#he should have stepped down/been allowed to step down

[bullet-prooflove]

Pretty Girl: Jack Abbot x Reader x Michael "Robby" Robinavitch (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @daydreamsareallineed @starstruckunknown-princess @sillymuffintrashflap @thedamnqueenofhell

Summary: Jack and Robby spend a little quality time with their pretty girl.

Companion piece to:

Together - Jack comes home to find Robby in the kitchen and you sleeping the morning away.

You sleep like the dead, splayed out across the mattress, the sheets kicked off past your knees, your arms tucked under the pillows. Your hair is tied up in a messy bun and you’re wearing Jack’s Bob Dylan t-shirt and a pair of white panties with tiny cherries on. Jack fucking loves those panties, he loves the way they turn translucent when you get wet for him, that damp patch that grows the more worked up he gets you. His fingertips trail up from the back of your knee and along your inner thigh doodling tiny patterns across your skin. He glances over his shoulder at Robby who stands back, watching from the doorway.

“You’re not going to join?” He asks with a frown.

“I think maybe the two of you should have some time alone together.” Robby says as his palm rubs over the nape of his neck. “I know it’s been a while.”

This is what Jack loves about Robby, how mindful he is of the two of you. He’s been fortunate enough that his free time has lined up with both yours and Jack’s. Jack hasn’t been so lucky. Robby’s offering him the chance to reconnect with you without having to worry about the third person in the room but he doesn’t understand that that’s what Jack wants, he wants both of the people he cares about in the same space, he wants to love them both.

“Get over here old man.” Jack says, jerking his head towards the bed. “Come be with me and our girl.”

Robby steps into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He pulls the worn t-shirt off, tossing it onto the floor. If Jack’s dick wasn’t already hard, it is now because Michael Robinavitch, he’s truly something to behold. That light dusting of dark hair on his broad chest, leading all the way down to that treasure trail. The scar from the night he had his appendix out, while Jack waited impatiently in the waiting room. The slight love handles that Jack has gripped time and time again as he thrust deep inside him.

Robby’s hand threads through his curls as he kisses him, his tongue tracing along the seam of Jack’s mouth before dipping inside. His fists grasp Jack’s shirt, bunching the fabric before he draws it up over his head, allowing it to drop to the carpet. His fingers fumble with the tie of his black scrubs before he’s shoving them down along with Jack’s boxer briefs. His erection slaps against his stomach and Robby tilts his head to watch that tiny bead of pre-come drip down the tip.

“Get into bed with her.” Robby murmurs untying his own grey sweatpants.

Jack climbs onto the bed behind you, his arm encircling your waist as he guides you back against him, his cock slotting perfectly into the space between your legs. Already he can feel the moisture gathering on the fabric of your panties, drenching his tip. He buries his face into the curve of your throat to stifle his grunts, his stubbled cheek rubbing across your tender skin.

Robby joins you as you begin to stir, his bare form pushing you against Jack, securing you between them. His mouth ghosts over yours, his palm settling over your breast, his thumb lightly teasing your nipple until it’s pert and wanting. You moan into his mouth as you start to wake, your eyes flickering open as Jack’s lips leave a heated trail down the column of your throat.

Your hand reaches back, combing through Jack’s salt and pepper curls, tugging just enough to make him rut against you, his breath hot in your ear.

“Need you.” He whispers, his teeth grazing that deviant little spot just underneath the hinge of your jaw. “Been too long sweetheart.”

“Then take me.” You whisper, as Robby’s head dips. His mouth latches onto your nipple through the white shirt, his teeth biting down, sending a sensuous thrill through your entire nervous system. “Show me what I’ve been missing.”

Jack’s fingers hook on your panties, drawing them down your thighs as Robby mouths your other nipple, kneading your breasts with his large hands. He notches himself at your entrance, easing inside you slowly, filling you with every inch of him. The sound you make in that moment, it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. Robby’s palm grasps your chin, tipping your mouth towards his as he drinks down your pleasure. He takes your hand and guides it to his needy cock, wrapping your fingers around the shaft.

“That’s it pretty girl.” He murmurs against your lips as your hand begins to glide along his length. “Keep me in time with you and Jack.”

His own palm squeezes your hip before coming to rest on Jack’s ass as he pumps into you. Robby grasps it tightly, driving the other man deeper with every thrust until you’re whimpering into his mouth and Jack is keening against your shoulder. His own grunts join the chorus as that ecstasy begins to rise up inside of him like a crescendo, building and building until your grasp on his dick gets tighter, your kisses messier. Jack’s hips piston harder, faster until he lets out a strangled cry, the one that has Robby coming in your hand as you climax around Jack’s cock, your teeth biting down on Robby’s lower lip.

He can taste the blood as he looks down at the mess you’ve made of him, his spent covering his stomach as Jack’s hips continue to stutter.

“It really has been a long time for you, hasn’t it Jackie Boy.” He smiles affectionately as his cheek rests against yours so that he can steal a kiss from Jack’s lips over your shoulder.

“Fuck off old man.” Jack retorts, his forehead coming to rest upon Robby’s. “This is all just a warm up for that weekend at the cabin, I’ll show you who’s boss then.”

Robby’s eyes twinkling at the challenge as you burrow even closer into his chest, your eyes fluttering closed again as you nuzzle at his neck.

“Oh no baby.” He murmurs, his lips brushing over your temple. “We need to get you into the shower, you’ve got some waking up to do.”

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[zyafics]

FULL THROTTLE (EXCERPT)

my submission to my lil' campaign, make rafe great again, if anyone wants to join! this is for a longer fic for biker!maybank!reader that i have yet to finish, but i love her attitude, so i fear i must share it <3

content: angst angst angst, tensionnnnn

Rafe’s trying to reach you.

He knows you’re back on the island, and for the past few days, you’ve been letting his calls go to voicemails and his texts on delivered. At this point, you should block him, but for some reason, you don’t. You tell yourself it’s because Rafe isn’t the extra effort, but you know, deep down, it’s because you don’t want to.

It’s an aggravating line to dance on.

Rafe hurt JJ. While they’ve previously had squabbles, this time, it’s different. Before, you weren’t sleeping with Rafe, weren’t spending time with him, and you didn’t care for him. Now, inexplicably, it feels like a complete betrayal of your trust.

You hate it.

Trying to keep your mind off the Kook, you wipe down the tables from the previous customers with complete vigor. It’s a slow day at the diner, and most customers have been attending to corner booths that are not in your jurisdiction. Perfect. This brevity of waitressing allows you to stew in your emotions with little interruption.

The bell chimes, and since you’re the closest to the door, you lift your head to welcome the customer. However, it came to be some sick cosmic joke because the one person you don’t want to see steps through the door.

Rafe’s holding a bouquet of flowers—your favorite, actually—and his eyes sweep across the small bistro. When his gaze catches yours, Rafe offers one of his charming smiles, taking a leisurely stroll to reach you.

“Hey,” Rafe greets. Upon arrival, you notice he has his own battle scars—spreads of yellow-and-blue bruising covering his cheekbones and jaw, a testimony to your brother’s blows.

Half of you is proud of JJ for managing to procure such vicious swings, but the other half—quieter, more empathetic—is concerned over Rafe’s injuries. A juxtaposition of emotions, you blame Rafe for putting you in this position. You blame him for letting it get this far.

Because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

“Do you need something?”

He raises a brow, not recognizing your indifference as resentment. “What’s up your ass? Bad tips?”

You shrug, not answering.

“I got a few ideas to cheer you up,” Rafe offers with a cocky grin, trailing down the length of your body in a suggestive manner. On any other day, you would reciprocate his flirt with a tease of your own—bantering and sharing sharp-witted comments as forms of foreplay. But today, you just want him out.

“No thanks,” you answer blankly, turning back to your cleaning.

Rafe bristles at your curtness, but he dismisses it as professionalism for your workplace. He understands that. Honestly, he shouldn’t be here in the first place but it’s been days since you returned to Kildare, and you haven’t returned any of his messages and as much as he refuses to admit it—he misses you.

He holds out the flowers. “I got you these.”

You don’t turn around to acknowledge them. “For what?”

“Heard you won some big competition in Charlotte; thought you might like a congratulations.”

You falter, slightly, slowing your sweeping circles. You almost turn around, to take a better look at the flowers, knowing they’re expensive, fresh, and exuding a pretty scent—but you stand your ground.

“I don’t like those flowers.”

Rafe’s taken aback by the comment. He was certain he remembered the right ones. “I’ll get you new ones.”

“I won’t like those either.”

He blinks, trying to figure out if you’re messing with him, as some sort of cat-and-mouse game. But with your back remaining, and your attention reduced to a clean spot that’s spotless, he realizes it’s something entirely different.

You’re distant. Cold. You refused to meet his gaze, nor spare an inch of your time, and Rafe is reminiscent of another period where you did the same thing.

“You’re mad,” Rafe concludes, lowering the flowers to this side, holding them by the plastic wrapping. You spritz another round of disinfectant on the already-cleaned surface. “I did something.”

Saying nothing, you head to the next set of tables, but Rafe matches your steps. Now recognizing your detachment, he’s also picking up the irritation radiating from your demeanor.

“Maybank,” he calls.

“Is that all you came here for?” You finally turn around, but Rafe doesn’t feel any gratification. Your eyes are sharp, your expression unreadable. “Because I need to get back to work.”

“I…” Rafe doesn’t even have the capacity to speak. All he can do is stare, taking in your indifference, and a curling sense of agitation is employed in his stomach. He hates being pushed into a corner.

“If you’re not ordering anything, I’m going to ask you to leave,” you point to the door. With no argument, Rafe hesitates before dropping your flowers on one of the tables and exits the establishment.

You pick up the bouquet and drop it to the nearest waste bin.

Afterwards, you finish the rest of your shift. It was difficult seeing Rafe in your place of work, but it’s over. When the diner comes to a close, and you’re locking up, you step out to discover Rafe waiting beside his motorcycle.

You forgot how stubborn he can be.

He pushes himself off the vehicle as you attempt to circumvent him, stepping between two cars parked beside each other.

“We need to talk,” Rafe declares.

“I thought we already did,” you say apathetically. Before you go far, he pins you against one of the cars, arms on either side of your head, and his hardened gaze settles on you. You settle your eyes on his, tilting your head to the side, giving him that slow, irritating sense of detachment. “Throwing a tantrum?”

“You know that’s not the problem,” he grits out.

“I don’t see a problem at all.”

“We need to talk,” he repeats, irritation spiked his tone at your dismissiveness.

“You can talk; I’m not listening.” You attempt to duck under his arm, but Rafe moves it, quickly containing you. With a sigh, you lean back against the cool car door, crossing your arms over your chest. “What?”

His dark blue eyes study you. “You’re pissed,”

“I’m perfectly fine,”

“And you’re a terrible liar,”

“And you know me well enough to say that?”

“I know you pretty well, Maybank,” he declares, his words slow, drawing out the tension. All he needs to do is push your buttons to snap. His lips curl with a smirk. “At least, physically.”

Your jaw locks, but you refuse to let him rile you. “Charming, Cameron. Perhaps you should use it on girls who give a damn.”

As much as your relationship is undefined, the thought of Rafe with another woman stirs an ugly emotion inside of you. But you refuse to let it be shown.

He scoffs at your deflection. “Maybe I should,”

You roll your eyes, wanting nothing more than to appear like you don’t care. Especially if he’s talking about fucking other women. Both of your hands plant against his chest, giving a hard shove, but he barely moves an inch. You forget how strong Rafe is, how he doesn’t move unless he allows himself to be.

“Let me go,”

“Not until you talk.” He insists.

“About what?”

Rafe lowers his head to your level, closing the distance until he’s right in front of your face. Your breath hitches, heart stuttering. His eyes scan through your hardened features, loosening by his closeness, and he asks lowly. “What did I do?”

His unyielding attempt unnerves you. “You’re well aware of what you did.”

“So I did do something,” he deduces.

You don’t answer, shimmering in your renowned anger, and you break contact to look elsewhere, studying the flickering fluorescent sign of the diner. You trace the curve, and Rafe’s jaw ticks at your lack of attention. He grabs your chin, forcing your gaze back on him.

“Talk to me.”

“Let me go,”

“No,”

“Asshole,” you scowl, and Rafe grins.

“There she is.”

“You’re fucking irritating, you know that?” You shove him again, and while he takes a step back, he still cages you in. Anger fuses through your veins at your inability to change it.

“Because you’re being vague and distant,” he snaps. “If I fucked up, tell me. Stop giving me this prissy act like you’re too good for me.”

“Maybe I am,” you challenge with a skyward tilt of your chin, matching his hard stare. “Maybe this was all I needed to remind myself I should do better than fuck a Kook.”

His eyes narrows. “Shut the fuck up,”

“You shut the fuck up,” you hiss.

He slams his fist against the car, the loud thump booms beside your ear, but you remain unflinching. “Tell me what I did wrong!”

“You punched JJ!”

Rafe whips back. It takes a second for him to process, studying your face to recognize this was some random excuse. It’s the truth. “That’s what this is about?” He questions quietly.

“Of course it is,” you huff. “He’s my brother.”

He scoffs, looking elsewhere. He can’t believe you’re becoming reclusive and defensive without talking to him first. “Did he tell you what happened?”

“I didn’t need details. You punched him,”

“And he punched me,” Rafe retorts, showing his profile. “What do you make of that?”

It looks uglier on close proximity, the magnifying damage heightens. But you can’t seem to conceal the bitterness from your tongue. “He should’ve hit you harder.”

“You’re a hypocrite,”

“I’m loyal,” you correct. “I thought you would respect me enough to not stir trouble, but I’m guessing your pride can never be replaced with some considerations for a fuck buddy.”

“It’s different,” he declares. “He was the one who snuck into Midsummer. We got into an argument. We fought. It’s a guy thing—stop making it a big deal.”

You huff at his pathetic argument. “That’s your excuse? It’s a guy thing?”

Rafe’s getting agitated by your lack of comprehension, your refusal to accept it at face value. But he doesn’t want to disclose the full story. “What do you want me to say? You want me to apologize?”

“Are you even capable of such a thing?”

He exhales through his nose. “You know what your problem is?” He says lowly. “You’re using this as some pathetic excuse to break it off because you’re afraid.”

“I’m afraid?” You repeat, but your throat goes dry.

“Yeah,” Rafe nods. “You’re a coward.”

“Have you ever considered that I have more loyalty to my blood than who I fuck?” You snap, pushing at his chest. “That Kooks may not think the same way, but for me, for Pogues, it’s different? If you hurt my family, you’re done.”

“So that’s it?” Rafe challenges. “I mean nothing? What does it mean for you when he hurts me?”

Eyes slowly sweeping over his scars, unwanted emotions bubble inside you regarding his injuries. But you steel your expression. “What about it?”

Rafe scoffs at your coldness. “You’re such a bitch.”

“And you’re an asshole, we’re done,” you shove him off the last time, and this time, he lets it pass. Staggering back two steps, you use the opportunity to escape, fastening your steps until you’re out of the parking lot.

Rafe’s left at the side of the diner, fuming. He watches your silhouette grow smaller and smaller in the distance, and decidedly, he wants to do one last thing.

“Should’ve known better than to fuck a Pogue!” Rafe yells after you, full of rage, hurt, and insecurity. He needed something to cut you as deep as you done him. But you don’t respond, don’t entertain an answer, and uncross your arms just enough to raise your middle finger.

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

Hey I have a request! What do you think about Girlfriend reader hanging up on rafe multiple times during an argument and then he comes over w smut? 🫶🏽xx

THE ARGUMENT . . .

the argument starts over something dumb—rafe’s pissed because you left a couple of coffee mugs in the sink at his place, and you’re firing back that he’s got no right to lecture you about messes when his truck’s a disaster zone of empty beer cans and gym clothes.

it’s one of those fights that’s more about being annoyed than anything real, but you’re in a mood, all bratty and sharp-tongued, and rafe’s not backing down, his voice loud and clipped over the phone. “you’re actin’ like a damn kid,” he snaps, that outer banks drawl thick with frustration. “just clean up your shit, it ain’t that hard.”

“oh, please,” you scoff, rolling your eyes as you pace your apartment, phone pressed to your ear. “you’re not my dad, rafe. maybe if you weren’t such a slob yourself, i’d listen.”

you’re being extra, you know it, but you’re not in the mood to play nice, so you hang up on him, thumb jabbing the red button with a little too much satisfaction.

your phone buzzes almost immediately, his name lighting up the screen, and you let it ring a few times before picking up, just to make him wait. “what?” you say, voice all attitude, and he’s already heated, you can hear it in the way he’s breathing hard.

“don’t fuckin’ hang up on me,” he says, low and tight, like he’s trying to keep it together. “we’re talkin’ this out.”

“are we?” you shoot back, smirking even though he can’t see it. “’cause it sounds like you’re just yelling. i’m not in the mood, rafe.” and you hang up again, tossing your phone on the couch, feeling that petty thrill run through you. it’s childish, sure, but he’s been on your nerves all day, and you’re not about to let him win this one.

he calls back, of course, and this time you let it go to voicemail, watching the screen flash until it stops. a text comes through a second later:

you’re bein’ a real brat, you know that?

you ignore it, flipping on the tv, trying to distract yourself, but there’s a tiny part of you that’s waiting, knowing he’s not gonna let this slide.

later that night, you’re curled up with a glass of wine when there’s a knock at your door, hard and insistent. you don’t even need to check to know it’s him, and when you open it, rafe’s standing there, looking like a kicked puppy. his hair’s a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his eyes are softer than you’ve seen in a while, all red-rimmed and desperate.

“baby,” he starts, voice low, almost broken, and it’s so unlike him it throws you off. “i’m sorry, aight? i fucked up. i shouldn’t’a yelled about the damn mugs, it’s stupid.”

he steps closer, hands twitching like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure he’s allowed. “been sittin’ at home, and it’s… it’s fuckin’ empty without you. i hate this shit. i need you, okay? i’m losin’ it.”

you cross your arms, still holding onto that bratty edge, chin tilted up. “you didn’t seem sorry when you were yelling at me,” you say, voice sharp, but you’re already softening, the way he’s looking at you—like you’re his whole world—chipping away at your resolve.

“i know,” he says, stepping into your space, his hands finally landing on your hips, tentative at first, then tighter when you don’t pull away. “i was bein’ a dick. i just… i miss you when you’re not there, and i got all fucked up thinkin’ about you bein’ mad at me.”

he’s practically begging now, his voice rough, needy, and it’s so pathetic, so unlike the usual cocky rafe, that you almost feel bad for him. almost.

“you should be sorry,” you say, but your voice is softer now, and he catches it, his eyes lighting up with a glimmer of hope. “i don’t like fighting over stupid shit.”

“me neither,” he murmurs, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. “lemme make it up to you, baby. please.” his hands slide up your sides, and he’s so close you can feel how much he means it, how desperate he is to fix this. “i’ll do whatever you want, just… don’t shut me out.”

you let him kiss you then, soft at first, like he’s afraid you’ll push him away, but when you kiss him back, it’s like a dam breaks. his hands are everywhere, pulling you against him, and he’s murmuring apologies between kisses, his voice thick with that drawl.

all “i’m sorry, baby” and “love you so fuckin’ much.” you’re still a little mad, but it’s hard to stay bratty when he’s like this, all needy and pathetic, like he’d fall apart without you.

he backs you toward the couch, and you let him, your hands in his hair as he kneels between your legs, tugging your shorts down with a kind of reverence that makes your heart skip. “gonna make you feel so good,” he says, voice low, almost a growl, but it’s not cocky now—it’s desperate, like he’s proving something. “my girl deserves everythin’.”

you’re still a little huffy, arms crossed as you look down at him, but the way he’s kissing up your thighs, soft and slow, makes it hard to keep up the act. “you better,” you say, voice sharp, but he just nods, like he’s agreeing with everything you’re saying.

“i will,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin, and when his mouth finally finds you, it’s slow, deliberate, like he’s worshipping you.

his tongue moves in lazy circles, teasing, drawing out every sound you try to hold back, and you can feel him watching you, gauging every reaction. “fuck, you taste so good,” he says, voice muffled, and it’s not his usual dirty talk—it’s raw, like he’s pouring himself into every word.

you’re trying to stay composed, but he’s too good, too focused, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you in place as he works you, slow and deep, until you’re squirming, your brattiness melting into something softer, needier. “rafe,” you whimper, and he groans, like hearing his name is enough to push him over the edge.

“that’s it, baby,” he says, lips brushing against you as he speaks, his tongue never stopping. “let me take care of you. my perfect fuckin’ girl.” he’s relentless but gentle, building you up until you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair, your breaths coming fast and shaky.

when you finally come, it’s with a soft cry, your body shaking as he keeps going, drawing it out until you’re oversensitive, pushing at his head. he pulls back, kissing your thighs, your stomach, murmuring, “so good f’me, always so good,” and when he crawls up to kiss you, his lips are wet, his eyes soft and desperate still, like he’s not done proving himself.

“forgive me?” he asks, voice low, his forehead pressed to yours, and you can feel how much he means it, how lonely he must’ve been sitting in that big house without you.

you sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “maybe,” you tease, but your voice is soft, and he smiles, kissing you again, like he’s never letting you go.

⩇⩇:⩇⩇

𓂅 taglist ― @littlelamy @dollyfiles @drewstarkeyswife0 @icaqttt @urcoolgf @camercns @pointocean @dsfault @rafestoothbrush @huhidontknowstuff @drewssgirl

[yungbludz]

En Su Casa

SUMMARY: well deserved rest days back at home feel like torture for the champion…

WARNINGS: smut

You didn’t know exactly when or why things took a weird and unexpected— very predictable though— turn. Whether it was when Carlos finally came back home with you or when he laid in his bed after months of constant traveling around the globe. What you did know was that he was… restless.

His family had known you for a while yet you had been to their place only a handful of times. Carlos wasn’t home that often either so you mostly spent your time together during tournaments or on a beach somewhere warm. When he asked you to go back home with him you didn’t even hesitate. Anything for the champion, no? Oh boy, you were in for a ride.

At first you didn’t even notice. Well, you didn’t put two and two together at least. When you walked into his house, his parents were making dinner together. His whole family was there for their champion and you felt pride and joy overwhelm you as they congratulated him warmly. Carlos thanked each and every one of them, hugging some and kissing some others before excusing the two of you to go put your bags in his room.

“Can I take a shower before dinner? I feel gross,” you commented as you tried to find a spot for your bag. You didn’t even acknowledge Carlos, being very surprised his room was in its usual messy state — courtesy of his mom.

“Of course. Maybe we can even shower together and save some time, no?” You were used to this kind of jokes. Carlos was always rather flirty with you but it didn’t mean that he always wanted to act upon his eleven year old jokes. In hindsight you should have seen the way he was eyeing you up and down or how he was already taking his shirt off. Yet you giggled and brushed it off, grabbing your clothes and closing the door behind you.

The next hint should have been after that dinner. You were helping loading the dishwasher with Carlos— which should have been odd enough to ring a bell since Carlos was not one to volunteer to help. He was passing you the dirty dishes to put them in. His mother had insisted you let her do the hard work but you shook your head and told her she should relax. You were staying there for a few days, the least you could do was help out around the house. Carlos had quickly stood up and followed you. Even his own family shared a look of confusion.

You were listening to his family banter coming from outside. It wasn’t hot yet in Murcia which allowed you to enjoy a chill evening out on their little terrace. Carlos was awfully quiet for someone who didn’t know what quietness meant.

“Everything okay?” You had asked at some point turning around. Carlos looked up from the pile of dirty dishes and smiled. You should have noticed it wasn’t his usual lovey dovey grin: it was a smirk.

“You are so sweet. Taking care of my mom and of my family,” he stated nonchalantly. You smiled back and shrugged your shoulders, resuming the activity of putting dishes in the dishwasher.

“It’s no problem. Your mom deserves some rest,” you replied absentmindedly.

“Hopefully you’re taking care of me next,” he had murmured. And maybe, just maybe, if you had seen the look on his face you would have understood his words’ true meaning. But you weren’t facing him.

“I always take care of you, sweetie,” you said sweetly. Carlos sighed and tried to say something back so that you could get him but his grandmother stepped inside the house. You didn’t notice, too engrossed in your conversation with his grandma but Carlos rolled his eyes and sighed annoyed. Not at you, but at the situation he was finding himself. Every time he tried something either you wouldn’t get the memo or one of his family members cockblocked him.

The next time he tried something funny was around bed time. His extended family had finally left and the rest of the house had gone to bed. You were brushing your teeth, washing your face and getting ready to sleep while Carlos laid in his bed only wearing a pair of boxers with his hands behind his head. The memory of his win in Rome only a distant memory now. There was something else he wanted now, almost more than winning in Paris again.

When you finally came back into his room he eyed you up and down. You were wearing a simple t-shirt and shorts. Nothing fancy or sexy. But it was the most attractive thing on earth for him, maybe because he had started to think with his dick and not his brain.

“Amor, vengas aquí,” he called for you as you paid him no attention. One thing Carlos was most of the time was needy. He needed your whole attention every single time. It was endearing to be fair. You locked your phone and crawled on the bed to lay next to him but he redirected you so that you sat in his lap.

“I missed you,” he mumbled tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You grinned confused.

“Missed me? We have been together the whole day,” you reminded him but he pouted and shook his head. His hands fell to your naked thighs and stayed there, caressing the skin.

“C’mere,” you leaned in to kiss him. He wasn’t entirely wrong: you had been together the whole day but you were always surrounded by family members. Carlos welcomed you in his arms. You pecked his lips but he was the one to deepen the kiss. His hands moving from your legs to your waist to pull you closer, his mouth moving slowly yet hungrily against yours. He was a good kisser, always been. The type of kisser to make your legs wobble and insides twist. But you knew a few tricks too. You knew he liked it when your pulled his hair gently or when you bit his bottom lip.

What had started off as a simple kiss turned into a sloppy make out session. Carlos was so invested in it that he forgot where he was and how quiet he needed to be. He was so used to hotel rooms where he could be as loud as he wanted because he always booked his room as far away as possible from his team that it didn’t cross his mind the fact that his parents were two doors away from his bedroom.

“Shh…” you giggled when he let out a grunt. He let out a breathy giggle and enjoyed your lips on his for a little longer. Your nails scratched his scalp as you kissed him. And then, suddenly, you pulled away.

“Time to sleep,” you had reminded him while trying to get off him. Carlos looked at you in shock and bewilderment. He glanced at you and then down at his lap, his white boxers did nothing to conceal his growing bulge.

“Amor?”

“Yes, we can cuddle. But don’t snore,” and with that you turned around and went to sleep. Carlos was so confused he didn’t even protest at first. He was so confident all that kissing would lead up to what he wanted that the thought of you just going to sleep after getting him all worked up baffled him. Did you really not get in the mood after making out? Did he do something wrong? Oh God. What if you didn’t like having sex with him? Did he not satisfy you anymore? Carlos tried to remember if there was ever a time when he behaved selfishly during sex. Did you fake your orgasms? Oh God. Was he one of those guys? Those who can’t tell when their girls are faking it? Carlos started to spiral. Going to sleep was now the last thing he could do but you seemed to be fast asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow.

Therefore Carlos turned, flipped around, huffed and puffed as he tried to find the right position. Yet the problem wasn’t the position, it was thinking you weren’t attracted to him anymore.

What Carlos didn’t realize was that his single sized bed wasn’t big enough for you to not feel every single movement he made. Therefore you weren’t getting any sleep either. Thanks to him. It was around midnight when you finally took matters into your hands and turned around to look at him.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him. He was taken off guard because he genuinely thought you were sleeping.

“Nada…” he tried to lie but he was the worst liar on earth.

“C’mon tell me. Why aren’t you sleeping? Whatever is bothering you is bothering me too since I can’t sleep if you keep moving around,” you sighed and sat up to turn on the little light he had on his nightstand. Carlos debated whether or not he should have said something. He hated showing he was insecure to you but he also knew it was better to work it out together than to hide it.

“¿No te gusta como follamos?” (Do you not like how we fuck?) it was so random that you stared at him with the most puzzled look you could come up with. Was he on drugs? Did he drink any wine at dinner? The lack of answer made Carlos internally panic.

“You don’t? Oh god, are you going to break up with me?” He blurted out panicking. Uh? You stared at him as if another head had grown out of his neck.

“What are you talking about? Where is all of this coming from?” You finally spoke. He had blindsided you with this sudden question.

“You have been avoiding having sex with me,” he stated matter of factly. You tilted your head to the side and furrowed your brows. Uh? You couldn’t recall a single time when you had rejected his advances.

“Earlier. I thought we were going to fuck but then you went to bed,” he finally explained. Your eyes widened and you couldn’t help but laugh. It didn’t calm Carlos down at all. Now you were laughing at him. Oh God, it was over. He was officially single.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he pouted and crossed his arms looking down.

“Oh no, baby. I’m laughing because I had no idea you wanted to have sex. Carlos, we are literally two doors away from your parents. I thought it wouldn’t be appropriate,” you tried to explain your thought process. That finally calmed Carlos. So you didn’t hate him? Good to know.

“But why not?” He kept pouting. He was cute when he did that. You smiled and caressed his cheek sweetly.

“Because, baby, you are the loudest person ever when we fuck and I don’t think either of us wants your family to know that,” your point was more than valid. Carlos embarrassingly smiled but didn’t give up. He was confident he could keep it quiet.

“Pero puedo ser quieto,”

“You couldn’t even be quiet with my panties in your mouth in Rotterdam and Juanki was next door,” you reminded him. You weren’t wrong. His coach side eyed him the whole flight back home. Carlos wanted to talk back but he knew you were absolutely right. Yet he couldn’t change his mind. The bulge in his boxers had a mind of its own.

“Pero amor…” he started to talk and put his big puppy eyes to work. You giggled and shook your head. You weren’t going to let him get away with this. Carlos grabbed your hand and tried to pull you closer by also grabbing your waist.

“Carlos,” you warned him pointing a finger to his chest. He was playing with fire.

“Pero, amorc mira lo que me haces. No puedo estar así toda la noche, ¿no?” He took your hand in his and led it downward till you reached his boxers. He was hard. You rolled your eyes but you knew he was working his magic on you.

“Dale, amor. Te juro que puedo estar quieto,” he mumbled while kissing your shoulder and then your neck, leading to your cheek and then his mouth ghosting over your lips. Damn. He was hard to resist.

“The first sound I hear coming out of your mouth I am stopping,” you warned him. He nodded like a good boy and smiled. Of course he always got what he wanted…

You didn’t know how hard it was to be quiet. You assumed Carlos would be the one struggling the most but you were wrong. He was sitting up against his headboard while you rode him. You were sure your jaw was going to snap soon because of how hard you were clenching it. Carlos licked his lips and sighed. His hands guiding your hips as he imposed an atrociously slow rhythm. You could feel every inch coming in and out of you. It was torture.

“Carlos,” you whined as he slowed down.

“Quieta,” he scolded you. The audacity… you looked away and tried to breathe in and out. This wasn’t pleasure, this was medieval torture and why on earth was he enjoying this so much? You bit your bottom lip and clenched around him every time he bottomed out. He gave you a warning look but that didn’t stop you.

“Y/N,” he grunted as you continued. He couldn’t expect you to keep going like this the whole night.

“Shut up,” you shushed him. Your hands holding onto his broad shoulders for leverage. He gripped your waist and let you finally move. And so you did. You went faster and he began to struggle. His mouth dropped open as you rode him the way you both liked. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the point where your bodies were conjoined, the way his cock slipped in and out of you.

“Joder,” he grunted sinking his nails in your flesh. You didn’t stop, resting your forehead against his as you tried to find a more stable position. The skin to skin wasn’t very quiet but you prayed the door and the walls would muffle the sound. Whereas you took care of Carlos’ increasing grunts by slapping your hand over his mouth. Of course he couldn’t shut the fuck up.

“Carlos, I swear—“ you groaned when he let out a deep grunt. He couldn’t even be quiet on court. What did you expect?

The Spaniard took you off him, which left you puzzled and annoyed. He flipped the two of you around so that you would be lying on your back and he sneaked between your legs, his face hovering over yours and his arms around your head.

“What are you—“ he pushed your legs back so that he could have more access. His face was soon hid in your neck where all of his grunts and moans were muffled. The angle switch did wonders on your core. You sank your teeth in your bottom lip to silence yourself.

“Fuck,”

“Be quiet,” he reminded you smugly. The prick.

His pace was ruthless and didn’t let you even breathe. He was going harder than you expected but you could also feel your orgasm build up faster.

“Amor, un día me vas a matar,” (you’re going to kill me one day) he muttered breathlessly. You wanted to answer something snarky back but you didn’t trust your own voice in that moment. Carlos’ stamina and strength on court were just as impressive in bed. His hips ruthlessly slapped against yours till you couldn’t take it anymore. His teeth bit your neck, his hands fisted the sheets as he teetered over his own orgasm.

“Correte para mí,” he begged you in your ear and you could only do as you were told. Carlos followed you right after, coming undone inside of you. His hot seed spilling into your throbbing core. You tried to be quiet in the process, biting onto his shoulder. Carlos pulled out after a few seconds and smirked when he saw his cum spill out of you and onto his sheets.

“Great, now we have to make the bed again,” you huffed and tried to sit up but Carlos quickly pushed you back down. He towered over you with a big smug, his naked and hard chest almost intimidating.

“I’m not done,”

[burningember0802]

Three's Company Ch. 4

Pairing: Robby x Abbot x Reader

Warnings: sexual content in some chapters, cursing, medical inaccuracies, suicidal tendencies, mention of death, PTSD, yelling, heavy angst (let me know if I'm missing anything!)

Word count: 1.7k

A/N: Hopefully this is good, I've been working on it for a little bit. My breakup kind of fucked up my writing flow so it's been a little bit of a struggle but I seem to be getting back into things slowly. Anyway! Enjoy our two favorite attendings fucking up with reader!

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In the following weeks the relationship between the three of you seemed easier, lighter. You felt like you didn’t have to guard yourself so much to keep professionalism at work, allowing yourself to make playful, friendly comments with them, talk to them more when you’re given a second to breathe in the midst of the chaos, just overall less wary of being near them. This was greatly appreciated by the two attendings as they were enjoying the ease between all of you now. They enjoyed the little things, the way you would wordlessly slide Jack a cup of coffee mid shift when he was running on fumes or roll your eyes at Robby as you guys bickered over patient care. 

Things seemed to be going smoothly in the ER between the three of you until they weren’t. It was a day both men were on edge, both dealing with sensitive cases during their shift. It also happened to be a day you were working a double, the night shift and the following day shift. This led to them snapping at you in a way that made it feel like your relationship with them had taken one step forward to take three steps back. 

During the night shift Jack dealt with two different vets, one of them not making it in the end. He had been coding him for over an hour, you and the other nurses helping as he barked out orders. You weren’t used to him acting like this. Sure you had seen him get stressed in the ER and be a little shorter than normal, not like this though. His movements were stiff, robotic even, his eyes glazed over slightly as he barked orders at all of you. After an hour of coding the veteran you knew there was no way you were getting him back. You tried to get Jack to let go, to understand that there was nothing we could do but all this led to was Jack crashing and yelling at you, loud and stern enough that there was no doubt the entire ER could hear it. You had touched his arm slightly to try and get him to stop and this sent him over the edge. He ripped his arm away from you like your touch burned him, a scowl on his face, the motion leaving you stunned and silent. “Don’t fucking touch me! What don’t you get?! God you have no respect for your superiors, I am your attending and you are the resident. You do as I say!” He yelled at you, anger on his face. This all left you standing there in shock, hands slightly shaking before your own trauma response took over and shut down, your own method of protecting yourself kicking in. “Okay. Understood, Dr. Abbot.” You said softly, your voice calm and steady as you took a step back, gaze still on him before walking away, leaving Jack standing there silently, a small scowl still on his face. 

Jack couldn’t help the way his heart ached at the way you called him Dr. Abbot, a name you very rarely called him. It was usually Abbot or Jack or when you were especially in a good mood or teasing him, Abby. But never Dr. Abbot, your voice was stiff and monotone as you said it. Jack was too caught up in his own head to do anything about it at that moment, to care as much as he should, his PTSD-ridden mind still stuck on the veteran in front of him, on how he needed to save him because he couldn’t save all the people he served with. You spent the remainder of the night shift avoiding him as much as you could, and when you did have to speak with him you were tight and monotone. You only called him Dr. Abbot the rest of the shift, your own mind shifting into robotic motions in an attempt to protect yourself. 

When Robby got to work he found Jack on the roof, on the other side of the railing, like he had many times before. Robby talked Jack off the edge with kind words and reassurance that he did everything he could. Once Robby got Jack back onto his side of the railing he just took him into his arms, tight against his broad chest. He had his arms wrapped around Jack’s shoulders gently and his head rested atop Jack’s salt and pepper curls. They stood like that for a while, Jack’s arms around Robby’s waist, tight against his chest, just standing there together in silence, slightly rocking from time to time. There were no words exchanged between them, just a silent understanding of the struggles they both go through and the comfort they seek in one another. Jack held onto Robby like he was the only thing keeping him grounded, holding him back from jumping off the hospital roof and hoping he didn’t wake up when he hit the ground, silent tears falling down Jack’s face. Finally when Jack had calmed down enough in Robby’s embrace he pulled away slightly, Robby running a soft hand through Jack’s hair and wiping the tears from his cheeks with his thumbs. He told Jack to go home to his apartment, not Jack’s own, and to get some rest, telling him there was dinner saved for him in the fridge and ice cream in the freezer. All Jack could do was nod silently, an unspoken thank you on his lips. Robby pressed a soft kiss to Jack’s lips before they bid their farewells and sent Jack home to Robby’s apartment. 

You thought your shift with Robby would go better, or more prayed it would. You were unfortunately wrong. The shift was going fine as normal until Robby had to decide to pull the plug on an elderly man who came in with no emergency contacts. Since that moment he was on edge and snapping at people left and right. You unfortunately ended up getting the brunt of it just because you were working alongside him most of the day. Even the other staff noticed it, giving you apologetic looks as you walked by them after he would snap at you. He kept yelling at you for taking too long to get a tool, not moving quick enough, getting in his way accidentally, etc. It really came to a head when you had made a medical treatment decision that he didn’t agree with, even though it was right. When he found out about it you were standing at the nurses station working at the computer and he quickly came up to you, grabbing your arm firmly but not enough to hurt and pulling you away from the computer, a harsh look on his face. He ran his hand over his face and started getting onto you about making decisions without running it by him first, even though you had done it a million times before. The words that really stung were when he yelled at you, once again in the middle of the ER, “God, do you never think?” Those words really set in the way you were already shutting down. You had been slowly shutting down more and more throughout the shift as he snapped at you more and more. At this point you were just standing there and taking his words that hit like knives in the gut, a glazed look on your face as you instinctively dissociated out of the situation. 

When Robby finally took a deep breath and ran his hand over his face once again before asking you if you understood, all he got out of you was a monotone “Understood Dr. Robinavitch.” The way you looked at him like you were looking through him rather than at him. You walked away before he could say anything else to you, a tension in your shoulders that didn’t go unnoticed by everyone else. They all saw and heard what happened, giving you apologetic looks to you as you walked by but not daring to say anything to either of you, scared it would make one of you snap again. 

Without Robby’s knowledge Dana had texted Jack that day towards the end of the shift to let him know that Robby was on edge and had yelled at you in the middle of the ER to just give him a heads up. By the time Jack had gotten that text he had gotten some sleep and eaten some food and was much more calm compared to last night. Seeing the text from Dana made him let out a sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. He had already been replaying the events of the day and regretting the way he had spoken to you earlier and the way you shut down at it but hearing that Robby had also done that to you too made him feel awful, the guilt and shame rooting itself deep in his stomach.

 When Robby finally got home, shutting the door with a sigh, Jack was already sitting on the couch with a beer sitting on the coffee table for both of them. Robby said a short hello to Jack before heading to his room to change before coming back to the living room again, flopping onto the couch with a sigh. “Heard you had a shit day too.” Jack said softly, his thumbs tracing mindless patterns on Robby’s shins, which he had flung into Jack’s lap when he sat down, his long figure stretched across the couch. Robby let out another exhausted sigh. “Yeah…had to pull the plug on an elderly man who didn’t have any emergency contacts or family and came in under respiratory stress.” He said, exhaustion evident in his voice. “Dana tell you?” He asked Jack, glancing at him. “Yeah, she said you had a rough case and was snapping at everyone in the ER, especially Y/N” Jack said, his voice steady as he looked at his boyfriend with a raised eyebrow. Robby just let out a groan. “Yeah…I’ll have to apologize to her…a lot…” He said quietly, the realization of how he treated you today setting in. “Well looks like we both have a lot of apologizing to do to her…because I also snapped at her in front of the entire ER.” Jack said, guilt riddling his voice. “God we really fucked up didn’t we? We just got her to open up and be somewhat friends with us at work…” Robby groaned, putting his arm over his face. Jack leaned his head back against the couch. “Yeah…we fucked up pretty bad.” He groans back.

[mister-tom-a-dildo-lover]

I just know that the Scarcrux would hate Harry so much for maybe a week... and then the Dursleys withhold food as punishment for the first time, because of some random offense that they made up, and he'd lose his shit.

A magical child placed in a cupboard under the stairs? A magical child, the one prophesied to be his end, not being allowed to eat? By Muggles?! A magical child being forced to wear hideous hand-me-downs? A magical child forced to cook for Muggles, forced to do the gardening for Muggles, forced to clean for Muggles?

The injustice of someone who was prophesied to be strong enough to vanquish him being disrespected by those lesser than him. Of a clear similarity to himself. A guardian who detests him and will not only lie to his face but also spread lies about him to anyone who will listen, thereby turning everybody in his life against him. A child who makes friends with the little snakes in the garden, hissing premature Parseltongue at them somehow. No friends or companions and believed to be an inferior lifeform to everyone else, only for the opposite to be true.

The accidental magic allowing him to Apparate, to regrow his own shaved off hair, and to even damn near vanish clothes he's too embarrassed to wear. A Halfblood who is the last of a once long and respected Pureblood line.

Harry's entire upbringing would prove every horrible opinion he has correct. Muggles are horrible. They need to be kept away from magical people. Magical children should not allowed be around them. Eliminate all Muggles. History of his own life basically repeating itself, except there's no muggle World War at the time.

And because Dumbledore interfered, no one is going to actually give Harry Potter the truth about anything. All information he gets is going to be heavily sanitized before it actually reaches his ears. He's already being encouraged to not ask questions so he doesn't get in trouble, and the moment someone shows him even a bit of decency he'll be too happy to think to ask questions.

And this would also prove every negative thing that he has to think about Dumbledore true as well. He will reason it all away as Dumbledore once again failing another magical child in a long list of magical children he has failed, and how he intends to use this boy and force him into a similar life that Tom Riddle once led just to try to use him as an example of how Goodness and Righteousness can stop any other Voldemorts from coming about.

Which is so interesting because Goodness and Righteousness didn't care about helping Tom Riddle when it was very clear that he needed help. Maybe if Dumbledore actually lived what he preached, then Voldemort never would have been a necessity. But who knows? It was long since passed the time for What Ifs and clearly Dumbledore won't change.

Scarcrux's hyper fixation on Harry would be stronger than any other version of Tom/Voldemort because he'll be there every step of the way for Harry's journey.

And wouldn't it just be so wonderful if he could do something about all this nonsense?

[aureatescars]

Sasha huffs out a laugh, emboldened in his decision to hold Leon like this when the other man holds on tightly in turn. He doesn't even flinch when this agitates his back some more, merely turns his head to be able to bury his nose in Leon's hair. A deep sense of contentment overcomes him when Leon relaxes against him and a smile pulls at his lips when he also proclaims that Sasha is not going anywhere if he can help it.Nothing would be further from what Sasha wants anyway.

"Is that a promise?" He teases through the slight strain to his own voice. Having picked up on a few innuendos since Leon and him have become better acquainted, he figures he might take a page out of Leon's book for once to disarm the situation. Usually he just rolls his eyes whenever Leon graces him with one of these, but right now he figures it will soften whatever embarrassment Leon might feel after giving in to this if Sasha catches him off guard with a innuendo of his own for once. It does startle some reaction out of Leon he can't quite quantify, but he's not withdrawing just yet, so he thinks it was well received at least.

They stay as they are for a lot longer than might be appropriate, but with no ine around to judge them for it, Sasha dares to adjust his hold to something more comfortable for both of them, breathing in the surprisingly familiar scent of Leon. It helps to get some warmth back into Leon's form, too and thus he doesn't even think about pulling away first. No matter how much his body begs him to. A hand even finds its way into Leon's hair, carefully combing his fingers through the soft strands. By the time there heartbeats have slowed to a more reasonable pace Sasha can feel fatigue pull at him once more. He fights it, though, Leon still seems alert, if more calm than before.

"Since I'm forbidden to move from this bed now..." He says, a little unsure how to proceed. "Do you... want to try lying back down?" His tone of voice low and gentle. He does pull his hand from Leon's hair, too, although he doesn't quite know where to put it instead, now that the immediate urgency for closeness has passed. "You'll catch your death if you stay like this." Leon's skin feels less cold to the touch, but with the rest of the house still chilled Sasha worries he'll get sick regardless. Besides, Sasha's back is screaming at him to lie down and rest. But he's also determined to stay awake to see to it that Leon is resting, too.

That doesn't make letting go of Leon so they can settle down any easier, there is an almost visceral need to keep touching him, that same irrational protectiveness he's felt before still there in the back of his mind. It's what has him make room for Leon as they shuffle beneath the covers, an arm outstretched beneath the pillow, the other holding up the blanket to allow Leon to scooch a little closer. It's only after he's made his sioent offer that he realizes he's doing it at all, the movements near natural, having once been so used to immediately accommodate for a partner in bed...

...which Leon is not.

Sasha's chest tightens. He should not have to remind himself of that fact, and one look at Leon's slightly befuddled expression has Sasha painfully aware that this may yet be a step too far.

He lets out a pained grunt as Leon hoists him up, his back and legs protesting against the sudden movement, strength completely drained from every part of him. Even his mind feels hazy, still racing with images he isn't entirely sure were conjured up by his own thoughts. He's fighting nausea when he is lowered to the bed, his own face just as pale as Leon's. For a moment, he even fights against Leon pulling away from him, the need to keep as much of his skin against his own outweighing any rational thought. It's fortunate that Leon keeps a hold of his hand after they manage to prop Sasha up on the bed, otherwise he isn't sure what he'd done to rectify it.

His chest heaves with a panic that feels not entirely his own, shallow bursts of air escape him as he tries to calm himself down. He clutches Leon's hand tightly as he grits his teeth through waves of self inflicted pain. It was foolish to drag himself here, he should have known better. But God, if there isn't also a small part of him that's ecstatic about having done so. If only because he proved to himself that he somehow still could. A breathless, pained exhale somewhere between a hysterical laugh and a disbelieving gasp makes it past his lips. He really did it, but shit, does it hurt now.

"I just need— a moment." Another pained rasp and then Sasha can finally feel the muscles in his back unwind, his legs tremble from exertion, but for once he can actually feel them, although he struggles to move them even so much as an inch now. The whole situation is utterly confusing, even unsettling, and it's only made worse by the fact he can't concentrate on anything other than pain for a long moment.

The only thing soothing the throbbing pain is Leon's hand in his own, his eyes finding his, gaze full of concern. Sasha's grip turns to something softer when the worst of the dull ache slowly begins to fade and he feels in control of his own body again. He realizes with mounting concern that Leon is trembling, too, worse than he is even. Sasha searches his face, then notices the goosebumps painting his skin. It is chilly in here, but the fact that Leon is also damningly pale speaks volumes about the true cause of the state he is in.

"I'm going to be fine, Leon." He whispers, addressing his friend's worry first. But he can see the furrow of disbelief between Leon's brows more clearly now, as well as the doubt in his blue eyes. Sasha gently tugs at Leon to hold their joined hands up to his chest, surprised when Leon's hand immediately turns in his grasp to lay flat against his sternum. Sasha's hand remains resting atop of it for a moment, but he can still feel the cold of Leon's fingers beneath his own, swears he can feel it bleed through the fabric covering his chest.

"How about you?" He asks then, voice still a bit strained, but oh so gentle as he props himself up a bit more to really look at Leon. The half shadows cast across his face paired with his bangs falling into it, too make it hard to gauge his expression fully.

Sasha reaches up with his free hand without thinking, brushing the soft strands of hair away to reveal more of Leon's face. "You're cold." He says, his words barely above a whisper as his fingertips brush against Leon's forehead. His hand moves along the side of his face then, cupping his cheek. Sasha's lips part to ask Leon to lay down, or to assure him again that Sasha would be fine, he doesn't need to worry. He looks up from where his eyes followed the motion of his hand, and finds Leon's gaze wavering when their eyes meet. It's then that Sasha really sees the repercussions of whatever dream had Leon in such distress, and frankly, the stunt Sasha pulled and waking him up so harshly must have only added to the shock, despite his best intentions. He hides it well, but Sasha can basically see Leon's pulse jump erratically as his body works to calm itself down, can just about feel the echo of his distress in the back of his own mind.

... However, that's an issue to be addressed when neither of them is on the brink of a panic attack.

"It's okay." He whispers when Leon's fingers curl into his shirt. Sasha feels the tremble more clearly as he holds Leon's hand in his own. He watches as Leon tips his head forward, his bangs falling back into his face and Sasha doesn't fight them back this time, no matter how much he feels he wants to. Instead, he withdraws his hand from Leon's face to shift it down to his shoulder, finding the skin there equally chilled. It's an easy decision then, to let go of Leon's hand and struggle himself back into a sitting position, pain be damned, so he can move his arms around Leon instead.

"I'm here."

[ladykailitha]

Shut Up and Drive Part 4

If you didn't see chapter three, it is not your fault, Tumblr has hidden the damn thing and it's been two weeks. I can see it on my dashboard and even through the app, but site wide and on browser, nada! I even looked through it and couldn't find anything mature to shadow ban it. Hopefully you'll be able to see this one and it'll have the link to the third chapter.

This story is almost complete. I just have one or two more chapters to go and it's done. I am so excited for you guys to see the end.

In this we have Eddie in AP history, along with Robin and Steve. Yes, Steve. I am still on my Steve is smart and a history nerd agenda.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

~

Monday morning was rife with speculation on who had called the cops. Eddie chuckled as the racers tried double speak their way out of revealing themselves to their peers.

The only one who wasn’t there come Monday was Steve Harrington. The rumor mill was as much a buzz with his absence as they were with cops breaking up the races.

Eddie had his own theory on who had called the cops. It was either King or Chronos. King for being beat to hell and not being able to race and not wanting to lose. Or Chronos for not wanting to go up against King and lose.

Then he spotted Tommy Hagan.

He looked smug as hell and suddenly Eddie got it. Holy shit, that asshole! He knew Chronos was going to beat King or at least get a hell of a lot closer than Titan would have and didn’t want to be shown up in front of everyone.

Eddie was tempted to go over there and punch Tommy in the face, break a nose, knock out a couple teeth, but he promised Wayne he wouldn’t start any fights, but he was allowed to finish them.

Billy Hargrove caught him staring at Hagan, though. “Hey Munson, take a picture it’ll last longer. Never mind, you’d fwap to the photo.”

“You jealous, Hargrove?” Munson shot back. “You worried I’ll stop jacking off to your picture?”

Billy flexed his arms as if he was going to hit Eddie, but just then a teacher walked by, and Eddie fell in step with them, keeping the teacher between Billy and himself.

The teacher looked over at him and then sighed. “I know what you’re doing Mr. Munson, and I do not appreciate being used as a human shield.”

Eddie grinned down at him. “But Mr. Burton, I am merely on my way to class and we are going the same direction. Besides I am sticking to the edict of avoiding fights with my peers.”

Mr. Burton shook his head. “I thought you had Mrs. Click this period and I am certain she is on the other side of the building.”

“Then are you not heading for your own class, Mr. Burton?” Eddie asked all wide eyed. “I assumed that to be the case when I started walking with you, as your class is right across from hers. You know, both being history teachers and all.”

Mr. Burton turned and looked up at him with a small smile. “I can’t pull the wool over your eyes, you got me. You are going the right direction. I just wanted to see if I could trick ya.”

“Mr. Burton! You tease!” Eddie gasped. “They should take back your teacher of the year award for being so saucy.”

Mr. Burton laughed. “How do you think I got the award in the first place?” He winked at him.

Eddie never had a problem with his history or English classes, so he always got along with the history teachers. Well... most of them. Mrs. Click was a damn fine history teacher, but no one liked her.

“I wish I was in your class this year,” Eddie admitted, ducking his head.

Mr. Burton patted his arm in sympathy. “I know. I also heard she’s flunking you and that’s one of the reasons you’re not graduating.”

Eddie let out a shuddering breath. “I don’t know why I’m forced to take a history class again, anyway. I have enough credits for history. It’s math, science, and PE that I need.”

“I don’t know, Eddie,” Mr. Burton said sadly. “But I’ll see if I can get together with a couple of the other teachers and see you can’t graduate based on your actual credits and not just them having you repeat your senior year ad nauseum.”

“Thanks, Mr. B.,” Eddie replied with a pained grin. “This is me, so I’ll see you around.”

“Bye, Eddie.”

Eddie slumped down in the desk farthest from the front of the room and waited for the rest of the students to file in. Mr. Burton might be ignorant about why Mrs. Click was failing him, but Eddie had no such delusions. He was in her AP class and she was so sure he was cheating instead of, you know, actually knowing the subject.

He watched as the other students filter into the class. It was a strange mish-mash of juniors and seniors and then whatever the fuck he was.

The smartest of the juniors were Robin Buckley and Fred Benson. They definitely deserved to be there. Most of the class were seniors and the greatest dark horse of the class, even more so himself was Steve Harrington and as near as Eddie could figure, he was writing Mrs. Click’s tests.

He was that good. And because he was that good, she let him get get away with murder. He loved to stroll in fifteen minutes late with a bagel that he would eat, making a mess.

That wasn’t even the worst part of the bagel. It was the way he would chipmunk the thing, his cheeks bulging with the large pieces of bagel that he would shove into his mouth. Eddie had to moved directly behind the guy so that he wouldn’t go feral at the sight.

But there would be no bagel porn today because Harrington was home sick. Thank whatever higher power was out there for that.

When Buckley walked in and saw that the seat in front of her was empty she sighed with relief. Most likely for a similar but opposite problem Eddie had. While Steve was Eddie’s crush, he was pretty sure Steve was drawing all the attention away from her crush.

Which even as far as girls went, Tammy Thompson was not on Eddie’s radar at all. Like sometimes he could tilt his head and go, ‘oh yeah, she’s cute’ and not want to bang said girl, but Tammy? He just didn’t get it.

Yes, yes. He knew he was being hypocritical with the Steve crush especially with what he told Jeff just a couple of months ago. But Steve seemed to grow on him.

Not that Steve improved upon closer inspection. Steve was still a smart ass with more sass then sense. But instead of irritating him like it had done in the past...Eddie found it...argh...cute!

He kept that shit to himself though.

He suffered through the class and shambled out the door to his next class, which thankfully was was Mr. Cohen’s class. Science fiction and fantasy writing. Eddie had taken it as an elective to see he could get more English credits.

Mr. Cohen was also the journalism teacher and yearbook supervisor. So he was having the class write poems and shit for the Reflections magazine because there was a distinct lack of interest that year.

Poems were just song lyrics not set to music yet, so Eddie was a having the time of his life.

“The king on his steed

A heart filled with greed

Races to fill some other need

He rushes forward thundering at great speed”

Okay so it wasn’t his best, but he got Mr. Cohen to laugh at all of them rhyming so he counted that as a win.

“All right, class,” Mr. Cohen said after the bell rang. “We going to read a relatively new book in the sci-fi genre called ‘Ender’s Game.’ It came out in January but it took me this long to get it approved for this class. So I want everyone to come up and pick up a copy. On the inside of each book is a number from one to twenty-seven, you will put your name on the signout sheet next to the number of your book. Please do not outline, draw in, or otherwise deface this book, if you do or you lose it, you’ll pay for it, do you understand?”

The class nodded.

They all filed up to the front of the class to grab their book. Eddie hung back until almost everyone else had picked up theirs. He strangely got number eight, but he dutifully put his name to next to the number and shuffled back to his desk.

“All right, everyone,” Mr. Cohen said. “I want everyone to start reading chapter one to yourselves. Then be ready on Wednesday to talk about your thoughts.”

Eddie started reading the book and was immediately drawn into the world, he was pretty sure he finish the book by tonight.

Which meant he would probably reread the thing several times before the class was over. Which was a plus as far as he was concerned.

He was actually disappointed when the bell rang for lunch. He shoved the book into his backpack and made for the lunch room.

Again not having Harrington gaze at, made for dull lunch. Well he would have to make his own entertainment then.

He got up on the lunch table and starting a rant about how unless the kid enjoyed it and wanted to do something with math or science, students shouldn’t have take them past the basic level. He was never going need to know the golden ratio or e=mc2 or whatever working for the factory down or as a mechanic.

Just as the principal came rushing in Eddie leapt off the table and neatly on his feet.

“Hi!” he said brightly.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to climb up on the furniture of this school,” Principal Higgins snarled. “Just because you were raised in a barn does mean you get you get treat other people’s property like you’re an animal.”

“Ahh...” Eddie said with the tilt of his head. “I wouldn’t go around talking about my mom that way if I were you. It’s not her fault she got cancer and passed away.”

Principal Higgins looked like he had swallowed a very sour lemon. “Just don’t do it again, do you hear me, Munson?”

Eddie just grinned at him, hands on his hips, staring him down. Eddie cocked his eyebrows and tilted his head, daring the principal to put him in detention, suspend him, or out and out expel him.

Principal Higgins did none of those things. He turned on his heel and stormed off, snarling something at one of the lunch ladies as he passed.

“Well that wasn’t very friendly,” Eddie told the assembled students. “Lunch ladies are sacrosanct, everyone knows that.”

He walked up to the offended lady in question and offered to buy her a Coke, one which she gratefully accepted.

He went back to his table and Jeff glared at him. “You do know you only need two years of both math and science, right?”

“And what good is algebra or geometry going do me working at Thacher’s Tires?” Eddie growled back. “All I need is to know fractions and weights and measurements. I don’t need to find pi or know the circumference of a circle to change a fucking tire.”

“No, but you need to know the radius of the tire to make sure you don’t put the wrong one on,” Jeff said cocking his head to the side.

Eddie blinked at him for a moment. “Well, shit.”

“Hey, leave him alone,” Brian bit out. “He just found out that it was those two classes that held him back. Again. They’re not for everyone. And yeah some basic geometry is required for life, but pass me on needing to know what a fucking cosign is for working at Bradley’s Big Buy.”

Jeff’s jaw dropped. “Oh. Damn, man. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

Eddie picked at his pretzels and kicked the leg of their table. “It is what it is.”

“Still,” Jeff said with a heavy sigh. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I know it’s tough for you.”

“It’s okay,” he mumbled and went back to mindlessly chewing on his sandwich.

It didn’t even have mustard on it. It wasn’t like he forgot, it was that they couldn’t afford to get to the store. All the money he made over the weekend went to buying tires for Wayne’s truck. They were starting to get more bald then the owner of the truck and that was dangerous.

Which meant no mustard for his bologna sandwich.

He jumped when something landed square in the middle of his lunch box. He picked it up and it was one of those mustard packets you get at ballparks and the State Fair. He looked up to see Jeff looking at him.

“The deli my mom gets her pre-made sandwiches from,” Jeff said, “comes with little packets of mayo and mustard and since I don’t like mustard I figured you could use the extra.”

Eddie swallowed around the lump in his throat. It was as good as an apology as any. “Thanks, man.”

He ripped open the packet with his teeth and smeared it all over one side of his sandwich. He took another bite and moaned happily, mustard catching on the edge of his mouth.

“Gross,” Jeff said shaking his head and throwing napkins at Eddie’s face, one of them managing to stick to the glob of mustard.

Eddie cackled, wiping off his face. “Mustard is the seed of life, dude. You are seriously missing out.”

“Seed of life or not,” Jeff huffed, “that stuff is nasty. I can smell it from here.”

Brian shrugged his shoulders. “Mustard isn’t that bad. I like it in my mom’s meatloaf and in my potato salads.”

“But that’s mixed with other things to mask it’s vile nature,” Jeff insisted. “Anywhere else and you’re beggin’ the devil’s pardon.”

Eddie sat back with a smile on his face, already feeling a little better than when he started his lunch.

The lunch bell rang and he packed up his stuff, listening his friends talk among themselves, thinking today hadn’t be a complete bust.

As he made his way to his last class he over heard a couple of rich kids talking about some big party that was happening that weekend because their parents were going to be in Indy for the weekend.

Eddie slowed down as he took in the details. Things were definitely looking up.

~

Jeff's views of mustard are the views of the author. :D

ETA: Mr. Burton is a real person, or was I'm pretty sure he's passed considering he was my dad's teacher mentor when he did his student teaching. My 8th history teacher and he was exactly like this. He would start each class with a joke and it would always be terrible. And yes, he even got teacher of the year for his sass.

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[kitkatscabinet]

SILENCE IS GOLDEN

requested by: the bestie @robinvomit

pairing : guy gardner x fem! reader

summary: guy gardner has the most irritating mouth in the galaxy. Someone really should do something about it.

You were being punished for something, you weren't sure what, but you had to be. Why else would you be stuck training rookies with Guy Gardner of all people?

Whatever it was you'd done to offend the Guardians, you needed to find out and rectify, expeditiously, before you flew off the handle and did something stupid, like strangling Guy.

Physically, he might have been your type. It was just too bad that every time he opened his damn mouth it was like he was trying to set a new galactic record for 'The Most Irritating Man You've Ever Met'.

“Nice one, Rookie, keep that up and you'll nearly be as good as me, nearly.” Guy praised earnestly, as arrogant as ever.

From the sidelines, you roll your eyes, nails tapping irritatedly against your crossed forearm. You hated that despite his boastful behaviour, Guy was admittedly an excellent teacher.

He was patient and provided numerous tips that you wouldn't have thought of. Guy was a good Lantern, one of the best if you allowed yourself to be honest, handsome too, it really was such a damn waste.

You watch dispassionately as he calls his next unfortunate victim to the centre of the training room. One-on-one spars, 'to build combat experience', you think he just wants to show off.

To the newbie's credit, he doesn't look nervous, oozing confidence that definitely hadn't been earned. Great, a mini Guy.

Perhaps that was a tad too harsh. Guy had at least proven himself as reliable in the heat of battle and —

“This one’s for you, baby girl!” You nearly choke on the lollipop you'd been using to stop yourself from snapping at Guy with a less than savoury remark in front of the baby Lantern's.

Guy was winking at you, pointing as if he needed to make it abundantly clear who he was flirting with—the sweet taste of bubblegum is overpowered by a sudden bitterness on your tongue from his words. 

“Infant woman?” One of the bewildered aliens to your left mumbles. 

“Oh! I know this one; it's a, how do you say? Pet name? Common amongst human mates.” One of the younger recruits buzzes, floating a little in her excitement, which quickly turned to shock as she faced you. “I was not aware you and Lantern Gardner were mates.”

“We aren’t.” Your left eye twitches, teeth gritted so hard you were lucky you’d taken the lolly out of your mouth lest you fracture something. 

“Then why would he—”

“Because he’s an idiot!” You snap, your voice a little shrill, already stalking towards where Guy was standing cocky and victorious. 

“Hey babe, d’ya see me? Come to congratulate me on the win? How about a kiss, huh?” He mockingly puckered his lips, positively radiating smugness as he took in your anger. 

“You—” he leans in closer, expectant grin never faltering, and it's enough to make you pause for a moment, eyes narrowed as you assess the situation. You and Guy were the centre of attention, all background chatter abruptly ceasing as everyone tuned into the live drama. 

Forcing yourself to take a calming breath, you step closer, placing a palm over his chest, barely preventing yourself from gasping as you feel the rapid flutter of his heartbeat beneath your fingers. Interesting, and the confidence booster you needed to continue with your current plan of action. 

Guy’s cheeks have pinkened, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he unconsciously leans closer to you. 

“You keep running that mouth, Gardner, and I’ll have to find a better use for it.” You whisper, biting lightly on his earlobe and tugging as you pull away. 

“Yeah? Like what?” His attempt to be suave was thwarted embarrassingly when his voice cracked.  

Your grin is saccharinely sweet as you bite down on the impending fit of giggles threatening to slip through your lips. 

“This.” You whisper, pushing the lollipop between his parted lips, putting the lightest bit of pressure against the stick as you send him to his knees with only an ounce of pressure. 

For the first time in days, there’s silence. Blessed, golden, silence. “Good boy.” You pat his cheek, “You really are so much prettier like this.”

The pink lollipop falls from his gaping mouth, forgotten on the floor as you turn and walk away. You can practically feel the way his his eyes are glued to your ass and you hold back a sigh. 

Such a damn waste.

[hoiststowline]

_groove x reader

upon arrival home from work, you've come to expect the familiar sight of your garage light being switched on. how Groove does it entirely undetected still escapes you, but he is partial is to be found sitting up against one of the walls whilst toying around with the old projector set up for your typical Thursday evenings.

when you slip through the interior door, the sound of the creaky hinges captivates his attention all at once. somehow, he's surprised to see you every single time, a charming smile adhering to his expression and remaining there.

"Welcome back!" he hums, setting the projector back atop the small table to his right, immediately opening up his now empty arms to you. "You're a little later than usual, everything okay?"

your bag falls at your feet, ambling down the three steps that lead to the concrete floor of the garage. it doesn't take very long for you to enter his hold, one of his servos cradling your head as the other wraps over your waist. in return, your arms wind around his neck, peppering kisses to the underside of his jaw and across any plating you could reach on the tips of your toes.

"Yes," you reply, mumbling into the crook of his neck. "Sorry. I got a little sidetracked, and didn't realize the time."

"You never have to apologize," Groove affirms, pulling back slightly if only to capture your gaze, searching to see if you were telling the truth.

he'd believe you without second thought, but he's also well aware of your tendency to become vague when it's time to discuss the days events. if you've had a wonderful day, he wants to hear it, and the same goes for a not-so-great one.

"Tell me all about it," Groove murmurs, melting when your palms come to his cheeks, thumbs making comforting motions underneath his visor.

it doesn't take very long for the both of you to settle into your respective spots, atop the blanket and pillow nest you've come to build against the furthest wall. Groove was quicker than his usually impatience to join you at your side, tugging you close as the projector whirs to life at your front.

"What did you pick?" you whisper, freeing ticklish laughter as he leaves a trail of kisses up your arm, ending on your cheek.

"St. Elmo's Fire," he answers, somehow impossibly shuffling closer to your form. Groove has watched this more times than you can count on two hands after viewing it for the first time about seven months ago. you don't know why, every time you ask he just claims that he loves it, and the conversation evidently dies there with no further explanation.

you'd never complain, it is an amazing film, but you'd love to know the symbolism behind it as to why it means so much to him. you would memorize every thing in the world that made him happy, entranced by his enthusiasm and contagious positivity.

tonight, however, he isn't as enthralled by the film as he normally is. he appears preoccupied, and when you come to inquire if everything is alright, he's staring at you.

"Groove?" you mumble, feeling his digits furl a little tighter around your waist, never enough to hurt, but certainly wound enough that there was no escaping. "What's wrong?"

he should be the one asking you that, having been studying the side of your face for the past fifteen minutes, the only aid to be found was the fuzzy light from the projector. you are so beautiful, and once Groove has his processor set on something, it's extremely difficult to get him to divert off the set path.

"Nothing.” he returns, trying his damndest to sound sincere, but the unintentional waver to his voicebox disrupts the truth. "I mean- okay, maybe I'm a little distracted. Er- a lot. I'm a lot distracted."

a twinge of guilt finds him when you try to sit up, attempting to console his crowded processor. he won't allow it, successful in placidly pinning you to the nest of pillows, large servos engulfing your side.

"By?" you query, fingers softly trying to unwind his digits from your waist, but it proves futile.

Groove's has long realized he's deeply in love with you many times before this moment, but hasn't gathered the nerve to actually spill the sentiment quite yet. he's fairly certain you feel the same, but the thought of actually speaking it aloud has him in a consistent nervous frenzy.

he gets caught moderately often studying you, observing your mannerisms and body language with utmost love. he receives an elbow to the gut amongst company, mostly curiosity of Rook, alerting him that he's been at it for an inordinate amount of time.

"Nevermind." Groove hums, settling back against the wall, simultaneously tugging you closer to his side. sensing the look you were giving him, he sends a sweet smile down your way, insistent. "I'm serious. You're just a little distracting, s'all."

melting a little when you laugh lightly, he can't resist swooping down to steal a few kisses from your lips and scattering some across your cheek.

"It's okay," your fingers come to lay atop the back of his servo, a comforting touch. "You're just as distracting, if not more, G."

Groove's laugh is warm and benign, reverberating through his chassis. "Now, I know that's impossible,"

perchance tomorrow, he'd divulge his feelings. for now, though frustrated with himself, he's content with letting this opportunity slip through his digits. some moments are just too perfect to disrupt, thumb drawing mindless shapes over the soft cotton of your pants.

[otp-after-dark]

PLEASE, please Osblaines read this one — I highly recommend it. It had me bawling.

(God, I hate the Handmaid’s Tale writers.)

I loved it so much I had to share why this three-part fan fic resonated so deeply with me and made me remember why I fell in love with this novel and the characters in it. It brought me back to the real heart of Atwood’s story: the one about agency, survival, unconventional love, and the quiet defiance of building something entirely your own.

Castles in the Air does what the show flat-out refused to do: it writes June and Nick not just as a couple, but as true partners. It builds a life for them that isn’t conventional, clean, or easy but it’s honest, free, and chosen. This fic gave me everything canon took away.

There’s a version of The Handmaid’s Tale that remembered what it started as: not just a dystopia, not just a warning, but a rebellion against every “right way” a woman is told to live. A story that gave space for love that didn’t follow the rules. For women who don’t make the choices the world wants them to make. The show used to be that story. And then it wasn’t.

But this fic is.

Set after Season 3, Castles in the Air picks up where the real story should have: with Nick making a choice. Not just for June, but for himself. To step outside the structures he helped dismantle. To be part of something better. To fight, not just for the woman he loves, but alongside her. And not in some idealized way. This fic gets messy. Their relationship isn’t picture-perfect. It’s strained by trauma, guilt, grief, old wounds, and impossible choices. But they stay. They talk. They listen. And for once, the words aren’t one-sided.

What moved me so much is that this fic lets Nick finally say what the show never allowed him to: how deeply June’s tunnel vision has affected him, how often he’s been asked to sacrifice without being considered, how her choices, even the brave ones, have sometimes come at an unbearable cost to him. And the best part? The fic doesn’t frame him as wrong for saying so. He’s not punished. He’s heard.

And June—God, June—is so well written here. Still fierce, still raw, still capable of burning down everything in her path for the people she loves. But here she’s forced to sit with that. To look at how that fire has hurt the people closest to her. There’s a period of separation between them that just wrecked me but it’s necessary. It’s not melodrama. It’s growth. When they come back together, it’s because they’ve both chosen it. Not because they have to. Not because they’re stuck. Because it’s what they want.

This fic doesn’t just give them love—it gives them freedom. Not the hollow kind the show teases, where everyone ends up in Canada as proof they’re safe. This is a different kind of freedom. One built on mutual trust, shared purpose, and the radical act of saying:

We don’t have to follow the rules. We don’t have to live how people expect us to. We can build something real, even if it doesn’t look like what the world says a family should be.

And oh my god, the ending. I won’t spoil it, but it’s so in line with what Atwood was getting at. June choosing a path that’s uncertain, imperfect—but hers. Choosing love that’s not safe, but true. It’s powerful in the quietest way. The kind of ending where you finally exhale and realize just how long you’ve been holding your breath.

Also, the side characters? Chef’s kiss. Luke is given depth and care. He’s not villainized but he’s not centered either. His grief is real, and his arc feels earned, even as it makes clear that his and June’s lives are no longer aligned. And Beth—oh my god, BETH. She’s smart, she’s direct, she calls June out when she needs it and supports her when it matters. She’s the perfect grounding force in all this chaos.

In the end, it doesn’t just give Nick and June a future, it gives them a choice. And more importantly, it lets June reclaim something the show tried to take from her: the right to define happiness on her own terms. Not what the world expects. Not what a good mother or good survivor is supposed to want. Just what she wants.

This fic broke my heart and then put it back together in a way canon never tried to. Please read it.

[croquettish]

First of all, really love your meta! Especially your takes on Hans and the depth with which you analyze the game's dialogue. But did I miss something, how is Sam also queer? Are there any signs in the story? I know about the rings (which seem to be a case of the reused assets to me), but is there anything else?

Thank you so much!! 🥹

If you read between the lines, there are a lot of hints! Sam is incredibly protective of John to the point of endangering those around him (Henry nearly killed his two best men). Even with all the reassurances in the world, he only agrees to Henry's request to see John under the condition that he go there unarmed and blindfolded. And even after John has cleared Henry, Sam still stays and drinks with them. There likewise seems to be a tremendous amount of trust between him and John that I would argue wouldn't necessarily be there (or at least not in as intense a form as it is) if there weren't more there.

If you listen in on the dialogue while Henry is blindfolded (it's quiet!), you'll hear John speaking to others there. His tone is surprisingly firm for someone who could very well just be a "guest" being protected, never mind the part where he's talking about finding intel on whether someone has male or female lovers. The people there treat him with nothing but respect and will even take orders from him. And when the progrom happens, John is allowed to come along. You could argue that they could use all the help they could get, but recall that Hans' aid was turned down! John was trusted to help save his mother and to extract important documents.

All of this wouldn't be unusual for a long of characters, mind you, but Sam isn't a very trusting person. He's distrusting by nature, and he has good reason to be! His people have been persecuted since time immemorial and they very much continue to be in 1403. We learn that Sam just took John in without question, but even that feels like a statement. You'll recall that I've previously talked about the commonalities between medieval Jews and sodomites, both of whom were (along with others) viewed as inherently heretical. Both are marginalized groups that could only exist openly in marginalized spaces, spaces situated outside of the expected societal "norm" where being Othered is a given. John enters such a space willingly and looking for protection, being as openly fruity as he is. Sam meets this vulnerability and takes him in without question.

If we consider that the storytelling in KCD2 is done with intent (and there wouldn't be this much meta for me to write about if it hadn't been), then we can also consider that the parallel here is intentional and meant to reflect Hansry. Here we have two people in a marginalized space, one of whom is a noble who willingly entered that space after finding himself in a place of vulnerability. The peasant in question, well-acquainted with both vulnerability and marginalization, opened his arms to him.

Actually, while my mind is whirring, let's take this a step further. Because I'm still obsessed with the jamuel art drawn by @lookitsstevie, let's assume that while Sam takes him in, he still distances himself and keeps himself away from John for a while before they actually get together (the yearning!!!). That would so neatly parallel both Hans' attempts at pushing Henry away (yeah I've totally got this not at all fake girlfriend also named Karolina in Bohunowitz that I totally slept with don't you loooove sleeping with women Henry I can't wait until we get trashed again!!) and then Henry pushing Hans away later as well. That one is more of a stretch, but you get me.

Finally, the rings. I hear what you're saying about reused assets, but there's a lot of counterpoints to all of this that should be taken into consideration:

Reused assets are definitely a thing, but mostly for minor NPCs, not major characters. Consider how surprised everyone was by the (very effective!) fakeout with Captain Thomas and his unique character model.

Those rings have Sam's name on them. I don't think there would be a reason for random NPCs to wear rings like that.

The sartorial style choices by the major characters in this game were clearly meticulously considered and decided on on a case-by-case basis where everyone is unique. No one else is dressed in the dapper way that John is, for instance!

The rings were not there from the start. They were added in with Patch 1.3.1 with intent.

We all did collectively consider that they added the rings in error and were pleasantly surprised when Patch 1.3.2 didn't take them away. As we know, Warhorse does keep its finger on the pulse of what the fandom is saying, and there's no way that the collective celebration over the canonization of Jamuel would have gone unheard by them. Even if John's ring was initially added in error, this means they were left there with intent.

One could say that Sam gave John a ring with his name on it (Did he... did he just have that casually lying around? Why would anyone own two rings with their name on it, it's not like he needs a spare, this seems very odd if not done with intent) to grant John some element of protection within the Jewish quarter, a sign that John is under Sam's protection, but it ends up coming off almost as a sign of ownership more than anything else, like "you touch him and you deal with me," which in and of itself feels tremendously gay. Moreover, we know that John doesn't really leave the tavern to begin with. Raborsch is a rare exception where he's able to go out, and even there he's accompanied by John!!

All in all, I'd say you'd struggle to argue that this ship isn't canon, which of course would automatically canonize Sam as queer as well.

[sadboyeddie]

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐀𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐥 𝐑𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐃𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 & 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭

Summary: It's time to taste Miles' pies.

Warnings: There's some implied stuff and the tension gets a little heavy but nothing yet.

A/N: I'm on a roll so might as well keep going. I'm thinking about putting some smut in the next chapter idk. Please let me know if you're reading and enjoying this. I'm desperate for praise and feedback.

WC: 2.8K

A small curse leaves your lips as you struggle to open the door, the key fit in the lock fine but the handle is jammed. You knock your shoulder against the hard wood a few times and to your relief the door begrudgingly pushes open. 

You can't help the grimace that covers your face as you take in the colour of the room; it's a lot. You don't let that deter you though as you fully enter, kicking the door closed behind you, and drop your bag on the floor. 

You sit on the side of the bed facing the large mirror on the wall, fingers gliding over the material of the comforter; a little stiff but not the worst you've had to endure this trip. The mattress itself is a bit springy but it's also kind of firm which you like. 

You allow yourself to sit for a moment and just take a breath. 

Falling back against the bed you decide to close your eyes for a few minutes, unaware of the man staring at you from only a few feet away.

-- 

Miles knows this is wrong.

Knows he should be in his little closet sized room doing something else wrong but he just couldn't help himself. Your smile, your laugh, your genuine interest in what he was saying was just too captivating.

It's not like he's filming you, not that the dark thought hadn't crossed his mind, he's only watching. He tries to convince himself what he's doing is not that bad.

It could be worse.

Your soft demeanor seems to have a calming effect on his soul, something he hasn't felt since before he left for war.

He leans down and flicks the switch, the small crackle of the machine adds sound to the quiet hall before your voice fills the space. 

You're humming a tune and it takes him all but a second to realise it's the song that was playing in the lobby. He cant see your face, unfortunately, from the angle that you're laying in but he watches as you bring your hand to your chest and start playing with something; your necklace most likely. 

Although a dirtier more darker part of him wishes it was something else.

Miles takes a step back until he hits the cold concrete wall behind him, bringing his hands to his face to press the heels of his palms into his eyes, he doesn't stop until he starts to see stars behind the lids.

He's never done this before, he's only every come down to observe and watch when he's been told to. When he gets that call. He's normally very respectful of regular guests but there's something about you. Something sweet and alluring. Something the darker part of him wants. Craves

He takes one last look at you before flicking the switch off, your soft voice being cut out, as he quickly leaves the dark hallway. 

When he locks the door behind him he can hear the shrill alarm of the oven going off. 

His pies. He completely forgot.

-- 

After dragging yourself from the bed you had made your way to the shower, relieved to feel the hot water pulsing from the head. You admittedly had spent far longer in there then you intended but it felt far too good to get out, the images of the handsome concierge didn't at all help your situation. Maybe you should've had a cold shower instead? 

Here you sit on your bed now, lacing up your shoes as you finish getting ready to go out and find something to eat. You're still starving, the small bag of peanuts you had before your shower did nothing to help your hunger but you chose the comfort of the warm spray of water over food and now you're slightly regretting the long shower. 

Double checking to make sure you have your room key and purse you head down the covered walkway back to the lobby, a little surprised to see that it's already dark out. You hadn't noticed the time get away from you.

When you enter the lobby the first thing to hit you is the warmth, followed by how dark it is. There's light coming from the dessert display cases, a light behind the bar some small lamps on the tables in the booths here but not much other then that. 

You intend to ask Miles if there's a place around here to eat but just like check-in the man is nowhere to be seen.

As you make your way over to the counter you hear the faint grumblings of President Nixon going on about some such garbage that you don't really care to listen to coming from the small TV set, so you turn and head over to the display case of food on the opposite side of the room. 

You bite your bottom lip in contemplation, there's a few sandwiches; looking a little stale, some sad looking fruit and finally some slices of pie, there's a little paper note on the bottom of each plate labeling each selection in a messy scrawl; apple, strawberry, cherry or mix. 

Interesting.

While you were engrossed in the cases you didn't happen to notice or hear Miles entering, not until he stands several feet behind you and clears his throat. 

You swear you jump several feet in the air as you quickly spin to face the noise, hand tightly clutching your chest, "my god!" your breathing is a little fast as you take in the apologetic smile of Miles, "you're a quiet little thing when you want to be." 

He has the audacity to look sheepish but a little pleased as he once again apologises, "I'm really sorry, I tried to be a bit louder so I wouldn't scare you."

After taking several seconds for your heart to stop racing you let out a small chuckle, "didn't work."

You notice how he's a little more put together then he was this afternoon, not twitching as much and able to actually look you in the eye. 

It's actually a little intense.

"So.." you slightly trail off as you turn back towards the display case, "what would you suggest?"

He walks a bit closer to get a better look at the options and you take the opportunity to be a little creepy and smell him a bit. 

He smells like fruit and washing powder, an odd combination but not at all unpleasant. 

"Well, uh, I baked the pies this afternoon," he looks over at you with a proud grin and you can't help but smile back. He's so cute.

"A concierge and a cook?" You ask, impressed, "a man of many talents."

"I don't know about that," he chuckles a bit, "I never said the pies were good."

"I guess I'll be the judge of that," you turn fully to the case and take your purse from your pocket before you're stopped by Miles. 

"If you're going to rate my desserts you shouldn't have to pay," his smile is small but still there as he makes his way towards the case; ignoring your protest with his key in hand he unlocks the glass door. 

"Trying to butter up the judge?" you playfully ask as he grabs two small plates of sliced pie.

"If I was going to do that I would go and get the ice cream," he grins and makes his way over to a booth, you obediently following behind him. 

"Well now I'm definitely taking a point off for no ice cream," you grumble with a smile as you take a seat.

Miles breathes out a laugh through his nose, an easy smile on his face and heads back over to the display case to get the other two flavours of pie and two forks. 

"So, which is which?" you ask, gently turning the slices of pies to get a better look at their fillings as he sits down and places the forks on the table.

"Apple, strawberry, cherry, mixed," he points to each one as he names it, he takes note of the small confusion as he points to the fourth, "I had extra filling left over so I made a smaller pie," he shrugs.

"Ah, very smart," you praise as you pick up a fork and pull the strawberry pie a little closer to you, "have you tried any yet?" you nod towards the desserts.

"I had some of the cherry before putting it into the oven," he picks up his fork and waits for you to start, "it was good." 

"I'll decide that," you smile, and he laughs a bit, as you cut the tip of the pie off with the side of your fork, making sure to get a decent amount of crust and filling before scooping it into your mouth. 

Miles watches you with baited breath, trying to gauge your reaction. To your credit you try very hard to keep a neutral expression but your facade falls and you let out a small groan.

If you hadn't gone to fork another piece you would have seen the tips of Miles' ears go red and his face flush a deep crimson.

"This is so good!" you praise before taking another bite. Your hunger make itself more evident now that you've had a taste of food.

Your praise snaps him out of his trance and he gives you a warm smile, "yeah?"

"Yes!" you nod, "try some," pushing the plate with little force in his direction, stopping when it's in the middle of the table between you. 

"Okay," it's soft and a little shy but he eagerly digs his fork into the pie, a small thrill runs through you as you watch him share the dessert. The whole thing feeling entirely too intimate but you can't find it in yourself to stop.

You admit that if Miles was a different person, perhaps loud and brash you might not want to spent much time in his presence but he's completely the opposite of that. Gentle and shy, mysterious and intriguing. A soft riddle you want to solve.

You can tell the moment the pie hits his tongue because his eyes widen and light up a bit, "huh," he nods, trying his hardest to stay modest, "not bad."

"'Not bad'," you scoff and playfully roll your eyes, "such a humble chef." 

You go to break off another peace and he follows your lead smiling as he does. 

"Where'd you learn to bake?" you ask the question casually but you notice his shoulders stiffen a bit.

He takes his time chewing the mouthful of pastry before finally answering your question, "my Grandma taught me."

You take in his hesitancy before replying, "I think she'd be proud of this," you point the fork at the crumbs now lingering the empty plate, feeling slightly guilty you ate much more then Miles.

If he cares, he doesn't show it.

"Oh, this wouldn't even compare to hers," his laugh is a tad depreciating, "hers tasted like home," the last part was said much quieter and a with a little sadness.

The look on his face makes you want to climb across the table and hold him; instead you gently place your hand on his, to your relief he doesn't shake it off or remove it. The urge to sooth him is overwhelming and you have to take a second to mentally pull yourself back.

You met this guy this afternoon and have barely been around him for an hour and yet you're ready to risk it all for him. How desperate are you?

He clears his throat and puts on a small smile before pushing the apple pie in your direction, "ready for more?"

Okay, yeah, you're very desperate. 

"Mhm," you hum, not really trusting your voice at the moment. You take note of how cold your hand feels now that it's no longer touching his warm one.

Pull it together!

"Apple," your voice comes out a little rougher then you'd hope, "a classic," you bite your bottom lip as you cut off a piece and bring it up for a taste. 

Your hand stutters slightly as you notice Miles' burning eyes focused solely on your lips. You quickly place the for in your mouth but you're so distracted by Miles you don't really taste it before chewing and swallowing. 

"It's, um, it's very good," you nervously laugh avoiding Miles' gaze as you go in for more. 

He's once again snapped from his trance, letting out a heavy breath as he takes a scoop of the apple and quickly pushes it into his mouth. 

"Your verdict?" you ask, feeling your cheeks heat up watching him swallow. 

What is going on with you?

"You're the judge," his shy smile is back, like it never left, "you tell me."

You playfully laugh as you take another bite, fully intending to actually taste the pie this time. You take a minute after swallowing to answer him.

"Apple isn't my favourite type of pie," you start, "but the cinnamon really brings out the flavour," you complement, "would be nicer with cream though," you joke.

It was meant as a jest but Miles answers like his mouth was faster then his brain. 

"Cream pies are the best," your eyes go wide as he tries to stutter out a response, "cream w-with pies, cream is good on pies," you can see the horror in his eyes as he talks.

The room goes still, awkward tension fills the air but you can't help but add to that. 

"I like cream pies," you wink as you reach over and grab the cherry pie, feeling pretty satisfied when you hear Miles let out a choked cough, "I'll admit cherries are my favourite so you better not have messed this up," you add playfully, like you didn't just send his mind spiraling.

"Mine too," is all he can manage to say after a long pause, his voice is soft but the grip he has on the fork looks like it's enough to bend the metal. 

This time the groan you let out is not all for the taste of the pie, its exaggerated and you close your eyes just for show, "So good, Miles." 

He quickly scoops up what was left of the apple pie into his mouth, something to distract him from the problem he's now facing. 

"I don't know if I want to share this," you open your eyes and give him your most innocent smile, "it's the best one."

After a beat and a small breath he replies.

"There's more in the case," it's his turn for his voice to be rough, "you can have as much as you like."

"Don't tease me," you laugh, "I might just take you up that." 

The pie really is the best of the three, you haven't tried the fourth one yet but you've already picked a clear winner. 

"Here," you cut off a generous portion of the pastry and filling and hold it up, "taste it."

Miles can no longer hold back the small groan that's been lingering at the back of his throat as he eagerly leans forward and wraps his lips around your fork, all the while keeping eye contact. 

All the control you thought you had and all the confidence suddenly vanishes as you watch him slowly eat the pie from your fork. Your breathing is once again coming out heavy as you watch him slowly chew, eyes burning into yours before swallowing.

A small bit of juice has gathered on his bottom lip and before you can lean over and do something about it his tongue darts out, swiping over the sweet liquid, there really isn't that much but just to be sure he make a show of bringing his thumb up and swiping over his lip before sucking the tip into his mouth.

You harshly push the plates to the side and lean up in your seat to kiss him, he follows your lead as you grab handfuls of his white button-up shirt but just before you can crash your lips to his the front door to the lobby opens and a man and woman walk in, loudly chatting between themselves.

You hear Miles let out a small sound, something between a whimper and a groan, which if you weren't annoyed at being interrupted would have definitely done something to you. 

You can't help but pout when he stands up, taking a second to straighten up his now crumpled shirt before heading over to attend the couple that are now ringing the bell at the front desk. 

With the tension gone and the mood ruined you grab the last piece of pie and head back to your room, you would have maybe stayed but you can over hear the man talking about having a few drinks at the bar, and you doubt there's a bartender other the Miles here. 

You briefly make eye contact with Miles as you open the door, his jaw is clenched and his shoulders are straight, you let out a humourless chuckle at the look he sends the woman when she asks for the introductory tour. 

At least he's feeling similarly to you.

[saintthesigma]

we won’t let you disappear - class 1A ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ (chapter 1 - cracks in the armor)

warnings: poor mental health, mentions of ed, suicidal thoughts, attempts of suicide, pushing peers away, hospitals (some will not apply to all chapters)

notes: first ever series!! 😋

the sky above the training field was clear, too bright for how heavy you felt.

you didn’t know when it started. maybe it had been building for weeks — or months. but it had settled inside you like fog, wrapping itself around your ribs until every breath felt like a chore.

aizawa barked orders from across the field. Class 1-A was running full-speed combat drills. you should have been able to handle this. you had handled worse.

but everything was slower now.

your limbs didn’t respond right.

your heart pounded too hard in your ears.

and your vision — it was going gray at the edges again.

midoriya ran past you in a blur, calling something you couldn’t make out.

mina noticed it first. “hey—are you okay?”

you blinked. stumbled.

and then the world tilted. your knees hit the ground. everything dimmed to black.

⸻

you woke up to the hum of machinery and the smell of antiseptic.

“she’s awake,” recovery girl murmured. her voice was soft, but laced with concern.

you blinked, eyes adjusting to the lights of the nurse’s office. your head throbbed. your mouth was dry.

“don’t move too quickly,” she warned gently. “you fainted.”

you opened your mouth, tried to speak, but she beat you to it.

“i already know,” she said, glancing at the monitor. “you haven’t eaten in days, have you?”

silence.

your breath caught.

“you’re severely undernourished. dehydrated. your energy reserves are practically empty. it’s a miracle you lasted as long as you did.”

tears burned behind your eyes, but you forced them down.

just as she moved to bring you water, the door opened.

aizawa stepped in.

his eyes locked on you immediately — not furious, but sharp. controlled. serious in a way that made your stomach twist.

“why?” he asked, voice flat.

you tried to look away, but he stepped closer.

“you put your body through advanced-level combat drills while starving yourself,” he said. “that’s not just careless. that’s dangerous. you could’ve been seriously hurt — or worse.”

“i didn’t mean to—”

“you didn’t mean to,” he repeated, voice rising slightly for the first time. “so what did you mean to do?”

you couldn’t answer.

“do you understand that i can’t allow this to happen again?” he said, quieter now, but still firm. “i care about your safety, but i’m also your teacher. if you don’t start taking care of yourself, i’ll have to remove you from field training. permanently.”

the silence that followed was worse than the scolding.

“i’ll be back later,” he muttered, turning toward the door. “recovery girl will monitor your condition. start eating. today.”

he didn’t slam the door — but it felt like he had.

you stared at your hands.

“don’t take it too hard,” recovery girl said gently after a moment. “he’s harsh because he’s worried. but you do need help, dear. and you need to let us help you.”

you didn’t reply. you didn’t know how.

⸻

later that evening

you didn’t expect bakugou to show up.

but there he was, standing just inside the doorway, arms crossed.

“come on,” he grumbled. “i’m walking you back.”

you followed in silence, head low, footsteps slow against the polished dorm hallway floors.

“is this about being skinny or something?” he muttered suddenly.

you stopped walking.

he looked at you, scowling — not in disgust, but confusion. anger. fear.

“you starving yourself so you can drop a couple pounds? is that it?”

“no,” you whispered. “it’s not like that.”

“then what the hell is it?!” he snapped. “you think collapsing in the middle of a fight is gonna make you look cool? you think hurting yourself’s the answer?”

your throat tightened.

“i’m not doing this to get attention,” you said, voice shaking. “i just… i don’t want to be here anymore. i don’t feel like i belong here. or anywhere.”

bakugou’s eyes widened, just for a second.

he turned away. ran a hand through his hair. his voice dropped.

“you’re not fucking invisible, okay?”

you blinked.

“i see you. we all do. you think no one notices when you check out of conversations? when you stop smiling?”

he looked back at you, jaw clenched.

“you think no one gives a shit if you disappear?”

you didn’t have an answer.

so he gave you one.

“i would.”

[sorormaior]

Especially would go insane to get to see what went through Corax's head when Cary starts bleeding from the eyes and (presumably?) Collapsed. Putting these primarchs in Tupperware and violently shaking them.

Hehe Hoho

He had kept his face blank all throughout the blessings and the journey back to Dark Sister. His countenance could not possibly betray the turmoil inside him. 

The Captain had gone to the Night Lords, gone to the ship to find their dead and had returned as if nothing was amiss. They had lied, repeatedly, to his face. He stepped off of the Shadowhawk and saw that they had opened a vox with him. 

“Do you need me for anything or can I go lie face down somewhere?” Their tone was light, if tired. 

“I’d like to debrief you on the Echo first,” he said, unable to keep the ice from his voice. “Would you mind disarming yourself and then taking yourself very calmly to my office?” 

Corvus didn’t even look at them when he spoke. The Captain didn’t reply, walked past him in a stilted march. 

He in turn also went to his arming chambers, and had his own armour removed. The process gave Corvus a little more time to think. Personal hurt shouldn’t have any bearing on what actions he should take. The facts were thus: Cary Kulikov had been contacted by members of their own (traitorous) Legion, they had not reported this and had in fact allowed themselves to be teleported to the Night Lords’ vessel. They had also abandoned a mission in order to do this. By all counts it was desertion, if not outright betrayal. 

But they had not gone with the Night Lords, a small portion of him argued, they didn’t leave you. The thought pulled something sharp inside his chest. The mission. They didn’t leave the mission. They came back because they knew it was their duty. They had left because they wanted to see their sons. 

When he entered his office they were already there, in a seat in front of the desk he was supposed to be using to sign reports and orders. The Captain was looking out of the window, at the void, at Hagiogra. He couldn’t read their reflection’s expression, and they seemed not to notice he had entered until he sat at his desk. 

When Cary did look at him they did so with a drawn, exhausted face. It was the face of someone who had been running for a long time.

“Are you going to kill me?” They asked. 

“No,” he replied. 

He didn’t know how he felt about that assumption. It was perhaps logical of them to assume that their desertion would lead to an execution, as the Primarch he would have been expected to deliver it. It was logical. It wasn’t personal. It was not about how Cary viewed him. 

They looked out of the window again, black eyes reflecting pinprick lights of distant stars. 

“How did you follow me?” They asked. 

“I intended to make my presence known to you at the chapel by the aqueduct and followed you. As Primarchs, we have certain privileges when it comes to unnoticeable vox channels.”

“You were listening in,” Cary said. 

“Yes,” he said.

It was hard to tell if the notion unsettled them or not. But soon they started talking. 

“I wanted to see them. I wanted to know who was dead, who I had to mourn. Do you wonder? What happened to those you left when you went into the warp? Have you tried to find out yet? Guilliman has, I’ve seen some of his books, some of the records. He has sons he has no idea what happened to, and no way of knowing. Sorry. I don’t mean to be unkind,” they paused and swallowed, though their voice continued at the same strength. “You never went to Nostramo. You were too young. You never saw it. Never lived it. Don’t get me wrong, prison moon sounds bad. Sounds like a real shitter of a situation and you have my sympathy. But people loved you, Corax. People fed you. Clothed you. Taught you. Curze ate rats and dogs in the street, ate his kills because he was programmed too strongly to even think of stealing food.”

They turned to face him, expression hardened. 

“By the time I got to him the damage was done. Fate’s die was cast. I don’t even think he knew how to use a spoon the first time I fed him. Is it any wonder that he resented the sons foisted upon him? He was barely a man and he needed help. Instead we were sent to do the bloody work no one else could do. The bloody work we were admonished for, but I bet I could say his hands were drenched in less blood than yours.”

The statement drew his ire, if only briefly. It was not the number of bodies produced that should have mattered, it was the way they were produced. 

“And you don’t even know the worst part. No one knows, aside from me- Damn his eyes! You don’t even know that when he left Nostramo, when the greedy, silver-sucking bastards realised they had nothing to fear anymore- they poured their criminals, their murderers, their rapists into our ranks. That was the last thing I did as a Night Lord, true and proper. As a Captain of the Kyroptera I went to Nostramo and I saw what they were doing to us. I knew we needed help. I knew anything done internally would end up as butchery. I was going to ask for help. I was going to ask you for help.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but Cary continued. Their expression had turned from solemn acceptance to sharp anger, deep anger. 

“They fed a sick dog bad meat and were surprised when it turned rabid, when it turned upon their clutching hands. Sin upon sin, body upon body. Skraivok’s personal army inside the Legion- a cancer upon all of us. I know what happened to him, Corax. I know that he turned to Fulgrim in fear, seeking some kind of comfort from that which haunted him, and that compassionate Rogal Dorn confronted him. As if it was his fault, what he saw. As if he had any level of control over his visions. You called him a monster, but you- his brothers, you’re the ones who left him in the dark. Who left us to die.”

The resentment was clear, it punctuated every word. Corvus would have liked to have responded calmly, evenly. But Cary’s statements felt more like an attack than an admission of guilt. 

“You think his actions are excusable because he was infirm?” Corvus asked, voice strained. 

“None of our actions are excusable,” Cary retorted. “The Imperium stands on a trillion graves, and for what? For this? For vile zealotry? For the same prejudices we’ve been carrying for ten thousand years?”

They were correct, Throne damn them for it but they were right. The Imperium was just as sick as when he had left it, Roboute was trying, he was trying- even Cary was trying! Yet none of their efforts were enough. Nothing was enough. 

“I am beginning to question your loyalty, Kulikov.” 

“I was loyal, truly loyal, in the beginning. Loyal to your father’s dream, which lies decaying all around us. I am loyal to what your brother sees, his vision of what the Imperium could become. I am loyal to those who call on me as a brother. I am not loyal to terror. I am not loyal to bloody violence. I have no loyalty for chaos, which has warped so many of those whom I love and have loved. I have only disgust for those of my Legion who are currently squabbling over the possessions of a man long dead. I want you to tell me something honestly, Corvus,” they leaned forward as they spoke, desperately searching his face for something. 

The use of his first name took him off guard, it took him a fraction of a second to recover and he nodded. 

“If your sons had been declared Excommunicate Traitoris, could you truly turn your back on them? All of them? If they had called for you, like scared children in the dark?”

His anger rose steadily as he absorbed their words, even if in the back of his mind- Cary didn’t know. His eyes dropped to the desk in front of him and his hands shook. Cary was ignorant of the Raptors.They did not know what they were saying, what it meant to him. 

But he remembered his sons in pain. He remembered them as they lay twisted and broken and mutated and howling. Screaming. 

He looked up at them. Cary was almost bent double, bowed head and clasped hands like a dedicant. 

“I always knew you’d see through me, eventually,” Cary said. “That you’d see what I really was. I am a Night Lord. I will always be a Night Lord. My sins are indelible. Hála az ezüstnek… it’s you, in the end.” 

And then, to his horror, they started to pray.

“Hála az… égnek és az… ezüst ereknek,” they whispered between short, gasping breaths. 

He stood abruptly, cold shame crawling up his spine. He had lost control, the warp-thing that he truly was rising to the surface once more. 

Corvus came around the desk, intending to pull the Captain upright but he caught something- the sound of blood drops hitting the floor, and the iron smell of it. The Captain had pulled their hands away from their face, the fingertips of their gloves coming away dark red. 

He retrieved the medi-kit from the wall, opening it to find the saline solution and pushed Cary’s forehead upwards. Blood seeped from their eyes like tears and pores like sweat. Corvus tipped the bottle over their eyes and face, wiping away the worst of it with his thumbs.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to- I didn’t want to…” 

Cary reached up and patted his forearm with the weariness of someone who had heard it before.

“It’s okay,” they said. “You can’t help it, I know.” 

He clenched his jaw, but turned his face away from them so they wouldn’t see. Corvus could help it. He was a Primarch in charge of his own faculties and he should have been able to control his emotions. 

Corvus looked down, their robe was soaked with saline and blood. He swiftly removed his own.

“You robe is- you can have mine,” he said, awkwardly shoving the garment at them.

Cary vanished in the fabric and struggled with their own robe, he almost reached out to help them. Almost. But that would mean touching them, and Corvus knew he could not do that. 

They retrieved something from the pocket of their sodden robe, a pouch. Ah, yes. The other matter. 

“I’d like to see the datachip,” he said, as carefully as possible. 

They hesitated briefly, expression untrusting. He supposed he deserved that. But they tipped two small items from the pouch into their palm and handed over the datachip. Corvus looked at the other item, a jagged blackened thing, as large as the tip of a baseline finger. 

“Is that a tooth?” He asked, only able to identify it through the shape of the root. 

“Yes,” Cary said. 

He paused.

“Who’s tooth is that?”

Cary looked at him as if he was being purposefully dense. 

��I think you know.” 

He was unable to keep his expression neutral and Cary clicked their tongue at him. 

“In your father’s name, I can’t believe I’m being judged for this. Konrad walked around with a whole damn mortuary stapled to his armour and I’m getting mean-mugged by Corvus Corax for stealing a tooth,” Cary lamented, exaggerating their dismay. 

Their voice caught on the name, he had noticed that. They avoided using that name, the name their father had given the Night Haunter. A discomfort that made him curious. 

Cary dragged on his robes, which swallowed them. He ignored the small, almost smug feeling that curled in his chest that seeing Cary in his robes. Now was not the time for personal matters. There would likely never be a time for personal matters. 

He took the datachip to his desk, finding a dataslate in one of the drawers. Corvus sat in his desk chair and plugged in the chip, watching as strings of Nostraman runes filled the screen. He could have sat there and waited until his mind simply comprehended the language, as it had done to so many spoken languages before. Instead, Corvus spoke.

“I’ve come across an issue,” he said, looking at Cary. 

The Captain frowned at him, confused. 

“I never learned to read Nostraman,” he admitted. 

“Are you shitting me,” Cary replied, fixing him with a flat, disappointed look Corvus suspected they reserved for unruly neophytes. 

“It will take me a few minutes to properly work out and translate,” he admitted, Cary clicked their tongue again derisively. “However I happen to be sitting in front of a literal Nostraman.”

He turned the dataslate towards them, and Cary pulled their chair forward, eyes already scanning the screen. 

“And now you ask me to sell out my own?” They asked, hollowly. 

The question itself was painful, as was the guilt. They believed he was asking them to tell him so that he could use it against the ones who had found them at great personal risk- Cary’s sons. Their tone was that of one ordered to betray their own. 

“I’m asking you to trust me that I won’t,” Corax said, swallowing his duty. “I’m trusting you to tell me what it says.” 

Cary glanced up at him, the action only noticeable for the movement of the muscles around their eyes. Their shoulders lost some of the tension they had been holding. 

“They’re personal vox codes, comms codes for a couple of ships. The Echo’s are on there, along with a couple others. It’s all communication related, basically. I think that there might be the Atramentar’s teleportation frequency. That’s an emergency beacon signal,” they said, pointing to the various long strings of Nostraman runes. 

“They want you to be in touch with them,” he thought, aloud. 

“I don’t think they’re expecting me to spy for them, if that’s what you’re thinking,” they said. 

He hadn’t, another pang of guilt. Cary expected him to have lost all faith in them. 

“I think they just… Want me to call them if I need them,” Cary said, voice tinged with sad affection. 

“They don’t trust the company you’re in now?” He asked, in mock offence. 

Cary laughed a little. It was dry and tired, but genuine at least. 

“I won’t keep you much longer, there’s only one more thing I wanted to ask about,” he continued. 

Cary looked at him, eyebrows raised and expression open. The lone Atramentar, the one Cary had named. 

“Grisha,” he said. 

Cary crumpled forward and for a split second he panicked, a jolt of adrenaline almost making him rise. They leaned on the desk heavily, carded a hand through their short hair. 

“My brother,” they said. “My little brother. I- I didn’t know he had been taken. I thought he died, he was always so sick. I have to believe they didn’t know- Curze and Sevatar. Didn’t know he was taken.” 

Cary’s sorrows went far beyond their Primarch and their Night Lords- they had human ties. There was a whole life he wasn’t privy to, no matter that he had listened to their account. Once again he was confronted with the fact that he didn’t really know Cary as well as he thought he did. 

“Cary, I am so sorry,” he said, gently. 

He meant to stand, to offer them comfort. But they looked up and looked decades older. 

“Can I go?” They asked, quietly. “Today has been a trial.” 

He nodded.

“Yes, Theodanius mentioned something about the sorcerer,” he started, but Cary shook their head, already starting to stand.

“I’m haunted by enough ghosts as it is, and I’d rather not wake them,” the upward tilt at the corners of their mouth suggested that this was supposed to be a dry observation, but their tone made it more of a solemn statement. 

He wondered what he could say, what comfort could he possibly offer them? Corvus had no idea. He had also lost sons, he had also lost brothers, but Cary looked exhausted. Drained. Their eyes had dropped to the floor again, unable to meet his. 

“Go rest,” he said. 

Cary nodded and left without another word or look. Once they had left, he rubbed his face with both hands. Cary’s sons had died, and they had not been permitted to mourn them. That was why they had gone, to find out which child lived and which child had died and which child had become something monstrous. 

They had assumed he would kill them, and he admonished himself for even thinking they would suspect otherwise. Of course Cary thought he would kill them. He was a Primarch and they were an Astartes who had abandoned a mission to treat with traitors. Marines had been executed for less. They had accepted their death so calmly, so easily. It was a far cry from the Captain who had fought so hard their whole damn life to survive. 

Thank the silver it’s you, in the end. A Nostraman oath. In their delirium they had returned to comforting beliefs, that was how far their acceptance stretched. They believed they were going to die in that room, and had prayed for themselves. 

He looked down at the dataslate again, the Nostraman already becoming clear to him. Cary had spoken the truth, communication codes, squad tags. He had not yet alerted his men to the Echo of Damnation, though he knew where it was hiding. 

Corvus remembered them kneeling, the oversized skull in their hands and how they had wept. Cary’s sons had died, and so had their Primarch. They had not been able to mourn either of them. 

He would not give them more names to mourn.

[stellargh0ul]

Hey! This is my first tumblr request ^^I’m not sure if you write platonic fics so feel free to ignore this! I’ve been scavenging the web for platonic fics for years 🥀

But could you maybe write something where there’s a young sibling of sin who can’t sleep due to anxiety and frater comforts them? It can be gender neutral too. I find it hard to sleep at night and copia is such a comfort character to me and I would be totally read it with a face like this “😸”

Okay I’m sort of rambling now but that’s basically it :P

Tysm^^

I do platonic a lot actually! I'd say it's about 50/50ish, but i'm always happy to do them. I went with a child, since you said young and i'm a sucker for a man who's good with kids.

-

he isn’t expecting the movement outside his office door in the middle of the night to be a child.

Copia looks up from his desk and peers at the door, squinting as though he’d seen wrong. a curious face again peers around the corner, poking into the room to catch a peek at what he’s doing.

when it sees Frater Imperator looking back at them, the child freezes in place. they stare at each other for several long seconds, locked in a stalemate, before he sighs and goes to get up from behind his desk.

the movement seems to break the spell and the child goes running, little bare feet smacking against the marble-tiled floor. but Copia can be quick when he wants to be and he’s at the door mere moments later, calling for the child to stop.

luckily for him- his quickness does not extend to running more than a few feet- the child listens to him. they’re wearing a set of black pajamas, the kinds the novice siblings of sin are given to sleep in, and while he doesn’t recognize their face from around the Ministry, that means little. there were always children in need of a home arriving.

“i’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be out of bed,” the child says, their eyes fixed on the hem of Copia’s robes as he walks up beside them. “I was… I couldn’t sleep so I went for a walk. but I got lost…”

“come then,” Frater Imperator says, holding his hand out to the child. he doesn’t think they look older than eight. “I’ll take you back to bed.”

the little hand is small in his as they go. Copia doesn’t say much- he doesn’t know this child and doesn’t know what would be comforting to them, but from the way they’re clinging on to his hand, they must have been wandering lost for a while. long enough that they’d been frightened.

“how are you liking the ministry so far?” he asks as they walk and the little child starts before they glance up at him.

“everyone is very nice to me. and the other kids have been nice too.”

“good, good. I am glad to hear this. if you ever have a problem with them, tell them that Frater Imperator will come and set them straight again.”

the child nods emphatically.

“you’re Frater Imperator?”

“I am.”

he has, for a moment, the same sort of feeling he got seeing children when he was Papa Emeritus IV- this child obviously looks up to him.

“…can I ask you a question, Frater?”

“of course.”

quiet, for a long moment. they’re nearly at the children’s dorms so he slows his steps to allow this child time to think.

“…do you ever worry about stuff?”

“do I ever worry about what kind of stuff…?”

“…just, I don’t know. stuff. like, everything.”

he purses his lips, looking down at his small companion.

“…I worry about a lot of things. there is a lot to do to keep the Ministry running. but you, my friend, you are a child. you should not have so many worries that they keep you awake at night.”

the child cringes and he knows he’s hit the nail on the head.

“…I can’t help it.”

“alright. how about this- in exchange for walking you back to the dorms, you do something for me.”

“what do you want me to do?”

he kneels so that they’re face to face, bringing their hands together tightly.

“tell the sister in the morning about your anxieties, alright? perhaps she can help you. perhaps we can figure out something so that a child like you doesn’t have to wander around at night worrying.”

“…okay, Frater.”

“good. this is where we’ll say good night now, alright, dear?”

he gestures towards where the children’s wing starts and the child lights up, nodding emphatically.

“thank you!”

“it was no trouble. if you do find yourself wandering at night again, you are always welcome in my office. I am usually awake.”

he watches the child head back into the halls of the dorms for a moment longer before turning to head back to his office. his own worries are still pressing.