#what the Fuck. i wish i could reach in there and pluck on em a lil. make sure theyre in the right places

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

have i mentioned how great cats are. there's a lil guy in my house and when i lay my head on her side she starts purring so hard <3 and ten seconds later she will try to open my wrist with her teeth <3 truly the best <3

[theinternetisfulloftrash]

My Dearest Trashy,

In honor of my sprained ankle, which is particularly angry today, can you write me a FLUFFY little number where Dylan takes care of his injured girlfriend?

Love,

Your BFF Mischief

Happily. Gladly. Eagerly.

This one goes out to my bestie and her busted ankle. Much love, beautiful human! - Trashy, your filthy enabler ;)

Tags: SWEET AS SHIT FLUFF. DEAL WITH IT, SMUT LOVERS.

Authors Note: Established relationship with a girl named Rachael. Rachael is my go-to for one-shots. If that's your name, I suppose this is an insert? Enjoy? ;) Also, here's some recommended listening, if you're into that kind of thing <3

As Long As You're With Me

God, what a long day. What a long-ass day. Rachael’s ankle ached and throbbed when she finally sat down on the couch. She winced as she reached down to rub at it.

“You’re supposed to be resting that, you know…” Dylan said, walking out from the kitchen into the living room. “Even at work…”

When she’d left that morning, he was still lazily walking around the house shirtless in a pair of grey sweats, so she was a bit surprised to see him looking so pulled together, especially since he said he’d be spending the day at home. He was wearing a dark blue sweater, and a pair of his favorite khakis. His hair was that perfect disheveled he managed to achieve on a fairly regular basis. He looked good, but he always did.

“No rest for the wicked,” she smiled at him, but she was sure it wasn’t convincing him.

He shook his head and sat down next to her, placing his hand on her thigh. “I really wish you’d taken another week off before you started going back into the office.” He looked down at her feet.

“I know, but...they needed me in there and the new guy is a fucking disaster.”

He sighed in resignation with a small shake of his head. “Well come on then,” he said, patting his thigh. “Get ‘em up here.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Yes I do. So, shut up and gimme the hoof”.

Rachael laughed sliding sideways a bit on the couch so she could swing her legs up over his knees. She rested her back against the arm of the couch, watching him as he peeled off her little ankle socks and balled them up before he set them on the back of the couch.

Dylan ran a long finger down the side of her swollen ankle, stilling over the slight bruise that still discoloured it.

Rachael could see the way his brows knitted together like he was feeling her pain when he touched her skin. He loved her. She could see it in everything he did—everything he said—and she loved him too.

“I should have been there when you slipped,” he said, looking up at her as he laid his palm on her skin, the heat of his skin soothing the ache a bit. “Could’ve caught you.”

She smiled with a sigh. “I would have found a way to bust my ass with you holding my hand, and I think you know that.”

He laughed, wrapping her foot up in his hand and rubbing his thumbs into the arch. “The clumsy does run deep, huh?” he grinned, his hands working over her aching joints, but not stressing her tender injury.

She could feel the tension easing, some of the swelling in her foot and toes calming down under his touch.

“So how was your first day back?” he asked, swapping his attention to the other foot.

Rachel paused for a minute, watching the careful way he held her, the gentle way he worked his fingers against her skin. “I mean...it could have been better? Could’ve been worse?”

“Ah,” he said before he pressed his lips into a thin line. “So on a scale of one to workplace-fuckery, you were sitting around a ‘meh’?”

He had a way of making her feel like nothing was worth sweating over too much. That whatever it was that was bothering her just shouldn’t. That he was there for her, and that they’d get through it together. That she could lean on him and he’d gladly shoulder the extra weight.

“Yeah. ‘Meh’ sounds about right.”

“So,” he said, shifting the conversation “I was gonna cook for you, but I figured you’d actually like to enjoy your meal after a long day.” He flashed her a wink.

“Mmm, very astute of you,” she teased.

“Hey!” he reprimanded, his hands stilling on her skin. “I’m allowed to self-deprecate, but no one said you could pile on.”

“Sorry, sorry, go on…” she encouraged.

“So…” he drew it out, teasing her even more with the way he exaggerated the start of his sentence, “I ordered in…”

“Little Duck!?”

He huffed in feigned annoyance. “The art of surprise is entirely lost on you, isn’t it?”

“You act like I shouldn’t know that you’d order pad thai for such an illustrious occasion.”

He gave her foot a small squeeze before he spoke. “Fair.” He continued working over her sore joints with his strong hands, both of his thumbs driving the tension out of the arch on this foot too. “But, I think I can still surprise you,” he waggled his brows.

“Oh, really?” Rachel grinned.

“Mhm,” he hummed, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

“We’ll see…”

He didn’t respond, he simply shook his head. “I’m gonna go grab some ice for this, because...while I know I have a magical touch with these,” he held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “This bad boy,” he pointed to her swollen ankle, “needs the frozen peas treatment.”

She chuckled at him as he carefully lifted her feet from his lap and sat them down on a pillow he tucked under them.

“One sec,” he said, skipping off into the kitchen.

Rachael heard him digging around in the freezer, whistling and puttering around in the drawers for a minute or so before she heard the sound of a bunch of ice skittering across the kitchen floor. “Dyl! You alright?” she asked, sitting up a bit, holding her weight up on her palms.

“I got it!” he said, poking his head around the corner as he chased down an ice cube that had bounced through the threshold into the dining room. “Nothing to see here...don’t get up. I got it under control.”

“All right…just don’t hurt yourself. We can’t both be laid up,” she covered her eyes for a moment with her forearm, clearing her head before she laid back and relaxed, listening to him laugh a little bit before he started to whistle.

“Gotcha, you little fucker,” he said, presumably to an ice cube he’d tracked down in the kitchen. He strode back out into the living room, proudly holding a ziplock bag of ice and a tea towel. “M’lady,” he bowed, presenting the bag like it was a glass slipper on a velvet pillow.

She scooched along the couch to make a bit more space for him to sit down when the doorbell rang.

“Thai!” he almost shouted, wrapping the bag of ice in the tea toweL. He rested it on the pillow and set her ankle on it. “Hold that there,” he said, rushing for the door and flinging it open.

“Will do.”

Their dinner was sitting on the doorstep. “God. Don’t you just fucking love DoorDash?” he asked, plucking the bag from the ground before he shut the door. “Gone are the days of awkward conversations with food-peddling strangers. I couldn’t be happier about it.”

“Are you saying you don’t miss that long minute of awkward silence while you’re waiting for the transaction to finish?”

Dylan walked over and sat the bag on the coffee table. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Fair enough,” she agreed.

Dylan walked past her to the kitchen and grabbed some drinks before he snatched the remote control off the end table and turned on the TV. “Dinner and a movie?” he asked, looking over at her.

“Sure,” she smiled, sitting up a bit.

“Ah, ah,” he tisked, walking around to her side of the couch, standing over her and grabbing a pillow from the chair to place behind her back. “Rest,” he said, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

Rachael sighed at the sweet gesture, but she wanted a little bit more than sweet. When he pulled back from her, she reached and pulled him down to her so that she could kiss him properly. His mouth was quick to adapt to the sudden need hers had for it. He leaned down even more to deepen their connection and his hands were soon knotting into the waves of her hair.

When she felt like she needed a breath, he cradled her face in his hand and peppered her lips and cheek with small kisses until his lips were brushing against the skin of her neck below her ear.

“Someone’s hungry,” he teased.

She smirked, brushing her lips over his ear. “Yeah...but mostly for thai food.”

“Ouch,” he laughed as he stood, “way to hurt a man’s feelings,” he feigned a gutshot as he walked back around the coffee table.

She tucked her legs back long enough for him to flop down onto the couch and adjust the cushion so that it was propped up on his thigh before she rested her ankle on it again.

He turned on the TV and opened Hulu. “Never Been Kissed?” he asked, pausing on the preview screen.

“Really, Dyl?”

“What!?”

“I thought you were going to surprise me?” she teased

He turned to her, looking less than impressed. “Alright, smartass. You pick.” He tossed her the remote.

“Fine,” she said, picking it up as he leaned forward and started taking the food out of the bag. He set her box of pad thai down in front of her, along with a pair of wrapped chopsticks. She grinned when she found the perfect movie. “This one,” she said clicking on it.

Dylan looked up at the TV, and his expression turned to indignation before he turned to her. “Really?” he asked before he ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip.

“You said I could pick!” she whined. “I’m injured and sad…” she pouted, batting her lashes.

He narrowed his eyes, but she knew she had him wrapped around her finger.

He drew in a long breath and sighed it out before he spoke. “Fine..”

She smiled and pressed play, grabbing her food from the table as the title sequence for ‘Love and Monsters’ began to play.

[rebrandedbard]

could I get 49 for the prompts pleaseeee? (:

*weeping* Em, I love you, defending my honour, giving me a way out. You’ve spared me my dignity.

49. “Well this is awkward ...”

WC:  2106

Tidings and Tarradiddles

Jaskier returns to Posada and his path crosses with Geralt’s once more after the unfortunate affair on The Mountain™

-

How was it? Truly, how was it that of all places on the great, wide Continent, Geralt should come to take a contract in Posada, at the farthest of reaches, after months and months of separation, on the one day Jaskier should be in town? And how was it that he’d come the only hour Jaskier had lingered for a drink? It was too great a coincidence, and Jaskier would not give Destiny the credit. She’d not earned the right to claim it. Jaskier scorned her and had stripped her of the right to interfere in any of his further adventures. After all, Geralt had blamed him for her follies—follies which, by rights, Geralt had brought upon himself in the first place.

Even so, he could feel Destiny’s audaciously long and twitchy nose poking about his business the moment Geralt walked through the tavern door. Jaskier huddled in his corner, hoping the shadows were darker than they had been the day he’d found Geralt hunched beneath them. He ought to have known better than to come in the first place. There had been a whole flock of magpies in the middle of the bridge leading into town—a tiding of magpies. Detestable harbinger of tidings, foul and fair. They’d startled at the sight of him and alighted once more on the tavern roof. But he’d ignored their superstitious warning.

Of course the shadows were of no use to him. The moment Geralt stepped inside, Jaskier saw him twitch, cocking an ear his direction. Probably heard the familiar grinding of his teeth: an annoying habit he so often complained of. Jaskier curled up against the wall, trying to make himself smaller to blend in with his surroundings.

For once, it was not so difficult. He’d grown out his hair, had even maintained a healthy bit of scruff on his face in keeping with the stylings of his fellow tavern-goers. He was tired and worn, but above all, he was plain. He no longer wore bright colors, standing out like a beacon in the dark of night. He wore his linen dyed a plain, sensible, muted green. The jerkin on his back was brown and of a practical fit. Altogether, it did not so much scream of sensibility as it mumbled. If he kept his head low enough, he might pass as just another local come in for a pint.

But he was not just another local.

Geralt stopped before his table, standing at Jaskier’s elbow. The click of metal upon the table made Jaskier look up from his drink. It was a coin, spinning round and round. It wobbled and fell on its face, the etching of a worn coat of arms before him.

“Will … will you sing for us, bard?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier stared at the coin. His ears began to fill with cotton, a faint ringing in them. A flash of hot blood coursed through him and he ground his teeth to a halt. He knew this was Geralt’s way of easing into things, working towards something, whether or not an apology was waiting at the end. He knew this was Geralt offering him an out. It was distant. Impersonal. But even in the depths of his rage, Geralt had called him by name. To call him bard and toss a coin to him like some stranger now … it flamed something red and barbaric to life under his skin. He was so deafened by the blood in his ears, he did not hear the approach of the figure standing at Geralt’s side.

“Well, this is awkward,” Jaskier sneered. He picked up the coin, twiddling it between his fingers. Putting up an impassive mask, he juggled the coin over his knuckles in his best impressive manner, as if it were nothing but a worthless toy. “You see,” he said, “I’m not a bard.”

Geralt was quiet a moment. Jaskier could feel his eyes roaming over him. It raised his hackles to know what Geralt must see: the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of age now more pronounced with exhaustion, crow’s feet so defined they might as well have been dug by the claws of vultures. And then, Geralt must have taken notice at last. Gone were the bold silhouettes and blinding colors, gone were the perfumes and oils—but there was one thing more important than all the rest that was missing.

“Your lute,” Geralt said.

There it was. “Gave it up this very afternoon,” Jaskier replied. He slapped the coin down on the table and leaned back, snatching up his half-empty mug. “I travelled a long way to return it home; Filavandrel has it now.”

He took a drink, still avoiding eyes contact. He continued, mumbling over the rim of his mug. “Had a visit. They’re doing better than they were when last we met. I helped them dig rocks from their crop fields for an hour or two. Figured as long as I was shovelling things, I might as well master the art. Use it productively.”

He was being petty. He knew he was, but by the gods, he’d earned it.

When at last he looked up, he did so because he saw a hint of blue beside the table. The potmaid had been wearing a blue dress, and he thought he now saw his escape. He slid his mug to the edge of the table and lifted his head to ask for it to be taken away when he saw a familiar pair of green eyes looking back at him.

“Cirilla?” he asked, surprised. He blinked at the princess, who looked down at the table as his eyes fell upon her. He remembered her as someone taller, regal head held high, smiling, her hair half up in decorative braids and twists. This was not a princess before him, but a girl: her hood casting shadows upon her hollow face. It seemed wrong. She had always been a girl, but a girl with a name. This creature before him stood as a reflection of himself, a thing wishing to hide away, nothing more than a shell.

She glanced up at him, then down once more. Slowly she raised her hand to the table and placed it over the coin. She pushed it towards him with a quiet slide, then dropped her hand once more. “He said you sing wonderful,” she muttered, as if she had not heard him singing in Cintra’s court nearly every midsummer since birth.

Jaskier’s voice stuck in his throat. The memory of a song sat heavy on his tongue. “I … I don’t sing anymore,” he grit out. He turned to look away again, staring at the crack between his bench and the wall. “Can’t sing without music anyway. Might as well be poetry.”

Having no music left him exposed. There was nothing to lift him up, nor anything to hide behind. He could sing among the crowd and raise his voice to join a drinking song, but there was something vulnerable about singing alone. Who sang among bar patrons without some barrier? Even the drunks had their drink to shield them.

He saw Geralt shift out of the corner of his eye. Something new slid across the table, stopping just short of his hand. He looked and saw one of his old notebooks.

“You write good poetry,” Geralt said.

Jaskier scoffed and picked up the notebook. “If there were anything in this worth keeping, I would have remembered to bring it with me when I went down the mountain.” He flipped through the pages, then let the notebook flop back on the table. “You obviously have poor taste,” he huffed.

Without warning, Geralt picked up the notebook and thwacked him on top of his head with the cover.

“Gah! Hey!” Jaskier shouted. He stood up and snatched the book back, smacking Geralt’s arm with it. “What in fuck’s name did you do that for, you brute!”

But he’d looked at Geralt, forgetting to snub him if only a moment. And Geralt plucked the book from his hand with an upward quirk of the lips. “It’s worth keeping,” he said. He handed the book to Ciri, who clutched it tight to her chest in agreement, but still, she looked at Geralt with a stern expression.

“That wasn’t what you were supposed to say,” she scolded.

Geralt’s eyes rolled back and he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Not to me.”

Geralt opened his eyes. He looked at Jaskier, opening his mouth to speak once more. But the look on Jaskier’s face stopped him. Instead, he turned to the door, stalking quickly across the room, words aborted on his tongue.

Jaskier gaped.

“Geralt!” Ciri called. “Where are you going?”

“Just wait here.”

“Geralt!”

“Dinner. I’ll be back in the hour.”

Ciri threw up her hands and dropped onto the opposite bench. She slammed Jaskier’s notebook down on the table and crossed her arms over it. She groaned in frustration, then turned her head to look out at the tavern floor.

“Have you had dinner yet?” she grumbled.

Jaskier looked between her and the door, feeling quite at a loss. “No,” he replied.

“Then you can eat Geralt’s share.” She rummaged in her cloak and pushed a little drawstring bag into his hands. “Here, he left me his purse.”

“And left you from the look of things. Shall I charge him for babysitting?”

“Do. And order another drink.”

Jaskier snorted. “Trying to get me to stay?” He wasn’t so irresponsible as to leave a child alone, even with the threat of Geralt’s return. He didn’t need to be persuaded.

“No. Punishing him for running out; you get his drink into the bargain. Think of it as sending him to bed without supper.”

“I’ll drink to that. It’s the least of the punishments I could inflict.”

They both chuckled mildly at that. A bit of the dense atmosphere lifted and they shared a look. Jaskier cleared his throat and waved for the potmaid. He ordered fare for the two of them, a mug of ale for himself, and a cup of small beer for Ciri. Once they’d both had a bite, they began talking. They traded stories: how Ciri came to Geralt’s care, and what Jaskier had been doing since the separation. Though the conversation was tense, it felt … good … to have a bit of company. He’d been worried since word of the fall of Cintra had reached him. At least Destiny had brought Ciri to Geralt safely. He hoped Destiny would be kind to her where it had failed him.

Jaskier startled when Geralt returned. He’d crept up so silently. Jaskier had been listening to Ciri describe her most recent success in outdoor cooking and hadn’t noticed the movement beside him. Geralt set the lute on the table in front of Jaskier’s empty plate with a sudden thunk, not a word of explanation. He stood there silently, holding the lute upright by its neck.

No one spoke.

Jaskier simply stared at it, felt Geralt stare at him. But this time, he refused to look up. Slowly, Geralt lay the lute down on the table, then slipped away. A minute passed, everything still and quiet. Then, Jaskier peeked out of the corner of his eye and saw Geralt nudge Ciri, nodding his head toward the door.

Ciri looked at Jaskier, her brow anxious and furrowed. She clutched her cup, nearly finished, her plate barren. He could see her mind at work, trying to find an excuse to stay. But she set her cup down obediently. As she turned to stand, she left the notebook behind. Eyes downcast, she slumped to her feet. Geralt held out his hand for her, no longer looking at Jaskier. The moment Geralt’s back was turned, Jaskier felt a cold panic run through him.

“Wait!” he said, fumbling to his feet.

Geralt froze, turning his head back slightly to listen.

But for what? Jaskier reached out, hesitating. He picked up his lute, finding the coin beneath it. The noise made Geralt turn back and Jaskier met his eye. He’d never seen Geralt look so blank, completely unreadable.

Jaskier slung the strap of the lute over his head. He pushed the coin deliberately into his pocket and braced his hands on the strings. When he looked at Geralt again, there was the barest crack in his armour, and hope shined dimly through. Jaskier smiled. It was a timid thing, but he still remembered how it was done.

“You asked for a song,” he said.

-

Send me a drabble prompt!

[fallingforunrealisticromance]

I've got you - Derek Morgan x fem!reader part 2

A/N: Part 2 is here!! This is a lot more domestic and fluffy so I hope you guys enjoy:)

Warnings: Swearing

Word Count: 2191

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The ride to Derek’s was a quiet one, but I didn’t mind. Even though everything happened so quick, I felt entirely drained. I’d been to his place a million times before but for some reason today felt different, wrong. Derek took my bags and placed them down as we entered, closing the door behind us. I looked tentatively around his hallway, not wanting to move.

“Hey” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “You’re safe here. No one’s gonna hurt you.” His voice was soft, providing me a small amount of comfort. I just nodded at his words. “Come on, let’s get you set up. You need sleep.” With his hand on the small of my back, he guided me gently towards his room.

“Wait Derek no I can’t take your room. This is your place; I’ll just stay on the sofa” I said trying to turn and leave the room, but he pulled me back.

“No y/n don’t be dumb.”

“But-“

“Just be quiet and let me do this for you” He said light-heartedly. Sighing, I reluctantly sat down on his bed. He started rummaging around in his drawers before pulling out a pair of basketball shorts and a big grey sweatshirt. “Here” He chucked them at me, hitting me in the face.

“You know I brought my own stuff” I chuckled.

“Yeah but mine looks so much better on you” He smirked, winking at me.

“Seriously? I’ve just been through a traumatic event and you’re flirting with me” I replied sarcastically, a small smile tugging at my lips.

“No better time beautiful.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He laughed before leaving me to change. I quickly pulled the clothes on, being enveloped by his scent. As expected, they were too big for me, but they hung off me in a casual yet stylish way, so I wasn’t complaining. I made my way out of his room to find him settled on the sofa flicking through Netflix.

“Hey.” I said catching his attention. His eyes scanned over my body as his mouth hung open slightly. “Don’t trip over your jaw there” I joked, sitting next to him.

“When you walk in looking like that what do you expect me to do?”

“Come off it.”

“I’m not lying y/n. your gorgeous.” He stared at me, an emotion flooding his eyes that I hadn’t noticed before. We held each other’s gaze longer than I think either of us intended to. The tension in the air was impossible to escape from. I don’t know what it was, maybe the fact he’d saved me, but something was drawing me to him. Like literally. I felt myself slowly moving closer to him, as he copied my actions. My eyes flickered across his face, trying not to pay any attention to his lips. This was my best friend. I shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought of him being anything more. But in that moment, every smile, every laugh, every time he’d made me feel like life was worth living flashed through my head. Had we been this oblivious to something that was starring us in the face this whole time? I could feel his warm breath fanning over my face. Neither of us moved for a second, unsure of what this would mean. But eventually, Derek leaned forward once again. His lips brushed softly against mine.

Just as I closed my eyes, ready to give in to this – give in to him – there was a sharp knock at the door causing us both to jump apart. I pulled the jumper closer to my body, now feeling incredibly stupid and awkward. Derek just starred ahead of him, as if he was trying to process what the fuck just happened. Before either of us could say anything, there was another hard knock at the door. Derek’s head snapped to face it, any tension between us immediately slipped away as he moved in front of me protectively before making his way to the door.

“Stay there” he instructed. As he made his way out of the room, I slumped back into the sofa burying my head in my hands. Why did I just let that happen? Where do we go from here? Have I just fucked everything up? Before I could stress out anymore, Emily’s voice flooded my ears.

“Well neither of you were answering the phone, what did you expect me to think?” Shit. She came round the corner, relief washing over her when she saw me. “hey, are you okay? I called you”

“Yeah I left my phone in Derek’s room, sorry for worrying you” A smirk settled on her lips as she looked between me and Derek.

“Derek’s room huh?” I felt my face flush red as I chuckled awkwardly.

“Get your mind out of the gutter Prentiss.” He joked.

“Well why else was she in there then? And may I ask why she’s in your clothes?” She stated smugly. I rolled my eyes standing up.

“I’ll show you. Come on” I grabbed her hand and tugged her to his room, leaving Derek stood in the front room. I pushed her inside and quickly closed the door behind us.

Emily laughed. “Whoa, you’re in a rush. That excited to show me where the magic happened then?”

“Me and Derek almost kissed” I blurted out in a hushed tone. Her jaw dropped.

“I’m sorry – what” I just nodded. “Explain. Now” She said, sitting down on the bed.

“We were just sitting on the sofa, and he said I look good in his clothes-“

“He’s not wrong you know they really suit you”

“-and then we both just sort of ended up leaning in and then well you came in”

Her face fell once again. “What? Are you joking? Oh, for gods sake I wish I hadn’t come over now.” I chuckled slightly at how distraught she was. “How do you feel?” She asked noticing how I was fidgeting with my hands.

“I don’t know.” I breathed. We were silent for a moment. “I think…I liked it?” I whispered. Emily let out a small cheer, making me jump. “Shush, I don’t want him to hear us”

“Sorry, sorry I’m just happy for you.” I ran my fingers through my hair.

“But what if it doesn’t mean the same to him? I mean you know what he’s like, he flirts with anything with a pulse.”

Emily nodded. “I mean you’re not wrong.”

“Oh great.”

“But he’s different with you.”

I looked at her, confused.

“Oh, come on, don’t act like you don’t see it too” She stated.

“See what?”

“Just him, his behaviour around you”

“You forget that I’m not a profiler Em” I replied rolling my eyes.

“Trust me, it does not take a profiler to work out how he feels about you.” I let her sentence hang in the air. I didn’t really know how to respond to that. “Whenever he’s with you, he just seems so relaxed. He never has to put a front with you, it’s almost like he completely unwinds with you. Not to mention how his eyes never leave you. Every chance that man gets, he’ll be admiring you.” My mouth hung open slightly at her words. “How have you not noticed this?? Not even how affectionate he is with you?? He will take any excuse he can to be near you or touch you.” She explained.

Thinking back on it, what she was saying made sense. Whenever we saw each other – whether in a group setting or alone – he would stay close to me. I can’t count the times he would rest his arms against mine or place his hands on my hips when moving past me, just little things like that that I’d always overlooked. Until now.

“Holy shit” I whispered.

“You see my point?” I nodded at her words. “So, here’s what you’re gonna do. I’m gonna leave, and you my friend, are going to ride that man into the floor.”

“Emily” I slapped her on the arm before bursting out laughing. After we calmed down, she stood up.

“Seriously, make your move.” I sighed.

“I’ll try” We made our way back to the front room where Derek was sat, watching a film.

“Well, I’m off. Have fun” Emily said, waving at Derek. She shot me a supportive thumbs up before leaving. I took a deep breathe, trying to supress any nerves that were threatening to explode before tuning and entering the front room.

“You two took your time.” Derek said, his eyes not leaving the screen.

“Uhm yeah she was just telling me about a date she’d been on.”

“If it wasn’t with JJ I don’t want to know.” I smiled at his words. I glanced over at him, taking my time to appreciate his features. Even though he’d always been attractive, everything about him seemed to be a little more beautiful. The sudden urge to touch him washed over me. I wanted nothing more than to curl up against him and just feel him pressed against me. I wanted to be utterly consumed by him and nothing else.

“You know your starring right?” His voice broke me from my trance.

“Right sorry, just appreciating the view” I mumbled.

“No need to apologise baby girl.” His tone was soft, not something I heard often. It made my heart melt. I looked at my hands, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jumper as I tried to pluck up the courage to talk to him. “Hey.” He called gently. He’d stopped the film by now, his focus solely on me. “Come here.” Slowly, I shuffled my way towards him until I was sat facing him. I tried my best to appear calm, but I think the vigorous tugging of my sleeves gave me away. Derek placed his hands softly over mine, entwinning his fingers with mine. This small display of affection caused my breathing to halter.

“What’s got you all worked up then?” He asked caringly.

“You” I whispered, finally meeting his gaze. His brow furrowed slightly, and he pulled away from me. “No no wait, it’s not a bad thing.” I said reaching for his hands once again. I took a deep breathe. “I don’t know what this is. Or what it could be. All I know is this morning, I saw you as a friend. But now, I want more than that. I want you Derek.” I confessed.

A smile crept its way across his lips, even though he tried to hide it. He placed his hands on my hips before promptly lifting me up and placing me on his lap.

“Well, that was a bit forward” I laughed, my arms snaking their way around his neck.

“Don’t act like you didn’t want this” He said chuckling.

“You got me there.”

We just sat there, relishing this feeling. The feeling of being just us. No BAU buddies, no unsubs, or dickheads from work. Nothing existed outside of each other. We consumed the other’s world for that brief time. Derek lifted his hand, cupping my face. I closed my eyes and leant into his touch, smiling to myself. Yet again, the urge to kiss him swum through me. Clearly he felt the same as he began to lean forward. Just as I was about to press my lips to his, he stopped and pulled back slightly.

“What about Sean?”

“He’s not my type.”

“But surely you’ll want to-“

“Oh just shut up.”

I cut him off by crashing my lips to his. He responded quickly, wrapping his arm tightly around my waist. I melted into his as he overwhelmed my senses. His lips were soft yet rough in the most perfect way. His hand moved from my cheek to tangle in my hair, pulling me impossibly closer. Finally, we were able to let out of the pent-up tension between us in one heated moment. Everything just felt right. Eventually, we both pulled away slightly breathless from the passion of it all. I kept my eyes closed as he rested his forehead against mine, allowing myself to bask in the joy of it all for a moment longer.

“It’s about damn time.” Derek whispered.

“You could’ve said something sooner.” I replied, pulling back to look at him.

“That’s not how I work gorgeous.” He said smiling.

”Mhm I’m aware.” I tried my best to stifle a yawn that had decided now was the perfect time to creep up on me but failed miserably.

“Wow am I that bad of a kisser?” Derek said, mock offence laced in his tone.

“Shut up, you know you’re not.” I said smiling.

“Very true. Come on, you need to sleep.”

I nodded in agreement. I went to get of his lap, but instead was greeted with him wrapping his arms under my legs and lifting me up. As he stood up, he decided to cover my face in a bunch of small kisses making me laugh the whole way to his room. I think that was the moment I knew I loved him. No matter what happened from this point onwards, I would always love Derek Morgan.

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

Part 3? I'm not actually sure where to take it from here so if anyone has any suggestions let me know!

Tag list: @1234-angelika @hotch-stufff @wanniiieeee

[saturnseighthringg]

Day 3: Rainbows

Cas needs a little help grooming his wings and Dean discovers some interesting things about his best friend.

Rating: T || Word Count: 1300

Unintended strip tease. Well, Dean feels that way 😉

Read on AO3

“Dean… I have something to ask of you.” Cas sounds weary and Dean isn’t fan of the tone, but he nods, giving Cas his full attention.

“I have a sort of dilemma.” He hesitates. “In our last skirmish with demons, one of them managed to really ruffle my wings.”

“Hold on.” Dean cuts him off. “How does that even happen? They aren’t even out when you fight.”

Cas nods patiently. “Just because they aren’t ‘out’ doesn’t mean another Angel or demon cannot injure them. Angels and demons can exist on multiple planes at a time, which means a demon could theoretically injure my wings. It’s not a common occurrence.”

Dean thought this over, absorbing the new information. Mostly, it made him angry. What demon had the gall to injure his Angel’s wings? An Angel’s wings. An Angel. Not his Angel. Dean refocuses before his mind can get away from him.

“So what do you need me to do?” Dean wasn’t sure how a human could possibly be of assistance with such a matter. Cas had never asked this before. Didn’t he usually just fix them with his grace? Oh, but wasn’t Cas’ grace failing?

Cas shuffles, looking uncomfortable, and Dean realizes this isn’t something he wants to ask.

“Hey.” Dean says softer. “Whatever you need me to do, I got you, Cas.”

Cas’ face resolves. “I need help grooming my wings so they can restore themselves.”

That’s a thing? “And how would I go about doing that?” Make no mistake, Dean was definitely on board. He loved seeing Cas’ wings. In order to groom wings, you had to touch them, right? Dean was giddy at the thought.

“I would manifest them to this plane, and you would go through and… groom them.” He shrugs like he doesn’t know how else to put it.

Dean chuckles at Cas’ reluctance. “Okay, but you’re gonna have to walk me through it. Cuz I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

“Of course, Dean.”

In Dean’s room, Cas undresses his top half, shedding that God forsaken trench coat, and his suit jacket. He lays them neatly on the desk chair and moves his hands to his chest. This feels weirdly intimate to watch and Dean should probably look away. As it is… Dean does not. He watches as Cas’ deft fingers smoothly undo his tie, and pull it from his neck in a fluid motion. Is it hot in here? In a matter of seconds, Cas has unbuttoned his shirt buttons, clearly using some type of mojo to speed the job along. When he shrugs out of his shirt, Dean finds it a little hard to breathe. The fuck is up with that?

Dean had never seen so much of Cas’ skin exposed, and all at one time. Inches of tan skin, sculpted far better than Dean’s own. Maybe that’s an Angel thing. Cas wasn’t small. It was baffling how much that damn trench coat hid. Dean had been missing out. Record scratch. Missing out on what? Cas was Dean’s best friend. And best friends didn’t walk around showing each other their bodies. Dean needed to get his head out of his ass.

He claps his hands together to clear his mind. “Alright, then. Whip ‘em out.”

He watches Cas’ eyes close in focus and in moments, large black wings appear to grow out of Cas’ back.

Dean walks around Cas like he’s appraising a car, taking it all in. As magnificent as they are, they’re definitely a little mangled. He glances to Cas as he reaches a hand up, silently asking permission. Cas nods in permission, and Dean sinks his fingers to get a feel for them.

It’s like plush down. The softest blanket he’d never felt. He lightly rakes his hand through and feels the mishaps within the feathers. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling like a goof until he looks at Cas, who has a curious expression on his face. Dean drops his hand.

After arranging themselves on the bed, Cas on the edge, with Dean cross-legged behind him, Cas turns his face slightly to walk him through the steps.

“So the first step is going through and plucking all the loose feathers. They should be easily identifiable and come off easy. Healthy ones won’t, so don’t worry.” Dean nods even though he’s pretty sure Cas can’t see him and sets to work.

It’s therapeutic and methodical, grazing his hands through Cas’ wings. Dean feels at ease with the world, safe. Which is a thought worth snorting at later. The world was far from safe, but details, details.

They don’t speak, preferring to remain in their heads.

When he’s sure he’s plucked all the problem feathers, he drops his hands, looking around his bed and the floor. It’s littered with black feathers.

“I think that’s it, Cas.” Cas lifts his wings to- stretch?- them and they tremble like a dog shaking water off. It would be comical if it wasn’t one of the coolest things Dean had ever seen.

Once Cas is done stretching his wings, he brings them back to their original resting place. “The next step is fairly easy. Just go through and straighten any feathers you see that look crooked or out of place. This shouldn’t take long at all.”

Dean immediately sees what he’s talking about and sets about his next task.

In the places he’s straightened, that are looking pretty perfect if Dean says so, he notices a dark liquid leaking from somewhere in the large appendages. The hell?

“Cas, what is this?” He doesn’t mean to sound alarmed.

“It’s wing oil. You’ll spread it over the wings to protect them.”

Dean swipes some up onto his fingers, examining it. It’s thick and amber colored, resembling car oil. It’s not so viscous that it sticks to anything but it doesn’t drip much. Curious, he brings his hand to his face.

It’s- sweet. And spicy? How…? It smells like cologne. Not one Dean’s ever smelt, but it’s- good.

“Dean? Is something wrong?” Dean hadn’t realized he’d gone still in his observation.

“Nah, just got sidetracked. This stuff smells really good.” Dean has a crazy ass thought of sticking his finger in his mouth to see if it tastes as good as it smells. He rolls his eyes at himself.

“It’s supposed to appeal to the groomer.”

Dean frowns even though Cas can’t seem him. “How’s that work?”

Cas shrugs. “It just... does. I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s just meant to be pleasant to the groomer. It resonates their favorite scents.” Cas pauses, tipping his head to the side, obviously thinking. Then, “What does it smell like to you?”

Dean’s face heats up. That’s kinda personal he thinks. Or is it?

He pauses long enough that Cas reassures him. “If you don’t wish to say, I don’t mind. It is personal. I was only curious.”

Dean clears his throat. “It’s fine, uh, it’s not that big a deal.” Dean leans in closer and takes a deep breath, trying to identify all the notes. “Kinda smells like spice. And honey.”

Cas hums, thoughtful. “You like the combination of sweet and spicy.”

“Yea, hell of a combination. Hard to get right.”

Dean focuses back on his task, starting to spread the oil on the straightened feathers and pauses. He stares. Hard.

Where he spreads the oil, the wing gleams. And when he shifts slightly, he notices the sheen provides a holographic effect.

Cas’ wings have rainbows in them.

He spreads some more around and then, like a kid, proceeds to move himself around to catch the rainbow shines.

“Dean?”

Dean laughs. “Did you know you have rainbows in your wings?” He asks in wonder, excited.

Cas chuckles. “I did. It’s very fitting.”

And for once, Dean’s not sure he gets that reference.

[thunderheadfred]

🤚The Second Worst (Pt. 1/?)🤚

Part 2 of my Shigaraki Thesis Headcanons. HC's // The Second Worst: 1 - 2

The half-mad ghost of Shimura Tenko is in love with you, and your life is about to become a tragic wreck. -- AKA here's when I gave up on bullet points and went off the fuckin rails

I'm self-conscious about writing so much, so uhhhh, please be kind, hahaaa. This is rather long and involved. Are these still even HCs or just a self-indulgent AU outline? There are some mysteries we may never solve.

This is on AO3 now, if you prefer reading there. Anyway. Minors do not interact.

- - - - -

You met Tenko before the League existed.

Believe it or not, there are a million ways it might have happened, but in the end: you were both bargain-binning in Akihabara.

You reached for a copy of a collectible bullet-hell cute-'em-up (near-mint! CIB!!!) and accidentally bonked hands with a complete stranger. He flinched about five million feet away from you. Ouch. You're just a nobody, quirkless and average, but you didn't think you were THAT repulsive.

(You're not. Hell, even if you were, this guy couldn't care less. He barely registers that you have a face.)

(Shigaraki is accustomed to getting in and out of this shop in seconds. He always comes in before anyone else and goes straight home. -- Is that really home? Is 'home' a real place? -- ANYWAY he's already pirated this shit, god, why does he even care? He doesn't need to be here. Father doesn't like it. Is that why he's here? Just to do something Father doesn't like? That's pathetic.)

He's had at least ten complete internal arguments with himself before he so much as looks at you.

You know in the tenth of a second he actually meets your eyes... this fucker is going to fight you to the death over this game.

- - - The death match ends in a draw. He was not expecting you to know the first fucking thing about this game. Nobody knows about it, even in Japan. Who the fuck do you even think you are? Oh, no, he's still taking it. But... maybe he can show you how to play it it. He'll give you a little taste, just to make you jealous. He's got his hoodie pulled down like he's going to commit an act of terrorism. What little you can see of his face looks twitchy and messed up. If you have any survival instincts at all, they're kicking in right about now. But... why not. You're not going anywhere with this dude unsupervised, so you suggest a crowded web cafe down the street. The cafe has the necessary console... but the retro gaming booth is laughably small. The TV is about four inches across and you end up having to practically sit in his lap. You were sure this guy was a nasty fucking creep, but he's................ only mostly terrible. Way too angry, for sure. Has no idea how to have a normal, friendly conversation. Inadvertently insults you every other sentence and seems to have a deep-seated persecution complex.

You'd prefer to be mad about the awful company, but... he's obviously deprived of human contact. When it's established that you two share a lot of media fixations, he calms down and starts treating you a little more like a human being. Or at least like a fellow elite.

Wherever he came from, he doesn't seem to want to go back. He keeps pushing you to play one more level, pretending he wants to beat your score. You feel kinda bad for him. You get the distinct feeling that his life is a disaster. He looks like he's never had a full night of sleep in his life. He trips your trigger hairs in that 'is he gonna follow me home?' kind of way, but... up close, he's a lot more depressing than scary. At the very least, you want to buy him a stupidly cute dessert. Just... as thanks. For letting you try out the game and stuff. It's not a big deal, so just pick a flavor, okay? The world isn't actually that awful, y'know.

It's not even that impressive... Definitely not a great cafe. But he takes practically a full hour to eat a single slice of strawberry cake.

When the hoodie comes down. He's all shriveled and dried out, like someone left him him in the desert to die. He chews on his peeling bottom lip and nervously scratches his neck. He doesn't thank you for the cake. Which is fine. It's not a big deal. Actually, you wish he would eat faster; you feel weirdly responsible for him now.

Under all that mess he's... gorgeous? His hair is stunning: a bright, gleaming silver that catches the light. His bone structure is flawless. If it weren't for all the scars and the misanthropic slouch, he'd look like a fairy fucking prince.

You were not prepared for that. In another life he could have been a model, the type of guy who would never even look at you. But something bad happened to him. Something... very bad. Do you even want to know? You have no idea how to ask. Has anyone ever been nice to him? It doesn't seem like it. Should YOU be nice to him? You sort of want to try. - - - This becomes a regular thing. This weird little secret. You should probably tell someone when you see him, just in case you don't come back one day, but you say nothing; how the hell would you explain why you want to see him so bad? You don't know his full name. Maybe he's on a watch list. When he gives you a long string of random numbers so you can schedule meet-ups (is THAT his e-mail, really?) he tells you to just... call him Tenko. Or whatever. It doesn't matter. (He sneaks out when Father is deep in his plots. As long as he comes home on time, it doesn't really matter where he goes, right?) He brings a different game every time. He has an insane collection. Where does he get the money for all this? You know he doesn't work. God, is it drugs? It's probably drugs. Wherever these hidden gems came from, he proudly shows them off to you, like he's never had an audience before. It's sort of cringe-inducing, the way he one-ups and rubs every little victory in your face, desperate for attention.

But at the same time, you are becoming too... something...to mind. Do you... like him? He's not funny, but he thinks you are. His mouth is huge when he laughs. He seems to hate everyone but you, and you've had to earn the distinction of being merely tolerable. Still, he gets really excited about random shit like the garage kit black market and haunted dolls and the price of weed on the dark web.

And... strawberry cake. The realization hits you both at the same time when the waitress brings one piece with two forks. God, what the fuck, are you... are you dating? Quick, think. You look forward to seeing him, and don't even mind sitting close to him anymore. Sometimes you push your leg up against him just to see if he'll still flinch away... and he doesn't.

You jealously notice the way he touches everything but you: with delicate precision, one finger at a time. His large, elegant hands always have a pinky up like he's aspiring for a fiefdom, and you wonder what his skin feels like. You go home and dwell on the way he plucks flowering weeds out of the pavement in front of the cafe. The way he stands rooted to the spot as you leave, just... looking at nothing, unsmiling.

You watch his lips too much, and not just because you want to buy him chapstick. You catch him gaping at you all the time. You thought he was just creepy like that, but maybe... Yeah. I guess you are dating him. Shit. - - - Okay, so, yeah. Bringing him back to your place was definitely a bad idea. You know you shouldn't trust him, even if he is... apparently... your boyfriend? Sort of? You still don't have his phone number. So. Um. What now? You order overpriced pizza and queue up a campy horror movie. What the fuck are you even doing. You don't really think he's going to murder you anymore, but... still. Is the suburban massacre scene gonna give him ideas? Turns out, no. He doesn't like gore, even when the blood is neon pink. He gets upset. Like, really upset. Shaky and green, like he might puke on you. He can't stop scratching that scaly spot on his neck.

Tenko, are you crying? Fucking hell, did you just trigger him? Of course he has a traumatic past, it's carved all over his face. You're so fucking stupid. You don't know how to make it right. You want to hug him, kiss him... anything. But he's never really touched you, and you're too afraid to push now. It ruins the whole night. He leaves without explaining anything. Doesn't even say goodbye. He just. Leaves. Maybe you'll never see him again. Maybe that's for the best. Your chest hurts. - - - He shows up at your door a few weeks later. You haven't heard from him since that disastrous movie night. You had pretty much accepted that you'd broken up with a boyfriend you never actually had. But no. Apparently not.

This time, he’s brought his own entertainment. He's holding a boxed set of some show you're not familiar with. You're distracted by these weird little half-gloves he's wearing, like a cyberpunk hacker. That's a new look, and even if it's a bit edgelord adjacent, he makes it look cool. You tell him as much. It's the first time you've let on how attractive you find him. He's wearing a tight black shirt with a deep, deep V-neck. That's distracting too.

He clears his slender throat and doesn't look at you.

You try to apologize for before, but he's acting like it never happened. What are you even talking about? Have you seen this OVA or not? Get out of the way and let him in already. You've watched three episodes now, but you still have no idea what this stupid anime is about. You can't pay attention to a single frame. All you can think about is how his arm has crept up behind your shoulders. A few inches more and he'll be holding you. Does he... want to hold you? You lean toward him so slowly your spine creaks. One molecule at a time. After a thousand years, your head slides nervously under his chin. His arm comes down, locking you in, fingers clutching your sleeve in a death grip. Even that snobby little pinky. His head tucks down into you hair. A sharp collarbone bites into your cheek. His heartbeat is hard, fast, and irregular. There's not a scrap of fat on him, and as you wrap your arm around his stomach, you think you see a twitch in his pants. Is that just you being desperate? Or... hopeful? This is really happening. --- Soon, you learn that Tenko is a clumsy kisser. It doesn't matter; the fact that he's kissing you at all is good enough for now. His lips are dry, but not half as dry as you expected. There's a slick of menthol helping things along; he's been using something medicated on his lips. Plus, his mouth tastes like he drank a gallon of mouthwash.

All this thrills you more than a little, because it means he came here wanting to impress you. Wanting you. Full stop. Underneath that minty sting is a strange, worrisome aftertaste, like something rotten. Your brain fires off an alarm. Stop kissing him. Right now. This thing will make you sick. But his hands nervously slide over your body... and you decide not to worry about it. Instead, you kiss him deeper. He makes a sweet, startled little noise. Your brain is a fucking liar. It occurs to you he's probably never done this before.

When you lace your fingers in his and try to pull one of his gloves off, he rips his hand away.

Don't. That’s the only explanation he gives.

No need to ask if it's a quirk thing or a trauma thing. Judging by how jittery he gets, it's probably both. You remember the way his hands almost float over objects without ever holding them. Maybe his touch is dangerous. Maybe that's why his face looks like that.

Maybe you should learn more about him before things go way too far...

No. It can't be that bad. Now that he's in your arms, everything frightening about him evaporates. He's vulnerable. He's alone. He's shaking a little. Has anyone else ever seen this side of him? You want to keep him all to yourself, just like this.

So what if he has to touch you with gloves on? You've heard of worse quirk-related inconveniences.

It's okay, Tenko. Do you want to keep going?

You put his hands back on you and wait for him to kiss you again. It doesn't take long.

---

You open his pants. He's long and thin, calloused even here. Every part of him feels untouched, unloved. You hold him tight and squeeze.

It doesn't seem to occur to him to please you in return. He looks afraid. Confused. You're sure you scared him earlier with the glove thing. Is this too much? No. He gasps and leans into you. The tiniest, broken please.

He cums in your hand right away, face buried in your shoulder, his eyes wet and hidden.

I have to go, he says. Over and over and over.

It's okay, Tenko.

You know he doesn't want to.

- - - - - (oops I wrote more)

[andie-cake]

perhabs,, early relationship, Paul wanting affection but being anxious and not knowing how to go about it?

Ceej, you understand me and my Paul hcs on a spiritual level, thank you for my rights and an excuse to write soft nonsense. It's uh... It's a little long.

Being in an honest-to-god romantic relationship was taking a bit of re-getting used to for Paul. He hadn't dated anyone since college, and suddenly wham, he's head over heels for a cute, snarky barista who seems to return his affections. It was odd, but no less wonderful, feeling his heart flutter in his chest whenever Emma so much as smiled at him. He hadn't felt this way about someone in damn near a decade, and then this beautiful 5'0 biology student walked into his life, and god, his brain just didn't know how to handle it.

Paul and Emma had started seeing each other around late October, hooking up in the Beanies break room during a Halloween party her boss Nora had thrown. It was mid-December now, a week and a half before Christmas, and things were still going strong between them. Though there had been... something strange on Paul's mind for a few weeks now, something that had never bothered him before in his past relationships.

Paul was a tactile guy with people he liked, something his friends all knew well. He was never sure exactly how he'd rank the five love languages as applied to himself, but touch was definitely his number one. Casual shoulder squeezes and light nudges were common gestures of his among friends, as Bill could easily attest. With romantic partners, this was cranked up a bit. Lots of light kisses to their temple or resting his hand on their back, stuff like that. It was always the easiest way for him to show that he cared. His partners... were never as tactile as him. It was very all give and no take on Paul's end when it came to physical affection, and he hadn't really minded it. At least, he was pretty sure he hadn't...

But now? With Emma? Her touch was something he actively craved. And it's not as if Emma never touched him outside of sex, far from it, she was probably the most physically affectionate partner Paul had ever had. She held his hand, kissed his cheek, cuddled up against him during movie nights, and gave him playful little jabs in the side when he was being a smartass. But she wasn't quite as casually affectionate as Paul was with her, and he couldn't help but wish she was.

And sweet jesus christ, did Paul find it embarrassing. It made him feel like some dopey lovesick teenager whenever he thought about it. Like, what was he supposed to do? Ask her to touch him more often? He'd sound like a total fucking weirdo if he tried to explain it to her. But still, he couldn't help but think about it a lot.

It had been a lazy Sunday evening, the one day of the week when neither half of the couple had work. And of course, they were... taking advantage of their day off, as it were. On Paul's living room couch, no less. They'd just finished up, and Emma had gone off to use his shower and whatnot. After washing up a bit, Paul had promptly put some comfy sleepwear on (because it was December in Michigan and Paul was not one to lounge around in the nude with temperatures like that outside), and was now absentmindedly channel surfing whilst laying on the couch.

Nearly half an hour later, Emma had emerged from the bathroom, hair tied into a braid and clad in a bright red hoodie that Paul recognized as his own. He couldn't help but smile, it was so big on her, and she looked adorable in it.

"Find anything to watch while I was in there?" she asked.

"Hallmark movies, a bunch of stock Christmas faire, and like three separate Harry Potter marathons," Paul replied. "None of which I'm particularly interested in watching, so we might have to retreat to the DVD shelf again."

Emma shrugged. "Hey, fine by me, TV edits are usually garbage fires anyway," she said. She strode over to the other side of the living room, where Paul kept his DVDs, and eyed the shelf. After a minute or two, she plucked a case off the shelf, snickering. "Monty Python: Life of Brian, that's a Christmas movie, right?"

"Absolutely," Paul quipped. "Anything can be a Christmas movie if you stretch the definition enough."

"Good, because I wanna watch Monty Python."

After popping the disk in, she turned back to the couch, and Paul sat up to give her some room. As she sat back down, Paul took in the sight of her. God, she was lovely. And she looked so cozy in his hoodie, it was hard not to find the sight of her absolutely heart-melting. His heart fluttered a bit, he was getting that feeling again. Unfortunately, Paul found himself staring at her instead of the screen for a bit too long, and she took notice.

"Paul?" she piped up, snapping him out of his trance with a befuddled smile. "You good, babe?"

Paul felt his cheeks flush. Had she ever called him "babe" before? "It's, uh... it's nothing," he stammered unconvincingly. "I just zoned out for a bit."

Emma, being the observant person she was, eyed him with skepticism. "You look like you have something on your mind," she noted. "What's up?"

Well, shit. Feeling his face burn hotter, Paul attempted to weasel himself out of this inevitable awkward conversation.

"N-nothing's up, I'm fine!" he tried to assure her, perhaps too defensively to sound convincing.

"That's the voice of a man who definitely has something up," Emma observed. She grabbed the remote, and paused the film before continuing. "Something's bothering you, Paul, I can tell."

"It-it's just..." Paul tried to begin, feeling momentarily reassured by Emma's soft gaze. But when the right words wouldn't come to him, he groaned and buried his flushing face in his hands. God, why was he like this? "Nevermind, it's really stupid, can we just watch the movie, please?"

"Paul, I know stupid, I work at Beanies," Emma retorted playfully, earning a brief chuckle from Paul. "Whatever's bothering you, it can't be any worse than the shit my co-workers complain about on the daily. I promise you I won't laugh."

Paul removed his hands from his face, meeting her gentle gaze once more. "You mean it?"

She nodded. "I'm all ears."

Exhaling a deep breath, Paul took a moment to think of how to word his self-imposed predicament in the least stupid way possible. Probably best to start small.

"Um, y'know how... when we watch movies or whatever together," he began, trying to force himself to talk above a whisper. "You'll like, lean against my chest, and I'll wrap my arms around you and play with your hair and all that?"

Emma nodded, looking somewhat confused. "Yeah...?"

"Do you think we could... do that the other way around this time?"

There was a brief moment of silence, and Paul was pretty sure his face had turned a shade of red that had only ever been seen by shrimp before. Jesus, that must've sounded so stupid.

"That's all?" Emma asked.

Yep, there it was. Paul looked down at his lap again, embarrassed beyond belief. "Basically, yeah..." he chuckled despite himself. "I know, I know, it's really dumb, and I probably got you all worried for nothing-"

"Whoa, whoa, Paul, slow down!" Emma cut him off, reaching out to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. She smiled at him softly. "I mean, sure! If that's what you want, we can do it!"

Paul took another deep breath. "Really?"

"Yeah!" Emma replied. She leaned back on the arm of the couch, and opened her arms. "Come on, bring it in."

Still nervous and flustered, Paul slowly eased himself against Emma, resting his head against her chest. He could feel her heartbeat, even through the thick fabric of the hoodie. Emma rested one hand on his back, and began to thread her fingers through his hair, just like he would do with her. Paul felt a chill go down his spine. God, he forgot how much he loved having his hair stroked. He wrapped his arms around her torso, face still flushing like nobody's business.

"How's that?" Emma asked, undoubtedly noticing the ridiculous smile that had forced itself onto his face.

"Wonderful..." he sighed, finally beginning to calm down a bit. "Thanks, Emma."

"No prob," Emma snickered, still stroking his hair. "But before we un-pause the movie, can I ask why it was such an ordeal for you to ask me about this?"

"It's kinda hard to articulate," Paul explained, adjusting himself so that he wasn't muffled by the hoodie. "My, um... my past partners weren't really the, uh... the affectionate kinda types, y'know? So it just kinda felt weird to ask you to... do this... I guess..."

"...Well," Emma began after a moment's pause. "I'm not your past partners, so I'd be more than happy to do this more often."

"You would?" Paul inquired hopefully.

"If it makes you feel as loved as it makes me feel," Emma said, rubbing a calming circle between his shoulder blades with her thumb. "Then I'll do it anytime."

Paul could've melted right then and there. He was loved... In a somewhat indirect way, Emma said she loved him. Perhaps now was the time...

"Thanks again, Em," he said, slightly choked up. He craned his neck a bit to press a kiss to her neck. "I, um... I love you."

Emma briefly paused in her stroking of his hair, only to resume moments later, and press a kiss to his forehead.

"I... I love you too, Paul."

[13-reasons-ideas]

Can’t Go Back Part 17

A/N: This chapter is pretty fluffy. We get a glimpse at how they are moving forward in their relationship since their fight. I’m planning on uploading a part from Monty’s perspective about what he’s doing Friday after school tomorrow or sometime this weekend. I hope you enjoy. Feedback is appreciated as always and much love. -Em 

I spent the next week actively not checking my emails. I was too afraid to even consider if I would get emails about schools yet.  It had only been a week. But you never know. In an attempt to keep my mind off of the fact that my entire future was now completely and totally out of my control, I tried to fill my time with normalcy. Things I normally did. Things that Monty and I normally did. That normalcy now included carving out an hour and a half for Monty’s physio three days a week, but we made it work.

I tried to get back into my routine. For the most part, I went to bed at the same time every night. Some days Monty went with me, other days he stayed up and did stuff for a while. But he came to bed every night. I went to the game Friday night. Scott and Charlie came over for brunch on Saturday. Justin came over to see his new best friend, I mean me, on Sunday because he picked up a shift Saturday morning. Monty and I did our own things together in the evenings during the week. I pretended to read while he played video games one night. Secretly, I was just watching him. For some reason watching people play video games was highly entertaining. We just did normal things.

We also went grocery shopping Saturday. “Are you sure you want to come with me?” I asked again.

“Yes, I’m sure Addison. Besides, we are over halfway to the store. It’s a little late to change my mind now.”

“Okay. Remember the list please.”

“I know. There’s a list and we get what’s on the list.”

“Exactly.”

At the store, I grabbed a cart and dug through my purse for the list and my pen. Monty took the cart from me without asking. I feigned an affronted look. He smirked back. Cocky bastard. I can already tell this is going to be so fun. I opened my mouth to speak when we got inside. “List, I know. And yes. I remember you’re going to make us get vegetables.”

“And you have to get at least one that you like.” He pouted. “You like carrots.” I offered.

“Fine.” He muttered. We are in a dramatic mood today. It was so peaceful when I went by myself. But I missed this. Monty went and put exactly five bulk carrots in a bag. Not wanting to fight him on carrots, I didn’t say anything. As usual, I was in charge of the rest of our vegetables.

The aisles were an easier task. There were no evil scary vegetable that I would have to force him to eat. I quickly scanned down the list as we entered each aisle. Carefully, everything was placed in the cart just so. “We need this.” Monty said, grabbing a box of cheese its.

“Is it on the list?” In response, he plucked the list and pen from my hand, and scribbled it on.

“It is now.” I rolled my eyes and grinned as he handed it back to me. His cheeky grin made me blush. I turned my back and pretended to look at something when we got to the fruit snack aisle and ignored the telltale thud of a box, make that two boxes, of fruit snacks being chucked in the cart. He didn’t write them on the list.

We both cringed at the price of meat, as usual. But we needed it so there wasn’t a whole lot we could do. I crossed things off that had been missed as we were filling the cart. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like the store was out of anything. “Oh, we need butter.” I muttered.

“Is it on the list?” Monty smirked. Like he had done earlier with the crackers, I quickly wrote it down.

“Yes.” I grinned. He grinned and stopped to kiss me on the cheek.

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Now let’s get this done so we can go home and do nothing.”

“Your wish is my command.” There was even a dramatic wave of his arm to accompany his attempt to woo.

“You are so fucking cheesy. I’m telling the guys about that one.”

“Ah, come on Addison. You love it.”

I went to grab a couple of pounds of butter and decided I could trust my adult husband to get some bread and jam on his own. When I found him in the bakery with our cart, I remembered that I married an overgrown child. There was bread. And there was jam. And also, cookies. Four different kinds of cookies. And a thing of strudel. Which, to be honest, I wasn’t that upset about because it’s like the best pastry. But the point is that it was there.

“I asked you to get bread and jam. Not half of the baked goods in the store.”

“But cookies are delicious Addison. And you like their chocolate chip cookies. And for some reason I still don’t understand, plain oatmeal cookies. Don’t even lie and say the strudel was a bad idea.”

“So, the sugar cookies and M&M ones are just to look pretty on the counter?”

“No. Those ones are for me.”

“I married a fuckin’ child.” I muttered softly. We turned when we heard a quiet chuckle behind us. A cute little old couple was watching our interaction with giant smiles.

“Mine still does the same thing dearie.” The woman said to me.

“Remember, we don’t grow up. We just get bigger.” The man smiled.

“I’m beginning to realize.” I laughed.

“See. I told you.” Monty smirked. As if to prove the point they were making, we watched as the man grabbed a container of lemon rolls and placed them in his cart. The woman gave him an exaggerated, exasperated look.

“Wait, how long have the two of you been married?” I asked when they passed us.

“Sixty-five years.” They said together, smiling fondly at each other. Wow. That’s amazing. I was still smiling when we got to the till and checked out.

Our normal routines continued for the rest of the week. School, physio, make dinner, sports, spend time together. The normalcy of it was refreshing.

“You’re scratching.” Monty said offhandedly, without looking up from his notes.

“Am not.”

“You stopped typing five minutes ago Addison.”

“I’m thinking.”

“And scratching.” I rolled my eyes and didn’t respond. I started typing aggressively loud to try and get a rise out of him instead. He didn’t respond at all. Not even an annoyed muscle twitch. We aren’t there yet. Okay. Monty’s phone buzzed on the coffee table beside me. I ignored it. It buzzed again. And then again. Before I could reach for it, he had hobble run over and snatched it out of my reach. I looked at him quizzically. He was trying to think of a reason to be hiding his phone from me. What is going on?

“It’s guy stuff. Jamie is having… girl troubles.”

“Girl troubles.”

“Yeah. His girlfriend but not girlfriend or something is doing stuff.”

“Something and stuff.”

“Yes. So, uh. I’ll be over… over there.” He motioned back to the kitchen table. “You know, dealing with girl troubles.”

“Right.” That was weird. Also, he’s going to pay for the movement in the morning. I went back to my writing and not scratching quietly. Occasionally I would look up over my laptop at Monty. He seemed to be very engrossed in his notes.

“Hey Addison?”

“Hmm?”

“Since the game got cancelled some of us are going over to Jamie’s place tomorrow after school.”

“’Kay.”

“Because girl troubles.”

“Yeah.”

“And stop scratching. You’ll only make the rash worse.”

The next morning, I skipped a shower. Cuddles were too enticing. It was a Friday so I didn’t feel like I had to look all cute. While Monty made himself a smoothie, I grabbed one of his shirts to wear because it was loose enough that it wouldn’t irritate the rash. It finally started to clear up. But now it itches. As though he could hear my thoughts, he called from the kitchen, “stop scratching.”

“Bite me.” I called back.

“If you don’t stop scratching, I will.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” He looked up when he heard me come in the room.

“I was going to wear that today.”

“You have like… fifty more in your half of the closet.”

“I know mum is a history professor, but dad is a businessman. I know he taught you fractions. What I have is not half of the closet.” I merely shrugged. He waved towards the bowl beside the blender. “Chunky monkey with smooth peanut butter.” I sat and took a bite.

“Yum. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Don’t worry about washing the blender. I’ll do it after school.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

School was pretty boring. It was the middle of November, so we were in the awkward not quite midterms but not quite ready for a new unit time. I met Monty at my locker after the last bell. He was waiting for me with Justin and Jamie. “Hey baby.”

“Hey babe. You guys have fun tonight, okay?”

“Yes Ma’am.” Jamie saluted. I shuddered. Monty tried to stifle a laugh.

“Jamie. Do me a favour and never do that again.” I placed a couple of textbooks in my locker. “I’ll see you at home. Can you stop and grab baking powder on your way home tonight?”

“Sure.”

“Why can’t you stop? You’re going straight there.” Justin asked.

“I have a date with a bubble bath.”

“Ooh la la.” Jamie laughed.

“I guess. Didn’t shower this morning and a bath is better for my itching.”

“Oh?” Justin asked.

“I’ll explain later.” I muttered. He furrowed his brow and looked at Monty. I kissed Monty goodbye.

At home, I went to wash my face so I could do the expensive face mask I had been saving for a night alone. I did an exfoliating treatment first and ran my bath. A few scented candles were set on our master bathroom counter and I poured myself a glass of raspberry juice. The book I had been meaning to get around to reading was sitting on the toilet for easy access. Okay fine. One of the books I had been meaning to read. It was very relaxing. I had to dig in the cabinet for my body scrub but found it behind a backup pack of deodorant from Costco. Luckily, the bubble bath was also right there. I poured some in to give it time to foam.

With my face mask done and washed off, I undressed and settled in the tub. The water was boiling hot, just the way I liked it. I sighed and sipped my juice, enjoying a night alone. When the husband is away, wife will pamper. The hot water helped to calm my itching skin. The scrub made my legs nice and smooth before I shaved them and exfoliated a second time. Once the necessaries were taken care of, I could start to relax. Picking up my book, I settled in for the foreseeable future. My book was so interesting and immersive, I completely lost track of time. I was still in the tub when Monty got home. “Addison?” He called when he didn’t find me in the kitchen.

“I’m in the bath.” I called back.

“Okay.” He was opening and closing drawers in our room. He poked his head in the bathroom. “Do you want a glass of water or anything? How long have you been in there?” I paused for a moment to consider. How long had it been?

“What time is it?”

“Almost seven.” My eyes widened.

“Really? Then yeah, I’ll take a glass of water. I’m going to get out right away.” He shut the door behind him and I threw my book across to the door so it didn’t get wet when I got out of the tub.

Once dry and moisturized, I left the bathroom in search of my husband. I found him on the couch scrolling aimlessly through his phone. “I missed you.” I bent behind the back of the couch to kiss his cheek.

“I missed you too. You look very cozy in your fuzzy pyjamas.”

“Why thank you.” I curtsied. He laughed happily. Settling next to him, I laid my head in his lap.

“How was your bath?”

“Amazing. Very relaxing. Oh! And I exfoliated and shaved my legs.” I grinned and lifted my pants leg. “Feel!”

Again, Monty laughed and shook his head. He still reached out and rubbed my leg though. “Very soft and smooth.”

“How was girl problems?”

“I think they’re resolved. It wasn’t as major or as difficult as we thought.”

“That’s good.” I peeked at his phone. He was watching football injury videos. Oh Sweetie. “Hey, how’s your knee?”

“It’s okay. Physio has been helping.”

“I’m glad.” He seemed to realize then that I wasn’t just asking for an update on his progress.

“Oh. I’m just watching this because some of them are funny.”

“Funny?”

“Yeah.” He restarted the video and adjusted his position so I could see too. He was right. Some of them were pretty funny.

It was family brunch Saturday the next day. Scott, Charlie, and Justin all came over. As usual, the four young men were more than happy to eat relatively work free. Monty did have to help me reach a few things and our guests helped set the table. But for the most part, I did the work. It was relaxing for me. Monty still felt a little uncomfortable having me do most of the work in the kitchen, but I didn’t mind. It was my choice to do it. I enjoyed it. And it made things much smoother when I was working solo.

Since it was just a casual pancake breakfast this week and just the five of us, I didn’t really feel a need to shower before they came over.  As such, I was still in my pyjamas most of the morning. They didn’t mind. We hung out for a while after brunch together. By the time everyone was getting ready to leave around two, I decided it was time to shower and make myself feel like a human again. “I’m running Scott’s place for a bit. We have a couple of things to go over with Charlie for next week’s game.” Monty explained when I was going to shower.

“No problem. I’ll just be here writing or reading or something.” From the bathroom I could hear him putzing around our room. I didn’t think too much of it. He was probably looking for a playbook or something.

After my shower, I wrapped my towels around me, fully prepared to throw on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater for the rest of the day. Instead, I was puzzled to find a large white box in the centre of the bed. There was a bow and a single pink Post it note stuck to the lid. It simply said wear me on it in blue ink. I frowned in confusion but opened it anyway. Nestled inside was a classic, Hepburn-esque little black dress. I gasped and covered my mouth in shock. Gently lifting the dress out of the box I held it out at arm’s length to examine it. It was beautiful. This man is full of surprises. Not wanting to wrinkle the dress, I carefully set it on the bed while I grabbed a hanger.

Once it was hung up, I put on a pair of sweats and an old pyjama shirt. In the kitchen, I found another note next to the coffee machine. This one was on a yellow Post it, also in blue ink. No coffee. Look up. I frowned again. Why no coffee? Looking up on the underside of the cabinet, I found another yellow Post it. This one had an arrow pointing towards the living room. There, yet another Post it. This one was blue. There was another arrow pointing at the coat closet. A green Post it was stuck to the closet door. Be ready at 5:00. Wear your matching black pointy shoes. Now I was even more confused. Well, it says be ready. I shrugged and checked my watch. It was just past two. I rolled my eyes at the coffee note and made myself a cup anyway. I wouldn’t need to be up all night, but note be damned. I wanted coffee. I savoured it while I let my thoughts run wild of what could be in store for my night. At home fancy dress dinner? Going out for dinner? A walk in the financial district in the city? Hmmm. By two forty-five, I had finished my coffee and started getting ready.

I carefully put on the dress after I had washed my face again. I decided to curl my hair in tight ringlets so that when I brushed them out, they wouldn’t fall flat immediately. I let them set while I did my makeup. So, I didn’t get makeup all over my dress, I draped a towel around my neck to cover it. The simple black cat eye and blue red lipstick paired wonderfully with the classic, timeless style of the dress. A neutral blush and light bronzer added colour and balance to complete the look. I carefully brushed out the curls into nice waves framing my face. Using a decorative bobby pin, I pulled my bangs away from my face. Exiting our room after putting on my tennis bracelet-a birthday gift from my Gran a couple of years ago- I looked at the clock on the stove. It was four fifty. I had ten minutes to spare. Slipping on my heels, I went through my wallet and took out my ID and credit card. I had assumed that we would be going out and Monty usually kept my cards in his wallet.

The sound of a car pulling into our driveway pulled me from my thoughts. I opened the door when the car door shut. Monty was walking up to the house in a very familiar white dress shirt and black slacks. Damn, he cleans up good. I thought it every time he dressed up, no matter how often I saw it. His eyes widened slightly, and he stopped to take in my look. I stopped him in his tracks. I blushed and did a little twirl. He whistled through his teeth. “You look. Absolutely amazing.”

“You look incredible. Have I ever told you, you clean up really well?”

“Once or twice.” He shrugged. I smiled widely. He finished his walk up to the house and took my hands in his, really taking the time to take me in. “You really do look beautiful Addison.”

“Thank you.” I blushed again. My engagement ring sparkled in the setting sun. Monty’s black tungsten ring felt cool in my hand. Together, we walked to the car. We took my car, but I let him drive. It’s our insurance. “Are you going to tell me where we are going?”

“Nope.” He said as he pulled out of the driveway.

“Okay.” We chatted quietly on the way to our mystery location. Given the time, I assumed we were going to a restaurant. When we got closer to the county limits, I realized we were going into the city for dinner. I watched the cars speeding past us on the highway in the other direction. People were eager to be getting home from spending their days shopping or running errands.

I tried to figure out where we were going once we got to the city based on the turns Monty made. I was familiar with most of the downtown and financial districts due to visiting my dad at work when I was younger. I was a little surprised when he pulled in the parking lot for the new Italian place that opened last month. I wasn’t surprised because I was concerned about cost or anything like that. We just weren’t really fancy restaurant people very often. It was a pleasant surprise.

When he parked, we walked hand in hand to the door. He was a perfect gentleman and held the door not only for me but for the couple behind us. I smiled at him while we waited to be seated. He squeezed my hand. We were seated at a more secluded table, closer to the back of the restaurant. The table was lit by candlelight and dim recessed lighting in the aisle. It’s beautiful. Our waiter came by and introduced himself as Anthony. I ordered a cranberry juice with ice and Monty got a Coke. Anthony gave us a few minutes with the menus. As soon as I saw traditional carbonara on the menu, I had made a firm decision. Monty and I sat in comfortable silence while we perused the menu. Even though I knew what I wanted, it never hurt to look at the other options.

After we ordered-carbonara for me and lobster ravioli for Monty-Anthony left us to our evening. “This is really nice.” I said, after a sip of my juice.

“I figured we deserved nice. Or rather, you deserved nice. After everything… and I know you’ve been stressed about school. So, I figured you could use a night off.” He left the obvious tension between us and the cause for it unsaid. We both knew the reason.

“It’s still nice. And we do deserve it. This dress is beautiful by the way.”

“I thought you would like it.”

“When exactly did you acquire it?” I asked, with a sly raise of my brow.

“About yesterday…” Montgomery began, “Jamie wasn’t having girl troubles.”

“I kind of figured. Have they even decided if they have anything to have troubles over?”

“No. They’re still not together. But they go places together and buy each other things. And have sex. Apparently, there is a lot of sex.”

“But they aren’t dating.”

“No.”

“Maybe he is having girl troubles.”

“Maybe.” He chuckled. Anthony came by with our orders. Unsurprisingly, the food was delicious. Mouth wateringly delicious. My eyes widened in ecstasy. So did Monty’s after he took a bite of his own food. We each shared a bite with each other and smiled. So good. So so good.

We spent the rest of our evening talking and enjoying being with each other. It was very nice. We hadn’t gotten to do the whole going out and just being together thing in a while. I pushed the last of my carbonara around on my plate. I wasn’t bored exactly. I was having a wonderful time. “Hey. Where’d you go?” Monty reached across the table to take my hand.

“Oh. Nowhere. I was just thinking.”

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“This is really nice.” I paused.

“But…?”

“I would honestly much rather be at home in sweatpants watching the new episodes of Law & Order from the other night.”

“Me too.” He giggled. I couldn’t help but giggle along with him. He motioned to our waiter for the bill. The black holder was placed in between us. Monty placed some cash inside and set it down without so much as a glance at me. He helped me with my coat and took my hand after he put on his own. As soon as we got out of the restaurant, I stopped and turned to him.

“Race you to the car.” I grinned before taking off like a bat out of hell. I heard him bark out a laugh behind me. I didn’t look back. Nor did I turn when I heard his footsteps. He wasn’t running because of his knee. They were getting closer though. Even without running, he was able to gain on me because of his gait.  Running in heels was not the easiest thing in the world but I managed to beat him to the car. When he arrived with the keys, I was grinning at him, triumphantly from the passenger’s side. “I won.”

“Yes you did.” He was grinning back at me.

When we got home, the two of us changed into our comfiest sweatpants and t-shirts. I threw on my old Tigers hoodie and popped a bag of popcorn in the microwave after taking off my makeup. Monty pulled up the recorded episodes. I couldn’t tell if he wore his grey sweats on purpose or not. We got comfortable on the couch and hit play. From the get-go this episode of SVU had both of us on the edge of our seats. The popcorn was mostly untouched. I teared up multiple times. When it was over, I ripped the remote from the coffee table and scrolled up to the new episode of Organized Crime. I couldn’t stand to wait any longer than strictly necessary. Our eyes were glued to the screen for the whole hour, minus the fast forwarding through commercials. By the end, we turned to each other in shock. “Wow.” Was all I could say about it.

“The new theme song is pretty great.”

“Yes. I don’t know how to process any other thoughts about it though.”

“Me either.”

“Very worth the wait.” Monty only nodded in response. I yawned and stretched. It was getting pretty late. The afternoon coffee I had wore off a while ago.

“Tired Bookworm?” I yawned again and nodded. Monty carried me to bed and tucked me in. I cuddled up beside him.

Before falling asleep I mumbled, “thank you for tonight. Was really nice. Ni’ night.”

[nemhaine42]

Emilius, Greene & Bragg

also available on AO3

July, 1975

Severus hadn’t expected to spend his Saturday morning sweltering in a posh fitting room, but there he was, on a little wooden stool, in front of an enormous looking glass, and trying on every variety of shirt, waistcoat, blazer, trousers and breeches that mankind ever invented. Everything seemed to tower over him in here; cupboards and cabinets that reached the ceiling, faceless mannequins who assumed everyone must be a solid six feet, a proprietor who seemed to have spent a good deal of his life being stretched on a rack. The immaculate cream carpet deadened all sound, of which there was little to begin with since Severus and Lucius were the only customers.

Lucius had only managed to lure him out of his bed with the promise of being taken out for breakfast, and a lure was exactly what it had been. The last of his eggs had barely been past Severus’ tonsils before Lucius had whisked him away, taking him via side-long apparition to an obviously wealthy and fussy part of London. Severus had spent little time in wizard London beyond Diagon Alley and had, perhaps naively, assumed that the rest of it worked in the same manner: a partition, a crossover which demarcated magic from mundane. But the streets here had been one minute full of muggles - some of whom looked askance at Lucius’ turquoise embroidered waistcoat and knee-high boots - and the next minute nothing but wizards, in frock coats or robes or ostentatious hats, with scarcely the turn of a corner between them.

This shop’s signage had revealed it to be “Emilius, Greene & Bragg, Tailors” and Lucius had pulled him inside and pronounced that they were to outfit Severus for the wedding. Lucius and Narcissa’s upcoming nuptials were not until October and although Severus could concede the sense in acquiring something to wear before the start of term, he failed to see why it had to be a blazingly hot summer’s day they chose to spend in the stuffiest room Lucius could find. In fact, Severus had hoped to get away with buying nothing more than a new tie, in order to disguise that he’d be wearing his school uniform, and in all honesty he’d expected to have to buy it second-hand.

But Lucius would have none of it, and thrust Severus into the clutches of the tailor. He must have once been a very small man that had been stretched over a hat stand, and seemed to be neither Emilius, Greene nor Bragg, as Lucius addressed him as ‘Burford’ the entire time. He looked down at Severus with a pinched face, then positioned him on this little round stool in front of the mirror, and began running his knitting needle thin wand over Severus’ limbs guiding a tape measure and a quill that took notes.  Every inch of him was measured, in every way conceivable.  

Lucius paid no mind to the invasion of Severus’ personal space, flicking through pattern books and occasionally firing off instructions to Burford about this cut or that fabric. Severus was consulted very little, merely poked and prodded, and stuffed into various garments, many of which were deemed unsuitable by Lucius before Severus could even take in the sight of them. He suffered this treatment for a good while, perched on his step and sweating in the stuffy heat. He wondered when he would be allowed to go for a smoke, or have a glass of water, or if he was going to get out of this at all.

“Well, what do you think?”

Severus jolted a little at Lucius’ voice, finding that now he was being left to take in his reflection. Almost without noticing he had been put into the apparent culmination of Lucius’ and Burford’s efforts: black ankle boots with a short heel, black trousers, a white shirt with a high collar and large puffy sleeves, and a waistcoat that appeared black too at first glance, but upon closer inspection had subtle threads of silver woven through it. Severus had never in his life owned trousers that fit so well, and he turned to see his own bottom in the mirror, but he couldn’t help but think he looked a little like he belonged in an illustration of a Dickens novel, or a Jane Austin one.

“I…” Severus faltered for words, unsure how he even felt about the getup as a whole, and looked pleadingly at Lucius for help.

Lucius stepped forward and leaned in, the heeled boots and the step stool reducing much of their disparity in height. “What? Is it too tight round the old chap?” he asked, nodding down at the trousers.

“No! I just…” Severus stamped down on his pride, sure he was blushing horribly, and hissed, “I can’t afford any of this.”

Lucius sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes.  He turned to the tailor and asked, “do give us a moment, would you?”

The man excused himself to the back room and Lucius placed one hand on the back of Severus’ neck. Gentle, but a firm presence not to be ignored or underestimated. “Do you think I don’t know that? Neither of us has shit for brains, Severus, so we both know that I will be the one paying for these. That’s why I decided where to come today.”

“So I’m just a fucking charity case then?” Severus seethed.

Lucius smirked, moving his hand away from his neck and draping his arm over Severus’ shoulder. He turned to face the mirror, talking to their reflections: “think of it that way if you wish, but consider instead that if you turn up to my wedding in your school robes, or Merlin forbid, whatever passes for finery amongst muggles, everyone will wonder which gutter I plucked you from and why I didn’t do the decent thing and kit you out properly. A scruffy little ragamuffin reflects just as badly on me as on the muffin in question.”

Severus, his face scarlet and scowling, opened his mouth to reply with something crude and insulting, but Lucius continued.

“Or! I buy some halfway presentable clothes for you to wear - for the rest of your life if you so choose - and nobody will take the slightest notice. All they’ll see is one of my old school chums and ignore you for the entire evening. Which I thought would suit you rather better, hm?”

Severus stood and stewed for a moment, trying to work out which was worse: being indebted to Lucius for what felt like the thousandth time, or sticking out like a sore thumb in a room full of influential purebloods. Malfoy was damnably right.

“Look, if you don’t like these clothes, just say so and we’ll pick something else. I haven’t been baking in here all morning just to get you something you don’t like, have I?”

Now that he looked, Lucius too was suffering in the warm, cloistered shop. He’d stripped off his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves, his top button was undone and his cravat stuffed into his trouser pocket. He looked a bit more like the Lucius he’d first met at Hogwarts, with a sort of orchestrated carelessness that Severus quite liked looking at.

Sensing that Severus was giving in, Lucius looked away from the mirror and waggled his eyebrows at him directly. “Are the trousers too tight then?”

“No. I like the trousers. And the boots. But I don’t like these sleeves, they’re too much. Can I have just normal sleeves?”

“Of course you can, Muffin,” Lucius cooed, pinching Severus’ cheek in mockery.

“‘Muffin?!’ Fuck you, Malfoy!” Severus swatted at Lucius, who cackled in response.

Now energized by Severus’ acquiescence he turned to the tailor, who must have been a master of apparition to have appeared so silently behind them. “Burford, old boy, why don’t we try a slim fit on these sleeves? And perhaps the entire ensemble ought to be black? Forego the contrast and let the details speak for themselves. I think so.”

“Of course,” Burford replied and delicately swished his wand over Severus’ shirt, which transfigured itself into a soft charcoal colour and its sleeves lost their volume.

No longer distracted by the Regency school boy in the mirror, Severus could finally appreciate how well-fitted the rest of the outfit was. His shoulders looked broader and his waist was tiny! In a good way! Just maybe there was something in this sartorial song and dance routine. If Lucius knew about anything, Severus thought, it was the tightrope walk of high society, and clothes.

“Much better. Happy now?” Lucius asked, going back to his page in the pattern books. “So, Severus, spats - yay or nay?”

Lucius held up the book, showing a photograph of a man modelling spats over his shoes, preening and posing back and forth on the page.

“Yeah, alright. I’ll give ‘em a go.”

[pikapeppa]

Samson/Roman Hawke: Peace

A Friday offering for my beloved @schoute​! 

In which the brewing mage-Templar conflict starts to get to Samson and Roman. 😭 Featuring Act 3 angst, arguments, make-up sex. CW: BDSM sex that might feel like dubcon if you aren’t familiar with these two and their dynamic. Please pass go without reading if that’s not your thing. ❤

~9000 words; read on AO3 instead.

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

- ROMAN -

Roman stepped into the mansion and kicked the door shut, then exhaled and leaned back against the door. It was late and she was fucking tired, and she just wanted a second of peace.

“Bird? Is that you?”

Samson’s voice was calling from the kitchen. She opened her eyes, then propped her staff against the wall before trudging through the mansion. 

Sure enough, Samson was in the kitchen. He was leaning against the kitchen island and eating some chicken and roasted potatoes while Monty sat at his feet looking up at him with a pitiful expression. 

Roman grunted and went straight to the enchanted icebox. “You better not be feeding him people food. He’ll get fat.” She picked out a bottle of cider, and when she turned around, it was to find Samson looking vaguely guilty.

She wilted. “I told you not to feed him fucking people food.”

Samson scowled and popped another piece of potato in his mouth. “This mabari’s a real pain, you know,” he said as he chewed. “It’s like he doesn’t understand me.”

“You’re just a soft touch,” Roman said. “Of course he understands you. He’s a smart boy.” She crouched beside Monty and scratched his jowls. “You’re a smart boy, aren’t you?” she crooned. “Samson shouldn’t give you people food, no he shouldn’t.”

Monty wagged his tail, and Samson huffed. “You’re back late. Picking fights at the Hanged Man, were you?”

“Yeah, I was,” she said belligerently.

Samson shot her a long-suffering look, and she rose to her feet and frowned at him. “Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my fault.” She pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a sip. 

“It’s never your fault though, is it?” he asked, and he reached for the bottle of cider. 

She shot him a dirty look but handed over the bottle. “It really wasn’t my fucking fault this time, okay? It was Fenris’s. Well, not Fenris’s,” she amended, “but it was related to Fenris.”

Samson lowered the bottle in surprise. “I thought he didn’t like getting involved in your fights.”

She rolled her eyes and snatched the bottle back from him. “I told you, it wasn’t my fight, it was his. His former master showed up.”

Samson’s eyes widened. “Former master? You mean a Vint magister was here in Kirkwall?”

“Yeah,” Roman said, and she took another sip of cider. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Roman still couldn’t believe Fenris’s own sister had tried to sell him out to his former master. She didn’t mention Fenris’s sister to Samson, though. She and Fenris didn’t agree on much, but they both valued privacy. If Roman was in Fenris’s place, she wouldn’t want strangers knowing her business either.

Samson scratched his whiskered chin. “And here I thought the Templars were helping the city guard to crack down on who comes in and out o’ Kirkwall.”

“Templars,” Roman said scornfully. “They’re corrupt as fuck, even if precious Meredith doesn’t want to see it. Grease the right palms and practically anyone could get in here.” She took another sip of cider, then set the bottle down and picked a piece of chicken from Samson’s plate. 

“Hey, get your own,” he said, but with no real heat.

She huffed and chewed the chicken and ignored Monty’s pleading eyes, and for a moment they were quiet as Samson selected another chicken thigh from the platter on the island and started cutting it up. 

He broke the silence. “If there was a Vint magister here…” He shook his head. “Maker. If there was anyone I’d think the Templars would try to keep out, it’d be magisters.”

Roman scoffed and stole another sliver of chicken from his plate. “Yeah, because more mages are the worst thing that could happen to this shithole,” she said sarcastically.

Samson didn’t reply. He was frowning slightly, and Roman narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me you agree.”

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his chin again. “I’ve been hearin’ things,” he said slowly. “Down in Lowtown, and in Darktown too. A lot of abomination attacks, sounds like.”

Roman aggressively bit the piece of chicken in her fingers. “Yeah?” she said in a hard voice. “Have you also heard how the Templars have started punishing the Circle mages even more harshly? Anders said that a full quarter of the Circle mages are Tranquil now.”

Samson flinched at this, and Roman felt a pang of guilt. She knew that the Tranquility process was a sore issue for him, given what had happened to Maddox after Meredith had thrown Samson out of the Templars. 

She swallowed her bite of chicken, then pushed the bottle of cider across the counter toward him. He picked it up and took a sip, then set it down and jerked his chin in the direction of the main room. “You got some letters, by the way,” he said. “Both from the Gallows.”

Roman sighed loudly. Two letters from the Gallows always meant the same thing: both Orsino and Meredith were trying to get her help with some bullshit task. “YFuck that. They can wait until tomorrow.” She plucked a piece of potato from Samson’s plate and ate it while she brooded about Meredith, then picked up the bottle of cider. “The fucking gall of that bitch, trying to get me to help her,” she complained. “She’s just trying to find an excuse for her fucking puppets to drag me in.”

“Better not give her one, then,” Samson said.

She gave him a dirty look. “I know, Samson. I’m not a fucking idiot.” For the past month or so, she’d cut down on her use of blood magic, doing it only when she was working a spell at home or when she was outside of the city limits. It infuriated her to play into the Chantry’s bullshit sanctions against blood magic, and if she had it her way, she’d keep using blood magic in her perfectly safe way even within Kirkwall’s bounds. 

But Roman didn’t just have herself to think about. She was famous here now — or infamous, depending on who you talked to — and her actions were under scrutiny, no matter how much she tried to keep to herself when she was out and about. Anything she did would reflect poorly on the people close to her… particularly on Carver. 

Fucking Carver, she thought angrily. She couldn’t give the Chantry an excuse to make her brother a scapegoat for her choices. 

She and Samson continued to eat silently from his plate. As the minutes stretched on with no further commentary from Samson, she started to watch him suspiciously. He was usually more talkative than this. Not that he was a huge talker or anything, but he usually had more to say than, well, nothing.

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”

He glanced at her. “Nothing. This chicken’s good.”

Roman grunted, and they fell silent again. When his plate was cleared, she frowned at him. “Seriously, what is your problem?”

He raised an eyebrow and reached for the cider. “What are you on about?”

She gave him an arch look. “If you’re trying to do some kind of ‘strong and silent’ bullshit, it’s not working.”

Samson lowered the cider bottle from his lips and shot her a chiding look. “You sure about that? It seems to be getting your knickers all twisted.”

She scoffed and grabbed the bottle of cider from him. “My knickers aren’t fucking twisted.”

“Too bad,” he said. “I was going to offer to untwist ‘em for you, but…”

She ignored his innuendo. “Are you pissed about what I said about the Tranquil?”

His sarcastic little smirk slipped away. “No.”

“I wasn’t being an asshole,” she said defensively. “I was — it’s just the fucking truth.”

“I know, Bird,” he said tiredly. He sidled past her and headed for the front door.

Roman put her cider down and followed him. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to get more of the dust,” he said, and he slid his feet into his worn-out shoes.

She raised her eyebrows. “Now?”

“When else is a man supposed to go meet his illegal lyrium dealer?” he said sardonically. 

Roman pursed her lips but didn’t reply. Samson bent down to tie his shoes, and she leaned against the doorjamb and folded her arms as she watched him. She knew he needed the lyrium; she’d seen what happened to him when he ran out of it, and she didn’t want to see him suffer like that again. But still, sometimes she wished…

She discarded the fleeting thought. There was no point wishing Samson didn’t need the lyrium. He’d told her long ago that he would die without it, and she had no reason to not believe him. It wasn’t like she knew any Templars who had ever quit taking lyrium. 

She pushed away from the doorjamb and wandered over to him. “I’ll come with you.”

He looked up in surprise. “Eh? What for?”

To hit back if someone hits you, she thought, but she wasn’t going to fucking say so. She shrugged, and Samson smirked as he stood up. 

“You going to be my knight in shining armour again?” he taunted.

She scowled. “No. Fuck you.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she scoffed and looked away. “You know what, whatever. Forget it.”

“All right, good,” he said affably. “Gettin’ into a brawl kind of defeats the purpose of going out in the middle of the night.” He chucked her chin playfully.

She smacked his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

He suddenly gripped her chin. Before Roman could snap at him to let her go, he was kissing her: a quick firm kiss on the lips — so quick that she didn’t have time to bite him or push him away before he released her. 

He opened the door. “Go eat some more. I’ll be back soon,” he said, and then he was gone. 

She wrinkled her nose at the closed door. How dare he kiss her? He was such an asshole. 

Beside her, Monty sat back on his haunches and tilted his head curiously. Roman looked down at him for a second, then sighed and crouched beside him. “Go with him, okay?” she murmured. “If he gets hit, you jump in and bite back for him. He’s a fucking idiot, he won’t defend himself.”

Monty stood and wagged his tail, and Roman opened the door for him. He bounded away into the darkness, and Roman went back to the kitchen with a sigh. 

She picked up the half-empty bottle of cider and took another sip, then wandered over to her writing desk to check out her letters. She pushed away the ones from Orsino and Meredith without opening them, then paused when she saw a thicker envelope with Varric’s handwriting on it.

She frowned as she opened it. The envelope contained a bunch of worn journal pages that were variously dirty and bloodstained, topped with a short note from Varric. 

Hawke,

Remember that old journal page we found wedged into a brick wall that one time — something by the “Band of Three”? I had a couple sharp eyes looking out for more pages, and this is what they found. I put them together in the order I think they’re supposed to go. Kind of hard to tell without dates, but this is the best I could do. 

Come on down to the Hanged Man after you read them and let me know what you think. You’ll probably want a drink, anyway. I always knew shit in Kirkwall was weird, but this takes the cake.

 - V. 

That’s cryptic as fuck, Roman thought. She took the pages and her bottle of cider to the study and plopped down on the couch in front of the fireplace, then began to read.

- SAMSON -

Samson sidled into the shadows as he made his way through Hightown. There was a faint feeling of unease in his gut, like a hint of nausea, and it revolved around the mages in Kirkwall. 

He’d been hearing stories down at the docks: stories about people cutting their wrists and getting possessed by demons and exploding into monsters who gobbled up their whole families. Samson was too jaded and skeptical to believe any old story he heard on the streets, but he’d been hearing tales for weeks now, versions of the same stories, and he’d been able to put together enough pieces to know that not all of the stories were made up. 

Kirkwall had always had its share of horror stories involving mages, most of which Samson had heard in the course of his business of smuggling mages out of the city. This familiarity meant he was all the more aware that there were more stories than ever before, and they were getting more and more bizarre. 

Mysterious deaths involving ice and lightning, flash fires with no evidence of kindling or fuel, people behaving strangely and talking in tongues, people going missing… He knew Roman didn’t want to hear it, and he didn’t even want to believe it himself, but the truth was this: there was a mage problem in Kirkwall.

Roman was right too, though. Samson had heard things from the Gallows, whispers from the merchants and the few visitors who came and went from that ghastly fucking place, and he knew that Roman was right: Meredith was handing out the Tranquility sentence these days like a Chantry sister handed out blessings on Satinalia, and Samson’s former brethren were feeding right into her tyrannical attempts to control the mages. 

Samson sighed. He’d heard enough and lived through the nugshit for long enough that he could see all the moving parts in this Maker-forsaken place, almost like looking at the inside of a clock: the Templars were getting more controlling and punitive, and the mages were getting more desperate to protect themselves. The hysteria of it all was bleeding down from the Gallows to Kirkwall proper, making the city guard more fearful about magic and making the hidden apostates more fearful than ever of persecution. If something didn’t change, if things continued down this route, the city was going to explode like one of those qunari gaatlok barrels. 

His troubled thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy breathing behind him. He barely had time to be alarmed before a heavy muscular body rammed into his hip.

He stumbled, then caught his balance on a nearby wall and stared in surprise at Monty, who was standing beside him and wagging his tail so enthusiastically that his whole body was shaking. 

Samson gathered himself and frowned at the mabari. “What are you doing here, eh?” 

Monty sat and gazed at Samson attentively, and Samson wrinkled his nose. “Did she send you after me?”

Monty let out a little bark, and Samson jumped before scowling at him. “Quiet, dog,” he scolded in a whisper. “You’re going get people looking. If you’re going to follow me, you have to shut your trap.”

Monty panted but didn’t bark again, and Samson gazed at him a little resentfully. It looked like Monty really did understand him. Just not when Samson was saying ‘no’ to feeding chicken to the big furry fucker.

He sighed. “All right, come on then. But be quiet,” he said severely, and together they continued on their way to Lowtown in silence.

Samson watched the mabari from the corner of his eye as they walked. It was so strange having any kind of company when he went… well, anywhere really. Monty, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease as he trotted along at Samson’s side.

Within the space of a couple of minutes, Samson had adjusted to Monty’s presence. It helped that Monty was almost entirely silent. He was a big bloody dog, and Samson would have expected him to make some noise as he walked, but he was pleasantly surprised at how quiet Monty was. 

He shot the mabari a sideways glance. “She really sent you along, eh?”

Monty looked up at him with his mouth agape in a wide doggy smile, and Samson huffed. “Let me guess. She told you to attack anyone who attacked me, right?”

Monty wagged his tail, and Samson pursed his lips. Bloody bird, always acting like he was some kind of coward for not picking fights like she did. He’d told her time and time again that it was smarter to run or hide than to fight back, especially for someone like him: someone powerless, someone that the city guard wouldn’t move to protect if something really went wrong. Besides, he did fight back sometimes when he was attacked — if fighting back was the smarter move. Roman was hotheaded and angry, always looking for the next person she could justifiably throw a fireball at, but Samson wasn’t like her. He wasn’t strong like her.

Leave it to the damned bloody bird to be the strong one, he thought tiredly. I’ll do things my own way. Samson might not be strong anymore, but at least he had his street smarts. He’d just keep sticking to the smarter course, whether it meant hiding or fighting back. He’d keep doing what he needed in order to survive.

He and Monty were about to step into the market when he spotted something strange: two men and a woman talking in low and urgent voices in a corner. He slowed down and placed his hand on Monty’s head, and Monty slowed down to a stop as well. 

Together, they sidled a little closer to the furtive trio. Samson couldn’t move close enough to hear what they were saying, not without making himself and the mabari visible, but as they edged a little nearer, Samson had a jolt of recognition: he knew one of the men — or at least, he thought he did. The man’s blond hair was shorter than Samson remembered, and he had a beard where his face used to be bare, but Samson was fairly sure this blond bloke was a Templar.

On shore leave from the Gallows, looks like, Samson thought. Then, with another jolt, he realized that he recognized the woman too: she was a known mage sympathizer. 

Strange, he thought. He watched the trio for a minute longer, trying to determine if he could conclusively identify the blond fellow as being a Templar, but he really wasn’t able to get any closer without being seen. When the three people made signs of looking like their meeting was coming to an end, Samson quickly ducked into a nearby alleyway with Monty to hide.

When the trio had dispersed, Samson patted Monty’s head. “Let’s go, dog.”

They quickly slunk through the market and into the lower-class suburb that led toward Lowtown, and Samson pondered what they’d witnessed. A Templar and a mage sympathizer having an amiable little late-night meeting? Meredith wouldn’t be too chuffed about that. Or maybe the mage sympathizer wasn’t as sympathetic as she seemed and was feeding information about apostates back to the Gallows, in which case old Orsino would be the unhappy one. 

Samson and Monty made their way through Lowtown proper. As usual, Lowtown was more active — and more dangerous — at night than Hightown was, and Samson listened furtively as he made his way to the usual meeting spot for his lyrium-smuggling contact down by the market. The gossip was the same as he’d heard earlier today: mentions of a fish merchant closing down for the week after selling some clams that made people sick, talk of a few lingering qunari out on the Wounded Coast, reports of a young elf getting dragged off to jail by a guardsman after stealing a few apples for his family, the usual grim fare. But one piece of gossip in particular deepened his worries. 

It was a corrupt city guardsman talking to some other human. “... those knife-ears still cleaning blood and guts off of that big tree in the alienage. You know, the one they tie all those poncy ribbons to.” He chuckled. “That’s what happens when apostates hide out in the alienage: all that knife-ear nugshit makes ‘em blow up. Too bad and serves ‘em right if you ask me.”

Samson frowned as he slunk past the guardsman and his friend. He knew about the incident in question because Roman had been directly involved. Meredith had forced her to track down three runaways from the Circle by making indirect threats toward Carver, and one of the runaways was a possessed mage — a mage who had, as indicated by the guardsman, become an abomination and ultimately exploded into a shower of blood when Roman was forced to kill him. 

“Is that a mabari?” 

“What’s a mabari doing with that homeless fellow?”

“That’s not… it’s not Hawke’s mabari, is it?”

Maker’s balls, Samson thought in  exasperation. He knew he shouldn’t have let Monty come with him. The damned dog was drawing far too much attention, including curious looks from the corrupt guardsman.

He shot Monty a resentful look. Monty ducked his head and tucked his tail between his legs, and Samson immediately felt bad. It wasn’t Monty’s fault, after all; it was Roman’s. He’d have to have a word with her when he got back to the mansion.

He quickly met up with his contact and traded a few silver for lyrium powder, then selected a more convoluted but quieter route back to Hightown so they wouldn’t be stared at. As they silently made their way back to Roman’s house, Samson brooded over that abomination incident in the alienage. 

He’d always known there were apostates hiding throughout the city, but he’d somehow not thought much about how much harder it had to be for the apostates who were elves. He’d helped to smuggle out dozens of apostates in his time, and he count on one hand the number of times they’d been elves, and the reason was obvious: they didn’t have the coin. Mages who didn’t have the coin to smuggle their way out of the city must be even more afraid, which made them more prone to possession — more prone than they already were if they hadn’t had any training at the Circle.

He rubbed his forehead. Maker’s balls, I’m tired, he thought, and he continued on his way to Roman’s house.

When they got back to the house, Samson let Monty in before following him inside and closing the door. “Oi, I’m back,” he called. He took off his shoes and padded through to the main room, and when he didn’t find Roman there, he peeked into the study. 

Monty was already lying on his belly in front of the fireplace, and Roman was sitting on the couch and scowling at the fire. There was a sheaf of papers beside her and two empty cider bottles on the floor, and another half-finished bottle in her hand.

Samson wilted slightly. Roman had been drinking less since he’d started sleeping at her house. This was the first time in a while that she’d had more than one drink in the evening. 

At least she’s not drinking rum or whiskey, he thought. “You can’t send the dog with me again,” he said as he entered the room. “Everyone was staring. A guardsman was giving me the eye over ‘im.”

She looked up at him. “Kirkwall is a fucking mage trap.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Eh?”

“Look at this.” She picked up the sheaf of papers and thrust it at him, and he took them gingerly. 

The papers were journal entries by some group called the Band of Three who’d been investigating the history of Kirkwall during Tevinter occupation. The more Samson read, the more discomfort he felt twisting in his gut. Secret Vint plans, hundreds of slaves going missing, the city designed in the shape of magical glyphs, gutters in the sewer system meant to channel vast amounts of blood…

By the time he finished reading the pages, the hairs were standing up on the back of his neck. He held the papers out to her. “Where’d you get these from?” he rasped.

“I found one of them. Varric scrounged up the rest.” She stood up and plucked the papers from his hand. “You know what this means, right?”

He pulled a face. “Er—”

She cut him off. “The Veil is thin here,” she said. “That’s why so many mages in the Circle fail that fucking Harrowing ritual bullshit. That’s why some people turn into abominations for doing a single little spell with blood magic. It’s this fucking city. It’s…” She waved her arms in an angry expansive gesture. “The whole environment is against us, and the Templars just make it worse!”

Samson blinked at this. “Hang on.” He rubbed his face with both hands, then gazed wearily at her. “You’re telling me that Kirkwall is a… a bad place for mages, but the Templars are the problem?”

“They’re definitely not a fucking solution, that’s for sure,” she retorted. “Everyone knows that demons are attracted to fear.”

“And to anger,” Samson said pointedly.

“Exactly,” Roman said angrily, missing his point entirely. “And think about what’s pissing me off. It’s the Templars!” She waved the journal pages. “It’s already hard enough for us to live here, and they’re just making it harder.” She tossed the pages on the floor and drank from her half-finished bottle of cider, and Samson frowned. 

“What is it you want, then?” he said slowly. “You want to just… get rid of the Templars or something?”

She lowered the bottle and gave him a frank look. “Sounds like a good fucking plan to me.”

He stared at her with growing disbelief, then laughed. “You’re not bloody serious.”

“Do I look like I’m fucking laughing?” she said. “It’s the Templars that are making the mages so desperate that they’re turning to… to summoning demons and other shit that they don’t understand.”

“And when they summon demons and do that shit, someone needs to be able to stop them,” Samson retorted.

Her face went slack with disbelief, then twisted back into anger. “You can’t be fucking serious about this. You’re defending them? They threw you out!”

“That bitch Meredith threw me out,” he corrected.

She threw her hands up in frustration. “So what, now you think the Templars are justified? Now you think it’s okay to keep the mages locked up in a fucking tower with no freedom?”

“No,” Samson said loudly. “That’s not what I’m bloody saying. I’m just….” He sighed and rubbed his face again, then looked at her once more. “Think about it, Bird. Say the Templars get dismantled. What happens to ‘em?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” she said impatiently.

“What happens to Templars who have no use anymore?” he said, and he gestured sarcastically at himself.

The fury in her face loosened slightly, and Samson gave her a humourless smile. “You didn’t even think about it, did you? Well, you should. Think about Carver there. The Order falls apart, and he’ll end up like me, just a ruined—”

“You’re not fucking ruined!” she bellowed suddenly.  “Stop saying that!”

Samson closed his mouth and stared hard at her. An ugly pause ensued, electric and tense like the brewing of a heavy summer storm. The longer he and Roman went without speaking, the more he felt the old memories rising to the front of his mind, like bloated corpses cut loose from the bottom of the sea: his disbelief at being kicked out of the Order and out of the only home he had, all for something so trivial. The betrayal and the loneliness. The shakes and the nausea when the withdrawal first set in. The delirium, the beatings, the confusion, the raging thirst and hunger during the moments when he was lucid, the horrific hallucinations when he wasn’t. The humiliation of having to find a black-market lyrium dealer, and the slow erosion of his soul as his muscles and his purpose and his confidence wasted away bit by bit. 

For a first time in a long, long time, the old injustices were burning in his belly and burning through the shroud of his usual world-weary passivity, prompting him to take an aggressive step toward her. “I am ruined, Roman,” he said in a hard voice. “You didn’t know me when I was in the Order. If you did, you’d know I’m a bloody shadow of the man I used to be.” 

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Samson, for fuck’s—”

He interrupted her. “Is this what you want for Carver?” he said harshly. “You want that big brute to end up like this, all wasted away and jonesing for the dust?”

She opened her mouth again, but Samson didn’t let her speak. “You going to write to Her Divine Holiness and tell ‘er to dismantle the Templars?” he said aggressively. “Tell her to let every one of ‘em end up on the streets like beggars?”

She narrowed her eyes. “If you really think that’s what would happen to them, what does that say about the Chantry and your precious fucking Order?”

He exhaled hard and glared at her, furious at not being able to find a reply. Roman leaned away and planted her fists on her skinny hips. “Besides, it’s not like complaining to the precious fucking Divine would do anything,” she said. “You think she’d break up her personal army for the good of the mages? Not a fucking chance.”

“They’re not supposed to be her personal army,” Samson snapped.

“And the Circles aren’t supposed to be jails for mages, but look where we are,” Roman drawled.

All of a sudden, Samson had had enough. “Fine then, everything in the world is shit,” he shouted. “Are you happy now?”

She recoiled slightly, then sneered at him. “No, actually. I’m fucking pissed.”

“No different than all the fucking time, then,” he said acidly, and he strode away to the kitchen. He threw open the enchanted icebox and stared unseeingly at its contents. Truthfully, he hadn’t been planning to get anything out of here. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be around Roman right now.

Unfortunately, she didn’t get the hint; a second later, she was storming up to him. “What the fuck is your problem?” she yelled. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

He slammed the icebox shut. “Me?” he said incredulously. “I’m just tryin’ to survive, Bird. I’m just trying to make the best of this bullshit that we’re living through.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” Roman demanded.

“You’re trying to pick a fucking fight,” he snapped. “I can see it in your face. You’ve never tried to keep your head down. You want a war with the Templars, don’t you?”

“I don’t want a fucking war, but that’s what’s coming,” she yelled. She shot him a scathing look. “And don’t act like you don’t know it’s coming. You’re one of the smartest people in this fucking city. You know exactly what’s coming.”

He raised his eyebrows, thrown off by her compliment in the midst of her vitriol. “So… so what, you think there’s a war coming and nothing can stop it?”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s what I think.” She took a slow step closer to him and belligerently lifted her chin. “There’s a war coming between the mages and the Templars. And if you won’t pick a side, you’re a fucking coward.”

Coward. The word shot straight through his chest like an icy spear. It wasn’t that she was wrong necessarily, because she wasn’t. Samson wasn’t brave or principled or any of that shit, so if he didn’t have any of those precious virtues, that must mean he was a coward. But to hear Roman saying it to his face…

His chest squeezed painfully, almost as though she was digging her nails through his rib cage to rend his heart. He swallowed hard and glared at her. “Fuck you,” he spat, and he pushed past her and headed back to the study.

He sat down heavily on the couch. Monty sat up and whined softly, but Samson ignored him; he lay down on the couch and closed his eyes.

 A moment later, he heard Roman’s strident voice. “What in the Maker’s fucking ballsack are you doing?”

“Cooking a four-course Antivan meal,” he said flatly. “What’s it bloody look like?”

She barked out a nasty little laugh. “You’re fucking sleeping down here, then? Is that it?”

He opened his eyes and glared venomously at her. “Yeah, I am. I’m sleeping here tonight, and I’ll get out of your hair first thing in the morning so you don’t have to share your fucking fancy house with a coward.” 

Her jaw clenched visibly, but she didn’t speak, and Samson’s heart twisted. She really did think he was a coward, then.

He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes once more. “Go away, Roman. Leave me alone.”

She scoffed. When she spoke again, her voice was moving away toward the stairs. “Fuck you too, then. See if I fucking care.”

He didn’t bother to reply. A few seconds later, he heard the slamming of her bedroom door. 

He drew a deep breath and ignored the swelling feeling in his throat. Then something nudged his back.

He jolted in surprise, then sighed loudly; it was Monty snuffling around him. 

He shifted his shoulders in annoyance. “Leave off, dog,” he said quietly. “Go upstairs.” 

Monty whined and nudged him again, and Samson shrugged irritably. “I said leave off,” he snapped. “I don’t want your company.”

Monty whined again, but the nudging stopped. A moment later, he heard the distant sound of Monty’s scratching nails, followed by the opening and closing of Roman’s bedroom door.

Feeling even shittier now, Samson sighed and slowly stood up, then shuffled around the lower level of the house putting out the oil lamps and chandeliers. When the house was dark except for the lingering flames in the fireplaces, he lay back on the couch in the study and folded his arms behind his head. 

He stared blankly up at the ceiling for a long time, exhausted but unable to sleep. His gut was a buzzing mess of agitation, and his chest felt like there was rock sitting in the center of his ribs. His mind kept running fruitlessly over all the negative thoughts in his head — and there were a lot of negative things to go over: abomination attacks, a quarter of the Circle’s mages being Tranquil, Meredith blackmailing Roman to do what she wanted, Roman wishing she could dissolve the Templars, Roman yelling about a war that no one could stop, Roman telling him he was a coward…

His heart twisted painfully, and he breathed slowly to quell it. She was such a bloody bitch: telling him he was smart one second then calling him a coward the next, and sending her mabari to follow him as though he was a fucking child who couldn’t look after himself. She was so fucking stubborn and hard-headed, always carrying on about how fucked up the Templars were and how fucked up this entire city was.

But she’s not wrong, he thought as he remembered those papers she’d shown him. That history of the Vints doing some kind of mysterious horrible magic right here in this city — this city that was built in the shape of a magical glyph, this city where the Veil was thin and demons were just a whisper away from the minds of its mages…

And Roman was even more vulnerable than most. Rage-filled Roman Hawke, with her fearlessness and her ferocity and her fucking blood magic… A pulse of fear pierced through his heartsick anger. Sure, she had good control over her own magic, but if those journal pages had the right of it, she was in danger no matter what. She was in danger just by virtue of living in this fucking place that she refused to leave.  

What if she becomes an abomination? His gut clenched at the thought. He’d asked her once if she was afraid of becoming an abomination, and she’d told him that she was. What if she did become an abomination, though? What if she became the very thing she feared? What would happen then?

What would Samson do then?

An icy sort of fear was spreading through his chest. Don’t think about it, he thought. He couldn’t think about what he’d do if that happened — not that he could do anything, really, since he wasn’t a Templar anymore. The lyrium he bought off the black market was enough to keep the edge off of his cravings and his withdrawal, but it wasn’t nearly pure enough to channel into any kind of power. If Roman… If something happened to her, there was nothing Samson would be able to do to help her. 

He rubbed his face wearily. He couldn’t believe he was even having to think about this. Truthfully, given the political situation and the ugly history of this city, Samson knew what he and Roman should both really be doing: fleeing this city before it had a chance to explode. 

And that’s why she thinks you’re a coward, he told himself scathingly. But was it cowardly to survive, or was it just the smart thing to do? Who gave a fuck about being called a coward if it meant you got to live?

Then again, what was the point of living the way Samson had before Roman had wandered into his life?

He was suddenly reminded of something else she’d once said: that it wasn’t enough to just survive, to just eke out a living from one day to the next. That people needed something to live for. But Roman herself had admitted that she didn’t know what she was living for. Did Samson know what he was living for, either? 

He sighed. Maybe he really was a coward. Maybe this bloody mage-Templar problem would force him to find something to live for. Maybe Roman was right, and what he really needed was to pick a side. Support the mages, or support the Templars? Support the monsters, or support the people who made those monsters what they were? 

Support the freedom of mages, or support the freedom of the Templars who’d been leashed and brainwashed just as he had been?

Maker’s fucking balls, he thought morosely.

He lay in the dark on the couch for a long time sliding in and out of a restless sort of doze, unable to settle his mind enough to properly sleep. He was vaguely aware of the fire slowly dwindling down to mere embers until the whole study was wreathed in shadows. When a shadow broke away from the gloom to move toward him from the stairs, he thought it was a dream.

The shadow paused at the end of the couch. “Monty won’t shut the fuck up,” she said. “He keeps whimpering.”

Samson frowned at her through the gloom. “So?”

She folded her arms and said nothing for a moment, and Samson stared at her, half-convinced she was just a figment of his imagination. 

“Come upstairs,” Roman muttered.

He raised his eyebrows. “Eh?”

“I said come upstairs,” she said a little more loudly. “I don’t think he’ll shut up until you come upstairs.”

He blinked blearily at her. In the feeble glow of the dying fire, he could just make out the glimmer of her silk robe and her customary pouty scowl. 

He frowned at her, then closed his eyes. “I’m staying here, Bird.”

She clicked her tongue. “You’re telling me you like sleeping on the couch?”

“That’s right,” he lied. Truthfully, his lower back was hurting, but it was still better than sleeping on the ground in Lowtown. Most importantly, it was better than doing what Roman wanted.

For a second, there was silence. Then she poked his shoulder hard. “Come on, don’t be so fucking stubborn. I know your back must be hurting.”

He scowled. Bloody know-it-all, he thought. “It is not,” he muttered.

“Then why do you complain about it all the time?” she said archly.

He opened his eyes and glared at her. “Go back to bed, Roman. I’ve had enough of your nugshit.”

She stared stonily at him. Then, to his surprise, she started to climb onto the couch.

He hastily tried to shuffle away from her, but she doggedly settled herself over his hips. He grabbed her hips and started trying to lift her off. “Bird, quit it—” 

She untied her robe and opened it, and Samson stopped breathing: she was naked under the robe. Naked, no panties, no bra, her dusky little nipples hard… 

His cock pulsed, and his mouth was flooded with a rush of saliva. Infuriated by his own traitorous body and at Roman for making him this way, he gripped her bare hip and tried to push her away. 

She pulled his hand away and placed it on her breast. “Come upstairs,” she said. 

Her nipple was a perfect taut little bud. He roughly kneaded her breast, then twisted her nipple suddenly, wanting to hurt her and make her purr at the same time.

She gasped and arched into his hand, then fisted her hand in his hair and pulled his head back, and Samson burst out a groan: her mouth was suddenly on his neck, her teeth nipping at his skin and sending jolts of pain and pleasure from his throat down to his groin. She nipped the base of his throat then started to suck, and for a moment, Samson let himself enjoy it. He wasn’t giving in, mind — he was just… letting himself enjoy this for a second before pushing her away. 

She sucked hard at his skin and started rubbing his cock through his breeches, and he groaned and lifted his hips. “You bitch…” he moaned.

“Come upstairs,” she whispered, and she bit the side of his neck. 

He jolted at the pain, then gasped with pleasure as she squeezed his cock through his breeches. Then she was grabbing his hand again and pulling it between her legs, making him touch her wet curls– 

She pressed his fingers into her folds, and a red-hot roar of lust tore through his body. She was sopping wet and spreading herself over his fingers, and he wanted her so badly that it pissed him off. 

She groaned and undulated shamelessly over his hand, and Samson tried — rather feebly — to pull his hand away. “Not here,” he hissed.

She tightened her grip on his wrist and continued to rub herself against his fingers, and Samson stared at the meeting point of her pussy and his hand for a second before forcing his eyes back to her face. “I said not here,” he complained, and he tried to pull his hand away again. “Get off.”

She dug her nails into his wrist. “Make me,” she breathed.

Make me. Her provocative words, these words she said on purpose when she was trying to rile him into roughing her up... Something hot and angry and wild suddenly snapped inside of him.

He wrested his hand away from her and grabbed her by the throat, and her lips fell open in a gasp. She clawed at his wrist and tilted her hips down toward his groin, but Samson didn’t let her make contact; with his hand at her throat, he clumsily forced her off of his lap until they were both standing up.

He released her throat to grip her chin instead. “Get upstairs,” he bit off.

She curled her lip. “What happened to ‘I’m not going upstairs’?”

He lifted her chin higher. “If you’re going to rub yourself on me like a bloody cat in heat, I’m not letting you do it down here.”

She laughed mockingly. “Let me? Like you can tell me what to do.”

He tightened his grip on her chin — enough that it had to be hurting her — then squeezed her buttcheek in his other hand. “Get upstairs, Bird,” he snarled. “I’m sick of hearing it.”

“No,” she said belligerently. “I want to fuck down here.”

He spanked her suddenly, satisfied when she jolted and gasped. “Get upstairs,” he commanded.

“I said no,” she spat.

He dug his fingers harshly into her buttock until she gasped in pain. “Then I’ll just have to take you upstairs,” he hissed. Without warning, he bent down and hefted her over his shoulder in an undignified carry.

She squawked, then thumped his back as he made his way to the stairs. “Hey! Put me down—”

He spanked her upraised ass. “Shut it, Bird,” he ordered. He began carrying her up the stairs, and he was secretly pleased when he realized that carrying her was easier than it had been a couple months ago before he started sleeping in her house. 

Must be those three square meals Orana makes, he thought idly. Then, just for the hell of it, he spanked Roman’s ass again.

She yelped, then thumped his back. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” she hissed.

He huffed, and without replying, he flipped up the hem of her robe and pressed the tips of his fingers into her pussy. 

She jolted and gasped, and Samson smirked, satisfied at having found a way to shut her up. He continued to caress her slick folds as they ascended the stairs, and by the time he was stepping into Roman’s open bedroom, she was breathing hard over his shoulder. 

Monty was resting his chin on his paws in front of the fireplace. When Samson and Roman came in, he sat up attentively. 

“Go to the washroom,” Samson ordered, and he unceremoniously dumped Roman onto the bed. He still wasn’t used to having the mabari stand witness when he and Roman were doing the deed. 

Monty dutifully trotted away, and Roman struggled to sit up and push her hair out of her face. “Don’t tell him what to do,” she snapped. “He’s—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Samson said coldly. He kicked the bedroom door shut, then started unlacing his breeches. 

Roman leaned back on her elbows and sneered at him. “Look at you, the big strong boy throwing me around. You want to shut me up, hm? How’re you going to do that?”

His blood roared at her taunting tone. He pulled his throbbing cock out of his breeches and stalked toward the bed, then crawled between her legs and wrapped his fingers around her throat.

He pushed her down so her back was flush to the bed, then started rubbing his cock between her legs. Her lips parted on a moan, and the sound of it made his blood thrill even more. 

She thrust her hips toward him, and Samson squeezed her throat. “I’m going to fuck your mouth, and you’re going to like it,” he snarled. “You’re going to like it so much that you’re going to rub your pussy until you come with my knob in your throat.”

She mewled and jerked her hips, pressing her sleek heat against his cock. Overcome with the pleasure and the heat of her, he leaned in and kissed her hard. 

She parted her lips and licked his tongue, then bit his lower lip, and he grunted as the sharpness of her teeth sent yet another tantalizing pulse of pleasure pounding to his cock. He shoved his tongue ruthlessly into her mouth for a moment before pulling away, then crawled over her body until he was straddling her. 

He lifted her chin with one hand. “Open your fucking mouth,” he snapped. 

“Fuck you,” she breathed, and she obediently opened her mouth.

Without any hesitation, he leaned forward and slid his cock between her lips. She suckled the head of his cock, and a jolt of ecstasy tore its way from his groin up to his throat in a helpless gasp. 

He curled his hips toward her and grabbed her hand. “Touch yourself,” he rasped.

She pulled her hand out of his grip and reached between her legs, and he watched raptly as her eyelids fluttered with pleasure. Soon she was writhing beneath him, her lips a tight suction on his shaft, and Samson thrust into her mouth with greater zeal as his pleasure rose in time with her own. 

A breathless minute later, she released his cock to cry out in climax, and Samson greedily watched the pleasure twisting her pretty face before taking hold of his cock. “I said to come with my knob in your throat,” he snarled, and he pushed his cock toward her lips.

She eagerly lifted her head to take him deep, and he grunted and thrust into her mouth as she moaned her pleasure around his cock. When the shuddering of her climax had stilled, he finally pulled his length from between her lips.

He crawled off of her and kneeled between her legs again, then ruthlessly looped her knees over his arms and planted his palms on either side of her hips. “I’m going to fuck your brains out,” he gasped, and he plunged himself inside of her.

She cried out, a hoarse and guttural cry of pleasure, and Samson slammed into her in a rough and mindless rhythm, riled almost beyond reason by her taunting and his anger and the beautiful lanky length of her naked body beneath him. Her fingers were digging into his forearms, her nails biting into her skin with little pricks of pain that only served to enhance his ecstasy, and as his pleasure continued to rise, he dipped his head down and took her nipple in his mouth.

He suckled hard, hard enough to bruise her flesh, and Roman arched beneath him as best she could despite the constraints of her legs over his arms. “F-fuck!” she cried. “Fuck, fuck, come on, fuck me hard…”

He slammed into her even harder, so hard that he would have sworn it would hurt her if not for the rapture that was twisting her face. She moaned and scraped his arms, and he gasped against her chest, and when his climax suddenly crashed over him, he bit her nipple. 

She keened with pleasure and writhed beneath him. “Fuck yes,” she sobbed. 

He didn’t reply, too busy gasping and thrusting jerkily into her as he came. Then, in a final fit of spite, he pulled out of her and thrust against her belly instead.

A few thick white spurts landed on her belly, and Roman twisted her hips. “You asshole,” she whined.

He didn’t reply, focused instead on catching his breath. When his heart had slowed to a less-than-frantic pulse, he sat back on his heels and smirked at her. “Serves you right,” he said.

She shot him a dirty look, and Samson smiled more widely at her, feeling oddly at peace. Roman looked so thoroughly spent, and her body bore the obvious marks of his work: his toothmarks on her breast, his semen on her belly, her own wetness smeared on the insides of her thighs and on the bed. For some reason, seeing her look this way made him feel more relaxed than he’d felt all day.

He pulled off his shirt and flopped down on the bed beside her. “I guess I’ll stay here and get some sleep,” he said.

She huffed and sat up. “Whatever. Do what you want, I don’t care.” She slid off of the bed and went to the washroom to clean up, and Monty trotted out of the washroom. 

Samson hastily tucked his cock back into his breeches, then gave Monty a sheepish look. “Sorry about before,” he muttered. “She just… she drives me up the wall sometimes.”

Monty wagged his tail and gave him a big canine grin, and Samson smiled faintly at the mabari before shuffling under the blankets. When Roman emerged from the washroom a couple of minutes later, Samson was glad to note that she was wearing her usual slight frown instead of an angry one.

She took her robe off and hung it on her painted changing screen, then put out the bedside lamp and crawled under the blankets. She settled on her back beside him, and as they lay there side-by-side, not talking nor touching, Samson began to wonder if he should say something.

Roman spoke first. “You’re not a coward,” she said quietly.

His heart flipped. He didn’t reply, unsure what to say. After all, he wasn’t totally sure that he wasn’t one.

She spoke again, and her tone was a little harder this time. “I don’t think you’re a fucking coward, Samson.”

“Then why’d you call me one?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was... mad.”

“You’re always mad,” he pointed out.

“Would you–” She broke off, then exhaled sharply and sat up on her elbow to look down at him. “I didn’t mean it, okay? Sometimes shit just comes out of my mouth and I – I didn’t fucking mean it. You’re not a coward.”

“You still think I need to pick a side, though,” he said.

She was quiet for a moment. Then she laid down and rolled onto her side facing away from him. “I didn’t think it would be so fucking hard to know which one you’d pick,” she said. 

He gazed morosely at her naked shoulder blade. She wasn’t wrong; he had no real reason to side with the Templars, after all. It wasn’t like he’d joined them because he believed in their cause. Really, he had every reason to hate them — or not the Templars per se, but the Chantry’s control over them. Whether Roman saw it or not, the Chantry controlled the Templars just as much as they controlled the mages. The leashes they used were just of a different kind. 

Really, if it came down to a war between the Templars and the mages, there was no reason for Samson to side with the Templars. He just wished… 

He sighed. Honestly, he sort of wished he could be a Templar without joining the Order again. If he could just get his hands on some real lyrium, the real good blue stuff so he could have his Templar powers back, then he’d be healthy and strong again. He could walk through this city with his head held high, and he could fight back when anyone tried to beat him down. And he could use his powers for a good purpose, too — to be the kind of Templar that Roman would tolerate: the kind of Templar who stepped in to stop the abominations and to talk the scared mages down from doing stupid things. 

If he had his Templar powers back, he’d be able to do something if Roman became an abomination. Maybe he’d be able to stop her or calm her down so she didn’t need to die.

His gut writhed. Stop it, he thought sternly. There was no point thinking about this any further; it was all a pipe dream. There was no way he would get his hands on real lyrium again. 

He gazed at Roman’s naked spine with an aching heart. Then he rolled toward her and pulled her back against his chest. 

He hugged her around her waist, and she tsked. “You’re squeezing me.” 

“Yeah,” he said huskily.

They laid together in silence for a moment, her spine flush to his chest and his knees tucked behind hers. Then Samson spoke quietly into the dark. “I know you don’t want a war, Bird.”

She scoffed. “Obviously.”

He didn’t reply. A minute later, she spoke again. “I don’t get in fights because I want to, you know.”

He frowned slightly. “Then why’re you always fighting all the time?”

“I’m not the one picking the fucking fights,” she snapped. “The whole world keeps picking fights with me.” Her voice cracked, and Samson felt her body tensing in his arms. 

His throat started to ache. He swallowed and hugged her harder, and she wiggled her shoulders slightly. “You’re crushing me,” she complained.

Her voice was thick with tears. Samson closed his stinging eyes. “Shut up, Bird,” he whispered, and he kept hugging her.

She sniffled quietly, and Samson held her in silence until her body started to relax. When she spoke again, her voice was hard, as though to make up for her tears. “I just want a fucking moment of peace. Just a fucking second of calm. That’s what I really want.”

He breathed quietly in the ensuing silence. Her hair smelled like vanilla and almond and sweat, and her skin was soft against his chest. The room was dark and her sheets were warm, and the only sounds were his breathing and the soft rumble of Monty snoring on the carpet by the fireplace. 

“It’s pretty calm right now,” Samson murmured.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she pulled his hand away from her midriff. 

She twined her fingers with his, and a nearly-painful spear of tenderness pierced his chest. She was such a pain in the ass, fighting with him one second and making him angry-fuck her the next, then being just a little bit sweet like this and making him feel bad for fighting with her in the first place… 

Bloody damn bird, he thought. She was fierce and angry and so fucking vulnerable, and Samson wished he could do something to save her from herself. If only he could be a Templar without actually joining the Order again. If only he could get access to some proper lyrium again…

His guts were knotted with longing. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her hair, and eventually he fell into an uneasy sleep. 

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 37

Read on AO3. Part 36 here. Part 38 here.

Summary: There are only so many ways you can deliver news.

Words: 2700

Warnings: dystopia

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: I really didn't think I'd get a chapter out today, but I did, so yay!? Sorry it's a bit short (I remember when 2000 words was normal for me!), but I must be on my bullshit, as always.

Thank you very much to everyone who reached out. I had a shitty week this week, and I anticipate things in the next few weeks will not be super great. If there is a week where an update is missed, I hope you can understand.

I love y'all very much, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! <3

Beyond the sheet, the doctor’s shadow worked in silence, collecting instruments to soon be used to pry and expose your pomegranate flesh. Your monthly exam would never feel routine--prior to the collapse of society, they’d already been unpleasant. But now, separated from the provider by gossamer cloth, scrutinized in anonymity while metal objects cracked you wide, they crushed you in revulsion. The doctor whirled on his stool between your legs, air whispering over your bare skin. You swallowed.

A squeaking, clacking, and the cold metal of the speculum parted your labia and pierced your entrance. You held your breath, willing away the tears that pricked your sight--you’d always cried at this part, even before it became obligatory--drifting to your mind until he was finished. 

Kylo Ren had been gone for 18 days, and in his absence, Gilead had drawn from your veins, a vampire of systemic proportions bleeding you not of life, but of the will to live itself. Without his presence, his power, his capability to extract you from bondage, you’d sunk into it like a tarpit, thick sticky ooze edging ever-closer to your throat. Sutures now removed, antibiotics completed, your days consisted of waking, walking, waiting, and, more than once, weeping, before wishing yourself into a witless slumber. Not that you were surprised. After all, before you’d fucked him in secrecy the first time, you’d asked yourself, what was life without living? 

As it turned out: pretty fucking awful. 

Pain lit up your spine when the doctor dug at your cervix for a swab--you winced, and the exam room door opened.

“Hey, we’re running behind, you do you want me to grab the next one, or--”

“No, no,” your doctor replied. “I’m almost done with this one. Did you get the urinalysis back?”

“Uh, no, sorry, I haven’t checked. I can go do it now.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Oh, hey.” Then he swiveled away--leaving you gaping, a red tunnel open for observation. “Did you hear what the director said this morning?”

The other man hummed in thought. “Something about Commander Pryde. I didn’t really care.”

You stared into the ceiling, hands folded over your stomach, tears stinging again while your thighs began to tremble. Privacy and respect hadn’t been afforded to you in three years; you had long been designated a womb buried in a hunk of meat. But something about having your cervix on display like the Hope Diamond was particularly nauseating. Your stomach groaned in humiliation.

“Yeah. Anyone who’s even spoken with Pryde in the last month is getting rounded up.”

Breath stalled. There was no way the doctor knew who you were--the sheet separating you ensured that. Dread iced over your chest.

“Shit,” the other man replied. “Really? Damn.” A pause, clanging of instruments. “Just questioning, right?”

“For now.” The doctor grumbled. “I just had the tenaculum. What the hell?”

“Isn’t it right over there?”

“Oh, right, yeah.” Wheels squeaked across the floor. “Anyway, it’s just a new round of Ren’s bullshit.” He sighed, scooching between your legs again. Something sharp and cold pinched you--you bit your lip. “Dissenters this, threats to Gilead that. I wouldn’t worry about it. Unless--”

A snort. “I hate the both of ‘em.” The man sighed. “You’d think that fixing the birthrate should be their top priority, the way things are going.” 

The doctor grumbled, and something pinched you like talons, shooting pain up your spine. “Yeah. Well. If Ren has his way, half the people in this country are gonna end up dead.”

Your heart was tumbling into a canyon. In the time without him, your belief in your Commander’s defection had dimmed. You’d believed initially that his motivation for Pryde’s capture was revenge--something undesirable, but still understandable--but the longer his campaign went on, the more you realized that there would be nothing that would convince him to release his stranglehold on his position. A gnawing despair within you whispered that whatever Kylo Ren felt for you, he felt it one hundredfold for power and control; convincing him to leave it behind would not only be improbable, but impossible. Yet, as you considered betraying what little affection he might have, sorrow shredded you. The thought of his capture, trial, possible execution--

More tears. You couldn’t stomach the thought of him not here, of being torn from him, of his existence in the past tense. And you also couldn’t sacrifice your freedom for his sins. 

The release of the speculum tugged you back to the exam, and you sniffled, clearing your throat. You’d missed the rest of the conversation.

“Whatever happens, at least we won’t be out of a job. They’ll always need someone to make sure the breeding stock is healthy.” A pause, as if to acknowledge that, yes, you were still in the room. “No offense, of course.”

Bile burned your tongue. You said nothing. 

“Shit, that reminds me,” said the other man. “I’ll go check the urinalysis.”

“Thanks.” 

The door shut. Without warning, latex fingers pushed inside of you, another hand pressing down on your belly. The inspection went on for seconds longer than you thought it should, his fingers curling, as if he was languishing there, reveling in the sensation of feeling your uterus. For a blink, every thought surrounding your Commander’s desertion of Gilead fled your mind, consumed by a venomous desire that he might catch this doctor in the act and crack his skull on the pearly tile, spray his blood, stain the grout. And then the intrusion was over, and your fury dissipated, the ache for retribution hollowing in your heart. 

It wouldn’t have mattered, really, if he had been standing in the room when it had happened--the doctor was no anomaly, but a functioning cog in Kylo Ren’s machine. As long as you both remained in clutches of his own creation, he would spend eternity defending you from its design. Even if you could be an exception, other women would suffer in forced silence. And even if he could mould it to your liking, it would still mean he preferred you to exist in subjugation instead of liberation.

Hope had been a security blanket almost three weeks ago, thick and warm around your shoulders while he’d bathed you with gentle hands. Now it clung in tatters to your ribs, the tiny scraps fluttering like tissue with every gust of reality.

The door opened again. 

“Hey,” the man said. “Got the results.”

A snap of rubber as the doctor removed his gloves. “And?”

“Look for yourself.”

Shuffling paper stifled the sad knock of your pulse in your ears. Perhaps you knew, and had always known, that Kylo might never come to agree with your perspective. You just frequently forgot to acknowledge that it would mean letting him go. Forever. 

“Hey! Okay!” A warm palm slapped your thigh, and you squeaked. “We got another one!”

When no one responded, you realized he had been speaking to you. About a result. A urinalysis. Another one...

You couldn’t speak. Or breathe. Oh--

“You’re pregnant!” 

Like a geyser, it burst from you--your sorrow, your fear, your disgust, your absolute joy--and poured in rivers down your cheeks, your hands clapping over your face. There was no one coherent thought that could be plucked from your mind, just a constant tornado of horrific exhilaration, a celebratory mourning that within you, a tangible testament to you and your Commander’s connection beat and pulsed and flourished with life, growing veins like vines and limbs like wings. 

His child--your child--a physical entity you could nourish in the wake of his reluctance, an unalterable legacy inside of your womb, one that you, if you were to be denied all else, could adore. Your child, but also his child, descendant to a despondent devil, progeny to a preserver of your own imprisonment. A child that, if born into the realm of its father’s regency, would never know normality, or maybe even you--at all. A heaving sob cracked through, and you shivered, trembling with terrified bliss.

The doctor slapped your thigh again. “Don’t stress!” he said. “According to the chart here, you’re about six weeks along. There’s still a chance for disruption. So I’d stay relaxed, all right?” 

Swallowing, you creaked out a noise of assent. There wasn’t a word you could bear to say. 

After the doctor left, you slipped back into your red dress and wings--despite Kylo’s words weeks earlier, you had been provided no other options after he’d left, and you suspected he’d meant for you to only be out of uniform in his presence, regardless. You were escorted by an armed nurse out of the clinic, where a Knight--still masked, no cloak, just in tactical gear--was waiting by the black SUV you’d seen a few of them in before. Averting your gaze, you climbed into the back and buckled in. The vehicle started, you coasted through the parking lot, and onto the road.

For the first time in several days, the sun was out--though it would need more than an afternoon to evaporate the muggy air that had accumulated in its absence. You gazed into the stark, cloudless sky, placing your hands on your belly, as if you could commune with the little being inside of you, know it before it knew you. A question, awful and exciting, lingered in your mind  as you imagined telling Kylo the news, but no answer revealed itself. You replayed the scenario over and over again, practicing it on your tongue--I’m pregnant--digging deep for his reaction. But it was useless, as initially unknowable as anything else about him. Anxiety constricted your heart, a dam about to crumble behind your eyes.

The Knight turned a corner, and you jostled in the backseat. There couldn’t have been much intimacy between them all. But still.

“How do you think the Commander would respond…” You swallowed again--hesitation kept wadding in your throat. “How do you think he’d respond to a pregnancy?”

Long, sweltering seconds ticked by without a word. Balling your hands in your lap, your palms slipped, heartbeat thumped in your clasped thumbs. You’d never heard a Knight say a word, before--you weren’t sure why you were expecting one to answer you. Lava licked at your neck, dripping down your spine, your teeth tearing at your cheeks. 

“Whatever it is,” the Knight said, shattering expectation, “anything in comparison will look like apathy.”

A rush of interminable origin raced your flesh, flushing hot in your blood. That was about as accurate as you could expect. And unsatisfying as you could predict.

When you arrived at home and stepped out of the vehicle, another realization crested over you. Johana. Though your relationship had settled into an uneasy truce since the day the Commander had left, the words she spared you had been few and far between. You knew that your pregnancy was possibly her only dream, but combined with the uncharted territory of her husband’s intentions, you worried it would become her nightmare. 

At the same time, perhaps these worries were unfounded--the threats Kylo would face by disrupting his Wife’s right to your child might be too great for him to risk his power. His concessions had been minor and in relative secrecy, affecting only his relationship with you--everything else had the secondary benefit of securing his reign. He’d said plenty, but how much had he meant? After overhearing the discussion in the exam room, you were fairly certain that if made to choose between Gilead and you, you’d lose.

You followed the Knight into the house, relieved to cross into central air. Taking a few slow steps, you drew a deep breath.

“Ms. Johana!” You paused, listening for a response. You heard none. “Ms. Johana?”

She wasn’t in the house--that meant she was likely out in the yard. In the heat. Sighing, you trudged through the halls through the back door, squinting as light smacked your face. In the weeks since Kylo’s departure, the garden had been cleared and mostly restored at Johana’s behest--the grass gleamed gold, summer flowers replanted in over-saturated swirls of color. You hopped over the stones, turning the words on your tongue, hoping to make them real in your mouth.

I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m--

“Ofkylo.”

You stalled, recognizing the moniker as yours, resentful of its familiarity to your ears. Beyond one of the hedges was Johana, prying open a birdfeeder. Heat--though whether it was from the sun or your fear, you didn’t know--sizzled the nape of your neck. You steeled your jaw, grabbing your skirts and tromping through the trimmed lawn in her direction.

“What are you doing out here?” There was a bag of mixed seed at her feet, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she wiped the feeder clean with a rag. “I thought you just left for your exam.”

“I did. I’m back,” you said. “I was, um. Looking for you.”

“Oh.” She flipped the top in her little hands, scrubbing it clean, too. “Well, that’s fine. What’s going on? They didn’t find out about the gunshot, right?”

You shook your head. “Oh, no no. That’s fine.”

“Good,” she said. ��I’m tired of lying for your benefit. The antibiotics weren’t--”

“I know, Ms. Johana,” you sighed. “So…” The words were so simple, but so difficult to say. “The exam went well.”

She nodded, digging into the seed, scooping a helping. “Uh-huh.”

There was nothing that would make this any less nerve-wracking. You inflated your chest, and let it go. “I’m pregnant.”

Johana stopped, like she’d been shot herself, staring into the ground. The seed fell from her palms and spilled over her shoes. She rose, gaze drifting from your feet, to your hands, to your face, her chin shaking. A smile was threatening to explode across her lips.

“Wait.” She exhaled. “Really?”

Wagging your arms in admission, you nodded. “Yup.”

A human springtrap, she squealed, launching into you and wrapping you in a tight, bony hug. You wheezed from her strength--she squeezed you, pinning your limbs to your sides as she wriggled you like a toy. 

“Yes!” She jumped up and down, still holding you. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“Yes,” you repeated. “It’s, um, it’s true!”

Johana released you, erupting with elation. “This is amazing!” she said. “Lord, I’m going to have to go see everyone. Yes, we’ll have to have a party.” She clapped her hands and hugged you again. “Can you let the Marthas know to clean this up? I have to get going.” A playful, devious smirk twisted her mouth as she skipped into the house, congratulating herself. “Oh, they’re going to be so jealous! I’m pregnant!”

You stood, staring down at your belly. It wasn’t obvious, yet--but it wouldn’t be long. The thought of Johana preening, presiding over your stomach like it was her work paralyzed your heart. Had it been any other Commander, any other household, you might have even been relieved to incubate your ticket out of the Colonies, but now, you felt only panic. You didn’t want to give this baby up to her--a desire you never would have anticipated.

But then, none of this had been anything you had the ability to anticipate. A Handmaid was not supposed fuck her Commander outside of the Ceremony, or kiss him, or wake up in his embrace. A Handmaid was not supposed to yearn for her Commander, feel comfort from his  voice, find companionship in his presence, or feel grateful for his brutality and strength. A Handmaid was not supposed to plan her Commander’s downfall, or plan his escape, and especially not plan his future with her in it.

A Handmaid was not supposed to fall in love with her Commander. But you were a Handmaid. And it was too late.

You left the empty birdfeeder and the bag of seed, slinking up the stairs, creeping back to your room. Throat, chest, face tight, you laid in bed, palms planted on your stomach, and breathed. Shutting your eyes, you hoped for the hundred-thousandth time in three years you would wake up in a different world--a world where the father of your child was not your legal owner, a world where another woman was not claiming it as hers, a world where you opened your eyes and you were not alone, and you were free, and you were truly, deservedly loved.

If you fell asleep, you didn’t know--the next thing you recalled was the familiar rumble of the Audi’s engine, dying as it rolled into the driveway.

[anthonyed]

color me you  (stevetony college! au inspired by this scene from skam france) also on Ao3 rated M for sexual content

“This is stupid,” Tony sighs, pain brush dropping with a plop into the paint can. Dark blue mixing with bright yellow, Tony couldn’t give a fuck about them.

“Speak for yourself. Personally, I find this very soothing,” Clint shrugs, swirling white into pink and marvelling at the pastel.

Rhodey aims a kick at his side, ignoring Clint’s protest to address Tony, “What’s going on?” He asks.

Tony gives an abortive shrug, “Nothing, I just feel,” he pauses to pull in a breath and exhales it out loud, “You guys aren’t even responsible for this,” he waves at the pathetic mural that needs repainting.

Clint stands up from his crouching, going to paint a stroke of pastel pink over the faded black ink of ‘Work Hard Study Smart’. All three of them scrunch their noses in distaste.

“Lighter,” Clint decides.

“We told you we don’t mind,” Rhodey tells Tony.

“I’m having all the fun,” Clint dribbles more white, beaming up at them.

Tony rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I meant -,”

“What is it then?”

Tony tries to wave it off, but Rhodey’s stare means business so he caves in and admits, “Rogers’ supposed to do this.”

“What’s going on with you two?” Nat asks from her seat at the back of the room. She’s too cool to paint is her excuse.

Tony turns from her to find two more pairs of eyes on him. He shrugs, picking up his own paint brush, wishing they’d accept that for an answer and drop the topic. But they’re still looking when he glances up from the brush so he sighs, shrugging again.

It’s not like they don’t know the rest. He’s told them as much.

“We’re not talking,” he says.

“Talking, face to face or -,”

“Talking, in any way,” Tony tells Clint who purses his lips thoughtfully and says, “But those notes…,”

“He gives you notes?” Nat chirps in, having moved in closer in the span of last minute. Tony scowls at her.

“He draws comics on post-its and gives them to Tony,” Rhodey supplies.

“Tony’s a rat and Rogers’ a bunny. Real cute,” Clint grins, “Show her, Tones.”

Tony shuts him up with a glare but Natasha’s already holding out a hand, carefully plucked brow raised in challenge.

Giving up, Tony pulls out the folded collection of the longer sticky sticky-notes from his back pocket. “It's a mouse. Not a rat.”  

He watches Natasha read through them, her face remaining stoic throughout until the end when she holds them out for his taking and remarks, “Cute.”

“Shut up,” Tony grumbles, pocketing them back.

“And you carry them with you all the time?”

“I thought you have an important assignment?” He scowls at her.

She levels him with her infamous no-shit stare. “Why are you not talking to him?”

Tony sees Rhodey and Clint share a look before busying themselves with the paints. He disregards them for Nat and answers her. After all, she’s the only one who’s yet to know about last weekend.

“He urm. He got back with his girlfriend.”

“He told you?”

“I saw him. They were kissing at Sharon’s party.”

“I thought you said they broke up?”

“That’s what he told me!” Tony loses his cool for a second, realises it and recollects himself. But Natasha’s face says it’s too late, she’s computed his reaction already.

“Did you ask him about it?”

“No. I told him to fuck off,” Tony grumps, scuffing the floor with his sneaker.

Natasha hums, leaning back against the desk, a pinched expression on her face. “But he still sends you those notes.”

“Slips ‘em in when I’m not looking.” Tony shakes his head, “Maybe he just wanted an out from this stupid project,” he sighs heavily, attempting a light hearted comment as he smirks at Nat.

But Natasha’s not listening, lost in her own thoughts which Tony leaves her to. He’s got tons of work to do anyway. Like a wall to paint.

 They’re collectively scolding Clint for getting the pink to white ratio wrong when Natasha speaks again.

“Text him,” she says.

Rhodey and Tony fall silent, looking at each other and at Clint as well.

“What?” Tony laughs nervously. “I’m not doing that.”

“Gonna play collector to his comic till you die then?”

Tony bristles.

“Geez, Nat. No need to be so morbid all the time.”

She silences him with a stare, “Send him a text. Tell him, he either chooses you or he stops with those notes.”

Tony blinks, fingers immediately reaching for his back pocket but stops when Natasha’s gaze falls on them. She gives him a pointed look. “It’s not fair of him to lead you on.”

“He’s not leading me on,” Tony mumbles.. 

“Are you sure about that?” Rhodey bumps his shoulder lightly. An encouraging smile plays along his lips. Tony glances at Clint and sees the same look on his face.

“So, what do I write exactly,” he sighs, pulling out his phone.

  Date me or quit sending those notes glares at him as he hesitates. “Do I add an angry emoji?” He looks up at the mastermind behind it; Nat.

“Are you five?” Clint cringes. Natasha tips her head in his direction, wordlessly executing  what he said.

“Just send it,” Rhodey urges. Hunched next to Tony on top of a desk they share while Nat and Clint share another, paint drying on his brush’s bristle.

Tony taps the blue button. “There,” he announces. “I did it.”

Clint raises a hand for high-five which he meets weakly. Rhodey tousles his hair while Natasha silently glares at the phone until it beeps just a few seconds after he sent his text.

Tony stares at his phone and then looks at her.

“What? You need me to tell you how to open the text now?” She snipes at him.

“Dude, what does it say?” Clint bumps into his side, buzzing with excitement. Natasha rolls her eyes at him.

Tony glances at Rhodey and taps on the message at his silent nod. He’s not usually like this, but apparently, it’s what Steve Rogers has made of him.

“He says he wants to talk.” He reads the reply out loud. Another beep comes through; “He asks if I’m free.”

Clint begins to coo but a kick to his shin from Nat shuts him up.

“What’re you gonna say?” She asks.

Tony looks at her, confused. He was, after all, under the impression that she was dictating him throughout this process. But she raises her brows at him, following her question.

“Tell him you’re busy,” Rhodey quips helpfully.

Tony looks at him and thinks about it. “I’m gonna say I’m busy with this shitty mural he’d abandoned,” he decides.

He looks over at Nat who simply shrugs; your text, your words. He looks at Clint who tells him seriously, “No emoji please.”

Tony steps on his foot the moment he sends the text.

“Ow!”

This time, no reply comes.

Ten seconds.

A minute.

Five minutes.

“You think green will work?” Clint asks Rhodey who looks relieved to knuckle his shoulder and start a banter about Clint’s artistic skills with him.

“Forget about it.” Natasha tells Tony in the hum of the boys’ raising voice. “Take me for ice cream after this. I want mango and coffee.”

Tony blinks and blinks before he smiles up at her. “Two flavours that don’t mix,” he comments.

“Fuck you. Don’t judge,” Nat flicks at his nose, pecking his cheek before she returns to her seat at the back of the classroom.

Seven minutes.

“I want ice cream too!” Clint wines when Tony tells him about their plan.

Nine minutes.

“The football team requested to use the court for training this week,” Rhodey mentions conversationally, “I’m gonna tell them no.”

Tony’s hand pauses in its repetitive stroke against the wall. He gawks at his best friend, “You can’t do that.”

Rhodey shrugs, dipping his brush in the paint can. “You’ll hear about my power once the complaints start pouring in.” He tosses a devilish smile over his shoulder.

Tony shakes his head. Couldn’t help but snort at him. “Don’t,” he says. “He’s not even in the team.”

“His best friend is.”

“Yeah, but Barnes doesn’t deserve it.” Tony sighs, bending over to dip his own brush. “It’s not worth it,” he tells Rhodey. “Trust me,” he adds when Rhodey looks unconvinced.

10 minutes

“I can send him dead roaches.” Clint offers good naturedly.

“I’ll tell him it’s you and he’ll shove them down your throat,” Tony grunts at him. “Seriously. Stop.”

Clint pokes his tongue out at him in retaliation. Tony wonders who gave this guy permission to accuse other people of being five years old. He doesn’t vocalize it, but he sure does poke at Clint’s side just when he’s getting the straightest damned stroke of paint. The line wiggles out of track.

“Fuuuck! Tony you, fucking bastard!” Clint lunges for him, but Tony neatly steps aside, letting him catch the air.

A big grin breaks across his face at Clint’s second attempt, but before his third, someone knocks on the door.

All of them pause to look in its direction.

“Who is it?” Clint asks them dumbly. Rhodey rolls his eyes at him and Tony’s distracted by the beeping from his phone.

He pulls it out. Reads the text, looks up at his friends, reads a few times over just to be sure and his palms begin to get clammy. 

“It’s Steve.” He tells them.

Clint’s jaw falls and so does Rhodey’s. Nat’s hand squeezes his shoulder, shocking him out of his skin. She orders, “Okay boys, time to pack up,” before Tony could express his surprise.

Another set of knocks, three quiet ones followed by a text; “Can I come in?”

“Get out!” Tony whisper-shouts at his friends who’re scrambling for their stuffs. “Through the back door!” he commands when Clint rushes to the front one.

The instant all three of them are huddled at the back door, Tony opens the front one, signalling them to spill out just as Steve steps in.

 “Hey,” Steve greets, slightly breathless. He looks like he ran here; windblown hair and flushed cheeks.

“Hey,” Tony answers, taking a step back, making space for him.

Steve gaze stays fixed on Tony, drinking him in even as he shuts the door behind.

For a while, they don’t speak. Simply taking each other in; studying the other’s face and their body, missing the way Steve stands or fidgets because he can never stand still.

Tony blinks, telling himself to not to be so stupid when it comes to Steve Rogers, but fuck. He just cannot do it.

“What are you doing here?” Tony asks, swallowing down the strange lump in his throat. He steps away from Steve, back to the wall, where it still looks as horrible as it did yesterday.

“Looking for you,” Steve says, following him, and he too stands. Staring at the wall, marvelling at its ugliness. “I see you’ve started repainting.”

“Maria’s at my throat,” Tony shrugs. “Don’t think she will hesitate to knock on my apartment door demanding I get it done tonight.”

Steve snorts and when Tony looks, he’s sucking his lower lip in, seemingly thinking over his next words.

When he says, “Wanna Jackson Pollock it?” Tony blinks, confused. “What?”

“Jackson Pollock,” Steve turns to him. His backpack is slung over one shoulder, blonde hair sticking out haphazardly and he looks as breathtaking as he always does to Tony. “Want me to show you?”

“Sure,” Tony answers before he could think.

Steve grins at him, dropping his backpack fluidly onto a clean patch of the floor and taking off his jacket. He’s in a black t-shirt, matching Tony’s in tone and its simplicity.

“You said you wanted to talk,” Tony rasps out, working his throat. He feels slightly light-headed. The last time Steve had taken anything off of himself, they were tangled in a bed, kissing and kissing until the world disappeared around them.

Steve looks up from where he’s bent, picking at one of those brushes Rhodey and Clint had left behind. He's a few inches lowered from Tony’s standing height and when he looks up, his baby blue eyes shine from under his long lashes, stunning. Tony sucks a breath in to steady himself.

“How’s Peggy?” He asks Steve, careful to not let any distaste slip into his tone.

“Why are we talking about Peggy?” Steve stands up, forgoing the brushes to take a step towards Tony.

Tony huffs out a laugh, stepping back. “I don’t know. Maybe because she’s your girlfriend.”

“She’s not,” Steve denies.

“Don’t lie.” Tony snaps at him. “I saw you two kissing at Sharon’s party.”

“We’re over.” Steve takes another step towards Tony. Insistent.

This time Tony doesn’t step back. He simply looks Steve in the eyes and says, “You said the same thing the other day only to shove your tongue down her throat the very next day.”

Steve shakes his head, not moving anymore forward. “Not this time.” He says, “The last time I told you, I don’t know, I thought you looked shocked that I ended it. And Peggy – Peggy knows me too well for a very long time and I just –,” Steve stops, breathing in deep before he lets out, “Ever since I saw you, you’re the only one that matters. I want a relationship with you, Tony. But I thought you weren’t ready to commit -,”

“I am,” Tony cuts him off. Almost shouts it out aloud.

Steve blinks. “Yeah?” he asks, voice so soft like that Saturday afternoon when he’d cradled Tony’s face and told him he’d never felt this way ever before.

“I want to commit. To you,” Tony tells him truthfully.

Steve lashes flutter as if he’s trying hard not to blink. To not miss the way Tony looks right then.

“Me too,” he exhales before scooping Tony up in his arms, mouth meshing together in the warmest, wettest worshipful dance and he swings Tony around in the paint stinking classroom of their college.

 Jackson Pollock.

Tony swears he’ll take that name to his grave.

“There,” Steve says, flicking the bristles of a freshly coated paint brush at the wall. Tony looks from the tasteless splatter of black paint to Steve. He’s met by an amused face; the afternoon sun lighting his full-blown grin so beautifully it twists something warm and tight in Tony.

Tony minces on his responding smile, pinches his thigh to stop being so smitten and he asks, “What is this?”

He watches as Steve takes another dip in a different paint can – green – and flicks it at the wall, some droplets overlapping, some not and he turns with that same full grin to Tony.

“Jackson Pollock,” he presents with a single-handed wave at the questionable result, “He usually splatters paints and pours them making a mess and calls it art. I thought we could try that.”

Tony would rather bite his tongue than say no to that face, so he dunks his brush and splatters a good amount of blood red onto the wall.

“Huh,” Steve cocks his head studying it. “You did it wrong.” He informs softly.

Tony gawks at him. “No, I did not. No one can do wrong with this. This is just flicking paint. You have to really suck to fail at it.”

“Yeah,” Steve turns to him, lips wobbling, “I just didn’t want to be the one to say that to you.”

Tony opens his mouth then snaps it shut and glares at the now laughing man. Going for a second dunk, this time, instead of flicking the paint at the wall, he flicks them at Steve. Covering him with dots of red that contrasts beautifully with his light toned-skin.

Steve recovers from his shock quickly, swiping a paint covered fingertip across Tony’s cheek.

 It starts like that; paints and laughter all fully clothed. But somewhere along that line, Steve ducks and kisses Tony and the brushes fall.

Next, their t-shirts come off.

Then their pants with belts still looped in their buckles.

And then Steve pushes Tony up the wall, almost all of him now covered in paint and he kisses him, paint covered fingers dancing across warm skin, smudging more and more until only about five percent of Tony’s skin was untainted.

Tony doesn’t hold back either; dragging palms across Steve's face as he cups his cheeks and sucks on his tongue, trails red, blue and white coated fingers down Steve’s chest. Lower and lower, leaving not an inch unpainted.

Then he smacks a hand over Steve’s ass and squeezes as he pulls him closer. His cock throbbing from the friction; wedged between their warm bodies and every time it drags across Steve’s hard erection, he shivers.

“What if somebody walks in?” He pants as Steve takes his and Tony’s cock into his hand and starts a rhythm.

“No one will.” Steve nips under his jaw, teeth dragging down the column of his throat as he breathes; hot and wet across Tony’s skin.

“But -,” Tony pauses, unable to stop the shudder that wrecks down his spine. He clutches onto Steve and clings on. “What if?” He exhales a sigh as Steve swipes a thumb over his wet slit.

“I locked the door when I came in.” Steve kisses his shoulder, opens his mouth and bites; starting gently and he sinks his teeth harder and harder as he goes.

Tony whimpers into his neck, finding purchase in Steve’s naked ass. Now slippery from all the paint and good God, they’re both going to stain like hell after this.

But in that moment, nothing matters except for the way Steve sucks at his skin and marks him as his own. The way he strokes Tony into completion and stops in pursuit of his own just to marvel at the face Tony makes when he comes undone. And to kiss him. And gets distracted in kissing him that Tony bats his hand away and takes his cock into his own hand.

Then it’s all about working Steve until he comes and comes and sighs and smiles into Tony’s shoulder. Until he’s all limp and happy and honest to god, fucking shines when he blinks up at Tony.

And Tony falls in love with him.

As if he hasn’t already.

[johannstutt413]

(requested by calligomiles; related to this but maybe not the same timeline)

“Hey, Nat, it’s Independence Day.” Sonya, sitting across the dining room table from the heiress, set down her book to address her. “We should go to the bar tonight.”

“Hmm...I agree. Rada’s unavailable, but Anna should be free.” She, likewise, closed her book and went to get her coat.

Zima shrugged. “Sure, she can come along. Things are still a bit messy, but it’s a holiday. She can find it in herself to forgive me for one night.”

“I hope you don’t mind sharing that pardon with me when you get it,” Rosa replied. “The day after you told her the news, I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my neck during our shift in the office together.”

“If he’s really that busy, the Doctor might want to stop rotating his assistants around. Can you go invite her?”

She smirked. “I never thought I’d see you scared of one of our own.”

“Between the two of us, and without Rada here, you’re the face she’d want to see more.” The General went back to their room to change. “Text me when you’re on your way back.”

“Yes, ‘General.’” Natalya tossed a bit of sarcasm in her parting shot as she left.

Istina responded to a knock on her door by looking through the peephole...and there was Rosa. Hmm. “Can I help you?”

“Tonight, not particularly.” The heiress mimed tossing back a shot. “The General and I are going to the bar to celebrate Independence Day. Will you join us?”

“You really want to celebrate our freedom while our brothers and sisters bleed to secure it? Rather optimistic, don’t you think? Nonetheless, I’ll come along; I finished my novel, and I can’t quite start the next one yet.” The advisor reached for her coat, hanging on the wall beside her door, before joining the homewrecker in the hallway as she texted her girlfriend…

To say the situation was ‘tense’ between Anna and the couple was a massive understatement; it’d be more accurate to say the relationship survived through the sheer weight of their shared history, which admittedly only made the betrayal that’d occurred cut closer to home. Zima and Istina had had what felt to the advisor like a strong bond, but shortly after Rosa re-emerged from her self-imposed exile in Logistics, the General threw that away to date the heiress. It stung, in both the past perfective and present adjectival sense, but it wasn’t as if she could disassociate with them. After all, Gummy and Leto were still friends with all of them, even if they were doing their own things for the most part these days, and on the occasions they were around, it was almost enough to make them feel like a group again.

Almost.

They walked back to Zima’s apartment, where the General was waiting by the door. “Ready to go?” She asked, hand on the handle in case Natalya needed to run in and get something.

“Yes, we should be good.” Rosa took Sonya’s hand as she passed their apartment, Istina walking on the other side and noticeably behind her. “If I’m honest, I don’t believe I’ve been to the bar with you before, Anna.”

“I don’t drink often.”

The General nodded. “That she doesn’t. The lightest-weight Ursan you’ve ever met.”

“Th-that’s not true!” She retorted. “I knew plenty of girls my age with lower tolerances.”

“None of which I or Nat have met, so my point still stands,” Zima retorted.

The heiress sighed. This might’ve been a mistake. “Let’s try to refrain from fighting too seriously until we can start a proper brawl, please.”

“Aye. No point in fighting her, anyway.” Sonya scoffed. “No challenge to it.”

“...” The advisor simply followed them to the bar without any further word.

For the first half of the night, things went as expected; Rosa sat in the middle, the General on one side and Istina on the other, acting as a half-Gummy in her attempts to keep things civil. Anna at most sipped her drink, but even that seemed to have an effect on her, making her protests more vivacious. Eventually, Zima got bored of squabbling and, seeing Beehunter and Leto at another table, left to talk to them, leaving Istina and Natalya alone.

“Shouldn’t you be going with her?” The advisor asked, officially finished with her first drink of the night and moving into her second. “You are her girlfriend, aren’t you?”

“I...have my doubts about that,” she admitted, watching the other table laugh, presumably at Anna’s expense.

Anna shrugged. “Don’t blame you. Wouldn’t be the first time, after all...Two-timing whore’s daughter...I still miss her, though.”

“Really?” Now that was a thread worth pursuing. “I thought you only had vitriol left for her.”

“I woulda tho’t the same, but I dunno. Hard to hate ‘er fe’real when she use-a be so warm, y’know?” Her words were sticking together on her tongue like honey; it was hard to scrape them off into the air without them running together.

Natalya smiled. This one really did have a low tolerance, didn’t she? “So is it possible you don’t miss her, just having someone there for you?”

“Mebbe...Do you?”

“I’m sorry?”

Istina swerved around on her stool to face the heiress. “D’ya miss ‘er at ‘er best?”

“Well, yes, I do.” Her eyes wandered back to the other table. “Or at least, I think so. But have I seen her at her best? You’ve known her longer than I ha- What’s so funny?”

“Knew ‘er? Knew ‘er?! Oh, that’sa good one, itn’t it? I knew ‘er, yeah, sure, just like we knew ‘bout the ‘ole ‘Pet’r’eim’s a Reyunyin plot’ or wh’ever they tryda tell us, or ‘at Sonya was thirstin’ fer ya more’n I do after a night at the bar...Yeah, sure, I knew ‘er like ‘at, a’ight...I knew ‘er like the shadows ‘hind my closet door...”

There was a moment of silence, punctuated by a laughing trio of Ursus, before Rosa continued the conversation. “‘Thirsting’ as in you need water after going out drinking, or-”

“Oh, c’mon now, Miz Perfek, don’cha tryn’ play innocent wi’ me...Ya know ya’ve got some’in the rest of us don’t...” Anna giggled a bit, her eyes drifting down Natalya’s neck and settling pointedly elsewhere. “Mmhmm...Woulda been e-zyer t’keep ‘er if I’d ‘ad ‘em, too...Must be nice, bein’ so mature...Damn noble breedin’...”

“You really do have a low tolerance.” In spite of what might be expected, part of the heiress was enjoying listening to her like this. Very few people at Rhodes Island had anything negative to say about her, so all she had to back her own self-loathing was more of her own inner voice. It was depressingly refreshing, or maybe refreshingly depressing? One of those.

That came to an end when Istina drifted a little closer. “Hey. Wanna know a secret?”

“A secret?” Rosa raised an eyebrow. “About who?”

“‘Bout me, konechno (obviously). C’mere.”

Natalya looked back over at the other table, frowned, and turned around to find the advisor even closer. “Yes?”

“‘Tween you and her? ‘snot even a choice.” A pair of very intoxicated lips continued talking. “Ye might be a homewrecker, but yer still better ‘an ‘er by a long shot.”

“I don’t-”

Anna leaned in further. “I say we oughta have a lil’ revenge, don’cha think?”

“How drunk are you to be thinking...like this?” How drunk was she, to find herself kind of agreeing? “I mean, she’s right there...She could see us if she turned around.”

“Ya really think she will, though?” Istina giggled a little. It was obvious what the answer was there, judging by the animated voices coming from that part of the bar.

Rosa rubbed her forehead, sighed, downed what was left in her cup, and shook her head. “You’re right, she won’t. She doesn’t care, she never did, and I...I’m sick of it. Sick of being second-fiddle to someone she won’t even confess to. Sick of being a bystander in my own life. Sick of-”

“Ah, shut up and kiss me already.” The advisor tugged on Natalya’s shirt and pulled her close enough to do just that.

“And so I said to Nat-” Sonya was saying to the others, turning to gesture to her at the bar...Only to see that unfold. “So I...Fuck.”

Leto cocked her head. “I think they’re just kissing right now. It’s not that bad yet.”

“I knew one of them was a lightweight, but both of them? You sure know how to pick ‘em, General.” Beehunter smiled to herself behind her glass.

“...Eh. They won’t remember it happened.” Zima turned back around. “So anyone, I said to Nat...”

But the truth was, Rosa was very cognizant of what was happening - cognizant enough that, when they broke it off, she was blushing bright red. “Anna, I...This is a bit much, I think.”

“What? Didn’t like it?”

“N-no, I...I did, but...” Wouldn’t this make her a double homewrecker at this point, then? “I mean, I don’t even have any proof that-”

Istina sighed, turning back to her glass. “‘Course you need proof. I knew ‘fore she said a word what’d happened ‘tween the two of ya…’Ell, I think I r’mber yer taste from my last kiss wi’ ‘er.”

“Oh. You know I never meant to hurt you, right?”

“Just lost yerself in ‘er smile? I know the feelin’. So rare t’see...” She slunk into the bar. “Still, ‘o, I wish I’da known what I missed out on fer ‘er the firz time.”

The blushing was only getting worse. “Oh, Anna...”

“That one ‘Arkaz girl sang it better ‘an I coulda...I’m sleepy...Need a pillow...” Despite that, Anna’s head fell to the bartop, and she seemed to fall asleep just fine.

“Hmm...Hey, Sonya?” Natalya called over to the other table. “I’m going to take Anna home. I’ll see you when you’re done here?”

Ignoring the snickers from the other two, the General turned around and gave her the thumbs-up. “Sounds good. See you there.”

“Heh. Well, looks like we know who’s getting some tonight, then.” Beehunter had dissolved into a quiet but body-wrenching giggle fit by this point.

“Maybe,” Zima admitted, watching Rosa pluck Istina from the bar and cradle her as she took them back to the advisor’s place. “Honestly? I’ll just sleep at Anna’s tonight. Save her a trip back to my room.”

The other two weren’t sure whether to keep laughing at how ridiculous that sounded, or admit that, as usual, the General was two steps ahead. The drink in their systems, eventually, got them to settle on the former.

[toxophilitis]

Daddy’s Little Girls

CHAPTER ONE

"They're going to fuck!" Betty whispered to Lynette, as the eighteen-year-old cousins looked in through Olive Cook's window.

Red-haired Lynette glared at blonde Betty and shushed her. Lynette didn't really want to look, but she couldn't help herself Betty always got her to do crazy things when she came for her summer vacation visit. Peeping in at Mrs. Cook and Russ, was a crazy thing to do. Lynette didn't want to watch them fuck. The very thought of fucking frightened her. But Betty, having been raised on a farm instead of in a city, was excitedl interested in it. Lynette wished her father and mother hadn't left them here alone with her brother. There was no telling what trouble her mischievous cousin might get them into before Lynette's parents came home. She also wished Russ would just get up and leave Olive Cook's house, but he was showing no signs of doing that at all.

The woman and teen were sitting on the living room couch. The shapely woman tousled Russ' brown hair, laughed, and smacked another kiss on his lipstick-smeared mouth. He looked startled by it all. He had probably been startled ever since she had opened the door wearing only black panties and a brassiere. She had very big tits for such a small woman. They were bigger than Lynette's growing titties and even bigger than the high, thrusting beauties that had sprung out on Betty's chest in the past year. Russ kept looking nervously down at Mrs. Cook's tits while she fingered his hair.

"You picked a good day to come and collect," she was saying. "With my boyfriend out of town, it's nice to have a man around the house again. What's the matter, Russell? Are you flustered cause I don't have all my clothes on? Would you feel better if I went and put on a dress?"

"I, uh, no. It doesn't bother me," he said in  quivering tone.

"Then what's the matter?" Mrs. Cook touched the nape of his neck. "Don't you like kissing girls?" she asked, moving closer to him and wetting her crimson lips with her very pink tongue.

"Sure I do," Russ muttered.

Mrs. Cook smiled and kissed him on the lips.

"They're Frenching like crazy!" Betty excitedly whispered. She had read about this sort of kissing all winter long, in the spicy romance books she'd found in her parents' closet. She had read about all sorts of wild things men and women did together, but she'd never had the chance to do them herself. Now her stomach felt funny and her pussy felt all wet and itchy as she watched them swapping tongues. She squeezed Lynette's hand very tightly all through the long kiss on the couch.

Russ looked a sick to his stomach. Mrs. Cook looked perfectly at ease. Laughing, with her nicely tanned legs curled up under her, she ruffled Russ' hair and said, "I've been looking at your pretty mouth for a long time now. I bet you've kissed every girl on your paper route. Do you like to neck with girls, Russ? Do you like to get 'em all hot, and play with their titties, and get in their hot panties? Come on. You can tell me."

"I, uh, don't have much time for girls."

"Sure. And it doesn't take a handsome stud like you very long to get a girl to spread her pretty legs for you. Just between you and me, are you fucking that cute redhead Lynette next door? And have you felt the tits of her cute country cousin?"

Lynette blushed hotly and turned to look at her cousin. Betty was squirming around and almost giggling, thrusting her pert nose closer over the windowsill. Inside, Russ was stammering, "I better go now, Mrs. Cook?"

"No need for that at all," she said. She nestled closer to him, slipping her hand front his neck to his shoulder. She plucked at his shirt buttons.

"I just turned eighteen," said Russ.

Mrs. Cook kneeled as she unbuttoned his shirt. Her waist was slim and her ass was very round. Her lacy black panties were so thin that the peeping girls could see the deep crack of her ass through them. Betty had yearned for panties like those for a very long time. With panties like those, plus her fast-growing tits, she could have had any boy within miles of the family farm. Hut at least she had this scene to look at now, and she secretl scratched at her hot, tingling cunt while the show before her continued on its thrilling way.

"Just as I thought. You don't have a hair on your chest yet," said Mrs. Cook, smoothing her palms over Russ' warm flesh while he shivered and squirmed on her couch. "But then, neither do I," she said, as she cupped and lifted her big, bra-covered tits in her hands before reaching back toward Russ.

Russ was twitching and squirming as she played with his nipples.

"That... tickles. Hey, I better go, Mrs. Cook."

Very calmly, Mrs. Cook straddled Russ' lap, holding him firmly on her couch, while she went on playing with his nipples.

"I need you here more than your other customers do," she told him. "You'll be much better off with me than sniffing after those stupid virgins on the block. And why don't you call me Olive instead of Mrs. Cook?"

"Olive, I... better get going."

"I wish you'd change your mind," she said, reaching behind her back to deftly undo the snaps of her thin, black bra.

"Ooo!" she said, reaching inside the loosened cups and squeezing her lovely, big tits. "So nice."

She let the cups of her lacy brassiere hang loosely over her big tits as she slid her hands dow around her slim waist. She held him by his shoulders and made her tits swing and sway in his face. Each twist and turn of her torso edged her bra straps farther off her shoulders.

Russ' staring eyes widened. His fingers, were digging into the couch cushions at his sides, as she said, "Take it off for me, honey. Take off my bra and have a look at a real set of tits, if you dare."

Russ very gingerly slid her bra off her arms. His mouth was hanging open, and he was breathing almost hard enough for the girls to hear him. Betty squeezed Lynette's hand tightly as they watched Olive place her hands behind her head and brazenly show off her tits. They were such big ones! They were tanned like the rest of her, and her nipples were huge and brown. She lifted them up by doing a shimmy other hips and shoulders, with her lace-covered pussy spread out over Russ' lap.

"Now, do you want to play with my tits?" Mrs. Cook said.

Russ shakily touched her tits.

"Oh, gosh!" Russ exclaimed. "So big! So warm and soft!"

Olive squirmed her panty-clad hips all around, and rubbed her thighs with her hands. "Yes, my tits are so nice and so big and so pretty. Nice guys like you just love big tits like mine. They like the so much they're always wanting to play with 'em and kiss 'em and suck an 'em. Just like you want to suck on mine."

Betty suppressed a nervous giggle, but couldn't suppress her urge to reach over and tweak one of Lynette's titties. Lynette gasped quite loudly. Both girls ducked when Olive turned to look at the window through which they were peeping, but both were looking through it again when the bare-titted woman held her tits before Russ' wide-eyed face.

"Kiss-kiss," said Olive, lifting her big, heavy tit and offering it to Russ. "Kiss-kiss and suck-suck," she said when the stiff-thrusting nipple had touched his slack lips. And then she smiled widely and began to massage both her asscheeks when Russ took her tit in his hands and sucked on it like an unweaned pig.

That's what it reminded farm girl Betty of -- at least at first. But then as she saw the rapt look in Russ' eyes and the pleased expression on Olive's pretty face, she felt so melty and warm all over she had to squirm her naked thighs together and squeeze her tits through the tank top she wore. Lynette could see what her cousin was doing. Betty didn't care. She just smiled and sighed and kneaded her tits, feeling their nipples stiffen in her palms. And she went on watching the lovel scene there before her.

"Nice, baby. Real nice," Olive purred, and taking her tit from his mouth, she smiled and fed him the other one. While he sucked, she played with the nipple that was already wet from his kisses, keeping her nipple stiff with her plucking fingers.

Lynette thought it was all quite disgusting, though she'd played with her titties herself. A girl couldn't help but do that, just to see if they were getting bigger. But Olive's tits were just as big as they'd ever get, and still she was playing with them. She was a bad woman, a wicked woman, not just for playing with her tits like that, but also for making Russ suck on them like they were filled with chocolate milk. And for making Betty play around with her tits like she was doing. And for making Lynette's titties itch so they almost hurt. "Let's go!" Lynette whispered to Betty. Betty quickly shook her head, and Lynette bit her lip and looked back through the window.

"Honey, you're getting me hot," Olive said to the teen. "You're making me glad I asked you in here." She reached down between her leg and ran her hand through her wide-open pussy.

She rubbed herself steadily. The two peeping girls could see her fingers each time they appeared from between her legs. Olive was breathing muc faster as she rubbed her pussy. "God damn! Feels good. I got me a real tit-hound, and that's for sure. Suck that tit, baby! Have all you want of it. Suck 'em nice and I'll give you a taste of cunt." She covered his eyes and his nose with her cunt-scented hand. Russ quickly turned his head away.

"What's the matter? Don't you like the smell of hot cunt?" Olive asked, still rubbing his face, rubbing her wide-open pussy with her other hand.

Russ twisted his head this way and that, moving it more weakly all the time. She switched hands, and his face went slack. She kissed him and squeezed her naked tits against his bare chest. She took off his shin and said, "Not a singe whisker, not a single hair on your chest. Have you got any hair in your pants yet? Open your fly, pretty baby, and show me what kind of a cock you've been hiding."

Betty turned to Lynette and whispered, "We're going to see his cock!"

Olive opened his fly and his shorts while he sat in a daze. The girls were in a daze, too. They were craning forward, holding each other's hand very tightly. Out sprang Russ' cock, very big and stiff. Lynette gasped and hid her face in her cousin's blonde hair. Betty was straining to see still more of it, while Olive, with the best view of all, grinne down at the stiff, white prick and said, "Not bad at all. Your cock's not as big as my boyfriend's, but it sure looks like it's hard enough."

She reached down and touched his prick. Russ suddenly exclaimed, "Mrs. Cook! Oh! Oh, no! OH! OH! OH, MRS. COOK!"

Betty gaped and Lynette held her breath as the white stuff came leaping out of Russ' cock. Even Olive seemed surprised by its sudden spurtings. She sat on his lap looking down as Russ' cock jerked and spewed, sending a long, white stream of his jism up her belly and onto her tits. Again and again his cock spurted, while Russ moaned. He tried to hold his cock still, but she grabbed his wrists. It went on spurting, squirting its ropy jets of white while Russ moaned in apparent misery. By the time its hot spurtings had slowed into droolings, his jism was all over Olive's big tits and belly and on the front panel, of her black panties.

"You fuckin' teens with your hair trigger!" she said. She kissed him again, with her tits all over his chest.

Russ looked exhausted. It seemed as if Betty would be disappointed in her wishes to see people fucking. Lynette just wanted to go home and have a good cry. But Olive wasn't giving up on Russ. She knew very well there was a lot more jism where that dame from.

[collecting-stories]

Edible - Connor Murphy

A/N: Mentions of weed use and psychiatric hospitals. 

///

If you listed out all the weird places that you could possibly meet a cute guy, the psychiatric hospital’s inpatient ‘boys’ ward would not be one of them. And yet, the kid by the window who was only half pretending to listen to the woman seated across from him was way cuter than you expected anyone in this particular hell-hole to be. He was tall, even sitting down, caved in on himself in some effort to disappear, you could tell he was tall. And thin. Like a vogue model or something. His hair was tied back in a bun and he had on a black hoodie that he kept picking at the sleeves of. He looked bored but maybe it was just medication, and the woman across from him looked seconds away from bursting into tears. You felt like you’d walked into your own ‘It’s Kind of a Funny Story’ except you weren’t a patience. You were just visiting one.  

Louder than he needed to be and talking a mile a minute about a video game you didn’t understand, your brother was seated on the computer chair next to you. He was in the middle of free time when you came to visit and unwilling to lose his time in front of the computer.  “And then you can run your guy up on the curb like this,” he continued, driving a pixelated jeep through an obstacle course of building.  

“I like the car.” You pointed out. Hospital visits made you antsy but you’d been religious in your scheduled appearances at the hospital. It was coming on October now and you had been here every weekend, Saturday and Sunday, since May.  

“It’s pretty good. Will’s got a camaro on his which is awesome! I wanna get a Tesla.” Ryan continued, pulling up a side panel of cars to show you exactly which one he planned on getting.  

“Dope.” You nodded as if any of the cars meant anything to you. “Hey Ryan, who’s the new kid?” You asked, dropping your voice to a whisper. You had chosen the perfect seat to be both a total creep and an interested older sister.  

Ryan glanced over at the boy in the corner, at the most 7 years his senior, and shrugged, “dunno, we’re not in the same group. Tyler’s the oldest in our group.”  

The groups were broken up into two sessions, from what you understood when the ward doctor had first explained the hospital to your mom. Eight to thirteens and then fourteen to seventeens. New boy had to be your age.  

You kept watching as the woman finally said goodbye, attempting a hug that he didn’t return and then hurrying out of the double doors. She was here less than you thought she’d be, less than you. It was just the three of you in the rec room now. There were two on this floor and this one was mainly used for visitation, probably because it was a little nicer.  

“Hey new kid do you wanna play Road Blocs with me?” Ryan called over to him, pointing to the screen of the computer.  

New kid looked over and yeah, he was even cuter when you could see his face unobscured. It sounded weird to say it but he looked something like a sad bunny rabbit, if that was a possible facial trait. The sad at least, was a definite. And tired, judging by the purple beneath his eyes. The cute ones could never just be mentally stable could they?  

He picked himself up off the couch and walked over slowly, moccasins shuffling and you thought they looked out of place on his feet. “What is it?”  

“You drive this car around-“ Ryan went into an explanation of the game while new boy pulled a chair up on the other side. He looked over Ryan’s head at you, eyes meeting. You wondered later, because in the moment you were nothing but dazed and had managed only a small smile before looking away, if he looked at everyone so intensely. Like he was digging through their entire being to figure them out in one glance.  

“Sounds fun.” You weren’t sure if he was humouring your brother or actually interested in the game but either way he took the mouse from Ryan and began driving the car around the lot.  

-

“Hey,”  

You looked over toward the window to find Connor there. He gave a slight wave and then signalled for you to come over toward him.  

“Hey, how’s it going?” you asked, looking back toward the double doors your brother would be coming through soon.  

“Alright, didn’t think I’d see you.” He replied, looking back down to his chipped black nails.  

“I can’t come on Saturday because I have a college interview so I figured I’d stop by tonight,” you replied, sitting down on the chair beside him.  

It would be March soon and you had been coming every weekend just like you always did. Only, things had changed quite a lot since October. It wasn’t just Ryan that you visited anymore but Connor too. He hung around the visiting room on the weekends while you were there with your brother and he even made sure to look out for the younger boy during the week. Mostly though, he used his phone and computer privileges to contact you.  

The two of you would talk about nonsensical stuff, like music you liked or movies you wanted to go see or plans you had for the summer. He talked you through homework when you were stressed and he was allowed his hour on the phone. Connor had become someone who was a friend but who was also a little more than just a friend. You didn’t drop everything to spend an hour on the phone with just a friend. Or log on to your computer to email with him the second your phone alerted you to the first message in your inbox. Connor was not just a friend but neither of you had broached the ‘more than friends’ discussion yet.

“Excited?” He asked, twisting to see you better.

“Hardly, I just keep imagining myself screwing it up completely.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.” You replied.

Connor reached over, taking your hand in his and surprising you enough that you could practically hear your heart hammering in your chest. Could he tell?

“You’re way too smart to fuck it up, trust me, you’ll be fine.”

“Thanks...but are you sure your mom hasn’t been sneaking you weed?”

“I wish.” He laughed.  

The double doors swung open and Ryan came bursting through, looking happy as ever and holding an envelope in his hands. When he saw you he made a beeline for your chair, throwing himself onto your lap and hugging you. Connor let go of your hand and shifted away in his chair.  

When he had calmed down enough to stand up you decided it was safe to speak, “Hey, how’s it going?”  

“Good! I got stickers from Will, do you want one?” He asked, holding the envelope out to you. All the stickers inside were red rectangles with white writing, SUPREME printed on them. When you had plucked one out he passed the envelope along to Connor.  

“Are they all the same?” Connor asked, fishing out three. He unpeeled one and stuck it to the front of his grey t-shirt.  

“Yeah, I don’t know where Will got ‘em but he gave me the whole envelope.” Ryan replied, “I told him they’d be evenly distributed.”

“Well thank you, I appreciate the distribution.”

“Do you guys wanna play roadblocks?” Your little brother was already making his way over to the computer when he asked, still hooked on that game even after all these months. It was structured enough that he didn’t get bored and chaotic enough that he could follow along without being confused.

“Still with this game?” You asked, grabbing a folding chair to sit next to him.  

Connor followed behind you, sitting on the other side of your brother like always. Weekends had become almost predictable. You would meet both Ryan and Connor for computer games. Halfway through Connor would break so that he could visit his mother, who still religiously came in, just like you, and then he’d rejoin the small group. You were certain the first time he joined you was some bizarre fluke but he continued to go along with whatever game Ryan was hooked on.  

-

The gymnasium was filled with families, a buzz of indistinct conversation floated through the air as Connor made his way down the side aisle to where he saw Ryan standing, spinning one of those fidget toys that had been so popular a year ago. When Ryan saw Connor he waved, an excited smile on his face.

“Hey!” Ryan gave Connor a hug, causing the older boy to tense up from the sudden contact. When he pulled away he held the fidget spinner up for Connor to see, “I just got it, it glows in the dark.”

“Oh yeah?” Connor took the spinner, cupping his hands so that it was covered and peering through. “Damn, it does.”  

“Told you!”  

It was graduation day at your high school and you’d bought an extra ticket for Connor. Since his discharge from the hospital he’d spent most of his free time at your house. With his phone returned he was able to text you whenever he wanted and he did, often, but neither of you had progressed passed the ‘just friends’ status. Cute boys who were emotionally oblivious were probably your type though, so it wasn’t surprising.  

Once the actual graduation started and the gymnasium became quiet, except for the person speaking on the stage, Ryan started to get antsy. Connor felt a nudge to his side fifteen minutes into the principal’s opening speech. When he looked over Ryan was shifting positions on his seat. Your mom looked over at the same time, leaning in and whispering for Ryan to behave and sit still.

“Sorry, I’m warm.” He said, shifting once more.

“We can go outside?” Connor asked, looking to the side door. It was warm, with everyone in there. He wouldn’t hate stepping out. “I don’t mind.”

Outside was where you found Ryan and Connor, post-graduation, sitting on curb. Or at least Connor was, Ryan was racing back and forth asking Connor to time him to see how fast he was. When he saw you exit the gymnasium he veered off his path, running over to give you a hug.  

“Sorry,” Connor piped up, “we kinda missed the whole thing.”

You shrugged, “hey Ryan, mom’s wants you inside.”  

“Alright.” He released you, hurrying over to the doors and heading back inside while you walked over to Connor.  

“Thanks for coming out here with him, he can’t really do sitting down.”

“Oh trust me, I know.” Connor replied, standing up and brushing off his jeans. He appraised your graduation gown and the nice outfit you wore underneath briefly, “you got pockets?”

“Why?”

“I got you a present.”

“Mmhmm.” You hummed and nodded. Connor pulled a plastic ziplock out of his sweatshirt pocket with what appeared to be an oversized rice crispy treat inside. You took it skeptically, unzipping the bag and taking a whiff before laughing out loud. “Did you just hand me an edible on school grounds?”

“Not like you can get detention.”  

“Oh my god, I thought your mom told you to stop smoking.”

“Well I’m not really smoking am I,” he shrugged, grinning, “by the way, only a little at a time, it’s pretty strong.”

“How much have you had?”

“Are you suggesting I gave you my leftovers?”  

“I’m suggesting you like to dip.” You replied, breaking off a tiny piece and eating it before stuffing the bag into your pocket.  

“I haven’t had any...from that bag at least.”  

You shook your head at him in mock exasperation. You didn’t mind the weed habit, if it made Connor feel better you weren’t going to argue with that. He was balancing it out with CBD oil (a cheaper alternative, you had pointed out, in case he wanted to save his money for something else) which helped Cynthia feel less like her kid was a drug addict. Even your brother took CBD gummies to help his moods.

“Anything else?” you asked. Connor had told you that he had something important to talk to you about today and you were sure that it wasn’t the edible. Or you hoped at least.  

“Anything else?” He repeated, raising an eyebrow and looking at you as if he was trying to figure out what you were getting at.  

Maybe the edible really was it.

“Anything else you needed to tell me? You texted me this morning and said-”

“I know.”

“So?” You hated when he did this. Played dumb and made you drag out the entire thing.

“So?”

“Connor! What is it?”

“What’s what?”

“I swear to god Connor...what’s the important thing?”

“Oh yeah, that,” he smiled when you groaned at him in annoyance, “go on a date with me?”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”  

You rolled your eyes, smacking his arm gently, “stop repeating everything I say...and, okay. Okay, yes I’ll go out with you.”

“Thank god, otherwise I was gonna take the edible back.”

“What?” You laughed, “that is not contingent upon us dating! It’s a graduation gift.”

“Me taking you on the date is the graduation gift.” He replied, reaching into your pocket and taking the ziplock back so he could break off a piece of rice crispy.  

“What about...other dates, after that date?”

“Oh, you’re paying for those.”

-

My younger brother’s mom put him in a psychiatric hospital for half of the year and he just got out at the end of December, right before Christmas so...kinda based the younger brother in this on him.