#just all around makes it miserable and hard to function. i looked it up and it may be a focal aware seizure caused by withdrawal

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

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[harrystylesfan2686]

Pieces Part 3

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: the aftermath of the break up has different effects on both, Azriel and Reader.

A/N: yall I'm sick🥲 the updates might be late but I'll try to post as much as possible. Hope you like this one!

Pieces Masterlist

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It's been one month.

One month of Healing.

When azriel left, I told myself that I will not contact him until I'm ready. Doesn't matter how much I'm missing him or wanting him. I will not talk to him until I know I won't take him back the second I see him again.

I gave myself two days. Two days to sulk all I wanted. I spent the whole time crying and feeling miserable about myself. Before Az left at least, I wasn't by myself. At least I saw him once a day.

Now? Nothing.

I am totally alone. His absence hit me Hard. Everything I saw, almost brought me to my knees.

The kitchen where we would make dinner together, laughing and joking with each other that many times ended with us covered in flour and syrup.

The couch where we would sit cuddling and talking until we fell asleep, always waking up with strained muscles.

His office where he would sit on his chair in front of his desk, writing out reports and whatnot while I sit in his armchair reading my book. Just enjoying each others company and occasionally taking breaks to make out on the very deck, and then some.

After those dreadful days though, I called Feyre and Mor and had a very much needed girls night. We took out a wine bottle and I spilled everything to them. My mind was too drunk to think my feelings about Elain might offend Feyre but she genuinely felt sad for me and embarrassed about her sister. The poor girl even apologised to my about Elain's behavior to which I immediately told her it wasn't her fault.

When I told them how lonely it got being alone in a big house like this, they suggested maybe I should get a job or something to keep my mind distracted and promised that they'll visit me often. So I did juat that.

I found a part time job at a local library. I have to admit, I'm really enjoying it. I'm the second assistant to the sweetest lady, Hilda, who owns the shop. I don't do much, just help her in small things like adjusting books on self or helping in shipping books out or in. Layla, the first assistant, handles most of the work around the shop. My job is basically doing what she asks of me. The salary isn't much but I don't care because it's never been about money.

The first week was very hard. Everyday after I came home, the silence felt like a slap on the face, reminding me of everything I lost.

But, slowly, I became comfortable with it. Now it's doesn't hurt me as it did before.

There were many times when I think of Azriel, tears filled my eyes, but I never let them free. I sucked them in and did anything else that didn't made me cry, like taking baths, baking my favorite chocolate brownies, reading in front of the fire place while drinking hot coco or calling my friends to take me shopping.

And as time went. I started to heal. I started to feel good, happier with myself. And without even realizing it, I started to love myself.

-☆-

Azriel

It's been one month.

One month of regretting everything I did to my mate.

I've spent my whole month sulking in this room, crying and regretting everytime I chose Elain over my wife. I haven't slept at all since I came here, just enough to keep me functioning. My appetite is gone. I don't eat unless Rhys come and force feeds me like I'm some baby.

I told Rhysand and Cassian everything the first morning i stayed here. Which earned me a flick to head by Cassian and a very disappointed look from Rhys. Even though they didn't give me any scolding(which I very much deserved), the flick and expression said enough.

Rhys has refrained me of any work, handling it himself or having someone else do it. While I have been sitting around here and hating myself. It seems like even my mind has declared itself an enemy, showing me memories of everytime I dismissed Y/N and hurt her in any way at most random times, cutting a deeper cut in my heart everytime.

"Hey Az, I was thinking if we could go out for dinner tonight? There is this new amazing restaurant I saw while walking near Sidra. I really want to try it." She told me as I put on my coat, ready to go.

"I can't, I have a mission for today. Rhys told me it's important so I can't skip. We'll go some other time. Okay?"

"Ok."

I could hear the excitement in her voice when she asked me and the hurt when I rejected her and promised to go another time. The time never came. She never asked again. And I never noticed.

"Az, are you awake?" She whispers in the dead of night. Both of us sleeping on the bed. My back to her, hoping to fall asleep quickly because I have early training tomorrow.

Cassian is spending time with Nesta more, so Rhys has told me to go to an illyrian camp to check how things are going. I have to wake and go there early to catch them off guard to see what's truly going on.

I can't do that if Y/N doesn't let me sleep.

I didn't answer her that night, hoping if i dont respond, she'll think im asleep and doesnt call me again. She really didnt call me again. I prioritized my sleep over her. Her voice sounded so small. She needed me. And I didn't care.

"So, I saw a really cute baby in garden today and..." I drone out her babbling and try to quickly I can get out of here, I promised Elain to help in her garden today. She'll be disappointed if I show up late.

"Az? You're listening to me right?" She suddenly questions, I clear my throat and answer a small, of course, she nods and takes a deep breath, not saying anything anymore. I sign in relief of the silence.

I put my head in my hands and tug hard on my hair, wanting to feel hurt, hurt the kind that she clearly felt and I didn't care.

I hate myself more and more as memories flash through my mind. I can't even cry at this point. I wished she'd hit me when we fought. Slaped and paunched some sense into me. I don't blame her at all for not talking to me. Gods, I wouldn't even blame her if she left me. I deserve it.

How do I fix this?

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Taglist: @cleverzonkwombatsludge @crazylokonugget @going-through-shit @wallacewillow0773638 @kalulakunundrum @cat-or-kitten

[cutedice]

that one zoro and law one where the reader wakes them up but now its them waking the reader up (revenge or just on accident is up to you)

((Eesh it's been a couple months since that one. It feels like it wasn't too long ago though. Thank you for requesting!!))

When They Wake Their S/O Up

Characters: Zoro, Law Warnings: None, fluff! Part 1: here

Everything is GN!

ZORO

- He didn't mean to wake you up.

- He's all for not getting bothered during his own naptime, so he wasn't about to bother you during yours.

- Speaking of, he finds it rather peaceful to see you sleeping in the yard. The sun on your face, the way you look so content and relaxed. If it wasn't for the fact he was on his way to train he would have joined you.

- Regardless, he makes a note to keep quiet for you.

- Which, he tried really hard to do, but it was quickly in the back of his mind when he heard a voice behind him.

- "Quit starin' at them, you're gonna give them nightmares."

- Instant irritation, he looked over his shoulder, glaring.

- He was known to be quite irritable in two given situations. One, Sanji was in the vicinity, and two, Sanji talked to him.

- They were quickly arguing. Zoro started off quiet, he tried, but they weren't ever the best at keeping contained.

- That was, until a hand landed on both of their heads hard.

- "Will you two keep it down?! You're so loud you woke up (Y/N)!" Nami scolded, shaking her head at the both of them.

- Sanji is quickly apologizing to Nami, but Zoro is quick to look towards you.

- He gives you what could only be describes as his most apologetic look.

- It was his attempt anyway, but it looked more like a glare. Still, he hops down to the yard and walks over as you sit up to stretch.

- "Sorry," he mutters, crouching down and holding out his hand. "If you want some peace... you could come up with me." He made a gesture up to the crow's-nest.

- Once you're both up there, he ditches training for that afternoon to nap with you instead. Its a hard sacrifice, but... he felt like he owed you one.

LAW

- Law's a very busy person. But, he doesn't exactly expect the crew to be at the same standard he holds himself.

- That meaning, when his crew overworks themselves he'll scold them. As hypocritical as that sounds, he'd rather the whole crew be functional and spare a few more hours of his own sleep schedule than everyone be loopy and miserable.

- Which, all of this was why he was fine with members of the crew taking naps when they found some downtime.

- What he wasn't expecting though was to walk into the kitchen and see you face down on the table snoozing away.

- There was a blanket over your shoulders and a sign in front of you that read 'do not disturb'. He shook his head a bit and walked over.

- He didn't know what to do. he wasn't sure it'd be good for your muscles if you kept sleeping like that, but he also didn't want to disturb you and risk waking you up.

- He thought about moving you with his powers, but he couldn't trust that not waking you up either.

- So, now he was just staring at you, turning over ideas in his head. Really, he must've been looking through you because he hadn't realized you began to shift around until your eyes peered up at him.

- a soft confusion left your lips at why he was looking at you so harshly and it caused his face to glow.

- "Ah- I wasn't-" he paused and grumbled. "You shouldn't sleep at the table," he scolded, "you have your own bunk, use it." He turned around, tipping his hat down.

- He was a little embarrassed him thinking of ways to not wake you up ended up being the reason you woke up.

- He was also, admittedly, a little upset he hadn't just taken his opportunity to carry you, especially as he heard your footsteps echo out of the room.

[cosmic--dandelion]

Something I think a lot of people forget about Stolas and Blitzø is how much "Ozzies" changes their dynamic.

Before that, they're a patron and a client. Stolas might indulge in some not strictly sexual damsel-in-distress fantasies, and Blitzø might occasionally match Stolas's absurdly horny energy, and there's s few hints at affection here and there, but at the end of the day, Blitzø wants the book and Stolas wants to be the sub in a bdsm relationship, and that's that.

Their "date" at Ozzies turned their entire affair on its head. Stolas is alone and miserable at his huge empty mansion; Octavia is his only emotional outlet, and Stella's whisked her off somewhere.

He has no friends, no family who actually care about him aside from his daughter, and he's not even close to his servants like he was as a child. Stolas is desperate for any positive social interaction. Then Blitzø calls out of nowhere, asking him on a date. Stolas literally chokes on his Lucky Charms he'd so desperate to get to the phone.

Stolas is in full infatuation mode. This is probably his first real date in his entire life. He was forced into an arranged marriage with a cold, hateful woman and became a father against his will when he was around 19 at most. So he shows up dressed like he's about to be crowned Emperor of the Universe and even bows to Blitzø. Again, just like in "Loo Loo Land," he'd completely oblivious to how obviously unenthusiastic, distracted, and borderline uncomfortable Blitzø is.

Blitzø is legitimately taken aback when Stolas starts trying to make conversation and shows interest in his personal life beyond the carnal. This isn't some sort of machiavellian scheme on Stolas's part. He's being completely sincere. But he's ultimately still projecting his fantasies onto Blitzø instead of actually engaging with him, only this time they're romantic instead of sensual.

Shit goes down, and goes down HARD. Not only does Stolas hide his face in shame when Asmodeus publicly exposes their affair, Blitzø gets it rubbed in *his* face that their "arrangement" destroyed Stolas's reputation and family and is even starting to turn his own daughter against him.

Stolas tries to salvage the evening, but it's way too late.

"Stolas, don't act like what we have is anything but you wanting me to fuck you. You make that very clear all the time. Buf I just can't tonight. I'm sorry."

This is single-handedly one of the best call outs in the entire series, and HOLY SHIT does it hit home. It throws Stolas into a complete tailspin, and he probably came close to drinking himself to death that night. It's what he always does, burying himself headlong into whatever he thinks will bring him temporary happiness until whoever he's dragged along with him practically has to scream in his face.

It's telling that the very first thing he does is scroll through his phone to reassure himself that he and Blitzø have something more, only to see that Blitzø doesn't look happy in any of his photos, and he was deluding himself the whole time. Ouch. A well-deserved ouch, but an ouch nevertheless.

I think this is where Stolas actually starts to develop feelings for Blitzø, or at least realizes he has them.

Before this, their affair was more of a distraction and an outlet for his pent-up sexual frustration. Stolas went from being so emotionally and physically repulsed by his own wife he had to dissociate when Octavia was conceived to jumping right into a hardcore bdsm contract with a near complete stranger. It's incredibly cathartic for him, but not necessarily good for his mental health. It leaves him deeply psychologically dependent on Blitzø but unable to put aside the kinky bedroom stuff for the basic emotional labor and personal growth a serious, long-term relationship needs to function. For now.

Stolas changes after this. Not all at once, but the lesson sank in. It sinks in even further in "Western Energy". We see that Blitzø has been responding to his walls of text with one or two word replies and blows off his rather tepid apologies and attempts to be considerate. He doesn't visit him in the hospital, doesn't text him more than a half-hearted "git bevver swoon :(".

If Stella hadn't called off the hit, his last words would have been: "Blitzø will...[save me]", followed by a knife through the heart.

Stolas treats Blitzø VERY differently in season 2. While he'll still call him "Blitzy" on occasion, it's hard to imagine the Stolas in "Seeing Stars" or "Oops" calling him his "impish little plaything" or pinching his cheek or embarassing him in public. Stolas is trying so hard not to step on Blitzø's boundaries ar this point that it actually seems to annoy Blitzø, who's so convinced that Stolas could never love him that he seems like he'd almost rather things stay as they were. For all his good intentions, Stolas hasn't given Blitzø any reason to trust or forgive him, at least not yet. Bur he's trying, and I think that's important.

In my opinion, whether you have faith in this relationship ultimately depends on if you think people can truly change.

[idesofrevolution]

My Best Friend, the Ghost

It was the best feeling in the world. Picture this: a simple spread of the legs in the summer heat, sweat dripping from your forehead. You feel a cool, slick touch slide down your inner thigh. It feels almost slimy, though it leaves no residue as it inches toward your taint and ever closer to your rear. You gasp as it circles the tight hole, as if an expert were rimming you with their cold, wet tongue. Then, quickly, a gentle thrust. You feel it enter you, slithering slowly, intentionally. It begins to fill you, that frosty ooze spreading all throughout your body. Your breath is laboured, as you begin to contort and expand as it is overtaken, washed and inundated with this foreign substance bubbling beneath your skin. It pushes up your throat, choking you, taking the last of your breath away before it presses at the top palate of your mouth. It would feel almost like drowning, though your sensations only fire endorphin after endorphin of euphoria. Pressure builds as it presses harder and harder, until... pop. The hard palate gives way as it rushes and balloons into your head. Thoughts and stresses fade away, and you're left in a state of total ecstasy as your body begins to move on its own.

Fuckin' amazing, am I right? Well, guess what? I get that incomprehensible experience whenever the hell I want. Perks of living in a haunted apartment! Confused? Let me explain.

I moved to New Orleans a year ago, give or take a couple of months. I graduated college, and after testing out a couple of places that didn't really pan out for me, I landed in the cement swamp in the height of the summer. I'd just left Salt Lake City, so coming from the tepid air of Utah to the brick wall humidity of Louisiana was a lot. Yet, I was determined to make the best of this one. I'd secured a low-level office gig at a non-profit, and rented out a cheap two bedroom just outside the French Quarter. The house was one of those old shotgun-style places. It wasn't well maintained, frankly incomprehensibly so to be up to purpose for a tenant, though I was still paying an arm and a leg.

The first few nights, I didn't sleep super well. It was hot, I was sleeping on a hard air mattress, and the tall ceilings and old wooden floors made every little creak and groan of the house sound like some demonic entity moaning in the darkness just out of sight. At the time, I was resolved to believe such a rational theory. After all, ghosts aren't real. That recent college graduate sensibility: anything can be rationalized. Looking back, I scoff at what I thought I knew compared to what I know now. But that skeptic within me was what I relied on. It got me through my courses, it got me my job, it is what guided me through the insanity of life. So, as more peculiar occurrences began to happen, that is precisely the lens with which I saw the world.

When things started to go missing: my trusty running shoes, a pair of underwear, my gold chain, my laptop, even my keys, it was just me being forgetful. I took my Adderall and just ordered new things. I hunkered down and just focused on my work. When I heard scratching in the walls at night, footsteps down my hallway, quiet breaths echoing in the shadows... I was just sleep deprived, I took my Xanax and zonked myself out. Those dark shadows that crept around the corners just on the edge of my peripherals? Eye floaters, nothing more. Though, after about two weeks of just a miserable living experience, I finally experienced something I couldn't rationalize.

It was after a soul sucking day at the office, having spent all day sifting through piles of meaningless paperwork to the grating click clack of my coworkers silently typing on their keyboards like mindless drones. I'd gone into overtime that day, and after five or six cups of coffee, I can't say I was even remotely physically tired that evening. My mind, of course, was entirely devoid of functionality. Walking through my front door, tossing my keys in the little dish by the door, I collapsed onto my couch and just scrolled through Netflix, looking for nothing in particular. That's when I saw it. I'd turned to grab my vape pen from the side table, and my glance had grazed past the mirror which hung above my mantle. Floating behind me, clear as day in the mirror, was a figure. It was larger than I, big broad shoulders and pecs, tapering down to a narrow waist, flanked on either side by two muscled arms. It's face was chiseled and sharp, brows furrowed, golden eyes narrowed and full lips twisted in a mischievous smirk. It had no legs; rather, its body was condensed into a long whippy tail. Most notably, I would argue, was the... well... rather sizeable phallus which stood erect above it's navel, with two grapefruit sized balls hanging beneath it.

I sat frozen, unable to look away from it sizing me up in the mirror's reflection. All the other things I could make sense of in my head were obliterated at the sight of what was merely inches behind me, and inches above the floor. I finally found the strength to merely exhale, letting a soft billowing cloud of breath out of my mouth. It was the middle of June, and perhaps 91 Fahrenheit outside. It was impossible. Everything about what my eyes were seeing was impossible. As it began to creep toward me, I fully expected to spin around and like every haunted house movie of all time, there would be nothing there. Though as I whipped my head to look behind, no such luck. I was face to face with it. It was grinning as we were nose to nose. Bringing it's cool, ghostly hand to my cheek, it caressed it with the back of its fingers and winked at me.

"Hey there." It's voice boomed like a timpani, yet it's timbre was gravelly and suave. I couldn't help myself. In a primal state of panic, I shrieked a terrified scream. It didn't last long. The spirit seized the opportunity I was entirely unaware I had given it- quickly shoving it's head into my open mouth. The force by which it had taken me was overwhelming, though I suppose with it's sheer size, in retrospect it makes perfect sense. I was flung down into the cushions of the couch, as it pushed itself into me. I grasped at my throat, which was bulging from the thing which was now flooding down my gaping maw. I could hear it laugh from within me as it squeezed itself in, it's massive upper body condensing in on itself and slowly pushing deep into my gut. My stomach ballooned out, stretching as if it were rubber while it's tail whipped aimlessly against my face before it slipped between my lips.

This was the first time I felt the sensation. The euphoria. The cascading waterfall of endorphins as my body was contorting and stretching as the ghost slipped me on like a suit. I could feel it thrusting it's hands into my arms which expanded and stretched to accommodate the spirit's size. I could feel my chest burst through my shirt, with two jiggling pecs now engorged with it's essence. I could feel my thighs and calves swell with thick muscle, and my feet lengthen and explode through my socks. It was as if someone had taken a water hose and filled me like a balloon, and as I felt it's head rising up my throat one last time and slither into my head, I can't say I wasn't in the throws of intense and indescribable bliss. My eyes opened, I was no longer in the driver's seat.

"Ahhh fuck." It's voice boomed out of my mouth as I found my body moving of it's own accord. No, rather moving of his accord. I stood up, feeling my jiggling muscles slowly firm up and tighten as I walked to the mirror. The thing which wore me as a suit was checking itself out! It had my skin, my face, but otherwise I was unrecognizable. I was indeed approaching 6' 4", my jawline was square and chiseled, my arms as large as my head, my feet probably a size 16, and my... appendage? Let's just say he was now an anaconda snaking down my thigh, his hood restored and flanked on either side by an impressive bulbous sac. "Shit, that feels nice." My voice was soft like velvet, but frayed with a coarseness which tickled the mind like sandpaper. It stretched my muscles and cracked my neck and knuckles before finally bothering to introduce itself. "Name's Antoine, nice to meet ya." My hand slinked down to my member giving it a playful tug. "Actually, tonight, your name is Antoine too, baby." He smiled with my pearly white teeth, and it would be an outright lie to deny I was not eager to see what this Antoine would be using me to do that night. We sauntered over to my bedroom, tossing shirts and pants out of my drawers before he found some shorts and a tank top that fit my new musculature whatsoever. I had but only one pair of sandals that he could force my massive feet into, but neither he nor I could care less. As walked to the front door, and stepped out into the humid New Orleans air, he took a deep breath with my borrowed lungs, sighing in satisfaction. "Aight, my man. Let's see what kind of trouble we can get in tonight."

Thus began our mutual understanding. Our partnership. Frankly, our friendship. That night was one filled with club hopping across town, hitting dancefloors right and left, drinking outrageous amounts of liquor, grinding on sexy men with our tongue down their throats... None of which I would have ever experienced on my own. It was an entire world I knew nothing about, nothing I could have ever imagined myself doing, but with Antoine it seemed like second nature. After a night of debauchery and a tryst in some leather daddy's hotel room, he returned near the crack of dawn, collapsing onto my bed in a sweaty, swampy heap. He closed my eyes and almost immediately afterward I reopened them. The sun had risen, and peering at my phone, it was then 9 AM.

For a moment, I sat there and stared at the ceiling. I waited for my body to move on his command, though when it didn't, I whipped my sheets off to see that I had returned mostly to my former stature. I did note that I had grown ever so slightly. Perhaps his presence within me had left some residual effects on my body, a pleasant fact of which I did not mind whatsoever. I sat up, stretching my arms above my head, a wet warm musk wafting from my sweaty pits and steamy feet from the night before. For the first time, I found myself rather enjoying the scent... Where it once used to make me grimace with disgust, it now made me nearly salivate at the slightest tickle on my nose. I peered to the corner of the room, where now even in broad daylight I could see Antoine's spectral self floating above the floorboards, his arms crossed and his bright smile greeting me in the morning light.

We stared at eachother for a mere moment, before I smiled back at him. It didn't take words for us to understand what was to soon come to pass. Frankly, from then on, it was an unspoken pact. An inseparable bond, bound by an awakened hedonism and carnal desire. Starting that morning, our boys night out became a regular occurrence. I'd get home from work, exhausted and tired from a thankless day of grinding in the soulless office, and we would come up with a plan for the evening. He'd take his time slipping into me, knowing full well just how much I enjoyed each breathtaking second of it. In fact, we took a Saturday to go shopping for "night clothes" which would actually fit us when he was inside me.

Antoine was a bit of a casanova, able to make any person he met swoon with a single glance. The parade of men strutting the walk of shame out of my home every morning did not go unnoticed by my neighbors, not that they particularly seemed to care. It was the spirit of New Orleans, live every day like it's your last. That sentiment was instilled in me, along with a new attitude. I began to care less and less about this dead end job which had only gotten more and more unbearable as our relationship grew. My boss began to notice this as well. He noticed that my productivity had slipped, that I'd begun to come into work with more and more tattoos (which were admittedly against company policy), that my musky scent was becoming stronger and more apparent, that I'd become more casual and laid back, that I was trying to force myself into work clothes that were increasingly more and more revealing as my body grew toned and large. This, to him at least, was unacceptable. I don't entirely recall what it was that finally set him off, though I think it may have had something to do with me having my feet up on my desk as I took calls and the delicious pheromones to which my coworkers had taken a liking to. Something to do with my cubicle mate Daniel lapping up the pungent sweat from my socks beneath my desk as I worked. Couldn't say. Either way, it was the last straw for me.

It wasn't much of a loss, as my frequent appearances at the clubs, or rather my appearance altogether, which the bar owners had taken notice of. I had a line of bartending and gogo boy offers to take up in it's stead. Though, it wouldn't be enough to cover the rent on my own. Thus, we hatched a plan. A solution to both our issues: my financial one, and a more permanent solution for Antoine.

It was an average night in the French Quarter, we were behind the bar, and there before us appeared our solution sitting on a stool near the drink well. He was a tourist, a particularly needy and rude one at that. No friends, failing every attempt to snag the attention of our regular hustlers with his more than lacklustre personality. He was perfect. It wasn't difficult to play into his inflated ego, all it took was playing into his cringeworthy advances and unwelcomed touches before he was licking our pits and nipples, ready to head to our place. A lack of a tip was the final nail in the coffin, we were ready. The 'three' of us stumbled back to our apartment, and it took merely five minutes of making out before the drunken asshole had passed out in our bed.

Walking back into the living room, Antoine regurgitated himself out of me. Feeling him exit was always a bittersweet experience, euphoric in sensation but longing in sentiment. He floated in front of me, winking as he compressed himself under the door of our bedroom, slipping in with a quiet pop. Wiping the sweat from my brow, and taking a deep whiff of my dank sneaker like degenerate scent pig I'd become, I popped open a bottle of our nicer tequila to celebrate. As the yellow liquor began to pour into the glass, I heard the delightful sounds of possession begin to loudly bellow out from behind the closed door. A shriek, followed by squeaks and rubbery creaks atop elated moaning and gasping. Taking the two glasses, I meandered over to the couch, kicking my wafting, wet feet up onto the coffee table and grabbing the bong to pack a nice bowl.

The sounds of inflation and gargling, stretching skin and growing muscle were like candy to my ears, as I wondered what Antoine would look like. The guy was less than ideal before, though as a host, the sky was the limit to how gorgeous he was going to be. I lit the bowl, taking a deep drag before blowing an adequate cloud. Antoine's moans got louder and louder, his voice all the more recognizable as it progressed. One more puff from the bong and the sound of that final pop soared through the air. The house was silent apart from the heavy panting quietly emanating from the bedroom.

I sat there for a solid moment. He always was the master of the tease, knowing full well that I awaited his reveal. I could hear his chuckling before I heard the click of the lock on the door. Slowly, I stood up and walked to the bedroom door, pressing my ear against the wood. Nothing. I grabbed ahold of the doorknob with bated breath, slowly turning it and pushing the door open. The lights were on in the bedroom, and there in front of the mirror taking a selfie with his host's phone was my Antoine.

He was better than I ever could have imagined. That lanky, sad excuse for a man was long gone and in his stead stood the dreamiest hunk I'd ever set my eyes on. Our bodies were nearly identical in stature, as over the past several months he'd completely stretched me out to his own measurements. Though, his delicious golden eyes on that gorgeous, masculine face sent me over the edge. He was stacked, he was tall, he was caramel, he was packing down there, and he wafted that buttery, salty musk that made me drool. All he needed to do was to turn to me and wink in his new body and I felt myself harden.

"What's up, baby boy?" He flexed his massive arms, seductively licking his sweaty bicep for me. Let's just say that tequila and that bowl were still there the next day. We were rather preoccupied throughout the dawn, the morning, the afternoon, the evening... Endless hours of carnal pleasures and sensual overload. Simply washing the bedsheets of our intertwined cum imbued into the very threads of the fabric took longer than expected. I imagine you get the picture, so needless to say, such days were and continue to be frequent.

I suppose that brings us to today. As I sit here and write out how we got to this very moment, waiting for an Uber to take us to our honeymoon, I'll go ahead and mention that my former boss just walked by us, feigning pleasantries as if we were old buddies. Asking if now that I had a partner, I was finally ready to knuckle down and come back to work in a 'real job.' I turned to Antoine, he turned to me, and as we found our hands sliding toward eachother's growing bulges, basking in eachother's beguiling musk while my frump of an old boss indignantly watched, I flipped him the bird.

He stomped off, I doubt I'll ever see him again. Why should I need to? I have my man, I have our future, we have all the delicious men of this raunchy city to enjoy... What else can a guy ask for?

[emwritesstuff]

DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 6.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

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notes: Oh boy. Sorry about the long wait! Writing smut really stumps me, so I hope this isn't so bad. The smut is marked by red dividers - MDNI. (warnings: SMUT!!! (full on p in v, slight edging, fingering), mentions of human experimentation, brainwashing, blood, WWII) (5,351 words)

6: ENTHALPY

Rogers tenses as your lips touches his. For a moment you think he’s gonna push you away and start lecturing you.

Then, his hand is at the back of your neck, keeping you in place as his tongue brushes yours and deepening the kiss that you started.

Your heart hammers inside your chest, torn between nerves and exhilaration. He tastes like you imagined he would. Fresh, minty, with something sweet that lingers just like in the way he smells. You don’t allow your mind to register that you had been wondering about it and that you were right, swatting the thought away like a fly.

What you do like thinking about is that Steve seems just as frustrated as you, with his urgent hands, not allowing either of you to breathe.

He doesn’t stop to say anything. You don’t, either. It’s an ungraceful dance you’re doing, fighting with each other’s lips until your back hits a wall and you’re hoisted up, putting your legs around his waist to keep from falling.

You doubt he’d let you though, from the grip he has on your ass cheeks.

But it’s the look in his eyes that has your breath stuttering. You nearly metaphorically hit the mat three times and say fold, from the way he’s looking down at your barely covered body. Like you’re a prey he’s been dying to catch.

And you walked right into it.

Started it, even.

The rhythm changes when he leans in, slowly capturing your lips with his. Steve sighs when your nails scrape the hairs at the back of his neck, then groans when you roll your hips into his. He’s hard. You smirk against his mouth.

You’re having it your way, no matter if he thinks he’s setting the pace.

With shaky but eager fingers, you start to pull his T-shirt up his torso. He has to let go of you to shrug if off, but you stay put, glued to the wall.

Your robe is next to drop to the floor, the loose knot now completely undone by Steve. He uses the opportunity to trace a path from your belly button all the way down to your core, so painfully slow you have to hold back to knocking your head back onto concrete. His fingers are hooked on the sides of your underwear when he pauses, looking into your eyes. “You sure?”

You let out an exasperated breath, grasping his wrist and moving it to the spot you actually need his hand to be. Such a time to be a goody-two-shoes. Both of you make a satisfied noise when his fingers enter your heat.“Don’t forget I started this, Rogers.”

“Drop the attitude or I won’t let you finish.”

There’s a part of you that wants to snap back at him with double the strength. I’ll give you attitude, you extremely hot-sweaty-infuriating-super-soldier. But there’s a bigger part of you with more urgent wants, needs, so you snap your mouth shut instead. Well, until he rubs circles on your clitoris and you let out a loud moan.

He chuckles, and you’re pressed so close to each other that you feel the rumble of it in his chest. Your eyebrows pinch together at how cocky he is, and not at how your stomach flutters at the feeling.

It has to be the way he works you up, circling your nipple with his thumb. He does it like he’s done it a million times. And maybe he has.

But he does it like it has been you, in all of them.

Your mouth feels dry, so you brings his lips to yours again.

You don’t know how this man can know exactly the spots that get your toes curling.

Maybe he’s a mind reader. “You’re dripping.”

Maybe it just has been a while for you. That’s definitely it.

You throw your head back when your cunt flutters, pleasure coiling at your lower stomach. “Oh, god,”

You’re not religious. All you can see when you look up in search of deliverance is Steve Rogers and his halo made of fluorescent light.

The smile that he gives at your noises is an even brighter flash of luminance, and you start wondering if this might be too far to come back from.

It’s no use thinking about it now.

You bite your lip when he pulls his cock out of his pants, not even whining too much when he pulls his fingers out of you. You’re too distracted.

“Cat got your tongue?”

You huff. “Want me to insult you or something?” There’s a pause while he shakes his head, lifting your leg and pressing against you. You balk when you realize it. “You like when I do it!”

“Think you got me all figured out, huh?” He teases your entrance with his tip, making the rest of your bragging die out on your throat. “I just like getting you to shut up.”

His hand comes to rest on the side of your neck, squeezing so lightly you almost don’t feel it. It’s like when he tells you to focus during missions. It works.

You both make unholy noises when Steve enters you. The fill is exquisite, easily the biggest you’ve ever had, and it has you rolling your eyes to the back of your head.

The pace he sets is unforgiving, nearly knocking the wind out of you. You’re almost glad he’s been beating you into shape the past few months.

He’s got his head tucked at the crook of your neck, giving you the perfect opening to make some damage of your own. His movements stutter when you latch your lips to his neck, alternating between kissing and biting the salted, sweat-slicked flesh.

It’s a filthy act.

It makes you giddy with delight, how low you’ve gotten him to stoop. Steve Rogers, the picture of decency. You’ve either corrupted him enough or peeled enough of his layers to reveal that as a side of him. You’re not sure what you like more.

Your other leg is hoisted up, making him go even deeper inside of you. “You look so pretty like this,” He pants. You now have to hold on for dear life as he pumps his cock into you, crossing your ankles at his lower back. You’re looking up at him, eyes glazed and mouth parted in a silent moan. “You were so much trouble, and all I had to do— was fuck you into submission.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, in a desperate attempt for leverage and for fighting back. To show him you’re not submitting in the slightest.

“I hate you.”

“I know, darlin’.”

The feel of him dragging up and down against the walls of your cunt has your brain going foggy. If it was important, you wouldn’t be able to tell where you are. Right now, you don’t even know your name.

“M’gonna cum.” You breathe, hiding on his collarbone. A chill runs down your spine as the words leave you and you realize what you’ve just done. And Steve slows down.

He thrusts so slow you almost tear up.

A cruel move from someone always so benevolent.

“Shhh. ” Steve coos, his warm breath tickling the hairs behind your ear. “You’ll get everything you want. I’ll give it to you.”

Each promise is marked by his cock reaching that sweet spot, and you have ire and bliss swimming inside you, both ready to burst.

You cry out when he removes himself completely, still holding on to you. It’s torture. The overstimulation from your inner conflict and pleasure has you trembling.

He walks over to the elevated fighting rink, lowering you onto the steps and filling you up again. You gasp, your hands finding his shoulders again.

“See?” He says, starting to move faster. “Just keep being a good girl, yeah?”

He kisses your neck when you nod. Maybe only a little submitting, temporarily.

“This doesn’t change anything.” You manage in between breaths. “I’m not gonna start…taking orders…after this.”

“Would never expect that,” Steve chuckles. Another deep thrust. “Shit, I’m close too.”

You let your head fall back now that reprieve is near, your nails raking against his scalp as he takes one of your breasts into his mouth. His movements are erratic now, and neither of you have it in you to talk. Heavy breathing and the contact of skin echoes around the large, subterranean gym.

You’re nearly chanting his name when you come, and nothing but cries of pleasure leave your lips. Your cunt pulses around him, just like the last time, but so, so much better. It tips him over the edge too, and he buries himself in with a grunt. His thoughts must be as fuzzy as yours, with not one question as to where his cum belonged.

Perhaps it’s to prove how much he owns you, in this moment.

He gathers himself quicker than you do. “I— I didn’t think… Are you—?” The red on his cheeks makes you giggle. It’s a sound as foreign to you than it probably is to him.

“Don’t worry about it. I can’t… you know.”

“Yeah. I don’t think I can, either.”

You tilt your head, suddenly curious to know what he means by that. But he’s already tying his pants back on, handing you your robe.

Time to get back into the real world.

“You need to know that I don’t do… casual.”

You turn back to him, now as covered as you can be. One eyebrow raised. “You fall in love after one fuck?”

He winces. Probably at the crude choice of word, but you feel like you need it to be this way right now. “I mean that we won’t be doing this again.”

Ah.

Of course. “No worries here, Cap. First and last time.”

He nods.

So that is that. You both need a shower and personally, you want a good amount of distance. You feel like you’ve left something on this gym, like a weight that was keeping you from moving on. Perhaps it’s just your dignity.

Either way, you’ve probably gotten your fill of Steve Rogers for this and the next decade, and you’re ready to not think about him ever again.

You don’t get it.

You just don’t understand why, in this highly technological building, all of the glasses and cups are stored so high up. Surely Stark could have invented moving cabinets by now. It’s not like you’re the shortest of them, but you’re definitely not tall enough to reach the glass you want. The rest is in the dishwasher and F.R.I.D.A.Y. has warned you twice not to open it.

You just want some coke to go with your popcorn.

The smell of it still fills the kitchen, rich buttery goodness waiting for you along with your paused movie. It’s another slow day today, where most of your housemates are out and about, with granted exit and a very detailed brief of where they’d be (you’re sure Natasha faked hers). You’re not allowed that privilege yet, at least not unchaperoned. And you’re positive Rogers would be the one chosen for the task, so you don’t bother. If you were to just leave, the security system would alert everyone who can stop you right away. And to the Raft you’d go. At least on that, you and the others are on the same boat. As far as you know, only Stark and Rhodes can come and go as they want. Regardless, today the Compound was left empty for you to enjoy and watch whatever you want.

You grunt, reaching as high as you can. You’re at risk of pulling a muscle like this, but it’s less absurd than the fact that this kitchen doesn’t have a single step stool.

You almost scream when a metal hand joins yours inside the cabinet, grabbing the glass you want with ease. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“Hey, Sparky. You wanted this?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” You take the glass from Bucky, holding it against your chest. Don’t even register the nickname as you watch him grab a mug for himself, then pour coffee in it.

“Sure.”

“You move really silently, you know? If I was cardiac I’d be dead.” He chuckles, so quietly you barely hear it. It only has a little humor in it.

“Learned that at the same place you did.” He’s right, you realize.

You stomp around a lot, but when you’re not thinking about it your steps make so little noise you managed to startle a couple people. It’s useful. “Right…”

“I never thanked you for the record player, by the way.”

You turn to him in the middle of pouring your coke, eyebrows scrunched up in feigned confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bucky tuts. “Come on, Sam spilled the beans as I was opening the box. I know you made him go get another one. So thank you.”

Goddammit, Samuel. “Yeah, it just seemed like something you’d miss. Old people and their vynils.” You sigh, and shrug. “That was not me being nice, so no thanks necessary. I felt bad.”

You scowl at him when he rolls his eyes. “Does that work on everyone else?”

“What?”

“The façade.”

You blink. “I— What. Are you doing?”

“Learned that one in therapy.”

It’s all so surreal, you have to shake your head. This has to be longest - and the weirdest - conversation you’ve had with Bucky Barnes in probably ever. “You’re going to therapy?”

He nods. “It’s mandatory. Part of the pardon.”

You blink again. It’s not part of your pardon, that’s for sure. At least for now. You’re not sure why yours and Bucky’s pardons are different, but it seems that way.

“My condolences, then.”

“I know, right?” He snickers, leaning against the counter. “But I’ll take it. I just wanna leave all that shit behind, and get everyone to leave me alone. ”

“Can relate to that.”

You’re considering leaving the kitchen and not asking the question that’s at the tip of your tongue. “Do you ever…think you can’t outrun The Soldat?”

His eyebrows meet at the center of his face. The little lightness he had on his features are gone, and you wish you hadn’t said anything. “Keep goin’.”

You continue despite the sentence being more warning than encouragement. “I mean, you’re doing your deprogramming and everything. But what if people still think you’re—”

“It doesn’t matter what people think.” He says, stiffly, and your fingers tighten around the glass. “It matters that they don’t have a chokehold on me anymore. It matters that I’m not killing anyone else. And I can start over. What about you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, Bucky. At least you know who you were…before. You have a headstart on starting over. Me, I’ve always been this. Sometimes I’m not sure I can be anything beyond that.” You suck in a breath, like you’ve run out of air mid-sentence. “The façade? It might be my actual face.”

His eyes soften a little, looking at you with something between pity and warmth, and then he chuckles. “Shit, you two are exactly the same.”

“Huh?”

Bucky doesn’t offer you an explanation besides sipping on his coffee, too casually for your liking. “Nothin’.”

You frown. All of that, and he’s got nothing to say? “Okay, then.”

“Yep.”

There’s a weird, charged silence after that. It’s the kind you can suffocate in, so you decide that going back to your movie and shelving this conversation as a fever dream is your only option, so you do just that.

Blade Runner is nearly halfway through when Bucky joins you.

He just sits there on the left armchair, not saying anything. It makes you squirm from your spot on the couch.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” You know you shouldn’t ask that, because he also lives here and has the right to sit on any armchair he wants.

“Waitin’ for Steve.”

You groan discreetly. That means he’ll also be here soon, disturbing your peace.

The effort you have to make to focus back on the movie is tremendous. Bucky’s presence is unnerving, and not because he used to be The Soldat. It’s the way he carries himself, the swagger of someone who sees right through people.

You’re lucky Blade Runner is so compelling, even after 30 something years.

The credits are starting to roll when Bucky speaks again. You wonder if he’s going to mention the tear that ran down your cheek during the rain scene.

“What’d you think?”

“About what?”

He leans in, resting his elbows on his knees. “Deckard. Do you think he was a human or a replicant?”

You purse your lips, not quite understanding. “Does it matter?”

“It’s just a question. So?”

Replicants are like any other machine, they’re either a benefit or a hazard.

You think about it for a minute, staring at the names rolling up the screen.

Have you ever retired a human by mistake?

“Are humans and replicants all that different though? Besides all the extra crap the makers put in them?”

“I guess not. Not really,” Bucky flexes his metal fingers.

“So it doesn’t matter. It just matters what they do with it.”

“See? I told you,” Bucky says to someone behind your back.

When you turn to look, Steve Rogers is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He then raises his palms defensively, with a small smile on his lips. “Already convinced.”

You must look like a fish out of water, a betrayed one, because Bucky gives you an apologetic look as he stands. Steve glances at you briefly, like your presence there is an afterthought. You don’t spent too long with your back bent, either, going back to staring at your popcorn.

“Gotta go. Good talk, Sparky.” You can hear Bucky’s soft What? as they both leave, and you almost smile as you imagine the confusion on Roger’s face.

You suppose that, if you were to insert yourself into Blade Runner, you could consider yourself a replicant. Made. Shaped into being, fabricated memories and everything. The movie starts with two options for those: benefit or hazard. It ends with the proof of their complexity.

You’ll have to catch Bucky later and continue that strange conversation. It sparks something in you, that you don’t dare call hope yet; but maybe there’s a chance your own options aren’t that limited, after all. He’s not letting his be.

“Tell me again why this is a good idea?”

“Because you said it uncaps your powers and I need to know how your electrical impulses behaves when that happens.” Bruce Banner is looking down at you, standing on a platform separated by only a wall of thick blindex.

“But. We’re inside.”

“This glass,” He starts, knocking on it. “can keep The Hulk in check, so it should be fine.”

You’re wearing a weird hybrid of a helmet and MRI scanner, looking like a high-tech jellyfish if you counted all the wiring. You shift on your feet, thinking that he puts way too much faith in you. Always has. At the moment you don’t share the sentiment, since no one who didn’t deserve it has faced the full force of your abilities before. You’re not even sure you have.

How far can you go? What happens when you get there?

You’re jittery from the anxiety, wanting to back out, and then you remember that you might have a little ticking clock inside you.

And you need to figure this shit out before the countdown reaches zero.

There’s one way to get rid of the lingering fear; you can almost see Bucky Barnes and his disapproving face, arms crossed. One human and one metal. You tell yourself and Imaginary Bucky it’s necessary. That it’s different circumstances. You have to face the beast in order to defeat it, and it’s how Banner’s test starts.

And blood-black nothingness began to spin, a system of cells interlinked within one stem.

Vernetzt.

Your heart is racing.

Vernetzt.

Change of momentum with change of time. Noether-Theorem.

Hail HYDRA.

Your eyes open again. The anxiety is gone. Everything else is too. You want to chuckle at Bruce’s crooked glasses as he raises his head and gives you a thumbs up, but you can’t bring yourself to.

“Ready?”

Bereit?

You nod.

Bright blue crackles at your fingertips, quickly rising over your palms and swallowing your arms, coating everything in pure, unbridled electricity. It’s probably the most impressive display of power you’ve had in a long while, you could get addicted to the feeling.

The energy oscillates once, and the generator you’re feeding off of dies down. It’s small, to be fair, and not enough if you want to keep going. You focus on the fluorescent lamps above you, watching as they go out one by one and your powers pulse stronger.

Banner is watching the monitors intently, taking notes of whatever he’s seeing up there.

You have to push further.

When the lights go completely out, you consider stopping. But the monitors are still lit up and you can hear the MRI machine on your head whirring, making you doubt if Bruce has even noticed the screens and you are the only light sources in the room.

You try to keep yourself just at the lighting even if you’re not exactly sure how the electrical systems of the building work.

Energy coats your entire body now, and you wonder if you can use it to get the lights back on. With a raised hand you aim, but the blast makes one of the lamps explode. You resort to attacking the concrete instead, a much more sturdy opponent - you manage to make the flow continuous and strong, eyes widening when the concrete cracks a little. The tiniest crack.

You push further.

You don’t see how this time, the screens go out too, all the machines around you also dead.

You only notice you’re bleeding when you taste it.

When you finally stop, the crack is larger. Bruce is yelling at you to stop, banging on the glass.

Hail HYDRA. Noether-Theorem. Change of momentum with change of time. Vernetzt. Vernetzt.

Bruce is running down the stairs as you rapidly mutter the last words.

And blood-black nothingness began to spin, a system of cells interlinked within one stem.

The pain on the side of your head makes your knees buckle, and you’re gasping for air as Bruce reaches you, removing the wires and machines that are still attached to you.

“Jesus, kid. That was terrifying. Impressive, but terrifying.” He turns you on your side, which is smart because you feel like throwing up.

And you would, if this had happened after lunch like it was supposed to.

Is it always going to be like this? Failsafe or not, being defeated by your own power? You’ve always wondered where it came from. If it was born with you or something that was put inside you after. If you’ll learn to wield it or if it’s going to swallow you hole.

“Did—y’ get— anything—”

“Yeah. Think so, a few promising things. Don’t worry, we won’t be repeating this.”

It’s even more comforting that the steady hand he has on your shoulder. You think you could repeat it if necessary. As many times necessary.

Even if right now, you feel like you can’t even lift up your head.

Bruce gets up, saying that he’ll get you some adrenaline and then take you to the medbay.

That’s the last place you want to go to. You’d rather he dump you on the grass outside, under the sun.

It’s strange that the doors are all open like this. Must be the emergency protocol, which must mean you caused a blackout on the entire compound.

Which in turn means the security systems are down.

The idea alone is enough to inject you with adrenaline. You have to muster the last strength you have to get up, then summon some more from god knows where to run. But it’s your lucky day, because you don’t have to stumble far to get to the garage. You don’t think Nat would be too mad if you used her car for a little escapade.

There’s no time to lose. You speed through the open gates, driving like a drunkard until you reach the nearest train station. You’ve seen it on your way to Dr. Steiner’s temporary prison.

You could drive the rest of the way, but you’re feeling responsible.

Just not enough to stop you from taking a train to New York City.

You’re not entirely sure what brought you to this place. You’d been roaming around the city when you stumbled into it, too distracted by the lights, the cars and the people bustling around to keep track of where you were going. A coffee cup on your hands, the authentic one from the street carts. And you thought, why not? And went in. Bought a ticket. That was an hour ago.

Now you’re staring up at a compilation of Word War II films, inside the Brooklyn Museum. At the people that are long gone, made eternal inside the moving pictures. You were raised under the ruins of the losing side of this war, the wrong side, and you didn’t know it most of your life.

Two years ago Bucky Barnes’ name would be on the Missing In Action Memorial. Now his name is erased and there’s an addendum talking about his capture by HYDRA. His years as The Winter Soldier. His rocky journey back to the right side. You wonder how he’d feel about it.

You allow yourself one full minute to look at a photograph of Steve Rogers, the soldier, one of the only ones you’ve seen of him in the actual military garb and not the Captain suit. History seems to prefer the red, white and blue over the tan one.

There’s a crowd in front of the uniforms so you skip that entirely, walking quickly to the exit. You know Captain America’s is a replica, because Rogers currently has the original inside his closet.

One of the last sections inside the exhibition is a small one right after V-day. Of the parties and the reunions. You linger on that one, listening to Orson Welles’ voice on a radio broadcast.

…The men who tilted guns of battleships and stoked them in epic battle will ride the level ferries of bay and river and tank men will drive a powered lawnmower while their fathers watch. The pilot with many missions will do errands for some civilian company.

You can’t help but think of the two veterans back home. How they never actually got that moment. No V-day. No reunion.

You wonder if someone gave Steve Rogers the news that the war has ended.

That the fight is over. That he can go drive a lawnmower and Bucky can do errands for some company. You wonder if they’d go back in time just to experience those moments. Their hard-earned reunions.

Suddenly the air is too thick inside.

You’re startled by the chilly evening air when you step out of the museum. You hadn’t realized it was so late, meaning you should take the train back to Compound if you don’t want a search-and-rescue team at your heel. You might have to walk back, if Natasha has found her car already. Best case scenario.

You decide to extend your freedom a little longer and sit down on the steps, watching the cars go by. Your chest feels heavy and your eyes are misty. You tell yourself it’s because of the cold air and how little prepared you are for it. Should’ve probably stayed in Times Square, with all the pretty lights and creepy guys in costumes. Although you don’t get time to wallow in your self-pity, because the noise of a motorcycle has you looking up.

Steve Rogers drives a very obnoxious Harley-Davidson. Black and chrome and noisy. He never bothers with a helmet, which you think is stupid of him, but today he has one slung over one of the handles.

You know he’s spotted you, because he’s staring right at you; but he just leans on the bike and waits.

Sighing in resignation, you push yourself up the steps and make your way to him. He’s wearing civilian clothes and a leather jacket, and people are beggining to stare anyway.

“How’d you know I was here?”

He nods at the coffee cart down the street. “You used your credit card over there. And then bought a museum ticket.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose in annoyance. Not even 6 months of not being on the run and you’ve already lost your way with it. Steve gives you a foreign, sympathetic smile.

“That’s why I always use cash.”

“So it’s not because you don’t trust credit cards?”

He purses his lips, eyebrows pinched. “Definitely not because of that.” It’s not convincing.

It makes you laugh at little, and he looks away. “We should get back. Put the helmet on,” He says, stiffening his shoulders. It’s an order.

“Yes, Captain.”

“You shouldn’t have left the Compound. You’re lucky you’re not in too much trouble.”

You flick your eyes up at him briefly.“Yes, Captain.”

His gaze hardens under the thick eyelashes. “Being irresponsible right now can cost you your privileges. And your pardon.”

You shrug, staring at the Harley’s chrome exhaust pipe. “I just wanted to see the city. At least once.”

I panicked. I had a bad day. I’m scared that it’s just a matter of time until I get locked up for good and then all I see is four blank walls forever.

As if he could read your mind, he reaches down and takes the helmet, placing it on your head. It makes you look up.

Steve Rogers. Made of marble and gold. The golden light of the old photograph cast a halo around his frame, like a warrior angel, an Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders. The one in front of you is all stone, under the yellow street lights.

Even more weight above him than ever.

“I suppose it’s on me for not keeping an eye on you like I should.”

You frown, fumbling with the straps under your chin. “And coming to get me was your punishment?”

“I was in town.”

“Ah.”

You had wondered, still inside the Museum, what it would be like to know him back then. Back when he was all hope and not all duty. His eyes were gentle, and you could swear you saw a sparkle of that in this Captain that came to drag you back to the Compound.

It’s gone now. Besides, you don’t want to keep looking.

“I’m ready. We can go.” You say, tugging at the secured helmet straps.

Steve removes his jacket, fully revealing his white t-shirt, and you freeze. He puts it around your shoulders and you stop breathing. “S’ getting cold.”

It takes you a little to answer. The jacket is still hung awkwardly around your shoulders, and he’s looking at you as if he expects you to put your arms in it properly.

“I’m fine.” You say. He’s already sat on the motorcycle, and you’re just standing there. You don’t know if you should focus on his bare arms or how the jacket smells more like him than he does. Both options seem pretty terrible. “I’m not cold.”

“You will be on the ride back.” He urges you to move with his chin, raising his eyebrows. “C’mon, Sparky. Don’t make this harder than it should be.”

You roll your eyes, trying to tell yourself you’re only not putting on a bigger fight because the World War II exhibition messed with your head, and not because his jacket feels warm and nice against your skin.

“That’s what she said, Rogers.” You mutter to his broad back.

Under the loud rumble of the Harley’s engine, you can swear he laughs.

[krakensdottir]

Why you can’t just ‘release’ dolphins

In case anyone who follows me was wondering about the captive cetacean stuff, I thought I’d type up a little thing about why they’re so difficult to return to the wild compared to many other animals.

Because animals differ widely in how easily they can be reintroduced to their habitat. It depends on how many life skills they need to learn, whether they have a complex social structure they also need to learn about first, how dangerous their habitat is, and how much they’ve already been accustomed to humans. Wildlife rescuers take in animals as babies and release them as adults on a regular basis, by taking pains to make sure they don’t bond with their caregivers. But this doesn’t work with all species.

Cetaceans are really complicated for two reasons: they’re predators, so they have to be able to hunt, and they’re extremely social, so they have to learn to navigate a pod structure. If they’re interrupted early in their socialization process, they actually fail to develop these skills. It’s why there’s a cutoff point around the age of 3, below which a stranded dolphin cannot be released. Like, legally. It’s not aquariums deciding this, it’s a national policy. A bottlenose dolphin that strands as a calf is not eligible for release, ever. It will not grow up into a wild dolphin at that point. It’s like the reverse of a feral cat.

(There are exceptions to this rule, typically involving less social cetacean species like harbor porpoises. They can be rescued as calves and later released, because the life skills they have to learn are less complicated. But bottlenoses and most other oceanic dolphins, orcas, pilot whales etc., cannot be released alone, and wild pods often don’t accept them. Hence the policy.)

They also bond to humans, like, hard. If a cetacean was captured or rescued as a youngster, or born in human care, it’s pretty much impossible to de-socialize them to humans. Every effort was made to do exactly that with Keiko, the whale who played Willy, and he just would not do it. Teaching him to hunt, trying to get him to interact with wild whales... he played along to some extent, but he wouldn’t take the final step of breaking ties with humans. He kept seeking them out. And since that wasn’t according to plan, he wasn’t allowed to return to human care. Wasn’t an option, it would’ve looked bad. Instead, when he refused to integrate, he was confined to a netted cove, where he died. This is on top of multiple cases of attempted releases, mostly of bottlenose dolphins, that resulted in the animals either starving, stranding, or coming up to humans in the wild and begging them for food and attention. (Including one in the 90s that was conducted by notorious anti-captivity advocate Ric O’Barry. The project failed miserably, one animal was killed in the attempt, but he didn’t learn his lesson and is still on his bullshit today.)

We’ve seen it again and again. Animals trained to go out to sea, who are reluctant to leave their pen and then reluctant to leave the escort boat. Animals that escape sea pens and come back, literally jump right back in as soon as the novelty of freedom wears off. On a few occasions, wild cetaceans have even tamed themselves. That’s how people used to end up with ‘pet’ dolphins back in the day when it wasn’t yet illegal.

Now, there have been successful cetacean releases. All of those cases involved adult animals which had only been captive a short time, usually after being rescued. They re-adjust just fine. But if the animal has adapted to living with humans, it won’t un-learn those behaviors. It is functionally no longer a wild animal. Ironically, considering their presence in captivity is more controversial than any other animal group, cetaceans are among the very hardest to ‘return to the wild’. And part of the reason seems to be that they don’t want to. Contrary to all expectations, they often choose easy meals and safety over freedom. A lot of wild animals will do this, given the chance, but dolphins are really stubborn about it. Releasing a captive cetacean involves convincing it that it WANTS to be free. And sometimes that seems to be the hardest part.

So yeah, we’ve tried it several times. We know what works and what doesn’t. It’s not a hypothetical, we have a very good idea what will happen if we try to release all captive whales and dolphins (most of which, by now, were born in captivity, since Western facilities haven’t captured wild animals in decades). We know that the odds of success are dismal, and animals will almost certainly die in the attempt. Hence the big clash between people who have practical experience with cetaceans, or in-depth knowledge of their care, and animal rights activists (and the public they’ve been misleading for years now). It doesn’t even matter at this point if you think they should be released. That’s not relevant. It doesn’t work, it’s dangerous, and it flies in the face of all welfare concerns. It shouldn’t even still be on the table at this point. I don’t know how many more times we’ll have to watch it go wrong before we accept that.

[nametakensff]

Come Here (S/teddie)

Decided to go off of this idea here and cooked up 3.4k of S/teve and E/ddie fucking 💕

E/ddie decides to tease S/teve with some quick inducing one hot summer day

~~~~~

Content:

M/M, established relationship, both S/teve and E/ddie have the fetish, E/ddie gets off to his own sneezing, manually induced sneezing, mentions of allergy sneezing, mentions of handjobs, dry humping, blowjobs, masturbation, spray, a little tiny mention of mess, sneezing on someone's face, teasing, nose rubbing, nose blowing, some tiiiny sprinkles of foot fetish stuff (my bad), they are both very sweaty lol

CW: nothing especially? E/ddie is playing with S/teve but they're both completely into it, S/teve is very handsy

~~~~~~

NSFW, minors please DNI!

“Stevieee.”

Lying on Eddie’s bed in a spread-eagle position, Steve was pulled out of the depths of his semi-conscious afternoon doze by the insistent neediness of his boyfriend’s voice.

“Yeah?” He called out, rubbing his eyes groggily with the heels of his palms.

“C’mere.”

Steve sighed. Moving was the last thing he wanted to do. They were in peak summertime heat, and the Munson trailer had very little in the way of functional air conditioning. It was fine if he was permitted to lie around like a spoilt house cat, but Eddie was energetic today. Granted, he was always energetic – but this was a lot even for him, given the veritable furnace-like atmosphere they were sweltering in.  He’d only been able to snag this little nap because Eddie had been so preoccupied with some fantasy novel or other, eyes flying over the words in the thick tome without pause. Not much interested in books and even less interested in watching somebody else read one, Steve had slunk away to sweat a man-shaped puddle onto Eddie’s sheets.

“Baaaby boy. I said come heeere.”

Steve’s eyes snapped open again, and he realised he had already started to dose off in those 10 seconds or so of sleepy contemplation. He knew Eddie wouldn’t stop, so with no small amount of effort he pulled himself to his feet and staggered in the direction of the living room.

He looked at Eddie through bleary eyes, an apathetic expression plastered to his face in sharp contrast with the beatific grin his boyfriend wore. They were both shirtless, dressed only in boxers. It was way too fucking hot for much more, and Eddie had only been persuaded to keep his underwear on after Steve insisted on it. He didn’t think Wayne would appreciate a great big ass-shaped sweat stain on his sofa, and Eddie had had to agree, if not reluctantly.

“What is it, Eds?” He mumbled, making his way over to sit on the couch next to the older man. Eddie promptly stopped him with a hand to the chest.

“Nope. No sitting for you.” Eddie smiled up at him.

Steve blinked, taking in the mischievous twinkle in those big brown eyes, and the electricity sparked by their mutual gaze woke him up the rest of the way faster than a shot of espresso. Oh. So it was like that. The boner he’d sustained in his sleep, though it had been flagging in the miserable heat, gave an interested little twitch. He smiled back as Eddie started to play absently with his chest hair, waiting to hear what he had in mind.

“How about you kneel for me, huh? Right here.”

Eddie gestured at the space on the floor between his spread legs. And sure. Steve could do that. He dropped to his knees, maintaining eye contact with his boyfriend as he did so. Eddie’s smile widened, all teeth and eyes crinkled at the corners, evidently very pleased with how easily Steve was willing to play along. He swung one arm over the back of the sofa; Steve watched the slight rippling of lean muscle as he moved.

“Great job, big boy.” Eddie praised him in a lilted, singsong like manner. Steve smirked.

“Thank you. I studied really hard for all my obedience classes.”

Eddie’s smile widened as he reached behind a couch cushion.

“Could have fooled me, Harrington. Always talking back, always sassing me.”

“Just following your example, I guess.” Steve shrugged, a little distracted from the verbal back-and-forth as he focused in on Eddie’s right hand – and more importantly, what he clutched between his forefinger and thumb. He opened his mouth to enquire, but Eddie was quick to interrupt him.

“Shhh, Steve.”

He didn’t offer any explanation, and Steve’s eyebrow raised in scepticism. It was only when Eddie began to move his right hand up to his face, and Steve recognised the small item in his grip, that he found himself genuinely wordless with anticipation. The small clothing tag had become a regular and happy edition to their sex life now that they had become comfortable enough to indulge in their mutual fetish. He had to admit there had been a little more reluctance on his part, but not for lack of desire; he often felt like his body was too tiny and mortal to contain the levels of excitement he experienced being around Eddie on a daily basis, let alone when he was sneezing for his – their – pleasure.

His sweaty cheeks were already flushed by the heat, but they darkened a little all the same. His mouth suddenly felt dry, his stomach full of butterflies. More importantly, his genitals were making themselves very well known, pitching a solid tent in his boxers in seconds. Eddie was looking at him through heavy lidded eyes with an almost predatory expression of hunger. Steve could relate; he loved when Eddie was equally as responsive and pliant for him. Still didn’t stop him from feeling just a little embarrassed at his own uncontrollable eagerness, though.

Eddie flashed him one last grin before slipping the little tag into his right nostril and beginning to tease. He was so sensitive, Steve thought with immense appreciation. The rim of the metalhead’s nostril twitched even before the tool was inserted, as if in lusty preparation for the tickle to come. As Eddie probed himself, both nostrils began to flare in earnest. He was a pro at this, and Steve knew it would only be a matter of seconds before the first sneeze would come trembling out of him. His allergies had been behaving today, likely because they had been sweltering inside with every window firmly shut. It didn’t mean they were completely under control, and they’d both ushered in the morning with gentle, rolling orgasms, courtesy of Eddie’s morning sneezes and both of their hands. By the cringing expression that was beginning to crumple his features as Steve looked up at him through unblinking eyes, his sinuses were as easily irritable as ever.

One final, shuddering inhale later and the metalhead was pitching forward with a ticklish little fit.

“Hh-HH! HDdt’TSsieww!! Ehdt’TChieww!! Hah’ESHH’ieww!! ‘TShhieww!! EhH’NGXtshh!!”

Steve couldn’t help it as he let out a closed-mouth moan, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Eddie had purposely leaned forward more than the natural propulsion of his fit, and so Steve had felt every droplet of the fine aerosol each sneeze pushed out of his boyfriend. He had tilted his head back ever so slightly, letting the sneezes mist his neck and chest. The cool kiss of spray felt even better than usual on his heated skin, and he shivered, breaking out all over in a pleasurable rush of goosebumps.

“Bless you,” He sighed. He wanted to reach out and grab for Eddie, but his boyfriend didn’t even so much as acknowledge that he had spoken to him, slipping the tool right back into his waiting nostril. Steve placed his restless hands on his own thighs, digging his fingernails into the muscular flesh just shy of breaking the skin.

Eddie tickled himself, gasping intermittently as Steve watched him in a dreamy haze, feeling like his bones had been replaced with jelly. He normally only felt this loose post-orgasm, but the combination of sweltering heat, his recent unconsciousness and the unexpectedness of this game left him loopy and soft.

Steve barely had to wait before the next round of sneezes was raining down upon him, the last few so unbearably tickly his boyfriend’s left leg jerked off the ground as they overpowered him.

“hh’NgXt’shieww! HAH’ENGXtch’tsieww!! IGSH’ieww!! Huh’IgKkShieww!! ESHhh’ieww! ‘DDZz’SHieww!!...Ahh, holy fuck, that felt good…”

Eddie sighed, looking about as wiped out as Steve felt. The younger man was happy to see that the metalhead was sporting an impressive erection, pressing up against his boxers and leaking a little through the fabric. His own cock jumped in response, and he swallowed down a sudden deluge of saliva as he drooled at the sight like a fucking dog.

“Fucking bless you, Eddie!” He moaned, fingers flexing as he continued to kneel in front of his sniffling boyfriend.

Eddie didn’t respond this time either, just rubbed at his tickly nose with the palm of his left hand, mashing it around roughly for a couple of moments. The wet clicking sounds the action produced made Steve throb again. He could feel the head of his cock dripping, now.

He jumped at the sudden feeling of Eddie’s heel pressing into his crotch, groaning in equal measures surprise and arousal. It was only for a fleeting moment, a cruel little nudge before Eddie placed his foot back on the ground, thighs spread even wider. Steve tried not to think too hard about how good the pressure had felt, about how much he would have liked to grip Eddie’s ankle and rut back against him. The older man laughed softly at the look of Steve’s wide-eyed incredulity, but then simply returned the tag to his nostril again, barely a pause as he worked on his next fit.

Steve wouldn’t take that shit sitting – or kneeling – down. He pressed forward, torso up against the couch cushions between Eddie’s legs, and gripped each pale thigh firmly before yanking Eddie slightly towards him. Eddie didn’t stop him; he continued to tease himself until his chest swelled with a definitive breath, forced out of him moments later with another attack of spraying, tickly sneezes.

“Hit’TSCH’hieww!! HdT’TScchieww!! EhD’TSchhiew!! ISHhh’ieww!! Hh-! Hah’ISCHHtt!!”

Steve’s eyes closed reflexively, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as those sneezes caught him squarely in the face. He sighed, shuddering slightly with adrenaline. This always felt so, so good. He was moments away from shamelessly fucking the couch where his cock pressed up against the worn cushion.

“Bless you, baby.”

Eddie sighed, a distinctly orgasmic and dramatic sigh, sinking back into the couch and luxuriating in the sensation of his own sneezes. Steve liked to sneeze, couldn’t really help the little fetish-fueled rush it gave him, but he wasn’t one to get off to the sensation itself. That Eddie did, admitted to him that sneezing alone, not even someone else’s, could make him cum – it just about made Steve’s head explode every time he thought about it.

“Thank you, Stevie.”

Steve peered up at his face, took in the way Eddie was watching him from under his dark eyelashes. Eddie was addressing him directly now, acknowledging his blessing. He reached for the metalhead’s cock, figuring if he still wasn’t allowed to touch, his boyfriend would be sure to let him know. And, yeah – immediately his searching hand was being redirected, placed right back on Eddie’s thigh. Steve bit the inside of his cheek and swallowed a low whine, feeling as though he was losing his mind just a little bit – even more so as Eddie reached up to tease his nostril again, barely skimming the rim before another set of irritated sneezes burst out of him.

“Hh’EHhTT’TCHieww!! IGSHhh’IEWw!! Hah’EScHh’IEww!!....IISCHhhhhh!”

That lingering, definitive sneeze was so incredibly desperate, so high pitched as it misted over Steve’s face that the resultant shiver of pleasure that rolled down his spine had his hips thrusting involuntarily against the couch. It had been a pretty wet sneeze, too – Steve reached out with a large hand to wipe away the little dribble of saliva that dampened Eddie’s bottom lip. The intimacy of it made both of them moan.

“God bless you. You’re so sneezy, honey. So hot.”

He was getting bolder, incrementally, with every time that they fucked, but Steve couldn’t help cringing just a little at the sound of those words leaving his mouth – even if the giddy rush of arousal they produced was intoxicating. He could handle the embarrassment, however, as long as his words continued to have the effect on Eddie they had evidently just done. His boyfriend almost whimpered, squirming in his seat, cock rock-hard and begging to be touched. Steve was dying. He wanted his hands on Eddie more than he’d ever wanted anyone else’s hands on him – and he always wanted hands on him.

“Mm, thank you. Tickles so much.”

Steve swore and reached for Eddie’s cock, groaning like a petulant toddler when he was once again denied with a quick slap to the wrist. His hands gripped into the flesh of his boyfriend’s thighs, flexing intermittently in restless irritation.

“Eddie,” Steve groaned, voice strained and gravelly.

Eddie said nothing, but as he made to slip the inducing tool right back into his nose, something in Steve snapped. He yanked Eddie forward with a hand behind his knee, causing the older man to yelp in surprise, before manoeuvring the captured leg between his thighs and pressing his straining cock against the older man’s shin. It wasn’t an ideal body part to hump – a soft thigh, an ass, a crotch were all infinitely preferable. Even the sole of Eddie’s foot, the arch of it, pressing up against his cock…but this would have to do. He was pushing his luck as it was.

He started to buck his hips, wishing he was fucking his boyfriend’s ass, imagining the tight clench of muscles around him. Gripping the sweaty skin behind Eddie’s knee was making the angle a little easier, and he found a rhythm faster than he’d expected to.

“Fucking hell, Stevie!” Eddie giggled, pressing his leg up, hard, squashing Steve’s cock and balls between the limb and his own body. Steve gasped – it felt awful and wonderful all at once, and then the pressure was gone and he was pushing himself forward, chasing the contact as if possessed.

“So sensitive.”

Steve huffed at him.

“Shut up. This all your fault, Munson.” He stared up at Eddie. “Look at what you fucking do to me.”

The look that Eddie gave him as he took in the sight of him, the nakedness of his desperation, was so loaded with emotion – burning desire, fondness, awe – that Steve almost swooned with the resultant rush of blood to his already swollen cock.

“Yeah. All my fault...” Eddie muttered, sounding breathless and ruined. Steve wished their chests were pushed together so he could feel the feverish beating of Eddie’s heart, the rapid in and outs of his laboured breathing.

When Eddie raised the tool back up to his nostril, Steve nearly came on the spot. He managed to hold back, gritting his teeth and choking back a strangled ‘fuckkk!’ He wanted to time it just right, bust a nut inside his boxers right as Eddie was showering him with spray. It was going to be an intense orgasm, judging by the way his entire body was beginning to heat up, so, so hot, sweat prickling on his skin as his universe narrowed down to the throbbing in his cock and the sight of his boyfriend’s twitchy pink nostrils.

Eddie’s face crumpled, tongue pressing against his bottom lip as the sneezes built, tickling himself in earnest. His chest jumped with violent hitching breaths, a single tear of irritation beginning to roll down the side of his face. It was so painfully erotic Steve couldn’t catch his breath – the oncoming orgasm leaving him stupid and operating on animalistic impulse alone. He felt his balls drawing up in preparation, felt the coiling pressure in his belly tightening, ready to explode in a euphoric release.

Eddie gasped – a huge, desperate intake of air that sounded almost pained as he pressed the clothing tag as deep into his nostril as he could. He held it there, frozen for an intoxicating moment, the cresting tickle as monumental as Steve’s approaching orgasm. When he did sneeze, they barrelled out of him, an intense rush of both air and sound, overpowering Steve’s senses and ushering his orgasm in so abruptly he yelled with it.

“HUH-!! HHIIISSHHH’IEww!! HahDT’TScHieww!! ENGXT’TSchieww!! IGSSHh!! Hh! HuH’ISSSH’Ieww!! EhH’NGXT’Tschieww!! DDZ’Zshieww-! Heh!! Hahdt’TSSCH’IEWww!!”

Steve came throughout, twitching helplessly, his face a twisted rictus of ecstasy. The sweet, throbbing pleasure of it pulsed through him, cock spitting cum into his underwear, soaked and sticking to the skin of his boyfriend’s leg. He finished cumming in time to tip forward and press his head against Eddie’s thigh, mouth still frozen in an ‘o’ of pleasure, as Eddie sneezed one last time over the expanse of his back. He groaned as the aerosol rained gently across his spine, thoroughly sneezed on and contented in a way only his fetish could make him.

“Ohh fuckkk…” He muttered after a moment, drooling a little onto the soft, pale skin pressed up against his face. Eddie laughed breathily.

“You’re welcome.” He sniffled, the sound of it ominously thick.

Steve gingerly raised his head, feeling almost drunk in the oppressive heat of the room and the closeness of their bodies. Eddie had covered his nose and mouth with a hand, and Steve knew those last few sneezes had been productive.

“Do you need a tissue, baby? Made a mess?”

Eddie nodded, eyes smiling over the protective cradle of his hand.

“Sure.” Another thick sniffle that had Steve’s cock twitching almost painfully with a pitiful, post-orgasm spasm. “But I think you made a bigger one.”

Steve blushed, sighing and pulling himself up on shaky legs. God, that had felt good. He’d practically painted the inside of his underwear, Eddie was right about that. He smiled a goofy, sated smile at Eddie before making his way over to the bedroom. He considered his messy state for a moment, then simply shrugged before removing his underwear and wiping his cock on the clean parts of the fabric. He sighed in over sensitised pleasure; he was still hard and it felt great to stroke himself. He indulged for a few moments longer before flinging his underwear onto the pile of dirty laundry on the floor and returning to the living room, entirely naked and box of tissues in hand.

Eddie was fumbling his left hand over his crotch, pawing lazily at his straining erection as his right hand remained covering his face. Steve’s cock gave an appreciative twitch at the sight of it. He knew in that moment that he wanted his boyfriend to finish in his mouth. He proffered the box to Eddie, waiting for the older man to reach up and take it before he returned to a kneeling position between his legs. As Eddie pulled back his hand, Steve caught sight of the glistening mess underneath for just a moment, and then the metalhead was scrubbing himself clean and indulging in a long, crackling blow. It ended with an awkwardly loud honk that had the pair of them locking eyes and giggling like stupid kids.

When he was done, Eddie simply let himself melt back into the couch.

“That was fun.” He drawled, eyes closed and head tilted back. Steve’s hand crawled up the inside of his thigh. “Did you like that?”

Steve snorted.

“Did I like that? You drained me dry, dude. That felt so fucking good.”

“Yay.” Eddie offered, the corners of his mouth turning up with a smug little smile.

Steve began to pull Eddie’s underwear down, and the older man cooperated by lifting his ass off the couch.

“Not going to slap my hand away this time?” Steve half-heartedly joked, pupils blown wide at the sight of Eddie’s leaking, solid cock. He was salivating in moments, leaning forward and inhaling the scent of him deeply. The press of sweaty pubic hair against his face as he nestled his nose up against the base of his boyfriend’s cock was familiar and intoxicating. Eddie’s breath hitched in anticipation, and Steve knew his arousal was fueled partially by the promise of a blowjob, but even more so out of the suggestible proximity of his pointed nose against his genitals.

“Go to town, honey. I’m not stopping you.”

Steve smiled, kissed his way up the length of Eddie’s cock before pressing his tongue into the slit of his urethra. Eddie uttered a garbled, broken moan, hips bucking uncontrollably and cock head leaking fluid in response.

“You know,” Steve started after licking his palm and wrapping it around Eddie’s sweaty shaft. “Normal people just ask for blowjobs when they want one without the pretence of sneezing all over their boyfriend.” He took the head of Eddie’s cock into his mouth, licking it a couple of times like a melting popsicle before sucking on it, hard.

“Ohh, Stevie…..my way is so much more – ahh! More fun-!” Eddie choked out, fingers reaching out to wrap themselves in Steve’s floppy hair.

Steve couldn’t disagree in the least, replaying the sights and sounds of his boyfriend’s sneezing in his mind as he sucked him down like he was best damn thing he’d ever tasted.

[kiefbowl]

Do you have some advice for someone starting to date for the first time in their late 20s, completely inexperienced? Is there something you would say to your younger self before you started dating? I don't have any self esteem issues but I'm mostly uninterested in sex and I fear that squaring that into a functional relationship and explaining myself will be near impossible. I'm straight btw.

know what you want out of dating and then don't compromise. it's much better staying single then fucking around and finding out on things you really didn't want in the first place. this doesn't mean have a 180 item list on all the perfect attributes you want out of a partner, but how you want dating, sex, and relationships to function in your life. like, some people would love to date around with interesting people for fun, but remain functionally single. some people want to find their life partner. some people want a serious and monogamous relationship but are comfortable with the fact that it doesn't have to be a "forever" kind of love. what are you trying to gain from dating, what does fulfillment look like to you? You don't want to move in with a guy you only kind of like because you think it's too rude to tell him you were only looking for a fwb situationship 6 months ago and didn't have the heart to tell him. You also don't want to be mooning over a guy who told you straight up he just wanted to have sex a couple times.

if you're uninterested in sex, you have to be candid about that, because that's going to be a deal breaker for a lot of people. Nothing is wrong with either you or them. Your sexual appetite may well and probably will fluctuate throughout your life. It doesn't really matter why you're not that interested now unless it bothers you. But here's the thing about not being honest about this when you're attempting to date: you do not want to put yourself in a situation where you feel compelled to perform sexual favors to maintain a healthy relationship. Do not make yourself miserable in the future because of embarrassment today. There's nothing embarrassing about being an adult living through some low libido, and frankly it's something anyone past the age of, like, 23 should completely understand.

Most important: always ALWAYS prioritize yourself. Yeah yeah, in a deeply committed relationship, you have to compromise and think of your partner sometimes in certain ways...you aren't in a deeply committed relationship, so don't break your back making someone happy when you're not getting what you want out of it in return. If someone is nice but boring, why be bored just because they're nice. If someone is funny but lazy, why work so hard just to have a laugh. If someone is dotting but particular, why live a life you don't want just to have things. You have your own life, your own goals, your own morals, your own beliefs, and the key to happiness in dating, sex, marriage, and relationships is to say no relationship is worth my sense of self. Relationships (of all kinds) should be about your life flourishing, not sacrificing.

And have fun :) if it's shit hit da bricks :)

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Free Day Thursday

(Picks up where Viper left off)

"You know you've got like a whole bucket of cactus paddles down there?"

Jak sauntered back into the throne room from the hidden door and tossed Damas a sealed bag of roasted crickets.

"I should hope it's a full bucket, considering I picked those this morning."

Damas pulled out one of the cooked insects, plucked off the legs, and popped the rest into his mouth.

"You don't eat the legs?"

Jak draped himself over the edge of the throne to snatch a handful of crickets from the bag.

"They get stuck in my teeth," Damas complained, "I save them for my birds."

Daxter snickered. "Even Pecker?"

"If Pecker doesn't like the food, he's free to fly back to Onin," replied the king with an almost mischievous look.

"Oye, you didn't mess with anything in the kitchens, did you? The head cook is...tetchy."

"She's a miserable old cuss and she threw a knife at me," Jak said indignantly.

"She throws knives at everyone. You're lucky it was only a knife."

Around another mouthful of crickets, Jak made an appalled expression. "What else does she throw?!"

Damas grimaced and rubbed his forehead as if remembering an old injury. "Whatever is closest. Pans. Porridge. Whole onions. Cactus paddles with the spines still on."

Daxter started to come closer, but glanced at the dead snake still decorating the dais and thought better of it. "Hey, Jak doesn't need to go to the kitchens to experience that! All he has to do is get distracted while on the Leaper again and he'll have a mouth full of prickly-pear!"

"That wasn't my fault!" Jak protested hotly.

Damas raised a brow. "Oh? I hadn't heard about this one."

Hoping to avoid retelling the story, Jak quickly changed the subject.

"Wait, can you actually eat cactus?" he demanded.

He moved to sit cross-legged directly in front of the throne, and began examining the viper's mouth to get an idea of how to harvest the fangs later. Absentmindedly, he reached a hand back behind him, and was too deep in focus mode to register that this wasn't Daxter or Keira he was non-verbally bumming snacks off of. Nonetheless, Damas made a goodnatured scoff and placed several more crickets in his hand.

"You can eat specific kinds of cactus," Damas clarified. By the emphasis he placed on "specific", it was fairly obvious he was anticipating Jak trying to eat random cacti in town.

"Only the ones with the paddles like you saw, understand?"

"Sure, sure." Jak brushed this off. "But what do you make with them, though?"

Damas inspected the bag of crickets and sealed it back up to ensure that they would have some snacks during the coming meetings. "You use them for just about anything you need a vegetable for, honestly. I tend to grill them with lemon. Some people boil them for salads. Sig's mother is known in the East Quarter for frying it in batter and selling it in little cups."

"Ooh! We still haven't met Sig's ma!" Daxter chirped. He grinned wickedly. "We should ask her about Sig's embarrassing baby stories."

"She has no shortage of them," Damas agreed.

Daxter glanced back at Jak, happily munching crickets, and shuddered.

"On a scale of one to "Jak eats things raw if he can't figure out how to cook them", how hard is it to cook?"

Jak looked insulted. Damas snorted.

"After the afternoon appointments, I'll teach you one of the simpler methods. You won't need much- Jak, don't touch the fangs. We still need the evidence intact."

"I was just looking!" Jak defended.

"With your hands?"

With a gusty sigh, the teenager scooted back to the right of Damas’s seat. He looked a little cross, but it faded soon enough.

"What appointments do you have, anyway?"

Damas stood up to stretch. Precursors knew he wouldn't get a chance in the next few hours.

"Third bell after noon through fifth bell is reserved for Arbitration Court," he said. "Which is why I do not usually call you during those hours. My job as king is to uphold the safety of my people, ensure the continued functioning of the Beacon and the water filtration system, mediate disputes not serious enough for the Arena, and enforce laws agreed upon by myself and my council."

Jak made a face. "That sounds like a lot of being stuck inside."

Dryly, Damas asked, "Why do you think I planted an entire grove of date palms in here? I would have died of boredom years ago if I did not."

He turned to fix both boys with a stern look.

"Out of respect for your fellow Spargans, try not to fidget during Arbitration Court unless you notice something suspicious. After five is a monthly meeting with the northern clifftop farmers to discuss rent payments."

"You rent farmland?"

"They rent from me," corrected Damas. "I didn't clear boulders until my hands bled just to abandon my land when I became king."

Jak blinked. "Fair enough. Man, we should've charged Sandover rent, Dax."

"Pal, they thought we owed them compensation for being allowed to sleep on their porches and eat a bare minimum of their food," Daxter pointed out sourly.

He caught a troubled frown on Damas’s face after the statement.

"Hm. I would like your attention to be on the visitors most during the rent meeting and the council meeting after evening meal. If anyone has a problem with me, specifically, that's likely where they'll turn up."

Jak eyed the snake again. "And if they blow their cover, I get to take 'em out, right?"

"No." Damas narrowed his eyes and pointed at Jak as he sat down again. "I need to determine how far the plot goes. No killing the assassin or accomplices."

"What about after?" Jak pressed.

"I'm the aggrieved party, I'm the one who deals with them," Damas said in mild reproof.

Jak folded his arms. "I dunno, we're feeling pretty aggrieved, right Daxter?"

"Positively outraged," Daxter added, sounding more bored than offended. "More Jak than me, but he's the sensitive type. You know him."

"Yes," Damas said, shaking his head with a small smile, "Yes I do. The answer is still "no", Jak."

Jak huffed and settled more comfortably against the throne. "You never let me do anything fun," he joked.

"I don't, I really don't." Damas reached over to prod the back of Jak's head affectionately.

"I'm a horrible, mean, adult who only lets you risk life and limb four days out of the week instead of every three hours."

"The folks in Haven would think that was the worst kind of tyranny, not being able to make us do all their work for them," Daxter scoffed.

The lift began to rattle, and Damas cleared his throat.

"Well, back to work. Eyes open, my boys. Let us see if we can't catch a would-be assassin. Jak, don't touch the fangs."

"I wasn't!" Jak protested.

Neither of his companions looked convinced.

[thedreadvampy]

I think the thing that worries me about many approaches to mutual aid (and this isn't a criticism OF mutual aid, nor is it a new or unique concern) is yeah, that need for systematisation and, honestly, an amount of alienation that a lot of small communities are currently not super able to create.

like as somebody who grew up in a family shouldering the burden of failure of care. there's stuff you as a family member or friend or community member can and should do to support loved ones, and it's hard and unpleasant work at times but it needs doing.

but then on the other hand there's stuff that can only really effectively be done by someone whose relationship to that person is more distant and care-specific. because the burden of carrying on that close relationship can really get in the way, for both people, of the care work that needs to happen Right Now. and vice versa.

the need for more depersonalised/professionalised care can look like a lot of things. from being someone with a serious injury who doesn't want people they're close to to see them naked and vulnerable, to someone finding their resentment towards a parent make it hard for them to care for them in old age, to people who burn friendships out by being there through someone's violent manic episodes. it looks like adequate personal/professional boundaries with a therapist, so that you know that the session is just about you and not about them. it looks like being able to care for someone who's consistently vile and aggressive towards you because you know that at the end of the day you'll finish your shift and walk away into a space where you can take care of yourself.

like that's what a system where people don't fall through the cracks has to look like - a balance between what we owe each other through loving relationships, and what is best done by someone who isn't personally connected to the person needing care.

professionalised care isn't enough on its own. we all need community and personal relationships - and all of us will sometimes need to grit our teeth and weather some storms and go out of our way to keep that going.

but equally community care isn't enough on its own either. often we end up having to choose between being someone's friend/lover/family and being their carer, because they can be mutually exclusive. often we don't get a choice, because there's nowhere else they're getting that care. but your relationship doesn't come through unharmed and equal if you're regularly having to put your own wellbeing aside to provide in-depth care for someone. it can't. that affects both of you a lot. it affects power dynamics. it builds mutual resentments. it puts you in a position of either burning yourself out or abandoning them, and it puts them in a position of constantly mitigating their needs to keep you.

Like, when we talk about how in a fully functional community, shitty, unpleasant and miserable-to-be-around people can't be left without support, this is part of that. but also it's part of managing the tendency to burn ourselves and each other out and lose love by trying to be all things to all people.

there have to be some sort of distancing structures in place for some kinds of care - both physical and mental. idk what that looks like necessarily - shift rotas, committees, nominated carers without close existing ties, idk - but it can't just sit solely within existing friendships and relationships.

I do think a lot of communities understand this need, but communities working on mutual support and mutual aid often just straight up lack the resource and capacity to NOT be doing this in a close knit group. I don't know how to resolve this. but I've seen enough examples of people throwing themselves into the fire over and over again to the detriment of both the carer and the caree to know that it needs resolving.

[poindexters-labratory]

Could you tell us your thoughts about Evan in your au???

Sure!!

Evan can best be described as the asshole kid brother for the first half of Before the Storm. He is a lot like Michael, being highly argumentative and confrontational during this point in time. Evan is the quiet listener type, doesn't have a lot of friends, and isn't very emotive like his father and brother are.

Him and Michael fight often, but their arguments end quickly. Until 1982, Evan found Michael to be more of an annoyance than anything, and his brother viewed him the same way.

One of my favorite aspects of FNAF lore that I haven't seen a lot of people touch on is that they're located in the United States desert west, which is where I spent some of my childhood. I'll just mention this here because cowboys are Evan's favorite thing.

This AU gives me the opportunity to touch on western US culture and environments. There are Gila monsters, red-tailed hawks, cougars, coyotes, and snakes roaming about the environment. There's desert, mountains, red rocks, winding roads, and broad open sky, it all feels like home to me. Henry is from a ranch-hand family, he was and remains a cowboy. The Afton kids all get a taste for helping out on Henry's family ranch from time to time.

Evan especially likes to work on the ranch. He likes being helpful and especially loves the animals. The kid likes it to the point of spending Wednesdays with Henry to help out with feeding the animals and learning from Henry's patience combined with his hard work ethic.

(Henry is almost a second father to all of William's kids.)

Evan development takes a drastic turn at the age of 11 (1982). William had his horrific springlock accident and during his hours long surgery to get everything off under Henry's guidance, Evan slipped away from Michael, and walked into the OR. He couldn't come anywhere near William without panicking for a few months and animatronics, he never got over.

Over the course of the year, he couldn't sleep through the night and vivid night terrors would wake him up (he's always had them, but these went on for months and months). Michael didn't help much with his constant pranks. His dad tried to help when he could, but was either occupied with work or retraining his body to function.

William didn't break any bones in his accident (thankfully), but it was a lot of nerve and tissue damage. His vocal cords were damaged in the accident, so he didn't sound like himself much, and Evan wasn't a fan. He was also suffering intense nightmares and psychological trauma from the accident.

The only one who could take care of Evan during this time was Michael. Evan didn't have any friends to go to, Henry was always busy as his father was (combined with William's healing physical and mental health), his older brother was the only other viable option. And it sucked ass.

William did another one of his antics in placing copies of Fredbear stuffed animals around Hurricane on Evan's routes to and from different locations to make sure he was okay and because he knew how Michael would be.

Michael had better things to do, 1982-83 being his senior year, with his friends leaving for college, studying because he wanted to leave, be a stupid teenager, and do everything for his last year of high school that wasn't looking after his crybaby kid brother. So, there was payback in making Evan as miserable as possible.

But then it went too far.

Evan Afton Fun Facts!!

His birthday is April 24, 1971

Also, not William's biological son (William and Claire had a mutual agreement to keep their relationship open to make it easier for them, then later got divorced when Claire really wanted to go back home)

The scars on his face, arm, and leg is result of really terrible road burn he got when he was younger. Henry has dogs, and not just dogs, but herding dogs. These dogs are really good with their commands. Evan was holding the leashes for two of the dogs and Henry called them, causing little Evan to be dragged across road. Henry apologized a lot. He still apologizes.

Evan has Tourette's because I said so

His favorite game is "Freak Dad Out", which includes dramatic theatrics both at home and in public (he's only gotten in trouble once and it because he broke one of William's rabbit figurines)

He has a staring problem

Nicknames: Sweets (William-given), Worm (Michael-given), Grizzly (Lizzie-given)

Favorite animatronic: he's never liked them enough to have one

[safarigirlsp]

🌭🍔🥑 for the fic asks! Love ya!!

This was such a fun couple days thanks to you @babbushka ! We need to keep this up! It’s beyond wonderful to have you back! 💗💗💗

🍔What's a headcanon that hasn't made it into a published fic yet?

Ok this is the most fun question! We should just have a weird and random HC day lol!

Flip loves vintage advertising. Those old sporting calendars you used to see in hardware stores and sporting goods stores that have nostalgic paintings or action scenes from the old west with cowboys and gunfighters and hunters and mountain men. They're his primary decor in his cabin. Walking through that heavy wooden door, you could just as well be stepping back one hundred years, especially since it's far enough from town that no lights shine at night and there are no sounds other than those made by the forest and wildlife.

Flip loves dive bars. He can take you out dancing or wine and dine you somewhere swanky, and he does often. But there's something about the gritty familiarity of a dive bar - the neon lights, the bad taxidermy, the sticky floor, the smell of greasy food, whiskey, and smoke, Johnny Cash playing on the jukebox - that really gets him riled up and hot under the collar.

Friday nights after he gets off, he asks you to meet up with him and the guys for some greasy food and a beer. Work weighs heavily on his shoulders and he takes it seriously. His usual approach to stress is to sweat it out with a vigorous workout. Weights, running, or punching a heavy bag are best. A vigorous fuck works too. He tries to get his heart racing with one method in the morning and the other in the evening. But he takes Friday nights to unwind in more traditional ways, out someplace with friends and his girl. In a dive bar, he can be boisterous and crude, laugh loud and tell raunchy jokes with Ron, make you sit on his thigh and shamelessly grab your ass, kiss your neck and growl absolute filth in your ear. For his money, it beats the hell out of going someplace he actually has to behave and act civilized.

Challenging you to a game of pool is a favorite go-to. He usually throws the game just to watch you gloat. And more importantly, to watch you bend over the pool table and stretch out prettily to make a shot. It makes his blood run hot, makes him hard in his jeans, when he looks down your shirt or eyes your ass like a dirty old man. He loves that you're all his to eye all he wants. You know this, of course, and naturally play it up a little extra for his enjoyment. When you draw attention from other men in the bar, you know that too, but it's just so much fun to see Flip puff out his chest a little and glare at your fan club. Once or maybe twice according to Flip's count, this has culminated in a bar fight with you icing his bruised knuckles and kissing his bloody lip late into the night. But you should see the other guys. According to a more accurate and unbiased count - yours - this happens almost annually. It's a nice treat to look forward to once a year or so. And the fireworks he gives you afterwards are a helluva lot better than the Fourth of July.

🌭Do you have any writing rituals to help 'get in the zone'?

I really like watching movies with the vibes I’m going for while I’m writing or having them play in the background. I've currently exhausted my Victorian watchlist while I've been working on my current fic. I also like to read similar things too but that's obviously more time consuming. I recently discovered a fun series you might like with campy Victorian antics by Evie Dunmore.

When I'm a little stuck or need to picture something better, something physical helps my brain function a little. Lifting weights works for me and although I truly hate cardio, it helps to get my thoughts churning. Probably because I'm so bored and miserable, but I'll take what I can get xD.

Then there's always good ol' maladaptive daydreaming.

Omg all the edits that have been coming around the last couple years have really helped keep me rabid. Especially during these content dry spells when there's no new movies on the horizon to look forward to.

I love making aestheics/moodboards for myself and I have a ton that have never seen the light of day because they're just for me or to scratch an itch. It's extra fun because it satisfies both an artsy urge and helps stay in the zone for fics. But sometimes they also derail me with a new idea and I deviate to write a fic for the moodboard xD

These are some of my favorites that don't go with a posted fic. I may have a problem!

This is my recent desktop backgrounds:

🥑What are you currently working on?

I have one big fic that I'm currently focused on. Which is really the biggest challenge for me, just staying focused on any one thing OMG. But I'm right at the finish line for this one, then I have to chose which idea to focus primarily on next. I'm trying really hard to get some bigger projects done just because they have a chance of potentially being serious writing. And frankly because the engagement is down here, but if that changes, I'm more than happy to change with it and get rabid again. Even these HCs today are such a fun little burst of creativity!

Wargrave Hall

Victorian haunted house and occult story with romance of course. I have about 1/3 of this posted now publicly but its gotten too big to update my fic post now, which really pisses me off actually xD. I'm very near the end and it's just under 100k now, so it will probably finish somewhere around 110K and then I'll post it all. I'm having a lot of fun with it and it's much better than I thought it'd be when I started it. In my humble, biased opinion anyway.

Annees Folles

Roaring Twenties adventure story with a love triangle and plenty of romance and treasure hunting. This is hovering around 150k now and has never been published, although I've sent it to my friends here who have shown interest. I'd be happy to send it to anyone who's consistently supported my insanity. It's definitely my favorite thing I've written so far and has everything I love. After I finish the Victorian fic, my goal is to get this one finished too so I have two big quality fics in the bank, then start a new project. I'm probably 7/10 done with this one, so it will be a big one when completed.

I might be obsessed with the aesthetic...

[breannasfluff]

Too Little, Too Late - P2

Whump Rating: 5/5 Part 2 of 3, with an eventual happy ending! Comfort tomorrow! TW: MCD, head injury, blood, injury, impaled

“Hyrule! Over here! We need help!” Four waves across the battlefield and Hyrule changes direction. Only, it’s not just Four. Or, there’s more than one Four. There’s four of them and—oh. Of course, the name makes sense now.

“Please, you have to help Vio!” Red’s face is a mess of tears and the other three crouch around someone on the ground.

“I’m out of magic,” Hyrule says, already dropping next to the others. “What happened?”

“One of the monsters hit him in the head,” Green says. “But like, hard. Really hard.”

Hyrule hums and carefully runs his hands through Vio’s hair, feeling his head. When his fingers reach the back of his head, he freezes.

“What? What is it?” Red shakes his arm slightly, panic sending his voice high. “Is he going to be okay?”

The traveler takes a slow breath before turning to him. “There’s swelling under the skin. Blood pooling under his skin, probably, but it will press on his brain.”

Blue hisses, eyes darting from Vio to Hyrule. “Can you fix it?”

Slowly, miserably, Hyrule shakes his head. “Even with my magic, I don’t���I don’t think I could do anything. I’m—I’m so sorry.” All he’s done today is fail his brothers. Why can’t it be him in their place? Any of these heroes is worth more than him.

“No, no, no!” Green is shaking Vio, which certainly won’t help head trauma. “Wake up! You have to wake up! We—we can merge!”

“That’s right, we’ll merge! Maybe—maybe it won’t be so bad.” Blue grabs for his sword and Red nudges another into Vio’s hand.

Green digs in a bag and thrusts a potion at Hyrule. “Here, to restore your magic.”

“I don’t—” Hyrule takes it, hands tightening on the glass. The liquid inside sparkles. “Even with this, I don’t think it will be enough to fix a head.”

“We have to try.” With a final glance at the others, Green closes his eyes and does—something. The multiple Fours slide into each other and combine into one with a multicolor tunic.

Hyrule carefully feels his head again. The swelling is still there. Is it less? Can he try with the magic? Or should he save it in case someone else is injured?

His question is answered when Four opens his eyes. “Told you it would work,” he says with a weak grin.

The traveler yanks him into a hug, then gentles his touch when the smith grunts. “You need to be careful of your head.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a royal headache. I can function, though, let’s go check on the others.”

There’s a roar and arcs of energy slice across the battlefield. Time has transformed with one of his masks. The towering figure has full-face markings to match the partial ones he normally bears. Blank eyes glow as he yells, swinging a double helix sword.

Hyrule and Four pause, watching. Not-Time is limping, so he’s still injured. The traveler turns to Four. “Go find Legend or Wind; make sure they are okay. I’ll see if I can get to Time.”

Four pauses, hand to his head, then nods slowly.

“You okay?” Was the head injury getting worse? He’s reaching for the smith when his hand is batted away.

“Peachy. Just the headache. Go get Time.”

Hyrule watches him go with a frown, then turns back to the fight. Not-Time has cleared the monsters in the immediate area, so Hyrule picks his way around bodies to reach him.

“Time!”

The person turns to look at him, face morphing into a snarl. “I’ll wipe the world of your scum!”

“It’s me! Hyrule! The traveler! I’m your friend!”

“I have no friends. My only purpose is to purge the world through battle. I am the Fierce Deity and I do not suffer weakness.”

Hyrule starts backing up as the other advances. “No! I just want to help heal your leg! I can help, I promise!”

“Help?” It comes out a sneer. “Like you helped the other heroes? When you let them die?”

“No! I tried to help! I—I did!”

Fierce Deity paces closer; a predator closing in on his prey. “You did not help. You watched as they died. You care only about yourself.”

“That’s not true!”

The deity raises the giant sword, swinging it toward Hyrule. “Is that so?”

The traveler’s sword is in his hand before he remembers pulling it. He pauses, looking at it with a frown. This isn’t right. He can’t fight Time! Even if it’s not…Time. “You need to take that mask off!”

Fierce tilts his head and sneers. “I think not.” He surges forward, sword raised.

“No!” Wind shoves Hyrule to the side, raising his own sword.

“Sailor! Get out of here!” His voice is shrill as he pushes forward, trying to draw the deity’s attention away from Wind.

The deity slashes at Wind and the sword—the great double helix sword—bites deep into Wind’s side. The sailor falls with a choked scream.

Seconds later, Hyrule’s sword sinks through the deity’s heart. It screams; deep and unsettling as it rolls across the battlefield, before falling to its knees.

Hyrule ignores him to rush to Wind. He’s got magic now! Healing pulses at his fingertips and he shoves it into the sailor’s side. Knitting up the arteries, trying to stop the internal bleeding. Drawing away the infection and dirt.

Wind wheezes and whimpers.

“It’s okay, I can heal this.” And for the first time that day, Hyrule can.

“I’m scared.”

He glances at Wind. He’s just a kid. Barely a teen. Baby fat still rounds out his cheeks and his hair holds the messiness of childhood. Like this, hurt, and still, he’s so much smaller than normal. Wind rounds out his size with personality; filling the space around him.

With a soft smile, he squeezes Wind’s hand. “It’s okay to be scared. But I’m going to make you better.”

The assurances don’t seem to help. “I miss Aryll. And Grandma.” Wind sniffs then sobs as tears run down his cheeks. “I want to go home. I want to go home!”

“You will—I promise!” Hyrule focuses harder on the wound. The magic wasn’t enough to restore him and he’s running low. There are still so many veins pumping blood. Why isn’t this stopping? How deep did the sword cut?

Bind an artery here, pull out the infection there, and stitch the muscle back together. Ah, an organ, that’s going to be a tough one.

“I want to go home! I hate this journey; I don’t want to be a hero. I just want to go home!”

Hyrule’s eyes are misting and he swipes at them angrily. He’s got to concentrate.

“I wanna go h-home, Rulie. P-please.”

“I just need a little more time.” But there is no more time. With a final spark, the magic runs dry. Wind’s body continues to pump blood from arteries he hasn’t closed. Hyrule uses a spare dagger to rip at his tunic, pulling off strips to ball and press to Wind’s stomach. This isn’t ideal; the fabric is stained with blood already. He’s out of bandages though after Wolfie.

It's not enough, blood is soaking through the fabric. The damaged organ is sending shock signals to the brain and the sailor moans, thrashing.

Hyrule leans across him, trying to keep him still. “Hey, you can’t move, I just—” Just what?

Wind’s voice shakes when he says, “You promised! I…I wanna go home…”

The traveler did promise. He’s promised so many times today that the words have no meaning. He can’t save a single one of them. Still, he presses fabric to the wound, hoping against hope that this time, this time, it will be enough.

The sailor is so young; so fragile. Sunny and full of energy; always insisting he can help. That he’s as much of a hero as the others.

Blood soaks through the cloth, staining already red fingers. No matter how long he scrubs, he’s never going to remove the stain. Hyrule pulls Wind into his chest, counting out the breaths until they stop puffing against his neck.

Numb, he lowers the sailor to the ground. The makeshift bandage is stained with so much red he can’t see the original tunic color. It falls to the ground, wet. That’s Wind’s blood, soaking cloth. He stares at the grass, taking in nothing, before he finally turns back to the deity.

Fierce is gone. Instead, Time is slumped on the ground, Hyrule’s sword still through his heart. Next to him, a charred mask holds the deity’s face.

[emwritesstuff]

DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 1.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

AO3 | Masterlist | Playlist (coming soon!)

notes: starting off a steve x reader/oc that I had lying around for a long time to cleanse our palates. (warnings: mentions of human experimentation, violence, cursing, stressed!steve rogers) (2.5K words)

1: THE CATALYST

In The Adventure of the Dying Detective, sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote: “I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity into a non-conductor.”

Well here’s how she feels, Doyle: exhausted – drained, if we’re getting scientific – and with a massive migraine. Sometimes nosebleeds, too. That’s how you feel whenever you use your abilities. It’s never a good time, and lately it’s been getting worse.

That’s why you’re back in this godforsaken place. Not exactly back. You’ve never been here; this specific facility was basically only an archive of sorts, and when you were still HYDRA you were confined to labs and larger, safer bases.

This place is really under everyone’s nose. It sits under a parking building in Detroit, right at the corner of a busy avenue. It’s a smart choice of location, because amidst the bustle of people coming and going for their cars, nobody looked at you twice as you went in, dropped into a maintenance hatch and ambled around until you found the heavy vaulted door you were looking for.

You’re positive there’s some information about you and the experiment you were a part – the shining star, truly – of, in here. When HYDRA fell and all of its secrets were leaked to the internet, you weren’t very worried about backing up your own records. You just wanted to live.

When you’ve spent most of your life being trained and turned into a human weapon, only ever seeing the real-world during the few missions you’ve gone on, places like McDonald’s and department stores become a whole new world of wonders once you get to experience them.

But now you needed them. Soon after the fall, however, most of the data was erased by hackers that were still affiliated with the organization. Lucky you.

However, every good terrorist knows to keep physical copies for safekeeping. And if the manila files stamped with your name were anywhere, they had to be here. Or in at least 3 other places just like this one, but you had already checked the first couple of them, and the other was blown to shit by Tony Stark and his little avenging friends.

They were really very good at that – blowing things up and causing havoc everywhere they went. Aliens, HYDRA, murderous crazed robots – whatever the enemy might be, something was sure to be exploding. And in the end, they’re still revered as heroes. Must be fun.

Anyway. Back to the files.

There’s immensurable amount of them, and they were meticulously organized, thank god, but you still decide you’d go through each one just in case.

You’re not in Assets. Also not in Agents. Or Work in progress.

Either way, it has to be here somewhere. Just maybe misplaced. Or concealed.

This place is basically your last hope, before you’re obligated to hunt down the hackers you know of and squeeze the information out of them instead. One of them has to have kept a copy somewhere, but these people were hard to find, and you are starting to feel like you’re running out of time.

The migraines and nosebleeds are getting more frequent, lasting longer, and hurting more. Not to mention the amount of times you lost control and fried every electronic on the vicinity. You could walk into a hospital, but that would probably mean getting dragged to the Raft as soon as the American government took notice of your existence.

And you seriously doubt any regular doctor would know how to deal with… whatever is going on with you.

You don’t miss your former life at all – but at least the scientists and doctors in HYDRA kept you somewhat stable. You survived this far, so someone is to blame.

It must be the adrenaline, but right now you feel great. No spots, no headache. Bouncing on your heels, bobbing your head to the music on your earbuds, while you rummage through an ocean of paper. The archive has been long abandoned, a thick layer of dust covering every surface you hadn’t touched. It’s dead quiet, too, and you start thinking you might spend the night.

It’s been a while since you’ve rested your head in a quiet place, where you didn’t have to look over your shoulder every two minutes. Yeah, that’d be fucking nice.

You’ve been on the run for god knows how long. In fact, you do know – it’s been a little over a couple of years since the public downfall of HYDRA, and everyone you used to know was either arrested, dead, or had gone underground like the rats they were.

You like to distance yourself from your former peers, mostly because if you knew they were all a bunch of Nazis – or if anyone had told you they were actually the bad guys – you probably would have found a way out sooner. Imagine your surprise, finally being free to live in the real world and finding out that everything you’ve been taught was fabricated. Still, authorities weren’t about to make that distinction so, like a HYDRA rat, you also went off the grid.

It’s safe to say you don’t really trust people these days.

You hate it, having to live in hiding. You’re not really very good at it, to be honest. It’s hard being coy, and you wear your heart on your sleeve; your face betrays you when your lack of skill for lying doesn’t. Half-truths and misdirection are the only things keeping your anonymity intact lately, and it works as long as you lower social interaction down to almost zero.

Having to decide whoever looks like they would ask the least amount of questions is exhausting. So is dodging those questions. Dodging bullets is easier. You’d backflip your way out of a full cartridge before facing a 10-minute conversation with someone.

You huff in frustration. The dust that now swirls in the air makes your eyes dry and your nose itch, you’ve already been through what’s probably a good fifty files and still, you found nothing. Not even a mention to your name or your identification number.

You scratch their faint marks on your forearm absentmindedly.

It should be here.

You’re starting to get a little offended, even.

“Can’t find what you’re looking for?”

A male voice coming from the door gets you to stand in alarm. Its owner is tall and wears a navy tactical suit, and you can make out his striking blue eyes even in the dim light of the room. He’s carrying a shield, painted in red, white and blue.

You stare at Captain America, and he stares back. He’s blocking the door you entered from. From your earlier survey you know there’s a possible exit to your left, but you doubt you can get there before that oversized dinner plate of his slices you in half.

“Who are you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Cap.”

He scowls at you and you give him a smile, a crooked thing that makes you look a little crazy. “Are you HYDRA? Nat— Yes. We got company.”

So, he came with a team. Cute. Just like the comics.

“Used to be, technically. I’m done with that life.”

He cocks his head. His gaze pierces through you like laser sight.

Now there’s someone you don’t want to be trapped in a conversation with.

“So why are you here?”

You sigh. Too many questions, not enough fucking off to wherever sunny green fields he lives with his superhero friends in.

“I must’ve left my library card in here somewhere. You’d think no one would care that much about Tolstoy, but they do.” 

“Do you really think this is the time for jokes, agent?”

You watch him as he tightens his hand around his shield, and moves his feet towards you a few inches. “Ah ah – I wouldn’t do that.”

He takes another step, and you narrow your eyes.

“I don’t feel like fighting today, so. Don’t.”

“Aren’t you done with the life? You shouldn’t be considering me your enemy.”

“Do you rehearse those lines or what?”

Cap clenches his jaw. It brings you a strange kind of satisfaction to annoy him. A small victory, knowing you can get to him like that.

Yet you still feel like you’re a gazelle being hounded by a lion.

There’s still a considerable distance between you, but you know he’s strong and fast, stronger and faster than you, especially when you haven’t trained properly in so long.

And Captain America hates HYDRA. He wouldn’t hesitate in kicking your ass.

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight. Come with me, and share your intel.” He puts his shield down, and you furrow your eyebrows.

He’s wrong. It always ends in a fight. That’s just how the world works.

“You might even get a lighter sentence.”

Of course. That’s what this was about: you giving them everything you know and then getting locked up. As a treat.

“I’ll pass. I do value my freedom, I’m sure you’ll understand. Considering.”

Gesturing vaguely to his outfit, you dip down to continue rummaging through the next box of files, even finding one with the 2006-7 New Year’s Eve Party planning, but nothing about your program. Priorities.

“I can’t let you walk out of this. I’m sure you’ll understand, considering.”

You snicker.

So much for having a good day with no headache.

On the wall to your left there’s an outlet. You put your hand over it, and the electric current floats towards your palm as if it was liquid. The lights start to flicker.

“What—” You hear Captain America stammer, and you chuckle. So blissfully ignorant.

He has no idea of the freak of nature you are. Well, not really of nature. You’re more of a synthetic made kind of freak.

More energy flows into you, and the room goes dark. You rise to your feet and watch electricity crackle around your fingers, illuminating your face with a blue glow. You don’t see the Captain anymore, but you do see the glint of the shield as it’s being lifted up.

You’re sure he sees you, but he’s probably too stunned trying to process what you just did.

“Apologies in advance.”

When you extend your arms in front of you, palms aiming to the spot where you think he might be, you can’t see much.

After power flashes out of you, everything is clearer. The bolts light up the space between you and him, much narrower than you calculated, and you have to adjust your position so you can hit him.

He gurgles and shakes like a fish out of water once it reaches him, blinding blue and white encasing his body like a cocoon. He drops to the ground.

It feels like hot water in your veins until it’s burning.

It hurts, it hurts like a bitch, and as Captain America is convulsing on the floor your groans turn to wails. You haven’t done this in a while, and you forgot how much pain there is when the fuel starts running out.

You stop after a few seconds, dropping your hands at your sides, and stumble into a metal shelf when your balance falters. You could never stand using your powers for very long. But this time you don’t have to. Cap is immobile on the floor, only his eyelids twitching. Maybe you went a little hard on him.

You’d feel more sorry if he didn’t want to arrest you.

At least he’s alive. That’s something.

You taste something ferulic and wet when you lick your lips. Nosebleed.

One. Two. Three.

Your heat starts throbbing, and suddenly even the dim light is too much on your eyes.

There’s the migraine.

You were almost returning to your search when you hear the faint voices coming from his intercom. Cap? Rogers, over. Steve, you there? Over.

Rogers groans, starting to stir up. You had to get out of there, and fast, before the rest of his friends came to the rescue.

Fuck it, you could always come back another time. Or even go after those hackers already, because you doubted this place would be up for much longer, now that the Avengers knew of its existence.

You wipe your nose on the sleeve of your hoodie, grab your backpack and slip through the left exit, leaving America there to deal with his own future headache.

It took a while for Steve Rogers to recover his senses. He gained control of his eyes first, finding himself staring at a humidity stained ceiling. His extremities were tingling, and his insides felt like soup.

The burning sensation on the surface of his skin subsides after a while. His heart is racing, and he can’t really remember the last time that happened. Or why. Right now, it’s because he just got attacked by a human defibrillator.

Steve? What’s going on, Cap? Over.

He needs a minute to realize the voices are in his earpiece, and not hallucinations in his head.

I’m starting to worry, Rogers. Over.

He groans, rolling over. “M’ here. Over.”

Steve hoists himself up, thinking the girl must’ve fried his pain receptors, because his toenails hurt. And his earlobes, and his right leg. He shakes his head as if his ears have water in them.

She’s gone. For a second, he even doubts she was there at all, but there are footprints on the dusty floor, leading all the way to a door on his right.

Who—?

“Damn, you look rough.”

“What the hell happened?”

Natasha Romanoff and Bucky Barnes show up through the same hallway he had come from earlier.

“I—I got electrocuted, I think.”

“You think?!”

Steve picks up the shield, panting.

“There was a— girl. She’s some kind of enhanced. Can’t have gone far. I’ll explain later.”

His body regains its normal functions as he’s trudging through empty corridors, Bucky and Nat at his heels. He still feels a little frazzled, but it could be worse, and he’s thankful it was him and his serum-improved body at the receiving end of the lightning.

It could be so much worse.

As it turns out, the girl is nowhere to be found, not a trace to be followed even after the trio splits up to cover more ground. Bucky insists Steve needs to be checked at the med bay ASAP. Natasha assures him that they’ll clear out the facility afterwards, even if she’s convinced none of the paper files have anything of relevance anymore.

The girl seemed to be looking for something in there, though, and Steve remembers reading frustration and dread on her wide, doe-like eyes.

She didn’t even look like someone who could be an agent, though due to the too-large hoodie she wore there wasn’t much to analyze anyway. That gets him intrigued.

Steve has a hard time letting go of things. Especially open-ended things. He spent nearly two weeks obsessing over the ending of Blade Runner, because he needed a goddamned definitive answer.

He needs to know, like he needed to know if Deckard was human or replicant.

He’ll find her.

You can’t shake the feeling that you’ll be seeing him and his team again. Maybe they’ll hunt you down, since there was a big demand for ex-HYDRA people they could fill jailcells with.

Whisking away along a maze of corridors and endless doors, you manage to find a second vaulted door. You leave the whole facility undetected, hopping out a window and disappearing in a back alley.

Maybe you are a rat.

[stoportotouch]

thinking about The Difference Between Le Vesconte, Hodgson, And Little (but not irving, because i genuinely cannot get a read on his emotional state. or rather i can but there's a lot of other stuff going on for him that kind of overshadows all of this.) because Reasons.

and really i think little is basically massively, almost painfully, hyperempathetic. which is often the crux of the problem because my god everybody around him is miserable and he not only mirrors that back very strongly but he gets really upset himself. and the worst we see it from him is when goodsir ends up having to autopsy irving, which... i am the complete opposite of this. but i still genuinely found that scene hard to watch because matthew mcnulty REALLY does it well.

hodgson i think has a lot of affective empathy but basically no ability to look at another person and go "they are in This Mood." so he spends a lot of time feeling absolutely shitty and completely unspooled but not really knowing why. which often makes him come across as kind of a dick without his meaning to. also he very often ends up just feeling baselessly sniffly and sad without any reason that he can put a name to.

and i will preface what i am saying about le vesconte by saying that this is also my experience with empathy. (i am autistic, as is probably made clear by my ability to do all this and seemingly not get tired of myself. i also have basically none of either of the Empathies)... but he doesn't really have either.

aaaaand in fairness with the expedition if he guesses "sad and damp" he has a fair chance of being right about what somebody else is feeling. but at the same time he's approximately at the level of "looking through a dictionary to discover that the emotion somebody else is feeling is called 'sadness'".

which doesn't mean that he's deliberately going to be a dick and in certain circumstances it's advantageous. he's basically the only person who is holding fitzjames together after sir john dies. since, you know, fitzjames is in no state to function and little is probably not meaning to make it worse but he still isn't helping. (because he's essentially mirroring back "EVERYTHING SUCKS NOW" to fitzjames, which doesn't help.)

and irving... is scared of his own emotions. idk.