#rubber ration

[bixels]

The idea that uni protesters are "elitist ivy-league rich kids larping as revolutionaries" on Twitter and Reddit and even here is so fucking funny to me if you actually know anything about the student bodies at these unis. Take it from someone who's going to one of the biggest private unis in the US, 80% of the peers I know are either from the suburbs or an apartment somewhere in America, children of immigrants, or here on a student visa. I've heard about one-percenter students, but I've never met one in person. Like, don't get me wrong, the institution as a whole is still very privileged and white. I've talked with friends and classmates about feeling weird or dissonant being here and coming from such a different background. But in my art program, I see BIPOC, disabled, queer, lower-income students and faculty trying to deconstruct and tear that down and make space every day. So to take a cursory glance at a crowd of student protesters in coalitions that are led by BIPOC & 1st/2nd-gen immigrant students and HQ'd in ethnic housings and student organizations and say, "ah. children of the elite." Get real.

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Gas rationing began on the East Coast in May of 1942. In this photo, Marjoria Doyle gets her coupons and sticker on July 9 at P.S. 69. There were eight coupons per page and each coupon could be used once a week. The number of gallons allowed depended on need; those whose need was deemed non-essential were only allowed 3 gallons. Commuters got a little more, those whose work depended on driving a bit more than that, and essential service providers such as doctors and clergy got up to 8 gallons. Most cars at the time got around 15 mpg.

The program was started not so much to save gasoline, which was in plentiful supply, but tires, which were made of rubber. The Japanese had cut off the country's main source of supply and the shortage was critical. Eventually this accelerated the development of synthetic rubber, but rationing remained in effect until 1945.

Photo: Murray Becker for the AP

[misforgotten2]

Which is the "Rubber" Anniversary? The 11th? 3.141592653rd? אth?

Another ad for something you can't buy.

Life - January 17th 1944

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Three-Year Terms Given Two Men For Theft of 40 Tires," Ottawa Citizen. March 3, 1943. Page 1. --- Up for sentence for a series of break-ins and tire thefts involving more than 40 tires valued at approximately $1,000, Dorilas Corneau [TOP], 19, and Florian Lemieux, 23, both of no address, were given three years in Portsmouth penitentiary, Kingston, by Magistrate Glenn E. Strike.

In passing sentence, MagistrateStrike said the nature of the offences and the manner in which they had been committed showed that they had been carefully planned. They were not the sort of offences which young men sometimes committed "on the spur of the moment," he said, and the accused had stolen articles which could be disposed of at possibly more than their actual worth.

He noted that Corneau had been before the court on at least three previous occasions.

His Worship suggested that the court "may have an opportunity of dealing with the people who bought the tires."

Crown Attorney Raoul Mercier assured the court that a complete investigation into the sale of the stolen tires would be made. ///

"Ottawa Men Given Penitentiary Terms For Theft of Tires," Ottawa Journal. March 3, 1943. Page 1. ---- Dorilas Corneau, 19, and Florian Lemieux, 23, both of no given address, were sentenced to three years in Kingston Penitentiary by Magistrate Strike in police court today, for a series of "black market" rubber thefts. Both were convicted on February 19 on charges of theft involving more than 40 automobile tires valued at upwards of $1,000.

In passing sentence Magistrate Strike said he was dealing with "serious major crimes". "In view of the shortage of rubber this type of offence ceases to be minor offence", he said. "It becomes a major crime they stole articles that could be disposed of for more than their actual worth."

Lionel Choquette, defence counsel, said that if the demand for rubber were not so great and certain people were not so willing to buy the tires, the temptation would not be so great to steal them.

Magistrate Strike said while this was true, the court may have an opportunity of dealing with persons who buy these tires.

Crown Attorney Raoul Mercier, K.C., assured the magistrate that "a full investigation has been made regarding persons who bought these tires".

[AL: Corneau was 20, unemployed, from Ottawa, French Canadian, and had served three terms in jail and one in the reformatory. He was convict #7243 at Kingston Penitentiary and worked in the mail bags. He was transferred June 1943 to the lower security Collin's Bay Penitentiary, becoming inmate #2075, and released July 1945. Lemieux was 23, a truck driver but unemployed for two months prior to his crime, and also a French Canadian from Ottawa. He had no previous criminal record. He was convict #7242 at Kingston Penitentiary and worked in the mail bags. He was transferred July 1943 to the lower security Collin's Bay Penitentiary, becoming inmate #2080, and released on parole in late 1944.]

[ajarofpickledtears]

ok so I'm not sure how common or normal this is, but my parents (and therefore my sister and I) always put empty milk cartons (for example) upside down over the drain in the sink so everything gets out before throwing it away

now, the problem:

I have asked my dad and his girlfriend repeatedly to clean away the remnants of their oatmilk after throwing away the carton since due to oat milk being a little thicker, it doesn't just all go down the drain, and you can't necessarily just wash it away either once it dries.

reason why I ask this?

because shit gets mouldy.

I do not like doing the dishes because... dirty. I can only do them with gloves on. Cleaning the toilet is a struggle.

y'all wanna know how we found out it's possible to take these drain plug thingies apart? because they were covered in mould and I was trying to figure out how to clean in between layers etc. that was a while ago.

dad also likes to say it's my fault for not doing the dishes sooner, like. what.

or comes with the "well when you live alone..." like mate I have lived alone for a year, in the UK, and didn't get mould in my sink because I wash things off.

pretty sure I'm the only one who's ever cleaned those things. don't know who did the dishes last time but didn't look like the drain itself had even been wiped off (hello oat milk, my old friend). after the dishes had been done. that's some selective cleaning lmao.

really love being greeted with furry dots pretty much every time I check that drain is2g.

[nereidprinc3ss]

rubber duck

in which reader is sick and spencer takes care of his girl!!

fluff (18+ for nudity) warnings/tags: reader referred to as girl, non-sexual undressing + nudity/intimacy, reader takes bath, spencer doesn't but he is in fact present a/n: heeeeyyy guys.... sorry for not posting for a month... accept this as a token of my gratitude and know that smut is in the works. keep sending requests, might not answer them but you never knoww!!

Spencer gets home around ten PM. Granted, it’s not a completely unreasonable time for someone to be asleep, but for you? A person who’d rather not go to bed at all than wake up before eight in the morning? You being passed out on the couch at this time is definitely abnormal.  

He drops his bag on the coffee table as he approaches, kneeling next to where you’re curled up in the dark room. Part of him doesn’t want to wake you if you’re tired, but he’s mildly concerned. Normally after him being away all week you’ll stay up until he gets home regardless of how late (or early) it is. Ambient light coming in through the window allows him to see the sickly sheen to your skin, and he feels your forehead with the back of his hand. 

“Spence?” you murmur, trying to blink the sleep out of your eyes. His response is equally quiet, wavering slightly. 

“Hey. Are you feeling okay, angel?” 

Even though you decidedly are not, your spirit lifts considerably at the sight of him in front of you. A wave of caramel hair falls over his furrowed brow as he scans your face, looking for signs that something is wrong. You brush it away, hand coming to rest on his cheek. 

“I’m fine. I missed you a lot.” 

Your voice is a paper-thin whisper, giving you away even as you try to downplay your condition. 

“I missed you too, but I’m a little worried. You’re pretty warm.” His eyes dart away from your face and down your body, seeming to notice your attire for the first time. “Did you go to work?” 

“I tried to. But I had to come home at early. I guess I didn’t make it all the way to bed.” 

This seems to worry him even more, if the way his eyes narrow and the line of his mouth tightens is anything to go by.  

“How long have you been asleep?” 

“Well... what time is it?” you ask sheepishly, still disoriented. 

“10:20.” 

“Oh god,” you moan, burying your face into a pillow (which does not make breathing any easier through all the congestion), “I’ve been sleeping for eight hours!” Panic wells in your chest at the ridiculous notion that you somehow lost an entire day to sleep.  "I didn't mean to-"

“Shh, relax, it's fine. Your immune system works a lot more efficiently when you’re asleep. It’s the best thing you can do when you’re sick. Studies show that melatonin may actually be an effective antiviral, and people who sleep seven hours a night are 300% less likely to develop an illness than people who sleep only five hours a night.” 

Despite yourself, you smile into the pillow at his unprompted information dump.

“So... am I... 500% more likely to be better tomorrow?” 

He laughs, running a hand through your hair. 

“I don’t even know where you got that number.” 

“I failed statistics in high school,” you mutter, pushing yourself up onto an elbow. 

“Honey, that’s Algebra.” 

You bury your face in your hand and laugh at your own stupidity- before it devolves into a coughing fit.  

“Ugh, I’m sorry. I know you hate germs,” you say once you’ve managed to get the coughing under control. You look at his face, but there are no signs of disgust or fear. 

“I could never hate your germs. But I am worried about the cough... do you think a bath would help?” 

You mull it over. Part of you wants to rot on the couch forever, but the more rational part knows you should definitely get up and try to take care of yourself. With a helping hand from Spencer you rise, stumbling into his waiting arms like a foal on shaky legs. Immediately you feel fatigued, but he patiently guides you to the bedroom and sits you on the mattress before disappearing into the adjoining bathroom. 

For a few minutes the only sound aside from you catching your breath is the tub filling from the other room. Soon he returns, to find you curled up on the bed and barely conscious once more. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he sighs, gathering you up in his arms and helping you to your feet once more. “You really don’t feel good, huh?” 

You shake your head, allowing yourself to be carefully herded into the bathroom. Spencer moves to sit on the edge of the steaming tub, pulling you forward gently by your belt loops. Deftly he begins to undo your jeans as you fumble with the buttons on your shirt. 

“I feel like I’m dying,” you groan. He glances up at you.

“I wish you would have told me you were sick. I would have come home earlier.”  

“I thought about it,” you admit sheepishly, “but I figured better I be sick and alone than more people potentially end up dead because I’m too needy.” 

Your boyfriend sighs, resting his hands on your hips as he looks up at you with a mix of earnestness and admonishment.  

“At least tell me next time. I don’t like the idea of you here all alone without anyone knowing you’re ill.” His fingers press gently into your flesh to emphasize his point. “Okay?” 

“Okay,” you agree softly, without hesitation. Spencer’s expression softens too, and he leans forward to press a kiss to your sternum. 

“In,” he directs after you wiggle out of your jeans, getting out of the way and helping you into the water. He watches as you carefully submerge yourself, a little tense as if he’s ready to jump into action at any second. “Is it too warm? I tried not to make it too hot because your body temperature is al-” 

“It’s perfect,” you reassure, sinking further in. Steam billows up around you and you sniff. “Lavender?” 

Spencer nods, settling on the floor next to you. 

“And mint. I’m surprised you can actually smell it.” 

Normally you’d tease him for his fussing, but the minty steam really does seem to be helping you breathe a bit easier. After only a few minutes, you feel noticeably better. 

“Will you read to me?” you ask dropping your head to your shoulder to look at him. 

He’s leaning against the wall and monitoring you with a contented look on his face. At the suggestion his eyebrows raise. 

“Of course. What do you want to hear?” 

“Fairytales. But only the super gory ones. The more disturbing the better.” 

“What? No Jane Austen?” 

“Ugh, no. I need to hear about terrible things happening to beautiful princesses so I can feel seen.” 

A small smirk graces his lips as he regards you, eyes sparkling with humor and thinly veiled affection. 

“You are utterly ridiculous.” 

“You have to be nice to me when I’m sick,” you whine, slinking lower into the bubbles. Spencer hums in sympathy, running his hand through the water to check the temperature before trailing his knuckles over your arm. 

“My poor sick girl,” he teases. You huff indignantly, attempting to hide the way his words make you melt into the bathwater. 

“Just get the book, Spencer.” 

“Yes ma’am.” He kisses your forehead (covertly gauging your fever, you’re sure) before pushing off the ground. You watch him leave, heart overflowing with adoration even though you still feel sick. Maybe it’s the bath that’s helping, or maybe it’s just his presence.  

A minute later he returns to his post beside you bearing Grimm’s Fairytales and a tall glass of water, which he tells you to drink all of before he starts reading. Regardless of how unwell you feel, you find the energy to make sarcastic comments about the characters’ intelligence and the implausibility of the plot (it’s a fairytale, Spencer reminds you) but soon the soothing cadence of his voice enthralls you. The illustrations and the story capture your imagination as you rest your head and arms on the side of the tub. 

More time has gone by than you realize when you begin to shiver in the now lukewarm water. Spencer notices, finally setting the book down. 

“Ready to get out?” 

You nod and he helps you step out of the tub, pulling you close and wrapping you with a fluffy towel. Absolutely no heed is given to the state of his own clothing as your wet skin soaks his shirt, or his own health as he breathes in your air. 

“I’m gonna get you sick, Spence,” you say anxiously, making a feeble attempt to pull away. Spencer doesn’t even begin to allow it, holding you even tighter. The honesty of his words is reflected in his eyes as he looks down at you adoringly. 

“I can live with the idea of spending a few days at home together.” 

You lean into him further, too tired to hold much of your own weight up. 

“I can’t believe you have to intentionally get sick to get time off work.” 

“You’re definitely worth it.” He kisses the top of your head and rubs your back for a moment.  

“And to think,” you muse, the words muffled by his shirt, "when we first met, you wouldn’t even shake my hand.” 

[tojisun]

THAT BLOOD AS LUBE THING!!!! HERES MY TAKE!!!!!!

Logan having been punched in the mouth so many times that when he has you finally bent over, your both panting and full of aggressive adrenaline with your knees pushed up to your chest, his giant hands splayed over the backs of your thighs, he lets a bloody string of spit fall from his mouth and onto your exposed cunt from where he’s absolutely shredded the crotch of your costume.

THIS SEXY THING IN REFERENCE TO THAT? GODDAMN YEA cw: smut; f!reader; blood as lube; fucking in public; thrashing bcuz of oversensitivity - all consensual; a touch of poolverine/reader poly :3 this is v short im sorry! // divider by @/plutism!

the guttural hunger ripples in waves as logan tears through your pants, each rip sending his hackles rising, the tension between the two of you brewing, until he’s got you fully bare and ready for him. your scent hits him hard, and he almost buckles down, his cock jumping underneath his suit, before he’s got your thighs cushioning either side of his head.

he takes in a greedy drag, nose flaring at the waft of your aroma—so wet and messy and all his.

logan’s eyes flick up to you for a moment—a question—and you give him the subtlest of nods, and it’s all he needs to pry his maw open. the thick string of blood and spit mixed together falls like a diabolical glob on your cunt, and watching him do this makes your breath hitch.

everything about this is rugged, animalistic, but it is also so, so hot. you try to rationalize past your need, telling yourself that this isn’t the right time to be fucked, not when logan’s bleeding all over your cunt, but a rough tongue presses flat on your slit and your thoughts are razed into fractures.

you keen, bucking in his hold, as your hands fly to grip anything you can, trying so desperately to ground yourself. logan doesn't let you, digging in like a man starved and aching; he ruts his bloodied mouth all over your pussy, hot tongue fucking past your folds and into the tight ring of your cunt, and slurps.

“fuck!” you cry out, fists tightening around whatever remains of your pants. your head falls backwards, exposing your throat as you scream.

logan can eat pussy, you’ve known that for years, but there is a curl of something primal in the way he eats you out tonight—all filthy and overwhelming, his silence making you feel ever more so like a prey being devoured. tears are already springing up from your eyes, beading, until a sob wretches itself from your throat because it’s—

it’s too good!

you’re babbling nonsense, you realize later, your words slurring when you beg and moan, telling him how it’s too much and how he needs to stop—“please ‘gan!”—as you feel your mind getting scrambled with the intensity of this all. you try to dislodge yourself from his hold, thrashing, but logan pushes you down with a firm hand on your belly, subduing every effort to rip his mouth off from your cunt.

you’re fully crying now, shaking, and you try warning him that you’re about to cum—the dregs of your ecstasy peaking with every lick and sharp teeth dragging to nip at your folds and at your clit—but you can’t. you’re too drunk off of the pleasure, and your body feels like a rubber pulled taut, ready to snap as your climax builds—

tipping—

then logan’s pulling away with a snarl.

“no!” you keen, sobbing, trembling hands reaching to pull him back before your euphoria dies down, but logan’s already straightening up and folding himself over you, his bulk easily covering you. “i wan’ cum! logan, please—”

“shh,” he coos, like he isn’t wet with your slick and his tan skin tinged with the slightest of red. you see yourself on his beard, droplets of your slick glinting like little diamonds as he leans in.

he pushes your hair away from your face with a grin, and it looks mean but not unkind; just teasing because he knows how much your need has grown. he must have. no one knows your body more than anyone else, after all, and you are sure that he knew that you were there, on the throes of your orgasm, waiting for it to spill into a stuttering blanket of white.

“i’ve got you, darl,” he continues, like he didn’t just edge you off. “gon’ fuck you good now—prepared you nice f’me, after all.”

oh.

you hiccup, still glaring up at him with vitriol despite the promise, but you feel yourself loosening up as the tension leaves your body. he hums, still petting your cheek, and you grumble, looking away because you can’t stand the force of his attention—all that crinkled-eye smile and raggedly endearing taunts he chirps at you.

logan hums, satisfied at seeing you placated, then he’s moving back up again. the action draws air into your exposed cunt and you move to shut your legs close, at least even for a bit, but he wrenches them apart with a heavy hand pressing down on your inner thigh, and slots himself properly between your legs. you roll your eyes at him, dutifully ignoring the way your cheeks are warming up at being so exposed before logan while he’s still all clothed with his suit.

he chuckles with a fond shake of his head, and paws for the zipper on his suit. the sound of it dragging makes you twitch, feeling hypersensitive again. you feel him getting excited too, his chest heaving when he finally pulls his cock out from his pants. you stare at it, still so unused to the size because logan’s big, yes, and he’s big everywhere—from his thighs to his delts, and now his cock.

it’s girthy, webbed with thick veins, and leaking; pearly pre- beading on the head, and nothing has ever made your mouth water more than seeing it.

you want it in you, yes, but fuck, you want your throat stuffed too. want it fucked raw and ruined; want to be used by logan—

but your cunt is wet and itching, and you want to cum so, so bad.

you wonder what you must have looked because logan’s stuffing his fingers in your mouth, as though in placation, and you suck on them, greedy, not minding the faint taste of earth and salty sweat. it makes you even headier, filling you up with the reminder of where you two are, and you whimper, need bloating, because fuck, you need him now.

logan is still quiet even when he taps his cock over your clit, sending goosebumps to rise all over your skin.

“ready, pretty bird?” he asks like he can’t smell the desperation rolling off of you.

still, you nod, and you try your best to relax because you feel so worked up already with all the dragging—

then, logan’s pushing in, in, in, and you are gone.

.

you don’t even know how many time’s you’ve cum now, only that your cunt is oversensitive and your thighs are a sticky mess and your throat is hoarse, but it must have been hours because the sky has turned dark, almost pitch black, and there’s nothing else but you and logan—

the sound of boots crinkling against rocks makes you freeze, your sharp senses breezing past the euphoric pressure being pounded into your cunt, before you put a hand over logan’s chest, making him stop.

with only the sounds of ragged breathing, the two of you hear where the echoing footsteps are coming from. still perched on your back—and speared by logan’s cock—you tip your head up, not minding the upside-down perspective of your surroundings.

logan groans the moment a familiar red suit walks into view. wade’s got his mask pulled up just enough that you two see his grin, then—

“and where’s my invitation?”

logan groans again, while you give out a breathy chuckle, pussy clenching around logan’s cock. he bucks in with a confused grumble.

what? your throat is still pretty lonely, after all.

wade was lounging atop a building when he sees his two favourite people fight— wait they’re— oh? oh.

[shotmrmiller]

ps!simon running into of!reader in public one day at the grocery store but like neither one recognizes the other would feel like such a concept. Reader in line to get some instant noodles cuz college is garbage and syphons everything out of her account despite the generous tips she’s been receiving lately, and then this big bulky mass of muscle in front of her has a couple packs of rubbers, some whipped cream, and a case of drinks

HEY because you'd recognize him though. Like you could probably draw his half sleeve from memory. Wish for a man that eats pussy like he does every night. Heat would lick up your cheeks viciously at the thought of him having a fun night tonight, which of course is completely irrational. You try to rationalize that you're just hungry. All that is. Not that there's something grimey and white hot bubbling in your lower stomach at the thought of your fave pornstar fucking someone else for fun and not work.

(meanwhile he's just doing all this to send a vid of himself to your OF dm's cuz he's tired of being ignored. It's him fucking a pocket pussy and taking the condom half way through so he can come in it since he doesn't in his co-stars anymore)

Nasty man! If you're wearing sandals though i fear he'd double take at your feet lmfao. i hate to be the bearer of bad news but he's got a small-ish thing for your feet.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

─ ★ Broĸeɴ Hαllelυjαн || 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 ||

↳𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑↳

A/n: I'm so bad at angst....i hate this.

When Adam asked you to take a peak in hell you never thought you would end up falling for the King of Hell. The time you spent in hell, you didn't want to leave, you grew close to everyone, close to Charlie.

The nights you and Lucifer shared, that was something you would never forget.

But of course, nothing can ever stay good for long. It has to end sometime right? It was a shock to see Lilith, the woman was beautiful of course. You didn't blame the look Lucifer was giving her.

It hurt of course, the painful feeling of tightness in your chest. You hated how happy they looked together, they looked like a perfect family. You knew it was wrong to be jealous, you have no right to be jealous because he was with her first. But that didn't stop the pain you were feeling in your heart.

Sinking your teeth into your lip, you dropped your shoulders. Any rational thought of speaking with him left your mind, not when he was smiling like that, laughing like that. Taking a deep breath you bowed your head turning away from the family.

You couldn't get in between them, Lucifer deserved a second chance with his wife and if he was happy then you can be happy too. Feeling a few tears slip down your cheeks you let your wings unfurl.

Taking a deep breath a bitter smile formed on your lips as you turned your back to the family missing the concerned gaze of Charlie.

"Goodbye Lucifer."

It was nice seeing Lilith, she looked good, still beautiful but something was different. He realized that he no longer loved her like he used to because of you. You were the one to pull him from his slump, the depression he felt.

He owed that all to you, he loved you.Lucifer realized that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you and he couldn't help but talk to Lilith about you.

"I am sorry Lilith...I" Lucifer adverted his gaze for a moment.

Lilith let out an airy laugh as she placed her finger tips under his chin so he would meet her gaze."Never apologize for falling in love Lucifer."

Flushing for a moment, Lucifer rubbed the back of his neck. "I can't wait for you to meet them...I actually wanted to get your advice.." he started to stutter, another nervous laugh escaping his lips. "I was going to ask them to-."

Opening her lips, Lilith was about to answer until Charlie took a step forward a frown on her lips.

"Dad....they're gone."

Lucifer's smile vanished from his lips, his arms falling to his side. "Gone...what do you mean?"

Lucifer never expected it to hurt this much, it felt worse than when he and Lilith separated. Leaning his cheek on his palm he let out a small sniffle looking at the small duck he made for you, a little ring wrapped around its neck. "What did I do wrong?" He whispered to himself.

Maybe he was this issue, he had to be....what other reason would you leave him for?

Quickly rubbing a few tears from his eyes, Lucifer let his head rest on the desk, eyes still glued to the duck he made of you. "I miss you."

You never thought that heaven could be so boring, you missed everyone. You missed how easy it was to get along with everyone. Sighing, you dropped your shoulders though hearing your name being called your head quickly turned to the voice.

"Lilith....what the hell are you doing here."

You looked over at the woman, in her hands was a small rubber duck that looked so much like you and around that ducks neck was a small golden ring.

"We need to talk."

Trailing behind the woman, you did your best to keep up with her long stride's. "He still love's me."

Glancing over her shoulders, Lilith's gaze softened for a moment as she stopped in her tracks. Her fingers tucking under your chin. "He wouldn't stop talking about you. It's a shame we never met in Heaven, I would haven taken you for myself." She hummed giving you were a teasing smile. You were too cute, she could see why Lucifer had fallen for you.

You two seemed like you were meant to be.

"I'm sorry...."

"Please don't apologize love...I am happy knowing that Lucifer and Charlie are in such good hands...no come along.... we shouldn't keep him waiting."

Nodding your head you gave Lilith a smile as you two made your way to Lucifer. You will make this right, you will let Lucifer know that you truly loved him.

To you, it felt like ages to arrive at Lucifer's castle. You didn't even get a chance to let the woman speak as you were rushing off into home calling out his name. Though a few months have passed you still remember this place like the back of your hand.

"Lucifer...please."

Your heart stuttering when your gaze landed on the man. The bags under his eyes, puffy, clothes a mess. You hated seeing it, hated knowing that you were the cause of this issue. "Lucifer?"

The man's head snapped up, eyes going wide for a moment. Fresh tears pooling in his eyes as he took a tentative step towards you. "Are you...are you really here? This isn't."

Biting his lip, Lucifer's lips quivered as he quickly rushed to you. His arms tightly wrapping around you, clinging to you. "I'm sorry....I'm so sorry."

Shaking your head, you let your thumb brush away a stray tear off his cheek. "Never apologize Lucifer, it's my fault...I should....I just thought you'd be happier if I left."

Resting his head against yours, he grasped your hand spotting the ring on his finger. His heart swelling with happiness as he held you.

"I am happy with you....I love you."

Sighing, you then pressed your face into his neck letting him hold you. "I love you too."

You won't make this mistake again, you will always stay by Lucifer's side.

[autisticlancemcclain]

this is how it continued

———

This is how it ends.

———

This is how it ends.

———

This is how it ends.

———

This is how it ends.

———

Lance tries for weeks to make it end.

The words crawl up like bile in the back of his throat. Keith, he tries to say, time and time again, we need to talk. And when he manages to push through the stinging burn and say them, breath turning to dust in his lungs, Keith crooks his finger under Lance’s chin and meets Lance’s eyes and replies, just as quietly, Of course, sweetheart. What’s wrong?

And every time Lance is faced with the softness in his dark eyes, the steady way he holds his gaze. And every time something inside him cracks, desperate and howling and selfish after being deprived so long, and his bravery dries up like a tiny stream in the summer heat. And instead of saying When did you start loving me, Keith, ‘cause you woke up one day and decided we’d been together for ages and everyone thinks you’re crazy his chin trembles and his eyes burn and he cries, again, and tells Keith of the months without him.

Every day I’m sorry I left you behind, Keith whispers into the heat of Lance’s skin, and every time in response Lance knows, I do not deserve this from you. And the desperate howling selfish part of him grows stronger and stronger.

Lance needs to make it end.

———

He cannot make it end publicly.

It’s too…messy for that. It has been too long now. He hasn’t counted the days but he knows what it looks like right before Keith screams himself awake, now, knows how to press his cold hands to the side of his neck and the curve of his ribs to startle his dream-self into thinking kinder thoughts. He knows how the chip on Keith’s right front tooth feels on his tongue, his knuckles, his shoulder. He knows that Keith showers with his eyes shut out of years of habit of showering in the dark and fearing the sting of the soap.

Rarely do they stop at a hotel. Usually they sleep in shifts, staying in space for days at a time instead of resting every night. It’s horrible and cramped and makes everyone cranky, but it brings them home faster. After everyone is fed up of air travel, which never takes long, they often stop somewhere small and uninhabited and out of the way – a moon, a burgeoning planet, a long-abandoned one. Whatever is closest. On those nights, the nine of them, plus the animals, will stretch and enjoy the fresh air, if there is any, maybe watch a setting sun. And then they will make a fire and cook rations or a real meal, if they can find ingredients and Hunk or Lance have the energy. And after everyone has eaten and conversations have long begun to slow, after teeth have been brushed and faces have been washed, after their friends have nodded off one by one, Keith will push their bedrolls together to make one, spread a blanket over the two of them, and hold Lance close; without question, without hesitation. And he will be out in moments, gently snoring along to whatever alien crickets are crooning into the night, and Lance will trace the shape of his face under the light of the dying embers and forget to be guilty. He will feel safe in Keith’s hold like he does not feel anywhere else and his feet will be warmed between Keith’s thighs. He will fall asleep with a smile on his face.

———

Five months into their journey, Coran says: “I have an announcement to make.”

“What’s up?” Pidge asks, swinging her feet from where she sits sideways in her chair, hair a mess, face buried in the not-quite-DS they found a few planets back. Lance smiles and rolls his eyes.

“In the next quintaint, we will be approaching Deruyn. The Deruy were close friends of the Alteans, eons ago, and the Chancellor has extended to me an invitation to reacquaint ourselves. If you’re all amenable, my dears, we have been invited to stay in the guest wing of her royal quarters for a week.”

Lance straightens up, rubber band ball he was toying with slipping from his grasp. He hears it bounce several times behind him before an abrupt stop, and then a very angry moo. He winces.

“Sorry, Kaltenecker.”

She huffs, clearly still miffed.

Everyone is talking over each other, eyes bright and excited through their video connections. Coran looks pleased, watching them all chatter. Lance catches his eye and smiles at him.

A whole week in a royal wing…and a real royal wing! Nothing like the paladin quarters they lived in on the Castle. They bedrooms will be huge, probably; fancy and ornate. Maybe a canopy bed and pillows comfier than Lance can even fathom.

And baths. Lance hopes there are big, deep baths he can almost swim in.

“You look dreamy.”

Keith’s amused voice startles him out of his daydreaming, although he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed. Everyone else is still chattering on, bubbling with excitement — no one is looking at him.

“I am,” Lance admits. He puts a hand to his forehead and sighs, more dramatically than necessary, pleased when it brings the expected reaction of Keith’s fond little smile. “There might be baths, Keith. Real baths. And oils and soaps and soft towels. And pillows! And a queen-sized bed!”

Keith’s smile turns teasing. “What you need is an Alaskan king.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Keith’s laugh has gotten rumblier since his space whale growth spurt, that’s the only way Lance can explain it. It’s softer and darker and suggests smile lines around his eyes he didn’t have before. Every time Lance looks at them he imagines them getting deeper and wider.

“Been a while since we’ve been somewhere with a real bed, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Gotta make sure they don’t book us two separate rooms again,” Keith huffs, crease appearing between his eyebrows. “I still don’t know what that was about.”

Lance’s mouth goes dry.

I do, he should be saying. I know exactly why there were two separate rooms booked for us. In fact I can guarantee it will happen again.

But he is a coward. And the words die somewhere in his belly, before they can come anywhere near his throat.

———

It takes time to reach Deruyn. Some of this is because Shiro read the map backwards and set them back two days. (“I’m dyslexic!” he had defended, to their booing and whining. “There is not booing and whining to dyslexia! Do you boo and whine a lisp? No! Let me live!”)

By the time they finally manage to drag their poor, exhausted Lions to the sizeable planet, everyone’s excitement is so palpable Lance doesn’t need an emotional bond to feel it.

“Fresh air,” sighs Allura.

“Good food,” seconds Hunk.

“People to talk to that aren’t you fools,” agrees Pidge.

“A mattress,” Keith adds, and shoots Lance a wink.

Despite himself and rolling mess of feeling in his stomach, Lance flushes.

Coran accepts a call as soon as they’re within radio range, greeting a narrow-faced, pink-skinned woman who must be the Chancellor. Immediately they delve into a conversation that Lance doesn’t even pretend to follow. He recognizes Coran’s tone from the many times his mother would strike up a conversation with an aunt or uncle or any guest at all as they were leaving the house — this conversation could be hours long. His eyes glaze over, sliding away from his Lion’s display to take in the planet in front of him.

Deluyn is large, that much is obvious. It’s hard to scale something with such magnitude when it’s so close to your face, but if Lance had to guess, he would place it somewhere between Jupiter and the Balmera. It has no rings but the whole planet seems to glow, slightly, although Lance can see no clear source for it. The colours visible from orbit are entirely alien to him, so he’s not sure what is water, if anything is, but from the angry look of the planet’s poles, the dark green things are clouds.

What feels like a million hours later, but it probably only around fifteen minutes, there’s a click as the Chancellor and Coran end their call, and they are urged forward into landing. As they get closer to the landing strip, Lance notices dozens of children sprinting along the barrier, holding signs and flags and cheering. He grins, twisting his hands tighter around Red’s controls, hanging back just slightly from formation to give himself space to move. Then he yanks the controls to the side, feeling Red roar as she whips around in a tight circle, flames rolling down her back. The children jump up and down, fists raised, mouths open in shouts of joy. Several of their grownups watch with wide grins, too, necks craned to watch Lance spin around.

He pulls back into formation after a couple of tricks, sliding smoothly in between Black and Blue. His heart rate ticks up, and suddenly his undersuit feels tight, itchy. He squirms in his seat. When Shiro’s face pops up to relay landing instructions he flinches, and immediately hates himself for the hurt look that eclipses his friend’s face.

“…Lance?” Shiro asks softly, confusion lining his voice. He looks like a kicked puppy. Lance is a monster.

“I’m just jumpy, I’m just jumpy,” he assures, forcing a smile and holding it there until Shiro’s shoulders relax. “You know. So excited to see where we’ll be staying.”

“Yeah, me too! Coran even said they have this massive sauna they’re really famous for. I can’t wait. I miss what saunas do for my skin. And, plus, having our own rooms will be nice.” His excited grin turns sly. “Well, most of us will have our own room.”

Lance’s heart pounds for a totally different reason. “Okay thanks Shiro bye —”

He reaches to cut the connection but Shiro stops him, laughing.

“No, no, wait, I’ve got landing instructions. Their staff is limited so we gotta go one at a time, okay, stay in your Lion once you’re parked in case you need to adjust…”

Thankfully it’s nothing too complicated. Keith lands first, and Lance next to him, then Pidge, then Allura, then Hunk. Once they’re all parked and confirmed by ground control, they’re cleared it exit, none of them taking their time.

Well, everyone else disembarks pretty fast. Kaltenecker remains and stubborn pain in the ass as usual, and Lance is stuck trying desperately to drag an 800 something pound cow that has absolutely no desire to work with him. “Kallie,” he begs, tugging uselessly on her leash, “you dumb ass fucking animal. Please. I am begging you. I put up with your farts in the cabin for days on end, which has got to be shaving years off my life. The food I feed you could be better but in all fairness, I’m getting the same slop you are, so. Maybe cut me some slack.”

She doesn’t even moo at him.

Lance tries bribery.

“Say, you want good food? I bet they have good food on this planet. Nice, sweet, fresh grass. You love grass. You want grass? Please come on, Kallie. Everyone else has already left and I’m going to die of embarrassment if I’m the last paladin left, doing the walk of shame with his stubborn cow behind him. The jokes will write themselves. I’ll have to quit and join a travelling circus, and then who will put up with you? Remember that Allura wants to turn you into hamburgers.”

Clearly hamburgers were the wrong thing to mention, because if cows can glare, Kaltenecker does. She even has the audacity to huff her cow breath at him and drag them both further into Red. Red, who is a traitor, does absolutely nothing to help and is in fact laughing herself sick, loudly, in Lance’s mind.

“I shoulda left you in that damn mall,” Lance grumbles, not meaning it. He sighs and collapses against his cow’s side, closing his eyes. Just his luck. The rest of his friends are gallivanting about a fancy-dancy castle as guests of honour, and Lance is babysitting a methane machine. “I’m gonna have to sleep here tonight, aren’t I.”

“Well, I hope not.”

Lance yelps, jumping to his feet. Unfortunately, in his haste, his boot hooks around Kaltenecker’s hoof, and since she is still unmoving, he goes sprawling. Fortunately, Keith got stranded in a space whale for two years and took Prince Charming classes, or something, so he catches him.

“You’re such a nervous wreck,” Keith says fondly, leaning down to kiss him instead of letting Lance stand like a normal person. (Not. That Lance. Is necessarily complaining. But for prosperity’s sake, and everything, keeping a man in a dip for too long is just undignified, Keith, you should know that, you graduated top of your class from Fairytale University. So. Pull yourself together.)

“Am not,” Lance protests. He sighs as Keith adjusts his hold on him, patting around blindly until he finds the edge of Keith’s braid and undoing it. He slides his hands in that thick hair with a relish as soon as it’s free, making Keith chuckle (but, wisely, not say anything, because the one and only time he commented Lance avoided him for two days out of pure embarrassment).

“I sent the rest of the team on when you didn’t come out. Figured Kaltenecker was giving you trouble.” He meets Lance’s eyes and grins, dark eyes mischievous and sparkling, and Lance is seriously going to walk off a bridge because who authorized that, who, who approved the combination of big dark eyes and a crooked grin and a face that promises trouble. Huh? The fuck’s up with that. “Figured I could help.”

Lance manages to find a shred of dignity within himself and steps slightly away. “That’s great, Noble Kent, but last I checked you couldn’t drag an 800 pound heifer either, so.”

Keith nods. “‘Course not. Brought Kosmo. Here, boy.”

The wolf poofs to existence at Keith’s side, barking excitedly. He bounds up to Lance first, expecting his usual barrage of kisses and head scratches (which he gets), then gets all shy as he walks over to his crush. Kaltenecker looks over at him and no lie rolls her eyes, looking away again. Kosmo, however, is undeterred, barking happily before blipping them both out of existence.

“She is never gonna love you, dude,” Keith says, shaking his head.

Lance snorts, taking Keith’s offered hand and heading down Red’s ramp (finally). “Wouldn’t it be weirder if she did? I think we’d have to break them up. Like, ethically.”

“Could be a Donkey and Dragon situation.”

“Shut up. It ruins my perception of you every time I’m reminded you’ve seen Shrek.”

“You’re perception of me,” Keith repeats, musing. His right eyebrow twitches, and it’s too small to see at arm’s distance, but Lance knows a tiny scar ripples there, from when he was fourteen and got it pierced in defiance of Shiro. “What is your perception of me?”

Lance keeps himself steady. He puts one foot in front of the other and keeps his left hand held in Keith’s. There is nothing interrogating in Keith’s tone, he reminds himself, although maybe there should be. When he looks up Keith’s eyes are open and curious and something else he doesn’t know how to name.

“You’re honest,” he says quietly. He means to say more, has a list he could probably recite bullet by bullet, but he doesn’t.

“Honest,” Keith mutters to himself. “Huh.”

Lance swallows. He doesn’t know how he could possibly explain the weight to that. Keith is committed and brave and talented and beautiful. But more than that he is truthful. Does he see? Does he know?

An empty landing pad passes remarkably slowly when two people walk in silence. There are crafts of all kinds and tarmac upon tarmac. Eventually, though, they start walking somewhere a little more crowded; thin, reedy people resembling the Chancellor waving to them as they pass. Lance would stop to ask for directions, but the giant castle is kind of hard to miss, so they just walk in the direction of it hope their armour will do the talking for them.

Keith catches a richly dyed ribbon blowing by as they pass through a crowded market, trapping the fine thing between his fingers as it passes between them. It’s a strange and familiar colour, walking the line between indigo and deep violet. He glances around for a stall that might be selling them, and when he can’t find one, he turns to Lance and says, “Hold out your arm.”

Lance does. Carefully, Keith unlatches his vambrace, tucking it under his arm, then peels up his undersuit to lay bare his wrist. His tongue sticks out of his mouth slightly in concentration as he ties it among Lance’s dozens of string bracelets, right above his blue Moana watch still counting the hours back home.

“There,” he says proudly. “Looks good on you.”

Lance reaches up and kisses him until neither of them can breathe.

———

They know they will be teased when they finally meet with their friends at the castle.

“Let’s not,” Keith suggests, nodding at the guards who move to let them past.

“I’ll find out where our room is?” Lance says.

Keith nods. “Yeah, we’ll need that.”

“‘Kay, wait here. Don’t be obvious, or Allura will smell drama and come running.”

He’s jinxed them by saying anything at all — no sooner do the words leave his lips does Keith tense up, screwing up his face in an attempt to appear neutral but resembling instead someone who is trying very hard not to sneeze. Lance manages not to laugh, squeezing his hand once before darting off, choosing a random corridor and going with it.

Thankfully, he manages to find a person who holds a clipboard and walks with a purpose, so he assumes they know what they’re doing. Double thankfully, they do, and not only direct him to their rooms but press a labeled map into his hands. It even has a schedule on the back for mealtimes and room cleaning, which is something Lance totally forgot existed. He runs back to Keith quickly, careful to avoid the kitchen and the armoury — places he’s sure his friends will be.

Keith is earnestly inspecting a mounted sword on the wall when Lance returns. His nose is maybe an inch from the polished blade, probably less, honestly. Lance bites his lip to hold down a snicker and takes a picture, intending blackmail, but it ends up being the perfect shot — his hair is slightly wavy from the braid he wore earlier, and there’s a cute scrunch to his nose, not to mention his squinted eyes like he’s wishing for reading glasses. It becomes Lance’s background almost without him meaning to.

“C’mon, nerd,” he calls, smiling as Keith startles. “I got a map and someone is gonna meet us there with a key. I wanna check it out, get a move on.”

Keith does indeed hurry over. “I’m so glad they got it right this time. One room! No need to debate over it.”

Lance falters. He’d been so caught up in the excitement of the room and then Kaltenecker and then…Keith, he forgot. They’re not what Keith thinks they are, what Lance has been pretended to be.

“Right,” he manages, mouth suddenly dry. He desperately tries to shove the enthusiasm back in his voice, forcing his face into a smile when Keith looks back. “Right, yeah, that’s so much less of a pain.”

There is indeed someone with a key when they get to the room. The door is light, in both colour and material, and although his feelings are still heavy and conflicting, his excitement wins out. Keith takes the key, thanking the attendant, and a small voice in the back of Lance’s mind whispers this could be them some day, on Earth, with a key of their own. He does his best to ignore it.

“Ready?” Keith asks.

“Please oh please let the bed be bigger than Red’s cabin,” he responds.

Keith snorts. Slowly, out of what must be a desire to torture Lance, he slides the key into the lock and turns it. Lance doesn’t hesitate before shoving it open.

“It is bigger than the cabin!” he shouts, and wastes no time running up and onto it.

He practically sinks into the mattress, so soft it’s like it’s made of hopes and dreams. The blankets are the fluffiest things he’s ever felt in his life. And the space — he stretches out as far as he can, fingers to toes, and not a single limb comes even close to the edge of the bed.

The mattress dips beside him, and a hand slides along the back of his neck.

“This is you before you notice the big canopy.”

Lance lifts his head immediately. He fights back a very undignified squeal when he does, indeed, see a gossamer blue canopy hanging softly from the high ceilings.

“And the windows too, sweetheart. Floor to ceiling, like you like ‘em.”

Lance scrambles to his knees to check. They are. And the view is breathtaking.

“And the bathtub? Is it huge and clawfooted?”

Keith ducks his head, smiling, and presses a lingering kiss to his cheek.

“I’ll go check, you grandma. You take your armour off.”

He listens for Keith’s footsteps, waits for them to go from carpet to tile, waits for the “Yep! Claw foot!”, waits for the sound of rushing taps even though he didn’t ask, even though Keith didn’t offer. He turns on his back and stares as the canopy, inspecting the padded wooden roof structure from which the gauzy curtains hang, tracing its sturdy edges and even corners.

Keith makes him feel so warm.

He’s felt a lot of cold, in a lot of places, for a lot of his life. Part of it is the stupid anaemia that he gets to live with. Part of it is stuff he doesn’t like to think about. But Keith comes in with his warm hands and warm smile and stupid big warm heart, and Lance is thawed in every frozen inch of him. It’s good. It’s so good.

He wants it so desperately.

He comes when Keith calls, stripping his armour along the way. Keith is waiting for him in the bath when he gets there — and it is huge, close enough for them to both sit comfortably without brushing so much as a toe against each other, but of course Lance settles his spine against the curve of Keith’s chest the second he slips inside the steaming water. The room smells of sandalwood and lilac.

“You are so important to me,” Keith murmurs, seemingly at random, pressing his lips along Lance’s stretched neck, following the arch of it as he tips his head back to rest on Keith’s shoulder.

Lance’s breath sighs out of him, rising and mixing with the steam. He lifts a shaking hand to twine it to Keith’s, squeezing. Their joined hands are wet against his chest. Together they rise, up and down, up and down, up and down, with every shaky breath.

———

They giggle like teenagers, sneaking into the kitchen well after dark and well after most of the castle has finally gone to bed.

Neither has wanted to face the team’s teasing just yet, or even the team at all, really. Their room can’t be called a room so much as a small apartment — bookshelves lining the wall that Keith had been eyeing for hours, a massive wardrobe, a beautiful velvet sofa, even a small icebox. Neither of them have said it but it feels, implicitly, like their own little space, their own little commune, beyond the privacy of a hotel room. It feels like somewhere they could live. They’re billions of miles away from Earth and anywhere Lance could consider home, but it’s nice to pretend, and neither of them is ready to hop back into reality — or Hunk’s roasting — quite yet.

(It is not what Lance’s mind is pretending. In no world could they ever live in a castle like this. It is foolish to spend his time fantasizing about a future they will probably never have, a home they will never build. The guards stationed at every door should break Lance’s fantasy. But he has always been very, very good at pretending.)

“Just grab some of everything,” he whispers to Keith. “We have actual room cleaning, remember? We can have some dirty dishes, no one will mind.”

“There’s certainly space for it,” Keith agrees.

In minutes the two of them have piled almost more than they can carry. They’re much slower on the walk back, but no less giddy. As soon as the door is locked shut behind them, they’re sat on the bed, even though eating on a bed is disgusting and usually Lance would never permit it, and stuffing their faces.

“Oh my God, this thing tastes like strawberries. Here, try.” Keith holds up a juicy looking silver fruit, Lance leans over to bite it. It does taste like strawberry. He dusts off his hands and crawls over to chase the taste off Keith’s tongue.

“Strawberries get you going?” Keith mumbles, and Lance grins and says, “Something like that.”

They have more food than they can possibly eat and they eat until they can barely move. The rest they wrap up and stick in the icebox.

He can feel Keith falling asleep, head getting heavier, so he pats him gently on the hip and whispers, “Come on, get up, at least get ready first. Wash your face.”

Keith groans. He squishes his face further into Lance’s belly, making him squirm and laugh, and mutters something he can barely here. “Hnnngh. You first. I’ll catch up.”

“You’ll fall asleep,” Lance scolds, but he gets up first anyway. When he glances behind him he sees that Keith has at least managed to put one foot on the ground, so maybe he really will get up and put some pyjamas on.

Lance snorts. Yeah, right.

He takes his time and pokes around the bathroom, having been too preoccupied to do so beforehand. There’s a stack of fluffy towels and cloths on a shelf, and even a couple rough ones for exfoliating. In a cupboard lies dozens of soaps and oils and creams and a million other things, labelled in that same holographic translator stuff the Olkarions use so Lance can read them easily. He is impressed by the wide range of selection — he’s been slowly rebuilding his skincare collection, and will indeed be looting at least half of these bottles to complete it. There’s enough stuff here to do a whole soak. Nice.

Then he turns towards the sink. And he stares.

And he starts to cry.

Laid out exactly as he likes it is his stuff from his pack. His toothbrush, his primary face wash, his hair brush, his lotion, everything. In order of how he uses it, with the sink in the middle, and everything an appropriate distance from the sink so he doesn’t soak the whole counter trying to reach for whatever comes next in his routine. A setup his has perfected over many years and has had genuine conniptions over misplaced steps and wrong orders. Something inane and stupid and that only matters to him.

Of course Keith has noticed, of course Keith has memorized, of course he has replicated.

Lance is a horrible, horrible person.

This is has to be how it ends.

“Keith!” he shouts, and the man comes in running, half groggy and robbing the sleep from his eyes. He’s in a t-shirt and boxers.

“Lance?”

“My brush is — in the wrong place.”

Keith inspects him carefully. “You’re crying.”

“Because the brush is in the wrong place! I keep it in the same spot, I like it here, you know I like it here, why is it —”

He interrupts himself with a great, heaving hiccup, so large it shakes his whole body, and he’s furious with himself, with his shaking hands, with the careful look on Keith’s face.

This is how it ends.

This is how it ends.

This is how it ends.

“This is not where my brush goes,” he insists again, desperate to keep his voice steady, desperate to make it angry.

“Okay,” Keith says simply. He walks over and pulls the brush gently from Lance’s hands. “Where do you want it?”

Lance tries to breathe in. His chest shakes and shudders, poking holes in his voice. This isn’t working. Why isn’t it working?

“No, you’re supposed to — I’m being unreasonable.”

“You’re upset about something.”

“Something stupid.”

“Okay. I’ll fix it. I can fix it.”

“No, you can’t — I’m not —”

The rest of his strength leaves him.

This is how it ends.

This is how it ends.

Why can’t he make it end.

Slowly, Keith reaches out to grab his hands. Lance lets him, like the coward he is.

“Come to bed, sweetheart. You’ve had a long day. You need to sleep.”

“Okay,” he whispers, defeated, squeezing his eyes shut. He keeps them shut as Keith guides him to the giant bed, as he pulls back the covers, as he crawls in and waits for the sound of the light switch to be flicked off, of the tiny creak of Keith’s weight as he joins him.

For a long moment Keith is quiet. Long enough that Lance would assume he’d fallen asleep, except that he still sits upright, except that his hand has slid under Lance’s shirt, and his thumb traces a line across the small of his back, over and over again.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he whispers.

A new tear slips hot down Lance’s face.

This is how it ends.

He knows, or at least he must suspect. Maybe he realized his mistake some time ago, and has been waiting for Lance to fess up, to explain why he went along with Keith’s mistaken affection in the first place. Why he used Keith, confused as he was, for his own selfish needs.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. He can’t bring himself to turn around, to sit up, to meet Keith’s eyes.

Keith’s hand doesn’t so much as twitch. “What for?”

“For leading you on.”

That certainly gives him pause.

“Leading me…on?”

“Yeah.” Lance sniffles, dragging himself upright and away from Keith’s affectionate hands, huddled against the massive headboard. “You came back…confused. I don’t know. You thought we were in love. I wanted it, so I let you. I’ve been manipulating you.”

“Lance…” Even only in the silvery blue moonlight streaming in from the windows, Keith’s face is unmistakable, obvious; strong brow creased in worry, head tilted in confusion, face pulled with something like desperation. “Lance, we are in love. Aren’t we? I love you. And you love me, I know you do.”

Lance shakes his head. His tears make his face crumple and he knows how ugly that makes him look, so he hides his face.

“No, I made you feel that way, I didn’t correct you back then and it’s habit now so…”

He trails off. Keith doesn’t respond. He wonders if he’ll stay the night, bed surely big enough for him to sleep without touching Lance at all, or if he’ll have to go get a new room.

A tiny, tiny part of Lance’s brain recognises the irony in that and wants him to laugh. But the steady breaking of his heart keeps it at bay.

“…Back at the tarmac,” Keith says what feels like hours later, startling Lance out of his skin. He looks up at the man with wide eyes, having half-convinced himself he was already gone, and Keith meets his gaze determinedly. “Back at the tarmac, you said I was honest. Did you mean that?”

Lance swallows.

“Yes.”

Keith holds his gaze, looking for something, then nods, having found it. “Believe me then, sweetheart.” He crawls forward, slowly, as if he is afraid Lance will startle away from him. That fear is what startles Lance out of his stupor, out of his guilt, out of the dread that has been building in his stomach for months. He hasn’t seen that kind of fear — the fear of getting too close — on Keith face since he came back. And never does he want to see it again. He throws himself into Keith’s arms, too hard, hard enough to hurt, but Keith catches him and holds him and squeezes just as painfully tightly. “I love you, star of my skies.”

“That’s cheesy as hell,” Lance croaks, and Keith laughs, wetly and beautifully. “I love you too.”

“Good.” Keith kisses the top of his head. “Good.” He exhales, long and shuddering; relieved. “God, I spent two years waiting for this exact moment.”

The statement strikes Lance as odd. “This exact moment.”

Keith tenses. Lance tenses, too, and immediately he relaxes again, breathing steadily until Lance matches him.

“On the space whale, time was…stretchy.”

“You mentioned.”

“Two years I lost.”

Lance tightens his hold. “I know.”

“Most of it was survival camping, really, but there were these visions, sometimes. For Krolia and me. Our pasts. You guys, in the present.” He takes a breath. “Our future.”

Somehow, Lance gets the feel he’s not talking about his and Krolia’s.

“Our future?”

Keith’s breath tickles his neck. Lance doesn’t dare move. Goosebumps pimple his skin and he lets them, shivering, warmed.

“Yes. So much, all the time. More than anything else we saw. Just — tiny snippets, here and there; your face when you sleep, your fingers on a bow, you dragging me on a surfboard and a million other places I woulda followed you to anyway.”

One of his hands slides down Lance’s ribs, fingertips light enough to make him shudder, and rests, cupped open at his hip. “I saw this,” he admits. “Not — the whole conversation, or why, but my hands on you, in this bed, in the moonlight. It kept me going.”

Lance closes his eyes and tries to imagine. Stuck in a strange place where days don’t seem to pass with a stranger who claims to be his mother, watching visions of himself in the future, over and over again.

“No wonder your head was all wonky.”

“Yeah.”

“You’d already been with me. For two years.”

“For twenty. Thirty. Seventy.”

“…That’s a long time, Keith.”

“God, I hope so.”

Lance smiles. “You gonna stick with me that long, hotshot?”

“Like glue, darlin’.”

Lance looks up and, sure enough, Keith’s eyes are closed, face slack. He’s clinging onto consciousness with every bit of strength in his body, things like keeping his accent in check losing priority. Lance settles again against him, guiding them gently so they lie comfortably against the pillows, and breathes out, slow and long.

“Tell me about our future.”

“House on th’beach,” Keith murmurs. His words are slow and pulled apart. “Stone’s throw from your mama’s.”

Lance traces sleepy circles on his skin.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Little boy with hair like yours followin’ every little thing you do.”

His breath hitches. He hadn’t thought about that — hadn’t let himself think about it. It’s dangerous, for more than one reason.

But tonight they’re safe. Under the silvery moonlight, with a bed three times bigger than they are, nothing can touch them.

“What about a little girl with your smile?”

“You got it.”

Lance’s smile is warm and giddy, tucked into Keith’s arm, etched there like it’s permanent. “Good. Goodnight, mi alma.”

“Night, baby.”

This is how it stays, forever and ever and always.

[l4long-winded]

Breeding with lip 🧎🏼‍♀️ like this motherfucker knows he should not be trying to knock up his girl he just can’t help it

no, no, no, no, no... i'm hyperventilating. this is SOOOOO LIP. the breeding agenda is REAAAAAAAL.

with what lip has gone through, he's safer about this kind of thing. protection is important. he knows it. he learned it the hard way.

but.

you're in a hurry one day. you both are. what the hell is he supposed to do when you beg him to forget the rubber, when you tug him in by his belt, when you're dropping your pants, and you're helping him unbutton his? rationally, he should stop, think, ask himself if that's a bad idea or not. however, that's not how it went. he buckled immediately, the very second you said fuck the condom.

it's going to be fast. you both know this. fast is what you need. so, this implies to him of what you want. he interprets it this way, because while he's fucking his hips up into you, grunting about being close, your legs tighten around him. he's all for it, his hand squeezing your thigh, obliging you and himself in filling you up.

from there, he can't stop. every time you sleep together, even when he tells himself that he needs to pull out, he rationalizes that maybe it'd be faster to get to the next round if he stays where he is. that's with your pleasure in mind. you'll praise him for prolonging your high.

he advises himself that maybe he shouldn't press his fingers into you to keep his cum where it is after he's finally pulling out. he's too fond of the way you cry out. sensitive. incredibly well-lubricated.

and, okay, maybe he's in denial over the whole thing. because you gave him a choice tonight, and he did not hesitate to have you like he does at the moment. your thighs are against his chest, hips off the bed, and he's driving in at an angle that's incredibly deep. but he can't help it... his hand lays over your stomach, grunting as he surges forward and stills where you sharply gasp. tonight, it'll take.

[cordeliawhohung]

Smoldering Butterflies

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader - part two of "soft spot"

You've been haunting Simon Riley for awhile now. Even with the distance, he keeps you in his back pocket.

Warnings: slight references to the violence in the previous part, other than that mostly fluff, soap gives reader a nickname, soft ghost, slightly domestic ghost?

wc: 6.2k

Careful eyes watched Simon as he sat towards the back of the plane.

Military transport aircrafts were always miserably loud, which made for poor conversation, yet the man was completely content sitting away from his comrades, staring down at his hands. More specifically, the item in his hands. A small, black handkerchief that was patterned with silly, cartoonish dogs. It wasn’t unlike him to be quiet. However, the new item was rather odd for him to be lugging around, and his two sergeants were very quick to take notice. 

“Think he’s got a kid?” Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick questioned. He was leaned far over to his left, looking at Simon, or as he was better known in the military, Ghost. 

Though it was difficult to hear him over the humming of the engines, John “Soap” MacTavish chuckled as he shook his head. “Sure hope not. Have a hard time imagining him around a kid.” 

Gaz tilted his head to the side. Simon continued to look at that silly piece of cloth, gloved thumbs rubbing over it gently, and almost longingly. It was as if he was lost in thought. 

“Naw, I think he’s got someone else waiting for him back home,” Soap commented, turning his attention to Gaz. The red lighting inside the airbus made it feel like his eyes were going to melt, but he wore a sly grin anyway. “He’s got a spook.” 

“A spook?” Gaz repeated incredulously. 

Soap nodded and hummed, a sound that was quickly drowned out by the engines. “We call him Ghost. Thought it’s fitting if his lass gets an equal nickname.” 

“If there is a girl,” Gaz corrected. 

Soap looked back at Simon just in time to watch him fold the handkerchief. It was neatly done, a perfect square, and once he finished, he leaned to the side, shoving it into his back pocket. One could argue that he took such care in folding the cloth because he was a military man. They did every single thing in their life with care. Soap would argue otherwise. 

“Oh, there’s a girl, alright.” 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Winters in London were miserable. Take that gloomy rain from the rest of the year but drop the temperatures a few degrees, and that’s where the weather stayed. Though it would get close to freezing, it was hardly ever cold enough for it to snow, which meant that not only were you cold, but you were cold and wet. 

It was times like that that made you regret finding an apartment so close to work. It wasn’t far enough away to rationalize taking a bus or train, and you didn’t have a car to drive yourself, so you were stuck walking just on principle. Your knees and thighs had turned into ice from the moisture and frigid air. Rainwater was threatening to soak through the fabric of your shoes with a single wrong step, and your toes were beginning to feel the effects. 

Still, you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself and tugged your coat closer to your body as you pushed onwards. The droplets of water plummeting from the sky made it difficult to really look around while you walked, as every time you tried one would inevitably land in your eyes. Even the hood of your coat only offered so much protection. 

The very moment your apartment building came into view, you rushed up the stairs. Rubber squeaked on the wood of the stairs as you rushed up to the second floor, glad to finally have some cover from that relentless trickle of water. Despite how counter intuitive it seemed, once the door shut behind you, you quickly made your way into the shower. Warm, steaming water washed over your body, washing away the grime of the money you dealt with that turned the tips of your fingers grey, 

There was something so renewing about a shower. It washed away more than just the filth on your body, but the stress in your muscles, and the dissonance in your thoughts. For a moment there was nothing in the world to worry about. 

Until you stepped out of the shower. Until you got dressed in your pajamas. Until you walked out of your bedroom and into the living room and remembered just how alone you were. Alone and yet haunted all at the same time. Despite how many months it had been since you had broken up with your ex-boyfriend, there were reminders of him everywhere. A cardboard box sitting in place of the glass base lamp he had shattered. Poorly matched paint that covered a small area in the wall near the entryway. Raised skin on the corner of your lip. 

He was everywhere you didn’t want him to be. 

A knock on your door startled you out of your depressing daydream and your head snapped back towards the entrance. It wasn’t extremely late at night. The sun had long since set as it normally did in winter, yet it was no later than seven. Still, it was odd for someone to come over so late in the evening, and you would be lying if you said that your heart didn’t instantly jump into your throat at the sound. 

Taking care to avoid the squeaky parts in your hardwood floor, you slowly crept towards the door as you held your breath in anticipation. Leaning forward, you pressed your face near the door as you gazed through the peephole that peered into the hallway right outside of your apartment. The very moment your brain registered the figure on the other side, your hand instantly flew to the lock. 

After undoing the deadbolt on the door, you flung it open, the force of it sending a breeze your way that tugged at your wet locks of hair. Beyond the door was none other than Simon Riley. His tall frame had made it difficult to make out his face (or in this case his balaclava), but you could recognize him from his build alone. He stood in front of you, hands shoved in his pockets and dark eyes trained on your face. His balaclava was dotted with droplets of water, and for a moment you almost thought it was sequined with how it reflected the dim lighting of your apartment. 

It wasn’t until you looked him over that you realized how disheveled you were. Hair still damp and unbrushed, loose pajamas so big on you that you basically swam in them, large house slippers. It was certainly very much different from your normal attire that you wore when you were at the bank. 

“Simon,” you exclaimed softly as your hand fell from the doorframe. 

After the little incident at the bar back in October, Simon stayed around until the end of November before he had left suddenly. This wasn’t new behavior of course. Being in the military meant that he was often getting deployed or sent on missions. Luckily they seemed to be rather short compared to what you had expected, but still, it was nearing the end of January. Months had gone by since you had last seen him, and despite the odd friendship that had bloomed between the two of you, you had no way to contact him outside of seeing him at work. 

“It’s good to see you,” you said. Reaching a hand up, you ran your fingers through your damp hair, digits getting caught on the stretchy strands. Yet you tried to tame them anyway. “Do you want to come in? Warm up a bit?” 

Simon shifted, the heels of his boots squeaking on the floor as he did. Despite the fact that you could only see his eyes through his balaclava, he was quite expressive. Or maybe you just had a knack for reading people. He looked almost apprehensive. Maybe not quite apprehensive, but a little guilty at least. 

“Don’t waste your evening on me,” he said. His voice sounded gruff and worn as if he spent the better part of the last month or so doing nothing but barking orders. Which, in hindsight,  he certainly did. “Just figured I’d check up on you. See how things were going for you.” 

As he spoke, you saw his eyes unmistakably wander to the scar on the wall not too far behind you. He was actually the one who helped you patch it up in order to hide it from your landlords. It was faint, and the hardest part of it all was trying to find the perfect off-white color that matched the rest of the walls. Still, both you and him knew what exactly to look for, and it had become quite an eyesore. 

“Please,” you insisted, stepping aside slightly. “I was just about to put the kettle on, and it’s freezing out. It’s no trouble at all.” 

There was a short pause between the two of you as Simon mulled your proposition open. The longer he stayed quiet, the more you studied him. His eyes seemed… darker somehow. Was he wearing makeup? Slight eyeliner? No, it was much too smudged for that. What was it that soldiers wore sometimes? Or even football players? Eyeblack? How long had he even been home? 

“Alright,” he finally spoke, taking a careful step forward through the doorway. “Won’t keep you long.” 

The freezing cold was practically radiating off of him as a few stray drops of rain wicked off of his jumper. He hadn’t even worn a proper coat, and he looked soaked to the bone yet if he was cold he had done a good job at hiding it. 

Once in the entryway, Simon knelt to the ground as he undid the shoelaces of his boots. It was odd seeing him be so low compared to you, but you tried not to let your eyes linger on him too long as you took a few steps backwards, giving him some space as you walked into the kitchen. 

“When did you get home?” you asked as you grabbed your kettle. You had learned long ago that when you and Simon conversed, it was you who did most of the talking. However, that time around, you were hellbent on changing that. 

“This morning,” he answered, voice still a little gruff. It sounded almost as if he had a frog caught in his throat. 

Running water sounded from the sink as you began to fill the kettle, and Simon’s boots gently thunked against the side of the wall as he lined them near your shoe rack in the entryway. You stole a glance at them, and did a double take at the utter size difference between your shoes and his. 

“Late night, then?” you asked, somewhat teasing as you set the kettle on the stove. A few clicks later and the heat turned on, the electric coils burning bright red. 

“Something like that,” he mumbled. He turned around to face you, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. God, he was almost as broad as the damn thing.

Nodding your head, you attempted to run your fingers through your still damp hair once more before instantly giving up. “Feel free to take a seat in the living room. I hate to make you stand around, I’m sure you’re tired,” you said, gesturing to the lone couch that you could hardly make out from the doorway of the kitchen. 

Simon leaned back, glancing to where you gestured. He looked like he was going to deny your offer for a moment, but he did a double take as something seemed to catch his eye. 

“What’s in the box?” He took a step into the living room, the floorboards squeaking underneath the sheer mass of his body. 

“Oh, that?” you asked, peeking into the room yourself. “I bought myself a new lamp. I tried to glue the glass base of the other one back together. You know, like with gold glue? Thought it would look neat. Didn’t really work out, and I was missing a few pieces so I figured it was easier to just buy a new one. Haven’t quite gotten it together yet, though.” 

So much for trying to get Simon to do the talking. Teeth sinking into your lower lip, you ducked back into the kitchen as Simon approached the box. While the water boiled, you began to rummage through your cupboards, finding painfully little. Rent had become much more difficult since you were the only one paying it for the last few months. Though, it wasn’t like your ex had helped out much anyway, he at least kept the kitchen stocked; something you found to be increasingly difficult. Still, you managed to find a box of breakfast tea at least. 

“You alright with breakfast tea?” you called, double checking to see how many bags you had left. 

He was silent for a moment. “Yeah. Plain.” 

Plain? You thought it was a joke that men in the military liked their coffee black. Perhaps that extended to tea as well. Either way, the very moment the kettle began to whistle you took it off the stove, instantly soothing its screech. Once you got the tea bags soaking, you heard the distinct sound of cardboard ripping coming from the living room. Leaving the cups behind to steep, you stood in the doorway where you found Simon sitting on the floor with the box that belonged to your new lamp. 

Several parts and pieces already laid out in front of him, all in their own separate packaging bags. A small piece of paper sat in his hands as he carefully read through them. Dumbfounded, you stood there for a moment, watching as he began to put the parts together for you. 

“Simon, you don’t have to do that,” you insisted. Though maybe it was a blessing in disguise. That damn box had been sitting on your side table for weeks. 

For a moment he didn’t respond to you, as he was too caught up with reading over the instructions. Even with his face turned slightly away from you, you could make out just how much he was squinting at it. 

“Where the hell did you buy this from?” he asked, reaching his hand up to remove his hood, fully exposing his balaclava. 

“Ikea.” 

“Fucking hell,” he grumbled before tossing the instructions to the side. “Useless…” 

Without the help of instructions, Simon continued to put the lamp together. Really there weren’t too many pieces, as it was just a simple table lamp, but even from a short distance you could make out about twenty screws with several different sizes. The scene of it all was odd. With his balaclava, Simon looked like a robber. Hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if he had given someone a heart attack in the lower lobby of the building. However, instead of robbing you, he was putting together your side lamp. 

You chuckled to yourself before returning to grab the tea. After fixing yours up to your liking (and leaving Simon’s painfully plain) you meandered into the living room where you left his cup on the coffee table that sat in front of your couch. You took a seat, warming your hands around the cup as you watched Simon work. It was a little endearing how seriously he was taking it. Brows furrowed, eyes steady, hands moving. 

How did the two of you get to that point? Going from strangers, to… whatever you were in that moment? What sparked it? Was it the day you said he didn’t have to remove his mask at the bank? Or the night he hit your ex so hard his jaw nearly splintered? Maybe it was something else. Something more simple. So simple that it was complicated. 

As you sipped on your tea, the warm liquid pooled in your stomach, almost making you shiver in delight while you watched Simon work. Over the course of him working on screwing the lamp together with the allen wrench, he had slightly rolled up his sleeves, revealing part of his forearms. Something of a sleeve of tattoos covered his left forearm. Skulls, smoke, and dog tags with barbed wire for a chain were some of the things you could make out on his mural-like tattoo. On his other arm, you noticed a fresh cut. A tender bruise formed around the edges of the angry red scrape, and it was so deep you were surprised that he hadn’t gotten it stitched, or at least bandaged it. 

“What happened to your arm?” you asked, tucking your legs underneath yourself. 

Simon turned away from the lamp and glanced at you, head tilting to the side in a way that sent butterflies scrambling in your stomach. Every time he looked at you, you felt like your skin was going to catch on fire. Not because his gaze was angry, but because of the heat that boiled inside of you, threatening to burn those butterflies in your stomach until they were nothing but ash. 

“Right,” you said with a breathy laugh, looking down at your cup. “Stupid question, I suppose.” 

Something of a chuckle left Simon as he stood from his spot on the floor. It felt like you had to crane your neck back just to even keep looking at him. But the lamp was finally put together, lightbulb, lampshade and the works. He placed it on the side table before plugging it into the wall, and you excitedly placed your half drank tea on the coffee table next to him before leaning over and twisting the switch. Warm light poured out of it, illuminating the darkened corner of the living room. 

“Would you look at that,” you beamed, leaning on the armrest. Really, it wasn’t anything spectacular. It was just a lamp, afterall. But it felt like, in a way, you were getting a part of your life back. You looked up at Simon, his dark eyes trained on you. “Thanks.” 

“It’s nothing,” he responded simply. 

For a moment, things suddenly became tense. Simon continued to stand next to that lamp, eyes flickering away from you and to the window behind you. It felt weird having him back in London. You were used to him vanishing without a trace every now and then, and you tried not to worry, but this time you had. But knowing the kind of man he was, you knew he didn’t want you to. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat as you glanced back at the coffee table. He still hadn’t attempted to drink his tea at all. Really, you weren’t sure why you had expected him to. Afterall, he never took his mask off. Perhaps that was why he had asked for it plain; he didn’t want to waste any milk or sweeteners. 

“I missed you,” you suddenly blurted out. 

This sudden revelation that left your lips surprised not only you, but Simon as well. You saw it in the way his eyes landed on you. How they flickered over your face. How they lingered on your lips. They always lingered on your lips. But you knew it wasn’t in the way that you wanted them to. Your tongue swiped over the corner of your lip, of the painful reminder of that night all those months ago. 

“I never used to worry about you,” you continued, shifting in your spot on the couch. “We knew you were in the military, so when you’d disappear without notice I would just assume you were out saving the world or something. But I… I worried this time.” You paused for a moment, feeling the embarrassment already eating away at your chest. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m glad you’re back.” 

For a moment you didn’t think he was going to answer you. Simon’s eyes were trained on you in a way that both confused and excited you at the same time. Yet he did speak, his mouth dancing underneath the cloth on his face as he did.

“Of course I came back,” he said as if stating a fact. “Had to make sure you weren’t getting into any more trouble.” 

You laughed, thankful for his teasing tone. It was comforting to know he wasn’t put off by your awkward ramble, or if he was he was at least good at hiding it like he was with everything else. 

“Yeah, well, I think you scared off any trouble that would find me,” you admitted with a shy smile. 

“Brute force will do that.” 

Simon was… funny. In his own weird, and maybe a little dark, way. Either way, you appreciated it, despite how dry his humor could get. He was a strange man, and you oddly found yourself wanting to know more about him. Even with that nagging feeling in your stomach that told you to keep your distance, there was something just so alluring about him. 

“Do you want to catch a movie this weekend?” 

Once more, your mouth was opening and spewing out words before you even had the chance to think it through. Sometimes you hated how much you talked. How you would just say whatever was on your mind without any regard for how it would come across, or even how it would affect those around you. How you hadn’t annoyed a quiet man like Simon was beyond you. 

“What? Need protecting?” Simon asked dryly. 

You grinned. “You never know when trouble is gonna find me.” 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“So, what rank are you?”

“Lieutenant.” 

“Is that good?”

“Good enough.” 

Maybe you should have bothered to check the movie showings that weekend before inviting Simon out to watch one with you, because the one you two got stuck watching was absolutely atrocious. Not even a few minutes through the movie you had gotten bored and ended up whispering facetious jokes to Simon throughout a majority of it. Really, you weren’t quite sure if he enjoyed himself that much throughout the movie, but as he walked you back to your apartment, he seemed to liven up a little. 

It was one of the rare nights that it actually snowed in London. Even though the temperature was quite literally freezing, you would take the fat, fluffy flakes of snow over the skin biting drops of rain that normally assaulted the city. And god, was it beautiful. Sparkling, glittery snow dusted the entire city, and there wasn’t a single bit of wind to add to the frigid chill. It was the type of scenery you’d find on a postcard.

“Does that mean you get to lead other soldiers?” you continued as the two of you came upon your apartment building. Taking care not to slip on the slick snow, you rushed up the steps, unlocking the entryway door for him before climbing up to the second floor. 

“Sometimes,” he explained simply, following behind you with long, slow steps. “There are others I have to answer to.” 

You hummed as you came across your door. Cold fingers fumbled with the keys as you shoved it into your lock where you twisted the door open moments later. 

“And then, what branch of the military are you in? Army?” you questioned further as you entered the warm embrace of your apartment. 

Simon paused for a moment, not answering your question until the door shut behind the two of you. “SAS.” 

Your brows pinched together as you worked on getting your snow boots off of your feet while Simon did the same. Despite the fact you asked him so many questions about his line of work, you weren’t really versed in it at all. “What’s that mean?” 

“Special Air Service,” he explained simply. “A branch of the army. We specialize in stuff like covert surveillance and hostage rescue.” 

You were about halfway into the living room when Simon explained this, and you found yourself quickly pausing to jump and turn around. A huge grin was plastered on your face as you worked on shrugging your coat off of your shoulders. 

“I knew it!” you exclaimed with a giggle, tossing your coat onto the hook on the wall. “High priority missions! Secret agent shit!” 

“You make it sound more interesting than it actually is,” Simon said softly as he entered the living room behind you. 

Playfully rolling your eyes at him, you turned away and walked towards the couch. You sank into the cushion, though not very far. They were much too firm to be completely comfortable, yet it was the only furniture you had in that room. 

“It is interesting. You guys sound cool,” you said. 

“I never said we weren’t cool,” Simon said, a slight gruff, yet teasing tone in his voice. 

He ventured further into the room, standing on the other side of the coffee table. You were certain that if there was a chair there, he would have taken that rather than the seat next to you. Despite how close the two of you had gotten, there was still something a little off about Simon. Like he was hiding something. Not in any nefarious way. More in a guarded way. It was like he kept building up a wall of sorts. For every brick you removed, he added two more. 

But his eyes gave him away. It’s what made you trust him so easily when he had first walked into your work all that time ago. They were intense, and sometimes intimidating, but never before did you see a single sliver or glint of anything wicked. Perhaps there was a sense of brokenness to them, but in that world, who wasn’t shattered? 

“Is that why you wear a mask all the time?” you asked softly. “Because of work?”

For the first time since you had known him, you saw Simon freeze. Really freeze. It should have been expected, though. The subject of his mask wasn’t exactly one he had ever seemed all too interested in divulging in. Really, you didn’t know what even possessed you to ask the question in the first place. Maybe a part of you was just hopeful that he would be a little vulnerable with you. 

“Something like that,” he responded after a beat. 

Of course. Something like that. You quickly learned he gave that answer to you when you were hitting the answer close to home, but not exactly making it there. Like you were stuck on the outside of the house, trying to look through the window with the curtains drawn closed. 

“Do you ever… take it off?” you then asked. 

It was a dangerous question to ask, and you knew it, but as of late, your filter had become painfully nonexistent. You had gotten comfortable with him. Too comfortable. Something had happened between the two of you that left your mind spinning months ago. Friends but not. Maybe something more. Maybe something less. The line was so blurry at that point all it did was add a dreamy glow to the situation you found yourself in. 

“Never,” he answered firmly. 

Delusional. That’s what you were. Simon was never anything short of being a gentleman towards you, but god, what were you thinking? The man seemingly never showed his face, always wore a mask, and was in the special forces. He had probably killed someone before. No, he certainly had. You still remembered the way he punched your ex at the bar. The squelching sound of his jaw cracking and teeth sinking into his flesh had echoed in your ears for days. 

But they were the same hands that you had patched up. The same ones that put together your lamp and held open the door for you at the cinema. Did he even like movies? Why did he even go with you?

“Why not?” you asked so softly the words hardly left your lips. 

He tilted his head to the side slightly as he shoved his hands into his pockets, and it reminded you of something that a dog would do. “Do you want me to?” 

Your answer was caught in your throat and it burned like poison. Yes.

“I don’t know,” you said instead. 

Even without his thick work boots, Simon’s footsteps on the hardwood floor were noticeable as he carefully maneuvered around the coffee table. You both watched one another carefully, eyes never flickering away for even a second as he slowly sank into the cushion next to you. You hadn’t noticed it before, but he smelled faintly like something fresh. Cedar, perhaps? And vaguely like the cheap popcorn you had indulged in at the cinema. 

“Close your eyes,” he said. 

“Why?” you asked. 

“You always ask so many questions?” He wasn’t irritated. It was mostly a plain question, with a slight hint of amusement. 

“Always.” 

You stared at each other for a moment. He was so close, yet so painfully far at the same time. God, those butterflies in your stomach were nothing but ash by that point and even in death they still smoldered. 

Trusting him, you finally closed your eyes. Your vision wasn’t exactly plunged into darkness. The dim lighting of your living room bled through your eyelids, showing you only the red color of the blood in your body. You stayed still, as if you would scare Simon off if you moved so much as an inch.

Then came the unmistakable sound of rustling clothes, and it didn’t take you long to realize what he was doing. Removing his balaclava, Simon tossed the cloth onto the couch next to him, his movements echoing in the couch as you felt it move underneath his shifting weight. You had to remind yourself to breathe as he sat there, seemingly fixing his hair for what seemed like forever. 

After patiently waiting for him, his fingers brushed against the back of your hands, almost making you jump. Instead, you found yourself holding your breath as you felt his thumbs drift to your palms as he carefully raised your hands off of your lap. Instinctively, you closed your fingers around his thumbs and he paused for a moment. He didn’t say anything as he raised your hands higher up, and you felt your hands brush against the unmistakable feeling of his face. 

Slowly, afraid of going too fast, you let go of his hands to gently cup his cheeks. His hands fell away from yours, allowing you to explore him with your eyes still shut tight. Each move you made was careful and soft. Fingertips ghosted so carefully across his face, taking notice of the slight stubble on his chin. As you moved up, your right hand came in contact with some rougher skin. It was uneven, slightly raised off of his cheekbone, reaching all the way back to his hairline. Another one was further up, cutting vertically down near his temple and slicing part of his eyebrow. 

As you continued, your movements became a little more brave. His nose was strong and angled with a noticeable bump on the bridge. You traced down to the tip of his nose, taking note of how it wasn’t exactly straight. Almost there, but not quite. Then you went lower. Another scar sliced the top of his lip, a deep one that created a small crevice of sorts. His breath was warm on your fingers as your thumb moved across his lower lip. You could feel how tense his muscles were in his face, as if he was pressing his lips tightly together. Like he was afraid something would escape him if he didn’t. 

A small huff escaped him as your fingers started to dip below his jaw, and his hands came up to ensnare yours. Thumbs pressed gently into your palms and fingers firmly on the back of your hands, he held them there for a moment, and you could feel your face begin to heat up. 

“Sorry,” you apologized, fingers retracting from his face and wrapping around his thumbs once more. God, it was crazy how big his hands were compared to yours. How you could make a complete fist around his thumb and the rest of his fingers could still engulf your hand. 

“Didn’t think you’d wander so far so quick,” he quipped, and you would have rolled your eyes at him if they weren’t already closed. 

“Your ID doesn’t show the scar on your cheek,” you stated instead. One of your hands loosened the grip on his thumb before slowly slipping away from him. The pads of your fingers gently ran over the thick tissue of his scar. You wondered if it looked as deep as it felt. 

“I heard some women find scars attractive,” Simon said, his dry humor showing. 

A choked sort of laugh rumbled in your chest and you gently shook your head. You sucked on the side of your lip slightly, teeth biting into the corner of your mouth where you knew your own scar laid just behind it. 

“Maybe if they’re on men,” you said with a sour chuckle. 

Within an instant Simon’s fingers were cupping your chin. Similar to what you had done to him just a moment before, his thumb swiped over your bottom lip, lingering for a moment on the scar there. You could feel your heart threaten to break free from your chest. 

“A few more and you’ll look as dashing as I do,” he said, fingers still lingering on your skin. 

Your head tilted down some and you shook it slightly in disbelief. “You’re awfully confident for a man who hides his face all the time.” 

“I’ve earned it,” he retorted bluntly. 

His grip on your chin tightened some, not enough to hurt, but enough to get you to lift your head back up. Your eyes fluttered for a moment, threatening to open, yet you quickly squeezed them shut. He was awfully trusting of you in that moment, and you weren’t going to break that. 

“Have you?” you asked, trying to ignore the way your voice was breathless. 

He shifted forward slightly, and he was so close you could feel his breath fanning across your face. Your grasp on his thumb tightened even more, and you found your breath becoming increasingly difficult to control. 

“Wanna find out?” he asked, his voice lower than it was before. 

You weren’t sure how it happened, or who closed the distance, but your lips collided with Simon’s in something so unexpectedly soft it stole your breath. Those smoldering butterflies in your stomach resurrected with a vengeful fury. With wings of fire they thrashed around in your stomach as Simon’s hand fell away from your chin. He pressed his hand against yours, as if reveling in your touch on his cheek. 

Never in a million years would you have expected something so soft and sweet from a man like Simon Riley. With his brooding stare and intimidating figure; masking up in a way that always left everyone on edge. God, your sweet tooth was insatiable, so much so that it was Simon who had to be the one to pull away. 

You had to hold back your protest as the absence of him left your stomach churning. His hand pulled yours away from his face, but he still held it in his as he lowered your joined hands towards your laps. 

“Still keeping your eyes closed even after all that?” he asked, the baritone of his voice rumbling you to your core. 

Taking his invitation, you finally opened your eyes. Of course his face was the very first thing you were met with. In an odd way, he looked exactly how he felt. A strong, slightly crooked nose, deep scars on his cheek and forehead, and strong brows. His lips were slightly turned downwards in a neutral expression, but a light shined bright even in the umber of his eyes. 

A smile broke out on your lips, one that continued to spread and spread so much so that one nearly appeared on his own lips. 

“There he is,” you said softly. 

“Been here the whole time, sweetheart.” 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Spring came just in time to send Simon off on another mission, though it was already blistering hot in the desert he found himself stuck in. The morning sun rose dully off the horizon, and he stood facing the scene. Without any clouds, the sunrise wasn’t anything spectacular, but he wasn’t focused on the sky at all. 

That goddamn handkerchief. He couldn’t go anywhere without it, but damn, he wouldn’t dare to leave it behind. Not when it was the only thing that he had out on the field that reminded him of you. 

“How’s Spook?” 

Confused, Simon turned around, annoyance evident on his face even from behind his mask as he faced one of his sergeants. 

“What the hell are you on about, Johnny?” he questioned, eyes settling on the Scotsman. 

Soap motioned towards the handkerchief in his hand. It was the same one he had spotted Simon holding on their last mission while flying back home. He had meant to ask his lieutenant about it before, but never got the chance. The shit eating grin on his face was the only hint Simon needed to put two and two together. 

“Spook,” Soap repeated, hands reaching up to rest on the straps of his vest. “Your bird.” 

Shaking his head, Simon carefully folded up the handkerchief before placing it in its home in his back pocket. He huffed as he walked past Soap before muttering, “Comedian, you are.”

[kaciidubs]

Experiment 0915 | Spooktober 2023

❣ Summary: Experiment 0915, the boy with the galaxy on his face - he would make a perfect host, wouldn't he? ❣  ❣ Word Count: 1.9k ❣ Warnings: Dubcon Roleplay, Sub! Felix, smut, oviposition, sex toys [tentacle mention], bondage, dacryphilia, open ended ❣  ❣ Female! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns ❣  ❣ Additional Tags: Felix is referred to as Lix[ie], Patient, Subject, mind the tags - read at your own risk ❣ Stray Kids Masterlist ❣ General Masterlist ❣ Spooktober 2023

Heavy.

His body felt so heavy.

Was he truly so exhausted from practice yesterday that his body decided to give out on him? Was this it for him?

“Patient 0915 seems to be handling the sedative well… He should be waking soon.”

Sedative?

Patient?

The heaviness quickly morphed into a deep haze, his senses seeming to turn back on one at a time; his ears tuning into the faint sound of repetitive beeping, and his nose picking up on the warm scent of vanilla.

But his hands- his wrists felt… was there something silky against his skin?

Felix tried moving his arms but felt a slight tug against his wrists that merely confirmed his suspicions; he was tied up in his bed with no possible way of getting free.

“Oh? Seems like someone’s finally awake.”

Forcing his eyes open, he blinked away the bleariness to focus on a face - well, part of a face, as everything from your nose down was hidden behind a mask. All that he could garner from a quick once over was the simple set of lingerie you wore; black with faint, shimmering accents of stars threaded into the lace - he tried his best not to lose himself in the way the straps hugged into your curves.

“Welcome back to the world of the conscious, Lixie.”

“Who-” He winced at the croak of his voice, swallowing thickly, “Who are you? What is this?”

“That’s not something you need to know, little star, but,” walking beside the bed, illuminated by the warm light of the nightstand’s lamp, you danced your fingers along an array of toys laid out and begging to be put to use, “I promise you, this’ll be a night you won’t forget.”

It started with a pair of nipple clamps; pink rubber tipped and connected with a chain that laid in a chilling line across his chest - he had tried his best to arch away from your sinful touch, but the inability to physically turn away rendered him defenseless.

“P-Please,” the small whimper was accompanied by a sharp inhale, shocks of pleasure shooting through his perked nipples, “w-what do you want from me? Why are you doing this?”

An intrigued hum floated past your lips as you inspected the clasps, gently tugging at the clamp around his left nipple and earning a shivering moan from the man tied to the bed. 

“Interesting.”

His body tried in vain to curve away from your fingers walking the short distance of his pecs to meet the opposite pink bud, moaning louder when you tugged the second clamp.

He was ashamed of the way his dick twitched against his hip, he hated how his body craved more of your feather light touch - your scent seeming to cloud his head and block his mind from making any rational decisions.

“You’re sensitive with these… That’s cute.” Drawing back from his chest, you reached over to his nightstand and grabbed a small clear bottle; popping the cap open before pouring the liquid into your palm.

“‘M not cute- A-Ah!”

The liquid was cold against his dick, but with the heat of your palm quickly making up for the initial shock, he found himself succumbing to the lazy grip you held his cock in.

“I’ve barely done anything to you, but you’re already twitching,” you mused, amazement laced throughout your tone as you glided your hand up and down his length, “you truly are special.”

His eyes rolled, moans floating shamelessly past his lips with each pass of the curve of your finger and thumb past his flared tip, hips bucking in hopes of seeking out more of your twisted pleasure against his own better judgment.

Just as he thought he had found a decent rhythm, your touch left him and the reality of his situation spilled over him like a bucket of ice cold water, shocking his senses and jumpstarting his brain through the haze of arousal.

“C-Can you just untie me? I promise, I won’t do anything - I swear, I-I’ll be good!”

Not even batting an eye at his pleas, you traced your index finger down the taut skin of his balls and past his taint, smirking at the way his hips bucked and jumped, though he was unable to jerk his legs shut due to the ropes that bound his ankles to the foot of the bed - something he was quick to discover just before your assault on his chest.

“If you’re going to be a host,” your finger ventured lower until it grazed the puckered hole of his ass, applying pressure to the tight, fluttering ring, “then we need to make sure you’re ready.”

Ready? Surely you didn’t mean…

“W-Wait, please, what are you-”

His breath caught in his throat as your index slid into the tight ring, the glide of the lube making it all too easy for your finger to wiggle around and slowly stretch him open.

“N-ah- No, s-stop!” He cursed the break in his voice, further adding to the lack of insistence in his demand as his body shook against the bed - the arousal flowing through his veins feeling more like lava burning him from the inside out, laden with burning shame.

It wasn’t long until he felt another finger nudging at his hole, and soon you were steadily fucking him open with three fingers, your thumb pressed against his taint while your free hand caressed his thigh.

“See?” You cooed softly, your observant gaze taking in the flutter of his eyes as whimpered moans floated past his lips, “It isn’t so bad when you submit, now is it?”

His dick twitched at the condescension in your tone, though any form of denial was nonexistent on his tongue as he hiccuped out a hum, “Y-Yes!”

“Good boy, all you needed was a little convincing, hm?” Dancing your fingers up his thigh, you traced your nail along a vein running along the length of his dick, smirking at the way it jumped at the sensation, “I suppose all of our subjects can’t be treated the same.”

He didn’t know what you meant, he didn’t understand why this was happening, but every curl of your fingers and the sickeningly calmness of your voice lured him deeper and deeper into a false sense of security.

However, that security was broken the instant he felt your touch pulling away from him - pulling out of him - and he found himself bucking against the bed.

“No! W-Why- Please-”

“Easy, Lixie, I’m not going anywhere.”

Despite your reassurance, he could still see you sliding off of the bed and reaching for something he could only describe as an awkwardly shaped dildo - colorful and thick, bigger than his usual toys due to the curved stature.

You stroked the dildo with a small smile, though the glint in your eyes had him swallowing thickly, “We’re moving onto the next stage.”

It was a tentacle - curved and stout and a glistening blue and purple from the copious amount of lube you slathered it in; though, the part that had his bound hands clenching was the ominous opening where a pointed tip should’ve been.

“Even though I stretched you out as best as I could, this could be a bit of a challenge,” you murmured nonchalantly, dragging the curved tip between his slicked up ass cheeks before a smug smirk curled your lips, “but I’m sure it’ll be easy for you - you are the perfect subject, after all.”

He didn’t have the chance to reply, he barely had the chance to take a breath before the rubbery head was pressing against his puckered hole, pushing and pushing until the first inch of the textured notch seated within him.

A shivering moan left Felix’s lips, the sensation of the ribbed shaft bringing goosebumps to his skin as bump after bump entered his ass slowly yet steadily until the thickened base rested against his hole.

“I-It’s so- F-Fuck, so big!”

A low chuckle escaped you as you slowly tugged on the toy’s base, stimulating him ever so slightly, “This is big? Cute - when the real deal comes, I only hope your reaction then will be just as adorable.”

 The real deal.

Your words bounced around his lust fogged mind, not a single brain cell coming forward to try and put meaning to the insinuation - how could his brain even try to wrap itself around his current reality when he was being split open in the best-worst way possible?

Then, the first drag came, and the increasing slope of each notch leaving him had his back arching; the puddle of precum growing as it seemed to flow endlessly from his barely acknowledged cock.

“A-Ah!”

Leaving half of the toy within him, you thrusted the missing inches back in, setting an unforgiving pace that soon had the room filled with lewd squelching and desperate moans.

Whatever remaining willpower he held was subsequently fucked out of him, his body pliant and wholly submissive to the way the multiple ridges of the toy rubbed against his prostate - he was defenseless, free to be used by your hand, and he… He loved it.

“Maybe I should record your next session, Lixie,” you purred, licking your lips as hungry eyes met his tear filled ones, “your blissed out face is something all of our future test subjects should see.”

He nodded frantically - record him, show him off, anything if it meant he could feel like this again, he needed you to make him feel like this again, and again, and again.

“Ready for the final step?”

Your questions were rhetorical, his response was never a factor for your hypotheses, only his reaction to the aftermath - and this final reaction was what would make, or break, your experiment.

Felix’s thighs shook as you pushed the toy to its hilt once again - however, this time something was different.

“What’s-”

He cut himself off with a moan, the sound increasing in volume as he felt his hole stretch ever so slightly, the toy seemingly growing as if something was moving through it.

“What’s h-happening?! What are you-”

The stretch happened a second time and a tear ran down the side of his face - fear and pleasure mixing into something molten hot and stirring in the pit of his stomach, his dick twitching in the air to the rhythm of his racing pulse.

“Just one more, come on, Lix - one more egg, just for me.”

Of course, you were already a step ahead of him, working the third egg into the depositor hole through the center of the toy and, subsequently, into him.

The second the widest part of the final egg entered him, he felt his body jolt - his cherry lips parting, though whatever sound came out was behind blocked ears as his orgasm took him by storm.

Ropes of cum painted his stomach in uneven lines, mixing with his precum and further matting the fine, untrimmed hair on his pelvis until all that remained were the pearl-bead remnants dribbling down his flared tip and shaft.

He blinked hard, the heavy sound of his own breathing slowly registering back into his ears, and when he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling, he caught a delighted hum falling from your lips.

“It seems our precious patient has given us some promising results…”

He choked on a gasp as he felt the toy slowly leave him, leaving the small eggs behind in the process, keeping his ass plugged and full.

“Let’s move on to phase two, shall we, Patient 0915?”

✧. ┊Tagged lovelies: @having-an-internal-crisis-rn, @midnightfrog625, @anyhow-everything, @bangchanbabygirlx, @sweetracha, @j-onedrabbles, @nightimescapes, @caitlyn98s, @ch4nn13luv, @ihrtlix, @sometimesleeknows, @jeonjungkookenthusiast1997, @maximumkillshot, @y-ur--i, @acker-night, @dreamescapeswriting, @specialstay, @broken-glowsticks, @s00buwu, @junglyric, @tinyelfperson, @jj-stay, @katsukis1wife, @inlovewithmusician, @keen-li, @armystay89, @main-character0, @vampcharxter, @ddyskz, @prettymiye0n, @bbgnyx, @ivyisnotokay, @bahng-chrizz, @milknhoneyracha, @hann1bee, @palindrome969, @newhope8, @luminouskalopsia, @kpopsstuffs, @starquokka, @wolfs-howling, @laylasbunbunny, @zaethefangirl, @chxnb97, @4-chan-inpadella, @butterflydemons

✧. ┊Kinktober only: @selicua

✧. ┊If your username is in bold italics that means tumblr won't let me tag you. If you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill out this form!

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"10 Stolen Tires Found by Police," Windsor Star. July 22, 1943. Page 5. ---- Ten stolen automobile tires are being held for identification by the Windsor office of the Ontario provincial police this morning. The tires were found hidden among some trees in Anderdon Township near Amherstburg last evening.

Sergeant Dave Duncan and Constable Frank Scott brought the tires back to Windsor. Some of the serial numbers had been filed off but the officers have identified most of the tires in spite of this.

The tires are all in very good condition. Most of them are of American manufacture and were stolen from cars belonging to cottagers in the Amherstburg district.

[sugar-omi]

I don’t think I read cove putting on a condom in that virginity loss post. Do I sense Cove having to awkwardly buy MC plan b? 😏😏🤭

[part 1]

listen. it's up for interpretation✋️😌🤚 maybe the parents left some rubbers in the house bc who KNOWS what'll happen. but that's exactly what i was thinking too🤭

you're both too eager to even think rationally, logically.

by the time he's ruined you with his tongue and stretched you open with his fingers, and the thought finally occurs to you two, you can't just let him go.

you promise him it'll be okay, that it's just one time and today should be safe. that you can just get a plan B and it'll be alright

his brain is too fogged to even disagree. because right now, his dick throbbing at the thought of losing his virginity raw. especially with you. to even think about all the lectures his parents gave, or even think about the consequences and how complicated his feelings are as a big fay teenage accident

tries to put up a bit of resistance, asks if you're sure. if you're really sure.

please don't try to reason with him by saying "well, if we do it raw the first time, i won't get curious when doing it with anyone else..."

because now he has to agree.

because fuck. what if the temptation is just as strong now, as down the line. what if he's too dazed to think straight. maybe, just maybe, feeling how hot and wet your pussy is around his cock will give him a bit of reason if he ever has sex with someone else..

finally he'd just growl lowly, curses and says "okay, fuck.. okay..." because now you've won him over. he can't go back now

thinks he's ruined just when the tip of his cock alone pushes past your entrance, that this is it. he's totally fucking pussy drunk for the rest of his life. there's no way he'll ever be able to recover for the feeling of your tight cunt squeezing around him, your legs and arms tangled around him and your thighs trembling and squeezing around his hips

all he'll be able to think of for the rest of his life will be how your eyes rollback, how they they flutter, and how his name sounds on your lips, all breathy and soft and whiny. it's a fucking symphony and he needs you to keep singing it

pants and inhales like he's running a fucking marathon with every cm and every inch of cock he sinks into you.

he's not small, and he hopes he stretched you enough, and of your hymn is still intact before now, he really hopes this doesn't hurt you too much.

it's so suffocating and hot. and even with tears welling up in your eyes, a tear or two running down your cheeks, he can't help but feel so fucking happy that you're under him like this, clinging onto him. whining and moaning his name. crying about his dick, how he's too fucking thick to fit inside you, how he's nudging your cervix once he's fully inside...

tries to ignore it but he's so happy you're doing this with him.

what if some other asshole had you under him like this. and then ran off and bragged, embarrassing you. or shamed you when you fought for how you cried and clung onto them like a needy whore

really tries to ignore the primalness rising in his chest. but fuck he has to admit his confidence is getting bigger by the second. has been ever since you said he's the only guy you trust to take your virginity and not regret it. that if you had a choice, you'd give it to him.

he's never cared about the whole virginity thing, and purity and all that... just wanted it to be with someone he trusted, and he's glad you feel the same

but now that you're here.. fuck it's flipped a switch inside him

right now, he doesn't know if he wants to give you up. your bodies are connected now.. you're taking him to the hilt, crying his name, and begging him for more.

just minutes ago you begged him to make you cum on his face.

he doesn't want anyone else to see that.

but that's so selfish, and disgusting. you're not even dating. this is just.. both of you taking precautions to not regret your first sexual experience

but fuck.. fuck if he doesn't feel like your souls are connected at this point. if he doesn't feel like you own a piece of him now..

which in fact. you do. and he does too.

he's the first to see you so vulnerable, so intimately.

no one else has seen you like this. you haven't called anyone else's name in that sultry voice and he's the first person besides yourself to make you cum.

he owns those firsts. and you own the same from him.

it's not like it's the first thing you've ever done together, really it shouldn't be this fucking life changing.

but not all best friends tell each other they want the other to pop their cherry, and not all best friends beg the other to please put it in, that that's enough and you're ready for it.

not all best friends moan out each others name, leav dark hickeys on each other, and definitely don't hold hands and kiss like lovers as they gently fuck into the other friend..

God he hopes he's your only best friend. at least the only best friend who can do this to you.

you're hardly accustomed to the intrusion before he picks up the pace. he had just kissed the tears off your cheeks and told you it's okay, he has you, you're doing so good..

and now he's slamming his hips down, his body weight pushing you into the mattress, and his face is buried in your neck, muttering apologies in your ear as if that'll make up for his cock bullying your sensitive, deflowered insides

you're so sensitive from your previous orgasms, and this is a whole new sensation. it's too much, he's so mean, but if he really was that mean, why is he holding your hand and kissing you, squeezing his hand between your body to rub your clit...

cove's always so sweet, so you can forgive him for being a bit of a bully tonight. even if your cervix and pussy is so tender afterwards, you can get over it because fuck it's too good to be mad at him

he's hitting all those spots you can't reach with your fingers, his cock dragging along every spot and his fat cock top nudging that delicious spot between your walls

he thinks he's gone to heaven when you lock your legs around him, begging him to keep hitting that spot. of course, he obliges, adjusting his knees and trying to keep a god rhythm as he fucks into that spot that has you crying so loudly, your nails dragging down his back...

you feel so fucking good.. and he groans when he looks between your bodies and see the creamy ring around his cock, strings of slick and cum connecting your pussy to his abdomen and the mess is all over both of your guys thighs.

it's sloppy. and dirty. dirtier than those sloppy French kisses you engaged in earlier, and cove didn't think he could get any harder until right now

between the mess and the way your pussy clings to his cock, the obscene shlicking noises, the way your cunt accepts him and gushes around him like you're made for him, and he's made for you..

he can't hold it anymore. especially when you cry as you cum around his cock, your legs locking behind his back ad your ego him to keep going.

cages you in his arms as he uses your pussy to bring him over the edge, running tight circles around your clit.

you're not letting up, even when he says he's gonna cum, that he should cum outside.. fuck it probably doesn't matter if he pulls out at this point.

all the pre cum his fat, pretty cock drooled inside your pussy, and if you made him cum before you went all the way, his cock was already sticky and wet with his semen, it's far too late to be cautious now.

his eyes roll back and flutter shut when he cums, groaning and he can't help but bite into your shoulder, not even thinking twice about it whole he dumps his fat, thick load inside your poor cunt..

he's totally painting your walls white, and it's spilling out around his cock.. you didn't think he could cum so much, didn't think it'd be possible..

it'll definitely be impossible to clean out later. you can feel how thick and clingy his cum is, you're going to be fingering and scooping out cum fron your sensitive guts for so long...

you have to ignore that dark part of you that says his cum is perfect for getting you pregnant. that it'd fill your womb up so nicely, that if it didn't take the first time it'd be a fucking miracle.

you choking around the primal urges filling up your chest, your brain.. you have to get him off you before you beg him to fuck you again. before a second round turns to three, than four...

you've been so irresponsible. but at least you can curse yourself about that instead of having your first times with assholes, right?

and at least cove will buy the plan B himself, or at least pass you the money for it. he's still a better gentleman than any other guy out there, so you definitely can't be mad about your first time...

[redhoodinternaldialectical]

Thoughts on Jason Todd’s choice of weaponry?

:D an ask! Yay!

Oooh, lets see, I'll start with the crowbars because I appear to be like one of three people on the entire planet who actually likes them.

They're a tacky as fuck riff on the fact that Jason's death is central to his character. They overemphasize the manner in which he died, muddy the waters about what part of his death is important to him, and strangely cheapens the manner in which he died through the parody feel of it.

No one seems to really disagree with my analysis here, but I happen to enjoy that about them and think it's very on brand for Jason. What can I say? They're fun!

Best Quality - His Wiggles

This ultra-sharp curved blade used to be his signature character design feature, the way the white streak in his hair is now, and I'm really not sure why it didn't stick!

Best weapon he's ever had, bring it back please!!!!!

The All-Blades

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm....

HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM...

I have mixed feelings about the All-Blades. Like much of Lobdell's work: phenomenal idea, poor execution. Giving the guy who is most known for being morally grey a set of powers that is exclusively based on moral absolutes sucks shit, I gotta be honest, and the trick he pulled on the blood blade was cool but ultimately does nothing to solve those problems.

HOWEVER

I want to love them so fucking badly. A set of glowy soul blades is a dope sicknasty off the chain concept and I wish the well wasn't poisoned with the moral implications and the restrictions to use them only on the "Untitled", a set of enemies that only exist for Jason so far as I can tell. If someone seriously took Jason down a magic based path that removed the DnD alignment chart bullshit, I would be so game to see them come back! Hell I wouldn't even insist on a better cooler design for them!

...though uh, yeah those are the least interesting magic sword designs I've ever seen tbh

Normal Ass Swords

They're alright I guess. Like, there's nothing in it really, but it's not bad?

Guns - Real Bullets

Excellent, evocative yet simple, straightforwards and to the point. It makes hella sense thematically to boot, love this for him, please give him back his pistols and miniguns and shit

Guns - Rubber Bullets

Hate. HATE. hate ick disgusting bad NO.

I just fucking hate rubber bullets, like, as a concept. I refuse to accept "non-lethal" bullets as a valid use of gun, either in real life or in fiction. Guns are for putting many holes in things very fast!!!! If you're gonna use a gun, fucking well own up to that!!! Do not play this silly ass game of pretending that you can change out the material and do the same things as with lead bullets but with the video game status effect of "non-lethal" applied. YOU ARE GIVING PEOPLE SMALL CIRCULAR BRUISES. This is still harmful, yes, ooph ouchie, but it is not even slightly a good use of a gun, you are wasting holster space, and carry weight, and the physical materials used to make it all!!

JUST USE A FUCKING STICK! YOU DON'T RUN OUT OF STICK AMMO!

My belief in his capacity to take out enemies is shattered the instant those fuckers are on panel. Maybe this ain't entirely rational, or realistic to how fights go with rubber bullets IRL, but I hate them so much on principle that I will ignore any counterargument you might have that they'd work. I will die on this hill. Rubber bullets BAD. Please stop making him use this!!

Bombs

Love it, give him more bombs forever

ka-BOOM!!!!

His Brain

This is actually his best weapon - sorry wiggly knife, you're being shunted down to number 2 on a last minute technicality! I think Jason is at his best when he's outsmarting people and making long term fucked up schemes to ruin people's lives.

He's so good at it! It's so fun to watch him do it!

Genuinely a shame that this facet of him was mostly lost after Flashpoint, though to give credit where it is due, in Rebirth Jason did ruin the Penguin's life in an impressively elaborate way, which I did really enjoy. I want to see him be a tactical deliberate menace to one person in specific again idk, that's part of why I do kinda agree that he works better as an antagonist than a protagonist - which it should be noted does not mean I think he works better as a villain necessarily, his ethics aren't what matter here - he's just had his best moments as the schemer, and it's hard to have a protagonist schemer even when you make them ethically the good guy.

I hope you enjoyed my nattering on about Jason's weapons :D thank ye again for ask!