#and rosemary is on thin fucking ice

[bllbabaggins]

You know what’s a scam? Fennel. Why does this bitch have to make your meal taste like licorice? If I wanted licorice I would eat licorice but I’m eating lasagna tf

[herbgerblin]

A comprehensive list of Lup sensations (Lupsations?) documented 24-72 hours post emerging from body regrowth chamber, dictated by Lup Taaco Bluejeans:

Wind - cold but good

Sunlight - warm, so so good. please open all of the windows, especially for naptime

Grass - noooooo nono no nope sorry it’s too much :(

Carpet - mmmmmm kind of having a bad feet time here. Socks help a lot though

Wood - rough but not bad

Glass - smooth like a shark >:)

Water - warm is good but the second it gets room temp I gotta vamoosh. It’s freezing

Soap - icky but similar to the chamber goo, so manageable

Hair - why does my own hair feel weird? what the fuck? why have I never noticed that?

Fabric - cotton and polyester is fine. Anything with lace is too itchy, which fucking sucks because all my silk shit has lace on it. velvet is now on thin fucking ice. I can forgive denim because I know it would never hurt me on purpose

Barry - literally perfect do not fucking change a thing I’m so fucking serious. Barold I swear to fuck—

Hugs - yes love ‘em hello please give me many many hugs thank you :>

Bed - good, but needs more pillows

Taako - good, but please take off the lace I’m sorry it’s itchy :(

Couch - velvet, but Barry laid a cotton sheet over it, so we’re good for now

Taako’s cats - good

Magnus’ dogs - good

Merle’s plants - Merle do not fucking bring that fern in my vicinity! I will raze it, I’ll do it!

Magic casting - tinglier than I remember? Also exhausting, imma need to hold off on magic for a bit

Soup - soup :)

Herbal Tea - good but now the sprig of rosemary feels weird in my mouth :/

Family - perfect

Home - perfect

Life - good :3

[girlwithakiwi]

Writing Patterns

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

Nabbed from @whimsicalmeerkat since it looked fun

1.) like the olden days, happy golden days of yore

The northwestern coast of the country has turned molten in the early winter sunset, the Bay of Ice shimmering a thin line of blinding gold from where it appears behind the blue mountain pass.

2.) a shadow for the splendor (let the profane tremble to ask)

It is no wonder, the smallfolk will murmur later, that when the King of Winter met the Mother of Dragons, the world spun itself into a cataclysmic revolution of night and summer and every wonderful, terrible thing beneath the white, dispassionate sun.

3.) like freedom, like rosemary and thyme

Daenerys Targaryen wakes up to stiff joints, the gentle vibrations of tires on a paved road, and the breathtaking sight of black mountains splintering the lavender-blue horizon like cracked glass.

4.) some nights the lighthouse, some nights the sea (transatlanticism)

The sea is winter-bright and blue as a promise the morning the blind man comes to visit for the last time.

5.) all the ground beneath with tears and blood

Dany does not need to look at her watch to know Jaime Lannister is offensively late.

6.) where ruin also exists

It hurts.

7.) the horns of jericho

Rhaenyra thinks it an ill omen to wed on a floor still sticky with the blood of her now-husband’s dead lover.

8.) let the dreams be merciful and full of snow

The city of Winterfell is frosted with the shimmering buttercream of snow, holiday lights still sparkling like wrapped confections beneath glassy layers of ice.

9.) never let me go

Westeros is not as Dany dreamed it would be.

10.) interlude: la danse d’hiver

…are you asleep yet, little one?

BONUS because it’s funny: the silhouette of a single memory

If the girls would have told her that she’ll end the night with her back pressed against the door of her hotel room, wet and gasping and needy as hell, while a nameless man kisses her breathless, her legs damn near wrapped around his waist as she fumbles for her phone, a key, a condom she knows she doesn’t have, any-fucking-thing, she would have laughed at them and called them all horny, lying bitches.

•

Save for #7 which is a Rhaewin fic, these are all Jonerys fics (a few bookverse but mostly showverse).

My pattern is that I’m going to fucking describe the scenery whether you like it or not. Alternatively, a very cold open from a character POV.

Tagging: @theinvisiblequestion @ragingrainbow @jammerific @bad-at-names-and-faces @mrpinniped

[magicalgirlagency]

What are your thoughts on the boys some of the main Precure girls are friends with? Including the one from the upcoming precure series?

Well, as long as they're at the same age as the heroines are, then I don't mind them sticking around. Might even ship them with one of the girls a li'l.

However, if they appear to be much older than them, they're on fucking thin ice.

Except for Rosemary, though. He's an absolute babe, and I feel guilty for hating on him back when the series was airing. You're NOT a skeezy groomer, and I profusely apologize for judging you too harshly, sugar.

Not to mention how CUTE he is as a marketable plushie! Like, holy shit; PreCure's at it again with its tempting and nigh-impossible-to-acquire-for-western-folks marketing.

Now THAT's a Skrunkly!

[lovers-instead]

[punk-in-docs]

I am OBSESSED with your Prince Paul series. I've been reading and re-reading them. I can only hope there's more coming! Like I'd love to see them dealing with the wedding preparations, all the related stress and Catherine being Catherine. Or the first time they say LOVE? Or the first time they see each other nekkid? Or, or, or, anything!! I just love your writing sooooo muuuuuch. (I am also getting inspired to write fan fic or your fan fic, if that's okay???)

🥀 And The Stars Sighed In Unison 🥀

Authors Note: That’s more than ok my love. I’m so flattered! That’s amazing. I’m so humbled the muse has struck you as a consequence of my foolish little words. So here I give you in no particular order; Wedding day planning. Stag party drunken naughtiness, and in general the excitement of the big day. Hope it meets the mark-

TW: m receiving oral, PIV , dirty talk, clit slapping, much flirting, naughty ren-dez-vous, little dirty in places I mean, c’mon now, it’s Paul x Tsarevna. Don’t be expecting saintly behavior from them (or me) now.

The Palace shimmers. These snake pit halls and cloaking walls, that will never really be home to you, are teaming with bliss. Air full of it. Perched on the precipice of your marital joy.

A royal wedding in December. Anticipation hangs heavy indeed. Heavier than the clouds above distended with snow.

You’ll be married in that snow, Catherine says. Bedecked in white and silver. Because that’s the way things were done here; most babes here learned to keep warm before they learned how to walk.

Lavish affair like no other. It will be ripe with nobility. Snow studded, crept with frost. How appropriate-

The great ballroom is packed with flowers. Crammed to choking. Quite literally. Stuffing the space with pollen and nectar. Outside the trees are thinned brittle with cold. Basked in snow. Icicles on the windows. Inside it’s like there’s been a second sunny waft of spring.

Catherine wanted silver and white inside here. Everything wearing ice. Staining these great baroque halls. A nice occasion that will perhaps wipe through the rusted blood smears, and gloss over her treachery for daring to rob this heaving sow of a country from a man.

Dark walls hung with garlands of scented white flowers, tender tendrils of creamy sweet peas, tulips, and roses. Strung with thick cream ribbons. The best silverware being polished by the servants to a high shine. Flowers wait in vases. The glassware winks like far off stars from the ice smooth linen tables.

You walk obediently alongside her, when she tuts and snaps her fingers at a maid and shoved a poorly polished candlestick back at her, to have it done again.

Her predator eyes on the prowl, nasty tongue in step with it; she never missed a single thing. Countess and you, by her side.

“Do it again. And get it right, or I will have you whipped.” She cuts low. It’s terrifying how calm she is with wintry rage.

Fuck the frost. Catherine’s demeanour bit more than frost could ever dare.

You’re too busy marvelling at the flowers. You’ve never seen the like. Not in the scrappy leaky roofed Manor House you call home in Rostov. This whole environment was groaning with imperial snobbery at a whole new gilded level. Bloated with pomp and circumstance.

Every touch is artful. The flowers, the candles, the feast that’s been planned. Four boozy fruit cakes with hand crafted marzipan icing. Eight types of wine. Shipped from Portugal and France. Vodka unloaded by the barrel full - naturally.

Roast pigs turned on the spits for main, with marjoram, apple and cognac sauce. Haunches of deeply red venison with stewed blackberries and rosemary. The kitchens are fired up night and day for this. The maids on a strict rotation to clean and ready the halls to a gleaming spectacle.

Your dress, Paul’s robes. One of a kind and being worked on by no less than ten dressmakers and tailors, each. It’s all truly beautiful, and mad. And you are struggling to believe - to comprehend - these efforts are being ground to the bone, to satisfy the tune of your own wedding day.

Eyes turned to the ceiling where the flowers are being strung up. Five strands meeting in the gathered centre of the ballroom. Floors being soapy scrubbed and polished to a mirror shine. Every step reflected back. Observed.

This circus court would be watching keenly in attendance. Which makes you want to gouge your eyes out with one of those very spotless fish knives, or a bouillon spoon. Whatever’s closer.

The wedding that is but two precious angst filled days away.

You’ll cease to be a Voronsky. From now on, you’re to be known as the Tsarevna. You turned your nose up when someone tried to call you princess. They quickly found better words in odes to your sharp displeasure.

Call me that again and I will cut your tongue off.

Yes, Tsarevna.

Catherine turns her attention back to you, as you wander along the tables. Drinking in the madness and the beauty.

The Countess is with you and she’s nattering guest lists of who’ve confirmed attendance, at you.

Royal protocol and what that dictates for the drowning numbers of nobles and the statute of those invited to your ceremony.

People will travel in from all over Europe for this. Brave the snow. Nobility came flocking from every corner to pick at the nuptials. Faff over the bride. Congratulate the groom. Throw toasts and hurl wishes. Gorge on the finery.

Then the Countess suddenly sucks air through her teeth seeing a certain princely name appear on her page.

“That will prove tricky-“ She remarks like a vixen, when she comes to the certain name of a royal Swede.

The one who left here jilted, several weeks back.

Catherine is not amused.

“I’m not dancing on eggshells for the ego of one swede. Let the prick come see her happiness. Be done with it.”

You smuggle a secret smile to yourself as you drape your fingertips over the petal of a dainty sweet pea in one of the table arrangements. Fragrance of it so sickly.

“He’s recently engaged, so I’m told. That flame is well and truly doused, I assure you.” You tell.

It never even began to flicker, you think.

“On your side, it may.” Catherine suggests with a pithy smirk. She saw how taken the boy was with you.

“My eyes wander to no other.” You smile at your Empress in law. “And the Countess tells me he was quite struck with that Petrovka girl.”

“Cuntstruck I said. Petrovka had her legs behind her ears since the day she joined court. And she’s sawdust for brains” The Countess took sordid detail in revealing.

Catherine sneered. “Better he found his easy prize. Left us with our Russian gem.” She walks up to you and lays her hand softly on your arm.

You’re not stupid. You know Catherine had her hand on the rudder of your early courtship for far longer than she pretended too.

And well, there’s certainly a great deal more than sawdust between your ears. There’s blade angles of femininity, blazing gunpowder wit, deep unending pools of ideas and intelligence in swathes. Cunning too, some diplomacy, and fistful upon fistfuls of hardy bravery.

“I’m very proud to see you take all this on. My dear. Many would envy you. But do not forget that the task placed ahead is a great one.” Empress reminds you.

“Must run in the family. Rising to greatness.” You answer. Petting her hand with your own. Her draconic red smile widens. Eyes wrinkle pinched at the corners in glee.

“I do enjoy you so.” She chuckles as she pats your hand like you’re one of her little perching obedient dogs. “How do you like the flowers?”

“Divine.” You remark as you wander your eyes around the huge room.

“We can have no less than. Cause people will fucking talk and bitch. They do nothing else when they come to a royal wedding. They want their flawless show of it all and they’ll pick pick pick at it like starved crows.” She comments. Inspecting a polished wine glass.

“You must recall your own.” You ask her as you dance your fingers over a place setting. Gold leaf on the China. Sapphire leaf accents.

“Short, swift. Painless. Much the same to be said for the wedding night.” She mocked. The countess cackled.

Charming.

“Do we need to give you any instruction on the matter?” The Countess winked at you. Dry chuckle as she attended her lists.

“I think I’ve gleaned enough by now. My new lady in waiting, is most vivacious in her manner of stories.” You concede. Lady Dimitrova was as unstinting to talking about sex, as she was formidable. Both were high measures indeed.

“One dare say they contain a prick of truth.” You add in a way that makes them both leer laughter.

“The veritable picture of a modest blushing bride.” The Countess remarks. Preening in delight at you.

“I heartily concur.” Interjects a voice you know all too well.

You turn your head and see none other than your beautiful intended drawing near,

Four male figures darken the golden horizon of this grand room. Paul and his usual party of scurrying sycophants and paper-pushing bureaucrats. Pillars by his side. Minister Panin, stout General Abramov, and a weedy bespectacled civil servant by the name of Berensky.

Paul wanders over to greet you with his party in tow. His arms clasped behind his back. Draped today in his glass green coat, accented with carmine-red. The clack of his boots joins in the wedding hubbub rioting noisily around you.

The red slash of a royal order dangling jewels and honour around his neck and the sea blue silk of his sash running from shoulder to hip. You like it when he’s all shiny and preening in ceremonial garb. Coiffed soldier. Sword swinging at his side all golden. He looks so pristine.

Only you grin because this was the same shiny and polished prince, who had spat in your cunt this very morning, and fucked you as if he were a beast. He went hard. It was bliss.

Handprints blazing their sting on your ass. Bruises on your thighs. Getting you dopey and all cock drunk before you had to scurry on back to your chambers.

Sustaining the false illusion that you’d spent the night there, and not sat on his cock, sobbing his name to kingdom come - as you then did.

Every slam of his hips into you was a fiery agony cracking across your skin - and oh, how it made the pleasure burn that much sweeter.

It’s so decadent a memory it’s got you wet at the mere sight of him. The glide of your chemise and dress on your raw ass cheeks has been a tender and delicious reminder all morning.

And no one needs to know that the cute silky lilac ribbon tied around your neck, dainty sweet, is actually there concealing fingertip bruises, churning to the colour of ripe mulberries.

“How well your bride looks. Does she not? Tsarevich?” The Countess beams at Paul. “All this wedding joy has cast such a lovely glow to her expression.”

“It has indeed. May I please request that you impart even more of it onto her. It becomes her quite dearly.” Paul charms.

“Radiant and pretty as ever.” He added. Overloading you with sickly sugar words. Churning honey off his silver tongue.

He’d said that this morning too. How pretty you look. Especially with his hand viced around your throat, til eyes fluttered, and you nearly passed out.

Catherine looks like she wants to roll her eyes back in her head and come back when this conversation has shifted elsewhere.

“I was warned by my mother that flattery was the infantry of negotiation.” You narrow your eyes playfully. Nothing slips you by. You’re too sharp to let it.

“As a military man, I do have much appreciation for such a diplomatic resource. Gets us out a lot of scrapes.” He explains.

“What cheek.” You surmise.

“Paul.” Catherine bites in her usual tone she reserved for him.

“I would make my goodbyes to your fiancée were I you. For soon we’re going to steal her away and lock her out your sight, until you’re walking to that altar.”

“And I believe, the men of court have planned a similar merry making event in your bachelor celebration.” She tilts her head and rakes her sherry eyes over Minister Panin. In the way she does that drags and curdles blood if anyone dares disagree.

The Minister leaps to words. “Of course. Empress.”

“Get to it. We have the dressmakers final fitting in half an hour, petal.” Catherine waves her hands at you. A warning.

She drifts away as does the Countess. Just enough edge to her sandpaper words to incite action.

Paul strides closer. Plucks a white sweet pea from out the table arrangement vases, and hands it over to you in offering.

“To match that bloom in your cheeks. Though it can seldom be rivalled by anything sweeter.” He smiles. Perhaps giddy. Totally enraptured by you, that was for sure.

Like he’s some stupid peasant boy gifting the girl he’s wooing, a simple picked flower. It’s actually quite fucking sweet of him. Simple things sometimes.

You pluck it out his hand, lift it up to inhale the sickle sweetness off its giving petals.

“You quote a sonnet at me, my love, I will have to go and be sick in the closest corner.” You warn with flirt traced on your lips.

He smiles back. It’s all doe eyed flirt. “Shall I compare thee to a summers day?”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” You threaten nicely.

“Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under.” He decided instead.

“Much more me, you have to concede.” You state.

You step closer and lean across to peck a sweet kiss on his cheek. Such paltry stuffy affection, but it’s all you can show at present.

His chest bounces with a sudden intake of air. That darkly lustful hunger seizing his eyes. You’re the same. One whiff of his shaving foam cologne and the gut clenching nearness, and you feel slick as ever between your legs.

“I shall see you at the altar then.” You decide when you pull back. Twiddling the flower between your fingertips. Swirling the petals.

Oh no you fucking won’t.

You imperceptibly jerk your head to the doors leading back to the royal chambers. Your eyes flick across and then back to him so suavely it’s like butter wouldn’t even dare melt on your tongue.

“You will.” He answers. Following your gesture.

“Good day. Gentleman.” You say loudly. Turning to his companions. Inclining your head to them. And then him.

“Tsarevich.” You smirk. Running the flower petals across your lips. Saying his full title like a sultry purr like some empty headed courtesan. All wide open legs and easiness.

You twirl on your heel and crossing away to another part of the room.

He watches the delicious drag of your blue skirts sweep the polished floors. All those silken vines laid on cobalt, crowded with plump pink roses on your bodice. The teasing slip of your perfume leaving notes of peaches and orchid musk in your wake. The way your coiled hair lays down the back of your neck. Bounces when you glide away.

“Darya.” You call out to your maid.

She stands to attention with a nodded bob of her linen clothed head. Hands folded serenely behind her back. Walnut eyes whip to you.

“Perhaps some tea in my rooms before the dressmaker comes.” You request.

“Yes my Lady.” And she scurries away to do your bidding. You walk across the room and busy yourself talking to another group of maidens about the flowers.

Paul turns and drifts back to the men accompanying him. Minister Panin says how well you look with the upcoming joy of the nuptials. You sparkle with it. Paul agrees.

They walk along and discuss more treaties and the current state of the affairs in Kyrol.

You watch from the corners of your eyes as him and his entourage leave the room. You smirk.

Leaving it a few moments as you gaze at said buckets of flowers before you decide to depart the room also. Darya returns from laying the tray of tea in your chambers.

“Please inform the Empress I will be on time for the dressmaker.” You beam as you sway to the doors.

She steps to scamper after you. You call back without turning around.

“Unaccompanied, Darya. Go and have some cake or something.” Waft of your hand. You instruct her. Knowing full well you just left her floundering in what to do next.

She notices there’s definitely a sway in your step as you stride away, and out along the echoing gilded halls. She goes and finds something else to do. Keep busy.

You step one foot through the doors leading to the royal chambers. And suddenly arms are snatching you around the waist.

Tugged out the doorway and off path into the snug concealed by the edge of the doors.

“Oh you fucker-“ Is the gasped outburst he’s torn from you in surprise. You told him to go wait for you. You didn’t know he was going to pounce.

“Such an elegant mouth.” He croons. Before kissing you like he’s not taken any single ounce of air since he saw you last.

He walks you back in quick step, shoves your hips painfully up against a table. Clatters the candlesticks stood on it. Hands on your bodice. Smoothing your silk back. Plump lips sweet and hot, seeking yours.

Smothered to him in a hungry slamming kiss. Messy sloppy. When you break away with a moan and the parting sound of wet meeting lips.

“I have a dagger in my garter, careful sneaking up on me, or else I’ll use it.” You threaten with a silky purr.

He paws your ass over your blue skirts crudely to make you squeak.

“I am more than aware of your dangerous inclinations. Should you like to plunge it into my back or my heart, beloved?“ He offers. Eyeing up your lush mouth again. The long doe flick of those carob colour lashes. Fuck, he’s pretty.

You smirk, sharp like rose thorns, all angles and gleaming. You’re so terrifyingly beautiful. So Russian in that regard. You like when others think you dangerous - it means they have grasped the right impression of you.

“Throat. Dear heart. I always, always, go for the throat.” You whisper all flirtily as you lean in and kiss the corner of his pouting mouth.

He finds your mouth again with his. It didn’t take more than a nudge and he’s on you. You whine into his mouth. You wrap your hand around his back. The table scrapes against the floor with a loud scuff. His hips rut to yours.

“Any chance we’ll be caught? What of your guards?” You ask. Desperately gulping for air as he kisses your neck and makes your toes curl in your beautiful shoes.

“Dismissed.” He sighs into a kiss under your ear.

“So you have a few moments?” You seek.

“Yes. Why?” He grunts.

“Because you’re going to spend them inside me.” You fist the front of his jacket and medals bite your palm. You snag your lower lip between your teeth in a positively filthy grin.

You yank him, stumble him in his shiny boots, to an even more discreet corner. Hidden by large waterfalls of draperies. Shadows drawn in baroque arches from the side of a great branching candelabra.

You claw your your skirts into gathered silk fistfuls. Bunched in your hands. Face the grazing threads of the tapestry clad wall. Arch your back. Jut your hips. Pussy just throbbing for the bliss of his touch.

He pasted his body to you, enclosed, and his hand snuck under your skirts. Lips perched at the shell of your ear. He hums all pleased when he finds you sticky wet. Silky and slipping over his fingers. Plump lips grazed between his fingertips.

“Are you still sore from our session last night?” He cooed all low. Cupping you crudely, and enjoying the way you tipped your head back. Pushing into his hand for more.

Your hair catching in his lips. He kisses your neck so sweetly. It belies the way he’s grabbing at your cunt like you’re some common street wench he’d pay pennies for.

That little split of pain - you’re such a drooling whore for it and he certainly knows how to give it. Knows when to knock his hips rougher and truly start to rearrange your guts. Knows when his words need to come out nastier, when he needs to grab and spank, and when to still his hand.

Paul rips at the falls of his own breeches. Messed up all those neat gold buttons. Theres your good toy soldier.

There’s the wonderful sting where he palms your ass as he crushes right up to you. His cock finding purchase to slide into your cunt with one breaching snap of his hips. You whine. He sighs. Your fingernails dig into the threaded wall. Snag on the fabric.

God, your pussy is gorgeous. Like wet velvet or warm satin. Or silky creamy peaches and butter sunshine. All good glorious things when he pushes deep into you.

“Fuck, my love, you’re incredible. You feel incredible. Holy god.”

“Don’t let the Patriarch hear you. He’ll have you in that chapel on your knees til you’re black and blue.” You sigh smartly.

Your hand reaches between you to rub slow pressing circles on your swelling clit. It makes his thrusts come harder because you’re throbbing tighter, fist tight, around the girthy drive of him.

“I can’t wait two days. Can’t fucking wait that long to have you again.” He babbles. Cuntstruck by you already.

You huff a laugh. “Mmm. Give me that over a dry sonnet any day.” You plead.

“I can’t go long without you. I walk through my day listening to treatises and proclamations. Yet all I can concentrate on is how you taste, and kiss, and, ugh fuck, how I just want to pin you to the bed with your ankles behind your ears...” He growls with a particularly knocking thrust that makes stars skip on your skin and your belly.

His praise and need cracked a heat over your throbbing hard nipples. Nestled in your stays, swaying and chafing when he fucks.

He tore a shocked gasp right out your mouth when he starts even harder punching thrusts and then bites your neck. Hard.

“More marks a ribbon can’t hide, hmm?” You remark archly. Turning your head to the side. Coaxing out that spit of spoilt fire you adore.

He pulls back and sees the purple-red of blood rushing into the crescents of his teeth marks, welted deep in your skin.

“They’ll look beautiful on our wedding day.” He huffs against your ear.

“Fucker-“ you grin and tip your head back and a loud, a too loud, moan, slid out your throat before you could stop it. Ran away from you.

It haunts the room. Haunts you. Echoing. Humiliating you with mocking. He makes you produce noises like an unbidden harlot.

Paul slams a hand over your mouth. Wet lips kissing your ear as he speaks. “Keep rubbing your cunt. I may not have the time I want to fuck you endlessly. But you will cum over my cock and be thankful for it. Do you hear me?”

Oh you could kiss him.

You nod like a demon is gripping your glass bones and you’ll shatter with it soon.

He felt how those words made you clutch down on him. Pussy choking his cock. Like you never wanted to let him leave.

Swallow him up and keep going til you have all of him. Sinking. Despair. A man whose love struck and who cannot ignore the ocean even as it’s drowning him alive. You are too knotted in everything. Tangled and twisted up inside him with that vital string.

He takes you fast and hard and he doesn’t let up for even a damn second. Perfect boy, he knows exactly what you needed.

Your little gasping cries. His grunts. The smack of hips and skin. The clutch of his palm on your handful hip. The dainty clack of your shoes on the floors. Unable to think about anything but chasing that fiery gut punch of pleasure.

“You like it when I give you orders…hmm” He huffs out suddenly. A statement as opposed to a question. Spoilt mouth at your jawbone. He takes his hand from your mouth to require an answer.

“Only sometimes.” You reply. Mouth slipping into an oval shape. Browns drawn. Searing liquid heat slaps and sloshes low in your gut. Spilling from you and dripping along his cock.

He pierced you so deep it’s like he’s prodding at the back of your throat. Prick of tears is looming in your eyes from this feral fuck.

“You love it when I say nasty filth as I fuck you deep? About how I want to to tie your hands to my bedposts, like a tamed wild thing, keep you edged for hours til you beg to finally cum. To rut you like I loathe you.”

As he whispers to you, his hand drifts and joins yours over your clit. He urges your hand out the way and gives your soaking pussy an open handed tap, that leaves you reeling. Clit stinging.

Your animalistic moan eats into his palm all slippery. Your eyes flutter in your head.

“Or is it you prefer my sweetness? How I would drag you to the edge of the bed, and feast on your cunt for days? Lick you so slow and tender, digging my tongue in you, call you by loving names, hold your thighs open and eat, until you flood my mouth.”

Another moan of yours sinks into his hand. It’s over your mouth once more. It sounds suspiciously like the warbled shape of his name. He tempers you with another little slap that makes you lurch.

He hums against your neck as pleasure begins to bend, and dip, and take him too. Drawing the same opium daze out of him. The ludicrously loud wet squelch of your cunt is signifying your climax is bearing down fast, also.

He buries his mouth in your shoulder as his strokes get harder and faster. Crumpling your body into the wall before you both. Strands of thread plucking under your nails. White knuckles. Drooling in his hand.

He’s cursing, spewing out filthy whispers and groans, because you get so crushing tight when you’re about to cum. Doesn’t relinquish his hand clamped on your mouth. Nor your clit. He’s pinching it and rolling under fingertips and you’re going mindless. Brain wiping out.

“Yes my love. That’s it. That’s it- fuck.” He pants as he feels you spasm and snap down on him.

Scream bitten in his palm. Spurt of your release slicking his cock, rolling down the tight sac of his balls too. He pounds even harder to chase his own release, and tears bite the corner of your eyes. Cock piercing somewhere so deep inside you it’s fiery bliss. Punching a spot that just makes your whole gut melt.

He sinks deep and thrusts hard. Fucking the hard beast of his orgasm so far inside you. You’re held up, back pasted to his chest as you’re licked entirely in sweat and sagging to the wall with a blissed out sigh. Muggy wet across his palm. Cries melt into his skin.

Your nails bite into his coated arm. The other snagging the tapestry. He takes his hand away and his lips retrace your ear. Indulging himself in the last few spasms of your climax as it fizzes away. Slowly dripping the evidence of the encounter down the insides of your thighs, and his.

“Fuck me-“ You rasp out. Voice still laced with pleasure. Airy and dancing on a laugh too. An unbelievable one. He loves it when you go all gooey and soft. It’s so unlike your usual hard as steel state.

“There’s not going to be a room in this palace we’re going to leave unsullied is there?” He asks you.

“I highly doubt it.” You preen. Lower lip caught between your teeth as he finished petting gentle circles around your clit. Cupping your whole peachy shape in his hand. The short fuzz of your curls nestling against the arc of his palm.

“Now I really feel like I should be in church. On my knees. Praying our shared sins away to the Patriarch.” He said. Ghosting his plump lips down your ear.

“You’ll need to be on your knees for eternity for marrying the likes of me.”

“I don’t plan on atoning for anything regarding you. Tsarevna.” He insists as he scoops you in.

Kisses you once before he pulls back. You fight to right your clothes. Feeling him slip further and further down your legs. You fix your skirts. He rights his breeches. And hastily does up all those buttons.

“Enjoy your stag merrymaking.” You offer with a sly grin. “Try not to get carried away with your rutting in those remaining hours of singledom.” You tease, with flirt skated on your voice.

You thumb the corner of his mouth where he’s all spit wet. Looking at you like you’re every sort of devilish temptation he’s been warned to resist.

“Although if you share this gorgeous cock with any of those painted whores. I will have to punish you.” You sharpen your already pointed eyes at him.

“I think my sore head tomorrow will be punishment enough.” He skims his hands over your back. Settling in the slope of you there.

“Good boy.” You wrinkle his coat where you grab it in a fist and drag him in for a kiss. Devouring and sloppy kiss that makes sparks shoot to your knees and throb your veins.

When you’re done with him you rudely pull away and he stumbles. Kiss drunk. It makes you grin.

You slink away. A long straight walk along the corridor, aiming in the direction of your rooms. Best you snap to action before his mother sends someone to root you out.

He watches every step as you leave him aching, heart pounding war drums in his chest for more, blood fired. He wants you again as he admires the sway of your hips that was definitely deliberate.

“I do so enjoy the length of these hallways.” He calls in flirt after you.

You cross your hands behind your back and turn over your shoulder and smoulder at him.

“Careful. Tsarevich. I’m a taken woman.” You purr at him. Laughing as you glide away. Biting your lip.

“So I’ve heard.” He calls at your retreat.

~

He’s so drunk. He’s so beyond drunk he doesn’t think he’s ever felt a sensation like this before. Such a loss of faculties and control.

His head is swimming. A whirling drag that doesn’t keep up where he moves. When he turns his eyes it’s all blurred distortion.

Gorky kept pressing drinks to his hands. Abramov made rousing toast after toast which ended in all the men breaking into jeers, and slamming their emptied vodka glasses on the floor to the tune of his name.

The room is spinning endlessly. There’s bawdy chorus singing of a lewd folk song. The painted whores and their shrill laughter raising to brush the gold ceiling. He watched Count Orlov across the room perch one on his knee. Her dress was petal pink. Undone at the low bodice. Lips cherry red. He stuffed his hand up her skirts as she nibbled on his ear.

They kept smirking at him all night. The ladies. Some of them draped themselves across his lap. He shuffled away and the men roared laughter.

“Saving yourself for that firecracker of a Voronsky you’ve won?” Lord Petrova asks, slurring.

Paul won’t say that actually, yes, it’s something along those lines. He drinks til there’s nothing left in his glass.

“Enjoy the warm cunt of that plump Italian whore before you’re shackled to that fiesty bitch.” He barks out. Paul eyes him tiredly.

“Fetch me another drink, why don’t you.” Paul requested. Shoving his glass at the foul mouthed lord.

“That thing between your Tsarevna’s legs probably bites.” The man claps his shoulder and cackles as he walks away. Stopping to place an open handed slap on the ass of a whore stood drinking with his fellow nobles.

Paul glares. He gets this jagged feeling of protectiveness in his gut. Wants to stroppily tell him to fuck off and that your cunt is heaven and a fat oaf like him could never be so lucky.

Some are dancing to the sharp chirp of music. The air sways with songs. All of the men are as gone on drink as he is. It’s a riot of Russian revelry.

Lord Dymov stumbled up, smirked and clasped Paul’s very unsteady hand as he poured a great shaking glug of vodka into his empty glass. Spilled almost half of it all over his lap and hand mind - vodka soaked his breeches.

He tips it down his neck. Warmth fizzes low in his belly. His limbs feel too small and slick and he’s aching for sleep.

And you- he does so ache after thoughts of you. He’s laying back staring at the swirled gilding on the ceiling. How it fractures into patterns; into jewels and precious swirling white and gold. Like gem studded crowns and butter yellow autumn leaves twirling off the trees.

He doesn’t realise he’s speaking, a stream of words just dribbling out his mouth of how lucky he feels, how he’s going to be married. He’s going to have a wife. He’s going to have make heirs and spares, and all of this terrifying icy Russia will be writ into his future. Just like his father before him.

Gorky comes and hauls him up. “Come on my friend. I’d say you need your bed.”

“I need my wife.” Paul slurred with a thick and fat feeling tongue.

“She’s not your wife yet.” Gorky told him. Paul slurred something, snuffled, into his shoulder Gorky didn’t catch it.

He tries to stand. It’s like a newborn deer - knock kneed and incredibly ungainly - in his nice shiny soled boots over glass shards that crunch and crack under his weight. The floor is littered with broken glass from all the toasts.

It’s early by their standards. The party will continue on without its Prince. Slings an arm around his shoulder and dips to lever him off the chaise he’s sprawled on. Wig askew. Coat all rumpled. Vodka stained hands and mouth. They trip and stagger out the hall and along to the Tsarevich’s rooms.

Gorky hauls him through the doors and clumsily drops him on the bed. Discards the wig. Yanks off his boots. Off with the coat too. Leaves him sprawled on the mattress in his shirt and breeches.

“Sweet dreams, dear groom.” He sing-songs as he slipped out the pocket doors. Paul thinks he raised his hand to wave. He can’t be sure. His arms won’t follow his brains directions anymore. There’s fluffy-stuffy cotton where his limbs once were.

He sinks into the bed. The warm, lushness of his luxury bed. Stares at the heavy drape of canopy. It’s crushing sapphire blue weighing down his vision. Drowning him like the sea would. A sea of vodka. That sounded nice. That sounded like his salty, entirely alcohol laced bloodstream at the moment.

A slow knock rams against the inside of his very muzzy head.

He tells the door to go away.

“I don’t want to be disturbed.” Comes melting out his mouth off his tongue with the slowness of hot sticky honey.

The door opens anyway. It closes. He struggled to sit up on his elbows. Slanting vision tipping all over the place shows him the stretch of the door.

And you-

Stood there in a swathing lilac dressing gown. Hair loose. Silk ribbon tied around your neck. You’re stood there looking like some sainted angel whose walked right out a stained glass window in the church.

Botticelli’s Venus climbing out her shell and the waves. Skin stroked in candlelight like a glowing Raphael. La fornarina. La velata.

Paul finds his woolly tongue. “Tsarevna.” He nods his head. Belly erupting into a tangled hot jungle of his feelings for you. The drink seems to have amplified their intensity. His heart could crawl up these very walls it crashes so loud like waves in the cage of his chest.

You look at him with a mild expression of amusement. But there’s warmth there, too. A stunning amount.

“I take it your evening was pleasant?” You ask.

He nods. Taking in the state of your gown.

“Shouldn’t you have….more on?” He asks disguising a drunken hiccup in the middle of his sentence. His voice dips with it.

When he thinks about you walking through the palace for the guards to see you like that, he wants to go and have their eyes put out with a poker.

You smirk. He watches it curl up one side of your mouth. He thinks he hears harps.

“I was just thinking about all that bachelor fun you’d be having tonight.” You say as you reach for the sides of your gown. And slowly open them. Dropping your one item of clothing to the floor.

Paul’s eyes don’t know where to rest on your entirely naked body that you’re offering up to him.

Your nipples are hard. He watches the quake of your plump thighs where you move. The c-bout of your hip to waist.

You’re walking, padding slow, big cat slow, towards the end of the bed. Predator hunger glimmers sharp in your eyes.

“I wanted to make sure that you didn’t spend all night writhing under a painted whore. When you could spend all night under me instead.” You beam brightly.

“Did I make you envious?” He asks in sheer alarm in those big brown eyes. Like he’s looking for the matching puzzle pieces.

You narrow your eyes. Tilt your head. “Maybe a little. I told you. I’m a bitch and I don’t care for sharing my husband-to-be.”

“I didn’t go near them.” He insists boldly.

“Aren’t you sweet.” You coo.

Paul’s certain his tongue has shrivelled to dust. It’s taken his brain with it. And every drop of blood in his body rushed, beating to somewhere entirely south of his head.

You stand right between his legs. Kneeling yourself onto the floor. Soft antique rug catching your knees. Trailing fingers up his thighs.

You rip open his breeches. He squirms. His lungs cease to function. It’s like he’s breathing in claggy sand.

“May I suck your cock, my darling?” You ask with a genuine panthers grin.

He actually shivers when you ruck the clothing down his hips. Freeing that gorgeous cock laying flushed with blood up against his thigh. Head already leaking for you - shiny even in the dozy gold low light.

His mouth falls open when you suck him deep into your mouth. You twirl your tongue around around the swollen pink tip like the taste of him is your favourite thing in the world. It is. You moan at the heat of him. At that taste.

You suck him deep. An obscene gargle where he jams into your mouth. You’re flushed with pride when he bucks off the bed. He cant control himself. He’s humming and squirming from that strong hungry suction.

You pull off him. Lap the head with kitten licks. Then swallow him again. Tears prick your eyes when you relax enough to nudge him right down.

You flick your eyes up at him through your lashes. Lips glossy red. Eyes vibrant and watering with each slide and glug that comes so lewdly out your mouth. Your nose brushing against the short sweat-damp curls of his groin.

He’s jammed his fingers into your pretty hair. He can’t contain himself. He’s a mess.

Laying back on this bed and just sloppily fucking his hips up into your face. Calling for god in every way he knows how. Praying and stumbling, cursing.

“Oh my love. Your mouth, you’re so- better than any whore- even better cause you’re all mine. Christ.”

You pull back off him with a pop before he can spill into you. He follows your pull back with a thrust of his hips. Looking at you with shining puppy puddles for eyes.

You grip him by the base and lick a hot stripe right up him. Collecting one last taste.

You climb onto him and straddle his waist. Run your nails right up his chest. Digging in just a little - for fun.

“I did think you might want to fuck a Voronsky. One last time.” You purr. Sitting on his thighs. Your eyes gleam, it looks wicked. Snake eyes sharp. Sly smile.

He’s definitely fucked.

~

My taglist for the babes; @ceriseheaven @indouloureux @stiegasaw @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @poppy-metal @munsonswhore86 @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-tittie @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt @thincrusttheworks @manicpixiedreamcurl @therosietoesy @fanficappreciationblog @thicksexxualtension @tvserie-s-world @sharp-and-swift @dadsbongos @2clones-1kamino @edsforehead @chcolateeyelver @seven-glass-kids @forever-is-not-for-everyone @creme-bruhlee @bkish @wayward-rose @wyverntatty @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @churchmuffins @chickpeadumpsterfire @choke-me-levi @greenishghostey @callmeloverr

[giveamadeuschohisownmovie]

Leaked lines from "Resident Evil 9":

Rosemary Winters: Admit that you wanted to get rid of me the whole time!

Chris Redfield: (pause) Jill knows this area better—

Rosemary Winters: Agh, fuck that— (stands up, turns away from Chris)

Chris Redfield: Well, I'm sorry! I trust her better than I trust myself! Is that what you wanna hear?

Rosemary Winters: (turns around to face Chris) Stop with the bullshit! What are you so afraid of?! That I'm gonna end up like your S.T.A.R.S. team?! I can't get infected! I can take care of myself!

Chris Redfield: How many close calls have we had?!

Rosemary Winters: Well, we seem to be doing alright so far-

Chris Redfield: And now you'll be doing even better with Jill!

Rosemary Winters: (long pause) I'm not him, you know.

Chris Redfield: What?

Rosemary Winters: Carlos Oliveira told me about Piers Nivans. And I—

Chris Redfield: -ROSEMARY! You are treading on some...mighty thin ice here.

Rosemary Winters: I'm sorry about your teammate, Chris...but I have lost people too.

Chris Redfield: You have no idea what loss is!

Rosemary Winters: ...everyone I have cared for has either died or left me. Everyone— (pushes Chris) fucking except for you! So don't tell me that I would be safer with someone else because the truth is, I'd just be more scared!

Chris Redfield: ...you're right. You're not my daughter...and I sure as hell ain't your dad. And we are going our separate ways.

[renhaswritersblock]

Kinktober Day 1: Facesitting||Anonymous Sex - Johnson

Word Count: 2174

Warnings: Oral, overstimulation, faded sex, slight angst

A/N: Hello! So, I kinda got a bit carried away with this one *looks at the word count* hehe. But I hope you enjoy reading this fic. Was a bit hesitant at first while writing this smut, but with a few readings from a couple of friends, I continued writing! It's sort of unfinished, a work in progress. The rest of the kinktober day's will probably be short, not sure yet. I have a few exams this week and work is being a cunt, so the writing will be delayed for a short while, sorry. Also, I refer to Johnson in this fic as "The Man" cause of the anonymous sex part. Anyways, again, hope you enjoy reading! Let me know what you think. I do accept feedback/criticism, just don't abuse that power. And I hope ya'll are having a wonderful day. -Ren

~~~

“So, do you mind telling me where the hell we’re going, Frankie?” the strawberry-blonde glanced over at her friend sitting beside her, gripping anxiously at the steering wheel.

Frankie had her head leaned halfway against the open window of the moving car. Feeling the cool summer-night breeze hit her face while her hand traces circles on her wooden thigh. A small yet noticeable grin leisurely forms on the brunette’s face, thinking about tonight’s plans. She had been looking forward to this night for some time, finally be able to get away from the Bang-a-Rang - a place she once called home but is now a prison - and go wherever the river takes her.

“Hello? Earth to Frankie.” Frankie opened her eyes, turning her head swiftly towards the calling of her name. “Are you going to answer my question? Or do I have to turn the damn car around and drive back?”

Frankie pressed her lips together, letting out an exasperate sigh. “You worry too much, V,” she finally replied in a soft, choleric voice.

“No shit,” V retorted, “I rather not have Aunt Rosemary or Dennis be on my fucking ass if you’re doing something that could get us in trouble. Or worse, killed.” She glanced once more at Frankie with a furrowed brow. The brunette rolled her eyes with a snarl, glaring back out the window, head resting in hand. The pale broad’s narrowed eyes dropped into a pitiful look, sighing as she turned her attention back on the road. “Look, hon. I’m trying to be there for you more and back you up, but you can’t just leave me in the dark. You know what happened last time, fuck, it scared the living shit out of me.” Frankie’s eyes darted down at her wrist, seeing the visible dark-faded bruises wrapped around her like a cuff. Her face scrunched mournfully at the memory, remembering how painfully tight those bastards tied the chains. “I don’t want you to die, Frankie,” V finished, becoming teary-eyed.

The strawberry-blonde jumped at the gentle touch of something weighing on her shoulder. Looking over, she saw the olive-skin hand belonging to Frankie, giving a light squeeze for reassurance. “Didn’t know you cared this much about me, V. Thanks,” Frankie gave a half sympathetic smile, V returning a similar smile. “But you should save that melancholic shit-talking for your butch when it gets close to war,” She quipped, making V scowl and slap Frankie’s hand off her shoulder.

“Fuck you, bitch.” Frankie couldn’t help but tilt her head back and release a cackle as V continued staring angrily at the road.

“I’m just fucking with you, puta. You know I love you.” The brunette adjusted herself in her seat, now sitting up straight. “Anyways, a little birdie sent me a note to meet them at this motel in town,” Frankie pulled out a wrinkled note from the pocket of her shorts, handing it to V, “Mira. Thought I could -you know- check it out.” V quickly snatched the piece of paper, silently reading it while keeping an eye on the road.

In town only for tonight. Meet me at the Woodland Motel at 8 pm sharp, don’t be late. See you there.

Ps. bring the thing XO

“The thing?” V quirked up a brow, turning to Frankie with a puzzled expression. All the brunette could do was shrug at her response, fixing her spaghetti strap. V scoffed as she shook her head in disbelief, “Do you even know who you’re meeting? It could be some crazy lunatic who’ll bash your brains out or make you end up in a tub full of ice with a missing organ!” Frankie reached to grab the note out of her friend’s hand as she was waving it around in the air. “Honestly, Frankie. Do you not see the red flags here?”

“Nope.” The brunette answered with a popping sound on the p, “Plus, I know him. Known him for a pretty long time. And besides-” she bends down, tracing her fingers on the smooth wood of her prosthesis. Finding the split crack, she gently pulled at it to reveal a hollowed compartment and a revolver nestled inside. “-if I ever am in danger. I always have this.” She took the gun out of its chamber, swaying it in the air.

---

Lighting another cigarette, the man watched from his car as the brunette struts out of the front office towards the parked convertible, bending down to lean against the car’s open window of the driver’s side.

The last time he saw her, her shaggy hair was long and vibrant, reaching down to her backside, her bangs acting as curtains to shield away her flaws, as she called it. Now her hair was short - below the ears and sleek, it reminded him of Betty Boop.

It was unclear what she was saying to her friend, but not even a minute passed when the convertible came to life and started to drive off, leaving the girl wiggly waving goodbye. Once the car was out of sight, she twirled in the direction of her room.

He couldn’t help but stare longingly at her ass. How her shorts hugged tightly around the brunette, revealing more of her curves and backside. Even her tight-fitted tank top that displayed her womanly busty’s made the man’s cock twitch as they bounced merrily.

When she entered the motel room, the man waited a couple more minutes, taking one good draw of his cigarette puffing out a cloud of smoke before exiting the vehicle. Throwing the cig on the ground, he swaggers across the street, taking out a spare room key from the pocket of his blazer, and approached quietly to the door to room 6.

---

Frankie let out a faint moan, feeling a wave of pleasure overtake her as she played frantically with her clit. Her face growing red hot, firmly cupping one of her breasts, whimpering lowly when she twisted the nipple to feel the burning friction and pressed down on a particular spot of her clit that made her see stars.

After she stepped inside the room, the brunette did not waste time quickly disposing of all her clothes and hopped daintily on top of the bed, not even bothering to turn on the light. She wanted to start slowly, gradually roaming her hands around her body and steadily rubbing her slit on the outer layer of her boxers, but the brunette was impatient. Hungry for the pleasure that would push her over the edge. Intimacy she hadn’t felt for a long time.

Now, sprawled out on the bed, Frankie writhed in frustration, her free hand clenching the pillow below her head as she concentrated on the small squelching sounds of her pussy from teasing her bud. Eyes shut tight, biting back her cries of bliss. She could feel it rising, the knot in her stomach tightening, aching to be released. Yet Frankie refused to, not wanting to climax so soon. Not without him.

She wondered where he was. Wishing -fuck- begging for him to show up and claim her, ruin her, make her a mess. Turning her head toward the nightstand, she saw the red numbers illuminate from the digital clock reading 8:22 pm. Maybe he was running late. The river always kept him busy and distracted, slowly drifting him away from her, leaving her to sink further into the watery depths of the current to drown. Maybe she was set up, that this was another one of the pin-up’s sick jokes to get back at her. Frankie’s chest ached tightly at the many dejecting thoughts consuming her, stopping and removing her hand out of her boxers. He’s not showing up, Frankie thought, tears beginning to cloud her vision.

Suddenly, a pair of hands swiftly grabbed her by the leg and thigh, pulling the brunette down at the edge of the bed. Frankie released a startled squeal, opening her eyes widely to see the dark outline of a man hovering above, two dimly lit orbs longingly staring at her. She gazed back up at the man with a slack-jaw, blushing. Wondering how long had he been here, watching her touch herself soundlessly. Her breath hitched, jolting when she felt the cold but comforting touch of the man, delicately tracing her slender frame. Sending her body trembling every time the tip of his fingers draw near a sensitive bit. He moves down to her breasts, burying his face between them, giving small pecks and soft bites of reassurance that left the brunette flush, turning her head to the side biting her fist to hold back the moans. Noticing this, the man then latched his mouth onto one of her nipples. Frankie hissed and jerked at the pleasurable shock as he sank his teeth into her, granting a loud moan to escape from her lips. She could sense the man looking up, smirking smugly. He repeated his action one more time, greedily wanting to hear her whines and soundless beggings.

Hooking a finger on the waistband of her boyshorts, he steadily tugged the fabric down, opening her legs to fully exposing her wetness. The brunette’s breathed heavily as the man left a trail of tender kisses, going down between her legs. Before he could press his lips against her heat, his hand brushed her thigh accidentally, making the girl flinch and back away out of instinct. He looked up at her with a furrowed brow, questioning what he did to make her panic and flee so slightly. Then it hit him. His eyes darted back at her leg and at the wooden prosthesis still strapped onto her mid-thigh, realizing the mistake he made. He looked back up to her, kissing her other leg apologetically, signaling that he wasn’t going to do anything she was thinking of again. Frankie mumbled an ok before moving hesitantly closer, carefully leaning back and opening her legs once more.

Immediately, he sinks his face into her cunt, dragging his tongue up and down her slit to savor her juice. Frankie whined and stirred, arching her back at the feeling of him vigorously eating her out. As his mouth focused on engorging her clit, he worked two fingers into her hole, perfectly sliding inside her.

The brunette choked out a moan at the intrusion, grabbing ahold of the bedsheets as he slowly dragged his fingers out and quickly shoved them back in, setting a rough pace that hit her g-spot with every thrust. Her hips began to move to meet his fingers and tongue as he proceeded to fuck her, picking up his pace and going knuckles deep. She felt pressure build in the pit of her stomach, increasing by the second. With a brisk roll of his tongue over her clit, Frankie arched her back and spasmed into a powerful orgasm.

“Oh, f-fuck!” Frankie’s eyes rolled back as her body shook violently, huffing out of breath at the sensation.

When the brunette came down from her high, she thought that was the end of it. Only for the man to grab both her hips and pulled Frankie closer to his face, continuing to burrow his tongue into her, repeatedly hitting her sweet spot. Frankie tensed up at the feeling of being stimulated again, bracing for another climax that was closing in. She reached down to try and pull his head away from her. To no avail, the man moving it away by extending his hand out to hers, fingers intertwined. No matter how many times she squirmed away from the man’s face, he would always go forward and proceed to work on her cunt, digging his nails into her skin. Then the brunette made an attempt to roll over to detach his lips from her folds, but it only flipped him over to his back, pulling her to sit on his face.

“S-stop. I-It’s too -fuck- It’s too much,” The brunette arose, gripping at the man’s hands as support, as well as to pry them open, “Fu-Fuck, I’m gonna- AH!” She cried out, snapping her head back as another orgasm came crashing shockwaves of ecstasy into her. The man emitted a mm, parting his lips away from her snatch to breathe. Frankie took it as an opportunity to free herself from him, wearily getting off and slumping next to the man on her back, also catching her breath.

Not even a minute had passed when she heard the metal clang of a belt and looked down to see the silhouette of the man seated upwards. He began to remove his pants, tugging them down to his knees, and turned to face the brunette.

“Just give me a minute.” She responded with a raspy voice, lifting herself gradually. Frankie perched at the side of the bed, unclasping the leather strap of her prosthesis. Removing her leg, she leaned it against the wall and crawled back to the middle, spreading out to present herself to the man. With a slight close-lipped smile, she purred, “Ready when you are, cariño.”

[binniesthighs]

hello stranger | reader x changbin |

Part 3 

Pairing: self insert, female reader x seo changbin, female reader x han jisung 

Genre: strangers to lovers, fluff, smut, angst 

Tags: (of this part) college au, rapper!changbin, rapper!jisung, artist!reader, establishedfwb!jisung, skz side characters, explicit language, conflicting feelings angst, reader has past trauma/trust issues (implied), fingering (f receiving), multiple orgasms (implied), fluffy n’ intimate body touching (this is a thing I think lol), lil bit of nipple play, seo changbin being the soft soft dom of my SOUL 

Word count: 4.6k 

Chapters 

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

ding-ding-diNG! 

Your teeth chattered, battling the early morning frigid air. White wisps of your shaking breath vaporized in front of you. Your arms were tightly wrapped around your chest and your knees bounced with a little dance to keep your blood flowing. 

[02:29] CB

me: where the hell are you? are you coming down? 

Your dry and cold fingers typed out the words hurriedly on your phone screen. One more time, you smashed your finger on the buzzer button. You figured that if he had fallen asleep after inviting you over, you would kill him. 

“Come on, come on,” you hissed into the open air. 

Thick footsteps came clomping down the stairs from the other side of the frosted glass door, and your attention quickly whipped over. 

As expected, he had adorned himself in nearly all black clothing. Nevertheless, he had thought to pull out his silver chain over the padded coat with white stripes down the arms. 

“Took you long enough. Let me in, I feel like my toes are frozen.” 

Changbin’s eyes cast down to your thin canvas sneakers you had put on in your haste, which were now covered in snow. 

“You should have worn better shoes then. Lets get going.” 

“--Get going??” 

He swung the door behind him closed and it locked with a little click. 

“We’re going somewhere?” 

“I’m hungry.” Changbin simply announced, then took off walking down the block. 

“I thought that--” 

“--Keep up. It’s not that far.” 

He led the two of you onward, and you snuck one more look up at him and the way that the snowflakes got tangled in his hair. 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

“Here, be careful, it’s hot.” 

After brushing off the ice crusted bench, Changbin presented to you a giant bowl of steaming noodles so large you guessed you could keep live fish in it. The smell of the broth was dreadfully nostalgic and was full of all of your favorite ingredients, almost as if he had known exactly what you would’ve ordered. You couldn’t help but feel giddy while the steam wafted up your nose. 

You wondered with full eyes, “Oh my god, what is this?” 

“-The best thing that you’ll ever have in your life. You might as well thank me now.” 

You pulled the little heater closer towards the two of you with radiating orange coils. Changbin didn’t skip a beat sitting right down next to you, letting the fabric of both of your coats intermingle. 

“This is my favorite place in the city. Their recipes really remind me of my mom and grandma’s.” 

“Well I’m really excited to try.” You blew off a handful of noodles steaming into your nose while Changbin expectantly watched you hork it down. 

“So?” 

You covered your chomping mouth with your hand. “So, so good.” 

“Hmm.” He scoffed, then there was that smug little smirk of his. 

You thought to yourself that it was kind of cute. 

The two of you sat quietly together, watching the silent sounds of the snowfall on the road in front of you, following the cars that passed. Over time, your body seemed to gravitate: bit by bit and piece by piece, closer to the boy next to you. 

Changbin set down his metal chopsticks with a tiny clink on the table. “So, are you going to tell me about yourself now?” 

“Me?” 

“Didn’t I say last time I wanted to know?” 

You remembered, but this time you couldn’t as easily kiss away the questions on his lips. 

“How do you mean? There isn’t too much to know.” 

“I don’t think that’s true. What is it that you study?” 

“You want to know what I study?” 

You nearly laughed in your surprise at the mundane question considering that the person sitting across from you had seen you turned inside out, a moaning and muttering mess upon first meeting, and he wanted to know what you studied? 

“Why does that matter?” 

“Matters ‘cause I want to know.” He simply returned, and gave you that look. 

Normally his eyes were stormy grey, like the way that the sky would sizzle with energy before lighting would crack. They clouded with severity that seemed dangerous when he was angry, or when there was something that he wanted. But, looking at you like this, there was no danger that they held. 

“Are you going to tell me or just keep glaring at me like that?” Changbin nodded to your nearly empty bowl. “Finish that. Don’t let it go cold.” 

You did as you were told--at least it wasn’t answering the question. 

“Fine. You don’t have to tell me. But tell me something else at least. Why were you at that show?” 

“My friends took me? My friend Chan is really into underground rap and stuff like that so he usually drags me and Felix with him. I don’t mind.” 

“See? Was answering that that hard?” 

You had forgotten, then laughed a little to yourself. “Chan actually was there to see you. He had heard about you from whatever those circles are. He was really excited.” 

“I’m actually glad you were there for that reason. For a second there I thought you might’ve said that you were there to see Han Jisung.” 

You nearly spat out your bite of noodles, and choked a little on the broth. 

“Guy’s a fuckin’ showboat and a cocky asshole. The girls at the shows are usually there for him.” 

“What the fuck? You didn’t just say that.” 

Anger bit like acid in your throat. 

“What? He is!!” 

It should have hurt more that he had assumed that you were one of the masses that would fall over their feet for Han Jisung, but it didn’t. Your chest twisted in knots knowing that the assumption was right--that hurt the most. You felt sick knowing now how he would look at you if he knew where you would stoop. 

“I’m complimenting you!! I’m glad that you don’t waste your time on assholes like him.” 

“Since when do you get to pass judgement on who I do and don’t spend my time with? -And aren’t you one of those same assholes? Up there on that stage, what makes you think that you’re any different from the rest of them?” 

“I mean...I like to think that I’m not--” 

Your eyes rolled back so far it might’ve hurt a little. 

“You’re all the fucking same. I’m so fucking stupid.” 

The words quietly fell off your lips like venom. 

“We’re all?” What are you talking about?” 

“And what the hell is this with trying to get up all in my business? We fucked once Changbin, what more do you want from me? You think I owe you something now? I’m not falling for that again.” 

The crunch of your footsteps padded the snow when you turned out of your seat to speed away from him as fast as you could, and as far as you could. 

He was the unbelievable one. 

“Stop! I don’t get what you’re talking about. Falling for what again? You’re not making any sense! And no, I don’t think that you owe me something. I’m sorry if you thought that. I’m just--” He grabbed at your arm. 

“--WHAT?” you tore his hand away. 

“Is it a fucking crime to fuck someone and then give a damn about them? Ever heard about that happening?” 

In your life? 

Something terrible and suffocating rose in your chest that felt like a sob that you had held in for much too long. 

“Listen.” Changbin approached you closer, carefully, that look softening. “It’s freezing out here, it’s late. We...don’t have to talk about it any more. I’ll take you back to my place, I’ll call you a cab, you can go home? Okay?” 

Changbin poked out his arm looped in his pocket for you to link up to. 

You didn’t need his help when you knew the way. 

╚ ——————————————— ╝ 

Rosemary and cedarwood again. It was like it was everywhere. It was in the hoodie that he insisted that you put on and all entangled in the fabric of that blanket that he draped around your shoulders. Had you remembered what it was like under the covers of his bed, it was likely there too. 

“Warming up?” 

The bed bounced a little where he sat next to you with the tips of his ears pink. As cold as you were, you were certain that he must have been colder. 

“I’m fine. Thank you.” You crossed up your cold feet under your legs. 

“20 minutes? Then I’ll call them?” 

You nodded, pulling up the blanket hem to your nose and covering half your face. 

Changbin breathed out a little laugh. “You look like a marshmallow.” 

“Gee, thanks.” 

“Not a bad thing.” 

His smile fell, and he focused on the silver rings twisting around his fingers. He fiddled with them, and you watched, neither of you knowing really what to do with the silence. After some resolve, he crawled over next to you, to lay facing your bundled up face.

At last, he sighed, “I could tell you about me. If you care.” 

Rather than respond, you merely kept on looking at the way the silver would glimmer in the dim yellow of the light. 

“Everything that I do, I do to rap and to perform. My parents never supported me doing this kind of thing and said that if I wanted to do it, I would loose their support. After a while, I realized their support wasn’t that valuable anyway if it was going to be over something that didn’t matter to me. I moved out after high school, I’ve been doing this ever since.” 

“You like it that much?” 

He cracked his fingers, “Sometimes you just know what it is that you’re gonna spend your life doing. For me, it’s this.” 

Your eyes fell to your own hands which still were speckled with little flecks of acrylic. 

“I know what you mean.” 

“You do?” 

“I...paint. And stuff like that. It’s not my major, it could never be, but I feel like that when I’m mixing the colors together and it’s just right. Helps me get the thoughts outta my head.” 

“Yeah...it’s exactly like that.” 

In the warmth of the blankets, you felt a yawn escape your lips and your eyes grow heavy. Your vision had grown blurry, and your dry eyes begged for sleep, but you could still see the way that creeping little smile tugged at his lips. 

You thought to yourself that it was kind of cute. 

“Thank you for telling me something about you.” 

His voice was some kind of dreamy watercoloring of pale pinks and blues. You thought you had likely imagined it. The weight of his hand on your arm felt weightless too, why was it lingering here? His fingers tickled your ear while he swept your hair behind the skin. 

The way that he whispered, “You’re making me want to kiss you.” must have been some kind of dream too. 

Laying like this, right by your side reminded you for before, and the way that your brain had gone cloudy--you could’ve kissed him like that for hours. 

“You...didn’t stop yourself before.” 

Your challenge was all that he needed to take both sides of your face into his hands connecting himself to you incessantly, but gently. He spilled into your mouth kisses of sky blue and lavender, every single one more dedicated than the last. He kissed like he was dizzy and that you would make it all right for him, and like you were the one that he could find over and over. His mouth was blazing hot with warmth and he missed no part of you, moving on to kiss you in places you didn’t know needed the attention: over your bottom and top lip, in the corners of your mouth and the tip of your nose, carefully on the peach fuzz on your cheeks and the bone of your jawline. Each one was purposeful and sweet and melted into your skin snowflakes. 

His wandering hands were cold under the blankets, but you didn’t mind the sensation against your bare skin where he crept his way in, smoothing over the curves of your body. 

Changbin cascaded is way down, pulling you in by the hips closer to his own body. Your core tightened feeling his hands trickle over your waistband. 

“Can I?” He whispered into his kisses. 

You nodded: your exhaustion mixed with some state of unconscious desperation that you had entwined together, and you were completely at his mercy once more. 

“Yes. I’ve...wanted you to.” 

He popped the button and unzipped your pants with little effort, slipping those same cold fingers into the heat of your folds. You shivered with the two temperatures mingling and the pressure of his fingers on your slicked bud in little circles. 

All you could manage were a couple of attempts at forming some kind of words that would eventually get caught in your throat. With one hand, you clawed at the fabric of his tee, hoping just a little that he liked the way that your nails would dig into his skin. His digits mingled all in your arousal, and brought it back up to your clit to make it twitch. After a while he would let you throw your head back into the pillows to feel every little bit of it and focus only on the way that he would press his fingers in harder and faster, then tease you over with barely touching you at all. He would remove his fingers too, to admire the way that it would string between them, leaving you a writhing mess without him. 

“Bin, please, just wanna--” 

You didn’t need to finish your sentence before he granted your wish. He sped up for you, rubbing in perfect circles for your clit to throb under his touch, closer and closer... 

“Can I--?” 

He didn’t answer you, but instead, leaned down to fill your mouth with more kisses and maintained his pace with forearm muscles flexing slightly. 

Your orgasm was faster and much harder than you had expected: it rocked your whole body, from top to bottom where your legs thrashed and your toes curled. The muscles of your stomach tensed, and you felt your whole core spring upward as you came. Luckily, you remembered to be quiet and kept your breath short and sharp, letting only the tiniest of moans meet the air. 

Changbin helped you ride your orgasm out until you could take no more sensation, then stopped, snapping your underwear hem a little on the way up. He held you close as you caught your breath, snickering a little when your body would shake. Your euphoria calmed you down into an even more exhausted state, but the way that the endorphins coursed though you felt like a high. Greedily, the closeness and the way that your head spun made the word slip out of your mouth. 

“More?” 

Changbin said nothing while he indulged you and peppered your skin with kisses in all those places that you didn’t know needed the attention. He would smile into your lips each time that you would come undone; slipping deeper and deeper into him. 

“M-more. I just want...one...more.” 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

“Just skipping one class isn’t the end of the world. You know that you look like a mess right?” 

Minho, your assigned seat partner turned friend-in-suffering poked his pencil at the baggy black hoodie that you had forgotten to return. On the bus ride to campus, you had realized that you hadn’t taken it off. 

“I know, alright? You don’t have to remind me.” 

“You gonna tell me about it?” Minho poked at you once more with his teasing grin. You retaliated by raising your phone up as if to chuck it at his head. 

Behind the two of you, a group of two ambitious girls hushed as they organized their plethora of colored pens and highlighters. Minho bowed a little sorry in apology. 

His voice dropped to a whisper, “I’m assuming that this isn’t yours.” 

“I-it’s new. I just haven’t worn it before.” 

He scanned over the fabric and the little white brand on the left sleeve. “Huh. Must be a popular one I guess. I’m pretty sure that my one of my friends has the same one.” 

“--Will you lend me something to write on...and with? I...didn’t bring my stuff with me.”

“Really.” Your classmate tore out a piece of his notebook paper--a little extra loudly as well--just for those eavesdropping girls behind you. “You should’ve just not come.” 

To your left, your phone vibrated with the screen illuminated: 

Low Battery: 20% 

[10:39] 

felix: I can’t believe you. You went over there again? Didn’t you say that he looked at you weird or something like that?? What happened?? 

Your heart dropped a little remembering how you had pardoned Felix’s worried nagging and turned on the Find My Friends feature in your phone. 

“shit.” 

Your phone screen lit up the underside of your table as you frantically tapped through your settings to turn off the slide bar. In the corner of your eye, you had seen Minho take his phone under the table as well. 

[10:41]  

CB: good job leaving your keys at my place 

i can’t get them back to you until much later. i’ve got work. 

“shit.” 

me: i have work until later too 

and sorry 

CB: my roommate said that he could get them to you at 5. you’ll be at the library then? 

me: your roommate?? 

CB: relax. he doesn’t give a shit. 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

You read over the messages over and over, refreshing the little chat nearly every two seconds. Over the time waiting, your hand had grown embarrassingly damp, and your foot nervously tapped at the floor to the same tune that your chest thumped with your anxiety. 

This was fucking humiliating. 

Granted, you were no stranger to unsavory behavior, but somehow, this felt even worse. Furthermore, it all could have been avoided: 

What the hell had happened last night? 

It was becoming all too a common theme for you: you didn’t remember falling asleep, only waking up to the blaring of your alarm to those obnoxious Tardis sounds that were just a little too out of date...considering that you had long past all that Dr. Who stuff. 

Changbin had actually left the bed all to you, waking up some time a little before you from sleeping on the couch and offering you some horribly cheap tasting coffee. You still drank it. 

CB: just stand somewhere by the front door. i told him that’s where you’ll be. 

The library overlooked the main quad of your university. In the wintertime, the trees that encircled the usually grassy circle were reduced to craggy and bare fingers powdered in the white snow. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” You scolded yourself though clenched teeth. 

“--Y/n?” 

He had snuck up on you, coming from the right, rather than the front of the entrance. 

You squeaked out, “Oh fuck.” 

Minho twisted your jingling keys around his fingers. 

“This is...” Minho laughed out incredulously, “...a coincidence.” 

You clawed your keys from his hand with a hasty “Thanks.” 

His eyes scanned you up and down as if he was meeting you for the first time, which he certainly wasn’t. 

“The hoodie. Dammit. I should’ve known.” 

“I-I really need to get back inside, they might need me in th--” 

“--So you’ve been screwing him?” 

Your heart thumped even more painfully. 

“Wait, and you’ve been inside my apartment before and I didn’t even know?” 

“Well I didn’t know that you were his roommate!! I didn’t even plan on meeting any of you if I could help it!!” 

“So what is he, like, your type?” 

“HEY. I don’t mean to stay over, it kind of just happens...I didn’t even want to see him after the first time--” 

Minho scoffed then shoved his pink hands into the pockets of his navy and white striped bomber jacket. 

“Will I be seeing you around there now?” 

“--No.” You cut in. “You won’t.” 

Your classmate huffed out a visible breath, “You say that now, but I know that you don’t mean it.” 

“What the hell do you mean?” 

Minho rolled his eyes, then gave the top of your head a chastising pat. 

“If you’re gonna be over, you might as well bring snacks or something. No one in that damn apartment knows how to grocery shop for themselves besides me.” 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

Too many fucking coincidences. 

You had sat yourself at the exact same table that you had sat at the night before, but this time, you watched as it was Changbin who was standing behind the counter of the noodle shop, taking orders, and smiling much too widely for it to have been normal. He was even wearing one of those cutesy little aprons that the rest of the employees had: there was a little chicken embroidered in the corner next to his nametag. 

To anyone else, it made no logical sense why you had decided to show up there: but your frazzled brain still working off your embarrassment from earlier thought this was the best thing to do. You felt like yelling just to get something out of your body. It wasn’t even his fault that his roommate happened to be one of your friends. Your head however, made it his fault. 

He had clocked you from where you had sat fuming, not even looking phased at all. In fact, he had dished out for you one of those smirks. One of those stupid, cute smirks. 

“See you tomorrow.” He clapped his coworker on the back while he took off his apron. 

The shop door creaked out when he opened it. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here. You really wanted to see me that soon already?” 

You shoved the bundle of his hoodie from your hands to his. 

“Here.” 

“You came all this way just to give me my hoodie back? That and I’m assuming Minho told you that I work here.” 

“How come you didn’t tell me that before?” 

“Didn’t seem that important--” 

At last, you let yourself snap. “--You made a fucking fool of me today!! Do you know how awful it was??” 

“Ahhh Minho did say something about knowing you.” 

You had expected sympathy, but rather he teased you with that little cocky grin. Had you known any better, it was almost like he was admiring how flustered you had become. 

One, two, then three fat raindrops fell from from the sky and onto his parka, then the rest followed all at once. The bits of slushy and freezing rain barreled in suddenly and fell sideways. It slapped against the sidewalks and pattered on the shutters and gutters of the buildings lining the road.

“Great! This is just great!!” You pulled your coat over your head. 

Changbin grabbed at your hand without hesitation. “Come with me.” 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

“Open the door!! Open the door!!” 

Frozen bits of snow and rain matted your hair and dripped off into your collar; meeting your bare skin. Your entire body felt as if it had been plunged into a freezing cold ocean, and you shook with ferocity. By now, your jeans had completely soaked through with with water and the denim stuck to your legs. 

Changbin fumbled with his wallet and wet fingers, finally unlocking the door with that same, 

ding-ding-diNG! 

The heater in the little vestibule blasted you with heat upon your entrance: a welcome feeling to your drenched body. He had reached out for your hand to guide you to the elevator even though you knew the way. 

Water dropped off your bodies into the linoleum floor of the elevator and it got all muddled too by prints from your shoes. After, you followed him further into the apartment building, to the very place you had sworn up and down that you would never see again. You didn’t know how many more times you would have to say it out loud before you would actually obey your own words. 

“Fuck--it’s so cold.” 

Changbin clinked his keys into the brass keyhole in the long and dank hallway that had matted red velvet carpeting. There was an odd and old-looking stain in front of his door that you had noticed last time. 

“It’ll be warmer inside.” 

“Are you sure about that?” 

He didn’t need to, but he reached out to you once more to pull you through the doorframe. A sense of determination seemed to sweep over him, and you could just barely see that stormy expression cloud over his eyes. 

“Ah! Y/n! How nice to see you here officially at last!” 

Minho perked up from his book where he was cuddled up on one of those pleather couches in the living room. 

Changbin didn’t give you a chance to to respond, but rather tugged you away down the hallway to the bathroom at the very end nearest his room. 

“Changbin, what are you--” 

He slammed the door behind the two of you, then flicked on the lights at the exact same time as he crashed his whole body into you, flattening your back against the door and scooping up both sides of your face to run his cold lips over yours. His hands were just as cold, and the tips of his bangs dripped tiny droplets of water onto your forehead. 

In your shock, your hands were suspended in the air, but he just as quickly took them to wrap them around his sides. 

The wooden door rattled a little behind your back, but the sounds faded when he deepened his kiss: floating his tongue over your bottom lip and letting out a breathy little gasp along with it. 

“Fuck. You’re really good at making me want you.” 

His voice had turned grave with his want, and he never broke your gaze while he peeled off every single piece of your soaked clothing. His eyes ravished your bare skin riddled with goosebumps, and he immediately took to kissing into your shoulders and collarbones once he had access. You tried your best to help him take his clothes off too, but instead he pushed your hands away to do the task himself. Once he had finished, he connected his lips with yours. 

“Touch me.” He commanded of you. 

You found the request odd, but you still obliged him, starting by running your hands down this pecs then to his abs and around his waist where you scratched at the skin of his lower back. He did the same to you: tracing gentle fingers down your breasts, then going to kneed at them, tweaking the buds just slightly. It wasn’t for long until he encapsulated you completely into his arms, then drew a line into your spine with his ring finger. 

Your body warmed by the second: skin now set ablaze by his teeth grazing the skin of your neck. 

He drew you along with him, then turned on the water to the shower with a metallic sounding groan. Within a couple minutes the whole room filled with a dense steam. He lead you in to the small compartment, stopping too for a moment to watch the way that the water flowed down your body in little transparent veins.

“You’re perfect.” He whispered into the nape of your neck. 

The showering of water was too loud for you to hear, and it wasn’t like you were paying attention anyway. Your phone vibrated where it at fallen in your mess of clothes on the tiled floor. 

[23:27] 

jisung: what the hell’s been up with you the past few days? 

phone break or something?? 

you didn’t see the other texts I sent you? 

are you doing anything right now? 

...

are you 

ok? 

[pinkesthoney]

pink

relationship: Sub!Aaron Hotchner x 1stPOV!Reader

Rating/warnings: NSFW, nudity, masturbation

A/N: not beta’d/edited, so errors are probable : )

Summary: I thought Aar would be home for three days. I thought I’d have plenty on time to pamper him before he was called into a case. I should have known better. I’m sure Aaron will laugh about this….eventually.

So it was Friday and Aaron had just stumbled through the door after a long case that had ended so badly Aaron didn’t want to even talk about it. Jack was asleep, but that wouldn’t stop Aar from giving his boy a kiss on the forehead and sitting with him for a bit. In the meantime, I was getting a bath ready, knowing Aaron needed some extra pampering after this last case. Our relationship was a constant back and forth. Sometimes Aar was my sweet (or not so sweet) daddy, taking care of me in all the right ways. Other times he was my  sweet boy, letting me take care of him. It was unusual but it always balanced out. I could tell tonight was one of the night Aaron needed to give up control and let someone take care of him. Just as the bath was filled and I’d put in some lavender and rosemary, Hotch appeared, leaning against the doorway. I saw him visibly relax inhaling the calming steam. I took a moment to survey him. His shirt was wrinkled, and he’d either slept in it or hadn’t slept at all. His eyes had dark circles under them, leading me to believe it was the latter. His hair was more disheveled than usual, falling into his eyes. I stood from the edge of the tub and went to pull him into a gentle hug. He slumped into me and I braced myself so he could put more of his weight on me. We stood there fro a bit, just enjoying this first moment of connection together. It was what made our time apart bearable. “c’mon pretty boy, let’s get these clothes off you” I murmur into his hair, pulling a little at the hair at the nape of his neck. He grumbled a bit about how he was too tired to move. “I know honey, but you can’t get in the bath with your work clothes on. c’mon” I said, pulling him over to sit on the edge of the bed. The poor baby was so tired he almost fell asleep in the short time it took me to undress him.

When I was finally done and he was naked I handed him his clothes asking him to go put them in the laundry basket. Sleepily he did, meanwhile I striped down too, coming up behind him to drop my clothes in the basket with his. I took the opportunity to loop my arms around his waist and kiss along his shoulders and the top of his spine, loving the soft noises he made as he melted back into me. “c’mon sweet boy, let’s get you in the bath, I purred, slipping his soft velvet collar around his neck, locking it with its little gold-heart lock, and using it to pull him to the bathroom. I sat down in the tub first and pulled him in to sit with his back against my chest. Aar’s eyes slipped shut as I started running the loofah across his skin and working soap into his muscles. His breathing was staring to slow down and he seemed to be drifting in and out of a doze. While I washed him, I nuzzled into his hair and told him everything about what Jack and I had been up to since the last time we were here. Aaron loved hearing about all the boring details; how the grocery store was out of Jack and my favorite flavor of ice cream, the nice older woman and her dog that we met in the park, everything. So I told him everything I could remember as I worked the soap into his back, taking care to work out all the knots I felt there. Aaron’s favorite part was being rinsed off when I would pour water with the cup that was always by the tub. I think it made him feel properly little, like back when he was a child getting baths. With each round of rinsing I could see his shoulders relax further and further. Washing his hair was the hardest from this position. I had him tip his head back and used a washcloth to help keep his eyes dry as I soaked his hair and soaped it up. I spent a while just massaging his scalp and pulling lightly at his hair. The whole time I was telling him how pretty he was, how good he was for me, what a sweet boy he was. I loved seeing the blush creeping up his cheeks and turning his ears pink. As much as I enjoyed when Aaron was my big strong alpha, I wouldn’t trade this for the world. Getting to be the one Aaron was soft and gentle with. It was precious. Eventually, I rinsed out his hair and climbed out of the tub. I pulled on my fluffy robe and grabbed Aaron’s for him, pulling him up out of the tub and wrapping him up in it. Gosh he was so cute like this, cuddled into the fluffy collar of his robe, hair falling in his eyes, cheeks pink. “Ok cutie, go sit on the bed, I’ll pick you out some pajamas.” I say over my shoulder, heading to the closet.

I stopped at his soft voice “can––“ he pauses when I glance at him. Somehow his cheeks got even more pink. “Go ahead, bub” I encouraged him “can I wear some panties, please? and maybe one of your shirts..” his voice was so soft and my heart ached at how sweet he is. “yeah bub, I think we can do that.” I promise him with a smile. I returned dressed in a thin, loose sweatshirt and underwear with his clothes in hand. I had his stand for me so I could dress him, carefully pulling the lace panties up his legs, making sure he was carefully arranged in it so nothing was pinching him or falling out. He looked so pretty like this with his cock covered in pale pink lace. I ran a finger over him, tracing the bulge against the lace and loved the soft whines he made and loved watching him grow, pressing against the lace. He whined a little when I pulled my hand away, so I gave him a little peck on his lips. “arms up please” he raises his hands immediately and I stood on my tip-toes to pull the sleeves over his arms, laughing a little when his head finally popped through the neck hole. His hair was so cute like this, perfectly messy and soft. Aaron loved wearing my shirts–he claimed they were softer, which was probably true. Aside from his work and sport clothes, all the clothes in the closet were “mine.” I sent him to go lay down with a slap on his butt, which had him blushing a dark red. I grabbed a couple things from the bathroom before sitting down at his feet. Aaron might like to pretend he’s all tough and burly, but one of his secret pleasures was mani-pedis.

I took my time massaging his feet before getting to work filing his toenails into a soft curve and painting them a glittery pink. I blew on his toes to dry them, loving how it would pull a giggle out of him. By this point, I knew Aaron wouldn’t be able to stay awake for much longer. That didn’t stop me from teasing him a bit. wanting to give him a manicure, I just had to straddle his hips to be able to reach both hands. It was the most logical option, really. At first, Aar was too sleepy to realize what I was doing. I felt him notice just as I was finishing massaging his left hand. I could feel him growing harder beneath me, whimpering a little as he tried to stop himself from rutting his hips up into my heat. “It’s ok baby, you can move if you want, that’s a good boy.” I cooed, encouraging him by grinding my hips down a bit. That was all he needed to start rutting up into he in earnest. His whimpers grew needier and needier, throwing his head back against the pillows. I continued taking care of his nails, cleaning up his cuticles, shaping his nails, and painting them the same glittery pink. When I’d finished with the first hand I could see Aaron was getting more desperate, hair falling across his furrowed brow. “you think you can hold on until I’m done baby?” he pouted a little but nodded. “good boy” I purred, which made him whine more. I took my time massaging his right hand and doing his nails just as carefully as his left hand. When I was done I held his hips down as I moved further back to sit on his thighs away from his desperately rutting hips. He couldn’t even control his needy whimpers. I would feel bad if he didn’t look so pretty like that. I checked to make sure his nail polish was dry first before telling him what I wanted. “Now pretty boy, touch yourself for me. I want to see you cum all over those pretty pink nails.” The words were barely out of my mouth before he was desperately pawing at his lace panties, pulling himself out and fucking up into his own hand. He was such a beautiful sight like this, desperate and hungry for release. His eyes were screwed shut and that just wouldn’t do, so I grabbed his chin. “I want you to watch yourself bub. I want you to watch your pretty little cock cum all over those glittery nails.” He let out a desperate cry and only lasted a few more pumps before he came in pretty white spurts. I was mesmerized with the way it dripped down his fingers, loving the way his sparkly nails looked covered in his own cum. Goodness, he was pretty. I looked up and him, finding him slumped back against the pillows his a lazy smile on his lips. He was so close to falling asleep, it was precious.

Quietly I got up for a wet washcloth, cleaned him off, and tucked him back into his panties with a soft kiss to his bulge. He whined weakly, but I knew he loved be over-sensitized. I turned our lamps off and pulled his back against me, loving falling asleep with my soft boy. I should have known the quiet wouldn’t last. Far too early, Aaron’s emergency cell rang. (house rules were the work cell is off the whole time he’s home, and if any one calls the emergency cell there better be a damned good reason.) There was a child missing, they had to go now. Aar grumbled an apology and promised he would be home soon. I just nodded and shooed him into the closet to get dressed, clarifying that the panties stayed on. He blushed but didn’t argue. He got dressed quickly, gave me a kiss, and swung by Jack’s room before he was out the door. I sighed, missing him already. I didn’t complain though, I knew that saving people is what made Aaron Aaron. 

I woke up to possibly the funniest series of texts I have ever received in my entire life and a heavy Jack on my ribs.

[Crap.]

[You didn’t take it off. My collar, you didn’t take my collar off, I forgot to ask you..]

[and my nails, holy hell]

[MY NAILS ARE GLITTERY PINK]

[NO ONE HAS NAIL POLISH REMOVER AND MY NAILS ARE GLITTERY PINK AND I CAN’T TAKE OFF MY TIE BECAUSE I’M WEARING A PINK VELVET COLLAR]

[oh no.]

[I’m gonna get fired aren’t I?]

[no one besides the team has noticed yet..I’ve just been hiding my hands behind case files. Morgan is laughing at me and I can’t even intimidate him properly because I’m wearing GLITTERY PINK NAIL POLISH]

[how am I supposed to arrest our unsub with glittery pink nails???]

[also this collar is torture. Every time I think of it I almost get hard.]

[this is so embarrassing.]

[oh no..]

[am I into embarrassment??]

[alexa google humiliation kink]

[we’re talking when I get home.]

“Why are you smiling?” Jack asked sleepily

“nothing cutie, go back to sleep. How do pancakes sound?”

“pancakes!!!!” was Jack’s muffled reply with his face buried in pillows.

I chuckled, dialing Aaron on my way to the kitchen.

[tantoknives]

rice drama

once i made some porridge with some leftover rice we had and i spent several hours cooking down some beer, simmering a bouquet garni of thyme and rosemary in it, getting the rice to the right texture, and adding my combination of spices into the dish to make it just right

and as i’m serving my partner and i my other roommate (who’s already on thin ice) comes in like “oh can i have some” and i’m begrudgingly like “yeah sure” because i was planning on the other portion being my meal for the next day but i’m trying to be considerate

so we all sit down and i ask how they like it and my partner is like “yeah it’s really good!” and my roommate just kind of sighs and says

“well, it’s rice”

and honestly i could have slapped the bowl out of his fucking hands, like the way he said it after asking to have it, after i spent so much time on it– like i cannot describe the boiling anger i get whenever i even just think about it!! stupid fucking white boy takes my leftovers and says that kind of shit to me? disrespects mother rice?? rice is the best thing in the world!!

but also how fucking rude is that?? to ask for somebody’s food and make some stupid shitty little comment like that, like he pisses me off so much in general i hate living with him, he doesn’t know how to act ugh. then he kind of picks at his food and says “sorry, i’m being an asshole” as if that would excuse anything. i’m like “yeah, you are”

can i kill my stupid roommate over rice because i want to

[moonaft]

When Sorrows Come reactions

Spoilers: I did not get bingo.

25 squares, from left to right, top to bottom: 1. Malvic appears at the wedding 2. Sylvester attends the wedding 3. The High King or Queen gets elfshot 4. One of Tybalt's enemies from the short stories appears 5. Hope chests are relevant 6. Something is revealed about the False Queen 7. There's at least 3 Firstborn at the wedding 8. Someone calls Toby a kingbreaker 9. Dianda punches someone important 10. Toby drinks someone else's blood 11. August attends the wedding 12. Hirsent crashes the wedding 13. [Free space] Toby's dress gets blood on it 14. One of Tybalt's friends from the short stories appears 15. Eira is behind the trouble 16. Gillian attends the wedding 17. Lore about the Torquill family 18. Quentin's identity gets revealed 19. Sylvester doesn't attend the wedding 20. Someone mistakes Sylvester for Simon 21. Raysel's plotline moves forward 22. Toby learns about Tybalt's short story past 23. Someone gets elfshot for the second or third time 24. Toby insults nobility we haven't seen before 25. Lore about the Sollys family

Date: April 11, 2015, roughly 6 months after A Killing Frost. No mischief occurred around Christmas 2014.

Are nobles seriously inviting the kingbreaker in order to make contact with her mother who she pissed off during the divorce? Have they been paying attention at all?

Technically, Toby has never committed treason. She definitely didn’t commit treason against Rhys because she never swore loyalty to him. 

I think this is the first book that introduced Simon ahead of Sylvester and described Sylvester as Simon’s brother as opposed to the other way around. Sylvester is still on thin ice, by the way. There’s a reason I have both “Sylvester attends the wedding” and “Sylvester doesn’t attend the wedding” on the bingo card.

The Luidaeg denied Sylvester’s request to wake Raysel up - why? Did she want to get the wedding out of the way before Raysel’s trial and October’s next rolling emergency?

Yes, the Quentin problem when getting married at the High King’s knowe. Don’t change his appearance and everyone knows where the Crown Prince is fostered. Do change his appearance and everyone in Toby’s party now knows who the Crown Prince is.

“Dean Lorden is probably technically my brother now” woot.

Toby is voluntarily eating and drinking! After so many books of having food forced of her because she keeps forgetting to do so.

Confirmation that Toby officially owns her place and Luna can’t get Sylvester to reverse that decision.

Dean kissing a strange boy -> ah, they went with changing Quentin’s appearance and bloodline. And they went to the Luidaeg for it. Banshee, huh?

Poor Dean. Toby’s approval means something to him. And Toby continues to eat, good for her.

Yes, I too would love to know more about Sylvester’s Dark Years. Sylvester POV, when?

Dean has now officially heard that Oberon is back, and isn’t reacting. I have to assume the Lordens know the details behind how they broke August’s curse.

Oh Quentin, I love you.

Dean still thinks the Merrow descend from only Titania, but Pete confirmed in The Unkindest Tide that Oberon is her father.

Dean does not understand the value of landlines. Kids these days...

I had not considered that Toby and Tybalt’s wedding would be a historic event.

Surprise wedding date! It really couldn’t have been any other way.

Yes, who would have told Sylvester about the date?

Yep, calling Bridget and Etienne is the best option. And Etienne knows May didn’t tell Toby the date, interesting.

Dammit, Sylvester. I can’t cross that square off yet, he might redeem himself. And Etienne talking sense into Toby!

Did the fae make their kingdoms based on state borders? The West at least was based on SCA kingdoms and principalities. I wonder if Highmountain has a new Crown yet.

Good to know that Oberon can go where ever he wants in Faerie. He could probably bring Riordan back if he wanted to. Is Danny not coming? I can’t say I blame him.

Jazz knows about Oberon too.

I do hope August shows up at the wedding, it’s on my bingo card.

Huh, I knew that Ash and Oak aka New York was a place without fae these days, but I assumed some purebloods and changelings could still live there. Uncomfortably, perhaps, and maybe you couldn’t anchor a knowe there anymore, but I didn’t think it was actively hostile to every fae.

Hey, is that Lowri and Nolan? Nolan’s on guard duty, interesting.

Yes, the Ludiaeg could have married you at any time. Should have thought of that before everyone started offering you their knowe for the wedding.

Oh good they’re bringing Walther.

Makes sense Arden can’t come but she is sending Nolan. Nolan definitely is enjoying life these days.

Confirmation that Madden’s boyfriend is human and doesn’t know about the fae.

“I can go order her to arrest herself, if you’d like” Love it.

I have to assume the Tuatha Express is faster than air travel and not as tiring for the people who aren’t opening portals.

Nessa, the Gwragedd Annwn, a new species. As pretty as the Daoine Sidhe are to a nearly human Toby, wow.

And... she thinks the Luidaeg is Toby? I hope this isn’t a calculated insult. I know Quentin grew up with some bigoted people but this is deliberate.

And Oberon is apparently Tybalt?? What is going on her?

Kerry! We haven’t seen you since A Local Habitation. ‘There are no bad Dayes in this week” aww. I love you, Kerry.

Beacon’s Home is actually a Kingdom and not a Selkie-now-Roane holding? Cool.

It seems important that the Maples vs Ash and Oak decision was happening right before/during the American Revolution but I don’t know why yet.

“The ducal consorts are Daoine Sidhe”, yep both of them. 

“Sweet Titania, I love that woman [Dianda Lorden]” Still waiting for Toby’s bisexual awakening.

The Luidaeg confirms the Gwragedd Annwn are Black Annie’s descendant line.

Quentin confirms something’s wrong with Nessa, maybe she isn’t like this at all.

Whee, slightly more Stacy weirdness. I think Barrow Wights would be descended from Maeve, her illusions shouldn’t be better than Toby’s.

Tybalt is apparently descended from both Oberon and the Luidaeg, if his line comes from the Cait Sidhe Malvic sired with his Roane lover.

Confirmation that the Luidaeg can see the future, at least some of the time.

At least Aethlin and Maida seem happy to see Toby.

Maida doesn’t recognize Cass’s bloodline - interesting.

“Um, my boss is Queen Windermere, and my [human] graduate advisor is Professor Weinstein, and my parents are Mitch and Stacy Brown” Cass I love you.

Oh, Nessa isn’t Nessa.

Not!Nessa, holding Toby at knifepoint is not the detergent you think it is.

Toby has a new knife now, sweet. Not!Nessa is a Doppelganger, we haven’t seen one of those in several years. The one in Rosemary and Rue, who wasn’t Gillian?

“Archers,” “I was right about that?”

Perhaps Toby shouldn’t be the one giving orders to open portals, but Aethlin clearly isn’t doing it.

“I punched it in the face” Why do I have the feeling that’s going to solve a lot of problems in this book? And hey, this isn’t a Firstborn or Queen, so Toby got her wish of punching more punchable people.

“You don’t have the authority to order an arrest in my knowe.” Well, maybe you should give her that authority, High King of the Westlands who was almost assassinated.

“Purebloods forgot things, quickly, when they can’t see them anymore” Interesting.

“And even in a backwater Ducky run by a politically unambitious man” Shadowed Hills predates the Mists, Sylvester really just went as far as he could. Or maybe settled there once Amandine built her tower.

“Is he going to try to stab me? Is he better at stabbing than the last batch was at shooting arrows”? I love you Raj. I wonder if the local King of Cats will make an appearance.

Ah fuck, first dead body.

Toby having the most sense in this scene, I love it.

Did Aethlin basically make Toby a hero of the Westlands as well? “Our visiting hero”

Aethlin is not showing up well in dealing with security, nor are his guards.

“People who put deadly traps on doorknobs often forget the obvious, which is that it’s a good idea to lock doors.”

Three dead bodies? RIP Aethlin’s guards.

Only two dead bodies so far. Once Broken Faith had 4, I believe, but we’re only a third done. Good job on not dying, Caitir.

Gordon, hello. I thought the reference to ALH in the “books to re-read” was about the nighthaunts but didn’t expect to see her.

Looks like neither Nessa nor Honey are dead.

This poor Ellyllon doctor, welcome to Toby’s world.

Ah fuck, Tybalt’s elf-shot again.

Good thing Caitir’s a Candela. Thank you, Raj.

Jazz is apparently betting that Toby’s getting elfshot before/during the wedding, this is a girl after my own heart. As is May.

Walther has a fan, I love it.

The Bridge Trolls can search for clues if they want, I guess. We don’t need to worry about people messing with the crime scene anymore.

Toby’s sweet talking the knowe, that didn’t take long.

Toby, Quentin is never going to leave you behind even when he’s knighted and moves back home. He would sooner move the capital to SF.

Evening got her hooks into Aethlin back in 1906, huh?

“I am the breaker of the unbreakable” Yes you are, Toby.

Black Annis was originally named Ismere? I love the lore we’re getting in this book.

There are rumors that Quentin is Toby’s squire, probably started after OBF. The Beacon’s Home Selkies knew about him, after all.

All the Maeve descendant lines with dead Firstborn imprint on the Luidaeg, this is so cute.

So many reasons why Tybalt shouldn’t go looking for Toby as she walks up. Tybalt’s back!

Nolan is great, I love him. Aethlin’s reassuring Nessa, glad to see it.

How does Fiac know enough about Simon and Amandine’s marriage to have negative feelings about it? It sounds like he was around them to notice it.

The Doppelganger isn’t bringing the Revolution, what a pity.

Fuck, she can’t kill Aethlin now. Damn.

This is exactly the scene I wanted to see with a different Daoine Sidhe, but fine. The guards need more training.

Eira killed other seers than the Roane, did she? Did she want there to be no one who could guess her plans?

Toby thinks Maida is upset with her, while I think Maida thinks Toby is the only one she can trust.

Why do none of the Daoine Sidhe save Simon specialize in blood magic? They all suck at it.

“We need to interview your entire staff, and by ‘we’ I mean ‘you’, and by ‘you’ I mean ‘someone you trust’“ Toby’s got this under control.

“I’m sorry, was that disrespectful? I meant fuck you, Your Majesty.” Quentin is not holding back. Chelsea and Raj are literally eating popcorn while watching this. Despite what Toby thinks, she has a court of teenagers.

I wonder what the series would have been like if Penny was sent to Shadowed Hills with Quentin.

I’m glad Quentin got the chance to yell at his father, he needed it. Look, family drama that isn’t related to Toby!

Walther: “I carry the base ingredients [of elfshot] whenever I travel with Sir Daye.” I would too, Walther.

...Are the rest of Stacy’s kids also Seers?

Oberon exists to be more than background, apparently.

Confirmation that the Luidaeg is a century older than Eira! And the Luidaeg will know if she wakes up.

Yes, Toby gets her own court with all her squires and also brothers. Quentin, Raj, one day Chelsea, Peter if he can convince Toby to do it. She has two Seers, an alchemist and her favorite aunts and family in Saltmist.

So the Summerlands have suns as well as moons.

Oh hey, Julie, I thought you died off screen. We haven't heard from you in several books. They’re getting the band back toge- the High King got poisoned?!

“For example, it would be really unreasonable of him to die right now, thanks.”

“If this is where you want to suddenly remember the High King’s evil grand vizier who you just forgot to tell us about until now, that would be great.”

I thought Maida’s father was still alive?

Aethlin has survived his third assassination attempt in the past 24 hours, sweet.

Why did the Librarian call Fiac the Seneschal? He’s the Court Seer.

Oh, so Toby did settle her debts with Mag about her mom’s biography.

We’ve met Tybalt the Torquill family historian, now meet Yenay Ng, the Tybalt historian.

OK, I... didn’t see that coming.

I approve of Toby punching former King Shallcross in the nose. She should punch more nobles on screen.

Huh, I guess that’s where Eira was before she showed up in the Mists.

Is this guy Dawn’s father? The timelines sorta fit.

Aethlin has managed to not get poisoned or stabbed again, good for him.

Of course they enchanted the wedding dress to not get covered in blood. Good thing my ‘free’ space on the bingo card was “Toby’s dress gets blood on it” which was technically fulfilled with the first dress.

I assumed “wine-colored” meant white until it was described in more detail. I approve of dressing the wedding party in red - it will hide the blood.

Sylvester?!? Nope, Simon.

Aww, Simon gets to walk his daughter to the altar. He gets to see his daughter married!

“Then go. Get married. Be happy. You’ve earned it.”

And the wedding is finally on! The local Cait Sidhe are here! Surprise appearance by August!

“As did the man who looked heart-stoppingly like Simon Torquill, but absolutely wasn’t” Oh Sylvester, you made it after all.

I think this is the first time Sylvester’s been referred to in terms of Simon rather than the other way around.

Whoops, more assassins.

I see you, Simon, using your blood to fuel your transformation spells, just like your daughter. Followed immediately by Sylvester charging into battle. And Oberon continues to be background scenery.

Another guard’s death - 3 now? Maybe more?

“Now I have a longbow, motherfuckers, ho, ho, ho” Love you, May.

Badly attempted jailbreak is a bust. Toby’s dress remains pristine.

Surprise appearance by Gillian! I assume August tackled her to the ground when the arrows started flying.

Wedding is complete! Reception go!

I assume Etienne was instrumental in getting Sylvester to the wedding, not only physically but also by yelling at him about what an idiot he was.

Etienne is a little younger than Tybalt, good to know.

They’re going to Disney world without the kids, neat. Surprise August again! Good to know Helen’s seeing a therapist.

Galen has a crush on Poppy. I love this man that we will probably never see again.

Why is Simon a Count again? Shouldn’t he also be Duke Lorden? Does he get a lower title because he’s the second husband, like a courtesy title? Also, glad to see him and August being Lordens.

She hugged him!

Oh hey Sylvester. You could have started with “You make a beautiful bride” and avoided a shitton of trouble. You made it all about yourself. It’s better than if you didn’t attend at all, but man, Sylvester. You disappointed Toby and me.

“Once and future King of Cats”

She accepts the Lorden boys as her brothers!

What does Cliff think of Gilly spending so much time at Half Moon Bay? Does he think she’s in a cult?

Aw, May and Jazz are going to get married!

Oh hey Pete. Only two Firstborn at the wedding, can’t mark that one off. Nice blessing!

That cake sounds super delicious. Fuck, did Oberon give his knife to Toby and then not take it back? Toby has a replacement for her iron knife now?

Oh hi, Gilly. Your mother’s really excited to have you here. I love Quentin egging Toby into eating the cake. “Quentin pressed a fork into my hand, trying to urge me to get on with it.”

And the final blessing comes from Aethlin. He has got to do something to thank her for all her help in stopping the assassination attempts.

Afterthoughts: I am sad none of Tybalt’s friends and family from London/Europe attended. Morane was alive as of 1911, with no word on the others. Hermeline, if she’s still ruling in the Court of Fogbound Cats, has been ruling for nearly three hundred years.

On the other hand, we got a ton of Toby feels and secondary characters. Love the reactions of the Teen Squad.

What a good and heartwarming book.

Spots crossed off:

2. Sylvester attends the wedding 8. Someone calls Toby a kingbreaker 10. Toby drinks someone else's blood 11. August attends the wedding 13. [Free space] Toby's dress gets blood on it 16. Gillian attends the wedding 18. Quentin's identity gets revealed 22. Toby learns about Tybalt's short story past 23. Someone gets elfshot for the second or third time 24. Toby insults nobility we haven't seen before 25. Lore about the Sollys family

Spots not crossed off:

1. Malvic appears at the wedding 3. The High King or Queen gets elfshot 4. One of Tybalt's enemies from the short stories appears 5. Hope chests are relevant 6. Something is revealed about the False Queen 7. There's at least 3 Firstborn at the wedding 9. Dianda punches someone important 12. Hirsent crashes the wedding 14. One of Tybalt's friends from the short stories appears 15. Eira is behind the trouble 17. Lore about the Torquill family 19. Sylvester doesn't attend the wedding 20. Someone mistakes Sylvester for Simon 21. Raysel's plotline moves forward

I should note some of these are rather literal - Eira caused trouble in the back story but she wasn’t active in the main story like she was in both The Unkindest Tide (telling Torin to stop the restoration of the Roane) and A Killing Frost (taunting Toby).

[applsauss]

Lightning Bugs in July | I

THE END

Description: When it rains in Virginia, it is absolute -- the storm, the heat, the humidity. A rainstorm in September is the same as a firestorm in Europe.

Fandom: Band of Brothers


Pairing: 
Joseph Toye/Reader

Word Count: 
4.2k+

Warning(s): Derogatory Language. Nothing you wouldn’t see in the show.

When you close your eyes, you comfort yourself with your last easy memory. You'd been standing out on a gravel bank with your pants rolled up, up to your calves in the cool waters of the Potomac. Your eyes were closed, face turned up towards the twilit sky, and you'd let the cooling Virginia heat crawl off you like the setting sun. 

You remember thinking distantly of your home, which wasn't so distant at the time, and remember wondering idly if you'd end up regretting enlisting. Your thoughts were quickly carried away by the river current, however, and so you took a deep breath and thought instead on how you'd break the news to your family. 

When you finally opened your eyes, it was to the intermittent flashing of lightning bugs over the river, lazy and at the mercy of the breeze, in July.

xxx

This is one thing you know for certain: Joe Toye does not taste like love. 

Love tastes different on every person; it can be the flavor of caramel popcorn and sweet, sweet starshine from atop a ferris wheel, or the rosemary in fresh pancakes. It can ache like the sweet of iced tea, or stick in your mouth like a secret meant to be kept. 

Sometimes, it tastes like a quiet, earnest promise. Sometimes, the flavor fades into the taste of a broken one. 

These are two things you know for certain: Love tastes different on every person, and Joseph D. Toye does not taste like love when he presses his lips to yours -- but you kiss him anyways.

His eyes are ardent, they gleam in the twilight like twin lightning bugs, and the rest of him is kind in that he is unyielding. Every inch of space you give, he fills without preamble. There is something innate in him that overwhelms common sense. 

Ten minutes ago, you'd been deliberating over whether it would be wise or not to take a page out of Lieutenant Nixon's handbook and get your hands on some alcohol. You might not have found alcohol, but you found Joe, the cherry of his cigarette flashing in the dark alley behind Easy Company's makeshift barracks. 

It's as if he knows you need this, to be held down and held together. He kisses you in a way that insists you keep all your attention on him, that you forget about mortar rounds, the whites of eyes turned red, and machine guns. 

You forget all about machine guns.

You think you could live with yourself if this was all there is to the world, kissing Joe Toye behind some half-shelled shed you both figured no one in the battalion would bother with. You might even be able to live with yourself in a world without the taste of love, so long as you could taste instead Lucky Strike cigarettes in his mouth, and let him handle you in the single, heart-breaking moment before you fall apart in the face of another angry artillery barrage.

Joe's hands slide down your sides, then he grabs a handful of ass and thigh and lifts you up just enough to wedge you onto the pseudo-worktable on the far side of the shed. 

The collision is rough, edging on desperate, but neither of you claim to be perfect and both of you are soldiers caught in a war you only cared about fighting until you actually fought it -- but there's something -- God, damn it -- there's something here, between the two of you, but it's just not -- 

Joe bites down, just left of hard, on your shoulder, and your reaction is immediate and helpless: Neck scrunching to the side, eyes widening, hands grabbing fitfully at his shoulders and a half-bitten noise rushing from your lips. 

Joe mutters an apology, then kisses the spot, tenderly. You sigh at the feeling of him questing up the column of your neck with a series of chaste pecks. Then he kisses your lips, tenderly. 

But Joe Toye just does not taste like love. 

You ruin his hair with your dirty fingers and try and bury every thought bouncing around in your head with your lips, in his mouth. His jaw is rough under your hands -- when was the last time he had a chance to shave? -- and he pins you with his body, pressing closer until there's no space between you, until you're melding and melting into one another, becoming something entirely different and unstable. 

His hands ruck up your shirt. His hands are calloused and dangerous. His hands are greedy. His hands are reverent. His hand tangles itself into the back of your grown-out hair and tugs your head back so it thumps against the wall, baring your neck to him. 

His eyes are ardent, dangerous -- they are breathtaking, like the lightning bugs in July. 

Your tongue lashes out at the back of your teeth, and you taste him. Lucky Strike Cigarettes. 

He drags his mouth down your throat, then loses the pretense of kissing once he latches onto the skin below the collar of your uniform. 

You stare up at the darkening sky without seeing, lips parted as you try to understand this feeling building in your chest. 

Joe Toye does not taste like love. 

Joe Toye does not taste like love.

Please, God -- you squeeze your eyes shut when they burn with tears like memories -- Joe Toye cannot taste like love.

 xxx

You're both sitting on the cold dirt, slumped against the shed wall, and in the silence of the night. Joe drags his cigarette up to his lips and inhales; you unwrap the foil from a stick of chewing gum and hold it between your teeth, burning your tongue with the concentrated spearmint. 

Across the river -- there are too many rivers in Europe, you're learning -- a German flare is shot straight up into the overcast sky. You track the light with your eyes as it begins to arch, and squint when it flashes too brightly. The flare falls, falls, it falls, then drops into the river beside the blown-out bridge. You stare at the krauts, and they stare back.

"I better go. I've got watch soon," you say without moving an inch to stand. Your sweat is turning cold on your skin, and you dip a hand into your open jacket to scratch at your stomach. Your dog tags are sitting on your bare sternum, and they clink when you brush up against them. 

Joe hums suddenly then, in acknowledgement, but his heavy eyes remain trained across the river. Beside you, he is completely topless, his bare skin caressed softly by the waning moon. Your eyes trace the fuzzy outline of his face, then down to where his dog tags hang, just beside his beating heart. You fist your own tags in your hand, then pocket selfishly the vision of him in this moment, subdued and satiated. A statue left standing in a battlefield. 

His stomach is bunched up, and idly you watch the way the muscles under his skin move when he takes another drag from his cigarette or swallows down whatever words he might have shared with you instead. You wonder what it would feel like to lay your hand just over his heart, to feel it beat, or to hold it in your hand and understand the warmth of him. 

He's built like Flash Gordon, that space-faring hero who ends up without a shirt more often than not. This is not the first time you've thought of the comparison, but it makes you laugh all the same -- a quiet, lighthearted huff. 

Joe glances at you from the corner of his eye, with a slight turn of the head, and raises a single eyebrow. "What's so funny?" 

You shake your head and look back out over the river. Another flare rises up into the night sky. For a moment, you forget about the war, and are instead struck by the beauty of the scene. It is alien, devastating, and beautiful. The German flare rises up, up, it arches, then falls behind the bridge and dips into the river. It is haunting.

You sigh, then slowly stand and begin pulling on your uniform, piece by piece. You feel Joe's eyes on you, but don't comment or turn to look at him. You can't bring yourself to, and you can't understand why. 

When you shoulder your rifle, you hear Joe grunt, then shuffle in the dirt. "Hey," he calls after you, too loudly, too quickly, too warmly, and for a moment, you are truly afraid. Of what, you're not sure, but as you grip the strap of your rifle, your stomach falls into a pit of dread. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to remember that beach, those lazy lightning bugs, but the memory fights and refuses to be reeled to the surface -- all you can picture are his eyes, ardent, the way they shine. 

It is embarrassingly silent. You shudder when you realize Joe is waiting for a response. 

Slowly, you force yourself to face him, only to find him staring up at you, holding out your helmet for you to take. You realize you'd left it somewhere between the door and the worktable Joe fucked you on.

His eyes are earnest, his mouth is set in a thin, worried line. You pull on a wobbly smile like you would a camouflage tarpaulin, but can't hide behind it and it does nothing to make you feel safer. You take the helmet silently and tuck it under your arm. 

Joe blinks, then directs his eyes to the ground. The laugh he forces out is awkward, and sounds as if it was skimmed off the top of his chest. "What would you ever do without me?"

The air tastes sour. Humor is the only weapon either of you have in your arsenals to mask the flavor. "Get my brains blown out by a Kraut, Joe." 

"That's right," he rasps, and then he takes a drag from his cigarette. "And don't forget it."

You stare at the dark shape of his slumped over form for a second longer than you should, but he's retreated into himself, staring blankly into the night, across the river at the Krauts. If he notices your hesitation, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

You swallow thickly, then take your leave, aware of the way the heat of his eyes brand your back until you turn the corner and disappear from sight. The night is cold after that.

 xxx

But wars end eventually. This is something you never thought hard enough about. 

You close your eyes and will yourself to remember that beach, that twilight, those floating lightning bugs on the Potomac. Now you are standing out on that gravel bank, shaped and reshaped by the river, and that moment is nowhere to be found. 

The river is beneath you, too warm from the sun; the sky is above you, bluebird and soft; and that easy, stolen moment is gone. All that's left is the damp notion of an autumn rainstorm passed. 

But wars end eventually, and now you are fresh off the train, delaying your eventual homecoming and staring blankly across the river, wondering if there are any Germans in Virginia to stare back. You pick up a flat river rock and skip it across the slow moving water, counting five jumps before it sinks below the surface. 

But wars end eventually, and now you are left standing, still standing, in your uniform. It is wrinkled. Every moment longer you spend in it, you want to tear each patch off. They make your skin burn. You whip another flat rock out across the water, but it wobbles and only skips twice before suddenly sinking. 

"Shit."

But wars end eventually. Maybe you always knew this -- what's confused you is that you never expected to survive it. 

All this time you spend longing for home, yearning for some perfect memory, and the reality of it is exactly the same and forever changed instead. The sky is too blue, the river too warm, you are not the same person. You pick up another flat rock and scrub a wet leaf off it with your thumb. What's worse, though, is that you feel nothing staring at this beach; no relief, not even nostalgia. The thought makes agitation flare hot and settle in your chest like heartburn. 

You close your eyes and try to picture those lightning bugs, but the only memory your subconscious offers is the glow of Joe Toye's eyes. "Shit!" You throw the rock at the ground hard enough for it to bounce. The sound is like a gunshot. The chewing gum in your mouth is like paste. You clench, unclench your fists and blink away the burn settling behind your eyes, then reach down and tear into your rucksack.

The Krauts you imagine to be across the river watch as you pull out your bronze and silver stars, along with your purple heart. You rip open the cases of each one, glare shamefully at the contents, then pitch them as far as you can across the river. 

 xxx

When it rains in Virginia, it is absolute -- the storm, the heat, the humidity. A rainstorm in September is the same as a firestorm in Europe. 

The air hangs heavy and low to the ground. The world grows quiet as the skies open up, thunder rolling like a wave over the countryside. 

All the windows and doors in the house are propped open, and the air is restless as it paces about the house. You sigh, breath iced by spearmint, and drag your nails over your scalp. Something in this storm makes your hair stand on end. There is a restless energy in your muscles that winds and winds without release. 

Lightning flashes. thunder claps. Rain falls. Downstairs, the dog whimpers. 

When it rains in Virginia, it is absolute. 

When it rains in Virginia, it is absolute.

 xxx

Home for you is a three bedroom house at the end of an uneven, unpaved road. The roof leaks in three different places, the stairs are missing a banister, and the front door only shuts if you twist the knob the right way. It is also filled to the brim with your brothers and sisters. Including you, there are twelve. 

Eustace was the oldest, but you don’t remember him very well because he ran off to Sacramento as soon as he turned eighteen. You were nine at the time.

Beth was second born and is more of a mother to you than your actual mother has ever been. She’s run the household since she was five. 

Cecily is a secretary for a law firm in Richmond and sends what she can of her paycheck home at the end of every month.

Lip enlisted with the army in 1939, and caught a bullet in North Africa around the time you jumped for Operation Market Garden.

Tommy is only a year younger than you, and broke his leg jumping from a tree when he was ten. It never healed right.

Dog was halfway through basic training when Hitler shot himself. He patrolled the streets of Berlin a couple times before he was sent home, and still has the itch for war.

Norma is a year from graduating high school and all she wants is to make movies.

Jim-boy is a sophomore in high school and on the baseball team as a pitcher. 

Pat is in middle school and runs your old paper route. 

Ulysses is eleven and trying his very best to get kicked out of elementary school.

Em is as sweet as a pea and everyone who knows her thinks she’s just the most darling girl in all of the south. 

None of you share a last name, but it doesn’t matter because you’re family regardless. It’s a bond you understand well, and one you carried with you to war. 

Love tastes like blood in your mouth just as much as it does of saltwater taffy on a crisp fall day.

 xxx

It's early enough for the sun to just barely be peaking over the gray horizon. Sometime in the night the rain finally broke, and so now you're left in its result; the countryside is warm, damp, and quiet except for the hum of the cicadas. 

There are five of you sitting around the kitchen table, barefoot and in various states of undress. Upstairs, the floorboards creak under the three teenagers in the house as they mill about getting ready for the day. Beth is at the stove, slaving over a batch of potato pancakes. They're your favorite, and you know that's why she's making them. 

Beth throws a cautious look over her shoulder, and you pretend to be too heavily invested in the back of the newspaper Tommy's holding up to notice. But you can make out the way her eyebrows knit in worry, and how the lightning bug glow of her eyes cradles you as if you were china.

You appreciate the gesture. 

Some days are more difficult for you than others, and so you appreciate the gesture. 

You appreciate the gesture, but you stare down at the pancakes on your plate and all they do is remind you of that one time in who-the-fuck-knows-where, France when you'd pan-fried potato pancakes for the guys under the beginnings of an artillery barrage. 

Skip had traded in some fresh, army-issue loaves of bread with Fox Company for a sack of half-bad potatoes; you and Liebgott had stumbled across a half-shelled herb garden with a bushel of rosemary half-intact; and Alton More had sat for half an hour grating potatoes by hand, biceps bulging and quivering by the time Malarkey and Toye ran in with a half-basket of eggs.

It was half a feast. The lot of you had inhaled the food in a root cellar while the town you were occupying was shelled. You remember shoveling piping hot pancakes into your mouth -- barely chewing -- while the wooden door to the cellar bounced and leaped into the air with every shell impact. All you could think about was how it would be better to die on a full-stomach than an empty one. 

But wars end eventually. You stab a pancake on your plate and take a bite. Your eyes fall shut as you chew. Beth's pancakes taste better than anything you could have dreamed of in Europe -- and the rosemary she used isn't even singed by hellfire. 

You wash the pancake down with a sip of bitter coffee and work your jaw around a phantom piece of gum. You're quickly finding that your home is exactly the same and forever changed, like that long-gone beach of memory. The front door is still guarded by a carpet of shoes, Norma still hums when she brews iced tea, and your chair at the kitchen table is still in the same spot, next to Lip's empty one -- but there are new, loosened floorboards that you don't know to avoid, Tommy has taken up reading the newspaper in the mornings, and Ulysses no longer sits perched on a stool, but instead on a little blue chair wedged between Dog and Em. 

"What was it like?" Ulysses asks, and Beth shushes him as she sets another plate of pancakes on the table. The question does not take you by surprise. Ulysses is as gung-ho when it comes to the idea of war as most eleven year-olds are. All he and his friends talk about are Krauts and Nips and who's turn it is to pretend to be John Basilone, the war hero.

"Dangerous," Dog says, "there were Krauts everywhere, and not enough bullets to shoot 'em."

You roll your eyes. There were Krauts everywhere because Dog was deployed straight to Berlin as a replacement. You have a suspicion that the most he shot his gun in Europe was at a couple of bottles lined up on a fence. 

"It was cold." You shiver as he says this. He has no fucking clue. "And artillery is loud -- louder than you think it could ever be. When the big guns go off, the whole ground rattles like you're standing right next to a moving train." Dog doesn't know. He doesn't understand -- no one here understands because they weren't there.

"They called me Hawkeye, because I was the best shot out of my group."

Dog doesn't know what it's like to huddle in a shallow foxhole -- not the way you do. He doesn't know what it's like to have your thoughts shelled, to hold one of your best buddies while he bleeds out in your arms, begging you and god alike to not let him die. 

"You should have heard the way the Krauts shout in German, all high-pitched and garbled, like they've got potatoes in their mouths--" You slam your mug down on the table hard enough for the sound to snap through the still, morning air. Coffee sloshes out and over your hands, and Beth jumps a foot in the air, then rushes over to you with a kitchen rag. She tries to catch your eyes with hers, but you shake your head and stare down at the table, feeling queasy. 

You think of Lip -- not your lieutenant, but your brother, Phillip -- and wonder if he would have understood. He spent three years in North Africa before he was killed in combat. Maybe he would have known the way it feels to scrub and scrub your hands, only to have the dirt and the blood stain them permanently, like memories, like tears you can’t forget.

Sweet Em, who's been quiet this whole time, turns to you, then. "What did they call you?" she asks, peering up at you with such big, brown eyes; the childish question floats innocently from her lips while you fight the urge to cringe away from her. 

Beth is watching you, eyes worried and sad. You suck in a chestful of brave air and put on your biggest, unaffected smile for the sake of your sisters. "Gunner." You quickly turn away and begin reaching around the table, collecting empty plates to stack them on top of yours. 

"Why's that?" Ulysses asks, leaning forward over the table in interest. 

"Because it's what you call a machine gunner -- a good one," Dog says proudly, and you force yourself to let out a laugh -- much like the one Joe Toye had offered you a year ago, in France; one skimmed off the top of your chest.

"Yea," you say plainly. You move to take the stack of dishes to the sink, but Beth swats at your hands and collects them instead. "Now you sit, sergeant, until it's well time for you to leave." She might not be your mother; your actual mother growing up was more often than not shacked up across town, drunk off her ass and falling into the arms of some beau; but Beth is the closest thing you have to a maternal figure. 

The scene moves on, and the quiet of the morning returns, along with the hum of the cicadas. Only a couple months until their chirping gives way to the dead silence of winter.

Tommy snickers into the morning paper at the exchange, shooting you a disarming look from over top the sports section, and you find yourself smiling a little more honestly. 

You continue to drain what's left of your rapidly cooling coffee over the course of the next couple of minutes. They are mundane. The conversation at the table has long since left you behind, and you're content to linger in your own quiet. Sometimes, you find yourself overwhelmed by just how normal everything still is. 

When you're done with your coffee, you push the mug away from you and shuffle until you can pull a pack of gum from your pocket. The familiar taste of spearmint floods your mouth.

"Were you a good machine gunner?" Em asks suddenly, and you nearly bite through your tongue. 

"Em!" Beth scolds, "enough questions. Now go and get your shoes on. You're fixin' to be late the longer you dawdle. You too, 'Lysses." She shoos the kids from the table, not looking at you, and you find yourself scratching at a carving you'd made a couple years ago with your nail on the wood of the table: A crude, little lightning bug. 

One by one, the kids file out of the house, off to school. You and Tommy sit at the table as the morning rush swarms around you, him reading, you staring at that lightning bug. Beth is washing the dishes. Dog clears out, saying he's going fishing with some friends. Then comes the muffled rumble of an engine, and tires rolling slowly over gravel; the drawn-out whine of brakes, then the toot of a car horn. 

"That's us." Tommy shuts the paper and tosses it onto the table as he stands. "Ready to go?"

"Fine, Tommy." You make it all the way to the door before Beth is tugging on your sleeve. 

"Forget your cap, Buggy?" Beth says suddenly, holding out your cap for you to take -- and you don't know what strikes you more: the sudden use of your childhood nickname, or the way she's holding out your hat like Joe Toye had all those times before her. They’ve got the same lightning bug eyes.

"Thanks." You offer Beth a small smile as you take the cap, and she brushes a bit of your hair from your forehead, then smiles back, eyes just a bit more tired than you remember them to be.

 xxx

But wars end eventually, and when it rains in Virginia, it is absolute. 

It rains in Virginia all through September.

Masterlist | Posting Schedule

[unmaskedagain]

Grimm Cleaners: No Questions Asked

I wrote this short story a while ago. I really hope you like it. I took example from my own experience.

The first murder happened on a Monday because of course it fucking would. A new body was found, every day, after that, for two weeks and Todd was sick of it. He didn't know if it was a serial killer, devil worshipers, or fucking Dracula but it was interfering with his social life.

"I don't need this shit! It's my day off." Todd said as he furiously wiped down the blood-splattered table. "Who fucking murders someone in a coffee shop?"

"Quit bitching; you're getting overtime," Sierra said as she mopped the floor. The once white mop-head was already stained pink. And she hadn't even mopped off a quarter of the blood on the floor. "You worked at Walmart for five years. You've seen worse. You've cleaned up worse." Sierra was thin, with big brown eyes and caramel skin. She was fresh out of college and had a look on her face that screamed she was done with the world.

                     The coffee shop was a trendy place called The Coffee Roosters. Vinyl records and 90s cartoon characters decorated the wall. It had a real mom and pop feel and would've passed for one if not for the unicorn cappuccinos, and every drink being written in French. However, that night, it looked like a scene straight out of a horror movie. Blood and body parts covered everything. There were symbols painted on the walls, Todd was pretty sure, opened a portal to hell.

                     They had gotten the call just after midnight. The boss wanted all-hands-on-deck. Nevertheless, somehow, all-hands-on-deck meant Todd, Sierra, and the new kid. It was because it was October, Halloween; their busiest time of the year. Everyone worked odd hours. No one else could come in.

"Yeah, and I also got PTSD," Todd retorted. "I can't even watch The Walking Dead without thinking of Black Friday." He rung out his sponge. Todd was grumpy, nearing thirty, a grad student with an arm tattoo of the Deathly Hallows. "All I'm saying is that after seven years of customer service, and 'I wanna speak to the manager,' He mimicked in a high voice "The only murder I should have to clean up in a place where you're forced to smile and say 'how can I help you', is the one that'll happen when I finally snap. Anything else is just rude."

                          Sierra paused, looked around, and brushed back a dyed strand of neon-blue hair. "Yeah, whoever did this didn't work in Customer Service. Only assholes would fuck with someone else's job. This is still better than working the counter at freaking Sephora. Or Best Buy! You know a two-year-old once pissed on the floor, right in front of me, and the Mom was just standing there looking at tablets. Like what the hell?"

"Ah Dude," Christian whined as he ran into the room. He was a tall, lanky, baby-faced, college sophomore with shaggy blond hair and, unlike the other two, still a hopeful outlook on life. "I think I just found some dude's spleen." And sure enough, in his hands were some poor guy's lumbar vertebra. It was gooey with pieces of flesh and muscle still attached to it.

                        There were a few moments of silence. Then Todd just shrugged, "Whatever. Still better than working retail." And went back to work. They didn't have time to waste. The coffee shop opened at sunrise. If this wasn't done, they'd be fired.

                          Sierra murmured her agreement. "At this job, I never have to hear 'Oh it's such a nice day. So sunny and warm. There are rainbows and butterflies and ice cream raining from the sky.' Like I literally haven't been outside in five hours." She dunked the mop in the bucket. "And I don't get to leave this fucking sweatshop of nightmares until it's dark, but thanks for letting me know, Debra."

                          Todd looked up and saw Christian still standing with a grossed-out expression on his face. Then he remembered that the kid hadn't been training long. Christian hadn't gotten any real experience on the job yet, only taught how to do it. Still, the training wheels had to come off sometime. Todd sighed, "Man, just put it with the rest of the body parts. We gotta get out of here before the police get here."

                        Christian nodded and turned around to put the spleen in the other black bags on the counter. "This or Mcdonalds," They heard him tell himself. "I can't go back to ramen every night. I won't go back."

                       Sierra cooed, "Poor guy. Third week of training, and he already found his first body part." She snickered. "I remember mine. I cried for the rest of the night."

                      Todd grimaced, "He'll get used to it." He wiped the sweat off his forehead. "Wait until he realizes he's making enough money to move out of his dorm. He'll be fine with diving in a lake to get the head of a dismembered camp counselor."

                        Sierra nodded, "Yeah, once I realized that paying off my student loans depended on getting a hand out of a crocodile's stomach. I got that hand and a new belt." She bent down to pick up a stray eyeball. "Besides, these customers are the best I've worked with."

"I know, right?" Todd threw up his hands. It was the only part of the job that still remained bizarre to him. "You wouldn't think serial killers or monsters would be. But I'll be damned if they ain't the nicest, most polite people I've ever met. You remember that Hannibal Lector type of guy we worked with last week. Well, at the job, I ended up finding some chick's liver. So I put it in one of those black security boxes and sent it to his place. I figured: hey, maybe the cannibal would want it. Because, you know, 'fava bean and a nice chianti' and all that. The very next day, I get a thank you card."

                        Sierra laughed, "That's nothing! I helped out this Freddy Kruger- rip off, nightmare dude, last year. He was having a hard time tracking down the rest of the people who murdered him. Long story short, I introduce this guy to social media. They were all dead in like a week. I get the best customer review of my life. And I haven't had a bad dream since. How awesome is that?"

                          A scream came from the kitchen, followed up by Christian yelling, "Brain! There's a fucking brain in the freezer. Holy shit. Oh god, oh god." Then the sound of him throwing up.

                          Todd and Sierra shared a look that said 'Trainees, what can you do?'

                        Christian came back into the room, pale-faced, and his shirt covered in puke, "I'm fine," He said. "I just can't get used to this."

"Dude," Sierra said, with a raised eyebrow. "Yesterday, I cleaned up the birth of yet another Rosemary's baby. Demon daddy thanked me for a job well done and tipped me a solid gold brick. Eventually, you get used to everything... well, almost everything." A haunted, faraway look appeared on her face. "Do yourself a favor: never take a job in New Orleans, after New Year's. It's like a vampire free-for-all."

                       Todd nodded. He would never take another job in New Orleans again. Lesson learned. "Man, once you're done cleaning up back there, I need you to start cleaning the ceiling." He pointed up. There were a bunch of satanic symbols and black scorch marks. "Get everything. Boss will freak if a hell portal opened during business hours. Trust me, it won't be easy budgie jumping into the mouth of hell to pick up some poor chick who just wanted a pumpkin spice latte. The paperwork alone is a bitch."

                       It took them hours to get the coffee shop back into the pristine condition it was once in. Afterward, they went out the back, locked up, and got into their black truck. It had no nameplates or any identifiable markers.

"Todd?" Sierra asked from the shotgun seat. "Do you ever wonder who we work for? Who our boss is? Or how they found us?"

"No," Todd said as he pulled the truck out of the dark alley. "I just figured they put spotters in high traffic customer service areas. And whichever employee looks most like they've given up on humanity and one more 'there's no price tag on it, it must be free' joke away from burning down the store, they point at him and say that's our guy."

                   Sierra hooked the aux cord up to her phone, "I think that's the only still scary part. It's like they knew all they had to do was offer us a living wage, and basic human decency, and we'd be theirs. No questions asked."

                Music blasted through the car as the coworkers contemplated the truth of her words.

"Makes you wonder who the real monsters are," Christian said.

[magicalgirlagency]

Ooh, finally the Delicious Party visuals dropped! Who are the girls, btw?

Here's what I've gathered so far...

The Pink Cure is Nagomi Yui, aka Cure Precious. She's an energetic young girl who loves to eat. Her motif is rice, and her mascot is a female fox-like fairy named KomeKome (she and HaChaPre's Cure Honey would totally be besties, though);

The Blue Cure is Fuwa Kokone, aka Cure Spicy. She's a pretty and stylish young girl, who loves girly and cute things. Her motif is bread (like sandwiches), and her mascot is a female dog-like fairy named PamuPamu;

The Yellow Cure is Hanamira Ran, aka Cure YumYum. She's a curious and very talkative young girl. Her motif is ramen, and her mascot is a male dragon-like fairy named MenMen.

PERSONAL OPINIONS:

They all look adorable, 'nuff said. If anyone talks shit about their designs, it's on sight;

People were discussing about how this upcoming season would be similar to KiraPre, but it seems that it'll combine some elements from HealPre, given that each girl has their own mascot;

Given my history with yellow-coded magical girls and that ramen is my favourite food, I have the strong feeling that Cure YumYum will be my favourite;

Ever since the Hugtto fiasco, the male characters in this season (specially Rosemary and the mystery man on the poster not sure if they are the same person or not) are on fucking thin ice for me;

There's also a teenaged antagonist named Gentle (who still doesn't have a proper bio added). How much you guys wanna bet that she'll be a mid-season Cure?

[charmingnines]

biting the bullet - reed900 fic

Gavin hadn’t told Nines how he felt. To be fair, Nines hadn’t told Gavin how he felt… in so many words. Nines brought Gavin coffee each morning and again during the afternoon lull. Nines also made it his mission to hassle Gavin about going home when he stayed late at the DPD more than three nights in a row.

And there was that time Gavin had been exhausted enough to fall asleep at his desk and had woken up with Nines’ jacket around his shoulders. Gavin had thought sleepily that it smelled like Nines, clean, like fresh laundry. Then he’d jerked fully awake, thinking, how the fuck do I know what Nines smells like?

“Are you alright, Detective?” Nines had asked, not even looking up from his computer, the bastard.

“M’ fine,” Gavin had muttered, hoping the blush he’d felt creeping up his neck didn’t show on his face.

read the rest on ao3

or continue after the break vvv

Nines, Gavin thought, didn’t need to say anything. Nines had shown Gavin, over and over again, how he felt. If Gavin reciprocated… well, that would make it real, wouldn’t it? But Gavin wasn’t good at showing. And he sure as hell wasn’t good at telling.  

Gavin thought about telling Nines all the time. Like when Nines hummed along to Gavin’s music he claimed to hate in the car. Or when Gavin felt that fucking magic between he and Nines when they bounced theories off of each other until a case was solved.

But Gavin was scared. Scared that he was reading Nines all wrong. Scared that it was all in his head….

“Detective Reed?” Nines waved a hand in front of Gavin’s face. “Did you hear me? Fowler wants us to check out the house on Rosemary. The warrant just came through.”

Gavin blinked. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring off into space. “Sorry,” he said, standing up and shrugging on his jacket. “Let’s go.”

_

Gavin could feel Nines scanning him. “I’m fine,” Gavin said, side-eyeing Nines. Nines raised a brow. “I slept six hours last night,” Gavin added. Nines interest in his sleeping habits bordered on obsessive.

Nines looked away. “Eight would’ve been more optimal.”

“Yeah?” Gavin said. “Having a partner who respected my privacy would be ‘more optimal’ for me.”

“I don’t mean to intrude,” Nines said stiffly. “But it’s in both of our interests that you’re functioning well, should we encounter any hostile persons-”

“Relax, I was just fucking with you,” Gavin said, pulling over to park. He undid his seat belt and turned to face Nines.

Nines’ gray eyes, Gavin knew, were meant to make him appear more intimidating than his predecessor (Gavin had no clue what they were thinking, giving Connor those ridiculous puppy dog eyes). Gavin wasn’t intimidated so much as fascinated by Nines’ eyes. As Nines’ searched Gavin’s face, all Gavin could think about was how his eyes were gunmetal around the edges and an overcast sky in the middle…

“You seemed off this morning,” Nines said, breaking Gavin out of his thoughts. “Is everything alright?”  

“Everything’s fine,” Gavin said, too quickly. He clenched his fists, then unclenched them. “I was just…” Gavin noticed Nines’ mouth, thin with concern. Get a grip, Gavin told himself and raised his eyes to meet Nines’. “I was just thinking,” he said truthfully.

“What about?” Nines asked.

Gavin wet his lips. “Just- just some things I need to say,” he said quietly. Then he got out of the car like it was about to explode. Nines had given him the perfect in and he hadn’t taken it. Am I ever gonna bite the bullet and tell him? Gavin wondered, mentally wincing at his hasty exit.

Thankfully, Nines didn’t press Gavin any further as they walked up to the residence, a house that looked one good storm away from falling down. Gavin rapped on the front door. “Detroit Police.” No answer. Gavin knocked again. “Detroit Police, open up.”

Knocking was simply formality. They had a warrant; there’d been multiple calls about this place being a hot spot for red ice deals.

Gavin stepped aside and gestured to the door. Nines rolled his shoulders and knocked the door inwards with one good kick. “Show off,” Gavin whispered. Nines grinned.

They both drew their guns and slowly made their way into the foyer. There was a kitchen off to the left and a living room off to the right, filled with ratty looking furniture. There were no signs of life.

Gavin jerked his head toward the stairwell. Nines nodded and followed him up. It was dim upstairs, like the windows had been boarded up, which was why Gavin didn’t see the gun pointed at him, he just felt the bullet hit him.

“Fuck,” Gavin hissed, keeling over. Then Nines was in front of him, shielding Gavin with his fucking body. Gavin heard gunfire on both sides, then the sick sound of a body hitting the floor.

“He’s down,” Nines said, turning to Gavin.

Gavin nodded, sinking to the ground. The bastard had hit him right in the thigh. He couldn’t look at the blood gushing from the wound. “Call an ambulance,” he told Nines through gritted teeth.  

“I already did,” Nines said, kneeling down and shoving off his jacket.

Gavin forced his blurring vision to focus on Nines, whose chest was splattered blue. “Oh, fuck, Nines,” Gavin said. “Where did he hit you?” he demanded. Nines began to rip his coat into strips.

Gavin reached out and gripped Nines’ wrist, forcing him to stop. “Where are you hit?”

Nines’ nostrils flared. “My thirium pump is damaged,” he said, easily freeing his wrist from Gavin’s weak grip.

“Shit,” Gavin said, trying to sit up more, willing away the wave of dizziness that hit him. “You need to go to CyberLife. You’re gonna shut down-”

“I’m going to shut down in five minutes,” Nines said, tying the fabric strips together. “Your femoral artery has been hit and in five minutes you’re going to be-” Nines broke off.

“Dead?” Gavin finished helpfully. Nines glared at Gavin. “The ambulance will be here soon, just leave me-”

“I am not leaving you here,” Nines said fiercely. “You need to let me do this.”

Gavin set his jaw. “You’re not any less important than me.”

“I’m not trying to play the self-sacrificing hero!” Nines cried.

Gavin blinked. Was he hallucinating from the blood loss or were there tears in Nines’ eyes?

“I can easily be fixed,” Nines said, softening his voice. “Plus, if you don’t let me keep you from dying, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Seems counterproductive,” Gavin said, but allowed Nines to tie a tourniquet above his wound, LED spinning red. “Are you really gonna be okay?” Gavin asked, once Nines was done.

“You’re bleeding out, and you’re asking me if I’m gonna be okay?” Nines said.

“Yeah, I am,” Gavin said. Then he reached for Nines’ hand. Nines took it. “Nines,” Gavin said. “You know that I-”

“I know,” Nines said. “Me too.”

_

Gavin woke up with a start, seeing nothing but white ceiling. “Nines?” he said hoarsely. Gavin tried to sit up. “Nines?” he repeated, louder this time.  

“I’m right here,” Nines said, appearing at his bedside.

Gavin sank back into his pillows. “Thank fuck,” he said. Nines sat down in a chair beside Gavin’s bed. “And you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Nines said. Gavin swept his eyes over Nines’ body. “I’m fine,” Nines repeated, softer this time. “You’re the one who’s been out for two days,” Nines said. “Are you okay?” he asked pointedly.

Gavin met Nines' eyes. “As long as you are,” he said honestly. Nines reached out his hand. Gavin took it.

“Nines,” Gavin said. “I’ve wanted to tell you- I’ve known for a while that-” he broke off and looked at Nines, who was holding back a smile. Gavin pointed his free hand at Nines. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he accused.

Nines laughed, loud and bright, and that was it. “Fuck, will you just-?” Gavin grabbed Nines by the shirtfront and kissed him, trying to say everything he couldn’t find the words for. Nines responded by lacing his fingers behind Gavin’s neck and deepening the kiss.  

When he couldn’t breathe anymore, Gavin pulled away, pressing his forehead against Nines’. “Just so we’re clear,” Gavin said, “I was trying to say I’m in love with you.”

Nines kissed Gavin again. “I love you, too,” he said.