#ficlet under the cut

[webster-max]

I love the Web and I really love Web!Martin, but something about Web!Jon makes my skin crawl in a way that no other entity really can, and I think that for me that’s because Jon is entirely and wholly the victim of the Web. Unlike Martin, who I could see being empowered and gaining agency from the Web, a Web!Jon is someone utterly in the power of the Web and acting against his own wishes and desire for agency that it really does break my heart. Even not!Jon, another particularly bad end for Jon, at least allows Jon to be dead- web!jon divests Jon of agency just as thoroughly without the mercy of even killing him. Instead, he’s forced to witness how his actions are simultaneously not his own and impacting his friends.

More under the cut about Jon, the Web, Mag81 typical childhood neglect and abuse, and for S5 typical suicide.

I think ultimately the way Jon would be taken by the Web would be through his experience with A Guest For Mr Spider. Simply put, if Jon’s childhood bully hadn’t intervened at the wrong moment, I think Jon would have spent the rest of his life under the power of the Web. I think he would have taken step after step, raised his fist up to the door, and knocked as instructed. The door would have opened, and then he would have stepped in as it pulled on strings, and the door would shut behind him.

After going missing for a few days, the local authorities would find him starving and parched, but otherwise unharmed and alone in the abandoned house in Bournemouth. After that, I think he would have been taken out of his grandmother’s custody and put into the care system. A few strings pulled, and I think he may have soon have as found himself fostered by a Fielding - not the same as Agnes’, not at Hill Top Road, just another relative of the family’s, some limb of the Mother’s or another, doing the same work and making sure things fall into place just so.

After that, I think Jon would be a good kid, exactly like the others. He’d brush his teeth and go to bed and study for his GCSEs and then A-levels all knowing that his life is not his own. All watching his foster siblings walk downstairs not to return one day, when they were 18 or close enough to it. When the spider got hungry enough. When he gets his acceptance to Oxford, he feels a pang of longing for the life he wishes he’d have. He mostly feels nothing as he drifts through his daily existence pulled on strings.

And then he’s packing his meagre things and he’s put into a car. The other children in the home are watching from the window. No one’s ever left like Jon before, and he watches the scenery change. He goes to university. His fosterer does not stay to help him unpack. Fielding has arranged for private accommodation. Jon doesn’t have to go home for the holidays. How the rent is paid, Jon doesn’t question. He sits down in the middle of his empty room, and he is alone for the first time since he touched A Guest For Mr Spider. It’s been a decade. He feels the strings relax.

He goes out. He makes friends. A girlfriend. Establishes a life. He doesn’t remember much of his childhood, and people don’t ask when he explains that he’s an orphan, that he grew up in care. It doesn’t often come up. He talks about his work- first, this is in his degree, then it’s in his job as a researcher for the Magnus Institute. He searched for the paranormal. He doesn’t find it. He knows he can’t prove anything. He knows he can’t even remember anything definitive, anything conclusive. He still freezes when he sees a spider. Freezes and shuts his eyes. He convinced himself that he remembers nothing because nothing happened, and that the paranormal isn’t real.

One day, Elias Bouchard offers Jon the role of head archivist. In that moment, every string Jon has ever felt hanging around his neck and throat- every social expectation, unsaid cue, suggestion and influence- every breath of cigarette smoke and every second spent pining for the next drag- each string snaps taught like a choke chain and the word “no,” is dragged from Jon’s mouth. “No, but I can help you find the right candidate.”

The life Jon makes for himself is over. Jon names the head archivist, and Elias listens, because he recognises Jon for what he is. A gift. A blessing from the Web. And Jon feels exactly as he did walking towards Mr Spider’s door when he does everything the Web asks of him to make the head archivist.

The archivist is made out of Jon’s friend, who he has worked with and trusted and genuinely liked for years. They’ve researched together, spent hours staking out suspects together- this is someone Jon knows and cares about, and someone who believes that they know and care about him in turn. Jon doesn’t want to hurt the archivist. His resistance is futile, and Jon can’t warn the archivist or his fellow assistants, the sound dies in his throat and what comes out instead is just more of the web’s lies like so many strand of silk, smoothing over suspicion and leading the archivist back into danger. He’s overflowing with it, and Jon realises that one does not need to see the teeth of the thing that will eat you alive if the consumption is from the inside out.

Though the archivist opens the door, Jon feels it. As Jon’s domain winds around him, the Web shoots him through with the rest of the plan, for reversing the apocalypse and spreading through the multiverse. The Web doesn’t tell him if it will spread to one universe at a time or whether it will enter infinite universes simultaneously. It tells him how to save the world, no more, no less- pragmatic. It tells Jon how to end his own suffering in this domain that epitomises his helplessness and still throws Jon’s guilt in his face. It literalises the strings, now hooked under his chin, blood dripping down his throat- for the first time, his hands are literally tied and the script is high in his throat, waiting to be sprung on the archivist. The web uses Jon’s domain like a gun to his head, and Jon knows it’s him and this world or every other universe.

So that’s why when the archivist walks through Jon’s domain and takes his statement, proving conclusively that Jon suffers as a victim, where the Web has given him Jon’s first bargaining chip and the motive to end his own suffering and everyone else’s on Earth by telling the archivist how to undo the apocalypse- that’s why Jon makes the same choice he makes in cannon. That’s why Web!Jon makes the first, last, and only choice he’ll ever make.

The words are there and waiting, “end this suffering, save me and I’ll tell you how to save the world.”

He’s never resisted the Web before. He wishes he learned the knack of it a little earlier.

He doesn’t tell the archivist how to allow the Web into potentially infinite, potentially one other world. He doesn’t tell the archivist how to make another archivist, another Jon, even one more person suffer as they’ve suffered.

“End me.” He rasps. His own voice, free of the Web and bereft of the elegance it leant him. “S-suffering, end me-“ The web cuts him off. The strings tighten to Jon’s limit, then past it. His head’s pulled back, the only eye he can look the archivist in is the one in the sky. Jon tries not to overbalance on his tiptoes, his whole body stretched as if on a wrack. A wretched noise escapes him, and an answering sigh leaves the Archivist, pity or frustration Jon doesn’t know.

The archivist unhooks the web from under Jon’s chin. For a second his stomach lurches and he thinks he’s been saved and that he’ll be forced to comply with the Web’s plan. The Web made it easy for Jon to be saved, after all, and Jon thinks his effort came to nothing. He slumps, collapsing into the archivist. He feels their hands in his hair.

The archivist’s chest rumbles against Jon’s as they speak.

“Ceaseless watcher,” Jon buries his face in the crook of the archivist’s neck. They hold him, out of compassion or to keep him from bolting, and it steadies Jon.

“Turn your gaze upon this wretched thing.”

[gallusrostromegalus]

So I may have been browsing through your AEIWAM tag and came across your writing of Komamura saying it's too hot in summer when you have a fur coat you can't take off. By that logic he's gonna always be sitting beside Hitsugaya in Captain meetings if he can swing it, especially in the early days, cause that boy is like a mini air conditioner next to him. XD

Wolves are winter creatures. The double coat, the snowshoe paws, the proclivity for cuddlepiles- if Sajin could move somewhere that never got above 40F he'd be in heaven. Alas, he lives in a major city that hits triple digits in the summer, so he keeps close track of the little pieces of winter he can find.

The first person to realize his little game was Unohana. She knew about the wolfman thing- Yamamoto trusts her as much as Sasakibe, and persuaded Sajin that, should a medical emergency arise, it should not also be a medical surprise.

She is of course, the pinnacle of Medical Confidentiality.

...but his name came up during one of the Shinigami Women's Association meetings/boozing sessions, and a distinct schism appeared.

On one side was Soi Fon, Nanao, and Herself, who all found Komamura to be very polite, professional and reliable if somewhat reticent and at times, aloof.

"I swear I can't get more than three words out of him!" Nanao despairs.

"I like him. He knows how to Shut Up." Soi Fon agrees.

"He's a very private man." Unohana nods.

Across the table, Isane and Rukia are baffled.

"Captain Komamura? Ten feet tall, bucket head? That Komamura?" Rukia the so-called Ice Princess asks, gesturing to indicate their height disparity. "What the fuck are you talking about? He's SUPER friendly and will hang around to talk FOREVER."

"Yeah, every time I go to the 7th he always asks me to stay for lunch and wants to know how everyone in my family is doing and swap horror stories from the ER for tales of crazy people in the intake queue." Agrees Isane, wielder of the ice cloud Itegumo. "It's embarrassing, but one time I was more than two hours late getting back because we get to talking!"

Everyone stares at everyone else, baffled.

"Did- did I do something to piss him off?" Wonders Nanao.

"Huh. Maybe he just picked up on how much I hate small talk on the job?" Soi Fon shrugs.

Unohana is silent, thinking.

"GUESS WHO BROUGHT TEQUILA!!" Matsumoto Rangiku announces as she kicks in the door, holding four bottles of liquor, only three of which were still full.

"We need you to settle a debate!" Rukia demands at once.

"Ooh! I love passing judgement on things that don't effect me!" Rangiku coos, sitting down, her chest making an odd 'clunk' sound on the table "- there's also salt and limes!"

"It kinda effects you." Soi Fon waved her hand noncommittally. "How would you describe Captain Komamura?"

"Tall, Heavily Armored and Mysterious?" Rangiku shrugs, pulling the box of kosher salt out of her cleavage.

"...more like his personality." Isane clarified.

"Oh! Uhh... You know what? He's one of the few people that's ever complimented me on streamlining like 80% of the paperwork we have to do." Rangiku nodded, fishing the limes out as well. "Always has stuff done waaaay before I expected and I feel like a bit of a jerk for not replying immediately, but never complains if my stuff comes in late."

"Does he hang around and talk, or is he just really businesslike?" Nanao asks, eyes narrowed behind her glasses.

"Hmm..." Fowns Rangiku. "Kinda varies by the day- Sometimes he's all business, other times he'll stay and chat. I always assumed he wants to talk but sometimes he's got work, you know?"

There is much confused muttering as the limes are cut, when Unohana raises a finger.

"...How is he with Lieutenant Hitsugaya?" She asks.

"Oh, he ADORES Toshiro!" Rangiku nods enthusiastically, salting her shot glass. "He actually does the majority of Toshiro's Bankai training now because The Old Man handed it off to him so he could focus on teaching Zaraki Everything But Kendo- which, bless him for doing that, Shiro-kin could literally freeze my tits off!- and he really does a good job listening to Toshiro's concerns and confusions- he's a sensitive boy, you know? And Koma-kun is so gentle with him and to be honest I always eavesdrop on his advice because I could use it too. Delightful man all around." She nodded, and moved to down her drink.

"...Why?" She asked, pausing her drink and glaring suspiciously at Unohana.

Unohana nods with the clarity of enlightenment. "Nothing serious, but everything makes sense now." She smiles, then cracks into a small giggle. "It's rather charming, actually."

"Care to elaborate?" Soi Fon grumbles.

"Yeah that answered NOTHING." Rangiku glares.

"We noticed an interesting disparity in his behavior." Unohana explains, pushing her own glass towards Rangiku to fill. "For me, Captain Fon, and Lieutenant Ise, Komamura-Taicho is very polite, but sticks to the matter at hand and will not volunteer any further conversation. For Lieutenant Koetetsu, Miss Kuchiki and apparently Lieutenant Hitsugaya, he has all the time in the world and is quite the chatterbox."

"...Weird." Rangiku frowns, intrigued by the puzzle. "For me it's like, half and half?"

"Not quite, I think." Unohana smirks. "What do Isane, Rukia and young Toshiro all have in common?"

The Resounding Silence of Thinking Very Hard around the table was a bit of a disappointment, but they were about three bottles into the evening already.

"Can't be Height." Nanao hummed. "Rukia and Shiro-Kun are shorter than a stack of pancakes but Isane's got legs that are too long for the cover of Vouge."

"Isane and Toshiro are both silver-haired, but not me, and he doesn't seem to be particularly close to Ukitake-Taicho and I think I've actually seen him run out of a room to avoid Gin." Rukia puzzled.

"What? RUDE." Rangiku protested.

"They're all under a century old, right?" Rangiku pondered.

"No, I'm almost two hundred!" Isane sighed. "Oh wait- we all graduated early from the Academy!"

"Ehhhh, I graduated because I got adopted, I'm not a genius like you and Shiro-kun." Rukia waved. "Also, how would HE know that?"

"You're all Lieutenants!" Rangiku perked up.

"Not yet I'm not!" Rukia protested.

"Pfsh- you run half the division anyway. Jushiro should promote you to Co-lieutenant with Kaien already!" Rangiku waved.

"Its- it's complicated." Rukia mumbled. "Also, Nanao-chan is a Lieutenant and he doesn't like her!"

"Does it have to do with how freakishly huge he is?" Soi Fon asked.

"...Yes, actually." Unohana decided. Sajin might not have so much trouble thermoregulating if he was the size of a regular wolf. She reasoned privately.

"Also, He likes Nanao-chan just fine as far as I know. I think it's less about how much he enjoys your company- which I think he does, he's not one for putting on facades- and more about how much he enjoys your Proximity." She clarified, taking her shot. "Oh, this is good, what is it?"

"Cabrito Blanco." Rangiku read off. "Huh. The Cabrito on the label sure ain't Blanco." She frowned at the brown goat.

"None of us have transferred out of the Division we started in, but again, how would he know? and that hasn't got anything to do with Proximity..." Isane frowned.

Rukia slammed her glass down. "WOW that's got a kick. Maybe uhhhh... None of us wear perfume, but Gin doesn't either. I hope. I don't want to get close enough to find out."

"He's really not that bad-" Rangiku sulked. "OH, 'Blanco' refers to the tequila and this is that goat's white tequila!" She realized.

"Sometimes I wish I could take a weekend vacation in your brain. Its machinations fascinate me." Soi Fon teased. "Hmmm... Lotta close but no Cigar, you're all young-ish, Isane and Toshiro have living relatives and Rukia has a large adopted family, but again, not exclusive or Proximal. You're also all S-rank duelists with- OH!"

"Shh, I'm enjoying the flailing." Retsu grinned.

"Pfff- okay, that is kinda cute and I don't blame him." Soi Fon giggled. "Sometimes I'm real glad my seat is right next to The Old Man for the same reason. Or opposite reason, I guess."

"Bwah?" Rangiku frowned.

"I do the same thing with You, Momo and The Old Man that He's doing with them." Soi Fon grinned. Rangiku frowned, peculiar machinations grinding slowly through the tequila, before she suddenly cackled, head thrown back so hard Unohana had to reach out and grab her by the scarf to keep her from tipping her chair over.

"OH NOOOOOOOO!!" She wailed, shoulders shaking. "Oh- that's cute but Toshiro can NEVER find out he'll be such a brat about it!"

"Sorry I'm late, I had to finish the latest report on the Rice Farm Subsidy Fraud Investigation!" Momo panted, jogging in late. "-What can't Toshiro find out about?"

"There is SOMETHING that You, ran-chan and Yamamoto-sama share, and it's the same thing but backwards as what Me, Hitsugaya, and Isane have in common that Komamura-taicho really likes it or something, and THEY know but won't TELL US and its MAKING ME CRAZY!" Rukia wailed.

Momo stood, expression blank for a few moments. "Wait. You didn't know?"

"KNOW WHAT?" Rukia wailed.

"That Komamura hangs around with people with Ic-Mmpf!" Momo started to reveal but was abruptly tackled and the rest of the sentence smothered in Rangiku's Cleavage.

"With WHAT?" Nanao demanded. "What do they have that I don't?"

"-Hang on." Isane frowned, the slowly turned to her captain, squinting. "Is. Is this a... Physics Issue?"

"That's one way to phrase it." Unohana smiled as Momo flailed for air.

"Oh my Gooooood..." Isane groaned. "Why doesn't he just ASK? I'd happily go over and give Itegumo some practice, I hate summertime too!"

"Huh?" Rukia glared, as Momo finally fought her way free and gasped for air.

"Itegumo? That's your- ohhhhhhh." Nanao realized. "That's. Okay yeah that's actually really cute." She giggled. "Poor guy. The armor can't help with that, can it?"

"That's what I keep telling him but it's-" Unohana waved her hands and grimaced with frustration. "-He wears the armor because he's facing the *stupidest* form of Political Persecution I've ever heard of." she sighed.

"Really?" Asked Momo. "Captain Tousen said Komamura told him it's because he's got a major disfigurement or something?"

Unohana sighed and rolled her eyes. "Komamura is FINE, he's just- It's complicated and medically private but trust me, the helmet is a reasonable precaution against an absurd problem."

"Oh." Momo winced. "Well, I'm glad he's medically alright at least!" "I'm so fucking confused." Rukia whimpered, deflating over the table in despair. "Is. Is hanging out with me making him less sick or something??"

"...Yes!" Unohana smiled. "Or at least, makes his condition more physically comfortable."

Rukia turned that over a few times. "...Talking with him is helping?"

"Yes, but only if you're in the same room with him. Doesn't work over the phone." Unohana nodded.

"Okay." Rukia said, reaching for the nearest bottle. "Lets talk about something else."

---

Years Later, after the Bedlam of her attempted execution and Subsequent Rescue, Rukia finally saw Komamura's face.

It was a bit awkward, walking into the hospital room in search of her brother to find a nine-and-a-half foot tall wolfman wearing the Seventh Division Captain's Haori visiting Momo. It took her a moment to realize who he was, and another as some neurons connected and she squawked indignantly, pointing at him.

"My apologies, Lieutenant Kuchiki, but-" He sighed, ears flattening back against his head with Chargin.

"AIR CONDITIONING?!?!" She bellowed.

Komamura scrunched back, chagrined. For a massive apex predator, he did an excellent Kicked Puppy face.

"Rukia!" Momo protested faintly from her hospital bed. "Keep your voice down, I don't want Toshiro to find out!"

"Find out what?" Hitsugaya grunted, stepping out from behind Rukia.

"Ah, Well-" Komamura started to explain.

Rukia rounded on Hitsugaya, pointing behind her at the captain. "THIS JACKASS HAS BEEN EXTRA NICE TO YOU, ME AND ISANE BECAUSE WE ALL HAVE ICE-TYPE ZANPAKUTO AND CHILL THE AIR AROUND US!"

"...Summer is very uncomfortable when you have a fur coat you can't take off." Komamura winced.

"Uh, duh?" Hitsugaya rolled his eyes, strolling into the room. "I didn't know you were chilling Koetetsu and Kuchiki here as well, but I kinda figured you enjoyed the cold when you stayed at my Bankai training like, five times longer than Gramps ever did."

"My apologies for the deception." Komamura bowed his head.

"It's no big deal." Hitsugaya shrugged, putting a hand up to indicate he wanted help up onto the hospital bed, and Komamura obliged.

"See? I use you being tall too." he smirked.

Komamura sighed fondly as the boy sat down between him and Momo. "Momo makes me chill all her juice too, but she never seems to warm up my tea." he handed her a juice box from the vending machine down the hall, covered in condensation.

"It would explode." Momo grumbled.

"Skill Issue." He shrugged and she affectionately swatted him on the leg. "Anyway, don't dogs cool off through their paws?"

"I'm from a wolf clan, but yes." Komamura cocked his head with curiosity, then alarm when Toshiro casually grabbed his forearm and started tugging his Gauntlets off.

"I don't mind being a human ice pack, especially not when it's nintey-eight freakin' degrees out, but be efficient about it, yeah?" Toshiro grumbled, tossing the gauntlet aside and plopping Komamura's pawlike hand on top of his head.

"...Thank you." Komamura smiled gently, and ruffled his hair a bit.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Hitsugaya shrugged, playing the tough guy even as his ears turned red. "At least you're polite about it! Freakin' Zaraki literally just grabbed me- like, put his whole arm through the office window! and threw me over his shoulders once. Jerk."

"TOSHIRO!" Momo yelped, hand on her face. "You almost made juice come out of my nose!" She half-giggled while Rukia snort-laughed at the mental image.

"Hey Kuchiki!" Hitsugaya growled. "He's got two paws!"

"You can't boss me around! You don't outrank me anymore!" She grinned.

"I have seniority." he teased, and the bed started to shake as Komamura tried not to laugh.

"You really don't need to-" Komamura tried to diffuse the argument. His voice was rock-steady but the wide grin betrayed him.

"You gotta follow my orders though!" Ukitake said cheerfully, appearing in the door. "Hi Lieutenant Hinamori!"

"C-captain!" Rukia yelped, spinning around to Salute. "What are your orders, Sir?

"Shh, nothing's happening. But I did hear you squawking from two floors down, so what's happening?" Ukitake smiled down at her.

"Captain Komamura has APPARENTLY been hanging around me and the other Shinigami with Ice Zanpakuto and using us as Air Conditioners!" Rukia glared up at her commanding officer.

"...Rukia," Ukitake patted her head and smiled gently. "Do you remember where Lieutenant Kaien's desk was?"

"Second door on the left, right next to your office, Sir!" She nodded.

"Right! And where's your desk?" Ukitake asked, leaning in closer to her.

Rukia blinked, confused. "...It's immediately adjacent to your desk in your offi- GOD DAMMIT! NOT YOU TOO?"

"Yep!" Ukitake cheerfully patted her head and then palmed it to turn her around to face Komamura. "Hop to it!"

"Technically, I got the Idea from him, when I saw how he'd rearranged the furniture..." Komamura whispered as he helped her up onto the bed as well and Rukia groaned in defeat, settling next to Komamura where she could sulk at her captain from over the wolfman's broad shoulders.

"Oh, stop pouting!" Ukitake teased, sitting down on the chair beside Momo's bed and leaning back. "It'll be winter soon enough. Actually, Your friend Mr. Yasutora told me about a fascinating wintertime holiday in the Living World-"

[allgremlinart]

[ Do NOT be deceived. Zuko's guards ARE on orders to let him in for booty calls. ]

post-canon jetko. Zuko isn't a rail-thin angry refugee anymore. Jet isn't hurting as bad as he did. He even finds himself new purpose after the war - hunting down still-rogue Fire Nation mercenaries and war criminals, housing orphans, and being occasional bounty hunter for hire (he's not as good as June, but he has his ways). And, of course, hitching a ride on the ship taking the Earth King's diplomatic embassy to the Fire Nation. The Avatar may have refused to kill the new Firelord if he steps out of line, but that doesn't mean Jet wouldn't. It's his job to go over there from time to time and remind certain people of this. If he so happens to have almost-civil discussions and intercourse with a head of state when he does so, that's purely incidental, and does not distract him in the slightest.

full pic ;]

[ Jet really DID visit Zuko's chambers with the intention of debriefing with and analyzing him, this time. To see if he could manipulate some more aid out of him, maybe, (Jet could play him like a fiddle, it wasn't hard,) or to wheedle him for lodgings and food for himself, or to see someone that he knew was just as restless as he was, regardless of peacetime, regardless that he shouldn't still feel like that. However, he caught Zuko right after he had a... meeting. With an Earth Kingdom noble. And, well... when you grow up deprived you learn you don't turn down leftovers. Or sloppy seconds, as it were. ]

[cricketnationrise]

Your banner of “shut up, shut all the way up!!” Makes me laugh every time so may I humbly request: 8:00 pm, the red room, Alex and Henry, no songs for vibes but how about if they didn’t get interrupted? I’m down for all the spice but it’s up to you my dear!!

Ao3-royalhearthuff

i'm glad you laugh, that's one of my favorite quotes from the book its just so perfectly alex. i am SO DOWN for your prompt its ridiculous. have some canon-adjacent making out for your sunday afternoon.

read the rest of the ficlets here

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

8:00pm, red room

Alex might legitimately be going insane — it’s the most likely explanation for how fucking good it feels to be making out with Henry. And they definitely are making out, not just kissing; there’s nothing remotely polite about the way Alex shoved Henry against the wall, nothing PG about Henry’s hands in his hair and clutching his ass. Every rattle of the portrait against the wall as Henry arches into Alex’s touch drives Alex even wilder. The weight of Henry’s leg around his waist might as well be one of those safety bars for a roller coaster — keeping Alex in the moment, on this ride as he and Henry go through loops and twists and down steep hills.

Alex has been breaking apart since January; only Henry’s lips on his, only Henry’s body pressed close, is keeping Alex in one piece now. Each kiss, each thrust of hips, each new place Alex’s hand lands lights a firework inside his mind. He’s really here — in the fucking Red Room, with a party full of diplomats just down the hall — with Henry. 

Henry, who he would have sworn on his mother’s election that he hated just a few months ago. 

Henry, who kissed him under the linden tree and tilted Alex’s axis completely askew.

Henry makes a low noise against Alex’s mouth and Alex drops a hand to Henry’s thigh. He squeezes the hard muscles beneath his fingers reflexively, rewarded with a gasp so thin it’s almost a whimper. Alex can practically feel Henry’s pulse through his suit and he moves his hand higher, closer to the bulge in Henry’s suit pants. Henry’s hand slips out of Alex’s hair (the one on his ass stays firmly in place) and slams down on Alex’s hand, his nails digging in sharply.

Alex stops moving, pulls back just enough to meet Henry’s eyes. They’re both breathing heavily, mouths less than an inch apart. Henry’s eyes are wide in surprised pleasure. Alex slides his free hand inside Henry’s suit jacket, finds the dip of Henry’s waist as if it’s fucking magnetized.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Alex says, proud of how steady his voice is when he feels so wrecked. 

“Don’t.”

That one word is enough to make Alex’s dick twitch in his pants. He’s captivated by Henry’s flushed cheeks; wonders how far down that blush goes.

“Gonna need you to stop trying to draw blood then,” he murmurs between sucking kisses down Henry’s neck. Henry exhales more shakily than a house of cards built on Jell-o salad, but relaxes the hand trapping Alex’s.

Alex flexes his hand to get some feeling back into it before resuming his task. He brings his lips to Henry’s, kissing him hard, as he finally gets his hand on Henry’s cloth-covered cock. Henry straight up groans into Alex’s mouth and bucks his hips into Alex’s hand, seeking more contact, more friction, just—

“More, Alex, please—”

Alex manages to get Henry’s pants open quickly, only fumbling when Henry nips behind his ear. He doesn’t waste any time working a hand inside Henry’s briefs, wrapping around Henry’s cock; it feels fucking perfect in his hand. Henry pushes into Alex’s grip, establishing a rhythm that matches his racing heart. Henry’s desperation drives Alex wild.

He crowds Henry even closer to the wall, chuckling darkly at the rattle of Hamilton’s frame, and stills Henry’s hips with an arm across his abs.

“Let me.”

“Get on with it, then,” Henry pleads, eyes closed, sweat beading at his hairline, so fucking stunning, and Alex is more than happy to oblige.

It takes Alex a second to find the right angle, but once he does, he starts jacking Henry with fucking intent. Sure, he jerked Liam off, but that was years ago, and he was pretty drunk. This time, he’s stone cold sober — too jumpy during dinner to handle a wine glass. This time, he’s practically on fire from the feel of broad shoulders and strong thighs beneath his hands. This time, it’s Henry — and that, apparently, changes everything.

There’s enough precome leaking from Henry’s cock to make Alex’s strokes smooth, and he wants to record the wet noises for goddamn posterity — proof that he’s the one making Henry feel good, pulling Henry toward his orgasm. Alex doesn’t know what words would spill from his lips if he took them off Henry’s (he’s pretty sure there would be more terms of endearment than he’s comfortable acknowledging), so he doesn’t. He keeps his mouth fused to Henry’s, exploring with his tongue and catching Henry’s moans and hitching breaths before they echo through the room.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Alex knows they’re running out of time. Amy told him five minutes and every second past that is borrowed time. He speeds up his hand and now both of Henry’s legs are around Alex’s waist, caging him in. Alex lets Henry’s hips move as they want to, desperate to get Henry’s hair between his fingers. It’s just as soft as he imagined, so you know, fuck him.

“Christ,” Henry moans against Alex’s lips, “close—”

“C’mon, sweetheart. Do it, come on—”

Henry does, with a whimper that would be a scream if Henry wasn’t clamping his lips shut. Alex gentles his hand, letting Henry come down before detangling their limbs.

“Wait, I can—”

Alex cuts him off. “No time, we’re pushing it already.”

“But, I—”

“You are going to be at least five hundred feet away from me for the rest of the night or I won’t be responsible for my actions. And then you’ll come to my bedroom and return the favor and then some and if you fucking ghost me again, I’ll have you put on a fucking no-fly list, got it?”

“Got it.”

Alex takes a few steps back, straightens his own suit and moves to the door with a last wink at Henry. He sees Henry’s blush get stronger before he slips out and shuts the door behind him with a grin.

[starpirateee]

Another guest, another request! I mean, this one was directly inspired by the last one I think, but I did deviate... Mainly because by the time I started writing it I was too far gone to realise I may be doing it wrong. Oh well! Hope I did alright anyway

Early January. The week before school was about to be set everyone back into their routine, Pete had plans. He'd bought a whole new notebook, and he'd had the idea for a brilliant new start to a campaign, one that he just had to share with Richie and Trevor as soon as possible. It was going to be huge.

Or rather, it would've been.

The notebook sat open on the first page. His pen was at least out of the cup he'd been using to hold them, but not a word had been written. Mainly because Pete had woken up feeling worse for wear.

At first, it had been fine. Just a headache, and he thought that the cloud in his vision was because he hadn't put on his glasses. But when that didn't change, he realised exactly what was going on. This was beause of the day before, wasn't it?

He sighed, flopping back onto his bed. Of all the things to happen on winter break, it was just his luck that his already shitty immune system had decided to screw him over something chronic. On today of all days. The day he finally got a good idea.

He found the strength to grab his phone, knowing that he'd made plans in some capacity. At least he wasn't going to bail on them on purpose, or make them believe that he was...

Pete:

Hey guys, we had plans today, right?

Ruth:

Uhh... Yeah? We were going skating?

Why, who are you leaving us for??? :0

Pete:

I'm not! I can literally barely see!

Ruth:

You break your glasses?

Richie:

they were fine yesterday...

Pete:

No, I'm not doing so well

I think, when it snowed yesterday, it fucked everything...

Snowball fight probably didn't help tbh

Ruth:

:(

Richie:

that sucks! ugh it's always when we wanna do something fun!

Pete:

You guys can still go! I'm not stopping you!

Have fun without me

Richie:

dont die on us. or else.

Pete huffed a breath of laughter. His friends did always know how to bring the best out of a situation, didn't they?

The moment he put his phone down, he got another text. Typical really, that the action tended only to happen when he was ready to give it up for the time being. He picked it up again, adjusting his glasses like that would help the pain behind his eyes.

Richie:

shit, wait

was that our fault?

By the time Pete opened his phone, Richie was typing again. He watched the three bubbles move across his screen, deciding not to say anything until Richie got out what needed to be said.

Richie:

you said the snowball fight, yeah? did we get you sick?

Ruth and Richie had ganged up on him, which was really funny at first, because he was still winning over both of them even with the disadvantage. Richie couldn't aim worth his life, and while Ruth could, she always made it glaringly obvious whenever she was about to attack, which totally defeated the purpose.

He'd paid for that victory with this impressive fever, that was for sure.

Pete:

Don't say it like that, it's fine!

Richie:

sorry!!!

Pete knew the reason why, of course. As soon as he was old enough to understand the word diabetic, he knew why. He had a terrible immune system because of that. So really, he'd brought it upon himself by initiating the fight in the first place...

Pete:

Seriously! Don't worry!

He heard the sound of the buzzer for the front door. Part of him was willing to pretend that he didn't hear it at all, but the voice that followed made him force himself out of bed.

"Pete? You still there? You said you were going out today, right? ... Shit, I probably missed him-"

The walk to the buzzer felt way longer than usual, what with the hallway spinning every time he tried to take a step. When he finally got there, he leaned against the wall, supporting himself as he reached for the intercom button. "What's up, Ted?" Before he spoke, he hadn't realised how strained his voice would sound, but he didn't know what else he was expecting.

"Jesus, kid, what happened to you?"

"I dunno what you're talking about."

"You sound dead."

"Yeah, real nice... Anyway, what d'you want?"

"Left my wallet. Are you gonna let me in, or..?"

Pete sighed and buzzed him in. He hadn't taken his keys on purpose because he'd known that Pete was going to be in after he left and before he came back, so in his head, he didn't need them.

While he was up and active, Pete decided that now was as good a time as any to grab a snack, fix himself a drink, and do everything he was supposed to have done hours ago. He ambled into the kitchen, cursing himself for waking up at ten thirty, because now he was behind in the day, and he was lagged as hell.

Ted strolled in through the door as he was raiding the fridge. His wallet was on the countertop, and as soon as he figured that out, he also managed to grasp the situation at hand. Pete barely looked awake, and he was still in his pyjamas, which was unusual for him at this time of the day.

That, paired with the way he'd sounded when he answered the door led to a little concern. Ted's brow creased, and he looked his brother up and down. "Uh... You sure you're okay over there?" He looked well and truly washed out, paler than he'd looked since... A few years back, when he'd made the stupid decision to walk to Ted's apartment from their parents' in the freezing cold, and had been caught in a freak blizzard on the way.

Hadn't it snowed yesterday as well?

Pete frowned, his mind not able to run fast enough to come up with an excuse on the fly. And he could make a fair assumption of how bad he looked based on how he felt, so he pretty much knew that Ted had already drew his own conclusions as to what was going on. He wasn't stupid.

So, Pete sighed, drawing his gaze to a more comfortable position that didn't hurt to uphold. "I'm fine, it's just- we were caught in the snow yesterday, and the three of us had this snowball fight, and... Well, I think I got this fever from it. But it's fine, really, I-"

Ted's face softened, and he pressed his lips into a fine line. "Did you at least win the fight?"

"Huh?"

"Did you win that snowball fight?"

Caught completely off guard, Pete laughed softly. "Uh, yeah, I think I did."

"Who against?"

"Ruth and Richie?"

Ted shook his head slowly. "It wasn't worth it. You look like shit." Still, all thoughts of his wallet discarded, he took a step closer and laid a hand on Pete's shoulder. "How about I pick up lunch?"

"What about the office?"

"Fuck the office, man. They don't need me. Besides, d'you just expect me to let you look after yourself all day?"

[sp4rrowdoll]

Hey do you have any thoughts on fem!Robin? Can be anything tbh I just really like fem!Robin alot 👉👈

Oh yes! I have a ton of thoughts about fem!Robin! (Spicier thoughts below the cut)

I've been turning her over in my mind for a while, trying to figure out how exactly my perspective on her differs from masc!Robin, and I think it comes down to this: I think she has a lot more moxie and gumption than masc!Robin does - something closer to Anne Shirley or Pippi Longstocking.

In fact, she got called those names a lot growing up, and as soon as she could, she cut her hair short to help diminish the comparisons. Nowdays she keeps it in a pixie-cut that's as close as possible to a men's haircut without drawing attention to herself. Her hairstyle is a good representation of her personality—while she's initially quite shy, and struggles with a lot of anxiety, she's quite puckish and mischievous underneath the thin veneer of "the quiet girl next door."

The pc noticed that she was uncomfortable with the girl's school uniform a long time ago, and you managed to get Leighton to agree to let her wear a pair of boy's shorts instead. As soon as she gets home, however, she'll shuck the school uniform and opt for a pair of old, worn overalls with grass-stained knees. She still loves to play videogames, and can absolutely kick your ass, but she's also a fan of touching grass, and helps you in the gardens as much as possible. As a present for her one winter, you embroidered some of her favorite flowers along the overall straps.

Another good way to differentiate between her and masc!Robin is that masc!Robin would have to be cajoled and carefully couched before he was comfortable biting you during sex. Fem!Robin is willing to snap playful at your fingers as you undress her from the get-go. Fem!Robin is also a member of the itty-bitty-titty committee, and it actually played a big part in her realization that she was bi. Initially she attributed the attention she paid to other women's breasts to jealousy, but after a while she realized that she liked having small breasts, and that she really just wanted to touch and hold other women's breasts.

Part of the reason she's so comfortable with having small breasts (aside from the eventual bonus it is for her cross-dressing/binding) is that she has very sensitive breasts and nipples, and with breasts as small as hers, she doesn't need to wear a bra.

Eventually this becomes a game you play together - you buy her pretty, lacy lingerie and make her wear it to school, where she spends the whole day tormented by the sensation of the clinging fabric sliding over her skin, and across her sensitive nipples.

And then when the two of you get home, you can take your time and unwrap her like the present she is.

[musingsofmyown]

July fic #07: Glass

Stained glass, an art form going back to the 7th century. Sherlock always found it captivating; how the sun would project through the windows creating a stunning visual effect. Usually when he looked at things, there was information, predictions, deductions deductions deductions. But with this? He could sit and look at it without having to make a single assumption.

Sitting in the chapel, his eyes were captivated by radial Celtic designs that illuminated the darkened room in rainbows. He came here to stop thinking, when the hustle and bustle of London became too much. Sherlock had told his friend he was going out to investigate a potentially interesting case, but in reality, he was getting overwhelmed.

Cases had been coming in by the busload and there was very little time to even stop to breathe. Even Sherlock began to feel the effects from it; headaches, exhaustion, mental burnout. Lestrade had even told him that if the back-to-back cases became troublesome, he would gladly hold them off to give the two a break.

(more under cut)

Sherlock turned his attention back to the swirls that hovered above his head, mesmerising, intricate lines overlapping and intertwining. Reds, blues, golds and greens intermingling, blurring together in an elegant chorus of light.

The chapel was empty, being a mostly abandoned area, somewhere tucked away in the moors of the UK. The pews were old oak, some threatening to fall apart, others already a home to stag beetles and various isopods. Walls made of sturdy rock placed many centuries ago. Though untouched by the breeze outside, the air was fresh, quiet, it smelled of wet stone and moss.

"Mycroft said I could find you here, he only gave me a set of coordinates though," his gentle voice drifted across the stilled air,"Didn't take you for the church type."

"I'm not."

John took a seat next to him,"that's beautiful."

They were both studying the glass now, a ray of gold sat upon John's face,"Don't tell anyone about this place."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Sherlock deigned a look at his friend, it was the first thing he had deduced in the few hours he had been sitting there: 'Love'

John met Sherlock's eyes and tilted his head slightly,"I haven't seen that look before."

"I... I've just noticed something I haven't before."

"Care to share with the class?"

His eyes flicked down to John's lips, but returned to the doctor's now gray-gold eyes,"I don't mind." Sherlock closed the short distance with a light, tentative kiss before sitting back,"I-I'm sor-"

"Don't apologise," John's voice still gentle, warm, inviting,"Do it again, Sherlock."

After decades of unuse, the four walls of the small chapel saw love once again, and the sun smiled down with rays of colour to grace them.

----------------

Tagging:  @helloliriels @fluffbyday-smutbynight @emaster875 @whatnext2020 @dinner--starving @loki-lock @kettykika78 @mycrofts-umbrella-in-the-tardis @gaylilsherlock @topsyturvy-turtely @colourfulwatson @safedistancefrombeingsmart @kyramaximoff @psychosociogentleman @peanitbear @astudyin221b @justanobsessedpan @thesherlockandjohnshow @icatee @boldlygowhereitsbiggerinside @ethannexil @sherlockwatsons @missdeliadili

Let me know if you want to be taken off/added on!!!!

[contaiinedarmageddon2]

❌ + condoms or buckets

CAPTOR CLOWN FIESTA, PART 2 below the cut for sauciness:

Sollux's vision remained slightly darkened and definitely still swimming when he came to staring up at the ceiling. The darkness may have been because it seemed to be later in the night by the light of the nearby window slit. He was still sitting, but his head felt like it was on something soft. Did they really give him a pillow or something after he passed out?

Speaking of feeling nice, usually when poisoned or drugged one woke up feeling terrible. But while Sollux had a little nausea and a bad taste in his mouth, he otherwise felt... Nice? Very nice, even. The kind of nice that would be spectacularly bad to feel in the midst of the enemy camp like this. At last he tried to sit up to clear his head, and at last he realized his arms had been tied behind his back, and something tied around his mouth. The adrenaline spike from that did succeed at clearing his head a little. Sollux's attempted surge to his feet did however bring his head to look downwards, giving him a sight that sent him rapidly teetering between lucidity and the stupor. Not only were his pants gone and cock out, someone had apparently fiddled with the belt that controlled his compressionwear in the process. Luckily they hadn't fully turned it off, but it was clearly on a lower setting than usual as the sheer log of gray meat outsized his leg by some degrees, and the pendulous basketball sized nuts sat heavily on the oversized chair meant for purples.

More alarming than the sudden nudity was the fact that an enormous hand had clamped its way around almost 3/4ths of the oversized organ and was gently stroking up and down it with slow motions. Following the length of that arm back brought him to match gazes with the softly smirking face of Chahut, whose chest his head was sunken some inches into. She stopped her ministrations for the moment, though made no motion to extricate him from her tits.

"hey yellow. why's a liTTle guy like you hide away a gifT as miraculous as This huh?" She hefted up the immense shaft in a little toss, like testing a weapon's weight. "when we picked This up on The scan i jusT knew all my good juggaleTTes could have a real parTy. and give you a bonus for hooking us up aT The same Time."

Satisfied with her own explanation, Chahut gripped his dick and angled it forward, feeding it through a hole in a wooden panel his chair had been set in front of. He was still flaccid enough that the oversized organ could squish down slightly and fit through the opening that was just a shade too small until he was fit through almost all the way to the base. All he could feel on the other side was some kind of... cloth?

Once he was good and settled, Chahut's smirk expanded into a wide grin. The arm that wasn't piloting his junk wrapped around her prodigious chest and the small yellowblood head held against it. She began squeezing, forcing his face into the exposed cleavage of her top and deep into the stuffy canyon of too-warm skin that had once contained that cursed drink. Now she started to rub him once more, short and hard strokes on what area was left on this side of the opening. "jusT need To geT you good and ready for The show. ThaT wicked parTy poTion makes even The mosT placid clown ready To geT down. should be more Than enough To geT your liquid gold Thumping and pumping inTo This biTchbreaker here."

It probably wouldn't have been necessary, between being smothered in the plush walls of her heavy tits and furious jerking motions he'd have gotten it up eventually. But the elixir did have his heart racing faster than normal, heat coursing out from his bloodpusher throughout his body and especially to his crotch. While he panted against the fatty walls of her cleavage an audible gurgle emitted from his swollen sack. Chahut's mouth had gone from a smirk, to a grin, to now a fang showing smile. "ThaT's The shiT. Time for This slurry hose of yours To sTar in The show. hang in There while i kick iT off."

The cloying warmth around his head vanished as the mastermind got up and stepped away. The vice feeling around his dick hadn't abated however, coming from the hole that now served as an impromptu cock ring as the angry tower stood at full mast, pulsing against the restraint. Between that and the arm restraints he was going nowhere. Now that his face wasn't pushed into fat clown tits however, he could look around to take stock of his predicament better. There appeared to be some kind of window or slit in the wall in front of his head, though something was blocking it from the other side. The whole wall had a sort of L shape to it, was this whole thing attached to a stage? A sound of heavy footsteps on wood shortly after Chahut left seemed to confirm it...

Chahut herself lumbered onto the stage and up to the mic. A sizable crowd had already gathered, drawn in by the lights and signage that had been set up while she waited for her little guest to perk back up. She stared out at the gathered women, invited especially by her or those she told to gather more for this special bit of girls-night fun. While not all were purple bloods, the vast majority brave enough to enter the Carnival were.

"ladies and sisTers!" She began announcing. "i Thank you all for coming. especially afTer last year's fiasco. and iT is parTially for That reason That i've whipped up This liTTle game. sTress relief and a compeTiTion wiTh fabulous prizes boTh!"

That got some interested hoots and hollers. "i know There were rumors This was almosT a dry carnival on accounT of cerTain fuckups noT To be named. who here would like To thank the inTrepid soul who bailed our mirThful selves ouT of a very un-mirThful night?" More cheers. Being saved from an elixir-less night had an almost holy aspect to it, at least when they could remember it. "ThaT same helpful moThafucker also agreed To help me seT up This game for ya'll insTead of going on his merry way. so i expecT To see some fuckin graTiTude. so here iT is!"

She hurled the stage curtains behind her back. Strong moonlight suddenly filtering in through the small viewing window Sollux could see out of, but that could not be easily seen back into. Now he could see what was revealed to the crowd as well. Reaching up nearly to Chahut's waist stood his tower of a cock. It jutted out from the floor at a slight angle and stage lights illuminated both it and a small altar of colorful cushions before it. Beside the carefully made glory hole was box after box after box stacked atop themselves. Chahut stepped up to these and tore the lid off the top one, retrieving an almost comically large plastic square, the edge of which she tore off to reveal a purple tinted condom.

"The game is simple. our messiah-senT guesT here promised To help ouT in our merrimenT unTil the very lasT drop! and ya'll are going To wring each and every one ouT of him. everybody geTs one condom, and whoever manages To geT Theirs The mosT full by the Time This beasTly Thing Taps ouT is our winner!"

Chahut extended a hand down to the base of the hole, then ran her fingers tortuously slowly up the entire impossible length of Sollux's underside. His body's purpose was affirmed immediately. It could not help but send a trickle of potent precum up after her fingers, and a trickle at his mammoth size was enough to fill a solo cup. It beaded up out of his cockhead and splattered noisily to the stage floor, giving the show-runner her cue.

"begin!"

//Jesus fuck how did I end up needing a part 3? I even had action for most of this! aaaaaaaagh. It is a good pain.

[bsaka7]

ok but: a world cup au where france is falling apart (like they do every other world cup) with pierre (cocky centre forward) and esteban (goalkeeper with a knack for winding up the opposition) are on opposite sides of the fight. cyril is their manager

kind of obsessed with all the different alignments for where these guys play that I've heard......Esteban is decently tall with big hands I'm just saying I can see it. And pierre wants to be no10 striker so bad he wishes he was that bitch!!!!! i can definitely see how this one would work...

Headlines like "CAN OCON AND GASLY MAKE IT WORK? WORLD CUP DREAMS ON THE LINE." "Gasly's Form in Doubt After Disappointing Club Season." "'We're not friends' - Gasly BLASTS French teammate Ocon." "Abiteboul insists French National Team tensions are 'just a rumor.' Insiders weigh in!" "Ocon 'EXTREMELY difficult to work with' says former teammate." and so on....

[personalitynexus]

The Beginning of an Undertaking...

The invitations had all been sent out, official letters of welcome that at first looked to be nothing more than a means of crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s on all the paperwork to make the folks over in legal happy.

Dear sir/madam,

Per company policy and in accordance with no less than thirteen (13) international treaties, accords, and/or resolutions, we humbly invite you on a tour of the Global Humanity Organization and Strategy Team’s (henceforth referenced to as GHOST) facilities located within the heart of the Jura Mountain range in northern Switzerland.

You are permitted to bring along whatever recording devices you wish, in accordance with UN Biohazard Council Resolution B/RES/0070(2014), and allowed to disseminate the footage and/or audio recorded should you feel that at any point in your tour of the GHOST’s grounds that our organization is violating the collective global trust and/or are betraying the collective human interest.

At this time, weapons are not permitted on the GHOST compound, and as such will be confiscated upon arrival. Sole exception to this ruling are certified and verified members of the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance (henceforth referred to as BSAA), pending a forty-eight (48) hour vetting process and isolation. 

Enclosed with this letter you will find one (1) pre-paid ticket from your local airfield to the ACH airport in northern Switzerland, where a valet will be waiting to escort you to the campus, where upon arrival a guide will escort you to the dorms that will be provided to you for the duration of your stay.

We sincerely hope that you will be visiting our facility soon.

For more information about GHOST, including our mission statement, goals, and aims are, please feel free to contact us or reference the included pamphlet in your mailer.

The wording was identical in each of the fourteen letters sent out, most going to private residences with only a handful being sent to a government office to locate and deliver the letters to them on their behalf. The legal team may be the ones requiring the notices be sent out, the accounting department the ones paying for their room, board, and airfare, but hardly anyone would piece together what connection, if any, these fourteen people had in common. 

Whether or not they showed was another matter altogether, but given their individual natures and histories with mass Bioterror incidents, The Chairman felt confident that every one of them would show for this mandatory exhibition. 

“They’ll all come” The Chairman said aloud as he closed a file on his desk, turning his attention to the massive LCD screen that took up the entire eastern wall of his office.

“There’s no doubt in my mind of that. After all, the threat of another Raccoon City or Lanshiang Incident is something they all desperately want to avoid. Most of them will come here expecting it to be nothing. Many will be surprised to see some familiar faces...” As he spoke, the faces of the fourteen individuals appeared en masse on screen, each of them survivors of one Bioterror Attack or another, including the infamous Raccoon City Incident of 1998, along with the faces of several others that were greyed out and flagged as deceased in some form or another.

“But by the time they piece it all together, they won’t be able to stop what’s coming.” His attention shifted away from the screen, a hint of a glowing reddish-orange color showing briefly in what could be seen of his eyes from behind his tinted glasses, along with a lingering glare filled with malice at the image of one person in particular. 

BSAA member Chris Redfield.

“This will be a game for the history books, one way or another.”

[mtchacffinz]

what a blunder!

prompt!!! Arlecchino personally deals with your unwanted marriage proposal in her own unique way.

content!!! fem!reader x arlecchino, SFW, impatient arlecchino, violence mentioned, marriage proposal, possessive arlecchino

note!!! "Farlahr" is a made up character for the sake of this ficlet. The Doctor here is NOT Dottore. something about arlecchino tweaking and losing a few screws is so hot to me so here you go girls this one is for my strap on arlecchino riders 🙏 im so normal

"He told me that if I consider him as my betrothed, I would be set for life." You smile up at her, albeit nervous. "Huh? Oh— Where are you going?"

Long empty corridors could carry even the faintest whispers. The moon peeks from the shadows, it's serene light softly caressing the harbingers figure— still, quiet, tensed. Her heels clang echoing all throughout the corridor, her gaze that was pinned straight forward seemed to pierce through the thick air surrounding the atmosphere.

Long empty corridors could carry even the faintest whispers, and Arlecchino failed to notice she started to hear her uneven breathing.

Peculiar. Truly peculiar..

"Right this way, Ma'am." Arlecchino set her gaze towards the head butler, greeted with the sight of a tensed figure in return. The head butler winces, stammering on his words. Was she glaring? She doesn't know. That's not important. She's needs to get through the door. "I- I will inform the Master of your arrival—"

"That will not be necessary." Her sultry voice cut through his words. "We have been long collaborators, a reunion shan't wait too long."

Her monochromatic figure heaves a soft breath, looking blankly towards the excessively pretentious door, it's sheer size looming over Arlecchino's figure— the entrance towards an office.

Eloquent and graceful, although her lips were painted with a polite smile, the person before her couldn't tell if the crimson woman was brewing something from within. The Knave was calculative and perceptive, an expert at keeping herself cold despite the scorching flames imbedded within her. The man kept his gaze at the floor, lacking the courage to even contest her gaze.

Those eyes, terrifying crimson hued crosses that could mess with your head tried to dare his optics to even catch a small gaze. Staring into them was ill advised indeed. The butler knew this for his heart was racing, and what added to the cold sweat undeniably trickling in his jaw was that Arlecchino stood unnervingly still— as if contemplating something under deep thought. Before anything could be done, Arlecchino firmly gripped the mansion door's handles in a few momemts, swinging it open with great force.

There had always been an air of nobility in Arlecchino's presence. As soon as she stepped foot into Farlahr's office, the doctor stood up in shock, startled.

"Please, excuse my abrupt visit, Doctor." Arlecchino deliberately spat out the title, a composed smile tugged at her lips. Farlahr's eyes widen at the sight of her monochromatic elegance painting his mansion floors with her presence.

"You're not too busy, I presume? Do let us catch up, I insist— I truly do." It was way beyond the wee hours of the night, the breeze was cold and unforgiving, and the doctor could feel it crawling up his spine. The Harbingers assertive words leave no room for arguments. As if there was an invisible wind from the room, forcing every bit of his movements to bend at her own will.

"I admit that it's quite off fashion to visit at this hour empty handed, Lord Harbinger." The man chuckled in an attempt to disperse the growing tension in the air. He swings his hands— decorated with glimmering stones to mask his nervousness. The woman quickly responded.

"I won't be empty handed for long."

"Pardon, Lord Harbinger?"

Arlecchino doesn't clarify any further, but directs her unwavering gaze to him. Dark, piercing. It was like a warning, a ticking bomb for the doctor to diffuse except there seemed to be no signs of dismissal any time soon.

His crisp smile quickly dropped.

"...I merely jest." Farlahr quickly followed up, as if it was the most amusing joke in the world. Arlecchino doesn't seem to share the same opinion, as her expression stood the same. Whatever The Knave came here for, he doesn't know just yet. And if he fails to catch on, Farlahr just might lose something. His head fell from the deep crevices of his panicked mind falling into one topic he suddenly could bring up as distraction.

With their history of collaborative partnership of 13 years, Arlecchino didn't have a single problem in regards to the business and it's contributions to the House of Hearth. Arlecchino didn't care for his obsessions with women and adulterous activities, the poised lady simply stood her ground due the information the Doctor withheld about the history of medical fallacies and treatments alike.

Arlecchino's rigid gaze quickly looked relaxed, unbothered. Her voice had voice lowered and her arms and legs sit crossed.

"I came here to offer a deal."

"And that is?"

It was no surprise to Arlecchino that Farlahr was a worldly man. Riches to riches, he has re-married at least three times and he's proud of that. Arlecchino didn't bother to comprehend his thought process. She believes that his brain was processed waste ideally converged with multiple nerves. His body reeked of metals, teeth gleaming brightly with silver. She kind of wishes she could rip it all out of his jaw..

"You will retract your marriage proposal." Arlecchino starts, "And I say this, your wealth, status, and people— all safeguarded as per usual."

Farlahr was taken aback by the sudden demand. He doesn't know if her statement stemmed from concern for his safety or a wake up call to his unethical hobbies. The opportunist in him say the opposite, it says that maybe you are some sort of leverage in this world— so valuable that even the 4th Harbinger of then fatui would personally come and abolish his plans of marrying you.

But the curiosity of his consciousness gnaws it's way out of his lips, asking one particular question.

"You disapprove of my wife and I?"

How disgusting. Utterly repulsive. Its almost an offense to your whole existence to be called a wife to someone as repugnant as him. The monochromatic grace managed to suppress her disgust by responding in a more poignant tone.

"Ah, forgive me." Arlecchino very slowly tilts her head, eyes unblinking. She effortlessly stands up from her seat, her coat elegantly swaying with her refined and poised movements, breath light as a feather— a shadow cast on her face.

"But I don't disapprove of your proposal, pig." In a moment, there was a switch in her tone. Her pointed high heels shoes dragged themselves against the expensive velvet carpet, dreaming to at least peirce through the back of a certain crisp, fragile cranium. With every step closer Arlecchino gets, the more Farlahr's heart pounds in his chest, daring to jump off.

She raises a hand and firmly places them on his shoulder.

"...I forbid it."

Serenity was all that could be described throughout the night. And you, as a person of idle leisure in the evening, appreciated the tranquil breeze that brush past your cheek. A soft sigh escapes your lips, falling into deep thought. What is there to do? With the last 28 hours you were given to decide on an answer, you're left quite bewildered. Tapping your fingernails on the terrace by muscle memory, your train of thought was disturbed when you head familiar foot steps behind you.

You turn around to see a sight of dignified beauty, standing before your sleepless eyes. Arlecchino's presence, despite the abruption, quickly calmed your disgruntled nerves down.

But something was wrong. Before you could ask about the residual crimson stains on her cheek and darkened hands, she speaks in a tone softer than any voice you've heard her.

"If I may ask, my dove, could you marry someone with an absent ring finger?"

Wow. What a random question. Completely uncalled for. Maybe the ungodly hours of the night got to her? Despite the conspiracies flowing through your mind, you try hard to think of an answer.

"Hmm. I should rephrase that. Could you marry a man with no fingers?" Arlecchino ponders out loud, "Despite a marriage contract, you must need a ring to put on his finger, right? Quite a shame, really.."

"No, I don't think so. Wedding rings are to be put on ring fingers, if I recall correctly."

"That's a relief." You raise a brow, completely lost. You gaze at Arlecchino, a subtle triumphant look paints her expression, her fingers play around with her numerous rings that sit comfortably on her fingers. Taking one out, she approaches your figure.

"May I embrace you, my lady?" Suddenly, the Harbingers sultry voice was sullen, sulking. My, what's up with this woman? A moment ago she shows up with (possibly) blood around her person, and now she's asking for sudden physical contact? After just a consonant of the reply 'Yes' was uttered, Arlecchino quickly took you in her arms, embracing you deeply— taking in your presence wholely.

"How I wish I could rid you the scent of that swine." She loosens her grip for a moment, putting a stray hair strand behind your ear. All this feels like a fever dream.. you remember that just mere hours ago, Arlecchino's face looked grim and unpleasant when she received news of your sudden proposal— her reaction left you perplexed. You thought it would be a good idea since Farlahr was a good business partner of hers, why the grim expression?

You pat her back comfortingly. Before you could say anything, Arlecchino quickly lets go of you, standing perfectly straight. Her face once again unreadable— she speaks in a calm and collected manner.

"That fool said that if you'd marry him, you would be set for life." She recounts, almost irritated. Arlecchino's crimson crosses gaze was away from you, but hands traced their way back to your arms, carefully holding them in hers. Her thumbs brush the back of your hands affectionately, with tenderness and care in her voice. Arlecchino's knee made contact with the floor, and her hands delicately handled yours as if they were the most precious thing in the world.

"You must marry me. All he could offer you, I could provide tenfold."

All of the sudden, the wind started to pick up, and the ethereal lady before you never looked so grand. Her monochromatic hair danced with the cool breeze, and her crimson eyes looked from above, transfixed on your figure. Your throat felt like there was too many words you could spit out in one go, and you were terrified that you'd ruin the atmosphere by stammering over your words.

"Marry me so you are mine to gratify. This is a promise I can keep, unlike that farce. Even at your grave, my everlasting flames will be buried with you in the dirt where you lay— in turn that you will never freeze from the cold kiss of death." The Harbinger adds, tenderly placing a peck on your knuckles. Her gaze could contest even the eyes of Archons at this very moment, possessing full confidence that upholds the standards of her capabilities.

Compared to her, what could a limbless man offer you?

my dumbass just woke up and decided to edit it a bit cus I was writing this at like, 3AM LMAOO, hello (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠) its me again, just dipping my toes in the water to see if I could still write 🤔

[akela-nakamura]

DPxDC Prompt

Summoning is an imperfect art, mispronouncing a name or having an incorrect symbol can lead to unexpected, and sometimes explosive results. Summoning can open unexpected doors. No one's prepared for what--or who--steps through when a rising gang tries to summon backup.

My little ficlet for this is below the cut:

Smoke. The acrid slam of it in the nose, brought on by the screaming wind. Chanting. A chorus of voices, steady and thrumming. Pain. Everything is hazy, and it’s equal odds on it being from the smoke or the potential head injury. 

Bruce stumbles to his feet, body throbbing. 

This was not how he’d planned this night. 

Of course, he hadn’t planned for Gotham to suddenly be overrun with a new…gang? They claimed to be a government organization, but Bruce has his doubts. He hadn’t had a chance to go through the GIW’s information, but according to Barbara, their claims were sketchy at best.

The shouting about ghosts and waving around sci-fi weapons with no trigger discipline certainly didn’t help their claims. 

Government organization or not, they had no right to raid homes, to drag people out onto the street, or overall threaten his city.

His ears ring, and the chanting rises in volume, impossibly. His chest reverbes with the sound. It’s steady enough to feel like a second heart. His blurry vision locks onto the center of the summoning circle. Because this night couldn’t get any worse, of course. 

First the GIW had rocketed up his list of threats with one simple move. 

They’d gone after Jason.

Jason, who even now was laid out in the middle of the summoning circle, eyes bright, bright, bright green through the haze. 

First they’d taken his son. 

Then they’d used him as a sacrifice. 

Bruce bared his teeth, locking eyes with the closest GIW agent. The man held up his weapon, a glowing baton. His form is weak. 

The baton gord flying, Bruce’s armored elbow slamming the man to the ground. The agent curls up, groaning. Nightwing’s escrima sing electric in the background, followed by the whip of Tim’s bow staff. Damian’s sword glints through the haze, and purple flashes through the crowd of white, white, white. 

He can’t see Cass, but he doesn’t expect too. 

The ground rocks under his feet, and it takes several precious seconds to regain his balance. There seems to be an almost endless flood of agents, with more and more meeting his fists as he tries to make it through the gauntlet. 

Suddenly, the air shifts, the scream of it heading for the circle instead of out. 

The circle glows toxic green, and Jason’s at the center, frozen in the light. 

“No!” Bruce shouts, the sound ripping from his soul. 

It’s echoed by Dick, who stands just outside the circle’s boundaries. His hands are pressed against the light, his blue eyes a shock against the green. 

It’s a confusion of people - GIW white and the summoner’s black. The GIW is here to end whatever it is they need Jason to summon to them. The summoners themselves seem to have broken away from the “agency” and want power from the being they’re calling. It’s a fight on multiple fronts, with the GIW fighting the summoners and Bruce and his family fighting them all. 

The temperature drops. 

“HOOD!” Dick screams, as Jason is swallowed by the green. 

The chant is all he can hear, even as he shoves towards the circle, even as he slams against the same wall Dick’s against. 

The world goes bright and he can’t keep his eyes on Jason. On his son. 

When the light fades, Jason’s not alone. 

A being sits six feet in the air, Jason collapsed over his lap, somehow hovering with the - what is he? He looks human, but there’s something wrong. Off. Bruce can’t quite pinpoint his age. A crown glows on his head, an ever shifting cape spills down his back, dragging close to the floor. His eyes are green as Lazarus, and just as deep. Jason is breathing, Bruce notes. The being’s hands curl in Jason’s hair, playing with it idly. 

The air is *rigid, and everyone’s stopped fighting. No one can draw their eyes away from the being. 

“You dare to summon me with one of my own?” The being speaks, and it’s like crackling glaciers. Someone whimpers. 

“We - wanted to give you a gift,” One of the men in black says, his voice chattering. 

It’s like breathing in ice. 

“A gift?” The being says and the sound is fury, banked in a waiting avalanche. “What kind of gift is this? A denizen of my Realms, trapped and tortured? Used to summon his king, against his will? This is no gift.” 

“B-but we didn’t know,” another speaks, and then obviously realizes he shouldn’t have. 

“Ignorance will not save you,” the being says, and it - he’s? - still holding Jason like he’s something precious. “And I am not the only one you have infuriated. 

“I am not the only one you have awoken.” 

To a man, the GIW agents cry out in panic. Bruce turns, looking for the threat but - the agents are buried to various depths in the cracked concrete floor. The ground is decidedly solid beneath Bruce’s feet but the agents would obviously not agree. They flounder, like the concrete is quicksand. The summoners are next, but it’s ice that gets them, crawling up their bodies until they’re locked into place. 

“My lord!” One cries and promptly finds himself gagged. 

Bruce can’t stay silent any longer. “Hood was used against his will to summon you,” he starts. The being’s eyes meet Bruce’s. “He didn’t want this. Is he alright?” 

“Your son is fine,” the voice is rough, but feminine, and obviously not from the being. It’s around him, dancing through the steel beams and pushing through concrete. “You are mine, my knight. You and yours are mine. The little king will not harm him, nor you.” A figure forms off to his right. 

“Holy shit,” Dick whispers. Bruce has to agree. 

She’s made of concrete, of broken brick and dust, of bone and police tape, of twisted metal and more. 

“Gotham,” Bruce breathes, and he doesn’t know how he knows but he does.

“Hello, my knight,” she says, her form shifting. She turns slightly, and there’s something sharp in her movement. “Hello, little king.” 

“Lady Gotham,” The being - the king? - returns. “You look well,” 

Lady Gotham laughs, a ringing sound - it’s bells and gravel, fresh air on a summer day and rising wind. “How you flatter me, little king. Do you fear me?” 

The being grins, mischief dancing around him, white hair floating high. “I respect you. It’s good to see you awake, Milady.”

“What is happening?” Tim asks no one in particular. Dick shrugs and Steph just leans harder on Tim. Cass holds Damian’s shoulder firmly, watching carefully. 

Bruce wishes he had an answer. 

“It is good to be awake,” Lady Gotham says, and she shifts closer to the circle, fingers skimming against the barrier of light. “How long do you intend to keep my reaper from me?” 

Reaper. Bruce thinks, and it’s a gut punch. 

It makes sense, to describe Jason. Jason can go where Bruce cannot, do what Bruce cannot. 

The king laughs lightly. “The summoning harmed him, Milady. I’m just keeping him safe. I’m not here to undermine you,” the king’s eyes glow. “But remember who is king.”

Lady Gotham smiles. “I’m aware of hierarchy little king.” 

“My son,” Bruce says, because there’s no point in pretending Jason is anything less. He’s talking to - the embodiment of gotham and a king of - something. “He’ll be okay?” 

Lady Gotham sighs. “He will be fine, my knight. The little king cares for his own.” 

“What - what are you the king of?” Tim asks, bold. 

The being smiles. 

“I am Phantom,” he says. “I am the Ghost King.” 

Jason stirs in his lap, and the implications crash over Bruce. Maybe Reaper has more meaning than he’d thought.

[cricketnationrise]

hiii cricket been eating up your recent fics (and literally all the ones before that, too)

here’s a fic ask!!

8:30 pm, the brownstone

hen and alex

“and you’ll save all your dirtiest jokes for me, and at every table i’ll save you a seat, lover” 💕

rating: M or E

thanks sm cricket ❤️❤️❤️

oooh very nice prompt. i'll admit this could have gone in a few different directions and then i thought of the joke at the beginning and it, er, devolved from there. anyway its definitely E so enjoy! 💜🦗

read the rest of the ficlets here

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

8:30pm, the brownstone

“…then the donor said something about riding ‘requiring the right equipment,’” Henry giggles, warm from the bottle of wine they’re splitting.

“Oh my god,” Alex sniggers. 

“And it truly took every ounce of self control not to say ‘if homegrown isn’t available, store bought is just fine.’”

They both lose it completely as Henry chokes the words out. His cheeks hurt from grinning all evening, and now his stomach is cramping and he can barely breathe. Alex is clearly in the same boat if the tears in the corners of his eyes are any indication.

It’s a perfect evening. Alex got a fantastic mark on a paper and Henry submitted his manuscript ahead of the deadline. They don’t have anywhere to be until Monday and the reality of a free weekend, just the two of them, spools out tantalizingly in front of them. A flurry of exclamation marks and unhinged GIFs bounced between their phones all day as they planned this long-delayed night in. It’s everything Henry has been missing the past few weeks; their shared wine, dinner, and laughter a balm to his soul.

Alex gets a hold of himself first, barely.

“Holy shit, baby, that’s incredible,” he wheezes. “A dick joke slash sex toy meme spin, I’m so fucking proud.”

“You’re a demonic influence, of course you’re proud.”

“Hey, you were at least sixty percent of the way there before me, Mr. Oxford-Slut-Phase.”

“That’s Prince Oxford-Slut-Phase to you.”

“Of course, my mistake, Your Majesty.” Alex beams at him and Henry, as always, melts a little. He’s trying to convince his legs to maintain their structural integrity when Alex speaks again.

“We could mix and match tonight, if you wanted.” Henry tips his head to the side in confusion. The heat building in Alex’s gaze makes him want to be pinned to the couch cushions. Or do the pinning, he’s not feeling particularly picky about how he gets his hands on Alex this evening.

“We have both homegrown and store-bought equipment available,” Alex says pointedly. “Wanna use both in me tonight?”

A flash of heat runs down Henry’s spine. “Bedroom. Now.”

A mad dash up the stairs, a flurry of clothes tossed every which way, a reverent kiss to Alex’s wrists—just above the leather cuffs Henry buckled him into and attached to their headboard—and Henry is straddling Alex’s thighs.

“So gorgeous like this, love.”

“Henry, fuck just touch me, please.”

“Begging already? Interesting.”

Alex’s retort is cut off with a pleased gasp when Henry gets his mouth on Alex without so much as a warning. Henry practically worships Alex with his lips and tongue and—occasionally, delicately—teeth. He moves from Alex’s cock to his rim, before practically burying his face is Alex’s arse. It’s been so long since they’ve had time for more than hurried hand jobs in the shower and Henry has missed this. Missed how worked up Alex gets, how desperate he is when he’s not allowed to touch while Henry fucks him with his tongue.

Henry gets his fingers slicked up without moving his mouth, and then slips two into Alex alongside his tongue. Alex shouts when Henry crooks his fingers, begging a multitude of saints and Henry—always Henry—to make him come, to take pity, for more.

“How can I resist when you beg so nicely?” Henry says as he sits up, reaching for their favorite toy with the hand not knuckle-deep in Alex. They picked it out together, browsing the site Pez recommended to Henry back when they were still in uni. It’s a deep purple, about Henry’s size, but with a wicked curve that never fails to make a mess of them both. Alex whimpers when Henry adds a third finger and spreads them out, but he does his best to work his hips and take more and Henry knows he’s ready. He covers the dildo with lube and rests the head on Alex’s rim.

“Baby, c’mon, I need it,” Alex pants—and who is Henry to deny him anything? 

“Remember to breathe,” is all he says before pulling his fingers out and swiftly pushing the toy into Alex all the way to the hilt in one movement. Alex moans, low and long and the inevitable spike of pride that Henry is the one making Alex feel so good hits Henry like lightning. He fucks the toy in and out of Alex a few times—delighting in the sweat gathering at Alex’s temples and hairline—before thrusting it all the way and holding it there.

“You’re going to be good and keep this inside.”

It’s not a question, but Alex answers anyway. “Yeah, fuck, I want it—”

“Because if it slips out of you, I’ll stop.” Henry gives it a twist, so the curved end hits Alex’s prostate, with a devious smirk.

Alex makes a noise like he’s been punched in the stomach, but he nods, eyes wide. “I’ll be good, promise.”

“Excellent. Now open that pretty mouth for me.”

Alex does, gaze eager, as Henry shuffles up the bed and settles close, his cock brushing Alex’s bottom lip. Henry’s the one to groan this time as he pushes his cock into Alex’s mouth. He’s got one hand on the headboard and the other cradling the back of Alex’s head, threaded through his curls. He can’t look away from the sight of Alex’s lips stretching obscenely around him, from the flutter of Alex’s—

“Fucking eyelashes.”

Alex hums around him and Henry’s gone, tugging Alex off his cock by the hair so he can come across his mouth and neck, his release coating stubble and chain alike.

“H, Hen—can I—need to come.” Alex’s voice is utterly wrecked and if Henry hadn’t just come he would be now. 

“Just a moment.” Henry clambers off Alex, and stretches out at his side. He reaches a hand down and grasps the base of the dildo once again. “Alright,” he says, thrusting the toy, “Come for me.”

And Alex does.

[clockwayswrites]

Ficleting Together Start:

cw: internalized abelism as issues with therapy and mental help, injury

Jason had an imaginary friend. He hadn't always. He wasn't like most children who had one when they were just learning to understand the world around them. He hadn't even had one on the streets when he was so desperately lonely for anyone to offer him kindness. No, Jason hadn't had one until he had become Robin— until he had become magic.

He didn't actually think his friend was so imaginary.

Bruce and Dick did, though. It was actually the first conversation that they had that didn’t end in shouting in months. Jason had listened to the whole thing through a vent on the other side of Bruce’s study. There were concerns of him regressing. Apparently it was something that could happen to traumatized— and fuck he hated that word, traumatized— children when they finally got somewhere safe.

Dick thought Jason would benefit from therapy. Worse, Bruce agreed. It turned out that went Jason took part in the shouting match it could be so much worse.

“I’m not crazy! I don’t need to see a fucking therapist!” Jason screamed.

He wasn’t helping his case, he knew that. But he wasn’t crazy! They couldn’t lock him up. He wasn’t crazy. It already felt like he was locked up. The study felt suddenly small. The lights too bright. The furniture too big. Bruce and Dick were too big.

“Jay-lad, that’s not what we’re saying,” Bruce tried.

“I’m not talking any pills!”

“No one is talking pills, Jay,” Dick said. He stepped forward, reaching a hand out.

It would be comforting. Jason knew that. Dick’s touch was always comforting.

He gave great hugs.

He wasn’t like—

Jason ran.

Jason bolted out of the room and past Alfred and out the door and into the woods that surrounded Wayne Manor. He ran past trees and shrubs and rocks that all looked the same. He ran until his legs were burning and he couldn’t catch his breath and—

The dirt, damp from the fall rainstorms gave under Jason’s feet. For a moment he was standing on nothing. It felt just like when Bruce had said that he had arranged a therapist for Jason. It felt like his world had fallen out from under him. And then Jason was falling, tumbling down the rock face that up the small hillside that Jason had been running along.

He screamed as something in his leg snapped, the noise was cut short as his head bounced against the rock and snapped his jaw closed. Even when he stopped rolling, the world swam around him. Jason closed his eyes and tried to stop himself from hurling. It was close. Jason lost time counting his breaths through the pain.

And then they were there.

Jason knew it, he always knew it.

It’s why he didn’t think they were imaginary.

He couldn’t help the sob that ripped from his throat as he felt their presence settle against his side. “I’m not crazy. You’re real. I know you are.”

Jason didn’t hear their response. It wasn’t like they spoke. But Jason could feel their response: a rumble of reassurance, a bubble of wry humor that Jason didn’t understand, and an undercurrent of worry.

“I’ll be okay,” Jason said. It had started to get dark. When had it started to get dark? “I’ll be okay.”

A cold sensation pressed against his brow.

He could close his eyes for a little longer.

He’d be okay.

“Jason! Oh god, Jason. Bruce! It’s over here! Please be alive.”

Jason whined as hand touched his neck.

Murmured Romani filled Jason’s ears as his world went black.

---

The voted prompts were Danny/Jason, soulmates/bond, Eldritch. This isn't going where I thought it would, but that's the fun of it! I might just tack all the parts onto this thread an not do an update thread since this shouldn't be too long (famous last words) but we'll see. I have at least two scenes that I know I want to do.

[singswan-springswan]

ficlet under the cut

The crate tipped with a sudden lurch and broke open on the ground. Zuko spilled unceremoniously with the motion. Inelegant. Graceless. Normally his movements held much more regality, but he'd been kidnapped and stuffed in a scratchy box and out of the water for some indeterminable length of days, so cutting himself some slack here felt appropriate.

It wasn't much brighter outside the stupid box. His scales were dry, his head was killing him, and the floor held a pleasant cool against his mounting fever. He really needed water soon. Every part of his body felt... scratchy. Discomfort would escalate into pain, and then asphyxiation. He would suffocate if he dried out. Idly, he wondered how long it would take. The humans seemed to know. They hadn't acted worried yet.

"Our latest bounty." The voice looming over Zuko was muffled in weird places. "I thought it might spark an interest. You collect fire fish, isn't that right?"

Zuko bit down a hazy groan and fumbled to prop himself up. The loss of the tile's cool against his cheek was one he mourned, but there would be time for relaxing when he found a way out of this mess. He could barely think straight. The humans—the pirates who'd ransomed him from the girl in blue—were standing guard around him now. He could see their boots. They were facing all the same direction, same way the voice was talking towards, and Zuko turned to observe.

The surrounding space was large, a room, and very dimly lit. This wouldn't normally be an issue, being that he was a mer, but his headache made his eyes lazy and bad at adjusting to the dark. If he squinted, he could see the ripple of light along the walls. Blue. Weird. In the direction of the pirates' attention, something like the outline of a table was visible—as large and imposing as the room itself. A single shadowy figure occupied a seat on the far side. He looked weird with the backlight. Zuko's vision was getting spotty.

He didn't get much chance to scan the rest of the surrounding space, because the pirate captain decided to be a jerk and grab his hair. It'd long since escaped its neat topknot, now bunching and sliding strangely in dry heat. The pain and the change in angle made Zuko rapidly lose sight of the shadow man.

"This one's quite a specimen." The pirate tilted Zuko's head back, baring his throat—maybe as a joke; it was always hard to tell if humans knew the significance of such a display—and lifted him enough to catch the light. So their potential buyer could get a better view.

Zuko would like to rip the pirate's skin off and feed it to him, but he was weak with dehydration, and his previous struggles against the man's crew had left him exhausted. All he managed was a low hiss. If humans could understand mer speech, he’d be cursing them as soundly as possible. Someone was standing on his tail. Not that it made much difference. He doubted he could have swung it if it wasn't pinned.

"I've seen a lot of the fire mer in my day, but this one's real pretty. Don't feel bad turning the offer down. We'll keep 'im if you won't." His crew laughed. Bastards. Zuko could hear the leer in the pirate's voice. It made him dizzy with anger.

Then a low grind echoed softly, and the humans cut their chatter short. Zuko distantly registered the shadow at the table moving. What made that noise? Was it his chair? He stood, rounded the massive table, and drew closer. All Zuko could see was a dark, unfocused blob. Vaguely humanoid.

"Yeah, don't be shy! Come get a closer look!"

The fist in his hair tightened. His scalp burned. The fins all down his back shuttered, and a stinging ache began to form in his gills. He needed water. He needed to get out of here. He shouldn't have wandered so close to the shore, even if that pretty girl in blue seemed so friendly at first glance. She did sell him out to these pirate scum. He should have known way better.

Even standing an arm's length away, the lighting continued to cast shadow on the pirate's potential client. It could be reasoned, then, that Zuko and the humans around him were washed in the room's best luminance. Certainly his scar could be seen clear as day. Maybe his tail was pretty, but there were parts of him imperfect. Maybe the stranger wouldn't want to buy him for that. Maybe Zuko would be stuck with these idiot pirates forever.

A smooth voice came from the stranger. "Release him."

"Sure, sure."

The pressure on Zuko's scalp vanished. He collapsed to the cool tile with no more grace than before, even further disoriented, and with a worse headache. He grit his teeth in frustration. That bastard was still on his tail.

Cool fingers tilted his chin up before he could lift his head on his own again; he hadn't seen the shadow man crouch down. Startled, Zuko yanked back and hissed a second time. He made sure to reveal far more fang and fan far wider with his fins; he just wanted these stupid humans to stop poking and grabbing him however often they pleased. Was that too much to ask? He wasn't an ornament. And he sure as heck had no intention of being a pet.

The stranger's face was close, and shadowy, and out of focus. Zuko's head was killing him. The room spun.

"The shape of the fins—” The stranger’s voice began.

“Really something, isn’t it? Never seen a mer so fancy before.”

There was a beat of silence, then the cool fingers returned to Zuko’s jaw and held him firmly in place. He growled. It didn’t make a difference. He was exhausted and hot and vulnerable, and everyone could tell. There was no way to stop them from doing as they pleased. 

“There’s a scar.”

“Wasn’t us, mate. Looks like the beast’s had it for a while. I think it adds to the aesthetic, don’t you agree?”

Zuko glared. It was the sort of one-sided remark he’d only accept from Uncle Iroh, though Azula had made attempts to express similar sentiments in that weird way of hers. He’d always hated the scar. At least the monster who put it there was dead now.

The stranger gave no comment. He reached another hand out and pushed Zuko’s hair aside, away from his eyes. Zuko did his best to meet the unfamiliar gaze as steadily as possible, despite the awkward backlight. He was being stared at. He refused to show how unnerved it made him. His trembling and fever didn’t help much in that regard.

Finally, after a dreadful length of scrutiny, the shadow man spoke. “How much do you want for him?”

Zuko could hear teeth in the pirate’s smile. “How much are you willing to pay?”

“Ten-thousand.”

Zuko didn’t know how humans calculated their currency. He’d assumed mer in general to be expensive, but they called him a stupid something fire fish, and it sounded like exotic. Even so, the pirate captain seemed shocked. He let out a high chuckle.

“Well! Show me the gold and you’ve got yourself a deal!”

The stranger waved an uninterested hand over his shoulder, and another grinding sound reverberated through the floor. Zuko couldn’t see the source of the sound with multiple different shadows clouding his vision. Judging by the pirates’ hushed tithering, their payment had been offered.

“Excellent! Pleasure doing business with you, as always.”

“Zaheera will see you out.”

The group broke formation around Zuko and floated away, whispering excitedly. Though they’d been awful to him, he couldn’t help a flicker of fear at their absence. At least with the pirates, he knew they’d avoid causing permanent damage. He knew they’d want to sell him for the highest price possible. Now, he had no idea what to expect. This stranger could have any number of sinister plans in mind; Zuko had certainly heard the horror stories. All young mer were warned about the brutality of humans, and now he was at the mercy of someone who really wanted him. This was bad.

The stranger let him go, and the world tilted as Zuko crumpled. He was very dizzy. And angry. And he really wanted to sink his fangs into human flesh.

But when he turned (against his better judgment) to snap at his new captor, a firm hand was already pushing down the back of his neck. The same way one might handle an unruly pup. Zuko was too tired to be insulted by the gesture. He wasn’t a pup anymore, but a move like that with the human’s advantage was enough to subdue even a full-grown mer.

“Watch out with that one!” The pirate’s faint voice called back. “Quite a monster at full strength. He killed two of my men when we—”

“Get out.”

The heavy thud of the door confirmed their absence, though the human didn’t seem to pay any attention to it. He ducked another snap of Zuko’s teeth, and ignored his crackly snarl, and slid his arms beneath scratchy scales. The world tilted again. Zuko would consider puking if he wasn’t so close to blacking out. The human was carrying him. Impressive. Zuko was heavy outside the water. His fins trailed the floor as they moved, but he was very much in the air, solidly in the man’s grip. Almost cradled, even if he was too big for the pup-hold to have effect a second time. The use of such familiar techniques should have rung a bell in his mind. Zuko’s headache and exhaustion wouldn’t let him dwell on it.

After a dizzying stretch, something wonderful happened. Zuko heard water. The noise was still muffled, and it faltered clarity with every stray tilt of his head, but Zuko knew what water sounded like. He’d been fantasizing about it for the past few days.

There was a splash, and with distant elation, he felt his fins trail. He wasn’t lucid enough to hold back the happy trill.

“I know.” The man huffed, and it rumbled through his chest. “I know—those bastards.”

The water rushed up around him, deliciously cool, salty, clean. It took Zuko up to his gills to realize he’d been lowered into a pool of some kind. It was shallow, but not cramped. He drew a deep breath. That felt very nice. The hands were gone. 

He didn’t bother confirming he was alone before passing out soundly.

<~><><~>

Zuko was alone when he came to, and his headache had finally retreated to the realm of faint discomfort. Incredible what a good long sleep in water could do for one’s health. The pirates hadn’t put him in a tank. They were mad about what a fuss he caused the first time they brought him aboard, and they’d rightly concluded he’d be easier to handle if he was dehydrated and exhausted and dizzy. They’d doused him with lukewarm buckets every few hours, just to keep him from dying. Zuko was relieved to be back in water now. Even if trepidation about the uncertainty of his new circumstances wouldn’t let him relax.

The pool he’d been placed in was shallow; he couldn’t move without some part of his tail skimming the surface. It was still comfortable in spite of that. The edges spanned a decent length, so he could turn with ease, and the basin interior was cut from smooth, white stone. His fins shone stark against it. The pool itself seemed to be laid into the ground, flush.

Zuko scanned his surroundings while he waited for something to happen. He still seemed to be indoors. The walls here weren’t as high as the one from before—from the sale pitch—and most of them were made of a clear material. It shone with sunlight from outside. The rest of the space was occupied by greenery. The taller ones reaching the ceiling had been planted in beds in the ground, surrounded at the base with bushy, leafy shrubs, and brilliant flowers, and crawling vines. The faint sound of water also trickled through the maze, but Zuko couldn’t see the source of it from where he was. It was peaceful. Uncle would love this place.

But Zuko hadn’t forgotten how he ended up here, and he had no illusions about being treated fairly, even if he’d been left undisturbed in such a pleasant area. He had to keep his guard up. He was being held against his will. He was trapped on land with no way to escape or get home. He didn’t have much experience with humans, but so far they’d only beaten him, used him, or treated him like a pretty ornamental object, and he had no reason to believe this behavior would change soon. He had to be prepared for the worst.

In truth, he really wanted to murder someone. The urge had become so intense during his captivity with the pirates, and he hadn’t had a real outlet, being close to dying of dehydration. Now that he was rested, his jaw nearly ached to bite through bone.

He spent the time waiting for an opportunity by pacing around the pool. The space didn’t allow for much more than tight circles. Still, it was better than sitting around stewing in all his problems. 

Mother was probably worried by now. Him being an adult with a life of his own didn’t stop her from worrying that he wasn’t home every day. Azula didn’t feel the same. Azula would kill for him though; she’d done it before.

Eventually, after what seemed like an hour of thinking to himself and going crazy for it, the faintest vibrations thrummed through the water, and Zuko froze. Footsteps. Someone was approaching. 

He lifted his head above the surface. The sound drew closer, brushing through the plants with a practiced gait. Zuko coiled his body. There was deliberation in the person’s movement. They knew he was here. They were coming to see him. The likelihood that he’d be attacking an innocent servant or something alike was low, and that brought him a hint of reassurance.

When the human came into view, bathed in green filtered sunlight, stepping out to the pool’s edge, Zuko took an entire second to appraise the figure. Tall. Male. Dark hair, luxurious silk robes in green and pale yellow. When he spoke, it was the same smooth voice from the shadowy stranger that paid for him.

“Hello.”

Zuko didn’t wait any longer. He launched himself at the human with a vicious snarl. His vision was red. His heart was pounding. How dare they treat him with such contempt? He wasn’t some prized bounty. He wasn’t an ornament for some rich knave’s garden. He wouldn’t take this insult and abuse lying down, and if these humans continued to assume so, they were in for a shock.

To some degree of satisfaction, the man did seem shocked to be bowled over. The air left his lungs in a massive wheeze, and his eyes went very wide. He was also—however—quick. He reflexively shoved Zuko’s head away when Zuko tried to bite, and he managed to lurch free enough to dodge an elbow to the face. 

“Wait!” The man yelped.

But Zuko had a size advantage, and the man was on his back, and Zuko really wanted him dead. He slammed his shoulders into the grass, pinned his legs with his tail, made another attempt to remove the throat with his teeth. This time, the man brought his arm up in a hasty block. Zuko was too busy biting down to be upset he’d missed his target. Blood and the creak of bone filled his mouth.

There was a shout of pain. “Wait wait—Zuko, stop!”

The words pierced his hazy red anger like ice through fresh snow. Zuko froze. Even being slightly feral at the taste of blood and festered indignation, he rapidly came to his senses and dropped the arm. His mind spun. 

How did this man know his name? The pirates didn’t know. The pretty girl in blue didn’t know. And he wouldn’t be able to tell them if he wanted to (which he very much had not). It wasn’t a lucky guess. No one shared his name that he’d ever met. So why—how could a random human—

“Get off!” The human fumbled to shove Zuko’s face away. His sleeve was ruined, and rapidly turning red.

Zuko slowly obliged. The man didn’t seem angry. He only seemed annoyed, even as he bled profusely from an arm that might be broken. There was something unnervingly familiar about the twist of his scowl. He shuffled sideways and sat up.

“Spirits, kid, you’ve got a strong jaw.”

“I’m not—” Zuko cut himself off before he could complete the retort. The human wouldn’t understand him. The human knew he wasn’t a kid. Zuko was very obviously a full grown mer. 

“You could have let me explain myself before trying to kill me.” Why did his scowl look so familiar? The man untied a sash of his fancy outfit and wrapped his arm with clinical efficiency. Then he looked up to meet Zuko’s eye, and his scowl faltered. “Are you okay?”

What.

Zuko stared. Was he seriously… asking if Zuko was okay? There was blood in the grass and in his robes and he might have a concussion and his ribs might be bruised and Zuko would at worst have a sore jaw. He shifted back warily. In his experience, crazy men often did cruel things. 

When he made no move to respond, the man sighed roughly and looked away. “Guess I should have waited on that tea. Zaheera will be by with some shortly.”

“What?”

What on earth was he talking about? Tea? Of all things? How did he know Zuko’s name and why was he so relaxed about the bite on his arm and why did the slope of his nose look so familiar and why was he talking about tea in the blood and the grass?

“You were always more civil with it around.”

Okay, now Zuko was thoroughly weirded out. He wished he had an exit. An escape route. He was stuck on land in an unfamiliar house and the closest thing he had to sanctuary was a fake pool of water barely deep enough to sleep in. This was freaking him out just the slightest.

“You’re nuts.” He said. Just to say it. The man wouldn’t understand the words or the insult in them, but Zuko was sick of just sitting around not saying anything, waiting for stupid humans to come to the right conclusions.

For his effort, he was rewarded with the faintest thaw of the man’s grumpy expression. It looked amused somehow. “And why is that?” He asked.

What.

A trace of alarm made Zuko flinch. “...Because you’re… talking to me.” He probed. Just to see. Humans weren’t supposed to understand.

“Why would that make me crazy? You’re real, aren’t you?” He glanced at his sleeve, now mostly red. “I’m pretty sure you are.”

Zuko blanched. He considered backing away, back into the pool. The safety it offered was purely psychological, but it would be something at least. It’d be better than lying vulnerable on the ground next to a crazy person. His fins twitched.

“What—but—you understand me?”

“Of course.”

“But humans aren’t supposed to understand.” From what he’d heard, humans interpreted mer speech as primitive and animalistic: nothing more than a series of harsh vocalizations strung together. Zuko had demanded an explanation for the phenomenon when he was younger. After all, mer understood human speech just fine. No one was able to give him a satisfactory answer.

“Well, I’m not human.” The human said. “Technically.”

“Then what are you?” Possibly a witch? Zuko had heard of their strange abilities. Or maybe he was a spirit. In which case Zuko was screwed. He probably couldn’t get away with attempted murder on a spirit; he’d totally be cursed or something. It could also be a shapeshifter of sorts, from the myths.

But the man quickly dispelled any outlandish theories. For the first time that Zuko had seen, a flicker of hurt crossed his features. It made him look older than he likely was. Haunted.

“Wow Zuzu, you don’t remember your favorite cousin?”

No.

No, he definitely didn’t mean that. Zuko didn’t have any cousins. Not for eleven years. And there’d only been—one. Just one. Now there weren’t any.

But looking closer, Zuko could see why the scowl looked so familiar. He saw the same face in the mirror. And this man wasn’t human, clearly, even if he had legs in place of a red streaming tail. In place of the gold ribbon fins their family shared—that he must have recognized when he first saw Zuko. 

He knew Zuko’s name. Zuzu. Azula tried to call him that—maybe out of nostalgia—but it belonged to them both, and Zuko hated to hear her say it because there was only one person who tried to bring them together like that, and hearing her say it reminded him of… of… a dead man.

Except he couldn’t be dead. He was right here. His blood tasted very real.

“Lu Ten?”

He looked so much like his father when he smiled. “Yeah.”

Zuko gaped. That felt like the only appropriate thing to do. Maybe the dehydration actually got to him, and this whole series of events was an elaborate hallucination. Maybe Azula spiked his tea with a psychedelic for her weird sense of humor, and he was hallucinating. It was too strange. This didn’t make any sense. Zuko’s cousin was dead, and if he wasn’t, wouldn’t Uncle know? Would Uncle have cried so hard so many private times if this was real? It felt so real.

“How did you get that scar?”

“How are you not dead?” Zuko’s head was spinning, though thankfully not from dehydration. He wasn’t sure if this was worse, actually. “Uncle thinks you’re dead.”

The comment earned him a flinch. “There’s actually a good explanation for that.”

“Which is?”

“I’m cursed.” Lu Ten squinted into the middle distance, looking uncomfortably close to being emotional. “To live as a human. And I can’t… go near the sea. I tried. It almost turned me into sea foam.”

Zuko dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

could be

Jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader

this ficlet is brought to you by @iamasaddie's writing challenge! my assigned color was "pretty clicker" (which tbh idk if we needed to include the color but I did anyway lol).

genre: pwp (I tried my best) prompt: "whoa, that's a new one."

words: 1.7k

summary: jackson is not your home. joel miller is not your boyfriend. but they could be.

warnings: pwp, oral (m&f receiving), handjob, fingering, joel and reader are astoundingly bad at emotions, a few playful spanks, tommy makes an off-screen cameo, old man joel my beloved, antics, absolutely no proofreading or beta reading whatsoever rip sorry

dividers by @saradika-graphics

“Whoa, that’s a new one,” drawls the man as he steps out of the shadow of the copse. “ If it ain’t the prettiest little clicker I’ve ever seen.” 

You scowl, tugging the hat off, boot scuffing the dirt as you grind the frustration of being caught out into the soil. It gives with some difficulty, the late autumn’s early frost already turning the ground to stone. “Shut up, Joel,” you mutter. 

“That always work for ya? How haven’t you gotten shot yet?” He says, jerking his head down at the ball cap you’ve adorned with the decapitated clicker’s face.

(Or should you say disembodied? Dessicated? Desecrated? Whatever, you cut the fucking mushrooms off a dead fucker and stuck them on a hat. The terms don’t matter.) 

“Yep. Not too many fools out here who will go looking for a clicker when they hear one.”

“It’s a good impression, darlin’, but it’s not quite enough to trick me.” He’s drawn close, maybe too close, and curls two fingers under your chin, drawing your gaze to his grizzled face. 

You roll your eyes. “You a clicker whisperer or something?” 

His lips curl. “Not quite, no.” He lets his hand fall from your chin, and you watch it go. 

When you look back up at his face, you’re caught. Trapped. His grin is solemn, as if he, too, feels the snare.

“You got somewhere to stay tonight?” he says, instead of acknowledging the way you’ve drawn a breadth closer. 

“Sure do,” you drawl. 

He chuckles. “Alright, keep your secrets. But, uh—my back ain’t what it used to be, so the forest floor ain’t gonna work for me today.”

Your lips curl. “Presumptuous, are we?”

“You’re lookin’ at me like a piece of meat, sweetheart.”

“Well, ain’tcha?”

“Guess you must be desperate, then, ‘f’you’re back for an old man like me.”

“Guess so,” you hum and give in. “How d’you always find me?”

“Hmm, don’t you worry ‘bout that, alright? All you gotta know is that I do always find you, and I’ve got some of Tommy’s peanut butter cookies in my bag for ya.”

“My hero,” you press one hand over your heart while the other makes the universal ‘gimmie’ gesture at his backpack. 

“Could be, y’know,” he mumbles. 

You both ignore the slip. He rifles around in the bag and pulls out a tin. You try to snatch it from him, but he pulls away with a wagging finger. 

“Nope, not yet,” he says with a teasing lilt, his drawl drawing out. He hands you one precious sweet and tucks the rest back into his bag. “If I give it to you now, you’ll just run off, and then what’ll I have?”

“A sense of satisfaction from being kind?”

You share a laugh at your joke as he leads you not to the safe “house” but up to the old, creepy lodge you avoid like the plague. Or. Well. Like the Infected. 

“Calm down, I already cleared it,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “It’s got a real bed, though, sweetheart, so I can take my time with ya.”

“You mean so you don’t break a knee fuckin’ me over a log?”

“It didn’t break. Jesus. How old do you take me for?”

“Old as shit,” you mutter. 

He just grins. 

“What?” 

“Nothin’. You just get brattier the longer you’re away. Ain’t got any good cock back home?”

“Shut up,” you grumble, but it’s close to the truth. There’s cock back home, sure, but then you’d have to fuck one of those losers, and you just know Joel’s ruined you. 

Ruined you with intent and precision, and now he’s taking you by the hand and leading you up into the lodge’s dusty halls and into what must have once been a nice guest room. 

You whistle. “Did you clean this just for me?” You ask, batting your lashes. 

“If I say yes, you gonna be sweet for me?”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me if I was.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says, lying down on the bed with his hands behind his head. “So get your ass up here.”

You quickly shimmy out of your sweats and climb up to straddle him, but his grin splits wider in a lecherous stretch. 

“You think I brought you here for you to ride me? Y’can do that shit in the woods. Get up here.”

You hesitate. “I live in a fucking camp, Joel.” The “without running water” bit is obvious but unspoken.

“I do not give a shit,” he says bluntly. “Get up here.”

“Your funeral,” you say with a shrug, and let him help you settle over his face. You’re barely steady when he grabs your hips and pulls, bringing you to meet him. 

It’s been… longer than you can even remember, and oh shit. Either your memory hasn’t done this justice, or the last man to eat you out was fuckin’ terrible because this is nothing like you’ve ever known. 

But he doesn’t dive in and rush it. He doesn’t go straight to sucking on your clit; he doesn’t push three fingers into your cunt to work you open for his cock. 

Oh, no. You’ve been had, you think. This setup was an elaborate trap to wipe your mind clean and replace everything with thoughts of him. He’s brought you here to the second closest place of safety he knows so he can take his fuckin’ time with you. 

His hands are gentle on you, and he nuzzles into your mound to part your folds, his wide nose pushing between to seek out his prize. The tip of his tongue pushes out to help, tracing the tiny slit of your cunt. At the first taste of you, he groans, drawn out and filthy. 

“Shit,” he pants, hot breath scattering across the soft peaks and valleys. “It’s been too goddamn long.”  He seems to be talking to himself, which is good because you can’t wrangle more than a tangled gasping whimper in response. 

He brings his hands up underneath you to grip your inner thighs, pulling to spread you more so he can watch you start to glisten. “Atta girl,” he murmurs, nuzzling back in to lap it up. “Mmm, baby, is all this for me?”

“Shoulda known you wouldn’t shut up,” you mutter, even though you’re addicted to his filthy mouth most of the time.

“Shut me up then,” he says in a way you simply cannot refuse. 

You grind down on his face, expecting protest, but he moans in a way you can only classify as slutty. He buries his face between your thighs with a growl and gets to work. 

You can barely hold yourself up after the first orgasm he coaxes from you, all powerful tongue and gentle lips. 

“Y’ain’t quittin’ on me, are ya?” He taunts. 

“I thought you were gonna shut up.” 

He smacks your ass. “Turn around.”

When you do, he pushes you down to lay on him. “Get nice and cozy with my cock, sweetheart, ‘cause I ain’t done with you yet.”

You take the invitation but before you can pull him free from his jeans, he’s diving back into his personal all you can eat buffet and showing no sign of slowing. 

Eventually, you manage to pry his ridiculous monster cock from its denim confines and try, really try, to focus on it, but it’s so hard (you giggle as you tell him) when he keeps doing that thing with his teeth and your clit. After the third time, you find yourself just moaning and drooling around it; you give up and rest your head on his thigh, content to hold it in your hand and lick. 

He spanks you again. “Don’t be a tease.”

You try to protest, but he bests you by attempting to suck your soul out of your clit while hammering two thick fingers against your g-spot, and it’s all over for your brain. Poor thing never stood a chance against Joel anyway. 

You squirm away from the menace when he attempts to keep going and smack him in the face with a pillow when he whines. He wipes his beard on it and throws it back at you. 

You can’t hold back your questions now that you’re back up and running. “How d’you have the time for this?” 

“Hmm?” Joel grunts, a hand tugging lazily at his dick while he surreptitiously slides his hand down the length of your thigh and back up. 

You turn on your back, swatting his hand away. “You’re usually in a rush.”

He turns a little pink. “Don’t matter.”

“Uh, it clearly does. I’m asking.”

“Well, it’s nunya.”

You groan. “Think I liked it better when you were too busy eating me out to talk.”

“Now you know how I feel.”

You throw the cum-stained pillow back at him but miss by an embarrassing overshot. It arcs over him and into the floor between his side of the bed and the wall. 

You shrug. “Gone forever,” you say and throw an arm over your eyes dramatically. 

It’s a good thing, too, since the pillow hits you in the face. 

“I’m on watch here,” he says once you stop screeching indignantly. 

“Well, you’re not doing a very good job of it,” you let him know solemnly. 

“Ain’t alone. M’brother—Tommy,” he clarifies unnecessarily, “S’here too. He’s got it handled.”

“Oh my god, did you ask your brother to cover for you so you could get laid?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

“Aw, Miller. You really know how to make a girl feel special,” you drawl. 

He plays it off with another eye roll and scoffs, but the thing is—you know. He stopped asking you to think about moving to Jackson a long time ago. But slowly, he’s been taking you closer and closer to town when you meet up. 

And you’re pretty sure he’s using Tommy’s cookies as a reward. Each time he lures you closer, he brings more treats the next time. You’d be mad at the absolute gall, but… it’s not not working, so you only have yourself to blame.

When you catch his eye again, he makes a point to hold your gaze and draw it down to his leaking cock, and you know he knows. You won’t go with him, so he’ll have you here. Jackson is not your home. But that quiet drawl in your head that sounds unnervingly similar to the man sprawled before you whispers, it could be.