginally. The book closed with a sharp snap as he stood. “I’ll take care of it. You’ll kill her as you are now. Call Azusa to help you salvage anything.”

“Tch, I saw him not too long ago. She scratched him up pretty good with his knife. Least he was happy about that…”

Ruki’s eyes darkened.

Yuma didn’t have time to protest as he disappeared, filtering through the scents in the air and finding her fairly easily in Kou’s room. The idol happened to be out working. When he finally appeared, Ruki stopped, taking her in.

She was hunched forward before the vanity mirror, applying a sultry red to her lips. Her dark clothes were unsubtle, exposing a ridiculous amount of skin. He scented blood and pinpointed it on her ear, noting she’d forced an earring in through the skin.

“Whatever possessed you to attempt this cheap shot at rebellion, Livestock, it ends now.”

Yui shifted, blonde hair sliding back as she glanced at him coyly over her shoulder.

Ice briefly chilled his spine. “…Cordelia?” He quietly guessed.

She giggled airily, eyes dulled. “No. She died a long while ago, when the Sakamaki’s still had me.”

“Then there is no reason to be acting out so childishly. As your Master, it falls to me to punish you now-“

“You are not my Master.”

The low, bitter words from that voice, that mouth, made something snap. Ruki seized her chin in his hand, grabbing a wipe and pressing it hard to her lips, swiping the rouge roughly. It smudged the colour over her face, making it resemble dried blood.

He then materialised them into a deep, dark space.

“W-where are we?”

“A place where Livestock go to be rehabilitated.”

-----

A few weeks in solitary confinement changed nothing. Though he’d tucked her away in a room beneath the house, more specifically in the dungeons, she stared back at him with those dulled, mocking eyes. Depriving her of food and water only weakened her, so he eased up on such extremes.

Her words were no less biting.

“You’re disgusting.”

Bite!

“I hate you!”

Bite!

“You enjoy this, don’t you? You like hurting me just so you can feel…gn, in control.”

Pause.

Ruki’s lips hovered over her skin, fresh bite marks blooming. No discipline softened her to complacency either.

“What was that?” He asked lowly, tugging her up to look at him. Sitting on her plain, sad little bed, the two observed each other. As her sole provider, he’d expected Yui to start softening for him.

“Heh,” she shivered, skin pale. “You’re a coward. You place yourself as ‘Master’ just so you can forget about-“

Steel fingers wrapped around her throat. “Say one more word and I will end your pathetic existence, Eve,” silken tones hissed, fire and brimstone churning the dead sea in his veins, igniting a blood lust like no other-

Rose-pink eyes brightened marginally, and Ruki stopped.

His mind clicked, and slowly, carefully, that tight grip slackened, releasing her.

“What are you doing?” She snapped, voice straining a little. “Y-you’re a coward! Like I was saying, you used to be Livestock too! You still are!”

He did not respond, only moved her off his legs, standing.

“Now I understand.”

Yui glared, hugging her arms. “Understand what?”

Ruki did not answer, disappearing from sight and leaving her entirely alone.

----

Raising a hand to shield her eyes, Yui winced at the brightness of the sun. With treacle immediacy, she adjusted, blinking and glancing around.

Ruki had taken her out of her cage, only to get in a car and drive. They’d been on the road for hours, to the point that she’d nodded off, arms curled loosely around her thin body. Eventually she’d been roused to wake, now standing before an old, worn down church.

She recognised it immediately, jolting.

This was the place where she’d been raised.

This was home.

Or at least it had been. In just two years it seemed to have fallen into disrepair. Weeds overrun the front garden, and ivy now burst through shattered windows. Even the walls looked tinged grey, dulled.

“It was abandoned shortly after you left,” Ruki uttered, hands in pockets.

“…What happened?”

“The Vampire King made good on his word. In exchange for you, the nuns here received whatever they wanted.

“I don’t believe y-“

“But they ultimately changed their minds, They did…want you back, Livestock.”

Her frame jolted, as though she’d been slapped. Some old tendencies came back as she held her hands close to her chest. “Even Father?”

“He knew nothing about it, apparently. However, the Vampire King couldn’t allow them to interfere. They either had their memories erased or lie dead. I don’t know anything else.”

Fragile shoulders shook, and her voice softened into one he recognised.

“Why…why are you telling me this?”

His heavy attention slid to rest on her. “You want to die. That’s where this shift in behaviour has come from. You’ve been trying to anger us enough so that we’d snap and free you from misery. Isn’t that it?”

Limp, blonde hair fell forward her head bowed, trembling.

He continued in his usual calm, serious tone. “I can’t pin-point if your personality has split into two, or if you’re merely unstable. Either way, it was obvious you needed a reminder of why you’re alive.”

Yui gave a weak chuckle, turning to finally look up at him, her eyes completely dry. “You’ll just say I’m alive to awaken Adam.”

“Such a thing clearly won’t motivate you. No, the girl I know is sentimental enough to still carry a rosary long after she’s been damned.” He uttered, grasping her chin gently. “You must live for your own pride. Just as I did. If you can’t right now, then live for the ones who tried to save you.”

A choked sound escaped from the back of her throat, the sun catching dulled rosy eyes enough to give them a brief light. “Oh…I-I don’t…” her voice wavered, tears collecting and rolling free finally. “I don’t even know who I am anymore,” she admitted softly.

Ruki blinked, releasing her. He thought for a moment, sliding pale hands into his pockets and wandering towards the small gate at the front of the church. “Oi,” he called, glancing over his shoulder.

“Show us around this place, Yui.”

She stared, something subtly changing in her expression that transformed her entire face, as though only just hearing her name for the first time.

“U-us?”

He nodded to the area behind her, and Yui turned on her heel, breath hitching at the sight of the other Mukamis, who padded out of the dark of the surrounding woods.

Yui swallowed, blubbering. “Oh Yuma, I’m so sorry for-“

“Quit ya crying, Sow,” he tsked, uncomfortably rubbing the back of his neck.

“But I owe all of you an apology.”

“Hehe~ well we sometimes get carried away with things too,” Kou hummed. “How about in exchange, do as Ruki says and show us around, kay?”

Yui nodded, clutching her hands close to her chest and squeezing the rosary, wiping away her tears with her free hand.

“O-okay.”

[scribeofmorpheus]

Counterpart [5/5]

Pairing: Bucky x Reader x Framework!Steve

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Words: 6k | AO3

A/N: Incase people are unfamiliar, The Red Guardian is the soviet equivalent of Captain America. I was going to use Alexei Shostakov in this chapter but I ended up using him in AFWHI so instead, I went with Tania Belinsky. In the end, I liked how having Steve fight Tania emphasised the darker nature of Framework!Steve. And yes, I admit, some parts were rushed (serves me right for planning a short series with too much potential to draw from!) but fear not, there’s an epilogue.

Note: this chapter acts as the spin-off opening chapter for The Liberators. Send me an ask if you want to be tagged in that going forward.

Warnings: This chapter contains language, violence, oral sex (public-ish...), kinda voyeurism if a figment of someone's imagination counts, torture, etc. It’s a dark series, expect a darker take.

Song: Stay Alive by Hidden Citizens.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE CHOICE

~

The light fixture above sparked, bulbs exploding from the residual energy rippling off Wanda’s charged aura. Several unconscious bodies lay haphazardly on the floor in no discernible pattern. The door barricaded by debris, upon debris, until there was barely a peephole to look through to the other side.

Exhausted, Wanda fell onto the glass panels of the submersion tanks, a dark rivulet of blood gradually meandering from her nose, the glow of her eyes fizzling out like a gyroscopic disco light.

"Boss, are you okay?" Friday asked after a beat of deafening silence.

Wanda heaved, sweat matting her hair to her cheeks, "I just… I need to catch my breath is all." She glanced over to the tank which housed Y/N, her fingers dusting over the glass as a weak smile crept over her tired face.

"I'll keep them safe," she swore to herself, to the universe.

The sound of a plasma cannon being charged behind the wall of debris worried Wanda, but as much as she wanted to stand, and stay focused, she could barely keep her eyes open. She was past her threshold now, slipping away into unconsciousness. Whether she liked it or not, she was out of commission.

"Friday," her voice was soft, breathy. "How… long?"

"They've been in there a little over eight hours, boss," the program’s Irish lilt was like an unintended lullaby to Wanda's ears.

"We… still… have… time…" her mind was dragged into the clutches of sleep, her hand slipping away from the glass.

    Your body shook violently, it felt like you were in the middle of a seizure, unable to control your limbs or the sheer quantity of neurotransmitters that flooded your brain, drenching it into a pool of anxiety.

"Hey, shh, shh," Steve tried to soothe your panic attack away, hands bracing your head and lower spine as you grabbed onto his jacket.

A few junior agents had caught wind of the commotion and stalled on their way to their desks, prompting Steve to sneer at them, "What the hell are you looking at? Move along!"

Feet scurried after that and the dial had been turned back up, now you could hear the usual bustle of the office space flow around you uninterrupted.

"Come on babe, let's calm you down," Steve pulled you off the ground and walked you towards the med bay. He placed you on one of the empty beds, sealing the room shut with a protocol override thanks to his higher clearance.

"Hey, babe, look at me," his hands pulled your face away from your chin. "Good, that's a good girl," he smiled, worry clearly showing in his assertive tone. "Now breathe, just like me."

Steve took a deep breath with his nose and let out a long exhale through this mouth, pads of his thumbs rubbing at your cheek as he encouraged you to do as he did.

Slowly, you mimicked his actions, letting each breath erase the shuddering of your jaw and the rapid hammering beneath your ribs. Swallowing hard after each interval.

"There you go," Steve's grip never softened, he was your rock through the tumultuous storm, rubbing circles on your uncomfortably tight spine.

"I- I think I'm okay now," you whispered softly, hands unclenching from his jacket leaving deep crinkles around the expensive leather.

He pulled up a chair, "What happened to you in there?"

"Honestly," you chuckled with uncertainty. "I don't know. One minute I'm ready to crack skulls and then the next I'm..." you trailed off, a sinking feeling warning you that he might not believe what you had to say.

"What?" his eyes were soft and understanding, this was the gentler side of him that few got the pleasure of seeing.

"I started seeing things, like memories, only…" your hands fidgeted, the urge to bite your nails was strong. “They weren't my memories." A shudder crept through you. You turned to look at the Hydra sigil tiled onto the floor. "Sometimes I feel like nothing is real." You admitted.

Steve stood, his hands massaging your neck in languid strokes, his beard tickling your skin as he brought his lips to caress the sensitive flesh. Your head shot back, eyelashes batting rapidly before finally closing as you bit your lip.

"Does this feel real?"

You gasped as his lips moved lower, his hand moving to the underside of your breast placing a strong grip over the curve of your ribs that guarded your heart.

"Yes," you whimpered.

"And what about this?" his hand grazed a nipple through the light material of your dress shirt, tongue lapping at your skin letting the air cool it so it prickled with sensual energy.

"Hmm," you bit your lip harder.

Steve brought his lips to crush over yours, coaxing a moan out as he massaged the top of your spine with his other hand.

"It's been a stressful few days," his voice was laced with lust, hand moving to pop open the button on your jeans. "Let me take some of that stress away."

He pushed your body down, spreading your legs as he dragged the chair closer so his face was aligned with your thighs, his thumbs hooking over your belt loops, tugging them down ferociously.

You gasped and his laugh carried across the exposed flesh of your inner thigh, hands slipping underneath you to cup your ass and raise your legs so he could trail kisses from your knee to the apex of your thigh. His breath was hot against your lace panties.

"Steve," you gasped, trying to get lost in the moment, but for every sensual sensation running through you, causing your legs to shake with want, your brain kept playing back a song like a recorder stuck on a loop. The image of another man laying over you, being deep inside you, as his hair tickled your breasts with every thrust, fogged your senses. His steely blue eyes matching the man in the interrogation room. Making you feel ashamed of thinking of another man while your husband lavished ay your moistening core.

You squinted, trying to drive those foreign images away, fingers digging into Steve's hair, nudging him further into your core.

He complied, suckling at your clit through the lacy fabric, eliciting another gasp from your lips. The pressure from Steve's mouth pulled blood around your bud, making it become engorged with desire. You grew more sensitive with every lap of his tongue and every nibble of his teeth, crying from pleasure, unashamed that anyone passing by would clearly be able to see the two of you participating in lewd acts if they walked past the semi-translucent door.

Steve's tongue was like a salve for the ache milking you internally and as much as you just wanted to lay there and let your senses go haywire, the more you lost control under his touch, the more your mind wondered.

The ghost, that damned ghost with his perfect eyes and his long silky hair and brooding disposition, came to life in the dark recesses of your subconscious.

Steve finally stripped your panties free and you wiggled into his touch, pushing your hips downwards so his tongue could fill your entrance as he stroked, suckled and devoured you.

"Steve..." you moaned with pleasure and that drove him wild. His hands palmed your ass as his fervour increased. Soon he was fingering you at an unbearable pace while he returned his mouth to your clit. The knot in your stomach began to coil tighter and tighter and tighter.

"Say my name," the ghost whispered.

You snapped your head to the side and defiantly mewled Steve's name again.

"Say. My. Name." it was too light to be a threat, but the edge present in those words made you quake and soon you were unravelling, juices seeping into Steve's hungry mouth.

"Steve… St-Steve, ahh!" You came harder, the climax far from over.

A cold shiver spread from your ear lobe all the way to your aorta and deeper within. The ghost closer than before, close enough to smell his scent and feel his warmth, spoke out again, "Say my name."

You whimpered, the final wave of your climax washing over you as you bit into the pillow and whimpered, cracked voice feather-light, "Bucky..."

When you opened your eyes and you saw Steve stand from between your legs licking his fingers like some starved wolf. A devilish grin hiding under his beard.

What the hell did I just say? You questioned yourself as you looked into the reflective surface of a heartbeat monitor. Your own eyes taunting you, a clear window into your fractured mind.

The ghost stood behind you, a smile of triumph on his face.

"You remember me," he said.

You turned in the direction of the ghost’s reflection, but all you saw were curtains and medical equipment. You glanced back at the monitor wearily, a migraine beginning to form. You flinched from the pain, your thoughts telling you to take another pill.

"The pain is a good thing," the ghost said. "It means you're fighting this world," he crossed over to face you now, had hovering close to your radiating skin. "Fighting this lie…" his hand hovered lower, close to your chin. “Come back to me."

"Y/N?" Steve's voice tore through the apparition and your focus was pulled back to his face. "You still with me?"

You stared dumbfounded for a moment, before pulling up your pants and switching positions with Steve, a menacing smirk asserting itself over your features.

If it took being numbed to the rest of the world by Steve’s incendiary touch in order to get the ghost to leave, then you weren't averse to spending a few more minutes in this room with him.

"Perfect," you replied as you got on your knees and freed his pulsing member. "Now, it's time for me to help you relax."

You took him in your mouth and he pulled at your hair possessively, pushing you down further until you felt his tip knocking at your uvula.

You let his scent fill you. The musk of his pure desire was overwhelming, a sensory overload that turned your mind into a blank sheet, white with static and nothingness. You savoured the quiet, the lack of discord, as you pleasured him with the same enthusiasm he had used on you. Steve’s ringed finger entwined with yours as he whispered through pleasured grunts, “God, I love you.”

You wanted to say ‘I love you’ too, but for some reason, it never resonated as completely true.

 After you and Steve got cleaned up, the infirmary doors were overridden and a short but plucky looking woman walked in, her professional glower making her look older than she was.

"You mind telling me why two of my operatives locked themselves inside the med bay so they could play house instead of interrogating our prisoner?" she tapped her heels on the ground, pointing to the cameras. “You know we could see everything down in control, right?”

You cursed under your breath and Steve held back a playful chuckle.

"Executive Director Lewis," he informally saluted. “I was simply easing my wi- Uhem, I mean Agent Rogers here out of her panic attack.”

Darcy rolled her eyes at the two of you.

"Ma'am," you hid your blush by keeping your eyes on the Hydra sigil on the floor.

"Spare me the ass-kissing, get your asses into that interrogation room and make that little piggy squeal. I want to know everything he knows. It's been nearly four years since we last spotted the Canary, and I don't want to screw anything up now that he's in our custody after you failed to bring him in last time, Rogers!"

"I’ll get right on that ma'am," Steve strode out of the room.

"Darcy, hun, I've been looking for you everywhere," Clint jogged over, motioning to place a kiss on her cheek. She pulled away, a firm hand pressed to his sternum.

"That's Executive Director during work hours, Clint."

"Oh, right. Not in the workplace," he clicked his tongue. "Your father- err, the Director, wanted to see you." Clint thumbed at the doorway.

Darcy side-eyed you for a moment, a warning shot your way, “Be more discrete next time, agent.” She sauntered out of sight.

"Whew!" Clint pretended to wipe sweat from his brow. "Crisis averted. You owe me for the rescue, kiddo. The 'ol ball and chain can be a bit of a ball basher." He smirked.

"Thanks, Clint," you exhaled as you walked past him. "How did you know we were about to get a major tongue lashing from Control?"

“You know she hates that nick-name.” Clint laughed, "Her vein does this thing next to her left eye when she's about to chew someone out. I figured you would be the only one reckless enough to incur her wrath after that fiasco a few days ago."

You shook your head, "You two will never stop being an enigma to me."

"What can I say, she had me at 'What the hell do you think you're doing Agent Barton?'." His long gait caused him to turn around and talk to you while walking backwards. "Now, let’s go play good cop, bad cop and observer cop!"

 You watched from the other side of the one-way mirror as Steve bloodied his knuckles bombarding the imprisoned man’s face with brutal blow after brutal blow. One of his eyes was already discolouring, the skin turning puffy.

"Well, old friend," Steve's fist connected with his mentalis muscle, splitting the skin on his cheek so blood flowed down to his neck and below in a dark red stream. "I can't tell you how long I've been waiting to see you again." Steve flashed his canines in a dishevelling smile.

Bucky's muscles reflexively shook, his eyes staring into Steve's face as though he were looking up at a stranger.

You rubbed at your arms, the hairs sticking up. You hated seeing this side of Steve, it felt… wrong. You couldn't believe this was the same man who held you each night. The same man you married. The same man you were raising a daughter with.

You glanced down at your ring, the metal still cold and unfamiliar to you.

Clint was quiet, not his usual wise-cracking self, as he looked on, watching Steve work.

"That doesn't belong there," the ghost appeared beside you. You chose to ignore it. "That's why it still feels cold no matter how long you wear it. Odd isn't it. That's not how metal and heat work."

You wrung your ear, hoping the scuffling sounds would drown out the imposing presence that bore the same face as the man in the interrogation room –they like some form of twisted doppelgangers, only one was tangible the other was incorporeal.

"Whoever you think I am," Bucky stated, a wetness to his voice. "I'm not him. Just like how you're not my best friend."

Steve cocked his head to the side, his knuckle lodging itself into Bucky's hard stomach, "What, no happy tears for your old pal?"

Blood splattered out of his mouth, "My best friend would never allow himself to be anyone’s bruiser, especially not Hydra."

"Tell me, Canary… how's the view up there on your high horse?" Steve pulled Bucky's head back, roughly. "Does it make this sting any less?" He brought his knee to Bucky's nose, an uncomfortable crunch filling the space.

"Jesus," Clint whispered. "I knew these two had unfinished business, but I've never seen anyone get under the Captain's skin like this before." 

You shivered, finding it hard to swallow. "We're getting nowhere with these tactics." You raced out of the room, bursting into the adjacent room with great speed.

Steve's head craned to yours, unhappy with your disturbance. "Leave." He barked.

"Give me five minutes with him."

"I'm in the middle of something," he was seething.

"And I was his original interrogator," you bit back. "Give. Me. Five."

Grinding his teeth, Steve let go of Bucky's head roughly before complying with your request -albeit begrudgingly.

 You placed a wet cloth on Bucky's face, he instinctively leaned into your touch, and it startled you how right that felt. You jumped back slightly.

"Don't be afraid of me," he told you, his eyes still warm despite the bruised flesh forcing his eyelids closer together.

"I'm not," you answered truthfully.

"Then don't be afraid of yourself."

How did he know? You pondered. Does he really know me? Do I know him?

"James…" you placed the cloth back on his jaw. “That’s your name isn't it?"

"Bucky. My friends call me Bucky."

Your mind flashed back to the med bay where you whispered that very name into a pillow as you climaxed around Steve's face. You pressed your legs together, forcing yourself to stay in the present.

"Earlier, you said your plan worked. That you wanted to be here, to be in the same room as me…Why is that?"

He leaned his head forward and you applied pressure to the gash on his chin, "Isn't it obvious? I came back for you. I'd cross universes for you. And I did."

"I don't know you," you lied.

"Yes you do, I can see it in your eyes. You remember me. I know a part of you does, otherwise, why did you run away when you saw me."

Steve knocked on the door, growing impatient.

You held up five fingers before turning your attention back to the bloody and beaten man in front of you.

"Come back to me," he pleaded, leaning into your touch some more. "You're the last good thing in my life and I should have told you that every morning we woke up and every night we went to bed. You mean everything to me. You are my world. I love you."

Warning! Memories desynchronizing...

Searing, hot pain shot through your veins and you were repelled backwards by the forceful pounding at your temples. You cried out, vision turning to shit. Your instincts telling you to fight the pain, to make the screaming stop, but then you remembered what the ghost had said -what the phantom Bucky had told you.

The pain is a good thing. It means you're fighting this world.

You couldn't say for certain why you chose to listen to him, why you chose to embrace the pain. Maybe it was because your ring always felt cold and foreign on your ring finger, maybe it was because there was nothing but discord rupturing within you unless Steve was touching you, or maybe it was because you had finally lost your fucking marbles. Either way, you picked yourself up off the floor, upholstered your gun and fired off two shots. One pierced the camera. The other broke the chains that bound Bucky to the chair.

"I knew you'd remember," he wrapped his arms around you in a hug, the metal of his arm not nearly as cold as the metal on your ring finger. A second later, Steve kicked in the door.

"Reunion time later, let’s get us out of here," you told Bucky as you aimed your gun at Steve, the memories of both worlds mixing to form a muddle of confusion in your brain.

"What the hell are you doing Y/N? Have you lost your mind?" Steve barked with disbelief.

You shrugged, planting a bullet in his thyroid, "No. I've found it."

Bucky used the jagged edge of the chain to dig something out of his arm, it was small and cylindrical with a red tip. He pressed it and a red LED started to flash from the tip. He extended his arm to you, a look of faith in his eyes that you'd forgotten was once a constant in your life. "Do you trust me?"

Your memories were still a mess and you felt torn, almost like two people were trying to live inside one body, but you also felt confident and when you clasped your hand in his, you felt safe for what seemed like the first time in a decade. "I don't know. But I know I'll be safe as long as you're by my side."

He smiled, running out of the room with you in tow, Steve biting back grunts of pain as he rushed after you.

***

"Congratulations, Agent Carter," Darcy handed her a new shiny badge that smelled of newly tanned leather and chromium. "You're officially promoted to active duty. Now you can finally step out from behind your ex-husband's shadow." She laughed darkly.

Sharon looked down at the badge, lacklustre expression making Darcy cock her head to the side. "Don't look at this as anything other than what it is. You deserve that badge and I'm proud to stand beside you as the newest member of the Syndicate."

"Agent 13?" Sharon read the designation below her name.

Darcy chuckled, "The Syndicate has a flare for the dramatic. Everyone uses call signs while out in the field." Darcy pulled out her own badge. "Since I'm the one pulling the strings in the dark, they took to calling me Control. Ridiculous, granted, but you'd be surprised how useful an alter ego is in our business of hunting subservients."

"When will I meet the rest of the team?"

"They're currently off base, but they should be arriving shortly for your inauguration," Darcy glanced at her watch.

Suddenly, the alarm blared overhead, yellow warning lights turning the walls into a nauseating colour.

"What the fuck?" Darcy groaned, head craned to the spinning lights. She pressed down on her earpiece, her tone authoritative and scary. "This is Control, what the fuck is going on in my building?"

"Ma'am, it seems agent Rogers has defected," a junior agent replied over the comms.

"Steve?" Darcy asked.

Sharon's eyes narrowed, her grip bending the badge at the sides slightly.

"Negative Ma'am. Agent Y/N."

"Son of a bitch," Darcy marched to her office.

"What's going on?" Sharon stammered.

"We have a subservient in our midst. Your ex-husband's wife just tried to break out the Canary. Get your ass to the tenth floor, I have a feeling this is a fight you might want to get in on."

"Where are you going?"

"To assemble the Syndicate and get Clint his sword."

***

"Come on partner, let's talk about this," Clint hurled pens at you with the accuracy of a ninja. Several ballpoint tips embedded themselves into the desk you'd flipped to the side for cover.

You shot off defensive shots, making sure to miss any vital organs, he dodged them easily, rolling to another point of cover. "I've seen how you hash things out, Clint. I'm not a fool."

“Oh, now don’t be like that.”

Bucky blocked several bullets hailing from a line of agents, the ping noise showering around him in hurried succession. Steve pushed several desks out of his way as he stalked towards the two of you.

"Y/N, honey, whatever's gotten into you, we can work it out. You aren't yourself," he hurled a desk at Bucky and his metal arm punched through it, cracking it in half. "You're sick, baby. A side effect of the medication. Think about us. Think about Sarah."

You froze and Clint managed to get a shot in at your arm, the pen piercing your flesh like a blunt needle.

"Arrghhh!" You ducked lower, pulling Bucky's shirt down. "Where the fuck is your back up?"

Bucky glanced at his watch, the countdown putting him on edge. "They should be here."

"Y/N, why are you helping him? You know who he is, who he used to work for. He's a traitor. If you turn yourself over now, I'll make sure Pierce and Lewis don't press charges," Steve assured you as he picked up a desk chair and hauled it at Bucky.

Bucky dodged to the side, his eyes landing on Steve's as they were face to face. Steve placed a strong hand on Bucky's shoulder and Bucky, in turn, spun out of his grip and twisted his arm around his back.

Steve groaned through gritted teeth as he head-butted Bucky in the nose. Disoriented and in pain, Bucky stumbled backwards and Steve's fist was about to drive a right hook into his off-balance body when a blur of blue and silver whooshed past, taking Bucky with it.

"Wha-" You searched the room for any sight of the blur or Bucky, but there was nothing except an over imposing sense of confusion hanging in the air.

Clint lobbed one more pen your way and in a flash, the blur returned, removing the projectile from its flight path. Pietro looked down at you, a dastardly smile on his face as he sent a wink your way, twirling the pen between two fingers. "Hey."

“Hey.”

And then he was gone.

Out of a hidden corner, a shower of pens were hurled at a mass of agents, including Clint, and they all hit their mark successfully. Cries of pain emanated out just when Bucky appeared behind Steve's back to heave him over his shoulder in a body slam. Something in Steve's shoulder popped and you could see the bulge of a bone sticking out of alignment as he rolled off of Bucky.

Glass shattered from the windows as a helicopter lifted to your floor, Sam at the helm with Natasha gripping a semi-automatic. Her bullets piercing through the air and ripping through several enemy agents.

While Steve and Bucky came to blows, your gaze fell on Sharon, who was pointing a gun at you, a torn expression drawing her eyebrows down. It was a silent stalemate and you dared not flinch.

Off the helicopter, a large woman with the biggest muscles you had ever seen crashed into Clint, sending him flying like he was made of papier-mâché and crashing against Steve. The Black Panther suit maundered over several desks to take on a multitude of junior agents with little effort on their part.

"T'Challa?" you whispered causing the person to crane their neck so swiftly it would have given anyone whiplash. It was then you saw the person in the black suit had a small bust and a feminine frame. This wasn’t T’Challa, it was someone else, a fragment of your mind that was attuned to the Framework remembered that T’Challa had been killed in an explosion years prior. “Shuri…” you uttered softly and she nodded in place of a verbal reply.

"Fuck, that is one strong lady," Clint struggled to stand and out of the elevator, Darcy sauntered over, no fear in her eyes as she called out Clint's name and tossed him his swords. "Thanks, honey!" he replied as he unsheathed his katana.

Spectre materialised out of the wall and shot a plasma beam at Shuri, sending her flying through cubicles. Her vibranuim armour caused a bubble of energy to erupt from the point of contact. Papers, files and electronic components were cast through the air by the static cushion.

Pietro sped over to her side, catching her from mid-air and stopping her momentum. With a snarl, he charged after Spectre but was hit by one of Clint’s throwing stars. Shuri retaliated, pouncing onto Clint, her extended claws sparking fiery lights as they came in contact with his sword.

Sharon was still standing there, unable to move.

A few blocks down, a beam of light shot up into the sky like a beacon.

Sam shouted from the helicopter, "That's our signal, we gotta go!"

Sharon lowered her gun, looing between you, Sam and Bucky, her brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of what everything meant. “One day at a time…”

Darcy barked order's into her comms, "Warmonger handle that fucking chopper!"

"Where is he?" Shuri demanded through each slice and swipe, her Wakandan accent still thick.

Clint parried with an expert’s stance, "Where is who?"

"Peter Parker!" She growled back.

Clint swiped his leg under her and she somersaulted away, "I have no clue, kid."

A sniper got a shot off from a distance, clipping Steve's side just as he was about to get his hands around Bucky's neck, the residual force made him stumble backwards allowing Bucky rush to your side.

"We have to go, Y/N!" He gripped your shoulder. "Now!"

You looked to Sharon and suddenly her face was taken over by something, a kind of steeled determination. Then she lifted her gun and turned against her own people, aiding you and Bucky so you could make a break for it. You exchanged curt nods before you got out from behind cover and raced towards the helicopter.

"Agent Carter, what are you doing?" Darcy spat in anger.

Behind Sharon, Ava Starr materialised through the walls, stalking towards her unsuspecting prey, the shimmer of her invisibility cloak giving away her position. Shuri pounced on her, releasing an electrical spike into the ground, frying her cloaking tech.

"Uh, guys, I don't know if you have any tricks up your sleeve, but we've got a bogey incoming," Sam shouted as a small humanoid flying object left jet trails through the sky.

"Warmonger..." you gasped out.

Spectre charged his plasma beam and you instantly released Bucky's hand so you could tackle him, sending the both of you tumbling until you were mere inches from falling out of the ten-story window.

Natasha fired off her weapon at Warmonger, failing to get a shot in. She braced for impact right when a man in a winged suit clutched onto Warmonger with his claw-like feet and used his momentum to swing him into the opposite building, accidentally banging into the tail end of the helicopter in the process.

Natasha was shaken from her post and sent tumbling into the building, her eyes locking instantly on Clint's. They stared at each other with menace, an unresolved vendetta clearly hanging over them like an open wound doused in salt and spirits. They were both frothing at the mouth as they charged after each other.

“Romanoff,” he said with venom. “I’ve been dying to cross paths with you again.”

Natasha struck him in the face with a roundhouse kick, “Its Romanova! And you’ll pay for what you did to me!”

Pietro rushed to your aid when he saw you struggling to gain the upper hand with Spectre, but a minute insect-like creature whacked into his cheek, sending him hurtling backwards once it resized into a full-grown woman wearing a hornet-like suit.

You scrambled towards the helicopter, Warmonger and the Vulture coming to blows in the air a few blocks away. Bucky's metal arm wrapped around one of the Hornet's wings and pulled, ripping it from her back in a brutish manner. She screamed as though the wing was part of her.

The large Russian woman struck Steve with her shoulder, pushing him further away from you. He easily broke her hold and landed several tight formation blows to her sternum and ribs letting out cracking sounds. She gasped through the breaks and Steve forced to her up from her knees in a gruelling show of unbridled rage.

"Belinsky!" Natasha screamed after her.

Steve held her up off the ground until her feet dangled. Even though they were of similar build, Steve barely broke a sweat as he held her up, his lips curling up into a smile the more she struggled.

Another slug ripped through his cheek, turning his head from the force and lacerating it in a straight line. Yet still, Steve's grip held strong and the woman -Belinsky- clawed for breath.

Shuri tried to get to her but was obstructed by Ghost phasing ahead of her, Sharon fired off several shots to pry an opening but was kicked square in the stomach by a stiletto belonging to Darcy. Pietro was preoccupied with trying to draw Spectre's line of fire away from everyone else while Natasha and Clint were locked in a matched battle. You cursed at the harrowing realisation that you and Bucky were too far away to make a difference.

"Don't do it, Steve!" You begged, the chopper muffling your desperate pleas.

Natasha reached for Belinsky but Clint sliced through her calf muscle, making her slip to the ground.

Steve peered over at you and Bucky, the veins in his arms pulsing with adrenaline, his pupil’s dark and diluted. His smile grew into a grin and your breath halted as he twisted her neck too far, the cracking sound ringing through the pandemonium of screams, bullets and chopper blades.

"No!" Pietro cried, stalling for a moment, allowing Spectre to drill a hole through his shoulder with the plasma beam. Shuri scurried to his side and yanked him to safety, leaving Sharon to face off with Ghost and Darcy. Natasha crawled towards the limp Russian woman, choking back tears, a scream tearing through her when she finally placed two fingers on Belinsky’s non-responsive pulse points.

"What have we done?" you gasped as Bucky dragged you to the helicopter, a hail of bullets firing at Spectre from the building across from you, drawing the android's attention away from Shuri.

Steve grabbed a discarded gun from the floor and fired at Sam, one bullet piercing his gut, forcing the helicopter to swerve just as you and Bucky jumped.

The plasma cannon broke through the barricade and Wanda, who still too weak to stand, tried to summon her powers but all she achieved was a flicker of her irises. As armed men scuttled into the room, she closed both her eyes, the look of peace and fatigue battling for dominance.

If she was going to go, at least she'd die amongst friends.

The sound of guns being cocked drummed into her ears and she took a small breath waiting for the inevitable to occur. Just when she thought it was all about to be over, a stark light exploded around her and out of the light came a suit of red and gold armour.

"Stark?" she mumbled in her delusional state.

"Half-right," Pepper answered as she took on the gunmen. She raised her hands, lights from the triangle power core charging up as she braced her stance. "This suit does have under-water capabilities."

You applied pressure to Sam's chest as his lung threatened to collapse.

"Shit, hurry Bucky!" You blared into the headset as Bucky took over the reins of the chopper and flew you towards the beacon of light.

"Hold on Sam," you ran your hand against his cheek in a comforting motion, sniffling your tears away.

"We're almost there Bird-man," Bucky looked back, his brow heavy with worry. "Hold on, man!"

Sam gritted his teeth, holding back his painful snarl as more blood soaked through the compress and seeped onto the diamond implanted in your ring, slipping between the cracks and turning the carbon stone blood red.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you let the harsh winds carry your words away from Sam's ears. "This is all my fault." You could feel his skin growing colder, his lips turning near white and all you could do was pray.

When the helicopter touched down, Bucky grabbed Sam and slung him over his shoulder, hobbling with him towards the beacon tunnelling through the ground like concentrated sunlight.

Out of your blindside, Steve's shield whirred past, striking Bucky's legs and fracturing the bone.

Bucky dropped Sam as he fell forward. It was then that you realised Sam's chest wasn't moving, it was agonizingly still. Bucky failed to stand on one leg, the throbbing pain from his shattered bones forcing him to bite down.

You turned around and saw Steve and Warmonger stride towards you.

"Steve, wait," you raised your hands.

Bucky dragged Sam on one leg towards the portal, Warmonger languidly stalked after them, biding his time, building the tension.

"Should I kill ‘em Cap?" Rhodey's voice became clear once his helmet was removed.

Steve looked at you and then back at the Bucky’s hopeless labouring to get Sam into the beam of light. "Not yet, I want them to struggle."

"Steve, please!" You caressed his cheek so he could look to you. "I know you're better than this. I know that some part of you doesn't want to be this man..."

He smiled, weakly, his fingers touching the love bite he had made on your skin in the med bay. "And to think, everything had been so different an hour ago." His hand braced around your neck with no pressure applied, at first. But then he began to squeeze, forcing you backwards. "How long have you been a spy? How long have you been planning on betraying me?" he screamed.

"St-Steve… It's not… It's not like that," you rasped.

He slammed you into a wall, hard. "No? I gave up everything for you. I left Sharon for you. Tore Sarah away from her mother! And for what? So you could betray me the first chance you got?"

"Let her go, Steve!" Bucky shouted out, a few inches from the portal, his metal arm braced around the unconscious, barely breathing Sam.

"Bucky… get… Sam… out… of… here!" You ordered.

"Not without you!"

You turned your eyes to him, neck stiffly held by Steve's tightening grip, a tear running down your cheek. "You already saved me. Now… save him!"

Warmonger kneeled over Bucky, his shoulder turret aimed at his chest. "Say bye, bye birdy."

Bucky shed tears of his own, his chin quivering, "I love you." he said, oceanic eyes falling to you as he stuck a hidden blade into Rhodey's neck and hoisted himself and Sam over into the portal.

You shut your eyes, "I know..."

Bucky's arm broke through the glass, landing on both his feet as the water pushed him out of the tank and spilt onto the electrical equipment.

"Bucky?" Wanda breathed, her eyes drooping from exhaustion.

Without a second to lose, he broke through the glass of Sam's tank, the beep of a flat line haunting his senses as he laid his friend on the ground and started chest compressions.

"One, two, three..." he forced air into Sam's lungs. “One, two, three." He repeated the action.

"Come on, you're more stubborn than this!" His flesh arms pounded on Sam’s chest desperately.

"Is… Is he?" Pepper failed to finish her question, her face obstructed behind an earlier prototype helmet of the Iron Man suit.

"Come on!" He cried out. "I can't lose anyone else." He beat limply at the rigid chest.

Wanda crawled towards Sam's body, the red mist trickling out around her fingers weakly. She hovered her hand over Sam's chest and concentrated. Her breathing turned ragged, strained from overuse, and with a yell, she discharged what little energy she had left into Sam's body, an electrostatic charge bursting outward, shaking his limbs.

At first, there was nothing, and dread loomed near, but then Bucky felt the faint beating of a heartbeat below his open palm.

Sam coughed out water, his eyelids pulling back slowly.

They all sighed in relief.

"Did… did we make it?" Sam asked.

Bucky let out a breathy laugh, "Yeah, we made it."

"What about Y/N?"

Bucky's smile faded as he slumped against the wall. "She was right behind me, but then… Steve found us. He… he got to her. I… I couldn't save her." He braced his head as tears finally fell. “She wanted me to get you out.”

"No..." Wanda looked up at her best friend, still submerged in a tank. "No, I refuse to believe that. She's strong. She'll make it out of there."

Pepper walked over to the tank, reading the vitals on display. "Her heartbeat is erratic. She's in a heightened state of stress. She may go into cardio-vascular shock."

Bucky’s metal arm crushed the ring that was strung around his neck, the pathetic sound of the metal bending distracting him from the empty feeling gnawing in his gut.

They stared at the tank, waiting patiently with bated breath for her to open her eyes and return to them –return to her family.

 ***

Epilogue coming soon...

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[courtneyyharper]

“Fake tan: a pigment of my imagination”

After finally completing all my final year deadlines and binging as many tv shows as possible (MTV’s Catfish is currently playing in the background, peaking the level of trashy) I’ve finally got over the trauma that essay writing brought and can finally get back to writing here! This article is a far cry from examining the fantastical elements of multiple fiction novels in the restoration to regency period in that we are here today to talk about… fake tan.

I am by no means a tanning connoisseur, having had a few spray tans for formals etc growing up and being scared of tan in a bottle for most of my teenage years I was quite simply just a pale wee girl for the majority of my life. In terms of natural tan, my skin doesn’t know what that means. I tried a sunbed once or twice at the recommendation of a dermatologist and it left my skin pretty irritated, they just were not for me which has eventually even led to fake tanning a few times on sunny holidays, needs must.

I guess this is more my tanning journey than a reviewing process but without further ado here’s my opinions on just a small section of this over-growing market. Oh, and I guess I should throw in a photo of myself here to show my tan? I guess?

So, as I mentioned I used to be so terrified of tan as I watched my cousins and friends go a sightly shade of tangerine at 15. A true steppingstone that is right up there with the blue eyeshadow trend. After trying out a spray tan for a 6th year formal and missing the colour once it faded, I needed something much easier than travelling to a salon and stripping down in front of a stranger before making the awkward trek home a bit damp and convinced everyone is staring at you. Thus, I turned to the bottle… bottled tan that is.

At the start tans like St Moriz scared me most. Surely, they were just a rip off of the St Tropez brands but at a fifth of the price. While I no longer believe this and actually think it’s a bargain, it’s not a tan I would reach for now because of the undertones. After trying out Bondi Sands (most likely ‘light’ because I was still scared) I realised that these tans didn’t really suit my skin tone. The thing with St Moriz, St Tropez and Bondi Sands tans is that I believe they have a green undertone to them, best suited to gals or guys that are more likely to get a true tan or more olive-toned people and they just didn’t compliment my skin well but if this sounds like you then these are the tans you should lean towards.

A more red toned tan I tried out was the Primark statement, Cocoa Brown, but the thick white foam didn’t really absorb well into my skin. I was in need of a tan that had a darker guide colour in the foam to see where I could apply it to avoid streaks etc and a thinner foam consistency to allow for easier application. I know many YouTubers and influencers rep this tan as an amazing bargain but there was something in the quality lacking for me and it lay in a clutter drawer never to be reused.

Probably like most girls I started with the good ol’ Rimmell Sun Shimmer Instant Tan, which looking back I’m sure it was giving me more streaks then it was a colour and I can only cringe at the idea of me getting caught in the rain on a night out and that tan completely running off me. This tan would run off the skin if you looked at it the wrong way, of course in the title ‘Instant Tan’, unfortunately it was instantly gone too. I’m sure this is still a big hit with my mum though.

But this did later lead me to trying the Rimmell Sun Shimmer Mousse. Keyword: mousse. This was a personal favourite for years. While using this I gradually shifted from a light shade to a hesitant ‘medium’. Then eventually I was applying two layers to get a darker and deeper tan. I liked the way this tan applied, a nice dark foam which would show you the exact colour you were gonna get. So, this remained to be my tan staple for a long time.

Then one day I asked my mum to pick it up for me in the chemist and she accidentally bought me the Rimmell Sun Shimmer Tanning Lotion with Chia Oil. Of course, this was a bit frustrating, I need to stick to what I know but, on a whim, and running out of time to get ready one night I stuck a bit of it on. Oh, it smelt great. And it brought life to what tan I already had on, only glow-y and darker. Of course, I think this has been discontinued and can only be sourced on the likes of Amazon and random chemists. It was by using this slightly darker tan that I then upped my mousse colour to the ‘dark’ shade and that’s when the frustration began. I kept putting on this lovely dark shade of tan, all even and gorg, going to bed and letting it develop for 8 hours and then jumping in the shower the next day… for it all to run off. Especially my shins and chest would become significantly paler and even two layers of ‘dark’ just weren’t getting me the tan I wanted.

So, I shopped around for a new tan and came upon the bPerfect 10-second strawberry scented tan. Um, yes pls. This stuff smells so good. The colour was great. Again, another staple for so long. I would still go back to this tan happily. My only worry was that it’s supposedly Limited Edition and I was still applying two layers of this ‘medium dark’ shade and so knowing that I loved the bPerfect 10-second tan formula I reached for the mango scented ‘ultra dark’ shade and decided that the bPerfect 10-second tans, with their fruity scents, were definitely a favourite. Still to this day. I’ve even just ordered the new strawberry scented lotion in dark and I am beyond excited.

(Also, as a side note I picked up the matching bPerfect self-tan eraser and honestly this is just something I don’t believe in. All you need is to moisturise your tanned skin so it fades evenly and finally just take a nice long soak, maybe two, and some exfoliating gloves and hop out and use a towel to rub those stubborn spots! But a tanning routine is a completely different post…)

Of course, if you know me, or ever had the displeasure of seeing me hungover or straight after I’ve tanned, you’ll not be able to avoid the image of my pale face. After spending a good few months of my life on Roaccutane and finally having some semblance of acne-free skin I was not about to stick this dark brown foam all up in my pores and jeopardise it. So yeah, this means I tan up to my neck and deal with the consequences, just matching a foundation colour to resolve this but I also don’t want to constantly be wearing make-up. On the recommendation of a YouTube video I purchased the Tan-Luxe face drops that, in hindsight, were really not value for their money considering every brand now has their own cheaper and basically identical version. With these I just pipette a few drops into my daily moisturiser and… they give me a bit of a glow, I guess. They do smell amazinggg… but they don’t smell like 30 quid amazing. Plus, any tan they were giving me was fading a bit splotchy and so I went back to a time old favourite, the Dove tinted moisturiser. Oh, this smell screams 2013 summer. All I’m going to say is to remember to blend this downnn the neck, into the ears and of course up into the hairline, just to avoid any mishaps… Also, if you’re not big into an obvious fake tan or just need a topper on top of natural or fake, a tinted moisturiser is always a good shout. (Please use a brush too or at least wash your hands after use!)

Finally, the main tan that is so similar to the bPerfect is of course, Molly Mae’s Filter. Now that I’ve finally travelled to the ‘ultra dark’ shades this is what I ordered straight away. For best results I follow the bottle’s instructions and wait an hour to apply a second coat and I love the outcome. This one is kind of like a luxury tan only because you have to order it online and can’t just run to the chemist to get it unfortunately so I have to plan ahead with it. Once again, the smell is incred. I’m pretty sure it’s the green tea extract. I love the colour, the finish, the application. In conclusion, big fan.

I find the bPerfect and Filter’s ‘ultra dark’ tans both have the same vibes and I like to switch between them regularly and even use bPerfect’s strawberry scented as a wee pick me up every once and a while just because it smells great and I’m very hopeful that Filter paired with bPerfect’s new strawberry lotion as a tan topper will be my final holy grail.

Pretty sure I’ll be stuck on this hype for the foreseeable future!

[laschatzi]

In My Wildest Dreams

This has slept in my closet for 1 1/2 years and was written as a birthday gift exclusively for my muse @princessjoneswan. I haven’t been confident enough to post it, but somehow now it feels right. @ilovemesomekillianjones encouraged me through the writing process all that time ago.

summary: Emma just can’t get enough of Killian - quite literally. And that leads to her having a dream. And it’s wild. But also loving.

word count: ~ 10k

A/N: this is a threesome fic, so skip it if that’s not your thing. But it only happens in a dream, if the sort of cheating aspect is what puts you off.

rating: E and D for double the Hook, double the fun

also on: ao3 and ff.net

Emma Swan never believed in fairy tales or happy endings, in other people to stand by her, or in true love. She didn't even believe in herself. Fairy tales were for children still unaware of how cruel life can be, happy endings were for others. True love was a myth.

Nowadays, things are different, of course. Her son is the Truest Believer, and she co-parents him with the Evil Queen, her parents are Snow White and Prince Charming. Believing in fairy tales has become a given, and she isn't alone anymore: she has found a family, a home – love. The latter has taken her the longest to accept, to trust in, but in the end, she couldn't help surrendering to Killian Jones and his quiet persistence, his blue eyes and his endlessly devoted heart.

He covers all the bases: sprung from a fairy tale, he swaggered into her life just to never leave her side again, no matter how hard she tried to keep him out. Undeterred, he came back for her to whatever place – or time – she went, following her through different realms and realities, not afraid to put his life and his heart on the line, while never expecting anything in return. And she knew it, of course. She knew it long before the highest of all deities, the freaking Ruler of all Gods himself, sent him back to her, knew it before they passed a test in the Underworld. She knew it even before she uttered those words to him for the first time, words she'd been afraid of for so long: Killian Jones is an integral part of her very own Happy Ending, and he is her One True Love.

She can't say that being with him, being where she is now made all her dreams come true, because Emma Swan never allowed herself to have any of those. Making it through the day unharmed (physically and emotionally) has always been her number one concern, everything she ever asked for, because she knew that more wasn't in the cards for someone like her. But she can say that the life she's leading now – not counting the occasional monster hunt, villain threat or magical separation from her loved ones – pretty much fulfills all the dreams she would have had in the past if she'd dared to.

What she can also say, however, is that Killian Jones is definitely the man of her dreams now, literally. She isn't having daydreams about him all the time, but it happens quite often that she thinks about him when he isn't with her. Most of those thoughts and daydreams aren't even of a slippery nature; no, most of them are innocent and just involve simple everyday things like a peacefully shared meal, a walk in the park or a sailing trip on his beloved Jolly Roger. Because these are the things Emma has come to appreciate as not taken for granted, especially not for the Savior.

Then there are occasions, of course, when her daydreams turn into more and become fantasies of a less decent kind. Those occasions mostly come to pass when he's present, and usually it doesn't take much to make her imagination run wild. Sometimes a look he gives her is enough, sometimes it's the tone of his voice that makes the little hairs on the back of her neck bristle... sometimes just watching him fiddle with a pen between his fingers is all it takes to make her temperature rise. Then she not only wishes to push him against the nearest wall or down the next chair and have her way with him, she can clearly see all the details of it in her mind, and also feel them, which is very distracting and has her feeling uncomfortable quite a few times.

Very often that happens in the most inconvenient moments, and what's even worse – Killian seems to have an impeccable instinct for these feelings coming over her (of course he does – she's an open book, after all). Usually, he's having a lot of fun with that and loves to tease and challenge her and rile her up even more (he always makes it up to her later in the most delicious way, when they're alone, but that's another story).

But that aside, he's also the one who is often present in her nighttime dreams. A fair amount of those dreams is still angsty or sad, or just horrible nightmares, and whether it's about seeing him turn into the Dark One, leaving him behind in the oppressive depths of the Underworld or watching him die over and over again, by her own hand or someone else's, the overwhelming sensation is always the agonizing feeling of terrible loss. He has been ripped from her side, from her very hands so many times that it would be a miracle if it didn't haunt her dreams. Then she wakes up in the middle of the night or in the dawn of the early morning, covered in cold sweat and shaking, often with a tear-stained face, her restless hands desperately searching for him, clutching his shirt. Killian then has to hold her pressed closely to the safe haven of his body, letting her hear his heartbeat and feel his warmth, murmuring soft words into her damp hair while his fingers draw soothing circles on her shoulder blades until her breathing calms down again. He understands her without words – he's no stranger to nightmares either – and always provides what she needs. But luckily, the nightmares become gradually fewer and are replaced by other dreams, happier dreams.

Dreams that leave her with a feeling of peace and comfort, dreams of picnics and family reunions filled with laughter and love and lots of little hugs, dreams of happy adventures. Sometimes those occasions lie in the past, sometimes the dreams are anticipating the next upcoming family dinner. Sometimes she and Killian are sitting on their front porch, grey-haired and wrinkled, and a grown-up Henry passes by with children calling them Grandma and Grandpa, but other times they're still young, and a little girl is pitter-pattering around.

Whatever their future will be, Emma is looking forward to it and knows she'll live it to the fullest.

And then there are those other dreams.

They are the continuation of her daydreams and fantasies, the longer, more elaborate, more explicit version of them. Sometimes darker and always racier, waking her up in a sweat of a different kind. Then she lies there, all warm and tingly and wanting, blushing in the dark and fighting the urge to wake up Killian and relive that dream, at least part of it. Often enough she loses that fight and lets her hands do the wake-up call, but he never complains, he's always where she wants him, giving her exactly what she needs, and even more. Sometimes she asks herself if she should feel guilty for having those dreams, but eventually she's made her peace with them, because she realized they don't mean she's missing something, or that he's not enough for her – it's the opposite: she just can't get enough of him. And her dreams only are the vivid proof that she simply cannot get enough of Killian and his fierce passion and devotion for her, his eagerness to love her in any way she could ever imagine and desire.

Oddly enough, in many of these dreams she feels what's happening, but seems to be an outside watcher at the same time. Being able to feel and watch what Killian is doing to her has an incredible effect. What's even more thrilling is that she often can anticipate what he is going to do – not because it's predictable and always the same, but because somehow she seems to be inside his head, too, and feel what he's feeling. That is all sorts of weird, but also a huge turn-on, and hey, that's obviously the purpose of those dreams, so she's not complaining about it, especially since she's made up her mind that it's all about how much she really loves him – so truly, intensely and passionately.

Not getting enough of him, however, one night gets a whole new meaning.

In her dream, she's wearing her Enchanted Forest dress again, the one Killian loves to refer to as the bar wench dress nowadays. That attire was uncomfortable as fuck, but it did have its perks without a doubt... the biggest one being the expression of helpless hunger and adoration on Killian's face – her Killian's face, and the one of his past self as well. Which is probably the reason why the dress of the bar wench makes an appearance in her dreams quite often, and it never comes with an uncomfortable, suffocating feeling. On the contrary, whenever Emma wears it in her dreams, she feels in sync with herself somehow, invincible and irresistible. Usually, it leads to heated encounters below deck of the Jolly Roger (sometimes even at the helm, out in the open) or in a back room of the tavern, sometimes with Killian, sometimes with Captain Hook, sometimes the lines are blurred, and she isn't really sure who of the two she's with. But it doesn't really matter, now, does it?

So, when she crosses the deck of the ship this time, it feels familiar, and the skin at the base of her neck prickles in eager anticipation as she carefully descends the narrow steps to the Captain's cabin. Her heart is beating faster with every step, and she asks herself what she's in for tonight.

Two more steps, and she sees it: Captain Hook is already waiting, obviously he's been expecting her, in his full pirate garb, including the long leather coat and the red brocade vest with the embroidered black floral pattern she remembers so vividly and fondly from their time travel adventure. She has seen it again in quite a few of her dreams since then. He's casually leaning against his desk, legs crossed at the ankles, his ringed thumb hooked in his belt in that familiar trademark gesture of his, while his fingers are thrumming a lazy rhythm on the huge silver buckle.

He cocks his head and lets his gaze run up and down her body and then up again, finally resting his eyes on her face. Slowly, he runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth, just like she remembers him doing when she met him in that tavern, and her blood starts to heat up. His voice is hoarse and a tad deeper than the voice of the Killian she knows, a bit rough around the edges, and he murmurs, “Look what the Captain dragged in...”

She frowns for a second at his odd choice of words, but before she can even start to wonder, a second voice – the same voice, the one she'd recognize in a million – speaks up behind her back, “Oh, she came quite willingly.”

Emma spins around and sees Killian, her Killian.

For a second, her brain is a whirling mess of confused thoughts and raging hormones when she tries to process what's going on here, and she has difficulties focusing on him, blindly staring and barely registering he's in his modern clothes.

He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows in question. “Isn't that right?” he inquires, scrutinizing her closely. Even in her dreams, there's this constant habit of him always going by her wishes. Shaking her head once to clear it from the swirling fog, she feels her lips curve into a smile as she nods once, even if she has no idea what's going on. Immediately, his features relax, and he smiles back, eyes shining bright and with a touch of that scoundrel she loves so much.

“So,” Hook's voice interrupts their quiet exchange, and she whirls around again to face the other man, “are you certain you want to do this?” He, too, waits patiently for her answer, eyeing her with an almost detached, quiet interest, signalizing that she's the one calling the shots here. Well, it's her dream, after all.

She isn't certain about what she's agreeing to, but she raises her chin and replies with determination, “That's why I'm here.”

The moment she says it, his expression changes impressively. He drops his head a little to give her that heavy-lidded look from underneath raised eyebrows, the look that surrounds him with that air of danger and sin, and a devil is lurking in the corners of his eyes. “You're a brave lass,” he comments appreciatively, and she feels a blush creep up her neck at the tone of his voice.  

“You shouldn't expect any less from my Emma,” Killian tells him casually, but firmly, and his confidence in her has her straighten her back.

If she had any doubt about what is in store for her, Hook's immediate reply leaves no room for interpretation. “Our Emma,” he corrects and tilts his head, “at least for tonight.”

She swallows, her mouth dry all of a sudden, and he pushes away from the desk to approach her with an eager grin. There's not much space to cross, but he still manages to swagger those few steps over to her. Emma stands rooted to the spot, like frozen in place, as he slowly walks around her, drawing a circle so close she catches a whiff of him – Killian's scent, but the note of leather a bit stronger, the spicy touch a bit headier. She resists the urge to turn her head and follow him with her eyes as he passes behind her, not ready – at least not yet – to show any signs of weakness. She knows she will be plenty weak later. But the little hairs at the back of her neck bristle, and a shudder runs through her whole frame; she manages to suppress it, but she has the feeling he can sense it.

When he's ended his inspection and is standing in front of her again, he tilts his head in a close scrutiny and runs his hand over his mouth in thought, his scruff making a scratching sound against his palm. Her heart is pounding in her chest.

“So,” he finally says, “princess or wench, what do you want to be tonight?”

The question is a little unexpected, and she turns around to Killian for a moment, her eyes seeking his in question. His expression is quiet, encouraging, but he gives no hint. With the calming feeling that he has her back, as usual, and will support her whatever may come, she faces Hook again, his curious blue eyes resting on her. She shrugs. “Anything... both... I don't know.”

He tilts his head in a nod. “Very well. You might find there's not even a big difference, don't you think, Captain Jones?” An amused grin is sent in Killian's direction.

“I suppose not, Hook,” Killian replies.

“Fine.” Hook focuses on her again and raises his eyebrows. “Shall we start with setting some rules then, lass?” Emma just stares at him blankly, and he smirks. “This might be for your pleasure, and you surely will get exactly what you need, but here on this ship... I–“ he interrupts himself, leans a little forward and motions his hand between him and Killian, “we make the demands, and you follow them.”  

A wave of desire washes over her. She always loves it when Killian gets commanding in bed, and  this seems to bring it to perfection. Taking a deep breath, she swallows and withstands Hook's taunting gaze. “Okay.”

He crinkles his nose in mild reproach. “As we're just getting started, my dear, I will let this pass,” he declares, “but from now on you'll address me as Captain, is that clear?”

The butterflies in her belly are doing backflips now, but she's trying her best to keep her eagerness under control and just replies calmly, “Yes... Captain.”

“Good girl.” He tilts his head to the side and looks past her. “I think we're all going to have a wonderful time,” he remarks to Killian who only nods a little grumpily in reply.

Hook turns to her again, tapping his index finger against his lips as if he's contemplating how to start. The tension inside her is building, and she wishes she could see Killian's face, but doesn't dare to look away from Hook. “So, you're good at taking orders, lass?” he finally asks, a devilish spark in his eyes.

Her insides seem to curl into a knot, resting hot and heavy low in her belly. Emma replies a little breathlessly, “Try me,” and, when she sees his eyebrow shoot up, adds quickly, “Captain.”

He smirks again. “Oh, I will. Let's start with something easy, shall we?” He shrugs out of his coat and lets it drop to the floor before he resumes his position, spreading his legs a little in a cocky posture, and suddenly she knows what he's about to demand. “On your knees for the Captain,” he then orders, and she feels a raging blush rise to her cheeks and more heat spread in her belly. Quick to obey, without even thinking, she drops to her knees before him, her face positioned perfectly in front of his crotch, giving her the opportunity to notice the remarkable bulge filling his tight leather pants so well. She can literally feel her mouth water in anticipation at the tempting sight. Pleasuring Killian like that has always been something she liked immensely, gaining enough of a turn-on herself from it, and this... well, this is Killian. Sort of.

He hasn't told her to do anything yet, so she just waits, refusing to drop her gaze, and he chuckles darkly in appreciation. “There's a good princess,” he comments and unties the laces of his pants, never taking his sparking eyes off hers. Her anticipation grows as he shoves his pants down just far enough to let his ready cock spring free. Taking it in his hand, he pumps it languidly twice, making it swell and harden even more which has her subconsciously lick her lips. “I think you know what to do,” he tells her in an almost challenging voice, “Let's see if that sassy mouth is as skilled as it's pretty.”

“It is,” comes Killian's voice from the side, from where he's watching the scene.

Hook chuckles again while stroking his length once more from base to tip, before he lets go of it and pushes his hips a little forward towards Emma's face. “Well, no loss if it isn't,” he comments, “if the wench doesn't know how to properly pleasure a man, it will be my pleasure to teach her.”

I'm gonna show you, Emma thinks defiantly and reaches out for him, wrapping her fingers firmly around his base and leaning forward to open up her mouth wide, closing her lips tightly around him just below the head. With a determined push, she slides down his length, flattening her tongue against his flesh. A satisfyingly sharp intake of breath proves he didn't indeed expect that assault, but probably something of a more hesitant approach. His skin is smooth and hot and salty, the familiar, yet slightly different scent filling her nostrils, and she can feel the vein on his underside throb against her touch. She takes him in until his sensitive tip touches the soft back of her throat, and then she raises the stakes and swallows around him, determined to show him she's no amateur. He groans in response, and the dirty sound shoots straight to her core. When she pulls back just as slowly, she grazes her teeth along his length and smiles to herself as far as it's possible, with her mouth occupied like that. Then she puts both hands to his knees to give herself leverage and repeats the move a little faster this time, starting to work him in earnest, lips and tongue and teeth coming together perfectly while she settles into a steady rhythm for a while.

“Ah, now that is what I call a beautiful sight,” Hook remarks hoarsely, smirking down at her. “A wanton princess on her knees, so eager to suck off a pirate.” He hums in appreciation deep in his throat as he watches her head move back and forth in a quicker pace now, his cock disappearing between her perfect lips again and again. “You have the face of an angel, lass, but the mouth of a wicked demon,” he tells her, his voice sounding a little strained now and not as nonchalant as he tried to look before.

Killian watches quietly from a few feet of distance as Emma curls her fingers around Hook's knees and her head bobs back and forth while she blows him well and thoroughly, sending her soft blonde curls in motion like a waterfall of silk. He knows from firsthand experience just how skilled her mouth really is, and as absurd as this situation is, he feels his own cock twitch in his pants. His alter ego growls, the vein on his temple standing out thick as he throws back his head, face starting to grimace in abandon while his hips are rocking back and forth, mirroring Emma's moves. Killian can see that she's adding some pressure by hollowing her cheeks now; her eyes are closed, and from the way her eyebrows twitch and curl he knows she's immensely enjoying what she's doing. It's almost like he can feel her mouth on himself, doing unspeakable things to him, bloody siren that she is, and working herself up in a state of impatient arousal. For a moment he's jealous and fights his urge to push away the pirate, grab Emma's hair and shove himself down her throat instead, but then he reminds himself that this is all for her, and he's sure he'll be well pleasured, too, at the end of the night.

“Don't hold back, lass,” Hook growls, his breath coming in heavy pants now, “Let me provide a little help.” He grabs a fistful of her hair, guiding her head and pulling her closer to him so that she has to take him in even deeper, and then he rocks his hips a bit more, thrusting into her mouth now. He's not exactly rough, but not gentle either, and she tightens her grasp at his knees to provide counter-pressure. “That's it, hold on,” he pants, “good girl, take it.” He makes a guttural sound as his hips stutter erratically while he's holding her head in place now, pressing himself deeper. Emma doesn't seem to mind, she never does, and groans around the pirate's cock, it's an impossibly wanton sound, and Killian feels himself harden even more; he whispers a curse and palms himself a few times through his jeans, seeking a little friction. Hook is grasping her hair tightly now, bordering on the edge of painful, buried balls-deep in her mouth, while he rolls his hips into her face a few more times, his release bringing relax to his features again.

He turns his eyes to Killian and is already composed enough again to smirk while he's still pressing Emma's face to his crotch. “You didn't lie,” he remarks only a little breathlessly and thrusts his aftershocks into her mouth again twice until he's satisfyingly spilled all of his release down her throat, “that mouth is indeed very skillful.” Not letting go of her hair yet, he pulls his softening cock back, and tilts his head towards Killian. “Would you like to take advantage, now that she's already on her knees so conveniently?” Of course, he hasn't failed to notice how Killian is massaging himself through the black denim reining in his erection.

As tempting as the sight is, he shakes his head once, letting his hand fall away from his crotch. “Not yet,” he replies and watches Emma open her eyes, searching for him. She looks utterly debauched with her disheveled hair, flushed face and her swollen lips, but the slight concern in her eyes is evident, and he's touched that she's obviously a little worried about his feelings. So he flashes her a soothing smile and adds, his words directed at Hook, “I think the lady should get to enjoy our attentions now.”

“True,” Hook replies and lets go of Emma's hair, in the next moment offering her his hand in a gentlemanly gesture that could look ridiculous, given the fact that he just fucked her mouth and his pants are still shoved down his thighs; it doesn't look even remotely ridiculous, of course. “Where are my manners?” he scolds himself. “An extraordinary lass like you should indeed get our full and prompt attention.”

She takes his hand and lets him pull her up to her feet, his hook at her hip steadying her for a moment before he raises its curve to touch her chin and lift her face to him. “You shall get exactly what you need, princess,” he promises in a low voice and briefly squeezes her fingers in an oddly reassuring gesture, “we're going to take good care of you.” With a glance past her and an almost conspiratorial grin in Killian's direction he leads her towards the desk and ascertains, “Isn't that right, Captain?”

“Absolutely,” Killian replies in a thick voice and follows, taking her other hand as they slowly walk her backwards towards the massive desk.

Emma's eyes are darting from one man's face to the other one's and back, drinking in their features and their expressions, both so different yet so similar. Hook is all devilish confidence, predatory glee and eager anticipation, while Killian shows a bit of all that, too, but adds a dash of concern and sweetness, his scrutiny constantly searching her face for confirmation that she's really on board with this. Never once does she hesitate, because this is Killian; in fact, both of them are, and she knows she couldn't be any safer. Even if Hook is that bit rougher, more ruthless (not that she considers that a bad thing) – he still shows those little traits of the man she loves, tiny bits that could easily be overlooked, but she notices them... and they are proof enough to her that this will end in nothing than utter bliss for her.

She squeezes their fingers, feels identical rings press into her palms, and smiles at Killian first, then at his alter ego. “I know,” she replies firmly, “I'm in the best hands.”

“That you are, love,” Killian agrees, and Hook nods.

“No harm will come to you while you're on my ship,” he declares almost solemnly, and Emma knows he's serious, trying to reassure her – which, again, could be ridiculous, but is far from it. And then, because he's a pirate, after all, he cocks his head to the side, raises an eyebrow and adds in a husky voice, “I'm afraid, though, the same can't be said for your virtue.”

She shudders in anticipation, and when her backside bumps against the solid wood of the Captain's desk, she lets go of both men's hands and lifts herself up on the desk. Killian doesn't waste any time and clears the surface with one forceful sweep of his hooked arm, sending various items to the floor with clattering sounds. His move sends shivers down her spine, as does the gleeful expression in Hook's eyes when he bends a little forward to reach down for the hem of her dress with hook and hand.

“It's good form to return a favor granted by”, he pauses shortly to run his tongue over his bottom lip, “a lady.” Slowly, he pulls her skirts up, revealing her bare legs, and drapes them almost meticulously over her hips, and she leans back on her elbows to give him room. He tilts his head in an appreciative nod and gently nudges the inside of her thighs to urge them apart. “Let me see your treasure,” he almost purrs, and she obliges without hesitation. Needless to say that in her dreams, the bar wench dress always comes without knickers.

“Very good, Emma,” Killian murmurs and brushes his lips over her right temple.

“Gorgeous,” Hook comments in a raucous voice when his hungry gaze falls between her legs where she's aching for his touch, and she feels a blush warm her cheeks. The pirate runs his ringed index finger lightly along her entrance, making her gasp and clench; the minute caress has a new rush of desire flow through her veins, adding to the arousal already caused by the blowjob she's given him.

“Lay back, love,” Killian prompts, and she lets herself sink on her back with him supporting her. The last thing she sees from Hook is him sinking to his knees, the view of his dark head between her thighs unfortunately obstructed by her billowing skirts. The first touch of his devil tongue coaxes a moan from her lips, and Killian smiles down at her while his fingers untie the laces that hold her corset. “I want you to let go,” he tells her and uses his hook to slowly pull the laces out of their loops, loosening the garment, “No holds barred.” She bites her lip and nods, relaxing against Hook's playful tongue with a sigh, while Killian pulls her blouse down to reveal her breasts, her peaks already pebbled in anticipation.

Killian bends down over her and kisses her briefly on the lips before he glides lower, his mouth finding her madly thrumming jugular vein and sucking a mark into her skin right there that has her claw at the fabric of her dress. In a brief detour, he brings his mouth close to her ear and whispers, “Don't be afraid to really get into it...”

His hand cups her left breast, the thumb stroking over her taut nipple in a slow circular motion, and his lips close around her right one the same moment Hook's mouth assaults her clit for good and starts to gently suck on it.

Emma cries out and arches her back, trying to intensify the contact of both men's lips to her breasts and her core, and both bastards chuckle against her skin. The sensation is mind blowing, the sensation of being stimulated like that, and she just can't keep still. Her lover's mouth, she knows it so well – every nip, every stroke of the tongue and suck of the lips is familiar, even the burn of the scruff... and here she feels it simultaneously in two of her most sensitive spots. The feeling is surreal, and her head is spinning. The need to touch, to anchor herself is getting overwhelming, and instinctively she reaches down, but the voluminous skirts around her hips are making it impossible for her to touch the dark head between her legs. Hook seems to sense her need for contact, because he places his hand on her hip and runs it down her leg to her knee and back up again a few times in a casual caress, like he's trying to calm her, unlatching his mouth from her core for a moment to murmur, “Easy, lass... we're just getting started.”

She fumbles blindly with her right hand, and when she finds Killian's hook, she clutches it tightly and moans when he gently bites down on her nipple, his thumb drawing lazy circles around the other one.

He soothes the sting with his tongue and lips and starts to roll her right nipple between his skilled fingers. Hook at the same time alternates between working her clit with lips and teeth, using the latter very gently, twirling his tongue around her nub, then letting it flutter along her entrance when it seems like she can't take it anymore. Nimbly, he has her teetering on the brink of falling apart only to pull her back again just when she thinks she will. He downright refuses to let her crumble – yet – and it's driving her crazy, it's torture... it's mind-numbing and one of the most intense things she's ever experienced. She needs to come, desperately and embarrassingly soon, but at the same time she never wants it to end. Cursing softly, she presses her palm into the hard wood to give herself leverage. Her hips are bucking upwards again, and she feels Hook's fingers press into her thigh as he turns his head to the right and brushes his lips over the tender flesh of her groin, his stubble scraping across the sensitive skin.

Killian releases her swollen nipple with a wet pop and lifts his head to look at her. A loving smile crinkles the fine skin around his eyes. “I'm sure you can hold out a little longer,” he whispers, “can you?”

She feels Hook pepper more gentle kisses across the insides of her thighs, giving her a moment to breathe, and nods wordlessly.

“That's my Swan,” Killian replies and showers her chest with kisses until he concentrates again on the spot of before while Hook resumes his torture, too, and Emma's eyes flutter shut once more.

Soon and the men have settled into their rhythm again, and so has she. They are pushing her to the brink of madness and pulling her back again, never tiring in their ministrations, while she's writhing like a mermaid on dry land and making pleading noises that seem to spur them on even more. Their lips and tongues are working in perfect sync, and she longs for just that little more that will bring her release, but they don't seem willing to give it.

Hook is of course the one who could speed up things, and she wishes he would bring his hand into play, longs to feel those fingers curl inside her, as she knows they can tear her apart in no time. But all he does is hold her in place, stroking her skin with his thumb from time to time. Her hips start to move on their own accord as her moans and sighs become more urgent.

After a final swipe of his tongue, Hook unlatches his mouth from her center, and she hears his amused voice, “The lady is impatient.”

Killian lifts his head, too, and it's almost a relief that she can catch a breath for a moment, even though it's kind of frustrating at the same time. He looks down at her with a warm gleam in his eyes, affectionate and with a hint of roguishness. Raising a playful eyebrow, he replies, “Is she, now?”

Emma lifts herself up on her elbows to see what's going on. “Why did you stop?” she asks in an urging voice, directed at no one in particular, yet directed at both.

Hook chuckles and gets up to his feet again, his palm lightly resting on her thigh. “See, it's like I said,” he comments in that cocky tone that's always been one of the pirate's trademarks, “princess or wench, they're all alike once they're splayed out on my desk, squirming and begging for more.”

Emma refrains from retorting that she hasn't begged – yet; she has a feeling that might change soon. Hook leans a little forward and bores his eyes into hers. “Much as I'd like to enjoy a little more of your exquisite taste...” He swipes his thumb across his bottom lip and then sucks its tip into his mouth provocatively. “What say you, Captain,” he addresses Killian, all the while never taking his eyes off Emma's, “how about we raise the stakes a bit?”

“We definitely should,” Killian replies, and Emma feels goosebumps break out on her torso.

Hook tilts his head. “She's ready to be taken,” he says and waves his hand at Killian invitingly. “You should do her the honors, Captain.”

Her eyes fly to him, and she sees his Adam's apple bob when he swallows thickly before looking down at her with hooded eyes. His voice is raucous and soft at the same time when he speaks, seductive like pure sin. “May I be of service to you, Swan?”

The low timbre makes her stomach flutter, and her reply comes breathlessly, but immediately, “Oh God yes, please, Killian...”

With one last smile down at her he runs his fingertips over her cheek. “As you wish.”

When he takes two steps to the end of the desk, Hook makes room for him between her legs and sways out his hand in an inviting gesture, tilting his head in a little bow. Killian doesn't even look at him, he's just way too enthralled by the breathtaking sight he's privileged to enjoy. Emma is indeed splayed out on the desk, her chest bare and flushed and heaving, her skirts gathered around her hips, her spread legs exposing her where she's pink and wet and wanting, he can see it, and he can even smell it, and it makes him all but dizzy. She's still leaning on her elbows, her eyes shimmering in a dark emerald green, urging him in a silent plea.

“She's a bloody marvel, isn't she?” Hook's almost solemn voice shakes him from his momentary reverie.

He tilts his head in a nod without taking his eyes off her, “Always.” Then he shrugs out of his leather jacket and lets it fall to the floor, not far from Hook's coat, before he unbuckles his belt. Emma draws in a sharp breath at this, and his anticipation grows. Already aroused by the show he was given earlier with Emma on her knees in front of Hook, pleasuring her simultaneously with his alter ego fueled his desire even more and has him rock hard now. Hearing her moans and sighs and soft curses, realizing he's the one to elicit them from her, has always been highly addictive to him, and if this time Hook helped to work her up, his scruff burn clearly visible on the insides of her thighs now, it doesn't take away any of it. Deftly as ever, he unbuttons and unzips his jeans and shoves them down, finally freeing his almost painfully throbbing cock from its strict denim confines with a sigh of relief.

He steps so close that the tips of his boots almost bump the side of the massive desk, aligning himself at her entrance without further teasing or delay. Even before they actually touch, he can feel the heat emanating from her core, and when his sensitive tip finally comes in contact with her slick flesh, he holds his breath. Achingly slowly, he sinks into her, deliberately controlling his moves, like he's afraid to lose his mind if he doesn't, and stills for a moment to exhale carefully when he's fully seated in her body. She feels marvelously tight, all wet and swollen from her arousal.

“God,” Emma moans, her spine arching away from the desk.

Hook is there beside her now, taking his place, gently brushing a damp lock from her face. “I told you we'd take good care of you,” he murmurs and bends down to kiss her neck.

Killian holds her firmly with his hand at her left hip and the dull curve of his hook at the other side and pulls back slowly, all the way. Even though she's incredibly wet, the friction is mind-blowing, and he throws his head back for a moment, groaning deep in his chest while he slides back in. He repeats the movement, it's a little less slow this time, but still very contained and deliberate, and Emma wraps her legs around his hips and crosses her ankles behind his back, trapping him and pulling him in even closer, and he feels that he's getting in danger of losing control with every push.

Emma's blood is singing in her ears, the amazing drag of Killian's cock along her walls driving her insane while Hook is sucking at her pulse point before bringing his lips to her right ear in a hoarse whisper.

“Have you ever had your mouth fucked by another mouth?” For a moment, she looks up at him in confusion, and he smirks. “And I don't mean kissing, love.”

Then he leans down and takes her mouth with his, it can't be described in other words, possessively and firmly, and she can't help but open up for him which she eagerly does. He starts to literally thrust his tongue into her mouth in the very same rhythm as Killian thrusts between her legs now that he's found the perfect pace: languidly, slowly, and deeply. She tastes herself on Hook's lips and tongue, something that has never bothered her, and he was right, this is not kissing, it's a completely different experience. It's raw and primal, yet sensual and wanton. That he and Killian are so completely in sync makes it mind-blowing, it feels indeed like being fucked by both men at the same time, and Emma thinks she'll combust on the spot. Every time Killian buries himself in her slick, swollen heat, she moans into Hook's mouth, desperate for them to speed things up, teetering on the verge of an orgasmic explosion already. The men though seem to have an unspoken accord to keep her exactly there and not move things along for a while. She can't do anything but desperately grope for more contact, as Hook isn't even touching her anywhere with his hand, and this time her fingers find his hair, slightly longer than her Killian's, but just as smooth to the touch. She grabs a fistful of it and pulls, eliciting a very satisfied sounding growl from his throat.

Killian's moves are still steady but lazy, and he keeps holding back with every ounce of self control he has, knowing it will be a mind blowing experience for her as well as for himself if he drags this out as long as possible. While he rolls his hips slowly into her, he has the time to watch the scene unfolding before him – her skirts hiked up around her waist, her torso bared, her beautiful long legs splayed wide to accommodate him, and his cock gliding in and out in a maddeningly slow, sensual rhythm. Every time he slides home, his pubic bone grinds against her clit, swollen and sensitive, her back arches and her muffled moans spur him on even more and make it impossibly harder not to let go and ride her to completion right here and now.

Emma squirms and writhes, the fingers of her right hand curling in the Captain's already wildly mussed hair while Hook's mouth is on hers, and he uses his hook to tease one of her nipples, just like Killian knows she likes. The pirate doesn't use his hand on her, though; his fingers are wrapped around his own cock, working his length lazily but steadily in the rhythm of his kisses. Killian can see that he's hard already, and he's obviously getting himself ready for her again, having Killian wonder what he has in mind.

Emma's moans are getting more and more urgent now, but are muffled by Hook's tongue in her mouth, and it looks almost obscene how his lips slant over hers. Again, Killian gets inexplicably turned on by watching this, but suddenly, a pang of absurd jealousy hits him.

“Hook, stop,” he growls and slows down his moves even more.

The pirate releases Emma's mouth, looks up and raises a questioning eyebrow, his hand not ceasing to work his cock.

“You finish this,” Killian tells him roughly, “I want to take her mouth.”

Hook's grin is positively filthy. “With pleasure,” he replies. When Emma, who obviously hasn't noticed the exchange, tries to pull him back down again, he turns his head to the left and presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “I'll be right back with you, love,” he murmurs and chuckles at her whine of protest when he straightens his back.

Emma is startled when Hook's mouth is suddenly gone, and at the same time Killian pulls out of her, and she's left empty and longing. She lifts herself on her elbows and blinks, trying to focus which is pretty difficult with all the hormones raging through her body. “Wha- what is going on?” she stutters when she sees Killian step back from the desk.

His face is flushed, and he's breathing heavily, obviously his arousal not less intense than hers, but he smiles at her and offers her his hand. “Just a little change of plan. Trust me?”

She takes his hand and lets him pull her up. “Of course,” she replies and hops from the desk when he indicates her to. Her skirts fall down to her ankles again, covering her slightly wobbly legs.

“Good.” He brushes his lips over her knuckles, then passes her hand on to Hook and steps away.

Emma's eyes fly to Hook's face in question and anticipation, and he gives her that devilish smirk that always had her insides turn to mush since she met him – Killian – for the first time, before he gives a quick, surprising pull at her hand that has her almost stumble that last step forward and bump into him. She steadies herself with her other hand against his chest and marvels for a second at the smooth feeling of the red vest against her fingers. Their faces are so close now that their noses almost touch, and she can't help but drop her gaze for a split second to look at his mouth that just ravished hers so thoroughly.

He lowers his voice to a deep hum. “I think we've all earned ourselves some relief now, don't you think?”

She can only nod and swallow at this, her excitement sitting like a tight lump in her throat. Her body is tingling all over from the insane stimulation she got so far from both men, and she wants nothing more than finally reach that cliff now to jump off and throw herself completely into the fire.

Hook tilts his head in a commanding gesture. “Turn around and bend over the desk, princess, down on your elbows.”

Emma swallows again, but then obliges eagerly, slowly turning away from him. She bends forward across the desk, incredibly turned on by Hook's words and his tone. Her gaze falls on Killian who is slowly pacing back and forth in the cabin with his cock still free and standing to attention. He's eyeing her hungrily, shooting a bolt of lightning right to the pit of her stomach and then lower, and gives her a tiny nod. Carefully, she lowers herself down and leans on her elbows, her fingers curling around the edge of the desk. She hears the dry rustle of fabric and feels the cool air against the newly exposed bare back of her thighs when Hook lifts her skirts once more.

“Now spread your pretty legs for me, lass,” he orders, and with a deep breath she does, but it's obviously not to his entire satisfaction. With a loud smack, his hand lands on her ass, and she gasps in surprise at the sting. “Wider,” he growls. More warmth rushes to her center, and she obeys and shifts her legs apart a little more. He leans in close, pressing his front to her back, and his hot breath licks over her throat when he asks in an almost incredulous voice, “Did you like that?”

“Quite possibly,” Killian throws in hoarsely, and his alter ego chuckles darkly.

Emma doesn't reply, she can barely concentrate on keeping breathing, and another sound slap is delivered to her right cheek, sending a bolt of heat straight to her core where she's still tingling from the sensation of Killian's cock inside her mere minutes ago. “Answer me!” Hook commands sternly. “Say it.”

The moan she let out the moment his palm made contact with her flesh again should have been answer enough, but she knows this isn't what he's after. It surely spurs him on, though. “I'm waiting,” he growls and slaps her left cheek again, hard enough to make the sensation teeter perfectly along that fine line between pleasure and pain.

“Yes,” she gasps, finally finding her ability to form words again, “yes, I liked it!”

He leans in again, his lips against her ear, and whispers raucously, “The moment I saw you, I knew you were a naughty one, m'dear. I should take my leather belt and do it properly, but for now, my cock has other plans.” To make his point, he rolls his hips against her butt in a dirty grind, and she hisses at the sensation of his coarse body hair against her sensitized skin. The plans of his twitching cock, however, are evident; and Emma has no intention to object in any way. She whimpers in a plea and pushes back automatically in search for friction, more desperate for her release now than ever .

“I know,” he replies, “I know. Now let's not forget about good form... ask nicely for what your heart desires, princess, don't be shy.”

She closes her eyes, the rush of the blood in her ears louder than the splashing of the waves against the ship. “God... please...” she begs now, devoid of all shame.

“Please what?” His rough palm slides almost tenderly over her tingling flesh, “I'll need you to be a bit more specific, lass.”

Her gaze flies to Killian who is standing only a few steps away from her, quietly watching them, his fingers wrapped around his throbbing length. She's thrilled to see his eyes sparkling devilishly, and he tilts his head in a barely perceptible, encouraging nod. He is definitely approving of this. “You heard the Captain,” he says, deep and gravelly his voice, and Emma leans heavily down on her elbows as her knees feel too weak to support her any longer.

“Please,” she repeats, almost sobbing with need, “fuck me, Captain. I need you.” Her eyes search for Killian's again when she adds, “I need you both.”

“Hmmm,” Hook hums in contentment, “see, that was easy. Whatever you wish for will be granted.” He seizes her hip, his fingers firmly pressing into her flesh, and lowers his voice even more, as if he knows exactly what that dark, husky murmur does to her. “But let me just clarify,” he tells her pointedly, “We're done with slow and languid. I'm going to ride you hard and fast now, princess, like the wanton wench that you are, and when I tell you so, you will open your pretty mouth for Captain Jones, do you understand?”

“Yes,” she pants impatiently, “yes, Captain!”

“Such a good wench,” he praises and, with a roll of his hips, drags his length along her core, coating himself in the vivid proof of her arousal. An almost feral growl rumbles deep in his chest, full of obvious appreciation. “Gods, you're so wet, you really liked that punishment, didn't you?”

Before she can deliver a reply – probably he doesn't even expect one – she feels the swollen head of him nudge her entrance as he aligns himself. She has barely the time to draw a deep breath and brace herself before he slams into her, making her cry out. “Ah, so this is what you want,” he comments the colorful mix of curse words and pleas that falls from her lips. He stills inside her for a moment, before pulling out almost completely and slamming back in again. “Let me tell you, you feel amazing around my cock,” he says, and his voice is slightly strained again, a bit like he's speaking through gritted teeth. He repeats his vicious move a few times mercilessly, making her cry out every time, but then his strikes are gradually coming faster, and she starts to pant and moan. Hook's filthy words of praise make her feel like she's melting on the spot. His ringed fingers dig into her hip as he thrusts into her hard and fast now, again and again, while the noises she makes become louder and louder and sound like they're not from this world.

Killian watches with fascination, and the sight of Emma being ravished so thoroughly by his alter ego does things to him he never thought possible, but he doesn't find the energy – or any reason, for all that matters – to feel guilty about it. Her gorgeous breasts swing in the rhythm of Hook's pushes, and her face is flushed and enraptured in pure ecstasy as the Captain relentlessly drives into her from behind. Killian pumps his cock in the increasing rhythm of the pirate's deep thrusts and takes a step nearer.

“That's good,” he murmurs hoarsely, his hand moving faster, “isn't it, Swan?”

But Emma is unable to reply, she seems completely lost in her own world of pleasure, but her guttural moans are undeniable proof that she's very much here.

“Every wanton princess's wet dream, isn't it,” Hook states more than he inquires as he continues pounding into her, “being bent over a desk and thoroughly fucked by a pirate. Well, the fates are smiling upon you, lass.” He slides his hook around a thick strand of her hair and wraps it around the metal in a deft move, pulling her head back. “Open up, darling,” he commands.

Emma looks up at her True Love, her eyes hooded with lust. “Killian, please,” she pants and reaches for him, and that's when he snaps.

“Bloody hell, Emma,” he growls and guides his cock to her open mouth, his fingers entangling in her disheveled hair the moment Hook lets go of it. He's too far gone to do this gently, but she doesn't seem to mind, judging by the newly added wantonness of her moans at his first thrusts. He fists into her hair and fucks her mouth deep and fast in the same rhythm Hook's cock is pumping into her. Her cries are muffled by his flesh now, but he can still hear by the high-pitched tone of her voice that she's close, and so is he. Finally, he explodes into her mouth with a groan in the same moment that she collapses on the desk with a cry, and Hook thrusts twice more before he follows and spills himself inside her.

For almost a minute, the room is completely quiet except for the sounds of their heavy breathing,  still mixed with pants and gasps here and there, coming from all three of them. This ride has left none of them unaffected.

Emma is seeing stars, her nerves are singing everywhere in her body, and all her senses are just overstimulated. She doesn't even notice when both men pull out of her again, her head is spinning too much. She has the feeling that she can barely catch air, her lungs are begging for oxygen, and she tries to push herself into a standing position but fails miserably; the muscles of her arms and legs are vibrating uselessly.

“Come here, love.” A strong arm is wrapped around her waist, and then Hook pulls her up gently.   He holds her almost carefully against his chest while Killian is tucking himself away, and she can feel his still erratic heartbeat. “Breathe,” he murmurs, “just breathe.” Gradually, she calms down, and he tells her quietly, “Killian Jones is a very lucky man.” His hand glides a little higher, and his ringed thumb trails the curve of her sweat-covered lower ribcage in a casual caress that could have easily gone unnoticed, but Emma doesn't miss it, even though her head is dizzy, her veins still full of adrenaline. Hook's touch lacks any sensual quality, and that's not a bad thing at all; surprisingly, it's purely soothing.

“Time to get some rest,” he almost hums into her ear while she lets her head fall back against his shoulder, completely spent, unable to answer but trusting he'll support her. “Your legs are shaking.” His low voice is bare of all smugness but tinged with a hint of tenderness instead, which has her smile to herself quietly and knowingly. There has always been a bit of Killian Jones in Captain Hook, and vice versa.

Killian rounds the desk and reaches out for her. “Emma, are you–“

“Better lay her down for a moment,” Hook advises and lets only go of her once he's handed her over safely and Killian pulls her into his arms to lead her across the small cabin to the narrow bed. She finds that her knees are indeed a little weak and holds on to his arm that's steadying her to secure her steps.

“I got you, love,” he assures and brushes his lips across her damp hairline, and then she sinks onto the mattress with a sigh, pulling him with her, tucking herself against him.

She can feel sleep reach out for her and murmurs in response, “I know.”

The last sensation before she drifts off is the coolness of a damp washcloth on her skin and Hook's soothing voice, “There, there, princess, it's all good. All good.”

***

When she wakes up, slowly drifts into consciousness, it's dark in the room. She's still curled up snugly against Killian in her favorite position: her head tucked in the crook between his shoulder and his jaw, her leg thrown over his, and her hand resting at his hipbone. She notices that the voluminous dress is gone, as are his clothes – all replaced by comfortable jersey nightwear, which seems... odd. It takes her a few moments to realize that they're at home in their own bed, and not on the Captain's narrow bed on the Jolly Roger. Obviously, there's no Captain either.

She snorts an embarrassed little laugh and turns her head to hide her hot face against Killian's scruffy neck while he's sleeping so peacefully and innocently, unaware of the roller coaster she just went through in her dream... her very vivid dream. She might have fantasized a mind-blowing orgasm only seconds ago, but waking up right during the aftermath has her burning with want. Suddenly, she becomes aware of the throbbing warmth and the wetness between her thighs, and almost as if they have a will of their own, her hips roll forward, pressing her aching center against Killian's thigh. She sighs and draws a deep breath that fills her nostrils with his warm scent, fueling her desire even more. When she repeats the move, he shifts a little in his sleep and mumbles something unintelligible. Encouraged, she lets her hand stray from his hip and smiles to herself when she finds him half-hard underneath his sweatpants. She cups him a little firmer through the soft fabric and grinds against his leg again, turning her head so she can nip at the side of his neck, tracing that constellation of freckles with her lips and tongue.

As a reaction, he groans softly and rolls his hips a little upwards, rutting into her hand. Slowly, he seems to drift into consciousness. “Swan?” he murmurs and runs his hand up her thigh that's still thrown over his.

“It's Mrs. Jones now,” Emma whispers and bites lightly down on his earlobe. “I think you need a little reminder...”

Killian chuckles in the moonlit darkness, his voice still thick with sleep, but he's obviously very awake now. “Again?” he asks pointedly in mild amusement and squeezes her behind.

“Are you complaining?” she teases, perfectly knowing he isn't.

“Far be it from me,” he replies and turns his head to face her and capture her lips for a slow and thorough kiss that burns with barely restrained fire. “But you should remember one thing, Mrs. Jones...”

She smiles widely and lets go of the now fully erect bulge in his pants to cup his scruffy jaw instead, tenderly running her thumb across the faint scar below his eye. “And what's that, Captain?” she asks with tenderness.

He leans his forehead against hers, his eyes reflecting the moonlight. “You'll always be Swan to me.”

[reckoningss]

Home

Summary: Before he was Killmonger he was Erik Stevens, and he was yours.

Pairing: Erik Stevens (Killmonger) x Reader

Warnings: Language, Angst

Wordcount: 4.5k

A/N: I’m finally posting this for @allisonbaelfire  ‘s 6k writing challenge. I had prompt 25.

You haven’t realized that you’re dozing off on the couch, the low, humming drawl of the evening news underscoring your hazy dreams. The buzzing of a cell phone wakes you, pulling you gradually from sleep just in time to reach over and answer the call, numb fingers fumbling clumsily against the screen. You hold the thing to your ear as you blink away unconciousness, not even bothering to say anything. You can hear air rushing on the other end. Then the even click of a turn signal.

“Babe?”

His voice is like a bolt of lighting directly to your head. A shot of caffeine directly into your veins. You’re wide awake, the phone cradled to your ear like something precious. There’s apprehension in his tone, just like there always is - uneasiness to begin with as though he’s not sure you’ll pick up the phone. Like he can’t be sure it’s you until he hears your voice. Like he’s afraid you’ll say something he can’t bear to hear. You put him at ease.

“Yes.” You clear your raw throat. Breathe a laugh. “I was napping.”

There’s a smile in his voice on the other end of the line. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shake your head even though he can’t see you. “No it’s fine, I need to get off the couch anyway. Where are you?”

“I’m on my way home.”

You close your eyes, warmth coursing through you at the word. He doesn’t mean the single bedroom apartment when he says home, doesn’t mean the four walls he shares with you when he’s not away. He means you. He’s coming home to you.

A plume of steam washes over your face when you lift the lid of the stock pot to stir the coconut rice, thick translucent liquid bubbling lazily around the handle of your wooden spoon like bog water. You don’t hear the key throwing the deadbolt or the stubborn door opening, sleep still clouding your head as much as it is. But you feel it - Erik’s large hands gliding over the swell of your hips hungrily, sharp teeth nipping at the tender skin of your neck. The contact is sudden. Harsh. And you shy away from his searching touch. There’s no warmth there. You’ve spent months apart - hours upon hours - hundreds of miles from each other, but instead of coming to you with hands upturned in humble supplication, he’s come to you take from you.

It’s always like this when he goes away when he comes back. He’s always colder. Always more distant. It’s as though he’s leaving pieces of himself across the ocean and bringing home the dwindling remainders to you. And you’re selfish; you don’t want the shell of him, you want him entirely.

At first, he would come home shaking, his hands balled into quaking fists to hold the hurt inside. You thought it was hurt. But as he disappeared and cycled back around to you like the moon, you realized that it was nervous energy, it was inexperience, but it got easier. The leaving got easier. The killing got easier. He slept more soundly every time, took shorter showers, came back with more scars, and you could feel the blood soaking into the mattress. Could feel it seeping onto your skin when he touched you.

“Babe?”

You replace the lid on the stock pot and turn to him with an unsure smile. “Welcome home.”

When you’ve plated the food - tikka masala - and set the table you sit across from him with some meaningless gameshow droning on the TV from the other room. It’s been months since you’ve seen him last, months since you last kissed him and held him close, but you can feel yourself deflating - all of your previous excitement at his homecoming fleeing your body. You search his face for a sign that he’s happy to be back with you, but he’s staring down into his plate, already digging in while your food sits untouched. It’s always like this. Always more lackluster than you had imagined it. Always the inexplicable disappointment.

His elbow rests on the table and beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt, you see a bandage - a waxing moon of browning blood stark against the otherwise pristine whiteness. Your stomach churns at the sight of it, all thoughts of food gone, a new scar occupying the empty pit of your once hungry stomach.

Before the scars there were baths. There were shared showers and hands forever snaking beneath the hems of shirts. Hands running along smooth skin - skin whispering against skin. Calling out, like a promise. Then the first scars came and your practiced hands found them, obstacles cropped up in formerly familiar terrain. Then came more, but you still couldn’t keep your hands off each other, palms running over skin only to meet new outcroppings of convex tissue and you would pause before continuing. The scars grew in number, annexing the smooth surface area of his chest until you couldn’t touch him without relearning the topography of his skin each time - the map of his body ever-shifting and you a cartographer unexperienced with change. Your probing fingers would run over scars like brail, seeking to read meaning where there could be none - only blood. Only demons writhing beneath golden-brown flesh. Only the growing cacophonic scream of slain souls begging to be free. You could no longer press an eager hand to the space above his heart and feel it thrum with your nearness, not without feeling the lumps of flesh flex and resettle and crawl across his body, peeking out at you from beneath the hems of shirts you once invaded. Gone were the showers and baths.

A soupy red concoction lazily circles the drain with your declining mood beneath the hot running water. It’s all so wrong - so distorted - the crooked pieces of the nearly familiar feeling uncomfortable in your hopeful hands. You want this to be like it used to be - a celebration. A long-awaited homecoming. The way it should be.

You squeeze a soapy sponge and cut a clean white streak through the red sauce thinning on the surface of the plate. When Erik is gone, you dream about him. Your heart calls to him from across miles of ocean and earth and his answers. You sleep in his shirts, try not to wash the sheets for weeks and weeks, cocooning yourself in his smell - his essence cold and mechanical, far different from the scent you’ve grown so accustomed to on his warm skin. You lie on your side, wrap your sleeping body in layers of sheets and blankets in an attempt to feel some warmth, cup your own cheek with your hand - too small and smooth to even mimic the feel of his - and you hope upon hope that he’ll come back to you soon.

Then he comes home and your heart swells before it falls. His eyes are darker, his outlook grimmer, his skin more covered in scars and you pull away from him. Always the silence. Always the distance. Always the slow, quiet wilting.

Erik is one room over while you wash the dishes. When he offered to help you waved him off, telling him to rest his feet, sending him away when he so recently came home to you. You can feel his presence chafing against you; you’re hyper-aware of him, as though he sucks all of the air from the room and leaves none for you to breathe. When did it become like this? Where between the months of dreams and minute-long fuzzy satellite phone calls did he morph so as not to fit in the life you live anymore? He feels like a stranger stopping by your home, rather than the man that lives there.

Before there was Wakanda, there was home. There were the four walls you inhabited and how you filled them with laughter and warmth. It had been something of a fixer-upper but you fit perfectly inside - you and he - and you both knew that it would take work to make a home out of a collection of rooms.

You littered the floors with newspapers and fliers and any throwaway papers that either of you could get your hands on. Erik arrived home early on a Thursday cradling a sheaf of posters plastered with the face of the latest corporate big-shot running for city council at the time - his smug capitalist grin crinkling and tearing underfoot as the two of you painted to Tupac. You’d decided on a pewter for the walls - one that you could dress up in the summer with cool shades of blue and green and warm in the winter and fall with taupe and sienna. Painting the whole apartment took time - a process made even longer between smudged kisses and dance breaks, tracking paint-stained footprints across the floor then taking hours more to scrape and scrub them up while arguing about whose fault it really was in the first place. It was tedious and tiring but when all was said and done, you were home.

Then came the assignments and the months on end spent away. It didn’t feel like home without Erik and, eventually, it stopped feeling like home with him too. Every time he came back, he stepped over the threshold more slowly, filled your bed less completely. He walked through the halls more cautiously like he didn’t belong there. And he didn’t. Home became the memory of a time and a person you once knew and ceased to be the place where the two of you came together. No more were the cool summers and the warm falls. 

You can hear the hum of the TV and the all too familiar sound of channels flipping, eventually landing on the news, pundits already jabbering uselessly about topics that could never touch them. Erik curses at the screen.

He’s standing in the center of the living room when you enter, a telling, angry tension in the way he holds himself. From bad to worse. You try not to watch the news; you don’t need to be up to date on every horrifying turn of events to be thoroughly disenchanted by the state of things. But Erik… He feeds off of the anger that he derives from it.

“Please don’t do this.” You keep your voice low, not even attempting to vie for dominance over the latest video of another black boy beaten within an inch of his life.  Inside your tightening chest, your heart aches.

“You see this shit?” His tone is confrontational, much like always. He wants to argue, to proselytize as if you’re not already on his side. You suddenly feel so tired - too tired to convince him otherwise.

“I see it every day, Erik, always the same thing.”

He rounds on you like he’s a tiger and you’re the prey instead of the woman he loves.  “And what are you doing about it?”

“My part!” you say defensively, knowing that it sounds just as weak as it feels leaving your lips. “I’m still knocking doors and volunteeri-”

“Nah.” He shakes his head like that’s not good enough - maybe it’s not. “I’m past all that. I’m taking it out at the source.”

You’ve heard this before and it always alarms you. You hug yourself to ward off a chill you can’t shake because you know that he’s not going to.

“What? By killing them?” The cruel defiance in his expression says it all. “That doesn’t make us any better than them.”

Erik steps toward you so he’s only inches from your face, heat and anger radiating off of him in waves. He bares his teeth.

“But it makes us free.”

This argument isn’t new to you; you’ve had it with Erik too many times to count. Tears well in your eyes anyway. When did you become an adversary to him, someone to indoctrinate or cast aside as he sees fit?

“That’s not the kind of freedom I want.” Your voice quavers pitifully.

Erik sneers at your tears, seeing them as some desperate attempt at manipulation instead of what they are - a cry for the man you love to return to you. He takes your face firmly in one hand, roughened fingers sinking into the roundness of your cheeks. “I’m not going to apologize for this.” His breath fans across your face and you wince away. What you wouldn’t give for him to look at you with adoration, for his grasp to soften into a loving caress. “Not anymore.”

You wrench yourself away from the hands that used to coat your hot skin. Whose fingertips you used to kiss. The hands you once held to your frantically beating heart.

Before there were fights there were conversations. There were nights spent up talking and days spent canvassing. There were marches and town halls and hours spent dreaming and hoping. You and Erik didn’t see eye to eye on some things - a lot of things - but the hope was always the same. No more broken brown boys and girls raising themselves on mean streets. No more fathers and mothers rotting in prisons. No more funerals. There were disagreements - rocks and hard places - but there was always unity in the goal. Always his arms.

Then came the summer and with it the heat and the raining of bullets and black boys’ bodies piling up in the streets like so much garbage. While you grew silent with pain, he grew deafening in his anger. You span your wheels and Erik demanded change by any means necessary and by then the middle ground had turned to quicksand. The two of you couldn’t agree on anything; you wouldn’t avenge bodies with more bodies. You just couldn’t, and the thought terrified you.

The conversations were long since forgotten - replaced by shouting and then, deafening silence. 

When you finally will yourself into the bedroom you share with Erik,  he’s in the shower. You lower yourself onto the edge of the bed and listen to the muffled patter of water, thanking God for small miracles. At least now you can drift off to sleep without more confrontation and try again in the morning.

If only it were that easy.

Sleep won’t come, especially after Erik cuts the water and fumbles around in the bathroom for 15 minutes. All the while you lie awake in bed - tense, hoping that he won’t see that you’re still awake. Knowing that he’ll just know anyway. You keep your back to the door when he finally comes out but you can feel his eyes on you, his dark gaze trailing over your form beneath the covers. He says nothing. You count his plodding steps out of the room. Somehow, the bed feels colder when he’s gone.

Before there was distance between you and Erik, there were butterfly kisses. There was true, deep intimacy and Erik, the boy who folded like dough beneath your gentle hands. Childhood had taught him that to be soft meant being vulnerable but the time he’d made it to you he was tired of being strong and with you, he didn’t have to be. Inside the walls of your home, he let his walls down and thawed for you and you only.

But only so much; old habits die hard. At his most vulnerable - on the cusp of sleep - he would peel away the thick sooty layers of the man he was outside these walls and expose his soft underbelly to you, revealing the things that had wounded him before. All of the lessons that no longer bled but still hurt. The scabs he still picked. That’s how you learned of his mother imprisoned and his father found murdered. That’s how you discovered Wakanda and the history of his lineage. And there were tears - tears shed into the soft folds of your nightshirts. You felt them, heard them, but never saw them. The feeling was enough.

But then there was a master plan and he had secrets again - so many secrets. Before your eyes, he reverted back to the man he’d been before you and then evolved into something entirely new. Worse. It’s hard to hurt others when you let yourself be soft, and he planned to hurt a lot of people. More nights were spent with him staying up two rooms over and you lying awake in a cold, half-empty bed. The plan became more important to him - holding him together like you used to, giving him purpose, pushing you out. It was increasingly difficult to reach him. The tears had dried up. Before you’d known N’Jadaka, you were in love with Erik Stevens and after a while, there was only Killmonger.

You toss and turn beneath the covers long enough to wonder whether not you’d feel better in Erik’s arms. Your pride says no but your bruised feelings say it’s worth a shot, and you did miss him - probably more than you previously realized. He’s in the “study,” countless lonely nights having firmly established that as absolute fact. It’s his space - nevermind that it used to be your space. Together. Somewhere during the intervening years, he annexed so much of it that you find it difficult to go in there even when he’s gone. But now? You can’t allow invisible boundaries to hold you back - away from him - not when the very ground on which you’ve built your life crumbles into nothingness.

Your feet are silent against the familiar hardwood floor as you steal down the hallway toward him, closing the gap. Every step feels like another mile crossed in your journey to bring him home to you. You peek into the study as if you have no right to be there - Ariadne peering into the darkness of the labyrinth. Erik doesn’t even bother to look up when you enter, stepping tentatively over the threshold. The disrespect stings, but you press through it, desperate to reach him.

“Erik?” His name comes out hushed. You know he hears you, but he ignores you still. There’s a large map spread out on the desk before him, the familiar name of the African nation bolded at the top. The document’s face is replete with x’s and notes and routes drawn to nowhere in particular. His battle-warn laptop is open on the desk beside it as he scrolls and jots down notes in a little black book. You try not to look too closely, shuttering your curiosity. You’re not interested in all of that, you just want him.

Lowering yourself onto the desk you tentatively vie for Erik’s attention, your thigh obliterating a corner of Wakanda. He doesn’t have to say anything; there’s no missing the way his eyes sweep over the skin of your leg, following the muscle up until it disappears beneath a pair of cotton shorts. You place a hand on his, all of the scrolling and jotting coming to a halt. It would seem he missed you too - in one sense at least.

“Come to Bed.”

Erik tears his eyes away from you and tries to resume his work - deliberate concentration in the stubborn set of his jaw. “I got work to do.”

“Erik.” You take his hand in both of yours and draw it to your knee. “It’s cold. I missed you. Come to bed.” Two deep brown eyes flicker to you; strong fingers tightening on your flesh involuntarily and your heart skips. There’s no hiding how he wants you and you want him too. Just maybe not in the same way. His hand stays on your knee but the puttering continues.

You feel an unfamiliar sensation rising in the back of your throat - frustration. You’ve never wanted to hit Erik before, but right now you want nothing more. You want to scream and throw his shitty little laptop across the room, flip the desk on its side, and demand his undivided attention. For a man who loves to argue with you, Erik refuses to fight for your relationship; you wish you could bend him. Wish that he would soften for you again like he used to. But he’s hard - so solid and immovable and you want to melt and make him fit where you need him to. But some things don’t melt under high heat. Some things don’t hold a liquid form, they just vaporize altogether and slip through your fingers.

You inch over, another swath of the motherland disappearing beneath the brown skin of your thigh as you take Erik’s face in your hands and lower your forehead to his and breathe and don’t say a word until he looks up into your searching eyes. “Come back to me.”

Erik knows that you don’t mean the bedroom. He knows you don’t mean the bed, beneath the covers, wrapped in your waiting arms, but you can see in his eyes that that’s all he’s willing to give you. You take it anyway.

Later, in the dark, you cry quietly to the sound of his steady breathing. Cry because you know that you can’t keep sleeping beside a stranger. Cry because you don’t know how to do anything else. You’ve already made up your mind before your feet touch the cold floorboards and long before you make your way around your home in the dark, gathering the things you’ll need to start over. There’s a deliberateness to your movements - something animalistic and instinctual in the set of your shoulders and the tilt of your head. You can’t stop to think of what this will do to him, can’t think of the years spent building a life in this home because if you do, you’ll talk yourself right back into bed.

So you don’t think at all.

Don’t think of  Erik’s deft fingers undoing your reservations, plucking at your heart, his hands reverently following the slope of your thighs - palms hot like coals against your wanting skin.  Don’t think of the belly laughter, the wide, toothy grins, the paint smudged kisses. Don’t think of the near vulnerability and the way that his eyes sometimes glint like obsidian with unrealized emotion. Don’t think of the unending battle to be “strong” or the countless tears hidden in the fabric of shirts, each lost to the soft swell of your abdomen.  Don’t think of how close you once were - to wholeness - to fixing him, because Erik isn’t a car or a door with a creaky hinge.

Erik is a miracle wrapped in keloid covered skin and losing him is going to feel like losing everything.

It takes a year. A year for you start sleeping peacefully without hearing his voice in your dreams. A year for you to learn to walk again without the expectation of his return holding you up. A year to stop making enough for two and sitting across from his empty placemat and talking to his memory. It’s a year before you stop expecting him to creep up behind you, slip a hand into the back pocket of your jeans, and press a kiss to the soft curve of your neck. It takes a year to start over completely.  

Your “new” apartment isn’t exactly new; you’ve been here for nine months but you’re only just beginning to feel at home. The transplant was difficult, but you’re beginning to grow into your little space for one - putting down roots. The maqluba is cooking down nicely, although you’re not entirely sure how much longer it’ll be. The TV drones on from the living room - CNN your background noise of choice.

“And now,” the familiar voice of Chris Cuomo says evenly, “We’re live in New York where T’Challa Udaku - king of Wakanda - addresses the United Nations.”

There’s no fighting the curiosity that licks up your spine. There hasn’t been much news out of Wakanda since you left him, but you’ve clung to every shred of information about the seemingly poor, secluded African country you know only from Erik’s drowsy stories, desperate to know anything. “That’s where I’m going,” you remember him saying, his words slurred between sleep-heavy lips before he would tumble over into oblivion, his head cradled in your lap. “I’m going home.”

You peek tentatively around the corner as though you’re not the only one in the apartment. You’ve always wondered about the Wakandan royal family, Erik’s long-lost aunts and uncles - the cousins he dreamed about while growing up alone in Oakland. This man - T’Challa - doesn’t look like Erik, but there’s something of the man you used to love there. A pride in the tilt of his neck and the set of his shoulders. You don’t realize that your hands are shaking.

“My name is King T’Challa - Son of King T’Chakka - I am the sovereign ruler of the nation of Wakanda,” he begins and you’re riveted, unable to tear your eyes away. You can’t tell why your chest feels so tight, why suddenly, it’s so hard to breathe.

He continues his speech, outlining his plans for Wakanda to integrate into the modern world and the realization hits you that you don’t just see Erik in the way he stands, you hear him. Pouring out of this stranger’s mouth are Erik’s words, his ideas, and convictions. You listen through the questions and T’Challa’s dignified answers, through the doubt and skepticism and attempts at enlightenment - absolutely rapt. It’s not until the king finally leaves the podium followed by a volley of shouted questions and flashing cameras that the spell is broken.

And just like that, Erik is gone.

The pot lid in your hand hits the floor first, landing on the rug with a dull thunk and rolling away beneath the low, grey couch. In all of your months of separation and feigned strength, in all of your dreaming and wondering, you’d always imagined that Erik made it to Wakanda. You’d never fathomed that he met his end there. But you can feel it now - the rending - the slow, painful tearing of the connection you’d once shared with him.

All of your pretended willpower is gone now. You deflate. Your knees hit the floor next but you feel nothing, not until the realization breaks over you like a tidal wave of ice and drags you under. You resurface on your hands and knees, gasping, messy sobs shaking your shoulders, tears smearing the patterned rug across your vision. You’ve never known pain like this - loss like this - as if your throbbing chest will split and spill your bleeding heart onto the floor. Useless now. Empty now. You’ll never see his smiling face again. Never hear his barking laughter. Never lie beside him and listen to him breathe. Because he’s miles and miles away from you, God knows where, buried beneath feet of red earth, cradled by his oldest, fondest dream.

Finally home.

[ginkagewrites]

Intro

Awakening: Keith | Lance | Allura | Hunk | Pidge | Shiro

Convergence: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Reunion: 1 | 2 

Return

Soft, enveloping darkness. Quiet and all-encompassing.

It was that place that exists between dreams and deeper, healing sleep. Where pain ceased to exist and consciousness could float like a cloud across the sky.

There wasn’t a sense of time to stretch out the drifting of the mind, just that gentle wandering in what might be.

‘Shiro!’

Eyes opened in the dark, the name setting off a spark in the darkness; a flare of colored light almost like fireworks that burst and then faded. Was it imagination? Was it a trick of the mind in this blankness?

‘Shiro!’

Another spark, brighter this time and lingering longer, caught the eye and lit up the darkness in golden white tinged with teal. The colors couldn’t really be Shiro’s imagination. It was calling his name and he turned towards it in the dark field, looking up.

‘Takashi!’

Breath hitched in his throat as the spark exploded across the darkness directly over his head, stronger even than the last and carrying emotion with it. A soft, earnest feeling of love and need filtered down to his head as motes of light floated down around him. Shiro raised his left hand to catch one of them and felt the power tingle in the flesh of his palm.

‘Shiro!’

It wasn’t purely a spark anymore, it was mingled voices, familiar voices, that called to him. The bright white-gold light appeared at one end of his darkness, beckoning like an opening door. Wordless curiosity drew him towards it, becoming aware of his feet moving forward. The spark he’d caught in his hand sank into his palm and rimmed his figure in teal-edged white. It fascinated him even as he moved towards the comforting light.

‘Brother!’

One voice powered over the others briefly with the word, struck a chord that ran deep. His step picked up as the bright doorway drew closer and closer. It seemed to pull him to it, lightening the darkness around him as came to stand before it.

He had a brief thought that maybe this wasn’t a dream… that maybe something else had taken place that was more final. There had been so much that happened.

‘We’re here! Come! Please!’

The white light before him pulsed and thrummed with the fervent call, the voices resolving in his head with a jolt like snapping fingers. His team. His family. They were on the other side and they were calling him. The strength with which their call reached him brought the beginnings of tears to his eyes as he reached out for the doorway. In the distance he heard a roar… not one he was familiar with from the existing lions.

“How?” he murmured, hand brushing the glow in front of him and feeling its soft, cloud-like form cool against his fingertips. It tugged on his hand gently at first, then more insistently as he remained in place, and there was a burst of joy behind it as the pull seemed to have a serious amount of weight behind it.

“I’m coming, I’m coming... “ Shiro chuckled under his breath as he stepped into the light, “I hear you.”

The light enveloped him like a blanket and he couldn’t tell at first if he was falling or flying, the coolness gradually warming as he was pulled along. The white-gold-teal was all around him but it wasn’t too bright, more like looking through fog.

His feet found purchase first, but he found himself sinking to one knee with the feeling that he’d landed. As he did, a roar split the air nearby, close enough that it wiped out all other sounds for the moment. The white light around him began to fade and he found himself staring at fur.

White fur. Traced through with a soft orange circuitry and rimmed in faint teal. Covering a large, maned lion that reclined in front of him, regarding Shiro with deep golden eyes. His own slate-grey eyes widened at the sight, breath catching in his throat and words failing.

‘There you are, Takashi. We found you again.’ the lion rumbled at him, the voice familiar and yet not. He couldn’t immediately place it, but… wait…

“We?”

Blinking the last of the white from his eyes, Shiro looked away from the lion slowly, his eyes going up first given that its head had been above his. He took in the starfield above, the oscillating bands of familiar colors and nebulae. It reminded him of when he was stuck in the Black Lion and his face softened in a familiar sort of sadness.

There was a hitch of breath in the background that wasn’t his. It startled him into a wider awareness and tore his gaze away from the celestial display, sent him searching for the source. He was only vaguely aware as his head turned that he was glowing, white and teal and orange all oscillating soothingly in an edge along his armored shoulder.

The first pair of eyes to meet his were violet, framed by pale skin in a face with a familiar pink scar on the right cheek, long black hair brushing the neck of his armor. Keith. The Black Paladin’s mouth hung slightly open, sharing a look of disbelief with his predecessor, his brother, his friend.

Shiro’s gaze slid next to blue eyes in tan skin topped by short, darker brown hair. Lance’s eyes were already glimmering at the corners and a smile spreading across his face.

Allura was next, white curls framing her brown-skinned face; turquoise and purple eyes with glowing pink markings on her cheeks gazing back at him fondly with a note of triumphant accomplishment sparking in them.

Hunk had already started crying, tears trickling down his warm, tan cheeks from equally warm brown eyes. There was nothing but joy in his expression.

The grin plastered on Pidge’s face was infectious and lit up her honey-brown eyes like nothing else. He could swear she was practically fidgeting in place with excitement.

Then there were the lions in the circle, filling the space between the Paladins and rumbling in welcome.

“What? What’s going on? How?” the questions spilled out of Shiro’s mouth haltingly, the fingers of his right hand raising to comb through his white hair in confusion. “Where are we? What are you guys doing here?”

‘You’re home.’ came the rumbling answer from next to him, amused and fond, before the white lion leaned down and headbutted his left shoulder just hard enough to knock him over. Caught completely off-guard, Shiro gave an indignant squawk and toppled over onto his right side, just catching himself with his right arm.

There were multiple sets of laughter and then they were all there, each of the Paladins breaking their circle and practically lunging into the center to greet him. There was a pile of limbs and color and joyful voices and tears as they all piled on the former Black Paladin. The individual glow of each seemed to merge and blend at the edges where they touched, making a veritable rainbow of bleeding colors.

“This… what is this?” Shiro gasped out into the knot of his team, his family, more than a bit bewildered by everything. He registered that the arms around his waist were Pidge, her head tucking up under his left arm. Keith had his own left arm around Shiro’s shoulders from behind, on one knee with his chest coming up behind the white-haired head. Lance was at his right arm, one hand on his shoulder and the other resting on the floating lower half. Allura was on her knees right in front of him, leaning onto his left leg, and Hunk leaned on his right with a hand on his right shoulder.

“It’s okay, Shiro. You’re safe here, we all are.” Keith murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against his brother’s hair, his free hand gesturing around the starfield.. “Nothing’s wrong. We just felt you needed this as much as we did.”

“Yeah, you’ve been through as much as us, more really. Didn’t seem right to leave you on the outside while we were in here.” Lance knelt more comfortably, one knee tucked up to his chest, and smiled. “We know we’re hurt. We know you’re hurt. We all need a break.”

“Takashi, we know you wouldn’t rest until you found us all.” Allura said his name and he blinked rapidly at it coming out of her mouth. Her turquoise and purple eyes were soft and kind and her hand squeezed his knee gently. “You deserve that rest, dear friend.”

“Yeah, buddy, it’s been a long road to get here and we’re all tired. We don’t have to go anywhere for as long as we need to.” Hunk’s confidence was somehow reassuring given the Yellow Paladin’s self-admitted fears. “The lions said there’s no time here.”

“We missed you. It was too quiet without you here being Space Dad.” Pidge nearly whispered, nuzzling her cheek into his side before releasing him and outright crawling into his lap sideways. Once there, she reached out to touch his cheek around his otherwise stunned expression. “Nothing hurts here. No nightmares. No pain.”

‘Don’t leave me out of this, I only just got here and I’ve been waiting a long time for this.’ Came the rumbling behind him, the sound of it shifting a bit as the lion he’d appeared next to rose and circled around to come into his field of vision. The massive, white-maned lion settled down just behind Allura and gazed at him evenly. He had a half-breath to wonder why the voice sounded familiar, why there was a sudden ache in his chest that went with it.

‘I’m sorry, Takashi. I’m sorry that I wasn’t here when you came home.’

Keith’s arm tightened around Shiro’s shoulders as he felt the older man go still beneath him. The others gave half-smiles, looking from lion to erstwhile Paladin quietly, not interfering. Allura slid to the side until she was leaning against Lance, the Red Paladin wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

The lion padded into the open space and laid down, paws just barely touching his crossed legs, and looked evenly at him. Waiting.

Shiro thought his heart was going to crack in two. The way his name was said, the warm flavor to the voice, conjured the same image of brown skin, golden brown eyes behind glasses, and warm light brown hair that had been there when he fell asleep. It held a deeper, subtly more metallic and faintly echoing quality, but he knew the tones just the same.

“A-Adam? How?” the name whispered past his lips with a breath he barely realized he’d been holding. His hands, both real and prosthetic, rose to the lion’s head with a slight tremble. Once they met with the orange-streaked cheeks, fingers delved into the soft fur and the lion let out a deep rumble of contentment.

‘Yes… but not just me. We are Atlas. I’m not alone here, but now… neither are you.’ The lion pressed his head forward into Shiro’s hands, eyes half-slitted, rumbling deeply at him. ‘While you may not be a Paladin of Voltron anymore, you are Captain of the Atlas and just as important. As for how? These kids loved you enough to wake something new just for you.’

‘We are all here right now for you.’

Pidge reached up from Shiro’s lap and buried her fingers in Atlas’s chin-fur, scritching gently and smiling. There was a chuckling rumble from the lion that eased the ache in Shiro’s heart and, as he brought in a shaking breath, he realized his cheeks were wet. There was a little hard spot in his chest that was starting to uncurl as he sat there, fingers buried in the Lion’s (his Lion’s) fur, each breath getting a little easier. Eventually his posture relaxed so that he leaned against Keith behind him, smile easing onto his face around the tears.

“You all are just… impossibly amazing. I don’t deserve any of you.” His voice was calm, his words free of deflection or any attempt to brush off their presence. This was a gift and he wasn’t going to nay-say the efforts his family had put out to get to this point.

“Thank you.” Shiro said, putting all of the love he had for this ragtag, misfit team into his voice. He looked at each of them in turn, including craning his head back to smile fondly up at his brother. “I’m so glad to see you all safe here. I was so worried out there.”

“Atlas told us you were there for each of us. That you and Coran got us out of the Lions after we crashed.” Lance leaned in from his right with a more sober look, leaning his head to one side. “That Sam kinda told you to get your ass in a bed before you fell over. You’d not really stopped after you and Sendak went nine rounds on the top of his ship.”

Hunk’s hand tightened on his left shoulder. “Thank you for being there for my parents, man. Yellow told me that they were there when you showed up. That means so much.”

The looks of concern for him flashed around the little knot of young Paladins, each giving him their own variation of the ‘you did more than you had to’ look that they’d all given each other  and him at one point or another. Shiro found himself chuckling at being on the receiving end of the mother hen routine he often gave them.

“I couldn’t do any less for my team. My family. With all we’ve been through together, to do less wouldn’t have been right.” His head rested against Keith’s chestplate for a bit, the younger man brushing his white forelock away from his eyes with gentle fingers. “I was concerned because none of you had woken up yet. The fall did a number on each of you… but none of you woke up at any point when we found you. Now I know why.”

‘They’ll wake up soon enough, Takashi. They had to work through some of their pain here first.’ Atlas rumbled, resting his head against his paws lightly, eyes flicking to each of the Paladins as they nodded agreement. Then his eyes came to rest on his Shiro again and the glowing eyes dimmed slightly, the rumble settling into a soothing purr as it nosed his shin. ‘As do you. Oh, Takashi… I’m so sorry.’

Shiro had half a moment to wonder what Atlas was apologizing for before the feather-soft brush of the lion’s consciousness against his gave him all the reasons he needed. There wasn’t much point to walling off the new bond and so he let the amalgamation of his former partner and the new Garrison ship into the choppy, scarred landscape of his memories. He let his eyes close for the moment, feeling himself propped up and surrounded by his team, all the safety he needed just a breath away.

“It’s… been one hell of a ride.” he murmured, feeling the warm gentleness in his mind go over the year he spent in captivity under the Galra, his escape back to Earth only to be thrust back into the war with four more lives to be responsible for, the battles they fought, his death and eventual rebirth, and returning home once more to try and save humanity. All of it underlaid with varying levels of guilt and anger that had been left unresolved in all that time. Of course, one pearl of guilt stood out in the search, and Shiro’s breath caught in his throat, tears starting at the corner of his eyes before he could even react to stop them.

Adam’s face, his expression as he warned Shiro that he wouldn’t be there if the stubborn pilot went on the Kerberos mission. Followed immediately by the image of his fingers touching Adam’s plaque on the memorial wall in the Garrison. The guilt was palpable, enough that he felt one arm tighten about his chest, one small one against his cheek, others at his shoulder, hand, or knee. One weight lifted from his lap to be replaced by a different weight that purred deeply.

‘Takashi… look at me.’ The rumbling voice implored him so strongly that he opened watery grey eyes to look down into the head of his lion resting in his lap. Atlas gazed up at him with his own unflinching gold, blinked slowly, and the bond between them rippled with an equally golden flood of acceptance. ‘I forgive you. Love and worry make a person say many things that they regret later. I wish I could have seen you and your team return with my own eyes, but I’m here now.’

‘I forgive you. The others obviously forgive you.’ He heard the soft murmurs of assent ripple through the others gathered around him, variations of the phrase being said to him with love behind them. It was like a balm against all the doubt and pain that had taken root in his soul over time. The tears streamed down his face and his eyes slipped closed again, his flesh hand coming up to cover his eyes as the force of it all choked a sob out from behind his lips.

‘Now forgive yourself, even if you can only do a little bit right now. Forgive yourself.’ Something crumbled inside him, a wall came down that was one of the earliest he’d built, the one that repeatedly cursed him for failing those he felt responsible for. It wasn’t completely gone, but he found he had no interest in rebuilding it, and it let light into a part of him that had been dark for far too long. Atlas flowed through the bond into that space and made it glow, seemed to curl into the space and claim it, and he felt lighter.

It was quite a sight that anyone outside of Voltron would have been unable to comprehend. White-haired, black-and-white armored Shiro, cross-legged on the ground, his team, his family clustered as close to him as they could be with tears in their eyes, his glowing lion’s head firmly in his lap… and the rest of the lions having crept in to add their touches to the pile. Again, the colors that rimmed each individual form seemed to bleed together, mixing, melding, and brightening to an almost blinding white. It made them their own bright star in the vast starfield around them… and how brightly it burned.

[rhysand-vs-fenrys]

I am in American public schools (so, we learn nothing) and I was just wondering what you meant in your answer about skin color and UV?

See, this is why I hate the US education system. I had a basic framework for where different skin tones come from from stuff I learned outside of school, but it wasn’t until I took a Human Evolution and Prehistory course in Uni that I really got into the nitty-gritty.

I’m putting this below a cut because it’s a bit of a long answer (and I included some examples my professor used that were really great).

How People Get their Skin Tone

First off, if you aren’t aware, the species we now refer to as human began in Africa and migrated, over hundreds of thousands of years, gradually north. Africa, even 200,000+ years ago, gets a lot of sunlight, which the human body needs to produce Vitamin D (don’t ask me how that all works).

Also important to this: The O-Zone of our atmosphere absorbs most UV radiation (UV radiation is what causes sunburns). Our planet would be completely uninhabitable without that layer because UV radiation is incredibly deadly.

Now, our atmosphere is not uniformly thick. The poles and their magnetic output is what maintains the atmosphere (sort of, it’s good enough for this explanation), so the further north or south you get, the less UV radiation, but in the middle the atmosphere is a bit more puffed out and so more UV radiation gets through. 

You might know that the darker the skin tone, the more of the light spectrum something is absorbing (colors as we know it are only the light that is reflected back, so if something is say blue, that means it’s absorbing all colors of the light spectrum except blue. Try not to think about it too much, or you’ll realize all color is a lie).  

That darker skin tone (we’re talking really super dark-skinned Africans) enabled our ancestors to walk around in that incredibly direct sunlight all day and only absorb a small amount of UV radiation. This was a fantastic trait to have because you weren’t sunburned, overheated, and dying of sun-poisoning (what they call really really bad sunburns).

As our ancestors began migrating northward (due to environmental conditions, predator threats, simple curiosity, etc.), those with the darkest skin were no longer at the advantage. They tired more quickly and suffered from slightly poorer health because their bodies weren’t getting enough UV radiation to produce vitamin D. Their bodies were simply too good at resisting it.

Children born with ever so slightly paler skin (remember, all this is happening over hundreds of thousands of years, white people didn’t just pop out one day (well, Albinos, but still)) were no longer at the disadvantage. Their skin absorbed more UV radiation, and in more northern climates it wasn’t overwhelming as it would be in the heart of Africa (known as the Cradle of Life). 

An example my professor used: You are a primal man (or women in some societies) looking to pick out a mate that will give you strong offspring. Do you pick the one who is strolling around having a great time, healthy and happy, or the one who is basically one big sunburn, sweaty, exhausted, and most likely to die young from too much sun? That is how evolution worked.

Humans migrate further north over the millennia and the paler and paler skin tones become the more dominant trait simply because in that climate they are healthier. Now, diet and other factors also helped form different skin tones even among those of the same latitude and UV spectrum- that is why westerners have more of a pink-based skin, middle eastern has very bronze or orange undertones, asian is a bit more tan, etc.

Also in line with this- some darker skinned people living in far northern climates do have to take vitamin supplements to make up the difference in Vitamin D. It’s a common medical issue because we live in a highly mobile age and evolution doesn’t kick in until you’re static in an area for a thousand years+

Also, just because it’s a bizarre misconception people don’t always seem to realize: Evolution is genetic. It’s literally in your blood. I’ve had to explain to a few people (who hopefully don’t breed) that the only traits being passed down genetically are the ones you’re born with. Your DNA doesn’t change. Mutations to it as you live are more commonly called ‘cancer’. 

So, if you lose a limb or digit in an accident or after a (non genetic) illness, that absolutely does not mean your offspring have any increased chance of being born without said limb. That’s not how blood works. Your whole body doesn’t go “Whelp, apparently right arms don’t exist anymore, go tell the eggs/sperm”. Just… NO.

I probably made an error or two in this answer, it’s been a while since I took that class and I’m trying to simplify a lot of stuff, but that’s the general idea.

So that is why I said it’s a very good question why Court of Nightmares people appear to be white, but the rest of the Night Court seems to be middle-eastern. I think it’s to do with living beneath the ground.