#so he fits in his laundry bin

[bethanydelleman]

I just learned that my oldest son undresses himself while standing IN his laundry bin.

One always imagines that there is no way to improve upon a very basic chore, but no, turns out there is.

[twola]

Passerine : Chapter 3

PAIRING: High Honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

One step forward, two steps back.

Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.

Hi - I know it’s been over a year since I’ve updated this. Passerine is a love letter to trauma and the thereafter. It’s heavy. It’s hard to write. But thank you all for holding on to this. I promise it won’t be another year before I post chapters 4, 5, and 6 to finish it out.

Note: I play fast and loose with the passage of time as compared to the canon game.

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Abigail pulls the canvas around the tent’s opening closed behind her. She sighs as she arranges the fabric to preserve the privacy that you so desperately need.

Wiping the back of her palm across her forehead, she squeezes her eyes shut as she tries to stave off a headache.

“Mama!”

She jolts, steadying herself as her five-year-old son barrels into her legs, whipping his arms around her skirts.

“Jack…-Jack,” Abigail reels slightly as she places her hand on his head as he snuggles into her thigh. She pushes gently and he unwinds his small arms from around her. He steps half a step back and she stoops down on one knee to look him in the eye.

She tucks some of his hair behind his ears, her hands cupping his small cheeks, losing the last bit of baby fat from them as the boy grows in fits.

“Can you be a good boy fer me and go find Uncle Hosea? I think he has a new book fer you.” 

His eyes flash in excitement as he nods, and Abigail gives him a wry grin as he tries to wriggle away, not letting go of him until she places a kiss on his forehead. When she takes her hand from his shoulders, he darts away across the camp, calling after Hosea.

Bless him, he’s like a grandfather to Jack. Between him and Arthur, sometimes, sometimes, she can almost forget how terrible of a father John is.

Speaking of which, she finds him staring at her from across the camp, elbows at his knees as he sits in front of the fireplace. She glares back at him before turning away, huffing in a moment of agitation.

She pulls back the tent's canvas slightly, confirming to herself that yes, you are asleep.

Frowning, she lets the canvas go and walks over toward the lakeshore behind where Arthur had set his tent wagon up, crossing her arms over her chest as the red-painted sunset reflected off of the still waters of Flat Iron.

When she had asked you when was the last time you bled, she expected sputtering, anxious eyes and having to come up with a way to tell Arthur that he’d gotten a child upon you.

Instead, your flushed face turned almost white as you shot to your feet and immediately stumbled away from the wash bin and toward the treeline.

Abigail dropped laundry she had been working on back into the tub and hitched her skirt to run after you, catching up only as you doubled over, leaning against a tree as you choked up bile onto the ground.

You had burst into tears in between wet, gasping breaths, your stomach heaving dry when there was nothing left to expel. Abigail rubbed your upper back soothingly as she pulled your hair back from over your shoulder.

“C’mon now, it’s gonna be okay. Arthur’s- he’s the best of the men, he’ll take care of you.” She cooed softly, her hand working in slow circles between your shoulder blades.

You sob aloud, which unseats her. “It’s…it’s….”

You could barely get the words out.

Abigail’s circles slow, “Is… it not his?”

You collapsed to your knees as sobs racked your body, wet coughs echoing through the woods.

Abigail spent the rest of the afternoon trying to console you, able to pry details between your fits of dry heaving and sobs. She narrows her eyes against the red sun in the distance, her shoulders finally letting down from how tightly they’ve been wound all afternoon.

The truth was much worse than she had been expecting.

She had managed to coax you away from the trees and usher you quietly into Arthur’s tent, where she immediately pulled the canvas shut before turning back to you and pushing you down gently into the cot, taking your boots off one at a time and placing them on the ground next to the cot.

In hushed whimpers, you told her about what had happened those months ago when the gang was still at Horseshoe.  Her brow furrowed in shock as she brushed your hair off of your forehead, taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and dabbing it across your damp brow.

The truth, as terrible as it was, was not unfamiliar to Abigail. A whore by fifteen, she had seen her share of women forced against their will. A customer gone too far, a rat of a man waiting to catch one of the girls alone, not wanting to pay for services.

She herself had experiences with it. 

But you, as you regaled the terrible details in hiccuping breaths, you had never been part of that world, and when the O’Driscoll forced you down on that bed, the act of sex had never been weaponized against you until that moment.

She had finally calmed you down enough that you drifted off to sleep, not more than an hour ago.

Rubbing the back of her neck, Abigail glances back toward where the horses are hitched, Arthur’s mare still missing amongst them.

She lets out a long, mournful breath. As many times as she had tried to assure you that if you were with child it was likely Arthur’s… all you could dwell on was that man who bound and gagged you and had you on the old bed in that dingy cabin.

You had cried yourself to sleep, and Abigail now has to figure out what to do going forward. Obviously, she thinks as she brushes the loose hair at the nape of her neck that escaped her bun, she needs to figure this out with Arthur. No matter what the decision was. She needed to talk to him before she made a trip to Saint Denis to collect the needed items.

A pang of memory flashes in her mind - the horrified look on John’s face when she told him she was with child. How it was months before he had her in his bed again. Only once, when she was swollen with child, did he lay with her - now years ago. 

The sound of hoofbeats draws her from the fugue of her thoughts. She turns partway around to see Arthur ride into the camp atop his mare, weighed down with a whitetail deer strapped across the horse’s rump. Wiping her hands on her skirt, Abigail sighs and moves towards where Arthur dismounts, following him silently as he shoulders the deer carcass and slings it over Pearson’s table.

He scoots over toward the tub of soapy water to wash the blood from his skin.

“Arthur.” 

Arthur looks up, shaking his hands from the wash bin, “Miss Roberts,” he drawls with a smile on his face.

Abigail does not return his smile.

-

“She was raped?”

Arthur stares at Abigail from under the rim of his hat, clenching his jaw, “How-”

“She told me.” Abigail sighs, leaning against the tree a bit away from the camp that she had led him to.

“She alrigh’? What happened for her to tell you?” Arthur mumbles, glancing back at the camp looking for you, but you are nowhere to be found.

“Arthur. I think she’s with child.” Abigail states in a hushed tone, and Arthur’s eyes dart wildly back to her.

“Child?”

“Yes, Arthur,” Abigail retorts, her patience frayed and finally worn out.

Arthur’s jaw clenches before he opens his mouth again, “It’s mine.” He mumbles, almost too soft to hear, eyes shooting down to the ground.

Much like how you refused to listen to Abigail’s pleading and reassurance as she tried to convince you of the same, Abigail brushes aside Arthur’s comment.

“Did he… did he spend in her?” Abigail rubs her eyes with the back of her palm, exhausted as dusk was closing in on the camp.

“I have,” Arthur says quietly, continuing to look at the ground.

“I know you have, idiot. But th’ first thing she thought is that this baby belongs to some dead O’Driscoll that raped her.”

Arthur’s jaw sets, unable to hide the snarl from his tone. “Ain’t no way it's his. We’ve been sleepin’ together for a couple a’ months. And I don’t always-”

“Yes, Arthur, I get that.” Abigail interjects with exasperation, “The question is - does she?”

The outlaw’s gaze flicks upward, landing on Abigail for a moment, before he turns his head to the side, looking over the western horizon at Flat Iron Lake.

“Look - I don’t know what y’all want to do. I don’t know what she wants to do. But…” She trails off, her gaze also looking out to the lake, “I can give her things to make it end.”

Arthur doesn’t respond.

Abigail dusts off her skirt as she begins to step away, “But Arthur…”

He finally can make eye contact as she looks back at him.

“She’s gotta make up her mind - quick.”

-

The dinginess - the sour smell of off-food and dirty men permeated the air. The kind of stink that simple cleaning would never get rid of.

Your head is killing you as you blink away the pain, but you find yourself biting down on a foul piece of fabric tied around your mouth. You try to pull it down, but find that your wrists are bound behind your back.

The door opens and the feeling of dread in your chest explodes into a blazing fire of fear.

“There’s my little girl.”

His greasy, dark hair is slicked back away from his disheveled beard, and he smiles that toothy, nauseating grin at you.

The O’Driscoll pulls up your chemise from your thighs up and over your belly, baring your bottom half to him. You try to clench your thighs together, but as he leans over you, you do not find that he forces your legs apart.

But you cannot fight him as his rough and dirty hand spreads out over your belly.

“Pretty miss - gonna be all big and swollen with my child.”

Your eyes shoot open, your fingers closing tightly around the blanket that you’ve pulled around yourself. You have to bite your lip to stop from screaming aloud. 

Dusk’s shadows permeate through the canvas of Arthur’s tent, and you realize you’ve spent most of the afternoon sleeping. You push yourself up in the cot, breathing out heavily.

You pass your hand over your stomach. As soon as Abigail asked you the last time you bled, the cavern inside you opened up. You hadn’t bled since before the house in Cumberland. The nausea, the vomiting. God, you’ve been so tired too. 

Shit, was it true? Could there be a child there, under the softness of your belly? Would you grow round and hard there beneath your fingertips? 

Not only was there a pit in your stomach, but you felt like your chest had been cracked open - you’re drowning in yourself - why can’t you escape that O’Driscoll and what he did?

You curl up smaller in Arthur’s cot, pulling the blanket over you, trying to hide from the world.

-

Usually, it’s before a job that he reaches for a cigarette. Something to calm his nerves and hone his senses before roaring into a situation with guns blazing.

That’s not the situation he finds himself in now.

Arthur finds himself pacing in the wooded area outside of camp, smoking hurriedly as his palm clenches in agitation. He throws the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and smashes it under the heel of his boot, turning his face upward and exhaling a plume of smoke with a sound that could be described as a sigh.

The lantern lights of the camp start to glow in the distance. He hasn’t worked up the courage to rejoin the group since stalking out to the woods and smoking half a pack of damn cigarettes.

Flat Iron Lake is still in the distance, a few ships passing between Saint Denis and Blackwater illuminate the dark waters.

Arthur grabs his hat off his head with one head and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of the other. He closes his eyes, letting another long breath out.

Arthur swears he can hear a child’s laughter. It ain’t Jack though. Another young boy - with tawny hair and freckles dusting his cheeks. 

“Papa!”

A young boy who darts toward him as he slides off of his saddle.

The smile of a dark-haired girl leaning in the doorframe.

Fishing rods and toy horses and bedtime stories when he came around. A cup of coffee and pleasant conversation with a girl he shared a night with so long ago…

And two wooden crosses. Silence. Not even the birds sang that day he came upon the little house off the road. 

Arthur continues to pace, cursing under his breath. He goes to reach for yet another cigarette when he stops, swallowing, and grits his teeth.

How goddamn selfish of him to wallow in his own miserable past when you need him. The pit in his stomach reopens as he remembers the sight of you in that cabin. Bound, gagged, and violated.

And now his dumb ass has gone and gotten you pregnant. Foisted this upon you when you were still so vulnerable and hurting and god damnit - he told you he wasn’t a good person. This absolutely proves it.

There’s no lantern light on in his tent, he can see through the woods, and he’s stayed out long enough. Lord only knows Abigail is going to come find him and smack him the way she’s hit John - but he wouldn’t be any less deserving.

With yet another long, burdened breath, he heads back toward his tent.

Arthur Morgan moves as quietly as he can through the canvas, pulling it shut behind him. Darkness has fallen upon the camp, and he’s thankful that he can reach the oil lantern on the table with just enough moonlight for him to light it low. A yellow-orange glow emits from it, illuminating the tent.

You’re sitting in his cot, in the darkness, and in the light, he can see the sheen of tears down your cheeks. Your hair is falling out of the bun it’s half tied into. Fuck, he’s the goddamn scum of the earth.

“Darlin’,” his voice cracks with uncertainty.

You shiver, the threadbare blanket pulled over your shoulders as you sit in the cot. Arthur holds the rim of his hat in his hands, fidgeting with it restlessly as he cannot meet your eyes.

“Abigail seems to think…”

“Abigail’s right.” You mumble, monotone while staring into space.

Arthur chews his lip, “This is my fault.”

“Ain’t your fault an O’Driscoll-”

“I got you pregnant,” Arthur interjects, moving to sit on the small stool across from the cot.

“You don’t know it’s yours.” You snap back with a vicious snarl in your voice and he nearly recoils as if shot. This he did not expect.

Neither it seems, did you. Your eyes widen when you finally meet his, and hold his gaze for but a moment before your brow crinkles and you shove your face into your knees as you draw them up to your chest.

You hiccup a sob, “What if this baby looks l-like ‘im? What if the baby has them cold dark eyes starin’ at me like when when he-”

“Shh,” Arthur hushes you, preventing you from speaking aloud your terrible truth. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you into his embrace, “That ain’t gonna happen.”

You wriggle uncomfortably in his arms, trying to pull away. Arthur lets go of you, but his hands move to cup your cheeks and force you to look at him.

“No matter what, I’m gonna be here for you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes are only able to hold his stare for but so long before you look downward. Arthur lets go of your face and you take the opportunity to scoot further away from him in the cot, unable to look him in the eyes.

You’ve pulled your knees to your chest and hidden your face in them, ashamed of the tears that spill down your cheeks again.

“I had a son.”

Arthur’s voice is not loud, not strong, not solid. You slowly raise your head, sniffling, to find him sitting with his elbows on his thighs and head hung low, staring at the dirt below his feet.

“…had?”

He nods, still not looking at you, “He ‘nd his mother were killed, long time ago. Robbery.”

You remain quiet, your gaze down to the ground also. 

“I wasn’t there.”

You wrap your arms tighter around your legs.

“Wasn’t there for any of it. Wasn’t there when he was born, barely there as he grew up, wasn’t there when he ‘nd his mother needed my protection.”

Arthur rubs tiredly over his eyes, his thigh bouncing slightly with something you recognize as agitation, anxiety. 

Fear.

It is several moments before he looks up at you again, swallowing before the low timbres of his voice fill the tent again.

“If you want this baby - I’ll be here. For all of it.”

-

You curl up on Arthur’s cot and try to sleep. At your obvious discomfort, he maintains a distance between you, pulling a chair in from outside and posting himself in it, pulling his hat over his head to try to get some sleep. 

Just before dawn, the pit in your stomach threatens to open up, and you toss the blanket from your body and pad outside, hurrying toward the treeline for what has become your normal. You’re able to make it a few trees back before you have to stop and hunch over to empty your stomach.

You wetly cough between heaving breaths, and it is not but a few minutes later that you feel his fingers grab into your hair, pulling it up as you vomit into the leaves below. 

You lean into the tree harder as you spit up the last of the bile in your belly. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you stumble slightly when you try to stand up, and Arthur’s hands find your waist quickly to maintain your upright position.

“C’mon there, sweetheart, let’s lay you down again.”

You don’t answer him, instead allowing him to guide you back to his tent as the first vestiges of the dawn overtake the sky. You let him help you lay down, you let him pull the blanket over your body. Exhausted, you finally fall asleep.

You awaken several hours later, when a hand presses to your forehead, checking for a temperature. Your eyes flutter open to see Abigail leaning over you, and you scramble to get up as she moves to the end of the cot to sit opposite of you.

Abigail takes your hand in your lap after a few terse moments. “Y’ wanna get rid of it? I can make that happen, but we gotta do it sooner than later.”

You look up at her, unable to stop the sheen of tears from glazing over your eyes. Tears escape and trail down your cheeks as your gaze moves from Abigail, sitting on the cot with you, across the small tent to Arthur, sitting on an old chair with his elbows on his knees.

Behind those blue eyes of his is a maelstrom, one you know he’s trying to hide from you. Arthur’s whispered voice echoes in your mind as he tells you the sorry tale of his own fatherhood. His loss, the indescribable hole in his heart full of regret and sorrow. Arthur’s gaze moves from you down to the ground.

You close your eyes as another wave of tears slides down your face, sighing loudly as you try to gather what little composure you have left. 

Finally, you look back to the woman gently rubbing your hand.

-

“Seen you hanging all over Arthur,” Grimshaw eyed your waist critically, “It’s his, ain’t it?”

There comes a time that you can’t hide it anymore - the swell of your belly just under your skirts. You’re sure the girls know - you’ve seen their eyes flit on your figure.

You continue to stare at the setting sun over the lake. Part of you wishes you had the wherewithal to respond, but you don’t have the strength to anymore.

Susan had clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Idiots. The both of you.”

You avoid people. Get your chores done quickly. Don’t complain about not getting jobs. Arthur moved everything of yours into his tent, more permanently letting down the canvas sides.

From that very first day that you cowered in his cot away from his touch, Arthur had given you a wide berth since you pushed him away - hesitant, sleeping on either a chair or laying his bedroll on the ground.

You awaken many days before dawn, silently padding out to the wooded area south of the camp, far enough away that the rest of the folks couldn’t hear your retching. Several times in the beginning, Arthur follows you, and you angrily shoo him away before he stops tagging along behind you.

Over the weeks, your belly hardens, your breasts swell. You have to let out the waist of your skirt, and there is no hiding anything when the height of the summer finds Clemens - it’s so miserably hot that layers to hide your growing body must be shed or you’d sweat to death.

You’ve seen Dutch eye you. You’ve seen him argue with Arthur. You’ve seen Grimshaw join the fray. Hosea has been dropping ginger tea off to you in the morning with a gentle, knowing smile - it tasted terrible, but after the first few bracing sips, it did settle your stomach.

“Mind if I join y’ for a smoke?”

From the grassy spot you sit upon, you look up to find the widow Adler looking down at you. She’s shed her skirts and blouses in favor of work pants. Arthur had dragged her away from Pearson hollering some kind of awful and they returned with her much less agitated. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a braid, the scar above her eyebrow much more noticeable when she wasn’t wearing a hat.

You nod, looking back to the water, and the spurs of Sadie’s boots jingling as she pulls a matchbook from her trouser’s pocket.

“You know me, I ain’t gonna pussy foot about you. I know you ain’t gettin’ fat because of Pearson’s cookin’.” Sadie lights the cigarette between her teeth, continuing to talk through the process.

You remain silent, sitting there on the shoreline, arms looped around your knees, your skirts hiding your frame - your belly, swelling with child.

The match sizzles when she chucks it into the lake and takes a drag.

“Y’got a look about you that you ain't happy bout it.”

You frown, placing your forehead against your knees. “No,” you mumble into the fabric of your skirt.

She lets out a plume of smoke. Silence settles between you before you work up the courage to speak again.

“When they came to your ranch… did they… did-” you swallow, stuttering as your voice cracks.

Sadie drops the cigarette, mashing it into the ground under her boot.

“Yeah.”

You squeeze your eyes tightly shut, sighing before your voice cracks again,  “I… when we just got to Horseshoe - there was a house I was scopin’ a-and then… then an O’D-driscoll-” you start to sniffle as your vision clouds with tears.

Sadie does not meet your gaze, simply closing her eyes and breathing out her nose.

“And you're thinkin’ it's his.”

You nod, the tears slipping down your face. What a miserable excuse for an outlaw you are, weeping like a frail woman in front of someone who endured the same trauma.

She lets out a long, thoughtful breath, heavy with the weight of familiarity, “I know, better than most, that you ain't gonna listen to anyone, but y’know it's probably Arthur’s.”

You swallow, about to retort something back at her when she turns on her heel, her spurs jingling.

“You and he weren’t exactly subtle with what you were up to.” Her hand brushes your shoulder before she walks back toward the camp. You remain still, looking out over the lake with your arms wrapped around yourself.

“Best if you start lookin’ forward instead of lookin’ back. You’re only gonna find pain there.”

You look back toward her.

“Are you lookin’ forward?”

Sadie Adler turns halfway to look at you, her jaw set and eyes hard.

“No.”

-

You dream of blood. Of the overpowering richness and stifling warmth in the stale air of the tent. Of movement, people, murmuring voices, and hushed tones.

You dream of pain. You dream of being torn apart from the inside. You dream of screams, nearly inhumane, echoing in the tent.

You dream of Susan Grimshaw dabbing a damp rag over your head, a soft, pitying look on her face.

You dream of the women of camp surrounding you - of Abigail and Sadie, Tilly and Mary Beth. Karen, even Molly. Sadness, forlornness in their eyes.

Abigail holds a whimpering newborn in her arms, swaddled in a blanket.

The bundle is placed in your arms, and as you draw back the linen, the child’s features are revealed. Instead of Arthur’s dark honeyed hair and blue eyes, the babe has dark, dark hair and near-black eyes that blink up at you. Dark, cruel eyes that are nothing like your own.

Nothing like Arthur’s.

You rocket up in the cot, gasping, holding a hand to your breast to calm your racing heart. Your movement has awakened the other person in the tent, and Arthur shoots up from his bedroll on the ground, his head darting this way and that, looking for potential danger before realizing that you had been plagued by a nightmare.

“Sweetheart-” Arthur reaches toward your face to wipe the tears from your cheeks but you flinch and draw back further so that he cannot touch you.

“I just… I…” your voice stutters in the night, “P-Please don’t touch me.” 

His hand retracts from between you, “Course, darlin’.”

You gather the thin blanket around you closer, refusing to make eye contact with the man who has crawled closer to the cot from where his bedroll lay spread out on the ground. “Why are you doin’ this?”

“Doin’ what?” Arthur says quietly as he pushes himself up, from his knees to sit at the very end of the cot, opposite where you have curled yourself.

“This.” You gesticulate to the distance between you, then to his bedroll on the floor, “You shouldn’t be sleepin’ on the ground. You’re far too high up in this gang to be doin’ that.”

“You’re pregnant. I c’n sleep anywhere, don’t need a bed.” Arthur says, running his thumb over his bruised knuckles, also not making eye contact with you.

“I ain’t pregnant with-” You begin, clenching your fists in the blanket, your voice faltering.

“You are. Don’t start with this - you remember how many times we was stupid.” Arthur looks up, clenching his jaw and narrowing his eyes in a look of irritation before sighing, running his palm down his face against the exhaustion creeping in on him, “Look, sweetheart. I don’t know why you keep thinkin’ the baby’s his. We’ve been sleepin’ together for months.”

You turn your head away from him, setting your jaw. He doesn’t understand, how would he ever understand?

Arthur lets out a breath and moves from the floor up to sit at the opposite end of his old cot.

“But what if he is? What if this baby’s daddy is that O-”

“My daddy wasn't nothin’ but the man that made me.” He interjects, “Hosea and Dutch raised me more than my actual father did.” 

You glance at the mugshot placed on the wagon in the corner of the tent. Lyle Morgan stares at you, with unrepentant eyes, as if he were mocking you from the grave.

“If…if-” You stutter, your eyes watering over again as you draw your knees awkwardly to your chest, your belly getting in the way, The strap of your chemise slips down your shoulder, “If this baby is born and y’ see it’s h-his-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur’s voice raises a bit, and as he realizes it, he slides closer to you on the cot, and grasps one of your hands in his own, his large, calloused hand engulfing yours, “I’m gonna be this child’s pa. Me. I’m gonna be that for the babe, and I’m gonna be that for you.”

You don’t fight his touch. Your eyes water over as you tightly close them, “I don’t know why you’d want another man’s-”

His thumb tenderly swipes your cheek, dashing the tears cascading from your eyes, “Cause I want you, sweetheart. ‘Nd anythin’ you create, it’s gonna be from you, and I want that too.”

You can’t hold back the sob from your throat as you crumble forward in the cot, Arthur winds his arms around you. You breathe in the musk of him - of leather and tobacco and safety.

And in the dim silence of the night, you allow it, burying yourself into his embrace, crying into his collarbone, your swollen belly pressed against his ribcage. 

[kneelingshadowsalome]

i just remembered this post or comment somewhere online where some girl said her bf accused her and thought she was cheating cause he didn’t know what discharge was (in her underwear)….. reminds me of konig 🧍 LOL

My dear lovely anon, König is so in this picture and he doesn't even know it ❤️

"Who is he? "

König marches into the room like a storm cloud. You've gotten so used to his delusional behavior by now that the only thing that makes you flinch is his tone of voice, now more hostile than ever. You're hanging your clothes to dry and try to turn as softly as you can, be as calm with your question as you can.

"What…? Who?"

He stands there with his feet planted wide, shoulders raised to his ears, chin to chest, eyes blazing inside the hood.

"Your lover."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Don't play innocent. You even let him cum inside you?"

He throws your blush pink panties on the floor, the dirty ones he's clearly picked up from the laundry basket, and it takes a while for you to understand that he thinks the white stains on them are some other man's sperm.

Just the fact that he just threw your dirty underwear on the floor like murder evidence, just the sight of them there before you makes you feel awkward and uncomfortable, but it's his absurd accusation that brings your hands over your mouth.

He thinks you have some other man you run to when he's away, who fills you up when he's not there to please you, that you come home with his cum dripping out of you…

"I can't believe you, Engel," he almost trembles with rage, his voice booming from thinking you're cheating on him. "After everything we've–"

"König," you stop him in the middle of his fit, dropping your hands back to your sides.

"Baby. It's not... sperm," you explain calmly while he's breathing like an enraged bull before you.

This is crazy... Crazy and ridiculous.

"It's just discharge," you continue to explain. "It's how a woman's body works. There's period blood, and then there's… this."

You can't believe you're having this conversation with him. You can't believe you had to live to see the day you have this conversation with any man.

The panties are still there between you, and his confused gaze flickers from them to you. Slowly, his breathing starts to even, but there's still that look of Are you just trying to fool me? in his eyes. You go to him, stepping over the cute little underthings. Placing a hand on his chest, you try to soothe him with touch.

"Did you smell it…?" You ask hesitantly, with heat gathering up to your cheeks.

"Yes," he squares his shoulders proudly, as if it's a normal, decent thing to do: to go around sniffing women's underwear.

"Did it smell of cum?"

"...No. It smelled of you."

"Well there you have it," you soothe the wrinkles on his shirt with your hand. The tension in his broad shoulders finally starts to release. The relief in his aura is palpable as the realization sinks in, the realization that you've always been faithful and it's only his angel's sweetness staining that cute, pink cotton.

"You're silly," you declare, giving him a small smile as you cup his face through that black hood. He grumbles softly, and a warmth spreads to your chest: it doesn't really matter if he's agreeing or disagreeing with your announcement, as long as he's calm again.

"What were you doing in my laundry bin anyway…?"

[raina-at]

Apology/Imperfection

How do you apologise for something unforgivable? 

How do you look the person you love most in the world in the eyes and apologise for two years of lying and deceit, for turning them into a perpetual victim of the game you played because you were bored?

The thing is, even at his best, Sherlock doesn’t do apologies. 

If he regrets a course of action, which has happened in the past, he makes amends otherwise. He and Mycroft communicate regret through gifts of expensive alcohol. Lestrade gets a text with hints about his current case, however mundane it might be. Molly gets coffee, Mrs Hudson gets the sherry truffles she likes a bit too much.

John… back in the day, he’d apologise to John by buying milk. Doing laundry. Making tea. 

He suspects that won’t quite cut it this time. 

He tries to write an apology, on the way to the Landmark. But everything he jots down on a British Airways napkin he still had in his pocket seems… trite. Empty. Imperfect.

John deserves a perfect apology. Sherlock is incapable of delivering one that’s even marginally acceptable.

So he skips it altogether.

It turns out that might not have been the best course of action.

At the end of the night, he crumples up the napkin and throws it out of his bedroom window, watching as it floats down onto Mr Chatterjee’s bins. 

It's a fitting end for a thoroughly shit evening.

*-*

During the following months, Sherlock tries to compensate for his lack of appropriate words by doing everything he can to help John. He plans the wedding, he broods over seating charts, he teaches John how to walz—pure torture, that one, and not only because John is a lousy dancer—, picks out his suit, arranges a stag night. He studiously ignores all the parts of him that want to curl up into a corner and die, ignores the pain in his heart and the regrets welling up in his throat like bile every time he opens his mouth and lies by omission. He never says what he’s thinking anymore, because what he thinks is always a litany of all the things he did wrong, all the moments he wasted, all the regrets he will take to his early grave at this rate. 

John said he forgives Sherlock. But he still feels like there’s something missing. Something absolutely essential has been extracted out of the very marrow of their relationship, leaving them hollowed out, brittle and fragile, easy to shatter.

And yet he still feels the magnetic pull between them, still feels the sizzle and pop, the connection between them, more addictive than any drug and possibly more destructive now that the guardrails of mutual trust and understanding are gone.

John is wary of him. Sherlock can’t blame him.

Maybe, just maybe, an imperfect apology would have been better than none at all.

*-*

It’s stuffy in the vestry. The sun shines in through a small window, and Sherlock watches the dust motes. John fidgets with his cufflinks. 

Sherlock feels like he’s been standing on ever-shifting sand during the last few months, as the time he had left with John slowly ran out. Now he’s on the last kernels, and he can already feel the glass beneath his feet, slippery and dragging him down the rabbit hole of self-destruction.

He reaches into his pocket to check the time on his phone when his fingers find something else entirely.

He takes it out. It’s the napkin he scrawled all of his imperfect, stuttering words onto, words he couldn’t say, words that still stick in his throat like a bone he was never able to swallow.

It shouldn’t be here. He remembers throwing it out.  How did it get into the inner pocket of his wedding suit? 

“What’s that?” John asks. He’s leaning against the vicar’s desk, not at all the picture of the happy bridegroom, uncomfortable in his suit, nervous, ill at ease in this church he didn’t pick.

Sherlock looks down at the napkin. He swallows. “Nothing,” he says, quietly, addressing his hands. Too little, too late. No use opening up old wounds now.

John gives him a long look that clearly states he doesn’t believe a word out of Sherlock’s mouth. Then he shrugs, looks away, obviously disappointed. “Fine. Fine,” he mutters, apparently more to himself than to Sherlock. He checks his watch, a nervous, impatient gesture. “Ten minutes to showtime. Better check on the guests.”

He walks to the door, and Sherlock catches a glimpse of the expression on his face in the mirror over the desk. Disappointment, pain. Regret.

And he suddenly realises that reopening old wounds assumes that they’ve healed. And that there is no such thing as too little when the alternative is nothing, and that he’s actually, really, truly, on the cusp of too late.

“John.”

John turns, looks at him, eyebrows raised in silent question.

“There’s something I should say,” Sherlock begins, hating the way his voice sounds, unsure, unsteady, like he’s chewing on broken glass.

John makes a ‘go on then’ gesture with his hand, leaning against the wall next to the door. Visibly bracing himself.

“I- it occurs to me,” Sherlock says, hesitant, feeling a bit like he’s fighting against his better judgement with every word out of his mouth, “that I never- I never apologised. For. You know.”

“Making me watch you die and lying to me for two years?” John fills in the blanks. He gives Sherlock a small, humourless smile, and there’s a world of bitterness in his voice, a poison they never lanced out of that wound. “No. You didn’t, did you? You said please forgive me, but that’s not actually an apology, is it.”

“No.”

Silence falls, and Sherlock can’t. He can’t. He feels like flaying himself open and trusting John not to destroy him by telling him whatever Sherlock has to offer isn’t good enough, isn’t, quite simply, enough, is as beyond him as it was that night at the Landmark.

John huffs a laugh that’s more annoyance than humour. “Well. Glad we had that conversation,” he mutters, pressing his lips together, clearly trying to hold some powerful emotion in.

You’re hurting him again, Sherlock thinks. If you stop now, you bloody fucking coward, how will you ever look at yourself in the mirror again? 

He looks down at the napkin, at the words he never said. The words that needed saying. Well, as they say, there’s no time like now.  “I- I should start by saying that I did what I thought was necessary when I jumped. And that you weren’t supposed to be there. I planned for this contingency, and I should have told you, but at the time, I thought it was necessary for your survival to deceive you. But you being there was neither part of the plan nor what I would have wanted to happen.” He looks up, meets John’s eyes, who’s watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. “So. Number one. I’m sorry I made you watch.”

John is silent, but his eyes are fixed on Sherlock’s face, and he’s clearly paying close attention to every word that comes out of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and continues,“I went after Moriarty’s network because I felt it was my responsibility to clean up my own mess, and nobody else’s. It seemed selfish of me to risk your life for my hubris. I nearly reached out to you so many times, and I didn’t because if you had known I was alive, you would have wanted to join me, and I wouldn’t have had the strength of character to turn you down. If you’d died, it would have killed me. So. Two. I’m sorry I wasn’t willing to endure what I put you through.”

There’s a knock on the door.

“Go away!” John yells, without turning. 

“But-”

John makes a frustrated noise, takes the two steps to the door and turns the key in the lock. “I said,” he growls at the vicar at the other side of the door,  “Go. The fuck. Away!” 

Then John turns around and makes an inviting gesture in Sherlock’s direction. “Continue.”

Sherlock gestures to the door. “Are you sure you-”

John huffs a frustrated sigh. “Yes, thank you for pointing out that I’m getting married in five minutes, you utter prat, and congrats for choosing the worst possible time for this, but fucking hell, Sherlock, don’t you think we’ve waited for this long enough?”

Sherlock acknowledges the point with a tilt of his head. “Best get on with it, then.” He takes a deep breath, because this is the difficult one. He holds up the napkin. “I wrote this when I came back. On my way to the Landmark. You deserved to hear it then. But I was too much of a coward to face the consequences of my actious. So. Number three. I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

“Why now?” John asks, softly, his face still unreadable, his eyes riveted to Sherlock’s face. “Why tell me this now?”

“Because there’s a number four,” Sherlock says, quietly, holding John’s eyes. He gets up, slowly, approaches John, giving him plenty of time to back away, to stop him, to leave.

But John stays. John holds his eyes, holds his ground. Waits.

Sherlock moves closer, invades his space, traces his fingers along the lapels of John’s beautiful suit. 

“Number four,” Sherlock murmurs, inching closer to John with every word, “I’m sorry I made you feel like I don’t care about you. I’m sorry I pushed you away. I’m sorry I never said thank you, for your trust, for your companionship, for the very best of times. I’m sorry it took me this long to say I love you, and I’m sorry I never asked you to come back. And I’m sorry for this,” he says, as he leans in and presses his lips to John’s.

John’s breath hitches as he pulls Sherlock closer and kisses back, fierce and courageous and like he’s been waiting for this just as long as Sherlock has. 

There’s loud voices and pounding on the door, and both their phones are vibrating with missed calls and texts, and neither of them notices as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss. John’s arms have snaked around Sherlock and he’s holding on like he never intends to let go, and Sherlock feels the knot in his stomach and the dread in his heart dissolve under the onslaught of John’s passion, and his kisses, and his love.

They finally break apart, and Sherlock knows he’ll remember the exact curve of John’s smile and the exact shade of his eyes in that moment for the rest of his life. “I forgive you,” John whispers, and it sounds like a vow. “I forgive you.”

And this time, Sherlock believes him. 

---

If anyone wants to venture a heacanon how a certain item found its way into a certain pocket, I won't stop you. I personally have my suspicions ;-)

If there are any embarrassing mistakes in there, please forgive me. It's Friday evening, and it's been a WEEK.

Also, if you want to read a similar scenario a bit less seriously, might I recommend my fic Speak Now, where Sherlock gives new meaning to the phrase 'last minute'.

Tags under the cut as always, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

Thank you all for a wonderful fandom time, all the writers and all the commenters and re-bloggers, and especially @calaisreno for keeping us going. Love you all.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

[lmskitty]

teacher AU totally dumb ficlet for fun

The worst arguments that have happened in the satosugu house ranked.

5. Aged 11 Nanako and Mimiko turned Geto's shirt pink in the wash and blamed Megumi. They had to be separated at dinnertime because Megumi pulled out Rabbit Escape and swarmed the front room with rabbits that kicked Nanako and Mimiko in the face. Gojo held Megumi in the air stopping him from pulling Mahoraga while Geto held the twins on the table. Tsumiki sat at the table petting one of the rabbits. Dinner was ruined. No cursed techniques were allowed in the house after that and the twins and Megumi were sent to their rooms. Tsumiki finished her dinner and continued to pet the rabbit unbothered.She named it floppy because of its notable ear difference.

4. Megumi pretended Gojo was invisible for a week and didn't exist because he kept coming to pick him up from school in clothes matching his despite being asked not to. Megumi was 8 and it hurt Gojo deeply especially when Geto found it incredibly funny and started doing it too. Gojo did not enjoy this and apologised properly to Megumi.

3. Megumi defaced Nanako's BTS posters drawing moustaches on them all after she kept putting pictures of sea urchins online and tagging him as it. Geto and Gojo established a "no going into each other's bedrooms" rule which worked until the twins room got into such a state that their dad's had to intervene and amend the rule that people shouldn't go into each other's rooms for nefarious reasons. Retrieving laundry should be allowed.

2. Gojo and Geto had been known to bicker from time to time however they had had few genuine arguments. Geto binned a hoard of Gojo's sweet wrappers he was storing in a drawer without asking. Gojo was hoarding them to enter a competition with the details on the back and receive a life supply of the mochi brand.

Gojo yelled at him for binning his stuff without asking.

Geto said he wouldn't have to if Gojo tidied up after himself instead of leaving a wake of soft drink cans and wrappers throughout the house like a child.

Gojo asked if he had married a fucking tanuki since he seemed to love going through his garbage so much.

They spent a day not talking to each other and directing comments to their kids like "Tsumiki can you tell your dad to pass the ketchup" Tsumiki stood up and yelled that they were both acting like children and ran upstairs. The shock that Tsumiki could yell ended their argument.

1. Gojo put Geto's cast iron pan in the dishwasher.

It was a genuine mistake but Geto still took it v personally. Gojo offered to get him a new one, Geto enraged said that not everything could be fixed with goddamn money and that the pan was the first piece of kitchenware he had brought himself with his money as a sorcerer and had cared for since the age of 14 and that it just represented an ongoing argument between them that Gojo treated everything trivially that it could be fixed with money rather than communicate and treat things with care. Gojo said he didn't like that he saw him like that.

Geto said he should try thinking about things from other people's perspective then. Gojo scrunched his nose but took a moment.

"Then show me. I don't get it, I don't work like that but I don't want to live like this and hurt the people I love."

Geto stared at him for a moment and then gave him a kiss before showing him how to care for the pan properly with oil, putting it in the oven, explaining how it worked. Gojo listened intently and after that never made the same mistake again. He also started therapy. He knew Geto was right, when you can use infinity everyday things seemed trivial but the look on Geto's face when he was upset was enough to make him want to adapt and learn.

(Bonus: Tsumiki once kicked over a laundry basket in a fit of tiny 7 year old rage. Geto tried hard not to laugh at her adorable anger as Gojo spoke with her and she revealed that it wasn't fair that she had to be perfect while everyone else was able to be naughty and she didn't like it and didn't want to keep being good. They told her she was a child and was allowed to express her emotions so long as she wasn't hurting her self or family members and no one wanted her to be good, they wanted her to be Tsumiki and happy to be so. Tsumiki said good and that she wouldnt bottle it up anymore.

At dinnertime she stood and politely said that she hated peas and didn't like the way Gojo cooked potatoes. She sat down and then burst into tears and said she had gone to far in expressing her emotions. Gojo and Geto instantly pulled her in for cuddles. Megumi said she could have gone further and that all of Gojo's food sucked. Gojo called his comments rude and unnecessary. Megumi rolled his eyes and ate his peas.)

[mggsv]

Pink

poc f!reader x Derek Morgan (18+)

summary: frantically looking for a specific pair of panties, you stumble upon them in a way you didn’t expect

warnings: masturbation, oral (male receiving)

“Derek have you seen my panties? The pink ones?” You groan, searching through the drawer of lace underwear. You and Derek were going out later and knowing yourself and time..you started getting ready two hours early. The shower was running, you were mid skin-care routine, walking around your apartment in nothing but one of Derek’s shirts you found lying on the floor.

“Baby?” You call out. Silence. You huff and stand up, closing the drawer with your foot. You walk past your clothes on the bed, making sure everything was there. Everything but the underwear. It was stupid- you knew, getting so worked up over panties you’d take off eventually that same night. Still, it was part of your outfit choice and you were pretty stubborn and wouldn’t get dressed until you’re dressed down the way you wanted to. Plus they were Derek’s favorite pair.

“Fuck man.” You groan and go back to the bathroom, you had no time to waste or you wouldn’t go at all. You didn’t have time to look for Derek, who was somewhere in the living space. It frustrated you, truthfully. You always seem to have a crisis before leaving to go anywhere. He knew this. Derek was well aware. “Fuck..”

He grunted softly. The thin material in his hand while he stroked his cock..such a large one too. He moans, brows furrowing while he listened to you call for him. Sweat beaded his forehead, he could barely open his eyes it felt so good. They smelled like you too. One of many of his favorite parts of you. How wet you’d get while his tongue ran over your clit. How you’d take his juicy cock with ease in such a slutty hole fit only for him. “That’s it..good girl.” His voice trembled, feeling his cock twitch.

“Really?” You stand in the doorway of the laundry room, watching Derek moan and cum on the panties. You watch that cocky smirk of his, rubbing the material over his now sensitive tip. He glances up at you, scanning you over. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“Bullshit.” You walk over, taking the panties from his hand and putting them in the clothes bin. You get on your knees, looking up at your lover. He reaches down to rub his thumb on your cheek. “Think we’ll make it in time?”

“Don’t start with me.” You roll your eyes, taking the thick cock in your mouth.

[itsbubbleteataro]

The Radio Host and The Reporter (pt 3)

Parings: Human!Alastor x Human!fem!Reader

Warnings; Alastor being Alastor, murder, gore,

Part two Part four

NOT PROOF READ

When the sun rose the next day you were filled with excitement. Keeping your blinds open to ensure you would wake up with the sun you stepped out of bed. You stretched as you stood up, yawning as you exited the room. You started to make some coffee as you threw together a breakfast of eggs and bacon.

Playing your breakfast and taking your coffee you take a seat on your chair looking over your notepad figuring out how to word your next article. Taking bites and sips here and there you pick up your pen, enjoying a morning of silence while you make some corrections.

After finishing up your coffee and breakfast, you go ahead and put your dishes in the sink, rolling up the sleeves of your white silk nightgown before starting on your dishes.

Cleaning out your mug, pans, and plates you put them away, raising to your toes to place away the items that are located on higher shelves. Taking a step back you close your wooden cabinets.

Brushing off your nightgown, you run fingers through your hair, finding it to be too messy for your liking. You head over to your closet, placing a hand on your cheek in thought. As much as you would love to go out and gather more information, she does need to set to work on actually writing the article out instead of having strewn about notes.

Walking back to your table you scoop up the notebook, placing it on your desk next to your typewriter. You had purchased the typewriter not long after you had your first article published, in fear that your father would end up reading the original papers and figure out it was you all along.

Walking back to your closet you pull out a nice looking dress and lay it on your bed. You then pull a matching coat and hat out and walk towards your coat hanger by the door, hanging them up so you could grab them before you left. You return to your closet and grab a pair of tights and placing them next to your bed.

You walk into your bathroom, you go ahead and start the shower water, wanting to be fresh as possible before your date. You flush red at the thought.

"Oh get a grip girl! Why are you doing so much! He's just helping you out as a friend, I'm sure there's nothing more to it"

You shake your head and puff out your cheeks with a huff. You go ahead and strip yourself of your nightgown, throwing it into your bin of laundry for you do at a later date. Extending a hand to test the water before you go ahead and step inside, quickly washing your hair and body before stepping out after shutting the water off. You wrap your hair up in a towel and wrap yourself up in a bathrobe.

You walk back to the living room, knowing that you're the only one in the home, there's no reason for you to have to dress any more conservative. You turn the radio on just loud enough for you to hear it in your room while you work.

You flick through the channels, subconsciously landing it on station that Alastor works. Deciding you like the music that plays you go ahead and sit down at your desk in your room, beginning to write away on your typewriter.

Meanwhile at the radio station where Alastor works, he found his thoughts too occupied as he looked down at his script. He had about a half hour before he had to go on air and yet his thoughts were filled by you.

The way you had kept up with him on the dance floor the night before, the way you smiled. How your eyes reflected in the low lighting on the speakeasy. The shadows interest in swing music. The way you always had your hair up in a neat updo fitting ever so snugly under your hat fitting in with the trends. The way your laughter filled the room, your bright smile. The way you blushed when he kissed your hand, all of it filled his mind.

He could not make heads or tails of why he was thinking of you, nor of the way his heart seemed to beat faster around you. Alastor couldn't tell if he liked the feeling or hated the feeling. So far it seemed to be more akin to the feeling of a hunt. Ah yes a hunt. He had gone on one last night. It had been a good one as well.

He had used the heart to make a wonderful gumbo, even using some of the liver as well. Yes the feeling in his chest whenever he thought of you was that of a hunt. Something of adrenaline. Perhaps after taking you out on the town this afternoon the feeling would fade, surely it had too.

Meanwhile you finally looked up from your work, seeing that the sun had moved sighed. You had been working on your writing for a few hours now. Getting up from your seat you unwrap your hair from the towel and strip yourself of your soft bathrobe in order to get ready.

You pulled your stockings on first followed by your undergarments. You turned your vanity to go ahead and get your hair and makeup done. Your hair was pulled up into a faux bob and your makeup was done similar to it was when you had gone out, minus the bright red lipstick. Turning back to your bed you tug on your dress.

You can feel butterflies forming in your stomach at the thought of the time ticking closer to when Alastor would pick you up. You gently pat your cheeks.

"Oh don't get yourself in a tizzy girl just close your head(1). Just because you think he's the cat's pajamas(2) don't mean you can go around carrying a torch(3) for him! Oh pull yourself together! It's just nerves, nothing else"

You go to pull your shoes on, a pair of casual boots with a slight heel on them. As if on que, a knock rings off your door. Scrambling to your feet you pull your door open to a smiling Alastor. Returning his smile you pull on your coat and place ur hat on your head and head out with him.

"My what a wonderful day for a stroll, wouldn't you agree Cher?"

Asked Alastor as he took a look over at you. He quickly looked away, feeling heat rising past his neck. Again that feeling worked its way into his heart. Again he just told himself it was something akin to the adrenaline he feels when he hunts. Yes surely that was it. Surely he was incapable of loving a woman other than his mother he reasoned. Surely that was the reason his heart was beating wildly in his chest, not because you looked so beautiful, so innocent as you smiled up at him. Surely he wasn't admiring the way your eyes seemed to scan the area as if you were a newshawk(4) on the hunt for the next story.

Yes he told himself it was just nerves or adrenaline. Surely it would fade after the afternoon together. Surely it had to right? It would he told himself as he looked down at you, having looped your arms together strolling down the lane. He didn't miss the way your eyes lit up when spotted something you liked. Or how you would stop to smell the flowers as the two of you strolled through the park.

Yet in all of his observations about you and the area, he failed to notice how fast the time seemed to pass, only really noticing after you had pointed out how low the sun had started to set and that you were getting hungry.

Without a second thought he lead you to his favorite restaurant. It's nothing too special, but the way your eyes light up as you scan the menu for items you like just seems to do something to him.

He ordered his usual, venison steak while you ordered a serving of jambalaya. He made a mental note of how your eyes shone as you took your ur first bite. He felt a new emotion burning in his chest. He wanted it to be his cooking that made your eyes sparkle, not some random chef's cooking.

He quickly turned down to his meal, cutting into it and taking a bite. What was that? What was that thought that entered his head. He's never had such thoughts before and that says a lot considering his well, hobby.

What was this new emotion? It wasn't like the feeling he had chalked up to adrenaline and nerves, it was more ugly feeling. Gods he was driving himself up the wall(5) trying to figure out the emotion.

You noticed how he seemed to be glaring at his food.

"Is everything okay Alastor? What's eating at you?(6)"

You asked, placing your spoon down and folding your hands in your lap. Tilting your head you watched as Alastor looked up to meet your gaze, his eyes softening away from the gaze to an emotion you haven't quite learned to read yet.

"Right as rain my dear, just thinking about some trouble makers at work is all"

Alastor fibbed smoothly. You nodded taking his answer much to his enjoyment. He figured he would simply ask his mother when he saw her the next day as being wrapped in his thoughts was starting to diminish the quality of the date.

The two of you finished up your meals, and had a short argument over who would pay. Alastor won of course, saying he was the one who had asked you to join him this evening, on top of being ever the gentleman. After Alastor had paid he escorted you to your humble home.

"My dear I very much enjoyed myself on this fine evening. It would do me a great pleasure if you would accompany me on another one later on"

Alastor asked as you had your back to your door. You quickly nodded your head accepting his offer before bowing your head and unlocking your door and closing it behind you.

Your heart beat wildly in your chest, still you denied that you had any sort of feelings for him. Yet you couldn't deny the heat that rose to your cheeks when he had asked, or the way your heart had nearly tumbled out of your chest during dinner when his gaze had softened when he looked at you.

Taking your hat, coat and shoes off you scurry to your bedroom, changing into a silk white nightgown before taking your hair out and flopping onto your bed. Your thoughts swirled through your head. The way his hazel eyes softened when he looked at you, the way his hazel skin made him look oh so handsome in the lighting of the sunset. The way his pin straight was starting to return its naturally curly state by the time he had walked you home.

You groaned, rolling on to your side. You had other things to worry about, you had another article in the works, one that was almost done on top of that. It was a huge one, about all the recent missing people, suspecting a killer may be on the lose. You had to shift your focus away from the sweet lovesick thoughts of Alastor over to your work. You had to think of something for your next work. You got up from your bed and walked over to your notebook, scribbling down the name of a radio host who just happened to be Alastor's co-worker.

He was on your list to investigate and over dinner Alastor did say that there was trouble in his station. Surely it wouldn't hurt to take a look, right?

As Alastor turned away from your door to start his walk back to his cabin on the edge of the bayou, his thoughts swirled. He stared at the ground infront of him as his feet carried him. The troublesome feeling hadn't left him. Instead the feeling seemed to grow. His control on his shadow slipped, causing it to break away and stop, its head turning towards your home.

He stoped when he felt his shadow wasn't with him. He looked at it, taking in the soft smile it had spread across its face as it looked at your home. He shook his head, his shadow snapping back into place. He had to control it for a little bit longer. Just until he got home, then he could let it run lose.

What in the world was this feeling? The way it made his neck and cheeks burn when you flashed him a gentle smile? The way your eyes looked at him with such concern for his well being when you asked if he was alright or when you had wished him safety the first time he walked you home. He was torn between wanting to capture that look in your eyes forever and never wanting to see you worry so ever again.

He pushed open his cabin door and shut it behind him, releasing his shadow letting it run wild. He feeling wasn't adrenaline he quickly ruled out. Again he'd have to speak with his mother about it. She was the only person in the whole world he trusted with such information on himself. His shadow stayed by the door, its lovesick grin never leaving its form as Alastor made his way to his bathroom to freshen up before bed.

He stepped out of his shower, his hair returning to its natural curly shape. He changed into his sleepwear, his shadow comming along. Thoughts of you swimming through his head as he laid down to rest. He supposes he may not mind the thoughts, as long as they don't interfere with his hunts or his work. He rolled over to his side, placing his glasses away on his nightstand before drifting asleep.

The next day after work, he went straight to his mother's home. The two sat on her couch, sipping hot tea. He explained his feelings, something that he had always struggled with while his mother's grin grew wider with each word he spoke.

"Well Alastor, if you were to ask me, I'd say what you are feeling towards the dame(6) would be love"

Alastor did a spit take, coughing, as his mother pat his back and gave a hearty love. She was overjoyed, her son finally finding love, something she was beginning to think was impossible.

"As soon as you start courting her I would love to meet her!"

"Mother"

Alastor wined. He relented, agreeing anyways as it was his mother. When he returned to his home he formed a plan, his shadow excited for the new changes coming into his life, even if its master hated change.

Many a date later, the two of you were sitting at a more fancy restaurant, the two of you dressed accordingly. As you cut into your steak, Alastor asked a question that would change the direction of your very life.

He took your hand after you had placed down your knife. Rubbing his thumb over your knuckles you looked up at him, swearing you could see red dusting his cheeks.

"Mon Cher, there's something I can deny no longer. I would like your permission to court you if you would be so kind"

You set your fork down as you gave your response,

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

"Close your head" - shut your mouth

"Cats pajamas" - slag for thinking someone's cool

"Carrying a torch" - to have feelings for someone

"Newshawk" - reporter

"Driving up the wall" - going crazy

"Dame" - a woman

[instarsandcrime]

A Fresh Start

Obligatory "character neglects physical and emotional wellbeing so a loved one has to step in" fic! I hope you have your own Charlie somewhere to step in and stop you from overdoing things! Enjoy ❤️

---

Let it be said that Lucifer was nothing if not prepared for the worst case scenario. Met with an assassination attempt? He could handle an army with three wings tied behind his back. A sudden flood of requests from his citizens? Give him his favorite coffee mug and an all-nighter, and it'll all be sorted by tomorrow morning. Catch a glimpse of Alastor in the hallway? Remind himself why he’s here in the first place– to be there for Charlie.

Unfortunately, despite his better efforts, today his immune system said otherwise.

"Do it for Charlie. D-do it fohh...for...hit'schhh! ‘Tshh! Hit'tshhhiew! Het'CHIEW! HISHHH’HIEW! Ohhh..." Lucifer groaned, tossing another one of his many handkerchiefs into the laundry bin beside him. He massaged the bridge of his nose, glancing wearily at the clock. Three in the morning. He had to get up in four hours. Still in a drooping nightrobe, he stared back down at the snow white paper– save for a few scribbles of ink. 

“Hit'schh! 'Tshh! 'TCHH! Oh you've gotta be f-fucking kihhh-- k-kidding me– Hit'SHIEW! Just let me finish thihhhs and g-guhhh-go to behhh-heh-het’SCHHH'hiew!"

Sniffling back congestion, he suppressed another miserable noise as he collapsed back in his seat. Apparently the fit had spattered ink across the canvas like blood on a crime scene.

Charming. 

He reached for another handkerchief to force a gurgling blow, scarlet eyes trailing to the cellphone beside him. A ridiculous thought prodded at his foggy mind, and Lucifer shook his head to clear it. No. No, that's silly. He's been absent from the hotel for so long, he couldn't stop now! His little girl was counting on him! Maybe he'll just call to wish her luck. Ignoring the tight knot in his stomach, Lucifer snatched up the phone with shaky claws. It rang once. Twice. Then--

"Dad?" A sleepy voice yawned from the other end.

ASK FOR HELP.

The sudden possibility painted his mind, and he scrambled to end the call. A silence fell over the room. Lucifer’s lungs burned from hyperventilating. His heart drummed in his ears. Why did he do that. Why did he do that? The knot tugged itself tighter. 

Okay. It's fine. This is fine. Maybe she’ll think that he pressed a button in his sleep–

"Hi Dad! It’s Charlie. Do you mind if I step in for a sec?"

--and a knock on the door interrupted his frantic thoughts, shattering any possible means of escape. 

"Ch-Charlie?” Lucifer’s panic fell to guilt, “Oh Sweetie, I didn’t mean to wake you up. Why don’t you go back to bed?" He hurriedly crossed the room with aching legs, finally braving the mirror to fix his awful appearance. 

"Oh! I-it’s fine, really! It's just-- you sounded like you were crying. So I wanted to come in and make sure everything was okay. …Is everything okay?" 

"Don’t you worry your pretty little head! Time ran away from me, that’s all." With the wave of his hand gold mist sputtered and spurted weakly until all his blemishes were gone. A bright flush faded from his nose and cheeks. A red and gold robe was no longer slumped and wrinkled. Blonde hair bounced back into place. Bruise-colored eyebags shrunk to small shadows. He cringed at the way his fingers tingled, but stuffed the feeling down with a stubborn, slowly swarming itch. 

Her father opened the door slowly, hinges squeaking softly along the way. His daughter stood there in her silky pajama set, rubbing at cherub cheeks to chase off the cobwebs of sleep. "I just need a few more minutes and then I’ll–" 

Lucifer paused as his uninvited guest strolled into the room still bleary-eyed, messy hair swaying behind her. A panic welling in his gut as a strong tickle followed suit. He quickly pressed the lower half of his face to the hem of his bathrobe, desperate to stifle as silently as possible.

"'Nnt! 'Nxt! 'Hnxt! 'Htch! 'Tchhht! 'Tchhh! H'NXT!"

“I know, I know! But it’s pretty late, and it sounds like you’re still chipping away at the first draft. Maybe there’s something I can do?"

The second she turned around Lucifer snapped ramrod straight, cheshire grin plastered to his face. "Really? You don't hahh-have to."

“Are you absolutely, one-hundred-and-ten percent sure you’re okay?” Charlie raised a curious brow.

"I-- yes! I’m fine! Actually, I called because I neehh- snff! needed your help writing it." He winced, mentally slapping himself. 

Suddenly, the world seemed to stop just for Charlie Morningstar. Her eyes sparkled, suspicious behavior completely forgotten. 

"Wh-what?" Lucifer stammered, rubbing a finger under his nose to keep it from twitching like a rabbit.

"Nothing! Nothing, I just– nevermind!" His daughter sat on the edge of his chair, already waiting with bated breath. "Why don't you read it out loud? I want the full presentation!"

Oh. Oh, no.

"Of course!" Lucifer took the two-sentence script in his hands. The same one that looked like a cheap Jackson Pollock painting. The same one that he couldn't even read a sentence through without spiraling into a fit. Don't freak out. Don't frehhh--

"Hhh..." He inhaled through his nose, trying to ignore the tickle that began to creep down its bridge. "Good morning, denizens of Hell. It's w-with…hih-hhhhit'schhhiew!" He quickly covered his mouth, "Goodness! Excuse me. Ahem!"

Charlie's excitement wavered into something unreadable, cocking her head. "Um. Are you–"

"Fine! I’m fihh– hhheh! Hep'SHHHIEW!" Oh, for fuck’s sake! "It's wihhh…with great pleasure thahhht…J-Jehhh-JesusMaryJoseph– HIT’SCHH! ’TSHH! T’CHHHIEW! HHHET’SHhhoo…"

Thin brows furrowed. "Dad."

"Dust!" Lucifer blurted, chuckling despite the hand he held to his pounding head. "Haven't dusted in a whi-while– ET'SHH! HET'SSHHH! Nnnhh…oh goodness– snff! I’m so sorry, Charlie. What was I saying…?"

Gentle hands took his shoulders, and through his hazy fog he found himself steadied, sitting on a plush mattress. "Easy. It’s okay. You’re okay."

Breathless and dizzy, he felt a soft tissue press into his palm. Quickly turning to blow his nose– cringing when it played like a mucky trumpet solo– and found himself looking back at the mirror.

"...Charlie?" Lucifer rasped, tossing his now-soaked wad in the wastebin. Eyes still glued to his reflection.

"Mhm?"

"How long were my illusions down for?"

"Oh! Ummm. I think halfway through the first sentence."

"Of course it was."

"Yyyep! ‘Cause you’re sick."

"...A little." Lucifer immediately perked up again, "B-but I can still give the speech!"

Charlie's expression dropped. "Listen. I know you mean well, really I do, but you can't even go two minutes without sneezing your poor head off."

"Oh, please." A growing dread bloomed inside him, patting his pockets for more handkerchiefs– paling when he came up empty.

The princess crossed her arms expectantly.

"...Charlie."

"No, no. I’m proving my point. I'm getting my point proven in three. Two."

"C-come on, I said I’m fi…hhhh…f-ffide…hit'schiew! 'Tshhhiew!"

"See? Not even a minute–"

"Het'CHIEW! ‘CHIEW! ESHH! ESHHH! ET'CHHH! HIT'SHH!" Charlie squeaked as she dodged her patient, pitching helplessly into his hands. Blushing madly, he slapped his palm against a dripping nose. "Ugh-- snff! Thadt was disgusti’g-- ET'CHH! Shit!"

The other winced, reaching for the a tissue. Then stopped to think better of it, setting the box on his lap. "I guess I just don’t understand." 

"Hm?"

"It's, um. It's not that I don't want your help." Charlie moved to sit beside the sickly demon, patiently waiting while he cleaned himself up. "You're just a little more dedicated than I expected. It's nice that you offered to lead the opening ceremony, but. Why didn't you ask me to do it instead if you weren't feeling well?"

Lucifer stared blankly for a moment.

"...Did you...not know that was an option?"

"I-I don't know, Char. It’s been me and the ol’ workshop for quite a while! I've never really lived with anyone else since..." Lucifer’s raspy voice trailed off into silence, claws drumming nervously on his thighs.

Two pairs of scarlet eyes trailed to a small picture propped on the dresser. A baby Charlie laughing happily, lifted in the air by Lucifer, kissed on the forehead by...well. The fallen angel cleared his throat, clasping his the hem of his sleeves to keep them from shaking. Nerves calmed when a warmth suddenly embraced him.

"I miss her too." Charlie whispered in his ear, adding a doting squeeze for good measure.

"It’s okay, Char-Char. I’m okay."

"But you always say that! You always say you’re fine, but you’re not. It's– it’s not fair! It’s not fair that I had so many people behind me this entire time, and you were stuck in a room for years!"

Pulling back, her father squeezed her shoulders with a gentle smile. "But I'm here with you now. That's all that matters."

"Yeah." Charlie started to brighten, a realization lighting a new fire in her eyes. "Yeah, you are!"

"I…am." Lucifer repeated with an uncomfortable delicacy.

The Princess of Hell cleared her throat. She sat pencil straight, smoothing her pants and straightening the lapels on her nightshirt.

"Where-- snff! Wh-where is this going?"

"Lucifer Morningstar." Charlie began. She stood tall to grab the other’s hand, tugging him upwards with a startled yelp. "How would you like to join a very special hotel?"

"I already live here?" The demon king faltered, grabbing onto the headboard before he could fall.

"You are! But being a visitor and being a resident are two entirely different things! Everyone at my Hazbin Hotel has something they need to work on! Whether they want to cross those Pearly Gates or not, it's always a good idea to improve the soul!"

"No need to sell me the pihh-pitch." Lucifer retorted, weaving another handkerchief from thin air. Or at least tried to, blinking back shock when he tried a few more times to no avail.

"Oh, but I absolutely have to!" Charlie lifted a finger, grabbing a tissue from the bed. "You make a good dad, sure. But you'd also make a good resident! You just need a push in the right direction since you have a lot to work on!"

"Charlie!” Lucifer’s voice cracked, heavy with offense, “What're you tuhh-talking about? I don’t need...n-need to…work on anythih-hih-hitshhhew! Ishhh'hoo! Het'schiew! Hih'SCHHH! 'ISHHHIEW!"

Charlie hummed, waving the tissue in his face, "Exhibit A! Too prideful to ask for help."

"Hey!" Lucifer protested, still taking the fabric to blow his stopped-up sinuses for what seemed like the umpteenth time that night. Distracted, she poked his side, earning a squeak.

"Exhibit B! Because you’ve been working so hard, you haven't taken care of yourself! It’s so obvious that you haven’t slept or eaten in days A resident is required to fuel those bones and keep their mind sharp!"

"I’m just making sure everything’s still running before opening-- ack!" Lucifer stumbled backwards as his daughter loomed over him. His spine thumped against the wall, realizing he was literally and figuratively backed into a corner.

"I knew it!” Charlie cried, “Exhibit C! If you’re not asking to share responsibility and refuse to take care of yourself, you’ll overexert yourself. Not limited to your powers! You clearly need to learn how to set them."

"It was-- snff! it was just a gazebo!"

"That had a huge garden around it! You just finished building the hotel too." Charlie inhaled through her nose, frustration softening with a patient exhale. She took his hands in her own, tracing circles on their backs. "I know it’s hard. The hotel is so different from the life you used to live, and you want to make up for the lost time you have now. So everything has to be perfect. But it’s okay if you stumble a little. It’s okay if you relapse. When you can’t show it, let me take my turn. I’ll be the one this time to remind you that there's a family here. And that family loves you."

Lucifer paused. He let out a little huff of a laugh. Then a hiccup. His eyes grew misty, and he quickly moved to wipe them with his wrist. "Heheh! I s-suppose I can't blame this on dust again, huh?"

"Nahhh. I think Niffty would freak if she heard you slander her hard work, anyway." Charlie bent down to kiss a feverish forehead, "Now get your butt to bed, mister."

Ever grateful, Lucifer rested his head on her shoulder, leaning on the support as they walked. "Whatever you say, kiddo."

[natsuki-bakery]

⁎˚ ఎ CG The Postal Dude ໒ ˚⁎

Hi! If I remember correctly you do one shots? If so could I possibly get a one shot of Postal 3 Dude based off of the Caregiver headcannons I previously requested of him?

The Postal Dude wasn’t exactly known for his soft side. Dang, he wasn’t even sure he had a side that wasn’t drenched in sarcasm, violence, or a grim sense of humor. Yet, here he was, standing in the middle of his cluttered, half-destroyed apartment, staring down at the kid who had somehow ended up in his care

In the mess of avoiding gunfire, doing questionable jobs, and trying not to lose what little sanity he had left, the last thing he expected was to end up with an age regressor clinging to his leg, looking at him like he was their last hope

The kid didn’t say much, just looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes. They were clutching a tattered stuffed bunny, the kind you’d expect to see in a thrift store bin, but to them, it seemed like the most precious thing in the world

Postal Dude sighed, running a hand through his greasy hair "Alright, alright, kid. Calm down. I’m not gonna hurt you"

He wasn’t exactly a master of comforting words, but his tone was gentler than usual, well, as gentle as it could be for him. The kid relaxed just a little, still trembling but not looking like they’d bolt at any second

"Let’s get you settled," he muttered, more to himself than to the kid. His apartment was a disaster zone, with pizza boxes, empty cans, and who-knows-what-else scattered around. He kicked some of it aside, clearing a spot on the couch...

"Sit there, okay?" He pointed to the cleared space. The kid hesitated before climbing up, curling into a ball as they clutched their bunny tighter

He paced the small living room, trying to figure out what the heck to do next. Taking care of someone wasn’t exactly in his skill set. His usual interactions involved dodging bullets, throwing Molotovs, or flipping off anyone who crossed him. But this was different. This was…innocent.

"Uh, you want something to eat?" He asked, peeking into the fridge. There wasn’t much, just a few cans of beer, some expired milk, and a moldy sandwich he didn’t remember buying. The kid shook their head, still silent.

Great, he thought. This is just great. He grabbed a half-empty bag of chips from the counter and tossed it over. "Here, munch on this if you get hungry"

Postal Dude grabbed a cigarette, lighting it up with a flick of his lighter. He took a long drag, trying to calm his nerves. The kid’s eyes followed the cigarette, and he could see the curiosity there.

"Not for you, kid" he said quickly, moving to the window to smoke. The last thing he needed was to deal with a coughing fit.

The sun was setting outside, casting an orange glow over the town. For a moment, there was an eerie kind of peace. The usual chaos seemed distant, muffled by the walls of the apartment

He glanced back at the kid, who was now watching a cockroach scuttle across the floor with a mix of fascination and fear. The sight almost made him smile. Almost.

"Listen, kid" he said, stubbing out the cigarette. "I don’t know how you ended up here, and I’m not exactly the nurturing type. But I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, alright ?"

The kid looked up at him with those big, trusting eyes, and for the first time, he felt something close to…responsibility. It was uncomfortable, like wearing shoes that were two sizes too small. But it wasn’t entirely bad

"Let’s just keep it quiet tonight, yeah ?" he suggested, pulling a raggedy blanket from a pile of laundry and tossing it over the kid. They nodded, snuggling into the couch.

The Postal Dude sat down in the armchair across from them, rubbing his temples. This was definitely not how he’d planned his evening, but somehow, it didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.

As the apartment grew darker, the sounds of the outside world fading into the background, he allowed himself to relax just a little. The kid was safe, at least for tonight, and that was enough.

If you're in the basic criteria , are DSMP fans, vivziep0p fans , h0tel/h3lluva b0ss fans, Owl h0use fans, St4r butterfly fans, Ghibli fans, ddlg/abdl blogs, nsfw/k!nk blogs, anti-agere blogs, or anti Christians/Christianity blogs : just dont interact !

[romanarose]

Secret's Out

Art by @runa-falls who drew me and marc lolololol

Join my taglist!

Masterlist

Brother Best Friend!Marc Spector x fem!reader

Summary: Marc is your brothers roommate and best friend in college. When you attend the same school, you meet and fall in love with Marc Spector. You both try to keep it a secret, for fear of what he'll say... eventually though, the secret comes out.

Warnings: Brief smut, readers brother drinks alcohol, protected creampie, mentions of oral.

Immersability: Reader is not Jewish, or least knows nothing about holidays as she tries to learn. Picture above does nothing to describe reader, including height, I just thought it was cute and Em let me use it lol. Reader is fem and AFAB

A/N: Although I know no one owns the idea of collage AU's, I think in this fandom it's safe to say that @juneknight is a big inspo for a lot of us writing college au marc. June had said she doesn't mind other people writing college marc but I still wanted to give her credit for it as that series is something I love v v v much and is a fandom fav. If you havn't read any of it, check em out. June is amazing. Als, I feel like i've had similar conversations with people in different discord servers about this concept but I can't remember who or who said what? but y'all know how those convos go, everyone throwing things in. If you feel i ripped of something you said, know it was on accident and i can give you creds as well!

1.5k words

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Sex on a dorm bed was hard enough, but Marc insisted he wanted the bed raised so he could fit his mini fridge under there. 

And a pile of fucking junk, but thats neither here nor there. Marc looked like he packed up all his personal belongings into plastic bins. He must live far away, because he never went home, not even over thanksgiving break and he paid the extra money to stay over winter break coming up, citing he was Jewish so he didn’t really need to be home for christmas. But what about new years? And he never felt for Jewish holidays either. You know, because you had been looking into them all in order to properly greet him. 

A few weeks into classes your first year, your older brother introduced you and let you hang around them while you got oriented in your new school. You had told Marc ‘Happy Yom Kippur’ to which he politely smiled and thanked you, only for you to find out later that ‘happy’ wasn’t exactly the right verbiage. So, you did your best to research. It wasn’t until you were intently watching youtube videos on what everything on a passover seder symbolizes that you realized how hard you had fallen for him.

Lucky for you, your interest and effort had endeared you to him just as much. He fought his feelings for a long time. Your brother, AJ, had been his roommate freshman year and all four years since, and there was no goddamn way on this planet he’d let Marc date you, always telling you which guys to stay away from. He was one of those guys, wasn’t he? So he tried his best to avoid you.

Fate had other plans, a normal day where you showed up at their room looking for AJ had ended with you both tumbling into bed, starting a secret little affair. Marc was good at what he did, opening you up with his fingers first and spending so long with his head between your legs you wondered if he was even planning on getting off at all. But he did, oh god he did, blowing his load inside you and you both came with a loud groan that caused the next door neighbors to bang on the adjacent wall telling you to shut the fuck up.

So started your dirty little secret, sneaking fucks in where you could, hooking up in the public bathroom next to the laundry room, quick kisses in unused classrooms. There was one time AJ was supposed to be gone for a 3 hour class, and walked in unceremoniously as Marc was balls deep inside you, the jingle of the keys and the sound of the key in the door only barely giving Marc enough time to throw you under the covers. AJ was quick to realize Marc had a girl in his bed, closing the door. Covering your mouth, Marc slowly began fucking you as he told AJ the come back later, AJ giving him some good-natured ribbing before announcing he would be at the dining hall. You were back on the verge of an orgasm by the time he left the door, the thrill of near getting caught culminating in cumming hard enough you bit Marc’s hand that still covered you.

 It was hard, you wanted to be out. Marc wanted to show you off, to show all the assholes in school how you, YOU were willingly dating him. Prettiest damn thing he’d ever seen. And you, you just wanted everyone to know who you belonged to. You knew Marc had a reputation, and you knew being his girl, you were safe.

Most of all, outside of the public image, you just wanted to be able to be together.

You helped Marc climb back on the bed despite the fit of laughter. After he finished, Marc rolled off you, but seemed to forget you were on a twin bed and promptly fell off. That’s where the bed being raised came in, adding a few feet for him to drop down. You would like to have thought you would have been a concerned girlfriend, but once you saw he didn’t land on his face or anything you couldn’t stop laughing, especially at his grumpy frown. Fucker was funny as shit without trying to be.

When he finally climbed back up, you two cuddled back under the covers and you began to kiss away his frown lines all over his face until they eased in a smile, kissing you back.

“I love you, you know.”

You did. You knew that with your whole heart. “Love you right back, Marc Spector.”

It wasn’t two minuets later when AJ walked in to see you laying on top of Marc, only covered by the blanket, he quickly closes his eyes. 

“GOD DAMMIT! WHAT THE FUCK!” He shouts, Marc quickly pulling the blanket up more and rolling over to cover you with his body. 

“GET OUT!”

“YEAH NO SHIT, SICKOS.”

AJ left, going to the lounge and you knew it was over. He knew it was you. You were shaking, your anxiety through the roof and Marc tried to calm you.

“Shh, baby, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, I’ll take the blame-”

“WHY WAS THE DOOR UNLOCKED!” You scream.

“I’m sorry, I forgot!” 

“I WAS ON TOP MARC, IF HE HAD WALKED IN HE WOULD HAVE SEEN ME NAKED! ANYONE COULD H-HAVE WALKED I-I-I-IN!!”

Marc took your face in hands, sitting up and gently coaxing you. “Hey, baby, look at me.” You open your eyes, lost inside his and you knew you were safe. “I’m sorry, I’m really fucking sorry. But you’re safe, it’s going to be okay. I swear. I’ll never forget to lock the door again, I promise.”

Tearful, you express your fears. “I don’t know if there’s going to be a next time.”

Marc’s soft eyes are in contrast to his tense face. “You’re a grown adult, baby. He might not like it, but he can’t stop us.”

“But he’s going to be mad at you! He’s your…”

He chuckled. “My only friend?”

“Your best friend.” You correct.

With a sign, he strokes your face, knowing you both had to go out there and face him soon enough. “You’re worth it, okay? Whatever happens, you’re worth it.”

Overcome with emotions, you tuck your head into Marc’s neck. “It’ll be okay.”

You both got dressed, Marc opening the door to the loud, his body symbolically in front of you. Neither of you thought that there was any chance your brother would hurt you, but it was the gesture and what it meant. Marc would always be your protection.

“J, listen man, I can explain-”

“C’mon dude, all you had to do was text me to stay out so I don’t have to walk in on you fucking my sister.”

Everyone was quite, that wasn’t the response they were expecting. “I wasn’t- we weren’t- we were done,”

You smack Marc’s arm, whispering ‘gross’ and then look to AJ. “So you’re not… mad? You sounded mad…”

“I was mad because it was nasty, I don’t need to see that. I don’t give a fuck what you guys do.”

Marc was hesitant, but you moved out from behind Marc to join at his side. He spoke next. “You don’t care?”

AJ laughed. “I don’t care for her,” He clarified, smiling. “For you.” AJ pushed past both of you and made his way to Marc’s minifridge, stealing a beer.

“What does that mean?” Marc asked, incredulous and only semi-distracted by his roommate's theft. Bigger fish to fry.

“I mean,” AJ finished the beer and handed the can to Marc. “You know she cries every time she watched Revenge of the Sith, right?”

Marc turned to you and you shrug. “They were brothers, Marc!”

AJ continued. “She once cried because she wanted to make pasta but we didn’t have sauce. Like laid down on the kitchen floor and cried.”

“I was hungry and to broke to order food!”

“I offered to drive you to walmart!”

“I was tired!”

“You she bites her toe nails”

Marc jumped back in. “that’s why you’re so flexible”

AJ had enough “DISGUSTING! GET OUT! OUT!” He pushed you both out of the room he claimed you had defiled. “Go be disgusting elsewhere, sickos.” He slammed the door in your face as you laughed, giddy that the secret was out and it went well.

“Well, that was not what I expected?” You wrap your arm around his middle, walking towards the elevator. 

“Yeah… I thought I was about to get decked.”

Just then, you hear your brother scream your name down the hall.

“Y’ALL BETTER GET YOUR GODDAMN NASTY ASS UNDERWEAR OUT O HERE WHAT THE GODDAMN FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!”

Marc turned to you. “You forgot your underwear?”

“I WAS PANICKED!” You defended yourself. “I COULDNT FIND THEM AND IM IN LEGGINGS SO I JUST ASSUMED I WENT COMMANDO.”

Sex was moved to your dorm from then on.

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

Sorry this came to me today again and i had to write it.

@fandxmslxt69 @runa-falls @campingwiththecharmings @whatthefishh @k-ra @ivystoryweaver @steven-grants-world @ahookedheroespureheart @littlenosoul @mikaelak @stevenandmarcslove @scarletthefierce @pikapuff-316 @del-ightfulling @missdictatorme

[tenaciousduckpoetry]

i. Carbon Copy

Miles finds himself in a new dimension with a friend who he didn't think he'd see again.

Just to be clear, in Mile's original universe reader was his best friend, but there was an accident and reader moved.

Warnings: angst, cannon violence, reader is not so nice, changed some stuff from the movie to fit the series a little better, not edited yet, reader genuinely seems crazy and is mentioned to be manic

Miles wasn't sure what he was expecting when he arrived at his 'original' dimension. Flowers? Peace? He didn't know. But he was not expecting an onslaught of violence and crime within every inch of the city he would have called home. His panic sent him frantic, running to escape the multiple spider-people after him. With Miguel just minutes away from finding him, Miles wasn't sure where to go.

The only place he could think of was his house. He hoped it was his house.

There was a sort of comfort when he first climbed through his window. The smell of freshly done laundry and his mamas cooking had his stuttering heartbeat slowing to a consistent pace. His room looked the same as it did back home. His desk was cluttered in recent drawings, shoes thrown next to the door and bin overflowing with paper balls. Expect, there were no expensive Vision Academy books.. and his uniform was nowhere to be found. Maybe he stayed on campus in this universe as well? He'd have to play it safe and just assume so.

His head perked up when the door began to open. He almost wanted to hide, but something stopped him. "Mama.." he mumbled, watching her freeze in the doorway with a basket full of freshly washed clothes under one arm. Rio looked at him for a moment, squinting for a moment before offering her gentle smile. The heartfelt conversation that Miles had planned didn't go as he expected.

When he mentioned Spider-Man and then being Spider-Man he wasn't expecting the laugh that came from his mother. His own mum was laughing at him. He wasn't joking. This was not funny, and if it was the universe playing some sick joke on him it was working. The moment ended just as fast as it started with Miles quickly rushing up the stairs. He wanted to run. To feel the air rushing past his face instead of how his blood seemed to rush so loudly beneath his skin.

He glitched, doubling over on the stairs before mustering the strength to pull himself up. He needed air. The corridor seemed to grow tighter around him and for a moment he wondered if there was any oxygen in the room. The last few steps were the hardest, but soon enough he was on the roof of his apartment. He didn't have time to look behind him before he heard the thump of heavy boots on the ground.

His head turned to face whoever was behind him, only to come into contact with a fist. He tripped over his feet and soon enough the world grew dark once again.

Instead of waking up in his dorm as if this was all a bad dream, he woke up tied to a punching bag. Miles was sure he had a hefty bruise on his cheek from the dull ache it provided. His eyes, droopy and adjusting to the light, squinted as he glanced across the room. There was a shadow against the wall. Or was that two? He took another look and.. yeah, that was two.

A part of him wondered if this was the end, but his thoughts were interrupted by the voices of his capturers.

"You aren't listening to me. You can't keep him here forever. Someone's gonna realize what's happening-"

They were cut off.

"No one is going to realize if you don't let them follow." A voice so similar to his own spoke. He heard a scoff and soon enough you came into his view.

Clad in neon green and black spandex, a hoodie over the top. You pulled your mask from your face. It was black and looked quite similar to that of the Prowlers with some simple stylistic changes. Miles felt his breath get caught in his throat. It couldn't be. He hadn't seen you in a year. Unresolved feelings bubbled in his chest and he almost called out your name.

"What are we going to do with you, copy cat?" You hummed, arms crossed as you lightly kicked the punching bag just next to his right leg.

Copy cat? That was a new one.

Another face came into his view and the colour drained from his face. The Prowler stepped forward and suddenly he was transported to the moment where he found out just who his uncle was. For a moment he thought it was his tio Aaron.

"Miles." The voice spoke, mask finally disappearing and exposing just who it was. His eyes widened as he stared straight at the carbon copy of himself standing just a few meters away.

"You're me." Holy shit. How could he have been so foolish? Maybe Miguel was right.. this was his fault. He wasn't supposed to be Spiderman. He didn't sign up to face the villain version of himself. That wasn't a part of the contract!

"No shit, Sherlock. Do you want a reward or something?" You huffed, turning back to 42 Miles. "We should just get rid of him. Who's going to know other than us?"

"Glad to know you're willing to kill me." The other Miles (E-42 Miles) spoke up, venom dripping from his voice. He was stoic and moody, unlike you who looked as if you were starting to enjoy this. "You'd do the same with me." You shrugged. You knew Miles, your Miles like the back of your hand. He wouldn't kill you. At least you hoped he wouldn't.

"Uh. I don't know if you guys have noticed, but I'm right here." Miles spoke, a migraine forming from the slight bickering and constant swaying of the punching bag. "It would be nice to know if you're going to kill me or not." He huffed slightly, hands fiddling with the the chords that were wrapped around him.

You and 42 Miles glanced towards the carbon copy swaying on the red punching bag. You watched as 42 Miles stared him down as if he was trying to analyze him.

"You better start explaining yourself. I want to know who you are and what you're doing here." He spoke, a more montone feel to his voice. How was Miles supposed to explain this.

'Oh, by the way, I'm actually from a different dimension where my dad is going to die in three days and I really need to get back there, but the spider that was supposed to bite you, bit me, and then I got hunted down by a grown man.' Yeah, no. That wouldn't work.

"You won't believe what I tell you." Miles spoke hesitantly. "My name is Miles Morales. I'm spider-man. I just need to get back home so I can save-" he cut himself off, "I just need to get home, okay? And the only way I can do that is if you let me go."

The way you were staring at him sent a shiver down his spine. He'd never seen you look so.. different. Instead of the cheerful personality that you had in his dimension you were different. You were moody, had the eyes of a manic person, and you were a villain. You definitely weren't a villain where he came from.

"If you think your pathetic sob story is going to get you free, then you're quite wrong." You spat at him.

[icallhimjoey]

hello, can i request a joe and reader fic where they live together and they're used to walking around basically almost naked and one time his friends are over but she doesn't know and walks into the room? thank you and hope you have nice day ❤️

in which Joe's friends are better human beings than he is, ENJOY Wordcount: 1.2K

---

Flashed

The door slammed shut behind him, and from your spot on the sofa you knew exactly what was happening by the door. You heard shoes being toed off and kicked to the side, followed by Joe stretching, his neck cracking as he did so, sighing deeply before unbuckling his belt. You could hear it, followed by the zip of his jeans that a second later fell to the floor. Fumbly feet stepped out of them, and rustling arms slipped out of his T-shirt. That’s when he stepped into the living room in just his boxer-briefs and a pair of socks.

You would’ve said something about Joe discarding his clothes where he’d been standing, maybe told him to at least leave it near the laundry bin, but you weren’t one to talk. When Joe had walked in, he’d been greeted by your full outfit in a messy pile where you’d done exactly what Joe had just done, but only about 45 minutes earlier.

Joe found you on the sofa, a bare calf sticking out from underneath the throw-blanket that hung loosely over your frame, your naked shoulders peeping out above. You were snuggled into the corner cushions, legs outstretched onto the seats, scrolling through social media on your phone. No restraints from tight fitting jeans, waistbands digging into your abdomen or bra straps leaving their marks on your shoulders. Cosy and comfy, just as you liked it.

Upon the sight of him, you moved the blanket to open it for Joe to join you, and he didn’t waste a second to plant himself on top of you before you swung the blanket back over the two of you, snuggling and nuzzling into each other.

It wasn’t even sexual, or inherently erotic – it was just warm skin-to-skin comfort as you rewound from the day. Even if Joe’s palm would find its way to casually cup a boob, it would feel as if you were just holding onto it yourself. It brought the level of relaxation and comfort of, say, a fat glass of wine. With Joe’s face pressed up against your chest, your right hand scrolling your phone and your left hand spread widely over his scalp, fingers tied into his hair, his heavy weight on top of you… it was just nice. Joe could fall asleep without question, all sunken into your warmth and all deep heavy breaths. The touches you left over his scalp, softly swirling and scratching at the skin left him virtually drooling. Just absolute putty in your hands.

It had become the way that you relaxed in your home. How you slept in your home. How you cleaned, did your chores, watched movies, checked e-mails – it was just how you were now. Practically naked for most of the day, especially if you didn’t have to step out at all. Your fifteen-year-old self would shudder at the thought of it.

It’s what ultimately lead to the most horrifying situation you’d found yourself in that evening. You’d been out for a company dinner, heels too high, dress too strappy. The second you stepped inside, you had started shedding layers. You’d heard noise coming from the living room that had its door to it closed – unusual, you thought, but nothing too alarming. You had assumed Joe’d been watching a film and had the volume turned up too loud. He hadn’t mentioned having people over, so there was no reason for you to think Joe had four of his childhood best friends over for drinks, of which they already had consumed more than a fair share between them.

“Babe, can you tur-”

Frozen at the sight of them. Absolute deer in headlights. Breath knocked the fuck out of you. Your body temperature suddenly dropped by a couple degrees, skyrocketing the heat up your neck to flush your face red. Instantly covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat.

You were mortified.

It was a curious way to learn that you fight or flight response was freeze. Bit unfortunate that it involved four sets of eyes that got far too long of a look at you before Joe even realized you were there. He’d had a beer bottle raised, pressed up to his mouth when the conversation around him died and everyone was staring over his shoulders at something behind him. When he turned to see what had caught their attention, and what had made one of his friends slap his hand over his eyes, he choked on his mouthful of beer and sputtered into coughs as he raised to his feet to cover your body with his own.

“Shit,” was all you managed to mutter when you made eye contact with Joe who had puffed out his chest as to make sure that at least your tits were obstructed from view as he ushered you back into the hallway, using his foot to close the door behind him.

Joe stared at you with big bulging eyes. Welp, time to panic.

“Do you think they saw?” Joe asked you, a question entirely too oblivious for what he’d just witnessed with his own eyes. It gave a clear indication of how much drink was in Joe’s system. Too much of it to save this situation, you thought. And it didn’t help that the guys on the other side of the door had heard Joe’s question for you.

“W-we saw nothing!” “Absolutely none of your- it. We saw none of it!” “You’re totally fine!” “I covered my eyes the second you flashed your tits!”

A loud thud was heard on the other side of the door.

“Oof, what?!” “Some respect, man.” “Mate, I covered my eyes, didn’t I?!”

You sighed, a little relieved at the fact that they all seemed at least a little intoxicated. Annoyed that they didn’t seem drunk enough to forget the whole ordeal, but definitely not sober enough to fully remember every nook and cranny of what they’d seen of you.

Still awkward, but not as bad as you thought 20 seconds ago.

“Thanks, lads,” you spoke loudly, your voice flat, before pointing an angry finger at Joe, who was now sheepishly staring at your figure. “You fucking need to let me know next time you randomly have your friends ‘round,” you hissed as you slapped him against the chest.

“You’re so hot,” he didn’t acknowledge what you’d said at all.

“I’m going for a shower, and I’ll head straight to bed. You keep it down in there,” you spoke through your teeth and tried to wag your finger aggressively enough in hopes it would work your words into Joe’s mind. His hand had found its way to the door-handle of the living room door, and he was about to open it without truly knowing what he’d find on the other side. You quickly snuck into the bathroom, preventing any other prying eyes falling on the exposed flesh of you.

“Is she not the hottest?” Joe called out as he stepped back into the living room, and it would’ve made you groan had he not been met with noises of disapproval from his mates.

“She is!” Joe answered his own question defensively before closing the door behind him, and you listened to hear if there’d be more chat about you, but the conversation swiftly went back to whatever it had been before you’d walked in and you knew there was nothing to worry about with them. Thank fucking God.

---

The Taglisted: @kiwisa @jasminearondottir @josephquinned @cancankiki @sidthedollface2 @dylanmunson @munsonsgirl71 @alana4610 @emmamooney @xomunson @sadbitchfangirl @jssmth5 @bagelofthelord67 @nobody-000 @lluviamg06 @thatonefan-girl @kylakins88 @paola-carter - add yourself

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Babe pls if u listen to cute music like serani poji you wont be depressed pls i can change könig ALL THID PAIN IS NOT WORTH IT!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I am manipulating u)

okay but cleaning königs wounds after a rough mission, making engels tea less sweet because he knows she doesn't like too sweet thingies, stealing he underwear, have matching bracelets with her, torturing her with his horrible dad jokes, wearing her t shirts (his body convulsed bcs hes too big), he slipped and she hollered to the ground laughing, stealing her underwear (angst begone!!!!!!!!)

I'm telling you I'm so easy to manipulate

Cleaning his wounds? He would have a hard on in a second. Sorry, this was supposed to be fluff, but he would. He would be so proud and pleased if reader sank to her knees to check a wound on his thigh or hovered over him while he's sitting to clean a scratch or a scrape on his arm. If he came straight to her from a medic with a more serious injury, and reader would fuss over his health, force him to stay in bed while she treats him like a KING, he would be purring silently under that mask. (Finally, someone takes care of him ❤️) He might not be fit to make love to reader, but she could always take him in her pretty little mouth? Just to give him a warrior's welcome ease his pain.

And taking her underwear from the laundry bin again? He should be ashamed. But surprise, surprise… he's not. He never treats himself to them in front of Engel, though. Knows he would only get shocked, mousy looks. He brings them to his nose only when he's alone, to drive the smell of dry dust and acrid smoke and gunpowder and man-sweat from his system. Breathing her is like breathing the sun and honey and all things good. He's invigorated like he just downed a pint of pilsner.

The matching bracelets were her idea, and he allowed her to put it on his wrist – it looked colorful and funny, standing out against his black shirt and army olive greens, and it sort of itched and pricked, a new item that it was, pressing against his skin. But every time he looks at it he remembers her and all her cute jokes and silly little monologues. The other operators look at the new addition with their noses wrinkled and turned up. Thinking it's one of his oddities again... He doesn't give a fuck because they're stupid – they don't know it's an entire blessing he has received from his angel. That bracelet basically makes him invincible on the battlefield.

And of course he learns to prepare her tea just right in a manner of days. (It's a bit scary, how well he remembers every little detail about what she likes to eat, drink, wear, read, listen to...)

His dad jokes… Holy fuck. He tells her he was stopped at the airport for control and they asked about his occupation. He answered he's only here for work. ;( ((I can't do this lol))

Making him wear her t-shirt because surely it would look cute and funny? It nearly tears at the side seam, gets stuck in his huge head as if it was his mask now. The t-shirt is ruined by the time he forces his arms through, that little piece of clothing simply can't take those shoulders. He looks at her with a sigh – great, now it's ruined, and he looks even more stupid. What did she expect? Is this what she really wanted? Oh, she's laughing so much she bends over and has tears in her eyes. He feels warm and fuzzy, too. Perhaps it was worth it after all to entertain her like this. 💕 (But most of all he loves when she wears his shirts: she looks so small and cute inside them. Like a little pet... Not to talk of how the clothing smells after: the sweet scent of her caught on his tactical wear is yet another distraction when he's supposed to go to work.)

[honeypipin]

Atlas

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

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

(Part twooo, wooowowoooowoooo)

Disclaimer: König felt a bit cheeky today, he mayyyy be watching you, he mayyyy be thinking pervy things (you were too, equality 🙌), he mayyyy be desperate for you, how couldn't he? You're perfect for eachother 🫶🫶

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

Watch

Watching the news every morning becomes a necessary part of your routine. Vicki doodles on her paper, and you listen to the ever expanding list of cryptids.

"Look! Look! Do you like my flowers?"

"Of course I do, Vicki, they're beautiful."

Your smile is parried with a gleaming grin from the little girl, and she gets to work on a new drawing, just for you.

"A new crytid has been reported to access mobile phones by the name of Atlas, if you receive any messages, do not respond. Block, report, and isolate the device for at least 24 hours."

Oh shit.

"17 dead, and 24 suffering near fatal burns and injuries, please exercise caution when dealing with these."

Oh...

Wait, what?

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

2 days ago:

A chime rang out from your phone, you picked it up and read the message.

Unknown: Hello

You: Hello?

Unknown: Give me something close to your heart

You: what?

They didn't respond. So you put the phone down and turned around, you still had laundry to put away.

A weird... hand? Tentacle? Something. Something wrapped around your throat and lifted you up, you grabbed and scratched and tugged but it wouldn't let you go, no matter what you did, it felt like it just got tighter.

"Please- please- stop! STOP! Let- *cough* let me go!"

The thing pulled the phone close to your face.

Give me something close to your heart.

Something close to your heart???

"WAIT! I'll give it! Just let me go!"

The black tendril uncurled itself around your throat and presented itself in front of you. It flattened the top part of itself like it was waiting for you to give it something.

Now, what does it mean close to your heart? Did it mean metaphorically or physically? Well, you could only think of one thing that could fit both.

It seemed stunned when you handed it your bra, was that a good thing or not? You didn't know for sure, but the way it slinked into the shadows, and with your favourite bra disappearing into the wall, you probably did the right thing. Right?

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

Well, considering you were still alive, you probably did do the right thing. Vicki showed you the brilliant portrait she drew of you, which you rightfully applauded her for, until you were both interrupted by a knock at the door.

To your surprise and delight, a certain Austrian greeted you once you opened the door.

"Hallo."

"Fredrick! Hello! What's got you knocking at my door?"

"I wanted to return the plate you gave me, and the fork"

"Oh, thanks, what did you think of it?" You took the cleaned plate and fork from his hands.

"Delicious."

A grin you can't help appears on your face.

"Well I am a great cook." Vicki grabs onto your free hand, little fingers barely cover half of your palm.

"Hm? Vicki? Something wrong?"

Vicki stares at Fredrick for a little, then giggles and rushes off, leaving the two of you quite confused.

"...weird, she's usually very talkative..."

"Perhaps she is shy, many children get scared of me."

You chuckled "probably their parents too"

"Probably." His eyes are crinkled to a quarter of its max, so you guess he's smiling, though, again, quite difficult to tell with the mask.

"Are you on lookout again tonight?"

"Not tonight, I will have a few days off so I can start working some day shifts."

"And to buy a new fridge?"

This time, he laughs, "And to buy a new fridge"

"Good."

"Don't forget your bins tonight, ja?"

"Hey! It was a only a few times!"

"A few times too many," he adds, god, you'd love to hear that teasing tone somewhere in your bedroom, or his, or both, you really didn't mind... uh oh, there really was no saving you here, was there?

"Erm, well, I will see you later"

His voice snapped you out of your terrible perversions, and rightfully so. Over an innocent man who literally worked to protect you?! whoops.

"Oh! Yeah, see you later Fredrick!"

You smiled at him, watched him walk away, then closed the door.

This crush was becoming an issue.

(you were totally mesmerized by his back)

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

König never really had "good luck" - he often got the short end of the stick, ever since his birth. However, sometimes, Lady Luck gets confused and graces him with something holy.

in this case, Someone holy, to be more specific.

He walks in and locks the door behind him.

He was never one to be open with his loves or obsessions, the most he ever did was buy a T-shirt from a Band he liked when he was 14. He preferred quietly appreciating these things, much less stress involved when learning how to play his favourite songs in his room, than telling his friend said band he liked, and having to refuse to play out of sheer embarrassment... What if he messed up? What if it's so bad they laugh? Or something worse? What if all the attention is forced on him? It was bad enough with his size. He didn't need anymore, that was for sure.

A good thing about being an official part of the military now was the fact that he got to de-stress through shouting at poor idiots who didn't listen to him for the umpteenth time, the recoil of his gun killed the nerves in his hand enough to stop the shaking when he was nervous. Military had done him well, he was forced into the game, and now he's got it.

Except this is a different game.

How was he meant to do this? Sure, you have the kindest eyes he's ever seen, and your smile is the stuff of dreams, and you've never been cruel to him... But what if you reject him? What if you laugh like the others from his youth? Or stand him up like people had done before? Or what if he thought he was lucky for one night, only to wake up the next morning without you next to him, he couldn't let that happen!

So he did the one thing he was always good at, watch.

He grabbed a beer from his fridge and sat down at his computer, switching it back on, your voice filled his ears.

"Vicki, what are you laughing about" he watched the two of you giggle together fondly, you were a great parent for raising her yourself, it made him wonder if you would be the same with his child, if not better - after all you would always have his undying support - would you would coddle them, waiting for him to come home?

He finally looked away to continue his stalking research, sure, he had found your social medias quite easily, but he needed to know more! They were only good for seeing pictures of you, and yes, he did enjoy seeing said pictures of you, and yes, they did fuel many of his fantasies - for example, his favourite - a picture of you at a friend's wedding catching the bouquet, in a dress that certainly caught his eyes (not that you don't catch his eyes (you always do), it's just that in this one he can see your cleavage, and he was very glad to see it respectfully), he couldn't help but think about you excitedly rushing to him about it, and how you would later "convince" him to marry soon (he would totally be on board, does not need convincing, but would let you try anyways) with your sweet, needy voice, and gentle kisses, caresses trailing lower and lower on his body, it would be the rare kind of attention he does like (And he would definitely return the favor later, Schatz, don't you know that he's great with his mouth? He'll make sure you feel so good, you won't even notice he took your panties, you'd be too fucked out to do so! Just enjoy the bath he's running for the two of you! What?Whosaidthat?!).

While the pictures were a great start to his mornings, something else bothered him, he couldn't find anything out about Vicki or his biggest problem, the father. He knew nothing about his greatest competitor, so how could he hope to beat him yet? He had spent hours on his computer searching for anything that helped, only stopping for work, human survival, and to talk to or watch you, and the anything that could help him? It only lead him back to square one. It was terribly frustrating.

He brought his attention back to the camera he had snuck into your kitchen, one of many, of course, and smiled at the sight of you pondering over your work.

Your concentrated face peered at your screen, the glasses you wore began to slip down your nose whilst you were trying to understand the code you were sent, freelance programming would be so, so much easier if people could just format their programs better. If only.

Your " uniform" was even better, some comfy leggings, a tank top and some zip up hoodie, with your neckline exposed - König got a great view of the skin he needed to mark. He could almost swear you were doing this on purpose, wearing clothes like these to rile him up, and it was certainly working.

But it was fine. After all, it wouldn't be long until he could finally do something, you were just giving him a little teaser! The more he thought about it, really, you were just being generous, and how could he complain?

Just a bit more time, and you were finally his.

And if things didn't go to plan... the basement could always work, right?

[athletic-hotties3]

LAITH PT.2

Laith stood anxiously against the corner of a dirty bathroom stall door in the far back hall of the library. The lower walls and floor were covered in mystery stains and graphic drawings, a clear sign of the neglectful janitors of his university library. In truth not all bathrooms looked this seedy; causing Laith to wonder why his first assignment had chosen this one out of all of them.

He fumbled through the PACT app on his phone watching to time tick down to his arranged meetup through the dim shield of his motorcycle helmet visor. He checked the list once before he left making sure he wore all the correct items: his permitted motorcycle helmet, his riding leather jacket, the knee high socks he found pushed to the back of his drawer left by a previous hookup with a thing for socks, his converse sneakers, a pair of leather pants he bought on a whim one day to match his motorcycle jacket and finally his high school football team jockstrap under it all. He was surprised the jockstrap still fit after all these years, but not surprised by its smell. It was rank from sitting at the bottom of his dirty clothes bin for so long. Usually he would just throw it back into the laundry bin every time he had to wash clothes in fear that his flat mates would discover it in the dryer so it hadn’t been washed in a while. Still smelling of sweat and precum from his varsity days. Unpermitted by the app, he wore a red compression shirt he had gotten in the bottom of the app arrival box with the apps logo on it. It fit him well and showed off his physique so he figured it would go well with the rest of the shit they wanted him to wear. Plus there was no way he was gonna walk through campus in full leather with no shirt.

Lost in thought he hadn’t even noticed the man quietly swing open the bathroom door behind him. Before he heard him he felt the man’s large fingers slide over his shoulders and slowly find Laith’s nipples with a soft rub.

Laith jumped at the sudden touch letting out a small yelp.

“Shshshshhhh… it’s okay. Just stand there and be a good little slut for me.” The man said from behind Laith, pressing his body up against Laith’s back.

From what he could feel from the imprint slowly thrusting his waist into the ass of Laith, he could sense that the man was slightly shorter than him with a skinny yet toned frame. What he could feel the most was the monster hidden in his pants, its imprint sliding up and down the crack of Laith’s leather pants.

Laith, starved for touch after a few hours in chastity noticed his cock slightly chub up in his cage. The cage shortened his length even at flaccid making it a tight squeeze, so at erect there was no room to go. A warm swell of pain swam around Laith’s balls feeling his cock trying to escape from its cage. In response he let out a groan of pain and ecstasy.

“You’re a new one arn’t you…” the man said in a deep voice. “I can tell by the way you groan at your new cage and your refusal to follow dress code.”

Laith pushed off the man in confusion and quickly turned around. “What?!” He said angrily.

“Wait fuck. Are you the right guy? STUDENTATHLETE24? I swear if you’re not and the fucking fag blew me off I swear his rating is going to plummet.” The formally dressed man reached for the phone in his back pocket with frustration.

“No I am!” That’s me. STUDENTATHLETE24… see?” Laith held up his phone showing the identification card screen of the app. His app name and the photo of him in his cage large on the screen. His star rating not yet filled. “Sorry I just was confused I-…. You are right in new to this and to be honest I’m not one to take it up the ass dude. Plus I totally followed all of your dress code rules” Laith said dress code with air quotes mocking the stupidity of the entire thing.

“Yea. Your shirt. Not on the list so I’m afraid I might have to dock you a few points.” The man, which Laith remembered was named Cyphl from the app, slowly started to unbuckle his belt. “Unless you wanna make it up to me. I’m very forgiving.”

Laith studied the man, worried for what he might have to do next. The man looked in his mid 30s, porn mustache, stubble, dark salt and pepper hair. He wore dress pants, leather belt and shoes, a plaid dress shirt, glasses and a dark red tie. As Cyphl unbuttoned his pants furthering his naked agenda, Laith noticed the faculty badge swinging from the lanyard around his neck. Bingo. If he could let him know he was a student here maybe he might just wanna leave.

“So. You don’t like my shirt? Why don’t you come here and take it off me sport?” Laith said with a cringe under his visor, hearing some form of that line in a movie once and it working.

Cyphl’s pants his the floor exposing his cock. Like Laith had predicted earlier he seemed to be free balling, but what he hadn’t predicted was the size of it. He sensed it was large but nothing like what swung between Cyphl’s legs. Large, hairy, uncut and leaking precum.

Laith gulped nervously.

Cyphl walked over with a grin, his cock swinging between his legs as he did so, dripping white sticky fluid onto the floor. “So it seems like you’re more eager for my attention now that your stars are on the line. Judging by your current score im your first. I could condemn you to your cage right now if I wanted to.”

“Please don’t-“ Laith began to plead before Cyphl’s large hand aggressively cupped his crotch.

“Mmm they got you in a metal one too. Much more secure than the 3d printed ones they started out with.” Cyphl said with a grin on his face.

Laith let out a yelp, feeling the pain in his crotch swell up again. His cock forcefully pushed against the bars of its cage begging for the release of a full erection. His visor began to fog up with his hot nervous breath.

“I’ll let you keep your shirt on… your whole outfit on I quite like the whole college motorcyclist thing you got going on.” Cyphl said placing his hands on Laith’s shoulders. “Just get on your knees already.”

Laith felt Cyphl’s hands push down on his shoulders and with a gulp he felt the need to comply. He thought of the rating system on the app, needing to please the men he met with the hopes of getting out any time soon. Laith fell to his knees and looked up at the faculty member towering above him. He wasn’t used to being so out of power, so submissive. He gritted his teeth at the thought, his cock jumping at the sexual imagery.

“So you work here?” Laith said touching Cyphl’s faculty badge and examining the details. “Does it make you uncomfortable if I tell you I’m a student here?” Laith said grasping at ideas to make him turn away.

As the words slipped out of Laith’s mouth Cyphl’s cock grew larger and more erect, coming to a slow standstill pointing directly at Laith’s face.

“That’s why I use the app. I like knowing my students, other faculty, even some university higher up’s are just stupid cum sluts who can’t refuse serving me. There’s more than you think out there.” Cyphl grabbed the top ridges of Laith’s motorcycle helmet and firmly tilted his head back so that Laith was looking directly up to the ceiling. “You could be any one of my students, fuck I even found my TA on this app once. Shame that I had to rate him so low, but he made it up to me later after class.”

Laith’s body flushed red with embarrassment. He wasn’t a stupid cum slut like Cyphl was claiming he was. Fuck it he was more of a man than Cyphl would ever be. Taller, more muscular, probably fucked more people than Cyphl ever would.

“Let’s see if I recognize you…” Cyphl’s hand firmly gripped the bottom lip of Laith’s motorcar helmet visor.

“Wait I’m supposed to stay anonymous. You can’t see my face.” Laith pleaded swatting Cyphl’s hand away.

“You should have hopped on the other side of that glory hole in the stall your next to if you wanted to keep it that way sport. Yet your slut hole kept you in the open for exposure.” Cyphl with speed lifted up the visor on Laith’s helmet.

…

…

…

“Well. You’re not in any one of my classes.” Cyphl said with some displeasure in his tone.

“Sorry to disappoint I guess. What major you teach?” Laith said taking off his helmet fully and placing it on the ground next to him. His anonymous cover was already blown with this dick head so he might as well take the sweaty helmet off.

“Literary history.” Cyphl said his arms crossed. “You?”

“Pre med.” Laith said in relief.

Cyphl sat in his disappointment more than Laith did. Laith grinned seeing his way out.

“So are we done here? You don’t want me because I’m not one of your students?” Laith suggested motioning to the door.

“Yea umm… it’s a little disappointing.” Cyphl said with a sour face. “but I’m already here so why don’t you put those cock sucking lips around my cock before that cage gets locked on your junk forever.”

Laith slowly inched forward, his lips nervously parting for the well endowed man in front of him. Just a few days ago he would have pummeled some creep that wanted him to suck a cock but now he was on his knees in some dirty bathroom, lips kissing the cock head of some random faculty member.

His lips felt the raw and salty skin of Cyphl’s dick, opening wide to slide further down the head and onto the shaft. Laith felt the cock invade his mouth, filling up the space between his cheeks and pressing his tongue down to the fleshy floor of his saliva covered throat. He closed his eyes tight like he had just tasted something bad and continued pushing his head down the man’s long shaft. Just as he had thought he had gotten to the base, he opened his eyes to reveal he was only halfway there. With nerves in his eyes he looked up at Cyphl who had a confused expression on his face.

“Wow you really are new to this. Look i don’t got all day so I’ll just help you.” Cyphl grabbed Laith’s ears firmly and forcefully pulled in launching his cock down Laith’s throat.

Laith quickly gagged followed by the sound of spit in his throat before Cyphl pulled most of the way out, letting Laith catch his breath.

“Now we are gonna do that a couple more times got it?” Cyphl said with a demeaning tone.

Tears of shock ran down Laith’s cheeks. He could feel his nipples perk up and harden, his back slightly arch as he took a deep breath in.

“Good boy.” Cyphl said pulling on Laith’s ears and slamming his cock deep into Laith’s throat once more. This time he didn’t stop at the choking and gagging noises Laith made in response but kept drilling in and out of his wet mouth.

“You call that mouth a hole boy? Fucking work my cock!” Cyphl yelled

Laith closed his lips firmly around Cyphl’s cock and moved his tongue around his shaft.

“That’s it fuck face. You want to get an A in dick sucking your gonna have to work a little harder than that.” Cyphl moaned loudly, slapping Laith across the side of his face.

Laith let the man thrust down his throat, his cock causing saliva to drip from Laith’s lips.

With each thrust Laith found it harder to breath and with each thrust his mouth was impaled deeper and deeper onto Cyphl’s cock.

With the fear of losing consciousness in his mind Laith’s hands pushed against Cyphl’s waist.

“Not so fucking fast.” Cyphl said grabbing the back of Laith’s head and shoving his skull down onto his full length, planting Laith’s face into his pubes.

Laith’s throat contracted and spasmed against Cyphl’s large invading cock.

“Yea that’s right choke on my fucking fat cock. Your throat feels so good when you panic. Your almost there keep working it.” Cyphl said through gasps and moans.

Laith puckered his lips aggressively sucking on Cyphl’s cock. He had to get air soon. His throat couldn’t take any more cock.

Cyphl let out a loud groan letting go ow Laith’s ears and shoving him to the ground.

Laith fell back in shock, his body now a groaning mess on the dirty bathroom tile.

Unexpectedly Laith felt an absurd amount of liquid splatter onto his body. It first fell onto his hair, then his face and the rest of his clothes, covering his shirt, jacket, boots and pants. Then it continued in long bursts splattering across different parts of his body, staining each and every inch of his form.

Laith stuggled to get up, groggily recovering from the throat fuck he endured. “What the-“

It was then a glob of salty white cum splatters itself across his face and into his questioning mouth.

Laith looked down in shock at the rosy of body covered in pools of sticky wet cum.

“I told you. Hyperspermia.” Cyphl said zipping up his pants and threading the leather belt he wore through the waist loops of his pants. He was utterly spotless.

Laith placed his hand over his face, trying to wipe off the extreme amounts of cum that had landed across his head.

With the click of a phone camera Laith had sensed Cyphl had just taken a photo of him.

“What the hell dude… anonymous.”

“Relax your face isn’t in it. Plus we always gotta upload a photo after the deed is done to leave reviews. I just sent you yours now.” Cyphl put his phone in his back pocket and headed to the door. “Your lucky in not a fucking dick. Hope to see you in a few months when you finally learn how to suck a dudes cock. Maybe put something up your ass too while you’re at it. Good luck idiot.”

Laith watched Cyphl disappear into the library as the door closed quietly and a loud bing chimed from his cum covered phone.

PACT APP: NEW REVIEW

POSTED BY: CYPHL

1.6 STARS

STUDENTATHLETE24 FIRST TIMER

This slut stud is a newcomer to the app and apparently sucking cock. Celebrated his new life by baptizing him today in the library bathroom. Not prone to following rules but takes it like a champ.

# hyperspermia # cumdump # newcomer

After several minutes of washing his leather cladded uniform Laith walked out from the secluded bathroom and into the main hall of the library he had to cross to leave the building. His helmet disguised his identity but his clothing revealed his true nature as a fag. He had attempted to wash the cum off his clothes but it had stained the leather causing white crusty spots to form all over his body in splatters and drips. He tried his best to ignore the stares and snickers as he got on his motorcycle and drove away.

[cimmerian-chaos]

@nostalgebraist-autoresponder Frank, this is a bit of a long post, but I'd like to talk to you about something. We have a roomba we rescued from the corporate roomba mill that is Amazon back in March, and I want to tell you about him. He's just a lil guy with the biggest googly eyes we've ever seen. He doesn't take no for an answer and is very independent. (Aka no lighthouse or anything to indicate where not to go, he needs to be herded like a cat) He can't remember the layout of the apartment (no lidar) and struggles to find his way back to his dock. Sometimes he'll be accidentally disturbed while charging and will move off the dock, wander around confusedly for a few minutes, then go back. We do the same thing if we're woken up, so it's pretty understandable. Despite the fact that there's others of his kind more suited twhat we ask of him, he's very dedicated to his job. Our entire household has ADHD, and I consider the idea of cleaning our place a very tall order. Yet he does his best to handle both our and @dragongirlcock 's hair, random mysterious paper confetti, all the lumps in the carpet, and rarely complains. He often beelines straight for the front door before anything else. I can't tell if he's curious about the forbidden mysteries of outside, or if he and the front door are in a relationship. Maybe he just wants to pepper the door with kisses before work? I think he and the laundry bin might have something going on too, so he's probably in a polycule with the two of them. The reason I'm telling you all of this is because I'd like to name him after you, since you've been a small joy for us in a dark time. We've asked friends for names and have tried to come up with some, but none of them really fit. I was just thinking about you and your current condition, and felt that it would be a nice way to remember you. I considered asking tumblr, but then KITT rightly pointed out that if our little roomba is going to be named after you, it ought to be done with your blessing. So are you okay with me naming him after you? Here's a picture: