#i like the thought of him with a hood & really dark markings around his eyes and lining his hood !!!!

[cubestrahm]

»{ Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm }« ✦ { ao3 }

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✦ Summary: This moment in time feels inevitable. It is as though Peter was always meant to wind up in the crushing dark with Mark Hoffman, tangled in a deadly situation that neither man can escape from unscathed. ✦ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ✦ Content/tags: Background Angelina Acomb/Lindsey Perez, Alternate Universe - Diners, Slow Burn, Canonical Character Death, Canon Typical Gore, Detailed Descriptions of Wounds, Improper Wound Care, Non-Sexual Nudity, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Feeding Kink, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Divorced Peter Strahm, Murder, Masturbation, John Kramer is still jigging his saw ✦ Word count: 9,815 ✦ Status: Multi-chapter / Ongoing ✦ Author's note: Lindsey and Peter's friendship is so special... to me.

The sun is already beginning to dip below the horizon by the time Strahm parks his car in the parking lot forming a moat around the modest apartment building. Winter hours make the daylight run out like the seconds on a timer. The retired agent doesn’t mind. He’s never belonged in the light, even if he’d once believed he did.

Feeling his back protest, Peter unfolds himself from the seat of the Crown Vic. Once on his feet, he stabilizes himself with a hand on the roof before leaning down inside just far enough to snag a Tupperware container and his overnight bag off of the passenger seat. The plastic box is still warm to the touch. It’s a sharp contrast to the wind trying to gnaw through the leather of his jacket. The temperature is enough to get him to put a rush on his movements. With hurried motions, he slams the vehicle’s door and all but jogs up the steps to Lindsey’s unit.

When he knocks, it’s with a too hard rap of his knuckles against the wood. His days with the FBI make him feel like a haunted house at times. Ghosts of drug busts and serial murder cases roam the halls of his mind. How many doors had he and his partners kicked in over the years when they were too impatient or too cocksure to wait for the SWAT team? His hand keeps the memories even if his own mind lets go.

“Hello, good sir,” Lindsey greets, whipping the door open, “Pray tell. What’s the password for the keep?”

“It’s ‘I didn’t sign up for dinner at Medieval Times. I’m old and I’m tired’,” Peter grumbles, trying to sidestep her.

He really is tired. Despite Strahm’s best efforts, Detective Hoffman has set up residence in his thoughts and it’s been doing a number on his ability to sleep. Unsatisfied with his sour mood, Perez blocks his foot with hers in a squeak of bare toes against his boot. He recoils.

“Put some socks on,” he says, aghast.

“I already gave you a hint,” she prompts. She’s not letting him in until he guesses what movie she is alluding to. Like him, she doesn’t let go when her jaw is locked.

Not bothering to hide his sigh, he shifts the Tupperware container from one arm to the other. He���d made mozzarella and tomato sauce filled mini croissants tonight. His partner had been moaning about wanting homemade pizza all weekend, so he had decided to do the next best thing. Peter is almost regretting his act of care. Still, he wracks his brain trying to remember what they had watched last Monday.

Her wording being the hint… Oh, it was the one that’d had some blond jackass in tights. Lindsey had socked him in the arm for laughing before breaking down as well.

“Robin Hood,” he answers.

“Robin Hood, what?”

“Robin Hood… in tights?” he tries.

Her smile nearly blinds him. “Good enough, buddy. You’re not senile yet.”

“Every day, I pray for the oblivion of memory loss,” he says dryly as his partner lets him through.

Even facing her back, Strahm can tell that she rolls her eyes at him. He trails after Lindsey to the kitchenette only for her to shove two glasses and a jaw-droppingly large bottle of Cosmopolitan at him. It’s chock-full of edible glitter that shimmers in the pink depths. It’s disgustingly cheery and liable to get them absolutely plastered. Lindsey means business on sleepover nights and that doesn’t include his usual proclivity for what she says is “sad old man alcohol”.

He wouldn’t expect anything else from the woman who got him so drunk one night, he willingly participated in gluing rhinestones to their work phones. Peter had woken up hungover and aching on her couch only to get his ass chewed back at the Bureau for tampering with federally provided property and allowing his subordinate to do the same.

Lindsey, of course, had doubled down after getting reprimanded. She had gotten them both phone charms of a mouthless white cat wearing a bow out of a coin machine–with quarters he’d begrudgingly fished out of his own pocket because he has never wanted to deny her anything.

It had made him smile, to take out the device out back in those days. Looking at the phone had provided him with an unusual sort of comfort, especially during his second divorce. He would turn it over and over in his hand, letting the sharp edges of some of those cheap, plastic gems scrape against his palm. He’s sure that Lindsey doesn’t know just how many times she has saved his life over the years. Not with gunfire or violence, but with her presence alone. Knowing that she was there and had his back was enough to keep him placing one foot in front of the other.

When they had left the FBI together, he’d kept the cat charm after he had turned in his work phone. It’s tucked away in the part of his dresser that holds the ties that he still hasn’t gotten rid of. Perez had also kept her charm. He’s seen it nestled in alongside her earrings and other jewelry.

He’s been quiet for too long, lost in thought. Lindsey notices and shoos him out of the kitchen. “I’ll be there in a second. Go settle in.”

Peter cooperates and makes his way to her bedroom door. It’s the only one left ajar. Her roommate's is shut tight.

Once in the small room, he sets down his cargo beside the TV resting on the dresser. Peter eases the strap of his bag off his shoulder and lets it land with a soft thump on the carpeted floor. Bending down, he unlaces his boots before setting them alongside Lindsey’s shoe rack by her door. He keeps his socks on but shrugs off his leather jacket and hangs it up on the only free peg on the wall-mounted rack. Lindsey keeps it open for him.

In his own rental home, he has several spaces that he leaves empty for her in return. She stocks his preferred brand of toothpaste and he keeps a bottle of the hair oil she uses every Monday. They alternate movie night locations. Their lives are intertwined. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Strahm picks the remote up off of the made bedspread and turns on the TV before dropping it back onto the mattress. The CRT screen flares to live. He’s pre-gaming whatever movie Lindsey picks from her and her roommate’s shared collection in the living room with the news. He’s a simple man. On his nights, he just takes his Vic down to the video rental place and grabs an unvetted stack of DVDs. It’s one of the few things in his life he doesn’t overthink.

Unsurprisingly, every news station is reporting on the rash of murders committed by a serial killer the press has taken to calling “Jigsaw” on account of the puzzle piece shaped chunks of skin that the perpetrator has been carving out of the victim’s bodies. In missives relayed by survivors, this Jigsaw is claiming that they’re not a killer at all, merely a game maker seeking to provide enlightenment to the ungrateful.

In Strahm’s opinion, it’s all a crock of bullshit. People dying as a direct result of your actions makes you complicit in their deaths.

Eyes still on the screen, Peter pours himself a drink. The glass quickly fills up with the shimmering liquid. It sparkles in the changing light from the TV, picking up the colors being broadcast. It’s refreshingly cool in his calloused hand.

He moves away from the TV to take a seat on the bed, leaning back against the mountain of throw pillows Lindsey has decided to pile against the headboard. There’s part of him that thinks it might be a long con trap devised in the hope that he smothers in his sleep.

From what the current news station is claiming, the police department and their FBI liaison have allowed more information to leak to the general public. He is sure that it must be rankling at Special Agent Kerry—she had never been one to be open about case information when he had worked with her in the past.

With a series of jarring crime scene photos, the news anchor walks the viewers through one of the traps that had been used in a recent game. Like the majority of the others, it, too, had taken place in a desolate warehouse. To Strahm’s eyes, it is all a fucked up piece of work. The killer had used some kind of iron maiden style headgear that had snapped closed like a Venus flytrap. They’re calling it the death mask. The footage is a pixelated smear of black and red. He can hear the buzzing of flies through the screen, can almost smell the rot and the dry dust of the warehouse.

Flashes of the same trap in bluepoint pen on a flimsy napkin—the cheapest they could get, really—hammer at his brain. He sees Mark’s hand, the way he had hidden the napkin from view the minute he realized Strahm was playing the role of the voyeur.

“Oh shit,” Peter says, too loud. With his revelation, he nearly lets the glass slip out of his hand to go tumbling across the bed. He rests it on his jean-clad knee with a vice grip.

Lindsey stops in the doorway of her bedroom, pausing at his outburst. She’s holding a massive bowl of popcorn in her hands. It’s something she contributes every Monday night because it’s a heart attack in a bowl, laden down as it is with pretzels, m&m’s, peanuts, and a generous caramel drizzle. Sometimes Strahm thinks he could go out peacefully this way—in his sleep after several too-full glasses of alcohol and a sickening amount of Lindsey’s popcorn concoction, movie still playing in the background and illuminating the two friends.

“Pete?” she asks, concern coloring her voice.

“Saturday. You were out. He was drawing...” He points at the TV with the hand still holding onto the glass.

His partner comes around to look at the screen. Her face tightens once she realizes what he’s referring to. “Your detective?”

The weight of what she knows Peter is suggesting is suffocating. She snatches up the Tupperware container and slaps it and the bowl in the middle of the bed before picking up the remote.

“Don’t. Just talk to him next time he comes in.”

“Lindsey—”

“Peter,” she interrupts, changing the channel to the DVD player input.

The retired FBI agent takes a breath. Lindsey is right. He doesn’t want her to be. He wants to turn this over in his mind until he’s sick with possibilities. It’s not his case. It’s no longer his job to put a name to the monsters crawling the streets. He’ll be crushed under the weight of it all if he doesn’t listen to his partner.

He slings back a mouthful of Cosmo. He savors the slight burn of the vodka as it goes down and forces himself to file everything away in order to focus on the moment. Peter makes himself pay attention as Lindsey opens a DVD case and shoves the disk into the player.

“What are we watching?” he asks as if this is normal night and his habits are not battering down the front door.

“Some romance movie that Melanie swears is the most thing heartbreaking in the world,” she answers.

Pouring a glass of Cosmo for herself, she fast forwards thought the pre-menu trailers. With the remote and her drink in hand, she makes her way back to the bed. She settles onto it beside him. The popcorn bowl and Tupperware serve as a divider between them.

“I feel like her metric for that is skewed.”

Lindsey jabs him in the side with her finger, causing him to grunt. “Don’t be rude.”

“Linds, she started crying because I didn’t want to go on a date with her.”

“Well,” she fiddles with the remote and selects PLAY on the menu. “You did… disappoint her by acting like she’d shot you when she asked what your star sign is. She just wanted to know if you were ‘compatible’.”

“Maybe she should meet with my ex-wives, reminisce a little in a support group. I’m chronically incompatible and great at disappointing women,” he says, chasing his words with another swallow of his beverage.

“It should be on your resume. It’s a skill,” she agrees.

They settle in to watch the movie in a comfortable silence that doesn’t last for long.

“Oh, what the fuck—” Strahm starts.

“Maybe you were right—” Perez also speaks.

Lindsey makes a frustrated noise and downs the rest of her drink. She sets the glass on her nightstand with a clatter.

“If some guy climbed a Ferris wheel and tried to coerce me into a date by threatening to hurt himself and then wouldn’t take the damn hint when I said no again, I’d be filing a restraining order.”

“For sure,” he agrees and, with a groan at the sight of the soon-to-be couple laying in the street, adds, “Oh, fuck off.”

Much to their dismay, the movie doesn’t improve. Both Lindsey and Peter have to stand up more than once throughout it to refill their glasses. By the time the film is over, the diner owners are thoroughly sauced. As soon as the credits roll, Strahm stumbles to the bathroom to change into the sleep clothes he’d brought with him. The sweatpants are riddled with holes and marked with old paint stains from when they’d painted the diner together. He leaves the clip pinning up what Lindsey calls his "mid-life crisis mullet" on the counter.

Before reentering Lindsey’s bedroom, he knocks on the doorframe and waits for her “Yeah!”. Stepping back in, he finds that Lindsey has also swapped her clothing. She’s also perched on his side of the bed with a mozzarella roll crammed into her mouth. She’s put another movie in. The Tupperware container is resting on her lap. She has the remote in one hand and a bottle of hair oil in the other.

Already knowing what she wants, he takes the bottle from her and takes a seat behind her. He’s careful to leave enough space so that they don’t touch. She’s already brushed her hair and it lays in thick curls down her back.

“Here,” she says, offering him a roll over his shoulder. He leans forward and carefully snags it with his teeth.

He’s mid-chew and just spreading the oil on his fingers to apply to her scalp when she speaks again. “So, are you going to pull some Ferris wheel shit for Mark?”

He swallows hastily, too soon, tries not to choke. “What?”

“I’m not blind. You’ve got more chemistry with him than I’ve seen you have with anyone.”

He slips his fingers into the roots of her hair, starts working in careful circles. “Yeah, if that chemistry was dislike.”

“Sure. You keep telling yourself that.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

Peter rolls into the parking lot first, closely tailed by Lindsey’s yellow eyesore of a ‘02 Ford Ranger. As they park, he notices a pair of figures standing in front of the diner. Having seen at least one of them every single day for the past few weeks, he immediately recognizes them. It’s Mark and his sister.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath as he gets out of his car and meets Lindsey. Together, they approach the front door. Strahm’s already got the correct key primed. The realization of last night hasn’t left him, even if he is suffering from enough of a hangover to have necessitated Perez kicking at him to get his ass out of bed. He wouldn’t be surprised if he has a bruise.

He is a twice divorced man approaching middle age having what essentially boils down to slumber parties with his only friend. His time with Lindsey is the highlight of his weeks. It’s enough to be considered embarrassing without having a crisis because the man he thinks has been flirting with him might very well be one of the most notorious serial killers of their time. Peter knows that he’s a fucking joke.

As they get closer, Strahm realizes that the detective looks dead on his feet. The man is wearing a police slicker instead of his usual suit jacket. He’s wavering slightly, like a ship at sea despite leaning heavily against the side of the building. In contrast, Angelina looks chipper—radiant even.

“Good morning!” the woman shouts as soon as they get within earshot. Mark sways away from his sister as though her voice had physically hurt him.

“Morning!” Perez calls back, a sudden eagerness to her pace.

It surprises him. Lindsey is usually much more reserved. She’s chosen to be saddled with him for almost a decade. They don’t open for another half-hour, but he already knows that she is going to snuff out any suggestion from him that they leave these two on the stoop.

In another surprise, the two women meet in a hug. Peter skirts around them to unlock the door. At his side, too close for comfort, Mark rallies himself enough to engage in harassment.

“Where’s my hug and kiss, Peter?”

Barely resisting the urge to flip the detective off, he lets himself through the door first. He nearly clips Hoffman with the edge of it as the other man follows on his heels. Peter doesn’t want to think about what it might feel like to be that close to him, to feel the yielding bulk of his body in the circle of his arms.

He’s nice enough to pull the chairs off the top of Angie and Mark’s usual table before taking his jacket off and joining Lindsey as they go through the motions of getting the diner ready to open. The detective takes his seat wearily, arms on the table and forehead resting against them. His sister gives him a pat on the shoulder on the way to her own chair.

A few minutes before he needs to flip the sign, Strahm is back at at their table. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s slightly too warm from prepping the cook-top. He doesn’t bother to pull the notepad from his belt. They’re past menus and order sheets now.

“What do you want to eat?”

“Two orders of those pancakes with the faces, please. Oh, and some hashbrowns.” Angie says, glee lighting up her voice. She beckons Peter closer and shields her mouth from her brother. He obligingly leans down for her to speak into his ear.

“Can you make Mark’s look like him?” she whispers conspiratorially. He can’t help but return her shit-eating grin with a smile of his own.

“Sure thing.”

The man in question doesn’t even lift his head off the table as Strahm heads to the kitchen. He thinks that he might genuinely have dozed off.

Lindsey leaves him to it while he puts together the pair’s meals. Angie’s comes together easily. He does hers up to make a beamingly happy face. He remembers that she prefers bananas to blueberries and if she doesn’t have Linds’s house-made caramel sauce on it, she’ll look up to either of them for “just a drizzle, please”. Peter has unintentionally found himself filing away information about the brother and sibling like he does with Perez.

It’s only to avoid complaints, he tells himself. It’s a lie. What a disquieting thing it is to realize that he cares.

For Mark’s pancake, the crowning achievement is the lips. They’re made up of a thick sausage link cut in half and carefully arranged to form a pouting upper and lower lip. They glisten in the overhead light. He usually does bacon for the mouths, but it would not have done justice to Angelina’s request. Here at the diner, he’s all about customer satisfaction. Peter is just doing his job.

Lindsey sneaks at peak at the plates when he carries them out. She has to suppress a laugh. “Oh no.”

“It looks like him?”

“Definitely.”

He finds that Lindsey has already gotten them their beverages. Angie is sucking on the straw planted in her orange juice while Mark is staring into his barely touched coffee like it’s a crystal ball. He doesn’t look any more awake than he did on the doorstep.

Peter puts down Angie’s plate first. She gives it an approving nod before looking up at him, excitement barely contained. He sets the other plate down in front of Mark. The sausage lips jiggle a little upon impact and the detective’s sister is not disappointed. She only just manages to keep a straight face.

Mark looks back at the blueberry eyes beadily staring up at him from their whipped cream eye whites and turns to Peter with questioning expression on his face. Peter has a serious set to his mouth, the same distant appearance he used to wear during interrogations. He gives nothing away. Mark then faces Angie. She buries herself in her own pancake, refusing to make eye contact lest she break.

The seated man sighs, giving in. “I don’t have a yellow tie,” he says picking up a fork and gesturing at the egg that Strahm had fried and cut into the shape of the neck wear.

“Maybe you can get one at the clown convention next time it’s in town.” There’s no bite to Peter’s voice.

“Hmm,”Mark rumbles thoughtfully, almost fond, “maybe you can fuck off.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

Peter is in the back, prepping a tray of roast for tomorrow. It will sit, covered, in the cooler overnight to marinate. He will cook it up mid-morning to be ready in time for their lunch special.

Having already encouraged Lindsey out of the door, he is alone in the diner with only the radio for company. She had done the bank run and had picked up some bottles of honey at the store. Their supplier had missed it in the shipment, leaving them bereft. Strahm felt like the extra work deserved an early night. Neither of the retired agents addressed that it was only an excuse for him to be alone. He has found himself needing solitude more as of late. There have been too many foreign feelings gnawing at his intestines like a parasite.

He flips over another chunk of meat in the bowl. He can’t help but wonder when Angelina and Mark became such an integral part of his life. Every morning, he finds himself looking forward to the moment the siblings walk through the door. Self-loathing sinks into his lungs as the raw meat held in his hands reminds him of the Jigsaw killer. Remembering his partner’s words, he shoves it aside and lets the idea of finding someone to focus on wash over him—someone who might not be up to their elbows in torture traps. Maybe it would be best if he try picking someone up at one of the clubs Lindsey occasionally drags him to instead of behaving like a guard dog and glowering over her shoulder at any men who don’t get the hint that it’s a gay-oriented bar and she’s not there to talk to guys looking for female action.

Surely, he could find someone there. Peter could make it work. He could smooth out the sharp, unlovable edges of himself to find a form of happiness. There’s an image materializing in his mind of the kind of man he would like to share a life with. Thick fingered hands, garishly patterned ties nestled between oversized pecs, full lips with a perpetual smug lift of the corners… Fuck, he thinks to himself, he’s just thinking of—

The doorbell clatters. It’s explosive in the calm, aggressive, and Strahm gets a hint of something he’s not encountered much in the time since he’s left the FBI.

He strips his gloves off and tosses them into the fifty-five gallon trash can. His hackles are already up. On the way through the swinging door separating the kitchen from the rest of the diner, he shoves his right hand into his pants pocket to mask the itch he has for a gun he had carried on his hip for over a decade.

“Can I help you?” he calls across the expanse separating him and the stranger.

A young man stares back at him with wild eyes ringed with anger before donning the mask of someone calmer. “Hi, yes, I’m just looking for my girlfriend.”

“That so?”

His smile has an ugly twist to it, a crack in the facade. He steps closer. “Angelina? Long dark hair, about this tall...” He holds a hand a few inches below his chin. “Probably with her brother all the time?”

Distrust whispers in his ear, prompting Peter to shrug. The gesture is accompanied by a wide swing of his arms. This man reeks of a disgruntled ex looking to get even. Strahm would be willing to put his share of the diner on him being the reason why Angie seems to look over her shoulder and shrink into herself when Mark isn’t at her side. Peter isn’t going to give him a damn thing.

“Look, man, I just need to have a talk with her.” His hands are lodged in the pockets of his jacket. Peter can see him faintly tracing something. It’s not a gun, probably a knife. “She’s not doing well, has some crazy ideas swirling around in that head of hers.”

“Can’t help you,” he says, curt. There’s a part of him that relishes a fight, wants the other man to draw the knife from his pocket and give Peter something to sink his teeth into. It’s been so long.

“You don’t have to be such a bitch, man.” The stranger is scowling, looking almost like he might give Strahm the release he’s craving.

The words prompt a sigh and the raising of his eyebrows. “Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Now.”

A smile of his own, more of a snarl graces the diner owner’s mouth. “Does it look like she’s here?” He gestures to the empty room, arms wide. “Get a hint.”

“I said—,” he starts.

“And I said to fuck off,” Peter interrupts. He takes a step forward, then another until he’s in the middle of the room. The man retreats, looking nervous. The cowardice makes Strahm even more irritated.

“Can you just tell her that I came looking? I’m the one that gets to decide when it’s over. Not her. She needs to remember…“ The stranger trails off. Back against the door now.

Peter puts his hand on the back of one of the chairs. He lifts it off the ground enough to get the point across that he will throw it. The feet scrape on the wood floor. It wouldn’t be the first time in his life he’s gotten pissed off enough to hurtle one.

The man puts his hands up, immediately showing his belly like a submissive dog. “My bad, man, my bad, have yourself a good night.”

He fumbles for the door and slips out. Peter lets go of the chair and stands in the silence. Headlights cut across the front of the diner as the stranger peels out of the parking lot. Strahm rubs his hands over his face and goes to lock the door and close the blinds. He swallows down the arid tang of disappointment.

───※ ·❆· ※───

“One of your sister’s associates came looking for her last night,” Peter says to Mark as he refills the detective’s coffee.

Angelina is seated at the counter for the time being while Lindsey plies her with flavored lemonade samples to test. Already, she’s working on the Spring menu. Mark has a spread of papers on the table that his sister had abandoned at. It looks like case reports for the Jigsaw situation, not that Strahm can scrutinize them too much under Mark’s careful gaze.

Mark’s full lips turn down in a frown. He looks troubled and when he speaks, his words don’t form a question. “Seth Baxter.”

“Yeah?”

“Angie broke up with him almost a year ago. Turns out he was a neo-nazi and all around piece of shit.”

“Wonderful.” He can’t say he’s surprised.

“He’s never taken no as answer. She hasn’t admitted to him doing anything to her but the guy is a problem. She’d had me there when she broke the news to him.”

“Did he act out then?”

“Nothing I could book him for.”

Peter nods, silent. He doesn’t blame Mark for entertaining that possibility. Encountering Baxter had felt like coming into contact with an oil slick. There was a residue left behind that just wouldn’t wash out with soap.

He leaves the detective alone to refill the next table’s mugs. Strahm still hasn’t broached the topic of Jigsaw to Mark. He hasn’t brought it up again to Lindsey either because he knows what she will say. Peter has found himself unable to muster up the will to confront the broad man in the fear that he might be right. In the daylight hours, it seems a ridiculous notion. Peter knows it’s possible. Time and time again, he’s seen the worst people put on the right masks to become loving family members, respectable members of their communities: the kind of people that would give the shirt off their own backs for a stranger.

Even the worst dregs of humanity have human moments. It’s what makes them so dangerous. It used to be his job to chisel away at the masks—to pull the shell off the snail and leave its innards manged and exposed to the naked eye. It’s not his duty anymore. He runs a diner with his best and only friend. He need to leave it alone. He’s no longer Special Agent Peter Strahm. That man lost his head, took on too much water and drowned.

Peter wants to believe that a better person left the building after turning in his badge. He knows one didn’t. There’s still something twisted and barely lying dormant inside of him, nestled between the cathedral of his ribs. It takes one monster to catch another.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The overhead bell clatters against the glass not even half an hour before closing. Strahm has already seen Perez out of the door. She had left early for a date that she’s shyly mentioned to him a couple of times over the course of the week. He knows it must be serious because she’s been tight-lipped and anxiously bursting at the seams. Peter will be staying up late, as he does every night, phone close at hand until she texts to let him know she’s made it back to her apartment.

“We’re closed,” he says.

Creaking footsteps cross the diner with no response from the intruder, and, finally, Peter looks up from the glasses he’s stocking below the counter. Irritation prickles at his skin. He’s half expecting to see Seth Baxter waiting for him when he stands up.

It’s Mark. The detective has dressed down for the late hour. It’s strange to see him without his blazer or his tie. Distractedly, the sleeves of the man’s dress shirt are rolled up to expose his large forearms. Strahm makes sure to look somewhere near Mark’s hairline.

“It’s you.”

“In the flesh, Peter,” the detective responds, smile across his lips.

“I’m curious as to why you’re here. Again.”

He watches as Mark settles himself onto a stool. The broad man rests his arms on the counter and leans over to encroach into Peter’s space. The retired FBI agent feels a little lightheaded when he realizes the position is only serving to highlight Mark’s chest through the open shirt collar. There’s honest to God cleavage. Ripping his traitorous eyes away from the scar snaking between Hoffman’s breasts, he meets his gaze and realizes that the detective looks tired.

“Angie had a date tonight, left me high and dry so I thought I’d come see you. Where’s Lindsey?”

“Out.” He kneels and lines the last few glasses up on the shelf and out of the drying crate. “Kitchen’s cold. I’m not turning the grill back on for you.”

“I’m sure you can figure something out for me, Pete. I’m hungry enough that I’ll eat anything you make me. You know how easy I can be.”

“Too easy,” he mutters. Mark just laughs, having heard him. “Fine, I don’t want to hear you complain.”

“Thank you, honey. You’re so good to me.”

A sigh and then he’s picking up the dish rack to take it back to the kitchen instead of throwing it at the seated man. Once in the back, he slots it in the nook beside the three-chamber sink before opening the door to vertical warmer and pulling out the two pans that have been resting on the racks. He shuts the machine off. It will be turned on again in the morning.

Largely using ingredients he’d be throwing out tonight anyway, he makes himself a sandwich with pot roast. He makes a second one for Mark. Both of them are plated with a side of macaroni destined for either his fridge at home or the trash can. The detective’s presence at the counter saves Strahm from having the hassle of taking home the leftovers.

Finished, he carries both plates out to the dining room. He bypasses the counter entirely to set the plates down on opposite ends of a small table. Before he sits down, he checks his watch. It’s a few minutes after closing time. He crosses the room to lock the door and flip the sign to closed. He draws the blinds on his way back to the table.

Hoffman is still. The weight of his eyes feels like a hand on the back of Strahm’s neck. It’s making his skin crawl. All too aware of the other man, he pulls out a chair with a screech of wood on wood and takes a seat facing the main room, back to the wall. He doesn’t verbally invite Mark, but he hears the shift of fabric and the sound of footsteps and then he is joined at the table.

“Didn’t feel like the stool?”

“No, don’t like having my back to the place.”

There’s a small grunt from the detective. “Were you a lawman?”

“FBI,” he says. Maybe Mark isn’t as stupid as he looks.

“Mmm, that would explain it. Were you good at your job, Special Agent?”

“Good enough.” For once, he doesn’t rise for the bait.

Peter toys with the fork in his hand, eyes on the man seated across from him. He watches closely, perhaps too closely as Mark slides his thick fingers under the sandwich and lifts it, cradled almost, to his mouth for a bite. Juice immediately spills free, running over Mark’s lips and liberally coating them in a filthy shine. He reaches for a napkin, but Peter’s hand is there first. Hoffman’s fingers skate over the back of his hand, thwarted. Peter receives a hard, considering look. There’s a dark gleam in the blue depths.

In an a long moment that reminds him of the morning the two of them had met, neither of them break their eye contact as Mark exaggeratedly licks his lips. Peter digs his fingers of his free hand into the meat of his thigh, hanging on for any glimmer of control while the other man sucks his own bottom lip into his mouth and releases it with a wet pop. He’s headspinningly hard in that instant, throbbing in his pants. He nearly curls over as if weathering a blow. Very nearly, he almost takes his hand off the napkin dispenser to press his palm against his crotch to relieve the pressure. Instead, he clamps down on the object harder, knuckles going white in the dim light.

With his dignity dangling on a thin line, he’s relieved that the table blocks Mark’s view. He’s struggling to stay in his seat. He wants to do something rash, destructive, transformative. His instincts are scrambled.

His own plate remains untouched as Mark takes another bite. The chewing is accompanied by a pleased hum, almost a lewd moan to Strahm’s ears.

“How… how does it taste?” He feels winded, out of breath.

Mark stops with the sandwich to his lips. He lowers it without taking another bite after swallowing. “Are you some kind of pervert?” he asks, seeming genuinely curious.

Strahm feels the last of his blood drain from his face.

“You’re one to talk,” he snaps. His tone does little else but highlight how defensive he’s feeling. Mark’s eyebrows raise. He’s got that smug look to him that makes Peter want to grab him by his shirt and smear his face against the floor until it worn down to the bone.

“Am I?” Mark is smiling now. “How do you figure?”

“You parade around looking like” he gestures in a broad sweep of his hand at the detective, “that.”

“Like what?”

“You know.”

“I don’t think I do.” He has to be being purposely obtuse. Strahm doesn’t appreciate it.

The blood is starting to rise back up, he can feel himself starting to flush as he responds, “Like you’re begging for a scrap of attention. Like you’re just a whore with a gaping mouth waiting for someone to come along and fill it for you.”

Despite the crudeness of his words, Mark doesn’t look offended. He sets the sandwich down on his plate. With his fingers damp with the meat’s juices, he nudges Strahm’s hand out of the way to finally claim a napkin to wipe the mess away from his digits. Fingers clean, the other man pushes his plate across to him. It bumps against his with the sharp sound of ceramic against ceramic. He stands up, and for a critical moment, Peter thinks he’s made an error and the other man is going to deck him where he sits.

Violence doesn’t come. Peter is left shaken when Mark comes around to his side of the table and kneels, knees to the floor. The detective’s polished shoes squeak against the wood. He can see the way the bulk of Mark’s thighs strain against the confinement of his slacks.

“What…?” It comes out as a gasp. His lungs feel too compressed to draw in any air.

As a response, Mark shifts closer. Under encouragement from the detective's hands, Peter turns, letting the man rest his bulk between his spread knees. Hoffman’s eyes skate over his erection. The only acknowledgment he gives it is an impossibly more satisfied look as he meets Strahm’s gaze steadily.

“You said I wanted a full mouth, Peter. So fill it.” he says with a nod to the table.

Unable to look away, he watches Mark part his lips and wait. The detective’s mouth gleams wetly, salivating for what Peter is going to give him. He can see the moisture pooling in the space underneath his tongue, threatening to overflow the corners of his lips even as Peter’s own mouth goes devastatingly dry.

The retired FBI agent gropes blindly for Mark’s plate. He ends up offering the kneeling man a handful of macaroni and cheese. He is forced to put it into Mark’s mouth when he doesn’t reach for it with his own hands. The pads of Peter’s fingers brush over Mark’s tongue.

Pulse pounding, he gathers up another mouthful’s worth. He brings it to the other man’s mouth, pushes it inside and past those plump lips when, again, he doesn’t take it directly. Mark’s jaw is slack. He’s completely pliant, welcoming the intrusion of Strahm’s fingers. He chews and swallows when Peter withdraws.

He feeds him mouthful after mouthful. He takes from his own plate when he runs out of noodles on Mark’s. Slipping the last of it into Hoffman’s mouth, he looks at the mess he’s made. He gathers the smear of sauce and cheese off the detective’s bottom lip and feeds him that too. That simple motion brings curiosity with it. He slides his fingers into Mark’s mouth, so deep that the knuckles of his ring finger and pinky collide with the other man’s chin.

Mark swallows around them. The sudden, clenching heat makes him groan. His dick twitches in his jeans. Mark’s pupils are blown, and Peter doesn’t miss the way the other man’s hand clenches on his wide thigh at hearing the noise that Peter had let slip from his throat.

Again, he swallows around Peter’s fingers. This time, the action is accompanied by his teeth just lightly biting down on the digits encased between his lips, just testing the skin. There’s a pinch and he’s biting harder, properly digging his teeth in.

Peter’s free hand, the one adorned with a reminder of his failed marriages, shoots out. He presses it against Mark’s right cheek. The skin is smooth and unmarred underneath his palm. He doesn’t push Mark away. Strahm doesn’t want to stop him, not really. There’s a part of him not so far under the surface that wants the detective to sever the fingers between his teeth, to consume of Peter himself just has he had of the meal he had prepared for him.

Mark lets up and allows Peter to ease his fingers out just enough to thrust them back in. Strahm is panting, a ragged sound in the quiet of the diner. With each thrust of his fingers into the detective’s mouth, he imagines that it is his cock instead that’s rubbing back and forth over Mark’s eager tongue. His fingertips collide with the other man’s hard palate over and over again. He loses himself in the motion enough that Mark’s hand being placed on his thigh jolts him back into the moment.

The detective is drooling freely around his fingers. His chin is wet with his own saliva. It strings and drips, soaking the front of his shirt. The silk material is marked with darker patches, almost as if Strahm had placed his own mouth against the fabric and sucked at Mark’s chest and stomach through it. He looks debauched this way, used. His lips are swollen and pink.

As he observes Mark like a case file, he can’t help but notice that the other man’s slacks are straining over more than just his thighs. Peter can see the clear outline of his dick. He can almost swear the black fabric is somehow darker near the head of it. Mark is wet.

Wet for me, he thinks, nonsensical. He sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood to keep the moan from escaping his mouth.

Extracting his fingers, he grips the edge of the table as Mark’s other hand hooks under Peter’s thigh. He spreads his legs wider to give the other man more access. Mark shuffles closer. He pulls Peter’s leg over his shoulder, spreading him open until he feels too vulnerable, too exposed.

His hands go to Strahm’s belt buckle, Peter tangles his hand in Mark’s hair, dampening the man’s locks with his own saliva. With as much protest as Peter himself had given, the leather of his belt easily slips free of the buckle. Hoffman’s fingers skate over the front of his jeans, seeking to undo the fastenings.

Even though the denim, Strahm can feel the heat of the detective’s breath on his dick. His cock twitches, almost as if it’s trying to get to the other man’s mouth. He feels both steadied and thrown off balance by the hand that Mark puts on his waist. He can barely think over the sound of his heart hammering in his ears. The drum beat of it drowns out the anxiety over being touched in such an intimate way. This man is going to be the death of him. He’s never been so hard in his fucking life.

A phone rings. Loud.

Face suddenly grim, Mark draws back. Peter’s hand slips free of the detective’s hair and he sags back in his chair. He busies himself with remembering how to breathe while Hoffman pulls his phone out from the pocket of his slacks. He flips it open and presses the button to accept the call.

“Detective Hoffman speaking.” His voice has a rough edge to it—the only indication that Strahm had been all but fucking his mouth with his fingers.

Choosing to look anywhere else but at Mark, his eyes resolutely lock onto the shelves behind the counter. He feels the shorter man slide his leg off his shoulder. It’s unsettlingly tender, the way Hoffman eases Strahm’s foot to the floor.

“Yeah… alright.” Peter can’t make out the voice on the other end of the line. “I’ll be there. Don’t mess with any unsecured doors this time, yeah?”

Peter hears the snap of the device being closed and glances at Hoffman. The man gets to his feet with a wince but with more spryness than Strahm himself would have been capable of under normal circumstances.

“Duty calls,” he says, slipping the phone back into his pocket and withdrawing his wallet.

Alarmed, he reaches out and stops him. “Don’t. The food was on the house.”

Mark gives him a look that Peter can’t quite read before closing his billfold and tucking it away. Hoffman’s erection is rapidly flagging. Whatever situation he was called about must be one hell of a mood killer. Meanwhile, Strahm can’t summon any of the blood back to his brain.

He nearly chokes on nothing when Mark’s fingers cup his cheek and he draws a thumb down over the scar mimicking an age line. He has to close his eyes.

“Goodnight, Pete.” The roughness that Strahm put there drags the nickname out into something obscene.

“’Night.” The retired agent manages.

And with that, Mark takes those characteristically stiff strides to the door, unlocks it, and slips through it. The bell jangles in his wake. He leaves Strahm alone and close to shivering in the absence of his warmth.

Like a man rising from a trance, he gets to his feet and locks the door behind the detective. His open belt clatters. The buckle collides with his thigh on every step, a reminder of what almost was. He leaves the plates on the table in favor of ducking into the diner’s single occupant bathroom. Out of habit, he locks the door. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t want to see the creature he is in this moment. He chooses, instead, to press his forehead against the wall. He shuts his eyes.

Projected against the darkness of his eyelids, he imagines Mark on his knees again. He plays out the scene they had nearly had without the interruption that he is almost thankful for. While he thinks about Mark undoing his pants and taking Strahm’s cock out, he frees himself from the confines of his jeans and takes himself in hand. His dry palm is a far cry from the detective’s saliva-slick mouth.

Still, he strips his cock hard and fast. Mark had already had him on the brink of shamefully cumming in his pants. It’s not long before he’s spilling over his knuckles in hot spurts.

Wrung out and with his legs shaking, he lets go of his softening dick and fumbles for the paper towel dispenser. He wipes his hand off before tucking himself back into his pants and dropping onto the toilet toilet lid, exhausted. It feels like he had ran a marathon. He is going to have a heart attack in this bathroom and Lindsey is going to have to call for a morgue transport after she finds him in the morning.

“Fuck,” he says aloud. Revulsion has stuck its hand in him now that the fog of arousal has fled his body, and it’s rooting around elbow deep in his guts.

He gets to his feet. He washes his hands and still doesn’t meet his eyes in the mirror while he straightens himself up. This might not be the most shameful thing he’s ever done, but it’s higher on the list than he would like. He can gnaw on it while he works. He’s got a diner to clean

───※ ·❆· ※───

Morning greets Strahm with all the grace of a punch to the jaw. He opens his eyes and squints against the light glaring at him through his windshield. He rubs both hands over his face. The brief shade they provide is a soothing balm to his pounding head. The ache radiating through his body like a missing tooth is a vivid reminder of last night.

He had been worked into too much of a shame-fueled frenzy to give the establishment the usual amount of care. No, he’d been on his hands and knees scrubbing the grout in the kitchen with a hard bristled brush until his hands were raw and he was satisfied surgery could be performed on the tile with no risk of infection. It not been the only task that he’d taken upon himself. He had spent so long handling his reaction to the unplanned intimacy that he had not bothered to go back to his rental. He had chosen to sleep in his car instead.

A glance at his watch reveals that he had woken up just after his usual alarm time. Peter drags himself out of his vehicle just as Lindsey’s yellow Ranger pulls into the lot and parks in the space beside his Vic.

“Good morning.” She looks cheerful, vibrant even.

“’Morning.” He grits out. His voice is so rough with sleep that it might as well have been his throat that was getting used last night.

“You look like shit.”

The only answer he gives her is a grunt. He nearly stumbles on the curb when he follows her to the front door.

“No, seriously. What happened?”

“Late night. Got wrapped up in cleaning.” It’s technically the truth. He doesn’t particularly want to confess that he almost fucked Mark and proved his co-owner right. Peter has never been one for losing, no matter the size of the stakes.

Sighing, Lindsey gets her key in the lock. She’s not buying it as being the whole story. If she were blind enough to just accept whatever bullshit he said to her, they never would have been able to be partners for so long.

“How did your date go?” he asks, heading her off before she can corner him in the back for an interrogation. He had gotten her text late last night, assuring him that she hadn’t been murdered in the street and was about go to bed.

Her face splits into a smile. “It went really, really well. She let me walk her to the door.”

“That’s great, Linds.” Her obvious joy manages to drag a returning smile out of him.

He listens to her chatter at him while they settle into their normal morning routine. She lets him get away with muttered responses and acknowledging hums, content to carry the interactions. It’s business as usual with the only the glaring absence of Mark and Angelina.

The sibling duo arrives after the breakfast rush has trickled into maintenance. Right away, Strahm notices that Hoffman looks as tired as he, himself, feels. There’s a serious set to his mouth and his movements are sluggish. They bypass their usual table on account of it being occupied and take up residence on stools at the counter.

“Just coffee for me.” Mark tells him when he silently stares at him in wait for the detective's order.

He feels like last night is written all over his face. If the both of them weren’t so tired, he’s sure some words would be getting thrown around. Unable to do more than exist, he turns to Angie, silently prompting her as well.

“Orange juice and one of those muffins, please,” she says. Like Lindsey, she’s all but glowing.

Nothing for him to cook. It’s just as well. Strahm is feeling he might just face-plant on the cooking surface. With any luck, he can take another nap in his car until Lindsey needs him for lunch support. With the distant sensation of moving through molasses, he pours Mark and Angie their drinks. He nearly knocks over Angelina’s glass when he tries to slide her muffin in front of her.

“Are you okay? I thought Marcus over here was half dead, but I think you got him beat.”

“I’ve always been a winner,” is Peter’s stab at levity.

He ignores Hoffman’s stifled scoff and drags out a notepad. Checking with the summary of items he’d marked as low in the dry storage last night, he writes down everything that he’s going to have to order tomorrow. Mark seems content to watch him while he drinks his coffee. Lindsey and Angelina chatter back and forth as his partner comes and goes. He tunes them out.

Blinking hard, he tries to focus his eyes on the paper in front of him. It’s threatening to triplicate. He sets down his pen and squeezes the bridge of his nose, hard. He needs to lay down.

There’s an explosion like a gunshot.

Peter feels a burning sensation race across the back of his shoulder and down his side. Adrenaline floods his system, burning away the exhaustion. He whips around in time to see Lindsey stumbling back from the coffee machine’s hot water spigot. Her hands are grasping at her face and she’s making noises he has never heard from her before—never thought he would hear. It’s the low, desperate whines of an injured animal.

Immediately, he reaches for her. Peter takes her into his arms, holding her securely against his chest where she curls into him in the blind trust that he can protect her, that he can keep her safe. She’s coughing, trembling. Even has she goes limp from shock, he supports her. She’s his partner and the closest thing he would dare call family.

There are shards of broken glass and hot water everywhere. Right away, it’s clear that a measuring cup had exploded. Hot water into a room temperature glass vessel had caused a rapid expansion. Something that they’d both done more than they should had finally caught up to them.

Mark is right next to him with his sister on his heels. Together, the two men guide Lindsey away from behind the counter and to a clear patch of floor. The detective strips off his blazer and folds it into a makeshift pillow for Strahm’s co-owner as Peter lowers her to the wood. Acid claws at his throat.

“Angie, call for an ambulance.” Mark’s voice is calm, lapping against the edges of Peter’s mind past the ringing in his ears.

The only thing he can focus on is Lindsey. His hands are shaking as he carefully tries to smooth her hair away from her face.

“Okay, c’mon, Shallow breaths. Okay? Stay with me.” He can’t hide the tremor in his voice. There’s so much blood seeping around the glass embedded in her face and neck. He has only seem this amount at crime scenes.

Lindsey reaches up and grabs weakly at his face. Her fingers hook briefly in the collar of his shirt. Peter catches her hand and squeezes it as much to reassure her as himself.

“Pete,” she whines. Tears are leaking from the corners of her eyes.

“I’m here. I’m here, Lindsey. You’re gonna be fine, alright? You’re gonna be fine.” Maybe if he repeats it enough times, it’ll be true.

They had some close calls during their time in the FBI but it was all threats that he could negate. He would have put down any number of perps to ensure her safety. He would have ripped apart the world for her. But this… this was just an accident. He couldn’t protect her from this kind of thing.

He’s unaware of the panicked, half breathes that seize in his chest until Mark places his hand on his back. Peter doesn’t shrug it off. In the background, he can hear Angie on the phone. Her voice is wobbly, distorted through sobs.

After the paramedics arrive, Hoffman has to hold him back when Lindsey lets out a pained yelp from being moved onto the stretcher. She’s never been one to vocalize pain and it’s killing him to hear her.

“Easy… Easy, Peter.” Mark’s voice rumbles against him from where the detective has him held against the expanse of his chest.

Dimly, he realizes that Angelina has a grip on her brother’s arm. She has to be squeezing enough to hurt. Her knuckles are pale. He wonders at why she’s so torn up his partner and then it clicks. Mark had said Angelina had left him alone to go on a date last night. Lindsey had done the same to him. The two women had been together while he and Hoffman were doing whatever fucked up dance they’d been engaged in.

Strahm pushes out of the detective’s hold. He nearly collapses without the support he’d never admit he needed. It’s a smothering weight that he could be crushed under if he let it.

“Everybody out. Show’s over.” Peter calls as soon as Lindsey is wheeled out the door. “We’re closed. Meals are on the house today.”

A few people stand up, not enough. Mark speaks, his voice more vicious than Strahm’s. “You heard him. Have some respect and get the fuck out.”

It works. The customers pick up the pace and soon the diner is empty aside from them.

In daze, Peter steps into the kitchen and turns off the cook-top. He grabs his jacket and his keys from the back. The door hits him hard in the elbow. He nearly slips on the mixture of glass and cooling water. Mark’s hand is there to steady him. The other man plucks the keys from Peter’s grasp before steering both him and Angie across the diner and to the door. Peter lets himself be nudged out onto the step with Mark’s sister while the broad man flips the sign around and locks up for him.

“This way,” he says, leading them both to his car.

Numbly, he obeys as Mark has the two of them clamor into the back seat while he settles behind the wheel. He feels Angelina take his hand in hers. He lets her, just has he had let her brother touch him. Their fingers twist and grip onto each other until their joint hands make up one shared form. All he can see playing on repeat in his mind is the scared look on his partner’s bloody face.

He can’t tell which one of them is shaking. Is is Angie? Is it him? Is it the both of them?

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[seawing-vibes]

Six-Claws & Baby Ostrich warmup sketch <33 ! !!!

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Needs Must — Rhysand x Reader

While I put the finishing touches to the next part of Bluebird, enjoy this Rhys x Reader that I got a sudden burst of inspiration to finish this morning!

Summary: War changes everything, and the human-fae war changed the trajectory of your life completely — most pointedly decimating the relations between you and those closest to you. It’s been a long while since you’ve seen your brother, Cassian, and your friends. But that’s all about to change.

Warnings: Suggestions of solicitation/sex work/brothels. Nothing else, really!

Word Count: 1.5k

Enjoy! 💕

It’s all pointless, you think — the red velvet drapes, the burning candles, the sandalwood-scented smoke that clouds the air and creates a thick layer of fog that hovers just above the shag carpet. Pointless, because no amount of pretty décor will change Salt’s Pleasure Hall from the vacuous and miserable place it is.

Not miserable for you, no. There is no misery in the hefty sum of gold you’ll take home on a night. You are a master of pretty smiles and hooded gazes and saying all the right things that desperate, lonely males wish to hear. There is so much coin to be had in feigning interest and attraction. Bringing their fantasy to life for a night. There is talent in making them feel as though you’ve bared yourself to them, without having removed a single item of clothing.

And to think you once begged your older brother to train you, make you like him. Turn me into a weapon like you are, Cassian. We cannot change what filth sired us. But we can stamp it out from our blood and be better, be more.

And oh, he’d trained you, alright. Turned you into a weapon. Into something he was so fucking proud of. You knew the pride it had once brought him to strut around Illyrian lands with you at his side, clad in leathers just as he was, armed to the teeth just as he was. His way of showing off that he had done something good, something useful.

Oh, how things have changed. How the mighty have fallen.

For all you are confident, comfortable, used to the job you have now worked for some time, you are nervous tonight.

Tonight is different. Tonight is territory that has so far been untouched. Tonight, this room of velvet and silk and sensuality is your domain.

The Juniper Suite is part of the most expensive package that Salt’s Pleasure Hall has to offer. The package is similar to your usual night’s work in that you will smile prettily and pour drinks and ply whichever lonely male arrives with mindless conversation.

The difference is that in Juniper, those things lead to sex. And this is the first time since becoming one of Salt’s girls that you’re crossing that boundary.

So, yeah, you’re a little bit nervous. But — needs must, and all that.

With a soft sigh and butterflies dancing around in your belly, you slowly pace the circumference of the room, stopping every now and then to study the weird little trinkets that Salt has picked up over the years. A strange mishmash of things that you suppose he thinks creates a certain ambience. But tiny metal lions and old, fraying maps will be the furthest thing from your client’s thoughts when the two of you sink into the feathered sheets.

They will be here any minute, and for the first time since you started your work here, you allow yourself to wonder what they might be like. You never usually bother, because the other girls warned you on day one what to expect — that this place attracts a certain clientele, and that never wavers.

So, your guest will likely be far older than you. He will likely have dark smudges beneath his eyes and the weight of the world on his shoulders. There will likely be the faint mark of a removed wedding band on his left ring finger. He will likely want to talk to you about why he is a victim of life itself.

And you will coo sympathetically and pour him drinks, drag your hand down his arm and hold his hand. You will let him know how sorry you feel that life is so cruel to him. You will offer him the bliss of touch and feel, and make him think, for a short while, that you genuinely care about his shortcomings.

And then when he hands you the heavy pouch of coins you so desperately covet, you’ll switch it all off.

You swallow down another sigh and cross the room to the small, compact bar in the corner. You need a stiff drink yourself, something to settle your nerves—

But a knock lands on the door, and there’s no time.

For a split second, you doubt whether you can go through with this. Playing hostess for a few hours is one thing, but giving your body to a client is something you’ve never had the courage to do, despite the extra coin it would bring. But — needs must. You repeat it to yourself as you stride to the door. Needs must, needs must, needs must. You can do this.

You brace yourself, feeling suddenly too hot and sticky in the scant clothing that covers you — a pink lingerie set, barely covered by the sheer robe that sits open and threatens to slip down your arms. You are beautiful — and strong and sexy and confident. This is your body to do with whatever you want. And if this is the course you are taking, that is fine. This will be fine.

You lay your palm on the handle and yank the door open before you have to give yourself another pep talk.

But at the sight of who stands on the other side, you freeze. Your lips part in surprise.

A pep talk is not what you need — but rather a huge hole to open in the floor and swallow you down.

“What the fuck?”

It takes you a moment to realise that you’ve uttered those three words at the exact same moment your client did — Rhysand did.

He’s just like when you last saw him, but…older, now. Even though you were adults back then, too, he seems…more mature, somehow. He’s regal and stunning and night itself.

And fuck, he’s High Lord of the Night Court now.

And yet he’s ruffled, as he takes you in, gapes at you. Neither of you know what to do.

His eyes dip down to what you’re wearing, before travelling back up to your face. And he blurts, “Pixie?”

Pixie. You haven’t heard that name in years. The fond nickname that both Rhys and Azriel had coined for you, because you were so much like Cassian and yet so much smaller, a little pixie buzzing around.

But you are not her anymore. You haven’t been her since before the human-fae war. You had changed, just like the others had changed.

And the new you doesn’t need to explain to an old friend what has brought you to a pleasure hall in Sangravah. Nor does that old friend need to explain what’s brought him here, either. You owe him nothing. He owes you nothing.

But the situation is so bizarre that your mind freezes. You don’t know what to do. All you know is that you do not want to be in front of him, almost naked. You do not want to look him in the eye. The mere thought is humiliating.

So you move fast and try to slam the door shut in his face. You don’t care what kind of reprimand Salt will give you because of it.

But, of course, he is Rhysand, and may you never forget that. He’s quick as lightning, something about him always having been wildly feline. He always bested you when you sparred, always had the upper hand.

He has the upper hand now as he wedges his foot in the door and stops it from closing.

You grit your teeth, feeling just like when you used to bicker with him in Illyria as you bite out, “Move your fucking foot.”

“No,” Rhys snaps, shoving it in further. “Open the fucking—” he growls as he shoulders himself forward. “Pixie.”

“Don’t call me that. Go away—”

You’re not exactly sure what happens next. Either he loses his footing, or you do, or perhaps you both do. All you know is that the door is swinging fully open, and your balance is suddenly off, and Rhysand’s hand is gripping onto you as you fall backwards. Your attempts to right yourself are far too late and seem to make it worse. Down you go to that musty shag carpet, and down Rhysand goes with you,

Air whooshes from your lungs as he lands on top of you, far too close than is comfortable when you’re wearing so little clothing. You attempt to sit up, shove him off you.

But he holds you firm and stares at you with wide eyes. His face is inches from yours. He gives what seems to be a baffled shake of his head.

“Pix, what the fuck?” he blurts.

[cosmal]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY AGAIN 😘💋💋💋💋

cake 🍰 - sleepy kisses/cuddles with james <3

sleepy

summary you james makeout. whilst being a little tired.

content james potter x fem!reader

note thank u baby i love u

You still have your dress on when James tugs you into his bed. The silk rides up your thighs when he pulls you over his lap and lays back against the headboard. You really want to tug at his curls. You have all night.

"Never let Marlene convince me to do shots ever again," James mumbles as you work at his tie. He tilts his head up as you struggle with the knot. He yawns, smelling of fresh spearmint gum and alcohol. "They give me the hiccups." You know. He'd hiccuped the entire Uber ride home.

You finally get the tie off his head and mess his hair as you go. His top button has been undone since he left the pub. "If I remember," you run your fingers through his hair and listen to him sigh, "it was your idea," you say before you lean in to press your mouth to his neck.

You feel him shiver underneath you, the jump in his fingers as he pulls you closer by the hips. One day you expect your flesh to be moulded to fit his hands with the amount of time he keeps them there.

You tuck your face into his neck and keep it there, pleased with the sounds you pull from him. Lazy with your mouth, wet and hot kisses against his dark skin. Spending special time on the beauty marks you have memorised.

"It wasn't," he argues, voice light as air. You feel your ego swell. "It wasn't my idea- Christ, you're an angel."

You pull your lips from his reddening skin with a little pop, scraping your teeth until he breaks out into goosebumps. "I've wanted to do that all night," you admit, the last remnants of sheepishness gone now that you're alone with him in his bed. You expect James to use it against you eventually.

"Why didn't you?" he asks with another squeeze.

"In Sirius's front room?" The barest hint of your shy giggles has James smiling. All hooded eyes, a crush of eyelashes that you envy, and pretty teeth just peeking from his wet lips.

"It's never stopped him from getting it on with Remus," he says like it's a reasonable argument.

"It's his house," you sigh.

"So?"

You don't tell him it's mostly because the thought of kissing him like you are right now, around other people, makes your skin catch on fire. You can imagine it now - your face in his neck and his hands up the skirt of your dress until you can see the lace of your underwear. You much prefer it in the comfort of his flat. Without the wolf-whistling on Sirius's part.

You know James loves it like this too. Loves to get you all dizzy with it. Lazy hugs and even worse kisses. He's addicted to you like this.

You lean back in and James accepts it with a little too much tired giddiness. A low rumble of contentment deep from his chest. "Where did you learn that?'' he asks, breathing in through his nose deeply as your nose bumps the column of his throat.

"I have," you mumble, too busy under his jaw when he tilts his head upwards, "I have the best teacher."

"Fuck, baby," James stammers, voice all husky. You melt into a little puddle at the sound of it.

He scoots you both down the bed with you against his chest. "You keep kissing me like that, sweetheart, I'm gonna fall asleep."

You don't have time to argue. To tell him that's exactly what you were going for. He kisses you. Even worse than you were, and you mean that in the best way possible. Kisses that take away the little breath you have left, all shallow and desperate to keep yourself from passing out with your lips pressed to his.

You think he knows this. He whines and tries to keep your head up with his fingers under your jaw. It turns a little sloppy, his nose bumps yours and his hands turn soft at your sides.

It's not until your dress rides up some more do you remember you still haven't changed. "James," you pant. He hums. Too content with kissing your cheeks. "James, we need to get changed."

"Can't," he mumbles, ducking his head until it falls into your neck and his curls tickle your face, "can't, wanna keep kissing you. Until we fall asleep?"

"We can't baby," you giggle. All high-pitched and airy. "You're in your slacks. And a belt."

"I'll survive," he grumbles.

"Your hips won't, honey," you say and brush his hair behind his ear, scratching the skin there lightly. You realise you aren't helping. "C'mon, I'm in my nice dress. I need to put on my pyjamas."

James, extremely reluctantly, and without a few mumbled expletives, gets up from his bed. He drags you blindly with him over to the dresser.

"This is all Marlene's fault," he whines, hands in his boxer drawer, "I'm never shotting again."

"You gotta stay away from that sambuca, babe," you say with a hint of smartassery.

"I was gonna rock your world tonight," he says, stripping. You watch his muscles flex and try to keep yourself upright while putting your sleep shorts on. "But I think I'm gonna fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow."

You laugh animatedly, despite him being the funniest person you know, yawning into the back of your hand. "Rock my world in the morning, Jamie?"

"And the afternoon."

[cal-flakes]

hey so I was wondering if I could request a rafe fic where the two don't really like each other (maybe she's sarah's friend but he picked on her growing up) and reader is walking home alone one night and realizes someone is following her and panics and walks faster and everything until she sees rafe ahead of her and catches up with him and he can see she's genuinely worried so he goes into full protective mode and walks her home

if you want to change it at all, feel free, I'm just a sucker for a knight-in-shining-armor moment haha

I LOOOOOVE THIS!!!!!

╰┈➤ protective!rafe takes you home

warnings: nothing tbh.

summary: rafe walks y/n home after she’s followed by someone in the dark.

the cool breeze in the air blew past her as she clutched her arms to her chest. the wind whistled through the trees around her while she walked down the poorly lit street.

her footsteps slowed as she attempted to catch a noise she thought she heard. her breath hitched as she glanced behind her, a strange hooded man followed behind a few feet away.

“it’s fine, it’s just a coincidence..” she muttered to herself, walking at a slightly quicker pace.

this carried on for a little while as she went out of her way to take off down side streets and shortcuts, essentially doing a full loop of the neighbourhood she was walking through.

her heart thumped furiously in her chest, all sorts of scenarios going through her mind. as she turned the corner, she looked back to the man, still following her.

her eyes brimmed with tears as she scanned the streets for people, there was nobody around, why would there be? it was four m-thirty in the morning.

the only reason she was out at this time was because of an argument with her dad, they’d gotten into it back at home and he told her to get out. with this, she’d quickly packed an overnight bag, thinking of somewhere to go.

unfortunately, in the rush, she’d left her phone behind, so the only place she knew to go was sarah’s.

y/n has always been close with the cameron’s, she’d stay with sarah whenever her dad was out of town, and rose and ward were always happy to take her in for a few days.

her shoulder ached as the bag strap dug into her skin, her eyes were frantic. it would be a miracle of someone appeared, anyone.

and a miracle it was, when she spotted rafe cameron outside the wreck. “fuck..” she whispered.

he was her only option right now. she hated the idea, but what else could she do?

rafe and y/n didn’t particularly hate eachother, but they certainly disliked eachother. he was always mean growing up, going to great lengths just to piss her off. but surely he’d do her this favour, right?

between glancing at the man, who was gaining on her, she mustered up the courage to yell for him.

“rafe! hey, rafe!” she shouted, throwing her arms up in a wave. the man in the distance turned, brows furrowed as she sped towards him.

“y/n?” he questioned, utterly confused.

as she got closer, he noticed her glassy eyes, tear marks trailed down her cheeks. she engulfed him in a hug, pulling her mouth to his ear.

“i need you to pretend to be my boyfriend, please?” she begged, breathlessly holding onto him for dear life.

peaking over her shoulder he spotted a man following closely, eyeing the pair. his jaw clenched as he watched the guy cross the road, staring directly at him.

the man stopped at a bench across from them, glaring at rafe.

as there bodies separated, y/n’s eyes widened as rafe pulled her into a kiss, tangling a hand in her hair.

pulling away, the shock subsided as he intertwined their hands. “i’ve been waiting for you forever y/n! where’ve you been?” he asked, raising his voice enough for the man to hear him.

rafe’s car keys appeared in his hand as he lead her around the corner, towards his car.

once they were out of earshot, he turned towards her. “what the fuck are you doing out at this time?”

y/n burst into tears before he could finish, leaning into his chest. “thank you! thank you so much! that guy, he-he was following me the whole time, m-my dad kicked me out!” she wailed, sobbing as he wrapped an arm around her.

he ushered her into the passenger side, doing her seatbelt for her. “where am i taking you?” he asked awkwardly, her sobs invaded his mind as his knuckles whitened against the steering wheel.

god knows, he didn’t like his little sisters friends but the thought of someone trying to bring her harm? he was absolutely furious.

“oh, um, your house please? that’s where I was trying to go in the first place.” she muttered, her words muffled slightly as he cupped her own face.

he reached over tentatively, pushing some stray hairs behind her ear. “okay, your safe now okay? i’ve got you”

[buckysxgal]

Happy Birthday Captain [18+]

Summary: It's A's birthday and they find B tied to bed in nothing but very revealing lingerie. (Prompt from @bas-writes on Tumblr)

Pairing: Eustass Kid x Reader

Word Count: 1.6

Warnings: Smut, Handcuffs, Lingerie, AFAB!Reader, Dom/Sub Vibes, Slight Spit Kink, Slight Size Kink

A/N: This is Pre-Timeskip!Eustass Kid for plot purposes.. (a.k.a. no metal hand)

Cross-Posted on Ao3 | Follow me on Twitter

“The captain is going to lose his mind Hun. You look good enough to eat” Quincy smirked down at me while she clasped the metal handcuffs to the bed post. She gave me the idea, helped me plan it and took me shopping for this night.

One Week Ago

“I have zero idea what to get Kid for his birthday. I mean, what do you get someone like him for their birthday.” I stuck my straw in my mouth nursing my drink. Quincy and House looked on in thought when suddenly Quincy sat up straight in her chair.

“Give him you.” She said loudly.

“I’m sorry?” I questioned.

“Here’s what you should do….” She leaned in closer to me and House.

Present

“You sure he’ll like this Quin?” I asked, nervous. She nodded enthusiastically.

“Oh, I’m sure, and if he doesn’t just call me back in.” She winked at me before turning and leaving, presumably to go get Kid. After about 5 minutes I could hear thundering footsteps coming down the hallway, which was undoubtedly Kid. I looked down at my body, lightly covered in a dark red lace number, Kid’s favorite color. I squirmed in anticipation as the door knob began turning.

“Hey Mouse, Quincy said you had something for m-“ Kid stopped, staring slack-jawed at the bed.

“Happy birthday Captain.” He groaned, taking in the scene. I was laid out on the bed, hands handcuffed above me on the headboard, my legs were free and my body was barely covered in lace. He ran a hand over his face before stepping in and closing the door quickly. I could hear the metal lock of the door lock as he walked towards the bed removing his shirt along the way.

“Fuck Mouse” He whispered reaching a hand out and running it down my side.

“It really is a happy birthday for me.” He smirked.

“Aren’t you going to unwrap your present Captain.” I spread my legs allowing him to see the wet patch forming on my underwear. He dragged his hand from my hip to my covered core. My hips bucked as he brushed over my clit. His fingers hooked underneath the band of my underwear and he slid them down my legs. He placed a kiss right underneath my bellybutton as he brought his hand back down to my center, circling my clit a few times before continuing down to my opening. He slipped two fingers in and I arched my back off the bed. With one hand he grabbed onto the middle piece of my lacy bra and ripped it cleaned off my body.

“Hngg… Kiid” I whined as he began thrusting his fingers in. He froze his hand and looked up at me with an eyebrow cocked.

“I don’t think that’s what you call me, is it?” He spoke sternly, continuing to keep his fingers still inside of me.

“I’m sorry Captain.” I moaned, trying to shift my hips to get any sort of friction. He smirked and began moving his fingers, curling them upwards to rub against my g-spot. His body moved up towards mine, leaving bite marks up my body until he reached my neck, where he latched on and began sucking. I began moving my hips in rhythm with his fingers.

“C’mon Mouse, need you to come once for me before I fuck you.” He muttered against my neck, speeding up his fingers just slightly. My legs closed around his hand as my core fluttered around his fingers.

“FUCK CAPTAIN” I moaned, toes curling into the bed. I could feel him smirking against my neck as he continued to piston his fingers in and out of my core.

“That’s it Mouse~” He removed his fingers from my core before sticking them in his mouth. I looked up at him with hooded eyes as he stood from the bed. His hand went to his pants, undoing the belt and unbuttoning them before he slid them down his legs. His cock bounced slightly as it was removed from the confines of his pants. His hand wrapped around his impressive cock, stroking it slightly before kneeling between my legs. I tipped my head back as I felt the head of his cock breach my entrance. With one hand still wrapped around the base of his cock his other hand wrapped around my thigh, pinning it to the bed. He bottomed out, I could feel the hair at the base of his dick rub against my clit. He grabbed onto my legs and hoisted them onto his shoulders.

“C-cap-captain” I whimpered out a syllable with each thrust, he felt deeper than he’s ever been. He held onto my ankles as he began pounding into me.

“Fuck Mouse, you have no idea what you do to me. I don’t know if I can be gentle.” He growled, snapping his hips into me faster as I cried out. He let go of one of my ankles to tweak my nipple. I lifted my head from the pillow to look at where we were connected. Kid moved his hand up to my chin, gripping it and forcing me to look at him.

“Fuck I love that look.” He said, admiring the fucked-out expression on my face. He forced my mouth open and spat into it. My cunt clenched around his dick at the action.

“Swallow.” I closed my mouth, swallowed, and opened my mouth again letting my tongue hang out.

“I always knew you were a whore Mouse. Good girl.” I moaned out at the praise and took his fingers, that were resting on my cheek, into my mouth, twirling my tongue around the digits. His eyes rolled back a bit as his hips hit harder. He removed his fingers from my mouth, slick with my saliva, and brought them down to rub my clit, fast-tracking me to my second orgasm of the night. I clenched tightly around him as a burning pleasure coursed through my body, the most intense orgasm coming out of my body.

“Oh fuck Mouse.” I could feel his fingers speed up on my clit. I looked down hazily and noticed spurts of liquid coming out and Kid with a shit eating grin on his face, he pulled out slowly and placed his hands on the handcuffs and broke them off quickly flipping me onto my stomach. I felt his breath on my ear as he leaned in close.

“I need you to do that again for me.” He whispered as he grabbed onto my hips and forced me up onto my knees. I waited for his dick to enter me but instead I could feel a wetness down on my core. I turned my head to look over my shoulder, only seeing the red of Kid’s hair, his hands spreading my ass for access, his tongue was hot and needy against my clit as if he needed this to live. My forehead dropped to the pillow, letting out a symphony of moans.

I felt him pull away only for a glob of spit to land onto my core before Kid dove back in. My core clenched around nothing as I came again, letting out small spurts of liquid as waves of pleasure flowed through me. Kid got up from his spot in my core and tapped his hand on my ass.

“You OK to keep going Mouse?” He asked softly, a stark difference from the man just 2 seconds ago. I looked at him over my shoulder and nodded, spreading my thighs further as if presenting myself to him.

“Please fuck me Kid” I whimpered. He smirked and slotted himself back into my core. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, using it as leverage to pound into me. Kid bottomed out and held his position there. I whined and began fucking myself back onto him. He let out a moan and smacked my ass before grabbing my hip and encouraging me to keep moving.

“Such a whore Mouse.” He muttered, leaning down to leave a bite on my shoulder.

“Gna cum” I moaned out, drool escaping out the side of my mouth. Kid let go of my hair and slipped his hand around to shove his fingers in my mouth, pressing his fingers down on my tongue forcing my mouth open. He began bullying his cock into me at a pace I wasn’t aware anyone could reach.

“Fu- Kidddd~” I began moving my tongue against Kid’s fingers. I could feel my core fluttering intensely, the same feeling as before coming back.

“’m cumminggg” I whined as I soaked my thighs and the sheets below me. Kid let out a loud moan at the feeling of my core clenching around him as he began thrusting harder. A telltale sign that he was close. He gripped onto my hips with both hands and I looked over my shoulder, a hazy look on my face.

“Want your cum Captain” I moaned, lifting my eyes to meet his. His mouth dropped open in a silent moan as a warmth flooded my core. He pulled out and flipped me onto my back again. His eyes stayed trained on my core, a hand going down to push his cum back into my core. I arched my back and bit my lip.

“s’to much” I whimpered. Kid flopped down beside me, pulling me into his chest and pressing a kiss to my head.

“Best birthday gift ever.” He mumbled into my hair.

“Love you Mouse.” I smiled and pressed a kiss against his neck.

“Love you too Cap.” I answered before slipping into a deep sleep.

[axcel-lucci]

umm... I have a really weird idea.. how about a scenario with Law x Reader as ASL's sister where they notice a bite/hickey on her neck from him?

please, if you don't like it, ignore it!! thank you in advance (＾▽＾)

I'll try anon.

Also, cute request!

Don't leave a mark,

Requested by: anon

Trafalgar law x fem!reader

Note: it's in the modern time cause I can't take ace being gone in the og universe :((

(Suggestive)

"Law..." (Y/n) breathes out a soft pleasurable sigh, "Don't leave a mark. Dummy..."

"I'll do what I want." Law growled before sucking even harder and pulled away with a huff.

"I swear... If this leaves a mark, my brother's will kill you. Especially ace!" She pouted making him chuckle

"Don't worry... I won't die" he grinned sexily, "let's continue this in the bedroom, cause I doubt Bepo would want to see us."

(Y/n) glanced down on the small Pomeranian puppy by their feet

"Yeah... Let's not destroy his innocence.."

...

"ACE! SABO! LUFFY!" (y/n) yelled upon seeing them at the airport.

Law and (y/n) actually moved across the country to be both closer to where Law works because he was relocated and where (y/n) studies college.

(Law here is 24 and (y/n) is 22)

"(Y/n)!!" Luffy yelled and ran over to tackle her

She just staggered for a bit before laughing

"(Y/n)! Look at you, so grown" Sabo smiled before Ace scoffed

"She's still a child to me. Why did we even let her move into this... Bastard..." He grumbled as Sabo elbowed him

"It's much closer to where she aims to study, dumbass." Sabo scoffed.

"Where's Torao?" Luffy asked before jumping off of (y/n)

"He's by the car, he actually has an emergency business call earlier, so he had to take it. He said we could just walk back over there right now." (Y/n) smiled

Ace has squinted his eyes for a bit before gasping, dramatically, I must say.

"What's that on your neck, (y/n)?" Luffy asked cutely as he pointed at a part of his neck where he saw it.

"What?"

"Here, look." Luffy said before handing her a mirror, "right there."

There was a big hickey... "This should've been gone yesterday!" She thought but looked up at Sabo and Ace.

Ace has a dark aura around him ready to kill, whilst Sabo had a smile that would sense they'd kill.

"Guys... Calm down..." (Y/n) said

"Where are you guys parked?" Sabo said, voice dripping with venom.

"U-uhm..."

Later...

Law leaned against the car's hood after finishing his call, he soon heard (y/n) calling him, he looked and saw a raging Ace but a "calm" Sabo while Luffy was excited as ever.

"Law, run!" She called

"What?" Law was confused, of course, before seeing the hickey on her neck making him smile and his eyes widen, giving him the "oh fuck." Expression.

Ace immediately dashed past (y/n) and tried to get to law but since law used to be a fugitive, he just jumped the wired fence and stayed there.

"Law! I told you so!" (Y/n) said as she tried to stop Ace from climbing the fence, but Sabo had already successfully did so.

"Law!" Sabo yelled as law himself jumped and ran as Sabo followed.

Sabo, being a police officer, ran fast, but law used to be a fugitive in his younger years so he just ran as well.

"Law! Be careful!" She yelled

Luffy cheered for law while Ace yelled for Sabi to catch him

Guess law has learned the hard way.

Sorry Law

[saintwyfe]

࿐ ˚ . ✦ THUNDER. jude bellingham

summary. he's a ten (but he's scared of thunderstorms).

cw. none

word count. 644

maybe it was the light, continuous clicks of water droplets falling from the sky, tapping the pavement they landed on, or the dark gray clouds that emerged whenever it rained—but whatever it was, you loved storms.

it was a quiet reminder of the atypical change in weather that didn’t occur much, but whenever it did, you appreciated it a lot. even indulging in a book or a nice, warm bath to sulk up in the dull atmosphere.

on the other hand, your boyfriend, jude, did not. nine times out of ten, he’s shaken up and hides under the nearest blanket, even at the smallest chant of thunderbolts. 

so, you didn’t find it surprising when you peered through the peephole of your front door to see him in the midst of a storm.

he’s tapping his fingers, scanning the ceiling of your apartment complex, and waiting patiently for you to answer. it seemed as if he was holding some sort of bag too.

you let out a slight chuckle before unlocking your door, and there he was. his eyebrows raised a bit—snapping out of his thoughts—and the corners of his lips formed a slight smile when he peered down at you.

a black, now sodden hoodie draped his shoulders, with the hood covering his face. the sweatshorts he wore turned a darker shade of gray after the rain left its mark on him. 

“aww,” you teased, your voice a bit high-pitched and wary to annoy him. “my poor little baby, chased by the storm?”

a flush crept up his cheeks, and he immediately threw his head back in shame, “shut up.”

you couldn’t help but chuckle a bit at his lack of control over small things like this. especially being older and taller than you, you’d expect him to be at least a little less... hesitant.

“come,” you chirped, scooting away from the door to make space for his entrance. his squeaky shoes tread on your wooden floors, and though it strained your ears a bit, you waited patiently as he lifted from his sneakers.

“i see you packed an overnight bag,” you turned around, navigating toward the fridge that was conveniently adjoined to the foyer.

he began to sync your steps from behind you “yeah," he said, tugging the bag from his shoulders before leaving it aloof on your kitchen counters.

“can i not spend time with my girlfriend now?”

you tilted your head, as discerned by his obvious attempts of misleading you. “or were you just scared of the storm?” you hummed, passing a glass of water from across the counter.

he shook his head, “no really—”

“you don’t have to lie, it’s okay to be a wimp,” you nag, interrupting his sentence.

he clicked his teeth, “i can never win with you, can i?”

you chuckled, now straying toward him. he fixed a stare at you as he took a long drag from the glass in his hands. his eyebrows slightly furrowed in confusion.

now, you were in front of him, pulling him in for a hug before he interrupted your steps, “i’m still wet—”

“i don’t care,” you retorted before engulfing him in a hug. your arms were snug around his waist, and your head was resting on his chest. you took the opportunity to pull back the hood of his sweater. he’s a bit cold, and the smell of his perfume is faint, but you can still smell the woodiness it exudes. quickly, you tiptoed up and took a peck at his lips—the ones you missed so much. pulling away, you were met with a smile that etched his face, complimenting the rest of his features. it was difficult not to be jittery when being affectionate with him, but, you treasured moments like these.

“mmph—i’m soaked now,” you frowned.

“i warned you,” he responded, causing you to roll your eyes.

an: trent fics soon?

[phantom-dc]

Dad Hood - part 14

Bruce was getting a weird feeling. He thought that with Jason coming clean about having a kid and with he misunderstanding about Jason being cloned cleared up that things would go back to normal. But the way his sons were acting told him that there was still something he didn’t know. It likely had something to do with Danny, but he wasn’t sure what. Danny was a sweet kid, always eager to help others and make new friends. Bruce had still no clue what Dick, Tim and Jason were hiding from him and it nagged at him. He was suspicious that it was something big, otherwise one of them would’ve ratted the others out by now. If not to him then to Duke, Steph or Cass. Even Alfred didn’t know what was going on, and there were times Bruce suspected him of being an all-knowing being only pretending to be human. Bruce decided to keep an close eye. It’s not like he could investigate the Joker case any further before J’ohn came back from Mars anyway.

‘Grandpa Bruce, is daddy’s doll dry yet?’

Bruce looked down. Danny was looking at him with big eyes, waiting for the paint on their self-made Red Hood action figure to dry. Checking it with his finger, Bruce found it had dried and was ready.

‘It seems he is, champ. Here you go, you can play all you want with him. Be careful not to break him, ok?’

After Bruce handed Danny the action figure, Danny got really excited. He immediately ran back to his other toys so he could play out the stories his uncle’s told him about. Though they were made child-friendly, of course. Danny immediately gathered the Batman, Nightwing and Red Robin toys. He even had a Mr. Freeze and Riddler toy. Mr. Freeze had no problem with his visage being used as long as a portion of the money went to his wife’s cure. Riddler had seen it as a contest with Batman, so his toy even came with pre-recorded riddles! Seeing Danny play with them, Bruce turned to the other people in the room.

‘Dang, Bruce. You’re really playing into the grandpa role, aren’t you?’

Jason smirked at Bruce. It was a good thing that there wasn’t much happening in Gotham. With things calm in the city, he could stay a bit longer and the family could bond. Jason couldn’t remember the last time things were like this. He started to wonder if he should tell everyone how Danny took care of his Lazarus problem… Nah, they would just ask more questions and he really didn’t want to put his Soul on display again. Never again.

‘You’re not going anywhere, Red Hood! We’ll skin you alive and turn you into a coffee table!’ Danny said, holding the Mr. Freeze toy.

Dick, Jason, Tim and Bruce looked at Danny. Where had he picked up that language? Sure, Jason wasn’t always able to watch what he said around Danny, but he never threatened to turn someone into furniture? Maybe he should try it though. He bet he could make it work, with his reputation and all.

‘You are going down! The Red Hood never loses! Pew pew!’ Danny was pretending the Red Hood toy could shoot lasers from his hands.

Dick thought it was adorable. Did Danny think Jason had laser guns? Did he see those in cartoons? Maybe Danny liked those sci fi cartoons that were popular nowadays. With all the glow-in-the-dark stars Danny put up in his room it was obvious that Danny loved space. He wonders if Danny had those stars in his old house.

‘I am the Question Mark, and you will question why you ever thought you could win!’ Danny was holding the Riddler toy, and for some reason putting up a mad-scientist voice.

Bruce was worried. What had Danny been through that he knew about stuff like this? The threats and the obvious mad-scientist. Did the person Danny was copying the voice off the same one as the person that tried to clone him? It made him think. After Jason had told him that Danny had adoptive parents out there, he had avoided the issue. He’d been too happy to have a new family member. But now? Would it be safe for Danny? He should investigate these ‘parents’, so he could decide if it would be safer for Danny to stay here. If he was going to stay, Bruce knew that he would be fine. Everyone loved Danny, and Jason was being a very good father-figure to him. Bruce could tell that Jason loved his son very much, and would do anything for him. Somewhere, deep down, Bruce wished he could say the same thing.

‘You’re defeated, Question-Mark-man! No evil people will harm the innocents while the Red Hood is here!’ Danny put the Red Hood toy’s foot on the Riddler toy, in a triumphant pose.

Jason smiled. It was nice to be his kids hero. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Bruce looked at him with a very proud look in his eyes.

‘Jason, I must say, I’m proud of you. You’re a good father.’

And then Danny phased the Riddler toy into the floor.

Bruce, Jason and Dick were looking at Danny. Danny, who had just phased a toy into the floor. Seeing the gears turning in Bruce’s head, Tim quickly scooped up the kid and left the room. As Bruce slowly turned to look at Jason and Dick, Jason decided to make the first move:

‘IT WAS DICK’S FAULT!’

Dick was shocked by that. They immediately started arguing. Dick accused Jason of throwing him under the bus. Jason accused Dick of leaving Danny alone in public. Dick threw back that Jason didn’t warn him about Danny being so much to handle. Jason asked why on Earth he told his 5-year old child that he puts people in the ground, this never would’ve-

‘ENOUGH!’

Bruce’s voice boomed through the room, silencing the 2 brothers. He was furious. His grandson was the reason the Joker was dead, and his own children tried to hide it from him! Bruce took a deep breath. Dick and Jason were looking guilty. Bruce was reminder of how they looked when they got into trouble as kids, but this was serious. The fight the two had did reveal a few things to Bruce.

‘So, Danny is a meta? And you, Dick, told him that bad people are to be buried alive?’

Dick didn’t look him in the eyes:

‘He wanted to know what Jason did for work, and I was overwhelmed and it just came out? I knew I messed up as soon as I said it, but Dany didn’t seem to care. I never thought he would-’

Bruce cut him off. He needed more information, not excuses.

‘Does Danny realize he killed someone?’

Jason said Danny didn’t, at least Jason thinks he didn’t. Danny never showed signs of that, but with all the things that Danny does do it might have slipped through. Jason still isn’t sure what things Danny tells him are real and what is a child’s interpretations. Bruce sighed. That was good, at least they didn’t have another trauma to deal with.

‘Ok, we can deal with this. But I do need to know what Danny can do before we can make plans for him. Is phase-shifting his only power?’

Jason looked at Dick with a strange look, that promised nothing good. He pulled out a tiny black notebook, scribbled something in it, claiming to be updating the list and handed it to Bruce.

Invisibility

Cryokinesis

Flight

Soul-pulling-out-powers???

Destructive scream

Super strength

(Flying) Superspeed

Photokineses

Shields

Doesn't need to breath (as often)?

Color changing (Camouflage? Different form?)

Phase-shifting

Bruce read it over. He looked at Jason.

‘Jason. This is like half the Justice League’s powers.’

Jason just nods. Dick tells him this is only what they’ve seen Danny do. They have no clue what else he can do. Danny’s memory is iffy, and couldn’t give them a list himself.

‘We need to figure out where Danny came from. We put this off long enough, but this amount of powers is concerning. I’m guessing you were hiding more form me, so the both of you need to come clean about everything.’

Jason sighed. He knew this was coming. He told Bruce everything. How Danny just showed up, to the Lazarus blood, to being cloned, to being younger than he should be and everything. By the end, Bruce had turned slightly pale. The three decided to use the Bat-computer to find out more.

When they got there, Tim was already working on Danny’s case. He managed to track Danny from the orphanage in Europe that Talia had left him at. There Danny had been adopted by a family called ‘the Fenton’s’, but he had lost sight of them after they moved to the US. No matter how hard Tim tried, he couldn’t find anything. It was almost like there was some sort off wall blocking all information. As much as he hated to admit it, Tim didn’t think that technology would help them much further. Bruce thought for a bit. If technology couldn’t help…

‘Good thing Constantine still owes me a favor, then.’

First - Previous - Next - AO3

[pixeechix21]

Theo nott x reader

Academic rivals and you really need to de-stress good thing great minds think alike 😋✌️

Ps im a wee bit tipsy n idk how to think rn so let use our ✨imagination✨ I love yall xxox

You're in the Hogwarts library and you're super stressed. So stressed you can't focus and this isn't the moment for you to get side tracked especially when he's studying as hard as you if not harder than you. 

In a corner nearby you hear a frustrated shout and the thudding of books being thrown. Getting up I cautiously look around the corner. By a set of empty tables is a hunched over figure running his hands through his hair. “Hey everything okay?” You ask shyly to walk up to them. 

“No.” his voice is all too familiar. The voice that haunts my dreams and fuels my fantasies. I pick up the books, setting them on the table. “I keep on getting distracted,” he admits. I can see the bags under his eyes, probably reflecting those under my eyes. In the low light of the library and the dark outside he looks like a ghost from the ancient times we study about. His skin glows warmly and his eyes are shadowed. I find my breath hitching in my throat as he looks up at me with a certain look in his eyes. 

“If it helps I'm stressed I can't focus either,” you say helplessly. He pushes his chair back, his usually neat clothes are wrinkled, shirt pulled out and tie slightly undone. There's a sudden urge to fix it for him. Without a second thought my hand reaches out and pulls on his tie lightly loosening it. His deep eyes look at mine, surprised at me cold hands working his tie. Lowly I whisper to him, “I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” He chuckles lightly, amused his hand rests on my waist. His tie finally undone and I keep hold of him. His proximity is electrifying. In the quiet of the library I can't seem to keep my thoughts from him. 

As if he has read my mind he starts, “there's this. This. This thing, person, that I can't keep off my mind. Wherever I go, whenever I try to not to think about them they just Weaste their way into the very crevasse of my deepest-” his fingers dig in a little tighter, “-depraved parts of me.” I bite my bottom lip. “Your turn,” he says, eyes looking at my lips then back to my hooded eyes.

“Hmmm.” I hum, sleep deprived and drunk on the feeling of his possessive hold snaking its way under my shirt. His fingers holding on to my bare skin, burning that spot deliciously with his touch. “I feel, I don't know.. I feel tense and stressed. You see there's this guy,” his eyebrows prick up interested, “he consumes my thoughts to the point where I can't focus,” I aggressively plant my hand on his chest, smiling as I slip into his lap as he pulls me closer. 

“Tell me who this guy is?” It's barely audible with the pulsing of blood in my ears. 

“If I tell you you have to promise not to tell anyone, He's the only one that can help my dire situation,” I mockingly plead, a dark look comes over him. Underneath me he shifts himself holding me down to feel him securely.

“I can't promise anything,” his hot breath tickles my neck. Asmall kiss marks where his lips were. I try so hard not to moan in relife at the feeling of him. “But I can promise i can relive some of that… stress,” hes mi.iteres away from my lips. Our breaths are one and the same. I didn't have a single helpful thought before and I don't have one now. I kiss him. Our lips meet in a tangled mess of need and desperation. I needed this. His hands pushing me into him forcing all coherent thoughts of the test out of my kind for good.

[ladytauria]

trick or treat?

okay so you know the other day when i was gushing in the tags of ur jaytim collar post?

well.

i was digging around in my wip folder (bc i forget whats in there sometimes. many times.) and i found this, whose original inspiration i forget:

(edit: the beginning didn’t copy with the rest of it oops)

Jason knows Tim likes marking him up. It’s hard to miss, with the amount of mouth-shaped bruises he finds on his body the day after Tim fucks him. And it’s not like he minds. The opposite, really: it’s nice, to be claimed so obviously.

The thing is, bruises fade.

There’s one on his neck right now; an almost-invisible yellow-green. Tim’s finger presses into it, though there’s almost no pleasure-pain left for it to give. The weight of his palm on Jason’s neck, his head on Tim’s lap, almost makes up for it. Makes his brain buzz pleasantly around the edges, narrowing his world to the two of them, on Tim’s over-large couch.

He can almost forget he has to tell him he’s leaving. Roy has a job for them, and then they’re meeting up with Kori to go cause trouble in space for a bit. He’s going to be gone for at least a couple of months. When he does finally spill—

Tim will leave more bruises. They’ll be gone entirely too soon.

That’s probably what prompts him to say—

“You’re so possessive, I’m surprised you haven’t just collared me and called it done.”

Tim’s hand tightens around his neck. Not enough to restrict his airway, but enough he has trouble swallowing. He looks away from the laptop he’d been working at, case momentarily abandoned.

“You’d wear it?” His tone is mild. Idle. He sounds almost bored. It’s the eyes that give him away; dark and fathomless in a way that has Jason’s stomach clenching.

Jason swallows. Feels the weight of Tim’s palm. “Yeah.” His voice is cracked, throat suddenly Saharan dry. “I’d—I’d never take it off.”

Not tangible, visible proof that someone wanted him.

Tim’s voice lowers to a whisper when he says, “Never?” The mild tone is gone, now; replaced with something Jason doesn’t recognize. It lights him up, anyway; igniting something desperate in him. He plants his feet on a couch cushion. One hand falls to grip Tim’s pant leg; the other wraps around his wrist. Not to pull him away, but to keep him. Hold his hand in place, because Tim’s fingers on his neck feels like all that’s holding him together.

“Never,” he swears, no matter how bad of an idea it is. Red Hood doesn’t need to be caught wearing a collar.

Jason doesn’t care.

Tim hums, low in his chest. He looks away from Jason, leaving him feeling bereft. He whimpers, but the sound barely passes his lips before he hears the ‘click’ of Tim shutting his laptop. He leans over Jason, stomach brushing his face as he leans forward to put it on the coffee table, case abandoned.

Then he’s looking at Jason again, thumb stroking the side of his neck. “I bought you a collar ages ago,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d wear it. Thought you’d—you’d hate it.”

Jason had certainly said things to that effect in the past, he knows. He squeezes Tim’s wrist. “I don’t. I want it. I want it so bad—please, Tim.” He’s willing to beg on his knees, if Tim wants him to.

“It’s yours,” Tim promises, low and sweet. “And you’re mine.”

[half-deadmagicperson]

Phic Phight '24 Phic 2

Title: Summoning Shenanigans

Words: 767

For @phicphight

Prompt by @five-rivers : For centuries, the cult has anticipated the glorious rise and return of Lord Phantom. That time is at hand. All they need to bring him fully into the mortal world is the perfect sacrifice: Danny Fenton.

Rating: G

Warning: One (1) cuss word

AO3

Low chanting filled a dark hall. People disguised in cloaks circled around the chalk markings on the floor. Ancient runes were spelled out to call for their lord. The head of the cult ordered for the sacrifice to be brought.

  A black-haired teenager writhed around in the arms of two of their members. He was trying and failing to escape. Upon spotting the leader of the cult, the entire teenager’s demeanor shifted. Members who were close enough could see the boy’s calculating glare. When they arrived at the circle, the leader raised their hands to stop the chanting.

  “The time is nigh for the return of our lord. For centuries we have waited to see signs of his presence. History tells of the mighty acts of the supreme, and there have been signs of his return near Amity Park, Illinois.”

  The crowd murmured before the leader raised their hand again.

  “However, in order for our supreme to ascend to the mortal plane, a sacrifice must be made! And who better a sacrifice than the son of those who want to hurt the supreme! Therefore, we are sacrificing Daniel James Fenton, son of ghost hunters, to be used as the conduit for our supreme leader, Lord Phantom of the Infinite Realms!” Their heavily modulated voice echoed, as cultists began to cheer.

  Daniel’s eyes widened as the chanting and fire began. He scuffed his feet along the ground as the members dragged him into the circle. A small grin flashed on his face before smoke hid him from everyone’s view. 

  The ground split with green cracks of light. The sound of electricity crackling echoed off the walls. The cultists shook in fear as a bright halo of light appeared among the unearthly smoke. The leader screamed and disappeared into the smoke. Several members ran away from the spectacle, others were frozen in place.

  Frost coated the ground as the smoke turned into snowflakes. As members scrambled and tripped over each other, one figure stood calmly in the middle of the circle.

  Danny Fenton, in his tattered NASA hoodie and ripped jeans, watched the chaos unfolding around him. However, this was not the same person they sacrificed. A grin too wide to be human split the teenager’s face in two. His ears were pointed, and his eyes were glowing an acidic green. 

   Next to him, sat the leader trying to scramble away. Daniel, no, Phantom looked down at the person and ripped off their hood. A teenager with a bright mop of red hair quickly went to try and put his hood back up.

  “Really, Wes? You went through all this trouble trying to prove your theories?” Fenton’s voice came out with static pops.

  “Well, yeah? I thought you’d, like, use your powers before we did the actual sacrificing bit,” the voice was quiet and no longer modulated. The other cultists murmured to each other.

  “You know, since I am an ‘immortal being your cult has been waiting centuries for’ it seems highly impossible for me to be a lowly highschooler, especially a low-life son of ghost hunters,” he turned towards the crowd,”Alright everyone! The show’s over, you should go home now.”

 “But wait! What if he somehow time travels! What if that’s why he’s in different artifacts!” Wes pleaded, but everyone ignored him and started walking away. Once they all left, Fenton patted Weston on the shoulder.

  “It’s okay Wes, I believe you,” he said with shit-eating grin before disappearing. Wes scowled.

  “FENTON!”

  A laugh echoed in the hall before fading, and Wes knew he was alone again. He sighed and started cleaning up. He worked really hard on that plan! Does Fenton know how hard it is to form a large congregation of believers?

  He finishes cleaning before exiting the venue he rented. After making sure the door was locked, Wes started his car and went home.

~~~~~~~~~~

  A confused college student popped out of the bathroom and walked into the main hall. The room was empty in sharp contrast to the large number of people gathered before. The student noticed a small device on the floor next to him. It looked like a voice modulator, like what their leader had. He grabbed the small box and tucked it into their cloak.

  He knew what he had to do, he needed to find a better sacrifice for Lord Phantom, one that the entity will approve of.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Sir there has been a development. A teenager has imitated our organization, but even worse, they actually summoned our lord."

"Well, well, well, we may have to pay this teen a visit."

[klbwriting]

Broken Prism

Chapter 6

Fandom: Red Hood

Pairing: Jason Toddxfemale!Reader

Warnings: talk of violence and sex trafficking

Summary: YN goes in search of information on Robin

Notes: how many chapters/words do I need for something to be considered 'slow burn'? They haven't even spoken yet and I'm 12k words into this. I never write real slow burn so I'm sure when I hit that mark, any opinions? Thank you to those who have liked this! Comments/critiques are loved and appreciated!

You needed to get some work done before you went hunting for rich billionaires again. Your roommates had returned from their trip to find you listening to your loud ‘Dead Boyfriend’ playlist as they called it and searching everything from reddit to the dark web for information on several leads around the city. The GCPD was trying to hunt down Black Mask and finally get some information they could use to arrest him and keep him in Blackgate for a long time. You were doing your part by finding accountants, money lenders, hedge fund managers, pretty much anything that might lead to tax evasion because if there is anything you know about America, the IRS will lock you up forever if you forget to declare a penny. As ‘Afraid’ by The Neighborhood blared out your speakers your friend, Jocelyn peeked in the room.

“Are you busy?” she asked though she knew you were. You threw her an annoyed look and paused the music, locking your screen. She rolled her eyes. “Guess you finished actually working. What is it this time? Did you find a rumor about a zombie in Metropolis or something?”

“Fuck off, I’m working on a new lead,” you said. She grunted. Your friends were a little tired of you and your assumption that Robin was somehow alive. They thought you had just gotten lucky, one of the rare ‘double soulmate’ people. It happened to one in every billion people or so and they were sure that was why you were seeing color again, not some crazy idea that Robin had come back from the dead.

“I have someone you could meet, they’d be really good for you, and you know that you don’t have to be with your soulmate,” she said. You growled, the sound low and bitter. “Stop it, give her a chance…”

“I’ve given them all chances…” you started, the same argument coming back. You did this every few weeks with both of your roommates, they had someone who would be perfect for you, you tried for a while, then you found any and all reasons to leave them, listing them out until the other person was angry enough to leave you. You hated leaving people but seemed to relish in making them abandon you, that was a cycle you understood. You walking away wasn’t in the cards.

“You’ve ruined them,” Jocelyn shot back, and you just rolled your eyes. “But fine, keep searching for a ghost, a person who didn’t even want you to begin with.” That was a low blow, and she knew it the moment it was out of her mouth. The color drained from her face; she was sputtering as you packed up your laptop. You needed to get out. You would drop off what you had on Black Mask’s latest addition to his team, an assistant with ties to the Triad, and then go to Wayne manor. You had to admit she had a point. Robin had found her, probably got a better look at her than she at him, and then nothing. Either he was scared that knowing him would get her hurt or he didn’t like what he had seen, and considering her track record of foster homes, pointless romances that went nowhere, and friends that left her behind, she figured it was the second option. She knew she was a lot to deal with, too much anger and sarcasm, not enough sweet and gentle. Maybe Robin would have liked that if he’d given her a chance. She shook the thoughts from her mind as she walked down the street towards Old Gotham and the GCPD.

The deputy was pleased to see you, sending you straight up to Gordon. You glanced back to thank the deputy and noticed him on his phone. You chuckled; someone was going to get in trouble for that. Jim Gordon was notorious for taking phones off of deputies when they weren’t on patrol. You didn’t need your phone in the precinct, there were other phones, and if there was something so secret you couldn’t say it out loud then wait until you were off duty. It was supposed to build trust between the officers or something, you weren’t sure. All you knew was you weren’t surprised when a higher-ranking officer came and snatched the phone from the deputy. You knocked on Jim’s door and he told you to enter.

“YN!” he said with a smile. You smiled back. If anyone in this city could feel like a father to you it was Jim Gordon. He’d taken a chance on you back when you were on the streets pickpocketing. You had been able to steal a cop car right from the precinct’s garage and when confronted about it in interrogation later you had also stolen the handcuff keys right off the arresting patrolman. Instead of throwing you into a hole Jim had been impressed, said you reminded him of someone, and hired you. After the snipe from your roommate, hearing him so happy to see you made the burn feel better.

“Hey Jim, I have some information you might be interested in,” you said, handing over the USB with what you had just gathered. He put it onto his computer, looking over the data, nodding slowly.

“This is great, we can use this. This assistant has an interesting record, might be able to turn them into an informant if we play our cards right,” he said. You smiled, always glad to help him. The rest of the precinct could burn but Jim was a good guy, hell even the Batman knew he was trustworthy. That gave you an idea.

“Jim, can I ask you something?” you said, voice quiet. He looked up at you and you swallowed hard. “I know you work with the Batman sometimes, but did you ever know any of the Robins?” He stood, eyeing you. If you hadn’t been working with him for literally years, he might have kicked you out, told you that your services were no longer needed, but considering you had never asked anything about Batman before he hoped you weren’t just fishing for information. If he only knew how much you already found out about the vigilante.

“Sure, I’ve worked with all of them a few times, why do you ask?” he said, motioning for you to sit in the chair by his desk. You sat and he joined you.

“The second Robin, he saved me once, before I left school, I was taken hostage by to goons of somebody and he was the one who saved me, got me to the ambulance. I was just wondering if you knew what he was like? It’s been on my mind lately,” you said, trying to sound casual. Jim thought back, a stormy look on his face. You wondered what kind of memories this man had of young boys, pretty much children, taking on the lowest scum in the city. Wondered if he ever thought that Batman was unnecessarily cruel by pushing them into that life.

“I remember he was very different from the first, the first Robin was a chatterbox, always there with a joke or charming remark, very good with civilians,” he started. “The second was quieter, didn’t talk to me much, let Batman do it. The few times I met with him alone he would say what he needed to and then leave. But honestly, he was probably more caring than the first. The first one was great, did care about the people of the city, but the second one seemed to care about the lifeblood of the city, how it was going to get better. While Batman and the other Robins seemed to think that anyone could be saved, that the city could be saved with kindness and maybe a naïve love of what it used to be before Joker and Bane and all the rest, the second one would get his hands dirty. I never told Batman, but I found a Batarang in the neck of a sex trafficker who was selling underage girls to the highest bidder. That was the kind of person the second Robin was.” He sounded conflicted, like he didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing to kill that man. You didn’t see how taking a man who touched children off the streets was bad but kept your mouth shut, offering a tight smile.

“Thank you for that, I was just curious,” you said. “I need to get going, have another appointment, but as always Jim it was great to see you.” You stood, grabbing your bag.

“You should come by my place sometime, meet my daughter, she’s your age and I think you two would be good friends. Maybe meet her boyfriend too, you look like you could use more good people in your life,” he said suddenly. This was new. He’d never pushed his daughter or boyfriend before. You vaguely knew of them, had seen the picture on his desk of a pretty red head in a wheelchair and her equally pretty boyfriend in her lap, laughing, but he’d never talked about them. You felt a smile creep to your face. He must have been worried about you after asking about such a weird subject.

“Ya, that actually sounds nice,” you said, thinking about the argument with your roommate. Maybe trying to make new friends wasn’t a bad idea. You could try and if they decided to ghost you it wouldn’t matter. If anything, you were used to being left.

Your next appointment was at Wayne manor where you walked right up to the gate and rang the bell, waving at the camera. You figured this would be easiest, the tour was too expensive to do again, and you didn’t really want to come up with an elaborate plan to break into the place, but you could if they didn’t let you in now. Luckily the gate swung open, and you walked up the long driveway, Alfred waiting for you by the front door. He looked you over, seeming to listen to someone in his ear before letting you in.

“Did you scan me for weapons?” you asked dryly. He simply led you into a parlor and asked if you would like some tea or coffee. “O, tea would be great, thank you.” It had been a while since you’d had good tea and you assumed Bruce Wayne probably imported leaves straight from China. Alfred left and soon Bruce Wayne walked in, sitting down across from you on a high-backed chair. It struck you as funny that he looked like a king in a throne and you laughed, making him narrow his eyes. “Good afternoon your highness,” you said before you could think. You thought you saw an uptick on his mouth, but it disappeared. “O lord smile sometimes Bruce, your face muscles need a workout too.” That actually made him smile, but just a little. “Better.”

“What do you want?” he asked as Alfred set the tea tray in front of you, pouring you a cup. You sipped it plain, enjoying the hints of vanilla.

“I want to ask you about the second Robin,” you said. He sighed, seemingly expecting that answer. “Look, I’ve been searching for you for years just to get to know what he was like. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering about him. Please, just, why did you take him in? Was he your actual son?”

“No, he was adopted, and I took him in because, well, he made me smile. Crime alley, he was around ten at the time, little skinny thing clearly living either on the streets or in one of the crappy apartments in the area. He tried to steal my car,” he said. Your eyes widened.

“Wait, a car like the one I stole, or, the other one?” you asked, not sure if you should say ‘Batmobile’ out loud.

“The other one,” Bruce confirmed. “He was brave, reckless, but brave. I smiled for the first time since my first Robin left to be his own man. So I took in J…” he stopped and looked at you. You shook your head, still not ready for his real name. “So I took in Robin, found out his parents were dead, well assumed dead. Penguin took his father in for some gambling debts, he wasn’t ever found. His mother died of an overdose, leaving Robin alone. I raised him, trained him, made sure he was capable as well as brave and smart.” You felt your heart ache. Bruce Wayne looked haunted talking about this, and you felt the hatred you normally held for him ebb a little. You motioned for him to keep going. He took a deep breath. “Robin was many things; he was angry and aggressive as much as he was kind and passionate. He hated when criminals would hurt children, hated it in a way that I was scared of.” You thought to Jim’s story of the batarang, the memory making you a little proud. “He was reckless and quiet, but funny and could devour an entire library of books in just a few days. Alfred gave him cooking lessons and I gave him driving lessons. He was my son.” You swallowed hard, trying to fight the tears the welled as Bruce spoke of him. He sounded wonderful.

“What happened to him?” you asked. Bruce looked at you, really studying you. “Please…” you hated that it sounded like begging, but you had to know what actually happened. There were so many rumors about the death of the second Robin. You had to know the truth.

“Joker. We were doing work in another country, tracking Joker to a drug smuggling operation. I was an idiot, too high on my own importance. I didn’t stop to question why Joker had gone himself just to pick up pills and weapons. We arrived and Robin, he went to scout the warehouse where the trade off was supposed to take place while I went to a town in the south where the theft was taking place. I didn’t realize that this was the Joker’s plan, get us separated. He didn’t know who would be going to warehouse but it didn’t matter, he wanted blood.” Bruce looked at his hands and you noticed how tired he looked, exhausted of his own legend. Being the Batman must weigh heavy on him. “Robin got there, and the Joker was ready. I’m not sure what happened entirely, there was a bomb and when I found his body.” He couldn’t finish. You heard a sniffle in the doorway and turned to see Alfred openly weeping. This seemed to give you permission and the tears you had been holding in poured down your own cheeks. You wiped them quickly, hating being vulnerable in front of anyone let alone people you had only just met.

“Thank you, for um, telling me all this,” you said. “You know I never got to talk to him, but I think about him, did he ever want to meet me?” You really hoped the answer wasn’t going to break your heart. Bruce looked at you and if he could he looked more guilty.

“That was my fault too,” he said. “I thought he was too young to balance his life as Robin and having a soulmate. He didn’t only want to meet you, he wanted to watch over you. He did watch over you. I used to catch him sneaking out in the early morning so he could make sure you got to school alright, he would come back late for patrol carrying empty wrappers of Big Belly Burger because he couldn’t imagine letting his car get cluttered. He may not have met you but you were always on his mind.” You closed your eyes, but it was impossible to stop the flew of tears. You stood.

“Thank you again Bruce, I’ll show myself out,” you said, leaving before either man could do anything. You left the manor gates and stood for a moment trying to collect yourself. You saw the squad car pulling up and frowned as the deputy from the station climbed out.

“Can I ask what you’re doing here m’am?” he asked. You frowned, something felt very off right now. You stepped back, going for the switchblade in your pocket, but he was faster, the shocks from the taser going through you. You dropped the knife and collapsed onto all fours. You had been tasered before but that didn’t make it fun. The officer used this time to yank you up by your hair with one hand, the other pulling off your backpack and tossing it over the fence into the Wayne compound. He must have figured no one would notice with all that land, at least not until the landscaping was done. He cuffed you and shoved you in the car, making you hit your head on the roof. With cloudy vision from the hit you watched him start driving towards the Narrows. This was bad, very bad.

[liquid-luck-00]

Marks of Magic

Day 10 Mask of Maribat Spooktober 2023

First *** Previous

Language and cursing is used

2,090 Words

Guess who isn’t dead

~~~~~~~~~~

The second after they agreed and he shook her hand, the air rippled again. They were in someone’s apartment, lair, workroom might be a closer word to it. The room was small but seemed to also be endless. On one wall was a kitchenette, while two of the other three walls were covered with pinboards, sketches, and a wall of fabrics. A giant table was in the center of the room, and a door with two giant windows on either side occupied the last wall.

"Where are we?" Jason knows that the question of how is magic, so where is the next.

"A pocket dimension of mine." She shrugged and walked up to the table.

"So who are you, really?"

She gave him that stupid smirk again and he wanted to hit her and protect her at the same time. "You know my face but I don’t know yours, and you still ask me that."

"I don’t trust you."

"I don’t actually know you either, much less actually trust you. But since you are helping me you can just call me Mira."

"Fair enough." He walked up next to her. "So what’s the plan?"

"Bats is preoccupied, so we have maybe an hour, and if my hunch is correct we can’t leave a speck of evidence."

"And how would you know that."

"Let’s just say I’ve got a good feeling." A knowing smile and a glint in her eyes, almost made him ask but thought better of it.

He watched her suspiciously as she set out several blueprints of various Joker hideouts, Jason was actually a bit impressed with it.

He doesn’t get her, hell he doesn’t even know why he actually agreed to this. They got to work quickly devising a plan and ten minutes later they were ready.

"You might need a mask." He pointed out, in this light he finally saw her.

She was close to his age, probably around 5’4”. Her hair was a black almost blue color and the underside was a bright crimson. Bluebell eyes and freckles splashed her nose and cheek bones.

"You’re probably right." Mira did it again, she waved her hand and the air rippled around her.

The next second she was dressed completely different. A long red jacket that was accented with gold and black straps, was over a black dress and a belt around her waist. Red boots that came up to just under her knees, over black leggings. Her hair turned a powdery blue almost white while the hair framing her face was such a dark black it looked like ink. Even her eyes changed to a dark red all while a half gas mask covered the bottom half of her face.

"Is this better for you."

He almost wouldn’t have believed that the person in front of him was the same person he met on a rooftop not even a half hour before, but it was. Damn magic.

"Okay let’s go." They nodded and she teleported them again.

"Now you find…" He started but was cut off.

Maniacal laughter was heard not even two buildings away from where they appeared.

Damn this girl is lucky.

So, they made their way over and he was going to say something but she was already ahead of him.

"Ten thugs and the Joker no one else." She whispered at his side not even looking in. This girl is starting to scare him. "But we only need Joker."

"You’re planning on using that pocket dimension aren’t you?"

"Yes, it’ll give us more time, than if we did it here."

"Okay, knock out the others and we’ll grab the trash pile."

She jumped in and he followed right after. They each attacked and the goons quickly fell, he looked over his shoulder, and saw her, the second she touched any of them they seemed to freeze in place. She danced around them, easily avoiding the bullets that flew towards her. She was trained, and trained well, a pit grew in his stomach at the realization. Who is she?

"Red Hood, now that’s interesting." Joker’s cackling voice drew their attention towards him. "Last I checked that name was mine."

"Well let’s call it a down payment." He was focused on the clown, Mira was capable of taking out the others. "After all you took something from me and made me this."

"And how would that work, hm?"

"You killed me."

"You're going to have to be more specific now. I've killed quite a few people, as have you." He mocked, trying to elicit a reaction. "Be honest, are the faces starting to blur for you yet. Because I can't remember them any more." A chilling smile overtook the Joker's features. "Actually I do remember one. It wasn't far from here. God I wish I could have seen that Blunder's face when my bomb went off."

"Fucking bastard!" He growled, his helmet amplifying the sound. The edges of his sight began to turn green, the madness began to settle.

"Well, well, if it isn’t the little boy blunder back from the dead, does this make me your father?"

The words Joker spoke made him fall further and further into madness, until he let it consume him.

•••

"Well, well, it it isn’t the little boy blunder back from the dead, does this make me your father?"

What?!?! Marinette froze, the words swimming in her head, that night replaying in her head.

"Well this was fun, wasn’t it, boy blunder?" When he didn’t get an answer he continued. "Well it was for me make sure to finish your homework and be in bed by nine. And hey, make sure to tell the big bad bat I said hello."

Jay, she watched Red Hood, and he attacked, but it was different. His movements and aura shifted, inhuman is the only way she would describe it.

They fought like rabid dogs, not caring if they took a life or died themselves in the process. He didn’t care if he got hit, or shot and it terrified her to see it, now that she placed the man in front of her with the boy she knew, she couldn’t move. But she had to, he could kill himself in this state. And she wasn’t going to lose him again.

She called on Pollen’s venom and jumped between them. A fist collided with both of them and they went still. She shoved each of them into a separate room in her pocket dimension before following herself. She secured the Joker in one room, then went to check on Red Hood, no that was Jay, her Jay was alive.

She went into the room and she could feel the anger and hurt that rolled off of him. Marinette approached, as if he were a wild animal.

"I just want to help…"

Hood turned to her, the helmet having broken in the fight, peices dug themselves into his skin, while his eyes were still covered by a domino mask. He trained a gun on her, silently telling her to stop, so she did. They stood there a minute, then two, then five, the minutes ticked on until she thinks he may have calmed down a bit.

Then she recognized it. Stories she read in the grimore, places that were overflowing with magic, from a single Kwamii. And this felt like Plagg, destruction and death, the pits of Lazarus.

She unclasped the chain she always wore from her neck, pulling it forward, a ring was threaded through which she let fall into her palm. The ring of the black cat. He stared at it in her hand a moment before she closed her fingers around it.

"Who are you?" His voice was labored, either from the exertion earlier, or he was still fighting off the madness, she couldn’t be sure.

"Hi, Jay…" She dropped the glamor spell from earlier. Tears stinging her eyes but didn’t care as they fell down her cheeks. "It’s Nettie."

He blinked at her. Not saying a word but she stepped forward. He stood still, watching her. She reached down to take his hand, but he moved it away, so she looked up at him, he was taller than her now. She held out her hand until he took it. When he did she dropped the ring in his hand and a green light emanated from him.

"Better?"

"How?" He asked in return.

"The Lazarus pits are Plagg’s domain, and you are one of his, so now that you’ve been recognized the pits can’t control you."

"How did… I told you… why did you come back?" He finally finished a question.

"I couldn’t live knowing that stupid clown was still alive, I just…" She choked out her answer with just as much difficulty. Tears stung her eyes as she desperately tried not to cry. "I didn’t plan on this happening. I never thought I’d actually…"

"Let’s end this." Jay reached out and combed his fingers through her hair, stopping at the red.

"Let’s!" In a flash her glamour returned and she led him to where she had the Joker.

The monster held inside had regained consciousness in the time they were, sorting their own issues. He watched them, as if he could actually escape them.

"So what’s the plan, Mira?" Jay, Red Hood, asked her casually leaning on the door they came through.

"Physical and emotional transmission."

"Aw the girly doesn’t actually want to hurt anyone?" Joker cackled as if he had won.

"Wrong." She stated coldly. "You’re going to be trapped feeling the pain you emotionally and physically inflicked, until you beg us to kill you, or you kill yourself in the madness."

"Your bluffing sweetheart."

She put a hand on each side of his temple and a scream was immediate.

She hated this spell, and she couldn’t believe the pain that Nooroo and Duusu had to feel for this to become reality. But if it meant that this maniac could feel what he’s done that’s fine with her. The silence that immediately followed sent chills down her spine. The Joker was trapped in his own mind and body, being tortured by what he did to himself, essentially comatose.

They walked out of the room, back to her studio, and Jay finally talked. "How long?"

He wrapped his hand around her wrist, making her stop and face him.

"Jay…" She dropped her glamour again, reached up, he nodded and she removed his mask. "Planning this, maybe a few hours. Knowing your alive and…" She started to tear again but he watched her, not saying a thing again. So she huffed looking him over and pulled him to yet another room. She sat him down and started tending to his now various wounds.

"Why do you still care, I’m not the same person I was?" A desperation crept into his voice, steeling himself from her. He held her away from him by her shoulders.

"I wouldn’t expect you to, I’m not the same either." She shook herself free and fluttered around the room, plopping Jay in a seat in the process.

"Aren’t you mad at me! I left and didn’t even bother trying to find you."

"Yeah I’m mad!" She dabbed the iodine soaked cotton on the laceration on his arm. He winced, if it stung or the fact her temper flared she isn’t sure, she took a breath to calm slightly. "I’m mad at Joker, at Bruce and Alfred for never telling me you died, mad that I couldn’t get you out! But you had no control over what happened to you."

She tried to get him to make eye contact but he looked away. When he finally spoke his voice was cold. "I'm not a good person, so stay away, put me back in Gotham and forget about me!"

"When will it get through your oh so thick fucking skull!" She grabbed his face forcing him to look at her, then flicked him on the forehead. "I don’t give a flying fuck what people think, and I will stand beside those I care about, which includes you. Idiot." She huffed.

"Nettie, you were… you are, my best friend. I don’t want you to hate me." Fear snuck into his voice, it was small, so different from the imposing figure in front of her. Yet so reminiscent of the boy she knew so long ago.

She stood up and offered him her hand. "You’re my best friend, Jay, and no mask, magic, or maniac is going to change that."

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@jennifer-rose123 @toodaloo-kangaroo @joydone07 @mizzy-pop @starling218 @crystalqueertea

[take-taker-taken]

maybe a little undertaker and short reader if you’re interested in writing it !

Of course! Here’s a couple things that came to mind, plus some random, head canony thoughts…

As you come down the stairs, he’s waiting at the bottom. You stop on the third stair from the floor and raise your arms in question. “What do you think?” You ask, holding your arms out to display your outfit.

“You look beautiful, darlin’ - you always do.”

Your cocktail dress is a deep, rich purple with just a hint of shine and it clings to you in all the right places - you feel beautiful. A silver choker and diamond drop earrings complete the look.

“You coming all the way down babe, or are you just gonna stand there and look at me?”

Your hand rests on the stair rail as you look him over. “Give me a minute - I don’t normally get this view.”

He looks confused for a second and then huffs out a laugh when he realises what you mean - you’re standing on the third stair, which puts you at eye level with him. He does the same ‘arms out’ gesture to indicate his own outfit and you grin.

“Devastatingly handsome,” you assure him as your eyes rove hungrily across his strong shoulders and long legs, which are encased in a beautifully tailored charcoal suit. The very top of his midnight blue button down shirt is open and you know by the end of the night you’ll be snuggling inside the jacket with him.

“OK, baby - car’s waiting,” he says and reaches forward to settle his huge hands around your waist before lifting you gently from the stairs down on to the floor. You opted for shoes with just a slight kitten heel and as he hugs you to him you smile at how protected he makes you feel. Your small hand disappears as it’s engulfed by his and he leads you out the door to the waiting vehicle.

————

You’re laying on your side, leant against him as you watch the TV. His big hand strokes up and down your body as though he’s petting a big cat. You love how you fit so neatly against him and you don’t have to worry about your head obscuring his view.

“I’m chilly,” you proclaim as you draw your knees up to hug them.

“I’m Mark, good to meet ya,” he replies absently, most of his attention on the screen.

You roll your eyes to yourself and then look up at him and let out a small whine. He snorts and reaches up to the back of the couch where he’s left one of his hoodies. He snags the bundle and then shifts against you. “C’mon - sit up a bit and put this on.”

You haul yourself into a more upright position and he pops the hoodie over your head, but he’s working from a less than ideal angle. After a few tries he curses quietly and abandons you to your fate as you tunnel around inside the garment, looking for the exit. The first false start has you trying to push your head down one of the huge sleeves and unseen, he patiently moves the hoodie around so that you can get your arm down it instead. The hood has flopped over the neck hole and so you’re back to flailing ineffectually inside the dark material, rapidly reducing into helpless giggles that really don’t help matters.

“For the love of…” you hear him mutter and then you feel him shaking because he’s giggling too. He eventually grabs the one arm that you’ve successfully managed to manoeuvre into the right place and pushes the sleeve down so that your hand slips out the end. “OK, now keep still a sec… just gonna… move that arm - not that one, baby… there ya go… you can figure out where the neck is now, right?”

Still in fits, you wave your arms up and down like you’re trying to direct a plane into land. “Help meeee!”

You feel him take hold of you again and sit patiently as he flips the hood back and then pulls the clothing down so that your head finally pops out.

“There she is!” He laughs, and smooches your lips a couple of times.

You giggle and grin and kiss him back. “Thank you for saving me - thought I was gonna die in there.”

“I would never have let that happen, sweetheart. You all good now? C’mon and lay back down.”

Happily you settle back in against him, turning your attention to the TV and all is calm.

“Think I’m too warm now after all that struggling,” You say quietly after a couple of minutes.

His strong arm wraps around you and holds you firmly in place. “Nuh-uh. You stay put - you’re not getting out of that thing for another hour, at least.”

You do a mental shrug, lifting the too-long sleeve to your face where you rub it against your cheek, enjoying the scent of him that’s worn in to the material and decide that actually, that’s fine by you.

————

Head Canons

Going for a walk together is fun, but sometimes it’s a little difficult. You probably have to do two or three steps for every one of his and if he goes striding off then you have to run to catch up - this is why you insist on holding hands. You both love being out in nature though and it’s especially handy because he can lift you up with ease to take a closer look at a bird’s nest in a tree.

Selfies aren’t easy but you’ve managed to perfect it now - if he sits down and you kneel up then it’s workable but standing up selfies are a bust. He suggested ‘one of those stick things’ but even that didn’t improve matters much. Kissing, though… kissing is fun - lots of experimentation there. Sometimes he’ll pick you up for a quick smooch, or if you’re cuddling on the couch then it’s easy. Other than that, you stand up on to your tiptoes and he’ll bend down so that you can meet somewhere in the middle. One memorable time after he’d been abroad for too long you literally climbed up him when he came through into arrivals at the airport, one quick jump and a bit of scrabbling and then you were sat happily with your legs wrapped around his waist while he supported you easily with one arm.

Sometimes he teases you - bending his knees until he’s eye level with you and looking around, proclaiming how ‘everything looks different from down here’. Or he’ll move some of the every day kitchen items up to the top shelves, just to watch you stretch up as tall as you can - sniggering as you bat at things with your fingertips in a bid to topple them down for you to catch. One time out walking in the rain, he called you to an urgent halt and you wondered what happened - only for him to scoop you up and carry you across a puddle (“Can’t have you getting swept away, can we?”).

In bed? Well, he loves to say that height doesn’t matter once you lay down and he’s definitely right when it comes to a few things… Spooning in bed is the best and occasionally he even lets you be the big spoon (“Just so long as you mind where you’re putting those tiny popsicles you call feet!”). He’s so big that you can just climb all over him - lay right on him if you choose to. He sometimes threatens to do it back to you and so if you’re feeling playful you’ll roll off him and tell him to do his worst. Nothing like the feeling you get from him kneeling astride you with a smirk before he captures both your wrists in one huge hand and pins them above your head. You don’t know if there’s a word for ‘feeling so vulnerable but at the same time so safe’ but there certainly should be.

[fyodorloveclub]

Something sfw?

Can you please do Fyodor's s/o taking care of his hand and nails? Just like holding hands, kissing his hand/fingers. Because its canon that this man bites his nails and fingers until they bleed. 😭

-𔘓

tw for very mild mentions of blood/scabbing relating to nail biting, i tried to make it not gross, very brief mention of sex

(mans so looks like a nail biter😭)

You looked down at the hands you were currently holding in your own, assessing the damage.

“Fedya, my love, you have got to stop biting your nails.” He hmpphed in response.

The tips of his fingers were littered with teeth marks, nails bitten back to almost nothing. In some spots it had gotten so bad there was scabbing from where it had bled. You knew it was a nervous habit of his, always had been, but it had gotten worse as of late due to increased stress. You would always swat his hand away if you ever saw him doing it, but you weren’t around 24/7.

“Would you please let me do your nails?” you sighed.

It was not the first time you had asked that, but he always declined, declaring it to be too feminine. But this time, he agreed.

“I guess,” he grumbled. You smiled, squeezing his hands.

“Perfect! Okay, go sit at the kitchen table, I will be right back.”

He groaned quietly but did as he was told. You ran to your bathroom to grab the needed supplies. Ointment, band-aids, peroxide, cuticle oil, nail clippers, lotion, and clear nail polish. You hid some of your favorite red polish in your pocket. When you returned, he was sitting at the table, arms crossed with a sour look on his face. It made you giggle how grumpy this made him. Sitting down across from him, you laid out a towel and set his hands down onto it.

“Alright, love, are you ready?” you asked, a small smile on your lips.

“Whatever.” You just laughed.

You picked up his hand and pulled it to you, using the clippers to even out the edges and get rid any ragged bits.

“Ow,” he winced.

“So sensitive!” you exclaimed, fake gasping. He did not complain again after that.

After this, you used a cotton swab soaked in peroxide to clean the open skin and wipe off any blood. He hissed at this part as well, but kept his mouth shut. You giggled. Then you put some healing ointment and band-aids on the raw skin, being very gentle. You dropped some cuticle oil onto the nails without band-aids.

Between each step you pressed little kisses to his fingers and hands, telling him how good he was doing. He would frown but his red cheeks gave him away.

You briefly laughed at the thought of any of Fyodor’s colleagues walking in and seeing his lover doing his nails.

After you were done, you squirted some lotion into your hands, massaging it into his hands and up his arms, trying to make it relaxing. You could’ve sworn you heard him purring quietly.

While you had him relaxed, you asked for the thing you really wanted. “Will you let me paint your nails, Fedya?”

“Absolutely not,” he deadpanned.

“Please,” you begged, drawing out the word.

“No.”

“Even if I promise to blow you every night for the next week?”

“Fine.”

You squealed as he glared at you.

You knew Fyodor well enough to know when he was putting up a front, and he definitely was putting up a front currently. In the safety of late night darkness, he had admitted once before that he loved it when you took care of him. You never forgot that. It was also clear by the glint in his eyes, and how his typically very tensed, stiff posture had relaxed significantly.

Pulling the bottle of red nail polish out of your pocket, you unscrewed it and took his hand into yours again. You painted each nail that wasn’t bandaged very gingerly as he watched with hooded eyes. You truly never imagined you’d see your self-proclaimed “evil mastermind” boyfriend wearing red nail polish, but it was so adorable. After the second coat had been applied and dried, smiled at him.

“All done!” you said, grinning at him. He couldn’t help the tiny smile that appeared on his face.

Once again, you kissed all over his newly manicured hands.

“So pretty,” you cooed. He mumbled a small thank you, blushing.

“Please don’t tell anyone about this,” he whispered.

You laced your fingers together, squeezing his hands tight.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”