#how dangerous would it be to get too close to the seam?

[foreingersgod]

Let’s Stay Home . EE

pairing: emily engstler x reader

synopsis: just a small fic about how your girl is absolutely infatuated with you

A/N: this was a request, but i accidentally deleted it! so if you requested emily x girly!reader, this was meant for you love!

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“baby, our reservation is in like 35 minutes” emily called from her seat at the edge of your shared bed “we gotta go!”

“i know, i know! im hurrying” you called back, voice muffled behind the connecting bathrooms door.

you were stowed away in the bathroom still trying to make sure your makeup and hair were flawless all while trying to pull up your dress past your thighs. it was your 2 year anniversary with emily tonight and she had made plans to take you out to a nice dinner to celebrate, but now you were about to be late because of this damn dress. it was a stunning thing, a deep blue calf length gown that hugged you just right. the neckline was a bit revealing for your taste, but was partially covered by a strip of satin that crossed the top of your breasts and cascaded off your right shoulder. it’s only downside was the stupid zipper that wouldn’t budge.

“emily can you help me get this up? and maybe help me put this necklace on? i can’t do it” you huffed, stumbling out the door as you tried to slip on your heels. a simple necklace dangled from between your fingers as you latched the strap of your shoe.

“YN” she had said, standing but not moving, biting her lip.

“what?” you pouted upon seeing her expression “is it too much? ugh, i knew i should have gone with a different dress”

“no, baby” she finally walked over to stand behind you, tattooed hands finding the zipper of the dress “you look stunning”

you smiled, relieved that she had liked it after all. “thank you”

without a response, she pulled the zipper up to the top making sure it was secure. you handed her the necklace, giving her those eyes you knew she couldn’t resist. but you didn’t have to. she would do anything you asked no matter how silly it was. emily draped the gem studded necklace around your neck, clasping it with ease.

her hands lingered on you to keep you in place. they wandered from the back of your neck to your shoulders, moving painfully slow. her touch sent shivers throughout your body. calloused hands roamed any bare spot of skin making you close your eyes in contentment. she was your weakness.

“what happened to hurrying up?” you remarked as her head dipped down, lips connecting with the skin her hands once graced.

she placed wet kisses along your soft skin, hands now falling to your torso. her finger tips teased at dangerous territory, just along the undersides of your breasts. your dressed bunched up around your hips as she grabbed at you desperately.

“mmm” she sighed, pulling you against her forcing your backside to mold into her perfectly “maybe we should stay home”

yea, let’s stay home you wanted to say. but you had been waiting for this night all week and you just wanted to spend some (rare) quality time with your girl.

“no, i really want to go” you said, forcing yourself to turn in her arms so you could face her. “you went through all that trouble for the reservation and i wanna spend time with you!”

she squeezed her eyes shut, throwing her head back dramatically. all you could muster was an eye roll as you clutched her biceps.

“plus,” you purred, making her look down at you curiously “the surprise i had for tonight would be ruined”

“surprise?” her eyebrow quirked.

you placed your hands over hers, nodding your head in conformation. she let you take full control of her as you dragged her hands down the sides of your body over the blue satin, fingers trailing over the seams. you could sense her breathe hitch in her throat when she realized. hands reaching the plump of your rear, feeling the outline of lace underwear underneath your gown.

“don’t want to spoil it do you?” you leaned in to whisper in her ear, nipping at the lobe.

“no” she croaked out, cheeks going warm with a deep scarlet “no, you’re right, let’s go”

you smiled in satisfaction, proud of your little stunt. she found the small of your back to guide you out of your room and to the car. it was easy to tell by the way she held you that she wasn’t going to end the night without that surprise.

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A/N: yay!! my first emily fic!! feedback is much appreciated :)

[peachesofteal]

Oh god - I’m still stuck on this.

18+ MDNI / explicit sex, dark and twisted themes

I've been thinking a lot about Simon Riley who doesn't want the divorce.

Simon who never wanted to be separated, who hates living apart. Simon, who would drag you to a tattoo artist to get your ring permanently inked to your skin so you could never be rid of him, if he could. He’s been actively avoiding the stack of papers that are waiting for his signature, staying on longer Ops, picking up extra work.

Can’t be divorced if there’s no signature.

Simon, who unbeknownst to you, still comes home. Still pushes open the back door in the dead of night, keeping his steps silent so he doesn't wake you. Simon, who stands in the doorway of your bedroom, his old bedroom, and watches you sleep on his side of the bed in those little, ratty shorts with your ass perked up in the air like you're waiting for him. Like you’re ripe, and ready.

Simon, who checks your birth control every night. Who’s pleased when he realizes this month’s pack hasn’t even been opened, every color coded pill still in place, foil glinting at him in the low light of the vanity.

Good girl, he thinks to himself, shutting your medicine cabinet with a silent click. Getting yourself all ready for him.

Simon, who agrees to meet you for dinner.

"Let's just sign and get it over with. We can catch up, too. Talk about what we want to do with the house."

"Alright, love. Whatever you want."

You're a bundle of nerves when he shows up, seated at a little table in the back, glass of wine already half gone.

Normally, he'd try to soothe you. You've always been naturally anxious, a little dependent, and in a social setting, a little high strung. He's well versed in navigating your emotions, calming you into a relaxed state with a few words or a reassuring touch.

But this time, he doesn't bother. He sits there with his arms crossed, watching you nervously chatter away, one hand flat on a manilla envelope. He stays quiet, letting you go on, watching your hands seek something to do, fingers finding your wine glass over and over.

You drink two glasses of wine before the entrees are served, dangerously close to your usual self imposed "three drink" limit.

One thing bleeds into another. You start to lean a little, in your chair. He nurses a bourbon, you order a shot after the meal.

"Want one?" Your tongue follows the seam of the lime wedge, dabbing along the spongy, white fibers before your teeth sink into the flesh of it, lime juice squirting across your tongue.

“You know I don’t like tequila, but you go on.”

You’re a bit sloppy by the time he gets you home, but still sweet like honey, like you used to be years ago. Before everything changed. Before you asked him to move out.

You’re giggly, excited when he bends you over the kitchen table, the kitchen table where you used to eat together, breakfast for dinner when he’d come home, waffles and bacon at one in the morning.

You don’t protest when he slides your skirt down your hips and over your ass, thumbs spreading you wide to reveal your glistening cunt, twitching and desperate.

“My poor girl, has it been so long?” He cooed, relishing in the way you moaned with your lips on the wood. He knows it has, knows you haven’t been with anyone since the last time he fucked you, months and months ago, on the night you asked for the divorce. “Don’t worry, I’m gon’ take care of you and this neglected little pussy.”

“You have to pull out.” You slurred, breath hot, fogging against the finish of the table. “Promise.” He grunts something under his breath, nonsense, but you can’t tell the difference, and when he slides inside your scorching cunt, you howl, breath hitching with the stretch.

Bleedin’ Christ. You’re so tight, so wet, soaked enough that it sticks to the curls around the base of his cock. How could he ever give this up?

“That’s it.” He kisses your shoulder, pressing his chest to your back with his weight, pinning you in place, his hands clamping down around your wrists like shackles. “Squeeze me tight, good girl. Show me-“ Show me how you’re going to hold my come in your tight little pussy once I fill you- comes to mind, but he bites his tongue instead, not willing to tip you off too soon.

To have and to hold.

“Simooon.” You sing, hips start to push back with him, fucking yourself onto his cock, chasing him, chasing your pleasure, mouth half open with the little pants and whines that are music to his ears. He keeps you pinned, flat against the table, fingers between your legs, stroking your clit, shoving you closer to your orgasm, delightfully pleased by the way your pussy pulses around him.

“Come on.” He urges, big hand between you and the table, pressing against your lower belly, still tapping away at your clit, indulging in the trembling of your legs.

“Fuck- fuck, Si.” You cry, clenching down around him with your orgasm, voice breaking.

“There it is… what a good girl.” He hisses, keeping his pace, pushing deeper and deeper until he’s notching himself nearly inside your womb. It’s overwhelming for you, he knows, but he doesn’t stop swirling his fingers around your clit, zapping electric pulses through body.

“Nngh Si. Too- ooh it’s- it’s too much.” You wail, a tear on your cheek, and he nods, nosing above your ear.

“You’re doing so good for me, so perfect.” It’s whispered with a groan, hands stroking your hip, keeping your steady, in place. “Just need a little more, just- just a little, I’m gonna-“

“What-” You ask, more with it now that you recognize the edge he’s riding, the roughness in his voice clueing you in to where he is, but he sends you back into orbit, pressing your clit and working you in circles. “Oh, oh.” Your hips rock, and he moves with the momentum, fucking into you faster, grunting the truth as he speeds towards the cliff, desperate to drive the car over the edge, eager to change the course of his life, your life, his marriage.

“Take it.” He spits, wide palm spread across your shoulder. Everything in him tightens, fire spreading through his veins, pressure rising in his body like a fucking tea kettle, about to scream out a whistle. He’s going to breed you, fuck you deep with his come and put a baby inside you, give you what you wanted years ago, the thing that made you cry alone in the middle of the night whenever he refused.

Well, he’s going to give it to you now.

“Fuck- here it comes.” You rock again, half lost to the world, eyes glazed over in pleasure, spasming around his cock with your second orgasm. He slams into you, burying deep and you keen, fingers gripping the edge of the table, his hips flush with yours like a lock.

And he’ll throw away the key.

His phone dings with a text, two days later.

“Still mad at you… Can we please meet up about these signatures?”

This became a full fic here.

[ozzgin]

Yandere! CoD Headcanons: König x Reader x Ghost (II)

“Sharing is caring” is likely familiar to most, though the nuances of it may sometimes differ beyond the classic expectations. You’re trapped between two jealous, possessive and feverishly infatuated men with no escape in your sight. That implies, of course, you’ve been looking for a way out of this bizarre partnership. Have you? Be honest…

TW: NSFW, obsessive behavior, size kink, violence

Tags: @223princess

[Part I]

Yet another classic rule that comes with your job is to always be ready to deal with the unexpected. Plan as well as you may, the battleground is not as generous as to stick to your schedule. Yet the same principle applies out of combat, too. It’s just…you had’t really imagined such an outcome to be possible. Your extensive training covered most scenarios, from raids, to ambushes, natural disasters, everything except, well, this. You wonder if the code of conduct might include a paragraph about work romance, specifically your teammates taking turns to fuck you shamelessly at any hour of the day.

You gaze at your reflection in the slightly fogged mirror and quickly look away, embarrassed. You can’t bear to see the markings that are peppered all over your body, betraying the depraved activities you’ve indulged in for the past weeks. How did it even come to this? You sit on the edge of the bed, drying your hair, and hesitantly replay the event in your head. Your helpless form crouched on the storage floor, looking up at the two large men gripping at each other’s throats. Behind their masks you could sense their ferocious intent to kill. How would you explain it to your superiors? You gathered up your remaining confidence and barked at them to stop at once. They were indeed taken aback by your sudden yell that could’ve put any drill sergeant to shame. You wanted to get to the bottom of the conflict and put all this bullshit behind as soon as possible. Until they offered you the honest cause of their hostile rivalry. You could only stare in disbelief.

Your first instinct was to wonder if this was some sort of elaborate prank. What the hell, were they a bunch of high schoolers learning to handle their first crush or fucking grown adults in the middle of a military operation? You were never oblivious to it: mixed gender missions always came with a lot of casual hookups to blow off steam. Not your thing, but there’s plenty of other people down to it. Your suggestion was met with angry, vehement refusal. Both Ghost and König were outraged at the insinuation they’d put their dicks in some rando, as if that’s all there was to it. As if anyone else would do. Ironically this is where they found their common ground. König had lifted you nonchalantly by the collar of your uniform and asked you if you’re playing dumb. You could only shrug, even more confused. Ghost joined him and explained, casually and matter-of-fact, that you can call it a hookup as long as you remember it’s a lifelong arrangement. You were to walk out that door with the knowledge you belong to them and they would take any necessary steps to ensure your compliance. The hunting knife that was meant to plunge into his rival was now propped under your chin, dangerously close to your throbbing artery.

Now this should’ve been your sign to nod obediently, pack your suitcase at the earliest convenience and get the hell out. And that was your honest intent, initially. You could almost visualize the documents granting your absence from duty. Then you felt your buttons pop from their seams, forcefully ripped apart by König’s large hand. It occurred to you that you were propped against the wall by two men twice your size. You could hear their now labored breaths, muffled by their masks. The Austrian man roughly readjusted your posture, having you rest against his hips and throwing your legs around his waist. You gasped quietly once you sensed a bulge pressing into you. He fumbled with his zipper, but Ghost interrupted him with an irritated scolding. “You can’t just ram it in, you fucking dumbass.” You didn’t take long to understand the meaning and shivered at the thought. Without a warning, Ghost slid his hand into your now unbuckled pants. Two fingers begun pressing circles over your underwear and an unconscious whine escaped your lips. Satisfied by your reaction, he brought himself closer and increased the pace until he felt the moisture pooling in the fabric, which was enough encouragement to gently slip his way inside of you. In an attempt to help, König lowered his head over your breasts, fondling your now sensitive nipples with his tongue. His mask draped over your skin, adding a mild tickle to the overwhelming buildup. You suddenly remembered the storage no longer had a door after König kicked it out of its hinges, so you tried to push the muscular man away. “W-what if someone comes in?” Against your will and to your surprise, the question rolled out like a prolonged moan and you blushed awkwardly. “They won’t, if you shut up.” Ghost responded curtly. He considered it for a moment, and added smugly: “Don’t worry, that pretty mouth of yours will be real busy soon.” You closed your eyes tightly and prayed you wouldn’t be caught.

And you weren’t. You got away with it. That time, and the other time, and all the other times. At this point you question whether your other teammates truly haven’t noticed or have since learned to look away. Another possibility is that the psychotic duo has threatened the others into silence. Given their cocky attitude whenever you protest about the openness or risky timing, it wouldn’t surprise you at all. Even worse, their libido seems to be increasing exponentially as a consequence to their incessant competition of owning you. They seem to be plagued by a delirious need to have you at all times, and you’re rather afraid to admit that your desire to flee is slowly being replaced by a similar addiction. Rabid dogs in heat. That’s the only analogy that comes to mind.

Last time you didn’t even get the chance to return to the base. The soldiers had exited the truck, cheering their success and marching towards the gate. König had been quiet the entire ride, not even bothering to hide his ardent stare, his eyes hooded with lust. You were about to hop off yourself when you felt his burning grip on your wrist, pulling you back in and onto his lap. Oh, how he loves fucking you like this. His toned legs are sprawled out dominantly and his calloused hands guide you over his erection. No matter how many times you do it, the start is always painful. He’s just that big. But that’s his favorite part. Seeing you wince and tear up, holding your stomach as if shielding it from the foreign object assaulting the walls of your frail body. Then the thrusts become smoother and your movements break into an erratic pleading for more. He wants to witness it all. God, you turn him into a wild animal. His fingers dig into your skin and towards the end you’re a whimpering mess, shamelessly drooling over his uniform in a daze. As you coat him with your slick cum, he grunts and barely manages to speak. “Fuck, I’m gonna lose my mind for good one of these days.” His voice is deep and reverberates against your heaving chest.

Scratch that. Last time you didn’t even make it to the truck. You were laying behind a boulder, wiping the sweat and dirt off your face. You’d just finished taking out your targets and announced your return in the headset. Ghost approaches you with a hidden smirk and squats before you, extending a hand towards you. “Need help?” You nod with gratitude and take off your helmet. You reach for his hand, hoping he’d pull you up, but instead his fingers claw around your throat and push you against the ground. “Good, I have the perfect thing for a little slut like you.” He climbs over you without letting go of your neck and undoes your jacket with ease. Hell, he’s been doing it so often he could manage even blindfolded. With the free hand he shoves one of your legs away to make space. Truth be told, he’s very much biased towards this particular arrangement. He can already feel the unbearable pressure of his member waiting to be freed. He adores being able to take all of you in. Your expression, your small body trapped under his massive frame. He can fuck you as he pleases, until you turn into a rag doll, and there’s no way out. You grit your teeth in anticipation and hold onto his arm that’s choking you once he goes in. You must’ve been molded just for him. There’s no other explanation for his feral clinginess, scratching and biting and pulling in desperate, agonizing pleasure. After the deed has been done he can admire his masterful work, gazing lovingly at your flustered, disheveled form, gasping for air and dripping with his seed.

Your shake your head and try to chase away these perverted memories. You’re still damp from the shower and continue massaging your scalp with the towel, when you hear a knock on your door. Oh, no. No. “Busy!” is all you manage to shout. The door opens nonetheless and Ghost and König waltz in, entirely indifferent to your refusal. “Can’t I have one moment to myself?” You groan, frustrated. König leans against the wall and Ghost kneels in front of you. There’s a hint of cheekiness in his voice. “Sure. Tell us to go away and we will.” You blink and ponder his words. Remembering all the past encounters has gotten you a little bit eager, that’s true, but… “Say it.” He repeats himself. You squirm and look away, a deep red spreading across your face. Your lips are pursed. König lets out a soft laugh and closes the door, then faces you. “Since you wanted to be a brat, you have to beg for it now.”

What have you gotten yourself into?

[garoujo]

THEY WALK IN ON YOU MASTURBATING — JUJUTSU KAISEN

feat : gojo satoru, geto suguru, itadori yuuji, fushiguro megumi + nanami kento

♱ warnings — f!reader, masturbating, aged!up characters, teasing, guided masturbation, oral receiving.

♱ note — hewo i couldn’t get satoru’s scenario of this out my head so i decided to make it into some hcs :’>

・✶ ｡ﾟGOJO SATORU

you’d tried waiting until satoru came home, but you were so needy and he’d left for a mission before you’d woken up — meaning you’d missed out on the usual good morning you’d receive from his fingers and touch. so now you’re just left with your own, not realising that being the strongest means he finished his missions early …

it’s frustrating, the way your fingers are circling your clit — desperate, needy movements that make your brows furrow but it’s not enough. what you want is satoru’s movements, the way his slender fingers would glide over your clit, back and forth calculated strokes over the puffy bud, spreading your folds to smirk at the way you glisten for him as you shoot him a wide, starry-eyed look that has his cock twitching between his thighs. but maybe it’s the cloud of lust that distracts you from the way your bedroom door opens a few seconds later.

“oh? well don’t let me stop you, sweet girl.” satoru grunts from his place in the doorway when you snap your head up at the sound, pulling an almost teasing, dangerous grin from the snowy haired sorcerer as he approaches you with big steps. it’s so cute the way you close your thighs around your hand, doe-eyed as you blink at him under your lashes and the look alone has him unbuttoning the high collar of his jacket, suddenly feeling too warm under the stuffy fabric as his cock strains against his slacks. “‘toru, i missed you.” you moan quietly, feeling his fingers swirl down one of your thighs and he gives you a long, crystalline look when he watches them spread wider at the touch.

“yeah, is that right? then show me how much, princess.” satoru’s voice lowers, his change in tone and the heavy look he sends you makes the humid air in the room seem even warmer as you whimper, watching him fish his cock out of his slacks as he kneels between your spread thighs. it’s almost mean the way he moans, low and shameless as he wraps his free hand around the base of his cock, giving it a few rough strokes as you trail your hand between your thighs under his watchful gaze. your fingers rub under the hood of your clit, splitting through your folds to smear your slick along the sensitive bud but you still want him, feeling him pet your body mindlessly as he twitches against his palm, watching frustrated tears cling to your pretty lashes. “that’s it, too sweet .. you gonna cry f’ me?”

・✶ ｡ﾟGETO SUGURU

geto was enamoured by you always and he left you more than satisfied, but sometimes when he’d leave to run errands or go out with satoru — you missed his touch, especially when there’s a throbbing between your thighs and you have to desperately try to mimic it yourself, not realising he’s just got home.

you twitch and sigh as your fingers roll your clit, sinking them into your walls as your breathing picks up, soft pants falling from your lips while you imagine the touch being suguru’s and remembering all the ways he knew your body best. but you don’t have to think long before you hear the very person’s deep tone rumble from the open doorway, the sound alone making the desire twist in your core.

“look at you, pretty girl.” he groans, dark eyes barely open from where he’s looking down at you spread out on his bed, and suguru swears the sight alone has his mind feeling like it’s unravelling at the seams. it feels like it takes forever for him to approach you, feeling the mattress beneath you dip under his weight as he looms over you — pressing his heavy chest against your own until your all but pinned under his weight and he’s kissing you. you feel one of his big hands smooth along the back of your neck to pull you close as the other trails between your thighs, rubbing your quickly warming pussy against his hand until your wiggling into the touch.

“see, you’re so pretty.” suguru moans as his cock throbs against you, but he’s so lost in how you look beneath him — humping into his hand and rocking against his touch until he’s sinking two of his fingers into your pussy, groaning when he’s not met with much resistance. he kisses you again, and again, pushing as close as he can get while he works your body with unrelenting but soft touches, rolling your clit with his thumb as his chest vibrates against yours with a growl. “should’ve called me sooner, baby.”

・✶ ｡ﾟITADORI YUUJI

it was itadori’s fault really, disappearing to the gym early only to end up sending you gym selfies — not realising that the sheen of sweat across his chest and the bulge you can see through his tiny gym shorts has you biting your lip, your fingers suddenly snaking their way underneath your panties.

your eyes squeeze shut as your fingers flick quickly across your clit, squinting slightly at the photo of your shirtless boyfriend on your screen as you let your eyes glance over his well trained physique, all muscle and hard work evident in the hard cuts of his muscles and the deep v that travels low into his gym shorts — your skin feeling warmer at the memory of what’s hidden underneath the thin material.

but itadori isn’t discreet when he returns home to you spread out so prettily on his bed for him, the low lull of a groan that echoes from somewhere deep in his chest snapping you from your hormone-fuelled daze as he gazes at you with drowsy, wide eyes of his own. “baby?” he breathes, a carnal drop in his tone when his eyes focus on the place between your thighs where your fingers are still stuffed into your pretty pussy, and it’s almost too fast the way he approaches you, hooking his forearms under your thighs until he’s pulling you to the edge of the bed and dropping to his knees.

“you didn’t wait for me, baby.” itadori whines as he smears messy kisses along your inner thighs, only taking a few moments to look up at you before he’s nudging your hand aside with his head and replacing it with his tongue as he buries himself in your pussy. it’s messy and eager the way he eats you out, panting against your glistening cunt with each swipe of his tongue before he’s sinking it into you, alternating between fucking you with the muscle and trailing it over your puffy clit with strong licks, groaning when he feels your fingertips twist in his hair to force him closer as you cry out for him, hips twitching under his hungry ministrations. it’s so lewd when yuuji pulls away, gliding two of his thick fingers through your folds before he’s spreading you — already flushed and fucked out as he admires your slick folds. “why didn’t you send me a picture?”

・✶ ｡ﾟFUSHIGURO MEGUMI

maybe it had been a little deliberate just so you could rile him up a little, megumi was cute when he was caught off guard so when he’d run to the convenience store — you decided it would nice to see his reaction when he returns home to your legs spread while you roll your puffy clit.

you feel something dangerous spark along your nerves when you hear the front door of your apartment close, deliberately sinking your fingers into your pussy to glide along the swollen spots that have a dreamy whine of your boyfriends name dripping from your lips, just as he pushes open the bedroom door. but it’s almost funny the way megumi falls stiff, eyes wide and a deep blush travelling from his cheeks to under the collar of his shirt, watching him try to hide it behind his hand as he covers his eyes.

“w-what’re you doing?” megumi swallows, a trembling undercurrent to his tone but you can still see the way he looks at you from under his lashes, his fingers cracking open ever so slightly to allow him to see the spread of your cunt around your fingers, his cock already uncomfortable hard in his pants. “i just missed you ‘gumi, need help.” you sigh, deliberately twisting your hips until you break into a lusty laugh when you watch him pout but approach you anyway, his eyes just catching yours so you can see the way his pupils are blown with desire.

“why, what’s—uh, wrong?” megumi pants when he feels your fingers wrap around his wrist, guiding him between your thighs until he’s petting through your folds, whimpering when he hears the sweet sound the light touch pulls from your lips. it’s not the first time you’ve both been intimate, but he still feels something burst and heat along his neck and shoulders whenever he has you like this, so addictive and intoxicating, so responsive when you wiggle and twitch at every swipe of his fingers. megumi leans over you to kiss you once on the cheeks, suddenly feeling too warm under his shirt as he rubs your clit with two fingers, propping himself up right with his other hand so he can watch your reactions as you cast him a needy glance. “more ‘gumi!”

・✶ ｡ﾟNANAMI KENTO

he’d come home late and the way the top few buttons of his shirt were undone, paired with the messier style of his hair after a long day had you slick with want — but he looked tired and you didn’t want to bother your doting boyfriend, so you decided to take matters into your own hands while he took a quick shower.

you knew he was tired when you heard the disgruntled sigh that sounded from the doorway when he entered your apartment, so now here you were — spread out on your bed while your boyfriend showered, your fingers rubbing over your clit a few times as you feel a familiar, warming heat curl it’s way up your core and down your thighs.

your eyes only flutter open to catch nanami’s sleepy-eyed glance when he suddenly appears in the doorway, towel wrapped around his waist and despite your embarrassment you still don’t miss the way his breath catches, and you feel your pussy ache when he looks at you. “what’re you doing, sweetheart?” he sighs, but there’s no annoyance to his tone despite the way it drops, it sounds rich and deep, and it makes you drip warm between your legs with each step he takes towards you. “you were tired, kento.” you reply, brain hazy with the need to satisfy yourself and you swear you see nanami’s cock twitch behind the fabric of his towel from where he’s stood beside the bed.

“not anymore.” he groans, leaning over to clasp your jaw between his fingers before he’s kissing you, flexing his hand into your skin when you push back against him, and the soft needy sound that leaves you has nanami ridding himself of his towel to push his way between your thighs instead. the sudden smack of his cock against your thigh makes you jump, twisting your hips when he rests his huge palms against your waist and kisses you again, hungrier this time and hes breathing as heavy as you are. you feel his cock smear pre-cum along your skin, thick and heavy where it rests against your thigh and you can’t help but seek more, hooking your legs around his hips to grind him closer as he reaches between you to grab his cock. “you know i can’t say no to you.”

© 2022 garoujo. please do not copy any of my layouts or writing and translate or repost onto any other sites.

[johnwickb1tsch]

Yandere Tex x Reader x John Wick WIP Part 5!

Ready evil geniuses? @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake

John lets you rest after wrecking you for the umpteenth time, disappearing off somewhere. You put off leaving the bedroom for as long as you can, but in the end you can't stand it anymore. You rummage in the closet for a new shirt. Your choices are black, black, and you'll never guess... black. 

This house must belong to John.

How many safe houses does that man have?

When you walk out of the bedroom in your new getup you find Tex in the living room watching TV. He raises an eyebrow at you. 

“We have got to get you some clothes, baby girl.”

You shrug. The boxer t-shirt combo is actually pretty comfy.

You think you might make your way to the kitchen, but Tex snaps his fingers at you as you try to walk past.

You turn to look at him with a raised brow. 

“Can I help you?”

That was the wrong thing to say, obviously. 

His grin is that of a hungry wolf. 

“I bet you can. C'mere, darlin'.”

You sigh, but after your little lesson with John, you're not quite so inclined to defy him. 

Yet.

You're going to have to get smarter about how you expend your energy. 

Easier said than done. 

You pad over next to him. He pats his thigh in invitation, but you opt to sit next to him instead. This lasts for about two seconds, before he hauls you into his lap with his big hands and his strong arms.

Goddammit.

“That's better,” he says with a sly grin, holding you close. 

You take a moment to look at him—really look at him, from up close. The sweep of his almond shaped eyes, his high cheek bones and the short scruff of his beard. He stares back at you, unabashedly. 

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He narrows his eyes at you, bumping his forehead with yours. You wish it wasn't adorable. Fucking man child, making you feel things.

“Wanna watch tv?”

It beat anything else he could dream up, so you agree. You hadn't forgot that he still owed you for your flipping of the bird earlier. You're sure he hasn't either. 

He turns on some stupid gratuitous action flick, and you kind of zone out. Your thoughts drift to John, and the things he told you in-between fucking you silly. 

He'd said that he and Tex would not take on the FBI just for a plaything, or a whore. Deep down, you knew what that meant. 

It meant, they had no real intention of letting you go. The thought filled you with equal parts dread—and wonder. 

Why the fuck would not one, but two fine ass men like this want you, for keeps? It's beyond your comprehension—and if you're honest, kind of flattering. Bat shit fucking crazy, but flattering.

Either that, or it's just...convenient. Your circumstances created a perfect storm from which to snatch you without a trace or a person to care about getting you back.

"Want to see somethin'?" asks Tex, interrupting your reverie.

"Okay?"

He clicks play on the remote once he has your attention. You watch as a 1970s muscle car jumps an impossible ramp, then lands roughly on the other side of a canal. "That was me."

You lift an eyebrow, looking back at him. "In the car?"

"Yeah."

He's grinning like a little kid, clearly proud. 

"You were a stunt man?"

"Uh huh."

You tilt your head, trying to put pieces together and failing. The square block is not fitting in the circle hole. 

"Then why...?"

"Killin' people pays better, believe me. Less dangerous, too."

A chill runs down your spine. 

"Oh."

Your gaze drifts away, but he turns it back to him with a hand on your chin. Those jet black eyes bore into yours, like he can see into your soul. His eyes flick down to your mouth, a moment before he leans in to kiss you. Your first instinct is to offer teeth, before you remember if you have to have sex one more time in the next twenty-four hours, you might literally die. You slip your tongue into the seam of his lips, and feel him smile against your mouth. 

"Mmm. A man could get used to this."

He slides his hand up your thigh, fingertips sneaking past the loose hem of your boxer shorts. 

You wrap your fingers around his, praying. "Tex, please."

"Like the sound of that," he says between kisses, outmuscling you to move his hand higher.

"I'm so sore."

"Sounds like an excuse to me. John gets you to himself but I don't?"

"It's not my fault you're both hung like horses."

This appeal to his ego makes him grin. "Ain't you a lucky girl?"

"Only if you don't hurt me."

He has the gall to give you a pouty face. Again, it should be fucking ridiculous, but somehow it's cute. He cups the side of your face, pushing his thumb between your lips. "How sore is your mouth?" he asks, eyes glittering.

It's not high on your list of things you want to do, but you're having to weigh your options these days. You suck his thumb, and you swear you watch a fire ignite in his eyes.

"Also sore," you say around his digit, sounding ridiculous as he presses down on your tongue. Your jaws hurt. Even your mouth is bruised from kissing. Jesus. You're not a goddamn python.

You try to retreat, but he forces his thumb deeper.

Absolutely out of instinct to defend yourself, you start to bite him.

Maybe you stop yourself before it can hurt or you break skin, but for the wicked gleam in his eyes you know it doesn’t matter. Suddenly you find yourself flipped on your stomach over his lap, as though you are nothing but a doll.

“You are a nippy little thing, you know that?” When he wrenches down your boxers, propping your ass in the air with his trunk of a thigh beneath you, you’re afraid you know exactly what he has in mind.

“No—”

His hand between your shoulder blades pins you down. “You’re just going to make it worse for yourself,” he says in a sing-song tone, almost as though he hopes you will fight him more. His fingers fanned out over your butt cheek rub lightly, soothing over your copious bruises. It feels so good that the first stinging smack makes you jump sky-high.

“Hey!”

“Hush and take your licks, little girl.”

“I hate you!”

“I was gonna say five, for flippin’ me off, but now it’s six. Comprende?”

You whimper, but for the first time since this whole fiasco started, you do the smart thing and shut your dumb fucking mouth, hanging your head in the pillows with resignation.

He’s just spanking you, you reason. How bad can it be?

He has a hand like a catcher’s mitt and arms corded with muscle.

Bad. The answer, is bad.

Yet he doesn’t lay into you immediately, soothing you with featherlight touches over your buttocks and the backs of your thighs. That part feels good, actually, and fuck you if you don’t start to feel the stirrings of desire between your legs.

What. The ever loving. FUCK. Is wrong with you?

“So pretty,” he says, toying with the bend of your knee. It makes your toes curl, and he offers up a deep chuckle that you almost feel more than hear. “You like that?”

“Yes,” you answer meekly, closing your eyes.

“See, I can be sweet, if you’re sweet to me.”

The next smack on the other cheek makes you jump again, but this time you do not protest.

“Ahh. She can be taught.”

You whimper, but keep your expletives to yourself. This is not exactly what you would call sweet…but the contrast of the stinging blows with his featherlight touch afterwards is doing things to you that you do not understand.

“Take this off,” he demands, lifting the hem of your shirt up your back.

For once, you obey him the first time, squirming in your awkward position on your belly and pulling it over your shoulders, leaving you bare and totally exposed upon his lap. He runs his fingers up the curve of your spine, making you shudder upon him. You can’t see his smug grin, but you know, you just fucking know it’s there.

Smack.

You can’t help but cry out, but the pleasure and the pain is strangely starting to meld together. Your treacherous, stupid little cunt has begun to throb, and as his fingers caress dangerously close to your crease you find that you wish he would touch you there.

By the time he’s finished with your licks you are a finely trembling, aching mess on his lap, your fingers like claws in the throw pillow, your ass in the air as though begging for it of its own volition.

Finally he does dip his thick fingers into your weeping slit, groaning to himself for the wetness he finds there. He circles your bud with the thick tip of his finger, making you moan and arch into him like the stupid little hypocrite you are.

“That’s a mighty nice little pussy you’ve got there,” he says, his voice turned pure gravel with desire. “Too bad you’re too sore.”

He withdraws and shoves you off his lap as he stands, leaving you in a heap of pliable naked limbs on the couch. The frustrated sound that escapes your throat is barely human, and the grin he pays you is the baring of teeth from a predator to a rabbit across the wood.

“Now don’t let me catch you touchin’ yourself,” he warns, looming over you. “You won’t like what happens next.”

 On that note he struts off, and you watch him go with a glare, unable to stop yourself from thinking he has the nicest, tightest little butt this side of the Mississippi river.

Bastard.

[dtrghost]

Okay, hear me out. Angst. Ghost. Both Ghost and reader are on 141, but have a secret relationship. They have a habit of tapping each other 3 times to say I love you. Reader gets mortally wounded and because they can’t speak, raises a hand to cradle his face and tap 3 times…. that is all. no pressure to write this but it’s stuck in my brain and it’s gotta get out.

MMMMMMM. MMMMMMM. I took it in a different direction, because if someone you love is dying, than you don't care about hiding anymore, i love this request though, and i'll be sure to do my best.

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x GN!reader

Warnings: I cried like three times writing this so read at your own risk. death, blood, mentions of grief and depression and just a bunch of sad shit. happy ending if you think about it?

You had met Simon on a mission, a standard overwatch operation with you perched on a water tower, a sniper carefully secured to the railing in the dead of night as you guided them through the murky waters of a swamp, leading them with a single high-powered laser as a guide, watching for anyone who might catch you, him, or both. You guided them through landmines and body heat sensing, computer programmed guns sitting at the top of a canyon, and brought them back safely.

HQ saw how well you worked together, how when you moved, he moved, and how the connection went both ways, so they put you both on Task Force 141 where countless missions grew an undying, never breaking bond that supported you through the hardest times. On those missions, during the dark nights and bright days where the sun burned your skin and the moon kissed you to sleep with it's gentle gleam, you found yourself falling for him, and vice versa. You fell first, but he fell harder, and he desperately needed to protect what you had, so you hid it. On missions, you acted as you usually did, indifferent with an aura of trust that vibrated within the team, but three taps to the arm solidified your love for each other.

Three taps before a mission, three taps after a success, three taps at the end of every day, three taps before you slept, and three taps when you woke up. I love you.

I love you.

I love you. You needed him just as much as he needed you, and in a whirlwind of time, years of missions and sneaking off base to grab a drink at some shitty pub where you'd find yourself drinking a can of soda while he racked up glasses of bear, you knew that he was the one, and he knew it too. You married, a private wedding with only the two of you, the priest being an old family friend of Simon's who died a year later, leaving just the two of you with the knowledge of your relationship. It wasn't extravagant by any means, but it was enough to make the both of you happy, and that's what mattered. To the both of you, life was good, your relationship was kept a well maintained secret, your love still as strong as ever even if you couldn't express it as openly as you wished.

But you both knew the dangers, the close calls that led to nights where you'd sneak into each other's rooms, tears falling onto the pillow cases as you laid wrapped in each other's embrace, whispering soft words of affection that you couldn't whisper anywhere else, keeping quiet so nobody would hear you.

My love, My world, My other half. The arguments were limited to but a handful, all only happening because of a mistake on a mission, a reckless decision that led to a risk in someone's life. Simon or yourself dragging each other to the forest outside of base so you could let your emotions burst at the seams, yelling at each other with ferocious tones that symbolized the depths of your fear. Simon was the worst, he had nobody left, no family, friends being hard to come by other than his team, and losing you was something he couldn't afford, something he wouldn't allow.

...

So when you were shot, and he could feel your pulse slow down with your blood coating his fingers in the middle of a forest with just the two of you, it was almost surreal.

...not you. anyone but you.

"Hey, hey, look at me." He commanded, his tone firm yet contradicted by the fear in his voice. Blood was gushing out of your wound, seeping into his vest, his gloves, into his soul that felt like it was being torn apart, shattered into tiny pieces.

"Simon-"

"Don't talk. You're gonna be fine." His voice cracked as he shouted for help, evac on it's way as he pressed his hans down on your wound to try and slow the inevitable.

"We knew the risks." You soothed, your body growing weak as a tear dripped down your cheek, falling from his eyes as he hovered over you.

"No no no no please not you, not you anyone but you."

He pleaded, his voice hoarse and rough with agony as he rocked you back in forth, consoling himself and you as you began to fade away, clinging your weak and fragile body to his, feeling as if you were being ripped away from him. He hated how helpless he felt, how small the weight of the world and the situation he couldn't control made him feel. Regrets snuck up on him, he could've been faster, he could've been stronger, he could've said I love you and proudly showed you off to the world as his so you didn't have to hide.

"Simon, please, look at me." He did, because in his heart he knew he didn't have much time left, that this was your final night alive, the last time he'd hear your voice, see the light in your eyes staring back up at him, to hold you while you were still alive.

"I love you."

"No, don't start, you're gonna be fine. You're fine."

"You're right. I can't even feel it anymore. I'm not in pain, I'm with you, i'm right here." You soothed, your fingers coming up to his face, pulling up his mask in the solitude of the forest you were hiding in. You wiped his tears, smiling that smile that he fell for all those years ago. With three taps, he watched your eyes twinkle, symbolizing the last breath of a dying star as your hand dropped, taking your last breath as he tapped back, sending you off with a final, silent I love you as the sun sank, the warm glow fading as a cold current passed through him.

The world around him was silent as he stared down at your face, seeing the peace, the serenity as everything crashed down on him. Your future together was gone, your plans crushed under the fist of death, the force that swept you away from him as he cried your name. For days he didn't leave his room, letting his grief consume him as he listened to your voicemails over and over to ingrain the sound in his mind, your ring dangling from his neck as his tears fell on the framed picture of you two together that he had hidden away in his home. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat, and for a time nobody knew why, until he walked into work one day wearing his ring which he had altered to have your initials engraved into the gold metal that he adored, because he always believed gold complimented you the best.

You were his sun, his life, the reason why the world spun and why his chest continued to rise and fall with every breath he took. You were who he looked for when he got home, you were who he thought of when he looked up at the moon at night, and you were the painful reminder that he was once again alone, destined to live his life as the soldier who lost everything and deserved nothing. Days, weeks, and months passed, and he tried to go on, to continue his job the way you wanted him to.

And on one day, one day he'd remember for the rest of his life as his salvation, his body fell to the floor with a hard thump, the hot metal of a bullet striking him in the heart that ached for every part of you. His eyes met Price who went to call for medics, only to see the silent pleading in the eyes of his companion. John remembered that night, the night where he finally confronted his subordinate about his behavior, hearing the story of your love and remembering his words.

If and when it happens, let me go. Let me choose to be with them.

So John stopped his team with a shake of his head, the serenity of Simon's eyes bringing him the relief he needed to finally let him go with a smile his way.

"Find her Simon."

He couldn't help but smile at the memories he shared with you, his life with you flashing in his mind like he'd read in books or seen in movies, relishing the comfort of the rising sun as he embraced his life coming to it's inevitable end. He hoped that your death was this peaceful, that his arms that supported you brought the same warm and comfort that he felt in this moment as he went to join you, and as his eyes closed for the last time, he felt himself being pulled away by the gentle tide of departure from the physical world as a bright like glowed, encasing his eyelids so it was all he could see. With three taps on his arm and the gap in his soul being filled to the brim with your love, he knew he was home.

At last.

Yeahhh. I cried in front of my roommates writing this bro. Anyway enjoy!! Thank you so much for the request!!

[cuffmeinblack]

Fight or flight

Sebastian Sallow x f!reader

Tags: explicit | smut | rough sex | light choking | Auror!Sebastian

3.8k words

Summary: A raid goes horribly wrong and both you and Sebastian blame the other. Anger and forbidden desire get the better of you.

A/n: I honestly just wanted to write hot angry sex with Sebastian, and the thought of him strapped with a leather wand holster was rattling around in my brain for far too long. Scroll to the bottom for bonus audio!

What a fucking disaster. The raid you'd spent months planning and hours of your free time fretting over, had fallen apart at the seams at the last second. It could have meant glory and recognition for your team, for the entire Auror department, if only Sebastian Sallow had been a team player.

All you had to show for it was a few inconsequential arrests. The dark wizards responsible for dozens of deaths had once again slipped through your fingers. You'd never felt more dejected after a raid than you were now, the frustration was close to boiling over and whoever happened to be in your path would soon feel your uncontained ire. 

It didn't take long for your quiet stewing to be interrupted by a voice from behind you.

"A word?" Sebastian asked, though it was more of a demand.

You narrowed your eyes and with a dramatic huff, pushed past him, stalking into his office. You began pacing the creaking wooden floor in front of his desk which was strewn with papers and various magical objects. The sneakoscope on top of a stack of parchment was whirring excitedly, as it often did—there was no shortage of deception occurring in the Ministry of Magic building.

Sebastian stepped into the room, slamming the door behind him which shook on its hinges with the sheer force of his anger. He yanked at the buckle on his wand holster, the leather strap falling open against his heaving chest. Leaning forward onto his desk, he let out a deep sigh, almost a growl of barely-contained frustration.

"What was that? I had him," he spat, slamming his hands onto the wood, his stare fixed at his knuckles, growing whiter by the second.

"You had him? I was about to make the arrest before you came barging in. You were meant to be holding onto the brother," you shot back, ceasing your pacing.

Sebastian's eyes flashed menacingly as he looked up at you, and you were reminded of just how dangerous he was. A cold shiver ran down your spine at the look usually reserved for his targets.

"You should've let me make the arrest," he said, his voice steady, but deadly.

The comment only served to rile you up, a fierce indignation rising like bile in your throat as you shouted your reply.

"You can't help yourself can you? You own fucking ego always gets in the way."

"My ego? It should've been my kill. Mine."

Sebastian had moved with the quickness of a predator honing in on its prey, his dark eyes boring into you. You involuntarily stepped back under the heavy stare, your breath growing shallow as your thighs hit the desk behind you. He was so close, his breath hot and heavy against your face, the few inches he had on your height enough to make you feel entirely trapped. Prey.

"Kill? You're insane," you breathed, your voice quieter but still dripping with venom. "I should report you."

Your hand flew to your wand but he was quicker, grabbing your wrist with a painful grip. As he pinched the nerves and tendons, your fingers twitched, sending your wand clattering to the floor.

"Figure of speech."

There was more than anger in his dark eyes as they glittered menacingly. A flash of something visceral—desire. Desire for you, or a desire to punish you—you weren't sure which, but knew you'd be getting the same treatment anyway.

Your treacherous body had responded already as you tried to squirm out of his vice. The adrenaline surge had quickened your pulse, now beating rapidly against Sebastian's commanding grip. Fight or flight. All the blood reserved for your reasoning and self control seemed to be pooling between your legs, an intense and infuriating ache settling.

You were by no means weak and helpless, even when disarmed. Your knee jerked, aiming for Sebastian's weak spot—a low blow, literally, but he thoroughly deserved it. He was a quick duellist, all grace and elegance amongst his raw power, and he anticipated your move before you'd even made it. With a twist of his hips, he'd dodged your attack and used your own momentum against you, hooking a leg behind yours and sending you off balance.

With a yelp, you ended up falling onto the desk behind you, Sebastian looming over you with a devilish smirk.

"Nice try. We ought to practice duelling some time. You have a tell when you're about to attack."

You growled and smacked him hard across the face, leaving an angry red imprint across his freckled skin. Sebastian seemed to consider you for a second, his eyes dragging lazily back to your own from where they'd been so mercilessly displaced by your hand only a second ago.

You'd crossed a line and were about to pay for it. Perhaps, that was why you'd felt the need to provoke him. Deep down, you wanted his retaliation—you could feel it pressing into your hip as he straddled your leg. 

Sebastian grabbed your other wrist, his nails digging into your skin, leaving angry red marks to show his displeasure. That may have been his intention, but there was pleasure in the pain, and the gasp that left your mouth wasn't meek or fearful, it was one of desperate arousal.

Your breath had grown ragged, unable to tear your eyes or limbs away from him. His head was dipped towards you, a look of deadly intimidation across his face—his eyebrows knitted slightly in a frown, lip curled and neck flushed red. Your eyes followed the tinge of the skin down to his heaving chest, the colour disappearing underneath the fabric of his open collar.

His wand holster dangled under his arms, the handle tantalisingly within reach—if only you had some spare appendage to reach with. Sebastian smirked as he followed your gaze, knowing exactly what you were thinking and reveling in your defeat.

His erection twitched against your thigh and your hips instinctively bucked against him. Sebastian tightened the grip around your wrists, now pinned against the wood beneath you as he seemed to fight the urge to react. You returned his satisfied smirk and pressed yourself into him further, leaning your head back and biting your tongue between your teeth.

Sebastian dipped his head to growl into your ear. "That's how you want to play it?" 

You shook your head mockingly. "You're fucking insufferable. Only you would get off on this."

You hated him enough in that moment to want to curse him into oblivion. The months you'd spent planning that raid had been ruined by his need to be the best at everything. To prove he was every bit as worthy of applause and admiration as the so-called Hero of Hogwarts. 

The worst part wasn't your fury, it was the fact you wanted him to prove your statement wrong. And you were wrong—he wasn't the only one absolutely brimming with pent up frustration and long-held sexual tension. Your underwear was saturated with forbidden desire and your heart beat to the rhythm of his steadily grinding hips.

He loosened his fingers wrapped around your sore wrists, but before you could do anything he had a hand against your throat, the firm pressure against your windpipe more of a threat than the word he uttered. 

"Don't."

You glared at him as your hands stilled around his forearm, the rage in his blood pulsating under your fingers. You dug your fingertips into his tensed muscle, glancing down to where your bodies were joined together. The head of his cock pressed against the straining waistband of his trousers with every synchronised rock of your hips; a patch of wet arousal darkening the grey fabric. 

You licked your lips, returning your gaze to his eyes with a shuddering breath. You were goading him, willing him to take you—he was weak in this regard and you both knew it. You'd claim it a victory if he succumbed, though so would he.

Sebastian pushed into you hard, his stiff erection grinding against your hip bone. A moan coiled up your throat and spilled out of your mouth and the last drop of any self control he once held evaporated. 

He was gone in a flash, consumed by lust and fury with only one solution to both ailments. He ripped the waistband of your trousers, the button flying off and ricocheting off a glass table lamp with a faint ping as he tugged the garment down your hips.

It was awkward and slow with one hand still pressed against your throat. Unwilling to show him any mercy, you let him struggle until your lower half was bare, his legs pushing yours to the side until he was planted firmly between them. His hand slid between your thighs with a heavy sigh and a knowing grin.

"Oh I knew you wanted it, you're fucking soaking," he teased.

His fingers slid between your folds, circling your entrance to coat his digits with your slick arousal. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and you realised why—you'd stopped struggling against him in that moment.

"Fuck you, Sebastian," you sighed, your head spinning.

Sebastian pushed his fingers inside you, making you gasp and flinch until he started his slow pulsing, seemingly teasing the tension out of you with every press of his hand. Your muscles relaxed, the frown falling from your face as you watched his intense and concentrated expression.

How long could you hold on to your anger? You were teetering on the edge of a precipice; a decision to be made whether to flee or give in to your basal urges and fall willingly into the abyss. There'd be no turning back from Sebastian Sallow—he was possessive, intense and utterly irresistible.

You unwrapped your fingers from around his arm, pushing his holster from his shoulder. His arm twitched as he watched you, making sure you weren't about to pull his wand and blast him across the room. But as the leather fell to the floor with a thud, he finally released your throat, his lips meeting yours in a heated kiss.

You scarcely could have called it a kiss—more of a battle of tongues for dominance. Whatever it was, it made your heart race and core ache and dopamine-addled brain scream out for more, more, more.

His fingers curled and pulsed inside you, drawing moans from your mouth, captured by his own. He consumed every whimper and gasp with hungry need, joining the chorus with his own deep groans as he rocked his hips, desperately seeking friction.

Loathe as you were to put him out of his misery, you wanted him too badly—his fingers, whilst thoroughly enjoyable, were a poor substitute for what he held inside his trousers. You were losing your resolve, overcome with lust. Some Auror you were.

"Fuck, Seb," you muttered.

You fiddled with his shirt buttons, revealing his burning skin, hot to the touch and flushed red under his thick hair. Deciding to deal with the repairs later, you ripped the remaining buttons open, tugging the cotton over his broad shoulders littered with bruises and the odd scar; thin lines of white tissue that refused to colour along with his blush.

Whatever possessed you to run your tongue along them probably had something to do with the increasingly rough pulsing between your legs. Sebastian shuddered and ripped his hand away from your heat, pulling open his trousers with a groan as his cock sprang free.

You drew your eyes away from his battle-worn skin to gaze down at his manhood, your eyebrows peaking and eyes softening to a begging look as you whimpered your approval. You'd almost forgotten why you were so angry. Almost, but not quite.

"Son of a bitch," you muttered, wrapping your hands around his neck to attack his mouth.

You bit his lower lip hard, the taste of iron on the tip of your tongue as you drew back, and his hands retaliated with a rough shove of your hips back into the desk, the wooden edge pressing into your behind. He leaned you back, your weight hanging by his neck and the strength of your abdomen.

His cock pressed against your sensitive and swollen clit, rubbing a teasing few strokes before gliding to your entrance and pushing inside. You cried out, a stinging sensation prickling the skin as he stretched you so suddenly and unceremoniously. His girth took some getting used to.

You took him inch by glorious inch until he could push no further and Sebastian pulled out slowly, his lips parted and dark eyes fixed upon you. Gripping the flesh around your hips, hard enough to bruise, he pulled you back onto his cock with a loud moan. Again and again and again.

Your core muscles gave out at the pounding, the pleasure rippling through you relaxing your whole body as you fell back onto the desk. You squirmed as the various clutter dug into your back, pulling the sneakoscope from under your left arm and rolling it onto the floor where it smashed with a gust of magical energy.

"First you…ruin the job," Sebastian seethed between forceful thrusts. "Then you come and…destroy my office."

"It's your fault—I'll fucking break whatever I want in here you absolute arse."

He pulled your legs up around his waist, shifting you towards him with a grunt. Your arousal dripped down his shaft, coating his carpet of curly brown hair as he continued thrusting into you, deeper and deeper. He'd settled into a rhythm, mind-numbingly perfect—steadily building the pool of tension inside you that would soon explode.

You hated that he felt so good, you were so angry at him but your body had reacted to his provocation with desire as quickly as his had. Now you were limp, a toy made only for his pleasure as he took out his frustration on you—and you fucking loved it.

The daggers you shot at him softened with every thrust of his hips, his cock slamming into you as you filled the room with pleasurable moans. Thank Merlin the Auror offices were regularly charmed to be soundproof.

His lip bled from where you'd bit him, and you knew he'd make you pay for that sooner or later, but the sight only awoke something animalistic inside you. You'd seen him bruised and covered in blood before, whether his own or someone else's—it had been the frequent subject of your fantasies; something you'd never admit.

You pulled him down on top of you and he met you in a kiss, passion pouring from his mouth with each moan, his fingers wrapped painfully around the strands of your hair. You met the pain in your scalp by dragging your nails down his bare back, causing puffy welts and staining your fingertips with his blood.

Sebastian inhaled sharply, resuming his grip on your neck as he slowed his thrusts to an agonising pace. 

"I'll make you pay for that," he whispered, gazing down at you.

You whimpered, squirming under his grip. Your vision blurred slightly as you gasped against his palm and he pulled away slightly. He denied you the air you desperately needed by kissing you again, his hand moving from your neck to trace your jaw as he resumed his previous rhythm.

The lull only served to intensify the pleasure as he started to fuck you again. You were approaching your climax and desperately sought your release, but the satisfaction it would give him would be unbearable. 

There was no averting it, he felt too good. His lips on yours were soft, warm and had that sweet metallic tang that sent your head spinning. As your tongues glided over each other and your breath turned to gasping moans into his mouth, you stilled, unable to stop the explosion if you’d tried.

Your legs shook as you met your release, clenching around Sebastian's hard length and pulling a deep groan from his throat. You were gone. Completely and utterly gone from this mortal plane. The pleasure ripped through you like a dangerous undercurrent, your body writhing as your walls contracted over and over again. 

It was bliss—here there was no anger, no thoughts of the failure you’d just endured, only Sebastian.

Sebastian slowed his pace only as you started to once again go limp, your arched back flattening onto the cold wood beneath you and your eyes fluttering as your orgasm ebbed away. He released your mouth, an unexpectedly tender moment as he brushed his lips against your cheek before pulling away.

"Are you finally going to apologise?" he asked quietly.

Your mind was still added from the explosive orgasm and it took you a few seconds to realise what he'd asked. With a fresh surge of anger, you removed your hands from his skin, stubbornly planting them on the desk next to you.

"Absolutely not."

He pulled out of you swiftly, your walls still clenching, now around nothing. You whined and shot him an incredulous look, squeezing your thighs together and shifting your hips as you rode out the last of the pulses between your legs.

"You're an arsehole, Sallow," you gasped.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you gave him a disapproving stare, quickly growing distracted as you took in the sight before you. You'd always thought him attractive but dear Merlin was he a sight to behold.

Underneath his standard-issue Auror's uniform was the body of a man who took his job seriously. He was physically fit, muscular with a slight softness you loved. You had a dying urge to run your hands over his body, but particularly what had been inside you just moments ago.

Sebastian's cock was red, swollen and dripping in arousal—his thick white precum mixed with your own slick glistened in the soft office lighting as you stared completely unabashedly. He smirked under your lustful gaze, his hand wrapping around himself and gliding slowly along the length for your viewing pleasure.

"Time to return the favour," he said.

You gave him a deadpan glare from your exposed position on the desk.

"I could bite your cock off."

"But you won't," he said with a chuckle. "Because you want it, I can tell you're practically drooling over there."

He was right, and it was infuriating. You sat firmly on the desk, refusing to move until he grew tired of the standoff, pulling you off by the arm. You hid a smirk as you knelt on the floor, your bare knees already uncomfortable against the hard wooden boards. 

Saliva pooled in the well of your mouth as he yanked the hair tangled in his fingers, your lips parting willingly to take his head into your mouth. He tasted of you, and him; your shared passion mingled on your tongue. He shuddered as you ran your tongue along the underside of the tip, humming appreciatively as your hands trailed up his bare thighs.

Before they could go any further, Sebastian slid his hand around to the back of your head, firmly holding you in place as he started to thrust his hips. You suctioned your cheeks as he threw his head back with a deep groan, sliding his cock into your mouth further each time.

"Yes, yes. Just like that."

The sides of your lips curved in a smile as sinful moans fell from his lips, the rhythm he’d built up becoming faster and his thrusts harder. From your vantage point, he looked to be in ecstasy—his expression softened, eyebrows peaked and lips parted, muttering something unintelligible. 

The way he bucked his hips became more erratic and uncontrolled the further he slipped into bliss, every inch filling your mouth and sliding down your throat as his grip on your head became tighter and tighter. Your scalp burned, your eyes stung and throat felt thoroughly abused and yet you moaned through it all; the look on his face was reward enough.

The hands on his thighs felt his muscles tense and shake, and you knew he was approaching his peak. Both of his hands gripped your hair as he pushed his cock into your throat and held you there, the invasion making you gag as the muscles in your throat contracted around his head. Sebastian growled, holding you in place until you smacked his leg and he grinned, pulling you off coughing and spluttering with tears streaming down your cheeks. 

He wasn’t done with you yet—he still chased his release, grinding his hips against your face. The moment he looked down to meet your gaze, you knew you were a goner. The anger in his eyes had melted away, only a plea remaining. He stared down in almost reverence as he gasped through the last of his thrusts before tumbling over the edge.

His seed shot down the back of your throat and filled your cheeks; the viscous liquid came thick and fast with each pulse of his cock and you lapped it up eagerly, moaning around him all the while. Sebastian finally loosened the grip on your hair as he came down off his high with a deep sigh and you jumped at the relinquishing of control by wrapping a hand around the base of his length, teasing every last drop of his cum onto your waiting tongue.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, continuing to watch you with ardent admiration.

With a flick of your tongue met with a shuddering gasp, you pulled your mouth away and swallowed dutifully, licking your lips as if you’d enjoyed the most satisfying meal of your life. Sebastian had slumped back on the now thoroughly ravaged desk, his hard work littering the floor and crumpled beyond recognition as you made your way to your feet.

Your skin on your knees was raw, your throat bruised and neck tingling, whilst Sebastian nursed a slightly swollen and bloody lip, his back looking like it had been attacked by a rabid animal. Despite it all, your anger had subsided to manageable levels, and hadn’t that been the point of it all? 

Pulling on your clothes, you shuddered to think of the state you were in as you scraped back your hair and smoothed out the creases in your shirt to no avail. You spotted your wand on the floor and picked it up, twirling it over in your fingers as you watched the man you hated and loved in equal measure.

“I’m still furious with you, Sebastian,” you said tiredly.

“And I’m furious with you too,” he replied with a smirk, buckling his holster.

Sebastian pulled you towards him by the waist, snaking a hand around the back of your neck as your lips met in an impassioned kiss, the last of your fight melting away. 

“Good, glad we’ve cleared that up,” you said meekly, disentangling yourself from his grasp and retreating towards the door.

You gave him a final look over your shoulder before turning the handle, meeting the devilish smile on his handsome face and realising in that moment that you were now absolutely the property of Sebastian Sallow.

Bonus audio:

[vibingandsimping]

hi there~

Thank you so much for writing my request, I loved it! I don't want to be a bother, but would you mind perhaps writing how Astarion would feel or react to her in awe over the clothing he has made for her? Being that she's poor, she has never seen or touched such rich fabrics before. Perhaps his reaction to her trying them on and being so shy and awestruck by them and his thoughtfulness? I love the idea of an all powerful, evil astarion going all soft for that one specific person. Like the big bad wolf willing to ready to maul anyone before ehim but that one specific little bunny that's just too sweet he wants to protect it at all costs. And the little bunny who knows all too well just how dangerous that wolf is, but believes he will never hurt her and feels so safe with him. It just makes my dumb little heart melt.

If not it's totally okay! I appreciate you even taking the time to answer my first request!

For those reading my posts lately and sending in asks… it may be a few days before I get to them. During my hiatus I received a decent number of asks and am now finally getting around to them. :)

The comment of the wolf and rabbit reminds me of a story. Anyone remember that youtube animation titled “Dear Rabbit”?

The silks lined your skin like a glove. Each seam pressed perfectly and every lace finely crafted. The colors rich and potent with a slight shimmer. The neckline dipping down your chest to expose your neck in it’s entirety. He must’ve spent thousands on this dress alone. The thought made you curl into yourself. Thousands on a dress is absurd. Such money is unfathomable to you. You’re so used to scavenging scraps of copper and silver to get by. You’re not sure whether to be upset or flattered from his spoils. You flatten your hands along the sides of your form. The dress hugs you perfectly and annunciates the curves you do have as well as creating an illusion of more. You do have to give it to him- he has an eye for the humanoid form and fashion. His halls and servants only reflected a sense of elegancy. You stare at the mirror for a few moments more. Taking in the sight and resisting the urge to claw it off. Feeling that you’re almost unworthy of such finery. You closed your eyes with an audible sigh. Running a hand along your head.

When you reopened them you nearly jumped out of your skin. Screaming when you spotted the pale man standing before you. He only takes amusement in your terror and circles his arms around your waist. Astarion presses his face against the side of your head and plants a kiss on your ear. He apologizes softly, almost strained, before eyeing you through the mirror. His hands explore the expanse of your dress and you sit like still prey. His eyes nearly glowing in content with your obedience and how delicious you looked in the fabrics. “Mm, every coin well spent. My dear, you’ve never looked better.” You weren’t sure if that was an insult to your previous poverty or a compliment to how dolled up you were. Either way, you still blushed from the intensity of his stare and voice. His lips connect with your neck and tease the skin with his fangs. It was brief but enough to trickle the icy feeling into you. Shivering as he finally pulls away. “You should get used to this, darling. You will only be wearing the best from now on. Forget the rags you wore before.” He hums and combs his hair with his fingers. You were puzzled on why he didn’t turn you like his other spawn yet. Was it for amusement? Or perhaps he thought you too precious to corrupt in such a way?

Either way, you knew he expected perfection when you arrived at dinner. He had some announcement to make to his palace. The contents of which unknown. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease at that fact. In your time there he’d never hurt you. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to ensure anyone who threatened you was punished. You were almost like a trophy to him. One to polish and flaunt to those around. It was strange to have to adjust from your previous life. All you knew is that you were too far in the wolf’s jaws to escape now.

[kafkacrisis]

Anything for you

characters: kafka.

warning(s): N.SFW, minors DNI, AFAB fem!reader, dom/sub dynamics (sub!reader & dom!kafka), sadom.asochism, crotch stepping & bootlicking, humiliation k¡nk, unhealthy devotion.

summary: punishments for insubordination are a necessary evil kafka particularly enjoys.

You can't imagine how you must look right now, wearing your dirtied uniform and leaned down on your knees in some dingy hotel room. Your legs ache from the pressure of them against the hard wood floors, specks of dust falling from the opened window onto your skin. Anyone could peer in and see you like this—completely at the mercy of your superior.

Kafka is above you, sat on the edge of the hotel bed, her arms and legs crossed. Her elegance looks out of place in the little run down room you're both camping out in for this mission. Her face trained into perfect boredom, and if you didn't know better, you truly would believe she was trying not to fall asleep.

"I really do not understand how you think sometimes," she finally speaks, the harsh sound of her voice almost making you wince.

You look up at her, eyes probably shining in anticipation. You see her jaw clench harder.

"You risked the entire mission, and for what? Are you just that—" her voice lowers as she stands to her full height, grabbing your face with a painful intensity, "—damn stupid?"

It's rare for Kafka to show any real emotion at all, much less the bone chilling rage she's trying and failing to contain now. In some sick, twisted way, you feel proud of yourself for getting her to react like this.

You open your mouth to speak, but you're cut off with a harsh slap against your cheek, the force of it knocking your head to the side. You let out a small gasp of surprise, mouth hanging open stupidly. She grabs your face again by the chin, pulling it up and to the side so you could lock eyes. Her expression is positively dangerous.

"I should know better than to count on your help," she rasps. "After all, you're just a useless moron who would do anything to get my attention—even if will get you killed."

Her foot raises, the heel of her boot pressing into your clothed thigh. You bite your lip, trying not to let out a cry of pain. She only continues, never releasing her harsh grip on your chin. Your lips wobble with the desire to babble obscenities, to tell her Yes, Kafka, I'd do anything for this, Kafka, please—

"I have to punish you for that stunt you pulled, you know that," Kafka mumbles, her fingers briefly relaxing, running along the curve of your jaw. "I can't do with everyone disobeying me. If you want me to do this, sit you down and hit you until you're coming untouched..."

She pauses, reaching to hold your face delicately with both of her gloved hands. Her thumb wipes away an errant tear from your eye, gentle in a way that almost makes you forget about her heel digging into your leg.

"Then just ask me, instead of doing those pitiful things to make me hurt you. I will welcome you into my arms every time, my sweet girl. You don't even need to ask."

You're crying now, for reasons you can't even begin to name. You've wanted your superior for so long, throwing yourself into danger to protect her, all so you could hear her scold you afterwards for being so reckless.

Kafka is everything to you. She has to know that.

"I will be yours for as long as you want me." Your words come out watery and choked up, remnants of your tears falling into your opened mouth. "Kafka, I—"

"Shh, shh, I know. It's alright," she leans down, her lips just barely brushing against your own, the kiss as chaste as could be. Her eyes are close to yours, the color so deep you could get lost in them forever. "Let me take care of you now, I promise I'll show you how much I desire you, too."

The toe of her boot pries open your legs, pushing against the seam of your pants, and you let out a scream. Kafka looks pleased with herself, her painted lips turning upwards into a familiar wry smile.

Your squeals eventually break off into broken pants, your breath escaping you in short bursts. The pressure feels so good, it feels even better knowing its Kafka doing this to you—but the pain of her boot against your clit is making your vision blacken at the edges.

"You're shaking like a leaf, but isn't this what you wanted?" Her mocking tone lights your blood on fire, and you cry out in disappointment when her boot leaves you. She leans back, her ankles crossed as she once again sits down on the edge of the bed. She leaves you there, choking and wheezing on the floor, painfully wet in the confines of your pants and underwear.

You look up at her, an attempt at pleading that Kafka only laughs at. She's enjoying every second of this, watching her beloved devotee squirm at every denial of pleasure.

She snaps her fingers and directs you forward, as if you were a dog meant to follow her every command. You're flushed down to your chest, with watery eyes and bruises on your arms from a previous battle—but Kafka doesn't seem to care if you're hurting or not. It feels so good to be treated this way, and you wonder (not for the first time), what wires got crossed in your brain to make you feel like this.

"My precious girl," she smiles, pushing your head down to the floor so you're eye level with her shoes. "Won't you clean my boots for me? I can't go out knowing they were up against you like that—isn't it much too vulgar?"

Your throat bobs as you swallow. She is having too much fun with this. You wish you wanted to say no, that the idea of being at Kafka's mercy and being a disgusting bootlicker upset you.

But it doesn't. And so you lower yourself down, and listen to Kafka's voice as you run your tongue along the top of her boot. The taste is inconsequential, it means nothing compared to the sound of Kafka breathing in sharply above you.

"You really would do anything if I asked you to, huh?" Kafka says, almost in disbelief herself. You can feel your heart aching, your eyes shut tightly as you think of how embarrassing this is. Its so fucking embarrassing to be doing this, you can't even think straight. You feel your clit throbbing against your tight pants, your hand itching to reach down and absolve yourself of the pressure.

She suddenly pulls her foot away, and in your embarrassment you can't even find it in yourself to look up and meet her eyes. You really just did that. She probably thinks you're gross. This could be it now—she's going to tell you to get up and leave.

"Get up here, now," she calls, holding her hand out for you to grab. With hesitancy, you reach to take her hand—your breath hitching when she yanks you up on top of the bed. She pushes you down with an urgency you just don't get, scrambling to unbutton your pants as you writhe and cry for it above her.

"Kafka, Kafka, please," you pant, chanting her name without pause. It hurts. You're so desperate for her, and it hurts more than any pain or humiliation she's subjected you to in the past hour.

"You're too good. Too willing to do anything for me," Kafka whispers into your neck as she rubs fingers against your now exposed cunt, rough and fast in their movements. Her gloves hurt, but the sensation of them is also so unbearably good it makes you want to screech. "I will keep you here, fuck you all the time til I'm the only person you care to remember. I promise."

You come after that, loud and messy—your face flushing once you realize how it had gotten everywhere. Kafka doesn't seem to mind though, watching the way you start to drift off into a deep sleep as she licks the remnants from her gloved fingers.

this was so nasty i'm sorry everyone. the demons took over and they wouldn't leave me be.

[uchihaharlot]

can you do Itachi comes back from a long mission and you know what he will do with his s/o (nsfw)

Oh nonny, this is just what the doctor ordered!!

Her so hungry, desperate to fill his appetite!!

NSFW; cock warming; light food fucking; I’m feeling things today; let’s make dinner.

Yea so, Itachi is into cock warming. He’s what I refer to a closeted freak. Only gives in to this sort of thing after being gone for so many days.

This time, it’s weeks and this man is hungry. Not for the plate that is sitting before him, but for the woman that is white knuckling his knees as she sucks his cock beneath the dining room table. Desperate too, any average day would have the world thinking what a polite and beautiful couple they are. What goes on behind close doors is another story.

Itachi feels rather good this evening, his cock throbs in her mouth and the visual is even more gorgeous to him when he looks down and sees her lips puffed around him. Thumbs her cheek as she swirls his tip. Soft eyes wandering up to his as she pops soft lips off his cock. Luridly kissing up and down his shaft. Trying not to ruin her appetite, she makes to shuffle away. So she can eat dinner and then get on with dessert.

‘Fuck that, I’m not done with you.’ He groans, ‘turn around, get on your knees and back your ass up.’

How sinful of her to think Itachi would be ok with just a little tease to his manhood. Three weeks woman, she’s treaded dangerous waters with that little display. Out on a mission for three fucking weeks, he’s anything but normal. No privacy, his woman not around. There were things you did not taunt a man with upon his arrival and one of them was the sacred flesh between their thighs.

As she assumes the position, he rucks down her house robe and wrenches down lacy panties. Thumbs the wet seam of her entrance, then presses in. This was a new situation for him, exciting. Could he manage to eat his dinner before cumming? Probably not.

Lazily scoots to the edge of his seat, pressing the tip of his cock at her sopping wet cunt. Using just a thumb to inch it in, than drags it to her clit. It was definitely an awkward angle, but they’ve done weirder.

‘Meet me halfway, baby.’ He lurches, cock sharply angles into her slit. When she lifts from crouching, she slides barely to the base of his cock.

It felt so good though. Drops his fork and grips her hips. Planting his feet firmly on the ground to support this audacious little maneuver, and bottoms out.

‘So good.’ Her whimpers are muffled under the table, how beautiful her pussy looked canted up at this angle. It’s glistening moisture shines in the lighting, so pretty.

Even better when he smeared it with sauce from his plate. Just a little spice to the clit, nothing annoyingly hot. Ran those sauced fingers down his shaft each time they pumped into one another. The heat mixed with the cool air made the sensations contrastingly pleasant.

‘You like being fucked under the table like a cat in heat?’ Itachi grunted between words. Gently slapping her sensitive little nub as she threatened to cum so fast.

‘…gods, ‘Tachi. Please, yes. You feel so fucking good.’ There was nothing for her to grab or anchor too. Being mindful of her cheek to the wood floor, Itachi ground his hips gentle but fast.

‘How good?’ Smacking ass and gripping it for his own sake, on the verge of cumming. His other hand held the the edge of the table to stabilize himself.

‘So fucking good—so close.’ Her soft mewl has Itachi bursting at the seams.

But he needed more, and so gripping her hips tighter. Itachi used what minimal strength needed to essentially lift her up and down his cock. Excitement soon became desperation and next he found himself kicking the chair back and using the table with both hands for stability. Legs on either side of her hips. Itachi fucks downwards into his whining mess of a wife. Dragging his length over and over in and out. Her juices cream and ring at the base of his shaft, now he was close.

The taut squeeze and pulse of her plush walls coaxed his cock to throb and thicken, he groans. Gods it was so good when she came around him, even better when she was inconsolably moaning his name. Creamy, warm and thick as oil, Itachi fills her cute little hole up with his cum. Slowly thrusting it deep down, and the angle making it that much easier to fuck it into her.

Picks her up, cock hard and needy still. He discards half of the kitchen table into the floor, slips his cock inside her again and fucks her five ways to Sunday there. Reams a gentle grip at her throat and kisses her panting lips as she cums all over his length again. And again, this woman was not getting any sort of reprieve from his desires. Three weeks was too long to go with out the warmth of your woman’s slit to pump your cock into. Itachi presses her knees to chest and fucks her even harder as she mewls out sirens moan, how god he feels when consistently kissing her cervix. Filling her sweet velvety walls a second time and watching as it threatens to leak out from her depths as he slows his ravenous thrusts.

She’s not too pleased about the china being shattered as Itachi’s bullish behavior was not unsolicited but rather brash. Cleaning the mess, he kissed her cheek.

‘My apologies.’ Mhm, get to cleaning boy she says, but reciprocates his kisses with her own. They’ll just order delivery and salvage what they can for his bento tomorrow.

The usual goes form here. Eat dinner once it arrives, take a shower together. Cuddle up and read their books in bed. They are rather normal in most regards. Turn off the lights and go to bed.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Anybody want more Good Ganondorf content?

(@silvercaptain24 more of that plot bunny you had :) also @luckybyrdrobyn @artisticgamer @wildsage00 I remembered to tag y'all this time lol)

Link wasn't entirely sure how long he had been stuck in this bedroom after the Gerudo women had left, but he knew it had been too blasted long. By his third attempt to get out of bed, he had at least finally managed to sit up without immediately wanting to pass out. If he could just manage to get up, it would be a start.

The room was small, and the only supplies were medicinal, with the exception of some food and water. No weapons in sight, naturally, but he wouldn't expect any from...

Well. He couldn't exactly call this place a cell, but he was a prisoner nonetheless.

Why had they captured him? Why hadn't they just killed him? Did they need him to use the Triforce? They'd already seized the Triforce of Courage from him in the last battle (and goddesses he tried so very hard to not think about the last battle, about their catastrophic failure, about the bodies littering the field, the queen's desperation and anger and panic and--). He couldn't imagine why they possibly needed him. Cia had been obsessed with him but had still tried to kill him; Ganondorf didn't even care about his existence, so why was he still alive?

He wasn't finding out. He was getting out of here.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the door swung open, making the captain jump. He tried to stand and face whoever was entering, but all he succeeded in doing was nearly face planting on the floor until strong, steady hands caught him.

"Nabooru figured you might try to get up," a deep voice rumbled.

Link's blood ran cold. He knew that voice. He'd heard it on the battlefield. He'd heard it when the Triforce of Courage was ripped out of him.

Ganondorf.

The captain tried to struggle against the monster's grip, but he was still too frustratingly weak. Before he knew it he was scooped up into massive arms, and a mild panic squeezed his chest so tightly he couldn't breathe. He couldn't stand to be so close to the man, so completely and utterly helpless and vulnerable in the arms of someone who could crush him in a heartbeat.

When he was gently lowered into the bed, he stared at Ganondorf in a mixture of bewilderment and wariness. "What do you want from me?"

Ganondorf raised an eyebrow at the question. "Currently, I want you to stop trying to get out of bed. You're going to worsen your condition."

Link narrowed his eyes. "And then?"

"And then?" Ganondorf repeated. "And then you'll get sicker, foolish child."

"What difference does it make to you?"

Ganondorf sighed. "Despite whatever idea of me you might have, I'm not interested in you getting yourself killed."

Link inhaled sharply to throw out a retort and found he had none, his mind too weary for whatever biting remark it usually would conjure. Then images of the battle came to mind, and he suddenly found he had far more words than he could say all at once. He settled for, "Killing people hasn't seemed to bother you that much."

Ganondorf watched him a moment, his expression unreadable. It made Link squirm. Finally, the man looked away. "I understand your impression of me is based on the war. That's... understandable. You'll be surprised to know my intentions with the Triforce are not to destroy Hyrule, and I don't kill outside the battlefield. I prefer not to kill at all if I don't have to... but war is war."

The words tore through Link's uneasiness, setting his heart and mind on fire. He jerked upright in the bed, ignoring the dizzy spell that accompanied it. "War is war?! That's your excuse for causing Hyrule to be torn apart at the seams?! Is that what you said before they sealed you away as well?!"

"And what words does your queen use?" Ganondorf fired back, his voice lowering dangerously.

"Queen Zelda is trying to protect Hyrule!" Link argued, his vision blurring as he turned to face his enemy more fully. "This entire war started because of you!"

"I had my soul split into pieces and was sealed away," Ganondorf said, his voice growing quiet, and the air in the room grew impossibly heavy. "Would you not do anything to escape such a torturous fate? I used what abilities I had to manipulate someone powerful enough to do the deed. The destruction she wrought as a result is not my doing."

"Nice way of saying you started this mess but don't want to take responsibility for it," Link snapped.

Surprisingly, that gave the king pause, and he sighed, looking away. "I cannot claim responsibility for what I have not done. I won't. Everything that has occurred since my return is my doing. Not before."

Link was growing too worn out for this argument, but he still had too many things to say. When he opened his mouth to do so, however, he coughed instead, collapsing onto the pillows. Ganondorf's gaze returned to him, softer and mildly worried, and it baffled Link beyond comprehension.

His enemy shook his head subtly with another sigh and tucked the hero in a little better. "I figured this conversation would be too much for you in this state. Get some rest, child."

The captain wanted to scream at him, to find the Master Sword and gut him, but between the man's strange look and the teenager's own exhaustion, all he could do was comply, closing his eyes.

[daydreamsandcrashingwaves]

Transference Ch 2

inspired by @scealaiscoite 's touch-starved prompts

TW: First aid on bad wounds, uhhh swearing? cuz Danny should get to say fuck, can't think of anything else atm, if u want a better list follow the Pt 1 link to my Ao3

Go gently friends,

~Ren

Pt 1

Danny wants to pull this plane apart. He would do it happily! With a little extra enthusiasm. He wants to remove panels to see the guts, how the wires connected and weaved together to put this wonder together. What gave the engine that quiet whisper of a purr that even with Danny’s dialed up senses he could barely hear it? Was it made out of special metal? A plane used in vigilante missions must have been reinforced with special materials in case of impact or a crash. Who oversaw the maintenance? Danny wanted to meet the person who regularly got elbows deep in the bowels.

How many special security measures did it have? Since this was Batman’s plane probably more than Danny could think of. How many secrets did it guard? This plane probably had access to some very dangerous information, so one would assume it was a target. The plane was vulnerable being left unattended wherever they were. With the vigilante’s away on their mission their rogues could play. Danny knew firsthand with his own rogues. Was the plane on the same network as the Batcave? It had to be right? At least the comms? Was it in case they had to share updates on confidential files between locations? Danny’s fingers itch to get his hands on the controls, examine the programming, maybe find a systems list. 

He can’t see the plane that well yet, but he can feel it hum under his feet. The soft vibration works its way up his body-it’s nice, he decides, to be able to focus on figuring out what exactly was running down below rather than his brother collecting a number of things before moving behind him. Danny was close enough to the wall that his fingers traced along barely there seams between the smooth, cool to the touch metal. He wouldn’t know how durable it is unless someone told him what the material was, but the likelihood of them divulging their secrets was very low, if nonexistent. 

Still Danny was free to wonder, no one could restrict his thoughts. What kind of weapons systems did it have? Surely there must be a bathroom. Regular planes had those small ones, if Danny’s experience with Vlad’s displays of wealth told him anything, the obnoxiously rich liked to embellish their already expensive things with expensive add-ons. Danny can’t yet see how big the cabin is, but he’s perched on some sort of cot. He must be in some sort of medical treatment area that the Bats use when they get injured on missions and there is no doctor readily available. 

If things go well after his eyes are healed maybe his father would let him take a look around? (They currently were itching something fierce as they slowly healed.) 

The parallel between the Fentons and Bruce Wayne’s intelligence was not lost on Danny, and he cannot help but feel so heart wrenchingly fond.  He has had a lifetime habit of collecting parents that have made brilliant vehicles. 

(He ached for the time before the portal when he was close with the family that took him in, when that GAV was simply an RV to take deep in the woods and lay out a blanket on the hood or roof to watch the stars, talking about the possibility of something more out there.)

Danny can’t stop his flinch from where Nightwing had accidentally rubbed too hard along the edge of his shoulder. “Hey Bud?” Nightwing calls out, “Lookin at your back, well, some of the tissue has started dying,” The man genuinely sounded upset about it, did he not know? “it’ll need to be removed, but I’ll have Agent A take a look when we get off a moving vehicle, okay?” His brother finished explaining over Danny’s internal tangent. His back doesn’t hurt that bad, which is concerning in its own way since the wound was- as dick pointed out- awful, but it did draw him back out of head. Danny bobs his head in acknowledgement. “I’ll clean them up the best I can for now.” Danny probably wasn’t supposed to hear that mumble that sounded like Richard was talking to himself, as though he was reassuring himself there was something productive he could do to improve the situation. 

Despite the setback, the vigilante is calm, sitting behind Danny painstakingly cleaning his back wounds. So far unshaken by what Danny is certain is a grotesque scene the man is chattering away about patrols and the person called Agent A, who he is reassured will meet them back at the Cave. It kind of amazed Danny how the man was able to endure his tiny flinches and hissed breath to try while trying to distract him. Danny currently wasn’t an easy patient to stomach. 

The sores tunneled down through fat and muscle to his bone. Most of the sores were in stage four, it didn’t take them long to eat away at him and fester, even before becoming a halfa the boy was tall and willowy meaning he had no body fat to slow down the progression of the forming injuries. They hadn’t tried to hide anything from him in the time he was trapped there. After all, if a ghost isn’t sentient, it can’t possibly understand in-depth scientific experiments so why bother to attempt secrecy that would be a waste of precious time and energy. They had simply discussed it like everything else, over his twisted body for most of the day. The scientists had only moved him previously when they needed access to a different part of his body. When they discovered his body started to develop bed sores They were excited. (Danny felt himself slipping away from his body into his memory, he was slipping away from Richard.)

“That’s odd…Honey! Look,” The woman said softly some time into his captivity. She’s pointing at his side, Danny can’t tell what she could be pointing at, all of him hurts. He can’t remember what they did there that could be worth pointing out now. Them not remembering sends a weak chill down his spine, they kept meticulous notes even if it was swallowed by their disorganized storage, it shouldn’t be possible for them to be surprised at the state he’s in since they carefully crafted the condition he’s in. Her fingers flick his collar on, unbuckling the right restraint as she goes before they sharply dig into his right shoulder, before flipping him onto his side roughly to see from another angle like that old map on their family trip to see Aunt Alicia last summer. “It’s getting sores! Stage two I’d say.” 

“Bed sores? It’s hurting itself?” The man’s voice comes out bewildered before he leans closer to see and then cheerfully muses. “Seems like the ectoscum can cannibalize itself! Look at the inflammation! Do you think the infection and strain could kill a ghost?” Danny whimpers behind his muzzle when he can feel the man in his curiosity starting to poke at the edges of the wound with something metal and sharp. “Huh, Mads?” The man prompts.

The woman doesn’t respond. Their silence blankets the room, the scientists both thinking over what they see, what it means. 

The woman makes a small sound and goes rigid reaching for her husband. “I-It’s damaging Danny’s corpse!” She wails in grief, Danny wants to wail right along with her that they’re already destroying his body, "Degrading him further-” A sob echoes in the lab ripping his heart into tatters, Danny tries not to think too hard on the fact he’s so affected by her distress even though they’ve been elbow deep in his ribcage, poking, prodding and removing organs. He tracks the diagonally moving tears as they dribble down the side of his face, across his left cheek to disappear into his hairline. He feels ashamed, after all this hurt, he still loves them, his core still cries out for them. He realizes she’s not just sobbing now the woman is screaming at his prone form, “-how cruel is your species going to be!? Get out. GET OUT OF OUR SON! Murderer! You-” 

NO!

No, now isn’t the time to think about that. 

Danny can taste the iron from his bitten cheek and the salt from wayward tears. He takes a deep breath trying to ground himself in the present. Nightwing had seen the lab, the sight of the mad scientist’s work had made him physically sick, pulled him so carefully from that table, smoothly carrying him away from his own personal hell to the Batplane. They aren’t here. He was… safe with his brother, for the moment.

A crackle of static explodes from behind him causing Danny to flinch away from his brother before a mess of different voices comes through. He can’t hear what they’re saying, the voices too tangled, too unfamiliar, and too quiet since he didn’t have a direct connection, but whatever is said at the end is enough for the vigilante to go rigid and pause in his ministrations to reply. “Woah, B, I’m still here, no need to sound so scary!” Richard chuckles a bit and doesn't feel scared or worried, so Danny relaxes again. 

The eldest son hums, “No, I just was ignoring you,” Danny cracked a small smile at the plume of amusement that drifted between them. Richard’s hand grasps his own gently, “Yes I know how batty you get when I shut off my comms. Yes, I found the main lab.” Richard huffs, “Yes. B, I got ‘im out, we’re in the plane, I’m looking over him now. Have you forgotten I’ve been doing this with you since I was eight or that I took over the Batman mantle under the assumption you were dead?” Richard's voice strains a little in frustration by the end.

Another smaller burst of noise comes quickly in response. Danny flushes weakly in embarrassment as he realizes, like with Team Phantom, it was probably Nightwing’s team all talking over each other in his earpiece. Danny’s core aches at the thought of his sister and friends, how long has it been since Danny’s heard their voices? Weeks? Months? Ancients, could he have been with Them for a year? More?

A single voice breaks through over the others, whatever was said had Nightwing tense, ready to spring to his feet, bursting at the seams with rage-protect-refusal-grief. 

The sudden change in his bubbly brother would’ve knocked Danny down had he been standing, because he isn’t standing Danny reaches out. Danny might not trust him but his father’s eldest hasn’t even tried to hide what he was feeling. Might not know he needs to. He has his ‘eyes’ wide open now. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice and he became a lab frog. There will not be a third time. Danny will not trust this side of his family blindly but that doesn’t mean he can turn away from the man now.

He squeezes his brother’s hand gently to draw his attention, Danny could hear the man force himself to take a long, deep breath. A soft burst of affection-love-love-love-protection brushed against him in return. It was delicate and wispy but strong enough to linger in the air around them. It couldn’t hurt to keep the contact going, Danny decided. Anything to keep that depressing cocktail of emotions from creeping back. 

“No.” Another breath, “Stay there and finish what we started.” The tone is cold and leaves no room for argument. “No one comes on board. This isn’t about what you, or Robin or anyone wants. This is about him. What he needs to feel safe enough to leave here with me. This is about trust. So. If he has decided that he would like some peace and quiet on the way home, he’ll be getting it. Anyone who has an issue with that can take it up with me in the ring when we get back. Any questions?” Nightwing growls into his comms, a singular voice says something after a moment. 

Danny strains to try and catch what was said. He doesn’t want them to fight over him. “Good,” His brother loses the edge to his voice, “I’ll send the plane back to pick you guys up!” The coms shut off abruptly and he says to Danny, “Sorry about them!” 

Danny just shrugs in response as his brother resituates himself on the cot, unhooking Danny’s hand from his to move it so it rested against Richard’s calf. Danny accepted the change with a weak flex of his hand feeling the rasp of kevlar against his palm. Danny always remembered it because of its interesting texture. Perfect for their dangerous nightlife. If Danny needed armor this is what he’d want to get his hands on, a team with resources tends to help too. Keeping in touch with one’s team is important, Danny can’t fault Richard for that. They settle back into a comfortable silence. 

Because they were connected it was easy to catch the beginnings of Richard’s hesitance stirring, “If.. How would it make you feel if your brother wanted to see you?” Richard asks hesitantly as he unexpectedly starts on a new wound making Danny flinch forward. “Sorry Danny.” The genuine, unfiltered feeling of remorse unsettles Danny a bit but instead of retreating he leans into it. The people who once had been his parents- who he still loved despite what had happened, it was all encompassing and intertwined with his anger and longing- had never felt remorse for hurting him. Danny shook his head a bit, Richard is still waiting for a response. 

His brother? Richard was his brother, technically, even if Danny’s not sure he can risk staying with the Bats. He won’t deny anyone their connection to Bruce or Batman. Richard was gentle and caring while his emotions bubbled up and warmed Danny to his core like he was in a jacuzzi. He couldn’t have meant himself so that must mean one of the others wanted to see him? Would they be like Richard? Are any of them upset at the idea that another child was connected to Bruce? 

They were all siblings, all family through their father but that doesn’t mean the connection has to be acknowledged or the label meant anything. Brother, sister, son, they were all just words. Family extended only as far as the living with the Fentons. Him being half-dead disqualified him quickly once they discovered his secret. Danny wasn’t exactly excited to find out what his father and his brood thought of his after-life.

Unsure, Danny shrugged again and played with the sweatshirt, he liked bunching it in his hands. 

A few minutes of silence went by before a beeping started up. His brother sighed, not sounding surprised and started digging around looking for something. That something is placed in his hand, it takes a second for Danny to work out what it is. A comm. He throws a questioning hum back at Richard. “He’s calling on a private line, I figured you could listen in and make your own decision.” That. That was very considerate. Giving him a choice. Seems to be on trend for the man. Danny is rightfully suspicious but slips the comm into his ear nodding to go ahead and connect them. There’s a beep signaling the connection was established. Danny wasn’t prepared who he would hear on the other end.

“Wing. I am converging on your location. What is his status?” The voice is breathless, and the tone is harsh, filled with frustration but familiar. A voice lost to time and those damned sand dunes. 

“He’s currently conscious, Little D. Banged up but we expected that. Thought I told everyone to hold their positions?” He questions softly, a distinct contrast to the almost harsh tone he used on the comms earlier. Dick knows Damian has been desperate to find Danny running himself into the ground searching labs and bases, the team tried and failed to get him to rest or slow down for a moment to regroup. Isn't surprising that he’s decided to abandon his part of the mission and head for the plane. It kills Dick but he’ll have to be very firm in his stance besides Danyal, if he says no other Bats on the plane, Dick will leave Damian behind.

“Tt. I did not abandon my responsibilities. Orphan is finishing our section,” Damian sounds offended their brother even implied that he didn’t do a thorough job, the familiar reaction lessens some of the uncertainty Danny is feeling. “I have arrived, open the doors, Wing.”

“Sorry Baby Bat, no can do!” Nightwing cheerfully responds, “I’m-” Danny tugs hard on the man’s sleeve.

Danny signs frantically, D.A.M.I. comes aboard. Now. Hurry. We are mirrors. Dangerous 

The man looks confused at his interjection but has such a soft smile on his face at Danny’s response until it turns to a frown at the last bit, one that Danny realizes with a start that he can finally see. Slowly the man reaches for his comm, “Scratch that, Baby D says you need to come aboard. Looks like those bastards could have it out for you too.” 

~~~~~~~

Dick watches both of his brothers as Robin rushes inside as soon as the door is cracked enough to squeeze through. Dick stays where he is by the console, hitting the buttons to close the door and listens to the many locks reengage. Once secure he inputs their destination and hits autopilot. Better to get Danny to Alfred as soon as possible now that both twins are on board. If he has to separate them… Well, there are some tranquilizers on board and Dick is sure Damian could enjoy his nap in the bathtub as punishment for upsetting their very injured new sibling. Damian freezes a few steps from the door, Dick sees the desperate drive to find his twin that has been hounding the boy for weeks extinguishing the moment he laid eyes on the cot. He’s ripping off his domino mask with no hesitation, exposing his full face for them to see.

Dick almost relaxes when he sees the awe that broke through first on Danny’s face at Damian’s entrance, the emotion flickers away quickly before he tucks his chin in and his face is obscured in shadow. The urge to jump in and soothe him rises so quickly Dick almost rises from his seat but instead throws his weight back further until his hip digs in a bit to the arm and he knows he will remain in place. He would not interfere unless Danny became physically distressed. Danny had wanted to see Damian, Dick reminds himself. Dick had a few reasons he had even asked the boy about it. If things went well it truly would be good for both of the twins. 

Dick had seen Damian determined before, seen the kid get news that left him shaken and lost, but no one had seen him flip flop from rattled to be as focused or push himself that hard, not even when Damian was convinced the only way to prove his worth to Bruce was killing his older siblings. He’s grown so much over the years and is now making his own decisions and having so many different experiences, his little brother has learned so much and came so far. Dick didn’t think it was possible to feel prouder. 

“Dami.” Danny croaks with a wince and a hand at his throat. He’s looking at his lap, his other hand fiddling with the sheets.

“Danyal.” Damian’s voice wavers, “Ahki.”  The boy is rooted to his spot, waiting for permission to approach. The words visibly hit Danny and he shakes his head a wounded whine. He clearly didn’t expect his twin to be here nor Damian to recognize him as blood, as a brother. Danny’s hand drops the sheet reaching for Damian. His body starts to tilt forward, and Dick can’t help but take a step towards them even as Damian rushes to meet Danny, carefully draping his arms around Danny’s shoulders which gently keeps him from falling to the floor. There isn’t much unbroken skin to rest Damian’s arms on, but Danyal hardly seems to care.   

A heart wrenching sob fills the cabin, their youngest sibling gripping Damian’s cape so tightly his knuckles are white. Dick can just make out the quiet tones of Damian speaking Arabic quietly in their brother’s ear. Their bodies sway with the instinctual drive to comfort, it’s touching, very cute… 

Always one to take advantage of sibling shenanigans Dick quickly pulls out his phone with a smile and snaps a picture to send to the boys later… And the group chat that Damian isn’t in. Picture sent, he tucks his phone away. His phone vibrates with multiple notifications but doesn’t check it. The Bat Brood can simmer. Dick smirks as he moves back over to the sink to wash his hands so he can continue treating Danyal’s back. The tears and sobs abruptly cut off behind him. 

“Fuck.”   

~~~~~

If Danny didn’t just spend an unknown amount of time being tortured by the family that chose him as a child, he would be sinking through the floor in mortification. Damian was here. His gaze burned from the entrance and Danny for a long moment was afraid. What was Damian seeing when he gazed at the pathetic picture Danny made hunched on the cot? Danny couldn’t help but fidget with the sheet to try and ease the unsteady feeling in his chest. He’d wait. Yes. Let Damian brave the quiet- “Dami.” The broken sound leaves his throat, oh ouch. 

He raises a hand to hover over the area, cradling it as if his palm could dampen the scratching pain. Danny waits. He had fucked it up. He hasn’t even given his brother the respect of meeting his gaze. (Not that he can see clearly for more than a foot in front of him, everything past that was misshapen and difficult to make out.) What in the Infinite Realms has possessed him to call out to Damian so casually, affectionately? Damian had only ever allowed that name in the hush of the night when they were alone. 

“Danyal.” Oh. “Ahki.” Oh. Oh Damian, his other half. Awe-grief-regret-vengeance- protect-help-love whipped across the space between them, heavy and fierce Danny can’t help but shake his head with a sharp whine. Guilt chokes him for doubting his twin, his other half. With distance he was able to bottle up his yearning and then he was so busy with the portal, rogues and Zone, he had been too exhausted to reminisce too deeply about his childhood. He kept his eye on the news for surface level stuff, had seen his brother go to their father but didn’t dare make a move to follow him. 

He regrets that now as Damian slips his arms around his shoulders gently securing him back onto the cot. Damian was holding him like he’d shatter at too hard of a grip, but Danny doesn’t care, he’s in his brother's arms. Damian is hugging him. Danny can’t stop the sobs that bubble from his chest, it hurts each inhale pulls at his y-incision, the pain he hasn’t felt rushing forward. Danny fists fabric and pulls his brother close.

"Baby brother,” Damian crooned in quiet Arabic “Danyal, I’m here. I got you. You did well enduring until help arrived, I’m so proud of you.” Damian’s emotions were overwhelming, they accompanied his sweet words enveloping his senses. He wasn’t lying, Danny can feel it. The rage that’s rising within Damian should scare him yet he’s leaning on his brother harder. Damian is furious with Them, not Danny.  He sobs and listens to his brother's promises of safety, of retribution. He feels safe here cradled close in Damian’s arms. Truly safe, something hidden deep within him unwinds. 

He knows how stubborn his twin is, how he would’ve fought tooth and nail to be part of the team that was looking for him. He’ll have to ask about that later, how they’d even know to go looking for him when he’s years dead, buried, and bones for his birth family. He was a little mad they’d bring his brother here when- 

His core shutters in his chest. The feeling that something was wrong hit Danny harder than Skulker. “Fuck.” Danny reluctantly pulls back from Damian. His core pulses weakly. Danny somehow knows it’s a warning. 

“Danyal?” Damian sounds wary, his hand grips Danny’s arm tightly. The pressure is reassuring because Danny is so scared right now. But this could be worse. With Damian here, perhaps things will turn out okay.  

Danny wants to linger looking at his eyes. A shade he’s never found a substitute for, but so desperately tried to keep fresh in his memory. Time slows. His core pulses. Danny’s body wavers for a heartbeat in his brother's grip. “What is happening?!” Damian looks alarmed, his grip tightening and releasing like he does with his blades while gearing up for a fight. It’s cute and almost makes Danny coo at his elder brother.  

Running out of time Danny grits his teeth and frees his arm to start signing as fast as he can to try and explain. It would help if he knew how much they knew about him, the Fentons, the GIW and ghosts but they didn’t have time for a report. He doesn’t want to say too much but he has to warn them. If Vlad finds out he’s away from the GIW and vulnerable he was screwed. The Bat Parade isn’t trained in ghost fighting. Danny would be taken and who knows if he’d ever be able to escape.

Had an accident. Not fully human. Too much physical damage- Danny signs.

His core pulsed weakly interrupting him before it pulled, his body rippled in sync. His head swims, words are hard to remember for a moment. Danny has to hurry, and he isn’t really sure how he wants to phrase this next part, if anything causes the Bats to change their minds about helping him, it won’t matter what Damian wants. The only way for Danny was through, avoidance wouldn’t help at this point. 

-I’m about to hibernate in my C. O. R. E. Core- He continues.

“Core? What is a core?” Dick breaks in. Danny’s eyes jumped to the man, before focusing back on Damian, there wasn’t time. They would barely be getting a shitty explanation out of Danny didn’t have time for questions from the peanut gallery. Damian's gaze is calm and steady when it meets his. He hasn’t turned away from him, he didn’t interrupt. 

 -I haven’t seen it, but it’s… my everything, heart, organs, brain. Core heals. Without a human body DANGEROUS for me. Danny is sure to emphasize again, DANGEROUS, vulnerable. 

Find J. A. Z. Z. F. E. N. T. O. N. Useful. Ally- Danny hesitates on why but gives in- knowledge, weapons, shields. 

V.L. A. D. Enemy. Vlad is bad. Don’t trust. 

He makes the sign for creep and sees Damian’s expression shutter under his protective rage. An instinctive small trill leaves Danny’s lips, pleased that if Vlad shows his face Damian won’t make it easy for him to have his way. 

Despite his best effort Danny is losing steam his instructions come out choppy. He has moments left. 

Damian watches him, like he can feel Danny’s core shift, resignation seeps off his body in waves but determination makes his expression fierce, “You will be safe, Danyal. I will be here when you return.” We will be together. Danny hears the unspoken promise. 

A. H. K. I. You’re a target. I love you. Danny signs their personal signal for head on a swivel and then reels Damian back in, desperate for one last touch to make him real. Tucked in his twin's arms Danny gives himself over to that feeling of safety, clinging to it as he sank into his core. 

~~~~~

Damian blinked light out of his eyes and frowned at the big black spot taking up his vision. His hand now hid what was left of his twin. Danyal had just been in front of them horribly hurt but alive. Finding and freeing his twin was all that had mattered to him. Damian lightly squeezes the hand holding his brother’s quiet core to feel the shape of it in his palm. Once more in his life Danny’s vibrant presence is just out of his reach. 

Grief is an old friend that rises to swallow him. Damian beats it back viciously. Black and blue move closer in his peripheral vision, his eldest brother snatches him close-no. Them close. His brother is still alive. He’s healing. Damian reminds himself despite the sudden wave of failure that crashed into him. Holds onto the thought stubbornly as he examines the stone in his hand. It’s the same shade of blue that makes up Danyal’s eyes. 

The impulsive part of him calms looking into the swirling blue. 

If he hadn’t seen the transformation himself. If he hadn’t been allowed aboard… he wouldn’t believe it. Damian is immensely grateful that captivity hadn’t broken his brother, not completely. Danny had been hesitant but had put his trust in them. Damian had seen his hesitation, the wariness, how Danyal had shrunken into himself, his instincts likely screaming to run, to hide. Whether that trust was because he chose to, or if he ran out of options, Damian didn’t want to know the answer. The unknown time between them no longer was a curiosity to be explored in ‘what ifs’ but a potential threat that Danyal needed to handle carefully. It stung, it being logical didn’t detract from that. Too many years apart, too much had changed within each of them, and their relationship cut short before it took off but not before carving out a part of him. Nothing could compare to the cruel crater Danyal’s life had left in his wake of his death.

His twin’s core gleamed innocently in his palm. 

“Damian.” Richard’s worried tone draws his attention away from Danyal’s new form. 

Damian keeps his gaze on the core, takes a calming breath and promises himself that when Danyal is back, they’ll go to the place he secured and created with his twin in mind after coming to Gotham, show him Damian’s sketchbooks and paintings, and introduce him to the animals in his care. Damian will finally get to share this strange, chaotic, but warm family with him, as he was always meant to. Damian would be careful that there would be no mistakes, no lead unfollowed, every piece would be gathered together and turned over, a plan would be made that would safeguard their victory. Danyal is relying on him. Damian will utilize everything he’s gained over their years apart to protect his brother.

“Release me,” Damian demands as he wiggles out of his brother’s arms, but it doesn’t come out as firm as it would normally and turns to glance at the closest monitor. They still had two hours left until they arrived at the manor. Damian glances at Danyal’s core in his hand before he turns to face Richard. He looks like he needs to lie down but he has managed to keep a wobbling smile on his face. “Tt this is a mere setback,” Damian scowls at the little marble, he can’t be mad when his little brother gave him such valuable information on what pieces are on the board, the board he’s been playing on wherever he’s been hiding. 

“Here, hold him for a moment- No!” Damian’s shout is too loud, it echoes around the cabin. His panic morphs his expression and his brother thankfully does halt his casual reckless reaching for their brother who is a quarter-sized marble. Danny only had said he was vulnerable before he ran out of time, they must exert the utmost caution. There would be no causal anything going on with Danyal in this state. “Let me. Please hold them flat.” Damian says softening his tone, Danny going into his core wasn’t Richard’s fault nor was it the families. He didn’t want to take his frustration out on him when Damian knows his eldest brother is reeling at the transformation right alongside him. The soft tone makes Richard’s smile come a bit easier this time at Damian’s mother henning and Damian tries not to preen under the approval he can see in Richard’s dopey smile. Carefully he places Danyal in Richard’s hands, they close softly around Danyal in a protective cage. 

“He said he heals faster in this ‘core’?” It’s a silly question, but Damian nods watching Danny rest in Richard’s palms before sharply turning away to gather his things. He starts digging around for paper and a pen to make notes, folders for organizing the information, and his laptop before hunkering down. 

“Uh.. okay,” Richard’s confusion both amused him and had Damian ready to snap in frustration. Danny had spent his last moments in his body giving them information and it will not go to waste, not for a second. He carefully labels the folders with the names Danyal had given him, pointedly ignoring the crisis Richard seems to be going through next to him, before he turns on his laptop and starts his search with this ‘Jazz Fenton’. Danny didn’t give Vlad's last name but this woman has the knowledge, weapons, and shields the family will need to protect their youngest. Damian knows what loss is, knows this loss specifically, he is determined to never feel it dig his claws in again. 

Robin gets to work.

[weird-is-life]

Hi Love! You Spencer fics give me life btw, Okay, so idk if you've seen NCIS,but there is this goth character named Abby and she is like a forensic scientist . I would love to see Spencer (maybe later seasons) having to work with a reader like Abby. Opposites attract kind of thing / love at first sight/mutual pining .

Hiii, thank u so much for this request. I am sooooooo sorry, that this took me like 2 months to write 😭I hope this isn't too bad (1k) warnings: talk of bombs, fluff

Sometimes you think, that Spencer likes you, like more than just a friend. It's always when you catch him staring lovesick at you or hear him giggle at your stupid science jokes. It makes your heart swell everytime.

But you stop daydreaming about this, when the reality sets in and you realise the big difference between the two of you. Like there's just no way Spencer likes you the way you like him.

You two are complete opposites. Well, that's not entirely true. You and Spencer share love for science and solving things, which is exactly why you are both at the FBI. But other than this, you don't think, that you have much in common.

Your thinking about Spencer is cut short, because there's a literal bomb being placed in front of you. The team is working on a local case. There's a very dangerous bomber, which they are trying to catch.

Your task is to analyse the bomb as best as you can, even the tiniest detail can help the team. It's not often you get to work with the team, especially this close, so you want to do good and not mess it up.

You put on your favourite band and closely study the bomb. As you bop your head to the blasting music, you write down everything that seams important, even the stuff that is not so important, down.

You work fast and in like 2 hours, you are done and happy with you analysis. You sent a text to Penelope, she is usually the one that comes for the papers and you like her, she is a total sweetheart everytime she comes to your lab.

You don't expect her to come right away, so you don't turn the music down even one bit. Honestly, a big mistake from your part.

It's not Penelope, who comes to grab the analysis papers and also it's not later, it's right away. Spencer was basically pushed towards the elevator to go to your lab by Penelope. Of course, she knows that you two fancy each other (she thinks you'll be the cutest couple) and she's decided, that she's going to get you together, whatever it takes. Even if it means dragging Spencer towards you.

Spencer finds your lab easily, he's been here too many times. But he's never heard the music playing so loud. You don't even hear the door opening or him coming inside. He only gets your attention when he carefully puts his hand on your shoulder as to not scare you, which goes totally the wrong way.

You flinch so hard and jump away from him instantly, that you almost fall on the floor, not to mention the curse words slipping out of your mouth.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," Spencer worriedly apologises.

"Doctor Reid, you scared me," you say with a surprise, you definitely weren't expecting him here. You lower the volume of the music.

"I'm sorry, I called out your name, but I think it was too loud," he explains, stepping from one foot to another.

"It's okay, it's my fault. I put it way too loud. It's just...It's my favourite band,"  you grin sheepishly at him. Your pink blush in contrast with the black lipstick and eyeliner.

"Really? Have they been your favourite band for long now?" Spencer asks, giving you a small smile.

"Gosh, for so long, I don't even know. Maybe since I've discovered how much I love music," you must have been a kid then, when you found you passion for music, " what about you Dr. Reid, what's your favourite band?"

"Spencer, please call me Spencer," it's his turn to blush again, when he says it. You always call him dr. Reid and even if he knows you are joking, he prefers you calling him Spencer, " a-and I don't really have a favourite band or-or a song."

"What? What do you mean?"

"I just don't really know any music, maybe just some classical," he shrugs his shoulders, " I know, it's bad." He adds when he sees your wide eyes.

"Oh my god, this is actually a crime," you dramatically say, " I would gladly give you some recommendations, but I think time isn't on our side right now." You don't think Spencer would like your kind of taste of music, metal probably isn't his type, but you could definitely look something up for him.

Spencer would like that, like a lot. But yeah, he can't waste time by chatting with you, when there's a serial bomber in the streets.

He really wants to tho, I mean he wouldn't say no to spending time with you, maybe it would give him an actual chance with you. So with these kind of thoughts, he does something very, almost too brave.

"How about over a coffee?" he nervously blurts out and you don't quite know if you've heard right or your imagination is playing tricks on you.

"Over a coffee?"

"O-or tea, whatever you drink...."he adds, words stammering.

"Sure," you agree and give him the nicest smile you can do.

"R-really?" Spencer isn't expecting you to agree, he thinks, you are way out of his league, too pretty to even talk to him.

"Definitely, I'd love that," you reassure him and before you know it, these words escape your mouth, " it's a date, then."

Your dread goes away, when Spencer returns your shy smile and states," can't wait for it, I'll text you, yeah?" He starts to slowly back out of the lab.

"Okay," you giggle, because you realise, that he is forgetting the one thing he came here for, " don't you want the analysis of the bomb?"

"Ohhh," his cheeks go red again," right." He quickly comes back for it and heads for the door. At the door he looks at you for one last time and accidentally walks with his shoulder into the edge of the door.

You can't help but to giggle some more as he embarrassingly laughs and leaves your lab.

In your happy mood, you put the music back on and start thinking of the right songs for Spencer.

[lets-try-some-writing]

The Rot: Patient Zero

An infection is spreading across all of Cybertron and not a spark knows what is going on. Ratchet has been called upon to inspect patient zero to try and find the cause of all this. It ends as well as one might expect.

This is a little gift for my dear friend @spreadwardiard and their fantastic fic The Rot.

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“Where is the patient?” The datapad in Ratchet’s servo cracked as he clutched it a little too tightly. He cursed softly and strode forward with greater speed, First Aid scurrying alongside him.

“We have found several infected patients, but the one we are going to is in the far room, the most secure part of the facility.” First Aid supplied with a hint of worry in his voice. Ratchet hummed and looked over the datapad again. 

Hundreds of reports of a strange virus infecting the lower levels had begun to spread like a wildfire. Every few kliks there was another ping and yet another designation added to the growing list of those infected with the virus. This was an outbreak, and it was growing worse at rapid speed. Ratchet had already given the order to close off the upper regions of Iacon, but the middle and lower levels were being overtaken by whatever this was.

They needed to understand it and find a cure fast. There had been no casualties yet, but Ratchet had seen the Rust Plague. He knew how quickly something so simple as a mere respiratory malfunction could turn deadly. 

“We believe this is patient zero, correct?” Ratchet inquired as he passed by several holding cells where infected individuals were pacing mindlessly. Looking over them briefly, they seemed… lost. Their optics were hazy and their movements disjointed. Most were mumbling about nonsense, but there was a common theme that left a worrying fear nagging at the back of Ratchet’s mind.

“Hungry… need… energon.” Ratchet grimaced slightly as he passed by a particularly delirious patient. The mech was leaking oral fluids, seemingly without any care whatsoever. His frame seemed gaunt, almost emaciated. That wasn’t a good sign.

“Yes, the patient we are going to meet is indeed the one we believe to be the original carrier of the virus. He was at a bar at the time and the infection has spread from that location since. And while we do have enforcers down there trying to keep things in order-” First Aid fidgeted and stepped back hastily as one patient flew against the bars separating him from the hall. The patient’s face was the embodiment of madness, and his expression was lopsided, almost as though he’d had a spark attack and was still recovering.

“What do we know so far? What are the symptoms?” The mech gurgled worryingly as Ratchet grabbed First Aid by the arm and pushed on. First Aid stumbled for a moment before replying. Ratchet took care to not look at any of the patients in the optic directly. He hated keeping patients behind bars, but they were too dangerous to be interacted with. 

“Severe hunger, madness, disorientation, mobility loss, and in the most severe cases, plating loss. It seems to be a degenerative virus that weakens the frame over time.” Ratchet nodded and passed First Aid the datapad as they approached a door. It was thick, black proof based on the structure of it. A wise place to keep patient zero.

“Give me a hazmat suit. I am not going in there just to catch whatever this is.” First Aid was quick to follow the given order and collected a suit from the nearby lockers. Within a klik, his apprentice was back by his side with the materials. Ratchet always hated the suites, but they were useful despite their appearance.

Neon green boots and leg coverings slid on first, kept in place by straps that were fitted over his shoulders. They dug into his seams, but with the covers coming up to his mid waist, there would be no risk of fluid getting near his exposed cabling or plating. Next came the gown with First Aid had to get a stool to help Ratchet get into. The thing was also disgustingly bright green and it fell over his helm without issue. Getting his arms into the sleeves was a nightmare with his arm guards, but he managed. 

Gloves were strapped onto his wrists with tight bindings and the cuffs of his sleeves were tucked into the gloves just to be safe. As if he didn’t look ridiculous enough, the helm piece of the whole suit was quickly put into place. It was a relatively simple design. A draping helm cover fell down from his helm to his shoulders, held in place by straps under his chin. Then to top it all off, a cone shaped, almost beak like visor was slipped into place and locked on. The thing was almost entirely air tight, but there was plenty of room around his intake and optics so that he could run his air filtration systems without issue.

He looked like a hot mess, but he was ready. The bright purple mark of the medic stood proudly on his chest as he gestured for First Aid to step away and made his way through the door into patient zero’s containment chamber. 

“You are… Springstep, correct?” Ratchet called out, his voice coming out somewhat staticy through the communicator built into his mask. The mech in front of him had his arms bound behind his back, a safety measure to ensure he didn’t hurt himself or any staff. If they were doing things properly or if they had more time, the mech would have been given better accommodations.

As it was, patient zero was simply too dangerous to be handled properly.

“Yes? You are… a doctor?” The mech questioned, his optics hazy and uncertain as he looked Ratchet up and down. Ratchet made a noise of affirmation and edged closer to examine the mech. 

“I am. My designation is Ratchet.” Cautiously Ratchet shuffled forward until he was about a foot away from the mech. Springstep looked terrible just from a quick physical glance over. His complexion was awful, his facial protoform sunken in enough that it seemed as though it was stretched too thin. His frame was boney, his hips jutting out awkwardly almost as if he hadn’t had a decent fueling in stellar cycles. 

According to his files, he had been perfectly healthy up until about three cycles ago. Such rapid loss of mass was highly concerning. Perhaps it was a parasite? That would account for the lack of nutrients in the patient. However, it did not rationalize why the virus was spreading so rapidly. 

“Tell me how you are feeling and when your symptoms began to show themselves.” Ratchet ordered as he dutifully began running scans from a safe distance. Springstep was startlingly low on fuel. His systems were resorting to consumption of excess mass in order to keep functioning. There was no way a mech who was perfectly healthy mere cycles prior should have been suffering from third degree energon deficiency. 

“Rotted… broken… my insides burn… my processor… all foggy… started down at the docks.” Springstep attempted to speak, but his glyphs were broken and disjointed. Ratchet grimaced beneath his mask. This mech wasn’t going to make it. Such severe speech impediments combined with his frame’s state did not speak positively of his chances of survival. 

“Where by the docks did you encounter this virus? Do you know?” Ratchet continued his line of questioning even as he began sending pings back to the other medics outside. 

[[Lock down the lower levels entirely. Priority individuals and essential workers are to be moved to the upper levels and secured immediately. Begin administration of hazmat suit instruction to all medical personnel. Not a spark is to be seen without a suit from this point onward.]]

“Don’t… know…” Springstep trailed off and Ratchet frowned. This was just like the Rust Plague, and yet so much worse all at the same time. The virus was spreading just as fast, but the effects were worse, or rather more intense. The rust killed a mech slowly through corroding their insides. Whatever this was worked at an  accelerated rate and with incredible efficiency. It hadn’t even been three cycles and already patient zero was going to drop dead.

A lockdown was the bare minimum.

“Thank you Springstep. I will have one of my associates administer a sedative to help ease the pain-” Ratchet trailed off as Springstep lurched forward, his frame heaving as he purged green goo onto the ground. Springstep’s optics widened and cycled rapidly as he struggled. Ratchet knew that look, it was a sign of madness, the swift clarity before death that faded away into insanity. 

He didn’t hesitate to turn around and run.

Time seemed to slow as he crashed into the door, hurriedly trying to punch in the code to exit as Springstep growled like a wild animal and snapped his restraints. Energon rushed from the mech’s wounds, but he was rapid as he skidded forward, no intelligence remaining in his gaze.

“STAY BACK!” Ratchet lifted an arm just in time for Springstep to collide with him. The mech’s jaw clamped down tight on his arm, denta digging deep and tearing through protective plastic sheeting. Ratchet winced as pinpricks of pain shot up his arm from where Springstep’s denta had dug into him. But he did not waste another moment in kicking Springstep to the ground and rushing through the door as it opened.

He couldn’t use his servos to hurt a patient, but no one said anything about his pedes. 

“Sir! Are you alright!?” First Aid hurried forward, a welder in his servo. He was quick to begin welding the minor cut closed, and Ratchet allowed it. Once his apprentice was done, Ratchet sighed and pulled off his mask.

“I will be fine, but this is far worse than I thought. My orders still stand, but I want every sparkling in upper Iacon put in stasis for the time being. They won’t last more than thirty kliks under this virus.” First Aid nodded and began taking notes, but Ratchet did not wait around. His frame suddenly ached with exhaustion which he chalked up to having to beat a patient into the ground on short notice. It had been a long cycle of handling the situation. He needed rest. There wasn’t much he could do until his orders were implemented anyway.

[[This is a direct order from the CMO of Cybertron. The situation has been deemed a medical emergency for all of Cybertron. From now until the situation is dealt with, medical orders take precedence over all others. Comply or be removed from major cities effective immediately.]] 

He groaned as his message was sent out to every mech of importance in Iacon. His helm pounded and he found he didn’t have the will to make the long march back to his hab. He had a work office nearby. He would stop by there and take a nap as he’d done plenty of times before.

“By the Allspark, this is bad.” He murmured as he arrived at his office and stepped inside. He hadn’t even bothered to remove the suit. His limbs felt like lead and his helm pounded so much that he could hardly see straight. This wasn’t good. 

The bite on his arm burned and his very frame felt as though it were struggling to keep functioning. He hardly had enough time to close the door behind him before he fell to the ground, spark deep exhaustion pulling at him along with bursts of pain he couldn’t fight. 

His optics flickered and he weakly tried to move, to do anything. His limbs would not obey him, and as he lay on the hard ground heaving, he wanted to curse. He should have known better than to march off as soon as he’d interacted with a patient. At the time he had just been so very- -tired.

[delopsia]

You Problem | Bob Floyd x Reader

Word Count: 9,400   Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, Reader has the callsign ‘Weave.’ AFAB! Reader (who briefly wears a sundress for an outing), blowjobs, unprotected sex, food, grinding in public, "We can't keep our hands off of each other, so we'll see who breaks first, but oh would you look at that, we both broke!" trope. This is written as a stand-alone one-shot that just so happens to loosely continue the events of Better.

"Holy shit, your hands are cold!" 

But your wayward step backward, made in an effort to escape, only backfires because your shoulders hit the chest of your assailant. Those offending hands scurry up your belly, unwilling to let you wriggle too far from their vicious, icy attacks. All the while, the criminal himself chuckles into your ear, deep rumblings that ripple all the way down your sore spine. 

"Ts 'cause we were just outside, sweetie," Bob's teeth graze the shell of your ear, breath warming the cold-bitten skin there. Absently, your fist clenches the thin mattress in your bunk, anything to keep yourself from falling apart at the seams.

"No shit, Bobby," you'd debate on wriggling out of his grasp, but Bob's already made the decision for you. Forearms securing around your waist before you can bat an eye, anchoring you against him. The teeth tugging on your lobe rip any further words straight from your throat, such a simple thing that you've yet to grow used to.

Your heads snap up as heavy footsteps dance past the door, dangerously close. Not your crew; not a single pilot or flight officer on this ship has enough energy or reason to run like that. 

Safe, for now, and by God, that is more than enough reason for Bob to return to his earlier assault. Lips soft against your bruised neck as they work their way down, seeking your collarbone like a man starved. The fading marks that mottle your skin aren't from the crash alone; no, the worst of them come from Bob's devilish mouth and honey-sweet tongue. 

The mark at the base of your neck comes from a rendezvous in the showers, the poor skin used to muffle Bob's whimpered noises. You've been telling Natasha that this red mark on the side of your palm is from getting caught in the wreckage, but it's come from Bob's teeth. Bitten down on because you'd snuck up behind him and refused to quit jerking him off until he came all over your hand. There are fingerprints on your hips and a hickey on your thigh that you don't know how to explain yet. 

"We're gonna get caught one of these days," and as you say it, your ass bumps back against him, pressing against a hardness that you've become oh so familiar with as of late. 

He presses you forward, reducing the gap between you and the bunk you're so desperately clinging to, "what makes you think that?"

The argument formulated in your mouth is hindered by the wandering hand that's slipped beneath your bra, toying with an already hard nipple, sore from the unusual amount of attention it's received lately. "We haven't been able to keep our hands off each other since we got back!" 

Images flash before your eyes, memories you're not sure if you treasure or fear. 

Sex in a shack so old and decrepit that the medic ordered you both to get updates on your shots; you can't imagine what he'd say if he knew of the sins committed in there too. The discomfort of trudging through deep snow after you'd been dicked within an inch of your life, and the horror of realizing what was running down your leg while you were talking to Maverick following your rescue.

"I," kiss, "fail," kiss, "to see the problem here." Another kiss. 

Rolling your eyes, "That's because you're thinking with the wrong head." His hold is just loose enough for you to turn around, coming face to face with your beloved backseater. Even through the darkness that's blown up his pupils, those thin bands of baby blue still sparkle at the sight of you. "That pretty head of yours does remember what will happen if we get caught, right?"

Those expressive eyes falter as the thoughts flicker through his head, a sight you've seen a million times before, and yet, you will never grow tired of it. There's something warming in the way his eyelashes flutter and his nose wrinkles. 

He doesn't need to reiterate what will happen if you're busted; you'll never fly together again. Split up, never to be placed in the same unit again. Bad news, considering the latest push to keep your ragtag crew together following your recent string of unlikely success.

Licking your lips, you add to your statement, "We're gonna have to tell them sooner or later." 

"Let's give it a while," he breathes, voice nearly lost to the incessant hum of equipment overhead; aircraft carriers aren't exactly known for their peace and quiet. "Figure us out before we worry about any know-it-all Admirals."

Such a topic can't keep his hips from pressing forward, won't prevent his greedy hands from taking hold of you and drawing you impossibly close. Always needs you as near as possible, can never have enough. 

"I can work with that," understatement of the century; you can absolutely work with that "gives us some time to get 'hold of ourselves." 

Bob's eyebrows knit together. "Hm?"

"Don't give me that look," but your words only make it worse because now his head is cocking to the side, unruly hair flopping over, "you know what I mean."

There isn't a single thought behind those eyes. 

Reaching forward, you take his face into your hands, feeling the barely-there stubble scratch your hand as you squish his cheeks, "we can't even go twenty-four hours without jumping each-others bones, Bobby."

"Yes, we can?" His words come out distorted, unable to speak clearly, with you smooshing his cheeks. 

You're just wicked enough to lean up and steal a kiss from his unwittingly picked lips, "you'll crack and be begging to fuck me in an hour, sweet cheeks."

"You makin' bets now, baby?" Incredulous, his eyebrows rise up into his hairline. "Are you sure that's such a good idea?"

And just like that, you've gotten under his skin. "What? Scared you'll lose?"

That left eye twitches. "First one to crack loses?"

Nod. 

"You're on." And right as he says it, the door handle twists. 

If there is anything that can be worse than being shot out of the sky by a surface-to-air missile, it's being carted off to an emergency meeting the moment you're off the aircraft carrier. Because the Navy can't let you crash and be done with it the moment you're rescued. No, you absolutely must attend this safety meeting that goes over every bit of common sense knowledge that has ever existed.

The dread that's settled into your weary bones is so heavy that you can hardly drag yourself into this crowded auditorium. Body moving so slowly that even Bob manages to catch up to you, crutches and all. It'll be some time before he can go back to running laps around you, but his injured foot has already healed enough for him to bear some weight on it.

"Did they invite every aviator in the country?" You're saying it more to yourself than anything, Bob just happens to be within earshot. 

This auditorium is way too tiny for the number of people occupying it. Once perfectly organized fold-out chairs now lost to the sea of extra chairs, stashed anywhere they could possibly fit. Not a chair has been left unoccupied, even the ones reserved for the injured.

"Pretty sure they invited reserve on top of active duty," his crutch bumps into your heel as he speaks, but it's too gentle of a tap for it to be unintentional. 

Tilting your head, you catch him motioning toward an empty corner a few paces to your right, "care to stand with me?" 

 It wouldn't be too difficult for you to cross the room and join the others; you can clearly see Maverick and them gathered up by the emergency exit door, but you find yourself following Bob anyways. He settles into the corner itself, weight partially braced against the wall. As soon as he's settled, those crutches are coming out from under his arms, left to settle next to him. 

"Those still hurting you?" By the time you catch yourself, it's too late; your hand has already landed on his shoulder, rubbing affectionately. 

"A bit," but he doesn't address your offending hand; if anything, he seems to be leaning into it, "fortunately, I've found some distractions." There's a hint of pink on his cheeks as he smiles at you, growing even wider when you inevitably shake your head. This whole boyfriend thing is...something.

It's not long before you find yourself regretting following him into this spot because the next thing you know, another group floods in through the doors. All of whom cram themselves right into your little corner. So tall that even Bob can hardly see over them, practically caging you in. It's a wonder if they even saw you two wallflowers because one of them has no problem stepping backward, right onto your foot.

Bob's hand curls around your waist, drawing you away from the foot crusher, "c'mere, stand in front of me." 

Two steps to your right, and all of a sudden, your only problems are the warm chest that's pressed against your back and the warm breath fanning out against your neck. Better than getting your foot stepped on, but...

"Can you see anything?" You ask, leaning into him in order to be heard.

Lips ghost the shell of your ear, "Not a damn thing." 

So it seems you're doomed to listening only, with nothing but irritatingly broad shoulders to stare at for entertainment. Cyclone's voice drones on and on from the speakers, so dull and mundane that you find yourself fighting a yawn within the first ten minutes. Proper sleeping habits, fire exits, alerting the janitorial staff if you hear a smoke alarm indicate a low battery, blah blah blah. 

They couldn't have sent this presentation via email?

You could be doing better things with your time; everyone in this room could. There isn't a doubt in your mind that Cyclone has a Maverick that he could be chewing out right now. You could be getting dressed at the hotel and terrorizing Bob with your new sundress right now. Speaking of...

"Baby," his voice appears so suddenly that you nearly jump, "what are you doin'?"

Twitching your ass back again only earns a wayward hand on your hip, gripping tight but never quite making the move to stop you. He has no reason to; these guys all have their backs facing you. They don't even know you're here. Haven't the slightest clue that you're testing the waters, tentatively grinding your ass against your backseater.

"Whaddaya mean?" Relaxed as can be, you tilt your head to meet his eye. "I'm not doing anything."

His mouth opens. 

You press harder. 

The faintest hitch of breath slips through his defenses, ripped out of him so easily that you're tempted to see what else you can get. The hands-on your hips tighten, threatening to leave bruises in their wake, but they don't have the strength to stop you. It's almost easy, working him up until you can feel a familiar hardness against the curve of your ass. If you reach behind, you can probably map out the—

"Weave," one of his hands flies off your hip, clamping down on the small palm that's gliding against his clothed length, unintentionally squeezing himself. Teeth sink into his bottom lip, muffling the moan that's nearly escaped him. "Really tryin' to make me lose this, hm?"

In this position, there is absolutely no way he can retaliate. Can't reach beneath your shirt, can't attach his lips to your neck, hell, he can't even bury his face into your shoulder as you rub against him. The only thing he can do is tell you to stop, and yet that powerful little word never falls off his tongue. Hell, he doesn't even pry your hand from his cock, downright helpless as you trace him with a curious thumb. Following the curve of his plush head, then stroking down as far as you can comfortably reach. 

The breaths gracing your ear are becoming heavier, the only indication of how you're affecting him, "Sweetie..." daring teeth bite at the shell, "you're gettin' me, ah, all riled up for nothin'."

Not missing a beat, you lean your head forward, freeing yourself of those devilish nibbles, "that sounds like a you problem."

All at once, the room begins to move. Blurry faces shuffle out from their seats and hiding spaces, now free to congregate as they please. Meeting over. Your bodies part within an instant, back to putting up your usual fronts. 

Except, Bob's glasses have fogged up.

Giggling. "Can you even see?"

"Not a thing."

Truly, you doubt you would have agreed to this if Bob weren't involved. A big chunk of you longs for the comfort of your own bed, to relax in the serenity of your claw-foot bath, and not give a damn about anything during your break. If you had known getting shot down would reward you all with a three-week vacation, maybe you would have done it sooner. 

But Jake just had to suggest that you all stay until after Cyclone's official 'you finally got the position you've been chasing for half of your life' party. "Room for more group bonding," he'd said. None of you live even remotely close to Top Gun, which can only mean one thing. 

Staying in a hotel. 

Tacky carpet that's old enough to vote, impossibly fluffy pillows and sheets tucked so well that it's a struggle to get them out, a crisp view of the beach. You've got the full package; the only thing that could make this better is a certain blue-eyed fool. 

You wonder which of these sundresses would make his head spin the most.

There are only two options, but it's still such a hard choice. When you'd packed these, wooing your backseater hadn't been much of a priority, your only concern being comfortable during your special detachment. On one hand, you've got a tried-and-true favorite, lightweight with an open lace-up back. But the other dress is in your favorite color, and you've never gotten a chance to wear it. 

Hm. 

"Damn, Weave," you'd almost forgotten Natasha had snuck in, seeking your shower because hers isn't working, "who's the lucky fella who gave you those bruises?" 

Unruly, finger-shaped spots poke out from beneath your shorts. Shorts that you chose to wear exclusively to hide said bruises from view. 

"Some guy I met at the Hard Deck the other day," Your lie is fragile; you've only been off the aircraft carrier for three days, and these bruises are from last week. 

But she seems to buy it because she doesn't press any further. Instead, she's distracted by the garments lying on your bed. "You still having trouble?"

Humming, you place your hands on your hips. Those ornery bruises twinge beneath your touch, silently crying for attention that you refuse to give them.  "It's the dilemma of the century."

It takes some deliberating on her part, but ultimately, Natasha makes the decision for you, pointing toward her favorite of the two, "this one suits the restaurant better," she muses, toying with the hem, "casual but not too casual."

"All this thought, and half of the guys are going to be in graphic tees and khakis," your prime offender may or may not be your weapons systems officer. You're pretty sure that his biceps have outgrown most of those cheesy one-liner shirts. It's hard to tell if you're just happy the horrible shirts are gone or if you're selfishly thrilled that you've got something to drool over.

"It only serves to make us look better," her tone is nothing but positive, but the twitch in her eye tells you she's one pair of cut-off jeans away from homicide. "Roses amongst weeds."

In the hallway, you find that your unofficial crew has already gathered, leaning against the walls like a bunch of tacky decor. Ugh, you don't know what possessed Bob to wear that plain, tight-fitting black tee with his favorite blue jeans, but you hope this becomes a habitual outfit. His crutches are missing; it's difficult to tell if he's feeling better or just fed up with using them. 

As soon as his eyes lay upon you, those soft eyelashes start to flutter like the wings of a butterfly, "y'ready to go?"

And it almost distracts you from the catastrophe occurring around you, almost. It seems everyone else has raided Bradley's suitcase because they're wearing the tackiest Hawaiian shirts you've ever seen in your life. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.

Natasha's inevitable sigh is so loud that it echoes down the hallway, "Like I said, weeds."

If you paid attention, you're sure you'd be laughing at the inevitable confusion that comes from her open-ended words. If it's one thing Jake can't stand, it's not being privy to an inside joke. Once he starts asking questions, like a hive mind, the rest of them do. But you can't pay it the slightest bit of mind; no, you're too busy trying to avoid Robert Floyd's biceps.

Thick, unusually swollen from a recent workout, absolutely filling the thin material of those sleeves. To make matters worse, the veins in his forearms have decided to make a special appearance, the sight haunting you like a bad memory. You wonder what it would be like to trace them with your tongue—

"Earth to Weave."

You don't recall even stepping into the restaurant, but there's a plate of food sitting in front of you, completely untouched. "Huh?" 

Who was even trying to get your attention? The fashion catastrophe on your right is busy bickering about the football game playing on the television, and Natasha's too far away for you to have heard her in the first place. 

A hand squeezes your knee, "you still with me?"

An image flickers through the forefront of your mind, warm arms cuddling you into an equally cozy chest. The soft pitter-patter of a gradually slowing heartbeat beneath your ear as mindless fingertips draw shapes into your naked spine. Lips that tickle your scalp as they ask a simple, 'You still with me?'

"Sorry," blinking away the haze, you reach for your fork, "got a little lost in my thoughts there."

It's hard to figure out how you failed to notice Bob sitting right next to you, but there he is, expressionless as he watches you catch up to speed. He doesn't seem to be buying your excuse, but if he's got any staring accusations to make, he hasn't made them yet. "That's the first time I've heard you speak since the hotel," he says, but he doesn't phrase it like it's a bad thing. 

Knowing him, he probably hasn't spoken since then, either. 

"The appearance of the tacky Hawaiian flannels stunned me into silence," deadpanning. This time, it's your food that silences you, if only for a moment, "how is it that you're the only one not wearing one?"

Bob hums, idly chasing down a piece of ravioli that refuses to stay on his fork. "Dumb luck," eventually, he gives up and uses his index finger to scoot it onto the utensil. "Rooster was one shirt short, and I was the last to show up."

"You? Late?" Upping your dramatics, you place a hand across your heart, feigning shock. 

There's that eye roll you were hoping for, so annoyed that he can hardly roll them halfway before he gives up on it altogether, "t's ironic, comin' from you."

It takes a moment before you understand what he's referring to. Day one of schooling at the famous Top Gun; you'd gotten in by luck alone; one of the referrals they sent backed out, and you were runner-up for his slot. 

You still remember how cold your face felt when you stumbled into that classroom three minutes late and out of breath. How Fritz and Halo had exchanged looks when your instructor assigned you to a meek Robert Floyd, the only man in the room who couldn't find a pilot to partner up with. Even then, your first impression had been, 'He's cute.'

"I'll have you know," motioning toward him with the back end of your fork, "that I only ran to class because I heard there was a cute WSO in need of a pilot."

Mickey turns to glance over at you two. Your gaze rises to look at the television. Bob's drops to his plate. 

No funny business going on here.

The hand residing on your knee glides up, nudging beneath the hem of your dress. It's barely concealed by the table, but if anyone were to drop something and bend down to fetch it, they'll surely catch glimpse of that non-platonic wandering. Unsuspecting, Mickey's attention returns to his conversation; what about, you aren't sure.

Leaning over toward's Bob's ear, "What are you doing?" Voice barely a whisper, fearing that your voice may carry too far across the table. 

As if it has garnered a mind of its own, his hand rises even further, idly stroking the sensitive skin along your inner thighs. Up and down in slow, circular motions that have you fighting the urge to squirm. 

"'m not sure what you're talkin' 'bout," that upward pull of his lip tells you otherwise; he knows exactly what you're talking about. 

If he thinks you'll crack that easily, he's mistaken. 

But oh, your thighs have gotten so sensitive as of late. Bitten, marked, kissed, showered in so much affection that you fear they'll never be the same. Even the slightest of touches have your heart lurching, anticipating sensations that never come. The food you're shoveling into your mouth is a poor distraction, nothing can take your mind off the mouth-watering sensation of that hand stroking your inner thigh. 

Fingers nudge at the hem of your panties, not quite paying attention to the thin fabric, but close enough where he can easily slip beneath the hem at any time he pleases.

"So, Weave, after that near-death experience," at Jake's voice, you lift your head to look his way, "have you finally changed your mind on sharing the origins of your callsign?" 

The entire table seems to lean closer, anticipating your verdict. On their own, your eyes flicker over to Bob. He's already looking at you, chewing on his bottom lip. The whites of his eyes are so visible that you almost miss those soft blue irises.

"Not a chance," you find yourself saying after a moment whilst you reach for your drink, "you'll just have to make up your own origin story."

Just like that, the room deflates. Shoulders fall, disappointed sighs piercing the calm restaurant air. 

You've just wrapped your lips around the straw when you feel calloused fingertips delve into your panties. They're quick, wasting no time as an index finger strokes between your folds, seeking a certain little button that he knows better than the buttons in those fighter jets.

Gingerly placing your cup down, you lean over, "This is how you thank me for not embarrassing your ass?"

He finds it, and you jolt in your seat. 

Asshole.

Reaching between your legs, you take hold of his hand and pry it out from where it's been terrorizing you. You'll pretend that you don't see the glistening of something wet on his fingers. Before he can ask what you're doing, you stand and head for the restrooms. 

You'll give it maybe five minutes before he comes looking for you.

Only one side is open, as the other restroom door is marked with a simple 'Restroom Closed, please use the other one' sign. Fortunately, the open bathroom is the one you were heading for anyway. Inside are six unnervingly large stalls with the floor to ceiling doors that don't allow anyone to peek through the gaps. A sight that would usually be a pleasant surprise, but you're only here so that you can stare at yourself in the mirror. 

You'd thought for sure that your reflection would bear an indication of what you were just up to, but absolutely nothing looks out of place. Even as you twist and turn, you find not a single indicator of your crimes. Except for, say, your slightly displaced panties. 

"Leave it to Bob to be harboring a secret voyeurism kink," you grumble to yourself, reaching down to fix them. 

Heavy footsteps echo off the tiled walls, and as you lift your head, you meet eyes with the culprit himself.

"I-I'm sorry," he stutters, cheeks a shade of cheery pink as he toys with the hem of his jeans. "I shouldn't have done that in public—" 

He's still apologizing, but you can hardly hear it. There's a tent in his jeans, one that wasn't there before, and it's all you can look at. That cute mouth of his snaps shut the moment you step forward, grunting his surprise when you take him by the forearm and drag him toward the nearest stall. "W-Weave?"

"Before you ask," slamming the door shut behind you, "this game only applied to sex." You don't know what's come over you. All you know is that your knees are hitting the cold, hard ground, and your hands are busy popping that little silver button open.

Bob whines, pawing at your head, "What are you—here?"

You've barely even run your palm up against his boxers, and his head is hitting the wall with a painful thunk. A selfish part of you hopes he'll always be this sensitive, squirming from the barely-there contact as you reach inside, searching for him. 

"That wasn't a problem a few minutes ago," and it's still not a problem. The real problem lies in the fact that he's not in your damn mouth yet. 

His cock twitches the moment your palm wraps around him, heavy in your grasp as you draw him out of his confines. You've only had the chance to do this once before, unfamiliar with this position but eager to memorize it like you've memorized your fighter jets. Above you, Bob's frozen, completely still as you tentatively run your thumb beneath his flushed head.

"What?" Poking your tongue out, you flick your tongue along his slit. Oh, how he jumps at that. "Not so bold now, are ya?"

Weakly, Bob shakes his head no, "Weave."

"Stay quiet for me, pretty boy, or I might tell Hangman exactly how we got our callsigns," pausing after your threat, allowing yourself the pleasure of rolling your tongue around his cockhead, round and round, leaving him shimmering in the light. 

You remember it like it was yesterday. A surprise night of drinking at the Hard Deck that got a little out of hand, how Bob had stumbled toward you and affectionately deemed you the 'Bob to his Weave' before planting a big ol' kiss on your cheek. Cyclone had been the one to discover you, and despite his best efforts, not a soul could pry the whimpery, cuddle-starved Robert Floyd from your side.

All these years later, he whines the exact same way. Only this time, it's because you're wrapping your lips around his sensitive tip.

"You...you wouldn't" At his words, you come to a screeching halt, allowing your teeth gently remind him that they're there. A soft, featherlight sensation that only serves to make him nervous, mouth gaping like a fish. "okay... maybe you would."

That's better. 

It's too easy to fall back into what you were doing. Lapping at the underside of him as his hips writhe against the wall, you've got no choice but to suck on him just to keep his cock from popping out of your mouth completely.  

"Baby," he gasps, voice so small that you barely notice it, "Baby."

Breathing in through your nose, you sink further down, seeking your comfortable limit. Inch by squirming inch until he gently nudges at the back of your throat. There's already an ache in your jaw as you draw back, swiping your tongue back and forth along a rare vein, such a simple thing that has him twitching. 

Footsteps echo just outside the bathroom door. A stall door slams shut.

You're not stopping; instead, you only move quicker, eager to find a comfortable rhythm. Bob's hands fly up, audibly clamping over his mouth, and it's the only thing that can muffle that soft whimper of your name as you draw back to swirl your tongue around his tip. The slick sound seems so loud in this quiet little bathroom, bouncing off the walls, eager for someone to hear it, for someone to know what you're doing to your backseater.

Bob's cheeks have turned pink, the color spreading along his pale neck as you abuse this soft tip with your tongue. But it's not enough. You want, no, need to see his face turn bright fucking red. 

With a heavy breath through your nose, you push your head forward, relaxing your throat the best you can as you take him a little further than before. The soft back of your throat only manages to kiss him before you're drawing back, fighting your gag reflex as you listen to the sudden bursts of breath that puncture the air. Breaths that can barely conceal the keening high in his throat. 

Your voice is going to be wrecked by the end of this, but you need to hear that again. 

It's easier to drop your head back down and fight the unpleasant reflexes when you know you're going to hear that. Sharp puffs of breath that rattle through your skull with every motion of your head, the poorly muffled whines that you'll never hear enough of. 

You don't recall hearing a toilet flush or water running, but those feet carry themselves back out of the bathroom, disappearing into the restaurant from whence they came. 

"'m close," he rasps, an octave deeper than it was before, "sweetie, ah, what about the game?"

Drawing all the way back, his leaking tip resting on your swollen lips, you give yourself a half second to think. "Fuck the pact," your voice cracks midway, but you can hardly pay it any mind as you take him in once more. 

And then there are the footsteps again, flip flops smacking against the tile, but this time, your name echoes through the bathroom. "You in here?" 

Natasha.

All you can see are the whites of Bob's eyes when you make eye contact. Carefully, you draw back, taking over with your dominant hand, "yeah?" 

"Are you alright?" Her footsteps grow dangerously close to the door, but your hand just keeps working Bob's weeping cock, too amused by his squirming to stop. "You've been gone for longer than usual."

"Something made me sick," God, you hope she doesn't hear how hoarse your voice sounds right now, "I'll be out in a few."

Rolling your tongue out like a damn welcome mat, you place him against your tongue, peering up at your beloved systems officer from beneath hooded lashes. He's twitching under your hold, barely able to make eye contact with you before he has to squeeze his own eyes shut. 

The poor thing is the color of a fire truck.

"You wouldn't know where Bob went by any chance, would you?" She's right on the other side of the door. Maybe three feet away at best. 

"He might have stepped outside," humming like you're in thought, "We did get lunch together; if that's what's making me sick, then he might not be feeling too hot either."

Bob's hands come down just long enough for him to mouth one word, 'Close.'

Natasha hesitates for a moment, and then, "Gross. Alright, I'll see you when you come out then." 

Your hand pumps once, twice, and before you can get a third stroke in, Bob's head cracks against the wall. A thick rope of pearly white hits your tongue and cheek; you've barely managed to get your eyes shut before a second splashes against your left eye. Hot, salty as it pools on your ill-prepared tongue. 

"'m sorry," he pants, drawing away from your mouth, "hold on, you don't have to—"

But it's too late; you've already bitten the bullet and swallowed it down. You wish you could see his reaction because his surprised gasp is everything you could have ever hoped for. 

"Please just hurry up and get your cum off my face," you croak, throat suddenly sore from all of the abuse it's received, "before they send Jake to come looking for us too."

Huffing, Bob audibly fumbles with a toilet paper roll, "I don't know how I'm gonna explain this one away, darlin'."

"That sounds like a you problem."

"And here y'all thought my movie suggestion was bizarre."

You're trying to convince yourself that your shiver is from the chilly night air, but it's hard to perpetuate such a lie when that movie is still flashing through your mind. "In hindsight, a Western was absolutely a better choice." 

This dress was cute, but as you wrap your arms around yourself, you can't help but wish you'd chosen something warmer. You probably would have, too, if this addition to your outing hadn't been made the moment you left the restaurant.

"As opposed to...eels?" Bob's shoulder bumps into yours, a nudge that's not as subtle as he'd like it to be. You're not sure why he's asking you to turn left and head down the sidewalk, but you're in no mood to argue.

"In my defense," your jaw tremors as you speak, and you're not quite sure if it was the movie or if it's the cold that's causing it, "I was never informed of the eels."

"At least it wasn't a movie that has us checking to make sure nothing is following us?" At his own words, Bob tilts his head to peer over his shoulder, grinning pridefully when you giggle. 

There's nobody on this side of the theater parking lot, not even a car; you can see your hotel sign from here, maybe a couple of blocks down the street at most. It would be so easy to just keep walking and snuggle up in your bed, but you did make a promise to wait on everyone else.

...but how upset would they really be if you took your sleepy-eyed self and left anyway? Something about that theater has made your nose feel stuffy, invisible hands have filled your feet with lead, and you can already feel the distant twinges of a headache. 

"C'mere," Bob murmurs, opening up his arms for you, "'ts not like they're here to see us."

For a moment, it's the best thing that could have ever happened to you. He looks so warm, you can feel the heat radiating off of him, and yet... "We shouldn't," tightening your arms around yourself, "we've been pushing out luck as it is, Bobby."

"Sweetie, as respectfully as I can say it, you look rode hard and put up wet," and he says it so nicely that you can't tell what the hell he means by that, long-lost Texan drawl remerging, "At least let me warm you up." 

Curse him and that goddamn accent.

It's hard to tell who steps forward first, but the next thing you know, you're burying your cold nose into his shirt as warm arms come up to secure you to his carefully sculpted chest. It's not fair; why does he get to be such a furnace while you're left to shiver to high heaven?

"Such a cold little thing." The icy ridges of his glasses tickle your skin as he punctuates his words with kisses, pressed anywhere and everywhere he can get them. 

"Bobby—" lips against your own interfere with your argument, dizzying you with the artificial sweetness that he still carries on his breath. He always has been a sucker for movie theater candies, and you have to pry yourself away to keep from being sucked in, too, "what am I supposed to say if someone sees us, huh?"

For a second, you think he's considering it, but then. "That sounds like a you problem, darlin'."

You suppose it's your own damn fault for teaching him that. 

In theory, getting caught would be a problem for both of you, but it's so, so hard to argue when those big hands rise to cradle your cold cheeks. Such a simple touch, and yet, all of a sudden, you're back in that abandoned shack again. Tremoring as you huddle up in your hiding place, silently praying nobody comes across you as you resist the urge to lean in and...

You shouldn't.

But oh, how you want to.

Internally, you're telling yourself that just one kiss couldn't hurt, but then his soft lips are molding to fit with yours, and your resolve is melting like snow on a summer's day. Barely there, stubble scratches your palms as they curl around his cheeks, such a faint feeling that fills your head with cotton. 

It's barely been three weeks since the first time you felt these lips tangle with yours, and yet, kissing him feels familiar. The sensation of his delicate bottom lip between your teeth is something you've known for decades, fitting together so seamlessly that it feels like an art all of its own. This unspoken dance that has simultaneously been practiced for three weeks and three centuries.

On their own, your arms are sliding around his shoulders, one hand rising to tangle in short strands. It's the only thing that can keep you from floating away when he greedily leans into you; those sugary lips have become addicted, need to kiss every inch of you until he knows you better than he knows himself. 

The last thing you want to hear is doors squealing open, familiar voices shattering the fragile silence of the night. 

There's an ache that settles in your chest when you step away, the melancholy song of a heart that wants something it can't have. A heart that soars at the idea of telling the world who it belongs to but shatters into irreparable pieces when it remembers that not-so-perfect career you've worked so hard for. 

"And here I thought you two had gone off without us," and as Jake unknowingly stumbles onto the scene of the crime, you quietly come to accept your fate.

It's going to be a long time before you get to so much as hold Robert Floyd's hand in public.

Your phone is buzzing.

You're so, so close to sleep. Eyes shut, mere seconds away from being wrapped up in the bliss that is sweet, sweet unconsciousness. A little bit longer, and you'll be mindlessly buzzing through a dream, not a worry or care in the world.

But now that you've identified the vibration patterns, easily recognized for an incoming text message, your curiosity refuses to let you drift off. Eyes still closed, you reach out, patting along the empty side of the bed until your fingers find the cold screen of your phone. 

Fuck, why is your brightness setting all the way fucking up?

As your blurry vision focuses on the screen, the last name you expect to see staring back at you is Bobby's. Your sweet morning bird, with an inability to stay awake past midnight, texting you at one in the morning?

'Did you know...'

'That if you sleep next to someone at night...'

You have to reread the messages twice to even comprehend what he's trying to say here. A third message slides across your screen.

'The monsters can't get you?'

If you weren't on the brink of sleep, you'd roll your eyes. Instead, your thumbs dance across the screen, tapping lettered keys that you can hardly even see, to begin with. You hope your reply makes as much sense as it does in your head.

'Quit beating around the bush and come over already.'

It feels like you blink, and then there's a knock on the door, three soft taps that barely reach your ears. In hindsight, maybe you should have given Bob your spare key because dragging yourself out of bed is comparable to moving a mountain. Heavy feet padding across the thin carpet, you reach for the door handle and turn.

There he is.

Hair tussled, a shirt two sizes too big for him hanging low on his collarbones, a small, round stuffed animal clutched in his left hand. His smile is lopsided, barely there, and yet it still manages to make your heart flutter.

"Did you really carry your Squishmallow with you?" There's a roughness to your voice that kills your attempt at teasing him; it sounds like you've been gargling rocks all night.

"I'll have you know," he yawns, bringing the plush up to his chest, "his name is Stevon."

You will forever take pride in knowing that you were the one to surprise him with Stevon. You'd ignored all the perfect Stevons in favor of the one with a ripped ear because Bob's notorious for picking damaged items over unharmed ones. They've been best friends ever since you snuck the squish into his driver's seat.

It's hard to miss the bright-white bandages adorning Bob's ankle as he steps past you; he's minding it a little bit, not quite placing his full weight on it. 

"Were the monsters scaring you two?" You're already halfway back into your bed, practically falling into the mattress.

"If by monsters you mean Mickey Garcia, then yes," for a moment, Bob idles at the end of your bed, staring like he's unsure of what to do all of a sudden. You have to pat the empty side of the bed in order to get him moving again, "he fell asleep with another Marvel movie blarin' again."

Leave it to the light sleeper to share a wall with the one guy who can't seem to keep his television beneath max volume. 

The edge of the bed dips as he settles in, propping the spare pillow up against the headboard in favor of placing his head on Stevon. Getting him to admit it is like pulling teeth, but he only ever uses Stevon as a pillow when his neck is hurting him. Your hand feels unusually heavy as you reach out, curling around his nape. 

An arm snakes out, curling around your back and dragging you closer, seemingly without any effort at all. You'd complain if you weren't already considering squirming closer, noses mere inches apart, knees knocking together as you situate yourselves. 

"You're not worried that someone's going to come looking for you?" You're fighting a yawn, one that seems to bounce off you and right into Bob because he starts yawning too.

"I'll come up with somethin' to tell 'em," because his lie from earlier in the day definitely went over well. You're still figuring out how he managed to walk in through the front door after you'd just left him in the bathroom. "ain't none their business anyway."

There's that drawl again, gradually becoming thicker the more he speaks. Only ever seems to come about when he's sleepy, lacing around his words like an intoxicating spell. It's both a blessing and a curse that the accent faded during his late teens.

"You could pull another magic trick like you did earlier," the tip of his nose is cold as you press your lips to it, some chaste peck that you don't recall deciding to give him. 

And just because you've given him one, Bob's got to lean over and give your nose a kiss, too, "there ain't no backdoor that I can sneak out of," the corner of his lip quirks upward, "and I can't exactly hop out a third story window."

"To be fair, you've survived a plane crash," your hand rises up from his neck, smoothing over his now soft cheek, stubble once again carefully shaved away, "what's another little fall gonna hurt?"

"Alright," you already know what he's about to say, "but you'll have to carry me around when I inevitably break my legs."

"In your dreams, hot shot," and then you're rolling over before that dumb, sideways grin starts making you do things you shouldn't. 

The last thing you expect is to hear a heart-stopping gasp, the arm around your waist tightening, refusing to let you move any more than you already have. 

"Bobby?" 

Hot breath fans out against your neck, "hm?" Unusually strained. What is he...

oh.

You hadn't felt it until he twitched; your bodies crammed so close together that you unintentionally pressed your ass into his groin when you rolled over. Such a crime hadn't been on your mind until now.

However...

There's that inhale again, so sharp that it cuts through the air like a knife. "Sweetie." It's a warning, but it's also the weakest one you've ever heard. Had might as well be a suggestion because your wriggling doesn't stop. If anything, it only grows worse. Until his hand flies up and takes hold of your hip, gripping so tightly that you can hardly move. "Don't reckon you wanna start that again." 

Fighting his grip, you tilt your head back to look at him, "but maybe I do." By the time the last syllable comes out of your mouth, he's already let go of your hip, opting instead to nudge two of his fingers against your lips.

Interesting development, but you'll take it. 

As you welcome them into your mouth, eager tongue stroking up between them, he presses kisses into your neck. Soft, by the time you register one kiss, he's already moved, tickling your sensitive skin. His thigh wedges between yours, so close to where you want to feel him, but you can't quite grind on it in this position. 

"That's good, baby," he praises, pulling his hand away right as you find a comfortable rhythm. It disappears beneath the comforter once more, and the next thing you know, the waistband of your panties is tightening as his hand dives inside. 

Two wet fingers slip between your folds, intending to go elsewhere, but they take a detour at your clit. Gently rolling the little pearl between his fingertips, teasing it until it begins to swell, and then they're gone again, dipping even lower. 

"You're—hah!" It's only been a few days since the last time you felt his fingers in you, but damn, have you already forgotten what it's like to feel one of them delve inside without warning. "You're moving pretty fast, for once."

Teeth appear on the shell of your ear, ready to litter it with little marks once more, "says the one who's as wet as the Pacific." 

Even so, that first finger remains alone, testing the waters as it gently pumps in and out of you. Allows you that crucial time to adjust to the thick digit; his hands are so large that even one finger could be enough if he really tried. But you want more.

"More" is the best you can get out of your mouth. It draws out of you completely, "Bobby."

Then it's back, accompanied by a second, slowly working their way into your squirming cunt as he shushes you, "'ve got you, darlin', I promise."

They curl, stroking along your gummy walls with each gentle motion, searching lazily. 

You don't know what to do with your hands, searching for purchase that you can't seem to find. The comforter is too thin, sheets are too tightly bound to the bed for you to get a handful. His index strokes over a familiar little spot, and both of your hands are diving down, grabbing hold of his wrist. 

"There it is," he coos into your shoulderblade; he's smiling, and you can hear it, "is that the spot, baby?"

Rhetorical question. He knows that's the spot because he's fucking stroking it over and over and over. The side of his thumb presses against your clit, rhythmically rubbing against it in tune with his motions. You can hardly muffle yourself with the pillow, hips squirming, torn between leaning into it and wriggling away from his touch. 

"Bobby," mewling, "Bobby."

"Y'want more, sweetheart?" At his words, you nod, but then he hums, like he's not quite sure of your answer, "Use your words for me."

How the hell are you meant to use your words when the only thing floating through your mind is his name? A soft wet sound comes from between your legs, slick noises brought on by his devilishly talented fingers that sound so, so loud in this quiet little hotel room. 

"More," you don't recognize the voice that comes out of you, a few octaves higher than your normal tone, "please." 

His hand is gone.

The only indication that he hasn't evaporated into thin air is the gentle tug at your panties, urging them down your legs. You've only got enough energy to get one leg out, letting them pool around your other ankle. 

"Still got lube in your backpack?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. 

More words. God, what's the word you're looking for? "Yeah."

You'd much rather him hurry up and get in you already, but you can't bring yourself to be annoyed by the sentiment. He hasn't quite been the same ever since that time you snuck off into the fan room together; you hadn't been wet enough, but you'd both gotten so wrapped up in each other that you didn't notice until you suddenly yelped. 

A piece of his soul may still be in that fan room, actually. 

It takes him hardly any time at all, gone and back before you know it, the bed dipping as he audibly slicks himself up. On your own accord, you begin to roll over, but he's pushing you back into your former position.

"Stay like this for me, yeah?" Well, if he insists.

Forever passes before you feel the soft kiss of his cockhead between your legs, doing nothing more than push against you. You can feel yourself flutter against his tip, the pressure is there, but it's not enough to give you what you want. Not yet. 

Tilting your head back to look at him, "What are you—"

As soon as your eyes meet, his hips twitch forward, finally, finally, pushing inside. Something tells you he wanted to see your reaction, but you'll have to save your question for later because the delicious pressure between your legs is growing. Soft walls gradually split wide open as he eases into you, inch by dizzying inch.

"I don't know how," his voice is already strained, and he's still less than halfway, "you managed to convince me that holdin' out was a good idea."

Lungs burning, you suck your bottom lip into your mouth, silencing your mewls. You don't know how you even convinced yourself to go through with it. It feels like it's been forever since the last time you felt yourself flutter around his cock on that first inward push. A lifetime has passed since the last time he bottomed out and effectively punched the breath from your lungs.

"Move," you've barely had any time to adjust, but you don't care. God, you need more.

But he's taking hold of your leg, guiding it back until your knee is draped over his thigh. It feels strange, but as he slowly draws back, you can't say you hate it. Especially not when he pushes back in and grazes a certain little spot that sends you writhing.

Too quickly, he's finding his favorite rhythm, deep, short strokes that make you take every single inch of his cock. The underside of his length dragging deliciously against your quivering walls, angle altering on every inward stroke in search of a certain little something. 

"Bobby!" Different colors speckle across your vision as he finds it again. Once he knows where that sensitive little spot is, he's driving into it every time. 

"Fuck," he grunts, pulling your hips back to meet his next thrust, downright knocks your whimper right out of your mouth, "been missin' this lil' pussy of yours." 

The cheap mattress beneath you squeaks with the movement, quiet noises that you fear will reach the ears of whoever is sharing a wall with you. You need to slow Bob down before the both of you disturb whomever that is because you know it's one of your coworkers, but all you can do is brace yourself against the mattress and push back into him.

An odd little noise dances through the air, barely loud enough to be heard over the noises coming from your own mouth. 

"What are you laughing for?" You whine, trying and failing to look back at his sweaty face. Those thrusts are getting harder; if it weren't for the hand on your hip, you're sure he'd be pushing you across the mattress. 

"Just realized," his hand dips down between your legs, index finger seeking out your neglected clit once more, "this is the first time I've gotten to fuck you on an actual mattress." 

You'd reach back and smack him if it weren't for the sudden, short little spirals of his wicked finger. Rubbing you in tune with his thrusts, leaving you with no option but to bury your face into the pillow and take it. A shiver builds itself up in your muscles, too much all at once, but it's not enough. Still not fucking enough. 

"Is that good?" God, he and his dick are going to be the death of you, "hm?"

The best you can offer him is a soft 'uhuh' as you paw at his wrist, thighs tremoring as you spasm around his thick cock. You're crumbling like a house of cards, head spinning like a top. Goosebumps dance across your skin, a wildfire rushing through your veins. 

"Want me to cum in you again?" Bob just about growls as he speaks, and it's all you can do to reach up and cover your own mouth. You've never heard his voice drop so deep. "Pump your pussy nice 'n full until y'can't take another drop of me?" 

His cock is starting to twitch, sharp little spasms that only serve to make you writhe even more. Muscles winding tighter and tighter, cunt clenching down around him while the nerves between your legs spark with invisible flames. Fuck, fuck, fuck you're close. 

"Come on, Weave, cum on my cock for me." 

Your heart just about stops. 

You can hardly recognize the noise that's strangled out of you, cunt convulsing around his slowing cock. Shockwaves ripple up your spine, shaking down every bone in your body as your eyes roll back. There's a familiar heat filling you, Bob's fat cock throbbing as thick ropes of cum paint your pretty insides white. It's the only sensation that keeps you grounded, from floating out the window and disappearing into the stars above your heads. 

There's an ache in your hip as he slides out from behind you, simultaneously returning your leg to the mattress. As you pant to catch your breath, you've got a sneaking suspicion that you'll be waddling tomorrow. 

"Better?" Bob breathes, hand rising up to draw circles into your lower belly.

"Better," but there's a new problem between your legs, leaking out onto your thighs, threatening to get onto the only set of sheets you've got in this room. "But now I'm sort of...leaking."

You shouldn't have said that. He's going to say it, he's going to—

"That sounds like a you problem, sweetie." 

You've got just enough strength to seize one of the many pillows and thwack him in the face with it. "We wouldn't be in this situation if someone didn't cum so damn much!"

A laugh saunters through the air while a big pair of arms slide beneath you, one around your shoulders, the other under your knees, lifting you from the bed as if you weigh nothing. "Maybe it's a mutual problem, then." 

And it's definitely a mutual problem when you find yourself waddling out of the hotel cafeteria, chewing on a stale bagel as Reuben idly complains about the mice he heard squeaking at around one in the morning. But as Bob's smiling eyes meet with yours, you know that Reuben's going to be complaining about the alleged mice for many, many more nights.

[ikeromantic]

Hello, hope I'm not too late to request. I'd like to ask for Keith, kitchen, and sugar cookie. Thank you.

You were right on time ^_^ Here's some sweet Keith, best enjoyed with a cold glass of milk! Approx. 1200 words of pure fluffy goodness. IkePri New Years Event story!

Keith stared at the mess on the counter, feeling panic rise up in his chest. This was a disaster. The pastry dough was flat, everything was covered in flour, and somehow, egg whites were dripping from the ceiling with a steady splat atop the fruit mash he’d intended to use as a filling. 

“Failed again,” he murmured disconsolately. It seemed he was dangerously incompetent, even with simple tasks. Perhaps it would be better to give his other half more free reign. 

Just as he lifted a towel to start cleaning the scattered flour, the kitchen door swung open. Keith moved faster than he knew he could to block the entry way. He stepped out into the hall and found himself chest to nose with a certain Rhodolitian lady. 

“Hey!” Emma looked up, her brows lifted in surprise. She froze for a moment, her gaze traveling from his face back down to his chest and then up again. Her cheeks heated as she realized how close she stood, then she sprang back like a frightened rabbit. 

“Erm. Sorry. I - I didn’t mean to startle you.” He closed the door behind him, hoping she hadn’t noticed the wreckage of his pastry project. 

She took a breath and smiled at him. “It’s ok. I don’t know why I’m so jumpy.” Emma gave a half-hearted laugh that ended with a polite little cough. “So, Prince Yves mentioned you asked to use the kitchen?”

Keith blinked. Had she gone looking for him? He hadn’t wanted to say anything as the pastry was meant to be a surprise. Not that it mattered now. “How inconsiderate of me! I should have left you a note letting you know I was busy this morning. I hope you didn’t waste too much of your time trying to find me.” 

“Oh! No. No, not at all. I just happened to run into Yves and Licht. They said you were here. Umm. Without me asking. They just said it.” She picked at her skirt nervously, tugging at the seam.

“They did?” Keith considered himself a terrible judge of character. Afterall, he was so often wrong about things and this could easily be another of those things. But it really seemed to him that Emma was lying. Which was odd really because she had no reason to lie about looking for him. Did she?

Emma swallowed. “Erm. Sort of. I might have mentioned you, uh, first.” She looked down at the floor rather than continuing to meet his gaze.

Keith decided it might be best to let this line of conversation die. He tugged self consciously at the apron he wore. It was too short, and too narrow in the chest. One of Yves’ aprons. Under the flour and bits of fruit mash, it said ‘I’m Your Sugar, Baby’. It was funny when he’d borrowed it, but felt entirely out of line now. He hoped she didn’t notice.

“Well. Now that you’ve found me, what do you need?” He hoped to coax it out of her quickly so he could get back in the kitchen before anyone else saw the mess he’d made.

“I just . . .” She looked up, as if he had the words she was searching for. Then her eyes widened. “Were you cooking something?”

“No. Nothing.” He crossed his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence.

Emma’s grin returned, impish this time. “Are you sure? Because it looks like you got a bit of strawberry in your hair.”

Keith reached up, tugging a wedge of berry from his unruly locks. 

When he did, she laughed. “You’re covered in flour too.”

“Alright, you caught me.” Keith sighed. “It seems I am such a failure that I can’t even surprise the woman I lo - like.” He felt his ears go red at the near slip. This was a terrible time to make such a confession, even without the wreckage of pastry waiting behind him.

“Really?” She took a step forward as if she wanted to go in the kitchen. 

Keith held out a hand. “Ah, I think it’s more fair to say I tried. But . . . well . . . I am as much a failure at baking as every other thing I try. 

Emma took the hand he held out to stop her and squeezed it gently in hers. “Oh Prince Keith, I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. I think you’re really good at all sorts of things.”

He felt his pulse quicken at her touch and hoped she wouldn’t notice. “I’m not sure about that, but I think we can safely say baking isn’t one of them.”

“Well . . . it takes a lot of practice and a good recipe. Even if you aren’t good at it yet, I bet you will be if you keep trying.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “You know, if you want, I could help.”

Keith gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t think what’s left of my attempt can be helped. There’s only one thing left to do, and that’s the clean up.”

“Then I can help with that.” She smiled so brightly at him that he couldn’t deny her anything at that moment.

“Just -” He swallowed. “It’s quite a mess.”

Emma nudged the door open, keeping ahold of his hand in one of hers. He couldn’t see her face as she took in the extent of the disaster, but he could hear her sharp intake of breath and feel the little squeeze of surprise on his fingers.

“It’s really alright. I’m sure I can put it back together on my own. You don’t need to go through any trouble for me.” Keith followed along, tugged inside as she stepped further into the kitchen. 

“Wow. There’s even egg on the hanging lamp. And butter on the cabinet. Prince Keith! What were you trying to make?” She regarded him with an unexpected look of awe.

He shrugged. “You mentioned you liked strawberries. So I thought I could whip up this pastry Yves made once. But it’s a bit harder than I thought it would be.”

She laughed and leaned against him. “Ahhh, I think we’ll be working on this all afternoon. I hope you don’t mind being stuck with me for a few hours.”

“Mind? Stuck . . . with?” His brows lifted. She sounded almost happy. No - she did sound pleased about it. Keith looked at her with undisguised surprise. 

Emma nodded. “Yeah, I imagine you have better things to do. You’re a visiting prince with duties and stuff.”

Keith felt his throat tighten and an unusual burst of boldness. He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss to her fingertips. “There is nothing I would rather do than clean a kitchen with you.”

She laughed shyly. “I’m sure you can think of something you’d rather do with me than clean.”

They both froze as the double meaning of her words struck them. Her lips parted as if to say something to rescue it, but she only let out a breath as heat stained her cheeks.

“Er. Yes. I mean - not that of course - not that that wouldn’t be something I - ah, anything with you is, uhm, better?” Keith’s words tumbled out and he cringed inwardly at his own cowardice. Would it be so bad to tell her how he felt? She might feel the same . . .

Emma let out a relieved breath. “Mmm, y-yes. Like - like lunch!”

“Exactly.” He chuckled, feeling the tension spool out of him. “You make everything better. And . . . I hope you’ll consent to let me repay you for your help today. Perhaps I can take you to dinner?”

“I . . . I’d like that.” 

“Then it’s a date.” Keith smiled, feeling a fluttering in his belly. She didn’t correct him, only smiled back, her eyes shining.