#lookit his perfect face

[bri-does-art]

did you see my fanart of your slugsun? luv the boi, thought he needs more appreciation

I HAVE!!! I'm so sorry I couldn't react to it sooner, I've been way too busy this past week, and I wanted to give it the attention and praise it deserved!! 😭

But I am more than happy to give it some more attention 👀👀

[buckyalpine]

You know who'd talk you through it? Bucky. Bucky would talk you through it. I'm feral therefore this is feral. I always say I'm sorry after writing shit like this but this time I'm genuinely sorry, lost sight of the plot.

18+ af, minors dni

I'm gonna finish a wip, I swear, but just imagine for a moment, Bucky being intimate with the most soft shy little bunny ever and learning what she likes based on all the pretty moans and squeals he can pull out of her. He gauges what she's into based on how fucking soaked his balls get from the way she drips on him. Her pussy gets so tight around his dick and he knows whatever he's doing is working because she

She was too scared to tell him anything about what she liked so there was a lot of experimenting in the start. He took it soft and slow at first, basking in how warm her body felt against his, relishing in those quiet sighs she makes when he rolls his hips. For a while he thinks that's as vocal as she gets until a slightly harder thrust of his cock makes her squeak, her cunt clenching around him. His eyes widen at this new found discovery, thrusting harder and harder each time, that squeak turning into a slutty moan.

So she can get louder...

It's become a game for him, talking you through every single orgasm he pulls from you, growing more and more feral over how vocal you are when he does something new.

"Mmph, fuck yeah, that's it baby, moan f'me" He coos as he fucks his fingers in you faster while kneeling in front of you, his own knees keeping yours apart. He's truly playing with your body to his own delight having you naked, legs spread far apart with your pussy on display for him. He loves fingering you because he gets to look at your entire body whither beneath him. Little does he know how crazy it makes you because while he towers over you, eyes raking over your pleasure consumed form, you're admiring him right back. His thick pink cock is so full and hard standing achingly tall. His balls look deliciously heavy and you love the way he uses his knees to keep you spread because he ends up showing off even more of his sac and you are rightfully obsessed.

Your clit makes him drool. It's so perfectly sensitive and he's perfected licking, rubbing and sucking it till your gushing on his face and pulling his hair.

"Y'like that huh baby" He whispers to himself when he rubs faster and you start to claw at his arms, your back arching off the bed, moans growing louder. He watches your reaction like a predator watching it's prey waiting for the perfect moment to let you fall.

"Y-ess" You manage to cry out but Bucky thinks you can do better.

"Y'know what m'gonna do now bunny?" He knows you can't answer but based on the way your clit is throbbing against his fingers your attention is 100% on him. You loved his dirty talking and he's going to keep going until the sheets need to be changed. "M'gonna lick and suck on that pretty little clit of yours, you like that, don't you?"

You frantically nod and he lets out a breathy chuckle, his own cock getting wet at the thought of tasting you.

"Lookit what you do to me" He pulls his hand away making you look down so you can see him squeeze his cockhead, smearing his arousal onto your swollen bud, tears falling from your cheeks from how erotic and dirty he was. He rubs his tip all over not bothering to muffle his own whines and whimpers, "M'so fuckin' sensitive here baby" He'd never miss a chance to edge you both, your most sensitive parts rubbing against each other until he's done teasing. "See how wet you make me bunny? You're not the only one who gets soaked baby, shit you make me so wet"

You can see clear sticky webs clinging from his cockhead to your clit as he continues to tap and rut himself against you, "Don't worry baby, I'll clean up the mess I make"

He goes down between your legs, starting off with tentative licks like a kitten. That's before he lets those pouty lips of his seal around you, suckling with needy gurgles as if he were drinking milk. He groans at the taste of his own precum he marked you with, your taste combined with his makes him nearly cum.

"O-OOH-" The squirm of your legs are held still by his arms. He doesn't know how anyone other than you can look so adorably sweet and slutty at the same time with your eyes rolling back, jaw slack, sinful sounds filling the room, your white cream making a mess on the sheets. His dick is dripping and while he'd love for you to finish on his face, he knows that's not your favourite way to cum.

No.

Your loudest moans are when your filled with his cock while he plays with your clit with his lips by your ear.

Favourite position? You're not picky but he knows the ones you love the most. Your pussy gets so tight when he puts you in the sluttiest ones.

"Good girl, good fuckin' girl" He whispers tugging your earlobe between his teeth while maintaining a brutal pace, the sweat slicking his chest hot against your back. You're kneeling while he fucks you from behind, holding your body up, one hand wrapped around your throat while the other holds your hip. He wasn't sure how you'd feel about being choked until you squirted on him the first time he did it. "You love my fat cock don't you bunny, slut for big dick-" He brings his hand down to slap your clit making you sob, your wetness squirting onto the sheets, body limp in his hold, "Baby, you're soaking my balls, should make you suck them clean"

You moan louder.

Bucky smirks.

He's going to keep going.

"You like that don't you, you wanna lick my balls clean angel? Empty them first and then get down and suck 'em. Suck my cock, drink up all the cum that's still dripping after I cum in you"

That's all it takes. You're cumming without warning but Bucky's gonna make your orgasm last minutes if possible, his dirty talking getting filthier with each clench of your pussy.

"M'gonna be all sensitive for you angel, y' know how hard m'gonna cum for you? Gonna keep on cumming until I'm all empty"

"You're such a slut huh, you'd suck my cock even if it was soft-oh shhit baby-you like that too? You like me turning soft for you? You want daddy to get subby for you baby, hm?"

"I-I-Oh god James!!!" You whine and desperately try to fuck yourself back on him to prolong how good he's making you feel, all these feral thoughts too much-He reaches to pinch your clit, now rolling it between his fingers and you nearly pass out-

At this point anything he says doesn't matter. Maybe it happens. Maybe it doesn't. He just says anything and everything that clouds both your fantasies that make you sob and sob from overstimulation.

"I can be subby for you bunny, y'know that. Tell daddy what you want, you can have anything y'want"

"Love when you lick my balls, clean my cock. Shit, y'know I'd let you touch me anywhere baby"

The very thought of what that entails sends you into a second orgasm.

"s'that it? You wanna taste daddy, bunny? Touch me where no one else has? Hm? Just my bunny putting her cute little tongue on my-

"FUUCCCKKKKKKK" You fall forward and love being smothered by him, lying flat on your tummy while he mounts you from behind letting his full body collapse on you.

"So little under me, no where to run, you make me wanna breed you when you're like this baby, wanna give you all of my cum.

"Bucky-Buckyy!" Your muffled screams and taut body have him pounding you harder, your orgasm squeezing cum out of his body even though he want's to hold it. You make it impossible He's still gonna talk you through it all while falling himself.

"I know, I know baby, feels good-s'good-oh God you're milking my cock bunny-fuckk" His hips stutter to a grind, "Shit I can't st-top, God y/n please-want it-need you" He's babbling at this point, the both of you utterly gone, floating in bliss. He's going to clean and take good good care of you, making a mental note of what he did to get you scream this time. He smirks to himself with his new information, next time he'd be more than happy to see you lose yourself while you play with and lick his-

Alright, that's enough.

[rememberwren]

Complicated Pleasures

OR: Home Videos. You (fem!reader) and Ghost have been married for years when your prodigal friend Johnny finds out that you make and post porn together. Feelings happen. 13k

About this: m/m, f/m, oral f and m receiving, anal sex, PIV, kink, pornography, sir kink, slight objectification, objectionable writing, soft!simon, very soft fic altogether, cum sharing.

-

((A video begins.

 A bed in a tidy room. Identifying features have been hidden: pictures placed face down on the nightstands, blinds drawn tight until the room is cast in a cool glow. A woman sits amongst the nondescript bedspread and sheets, her legs tucked up against her chest and arms wrapped around her thighs, naked except for the mask that does little to truly obscure her face. 

Once she knows the video has begun, it is like she blooms, arms and legs falling away to reveal the soft petals of her nakedness: the  plains of her body, the angles and curves. She’s near perfect, Soap thinks, already fisting his hard cock. 

She looks almost exactly like you. 

Then a man walks around from the other side of the camera, and Soap’s heart leaves his body.))

-

“Johnny!” you say brightly, throwing open the front door. In streams the cold air and bright sunshine reflecting off the snow, and in steps Johnny with snowflakes in his hair and on the shoulders of his coat, gifts wrapped in bright shades of gold and silver tucked beneath one of his arms. 

He stomps his feet, boots shedding packed snow on the doormat, and leans in to deposit the gifts a safe distance away so that he can open his arms and gather you up in them. Your fingers tangle in his jacket, holding him close. He is warm even after coming in from the snow, his scent like Christmas itself: woodsy pine and crackling fires. You feel Simon’s presence appear in the living room doorway and begin to pull away, trying not to hog his friend, even if you desperately want to. 

“Lookit you, bonnie as ever,” Johnny says against your ear. He lets you go, bending down to unlace his boots and call a greeting to Simon: “I see you brooding over there, LT. Happy Christmas to yeh.” 

“No titles at Christmas, Johnny.” 

“Yessir.” 

“You didn’t need to bring gifts,” you scold him.

“Of course I did—it’s fucking Christmas,” says Johnny with a grin as he straightens. He passes you the gifts, a small package and a larger one, each wrapped by a practiced hand that you sense must not have been Johnny’s own. You wonder if there isn’t a girl in his life now—except you and Simon had extended the invitation to one, if so. Why he wouldn’t have brought her, you couldn’t understand. 

Maybe his mum wrapped the gifts. 

Simon and Johnny clasp hands which turns into a hug. Watching them together makes the dust settle in some riotous part of your heart. The two of them—their friendship—just makes perfect sense in its improbability. 

Simon mutters something under his breath and Johnny nods, burying his face deeper into Simon’s broad shoulder. You have the perfect vantage point of Johnny’s face: his eyes squeezed shut, long lashes resting on his cheeks.

A timer in the kitchen goes off—the roast you’ve been cooking since the early morning hours. Excusing yourself, you disappear into the kitchen, pausing just beyond the doorway to press your chilly hands to your flushed cheeks. 

Wine. You needed wine. 

-

“So,” you begin once the three of you have sat down for dinner. “Fill us in, Johnny. What have you been up to?”

The unsaid words linger between you all, What have you been up to during the three years you left? Johnny gives a wane smile, and you think that maybe the time spent apart didn’t serve him nearly as well as he’d hoped it would—however he’d hoped it would. Simon sits at the head of the table, his ankle tangled against your own beneath the oak. It’s a comforting reminder of his presence, considering he lets you and Johnny do most of the talking for now. 

“Whole lot o’ nothing,” Johnny says, sipping at the wine in his glass between sentences. “Traveled abroad fer a while. Spent some time in America, some time in South Korea.” 

“Sounds like a nice place to meet people,” you say, aiming for subtlety the way a sledgehammer might. “I notice you didn’t take us up on our invitation and bring a lass with you.” 

“No lass to bring, hen,” he says smoothly. 

Simon’s ankle stirs against your own, some silent attempt at communication. When you glance over toward him, his eyes are on his plate, face stoic, revealing nothing. 

“Any lads?” you guess. 

Simon’s fork squeaks against his plate. Johnny stops eating. For a moment they both stare at you in shocked silence. Then a grin spreads over Johnny’s handsome face, blooming straight into laughter. He shakes his head, like you have said something very silly. 

“No, no lads,” he says.

Simon’s ankle shifts again. 

You reach for your glass of wine, face hot—

-

—and you don’t stop drinking. 

Afternoon turns into evening, and by the time night falls, the three of you have drunk your way through three bottles of wine and successfully caught each other up on your lives to date. Simon and Johnny have slipped out onto the porch twice to smoke, bringing back in the scent of tobacco and snow, one you don’t mind at all. The fire in the fireplace burns low, crackling and spitting as the log splits. The room is strewn with torn gift wrapping. Simon has already unboxed the knife Johnny had made for him, testing its weight in his palm, testing the sharpness of the blade against the pad of his thumb. (Add that to the list of things which shouldn’t arouse you about Simon but do.)

It reminds you of the idyllic Christmases that you had reached for all your life and only ever skimmed with your fingers. You should have known that the missing piece was Johnny all along. 

Wine drunk, you have kicked your feet up on Johnny’s lap at one end of the couch and curled your upper half on Simon’s lap at the other end. It is easy to fall asleep to the warm lull of their voices, swapping stories from their time in the military together. 

But all at once, the subject matter changes, and it drags you from the threshold of sleep into some misty gray area in between a dream and wakefulness. Eyes still closed, you listen. 

“I found you both, you know.” Johnny’s voice is barely more than a whisper, difficult to hear over the crackling fire. 

“Don’t know what you mean, Johnny. We’re right here.” 

“I found your videos.” 

Your hands tighten into fists where you are clutching Simon’s shirt, eyes cracking open as you put the pieces together in your mind. But he’s smoother than you are, always able to keep a cool head. He sounds a little bored, a little confused as he asks: “What videos?” 

“Never known you to play dumb LT. You know the ones I mean. The porn.” 

A lengthy silence as Simon weighs his options and likely decides that there’s no use in lying. “You did, did you?” 

“Aye.” 

A pause.

“So that’s why you finally came back. Three fucking years she begs you to at least come for Christmas—who knew all it would take was a little pornography to put a fire under your arse.”

“That’s not—didn’t even find it until a few days ago, after I’d already said yes—“ Johnny says, voice rising in his defense. 

“Careful. We don’t want to wake her up, do we?” Simon’s hand pets against your hair, softer than a kiss from the wind. Though he must know you’re awake, you’re grateful that he lets you pretend, lets you hide away while he handles this. “If she knew that you’d seen those videos, she’d be embarrassed. That would make me upset. You understand?” 

“Aye,” he says, lowering his voice a little. He rests his hand against your ankle in his lap and then decides it’s not appropriate, shifts his hand back to his own thigh. You miss his touch. You’ve always missed Johnny’s touch more than you should miss the touch of your husband’s best friend. “But if you didn’t want people to see them, I don’t understand what you were thinkin’ posting them online.” 

“Three guesses. No, go on. Never known you to be shy. Guess.”

Johnny wets his lips. “You didn’t think you’d be recognized.” 

“There’s one.” 

“You…you like it.” 

“There’s two. Give us a third.” 

“She likes it.” 

You groan a little in embarrassment, turning your face away from where Johnny can see its profile, burying it in Simon’s lap. He’s hard, a fact you only realize when his jean-clad cock rubs against your cheek. You go still, eyes widening as this knowledge goes straight to the warmth that’s been stoked between your legs more often than the fireplace has tonight.

Simon’s hand finds the nape of your neck and rests there, keeping you still and quiet. It reminds you of your last video, when he had taken you from behind and put his hand on the nape of your neck to urge your face into the bed, his hips snapping against your ass. Where had the camera been, then? You couldn’t remember. That was Simon’s one rule, besides the masks and never saying each other’s names: don’t look into the camera. 

“So what do you plan to do with this knowledge, Johnny?” Simon asks. You hold your breath, still feigning sleep. “Who do you plan to tell? You know I don’t have anyone left who would give a fuck, but I’m sure you could find someone for her—someone who could shame her and make her feel bad for trying to feel good. Is that what you want?”

“Fuck no. I’d not tell a soul,” says Johnny fiercely. His hand comes to rest on your ankle again. This time he leaves it, thumb brushing the bone. “I swear it.”

“Then why bring it up at all?” 

“I…I don’t know,” Johnny admits, head ducking. “I just had to. Spending time with yeh both, knowing what I knew—it felt dishonest.” 

Simon hums. “You know what I’d like to know?” 

“What’s that?” 

“What our single friend was doing looking at couples porn.” 

-

The night ends quickly after that. Simon carries you to bed—the bed where you film so much of the porn that Johnny has apparently seen—and helps you begin undressing while Johnny gets his boots on in the other room. 

“I’m so embarrassed,” you breathe, quiet so that Johnny could not overhear if he happened to be standing right outside the door. Your head is spinning, and only partly from all the wine. Your face burns. Your heart is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. Johnny has seen the videos, the ones you and Simon cheekily dub ‘home movies’! God, how you will ever face him again is beyond you. 

“Give me the word and I’ll throw him out,” says Simon. “We’ll never see him again.” 

That makes a sick feeling rise up in the back of your throat. You look up at Simon and take in the somber, angry-adjacent expression on his face, and you know that he is serious. Simon never says a word that he doesn’t mean. But you can hear what he didn’t say, the words unspoken: it would kill him to do it. All their years spent watching each other’s backs, it would be hard to stab Johnny’s and leave him in the cold. Especially after the bliss of just getting him back.

You don’t want that. Not for Simon, not for Johnny. Not even for you. 

“I like Johnny,” you affirm. “I just don’t know how I’ll face him.” 

“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. He’s the pervert looking in through our window.” 

“We’re the perverts fucking with the blinds wide open,” you remind him. 

“I’ll see him out. Finish getting undressed,” he says, disappearing through the doorway. You hear the warm timber of his voice matched by Johnny’s and the sound of the front door opening. Two sets of boots crunch through snow, and now the voices are so far away that you can’t even make out their tone, much less their words.

Stripping the last of your clothes off, you roll onto your belly and bury your face in your pillow. Tonight had been going so well. It was hard to believe how far off course things had become. What was Johnny doing looking for couples porn anyhow? 

You roll back over, staring into the darkness of the ceiling. The answer was simple: because it would get him off. It didn’t matter if it was tentacles to titjobs. He’d more than likely been looking up porn while he jerked off. 

Had he realized right away that it was you and Simon and turned the video off in disgust? Or had it taken a moment for it to sink in? Had he cared at all? 

Or had he jerked off instead? You realize you are rubbing your thighs together belatedly and force yourself into stillness. 

The front door opens, Simon stomping inside and taking off his boots. When he joins you in bed, his cheeks are still cold, mouth minty from hastily brushing his teeth of tobacco and wine. You lean in and kiss him, looking for comfort. He kisses back, sweeping his tongue through your mouth, sucking on your lower lip. 

“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you whisper when you both part, not necessarily out of truthfulness, but because you feel like you shouldn’t be in the mood. 

“Wasn’t expecting anything.” 

You lay your head on his chest, listening to the steady sound of his heart. Your embarrassment is a little lessened now, abated by the calm that Simon exudes from his pores. It’s hard to believe that anything in the world could go wrong that Simon couldn’t handle with a twist of his hand or a few choice words. After a while, you glance up to find him still awake, staring into the darkness of the room. He meets your eyes and gives you one of his rare, wane smiles. 

“What are you thinking about?” you ask him. 

After a moment of silence, he says: “Our next video.” 

- 

((AMATEUR COUPLE: WAKING UP MY WIFE WITH MORNING SEX. Soap knows that he shouldn’t click on the link. The first time was an honest mistake, but anything afterwards is intentional—and unforgivable. If Ghost were to find out…Soap doesn’t even want to think about it. 

Except why would it be wrong for Soap to do it but right for a bunch of strangers? 

He doesn’t need to look down to know his cock is hard. Against his better judgement—or any judgement at all, really—he clicks the link. The video starts with Ghost in the frame, completely naked. He’s seen LT naked often enough (it’s unavoidable in such close quarters as they have shared) but he’s never looked, not like this. 

Time has barely changed him. He is still fitter than any man has the right to be, thick with muscles that are for functionality and not just for show—though the show is still impressive. 

While he’d always known that Ghost would be a sight to behold, seeing it in this context cements a fact in his brain, one that had sent him running years prior: he’s attracted to his closest friend. All the bad flirting disguised as taking the piss back when they were in the 141—it wasn’t just taking the piss. Not for Soap, at least.

In the video, Ghost exits the frame and crosses to the other side of the bed. He’s not wearing a mask this time but the upper half of his face remains solidly out of frame until it is offscreen again. You are positioned closest to the camera, laying on your side facing the audience. Your face isn’t visible, but your breasts are once Ghost draws the blankets down, down, and then down far enough to reveal your closed thighs. 

Fuck, Soap wants to see your cunt. He grips his cock tightly and squeezes, watching raptly as Ghost loops an arm over you and begins to softly tease your nipples. Soap slips a hand up his shirt and thumbs at a nipple of his own, wishing it was the other man’s touch. His cock leaks where it lies thickly against his belly as he watches his former lieutenant tease you, trace figures over your naked body, and at last slip a hand between your thighs, working one of your legs over back of his own. Now Soap can see just a trace of your slit, so soft. It makes his jaws ache, makes him want Ghost to hold your thighs apart so that he can lick and suck you into a frenzy.

He can tell the exact moment you wake. Your body stiffens, mouth falling open as Ghost sinks two of his fingers inside you. One of your hands reaches down to grip at your husband’s forearm as you scramble into wakefulness.

“Good morning,” Ghost says.))

-

The doorbell sounds, telling Simon that Johnny has arrived, but he lets his Sergeant wait out in the cold while the kettle finishes filling. A not-small part of him is still holding a grudge against Johnny for making you so embarrassed. It had taken time for you to come into your own. Courage. The videos had been your idea, whispered in the heat of the moment beneath the cover of darkness—but with time you’d been bold enough to talk about them over dinner. To read the comments with him and laugh. To watch the videos and end up in bed all over again. 

Now he could see the hesitation in your eyes whenever he pulled out his phone. 

Johnny’s expression is its typical one, open, friendly, when Simon opens the door. When he sees Simon, those blue eyes grow wide before he can curb the reaction. Johnny swallows, throat bobbing. 

“Hey LT. Lookit you. Laswell really has yeh behind a desk now doesn’t she?” Johnny’s hand reached out like he’s going to touch the tie that still dangles from around Simon’s neck, but he thinks better of it. 

Just another hunch of Simon’s proven right.

“What part of no field work confused you?” Simon asks, stepping aside to let Johnny in. 

“No confusion. Just didn’t expect yeh to look so…” He trails off, eyes flittering over Simon from his combed hair to his dress shirt stretched tight across his chest to the dress slacks that cling to his thighs. “…fancy.”

“I don’t wear the tie for Laswell’s benefit. But you already knew that.”

Johnny flushes, as good an admission as any. Wisely, he says nothing, following Simon into the kitchen and taking an offered seat at the kitchen island. His eyes flicker around the room, similar to how they had on Christmas. Then, Simon had mistaken it for Johnny taking in the way things had changed—the wallpaper is new, as is the backsplash behind the oven and stove, there are new pictures on the refrigerator—but now Simon suspects that Johnny is remembering. Piecing together backdrops he has seen in their videos. 

“The missus home?” Johnny asks, drumming his fingers on the granite. 

“No. Work.”

Simon pours tea for two, even though Johnny hates tea, and slides it across the countertop to him. To his benefit, Johnny accepts it without complaint, warming his hands around the mug.

“I told her.” 

Johnny doesn’t need to ask what or who—they’ve both been thinking about it since the moment he walked in. Simon watches as his face twists with naked regret. It tells Simon that Johnny really didn’t know that you were only feigning sleep on Christmas. 

“Is she angry with me?” 

“Embarrassed.” 

Johnny looks outraged on your behalf. “She has no reason t’ be!” 

Simon shrugs as if to say, This is what your curiosity bought her, Johnny. This is the price she’s paying. Johnny’s shoulders sag under the weight of his own guilt, elbows bracing themselves on the countertop so that he can put his face in his hands.

“Maybe,” says Simon, “it would make more of a difference if she heard it from you.” 

Johnny looks up, brow furrowed. “Heard what from me? That I’ve seen her—like that?” 

Simon’s eyes roll to the ceiling. “No. That she doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of.” 

Johnny turns the idea over in his head. He’s clever, but too blinded by his own desire to see the manipulation for what it is. What does it matter if it’s Simon’s idea or his own? Johnny is dying to talk to you. 

“You’d give me her number?”

Simon shrugs.

“Alright,” says Johnny at length, drawing the word out. “I can do that. If you think it will help.” 

Simon says nothing, sipping at his tea to hide any smugness behind his cup.

-

((The video begins in a kitchen, one Johnny has been in many times. You are there, back mostly to the camera, pressed against the granite island countertop. Simon is on the other side of you, consuming all your attention. Steaming Jesus, he’s huge compared to you, huge compared to everyone. He’s dressed in his work attire: dress clothes, dark tie in place. The effect is jarring in contrast with the mask. 

Simon reaches up and works his tie loose and off over his head. You tilt your head down a little and on it goes, easy as anything. When Simon turns you to face the camera, the tie dangles between your bare breasts. One hand on the nape of your neck, Simon bends you forward towards the granite and Soap can tell the exact moment his cock slips inside you based on the way your mouth falls open, your eyes squeezing shut behind your own mask. 

Soap isn’t sure who he’s jealous of more—you or Simon.))

-

Simon told me that he told you what I found. I just wanted to message you myself and say how sorry I am if I embarrassed you. 

You sigh reading over the text message. Flexing your fingers, you give a quick glance toward where Simon lays dozing with his head against the back of the couch, feet up on the coffee table (the knife he got for Christmas rests on his chest; he’d been toying with it absently for the last half hour) and answer: There’s no reason to apologize. It’s not your fault I’m embarrassed. 

It is though, isn’t it? You don’t care that other people see. You just care that I did. 

You pause and bite at your nails, thinking over his words and how to respond. He’s mostly right. There had been an aspect of embarrassment at first when you and Simon began posting the videos (and that embarrassment had gotten you off to a certain extent, though it didn’t usually). But eventually that heated shame had melted away into eagerness for the camera. You’d read the comments on the videos, countless human beings talking about the various ways they masturbate to your sex with Simon, talking about the things they wish they could do to you, with you, with Simon. 

So why was it so much more embarrassing knowing that Johnny had seen? Because he knew you. Because he’d seen the parts of you that you had purposefully covered up for the camera. No one was meant to see both sides—no one was meant to have all of you. Except for Simon. 

But if somebody was going to do it, a small part of you is glad it was Johnny. 

You’re Simon’s friend, you message back, curious. Didn’t it feel strange to see us like that? 

Honestly? He doesn’t wait for you to respond. Not as strange as I might have thought. 

-

((AMATEUR COUPLE: WIFE PRACTICES HER BLOWJOB SKILLS, the video is aptly titled. You are on your knees, hands tied neatly at the base of your spine. Simon sits at the edge of the bed, camera positioned perpendicular to you both, with a downward angle.

You lean forward and let his hard, flushed cock disappear past your lips deeper, deeper, until you reach the limits of what you can take without preparation or practice. His hand comes down to rest softly against the back of your head as you make yourself gag and choke around the thickest part of his cock. There’s no need to hold you down; Simon doesn’t even bother.

Soap’s jaw aches, desperate for a chance to be on his knees for Ghost like that. He could take more than you—he knows he could. Not that it had to be a competition, not when you both could share a cock that size and barely notice the other was there. He strips his own cock thinking about it, eyes falling shut as he lets the background noise of the video—Simon’s gentle praises, your whines and chokes, the wet gurgles of a throat being fucked—carry him over the edge.))

-

New Year’s Eve. 

The house is full of bodies and laughter. You feel near-delirious with your own joy, never made happier than by the happiness of the people around you. Alejandro and Rodolfo had flown in and were staying in the guest house through the New Year, arriving only yesterday with enough luggage for four between the two of them; Kyle and his girlfriend; John and his wife; Kate and her partner; even Farah and her brother had made a pit stop to spend the evening with you on their way back to Urzikstan from the Americas. 

The party had been BYOB, and everyone had taken to the sentiment and more. Farrah is mixing drinks in the kitchen, strong concoctions that even John struggles to keep down. Gaz and Alejandro keep insisting on shots (which you politely decline just as often as you agree. Simon drinks nothing, his tumultuous past putting him off of hard alcohol for good).

People are well and truly drunk by the time Johnny arrives. The whoops and hollers that fill the house have you thinking that midnight has come early. A swarm of bodies surround him, and he is forced to make the rounds hugging each person and being taken to task by them for being gone for so goddamn long. 

He arrives at you before Simon, and his face softens, smile going a little unsure around the edges as he opens his arms for you, the first time he’s seen you in person since Christmas. You could rebuff him, but you also can’t. It’s Johnny. Nearly tripping to toss yourself into his arms, he lifts you a few inches off the floor, nose buried in your hair. 

“Bonnie as always,” he whispers into your ear after putting you back down. His hand tugs teasingly on the short hem of your dress, like he is trying to lengthen it, knuckles brushing your thighs. You swat his hand away, face flushing with warmth. It wasn’t that short. 

“Johnny,” Simon calls. The two men embrace, hug lasting longer than any other. In the distance, you see Gaz elbow Price, jerking his head toward the two men. 

You put a hand on Simon’s shoulder, anxious suddenly. Simon draws back, clapping Johnny on the shoulder. He orders: “Get yourself a drink.” 

“Yessir.” 

“None of that.”

“Games? I was told there would be games,” Gaz says, situating himself between you and Simon. He’s dressed smartly in a dress-shirt with the collar undone. Someone has put a party hat on him, cone-shaped, to celebrate the New Year. You had managed to wrestle Simon into one for thirty seconds before the first of the company arrived; the memory makes you smile. 

“I have Cards Against Humanity,” you offer. 

“Oh, I love that game,” Kyle’s girlfriend says to your delight. 

“No—no—we aren’t in middle school here,” Johnny says. “And if we are, then I want to play truth or dare so my chances of getting kissed tonight rises exponentially.” 

“Come over here and they will,” Gaz offers. 

“Don’t make promises you’re not ready to keep, Garrick,” Johnny warns, grinning. 

“Sounds like something a coward would say, all due respect—” 

Then Johnny has a fistful of Kyle’s shirt, hauling him in for a bold though chaste kiss on the mouth. You are suddenly hyper aware of Simon beside you, standing tall and very still while everyone laughs and cheers at the men’s antics. You can’t deny it’s a pleasing sight, but a part of you feels irritated with the whole display. 

“Jesus Christ,” John sighs, tipping his hat back on his head. “Soap’s right—if you’ve got a normal deck of cards, love, I know  plenty of games for adults to play.” 

“Not sure I want to play those kinds of games with you, John,” Kate says somberly to the laughs of everyone around her. 

“We’ve got cards,” Simon mutters. 

Farah calls to you from the kitchen, asking you to try her latest conglomeration of alcohol. Eager to be anywhere but there, you escape to the kitchen. You lift yourself up onto one of the stools at the island, taking the red plastic cup from her hand and sniffing it. Just the smell burns the hairs of your nose. 

“Jesus, Farah, this could kill me,” you laugh. 

“Pathetic,” she says with a grin to lighten her words. “I think I saw some apple juice in the refrigerator, would you like that instead?” 

“Alright.” 

“A warm glass of milk, perhaps?”

“You’ve made your point,” you say, eyes narrowing in good humor. Taking a deep breath to steel your nerves (and stomach), you take a generous swig of the cup. Fuck, it burns going down and it burns in your belly, like swallowing a lit flame. You cough a little, trying not to gag, and hold up your thumb to her. “It’s great—so good—“

Simon comes to sit beside you at the island. He takes the cup, smells it, and raises both brows. 

“Can I tempt you, Lieutenant?” Farah asks.

“No.” 

“Then I won’t try. Where’s John, he’s never afraid of a challenge.”

Unseen to her beneath the island, fingertips brush your stocking-covered thighs. Your knees clamp together on instinct as you fight not to look over at Simon. What is he doing? 

He strikes up a conversation with Farah about her time spent in the Americas. When his hand doesn’t move, your thighs relax a little. He was just being intimate; often he liked to have a hand on your back or his foot resting against your own beneath the table. It wasn’t his fault you were on edge. Your head spins a little, thanks to the shots and Farah’s drink. Planting one elbow on the countertop, you try to focus on her stories when Simon’s hand moves again, slipping further between your legs. The hem of your dress has ridden up so high in your seated position that it doesn’t take much for his fingertips to graze against the heated seam between your legs. 

You clamp your knees shut again. He pinches your thigh softly, just enough to get the message through to you. Staring at Farah, hearing nothing, you spread your shaking knees again and let him cup you between your legs. Fuck. You tilt your hips, making as if to adjust your position on the chair. It only serves to bring you in closer contact with Simon’s hand. A groan is born and dies in the back of your throat. 

He keeps you there, holding your cunt, having a fluent conversation with Farah while your brain melts out your ears. At length, he stands. Leaning down, he says in your ear: “Outside, two minutes. Go out the back.” 

Then he disappears amongst the sea of people 

-

Three minutes later you are shivering out in the snow. Your coat only helps so much with your legs bare save for your stockings. You hadn’t even had time to lace up your boots. Shifting from one foot to the other in the spotlight of the floodlights to keep warm, you cast glances left and right wondering from which direction Simon will come, wondering what he wants that couldn’t have taken place in doors. 

At last he appears, looking far warmer than you in his olive green jacket and jeans, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. You smile at the sight of him. He doesn’t smile back. 

“Put your hands against the wall.” 

“Simon?” 

He sighs, running a hand over the curve of your waist, testing its fit in his palm. “Now I’ll have to edit that part out. Let’s try again. Put your hands on the wall.” 

You see then the phone placed just-so in the breast pocket of his coat. The glossy camera lens stares back at you, no flashing red light, nothing nearly so 1999. But you knew it was filming. What was it seeing now? The house in the background, the cool blue siding and brick. You, face surprised, lips chapped from the cold weather lately, your sexy little golden dress nearly obscured beneath your coat. 

“The time to back out is now,” Simon prods you. 

But there’s no way you’re backing out, not after the kitchen. Not after the hazy arousal you’ve been walking around in all night just at the thought of seeing Johnny again. Turning around, you reach out with shaking hands and place them against the freezing cold siding. You can see your breath like a smoky plume with each of your frantic exhales as Simon’s hands grip your ass, slipping beneath the hem of your dress and finding your stockings to tug them down around your knees. 

“Got to keep quiet for me,” he says. “Can you do that?” 

“Yessir,” you whisper, wishing you were close enough to the house to rest your heated cheek against it. 

Simon gives a heavy exhale at your words and you grin, unseen. 

Your panties join your stockings stuck around your knees. It doesn’t give you much space to spread your legs, but Simon is so lengthy that he doesn’t need the extra room. He doesn’t press against your back, ever-conscious of the camera and its angles, but you hear the sound of his belt being undone and like a Pavlovian response, it has you drooling between the legs. His cock is burning warm when it brushes against your ass, and you find yourself arching your back, seeking to put that heat inside you. 

He hums, hands spreading you wide as he can for the benefit of the camera, even if the lighting isn’t the best to see your entrance. 

“Pretty fucking girl,” he mutters. The position can’t be comfortable for him, but he’s never seemed to care about that. He reaches down to grip the base of his cock and guides the head inside you. It is a tight fit without any preparation, but he keeps the penetration shallow, rocking you back and forth on just the head, sometimes letting his cock slip free to brush against your aching clit. Your teeth clamp together, desperate to keep your sounds in—usually during home videos, Simon encouraged you to be noisy (“for the audience”). Now you found yourself struggling not to give in to the old habit. 

All of the sudden, his hand is in your hair, turning your head, guiding it to change directions until you are looking at your footsteps in the snow leading back the way you came—

Until you are looking squarely at Johnny, standing nearly frozen in the snow at the edge of the house. He’s wearing his coat and boots, hands jammed deep into his coat pockets. The darkness makes it hard to make out the subtlety of his features, but you can tell that his mouth is dropped open in an expression of near comical disbelief. 

You barely manage to keep from choking out Simon’s name, your entire body going stiff—your cunt rippling around his cock. He laughs, a low rumbling chuckle that has you squeezing your eyes shut. A whine slips free from your throat and the wind must carry it straight to Johnny, because you hear his quiet, Steamin’ Jesus. 

“He’s been waiting for this all night, I bet,” Simon mutters, his hips snapping against yours. Your hands scramble to find purchase against the siding, slip down a little to grip the bricks which offer you more resistance. “Watching you flit back and forth in this dress, knowing what you look like underneath it. He wishes it was him fucking you right now.” 

“No,” you gasp, scandalized. 

Simon just laughs again. The sound doesn’t embarrass you, just ratchets your own dizzying arousal higher. You can’t take your eyes off of Johnny, who has stumbled two or three steps closer in the snow and now has his hand against the house very similarly to you. His other hand is in a fist at his side. Closer like this, there’s no mistaking the heated expression in his eyes. Nor the bulge in his pants. 

“Oh God,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut again and turning away. 

“Look at him—look at him. He wants to touch himself,” Simon says, borderline conversational as his dick makes the most heinous squelching noises inside your body. “But I don’t think he’s got the balls.”

One of your hands comes off the bricks and reaches down between your thighs—but Simon grabs it at the last moment and pins it back in its place, sending you nearly to tears. 

“Cum on my cock or don’t cum at all,” he says, feeling cruel.

The both of you know that that likely means you won’t cum at all, not like this, and the knowledge threatens to undo you. He’s going to get you three-fourths of the way there and then leave you like this, edge you in front of all of your closest friends and not satisfy you until the very last one has left. Tears well in your eyes, beading up at the corners. 

Behind you, his thrusts grow sloppy. You dare another glance towards Johnny and see his turned back, both his hands in his mohawk gripping at his hair like he is fighting with himself. Your eyes fall shut; you’re fighting a battle of your own, you can’t be concerned about his. Simon groans lowly, filling you with his seed. He pulls out in a wet rush of fluids, reaching down to stave off his dripping seed and save your leggings from destruction. 

Gently, he fucks his cum back into you with his fingers. He wipes it across your swollen folds and in the soaked crotch of your panties before pulling them back up to rest safely on your hips. Bending down, he wipes his hands clean in the snow and then on his jacket before helping you pull your stockings up into place. The tears in your eyes have overflowed by now, dripping down your cheeks and off your chin. When you glance over, Johnny is gone. 

“Okay?” Simon murmurs, fiddling with his phone. He stops the video. 

“Yeah,” you sigh shakily. “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

-

Moments to midnight and you are searching for Simon. His figure should be easy to spot, but his head isn’t visible above the sea of people, nor is his baritone voice audible amongst the cacophony of others. 

Someone else is notably missing as well. An itch in the back of your brain swells, one you have to follow to scratch. 

Countdowns begin. You peek out the window nearest to you but see no sign of either man outside in the snow smoking. Watching couples pair off, you pad on bare feet (having kicked off your heels ages ago) toward the master bedroom, slipping into the dim hallway that forks off to the bedroom, the guest bath, and the office. That hallway is where you find them, standing in the dark toe to toe. Simon has Johnny up against the wall, clutching fistfuls of Johnny’s shirt, nearly tearing it. In the dim lighting, you can barely make out their features. 

For a moment, you think they are about to come to blows. You are ready to step between them, to take either of them by the ear like an old school matriarch and remind them that they are friends and they love each other and this is no way to act amongst family—but then the others cry out for midnight and they kiss. 

Oh God, do they kiss. Johnny’s shirt strains in Simon’s hands as he lifts the other man the last few inches needed to slot their mouths together comfortably. There is no chaste peck, no soft exploration of tongues, it is a frenzied open-mouthed devouring of each other, jaws flexing as if to open up and swallow the other whole. 

Claps and cheers ring out in the living room, jolting Simon and Johnny apart. Before you can even string together a sentence, Johnny has brushed by you, one hand pressing at his mouth. He grabs his coat and leaves out the front door without so much as a goodbye to anyone. 

-

The party is over. The sun is rising. Alejandro and Rodolfo have retired out to the guest house leaving you and Simon behind to clean up the mess in more ways than one. Eyes tired but brain buzzing, you come into the living room with a half-filled trash bag in your arms to find Simon sitting on the sofa by the fireplace, his head in his hands. 

You drop the trash bag and go to him, climbing into his lap. He sighs and lets his head rest against your breasts, breaths slow and deep, not betraying any of the turmoil that might be going on in his mind.

“He’ll be back,” you promise, stroking your fingers through his cropped hair. “He’ll come back, baby.” 

You don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t.

“Have you two done that before?” you ask.

Simon shifts. He turns until his ear presses against your sternum, like he is listening to your heart for the answer. He says: “No. Once—almost, I think. But you know what he’s like. So fucking persistent. And bright. Like he’s got the bloody sun inside him.”

“You never told me.” 

“Wasn’t anything to tell.” He looks up at you with dark eyes, decidedly grim despite his words: “We doing this?”

“Seems so,” you say, scratching his scalp lightly with your nails just to watch how his eyes get heavy. Simon so often denies himself simple pleasures, but he deserves them. The simple ones and the complicated ones. 

“He belongs to me,” Simon says at length, slow, like he is working it out for himself. “Just like you do.”

“No baby,” you remind him, leaning down to press a kiss to his mouth. “He belongs to us.”

-

((It becomes a degenerate ritual. 

Soap gets home from work and showers. As soon as the steam hits the bathroom mirror, he’s hard, but he doesn’t touch himself; refuses to. He showers and cleans himself perfunctorily, cock aching. It is just as familiar with this ritual as he is, just as hungry for it. It knows what is coming. 

After he is clean and dry, he’ll go naked into his room and bring out his laptop. He always sits at his desk—hates having the laptop on his lap, wants it somewhere stable and safe so he can have both hands free to touch himself—and then he brings up your porn page with Simon. There are more than fifty videos he can choose from. Some he has only seen once, especially those early videos when you both were still getting a feel for the process and working out your nerves. There are others that are old favorites, ones that he knows every word to, one where he could mimic your every sigh and whine if he wanted to. 

And sometimes, like on nights such as this, there’s a new video. His heart jumps to his throat. 

AMATEUR COUPLE: ARGUMENT TURNS INTO SEX (NO AUDIO). Fuck, just the title has mind whirling. It was just for show, surely—he couldn’t imagine you both filming one of your actual arguments for the sake of good pornography—but he was intrigued nonetheless. Some of his favorite videos featured Ghost getting a little rougher with you, and you giving back as good as you got. 

He clicks the link. The video begins in the bedroom, recognizable to him now as your own. The camera is in the corner facing the bed at an angle giving a wide vantage point, like a voyeur standing at attention. Like Soap himself has snuck in and is watching. Just the thought has him gripping the base of his cock, a soft groan passing his lips. 

You’re sitting on the bed, mask in place. Your arms are crossed, mouth downturned into a frown as Simon enters the screen. The first minute or so truly looks like an argument, the occasional jerky hand gesture from you coupled with Simon’s clipped responses. Soap tries to read your lips, but he’s never been very good at it; he can’t make out a single word of what the two of you might be saying. Then the aura changes, the tense energy from the argument turning into something slicker, something sexual as Simon comes around the bed and puts his hand on the center of your naked chest, pressing you back, back until you are laying down. 

You fight against him, batting his hand out of the way. He pins you down easily, so much larger and stronger than you. Soap grips his cock at the thought of being in your place, being pinned to the bed with Ghost’s massive figure over him. Ghost wouldn’t need to be gentle with him either, not the way he was with you. Soap wouldn’t mind. Soap would like it, the same way he liked it in the hallway at your house when Simon gripped him by the shirt and nearly jerked him right out of his boots. 

Your head comes off the bed, mouth chasing Ghost’s—but he draws away. Soap can almost hear the laugh he clearly gives, the rumbling chuckle that would be tangible in his chest. You grit your teeth together, jaw tight. Now when Simon bends down to kiss you, you turn your head away, a childish game of cat and mouse. He grips your chin and turns it back toward him, heavy on the eye contact. When you two finally kiss, it is rough, two hungry people searching for dirty secrets behind each other's teeth. 

Ghost kisses his way down your body, sucking bruises wherever he can. By the time he’s in between your legs, you are writhing, hands gripping his hair and trying to guide his mouth to the place that needs it most. He tugs your thighs over his shoulders, pins you to the bed with one massive forearm, and eats you out like a starving man. The angle for the camera isn’t the best here, but Soap can’t take his eyes off of you anyway: your body tight as a bowstring, breasts pressed together from the position of your arms, tendons of your neck straining as your head tilts backwards. 

Soap begins to work his cock over faster, watching your pleasure. When Ghost stops, he leaves you on the edge if your tortured expression is anything to go by, but you let him maneuver you into the position he wants—hands and knees, an old favorite for LT it seems—but this time is special, because this time you are forced to face the camera dead on. 

It’s like you’re looking Soap in the eye. The brief flash of guilt this gives him only serves to ratchet his desire higher, his cock dripping precum over his knuckles as he fists it. Ghost slips his cock inside you and sets a brutal pace that you are eager to meet, your hands twisting in the bedspread as you press yourself further back against his cock. 

Ghost leans down and mutters something in your ear. More than ever, Soap misses the audio. Whatever he says has your eyes flashing to meet the camera lens, and you do so with near girlish shyness, like you are seeing it for the first time, like you have only just noticed it’s been there all these months. Your eyes can’t catch on it at first, flittering away every chance you get. Ghost’s thrusts slow to deep grinds. He wraps a hand around your throat and says more, lips moving against the nape of your neck. Fuck, what Johnny wouldn’t give to be able to read lips. 

This time you look back at the camera and keep your eyes there. Ghost resumes his thrusts, each one making your breasts bounce softly, but your eyes never leave the lens, always quick to return even when they briefly fall shut. 

Your pleasure waxes when you slip a hand between your thighs, and you begin murmuring something repeatedly, just a discrete little movement of your lips. But at Ghost’s prodding, you begin to cry it out louder and louder until Soap is damn near sure that you are screaming, your lips forming the same syllables over and over again if only Soap were able to make them out. Your eyes roll back as you cum, arms growing weak until you dip and rest your upper body against the bed giving the camera an excellent view of Simon fucking into you from behind, the arch of your body, the curve of your waist to the width of your hips. 

Soap cums when Ghost does, Ghost’s head lolling to the side as his thrusts grow sloppy and forceful, making a mess of you no doubt. 

It isn’t until later when he’s in bed that he recognizes the word you were chanting for what it is. 

How it took him so long to recognize his own name he’ll never know.))

-

He comes back. 

Simon has just returned from taking Alejandro and Rodolfo to the airport. Ever since New Year’s Eve, there has been a quietness about him which breaks prior records. Neither of you say it, but if Johnny leaves this time, it will take more out of him than it had before. It will take something out of you, too. You spend the days trying to keep busy, checking your phone too often for texts that don’t come. 

You’ve just taken the kettle off the stove when the doorbell rings, and both of you know. Your eyes meet across the kitchen. Simon nods his head toward the door, and you rush to answer it, feeling your heart in your throat. Johnny stands there on the step looking sheepish and cold, his boots and the bottom quarter of his jeans wet, like he has walked here from a great distance. 

“May I come in?” he asks. 

Simon appears behind you. Johnny gives him a wavering smile. Without a word, you hold the door open, stepping aside to let him in. 

“Didn’t think you’d be back,” Simon says coolly.

“Didn’t think I’d be back either,” Johnny admits. He wets his lips. “I…I need to come clean. It’s eatin’ me up inside. Can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t fucking think without it being about the two of you. I don’t know what to do with myself except put myself at your feet and ask fer your forgiveness.” 

“Johnny, that’s not—”

“No,” says Simon, stilling the words on your tongue. “I think that’s a good place to start. Get on your knees, Johnny.” 

Johnny blinks once, face the picture of innocent ignorance—but then he is dropping to his knees hard enough for you to hear them crack against the hardwood underneath. He obeys without thinking, because that is something that has always been easy for him to do: obey Simon. Think later. 

Simon’s hand reaches out, slow enough to give Johnny a chance to flinch away, but he doesn’t. Instead Simon threads his fingers through Johnny’s mohawk, the sides which are growing out just a little too long. Johnny’s eyes fall shut at the touch, and the whole thing goes straight to your belly, arousal making your head light. 

“You liked watching so much,” Simon says, voice low and quiet. “I think it’s time we put you to good use.”

-

“We have rules. Don’t look at the camera, don’t say each other’s names, and do as I say. Can you handle that?” Simon asks. 

“Rules of engagement. Yessir.” 

Simon snorts softly at Johnny’s eagerness. “Glad to see you still know to follow directions. But let’s see how well. Strip. Everything off. You won’t need it.” 

Johnny’s hands find the neckline of his shirt and tug it off over his head, revealing a body that is all smooth muscle and tan skin. The dark hair on his chest thickens just below his navel, trailing down into his jeans which he unbuttons without ceremony, feet working to step out of his shoes at the same time. He keeps his balance well, already slipping into a focused, strangely familiar headspace. You make yourself as small as possible on the bed, arms looped around your legs, eyes watching him hungrily. It’s been so long that you’ve wanted to see Johnny like this; now that it’s on the verge of becoming true, you feel shy and unsure. 

Johnny keeps his eyes on yours while he pushes his pants down his thighs and steps out of them. He smiles at you, soft and understanding, and only then do you let your eyes flicker down to take in his cock: he is hard, uncut, thick as Simon even if he can’t have him beaten in length. His dexterous fingers wrap around the shaft, stroking himself, the flushed head disappearing and reappearing in his fist. 

“What do you think?” Simon asks you, voice a low rumble at your side. His eyes are watching you, concerned with you first and foremost. “Is he pretty enough?”

Johnny makes an offended sound. 

“I’d say so,” you answer, aiming for unaffected and landing somewhere amongst breathless. Already you can feel the tension between your legs, a deep seated ache as your pussy drools onto the sheets below you. 

“You want to suck his cock,” says Simon. It’s not a question, but your head bobs anyway. “Go on, then. Crawl to him.” 

Shifting onto your hands and knees, you crawl to him, focusing on the mechanics of it instead of trying to feign sexiness. At the edge of the bed, you slip off and down to the floor amongst the pile of his clothes, laying your hands on his thighs and looking up at him from beneath his cock. 

He lets out a shaky breath. “You’re gonna suck my dick?”

You nod. 

Johnny looks to Simon with a helpless expression as if to ask, What do I do? When you glance back over your shoulder, you see that Simon is giving him nothing to work with, face a blank slate except for his raised brows. Phone in hand, aimed at the two of you. The sight of it seems to steel Johnny’s nerves. He’s never been one to be shy.

“Go at yer own pace, lass,” he says.

Leaning in, you trace your lips against the side of his shaft, feeling the velvety softness against your mouth. He smells like he showered before he came over, though you wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t. Johnny always smells good—even on those days before he went away when he and Simon would go running together, pushing each other to their limits, returning sweaty and exhausted. Now after all this time you get to see if he tastes as good as he smells. You part your lips and leave open mouthed kisses along his length, looking up at him through your lashes when you feel his fingers sink into your hair. His mouth is parted as he watches you raptly, pupils blown wide. 

Confidence mounting, you take the head past your lips and suckle, treating him just as soft and sweetly as you know Simon won’t. Above you, he groans, hips jerking until you take another inch or two past your lips. You let him, rising up on your knees to adjust the angle, sinking your way down until his head brushes the softness at the back of your throat. Taking a calming inhale, you swallow and press forward, letting him sink into your throat until your gag reflex can take no more and forces him out. 

Johnny moans like he’s dying, his hands shaking as he fights not to thrust into your throat. Words stream from his mouth, filthy Scottish-tinted praises that have you wriggling in your place, desperate for a hand between your thighs. 

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Simon asks. 

“Never seen no one like her,” Johnny gasps, one hand letting go of your hair so that he can wipe the drool from the side of your mouth. He gives a weak laugh. “And I—fuuck, fuck—I’ve looked.”

“She’ll suck you off until you tell her to stop. Doesn’t matter how long you leave her at it,” Simon says. Fabric rustles behind you, and you ache to be able to turn and see what he is doing. But you are more determined to prove your goodness to Johnny. “Sometimes when I work from home she keeps my cock warm at my desk.”

“Dunno how you get a goddamn thing done with her mouth around yeh.”

“Discipline.” 

“I left mine in my other pants—fuck, I’m gonna cum. Are you one of those dirty girls that swallows?” he asks. 

You nod. Simon is there suddenly, a warm presence at your shoulder as he passes Johnny the camera. Nearly wrecked, Johnny’s hands shake as he aims it down at you, looking at you through the lens. His balls draw up, cock lengthening that last little bit as he spills into your mouth. 

“Don’t swallow,” Simon says at the last moment. You whine but obey. Simon pulls you up and nearly makes you dizzy with the way he kisses you, licks into your open mouth lapping Johnny’s seed from your tongue. 

“Jesus, Mary, ‘n Joseph,” Johnny breathes, belatedly remembering to turn the camera onto you both. This will likely be the messiest video you’ve ever made transition wise, but you have a feeling that it will be your favorite. 

When the kiss ends, you swallow and pull off to open your mouth, showing Johnny—and the audience—what they want: that you’ve swallowed your portion like a good girl. 

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have cum,” Johnny laughs weakly. “We’ve barely started. I don’t want this to be over.”

“You’ll cum again,” Simon says. “But it’s time to give someone else a turn. Sitrep?”

Johnny is all grins. “All good here, sir.” 

It makes you shiver to hear Johnny call him that. You’ve heard it countless times before, but never like this. The context turns the word into something foreign, something sexy. Not to mention, you know exactly what it does to Simon. Not for the first time, you wonder if his wires didn’t get a little crossed during his time enlisted, if he didn’t learn that particular kink from hearing Johnny chirp it at him every day. 

“Good boy,” says Simon softly, reaching out to ruffle Johnny’s mohawk. Johnny bats his hand away, but it’s impossible to miss the way he flushes from the cheeks down his chest at those words. Simon sets the phone on the tripod in the corner, making minor adjustments, and then turns his eyes to you. “C’mere.”

He sets you up against the headboard, your back against his chest. He parts your thighs, reaching down to use his thumbs to spread your sex open for Johnny’s hungry gaze, for the camera’s lens. You hide your masked-face behind your hands, hips rising toward his touch, desperate for the stimulation. 

“Pent up?” Simon asks, voice rough.

A sound slips past your lips, low and needy.. 

“This what you want?” His calloused fingers ghost over your swollen clit. 

“Yes,” you mumble, voice muffled by your hands. 

“Be a good girl and you’ll get it. You know how to be a good girl?” 

“How?”

“Stay relaxed. Keep your thighs open. And don’t lie to me. Can you do that?”

You nod. Yes. Easy things. You fight to relax your body, loosening your muscles. Your hands fall to rest against Simon’s thighs, eyes cracking open to watch Johnny who has seated himself at the end of the bed out of the way of the camera’s view. When he sees you looking, he smiles, reassuring and warm. His cock, which had been soft moments ago, already looks noticeably more interested in the events taking place. 

Simon drags his fingers over your clit. You tense all over, sucking in a breath before you remember his first rule and relax, going loose and soft again. He waits, patient. The next time he strokes you, you stay malleable, and he hums deep in his chest, pleased with the progress. His hand cups your whole sex, palm huge compared to you. 

“When was the first time you ever wanted to fuck our boy over here?” Simon asks. 

You know that he can’t use Johnny’s name, not on film, but neither you nor Johnny had expected the flashbang of this term of endearment. Johnny seems to melt, his eyes going heavy-lidded at the thought of being ‘your boy’. You can’t help but feel the incredible rightness of his words. They resonate deep in your chest like the ringing of a bell, tangible down to your fingertips and toes. Johnny is yours, and he is Simon’s. 

“How long?” Simon asks again, more firmly. 

“Since—since you brought him home.”

Simon slips two fingers past your entrance as a reward for your honesty. Their thickness has you gasping, fingers scrambling for purchase against his thighs. He hums something in your ear—probably a reminder about trying to relax—and you do try, but it is hard when you ache as badly as you do. You find yourself digging your heels into the bedspread, lifting your hips to try and work his fingers deeper inside of you. He feeds them to your cunt all the way to the last knuckle. 

“How’s she feel, sir?” Johnny asks. 

“Like the only heaven the likes of us will ever know.” 

“I believe it,” Johnny sighs. “Give us a taste.” 

Simon extends his fingers and Johnny takes them onto his tongue, licking and sucking the digits clean. You’re close enough to Simon to feel his inhale, to feel the way his cock jumps where it’s pressed against your lower back. He plays at being unaffected, but Simon isn’t immune to the powers of finger-sucking. He isn’t immune to Johnny. 

Then he says: “Put that mouth to work, Johnny.” 

Johnny drops to his belly between your thighs, breath fanning across your folds. Simon has to pin your legs apart, humming when your nails dig into the skin of his forearms. They are teaming up on you, against you, and you feel so small pinned between them. 

“Dreamed of this,” Johnny sighs into your pussy. He nuzzles against you, nose brushing your slit before licking a thick stripe up your folds. He laps at the honey leaking from your entrance, broad strokes of his tongue as Simon’s fingers keep you spread open for his hungry mouth. 

Sometimes Johnny’s tongue laps over Simon’s fingers, and when it does, you feel his cock twitch against your back. It only serves to remind you how empty you feel. Your hands grip Johnny’s hair, guiding his soft mouth to your clit where he sucks and laps contentedly, and you beg for his fingers. 

He moans against you, voice vibrating through your pussy. His hips have started a slow grind against the bedspread, desperate for friction as his blue eyes find Simon’s dark ones, silently asking for permission. 

Simon nods. Johnny slips his middle-most two fingers into you, hooking them softly, searching for that spongy, textured place just inside you. It’s everything you needed, the pleasure in your belly rising to a near painful crest. Your hand scrambles to find one of Simon’s, lacing your fingers together as you burst against Johnny’s tongue, squeezing his fingers, barely remembering to keep from calling his name. 

Johnny lays his head against your inner thigh, panting. His eyes are foggy, pussy-drunk as he struggles to focus on you both, his fingers still tucked softly inside you. 

“Break,” Simon whispers, kissing your neck. He shifts out from behind you, the only one of you still fully dressed. Going to the tripod in the corner, he pauses the camera and then leaves the room.

“Great abrupt bastard, isn’t he?” Johnny asks, slipping his fingers out from inside you. He goes to lick them clean, but you stop him, bringing his hand to your own mouth and cleaning your slick from his fingers, tongue searching for your taste all the way to the webbing between his knuckles. His laugh is breathy. “You like that? Like the taste of pussy?” 

You nod, slipping your mask off briefly. 

“Need a pretty girl to play with then, not the likes of me.” 

Your hand latches around his wrist as he goes to pull away, lips turning down into a frown. “That’s not what we want. We don’t play with people. People aren’t toys to us. And we’ve never had sex with anyone else like this. You should know that from the videos.” 

“Aye,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to offend yeh, lass. I was only teasing.”

“Johnny…” 

“Yes?”

“Why’d you go away?” you ask. You know it might ruin the moment, but the curiosity is too much, an old wound with the scab picked clean off until it aches all over again. “Things seemed so good when Simon and I first got together. You were coming around all the time. Then you just…left.” 

Johnny can’t meet your eyes as he thinks back, as he remembers those days in the year after Simon first met you. When he speaks, his voice is steady. “I told yeh earlier. Couldn’t stop thinking about the two of you. Didn’t feel right to feel that way ‘bout my best mate and his best girl. And when he told me that he was gonna propose to yeh—I had two choices. Stay and watch, or run away. Maybe Simon’s right. Maybe I am a coward.”

“He told me that the two of you almost kissed once. Back during your SAS days.” 

A ghost of a smile appears on Johnny’s mouth. “Outside the Barranquilla, Columbia safehouse. I remember. I thought he would break my teeth if I tried, but Jesus, how I wanted to.”

“I think your odds were 50/50,” you say, scooting back until you are seated in Simon’s old spot, reclining against the headboard. “It started back then for you, didn’t it?” 

“Aye. I was a goner.” 

“You love him.” 

Johnny gives you a secretive smile. He presses his finger to his lips. Shh.

Simon enters the room with three water bottles and pauses, eyes flickering between you both. “The fuck were you two talking about?” 

“Nothing,” you say. “Is that water? I’m so thirsty, thank you baby.” 

“Her subtlety could use some work, LT,” Johnny says, watching as Simon goes and turns the camera back on. You hastily put your mask back in place. 

“Not her forte,” Simon admits dryly. He cracks open one of the bottles of water after tossing the last one to Johnny and drinks half of it in just a few gulps, despite having done very little so far in the scheme of things. You figured that was about to change, watching him shrug out of his shirt. 

Simon didn’t undress the way Johnny did. There wasn’t any fanfare or confidence; it was simple and efficient. You knew that Simon’s relationship with his body was a complex one. It had served him well, and he did his best to keep it healthy, but contemplating the aesthetics of it was too offensive to his palate. The scars were intense: thick punctures along his sides, the depressed, pale pucker of bullet wounds, the hard clean lines of a knife here and there. You had never minded, and judging by the way Johnny’s throat clicks when he swallows, Johnny didn’t mind either. 

“I want to fuck you,” he says. 

“Yes,” you agree. Fingers had been excellent, but nothing could compare to Simon’s cock. 

He shakes his head. “Not you. Him.” 

You turn your gaze on Johnny whose eyes are avidly watching Simon unfasten his jeans. He pushes them down over his thick thighs and reveals he’s not wearing any underwear beneath, his cock half-hard and rosy. He wraps his fist around it, jerking himself to full stiffness with a perfunctory touch, not at all interested in the show he is putting on for you both. 

“Can you take him, Johnny?” you tease. 

“I’ll die trying, thanks very much.” 

“I hope not,” is all Simon says, going to the bench at the end of the bed and retrieving the lube. He asks: “Condom?”

“Not necessary,” Johnny says, breaths coming faster now. You put your hand on his ankle, remembering the way he had touched you there on Christmas, stroking the bone softly. He glances to you and grins, and you see that what you mistook for nerves is actually excitement. He puts his hand over your own, squeezing. “Are you going to feel left out, lass?” 

“Terribly.” 

“If you last the whole time,” says Simon, holding the lube up to the light to see how empty it is. “I’ll let you fuck her when I’m finished with you.” 

“Jesus,” Johnny laughs weakly. “Can’t argue with that. Throw me that and I’ll get myself ready.” 

“I can do it,” says Simon, seating himself on the edge of the bed. Johnny shifts into a better position, feet flat on the bed, knees toward the ceiling. For a long time, Simon just looks at him: his silly hair, the odd scar here and there, his half hard cock. Deftly, he opens the cap on the lube and slicks two fingers while you come to kneel on the other side of Johnny, eager for a show. 

“Camera, love,” Simon reminds you, fingers searching between Johnny’s legs. Judging by the way Johnny’s jaw goes tight, he’s found what he’s looking for. You shift, glancing over your shoulder to make sure you are out of the camera’s point of view. Reaching down, you trail your fingertips gently over Johnny’s cock. Simon says: “Been a while?” 

“You could say that,” Johnny says, mouth falling open in a silent moan as Simon works him open. You’ve been on the receiving end of Simon’s ministrations; you know his patience can be near painful. Johnny learns it the hard way when Simon pauses twice to lube his fingers, until even the soft thrusts he gives into Johnny’s ass fill the room with the sound of sex. 

You play with his cock absently, enjoying being the tormentor instead of the tormented for once. Johnny’s silent breaths turn to heavy pants and then needy groans, foreskin pulling back to reveal the sensitive head as he grows in your palm thanks to Simon’s fingers playing inside him. His heels slip against the bedspread as he searches for the angles that suit him best, and he chokes when he finds them.

“Please, I’m ready,” Johnny says, fingers wrapping around Simon’s wrist. Simon lets him pull his fingers free and reaches for the lube again, this time to slick his cock. 

“Any preference for how I take you?” he asks mildly, like one might ask, How do you take your tea? One sugar please and thank you. 

“None, so long as your cock’s inside me,” Johnny grits out. 

“This’ll do,” says Simon, bullying his way between Johnny’s spread thighs. It takes a few pillows beneath his hips before he’s at the right height for Simon’s cock to notch against his entrance, and then you watch with rapt attention as Johnny’s body seems to blossom to welcome in Simon’s cock, a surplus of lubricant easing the way. 

Johnny flinches. 

“Easy,” says Simon, stilling. “Relax.” 

You curl up at Johnny’s side, slipping beneath one of his arms and cuddling against him. Your nervous fingers find one of his nipples and toy with it softly, kissing at his shoulder while you murmur words of encouragement to him. 

Johnny laughs weakly. “Don’t need all that, lass, but thank yeh.” 

“Wish I had someone cheering me on the first time I took Simon’s cock,” you admit. 

Simon frowns. “I was cheering you on.” 

“Less talking please, more fucking,” Johnny says, lips upturned. His body relaxes and Simon sinks the rest of the way inside him, all the way to the fucking hilt, deeper than you can ever take him in your cunt. It thrills you and makes you envious all at once. You pinch Johnny’s nipple, forcing a quiet gasp out of his throat. 

Simon looks good—strong. Unaffected. But you know him better. His brow is lower than ever, eyes closed as he centers himself. His breaths come so evenly that you know he must be counting them—four seconds in, four seconds out. His fingertips have sunk into the meat of Johnny’s thighs, gripping him tightly, as if to keep him from squirming away, or to keep him from squirming at all. 

“You solid?” Simon asks him. 

“Affirm,” Johnny breathes. “Go slow.” 

Famous last words—Simon withdraws with painstaking care, until just his head lingers inside Johnny’s body. He sinks back in at the most leisurely pace you’ve ever seen, thrusts smooth and deep as his thighs brush against Johnny’s ass. It takes no time at all for Johnny to regret those words, one of his hands laced with yours and the other twisting in the bedsheets as he begs Simon to move faster. 

And Simon can only take so much teasing himself, really. He’s human too. 

His hips snap into the open cradle of Johnny’s thighs. Johnny cries out, cock jerking where it lays hard and leaking against his belly. You lean up onto one elbow so that you can watch his pretty face contort: brow furrowing, mouth falling open. 

“Not going to cum, right?” you ask him slyly. 

He shakes his head. 

You glance down at his cock doubtfully. Simon, overhearing your words, takes that as a personal challenge, drilling into Johnny with a single-mindedness that is admirable to see and terrible to be on the receiving end of all in one. 

Suddenly tears overflow from Johnny’s eyes, dripping down toward his temples. You sit up in alarm as he lifts his hands but he just palms at his eyes, laughing. Simon slows, stops. He reaches down to pry Johnny’s hands away and then kisses him, something soft and sweet. Johnny’s hands shake as he reaches up to thread his fingers through Simon’s hair, tugging him closer.

Your heart feels liable to burst. You remember Johnny’s finger pressed to his lips, that universal sign. Shh. 

“He’s alright,” Simon says, not unkindly. “Aren’t you?”

Johnny croaks an affirmative.

After that, it is less fucking and more making love; there’s nothing else to call in. Simon pins Johnny’s wrists to the bed just to feel like he’s still in control, but his thrusts are syrupy slow, not fully withdrawing, seeking to remain as close to Johnny as he can for as long as possible. You stroke one of Johnny’s palms and Simon lets it free so that you can hold it, your fingers lacing together in a way that is foreign yes, but comfortable. 

“You’ve been a good boy for me, Johnny,” Simon says. 

“Don’t say that,” Johnny groans, turning his head away, flushed pink. 

“It’s true. Know how to be an even better boy?” 

Johnny is intrigued. Being a good boy is suddenly beneath him; now he wants to be the best boy. Looking at Simon through his lashes, he asks: “How’s that?” 

“Cum on my cock.” 

“Don’t do it Johnny,” you whine. “It’s a trap.” 

Simon laughs. He kneels back onto his haunches, dragging Johnny’s body along with him, and reaches for the other man’s cock, working it over in his fist. Johnny nearly howls, kept on the edge so long that to see the bottom of the cliffside is to know the promise of pain. He doesn’t know whether to grind his hips deeper against Simon’s cock or to chase the heat of his hand. 

“Close,” he groans. 

“Go on. Pretty abs like this—make a mess on ‘em.” 

Johnny does, pearlescent seed dripping from between Simon’s fingers as he milks Johnny for every last drop. Only then does he begin thrusting again, fast and hard, searching for his own end. Not a handful of thrusts later and he goes sloppy, breath punched from his lungs as he spills inside Johnny. 

“You promised me a cock to ride,” you say. 

“Couldn’t be helped, lass,” Johnny says with a dopey, lovesick smile. You hum. 

“We’ll just have to get you hard again, won’t we?” you ask, wrapping your fingers around his softening cock. 

-

That night, the bed is full. Johnny and you are entwined, legs and arms wrapped around each other creating an endless feedback of heat that Simon was careful not to be swept away in, too focused on his mission to allow for any mistakes. He makes no sound as he slips out of bed. He stops by the tripod in the corner and takes his phone out into the living room, turning the sound down so low that he has to hold the speaker close to his ear to hear it, lest he wake Johnny. 

He listens to you and Johnny talk while he was gone, when you believed the camera to be off. He plays it again, watching just the video. By the time he’s returned in the video, Simon’s chest feels full of pressure, like something is inside him trying to crawl its way out. Love. What does Simon Riley know about love? 

Well, he knows one thing. 

Except maybe now he knows two.

He deletes the video and goes back to bed. 

[blindmagdalena]

i keep seeing that tiktok trend with people and their partners moon phases completing each other or not. and it made me think about how Homelander would react to astrology and such…

he’s definitely the type to not believe in it, unless his and his s/o are supposed to be compatible. i can see the smug grin on his face as he says…

“see babe, what’d i tell you? match made in heaven”

OR even worse - they aren’t compatible. and he’s definitely not bothered about it, because “it’s not even real” 😭

LMAO no you're so right for this. he would be the type to be very vocal about how he puts zero stock in things like horoscope compatibility, but he still goes, "Well? What's ours?" once you figure out his birthday.

if it's good news he claps and points like you won a contest. "Lookit that, perfect match." congrats, you got good grades in being a couple.

if it's bad news he scoffs and tells you it's all stupid and you shouldn't look at that stuff and it doesn't mean anything. he takes your phone and closes the tab before putting it back in your hands. don't ever look at that stuff again because it's bullshit. and then he needs a whole lot of physical reassurance that you're not going to leave him because of his astrological sign.

[buckgasms]

I have an idea that ik you’ll EXECUTE PERFECTLY

Mafia!Bucky is in his office at home dealing with some kind of work and his princess comes in wanting to play, and when he gets a phone call she takes that as her opportunity to make him watch her 🙈🙈

✨Bestie✨

I once did a BDSM test thing online and I rated 100% brat and I was like "pffft that ain't me, I'm an angel" but, when you send me messages like this I think "yeah I get it now..."

Anyhooooooo 👀

Thank you for messaging me, you are perfect ❤️

Lookit him working so hard 🥹

So you're sitting outside Bucky's office, and you've been sitting there for twenty whole minutes!!! You poor baby!

You've been waiting for Bucky to stop talking on the phone which feels like it's been going on all morning! You fiddle with the skirt of your pretty lacy babydoll outfit and pout to yourself when you finally hear his voice say "Ok... Goodbye" and the phone clicks.

You scramble to your feet and tap on the door before walking straight in with a big smile on your face. His eyes brighten with a smile when he sees you, then slightly darken when he takes in your outfit.

"Hi Princess" he growls before patting his lap and you skip over to him and plant yourself down. "Hello" you say excitedly as you boop your nose against his. "Been waiting outside for aaaages Daddy" you pout as he rubs his hands over your thighs and squeezes.

"Oh I'm sorry princess... Shall I make it up to you?" He grins against your skin before capturing your lips in a kiss and adjusting you to grind on his thigh. You giggle between kisses and press yourself down a little. A soft 'ah' slips from your lips and he chuckles, pulling a strap off your shoulder and kissing your skin.

"Is my princess sensitive? You gonna come just like that babygirl?" You shake your head, not wanting that just yet. You waited all morning for this, you wanted to get the whole daddy treatment.

Just as you were telling Bucky this, his phone starts ringing. You whine again and have a little strop in his lap. "Hey, hey don't be like that baby" he says reaching for the phone, "I can still take care of my princess..." He chuckles as you climb off his lap and huff around the office as he takes his call.

It's not right you thought to yourself as he chatted to someone, eyes flicking to you every so often. You've been waiting so patiently, and sweetly and you look so pretty! How dare he answer that phone!

It was then you decided to take matters into your own hands. Quite literally. You plonked yourself down in the armchair on the other side of the desk. He smiled at you before taking a note on the pad in front of him and you smiled back sweetly.

You rolled your straps off your shoulders completely, and let your breasts free. His eyes immediately shot to you with a tense look on his face. You smiled again as your hands started playing with your nipples, squeezing and rolling them between your fingers.

After teasing him like that for a bit you stood and dropped the rest of your clothing to the floor before sitting back in your chair. You giggled quietly as you watched him unzip his jeans and pull his cock out of his boxers. In fact you moaned quite loudly when you saw it, imagining how good it must taste and how heavy it would feel on your tongue.

You propped your feet up on his desk so he had a direct view of your glistening heat. He huffed out as your fingers spread your lips apart before assuring whoever was on the other end of the line that he was fine.

You didn't bother being as restrained, gasping and mewling as your fingers circled your clit before sinking into your needy hole. Your head felt heavy as you struggled to keep your focus on him, but you were satisfied watching him pump his dick in tandem with your own shaky hands.

"Daddyyyy" you whimpered as your orgasm danced just out of reach, unable to truly reach what you needed without his influence. He put his free hand over the receiver and whispered, "Faster babygirl..."

You nodded and pumped your fingers as fast as you could and your head fell backwards for a brief moment as your pretty moans filled the room. He clicked his fingers and mouthed, "eyes on me" which sent a pulse of pleasure and submission to your head and pussy. You could feel your hand drenched in slick, hear your pussy as you did your best to fuck yourself and keep your eyes on him.

You whined out at he growled on the other side of the desk. "Please daddy.... Please you do it" you begged him and he finally told the person on the phone, "let's talk tomorrow" before slamming the handset down.

You managed to launch yourself over the table, and wrap your arms around his neck before you both crashed your lips together in a crazy kiss. "Such a naughty girl" he growled before pushing you to lay back on the table. "Can't wait daddy...please" you begged as he rubbed his cock against your folds. "Its ok now baby... Daddy's gotcha...gonna take good care of my princess..."

You let out something between as gasp and a giggle as he sunk into you, filling you all the way to the brim. He groaned out long and deep as he bottomed out, before setting a hard and fast pace that made your whole body shake and the desk beneath you shudder.

His hands came to rest either side of your head and his face levelled with yours. "Y'know I'm gonna have to punish you for that don't you babygirl?" You nodded and giggled as your arms wrapped around his. He chuckled as he leaned down to press a kiss to your lips, "but I cannot...fuck....I can't resist this perfect cunt princess.... Just takes me so damn well."

You wailed as he finally dragged you over the edge and squeezed him so tightly he let out a long groan of his own. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss, trailing your fingers down his back before he pulled you up and back into his lap.

You sat there just recovering and nuzzling with him for a moment before you were met with a pair of steel blue eyes. You moaned and hid your face in his neck.

"I didn't mean it daddy" you giggled and finally met his gaze with your best puppy dog eyes, pressing your boobs against him and wiggling your bottom against his thigh.

"You think you're the first person to try and bargain your way outta punishment from me?" You giggled and cupped his bearded face in your soft hands. "Umm no, but I bet I'm the prettiest one..."

Even he can't help but laugh at that one....

[the-auguer]

The Forbidden Book of… Uh, Forbiddeness

Normal forbidden book mishaps lead to Mammon getting hallucination whammied into his ultimate dream world.

cw: suggestive

Dull, throbbing pain laced up Mammon’s leg, his body jerking back in an attempt to counterbalance its precarious tip forward. 

“What the hell, Satan!” Mammon barks, kicking vengefully at the book stack that had violated him so carelessly. It toppled so very satisfyingly. Stupid Satan and his stupid room with his stupid book stacks that are just lying around, waiting to be tripped over. 

“Do not,” Satan intones in that dangerous way he’s perfected over the centuries, “kick my books.”

Mammon scowls back at him. Wrathful or not, Mammon is the second born, Mammon is the big brother, and Mammon is the one helping Satan out of the kindness of his heart. 

You stumble over your own deadly pile of books, kicking a few over as you reorient yourself. You crouch to stack them, glancing over your shoulder sheepishly. “My bad, Satan.”

Okay, so maybe it’s not exactly out of the kindness of Mammon’s heart that he’s here. But he couldn’t just leave you alone in the damn snake’s den!

Satan grunts, waving his hand at you. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey! Why do they get a pass and I don’t?” Mammon yells across Satan’s room. “Here I am, helpin’ you like you asked—”

“You’re only helping because they are,” Satan cuts Mammon off, dry and slightly amused. Like the bastard knows something Mammon doesn’t. Ugh.

Mammon’s mouth gapes open in offense. “What! You don’t know a damn thing, you… you…!”

“‘You’ what?” Satan asks, creeping closer to Mammon.

Mammon rears up, ready, but you call out from the distant side of the room.

“Do you think it’ll be in this section?”

Satan’s leer melts right off, turning contemplative. “That depends. Are you in the history or the practical leather work section?”

“Uhhh, neither?” You duck further into the dusty shelves from your crouch. “This looks like… demonic industrial psychology?”

Satan snaps his fingers and begins to walk over. “Yes, actually, it should be a shelf over from there.”

“Okay.” You lift yourself up off the floor, brushing the dust out of your hair. “Ick. Will it be to the right or left?”

Satan’s confident stride to the shelf falters. 

Mammon cackles. “Lookit you! You don’t even know where it is.”

Satan’s brows draw back down his face immediately.

“It would be a lot easier to find anything if someone hadn’t wrecked my room like a moron!” 

“I dunno why you’re yellin’ at me!” Mammon shouts back. “I didn’t do anythin’!”

“You ate Beel’s sandwich.” Satan says. “Again.”

“I dunno why you’re bringing that back up,” Mammon sulks. “It’s not my fault he went on a rampage over a stupid sandwich. Besides, that happened months ago.”

“It’s been two weeks and my room is still a mess.”

“I don’t see any difference.”

“Why you—“

Satan steps towards Mammon.

“Satan,” you call. “Still needing those directions.”

You’ve leaned yourself against a wall, like you don’t really care about all the shouting Mammon and Satan are doing. Hell, maybe you really don’t. Mammon knows that he himself does a lot of the shouting. Maybe you’re used to it. 

Maybe you like it. 

“Ah,” Satan says. “Yes.”

He stares at the wall, considering. 

“Maybe to the right?” He does not sound sure. 

You laugh. Just a little. Mammon finds himself leaning towards you, even though you’re ten feet away. 

“I’ll take left and you take right?” You suggest to Satan.

Mammon nods. “I’ll go left with ya!”

Satan sighs. “Sure.”

Mammon bounds over to stand next to you. You quirk a smile at him. A nice, small one. Like there’s still a bit of a laugh caught in your mouth. Mammon wants… he wants…

“I’ll look low if you’ll look high.”

Mammon startles, but recovers just as quickly. “Leave it to the Great Mammon!”

He cranes his neck, squinting at the ceiling height shelves that make up Satan’s walls, only just able to read the titles embossed on the spines of the books. 

“Hey,” Mammon says, “what’re we looking for again?”

That half of a laugh falls from your mouth again. “Only you, Mammon, I swear.” 

“There is only one Mammon,” Mammon says seriously. It makes you huff again. 

“We’re looking for Satan’s cursed cookbook.”

“Oh yeah! Hey, Satan, what’re you making for dinner?”

“Nothing if I can’t find my cookbook,” Satan says tersely.

“Eh? Just use your D.D.D. for recipes like everyone else.”

“No.” Satan replies, rifling through a mid-level shelf. 

“Why?”

“Because it’s not right. My Cursed Demon Cuisine Cookbook has every recipe a demon could need, and it already has my adjustments written in it. It’s irreplaceable. I will never cook without it.”

“Yeesh, alright.”

Mammon squints at the shelves again. Something something Demonic Animal Acupuncture , some fancy cursive that Mammon doesn’t care to make horns or tails of, Forbidden Fruits of the Demonic Realm , something something Skewering Techniques , something Demon Cuisine something, some book without a title, Practical Woodwork in Relation to Leather Work , and Demonic Tree Species and their Habitats . 

Damn, Satan really had a line up of bores in his room. Nothing interesting, like mechanic books or something. How to Win Big Fast , that’s Mammon’s kind of book.

Nothing like… hmm. 

“What’d you say the book title was?”

Satan snorts dismissively. His search has been completely halted, as he has immersed himself into hunching over a different book.

You glance up, raking your hair out of your face with your hand as you do so. You need a haircut, something Asmo has been bemoaning all week. Mammon’s mouth is dry. 

“ Cursed Demon Cuisine Cookbook , I think.”

Mammon whips his head up. “I think I found it.”

You draw yourself up from the floor. “Really? Where?”

Mammon points. “Fourth shelf down, kinda on the right.”

You hum, eyes nearly in slits from how hard you’re having to squint to see that far. Your nose is scrunched. Your brows too. You’re really… you look so… Mammon wants to poke your nose. 

“Oh, I think that is it!”

Mammon’s chest puffs. 

“What’d I tell ya? Leave it to the Great Mammon, the best of the best.”

You pat his chest. “You did great Mammon.”

Cheeks suddenly hot, Mammon looks back up the shelf. “O-of cou-course. Let me… I’ll get it down!”

“How?” You ask. “It’s pretty high up there.”

“Oh, sad little human. I can get that book down with my eyes closed.” Mammon replies, shaking out his hands and then his legs. “Never underestimate Mammon!”

“Right… and you’re going to…”

Mammon jumps, his eyes truly closed. 

“Mammon!”

Laughing, Mammon stretches out his hand. At the peak of his jump, he brushes against the spine of a book. He snatches it, certain he’s correctly judged how high he’d needed to jump. 

As gravity begins to pull at his body, Mammon grins. You’ll be so impressed with him, once he lands. He’ll be perfectly balanced, practically bouncing on his toes, with the book in his hands in one fell swoop. You’ll tell him how great he is. How powerful and cool. And you’ll… You’ll. 

You’ll what?

Mammon hits the ground, his knees stock straight and unprepared. He stumbles, arms pinwheeling, before finally regaining his balance. That was close. 

He holds the book over his head. “A-HA! Victory is Mammon’s!”

Satan has finally pulled his nose out of his book and made his way to stand next to you. Mammon lowers the book to show it to him. 

Satan sighs. “Mammon, that’s not my cookbook.”

“Whaddaya mean it’s not your cookbook? We saw it for sure—” Mammon glances down. “Damn it!”

It was the stupid no title book that was right next to the cookbook. Mammon had been so close. His jump was perfect, even if his landing wasn’t. If he had only been a little to the left he would have gotten the right book!

“Don’t worry Mammon,” you say. “You still found it. All we have to do is get it down.”

Mammon grumbles. “Stupid no-title book.”

“Did you say no title?” Satan’s voice is sharp. 

“Yeah,” Mammon replies. What’s all the fuss about leather bound, unmarked books anyway? Mammon has a few paperbacks in his room, and they don’t look nearly as namby-pamby as this stupid thing. Mammon cracks the book open. 

“Mammon,” Satan warns. “Do not open that.”

Oh-ho? Is it Satan’s diary? Mammon bets it is. Well, it’s not like Satan should have anything too embarrassing in here. It’s probably all just ranting about how much he hates Lucifer. It wouldn’t hurt if Mammon had a little peek. 

Maybe he can tell you about it later. If it’s funny, of course. You might not laugh, though. Oh well. 

Mammon pulls it the rest of the way open. 

“Mammon!”

The only thing Mammon really remembered with any clarity was how strange it felt to have his knees buckle underneath him. 

“Mammon!” His face isn’t pale, or even really stricken with pain, but your hands hesitate over him all the same. What if you make whatever this is worse? What if you hurt him?

Satan sighs. “Idiot. I told him not to open that book.”

You turn to Satan. He seems twice as tall from where you kneel next to Mammon, but you’re not phased. 

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He opened the Forbidden Book of…” Satan delicately flips the fallen book closed with his shoe. It has no title, just a symbol you can’t decipher. “The Forbidden Book of Dreams.”

Your brows furrow in confusion. “Aren’t your forbidden book titles usually a little more on the nose than that?”

Satan shivered, likely reminded of the body-switching debacle. “Yes, you are right. However, I have acquired some forbidden books that follow different rules. I never really got around to experimenting with this one. Maybe it activated because—”

“Stop,” you say. “We can talk about that later. Right now…” 

Mammon looks strange, lying limp on the floor. Even in sleep, he should be restless. Muttering and rolling and kicking. Instead his only movement is the rise and fall of his chest. 

You feel wretched just looking at him. 

“We need to get him somewhere more comfortable.”

Mammon blinks out of his haze, rather confused. It’s not often he can’t remember when he walked into a casino. 

This casino seems different, too. At least, Mammon hasn’t been in it before. The walls are covered in a golden sheen, with high arcing ceilings where gleaming demonic crystal chandlers hang. The carpet is a warm, lush red, with dozens of gambling tables full of patrons scatter across the room. The dealer at his table is one of those four armed demons that Mammon loves and hates. Loves because of how quick the next hand is shuffled passed out. Hates because the extra hands make it much harder to identify the cards Mammon’s opponents receive. Glancing down at his hand of cards, Mammon conceals a devilish grin. Poker. Mammon is awesome at poker. And his cards… his cards are good. Really good. 

And he has a lot of chips. Mammon’s neck cranes with how much his head has to tip in order to see the end of his chips. 

Mammon hasn’t had good prospects like this is a while. Ever since that whole thing with the witches and Lucifer cutting him off, Mammon hasn’t had enough money to bet to win big like this. He can feel his mouth watering.

“Hey, Mammon? Where are you looking?”

The chips, as numerous and shiny as they are, quickly loose all meaning to Mammon.

It’s you. Sitting in the chair next to him. You’re glittering, draped in all sorts of gold accessories and jewels. If Mammon dips his eyes, he can see a discarded pile of tributes at your feet. Defective. Not nearly pretty enough to grace your body. 

You’re wearing yellow. It’s not a color Mammon usually sees you in. It’s lovely. You look… you look so…

A hand feathers through Mammon’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. It makes Mammon shiver all the way down to his toes. 

“Much better.” Your smile brings heat to Mammon’s chest. “I like it when you look at me like that.”

“Li-like what, st-stupid human?” Mammon splutters. 

The hand in his hair tugs. Not enough to hurt but just enough to reprimand.

“I don’t like being called that.” You’re… you’re frowning at him. A little bit. Mammon’s mouth is dry. 

“S-sor-sorry.” Mammon replies lamely, his tongue sluggish in his mouth. 

“Hmm,” you release his head and Mammon does his best to not chase after your hand. “Good enough, I guess. Your turn, then.”

Mammon turns to the table. His opponents’ piles of chips look pitiful next to his own. They watch him apprehensively. 

You’re watching him too, a half smile lazily curling about your face. “Go on. Win me a bracelet this time.” You show your wrists, both already heavy with bangles of all sorts, of diamond and gold and ruby. Your left wrist looks a bit more full than your right. Mammon finds his mouth is no longer dry anymore. He has a little too much saliva, now. “I don’t want an uneven amount. I’m sure the Great Mammon, Avatar of Greed, can fix that for me.”

“Yea-yeah! You bet!”

Mammon turns his head back to the table. The demon in green is looking pretty poor on chips and he has a very, very nice gold watch on his arm. Unbidden, a smirk crawls up Mammon’s cheeks. 

You huff out a quiet laugh. 

“I’m all in!”

There seems to be an unbearable pain in Lucifer’s head, what with how hard he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. You feel a bit embarrassed, because, yes, Lucifer only left the house for a few hours and there’s another crisis. Satan, Belphegor, and you stand in a semi-circle around Mammon’s bed. 

“Belphie, what does he look like?” Lucifer rasps, only just holding onto his sanity. 

Belphegor leans over Mammon, a discerning look in his eyes. He sighs. 

“He’s in there. Just dreaming.”

All of the air that was stuck in your lungs releases. Breathing is so much easier now. 

“Can you get him out,” you ask. Your hands flex, aching to clamp around Mammon’s hand. His hands are always warm, though. You’re a little afraid that they’ll be cold. 

Belphegor see-saws his hand. “Yes and no. I can go in and try, but the Forbidden Book will have its own conditions for Mammon to wake up.”

You turn to Satan, who is very carefully leafing through the book with oven mitts on. 

Satan grunts, turning a page. “Still looking. I found the activation requirements, though. It says in this passage that for the curse to work, a demon must be a ‘warrior at heart’ and ‘dreaming of something dear to their heart’ so that the dream world can be constructed accordingly.”

In your mind’s eye, you see Mammon’s wide grin as he opens the book.

”A warrior?” Belphie scoffs. “Mammon hasn’t done anything special in centuries.”

Lucifer makes a skeptical noise. “Inaction does not invalidate the claim to the title. Mammon… has always been one of a kind.”

“That’s true enough, I suppose. What do you mean ‘constructed’?” Belphegor asks, one hand placed carefully on Mammon’s forehead. 

“Just that,” Satan replies. “It takes the dreams of the demon and makes a world that they’ll never want to leave. Quite fascinating, really. This was crafted to be a trial for warriors, to test if they would truly be able to turn from their inherent sin and serve their greater demon lord. When I saw it up for auction on Akuzon, I had to have it. Shame about the situation, though.”

Satan did not sound too disappointed. 

“You mean he can wake up on his own?” Lucifer says. 

Satan shrugs. “I still haven’t found the actual chapter for it, but in theory, yes. He just has to have the willpower to turn away from his own sin.”

An uneasy feeling roils in your stomach. Turning away from your sin might be hard for regular, low-level demons, but an Avatar of Sin like Mammon…

The others seem to feel similarly. 

Lucifer turns to Belphegor. “How likely is it that you can get him out, Belphie?” 

“Pretty likely.” Belphegor replies, hand smoothing over Mammon’s cheek to his pulse. “Sleep is in my domain, so dreams also fall in by association, and I’m not sensing any kind of power that would overrule my own. The thing is, I don’t know if the curse will retaliate if I interfere. Could be that Mammon can never go a night without a nightmare or something equally awful. That sort of thing would take a lot of time to reverse.”

“Wouldn’t there be a failsafe if it was a warriors’ trial?” You ask. 

Satan shakes his head. “This particular demon tribe did not believe in failsafes. If you didn’t have the discipline to resurface on your own, you didn’t resurface at all.”

“Will he die? If he doesn’t resurface?”

“No,” Lucifer assures, his voice firm in a way that gives you a little bit of relief. “Mammon is an Avatar, so he won’t die. Besides, Belphie will get him out, if he can’t on his own. We’ll deal with whatever comes after.”

“How long will we wait, then?”

Lucifer looks to Belphegor. 

Belphegor yawns, likely exhausted by the serious atmosphere. “Two days or so, maybe?”

“The longest recorded coma was seven months, sixteen days, and eleven hours.” Satan pipes up.

“A week, then.” Belphie amends.

Lucifer nods. “In the meantime, I expect everyone to attend their classes as they usually would. I will talk to Diavolo.”

You nod, your eyes fixed on Mammon. 

Hopefully it won’t take more than a week. 

“ALL RIGHT! EVERYONE BOW DOWN TO THE GREAT MAMMON!”

All demons of all sins could only oblige, as Mammon had taken every valuable on the table. And a few off of it, too.

You laugh. It’s not that soft breath but an honest guffaw that has you shaking in your seat. You’re dripping in luxury, your ornaments doubled in number and rarity, a bigger heap of offerings at your slippered feet. It’s still not enough. Mammon wants… Mammon wants to see you in a crown. Maybe a crown of ruby, to compliment the yellow you’re wearing. Maybe one of emeralds. A mighty, tall crown worth more than the entire casino they sit in. 

Fingers whisper under Mammon’s chin as you tip his head towards you. So many necklaces of different kinds dangle from your neck, but not a choker. Mammon wonders why. He likes the look of them, how they emphasize the muscles or the graceful column or the lovely plump of a demon’s neck. 

You smile like you know what he’s thinking. “I saved something for you.” 

It’s leather or something like it, which isn’t strange for the demon world. It has a huge sapphire embedded in gold hanging from the middle. You turn his chair to face yours, your knees touching his, and fasten it around his throat. It’s tight, tight enough that he feels it constrict slightly as he swallows. 

“There we are. It looks better on you, anyway.”

“Of co-course it do-does. Everythin’ looks better on me.”

“Careful.” You say. You take hold of his chin again. Mammon’s world narrows down to your fingers and your eyes. “I might get upset if you keep being mean to me.”

The world is dizzy. Was he… was he really being mean? He always talks to you a bit like that, but he never thought that you would… that he would upset you. 

Your brows ease from their furrow. “Don’t worry, Mammon. You didn’t upset me. I was playing.”

Your fingers begin to withdraw. Mammon clutches your wrist. 

“Don’t stop.” Mammon nearly whines. “I didn’t say ya should stop.”

You smile at him. Mammon feels the choker against his throat as he swallows. 

“I won’t, Mammon, don’t worry.” You lean in, the hand Mammon’s holding moving to cup his jaw and the other going to the poker table behind him. Every demon’s eyes are on you. On your wealth, on your magnificence, on your daring. On your lips, skimming across Mammon’s cheek to his  earlobe. 

The the back of the chair that Mammon sits in is the only thing keeping him upright. He feels like he’s trembling apart at the seams, lightheaded with how close you are.

“Hey,” you whisper to him, your lips brushing his ear. Mammon is about to morph into his demon form, if only to loose some of the excess heat that is blazing across every inch of his skin. 

“Yeah?” Mammon rasps back. 

You stand between his splayed open legs, so close you’re practically in his lap. You lean away from his ear, both a relief and a loss. He feels set aflame by your very breath. 

“Let’s go play something else.”

Mammon glances over. Other demons are beginning to crowd the table, raring to play a game of poker, but wary of the Avatar of Greed and his winning streak. 

“What should we play?” Mammon asks. He knows a bit of what he wants, but you could want something else. And if it makes you keep smiling at him like that…

“Anything,” you murmur. “As long as you take everything they’ve got. I want to walk out tripping over money.”

Shit. Shit.  

Mammon feels heat suffuse his body with vengeance. His head lolls back to rest at the top of his chair. 

You huff— Mammon can feel your breath ghost along his cheek— and run a finger down Mammon’s throat, gliding across the choker and ending at his collar bone. 

Mammon’s back quivers, curling up off of the plush cushion of his seat. His breath is leaving him fast, and he can barely inhale enough to keep up with the demand for oxygen. 

You straighten, the heat of your body retreating with you, leaving Mammon all but limp in his chair. 

The ceiling is nice. Has Mammon mentioned how nice the ceiling is? Very high, very pretty. Gold and red, just like everything else in the casino. 

“Where are we going, Mammon?”

Mammon exhales. You want everything off of every demon. All of it. Mammon wants to give it to you. Wants to so very bad. 

He stands. “Let’s go play some craps.” 

Asmodeus drapes his torso dramatically over the table. 

“It’s not fair. Why does Mammon get to sleep through school with his deepest desires?”

“Careful,” you mutter ruefully, picking at your breakfast. You can’t really help how bitter your voice is. Someone has brought up this same topic at every meal. “You sound like Levi right now.”

“It’s true,” Levi bemoans, crossing his arms, “why does he get to live out his ultimate dream and I don’t? Mammon is probably wasting this opportunity on counting Grimm when I could be saving the world with my precious Ruri-chan! Shaking hands with Henry! Playing a real life RPG! How could Lucifer lock away my golden ticket to paradise? I would give anything, even my limited edition Double Bubble Ruri-chan: Disco Era Funtime doll!”

You put down your fork, frustration killing your appetite. You haven’t talked to Mammon in two days. By the time school is over, it’ll be three days. He’ll be in the same realm, in the same house even, and you still won’t be able to talk to him. It makes you nauseous. 

You don’t blame the others. To them, this is a temporary situation that Mammon will awaken from anyway, so why not be jealous of it? But to you… 

You miss Mammon. That’s all there is to it. 

Beel stares at your plate. You push it towards him. He drools over it, but turns away. 

“You should eat more,” Beel grits out with difficulty. “Eating is good for you.”

You reach down for the backpack at your feet. “Don’t worry, Beel. I’m not hungry, so I’m going to start heading to RAD.”

Beel does not wait for a second confirmation. He digs into your plate dutifully. He’s been eating a bit more than usual, you think. He’s probably anxious. You make sure to pat him on the shoulder on your way out. 

As you walk out the door, you hear Asmodeus’s voice, loud in his laughter. 

“Counting Grimm, Levi? Oh please. Mammon is probably in some casino with them blowing on his dice for luck. Maybe blowing something else, too, the lucky bastard.”

Hot breath fans gently over Mammon’s knuckles, and Mammon feels his cheeks heat at your dipped head. You rise, and Mammon rolls his dice. Eleven. Just what he needed.

Your arm winds around his shoulders as he cackles and collects his winnings of this round. Mammon is on a winning streak a mile wide, with his opponents in tears. 

“You’re lucky,” Mammon announces to you, to the casino, to the world. “I’ll take ya to any casino, anywhere.”

“Really?” You ask, your arm a band around Mammon’s chest. 

“Hell yeah, baby! Did ya see me? I won every game!”

You still, and Mammon stills with you. 

His face flushes. He considers backpedaling. Calling you a stupid human, saying that you should be grateful he wants to take you anywhere. But… you said it could make you upset. 

“Mammon. Mammon, look at me.”

Reluctantly he turns to look at you. 

Your cheeks are pink and your smile is kind. You lean your forehead against his. 

“I like that,” you tell him tenderly. “Say it again?”

Mammon murmurs something or another that he himself did not hear. 

“Please Mammon?” Your hands smooth over his shoulders. “Mammon?”

“Baby,” Mammon whispers, unsure. 

He has only a second to doubt himself before your lips drag across his collarbone. Mammon’s hands rise to brush against your waist, uncertain. Then your lips move just a little and bite down and all Mammon can do is hold onto you like a lifeline. He would shout, but something about the way that your teeth felt… it was… weird. Dry and not at all tingly. Maybe Mammon didn’t like biting? But…

“Hey, Mammon?” Your voice is breathy, like you ran a mile. 

“Yeah?” 

“Wanna get out of here?”

More than anything. “Sure, baby.”

Mammon gets a Little D to cash out all his chips and another to carry the excess wealth to the car. He wasn’t sure if he actually had a car here, but he could improvise. Maybe trade a few hundred thousand Grimm for a real nice car. 

But he takes you to the parking lot and there it is. His red convertible, top already down. The one he he’s been wanting to take you on joy rides in. You climb in like it’s no big deal. 

Swallowing, Mammon climbs in the drivers’ side. 

“Where to?” Mammon asks, unsure himself. If they go back to the House of Lamentation, Lucifer is sure to ream him out about gambling again. Mammon is in too good of a mood for it to be spoiled by Lucifer’s endless nagging. 

You tip your head back to rest on the shoulder of the headrest. 

“Anywhere. As long as you’re driving.”

Mammon laughs nervously, and puts the car in reverse. Anywhere. Anywhere at all. 

Mammon drives to the edge of the sea. On the beach. 

You sigh as the beach breeze moves through the car. Then you sit up to look at him. 

“Is there anyone around?”

“I, uh,” Mammon swivels his head, searching. Strangely enough, there’s no sign of any other demons on this beach. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Good.”

Mammon’s about to ask what’s good about being alone of a huge beach like two teens in a horror movie when you amble over the center console and sit yourself on his lap. All that can leave Mammon’s mouth is a strangled wheeze. 

You sparkle even more in the sunlight. You’re literally blinding. 

You tuck your head into Mammon’s neck and he awkwardly touches your waist with his fingertips. There’s a click, and Mammon is falling backwards as his seat reclines, yelping. Your breath puffs against the skin of his throat. Then your lips replace your breath. 

Mammon’s body jolts, jostling you from where you lay on top of him. You only laugh and feather another kiss under Mammon’s jaw, then against his cheek. 

“Mammon,” you breathe, your eyes bearing into his. Slowly, you inch forward, and all Mammon can do is meet your lips with his. 

You let your pencil clatter uselessly against the fine wood of your desk. There would be no more productivity tonight, and you pack up the remainder of your homework. Hopefully you’ll be able to wake up early tomorrow and work on it after breakfast. Maybe curling up with a book will distract you more that homework.

Day four of Mammon’s coma has trickled away, leaving you on the cusp of the fifth day and all the more bitter for it. Satan said that there was no way to reverse the coma using the Forbidden book, and had left it completely at that. Now you either had to wait three more days or hope that Mammon gave up on the pool of Grimm he was probably swimming in at the very moment. 

As much as you believe in Mammon, you know that’s not very likely. 

You toss your book aside, bored of it within seconds. Much like everything else lately. Walking with Beelzebub or Asmodeus to school is nice, but it would be much nicer if Mammon were there. Eating lunch with Simeon, Luke, and Solomon was relaxing, but it would be so much more exciting if Mammon were there. Gaming with Leviathan and reading with Satan was fun, but you miss Mammon’s ridiculous schemes and raucous laughter. 

It’s strange. You always enjoyed all of those things normally when Mammon wasn’t in a coma, but you can’t now that he is. 

He’s down the hall from you right now and you miss him more than you did when you returned to the human world for all those months. 

Tired, but unlikely to fall asleep anytime soon, you tuck yourself under your bed covers and close your eyes. 

There’s nothing. 

Mammon’s eyes are wide open. Shocked. Terrified. 

There’s no warmth at all from your lips. 

There is no fluttery feeling. No giddiness. There’s not even the heat that Mammon was boiling with back at the casino. All of the warmth from then and now seems to have leached right out of him. 

You pull back, smile bright.

“Mammon. Mammon.” 

Your hips move just a little, and you move back in to kiss him. Mammon flails, rolls you off of him, and fumbles to open the driver’s side door. When it finally opens, Mammon stumbles out, lands flat on his face in the sand, and scrambles to his feet. 

You sit up in the car. You’re still deck out in shimmering jewels, and you look just the slightest bit rumpled. And hurt. You look so hurt. 

It’s nearly enough to make Mammon trip over himself to climb back in the car, but he can't forget the feeling of your lips on his, or lack thereof. 

Maybe he just built it up too much in his own mind? Maybe he did both you and him a disservice by raising you on a pedestal, and the real deal can’t hold a candle to it?

But no. Mammon remembers. 

Mammon remembers a late movie night, you asleep with your head on his shoulder. Your head lolled and your nose ended up in the crook of Mammon’s neck. Your breath took up Mammon’s every thought, and your proximity made his heart speed. Most of all, he remembers the touch of your sleeping lips to his skin, and how electrified he felt. Like he could punch straight through Cerberus and a hungry Beelzebub all in one go. 

Everything else felt so real, so why did your kiss make Mammon feel so…

Why did it feel so fake?

“Mammon, what’s going on?” You venture, stepping out of the still ajar car door. “Are you okay?” 

“Whaddaya mean ‘what’s going on’?” Mammon yells, hurt and terrified and unsure. “What the hell was that?”

“That was—,” you stutter, “I thought that you—”

“No! No, no, no, no.” Mammon grabs fistfuls of his hair. “Don’t look at me like that! Don’t do it.”

You’re teary eyed. Which is ridiculous, because Mammon should be the one crying. Why did it feel that way? Why does he not feel horror at the thought of you crying?

“Something’s wrong.” Mammon says to himself, to the empty beach, to you. 

“What’s wrong? Mammon, tell me what it is and we can fix it!”

Mammon whips his head around. It all started with this damn abandoned beach, that feeling of wrongness. No lovely beach this side of Devildom is ever without demons. Or was it the casino? He should go back there. Right now! Only…

Where was the casino again?

Mammon’s head spun. Which way was it? He drove here, so he should be able to go back, right? Since when does Mammon, Avatar of Greed, not know where any casino is?

Never. Mammon has never forgotten where a casino is in his life. 

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, desperate. You’re crying, and your hands are trembling. 

“Talk to me! What’s going on?”

Mammon’s only gotten that many wins in a row a few times in his long, long life. And there’s no way Lucifer would ever let him bet enough money to play the type of high-stakes game that would result in that much money. He’s never seen that casino before, and doesn’t know where it is. Even if he concentrates, he can’t remember a single face from that casino. 

Which means that there’s no way that that was a casino. Which means the casino wasn’t real. 

“Mammon, you’re scaring me.”

Mammon looks down at you. You’re in yellow, his favorite color. You were in that fake casino with him, despite him never taking you to any demon casino anywhere in Devildom. You climbed right into the car he’s never shown you anywhere but his dreams. 

Dreams. 

Mammon takes in how hazy the horizon is. He spent several hours in that casino but the sun hasn’t budged from its half-mast in the sky, just before sunset. His favorite time of day. But there’s no day in the Devildom. And this isn’t one of Prince Diavolo’s special beaches.

“You’re not real,” he whispers. 

“What are you talking about, of course I’m real,” you cry, gripping his shoulders harder. 

“No,” Mammon says, “all of this isn’t real.”

He shoves fake-you away, skin burning with home close to him they were. How close he let them be. With one absent-minded hand, he rips off the leather choker and tosses it away carelessly. 

How was he supposed to get out of here? Was there some sort of spell? Was he supposed to fly out?

“It could be real,” fake-you says from the sand. They sit up, face contorted into a beatific smile. “You could stay here, forever. You could win every day. All the wealth you could ever imagine, gifted to you.” Mountains of gold pile up, tumbling over themselves as they stack high, high, high. “Nothing to slow you down. And then at night, you can take me home.” Fake-you rises and steps forward. Mammon retreats further away. “Think of all the fun we could have. You could do anything.”

Fake-you reclines in a pile, sliding a hand down their body, and it takes everything Mammon has not to throw up. 

The Grimm, skulls emblazoned and golden, are tempting. Mammon wants money, wants so much money that he’ll drown in it. But that… that isn’t real money, is it? What the fuck is Mammon supposed to buy with fake money?

“No! I don’t want fake money! I want real money!” Mammon kicks down a pile, feeling his fangs prickle his lower lip. What was the use of money that Mammon could never have in real life? What was the use of time spent with you when you weren’t really here? “I don’t want fake-you! I want the real you!”

“Why?” Fake-you asks, cupping a handful of gold and letting it pour from their hand. It makes musical clanks as it hits the rest of the coins and slides down the pile. “It’s as real as you believe it is, and so am I.” Fake-you grins. “Come on, Mammon. It’s not like you’ll ever get this chance anywhere else.”

Reeling with hurt and outrage, Mammon lets his demon form rise to the surface, feeling his power distort the very air. 

“I. Want. Out.”

The beach and fake-you are ripped to shreds by his claws. 

Belphegor crashed into the dinning room, looking more disheveled than usual. 

“Mammon’s waking up!”

Despite your human nature, you’re the fastest to react. You stumble to Mammon’s room, where he’s thrashing so violently you balk at the door. The blankets twist around him where his claws haven’t shredded them, and he’s growling. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Lucifer demands, pushing past his curious brothers, dragging Belphegor with him. 

Belphegor shrugs. “He’s waking up, but he’s forcing it. The Book’s fighting him.”

“Can you help him?” You ask. 

“I could,” Belphegor says, “but he doesn’t need it. Look.”

You turn back in enough time to see Mammon’s eyes fly right open, snarling in rage. Rising, he claws off the remaining blankets, and moves towards the crowed at the door, horns out and wings flared.

“Mammon,” you say, excited, shouldering past Lucifer. He doesn’t break his stride in his path to you, and when you reach out to hug him, he snatches you close to him. 

“You woke up,” you exclaim, squeezing him. “I thought I wouldn’t see you for two days! I took school notes, you can use them if you want.”

Mammon tilts up your head, the claws that tore up fabric in seconds gentle. “Mind if I check that this is real?”

“Yeah?” You reply. “How are you—”

He kisses you. Right there, in front of all six of his brothers. It’s soft, barely a brush of his lips on yours for a chaste second, but your heart nearly bursts in your chest with free fall sensation. Your head swims a little, and the words of the demons behind you fly right over your head. 

“Yeah,” Mammon sighs, stroking your cheek with his thumb, dopey smile growing on his face. “This is real all right.”

You have a million questions. How does your kiss make everything real? What was Mammon dreaming about? Did he miss you, too? 

As you open your mouth to ask any of these questions, Mammon collapses on you in a dead faint, taking you to the ground with him. 

Winded, you stare at the minuscule amount of ceiling that you can see through stark white hair. 

“Oh,” Satan says calmly. “The book did say to expect some disorientation upon awakening.”

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 22: Oliver's Auction

Masterlist

September 1925

TW: captivity, restraints, human auction

"There haven't been any vampires in the room for some time, sir," Oliver noted.

Miss Lily checked her fashionable wristwatch. "Oh, that's because the auction is about to start. But you won't be up until the end. We're to wait here until it's close to time."

"The auction's starting, sir?" said Oliver, with a lump in his throat and a knot in his stomach. At least while he was being presented to vampire after vampire, he felt as though he had a tiny bit of control of his fate. Now, it was out of his hands. Now, he was edging ever closer to being taken away to be a servant for a vampire -- or to live out the rest of his life mind wiped in an animal pen.

"You're thinking again, dear," said Miss Lily.

Oliver nodded vigorously.

"Would you like me to put you to sleep until the time comes?"

An easy decision. "Yes, please, by all means, sir, that would be very merci --"

When he woke up again, he was backstage, standing in the wings of an auditorium. In front of him, he could see a man kneeling on the ground, his hands cuffed behind him, his face expressionless. And the patter of the auctioneer was ringing in his ears...

"Two thousand, two thousand, do I hear twenty-five hundred? Twenty-five hundred, twenty-five hundred, I hear twenty-five hundred from the gentleman in the red hat, do I hear three thousand, three thousand, c'mon, gimme three thousand, lookit him, lookit the neck, do I hear three thousand -- three thousand, yes, to Miss Peacock Feathers, lovely hat miss, do I hear thirty five hundred..."

"Can I go back to sleep, sir?" he asked softly, his throat dry at the sight. He couldn't see the audience past the spotlight of the stage. All he could see was a poor, restrained man being auctioned like cattle. He thought he might faint. He thought he might be sick. Miss Lily was ignoring him, holding onto his leash and looking all business.

"Do I hear four thousand, do I hear four thousand? Going once, going twice, sold to the main in the red hat!" The hit of the gavel was as loud as a bomb going off.

"And now, the merchandise you've all been waiting for!" said the announcer. "The last lot of the evening, so dig real deep into your pockets for this one. Triple-A graded blood, finest we've had in this house for a long while, submissive in nature, takes well to thrall, expertly trained by our very own lovely Miss Lily -- Lot Seven, Oliver Pines!"

"Stand up straight. Walk in pace with me. Look docile. Don't say anything. Make me money," said Miss Lily, and she was striding onto the stage, and Oliver, unable to do anything but obey, walked after her in perfect pace, even though his knees felt like they would give out at any moment. The lights in his eyes blinded him as Miss Lily took him center stage. He still couldn't see anyone. Couldn't see who was there. Who was interested. Who was not.

"This is the kind of choice thrall you don't see every day, folks, so we're going to start the bidding at nine thousand big ones. He's worth every penny -- nine thousand, do I hear nine thousand --"

For a moment, Oliver couldn't decide what would be worse, being bid on or not being bid on --

"Nine thousand from our lovely lawyer extraordinaire. Do I hear ninety-five hundred, ninety-five hundred..."

Lawyer -- that was Miss Ruth -- and the bids began to fly. Ninety-five hundred from the woman in the pink dress, ten thousand from the woman in a pinstripe suit, and --

"I hear ten thousand five hundred from Lord Jameson! Do I hear eleven thousand?"

Cold fear ran through Oliver's veins. Lord Jameson had bid on him. Lord Jameson had bid over ten thousand dollars on him. Lord Jameson had bid ten thousand dollars for the chance to turn him into a mute, illiterate blood bag.

He found it hard to focus, numbers swimming in his head. Miss Ruth bid again. Lord Jameson bid again. Description he didn't recognize. Stranger. Miss Ruth. Stranger. Lord Jameson. Lady Jessica.

None of these descriptions sounded like Lord Alexander at all.

"And I hear fifteen thousand from Lord Jameson. Fifteen thousand five hundred, do I hear fifteen thousand five hundred, c'mon it's only money, lookit this thrall, you can smell his blood from here, do I hear fifteen thousand five hundred --"

Someone bid. Someone bid. Someone bid, please. Someone, anyone but Lord Jameson, please -- it doesn't have to be Lord Alexander -- it can be Miss Ruth or anybody --

"Going once -- and is that sixteen thousand? Sixteen thousand from Lord Alexander."

He could have collapsed in relief on the spot. He tried to see Lord Alexander in the crowd, but he was still blinded by the lights and woozy from terror.

"Seventeen thousand from Lord Jameson!"

Lord Jameson was still bidding. He was bidding seventeen thousand dollars just to drink his blood.

He could feel Miss Lily discreetly grabbing the back of his dress, trying to keep him upright, correctly concerned that he might faint at any moment.

"Eighteen thousand from Lord Alexander! Nineteen thousand from Lord Jameson! Do I hear twenty -- twenty thousand from Lord Alexander!"

"You're insane!" The sound of a chair being violently turned over accompanied the yell. "You'd pay twenty thousand for a stinking thrall?"

"You're welcome to stop bidding." That was unmistakably Lord Alexander's voice.

"Twenty thousand is a goddamned joke! I could buy three faefolk for that price!"

"Then buy three faefolk," said Lord Alexander.

"Fine!" yelled Lord Jameson. "Take your lousy thrall and enjoy him while you can."

The auctioneer, who had paused for this bit of juicy drama, resumed. "So we have twenty thousand from Lord Alexander, the highest price ever paid for a human thrall in this venue. Do I hear twenty-one thousand? Twenty-one thousand? Going once, going twice, sold to Lord Alexander!"

The gavel sealed Oliver's fate.

He now belonged to Lord Alexander.

Miss Lily caught him as he finally did faint.

Part 21 >> Masterlist >> Part 23

Thanks for reading this story about a man whose life has been forever altered.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @snakebites-and-ink @sl33py-pup @diamond-blade-blog @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs

[electricbluebutterflies]

for the prompt list, fixing clothing for Cala and Tenax

Lookit, I have a new rarepair to be obsessed with!! Post-1x07 // kinda a coda scene, PG-ish, also on ao3.

She’s alive.

She’s… alive, and not bleeding anywhere deep or vital, and-

For a moment, a moment she is not sure she has, Cala is in shock, and she suspects the night will somehow get stranger before it ends.

She is against the wall and then she is not; she is in the arms of someone she has come to realize does not show emotion easily, and-

She hasn’t had time to think about that, but what she knows is enough. Better man than he thinks let alone what she expected when paths crossed, and currently clinging to her for reasons she suspects are more complicated than his own physical damage, and-

It’s been a long time. She’s been widowed twelve years. Always other priorities. Never-

She is alive. She’s not sure she should be alive. She was almost very brutal collateral damage. She was almost…

She feels unstable on her own feet. That makes two of them. She is unsure who relies more on the other, slow walk home and it has become home, she can admit that now, still not permanent but not-

What if she wants-

It has been, she thinks, far too long since her own possible interests have had any power on her. She survives, and she’d like to think she’s good at it, and everything she has become is so-

What if she wants something, for once?

She’s in no condition for such thoughts, she reminds herself, and there are other priorities, there is always something else, there is always-

“Let me.”

They are in the apartment now, safe, and there is something fragile about to happen, something she is not-

Safe hands on her skin, wet cloth on her face. How much of this blood is hers? Does it matter? Does she want to know? Does she want-

“I can-“

“This happened because of me. You were almost… the least I can do is-“

She doesn’t have the energy to spar. She’s come to like that in these weeks, something almost affectionate in how he looks at her when she challenges him, like he wants-

“I owe you my life.”

“Then we’re even.”

They’ve played out this moment a few times already in opposite positions, how quickly she stopped questioning what happened, easier to care first and worry later, easier to-

He is as thorough in this as she could expect, light touch and slow movements, working down her face and neck and-

“I’m just… forgive me, if-“

There is nothing to forgive, Cala thinks as he straightens the neckline of her dress. Perhaps slightly indecent, but not with any intent beyond the obvious, she does believe that much, she does-

Her hand covers his, still innocent enough close enough to her shoulder, and maybe it’s still the shock running through her veins that makes her want to do something reckless, maybe her mind is too many places, maybe-

“I wouldn’t stop you,” she breathes.

She shouldn’t be surprised by the near-horrified look she gets in return, and yet… there is something comforting about it all the same, all those reminders turned accurate, nights she’s slept through and-

“Even if… neither of us is in any state for-“

“Perhaps not for what you see when you drag your friends out of the gutter, but-“

“If you have ever thought I would-“

“Not long enough to actually fear you.”

He returns to his tasks in perfect silence, slowly working down her arms, lingering on her hands and-

“I think that’s all of it.”

“Good thing my dress is the color it is,” she murmurs.

“Another thing I owe you.”

“You didn’t-“

“Let me do what I have to do to ease the guilt of-“

“I like deep colors,” she says before this gets out of hand. “Or you could just give me the money and-“

“You wouldn’t use it for you.”

He does have a point, and-

“Something pretty for next time I have to take your box at the track.”

Another look of horror, but more playful this time, more-

“Is there anything you won’t do when I’m not looking?”

“I’m not trying to-“

“Gold. To match that knife of yours.”

“I do-“

“If I’d gotten there a second later-“

She melts. It’s just easier. She could say she’s alright now until her voice runs out, or she could let herself be held again and get the same point across just as clearly, and there is something hesitant and beautiful and she wonders and she wants and she won’t and-

“I owe you,” she repeats.

“No you don’t. Now we’re even.”

[imfluentinfangirlandgay]

A Father's Resolve - Ch 9

Ingo returns after a decade - with two extra cars in tow. Years later, his kids are swallowed up by time in the same way he was. Will he be able to find them? Will they be able to make it out alive?

Word Count: ~3000

The twins wound their way through the Heartwood to hopefully find this Warden that they'd been told about. Their teams were trained up decently and they were having a grand time trying to write about Buneary. 

“Lookit her!” Akari squealed. “She's so cute!” She ruffled the soft down of the little rabbit she'd caught. It flicked its ear at her in annoyance. Rei did have to admit it was adorable, even if it had a horrible attitude. 

“I got that Silcoon we saw. I'd say let's see what this Warden wants and how to study Kleavor.” Rei tossed a ball in the air and caught it idly as his sister caught up to him on the dirt path, shaking the water from her shoes. She'd fallen in the stream trying to scramble back from a suddenly-livid Psyduck. 

“Fine.” 

Rei rounded the corner, seeing some man-made structures come up in his field of vision. A gateway appeared down the path, with some stone bowls carved from a large boulder in the middle of the arch. And in front of this stood a boy wearing soft pink and a hat that Rei could only describe as a cowboy hat. He was maybe ten with red curly hair and a stern expression on his young face, still trimmed with baby fat. 

Rei stared at the hat. He'd seen it before-

“That's Clay's hat,” Akari whispered to him in Unovan. “Remember fighting his Excadrill? That's totally it. Look at the gem.” She was right. The same green jewel set in the hat, square and sparkling, surrounded by gold trim on white leather. 

“Didn't… didn't Clay say his family was from another region? That they immigrated to Unova?” Rei murmured back. 

Akari simply nodded. 

This was getting weird. First their mother, now Clay's… grandfather? Great-grandfather? More generations? And he was younger than them! 

“I'm Lian, Warden of the Lord of the Woods, Kleavor. You're here to see the mighty Kleavor, ain't ya?” the boy called to them in greeting. Even his voice sounded like a younger version of Clay's! The boy crossed his arms, a smug look on his face. “I can see it on ya. You heard about his awesome power and now he's only become even more powerfully awesome.” He smirked into the crook of his elbow as the twins stepped up to him, finally. “That bolt of lightning charged him… maybe it was almighty Sinnoh's doing? Either way, as much as it pains me, I must turn you away.” 

“But we need to!” Akari blurted out. Lian's eyes flicked to her. He grinned slyly. 

“I must commend your passion, but unfortunately it is not safe. I have been given order by Irida to not let anyone see him right now. So back out now, lest you face the wrath of my Goomy.” 

“I accept,” Akari said before Rei could even think. 

“Akari-” 

“Back up.” She shoved him back and cleared a small space for a battle. Lian sighed and whistled. A small pokemon appeared from behind the stone bowls, a purple blob of a creature. Rei hadn't actually seen a Goomy before but he decided he needed to find one because this thing was perfect. A dopey smile graced what could be called its ‘face’  it had two small eyes and a big grin and it slowly trailed along and Rei needed to get a Goomy right now. 

“Goomy, let's try to ooze some sense into these interlopers!” Goomy gave a cry of challenge and oozed its way to the battlefield. 

Akari picked a ball carefully and tossed it out. Riptide, newly evolved, gave a small cry of its own. It stanced itself up, preparing for a long battle… 

That did not last long. 

Riptide did not take very long to tear through the small Goomy. It was clear that although the boy cared deeply for his partner, it was not very well-trained. He sagged a bit as he conceded defeat. “I still can’t let you through,” he sighed. “It is too dangerous. No one can get through to my Lord- Irida?” 

The twins turned to see the girl behind them, watching with wide, sad blue eyes. “Lord Kleavor is descended from a pokemon blessed by almighty Sinnoh itself. I did not want to have to throw up our hands and ask for help from an outsider but… every moment that he remains like this, the danger grows. If he hurts more people and pokemon, it may cause problems with the Diamond Clan and the Galaxy Team.” She paused, knitting her brows. “I hear that it was that bolt of strange lightning that changed him. Perhaps it was sent by that faulty god the Diamond Clan worships…?” Rei had to restrain himself from pointing out how stupid that sounded. “Regardless, do you both have any ideas how to help him? We care greatly for Kleavor; he means a great deal to our Clan. We do not want him to be hurt.” 

Rei glanced at his sister, who shrugged. It was obvious that they may be on their own with this one. It was hard to say what was wrong with him what they hadn’t even seen him yet. “We’ll figure something out,” was all Rei said. 

“Excellent!” Irida cut between the two and approached Lian, who still stood proud, even if Rei could now see the cracks in his small facade. He was just a boy with a big job he couldn’t handle by himself - and it tore him up on the inside. Rei could see how his eyes darted around, how they desperately scanned Irida’s face for some semblance of good news. How his small hands shook. “Lian and I will gather some of Kleavor’s favorite foods in an attempt to get close enough to make a proper offering. As for you, try to find a way to quell his frenzy, even if you must traverse every corner of Hisui!” 

The twins took that as a dismissal and nodded, turning and striding away. Once out of earshot, Rei asked Akari in Unovan, “What are we even supposed to do? I still don’t know what all this is about.” 

Akari debated as they snuck around the alpha Bibarel, staying quiet until they had passed by safely and were heading up Deertrack Heights. “Let’s ask Laventon. He’s a scientist, right? Maybe he’d have a clue.” 

—----------------------

Emmet shivered as he pulled his coat a little tighter around him. Why was the office so cold? He glanced up over the pile of paperwork he had in front of him, checking the face of the clock on the wall. The little train-shaped hand had a smokestack that pointed to the number five. It was already almost 6:30? Emmet leaned back in his chair, sighing to himself as his back popped. How long had it been since he’d moved? Four hours? His gaze traveled the room as he sat motionless in the cold. 

The walls had several framed photos and posters. The posters were mainly older Gear Station signs and advertisements for past events they had done, like a battle bracket one year for challengers or a holiday or New Year’s event. Emmet’s favorite was the spooky one, personally. Ingo always liked the spring decorations, the small flowers and the pastel colors. The twins had been split on the battle bracket and, for Rei, the scavenger hunt to collect every sticker hidden away on the platforms. The prize for finding them all was an authentic conductor’s hat, though he’d never cared for that. He had plenty. 

There were several photos dotting the area around the two desks, as well. Photos of himself and his team, Ingo and his teams (from Hisui and Unova, as he hadn’t had the chance to release his Hisui team before returning), the twins as they grew up, both with and without their starters, Elesa with all four of them, even a family reunion photo with Drayden and Iris and their extended family on his side. Emmet’s favorite had to be the one he kept on his desk, from when the twins were younger. Ingo’s kids were maybe eight years old, staring intently into the water under Tubeline Bridge, watching for any sort of movement. That is, until Iris had sent her Lapras into the water to prank them, having it pop its head out and making the two scramble back onto the bank with a strangled yelp, landing in a very undignified way on the muddy land on their bottoms. The photo had been taken just as the twins were yelling, Lapras’s face in a soft smile as it ‘greeted’ them. Iris was already in stitches, doubled over in laughter. Even Drayden had chuckled, his eyes shut in merriment, leaving Emmet to laugh openly. Only Ingo hadn’t truly laughed, though his eyes had twinkled as he held it in and made sure they were alright. Other than some bruised pride, they had been perfectly fine. 

He looked at the goofy photo. Emmet had pulled out his camera as soon as he’d seen Iris sneakily send her pokemon into the water someway upstream. It had been taken just downstream, so he could get everyone’s faces from afar. The kids’ eyes were wide as they leapt back - the photo still had them in mid-air, their arms blurry from reeling backwards. Emmet felt that familiar grin creeping up his face as he studied the photo. It always made him smile. Lapras had offered itself to being petted as an apology afterwards, and had even ferried the kids around on its shell for a bit on the water. 

Emmet sighed. He put the photo back and stood up, stretching. A deep sense of melancholy settled itself into his ribcage, sitting more heavy than a stone. His face drooped. It was much harder to make memories like that when the person - or rather, people, in this case - were missing. 

He checked his phone. A message from Drayden checking in, that he hadn’t heard anything yet about the missing kids, but he’d keep searching, he would always keep searching. Iris hadn’t heard anything, either. 

Keep up your hopes, Emmet. They aren’t gone for good. You told me that the first time we went through this, and I know you know it now.

Emmet typed a response as he grabbed his stuff, his day bag now slung over his shoulder. He made sure to unceremoniously dump a bit of the paperwork on Ingo’s desk and to shove some of the more urgent items into his bag. You are correct. I know that. But I am not the one who needs convincing. 

A moment passed as Emmet grabbed his personal items and opened the door to the office. He shut off the lights as he did, making sure not to waste needless power. He made his way down the hallway, checking again for a message. To his surprise, there was one. Drayden usually did not answer this quickly. I’m sure. Perhaps me and Iris can stop by sometime. Try to break him out of the horrid spell I’m sure he’s still under. It’s been how long now? This was about the time you became despondent. 

He entered the control room. Two or three Agents milled about, checking in on the monitors and speaking in low tones. They looked up as Emmet entered and waved to him. “Everything steady?” Emmet asked them. 

“Sure is, Boss. Just passengers and us left for the night shift. Only engine Orange being ran for the overnight shift. All others are already in the warehouse being assessed and cleaned.” The olive-skinned woman pulled up a camera feed, making it larger on the biggest screen in the center. It showed several large engines being serviced by night crew.

“Perfect.” Emmet put a cup in the coffee maker by the door and pressed what flavor he wanted. Mostly black, just a bit of cream. “Need anything else from me? I know I disappeared today. Lots of paperwork to catch up on.” 

“I don’t think so, Boss.” A pale man with glasses swiveled in his chair to face him. “Have a good night. We’ll see ya back here tomorrow morning. Wish Boss Ingo our best.” The other Depot Agents nodded solemnly. Though it had never been formally announced that the kids were missing, they all certainly knew. It was taboo to talk about it in the station, but the Agents were always sure to leave kind regards and if Ingo didn’t come in for a few days, it was never mentioned. 

“You as well. All aboard,” Emmet responded, more out of habit than anything. He snagged his cup and placed a lid on top as he snuck out of the station. He checked his phone again, typing out a response to his uncle. If you want to see him acting more like a stale piece of bread than a human, consider yourself invited. It’s hard to get him to do anything these days. I’ve been holding down the Station more often than not. Even if he does go in, he just stares at the wall. I’ve never seen him so invested in a book in my entire life than the history books he reads. 

He waved to the Agent by the door as he swung open the glass doors to the station and swept out into the warm night. Emmet sighed in contentment as he clutched his coffee. The sky was that ethereal orange seen across Unova. Light pollution had its large claws sunk deep into the region, and unfortunately, no night was truly the inky black he remembered on his trip to Alola with Ingo all those years ago. Street lights threw that ugly yellow undertone to everything that they always did. Quite a few people were out tonight, though Emmet supposed that was normal for seven at night on a Thursday in the summer. He wondered if there were any events, musical or battle-oriented or otherwise, that were going on soon in Nimbasa. There was almost always something. He passed under the one that flickered as he walked, checking his device yet again. A certain someone else I can think of was much the same. We will come by this weekend. Don’t worry about making the house too clean, we’ve definitely seen worse. Emmet could almost hear his uncle’s soft chuckle that accompanied it. Is there anything we should bring as well? Food, pokemon treats, anything of that sort? 

I don’t think so, Emmet typed, walking under another street light. He could see the bus stop in the distance. A few others were already at the stop, waiting for the next bus to arrive. He stood just outside the covered bench, leaning on a lamp post as he typed. I need to do some grocery shopping soon, so let me know if you want anything specific to snack on. It’s mostly just me doing things in the house these days. The Joltik aren’t as rowdy, either. The next clutch hasn’t hatched just yet and most of last year’s have already relocated to Chargestone and the tunnels.

This will be your eighteenth clutch, correct? 

Emmet glanced up as he thought about when he had first started officially breeding them. It would have been toward the tail end of Ingo’s absence. Elesa had convinced him that he needed some hobby other than going to work all the time, and she had remembered him talking about getting into breeding when he was younger, so she had bought him a book about the basics of pokemon breeding. That must have been during the eighth year of Ingo’s disappearance, and if he’s having one clutch a year and its been about ten years since he reappeared-

“Subway Boss Emmet?” Emmet blinked himself from his thoughts and glanced around. The person who had spoken was an older woman sitting on the bench. No one else around paid them any mind, some with earbuds in, some engrossed in something on their Xtrans. 

“Hm?” Emmet hummed to the woman, alerting her that he’d heard what she’d said. He let his hand with the phone screen fall somewhat, turning his attention to her. 

The woman had very light hair, almost white, long and very wispy, held up in a dark hat. She also had a dark dress. It almost looked like she was dressed for a funeral. She smiled up at him, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening in the glow of the orange street lamp above them. “I heard about what happened recently. Things will become right again for you.” 

He blinked. Honestly, this left him at a loss for words. “I- uh. T-Thank you? Thank you.” He regained his composure. “It will take some time, but I know the tracks will be rideable once more.” 

She chuckled as she looked up. Emmet could see the bus in the distance. “It will indeed. My great-great niece would love you. She is very into history, you see, much like my nephew was… oh, what a strong-willed man, he was. Is! That never left him.” 

As she rambled, Emmet’s mind was reeling. Who was this woman? He didn’t think she’d ever seen him before. The fact that she recognized him by sight alone was nothing odd, he was something of a local celebrity, especially in uniform. He was about to ask what she meant when she glanced around again and shook her head. “It seems my stop is coming. I wish you could meet my lovely niece. She would want to talk to you for days about Hisui and the heroes-” 

“You know about Hisui?” Emmet asked incredulously. He needed to know more. He needed-

“Good luck, Emmet. Keep your brother strong. The children are looking for him.” The bus’s headlights engulfed his vision for a moment, making him blink. As soon as he opened his eyes to ask her what she meant, the bench was empty. Emmet whirled around, looking for the old woman, but she was nowhere to be seen. The door to the bus opened with a mechanical hiss. Other passengers began to climb aboard. Emmet gave one last glance around as he climbed aboard next, shivering under his coat, trying to shake the feeling of being watched. 

[First] - [Previous] - [Next]

[rcreveal]

An Adjustment

Aziraphale meets Crowley at a crossroads in medieval England because of the Arrangement, but finds that there's something he really wants to adjust. This takes place after the Arrangement started in 1020 and before the Globe Theater.  It’s prompted by my writer's group: @theriverspath’s question about how long Aziraphale has been preening Crowley’s wings from a little exchange the two share in my “Spring Cleaning” fanfic, @moons weakness for wing grooming fics and the prompts: “How we began again, with an illicit bargain.” and “The Arrangement”.  Also inspired by @skyler’s description of Crowley as “grabable”.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

On a windswept moor a solitary figure trudged up the steep slope using trails of broken slate that slipped under his feet.  The late winter sunshine would be brief and the storm crowding the horizon promised to be prolonged.  Finally rounding the last bend to see the top of the isolated hill and the person waiting for him, Aziraphale spake thusly to himself, “Blow this for a lark!  I pray that I win the toss this time!” before reaching the demon at the crossroads.  

Crowley was hopping from foot to foot, grinning madly.  When he saw the angel, he threw his arms wide to take in the desolate hill, the threatening storm, and the little village huddled near the local castle down in the valley.  “Lookit! This place is perfect!  I even found a crossroads and everything!   Both the temptation and the …other thing are due to stumble through here at the height of the storm!”  Clapping his hands together, he propositions, “So what do you say to a little wager?” the demon was still jigging around, apparently eager to beat Aziraphale at a game of chance…again.  It was really getting on the angel's nerves.

“Fine, but I'd like to choose the game of chance,” the angel grumped a little.

 “S’fair.  You lost the last time.”

“ Three times.”

“Three times, three times, right.  Really? So whadda ya chose?”

“Coin toss with my coin this time.” Aziraphale said a bit acerbically, pulling out an old Roman coin.

“Show me both sides, jus’ like I did for you,” Crowley insisted, still gamboling in place.

Aziraphale huffed in exasperation but made a show of demonstrating both sides of the coin, “And look, nothing up my sleeves!” He pushed up his sleeves baring his forearms.  Heavens it was brisk out today!

“Call it.” Aziraphale said as the coin sparkled into the air and he caught it and slapped it down onto his bare arm.

“Tails, cuz I'd never ask an angel to choose to be an arse,” Crowley said with an ironic smile, still gyrating about.

“Crowley! That's uncalled for!  Serves you right, you fiend, you lost this time!  I'll see you at the tavern when you're done for the details.  Good day to you!” Aziraphale spun on his heel and started to stomp down to the valley hearing Crowley’s frustrated groan.

Such a stream of swears came from Crowley that the air literally sparked and flared with sulfur and brimstone. Wheeling back on the demon and waggling a finger at him, Aziraphale admonished, “You lost! Swearing won't get you out of it, and will you stand still while I'm talking to you! ” Aziraphale shouted, beside himself at Crowley's continued capering.

“Can't. Stand still.  Itches, too much!” Crowley whined, his face strained, moving his neck irritably.

“What is wrong with you!?” Aziraphale demanded, “You're usually more composed than this!” Usually, the demon was smoothly confident, no hair or garment out of place. Now he looked, well he looked haggard, frankly.  “You look awful!”

Crowley’s face scrunched and he mumbled, “Got a thing with a feather,”

Cocking a hand to his ear, Aziraphale asks, “Come again?”

Louder this time, Crowley intones, “I have a thing with a feather !

“Well fix it, so you can meet your part of the Arrangement!”

“Can't reach,” explains Crowley.

Aziraphale huffs impatiently, “Then miracle it. Surely you can heal yourself!”

“Yah, but not this one!” complains Crowley.

“That's the absolute last straw!” Aziraphale cries,  “Out with them!”

“Wot!?”

“Out with your wings!  I want to see this ‘feather!’” Aziraphale stands with hands on hips, mumbling to himself, “If there even is a feather.”

“I heard that!” Crowley stomped around and threw his coat onto the ground, “Don't believe me?” his black wings strain out of his back, “Lookit that!” he stretched his right wing towards the angel.  And indeed, in the most awkward place to reach is a patch of feathers that are either broken or twisted.

“Crowley! You're bleeding!” Aziraphale has closed the distance and uncovered a broken feather, bleeding slowly but steadily and some twisted feathers and irritated pinfeathers? Maybe blood feathers? but he only catches a glimpse before Crowley mantles and hisses at him, pulling the wing out of reach.

“I didn't say you could touch it!” the demon snarls.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath through his nose, blue eyes flashing towards the incapacitated demon scratching his wings against each other and the incipient weather.  His desire to win this contest warring with his instincts to help. He lets out a long breath and suddenly regains his composure. He can do both! 

“Fiend! I’ll thwart your wiles!” he cries.

“What are you nattering on about? We already settled this!  I’ll stay out here in the weather and you’ll be cozy indoors somewhere. Fair toss and all that.”

“You may tempt his Lordship with a “falcon”, but I can’t condone leaving it hurt like that!  I insist that you bring that creature to the mews so I can mend those feathers!” Aziraphale is pointing at Crowley and winking.

“Wot?”

Dropping out of the pantomime, “I’m his Lordship’s falconer, Crowley!” Aziraphale said a little exasperatedly, “I said bring the “falcon” with the injured feathers to me and I’ll fix them!  So the “falcon” can do its duty.  Come now!”

“You want to fix my…?”

“Just get the, the “creature” to the mews.  Immediately!  Or I’ll have to take steps!”  Aziraphale blustered.

Crowley looked at the angel open mouthed, then started to hop up and down with his fists balled at the sides.

“Oh, right, you got me, angel,” he says stiltedly, “I’ll bring you the “falcon” and you’ll fix its feathers?” ‘ How?’ mouthed Crowley.  

‘Trust me!’ mouthed Aziraphale. 

“You go first, demon!  I’ve got my eyes on you!” Aziraphale ushered the demon ahead of him. “Pull in your wings!” he whispered. 

“But it itches less with them out,” Crowley grumbles.  Craning over his shoulder as he walks by, he offersd.  “Look, you don’t have to do this.  I'll just stand here with them out till the storm comes.  Everyone will think it’s just one of those wretched swan cloaks.  Really, I’ve got it covered,” he’s reaching back to scratch.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale remonstrates, slapping his hand.

  Crowley pulls in his wings and goes back to his itchy dance down the moor to the castle mews with the angel shooing him onwards.

Sitting uncomfortably in the back of the dimly lit mews, having sidled past all manner of hooded raptors, Crowley asks, “You’re really the falconer here?” 

Bustling about with pots of glue, dowels, some wicked looking pliers and knives, Aziraphale assures, “Oh yes!  I’ve been doing falconer work off and on for centuries!” arranging his tools,  “There.  Now let out “the falcon’s” wings again.  I’ll fix them up, then you go do what you were going to do.”

Crowley unfurls his wings.

Aziraphale reaches for the damaged patch, lifting the feathers gently and sucks at his teeth.

“That hurts!” Crowley snarls.  All Crowley’s feathers puff out and he snatches the wing away.  Aziraphale spends a fruitless few minutes trying to catch Crowley’s wing, with many a “Will you settle down!?” and “Not if you’re going to hurt!” and “If you’d hold still it’ll hurt less!”  and “I am holding still!”

Finally at the end of his patience, Aziraphale raises a hand over the demon as though he really were a tetchy raptor and intones, “ SETTLE DOWN!”

“Did you just try to work a miracle? On m…” Crowley starts, incredulously.

“No!  It was nothing like that!” Aziraphale yelps, thinking, ‘It was exactly like that, why hadn’t it worked?  Oh right.’

“Even if an angel ever did try to work a miracle on a demon, I expect they would need the demon’s permission.  Look, can you do anything to calm “the falcon” down?” Aziraphale asks.

“Got any alcohol?  It’s partial to a good red wine,“  Crowley retorts cheekily.

 Aziraphale rummaged under his bed and came up with a leathern flask that smelled of apples.  “No, but the locals ferment apple cider around here,” the angel tops off a smallish horn cup, and offers it to the demon.

Crowley takes the horn cup with a sneer, “Quaint.  You think you’re going to get me drunk on apple juice?” and empties the cup in one gulp.  When his eyes water and he coughs, a small fireball erupts over the candles for a moment.  Eyeing the liquor through streaming eyes, Crowley wheezes, “What do the locals call this stuff?”

“Scumble.  Word to the wise, don’t ever pour it in metal.”

“Why?” asks Crowley.

“Scumble dissolves metal,” explains the angel matter of factly.

“I think I’ll take another draft,” Crowley says with a grin.

Some time later, Crowley was draped bonelessly over the back of a chair, to say he was in his cups was an understatement, but it certainly made him pliant.  About the feather work. 

Just now Aziraphale had rendered him incoherent with an old joke about a Mesopotamian pastry, a popular Greek play, and a Roman urn.

Shoulders shaking with laughter, Crowley finally dissolved into hiccups,“Ya know wha’ ‘m sayin’, angel? Right?”

“Oh, certainly!” Aziraphale found that he'd been having quite a convivial time. They had been sharing jokes and anecdotes that spanned thousands of years and dozens of civilizations.  Burying the thought that he was giving ‘aide and succor’ to the ‘enemy’ was easier since that enemy was acting like any other hurt bird he'd cared for.  Crowley had initially mantled, hissed, snapped, rattled his pinions, growled, snarled, and sworn whenever the angel had gotten anywhere near the bad feather.  Which was still dripping blood onto the floor.  But finally alcohol and Aziraphale's gentle ministrations were having the desired effect.  The ‘falcon’ had settled enough that the skin around the bad feather just shivered when the angel touched it.  Aziraphale pondered while his hands busied themselves with the damaged feathers: So Crowley couldn't heal that feather himself for some reason, but he could ‘build himself up’ and he hadn't done.  That troubled Aziraphale, as he'd seen such injuries take the last of some bird's strength.

A cold little thought suggested itself, ‘What if Crowley…left and didn't come back?’  

Lose contact with the only being in heaven or on earth who would reliably laugh at his jokes? That…wasn't acceptable.  Anyhow, there were meant to be both of them, endlessly opposite, ah, …opposed to each other.

Aziraphale noted that Crowley had drunk enough that the demon kept forgetting how he'd started a sentence, so on to the hard bit.

Aziraphale opened with, “Now, I’ve cleared out the pinfeathers and imped…,”

“Imped?” Crowley giggled.

“ Splinted the bent feathers.  But the broken blood feather will have to come out.  You’re…”the falcon” is just going to keep bleeding!” argued Aziraphale.

“Ngghh,” finger raised, “Stops event.. ually.  When it grows in,” disagreed Crowley.

“And how long does that take, pray?”

“Praying doesn, doesn’t help, angel.  Doncha know? Tha’ featherrrr takes as long as it takesss.”

“Well it needs to come out!  Do I have your permission?”

“Wha?” Crowley looked over at the angel blearily.

“Do I have your permission to fix this blood feather?” Aziraphale persisted. 

“Yah, do wha’ever you like. ‘S not gonna make it worse,” Crowley laughed, flapping his hand vaguely at his wing.

Aziraphale went very still.  That was far more leeway than he thought Crowley intended, but…he grabbed the opportunity (and the demon), anyway.

“Let’s get you comfortable on the bed!” he said airily, grasping the languid demon under his arms.  “You might get a little light-headed when I deal with this.” Aziraphale quickly shifted Crowley towards his bed, the demon was anything but steady with the sudden move, chuckling “‘’m flyin’” as the angel steered him around in a controlled fall onto the bed, landing him safely belly down and ebony wings all a clatter.

Not giving Crowley a chance to take back his permission, Aziraphale commanded, “Now, SETTLE DOWN .” Crowley immediately dropped off to sleep, not fighting the suggestion at all this time.  That was unsettling in and of itself, Aziraphale had the demon entirely at his mercy.

Aziraphale picked up the pliers that would frighten the life out of anyone seeing them coming.  Thankfully, Crowley wouldn’t see them.  Aziraphale had been considering what he had to do for most of the time he was working on the other feathers.  This broken one was well and truly bolloxed.  It looked like it had been injured then grew in worse every time it molted.  No wonder the demon was so tetchy today.  Who knew how long the thing had been bleeding.  Even as tough as Crowley was, that had to be wearing on him.  

Right then.

Aziraphale pulled the broken, bleeding feather. 

And released a torrent.

Quickly, Aziraphale wove a healing miracle.  He’d done it before on falcons, eagles, hawks, whose injured feathers threatened to end their flying.  It wasn’t enough to just pull the feather.  He had to heal the follicle, or it would never be right again.

The bleeding stopped, but Aziraphale still frowned in concentration.  Something was keeping him from completing the healing.  It was better.  Much, much better.  But, he’d have to see to it again.  Maybe every time it molted.

So be it.

Crowley snored drunkenly on Aziraphale’s bed, his ebony wings softly furled, every feather gleaming and in place.  The promised storm was just starting to pelt the castle.  

Aziraphale pulled out two Roman coins from his pocket.  One had heads and tails and the other had double heads.  Aziraphale palmed each coin in turn and flashed them into the air, displaying first heads, then tails, over and over with the regularity of a pendulum.  Flipping a final coin, he gazed down at the sleeping demon. 

Waking Crowley and sending him out into the winter storm to uphold his end of the Arrangement would just undo all of the angel’s diligent work!  Plus the unguarded look on Crowley’s sleeping face reminded Aziraphale of…Before.

Grabbing an oiled leather cape and a stout walking stick, Aziraphale left Crowley in the warm and headed out into the night. 

“Ngghh, my head!” groaned Crowley.  His tongue felt furred, his stomach was in revolt, his skin felt too big, his wings…

His wings did not itch or hurt.  

‘Nggk,’ he thought between the pounding, ‘what the heaven happened last night?’  He tried to rack his untrustworthy memory: his wings had really acted up, he lost the toss, jokes, alcohol, a fuckery about fixing “the falcon”... The angel got strangely formal and asked permission for…

Crowley needed not to be epically hung over for this, so he expelled the poisons from whatever he’d gotten well and truly sloshed on, and looked at his right wing.  Someone had expertly imped the bent feathers, the pinfeather sheaths were out and the broken, bleeding, festering blood feather...

Was gone.

Instead of the usual stinking hole, the follicle was in better shape than it’d been since before it’d been injured so long ago, so very, very long ago.  And that was impossible, because that feather was never going to be right again.  Only an angel could heal it and no angel would…

“Angel?” Crowley said softly, identifying gentle breathing nearby, looked down to see Aziraphale curled up asleep on a straw mattress on the floor.

Blue eyes opened softly and looked up at Crowley sweetly, until a smile that took on gleeful delight crossed the angel’s face. “You owe me double!”

“Wot!?” Crowley said in surprise.

“I did my blessing and the other thing at the crossroads in the storm last night.  And I performed that little service for the “falcon”, so,” ticking off his fingers, “You owe double!”  Aziraphale crowed and sat up.

“Is that really chivalrous when you obviously got me completely crocked?” Crowley rolled up on his side, “What the heaven did I drink?”

“Scumble, it’s made from apples.” Crowley finds the empty leather flask and sniffs it dubiously. “Stop changing the subject, Crowley!  You. Owe. Me!” Aziraphale sang out happily.

“All right, all right!” Crowley said, amused to think ‘the angel has a bastard streak, who knew?’ “Obviously, for the temptation, but this…” he waves at his wing, “this is…” Crowley looks at the angel at a loss for words.

“Just a little adjustment to the Arrangement,” Aziraphale said airily, “That I hope you remember should I ever meet you in similar circumstances.”

Crowley nodded, “Sure, that’s…Alright, then…but,” he stumbled over his words.

“And if “the falcon” needs any further help, you’re welcome to bring him back here,” Aziraphale said more warmly.  “Actually, I insist!”

“Insist, do you?” Crowley asked, face going from unguarded to a wry smile. Aziraphale’s heart melted a little at the brief flash of hopefulness in Crowley’s orange eyes.  “Indeed, I do insist upon it!” the angel said firmly, a bit of the bastard in his twinkling smile.

Could they make a subtle adjustment to the Arrangement?

Aziraphale was certainly willing to wager it.

[buckyalpine]

A thot. A smutty, slutty, scandalous thot. With Bodyguard Bucky. Possessiveness, size kink, breeding kink, all of it. Now, imagine being the sweet, quiet, beautiful wife of the esteemed John Walker, CEO of Walker Industries. You sit at his table, clapping with the proudest smile on your face as he accepts an award for another successful year. Your husband dedicates all his success to the beautiful woman who has supported him through all the ups and downs, who has been by his side through it all.

You.

You blow a shy kiss in his direction when the cameras pan over to you, giggling at the wink he throws back. The press will have a field day about the most envied couple in the world, so perfect and so in love. As the night nears its end, your husband gives your hand a squeeze from where he sits beside you, leaning over to whisper in your ear.

"Going to have to stop by office darling, one our major investors just called" He kisses your cheek affectionately with an apologetic look on his face but the understanding smile you give him back lets him know you're not the least bit upset.

"Of course, I'll miss you" You reply and take a sip from your champagne, appearing oblivious to the glances that are thrown your way by the others as your husband leaves without you, his secretary following closely behind him.

All the hushed whispers.

Poor woman has no idea.

All the secrets.

Just a pretty thing on his arm, probably doesn't have a clue.

Doesn't have a clue her husband has been carrying on with his secretary late into the nights and all through out his business trips.

Such a shame she's none the wiser. Has no one thought to tell her? Pity she's genuinely so in love with him.

Truly such a shame, wasn't it?

Such a shame your husband had no idea your bodyguard fucked your brains out till he busted balls deep in side you every chance he got.

Bucky doesn't say a word as he leads you out of the venue, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, helping you into the car. As soon as he slipped in beside you, you rolled up the dark partition before slinking onto his lap and slamming your lips against his. Bucky groaned against your lips, his hands finding their way home to grope and spank your ass, guiding your hips to grind down on his erection straining against his black pants.

"Need me to take care of you, huh princess" He murmured against the shell of your ear before going back to lacing his tongue with yours causing a shiver to run down your spine, nipping his pouty lip and grasping onto the lapels of his blazer.

No time was wasted as you straightened yourself out upon entering your home, quickly dismissing the staff to leave for the night, giving you free reign to do as you pleased.

As soon as the house was empty, he tossed you over his shoulder, striding up the stairs and straight to the master bedroom. He dropped you onto your large bed, tearing your dress in half down the middle, letting the material fall away at your feet.

"Fuck this" He grabbed your left hand, tugging off the wedding band you wore for appearances and tossing it carelessly across the room. He took off the silver tog tags that hung around his neck, slipping them over your head and letting his name sit perfectly between your breasts, the sight making him feral.

"Didn't even bother with panties" Bucky licked his lips at the sight of your bare naked body, not even a tiny sliver of lace covering your modesty. "You knew, didn't you"

"Always" You purred, knowing damn well your husband would fuck off to bang his desperate little secretary, unknowingly also giving you the night of your life you so badly craved. You crawled to the middle of the bed, your legs spread while Bucky tossed his blazer and shirt off, his pants and brief's quick to follow.

"Lookit you baby, so naughty, fuckin' your bodyguard in the same bed your husband sleeps in"

You let out a needy whimper while he stayed at the edge of the bed enjoying the view, his hand coming down to wrap around his cock giving himself long, languid strokes.

"James, please" you pleaded with a pout but Bucky just smirked in return, hissing as he swiped his thumb over the wet slit of his cockhead.

"I know prinţesă, I know, let me look at how pretty you are" He cooed, joining you on the bed and slotting himself between your legs. You wrapped your arms around his thick shoulders while he let his cock slip between your folds, rolling his hips to hump against your bare cunt. "You're soaked angel, been waiting for this, hm?"

"Wanted you so bad, need you James" Your hips bucked up, chasing the feeling of his fat cock rubbing against you, his swollen cockhead bumping your clit every time he pushed forward. "No teasing, please, missed your cock so bad"

"Shhh, you have me baby, m'right here, yeah?" Bucky kissed away the tears that started to slip down your cheeks, your arousal smearing all over his balls. He guided his dripping cockhead to press against your clit making you cry out, circling his most sensitive parts against yours, "M'right here, feel that angel? Y'feel how wet m'getting for you baby, right on that pretty clit, such a good girl letting me jus' leak all over her slutty little pussy, fuck theres so much precum 'nd m'not even inside you yet"

You'd never felt more empty, clawing at Bucky's back, your pussy fluttering and clenching over the way his silky tip kept tracing circles around your throbbing, sensitive bud. He flicked his cockhead across your clit a few times before lining himself up with your entrance.

"S'fuckin' tight, sh-shit" Bucky moaned as he started to press into you, sliding all the way home in one swift motion. He stayed still, holding your body close to his while your legs wrapped around his waist, your heels digging into his ass, begging for him to do something.

"Move Jamie, please, c'mon, fuck me damn it, I need you, I need- FUCCKK" Your words slurred into sobs as Bucky started to fuck you hard and fast, already too needy with having to get a night alone with you.

"Needed me huh angel? fuckin' needed you too, s'all I think about pretty girl, just me n' you, how-oh fuck- how are you so tight around my cock" Bucky rambled, bringing his knee up to get a deeper angle, his hands coming to lace with yours, pinning you against the mattress.

"Missed-fuck-missed you Jamie" You whimpered, your pussy squeezing and sucking his cock back in,

"My baby loves her fat cock, I know, know you're so empty when I can't fill you up sweet girl, you love your bodyguard's big dick don't you" The taunt in his voice only got you off more, your eyes rolling back as he continued to rail you. "You're pussy's choking me so tight, don't think I can hold back tonight princess, don't think I'll be able to pull out"

"Don't" you whispered and something in the air switched, the highly charged sexual tension replaced with something more desperate and needy as you clung onto each other reading closer and closer to your highs.

"Mmph, y'can't say that, gonna wet your bed with my cum prinţesă, you'd like that wouldn't you, my cum covering all your sheets, your pillows smelling like me, letting me fill you up till your belly gets all swollen"

Bucky's voice melted into a whine, his dominance faltering into something needier, quickly shoving the thought away because he knew there was no chance. It would never happen. You'd never be so careless for such an accident to happen.

"Want it Jamie, want it all with you, please, don't-fuck, oh God-don't pull out" Your glassy eyes wet with tears showed no signs of deception but it couldn't be. He searched your gaze and you could see the innocence in his face wishing this were real, the way his body moved with yours, wishing it was just you and him. "St-stopped taking birth control"

Bucky sobbed at your confession, fucking you harder, making the headboard slam against the wall with his powerful thrusts. His hips snapped , shoving his cock all the way into your pussy, his balls growing heavier at the thought of leaving a piece of him inside of your fertile womb.

"you're fuckin' mine, you hear me? Mine. Mine. Mine. Say it!" Bucky grunted, biting your neck making you scream, your back arching off the bed, pressing your chest further against his.

"M'yours, all yours, just' yours" You slurred out, eyes rolling back and your moans turning nearly silent as immense pleasure crept down your spine.

"Gonna put my baby in you, make you mine forever, fuck your husband, your gonna be the mother of my child, just you prinţesă, all you, ALL YOU" Bucky roared against your neck as he shot ropes of his cum deep in your pussy, giving you harsh, sloppy thrusts as he grew more sensitive. He wrapped his arms around your body with his face tucked into your neck, shuddering at the feeling of your soft hands caressing his back, running your fingers through his soft cropped locks.

You hardly noticed him carrying you over to his room down the hall, tucking you into the warm sheets, resting your head on his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"I love you" You murmured, smiling at the empty space on your ring finger and feeling the comforting coolness of his chain around your neck.

One day.

"I love you more, prinţesă" Bucky murmured, meaning every word as you both drifted off to sleep.

You couldn't wait to leave your husband.

a/n: This was meant to be way sluttier and less in the feels so might need to revisit this with a different version

[quotidian-oblivion]

PICREW CHARACTER DESIGN GAME

Tag game! Was tagged by @uncertainwallflower Thanks buddy!

Rules: Make a couple characters (or just one! as many as you want/have time for) from your WIP. Use whatever Picrew suits the vibe best—just make sure to link it. Tag a couple people to do the same.

I used the same template wallflower did. This one

I overlooked the wip part and just made characters of my favs soooo. I mean! I do have a fic where all of these characters (minus Bart) are in! And they get bombed by glitter! Thus the glitter, stickers and sparkles on their faces and around them.

I did Tim's twice cuz I didn't notice the throat scar until I was making Jason's but HE HAS A THROAT SCAR NOW HAHAHAHAHAHAHA TITANS TOWER LET'S GOOOOO!!!! JDKFVBEHFEOIJD Also yeah, skater boy Tim is something I will never give up.

AHHHHHHHHHHH THE FRINGE! JASON HAS THE FRINGE!!! I AM SO HAPPY FOR THE WHITE FRINGE I SBHFVHFOEWIL Also, I headcanon that Jason has a pair of glasses cuz he's a nerd (jk, ik that's stereotyping. I just love the concept of him having glasses cuz- LOOKIT HIM! LOOKIT THAT ADORABLE GORGEOUS BULK OF A BOY! I LOVE HIM!)

And yes, Dickiebird is the sunshine boy and the perfect media picture. NYEHHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH ALL OF THE BATKIDS HAVE SCARS HA.

DAMIIIIIIIII!!! And that's a Gotham Academy uniform ^^ This kid is a cute kid which tries not to act cute but lookit him. Adowable baby.

Steph has strawberry earrings. If there were crazier earrings, I would have put it, but there isn't. The earrings are a tribute to the fic I wrote about Steph having matchbox earrings called "Everyone Is On Fire In The End" (I've linked it) I love Steph. She's awesome.

And ofc, our perfect but-behind-the-scenes-is-actually-the-one-who-causes-all-the-shenanigans queen. Cass. And obvi she's gonna have a lot of scars. I was researching which color eyes she had and in the comics so far she has had, blue, green, and brown eyes. So i went with blue cuz... black-haired blue-eyed. Yk?

Alfred!!! I love him. The sassy grandpa butler.

Guess who the one next to Alfred is. HIMBO BRUCIE WAYNE. His scars were from when he tried to kiss a Tasmanian Devil on his trip to Australia ✌️❤️✨ This cannot possibly be Batman. The butts are lying.

Bonus: Cute Bart. He got his scars from trying to one-up Tim in skateboarding.

I went on a ramble. I like rambling. No pressure tags: @sardonic-sprite @tristicorde @wakkoroni @foursixtwonineoh-pieces-of-lego @cygnusdoesthings @mispeltnostalgia @ah0yh0y (turns out, it does exist XD) + whoever else wants to join!!

[tarisilmarwen]

Rebels Rewatch: "Crawler Commandeers"

The calm before the storm...

I actually do not have a live reaction version of this one, huh.

Ryder's misgivings with their circumstances showing even more. You know, I bet if they could have avoided showing footage of him helping in the attack on the Dome in the finale trailers, they could have sold the red herring of his "defection" even more.

You know, really make us worry for a moment there. XD

What's with that look, Sabine? Lol.

A very slow and strained Ezra's Theme in minor key as they observe the ore crawler here.

And a similarly strained and altered "Shenanigans". We are just putting all the serious musical modifications on the leitmotifs today.

Meanwhile at the Dragging Their Feet HQ...

Interesting that they specifically cite Thrawn's presence as a reason to be hesitant to attack. The man spooks them so much they're afraid to move. Anything they do can wind up giving something away to him that he can use later to destroy them. This is reminiscent of their paralysis when confronted with the knowledge of the Death Star in Rouge One. The Rebel Alliance know they're hopelessly outgunned, they know it's a hard fight, but it isn't until you're actually staring down the barrel of the full huge might of the Empire that you realize just how big and overwhelming the threat is.

And it's hard to figure out what to do in the face of such overwhelming odds. Which is why every so often the Rebellion needed its firebrands and Jedi to reject fear and spurn action into them.

You know... I think Hera told Ezra about the Alliance's long debate over this attack and that's what made him decide that Thrawn needed to be taken off the board permanently. Which is one reason why he was okay with sacrificing himself to take Thrawn out.

Ezra with another cute "Lookit my girl go!" look, and in my head I'm hearing his bragging, "Those troopers are in trouble now." from "Ghosts of Geonosis".

The way she effortlessly takes out those two droids is pretty impressive.

Lol the Trandoshan is listening to Zeb's favorite band, it sounds like.

Once again showing off the smaller more wirey members of the species. Wonder how many mental comparisons Ezra was making. (He worked briefly with Bossk in the junior novel Ezra's Gamble, Bossk being a much taller and heavier Trandoshan than this Mining Guild shrimp.)

Ha ha Ezra just straight up clotheslining him, awesome.

Big fan of the absolute chagrin in Ezra's face as he attempts his bluff here, he already knew this effort was doomed before he started lol.

Seevor's so offended too.

You guys really should have knocked this guy out from the outset. Just saying.

The steam effects are perfect. But then mist and cloud has always been a strength of this show.

Hi Vizago!

Lolol and I just thought of how this had to sound to Kanan all of a sudden he hears this loud familiar voice, he can't even see how excited Vizago is to see him but his WTF expression is perfect.

Oh and here's one of my favorite Zeb moments this season!

First giving him a badass entrance--"Drop the whip and step away from my friend you knuckle-brained lizard!" is an amazing line, I should rewatch this episode more often I'd completely forgotten it--and then we proceed into a very knock-down bare-knuckle outright brawl between Zeb and someone finally in his weight class.

The way Ezra just grabs Seevor's collar and drags him is sending me.

Seriously though, just stun him. Your blaster does have a stun function yes? Does it not work on Trandoshans?

Gilligan Cut to Kanan and Zeb clearly NOT being fine lol.

The comedy is On Point this episode.

I've already mentioned how I love this brawl so I'll just enjoy it and move on.

Meanwhile on Yavin, Mon Mothma is putting an official name to the Empire's habit of withdrawing its own forces before launching a major attack. "Protocol 13". The complete evacuation of an occupied world by Imperial forces.

So now you're left to Fridge Horror exactly which planet is on the chopping block. Chandrilla? Ghorman? Alderaan? The official timeline (which I don't ascribe to anyway because of NUMEROUS problems and inconsistencies) places this episode very close to Year Zero, within smelling distance of the Battle of Yavin, so the Empire's new plan is almost assuredly the Death Star.

Anyway Hera's convinced to go in and make her speech of hope. It's only too bad that they're facing Thrawn for this sortie. He keeps things at the Alliance at an impasse with his presence. Can't let his TIE Defenders go into production, can't attack his forces outright.

The Immovable Object to Ezra's Unstoppable Force.

Vizago and Hondo would get along immaculately. Actually kind of weird that Vizago's developed into a Hondo-like personality when he was so cold and chilling at the beginning of Season One but again I point to "The Empire makes all other threats into miniscule nuisances" and also he's clearly been in contact with Ezra too long, everyone softens around him lol.

My son with his impressive glares again. <3

And the plan is once again to bluff the Empire, and it's mostly a good plan, aside from the fact that they still haven't stunned the damn crawler captain.

Oh good! Zeb went and knocked him out again.

Don't mind me I just like this shot of Ezra readying his lightsaber.

And Seevor has turned internal saboteur. Man's dedicated to his job.

Sabine looking entirely too amused to make Ezra go in the vents, just like the old days.

But also:

*CRIES IN FINALE*

These shafts don't look as ah... sanitary as the ones Ezra's used to crawling through.

It was a nice touch that Ezra totally knew Seevor was there before he could attack. Force Sense warned him, it's implied.

HELLO AND WELCOME TO THE HORROR MOVIE PORTION OF THIS EPISODE.

When these clips were shown in the trailer I genuinely thought Seevor was Ruhk it was so hard to see him.

Again, Ezra senses the attack a hair before it happens.

People weirdly thought Ezra went briefly Dark Side again right here? Because they thought he manipulated his dropped saber into Seevor's foot path, sending him into the furnace, plus the dark humor comment later.

...I both do and don't see it. I see how it would certainly look like Ezra deliberately moved his saber somehow to make him slip but... I dunno I can't square it away with how he's been characterized for the most part. I'm going to settle on a maybe.

Sabine looks so happy for him, awww.

OHHHHH NO NO NO, SHOW. SHOW. YOU HAD TO KNOW WHAT YOU WERE DOING WHEN YOU HAD EZRA SAY, "YOU CAN COUNT ON US." WHILE LOOKING SIGNIFICANTLY AT SABINE.

Hhhhhhngnghhfhfffff my heart I ache now. Everything is so hopeful and optimistic it huuuuuuuurts.

This is a fun one. A bit silly in places, but entertaining. Lots of good moments for characters and unlike "The Wynkahthu Job" I don't want to slap anyone upside the head.

[slashingdisneypasta]

...

:)

Otis Driftwood

"Hold still, will 'ya?" The mean bastard said- or rather ordered- as he roughly pinned your hips down and still, pushing his cock further inside you. As far as he could go at least; he was already so deep inside you, "The point 'a this is that you don't get to move 'til I'm done. Got it?"

~

Jim Bickerman

His beard scratched at the skin of your cheek, though you could also feel that amused smirk on his face even while he pressed kisses to your cheek. His calloused hands traveled down to your currently bare hips and thighs, letting out a chuckle when you tried to subtly roll your hips on his dick, "Ah, c'mon sugar, just a little longer? I think you need this as much as I do anyway~"

~

Jafar

You let out a content moan as you leaned back against the vizier's chest. It had been such a long and unforgiving day, and now, you two were relaxing with each other; his cock buried balls deep inside your warm cunt, and you were all too happy to enjoy this perfectly full feeling. The sinful purr Jafar let out was enough to make you clench more around him, but then he spoke, "When I am sultan, my first order will be to set aside more time to enjoy my servant more often~"

~

Greasy Weasel

"Mi vida~" His husky voice was laced with lust- more so than usual, he loved it when you were in this state- as he took a break from sucking on your neck to breath in your ear. Not once did he stop rubbing your clit or loosen his grip on the leg he was propping up for you. You could tell with the occasional rocking of his hips that he desperately wanted to start thrusting and chase his own pleasure. But he wouldn't. He knew you needed this right now, "Relax, mi amor~ Just let me take care of you tonight~"

(You probably already know who this is, but I felt like going on anon tonight XD I hope you enjoyed these! ^^)

I... THANK YOU! These hit the exact spot I needed!! I see that cheeky little smile but these genuinely helped so much!! Omg, I was just sitting there reading them and rereading them for like 20 minutes, I swear XD

I had to write more for them!! &lt;;3<3<3<3 I hope that’s okay !

Warnings for, obviously, cockwarming and smutty themes- and also, periods. Also because this is very self-indulgent the reader is an afab female.

Otis B Driftwood:

"Hold still, will 'ya?" The mean bastard said- or rather ordered- as he roughly pinned your hips down and still, pushing his cock further inside you. As far as he could go at least; he was already so deep inside you, "The point 'a this is that you don't get to move 'til I'm done. Got it?"

~

Feeling sleepy, warm and fulfilled, you stretch your arms up and arch your back like a cat before sighing, dropping your arms onto Otis’ shoulders, and nodding. “Yeah,” You yawn, shifting only enough to press your pelvis against his. “I got it… “

“Hmm, lookit that… “He grins cruelly. Being too tired to be scared of him right now, and feeling too lovely and full because the bastard actually has the perfect cock for you besides, you just blink at him; a hazy look on your face.

“Hm?”

“You couldn’t even last 2 seconds keeping fucken still. You’re that dumb.”

Rolling your eyes gently and sighing quickly, you give a sad little pout. “Sorry, Otis… I just… wanted to be closer to you… “

Looking at you like this, so weak and dumb in his lap painting his hard dick red with your cunt-blood, Otis - for once, - gives you a pass. You’re just too fucking cute like this, and feeling so good and hot around him, that he cant bring himself to push you off even for a goddamn second. No. He wouldn’t even let you go if someone walked in and shot at him. You’re gonna sit and squeeze his cock until you’re crying and begging for him to move, and then… well, he probably still won’t. Ha. Sucks to be her.

“… Okay, baby doll,” He smirks, leaning back slowly until he’s lying down, and gestures for you to follow and lay on his chest- which you’re all-too-happy to do, snuggling into him like a hot water bottle. His beard tickles your nose but that just make you smile into his neck, nuzzling into him more and giving him a little kiss. “Stay still okay? Gonna take a nap. Don’t fucken wake me.”

“Okay Otis… love you… “

Jim Bickerman:

His beard scratched at the skin of your cheek, though you could also feel that amused smirk on his face even while he pressed kisses to your cheek. His calloused hands traveled down to your currently bare hips and thighs, letting out a chuckle when you tried to subtly roll your hips on his dick, "Ah, c'mon sugar, just a little longer? I think you need this as much as I do anyway~"

~

Giving a heavy groan, full of exhaustion and frustration, you settle more closely into Jim’s lap with your legs draped around his hips, and wrap your arms around his neck; Hugging him close and burying your head in his shoulder. You nod. “You’re right about that… “

“Relax, honey, I’ll take care a’ you.” Not that its going to be easy at all, he thinks, shifting uncomfortably at the feeling of your sweet little cunt bleeding and throbbin’ round him. He’s gonna try, though. For you. You just looked so damn worn out when you came home, complaining about the people you work with and your cramps, and the smile you gave him was so tired- he just wanted to cheer you up.

You laughed at his jokes when he tried to do it that way, but you were still so exhausted and droopy- so, plan B.

He loved plan B, but goddamn was it torture.

“… knew I kept you around for a reason… “You mumble, grinning into his flannel.

“Yeah, happy to remind you.” That rouses a chuckle out of you, before you take in a sharp, deep breath, and sit up straight again. Jim’s eyebrows furrow, and he’s about to reach out for you again to relax- but you’re just reaching back to unclip your bra and slip it out of the bottom of your shirt. You chuck it off to the corner of the room, flashing him a side eye afterwards.

“… don’t get any ideas.” You joke, your grin already becoming lighter and less frustrated.

Giving a shrug back and a wide-eyed ‘innocent’ look, Jim shakes his head. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”

You lean forward and rest yourself against him again, curling into him and burying your nose in his shoulder once more; Closing your eyes and giving a pleased sigh when he slips his hands under the back of your shirt.

Jafar:

You let out a content moan as you leaned back against the vizier's chest. It had been such a long and unforgiving day, and now, you two were relaxing with each other; his cock buried balls deep inside your warm cunt, and you were all too happy to enjoy this perfectly full feeling. The sinful purr Jafar let out was enough to make you clench more around him, but then he spoke, "When I am sultan, my first order will be to set aside more time to enjoy my servant more often~"

~

“Perhaps we’ll stow away every month for an entire week… “He goes on, smirking hotly against the side of your head. “… I do love it when you bleed… “

“Yeah, fucking really helps with cramps… I feel so much better already… “Turning your head, you give Jafar a little kiss on the corner of his mouth; Twisting his beard around your fingers.

At this, Jafar pauses. “… well, that’s obviously a bonus.”

“Ha.” You say, rolling your eyes and letting go of his beard, resting back against his chest again; His body heat amazing against your lower back. Your eyes slowly fall closed, your head resting back against one of his broad shoulders. It feels so good…

With your knees bent and pointed towards the ceiling, your pussy - stretched around Jafar’s cock, coating it in slick and heavy flow, - is bare and Jafar takes this as an opportunity to reach around and use two fingers to stroke your sensitive lips around his length- just as a ‘bonus’.

Immediately your lips fall open and breathy moans start to slip from you while he grins and watches you writhe. You are beautiful, especially in this state - a mess from such a long, terrible day and all his, -, in your rightful place spread across his regal lap. Keeping him hot and wet, filling his ears with your sweet sounds… completely exposed and practically belonging to him.

… You were born a lowly servant… but it’s obvious you were meant to be his Sultana. And he will get you there.

Greasy Weasel:

"Mi vida~" His husky voice was laced with lust- more so than usual, he loved it when you were in this state- as he took a break from sucking on your neck to breath in your ear. Not once did he stop rubbing your clit or loosen his grip on the leg he was propping up for you. You could tell with the occasional rocking of his hips that he desperately wanted to start thrusting and chase his own pleasure. But he wouldn't. He knew you needed this right now, "Relax, mi amor~ Just let me take care of you tonight~"

~

“Greas-yyy… “

“I know, I know… “Tilting his head and focusing in on your pretty little cunt, all pink and spread around him, his thumb skilfully keeping you at just the right place without making you cum. He may not have as much experience with the ladies that he would like, but he does know you and your body… He could play you like a fiddle if he wished to. And usually, he does. “I’ve got you, mi amore… “

But tonight is about you. You’ve had such a long couple of days, Smartass has pushed you too hard in his opinion, especially in your current state~… you just need a little bedroom time with him, though, and you’ll feel so much better. He’s sure.

“I-… I love you… This feels so good… “Your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit jacket, pulling him adorably closer- god, mierda… you really are irresistible in this state~ So needy, and whiny… It’s taking all he has to not ravage you. Screw you, until you’re a shaking mess and the other boys can all hear you shamelessly begging for him~... “Thank… you… “

“Of course, Y/N… “Greasy looks up, then, at your beautiful face, and can’t help leaning in to give you a kiss on the corner of your mouth. You just look so sweet, and pliant… God, he loves you. He has it so bad. Do you even know what you’ve done to him?? “Any time.”

You pull him back, then, to kiss you properly and fuck- mierda- damnit- you kiss him right now just as needily as you sound; Your lips warm and perfect, sucking against his as your tongue licks greedily along his. He allows himself to kiss you back as nastily as he wants to fuck you, swallowing your cute moans and feeling his cock twitch inside you.

Oh no no no! Immediately Greasy rips his mouth away from you, pressing his forehead against yours, breathing heavily and focusing for a moment on just bringing himself back from the brink; Getting a hold of himself. No, no. No cumming yet.

Not until you do.

[minty-playhouse]

A Post About My Favorite Fashion Dreamer NPCs! (so far!)

So, been playing this game daily since launch, and I've unlocked a share of the NPCs (I've heard there are 200 of them?? that's so much more than I thought there would be if true!) and some of them I love too much, so here's an extensive post about my favorites!

It's under a read more because I have no self control and fall in love with one every three seconds lol Also the NPCs are in no particular order, I'm just placing them in the order they are on my screenshots folder heh Also possible spoilers since you might have not seen some of these NPCs in your game!!

MY DEAR MY LOVE MY EVERYTHING. I love Bucky with all my heart and soul (even if he sometimes frustrates me with his color pickyness like do you enjoy green or not???? answer me!!!). He also bares a striking resemblance to a certain emerald haired bug loving boy I'm very particular about, so me getting attached to him was a no brainer lol

Really like Clarissa so much! I love her lines about wanting to be grown up, and how she seems "frustrated" that folks her age and even adults don't act mature like her hah! Also love it when i make lookits for her that are just a little cuter and she goes "Are you teasing me??? But, hm, this is cute." Like yes, you're adorable, pls! But I also like giving her the mature looks she wants because she seems so happy when I do <3

Eleanor, beloved <3 She's so cute and it's so frustrating because she barely shows up when I'm playing! I've seen her very early when I started playing, but she shows up like once very ten times I boot the game </3 Eleanor, please, come visit me, I miss you so much </3 Also the motivational stuff she says to you, like "You went outside for grogeries! Awesome!" like, she could fix me.

Farah sometimes shows up a lot and sometimes goes MIA. No in between. But I think her design and vibes are very good and I want to know more! Please show up more often so I can unveil your secrets (and take photos with you!)

Why do I like Franco? Is it because his forgetful dialogue makes me laugh? Is it the cool pink hair? Is it his cute face? Is it because he was probably the second NPC I interacted with? Who knows! All I know is that I need him to ALSO show up more often!

IAN IAN IAN. My need to put him in super cute clothes is strong but he isn't super into adorable styles and it breaks my heart because his face and size are perfect for cutesy, pastel outfits! Also ugh, his indecisiveness is cute too, everything about him is cute I need to put him on a shelf <3 <3

I LOVE ISAAC???? HE'S EVERYTHING???? Alien cute boy who speaks in code =crying forever= I was so surprised when he showed up doing his weird arm movements like "Woah, what's that?" and ugh, I love alien characters in any way shape or form and his colors just make me love him even more aaaah. I'm so glad he shows up a lot in my game and I can give him many lookits <3

MOMMY? MOMMY PLS? PLS MOMMY???? My love for Matilda is endless and I was absolutely devastated when she told me she was married like!!! I thought she was a single mom for the longest time due to her dialogue and then she dropped that bomb on me! Pls Matilda, divorce your husband and come stay with me, I can give you the world!!! She also shows up A LOT on my game and I'm always doing my best with my looks for her heh

Really like Orihime! She's so cute and I just feel so bad for her when I can't make her a good look and can't help her stop crying! I hope she shows up more and gives me more info on her character "arc" because I want to know more! (I know she's based on the Japanese tale, but I need to know more in the context of the game!)

If I'm not mistaken, Pete was the very first NPC I interacted with, and I really love his eyes and his top/vest is very stylish! I also like the way he repeats himself for some reason. I imagine some people may not like it or find it annoying, but I find it very charming heh He also needs to show up more!

Regina is so pretty it makes me wanna CRY. She's been MIA in my game for a while, which is strange because she would show up all the time! Also love how her dialogue is so disconnected from the world around her due to being obscenely rich XD I can imagine some don't like her for that exact reason (she's the 1%) but I find her behavior endearing!

Gyyyuh, I need to grab Rita and put her in my pocket she's so cute and I just want to protect her from everything!!! If anything happens to her I'll kill everyone and then myself! I also love making lookits for her because they always come off very cute <3

Shledon is such a simple character but I simply love his dark skin/"bleached" hair combo! I'm very weak for that hah Also the shape of his eyes are very pleasant to me, and so are his lips. I just think he's a very gorgeous character and he's always so nice to me <3 He's been missing a bit as well, been a while since I saw him </3

ONEESAN SISI!!!! She's everything! Like I legit fell in love with her at first sight! And her dialogue makes me so weak! Big sis characters are my BIG weakness and also they made her so pretty and FOR WHAT?? To play with my feelings? Well, it's working! I'm ready to die for her!

Twyla, my beautiful girl <3 So so hyped that they added a very early game dark skinned lolita NPC <3 We need more dark skin lolita representation up in here! I absolutely adore making Lookits for her because duh, lolita fashion is something I love and she gives me the chance to explore that a lot! Also love that she's a night owl hah

Really like Watson even though he might seem like a very "basic" character. But... his dialogue lines are just... why does it always feel like he's either coming on to me or flirting with me in a very roundabout way when we talk? Not that I'm complaining because I think he's VERY pretty but?? Is there something you wanna tell me Watson??

This is what I got so far. There are some NPCs I really like that aren't listed here because I need to take screenshots of them, so expect a part two of this post at some point lol

[bluejaysandblackbats]

The Stowaway

Fandom: DC Comics, Flashfam

Summary: Newlyweds Linda and Wally West allow their four year old stowaway, Bart Allen, to join them on their honeymoon/roadtrip.

Chapters: 1/?

Characters: Linda Park West, Wally West, Bart Allen, Iris West Mention, Meloni Thawne Mention, Barry Allen Mention, Don Allen Mention

Relationship(s): WallyLinda

Additional Tags: No Capes AU, No Powers AU, Baby Bart Allen Fic, Fluff, POV Linda Park, Family Bonding, Newlyweds WallyLinda, Romance

Chapter One: Paebaek

“Lookit!” Bart exclaimed as I walked down the aisle. I held back a laugh as I stopped to wave at him. He climbed out of his seat, and Meloni tried to catch him, but I beckoned him. A wedding doesn’t have to be perfect. I learned that the first time. Bart approached me and showed me his hanbok. He twirled around and grinned at me. “Grandma tied mine… Who tied yours?” 

I took his hand, smiling as I pointed to my mom. “My mommy tied mine,” I answered, “Do you want to walk with me?” Bart nodded. He and my father escorted me down the aisle and gave me away. I’ll never forget that. Dad removed my veil and kissed my cheek, leaving me with Bart and Wally. The officiant recited a poem, introduced us, and allowed us to say our vows. 

Wally went first. “When I wrote my vows the first time, I heard a song that made me toss out everything I wrote… Um, there’s a line in it. It goes, ‘And even when I’m old and grey/ I’m gonna feel the way I do today,’ and I sat there imagining you with grey hair and wrinkles. I saw myself old with you. I—.” Wally exhaled, and his eyes welled up with tears. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I wanna grow old with you and feel young with you. I don’t wanna wake up to any face other than yours. Every day won’t be perfect, but I know we belong together. 

“I wouldn’t feel complete without you… I can’t after knowing you. I can’t un-know you. I can’t un-feel what I feel for you. You are woven into every fiber of my being, Linda…

“And I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so overwhelmed that I chose you, and you chose me in return. I’m the luckiest man alive.” Tears streamed down his cheeks and mine, and we reached to wipe them away. 

I couldn’t remember what the officiant said to transition to me and my vows, but I remember being so choked up I couldn’t get my words out. I sobbed shamelessly in front of our families, and Bart tugged my skirt, pouting. “It’s—. It’s o-okay,” I hyperventilated, “I’m crying because I’m happy.” I picked Bart up and held him on my hip. 

“Wally, I always thought when I met the one, I’d know it the second it happened, but you changed my outlook on life. I couldn’t stand you when we met—.” Wally nodded and laughed. “But, I’ll—. Hear me out. I’ll never love anyone like I love you now. I don’t worry when we’re apart because I know you’ll return.

“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be and better than any man I could’ve imagined for myself. Wally… Forever started the moment we met… I have to believe it was fate. And I’m so glad fate brought us together.” 

The officiant said the final words that I waited for. Meloni came and took Bart, and I kissed my husband. That was an unforgettable experience. Then we did the paebaek ceremony. I explained to Wally that we didn’t have to do it, but he insisted. He served wine to my parents and I served Barry and Iris. I let Bart sit on my lap while he drank his juice from a sippy cup. “Are you having fun?” I whispered. Bart grinned at me.

“Can we do this again next year?” Bart asked. Wally laughed. 

“Next year it’ll be our anniversary,” Wally replied. 

“And we’ll have a big party,” I added. We finished our glasses. My parents and his aunt and uncle gave us envelopes with cash, and they threw the chestnuts and dates. Then, Wally carried me, my mother, and Iris on his back around the table. That was his favorite part. And of course, I took Bart around the table so he wouldn’t feel left out. 

Bart’s favorite part was the meal during the reception. It gave Wally and I some time to talk. “I know you said you didn’t want me to get you a gift. I know that’s what you told me… But I saw you looking at this months ago, and it wouldn’t feel right to start our marriage without it,” Wally whispered as he reached into his pocket and stood behind me. “Close your eyes.” I obeyed as I felt him put a necklace on me. 

I opened my eyes and touched the necklace, looking at the infinity necklace with two red stones on either side of a diamond on a sterling silver chain. “Wally,” I smiled. He sat beside me, stroking the line of my jaw with his finger. 

“I had it altered, so our birthstones are on either side of the center diamond. If you don’t like it—.” 

“I love it. Thank you, Wally,” I whispered. 

~~

We left the reception early to get started on our drive. We rented an RV, packed our gifts, and went on our way. I went to sleep in the bedroom while Wally drove, but he woke me up after four hours saying Don and Meloni couldn’t find Bart. “We should go back and help look for him,” I replied, slipping pajama pants on underneath my night dress.

“We’re four hours away—.” 

“He’s your cousin, Wally. I’d feel responsible if anything happened to him,” I interrupted. I chewed my lip. “You don’t think—. Oh god, Wally.” I broke down and cried. 

Then, Wally did something out of his character… He shushed me. I sniffed and scowled at him. Before I could speak, I heard a yawn followed by a smacking noise. Wally held up his pointer finger as he looked under the bed. “You little—. Get out of there,” Wally growled. 

“No! I want Linda!” Bart shouted. I looked over the edge of the bed and met eyes with Bart. 

“Hi there, cutie pie—.” 

“Why’d you go and marry him?” Bart pouted. I chuckled. 

“If I didn’t marry Wally, you wouldn’t be my cousin. Wanna come out and sit with me? I promise Wally won’t bite,” I reassured him. Wally frowned at me, and I held a finger up to my lips to keep Wally quiet. Bart lay on his stomach and reached for me, and I pulled him out from under the bed. He climbed up with me and sat on my lap. “What are you doing here? You had everyone worried sick, Bart.” 

“I didn’t mean to… I mean—. I kinda did. Mommy said you were going away for a lot of days,” Bart mumbled. 

“Fourteen,” I replied, holding up one finger on my left hand and four on my right. “Two Saturdays.” 

“That’s forever,” Bart whimpered. I held his little hands in mine and nodded. 

“Wally, he has a point. Two Saturdays is a long time… And we’re four hours out already,” I playfully pouted. “Do you think we could let him tag along for a few days?”

“Linda—.” 

“Wally,” I interrupted. He sighed and called Don. 

“Hi, Don… We’ve got a little stowaway on board… And Linda had an idea since we’re four hours away… Do you wanna pick Bart up next week? We could put him on a flight home or—?” No don’t worry. Linda’s crazy about Bart… Yeah… Yeah! That’s fine. We’ll do that… That means so much, Donny. Thanks. Bye,” Wally whispered. He hung up, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. “Bart, Donny’s gonna let you go to Santa Cruz with us. He’s gonna wire cash for you to play with us.” 

I lifted Bart over my head and carried him on my shoulders. “Yay!” I shouted. Bart giggled, wrapping his hands around my forehead for balance. And that was that. Honeymoon party of three!