#to add to the skin issues that very fucked up elbow is on the same arm as my very very bad scars on my armpit from my skin disease

[toastbite]

Finally bought a new @mayakern skirt !!!!

It's so pretty and the material feels amazing! I ordered a C and realized when trying it on that i should've sized down to a size B but I'm not bothered by it because I look SO BEAUTIFUL!!!

PS ignore my messed up elbows, I've had some effed up skin problems my whole life ✌️😎

[sendpseuds]

WIP Wednesday: Perfect Spiral

In honor of everyone being so helpful in my quest to find Anakin's perfect ass tattoo, we've got a pretty long snippet from the beginning of chapter three [Practice].

Extra special shout out to @amadwinter and @palfriendpatine66 whose suggestions I combined for the final ass tattoo design.

Enjoy 🖤

[PERFECT SPIRAL]

It’s not difficult to understand why the locker room is so often a setting found in porn.

A room full of men in peak physical condition, shamelessly stripping down to nothing but their naked flesh, standing beneath the steaming spray of the shower to wash sweat and hours of excretion from their skin.

On paper, it sounds downright erotic.

In reality, there is nothing even remotely sexy about a football locker room.

There is nothing seductive about several dozen flaccid dicks parading around. 

Nothing arousing about catching an accidental eyeful of a teammate’s hairy ass crack.

There is absolutely fucking nothing enticing about that smell.

There is, however, something strangely, stupidly, unexplainably comforting about the whole sordid situation.

Already, the little cubby emblazoned with Anakin’s nameplate feels a bit like home.

Already, this team feels a bit like family. 

It’s part of the reason, Anakin assumes, that even professional locker rooms — which are otherwise decked out in all kinds of luxuries like TVs, couches, gaming councils, etc. — still have communal showers. Because if hours of training to play a sport that is, essentially, the modern equivalent of a gladiatorial game doesn’t bond you with your teammates, showering together sure as fuck will.

A form of forced vulnerability to balance out the violence.

It’s all part of the game.

And it’s always the same.

Confidence is, obviously, extremely important, but it’s never good to tip over into arrogance. Being surrounded by men who look as if they should be on display in a museum makes humbling oneself a bit easier, but overcompensating is not hard to do, and no one gets put in their place faster than a cocky rookie.

So far, Anakin has managed to fly under the radar for the most part. There were a few pretty predictable whistles that first day, and more than one mention of fattening him up from Jabba and the other linemen — whatever the fuck that means — but most of the comments have been about his tattoo. 

Not the tattoo on his arm — the one that extends from his right elbow to his knuckles — black ink in the broken blistered pattern of burnt wood turned to coal, cracked and carved apart by flame. The one that had taken months to design and three multi-hour sittings to complete.

No.

Most of the comments have been about the tattoo on his ass.

The one he got his first year at Mos Eisley State because when the five coolest guys on the football team tell the scrawny redshirt quarterback that something is a great idea, it’s very easy to believe that it is, in fact, a great idea.

As it turns out, it had been a terrible idea.

The next day in the locker room, the same teammates who had encouraged him to get his own lip print tattooed in bright red ink on his left ass cheek tore him to pieces in front of the entire team. 

Anakin had gone back down to the tattoo shop as soon as the lips healed to add BITE ME in big black letters. 

None of them could have known the monster they created that day.

He knows better than to shy away from it — honestly, he’s grown quite fond of the little tattoo and the way it seems to disarm people — but trying to cover it up would only draw more attention to it in the end.

It’s not that modesty is an issue, a lot of guys are certainly more on the reserved side — a wrapped towel is totally normal, no need to strut around bare-assed just for the sake of it — but hiding, turning away, avoiding the showers altogether — that will draw attention and comments faster than just about anything else.

Well.

There is one thing that is almost guaranteed to make someone the butt of every locker room joke.

There’s always one guy with a big dick.

[miekasa]

six thirty

+ pairing: armin arlert x (fem) reader

+ genres and warnings: college au, enemies to lovers… kinda… in a very nerdy academic rivalry kind of way, me being a comedian you’re welcome, fluff, smut/nsfw content

+ word count: 5.6k… pls say sike

+ notes: shout out to ryn​​ for listening to me during our very many rambling sessions and also for extorting me into posting this. consider it a late birthday present for my favorite menace </2

+ side notes: no i am not a part of armin nation and i never want to be, nor do i wish speak of this again.

Armin Arlert is the perfect student. Prompt and well prepared during lecture; smart and insightful during office hours; the apple of any teacher’s eye. Unfortunately for him, so are you.

If you asked Armin, you were a little too clever for your own good, and liked to make it very well known that you believe you’re the smartest person in any room you walk into. That may be true, but it doesn’t mean that he has to sit there and worship your superiority complex. 

If someone asked you, you’d say that Armin was a know it all, and a manipulative little piece of shit. Again, not a completely false statement, but perhaps a slightly biased character analysis.

Neither of you are wrong. It’s why you’re both the bane of each other’s existence.  

There’s a noticeable grimace on your face, chin in your palm, elbows resting atop your desk, as you turn your head to where, sure enough, Armin is seated where he always is: first row, right side, directly in front of the podium, like perfect little teacher’s pet he wants to be. He doesn’t have any books to unpack like everybody else because a shiny, blue iPad is propped up on his desk in place of all of that. He’s robably looking through his pre-written list of showboaty questions to ask during lecture. Like he’s a cut above everyone else.  

Maybe some of the other morons in this course, but not you, that’s for damn sure. You bet that if you broke his thousand dollar tablet he wouldn’t think he’s such hot shit anymore. Maybe that would knock him down a couple of pegs.

“Look at him sitting there with his stupid blue eyes, and his stupid Bieber haircut, and his stupid, shiny blonde hair, and his stupid fucking glasses. I bet they’re not even real and he just wears them to—”

“Did you just call his hair shiny?”

You snap your head to your left, “What—no, of course not. I said shoddy, he’s probably a bottle blonde. Maybe all the chemicals from the hair dye seeps into his head and warps his sense of reality.”

“I’m pretty sure you said shiny.”

“Shut up, Annie.”

She raises an eyebrow at you, “You got something against blondes? Because your track record would beg to differ.”

“Once. We kissed once, and it was truth or dare, and we were both sloshed.”

“You still chose me,” she reminds you, pulling her notebook out of her backpack.

You huff, ignoring her words and turning your head back to Armin, this time finding him twirling his stupid fucking expensive Apple Pencil between his fingers like it’s nothing. You can feel your eye begin to twitch.

Perhaps he can, too—or maybe he can just feel your eyes boring holes into him—because he turns in your direction and ceases his pen twirling the moment you make eye-contact. More students filter in, walking past your line of vision, but each time they move, you and Armin meet gazes again; neither one of you daring to look away, a palpable tension between you.

His eyes might be icy blue, but you can see the rose pink tint underneath his skin, even from the distance; a familiar blush that spreads across his nose and cheeks. You exhale with a silent laugh, breaking your eye contact before he grows completely red, just in time for Dr. Zöe to start the lecture.

Everybody thinks that Armin’s so brilliant, so smart, so untouchable. You know that his only genius is that he’s fooling everyone into thinking that he’s the kind, humble, little nerd boy who wouldn’t harm a fly, when that’s far from the truth.

Armin is mean. He’s competitive and possessive and snarky and sly. He’s the definition of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but you’re pretty sure the only person in the world who might believe that is Eren. Though, you’ve heard some of the insults Armin throws Eren’s way, and they’re not exactly soft. Granted, that’s a factor in any friendship, and most of his jabs are coated with a layer of intellect the brunette likely doesn’t understand, but that doesn’t make Armin any less sarcastic. It just means Eren’s too dumb to know what’s going on.

Poor kid. Maybe it’s for the best.

That’s all to say that Armin is nothing but a big talker—not even; a smooth-talker, is more like it. He comes across as perfect, all good and sweet and soft, because that’s what he lets people see. Nobody else looks through to the sharp tongue and ragged edges, because they’re too busy cooing over innocent blue-eyed baby in front of them.

But you know that Armin, the one he doesn’t want other people to see: the one that’s so good, he’s bad; so sweet that he’s sick; so nice that it’s cruel. And you know just how much pressure to apply to make his façade crack.

And you intend on doing so.

“I don’t know which formula to use—hey, are you two eye fucking again? Cut it out, I’m trying not to fail over here,” Eren exclaims, poking Armin’s shoulder with his pen.

The jab averts the blonde’s attention back to his friend, eyes wide as he blinks himself back to reality. He curses under his breath when he feels a familiar warmth creeping across his cheeks. Few things piss Armin off like the way he gets red in the face after thinking about you, or even just looking at you, for too long. Whether it’s red out of pure annoyance, or another feeling he tries to push down, it’s irritating, and above all, embarrassing.

He spares one more glance over his shoulder, to where you and Annie are sat a few tables away in the library. You’ve looked away by now, focusing back on your notes, but Armin swears he can still see that irritating smirk on your face from this angle.

He rolls his tongue along the inside of his cheek. He should be able to keep it together around you by now, but he can’t, and it bothers him. You bother him.

“We weren’t eye fucking,” he refutes, turning his back to you completely, “She’s such a little know it all sometimes, s’annoying.”

Eren raises an eyebrow. He knows that you and Armin don’t get along, but he doesn’t understand why. Armin knows almost all your friends, and you definitely know all of his—Eren would even go as far as to say that you and him are pretty close friends—so it’s not a matter of not spending time together. You’re also the two smartest people Eren knows. In theory you should have more than enough to talk about together, but every time you’re in the same room, you hardly acknowledge each other outside of surface level commentary, or glances that border on staring.

Thankfully, the bickering remains in the classroom for the most part. Eren’s seen you and Armin go at, and he’ll be the first to admit that it’s beyond intimidating. Though, a little part of him finds it oddly entertaining, and he can’t help but to be impressed. All the more reason for you two to start playing on the same team. 

Eren thinks the two of you should get to the root of the issue already. Which, if you asked him, has very little to do with your rivaled academic genius, and a lot to do with your lack of it concerning your feelings for each other.

“She’s not that bad,” Eren vouches for you, “I think you two might get along if you ever spoke outside of trying to one-up each other in class.”

“I’m not trying to one-up anybody,” Armin rolls his eyes, a nasty habit he’s picked up as of late, “And if you stopped and used your brain for a moment, then maybe you could solve the problem.”

“I did use my brain!” Eren’s lips fall into an offended pout, “But none of this makes any sense to me! I fucking hate math, you know that.”

Armin sighs, feeling sympathetic for Eren as he slumps into himself defeatedly. He knows that Eren isn’t dumb, but math in any capacity is certainly not his strong suit. He also knows that he shouldn’t give Eren all the answers, but sometimes he needs a little push to get him there. A little bit of added guidance and motivation to keep him going. It’s either that, or he has to trick Eren into doing the work himself, but clearly that method wasn’t working out today.

“You already solved for the activation energy, now you’re supposed to use the Arrhenius equation in the expanded form.”

Eren’s lips fall into a small o-shape, as his eyes scramble across his paper again. “But—how do you—”

“There’s two measurements given for temperature.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah! Okay, right, but then—”

“You have to convert it to Kelvin first or it won’t work. It’s given to you in Celsius.”

Eren furrows his eyebrows together, and then it finally clicks for him. He mutters to himself as he puts his pencil to paper to begin to work through the problem, “How do I convert—”

“Add 273.15 to it. Make sure you put the bigger one first in the equation, or else you’ll get a negative error.”

“You didn’t even do it,” Eren huffs, angrily punching numbers into his calculator, “How do you know it’s right?”

“Because I took this class already,” Armin reminds him, sparing a brief glance over his shoulder, “Isn’t that why I’m tutoring you?”

Eren coughs over his embarrassed blush, “Oh, yeah, right.”

It’s quiet between them as Eren makes a final attempt at solving the equation, carefully and proudly circling his answer when he’s finished. He looks to Armin with bright eyes, and is content when the blonde gives him a reassuring nod, confirming that his answer is correct.

“Well that was a bitch to work through,” Eren sighs, stretching his arms behind his head with a slight yawn, “Chemistry is nothing but glorified math. It’s barely a science.”

Armin shrugs, but he doesn’t disagree. He isn’t the biggest fan of chemistry, unlike somebody else he knows. “Why’d you take chem if you knew it would have so much math?”

It’s Eren’s turn to shrug, slumping back in his chair and running a hand through his hair, “I gotta take all the pre-med requirements… just in case.”

“You wanna go to med school? Since when?”

Eren averts his eyes from his friend, a telltale sign of his bashfulness coming over him. It doesn’t happen often, but Armin knows it’s sincere when it does.

“Dunno. I’m not sure of it, just wanna keep my options open, you know?” Eren replies casually, “Doctors help make a difference and all that, and surgery looks kind of cool. Besides, if my bastard father could do it, how hard could it really be?”  

A gentle smile grows on Armin’s lips, “You can do it. If you really want to, I know you can.”  

Eren’s head snaps up, eyes wide and filled with affirmation and adoration. He relaxes his expression quickly after, but the pink hues are still present, “Thanks, Min.”

From his position he catches eye of another head of familiar blonde hair over Armin’s shoulder, and beside it, your own hair. There’s a flash of a moment when your eyes meet Eren’s, and you offer him a small wave before turning back to Annie to resume doing your homework. Eren barely gets the chance to wave back, but a dopey smile sits on his features at your kind gesture. It fades when he looks back to Armin, once again pondering the animosity between you two.

You and Armin aren’t all that different, you just need to get to know each other better. Actually, Eren thinks that you might make a good couple if you both stopped overthinking it.

“So, what’s the deal with you and (_____)?” Eren asks, bending his right knee to wrap his arm around his leg and rest his chin on top of it, “You act like she kicked your cat.”

“What?” Armin questions, flustered, “What—no, she wouldn’t touch Soup.” 

Eren quirks an eyebrow at that. “I still can’t believe you named your cat Soup.”

“It’s technically a nickname.”

“A nickname for what?”

“…For Miso Soup.”

Eren blinks. “Okay, if she didn’t mess with Soup, then what’s the issue? You scared of her or something?”

“Why would I be scared of her?” Armin asks, tone incredulous; then softer, more subdued, like a kid who doesn’t want to admit they’re wrong, “’M not scared of her.”

“You stare at her like you are—well, you look kind of angry, but also scared. Like, when you see those balloon things outside of car washes. You hate them, but you can’t look away from them—”

“I am not scared of those!”

“You are, and it’s okay,” Eren waves away his friend’s denial, “Oh, I get it—is this one of those things where she makes you nervous, so you respond with anger and sarcasm instead of thinking through your feelings?”

“You’ve been going to therapy for one month, relax.”

“Maybe you two should go to friend therapy and work this out,” Eren bites back, “It probably doesn’t help that she’s always with Annie. They both look like they would murder someone with no remorse. I admit, it is kind of scary… but it’s kind of hot, too.”

Armin spares him an unamused glare. Eren crosses his arms in defense, “What? I’m not wrong. It’s sexy in a scary kind of way, maybe that’s why you’re always eye fucking. I don’t blame you, she’s hot. I would let her and Annie axe-murder me without regret.”

“Eren?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and do problem six, I don’t have all day.”

Eren huffs, but flips the page to the next problem, grumbling under his breath as he attempts the, “It’s not as sexy when you’re mean, you know.”

Armin hits him silent.

Tuesdays are Armin’s favorite days because he only has one class. Sure, it’s three hours long, but it’s much more bearable than his usual eight-hour day.

It’s also the one class he shares with you. Which is why he’s always mentally exhausted by the end of it, but physically, he feels like he could punch a wall; all his pent up anger and frustration is channeled into his body and he’s desperate for an outlet for it. It’s a feeling he hates to love.

Annie seems to have cut class today seeing as she’s not next to you; and it’s almost as if it’s emboldened you to mess with him even more than usual.

He bites his tongue as Dr. Zöe enthusiastically uses your latest point as a segue into the final topic of the evening. He made that same point ten minutes ago. You just worded it differently—admittedly, more concisely, but somehow with a little more nuance, than when he had hesitantly proposed it—and, yeah, maybe you made it sound more convincing, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t come up with it first. If his stupid, fancy stylus didn’t cost upwards of $200 he might have snapped it in half.

You’re definitely the better conversationalist, that much he can admit. Words have never been his forte and he hates the way you can talk circles around him, and that there’s so little he can say to make you stop.

He wishes you would just shut up. In fact, he’d like to shut you up himself.

Thankfully, class ends sooner rather than later. Armin finds himself briefly talking with Dr. Zöe afterwards, most other students having taken the opportunity to leave early for the night. To nobody’s surprise, you’re not one of them, having stuck around to talk to the professor, too.

“The two of you should consider lab research this summer,” Dr. Zöe suggests ardently, walking between the two of you as you exit the lecture hall, “I could really use two students like you!”

Armin chuckles at his boisterous professor. He’s known about the research opportunities at their lab for quite some time now, and he knows that you have, too. “I don’t know that lab work is really my strong suit.”

The three of you come to stop at the hallway intersection, the professor now standing across from you and him. You give them a polite smile, “And I’m not sure that collaboration is mine.”

Armin spares a glance just in time to see you flash one of your own in his direction. Dr. Zöe’s eyes flicker between the two students rapidly, a slight squint to their eyelids.

They aren’t quite sure why their two brightest students seem to despise each other. They wish you two would just get along already, so that they don’t have to spend the summer training half-witted chemical engineering majors how to use basic lab equipment; and instead, conduct some actual research.

“Well, I hope the both of you reconsider,” they smile, “I’ll see you during office hours, I presume?”

You two nod in sync, sending the doctor off with happy smile, just long enough until you see that they’ve turned the corner further down the hall

“Had fun stealing my point earlier?” Armin questions, looking your way as you still wave mindlessly, eye-twitching at your polite façade.

“I would call it improvement,” you tell him, not bothering to turn in his direction; still and smiling waving like the professor can see or hear you, “You should stick to showing, rather than saying. You never were good with your words.”

Armin kisses his teeth together. He’ll give you what you want, if that’s how you want it.

In a fit of irritation, he grabs your moving hand by the wrist, and pulls you down the opposite hallway, not caring for your dramatic wailing behind him.

“Hey, Einstein, the exit is the other way, do you have any idea where we’re going?”

“Ever heard of observational learning? Maybe if you shut up for a second, you would figure it out,” he snaps, pulling you further.

There’s a door on the left that Armin knows is unlocked, and he’s quick to open it and pull you inside. Before you have the chance to glance around, he has you pushed up against the wall, jaw forced up and forward.

He could scoff at the small hitch in your breath at his actions, clearly a little too satisfied with being manhandled; but instead, he takes the opportunity to press your lips together. Armin quite likes the feeling of your lips on his; warm and soft and far too welcoming; a rare moment of silence.

“Someone could hear us.”

Or not so silent.

“Then be quiet,” he snarls.

Armin feels your fingers weave themselves into his hair, scraping along his undercut in sync with his lips trailing down your jaw. A groan falls from his when he feels you tug at the ends of the strands, just hard enough to force his face back to eye level with yours.

“You’re the one with the big mouth.”

“You’re so smart, huh. Always got something to say,” Armin lets out a low chuckle, deft fingers running down your sides to squeeze at your waist, “You can be really fuckin’ annoying, you know that.”

You mirror half of his ministrations, letting your right hand trail down his chest barely brushing over the very visible bulge in his jeans, before hooking your index finger under the belt loop, effectively pulling him closer to you.

The smile on your face is dirty, but you’re not laughing like he was, “Do something about it then.”

His blue eyes grow cloudy as he takes a good look at you; slowly rakes over your features, from that stupid, snarky look in your eyes, to your kiss-bruised lips, down to your chest, and back up again. Armin finds himself copying your smirk for all the wrong reasons. But it’s your own fault; you always did like to push him one step over the edge.

“Fine.”

Despite your twisted grin there’s a look in your eyes that’s eager; willing; ready for the taking. That same look you have when you talk over him in class; when you pretend to ignore him around your mutual friends; when you want him to fuck you stupid.

Armin uses his right hand to cup your jaw again, closing the distance between your mouths with a less than gentle kiss. He feels your groans reverberating through his body, waves of heat accompanying them and going straight to his erection. Your arch your back into the kiss, but he forces you backwards, left hand flat against your tummy.

Following suit, he pushes himself against your body, pressing his knee between your legs; the thin fabric of your stockings doing little to prevent your thighs from rubbing against him.

He swipes his tongue over the seam of your lips, earning a frenzied whine when glides his tongue across yours, and teasingly licks at the roof of your mouth. Your tongue is lithe against his, but somehow just as deceptive and sly as always, and Armin would be a fool to deny that he loved it.

There’s a spark flickering in his stomach when you push your center harshly against his; and it’s only ignited further when he feels you bite his bottom lip. A guttural growl escapes him, his right hand moving to your throat with practiced ease, pushing the back of your head into the wall.

He pauses for a moment, drinks in your wide eyes and desperate visage, “You are the single most frustrating person I’ve ever met in my entire life.”

And he couldn’t get enough of it if he tried. He couldn’t get enough of you.

You must see through his words, into the grainy expression of adoration in his eyes, because he can see it filtering into yours, pupils dilating with both want and care.

“Aw, baby, I love you, too,” you pout, leaning forward as best to can to peck him on the lips, “Now, shut me up and fuck me. It’s exhausting being this pretty and smart-mouthed, you know.”

Armin dips his head into your neck, squeezes against the column of your throat with warning until he hears a gasp escape from your lips. He presses gentle kisses into your skin, in stark contrast to the increasing pressure from his fingers, waiting for one last request, and then, finally—“Please.”

He smiles, loosens his grip for a moment, just long enough to hear your pretty panting, before slotting his lips against yours again. Your moans are lewd and sloppy and breathless between kisses, and it makes his dick twitch in his pants. You really are so fucking loud. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He uses his free hand to push your skirt up, and subsequently dip past the weak barrier of your tights and underwear. The slightest flicker of his fingers against your center has you choking out a moan, and Armin is forced to press his right thumb harder against your neck.

“Quiet,” he reminds you, “You asked nicely, so I’ll give you what you want. No need to be loud about it.”

He watches you nod with short and restricted movements, a sadistic kind of power washing over him at your eager compliance. He uses his middle finger to rub slow, careful circles around your clit; the feeling of your wet cunt against his fingers, coupled with your wanton moaning only spurs on the throbbing in his pants.

“Armin,” you whine, impatiently; but he expected that of you, “Don’t tease.”

His eyes flash to yours briefly, pressing his lips to yours again to swallow your shuddered moans. He dips his tongue into your mouth at the same time he does his middle finger into your cunt. An obscene moan echoing through the classroom, as Armin feels your body arching into his again; feels your fingers frantically flying to his hair, searching for purchase to anchor yourself on.

He pulls away in time to add another digit and watch you groan underneath him. He pushes both his fingers in to the knuckle, carefully curling them upwards to elicit the prettiest sound out of you. He has to admit, it’s probably his favorite thing to hear come out of your mouth.

He keeps a steady pace, pumping his fingers in and out of your pussy with perfect friction, teetering between letting you moan his name and choking you silent. Your hands are frantic in his hair, grasping and pulling and so, so, desperate, Armin can’t help but to finger fuck you harder.

“You want one more?” he questions, but his voice is taunting, words ghosted over your lips just out of reach for you to kiss.

He can feel your leg trembling against his, see you pupils shaking along with your shaking head. Armin stops to smile; he thought you might do that. He could probably make you cry right now if he wanted to. Maybe later.

“Want you to fuck me,” your words short and ragged, eyebrows raised when he uses his thumb to press lightly against your clit, “Armin, please.”

The blonde shakes his head, “You’re dumber than you look if you think I’m gonna fuck you in a classroom, baby, so if you want to cum now, you better tell me.”

You have the audacity to pout of all things, “You’re mean.”

Armin lets out a breathless laugh. “You like it,” he leans forward to peck you sweetly, “So, what’ll it be?”

“Fine, but I want head later, too,” you tell him, words becoming less firm when Armin teases his ring finger against your slit, “Please.”

Armin hums in compliance, leaning forward to kiss you again, this time with more tact, and he chases your whines when he finally pushes a third finger inside of you.

“Look at you,” he croons breaking your kiss and forcing your head back again, “You take it so well.”

“Ah—fuck, there, Armin—there,” you cry, wet heat squeezing around his fingers in intermittent spasms.

Armin watches your chest heave with desperate breaths, air stuttering to pass from your lips to your lungs with his hand around your neck. He can feel your walls constricting around his fingers, feel your body shaking underneath him when he increases his pace. He curls his fingers again, just right, just until he hears you sing a strained call of his name. And when he feels your nails scraping down the nape of his neck, and the slight weight of your body convulsing, Armin knows you’re done for.

He’s nice enough to fuck you through your orgasm, shallow thrusts of his fingers bringing you to and down from your high as he watches you pant for him. He presses small kisses against your throat, up, up, up, until he’s kissing you, and carefully pulling his fingers out.

He removes his hand from your neck, and slides it down your waist to offer you support. He’s not prepared for your sudden pull on his neck, forcing him into a kiss that conveys your content; he’s quick to raise his left hand, palm meeting the wall to hold himself up against your sporadic actions, chuckling lightly into your kiss. You were always so reckless and happy after an orgasm.

You kiss him like you have him wrapped your finger despite being the one pleading moments ago. You do, so he supposes it’s not unwarranted; and he welcomes your flirtatious kisses despite the annoying blush they always bring forth.

And sure enough, he can feel his face on fire when you pull away. Armin scoffs internally at himself; he really should be able to keep it together around you by now. But when you kiss him like that, you kind of make it hard to think straight.

“You’re so good when you’re not… pretending to be good,” you hum, a blissful, hazy look on your features as you wrap your arms around his neck.

Armin shakes his head with a chortle of disbelief; leans forward to kiss you again, “’M not pretending. I am good.”

“Yeah, you’re such a good little saint that arguing with your girlfriend turns you on,” you taunt him, “It’s okay, Armin, you can admit it.”

He groans, out of shallow annoyance this time, and it makes you giggle. “Why are you acting like you’re not complicit in this?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” you refute with an exaggerated roll of your eyes, “You get turned on by hearing me talk about biochemistry. I like it when you tell me to shut up about it. We are not the same.”

“Yeah, because you look hot doing it,” he tells you, “Speaking of which, Eren called you hot today, so I kind of need you to slip a neurotoxin in his Gatorade.”

“Aw, Eren thinks I’m hot? Tell him I think he’s hot, too,” you bat your eyelashes at him, but Armin only offers you an unimpressed glare in return.

“I think he might be onto us, actually,” Armin notes, affectionately bumping his nose against yours.

“If he’s onto us, then it’s because you’re the one giving it away, not me.”

“Oh, because you could never do anything wrong, right?”

“Right,” you flash him an overconfident smile before reaching up to kiss to the tip of his nose, “See you’re so smart, baby.”

Armin shakes his head again in disbelief. You’re a handful, he can see that much.

“Come on,” he prompts, “We should go, I still have to finish my lab write up, and I know you haven’t started your paper.”

Armin tries to motion you forward, but is stopped when he feels your hand combing through his hair, and sees the genuine spark of concern in your eyes. “The one for your elective? I thought you said you were going to finish it on Monday.”

“I was,” Armin admits, “But then I didn’t.”

“You want me to help you with it?” you offer kindly, pushing his bangs back and letting your hands fall down the sides of his face, palms resting against his ears.

He nods gently, turning his head to press a kiss into your left palm, before wrapping his hand around your wrist, “I can help you outline your paper.”

You nod in return, and Armin spares one more kiss, before pulling your hand away to lace your fingers together.

Thankfully, nobody’s around to catch you exiting the classroom, or see you holding hands as you make your way out of the building and towards the bus stop. This was Armin’s favorite part of any Tuesday; the one time he could hold your hand on campus without the fear of getting caught by your friends.

He reasons that you guys should probably tell them soon, though, especially if Eren might have an idea of what’s going on. You were bound to get caught sooner rather than later. That, or Eren and Sasha would start meddling.

“If you think Eren knows, then Mikasa definitely knows,” you note, swinging your intertwined hands as you walk through the parking lot as a shortcut.

“Maybe if you actually remembered to hide Soup’s toys, there would be less evidence for her to piece together.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t forget when your midterms are, I wouldn’t have to emergency cat sit the hour before Mikasa comes around, and there wouldn’t be any toys to hide in the first place.”

“I’m bad with dates, you know that!” Armin pouts, “I don’t say anything when you forget about ten page papers until four hours before they’re due.”

“You’re saying something right now, actually.”

“That’s not what I—you know, you’re so—”

Armin’s quiet when he feels your lips pressed against his cheekily, “Annoying. I know. You like it. You’re not very good at staying mad for very long.”

Armin’s tempted to roll his eyes yet again—he really needs to quit it, or at the very least, get your own temper under control before it’s irreversible and completely rubbed off on him—but takes the opportunity to kiss your forehead, instead.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Your eyes twinkle under his affections. “And that you love me?”

He nods, “And that I love you.”

“And that you’re gonna fuck me before you make me write my paper when we get home, right?”

Armin chuckles and presses another kiss to your forehead, “We’ll see about that one.”

Hange huffs as they make their way through the parking. They always forget their keys in their office, and always, inconveniently park half-way across the campus. In their defense, this parking lot is free, and the one closest to the Medical Sciences building is not. So, really, capitalism is the one to blame for their frequent late night car lot strolls.

They hear two familiar voices bickering just as they’re about to step into their car, and are more than surprised to see their two favorite students walking together. Walking together and holding hands. Wait—you and Armin are walking together and holding hands?

Hange blinks for a moment, drowning out the sounds of the conversation after they see you two kiss. Their jaw practically falls to the asphalt and they might not blink for a full two minutes as they process what they just saw.

Their trance is broken when it finally, finally clicks together, and Hange has to try their hardest to contain their squeals before sitting in the driver’s seat, an overly forceful slam to the car door following. They waste no time fumbling with the pockets of their lab coat to fish out their phone, and make a call to their favorite math professor.

“Levi, I told you Arlert and (_____) had to know each other outside of class! I think they might be dating! You know what this means, right? I can have them both in the same lab without worrying they might start a chemical fire, and I won’t have to hire two brick heads this summer!”

Levi has never hung up a call more quickly in his life.

[gangrenados]

YOOOOOOOO THE HAIRY JASON = 🖤🖤🖤🖤

the man deserves some love tbh.

dc watch out cause i’m coming for u if u continue to keep him in captivity.

I must admit that I'm a little bit too much in love with this concept, like I never thought hairy men were that nice, but goddamn this kinda changed my mind lol AND YES Jason deserves so much love 😫😫

Anyway, I had this in my draft and decided to add the concept, well, I wrote this every time I was bored, so maybe it's not that great.

thanks to @imagines-fluff-yandere-smut for this great ass concept, girl keep up your horny thoughts, I love them 😤😤💕💕💕!!

Warning: Uh kinda smutty, a blowjob and a lot of slurs??

(L/n): your last name

You have no idea of how much I love that gif 👉🏽👈🏽

The soft sound of the tv echoing in the background alongside with the lulling murmuring of the city, were the only thing that was keeping in touch with the reality you were set on: living on a rather small apartment setted in the middle of one of the most tumoltous cities in the world.

Was it comfortable? surely not, but the company was greatly accepted. Besides this was just transient point in your life.

You stirred closer to your lover with a soft yawn, scaping from the cold that Gotham rainy nights always provided and being dealighted welcomed by a side hug of his right arm that quickly fell limp beside your shoulder.

You took the dare to rest your head on his chest, he didn't moved or said anything, staying in the same position with his arm behind his head as the other is around you, but with the slight difference that his lips were forming a little side smile.

Taking that small gesture as a green light, you kept going with your intrusion. You dragged your fingers  down town his torso, wandering through his abs before finally setting just above the hem of his boxers.

You caressed his skin softly, just the tender touch of your fingers before your nails ran up and down his skin, leaving a nice ticklish sensation all over Jason's body, to finally play gently in the hairs of his happy trail.

It didn't take long before your let your hand go lower, and between your innocent caress and the small talk of the show going on, you brushed his crotch lightly. However, that was more than enough to peek your boyfriend's attention.

"Are you trying to get me horny, doll?" his hoarse voice made you giggle. Trapped in the middle of you act and you couldn’t but offer a playful smile once you noticed those beautiful blue eyes looking down at you.

“Maybe...” you mumbled trying to appear innocent while your hands were still moving up and down his member in a gently, but firm maner. Jason arched his eyebrows, scoffing at your words. “Is it working?

You let out a yelp as Jason pulled you over him like nothing. It might soud crazy, but the way he stares at you makes your insides light up in pure fire as your heart speeds up for a moment.

So now your mind can only focus on the way his big hands were caressing your hips, daring to tugg at the waistband of your panties and to  run down those calloused fingers a little bit too close of your inner thighs.

Jason looks so beautilf underneath you and then his words makes you pay attention at what you had provoked.  "I think you gotta work harder."

Between kisses you moved to his neck, nibbling onto the soft skin and sucking lightly as you keep grinding  your ass on his clothed cock. Jason wanted more, you could sense this by the way his hands were pressing you against his pelvic, a way to prevent you to go elsewhere.

 Jason’s hips bucked against  yours, his hands still resting on your arse as he let his head fall down on his pillow. ”Is this enough?" You smiles against his skin, giving a small kiss with your swollen lips and Jason just nods.

"You won." His raspy voice sends shivers downs your spine." I have a boner and I would pretty much like to fuck you right now, congratulations!”

"Nice!" You say as you grab his face between your hands and give him a peck, Jason looks up to you with one of those heart melting smile he keeps for moments when your cuteness is about to give him a heart attack.

So you go down, giving short kisses across his abdomen and tracing his skin with your nails. As you reach his boxers you give a sweet kiss to his clothed cock and without taking your eyes off of Jason while tugging down those black boxes and he can't help but caress your head lovingly.

You spit on your hand quickly before you take his hard dick in your hand and start to pump him at a slow pace.

The contact makes him shiver and Jason mind is starts to fog the instant you take him in your mouth and you your tongue swirl around the shaft.

Jason pants as you bob your head up and down, sucking at his hard cock while your hand pump what you can't fit in your mouth.

His whimpers are music to your ears and seeing his face contorts in pleasure is making the coil in your belly tighten. It's nice to be able to have this view, but you're more focused on keeping up with the work.

"Fuck" Jason says as he sinks deeper in his pleasure. One of his hands goes to your head and grabs your hair, he doesn't move whatsoever. "Just like that! You're so good to me, babe."

Everything is going so nice, there's nothing better than receiving head after a hard week of work and Jason's state of mind is more than enough proof of this. The wet sounds mixed with Jason’s moans opaque the long forgotten sitcom that was still being played.

And moment like this make Gotham nights more berable, just the two of you enjoying each others bodies with the very welcoming bonus of being in love.

However, the euphoria is quickly cut off as the  annoying sound of the doorbell comes into scene; at first you don't stop and Jason is thankful because of it, but the person waiting at the other side of the apartment isn't as glad. The ring of the doorbell sounds acute in your ears, making the task of ignore it more difficult than you thought.

"(L/N) I am here, open up" the deep and annoying voice of your landlord fills the air and your groan in frustration.

The cold hits Jason's dick as you take him of off your mouth. "(Y/N), doll, don't leave me like this."

"Sorry, I forgot I called my landlord for the issue with the water." you say with a guilty smile, however,  seeing you kiss the tip of his cock doesn't make Jason feel any better.

"Are you busy, (y/n)? I can come another time" your landlord suggest and Jason flashes a grin.

"Problem resolved." He says a little bit too excited as he rest his weight down on his elbows. "Now where were we?"

"Jay no." you shook your head before getting up on your feet.

"He said he can come  later!"

"But that will mean another month carrying water buckets to take a shower! " Jason's mind pops up with an idea, but before he can say you cut him off." And no, I can't keep going to your house any time I have a problem, Jay!"

You can't help but giggle at his pouted lips, it's always a cute view seeing the so feared Red Hood whining over you. "You can! You know I don't have a problem with that." The way he talks so passionately falls flat once he notices that you're not going to back down.

"I didn't even got to show you how much I love you" Jason groans and just roll your eyes playfully at him. ” I want to fuck you until you’re scraming my name so the whole building will know who you belong to.”

"That reminds me that they're at the verge of causing a riot if they hear us again" you chuckle, putting aside Jason's attempts as reach up to him and leave a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"We will finish this as soon as the landlord goes. That's a promise " You wink at him before get of him to head towards the bathroom to brush your teeth quickly.

"Fucking cockblock" Jason ushes under his breath and you chuckle as you go to meet with the imapatient man at the other side of your apartment.

Tag list below the cut

Tag list: @burningclodwagonjudge @meany-marcelini @alice-fell-down-the-well @demondoxable @fluffyshrimpuwu @mad-grace-amber @screechingghostbananafarm @owl-witch-prompts @waroncheer @nervousfandom @c0-77 @astroherogirl @omgtheywereroommates98 @redarsenal @shadygoateeprincess @lovelyartemisa @missmaskedwriter @thegirlwholovesbooksblog @silverw19 @simpery @unknowntoanyone @ghost-bich @lucy-roo @adarksoul098 @magicisabluewish @kellieriddle96 @ashyvillain @panic-attheplace @greeknerd007 @honeydolly @perylinsus @cedrics-things @just-deka @malfoys-demigod @aterriblelangblr @hamdehlesmis @dreamxcollide @thirstiestpotato @magicalbeanie @letlly

[eideticmemory]

TWO GHOSTS III | MATTHEW G. GUBLER

It’s been 15 years. 15 years has to be long enough . . . right? Read PART 2.

Set 15 years after the end of Ever Since New York, so give that a read first!

Word Count: 3.9k.

Warning: Usual angst, porn, and poor communication amongst characters.

SOUNDTRACK:

Closure - Taylor Swift

Demolition Lovers - My Chemical Romance

Bang the Doldrums - Fall Out Boy

It’s a cliché.

Your life, certainly.

And the saying, as it goes, that the show must go on.

You’re blindsided. You’re a little nauseated, and irritated. You’re looking at Matthew, you’re thinking no one’s told him what’s going on, either.

But the two of you make eye contact, for just a few seconds, then his eyes rake down your body, pausing to take you in. Your dress, black against your skin, tight against your body. You hold his gaze as it returns to your face — your lips, your cheekbones, your eyes.

And a mutual understanding is formed. Silently, through nothing but an exchange of looks.

“After you,” Matthew smiles, politely, holding his arm out in front of his torso.

“Wow,” you smile, your voice kind, formal, as you pass him by. “How professional of you.”

He can’t help but chuckle to himself. He looks down, shakes his head, and he puts his hands in his pockets. You can feel his eyes running over your skin like a laser, tracing the shape of your spine, and you nearly tip over in your heels.

Ramona goes to follow you, and Matthew’s aligns beside her, working up the urge to speak.

“[y/n] didn’t . . .” he whispers, pausing to lick his lips, point up ahead at you you trailing down the hall. “She didn’t agree to this, did she?” he asks Ramona.

“Look,” Ramona stops, turns to Matthew, holds her palm up to silence him. It works. He stops, his words, his footsteps, come to halt. “I don’t know the story, but . . . I don’t think I’m supposed to talk to you. So . . . anything you want to . . . ask about or say to [y/n], then — then, you can say it to her yourself.”

And she quickly scurries away to catch up with you. She pauses, turns around, tells him, “I love Criminal Minds, by the way.” And she continues on her way.

Matthew laughs.

You’re already standing, set and center, ready to walk on stage on command. You look out at the crowd, each individual face. The bright lights. And you hate to be dramatic, but you’d give anything to not be here right now. Seriously, anything.

“Hey,” Ramona murmurs, walking up behind you. “You alright?”

“It’s too late for me to get out of this, isn’t it?” You ask.

“. . . a little bit,” she nods.

Matthew joins, taking his place behind the curtain, waiting to go on stage. You look over at him, let out a deep sigh.

“Okay,” you shrug, look forward. “Let’s do this, then.”

There’s an art to every interview. To being a polite, and attentive, and humble guest. For 30 minutes, for an hour, forever. It seems to be muscle memory for both you and Matthew. You flash your smiles, and they’re wide, they’re bright, they’re pretty, and completely, utterly inauthentic.

You put on a show for the crowd. You’re not an actress, but anyone who thinks you’re enjoying yourself has been fooled. And that’s enough for you.

You laugh along as questions bounce back and forth, the interviewer leaned over his desk as he speaks to the both you. There’s a gravitational pull that fights and fights to make you look at Matthew. It catches you once, and the two of you awkwardly avoid eye contact by averting your heads from one another.

Your eyes flicker over to the timer offstage, counting down the minutes until the interview was officially off air. It wasn’t until twenty minutes were left on the clock, that the questions became, a bit . . . pushy, to say the least.

“So, you and Matthew went to college together, is that right?”

“Yes,” you nodded, only looking to Matthew for a second of acknowledgement, before returning your glimmering smile to the host. “Yes, we did.”

“Were you two friends?” he asks. “Now, I don’t know why, but I see you both being in very different cliques,” he laughs, the audience joining.

You giggle, nodding, “Um, yeah, yes, I would say we were friends.”

“And what would you say, Matthew?”

“Eh, I’d say we were acquaintances,” he jokes, giving a shrug in response.

Everyone but you finds it funny. You cross your legs, passive aggressively, biting down on your bottom lip.

“Oh, so she was in with the cool crowd, is that what it was?”

“Hm . . .” Matthew hums. “Define cool?”

Your laugh is dry, quiet, drowned out by the laughter of the crowd. Your eyes are glued to your shoes, your feet swaying back and forth on your heel.

“But in all honesty . . .” Matthew adds. He leans over, puts his arm around you. It was the one thing to make you lose all sense of clairty, lose your solid ground. You shuffled in your seat, awkwardly, straining your face just to keep your smile in place. “If I could describe knowing [y/n] in college, in one, single word, it’d probably be . . .” he turns his head to you, slowly, “. . . exhausting.”

His voice comes out in a joking manner, and it prompts another uproar of laughter, which drowns in your ears as you gaze at Matthew. Your face is laced with a numb, distant kind of hurt.

Fifteen more minutes on the clock.

And you spend every one of them with a fire burning in your belly. Burning, and burning, until it filled your entire body.

Ramona runs up to you the second you step off stage, happy, beaming, “That went well! You were composed, funny, you handled his nosey ass questions with, like, no visible reaction.”

Continuing down the hallway, you focus on the steps ahead of you, counting down to the moment you return to the sanctuary of your dressing room.

“And the way you subtly promoted the show without being too pretentious, I mean, very well done. I — oh —“

She’s cut off by the door slamming in her face, as you disappear into the private room, leaving yourself to find peace. Stability.

“. . . I’m still proud of you!” Ramona shouts through the barrier. You sigh, close your eyes, rest your back against the cold wood. “I’m going to call you a car, I’ll be back!”

It’s not until you hear her retreating footsteps, that you take a seat at the vanity set to the side of the room. You put your head in your hands, unable to look at yourself in the mirror. Unable to do anything but sit, and feel.

Ramona weighs on your mind, and you can’t seem to shake the guilt of sending her away, so cold, so unfair. You huff, and rise to your feet. They’re swollen, and achey, from the pair of heels encapsulating them, but you push through. You march up to the door, and as soon as you swing it open, you walk down the hallway.

“Ro?” you call. “Ramona!”

And as if an invisible force knocked you back, jilted you in your steps, you stop. You turn your body, looking to the door at your left. It’s a magnetic attraction. You know he’s in there. Hell, you know he could walk out at any moment. But you stay, stuck in front of the barrier like a deer in headlights.

“No,” you whisper to yourself, shaking your head. “No . . . “

You walk away. You make the decision to walk away. But you only manage to make it a few feet . . . before you’re turning back around.

Your knuckles rasp on the wooden door, and you cross your arms as you await an answer. When Matthew comes to the door, the first thing you notice is that his tie has been removed, the top buttons of his shirt undone. Your breath catches in your throat, but only for a moment.

He exhales, “Haven’t we used all of our time for today?” he quips, tilting his head as he looks at you.

“I just want you to know that this is not . . . fair,” you tell him. “I have been polite and understanding, and you have been . . . a dick.”

He stands up straight, physically taken aback by your words, and the venom with which you speak them. “Have I?”

“Yes. You are being petty, and mean, and dragging this out for no, damn, reason, Matthew Gubler.”

“I didn’t know there was anything to drag out,” he shrugs. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he goes to close the door, right in your face. But you catch it with your elbow, force your way in.

You slam the door behind you, standing firm on your feet, firm in your anger. “No, no. You don’t get to treat me like this. Whatever is bothering you, whatever issue you have with me, that doesn’t give you the right to slam the door in my face, and disregard the fact that you have been an utter asshole!”

“Oh,” he backs away, snidely clicking his tongue at you. “We’re getting into a screaming match now?”

“What the fuck is your deal, Matthew?” you seeth. “You’re mad, you’re hurt, I get it —“

“I’m not mad, I’m not hurt. I’m . . . annoyed, more than anything.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff, crossing your arms. “The way I see it, there’s two options, here. Either, you’re still mad, and you want to hurt me. Or, you want to fuck me so badly, you’re just making yourself look stupid!”

A lot has changed. Too many things to count on one hand.

But the way Matthew’s eyes darken . . .

The way the wire snaps.

It hasn’t changed, at all. His irises are still as dark and intense, as they always were when they were focused on you. Dreamy, and powerful. Almost, hypnotic.

It’s hard to tell exactly who kisses who, first.

So, we’ll call it a mutual decision.

Your bodies collide, fall in sync with one another almost automatically, as you hold his face in your hands. His skin feels different, covered by a layer of scruff. But his mouth tastes the same.

Addicting.

You drop your jaw, let his tongue slide between your lips. He moans into the kiss, and his hands grip onto your waist, pulling you closer. Closer. Until you can feel his heartbeat against your chest. You offer no resistance as he sweeps you off your feet, instead wrapping your legs around his waist.

Your back slams into the wall, and you gasp, tangle your hands in Matthew’s hair. It curls around your fingers, and he hums at the sensation of your fingertips grazing his scalp. His hands make their way underneath the hem of your dress, maneuvering up your thighs, onto your ass.

He pauses to put his forehead against yours, watch the drool drip down your lips. “You want it as badly as I do . . .” he whispers, heaving as his breath reels from the kiss.

“Shut up.”

“Don’t you?”

“You’re ruining it, jackass,” you spit.

“Mm, that’s what I thought,” he grins into another kiss, catching your bottom lip between his teeth. His hand wraps around the elastic band of your panties, tightly, and he uses minimal strength to rip the fabric apart. It pops against your leg, and you squeak out loud, causing Matthew to chuckle against your lips.

Your dress rides up your thighs, bunching up around your waist, while your hands work quickly to undo Matthew’s belt. His stomach is flushed, and warm under the thin material of his shirt.

He grunts into his mouth as you free him from his boxers, stroke him in your palm with a familiar and steady rhythm. He could’ve fallen to his knees right then, right there. But he didn’t. Because, God, he’s going to fuck you if it was the last thing he ever does. He’s going to do it well, and he’s going to make it quick.

Pinning you to the wall, he spits on her fingers, covering them in his saliva and reaching down to touch you between your legs. You whimper into his mouth, pleading, begging for it.

Matthew pulls away from the kiss only to watch your face, to see your eyes roll back as he pushes into you. Again. For the first time in so long. Your entire body, just, relaxes, and you melt into each other, weak already.

His hips push forward, forcefully, until he’s buried inside of you, and you can’t help but let out a loud whine. He puts a hand over your mouth, his forehead against yours, and begins to move your bodies in this slow, steady rhythm. Your back is moving up and down against the wall, and your moans are aligning with every one that comes from Matthew’s mouth.

The two of you can’t keep your eyes off each other, as though neither of you can believe this is happening. That you’re here. With each other. Bonded. Chained. Like there was no amount of fate, or time, or distance that could keep you apart.

Matthew buries his face in your neck, trying to contain his high pitched groans. He absentmindedly starts to increase his pace, encouraged by the way your nails rake down his back. You rest your head back against the wall, you eyes screwed shut and your mouth wide open. His fingers slide between your lips, and muffle the loud squeaks that won’t seem to stop.

And you’re not sure if it’s him, the way he’s only gotten better, and manages to hit a golden spot inside of you with every thrust. Or, if it’s the fact that you haven’t gotten laid in a while. But when Matthew takes his hand away from his mouth, starts to rub your clit, you yelp.

“Shhh,” he cooes, but follows his soft order with a roll of his hips.

Your body is completely rested, dependent, on his. He cradles you in his arms as his hips contain to move, his fingers work tirelessly on your clit, and he moans in your ear.

You don’t have to tell him. He already knows. He remembers. How your thighs tighten around his waist when you’re close. How you mumble incoherently, and try to catch your breath but it only comes out at jumbled gasps. He feels you tighten around his cock, your nails digging into his back and your fingers pulling at his hair.

He supports you as your body crumbles from the pressure, releases it all in one big, intense rush of energy that leaves your body tense and on edge. You hold him close as you tremble, muffle your whimpers against his shoulder. Sliding out of you, he uses your inner thighs to bring himself there with you. You have to lay against the wall, as you watch him in a daze. Your vision blurry, blurry, until you focused on him.

Sweat beads on his forehead, soaking the hair on his face, and the collar of his shirt. He bites down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. And when he comes, his jaw drops, but no noise comes out. He’s silent, and beautiful, and his face scrunches up in the exact same way it always did. He makes a mess on your thighs, your stomach, and stares you in the eye while he does it.

Matthew lowers you to the ground, holding your hips as you plant your feet on the floor. You stare at each other for a moment, out of breath, and strangely calm, both of you fixing your clothes.

You advert your eyes, distracting yourself by correcting the wrinkles in your dress. You reach over, grab some tissues to wipe yourself off with. Silence fills the room, and it’s deafening.

Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s different. The past is still the past, you’re still you, Matthew’s still him. And the remnants of who you two used to be still hang in the air, haunting. Dangerous.

You push your hair out of your face, clear your throat as you toss the tissues into the trash, look Matthew in the face, “We done here?”

You move around him, heading to the door without looking back.

“[y/n],” he calls. You turn around, your hand on the door knob. Matthew steps towards you, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You don’t have to treat me like, some situation that needs to be handled . . .” he purses his lips, “I’ll be alright.”

You sigh at him, at a loss for words. And you leave.

Ramona nearly collides into you as she rushes down the hall, exclaiming as she stops in her tracks. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you!” She catches a glimpse of Matthew’s door, her jaw dropping as she connects the dots. “I —“ she stutters. “Did you —?”

“Let’s go,” you command.

“But, I —“

“Let’s go.”

So you went. It felt cowardly, and . . . wrong. Wrong, simply because of Matthew. His broken voice. The memory of his eyes, and the sadness that glossed over them as you left.

After situating yourself in the backseat, you lock the car door. Out of some irrational fear . . . that, if given the chance, you’ll hop out. Rush back to Matthew, take him in your arms, and never let him go. Never is a long time, but not enough to make up for the years that have gone by.

You sigh to yourself, rub your tired eyes as the car begins to move, begins on its journey to take you home. “Actually . . .” you say to the driver., leaning forward. “Can you take me somewhere else, instead?”

You knock, forcefully, on the door in front of you, after trekking up the stairs to the luxury apartment. Out of breath, you huff, and add another tireless knock upon the door.

“It’s open!”

You furrow your eyebrows, walk in to see Claire and Roni sitting on the couch. They give you welcoming smiles, popping snacks into their mouth.

“Are you trying to wake the kid, dude?” Claire asks you, causing Roni to chuckle under her breath.

“Sorry, I . . .” you apologize. “I thought you guys were asleep.”

“We’re up,”Claire shrugs. “Want a snack? We’ve got those tropical gummies that you really like.”

You stare for a moment, inhale, exhale, look to Claire, “You knew I was coming . . .”

“Oh, yeah,” she nods. “We saw the interview. You were expected.”

“Ugh,” you groan, putting your face in your hands, out of nothing but pure exhaustion.

Claire sighs, sadly, knowing you so well, that it’s evident to her just how much your struggling. How, once again, your body is being weighed down by a heavy heart.

“You said you’re alright here, babe?” Roni whispers to her, and Claire responds with a gentle nod.

“We’re fine, mama,” she tells her, following her words with a soft kiss on the lips. “I’ll be down soon.”

“Okay,” and with that, Roni leaves the two best friends to themselves, occupying herself by going to check on Dorthy.

Claire pats the newly available spot beside her, and you shuffle your feet over the couch, plopping down with a hum of relief.

“Here,” Claire says, picking up a pack of gummies, handing them to you, “Have a snack.”

You take the packet, and tear it open, not hesitating to pop the candy in your mouth. You chew anxiously, obnoxiously.

Claire is patient. Of all things, Claire is kind. And she waits for you to process. Your feelings, your thoughts, your words, and when you finally, finally open your mouth to speak, she just smiles. It’s as though everything comes out in one breathe. A film made in one take. You use all your energy to rant and mumble and whine tonight’s events.

Even the dirty details. They’re important to the story.

“And I just left . . .” you trail off. “What else was I supposed to do?”

Claire looks at you for a long time. She goes to speak. She stops herself. She puts her finger to her lips, contemplating. Goes to speak again. Stops herself, again.

You furrow your eyebrows at her, “Is this like, charades or something?” you ask.

“No . . . I . . .” she stutters. “I . . . you fucked him?”

“It was, more mutual,” you shrug.

“So, now what?”

“I, I don’t know? I have no clue.”

“But you want to be with Matthew?”

“No . . . I . . . I don’t know.”

“Well, does he want to be with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“[y/n] . . .” she sighs. “Don’t you think . . . maybe, you and Matthew are a little too . . . big . . . for this?”

You tilt your head, “Big?”

“Old!” Claire shouts. “Old! You’re old! You’re too old for this!”

“Wha —“ you stutter. “I —“

“Look,” she pauses, turns her body to you, and takes your hands in her grasp. “I was here before Matthew, I was here after Matthew. So . . . I’m, I’m telling you, as the person who watched it happen once . . . don’t drag yourself through hell again. If Matthew’s the one, if he’s who you’ve been waiting for, if it’s always been him, then go. Run to him. He’s here.”

And for no reason at all, you could’ve cried. Tears brim your eyes, and you have to blink them away. “Um . . .” you reply. “Can I crash here tonight.”

Claire sighs, rests her chin on her hand. “Of course.”

“Cool . . . can I borrow some pajamas?”

“Yes.”

You nod, rise from the couch, prepared to walk yourself to the guest room. You turn, nervously, back to Claire and she looks up at you. “Do you, um, do you have any underwear I can borrow, too?”

She purses her lips at you.

“Okay, yeah, nevermind, I’ll go commando.”

So you slept without any underwear. And you forced yourself not to dream of him. Not to allow yourself to be haunted by memories, by pain.

But when you closed your eyes, he was all you could see. The way he looked, and talked, and smelled fifteen years ago. The way you slept beside him for the very last time, and had convinced yourself it would not be the last time.

It would not be the last time.

He made you laugh so hard in your dream that you woke up, and your heart broke as you awake in a dark and empty room. You reach over, turn on the bedside lamp, and rub your tired eyes. You only managed to sleep until three in the morning. And Matthew, and Claire’s words, were the first thing on your mind.

He wasn’t hard to find.

You have your strings. And you, sneakily, tiredly, in a haze of exhaustion, pull all of them. It’s insane, and as you drag yourself out of bed, you ask yourself what you’re doing. Why you’re doing it. What is the point?

But it’s him. And he’s here. And he won’t be for much longer, and he’s only ten minutes away.

The car is able to pick you up and get you to the hotel in under twenty minutes. You’re dressed in a pair of sweats and a cozy sweatshirt, well aware of how crazy you look, well aware of how crazy you’re behaving. And unable to stop yourself.

You march into the building, your feet moving on autopilot to guide you to the elevator, up to the ninth floor. You catch your breath as you move up each level, and lose it again the moment the doors open. You push yourself forward, follow the arrows to his room.

You round the corner, and he calls out, “Hey!”

You smile. Matthew happy to see you.

No.

Not you.

You step back, stopped in your tracks as the girl giggles in his face, holds onto his waist.

“Surprise!” she exclaims, the two of them standing outside his hotel door.

“What are you doing here? I was going to pick you up,” he says.

“Call me impatient, but I couldn’t wait to see you,” she places a soft kiss to his lips, smiles at Matthew. He smiles back.

But that smiles quickly fades when he turns his head, sees you standing there. Matthew is not happy to see you.

“[y/n] . . .”

TAGLIST:

@muffin-cup

@pinkdiamond1016

@spencersbed

@safertokiss

@calm-and-doctor

@spencerreid-mgg

@reidsconverse

@reidemandweep

[deewithani]

Perils of Spring - Chapter 1

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Pairing: Captain Rex x F!Reader

Word count: 1,456

Warnings: sex pollen, masturbation, oral sex (m! receiving), Rex begs (not really sub!rex, tbh), cum eating, light gagging

A/N: We’re throwing basic biology out the window. I’ve never been with a guy who has been able to cum more than twice in a fairly short amount of time, but this is fanfiction rules, so our dear Captain has no problem. This chapter is just absolutely dirty smut that only exists so Rex begs. I wanted to make it a one-shot after the prologue, but I have too many ideas and so much more to add, so at least 1 more (if not more than 1) chapter will be released.

Prologue | Chapter  1 | Chapter 2

“Please, I need you. Help me cum, it hurts so bad.” You had entered Rex’s tent to check on the Captain, fearing he may have been injured as you heard him calling out for you, but what you saw when you entered was gloriously beautiful and scary at the same time. Rex lay stretched out on his cot, sweat beading at his temples, a look of pain on his face, wearing full armor minus his codpiece. In its place his blacks had been pulled down just enough to release his cock, thick and slightly curved, the tip glistening with precum. You watched, entranced, as he moved his still gloved hand up and down the shaft, his foreskin hiding and then revealing the reddened head of his cock like it was a present just for you.

The smell of sweat and blaster residue and something entirely “Rex” filled the air of the small tent. It was like you had walked straight into a dream that was morphing into a nightmare before your eyes. Your mind had wandered many times before, during the night when you were lonely, to scenes very much like the one which currently lay before you. In those fantasies Rex was relaxed, enjoying your eyes sweeping over his naked form, beckoning you with a lust filled stare that sent electricity straight to your core.

But here, now, he lay trembling, regarding you silently as he continued to stroke himself, his request hanging in the air, waiting for you to obey.

Slowly, you moved further inside the tent, pulling the flaps closed behind you and tying them to keep them from being opened. No matter what is happening to him now, you’re certain he wouldn’t want anyone else to walk in on this scene. Although he is still –almost- in his full armor, he looks nothing like you would expect from a Captain in the GAR. Until you know exactly what is happening, you have to protect him. You will bring Kix back to the tent if you need to, or another trooper you know you can trust, but you have your suspicions as to what has happened to Rex.

His eyes followed you as you moved through his tent toward his cot. You sat down next to him and placed your hand on his cheek, still considering the request. You had heard that the core temperature of clones ran higher due to their heightened metabolisms, but the heat radiating off his face seemed much higher than could be safe for anyone.

“Something’s very wrong, you’re burning up!” you warned, but Rex wasn’t paying attention to what you were saying. He was gazing up at you searchingly, as one would look if they were asking a deity to answer their prayers. “T-touch me, please. I h-have to cum. It will get worse. K-kix warned…”  

Kix had given you all a quick rundown of some of the more “interesting” fauna of the planet, warning that there were rumors of a plant with aphrodisiac properties which, if ingested at a large enough quantity, could cause death. There was no antidote, he explained, only a physical release could lessen the biological response of anyone unfortunate enough to come across the flower. It became clear to you that your suspicion was correct. Rex must have come across this plant and he was now suffering from its effects.

Slowly he moved his trembling hand from where he had gripped himself and covered yours that you had laid on his cheek. “Cyar’ika, please touch me” he breathed, his fingers tightening around yours as he looked to you for approval. When you nodded your head he placed his hand over yours and moved it down his fevered body, to the point where it was needed the most and tightened your grip on his weeping member, guiding your movements and holding your gaze with his, before quickly releasing your hand and grabbing the thin GAR-issued blanket that covered his cot. It only took a few strokes before Rex groaned and threw his head back, coming undone in your fingers, some of his pearly white release splattering on his armor and running down your hand.

“S-so good for me, kriff, so good”, he whispered. He let his eyes close for a moment, looking as if he was trying to calm his ragged breathing.

When he opened his eyes he looked up at you, eyes shining with unshed tears looking as if they could fall with his next heartbeat. Biting your lip, you tore yourself away from his pained gaze and looked to his cock, which looked painfully hard despite his release. You touched his cheek again, and he leaned into your hand, but he felt no cooler than he had before his orgasm.

Licking your lips, you glanced down at the mess on your other hand before throwing away your inhibitions, deciding then to give Rex a little show before licking up his warm cum and popping your fingers in your mouth, letting your tongue clean the tangy saltiness from your skin. You kept your eyes on his while working your fingers in a way you hoped was seductive until Rex suddenly tensed, moaning your name and climaxing for a second time.

‘That was unexpected’, you mused to yourself, and he looked to you, seeming to want to speak, but no words were forming. “How do you want me to help you, Rex? I want to help you, just as long as you want me to help. I need you to tell me what you need.”

“Mouth, cyar –kriff, it hurts. Please – I want your m-mouth”, Rex sighed, “Dreamed of your sweet lips around me.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. You had dreamed of this so many times, on your knees between his legs, his heavy cock in your hand while you licked and sucked at his length. Closing your eyes, you let out a breath that you didn’t realize you had been holding, mentally preparing yourself for the task ahead. You were not exactly experienced in giving blowjobs, and Rex was much larger and thicker than your previous lovers.

“Rex, I-I don’t know…” you started, but he quickly cut off your protestations. “You’re so beautiful, so good. G-good for me.”

You positioned yourself between his knees, and wrapped your hand around the base of his thick cock. Tentatively you laved at the sides, cleaning the mess from his previous releases and mentally preparing yourself. His hard cock jumped in your hand at the attention you were giving it, and Rex let out a weak moan, but you were too much in your own thoughts to hear him. He was so thick, thicker than you had imagined in your fantasies, that now self-consciousness was biting at the edge of your mind.

‘Stop it’, you chided yourself. He told you he had dreamed of this, and you had as well. There was nothing holding you back from fulfilling this fantasy but the self-doubt that was running rampant through the hallways and recesses of your inner self.

Confidence surged through you as you took him into your mouth; lips stretched wide, the salty taste of his release and your own spit heavy on your tongue. You lower yourself until his head reaches the back of your throat, when his hips suddenly jerk, causing you to gag on his length, causing you to release him quickly, embarrassed by your lacking abilities. The movement pulled you out of your thoughts, and you heard Rex speak more clearly than he had when you first entered the tent.

“You make such sweet noises for me. I want to hear them again.” You look up to see Rex sitting up on his elbows, reaching out to you. Touching your cheek, much like you had touched him, he moved his thumb to your bottom lip, pulling it down and rubbing it along the seam. Instinctively you opened your mouth, licking the digit and bringing it into your warm heat. Something new is in his eyes, something dangerous, as if he’s a predator watching his prey, deciding when to strike. “So beautiful. All for me. Will you let me do this? Fuck your mouth?”

His words, so filthy and so unlike the kind, courageous Captain you knew, sent heat straight to your core. A small whimper escaped your lips and your eyes widened at the request, and he removed his thumb so you could answer.  “Y-yes, Captain”. You watched as his cock twitched at your reply, filing that new information away for later. With a smirk on his lips and a playful glint in his eyes, he replied “That’s my good girl.”

‘Good girl’, kriff. You were truly fucked now.

_______________________________________

Taglist: @latenightsthoughtsnstuff

If you’d like to be added, just let me knowJ

[madllamamomma]

The Visitor~ Part 6

Muriel x Rhemi (OC) fanfic

[WARNING: Some topics can be triggering to some readers including, mention of violence, blood/gore, mental health issues, abuse, etc.]

Part 6~

Ghosts~

In the palace, Sir Martin sits quietly in the green chair next to the fire. His daughter should be here any moment. The cracking of the burning wood alway relaxed him, eventually making his eyes heavy… Soon he drifts to sleep.

As he opens his eyes, he finds himself sitting on an old rickety chair that looks like it's about to break at any moment. With an annoyed scoff, his eyes look around, he is in a terribly drabby house, full of holes in the straw roof where the sunlight shines through and mice hide in the walls. He always hated this place--Despised is more like it. He absolutely hated when his dreams would drift him back here to this often empty house. But then, she walks into the room, her hands full with the heavy laundry basket… His hatred drifted away.

She was a beautiful young woman, no older than eighteen, her hair s burgundy brown and curly, pulled back into a handkerchief and her gorgeous teal blue eyes and wearing commoner’s clothes with a dingy apron around her waist. Just like always, she acted like it was just another ordinary day and as cheery as ever.

“Well! Good morning, my little rabbit.” She says with a smile as she sits and folds the laundry.

“..... Morning.” Martin gently replies, unable to keep his eyes off of her.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

He swallows hard and shakes his head. He knows this is just a dream. “Why… Why does this keep happening?”

For a moment she stops folding, and looks up at him with such gleaming and loving eyes, tilting her head and looking at Martin with such concern.

“Why here?.... Why this moment?” He frustratedly mutters. “And not any other moment. Just…. This. One?”

The young woman sighs and lightly shrugs, shaking her head. “... You tell me, little rabbit.”

Martin tries to stand up from his chair, but like always, he is stuck in one place. Angry, he tries and tries but something is keeping him here in this one spot.

“You know that doesn’t help any.” She says sadly. “It never has…”

A deep sigh expels from his lungs again as he finally accepts his situation and his eyes peer back to the young woman, pain in his cold teal eyes. “..... Why didn’t you just stay home that day?” He asks with gritted teeth and folded hands. “I... I told you not to go.”

Tears start to well in her eyes as she looks at him silently, slowly standing to her feet. The house just evaporates, replaying it with a foggy gray atmosphere. “Why didn’t you come with me?” She whispers as her feet lift off the ground.

An eerie high pitch ringing overwhelming his ears as she keeps staring at him as she stops levitating about three feet from the ground. A terrifying crack emanates from her neck as it snaps quickly to the right.

Martin shutters stifling his tears, shutting his eyes tightly and turning his head away from the horror. But suddenly feels himself waking up from the warm licks from Beatrix’s tongue.

------

Fluttering his eyes open, he finds Beatrix in his lap, looking at him slightly concerned. “Little Piegon’s here, Master.” Her scratchy voice mutters in his head.

Martin rubs his tired eyes, and smoothing back his plum and gray hair. “Thank you, Bea.”

Waiting patiently, Martin stares into the fire, in deep thought, wondering why his dreams keep taking him to that dreadful day. If it wasn’t that dream, it was always about Florence and Rhemielia. The night that she and their child were whisked away. All the while he was trapped underneath a pile of fiery debris, and his skin burning his right arm.

---------- Later that day-----

As Rhemi steadily makes her way back to the shop, taking three times as long. Her lack of oxygen is taking its toll on her. “This….. fucking thing!….” She huffs to herself, gasping for air in between her thoughts as she takes a seat on a nearby barrel. “...*huff*  Fuck….*huff*.... This…*huff*...*huff*..... Corset!”

After getting adequate rest, she stands to her feet and clasps the small part of her waist feeling the corset digging into the tops of her hip bones.

“... Fuck this dress. Fuck that Oliver guy. Fuck this day...” She grumbles to herself under her breath, attempting to ignore all the wide eyed stares from the citizens she passes, hoping that no one would recognize her. “Fuckthisfuckthisfuckthisfuckthisfuckthisfuckthis….” She grumbles to herself, face beat red. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.”

Finally, the shop was within her sight as the sun was setting over the city. It took so long to get here! Rhemi thinks to herself, realizing that the lamplighters are hard at work lighting the dark streets. She left the palace around three o’clock, it's probably almost five or so now. If anything came out of this, it’s respect for the poor aristocrats in Charlès who actually wore this stuff on the regular bases! Why would anyone want to wear this stuff everyday? Did Mum really wear this crap? This is awful!

Opening the door to the shop never felt so good. God, I can’t wait to get inside! I am so happy to be home. She rejoiced in her head. Finally home! Three different voices muffled on the other side of the door. Rhemi knew right away who they all belonged to. Then, a horrible thought comes to mind as she turns the key in the lock after taking down the protection spell. ….Oh no….. Oh god!.... What the hell are they gonna say about this abomination??

Then again…. she was so tired at this point, she didn’t really care. The pain of the corset outweighed the pain of her friend's judgement. With as much air as she could fill in her restricted lungs, she bravely opens the door, all three pairs of eyes immediately falling on her.

Asra excitedly starts to greet his friend with a brilliant smile. “Hey! There she is! Welcome…” But then stops as he sees her, his eyes wide, his smile crumples into a shocked snicker.

The lively chattering that filled the room suddenly ceases, the only thing that can be heard is the creaking of the rusty hinges of the shop door as it shuts behind her.

Awkwardly, Rhemi just stands in the doorway as Asra, Faust, Muriel, and Julian just stare at her. None of them could help but stifle their laughs at the overly fluffy dress that she’s wearing.

Julian opens and closes his mouth attempting to formulate a sentence.“That's… errr….. It’s… Ummm-aahhhhh..” He stammers as he rubs his face, searching for a compliment. But of course, Asra stands next to him, covering his smile with his clasped hands and eyes wide, his thoughts very apparent.

Looking silently between them all, realizing that they were trying to be as kind about it as possible. “.... It’s fucking atrocious, isn’t it?” Rhemi finally verbally admits with a half straight face.

“It’s a goddamn travesty is what it is.” Asra spits out as soon as she completes her sentence. All four of them stand there silently all waiting how’d be the first to crack.

Suddenly, all of them sputter into hard laughter at the same time, breaking the terrible silence.

“My god!.... What the hell is this thing anyways??” Julian adds overdramatically gesturing to the hips. “Rhemi-dear, are you wearing ….crinoline??”

“... Crino-What??” Muriel mumbles as he squints his eyes.

“It’s a type of tortuous device placed under dresses that a deranged idiot designed to make your hips look inhumanly large.” She replies nonchalantly as attempts to reach back for the buttons, trying to contort herself to do so. But, try as she might, the poor apprentice couldn’t reach without completely tearing the sleeves. However, as stubborn as she is, she continues to try to reach in hope to get out of this over-tightened corset. All at the same time, Muriel, Asra, and Julian try to figure out the reason why she’s wearing the damn overly extravagant monstrosity.

“....There are… So… many bows….” Muriel mutters as tugs at one to study it, seemingly not liking the texture and his face hilariously cringing hard.

“Oh… I know!….. It’s bad, huh, Muri?”

“Reallllllly bad.”

“Did you lose a bet, Rem?” Asra teases, still laughing his ass off.

“Nooooooo,” A whine emanates from her mouth and her bottom lip pops out. Despite her cute pout, the corner of the lips still twist up into a grin making her slightly look like a duck. Slightly frustrated, but also entertained by her stupid situation, she sighs deeply and slouches as much as she could (given her restrictive outfit).

About having enough of trying, she huffs feeling rather defeated, but still smiles at her friends. “If you three are gonna keep dishing out colorful insults, you might as well help me out of it... I can’t freakin’ breathe!”

“... Yo-... You can’t get out by yourself, Rem??” Muriel snorts, forcefully hiding a very amused smile, trying to politely withhold a bellowing laugh at her situation. “Sorry… It’s not funny.” He mumbles as he presses his lips together even tighter.

“Do you really think I would have come home with this... thing if I could take it off myself?? It took… like…. Five people to get me in this abomination!”

“Are you.... Errr…. Decent underneath all of it?” Julian warily asks, his eye quickly glancing towards Muriel while he wasn’t looking.

“Don’t worry Ilya, you’ve seen more at the beach. I have a shift or… or slip…? -Whatever it’s called under the corset.” Say says lifting up the dreaded skirt showing the many layers of cloth on her body. “Pft! This bitch has so many layers, it puts our wedding cake to shame.”

“Oh god.” Muriel chuckles, his laughter making his broad shoulder shake, not doing a very good job to keep it in.

“Ohhh! Shut your face!” Rhemi playfully smacks her finacè’s stomach. “Now, please! Get me out of this damn thing! I feel like my boobs are suffocating me! Do you guys want me to die from titty asphyxiation?!”

“I’d argue that it wouldn't be a bad demise!” The doctor chuckles with his dubious smile of his.

“Shuddup Ilya!” Rhemi playfully elbows her friend, slightly knocking the wind out of him.

But he continues to laugh and laugh,as he holds his stomach nearly hyperventilating. “..We-.... We’ll write on your tombstone, ...‘Here lies Rhemi… Escaped death once from the plague to die from a common corset.’..”

Asra chortles, nearly crying now as Faust happily hisses, “Rhemi a tent!”

Out of the sea of laughter, Rhemi finds herself feeling more light headed, unable to contain her giggles either. “Hey! Less talkie, more unbutton-ie! I am literally dying over here! I am not joking when I said that I nearly passed out a few times over here. I left around three!”

The mountain man’s face suddenly becomes more serious as she says that, his laughter completely silenced “Wait…. Really?? Are… you ok?”

“I mean… I made it here, didn’t I?” She says with a shrug and a half grin.

A warm grumble rumbles from his lips as he mutters, “That’s not…”

“—Alright, alright, alright! Turn around, ya big baby.” Asra teases her, finally feeling pity for her. “Let’s get you out of this thing… Then we’ll have a bonfire. Haha!”

It took some time, but after some troubleshooting and a bit of magic, the three managed to peel the dress, the extra layers, and the crinoline off, leaving only her tight overbust, and a shift underneath. With surgical hands, Julian and Asra loosened the loops.

Finally, the corset was loosened, Rhemi took in a large breath of fresh air as if she had just made love. “Ahhhhhhhh~ Sooooo much better.”

“Better wait a few minutes before loosening it again.” Julian adds with a serious doctor face. “Don’t want you actually passing out.”

“Tha-that's a thing that can happen??” A very wary Muriels asks.

“Why, yes! If you let it out too quickly, you can pass out… Your blood pressure can drop and leave a person unconscious. Happened a few times to the actors at the theater.”

“That's….. Worrisome.” Muriel says as his eyes fall on his fiancée again, and pointing to the corset. “You never told me these things were hazardous.”

Unable to contain herself, Rhemi takes her lover’s large hand and holds it with both of hers with an empathetic expression. He’s so cute. “Aww! I never wear them this tight, honey! I like the way my corsets look and feel on my body. But this one is garbage!”

“Actually it’s not that bad.” Julian says peeling away the cloth and exposing the boning structure underneath. “.....It’s made out of whale bone! It’s expensive and very strong. It’s just not your size.”

“Oh! Speaking of expensive, that reminds me.” Julian takes out Rhemi’s coin purse and hands it back to her, only a few coins used. “I believe this belongs to you.”

It takes a few moments before she realizes that the doctor never used her money last night, she instantly pouts. “Ilya!! You’re drinks were supposed to be on me you dork!”

“Rhemi-dear, what happened at tea the other day was not your fault!”

You mean ‘what my father said’. She thinks to herself. “But— My father— it wasn’t right what he—”

“—You can’t control what that basta—.. dahhhhhhh errrrrr... I mean…. What he says.”

“... Nice save.” Asra whispers to his lover.

“I never got the chance to tell you how sorry I am. I… I kinda regret inviting him. Tea was just so awkward. It should have been just us, like Nadia planned it.”

Julian wraps his long arms around Rhemi’s shoulders for a friendly hug. “Please don’t apologize. I’ve honestly heard worse.”

“I’m still sorry it happened.”

“Hey, don't worry about it. It’s not worth it.” He then moves his arm and takes a seat in the velvet couch never to Asra, causing them to lazily lean on his shoulder. Slowly, Faust slithers over to Julian and he tries his best not to get chills. “So…. Ahhhh… Ya gonna tell us why you are wearing this….. Errr…. getup?”

“... My father apparently brought his own tailor on board with him… Names Oliver… real piece of freakin’ work!... My father wanted him to give the dress as a present to me. It’s apparently the latest fashion from Charlès… All the noble women wear something like it.”

“..... Sooooo… I assume that he didn’t take it too well that you two aren’t moving to Charlès.” Asra asks, handing her own clothes to her so she could get comfortable.

“Wait, he wanted you both to move??” Julian cluelessly interjects with his left eye wide.

An intense pressure suddenly overtakes Rhemi’s stomach as if gravity doubled on her intestines. How the hell is she supposed to explain what happened today? Not only did her father still want her to leave Vesuvia, but he wants her alone to move and marry someone of nobility in Charlès!

“....Actually, he was very understanding.” She flat out lies before she could stop herself.

Rhemi, what are you doing?? She screams internally. Why are you lying again?!

“... He was of course disappointed, but he was very respectful about it!” She continues as if her mouth had a mind of its own, her body posture scarily calm and believable. “... But it’s best not to mention it to him… He’s still very disappointed. Might spark a nerve with him. Ya know?”

Asra and Julian exchange a surprised look as they hear this. Julian rubs the back of his hand and sighs, “He doesn’t seem to be the understanding type--”

“—Well, he might surprise you.” Rhemi defensively interrupts. “He might be very posh and rigid on the outside…. But I know, deep down he just cares about me.”

Muriel stares down at her with his knowing emerald eyes completely unconvinced as she walks past him to head upstairs to get changed. She dared not look at him for too long. He had a way of making her break. But how could she explain this to him? To…. well, anyone?? Her father didn’t even acknowledge that she was getting married.

No. She just…. Has to fix this before anyone knows. She had to.

———————

After Rhemi got dressed, the four of them all had a nice dinner that Muriel and Asra whipped up. It was chicken souvlaki wrapped in a pita and other greens.

After that, the two couples went their separate ways for the night. Asra and Julian stayed at the shop, while Rhemi and Muriel went back home to the hut.

She feared that he might bring up what she said before dinner, about her father accepting thor decision not to leave. He always knows when she’s bullshitting. That's the problem when you get to know someone so well. It's a sixth sense, knowing something is wrong.

But to her surprise, he stayed quiet. She reads a book on the bed as he whittles next to Inanna by the fire. Eventually, her eye starts to become heavy and she shuts her books and gets into her nightgown. Muriel follows her lead. Soon, all three get comfortable in the bed, taking their normal positions. Rhemi on the left side of the bed, Muriel at the right, and Inanna at the foot. The apprentice always laid on his bare chest snuggling up and getting warm.

“I love you, Muriel.” She whispers.

Muriel yawns, “... I love you too, Rhemi…” Thinking he's drifting off to sleep, she starts to close her eyes as well and feel herself falling asleep. “.... Was he really okay with us not moving?” He finally whispers.

Rhemi's heart drops, but she just stays there silent and still, pretending to be asleep.

The hermit lets out a frustrated sigh, before placing a feather light kiss on her forehead. “.... Please just don’t forget I want you to talk to me.”

….. I know…. She thinks to herself. I want to tell you. But… I’m scared that might make things worse. I’m sorry, Muri. I don’t want to lie to you… But I have to fix this by myself before you know the truth.

Finally, all of them start to drift to sleep, Muriel finds himself in the realm of dreams, his father waiting for him yet again, waiting to show him what he was capable of in the realm of dreams.

All the while Rhemi stays put, in a dreamless state, but finds herself waking up almost every hour from a twinging pain in her temples. She could swear she was hearing distant voices.

———The next morning———

A very groggy Rhemi finally wakes up from the sun peering into the window. Sitting up, in the bed, she realized that Muriel and Inanna were already up and started the day. Glancing over to the table, some fresh flowers and herbs were waiting for her and a note that read, "Get some rest." She couldn’t help but smile despite feeling so terrible. The headaches are getting worse and worse lately. Even when she wakes up, it's like a hammer is knocking on the side of her temples. Luckily, it would dissipate as the day went on, but it was such a nuisance to start off the day like this. At least she didn’t have any dreams last night…

Slowly, she gets up and walks over to the washing washing bowl, trying to get more energized for the day. This was one of her installations when she moved into the hut. It was a little table (taller than most for her sweet Muriel) with a washing bowl, a pitcher and a mirror from the shop. It must have been her mother’s. It was the one thing that didn’t necessarily match the other decor from the shop. Pouring a liberal amount of freshwater, she starts washing her face. The cool water felt nice on her temples. As she glances back up to the mirror to make herself look more alive, she notices someone behind her.

Summoning her magic quickly into her hands, she conjures a defensive spell as she whips around silently. But as soon as she turns around, no one is there. The door is locked, and she can still hear Muriel cutting wood. “.... Must have been my imagination.”

Turning back to the mirror yet again to look at her reflection. But instead of her own face, she sees her eyes bloodshot red and short hair, her expression bleak and sad.

“.... Headache again?” A voice mumbles to her sadistically from the reflection.

“AHHHHH!!!” Shocked, Rhemi yelps a terrified scream, punching the mirror out of instinct. The vision and the pieces of glass shatter into pieces. Immediately, she regretted her reaction. She tucks her hand into her chest in pain, her knuckles bloody, and the mirror is broken. Looking at the shards on the ground, all she can see is her own reflection in the small fragments. What… what the fuck was that?

“RHEMI?!” Muriel cries out from behind the hut.

“.... Shit….” Quickly Rhemi jumps up and carefully takes the mirror off the wall and places it on the floor to make it look like it just fell down. The last thing she wanted was to think that she was losing her mind. Besides, people see things all the time, it doesn’t mean you're crazy… right??

“RHEMI !” Muriel shouts as he bursts in the hut, his large ax still in hand. As soon as he sees the blood, his eyes get even wider and swirling with fear. “Y-... You’re bleeding!”

“Ahhh!” She shouts, waving her hand to keep him away. “Don’t let Nana in here! T-There's glass everywhere!”

Examining the damage, Muriel shakes his head bewildered. “Rem... What happened?”

“... Ohhmygosh!! HaHa! So dumb!... Completely my fault! I was trying to straighten the stupid mirror and I apparently…. It fell off the nail! I… I didn’t catch it in time and it broke, and I screamed.”

He starts to slightly relax, but still looks pretty anxious. “.... You okay?”

“Yeah! I just cut myself a little on the glass is all! Just a little scratch, nothing I can’t fix~!”

Taking a single step inside he sets the ax down outside and reaches his hand for her. “.... Let me at least help—”

“It’s fine, Love!” She says as she conjures her magic to clean the pieces up and place them back into the mirror. “See? No problem!”

Begrudgingly he huffs, and starts to step out of the doorway before pausing. “.... Get dressed. I’ll make breakfast. You just …. sit…. alright?.... Don’t go near anything breakable…. Or sharp.” He grumpily instructs.

She snickers and nods her head. “Okay.”

As soon as the door shuts, her smile falls and she stares at her knuckle so she could heal it. Luckily, it wasn’t very deep, however it was a little long. She sits down at the table, taking a little piece of herb and summoning her magic, she starts mending her skin together. After it was all healed up a very small scar was left. It should dissipate after a while. But she just stares at it for a moment.

“Get it together, Rhemi.” She mumbles to herself as she stands to her feet to get dressed.

There's too much going on today for this bullshit. She had a plan for her father to get on board with her getting married.

--------

After a delicious breakfast, and a few sweet kisses, Muriel and Rhemi part for the day. Making her way to the shop, she concocks the perfect plan.

As expected, the shop was open and ready for business, usually Asra at the counter with a book or a potion, but today the white haired gender bastard was nowhere in sight, and the shop appeared empty.

“Hello??” She calls out. “Asra?? Faust?? You home?”

“Oh! Morning, Rhemi.” He greets from the back next to the stairs.

Realizing his location she strolls to where he was sitting on the ground and she takes off her bag. “.... Good morning. What the heck are you doing back there, ya weirdo?”

“Refusing to accept defeat.” He chuckles, wiping a little bit of sweat on his forehead. In front of him was a large chest oozing with magic and locked up tight. It read, ‘Fragile: Please handle with care’ in a familiar handwriting. In his right hand was the bundle of rusty old keys.

Curious, Rhemi tilts her head and folds her arms. “What is this?”

“Found this…” He grunts as he attempts to force another key into the lock. “... Chest… under the stairs the other day…. And…. I think it belonged to Athena…. *grunt* but no matter what I doooo…” With a heavy sigh, he gives up on that key, pulls it out of the lock and nearly collapses on his elbows. “... The damn thing won’t open. I have tried opening it with magic, I have tried every key in the shop--twice now--Hell! I even tried using a crowbar! But... nothing.”

“Huh….” She mutters. Rhemi kneels down next to her friend and the chest. Both of them stared at it for a moment. “... Well… Obviously it’s got a powerful spell on it. Athena didn’t want anyone in it.”

“Yeah… Even in death, that woman had out magic us.” The two of them giggle together on the floor. Asra draps his arms over his knees and he smiles, his mind wondering into nostalgically territory. “... I miss her.” He mumbles under his breath.

“.... I do too.” The apprentice says with a heavy heart, resting her head on his shoulder. “I…. I wish she could be here… See how much we both grew up…”

"Me too..."

The two stay there for a moment, taking it all in. The sound of the bedroom door closing at the top of the stairs brings them back to reality and Julian’s long legs descend the stairs.

“Oh! Morning, Rhemi-dear!” He says with a chipper tone.

She rolls her eyes at that name, but at this point, she just learned to accept it. “Well good morning to you too…. Someone slept in late…It’s nearly ten o’clock.” She teases.

“HA. Well…. Something kept me up all night..” The doctor glances at Asra with pink staining his cheeks and a cute smirk.

Asra smiles wide, proudly he glances back over to his friend, cheekily placing his finger to his chest. “Tee-hee…. I’m ‘something’.”

Jokingly disgusted, she pushes Asra making him nearly fall over. “EWWW! Grosssssss! You two are terrible!” She laughs.

“Oh… like you and Muriel aren’t disgusting too??”

“I am not responding to that!” She loudly announces as she walks up the stairs, her face turning slightly pink herself. “I’m making some tea, don’t leave just yet Ilya!”

“Ohhhh, well ahhh.. alrighty then! If I… ahh….. If I must.” Julian happily replies as he helps Asra back to his feet. Promptly the white-haired magician presses his lips on his collar bone.

While the teapot starts to heat up, Rhemi realizes that she really didn’t have time to go to the palace or have someone deliver a message for her father. Staring at the spigot and it gives her an idea and is a good reason to flex her magical muscles. Grabbing a large bowl, she fills it with water and closes her eyes. Using all her concentration, she reaches out, searching for her father’s magic. Finally, she feels that strange metallic aura and she opens she can see her reflection being replaced with her father’s.

“Père!” She calls out.

Confused, Martin looks away towards what she could only assume was the door. “..... Miela?” He mutters.

“Good morning, Père~” She sweetly giggles. Something about surprising another magician always made her a little giddy.

Her father turns his head once again, his eyes scanning the room. “I… I hear you Pigeon, but…. Where are you??”

“Down here!” She instructs. “In the water!”

Turning desperately left and right, he shakes his head. “The… water?” Finally he locates her and he stares in astonishment. “Ahhhhh…?”

Beatrix’s hissing and Bartholomew’s voice could be heard in the background. “.... Monsieur, vous allez bien?”

“Oh… yes. Um…. Why don’t you be a good lad and step outside, Bartholmew.”

“....Ahhh…. Oui, Monsieur.” His butler replies soundly utterly confused. "I will leave you alone with your...ah.... tea... then."

Calmly, Martin looks into his tea cup. “... Rhemielia, my child. What are you doing in my tea?”

“Kinda neat isn’t it? Asra taught me this one a while back.”

With a straight face, he slowly blinks, seemingly unimpressed. “.... Hmmmm…. Very… Charming, I suppose… I won’t recommend it in Charlès though. This is how you’d get a bad reputation for being a witch.”

“Oh….” The excitement and glee once again stomped out. But… I kinda am a witch. Awkwardly, she clears her throat, brushing off his words. “Well, ah….anyways, I contacted you this way to ask you something.”

“Oh?”

“I have to do something today next to the palace. Are you busy this afternoon around three o’clock?”

“Hmm… No… I don’t believe I am.” He says while pondering hard and tapping the tea cup.

“Well, how about you meet me there. I think you’d really enjoy it.”

A genuine soft smile takes over the Archimagister’s lips and he takes a seat on a chair. “... I always enjoy being with you, my little pigeon.”

Rhemi grins happily when he says that. He had a habit of making her feel bad sometimes, but he also could make her feel glad that he’s in her life again. Her heart flutters with excitement. She quickly gives him the address, before she could make a little small talk, the tea kettle starts to whistle and the two say their goodbyes for now.

The day went on like it did every Monday. The shop was pretty busy in the late morning and the afternoon. Mostly it was regulars getting their positions, and other things they needed before the rest of the week went on. But for Rhemi the day just dragged on. Today was the last fitting of her wedding dress. Surely, he wouldn’t be so set on her going to Charlès if he saw her in it. The dress was beautiful a-line with a button-up bodice in the back, with illusion sleeves covered in beautiful lace and organza material.

After what felt like an eternity, the time came for her fitting. Before she leaves, she pops her head into the reading room where Asra was looking at his cards by himself. It’s odd, it felt like she could hear the King of Pentacles whispering to him.

As she went for the door, she ran her fingers over the chest feeling Athena’s magic somehow felt so comforting to her. She always had a strong aura. A strange clunk comes from behind her. She glances back to inspect what had made the noise, but the chiming of the clock deters her. Whatever it is, it can wait.

_______________________________

As she reaches the tailor’s shop, she notices her father making his way down the street. His nose was buried into the piece of paper with the address on. Again, no Beatrix. It’s old how empty his shoulders looked without her.

“Père!” Rhemi calls out, waving to him.

Ungluing his eyes from his paper as she calls his name, he grins and waves back.

“How are you today?” His daughter asks sweetly.

“Very good thank you.” He replies looking at his pocket watch. As soon as he picks up his head, he reads the sign, Seamless: Pierre’s Clothing. “Oh…. You do realize I have a tailor already, correct?”

She can't help but chuckle at his unamusement as she opens the door. “I know that. This one is mine... Well, actually it's Nadia's, I'm just borrowing him.”

Martin’s eyes narrow as he enters the shop. The windows are full of outlandish and extravagant dresses and suits, but in the Vesuvian style. The old magician just sneers in revolt. “Ohhh?... Pardon me, my sweet, but I am confused...”

“I’m about to try my wedding dress on.” Martin’s body stiffens like a board and he flutters his eyes in disbelief. Rhemi could feel her cheeks heating up and feeling pressure on her chest. “And….. I uh… I wanted you to be here for my final fitting… Get you more involved… I want you to be apart of my life and--”

“—Sorry." He interrupts placing both of his hands on his cane, sticking his nose up in revolt. "Please don't tell me you were serious when you said you are going to marry that seven foot tall brute—?”

“—Muriel, Père…” Rhemi quickly interjects in disbelief. She could feel her left eyelid twitch from the stress. She just couldn’t believe him. This shit again?? Right here?? RIGHT NOW? Calmly, she folds her hands together trying to keep her patients. “.... My fiance's name is Muriel. It means 'bright' in Rune…. And yes. I am marrying him. He’s kind and genuine and trustworthy and gentle and makes me feel safe and…. And I love him.... He's my soul mate.”

Martin’s icy glare somehow gets colder and she shakes his head and scoffs. “... Hmmmm… love... What good has it ever done...”

“... What do you mean by that?... You said you fell in love with Mum.”

His nostrils flare in frustration. “.... Rhemielia. My child. All I’m trying to say is that you barely know this man. How long have you met him? A year or so ago?”

“Well…. yes… but how long did you know Mum before you married her?”

As soon as he opens his mouth wider about to argue back, Pierre walks in with a cheerful smile. “Ah! Rhemi! So good to see you!! Are you ready to see your lovely gown?”

Martin pats Rhemi’s head and she cringes to herself yet again. “We’ll speak of this later—no need to make a scene, do we now?” He says leaning into her ear and whispering. “In the meantime, go ahead. Go on and play dress up like you used to when you were a child.”

Her eyelid twitches even more as she strains to keep a fake smile on her lips. “I not playing dress—”

“Rhemi!!!!” Suddenly Agrippa and Portia burst through the door with happy smiles, excited for the final fitting. As soon as they both notice Sir Martin, their smiles dwindle slightly, but they still keep their cheery demeanor for the occasion.

For once, Rhemi was happy to change the subject, pretending that her father didn’t say what he did. “Ippa! Pasha!”

“I am sooooo excited!!!”

“Me too! Pierre is ready and— Wait… Where’s Julian?”

“Oh! I’m sorry, Rem. He had an emergency at the clinic…” Portia says finally letting her smile fall.

“That kid from the orphanage….. What's his naaaammmme—?”

“Zachary?”

Agrippa snaps their fingers agreeing with their partner. “Yeah! He broke his arm today.”

“Holy crap!! Not Zack! Is he okay??”

“Oh yeah! He’s getting loads of attention and is making jokes as we speak! Those kids are resilient, he’ll be just fine!”

“As long as he stops climbing tall shit that is.”

“….Well that stinks that Julian can’t be here, but he can help that!... I’m happy you both could make it though!”

Suddenly, Sir Martin clears his throat to interrupt their conversation looking at his pocket watch and tapping it. “Excuse me ladies and….. Sir???”

Agrippa blankly stares at him with a small growing smile. “.... Which one do you think it is?”

Martin stares back trying not look so confused as he really was. But instead of answering, he just clears his throat once more, tucking his pocket watch back into his vest and looking the other way. “... Not all of us have all day to dawdle.”

Taking the hint, the four of them follow Pierre to the back and make their way to the back. Excited, Portia and Rhemi head to the back changing room. Pierre gives them the gown in order for the maid of honor to know how to help with the dress the day of the wedding (bustles and all).

It fits like a glove. Ecstatic and hopelessly excited, Rhemi nearly skips out of the back to show off her beloved dress.

Portia and Agrippa both hold back their tears as she twirls around happily. “Oh, little bean!!” Agrippa mutters sniffling hard.

Rhemi spins around, clapping her face and her eyes start to water up as well and she smiles stupidly. “Ohhhhhh, you two stop!!! You both said you wouldn’t cry!”

“I know, I know! But you are just so….. So—” Portia says, whipping a tear away.

“—Tch. Please…. don’t lie to her.” Martin grumbles his left hand pitching the bridge of his nose.

Portia and Agrippa stare at the Archmagister in utter shock. “Umm... Excuse me?” Portia asks with her brow furrowed. “What exactly do you mean?”

“Well, that dress is all wrong, of course.” He huffs irritatedly, uncrossing his legs and standing to his feet.

Rhemi’s heart starts to sink into her chest. “What’s…. what’s wrong with it?” She asks, looking down and lifting up some of the skirt with her hands, unable to see the defects.

“That dress makes you look like a dirty commoner, Pigeon…. It looks more like a used napkin than a gown, don't you think? And what a dreadful color.”

“But… But I…. I am a commoner. A-and… I don’t like whi-…..” The words die in her throat as her attention diverts to the back of the room.

Somehow a person who came out of nowhere is standing directly behind her father in the back—But it isn’t a customer…. Her sick crimson eyes staring at her with a desperate looking expression. Why is she here?? Am… Am I going insane? As soon as Rhemi closes her eyes again, she vanishes, but it still frightens her.

“...Wh-white..” She finally finishes muttering, still staring in the back where the figure once stood.

It was…. Herself. The ghost of her former self that keeps popping up in her dreams. The same person in her reflection the other day. Her sick bloodshot eyes, yellow tainted skin and the stench of cremated ashes. Clearly, no one else can see her, or smell the terrible scent of death.

Quickly, she’s snapped back to reality as soon as her fathers speaks again and she looks back down at her gown. “....Please…” He scoffs, pitching the bridge of his nose. “...It looks like a rag—and for gods’ sake—Why is it blush?? Virgins are supposed to wear white—“

“——Okaaaaaay! Rhemi let's get you out of your beautiful dress so the poor tailor can finish the hem, okay?” Portia quickly and skillfully interrupts, smacking her hands together with a large fake grin. She nearly pushes Rhemi to the back room to change out of it.

Portia grumbles under head breath, helping her get back into the changing room. “What the fuck is that guy’s—” Words fail her as soon as she notices her friend’s tears in her eyes and the sorrow filled look in her face. “Oh… no, Rem!” Hastily, she hands her a tissue before her makeup runs.

“It just…. So much is happening….. And…. He- ...He thinks it ….lo- looks bad….” Rhemi sniffles, trying to keep the tears from falling, her nose and lips starting to crinkle back. “Is-is it really that bad??”

Portia is quick to embrace her upset friend and hug her tightly. “No, no, no…. He’s wrong, Rem. You look gorgeous! He doesn’t know the hell he’s talking about! I mean, the guy wears an ugly ass cape for god sakes! If anything he’s a walking fashion nightmare! All he’s missing is the stupid puffy pants and a fourteen foot stick up is ass!” Slowly, she pulls away and wipes the tears from her friend's eyes comfortingly. “Please don’t cry, Rhemi. You really do look amazing. Agrippa, Pierre, Nadia, and I would have told you if it didn’t!... Please, don’t let this jerk make you think otherwise.”

“I don’t think he was trying to be a jerk… he was just telling me how he felt… I mean… I asked him what he thought after all…. and….. h-his opinion is v-valid.”

Portia flutters her eyes and shakes her head baffled. Rhemi is usually a pretty good judge of character, yet anytime anyone says anything bad about the Archmagister, she denies it, or makes excuses. “Rhemi….. Why do you keep defending this guy?! All he’s done is been rude and disregards everyone’s feelings.”

Rhemi stifles and quickly wipes her nose with a handkerchief, refusing to look Portia in the eye. “.... H-... He’s my father.”

“Yeah! One that you just mee—” Portia suddenly stops herself, pressing her lips tightly together and slightly shakes her head. Perhaps now isn’t the time. Rhemi isn’t seeing this man for what he is. Thoughtfully she starts to speak again. “...Look… all I’m saying is that no matter who this person is to you, no one should make you cry and make you feel like shit in your wedding dress.”

Rhemi fiddles with her fingers, not very convinced. “B… But what if he’s right?”

The Devorak sister takes a large breath, pushing down the urge to go back and knock the wind out of that plum haired asshole. But as calmly as she could she takes both of her friend’s hands and asks, “Rem. Sweetie. Do you love this dress?”

Sheepishly her friend replies, “... Y-... yes….”

“Does it make you feel all happy and warm inside when you put it on?”

“Uh- huh….”

“Do you feel amazing when you’re in it??”

“Y-... yeah…I do....”

“Then forget what he said! It makes you feel amazing… You cried your beautiful eyes out when you first got into it because you said you felt so amazing. You loved it! You still love it! This is your dress. Please don’t let that man take that away from you.”

Silence takes over the room as Rhemi ponders her friend’s words for a moment and she sniffles. The most concerning thing was seeing her sick past self staring at her from across the room. She’s never seen her outside of the dream realm till now… Perhaps it was her that Rhemi heard the other day in the palace and who she saw in the mirror this morning. Who else could it be??

Portia sighs and loops her arm through Rhemi’s. “Come on. Let’s get ya out so Pierre can finish up, ok?” Rhemi follows her, but doesn’t pick up her eyes, still totally lost in thoughts. In a last attempt, Portia leans her head on her shoulder. “... You really look amazing, Rem.”

Silently Rhemi nods with a fake half grin, finally picking up her gaze to meet her friend. “Thanks, Portia… I’m really glad you are here.” She says placing her head on top of her’s.

“...Haha.. You’re lucky my brother wasn’t here—”

“—Oh gods yeah! He probably would have decked him in the face.”

“Hell! You’re lucky I didn’t!”

“Thank you, Pasha.” Rhemi mutters as stops in her tracks so she could embrace her friend.

“What are maids of honor for?” Portia whispers back, kindly embracing her back.

“Please don’t tell Muri about this….”

“.... I… I promise.”

Eventually, the two get the dress off without disturbing any of the pins on the bottom. The apprentice makes sure her eyes aren’t red in the dressing room before she walks out to meet her father again. The tension in the room was so tangible, so intoxicating.

Portia and Agrippa watched from the tailor door as Rhemi and her father walked towards the palace.

The silence was absolutely dreadful on the way to the palace. Luckily, it was within a short distance and this night would be over with. Rhemi never felt so conflicted before. Everything was so overwhelming lately. All she wanted was for her father to be happy for her. But everything she did seemed to blow up in her face.

As they reach the palace, her father finally realizes that she wasn’t walking towards the shop. “Well…. This is you.” She announces, rather happy to be done with him for the day.

“Oh…” He says a bit bewildered. “.... But I thought I was walking you home.”

“No no no. The palace is right around the corner from Pierre’s. It doesn’t make any sense going all the way across town.”

“Please. I don’t mind.”

“No, Père. It’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay??” Turning away from him never felt better. She hated to admit it, but he was just exhausting to be around. And after today, she had just enough of it all. “Good night.” She says just turning her so he could hear her.

With a knowing sigh, he places his cane hard into the cobblestone with a clank. “...Is it what I said about the dress.. Isn’t it?” She stops in her tracks but doesn’t look behind her… Maybe he’s going to apologize? “... Rhemielia, dear. Believe me when I say that you are making a huge mistake.” Her fists clenched so hard it almost hurts, her hopes crushed once again. Nope. Of course he wasn’t going to apologize. “... I am telling you that there are better men in Charlès that would put you into the finest of wedding gow—”

“—Have a nice night, Père…” Rhemi mutters trying to hold back the tears. “I’ll... I’ll see you later.”

As Rhemi makes her way down the street and disappears into the crowd. Martin can’t help but remember that night when he lost her. All he could do was just sit there and watch as she was swept away by that dreadful witch. Just like his other dream with the young woman whose neck was snapped. He felt so powerless of movement in these moments.

As he stood there, for one of the first times in years, Martin felt a pull on his chest. A feeling like he might have done something wrong tonight. He hadn’t felt like this since… Well… Since Rhemi’s birthday nearly fifteen years ago now.

He never meant to hurt her. She just… needed to learn a lesson…

“She’ll be fine.” He mutters to himself, shaking off this feeling of regret. “... One day she’ll thank me.”

On the way home, Rhemi made sure she got rid of all her tears before she came back home with Muriel for the night. It's a good thing people usually leave you alone when you're crying. If Muriel notices, she’ll just say that they were good tears from the fitting. All happy tears. Nothing bad happened. It’s all good!… But he knows they’re not.

————Rowdy Raven————

SKKKKIIIIIRRRRT!!!!

“—THAT BASTARD SAID WHAT ABOUT HER DRESS??” Julian shouts standing up from the table in dismay.

The tavern is busy like it usually is. Agrippa, Portia, Julian, and Asra decided to have a drink after today. It was only Monday, but it felt like everyday was an eternity since Sir Martin came into port. Portia had just finished telling her brother and his partner about what had happened at the tailors, and of course they were enraged.

Asra just yanks him back down to his chair. “Shhhh!! Ilya! Would you please calm down! Believe me, I’m just as pissed as you are!”

“If I only had my cricket bat….” Agrippa says, fantasizing while staring at the wall, sipping on their ale. “Fucking asshole…” They say as Portia holds their hand with a sweet reassuring smile.

“Did he really make her cry??” Asra asks soberly.

Portia nods sadly. “It was absolutely heartbreaking. I’ve never seen her look so frustrated and hurt before! But don’t tell Muriel! I promised her I wouldn’t.”

“Why did you tell us then?”

“She only said, Muriel.” She shrugs. “...It’ll just make the poor guy more stressed out anyways. He’s under a lot of pressure as well. This is his wedding too.”

Asra's stomach tied in knots at the thought of his best friend crying. “What the hell is this guy’s problem???”

“You should have heard what he said before she tried on the dress.” Agrippa mumbles before taking a large swing of their ale again.

“What did he say??” Julian and Asra ask at the same time, leaning closer into the table.

“It was something along the lines that he ‘couldn’t believe that she was serious about marrying that ‘seven foot tall brute’... I heard them talking before we opened the door.”

Asra's nose crinkles in and his top half of his lip curls into a snarl. “And what did she say??”

“Oh! She was quick to defend him, and she almost looked angry. But at the same time…. afraid? I dunno—but it's like her father doesn’t realize that Rhemi is her own person now…. She’s not that child that was taken from him years ago.”

“.... Do you think he still sees her as a little kid?”

Portia shrugs, staring at a stain on the wooden table. “.... Maybe?... I feel like he sees her more of something that was his property… Not really another person with feelings.”

Julian slams his fists on the table, “THAT’S. IT!” making everything rattle and clank, nearly spilling a few drinks. He snaches his goblet, jumping to a stand and chugging down the last of his Salty bitters, then throws his glass down to the ground, smashing it into a hundred pieces. “—IMMA KILL ‘EM!”

“Ilya! Sit your drunk ass down and shut up!! You’re not killing anyone!” Portia scolds. “WE four, collectively…. however might just—”

“Pasha!” Asra laughs, tugging his drunken partner back down to his chair again. “That’s a bit extreme don’t you think?? How about we just talk to Rhemi about it.”

“That man is completely toxic.” Julian mumbles, taking Asra’s drink from his hands. “... *Hiccup*....Have you…. Have you noticed that Rhemi isn’t as bright as she normally is?” Julian mutters, sipping the last bit of Asra’s salty bitters since he threw down his own cup.

“.... I have…. and something about all of this bothers me.” Asra says leaning into the table with his arms folded. “....I feel like her father is killing her spirit…. I wonder if he’s always been like this….. And if that's true… it makes me wonder…” he pauses for a movement then shakes his head. “N… Nevermind.”

“What?” Agrippa, Portia, and Julian ask in unison.

“.... *Sigh*.... I might be going too far if I say this.”

“Well now you have to tell us.” Agrippa says with a straight face about to knock back the last bit of ale.

“.... I don’t know…… Sometimes I wonder if she and her mother were really….. ‘Kidnapped’.”

The table suddenly became so eerily quiet, as if they all were thinking the same thing.

✨To be continued…

Sorry for the long wait my trash pandas. But I really needed this break from writing. And I'm really glad I took it. I am so happy with myself right now. I know its still not by best work, but I at least don't hate it. This chapter was supposed a bit longer, but I decided not to shoot myself in the foot this time and just split it.

Thank you for the babies who have been support and encouraging to me when I was at a really low point. I was really sad that last chapter didn't do as well as I was hoped. But I realized that a lot of people are still reading and I need to be humble and be grateful for what I have. Anyways--chapter 7, The King of Pentacles~ should be up soonish. That may be another shorter chapter, but it gonna be a big angsty one. *wink wink*. As always, thanks for reading my hot garbage! <3

[gagmebucky]

hiiii i wrote this awhile ago but took it down because i was 👉🏼👈🏼 embarrassed about it (because i do not have the skill to pull off peter parker) and sorta still am but everyone’s been so nice to me about it i thought the best way to repay the kindness by posting it for those who did like it 😅 (originally inspired by spider man 2 with andrew garfield but loosely set in the 2018 issue of the amazing spider-man.)

in which the guys are making fun of peter and accidentally see a video of him fucking you. (includes avenger!peter x girlfriend!you, peter’s pov, voyeur!steve and voyeur!bucky, a sex tape featuring d/s dynamics, bondage, praise kink, exhibitionism, unprotected sex.) 

do not repost.

—

Despite being twenty-one years old; a proper adult who lives with his high school sweetheart, a photographer doubling as a seven-year veteran vigilante in the dangers of New York, Peter Parker is still considered as a super-powered amateur to his seasoned peers. 

Nonetheless, given his success in countless battles in the state, country, world and even galaxy-wide, he more than qualifies to hold the title of Avenger; it’s official now. A laid-back induction ceremony and his very own identity card: a sturdy rectangle, shiny with full clearance and all. Yet, as an official member, his teammates still treat him like he’s that same goofy, out-of-his-depths sixteen year old.

To be fair, yes, his style of heroism isn’t the most serious. He favors levity in the face of danger, a cheeky flare with smart quips and an infuriating grin. Even after taking a beating from the worst of foes, his demeanor never wavers because in the end, he wins. The villains are slayed and the people are saved, even comforted by the boyishly confident way he works. 

But beyond that persona, he has grown into a skilled warrior. On that note, he wants to be regarded as such—at least, to a certain extent. The jokes and teasing, poking fun at his age or the shenanigans he gets himself into, don’t bother him. No, his playful wit handles it with relative ease, and he’s a good sport about it. The only thing that he’d want to see change is some recognition that he isn’t a naïve kid anymore and is fully capable of taking charge when needed.

With his recent acceptance into the gifted pantheon, he’s intent on making that known. The jesting can continue but he wants it to be with an understanding of his capabilities. Luckily, a perfect opportunity has presented itself to showcase his abilities: a training session. 

He’s late. And yes, he knows that’s probably not a good impression to make.

In his own defense, it isn’t technically his fault. He forgot that you, his personal alarm clock (amongst other things), left early this morning because you volunteered to help his aunt move. Four years of mornings and nights, he’s gotten used to—and prefers—your languorous wake-up call.

Without your reminder, he regains consciousness fifteen minutes after the scheduled time and ends up scrambling to the compound. In a flurry, he throws on his suit—unknowingly backwards, he realizes later—trips at least three times over his own footing before he finally springs out of the balcony with webbed bursts.

When he reaches his destination, Captain America and the Winter Soldier are unimpressed; mid-simulation, it powers down. Both super-soldiers whirl around to face him, fixing raised eyebrows at his disheveled arrival.

He adjusts his now front-facing suit and shuffles forward into the space with as much confidence as an interrupter can have. “H - hey, guys,” Peter greets sheepishly and manages what he hopes is a charming smile, absentmindedly fidgeting with his phone. “Lookin’ good for a couple of geezers.” 

Unfortunately, Steve Rogers is not charmed or disillusioned from the tardiness. “You’re late, Parker.” His arms fold, and he shakes his head when punctuating his disapproval with an echoing, “Again.” 

Thankfully, to his right, more relaxed and cool, Bucky Barnes steps up. “C’mon, Stevie. Y’can’t be that surprised,” he chimes in matter of factly, contrasting against his friend with amusement sparkling in his blue eyes. “What’d you expect with Parker?” He gestures at the younger superhero. “Kid’s gonna be late to his own wedding.”

(Beside the point, but worth noting, he will not be late to meeting you at the altar. That is, of course, if you accept when he pops the question. Which is going to happen relatively soon, considering he has the ring in his nightstand drawer.)

The consult seems to relax him. “Yeah, I guess you’re right and—Peter, you—seriously, man?!” Steve sputters the last bit when he glanced over to see him blatantly check the notification that’s vibrated in his hand (on the device that is ruled to be stowed away during training). “Now the phone?!” 

Even though he shouldn’t, being on thin ice with Cap and all (pun not intended), Peter’s gaze flickers down to see your contact name appear on the screen, and he can’t resist. While Bucky guffaws a laugh at his audacity, he’s swiping up to pull up your text thread. 

> you 😛❤️🥰, 10:37AM: spider boyyyyy you’ll never guess what i found in a box labeled ‘peter’s junk’ ;;;)

peter, 10:37AM: those magazines are NOT mine and i don’t know how they got there.

> you 😛❤️🥰, 10:38AM: not quite but close, naughty boy

> you 😛❤️🥰, 10:38AM: for a man who depends on keeping secrets and a penchant for home movies, you might ought to keep a lock on your phone unless you want someone to see me like this...

> you 😛❤️🥰, 10:38AM: (video attached)

Immediately, he recognizes the pornographic thumbnail. One glance, and he’s remembering the first couple of times you guys explored the exhibitionism side of things. It was at the end of his freshman year of college and taped on a phone he thought he had lost. But he must've forgotten it at his aunt’s house, and she tossed it in the box until you came along. 

Although there’s been plenty more made, he recalls that one being a shared favorite, his especially. When long-distance duty calls, it was his go-to media. The angles, your face and body beneath the lights, the sounds it caught, you once asked if he considered switching to cinematography instead of photographer

Subconsciously, his teeth run over his bottom lip, feeling that blazing spark of desire igniting in the pit of his gut, partially at the memory and partially at what’ll happen once you guys can re-watch it together; his thumbs start typing away with that message.

“Peter!” Steve’s exasperated voice snaps, but to no avail—the real gall of the youngster, or the effect of you. His weight shifts toward his best friend, and he nudges him with his elbow. “Kids these days!” The hundred-something year old’s gaze cocks a brow back over. “Is that why you were late? Blowing off training to text your girlfriend?”

The text delivers with an audible bloop. Finally, his concentration gives, and he can look up, though his expression is clueless from the last minute. “Huh?” His brain registers what he missed, and he winces. “Sorry, Cap. My bad.”

Bucky chuckles. “Give him a break, Steve,” he faux comes to his defense, a teasing quality underlying his tone. “He’s young and in love. It’s not his fault he’s pussy-whipped.” He cracks him an antagonizing grin as Peter rolls his eyes. “He can’t go an hour without sending those little weird pictures with heart eyes, or she might not know he’s thinking about her.”

“As if you know anything about romance, old man,” he fires back and presses past them with squared shoulders, correcting him quite seriously: “And they’re called emojis, by the way. But that’s not what I was doing, if you want to know so bad.”

The brunette tilts his head thoughtfully, and small hackles arise for reasons he doesn’t understand, or pay attention to. “You know, I do want to know really badly,” Bucky decides and poses a question to his left, “Wouldn’t you, too, Steve? Aren’t you curious what his girlfriend sent that was so much more important than training?”

The blond mimics his actions and clicks his tongue. “Yeah, I am.” 

Peter’s eyebrows pinch while his skin tingles and the hair on the back of his neck stands straight up. “What—” Before his senses process it, one of the super-soldiers plucks his phone out of his hands and darts back beside his best friend. His jaw drops as he tries to follow after him. “Bucky, you asshole—”

“Some spidey senses, huh?” The Winter Soldier lifts it high over his head, utilizing his six-foot stature against his five-ten like elementary school bullies do and older siblings to their juniors. “Haven’t ‘cha heard about sharing with the class?” He laughs and practically stiff-arms him to squint up at the screen. “Aw, he can’t wait to see her. What’s it been, more than two hours since you two saw each other last?” 

Conceding to the height difference, Peter stops his physical efforts and diverts it to someone reasonable. “Cap, you gonna help me out here?” he addresses the entertained onlooker in the most friendly voice he can manage. 

“The kid’s got separate anxiety not just from his girlfriend but phone too, Buck,” Steve drawls with a lopsided curve of his lips. He side-steps Peter to stand next to Bucky, and for a second, he thinks he’s on his side despite the tease, but he simply adds a stern, “So be careful. You don’t want to break it, or Parker will have a fit.”

Peter crosses his arms and scowls. “Ha, ha,” he retorts dryly, only somewhat amused by their banter. He tilts his head up at them, and the duo look thoroughly pleased with themselves. “You know, you guys are kind of dicks.”

“No, we’re your mentors, kid,” Steve corrects with a wink and rests his arm on his friend’s shoulder. “This is a lesson. No phones—” He jabs his thumb back in reference to the device’s unlocked screen: “—when you’re supposed to be training.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky chimes in upon glancing up from his phone. “And a little advice, women don’t like clinginess. Try being a little more stern and see how that works for you. If you’re able to manage that. But I won’t hold it against ya if you can’t.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter patronizes with a bob of his head, biting back a response pointing out the hundred-something year old’s inexperience. Instead, he focuses on the electronic readily loaded up with some private content. With that, he decides to do the rational and mature thing and ask nicely. “Noted. So, uh, can I have my phone back now?” 

To his shock, Bucky merely flashes a smirk and his thumb scrolls half-heartedly over the thread. Thereafter, he leans toward Steve and raises his cell for him to see. “Oh, look, it’s a video,” he teases. “What could Y/N send that would take priority of training?” 

There’s an unspoken let’s see then a metal finger taps the play button. Before Peter can think, much less react, Captain American and the Winter Soldier are watching how he effortlessly renders his pretty little girlfriend into a cute nonsensical yet eager mess— 

In his point-of-view shot, the ratio holds in portrait view in a bid to capture every bit of you. Above you, the camera focuses on you and your beautifully debauched state beneath warm lighting where it’s unalienable that the camera was made for you. 

Your eyes are dilated brightly, desperate with desire as your lashes flutter up at him. A sheen coats your features and glistens like glitter at the highest points of your face while the shape of your face is framed by your stretched arms. 

Your wrists are bound over your head, splotched with expertly sprayed strong, white webs. The mesh sticks them together in a criss-cross, comfortable but nearly impossible to break out of, fixed in place atop his headboard. The tautness tugs a mild strain on your figure so your breasts are jutting out like an offering, and it’s obvious he’s taken advantage of it. Darkened marks adorn your glowing complexion, peppered across your décolletage with imprints of his teeth; including your nipples, sucked swollen and tender. 

The angle trails down until it reveals the sight of him mercilessly pounding inside of you. His better-than-average girth is sliding in and out of your tight channel; slicked in shared translucent essence, creaming around the base, your inner walls visibly clinging to his cock with every backward stroke. His hand splays on your mound, using his thumb to abuse your engorged clit. He easily keeps the sensitive nub pinned under his control despite your wildly twisting hips. 

Like the display, the soundtrack is equally obscene. Loud, your stuffed depths gush and squelch as skin slaps rhythmically. Your breathy, wanton moans overshadow both, drawn out whimpers, almost nonsensical other than the syllable of his name. A melody of neediness, you sound so fucking pretty, (depraved, like a whore, you once told him during your little film marathon with a sly smile), and for him specifically.

The frame pans upward and confirms you look just as good. A perfect mess, unhinged by the skilled ministrations of your boyfriend. Passion beads on your forehead like reflections off of a diamond. Panting, your lips are plumped from kissing parted with mewls of pleasure. 

“P - please—I need to—can I - I please—” You’re begging like the sweet little thing you are, incoherent babbling the result of his excessive edging. Of course, you know better than to give into the sensations ravaging you; instead you ignore your visceral desire and ask him for your release. “Peter, please!” 

A deep chuckle vibrates behind the camera as his big hand slides into view, trailing over your jiggling tits to the slope of your throat. “Maybe,” he says breathily and grasps the line of your jaw between his fingers. “Open your mouth first, babe.” 

No more preamble necessary, you follow his direction, your pink tongue flat over your Cupid’s bow. Immediately, a long string of his saliva drips into view and onto your taste buds; the vulgar act is accepted with a swallow and a quivering moan of, “T - thank you.” 

“Good girl,” he praises huskily, and the voiced approval has you visibly shivering. “Alright, then, pretty girl. Make it good for me, and c’mon—”

Before your otherworldly reckoning washes over you and his teammates can watch your bliss immortalized in film, Peter snatches his property back. 

Not much force is necessary as Bucky’s grip has been stunned loose. A dark expression permeates on young hero’s face but not because of embarrassment; if he was still nineteen or eighteen, he would’ve been mortified that his titular superiors caught a depraved glimpse of his sex life, on both his and your behalf. Rather than, there’s just a flit of annoyance when he folds his arms.

“Shit,” Bucky is the first to speak, exhaling the swear raggedly. His blue pupils have widened in obvious attraction, dilated dark, blinking rapidly as if it’ll help calm him down from the clip of you, his innocent seeming girlfriend, all ruined and begging. “Parker, fuck, I - I didn’t know you got down like that.” 

There’s a swell in his chest, pride beating steadily while he remains reticent-faced. He prefers you keep your bedroom activities secluded there. Yeah, he likes to be in control and you like to be controlled but it’s only in a sexual nature. Yet, their reactions—stunned, embarrassed and viscerally affected—surges smug satisfaction he’s never known before through his veins. 

Even the prestigious Captain America is bothered, though he may try to hide it. He clears his throat, a flustered pink coloring his cheeks. “Peter, uh,” he says, barely maintaining the confidence to look him in the eye after witnessing his girlfriend like that. “We - we shouldn’t have invaded your privacy like that.” 

“Uh-huh,” is Peter’s response, a hint of a smirk curling on one side of his lips. “Why don’t you guys call me after you’re finished with your cold showers, and we can actually train. Until then, I’m gonna go to my girl who’s more than eager to handle mine.” He pauses. “Maybe if you guys ask nice enough, I might let her show you how well I’ve trained her.”

[leguin]

alright as promised, the three scenes of a kendall/rava/stewy college-era fic i wrote last year before running out of steam. i will never finish this but i do like to read it occasionally bc i think it’s funny. ymmv.

two for the show

It’s Rava’s idea. That’s the absolute truth, although every time Kendall says it aloud he feels like he’s adding another defensive layer, so that by the time the idea’s been fully realized, he just sounds like a liar as he says it:

“This was Rava’s idea,” and he can feel the smirk Stewy presses against the bare skin of his shoulder even as he watches Rava, still in the middle of undressing, roll her eyes and smile.

“It was, and I’m a genius for thinking of it,” she says, reaching behind her back and undoing her bra with one hand, shrugging the straps off of her shoulders. Kendall has to break eye contact with her when Stewy bites at the tendon in his neck (mostly) gently.

“Relax, bro,” Stewy says, pulling away a little, “we’re all just here to have a good time. Right?”

“Right,” Kendall says, and maybe it comes out a little softer, a little breathier than he means it to, but he’s distracted from any embarrassment by the way Stewy runs a hand across his chest, his nails sharp against Kendall’s skin in a way that makes his nerves buzz and his dick twitch.

“Oh, he likes that,” Rava murmurs, right as Kendall says, “Do that again,” fully over the embarrassment and the weirdness or whatever of doing this with his girlfriend and his best friend at the same time. It feels good, and he wants to keep feeling good. The rest of it just falls away.

—

It’s Rava’s idea, and he’s a little insulted by it at first, resistant in a way he knows she thinks is him having a problem with the Stewy of it all, which is fucking laughable considering everything they got up to at Buckley.

No, he takes issue with the way that she brings it up as the solution to a problem, namely the problem of Kendall being ‘absent’ and ‘not present’ and a lot of other euphemisms that mean she wants him to spend less time out doing coke with Stewy and more time not doing coke with Stewy. It’s a complaint he’s gotten before.

It’s fine. It’s whatever. It gets under his skin because it reminds him of the way basically every member of his family has called him a cokehead in the last year, and the way every girl before Rava has tried to have this conversation with him when he’s loaded.

But Rava’s smart, which is why he likes her, so she waits to bring it up until they’re out getting dinner at some Thai place her friend told her about. In public - very smart, very strategic, he’s not his dad, so he’s not gonna get in a fight in a restaurant. And he’s only tipsy, a kind of buzzed that is vastly inferior to getting blitzed at the Spee, but vastly preferable to being stone-cold sober.

“I just think,” Rava says, idly dipping a spoon into her bowl of Tom Kha, “that it could be a nice change of pace.”

“Hm,” Kendall says flatly. He’d ordered some kind of curry that had looked fine on the menu but is turning his stomach now that it’s in front of him. To be fair, he hasn’t had much of an appetite for anything in a while, but the curry suddenly feels like exactly the wrong thing.

“And Stewy’s up for it,” Rava adds, which makes Kendall look up at her from his food in a hurry.

“You already talked to him about this? What if he - what if he wasn’t down with it?”

“He’s ‘down with it,’” Rava laughs. “Relax, Ken. I told him exactly what I’m telling you: I think he’s hot and it would be fun.

“Hm,” Kendall says again, but this time the flatness is an affect. “You think Stewy is hot?”

“I mean, he’d be hotter if he grew a beard,” Rava says, “but yes, obviously. Do you?”

“We have a deal, he’s not growing a beard until I grow one,” Kendall says, not bothering to act like he isn’t dodging the question.

“Oh, I see,” Rava says, still amused. She’s amused often, it’s another thing Kendall likes about her - she’s not cruel about it, the way people tend to be amused by Kendall and his shitshow of a family. She just looks at things with humor. Like a satirist for the New Yorker or something; it’s endearing.

A new worry strikes him.

“You’re not doing this because you’re bored, are you?” he asks. “Like, in our relationship?”

“Kendall,” she says, putting her spoon down, “no. How could I be bored?”

“Well,” Kendall starts, because he can think of a million reasons why she could, and maybe should be bored, and again, he does suspect that she’s bored of the coke, but she cuts him off before he can say any of that.

“I’m not bored,” she says, giving him a very direct look. “We’ve been dating for seven months, if I was already bored of you I would’ve just broken up with you. And vice versa, I assume - I like to think we respect each other enough for that. It’s simple: I’d like to have a threesome. Stewy’s interested. I’m interested in Stewy. You’re interested in Stewy. We’re interested in each other.”

“Alright, okay,” Kendall says hurriedly. “I get it.”

“So you’re in?”

“I’ll think about it,” he says. “Give it my, uh, full consideration.”

It’s a callback to the jagoff in their business psych class last term who had asked Rava out in front of Kendall, and it makes Rava laugh exactly like he’d hoped.

“Well, I’m looking forward to your full consideration,” she says, leaning forward across the table to kiss him and entangling her foot with his as she does.

“I’ve thought about it, and - it’s a yes,” Kendall murmurs when she pulls back.

“Yeah?” Rava says, smiling, and he smiles back. “Alright, let’s do this.”

—

“Do we need to like, finesse this?” Kendall asks.

“Do we need to finesse me fucking you? I don’t think so, bro,” Stewy snorts, and Kendall sits up on his elbows to look at Stewy.

“I’m not crazy about you calling me bro when we’re about to fuck,” Kendall says. “I’m not into it.”

“Well you look into it,” Stewy says. “And I don’t recall you minding before.”

“I’m not into it,” Rava says. “Can we go back to what we were doing a minute ago? I was personally having a lot more fun then.”

“Oh, so you’d be fine with me calling you bro while I’m fingering you?” Kendall asks her indignantly.

“Oh my god,” Stewy says. “Rava, please, for all our sakes, can you please just sit on his face? I can’t work under these conditions.”

“If I must,” Rava sighs. “I’m willing to take one for the team.”

“Hey,” Kendall yelps, partly at Rava’s comment and partly at Stewy pulling his fingers out spitefully fast.

“I’m kidding,” Rava says, more gently. “You’re good, Kendall, you’re good at it.”

[cockasinthebird]

Dear anon,

Here’s the Second Part to the request you made about Billy watching Steve masturbate! I would link the first part but then this post wont show up in the tag because that’s how it works, apparently

I think this might be one of my favourite things I’ve written, and yes I know I say that quite often, but there’s nothing wrong in enjoying your own stuff!!!

And I hope that you all enjoy it just the same~

-

The second time, he sits in a very expensive chair, specifically the one Mr Harrington occupies whenever he’s actually home and dealing with work from his office, the room covered in mahogany furniture and shiny leather seats. 

He spins around a few times, taking in the grand paintings on the walls, none of them of the family whose house this is, the glamorous curtains, the small and tasteful plants, and the head of a stag hanging in all its grandiose above the fireplace. Expensive, fancy, ostentatious. A showroom of importance and wealth.

Any one piece of furniture in this room costs more than Billy’s own house, and there is nothing Billy loathes more than rich assholes that think they can buy the world. Which just makes him defiling the heir to this fortune all the more fun for him.

The leather creaks underneath him as he stops spinning. From atop the desk he brings a glass of scotch to his lips, and gives it none of the respect Mr Harrington would believe it to be deserving of; simply bottoms out like it’s a shot of vodka. He licks his lips clean and swallows a few extra times to really enjoy his stealing of the oldest bottle in the liquor cabinet.

Then finally he stands up, slams the glass down with almost too much force on the dark wood, and walks around the desk to sit down in another leather chair, this one facing a couch on where Steve lies naked.

“Enjoying yourself, daddy?” he asks with a smile that runs from one ear to the other, on the verge of cracking his sexy facade.

And Billy laughs heartily at it, throws his head back a bit. “Oh don’t start on that, pretty boy! I am not ready to explore either of our daddy issues just yet.”

Steve can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, then settles it into something more smooth and delicate, teasingly so, as he runs a hand down his side, from chest to hip where it rests. He’s lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, his front turned fully toward where Billy admires the view - still dressed from head to toe - Steve’s cock hard from attention alone, the flushed head resting against the leather. And he waits patiently for whatever Billy has in mind.

When Steve had come home today, Billy had done the whole Marco-Polo charade till Steve found him pouring a drink from the glass bar behind the large desk. He hadn’t bothered complaining or asking any questions about why Billy is in his father’s office, simply sat down when commanded, and stripped without any hesitation when told. 

Now they’re looking at one another in silence. Billy spreads his legs as wide as the armrests will allow, and runs his hand rough up and down his girthy cock trapped inside denim still, and Steve’s dark and lustful gaze follows the movement attentively.

“You look amazing like this, Stevie,” Billy mutters, voice thick and salacious as he touches himself through too many layers. “I wanna watch you.”

Steve hums pleasantly and slowly starts slipping the hand on his hip down toward his full erection.

“You said last time you love watching me…” Fingertips graze against his cock, teasing and gentle and slight. “You ever watch me jerk off in private?”

Billy swallows hard, contemplating whether he should tell the truth or if that would be too intrusive to admit. But Steve has yet to get upset at Billy for any of his deviant behaviour. “Yeah, a few times.”

And for the truth he’s rewarded with Steve wrapping his fingers around himself, slowly moving up and down, squeezing around the head that leaks into his hand.

“Ah-h, good,” Steve’s voice starting to waver as he strokes his dick; wetting it with his own pre. “I think about you a lot when I masturbate, fuck, thinking about you at all gets me hard.”

Billy blinks slowly, wanting to meet Steve’s gaze but finds it impossible to look away from how Steve’s hand moves a bit faster. He removes his own hand from the bulge in his jeans and grips the armrests of the chair. 

“Do you ever finger yourself when you think of me?”

Steve licks his lips at that, and smiles with certain intent, although Billy doesn’t notice as he’s mesmerised as always by the way Steve touches his own throbbing prick.

“Not always, but whenever I do finger myself, I only think of you.”

“Show me,” Billy demands without hesitation - softly, but with no hint of ‘if you want to.’

But Steve wants to. His breath hitches at the stern tone to Billy’s words, the restraint in his movement clear as he slows down and eases his grip. 

“You want me to finger myself in front of you, here, in my father’s office, on his expensive couch?” Steve asks, incredulously, feigning reluctance, yet doesn’t stop the now lazy caress of his lengthy cock, keeps smiling, stays posing on his side.

Billy sits silent, doesn’t respond right away, instead he pulls up a small, inconspicuous, clear plastic bottle from the pocket of his shirt, and tosses it onto the couch.

“Yes.”

Steve looks at it; there’s no labels or text or anything, really the most boring and ordinary little container, but there is no doubt in his mind what it is.

“How do you want me?” he asks and finally meets with Billy’s eyes, a fire there burning hotter than the sun could ever dream of.

“However you do it when you’re alone - when I’m not here to fuck you into your mattress. Show me just how badly you want my thick cock.”

And as is often done in situations where words aren’t needed anymore, Steve simply bites his lip, keeps the bottle firm in his grasp, and gets up on his knees. He turns around on the couch, angling his perfect ass towards where Billy sits patiently like a statue, then bends forward; arching his back and spreading himself before his audience to grant a good look of everything. His leaking prick hanging between his legs, hole exposed fully.

“Fuck, Steve…” Billy nearly gasps at the view - didn’t expect to be this affected by it as he shuffles around in his seat, almost overwhelmed by the urge to just shove his tongue through Steve’s rim and eat him out till he’s cumming and crying. Billy adjusts the taut fabric of his jeans before settling in his place.

The cap of the bottle pops off loudly, lube drips onto Steve’s fingers, and with a careful motion, as to not waste a single drop, he brings his hand behind himself. He runs three digits flat and slick over his entrance, getting himself proper wet, staring straight at how attentively Billy watches, the self control damn impressive as those bluest of eyes twitch at the sight of Steve slipping in his middle finger.

Steve coos and keens, perhaps a bit excessive, perhaps egged on by the way Billy’s knuckles turn white as he strangles the leather armrests. He holds one hand on the back of the couch to keep himself steady as he quickly finds an all too pleasant rhythm that leaves him craving more.

Billy hasn’t been this turned on, this painfully erect, since the first time he saw someone play with themselves, back when he was 13 and stole a porn tape from a thrift store in Cali. He still has it hidden away, mostly for sentimental reasons now, because nothing can compare to watching Steve finger himself open, moaning and dripping worse when he adds a second finger.

“Ah-h, mmh- Billy,” Steve teases with his name on that lascivious tongue.

And every sound that escapes makes Billy’s lust boil hotter, bubbling under his skin, the urge to touch like a strong current pulling him under. Touch himself, touch Steve. 

It takes all of his strength not to stand up, close the short distance between them and drive in two fingers past that gorgeous clenching ring of muscle, opening up Steve faster so that Billy can fuck him hard into the leather of daddy’s dear couch, press his face against the cushions and have him cumming in less than a minute.

Steve pushes in a third finger, thighs trembling as he moans out, “Shit, oh-” with an overt shudder running through him as he hits just the right spot.

“Feel good, baby?” Billy asks softly, voice husky and smooth, as he unbuttons his shirt slowly.

“S-so good, ah-” Steve’s prick leaks onto the seat, between his knees, fingers pumping fervently in and out leaves him writhing as he abandons any sense of rhythm, and Billy recognizes the way he’s calling out, cursing, close to mumbling his words.

Knows that it won’t be too long now.

“Fuck, Billy! Billy- Billy-”

“Yeah?” Billy groans out, pleased with how erotic his name can sound when it comes from such a pretty mouth.

“I’m- I’m close.” Fingers go as deep as they can, as quick as they can, it’s almost kinda impressive how rapidly he moves those digits, and it all goes to show that this might be something he does more frequently than originally suggested.

Billy unbuckles his belt, flicks free the button of his jeans, and lets the zipper run loose, immediately bringing some sense of relief to his own pent-up, aching cock. He then removes his hands again, one elbow on the armrest, chin in hand as he continues to simply leer at how Steve fingers himself, how his brows are pulled high and tight, how his eyes can barely stay open as they fight the urge to roll back.

“Think you can cum untouched like this?” he asks, impatience apparent in his rumbling tone.

“N-no, fuck, ah-h-” Steve cries and bucks his hips onto his fingers.

“Hmm…” Billy hums like he’s dissatisfied with that response. “I’ve seen you do it before.”

“Mmhn, ahh, yes, yes- in your ha-ands, not- not on my own,” Steve whines and meets Billy’s gaze with all too sincere eyes.

And fuck if that doesn’t make Billy’s full erection kick and leak in its entrapment - to know that he can make King Steve cum on his fingers or dick alone is empowering, strokes his ego just right.

“Fuck, Stevie, baby,” Billy growls with exposed teeth all predatory and lecherous. "Touch yourself. Cum for me, all over daddy's expensive leather couch."

Steve doesn't waste time before he brings his other hand to his weeping prick, and as he wraps his fingers around it to eagerly jerk himself, Billy grunts lightly as his own cock twitches with overwhelming jealousy. 

It really doesn't take more than a few strokes till Steve buries his face against the backrest, crying out loud as he moves his fingers hard and precise, back arching in the most beautiful curve, spilling all over the dark seat as he pumps himself dry of every drop, thighs visibly tensing and quivering.

“Gorgeous,” Billy breathes out, convinced that his grip on the armrests will soon tear the leather apart, his underwear completely soaked with pre.

Steve’s arms fall till his palms rest against the leather seat, his entire being pulsating and shivering with every heavy breath, sounding like he just ran a marathon. But as he moves to change his position, perhaps get more comfortable, Billy intervenes-

“Didn’t say you could move,” there’s barely a hint of play to his tone, “Stay just like that for me.”

So Steve does just that - shuffles around a bit on his knees to kneel better, swallows thickly, and hangs his head low to look at Billy from between his legs.

Billy in turn finally pulls his pained cock free with a loud and telling grunt of relief, the air almost sharp in its coldness, but it’s soothed by his firm hand running up and down his slick erection. Already he knows that this won’t last nearly as long as he wants it to; feels it in the way the coil twists pliantly, thighs and abs flexing at his every move.

“Mmh- shit, arrh, baby I- I want you to show me- fuck- spread your ass out for me.”

And Steve obeys all too readily, moving his hands back to grab a full cheek in both to spread them as far apart as he can, exposing his fluttering hole, puffy and well loved.

The sight of it makes Billy’s hips buck off of his seat, an interrupting moan punches the air out of his lungs, his cock spurting pre something horribly, the sounds of his jerking motion obscene and loud and overwhelming as he grips himself harder- tight like how Steve’s ass would feel right now, wrapped around him, sucking him in, milking him dry, right here in his father’s office, soiling the leather, defiling the high and mighty importance with moans of the heir’s hole getting ravished-

Just the mere thought of what Billy might get to do with Steve in every single room of this house, all goddamn 12 of them, has him cumming in near record time - a loud and unexpected orgasm that crashes through him as he lifts up and into his hand, cursing loudly towards the ceiling, cum shooting all the way up his chest to clash with the sweaty tan skin, painting him in white, pumping till he’s sore and lets his cock go with a hiss.

Suddenly so exhausted he could probably fall asleep right here, eyes closed and struggling to catch his breath as he slumps in the chair. That is until hands land on both his knees, squeezing gently and caressing him, and when he opens his eyes to look down there’s Steve, kneeling between Billy’s legs, a slight smile and the most adoring gaze, a glorious vision that shoots straight through Billy’s heart and overstimulated cock simultaneously.

Before Billy gets to make the next move, Steve crawls closer, brings out his tongue to run it hot and flat over Billy’s flaccid dick, pulling forth a pained, “shit, ah-h!” then continues with soft kisses up his stomach, across his abs, till he reaches where cum has been splashed across Billy’s pecks. And under the watchful stare of blue skies, Steve lets out his tongue once more, licks a stripe through the white pool and swallows with an almost delighted little hum.

A whole show that Billy will play over and over in his head those few nights Steve isn’t around.

And Steve finishes his climb straddling Billy’s thighs, kissing him deeply and passionately, as if he’s not satiated quiet yet, mixing the taste of them with dancing tongues, sweet and salty and strong still with an aftertaste of scotch.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Pet the Kitty ch.2 (spicyhoney standalone)

Summary: Edge does not resent that his cat is utterly shameless when it comes to Stretch. (He just wishes he could do the same)

Notes: This was supposed to be a oneshot but achirding had a thought and it became chapter 2! Based entirely on their idea, please enjoy!

Tags:  Spicyhoney, Lemon Goodness, Rough Sex, Yearning, Jealous of a Damn Cat

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Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

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Edge lay back on the sheets, panting, legs clumsily sprawled apart and one arm dangling off the side of the bed. His long fingers grazed against the carpeted floor, the sharpened tips catching as he tried to convince his wits to gather themselves back together in a coherent fashion. Slumped next to him, Stretch was much the same or at least Edge could pretend that his gaspy breathing was not only from exertion. If they were both equally overwhelmed, then there was no winner, was there, no matter what Stretch’s sly grin said.

The radio was on and playing cheerful pop music, a feeble concession to his neighbors, and Edge had long since moved the bed against an unshared wall where the thump of the headboard wouldn’t earn any irritated shouts or worse, glares in the hallway on the way down to get his mail.

Edge shifted again, grimacing as the linen beneath him clung clammily to his bones. They would need washing again, he noted absently, the sheets. Damp with sweat and other various fluids, heavy with the cloying scent of magic tangled in sex, spicy-sweet. Black sheets, the color not chosen for its aesthetic but for its tendencies to hide stains and purchased more recently than Edge wanted to admit. Before Stretch, his sheets had been simple and utilitarian, simple white cotton washed once a week with hot water and strong detergent. It took less than one night with Stretch to convince him that those would no longer suit. Once Edge found himself inviting Stretch over to put the bed to regular use, he’d gone for something a little more pleasing. It was well worth the price of a higher thread count when they slid against his bones as he was dragged across them, knees and elbows digging in as he scrabbled to brace himself or the achingly sensitive rub of his sacrum grinding into the softer linens. Sheets that hid a multitude of stains and were gentle against bones? More than worth the price.

Sex with Stretch was not what he’d expected when they first started this. For one, for such a lazy shit, he had more stamina that Edge would ever have expected and that blasted, obnoxious attitude of his was much less annoying when coupled with a sly grin and a tongue that was clever with far more than silly puns.

Sex with Stretch. Words that Edge would never have imagined putting together in a sentence that included himself, but if he’d ever managed to put aside his disbelief long enough to consider it, he would have pictured himself as the one in charge. Taking control, guiding their sexual calisthenics to the foregone conclusion. But from their very first time Stretch trod right over the very idea to pin Edge down, his slim fingers bracketing Edge’s wrists like cuffs of bone and keeping them there until he’d crudely teased out a first orgasm with nothing more than the subtle, rhythmic pressure of his knee.

Thus far, he’d dominated every one of their encounters and even less believable to him was that Edge found he liked it. Fuck that, he could at least be honest with himself in the privacy of his own mind; he loved it. Loved being able to lie back and hand over the steering wheel to someone else, his usual iron need to command shoved firmly into the backseat while he could only shudder with bliss, writhe against his expensive sheets and take what was forcibly given to him in hitherto unknown delight.

If there was any minor complaint, it was only the increase in his laundry and…ah. Well. There was one other issue.

Edge felt the faint brush of soft fur briefly against his dangling hand and then Doomfanger leapt on the bed, her loud baby cry demanding attention as she butted her head rudely against Stretch’s bare hip.

“hey, there, pretty miss.” Stretch automatically reached down to pet her, scratching the delicate points of her ears as she began to purr loudly enough that Edge could feel the vibration through the mattress. Edge bit back the entirely unreasonable demand for that easy affection to return to him. The faint ache at his pubis, the disjointed feel of his hips and knees was a fair sign he’d just gotten plenty of attention, not to mention his very recent memory of Stretch’s tongue curling wetly against his cunt. Driving into him as Edge tipped his head back and stared unseeing at the ceiling until he could no longer bear it. Closing his sockets achingly tight, his hands scrabbling desperately over Stretch’s skull and leaving behind faint scratches as he arched up and came.

He’d had all of that not even a half hour ago and he refused to be jealous of his damned cat, even when Stretch cooed to her about being a pretty girl while he struggled to his feet. His knees seemed to still be unsteady and Edge bit the tip of his tongue against asking Stretch to stay at least long enough for his joints to settle.

Pathetic to quibble about the aftermath. He’d gotten what he wanted, Stretch gave as good as he got and took what he wanted from these…sessions. Whatever else he wanted was as nebulous as the night sky Stretch liked to watch with the others, their telescopes set up in the backyard as they went over star charts and internet pages, and Edge sometimes brought them hot chocolate and snacks, listened to Stretch’s teasing laughter and silly puns, and it made some emotion clench in Edge’s chest that felt almost the same as seeing Stretch being so gentle and sweet to his cat.

Doomfanger made a sound of displeasure as Stretch stopped petting her to skin into his pants, the waistband already drooping enticingly down his pelvis as he hauled his hoodie over his head and hid the exposed bone. Something rattled in his hoodie pocket and Stretch reached into it with one hand, gripping beneath the cloth. He coughed faintly and looked ill at ease as he said, “oh, uh, by the way, i brought you something.”

That made Edge blink in surprise. Presents certainly weren’t a regular occurrence, past the one time Stretch brought a sackful of Chinese takeout with him, both of them slurping delicious noodles and fried rice right from the waxy white containers, and when Stretch finally pushed him down on the sofa, his kiss tasted of orange chicken and soy sauce, rich and ridiculously delicious.

This was no cheap offering. The box Stretch pulled out of his pocket was long and narrow, bearing the mark of a local jeweler. He held it out wordlessly and Edge tugged the sheet carelessly over his lap before he took it, his fingers trembling faintly as he lifted the lid to see the contents.

A collar.

All the heady anticipation rising in him deflated, draining out of him like water through a sieve. It was a lovely collar to be sure, obviously handcrafted and the leather precisely stamped with a delicate skull motif surrounded by ornate curlicues and shapes. Dangling from it was a gold tag etched in flowing script, a single word, his own name, ‘Papyrus.’

Lovely, yes, but it was difficult to stifle his rising disappointment. Of all the gifts in all the world that Stretch could give him, it was something for his cat.

Ridiculous, he told himself savagely. It was a gift and certainly a pricy one, and he was not about to let Stretch see any ingratitude for it.

“It’s lovely,” he admitted, and he could only helplessly admire the way Stretch lit up, his odd uncertainly brightening into dazzling glee.

“yeah? i was hoping you’d like it, i…i wasn’t sure,” he laughed a little unsteadily, “i spent a lot of time thinking about it, you know?”

“Of course I like it,” Edge assured him. He hefted it in one hand, admiring the dark leather against the paleness of his bones. It was certainly excellent craftsmanship and if its intended audience wasn’t likely to fully appreciate that, then Edge could certainly do it in her place.

“good, that’s good, ‘cause i was thinking—” Stretch trailed off as Edge pulled Doomfanger over, ignoring her plaintive meows as he slipped off her old collar, a basic affair from the local pet store, and carefully fastened on the new one. He noted grudgingly that the dark brown leather looked even better against her wheaten fur. She twisted in his hold, tail lashing as she tried to see what he was to do to her, and Edge soothed a hand down her spine as he adjusted her new adornment.

He frowned, tugging at the collar. It slid far too loosely, he could easily fit three fingers or more beneath it and the buckle was on the very last hole. “Hm, it’s a little big.” He glanced at Stretch and his face was falling into dismay, his previous delight fading. Edge added hastily, “Of course, it shouldn’t be a problem to add another hole.” Or three, honestly, the creator should have asked for a better measure before he made it. It was a shame to see any shoddiness in such lovely work.

A hectic flush was rising in Stretch’s face, a bright mottled orange against his cheekbones and Edge cursed himself for bringing it up. He could have had it adjusted without saying anything and instead he’d made Stretch self-conscious about his gift. “I love it,” Edge said, trying for reassurance.

From the way Stretch flinched, his attempt was miserable failure. “…great. yeah. that…that’s great.” Stretch ducked his head and ran a hand over his skull, slim fingers clattering softly over the bone. “i’m glad. um. i guess i better get going.”

It was peculiar to see him so discomfited and uncertain, especially here in his bedroom. Stretch fairly oozed confidence whenever they were together, and Edge let that dominance wash over him every time with the force of an ocean wave, trusting enough to give himself over to Stretch’s control.

Trust, yes, he trusted Stretch in a way Edge never had another, and a renewed sense of guilt filled him for making Stretch think he didn’t like his gift when honestly Edge never expected any to begin with. Edge wasn’t particularly skilled in seduction in any sense of the word, but this time he made an attempt. He gently pushed Doomfanger aside despite her offended yowl of protest to lounge back on the messy sheets, stroking a hand down his femur in generous offering as he tried out a purr of his own, “Are you sure?”

Pale eye lights flicked over his bare bones lingeringly, tracing his femurs, his pelvis, the scarred bones of his ribs, only to falter at the level of his chin. Stretch only stepped further away, towards the door as he stammered out, “y-yeah. see you later.” And with that, he turned abruptly on his heel and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Edge sighed and flopped back again without any pretense of eroticism, dragging the comforter over his suddenly chilled bones. Fanger took that as an invitation of sorts, picking her way delicate across the sheets to settle into Edge’s covered lap. He stroked her soft fur and tried to push aside his unreasonable upset. It certainly wasn’t her fault Stretch gave her a present. It was still difficult to even believe. A present for his damned cat, even if it was a lovely one. Edge rubbed his knuckles against Fanger’s throat where the purring vibration met the collar, fingered soft fur and leather. When he touched the delicate tag, it tinkled against the bare bone with a bell-like chime. Absently, he traced his name with a fingertip, the delicate, curling script flowing across glimmering metal. His name.

His…name…

A flashbulb went off inside his head with a near blinding pop and Edge was scrambling to his feet before he even fully understood, snatching clothes haphazardly from the floor and hopping on one foot as he struggled to pull up his trousers, already calling a frantic, “Wait!”

The pavement was cold against his bare feet as he dashed outside and Edge paid it no mind, jogging out to the sidewalk to look down the street. The sidewalk was empty, hardly a surprise, Stretch wasn’t about to walk home when a quick shortcut would do. He stood there uselessly in rumpled trousers, his unbuttoned shirt hanging open and his hands dangling emptily at his sides as he groaned aloud, a frustrated, wordless growl. He was an idiot, an absolute fool, and—

“looking for something?”

Edge whirled around with a gasp, his soul pounding. Stretch was leaning against the side of the building, a cigarette in hand, and the sight of him, slouched down in that ridiculous hoodie of his and a curious, lopsided smile curving his mouth did unreasonable things to Edge’s soul.

“More like someone,” Edge said. He took a step closer and hesitated, assaulted with vague uncertainty as he asked, “That…that wasn’t for my cat, was it.”

That smile widened teasingly, “dunno, it did look pretty good on her.”

Edge swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “Stretch—”

He shrugged and took a drag off his cigarette, exhaling a perfect smoke ring that drifted towards Edge, hovering briefly over his head in a nicotine-tainted halo. “guess it’s for whoever you think should wear it.”

An offer and a compromise in one, giving him the choice. As if there was one. Edge licked his teeth, their sharp points prickling lightly against his tongue, watched Stretch watching him, that slow, sinuous movement crackling in his darkening eye lights.

“Come put it on me?” Edge asked hoarsely.

“i can do that, kitten,” Stretch said, only his voice was the one purring, titillatingly rough, shivering its way down Edge’s spine. He tossed his cigarette aside and stepped forward, his touch cool against Edge’s suddenly overheated face as Stretch cupped it in both gentle hands and kissed him.

-fin

[basilone]

Today’s rendition of “congratulations, Eva, you played yourself” is brought to you by more shippy goodness than I could ever hope to fit into a single fic. I started bulletpointing these and, well, they have kind of formed a story onto itself? So I’m just going to dump all of these right here because I am in my feels today and need to share the feels.

Random Ron/Chuck headcanon stuff because my brain will not shut up about these two:

They first connect in Toccoa during one of the few exercises designed for the whole battalion. Speirs, fed up to all hell with Fox Company’s latest inability to function that has left them cornered, hisses out a rapidfire series of instructions that Chuck coolly picks up and gets done without issue. “At least you didn’t panic, sir,” says Chuck, after, and a pointed look at a very irate captain Sobel tells Speirs all he needs to know about how Chuck feels toward people who panic in a crisis.

They’re not buddies after that, exactly, but Chuck has the rare ability to hold a conversation with just about anybody. On the rare occasions he finds himself elbow-to-elbow with Speirs at Toccoa, he will merely observe things out loud for Speirs to add to at will. Chuck accepts an offered cigarette in trade every time. It’s not until the tactics sessions with Welsh and Nixon that Chuck fully realizes Speirs’s pointed remarks in conversation about people and their surroundings were a way of teaching and preparing him for war.

Being in different companies, they rarely see one another during the first part of the war. Chuck hears all the stories about Speirs and dignifies himself enough to shrug at them. It’s not that he knows better – hell, if he knows the man as well as he thinks he does he’d say at least three-quarters of these stories are true – but more that there are immediate concerns that need attending and Speirs is not any one of those.

The Bois-Jacques forest is a disaster. Chuck thinks he’ll never be warm again – dreams of Californian sunshine make everything so much worse – and the lack of company leadership has him conferring with Tab more than ever before. There’s a moment he thinks he’s just about ready to jump out of his skin. Very nearly does. Very nearly shoots Speirs on the spot for popping up out of the fog without warning. The irate “oh, sure, let’s get yourself fucking killed, sir, and get my head chopped off by the brass for it” Chuck lets loose is met by a rather amused “you’d get shot, not decapitated” that Chuck rolls his eyes at before he can stop himself. He knows Speirs is not as bad as some claim when the man merely smirks and offers him a cigarette. Chuck accepts. Speirs’s nod feels like he passed a test.

Chuck finds himself elbow-to-elbow with his new captain a lot after Foy. At first, he thinks it’s because he is one of the few people Speirs remembers by name. (After all, it takes Speirs three increasingly annoyed tries before he cottons on to Talbert, Tab, and Floyd all being one and the same person. Chuck is just easier like that, because he’s never been Charles and only rarely Grant to this company.) Chuck doesn’t realize it’s more than just familiarity until he hears Speirs adjust a tactic on the spot after he mentioned offhand why the old one wouldn’t work. Speirs never asks for his opinions outright, but merely comes to stand beside him and offers Chuck the space and time to speak.

Speirs damn near crumbles at Landsberg. Chuck thinks he’s the only one who can tell that the man’s speech gets snappier, his hands shake, and his eyes turn wild in the aftermath. There, in the dark, in the night, amid the ruins he knows he’ll never find the words to speak about, he comes to sit beside his captain and bridges the gap between their hands. Isn’t surprised when Speirs squeezes back just the once and then lets go. The next day, Speirs’s voice is steady once more.

Victory is more dangerous than war. The Eagle’s Nest, so high above everything else, makes Chuck feel like he could just step over the edge into the sky and never fall down. “Call me Ron,” murmurs Speirs, drunken, languid, beautiful, out there on the balcony, as Chuck laughs and thinks he may just have conquered the whole world. “If I do, sir,” he says, and the formal address suddenly is the most difficult thing he’s ever said out loud, “I’ll never call you anything else again.”

Familiarity is the most dangerous game of all. Chuck’s relatively sure that Nixon, at the very least, has noticed how Speirs’s first instinct is to catalog entries and exits to a room and how his second instinct is always to look for Chuck. “You’re reading his mind and it freaks me the hell out,” is Tab’s most-heard complaint as they move further into peace. And Chuck tries, really tries, to keep the gnawing feeling of longing in his stomach that swoops so treacherously at Speirs’s proximity at bay. It doesn’t stop him from telling a joke and enjoying Speirs’s brief huff of laughter, or from arguing about a night patrol set for the anniversary of D-Day, or from rolling his eyes at the man from across a crowded room as Easy’s daily chaos takes hold. It doesn’t stop Speirs from sitting with him at night, with a cigarette shared between them, nor does it hold the man back from tentatively sharing stories about home that Chuck hums acknowledgment in all the right places to.

Speirs is all Chuck remembers from the weeks following his almost-but-not-quite-dying experience. Speirs’s hand, so warm and heavy in his own, that anchors him to this world. Speirs’s voice, reading out loud to him long before he has speech to answer with. Speirs’s presence, even at night, even at odd hours, right there with him as he wakes from nightmares to find half of them turned into reality. Chuck finally surrenders, he does, and calls him “Ron” when the sound of any s he tries to say turns sibilant and crumbles into pieces on his tongue. Ron’s eyes are strangely light from there on out.

Chuck makes it home before Ron does. Goes through the whole nine yards of recovery feeling like something is missing from him. The doctors think it’s to do with his speech, his restricted movement in his left arm, his slight limp that gets worse on his bad days. He knows it isn’t anything to do with that. Doesn’t find the words for what he’s missing until the phone rings one night and it’s Ron on the other side of that, his speech measured and yet strangely comforting, his voice warm in Chuck’s ear as one of Chuck’s stories has him laughing out loud, and he finds himself sitting on his bed at three in the morning cradling the receiver and daring to dream.

They meet at a halfway point somewhere in the middle of nowhere following mutual protests over having the other come see them – “it’s not fair,” Ron says, “you coming all this way on that salary” – “it’s not fair,” Chuck replies, “to let you travel all that way when you just got home from being halfway around the world” – and it should be awkward and strange and all the things they say homecoming is supposed to be like for a soldier.. except it really isn’t, and Chuck thinks he could get used to the sight of Ron casually rolling up his sleeves and the sound of Ron’s laughter streaming out more unreservedly than ever before and the warmth in Ron’s fleeting touches that turn more frequent with time.

In every universe, in every timeline, in every instance, Chuck is the one who kisses Ron first. It’s something he doesn’t spend a lot of time deliberating about. It’s something that just happens – when Ron’s smiling at something he said and his eyes crinkle with softness, or when they’re arguing and Ron’s being so fucking stupid he can’t cope, or when Ron’s being that brand of daring he likes so well, or or or.. – and it’s something he will never apologize for. He’s rarely the one to instigate the second kiss, because Ron’s way of controlling a situation is to face it head-on and confront it with the same alarming intensity he approaches anything else.

Chuck can settle down wherever. He’s learned to roll with the punches life throws his way, and Ron’s continued career in the military is sometimes the biggest punch of all. Chuck lives alone in those moments when Ron is needed somewhere, when he needs to share Ron with the rest of the world, and he’s quietly proud of Ron in a way he’ll never say out loud. He never even considers restricting it, knows some battles are just something Ron needs but will never ask for, and he picks up a few tricks from Ron’s wilder adventures that are as amusing as they are interesting. (Tab still complains that all Chuck’s pet names for his goddaughter – Tab’s eldest girl – are in Russian and thus vastly confusing. Ron just laughs and kisses him every time Chuck sleepily calls him solnishko.)

In another reality, or perhaps even in this one, Ron is actually an adept painter whose depictions of war and trauma are startlingly vivid and colorful. He’s rarely seen without splotches of paint marring his skin – up to his elbows in all things bright and dark – and Chuck has a good laugh every time he discovers a random streak of paint in Ron’s hair. What nobody knows is that Ron also illustrates every single one of the children’s stories Chuck has come up with over the years.

These two don’t marry. Chuck merely raises an eyebrow at the idea, while Ron shrugs and calls it the most unnecessary formality. They’re not always joined at the hip, or even located in the same space. There have been times Ron was halfway around the world. There have been times Chuck threw his hands in the air and went off to their summer cottage all by himself. Their fights, on the rare occasions when they happen, are big and ugly and confrontational without fail. There is just one constant: they always come back to each other. They fall back together every time as though not a single second has passed since they saw each other last, as though they can hear the unspoken apology and open their arms wordlessly to each other again, as though it’s always just going to be them together at the end of all things.

[yelena-bellova]

Please Let Me Love You: Steve Rogers x Reader

Plot: Reader and Steve have loved each other for years, but the Reader’s insecurities and grief could kill their chances of it ever happening.

Prompt: “Please let me love you”
“No, I’ll only end up breaking your heart”
”What if I’m okay with that?”

Warnings: Language, grief, steamy situations (no smut)

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: It’s been a while since I’ve written for Steve so I might be a little rusty. I’m also shit at writing steam so my apologies LOL This was done for @hopingforbarnes writing challenge, go check out the other works that were part of it! (Also, sorry for no ‘read more’ for some reason my phone won’t let me add it 🙄 Enjoy!

*gif is not mine but if it’s yours let me know so I can credit you*

———————

It was one of those nights.

I sat in the living room of the compound, wrapped in a thick blanket on the couch. The cable box’s clock said it was 3AM, sleep definitely wasn’t my friend tonight. I’d tossed and turned for an hour before my body finally gave in, only to be woken up a few hours later by a nightmare. I was back in Wakanda watching Thor slide his axe into Thanos’ deep chest, hearing the titan’s cries of pain. I watched as he snapped his fingers and disappeared into whatever portal he’d suddenly created. But the worst part was watching my teammates disappear again. I saw Bucky drop to his knees and dissolve, I grabbed Wanda’s ashes in my hands, I cried Sam’s name as I searched the forest for him. Then I woke up, clutching the sheets in my hand and letting my tears fall.

I sipped at my glass of whiskey, Tony had curated an amazing selection of alcohol and he’d left it at the compound when he’d retired. Times like these were when I wished he was still here. If I was being honest, I was fairly jealous of him. He’d walked away. Wiped his hands of all responsibility, married Pepper and built a new life for himself. It sounded nice, but I knew that my opportunity to have it had long passed.

“Trouble sleeping?”

I turned my head quickly to see Steve walking out of the elevator towards me.

“No,” I replied dryly, “I just really enjoy the enthralling nightlife.”

He smirked and made his way over, sitting in a chair a few feet away from me. Steve was no stranger to nightmares and he’d been trying to help me deal with mine for years. He’d come into my room when he heard me screaming and would stay with me until I calmed down. He’d whisper reassurances that I was safe and that he was there for me. And the terrible part was, I loved it. Even worse, I needed him.

“I didn’t hear you scream or else I would have come in.” Steve said quietly, watching me stare at the contents of my glass.

“Tonight was an anomaly, I simply woke up crying,” I said, not daring to look him in the eyes. It was too dangerous...

“You still could have woken me up, I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got to be a big girl and deal with my own issues at some point.” I responded before emptying the last bit of whiskey into my mouth, savoring the burn.

Steve leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, “It’s not a weakness to need help, y/n.”

I chuckled humorlessly, “Steve, I can’t run to you every time I have a nightmare forever.”

“Yes, you can,” he replied softly, “You could wake me up every night and I would still come running to help you, to hold you, whatever you needed.”

I finally met his gaze, his stare so intense I felt like he could see right through me. And I hated that. I hated the feeling of vulnerability and someone being able to tear down the walls I worked so hard to put up. Steve was the only person who had knocked down practically every single one without me even realizing.

“It’s not your job to save me, Captain. I think I’m a little beyond saving. Maybe you should spend your time helping people who can be helped.”

Steve didn’t budge at my sharp rejection, he simply drew a deep breath and said, “You can keep trying to push me away but it’s not going to work. I’m not going to abandon you to deal with this on your own.”

Tears flooded my eyes at his words, knowing the meaning behind them. We’d never actually talked about it but we both knew there was something there. The whole team, when there had been a whole team, knew it too. We were teased mercilessly about it. It didn’t seem to be a secret that Steve and I basically belonged to each other, but never officially. But things had changed in the past few years. It wasn’t as simple as it would’ve been pre-Accords and certainly not Pre-Snap. The only thing that had stayed the same throughout all the shit we’d been through was Steve’s devotion to me.

Steve left his seat and kneeled down at my legs, resting his hand gently on my knee,

“Y/n...” his tone was desperate, “Please let me love you.”

I let the whiskey glass fall in my lap and turned my face away from Steve. My dam was breaking and I feared one more word that I didn’t deserve would cause it to crack and flood the entire room.

“No, I’ll only end up breaking your heart.” I whispered, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak at a higher volume.

Steve’s thumb traced the curve of my knee, “What if I’m okay with that?”

There it was.

The dam broke.

“No!” I exclaimed as I threw the blanket off my torso and stood to my feet. The whiskey glass rolled across the floor and I walked in the opposite direction. I turned to Steve with tears streaming down my cheeks,
“Steve, I can’t do this! I’m not the girl for you, no matter how much I want to be. I’m so fucked up from the past few years I don’t even recognize myself when I look in the mirror. I’m so far from who I was when we met and it breaks my heart. I’m so fucking damaged that there is no way in hell I could love you way you deserve to be loved. You deserve so much better than someone who wakes up every night screaming and can’t get out of bed most days or someone who gets drunk to try and make themselves forget.”

My vision was clouded from the tears but I could see the broken expression on Steve’s face. I’d only seen that look once, when he sat in the Wakandan soil holding his best friend’s ashes. The fact that I was the one causing him that pain made me feel like a piece of shit. Yet for some reason, I continued…

“We had our chance and we didn’t take it, we can’t go back and change the past, Steve.” I said with a quiet sniffle, I was breaking my own heart along with Steve’s.

Steve opened his mouth to say something, but closed it a second later and began to leave the room. I watched him walk to the elevator, his posture resembling a man who’d just lost in battle. Before the doors closed, he turned to me,

“I don’t care if you’re not the same person you used to be, I’m always going to love you. Every single version of you.”

Then the doors closed and he was gone.

It didn’t take long for me to sink to the floor and start sobbing. Here I was trying to protect us both and yet I felt like I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life. This wasn’t some random guy I’d met at a coffee shop, this was Steve. Steve. I’d never wanted to be with someone like I’d wanted to be with him. Memories began to flood my mind of the moments that caused me to fall in love with him, each one more painful than the last. But the worst one had happened three years ago, only a few days before Bruce had called telling us Vision was in danger.

——

“Why the hell did you do that, Rogers?” I exclaimed, my voice echoing in the nearly empty safe house we were currently staying in. Sam and I had dragged Steve out of the battle we’d just been in, Natasha covering us. We’d carried all 200 pounds of muscle back to the house and he was currently laid out in front of me on a cot. Sam and Nat were doing routine perimeter checks while I was in charge of taking care of Steve’s wound.

“What was I supposed to do?” Steve asked through gritted teeth as I began removing his armor, “Let you get shot?”

“Yes! I didn’t ask you to jump in front of me!” I replied, throwing the top layer to the side and beginning to cautiously peel away the tee shirt underneath. Steve hissed as fresh air hit the bullet wound, once his abdomen was exposed I grabbed the nearby first ad kit.

Steve didn’t reply to my last comment, he simply let me work. Though he may have been a super soldier, he still very much felt pain. As I sterilized the wound and located the bullet, he let out a groan and I mumbled an apology. Thankfully, the bullet hadn’t hit any major organs so he wouldn’t need surgery. Thank God, because I wasn’t ready to perform a medical procedure in a glorified cabin in the middle of Romania’s forests.

I removed the bullet easily, only getting a moan from Steve, I could tell his accelerated healing was already kicking in. I still needed to stitch him up and to do that, I needed to be at a different angle.

“Sorry to make this awkward but, uh…” I said while looking from Steve’s face to his lap.

“No, it’s fine.” he responded passively, I had a feeling he was too exhausted to care.

I nodded and stood up, then carefully lowered myself into his lap. This was beyond awkward, for me at least. I’d never told Steve how I felt about him and here I was sitting on his crotch while he was shirtless. There were thoughts running through my head that were making me blush and I just prayed he didn’t notice it. Regaining my focus I took the bloodied gauze pad off his wound and grabbed the needle and thread in the kit.

“This part usually sucks, hold onto me if you need to, kay?” I said softly, he nodded in response. If the bullet removal hadn’t caused him to scream, he’d be fine with a few stitches.

As soon as the needle pierced his skin, his hand flew to my waist. It took every ounce of concentration I had to keep my mind on the task at hand rather than how I could feel the warmth of his palm through my suit. I pulled the first stitch through and he moaned slightly, squeezing my hip softly. I inhaled sharply and froze for half a second at the sensation, he was making it harder and harder to focus. As I willed myself to continue, I got through the next one without any movement from Steve. Once I was placing the third out of four, he hissed slightly and his other hand found it’s way to my other hip gripping it tightly. I gasped softly, but Steve didn’t seem to notice it, his eyes were closed. I was embarrassed at how much his simple touch affected me and didn’t need him knowing.

“Last one,” I whispered shakily, he looked through his eyelashes to meet my gaze and nodded.

I placed the last one quickly, Steve’s palms burned through the fabric of my suit as he squeezed my waist one final time. As soon as I was done I dropped the needle back in the kit and let my hands drop, my breathing had picked up without me even realizing it. I quickly remembered I needed to bandage the wound, which would require us to strike an even more intimate position.

Without meeting his eyes, I said, “I need to wrap the wound so you’re going to need to s-sit up.”

Steve was catching his breath, from what I didn’t know, and nodded silently. I knew he’d need help so as he removed his hands from my waist to brace himself on the cot, I placed my hands on his shoulders to bring him up. He groaned as he sat up, not only the wound hurting but his muscles undoubtably sore as well. I quickly grabbed the large gauze pad and folded it, holding it to the freshly stitched wound. I reached also for the tape that would wrap around his torso and hold the gauze in place. Pressing it gently, I began to wrap the tape around Steve, reaching behind him with one hand and keeping the other pressed to his abdomen. His muscles tensed under my touch before relaxing after, his hands snaking up to my sides, higher than they’d previously been. We were practically face to face so I tried to keep my composure but damn, he was making it hard. I continued wrapping until satisfied with my work, I placed a clip to hold it in place and dropped the remainders in the kit.

Neither of us said anything, we simply sat there with Steve holding me firmly in place and our eyes finally meeting. The danger had passed, we were safe, and I now had time to process what had placed us in this situation.

“Why’d you take that bullet for me?” I asked hesitantly, my voice no higher than a whisper.

His hands found their way back to my hips, his gaze somehow both gentle and intense. Goosebumps flooded my skin between the two sensations of touch and sight.

“I wasn’t about to let you die,” Steve said, his chest rumbling from the deep tone of his voice. I could feel his thumb tracing my hip bone and it sent a chill up my spine, this time I knew he noticed. His lips quirked ever so slightly, he could tell he was having an effect on me. My hands went to his shoulders and gripped them tightly as if to anchor myself to him. Steve moved so his arms were enveloping my waist and puling me closer to him.

My breath caught in my throat at the movement, my lips parted as I held Steve’s stare.

“I-I’m not even sure how to thank you.” I replied softly, shifting slightly in his lap causing him to let out a small whimper. Now it was my turn for ny lips to curl a little, realizing that I had just as much of an effect on him.

Steve shook his head gently, our foreheads nearly touching, “No thanks necessary, sweetheart.”

We were both a little touch starved and we both knew there’d been tension between us for years. That was a recipe for either disaster or something delicious, and I wanted nothing more than to find out which one it was. I let my fingers gently run down Steve’s biceps before resting there, causing him to bite his lip and hold me tighter. He pressed our foreheads together, our noses touching and our lips a mere inch or two away from meeting. As much as I wanted to make the next move, I could have stayed in the moment for much longer, simply savoring the electricity. One of Steve’s hands dragged up to my back and splayed out across it as if he was trying to press me as close to him as he could. But to get any closer, we’d have to cross a line.

As our breaths mingled, I knew that it was the moment I’d been waiting for for years. I was going to tell Steve that I loved him. The man had taken a fucking bullet for me, plus with our current position I was pretty confident in my chances of him returning the sentiment.

I pulled away to look at him, his pupils blown and his expression soft, “Steve, I-“

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Natasha and Sam were back.

The moment was gone.

—

I wiped my eyes as I sat on the floor, leaned up against the couch. The tears were finally beginning to slow, but that didn’t mean the sadness had. Steve and I hadn’t spoken of that day and we hadn’t had another one resembling it. My skin tingled at the memories of Steve’s touch, how close we had come to getting everything we wanted. I’d wished so many times to go back to that moment and have Natasha and Sam stay out a few minutes more. All I needed was thirty seconds. All I needed was a chance.

A chance Steve had just given me.

I ran my hands through my hair, how fucking stupid was I? He was standing in front of me saying that he’d take me however I am. He wanted to love me, broken as I was, he still loved me in my damaged state. We’d done this dance for years, we’d come so close before and here I was ready to throw everything away brcause I was stuck in my own grief. I had a shot at happiness, at love, at feeling alive again. I had a shot with the man I’d been in love with for a decade.

And I wasn’t going to miss it.

I sprang to my feet and crossed the room to the elevator, a purpose in each of my steps. I pressed the button to the living quarters and shot up the short distance before the doors opened. Remembering Natasha was only a few rooms down from me and Steve, I realized I couldn’t be as loud in my confession as I felt. Nerves hit when I was only a few steps from Steve’s door. What if I’d already missed my chance downstairs when I’d been so cruel? What if I was about to make a complete fool out of myself? As my fist rested an inch away from the door, I almost pulled away and retired to my room.

No, I had to try at least.

I tapped the door softly and held my breath, I hadn’t even planned out what I’d wanted to say. There was no time to think as Steve opened the door quietly, his eyes widening a little at the sight of me. He definitely hadn’t expected to see me again tonight. I stood there awkwardly rubbing my hands together trying to think of the right thing to say. How was I supposed to convey ten years of loving someone into the small window I had? I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. God bless Steve, he stood there patiently waiting for me to be ready.

One of my favorite things about our friendship was that Steve and I had always been able to communicate with each others eyes. It had served us well in battle, on team game nights but I needed it to serve me well now more than ever. I needed him to see every ounce of love and longing I had for him in one simple look. His lips parted while I stared at him as if he could read my mind, his own eyes coming alight.

He pulled me to him so fast I barely had time to register our lips meeting.

I winded my arms around Steve’s neck as I drank in the moment, trying to get as close to him as I could. Both of his hands gripped my back, holding me as if I was about to disappear. Our lips moved together frantically, we were trying to make up for ten years of lost time. He pulled me into his room and I kicked the door shut, never breaking the kiss or losing contact. Steve’s hands slid down to my hips, squeezing ever so slightly and causing a moan to escape me. He was spurred on further now, running his hands down my sides to hit my thighs and lift me up. I quickly wrapped my legs around his waist as he walked us towards his bed, sitting down on the edge. Steve’s lips broke from mine to attach at my jawline to press featherlight kisses, I let out a soft groan and tangled one of my hands in the hair at the nape of his neck. These were the lines I’d longed to cross three years ago in that safe house, this is how I’d wanted that story to end. Steve’s ministrations moved down my neck, kissing and sucking at spots that made me moan louder. He was chasing my pleasure as if it was his own and it only added to what I felt for him in the moment.

Once he reached my shoulder, his lips ghosted over my skin and he chuckled. I pulled away, my chest heaving, hoping he wasn’t beginning to regret our actions.

“Are you okay?” I whispered through my pants.

He nodded, his forehead pressed against my skin, “I just never thought I’d get to hold you like this again.”

There it was, the exact moment where my heart burst with affection for Steven Grant Rogers when I thought it was impossible. Only he could cause such a heated moment only to make it the sweetest.

He pulled his head back to look at me, his lips swollen, his hair messy and his eyes lit up. He’d never looked more beautiful and he’d never looked more at ease. I wanted nothing more than to love him the way he deserved and beyond.

I moved my hands to his cheeks, “I love you so much, Steve. Please tell me I didn’t fuck this up.”

He stared at me with lips parted and a lopsided grin, “Sweetheart, I think we’ve both fucked this up enough over the past ten years. You getting upset one time isn’t going to scare me off.”

I smirked, “Language, Captain.”

Steve laughed lightly before pressing a kiss to the inside of my palm,

“Promise me,” he said softly, his eyes closed as he left more kisses in my hand, “Promise me you won’t leave, not just tonight.”

My heart broke at the fact that my insecurities and inability to deal with my emotions had caused him so much pain. He’d been waiting years for me to come out of my hole of grief, just hoping for a moment like the one we were in the midst of. I wanted to make up for every missed chance and lost opportunity we’d seen.

“I’m not leaving,” I said, pressing our foreheads together and dragging Steve’s hand to my chest to rest over my heart, “You’re stuck with me, Rogers.”

“Not a bad proposition if you ask me,” he grinned, tracing his thumb across the neckline of my tank top, “I love you so much.”

I smiled, tracing a finger over his lower lip, “I love you too.”

He connected our lips again, this time softer than when I’d entered the room. For the first time in a long time, everything felt right in the world. I knew outside the compound, the world was still on fire. In the morning we’d have to worry about missions and doing what we could to help rebuild but for now? For right now, all Steve and I had to do was make up for ten years of lost time.

[boogiewrites]

A Shelby in Margate

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Shelby Sister (OFC), Tommy Shelby

Summary: Penny Shelby has only wanted one thing, to not be a Shelby.  Perhaps the man she’s loved from afar can help her with that.

Warnings/Tags: Angst and Fluff. CONTAINS SEASON 5 SPOILERS.

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

A Shelby sister is something no one asks to be, and certainly something no one really wants. Especially when the relationship to a very bold and brash man named Tommy Shelby causes such grief in your life that you give up on finding a happiness that most women expect out of life and you move forward with the form of Scarlet Letter on your face that being Shelby lends.

Penelope or Penny Shelby was as crude and difficult as the rest of her siblings. Born after Tommy and before Ada, her darling sass of a little sister that she took great pride in helping raise. With the Romani blood running fiercely in her veins just like her Aunt Polly, before Tommy was a household name in Birmingham she could’ve gotten away with saying she wasn’t a Shelby at all due to the dark complexion she held. Olive skin set her apart and caused her enough trouble from the prejudice of the travelers and Irish alike she came from. She held that same icy blue eyes of her older brother, and hair as black as the coal from the fires they grew up with. A smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks like her mother and a glare that could cause a grown man to tremble like her closest Aunt Polly.

Despite her strong exterior, the pain and turmoil of her life, mostly derived from her older brothers had left her soft and weary on the inside. She drank to cope, as did they all. She didn’t turn to the drugs, as if Tommy would’ve ever let her hear the end of it. She had been stronger, both inside and out only a few years prior. The final blow leaving her gaunt and haunted was the loss of a man she had thought of as her own, even if he never had been in any formal sense. Oh, how she’d loved him. His ability to outsmart her seemingly unstoppable brother, his smart mouth and intimidating physique. He was unlike anything she’d ever experienced and found herself enamored with the only slightly older man who she saw as her escape from forever being known as a Shelby.

There were few names as infamous as Solomons, and she knew that name would be her ticket out of the shadow of her brother. Unfortunately, Alfie was a bit more hesitant than she. Not that she wasn’t a lovely little bird, reminding him of some forest nymph from a fairy tale his mother would’ve told him as child with her haunting eyes and a smile so out of place with its genuine affection for him among a clan of troublesome Shelby’s it made his chest stir in a way he feared. She had proven herself loyal to him, little hints she knew he was clever enough to catch in the fleeting moments alone they shared. He knew she fancied him, lingering touches of her hand to his as she spoke softly and quietly. Eye contact that never wavered and that bloody smile she only had for him. It wasn’t until an encounter that her brother didn’t know about to this day, that he finally knew her intention.

“Penny, love? What are you doing here?”

“Saving your stubborn arse.” she chokes out, hands shaking with the heavy pistol between them, still smoking from the bullet just gone through the Italians head that was about the draw on him.

“Does your brother know you-”

“Fuck Tommy!” the tears finally break in her eyes and begin their descent down her cheeks. She lowers the gun and lays it on a crate beside her, slumping onto a hip height box with the exhaustion shown on her face. “He’s the reason John’s dead. The reason why these fucking wops are after us. And now YOU. I can’t lose anyone else.”

“There there, pet.” he says pushing the gun away and not knowing what to do except take her hand.

“I came to tell you they were coming for you. I overheard it. I couldn’t let them kill you, Alfie, I can’t lose you too.” she begins to sob, something he never thought a Shebly was capable of at that point. Grabbing his shirt she pushes herself into his arms.

“Lose me?”

“Alfie you’re too clever to not know how I feel about you.” she shakes her head and doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I had…suspected.” he pauses, his gut hurting for the poor lass. “But your brother.”

“I said FUCK TOMMY SHELBY! I never asked for this! I don’t want to BE a Shelby! I’m done. Finished. I can’t take life in his shadow.”

“Penny…love…” he says softly, “I”m leavin’ ya know. Retirin’. I’m finished with this life, I know they’re comin’ for us all. And I’m takin’ my gains and I’m gone.”

“Where?”

“That’s no concern for you. The less you know the better.”

“Take me with you.”

“That would be the end of me.” he lets out an amusing sound, almost a laugh.

“Alfie. I’ve admired you from afar for so long. It feels almost childish to think of you as my own when we’ve never even discussed it. We’ve barely been allowed time alone. But I feel something so strongly for you. It must be love.”

“You are not a child at all. And I’ve known by the way that bloody smile takes me out at my knees like a steel pipe that there was somethin’ there.” He sees the hope flicker in her eyes and his heartbreaks. “But we can’t. I’m not the man for you. As much as I’d like to be. It ain’t me love.”

She leaves with gunpowder on her hands and tears staining her dress that night. The news he was dead found her not too long after that. And now she stood mere yards away, unknowingly, from the man she’d loved from afar that she had mourned and still thought was dead.

—–

“What fuckin’ else can I do for ya Tom? From the way that hats being wrung I know that ain’t all ya want of me.” Alfie gruffs, reclined in his velvet chair that faces that balcony of his mansion in MArgate where he hides.

“There is one more person… that I want to know you’re alive.” his voice is as flat and dead as his face lends you to believe he is.

“Not asking for much, eh?” Alfie raises a brow. “Who?”

“Someone that deserves to know.” the way his shoulders slouched told Alfie everything he needed to know. Guilt that sat heavy on Tommy’s shoulders for what he’d almost done. And not for Alfie’s sake, but for Penny’s.

“Mmmph.” he nods. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Best she thinks I”m dead. What use as I to her now?”

“I knew she loved you.” he states plainly.

A fact that Alfie actually hadn’t known. “Did you?”

“You think I don’t know me own baby sister?” he asks with a slight twist of anger.

“Said no such thing.”

“You’ll want to thank her for Cyril being taken such good care of. She’s treated that dog as if it were her own son.” a ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “That is after she cried for a month after she heard you were dead.” he pauses. “You know she cried more over you than her own husband?”

Alfie only nods. Knowing like most women her age her first husband died in the war. He realizes she had truly meant what she said. “We never…” Alfie clears his throat. “Y’know.” his attempts at being respectful amuse Tommy deeply.

“I knew that too.” he nods.

“Why do you want to hurt the poor girl again?”

“She visits your grave, Alfie. Just the other day she was telling Cyril stories of his papa.”

Alfie’s stomach turns. Had he made a mistake? Had he been too selfish.

“I take it by you being here she doesn’t know you’re the one what done it.”

“She does not.”

“Mmm. And how are you going to work around that?”

“Once she knows you are not dead I won’t have to.”

“I know you’re gambling man Tommy but those are steep odds. Against you, I might add.”

“I know her. She’ll forgive me.”

“That's’ what you bank on every time innit?”

Tommy glares at him. A silence falls between them as Alfie looks out to the sea from the open set of doors on the balcony.

“Alright.” Alfie grunts and sits up, taking a deep breath. “Since she’s taken care of my dog. ‘Spose she deserves to know.” he nods, taking a heavy sigh. “But I might frighten her now. She won’t be seein’ who I was.”

“I’ve heard her prayers, Alfie. When she thinks no one, not even God is listenin’ to her anymore. She won’t be frightened.”

A grunt is all he can say to such a thing.

“I’ll go fetch her.” Tommy says as he groans and stands.

“Ya fuckin’ what? Now?”

“She’s just outside.”

“What the fuckin’ hell Tom?” he gruffs out angrily. “Ya can’t just appear to a man in such a way and demand things of him in a state like I am!”

“She deserves to know,” he states plainly again. “I brought her because I didn’t want you going back on your word after you had time to think about it.”

Alfie gives his signature frown. A bottom lip jutted over his mustache in frustration. “Fuckin’ ‘ell. Not even had time to think ‘bout it!”

“That’s the purpose this serves. She deserves to have a real reaction. Not your carefully crafted answers.”

“What do you want of me Tom?” he asks plainly. “You surely don’t want her to be with me? Especially not NOW.” he juts the scarred side of his face forward.

“It’s no issue to me how you look. That’d be up to her, wouldn’t it? But have you known Penny to be shallow?”

Alfie sits back in his chair, elbows on his knees and looks at the dusty rug beneath his boots. “Lass is as deep as the ocean.” he mutters. She’d told him everything he as to her, a body was nothing but a vessel for his soul she said. Something he’d thought a bit naive back then, but upon reflection he found it taking a new meaning to him. Maybe a Shelby was right about something stranger things had happened.

“Then I’ll fetch her. I suggest you figure out which side of yourself you’re going to be honest with.”

—–

Penny in her summer dress wanders the garden as she was instructed, feeling the kiss of a sea salt breeze against her face. She loved the sea, and so rarely had seen it, felt it against her skin. The open expanse of it, the infinite mystery and possibility it held fascinated her. Tommy’s voice breaks her from her reflection, leaning against a stone wall and looking out at the waves crashing into the daunting cliffs.

“Come now Penny, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

She nods and fusses with her windblown hair. “This house is lovely.” she almost coos as she crosses the threshold.

Alfie hears her voice. What sort of man had he been to hurt her how he did. To prolong it in such a way. She was a rose among the thorns of her family, the women the only ones worth a damn out of them. She’d saved his life, took in a painful reminder of him and cared for Cyril after he was gone, kept his memory alive and he’d abandoned her. If she shot him where he stood he’d deserve it.

“Look at all this.” he can feel the genuine lilt like a songbird to her voice. “Who lives here? This place is fantastic. Look at all these interesting and eclectic things. You could spend hours and never see the end of it.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Tommy says standing in the archway into the room where Alfie stood. “Here’s the owner. You can discuss it all with him.” What a loaded statement and delivered so cooly.

Penny walks slowly, taking in her surroundings with great interest before her head turned and saw the man silhouetted in the light of the sun, framed by two open patio doors with that same sea breeze fluttering the long curtains that hung. She freezes, eyes fluttering in confusion. That posture, that build. The vest and the white billowy sleeves. A glint of light of the rings that adorned his overworked hands. It was him.

“Wh-I- H-how?” she whispers out, not even loud enough for Alfie to hear, but Tommy heard every beat of her heart as he watched the realization come over her face.

“‘Ello, love.” that warm, liquor voice that burned and soothed hit her like a hammer, taking her knees out from under her as Tommy caught her.

She squeaks and tears appear hot and plentiful in her eyes. “You can’t…you…” her breathing wheezes and she holds onto Tommy for support, her body failing her out of shock.

He turns his good side first, seeing her just as lovely as she ever had been. Sun-kissed skin from the season spent in the north in the caravans, that long wavy hair that framed her shocked face, touseled perfectly by the winds of MArgate. Despite the posh sort of dress Tommy was now known for, she was still in simple cotton. Her boots tight around her ankles and shiny, dirt under her nails from the garden. A salt of the earth woman that was wrongfully placed in the shit hole of Birmingham away from nature where she belonged.

“Alfie.” she finally forces out.

“Yeah, love. I’m afraid it’s me.” he says with a pain in his voice, one of fear of rejection as he lets the light show his true side as he called it. The side of him that showed what a monster he had been, the monster he was.

Her face remains unchanged. “Alfie you…” she wheezes and gasps, he takes a step towards her and she pushes out of her brother’s arms. Stumbling with the numbness in her limbs as she finds herself once again sobbing into the shirt of the man she still loved. No matter how hard she’d tried not to over these last years.

“There, there, pet.” he says just as he had the last time she’d heard it, but this time it is accompanied by the wrapping of warm and affectionate arms around her. He shushes her as she cries, soaking his shirt and hiccuping, a hand stroking her hair, the other rubbing her back. All things she’d dreamed of so often she’d lost track of if they’d ever happened or not.

“Is this real? Or did I jump off the cliffs outside and now I’ve somehow found myself not in hell?” she manages to get out with her forehead pressed to his chest.

“You’d most certainly go to heaven. And since I am here with you, I’m afraid that means we’re both very much still alive.”

“HOW? I heard you were shot!” her voice break as she looks up from his chest to meet his face. Seeing nothing but the man she’d longed for. She’d told God she didn’t care what state he was in, just give him back to her. Her last chance at happiness, her last shot to have someone who truly could understand her and her life.

“I was. As you can tell.” he shrugs his shoulder on the marked side of his face. Just as Tommy as said, and Alfie is fully frustrated he was correct, she reaches up to touch his face without even an inkling of regret or fear o disgust.

“Are you still hurt?” is her concern and he takes a long, deep breath to compose himself. He didn’t deserve her. Maybe he’d known all along and that was why he’d told her now. Because deep down, who gave a fuck what Tommy Shelby thought.

“It does sometimes, yeah.” he nods, speaking softly as her fingertips move over the raised scar on his cheek, looking over the milky eye that was blinded by the same bullet that made the disfigurement she was touching as if was perfect skin. “Certainly doesn’t right now though.” his voice is quiet, looking into her bright eyes full of tears for him.

One dark eye under the same heavy brow and a fuller beard now that hid those full lips, unphased by the shot, beaming down at her with what she could’ve sworn was affection. “How?”

“Man that shot me can’t shoot worth a damn is how.”

He sees storm clouds darken her eyes in a more clear moment of recognition. “Who?”

“That’s a question for your brother.” he leans in close, almost touching his forehead to hers.

She spins out of his arms, suddenly full of vengeance and steady. “Who?” she demands.

Tommy takes his stand. “I did.”

“YOU BASTARD!” she lunges at him and is whisked off her feet by Alfie.

“Can’t argue with that.” Tommy mumbles.

“YOU KNEW! YOU FUCKING KNEW HOW I FELT ABOUT HIM AND YOU TRIED TO KILL HIM? YOU FUCKING WANK STAIN! YOU ABSOLUTE MAD BASTARD!” she screams and fights against Alfie’s arms to maim her brother. He would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been so focused on keeping her from hurting herself.

“I asked him to!” Alfie shouts and he feels her little legs stop kicking.

Her head shakes in confusion. It was a lot on the poor lass to take in all at once. “Wha-What?” she squeaks and keeps her eyes on Tommy as Alfie sits her feet back to the floor.

Tommy stands with a confident nod. Not sure if he was proud that Alfie took credit for what had happened, because he had all but pulled the trigger.

“I asked him to, Penny.”

“Why?!” she screeches with a hand to her chest as she faces him, back humped over and heart feeling as if it might give out.

“The doctor. Wrongfully so told me I had cancer love.”

Once again her knees fail her as he scoops her up into his arms, seeing her head wobble and eyes lose focus.

“Poor things gonna faint.” he mutters, sitting in his chair and pulling her into his lap.

“She’ll be fine. Give her a moment.” Tommy says with complete faith. He was asking a lot of her, but he knew she could take it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have gone through with it. As hard as he was, as much as he’d agree he was a mad bastard, he didn’t want to purposely hurt his sisters. It just so happened they got in the way of his plans at times and Penny found herself right in the middle of them currently.

“C-cancer?” she asks with a gasp of air, fighting to stabilize herself. She felt light-headed, but the arms around her helped, the beat of the heart under her palm helped the most.

“Yeah. Told me I was gonna die. I didn’t wanna waste away y’know? Not any sort of death for a man to face.” she shook his head. “Your brother and I. Had a…sort of agreement. To kill one another if it came down to it, yeah?”

“What in the fuck are you talking about?”

Her brash tone makes him chuckle. “The correct response, yes love. “ he nods. “I was told I was dyin’. Had Tommy meet me on that beach out there to kill me. And he thought he did. But add it to the long list of things your brother innit good at.”

His brows shift and rise and fall across her face, eyes wide and questioning. “You thought you were going to die. So you wanted ti over with.”

“I told you she’d understand.” Tommy adds from across the room, staying silent and still.

“Of course my friend’s mum… it would’ve been a kindness to end it for her.” she reflects. “So… you knew?” she asks with hands no longer shaking. “When I… told you about…how I…:

“I did.” he nods. “I wasn’t gonna put you through that. That’s not…that ain’t me, love.”

“I would have.” she states with conviction and his shoulders falter at the hurt in her eyes. “I mourned you. I cried until nothing came out any longer. I drank, I took pills, tonics, hoping to wake up wherever you were. I would’ve still…It wouldn’t have stopped me.”

“You don’t mean that…”

“Don’t tell me what I fucking mean Alfie!”

Tommy smiles from across the room.

“Right, right, sorry mate.” he sputters out with true surprise in his raised brow. Something about this little lady cut him down from newly adorned god status to a man stuttering in apology. Tommy knew at that moment he’d made the right decision.

Her breathing heavy and fast, she glares at him. “My head is spinning, my heart is on fire and my stomach feels like it’s gonna fall out my arse and I don’t know if want to kill you myself or .or,..” her bottom lip gives her away, a hand to his cheek as she shakes her head and groans.

“…love me?” he asks with a raise of the brow he could. It was a gamble to ask. But with her heart racing like a hummingbird, he could feel against his own chest where she sat.

“How dare you,” she whispers back. But her face isn’t offended, a thumb drifting softly over his blind eye and to his temple. “I can kill you and still love you.” she offers with a smile finally gracing her lips. “I have…I mean, I do. Still. Even now.”

“With me lookin’ like this.”

“Like what? Like a strong man who defied death? Don’t be daft Alfie. I wanted you back no matter what. And I meant it. I meant despite you hiding, letting me think you were dead. Oh, letting poor Cyril think you were dead.” her brows furrow and his heart warms like it hadn’t in decades.

He gives her a smile she finds most peculiar. She’d never seen it before on his face.

“What?” she whispers.

“You, love.”

“What about me?”

The smile remains, followed by a sigh as he looks over her face. Hurt, but holding no hate for him. He puts his hand to her cheek to mirror her own delicate actions. “Why me Penny, eh? Surely other men deserve a woman like you more than me.”

“No other man can handle me. And you know this.”

Another, wider grin from him.

“If I could choose who I love, and I can’t, I’d choose someone else because I know you would be nothing but a pain in the arse but….goddammit Alfie I do.” she gives his face a little shake and presses her forehead to his.

“I don’t deserve a woman like you. You know that right?”

“No one deserves anything, Alfie. You know this. Things just happen.”

“Fuck me, I really don’t deserve ya.” he groans and kisses her forehead.

“But do you want me? Did you ever?”

“You should know I did. I only wanted to protect you.”

“What about now?” she asks with brave eyes that pierce into his, not allow him to look away. “There’s nothing to hide behind now. No protecting me. Just… end it now or let this be the beginning.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell…” he sighs. “How are you a Shelby with a mind that says things like that?” A slow sweep of his thumb over her lips makes her eyes shut and held her breath for an answer. A man like him couldn’t touch a woman like this without something in his heart for her, could he? “I… did and I…do. A man like me… he’s not so good at matters of the heart. The mind is where my talents lie.”

“Then let this be your first lesson.” she kisses the tip of his thumb. “Tell me you love me.”

“Penny I-”

“Thomas, leave.” she interrupts, both hands on Alfie’s face, that smile he’d missed and dreamed of from time to time back and in full force, assaulting his sensibility.

“Already got my hat on. You know my number.” he says and saunters away, content by the way things had played out.

“Now tell me Alfie, love. Let me hear it.” she whispers, nuzzling her nose against his.

“I love you Penny.” he manages with closed eyes. “You’re strong and brilliant. Not suited for the name of Shelby at all.”

She smiles against his lips, feeling the words warm over her skin like honey tea. “Perhaps you could come up with a way to change that?” she grins and he’s blessed with her soft laugh once again.

“I do believe I could.” he coos and finally gives her the soft kiss that she’d been dreaming of. A promise she’d get what she always wanted, to not be called Shelby.

[archadianskies]

Whumptober Day 30

Wound Reveal + Ignoring an Injury→ part 1; part 2; part 3

Whumptober Masterlist | 30/31 of RK900 short stories ↳ on Ao3

Tags: Tags: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings × Team as Family × Good Parent Hank Anderson × Hiding Medical Issues × Stabbing × Gun Violence × Gunshot wounds × Hurt/Comfort 

It’s a full Anderson house. Well, it will be in about ten minutes or so. And ‘house’ isn’t quite right, given they aren’t indoors and even if they were it’s certainly not a house, but that’s how the saying goes so he’ll say it. 

It’s a joint task force between the DPD Android Crimes Division, so that’s Dad Anderson and Big Bro Anderson onsite, and SWAT Unit 32 so he’s onsite, Middle Bro Anderson, and now the mission is wrapping up, CSI will be onsite soon, so that’s Baby Bro Anderson. Four Andersons. They’re just missing Dog Anderson.

“Where the fuck are they, it’s so fuckin’ cold I want to go home and pass out on my bed.” Detective Reed grumbles. Ah yes. There've been killings involving both androids and humans, so DPD Homicide squad are here meaning Detective Gavin Reed is here and Caleb’s patience is wearing thinner by the second.

“Icy conditions are making it hard for CSI to navigate their vans safely.” He informs him because if he doesn’t the man will continue complaining and he may outright murder him. “High body count means they need to bring multiple vehicles.”

“And all their fancy tech, right?” Reed groans. “God we’ll be here all night.”

“No fancy tech.” Caleb shrugs. “Just one RK900.”

“You’re here already.” He gestures vaguely at him. “Why don’t you go put that mouth of yours to use and save us some time?”

Rayner looks about ready to leap at Reed on his behalf which is touching, and of course their Captain is within earshot, a crease marring that handsome brow. Not to worry. Humans have instincts, have automatic reactions to certain situations. Like being handed something out of the blue. 

“Sure. Here, hold this for a second?” Human vs 200lbs custom EMP resistant ballistics shield. Gavin meets ground. Rayner snortlaughs and their unwavering Captain, his captain o captain, wavers just a smidge, the corners of his mouth twitching up briefly.

“Oh, sorry Detective Reed.” Caleb reaches down to grab the shield, human still attached by way of instinctual pincer grasp, and returns both into an upright position. “Anyway though I too am an RK900, I do not have the proper qualifications to perform forensic investigations at crime scenes even if they are raids. Rest assured dear Frederick will get to work as soon as he arrives.”  

“You little shit!” The human shrieks, voice an octave higher in outrage and Caleb steps away from him in favour of crossing the distance and nudging Connor with his elbow playfully.

“Hey.”

“I see you’ve had enough of Detective Reed for tonight.” Connor quips sagely and Caleb shrugs. 

“Can’t believe you put up with him for so long.”

“Not by choice. Can’t exactly murder a fellow detective and keep my job at the same time.” Connor grins, and he laughs at the cheeky expression on his brother’s face. “It’s not so bad now we’re in different divisions. We overlap sometimes, but not all the time so the urge to murder is lesser now.” 

“What do you make of all this?” Changing the subject, he tips his head in the direction of the semi-finished apartment complex, the base of operations for an elaborate crime syndicate that saw both android and human lives cut down for the sake of seizing power in the black market organ trade. 

The raid had been a dangerous one, and though they didn’t suffer any casualties, a third of the team took severe hits and will need weeks of recovery time. The very nature of the building meant they couldn’t ambush them and having the separate floors meant the element of surprise was lost. 

“I think our baby brother has a lot of work ahead of him.” Connor smirks before shaking his head, sighing tiredly. “As do Hank and I. There’s a lot of criminals to question. Reed’s team will handle the human criminals and his interrogation tactic is-”

“Bad, barely competent cop with anger management issues?” 

“-sorely lacking in finesse, but we’ll go with that.” Connor looks him over, reaching out to thumb away a smudge of grime from his cheek. “At least you get to go home soon.”

“Soon-ish.” Caleb corrects, making a face. “Waiting for the last party to secure their floor before the Captain can declare the entire site is secure.” 

“Still, you’ll be out of here long before dad and I can leave. And poor Freddie will be here long after we leave.”

“Gotta have an Anderson onsite.” Caleb laughs, leaning in to bump his brow against his brother’s fondly. “Okay. I better get going. I’ll see you on Saturday at our place?”

“I’ll bring the drinks.” Connor vows, waving as his brother takes his leave.

* 

Watching Caleb return to his team, Connor idly watches their group dynamic and marvels at how his brother is the furthest thing from the cold, unfeeling killing machine CyberLife intended to release for the sole purpose of crushing the deviant revolution. 

They didn’t count on the revolution succeeding. They didn’t count on having their arm twisted by the Kamskis, nor the mounting pressure placed on them by the public after public opinion soared in favour of the deviants given Joss Douglas’ live coverage of the Jericho Four’s final stand. Which meant they offered the RK900 to the DPD as an olive branch, smiling through gritted teeth as Connor deviated him on the spot and it wasn’t a killing machine being activated, it was a young brother who would become Caleb Anderson not long after. 

It was a far harder road for their youngest brother, Caleb’s twin, Freddie. Over eight months, while Caleb had his family, had his team, had a growing relationship, Freddie had been treated as a piece of equipment by Special Agent Richard Perkins and his FBI SWAT team. He’s only now just coming into his own, finding his place in the Forensics team and settling into the Anderson family. 

The CSI vans begin to pull up to the scene and soon the last Anderson brother is onsite. Freddie gives him a small wave and Connor finds himself smiling as he waves in return.

“Hello Connor.”

“Hello Freddie.” He greets, smile growing warmer as the other RK900 offers a grin he most certainly learned from Caleb. “You’re going to be very busy tonight unfortunately.”

“That’s alright. It is my job and I like doing it.” His brother reassures, eyes roving over the SWAT team at the entrance of the building. Caleb spots them and waves enthusiastically, and Connor laughs as Freddie returns it with the same enthusiasm. “The site has been declared secure, so they’ll be heading back to the station.” He relays what must be the short conversation they just shared. “And that means it is time for me to start working.”

“And time for dad and I to start processing criminals.” He sighs heavily. “Well Freddie, I’ll see you back at home. Hopefully sooner rather than later.” He adds, looping an arm around his brother’s waist and pulling him in for a quick hug.

“Okay Connor.” Freddie mumbles into his shoulder. “Say hello to dad for me?”

“Of course.”

* 

It is a drastic change to go from the team storming the site to the team that arrives well after the action is over. He much prefers the latter to the former. He’s grown accustomed to the stillness, to the attention to detail this job requires rather than the chaos of raids, the incessant hail of bullets under Special Agent Perkins’ leadership. Or lack thereof. Caleb’s memories showed Captain Allen prefers a vastly, drastically different mode of leadership that sees him guiding a tight-knit team and playing to both individual and collective strengths. 

Special Agent Perkins barely remembered the names of his own Agents, let alone cared enough to give Freddie one. It’s something he’s had to learn from his brothers; what transpired at his time with the FBI was not normal, it was cruel. His cruelty still lingers like bruises on human skin that take much longer to fade than for the injury to heal. But Freddie is learning, and though he has a long way to go at least he has family now and he has the Anderson name and he has the name Frederick which he chose all by himself. 

The semi-finished apartment complex is the site of a massacre. Even before the raid, it seems the syndicate were trying to cut their losses and decided it was much easier to kill the workers, and thus prevent them from being questioned by the police. Even before the raid, even before the execution of the workers, the complex was already filled with bodies upon bodies; missing humans and missing androids, kidnapped and killed, then harvested for organs or biocomponents. Even if Freddie weren’t an RK900, he’d still be able to smell the dizzying scent of human blood, of android thirium, and of hospital grade disinfectants. 

There’s too many bodies to be housed at the lab morgue so many will have to be diverted to the hospital morgues until they can process them. There’s no mystery to be solved here; it’s very clear how these victims died. The task at hand is processing each and every one so they can be identified and released for their kin to claim. 

Freddie works at a steady pace, his superior commanding him to start at the top floor and work downwards. Most of the cleanup will need to be concentrated in the basement level where the workers were executed, but on the other hand the team will not need his input since the deaths are straightforward. The greatest task will be in trying to identify the parts and matching them to the bodies, ensuring the families will be able to claim their loved ones as whole as possible, and failing that, he will try his best to ensure there’s at least a name, a serial number, so they may be buried with or installed into memorial walls with dignity. 

He takes the elevator and several body bags, and begins the task of retrieving corpses. Police auxiliary units patrol the now quiet floors when not too long ago SWAT Unit 32 would’ve been sweeping through. Arrests have been made, but the ratio of arrests vs corpses is highly skewed. No matter. He has faith in his brothers, in his father, and yes perhaps even Detective Reed. 

The thing about android corpses versus human corpses is that it’s very easy to determine whether a human is dead or alive. For androids, there’s a certain nuance to determining whether an android is still active or deactivated. And the thing is, humans are still learning how to determine between those two. The android in question, splayed in a broken sprawl, riddled with bullets, is not actually deactivated. 

Freddie learns as such, when he is crouched beside the human corpse adjacent to it, because the android sputters to life and the knife in its hand plunges right into his leg. His RK900 programming kicks in and he whirls around, grabbing the android’s wrist and using his other hand to yank the knife from his thigh. Too late does he see the gun in its other hand and it fires at his chest, narrowly missing both his hearts. Tossing the knife aside, he grabs the gun before the android can fire again, twisting so he breaks both wrists before thrusting a hand forward to yank the android’s pump regulator out. They collapse like a cut puppet, jerking and seizing for a few moments before falling still and now Freddie knows they are truly dead.

Police units rush into the room and he reassures them all is well, the android is properly deactivated. He has the pump regulator of the android to prove it. Swatting away the damage notifications to his thigh and chest, he continues with the long, laborious task of finding, bagging and logging each corpse. The thirium loss is steady but not fatal, so he keeps his head down and continues working. 

He has completed missions in far worse conditions, and his brothers and father have both worked so very hard tonight that he feels he cannot let them down by allowing such pathetic injuries to hinder him. He is an RK900. In the FBI SWAT unit he was to keep going until he physically shut down, and he reasons that the same level of dedication is required of him here too. It is only fair, to give as much as they expect and he is far from shutting down over such trivial hindrances. 

It is nearing midnight by the time everything is loaded up and ready to head back to the lab, and he can sense the immense fatigue laying heavy like a blanket over his human colleagues. There is still so much work to do.

“No.” Lenore says firmly, and he tips his head slightly in confusion. “You’re going to say ‘I can get a head start on these while you all go home to rest’ and the answer is no, Freddie, you absolutely are not going to do that.”

“But I-” 

“No.” She repeats, firmer still. “We’re going to run the stuff that needs hours to process, you’re going to just put ID tags on the bodies and then everything goes into the freezers for tomorrow.”

There’s no room for argument, even if he does think he can accomplish much more but it would require him to stay there by himself and they never seem to want to allow him to do that. He is both grateful and confused. “...Understood.”

“Good.” 

* 

By the time Dr Olive declares everything is now at the mercy of the lab equipment and can wait until later, it is nearly two in the morning. Which is fine, since Freddie changed out of his damaged uniform upon arrival and applied dermal nano patches to cover the wounds to stem the bleeding. It could wait until he got home and had access to the first aid kit in the bathroom, since he was needed here at the lab to do actual work and not waste time tinkering on such small matters. 

He hangs up his lab coat, thumb brushing over the embroidered ‘Dr. F. Anderson’ and finding himself smiling, as he does each time, because that is his name and it’s all his and no one else’s.

The lights are out, as expected, their father having gone to bed long ago but Connor is waiting there on the couch. He smiles brightly, standing and crossing the distance to envelope him in a hug. 

“Didn’t think I’d see you until much later, actually.” Connor admits, and Freddie clings for a moment longer because it is a luxury he can afford.

“We processed what we could and are letting the machines run some tests until we come back later. The humans need their rest.”

“They do indeed.” His brother laughs. “Do you want to continue watching the space documentary we started?”

“Yes please.” Freddie nods. “Let me just change into pyjamas.”

He goes to the bathroom, pyjamas draped over one arm which he neatly hangs on the towel rack while he fetches the first aid kit. The nano patches have kept the bleeding at bay though he now has some mild internal bleeding since the blood had nowhere else to go. Negligible. He props his foot up on the bathtub so he can properly assess his thigh, peeling away the patch and beginning to gently ease the damaged wires together again at their rightful place. He’s just about done when Connor appears in the doorway.

“Freddie?”

“Oh, pardon me, I didn’t realise I was taking so long. I will not be much longer, though you can start without me and I can catch up.” He smiles reassuringly, but Connor only looks at him in distress.

“You’re hurt, how did this happen?” Connor comes to his side, peering at the wound before his eyes widen as he spots the larger one on his chest. “You were shot?”

“One of the androids was not actually deceased and managed to injure me before I deactivated him properly.” He holds out his hand to share the memory, and Connor’s distress only increases.

“Freddie why didn’t you tell anyone?” There’s something desperate in his tone, and he really doesn’t like it. It makes him feel like he’s done something wrong.

“I-I was, and still am fully functioning. It was not impor-”

“Of course it was! Of course it is! Anytime you’re hurt, it’s important!” Connor’s LED spins red and Freddie steps back, feeling his own stress levels rise. He’s done something wrong, he has, and it’s made Connor upset. “Freddie- Freddie, no, don’t- I’m not- I’m not angry with you, I’m just- you’re important, you know this, right? You’re important to me. To Caleb. To dad. To your whole forensics team who care so very much about you. When you’re hurt, that’s bad. That’s- that’s not something you brush aside until you’re alone. You don’t have to do this alone.” 

His brother is upset and he thinks he understands now, and it’s because he loves him in a way no one at the FBI loved him, and when he’s hurt it upsets Connor because Connor doesn’t want him to be hurt. It’s a revelation to him, and it must show on his face because Connor draws him close and hugs him again, mindful of the chest wound as he presses closely. 

“Okay, Connor.” He murmurs into his brother’s shoulder, nuzzling the soft fabric. “I’ll ask for help next time it happens.” 

Connor inspects his chest wound, LED still red as he shakes his head. “We can’t repair this one, not even together. It would require-”

“I’ve repaired gunshot wounds by myself before.” Freddie blinks, tipping his head slightly. “I was only repaired by the technician if I lost consciousness from multiple injuries.”

He’s done it again. He’s said something wrong, only now he recognises it’s not wrong so much as distressing because it’s something bad, and he has lived his life believing bad things were normal things and is now trying to unlearn such beliefs. 

“I can do it,” Freddie says slowly, “but I would appreciate it very much if you could help me, please? I can instruct you how. It will be easier with someone helping me.”

* 

It is easier, and faster too, to have someone helping with the repair process. Everything has been set back in its right place, and his self-repair program will kick in and mend the rest. He drinks two full bottles of thirium to replace his bloodloss and by then it doesn’t seem like Connor is interested in watching the documentary at all. 

He is staring anxiously at the door, and Freddie doesn’t know why because it is nearing three in the morning now and no one else should be coming. But someone does come, in fact, because the door is unlocked by the only other person who should have a key and there’s Caleb with a worried look on his face, and Freddie realises Connor must have been talking to him the whole time, keeping him updated with what was happening.

“They said the top floor was clear.” Caleb looks pained. “They said it was clear. That’s why David said the site was secure.”

“Your colleagues who cleared the floor are human.” Freddie points out, as Caleb rushes to him and gathers him up into a tight hug. “They did not realise one of the androids was still active.”

“That’s on us, Freddie.”

“It’s not.” He says, trying to be as stern as possible. “And it’s fine. I handled it.”

“You didn’t, you just kept going until you got home and tried to fix everything yourself!” Caleb is scolding him, but he’s doing it in his Caleb way where his voice is mad but his eyes are worried. Freddie feels a tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with his injury.

“I’m trying to learn that when things hurt, I need to ask for help.” He confesses quietly. “I wasn’t allowed to ask for help back then. I either fixed it myself, or I had to be incapacitated, before I was given help.”

“I’ll kill him.” Caleb vows, slight static in his voice as he holds him close. “I’ll do it slowly, so he suffers.”

“Just…” Freddie presses his lips into a tight line, trying to find the right words. “Just help me learn how to undo all he did, please?”

“Of course.” His twin presses a kiss to his temple and finally he feels his stress levels begin to drop. “Of course we will, Freddie.”

*~* 

Hank’s not sure if Freddie even came home last night, what with the huge mess forensics were left with after they went back to the station to start processing all the arrests. He expects to see Connor pottering around, making tearium for himself and a coffee for him. Kitchen is empty at this hour. Huh. Curiously padding into the living room he finds that empty too, and so he wanders back down the hallway and to Connor’s room. The door is slightly ajar, most likely left open for Sumo. He finds not one, not two, but three androids still fast asleep, with the Saint Bernard sprawled at the end of the bed.

Leaning against the doorway, Hank just watches them for a few moments, heart squeezing at the sight of Freddie in the middle bracketed by his brothers who each have an arm tucked around him protectively. 

Fishing out his phone from his pocket, he snaps a quick photo and quietly retreats back to the kitchen. No harm in letting them sleep in a little longer, they all could use the extra rest.

[holylulusworld]

911 for love (6) - Worshipping you

Summary: You are twenty-five, independent, smart and still a virgin. Annoyed by your friend's comments you want to get rid of the problem by calling a call-boy. Little did you know you will meet two things…love and handcuffs…

Pairing: Cop!Dean x Reader, Bobby Singer, Sam Winchester

Warnings: angst, self-doubts, shy reader, body issues, virgin reader, comforting, fluff, smut, protected sex, fingering, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, possessive Dean (a hint)

911 for love Masterlist

“Don’t you dare to cover yourself…” Dean is circling your bed, staring at your naked body as you try to cover your breasts. He’s licking his lips, clenching his fists as his cock bobs with every move he makes.

Writhing on the bed, lips parted you glance at his huge cock, asking yourself how Dean can be hard for you. Self-conscious you bite your lower lip as Dean crawls back onto the bed to grab your ankles.

“Spread your legs, feet flat on the mattress, Baby Girl. I want to see what’s going on down there.” Smirking Dean licks his lips as you reluctantly let your legs fall open.

Growls leave his lips before he lunges forward to bury his face between your thighs. He’s nuzzling you mound as he smirks up at you.

“Dean…I…God!” His tongue laps at your pussy, sliding through your dripping folds while he grabs your thighs to keep you open, exposed to his preying eyes.

“That’s it, Y/N. Such a pretty cunt. Smooth, all pink and wet for me. I think I must make you mine tonight. No one else is going to see this pussy.” Dean purrs against your sex and you want to tell him no one else wants to see it but his lips work your clit and then he slips two thick fingers into you and you lose it.

Hands fisting his hair you look at the man between your legs, taking what he wants to turn you into a wanton mess. Your pussy greedily let him add another finger to stretch you out.

“Dean…that’s…uh…”

“Does the big bad cop fuck you good with his thick fingers? Can’t wait to have this sweet cunt around my dick, make you scream my name. Damn, I lay claim to you.” His eyes focused on your chest heaving up and down Dean nips at your clit while his fingers work your heated flesh.

“Oh…fuck…” Your walls tighten and before you can stop it you squeeze Dean’s fingers, cursing his name or rather chant it.

“Damn right…mine…” Dean is kissing your clit, still stroking your walls to bring you through your high. “You look beautiful in the afterglow.”

Settling between your thighs Dean fumbles the condom open as you watch him unsure what to do. Shall you say something? Play with your breast like the girls in porn or make odd noises?

Hesitating you sit up to take the condom out of his hands and Dean watches you curiously as you gently stroke his cock. There’s a gasp leaving his lips and you smile up at him.

Dean had sex with many women, but he never felt more captivated by a girl than in this very moment as you roll the condom over his length, giggling slightly.

“You’re beautiful, Sweetheart. Let me show you how much I want you.” Shyly nodding you lie on the pillow, to let Dean take over.

Resting his weight onto his left arm he lies next to you, gently kneading your breast, rolling your nipples between his fingers.

Goosebumps erupt all over your skin and you blush when he captures one nipple with his teeth, suckling it to let the little nub pebble.

When he settles between your legs you can’t stop watching him teasing your clit with his tip, rubbing it along your slit. “Gonna go slow, Baby Girl. Just tell me if anything doesn’t feel good.”

Smiling you hold out your arms and Dean starts pushing into you. Stretching you he can feel your body tense and slides back out, carefully moving his hips to ease into you.

While his lips distract you with soft kisses and little nibbles Dean moans against you, trying to take it slow but it’s hard to now slide right into you to feel your tight heat squeezing him.

“You feel so good, Y/N. Fuck…that’s…” Sliding your fingers through his hair you wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to let him bottom out with a loud grunt.

“Dean…” Whimpering you move your arms around his back, surrounding Dean with your soft body as he peppers kisses along your collarbone. “Feels so … oh…full…”

“Hmmm…” Keeping the first strokes slow and even Dean starts moving inside of you. He’s placing one large palm behind your head to bring you closer to his lips as his free hand grabs your right thigh. “Gonna go faster.” Dean pants against your lips.

Nodding you breathe against his lips. You want to say something instead you moan with every faster coming thrust of his cock. Impaling you on his shaft, his lips claiming yours Dean surrounds you, drowns you into the feeling of his skin against yours and the way he drives into you.

“Dean…”

Your hands move over his back, up to his shoulders as you try to match his movement. You’re a gasping mess, hands now moving down to his ass, squeezing it tightly to press him impossible deeper into you.

Groaning against your lips Dean moves faster, using more force to pound you harder and your hands fly to his hair, tugging it harshly as the burning in your abdomen gets stronger.

“Come..” Dean moans between wild thrusts and you nod, whimpering silently as you squeeze his dick tightly.

Losing himself in the feeling of your heat pulsing around him Dean slows down, giving you shallow thrusts to ride your high out.

There’s a violent twitch, and you look up at Dean the moment he comes. Hissing, eyes closed he shouts your name before he buries his face into your neck.

“That was…” Chuckling you squeeze Dean’s ass once again. “Awesome?” Dean pants and you giggle, nodding as he gives you his panties melting smirk.

“Yeah…”

“Damn, we need to do it again…” Dean mutters nipping along your neck, slightly rutting against you. “What? Now?”

“Baby Girl as much as I want to take you right now I can’t.” This time you smirk, patting his cheek. “I know, Dean. I was always good at biology, ya know. But we can do it later…”

“Count me in, dirty girl. Knew you aren’t that innocent.”

----

Propped onto his elbow Dean slides his fingers over your skin, teasing your nipples now and then, still this dirty smirk all over his face he admires the marks he left on your skin.

“Why is that guy killing those women?” Your question brings Dean out of his daydreams and his expression changes at the thought you would've ended like the other women.

“We don’t know, Y/N. All we know is all the girls called an escort service and died not hours later. We assume that his girlfriend or wife did the same, cheating on him.” Dean explains as you nod.

“Or his mom…Dean.” Turning around you look at Dean, sliding your fingers over his chest. “Most of those sick guys killed innocent people as their mommy wasn’t nice…”

“It’s not that easy. Many serial killers had a bad childhood. Got abused or worse. Sometimes a trauma caused their…” Dean tries to explain more but you press your finger to his lips.

“I get it, Dean. Still hurting other people doesn’t make you feel better.”

“I know. How about a shower, food and I talk to Sam to bring me clothes and stuff. I won’t leave you alone with Detective Asshole and Garth.” Dean is pecking your cheek before he grabs his pants to call his brother.

“Order pizza. I’m damn hungry, Winchester…” Giggling you watch Dean licking his lips, a grin all over his face. “I know I wore you out, dirty girl.”

----

“Why are you at Ms. Y/L/N apartment! I told you to stay away, boy. We could…” Watching you wrap your arms around Dean’s waist Bobby clears his throat, trying to ignore you are only wearing Dean’s shirt.

“I invited Dean to my apartment, Captain. He’s not here as a cop, Dean is here as my … boyfriend.” You exclaim and Dean smirks at Bobby, darting his tongue out to wet his lip.

“Bobby, I know that I’m out of her case, but you can’t tell me to stay away from my girlfriend during vacation. I will not interfere, promised, but the moment Cole opens his mouth and the wrong word comes out I might forget my manners.” Dean points at Cole leaving the apartment next to yours.

“I know, Detective Winchester. Garth told me what Cole said and he knows to never open his stupid mouth ever again.” Bobby rumbles looking at you, apologetic.

“Anything I need to know?” Dean husks watching his brother walking toward your apartment, three duffle bags in his hands.

“Nothing so far, Dean. We will keep on protecting Y/N till we get this guy. I promised no one will hurt her.” Bobby tries to calm you but Dean moves his arm around your shoulders, grinning.

“I’ll protect my girl, Captain. Cole and Garth can find the killer and I’ll take care of her needs…”

“Dude, your bags are heavy.” Sam pants, dropping the bags onto the floor. “Anything else you need?”

“I’ve got all I need, Sammy. My girl, my stuff and there's food on its way. If you excuse us now, Sammy, Bobby. I promised my girl to watch Caddyshack with her.”

----

Curled next to Dean you sleep peacefully as he slightly starts snoring.

Neither the two of you nor Cole and Garth can see the car stopping in front of your house as the man inside glances at Dean’s car.

“Soon…” The man chuckles before driving away. “She’s mine, Winchester…”

911 for love Tags

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