#my ao3 would be... fuller

[beastsovrevelation]

My issue is, I'm seemingly incapable of writing oneshots. I'm so eager to explore various ships, but only come up with epics. Why can't I ever write a short story, or two?.. Some angst. Some smut. Some fluff, with a relationship already estabilished. Hell, I'd probably feel much more productive.

[teencopandthesourwolf]

edited version can be read on ao3 HERE

.

“Need a hand with that?”

Derek didn't drop the tire he was carrying, but it was a close thing. He'd recognise that voice anywhere—would know it in a sea of a thousand others.

He slowly turned on his heel to find its owner sat in Derek's favourite tree.

Stiles.

“You're here,” he breathed, not bothering to hide the mix of shock and relief that coloured his own voice and features.

Stilesʼ lips twitched. “I'm here,” he confirmed, just in case Derek needed to hear it.

“Hey,” Derek said, eloquent as ever.

“Hey yourself,” Stiles grinned back.

Shifting his weight on the tree branch, Stiles then pulled himself up to standing. He wiped his hands on the ass of his jeans before proffering one towards Derek.

“I'm Mieczysław Stilinski. It's really nice to meet you, dude.”

Stilesʼcheeks flushed an overwhelmingly pretty shade of pink, and Derek wanted to eat him.

Reaching out to take the hand in one of his own, the pads of his fingertips brushed the familiar Jack rabbit pulse at Stiles's wrist, for just a second, and it was both a calling card and like a huge sigh of relief.

He turned the name around in his mind.

Mieczysław. Mieczysław Stilinski.

It was unexpected, and very Polish, and Derek sort of adored it.

Looking a little antsy, Stiles said, “It, uh, means 'sword' in Polish. If you go in for that sort of thing.” He blushed some more and then snorted at himself. “But yeah, I know it's kinda... ʼSʼobviously why I go by Stiles—which was my Grandfather's nickname too, by the way.”

Derek's heart swelled in his chest.

This was what they could've had if things had gone differently for them.

He cleared his throat, took a deep intake of woodsmoke-laced air into his lungs, then said, “Broderick Seth Rodman Hale, third son of Talia and Seth Hale of the Hale Pack of Beacon Hills county, North California, and I'm very pleased to meet you're acquaintance. Oh, and do not call me dude, by the way.”

“Broderick? Are you shitting me right now?!” Stiles blurted, trying and failing to not laugh.

Derek rolled his eyes and it felt like breathing. “Seriously? I think you'll find you don't have even half a leg to stand on, Mieczysław.”

“Actually, I have two, Broderick Seth Rodman Hale, and I diligently used the both of them to come out here to Bumfuck nowhere to find you.”

He shot Derek with ridiculous finger guns then blew away imaginary gunpowder smoke, and if it wasn't for the kid's beard it could've easily been thirteen-years ago.

Not a kid anymore.

Stiles looked amazing. A little broader, and a little fuller in the face, and the beard really, really suited him. At once, Derek had the desperate urge to sink his claws into it and paw at the pale skin beneath. He wanted to back Stiles into the bark of the tree and bury his nose in that long, mole-peppered neck he still had dreams about, to breathe in pure unadulterated Stiles.

He swallowed thickly, licking at his dry lips and wishing they were Stilesʼ. Had to force himself to unclench the fist not currently grasping Stiles's hand.

Derek had to try his best to pretend that he wasn't very aware of the fact that they were still very much holding onto each other.

“Broderick means 'brother' in Old Norse, if you go in for that sort of thing,” he offered, borrowing Stiles's banter.

Stiles's smile was easy, albeit tainted with a hint of sadness for that piece of information. He was sort of—looser. More relaxed, and definitely less agitated than he used to be. Though he smelled exactly the same as he always had: Of strong coffee and Bath & Body Oak shower gel and wild cinnamon and lemon sherbet dip, and that particular warm smack of something that Derek had always struggled to place—the very essence of Mieczysław 'Stiles' Stilinski.

The familiar tang zinged over his taste buds like popping candy, and his wolf took up its routinely impatient pacing at his core as if they had seen Stiles only yesterday.

“I'm—uh, I don't—you look good, Stiles. Really good.”

This human was the only creature on planet earth that had Derek Hale fumbling his words.

Stiles was smirking his signature smirk—only there was something new pulling at the curve of that life-ruining mouth of his.

Unerring confidence.

Derek sniffed at the air and licked at his lips again so he could taste that, too.

“You're look pretty fine yourself there, Sourwolf,” Stiles divulged, mirroring Derek again by licking his own lips. He shamelessly looked Derek up and down and said, “Your edges aren't quite so sharp, and you're little softer ʼround the eyes, like maybe you're—I dunno. Something closer to being happy?” His eyes shone like the full moon in the dark when he told Derek, “And, dare I say it, maybe not even all that sour anymore?”

Derek huffed a breath out through his nostrils that was in the proximity of a laugh.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Looks good on you, man. Really good.”

Stiles was borrowing Derek's words, and if he kept saying things like that to Derek while looking at Derek the way that he was, Derek would have to restrain himself from picking the guy up by the scruff of his very nice sweater and kissing the words right out of his mouth.

Then everything sort of stilled, somehow, including the wind, and the birds, and them, as if the whole world had just halted for something incredibly important.

They stood there, just gazing at each other. Like there wasn't anything else they could or would possibly be doing right now.

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.

It was obvious to even the blades of grass on the ground that they both still felt it.

Slowly, slowly, they caught back up to reality.

Derek took a breath and found his voice again.

“Might've taken a few pointers from a kid I used to know,” he smiled, eyes never leaving Stilesʼ.

Then he thought in for a penny and admitted, “I hoped you'd come looking for me—and I want you to know that I'm really, really glad that you did.”

Stiles squinted at him through the sun's afternoon rays breaking through the Colorado cloud cover like the heavens had suddenly appeared. In that moment, he reminded Derek of the beautiful golden Aztec Sanvitalia shrub that grew down by the little stream behind his cabin. He wondered briefly if that could be the missing base note in Stiles's scent, and then felt a little insane with it all.

“Well, I knew I'd find you,” Stiles shrugged, “because one: I'm like a dog with a bone and two: You left a trail of breadcrumbs so fucking vague only a genius like yours truly could follow.”

He then shielded those big brown doe eyes of his from a particularly bright sunbeam with a still-bony hand, and the squinty look on his face was so fond Derek had to sink his canines into his lip to hold in the pitiful whine threatening to climb up and out of his chest and escape him.

He stepped closer to the tree, closer to the boy who runs with wolves who was definitely not a boy any longer.

“You make it sound as if we're in some sort of fairytale,” Derek said as he attempted to blink Stiles's beauty from his eyes, knowing it would be an entirely fruitless endeavour.

Finally, Stiles reached out to pull Derek down and into his lap, and Derek went like a force of nature.

He dropped the tire this time.

Stiles smelled like love when he said, “Weren't we always, Der?” right into Derek's mouth.

And Derek knew.

As Stiles leaned in and kissed him, softly, and he kissed Stiles softly right back, he knew they both understood that although they had to travel far from Beacon Hills to find it, they had both—at long last—made it home.

.

on ao3 HERE if you'd like to leave me a comment <3

i saw the new dob shoot and my brain remembered the hoech one and went ping! this is for @wulfnerd seeing as they came up with the wonderful Broderick as Derek's full first name in the tags of a post of mine who knows how long ago...

unedited, please be forgiving <3

[deadsetobsessions]

The first person who asked me to put my writing on AO3, thank you for your appreciation and I'm honored to have a piece of my work considered so highly... but also count your days bc I genuinely believe my life spiraled after posting that first chapter. The curse is real, and that website is like moldavite istg.

----

Tim made a miscalculation.

He wasn’t aware of the true nature of Deathstroke’s tension with his older brother until he witnessed it first hand.

Creep. He thought uncharitably, nay, spitefully.

No. Absolutely the fuck not.

He ruined Catalina’s life. Considering Deathstroke had no life, Tim will just have to go the extra step to end it. So what if the man was Ra’s former student and one of the best assassins around? Tim used to foil League plots for shits and giggles. Maybe the 8 year old Tim of old would never have considered going against a big baddie, but 24 year old Tim ran circles around bigger fish.

Tim scowled, stowing away his binoculars before shimmying down the fire escape. He counted at least three propositions! In the five minutes they were duking it out! His big brother was too bright for those losers! Maybe he could get Sandra Wu-San to do something about her fellow student? Or Tim could hit two assassins with one Robin and get David Cain to murder Deathstroke while nabbing Cass?

Ooo, he likes that idea. Maybe he'll get lucky and they'll kill each other while fighting and then Tim won't have to worry about how to keep Cain away from Tim's sister.

Bruce would have been disappointed about how cavalier his approach was in terms of preservation of life, but Tim had always thought that ideology applied to his days as a Bat-affiliated vigilante. And since Tim was an itty bitty civilian instead of an (older, taller) ass kicking vigilante, Tim has concluded that Bruce's mildly irritating morality didn't apply to him in his current state. Besides, it wasn't like he was an angel during his tenure as Robin anyways.

"Guess I gotta embezzle some more money." Tim grimly put his backpack to his front and ran to catch the first bus home. Too bad. Deathstroke had proven useful.

————

David Cain leaned against a transport cargo box, breathing heavily from wounds. His commission was done, and the amount promised would allow him to buy an island and then some. His fellow student laid at his feet. His bank account was fuller than Ra's, he was sure.

He never sees the tranquilizer dart coming.

And really, Tim’s had enough experience to hide the mark from the dart and more than enough to murder the man and make it seem like he bled out.

——

“Odd.”

“Tell me about it.” Nightwing crouched, his sparkly costume hidden partially in the shadows. “Why’d they have to duke it out here?” He whined. Honestly, he’s been down in the dumps with what happened to Jason but having Deathstroke dead and gone for good was a balm to his soul.

“Hn.” It’s true. Bruce knew that it was weird Ra’s al Ghul’s students would murder each other like this. He searched the bodies, lifting up a burner phone and a bunch of weapons.

“Can’t you say something other than monosyllabic grunts, B?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to?”

“…No.” Bruce made a funny and seemed rather proud of himself.

Duck stared at him. He lifted a hand, watching Bruce’s face fall into dread.

Dick pulled the zipper down on the top of his costume down to his navel, flaring the collar and exposing his mesh covered chest.

“No.”

“Fuck you.” Dick flips away, leaving a despondent Batman behind with two dead bodies.

In the distance, the girl who would be come Cassandra Cain took the hands of a boy who would become here brother.

Tim Drake grinned, like an adorable, blood frenzied baby shark.

[contamination-zone]

Happy birthday Fresh! Every year I giggle about how much he'd hate people celebrating it today, and not on april first.

Short fic snippet [570 words] I wrote under cut or on AO3 [link]

CB had been mulling over words of one of his best friends [of which he had many] all evening. Blue said that today, April 20th, was Fresh’s birthday when he dropped by. [Always when Fresh was away; he’s pretty sure Blue doesn’t like him very much.]

He didn’t know how much he believed that, because a little under three weeks ago they’d celebrated Fresh’s birthday already. It would be really unfair if he got Two birthdays, in CB’s humble opinion. But… Blue hadn’t ever lied to him, at least, not that he could remember. And it was good to trust your friends at their word, Fresh told him that all the time.

He kicked at the floor, watching as rocks skidded away. It didn't really matter, he decided. He'd celebrate Fresh’s other birthday with as much gusto as his normal one, cus even if it wasn't really his birthday, it was another excuse to have fun. Another example of how much of a good friend he was. He grinned at the idea.

A quick glance at his phone showed it was almost time for Fresh to get back, so he ran back to where they’d been when he left. On cue, there was an explosion of magic saturated fog, a Fresh Poof! With it, the sound of his best friend’s voice calling out, “I’m back, lil dude!”

CB rushed at him, before the other had even slowed down on his heelys. “Fresh!” He yelled, slamming into its middle and wrapping his arms around it.

“Wouh!” Fresh exclaimed, hands [which were almost hesitant, but that would be absurd. Hesitant and Fresh were words that don’t belong together] settling over CB’s shoulders- they were big, so it felt almost like he was hugging back. “What’s the occasion, Stripes?”

CB didn’t even fight it on the nickname, just looking up at him with a big smile, “It’s a birthday hug!”

For some reason, Fresh got a weird look on his face at that. Words CB didn't quite catch flashing over his glasses before he fell to his knees, hands still on his shoulders– something he did when he wanted to talk to CB more face-to-face. His best friend must be super moved by his ultra-cool birthday hug!

Instead of some profuse thanks, Fresh gave him a more serious expression. “It’s April 20th, who told you it was my birthday?” He didn’t say it wasn’t, but he did seem a bit grumpy, maybe because he was embarrassed he had two?

“Blue did!” He chirped, which made Fresh groan, his head falling forward until it rested on CB’s shoulders. He wrapped his arms around its skull in a hug, not really used to being the one to comfort Fresh. “Do you not like your birthday…? I think its pretty cool you have two.”

“Thanks lil man.” Was its response, the hold on his shoulders tightening until Fresh pulled him into a fuller hug, making CB fall into his lap. He squeaked, arms flailing a bit as Fresh got more comfortable on the ground with him, “I guess having two is pretty rad, huh? Twice the celebration.”

There was a smile in his voice, and CB grinned. “Does that mean we get more cake? And get to prank your friends some more?”

“We only did that cus it was April First, Stripes,” he laughed.

“Yeah! Your birthday!”

For some reason, that just made Fresh laugh even harder.

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 2 "Eidolon"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧༺༻ Dreams are messages from the deep ༺༻✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: 18+, smut, she/her AFAB FMC, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum, Feyd-Rautha's big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, Frank Herbert would frown, some politics, implied/referenced (child) abuse ❗, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts ❗, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable!Feyd, Emotional!Feyd, Possessive!Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, implied/referenced cannibalism ❗, implied/referenced murder

WORD COUNT: 2.5k

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist under construction ⚠️| Relic Masterlist (12 Chapters)

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Tag list? Do let me know if u want me to tag u 👉👈

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Night 15

Midnight darkness caresses Feyd's shoulders as he pads to his dark bed, clad in full-coverage pajamas of loose, black fabric. He catches his silhouette in the wall mirror, glad to be spared the view of the new blemishes on his back and chest.

When he slips under the stiff covers of his bed, he is almost too excited to fall asleep. Excitement knots his stomach, so he forces his lungs to perform the breathing exercise that has always helped him since he was a child, channeling his focus only on his breathing, not whatever is happening to his body, the good and the bad.

The excitement helps him through the day, but he needs to relax his mind, relax his soul.

Is it working? When will he finally sleep?

The transition is seamless. He never realizes when he falls asleep and when the dream seeps into his mind like a blessing.

But then there she is, right in his arms where she belongs. They are reclined against the headboard of the large, white bed, their legs half buried under black covers. The fern rustles faintly in the terracotta pot and Feyd catches a glimpse of the two of them in the wall mirror. Immediately, his cheeks do this thing that makes them appear rounder and fuller and his teeth are on full display while his eyes are slitted. He is shirtless and there are no blemishes on his skin.

"Have you been here for long?" He asks, fingers tracing the softness of her upper arm.

"What?" She asks.

"What?" He replies and the same sense of could-be-should-be déjà-vu as always macerates the fabric of reality. She blinks at him and he leans down to kiss her on the lips. Her hand curls around the smooth back of his head, pulling him close as she opens her mouth and beckons him inside, so easily, so softly.

When they part, she whispers: "I don't know how long I've been here, but I missed you."

"I missed you," Feyd rumbles. She has absolutely no idea how much he missed her.

Gentle hands explore his face, touching places no one has ever touched, like his closed eyelids, the dip of his cupid's bow or the meandering shapes of the shell of his ear.

"How is this scientifically possible?" She raptly breathes and Feyd's eyes open back up from the blissful trance where only the caress of her hands can bring him.

"I still don't care." He smiles, leaning closer into the warm and comforting body that breathes against him.

"How can you not care? Shared, lucid dreams imply the existence of a connection between two organisms across space time, and since our interactions seem to be instantaneous, it's almost like we're quantum entangl- Feyd!" She squeaks when he rolls her on her back, pushing one leg between her thighs and his chest on top of hers.

She is so caught up in her wild chain of thoughts, that she completely forgets to hold him and that annoys Feyd greatly. "Don't you find that fascinating at all?" She asks.

"I have bigger concerns."

"Yes, like what?" She grins, cupping his face with gentle hands.

"Like the fact that you're not kissing me."

"Oh, you're so needy." She pecks him on the mouth, noting how his features soften and his lashes lower.

"I'm not." Feyd growls, pressing his mouth against hers softly while he wonders why he actually denies it. Their chests come flush in an intimate dance of bodies, bare, vulnerable skin stretching across bones and muscles.

These may be dreams and they are the dreamers, but she is real. Feyd could never make up a woman so kind without any reference.

Night 28

"How was your day?" Worry laces her voice and Feyd would like to be upset with her but, oh, he can't. She always looks at him with such concern, as if she expects him to drop dead any moment, or fall apart beneath her fingers.

"My day was better than usual," he reveals nonchalantly, scanning her face with challenging, blue eyes. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Something is up today, I can feel it."

"Nothing is up," he insists and delves for her throat where he intends to place kisses on the impossibly soft and delicate flesh, but she catches him by the chin (so smooth, not even a hint of stubble) and pouts.

"Don't lie to me, Feyd." She can read him so well, as if they've known each other forever.

Fine. "I killed my uncle's pet today." Oh, how good it felt to say that. The elation in his tone is impossible to hide.

"Feyd! Why?!" She lets go and flinches away from him and Feyd regrets his choice of words instantly. She however is more shocked by the fiendish grin with which he had admitted a murder than the actual words.

"If you saw iit and lived with it, you would understand why. You could say I put it out of its misery." He sits upright, mirroring her position. He should have just kept his mouth shut.

"Oh, so it was sick?" She hopefully asks and Feyd is seriously tempted to just lie to her to maintain that warmth that returns to her expression. She appears to be ashamed of misjudging him, but his answer can only disappoint her.

"It-, well, I should spare you the details."

"But now I want to know." She comes back to him and curls against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. She wants to know about his life.

"It was a monster. It would have scared you." And now it won't ever scare her. Feyd's arms slide around her waist and she leans into his embrace. His presence is so comforting, she thinks. She may not even care if he killed an animal.

"Was it dangerous?"

"It shouldn't have existed in the first place!" Feyd hesitates for a second and she feels the spike of his pulse against his jugular. "And it was my uncle's."

Aha, she thinks with alarm, fingers tracing patterns on his smooth, bare chest while she keeps her face hidden in his shoulder. "Tell me more about that pet." What she really wants to know is more about that uncle.

Feyd turns his head, catching her gaze which is only inches away and leans closer as if to whisper a foul secret to her. "It was Tleilaxu-fashioned." That word doesn't have the intended effect, which is a little annoying. She blinks at him without understanding - bless her innocence - so Feyd sees himself forced to elaborate. "I'm saying it was genetically engineered to be a monstrosity."

"Oh." She shrugs her shoulders like that is not at all shocking. His strange woman was shocked by his black cum but not a twitch of disgust decorates her features in the presence of breaking the laws of nature.

"It was fashioned only for my uncle's amusement, not because it should exist but because it could!" More anger swings in his tone now. "I've done it a favor."

When he was younger, he had asked himself many times if anyone would ever do him the favor, but he was too well-protected and now the idea has been banished into a dark, dark corner of his adult mind.

"So, your uncle has been… Mistreating his pet and you put it out of its misery?" Her fingers gently stroke his wrist.

"He's been treating it better than other things." Things, people, boys…

Feyd glances into the center of the room, looking right through everything, into the nothingness, not realizing how his grip tightens around her innocent flesh.

She sees it there in his eyes, the truth. She sees it in the tight set of his jaws, the sharp intake of breath, the terror buried beneath layers and layers of apathy. It could be anything, but her empathy has never lied to her. It's like she's always known.

"Oh Feyd," she says and wraps her hand around his. His every muscle becomes rigid and his head whips around. He can see that she knows. 

How can she know from just a glance? This witch! Feyd recoils, aghast that he gave away so much of himself so easily. It slipped out of his grasp like a snake left to flail on the ground and bite him in the ankles unless he stomps it dead. Should he kill her so she can't tell anyone his secret?

As he recoils and slides off the bed, she releases his wrist and Feyd's stomach cramps. Why did she let go of me? I repulse her now, I repulse myself. Everyone who knows would be repulsed and wouldn't want to touch me.

He backs off until he has maneuvered himself into a corner, shoulders drawn up, panting like the small boy who once ran down the corridors, chased by nothing but the sticky shadows of reality that follow him every waking hour. His woman hasn't followed him at all. She sits on the bed, looking at him sadly and with pity that overflows from her eyes and posture.

"I don't want your pity!" He barks, voice shaking. "You know nothing about me!" 

"I'm sorry," she squeaks, flinching, and Feyd wants to take it back, feeling awful for making her scared, but he can't, just like he can't take back the terrible truth.

"No…" Feyd weakly mutters, looking away, staring at the pattern of the floor until his vision turns grainy. Clenched fists yearn for his blade, but he's never had it in this dreamscape. Any target will suffice, a slave, a fighter, himself, his uncle… But not her.

"What can I do?"

"Can you get me out of here?" Feyd blurts out.

"Oh." Why does she sound so disappointed? "We've tried to wake up before, it's never worked, I don't know how to-" 

"That's not what I meant." Feyd's jaws grind and he stares so hard at the floor pattern that his brain starts seeing the shapes of snakes that slowly coil around what looks like his neck.

"Oh, Feyd. My poor-" 

"I don't know where that question came from!" Feyd snaps, interrupting her. Viciously, he shakes his head. His eyes sting with hot, wet tears because he's stared at the floor too long. How silly of him, a pathetic, dreaming boy, to think she could save him, when he can't even save himself. Giedi Prime's most fearsome warrior can't even-

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrap around him tightly and the crown of a head invites him to rest his chin upon it. Feyd's heart stops and he bites back the agonizing pressure in his throat with a choked sound.

"I'll stop if you don't want me to."

He hugs her back so fiercely that her poor ribs and spine must be aching, but she only hugs him back fiercer still, face buried in his chest, lips mouthing sweet nothings. After minutes, Feyd's grip grows weaker, his face on her head heavier and by the end of it, she is holding him.

Night 39

"Have you always dreamed?" Feyd innocently asks and she struggles to comprehend the question. 

She lies prone on her stomach, legs spread open and a pale, smooth body undulates on top of her, taut chest and tummy pressed against her back, pelvis grinding against her ass. His length slides in and out of her at an inefficient angle, every upwards arch of her hips being smothered by a downwards push of Feyd's.

"Every other night, y-yes, hah~" Once more she tries to raise her behind, but Feyd's rutting hips press her down. He could reach much deeper if he only let her move!

"And have you ever dreamed of other men?"

"Hnngg, ahh- I'm sure I have. Feyd!" Her cheeks blush hotly when Feyd slams himself to a stop, cock throbbing palpably against her walls as he holds himself there, nearly crushing her with his weight.

"What?" His voice is more growl than human and a shiver passes down her spine which is smothered by his smooth torso.

"But not like this! Oh, please, don't stop." She tries to grind her ass against his pelvis with little to no range of motion, but Feyd only slightly shifts his knees, tightening the cage he has created around her body.

"Do other men have you in your sleep?" Plush lips tickle the shell of her ear and his hot breath caresses her skin, eliciting a clench of her inner muscles around his unmoving, velvety length.

"I only dream of you," she whimpers, heart thrumming up a storm in her chest. To be craved so possessively almost feels forbidden. "And do you dream of other women?" 

"I only dream of you. I only think of you too," he rasps, hips snapping leisurely back to action massaging her inmost parts. Feyd expects her to repeat it after him but she doesn't, so he tightens his manacle around her shoulders, caging her torso with his arms. "Who do you sleep with when you're awake? Is there someone holding you while I fuck you in your sleep?" 

"No, there is no one!" She snarls, shuddering from the harsher pace that came with the last question.

"Are you lying?!" Tiny specks of spittle spray against her ear.

"I'm not lying!" She snaps. Why doesn't he believe her? "Feyd~" A pleading moan rolls past her lips, body squirming for freedom and release, rejoicing when the former is denied to her. Feyd's right arm crawls under the impossibly tight space between her body and the mattress, past her sweat-damp pubic mount.

The tender, little nub of her clit rewards him with a clench of her walls when his fingers trace deft circles, smothering her body and mind from all directions with possessive affection that would be too much if she didn't crave it so much. Her body adjusts so easily to the rough tempo and pressure builds with no way out, nowhere to go except over the top of her climax and crashing down in hard waves that squeeze his cock and make tears and drool roll down her face.

The orgasm takes her worries to the sky where they dissolve among the clouds and pelt down like harmless rain drops. What if the dreams suddenly stop, what if she will never see him again, what if something terrible happens to either of them in the real world? All meaningless words, jumbled into benign disarray as bliss takes a hold of her body.

Her face drops on Feyd's forearm which is the bars of the fleshly cage that shelters her and she moans open-mouthed against his skin as he still ruts into her from behind, chasing his own release. Why would she ever have anyone at day when she can have him at night?

 By a route obscure and lonely,     Haunted by ill angels only,     Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,     On a black throne reigns upright,     I have reached these lands but newly     From an ultimate dim Thule –     From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,           Out of SPACE -- out of TIME. - Dream-Land by Edgar Allen Poe, 1844 

[Tag list: @nostalgichoya]

[maybege]

Take-Off - FBI 14

Summary: Your nightly rendezvous with Morgan has some unexpected consequences.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!Reader

Wordcount: 2.0k | Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: CM typical stuff

I love how I said this would be out by mid-January and yet here we are … Anyway, sorry not sorry. I had to move back to my parents for like 6-ish weeks, my country’s election resulted in a drastic shift towards conservative/right-wing policies and January (being the awful month that it is) had my depression returning for an unwanted sequel, you know how it is. Anyway, Part 15 is not yet finished so idk when it will be out but rest assured I am thinking about Hotch and I hope that after reading this next chapter you do too! Let me know what you think 🥰

masterlist | crossposted on AO3

There was still sleep in your eyes as you made your way from the car to the elevator, searching for your badge in your purse. “Thank you for letting me sleep at your place,” you said, looking over at Derek, “I – I have no idea how this would have panned out if not for you.”

Derek pressed the button and the metal doors closed before the little jolt of the cabin notified you of the movement.

“We are all here for you, kid,” he smiled, “You are one of us, you hear me? Anyone in that office would help you if they could. Garcia, Rossi, Reid, Hotch,” – your heart jumped at that – “Prentiss, me. All of us, okay?”

The elevator stopped, and you smiled. “Okay.”

Arriving at the office was nothing like what you had imagined your glorious return from PTO to feel like. For one, you had seen yourself wearing a glamorous new outfit that showed everyone just how happy you were to be back and how confident you were in returning to your post. Most importantly, it would’ve given you the emotional support to think that Hotch’s presence wouldn’t have any impact on your confidence.

Admittedly, what you had not thought about during your holiday was what it would look like to your colleagues when you and Derek would arrive at the same time, both carrying coffee mugs that said his name, and his shirt thrown over a dress that you clearly had not planned on wearing.

“Well, aren’t you just the cutest?” JJ teased you, rounding the corner of your desk to sit down opposite you, “Disappearing without another word to get some,” she drew bunny ears in the air, “relaxing and,” – another set of bunny ears – “soul-searching done and now you show up with Morgan? Way to go, my friend.”

“Shut up,” Derek laughed, throwing back the last of his coffee, “You don’t want to know what she looks like under that shirt.”

You laughed, too, your heart feeling fuller by the minute of being surrounded by your team again. “It really isn’t –”

“You look like shit,” Emily greeted you dryly, a teasing smile on her lips as she crossed her arms, “Was it worth it at least?”

“We have no time for small talk,” Hotch’s voice sounded from the door to the conference room, “Everyone at the roundtable now.”

It should have stopped being surprising how put together he could look in the middle of the night, but your eyes still lingered on the white shirt he was wearing, how his tie seemed a little loose and how that was the only indicator that maybe it had been a little too early for him as well.

Reid and Rossi were already at the table when you entered and you sat down next to the older man with a smile. He threw a pointed look at your shirt and he did not even need to open his mouth for you to know what he was about to say.

“Shut up,” you grinned and he only laughed, good-naturedly patting your knee when JJ threw on the presentation.

“Alright, we have a child abduction in Montana,” Hotch opened. The image of a teenage girl was projected onto the wall. Blonde, blue eyes, preppy cheerleader outfit.

“Grace Donovan, 15 years old, was last seen at dinner with her parents when they reported her missing two hours ago.”

“It’s the middle of the night, how do they know she is missing?” you asked, frowning at the image, “Are they sure she is not out with her friends?”

You watched as Hotch opened his mouth to say something when his eyes met yours. And then they roamed over you, landing on the shirt you were wearing and Derek next to you and you could see the frown forming on his face.

Shit.

“She is not in her room and none of her friends know where she is,” JJ answered smoothly, not having noticed Hotch’s pause, “That and the security system seems to have been tampered with. This is beyond anything a fifteen-year-old could do.”

You nodded, looking down at the table and trying to avoid Hotch’s eyes on you.

“All right,” he said, throwing a look at his watch, “Wheels up in 10. We have 22 hours left.”

He caught up to you at the door, a dry hand wrapping around your wrist, pulling you back into the room. If the others noticed, they did not show it, simply leaving the room as Hotch pulled you back to the front.

The blinds were still closed, you noticed, and as the door fell closed behind JJ, you were completely alone with him. Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes completely taking him in. Standing tall at the end of the desk, he eyed you and your skin tingled wherever his eyes seemed to land – your calves, your thighs, your torso, your face.

When you had handed in your PTO request after an entire week of being ignored by him, you had fooled yourself into thinking that maybe distance was what you needed. That distance would get you to see him in another light and not the one where you thought about what dirty things his voice could whisper in your ears late at night.

Clearly, the racing of your heart proved that that was not the case. That even time and distance away from him didn’t get rid of the sudden need to feel his arms around you. Or his lips on yours. Or his hand between your –

Until he opened his mouth.

“Need I remind you of the fraternisation policies the FBI has in place, Agent?”

“Hotch –“

“I understand that you have been gone for two weeks and, quite frankly, it should be none of my business what you two get up to in your private time so make sure it remains none of business. Understood?”

“It – it’s not what it looks like!” you protested, knowing what must have been going through his head. But what was worse was that you weren’t sure if you wanted to convince him of the truth because of the FBI rules or because you wanted him to know the truth.

He made a big step towards you and you gasped, feeling his body heat radiate so close to you, “And what does it look like?”

You could not say anything, the lack of sleep and confusion at Hotch’s angry demeanour catching up with you. You could not remember the last time you had seen him so upset at you. Openly upset.

“I see you, wearing clothes that clearly have been worn a whole,” he started again, his voice cutting through the silence, “Shorter hem than usual, deeper cleavage, formfitting. Obviously showing off the best parts of your body. On top of that, I see a shirt that clearly does not belong to you. When I called Derek at four in the morning, he said JJ needn’t contact you because you were already there with him, which leads me to believe that this,” he tugged at one of the buttons, “is Agent Morgan’s shirt. Am I wrong?”

Had he just said you were attractive?

He scoffed, “I didn’t think so. So now, what does it look like?”

“Josh kicked me out,” you blurted out, swallowing thickly at how close he was to you, “Derek found me in a diner after, uh,” slowly you lifted the hem of the shirt, revealing the red-yellowish condiment massacre on the fabric, “He gave me his couch to crash on.”

Hotch did not say anything, a tiny furrow between his brows. You glanced down and saw his forefinger and thumb pressed together.

“I know the FBI rules, Hotch,” you continued with a small voice, “And I, uh, I am really not interested in Morgan like that. He was a friend when I needed one.”

“Why were you in a diner of all places?” he asked.

“I – I didn’t know who to call,” you shrugged, “I was emotional and confused and it was the closest thing that was dry and warm and open.”

For the longest time, he did not say anything and you kept looking at him. Your hand was still in his and sometime during his speech they must have slipped from your wrist to interlace with your fingers and you felt your breath hitch in your throat.

He was so close.

“Next time you call me,” he said slowly, his other hand going to grab something from the inner pocket of his jacket.

You looked down at the little white square in his hands, “I already have your business card, Hotch,” you reminded him gently.

“This is, uh,” he cleared his throat, letting go of your hand like it was burning him, “This is my personal contact information.”

“Oh,” you said dumbly, looking at him with wide eyes before the reality of the situation hit you, ��oh.”

You took the offered card, keeping it close to your chest as if he would decide to snatch it away from you any second. “Thank you,” you mumbled, cheeks and ears warm as your heart began to race, “I should probably go and – “

“Yes,” he nodded slowly, “You probably should.”

*

Hotch did not know what he had been thinking when he confronted you in the conference room.

He probably had not been thinking at all.

And when was the last time that had happened?

The team was quiet as everyone found their place on the jet, settling into their respective routines. Even after years of work, late-night and early-morning calls never got any easier. And despite the worry for the missing girl on everyone’s mind, exhaustion was slowing everyone down.

The first talk over the files had already happened as soon as the jet had started. Now all they needed was to wait.

“We won’t get any new information until we are there,” he announced, “So everybody get some rest while you can.”

General murmurs of agreement sounded all around him and as he set up his laptop on the table in front of him, he saw Reid settling down on the couch, Derek and JJ sitting opposite each other, each occupied with their own books while Emily seemed to be choosing which playlist to listen to.

He tried to ignore the fact that the only free seats now were with him and Rossi.

“How long will the flight be?” your voice piped up from the galley way at the back of the plane. You were wearing different clothes now. Jeans and a colourful blouse. Flowers, he recognised at a second glance at the same time as he turned away, because why did he need a second glance?

“Come join us,” Rossi offered, opposite to him and motioned to the seat right next to Hotch. His jaw tensed but he kept his eyes on the laptop screen, trying to focus on what the PD had already sent him.

“Thank you,” you smiled, sitting down next to him and he tried to ignore how your thigh brushed against his.

“Tired, huh?” Rossi commented motioning to his face, “You got that look of someone who had a long night.”

“Well, it is five in the morning, Rossi,” you answered good-naturedly, “I don’t think any of us have gotten enough sleep tonight.”

“Right, you are,” the older man said, reaching into his bag in the seat next to him,

Silence fell over the jet. “What are you doing?” you asked quietly, looking up at him. Not because you wanted to, obviously, but because you tried to show him you were not trying to look at government documents without his permission. And the soft look in your eyes, he argued, was just because you were tired.

“The responsible detective sent over some of his personal notes from the first victim,” He explained, his fingers tingling as he remembered how your hand had felt in his, “I wanted to get a head start on them.”

You hummed in understanding. “Always working, Agent Hotchner.”

His lips quirked up, “Is that critique I hear, Agent?”

“Sorry, Sir,” you grinned, a sparkle in your eyes that made his heart jump in his chest in a way he had not experienced in a very long time.

This was going to be a long flight.

And well, if your head fell onto his shoulder while you were sleeping, who was he to wake you?

[fishfingersandscarves]

I don't even bother scrolling the ao3 armandaniel tag anymore, I just wait for your glorious art and then read whatever you illustrate...

That being said if you had any recommendations I'd happily take the o' knowledgeable one

ah nonnie i am happy to pull some from my meticulously vetted list

remember to read and mind all the tags

a haunting just for company by valkyrisms

"I know what a breakup looks like," Daniel says. "The better question is, why are you coming to me about it? I'm the one who broke up your little sham." "This is what humans do, don't they?" Armand asks, letting his voice drop. "Crashing on their friends' couches when there's a blip in their romances?" "Except we're not friends. We're actually very much not friends." Daniel shrugs, as if it's all the same to him. "And I can't imagine the great vampire Armand deigning himself to sleep on my fucked-up sofa. That thing's been here since the nineties." "Well," Armand only says. "I saw you have a guest bedroom."

Lie Back and Let Me Unlock You by Thunder_Puss

Independently wealthy man, early 30's, seeks arrangement with young male aged 18-25, not too muscular and no more than 200lbs (anything more would be most unmanageable) to share my apartment and affection with for 1 year until slaughter. All needs up to that point will be met -surpassingly so, I must admit, as I can be rather doting. There will be no need to consider expenses as they will be covered entirely by myself- "-There will be a rigorous interview process consisting of correspondence by email..." Daniel shook his head, laughing. "Of course, buddy. I'm sure I'll have a lot of competition." He raised his whiskey glass to his lips and wet them. "If this sounds like an amenable blah blah... Christ, this guy is verbose. I'll have to bring along a thesaurus to keep up." Daniel Molloy was 24, not too muscular, and no more than 200lbs. He was also steadfast and enterprising -when he could keep his nose clean- and had nothing more interesting to do than chase a story about an independently wealthy man with the screen name Botticelli_Angel who seemed to have the world's most taboo kink. Daniel could play the part, see where the story took him for a while. If shit got too weird, he'd dip. (Spoiler: He doesn’t dip.)

the sin and this mess we're in by ringfinger

He’s sitting on a beach he hates, trading shitty jokes with a centuries-old monster whose body count would put Ed Gein to shame and who is almost certainly also plotting to turn him into a flesh lampshade. “Don’t be dramatic,” Armand says, picking up on that thread, “I do wish you’d stop returning to that.”

how memory makes monsters into myth by blueskiddoo

“I said I’m fine, Alice,” Daniel snaps, and time itself grinds to a halt. Not literally. Ha. The things you have to specify with vampires. Daniel wishes he could laugh, but the sound is stuck somewhere in his throat, along with his heart. Now, of course, his hand chooses to be perfectly still. Why the fuck did he say that? * daniel keeps slipping up and mistaking armand for his ex-wife and the more he looks back on his memories, the less reliable they get. he's pretty sure he married alice molloy, but how do you marry a woman who apparently never existed? armand is armand about it.

chase away my heart and heartache by sahwen

With nowhere to go and an eternity ahead of him, Armand decided to work his way backwards. Or: Armand's Tour de Divorce in six acts.

to stretch the night, to fill it fuller with dreams by typefortydeductions

Armand and Daniel return to Venice to confront some of Armand's oldest demons. Louis comes with them, trailing ghosts of his own.

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. by cannibalenthusiast

“Did we call each other boyfriend? Surely not. Sounds weird even saying out loud.” “You were my beloved,” Armand says. “My lover. My boy.” “Your human pet. Your mortal fool. I get it,” Daniel says, not neglecting to notice his use of the past tense. “You want to go see a movie?”

such a pretty box (all fancy wrappings, and a bow on top) by snuffreel

“That is a fascinating shade of scarlet. In the dark, now, it almost matches the color of her blood.” Or: Armand, Daniel, and the age-old question of what's really inside a girl.

flash the camera (you're a star) by exastris_scientia

Daniel is starting to think he should put a little more thought into the promises he makes in the heat of the moment. He’d qualified it a little, sure, so technically he doesn’t have to do it. And it’s not like he needs the money, not after Louis and Armand had thrown his that’s my whore number comment back in his face by actually paying him ten million fucking dollars. But a promise is a promise, even if it’s one literally no one would expect him to follow through on. Whatever. He said he would, so he will. It might be fun. So he starts an OnlyFans.

bang it up inside by leavethebes

"Come on," Daniel goads. "Come the fuck on."

she will be your living end by kanxie

Daniel reaches his hand out for Armand to take. They wait a few moments in silence as the world stops moving around them. The animals hush. The air stills. A faint smell of smoky dust drops from the sky and lifts from the ground. Rural Armenia has always been too quiet for Armand, but this is to a level where noise itself seems to atrophy into a cold, nightmare-like state. Armand takes his hand, and the usual dampened sounds of movement are stark in this nothingness. “It's okay to admit you're scared,” says Daniel. His deep and rumbling voice. Armand keens for it in the lamplight.

Armand and Daniel are at home when the bell tolls.

Backroads to Sonoma by burntcrimson

Where the hell have you been, Daniel wonders, and why me? A bloody American summer in the belly of the AIDS crisis.

open eyes and behind your teeth by tisiphones

It wasn't fascinating, the way the boy didn't know whether to lean into the touch or away from it, confused by the comfort and the pain it offered in equal measures. It wasn't. Armand could do the same thing — did do the same thing, whenever Louis deigned to touch him at all — and Louis still thought he was boring. It couldn't be this that had captivated him. But that didn't mean it wasn't fun. --- Armand weighs the pros and cons of dog ownership.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Grew in my Heart

It's finally done you guys!!!! This is my take on a foster Pony au, loosely based on this idea from @freak-l0rd-certifed. It's currently unedited but I'll post it here anyways, and then cross post an edited version on my ao3. @pepsicurtis asked to be tagged when it was done based on a snippet I posted earlier, so here you go. This is part 1, part 2 is fully written and will be up tomorrow.

***************

The lady on the other side of the room is watching him.

That’s okay though. Ponyboy is used to people watching him. Social workers, foster parents, group home staff, police. Everyone watches him all the time but nobody cares, cares for him or about him, so Ponyboy doesn’t mind this lady joining in. He knows he looks weird, with his sticky out ears and the patchy haircut Mr. Fuller gave him and the bruise around his eye. So he understands why this lady is watching him, and doesn't begrudge her for it.  Besides, she looks like a nice lady. Nice ladies don’t usually watch him. If they do they don’t usually look at him with the kindness glowing in the woman’s shining green eyes.

The lady smiles at him and he ducks back into his book, ears burning. She wasn’t supposed to catch him looking.

When he peeks over the top of his copy of Great Expectation a minute later, she’s still watching him, smiling in a way Ponyboy would call amusement if he didn’t know better. He quickly hides again, cursing himself for drawing notice. It’s never a good thing. Never. Better he stay quiet, stay invisible. Invisible kids didn’t get hurt.

He hopes Ms. Summers will come back soon and take him to wherever he’ll be staying next, if only so that he can leave the waiting room, escape from where this nice lady and her nice family are no doubt waiting for them to bring a brand new baby to adopt. Probably one only a few days old, something sweet and cute and new they could love and pamper. Nice people only ever came to the child services offices to pick up babies. Anyone who came to pick up kids was usually about as nice as the people who dropped them off. 

He goes back to his book. Usually it’s easy to escape into the story where he can pretend to be a knight or a hero or anything but stupid, small, unwanted Ponyboy Hewitt, but he can’t seem to concentrate today. It’s not just because of the nice looking lady with the green eyes who keeps watching him, keeping an eye on him the same way she’s been keeping an eye on the three boys who came in with her. His head is also aching something fierce. That last knock from Mr. Fuller was kind of hard. 

Hard enough Ms.Summers thought he should move again anyway.

“Quit fidgeting, Soda,” an authoritative voice from the other side of the room says, and Ponyboy can’t help but glance over. He tells himself it’s because the speaker was kind of loud, but he knows deep down that’s not the case. It’s not because the boy is loud, it’s because he’s cool. He’s a lot bigger than Pony is, and older too, with wavy brown hair and broad shoulders. He could probably look Mr.Fuller square in the face and never be scared, not ever. “We have to show we’re the perfect family or they won’t let us keep Johnny.”

“Really?” The boy who answers has golden blond hair and rosy cheeks with a dimple high in one corner. Pony never really understood what books meant when they talked about eyes twinkling until the boy had pranced into the office a few minutes before, looking like a prince straight from a fairytale. His eyes aren’t twinkling now though: instead, they’re shining with worry. His shadow, a smaller boy with jet black hair and tan skin, looks the same, eyes wide and terrified in his peaked face. “They can’t do that just ‘cause I’m sittin’ wrong, can they mom?”

He turns anxiously to the nice lady who smiles and smooths down his hair.

“Of course not honey,” she soothes, “we don’t gotta prove we’re perfect to keep Johnny, we just gotta prove we love him. And we do.”

She turns her smile on the dark haired boy who flushes and ducks his head shyly, looking unfathomably pleased. Ponyboy swallows hard and looks away, his own ears reddening. It’s not fair for him to hate the dark haired boy, he knows it isn’t, but it doesn’t matter. In that moment, he kind of hates him anyway. 

The woman’s gentle smile has confirmed what he suspected all along. She’s a nice mom, the kind he’s only ever read about in storybooks. She probably kisses those boys goodnight- even the big one, even if he pretended it wasn’t cool- and probably smells like cinnamon and bakes birthday cakes sometimes, puts bandages on cuts, and never slaps them, not ever. 

He wants Ms. Summers to come back. He wants to leave. He doesn’t want to sit here and watch a boy his own age get adopted by the kind of family he wishes he could have more than anything in the world. 

The blonde boy sticks his tongue out at the cool one and makes a fart noise.

“See Darry? They ain’t gonna take Johnny! You’re stupid and wrong!”

“Sodapop Patrick Curtis!” A man Ponyboy assumed must be the nice lady’s husband and the boys’ father boomed, “What have I told you about using that kind of language towards your brother?”

“That it's not how we speak to our family,” the blonde boy, Sodapop, says like he was reading off a teleprompter. Clearly, this was not the first time he’d heard that particular reprimand, “but dad, I was only defending my other brother.”

“Be that as it may,” Mr.Curtis said, “I don’t want to hear that language from you any more.” He sounded stern, but his eyes were still glinting proudly and there was a smile hiding somewhere near the corner of his mouth. Not a scary dad then. A good one.

“Yeah Soda,” the older boy, Darry, grinned, seeming unperturbed by the insult. He was real handsome, Pony thought. If he was Sodapop he’d never call that Darry boy stupid, not ever. “Save that language for socs. Or Two-bit when he’s playin’ poker against Dally.”

Sodapop laughed then, any traces of animosity disappearing, Johnny grinning quietly beside him. 

Ponyboy decides he’s done watching them be happy, and goes to the washroom.

He does his business, standing on tiptoe to reach the sink when he’s done because it’s meant for adults not for kids and there's no footstool. He can’t reach the soap, even when he jumps, so he just settles for rinsing extra long. The paper towel dispenser is also too high to reach so he dries his hands on his pants and goes back to the waiting room. 

“Oh honey, wait,” he doesn’t realize the nice lady is speaking to him until she’s kneeling in front of him, tugging his shirt from where he hadn’t noticed it had gotten twisted and tucked into his pants, pulling it out and smoothing it down nicely, “there you go. All handsome again.”

She smiles, looking like sunshine incarnate, and Ponyboy kind of wants to die.

“Thank you.” He mumbles, sure he must be redder than a tomato, then flees back to his chair on the other side of the waiting room. They’re all watching him now, the nice lady and her nice husband, and the three boys who are now all sitting in a circle on the floor, playing a game of cards. 

He opens Great Expectations to a random page and stares at it hard, trying very hard not to cry. He’s almost seven years old, he’s not a baby anymore. He will not cry just because one lady was nice to him and now her perfect family is staring at him. He won't. 

“Hi!” Suddenly, blonde, beautiful Sodapop is in front of him, grinning like Ponyboy is the best thing he’s ever seen ever, “I’m Soda. Wanna play cards with us?”

He wants to, more than anything, but he knows if he does it’ll just feel worse when they leave and he doesn’t go with them , or when Ms. Summers comes to drag him away to whoever will bother keeping him for the next few weeks, so he can’t.

He shakes his head, unable to actually say no, and Soda deflates, eager grin melting into an unhappy pout, shoulders curling forward, and the twinkle in his eye dimming. He looks like Pony just ruined his whole day with one shake of his head. 

“Ok,” he sighs, dramatic and world weary, and it would seem like an act if his eyes weren’t entirely genuine, “if you change your mind, you can c’mon over anytime. It would be so much more fun with another person.”

He rejoins the other two boys who shoot curious looks Pony’s way, but he ignores them, looking back at his book. He’s not reading though. He can’t. Instead he’s listening to the boys playing cards, wishing more than anything that he could join them.

“I win.” Dark haired Johnny proclaims for the third time and Soda throws down his cards with a dramatic groan, while Darry just laughs. He seems real nice, not like the big boys at the group homes who liked to steal Pony’s books and shove him around. He hadn’t gotten mad at Soda or Johnny even once, not even when they were playing Go Fish and Soda cheated by peeking at his cards. 

“You little shark,” Darry ruffled Johnny's dark hair, the smaller boy flinching a little before leaning into the touch, “how do you keep doin’ that, huh?”

Johnny shrugged. “It’s a secret.”

“You’re cheatin’!” Soda accused.

“Am not!”

“Are too! No one wins as much as you.”

“I’m just good at cards without cheatin’.”

Soda huffed. “You’re lucky you’re my brother now or I’d fight you.”

“I’d win.” Johnny boasts, and suddenly he looks fierce, chin jutting and eyes fiery, like every kid in every home who fought grownups and just ended up beaten down worse. 

“That’s enough,” Darry pulls the two apart, practically picking them each up with one hand, “quit arguin' or I’m putin’ the cards away.”

“No!” Soda throws himself to the ground, arm draped dramatically across his forehead, “I’ll die of boredom!”

“Then sit up and be good,” Darry tells him, and Soda scrambles to do as he’s told. Pony feels his own spine straightening. It’s just because he’s tired, he tells himself.  It has nothing to do with wanting Darry to look at him with the same approval he looks at Soda and Johnny with. He needs to stretch out a bit, that’s all.

“Y’know,” Darry says, disarmingly casual, easily shuffling the cards the way Pony always wanted to but could never manage, the movement too deft for his clumsy fingers, “there's so many more games we could play with four players.” 

If he didn’t know better Pony would swear Darry was looking at him sideways as he said it, grinning conspiratorially like they were sharing a joke. 

“Euchre…gin rummy…spades…signals…”

Pony’s heart jumped. He loved signals. 

It was practically another invitation right? And Soda had said he could join anytime if he changed his mind…surely one game wouldn’t hurt. 

He scoots forward a bit on the chair, considering. 

“Well?” Suddenly Darry- handsome, cool Darry- is grinning right at him, one eyebrow raised, “You in or not?”

And well….that was an actual invitation. From a big boy no less! Usually boys like Darry wanted nothing to do with him.

Pony could feel what was surely a far too eager grin spreading over his face and he nodded, quickly taking a spot on the floor in between Soda and Johnny. Darry’s grin turned triumphant, like he was the one who’d just been invited to play cards by a cool stranger. 

“Nice. What’s your name kiddo?”

“Ponyboy.” He mumbles, bracing himself for laughter that never comes. Instead Darry just nods, starting to deal cards with ease. 

“Tuff name. I’m Darry, and this here’s Johnny.” 

Pony offered a shy smile in response to Johnny’s friendly nod, earlier vitriol forgotten. It wasn’t Johnny’s fault he was lucky. Pony shouldn’t hate him for it. 

“You already met Soda.”

Darry gives Soda a fondly exasperated look, and Pony focuses very hard on the cards being dealt so he won’t have to look at their faces.

Unsure of what to say, he just nods. Luckily, Darry keeps talking.

“Well Ponyboy, I reckon since you just joined you get to pick the game.”

“R-really?”

“Sure.” Darry smiled kindly. Golly he was nice. “We’ll play a few rounds and then switch it up if any of us are getting bored.”

“Can-” Ponyboy hesitated. Darry nods, encouraging him to continue, “can we play signals?”

“Sure. You okay to be on a team with me?”

“Yes,” Pony could hardly believe his luck. Not only were they playing his favourite game, but Darry wanted to be on a team with him!

“Ok,” Soda chirped, “me’n Johnny are going over there so you don’t listen to us pick our signals like cheaters!”

“Soda!” Mr Curtis warned.

“I’m bein’ nice!”

Pony giggled. 

“Ignore him,” Darry advised, scooting over to sit beside him, “I wish I could say he’s just bein’ crazy ‘cause he’s excited, but the truth is he’s always like that. He ain’t really mean though, just has too much energy.”

“I know,” Pony tells him, “I seen mean before. He ain’t it. If he was mean he’d have taken my book or followed me to the bathroom and put my head in the toilet.”

A horrified gasp makes him jump. He’d momentarily forgotten all about sunshiney Mrs.Curtis, but now she’s staring at him in horror, eyes filled with rage. 

What did he do? Did she not want him to be telling her nice golden sons about stuff like that? 

“I-I’m sorry I-” he can feel his ears burning and wishes more than anything he’d stayed on that hard plastic chair where he was safe instead of getting drawn in by the light of the family in front of him. 

“Whoa, hey,” Darry catches him by the arm before he can scramble to his feet, grip not bruising like he’s used to but gentle, reassuring, “where are you going? We haven’t picked a signal yet.”

His smile is so hopeful. Hesitantly, Pony settles back down. 

“Ok.”

“Well?” Darry nudges him gently, carefully. It seems to Ponyboy that someone so big shouldn’t be able to do that and not hurt him just a little bit, but somehow Darry manages it. “What signal do you think we should do?”

Pony glances across the room at where Soda is gesturing exaggeratedly and talking at Johnny a mile a minute.

“Something small,” he decides, “something they won’t notice.”

“Good thinking,” Darry’s approval feels like sitting in the sunshine and eating ice cream and reading a book all at once, “how about…rubbing our noses?”

He demonstrates, rubbing a finger under his nose like he’s scratching an itch and Ponyboy nods, copying the action. 

“Perfect.”

He raises his left hand then. Taps his ear. Waits a few seconds. Taps his ear again.

“What are you doing?” Darry wonders. 

“I have a trick,” Ponyboy informs him.

“Oh?” Darry’s raising a single eyebrow again, looking intrigued. A swell of unearned pride starts in Ponyboy’s chest. 

“Yep,” Pony nods, “they’re watching us right now.”

Darry follows his gaze across the room to where Johnny is watching them out of the corner of his eye, while acting for all the world like he’s still focused on Sodapop. 

“So,” Ponyboy continues. He taps his ear again, “if we do a fake signal now, like we’re practicing, and then do it while we’re playing they’ll call signal and get themselves disqualified and we’ll win.”

“Huh,” Darry reaches up and taps his own ear, “good thinkin’ kid.”

Pony glows.

“We’re ready,” Soda announces a second later, dragging Johnny behind him, “and we have the best signal ever. You’ll never guess it.”

“We’ll see.” Darry challenges, flipping the first card off the deck, and the game begins.

Pony checks his own hand. Two jacks, a two, and a seven. Deciding to go for jacks he passes the two facedown and slides it left to Johnny, picking up the ten Soda placed down for him on the other side.

He passes and trades cards for a few seconds, managing to pick up a third jack on the way. When it’s been long enough it’s not suspicious, he reaches up and taps his ear, trying to make it seem like he’s scratching an itch.

The trick works. 

“Block!” Johnny cries triumphantly, pointing at him and Pony grins, shaking his head. 

“Nope!”

“What?” That’s Sodapop, “We’re out? But-but I’m with Johnny! Johnny always wins!”

“Guess not this time,” Darry grins, raising a hand. It takes a second for Pony to realize he’s reaching out for a high five instead of to cuff him, but when he does he reaches out eagerly, tapping Darry’s palm with his own.

“How did you do that?” Johnny wonders, head tilted in confusion, “I saw you tapping your ear earlier when you were making your signal.”

“It was a trick!” Pony grins. Darry is pleased, and they just won a card game, and no one here has gotten properly mad at him at all. 

Johnny shakes his head, grinning ruefully. “Well it was a good one.”

Soda declared he wanted a rematch, so they played a few more rounds, until Johnny figured out their trick and then both teams had so many fake signals and everyone was too scared to block anyone and could hardly remember their real signals from their fake ones. Darry was just proposing they switch to playing crazy eights when Ms. Summers hurried out of the office, looking harried as usual.

“Oh! Ponyboy,” She looks surprised to see him sitting on the floor, “don’t go botherin’ these nice folks now. I know you’ve had a long day, and I promise I’m workin’ as hard as I can to figure things out so just sit tight and be good a few minutes longer. I just got a few more calls to make and I’ll get you some lunch, alright? C’mon and sit properly now, that’s a good boy.” 

She pulls him to his feet, not roughly exactly, but carelessly, the way he’s used to, and he ducks his head, shoulders curling automatically as she frog marches him back to the plastic chair in the corner of the waiting room she’d parked him in at seven o'clock this morning.

“He ain’t botherin’ us!” Suddenly Soda is on his feet, glaring at Ms. Summers. “We invited him to play. We’re havin’ fun.”

“He’s really no trouble,” Mrs. Curtis smiles, placing a hand on her son’s shoulder. Her voice is as sugar sweet as ever but there’s something hard in her eyes nevertheless as she stares Ms. Summers down, “the boys are all havin’ fun playing together and I have no problem keepin’ an eye on him for you. He’s a good boy, like you said.”

She turns the full force of her smile on him, her eyes suddenly all softness, and Ponyboy finds himself wondering what it would be like if somebody looked at him like that every day, like he was something instead of nothing.

“Well, if you’re sure, I suppose that's fine. You be good Pony,” Ms. Summers says, and then she’s gone again, back into the office, back to making phone calls to find someone, anyone, willing to take him in.

Pony stands where she left him, half dragged across the room, lost in the waiting room he’d spend what felt like half his life in.

“That lady,” Soda says, “was a bitch.”

Darry’s eyebrows shoot up, and Soda grins cheekily over his shoulder in a way that says he fully expects a reprimand, but to Ponyboy’s surprise Mr.Curtis just nods slowly.

“Y'know son, I think in this case you might be right.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Mrs. Curtis says, but it’s so half-hearted even Ponyboy can tell. Her eyes are fixed on Ms.Summers’ door, lips pressed into a thin line, and Pony gets the feeling she’s real mad but hiding it real well.

“She don’t know what to do with me,” Pony finds himself defending his social worker. She ain’t mean really, ain't even a bad person. She’s just busy. Too busy to really care. “It ain’t her fault. I cause her a lotta problems.”

“I have a very hard time believing that,” Mrs. Curtis says, “I don’t think you could cause problems if you tried.”

He could. He wasn’t like Curly from the group home, who did everything he possibly could and then some to cause problems, but Pony did create them sometimes. One time he’d burned Mrs.Delvine’s sheets when he was ironing because she hadn’t given him dinner the night before. And he’d put half a shaker of salt in Mr.Fuller’s soup after he gave him this stupid haircut. But he never tried to cause problems for Ms. Summers and he still caused them anyway.

He shrugs. “No one wants me. It’s her job to find someone who’ll put up with me. I can’t blame her for bein’ tired.”

“You’re still a little boy,” Mrs.Curtis shakes her head, and usually Ponyboy hates being called little but he finds he doesn’t mind too much when she says it, “she shouldn’t be takin’ any of her frustrations out on you.”

Pony wants to tell her that his own mother didn’t want to be stuck with him so he can hardly blame his social worker for feeling the same way. He wants to tell her about how tired he is and how much his head hurts and how hungry he is. He wants to tell her a lot of things. He doesn’t.

“Oh honey,” he doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he’s wrapped in a warm hug, held protectively against Mrs. Curtis’ chest, his sobs muffled against the stretched collar of her pretty yellow dress. He’s sure he must be getting snot on her, but she doesn’t seem to mind, holding him closer when he starts to squirm away and apologize, cooing to him until he settles down, “oh honey.”

She scoops him up then, because she’s a grown up and he’s still pretty small for six years old, and she sets him on her knee and kisses his forehead, and even if it won’t last and he will never feel this again after today, for once he knows what it’s like to be comforted and loved by a mother. 

Golly he’s tired.

“You just have a sleep now,” she pulls his head down to rest against her shoulder, running a gentle hand through his shorn off hair, “you just have a good sleep and don’t worry about a thing.” 

He feels his eyelids drooping. She drops a soft kiss on his forehead, her fingers never ceasing their soothing motions in his hair.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, baby,” he hears her say as he drifts off, “I promise. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”

He sleeps.

[makeyoumine69]

My Lovely Detective VII

PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x Fem!Detective!OC

CO-WRITER: @iron-flavored-lipgloss

CONTAINS: NSFW, master/pet dynamics, dirty talk, implied BDSM, pet names, brat taming, humiliation and maybe something else :D

WORDS: 2.2k

A/N: Hello everyone! Please forgive us for the long wait, we have been quite busy lately. Enjoy the new chapter!

LINKS: [MASTERLIST]; [SERIES MASTERLIST]; [AO3].

In My Twisted Era

Buying clothes for Andrea had become one of the few and all the more unexpected pleasures in Patrick Bateman's life. With Evelyn it had been absolutely horrible (she had her very own taste), and not even Courtney would have agreed to wear such skimpy, if not downright whorish clothes. But Andrea couldn't really refuse, she just had to show whatever sexy little excuse of an outfit Patrick was currently in love with. And for tonight's special occasion, there was no other woman he would rather have on a leash. 

"I told you, this is no ordinary party. This is the dress code, and you will not bring your prudish sense of style into it."

The woman was wearing a very expensive set of lingerie, which he had deliberately made a little too tight to make her tits look even fuller, showing off every curve in a way that would surely make any other man jealous. The heels were also painfully impractical, probably the highest shoes Andrea had ever owned, and against her will it made her cling even tighter to Patrick's arm, needing stability. 

All he had to do was tug on the sturdy little leash attached to her choker and Andrea would stumble right into his arms or fall to her knees—another idea that drove Bateman a little crazy, so he tried not to think about it right now. Patrick himself, of course, was dressed very differently, showing off his finest tuxedo, but pretending that there was nothing humiliating about Andrea being almost naked under her new big fur coat—that coat she was now forced to take off in the checkroom.

"It's very warm inside. Real candlelight," one of the ladies in charge explained emphatically to Andrea and then winked playfully at Patrick.  Andrea, who in her blushing anger only looked delightfully innocent to these professionals, who had never experienced the perversions of an elite motto party like this. "One more thing—we have to check for any weapons."

That was ridiculous, of course—where would Andrea hide a weapon? Under her elegant Colombina mask?  No, this was one of the few rules tonight to ensure everyone's privacy. But everything else was a part of the game, like the female cloakroom attendant groping Andrea. She squeezed her tits a little and pulled her lace thong down, as if to check if she had a gun shoved up her pussy. 

"Hush darling, let it happen," Bateman whispered in her ear, just loud enough for the other woman to buy their supposed relationship and notice the shiver running through Andrea's body as a pleasant side effect.

Annoyed, Andrea tried not to scoff and spat in the attendant's face as her hands resumed their shameless exploration of her body. "One more move and I'll break your fucking fingers," she hissed as the woman bent down to her neck, her lips almost touching the detective's throat. "Understand?"

Unaware of Andrea's words, Patrick leered as he enjoyed the scene unfolding before him. Oh, how often had he imagined himself having fun with Andrea and another woman. Tonight all his fantasies could come true, he would do anything for it.

The attendant suddenly backed away, almost bumping into Bateman, but he managed to step away at the last moment. Scowling, Andrea adjusted her lingerie, looking aggressive and very angry. 'If only I could rip these clothes off,' the woman thought, looking around to assess the situation. There were a lot of people, a lot of rich, depraved people who were definitely sick and immoral. Patrick's cheeky chuckle caught Andrea's attention again—the woman who had shamelessly groped her a moment ago was now busy inspecting Bateman, and judging by his reaction, the man was enjoying the process.

"Have a nice evening, Mister." The woman murmured before pecking Patrick's cheek and slipping something into his jacket pocket. 

Frowning in disgust, Andrea wanted to use this as a chance to escape, but as she turned to see the exit, another couple walked in. A black haired man was holding a blonde girl on a leash who was crawling on all fours like a dog. This was already too much for Detective Moore, more than too much.

When Patrick had finished with the bitchy cloakroom lady, he grabbed Andrea's wrist and forced her to follow him further into the house. "I... I don't feel well," the brown-haired woman said as they moved through the noisy crowd of people, most of them already naked but still wearing their masks. "Can... Can I use the bathroom?"

'This party is the chance I've been waiting for,' the idea came to her faster than she could move, as she slipped through the groups of rich yuppies and their pocket whores. 'I should escape. Otherwise I won't make it tomorrow.'

"We've barely arrived," Patrick muttered, slightly annoyed, before he seemed to think of something—his mood changed again. "But I guess my poor girl was so nervous, she couldn't help it." He was playing that role again, the caring and generous lover—only the arrogance of his smile betrayed his true nature. "We'll look for a bathroom on the way."

One hand firmly on the leash, the other boldly wrapped around her waist, Andrea couldn't help but follow him deeper into what seemed to be a temple of hedonistic desire. The high, dark walls and even the ceiling were adorned with various framed nude paintings that would have been tasteful under any other circumstances, but here, in this place, they only added to the sinister atmosphere—along with those suspicious noises of unknown origin echoing through the hallways, a seemingly endless number of them branching off to the left and right of the main corridor. 

Bizarre shadows dancing on the walls and the beguiling scent of musk and sandalwood followed Patrick and Andrea, as well as dozens of other couples. Some women balanced on their stilettos like Andrea, others crawled on the floor, it was hard not to step on their fingers.

And finally, a glamorous ballroom awaited them, with chandeliers hanging down, the lights dimmed naturally, and sensual jazz sounds played by a live band. There were several champagne towers and a buffet table so large it could have fed the entire homeless population of New York, yet girls in short maid dresses carried trays of drinks and snacks through the flow of muted conversation. 

There seemed to be too much of everything, but "it's just the entrance hall," Patrick assured Andrea, smiling at the couple next to him, exchanging brief nods with the other man and thus showing respect for each other.

"First time here?"

"It is, for her." 

Patrick squeezed Andrea's shoulder, but his gaze remained on the young woman lounging on the floor, caressing her male companion's leg and looking up at him with large, dilated pupils. 

"You like her?" The broad grin that appeared beneath the stranger's mask suggested that he was not annoyed by the attention his girl was receiving—quite the opposite. 

"Well, I can't lie ... she seems very well-behaved."

'And she's very blonde and busty, too. Although Andrea's tits look even better.'

"Yeah, you're a good little kitty, aren't you, Jessica?"

Patrick watched the woman, apparently Jessica, in utter fascination as she rubbed her cheek on this guy's shoes and told him, "Yes, Master."

It was a very strange mixture of affection and obedience—basically the opposite of Andrea. 

"I assume you didn't come for the food. Although..." They cast an odd glance at another group of men lined up around a girl smeared with cream. 

"Not exactly. Andrea's not quite there yet."

As they left this hall of the gluttonous, Jessica simply followed, but when it came to Andrea, Patrick had to pull hard on her leash first. Any protest died in her throat as Andrea had to gasp for air instead.

"A brat, huh? Charming little hot blood..."

"I don't share her with men." Patrick wasn't even sure how those words had come out so quickly and clearly - Evelyn having an affair had never bothered him. 

'And it's not like I care about Andrea ethier!'

But the thought of this stranger (who was about as tall as he was and looked very fit to boot) fucking Andrea made him feel sick. 

"Oh, not me. But my little Jessica likes to play with girls. So maybe..."

 And of course that sounded much more appealing to Patrick.

Andrea swallowed hard, a shiver running down her spine at the thought of being involved with another woman. There was no way Bateman was considering it, but when he approached the bitch named Jessica and leaned down to stroke her cheek, something inside the detective tightened like a spring.

"Now, now," Patrick crooned as Jessica tried to kiss his hand. "You're a playful one, aren't you?"

The owner just chuckled, completely unbothered by the fact that another man was touching his girl, and it made Andrea almost vomit, but instead of making a scene, she decided to play along and get Bateman's attention back. 

Quickly, the brunette stepped back so that the leash in Patrick's hand tightened, forcing him to look back at his pet. "Hey," Bateman barked in a threatening tone, pulling on the leash to bring Andrea closer until she was level with him. "Behave yourself," he pointed an index finger at her, knitting his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. "Otherwise you'll..."

Patrick froze, the words stuck in his throat like a lump as Andrea wrapped her plump lips around his finger and sucked on it with pure devotion. Another couple seemed hypnotized by the scene as the lewd aura of Bateman and his lovely detective consumed them like a fog.

"And I thought you wanted to play with me first," Andrea purred after releasing Patrick's finger. "We don't need anyone else."

"Is that so?" Bateman murmured back, his pupils dilating by the second as he watched Andrea nestle against his large palm. "Or are you just jealous?"

Patrick nuzzled the detective's neck and cupped her ass possessively, eliciting a soft moan from her lips. Andrea even forgot the couple next to them, the place they were now, she forgot everything. Just one bite was enough to bring down her defenses. That man, dear God, that man was a devil in the flesh. Disappointed and absolutely jealous, Jessica reached out to touch Bateman again, but her master wouldn't let her, tugging at the leash and forcing her to stay still. Andrea couldn't hide her pleasure at seeing this poor little bitch suffer, even though she felt terrible about having to act so damn lewd. 'I must have completely lost my mind.' 

Satisfied and sated, Patrick pulled away from Andrea to turn and wink at Jessica, making sure the detective didn't see it. "It was a pleasure to meet you," Bateman nodded to the stranger and his submissive. "Have a good evening."

With that, Bateman tightened his grip on the leash and made Andrea follow him. It felt like the party was getting even more crowded, female moans, male groans and seductive giggles blending into a wicked cacophony of sounds; Andrea's head was spinning from the strong scent of the aroma candles. 

"Where are we going?" Andrea asked suddenly as they turned another corner and walked down the dimly lit hallway. "Patrick?"

The man didn't answer, speeding up as if they were being chased. But by whom?

The woman could feel her heart pounding so painfully against her chest that it was hard to breathe, but when they reached their destination, Andrea felt weak in her knees. With a smug grin on his handsome face, Bateman opened the door, and the first thing Andrea saw were several large chains attached to the ceiling, holding what looked like a leather seat. Speechless, the woman took an uncertain step before Patrick placed his hand on the small of her back, urging her to get in. Once inside, a soft click of the door echoed through the small room with dark walls and intimate lighting. 

God, what was this place?

"Is it... some kind of torture chamber?" Andrea asked, looking around in complete shock. "Why... Why are we here?"

It took Patrick only a little effort to push Andrea's body into the leather seat, the woman still too stunned by her new surroundings and his quick movements. 

"You know, you could have told me earlier. That you want me all alone..." He leaned down, his left and right hands grasping at the attached chains, trapping Andrea close to him. 

There seemed to be no escape from those eyes—hypnotic and so hungry, a dangerous desire radiating from each of his smooth movements. If just the look could kill. If eyes could devour...

Andrea couldn't help but shiver.

"You're sweating, dear." His thumb began to stroke her forehead, caressing her cheek in a light gesture that would seem so uncharacteristically tender if she didn't know him better. Beneath the surface of this controlled seduction, he is the same beast as always.  "That feeling... you know the one. The one that makes your heart race and your fingers tremble, just like this." His hand now ran down her naked arm, rubbing circles of false comfort over her goosebumps. 

Down to Andrea's wrist, that vulnerable spot where the veins shimmered purple through her skin and her artery pulsed rapidly under the dull pressure of his thumb. She was alive, and that made him feel alive in a way that no words could express. 

"Is it fear or...? Are you so excited for me?"

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! You can follow my side blog @makeyoumineagain and my amazing co-writer @iron-flavored-lipgloss and turn on notifications to know when we update!

[hikaruchen]

Reading this blog and procrastinating what I should’ve been doing at the moment, but it’s super helpful if you want to know more about the Anglo-Saxon and Viking material culture but don’t want to be bored to hell. All articles are done by an archaeologist specializing in mortuary archaeology, and he has already written several ones about burials and pagan practices during that time through the lens of The Last Kingdom. I’ve linked one of his posts before on ao3 when discussing about the historical accuracy of Alfred’s tomb effigy in the show under the pic Prayer from the Pagan, but didn’t really had the time to check others out. I just did it and find his other articles are actually super interesting to read as well.

For instance, back when I post this pic in January I said the colour palette was inspired by the Alfred jewel, but I completely forgot that it actually appeared in the show (2x04) where Alfred handed it to Æthelwold and said “Take this. It is a symbol of my kingship. Bear it with authority.”, which might be partially true but is hilarious if you give it another thought.

Because, why, in God’s name, would Alfred hand an ARTEFACT version of the piece he commissioned himself to his nephew? As Prof. Williams already stated (in this post), the Alfred jewel has long been assumed to be the handle part of a pointer stick for following words when reading a book, and if you look at the artefact itself it is quite clear that there’s a part that’s been missing as well. The reason why scholars think it has something to do with Alfred is because:

1) It’s written. The text on the frame literally says that “ÆLFRED MEC HEHT GEWYRCAN”, which means “Alfred ordered me made”. The more detailed explanation below (with the help of beloved wikitionary since I don’t understand Old English at all)

ÆLFRED (subject) Alfred, obviously MEC (object) me; accusative of iċ (I), but in the West Saxon dialect it’s actually an uncommon version of iċ’s accusative and is more often seen in the Anglian dialect. The frequently-used version for West Saxons is mē HEHT (verb) ordered; third-singular past tense for hātan (to call; to order etc.), often followed with infinitive verbs, cognate with heißen in German GEWYRCAN (verb) to make; I honestly don’t know if “to make” and “to be made” is just the same word in OE help And since the word order in OE is random as hell thanks to the case system (much like German which I eventually gave up learning because I don’t have a brain big enough for that. IT MAKES NO SENSE TO A NATIVE MANDARIN SPEAKER THANK YOU), it is eventually translated into “Alfred ordered me to be made”.

2) It was discovered in Somerset and has been dated to the late 9th century, and we all know what Somerset meant to Alfred

3) Alfred did say he would send a copy of his translation of Gregory the Great’s Pastoral Care to every episcopal see in his kingdom in the preface to it, with the book accompanied “an æstel of 50 mancuses”. Mancus was a term to denote a gold coin or a unit for coins worth about a month’s wage for a skilled worker, such as a craftsman or a soldier. Whatever that æstel is it must be worth hell LOTS of money

But honestly while I do think this interpretation sounds very much plausible I’m thinking about other possibilities as well - how many Alfreds exactly existed during his time? We know that Æthel in OE means noble, so people bearing this prefix in their names were usually royal members or at least aristocrats, but what about Alfred? Was Alfred a popular name? Or was it unique enough that he could just go by this name without mentioning his title at all? Imagine if it were an Æthelred who made this, who the hell would know which one of these it was referring to, Æthelred the King, Æthelred the Ealdorman, Æthelred Ealhswith’s father, or even Æthelred the fucking Archbishop??? And yeah, I know Alfred was the king ™ here and there isn’t really much space left on the frame after all, but surely it wouldn’t cost a bone to add a cyning behind his name, right?

Sadly, as it was in the pre-Domesday-Book era, I can’t find the statistics of Anglo-Saxon names at that time (but keep in mind that there were at least 19 Alfreds worthy enough to be mentioned in Domesday Book even after the conquest. I don’t know if this says anything at all but I do want to mention it) What I’m trying to say is while it is highly highly highly likely (and I do believe and want to believe in this theory!), we cannot be one hundred percent certain that this jewel was really from the Alfred we’re talking about. And even if it was, it apparently wouldn’t be carried around by Alfred like THAT. Because that would be like, “Bear this with authority! Even though the symbol of my kingship is broken!”, said Alfred to a king wannabe. Lol.

The other thing I want to mention is this post about the show’s use of Fuller brooch, the one Alfred wore in S2 when he was in his war gear.

First of all, it is indeed dated to late 9th century and is assumed by scholars to be made by metalworkers of Alfred’s court. Everything is fine except I don’t think you would want to wear jewelry that luxurious to war…but then there’s this thing:

MEET GIANT FULLERS!

Well, can’t blame them since I am basically doing the same thing with my drawings (i.e. using patterns on jewelry and illustrations from manuscripts for embroidery design). But it’s worth noting that designs that are suitable for one art form doesn’t mean they can be applied to another well, and that’s why I claim my art is inspired by Anglo-Saxon art but NOT historical accurate for the Anglo-Saxon period. The reason I still do this and think it is understandable for TLK crew to do so is because we simply don’t have that many resources to reference from when it comes to this time period, and fabrics and wooden buildings are just extremely hard to preserve by nature. Instead of screwing up the design on your own, it just has more fun to add real historical elements into your work. Look at those easter eggs!

Ok, that’s it. I hope you enjoy my long rant and have a good read from Prof. Williams’s works!

[pursuitseternal]

“A Night with the Ascendant:” Chapter 7

Lord Astarion x F!OC (Lumina) | M | 2k

🎨by @/WackyDaArt on X and Instagram

Summary: Another soirée, this time in honor of the Master’s new Bride. Tensions rise, old and new, past and present, and one choice made to do something about her past will not go unnoticed.

Cw: harem dynamics, sexual tension, angst and yearning

Previous ch | Ao3 link | Masterlist

Chapter 7…

Too loud… too bright… this soirée was just too… well, too.

Lumina watched it all from her perch, which just happened to be Astarion’s lap. Every movement she made earned her a groan or a breath of hot air in that sweet spot behind her ear. “For you,” he purred, nearly incessantly as his hands wandered her body, his longer nails digging into the silks and embroidery of her dress just to keep her alert.

And burning.

Even if her body responded to his touch, her mind was elsewhere. Her eyes followed the spawn around the room, watching their careful movements, the way they avoided looking at her… at him… except for furtive glances that teemed with resentment. And yet, even as she sat there, his velvet thigh under her, fingers raking her side, she festered… she knew the imbalance it was. That he wouldn’t take them to bed again, but kept them leashed at his will. That they would only be let to play when he deemed it so.

Unjust. Indentured.

Closing her eyes, she pictured her own indentured servitude, the memories so intense they made her head swim, flooding every sense, right down to the stink of her cotton mat where she was allowed to lay her head in the back room.

“Little love, why are you grinding your teeth?” He rumbled right into her ear. “Are you not enjoying being the center of attention?” his lips pressed shockingly damp kisses down the curve of her neck, his tongue slipping out to lick up the twin scars on the right side of her neck.

Lumina swallowed her moan, the instant feeling of a dozen red eyes on her stealing whatever pleasure his mouth had intended. Frigid, her body cooled, her mind screamed that it wasn’t fair. Not even a tenday ago, it would have been her in the crowd, too much skin showing for comfort just to attract a willing neck or cock to satisfy her hunger.

But all because she had his love… because she was the object of his obsession, his Bride, she sat comfortably against his cock, glass of wine in her fist. It felt wrong to preside over such a show of elegance when all she had come from was suffering, when all she had known was servitude.

And still the servitude lingered. Those spawn eyes glimmering with hate more and more as the revelry continued.

Not fair… not just… not… heroic. She stiffened in his lap and moved to stand. “My lord, my love, I need to stretch,” she poured out a million excuses, feeling the close scrutiny that always followed tonight.

“Where will you go, little love?” He purred, staying at her side even as she slipped down the stairs of his dais. Arms wrapped around her, and he gracefully, smoothly controlled her, maneuvering her towards the dance floor. “Surely there is no great comfort or pleasure than right here where you belong,” his voice dropped into this chest, “in my arms.”

Her body moved with his as one, melting against him, molded to his very ascended being. As if the blood in her veins yearned to return to its source. Closing her eyes, she let the feeling flood her. Gone was the melody of the bards and minstrels. There was only his heart beating hard enough for them both. And yet, every glance of glowing crimson eyes in the dark, in the crowd gave her pause.

She wasn’t a part of their existence. A spawn of a tenday before she was plucked and transformed into his Bride. Hesitantly, her eyes roamed up to his face…. And she wished to the gods she hadn’t.

Those crimson orbs seemed to draw in her very soul, the way they sparkled, bright red and black. His pupils grew fuller, more dilated the longer she stared into them. His long, silver hair fell over his shoulder, a hint of a mess, even in such perfect pretenses as a ball.

“What is it, my love?” he rasped, bringing his plush lips to her forehead, caressing it softly. “Do you need a moment for the two of us?”

Lumina nodded, and Astarion was more than willing to twirl her to the edge of the space and then guide her walking quickly to the terrace off the ballroom. As he walked into the crisp night, he recalled ordering this built in place of… his study and the elevator to the dungeons. He had seen that destroyed, a spacious veranda overlooking the gardens erected in its place.

He pulled her into the cool summer’s night, a gentle breeze off the Sea of Swords carrying a fresh scent to the heat of bodies in the ballroom. He looked at her face, the way the moonlight made her pale features even more pallid in the light. “My treasure, what troubles you?” he purred, watching as she didn’t turn her head, as her eyes just fixated into the distance beyond the walls of his palace. Her jaw clenched, her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and it didn’t take their sire bond for him to know her mind was elsewhere.

“My love, you know… I don’t care where you came from,” he rasped, pulling her back to his front. “Human or infernal, rich or servant… I only care that you are now mine, in my arms… in my bed…” He couldn’t help but feel his arousal, his heat pool in his groin with his possessiveness.

Lumina reaches a cool hand, running it gently up his cheek to weave her fingers in the unruly strands of his silver hair at the nape of his neck. “I know it, my Lord. And yet….” she trailed off, her small frame tense in his embrace.

“And yet?” he insisted, his hands gripping her hips harder, his nails digging into the fabric of her elegant gown to give her a grounding edge of pain.

Lumina stayed silent, trying her best to keep him from the darkest thoughts and memories she hid in her mind. She puts on a practiced smile and turns in his arms to face him. “Oh my Lord, I’m sorry for being so… foolish. If you find me worthy then…” she stands up on her tiptoes and cups his cheeks. “Then worthy I am…”

She holds her breath, diving up to kiss his plush lips. Satisfied with her ruse, she hears him growl in the back of his throat, fangs dragging her bottom lip. “Astarion…” she rasped into his fanged caress, lacing it with all her desire for him down their bond…. And she instantly felt the pulse of his in turn, stronger, more intensely. More obsessively.

“Lumina…”’ her name is barely audible in his husky tones, his hands on her hips turn her and shove her back against the Palace’s outer wall. Her body instantly succumbed, bending and melting to the firm heat of his frame that pushed against him.

“My bride, you temptress, threatening to undo me so close to your festivities? Tch, reckless and roguish, my love…”

“Hmmm, I only aim to please. In fact, what if we do something just you and I that is extremely un-lordly and un-lady-like? What if we meet in our chambers… just for a spell while everyone else mingles?” She flashed him her most alluring, most seductive smile.

He sighed through his nose, heavy lidded as he smirked down at her. “How could I say no?” he purred, releasing her slowly, dragging his warm hands off her body as slowly as possible. He leaned in, pressing his lips to her ear, sucking it, nipping it with his blunted teeth. “I’ll give you ten minutes of a head start. I expect you on your knees… beside my bed… patient and good.”

Lumina looked up at him, a coy smile on her cool lips. “Of course, my Lord,” she whispered her reply, grabbing her skirts and leaving through the balcony doors.

Only, she did not ascend to the bedrooms once she left the gathering.

She went down… down to the basement. Down to the vacant spawn dormitories. Down where she could rifle through her old things and grab a dagger and a cloak and breeches. Stopping by the chamberlain’s desk on her way out to the Lower City Wall, she grabbed a scroll of invisibility and a couple healing potions.

Casting the spell, she felt the sting of the magic making her unseen.

That’s when she heard footsteps… and a tail swishing along with the rustle of a dress.

Morana crept down the stairs, her dark blue nose sniffing as her red eyes landed on her location. “You have to either be an idiot or ungrateful if you’re doing what I think you’re doing, his sweet little Bride…”

Lumina cursed under her breath, definitely validating her location.

Those dark red eyes locked on her instantly, and she had to dodge and roll as her long dark tail jutted out as if to catch her… or trap her. But she just managed to evade her, the invisibility her advantage as Morana just trashed wildly.

“Running already? Barely given the gift you don’t deserve and you flee, ha!” Morana’s voice turned shrill, her fingers fleeing to show her long nails, her claws. “Why, I have half a mind to tell him of your little indescretion now… or perhaps I won’t… let him piece out your audacity himself…”

She sniggers, “Either way, you pathetic girl, he’s going to be so… angry at you. I hope whatever you are sneaking off to do is worth the punishment you’ll get when he finds you… not if.”

With that, the door to the walls flung open with invisible hands, and Morana was left alone. Nothing but her heaving breaths and glowering frown for company. She swished her skirts behind her, returning back to the ballroom in an instant, heading for the Master.

She caught his attention, a practiced smile on her mouth as she gave him a deferential curtsy, her tail barely brushing the side of his leg as she did so. “My Lord, aren’t you missing your favorite little accessory?” she sneered slightly.

He stiffened. “Why does it concern you, Morana?” his brows knit as he whispered. “Have you not found your own pleasure this evening? Free choice of the guests? Necks and beds aplenty.” His gaze assessed her, curiously scrutinizing her with those red eyes. “Is what I offer now better? I don’t know why you’re complaining?”

For a brief moment, she looked at him, despair, hurt in her eyes. Then she shook it off. “Don’t fret about me, my Lord. Worry about your Bride. I saw her… she was most eager and in a hurry.” Her face was schooled back in that easy smile as her tail resumed its lazy swishing.

His thick silver brow arched, his eyes glittering in the light. “I’m most certain she is,” he purred, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “Please, Morana, find something to enjoy tonight,” he whispered before taking his leave through the crowd.

She looked at the way he pushed through the crowd, the way she could single out his boots in the din, the beating of his heart over the music. “Oh I already had found what I would enjoy most… never to enjoy again…” she barely whispered to herself before she picked up her skirts and pushed deeper into the ballroom.

The wine definitely had rushed to his head, the same way the vision of her naked body kneeling and ready for him made his desire pool in his groin. Fuck, if he wasn’t already hard as he climbed the palace stairs. And yet, as he pushed open the door to his chambers, his body cooled and his mind sobered to find it empty.

“Lumina?” he called. But only his own voice purred back at him as the night began to fall beyond the palace walls.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Thank you to @nyx-knox and @marimosalad for their cheerleading and betaing.

And to @scrapsovereign bc they got the fire back under me to finish this update. 😘

[plutoswritingplanet]

Lady Disdain (Captain Hook x Reader)

a/n: so i know i’ve been gone for like a year, but here, have this captain fucking hook smut jesus christ what am i doing.... (jason isaacs is hot tho, so can you blame me?)

Warnings: Dream Donging, Female Reader, Shakespeare quotes as foreplay

Summary:  Dreams can be a fickle thing. You're about to discover that, as Neverland drags you into a chance encounter with the devilishly handsome Captain. (cross-posted on ao3)

The first thing that rattles you from the calm embrace of sleep, is the smell. Gone is the fain scent of a coffee you've made and left forgotten, replaced instead by seawater and fresh air. Your nose scrunches, as new sensations flood your system. And then there's light. Not from the dim lamp in your apartment, but from the sun, warm and bright, coloring the insides of your eyelids orange. Ultimately, that's what brings you back to reality. There is no way you have direct sunlight in your room, so either your roof has fallen in while you've slept, or something even weirder happened.

As you finally open your eyes, you're hit with the realization, that something weirder indeed had happened, because as your sight accommodates to the sunlight, you realizes, this isn't your room that you're standing in. No, there are rough planks underneath your bare feet, splinters just about ready to break your skin. The wind blows around you, messing up your hair and tugging on your night gown. Wait... Since when have you been wearing a night gown? You remember, quite clearly at that, going to sleep in one of your favorite shirts. Your hands tug on the almost sheer fabric, the ruffles slide between your fingers as you marvel at the feeling. There's no way in hell you would be able to afford this from your minimum wage job.

- Captain?

Your eyes snap up, looking straight at a stocky, short man, dressed in a striped shirt, a red beanie on his head. Nervously, he reaches towards his face to push his small glasses up his nose.

- There appears to be a... uh... A woman, on the ship. - he says, hands shaking.

Your hands fly on instinct towards the hem of your gown, pulling it down, over your knees. Suddenly you realize, this really isn't your apartment, and even if this is a dream, being stuck on a ship with a bunch of strange men is not an ideal situation.

- Yes, Smee, I can see that.

Another voice joins the conversation, and with a gasp you look up, towards the steering wheel. There he stands, slowly walking down from his spot above the whole ship, movements elegant and smooth. In all your life, you've met many men, short, tall, skinny and fuller. Some of them pretty, some of them handsome. But, you've never seen a man quite as beautiful as the one walking towards you with such flourish, it takes your breath away from your lungs. The man pushes Smee out of the way, his lavish outfit and a gigantic hat covering your entire field of vision. There are black feathers all around his collar, mixing with lush, inky black locks of hair falling down past his shoulders. Icy blue eyes stare at you with intensity you've never experienced before, before his lips quirk up into a small smirk under his well-groomed moustache.

- Captain James Hook, at your service, my lady - the man bows down, taking his hat off, and you take a step back as the main, gigantic feather brushes over your feet.

- Am I dreaming? - is the first thing you say in this strange scenario, voice quiet and unsure.

The man looks up at you with a brilliant, roguish smile, before slowly pulling himself back to his full height.

- Who's to say? - he answers in such a cryptic way, you feel a sudden urge to roll your eyes.

Deciding for your own mental safety, that this is, in fact, a dream, you grab both sides of your gown, and bow slightly, just like you've seen in the movies. The Captain smiles at your curtsy, before reaching towards your hand. He takes is, rather gently, and brings it towards his lips, keeping eye contact with you and... Oh...

So this is "that" kind of a dream.

Your heart does a somersault in your chest, and you can nearly feel the blood, as it travels straight to your cheeks.

- What is this place? - you ask, after clearing your throat - Who are you people?

As you look at the crew, that has slowly gathered around you, you can't help but notice the way the Captain's expression of friendliness seemed to slip, just as your eyes left him. Replaced by a much more sinister, scheming glint, that sends a shiver down your spine. No matter, dream or reality, you were not about to let your guard down, especially around someone so obviously maleficent.

- This - the Captain makes a broad movement with his left hand - Is the Jolly Roger, the fastest ship on all Seven Seas. And we...

Your eyebrows furrow slightly, as you see the man approach you, swiftly invading your personal space. He smells of tobacco and rum, mixed in with the ever-present smell of the ocean and warm skin. It's nice, too nice, too easy to get intoxicated on. Acting on instinct, you start to walk back, him matching you step for step. Your back hits the wood of the mast, but the Captain doesn't stop, his figure towering over you, as he cages you in your spot.

- ...Are Pirates.

His words are but a whisper, shared between the two of you in a mockery of intimacy. For a split second, you think, you would like to wake up now. Because the Captain's eyes bear into you, like they're trying to drill holes into your very being, and his left hand comes up to caress your chin, pushing it up, until you're forced to look at him fully. Your breath comes out of your mouth in quick pants, heat rising from your chest all the way to the tips of your ears.

- Unhand me, Captain - you try, much weaker than you've intended, and the man flashes you a grin.

For a second, you're struck with how white his teeth are. A strange observation, but when was the last time you've seen a pirate with good oral hygiene. Then, as if a bucket of cold water has been dumped on you, your thoughts start to gallop, one, clear one forming between your ears. You don't like being in this situation.

And so, bracing yourself and taking a strong breath, you raise your hand, place it onto the man's chest, and push rather hard. He seems to be startled by the contact, eyes flickering to your hand, and back to you in confusion.

- For a man of such high standing, you sure lack manners - you wonder if the surrounding men can sense your demeanor is a lie.

By the way some snicker, you guess they can. Captain Hook raises one eyebrow at you, regarding you with a skeptical stare, and then he brings up his right hand. There it is, gleaming in the sun, a sharp, curved hook attached to where his hand should be. Your face falls, and the man smiles cruelly.

- Case and point - you mutter, eyes never leaving the weapon. - I'll have you know, I'm a respectable lady, and I deserve to be treated as such.

Captain Hook laughs, a short snicker, before regarding you with a look filled with irony.

-  A "respectable lady"? On a ship filled with men, in only her night gown?

Now, that sparks a fire in you, hands on your hips, you stand your ground against the Captain's oppressing posture, all the rage and fire following you in tow.

- I'm not responsible for my circumstance!

- Neither am I, I assure you - he raises his hands in mock surrender.

- Oh? And I'm supposed to just trust a Pirate's word like that? - you throw him a judgmental stare.

The man laughs again, his head inclining towards you in something, that vaguely resembles a show of respect.

- Wise, very wise, darling - your eyebrows shoot upwards at the new form of endearment - What are your demands, as a respectable lady?

You think for a second. In your mind, you haven't really arrived at that point yet, and making something up on the spot would pose a risk of exposing, just how much you have no idea what was going on. And yet, it's just a dream, isn't it? Soon, you'll smell your day's old coffee, and wake back up in your apartment, with no ocean in sight. Why not indulge yourself for a moment, while sleep holds you in its arms?

- I demand a tour of the ship - you announce triumphantly.

The man laughs, his eyes jumping around his crew, as if looking for a confirmation, that what you've said demanded ridicule. Apparently, it did, because all around you, you could hear snicker after snicker. You comfort yourself with the fact most of them sounded forced.

- Is that all? - the Captain already takes a couple of steps in your direction, and panic rises in your gut at his proximity.

- And do me no harm in the process!

That makes him laugh again, this one is loud and booming. Before you can get properly mad at him for laughing in your face, however, he takes off his lavish hat and bows again.

- Your wish is my command, my hearty.

Your face twists at the nickname, but you decide to say nothing, not wanting to push your luck, especially after being confronted with his deadly prosthetic. It's just a dream, you remind yourself in your head, as he comes over to stand by your side, arm sliding around your waist. It's just a dream, you keep reciting, when you feel his fingers pick at the thin fabric of your nightgown.

- ...Just a dream... - you mutter, and if he has heard, he decided not to comment, opting instead to pull you towards him, as he began to walk around the ship.

To his credit, the tour of the upper deck is completely respectable and rather interesting. As he explains the different parts of the ship, and introduces his crew along the way, you begin to slowly let yourself be carried through this weird experience. The hand on your waist no longer bothers you, even as it travels towards your hip from time to time. The crew is respectable enough, although the energy feels tense, whenever you're allowed to talk to them. As if everyone knows something that escapes you, some terrifying truth that you're not privy to. It's just a dream though, so you push your worries to the back and lean into the Captain's warm embrace.  

- And now - the Captain leans down to flash you a cheeky grin - pièce de résistance.

He opens the ornate door in front of you with his usual flourish, and you gasp, as you enter the most richly decorated room you've seen in your entire life.

- The Captain's cabin. My cabin. Just like the Royal Palace, isn't it?

You laugh, eyes searching the room in wonder, taking in all the splendor and the treasure. There's a beautiful, black piano standing in the corner in the room, pages upon pages of music sheets thrown around it in disarray. Your eyes skim over the papers filled with black ink. And then, you see it. A gigantic bookcase, climbing the entirety of a wall, from top to bottom, filled with books. Your heart nearly jumps at the sight, and you cross the room with determination.

- Oh, this is just wonderful - you whisper, eyes flowing over the titles, some you recognize, some you don't.

You reach towards one of the books and pull it out with a smile.

- "Much Ado About Nothing" - you announce, and immediately step back, collidig with the bookcase.

You have no idea how the Captain managed to sneak up towards you so quietly, but here he stood, mere inches from you, one arm braced on the bookcase, his long black hair framing his face. His hat was left on top of the piano, and his coat became abandoned as well, leaving him in just a silk black shirt and leather trousers. An interesting combination, worthy of a rockstar.

- Do you enjoy Shakespeare? - he asks in a quiet, casual tone, as if the situation is the most normal it could've been

You swallow hard, regaining your composure, bringing the book closer to your chest, as if to shield yourself from his oppressing aura.

- Not particularly, no - you admit - This is an exception.

The Captain pushes closer, and your eyes start to search a way for potential escape.

- What is it about?

- Oh... it's... - you stammer, the hard cover of the book digging into your chest from how hard you're holding onto it.

His smell invades your senses, swirling in your mind and bringing blush back to your cheeks. Slowly, but surely, you begin to be entranced by this strange, dangerous man. Even the gleaming hook propped right above your head doesn't hold as much power as it used to. It all feels so intimate, nearly suffocating. It makes you wonder. If you're dreaming, what harm could be done, in letting yourself be seduced by this beautiful pirate?

He answers for you, his left hand coming up to brush hair out of your face, silver rings bringing stark, cold contrast to your heated skin.

- It's about two people, who hate each other, but over time discover they're in love.

- Ah, a love story? -  his eyebrows furrow - I was never a fan of those.

You shake your head slightly.

- A love story, in a way yes. Mostly it's just funny. - you try to defend your story - But yes, the romance part is beautiful and witty, it's inspiring, really.

Captain Hook leans down, his hand leaving your face and sliding towards the book. Slowly, he worms his fingers under your hold, pulling the book out of your hands. You stare at him in confusion, as he skims through the pages, eyes jumping over the words with an unreadable expression.

- "Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps." - he reads out loud, and you watch his eyes crinkle, as he shoots you a smile. - Wise words.

You observe with growing anticipation, as he opens his hand. The book slides out, falling to the floor with a thud. Your eyes snap back to him, catching him in the process of staring at your lips.

- “I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.” - you whisper.

- So cruel - he muses, the ghost of his breath fanning over the side of your neck. - I shan't even suggest "love", my darling "Lady Disdain". I do, however, require payment for guiding you through this ship.

His working hand climbs the expanse of your neck, pushing your head up, enough for you to feel the bookcase behind you. Acting on instinct, your leg travels up, the night gown slipping, exposing your thigh.

- And what would that payment entail? - you ask, your heart thrumming hard against your ribs, like a bird still longing to be freed from the cage.

- A kiss.

Your heated stares meet in the corner of your left eye, where he hovers over your pulse point. Soon, your lips pull back into a crooked smile.

- Just a kiss?

- And whatever more you can give me. - his eyebrows knit together, as he answers with a pout on his lips, a poor attempt at acting innocent.

As if there was ever a time for innocence, on this strange ship sailing through your dreams. So, you arch your back from the bookcase, hand coming up to drag itself along his arm. Meanwhile, your leg hooks itself around his calf, intention clear as day.

- What will I get in return, should I decide to give you more? - you say in a low voice, the huskiness of your tone surprising, but welcomed by the Pirate with open arms.

The cold metal of his hook startles you, as it begins to travel from behind your ear, along the main artery, until it rests between your collar bones.

- You'll become one of my most valued possessions.

At this, you frown with no real malice behind the expression. It is a dream after all. That being said, one of your hands reaches up and behind him, fingers worming their way into his soft hair. It takes one gentle scratching motion to his scalp, and the Captain nearly moans, his knees buckling under your touch. It soon became clear as day he wasn't used to physical contact, or at least, didn't get much of it.

- I'll have you know, I treasure my freedom greatly. - you counter, fingers tangling themselves into his black locks and tugging ever so gently.

- Is that so? - his voice cracks, but he tries to hide it, by dragging his hook down the front of your body, until it catches onto the fabric of your night gown. - So do I. But sometimes, one needs to take some risks, to gain something one wants.

- And what is it, that you want, Captain? - your question dissapears into his mouth, as he finally closes the distance between you.

To his credit, at first he tries to be gentle, to go slow and sensual. But as soon, as you allow him to continue kissing you, all pretense goes out the window. His beard scratches your face, as he presses himself impossibly close to you, tongue slipping past his lips and nearly forcing itself into your mouth. You grant him access with no grace left, sighing loudly, when his teeth drag themselves over your bottom lip, biting hard enough to draw blood. He laps the red liquid like a man dying of thirst, and you start to wonder, perhaps your sleep-deprived mind has conjured a pirate vampire.

Finally, when you think your lungs can't take any second more without air, he pulls back. His eyes scan your face, and his expression turns smug, as he notices the redness around your lips, the way they are swollen from the kiss.

- Right now, I want to take you over this desk there. - he answers your nearly forgotten question, and your heart lurches from your chest.

- What are you waiting for, then? - perhaps, you sound just a little bit desperate, but why should you care, it was just a dream after all, and you were far too turned on to play any more games.

So, you squeal in delight, as his arm sneaks under your thigh, and he hoists you up. Your arms immediately encircle his neck, and as he carries you over to the desk, your mouth begins a journey of exploration of the space under his chin. Your tongue darts out,  licking a long stripe along his pulse, and you begin to worry he'll drop you, from the way his entire  body shivers.

Soon, your ass hits the surface of the desk, rich mahogany carved into many intricate designs, never to be appreciated, because as much as you'd love to explore all the antiques, the man before you looks much more appetizing. God, he's beautiful, as he towers over you in all his glory, hair ruffled and shirt even more undone than before. His eyes bear into you, and from where you're sitting, you start to feel like prey, waiting for the predator to strike. And so, he does, his hooked hand coming up to your gown, and dragging it down. You gasp, as the fabric tears, falling alongside your body in long stripes.

- You'll be the death of me - the Captain mutters, eyes slowly climbing over every inch of your exposed skin.

And then he dives in, like a man starved, and all you can do, is angle your neck to give him better access. There's no need for tenderness, as he all but ravishes your neck with rich kisses, his working hand roaming every inch of your exposed body, still, carefully avoiding the one place you needed it the most. The ,almost, painful pressure between your legs starts to build up, not enough to tip you over the edge, but enough to make you annoyed at the lack of any real friction. So, with a furrowed brow and a desperate pout, your hand finds purchase, tangled in his soft hair. Before long, you pull at the roots. Hard.

His head snaps back, teeth snared at the pain you were suddenly causing him. He gives you a confused expression, and you have to shake yourself from the trance his wild eyes put on you.

- Fuck me already, would you? - you pant out, shame thrown out the window.

You can see his face morph right before your very eyes. From slight confusion, to pure, focused determination. You nearly laugh, as he lets go of you almost imediately, in favor of trying to get his pants untied and off of his body, cursing under his breath, as his hand just can't seem to work fast enough. With an affectionate smile, you pull yourself up, hands coming up to help him, detangling the strings holding his leather pants together. Before you can get a glimpse of what's awaiting you, his hand grabs yours, pushing your body down, to lie on the surface of the desk.

Wooden sculptures dig into your naked skin, but at this point, you can't find any care in the world, because his pants are down, and he watches you with such intensity, one would think you're a science project. You can't trust your words, so you just nod your head,  in response to his silent request for permission. Soon, all thoughts leave your head, as he pushes in, in one, smooth, languid motion, as if savoring every miniscule twitch and twist of your body.

It's obviously been a long time for the both of you. Bodies finding familiarity in almost forgotten rythm, that starts slow, sensual and close. His breathing is shaky. You can feel his chest expand, his heart thrumming against your own. You allow yourself to get used to the feeling of having him inside you, each push and drag melting away at your bones, as your hands find their rightful place, scratching his working shoulder blades.

- C'mon. - you breath after a while of this tender love-making, and as if on cue, his hips snap up.

A squeak dies on your lips, as the Captain leans down to kiss you, his pace becoming faster, hips trying to move deeper. Soon, your whole body jumps on the surface of the desk, as the wood creaks rythmically under the weight of both of your bodies. You have the half-mind to note how sturdy the piece of furniture is, because the way this man above you is going, most of the surfaces in your apartment would've been reduced to splinters by now.

The Captain continues his ministrations, as the both of you grow closer and closer to you finish lines. Your voice slips past your lips as low, guttural groans, the pressure building seemingly with no chance of stopping it. You just need something to tip you over the edge. Pushed by the need for your own release, your right hand leaves the, now covered with sweat, back of the Captain, in favor of slipping between your conjoined bodies. You start rubbing quick circles, something to help you reach your goal, and as your body spasms, your voice grows ever-louder.

The man in front of you nearly trips in his fervor, your moans clearly affecting him. His brows shoot up, towards his hairline, as his hooked hand smashes itself into the surface of the desk. You would've been more alarmed by the violent outburts, if you weren't currently experiencing, what could easily be called one of the best orgasms of your life. Finding purchase in his stuck hook, the Captain resumes his work, going harder now, chasing his own high.

It doesn't take him long, before he topples over, moans and curses spilling freely from his lips, as his whole body weight crushes you. You're too close to being overstimulated, and you whine, as he finally slides out of you, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, but satisfied nonetheless.

It takes the both of you a while to recover, as you stay for just a moment longer, tangled in eachothers arms, breathing slowly evening out. His head lifts from your chest to look at you, and you push sweat-drenched locks from his flushed cheeks.

He smiles, and for the first time, you can't see any ulterior motive in his expression. It's soft and serene, his eyes glossed over.

- Will the payment be sufficient? - you ask, voice hoarse from all the screaming you've just done.

- Entirely - the man laughs, and you can't help but giggle yourself.

Your body feels heavy with exhaustion. You let your head fall with a thud onto the desk. With half a mind, you note his body weight leaving yours, but there's no energy left in you, to try and look at him. Instead, you choose to close your eyes, the immediate relief of the darkness nearly wrenches a sigh out of you. Blood is pumping through your veins, you can hear it hum in your ears. The desk is slowly getting softer and softer under your body, as if your limbs become accustomed to the wooden surface.

And then, just as you're about to ask for a glass of water, or rum, or whatever the Captain chooses to drink, you smell a familiar scent.

Day's old coffee.

[lexsssu]

Milk (Childe)

TAGS: Childe/F!Reader, smut, drabble, impregnation, breeding, lactation kink Ao3 ver.

“That’s my girl...taking my cock so damn well in this pretty little pussy. You were made just for me,” purred Childe, dull blue orbs darkening into a shade of aegean blue as he fucked you from below.

The wet smack between your bodies and the mesmerizing sound of your moans and whimpers rang in his ears, making his blood sing and his dick all the more harder. The Harbinger licked his lips as he watched the way your lower lips parted whenever he shoved the thick girth of his cock inside you, letting out a chuckle every now and then whenever he surprised you with a sudden deep, rough thrust.

Even if you were riding him, he was still the one that called the shots and by god did he love seeing your face flush and contort into such pretty expressions as he fucked you like this. The view was even more beautiful as he had front row seats to your breasts that freely bounced as he jostled you, practically begging him to take a perky nipple in his mouth and suckle on them like a newborn babe.

“I wonder what your milk would taste like…”

Imagining your belly growing softer and rounder, your gorgeous tits becoming fuller and starting to produce milk as his seed took root within your body….

“How about it, 'lil lady? Want me to fuck a baby into you?”

[pinksomovember]

Day 1 - In A Car [ao3]

Ivy rocked on her heel folded under her.

“I’m going to piss myself,” she said, a slight whine bleeding into her otherwise joking tone.

Nora didn’t respond. Ivy had been complaining on-and-off for the past hour, with increasing frequency, and had started shortly after a stop that had a bathroom.

“I seriously don’t think I’ve ever had to pee this bad in my life,” Ivy continued. “It’s starting to hurt.”

“You could’ve gone at the gas station,” Nora said.

Ivy didn’t appreciate the condescending scolding. She felt like a water balloon that was still attached to the hose, bulging more and more with every second, with only a matter of time before it went pop. Her only outlet was to fidget, simultaneously squeezing her thighs together and rocking back and forth onto her foot so it pressed up against her pussy. In combination with the seam of her jean shorts digging up against her—working its way into a wedgie—her urethra had plenty of pressure to help it stay closed. That was only going to work for so long, though.

“You didn’t see the bathrooms,” Ivy argued. They’d been disgusting—shit on the back of the seat, a truly foul smelling liquid seeping along the corners of the floor, and flies everywhere. Not to mention how every surface was covered in stains and dried flecks of who-knows-what. If it had been cleaned in the past month Ivy would eat one of her socks.

She’d had to pee, decently bad, when they had stopped there. But under no circumstances would Ivy use that bathroom. Except for maybe (just maybe) right now.

She thought she’d be able to hold it. They were only a few hours out from their destination and she could always get Nora to stop at a rest stop or a gas station if it really got bad. Ivy, however, hadn’t realized that they were about to exit fucking civilization. There had been nothing for the past fifty miles other than cattle and the occasional cornfield!

“If you weren’t chugging those iced teas-”

“I’ve stopped!”

Ivy might’ve also forgotten to factor in how much liquid had still been moving its way through her system, too. It was a habit for her to sip at sugary drinks when she was bored.

A wave of desperation so strong that Ivy dug her nails into her thighs swept through her.

“Ohhh my god,” she moaned. “I can’t do this. Jesus fucking Christ.”

There was so much pee inside her right now her bladder was visibly pushing up against her skin, firm and tight and aching between her hips. She had given up on the seatbelt, and the button of her shorts, well over fifteen minutes ago. Ivy kind of wanted to cry.

Nora softened. “You going to be alright, babe?”

“I don’t know. Yes, probably. Maybe.”

“I can always pull over,” she offered. “You’d have to piss on the side of the road, though.”

Ivy shook her head adamantly. “No, there’s way too much traffic.”

They fell into silence for a few minutes, aside from the staticy music of one of the few radio station’s Nora’s truck was picking up and the occasional curse from Ivy.

“Are you enjoying it, at least? At least a little?” Nora asked, breaking the quiet.

“What?” Ivy practically panted. Her breathing was rough as she tried to huff and puff her way through the worst of the desperation.

“Just.” Nora seemed a bit embarrassed, keeping her eyes completely glued to the road. “You’re…y’know. Piss thing.”

“It’s not a piss thing,” Ivy hissed, mortified. Even though it was, at least partially, a piss thing.

It wasn’t her fault that having a full bladder turned her on. From what Ivy understood, it was just simple biology! The fuller that most women’s bladder’s get, the more it puts pressure on all the internal pleasure hotspots. A little like cockwarming a moderately small toy, just without any form of firmness that a foreign object would feel like. It felt good in a slow building, passive sort of way.

Getting off with all that weight in her lower belly also felt good. A little bit of extra flare to a still otherwise damn good orgasm. 

But she wouldn’t say she was into piss. The idea of the smell and the mess alone was enough to turn her off to it. Holding it on occasion until it was just starting to edge into too much was plenty enough for her.

Although, she had to admit, she wasn’t exactly turned off to it right now.

Each tight squeeze of her thighs stimulated her a little bit. Every rock back pressed the bone of her heel into the squelching slickness of her pussy, which was absolutely soaking her panties despite knowing damn well that she hadn’t leaked a single drop of pee yet. And with all that movement, the seam of her shorts was pulled tight against her unmistakably hard clit.

“Well, are you?” Nora asked.

“I-” Ivy stopped herself. Her face was burning. “Yeah, maybe. So what, I still have to pee more than I have to—or whatever, want to—get off.”

Nora stole a side glance at Ivy. Something dark, heedy, interested came over her expression as she drank in how Ivy looked.

Ivy sacrificed one of her hands clawing into her thigh as a grounding method to cover her face. This was embarrassing enough as it was without having to talk about her kinks. Even if Nora seemed to be getting into it.

“Oh my god, ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” Ivy chanted, forgetting her embarrassment entirely. The wave of desperation felt incredibly, suddenly like a physical wave. She could feel it surging against the sphincter muscles of her urethra. 

She wiggled her hips side to side to try and fight through it. The movement caused her shorts, already so tight against her cunt, to shift. Her clit was trapped between the seam and her pubic bone, but couldn’t stay in place with this new movement. The seam fucking stroked her aching clit, slipping to the side before grinding right back over it with the next sway of her hips.

“Hu-uhn,” Ivy couldn’t help but moan. “Uh, uh, uh!”

“Fuck,” Nora cursed, breathless.

Ivy couldn’t process the difference between her desperation for relief and her sudden, surging need to cum. Everything was much too much and not enough at the same time. 

“Fuckfuckfuck. Jesus Christ. Uhaha.” Ivy sobbed a couple times. It was part laugh and part horniness and part overwhelmed. She couldn’t believe this was happening. It felt like an out-of-body event while also being the most physically animal experience she had ever had.

“God. You feeling good, baby?” Nora asked. 

“Y-y-yes!” Ivy wailed. “It’s- fuck, it’s so good. I’m so wet. Shit, I’m so- I’ve gotta piss so bad.”

Nora took her right hand off the wheel to grab Ivy’s leg. Her other hand held onto the wheel so tight her knuckles were turning white. There was something wild about her. Something that, if she didn’t have to focus so much of her attention on the road, might’ve swept her up in the same way Ivy’s desperation was.

“You gonna play with yourself, baby?” Nora asked. “Gonna play with your clit while you piss yourself?”

“Don’t- don’t wanna piss myself,” Ivy whined. Nevertheless, she did as Nora suggested and grabbed tight between her legs. Her shorts were too tight and were getting in the way of actually being able to touch herself effectively, but the pressure helped reel in her bladder’s demands a little bit.

“Ives, baby, there’s no bathrooms for miles yet.”

A reedy noise broke in Ivy’s throat.

“I know, I know,” Nora said, hand squeezing at Ivy’s thigh. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“This is so fucking embarassing,” Ivy managed, laughing incredulously. “I’m seriously gonna wet myself. Fuck.”

“I don’t care. Fuck, baby, looking like that…I’d let you ruin anything.”

“Hm?” Ivy hummed. Her whole cunt was pulsing, vagina and pussy lips and clit. She was so wet she wouldn’t even be surprised if a spot was showing up on her shorts, soaked straight through her panties. Her body was building up to something—so high up she was almost afraid of it—unsure if it would be the dams breaking involuntarily or an orgasm so intense it would be the best she’d ever had.

“You look so fucking good, Ives,” Nora rasped. “I could eat you alive.”

“I…” Ivy wavered. She didn’t know what she wanted to say. 

“It’s okay,” Nora said. “It’s gonna happen either way, isn’t it? Unless you changed your mind about the side of the road?”

They were on a two-laned highway, a couple of cars in either direction always in sight. Stopping would mean even more cars, as the ones behind them passed them by. 

“No, absolutely not. It’d end up on the- on the fucking Internet or something.”

Nora massaged her thumb against Ivy’s skin. “Then I’m sorry, baby, but you’re gonna have to piss yourself.”

“’S bullshit,” Ivy mumbled. Tears were pricking up in her eyes. The side-to-side wiggling was simultaneously not doing enough to help her hold it and doing a frustratingly inconsistent too-much-not-enough to get her off. She resorted back to rocking, with no sign of pausing the mounting something that was steadily creeping up on her.

“We’ve got a ton of clothes in the back,” Nora soothed. “And towels, and baby wipes, and our rental is pretty far from any neighbors so nobody’ll see you walking in your wet clothes. And it won’t take too much to clean the truck, and I don’t mind cleaning it up, okay?”

“But-”

“It’s not a big deal,” Nora insisted, a bit of firmness edging in. “Understand?”

Ivy nodded tightly. She did understand, even if she could barely think. 

“Now, since it’s gonna happen anyways, you want to make yourself feel good?”

“Already am,” Ivy said. “Might, fuck, I don’t know. Might cum.”

“Just like that?”

“May- uhn- maybe.”

“Fuck.” She sounded reverent. “You wanna touch yourself, baby? Wanna stick your fingers down your shorts?”

Ivy nodded, frantic. She was so close, to coming, to pissing, to doing both. She just couldn’t quite get there.

Her fingers felt fucking heavenly. Her pussy was a mess of sticky slick, audibly squishing as she pushed her hand beneath the waistband of her panties and into the lips of her pussy. Just brushing against her clit was enough to cause her to shout out, trembling at the sudden stimulation of sensitive nerves.

“Just like that, baby. Fuck, look at you. It feels good?”

“Yes! Fuck, ohmygod. Hnnnuh.”

Ivy’s fingers were clumsy, sitting up and trapped in her shorts and obstructed by the clamping of her thighs. But God, it didn’t even matter. She grinded her cunt on her heel and the drag of the cotton and denim against her pussy made everything all the better and her fingers fumbling over her clit was dragging her up up up.

“Keep playing with your clit, baby. Just like that, yeah. Just how you like it.”

“Gonna- fuck!”

“You gonna cum, Ives?”

“Wanna,” Ivy cried. “So- fuck, please, please. Wanna…I’m so…”

“Or are you gonna piss?”

“Fuck!” Ivy wailed. Her pleasure crested, sharp and violent and hard enough that her whole body shook. She threw her head back into the seat, practically seizing. She barely recognized the sounds she was making as something coming from her mouth, unfamiliar from any other she’d made before.

“Oh my god,” Nora was saying, somewhere in the distance. “Fuck, baby. Fuck.”

Ivy was still shaking, still somewhere high up. 

“Need’ta piss,” she slurred. “Need’ta…uhn, I need’ta…”

Nora said something. Ivy registered only that it was meant to be encouraging.

“Uh, uhn, ohhhhhh fuck. Oh-”

Ivy’s fingers were still against her cunt, and she felt the first hot trickle of piss against them. It wasn’t enough, though, not even registering as relief. The sensation of liquid leaving her bladder, however, passing through her weakening sphincter and soaking into her shorts, bordered into the same amount of pleasure as playing with her clit usually was.

So soon after her orgasm, she felt overstimulated. There was still way too much pressure and it was taking a strenuous amount of concentration to keep even the tiny stream going and everything still felt so fucking good.

“Nnn…Nora,” Ivy sobbed. “I can’t-”

“Relax, Ives, relax. It’s okay, you can do it.”

“Can’t-”

Nora let go of Ivy’s thigh and instead tucked her hand beneath Ivy’s wrist of the hand still down her shorts to place her palm against her belly. “I’m gonna push down a bit, okay? Just relax.”

Ivy hiccuped, but nodded. She was still managing a thin stream of piss, seeping into the seat of her shorts and just barely beginning to form a puddle under her butt, but her bladder was screaming at her.

Nora pushed down and Ivy squirmed violently. The pressure was so much more but it wasn’t doing anything but hurting. She had to piss so bad and she couldn’t and inexplicably she felt like she could cum again just like this but not quite. And then her urethra gave way.

“Ohmy god,” Ivy choked. The piss flooded out of her.

It didn’t even feel like she was sitting in the passenger seat of her girlfriend’s car, her entire bottom was so suddenly drenched. She might as well have been sitting in the tub in a few inches of bathwater. Hot, very slightly piss-scented, bathwater.

It was euphoric. She might’ve been cumming again, for all the pleasure searing through her as her release hissed through her panties and pooled on the fabric seat faster than it could soak it up. She genuinely couldn’t tell.

The stream was hot and steady against her fingers as it sprayed out of her. Absently, she petted along her inner labia. 

“Shit,” Nora said, like she was in awe. “Shit.”

The stream started to peter out, in fits and bursts. Just when Ivy thought it was over another gush would start up, each one a little weaker than the last.

There was a dull drip, drip, drip as the puddle on the seat dripped onto the floorboards.

Nora’s eyes darted between the road and Ivy, with a desperate sort of want. “Oh my god, Ives. That was…”

“I think I’m still going,” Ivy said. She felt a little fuzzy around the edges, numb in the very tips of her fingers and toes and slightly cross eyed. Fucked out.

“Fuck,” Nora whispered, enthralled.

 The final dredges of her bladder’s contents were still dribbling out of her, like her urethra couldn’t quite figure out how to close back up. Ivy tried to force it a bit, by clenching up, but all that caused was a violent shiver to rush up her spine and a soft little gasp.

Finally, finally, Ivy felt herself stop peeing.

“Mmmm,” she hummed, satisfied and spent and high on sex. 

“You okay?” Nora asked. Her hand was back to Ivy’s thigh, mindless of the piss starting to cool on her skin.

“Yeah,” Ivy sighed, sleepy and pliant. “M’great. Maybe, uh, in a bit you could get a towel outta the back?”

“Yeah,” Nora agreed. “’Course, baby.”

[vixnovacoda]

Overwhelming the Senses || Chapter 2

Matt Murdock x Original Female Character

*SPOILERS BE WARNED FOR DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN* Taking place during the one-year timeskip, Matthew Murdock is unhealthily coping with recent loss when Lucille Littleton comes into his life, and the two find themselves drawn back to the other despite their tense beginning of their relationship, which is only complicated by Lucille's double life. They must work together, though, if they wish to help the innocent.

Word count: 3.8k Tags (for series): Angst, romance, soft, fluff, soulmates, alternating POVs, some hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, and protective Matt Murdock

[CH1] [CH2] [AO3 version here]

Lucille

Arm in arm. The blind leading the blind. Well, Lucille wasn’t blind, but, with how many drinks they had before leaving the bar, she might as well have been. They were holding onto each other just so they could walk straight. Side by side and splitting stitches in their sides.

    “And that was how I broke into the CEO's office,” concluded Lucille, holding her head up high for dramatic flare.

    “And she’s a criminal!” teased Matt in feigned shock before breaking out into a series of chuckles. He shook his head. “No. Sorry, but I just, I don’t believe it.”

    “Which part? The balloons or the bit about the fax machine?”

    “All of it!”

    Lucille nudged him when he held up his hands with a defensive ‘what’ and a smile like his lawyer stories weren’t just as crazy, as the alcohol drove another bout of laughter through their throats in that way where even breathing was the funniest thing to have ever happened. They were too drunk to care about the noise they were making. The streets of New York City have seen weirder. Lucille had seen weirder. Hell, she lived it. 

    Running a hand through her short waves, she sighed. “Believe it or not, that act of crime actually got me my first big article since I stopped the war photography gig. Nothing too big, but it was enough to lead to the downfall of Fuller Inc… eventually,” explained Lucille, a somberness twisting at her throat. “So many people were hurt from an entirely preventable accident all because a company was so greedy in trying to cut costs. People tried for years. They spoke and no one heard them. Until, for some, it was too late. Those people were never going to get their lives back, but at least they had a chance.” She retreated into the collar of the coat Matt had given to her earlier and wrapped it tighter around her. It didn’t take a genius to guess the look he gave her when the squeeze of his hand on her arm gave it away. Pity. Understanding. It was almost nice. Completely unnecessary, yet nice.

    “I was there when they got that chance, remember it clear as day. Ringer versus Fuller. You gave them truth, Luce. Jeremy Ringer’s mother wouldn’t have been able to get justice if it wasn’t for you,” remarked Matt.

    She smiled, while modesty tore away her downcast eyes. “Is that why you do what you do, Counselor? Justice?”

    “Well, I don’t do it for the money.”

    “How civic-minded of you.”

    A huff of air escaped from his lips, barely rolling over the stubble that covered his jaw in the way Lucille had begun to recognise to be a short burst of outward joy as his mouth shaped itself into a smile. The self-assured, big brushstroke kind. Kissable even. No.

    Nope. That was the alcohol talking. She wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

    But her gaze. It wandered all over him. Right from his hard-earned shoes to the red glasses pushed into place against his eyes that she wished he would let it stay fallen, so that she might do more than catch a glance of the man behind the frames. A man she was beginning to think was only visible under the light of the moon, where it played around with lines and creases which dared to show his age like cracks in a worn painting, and seemed to soften him in a way that she wanted to reach out and touch and hold; to see if any of this was real; to see how much he was willing to reveal.

    Which was a dangerous thought experiment. Matthew Murdock was handsome, sure, but he was nice which begat attachment. Attachments broke hearts. And God knew she could barely keep her idle hands to herself.

    Feet were planted and halted. Heels before oxfords. The warmth of Matt’s tight grip leaving her arm as he stood in front of her, resting his weight on his cane, and she stood in front of him and the tall apartment building he called home. All this time, and she hadn’t yet asked the one thing she had on her mind since the beginning, and now she might never get to. Focus damnit, Luce . Matt moved to speak when she blurted, “There’s this story I’m working on, actually. About vigilantes. I’m still figuring it out. But, given the nature of some of the cases you’ve worked on, your expertise is exactly what I need. So.” She ran her hand down her side, smoothing out the dress she wore, which had been slowly riding up her leg in the last hour. The professional taking point and slipping through her vernacular. “So, would you do me the favour of meeting up again soon for an interview?”

    He cocked his head to the side and that face, that smirk, he made her heart flutter. “Are. Are you asking me out on a date, Miss Littleton?”

    “Depends on how well it goes,” answered Lucille, playfully.

    “Then I guess I’ll have to make sure everything goes smoothly,” he responded in kind, stepping ever so slightly closer, and she did not know how much more she could take with his breath wrapping around her throat like a gentle caress that made one want to melt, unbothered by the hardy smell of cheap beer. This close, he could probably taste the same from her breath. After all, he had gotten her drunk on the same bottles he consumed to make up for the (literal) dirty martini she ordered. Mere minutes ago they had even shared the same exact bottle, exchanging sips back and forth without a care for it was the alcohol they enjoyed and the taste of other’s lips they wanted. A part of Lucille wondered if those same lips, if pressed against, would be just as soothing and sweet.

    Or when his hand slid under his coat she still wore, did that same part of her construct fantasies of them going further as he learned the shape of body, committing it to his memory with the utmost care and time, which would leave any woman on the verge. How gentle he seemed. It wasn’t until he took out his phone from the inside pocket and handed it to her for her number, that she realised how weak her knees felt and how her face flushed a deeper shade than her hair. She needed to get a grip, needed to leave before it got out of control.

    “You are something else, Matt Murdock,” declared Lucille with stammering confidence as her thumbs beheld a tremor, typing number after number.

    “And you were… unexpected, Luce Littleton,” replied Matt, the ever chill, ever suave man despite how equally drunk they were.

    She pressed save, sending a text to her number – a reminder for her that she was one step closer – and slipping the device into his suit jacket’s breast pocket. “But not unwelcome, I’d hope,” she said.

    “The exact opposite,” told him.

    She cracked a smile before returning to the embrace of the cold, bitter air as she wrapped his coat around his shoulders, the rushing drumbeat of Matt’s heart betraying his demeanour from beneath her touch while they stood practically face-to-face and when she looked up at him, hers raced in competition, marching to a war drum. Their bodies pressed together in a world of their own under night’s blanket where things were said or done and tossed aside come tomorrow’s call.

    “Would you like to join me inside and move that interview to tonight, Lucille?” softly asked Matt, like he too knew the danger it might bring.

    Don’t, she told herself. Don’t do it, she yelled.

    It took every ounce of whatever sobriety she had retained to fight that instinct. She’d grown to like him more than she cared to admit. Too much to become some… thing that he’d forget in the morning, and too much to complicate things or dare hurt him. Rule #1 when it came to sources: never sleep with them .

    But Lucille was only human. He made her feel something . Something she hadn’t felt in years. If she could feel that way for just a little bit longer, then she would take that chance.

    “Yes,” she breathed.

---

Lucille stared at her phone. She’d been staring at it with overzealous anticipation all day, waiting for it to ring. Just as she had the day before, and the day before that. Today was different. She was running out of options.

    In one hand: half-scribbled and transcribed notes that barely made a comprehensible story which no reputable paper would dare touch with a ten-foot pole in its current state of affairs. In the other: lists of New York City attorneys, spanning multiple pages where each crossed-out firms got progressively more and more frantically scribbled. All bar one. Murdock & McDuffie. Her last resort for both article and friend, and she may have already ruined any chance she had because of a stupid night filled with countless bottles of beer. Lucille had few regrets, that night was quickly becoming one.

    Nothing had been the same since.

    Not just because of the ensuing storm that crept along the horizon these past few mornings. Where notes were once organised, they now laid all over any surface she could find and in places she didn’t remember such as the fridge or her father’s vinyl collection. Connections came harder to place. Her mind always elsewhere with his voice sneaking inside it. She never used to have a conscience arguing moral rights and wrongs over her shoulder before. Well, not one she cared about. Now it was getting in the way of things. Him and his fancy suit and his handsome face and his husky voice and his stubborn attitude. All of him, stuck in the back of her mind, taking up stock where cases once presided. And instead of working the daylight away in her office, she was stuck here at her cramped, messy, two-bedroom apartment because crime scenes were an unlawfully place to work from and, yet, the place she came to when she needed to breathe while she fought against a system that no longer believed in its original cause – the truth – was somehow more appropriate.

    It was not.

    All of New York was a crime scene. Lucille just had to look outside a window, any window, and there would be evidence. At least when she was at the office space she rented, she could do something about it right from inside the heart. She didn’t have to worry about it following her back home.

    Lucille called the city one big bloody war with tons of little ones happening all the time and had seen enough to know when a loss was on the way. Each minute, each count of the ticking clock, made her actions look futile while sat like a fool awaiting a phone call – which is all she had done lately. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Silence… A lead-filled exhale. Notes flew in the air, thrown across the room. Paper spiralled onto the floor in collapsed heaps. It was pointless. Waiting was pointless. Lucille had tried almost everything to soothe the pain she caused, but deadlines were encroaching and enough was enough.

    Choices limited, Lucille only hoped Matt would understand.

    She wasn’t going to let an accident, like mixing emotions and business, ruin one of the few good people she had left in this life.

    She had to fix this.

    Abrupt and sharp, Lucille pushed herself off and away from the counter, stepping around her makeshift desk and the mess of objects clamoured around the floor as she swept up what notes she could find before shoving them into her bag, some case related, some not so related. She was in too much of a hurry to beat the approaching storm that hung on the horizon to fuss over such things.

    When, all of a sudden, the phone rang.

---

“Do you need to get that?” asked Matt from behind as Lucille watched her mobile blink and ring atop his kitchen counter.

    She gave it some thought for a second, tempted to let it play out. “They’ll manage. Probably just some work stuff,” she decided, sending the caller to voicemail and fumbling with the smooth screen to open up the voice recorder app. She sighed at herself and began a search around the kitchen. “Do you keep any—?”

    Matt slid a mug next to her. “Already ahead of you.”

    The aroma filled the air, warmth and bitter caramel granules a welcome delight to the senses that seemed to lighten the fog on her mind with just one whiff. “You are a godsend, thank you,” marvelled Lucille, taking the drink between her bare hands.

    He made a restrained sound of disagreement.

    “Don’t agree?” she questioned.

    “Sort of,” he was loath to reply. “It’s complicated.”

    In the dimness of his open floor apartment, Matt shifted back and forth and fidgeted with a cup and turned his knuckles white. Small movements that would have gone unnoticed by most. But, even inebriated, Lucille was no stranger to the dark and could sense the shift from bending waves that lapped at her fingertips, before the neon light painted the edges of his movements like it was a gentle shove to stave away from the topic. The longer she observed the moment, the more it came clear and oddly familiar. “I get that. You spend years carrying out a higher purpose, your purpose. Then an accident, one little thing, and a new colour changes your perspective. Suddenly, you don’t know what to believe,” divulged Lucille through somber trippings of the tongue and a furrowed brow.

    A puff of air. “Heh, something like that,” said Matt, ever racked by the thoughts she could only guess as one does to abstract paintings or when making sense of God’s plans. Which she wasn’t a fan of either. Clearly, they shared the same bench in His heavenly gallery, and a roiling, sinking feeling crashed into the pit of her stomach as she came to terms with what she had started.

    “Hey…” It wasn’t her intention – blame it on the alcohol or, maybe, she really was her father’s daughter –  regardless, she did it with the reach of the hand. Bare to bare. Scarred to calloused. A current fired through lifeless electrons on a warpath upon contact like a gasp for fresh air and the words escaped her, as she held his hand. It must have burned him too, it burned her, yet, his fist merely unclenched and stayed under her. Though he remained quiet, his heart gave him away, the pulsing of blood loud in her grasp. The floor creaked as he leant to fill the divide, drinks put aside while a wobbliness lingered in their statures, and it was official. They were both still drunk.

    Drunk and craving a feeling.

    She knew then that this was not going to end how she planned it to.

---

Lucille was doing it again. Only this time was different. She rocked her foot back and forth as phantom vibrations got her stealing glances to her phone. It was rude, she knew, especially when someone was sitting across from you trying to help with legal aid, she just couldn’t help it. Her heart had barely recovered from the last time.

    Kirsten shuffled in her seat, continuing, “Miss Littleton, this case isn’t a walk in the park, it’s the exact opposite, in fact. There’s barely a case here to defend.”

    “Said you and a hundred other law firms. I know, I know. But.” Lucille sat up and punctuated her point with an agitated tap to the brown file she had made. “But, I know she didn’t do it,” she said. “I know it.”

    “Still, unless we can prove it, belief doesn’t hold up in court, and they already have a confession,” refuted a restrained Kirsten.

    “She could have been coerced, that happens sometimes.”

    “Can you prove it? Would we be able to?”

    Drops of water sunk against glass, filling in the void of Lucille’s silence as she succumbed to the discomfort of her seat and the grey skies outside loomed over. In life, Lucille only ever spoke on things which she was certain. Otherwise known as the truth. A lie could not leave her lips if she tried, unless she wanted to suffer the seething weight of that most awful sin on her shoulders (the one guilt she kept from her bible lessons). There were some things, however, that she could not admit even if it made her look like a madwoman. She could only hope they would come up with answers of their own.

    Hope.

    What a precarious, little thing to entrust in the hands of slick suit-fitted strangers who simply didn’t care. All they wanted was an easy wing. If she had it her way, she’d be running her own one woman army. But the system had proven to be quite the machine to take on alone, and she had the scars to prove it. A fight with it was never going to be easy. From a glance, Kirsten was just another one of those strangers with a snipers look examining her every move. Except, there were cracks of a conscience like her pulled taut lips and the fidgeting done on her lap. And cracks could be broken.

    “Miss McDuffie, these last couple of days I have seen virtually every lawyer that New York City has to offer, every last one. Half of them won’t see Charlotte. The rest, at least, have the courage to tell it to my face that they refuse. They are all sheep, McDuffie, and they couldn't care less for real justice,” detailed Lucille, unrelenting.

    The edges of her eyes wavered. “And I understand—”

    “But, you don’t. The whole world hasn’t turned its back on you.”

    And it was as if Lucille had slapped her across the face. If she was harsh, that was because of the truth. How caught off-guard Kirsten looked.

    Propping herself up and leaning across, Lucille looked up at Kirsten with her heart in her throat. “She deserves a fair trial, please. Just give her a chance,” she said. Everything hung on this. More than Lucille cared to admit to strangers. It made her sick to her stomach while her lungs waited for the moment when they could breathe again, pain aching in her chest, eyes ready to burst, waiting as Kirsten’s face softened. In that moment, she held Lucille’s hope gentle and firm. Torn. Humming and hawing. Until, a sigh. “I can’t promise anything. But, I need to speak with my partner, and we’ll make a decision from there,” said Kirsten, getting up to leave, and Lucille felt an ounce of relief wash over her. A chance was a chance. No matter how small.

    “No, yes. Of course,” she said.

    “And, Lucille.” Kirsten paused in the doorway. “If we go through with this, things will only get harder. So, I hope, for your sake, this is what you want.”

    Her words echoed in the volume of the silence that came into the room as the door slid close. Save for the pitter-patter of rain that grew by the second; the storm inevitable like the tears that glided down and left streaks in their wake upon Lucille’s tawny face. Of course this is what she wanted. She put her head in her hands. Of course. Leather scrunched within her grasp, clenching and unclenching to the count of her breaths and the ensuing gale winds. From here, it really could get worse.

    Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted him. Matt Murdock and his suit – his well-fitted suit – moving like he ran the place, a man on a mission that wore his rage on the scrunches of his face, which made it clear the amount of turmoil she had caused him to suffer with these last few days. It was to be expected. No one says what she did without rubbing salt in an open wound.

    No one does what she did without a little pain.

    A part of her – naivety –  didn’t want it to be real. That it was all some drunken dream.

    A dream that became all the impossible to deny as he stood before her.

---

The memory of what occurred next was hazy. One moment, he stood on her side. The next, he had her backed up against the edge of the counter. It was the kind that typically remained a fantasy. But, by god, she wanted it to be real. 

    He felt real.

    His calloused hand cradling the side of her face, that was real.

    His warm body up against hers, that was real.

    And his lips—

   “Can I kiss you?” he pleaded, softly.

    A question she didn’t need to answer. He had her by the bated breath, of course he could have more. But she nodded anyway, part habit, part to convince herself. “Yes,” she shuddered as his breath teased her throat and his mouth found hers, capturing the gasp which escaped her and fed his hunger and starved hers; the lingering taste of him intoxicating and no sooner did one kiss become another and another. Each more overwhelming than the last with synapses firing off at both ends, electrons sparking on touch that had her core melting and set her alight from deep within. Hands searched and discovered. Their breaths intermingled, hot and heavy. Her pulse his. Erratic and uncontrollable. One of the same. A burning supernova at the dawn of creation, that’s what it felt like, and she had never been so. So alive . 

    Then, the shattering of ceramic. A mug knocked aside from the scuffle was all it took to have reality come crashing back into her head and have her pull away for air, while a sober sliver rose to the surface. Worse things could break should whatever this was continue. Her article. Her life’s work. Furthermore, her heart. It ached. This needed to stop. But.

    “You alright?” asked Matt, dishevelled and painted red.

    “Yes. Yeah.” No. “Just. Sorry. I should probably clean that up…”

    He held a finger under her chin, playing the little red devil on her shoulder with one word. “Tomorrow,” he panted.

    Tomorrow was a tempting mistake waiting to happen. No matter how much her insides twisted themselves in knots at the prospect. He seemed so nice that it felt like a punishment to deny herself this one thing, and it’s not that she didn’t want to wake up. However, it was about doing the right thing even if it meant pulling a harsh break, a little whiplash and dragging them both away from this nice oasis. Nothing good can last forever.

    Lucille bit her lip. Blood wet her tongue and teeth. Matt, forgive me.

    When he leaned in and her body responded back in kind, she spat out the first thing that came to mind, and never did she have such guilt for the dagger that was her words when hearts stopped and the journalist’s question went asked, “do you blame Daredevil for your friend, Foggy’s, death?”

[quillsandcravats]

Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch | Timothy Laughlin x Hawkins Fuller (18+)

Summary: Tim surprises Hawk for Valentine’s Day and it is as sweet and all-American as apple pie. Pairing(s): Tim Laughlin x Hawkins Fuller Rating: 18+/explicit Word Count: 2.8k Warnings: smut, MINORS DNI, explicit sexual content, food mention, gay sex, rimjob, anal penetration, barebacking, blowjob, crossdressing/crossdressing kink, period-accurate homophobia, period-accurate sexism, domestic HawkTim, very brief daddy kink mention, mutual orgasm. Crosspost: AO3, do not repost my fics anywhere! A/N: A very special thanks to @cloudedhologram for encouraging my obsession with HawkTim. Happy V-Day from your queer online big sis!! This is also my first time writing mlm in about 10+ years and my first time writing HawkTim - I hope you enjoy! Please DM me to be added to my Fellow Travelers taglist.

Tim ended the call quickly, his gaze fixed on the hastily written recipe in his hands. He knew it would take hours to prepare the pie—especially without the years of experience his mother had—but he could still remember its taste with startling clarity. The scent of cinnamon and sugar drifting from the kitchen had been enough to wake him from Sunday afternoon naps, still groggy from rising early to serve at Mass.

For the past two weeks, he had agonized over what to get Hawk for Valentine’s Day. The question had left him scratching his head. He hadn’t even broached the topic with Hawk, unsure how to bring up the idea of being each other's Valentine with someone as enigmatic as Hawkins Fuller. The thought of asking outright felt daunting. Yet Tim could picture Hawk’s eyes lighting up with curiosity at the sight of an unexpected gift. He could almost see the slight, amused smirk that would flicker across Hawk’s lips—a quiet promise that, whatever the surprise was, he would find a way to appreciate it.

The idea had struck him earlier that week while flipping through the Sears, Roebuck, and Co. catalog. Normally, he would have skipped past the women's section and gone straight to men's clothing, but on that particular day, something made him pause.

His fingers had traced over the glossy page, a grin tugging at his lips as the idea took root.

Now, standing in the kitchen, Tim placed the final dish at the center of the table, smiling as he pulled off his oven mitts. The apartment smelled warm and inviting, filled with the rich scents of his cooking. He had prepared what he could only describe as the quintessential domestic meal—scalloped potatoes, carrots, and a meatloaf topped with a tangy tomato glaze. His heart buzzed with excitement as he glanced at the door, waiting for Hawk to step inside and see what he had put together.

Tim's heart skipped a beat as the door opened, and he turned to see Hawk walking in. He took a deep breath—he always felt like he had to around Hawk. Just one glance at him, especially in a suit and tie, was enough to leave Tim reeling.

But tonight, something was different.

To Tim’s surprise, Hawk stepped inside as he always did, but this time, he was holding a dozen red roses.

“Skippy?”

“I… I’m in here.”

Hawk’s eyes widened in surprise, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. A slow smile began to form as he took in what Tim had prepared for him.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but this—this moment—was everything he had ever wanted. Coming home after a long day at the State Department to find his lover waiting, a warm meal on the table, and a glass of scotch ready for him. It was the life he dreamed of, the kind of quiet, steady domesticity he craved.

And yet, he hated that it was something he would eventually have to settle for—with Lucy Smith.

“What’s all this?” Hawk asked, moving around the table to get closer to Tim. He set the flowers down on the wooden tabletop, freeing his hands.

He could have groaned just looking at him. That red-checkered apron, tied snug around his hips, was almost too much. And his lips—pink, pouty, and impossibly inviting—looked like they belonged on the menu, too.

“This,” Tim said with a smile, stepping back to pull out the chair at the head of the table, “is your Valentine’s Day present. Well, part of it. I also made dessert—Mrs. Laughlin’s famous apple pie. Big hit at the parish picnics.”

Hawk smiled, shaking his head. “You’re too good to me, Skip.” As he sat down, Tim grabbed the bouquet, eyes bright with excitement. He moved quickly, rummaging through a cabinet until he found a vase, filling it with water before arranging the roses just so. Once satisfied, he placed them in the center of the table with a proud little nod, as if completing a masterpiece.

Hawk watched, utterly undone.

He hadn’t expected Tim to serve him, but there he was, carefully plating the food with a tenderness that made Hawk’s chest ache. As he moved, Hawk drank him in—the soft concentration on his face - the effortless sweetness that never failed to leave him breathless. God, he wanted to tell him everything. He wanted to spill his heart out, drown him in sweet nothings and kisses, whisper all his daydreams about the future.

But instead, he stayed silent, watching as Tim finally took the seat closest to him.

They ate mostly in comfortable silence, the soft hum of the radio filling the space between them. Occasionally, they chatted about work—small, easy things—but mostly, they just existed together, wrapped in the quiet warmth of the moment.

At some point, Hawk found Tim’s hand across the table. He ran his thumb over his knuckles, grounding himself in the touch. For once, he allowed himself to relax into this—allowed himself a reprieve. Just for tonight, on this cold February evening, he could pretend. Pretend that this was their life. That he could come home to Tim every night. That maybe, in some alternate timeline, on the other side of the Looking Glass, they were Mr. and Mr. Fuller.

“Dessert?” Tim asked with a grin, already rising to his feet. Hawk let out a quiet chuckle, finally taking a good, full look at him. The apron—oh, the apron.

Red, adorned with tiny hearts, cinched at the waist with a checkered string. The full, flouncy circle skirt swished as Tim moved, the ruffled hem bouncing with every step. A sweetheart neckline, adjustable halter straps, delicate waist ties—it was ridiculous. And perfect. And designed with one goal in mind.

Tim knew exactly what he was doing.

And Hawk was absolutely, hopelessly mad for him.

Hawk got up and followed Tim into the kitchen, breathing in deeply as the warm, sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon filled the air. The pie sat atop the oven, golden and inviting.

Tim supposed it had turned out fine—not perfect, but fine. He had painstakingly woven the lattice crust, each strip of dough carefully laid to form a delicate basket-weave pattern. It wasn’t flawless, but it was made with love.

As he stepped forward to cut a slice, Hawk moved in behind him, wrapping his arms snugly around Tim’s waist.

Tim giggled as Hawk nuzzled into his neck, pressing a few tantalizing kisses just behind his ear. Butterflies erupted in his stomach, fluttering wildly as Hawk’s teeth grazed his earlobe, teasing, promising what would come later.

“I know what I want for dessert, actually,” the older man murmured, his voice low and rich as he let his tongue flick ever so slightly against Tim’s skin.

“I worked very hard on this pie,” Tim huffed, turning to face his partner.

Hawk only grinned, pressing their noses together before stealing a soft, lingering kiss.

Tim pouted, glancing down at his creation with a hint of stubborn pride. As he moved his hand to the side, his fingers landed—unexpectedly—right in the warm, sticky filling.

Three fingers, sunk deep into the pie. He froze. Hawk blinked, then burst into laughter.

“Stooop,” Tim whined, half-gasping as Hawk smirked and, without hesitation, scooped up a bit of pie with his fingers and shoved it into Tim’s mouth.

Tim spluttered, eyes widening in playful outrage as he chewed. Hawk chuckled. “As much as I appreciate the effort, I’m not sure you’re the next Margaret Anderson. This pie, though? Delicious.” Tim sighed, deciding that resistance was futile at this point. Slowly, he pulled his fingers from the pie, bringing them to his lips. Deliberately, he licked them clean—one by one—before letting them slip from his mouth with a loud, unmistakable pop.

“Nhh,” he moaned, letting his tongue flick out one last time. “Very sweet… but sticky. Messy.”

Hawk pulled him into a kiss, deep and hungry, his hips pressing firmly against Tim’s side. There was no mistaking how he felt—his desire was undeniable, solid, and unrelenting against Tim’s body. Tim shivered, his breath hitching as heat pooled in his stomach. His arms slid up, looping around Hawk’s neck, fingers threading into his hair.

Hawk smirked against his lips, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur.

“You wanna be my good little housewife, don’t you, Skippy?”

All Tim could do was nod, letting himself hurriedly undo Hawk’s tie. Hawk kept kissing him, moaning excitedly into his mouth as he rutted his trouser-covered desire against Tim’s hip.

Tim moved to take off his apron, but Hawk stopped him. “Keep this on.”

Tim nodded with a wicked grin, his fingers teasingly slipping beneath the apron to undo his belt. He let his khaki pants pool at his feet. With a swift, effortless motion, Hawk lifted him and placed him gently on the counter. It was then that Hawk revealed the second part of his tantalizing surprise. Tim's lips curled into a knowing smile as Hawk paused to regain his composure. He was adorned in delicate, baby-pink women’s panties, the soft ruffles caressing his thighs.

“You fuckin’ little minx,” Hawk groaned, his voice a mix of admiration and desire as he gently caressed Tim's arousal through the soft, cotton fabric of his underwear. His finger traced the outline of Tim's cockhead, which was glistening with anticipation, creating a small, enticing damp spot on the front of the briefs. "You look breathtaking," he murmured, savouring the sight before him.

Hawk gracefully descended to his knees, surrendering completely as he knelt on the cool linoleum floor. His eyes met Tim's, who stood above him with an expression of surprise, his lips slightly parted and still glistening from the sweetness of pie-flavoured kisses. Hawk leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss on the inside of Tim’s knee, his rough, calloused hands roaming gently over the younger man's pale, smooth thighs.

“My beautiful Tim,” Hawk murmured breathlessly, his voice a soft caress as he trailed a series of plush kisses along Tim’s inner thighs, each lingering and tender. “What do you want me to do to you?” His words hung in the air, filled with anticipation and a gentle yearning.

"You know…what I want, Hawk."

Hawk's voice dropped to a sultry murmur, "Tell Daddy what you want."

Tim's heart hammered in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum. The room seemed to blur around him, the dim light casting shadows that danced across the walls. He felt a heat rising, consuming every coherent thought he tried to cling to.

He was lost, his body responding with a desperate urgency as he moved against Hawk, the friction igniting a fire within him. Hawk's low chuckle reverberated through the air, a sound that tethered Tim to the moment even as his mind threatened to get carried away by an intense wave of feeling.

His lips parted, struggling to shape the words that felt too big for the space between them. His mind was a haze, clouded with an intense longing that made him almost forget how to speak. Finally, the words tumbled out, breathless and raw, "I want…you to fuck me."

Hawk chuckled softly against Tim's skin, his breath warm and teasing. "Let me take care of you first, baby. Get you ready for me. Turn around," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble.

Tim obeyed, as he always did, his body responding instinctively to Hawkins's touch. With deliberate slowness, Hawk eased the delicate pink panties down, the fabric gathering around Tim's thighs in gentle folds. His hands traced over the smooth, inviting curves of Tim’s backside, fingers gliding with a featherlight touch that sent shivers up Tim's spine. Leaning forward, Hawk pressed a wet, playful kiss to Tim's cheek, the sound exaggeratedly loud and affectionate. "I love this ass," he declared, his voice filled with playful admiration.

Hawk gently parted Tim's cheeks, stifling a laugh when he felt Tim's knees tremble slightly. "Take it easy," Hawk chuckled, before leaning in to lightly trace his tongue over Tim's entrance.

Tim silently thanked his foresight in preparing for this moment, knowing how much Hawk had recently become fixated on eating him out. Tim tried to control his reactions, his mouth opening slightly as soft gasps escaped while Hawk's tongue teased his sensitive spot. "Are you holding back, sweetie? Don't."

With that encouragement, Tim allowed himself to release soft gasps and curses. Hawk relished every sound, enjoying the way Tim surrendered completely, lost in desire. Hawk leaned back, spat into his hand, and moistened his middle finger before carefully easing it into Tim’s opening.

“How does that feel?”

Tim could only respond with a moan as Hawk discovered his sensitive spot. Hawk continued to fuck him gently with his finger.

"Need you. Please."

"What was that?" Hawk asked, raising an intrigued eyebrow as he stepped back from Tim and rose to his feet. A mischievous smile played on his lips as he leaned down to plant a hasty, lingering kiss on Tim's mouth, before guiding him to his knees with a gentle but firm push. His fingers deftly worked at his belt buckle, the metallic clink echoing softly in the air.

"Want your cock," Tim clarified, his voice a whisper of desire as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss against the fabric of Hawk's boxers, feeling the warmth and stiffness beneath. "…in my mouth."

Tim gently grasped Hawk's cock, using the precum to enhance the smoothness of his touch. After a brief moment of stroking, he enveloped the tip with his lips, gazing up at Hawk as he did so. Hawk let out a groan, captivated by Tim's chestnut doe eyes and long lashes, partially hidden by his black-rimmed glasses.

"You're so beautiful, my Skippy," Hawk murmured, pushing his hips forward. Tim sensed Hawk's need for more and relaxed his throat to accommodate more of Hawk's length. Hawk thought maybe it would be okay to die right here and now, fully overcome by the feeling of Tim’s warm mouth around him, sending him into oblivion.

Tim persisted in pleasuring him, moving his head rhythmically while flattening his tongue to magnify Hawk's enjoyment. He was creating quite a mess, letting spit dripple down his chin and all over this cock in front him. Tim felt himself completely surrendering to the moment. He felt utterly submissive and needed in this way, gagging and sputtering all over Hawk.

"Get up," Hawk commanded, tugging Tim back by his hair. Tim responded with a shining grin, his lips and mouth slick with a blend of saliva and precum. He quickly complied, standing so Hawk could bend him over the counter. A moan escaped Tim as Hawk entered him, filling him completely. Tim knew he needed to maintain control to savor the pleasure. He let Hawk thrust into him, hands firmly grasping his soft hips. Hawk leaned in, planting a kiss behind Tim’s ear.

By now, Hawk was nearly lifting Tim off the ground, his toes barely brushing the floor as the older man continued his relentless pace. The only sounds in the room were their passionate, syncopated movements and the gentle hum of the radio.

Hawk reached around, wrapping his hand around Tim’s cock. “You gonna come with me, huh?”

Tim could only nod and mutter incoherently as Hawk moved in rhythm with him, creating a sensation so intensely pleasurable it bordered on pain. The feeling intensified in his stomach. Hawk felt that familiar feeling building, too, before white flashes appeared before his eyes. He threw his head forward and onto Tim’s shoulder.

"Hawk, Hawk, H-Hawk," Tim moaned, losing himself as he climaxed, his body trembling and his toes curling. He sensed Hawk's release within him, accompanied by a deep, masculine groan and the final pulses of his orgasm.

The two stood in the dimly lit room, their chests heaving as they tried to catch their breath. “Wow,” Tim whispered, his voice barely audible as he flicked his head to the side, attempting to dislodge a few strands of brown hair that obscured his view. He turned around, allowing himself to collapse into Hawk’s waiting embrace, feeling the warmth and strength radiating from Hawk’s body.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Skippy,” Hawk said with a gentle smile, leaning in to plant a soft and loving kiss on the tip of Tim’s nose, his eyes twinkling with affection.

Tim tightened his hold around Hawk’s waist, resting his chin comfortably on his chest. He gazed up at him with adoration shining in his innocent eyes.

"We should clean up," he suggested, a mischievous grin spreading across his lips. "Race ya!"

With a burst of energy, Tim sprinted toward the bathroom, his feet barely touching the ground.

Hawk, not one to back down from a challenge, darted after him with a hearty laugh.

"Skippy! Get back here!" he called out, his voice echoing with playful mirth as he heard the shower roar to life.