#i❤️cannabis

[whatsnewalycat]

Once in a Blue Moon

One Shot // Dieter Bravo x HotelStaff!F!Reader

Description: You're the only person working when a Christmas blizzard rolls into town and snows you in with a notoriously difficult guest, Dieter Bravo.

Rating: E (Explicit 18+ Only)

Word Count: 12.9k+

Tags/Warnings: one shot, slight dub con elements (power imbalance, isolation, alcohol) although both parties are enthusiastically consenting, hotel guest x hotel staff, blizzard, Minnesota because that’s my best friend, dieter generally being an ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ ass bitch, kinda enemies to lovers???, Christmas, loneliness, palm reading, food and eating, cannabis, conspiracy theory mention, fluuuuuufffff, smut, dirty talk, a dash of conflict, painting stuff, power outage, poverty mention

Note: Merry Crisis! This is part of a secret Santa gift exchange and a present for my dearest Syl (@all-the-way-down-here @im-sylien). I hope you enjoy!! Have an excellent holiday, friend ❤️🎄

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 2:00 PM

“We are right in the bullseye for what people are already calling The Great Christmas Storm. Blizzard Warnings remain in effect throughout most of Minnesota until Tuesday morning. Forty to fifty mile-an-hour winds, combined with an anticipated twelve to twenty-four inches of heavy snowfall, are expected to create whiteout conditions, making travel dangerous or impossible in the Blizzard Warning areas. If you must travel—”

You kill the engine and look up through the windshield at Blue Moon Manor. The white exterior of the three-story Tudor Revival mansion seems to glow in contrast to the dark clouds hanging overhead. Some rich guy built it as a family home in 1905. It stayed in the family for over a century before a property management company scooped it up. Now the ornate family heirloom is a boutique hotel. Go figure. 

You open your car door and grab your backpack from the backseat, swinging it over your shoulder as you step out of the vehicle. As you walk up the path to the staff entrance, snowflakes start floating down from the gray, low-hanging clouds like teeny-tiny feathers, landing on your cheeks and nose, melting on impact. 

So it begins. 

You press your security code into the door lock, waiting for the quiet beep-beep-beep of approval before shoving the door open to the back office. 

Your coworker Jenna looks up at you when you enter giving you a nod of greeting as she zips up her jacket, “How is it out there?”

“Just starting,” you drop your backpack on the built-in bench and take off your stocking cap, shaking out your hair as you ask, “How’s it been here?” 

“Let’s just say I’m ready to go home and drink some wine,” she snorts, “Should be a piece of cake for you, though. 202, 203, and 101 checked out early because of the storm, and the check-in today cancelled.” 

“Storm of the century,” you mutter, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“I hear it’s gonna get nasty. Do you really have to stay the whole time?” 

You wave her off as you peel off your jacket, “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I can’t cover some of the shifts.”

“Really, it‘s fine,” you insist while hanging up your coat, “Bossman said he’d pay me double time to stay ‘til he gets back to town.” 

“You’re goddamn right he’s gonna pay you double time.” 

Trying to change the subject, you go over to the daily checklist, “Ok, 202, 203, and 101 are gone,” you frown, running over your mental tally of guests, “So, what? Just 302?”

“Just 302. Lucky you.” 

“Yeah, lucky me,” you roll your eyes, then look out the window at the snowfall, heavier now, “You better head out before you get stuck here with me and Mr. Fluoride Mind Control.” 

“I suppose,” she sighs, grabbing her purse, “Well, have a Merry Christmas?”

“You too,” you smile and meet her eyes as she extends her arms and beckons you closer. You groan, but accept the hug, face pressing against her puffy winter coat. 

When she steps back and starts towards the door, she tells you, “Don’t have too much fun now.” 

“I’ll try not to,” you snort, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” she calls behind her as she opens the door, letting in an icy-cold draft of snowflakes before closing it behind her. 

You sigh and wiggle the mouse on the computer. The second you do, the service bell dings. 

“Fucking already?” you mutter to yourself as you follow the floorplan through the kitchen, into the formal dining room, then finally arrive at the archway to the parlor. 

You find the man staying in Suite 302 leaning against the grand piano, thrumming his fingers on the shiny surface. 

Wearing pajama pants and a grubby t-shirt, chestnut curls shooting up every which way, he sighs and taps the call bell again. The shrill ding makes your eye twitch a little, but you paste on an amenable smile, “Mr. Bravo, how can I help you?” 

He spins towards you and looks at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes flicking up and down your body before settling on your face, “Can I get some towels?”

“Of cour—”

“And can you do that thing where you fold them into animals?” 

You furrow your brow and tilt your head at him, lips parting to ask what he means, but he preemptively answers. 

“Some hotels fold them into swans or elephants or whatever. You know what I mean? Towel animals.” 

There’s no way he’s not fucking with you. 

“I, uhh…”

He raps a knuckle on the piano, then saunters off, calling back, “Thanks, you’re the best!”

You stand there for a moment, mouth agape as you watch him disappear up the stairs, thinking: No fucking way I’m doing that. 

And yet, half an hour later, you’re sitting in the back office watching a YouTube video on how to fold two towels into an elephant. 

Following along with the step-by-step, you make the legs. Easy enough. The head ends up looking like an uncircumcised cock with wings, though. You set it on top of the legs and take a step back, glancing between your creation and the video’s example. As a final touch, you stick a couple googly-eye stickers on it. 

“Good enough,” you sigh and tuck the microfiber monstrosity under your arm. 

When you arrive at Suite 302, you pause for a moment, turning your ear towards the door. You hear the old wooden floor creaking as he walks around humming to himself. It smells like paint and skunk spray. 

You swallow your buzzing nerves and knock on the door, fidgeting a little as you wait. 

Inside, a fit of coughing erupts, and he chokes out, “Hang—on—”

His footsteps squeak across the floor to the kitchen. Clink of glass. Water faucet. The coughing stops for a few silent seconds, then he groans and the footstep squeaks grow closer. 

A cloud of weed smoke bitch slaps you when the door to Suite 302 swings open. 

He frowns at you, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest as he leans against the doorframe, “Hey, uhhh…”

“I got your towels,” you smile, presenting the towel elephant to him. 

His eyes drop to the elephant, then he raises his eyebrows, “What is this?” 

“An elephant?”

He glances between you and the elephant, flattening his mouth into a line before telling you, “Looks like a dick and balls with googly-eyes.”

The force you use to hold down your laughter makes you snort. 

So fucking professional. 

Your eyes meet his. An amused smile graces his lips as he takes the elephant. 

“Anything else I can get for you?” 

“Yeah, can I, uhhh… can I get some snacks? Something sweet, something savory.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” you nod, peering over his shoulder into the hazy room, “Just a reminder, we don’t allow smoking.” 

“Oh, it’s not cigarette smoke.” 

“I can smell.” 

It goes straight from your brain out your mouth, drenched in sarcasm. So fucking professional. 

His eyebrows shoot up in a surprised expression. 

“I apologize, Mr. Bravo—”

“Oh, fuck that. Don’t,” he chuckles, waving off your stammering, “Call me Dieter, by the way. Mr. Bravo makes me sound like a fucking… karaoke machine.” 

“Ok,” you chuckle, then put your customer-facing demeanor back on and tell him, “I’ll go see what we have for snacks. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.” 

He pushes off the doorframe, giving you a nod of acknowledgment as he steps back into Suite 302 and closes the door. 

You return sometime later with a silver serving tray hosting a variety of cheeses, dried fruit, olives, spreads, and crackers. When you knock, he hollers to leave it outside the door, so you do. 

The remaining daylight you spend cleaning. 

Blue Moon Manor has eight suites: one on the first floor, four on the second, and two on the third. Working from the bottom up, you rid the recently vacated units of dirty dishes and trash, then collect the linens and haul them up to the laundry room on the third floor. 

By this time, the serving tray you left outside Suite 302 has disappeared. The pot smoke, however, dissipated throughout the entire level. It seems even stronger than the last time you were up here. Almost like he completely disregarded your polite reminder of the no smoking policy. 

You decide to table the issue temporarily. If he was still smoking by the time you returned to take his dinner order, you’d remind him again. 

The prospect of confronting what your boss referred to as “a very important client” intimidates you, though, if you’re being honest. 

Not that you’re particularly intimidated by him as a person or anything. 

Sure, he has an IMDb page and some awards, but beyond that, he’s just another entitled guy. 

It’s more so the influence he has on your employment that intimidates you. Sometimes your feral mouth speaks before your poorly-domesticated brain can articulate a proper response. If you were to say something combative, and this guy complained to your boss, you’d probably lose your job—a loss you cannot afford. 

When it’s time to take his dinner order, you gather yourself before knocking on his door, repeating your script in your head as you wait. Then the door swings open and you’re absolutely blindsided. 

He answers while wringing his hair out with a towel. It’s one of the two you brought him earlier. You can tell because there’s still a googly-eye stuck to it, pupil shaking around inside its little plastic dome. The other towel clings to life around his waist, parting to show off a slice of his tan thigh. 

Regrettably, you follow your knee-jerk reaction to ogle him, looking him up and down before returning to his expectant eyes. 

This results in an uncomfortable staring contest, where you’re trying to make your mouth work and he’s trying to figure out what the fuck you want, as made evident when he asks, “Do you need something?” 

“Dinner,” you blurt out, then shake your head, “Sorry, I mean—What’ll you be having for dinner, Mr. Bravo?” 

“What’re the options?” 

“Chicken roulade or salmon.” 

He groans, throwing his hair-drying towel over his shoulder. 

“Do you guys have any normal food, or does it have to be upscale bullshit?” 

You pause to once again gather yourself, and in that two-second silence he decides, “I’ll take the chicken roulade.” 

“Dining room or room service?” 

He shrugs, looking over his shoulder into the suite, then back at you, “Dining room.” 

“Fabulous. While I’m here, can I take your tray from earlier?” 

“Let me get it,” he mumbles, closing the door. While he’s gone, you go over the lines you rehearsed, and when he opens the door to hand you the tray, you tell him, “Just as a reminder, we don’t allow indoor smoking—” 

“Look, usually I open the window and use a doob-tube, but, uhhh… the weather outside won’t allow it. I don’t want the wind to fuck up the crank windows.” 

“But still—” 

“And not that it’s any of your business, but I have a medical condition that I treat with cannabis. This is prescribed to me—”

“What? I’m not—”

“Besides, it should be legal—”

“Ok, you know what? Fine! Smoke away, but don’t be surprised when the manager fines you for it, plus the cost of extra cleaning charges.” 

He crosses his arms and straightens his spine, “I can live with that.” 

“Great,” you snip, taking a big step back, “Dinner will be ready at six.” 

He closes the door a little harder than necessary and you stomp down to the kitchen, fuming the whole way. 

Lucky for you, dinner prep involves flattening chicken breasts with a meat tenderizer, which helps tame your frustration. As you follow the recipe, sprinkling seasonings and feta cheese onto the breasts and rolling them up like neat little sleeping bags, potential consequences for your outburst run through your mind. Bad review, getting canned, all that. 

Maybe if you hadn’t been dealing with this guy’s shit for the past two weeks, you would’ve been able to handle the situation with a level head. But his haughtiness is fucking grating. He can’t just answer a question or make a simple request. It has to be a whole production that makes it clear: he thinks he’s better than you. 

By the time you finish cooking, though, you come to peace with the fact that you’ll probably have to kiss his ass to rectify the situation. 

When the grandfather clock in the parlor chimes six times, you plate the chicken roulade and bring it to the dining room, slightly surprised to see him already seated at the table. 

“Mr. Bravo,” you smile in greeting. 

“Dieter.” 

“Dieter,” you repeat as you set the plate down on his place setting, “Can I get you anything to drink? We have a Sauvignon Blanc that would pair well with the chicken—”

“I’ll take it.”

You go to the sideboard and find a bottle of wine. As you pour him a glass, he wrings his hands together and glances around, “Anyone else coming down?” 

“Just you.”

“What about you, where do you eat?” 

You shrug, setting the bottle down beside his glass, “In the kitchen.” 

“You could eat out here.” 

“Oh. It’s fine, sir. Really, I don’t mind.” 

His nose wrinkles up under his sunglasses and he shifts in seat. You study him for a moment, sensing an air of loneliness about him. 

“Unless you want me to join you.”

He shrugs, “Seems silly for both of us to eat alone.” 

“So true,” you nod, clasping your hands together, “I’ll uhhh… I’ll be right back.” 

When you return with your plate, you sit across the table from him. An uncomfortable silence settles in the room. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight and amplifies every little noise. The chewing, the utensils clinking, the wet swallows, everything seems ten times louder than reality. 

Clearly, it’s not just the two of you in this dining room. There’s a third guest, the giant invisible elephant wedged between you. 

He finishes his glass of wine and pours another, asking, “Do you want some?” 

“I… shouldn’t.” 

“Uh-huh,” he raises his eyebrows, looking at you over his sunglasses, “Do you want some anyway?”

You consider it, squishing your face to one side with indecision. 

“I won’t tell on you, sweetheart, I promise.” 

Your eyes flick to his, finding a sort of amused playfulness there. 

“Fine,” you smirk and push back your chair, going over to the wine cabinet to grab a glass, “Just one.” 

“No one’s twisting your arm about it.”

You return to your seat and reach across the table to grab the bottle, pouring only a small helping. 

“Cheers,” he holds up his glass. 

You mimic the sentiment and take a big sip, then tell him, “Mr. Bravo—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod, glancing at your wine glass, “I, umm… I apologize if I was rude earlier.” You meet his eyes and shrug, “If I’m being completely transparent, my boss will have my ass if the whole third floor smells like weed when he comes in next week.”

He watches you as he absorbs this, face inscrutable. 

“But if you want, I can show you the back patio. You can smoke out there all you want, I really don’t care about that part.” 

Leaning back in his seat, he takes a swig of wine, then says, “Fine.” 

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” you smile. 

“Uh-huh,” he sets down his glass, wiggling around a little as he tells you, “For the record, you weren’t being that rude. Well, maybe a little, but… I don’t mind. Suits you better than the bullshit customer service thing you do.” 

You blink at him, biting your tongue, then return to cutting your food and making small talk, “Well, I hope you didn’t have any big plans for the holidays. Traveling might be tough the next couple days.” 

He shakes his head, “Not doing it this year.”

“Not doing Christmas?”

“Nope. What about you? Do you celebrate Christmas? Any plans?” 

“You’re looking at ‘em,” you gesture around the room with your wine glass and take a sip.

“No shit, you have to work?” 

“I’ll be working until the storm passes. Tuesday at the earliest, by the sounds of it.” 

“Yuck. You guys have a staff bedroom, or do you get to stay in a suite?”

“I have my pick of the empty suites.”

He pokes the food on his plate with his fork, “Which one are you picking?”

You chuckle a little before answering. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you detect a certain vibe coming from him. Not only that, but he’s attractive in a way you’re not entirely immune to. 

“I think I’m gonna try a new one each night,” you tell him, “101 for sure, maybe 301 and 203. Not 201–“

“Oh well obviously, fuck 201.” 

“Obviously,” you laugh, shaking your head. 

He smiles at you, sparking heat at your center, then both return your attention to your food. The rest of the meal passes in a much more comfortable silence. Not wanting to overstay your welcome around a guest or veer further into unprofessionalism, you rise as soon as you finish. 

“I’ll get out of your hair, but if you need anything, ring the bell. I’ll be around.” 

“Sure,” he studies you over his sunglasses as you gather your dirty dishes, his jaw ticking back and forth, then he says, “Hey, thanks for keeping me company. It was nice.” 

You want to tell him you thought it was nice, too. Or maybe say something about how it felt like a mildly off-putting but not entirely unsuccessful first date. Not at all what you assumed it would be like. 

Instead, you give him a polite smile and nod, “Of course.” 

— 

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:00 PM

DING 

You look up from the cribbage game on your phone at him, just a few strides away but apparently oblivious to your presence. He fidgets with the sleeve of his high-drama fuzzy jacket, shifting his weight from side-to-side. Waiting. 

“Hi—”

“Holy shit!” He startles, gripping his chest, “Where the fuck did you come from?”

Before you can stop it, you snort out a laugh, then cover your face reflexively, “I’m so sorry Mr.—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod as you rise to your feet, stuffing your wide grin into a neat smile, “How can I help you, sir?”

“Call me a fucking ambulance for the heart attack you just gave me,” he jokes, shaking his head, then takes a step towards you, “No, uhh… I was gonna step out to smoke, do you wanna join me?” 

“Oh—umm,” you chuckle a little, briefly considering the offer before politely telling him, “No, thank you.”

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure,” you glance down at his feet, clad in mismatched socks and crocs, “But here, let me clear off the back patio so you don’t have to stand in the snow.” 

He shrugs and follows you through the parlor into the dining room, where you tell him, “Just give me a minute, I’ll put my stuff on.”

“Take your time,” he murmurs, going over to the sideboard, “Is this fair game?” 

“Help yourself.” 

“Do you want one?” 

He flips over a lowball glass on display and sifts through the decanters of liquor, plucking out a bottle of finely aged whiskey. A drink sounds good. But the prospect of this virtual stranger fixing you a drink makes you uneasy. 

Does he know that it’s just you and him under this roof for probably the next few days? Between the offer to smoke you up and pour you a drink, is he intentionally trying to intoxicate you? Or is he just being cordial? 

You realize he’s staring at you, waiting for a response. Heat rises to your face. Shaking your head, you tell him, “I’m fine, thanks.” 

He uncorks the decanter and turns to pour whiskey into his glass, so you dismiss yourself to the back office. 

After bundling up in winter gear, you grab a shovel, then start towards the dining room. You stop short in the kitchen. The motherfucker walked right past the STAFF ONLY sign and started rummaging through the fridge. 

“You’re not supposed to be back here.” 

He glances back over his shoulder at you, “Why not?”

“Because—well, because—”

“Can you make me grilled cheese?” 

He straightens and closes the fridge door, turning to face you. You, clad in your coat and boots and hat and all that shit, holding a shovel, just blinking at him, mouth agape. 

“Right now?” 

His jaw shifts to one side as he genuinely considers the question. 

“Can I shovel first?” 

“Sure,” he shrugs. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, then trudge past him into the dining room. 

He follows along behind you, through the hall to the back door, asking, “Do you have tomato soup?” 

“Probably. Want some with your grilled cheese?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

When you twist the door handle and yank it open, a knee-high snow drift topples over at your feet. 

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss and flip on the outdoor light switch to peek outside. A strong gust of wind knocks you back a step, carrying a flurry of shimmering, swirling snowflakes. Your cheeks sting at the icy cold sharpness of it, eyes watering in protest. 

What a fucking nightmare. 

“Forget it,” you huff, slamming the door closed. You prop the shovel against it and turn to Dieter, pulling your gloves off, “I don’t care, can you just use the doob-tube and turn on the fan in the bathroom?” 

“The fan doesn’t work.” 

You release a big sigh, tugging off your hat as you lean on the wall and kick off your boots, “Of course it doesn’t. Alright, plan C.” 

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:45 PM

The range hood’s fan roars to life. 

“Have at it,” you tell him as you walk over to the sink and unlock the window, pulling it up a few inches. 

Dieter pulls a palm-sized wooden container from his coat pocket and leans back against the stove, twisting the top open. A one-hitter pops up from one of the two barrels of the container. He takes it and stuffs it into the dugout, “So, what, we’re all trapped here until the storm passes?” 

You cross your arms in front of your chest and shrug, “Theoretically.” 

“Figures,” he mutters, then pinches the pipe between his lips. He pulls a pink lighter from the pocket of his fuzzy coat and brings the flame to the other end. The tip brightens to a glowing ember as he inhales. 

“I thought you didn’t have any plans.” 

He holds the smoke in his lungs and croaks out, “I don’t,” before turning to blow the smoke into the fan intake. 

“Are you upset that you’re snowed in with me?” 

“It has nothing to do with you, sweetheart” he glances at you, then takes another hit. 

“Ok, let me rephrase,” you shift, casting your gaze to the floor, trying to conceal the warmth blooming beneath your skin, “Are you upset that you’re snowed in?” 

He shrugs, “I don’t like being stuck places. Especially another fucking hotel.” 

“Whadda you mean?” you frown. 

Your question hangs in the air while he takes another hit. He grimaces and steps over to the sink beside you, tapping ash from the little metal pipe with his lighter, then returns to his place at the stove and packs another onie. 

“Did you ever watch the documentary Beasts of the Bubble?” 

You shake your head. 

“Don’t, it’s dogshit,” he snorts and takes another hit. On the exhale, he asks, “You know that I’m an actor, though, right?” 

You nod. 

“Right, well, long story short… Early COVID days, I was out in England shooting a movie and they wouldn’t let us leave the hotel.” 

You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, sensing heavy dramatics on the horizon. 

“They wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?”

“My friend—well,” he wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, my friend. She tried to escape, got her fuckin’ hand shot off.” 

“Holy shit, seriously?!”

“Yeah, Lauren Van Chance. Pow! Shot right off. Fucking brutal,” he shakes his head and takes another hit. As he blows the smoke into the fan, he coughs a little, then shakes his head, “Anyway—wait, why am I talking about this?” 

“Because we’re snowed in.” 

“Oh—yeah. I dunno, feeling like I can’t leave… my therapist said it’s a trigger, I guess.” 

“I get that,” you search his face, watching him frown at the one-hitter. Apparently satisfied with how stoned he is, Dieter releases a relaxed sigh and sets the onie down on the counter. 

“If it’s any consolation, I promise I won’t shoot you if you try to leave. Like… I don’t know, you might need some snow shoes or whatever, but you could—” 

He waves you off, “Eh, it’s fine. It’s just a thing, you know? Makes me feel all fuckin’ cagey and on-edge. Restless.” 

You lick your lips and nod, glancing at the floor before you look at him, “Anything I can do to help?” 

“Bud helps,” he shrugs, “Talking helps.”

“Does grilled cheese help?” 

It takes him a moment to understand what you’re asking, but when he does, he chuckles, “Grilled cheese is basically a fucking Xanax.” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Then let’s get you a grilled cheese.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 10:00 AM

“The Department of Transportation has declared a state of emergency, and urges people to shelter in place as snow will continue to fall in the Twin Cities and across most of central and southern Minnesota through tomorrow. Overnight, some places received as much as 10 inches, with 40 mile-an-hour winds creating drifts—”

DING

Regrettably, your heart skips a beat. 

You tuck your phone into the back pocket of your slacks and cross the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door into the dining room. When you get to the parlor, you find Dieter fiddling around with priceless antiques displayed on the shelves of an ornate built-in bookshelf. He glances over at you, “Hey.” 

“Good morning, did you sleep ok?” 

Nodding, he pulls his attention away from the bookshelf and takes a step towards you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, “Did I miss breakfast?” 

“No, what can I get for you?”

“Denver Omelet?” 

“Sure,” you clasp your hands together behind your back, “Hashbrowns? Fruit? Anything to drink?” 

“Yes, yes, and yes—coffee, water, orange juice with pulp.”

“Down here or in your room?” 

“Here is fine.” 

“You got it,” you smile, walking back to the kitchen. The creak of his footsteps mimic yours on the old hardwood floor, so you think he’s going to sit at the dining room table, but the duo whine of the swinging kitchen door takes you by surprise. 

You turn to face him, “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“May I?” He holds up the wooden onie box. 

“Sure,” you nod, clicking the range hood on, then go to crack the window open. 

The soft murmur of the radio fills the silence while you prep his breakfast and he smokes. You absentmindedly hum along to the Christmas music, dicing a green pepper, an onion, and some ham. By the time you approach the stove to start cooking, he’s tucking the paraphernalia away in the pocket of his pajama pants. 

“Have any big plans for the day?” He asks as he goes over to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup. 

“Ahhh, well… I think I’m gonna knock out some tasks that are hard to do when we’re busy. Inventory and deep cleaning, things like that. What about you?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the counter, “Gonna try to keep plugging away at painting ideas.”  

“Oh yeah? What’re you painting?” 

“It’s uhhh… it’s part of a series I’m working on, capturing the essence of interesting hotels across the country.” 

“Really? That’s—that’s actually really cool. I love that. And you chose Blue Moon Manor?”

“Well yeah,” he sighs, looking around, “It’s gorgeous. The original features are well-preserved, all the intricate woodwork and craftsmanship. It’s unique, I like it.” 

“I agree, it’s a special place.”

“I’m just… I don’t know, I’m stuck at the starting line, not sure what to paint. I haven’t found anything here that feels right yet.” 

You look between him and the menagerie of omelet fillings sizzling in the pan, “Have you seen any of the other suites?” 

“In pictures.” 

“If you want, I can show you around today? All the vacancies are made up pretty. You can poke around and see if you find any… I don’t know, inspiration, or whatever.” 

“Yeah?” He grins, “That would be… yeah, fuck yeah, that would be amazing.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 2:00 PM

You may be in trouble. 

Not the kind of trouble punishable by anyone but yourself, but still. 

What you mean is that you think you might have a crush on Dieter. Or, more honestly, what you mean is that you know you have a crush on Dieter. 

This revelation occurred to you about halfway through your impromptu tour of Blue Moon Manor.

You were standing in the sunroom of Suite 203 while he wandered around, jotting down notes and taking pictures on his phone. The snow fell heavy outside, coming down in thick wet clumps that made it difficult to see beyond the border of the property. Everything blanketed in a pristine, shimmering white. 

A deep sense of isolation plummeted your heart to your feet. Christmas Eve, when people all across the world gathered with loved ones, and you were working. Not that your empty one bedroom apartment missed you much. At least if you were there, you could lay in bed eating raw cookie dough while watching your comfort tv show. Throw yourself a proper pity party. 

So, there you were, wallowing in your circular loneliness, going around and around the drain of self-pity, when Dieter approached you. 

“Hey, you alright?” 

You snapped out of your trance and looked at him, finding something very earnest and knowing in his eyes. It surprised you. He didn’t strike you as the kind of person who generally cared about what others were feeling. 

“Yeah, just… thinking about how much I’m gonna have to shovel,” you chuckled, brushing off his concern. 

“Sorry, you just looked… I don’t know, kind of sad.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him with all the sincerity of someone whose pants were on fire. 

“Uh huh,” he studied you for a moment, then looked down at his phone and shook his head, releasing a big sigh, “I think I’m ready to move on.” 

“Alright, follow me,” you pushed off the window and walked past him. As you did so, you misjudged your space and brushed up against him. 

Pure negligence or subconscious desire, you’re still not sure, but the contact was a static shock. This quick jolt of heat that made you gasp and jump away from him, stammering, “Oh shit. Sorry, I, um—”

He chuckled, a handsome, dimpled smile stretching across his face, “It’s fine.” 

“I’m embarrassed,” you blurted out. As if it wasn’t obvious enough. 

“Don’t be,” he shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, “Accidents happen.” 

“Ok,” you laughed and buried your heated face in your hands, then regained your composure and said, “Ok, let’s see Suite 201.” 

“Is that the shitty one?” 

“It’s not shitty,” you snorted, starting towards the door, “It’s perfectly fine, just not as glamorous as the rest of them.” 

“Uh huh. Like the ugliest Miss America contestant.” 

“Sure—”

“Or the uhh… the smallest blue whale.” 

“Yeah, I mean—”

“Suite 201 is to this hotel what Def Leppard is to glam rock.”  

“Wow, ok,” you laughed, ushering him through the doorway into the hall, “Yeah, I think you got it.” 

The whole dumb interaction is all you can think about. It plays over and over again. That look, the accident, Def fucking Leppard. The rush of excitement you feel when you see him or even just think about seeing him.

It is undeniable. 

You have a big fat crush. 

So fucking professional. 

For what feels like the hundredth time, you lose count. You toss your clipboard down on the stack of fluffy white towels in defeat, scrubbing your hands over your face. 

Maybe a cleaning project would be more productive. The first floor common rooms need dusting, or you could scrub the floors, or prep dinner, or blah blah blah… god, it all sounds so fucking boring. 

Curiosity prods your heart. 

You tiptoe through the laundry room, out into the third floor hallway, and linger there for an indecisive moment, listening to the low bass of his humming to himself and the thick pulse behind your ears. A few cautious steps towards Suite 302 reveals a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the doorknob. 

Rejection takes the shape of a stone in your mouth, heavy and hard and cold as you swallow it down. It settles uneasy in your gut. 

Dusting it is. 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 6:59 PM

Every minute that drags on feels like an eternity. 

The grandfather clock in between the library bookshelves mocks you. 

Tick-tock-tick-tock

Begins to sound more like: 

He-doesn’t-like-you 

You glare at it, then down at your phone, swiping away a low battery warning to continue playing cribbage. 

Outside, the wind snarls. Blue Moon Manor groans in resistance, and you wriggle deeper into the sofa cushions, telling yourself: Five more minutes then I’ll check on him. 

It’s so dumb.

Really, you know how it sounds. 

But not once has he put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. For two weeks, he has been consistently demanding, never letting more than three daylight hours go by without asking for something. 

As soon as you let yourself feel some affection for him? 

Can’t get far enough away from you. 

He-doesn’t-like-you-DING! DING! DING! DING!—

You sigh at the clock. 

—DING! DING! DING!

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter.

The lights die. 

All white noise drops except the crackle of the fireplace, howling wind, and ticking clock. 

“Fuck.”

Two floors up, something clatters to the ground, then Dieter hollers something unintelligible. 

Well, he seems chipper. 

You climb off the couch while googling power outages in the area. 

Footsteps thud down the steps onto the first floor landing. 

“Hello?” 

“I’m in the library,” you call, not looking up from your phone as you text your boss. 

His steps draw closer, then there’s a light in the doorway. 

“This place is so fucking creepy in the dark, Jesus Christ,” Dieter hisses, “What’s the deal?” 

You squint up at his dim figure, “Storm took out the power. I texted the manager to see if there’s a genny.” 

“Genny?”

“Backup generator,” you turn on your phone’s flashlight, “Sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll go see if I can find some lighting if you wanna wait here—”

“I’m coming with you.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir—”

He gestures for you to lead the way, so you start towards the back office with Dieter hot on your heels. Once inside, you go over to the desk and pull open a drawer, fish out a headlamp, and slide it around your head. When you press the on button, a beam of light shoots from your forehead onto the desk.

“Cute,” he teases. 

You look at him, unintentionally shining the light in his face.

He steps back and shields his eyes, “Jesus!” 

“Ope. Sorry sir,” you stifle a laugh, grab a second headlamp from the drawer, and hold it out to him, “Do you want one?”

Grumbling under his breath, he takes it from you and slides it over his fluffy hair, then turns the light on. 

“Ok, this is pretty sweet,” he admits as he starts wandering around the room, “I feel like a miner or something.” 

“There should be a tote in here somewhere that has a bunch of candles,” you tell him as you start rifling through cupboards. When the search comes up empty, you try the closet, where you find a big purple tote labeled CANDLES. 

“Here we go,” you pull the heavy container out into the room. 

“Want me to carry that?” 

The offer holds about as much conviction as a drain holds water. He leans back against the desk, plucks a pen from the pencil cup, and starts doodling on your daily checklist. Barely interested. 

“No, I got it.” 

You lift it and shuffle past him, slightly demoralized, then immediately bump into the doorway, “Oop.” 

His headlamp blinds you, making you wince, then he chuckles, “Here.”

Dieter pushes off the desk and steps towards you, laying a gentle touch to your shoulder. 

When you forfeit the tote, you notice the dark smudges dried onto his hands and forearms. 

“Were you painting?” 

“Yeah,” he awkwardly adjusts his grip, then starts back the way you came. You follow behind him, trying to aim your light at the ground by his feet. 

In the kitchen, he says, “It smells good in here.”

“Probably the roast I made for dinner,” you pause for him to maneuver through the swinging door into the dining room, “I can get some for you after we get the candles going.” 

He holds the door open with his foot and waits for you to pass through the threshold before setting the bin down on the dining room table. 

“Thanks,” you say as he steps aside. 

The white candles come in three shapes: pillar, votive, and stick. All of them unscented, so when you pop off the lid to the tote bin, the only thing you can smell is wax and dust and old flames. 

You grab a half-melted pillar and ask, “Hey, do you have a lighter?” 

He rummages through his pockets and pulls one out, then takes the candle from you. The flint sparks into a tiny flame that he holds up to the wick until it ignites, casting a warm golden glow onto the walls and ceiling. You pass him another pillar. The pads of his fingers brush against your hand when he takes it, sending your heart racing. 

“Hopefully this isn’t a uhhh… weird or alarming thing to ask—”

“Oh god, what?”

“Is there anyone else here?” He lights the pillar and hands it to you, “You’re the only other person I’ve seen around.” 

You take the lit pillar and set it down shrugging, “There, aren’t umm… no, it’s just me and you.” 

“Oh.”

Where hyper vigilance should be, that old warning to not take candy from strangers, or not to turn your back on a man you don’t trust, something hungry and loud starts to grow. A devastating need for him to creep closer. For him to cross the boundary of what might be considered moral or right in such a situation. To touch you in ways that inspire heat between your thighs. 

He doesn’t, though. 

He just helps you light candles and strategically place them around the common rooms on the first floor, uncharacteristically reserved. You both remain quiet while you go about doing this, but the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels more like a peace treaty than a punishment. 

Your phone buzzes with a notification, and you pull it out, reading the text message out loud, “We don’t have a backup generator.”

“Shit.” 

“And power might be out until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Are you fucking serious?” 

“I apologize, sir—”

“Don’t do that,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “That whole… hospitality voice thing.”

The words come out sharp and bitter. 

Your blood pulses hot, and you hear yourself say, “I’m a hospitality worker, exactly what tone of voice do you expect I use?” 

“Like I’m a person, not a fucking client or whatever. I’m so sick of that shit, everywhere I go people kissing my ass,” he goes to the sideboard and flips over a glass, pouring whiskey while attuning his voice to a feminine, mocking tone, “Oh, Mr. Bravo, sir yes sir, do you need anything? Do you want a snack or a nap, do you need to be swaddled, do you want your dick sucked?”

He pauses to take a swig of the liquor. 

Meanwhile, steam might as well be coming out of your ears. Just fucking boiling with rage, needling the red danger zone. 

“I hate it. You all talk to me like I’m a goddamn toddler, it’s so fucking annoying—”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m annoying?” 

He leans back on the sideboard and blinks at you, swirling the whiskey in his glass. 

Stomping over to the liquor display, you pour a drink and seethe, “Ever think that maybe if you didn’t act like a fucking toddler, people wouldn’t treat you like one? I mean, for Christ’s sake, dude. You literally take a nap every afternoon and demand we cut the crust off your sandwiches. Last week you threw a temper tantrum because we put tap water in your sippy cup.” 

“Ok, first of all that was a water bottle. And, have you ever tasted the water here? It’s disgusting. Not to mention the fucking—”

“The fluoride, I know,” you roll your eyes, “I know I know I know. It’s gross and contains fluoride and tastes like blood or whatever the fuck—”

“I did not say it tasted like blood,” he quips, pauses to take a sip, which you mimic, then he adds, “It does, though, for the record.” 

“My point is that… If everywhere you go smells like shit, maybe you should look under your own shoe. You dig?” 

For a moment, you can’t read him. He stares down into his glass, twisting his wrist around in a way that draws attention to the thick-banded rings on his fingers. Then he glances up at you, a smirk playing on his lips, “That’s perfect. Can you just talk to me like that from now on?” 

Your head jerks back, and you let out a little scoff, “What, like a bitch?” 

“No,” he chuckles, “Like… I don’t know. Real. Real-er, anyway. You seem cool. You, though. Not your toothless, sanitized worksona.” 

“Jesus,” you scoff into your glass, shaking your head, “I’m not sure what to say to that.” 

“Anyway. I just mean… talk to me like I’m a person, not a fucking guest or whatever.” When you look up at him, he shifts a little and adds, “Please.”

You hold his gaze long enough for your stomach to flip, then chicken out, dropping your eyes to your glass, “Sir yes sir.” 

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head, “Uh-huh.” 

You appraise the remaining whiskey in your glass, then tip it back, wincing at the burn as you set the glass down. 

“Do you want me to bring some candles up to your room, or will you be dining down here?” 

“Will you be joining me?” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Yeah, of course,” he shrugs, “If you’re not busy.”

“I think I can squeeze you in,” you tease. 

His tongue pokes out to wet the seam of his lips, then his smirk breaks out into a big, boyish smile, “You think so, huh?”

The innuendo makes itself clear. Your face heats up and you snort, “Shut up.”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” he raises his hands defensively, following you as you start towards the kitchen, “Is it cool if I smoke?” 

You push through the swinging door, holding it open for him, “I can’t turn the fan on.” 

“Uh-huh,” he ambles over to the counter beside the sink and casually hops up onto it, “Is that a yes or a no?” 

After taking a moment to weigh the pros and cons, you sigh, “Just… blow it out the window, ok?” 

So he smokes while you pull the roasting pan from the oven and prepare two plates, piling on potato wedges and green beans and hearty slices of roast beef. You wrap up your activities simultaneously, then move back to the dining room. 

While you set the table, he goes over to the wine cabinet and asks, “Wine?” 

You hesitate, once again contemplating the pros and cons of answering in the affirmative. If the wine goes to your head, you could make a mistake. On the other hand, maybe it would help untangle your knotted stomach. Make it easier to converse with him. 

“Don’t feel like you have to say yes,” he adds when he notices your trepidation. 

“Fuck it, why not?” 

So fucking professional.

With his back turned to you, he surveys the bottles displayed in the wine cabinet, “Pinot? Cab?”

“Actually, I was thinking of breaking out the 2016 Cos d'Estournel.” 

He looks over his shoulder at you, “The what?” 

“Left side, second row from the bottom,” you point to it from across the room, “Dark bottle, white label.” 

Once he finds it, he lifts it from the rack and studies it, “Cos d'Estournel. Ritzy stuff,” he sets it on the table between your seats, “What’s the occasion?” 

“What is this, a role reversal?”

He grins at this. Then, as if committing to the bit, he strides over to pull out your chair. When you raise your eyebrows at him, he smirks, “Humor me.” 

You roll your eyes a little as you sit down, but truthfully, your heart stutters. 

Dieter walks back to the cabinet and picks out two wine glasses, “So? The occasion?” 

“I don’t know,” you frown, “Well, I mean, I do know, but it’s hard to explain.” 

He doesn’t say anything as he twists a corkscrew into the wine bottle and yanks out the cork, then pours the rich red wine into one glass, and the other. 

“It’s just… I don’t think I’ve been in a situation like this before. It’s strange. The storm, the holiday, the manor, the-the you.” He smirks, sliding a wine glass over to you, and you give him a nod of thanks, “I feel like anything could happen or nothing at all and I wouldn’t be surprised either way.” 

Again, he doesn’t respond, but a thoughtful expression creases his face as he takes the seat across from you. Not sure what to make of it, you ask, “Does that make sense?”  

“I know what you mean, yeah,” he leans back in his chair and swirls the wine around in his glass, meeting your eyes from across the table, “The possibilities within the confines of these walls are endless.”

The way he looks at you conjures impure thoughts. Hand between your thighs, nails digging into his back. Bending you over the table and pulling your hair. 

You raise your glass in the air, “To the possibilities.” 

“To the possibilities.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 9:30 PM 

You sit at either side of the lush Victorian sofa in the library, cashmere blankets draped over each of your legs. Illuminated by the warm glow of candelabras and the crackling fireplace, you flip through a book on palm reading while Dieter draws in a sketchpad. 

For a while, he seemed quite engrossed in the project. Brow furrowed, hunched over the pad of paper as he scribbled. But with each monotonous tick-tock-tick-tock from the grandfather clock, he starts to stir more and more. 

He finally tosses the sketchpad down beside him, leaning back and letting out a long groan, “I’m so boooorreeeeed.” 

“Drama,” you tease, peeking over your book at him, “Can I do anything to help?” 

“Can I open another bottle?” 

“Go for it.” 

Dieter jumps to his feet and clicks on his headlamp. The dancing beam of light fades out of sight as he walks into the hallway. 

With a sigh, you look down at the book and try to continue reading, but keep losing your spot. Your attention instead is drawn to the fireplace. Its flickering flames seem to pull you into some kind of a trance, coaxing out bite-sized daydreams and nightmares, trying to predict what will happen when you and your fresh new crush start drinking in the dark. 

What happens if we get drunk? Would we fuck? Would we fight? Would he be mean? Or pushy? Would I make a fool of myself? 

You sit here for a while, letting these tiny fires burn out in your brain, so engrossed that you barely notice Dieter mosey back into the room. 

“Hope wine is ok,” he says as he clicks the headlamp off, then he sets out two wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the coffee table. 

“Of course, sir.” 

He snorts and shakes his head while leaning over to twist a corkscrew into the bottle. 

“Sorry. Habit.” 

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart,” he yanks the cork from the bottle, then pours out two servings, “What’ve you there?” 

“Hmm?”

“The book.”

“Oh,” you hold it up to show him the cover, “Cheiro’s Palmistry for All.” 

He holds out a glass to you. You set the book aside and take it from him, crossing your legs to get more comfortable. 

“Palm reading?” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I don’t know, it seemed interesting.“

“Have you ever been to a palm reader?” 

Shaking your head, you take a sip of wine. Then another. A warm buzz tingles on your tongue and you ask, “Have you?” 

He nods, “Yeah. Well, kind of. I dated this girl who dabbled in divination,” he takes a big gulp of wine, then sets his glass on the coffee table and moves closer, gesturing for your hand, “Here.” 

“You know how?”

“I picked up on some stuff,” he shrugs. 

Leaning forward, you place your glass next to his and bring yourself closer, extending your hand to him.

He holds it like a fragile thing, gentle but steady, “Is this your dominant hand?”

You nod. 

Smoothing a thumb over your palm, he coaxes you to unfurl your fingers. His skin is warm and soft on yours as he examines you, thick fingers tracing the creases of your palm. 

It feels nice. Intimate, almost. No thanks to the wine and ambient lighting. 

“This side shows your conscious mind. Your life right now,” he clears his throat and says, “You’re perceptive, intuitive, a little moody. Emotions tend to run the show, but you’re also a realist. You have a passion for life and adventure, but often find yourself paralyzed by the reality of your situation, leaving you in a constant state of dissatisfaction. Logical, hard-working. You’re independent. You’ve had financial and emotional hardships. Not many serious romantic relationships, mostly flings. But this doesn’t mean you don’t get attached easily. You do, but tend to put up walls to protect yourself and disconnect before it gets too serious.”

Static vibrates through your skin. An eerie, frantic feeling of being seen too close for comfort. You swallow hard and study his face, too afraid to confirm or deny its accuracy. 

“Cup your hand,” he instructs, guiding your hand to do so. Furrowing his brow, he examines the soft fleshy bits on your palm, poking and prodding them, “You have a temper, but you’re shy. You’re cynical. Closed-off. Reliable, because you have to be, but you wish you could just say fuck it and run away sometimes. That’s umm… that’s who you are in practice. Other hand.” 

You give him your non-dominant hand. It’s shaky and sweaty and as he takes it you chuckle, “Sorry, I’m… nervous.” 

Grinning, he glances up at you, “So I’m doing well, then?” 

“Yeah,” you gulp, heat rising to your face, “It’s… yeah. Hang on, can I…?”

You take your hand back and wipe it on your pant leg, then reach over to grab your wine glass, swallowing the remainder of your wine. He does the same, then refills them. 

While this is happening, you can’t help but notice the thick current of electricity pulsing between you. 

You take turns stealing fleeting glances, and when you return to face each other, legs crossed, you’re much closer than you were before. Your knees meet his, maybe probably definitely crossing the line of what is considered appropriate distance for you to have with a hotel guest. Neither of you seem to mind, though. 

In fact, it seems like quite the opposite. 

As you extend your non-dominant hand to him, he huddles even closer, so close you can smell the Bordeaux on his breath, and cradles your hand in his. 

“This side shows your natural tendencies. Who you are in theory, who you will be if you follow your intuition,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours, then back to your palm as he slides his index finger along a deep, diagonal crease, “First of all, your fate line is strong. If you follow your intuition, you’ll succumb to it.”

“Ominous.”

He frowns and shakes his head, reverentially tracing the sensitive map of your palm, “No, actually. You’ll have a crisis or two. One big one, at least, some kind of a revelation that causes you to upend your life. But it sets you on a path of vitality and happiness and strength. A few smaller ones, not as momentous, but still significant. The hopeless romantic you are, you’ll fall in love hard and fast, but that’s the one that sticks. You freely express your emotions and feelings. It’s… I mean, it seems good. Who wouldn’t want that? Cup your hand for me, sweetheart.” 

You do. 

He smooths his thumb over the mounts and divots, tilting his head at them, “You’re stubborn and you have a strong sense of self. Hedonistic. Imaginative. You daydream a lot. I don’t think you’re as reserved and shy as you let on. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism you learned along the way.”

You look up at him, finding his eyes locked on yours. A deep longing bubbles up your spine and you feel yourself lean in a little closer. He continues caressing your hand, dropping his gaze to your mouth, and asks, “Do you want my advice?” 

“Sure.”

“I think you should follow your intuition. See where it takes you. I think… you need to let go of whatever reservations you have from the past, because it’s holding you back from a beautiful life.” 

There’s a part of you that boils red and hot with denial. It screams from the back of your head that this is all bullshit, he’s just trying to fuck you, to use because he’s bored and tipsy. 

But really, you know he’s right. 

You know you’re dissatisfied with your white-knuckle, fake smile existence. You ignore your desires and inner-most knowing in favor of security. You attribute more weight to the negatives than the positives in every aspect of your life. 

“You’re saying I should follow my gut?” you ask, studying his face. 

He brushes your palm with his thumbs, “Yeah. I think so.” 

You look down at his touch, hesitantly bringing your unoccupied hand to his forearm, allowing yourself to feel his warmth, “But what if it’s wrong? What if I make a mistake?” 

“But what if it’s right?” 

Meeting his eyes, you recognize the longing in his heavy-lidded gaze. You bring your hand to his cheek, sliding your thumb across his patchy facial hair, heart pounding, nerves buzzing as you close your eyes and lean in.

His soft lips meet yours. A gentle, questioning kiss that flips your stomach upside down. You pull back to make sure it’s ok. He seems to do the same, dark eyes flicking around your face before slipping a hand behind your head and pulling you back in. 

The second kiss holds more conviction. A spark that ignites you both, quickly leading to the third and fourth kiss, at which point they start to blend together, a mess of tongues and spit and gasps. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling him, pressing your body onto his. Through the fabric of his pajama pants, you feel his hardened excitement and use it to your advantage, rolling against him to gain friction. He grabs your hips and rocks them in sync with your movements, groaning into your mouth. 

Heat builds steady at your core, tingling and gushing through your veins, screaming for more more more. Aching to feel the warmth of his skin on yours, you slip your hands under the hem of his shirt and slide your palms up his back, pulling him closer. 

He parts from your lips to take off his shirt. You do the same, unbuttoning your shirt and tossing it aside, then reach back and claw at your bra clasp. 

“Let me,” he signals for you to turn around. You do, climbing onto your knees with your back facing him. His fingers ghost along your spine, leaving a trail of twitching, hungry nerves in their wake. 

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching your back with a whine. 

“Good,” he murmurs, continuing the tedious touch, “I wanna make you feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Is that what you want?” 

“Yes.”

When he unclasps the bra, you slip it off while he slides a hand around your belly and pulls you back into his lap. 

He leaves a trail of kisses from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, where he stops to massage his tongue against you. A moan erupts from your throat at the tingling, hot sensation it cultivates. His hands roam around your body, over your breasts and ribs and abdomen, activating all those often-neglected nerves, but never staying long enough to bring relief. 

“Fuck, Dieter,” you whine, “You’re teasing me.” 

“Maybe,” he chuckles, smoothing a palm up your sternum and urging you to lay back onto his chest. You follow the suggestion and recline against him, head resting on his shoulder. Your skin buzzes where it meets his, the warmth of him flooding your brain with feel-good chemicals. He drags his fingers along the soft skin of your belly, making you whimper.  

“But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod.

“Don’t you want to savor it?” He cups your breasts and rolls your nipples between his fingers and thumbs, sending a rush of pleasure to your head, “Don’t you want me to show you how good it feels when you finally let go?”

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding, eyelids fluttering closed, “I want it, I want it—”

“Good,” he coos, pinching your nipples harder, “I want it too. Wanna see you fall apart in my hands. Will you let me do that for you, sweetheart?” 

“Yes.” 

He releases your tits and tugs at the waistband of your pants, “Take these off for me, will you?” 

You roll off the couch onto your feet, facing him as you slowly tug at your waistband, teasing every inch of skin you reveal. He watches you with lust-blown eyes, palming himself as he drinks in the spectacle. 

“Underwear too?”

He nods. 

You hook your thumbs under the soft fabric of your bikini, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I wanna see it.” 

“You wanna see it,” he mutters, chuckling a little, “Ask and you shall receive, Princess.” 

He shimmies out of his pajama pants, keeping his eyes on yours as you slide the underwear down your thighs. His thick, hard cock bobs out and waves hello. 

“Fuck,” he sits up and rests his warm palms on your hips, glancing between you and your cunt, “Look at this pretty pussy, holy shit. Come here, baby. Come sit on my lap again.” 

“If I sit on your lap, will my Christmas wish come true?” 

“Maybe,” he smirks and leans back onto the sofa, tugging on your hand to follow. You turn around and carefully lower yourself onto his thighs, his knees between yours. Guiding you closer, he murmurs in your ear, “Tell me what you want, sweetheart, I’ll see if I can make it happen.” 

You lay back on his chest, once again letting your head rest on his shoulder, and stroke his cheek as you tell him, “I want you to touch me.”

“I can do that,” he chuckles, kissing your forehead as his hands begin to wander, sliding down your sides to your hips and thighs, between your legs to pry them apart, “There we go, baby.”

When he touches your entrance, you both groan. His cock twitches against your back. He drags his fingers up and down your seam, spreading your slick, hissing in your ear, “Fucking soaked for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, nodding, watching  him pet your swollen clit so soft and slow it sends sparks of need up your spine, “That feels so fucking good holy shit—”

“Yeah? You like the way I play with your sweet little cunt?” 

“Oh my god—I do, Dieter, I do.” 

A feral noise rumbles in his chest, and his fingers pick up speed, working in quick, tight circles as he pants in your ear, “I love it when you say my name. Sounds so fucking good on your lips. Say it again for me, baby.” 

“I love the way you touch me, Dieter, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it, sweetheart. I just wanna make you feel good, make you feel so fucking good—”

You moan when he sinks one thick digit inside you, making your body buzz with pleasure. Your eyes flutter shut and you reach back, blindly carding your fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek, his neck, tugging on his earlobe, anything you can do to ground yourself and somehow repay the ecstasy accumulating thick and hot inside your belly. 

He kisses your palm and asks, “Do you want more?”

A sort of strangled noise comes out of you, but you nod in the affirmative, and he obliges, sliding another finger inside you. They rut in and out at a steady pace, keeping tempo with his undulating touch on your clit. Heat branches out at the center of you, coursing through your veins, making your heart race.

You gasp and nod, “Keep doing that, Dieter, don’t stop please don’t stop holy shit—”

“You gonna cum for me, baby, hmm? Cum all over my fucking fingers?” 

“Yes yes yes yes yes—”

Your whole body clenches as the feeling grows and grows, reaching a precipice.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let it go,” he pants in your ear, and when you plummet over the edge, whole body twitching with blinding pleasure, he coos, “Theeere we go—”

You whimper and clamp your legs shut, letting out a series of gasping breaths as the waves of your orgasm pulse, then start to peter out. Your tensed muscles go limp, and you open your eyes to look up at Dieter, “Jesus Christ.” 

“Yeah?” 

He gives you a boyish grin that makes your chest swell with desire. You sit up and turn around to face him, straddling his lap with his cock pressed hard against your wet, throbbing pussy.

Tracing the curve of his lips, you purr, “I have another Christmas wish.”

“What’s that?”

You roll your hips, gasping at the pressure of him against you, “I want you to fuck me.”

He moans, eyelids fluttering and lips parting, head falling back against the sofa as he grabs your hips and silently urges you to keep going. You whimper and start to move to the rhythm of his suggestion, sliding up and down his length. 

“Wanna feel your cock inside me,” you breathe, brushing his cheek with your knuckles, meeting his dark, wanting eyes, “Want you to stretch me out and make me yours—”

“Holy fucking shit—”

“Do you want that?” you coo, searching his face. 

“God yes, please, baby.” 

You situate the tip of him at your entrance and hook your hands behind his head, then lower yourself down. 

The stretch of him is exquisite. He activates every nerve ending he touches with an aching, hungry need. Your mouth falls open with gasping breaths and pathetic little whimpers, and you hear Dieter groan, “So fucking tight, Jesus Christ—”

“Feels so goooood,” you croak, closing your fists in his hair. 

He sucks in air through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into the meat of your ass, and rocks you back and forth, each thrust rubbing along something absolutely devastating. You blink your eyes open to meet his, all lust-blown and wide with awe, searching your face. His hand slides up to your face, cupping your cheek, brushing his thumb against your heated, damp skin. 

“Kiss me,” he pants, reeling you in. 

You fold over on top of him, meeting his lips with desperate urgency, a frantic exchange of messy kisses marked with gasps and moans. As the heat in your belly grows, you roll your hips faster, and he thrusts up into you, parting from your lips to growl, “You take my dick so well, sweetheart—that sweet pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around me, oh my fucking god—”

“Feels so fucking good, Dieter, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, pressing your forehead against his, nodding in approval as he grabs your hips and fucks up into you hard and fast, “Oh my god, just like that baby yes yes yes—”

He captures your lips in his and you both moan into the heated, needy kiss, static building and building, spreading hot from your center. It feels so fucking good your eyes start to tingle and swim with tears, and you cry, “I’m gonna fucking cum, don’t stop—”

“That’s it baby, just let go, let it go, let me feel you—”

“So fucking good—Ffffuck—”

The force of your climax steals your breath, ecstasy pulsing liquid static through you, then yanks you down from the clouds and sends you crashing into the earth. Your body convulses and you let out a choked sob. 

“Oh my god—oh my god, fuck,” his hips stutter and he pulls out, stroking his cock to completion, shooting hot ropes of cum onto your bodies with a moan. 

Both of you remain rigid for a few moments, chests heaving, silently reveling the sweet rush of release before going slack. You collapse on top of him, eyes closed, and release a content sigh as you play with the damp curls at the nape of his neck. 

He hums and wraps his arms around your middle, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, “How do you feel?”

“Amazing,” you chuckle, “Wow.” 

“Wow is right,” he snorts, then pets your hair and asks, “Any other Christmas wishes?” 

After thinking about it for a few seconds, your lips part with an answer, but you chicken out and close them. 

“Hmm?” 

“It’s dumb.” 

“Uh-huh,” he pulls back to meet your eyes, “Tell me anyway.” 

You chuckle a little, tracing his jawline, “It’s ok.” 

He just blinks at you, waiting, so you swallow and shrug, “I don’t want to sleep alone.” 

He hums, pressing a kiss into your forehead, then your cheek, “Do you wanna spend the night with me?” 

“Is that weird?” 

“I don’t think so. Do you?”

You shake your head. 

His gaze drops to your mouth, and you lean in to kiss him. It’s warm and soft and sparks hopeful optimism in your chest, like this is something and not nothing. 

When he pulls back, a sly smile spreads across his face, “Your place or mine?” 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 8:00AM

When you wake in Suite 203, it takes a moment for the events of the previous night to catch up to you. 

The power going out, the candlelit dinner, the palm reading, the best fucking sex you’ve had in your life. 

Was it a dream? Did that actually fucking happen? 

But when you hear rustling from the other side of the bed, and feel an arm slip around your waist, pulling you back into his chest, reality punches you in the gut. 

You stay still and wait for Dieter’s breath to fall back into a pattern of soft snoring, then slip out of bed and take a shower. With the power still out and the blizzard still raging outside, it takes a bit of guesswork to navigate the process in the dim bathroom, but you emerge successful. 

When you tiptoe back into the bedroom, Dieter is still sleeping. You get dressed and go downstairs to make some coffee and think about your decisions. 

For an hour or so, you pace around the kitchen island, ruminating over the things he said to you, the things you said to him, the way he made you feel, and the reality of your position in life versus his. 

What felt good and right last night takes a different appearance in the harsh light of day. He could hurt you in so many ways if he wanted to. He could get you fired. He could be using you. He probably doesn’t actually care about you, he was just bored and horny and you were wrong this isn’t something, it’s nothing and you’re no one—

“Hey.” 

You freeze and look up at Dieter, standing by the fridge in a soft chartreuse bathrobe. 

“Hey,” you flash a nervous smile and wave, “How’d you sleep? Can I get you some coffee, anything to eat?” 

He frowns, squinting at you, “Why’re you doing that?” 

“Doing what?” 

For a few seconds, he just stares at you, letting tension twist your guts to shreds, then he drops his gaze to the floor and nods, “Ok. Ok sure.” 

Your whole body turns to cement. Cold and heavy and unmoving. 

He walks over to the French press and pours a cup of coffee, “So… you’re having some regrets, and you’re gonna go back to this now? Miss hospitality?” 

You swallow down a feeling like fire, avoiding eye contact as your vision blurs with tears, “I don’t know, I’m just… I’m just kind of freaking out, I guess?” 

“What’re you freaking out about?” 

“I guess it’s just that you were right,” you shrug, wiping at your eyes, “You know, with your palm reading. I get attached easily and, I don’t know… I don’t wanna scare you away because, umm… yeah.” 

When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him, finding a warm smile on his face. Surprised at the expression, you sniffle, “What?” 

He approaches you, still smiling, “Because you like me?” 

Heat rises to your face. You hold his gaze, watching him lean back on the counter beside you, and you mumble, “Maybe.” 

His smile grows wider, digging out dimples in his cheeks, “Yeah? Maybe a little bit?”

You shrug. 

“And you think that’s gonna freak me out?”

Again, you shrug. 

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tugging on your hand. A fresh wave of tears floods your eyes when he wraps his arms around you, stroking your back as he assures you, “I like you too.” 

“You do?” 

“Cross my heart.” 

“You’re not gonna get me fired and ruin my life?” 

“What? No—I mean, I hope not. Unless your boss somehow finds out you got dicked down in the library—”

You laugh through the tears, “Oh my god, that would be a fucking nightmare.” 

He chuckles, pulling back to look at you. You hook your hands behind his head, and the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds, humor fading from your faces, then you whisper, “This is… this is something, though, right? I’m not crazy?” 

“I think it’s something,” his eyes flit around your face, and he shrugs, “You know, I’m a lot like you. I, umm… I tend to keep people at a distance, because I fall easy and hard and yeah… it’s scary. But, I don’t know. I have a good feeling about you.” 

You nod, glancing down at his mouth, “Intuition?” 

“Yeah,” he smirks, leaning in closer. His lips press against yours, giving you a slow, tender kiss that blossoms in your heart. 

When you pull back, he tells you, “I do have one immediate problem, though.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know how to ask you to make me breakfast without sounding like an asshole.” 

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.” 

“Wow. That’s it, I’m docking a star from my review.”

“Uh-huh,” you grin, running your fingers through his messy hair, “I cannot imagine what your review of this place would be.”

He takes a deep breath, then puts on an infomercial voice and says, “Four out of five stars. Gorgeous building, the food is amazing. Truly unique place. One of the employees let me eat her pussy for breakfast—”

You snort with laughter. 

“—could not recommend enough. Deducted a star because she said I was an asshole.” 

“Lovely, but you did not eat my pussy for breakfast. I’m sure I would’ve remembered that.” 

“Not yet I didn’t,” he waggles his eyebrows at you, sneaking a few kisses as he herds you backwards onto the kitchen counter. 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 6:00PM

After breakfast—real breakfast, not oral sex in the kitchen, which was a treat in itself—Dieter went up to Suite 302 to finish the painting he wasn’t able to finish yesterday. 

On paper, you had a very busy day. Your daily checklist gives you credit for every single item and some extras. 

In reality, you cleaned up the messes made yesterday, which mostly involved washing dishes and following a wiki-how on getting cum out of velvet, and put together a charcuterie board for whenever dinner would happen. 

With the remaining daylight hours, you laid on the chaise in the parlor, then the bed in Suite 203, and flipped through books of poems, and successfully resisted your many urges to disrupt Dieter’s work. 

The snow stopped overnight, but the blizzard continued to howl all day. Strong gusts whirled the freshly-fallen snow through the air like some kid shaking up a snow globe. But when sunlight started to fade, so did the wind. Everything settled in its place, and the thick blanket of white finally became distinguishable from the nighttime sky. 

Inside Blue Moon Manor, Dieter completed his painting, then crawled into bed with you. Apparently it had been just as difficult for him not to disrupt his own work. 

He said he thought about you all day. He said he wanted to say fuck it and put the painting on pause to spend time with you, but felt he needed to finish it. He wanted to show it to you after dinner. 

Naturally, your nerves have been buzzing since. 

You insisted on an earlier dinner, blaming the lack of a lunchtime meal, but the look on his face when you made the argument made it clear he could see right through you. He didn’t mind, though. He helped you pour out glasses of wine to pair with the charcuterie board, then the two of you set everything up beside the fireplace in the parlor and fucking demolished it. 

Afterwards, you washed the dishes while he smoked pot by the window. You didn’t even care if your boss smelled it anymore. It seemed trivial. 

As Dieter tucks away his onie-box in his pocket, you recount the thought to him. He hops down off the counter and scoffs, “I mean really, what would he do? Fire you?” 

“I don’t think he even can. There are three people that work here, and I am by far the most reliable.” 

“I believe it,” he takes your hand, leading you from the kitchen to the dining room, “Tell you what, if my smoking gets you fired, you get to stay here with me and make his life hell.” 

You laugh at this, shaking your head, “Yeah, ok.” 

He turns around, “What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. I just think it’s the kind of bet someone knows they’ll win.” 

“And winning in this case would be, what? You keep working this dead-end job while I drive myself crazy thinking about you?”

“Hey—it’s a good job,” you release his hand and cross your arms in front of your body. 

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, glancing around as he shifts his weight from side-to-side, “It’s a fine job, I just mean… I don’t know what I mean. I mean I wouldn’t mind it, you staying with me. That’s all.” 

Searching his face, you deadpan, “That’s so romantic.” 

“God, I can’t wait for you to see this,” he chuckles, then takes your hand and pulls you along, “Come on.”

You follow him through the dining room into the dark hallway, where you pause to turn on your headlamps, then climb the service stairs to the third floor, coming to a stop in front of Suite 302. 

“Alright, lights out,” he clicks the off button on both your headlamps and leads you through the doorway, then the pitch black room. 

“Ok, it’s probably gonna look weird in the lighting, but,” he turns your headlamps on, and you gasp. 

The canvas shows a sunroom with windows of blinding white light. Suite 203. And there you are, staring out the window, shadows falling over your face. 

“Dieter—”

From behind you, he slips his hands around your waist and kisses your cheek, then tells you, “I was taking pictures, you know, on the tour you gave me. And… I don’t know, I saw you there and took a picture because you just looked so…”

“Sad? Lonely?”

“Kind of. More like a, uhh… a palpable kind of longing. Sorrow and isolation. Like you’re looking for something or someone, but you don’t know what.” 

You reach back and cup his cheek, brushing your thumb against his patchy facial hair. 

“I wanted to capture that because it is… exactly how I’ve been feeling for years. Just so fucking lost and alone.” 

Butterflies flutter around in your stomach, and you whisper, “You don’t have to be alone anymore.” 

“Neither do you,” he murmurs, “Better yet, people all over the country will see you and know they’re not alone, either.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, your light bouncing around the canvas, then say, “It’s fucking beautiful, Dieter. What’s it called?” 

“Once in a Blue Moon.”

[rottenpumpkin13]

I think Sephiroth would have somebody to curate his social media for him. Any head canons about what the SM manager would be like & if they get along with Seph?

Sephiroth's social media manager thinks they landed the opportunity of a lifetime. Not only are they curating a hero's social media, but Sephiroth is notoriously likes to keep his personal life private, so this will definitely be easy. This SM manager has worked with unhinged celebrities before, and Sephiroth is definitely not going to cause any trouble.

That is until they find out the hard way that Sephiroth was recently ordered to post to social media frequently, and the man is a master at malicious compliance.

Highlights of things his SM manager has had to delete quickly include:

• A selfie with a notorious Anti-Shinra group leader where Sephiroth is smiling and doing a thumbs up.

• A mirror selfie taken in Angeal's apartment after a sleepover. Genesis is seen in the background with cannabis leaf pajama pants, Angeal is seen with NO pants. The caption reads "We make a nice threesome."

• A candid photo he took of Rufus Shinra in the distance. Sephiroth's middle finger is photo bombing the picture.

• A screenshot of a text conversation that should not have been shared. Sephiroth captioned it "Help your friends ❤️"

Zack: This energy drink is doing nothing for me. I need something stronger.

Sephiroth: I know where you can acquire crack cocaine.

• A photo of an empty mako tank in R&D, Sephiroth captioned it "Childhood memories ❤️"

• A picture of Angeal shedding tears while chopping onions. Sephiroth zoomed in on Angeal's face and captioned it "How I feel inside."

• A five second video taken in Reeve's office, where Sephiroth and Reeve are toasting pill bottles.

• A screenshot from the SOLDIER group chat.

Kunsel: The fridge in the break room is on fire. Where the fuck is Lazard

Sephiroth: *sends a photo of him and Lazard doing shots together*

• A mirror selfie of him and Genesis. Sephiroth is wearing a T-shirt that reads "I'M INSANE" while Gen's reads "I LOVE INSANE BITCHES"

• A group photo of Sephiroth, Genesis, Angeal and Zack posing with the President Shinra statue, all of them doing the middle finger.

• Sephiroth took a photo of the fish aquarium on the SOLDIER floor and captioned it "I relate to them on a spiritual level"

• A five second video of him coming up behind Professor Hojo on the stairs and kicking him down said stairs.

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Lady - 4

Character: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, Eddie Horniman x Female Reader

Summary: After fifteen years away, a step-daughter returns for her Duke step-father's funeral, only to inherit a staggering 8 million pound debt and strike a risky deal with a criminal underworld figure.

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Chap 1, Chap 2, Chap 3 , Chap 4 , Chap 5 , Chap 6 , Chap 7.

Your ongoing support means the world to me! Reblogs are a fantastic way to help spread the word about my work. I'll do my best to reply to all your comments.

Thank you for your continued encouragement! ❤️❤️❤️

After a half-hearted attempt to watch the tennis tournament, you, Hugo, and Eddie retreated for afternoon tea.

"Me? The criminal organization in this country want me?" you asked incredulously.

Eddie nodded, casually adding sugar to his tea, with Hugo mimicking his actions. "They're still trying to figure out who you are. They won't ask Barnes since they despise him. They've made inquiries, but your identity remains a mystery to them, given your recent arrival."

"What about you, Eddie?" you inquired.

Eddie raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he sipped his tea. "Hmm?"

"Why didn't you expose me to them?" you clarified.

Eddie set down his cup, meeting your gaze directly. "And let them exploit your expertise? You're too valuable for that, my dear."

The endearment caught you off guard, evoking memories of summers spent at Manor with Eddie's parents, particularly his mother, who often referred to you as "My Dear" during afternoon tea. But when Eddie used the term, it carried a different weight.

Eddie continued, "I faced a similar situation last year. This organization is far more dangerous than most people realize, even those at the UN dealing with cross-border issues."

"True," you agreed, contemplating the chaos of the criminal underworld. "The real zoo is here. But what about your organization?"

"My cannabis business remains neutral in conflicts," Eddie explained. "Even in our silence, there are those who seek to undermine us."

He paused, then offered, "If you want to join forces, you could. You could easily settle the debt."

The air hung heavy with the implications of his proposition, the tension palpable as you considered the possibilities.

"No," you interjected firmly.

Hugo finally joined the conversation, shooting Eddie a defiant glare. "My dad paid a high price to cut ties with cannabis."

You were surprised by Hugo's sudden assertiveness, especially considering his awareness of Rupert's dealings.

Eddie chuckled, unfazed by Hugo's challenge. "I could see you as a Duke in the future."

But before the tension could escalate further, another voice cut in, catching you off guard.

"Well, well, what do we have here? Are you cheating on me in broad daylight?"

You tensed at the sound of Bucky's voice, turning to find him standing beside your table, impeccably dressed in Ralph Lauren, his smirk as infuriating as ever.

"Can't I have a day without seeing your face?" you retorted, unable to hide your irritation.

Bucky feigned injury, clutching his chest dramatically. "Ouch."

Eddie intervened, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "What are you doing here, Barnes?"

"I wanted to try tea time. Felt like a royal for a change, but the cake tasted like shit," Bucky quipped, oblivious to the disapproving looks from nearby tables and the waitress.

"Well, I just wanted to say hello and meet the Duke of Horniman. Say hi from me to Bobby Glass, will you?" Bucky continued, his smirk never faltering.

Eddie's smile turned sour. "I won't."

"Great," Bucky replied casually, turning his attention to you. "Wait for my call, Your Grace."

You responded with a curt, "Fuck off."

Hugo nearly choked on his drink at your blunt retort, while Eddie struggled to contain his laughter.

Unfazed by your harsh words, Bucky simply bowed and took his leave.

Eddie glanced at you, his expression sympathetic. "I can see what you're dealing with."

As you drove back to the manor with Hugo, his voice interrupted the tense atmosphere inside the car. "Can we switch our ride?"

You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "What's wrong with this one?"

Hugo's enthusiasm was palpable as he explained, "My buddies have got green cars, red cars, even yellow ones. And get this - their car doors pop up like wings when they open!"

You couldn't help but chuckle at his excitement. Seeing him like this, he seemed more like a kid dreaming of his favorite toy.

If Rupert weren't neck-deep in debt, you'd have no qualms about splurging on Hugo's dream car. But for now, you couldn't bear to crush his hopes. "Yeah, sure. Once we're done here, we'll get you one."

As you drove back to the manor with Hugo, you delved into a conversation about Rupert's work.

"You know a little about Rupert's work?" you inquired, curious about your stepfather's business.

Hugo nodded thoughtfully. "All I know is, dad wanted to quit the cannabis business because of Charles."

His mention of Charles brought a warning to mind. "Don't ask anything about weed with Bro Charles," he cautioned.

"Why?" you asked, intrigued by the sudden seriousness in Hugo's tone.

Hugo shook his head solemnly. "Ask Mom or Charlotte."

"Fine," you conceded, understanding the need for caution.

Upon your return to Evergreen Manor, you inquired about your mother's whereabouts from the butler. Learning that Susan was out shopping with friends, you sighed in frustration. With no one else to turn to, you realized you would have to seek answers from Charlotte.

Entering the living room, you spotted Charlotte engaged in a live conversation with her followers. It was clear she was preoccupied. "This will take a while," you muttered to yourself, bracing for what lay ahead.

Four hours later, Charlotte's hostility lingered as she addressed your inability to come to a conclusion on your own.

"Can't you figure it out on your own?" she snapped, arms crossed tightly as if she couldn't bear to share the same air as you.

You sighed, bracing yourself for another round of her disdain. "No, I can't. I've been out of touch with everyone for the past 15 years," you admitted, resigned to the reality of your isolation.

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Charlotte gestured for you to follow her. You trailed behind her to the barns, where an out-of-place container caught your eye.

As Charlotte swung the door open, a wave of nausea washed over you as the unmistakable scent of weed filled the air.

"Weed," you muttered, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place.

"Dad was making extra money with this, but he wanted out because of Charles," Charlotte explained, her voice tinged with bitterness.

"Why?" you pressed, eager to understand the full extent of the situation.

Charlotte remained silent for a moment, her expression guarded. "This is why you should at least read the emails that Mom sent you, even if you don't want to reply," she scolded.

Her words struck a chord, and you listened intently as she revealed the shocking truth. "Charles overdosed," she continued, her voice heavy with emotion. "We almost lost him. The doctors said he was brain dead. It's truly a miracle that Charles could come back alive. That's the reason why he became a priest."

The revelation left you speechless, your ignorance laid bare before you. "I had no idea," you whispered, grappling with the weight of the revelation.

"But now you know," Charlotte replied, her tone softer. "And you understand why my dad cut off all contact with anything related to drugs."

Charlotte's words hit you like a punch to the gut, stirring up a whirlwind of emotions within you.

"What did you say?" you demanded, your voice tinged with disbelief.

"If you never came here, none of this would have happened," Charlotte muttered, her gaze heavy with accusation.

You bristled at her insinuation. "None of that is my fault," you retorted, feeling the weight of her words bearing down on you.

Charlotte's voice was laced with bitterness as she continued, "Your existence changed Charles."

You recoiled at the truth of her words, the realization hitting you like a ton of bricks. Charles's feelings for you had always been a taboo topic, one you never dared to confront. It explained so much—the distance, the tension, the unspoken truths that lingered between you and your family.

You couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt, even though you knew deep down that you were not to blame. "I didn't even ask to be born," you muttered, a bitter reminder of the unfair hand life had dealt you.

The tension crackled in the air as you and Charlotte locked gazes, each refusing to back down from the confrontation.

"You can't blame me for Charles's choices," you snapped, your frustration boiling over.

Charlotte's eyes flashed with resentment. "I'm not blaming you for his choices, I'm blaming you for existing!" she shot back, her words like daggers aimed at your heart.

Your jaw clenched as you struggled to contain your rising anger. "Well, I'm sorry if my existence inconveniences you so much," you retorted, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"It's not just about inconvenience, it's about ruining lives!" Charlotte spat, her voice trembling with emotion.

"Ruining lives?" you scoffed, incredulous. "I didn't ask for any of this! I didn't ask to be the reason Charles spiraled out of control."

"Maybe not, but you're still the reason!" Charlotte's voice rose with every word, her frustration reaching its peak.

You took a step closer, your own anger boiling beneath the surface. "And what about me? What about the life I've had to live because of all this?"

Charlotte's expression softened slightly, a flicker of guilt crossing her features. "I know it's not fair to you either," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Then stop blaming me for everything!" you pleaded, the weight of years of resentment and guilt bearing down on you.

"Stop it," Susan's voice cut through the tension, her breath heavy as she approached.

Both you and Charlotte halted, the argument stalling at Susan's arrival. She hurried over, concern etched on her face as she reached Charlotte, who appeared flushed.

"Are you alright?" Susan's voice was laced with worry as she checked on her daughter.

You felt a pang of resentment, knowing that despite being her biological child, Susan often treated Charlotte as her own. It stung, a constant reminder of your place in the family hierarchy.

As Susan tended to Charlotte, you clenched your fists, a surge of frustration coursing through you. You turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer.

Walking away, you pulled out your phone, dialing a number with shaky fingers. "Where are you?"

Inside the car, you and Bucky sat side by side, watching the second target intently. The bomb had already been discreetly placed under the car, and now it was just a matter of waiting.

Bucky's voice broke the silence, filled with genuine awe. "Damn, watching you do your thing is like watching Picasso paint."

You shrugged nonchalantly, trying to downplay your talent. "Yeah, turns out anger can make me completely focused."

Bucky let out a low whistle, his admiration evident. "Well, color me impressed, sweetheart."

As you both observed the target, a man stumbled out of the club, clearly inebriated. His drunken antics drew attention, and he shamelessly flirted with every girl he encountered, much to your disdain.

"What's the reason for him?" you inquired, unable to hide your distaste for the man's behavior.

Bucky's response was simple yet cryptic. "Someone just really hates him."

Moments later, the target climbed into his car, oblivious to the impending danger. Without hesitation, Bucky pressed the trigger.

'BANG' The explosion echoed through the night as the car erupted in flames, sending shockwaves through the surrounding area.

'KYAA!!'

The chaos erupted as the explosion sent shockwaves through the crowd, eliciting panicked screams from bystanders.

"Too bad the wedding will never happen," Bucky remarked casually, his tone laced with dark amusement.

Your heart sank at his words, a sense of dread settling over you. "Huh?" you muttered, struggling to comprehend the gravity of the situation.

Bucky's pointed gesture toward the burning car made everything click into place. "He's your step-sister's fiancé," he explained bluntly.

A wave of guilt washed over you as you realized the ramifications of your actions. You cursed your ignorance and lack of foresight.

In frustration, you turned on Bucky, your voice trembling with anger."Next time, how about a little warning before we go blowing up someone's bloody ride?"

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Author Note: Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account.

Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating.

Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

Thanks a bunch for being fabulous followers!

[billys-pretty-babe]

I tried requesting earlier but it didn’t go through so hiiiii I just started following you!!!❤️ could you possibly write a billy x reader where they argue one night and so she ends up going to stay the night at Eddie’s and billy somehow finds out where she is and shows up in the middle of the night like fuck no she’s mine and him and Eddie argue. Add whatever else you want and end it how you want ofc but I just love jealous/ protective/ angry billy❤️

My Girl

Pairing : Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader

Summary : ^^^^^^^

Warnings : Swearing, cannabis use

Word count : 1,441

A/N : I don't think I've ever written Billy in a jealous/protective/ angry way before so I really do hope you like this.

You don't even remember what the argument was about at this point, the argument started small and escalated to now, where you were both arguing in his bedroom, him pulling his hair by the roots as you held the bridge of your nose. You knew the argument would just escalate more if you didn't leave and let him cool down and let yourself cool down.

You grabbed your cross-body bag, making sure your small wallet and car keys were inside. You put the bag on and opened his bedroom door as you walked down the hallway, passing Max's room where she laid on her bed, El on her floor, their eyes snapping to you as you angrily left the house.

You got into your car, sighing as you started it and began driving. At first, you had no destination in mind, not wanting to go home since Billy could show up considering he had a key, your mother having given him one.

You somehow ended up at the trailer park, you didn't even know how. You found the Munson trailer and parked your car beside Eddie's van before going to the door and knocking, knowing Wayne was working. The door opened, Eddie's eyes half-lidded as he reeked of weed. He let you inside, "What's wrong?" You sighed and sat on the couch as he sat in Wayne's recliner as you explained what was happening.

He nodded, taking a drag from the joint and holding it out to you, you shook your head, "No thanks Eds, need a clear head tonight." He nodded and finished the joint until there was a roach left and he put it in a discarded can of beer. "Does he know you're here?" You shook your head, "I just left." He nodded.

"If you want, you can sleep in my room and I'll sleep out here or you can sleep out here, whatever you want." You nodded, "I'll just sleep out here, your snoring would keep poor Wayne awake." Eddie laughed and went to his room and walked out with one of his pillows, tossing it to you as he grabbed a throw blanket.

He handed it to you and you thanked him. Eddie had been a close friend of yours since middle school, you were younger than him but now you were both seniors along with your boyfriend. "Thanks Eds." He smiled, "You know you don't have to thank me." He sat in the recliner, "Do you guys argue a lot?" You shook your head.

"Rarely, I don't even know how it started," you sighed, "fucking Max and El were across the hall, I know they heard everything." He nodded. Eddie didn't know much about your relationship with Billy besides the simple fact that the two of you had been together a month after Billy arrived in Hawkins.

"He didn't call you any names right?" You shook your head, "He'd never do that. I know he has a reputation but he's nothing like they make him seem." He nodded and talked to you until your yawns seemed endless and he laughed, "Go to sleep, Wayne will be here in a few hours." You nodded and he locked the trailer door, wishing you a good night before he went to the room as you kicked your shoes off and laid down on the couch, little cigarette burns here and there, the pillow smelling of Eddie's cigarettes and it made you sigh, wishing it was Billy's cigarette smoke that you were smelling.

You began thinking, trying so hard to remember what triggered the argument, sighing once more as you came up empty-handed.

"I'll drive to his house first thing in the morning so we can talk," you said to yourself, getting as comfortable as you could on the couch as you fell asleep.

You swore you dreamed the roar of his Camaro until the angry bangs on the door completely awoke you. Eddie sleepily left his room, grumbling about Wayne forgetting the key again and before you could tell him it wasn't Wayne, he opened the door. "You're not Wayne." You heard Billy's scoff, "Sure fucking not. Where's she at?" Eddie cocked his head, playing dumb, "Where's who?"

Billy scoffed once more before letting out a chuckle, "I knew you were fucking dumb but not this dumb, Munson. My god damn girlfriend, where is she? Her car's right there next to your shit van." Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes quickly snapping to yours. "Thanks for letting me know she's here, now let me inside." Eddie scoffed, "Billy, just leave her alone for the night. She left for a reason."

You grimaced, you knew those words were going to get Billy amped up and according to the clock you could barely see, it was nearly 3 in the morning. You could just imagine the smirk on his face, "Oh yeah," he asked tauntingly, "why did she leave then, Munson? Enlighten me." He was being cocky.

You heard Billy's voice once more, "You know what, fuck you, Munson. Let me inside." Eddie put his hands on the door frame, trying to make himself seem bigger than he was. "Billy, she doesn't want to see you. Fucking let it go for the night." You heard Billy hum, "So let me get this straight, my girlfriend doesn't want to see me? Let me hear it from her then. Because it sounds like you're speaking for her and honestly, I don't appreciate that."

Eddie scoffed, "How the hell did you even find her?" Billy chuckled and you heard him suck before he exhaled loudly, "Her mom said she was most likely here, it wasn't that hard to find her after that." Eddie hummed. "So, what's it gonna be, Munson? Are you letting me inside to talk to her or are we gonna keep doing this until the neighbors come out? Your choice."

Eddie's hands dropped as he turned his back to your boyfriend and took a few steps into the trailer, Billy behind him as he closed the door, the trailer going completely dark once more as you shuffled a little on the couch. "Scoot." You moved your legs as Billy sat down, the springs squeaking under him.

Eddie turned a lamp on and went to his room. "Why'd you leave?" You looked at Billy, his hair tousled like he had pulled on it more, his waterline pink like he had cried and your heart broke. "It was just gonna escalate." He nodded, placing his hand on your knee, gently rubbing it.

"Were you crying?" He laughed, "No." You pursed your lips, "Liar." He rolled his eyes, pulling you up so you were beside him. "Next time we argue, don't run off. That shit scared me, hell I'm getting the heebie jeebies just from being in the trailer park." You rolled your eyes and he laughed before leaning down and smacking a fat, wet kiss to your cheek.

"Gross, you're salivating like a dog." He laughed before clearing his throat, "I'm sorry for arguing with you all day." You reached up and rubbed his cheek gently, "I'm sorry too for arguing and leaving." He nodded and placed a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Now, if you lovebirds are done, I'd like the two of you to not fuck on my couch." Your eyes snapped to Eddie as he leaned against the wall.

"We weren't going to fuck, Eds." Billy furrowed his brow, "We weren't," he asked jokingly. He helped you up and handed your keys to you. "Thanks Eddie." He smiled and nodded, "Anytime." You smiled. "Later Munson, thanks for not making me kick your ass tonight." You rolled your eyes, pulling Billy through the door as Eddie grumbled something under his breath.

You got into your car, following him back to his house, parking your car behind his as you followed him inside. You went to his room and took your shoes off, placing them by his door as you got ready in his bathroom and he walked inside, placing his arms around your waist as you used his mouthwash.

He kissed your temple, holding you a little tighter, thumbs rubbing your hips as you finished getting ready for bed. "We're okay right?" You nodded, "Yeah, B, we're okay." He nodded and let you tie his hair up as he got into his bed. You followed suit, laying your head on his chest, right under his chin as he held you close to him.

"I love you," he softly said and you smiled and leaned your head up slightly, kissing his jaw, "I love you too."

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Week - March 6, 2023

🐎 - News That'll Make You Say "Neigh" to Negativity: My Weekly Positive Roundup

1. Drugmaker Eli Lilly caps the cost of insulin at $35 a month, bringing relief for millions

Eli Lilly will cap the out-of-pocket cost of its insulin at $35 a month, the drugmaker said Wednesday. The move could prompt other insulin makers in the U.S. to follow suit.

The change, which Eli Lilly said takes effect immediately, puts the drugmaker in line with a provision in the Inflation Reduction Act, which in January imposed a $35 monthly cap on the out-of-pocket cost of insulin for seniors enrolled in Medicare.

2. Over 7,500 Pot Convictions Expunged in Missouri

More than 7,500 individuals in Missouri have had their prior marijuana-related convictions expunged with recreational cannabis now legal in the state.

The expungement is the latest byproduct of the constitutional amendment that was approved by Missouri voters last fall, which legalized pot for adults and cleared the way for Missourians to have their records cleared.

3. Scientists cure 22 year old former race horse's behavioral disorders after 15 years of symptoms

A team of international researchers from Italy and Brazil published findings earlier this month in the science publication Veterinary and Animal Science in which they reported a “successful outcome of four weeks-therapy with CBD” in a clinical case involving a 22-year-old Quarter horse that was experiencing behavioral disorders.

The clinical case study was a collaboration between investigators from the Department of Veterinary Medical Sciences at the University of Bologna in Italy and the Department of Veterinary Medical Sciences at the University Metodista of São Paulo in Brazil. At the heart of the study was a 22-year-old mare subject that was reportedly suffering from “chronic crib-biting and wind-sucking,” which are common behavioral disorders in horses for various reasons, including but not limited to poor welfare

4. Clean energy record: More than 40% of US electricity now comes from carbon-free sources

Power from zero-carbon sources made up a full 41% of the U.S. electricity mix in 2022, a record-breaking number that has increased almost every year since 1990.

That mix includes power from nuclear plants, hydroelectric dams, solar and wind. With nuclear and hydropower relatively unchanged for years at about 19% and 10% respectively, the majority of the increase has come from the rapid build-out of solar and wind power, whose costs have plummeted in the past two decades. 

5. ‘Cruelty-free’ circus replaced animals with holograms

Holograms of horses run in circles. The Circus Roncalli stopped using wild animals in its shows in the 1990s. Circus Roncalli was among the first circus acts in Europe to stop using animals in acts.

6. New UN brokered High Seas Treaty Places 30% of Ocean into protected areas by 2030 after decades of talks

The High Seas Treaty places 30% of the seas into protected areas by 2030, aiming to safeguard and recuperate marine nature.

The agreement was reached on Saturday evening, after 38 hours of talks, at UN headquarters in New York. The negotiations had been held up for years over disagreements on funding and fishing rights.

7. 'Heroic' Wirral student rescues dog from Manchester canal

Watch the video here:

https://twitter.com/feelgoodnws/status/1632323139454550018

- - -

Lastly, I opened a Youtube account. Subscribe for more wholesome videos. That's it for this week. If you liked this post you can support this newsletter with a small kofi donation:

Buy me a coffee ❤️

[stillfrownyclownlol]

Aiden BPD headcanonsssss because my dad is being weird and I feel weird too

(Most of these are based on my experiences living with somebody who has bpd, and maybe myself but we won't talk about that haha)

Tw for all the things bpd tends to cover (self harm, abuse, substance abuse, and suicidal ideation, brief mention of cannabis in a medical context)

-definitely a big source of trauma is his parents basically abandoning him for long stretches of time

-Prone to splitting regarding them. When they're not around its so much easier to be like "Whatever, fuck them, I don't care." But when they *are* around, they're always so affectionate, a lot of "it's not their fault they're busy", "they don't mean it", kind of thoughts...it's okay Aiden, people can still love you even if they treat you badly :/

-y'all know he's self destructive. Yall KNOW. He's been in 7 different go-kart "accidents", once broke his hip trying to impersonate Tony Hawk, and he WILL be crashing his car into a tree after binge drinking.

-Self harms as a form of stimulation sometimes. He just gets SO bored. Usually will slam his head on the nearest hard object or cut himself with his compass.

-has been to a "wellness center" (mental hospital) after an episode where when his parents were on a trip, they returned and found him catatonic on his bed, he hadn't gotten up for almost 8 weeks and his mattress was stained with urine. Not to mention he'd gotten extremely sick after eating only Ramen. Called this a "blip" and hasn't done anything like this again, but only cuz he hated the hospital so much :/

-not really good at managing his anger. He gets pissed off easily (his jaw starts clenching), but has definitely eased off with the yelling and picking a fight with the person. May say some things he may or may not regret later :/ might like kick the wall or smth too-

-his feelings of emptiness and boredom get really exacerbated when he tries to sleep, so he just doesn't sleep until he passes out from exhaustion.

-extremely rare, but if he cries its almost never the appropriate time.

-his favorite person (and I mean this in the bpd way not just the usual way) was Ben, now it's Ashlyn. She asks Ben for advice sometimes on how to understand him better. Is trying to get better, but he just wants all of her attention all the time. He could make a soliloquy of all the things he loves about her. She's the one who pushed him to go back to therapy and told him "hey, I think you have somethinh"

-Weirdly protective but in a hands off way?? Even tho he really doesn't handle himself well? He knows his friends can take care of themselves but it doesn't stop him from running through the worst case scenario. Freaks out if people are late, especially if they're punctual. Also really defensive of them, they do no wrong in his eyes (except when they do :/)

-used to push people away to avoid disappointment or abandonment, especially because they needed to move so much. All his relationships were very superficial. Ghosted people a lot.

-Has chronic pain as an adult because of all the injuries he suffered through as a kid, not to mention his shitty posture. He takes painkillers, but they leave him zoned out and with even worse insomnia so he doesn't take them a lot. Sometimes uses medicinal weed if the pain is really bad. Ash tries to help by rubbing his back, though she says she's not that useful. He always feels better afterwards tho ❤️

-Smokes if he is really stressed, but he's ashamed about it and tries not to do it too much. Picked it up after stealing some of his mom's cigarettes when he was younger.

-his inner voice is extremely negative and he is generally under the impression that everybody hates him. Tries to act like this doesn't bother him and acts like a nuisance because if everybody hates him why even bother filtering his thoughts or actions?

-why were you even born? Who'd love a screw up like you? Your own parents didn't even want you.

-rejection sensitivity and gets really depressed if he's upset one of his friends. Will usually self harm to cope because he think lashing out will make things worse and he just doesn't know what else to do.

-he loves deeply and he's fiercely loyal. He's good with children. He's a wonderful artist. And he is so very incredibly kind. His bpd does not define him as a person.

I don't know if anybody needs to hear this, but, having BPD is not a death sentence. You're not doomed to be a bad person or an abuser, and I say this as somebody who was abused by someone with BPD (my own father). People with BPD are scared, they are struggling, and most of all, they're tired. If you or somebody you care about thinks they're have bpd, try to contact a doctor or specialist and seek professional help.

I'm gonna go cry in the shower now :)

[robinismywifee]

༶•┈┈┈┈୨♡୧┈┈┈┈•༶

Back to the Old House: Prologue and mixtape

Link to masterlist

Status: ongoing

Casting:

Sophie Thatcher as Raine Laval

"When you cycled by, Here began all my dreams"

—

Ashley Johnson as Ellie Williams

"I think its strange you never knew"

—

Book cover:

—

Extra (please read):

Content warnings;

I will be putting the CW in the beginning of each chapter if there are any, but the book contains/will contain:

• discriptions of violence, blood, gore, wounds, etc

• the main charater suffers from depression, anxiety, and struggles with eating

• breif mentions of getting sexually assulted

• use of cigarettes, smoking cannabis, and alcohol

• homophobia, homophobic slurs

• throwing up blood

• lots of angst

• eventual fluff

• eventual smut

*no spoilers for The last of us 2

—

Im gonna try to upload every week, but no promises.

This is writed for the game ellie, not bella ramsey or the hbo show

This story is inspired by A Gleaming Gift by @W1llowRay_ and River by @eleanorjayz on wattpad, so if you havent read those two books I highly suggest them they are both amazing writers!

This story is also uploaded on my ao3 and wattpad, with the same username: @robinismywifee

I hope you guys like the story! If you do, then please give me notes, reblogs, and comments!❤️

—

Raines mixtape:

Back to the old house - the smiths

This night has opened my eyes - the smiths

16 Mirrors - Alex G

Forever - Alex G

Love will tear us apart - Joy division

Go away - Strawberry switchblade

—

Ellies mixtape:

Orbitron - Duster

When the sun hits - Slowdive

True love waits - Radiohead

Walking after you - Foo fighters

Lovesong - The cure

Fade into you - Mazzy star

[noahhawthorneauthor]

Arlo Rook has decided it’s time to move out of Garren Castle, home for orphans of all races, magical or not, at 100 years old.

It’s not the first time he’s left home, but after a setback that landed the Hedge Witch in the hospital a year ago, he ended up right back at square one. But now he’s ready to strike out on his own, despite his friend’s worries that he’s not ready for the ‘real world.’

Then, he crashes into a mess of copper curls and bright eyes, sending apothecary goods and his life into a chaotic mess. Thatch is a mysterious and incredibly wealthy benefactor of Levena, only spoken of but never seen. He requests a night of Arlo’s company and a tour of the city, which Arlo immediately declines.

But that’s not the last time they see each other, and it certainly wasn’t the first. Arlo doesn’t remember him, no one remembers Thatch after he visits, but Thatch never forgot the Witch with a familiar mark on his face.

Thatch Phantom is an immortal, the last of his kind and perpetually bored. When he’s not closing inter-dimensional rifts and corralling demons, he’s visiting his favorite city of all, Levena. Centuries ago, when life was particularly dull, he set up a scavenger hunt for a starving village, providing them with a year’s worth of supplies.

He anonymously returned year after year, upping the ante and providing less practical things, as the village had become a city and was wealthy beyond belief. Festivals were thrown in his honor, and have continued every year since. Hundreds of years later, The Game is still put on by the fabled ‘Scarlet Illusionist,' but no one has figured out who blesses them with the puzzles.

Once again, Thatch is listless and has decided to throw a wild card into this year’s Game. Whoever discovers him will win one wish of their choice, no restrictions. Aside from the obvious, such as no falling in love, murder, or resurrection.

What he didn’t anticipate was crashing into the one person whose soul mark flares like a beacon when Thatch is around, teasing the immortal with the one thing he wants most.

Someone to call home.

What follows is a wild chain of events filled with magical coffee shops, villains with vendettas against cheese makers, moving tattoos, grand puzzles, and second chances at love, and life.

Phantom and Rook is available in print, ebook, and audio. Signed paperbacks are also available through my bookstore. The audiobook, narrated by Kirt Graves, is available on Audible, Spotify, Libro, and other online retailers which can be found through this Books2Read link.

It's also available in some libraries, and if it's not in yours you can always request it.

The cover is illustrated by @crossroadart-seabear who I highly recommend following, they've done other brilliant covers and have comics, along with cool merch like cryptid stickers.

Tropes in PAR

☀️ Grumpy x Sunshine

🏳️‍🌈 Misfit Found Family

⛈️ Forgotten Memories

❤️ Idiots to Lovers

🎧 Dual POV

💊Mental Health and Disability Rep

❤️‍🔥Slow Burn Mutual Pining

🪙 Treasure Hunt based on The Secret

Before Reading:

This is an adult fantasy novel with queer characters who swear, smoke cannabis, get tattoos, and pester each other with inappropriate comments.

There is mention of a past suicide attempt, reference to a previous prolonged physical and mental abuse situation, and alcoholism. Several of the characters live with mental illness and it is discussed several times.

There are a few graphic sexual scenes towards the end because this is undoubtedly a slow burn with lots of pining.

Lastly, this is a feel good book with a happy ending, but perhaps not in the way you’d expect.

Spotify

[hackoftheyear]

I ❤️ Medical Cannabis

[cannaamz]

[stark---contrast]

Simple Biology

For @bulkyphrase who won my stevetony fic auction in this year's @marveltrumpshate ❤️ Summary: Tony gets hit by sex pollen and Steve helps him out. Rating: Explicit | Smut, dubcon Word count: 9.8k [ao3 link]

“You ready?” Steve asked.

“Come on, Cap. When am I not ready to blast some bad guys?” 

Steve heard a repulsor whirring to life somewhere over his shoulder. Trusting Tony to cover his back, Steve tightened his grip on the shield, took a deep breath, and kicked the door in.

Steve advanced into the room while shielding himself and Tony, the Iron Man suit bathing everything in familiar blue light, and—

Nothing. The room was nearly empty—abandoned. What little furniture remained made it clear that this used to be some kind of greenhouse and not the top secret weapons development facility SHIELD had told them it was.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Tony said, repulsors powering down. “J, scan for weapons, computers, secret panels—any tech that's not where it's supposed to be. Hell, throw in another thermal scan of the building, in case we missed some Hydra goons creeping around.”

“As you wish, Sir.”

“Tony, I… I don’t think there’s anything here,” Steve said. “Looks like bad intel.”

He took another glance around the room. There were plants lined up on desks along one of the walls, though most of them were wilted. A few office chairs and desks were scattered around, with broken computer screens and lab equipment laying on the floor. The most advanced technology remaining in the room seemed to be the high-powered lamps hanging above the plant section.

“Fuck,” Tony said, popping the faceplate of the armor, “This isn’t an evil Hydra lair. It’s a goddamn weed farm.”

“Tony,” Steve chastised.

“I mean it's clearly not cannabis—oh come on, don't give me that look, you went to art school,'' Tony said, and Steve didn't protest. “But, damn. All this trouble just for a couple fugly office plants?”

They probably should have been happy that there was nothing nefarious going on. But even Steve was feeling a little bummed: he'd been prepared for battle, and with the anticlimactic revelation it was like all his adrenaline had nowhere to go.

Though it was Tony who had been the most invested in this raid. Even if his name hadn’t come up in the mission brief, it only took the words “weapons development” for him to tense up during Hill's mission brief; and Steve couldn’t blame him. Bad guys worldwide had an uncanny ability of getting their hands on Stark tech and twisting it into something evil.

“Well, this was a waste of time,” Tony said, kicking at a beaker on the floor. “What an utterly stupid, inconsequential way to spend a Wednesday afternoon. Does Fury think I don't have anything better to do? Seriously, Pep's gonna have my head for canceling that seminar again.”

Steve ignored Tony's complaints and turned to leave. “We should report back.”

“I mean, we could take some samples of these,” Tony said, approaching the plants. “Get Bruce a souvenir so he doesn’t Hulk out while we bitch at Fury. You know, make this mission not a complete waste of Avengers time and resources?"

“SHIELD can do the grunt work,” Steve said. He frowned at the sight of Tony leaning over one of the plants; something felt off, but he couldn't pinpoint the cause. “Don't touch anything. Let’s just go.”

“Maybe Hydra's distilling the plants for some kinda super-evil-but-really-just-mildly-inconvenient poison elsewhere?” Tony kept going, not even listening. “Or, Jesus, even worse, what if some hare-brained aspiring scientist was inspired by good ol’ pal Killian's work—”

And that was when Tony, the most intelligent man Steve had met in his life, touched one of the mystery plants like an idiot.

Immediately, one of the flower buds burst open and spewed pollen right in Tony's face.

“Tony!” 

Steve leapt across the room, tackling a coughing Tony away from the worst of it. But in the scuffle, they bumped into a table and even more flowers erupted into a thick cloud. Steve couldn't help inhaling the substance but he shoved his hand over Tony's mouth and dragged him away.

“Tony!" Steve called out. "God, Tony, are you okay?”

Steve’s throat felt dry and he blinked pollen from his irritated eyes. Yet it was nothing compared to Tony; he looked like he could barely stay upright much less breathe, even now that they were out of the thick of it and Steve had a hand on Tony's shoulders to steady him.

“I, uh, agh,” Tony coughed, tears in his eyes.

“Hold on,” Steve said. “I’ll get you out of here. Please, just hold on.”

“I think I figured it out,” Tony wheezed. “They were—they weren't using my tech. They were making bioweapons.”

Tony erupted into another coughing fit and Steve’s heart sank into his stomach.

Tony got exposed to a Hydra bioweapon. Now, he was hacking his lungs out—what if he choked, or went blind? Or died? God, why did he have to touch the damn flower!?

Tony coughed violently and then spit out a glob of pollen goo. He followed up with a raspy breath, his face red since the faceplate had offered no protection, because rather than stay safe Tony had lifted it like an idiot.

Focus, Steve chastised himself. He could berate Tony later; for now, he just needed him safe.

“Tony, we have to leave,” Steve said, forcing his voice to be level. “There might still be traces of the poison in the air, and we can’t have you get more exposed.”

“I’m—I’m fine. I think.” Tony rubbed his eyes, then blinked them open. “J, scan my vitals, would you?”

“Your pulse is elevated and there is breathlessness and low oxygen from the coughing, but your blood is clear of toxins, Sir.”

Steve breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe they were wrong; maybe these were just regular flowers, and the worst Tony was left with was a runny nose.

“Sir, I don't wish to alarm you," JARVIS added. "But your body temperature appears to be rising at an abnormal rate."

“Shit,” Tony said. “Now that you mention it, it’s getting a little stuffy in this armor.”

“Stuffy?” Steve said. “Tony, what’s going on?”

“I feel…” Tony grimaced and reached a gauntleted hand over his shoulder. “Antsy. Itchy. This isn't—wow, this really isn’t good. Reminds me of spring break in '86, when me and Rhodey had a really bad acid trip. Have I told you about that? What am I saying, of course I haven't—"

“Your heart rate is continuing to increase," JARVIS interrupted. "I fear an allergic reaction to the unidentified substance is taking place."

“Fuck," Tony commented. "Get me outta this armor.”

“What?" Steve balked. "Come on, we've gotta go—”

Steve choked on the rest of his sentence when the armor hissed open and Tony stepped out. He was wearing nothing but his form-fitting black undersuit: the one that left nothing to the imagination, though Steve had spent an embarrassing amount of time picturing just what lay underneath.

Steve shook his head. Focus, soldier.

“JARVIS, send the—” Steve started.

“God, it's hot in here,” Tony said. “It’s not just me, right? It's like a sauna in here.”

And that was the point that Tony apparently decided to start stripping: unzipping the second skin of the underarmor like from one of Steve’s numerous fantasies and shrugging off the top half, exposing broad shoulders and tanned skin.

“Captain Rogers?” JARVIS prompted.

“Right. Send the Avengers alarm,” Steve said.

“Very good.”

“Jesus, fuck, I’m sweating bullets here,” Tony said, and he was panting now, his chest naked and sweaty, and Steve—

Steve stared.

It was still weird to see Tony without the arc reactor. Steve knew it meant he was healthy, which was amazing, but there was something beautiful about the reactor: like a physical reminder of Tony's genius.

Not that Tony wasn't beautiful like this, too. The mess of scars and sparse hair on his chest took nothing away from how utterly sinful he looked: skin flushed and chest heaving, with dark nipples, firm muscle, and a slight softness around his waist.

"That's…that's better, gotta love that nice, cool, secret-Hydra-lair air," Tony babbled, his eyes hazy, like he was no longer even registering that Steve was there. "But—but, fuck, it's still so hot, everything, everything's burning and I—I just…"

Tony groaned, and his hips moved, making an aborted thrust into the air. Steve's gaze followed the movement, and, wow, the undersuit really left nothing to the imagination.

Tony was hard, straining against the tight fabric of his pants. Steve’s neck flushed hot and he quickly averted his eyes: Tony was in pain, and his body was just confused. This was no time for Steve to act on his repressed feelings.

Unfortunately, Tony just then seemed to notice his arousal, and immediately dropped a hand down over his pants.

“Oh, god,” Tony moaned. "That feels, that's so good, holy shit."

Tony closed his eyes and started palming himself shamelessly through the thin fabric. And Steve just watched, horrified and aroused, as his friend massaged his dick in front of Steve in the middle of a mission and holy hell, how was this real?

Just then, something clicked into place in Steve’s brain and he suddenly knew exactly what was happening.

“Tony—Tony, listen to me. I think you were drugged,” Steve said, managing to keep the rising panic out of his voice. “We need to get you out of here. JARVIS?”

“I have contacted the Avengers. Miss Romanoff gives an ETA of thirty-three minutes and requests that you stay in your position.”

“No, that’s not… we need to get him out! Come on, Tony!”

Rather than listen to Steve, Tony just kept masturbating, which decidedly was not helping.

“Tony, you have to listen to me!” Steve grabbed Tony by his shoulders.

The moment Steve's hands made contact with Tony's flushed skin, the reaction was instantaneous.

Tony jerked and looked at Steve like a man starved. And Steve had seen a lot of articles and interviews of Tony posing with a smirk and seductive eyes, but the infamous Tony Stark take me to bed look had never been directed at him before.

Yet right now, Tony's pupils were blown wide and his eyes were half-lidded, ogling Steve like he wanted to eat him.

"Steve," Tony breathed, like his name was a revelation. "Oh, god, Steve."

And, Jesus, Steve was strong, stronger than almost anyone else, but for Tony he'd always been weak. He could feel his resolve crumbling by the second under that heated gaze.

But...Tony was compromised. Tony didn't truly want this; he'd never looked at Steve like this when he was in his right mind, and he was only moaning Steve's name because of the drug.

"I, I don’t know what’s happening." Tony swallowed. "But I need to come—god, you don’t understand how much I need to. Please, please make me come, Steve, you have to, I—I can't."

Tony sounded pained and he clutched at Steve’s arm like a lifeline.

Steve's hands were trembling as he tried to hold himself back. Desire thrummed through his body. It had been so long since Steve had felt like this that he briefly wondered if he'd been affected by the pollen too.

But he knew that wasn't true. He felt aroused, yes, and high-strung from worry, but he was still in full control of his body. The serum made him immune to almost anything, probably having burned through the drug in seconds, and everything that Steve felt was simply because of Tony.

Tony made an impatient sound in his throat and squeezed Steve's biceps almost painfully. And that was when Steve made up his mind.

"Okay," Steve said. "Okay, let me take care of you."

He already knew he'd regret this later. But if the alternative was to keep Tony in pain, well, Steve would gladly bear the consequences of his actions.

"Thank you," Tony sighed, sounding genuinely relieved as he let go of the death grip on Steve's arms. "Thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou."

Steve nodded stiffly and discarded his gloves before reaching for the hem of his uniform.

"You have no idea, fuck, my body, it's just—" Tony kept blabbering. "I've never felt like this, like hnnnnnngh."

The guttural sound Tony made once Steve's shirt came off was enough to make him flush all the way down to his now-exposed chest. Though Steve had aimed to get undressed efficiently and clinically, his stripping appeared to be having an inadvertent side effect—much like Tony's had on him.

Steve carelessly flung the shirt to the side and as soon as he did, there were hands grabbing at his shoulders and a very warm, still very shirtless Tony pressing up against his naked torso.

"Oh my god," Tony said. "Oh my fucking god, we're really doing this, I get to—I really get to touch you."

He sounded awed as he looked down between their shirtless chests, where Steve's bigger torso pressed up against Tony's lithe muscle. And then, Tony's hands were sliding down, and—

Tony squeezed Steve's pecs and Steve bit back a shamefully eager moan.

"Fuck," Tony groaned. He pressed his face against Steve’s neck, panting hot and open-mouthed against the skin. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm, I'm so hard, and you're so—so hot, Jesus, how are you so hot?"

Tony was almost sobbing. His dick pressed against Steve's thigh, indeed hard enough that Steve actually worried Tony was going to come like this.

"Hey, Tony, hey, it’s okay," Steve said, trying to keep his tone soothing. "Let me—let's get you out of that suit, yeah? It looks pretty uncomfortable right now."

Tony's breath shuddered against Steve's neck before he managed a jerky nod. Steve carefully slipped his hands inside Tony's undersuit, still bunched up around his waist, and pulled it down.

"Good—that's good. Ease up a little?" Steve said.

Steve gently loosened Tony's grip on him so he could crouch and help Tony step out of his pants. Tony's cock bobbed hard and red in front of Steve's face and he flushed and quickly sat back on his heels to gauge Tony's situation. 

Tony was already looking at him, trembling like a leaf. He was also naked, and gorgeous and, god, Steve wanted to do so many unspeakable things to him.

So Steve grabbed Tony by the back of his unsteady legs and leaned back, and then they were falling, until Steve's back hit the cold concrete floor and Tony was straddling him.

"What—what just happened.'' Tony blinked, like he hadn't even registered the movement.

"I, uh." Steve swallowed. "Wanted us to get more comfortable."

I've been fantasizing about you on top of me for the last two years, he strategically left out.

"What…oh,'' Tony said, seeming to notice the sight before him: a half-naked Captain America flushed and pliant under him. "Oh, god, Steve, you look…"

Tony didn't finish the sentence, opting instead to grind down against Steve with a filthy moan. Steve bit back any noise of his own, watching as Tony's cock slid hard and slick over his abs.

"You're so hot," Tony said. "Beautiful, sexy, gorgeous, I—mmh, you're so hot, it's not fair."

Tony was panting now, touching Steve all over: palming his abs and biceps, running callused fingers over Steve’s collarbone. Tony's speech was getting more incoherent by the minute, and Steve should probably be more worried about that, about Tony losing whatever wits he still had about him to the drug.

Instead, Steve's cock throbbed in his pants and his heart fluttered happily from Tony's mindless praise.

"You, uh. You too," Steve shot back lamely.

Rather than react to Steve's lackluster compliment, Tony chose to start massaging Steve’s pecs.

“Oh, wow, that—that's, yeah,” Tony said, gently squeezing the muscle and making Steve flush. “Jesus, you’re built like a god. Fuck, they should make…make statues, dedicated to your chest—America's chest.”

Well, that was… Steve wasn't sure how he felt about that idea, but at least Tony was talking more.

“Th….thanks?"

"Mmm," Tony commented, and then pushed his pecs together. 

The simple action made Steve fidget in both embarrassment and arousal. Tony really liked his chest, huh?

“Oh,” Tony made a sound of awe, kneading Steve’s pecs and licking his lips. “Can we—can, can I—”

Tony was already shuffling up, his leaking cock bobbing over Steve's chest and making his intentions known loud and clear.

Oh. Tony really liked Steve's pecs.

"Yeah," Steve heard himself say. "Yes, Tony, god, anything."

He barely got the words out before Tony’s dick slid into the crevice of Steve's pecs, and, oh.

"Shit—fuck, this…" Tony panted. "Christ, Steve, your tits."

Steve swallowed a hot flash of shame and watched Tony set a rhythm thrusting between his pecs. It was filthy, watching the way Tony's cock disappeared between the mounds and then popped up at the top, the head red and leaking.

This was one thing that Steve had never done before, that he never saw the appeal of before now. He’d always thought it’d awkward or at the very least uncomfortable; but Tony was leaking like a faucet, quickly coating the space between his pecs in slick precum and making the slide wet and easy.

“Steve—fuck, Steve,” Tony said, reaching for one of Steve’s hands. “Hold—hold them together, like this, nice and tight, yeah?”

Steve’s ears burned with how red his face must have been. “Like this?”

He grabbed his pecs and squeezed them together around Tony’s cock, just like Tony had done.

And Tony went wild.

“Ah, ahh, oh god,” Tony moaned, sliding his cock between Steve’s pecs with renewed vigor. “Just, just like that, god, that’s a amazing—so, so tight, so good, oh, oh fuck.”

Steve never thought anyone would enjoy this so much. He didn't know he would enjoy this so much, but as he watched Tony’s face go slack with pleasure, felt his slick cock fuck desperately between his pecs, Steve’s neglected erection throbbed in his pants behind Tony’s undulating body. 

It was humiliating, in a way, presenting himself for Tony this way and having Tony shamelessly use him for his own pleasure; but it was a good kind of shame, the kind that made Steve shiver and flush all over.

And then Tony, hands now free to do as he pleased, pinched Steve's nipples and Steve was toast.

“Oh, god,” Tony moaned. “Steve, Steve, your tits—your tits are fucking fantastic. I've always wanted to, to do this to you. You're so sensitive—feels good when I do this, doesn't it?”

Steve moaned and twitched under Tony's hands. Yes, his nipples were sensitive, embarrassingly so, and it had always been a point of insecurity. But Tony didn't seem to mind: his entire being radiated lust, and he was rock hard between Steve's pecs, looking down at Steve like Steve was his entire world—

Tony twisted his nipples hard and that was it. Steve came, a startled yell punching out of him as his hips lifted off the floor and he shot untouched into his combat pants.

Through the blinding pleasure, Steve tried his best to keep his pecs pressed together for Tony, to make it good for him. Dazed from his orgasm, he still kept looking at Tony, at his slick cock and wild eyes.

“Holy shit, you, you came? You came just from your tits, oh, sweetheart, you're so good, so sexy, this is so much better than I ever imagined, I—fuck, Steve—”

Tony came with a loud groan, painting Steve’s chest in messy spurts and landing on his neck and his chin. Steve moaned with him through it even as the finality of the situation started to set in.

This was it. Now it was over, and they only had to wait for the others—

“Fuck,” Tony said. "It's not working."

Steve looked down only to see Tony still hard. Which wasn't unusual for Steve's serum-enhanced body: he could usually go a good three or four times in a row, but…

Tony was only human. Tony was a normal man, at a mature age, and his cock definitely shouldn't stay rock solid after just coming his brains out.

“Why,'' Tony nearly sobbed. “Fuck, I'm so hard it hurts.”

Steve watched Tony's face twist in pain, watched him writhe on top of Steve in clear discomfort, and had a silent battle with himself.

Steve knew he bore full responsibility for the situation. Tony was practically incapacitated, drugged out of his mind, while Steve remained immune and fully conscious of his actions.

It was bad enough that Steve had allowed it to go this far. He should have suggested that Tony settle down and wait for backup to arrive or, worst case scenario, Steve would forcibly carry him out of this place.

But at the same time, Steve wanted. He'd wanted Tony for so very long and now that he had him, however briefly, he didn't know if he was strong enough to resist. Because watching Tony suffer was worse than the pain of any battle wound or asthma attack Steve had ever had to endure. He might not be what Tony wanted, but at this moment, maybe he was what Tony needed.

It was a flimsy excuse, but it made Steve feel a little better when he gripped Tony's thighs and said “fuck me.”

“I did,” Tony whined. “I did, and it was amazing, but I'm still, I need more.”

“No, Tony. Fuck. Me,” Steve said.

Because of the drug, Tony's genius brain was slower than usual to catch up. But when he did, Tony's eyes went wide and he let out a quiet gasp.

“You—you'd let me?" Tony asked breathlessly. "Shit, Steve, are we—you mean you’d really let me…?”

Deciding that actions might get the point across better than words, Steve wordlessly lifted Tony off his lap and shucked off his uniform pants along with his underwear. The reminder of the stickiness in his briefs sent a rush of shame through him, but he gave Tony no such indication.

Without fanfare, Steve turned around on all fours. The concrete floor was still uncomfortable, but better him bear it than Tony.

“Oh god, oh my god,” Tony moaned behind him. 

Callused hands palmed at Steve's ass, spreading his buttocks. Steve didn't know if it was him or Tony that was shaking.

“God, you look so good. So tight."

Tony circled his rim with a finger and Steve jolted, grunting in surprise.

“I cant believe you’d—fuck. Fuck, I’ve wanted this so long, and I wanna make it good for you, but I—I don't have anything, and…”

Yeah, well. Steve knew neither of them had anything to make this easier, but he also knew his body well enough to be sure he'd manage. Besides, Tony was still wet, leaking constantly—it had to be a side effect of the drug—and though it might chafe a little in the beginning, Steve could take it. 

He wanted to take it, for Tony.

“I don't need anything,” Steve said. “Just go for it.”

“Oh, fuck,” Tony moaned, and then he shifted behind Steve, and—

Steve let out a startled yell when he felt a tongue prodding at his hole.

Tony wasted no time, licking at his ass like a man starved, with a loud and filthy moan like this was pleasure for him and not Steve.

Steve bowed his head and tried to suppress his whimpers; he was sensitive all over, and this was no exception. Tony kissed and lapped at his ass, breath ragged and goatee scratching against Steve's perineum, and it felt incredible.

“Oh, oh god,” Tony panted. “Your ass, Steve, I can't—”

Tony made a choked whine and roughly grabbed Steve’s buttcheeks to spread them wide before diving in. He wiggled his tongue into Steve's body, stretching his hole deliciously, and Steve couldn't, how was he supposed to hold on when that was Tony’s tongue inside him—

With a scream, Steve came again, splattering onto the concrete and clenching around Tony's tongue.

Tony worked him through it, licking at him inside and not allowing Steve's clenching body to slow him down. Steve realized that Tony was moaning, a constant sound and vibrations against Steve's clenching rim.

Tony pulled off and was immediately back to running his mouth. “Holy shit, that was hot, so hot, you’re so good, fuck, Steve, I can't… I'm so hard, I, I think I'm actually gonna die if I don’t get to fuck you, please, please let me fuck you.”

Steve glanced over his shoulder. Tony was fisting his own cock; the tip was flushed dark and almost purple, and Tony looked like he was in agony, grimacing while he roughly tugged on his length.

“Put it in,” Steve said. His voice was gruff, like he was giving an order in the field, telling Tony to put on the suit.

And Tony whimpered “thank you, thank you so much” and scrambled to obey, lining himself up with Steve's hole and pushing.

Steve grunted at the pressure against the tense muscle. It was a tight fit, and not an easy ride even with Tony's leaking cock and the spit still clinging to Steve's rim.

But any discomfort Steve might have felt was drowned out by the filthy, unabashed moan Tony let out as soon as the head popped in. His hips immediately stuttered forward, nudging his cock further inside and forcing Steve to take more, feeding his cock into Steve's clenching body.

“Oh fuck, oh, that’s it, you can do it, baby, god, you're taking me so well,” Tony murmured.

And Steve bit his lips to muffle a whine, because it was good—it was perfect. He'd always liked it rough, and like this he could feel everything. But he had to keep his voice down: Tony could never know how much Steve loved being taken like this, how his leader had fantasized about being on his knees and used by Tony.

Tony eventually bottomed out and then he stayed in place, trembling all over. Steve was already back to full hardness, because how could he not be, with Tony around him, inside him, surrounding him everywhere.

“Steve… Steve,” Tony groaned. “You feel amazing, so tight, so fucking tight, and I can't, I want to make it good for you but I can't.”

“Do it,” Steve rasped. “Fuck me. I can take it.”

And that was all it took. Tony pulled out and pushed back in, making Steve gasp and stretching his hole further, forcing his body to adapt. Tony moaned and then did it again, harder this time, setting a punishing pace fucking into Steve's body, the obscene noises of their moans and skin slapping against skin filling the room.

It was better than Steve had ever dreamed. He was so turned on it felt like he was affected by the drug too; shame burned hot on his face but he didn't stop, only braced his arms against the floor and rocked back onto Tony's cock.

Steve came again at some point: not really registering it, other than the pained whimpers Tony made as Steve clenched around his cock. It prompted Tony to grab his hips brutally and pump faster, harder, coaxing Steve's overstimulated body back to arousal.

“You're so good, so amazing, I love you,” Tony said between thrusts. "God, Steve, I love you, you’re perfect.”

Steve flushed and ignored Tony's blabbering: he had to be really out of it to be speaking like that. Though that fact didn't register with Steve’s cock, which was already chubbing back up, half-hard and twitching with the sweet words spilling out of Tony’s mouth.

“God, Tony,” Steve moaned. “Don’t stop.”

“Never, never gonna stop, gonna keep fucking you until I die, you—fuck, Steve, you feel so good,” Tony said.

His cock slammed in and out of Steve’s body, making the concrete crack under Steve’s hands as he dug his fingers into the floor.

And then Tony bowed over him, chest to back. The new angle of thrusts nailed Steve’s prostate and he cried out, loud enough that he’d be embarrassed if it didn’t feel so fucking good.

“Oh, oh, darling,” Tony panted into Steve’s sweaty neck. One of his hands left Steve’s hip, circling around to grab at his cock and making Steve jolt. “One more,” Tony said, tugging on Steve's dick with uncoordinated movements. “Please, sugar, one more. Come on my cock, you clench up so nice, so good for me.”

And Steve was helpless: the words, the assault on his prostate, the hand on his cock, they all blended together into blinding pleasure until he came with another scream.

This time, Tony followed, grabbing Steve’s hips and fucking him hard and deep through the release. Tony spilled into his clenching body, a ragged moan tearing out of his throat while his nails dug into Steve's hips hard enough to break skin.

After it was over, once Tony's thrusts stilled and he slumped over Steve's back, Tony sobbed out one last “thank you” and promptly passed out.

And Steve lied there: sweaty and covered in his own come, with Tony's finally softening dick still inside him and blood pricking at the scratch marks on his hips.

That was when the door slammed open with a crack of thunder and a sob broke free from Steve as he realized what he had just done.

—

The team found them like that: naked and collapsed together in the abandoned room, the evidence of Steve's depravity all over them.

Clint and Thor stopped in the doorway, uncertain how to proceed. Meanwhile, Natasha approached without a word and helped lift Tony's unconscious body away from Steve.

Steve didn't trust himself to speak, so JARVIS took it upon himself to inform the others of Tony's exposure to the unknown substance while Steve shamefully collected the discarded parts of his uniform.

Clint pulled out a mask and volunteered to take a sample of the plant—Steve didn't question why he carried a gas mask in his quiver—while Natasha wrapped Tony in Thor's cape and the god easily carried him out.

Natasha used her override code to get JARVIS to pack up the armor. Because, god, they all had overrides to Tony's tech. Tony had given them codes, because he trusted them with his armor and his life, and Steve had—

"Come on," Natasha said as soon as Steve was dressed. "I can't carry the suit."

Steve nodded stiffly and picked up both his shield and the suitcase-sized cube that the Iron Man armor had morphed into.

–

A strong aphrodisiac.

That was what Bruce, after analyzing the sample, had deduced it to be.

"It's unlike anything I've ever seen," Bruce said. "Like an overdose of Viagra in airborne form. With Tony's medical record, he was lucky to make it out without damage to his heart."

His…his heart? God, Steve could have given Tony a heart attack, with—with what he did.

"So…" Clint broke the heavy silence that had settled over them. "Sex pollen?"

Bruce sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose while Natasha smacked Clint upside the head.

And apart from a few sympathetic looks aimed at Steve, nobody brought up what happened in the Hydra base.

—

Steve couldn't bring himself to face Tony.

Upon waking up, Tony had been discharged from medical after only a few hours. The toxin had already cleared itself from his system and his heart—thank god—was unharmed despite the potent drug. Steve's cuts and scrapes had healed before they'd even made it back to the tower, and despite both him and Tony being okay physically…

Steve would never be able to forgive himself.

Tony had asked for consent. Even drugged out of his mind, he had asked Steve before touching him, before getting himself off on Steve's body, and before taking him.

Meanwhile, Steve had just taken advantage.

He didn't know how much Tony remembered. It didn't change the severity of Steve's action, but for Tony's sake, Steve hoped he didn't remember Steve forcing himself on him. Tony had enough bad memories without Steve added to the mix: he'd suffered too much for one lifetime, he'd trusted Steve, and Steve—

And Steve had betrayed him.

Had betrayed him like Stane and Hammer and the rest of those weasels, shown his true colors as soon as Tony's guard was down.

And so Steve hid like a coward: spending all of his free time in the gym or holed up in his room.

—

It was a week before Steve forced himself into action.

He'd heard from the others that Tony had spent much of the past week at the tower, which was unusual. Normally, he'd travel around to different business meetings around the world or at least be busy with countless obligations in New York. 

Any other week, it would have made Steve's day to know that Tony was here in their shared home, but now it felt oppressive. Like Tony was using his presence to remind Steve that he gave him a home and he could just as easily take it away.

That only cemented the fact that Steve didn't deserve to live in the tower. He didn't deserve to be near Tony, and how the team left him unsupervised was beyond him.

Yet, no matter how guilty Steve felt, he couldn't stop thinking about that day.

The serum had always made his libido difficult to manage and Steve couldn't go many days without bringing himself relief. But now it was somehow even worse; his body demanded attention several times a day, like his dick hadn't gotten the memo that not only was what happened between Steve and Tony a one-time-thing, it was also morally despicable.

It wasn't like the shame was new to Steve: on the contrary, he'd known for years that it was wrong to think about Tony when he masturbated, because Tony was his friend and decidedly did not see Steve that way. But now? Steve had a mental movie reel—curse his eidetic memory!—of himself having sex with Tony to resort to. 

And so every day, Steve pleasured himself to the images and memories of himself sexually assaulting his teammate, and it was disgusting.

But he also came faster and harder than he’d ever done before this. He only had to think about the feeling of Tony inside him and the memory of Tony’s goatee scraping against his neck, about Tony pleading one more, Steve, one more, you tighten up so nice around me when you come.

On the seventh such night in a row, Steve looked down at the sticky mess in his hand and knew that this needed to stop.

Steve grit his teeth and set for the workshop.

—

Despite the late hour Steve found Tony in his workshop, tinkering away. 

It was a familiar sight that instantly made Steve feel more at ease. Steve didn't often come down here, but even he noticed the slight disarray in the workshop: some machines had been moved from their usual spots and cardboard boxes had inexplicably appeared around the place. 

But Tony's head was bobbing with the music and he appeared intently focused on his work, which was a good sign.

…Unless Tony hadn't eaten or slept again and was only doing this as a distraction from the pain and betrayal—

Steve forced himself to knock on the glass wall between them before he chickened out.

Tony looked up and as soon as their eyes met, the fake smile Steve recognized from press conferences and SHIELD debriefs plastered itself onto Tony’s face.

“Steve!” Tony's voice carried through the speakers above the door. “To what do I owe the pleasure of Captain America in my humble workshop?”

Steve resolutely ignored the flash of something the word pleasure caused. “We need to talk.”

Tony’s smile appeared even more forced. “Well, come on in then.”

“I think it's best to keep a wall between us,” Steve said, shame hot and unpleasant in his gut. “I don't trust myself around you.”

Tony's face fell, the fake pleasantries replaced by something cold and unreadable.

“J, close off the floor.” And then Tony seemed to catch himself. “No, I mean—only let Steve out. Don't let anyone else in.”

God, Tony really wanted him gone that badly. Steve would try to make this quick, but he needed to apologize properly.

“I'm sorry,” Steve said, his voice breaking. “I know that probably means nothing, but I am so, so sorry. There's no excuse for what I did to you, and I know I need to leave the team. You have every right to press charges—”

“Woah, woah, what, hold up.” Tony raised his hands. “Is… is this some new branch of reverse psychology? Advanced victim blaming?”

Steve frowned. “No. I mean it.”

“Then why the fuck is Captain America standing here and apologizing for me raping him?”

Steve flinched like he’d just been burned. He didn't want to use that word, had shied away from it like a coward, yet that's exactly what had happened.

Except… Tony had it the wrong way around.

“Tony, I… I think you're confused.” Steve said. “It was the—the other way around. I wasn't affected by the drug.”

“Don't lie to me, Steven,” Tony snarled. “Do you think it's gonna make me feel better if you claim you were sober enough to consent?”

Steve floundered for an explanation. Luckily, he had unexpected backup.

“If I may,” JARVIS interrupted. “Sir, like I've stated previously, Captain Rogers was not compromised by the substance.”

“No, no, that's wrong,” Tony waved off. “Calibration error. We were both hit, and it wore off before we got to medical, so it didn't show up in Bruce's tests.”

“But I wasn't,” Steve said. “Tony, you were the compromised one. I retained full bodily autonomy the entire time. The serum makes me immune—you know that.”

“Yeah, right. So you went face down, ass up just for the hell of it?” Tony snarked.

Steve's face flushed hot but he didn't protest. What was he supposed to say? Yes, Tony, and I very much enjoyed getting railed by you while you were drugged?

“Uh,” Tony said into the silence. “Cap. This is the part where you yell at me and say you're not gay, and that I'm a terrible human being who coerced you and who should be locked away, just so I can never hurt anyone again. God knows I've earned it, with my track record.”

The last part was muttered, like it wasn't meant for Steve to hear.

“Tony.” Steve steeled himself. “I think the drug messed with your memories.”

“Oh, no, I remember everything in very vivid detail,” Tony said ruefully.

“Well, I…” Steve cleared his throat and tried not to think about what he had done with his own memories. “What happened a week ago is that you got exposed to a drug that made you aroused. I was immune, so when we… When you propositioned me and we slept together, that was me taking advantage of your state. You couldn't consent.”

Confusion flashed on Tony's face as his brain worked to piece together the information.

“You're not lying,” Tony said. “You've always been shit at lying, and now…it doesn't look like you are. Are you lying?”

“I'm not,” Steve said. “I wouldn't lie about this.”

“Then why?” Tony frowned. “Your teammate gets hit with a sex drug and starts rubbing up on your, and you…let them fuck you? Do you think that's your Captainly duty or something? That if it’s on your watch, you need to help your team like that, because fuck, Steve, somebody needs to teach you about consent if you'd drop your pants for me, or any of us, and—for fuck's sake, it could have been the Hulk!”

“No!” Steve said. “I wouldn't—I didn't, not—not because of duty. I knew exactly what I was doing and who I was doing it with. I was fully in my right mind. You weren't. Which means this is my responsibility.”

Tony tilted his head comically.

“You…you let me fuck you… because you wanted me to fuck you?”

Steve sighed. “Yes.”

“What the fuck,” Tony said, again as to himself. “What the fuck, Steve, you—you even let me fuck your tits!”

Steve flushed but stayed strong. “Yes.”

“And—and when you came four times, that…that wasn't the drug?”

“That was because I liked it.” Steve's face was beet red. “The…the four times, that's… the serum. It's normal.”

Tony stared. And then stared some more.

“You… liked it?” Tony said. “Jesus, Steve, I was terrible! I just chased my own pleasure like some kind of animal. And, and we did it dry, that can’t have been good for you, oh, god, I'm so sorry—”

“You're wrong.” Steve blurted. “I—my body can take a lot. If it wasn't good for me, if you'd hurt me, I could have easily stopped you.”

“But you didn’t,” Tony said, then frowned. “Why didn’t you, again?”

“I told you; I liked it.” Steve cleared his throat. “I liked it so much that…that, after, I've touched myself to the memory of you on me. Around me. In me.”

Steve kind of felt like curling up and dying after that confession. But, finally, Tony didn't seem upset anymore. If anything, he was starting to look more curious.

“You... What?”

“Daily. Several times a day. It's… a problem,” Steve forced the words out. “I came here because...because it's wrong. I thought it would stop if you yelled at me, if you told me just how disgusting I am for betraying your trust.”

“No, no, god, Steve, no,” Tony said. “That's…extremely flattering, actually. I, uh, I mean. Same. I tried not to think about you when I… yeah. But how was I supposed to resist? You're literally my wet dream come true. I'm a bad, bad man and this is no exception.”

“You're not a bad man, Tony,” Steve said. “I'm glad you—I'm glad you have fond memories of what happened. Maybe it helps to deal with it.”

“So…you liked it.” The ghost of a smile flashed over Tony’s lips. “Even the…well, the parts where I had as much finesse as a fourteen year old Tony who jerked off at his Cap poster.”

“I liked it,” Steve said, resolutely ignoring the fluttering of hope in his chest. “All of it. The only thing I would have changed is… well, that you'd have been there, uh, mentally. Other than that I…I, uh, like it rough.”

“You like it rough,” Tony repeated again. “So I…didn't brutally rape a virgin Captain America?”

“None—neither of those.” Steve cleared his throat. “Not the…you didn't force yourself on me, and, uh. Not a virgin. Not for the past seventy years—the, uh, the army's a good place for…experimenting, especially with a new serum-enhanced body.” Steve blushed. “So, I, ah, I've definitely been with fellas before. And when you said Captain America isn't gay…it's not, well, exactly true.”

Tony's mouth was comically slack until he shook himself out of it. “Okay. Okay. I'm going to open the door,” Tony said. “You can leave anytime, but I physically need to open the door, right now, because I can't just watch you stand there and be all—all bashful and reasonable. So, door, okay?”

Steve nodded and JARVIS took the initiative to slide the door open. 

Tony took a hesitant step forward, and that was the cue Steve needed to stride into the workshop.

“You…” Tony stared at him, only a few feet between them. “You're really not mad at me.”

“No, Tony, never,” Steve said, then frowned. “You sure you're okay? This must be disorienting for you. I'm so sorry for what happened—”

“Nope, nuh-uh, no señor,” Tony said. “You don’t get to be sorry. You liked having sex with me? Well then imagine how I felt, getting to live my favorite sex fantasy of thirty years and have the whole thing ramped up to eleven because of sex pollen.”

Steve flushed. “Oh.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Tony groaned dramatically.

“Oh, god." Tony rubbed his forehead. “How am I supposed to live with the fact that I know just how far down that blush goes? Wait, no, sorry, that's inappropriate—fuck, I cant believe that you wanted to have sex with me. What a lapse in judgment, huh?”

Tony was grinning at him, an attempt at deflecting that made Steve frown.

“I've wanted you for a long time,” Steve said. He didn't realize the gravity of the statement until Tony's eyes went wide. “I—I mean. I thought that was obvious, from the way… from how I acted.”

“I'm dreaming,” Tony said. “Or I'm dead and went to heaven. The drug was poison and I died instantly. What else could this be? I’m just surprised I went to heaven, because, really, that’s the only explanation for why someone like you would ever want me.”

“Is it really that hard to believe?” Steve said. “You're…you're important to me. And I don’t like hearing you put yourself down.”

“You're still not lying,” Tony said, amazed. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, I'm glad we got this whole mess cleaned up. Thanks for being so understanding, that… it means a lot, Cap.”

And, just like that, Tony promptly turned back to his work.

“Oh,” Steve said, disappointed. “That's…that's it?”

“Well, yeah?” Tony glanced at him. “We just established we had an enjoyable tumble in the sheets—concrete?—together, and neither of us has to feel guilty about it. And, that? About two hundred and fifty percent better than I ever anticipated this conversation going. So we're good, right?”

Steve stamped down harder on the hope inside him. 

“Right," Steve said.

Tony tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Unless...?”

Steve swallowed. I'm in love with you, he should say.

“What are the boxes for?” he asked like a coward.

“Oh, those.” Tony chewed on his lip and looked at a half-open box. “Well, I was kind of in the middle of moving out of the tower.”

Steve’s heart felt like it was sinking through the floor below him. “Because of me?”

“Yes—well, no, technically because of myself and how I thought I’d scarred you for life,” Tony said. “I mean, if I really had forced myself on you, I wouldn’t have any right to stay here. To be around you.”

“But…Tony, this is your home.”

“No,” Tony said, his expression firm. “It's all of our home, and if I fucked up, I should be the one to leave.”

Steve was surprised at the determination behind Tony's words. At the same time, he was just glad that he got here in time to stop his plans of leaving.

“But, well, obviously I no longer need to,” Tony said. “Which is amazing, and—and is gonna have a very high risk of making me emotional if I allow myself to think about it, getting to stay here and not having you hate me.” Tony swallowed.

The thought of Tony fearing Steve hating him was somehow even worse than the week Steve had spent thinking Tony never wanted to see him again.

“God, Tony. Never,” Steve said.

“Well, anyway.” Tony cleared his throat. “I was gonna leave you with some of this stuff in case Bruce or the spy kids needed to tinker with something. I was planning to just finish up this project and then be on my merry way, but now I have some bots to unpack and a spare penthouse apartment to gift to Pepper. So, uh. Thanks. For not kicking me out.”

Steve's eyes were misting. Tony would really have picked up his whole life and left his home and his team, his family, because he thought he'd hurt Steve.

“What was the project?” Steve asked, not caring if his voice was a little unsteady.

“Oh, these?” Tony turned around to his workstation. “Just some new tech for the team.”

He grabbed what looked to be some kind of visor. “This is a retractable filter mask,” Tony said. “It slots into a new earpiece and automatically deploys when it detects certain substances.”

Steve nodded, feeling just as awed as he always did when Tony showed off his inventions.

“The other one's an arm strap,” Tony said, pointing at what looked like a simple collar. “It monitors toxins and foreign substances in the blood and sends an alert to JARVIS and the team if someone’s in danger. I'm gonna integrate it with Bruce's lab to automatically synthesize any known antidotes. And it’s recalibrated to account for organic matter and supersoldier serum, but, y’know, maybe don't wear it during one of Thor's mead-drinking contests or you could trigger a false alarm. Because god knows—or maybe they don't, ha—what's in that stuff.”

Steve's heart throbbed with emotion. Tony always looked out for the team, spending days and nights making sure they were safe on the field. How did Tony ever think that the Avengers would kick him out? They needed him; Steve needed him.

But he couldn't say that, could he?

“These are great, Tony,” Steve said, trying to keep the adoration from bleeding into his expression.

“I made them for you,” Tony said, and it felt like Steve had been punched in the gut. “If I was gonna get kicked out, at least I wanted you to be safe. So that nobody could do anything like that to you again, which...yeah, seems kinda like a moot point now.”

The confession had Steve reeling. He could no longer keep the affection from bubbling up and threatening to spill over. 

Tony thought Steve would want him gone, would hate him, and as his last act as an Avenger was to create gadgets that would protect Steve in the future?

“But, hey, they should still prove useful,” Tony said. “And I figured I'd throw in ones for the whole team, too. Since bioweapons might be in our future and—”

“I love you,” Steve blurted out.

“—and I'd really hate for Hydra to get a jump on us again, and.” Tony suddenly paused. “Wait—hold up. What did you just say? Because—because I admit I'm not really known for listening to people, but I could’ve sworn you just said…”

Tony trailed off and Steve swallowed and steeled himself.

“I’m in love with you,” Steve repeated.

Tony blinked. “You really liked that sex, huh? Wow, maybe I should get drugged more often, if it’s enough to actually make people fall in love with me out of the blue. Cupid’s bow, magic dick, what's the difference, right?”

Rejection. Though Steve knew it was coming, it still hurt. And maybe he was digging his own grave, but he needed Tony to know the full truth.

“—I mean, I always wanted a superpower, but come on, how do you brand magic dick in a way that's not a PR nightmare—”

“It wasn't just the sex,” Steve said.

Tony's sentence screeched to a halt.

“I…I've felt this way for a long time,” Steve said. “Way before last week. It wasn’t the sex—even if that, uh, was very nice.”

Steve's face felt too hot. God, he was a mess.

“When I say I want you, I don't mean just your body,” Steve said. “I want—god, Tony, I want all of you. And that's why it was so hard to resist, when you looked at me like you wanted me too.”

“I did,” Tony blurted.

“You…did?” Steve asked.

“What do you mean, you did? Of course I did—do. I do want you.” Then he laughed, somewhat hysterical. “Listen to me, I do, I do, you'd think we were getting married or something.”

Now it was Steve’s turn to be stunned into silence.

“God, this is surreal,” Tony said. “I've literally had my tongue in your ass and now I can barely even say ‘hey, by the way, I like you.’"

Steve flushed but decided not to comment.

“Well, since we're having this heart to heart.” Tony sighed. “And since I don't have control over the shit that leaves my mouth on a good day, much less a drugged-into-extreme-horniness-day, I'm ninety-nine point three percent sure that a week ago I, uh, told you exactly how I feel about you—how I've felt about you for a long time. In very vivid, excruciating detail.”

“I…” Steve swallowed.

You're so good, so amazing, I love you—god, Steve, I love you, his supermemory helpfully provided.

“You wouldn't be the first man to say things he regrets during coitus,” Steve said.

"Well, I'm not claiming I haven't been beating myself up over it for the past week—even if it wasn't my main concern." Tony looked away. "But, I, uh, the things I remember saying? All true. And—and not just about your tight ass—"

Steve made a strangled noise.

"Right, fuck, shit. Inappropriate. Shutting up now," Tony said.

"I, uh." Steve cleared his throat again. "So if you… can… would we… uh."

"Okay, I know I said I'm shutting up," Tony said. "But it would actually really help if at least one of us could string together a coherent sentence. So, I humbly ask that you say what's on your mind, before I end up talking more about my tongue in your ass."

This time, Steve only huffed out a surprised chuckle.

"I was just wondering if I could kiss you," Steve said.

Tony immediately perked up, a grin pulling at his lips. "Oh—oh Cap, Steve, honey pumpkin."

He strode up to Steve, oil-stained hands coming up to rest on Steve's shoulders.

"I completely, one hundred percent understand why you'd feel the need to ask, after—well, after," Tony said. "But let me assure you, that effective immediately, you have my full permission to kiss me whenever you want. Well, maybe not when we're fighting bad guys, because that's gonna leave you open for an attack and we know how I feel about you getting hurt. But any other time, I swear, even in the middle of a board meeting—"

Steve smiled as Tony kept going. But since the genius showed no sign of stopping his rambling, Steve decided to use his newfound kissing rights straight away.

"—And, honestly, fuck anyone who tries to tell me it's inappropriate to make out with you in public. Because, hello, have they hmmgh."

Tony made a surprised noise in the back of his throat when his sentence was interrupted by Steve's mouth on his. But he quickly adapted, wrapping his hands around Steve's neck and returning the kiss with a pleased hum.

And Steve realized that as nice as the sex had been, he'd never actually got to kiss Tony during it. Steve had thought he wasn't allowed, like that would be crossing a line. It would no longer have been just physical, but rather something intimate. Something deliberate.

But now he got to kiss Tony, because this was no longer about just the sex—it had probably never been just about the sex, for either of them. 

Now, there were Tony's soft lips moving against Steve's own, Tony's goatee scratching against Steve's clean shaven chin and a devious tongue barely dipping out to tease at Steve's top lip. And Steve could do nothing but let out a deep, satisfied moan and slant his mouth, melting into the kiss.

"We're doing this?" Tony asked when they pulled apart for air. "The—the kiss kiss hold hands go on dates and yell at Tony for buying strawberries again? Or, well, you're probably not allergic to anything, which is a definite plus, because I can't accidentally kill you with gifts. Unless a giant plushie falls on you, but you're probably strong enough to handle that."

Steve took a moment to reorient himself. His mind was still reeling from the confession and the kiss, but it would figure that Tony's had already moved a lightyear ahead.

"I don't know about the berries and plushies," Steve said, "but I do know I wanna ration you."

"Ration?" Tony was grinning. "Oh my god, that's incredible. Haven't heard that one in—well, ever, and honestly I'm not fluent enough in forties slang to be completely sure it means what I think it does—"

Steve kissed him again, because it both got Tony to stop talking and because kissing Tony was thoroughly enjoyable. And Tony did say he had permission.

"It means I want you to be mine," Steve murmured.

"Well, then, I am very on board with that plan." Tony smirked. "And it just so happens that I'd also be very on board with taking a break from work and moving this to the couch. Maybe put the shop in blackout and be a completely mature adult and make out with my new boyfriend for half an hour."

Steve chuckled and steered them towards the couch. "That's a very specific thing to be on board with."

"What can I say?" Tony winked and pulled Steve down to sit beside him. "I'm a futurist."

Steve smiled and leaned in for another taste of Tony's lips. Unfortunately, he barely had time for a quick peck before Tony was talking again.

"For the record, I'm also on board with absolutely anything that happens on this couch or maybe even against one of these lovely workbenches," Tony said. "I mean, after the tongue in ass action there's really not much to be modest about—"

"You really do love bringing that up."

"Absolute highlight of my life, will never shut up about it." Tony grinned. "But, anyway, I just needed to say, when—when, if, hopefully?—we end up sleeping together again… I'm usually a much, much better lay than what you saw the other week."

Steve laughed. "I thought you did just fine."

"Oh, just you wait." Tony was smirking now, a mischievous look in his eyes. "Wait until you see me with actual brain capacity that's not just 'ooga booga put cock in Steve.' I—well, I'm not gonna be able to repeat the party trick of multiple orgasms, but, I'm gonna make sure you get yours. Not to brag, but I haven't had any complaints in that department before."

Steve smiled and placed a comforting hand on Tony's thigh. "I know you'll be amazing. No strange flowers or questionable Hydra experiments needed."

"Speaking of…" Tony said. "Do you think Bruce still has some of that pollen? Asking for a friend."

"Tony."

"Okay, fine," Tony sighed, his head slumping down on Steve's shoulder. "No performance enhancing sex drugs."

Steve nuzzled closer to murmur in Tony's ear. "I don't need an aphrodisiac to make you come harder than you have in your entire life."

It caused Steve no small amount of pleasure to see Tony flounder and honest to god blush. And then, Steve was taking advantage of Tony's slack mouth to finally kiss him again.

And once Tony collected his wits, callused hands pushing Steve down to lay on the couch while Tony climbed on top of him, Steve only smiled against warm lips and revelled in the pleasant feeling of déjà vu.

Because Steve already knew that this time—and all the other ones that followed—would be even better than the last.

[inkybinkyboink]

i got sick of having a carrd - an updated intro post

under the cut if you'd like to know more about me!

name: bruh idk whatever you want it to be

pronouns: he/him, but if you want you can throw a "they" in there every now and again

age: 21 (billion) years old

location: 🍁⛸️🏒❄️🫎🛷🍻🌈 🌿🚬guess😤😤😤

before you follow!

this is, has been, and will always be a safe space for queer and trans/gnc folk.

multi-fandom blog. what i post changes all the time. i ramble a lot, and please be aware that i might post a lot in one go. if im posting potentially triggering content i do my best to tag it accordingly.

i follow punk ideology and i also post a lot about weed and cannabis. i also use the terms "queer" and "faggot". if that bugs you, please leave and i hope you have a lovely day.

i'm in my 4th year of uni. i'm majoring and honouring in english and theatre :)

please do not interact!

anti-queer, terfs/transmeds, racists, e/d pages, s/h pages, if you're gonna be a dick in any way shape or form, then leave. i respectfully ask that you don't reblog or interact with my posts.

fandoms

batman, breaking bad, the marauders, urinetown, falsettos, chicago, casual megamind stan

*this is not an exhaustive list, this is just the media im currently super into*

likes

theatre, music, knitting, crochet, ecology, writing, poetry, cooking

*again, not an exhaustive list, i like a lot of things :)*

dislikes

loud noises, crowded spaces, fast fashion, close minded folk

okay that's all, i hope you have a good day and remember that you are loved!!!!! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

[transwrongs]

When I talked with my therapist at rehab about what sobriety looked like for me and how I felt I didn't fit in at AA or NA because im a medical cannabis patient he said,

"Whats the first thing they set up at a meeting? The coffee machine. Caffeine is addictive. How do you know the meeting let out? The cloud of cigarette smoke. Nicotine is an addictive drug. Your sobriety is your sobriety. Focus on harm reduction and improving your functioning and less on the black and white fallacy of old school sobriety definitions. You know your intentions with every action you take."

It really stuck with me and made me feel confident in being sober because I know if my intention is to get stoned or not when I take my mmj. It also helped me let go of my black and white thinking or what sober meant for me in my own recovery.

exactly!!! I love that healing for you! thanks for sharing ❤️🫶🏽

[dontfeeltoohot]

Happy birthday!! I loveee your page hole you have the best day! Cheeky little prompt for the ytau: Eddie trying to hold back when tattooing a client who wreaks of weed

Thank you so much ❤️❤️❤️ and I love this 🥺

X X X

The guy comes in and the entire shop starts getting filled with the smell of cannabis. Everyone that works there smokes and enjoys it, Eddie included, but the long haired man’s nose also tends to get itchy when he does. He’ll sneeze dozen or so times, not that he minds

But having to inhale the scent while tattooing someone? That’s a different story. Normally he’d give the guy to their apprentice, but Jake is already working with a client, so Eddie heads up to the front of smiles.

Half an hour later, the tattoo artist is confirming the design is good, then getting him on his chair. The silver lining is that it’s a small piece, just a couple of flowers and an anchor -how original.

As the guy sits and gets comfortable, Eddie grabs an alcohol swab and a fresh plastic shaving razor.

“So what’s the story behind this?” Eddie asks as he cleans the area on the guys arm, then shaves off the hair.

“My brother’s in the navy, wanted to get a little something for him,” he explains, watching.

Eddie sniffles and rubs his nose with his shoulder, gloved hands busy as he wipes the spot down with a paper towel and water before carefully applying the transfer sheet.

“That’s cool, I commend that. Don’t have any siblings but I feel like if I did I’d do the same,” the artist nods, the smell of the weed making his nose twitch.

“Yeah! He’s just graduated from academy, so before he leaves I wanted to get it and show it to him.”

Clenching his jaw to try and get the need to sneeze to back off, Eddie smiles and nods, rubbing his nose against his shoulder again, hair tied up. He pulls the paper back, revealing the design now on his arm.

“Check it out, make sure it looks good and is the right size and everything,” Eddie gestures to the mirror on the wall.

He already has everything out and ready, and it’s not ten seconds before the guy is sitting back down with a big smile.

“It’s perfect.”

Eddie starts, thankful the man isn’t bad with needles. As he outlines everything, the smell of the weed hits him again, and he sniffles, scrunching his nose up slightly. The tickle isn’t backing off, and though he makes it another minute and a half, he finally turns, keeping his arms up and away.

“hnGKt! iiGkTew! hihGNKtt!”

It’s hard to hold back, harder to stifle. The itchy feeling doesn’t go away, and Eddie’s aware it’s going to be a test of his patience to finish the tattoo.

[girl-next-dhore]

Fun fact I use to work in the cannabis industry before I had my baby. Shit went down and I'm not cool with the company anymore but I really did like my job ❤️

[laceyloki]

I’m so mad at myself for only taking (1) actual photo while at the Marijuana Mansion celebrating @oasissuperstore 12 year anniversary! 😭 The set up was 🔥 and all the vendors were incredibly sweet, knowledgeable and ready to help me sample some of their signature items (everything from consumables to more classic flower options.) The Mansion itself has 3 floors with historical pieces & information placed throughout. Supposedly it’s haunted 😳 but didn’t experience anything too ~spooky~ besides the bathroom — where this (1) photo was taken. 🤦🏻 Oasis has quickly become one of my favorite shops! Their slogan is “Relax It’s All Here” which is 100% true. I have been able to find all my favorite brands & grows while getting to try out new incredible offerings (hello I’m looking at you @mirage_gummies ! 🔥) Thankful that I was able to check out such an awesome & fun event — can’t wait for the next 🥳 Tags: #cannabis #420 #oasissuperstore #event #marijuanamansion #denver #colorado #💚 #redlight #ootd #outfit #chubby #mirror #mirrorselfie #red #cherry #cherryred #halloween #instagood #viral #selfie #❤️ #likeforlikes #mjmansion (at MJ Mansion Denver) https://www.instagram.com/p/CkWB1_-riGG/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=