#and that hardly bodes well for anyone

[wood-white-writer]

“Didn’t mean to make your heart Blue” || [7/…]

— OPLA! Buggy x F!Reader

“It's funny how I still forgot, it would be a hundred times easier if we were young again,”

— Mitski, “Two Slow Dancers”

Pairing: Buggy the Clown (Live Action) x F!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 8

Summary: You were an apprentice of Gol D. Roger’s crew in your youth, long before his eventual demise. Along with the Red-Haired Shanks and Buggy, you were a formidable trio; the embodiment of a new generation of pirates yet to come. But times changed, and so did you and your friends. 

In the aftermath of your drunken escapades, you wake up to find yourself faced with new challenges, including a killer headache, a group of fish people, and the very clown responsible for putting you in this position. Needless to say, it does not bode well to take on fights while still inebriated.

Warnings: Canon typical violence, fem!reader, LA!Verse, slight canon divergence, alcoholic indulgence on a catastrophic scale (drink responsibly ppl), morally grey reader, violence, descriptions of blood and wounds,

A/N: The next chapter will be fully dedicated to Buggy and Reader/"Cross Hairs"

"Chug, chug, chug!" Both Buggy and Shanks cheer you on as you all but inhale the contents in your bottle in one go, not stopping until all of it has gone down. You pull back with an audible inhale, and after a couple of quiet seconds, the loudest BUUUURP! ever to cross the oceans erupt from the pits of your stomach.

Your two crewmates watch in awe, then erupt into hard fits of laughter that have them rolling on the ground while clenching their stomach. 

After pumping your fists victoriously into the air and discarding the bottle, you join them soon after and settle down around the campfire. You three barely managed to put one together, but with the help of a few thin twigs and a bottle of the captain's purest liquor, you got it going soon enough.

Buggy wipes the tears away from his eyes and pulls another bottle of stolen beverages from his bag. "Not bad, not bad at all. Still, listen to this."

Jumping to his feet, Buggy swings the bottle, takes a glorious gulp, and punches his chest a few times. Out comes a large BUUUURP! that surpasses yours by miles, and continues to echo from around the island.

You immediately raise your hands in applause, laughing in that sweet way that makes his pulse quicken. In truth, your laughter is hardly elegant, more like the sounds a dying boar makes, yet he enjoys it all the same.

With one arm straightened out whereas the other goes to his chest, he makes a dramatic bow in front of you across the fire. "Thank you, thank you, my fair lady. I'll be here all day."

When he straightens up again, he sees the fire shine so clearly in your eyes; the flames dancing in your irises, and he feels warmer than the fire itself. You're looking at him - him - with such adoration that his stomach feels funny. Maybe it's the liquor playing a part in this, yet he doubts it.

"Buggy, that was so gross!" Shanks says with mirth, then gestures for the bottle. "Give it here! I'll show you how it's really done."

"Sure, I'd like to see you try!" Buggy hands him the bottle.

"There's no way you can surpass that, Shanks." You oppose lightly. "No fucking way."

"Yeah, watch me!" 

Shanks takes a generous portion, pats his stomach, and out comes yet another BUUURP! 

Sure, it's impressive enough, but nowhere near Buggy's, and the redhead acknowledges this with a defeated sigh before anyone even says anything.

"It's alright," Buggy severs his hand to pat him patronizingly on the back. "You tried. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, you know?"

Shanks pushes his hand away with a grin. "Oh, lay of it!"

The night continues like that, with some more drinking, some more burping contests, and sharing their thoughts on the latest endeavors of the Oro Jackson. Whenever the crew docked for a while someplace, the three of you would usually find some way to enjoy your time off away from the crew's supervision like this.

It also involves the three of you singing sea shanties together, arms hooked around each other as you sing at the top of your lungs:

"Gather up all of the crew, It's time to ship out Bink's brew. Pirates we, eternally, Are challenging the seas!"

It is just fun; three teenagers enjoying their teenage years to the fullest until the day they can venture on their own.

After a while, Buggy starts to feel his bladder press, probably from the liquor. He tries to ignore it at first, not wanting to miss anything, but it does not take long before he has to oblige with his body's request.

You're the first to notice him moving. "Where are you going, Buggy?"

He waves his hand dismissively. "Just got to take a piss."

"Don't go too far," Shanks adds with a twinge of mischief in his eyes. "I've heard there are boars on this island, don't want to get chased, do you?"

Buggy feels chills run up his arms, but he refuses to acknowledge it. "S-Shut it! There aren't any shitty boars here, or we'd see them by now!"

"Yeah, but I've also heard that they catch the smell of piss particularly strong,"

"Bullshit!" He trudges off. "Boars, my ass!"

"Be careful, Buggy!" you call after him.

The chills across his body immediately get replaced with a sense of pride, and he disappears to do his business with a smile.

Once he's finished and headed back, he can hear your soft laughter as he approaches the makeshift campsite. His heart nearly drops into his stomach when he sees what's going on.

You and Shanks are sitting closer together now, knees width apart, and you're laughing. Shanks just told a joke, a terrible joke that makes even Buggy cringe, yet you laugh all the same. 

That soft laughter, just not for him this time.

It shouldn't make him feel as shitty as it does, yet a nauseous feeling settles in the pits of his stomach. You and Shanks are crew mates and friends, just as he is. He's never caught onto any implications that you like him in that sense, but why does it sting so much then to watch the two of you like this? So close, so at ease, so carefree and soft.

He often thinks about the time you saved him, about the time you brought an entire crew down just for him. You held his hand, you were worried; he’s been thinking that maybe there’s something there that isn’t just in his imagination.

But, wouldn’t you have done the same thing for Shanks, too? Has he maybe mistaken camaraderie for something else? Something that's not there?

Buggy suddenly feels ill, and he can’t blame it on the alcohol this time.

He thinks that it makes sense, in a way that gives his deep-rooted insecurity a boost. Shanks has always been the better of the two; a natural leader, calm in battle, and strategic in the ways that he himself is unable to be. 

Meanwhile, Buggy is ... Well, just Buggy. 

Buggy with the weird, red, enlarged nose people always make fun of. 

Buggy, who can never seem to pull off the same stunts as successfully as Shanks can. 

Buggy, who cracks the worst kinds of jokes that oftentimes make people laugh more out of pity than genuine humor. 

You always laugh at them, laugh with him, but maybe he’s been mistaken there too?

It's obvious that Shanks is the better choice. Buggy would follow him anywhere, and he'd follow you anywhere, yet the thought of you following Shanks whereas Buggy trails behind the both of you like a stray puppy just feels ...

"Ah, there you are." Your voice snaps him out of his head as you wave him over. "You didn't come across any boars, did you?"

It takes him a moment to respond, and when he does, it's nothing grand. His voice has been reduced to a demure murmur as he steps closer to the fire. "No, there is nothing."

"You sure?" Shanks asks with a grin. "Thought I heard some noises back there!"

For some reason, Buggy snaps "IT'S NOTHING!"

His outburst evidently catches the both of you off-guard. 

"Buggy, are you al—?"

"I'm fine." He's not. "But we should head back before the captain instigates a damn search party for us. We've probably been out too long."

He turns his back to you and starts heading in the direction you came from, and he feels his chest tighten so fucking much it makes breathing hard. He tries to tell himself it's not what he thinks, but at the same time, that nagging whisper in the back of his head that always stalks him is incessant.

"It makes sense," it whispers. "After all, it's never you."

———

"What in the hell is the matter with you?"

It takes you several minutes to force your eyes open. You're in the restaurant, you uncover, lounging over a table with a thin napkin serving as the only cushion for your cheek. 

By some miracle, you manage to aim your eyes up from behind your arms and see Zeff standing there with his hands on his hips, like an angry grandfather of sorts.

"Zeff," you groan and heave a tired breath. Fuck, your head is killing you, as though a hamster wheel has found residence in your cranium. "It's too early for this."

"It's almost eleven o'clock, the sun is up."

"Still too early," 

"Heard you practically robbed the bar last night; the bill is through the damn roo-"

Before he gets to finish, you dig into the pocket of your pants and pull out a hefty pouch of berries on the table. A few spill out on the wooden surface, clinking. "Just take this as compensation and give me another bottle while you're at it."

Zeff looks at the pouch, does a mental count, and finally takes it after deciding that it's enough. "Huh, thought that scrawny chore boy was broke?"

"They are." You turn to let your chin rest on the table, giving you a little better view than before. "But I did have a pension plan before I retired. Keep it with me when it counts."

Zeff sighs and pockets the berries without complaint, but not before giving you an unimpressed one-over. You're happy you don't carry a mirror with you; probably look like shit, and you feel like shit, too. Your hangover could've been considerably worse, but at this moment in time, you'd prefer it if you went to sleep and didn't wake up for another twenty years or so.

"What the hell is going on with you, lass?" Zeff finally asks, and this time, he retains some of his usual roughness. 

"Nothing ..." you murmur.

His bushy eyebrows scrunch. "I've been working at this place for almost a decade, seen people at their worst. People down on their luck, people who've lost, people who've grieved."

"And?"

"And I'll tell you something, lass. No one looks quite as damn destroyed as someone who's had their hearts broken."

The hamster wheel comes to a screeching halt, and you abruptly sit up to glare at him. "I'm not heartbroken. Why does everyone insist on that?"

His lips tug into a halfway smirk like he's just caught a fish on his hook. "You're strong, I'll give you that much, but no one's above the loss of love. So, who was the bloke?"

"No one," you almost spit, narrowing your eyes. 

Zeff remains undeterred, even a little proud. "Couldn't have been a 'no one' if they managed to capture the interest of the Beast of the East, can they?"

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from lunging at the old man for even insinuating that someone - specifically him - has managed to put you in such a sorry state. You won't give the Chief the satisfaction.

With some herculean effort on your part, you take a deep breath and recline in your seat. Quietly, without looking at the chief, you order: "Three beers and today's lunch."

Zeff shrugs. "Fine, but after, you should check on your crew. That swordsman really took a hit,"

Right, Zoro challenged Mihawk to a fucking duel, and the memories come flooding back to you. You glance up at that chief, masking the underlying concern with a face of indifference. "He alive?"

"Yes and no. If you want to know, go see for yourself."

You nod, and he leaves you to stir your hangover. Maybe it was a mistake to get as shitfaced as you did, but that doesn't change the fact that you tried to keep them from making mistakes. You did what you were supposed to, yet still, why does it feel like this is your fault?

You've grown fond of the crew, and it's become more of a headache than you initially bargained for.

The waiter comes with your order on a plate, not Sanji this time, you discover. In fact, he's nowhere to be seen. 

Without wasting your breath, you immediately dig into your meal like a woman starved of sustenance. It tastes delicious, but the residue of yesterday's liquor on your tongue dilutes the taste. You don't care, though.

Shortly after finishing half a portion of your lunch, you resume with your bottles. A slower pace this time, to ensure that your current condition doesn't significantly worsen, but still fast enough to keep you from remembering.

Remembering too much.

Half a bottle into your stupor, the entrance doors slam open and a pang of pain burst through the nerves in your brain. All you can think is that it's way too early for someone to be stirring shit up.

A round of gasps echoes through the establishment, and when you peek up from over your shoulder, you see three fish people making their entrance from the top of the staircase. 

You've had your share of encounters with fish people in the past, some more ... tolerable than the rest. In hindsight, there's no difference between the way you treat people; if they get on your nerves, you deal with them. If they don't, you leave them be.

Your instincts tell you that these people will fall into the former category.

However, you notice that the one with the sharp nose looks awfully familiar, but your temporary amnesia might have something to do with the alcohol circling in your veins. Still, it's not a face that's easy to forget.

A few people try to get up from their seats, but with a simple, "Sit down!", they comply.

You narrow your eyes at the spectacle but don't move to get away. As long as he doesn't bother you, there's no reason for you to get involved. Baratie's had worse customers before, so this is nothing new. Zeff'll handle it like he always does.

So, you continue with your drinks, already annoyed and in desperate need of the numbing sensation only the bottle can provide. Zeff appears to deal with it, and it doesn't pique your interest until the fish man proclaims: 

"Listen up! I'm looking for a pirate in a straw hat! Goes by the name of Luffy."

Now this catches your attention mid-sip. 

You look at the particular fish man discreetly over your shoulder, your sobriety making a quick return once you discover that you do know of him. He's Arlong the Saw; a misanthrope who makes a living killing humans. 

"Arlong," he said moments ago to Zeff. "I own the East Blue."

You don't know why he's after Luffy, and quite frankly, you don't care. With your fucking luck, he's after the map, too. 

He can pretend to own the seas all he wants, but what matters to you is that he won't get to the boy, and it's something that Zeff seems on board with if his negotiation tactics mean anything.

So, in silence, you continue with your drinking, content with laying low until one of Arlong's henchmen - one with black hair tied up on each side of his head - appears at your side. 

He leers over your shoulder, the stench of seawater evading your nostrils, and reaches for one of your bottles.

"Hope you don't mind sharing," he chuckles, and for some reason, this gesture pisses you off.

You're not in the fucking mood.

Before his hand can as much as graze the bottle's fine surface, you grip the back of his shirt and all but fling him back from whence he came. The sound of a table breaking behind you interrupts the eerie quietness that's befallen the other patrons, and you get up from your seat to glare at the other fish people.

"Fucking get lost," your voice rings out like an ominous warning across the air of the establishment, rendering everyone mute. Well, everyone except for Arlong, who proceeds to laugh heartedly at the spectacle whereas his other henchman quickly moves to aid his fallen colleague.

"Well, well, who do we have here?" He stands up from the table, two sharp rows of teeth reflecting the light from the restaurant as he grins. "If it ain't the Beast of the East, in the flesh." He tilts his head to the side. "I was expecting someone ... younger."

"I'm retired."

"So I've heard, but someone else seems to think otherwise."

"Well, this 'someone else’ must’ve been mistaken."

"No, no," he wags his 'finger?'. "You see, he was quite adamant that you're back in business. If that is the case, I am owed tribute for the stunts you've pulled."

You quirk an eyebrow, so lowly that it hardly seems to move at all. "Tribute?"

"Half of whatever plunder you acquired during the years you were active," he waves his hand. "And half of what you've acquired as of late."

Capitalism, truly. Seems that not even fishmen can deny its pull.

Your answer is simple. 

"No."

Arlong's grin shapes into a snarl quite easily. "You may have the highest bounty, but it is still I who own the East Blue."

"The sea belongs to no one," you counter sharply. "Not me, and certainly not you."

It's clear that he perceives this as a slight in the highest degree if the downward tug of his lips serves as an indication. "Do you even know who I am?"

"I don't care who you are." Your fist clenches into a tight knot that almost draws blood as you stare him down from across the room; two beasts in their own respective ways. 

"I'm Arlong the Saw."

"More like Arlong the Nailfile." This earns you a growl you're not nearly sober enough to worry about. "Look, I don't care who you are, and I don't care why you're here. The point is, you're not wanted."

You glance over at Zeff. For once, in the time you've known him, he's cautious but allows you to get your words across.

Arlong does not share the same sentiments. "When I learned that Cross-Hairs was here, I expected a woman with fists of irons and eyes sharp as knives. However, all I seem to be presented with is an old captain who does not know how to hold her liquor. It's pathetic, even by human standards."

This time, you're not vocal about your rather ... brutally honest opinions about him. Without breaking eye contact, you reach for your bottle and take a hefty swing from it. It all goes down without pause, and once it's gone, you put it back with enough force to permanently dent the table. Zeff'll be pissed.

Arlong snorts at the display. "I'm not here for you specifically. The boy, Luffy, where is he?"

"Never heard of him,"

"I don't quite believe that."

"Not my problem."

Arlong tilts his head to the side, almost condescendingly. "My informant knows otherwise."

"Your informant seems to know a lot of things," you say, dangerously low. "If you tell me who they are, and I'll pay them a visit myself to set the record straight,"

He chuckles. "There's no need for a visit. He's already here, and he's famished." He snaps his jaws to a nearby table, scaring the patrons into fleeing. "But I don't need the meals from the menu to quench my hunger."

You glance over at the other patrons, seeing the fear in their eyes reflect the light above. You've seen it before; you used to see it back when you were still Captain of the Cross-Haired Pirates. People used to quake at the sound of your footsteps, and whisper among themselves. in fear of evoking your wrath.

Back in the day, you lived up to your reputation. You didn't necessarily enjoy installing fear into people's hearts, but it was a means to an end. You were angry, and all that anger manifested itself in the way you acted as a captain. All that fighting, all that beating, all that rage.

Now, when you see the patrons acting like a herd of sheep, you can't help but feel like you're back there. But they're not afraid of you, not this time.

You look back at Arlong. "Find your meal someplace else."

He growls and steps closer. "I'm telling you this, Cross-Hairs, one beast to another. You may be strong, but we both know that you're not strong enough to take me on. Fish men are superior to humans in every single way. Stronger, faster, —"

He gets close enough to grab for your hand and lift it, his face a breath's width from your own. You can smell the stench of salt on him, of raw meat. "— Hungrier. Wouldn't you agree?"

In a flash, you grip your other hand around his wrist, fingers digging into his flesh until you can find the corners of his joints. You relish in the pained expression that crosses his face.

"You're not a beast," you say, not raising your voice a pitch. "You're vermin."

Arlong parts his jaws when the doors to the Baratie burst open. 

"Which one of you is Arlong?" 

You snap your attention to the top of the staircase, and your face drains. Fuck, it's Luffy. Why's he here?

"Who's asking?" Arlong asks, his grip around yours remains tight.

"I'm Monkey D. Luffy. I hear you're looking for me."

Once Luffy descends the stairs, Arlong lets go of you and turns to face the younger opponent. You watch with mild impressiveness as Luffy faces the bigger fish man, and you have to grant him that, he doesn't exhibit an ounce of fear. 

"How'd you find me anyway?" Luffy finally asks.

Arlong snickers. "An old friend helped track you down."

Then, you watch as the big-lipped fish man pulls something out from his bag and it's ... and it's ...

"Heya, Straw Hat! Did you miss me?"

It's fucking Buggy!

Your heart skips several beats before it remembers to start pumping again. He's here. You thought Orange Town would be the last time you saw him, but he's really here. Truth be told, he looks worse for wear; his make-up is all smudged, a bruise forming on the right side of his cheek, and he's been dowsed in seawater.

But it's him. It's him.

Buggy's eyes glance over at you, and the smile that was previously there gets momentarily replaced with an expression you can't precisely pinpoint. "Hey, there," he says, surprisingly demure. "how's it going?" 

You're not nearly sober nor coherent enough to reply.

"Burpy?" Luffy asks surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Believe me it wasn't my first choice either, but these fine fishy folk persuaded me to point them in the right direction, which ain't easy when you don't have any hands."

"How'd you even know how to find me?"

"I told you, I got eyes and ears everywhere."

To your horror, you watch as an ear pulls itself out of Luffy's hat and attaches to the clown's head. That ear was there all along, which means ...

"You were listening all along?" Luffy cradles his hat. "You heard everything?"

Everything, you think to yourself as you feel the blood drain from your face. He heard everything, everything you'd said to Luffy, everything about your whereabouts. Every—

"Everything," Buggy answers. "And that got old quick, 'cause you shidiots got no idea what you're doing. Hey, Lips!" He turns his head sideways to face the fish man who's just returned from aiding his colleague. "How about a scratch behind the old ear, huh?"

"Sorry, honey."

You don't know what compels you, but something fierce does. An animalistic instinct settled in the marrow of your bones, rampant with rage and assertiveness. When the fish man grabs a hold of Buggy and puts him in the bag, you feel the need to get him out. Free him.

You were friends with him once, something even more from your side long ago, and you've tried to kill each other on at least one occasion. Still, that piece of you that remains in your youthhood demands that you get to him before anyone else.

The conversation that takes place between Luffy and Arlong doesn't register with your ears, as all you can focus on is him. Before you know it, the sound of gunshots echoes through the restaurant, and a fight erupts between Luffy's crew and Arlong's.

Truth be told, it all flashes in front of you like pictures from a movie you've seen. All you can recall, with the alcohol still flooding through your veins, is the feeling of flesh between your digits, the sound of cries and painful moans from Arlong's henchpeople as you force them to the side, and the pure adrenaline that muddles all your thoughts of ration.

Before Arlong can even hope to make a grasp at Luffy, you're there to deflect his claws with your wrist. The impact pushes his hand several inches away from your skin, and without a moment's notice, you strike him in the middle of his sternum.

He's knocked several feet back and into a nearby pillar, not enough to completely knock him out, but enough to keep him away if only for a few moments.

He laughs, his teeth bleeding from the gums. "The Beast of the East. I was wondering when I'd finally get to meet you."

You don't say a word, with the primitive instincts overwhelming your rational ones. In a second, you lunge for him, your hand aimed towards his head. Someone, most likely yourself, must have miscalculated because as much as you intend to hit him and maim him and strike him, the most prominent sense that strikes you is not the feeling of blood under your knuckles.

It's pain.

You're in pain.

Arlong manages to hit you with his clawed fingers. The sharp feeling of something piercing the side of your abdomen through your clothes causes an eerie feeling of hurt. You gasp and bend to your knees, clutching your side. Blood paints your palm as you withdraw it. You're bleeding. Fuck, you're actually bleeding. It's not a light cut either, it's several ones, an inch deep each, and they're bleeding profusely.

When was the last time you bled like this?

The collision between your head and something hard knocks you back before you can even hope to register your state properly. The floorboards leave stinging burns across your lower back until a pillar cushions your fall.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"A pity, truly." Arlong taunts, towering over you. "My informant seemed so confident in your skills. How disappointed he’ll be, seeing you crawl like a maggot on the floor."

You know this is a fight you cannot win, not as you are right now, but you don’t care. Pure spite motivates you to do your worst, even if it’s all for naught.

An act produced from pure adrenaline, you jump back to your feet and prepare to pounce at him. An outstretched hand — Luffy's — beat you to it and preoccupied the fish man in the nick of time. He's pulled away from your reach before you can hope to get him, and a familiar feeling of bloodlust in your veins awakens to life after its hibernation.

Hot, boiling.

You want to kill him. 

Maim him. 

Crush him until his bones break. 

Feel the warmth of his blood coat your fingers as you dig into his body, through veins and arteries and flesh. 

You want him dead.

Suddenly, you catch it from your peripheral vision. A bag on the floor that's currently being tossed back and forth amid all the fighting like a ball of yarn between two quarreling cats. A string of curses erupts from the fabric.

He's still here, you remember. Buggy is still here. 

You have the option to leave him at the mercy of the fight between the Straw Hats and Arlong, but something in your body won't let it. Call it instinct, call it sentiment, but you move towards it all the same. Before any man can even touch the surface of the bag, you lunge for it like a flash of light. 

Grabbing the top of the old fabric, you all but yank it from the floor and maintain him in the steady grip of both your hands. 

"Hey, hey!" the voice in the bag calls. "Keep me out of this!"

"Shut up!" You shout back.

The voice immediately quiets down. In the middle of the fight, while you cling to the bag like a sacred object, you can hear him call your name several times, though you don’t answer.

You cradle the bag in the crook of your elbow as someone — doesn’t matter who — kicks your ribs and sends you crashing into a nearby wall. The impact knocks the air out of your lungs and leaves you with stars at the corners of your vision, yet all you can seem to think is ‘keep .... safe, keep .... safe, KEEP .... SAFE’.

You cough several times, static noise filling your eardrums as you crawl back to your feet. The sensation of something warm dribbling down the side of your ribs strikes you, yet your only concern in the midst of the blood loss is to carry that damn bag to safety. 

It doesn’t make any sense. Luffy should be your only concern, but you can't find him, and the core of your being wants nothing more than to just get that bag the hell out of there. 

Why? you think to yourself in a haze, your breath becoming heavier. What’s in that bag again? Why does it mean so much?

You try to get up, but the weight of your body overwhelms you. You stumble and fall back to your knees, dizziness making everything hazy and disoriented, but pure spite motivates you to keep going. At least, it tries to, but sheer will cannot outweigh the body’s needs alone.

Someone calls your name, and as your cheek meets the floor, an image of blue hair invades your vision. Blue hair, soft promises, and tight embraces.

Then, there are scornful glares, a shove against your body, so firm and cold that it’s reminiscent of ice.

��I hate you,” a blurry voice says, so filled with resentment that it reminds you of a knife. “I wish we’d never even met. Go be with him if that’s what you fucking want. What do I care?”

It hurts. It hurts more than your ribs do. It hurts to listen to those words — that voice — as it reverberates through your skull. It hurts so fucking much that you don’t think you can survive it. You feel small, small and vulnerable; like a child stuck in a crowd of people they don't know.

“He- Hey! Are you there?” The same voice - deeper and darker now - calls desperately as darkness starts to cloud your vision. “Come on, get up!”

You can’t tell if this is a voice from inside your head or outside it, but you don’t fight it when the darkness decides to lay claim over you. The same voice calls your name urgently, time and time again, but you can't answer it.

———

Everything hurts. Your body, your arms, your legs, but most prominently, the right side of your body. It’s burning, stinging, fucking carving at you. Whatever you call it. It just hurts.

“You’re awake!”

You barely have time to open your eyes when a warm body presses itself against yours from above. A sting of pain from the side of your body immediately surges through your nerves and you hiss.

“Oh, sorry, sorry!”

When you finally do look up, you see Luffy sitting beside you, a concerned yet hopeful look in those round eyes of his. You blink at him, then shift your head around to see where you are. You’re in your cabin, a blanket pulled up to your midsection, with something wrapped tightly around your stomach under your shirt.

At first, you’re at a loss for thoughts, but it only takes you a moment for everything to fall back into place. You immediately sit up, only to regret it as the pain explodes once more from your wounds.

“Don’t move too much,” Luffy protests and puts a hand on your shoulder to guide you down, but you resist it.

“What happened?” you demand. “How long was I out for?”

“Only a few hours.” Luffy frowns and gestures to your side. “You were badly hurt and lost a bit of blood. Zeff looked over it and managed to stop the bleeding, but he said you’ll need stitches eventually.”

You stare at him for a few seconds before your gaze trails down to your side. Lifting your shirt far enough so that you can evaluate the damage. Crimson-stained bandages greet your vision, under which you can only guess Arlong left his mark. Several marks to be precise, if your memory holds any value.

It’s not the wound itself that fills you with shame, but it’s the fact that you let your own grievances put you and – to some extent – the crew in such a vulnerable position to begin with. 

If only you’d stopped feeling so sorry for yourself, then maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

“Luffy,” you say softly, not removing your focus from the bandages. “I’m … sorry.”

“For what?” he asks, completely confused.

“… I got distracted.” You slowly swing your feet to the edge of the hammock, the movements warranting more bouts of pain, yet you ignore it. “I … Let my guard down, and it put the crew in danger.”

“I don’t think so.” He says it so casually like he doesn’t find you at fault in the slightest. You don’t know whether deem his forgiving demeanor endearing or naïve to a fault. “You were sad.”

“That doesn’t excuse anything!” You jump to your feet while cradling your side. Luffy immediately comes to your side and offers you a shoulder to lean onto. “You could’ve been killed!”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “And so is Zoro! He’s alive!”

“That’s … good.” Relief floods your body.

“But Nami…” Luffy pauses as he helps you out of the room towards the kitchen. “She went with Arlong,”

You raise an eyebrow, not expecting this. “Why?”

“I don’t know, but we’re going to find her.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“Well …” he trails off sheepishly, and you’re immediately suspicious. 

It’s not until you finally reach the kitchen that you hear it.

“Hey! Look who it ... is ...”

It’s Buggy … 

His head is on top of the kitchen table. 

———

Taglist:

@kurinhimenezu, @carpinchootaku, @ay0nha, @teh-vampire-bunny, @lokiscure, @internationalsuper-spy, @detectivesparrow , @yuriwk , @notyuralycat , @angeli-fucking-cat , @machinema7k , @shuujin, @avatar-lover, @gingernut1314, @autumn-slaves. @marvelouskatie, @floristoflillys, @dizzyenby, @redpool, @deliri-yum22, @aemondsb1tch, @ackroxia, @gayandfairycore, @knightsfavoriteprincess, @asterizee, @aamethyst23, @lizzie1107 (If you want to be tagged for this story, just send me a message or leave a comment :))

[veltana]

Highest bidder - Steve Rogers x virgin!reader

✦ Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader ✦ Word count: ~5k ✦ Raiting: Explicit ✦ Warnings: AU, kind of soft!dark Steve, reader is in her mid-twenties, one shot, pwp, insecurity, loss of virginity, piv sex, condoms, cunnilingus, smallest hint of a daddy kink, fluff and smut, dirty talk, friends to lovers, small hint of possessive/protective!Steve. Let me know if I missed anything! ✦ Summary: Tired of being a virgin and out of money you travel to Las Vegas to auction it off. Little do you know your friend Steve Rogers won't let anyone else have you. ✦ Note: I think this is among the first times that I cross-post a whole fic to tumblr. This fic is also on AO3. I'll see what the response is like here and maybe I'll continue to do it in the future.

Masterlist | AO3

"So what are you up to this weekend?" Steve asks as you take the first sip of your beer. For a second you debate not telling him and Bucky, sitting across from you in the booth. "Me and Wanda are going to Vegas." "What? Without me?" Bucky’s scandalized voice makes you laugh. "You don't like traveling, or Vegas for that matter," Steve points out. And that is true, you much prefer to stay in your apartment, reading your books and drinking tea. "Also, didn't you say you could hardly afford to go out with us tonight?" Bucky questions. "Well," you begin, scratching at the beer label, not wanting to look at them. "The trip is paid for." The stunned silence from across the table doesn't bode well, you know you're in for an interrogation now. "Do you need help? Are you in trouble?" Steve's concerned voice makes you look up. He's always so sweet and caring to you, looking out for you all the time.

"No, I'm fine. I'm doing it willingly," you answer. "What are you doing willingly?" There is no hiding the curiosity in Bucky’s voice. Once again you're not sure you're going to tell them, but it also doesn't make sense to keep it a secret. It's not a big deal, that's the whole point. "I'm auctioning off my virginity," you confess and are rewarded with both of them looking at you like you've grown a second head. Before they can say anything you continue. "I'm tired of it hanging over me, I just want it gone. And I'm also tired of scraping by. What you two make in an hour, I make in a month and I just want to be a step ahead instead of a step behind for once."

Bucky's smirk is the last thing you expect. "How much are you starting at, I'll double it." "Jerk." You throw some of your nuts his way. He laughs in response. "Honestly, tell me. What does a virginity go for these days?" "I'm starting out at three thousand. It would be more if I didn’t put in a clause about condoms and I’m a little bit older than most others.” “Well, my offer still stands,” Bucky concludes. “I bet it does, perv.” “And you don’t think the people buying you are pervs?” Steve’s been quiet up until now and his accusatory tone makes you defensive. “I’m not fucking stupid Steve, of course I know they are. They are also filthy rich. If I get bought by some disgusting old man I’ll smile and think about how fucking good it will feel not being stressed about money.” He still doesn’t look pleased and you didn’t come here to get judged. Finishing your beer you get up and grab your jacket. “I’ll see you around,” you say. Before walking out.

Vegas is overwhelming and loud. Instantly you shrink down, pulling your shoulders up. You would be lost if it wasn’t for Wanda. She’s in her element, flagging down cabs and weaving through the streets while you do your best to keep up. Finally, you arrive at your room. It’s small but not cramped and the two beds are clean. “First, shower, and then we’ll get started on your hair and makeup,” Wanda instructs. “You’re the best, you know that Wanda?” you smile at her. “What are best friends for if not fixing you up for some old guy to buy your V-card,” she winks.

Maybe Wanda is a witch, you think as you look at yourself in the tall mirror backstage. Somehow she took your average look and styled it into something you would never in a hundred years be able to recreate. Instead of the innocent style many seem to prefer, she made sure you looked sexy. If this had been a regular night of going out, you’d feel uncomfortable that someone you knew would see you, but the two glasses of champagne and the knowledge that no one except you and Wanda would ever see this made your confidence high. The night moves quickly, both women and men going up on the well-lit stage to present themselves and then watching as the bids start coming in. The people bidding are not in the room, but in different hotels scattered across the city, typing in numbers. Some people do elaborate shows when they step up in front of the cameras. One guy deep-throats a large banana and at first, you giggle but then you see the digits on the screen. His bids are the highest all evening so far. You decide quickly that you will just go up, smile, and wave and wait. You aren’t expecting much, but your pride hopes at least one or two people will find you attractive enough to at least pay the starting bid.

Soon it’s your turn. With a pounding heart, you step up on the stage, your body warms not only from the light but from the nervousness coursing through your body. You concentrate on your breathing so you won’t pass out and when you smile you hope it looks genuine. At first, the monitors are quiet and your heart drops. Are you not good enough for even some old lonely pervert? Then it dings with an incoming bid. It’s just above the starting sum, but you’re instantly relieved and can’t help the actually genuine smile that cracks your face. A second later another bid comes in. You don’t know how many people are placing the bids, you just see the number rise on the monitor, to your utter delight. Quickly it’s up to four thousand and the tempo slows, so maybe some people dropped out. But a few steady bids keep coming in, until it’s starting to near five thousand and it stops long enough for an automated voice ring out through the room. “Going once. Going twice.” Before it can finish the monitor chimes again, your mouth dropping open when you see the sum. Ten thousand dollars. It must be a mistake. The counting starts again, but you hardly hear it over the pure shock you’re experiencing.

Then you’re shooed away, given a room number and a key, before being put into a waiting car to take you to the hotel. When it stops outside of the Palms Casino you think you must be dreaming. It gets even worse when you realize you’re heading to the top floor. Whoever is waiting behind the door won’t matter, because you’ll gladly do anything they ask you.

The penthouse is stunning and it’s hard to take everything in. At the floor-to-ceiling windows, a figure is outlined. They’re backlit against the neon lights of Vegas and it’s hard to make out any details except the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and long legs. That feels promising. They don’t turn around as you close the door but you don’t hesitate to step into the room and begin to walk up to them. Stopping a a few steps behind you say “Hi. I am flattered by your very generous-” But you don’t get further because the person turns around and your words get stuck in your throat. “Steve?!” You quickly step back to get away. This must be some cruel joke he and Bucky have come up with. Before you can run out of the room he grabs your wrist. The usually soft eyes are hard and his smiling mouth is a line of displeasure. “Let go of me,” you demand. “No can do, I paid for you,” his hard voice makes you still. “This isn’t funny, Steve.” “No, it’s not. Now you’re going to go into the bedroom and take off those heels, then kneel on the bed and wait for me,” his instructions make it very clear that if you argue, you won’t like what comes next, so instead you bow your head and say “Yes, Steve.”

You’ve never seen a king-size bed before and it’s much larger than you could’ve imagined. The sheets are soft against your knees as you sit on your feet, waiting. There are too many emotions and questions running wild in your body, but the most prominent one is Why had he bid on you? There is no denying Steve is good looking and when Wanda had first introduced you, sure you’d had a crush on him. But you never thought about pursuing it. His life was far from yours, with luxury cars and expensive dinners, while you went out to eat once a year on your birthday. Both he and Bucky had offered you money on several occasions but you’d never taken it, because you’d never be able to pay it back and money being owed between friends always caused trouble.

You hear the steps nearing the room and you meet his eyes as he steps through the open door. He has left his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, making him more desirable and more dangerous at the same time. Taking a stand a the foot of the bed he stares you down but you don’t cower. Even though you want to ask what the fuck this is, the tension in the air tells you not to talk back right now, just show him that you’re not afraid. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise that Steve is here because he is someone you trust would never hurt you, or do anything against your will.

“Here is how this is going to go, sweetheart. I’ll do right by you and take this nice and slow like you deserve. Then when it’s over we’re sitting down to a nice dinner, and afterward I’m bending you over the dining room table and taking out all my fucking frustration on that cunt of yours until you can’t walk straight.” His words send lightning bolts of desire through you and you nod in understanding. “Use your words,” he demands. “Yes, Steve,” you agree. Then he crooks his fingers, indicating he wants you to come to him. You crawl the short way to the edge and sit back again. His fingers grip your chin carefully. “I’m going to kiss you.” “Okay.”

The second he presses his lips to yours it's like being on cloud nine. It's soft but not hesitant and you instinctively grab a hold of his shirt. Steve begins slowly, as if not to scare you but the more you meet his advances the more he takes. Then he coaxes your lips to part, slipping in his tongue and finding yours to play with. Kissing other people has been nice before, but kissing Steve is exceptional. When his hands land at your waist and pull you into him, you can't keep the moan in. His touch hardens and it makes you throb to be this close to him.

You’re a little out of it when he pulls away and you must look it too because he chuckles. "You like that?" A dopey smile splits your lips and you nod. But then his hands travel to the front of your dress, hooking his fingertips into the fabric and you can’t help stiffen. "Have you ever had your tits played with?" he asks. With a groan, you shake your head. "If you think kissing was great just wait until I get my mouth on the rest of you." He sounds so confident, but you’re not and either it’s blatantly obvious that you’re insecure or he knows you too well.

"How are you feeling?" You think about lying for a second but then decide against it. "I don’t understand why.” "Why what?" "I don’t mean to sound ungrateful but, why me Steve?" You find the courage to look up at him. Now he has that soft smile that you absolutely adore on his stupidly handsome face. His voice is just as soft when he speaks.

"Not only are you absolutely stunning, and I’m not talking about the way you’re dolled up right now. I love seeing you in your big sweaters while you go around the bookstore and help people with recommendations. I also admire you, because you follow your heart. Doing what makes you happy is important to you and I wish I were more like that. Even if you look out for yourself, that never stops you from caring about others. You cry when you see clips of rescue animals. And you're so so obvious that I've been in love with you since Wanda introduced you." "What?" you choke, your whole reality shifting. "Sweet, dumb little pet.” Steve’s hands cup your face and light squeezes your cheeks together for a second. “I've wanted you since you stammered out your name. Something so pure and precious deserves the world." "I didn’t know,” you whisper. "Of course you didn’t. When I got home that night, I jerked myself off to the thought of you and I swear I never come so hard in my life."

"Steve!" Heat rushes into your cheeks at his words. "I’ve had time to think about this a lot. I'm going to get you so wet and needy you will beg for my cock. I'm gonna make sure you're at the brink of insanity, deliriously begging for me to fuck you, even though you don't know what it feels like." "Oh god!" you moan, desire moving through your body. "Let me taste you, kitten. Let me make you scream,” his seductive voice rumbles.

Nodding you watch as his fingers pull the dress down, baring your breasts to his eyes. Instantly he cups them, thumbs brushing your nipples, making you keen. "Prettiest fucking tits I've ever seen," he whispers before leaning down and licking a nipple. The sensation makes you grab hold of his head to steady yourself. His tongue flicks it several times before sucking it into his mouth and you arch into him, clutching him, moaning out his name. Sure, you've been aroused in your life before, but the ache Steve creates is starting to feel painful. "Steve!" you plead when he switches to the other side, giving your other nipple the same treatment. He hums against your skin before pulling off you with a plop and immediately kisses you again. Nothing is really different from before but just knowing that Steve's tongue was just somewhere else on your body and now it's in your mouth makes you heat up even more.

It feels good when he takes charge, it keeps your thoughts from running in all the wrong directions. He gets you to lie down, crawling onto the bed after you, kissing every inch of exposed skin he can get to while you shudder under him. "How are you feeling?" he asks with a shit-eating grin, clearly knowing he's responsible for your state. "Goodgoodgood!" Is all you can get out while pawing at his clothed chest. "Want me to take it off?" Nodding vigorously you try to undo the buttons, but fail. He laughs and sits back between your spread legs, untucking the shirt and pulling it over his head. The bulge in his pants is very visible and you swallow hard at the sight of it, both scared and excited. He notices you looking. "We'll get to that later," he promises with another kiss. "First I'm going to get you wet and ready for me."

A hand hikes up your skirt and a finger follow the edge of your panties, down toward the juncture of your leg. It's like hot coal against your skin, burning you most sweetly. Even if you’re already soaked, his touch is sending pulse after pulse into your cunt and you're scared you're about to stain the sheets if he continues. A fingertip caresses over your core, touch so light it's almost not there but your sensitive skin feels it. Trembling you arch up, gripping the sheets. "Is that good?" Not knowing if you can speak you just nod and he continues. Down your thighs and back up, over and over again against your covered cunt, fingers getting firmer and firmer the more sounds you make.

A thrill you've never felt before has taken up place in your body, threatening to send your mind spiraling. To distract yourself you explore the plains of Steve's body that you can reach, stroking his arms and shoulders, but to feel him makes it even worse. You can’t wait to have him pressed against you.

Sitting back again he says, "I'm going to take these off now." He hooks his fingers at the top of your panties and starts to pull. "Lift your ass up." He instructs. Now your tits and your cunt are exposed for him. Steve is staring, but when you try to close your legs from embarrassment he quickly puts his hands on your thighs to spread them apart even more. "Don't you dare take that pretty pussy away from me," he all but growls and it sends another wave of pleasure into you. The air feels cold against your wet, warm skin. Then his gaze flicks up to you and with another smile, he leans down bending you almost in half, placing a kiss on your lips. "Last kiss before I devore you," he whispers and slides down your body. When his words sink in, you go rigid.

"No, you don't have to, we can just‐" you begin but the look he gives silences you. "Do you know how long I have waited for this?" He nips the inside of your thigh. "No," you whimper. "Been dreaming about how you would feel, and taste." He mouths at your skin. "The nights I can’t sleep I lie there and think of you soaking my beard when you come for me," he groans and moves down a little more until his face is right in front of your pussy. "Now I'm having my fill and when I'm done you'll be primed for my cock, I promise."

Not giving you any time to answer he dives in. His tongue feels nothing like your own fingers, or the vibrator you have in your drawer. It's sending you to heaven with every stroke. Steve takes notes of what makes you moan the loudest and in no time the unmistakable warmth of an orgasm begins to build. You do your best to keep still, but it's hard when it feels so good and Steve follows your every movement until your thighs are trembling heavily, breath coming out in irregular gasps, your fingers threatening to tear the sheets apart.

It climbs quicker than you expect and when the orgasm rips through you it’s with a cry, that leaves you almost boneless afterward. Looking down, panting, you notice you've basically crushed Steve's head between your thighs. With a "Sorry!" You spread them apart and he comes up for air, his beard glistening with you. "How was that?" "Incredible," you sigh. The ache that threatened to consume you has died down to a more manageable throb. "Great." He positions himself again and you stare with wide eyes. An amused smirk plays on his lips. "Did you think that was it?" You try to stutter out a response but he raises his hand and wiggles his fingers playfully. "Now you get these too."

After a second you relax into the pillows, trusting Steve with your body. He's gentle when he begins, now that your cunt is a million times more sensitive, but soon you're trembling again, and then the tip of his finger is at your opening. It slides in without resistance and the feeling changes. More nerves send sparks through you from new places. It's too much for your poor brain to decipher and you don’t fight it, just let it take you, like you’re floating down a stream. "Good girl, relaxing for me so well." Through bleary eyes you see him looking up at you. "Ready for another one?" You're not sure what that means but you nod anyway and are rewarded with a smile. He never looks away from you as you feel another finger press in together with the first. A high-pitched sound leaves you as your chest heaves. It's too much but not enough. You’re so full but in the best way possible. Then he moves them and you can hear just how wet he's made you.

His tongue comes back to play with your clit and soon you're at the edge of another orgasm. "Yes yes yes!" You chant over and over again. Everything he does feels so good. The sensation of clamping down on his fingers as you come is new and makes the orgasm much stronger this time, leaving you mildly disoriented for a second. "God, you look so beautiful when you come." Steve lays his head against your leg, still moving his hand and sending small aftershocks into your body. "You know what?" "What Stevie?" you ask, your voice a little hoarse as you reach down and place your hand in his soft hair, carding your fingers through it, just to feel him. "I don't think you noticed, but there are three fingers inside you now." You make a questioning sound. "Added another right after you came. No problem at all. Just need you to come one more time, then I'll know you're ready." He does something with his fingers inside you, making you whimper from the pleasure it sends through you. "Found your G-spot too," he looks smug as he says it. "Let's see what happens when I play with just that."

It’s another new experience that puts your body on edge in the best way. The pleasure never dissipates but it never builds either and finally you can't stand it anymore, deciding to beg for the relief he can give you. "Stevie, please! Use your mouth again!" "Of course, when you ask so nicely." When he sucks your clit into his mouth, it makes you see stars, and seconds later the built-up ecstasy reaches its peak. Gripping his head you grind against his tongue with a cry of his name because it’s so fucking good.

Afterward, you sink down with a relieved sigh and you're pretty sure your muscles have never been this relaxed in your life. "Such a good girl for me." Steve praises before pulling out his fingers, licking them clean, and moving off the bed. You instantly feel achingly empty. Not taking his eyes from you he undo his pants and slide them and his underwear off.

The sight of his hard, leaking cock standing out from his body is kind of mesmerizing. You've seen dicks in pictures, sent unsolicited to you on a few occasions, and a couple of times when you've tried to watch porn. Never before have you thought a dick could look pretty. As if something possesses your body you crawl over to the edge of the bed, settling on your legs and reaching out towards it. Steve watches, chest heaving slightly as you trace his cock with a fingertip, all the way from root to tip, dipping it into the leaking mess. Looking up at him you bring it to your mouth and lick it. The groan he lets out in response is delicious.

It doesn't taste bad, just different and you're about to ask if you can try to take him in your mouth but as if sensing your thoughts he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss. At first, you try to move away, knowing where he has just been, but he keeps a steady hand at the back of your neck, forcing you to taste yourself on his tongue, and just like him, it’s not bad, just different. "If I let you touch me more than that, I'll burst,” he explains before he grabs your dress and pulls it off you in one go. “Now be good and lay down again." "Yes, Stevie," you answer and fall onto the bed, spreading your legs. Instead of joining you right away, he walks up to the bedside table and opens a drawer, pulling out a square package.

Embarrassment fills you. In your post-orgasmic state, you forgot about your own rule. If he hadn’t gotten a condom you would gladly have let him take you raw. Lucky for you, Steve is not the type of person to take advantage of you like that. He rolls it on and you swallow hard. Just the look of it is big, you’re not sure how it will fit. "Don't be scared. With how wet you are, it’ll glide right in," he says with a smile, kneeling between your spread legs.

This is the moment, you think. After this, you won't be a virgin anymore. Even if it is just a social construct, you've never actually had a dick inside of you and that will be a new experience. Steve kisses you, helping the doubts slip away. The rubber feels weird against your lower lips, and then it's at your opening. The tip presses inside and Steve watches your face. "Does it hurt?" he asks. "No,” you assure him. “It's just different." "Tell me if you want to stop." "Just keep going."

Slowly he eases his way inside and once he bottoms out both of you are breathing heavily. With a groan, Steve's head lands on your shoulder. "Fuck you're like a vice around my dick. I'm going to try to move." You wrap your arms around his shoulders, caressing his back and he starts moving. You feel like you're filled to the brim and it's pressing against your G-spot, making you warm and high again. Experimentally you lift your hips, meeting his, eliciting a moan from him. "I'm sorry," Steve mumbles. "I won't last long." Before you can respond he continues. "You feel too good. So tight and warm. Fuck!" Then he lifts himself on one of his strong arms before grabbing the back of your neck and bending it until you're looking down toward where your bodies are connected. Steve slams his hips into you and you answer with a cry of pleasure. "Look at that unused cunt taking my big cock so well." "Steve!" you whine. His thrusts are too good, the pressure too much, and looking at it only makes you hotter. "It was made for me, right?" "Yes! Ah! Steve!" The throb in your clit is driving you insane and you reach down to relieve it. "Oh fuck. Are you gonna come on my dick your first time? That's dirty." You never expected words to be such a big part of sex, but the way Steve is talking is heightening your sensation.

"That's right. Rub your clit for me. Fuck you're clenching around me so hard. Tell me if you're gonna come." Nodding frantically you feel the climax building. Your whole body is a coil wind up tight and you're not sure what will happen when it snaps.

"I'm - I'm… I think I'm going to come, Steve," you moan. The pressure in your lower stomach is excruciating and delirious. You just need a little more. Letting go of your head he meets your eyes. "Good girl, I'm right behind you. Squeeze me dry. Come for Daddy." The last words enter your brain and sweep you off. The orgasm takes over your whole body and drowns you in pleasure. The edge of your vision blurs, your body shuddering violently. You hear the blood pumping in your veins. Feel your heart drumming in your ribcage. On some level you're aware of Steve above you, chanting your name as his hips pump into you and he fills the condom.

The weight of him is nearly crushing but also makes you feel safe. For the first time, you have the presence of mind to take in his body as you caress down his sides and his back, down over his ass as far as you can reach. It makes him sigh happily and you feel so content. After a while, he raises himself on his elbows and pecks your lips, nose, and cheeks until you giggle, before getting off completely and disposing of the condom. As soon as the warmth of him leaves, small, cruel thoughts about this once again being some kind of joke start forming in your head. Despite what he’s said, you find it hard to believe that it would be true.

Before you have time to think more about it he is beside you in the bed again, leaning on his arm and looking down at you. "So, how was that?" He’s curious, there’s no hiding it. "Better than I could ever dream of," you answer honestly. "Well, that's an ego boost," Steve laughs. "How… How was I?" He kisses you before he whispers, "Best I ever had." You can't help but snort at that. "Don't fucking lie to me."

With a growl Steve rolls onto his back, taking you with him and making you lay on his chest. "It's the fucking truth, and unless you want a spanking to go with the next round, you're going to believe me." That tone of voice. The threat of pain and pleasure combined sparks something inside you, and Steve notices. "Oh, does that make you horny?" Hiding your face in the crook of his neck you say "Yes, Daddy." Steve groans and crushes you into his chest. "If I could fuck you again right now, believe me, I would."

Several hours later you're in bed again, pressed against Steve’s warm chest. He did what he promised and you’re sure you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. But something is weighing on your mind. “I’ll pay you back,” you say. “If you do, you’ll wish I spanked you.” “But-,” “No. I told you that you deserve the world, that money is a drop in the ocean to me.” “I can’t believe you bought me.” “I can’t believe you sold your body.” Even if you can’t see him, his voice makes it clear he’s not happy. “The thought of someone else touching you, fucking you. I’m not a violent man, but that makes me want to kill.” “I’m glad it was you,” you confess with a smile and kiss his skin. A moment later he’s on top of you, kissing you sweetly and you feel him stirring against you, growing hard. An answering wetness pool at your core. “I need you again,” he murmurs against your mouth. With a nod, you reach between your bodies to guide him inside. Pulling back, he says “Condom.” When he reaches over to the bedside table, you shake your head and lift your hips. “Oh fuck, are you sure?” “I want to feel you,” you reassure him. It’s a bit sore when he presses inside but the movements are slow, and the kisses quickly take your mind off it. Afterward, he doesn’t pull out, and you fall asleep with his cum and cock between your legs, happy he was your highest bidder.

[sister-lucifer]

Boys on Film [WIP PREVIEW]

Jay Merrick x Hoodie, starring Alex Kralie

content/warnings: none for this preview, except minor hints of slightly toxic alex behavior, but there will be in the full fic

Stress.

That’s the only word for it, but it feels like a massive understatement. What Alex is experiencing is far more than a quickly approaching deadline or rush hour behind the counter of a fast food restaurant; not just stress, but damn near mortal peril, and it’s wearing on him, grinding him down to dust bit by bit. Anyone in this situation would be…tetchy, to say the least, but Alex’s strain often manifests itself as pure, unbridled rage, simmering at the surface of his mind and burning red hot. 

As one could imagine, this doesn’t exactly bode well for his cautious alliance with Jay. 

They’re both under tremendous pressure. They’re both struggling, they both need each other’s help…

…but God, he pisses Alex off. 

Sitting there with that empty, placid look on his face like he’s a million miles away, but still stone cold sober. Always fiddling with his camera and always asking once, twice, thrice to have what was just told to him explained again. The way he looks up at Alex with those big doe eyes that don’t know anything, that oblivious face that reminds Alex of those days in high school where they’d sit behind the bleachers and gaze silently at each other, both of them too afraid to lean in and just—

Stop, stop, stop. Just stop it. 

Alex huffs in annoyance, shaking his head as if shaking the thoughts out of his mind. He flops back onto his twin mattress, staring up at the plain white ceiling of his bedroom. This old house has been his only solace these past few weeks, his only place of safety; it’s almost odd being alone in it now, seeing as Jay’s been practically living with Alex as of late for his own safety and peace of mind. He’d shown up at Alex’s door in the dead of night, panting, terrified, and begging to spend the night. 

How could he say no?

He, perhaps too eagerly, invited Jay in, assuring him that he could stay as long as he needed. It was a bad idea, he realizes now, to allow Jay of all people into his domicile. Despite his constant self affirmations that everything from high school was in the past, where it belonged, suddenly being so close with Jay ignited an old flame deep inside of him. It burned just hot enough to make his insides uncomfortably warm, bringing beads of sweat to his forehead whenever he stood next to Jay for too long. The heat made him irritable—sometimes it turned him into a downright nasty jerk, and today his barely contained rage had really bitten him in the ass.

He hardly remembers what even started the fight. The massive amount of stress both he and Jay are under certainly helped it along, yes, but the inciting incident completely escapes him. All he remembers is yelling—no, screaming at Jay, hurling insults at him for being stupid and useless, dragging his feet while Alex was trying his damndest to just not die. Why can’t he just get off his ass and do something?!

The outburst of anger was short lived, but intense. It was as if the years’ worth of animosity that had been slowly piling up, like grains of sand pooling in the bottom of an hourglass one by one, had come crashing down. Old wounds were torn open without warning, gushing crimson and shooting a furious agony through him. Suddenly, he was 17 years old again, wrestling with his feelings and failing to find the impossible balance between Jay and himself and calculus homework and inevitable realizations. 

Suddenly, he was that angry teenage boy again. 

He hates that boy. He’s always hated him. He hated himself then, and he hates the person he used to be now. 

Alex groans in frustration at his own juvenile fury. He rubs his eyes as he huffs a heavy sigh, realizing how truly tired he is now that the anger isn’t pumping through his veins. The moment of him storming out of Jay’s house with one last glare over his shoulder replays over and over again in his mind, poking and prodding at his addled brain with spindly little needles of regret. 

He lets his hands fall limp once again. He lies there, lying flat on his back and looking up at nothing, for at least a few minutes. He’s not really sure why; perhaps something in his subconscious is trying to gain his attention, but is only strong enough to paralyze him with apathy. He doesn’t have the energy to wonder about that sort of thing right now, or address the slowly rising revelation that he is a giant asshole. 

He turns his head to the side, and lays there a few minutes more to debate his next course of action.

“…I should call Jay.” 

The words are painful in his throat. He barely manages to push them out, but it takes just a sliver of the guilty weight off his chest. Not nearly enough, though. 

He rolls his heavy body over to the opposite side, now facing towards his bedside table. He sucks in a deep breath, and it evacuates his chest lazily. The herculean task of reaching out and picking up his phone taunts him. 

Then, as if by some divine miracle, the moment his fingers twitch to life, his phone pings. 

He sits bolt upright, practically scrambling to grab the device off the bedside table. 

Jay must be texting him to talk about what happened; maybe he’ll just apologize and they can brush past it, after all it’s not like this is the first time Alex has had an outburst like that, and really, weren’t both of them at fault for—?

…An unknown number? 

Alex blinked a few times, staring down at the notification in confusion. It didn’t even look like a real phone number, just a random jumble of digits trying its best to imitate one. 

“What the hell…?”

[un-salted]

wip (it out!)

share whatever project you're working on right now, except 'project' is incredibly open ended. it could be fic, original writing, playlists, art, crafts, whatever it is you're doing!

thank you @lexithwrites for the tag, this is my fic for the Siriusly Hozier Fest

June 1963, Montana The telephone was something new. There were a lot of new things in Remus’s life—he supposed that that came with change. The telephone was installed a few weeks ago and he had only used it three times, twice because someone called him. He was one of the last people around him to get a telephone and he was reluctant, but Lily pushed. It was an independent line, not a party line, because he was so far away from everybody else on the ranch. Three Forks was like that, though, unless you were dead-smack in the center of town everything was spread out. Three Forks, a bit too far east to be considered right between Dillon and Helena. A bit too populous to be considered a ghost town and a bit too abandoned to be considered a city. With a population of just over one thou—it felt sort of crowded because you knew everyone and sort of desolate because if you wanted to, you could avoid everyone. Remus often had to go west, to Bozeman for business, but sometimes that business took him north or south, rarely, but occasionally, east. Three Forks, known for the Headwaters and the ranches, that’s all that there really was to it. Remus’s ranch—the Lupin ranch was the second biggest in town parameters—but if you left the town and went into central Montana you got the biggest ranch of them all, not just in size, but in stock and hands. It went the Lestrange, Moody, then Lupin’s—with smaller ‘competition’ laying on the outskirts of the town and not. There were others, probably bigger, resting in the outer parts, likely in the valleys and plains, but Remus hardly thought about it. It was a ranching town, county, state, through and through—good ol’ Montana. Remus had grown up in Montana and in Three Forks, on the ranch, and it was the way of life, nothing to it really. He didn’t expect anything different, carrying on the family business, dependent on nothing but the cattle and sheep (for that’s what the Lupin’s dealt in). There were minor upsets, bumps along the road; the weather, the wolves, Nymphadora Tonks, bloat, broken fence, Teddy, his mother catching ill. Triviality to push through—change was change and it usually happened slowly. But the telephone did not happen slowly. It happened fast. One day it wasn’t there and the next it was here. He didn’t like that sort of change. That sort of change didn’t bode well—that sort of change was like flooding or wildfire. The type that happened so fast that you only got a glimpse, an inkling that something was going to happen, rain or heat. For this it was conversations with the company in Butte—but it still felt like something unknown. The phone and all that came with it was unknown. His parents had gotten one at their house down the road a few years back, but he didn’t use it, he didn’t have any reason to. Not to call anyone or not when he got his own telephone, not when the drive only took a minute. Unknown and it was even more unknown when he was waiting for a call from someone at a vague time in the afternoon. The worst of it, now, was that Remus was dependent on the damn thing, a few weeks in his home and he was waiting on it. It was supposed to make his life easier and— The phone did ring then.

okay, tags: @nettedtangible, @hotreadingwitch, @vlaflipvla, and @myriadparacosm

[inviberu]

everlasting vows

Faced by the question and decision of swearing their devotion and love to you, what do they do? A promise that will bind them to you for eternity... Are they willing to go to such lengths for you?

Characters: Everyone (with the exception of riquet and mitile)

Note: I tried making everyone cute to the best of my abilities but some kind of just... slipped. Happy June Bride!

— Oz!

Oz pauses for a moment. He doesn't know what to say. He almost doesn't want to say anything in the moment after letting the thought sink into his mind. He was the most powerful wizard in the world—he already has enough weaknesses as it is with his injury and his love for Arthur but he already knew that you were one of them the moment he realised how helpless he was when it came to you. Asking him to promise you his unwavering loyalty and love was akin to making yourself a target for all his enemies to pounce on just to get a hold over him. He doesn't doubt his feelings for you. He knows that he'll be able to love you till the end of time and beyond but he wanted to make sure: are you certain? You kiss his doubts away gently and that's all he needed.

"Very well. If that is what you wish… I am yours for all eternity."

— Arthur!

He doesn't hesitate. Arthur treated you like his whole world; you were the most important thing to him and having him promise you such a thing brought him immense joy that it almost brings him to tears as he grasps your hands lovingly under the moonlight. He ran his thumb across the back of your palm gently and looked at you with a gaze so soft you could hardly believe that someone could love you this much. There was no one else present in this moment but you in his eyes as he lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your fingers.

"You don't need to ask. My heart has always been ready to love you forevermore."

— Cain!

He's surprised but his expression quickly broke into a huge smile. Sometimes, Cain acted as if he was human, forgetting that his words—his promises—held so much weight behind them. You thought this was one of those instances but Cain merely shook his head and gave you his reassurance. Human, wizard, unicorn, or whatever entity he might be—it doesn't matter to him. In every universe he's in with you, with every version of himself that might exist out there, he'll always take your hand and vow to you. Like a knight swearing that he's hopelessly devoted to you for life.

"I'll protect you. I promise this—I will never leave your side."

— Snow!

He didn't think you were serious the first time you asked him. He was sure you were doing it in the spur of the moment and got carried away by shallow desires that brought sadness to him when all he felt was pure unaltered love and desire to be by your side. He loved you, yes, but if you were asking him with even just a little smidge of doubt—he'll turn you away. He wanted you to be certain. Snow always liked living in certainty; for things to remain constant once he's committed. He doesn't bode well with change and if there's just a small part of you that doubted him, he gets scared. He doesn't want things with you to end terribly. He already experienced far too much grief and pain that change brought to him.

"I'll wait for you. Be it a hundred years or another thousand—I want to see that your feelings for me will not change. But know that I hold you closer to my heart than anyone else… That is the reason why I want to be certain. I do not wish for an unhappy ending for both of us."

— White!

He's overjoyed but it was difficult to miss the hint of bitterness in his expression and tone when he replies to you. He wants to—so badly; so desperately to the point that he felt his heart ache despite being dead. He's driven by his emotions but the weight of reality is heavy on his shoulders and he couldn't help but laugh bitterly. He is not the same man he once was. He felt like he's merely a shadow of himself. A fragment of himself that he can't even tell if it's truly him or not. He wants to—He can. But, are you prepared to accept him for everything he is as he stands? Even if this form of his is fleeting? If you are, then he'll take your hand and never let you go.

"If you're willing to have me for all that I am… I will respond to your feelings with much more fervour. Truly, I love you. I promise you nothing but my heart to be yours."

— Mithra!

Promises; Mithra knew not to make them. He thinks it's troublesome—an unnecessary risk and a waste of time. However, when you asked him, he couldn't help but wonder if this was the equivalent of what marriage was to Tiletta when she was alive. A promise to love someone forevermore… His feelings are not one to waver. His feelings aren't fickle. They were stubborn just as he is and he couldn't help but think to himself that maybe promising himself to you wasn't as bad as it sounds. However, he wanted to make sure that you'd do the same for him. He doesn't want to love so passionately and be responded to by a lukewarm romance. He'd take it if he was desperate but he wants—Northern wizards when they want are terrifying.

"Your unwavering devotion and love. I want it. It's only fair if you promise me that too."

— Owen!

He wanted to dodge the question and disappear into mist but his body couldn't move and he couldn't bring himself to bark out another insult or a snarky comment to mock you. It was a futile question but you asked him anyway, you knew that he would always turn away and try to deny himself of his feelings to protect himself from such a vulnerability. But seeing him hesitate this much made your breath hitch because that proved that there was a part of him that was considering it—that there was a part of him that wanted to swear his love to you, even if it's small. He thought for another minute and that's when it hit him. Why not bind you to himself instead? He wouldn't feel as vulnerable and your desire to be together for eternity will be fulfilled.

"What made you think I'd let myself be chained to you? Let's put it like this… Why don't I put a chain around your neck and bind you to me instead? Come on, promise me."

— Bradley!

He sputtered out incoherent noises for a moment and tried to make sure his ears weren't betraying him. The thought never occurred to him and thinking about it now was something he never thought he would do. Promising his eternal love for someone was heavy—far too heavy for someone like him who liked the feeling of being free. Though it wasn't like he wasn't considering it. He loved you. Dearly. Passionately. Desperately. But a promise can be lethal to a wizard and he's reckless—what if he messes up? What if they take you to have something to hold over his head? What if he puts you in danger? What if he loses his magic and both of you end up getting killed? He doesn't know. He doesn't wanna know. He gives you a ring wordlessly as he slips it into your finger. He'll do this much.

"This ain't what yer probably expectin' but… Take it. I don't want ya to feel like I'm just half-assin' my feelings for ya."

— Faust!

Faust freezes and for a moment he allows himself to hope; to dream of a future with you by his side. He stopped himself and brought himself back to reality and looked at you with a difficult expression. He wanted to but a part of him was afraid—coming to terms with his feelings for you was already difficult as it is but admitting that he wants to believe in something he feels like is out of his reach is something that makes him take a step back. His love was pure but uncertainty was something that stayed in his heart from years before.

"Please… Don't ask me such a difficult question next time. I cannot give you the answer I want to say."

— Nero!

It takes him a moment to process everything but once he did, he covered his face with his hands to try and cover the huge smile that took over his face. He was beyond happy—someone wanted to spend the rest of their life with him? The words may not be exact but he took them as words akin to a marriage proposal and all of a sudden he's left fantasising about what could be. A future with you… It doesn't sound so bad (he's ecstatic). He manages to face you with a calmer expression and gives you a smile.

"If you'll have me, I'd be glad to stay by your side. I'll stay for as long as you want me to—Actually, no, scratch that. You'll be stuck with me for the rest of your life."

— Heathcliff!

His first reaction was his embarrassment telling him to run away but the sincere look in your eyes made him stay in place as he looked at you with an expression just as sincere as yours. He didn't want to respond to your feelings and questions half-heartedly—he didn't want to hurt you. Though how could he ever hurt you when his heart was already set on loving you for the rest of his life? It was difficult for him to say his answer but with the way he took your hand and placed it on his chest, just over where his heart was, you already knew his answer without another word from his lips.

"Of course… I can no longer see myself not being by your side. I love you—that's a promise."

— Shino!

It didn't occur to him that it was a question you have to ask him. In his mind, it was already set to default. He didn't think that there was any need to ask. When he fell in love with you and when you accepted his heart, he already knew that he was bound to you for life. His love and devotion is yours for all time; his blade will have another purpose—to protect you. He just looked at you blankly and raised an eyebrow. All of a sudden the serious atmosphere between the two of you broke when he tilted his head.

"I thought that was already a given, though? No? Well, I'll say it for you if you want me to. My love, loyalty, and devotion… It's all yours forever."

— Shylock!

Shylock was no stranger to indulging selfish requests from all people but there was always a clear line he wouldn't cross unless it was for certain people. He yearned with all of his heart—desperately and passionately. Asking him such a question was akin to asking him to walk straight into his doom. He knew that promising himself to you for all eternity will bring him immense happiness; he'll get addicted. It was as if he was tasting the finest wine he's ever had for the first time. How will he bear to let you go if those unspoken promises finally come to fruition? He'll never let you go. Not even after death.

"Fufu… After hearing such a passionate declaration of love for me, how could I bring myself to refuse you? Prepare yourself—I won't hold back any longer."

— Murr!

His expression didn't change in the slightest. Or perhaps it did, a very miniscule one that escaped your eye. Murr was a mystery no one could solve; he was a constant unpredictable variable. Every word he said to you, every touch he left on your skin, and every kiss he gave you—they were all mysteries. Even his answer to your question was a mystery. Not because he gave you a confusing response as usual but because he was silent. He didn't say anything and just continued smiling at you. For a split moment, you don't know if his eyes were downcast or it was just your eyes playing tricks on you.

"Really, really? You want me? Haha! Maybe that's a love that isn't so fruitless~!"

— Rustica!

Devoted; Rustica was a man full of undying love and devotion. He searched for his missing brides for years without any qualms. There might be a few hiccups here and there but it was undeniable that when Rustica loves, he loves wholeheartedly. Loving you was like a melody he couldn't get enough of—everything he does seems to remind him of you and he thinks to himself: so this is what it feels like to be in love with you.

"I can already hear the bells ringing for both of us. It's a precious melody meant for us… Love suits us well, doesn't it?"

— Chloe!

Chloe wasn't fully aware of the heavy weight of a promise is to a wizard. But his love is pure and he loved innocently, all he knew is how he wanted to be with you and nothing else. And that was enough reason for him to respond to you with a smile on his face as he nodded enthusiastically. He knew this is what he wanted—with a wave of his hand, he'll create the perfect attire for the both of you for your ceremony. Oh? Was he being too hasty?

"Oh! I already know what we'd wear. You'd like a traditional white theme, right—Ah, wait! I never properly responded to you… Yes, a million times, yes! I love you!"

— Figaro!

He thought it was funny that you asked him, an elusive character, such a question. Tying him down to you with a promise of eternal love and unwavering devotion? He was hoping that your positions were switched where he's the one asking you that instead. He found himself unable to answer you as he ran a finger through his hair and let out a deep sigh. He avoided looking into your gaze but when his eyes finally wandered and saw yours, he felt a little bit of his resolve break—he felt like he was going crazy. Maybe he is going crazy. A smile crept up his face.

"Do you want me that much? It feels nice to be wanted… by you. Haha, I don't know anymore. Maybe I will. Take responsibility for me, okay?"

— Lennox!

He doesn't speak much but his actions said more than his words ever could. He knelt down on one knee as he took your hand and placed a kiss on your fingers. You know exactly what he meant and no trace of doubt was evident in your expression as your absolute trust and faith was placed on him. In turn, you raised his hand closer to your lips as well and kissed the back of his palm. You wanted him to know that you'd do the same for him.

"I love you, forever and always. You have my promise."

— Rutile!

He thinks of this moment as something that came out of a fairytale or a storybook he used to read to children. There was a time when he wondered if he'll ever have this kind of moment and he felt wonderful knowing it's you he was with when it happened. He let himself smile and broke into a fit of joyful laughter and giggles. The words you wanted to hear left his lips like honey you couldn't get enough of—one more time, you want to hear his answer once more.

"Nothing would make me happier… I treasure you, I really do. I'd make a thousand promises if it meant making you happy."

[agentrouka-blog]

I’m surprised you think Jeyne will survive. Isn’t she at the Frey’s wedding? Anyone at the Frey’s wedding is a dead person walking.

And the statement that a person who is revived from the dead might not even recognize friends and family bodes ill for Jeyne. And Stoneheart doesn’t recognize Brienne.

When is the last time you read AFFC? Because... that's not true?

Jeyne is on her way home with her family, alongside a chunk of Jaime's Lannister army escorting Edmure to the Westerlands, where he is to be imprisoned at Casterly Rock.

We don't actually know yet what will happen at Daven's wedding, the idea that everyone will be massacred by Lady Stoneheart is speculation. Frankly, it would hardly be a shocking twist at this point, so my money is on a subversion.

Also the fact that Lady Stoneheart knows exactly who Brienne is has a lot of plot relevance. "She remembers" is literally said about her. That's the point. She remembers what happened and who did it.

It may well be that LSH will attack the Lannister convoy, but that doesn't translate to Jeyne being killed. What would be the point?

This ask left me Very Confused.

[prvtocol]

@badtrigger : Explain it all to me. Now. // santiago | everything everywhere all at once. ( accepting )᠂ ⚘ ˚

Humans stationed at the nearest Resistance base never accompany Brianne to the village of Ro’ok. There’s been no need to send anyone but the recom with a crate of their garden’s bounty — a sign of goodwill for being in their backyard. Thus, the man and woman in a second boat at her boat’s side portends to destabilize the relations she’s barely built. 

Their purpose here (and that which extends across the Eastern Sea) also acts as an affront to the assurances she gave to the one interrogating Metkayina warrior that such research was behind her. Of course, it has to be him who halts them on the beach, his icy blue stare unnervingly dark as he searches the steel boxes of gear about to be unloaded.

“Let me talk to him.” Brianne tells her two scientist companions, concern already etched in the furrows of her unblemished brow and the downturn of her pointed ears. The waves creep ashore, a deep breath is taken, and she tries to wear the most pleasant facade she can muster as she steps before him. Why does he make her so nervous? “< Hello, San’tos. >” 

< Explain it all to me. Now. >

Not another beat and abrupt demand is set. Explain. Of course, she planned to and now she feels rushed which doesn’t bode well for Na’vi. “< A boat, RDA, was sunk, and oil leaked into the ocean. They come to collect water, air, and, >” she pauses, not finding the word for the specific algae that is good to test. “< A plant? Airbell, I think. Sorry. The name you have for it, I forgot. But to see if any harm. They do not believe there is. It was very far. But safe to know. >” 

“Hey Brianne!” Ava abruptly calls from the boat, turning the recom’s chin. “Maybe you can get your friend there to do a dive for us. Be much easier than having to get all this gear on for something so basic.”

“Uh okay. I'll try!” She calls back, her voice able to carry over the waves, her confidence less so. If they only knew "her friend" is hardly that and the most difficult one in the lot. Returned eye contact brings that uncertainty to her apologetic face.

“< They do not need to enter the water if someone can help. They will leave after. >”

[fleshing-out-fodlan]

I’ve noticed some interesting things in how Ingrid talks about her father that indicate the type of relationship they have.

First is in her paralogue where she almost ends up married to a not so nice man. She says that her father was concerned that it would “bode poorly for [their] family,” notice no mention of Ingrid’s well being specifically. Ingrid would be the one married to this man so her wellbeing would be significantly more threatened than that of anyone else in her family. Sure, it’s possible he said something about her and Ingrid just didn’t mention that but I don’t see why she wouldn’t say “he was worried for my safety and the wellbeing of our family” or something like that if that was the case. It does make me wonder how concerned he is with Ingrid’s wellbeing or if he’s just hyperfocused on their territory and family’s reputation. One of the most common points used to support her father is how he would starve himself so Ingrid could eat. Which kudos to him for that but at the same time that’s not really enough to be considered a good parent if you drop the ball with everything else, especially if you believe the fan theory about him feeding her because a malnourished girl/woman would be ‘less attractive’ and therefore he’d get less money for her.

The second thing that drew my attention was in the Ingrid Byleth C support.

Ingrid’s pause here is very important and indicates that she has to think carefully about her words. She makes a very conscious decision here to call him a good person as opposed to a good father like Byleth said. If Ingrid and her father genuinely have a good relationship why did she need to think about it? Why did she avoid complimenting his on his quality as a parent? Then in their B support there’s something even more interesting. (Byleth has two dialogue options, Ingrid responds to both in the same way)

Ingrid thanks you for calling her father’s actions “awful” and there’s hardly any defense of his actions following it, the most she does is say that he doesn’t not care about her. If he was genuinely a good dad I imagine she would try to defend him in some way. And this isn’t a conversation with a childhood friend who understands the nuance of her family situation and is aware of the good and the bad, this is the first Byleth really hears about her dad and I’m sure Ingrid has enough awareness to realize Byleth is likely forming a negative view on her father. But still, she goes along with it. Furthermore, the comment about Byleth’s statement being ‘a great comfort’ to her indicates that Ingrid doesn’t normally have her feelings validated. It’s no secret that her childhood friend group is dysfunctional and I can see Ingrid feeling like her situation is the ‘least bad.’ Because of this, she likely didn’t receive much comfort from them as children so even just a simple statement from Byleth feels like a lot to her.

Next, I want to look at how she responds to Mercedes’ very similar struggle.

Kind of strange that her first response is ‘hey, why don’t you just abandon your family’ and she even states that her response is based off her experiences with her father, it makes me wonder if there’s a part of her that wishes she could just run away. Also not a fan of the comment about her father being ‘obsessed with [her] carrying on the family bloodline.’ A lot of conversations about Count Galatea revolve around him wanting to improve his lands for his people, which is of course a noble cause, and that’s why he’s forcing Ingrid into marriage. But Ingrid presents a different explanation here. I’m not saying that her father doesn’t genuinely want the first thing, but there are other ways of fixing this problem as shown by Ingrid’s endings. That leads me to believe a part of the reason he got so obsessed with finding Ingrid a spouse is because he knows that will likely lead to children. The type of people who will pay big bucks to marry a crest carrying woman are also the type of people who are going to want children with her after all. And he saw Ingrid was a very GNC child. Of course, being GNC has nothing to do with whether or not you want children but to Count Galatea this could’ve planted a seed of worry, what if Ingrid has ambitions outside of carrying on the family name? What if Ingrid’s ambitions lead her to have no children at all (and from the lack of emphasis on children in her endings I do believe Ingrid doesn’t have a particular to be a mother). How do you solve this problem? Why, you force her into a marriage by guilting her with the wellbeing of her people and then let her husband force her into becoming a mother and suddenly you’ve got exactly what you wanted and still have the moral highground.

[imogenkol]

wip wednesday —

I was tagged by the lovely @socially-awkward-skeleton thank you!!!

Tagging @detectivelokis @roofgeese @corvosattano @simonxriley @nokstella @jinfromyarikawa @phillipsgraves @jendoe @marivenah @chuckhansen @queennymeria @risingsh0t @aceghosts @indorilnerevarine @jackiesarch @shellibisshe @florbelles @unholymilf + anyone else who wants to pls tag me! (no pressure of course 💕)

Here have a flashback of some Imogen lore (cw: loss of limb)

Imogen’s sharp scream cut a tense silence throughout the chamber as it echoed off the walls, and she collapsed onto the floor. The Inquisitor clutched at the freshly cauterized stump of her left leg. The strike had been swift and precise – right above the knee. Half of her leg gone, just like that. She could hardly believe it.

With the scent of her own burning flesh acrid in her lungs, agony scorched throughout her nerves. She fought to conceal it as much as she could. Weakness would not bode well with her peers. They studied her closely now, searching for the slightest crack in her facade.

The hum of Vader’s lightsaber accompanied by his mechanical breaths became the only sounds in the training room. The blade’s aura reflected off of the mirrored black floor and bathed her in a crimson light. Imogen felt the Dark Lord’s presence silently loom over her, waiting for a reaction.

After a few shaky breaths, Imogen forced her gaze up to meet her Master’s. Her glare bore into the black lenses of his helmet so intensely that she could almost picture the eyes that hid behind them. Or maybe they just reflected her own storming irises. The longer she held his unreadable stare, the more white-hot rage boiled up from the source of her pain, filling every vein – every remaining limb and outward until the chamber physically shook. Imogen herself remained frighteningly still.

“Good,” Vader said, sensing her hatred.

His praise only made her angrier. “I have already killed one of my masters,” she growled through clenched teeth. “I would not push too far, my lord.”

The entire chamber seemed to hold its breath, but Vader barely acknowledged to the threat. “Then take your blade and attempt to strike me down. Waste all of your fury on a foolish vendetta.”

Imogen nearly reached for her lightsaber. One day, I just might, she thought to herself.

Vader clutched the hilt of his saber a little tighter. The bright red blade hummed deeper for just a second as if it craved to take another limb. Perhaps Imogen’s head this time. “What you have will be taken from you if you are not willing to sacrifice it. I have given you a valuable tool, Inquisitor. Use it against your true enemies and you will grow more powerful than before.”

The chances of surviving an attack against Vader when she had both of her legs were slim to none. Being incapacitated and surrounded by other Inquisitors that wouldn’t hesitate to swarm her if she made a move against their master practically guaranteed failure. No matter. Imogen was no stranger to biding her time and waiting for the right opportunity. Besides, he was right. With enough discipline, she could use the familiar resentment brewing inside to make herself strong enough to win any fight.

Imogen finally tore her vengeful scowl off of the Sith Lord and bowed her head. “Yes, Lord Vader.”

[whumpdoyoumean]

A/N: Surprise! A third and final part to my Fire Country tag!

part 1 part 2

xxx

“I’m riding with him.”

“Gabby…” Manny begins.

“No! If you fight me on this you’re not going to win, so it would be easier for everyone if you just don’t even start!” 

“Hey,” Jake says, and Gabby looks at him while Manny watches her. There’s something in her face that Manny can’t identify exactly. She’s not asking for Jake’s permission, but she is looking for something. Jake looks back at her for a moment, then shifts his gaze to Manny. “Let her go.”

Manny’s eyebrows jump, eyes widening, even as Gabby’s expression shifts to one of determination and a hint of satisfaction. Whatever she’d been searching for in Jake, she’d found it. Manny wants to argue. If the worst happens in that ambulance and Gabby is there to see it, he’ll never forgive himself. But if the worst happens and she isn’t there, then she’ll never forgive him. He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Okay.”

Bode better not fucking die.

He and Jake and the other firefighters watch in silence as the unconscious Bode is loaded onto the ambulance, Gabby climbing in after him. The sirens start up again and Manny watches as it pulls away.

“Is he gonna be okay?” It’s one of Manny’s guys, Wes, that says it, and there’s a ripple of activity as the others echo the sentiment. 

Manny doesn’t answer. He’s suddenly exhausted, the chaos of the last few minutes, hours, weeks hitting him all at once, and all he wants to do is go home and go to bed. He’s keenly aware of all of the eyes on him, and that only makes it worse.

“Of course he’ll be okay,” Freddy says, and Manny could kiss him. “It’s Bode.”

“Thank you,” Manny says under his breath, and Freddy nods, almost smiling though it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

A thought occurs to Manny then, and a rock forms in the pit of his stomach. “Oh, shit.”

“You alright?” Jake asks. 

Manny closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. “I’ve gotta tell his parents.”

“I’ll do it,” Jake says immediately, and Manny shakes his head. 

“No. Thank you, but I can’t ask you to do that. I’m his captain.”

“And I’m his friend!” Jake looks as startled as Manny is when he says it, but he keeps going. “And you need to figure out where everyone is staying tonight.”

Manny hadn’t thought about that. He’d been so caught up with the fire, and then with Bode, he hadn’t stopped to consider the fact that their lodgings have sustained fire damage. Not that anyone’s going to be able to sleep after everything that’s happened. It’s going to take a lot of coordination to figure out what to do, and honestly the idea of not having to make that call is immensely appealing. 

“Okay,” he says, but guilt is choking him and the word doesn’t come out. He swallows and says it again. “Okay.”

Jake nods and walks off a little ways, pulling out his phone. Manny takes his out, too. He’s got a lot to figure out and coordinate. Before he does, though, he listens. 

“Hey, captain. Uh, Vince,” Jake says. “Yeah, the fire’s out, but um. I’m sorry. No, no it wasn’t--it wasn’t the fire, Odin…Bode was stabbed. He’s being taken to the hospital now, Gabby’s with him. I’m sorry.”

Jake apologizes again, and even with the distance Manny can hear the emotion rising in his voice, and Manny can’t listen anymore. He steps away and starts making phone calls.

xxx 

Fighting fire isn’t an easy job. Vince had known that going into it. It’s hard on the mind, on the spirit. Those things get…not easier, not really. But one can build defenses. The older a firefighter is, the more equipped they are to handle the emotional hardships. Unfortunately, the opposite is true of the body. It’s a hard job even for young firefighters, and the older they get, well. It just gets harder. 

And yet, after decades on the job, no week has ever left Vince as sore as these past few days have. Days and nights spent in plastic chairs and a tiny cot have done a number on his back, and combined with the lack of sleep and the fact that he’s hardly been eating, he feels and looks like death warmed over. It’s a small price to pay; it’s the only way he’s been able to get Sharon to go home and get real rest, though she still spends more time here than Vince would like. 

Not that he can blame her. They’d almost lost Bode. He’d been in bad shape when he got to the hospital, had been in shock and needed a massive transfusion before being rushed into emergency surgery. The hours that had followed had been some of the most harrowing of Vince’s life. Sharon had been absolutely inconsolable, blaming herself for the attack and alternately crying and furious. Vince had just been terrified. Terrified that he was going to lose his remaining child, terrified that all the things he’s left unsaid will remain so forever. 

And then the doctor had appeared, looking a bit worn down herself, and told them that Bode was alive, the source of the bleeding found and repaired. 

“He has a long road ahead of him,” she’d said. “But he should make a full recovery.”

And they’ve been waiting for him to wake up ever since. 

Vince has done more reading and sudoku in the last three days than in the rest of his life combined. He’d tried crosswords, but had turned out to be terrible at those. The sudoku sometimes make him want to pull his hair out, but at least he can puzzle out the answers and doesn’t need to know things like, Good as Hell singer or Star Trek actor Urban. 

Sharon is home now doing a round of dialysis, but has vowed to come back as soon as she’s finished, ignoring Vince’s request that she take a nap after. Honestly, Vince will be glad of the company. The numbers are giving him a headache. 

He’s just set his sudoku book down and is getting ready to go to the vending machine when he hears a sharp breath. He looks up to see Bode’s face slowly bunching into a frown, and he quickly scooches his chair forward and takes Bode’s hand in his own, careful of the IVs. 

“Bode?” he says softly. “Bode, you with me?”

Bode’s eyes open a crack, his lips parting, and after a moment he says, “Dad?” His voice is quiet and scratchy from disuse. It makes him sound younger than he is, and it catches Vince off guard. There’s nothing he can do to stop the tears that spring into his eyes. 

“Yeah. Yeah, son, it’s me. Do you know where you are?”

Bode nods once. “Hospital.”

“Yeah. Yeah, bud. It was, uh…It was a close call but you. You made it, so…” 

Damn he wishes Sharon were here. He’s no good at this.

“Mom?” Bode asks. 

“She’s okay. She’s home doing her treatment.” He’s surprised when Bode’s eyes fill with tears, and he adds quickly, “Hey, well she’ll be here before too long. A couple hours or so.”

“Odin--”

“Odin is in jail. He’s going away for a long, long time. You got nothing to worry about. Your mom, too.”

Bode sniffs and shakes his head slightly. “No, it’s--did…” He swallows. There’s an agonized look on his face. “Did he hit my kidney?”

Vince is only confused for a second before realization hits, and he shakes his head. “No, no, son. Nicked your spleen. You lost a hell of a lot of blood. But your kidneys are fine.”

Bode’s expression relaxes and he closes his eyes. Tears slip silently down his cheeks as he nods. “Good.”

Vince tightens his grip on Bode’s hand. “Bode?”

Bode opens his eyes. 

“I need you to listen to me. And I mean--I mean really listen.”

Bode nods again. 

“I…” Vince begins, and then stops. Why is this so hard? He takes a deep breath. “Shit, son. I’m really--really proud of you. All the work with Cal Fire, everything you’ve been doing with your mom…It’s been. It’s been really great watching you help people.”

The look of sheer surprise on Bode’s face causes a pang of guilt in Vince’s gut. He knows he doesn’t say these things much, but he didn’t know it was rare enough to cause this kind of reaction. 

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I’m not finished,” Vince says. “I’m proud of you, but now you’re going to need to stop thinking so much about other people, including your mom, and just focus on you.”

He sees the doubt on Bode’s face and shakes his head. 

“No, I mean it. If you really want to help your mother, then you need to heal. That has to come first, you understand me?”

“Yes sir,” Bode says. And then one corner of his mouth lifts into a smile. “Maybe you should take your own advice. All due respect, you look like shit.”

Vince laughs. “Yeah, you’re not wrong. I look forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight.”

Bode’s face shifts. “You been sleeping here?”

Vince shrugs, suddenly embarrassed. He rubs at the back of his head with his free hand. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Vince shrugs again. “Yes, I did. You’re my son. And I love you. I’m--I’m glad you’re okay.”

Bode smiles. He looks tired, and like he may fall back asleep any second, but he says, “I love you too, Dad. Sorry if I scared you.”

“Of course you didn’t scare me,” Vince says. “But never do that again.”

But Bode’s already drifted off.

xxx 

[luthiest]

add on to the violin question would u recommend it as a career path?

ummmmmmmmmm it depends? the kind of people who get into violin making and stay with it seem to be the ones who actively seek it out. which is to say, hardly anyone who maintains a lengthy career in violin making just stumbles across the work, i think. the fact that i stumbled into it doesn’t really bode well for me i guess, but i’m trying lmao. a lot of people also turn to violin making as a second career later in life, which is kind of interesting.

it’s work that requires the ability to work single-mindedly and attentively for many hours at a time, a certain tolerance for tedium, steady and deft hands, and a multidisciplinary interest in both the history, art and aesthetics of the violin as well as the science and functionality behind the design.

so i guess i would recommend it to someone if they have good hands and a vested interest in violin making? if you don’t have either of those things, there’s no real point in investing the time and money into trying to make a career out of it—unless of course u have unlimited time and money, in which case, have at it lol!

[pxison]

empire of storms rp memes. p1.

@melodysian​ asked:  “some control would do Your Highness well.” / Uta wants to meet Niji or Yonji  //I rolled the dice and got Yonji

He just stared at the mess in front of him like something was going to change without him doing anything about it. It wasn't his fault the glass was so weak! He'd hardly gripped the stem of the glass when it shattered and left both his drink and shards of glass all over the table.

This meeting with one of the worlds biggest idols could not have gone off any worse. He wasn't going to clean the mess though given he was royalty and thus above what would usually be a task deligated to servants to handle. The remaining shards were just as easily shaken off without any cuts to be seen in his enhanced skin.

"Control? That's something Ichiji does best, why don't you drink with him instead?" He was certainly a bit irritated now, what with the lack of drink in his hands and the mess he now avoided. The tone in which Uta called him your highness also didn't bode well for improving his mood any.

Huffing a little, he raised a meaty arm to call someone, anyone over to both deal with the mess threatening to spill onto his lap and to give him another drink.

"Oi! We got a mess over here! And while your at it, I'd like a new one brought over!"

[astrxlfinale]

❝ it’s a sad truth that those who burn brightest often burn fastest. ❞

"Guess that doesn't bode all too well for me then, huh?"

The bitter truths mired into such a sentiment was beyond Caelus. Since beginning his tale as a Nameless, it's been a full frontal dose of cold reality, one splash after another. Tragic circumstances, lives lost, and many that hang upon a precarious balance. In truth thinking about it in such a fashion would have anyone down in the dumps. In a case like his, that began to itch the workings of a headache to pound into his skull.

Rebellious spirit instead finds it settled within those eyes. Whether it was blissful ignorance, or a brash and insensitive mind to those woes, it was clear he intends to grip the tragic circumstances often lorded in flowery stanza. "Cause I don't intend to stop for one damn second. At the end of the day, thanks to a lot of fate addicted folks out there, we got a solid idea on what carrying alongside of me can bring."

Would it be worth it for this caretaker of the Astral Express to be drawn into such lines? To potentially throw this vessel that captures many fates, and allow them to weave a new starlit road to be thrown into that scale of peril? As he briefly pauses from staring firm towards those wise eyes of Himeko, a casual glance shifts towards the boundless nebula that glitters and glows with plasma like radiance beyond the window.

Somehow, it's ironically comforting in how the cosmic void could hardly give a damn. Part of him thinks he should capture such a quality when it comes to dread knocking at the metaphorical door.

"Who better than a Trailblazer to lead by example? I'm gonna have to burn, Ms.Himeko. I'll just do it in a way where instead of turning to dirt and dust, it'll be something a lot more appeasing, in one piece to top it all off." This was the resolve that his journeys across Belobog and the Luofu have developed by far. Against that yawning maw of catastrophe, foolish legs like his intend to stand.

"I'll try not to get too much trouble on board this vessel."

@chasersglow

[serenailith]

yesterday’s gone (we’ll make it through)—xxxi

on ao3 here

previous

okay, so. i know this took forever to get posted, and i'm sorry about that. truly. unfortunately, it was a pretty-much-can't-ignore forced break from writing/posting. the truth is i had a baby just last week, so i've been in hospital (3 days) and adjusting to having a newborn again. so... you get this chapter far later than i'd hoped.

yes, this is (unfortunately, again) the end of this fic. i've had such a wonderful time writing it, and i can't believe so many of you have liked reading it! the comments alone made it all so worth the time and effort i've put into writing it. thank you for being such wonderful, amazing readers. 🖤

remember: you can always find me in the dreamling discord server!

_______________

Dream smiles to himself as he strides through the corridors. The Corinthian has been remade, different and so much better than what he’d been, and Gault is thrilled with her new position. The Vortex is gone. Fiddler’s Green has come home. Even Matthew has become a trusted ally, if a bit impudent at times.

All is right within the Dreaming once more.

Even more, all–or nearly so–is right within the Waking, as well. Dreamers sleep and wake as they should. The only matter of concern is Lyta Hall. She may hold anger in her heart for Dream, but it cannot be helped. Her child is of the fabric of the Dreaming itself; he belongs to the Dreaming and—by default—Dream, should the day come. Dream, for his part, only hopes that Rose Walker can convince her friend to not seek revenge.

There is very little that can bind an Endless, but he knows too well that the grimoire is still around. Someone has it, and anyone determined enough will find and use it. He isn’t naïve enough to believe otherwise, not after the proof he’d been given for over a hundred years.

The most precious thing to him, however, the thing he carries closest to his heart, is his time spent with Hob Gadling. Now that everything has become steady once more, Dream has left the Dreaming in Lucienne’s capable hands and spent those hours in the Waking. More often than not in Hob’s bed, his arms. It is the better way Dream has ever spent his existence.

Unfortunately, even Hob cannot remove the worries from Dream’s mind. Desire has plotted against him, and he knows they will never stop. Not until they get what they want–but what exactly is that? He very nearly spilled family blood because of them, when they were fully aware that the Fates would retaliate for his breaking the oldest laws. Dream is no closer to an answer.

If he is to be honest, he can hardly pinpoint the moment his favourite sibling became his least. Or why.

Forcing himself to dislodge the thoughts, Dream steps from one realm to the next, fighting a smile when he sees Hob through the window of the New Inn. A young woman just outside the door beams at the sight of Dream. He remembers her. Rena, who dreams of escaping her toxic home and making something of herself as a pilot. She has been kind to Dream whenever they encounter each other.

She doesn’t mind the fact he is horrible at communicating with people who aren’t Hob.

“Hey! How are you today?”

“I am well,” he replies, though his focus is on the man just inside. Almost belatedly, he tacks on, “And yourself?”

Her grin grows as she pulls up the sleeve of her jumper. Embedded in her skin is ink, swirls of colours surrounding a black semicolon. The stark contrast of black against rainbow brings a smile to Dream’s face. He understands what the symbol means for mental health; it has been on the minds of many a dreamer since the conception of the idea. That Rena has tattooed it into her skin bodes well for her survival.

“Got it last week. Mum and Dad hate it, but who cares, right? As long as I love it. And I do. Anyway! You’re looking at a pilot-in-training, by the way.”

“That is wonderful news.”

Rena giggles as she yanks her sleeve back down. “Mr G is covering for Ernie, but I’m sure he’ll be so glad to see you. He bought a new wine he thinks you might enjoy.”

“Thank you.” Dream dips his chin in a farewell. “I wish you well in your endeavours, Rena.”

“Thanks!”

She doesn’t mind that she doesn’t know his name. She still treats him as a friend. He moves past her and lets out a soft sigh when his fingers wrap around the door handle. The cool metal feels like a piece of home, though the Waking will never be where he fully belongs. But Hob. . . Hob is.

At the jingling of the bell, Hob glances up from where he is clearing tables of dirty dishes, and Dream relaxes at the wide smile splitting his love’s face. Raising his index finger in a ‘Just a moment’ gesture, Hob hurries to place the plates and glasses in a bin. He disappears behind the doors to the kitchen and reappears a minute later with a dishtowel in hand. He jerks his chin toward their booth, the one they always sit in whenever Dream deigns to remain in the New Inn instead of heading upstairs to Hob’s flat.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you today” is the first thing Hob says once they’ve sat.

“The Dreaming is much more stable now, so Lucienne is caring for it in my absence.”

Hob’s lips twitch, a hand stretching across the table. Dream cares little for others’ opinions as he allows Hob to take his hand. “I’m sure she appreciates the vote of confidence.”

“It was unacceptable,” Dream starts slowly; the words come forth as molasses in the winter, “for me to return after so long and pretend everything is as it was. Lucienne has been most loyal for over a hundred years. She deserves the respect I can easily afford to give.” It doesn’t escape his notice that Hob merely stares at him with a soft, sweet smile on his face. “Hob?”

“Sorry. It’s just. . . It’s nice to see how you’ve changed. I knew it logically. After all, look at where we are. But it’s still good to see proof of it sometimes. Makes me realise this isn’t just all in my head.”

“It very well could be,” Dream says with a small smile of his own. “However, this is as real as anything else in the Waking.”

“So you were gone for a few days. Anything I should be worried about?”

“No, the danger has passed.”

Hob raises a brow, clearly unimpressed with Dream’s answer, so Dream explains about Rose Walker and her friend’s situation. How there is a child borne of the Dreaming existing where he should not. About the Corinthian and Gault and Jed Walker’s unfortunate fate for so long. Hob’s expression darkens at the mention of the abuse the child endured. To Dream’s surprise, Hob commends the Corinthian for removing Jed from his personal Hell.

“I’m not saying he was good, but he certainly did a good thing by getting the kid away from that.”

“He took him to a gathering of serial killers,” Dream reminds him.

“Okay, so there’s that.”

Dream huffs out what would be a sharp exhale for anyone else but is as true a laugh from him as anything. He continues with the tale of Calliope and Richard Madoc, and Dream falls in love with Hob more at the anger–no, rage–on the man’s face. He assures Hob that Madoc has been properly dealt with. He will no longer be capable of capturing anyone else.

He can no longer do much of anything.

With no warning, Dream laces his fingers with Hob’s, squeezing gently, then rises to his feet. “I shall not keep you from your duties.”

“Don’t go far.”

“I will be upstairs, where I will await your presence.”

Hob’s answering grin sends something fluttering in Dream’s chest, and isn’t that just curious. He yearns, for a split second, for the companionship he had with Calliope, but he has it here with Hob Gadling. It isn’t the same; it never will be. But it’s enough. It is more than enough.

It is everything Dream will never deserve.

As he sits in Hob’s flat, Dream ruminates on everything that has happened since his escape from Fawney Rig. So much has occurred–he was nearly mortal for too long, his Sister returned him to his realm. Hob and Matthew, that impossibly likeable raven, had helped Dream retrieve his tools. He fell in love for the first time since the beautiful Muse who had birthed him a son.

Death always said he needed to mingle with humans more, try harder to understand them. Desire claimed he felt himself better than everyone, including his siblings. Dream is loath to admit that perhaps, only perhaps, they were both correct. Hob has opened his eyes to the wonders of humanity, the reality that comes with living. Dreams were well and good, but sometimes, seeing it yourself is what works most to change a mind.

Dream lets out a slow, unnecessary breath and runs a fingertip along a seam in the couch cushion. The fabric is soft with use, the foam padding sagging beneath the cover, and the remote sits on the far end where Hob most likely tossed it on his way to bed the night before. It’s worn in with love. Dream imagines his heart is the same way.

Hob slips through the door two hours later. Two hours during which Dream read and listened to the stereo. Etta James was a soothing voice, something he needed desperately. He was never nervous by any measure; he was the collective subconscious. There was nothing he couldn’t do, nothing he couldn’t bend to his will with the slightest effort. But this. . . This isn’t the same as warping the Dreaming or even what he can in the Waking.

Before Hob can say more than a “Hello, love”, Dream advances on him. The kiss is graceless in a way Dream doesn’t expect. It punches a quiet noise from Hob’s throat, but he kisses back just as enthusiastically. He smells of industrial cleaner and cedar, and Dream has never breathed a scent in so deeply. His head spins, another too-human response but one he relishes anyway.

He steers the two of them toward the bedroom, pulling away only to peel Hob’s shirt off and over his head. Hob’s lips move against his, but Dream only kisses away the words. They don’t need to speak. Not here, not now. He allows Hob to push him onto the bed, melts under the steady weight blanketing him. His fingers press to the mat of hair covering Hob’s chest.

Hob burns a path along Dream’s throat, whispering into the skin, “I love you, did you know that?”

“And I you,” Dream whispers back. “Until all universes cease to exist.”

Hob’s smile sparks a fire within Dream’s bones, and he pushes at Hob until he sprawls on his back. Dream straddles his thighs, leaving bruising kisses to Hob’s lips before moving across his jaw. His teeth worry at the junction of jaw to neck, and Hob reacts beautifully. His hips jerk upwards as his breath comes out in a rough exhale.

Dream loses patience with pretenses: He rushes through undressing Hob then himself before straddling his love once more. Hob grasps his hips, holds him steady, as Dream lowers himself onto his cock. There is no need to need the preparation, to act as a human would, not with Hob. He’s shown he doesn’t mind Dream’s inhuman, Endless existence.

Hob’s groan is the most wondrous music Dream has heard in centuries.

As much as he wants to drag this out, he can’t. He plants his hands against Hob’s chest and pushes his hips down to meet with the gentle thrusting. A strangled sound fills the air, and Dream glances down to see the sharp nails digging into Hob’s skin. He goes to move, but Hob shakes his head vehemently.

“No, leave them.”

“I do not wish to harm you.”

“It’s worth it,” Hob replies; his hands wrap around Dream’s wrists, pinning his palms where they are. “Doesn’t hurt much, anyway.”

“You are a true marvel, Hob Gadling.”

“Clearly not, if you’re still speaking perfectly fine.”

Dream lets out a soft chuckle and decides to give Hob what he’s silently asking for. Hob’s smile stutters, fades, as Dream moves more quickly. Jaw dropping open, Hob stares up at Dream like he’s some sort of masterpiece hanging in the most prestigious museum; Dream is intimately familiar with the thought.

Hob is more precious, more valuable, just more.

Once they are both spent and have caught their breath, Dream doesn’t hesitate before curling into Hob’s side. It should feel pathetic, as if he is weak for seeking out comfort, but Dream believes he has earned the right to this. To this happiness, this ecstasy, this security and safety.

Wouldn’t Desire be thrilled to see how their brother has fallen?

At no one else’s feet would Dream have ever imagined prostrating himself.

He follows Hob into the Dreaming, the Library where Lucienne is putting away books. She smiles widely when she sees Hob and ducks her head demurely in Dream’s direction. He wonders when his most loyal and his love became so close. Perhaps it has happened over the days that Dream was dealing with the Vortex and Unity Kincaid. Hob has proven himself a quick learner. There is no doubt in Dream’s mind that Hob will have entered the Dreaming proper whenever he wanted.

The thought warms Dream from the inside out.

They leave Lucienne minutes later, Hob promising to be back for a lively conversation over Saint Thomas Aquinas and Michel Foucault. Dream smiles at how the promise visibly delights her. The corridors are empty as he and Hob amble across the stone floor. They don’t speak–there is no need, for there is enough they’ve said many times over. Even their silence says it all again.

Fiddler’s Green is as expansive and breathtaking as ever. Hob immediately finds a spot beside the river lazily burbling by. Birds fly overhead, and branches sway gently in the breeze. Dream can feel the contentment rolling off of Fiddler’s Green in waves. His lips curve upward at the sensation, the soft tendrils of warmth and peacefulness.

Before, he would have found it impudent, out of line, but now. . . Now he recognises it for what it is: True loyalty to their Lord and a desire to see him happy. Of all things, happy. And happy he is, all thanks to Hob.

Hob slides his hand through the water, smiling at the tiny fish that swim up to nibble at his fingers. They dart away just as quickly, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he grins even brighter. His eyes shine, gleam honey-gold, in the sunlight when he looks up at Dream.

Dream can no longer keep the words to himself.

“I have told you I love you.”

“Many times, my love,” Hob agrees with a quick nod. His smile hasn’t dimmed.

“And I mean those words far more deeply than you can ever know. I warned you that love with an Endless only ever spells doom.” Dream holds up a hand when Hob opens his mouth. “Please, allow me to finish. I have been considering what you claimed, that you were no mortal. Perhaps you were correct.

“However, even if you were wrong, I. . . I would cherish the opportunity to have your love for as long as I possibly can. Even if it ends in unbearable agony, your love for me—you are worth everything that may come.

“You came to my aid when I escaped my captivity. When we entered Hell for my helm, you stepped forward to defend me without hesitation. Without my asking it of you. Hob Gadling, there is no universe in which I could not love you were you to exist there.”

“Dream. . .”

He reaches for Hob’s hand, gesturing with his other. The band rests there in his palm, and he carefully slides it onto Hob’s finger. The gem, a shard of the ruby which held his power not so long ago, glitters against the black, and Dream nods slowly at the sight. It suits Hob perfectly.

“You are aware that I rarely make promises I cannot keep.” At Hob’s nod, the quick glance between ring and Dream, he continues, “So believe me when I vow to love you as you deserve until I physically cease to exist. I will do all I can to make your life, both in the Dreaming and Waking, all that you dream of.”

Hob lets out a quiet laugh and shrugs. “Perhaps not the nightmares.”

“No, not the nightmares,” Dream concedes, though it is no hardship.

“Dream, I—I don’t know what to say. You know I love you and have for as long as I can remember. Centuries ago, I realised I needed to know more about my mysterious Stranger. That desire became love somewhere along the way, even when I knew I didn’t deserve to want such a thing. I wish to make you happy.”

Dream clutches at Hob’s hand, tight and unrelenting. Hob must know: Dream has not held such joy to live since Calliope, since Nada, since Killala. Those ended in tragedy, but this? This will be different. Hob has given him reason to live, much like he’d said Dream had given him reason to die.

At the assurances, Hob launches forward, dropping Dream’s hands, and kisses him soundly. Dream lets himself fall backwards to lie in the sweet-smelling grass. Sunshine beats down on the meadow, warm and relaxing and perfect as only the Dreaming can be. Hob rests over him, still kissing him, still sending sparks through Dream with every second of contact.

Abruptly—far too soon—Hob pulls back and frowns. “Wait, are we married?”

“Of course not,” Dream murmurs as he reaches up to brush hair behind Hob’s ear. “We are nothing so temporary.”

Hob stares at Dream, unblinking, before shaking his head. “So what are we?”

“We are bound, dear heart, until eternity meets its end.”

Hob beams, hands coming up to cradle Dream’s cheeks. The kiss he graces Dream with is soft, sweet, tender, and Dream cannot care that Fiddler’s Green is witness to this. With a wave of his hand, sand swirls around them, and then he and Hob are blessedly alone in his chambers.

He takes his forever love to bed.

[f1-birb]

Oscar did great during those last few laps when they switched positions, so like that was definitely the correct choice for the team, but it is annoying (again) to see people shitting on Lando's performance. Hardly anyone who switched to the mediums when he did made them work to the end in comparison to their teammate on hards. Look at Hamilton and Russell. Bottas wasn't able to do a thing on the mediums. The only driver I really heard get recognized for his performance on the mediums was Sargeant, and even his tires were falling off and he was getting overtaken towards the end of the race. So like, yes, Oscar did AMAZING and basically pulled an Albon like last year where he maintained the same tires for basically the entire race. But I don't think, when you consider strategy differences, Lando did bad like I have seen people suggest either. (Don't worry, I block when needed, this occurred in a live commentary thing that I noped out of the second it was turning this way). And again - not taking credit from Oscar at all because he did great in managing his tires to even be able to make that Logan overtake.

And like I see people panicking over the driver's standings but it's Race 2, there's plenty more to go. Frankly I think both Lando and Oscar are probably more worried about giving feedback to develop a car capable of consistent points than worrying too much about who's coming first in non-point earning positions. And we know from today that they're both team players and both have discussed wanting to help advance the team. Is best of the rest likely for either this year? No, probably not. But development this year could help them have next year's car development in a much stronger direction. I don't know, it's a low and frustrating point now, but I do think we will see some improvement soon. I'm hoping at least.

The contact Oscar had at the start which damaged his front wing, and the debris of which also damaged Lando's car was the beginning of the end, when you've got to pit that early and with Lando already starting P19 it was always going to be a fight back towards the points but on a street track and especially one like Jeddah it was going to be even harder for them

Oscar did brilliantly managing his tyres after that first pit stop, and the team executed Lando's around the SC really well too and he nursed the mediums for longer than he probably should've been able to, it was just unfortunate that the start fucked them over and it became more of a push than it should've been

At the end of the day, the more feedback they can give for how the car is running pre-Baku only bodes well for when they've got the upgrades in and then we can see what the car is capable of - but like you said it's just tiring and disappointing and frustrating as it stands at the moment and the comments online don't help

The main thing is it's race 2, there's a lot more races left in the season and we can just hope that it's only up from here

[hagrockfiction]

i'm not going to tell you to unfollow no. if you want to be here i can't and won't stop you -- i did say i don't even bother blocking bots. i don't know why you don't want to reblog things and i'm not going to interrogate you over it. that's your business.

i know a lot of people have anxiety about participating -- i leave the anonymous option on all my blogs for this reason. i don't want people to be afraid to participate.

i know some people have niche interests and don't have friends that care enough to talk about it with them, so they have blogs that are solely for their own amusement.

i know the way social media works now is by algorithm and the constant pace of it means there's hardly ever effort put into finding things to look at and like.

all of those are reasons users have blank blogs. maybe you fit in there, maybe not, but someone does.

but, considering writers and artists are creating free things for followers to enjoy, actively refusing to share those things is a poor attitude to have. refusing at all to support small and independent creators harms those creators. a lot of indie authors and artists are scraping by, the very least a follower can do is reblog from them.

likes aren't proactive support.

i don't have the financial stability to market my own work or pay anyone to help me, let alone commission from artists or donate to indie writers. the least i can do is share their information and get more eyes on their work. it isn't much, but it's better than nothing.

of the first 50 blogs showing on @aeterno-if follower list, 27 of those are either bots or blank blog users. it's a small sample, but if over half of the sample aren't replying, reblogging, or sending anonymous messages even, it doesn't bode well.

if there is no support there is no motivation. if there's no motivation there's no art. if there's no art, then where does that leave any of us?