#nothing undoes the work of body positivity more than goddamn changing rooms.

[kafka-ish]

richie tozier gets off a good one | r.t.

“This was not to say Richie could not be very funny from time to time; he could be. When referring to verbal zingers and farts, Richie’s terminology was the same: he called it Getting Off A Good One, and he got off Good Ones of both types frequently...” -- Stephen King

word count: 3.3k

warnings/included: nsfw (explicit smut, oral -- male receiving, male x female, mentions of masturbating), fem!reader

a/n: pls enjoy ! 

-

It was a cold shower kind of afternoon as the thunder from outside Richie’s bedroom window roared loud enough to be mistaken for a dragon. Dragons don’t exist. Richie, however, ignored the booming sounds of nature from outside—his thoughts lost in a certain someone; and his ears muffled by the pillows encasing him.  

y/n was coming over for a study session at two p.m. sharp, per Wentworth’s request, but Richie still had time as his left hand traveled to the zipper of his orange, corduroy trousers. It’s not like Richie knew y/n. This afternoon, this shameful afternoon where if his dad were home right now, he’d be caught with his hand in his pants and a name he’d rather not talk about in between his lips, would be his first time meeting the girl.

Wentworth Tozier was the one to suggest she come over on this grey Sunday afternoon during Thursday’s family dinner when he noticed Richie’s recent report card.

“A C in chemistry?”

“The C stands for Chemistry,” Richie said with a smirk on his face. It didn’t seem to work because Mr. Tozier’s frown didn’t budge, and Maggie Tozier only sipped her coffee which had to be cold by now.

“You know we expect better from you.” He was right. His parents weren’t used to anything other than a line of A’s on the weekly transcript he brought home. Richie wasn’t either. But lately, something had taken a toll on his grades—or someone.

“You know what might help him, dear?” Wentworth looked up from the chicken he was currently cutting through. “A tutor.”

“I do not need a tutor.” Richie dropped his fork which was being used to play with his green beans.

“Your grades say otherwise, kid,” Wentworth countered. “You know, Maggie, I think that’s a good idea.”

“Not you too, Dad!” Richie cried out, exasperated at the scene playing out in front of him.

Ignoring his son, Wentworth continued, “In fact, I think my buddy back from Catholic school has a kid who could tutor him.” He took a bite. “Last I heard, she was fairly good at the sciences.”

“You should think about calling them after dinner,” Maggie said without looking up. Which was how Richie ended up with only an hour left to get himself off rather than the rest of the day.

Although his hand was no match for any of his previous hookups, it was faster, and it got the job done. He was just about to finish when the doorbell rang and a knock on his door startled him from his position and kept him from finishing.

“Coming!” Richie yelled; certain that the outsider wasn’t going to hear him. He stood up from his position on his bed, pulled up the trousers that hung from his ankles and trekked his way downstairs. His feet made a thumping sound as they padded their way down the stairs—roughly at that. He was surprised the house didn’t shake at his footsteps. “We don’t want your Girl Scout cookies,” Richie said, half annoyed that his session was cut early.

“I’m not a Girl Scout.” y/n held open the door with her hand before Richie could close it. She wore a white button down that was haphazardly tucked into a blue-green, plaid skirt. Her already see-through blouse was even more see-through, as the rain from standing outside for so long had drenched it from the outside in.

“Oh.” Richie didn’t say anything for a moment. “I didn’t order a pizza, either.”

“I didn’t bring you a pizza, either.” y/n was growing just about as annoyed as he was. “Can I just come in?”

“I don’t know about that one, toots.” Richie made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Pops said I’m not allowed to let strangers in.”

“Richie, please, just let me in,” y/n seethed. She didn’t have time for his bullshit and quite frankly, he didn’t either. If Richie let his grades take another blow to the one-inch margin, his C would threaten to turn into a D. “Your dad called mine on Thursday… I’m here to… tutor… you.”

Richie noticed how her voice had lowered and he could tell she was just as ecstatic as him for their study session. Wordlessly, he stepped away from the front door, allowing y/n some space to walk in. His eyes inadvertently glued themselves to her backside, watching as her skirt’s pleats swayed against her hips and the rain’s water trail against her long legs; a sight he’d swallow at and feel himself grow semi-hard to.

If all the girls at Catholic school looked like y/n, he might just have to transfer because just one glance at her made Richie forget all about the reason for his tragic C that stood for Chemistry.

“Where are we studying?” y/n asked. Her eyes darted around the place like it was foreign. It was foreign. Her hands clutched the book bag she held onto tighter, anxious by the new atmosphere.

“Is my room okay?” Richie asked, already starting up the stairs. His tone had gone soft, like when you microwave butter. He almost felt bad for protesting against the idea of being tutored just a few short days ago.

“Yeah.” y/n followed him, making sure to leave an appropriate amount of space between the two bodies.

“Do you need a change of clothes?” Richie said, not trying to cover up the obviousness in his voice; that he was obviously looking at her covered chest each second she spent turned away from him; that he had an obvious hard-on that he hadn’t bother to conceal under his ridiculous corduroy pants.

“No,” y/n said with a bit of uncertainty. Sure, she was soaking wet from her hair to her toes, but she wasn’t about to borrow one of Richie Tozier’s ridiculous band-tees that would wear like a dress.

“What’s with the get-up, anyway?” Richie smirked. Before he sat down, he pulled out an extra seat for her. Usually, it would be used to discard his dirty clothes on. Luckily, Maggie Tozier had taken the liberty of cleaning up before their guest got here.

“Laundry day,” y/n sighed while sitting down her bag next to her. She brushed out her skirt as she sat down so it’d cover as much of her bare legs as fabric would sparingly allow. Her skirt was drenched, and she was sure it would leave the chair just the same as if she stood up any time soon.

“Don’t have to wear that thing tomorrow?” Richie couldn’t help but think about all the other girls who’d be wearing the same outfit on Monday. Of course, their blouses wouldn’t be overly exposing, but their legs would still be bare and long—longing for Richie’s stare if you catch a drift.

“Aren’t you failing something?” y/n snapped back.

Richie swallowed the rest of the words lingering in the back of his throat.

“I was thinking we start with the basics.” y/n bent down, searching for the green folder she had marked ‘Science’ in thick, permanent ink. Richie couldn’t help but steal another look at her figure—outlined by the white shirt that clung to it.

“Basics?” His voice cracked, but he was too caught up in her to care.

“Well, what do you need help with?”

“Nothing.” Richie scoffed, not letting some girl he barely knew deflate his ego.

“Then why am I here?” She countered. Her eyebrow raised, unimpressed, and her fingers started to drum anxiously against the wood of his desk.

“Right now, we’re going over stoichiometry,” Richie shrugged, not bothering to meet her eyes—her bright, keen eyes he’d find himself lost in if he weren’t careful. “It’s not the math part I need help on it’s the—”

“Concentration.”

“Yeah.” Richie let out a heavy sigh. He already knew what y/n looked like—beautiful, while water droplets kissed her neck that he itched to touch. It wouldn’t hurt to steal yet another glance, he thought, while turning towards her. “It’s like I can’t focus,” he said, finally making eye contact.

“And you need help with that?” She questioned. The familiar feeling of anticipation welled in the back of her throat but there was no telling why.

“I guess.” Richie’s eyes left hers to stare at the wall. The view was less impressive, but it let him form a cohesive thought.

“I think I know a way.” y/n’s demeanor had completely changed by now. Richie was about to mutter out a how or what the hell are you talking about but the words in his mind scrambled together like the eggs his mother made that morning when he felt her hand travel down to his knee.

y/n’s touch was light and delicate—almost nothing as it grazed against the fabric of his jeans. But it was there. He felt it, and if he didn’t, his imagination must’ve been pretty goddamn realistic for running at a hundred hertz a minute. Her thumb ran circles against the corded pattern making his breath hitch.

“Uh, what’cha doin’?” Richie’s eyebrow rose at the hand on his pants which was making its way to the zipper.

“Helping,” she insisted, “if you’re having trouble focusing, you’re probably stressed, right?” Richie could only nod. “So, this will help you unstress.” He gasped at the sound and sight of y/n undoing his zipper. His eyes widened and she found herself smiling at his movements from such little touch already.

Richie was quick to roll his jeans, and the underwear underneath, to his ankles. His eager length stood hard and erect against his stomach and if it weren’t for his lack of social awareness, he’d be embarrassed to be seen bare in front of a girl he just met.

y/n’s right hand—timid but daring—wrapped itself around the base of his cock, eliciting a groan from Richie’s now parted and perfectly pink lips.

Surprise wouldn’t even begin to describe the swirl of emotions that found themselves in the pit of Richie’s stomach and began to bubble in his throat—another groan. Though, as surprised as Richie was, he couldn’t help but feel a warm sense of pleasure and yearning for more as he harshly swallowed at the feeling of friction and tightness y/n managed to spring upon him in one firm jerk.

She was on her knees now, the feeling of hardwood against bare skin didn’t seem to faze her. All her attention was on Richie. The sound of unsteady breaths from above had y/n’s cheeks flushed and panties in a heat. The only cohesive thought in her mind was wanting to hear those pretty little noises coming from Richie’s pretty little mouth again.

y/n didn’t need a mirror to know her pupils were blown, the sight before her that she couldn’t quite look away from and the uncomfortable feeling between her legs was enough, letting her realize what she was doing. What was she doing? Her grip on his length loosened as she moved her hand up and down, allowing for enough space for her mouth when she connected her lips to his dick.

“God. You feel great, toots.” It only took a few motions for Richie to already come lax at the feeling of y/n’s mouth. He wished it were another part.

y/n chuckled to herself. Having this much power over a boy made her feel… confident. No guy at her school would give her the time of day, it seemed—not even Jeremy Fields. But Richie Tozier… Richie Tozier was practically falling apart at the sight of her and y/n loved that. Richie felt her pace around him speed up and y/n felt herself grinding on her palm to meet his same high. The sight of her alone was enough to have Richie on edge.

“Sugar, if you don’t stop I’m gonna—” His heavy pants were enough to cut him off, but y/n took her chance to interrupt further.

“—You’ll what?” She pulled apart from him, a string of saliva connecting them. Richie almost whimpered at the warm feeling of her mouth provided—gone.

“I’m gonna bust before I can take care of you,” he admitted somewhat bashfully. His face was red, and y/n couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or the fact that he had been worked up.

“Oh.” Back at her shy state, y/n ducked her head and felt her cheeks heat in a similar fashion to his. “Well, in that case…” y/n didn’t have to finish her sentence for Richie to get a grasp on what she was saying. She began to undo the buttons of the thin, white button up at an unbearably slow pace. She managed to peel the wet material that stuck to her skin gracefully even though she’d been itching to take it off as soon as she put it on.

“Wow.”

“Shut up,” y/n mumbled mindlessly, not daring to make eye contact. Part of her was embarrassed enough at the fact that she was on her knees for the boy she was supposed to teaching qualitative chemical reactions to. Her skirt was next to come off. The plaid fabric fell helplessly fell to the ground as soon as she unzipped it.

“I’m serious. You’re like… hot stuff, hot stuff,” Richie said as soon as she stood up, giving him a perfect view. Her underwear was a scalding red with embroidered flowers that decorated the side of her breasts and hipbone. The matching set was far from innocent, far from what Richie would imagine Catholic school girls to wear.

y/n didn’t say anything—her stomach too full of butterflies and a lump still caught in her throat. Richie could sense her nervousness and pulled her into him. To think, a girl he had met only thirty minutes ago was now engulfed in his arms and half-bare for him.

The rough pad of his thumb drew circles on her shoulder. The slow, sensual movements against her skin was electric and had the two riled up even more as Richie slotted his thigh in between hers for her to buck up against. The feeling of her clothed clit on lace as she dragged herself back and forth on his leg at an uneven pace was indescribable.

“Fuck.” It wasn’t unexpected that Richie broke the silence and occasional gasps. “You’re soaked… so… fuckin’ soaked.” He could feel the wetness from her panties that dripped onto his bare leg and he groaned at the thought that it was because of him.

y/n giggled but the sound of her breathy laughs in his ears didn’t last long as she pressed into him further and latched her lips onto his. It was like no other kiss he’s had before. As for y/n, she’d be ashamed to say it was her first kiss. That is, her first kiss where she felt something.

y/n swallowed the moan from Richie as their lips still locked and their tongues swept over each other.

“You’re like—”

“You are, too,” y/n breathed quickly, not bothering to hear the rest of the words. Her attention was now focused on him—or the lack of him inside her. She grabbed his throbbing length once again, taking barely any time to admire it. “Do you have any?”

“Yeah.” Richie swallowed. He opened the top left drawer of his desk, revealing a box of Trojans which he quickly took a foil packet from.

It was weird. Although y/n knew this was just a one time thing she couldn’t help but feel jealous as the small hairs on her neck stood to attention.

Effortlessly, Richie tore open the foil and slid on the condom. “Ready?”

y/n nodded and bit down on her cheek as she sunk down on him. Patiently, Richie waited for her to adjust to his size and a sign for him to move.

A quick kiss to his lips was it. It was different from the first. Swift, sweet, teasing. Richie wanted more. He wanted more as he thrust up into her and he wanted more as he felt y/n’s fingertips dig into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt.  

“Unfair that you have more clothes on,” y/n managed to speak through a whine. To which Richie opened his eyes and through hazy lids and lust-blown pupils he saw her panties that were pulled to the side as his dick met her entrance and the bra strap that was making its way down her arm.

Richie stifled a chuckle. “You want this off?” He gestured to the graphic tee that was basically draped over his slim figure.

“God, yes. Take a hint much?” She tugged weakly on the sleeve of his shirt and he pulled away for a second so he could remove it, revealing his smooth chest and delicious collarbone.

Another whine left y/n’s lips as he pulled her in closer again. His speed picked up as he bottoms out, reaching a spot no guy has ever found before. Her left hand his in his hair, gripping at his long locks that only a Rockstar would dare wear and her right hand is clutching his cheek—his freckle-sprayed cheek that relaxes under her soft hands and delicate fingers.

Richie’s hands, however, are in a much more intimate place he realizes as he moans yet again, this time at the feeling of his roots being pulled on. One is on her ass, keeping her from falling off, though it might be impossible seeing as how close the two are. The other is playing with her folds, using the same circular motions from earlier to coax her closer.

“You feel so good,” Richie says as his eyes roll back to his head. “Fuck.”

y/n hums. Her lips can’t help but curl into a smile once the words reach her ears. “I’m close,” she whispers and Richie nods in agreement.

It’s dirty and the total opposite of what Richie would expect from the girl who walked in his door a short hour ago, but they reach their highs together, while the filthiest noise Richie’s ever heard leaves y/n’s swollen lips. He watches her as she cums. Her hair is moussed and sweat shines across her furrowed brows. But Richie Tozier swears he hasn’t seen a prettier sight.

“Fuck, doll,” Richie says in amazement.

y/n’s still smiling as she opens her eyes, but she can’t help but be embarrassed at the same time.

“What?” The question is small, but there’s a certain weight on her shoulders that Richie notices.

“You’re hot.” He’s wearing a shit-eating grin and y/n wants to smack him right then and there. But she doesn’t. She only smiles back, quickly removes herself from him, and redresses herself with the same pace. Her shirt is only slightly less damp and slightly less uncomfortable, but it’ll do. y/n supposes she could just change into her pajamas once she got home. “What, don’t tell me our session’s over already,” Richie tries to joke.

“Sorry,” y/n sighs. Her backpack is already slung over her shoulder, she didn’t even need to ask Richie for help with her stuff.

“Hey, is this because…” Richie’s large palm finds a home on y/n’s shoulder which she tenses up at.

“No!” y/n’s barely able to choke it out. “But the session was, like, supposed to be an hour, you know? And I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” She’s back to her nervous self again.

“God.” Richie realizes what this is about now. “You’re not overstaying anything, toots. You can stay for dinner if you’d like,” he offers. “Hell, stay forever.”

y/n resists the urge to roll her eyes and opts for the dead skin on her lip instead. “I really have to go. Sorry, Rich.”

The last he sees is her half-smile from her all perfect lips before she slips out the door and into the rain again.

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

Unwind

Summary: Your husband, one of LA’s best and most dedicated detectives, has been working around the clock to apprehend a suspected serial killer. Sometimes, the intensity of his job means you need to intervene to make sure he’s properly taken care of.

A/N: I am 85% sure Baxter is his last name bc public servants tend to roll with the whole “call me by my last name” thing, but I can’t find anything anywhere that says yay or nay 😩 So, I sort of worked around it. Gosh, I hope you all like this 🤞🏽 and I don’t let you down! 

Tagging a few of you: @ramimedley​ @alottanothing​ @sherlollydramoine​ @free-rami​ @ramibaby​ @hazeleyedbeth​ @itsme690​ @txmel​ @imnottiredofgettingoveryou​ @itslula1991​ @mrsbubbaramimalek​

Warning: SMUT, duh (seriously, no under 18s)

A warm fire was burning in the gas fireplace of your comfortable home, working to combat the chill of winter that had begun to creep over LA. A light rain was falling, making the dismal night feel even colder.

Your day had been long, coming home well after 7, so you hadn’t bothered with fixing a real dinner. Your husband would be working late, arriving home only for a few hours of sleep, a shower, and a shave, so you figured it was the perfect night to curl up on the couch with a good book to try to distract yourself from just how much you missed him.

You had changed into an oversized, well-loved sweater and forewent any form of pants other than your polka dot panties.

With your nose buried in a book and music playing quietly from the app on your TV, you were startled when the door opened and you heard the hall closet open and shut as your husband hung up his overcoat. You placed your bookmark and watched the doorway as you listened for the tell-tale sound of his dress shoes on the hardwood floor.

“Hey love,” he said as he came in the living room, weariness weighing down his shoulders as he put his hands in his pockets and surveyed you and the room. 

“Cold?”

Your eyes trailed up your husband’s body, taking in his rumpled blue dress pants and half-loosened tie. He look tired, so you made sure to give him a bright, welcoming grin.

“Just wanted to be extra cozy tonight.”

“I see you’ve been eating your ‘too tired for real food dinner.’ Long day?”

“Yeah. And I assume I can say the same for you?”

With a weary sigh, your hardworking detective took his right hand out of his pocket to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose, something you knew he did when he was stressed.

“I’m exhausted,” he admitted, which was a little out of the norm, but given the severity of his current case, you were happy he was being open with you.

“Take off your jacket and come here,” you said, patting the soft cushion of the sofa next to you.

“I just came home for a change of clothes and a shower—”

“Don’t do that, love. You’ve been working 24/7 and you’re never going to catch him if your mind doesn’t get some rest.”

He looked at you, his expression turning sad and the intensity of that sadness illuminated by the fire’s soft reflection in his big blue eyes.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been home. I miss you,” he said, his voice a low rasp.

“I knew what I was signing up for when you took the promotion. I’m proud of the work you do every damn day, but it’s my job to take care of you,” you said, wiggling your ring finger with your wedding band. “Now, come here,” you said, patting the cushion once again.

Your husband cracked a smile and softly rolled his eyes.

“I need to sick you on these criminals. You’d have them convinced to admit they’re wrong, even when they’re not.”

You smiled and stretched your legs, not missing the way your husband’s gaze followed, his eyes tracing over your bare skin.

He slid his jacket off his shoulders and draped it over the back of the chair nearest him. Your eyes scanned over his gun, secured in its holster, and his badge, and your lips pulled into a frown thinking about the pressure he was under to apprehend the murderer that had been plaguing your city.

Your husband sat down, his posture still indicative of tension, his body leaning forward as his forearms rested on his thighs and his hands twined together, his fingers fiddling with the delicate wedding band on his own ring finger, another habit of his when he was stressed.

You sat up on your knees and slid in somewhat behind him so you could massage his shoulders, your thumbs working the hard knots in his back.

He hung his head, his black hair glistening in the firelight, tiny drops of rain still clinging to the perfectly coiffed style.

After a few minutes of working over his muscles, your husband muttered, “I just can’t catch the bastard.”

You didn’t miss the tension in his voice, dripping with an intensity to nail the perp.

“Would it help if you did catch someone . . . Detective Baxter?” you whispered, your fingers stilling as you leaned forward and slowly ran your hands down the hard muscles of his biceps.

All your work during the massage was undone as your husband’s shoulders stiffened and his back straightened. His hands stilled and he moved them to his knees.

He didn’t turn to look at you as he softly said, “Yes. Yes, it would.”

You slid off the couch and moved to stand in front of him, your hands outstretched as you brought your wrists together.

You bit your lip as his eyes landed on your proffered wrists and then slipped the rest of the way up your body to meet your gaze. The intensity in them damn near made your panties drop of their own accord. This was the man you fell in love with; the sometimes hard, always intense but always loving officer of the law who would selflessly give his life to save another’s.  

“Do I need to use these?” he asked, sliding his handcuffs off his belt and dangling them from his finger. “Or are you going to be a good little criminal?”

“I have been bad,” you said with a smirk. “But I can be whatever you want me to be, Detective Cutie Pants.”

Your husband laughed, his eyes crinkling and his lips forming the most spectacular grin as he shook his head at your sometimes nickname for him. It warmed you to hear his laugh, and you wondered just how long it had been since he really smiled; it filled you with joy to know that you could do that for him—remind him of the lighter side of life, of all the things he was sacrificing so much to protect.

His gaze turned serious again as he stood and pulled you by the wrists to him. He held your wrists in place with his strong hand, fully aware that the fronts of your hands were now in contact with the front of his pants, but in this position, you were helpless to turn your wrists and palm his cock. He could feel your hands twitch to do it and he chuckled again at the expression of frustration on your face before he bent to capture your lips in a searing kiss.

His tongue quickly flicked along your lips, tasting you until you sighed and opened your mouth for him, allowing him to control the kiss, giving him the control he desperately sought to have over something.

Your husband broke the kiss, but didn’t release your wrists until he stepped back, ensuring you couldn’t yet touch him.

“You know what to do,” he said in an even, hard tone.

You turned and headed toward the bedroom, stopping to toss off your sweater so he could watch your mostly naked form disappear around the corner.

When you got to your bedroom, you quickly lit a few candles because goddamn if that man’s skin didn’t glow like a god’s in candlelight, shucked off your panties and turned down the comforter and climbed in to settle in the middle of the bed. You sat up so you could watch him come in the room, keeping your hands clasped together and resting lightly on your stomach. You also kept your legs closed for the time being, not quite sure what Detective Baxter’s next move would be.

After a few minutes you began to grow antsy, and you knew that your husband knew this. He loved to take control by making you wait, loved the thought of you wondering at what he wanted to do to you.

He also knew this was a surefire way to get you soaking wet.

You shivered as you heard his shoes making their way toward the bedroom.

When he entered, he had already completely loosened his tie and undone the top button of his dress shirt. He stopped in the doorway, his shadow filling the frame and his now dark eyes reflecting the soft glow of the candles.

He raised a brow and said, “So you can be a good girl. But . . . it’s always in my best interest not to trust the criminal.”

Detective Baxter made his way over to you, sliding his tie from his neck. He climbed up from the bottom of the bed, your legs parting automatically as he moved between them, his gun bumping against your thigh. He grabbed your wrists as he made his way up your body and he dragged them above your head, holding them in place as he secured them with his tie.

He said nothing as he slid off your body, the same way he came, and you watched as he went into your closet, his pants hugging his ass so deliciously that you whimpered with a longing to slide your hands over the hard, but stillsoft muscles and dig your fingers into the flesh there.

You heard him open his gunsafe and knew he was placing his badge, cuffs, and weapon inside. He returned in a few minutes, his shoes gone, another button of his white shirt undone, on purpose or on accident, you weren’t sure, but it now dipped open enough so you could just see the start of the soft smattering of dark hair that covered his chest. You licked your lips thinking about the darker, thicker trail of hair that led down his stomach and to his—

“Bad girl,” he growled with a raise of his eyebrow, clearly reading your thoughts. “Do you really think you’ve been good enough to watch me undress?”

“Please, Detective Baxter. I didn’t resist you. I won’t resist you,” you said, your tone gritted with determination.

He gave a hum of appreciation as he reached for the buttons on his dress shirt, undoing them slowly, clearly basking in the lust radiating from your body. You could see the shift in his demeanor as you gave him more of what he needed, his confidence returning as his weariness dissipated.

After unbuttoning his cuffs, he shrugged his shirt off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Your nostrils flared and he didn’t miss that little detail; he never missed those little things, and that was what made him such a damn good cop.

“Open your legs.”

You unclasped your knees, letting your legs fall open so he could watch how wet he was making you; you knew he loved the power he had over your body.

When he reached for his belt, you sucked in a breath and your pussy clenched, remembering the feeling of him sinking into you, filling you so deliciously. It had been too long since the two of you were together like this.

He lowered his head to hide his smirk, but you didn’t miss the little things either, and that was one of the reasons he loved you so much.

He undid his belt and his pants quickly, his need starting to overtake his desire to tease you. He pulled them down and also took off his socks before straightening again, his eyes returning to your wet core.

He licked his lips and flicked his eyes to your face.

“You’re the most beautiful criminal I’ve ever seen.”

You smiled and your head fell back with a soft laugh as you felt your cheeks flush at the genuine undercurrent that ran through his tone.

Your head shot up again though as you felt the bed dip with your detective’s weight.

He placed soft, hot kisses up both of your calves and inner thighs before moving up and ignoring your wet heat. He kissed across your stomach, his tongue dipping into your belly button, making you shiver before he moved across your ribs and to your breasts, your nipples pert and waiting.

He kissed the undersides of your breasts slowly laving at each nipple, your chest flushing at the intense pleasure you felt at watching his mouth work, the muscles of his cut jaw flexing as he moved his mouth and tongue, and when he sucked, his cheeks hollowing, you let out a whine of pleasure, your arms flexing and your hands clenching around the slat of the headboard that held you prisoner.

Your husband chuckled around your nipple before releasing it with a pop and continuing up your body to suck at the sweet spots on your collar bone and your neck.

You knew your knuckles were white, and your wrists were probably starting to chafe because you just couldn’t hold still when he was working you over like this, and you thought that this would be the most unethical way to interrogate a suspect, but fuck if it wouldn’t be the most effective. In this moment, you would have told him anything he wanted to know.

When he bit your earlobe, you clenched your thighs around his hips and arched your own hips into his, connecting with his hard cock that he had been angling just out of reach.

“Bad girl,” he whispered, the deep bass of his voice causing you to shiver, your nipples tightening impossibly as goosebumps broke out.

You swallowed and sighed as his hands continued to run over your body, his short nails lightly scraping down your thighs.

“I’m ready to confess,” you breathed.

“Are you now?” he said, and you could hear the confident grin on his lips as he continued to kiss your neck.

“Yes,” you hissed.

“I’m not certain you’re ready to tell me everything I need to know. At least not yet.”

“Fucking hell,” you whined.

“Such language,” he teased as he grasped your breasts, squeezing them together and running his thumbs over your nipples.

“I’m sor—sorry, sir,” you stuttered as he kissed down your stomach again, stopping dangerously close to your core.

“Apology accepted,” he muttered as he licked your clit once, twice, and then wrapped his lips around it and sucked.

“Oh, oh my god,” you moaned, your thighs trembling as your overstimulated body threatened to climax.

Your husband released your swollen clit, moving again to lick at it before sliding his tongue into your soaking entrance. He licked and sucked at your inner lips, clearly taking his time to enjoy your pussy.

“You taste so good,” he praised before moving back to work on your clit as he slid a long, thick finger into your heat.

“I want you to come on my fingers when I tell you to come. Show me how good you can be.”

“Yes, Detective,” you breathed, your voice a shaky wreck as tears of pleasure gathered in the corners of your eyes.

His fingers worked inside of you seeking out your G-spot as he switched from tonguing your clit to lightly sucking. When you started to tremble and your breathing came in uneven gasps, he stopped for a fraction of a second to firmly command, “Come,” before returning to sucking hard on your clit.  

Within a few breaths, you completely let go and your orgasm washed over you, coating his fingers in a fresh slickness.

He gave you no time to recover, pushing down his underwear and sliding his cock into your tight heat.

“Fuuuck,” you both groaned out, your wrists pulling painfully on the tie as you longed to dig your nails into his back.

His dick was so hard you were certain he wasn’t going to last long, and you desperately wanted him to get completely lost in the feeling of you. You worked your walls, clenching around him, trying your best to match the brutal pace he set as he pulled your legs farther apart and sat on his haunches, slamming his hips into yours.

From this angle you could watch his face, his eyes shut tight in pleasure, your wetness still glistening on his chin, matching the small beads of sweat that were beginning to form at his temples.

His chest was flushed and his own nipples were hard; your mouth longed to pinch them between your teeth, to tease him the way he teased you.

Your eyes flicked downward to watch his cock disappearing into you and to watch the way the muscles in his abdomen flexed as he fucked you, and when your eyes made their way back to his face, his mouth was open and so were his eyes, alive and heated as they took in the way you appreciated him, the way you loved him.

“Come on,” he breathed. “Come for me again, good girl.”

You locked your eyes on his and concentrated on the feeling of him inside of you, of the way his hard cock was moving against your tight walls, moving against that already swollen, already hot spot inside of you.

You gripped against the slat of the headboard and angled your hips to meet his thrusts, and when he moaned at your efforts and doubled his pace, you closed your eyes and flung your head back with a sound best described as a garbled scream of your husband’s name.

Your pussy flooded around his cock and your walls clenched and you knew he was gone, coming inside of you with a force that damn near made him blackout.

“Y/N! Fucking fuck yes, baby, yes!”

His fingers were going to leave bruises on your thighs, and your wrists were going to be an angry red tomorrow, but it didn’t matter. You knew how to take care of your detective, knew how to give him what he needed, and in return, he gave you such pleasure, and made sure you were so well loved.

Your husband collapsed on top of you, his hair just tickling your chin as you both regained your senses.

“Thank you,” he whispered into your neck, moving his weight off of you as his softening cock pulled out from inside of you.

“You could thank me by releasing me . . . Detective.”

“Oh, shit!” he said with wide eyes as he scrambled up to untie you. “Love, I am so sorry.”

You giggled at the concern on his face as he took in the state of your wrists and you pulled your arms away to wiggle them and get the blood moving again.

“Sorry for what? The best sex we’ve had in months?”

He gave you a sheepish grin, and admitted, “That was amazing, and you’re right. It’s been too long.”

“Now,” you said, wiggling to get under the covers. “You need some sleep.”

Your husband shook his head and smiled.

“I see whose back in charge now,” he said, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you closer to his chest as he held you.

“Don’t you forget it, cutie pants,” you mumbled as you fought to stay awake.

“Never,” he whispered as he kissed your shoulder.

* * * * *

It was 3 am when you woke up to the sounds of your husband unlocking his gun safe and putting on the last of his gear.

You rolled over and called out his name, sleep making your voice thick and awkward.

“Hey, love,” he said softly as he opened the closet door and you squinted as the harsh light filled your eyes.

“Going in so early?”

“I just thought of something, and I can’t believe I missed it! You were right about me needing to unwind—thank you for always taking such good care of me,” he said with a grin.

“Go nail that murdering bastard to the wall.”

“You know I will,” he said as he grasped your face, his thumbs lightly running over your cheeks as he pressed a tender kiss to your lips.

[seeaddywrite]

overcome by shame, can i ever change?

part 3/6: five times Alex stopped Michael from doing something stupid, & one time Michael returned the favor.

warnings: for this part – grief, allusions to depression, alcohol abuse, self-loathing, abuse of a police officer’s position, the usual. 

you can also read/follow on AO3, if you prefer. (the formatting is 110x better & includes italics where they are supposed to be!) i’m not making any promises about having the next part up tomorrow because this work week may kill me, but i’ll get it up asap. 

Less than a month later, Michael’s slumped against the wall in the Chaves County Sheriff’s station. The view from the cell hasn’t changed since the day Michael and Isobel gave Max hell for healing Liz Ortecho in front of it, and the sight gives Michael a painful expectation of seeing his brother walking through the door at any moment, uniform and disappointed scowl in place, self-righteous lecture at the ready. But that’s not going to happen, so Michael’s swollen eyes are closed. The feeling of loss eases, if only a little, and keeping his eyelids shut helps against the steady throb in his cheek and ribs, too. 

It also allows him to ignore the look burning into him from the desk across the room, where his arresting officer sits. The young man is new, desperate to prove himself -- fuck, it actually looks like he’s shined the badge on the front of his uniform. He’s wet behind the ears, too goddamned eager to show how much better he is than guys like Michael. 

Michael knows that’s why he’s still sitting here. Sheriff Valenti would’ve let him go by now, shaking her head at him in wordless disappointment, just as she had the last few times he’d found himself in here after Max’s death. This guy doesn’t give a shit about Michael’s grief, though. Doesn’t even know about it, since only a few have been told the truth. Kyle’d insisted on bringing his mom into the loop after Caulfield and discovering his father’s role in it, and Michael and Isobel had been too numb to argue for more than a few minutes. 

The sense of those eyes on him starts to chafe, and Michael forces his eyes open to meet the Deputy stare-for-stare. He knows the picture he paints: the black cowboy hat perched haphazardly on his head, the insolent tilt of of his chin and shoulders, the sprawling pose he’d adopted against the wall with his legs crossed in front of him. It’s an image he’s cultivated for the last decade of his life. The rebel. The drunk. The outcast, challenging anyone who dares to get too close. 

Most people never bother to look beyond the facade, and Michael usually prefers it that way. Today, though, it rubs him the wrong way. He’s used to Max being the one to pull him out of the drunk tank in the morning, accustomed to the lectures and the insistence that Michael is worth more than this, more than the booze and the fights and the disappointment in everyone’s gazes when they looked at him. Those damned speeches had always made Michael homicidal; Max never seemed to understand that what they’d done to Rosa had killed any chance of a future for him just as surely as it had killed the girl herself. To Michael, Max had always seemed unaffected, infuriatingly numb to the truth of the crime they committed and immune to the consequences, and his insistence that Michael deserved to move forward, simply because he had, only ever made Michael resent his brother.

Finally, the Deputy seems to have enough of their staring contest. Michael’s eyes flicker open at the scraping of a chair leg on the floor, and he watches with a blank expression as the man strides across the floor with the sort of bow-legged strut used men with more ego than common sense. He tips his chin back to meet the man’s gaze, squinting through the swelling around his eyes, but doesn’t move otherwise, letting the man come at him first, instead.

“So,” he says, and Michael’s eyes dart to the too-shiny badge on his chest. Simmons. The name is vaguely familiar, like all names in a town this small, but Michael doesn’t care enough to try to figure out where he’s heard it before. It’s not like it actually matters. “Your third bar brawl in two weeks. I’d be impressed, except that’s nothing for you, is it?”

The sneer in his words is expected, and Michael only rolls his eyes. “Slow week,” he drawls in reply, ignoring the shooting pain caused by moving his jaw. “I’ll make sure to throw a few more punches next week just for you.” 

Simmons huffs a disdainful laugh, and reaches back to take a stack of paperwork from his desk. “Unlikely,” he says, flipping a page in a file. “I know that you’re used to special treatment, Guerin, but I’m not Valenti. I don’t have a soft-touch for hopeless cases.” 

Michael snorts. “Yeah? You want to go tell her she’s a soft-touch to her face?” He doesn’t think much of the law, never has, but he knows that Michele Valenti is far from gentle. She’s fair, and usually pretty by-the-book, if Max is to be believed, but she’s as tough as nails when needed, and if Simmons hasn’t learned that yet -- well, Michael’s pretty sure the Sheriff will enjoy showing him how wrong he is. Michael can only hope he’s around to see it. 

Apparently, Simmons doesn’t like Michael’s flippancy. His brows draw downward into a pinched, angry expression, and he leans in close, close enough that Michael can see every carefully steamed inch of his impeccable uniform. The image jolts something loose in Michael’s mind, dragging unwanted memories of Max’s first days on the force to the front. 

Isobel had insisted on re-ironing Max’s slacks so they wouldn’t be wrinkled for his first shift. Michael’d been at Max’s for god-knew what reason, since he hadn’t even been able to look at his brother that soon after Rosa’s death -- but Michael had been there as Max put that uniform on for the first time, watched as determination filled his expression and inflated his chest and shoulders. Determination to make up for the wrongs he’d done, to atone for the sins he’d committed by helping others, as if he could somehow undo the horrible thing they’d done with good intentions. 

Michael had burned with fury at Max’s naivete, with jealousy, for his ability to move forward when Michael himself was stuck, suspended in that moment, day after day. 

It’s funny. Michael had always thought that the year after Rosa’s death was rock bottom -- yet here he is, still trapped, still furious and heartbroken, with no one to blame but himself. 

“You’re going down this time, Guerin. Assault, at the very least. That guy you were beating on had broken ribs, and there’s no way he’s going to drop the charges -- and I will personally see to it that someone claps you in cuffs and throws you in a cell to rot.” Simmons slams his hand against the bars, hard enough to make the entire cell rattle, and Michael blinks away the remnants of the memory to look back at Max’s replacement, lips curled in a sneer. Blood trickles from a split that hadn’t quite closed, yet and down his chin, but Michael doesn’t move to wipe it away. 

“That what gets you off? Guys in handcuffs?” he drawls. “I’m flattered, officer, but you’re not really my type.” And that is an understatement. In fact, comparing Simmons to Alex is an actual insult, as far as Michael is concerned -- not that he should be thinking of Alex right now. Or ever. 

Simmons’ face flushes with anger, and Michael allows himself a small, triumphant smirk. He knows he’s signing his own arrest warrant with his behavior, but he’s known that for weeks. Eventually, all of his sins would catch up with him, and he’s done trying to outrun them. 

Much to Michael’s regret, Simmons gets ahold of his temper quickly; his hands clench at his sides, and there’s a vein throbbing visibly beneath his carefully tousled blond bangs, but his voice is calm, almost cloying pleasant, when he speaks again. “Ah, well that explains things, doesn’t it?” he muses, and the knowing tone in his voice makes Michael wants to punch him hard enough to break that Colgate smile. “I knew Evans was disappearing your paperwork - every time someone tried to prosecute you, it would all just vanish, or the plaintiff would just suddenly withdraw all charges. It was obviously Evans -- I just hadn’t been able to figure out why he’d risk his career like that on a nobody like you.”

Michael struggles to make sense of that information, tries to fumble it into the schema of his and Max’s relationship for the last decade, but the pieces don’t fit. Max had always been the goody-two shoes, so by-the-book in dealing with Michael’s indiscretions that it is impossible to believe that he’d literally been tampering with the paperwork to keep him out of jail. Michael had always just thought Max had pulled in favors with Valenti, or used the ‘old friend’ card over and over -- but this? Had Max really gone to such extreme lengths to keep Michael out of jail?

“But if you two were fucking before he skipped town, well. That makes a hell of a lot more sense, doesn’t it?” 

White-hot rage greys out Michael’s vision, and he’s on his feet against the bars before his mind catches up with the instinct. The feeling is senseless; the insane assumption should be something he laughs at, uses to deride Simmons’ detective work, but Michael can’t summon any humor or snark to throw at him. Hearing Max’s name from his asshole replacement is too much, and Michael’s had all he can take. Power builds in his hands where they’re pressed against the cold metal of the bars, humming through him and causing a ringing, metallic buzz to echo through the small room.

He can’t do this. He has to stop, needs to push the power down and keep it hidden, but Michael’s so removed from his own body in that moment that he can practically look down at himself and see the tension turning into a wavering aura of power in the small cell. 

“That’s enough,” a harsh voice snaps, and both Michael and Simmons’ attention shifts immediately to Alex Manes. He’s looming in the open doorway, blocking all view to the administrative section of the office, an air of authority around his camo-covered shoulders that makes Michael’s breath catch in his throat.

In some ways, Alex is as familiar to him as the parts of his truck, or the smooth surface of the ship fragments he spends his nights with, but while he wears that uniform and that particular expression -- the one that not only demands instant obedience but expects it -- Michael can’t help but feel like he’s staring at a stranger. And after years of limited contact and heartbreak, that’s likely how it should be. Michael almost wishes it could be that simple. Instead, he’s fairly certain that despite everything, he could still pick Alex out of a crowd of millions from miles away. Something in his chest always thrills to Alex’s presence, drawing Michael’s gaze to him even when Alex is the last person he wants to see. 

“What the hell are you doing back here, Manes?” Simmons demands, crossing his hands over his chest and straightening his shoulders in an obvious effort to look intimidating. He’s got an inch and several pounds of muscle on Alex, so it should work, but in comparison to Alex’s hard expression and relaxed but ready body language, Simmons is nothing. Alex certainly doesn’t think so; he stares fearlessly back at the Deputy and raises an eyebrow, a challenge inherent in the minuscule movement. 

“That’s Captain Manes, actually,” Alex corrects definitively. “And I’m here because the guy he hit—” Alex nods toward Michael. “— is Air Force. He’s being reassigned effective Monday morning with a black mark for excessive drinking and brawling in public, so he won’t be pressing charges.” 

Alex presents a set of papers to the Deputy with a flourish, a hint of the attitude Michael had fallen in love with a decade ago shining through in the movement. Simmons gives him a long, hard look, then snatches the papers from his hands, all but tearing them with unnecessary force. While he reads, Alex looks around him to Michael, a silent query on his face.

Michael blinks slowly, taking stock of his body and the energy that has receded somewhat at the sight of Alex. He’s sober enough to wonder, this time, if he’ll always have this reaction to the other man -- if he’s doomed to only ever feel calm and safe around someone who’s so tangled up in some of the most negative, traumatic experiences of his life that Michael doesn’t know how to separate Alex’s comforting grip with the vice around his heart when he thinks of Caulfield. Of his mother.

Right now, he can almost convince himself it doesn’t matter. Michael’s too relieved to see Alex, too grateful for his intervention, to feel anything else.Taking a long, slow breath, Michael peels his fingers away from the bars of the cell and takes a step back. The metallic hum in the room stops completely, and as long as Alex gets him out of there without Simmons making any more comments about the kind of man Max was, Michael thinks he can avoid this situation turning into more of a disaster.

“The military doesn’t have any jurisdiction in Roswell,” Simmons says a moment later, his chest once again puffing out in righteous indignation. “Guerin’s been picked up three times in the last two weeks for the same offense. We don’t need your guy to press charges; I’ve got plenty of evidence to keep him in lock-up.” 

Alex’s eyes narrow, and Michael almost feels sorry for Simmons. Almost. 

“Really.” The word is flat, loaded with insinuation. “So this has nothing to do with the fact that you lost out on the  position at this station to Max Evans? And then lost out on the last open position for Evans’ partner because he said he didn’t want to work with you?” Alex’s expression is carefully blank, but Michael can read him well enough to know that he’s ready to go for the throat. 

It shouldn’t surprise Michael that there are large chunks of Max’s life he knows nothing about. The two of them hadn’t been able to get past what happened to Rosa and the way it was handled, and that crack had led to nearly complete fragmentation in the intervening years. There’s no chance of fixing it, now, no way of knowing if they could have regained the closeness they’d shared for so long, because Max is dead -- but somehow, Michael is still learning things about his brother that make him want to put his fist through a wall. How many times had Max risked his career for Michael by destroying documents and evidence? How many people had he run off from the position as his partner to protect Michael? And why had he done it? Protecting their secret is one thing, but fuck, how is Michael supposed to take that information in stride?

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simmons blusters, but Michael can tell the Deputy knows that he’s been beaten. Alex doesn’t go to battle without all of the facts on his side, without an ironclad plan, and Simmons had lost before they’d even begun. 

Alex snorts. “Sure I don’t,” he says amicably. “Why don’t we ask Sheriff Valenti, then? If all of your evidence on Guerin is by the book? I’m sure she’d be happy to back up one of her deputies and kick me out, if that’s the case.” 

Michael doesn’t know if Alex is bluffing, which almost certainly means Simmons can’t tell, either. He waits, aware that he should be more concerned about the outcome of this grudge match than he is, until Simmons growls, “Fine. Get him out of here. But the next time --” 

“You’ll throw him in cuffs and leave him to rot, yeah, I got it,” Alex interrupts, his tone suggesting that if he weren’t in uniform, he’d be rolling his eyes. “Keys.” 

Simmons slaps the keys to the cell into Alex’s extended palm and stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Michael watches, silent, as Alex allows his airman persona to fade back into the gentler, less composed version of himself. “I hacked the cameras before I came in, just in case,” he says, and gestures at the lock on the cell. “You still need me to let you out?” 

A moment later, Michael has released the latch on the cell with a tendril of thought and stands in front of Alex, chin raised daringly as dark eyes take in his injuries. “We should go before that guy comes back,” is all he says, and Michael trails him out of the precinct and into the cool night air. Michael takes a deep breath and slouches back against the wall, eying Alex. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say or what’s expected of him now; hell, he doesn’t know how to interact with Alex on a good day, anymore. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” Michael says after a moment, the words stiff. Anger would have been better, but Michael can’t seem to summon it back now that it’s gone. “It would’ve been fine.” 

Alex shoots him a skeptical glance, but doesn’t argue. “I’m going to take that as Guerin speak for, ‘thanks for getting me out of jail,’” he snipes, and hits a button on his keychain, making his SUV blink its lights from a block down. “Come on. Your truck is still at the Pony, I’m guessing? I’ll give you a ride and you can pick it up tomorrow.” 

There isn’t much chance to argue, or Michael’s too tired to try. He trails Alex into the SUV, grateful despite himself for the unwavering presence at his side. His brain is still trying to process the fact that Max, despite ten years of distance and resentment, had still been protecting him. It’s a bizarre juxtaposition with the assumption that Max had only ever done anything to protect him in order to protect their secret. Max had fucked up so many times over the years: he’d left Michael alone and scared in foster care, had only listened as Michael whispered confessions of pain and fear of the families he lived with as a child, had pushed him into taking the blame for Isobel’s crimes and allowed him to give up on the one chance at a future he had -- 

Michael hates looking backward, and hates the fact that he understands Max so much better now that he’s gone. His brother had never been human, but he was as flawed as any of them, and yes, he had made mistakes. But how many of those mistakes had seemed unforgivable because of Michael’s own unhappiness? How much of his resentment toward Max had sprung from Max falling from the pedestal Michael had put him on? 

The hand that had, until recently, been numb and scarred, flexes against his thigh. Michael will never know what Max was thinking, that night. He’ll never be able to ask questions, or try to mend the rift that he’d helped created between them. 

Michael will never have a brother again, and the loss feels fresh, now, as if the experience with Simmons had ripped a new wound over the infected one still oozing in his chest. 

“Michael,” Alex says quietly, catching his attention more effectively than if he’d stood up and yelled. It’s rare to hear his first name from Alex, rarer still to hear it in a tone that borders on affection. They’ve avoided that sort of relationship for years, both aware that they’re in the middle of a balancing act, and one wrong move could send them careening over the edge into a world of hurt. “You’ve got to stop doing this. I’m not going to be able to use the same tricks next time, and . . .” he trails off, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel as he psyches himself up for whatever else he has to say. “And Max isn’t here to stop them from making sure you end up in prison.”

The words emerge in a rush, so quick that Michael has to let them process before he understands why Alex is so nervous. No one who mentioned his brother had walked away unscathed, lately; it was a surefire way to send Michael spiralling. 

But it hurts less, somehow, hearing the truth from Alex. Maybe because he knows that Alex understands grief, understands the feeling of anger that follows in the wake of abandonment, or because he knows Alex isn’t throwing words around to hurt him. So Michael doesn’t react; he simply turns his head to look out the window and watches the New Mexican desert fly by. 

It’s clear that Alex doesn’t know how to read Michael’s silence. He rushes on, obviously determined to get the words out before Michael loses his temper. “Think about it, Michael. If they get you in a jail cell, how long is it going to take before your cellmates, or a guard, or someone realizes that there’s something different about you? What if you get hurt and sent to medical? Who’s going to stop them from doing tests and figuring out that you’re not human? My father would love that kind of opportunity, Guerin. Please, for the love of god, don’t give it to him.”

Michael swallows, an old fear rising in his gut as he considers the scenario Alex spins for him. Jesse Manes. Experimentation. Tortured, like his mother and the rest of those poor souls hidden away at Caulfield prison. He shudders, hands digging into his jeans hard enough that his nails score the tender skin beneath. 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Alex’s hand is resting over the back of his left one, a gentle slide of skin that makes it easier for Michael to breathe. He almost misses the tremble in Alex’s fingers, caught up in his own emotions, but it’s there, and impossible to ignore. Michael glances up at Alex, surprised to see an anxiety nearly matching his own on his face, and wonders how often he’s ignored the way the people around him are feeling in favor of drowning in his own feelings. 

Michael flips his hand and squeezes Alex’s back, and triumph sparks in his chest when he catches the barest hint of a smile flash across full lips. 

“I know you don’t want to talk, okay, I get it. Believe me, I get it.” Alex’s words, when he speaks again, are full of rueful self-recrimination, and again Michael is struck by his own selfishness. He’s not the only one mired in trauma and hurt. But despite his own pain, despite the way Michael has treated him, Alex has been there when MIchael needs him. Every damn time. 

“But the way you’ve been acting lately -- shit, Guerin, it’s fucking terrifying. The drinking is one thing, but the fighting? The total disregard for your own health and well-being? That’s not what Max would’ve wanted for you. Do you think he spent the last decade of his life bailing you out of jail because he wanted you to rot there? Do you think your mother died convincing you to run because she wanted you to die out here instead?”

Michael’s fists clench in his lap, but his powers don’t react. This is Alex, after all, the calm in the middle of his storm, and something in Michael refuses to allow anything that might bring him harm. He grits his teeth against the spiral of guilt and shame that threatens at Alex’s words, and reaches for the door handle, ignoring the fact that the car is still moving. Alex shouts and slams on the breaks, leaving them both startled and staring at each other across the console between their seats. 

“I just want to help, Guerin,” Alex says, obviously biting back a furious comment at Michael’s stupidity. “I’m not asking you to love me, or date me, or whatever it is you’re so set against. I just want to make sure you don’t end up dissected or left to rot in one of my father’s torture chambers. Can’t you just let me?” 

The fight rushes out of Michael with a long breath, and he slumps back in the car seat. His head tips to one side, and he looks straight at Alex with a resigned, wary expression. “That’s the problem, Alex,” he says dully. “I do love you.” As much as he could love anyone at the moment. “But I can’t do anything about it. Not right now.” Maybe not ever. 

Alex’s face is washed pale yellow in the headlights of an oncoming car, and Michael doesn’t miss the hurt etched into the lines of his face, though it’s gone in a moment. 

“I’m not asking you to do anything about it,” Alex says quietly. “I’m asking you to come back to my place tonight, get some sleep, and eat an actual meal in the morning. We can figure out where to go from there.” One large hand rests on the gear shift lever, waiting for Michael’s go-ahead before he puts it into drive. 

Michael hesitates, part of him determined to climb out the door and trudge back to the Airstream to suffer through another night alone. But fighting Alex never gets him anywhere, and Michael’s tired of trying to stand on his own. If Max’s loss has taught him anything, aside from the fact that he does care about the self-sacrificing dumbass, it’s that Alex meant it, when he called Michael his family. And maybe, on a night like tonight, it’s not so wrong to want that support, no matter how selfish it feels.

So instead of following his instincts to run, Michael catches Alex’s eye and nods.

[electricbluebutterflies]

control

“Want isn’t the problem”

Post-s2-grayspace Kabby smut with feelings, aka I haven’t written them since certain things happened and I still have a LOT of feelings. Blame @to-hell-with-oblivion for where this ended up. Also on ao3.

He's being too nice and it's a damn problem.

Abby Griffin likes routines. Even in light of the past few months, even with so much changed around her, she has tried her hardest to maintain them. Unfortunately, it turns out quite a few of her routines rely on a particular someone else's tendency to be a complete asshole at all possible times, and lately, well…

Lately, Marcus has skipped right past the "basic human decency" stage that was once her wildest hope for him and instead started going out of his way for her. For a week or so, she let it go. Trauma makes people do strange things, and the Bad Thing was certainly within that range for both of them. But then she was able to move comfortably on her own and he was still gentle, and for the past few weeks since then their dynamic has been off.

By unspoken decision, they're co-leaders as things attempt to settle down. In theory, it's no different from the routine they had for years up in the sky. Except it is, because there's no sparring. No passive-aggressive death threats, no unsaid fuck-yous, none of the sharp details that made their dynamic the only thing keeping her sane that last year in particular when it became the only real thing she had. Can she admit that, now that they're changing? Is she allowed to say that he became her release valve, that she sought him out a few times because yelling at him about things that probably didn't matter in the grand scheme of things was a reminder that she was somehow still alive?

She doesn't know. She's not sure how much she cares.

What she is sure of is that where they are now is inexplicably different in ways that cannot be blamed on their respective recent injuries. That may have been how this workspace thing happened - neither of them could move well for two weeks after the Bad Thing, hers was objectively worse but he'd walked miles both ways on a bad leg - but they still drift together without that  concern. It makes sense, as they redefine systems, to be in the same place for all the tiny but necessary decisions that land on their shoulders.

The downside of this is, well, they're together. A lot. Which means she has to look at him and watch the slow changes of giving-up have their way, and she is appreciative of this physical transformation, and…

"You got that?"

Her big project for the day, apparently, is figuring out where to put a nice chair that seems to have appeared out of nowhere this morning. Like most of their generation, Abby's aesthetic preferences begin and end with "does it work", but apparently working a new piece of furniture into the layout of a small enclosed space requires moving literally everything else in the room. Including a table that is perfectly within her abilities to maneuver, even with the piles of papers currently upon it.

She could, in theory, accept that this would all be a hell of a lot easier if Marcus helped her. She's not actually sure how long he's been standing there watching her efforts, and… it's weird, this asking for permission. Six months ago, had they somehow ended up in this sort of a situation, he would've stepped right in and arranged everything to his own preferences and not even spoken to her until it was all over with.

Is it wrong that she misses that side of him? Is it wrong if she wonders how long this current gentleness will last?

She could accept his help. Or she could push and see if she can find his limits. She decides she likes option two a lot better.

"Yeah," she mutters, almost growling. "I've got this."

And sure enough, with appropriate physical effort that she is more than capable of thank you very much, Abby shifts the position of the table so it's a little more in the center of the space. The goal, she's decided, is to eventually get this not-quite-armchair into that newly vacant corner. But for that to work, she has to move the couch. Dammit.

Frankly, Abby is not sure how someone else got that couch through that door during the few days she was immobile and catching up on two decades of bad sleep. She's assuming that's when it happened, because if she'd been lucid and present she would remember something that ridiculous. It got nested in that corner over there, and she's not inclined to move it, except… that would be the easiest way to make all of her other plans work. Temporarily move couch, place chair, put couch back where it started.

Ah. Yes. Maneuvering something of questionable structural integrity, which is big enough that she's taken a few naps on the damn thing. Twice. Yeah.

Screw it. Time to see how well Marcus can handle her in full fire.

She turns her head and yep, he's still standing by the doorway with that obnoxious amused look on his face like this is the best thing he's see all week - and it probably is for reasons that have nothing to do with her shirts riding up - and she can't deal with this man right now. He is too much, and she's gonna tear all of that down and remind herself that she used to get wet thinking about his hypothetical death.

And shit, now she's thinking about that. No, bad, do not want.

"Now you can help," she hisses, making sharp eye contact. "But if you try anything…"

"What are you implying?" he counters, taking a place at the more accessible end of the couch. This, she gets. She's quite a bit smaller, slightly more capable of slipping into a small space between couch and wall and lamp.

It hits her, as she does so, that there are a lot of things that could happen with this kind of energy and some of those could be much more fun than others. But she can't fixate on that. She won't. She can't.

"You've let me rearrange every goddamn thing in this space without so much as a 'leave those papers there'," she replies. "I know you. What do you want?"

"Maybe my ability to do my job doesn't rely on the specific placement of objects within our space. You didn't take anything out. The rest is detail."

Abby rolls her eyes. "I have known you since we were children, Kane. You are obsessed with detail."

"People change."

"You never have."

"Can we just move the damn couch where you want it?"

"Take four steps back. There. Yes."

The weight is imbalanced, she sees it as they move together. He's stronger than her, she knows that, but he's doing more than he has to because that's just what he does. Because god forbid she ever be capable of anything, god forbid he let her be all that she is, god forbid-

"Alright. Now you can try to pick a fight."

Yeah. There's a breaking point in there somewhere, and she's gonna find it if it's the last thing she does. They've known each other way too long for her to believe this is real.

"Or you could just tell me what you're trying to get out of me," she counters, hand on her hip and perfect do-what-I-want face that has gotten results out of everyone else she has ever tried it on. Despite the rest of her look, Abby has learned how to be absolutely terrifying when she needs to be, and it works. Except on him. Never on him. Dammit.

"Does everything I do have to have an ulterior motivation?"

"I know you too well. Has there ever not been?"

"Maybe I just want to help you."

"There are multiple words in that sentence I'm not sure you even know."

"How are you the only person who doesn't believe I'm changing?"

"Because I'm the only person left alive who knows you're not capable of it."

This, she is well aware, is a conscious and intentional lie. For years on end, she hoped for this kind of transformation. There was a long stretch of time when she tried so hard to see some kind of light in him, this man who seemed to exist for no other purpose than to challenge and undo her. Even at their worst, she had hope for him. But now that she's gotten what she wanted, it's different. A reality she never prepared for and refuses to trust. Because she knows him, and she knows what darkness he's capable of, and she knows-

"You made this happen," he breathes, and this may be that breaking point and oh how she did not expect it like this. "I almost lost you, and I… I cannot let that happen. I need to be better so I can keep you safe."

A different woman would accept the awkward confession, maybe kiss him or something, feel all warm and sweet about it. Abby is still burning, and she's not ready to sheath her claws just yet.

"You tried to fucking kill me," she hisses. "You would've tried again down here, and maybe even done it, but you needed me too much so you did the closest thing and had me electrocuted while you watched and you didn't even flinch. You do not get to say you love me."

Marcus takes a few steps closer - clearly the death wish she's started seeing in him isn't going anywhere. He's close enough she could hit him if she were so inclined, and she's halfway tempted, and she wants, and-

"I know. I don't expect… this is because of you. Not for you, if you don't want it."

There is pain in his eyes, spreading across his body, and here is that moment of regret that she's always dreamed of. They haven't really talked about certain events before, always brushed past and moved onto the next crisis because neither of them knows how to be vulnerable with another human being, but here they are two feet apart in a small room behind a closed and probably locked door and here they are and-

"Want isn't the problem," she mutters, and then she kisses him.

She's not sure what she's doing, in that half-second she tastes his shock. This here, all of it is an experience Abby never prepared for. Only the second person she's ever kissed, and she loved the last one for twenty years and meant for a lot longer before tragic fate had its way. She has never thought of casual encounters for herself - never judged those who did, but kept her own preferences on the subject. She knows, in that half-second, that there is no coming back from what she's doing right now.

Then it sinks in, and he moves, and she is reminded of why they have been like magnets for so long.

Marcus has never done anything halfway, and apparently this applies to physical involvement as well. He kisses hard, biting her lip as his hands tangle up in her hair, and the difference in size between them feels like nothing at all. She'll hurt from this, they both will, she does not care.

"Tell me if I go too far," he breathes against her lips when they break for air.

"I don't think you ever could," she counters.

"Still. As you said. I've hurt you before."

"Don't leave bruises anywhere my clothes don't cover. Otherwise…"

She likes kissing him, she decides as they continue. She likes running her tongue over his skin, the feeling of his scruff against her, the sharp contrast against her past experience. (She cannot fault herself for this comparison. Only her second lover, or he will be before this is over, and she will allow herself this innocence.) He has become new and made whole this past month. Perhaps it's her turn.

"May I?" he asks, pausing with hands at the hem of her shirts.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

She raises her arms to make the removal easier, not sure what she expects him to do once the fabric falls to the floor. Not sure, but surprised when his fingers trace patterns on her hips and slowly climb. An exploration, mapping her, learning details she herself is too familiar with to note. Hesitant on the small of her back, hesitant as he ghosts over the scars he helped inflict. A month and a half after the incident, they don't hurt anymore, but they are still visible and stubborn and-

"You're strong," he breathes, a certain reverence as he kisses her forehead.

"You knew that long before you hurt me."

He nods and continues, working his way up her body until he reaches the clasp of her bra. No permission asked as he undoes the clasp and slips it off her shoulders, no hesitation as he presses his lips to the hollow between her breasts and she flinches because scruff against sensitive skin is new and foreign. Yet not unwanted, she thinks as he traces patterns and switches between hands and mouth without warning. Were he to rest his head between her legs for a while, she could accept it. But she doubts they'll go there today. Exploration and examination is a safe enough set of acts; thorough ravishing is more dangerous, to be saved for a quieter day and a mattress.

"Your turn," she murmurs after a while, pushing him back and slipping her hands up his shirt.

She's seen more of his skin over the years, roles as they were, and little of this is new to her. He has less scars than she does; she fears, as she traces the badly healed line on his forearm from a day he won't talk about, that this will soon change. Someday, and she hopes she gets to see it, he will be a map of deaths that didn't stick. For now, though, he is relatively untainted and completely still before her, allowing her hands to wander. Allowing her to step closer for a moment and rest her head on her shoulder, as she did a month ago when all she could fixate on was her pain and the person who caught her, as she did several days before that beneath a destroyed building. Different, skin-on-skin, but the same.

He could anchor her, if she let him. She wants to see what that could look like.

She undoes his pants because she can, because her hands are on his hips and she wants him. There's some maneuvering to be done, kicking off boots and creative balance, and then he is exposed and still not fighting her. Not lifting her up and fucking her against the wall, not testing her limits. Allowing her fire to have its way.

"You can…" she starts before realizing she doesn't know what permission she wants to give him.

"You want control, Abby," he murmurs. "You need control."

Next time, if there is a next time, will be different. Next time, she suspects, she will learn what their sparring is like without barriers. But here and now, she will take this proof of his changes. Her hands start on his inner thighs, working up. No scars to be found here either, only skin that responds so well to her cautious touch. He wants her. He is willing to let her choose how that happens. She is adrift. She could spiral. She could-

"You have control," he says again as he steadies her. How long has it been since another person has held her? How long since she's been pulled against someone's chest and told that she will be alright? Longer than she wants to admit, and-

"I never knew you could stand that still," she laughs.

"You're good motivation."

"Who the fuck are you and what did you do with my lifelong nemesis." She rolls her eyes, kisses his neck, breathes. Maybe fire isn't all they are. Maybe…

"I might be in shock."

"Me too."

And there's a warmth to it, as she takes a half-step back and sheds her own pants because she doesn't trust him not to damage her best pair of underwear. There's a warmth in how he looks at her, and it is not the first time either. Weeks ago now, when they were the first actual adults of their people to see sunlight in a hundred years. She should've seen it then, this transformation that is in full force now. But at least she has now, accepting the reality of their changes as she braces for a lifelong inevitability.

It's real. All of this is real. And she's never wanted anything more.

His hands put just a little too much pressure on her hips as he twirls her around and half-pushes her onto the couch. Out of their options, that's the obvious best spot for this - not ideal, god no, but it'll do. He kisses her again to be thorough, kisses her as she maneuvers her body for best access, kisses her as he positions himself, and then he drops.

This is her moment of shock, that heartbeat as they collide. Her body responding, circumstances enough to prepare her, overwhelmed as they become one. How often she wondered about this, and reality is so different and so much more beautiful.

"I don't-"

"You talk too much," she mutters, kissing him to shut him up.

She could love him, maybe. Given time to watch what else this transformation brings, she could get attached so easily. Marcus has always struck her as someone with a lot of raw potential, more than most people are given, and perhaps this here is the wrong time to realize he's starting to do something with it but oh, he is and fucking her on this godawful couch is likely just the start of what he will become.

Wherever that leads, whatever choices he makes, she will stand by his side. She makes that decision with eyes closed, pressure building and then breaking, the sweet giving-up of being loved. She is so, so good at being the loyal woman. She will make those choices again, and this time she will stay enough. There is no other fate.

He finishes and collapses above her, shifting weight as best he can but still more skin-on-skin than she wants, and they stay there and recover for a few moments.

"So that happened," she breathes.

"It doesn't have to change anything, Abby. You can go back to hating me once you get dressed."

"What if I don't want to hate you?"

He's quiet for a few heartbeats, quiet in a different way as he shifts off of her and sits down beside her.

"That would be a bigger surprise than anything else I've seen down here," he finally says. "And a better one."

"I'm not saying… I don't know how to move forward with another person, but… I believe you now."

"I can accept that."

She gets to her feet and starts getting dressed, unsurprised when he is right there for her to lean on as she needs. Their dynamic will change again after this, but perhaps they were headed that way all along. Now sooner than planned, but still just as good.

"So what's the next part of this redecorating scheme?" he asks once they're both decent again.

"I am not decorating," she laughs. "Just moving furniture. There's a difference."

"If you say so."

"If you tried that line at any other time…" she sighs. "Alright. So. Chair goes in empty space, couch goes back where it was, we do not talk about what just happened until I have time to process that it did. Good?"

"So this means I can't kiss you in front of everyone we know?"

"Not if you like being alive."

He takes the hint, shuts up, and moves the damn chair without further stupid questions.

He's gotten nice lately, and it is the exact opposite of a problem.

[jonesingforben]

Nice For What ft; Kurtley

Who: Bentley Jones & Kurt Hummel ( @pearhipshummel ) What: Scene Week 9 When: Tuesday May 21, 2019 Classes: Intermediate Denial/Chastity, Dom 102, Switch 102

It was always hit or miss when it came to Ben’s creativity and this was one of those instances where he really didn’t need to be that creative. He knew he liked Kurt’s company and from their previous scene week, he also knew he thoroughly enjoyed using the boy’s mouth. If he had that much fun with just the mouth, he could only imagine what it would be like to have his whole body at his disposal. Once he got Kurt in his suite and kneeling in front of him, he asked for his safeword and limits just so they were in the forefront of his mind. “You really do look damn good in that uniform,” he added unnecessarily.

While it had been a while since he let another Dominant aside from Sebastian use him however they pleased, it didn't deter Kurt from getting excited. Sure, he didn't know everything to a T on what Ben had planned, but the guy was one of the few people he knew he'd feel safe with. So he let himself be a tease, keeping the Cheerio uniform on for any viewing pleasure when he showed up, all while being quick to follow orders on his knees. A little blush, and a glance down at himself with a thoughtful hum from the compliment. "Oh, this ol' thing, Monsieur?" He grins, straightening his back. "I'm glad you like what you see."

Ben enjoyed the quick-wittedness and natural sass that Kurt was able to add to their conversations. He chuckled at the comment and nodded in agreement. "Yes, that old thing. An old thing that you won't be wearing for much longer. You have ten seconds to get up a strip down, then you're going to get back on your knees and follow me into the playroom." Ben looked down at his watch, though that was more for affect and less for the actual need to track the time. "Go." He watched as Kurt followed his orders as he got up from the couch and started towards the play room.

Always eager to please, Kurt bites his lip at the following order. He's been used once or twice in public, so he didn't have any shy regard in being completely naked and shedding his clothing. Nodding at the 'go', he pulls his top and undershirt off first, giving a careless toss before moving to his feet to toe his white sneakers off. Undoing the waistband tie then hooking his thumbs into the elastic to push that and the boy short underwear down, kicking it with his shirt. Not wanting to hurt himself, he doesn't fall back to his knees right away but eases down and folds his hands under his chin. "Did I make it in ten, Monsieur?"

"That ass isn't red, so you made it well within the ten seconds," he replied with another small chuckle. Last time they were together in the cafeteria seemed a bit rushed. That was partly because time was limited and partly because he was so eager. This time Ben wanted to ease into the scene a little more. Once they were in the playroom with Kurt kneeling right in the middle and Ben looking down at him, he ran his fingers through the Switch's hair. He then moved his touch to the side of his face before pressing his thumb into the boy's mouth. His movements were slow but methodical and by the time his grasp moved to the back of Kurt's neck, he pulled him forward to press his face into his still covered crotch.

Kurt smirks at the implication that he'd have gotten his ass slapped as punishment, which was always a shame in his book as he adored those. But of course being curious about what exactly they were going to do, he doesn't comment on it and follows on hands and knees to the playroom, kneeling where he's told. Testing his hands on his thighs, he follows the touch subconsciously with his face. Eyes closing at the hair combing if only for a second, lips parting as the thumb breeches past, his eyes not moving from Ben's face. Being pulled into the other man's groin, he makes a soft muffled noise from the back of his throat.

Ben enjoyed the soft moments with Kurt, especially because he knew what was going to follow. He pulled him back by his hair which his other hand moved to grab at the boy's jaw. "Open." He kept his position locked with the hand that was gripping his hair while the other moved to pull his semi hard length from the fly of his pants. "Don't you dare close your mouth, understood?" He waited for an answer before shoving his dick into his mouth until he was deep in his throat, choking him. Then he pulled out only to repeat the process over and over again until tears were streaking the boy's face and his cock was hard.

Being yanked back again, there's a slight wince but it isn't at all an unwelcome manhandle. If anything he preferred to be manhandled by the right person, and the Dominant was proving he was good at it. Mouth opening on command, he sticks his tongue out to take the cock as deep as possible. Slobber easily happened as the first choking came into play, dripping down his chin and trailing down his throat.

“There you go. I forgot what a good little cock slut you could be.” When Ben pulled back, he slapped Kurt’s tongue with his cock before proceeding to choke him with it again, growling at the feeling mixed in with the expression on Kurt’s face. Ben’s fingers remained locked in his hair, letting him control the boy’s movement easily. He pulled back once Kurt’s moth was thoroughly fucked and stroked his cock to keep it hard. “Suck on those balls,” he ordered as he lifted his cock to give access.

Eyes slightly red and watering, Kurt keeps his throat as relaxed as he can. Not having his mouth fucked in a while, it takes a hot second for him to remember to keep himself from closing off his gag reflex. The praise that follows gets a pleased grin in response, and he's keeping his tongue out to hungrily take every bit of the Dominant's cock that he was given. Leaning in more on the next order, he drags his tongue down the base of Ben's cock to meet with his ball sack. Using just his mouth, he takes one side into his mouth and lets his tongue work it over so he can get as much of it between his lips before starting to suck. Coming off with a slick pop, he moves to the other side to give it the same attention, if only to add more pressure and stimulation with his tongue. Needing to keep the other man as hard and pleased.

It was hard not to take advantage of the lack of barrier in Kurt's throat as he fucked him and he was impressed all over again by how easy it was for him to take in every inch of Ben's cock. It wasn't only the lack of a gag reflex, but also the with-it-ness to lay his tongue flat while he was fucking his throat. So with that, Ben shouldn't have been surprised with how well Kurt's mouth would feel around the sensitive skin of his sack, but still, he jerked forward - into the  mouth surrounded him and provided the exact pleasure he was seeking. "Fuck, there's a good boy. Goddamn you're good at that." He continued to stroke his cock and if it wasn't for the self control he possessed and the will to enjoy this for as long as possible, he probably would have cum already. Kurt was that good. While Ben could have gone on with just that for a lot longer, he needed something different, something more. "Up on the bench, slut. On all fours with your hands clasped behind your back and your face pressed into the leather."

Another praise as a reward has Kurt preening as he continues working the man over with his mouth greedily. Just sensing every twitch so close to his face, he has a good notion to keep the action up ten fold to get the Dominant really needy for him. Of course the next order has him pulling away regretfully, but does as he's told nonetheless. Moving on hands and knees to the bench, he climbs up to take the position. Hands going behind his back, he presses his cheek against the leather. Even giving a teasing wiggle of his ass to taunt the other man silently, if not to just wish a slap on the rump that he was craving since it got brought up.

As Kurt gets into the designated position, Ben tied the boy's hands behind his back, ensuring that he had maximum control of his movements in his current position. "Look at that ass," Ben commented before giving in and giving Kurt what he wanted in the form of a slap against his ass, one on each cheek. "There's nothing I love more than an ass that bounces when I smack it." He moved away for just a moment to retrieve some lube and a condom, wrapping the latter around his pulsing cock before lathering it up in the lube. This small break called for another soft moment and he used this opportunity to just tease Kurt's entrance. He did such a good job sucking his cock, he needed to get the Switch nice and needy for him before moving on.

Making sure his hands are relaxed as he feels his wrists being bound. He doesn't protest, as the binding isn't that uncomfortable and he still has feeling in his fingers. Which he flexes with a small whimper as he's given what he was pushing for, the heat pulsing through his entire body which causes his own cock to jump and pulse from that alone. Seeing the condom and lube coming out only brings him to bite his lip in anticipation. Lower back arching for a more comfortable slide in from his position, the switch lets out a soft whine as he's teased back. Clenching around nothing, he tries for a moment to press back in protest. "Please fuck this ass, Monsieur. I've been a good slut." Kurt pleads, wiggling his ass again in hopes to entice him to take advantage of.

It was a sight to behold, Kurt's ass hanging high in the sky, plump and round and exposed for Ben. He couldn't help but grab onto the flesh with one hand as he teased him, rubbing the tip around his entrance, a little linger than anticipated due to how beautiful and desperate the submissive was getting for him. "Have you now?" Ben retorted, though he didn't change his position. Instead Kurt was reward with two hard slaps to each ass cheek, a reminder of his place. "The more you rush me, the longer I will take to fuck you slut." Ben pulled him up by the ropes around his wrists then added a hand around his neck - both to add support as well as to add to reminder, and pulled Kurt's back flush against his chest. His cock was so hard pressed against his ass. "Try that again, slut."

Now the Dom was just being a cruel tease, and Kurt was loving it. Biting his lip as his ass is slapped again, which does wonders towards his cock jumping to life yet again, he can't help but to whimper pathetically. Being pulled up with the slight threat gave him a shudder, as he tilts his head back against the other man's shoulder with a shaky deep inhale. "Of course, Monsieur. This slut forgot his place." He licks his lips, even if he gives another slight grind back again in his current position. "Just very needy for your cock, Monsieur."

Kurt felt good against the front of his body and he couldn’t help but rock his hips into the boy’s ass. “Forget it again and I’ll cage you up and make you watch while I get myself off with no help from you.” That wasn’t a threat he wanted to follow through with, and from the looks of it, didn’t sound like he would need to. He slammed Kurt back down into the bench roughly. One hand was on the back of his neck, pressing his face into the leather while the other gripped at his rope bound hands. There was no warning and no warm up as he slammed into Kurt, giving him no time to stretch around his thick cock before pulling out and slamming into him again.

Being caged and only forced to watch would be a first form of punishment he hadn't gotten yet, and apart of him isn't sure if he's actually enjoy that. Of course it being the point was enough for him to only make a few noises after being manhandled instead of actually voicing his pleasure under the other man's hold. Being roughly used in the past, and always preferring it, the sudden pinch and splitting sensation as he was entered isn't at all unpleasant. It definitely hurts, and he lets out a small yelp in pain, but nothing else comes from it as he bites his lip, pitifully whimpering under his breath.

Ben knew that his point had gotten across once Kurt pulled back his movements and started muffling his sounds. Ben knows what he's capable of doing to Kurt when he doesn't let him adjust to his size, but that was the point. The promise was to use him mercilessly and he was going to deliver on that promise. Even with the yelp of pain, the lack of a safeword encouraged Ben to continue and he did just that, gripping onto his hips and fucking him hard and fast, bottoming out with each stroke. Ben grips roughly at Kurt's hair, then his neck, any part of him that would ensure he remembered this scene for days to come.

While his body takes a hot minute to actually adjust to the pounding, it doesn't stop him from pushing back when he can. He knows he's greedy, and isn't about to hide it even if he's only able to make jerky moans and grunts anytime he feels the Dom's hips meet his ass roughly with every movement. His fingers flex and clench in their bindings, wishing they could grip at something. Anything but air. To no avail. His own cock twitching, aching with every powerful movement inside him. Eyes tearing up, wetting his cheeks and the leather where he's pressed against. Already looking completely wrecked.

Ben, who was normally an attentive lover, gave way to the premise of the scene and acted selfishly. There wasn't even a thought given to Kurt's pleasure, there was only that of his own and how he could use the slut sprawled out before him to reach the ultimate pleasure. There was no thought to change position or let up, only that of fucking the Switch hard and fast, leaving as much damage as he could in his wake as he raced towards his destination. When he felt himself reaching the edge too soon, he slowed the pace for a bit, taking the opportunity to climb up on the bench so that he was practically on top of Kurt when he finally picked up the pace once more.

The harder and longer it lasts, the more the switches brain starts to switch off in the sense of knowing nothing but how he's being used. As if this was something he was made for. Which in the moment he never minds, as Ben is doing a good job at reminding him of his place in the heat of it all. A place he likes being at with a skilled person who knew what they were doing. His whimpers turning into a little bit of actual sobbing cries as his body knows nothing but a mixture of pleasure and pain, which continues to stimulate his own cock without needing to be touched.

Ben was gearing towards the roughest and most degrading part of the scene. He turned his body so that he was at an angle and pressed his bare foot to the side of Kurt's face, pushing him even further into the leather. "Take it you little cock slut." The sobs could be heard and the wetness could be felt on his cheeks. It was what told him that he truly found his place in the scene and that only served to add to Ben's arousal. "Such a perfect little toy for me." There was extra force added to each thrust and he maintained the pace and power for a good while longer. Sweat was starting to form on his forehead and the angle really worked his muscles, but it felt so fucking good he didn't care.

It wasn't a new angle Kurt hadn't been in. It definitely fell into a fine line of humiliation that could have him slip into a panic if he hadn't been too far in his headspace. Eyes squeezing shut, he lets out a soft sob while giving a weak struggle for a split second. Still not verbalizing anything as he continues to grunt and groan, his body aching from being held in this position for so long. He would definitely feel it for days to come, which is what he always preferred.

It was the perfect angle to reach Kurt the deepest and just the push he needed to reach towards the finish line. Ben's strokes reached the point of erratic and needy as he slammed into Kurt's used ass a few more times before finally toppling over the edge. "Fuck." He gripped at the boy's hips, his own jerking  forward as he filled the condom. Ben's body convulsed as his orgasm raked through it until finally he was calm enough to slowly start pulling away from Kurt. This transition was going to be the most important part of the scene so as soon as he pulled out and disposed of the condom, his full attention was on Kurt.

While his own cock was aching and leaking, Kurt managed somehow to not come. It wasn't even that he hadn't been told not to. He wanted to hold onto the low feel-good building heat, even if his own balls kept getting heavier and heavier. By the time it comes to an end, and he's emptied, the switch goes completely limp against the bench. His thighs feel like soup, and he can't help but to adjust his position after Ben moves to dispose of the condom. Slumping down on the bench, with a pained grunt as his ass and back protest.

"Holy fuck. You were the perfect little slut for me." Ben exclaimed with a little more affection in his voice  as he came in contact with the Switch again, his hands massaging the stiff muscles of Kurt's neck, shoulders, and arms before untying the rope around his hands. Slowly, he stretched his arms out, pressing his fingers into the muscles of his arms a bit more before turning his attention to the boy's ass and legs. In one easy swoop, he turned Kurt around so that he was sitting up right on the bench and wrapped a small blanket around him. With each touch, Ben gradually moved from firm to tender, finalizing with a soft touch to the face as he praised him. "Good boy." He lifted Kurt's face with a push to the underside of his chin until their eyes were locked. "Let's take a nice warm bath together, huh? Let me take care of you."

Kurt acts as if in a daze, but moves when prompted to. Every massage against sore muscles is welcomed and feels better than he figured it would. As he's flipped, he winces slightly and weakly clutches at the blanket around his shoulders. His eyes are glassed over, but he somehow meets Ben's gaze. He's not verbal still, has a little slack still as his mind takes a while to come back to reality. It doesn't stop him from nodding though, even if it's slightly delayed, reaching up for Ben silently in a request to be picked up seeing as his legs were still jelly.

There was no rush. Ben was patient and would give Kurt all the time he needed to adjust back to reality outside of the scene. The nod was the only confirmation he needed and even before Kurt so adorably reached up for him, Ben was reaching down to scoop him in his arms. The bathroom was already cleaned and prepped for the aftercare. A stack of towels sat on the counter and as soon as he sat Kurt down on the closed toilet seat, he lit the lavender candles that sat on the shelves above the counter. He ran the bath dropping in some eucalyptus and peppermint oils that were sure to help soothe Kurt's aching muscles. Ben loved a good bath after a scene like he shared with Kurt and the Switch was more than deserving of one. He got in first, she pulled Kurt in right after, settling him right in between his legs. "How are you feeling?" Ben asked as he moved the wash cloth up against Kurt's back.

Being in strong arms after anything that intense, was always something that got him relaxed and calming down. Ben's arms were a perfect example of that, as Kurt slips his arms around his neck and buried his face against a shoulder as he's carried into the bathroom. Even without having anything lit right away, it was a pleasant scent to be carried into. Clutching the blanket around himself once more as he's set down, he winces again but settles to watch Ben go about his aftercare procedure. His senses slowly returning, even if he still felt floaty. Still nothing was said as he's encouraged into the bath. Leaving the blanket behind, he steps into the warm water and slowly sits. Using the Dom as a comforting back support, head leaning against a strong shoulder as he lets his eyes close. Wanting everything to waft in, surround him, ease him back down to Earth. "I'm fine. Promise. Just taking a moment to rev back down." He replies, voice a little husky from how much noise he had made.

Ben didn't mind the quiet they were enveloped in. In fact, he preferred it, needing some time to rest his mind as well. This came easy to Ben, taking care of others. It felt natural to hold Kurt close and to wash his body. It felt natural to lift him out of the tub and wrap him in a towel before bringing him into the living room where dinner and a  bottle of Gatorade was brought to Kurt. He dressed the Switch in a pair of his sweats and held him close while they watched some t.v. They enjoyed some quiet time on the couch until Ben was sure Kurt was okay to leave and he carried him to Sebastian's room.

[sippin-on-red-wine]

Fingers ‘N Thumbs | A One-Shot

Title: Fingers ‘N Thumbs Author: @sippin-on-red-wine​ Rating: Mature Word Count:  2,009 (Snack-Sized Smut) Author’s Note: This one popped up as a result of a few different requests. I hope you like it! We aim to please at @sippin-on-red-wine Co. 

SO without further ado, I give you....

You’d had a shit day. You'd come home, threw your hair up, changed into one of his flannel shirts, just panties underneath. He'd put on your favorite movie (Pitch Perfect) and brought you a glass of wine and a bowl of popcorn. Snuggled up behind you on the couch...

You feel a little better, just being in his arms. But he notices that you aren't laughing at all the parts you usually do, and that means you're still upset

"What's wrong, love?"

"Nothing, Ed, I'll be fine -- really," you insist. You just feel like having a pout.

"Why don't you let me make it better, baby girl....."

You both sit up on the couch, the light is low in the room. He pulls you into his lap, your back against his chest, as he wraps those strong arms around you.

You start to wonder if you misunderstood what he meant, maybe he just thought you needed a hug? Except now he's unbuttoning his flannel shirt that you wear, your bare breasts starting to peek through as the soft fabric falls away...

The movie is still playing, and Ed's in no rush. He undoes four or five buttons, that's it.

He just drags his flattened hand over your neck, your chest, it's such a soothing feeling.

His hands are strong, deft, nimble. They know hundreds and hundreds of songs, just from muscle memory. But he doesn't play anything as well as he plays your body.

He knows exactly how, where, and when to touch you - knows exactly what you need. He can feel the tension all over your body and you can bet your ass he's going to melt every inch of it away...

So he taps his fingers over your collarbones, drags them up the side of your neck to where your jaw meets your ear. He rubs your earlobe between his thumb and index finger and for some reason you feel that... down there. Like some nerve shot straight from your stupid ear to your pussy

But Ed doesn't know that (or does he?), So he continues on.

Your head falls back, your neck muscles relaxing. His chin rests on your shoulder, and he clears away your hair where it bunched up between your heads. Your cheek is pressed against the rough scruff on his face as his fingers dance over your breasts, now.

You bring a hand down between your legs to feel that nerve, but he takes your hands gently

In his and peels them away from your body...

"Let me help you..." his voice trails off.

You marvel at the patience this man has. He makes quick work of the last of the buttons and clears away the fabric, exposing your bare belly. You feel a chill, but he chases it away by spreading both of his flattened hands over your stomach...

His palms are a little rough, but the juxtaposition of that against your smooth, delicate skin feels... exquisite. He rubs over your tummy, down to your hip bones, pressing in on them until your hips open up and your legs relax, dangling down and intertwining with his...

"You gonna tell me what you need, kitten?”

"Touch me, Teddy..." You breathe up toward the ceiling, your head thrown back… And finally, FINALLY he's headed in the right direction. He pats his whole hand over your slit, just tap tap tap-ing, warming your skin there.

His thumb drags up the length of your slit, sending shivers down your spine...

You gasp as he dips into you, the little noise echoing around the room

"There's my girl..." He breathes, twisting his finger in your dripping hole.

A quiet whimper escapes your lips as you bring your feet up, resting them flat on the tops of his thighs, angling your pelvis up a bit.

"That's it baby, let me get to you..."

You moan again, you feel like a big sloppy puddle in his strong and steady arms. His middle & ring finger dip inside of you, while his calloused thumb reaches up to finally find your clit.

You cry out, everything is so hyper sensitive right now from this slow drawl… "Teddy...." Your voice trails off

"What is it sweet girl?.. ‘s that feel good? Taking my fingers inside your pussy?.."

He brushes little circles over your clit as your hips start to move in time with his movements.

"Good girl, show me how you want it..."

You dig your heels into his thighs, seeking out some kind of friction

"Baby..." You gasp. "Make love to me? I need you..inside me.."

"I am inside you, kitten," he teases, thrusting his solid, nimble fingers into your hot, wet entrance.

"Noooooo," you whimper, "You know what I mean..."

"Not until you come for me, right here, in my lap, baby girl..."

His thumb strums over your clit, a light pressure building low in your belly...

You arch your back, his fingers stroking that delicate front wall, while his rough thumb drives your clit WILD, your heels pressed into his thighs...

"...you close, baby?" He mutters in your ear.

You bite your bottom lip, whining, "Uh-huh," you reply…

"Good..."

He's bringing you right to the edge, that familiar place where your brain goes a bit fuzzy, focusing on everywhere that his skin is touching yours. You're nothing but one long, drawn out moan, trying to balance perfectly on the edge. This place is pure bliss, right before you fall apart in his hands, literally.

Ed brings his other hand up to press your lower belly down into his body and you feel just how rock hard he is for you right now.

"Let me have it, kitten, stop fighting it..." He growls in your ear and that’s it, he gets his way as always and you’re crying out, your pussy throbbing as you fall over the cliff, right there, wrapped up in his technicolor arms.

Ed…….

God, it was such a sight. To see her back arch, her thighs clamp down on my hand as she lost all control, totally wild, falling to pieces right in my lap. And all it took was a hand….

She whimpered as I drew my hand away, bringing my fingers up to my lips to suck them clean of all she had just given me, her intoxicating taste spreading in my mouth, leaving me wanting more.

But that would have to wait. Because what I needed right now, more than anything, was to feel her walls squeezing tight around me.. My cock was aching for attention.

Her arms were thrown above her head, her delicate hands resting on the back of my neck. I reached up for them, lacing my fingers in with hers, bringing her hands down to her sides. "Lift up for me, baby?" I implored.

She's out of breath, still, but nods her head in agreement, placing all her body weight on her hands and feet, her heels dug into the little niche right above my kneecaps. She raised her hips up off my lap, just long enough for me to shed my jeans, pushing them with my boxers down to my knees. My dick springs free, desperate to be wrapped up in her slick cunt.

She shifts her weight, balancing, so she can free up one hand under her to reach for me... her fingers wrapping around my cock, lining it up with her tight little hole.

I grab hold of her hips, lowering her down onto me, her sex wrapping me up inch by inch. She shifted her legs, then, dropping them from my knees, pushing away the rough fabric of my jeans until they were pooled at my ankles

Her calves tuck in between my legs as she finally takes my cock fully inside her, both of us groaning, sitting perfectly still for a moment, just admiring these first sensations.

She bends forward, resting her palms on my knees this time, her toned legs dangling over my lap...is she trying to reach the floor? I scooted us closer to the edge of the sofa, leaning back against the soft back cushion, until I felt her pussy come up off my cock, just a bit -- her feet on the floor, now.

I wanted her back where she was, burying every inch of my erection in her warm, sopping wet slit.

I drop my hands from her waist, running my flattened palm up the curve of her spine as she starts to take control, fucking back onto my cock, her feet flat on the floor giving her all the leverage she needs...

I try to form a coherent thought but I'm lost in this; her full asscheeks bouncing in my lap, giving me a peek of that sweet peach as she rides me, my thick cock shiny with her wetness as it reappears right in front of my eyes..

"Fuck, baby... ride that cock… Love to see you bounce on it like that.."

She's leaning down hard into my knees as I watch the soft ripples spread across her bottom as she completely just owns me with her pussy, her pretty mouth dropping mewls and cuss words...

She slows herself, sitting back a bit farther in my lap, picking her feet up and swinging them to the outside of my legs now, her feet dangling above the floor. She moves her hands up my thighs and now she's just straight up torturing me, my cock buried to the hilt inside her as she draws little figure eights over me, the head of my cock bumping up into her very furthest back wall. Fuck, this might be the deepest I've ever been in her...

She's got her balance down and so she eases her hands off of her thighs, slowly bringing them up to her where her hair is all piled up on top of her head, shaking it out and letting it cascade back over her neck and shoulders, her hips still grinding over and over and over me

God, she drives me wild, knows exactly how to push my buttons... I try to be patient, but...

...I can't fucking take it anymore, I NEED her. And so I reach forward, wrapping my hand up in that beautiful hair she just released, tugging her toward my chest until she's all leaned back against me, gasping.

"Spread your thighs, love," I whisper into her ear, pressed snugly up against my neck. She does as I ask. "Good girl... gonna fuck you so goddamn hard now baby..."

I anchor my hands under the backs of her thighs, opening her pelvis up to me even more and giving me the exact position I need to thrust up into her.

"Do it, Teddy." she says.

Her left arm snakes up behind her and wraps up in the hair at the back of my head -- she tugs, hard, payback for before, I suppose...

I'm distracted as I watch her bring her free hand down to her pussy, as she starts tapping on her own clit.. "Fuck me, Teddy," she moans.

What my girl wants, my girl gets.

I give her every ounce of energy I have, thrusting up into her, just fucking jackhammering her tight hole as she rubs away at her clit, she's past moaning now, the sound fills her whole mouth, the whole room, it's wild, primal, and such a fucking turn on...

My fingertips digging into the flesh of her thighs.. Her tits bouncing.. Her sex noises growing gradually louder until she's screaming my name, she's pulling my hair so hard it hurts but I don't fucking care, her torso quaking as she comes on my cock… Her walls crashing in on my shaft, squeezing it until I just can't hold on anymore....

I feel myself emptying inside her warm, safe place. Her body starts to relax instantly, she leans back into my chest and nuzzles up into the crook of my shoulder, reveling in the damage we’d both done to each other.

“Teddy?” She asks. “I feel better now.”

Thanks for reading!

[fae-fucker]

Shatter Me: Chapter 18-19

Chapter 18

My heart must be bleeding out of my chest. 

I look down and can’t understand why there’s no blood on my dress, why this pain in my heart feels so real.

Why does this book act as if witnessing murder and feeling bad about it somehow makes you some sort of pure-hearted saint?

“You killed him,” I manage to whisper. “You just killed him—” 

“You’re very astute.”

I hate Warner Bros. but I live for him pointing out that that Juliette is being a dumbass, because #mood honestly.

Juliette goes all Rambo and slams Warner Bros. up against a wall. 

“You disgust me.” I stare hard into his crystal-cold eyes. “You disgust me—”

“You’re willing to kill and torture people for intimidation, willing to torture Adam to make me obey, but now you’ve proven that you’re also willing to kill people for disobeying and for intimidation! YOU DISGUST ME!!” 

All the chapters since Juliette left whatever facility she was in before have only been there to show how brutal and edgy Warner Bros. is. That’s literally it. There’s been no other plot progression, we still don’t know what he wants with Juliette, it’s just Warner Bros. taking her from scene to scene, sometimes literally holding her arm/hand, showing off how hardcore he is, and then putting her back into her room.

And every time Juliette acts surprised, even though every chapter ends with her realizing how evil Warner Bros. is and how she’ll never work for him.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He twists me around, pinning me against the door where I just held him. He cups my face in his gloved hands, holding my eyes in place. The same hands he just used to kill a man. 

I’m trapped. 

Transfixed. 

Slightly terrified. His thumb brushes my cheek. 

“Life is a bleak place,” he whispers. “Sometimes you have to learn how to shoot first.”

1) “Slightly” terrified? Bitch, what?

2) Tahereh, my girl, why the fuck do you do this? You spend chapters upon chapters building this guy up as some sort of sexy evil mastermind, only to undo it all by having Juliette cream herself over him the moment he’s acting even a little bit intimate. If we ignore the absolutely disgusting message, your protagonist’s reaction to these things will influence the reader’s view of the character. 

If she’s so quick to get “transfixed” right after that brutal display, why the fuck did you write that shit in the first place? You’re undoing your own goddamn work.

3) You’ve also been painting Juliette as this saint who cares about the people and will never work for the Reestablishment for some reason, someone who’s super stubborn and sensitive to displays of violence, yet she’s so quick to forget that murdered guy who’s still bleeding out not too far from where they are? 

None of this makes any goddamn sense. Do writers not think about what they write? I guess why should they, since readers don’t think about what they read?

They return Juliette to Juliette’s room because that’s enough story for now, and Juliette asks about Adam. Warner Bros. asks why she cares.

I’ve cared about Adam Kent since I was in third grade.

1) There was no mention of Adam before he showed up.

2) Why didn’t you recognize him when you first saw him?

3) You said that nobody had ever been nice to you. I’m assuming he has, or else you wouldn’t have liked him (unless he was cute, but I doubt Juliette would get away with having such a “”””trivial”””” reason), so why didn’t you mention him before?

This is all extremely stupid.

“I only kill people if I need to.” 

“Generous.” 

“More than most.”

So you’re telling me that Warner Bros. is nice compared to the other commanders or whatever his title is? You’re telling me that other people in his position kill soldiers randomly?

God this is so edgy and so, so profoundly stupid. 

Warner says some shit about how they’re alike, Juliette says not to compare her disease to his insanity (nice ableism there, asshole), and Warner gets all pissy at her for daring to not call her ability a gift.

“Disease?” He rushes forward, abruptly impassioned, and I struggle to hold my ground. “You think you have a disease?” he shouts. “You have a gift! You have an extraordinary ability that you don’t care to understand! Your potential—” 

“I have no potential!” 

“You’re wrong.” He’s glaring at me. There’s no other way to describe it. I could almost say he hates me in this moment. Hates me for hating myself.

Are you shitting me? This is some “you don’t know you’re beautiful” shit, right here. I hate this. 

At the end of the chapter, we get the most hilarious exchange:

His smile is laced with dynamite. “Go to sleep.” 

“Go to hell.” 

He works his jaw. Walks to the door. “I’m working on it.”

I’m crying. This is supposed to be deep and show how troubled and sad he is. 

GUYS THIS IS THE FUNNIEST FUCKING THING.

We’re 18 chapters in and I still don’t know what the plot is.

Chapter 19

Juliette has edgy nightmares (that are justified, for once) and then Adam just shows up in the middle of the night, I guess.

“Juliette?” He doesn’t move an inch. His gaze is fixed on me: calm, unflappable; 2 buckets of river water at midnight.

THERE YOU GO AGAIN WITH THE BUCKETS TAHEREH.

I’d like to cry into his eyes.

What in the whole fuck.

That is a disgusting image, thanks Juliette.

Adam grabs the pillows and blankets off her bed and tells her to lie down, which gets Juliette all hot and bothered and she wants him to say those words to her “all day every day forever”. Jesus. This got weirdly graphic now all of a sudden.

She ogles his half-naked body some more because she saw a man get killed and this is on her list of priorities right now.

Every breath in my body escapes me.

... Is this her way of saying that she farted?

Because how else am I supposed to interpret that? 

I curl my fingers around the possibility of Adam in my hand and sleep more soundly than I have in my life.

Does she ... fall asleep thinking of the comfort of wanking Adam’s dick?

I’m ... Either I’m reaching for anything entertaining about this book at this point, or this all just got weirdly sexual. I’m assuming it’s the former but you never know.

Anyway, morning comes but Adam doesn’t.

I decide to wash my face. The idea exhilarates me and I’m a little ashamed.

One moment this stupid bitch is ashamed of washing her face, the other she forgets about the corpse bleeding out below her so she can get all soaked up for Warner. 

She notices that Adam is all covered in bruises, which I guess she didn’t see before in the night despite noticing his muscles, but whatever.

My legs feel broken.

No they fucking don’t.

Juliette shows Adam the crumpled paper and he seems relieved, which makes her conclude that he’s super trustworthy and didn’t betray her. 

I step forward and close the door.

I open my mouth to speak. 

“No!” 

My jaw falls off.

Look at this writing. The only good thing about is is that it makes me feel like I’m William fucking Shakespeare.

Adam turns on the showed because there could still be microphones in the bathroom. 

So ... are you telling me that there’s people listening to Juliette or Adam taking a huge dump just to make sure they’re not talking about anything important?

I’m giggling. 

Anyway, obviously this is all just so Adam and Juliette can stand in the hot water together. Juliette will now get wet on every possible level. 

“I can touch you,” he says, and I wonder why there are hummingbirds in my heart. “I didn’t understand until the other night,” he murmurs, and I’m too drunk to digest the weight of anything but his body hovering so close to mine.

How convenient that the only other hot guy can touch you, innit? 

And she’s not freaking out or anything, she’s just so turned on by him that even this completely fucking life-changing fact flies straight over her head. She doesn’t even react much to the fact that she’s standing in the shower with this guy.

Hey, who needs a consistent personality or realistic reactions when there’s a man in the scene?

His body presses closer and I realize I’m paying attention to nothing but the dandelions blowing wishes in my lungs.

*sigh* What?

Adam is touching Juliette all over because he can (no that’s literally the reason he gives her) and she’s all about it even though she hasn’t given any consent, because that’s something we want to reinforce.

His fingertips are 10 points of electricity killing me with something I’ve never known before. Something I’ve always wanted to feel.

Bow-chicka-wow-wow.

Turns out that Adam has known he can touch her for a while now, because he tried to wake her up earlier in their cell when she was screaming. 

Anyway, Adam blue-balls them both a bit more by taking his shirt off, because of course he does:

I follow the line of his jaw down his neck to the peak of his collarbone; I memorize the sculpted hills and valleys of his arms, the perfection of his torso. The bird on his chest. 

The bird on his chest. 

A tattoo. 

A white bird with streaks of gold like a crown atop its head. It’s flying.

How ... convenient that it matches with her symbolic daydreams. I’m assuming it will be explained.

“I’ll find a way to talk to you,” he says, and his hands are reeling me in and my face is pressed against his chest and the world is suddenly brighter, bigger, beautiful. The world suddenly means something to me, the possibility of humanity means something to me, the entire universe stops in place and spins in the other direction and I’m the bird.

I’m the bird and I’m flying away.

So here we have confirmation that Juliette doesn’t care much about the world or humanity, yet she still somehow clings to her morals and refuses to work with the Reestablishment? What kind of sense does that make?

Oh, sorry. I forgot that there’s a Man in this room and that men both make everything better and give meaning to a woman’s world, my bad. 

So ... there are cameras in her room, correct? Doesn’t Adam think that it’ll be suspicious that he’s clothed and wet, just like she is? If they see them together like this, won’t they realize that he touched her and survived?

This shit better have consequences or else there’s no point to those cameras.

[hide-the-cutlery]

The Four Horsemen

Today was awful. I felt absolutely manic. I was irritated. I was pissed. I was emotional. I was throwing things around while cleaning. (Side note: if you ever want to add some aggravation to your life, try organizing hangers and putting them neatly into a box. Jesus fucking Christ.) I posted a comment on Facebook that turned volatile, where I ended up calling about 25 random strangers idiots, just because I felt like bickering. Talk about backfiring — it essentially wound up with people just picking on me. I swore out loud, loudly, which I knew would upset my parents. I went to the gas station to smoke a cigarette, and when I got home, my father just happened to be in the hallway in front of my room, no doubt trying to look casual, but with the intent of smelling me to see if I smoked one. I think my mother is frightened of me because I couldn’t contain an explosion of frustration I had when I was trying to talk to her and had to force myself to try to speak in a calm tone. I also think she is judging me because I couldn’t stay awake during the afternoon, mostly due to a medication increase. She flat out told me I’ve been loopy the past few days and that it scares her. It’s equally upsetting that I’m only trying to feel better, but it’s scaring people. I’m still trying to adjust to the increase, and after reading up on the medication, the risks and side effects are scary and just plain suck. I’m already fat enough, I can’t wait to gain more weight. Nothing seems to satiate me; I was contemplating making a bagel a few minutes ago. At 2:30am. It would figure that just as I feel like I’m ready to start dating, even though I’m disgusted with my body, I now get to be even more disgusting and insecure. Fucking hell.

The meds are giving me wild dreams. Last night I dreamt I was Baker acted and learned that the cops had been called on me several times, but had gotten stuck in traffic each time. I know I physically attacked at least one person and stabbed my mother. In my dream, my parents had also moved me out of my room and into another. (This has actually happened in real life, but I knew they were going to make me switch rooms. After being in their house a few months after I got out of the hospital, I was kicked out of my room, which I grew up in, and moved into my sister’s old room. She still had a child’s bed when she moved out. So now I’m 32, sleeping on a child’s bed, in my sister’s room, while she’s off living in her nice apartment and getting a useful degree and thriving without a battle with addiction and her mental health. She’ll probably never end up broke, with a useless degree, living in our parents’ house, like I have been the past 2 years because I can’t fucking take care of myself. Anyway, the reason I was relocated? My mother wanted to keep the “guest” (my) room nice for when guests come. Which has been once in the two years and some months since I’ve been here. And it was my grandparents. Clearly I’m still holding a resentment towards her about that, but I seem to have gone on a tangent — back to my dream.) The rooms in the dream weren’t in a house, but in an apartment arranged like the one I spent my freshman year in, except the shapes and sizes were different. The one my stuff was put into while I was at the mental health facility was very strangely shaped and extremely small. Occupying my old, larger, square-shaped room was a girl I used to work with, who I always hated out of jealousy. She began the same position I held about 3 years after I had been hired. I had been promoted by then, so I technically outranked her, but she was the fucking golden girl in my old office. She could do no wrong. The sad thing is if I wasn’t so jealous of her, we probably could have been friends. We even discovered we had dated two brothers! Within months, she was going to conferences around the country and Canada. I was never sent on a conference — just medical leave. Yes, my old boss actually told me I needed a break, and I had to stop working and go on short-term disability for 6ish weeks. I know she was trying to save my ass, because the quality of my work had slipped so low it was probably a fire-able offense, but really now, how many people are told they can’t work until they get some rest and time to focus on addressing some of the stress and grief they are obviously experiencing? I was even sober at the time. Well, what I mean by “sober” is that I wasn’t drinking. Getting so fucking high on Xanax every day, though, that’s a different story... I was getting drunk again by the time I came back to work.

My dreams are terrifyingly realistic. They usually follow the same storyline: I end up involved with a group of male friends and tend to gravitate towards one. He is usually aloof; I spend time with the rest of them to get closer to him. None of them are real people, but creations of my own, lonely mind. It’s funny, but the dreams usually involve Star Wars or WoW. That, or I dream about my ex or old best friend, who I was in love with from my junior year of high school and well into college. Sometimes they blend into one person, which isn’t that strange. They reminded me a lot of each other, and I’d give anything to have one (or both) of them back into my life. Their family is usually around, and more times than not, they are focused on a girl that is not me. Everything feels so real, and I believe I’ve written before about how, even in the dream, I feel/think it shouldn’t be another goddamn girl. It should be me. Often I will become violent towards the other girl, if given the opportunity. I even experience a sense of betrayal that carries on long beyond the dream and into the reality I am sometimes cursed with upon waking. And, of course, I have drinking dreams. Not so surprisingly, it’s actually not only drinking — I’ve had dreams recently about pills and even coke (which I’ve only done 3-4 times!). I have a friend who sees the same psychiatrist as I do, who told me he can prescribe me something to stop the realistic dreams, but honestly, I don’t want that. The pathetic truth is I like my dreams. It’s a way for me to have the opportunity to interact with people I desperately miss, even if it’s painful on occasion. It’s a way to lash out at people I’m angry with without actually doing so. It’s a way to drink and use (although those dreams are usually a saga of finding and keeping the stuff instead of actually having/using it). It’s a way to escape the life I’ve built and despise.

Sometimes I feel like I only live for other people. When I step back and observe my life, it’s often hard for me to point out something I enjoy or that brings me happiness (besides my kitties), including friend/relationships (unless turning back time was realistic). There are are voids in my heart and soul I fear will never be filled. I know I have people who love me and want to be in my life, and I’m trying to let them come in closer instead of pushing them away. The reality, though, is this: I don’t like my life and feel I could never be content unless I morphed it into my old one. I miss the familiarity of it. I miss days on the couch, just watching tv and chatting with people. I miss having my cats inside with me. I miss being the boss. I miss gaming, cranking up my music as loud as I want. Watching, doing, wearing, fucking, leaving, buying, smoking, drinking, taking whatever/whoever/wherever/whenever I wanted. Being messy. Isolating. Escaping. Again, the brutal truth is that I wanted to go out today. I’m sick of relying on pills so I don’t have to face reality. I hate that I can’t face reality — that everything needs to be tuned down so I can function. As I was looking at my life today, I contemplated for a while what I could change to make it enjoyable. “Happy, joyous, and free.” I couldn’t think of anything, and maybe there is a possibility that it’s simply not comprehendible to me at this point. Maybe I’m just not that far along in my healing/recovery yet, and lord knows I need treatment for having BPD or bipolar disorder or whatever the hell theydecide I have as well as the anxiety, panic disorder, depression, substance abuse problems, OCD tendencies, impulse control issues — they being anyone who takes care of me in some sort of fashion. In other words, all my providers.

They have all told me that I cannot drink ever again because my liver can’t take it. I could be dead in weeks, months, a day, who knows. Regardless of the time, I won’t make it out alive if I decide to go for a trip down memory lane. One of the only times I’ve seen a look of actual concern in my psychiatrist’s eyes (his voice is level, calm, and almost caring, but his eyes betray him) was while he was telling me “you don’t want to die from liver failure”. My primary described to me what would happen as my organs would begin to shut down: unbelievable pain, weakness, fluid swelling my whole body, bleeding out from the veins in my throat, no hope... But I don’t want to go like that — in a hospital, attached to monitors, needles under my skin, aides, nurses, doctors, family all shuffling in and out, everyone knowing by my yellow eyes and skin that I did it all to myself. Imagine the shame! No, I’d rather it be like being found on the bathroom floor. I feel like I wouldn’t be missing a lot. How much is there to miss in a world you can’t face? In a reality where you can’t think of a single possible thing to, not even realistically, but hypothetically change to make you happy? (Besides the time thing, or undoing a hell of a lot of bad memories from awful, unfair experiences). Maybe it’s my disease, as they call it, talking. Maybe it’s just something I’ll have to experience instead of trying to imagine. Maybe it’s a lot of things, but all I can possibly fathom, a life beyond my wildest dreams, doesn’t add up to the responsibility I imagine I have to stick around for others. Sometimes, all I feel is Terror, Bewilderment, Frustration, and Despair. No one knows those feelings like I do, or I should say no one experiences them like I do. My feelings are intense — too intense, I’ve been told by therapists. So yeah, Terror, Bewilderment, Frustration, and Despair push me to wanting to go out so badly sometimes. One last hurrah, and then just end it, but I couldn’t live with the guilt I’d feel. What if it persisted through death? I couldn’t handle that, but ha, I’d be shit out of luck at that point. I suppose I should note that these intense feelings were much more present earlier, but now all I feel is grogginess. It’s 4:40am. I think I’ll read this over once, even though I know it’s confusing, choppy, and just bad, and then try for some sleep. I know my dream self has people she’s waiting to see.

[remy-strange-lebeau]

Secret Heists Ch. 2

“Wade, Logan, y'all in position?” Remy LeBeau began checking on his team’s status, every little detail had to be executed perfectly for this first heist. This target has some of the most famous artifacts in the world. The golden fleece, Excalibur, the necklace of the Lady of the Lake, three powerful artifacts in one room, one vault. The perfect target.

“Uh, Remy? We might wanna get a move on, big ugly important guy is back. You guys know, the kind of guy gold diggers love. Rich, powerful, lonely, all that jazz.”

This could be bad. He wasn't supposed to be home for hours. Looking over at Anna, they both knew that this required some quick finesse. “Strange, ya think you coul distract him? We need it now, if you'd be so kind.”

“Remy, it would be my pleasure. One nice distraction, coming up.” Running out onto the grounds of the English manor, the Sorcerer Supreme quickly changed from a special stealth suit he crafted into a slim, navy suit, perfect for meeting a noble. Watching the car pull around the drive, Stephen held his hands behind his back, a faint smile on his lips. “Not everyday you meet someone of this… stature.”

“Thank ya kindly, Strange. Wade, Logan, keep da guards at bay. Anna an ah are gon try get dis door open.” Pulling out a lockpick set, the King of Thieves began digging around the lock, feeling each tumbler click as the large metal door began to swing open. “Ya ready, chere?”

“Shall we, swamp rat? We don’t got all night.” The Southern Belle strutted inside the treasure room, teasing her lover as she passed. “Well, what are ya waitin’ for? A royal invitation?”

“Well, dat woul’ be nice, but, uh, ah don’t t’ink we gon be able ta get one. Seein’ how as we are currently robbin’ a nobleman.” Remy followed her, chuckling a bit, his eyes scanning for the items they came for. “Wade, Logan, report in. What’s y’all’s status?”

“Well, Cajun, I ain’t seen nobody out here. Strange must be doin’ a damn good job with that noble, huh?” Logan was monitoring the halls closest to the vault, the second line of defense for the two inside.

“Remy, pal, why’d I get stuck with this madman? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I really do appreciate that you chose me for this, but Lester too?”

“Wade, laddy, ya best learn to work and deal with me, I am in this for the long haul. Besides, I remember us working fairly well together before.”

“Yeah! Before you tried killing me!”

“That was business, Wade. Do you really think I enjoyed that?”

“Yes, I do think that. Because you fucking did. Don’t try to deny it, asshole.”

“Wade, shut yer goddamn mouth, before I come and shut it for you!” Logan was obviously annoyed now. Anytime Wade spoke, it was annoying, and he wanted nothing more than to cut out the Merc’s tongue. But that had to wait, sounded like someone was coming. “Remy, I think we might have company.”

“Wade, Lester, help Logan handle them. Stephen, incapacitate our host please? Leave some false memories in everyone. If it don’t work, den y’all know what ta do. Let’s go.” The Cajun could see the items now, as well as heaps of gold bars. Pulling out several bags, Remy and Anna began putting the gold into a bag, Excalibur being slung over his shoulder while the fleece and necklace were placed into a separate sack. The sound of fighting could be heard, coming closer and closer, making the master thief’s heart race even faster. The thrill of nearly being caught was exhilarating, adrenaline coursing through the Cajun’s veins. “So, uh, chere, now probly ain’t da best time for it, ah know, but how bout a lil on da job fun?”

“Really Remy? The fight is bein’ brought to us, an’ the first thought in your mind is havin’ some fun?”  The Southern Belle shook her head, looking away from her husband to hide her look that would contradict what she insinuated.  She wanted to have some fun, she wanted to feel him inside her, and the prospect of possibly getting caught was even more exciting.  “If, and only if, those guards up there don’t make it down here. Then, and only then, will it happen.”

“Well maybe ah shoul’ go lend a hand, den, non?” Of course Remy would speed the fight along to please his wife, he'd rush anything to do so.

“Not so fast, sugah, we still got a few t’ings to grab.” The sound of the fight had died down, and Anna made her way to her lover, placing her hand lightly on the back of his neck. Proceeding to wrap her arms around him, kissing along that powerful jaw her Cajun had. “Well, that died down quick. Ah suppose ah should keep my word.”

“Hey Remington, is this a bad time? What should we do with the bodies? Burn them outside? Bury them in the garden? Soak them in acid?”

“Wade, do what ya want, ah don't wanna be interrupted for a while.” Pulling out the communications unit, Gambit pulled his wife onto his lap, letting his hands wander around her body a bit. “So, what woul’ mon chere like?”

All Anna did was unzip her husband's jacket, running a finger down his chest with that playful little grin on her face. She bent down slightly, kissing those lips that tasted like his favorite bourbon. How was he so intoxicating? Just him looking at her was enough to start a fire inside her, let alone his touch.

“Well, ah t’ink ah have mah answer.” Remy gasped out, biting her lip as he pulled away. Her green eyes were intense, matching his own ruby irises. Slipping out of his jacket, his tan skin glistened in the light with a sheen of sweat. Grabbing Anna's hips, he rocked against her, teasing her with the throbbing in his pants.

With that, the southern belle let out a gasp,the desire to have her Cajun inside of her growing quickly. Every single time felt like the first time all over again, the rush, the thrill, the incredible pleasure he gave her. The way he focused on her pleasure before he got his own was so sexy to her, but then again, what wasn’t sexy about him? The way he looked at her had not changed since the day they met, after the incident in the Badlands, where he proved the good in his heart. Everything else he did didn’t matter anymore.

With her hands frantically trying to find a hold on him, trying to pull him closer, the swamp rat could feel her desire as if it were his own. He wanted to feel her again, feel her fingers grabbing his hair, pulling on it, her lips on his neck. “Cherie, these clothes ain't helpin’ much, eh? How bout we lose 'em?”

All she could do was shake her head, fumbling for the button of his pants, desperate to undo it. “Sugah, we ain't got time for that now, jus’ help me here?”

-----------------------------------------

“Where you guys been? We've been trying to get a hold of you for a while now!” Wade stood next to Logan, who probably heard more than he wanted. Strange was a ways off, perched comfortably on a couch, reading what appeared to be an ancient volume.

“Sorry, somethin’ came up. Shall we get outta here?” Remy's voice was smooth again, his and Anna's appearances betraying nothing. Everyone moved to the exit, Logan leading the way. With their loot in tow, all they needed to do was get out of the area, before anyone else showed up.

“So, Remy, pal. I was wondering, you know, if you have another job lined up?” Wade inquired of the Cajun, hoping for the answer he wanted.

“Well, ah was t’inkin' about it. Gimme a bit o’ time, and ah'll let ya know.”

“Sweet,  ‘cause, this was great. Really, I enjoyed it.”