#(and i will be creaming from beyond the grave)

[revivalbur]

I might be going a tiny bit insane. Might be tempted to tuck my phone between my legs while a group chat I'm in is blowing up and pretending it's gore yelling at me for ignoring him. Miiiiight be tempted to pretend to worship other people so when stalk does finally get to me he treats me so much worse than he normally would to reach me a lesson. Temptations.

[baura-bear]

alright so i am planning to visit dick winters grave smack dab between his death date and birthday (just a coincidence) so it feels right to bring flowers or a coin to put on his grave. would it be weird if i sat down and ate ice cream with the man cause i feel like he'd appreciate that more than flowers

[strawberrymochin]

Unkempt desires

Megumi meets gojo again 20 years later after the big battle.

Genre/Warnings-: reincarnation au! Grownup! Megumi, he has a family, our gumi all grown up, crackhead yuuji, mentions of death, flashbacks.

Megumi looked over the sea. Its waves glimmering brightly as the sunrays dance shimmers along the tides.

Something about it was nostalgic, maybe it was the warm fuzzy smell or maybe it was the azure of the water under the bright sun, which resembled the eyes of someone, who megumi was once under the debt of— Satoru Gojo.

Maybe he is still in debt.

The scar from the battle on his face has now faded into a cream color slightly in contrast to his face.

He wondered how gojo’s scars would have looked if he were still alive now. Would those millions of cuts on his skin prick him with the memory of Megumi, unconscious, fighting with him under sukuna’s control? Will they prick him like splinters of iron, bringing tears to his eyes? Lol he would probably just laugh it off.

The fact that he even wrote him a silly letter apologizing for something as grave as murdering his biological father, with a pun and a silly doodle included.

Megumi chuckles at the memory of how he used to hate those eyes peeking on him, especially on nights when he had fever. Almost giving him a heart attack.

Ironic how he hated them back then, and how he misses them now!

‘Megumi, let's make a sand castle’ he would say, on his days off, when he forced the fushiguros to the beach, to have some family time. You would laugh with tsumiki on those castles which barely even looked like one.

“Hey, dad! Let's make a sand castle!!” A little girl ran up to Megumi, tugging his hand and dragging him.

“No need to hurry y/n, the sand ain't going anywhere.” Megumi said as the girl kept dragging him towards the failed attempts of sand castles she made.

He now had a family, a happy one. One lovely wife he fell in love with(which he never thought he would) and one daughter dear to his heart. He named her after you, the only mother figure he ever had in his life.

It's been 21 years since then.

You were no longer alive, nor was gojo. Still the memories were alive. The memories which he treasured with an uncertain fear in his heart, he didn't quite recognise, until his daughter started to look exactly like you.

Her eyes resembled yours, her lips resembled yours, your face resembled hers, so did her curse technique.

His wife said maybe it was a blessing, a reincarnation. She was happy, so was Megumi, but it would be wrong to admit he wasn't afraid.

Afraid of history repeating.

Afraid of his daughter's curse technique to evolve.

Afraid of an uncertain future even beyond his capacity to behold.

Itadori barged into his office, wearing nobara’s skirt.

“ I'm Kugisaki nobara!!!!”, he went to such an extent on detailing his look that he even stole one of her eye patches.

“You're gonna get your ass drilled by her hammer once she finds you.” Megumi drawled checking through the files of the freshers who are about to enroll into their school. He's a teacher now, continuing what gojo dreamt of, so did Itadori Yuji.

“You're not fun. And you shouldn't use such language, if you're raising a lovely daughter. Wouldn't want her to turn like nobara or maki senpai.” He said, pulling on the chair and settling on it with one leg crossed over the other.

“Well, why are you here?” inquires Megumi, already full of his drama.

“To inform you that we are going to get a kid off execution.”

“Execution?”

“Yes, a potential threat to higher ups and society.” Yuji tapped his fingers on the wooden desk polished with varnish, his face slowly adapting to the depth of his statement.

“To the higher ups?”

“Mhm, yeah the great stuff gojo sensei did…I can't believe I missed such a great show.”

Megumi was silent for a while. The last threat to the higher ups ever to be born was gojo and geto.

He could never imagine someone could be more of a threat to them. Until and unless they find out about his daughter's curse technique.

“Let's get going already, I don't think they will resist the urge of killing the kid for any longer.” Itadori got up from the chair, followed by Megumi. (And don't worry he was caught by nobara midway who kept the drilling ass move for later and let him go to meet the kid)

Itadori was reminded of a similar yellow hue and the fresh flood of memories following it, some pleasant, some bitter that made his throat itch. However, someone who was more pale in the execution room was Megumi. As something wasn't sitting right with him. Every single step he was taking was increasing the dread he felt for his daughter's reality to be discovered. And he didn't understand why he felt like that.

Finally they came to the familiar hall and in the center of it was a boy sitting in a chair, his back facing them. He wore a navy hoodie and his complexion was pale. Even paler than Megumi.

Itadori glanced at Megumi before calling out to the kid, who was unnaturally calm, as if he were about to watch a movie instead of getting himself killed for bearing a burden he never chose to bear.

“Kiddo! We're here to save your ass for getting killed…mind facing us a bit.” cold sweat broke out on Megumi, as Itadori let those words out his mouth. Even he wasn't feeling good. Something was so, so wrong.

The kid stood up. His hair, a familiar silver. He turned slowly, for what seemed a long agonizing time. And when he finally did.

Megumi was numb.

It was him. The same eyes. The same mouth. The same hair. But it was as if time got tangled in its own threads and somehow the gojo satoru, who was long dead, was in his child form in front of their eyes.

Itadori gulped, he glanced at Megumi, before getting his shit together and shutting his mouth, preventing himself from gaping at the kid.

“I'd prefer you save yourselves from me first. And I wouldn't feel any remorse for not having a better judgment." The kid spoke in a voice, a lot less mature than the boys remembered of gojo. Then they remembered, the kid’s just 12 years old.

And Megumi was right. Something was so wrong. Cuz’ even if the kid looked exactly like gojo, he wasn't any like him.

“You shouldn't mess with satoru gojo.” He said, his fingers forming a hand sign, with slight blue light sparkling.

“Sensei…” whispered Megumi, which was barely even audible, and yet nothing changed in the kid's demeanor.

He was gojo. Alive and reincarnated. And Megumi knew it. But gojo didn't.

a/n- I was nervous writing this, since i haven't wrote for so long, forgive me if this is shit!

[ghostytoad]

* Fun n' Games *

ROTTMNT Boys x GN! Leo-esque reader who enjoys drama, making jokes, and being overall awesome

Summary: The Hamato brothers unexpectedly fall for the smug, but genuine, fun-loving reader despite their egocentric habits Headcanons for: Donnie

GN! Reader; Romantic; Fluff || Words: 1.6k

Raph | Leo | Mikey | Bonus!!

Donnie:

his first thoughts upon meeting y/n is that literally nothing could be worse. he could be boiling alive in one of meatsweat's fancy culinary stews and be less bothered by that than having to endure not one, but TWO LEOS

there goes the fleeting days of being able to complete his work in peace and quiet; o call back yesterday, bid time return

really tho, all his eye rolling and indifference is just an act that he refuses to let up on (he has a REPUTATION to uphold after all!!)

it doesn't take much time for donnie to warm up to y/n though; he's more or less used to his twin's antics and smug behavior and with y/n being almost exactly the same, it's like they've known each other their whole lives

he chalks it up to being comfortable with the familiar, but his brothers can definitely see it for what it is: a crush

he enjoys the competitive tension between y/n and him, it keeps him on his toes and gives him a boost when he feels out of it and needs the motivation

doesn't much care for the whole ego thing, but it doesn't bother him as bad as leo's does; at least y/n has good reason to be as cocky as they are. they're funny, they're charming, they're cool, they're incredibly perceptive

in fact, he's secretly made a list of all the good qualities y/n has and all the things he likes about them… it's like a whole 10 spreadsheets worth of data

to be fair, he does keep a similar list for his brothers and april, so it's not like he's stalking y/n or anything; it's just his way of "bonding" with his loved ones

but y/n's list is a lot longer than anyone else's; there's just so much to like about them. it only makes sense that their list of good traits happens to match up pretty well with his list of "things to look for in a potential mate" (a secret list that he will take to his grave)

whenever they go on missions, he makes sure to fit y/n in all his latest gear he's made them for their protection; they might talk big game, but donnie still has to take precautions!

he may or may not have taken y/n on a few purple dragon-related missions - AKA "let's go put whipped cream in all of their hard drives and cover their hideout in tinfoil wrapping just to fuck with them"; turns out that the police do not find it funny

"let me just say for the record that nothing's illegal unless it can be proven beyond reasonable doubt. and you can't prove that y/n and i were there so…"

y/n ain't no snitch, so don can trust them to keep their mouth shut if anyone ever gets suspicious of their misdeeds; this also makes them his go-to for some of the more emotionally heavier things that he can't talk to his brothers about

yeah, donnie's not great with emotions, but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel them - he genuinely finds y/n to be a comforting presence, especially considering their amazing emotional perception and how well they can read him

he finds it much easier to work when y/n's hanging around the lab with him; they don't have to interact much, all it takes is a visit from y/n and he's hit with a burst of motivation

gets more work done with y/n around than he usually does and takes advantage of this productivity by making y/n stay with him for literal hours even if they don't actively take part in his work

he's even made them a little corner with all of their favorite things in the lab so they can keep busy while he works; they might be good for motivation and all, but he knows better than to leave y/n alone with one of his inventions considering their… impulsive behavior (rip stun-bo feature, we hardly knew ya)

"w-what, leaving? you can't leave yet! i've only just started on this upgraded micro-transmitter for the tank and i need your help! what do you mean you just sit there for hours doing nothing? that's entirely false, you are helping me out immensely! now sit right there and don't touch anything until i tell you to-"

their easy-going nature really complements his more rigid and particular personality; together, they are an unstoppable and wildly chaotic duo

he might be the funniest turtle of the group, but y/n has him in tears with their lame little jokes and one-liners; he mostly only laughs at the roasts and teases directed at his brothers though

overall, his brothers have an ongoing bet over how long it'll be before donnie finally realizes he has a MAJOR crush on y/n; leo has his bets on "not in my lifetime", april predicts it'll be sometime after casey jr's time, mikey's a little more generous and says "maybe in the next decade or two", and raph is just fed up with it and wants it over with NOW

The buzzing and whirring of various tools occupied the otherwise silently uneventful lab as Donatello worked away on his latest project, completely absorbed in his work. Tucked away in the corner, sitting snug in the soft embrace of a plush beanbag, Y/N busied themselves with another round of Smash Bros on their purple (totally not Genius Built branded) Switch. Most days in the lab were spent in comfortable silence, as the purple coded brother did his best work when there were minimal distractions. But for Y/N, that meant keeping all audible cries of excitement or groans of defeat to a minimum while gaming. And sure, that was a reasonable request for a while, but had it really already been four hours?! As Y/N glanced down at their phone for the time, they let out a loud, heavy sigh as boredom overwhelmed their usually active mind.

"Don, how much longer do I gotta sit here? I'm practically dying of boredom. I'm terminal now. Terminal!" They slumped themselves back over the cushion, causing it to wheeze under the shifted weight.

"Just a few minor adjustments left and we'll be as good as gold." Donnie hadn't even looked up from the tester bot he was tinkering with, something which Y/N met with a frustrated scowl.

"And by a few, you mean…?"

"I still need to work on recalibrating the external displays to account for the large-"

"UUUGH, no, how long! I've been here so long that my leg's've atro- asta-… ASTROFIELD!"

Donnie could hardly contain the snort that sounded from under his welding mask.

"I think the term you're looking for is 'atrophied' and no, I seriously doubt that the mere act of sitting is enough to deteriorate muscle tissue."

"Whatever. I'm dying here and you wanna lecture me on-"

They were interrupted by the soft thudding of approaching footsteps, the unmistakable sound of Raph entering the lab.

"Heya, D. Y/N. Sorry to barge in on y'all, just wanted to check in and see if y'guys needed anything. It's been, uh… A while and it's gettin' dark so-"

"Raph, will you tell Dorkie here to quit holdin' me hostage and let me go? He's been keeping me prisoner here and I haven't even gotten my one phone call!" Y/N teased. Their moniker was successful in tearing Donnie's attention away from his desk across the room to shoot them a bitter glare.

"Heh, y'know Y/N, you could leave anytime you wanted, right? It's not like he's actually gonna trap you here. Er… Right?" Raphael's playful expression tinged itself with a hint of concern as he, for a moment, considered the possibility of a hostage negotiation with his little brother.

"Nah, I'm actually good here. I just want something more to DO when I'm here. I can't just be here for moral support, y'know." They stuck their tongue out at the softshell as they rolled themselves off the bag and plopped softly onto the tile floor.

The eldest mutant scratched at the back of his neck with a chuckle. Of course Donnie would tell them it's for 'moral support'.

"Uh, Y/N. You do know he only really keeps you in here because he's got a thing for you, right? That whole moral support thing's a load of crock."

It was at that moment that the ambient hum of tools stopped and tense silence flooded in its place. Y/N propped themselves up on elbows and craned their neck towards Donatello who sat faced away from them with tense shoulders bunched up.

Sensing the awkward situation he'd now put them in, Raph let out a small hiss of regret between his teeth and slowly shuffled his feet back towards the door.

"Riiight… So, you guys good? Yeah? Yeah. I'm gonna just-"

And with that, he practically bolted for the door, leaving Y/N and Donnie to stew in the thick air of their own embarrassment.

"D-Donnie…" Y/N could barely squeak, their eyes fixed to the empty doorway as if they were pleading for Raph to come back and take the awkward with him.

Donnie took in a sharp breath and in one swift motion, pushed his work chair back and spun to face his companion with only his iron-will keeping him from running out of the lab himself.

"I-" He started, his face dark red and his lip quivering with anxiety as his mind parsed through the many scenarios in which this sort of confession could've gone.

"I knew it couldn't have been just for my good looks." Y/N's smug grin and flirtatious wink did little to alleviate the mutant's humiliation.

"Huh?"

"For the record…" Scooting up to Donnie's hunched form, Y/N gently took his hands into theirs and kept their gaze locked to the floor as the faintest blush dusted their cheeks, "I have a thing for you too."

Out of every scenario he'd managed to file through, this one was one outcome he didn't anticipate. But one he would happily accept.

[yeyinde]

Lev? Uncle Simon? I’m excited. I don’t even know what it’s about but I like the sound of it already

out of all the untitled documents to choose from who knew the uncle Simon one would stand out so much lmao this is super choppy but here's my little idea for the new version:

At first, she's a name on a piece of paper. 

An abstract concept. Black lines stamped into stark white. An idea—

(a phone call in the middle of the night that he wasn't expecting. 

"Mr Riley? Is this—right. Well, the reason I'm calling is because the adoption agency received a request from one of the adoptees about tracking down their biological family, and you were the only match.")

—a ghost. 

Out of everyone, he thinks he mourned her the most. This tiny, insignificant thing swathed in pale pink and cradled in the arms of her mother, his almost sister-in-law. Tommy leaning over her shoulder, eyes glazed in an artificial gloss (c'mon, Tommy) as they smile, vacantly, at the camera.

At the time, elbow deep in a shallow grave as he stared at the photo his mother sent him, all he could think was: she never stood a fuckin' chance. 

And she didn't. Her first night home from NICU was when his past came back for revenge. Bloodthirsty, vengeful. They sunk their claws into his family, tearing them into pieces. A nightmarish massacre they called him to discover.

(pinch me, Tommy, pinch me—)

Better off this way, he remembers thinking. Cruel. Callous. Staring down at a tiny grave—her name etched in stone; only days old before the monsters in his closet came searching for their due—and knowing that this was all his fault. And then: sorry, little bird. 

Sorry. Sorry—

But that little bird crawled out of the dirt. Made it out alive somehow. 

(better this way, the higher up said, resting a neat, unblemished hand on the folder marked Simon Riley. next to it, a mask lay on the table. generic. he hums around his grief, thinks of Tommy in the grave—milkwhite bones. "a clean break—"

he thought it was their attempt at humour. maybe an odd way to comfort him. but with the roaring in his ears, he couldn't hear much beyond the ache in his chest, and the ice-cold fury coiling in his belly.

"she's in a better place."

fuckin' hell—

he thought they meant some idea of heaven, not Salford.)

And now—

That name on a piece of paper has a face.

A pretty one, too.

And though he tries to find pieces of Tommy in the symmetry of her profile—and feels antsy, restless, when he does—she takes after her mother. Same complexion. Eyes. The slope of her nose. All of it the woman he met once—stumbling home to find them both passed out on the couch, heads knocked together as a dense cloud of smoke plumed around them. Her eyes, heavy lidded and red, gazing up at him uncomprehendingly.

"who're you?" slurred out in a smokey rasp. Tommy didn't even stir at the sound of her voice.

It's her but healthy. Youthful. Clear eyes. Hands that don't shake. Teeth that gleam white under the fluorescent light of the cafe she works at, not willow-brown. Stained yellow with nicotine. She's softer, too. The harsh, fragile angles of her mother tucked away under a thick pelt. Solid. Steady.

Happy.

He spends a lot of time just staring at her in the back of the dimly cafe, hood pulled over the black ballcap hung low on his brow. Medical mask in place of his typical knit balaclava. Barely blending in to the passel of the teenagers that seem to congregate, em masse, in the small coffeeshop.

Sometimes, she looks back at him. Catches his eye. Offers a smile that's only a little wobbly around the edges, brow pushed together as she tries to make sense of his presence here. With the chocolate trim and the cream walls, the heady scent of ground coffee in the air, chatter of schoolkids and professionals that skirt around him with a considerable dearth to reach the trashbin next to his table. It's clear he doesn't fit.

Doesn't belong.

It glues to the roof of his mouth. The passing, mean thought that neither does she.

Or—

She wouldn't.

If Tommy survived, she'd be leaning against the wall with him, listening to the distant echo of flushing toilets while the world seemed to carve out a steep chasm between them. Them and us. That's how it's always been with him and Tommy.

But she—

She fits.

Offers smiles as easily as breathing. Something that would have netted them a black eye from their raging old man, bellowing out that he'd give them something to smile at.

She doesn't look like anyone has ever raised a hand against her. And he supposes, thinking back on the information he managed to get the private detective hired by her new parents to squeal out, that she doesn't. Not her. No.

Grew up in Salford with her adoptive parents—much older than most looking to adopt, already in their late forties when she was just a year old. Lived a life on the right side of the tracks: spelling bees, private tutors. Vacations to Disneyland. They weren't rich. Not exorbitantly so, but they managed a comfortable lifestyle. Food on the table every night. Chores. Movie nights on Saturday where she got bring a friend for a sleepover. Pizza and popcorn and candy and her mother asking, want some more snacks, honey? Soft and gentle. That's what they were. Are. Doting. Kind.

Punishments were drenched in disappointment. Voices never raised. Hands never furling into fists.

She was a good kid raised by good people.

And he should be happy for her.

He is happy for her.

They raised her good and proper. Put food in belly. Never let her know hunger. Or pain. Neglect.

But he finds Tommy in her smile. The little dip of her chin, tucking her happiness into her collar as if she doesn't want it to be seen. It's all—him. Them.

Simon just can't seem to think around the idea of her belonging to someone else—

(she's his family, after all. his baby bird. his brother's daughter. his niece. his. his—

and maybe it's time baby bird—Baby Riley—came home.)

[hellojusthereforabit-blog]

Past Lives Pt. 1.5 - Bucky Barnes.

Ft. Sam Wilson, Peter Parker, and Natasha Romanoff.

"I can't do this, doll, I'm sorry."

"You with me, Y/N?" Sam bended to be eye-level with me.

"What?" I asked, brows furrowing in what I'm sure is a developing wrinkle.

Sam sighed, shaking his head and moving back to the drawing board, where an intricate capture-seize-and-return-to-current-time-line plan was etched.

There's no excuse. I was slipping. I was being unreliable. I could not be trusted with this mission.

"Can I trust you with this mission, Y/N?" Sam's voice was grave, devoid of its usual playful warmth.

No. "Yes." I replied, hoping my face did not betray just how out of my depth I truly was.

What was I thinking agreeing to a mission like this? Maybe Bucky was right. Maybe I did this just to twist the knife. I knew something was truly wrong with me when the idea of Bucky being sick with anxiety over me seemed attractive.

He hurt you, I reminded myself. As if this made it any more justifiable.

"I have the kid." Bucky's booming voice echoed through the compound walls as he approached the conference room.

Speak of the devil.

"Hey!" quipped Peter Parker, alias: Spiderman, from behind Bucky. "You do not have me, Mr. Winter Solider Sir, I came here willingly."

"Pipsqueak" muttered Sam from beside me.

I barely concealed my own laugh in time for Bucky to hit Peter with the infamous "don't call me that." line.

Peter's eyes zeroed in on me and his smile got impossibly wider.

"Y/N!" He seemed to jump in place, "Oh my God! It's so good to see you!"

I welcomed Peter's embrace, relishing in the confusion of the two men behind me.

"Back at you, kiddo."

"You two know each other?" asked Bucky with what seemed to be true disgust.

"Sure we do," I said, patting Peter on the back, "As far as anyone's concerned, this is my avenger-little-brother." I winked at Peter as we pulled away.

Something sobered in the room at the mention of my family. We were all un-kindly reminded of what was at steak here.

"Alright then, Spider," said Sam, back in Captain America mode. "Tell us how it happened."

--

"Reports of more than a dozen killed, and fifty more injured in the area. No group has yet claimed responsibility, but we urge anyone with any knowledge of this to get in contact with the local auth-"

"They weren't all civilians, y'know ." A silky-smooth voice spoke from behind me, interrupting the news anchor.

Shoot first, ask questions later.

Red hair and amused green eyes stared back at me from behind the barrel of my gun.

"Jesus, Nat!" I holstered the gun back to my side. "Don't you ever knock?"

"Why, so you can ignore me again?" she replied knowingly.

Natasha Romanoff, The Black Widow, was raiding my shelves for- whatever it was she was looking for. Having found a half-eaten bucket of ice-cream, she plopped down on my couch and shut the TV off.

"You should really stop watching the news, too depressing." she reasoned, licking the spoon clean off ice-cream.

Resigned to the situation, I dropped to the floor.

The silence in the apartment was short-lived.

I poked Nat's leg and looked up at her.

"I'm sorry about - all the ignoring stuff." It was a lame apology, but Nat deserved one, at least.

She stayed silent, clearly waiting for me to go on.

"It's just-" I started, unable to find the words. She hummed in response.

God, I was so grateful to have a friend like Nat, though you would have never caught me saying that.

I hope she knew.

"Ever since everyone was blipped," I tried again, only half-aware of Nat's leg freezing in place beside me. "I keep seeing them. Him." I breathed out.

"Bucky?" she asked, her demeanor quieter, more real.

I nodded and tried to keep going.

"He never even knew - I never even told him." I shuddered at the thought of what I was about to say next. "He died thinking no one loved him, Nat."

I felt a steady hand grip my shoulder.

"He knew he had a friend in you, Y/N," she said, ever the voice of reason.

But I was beyond reason then, gasping for breath.

"No," my voice cracked. Weak, like the rest of me. "Not like this."

I paused, collected my thoughts.

Out with it.

"Everytime something happens, the first person I want to tell is Bucky. His voicemail is probably barely functional from how many messages I left. But he's gone. They're all gone. I don't see a point in waking up every morning, I don't run, I don't train, I don't eat, Nat-"

I felt a thud beside me on the floor and a pair of strong arms hold me tight. Capable fingers pressed against my back until I was a sobbing mess in the lap of the deadliest assassin in the world.

I only grasped the faintest string of some Russian lullaby through the sounds of my own misery.

--

"Agent!" Sam's commanding voice echoes through the room, ricocheting off the walls and piercing my eardrums. "Copy on the plan or do we need to go through this a third time?" He asks, no mirth in that lovely face of his.

"I copy."

-

Hey guys, I promise the part with 40s Bucky is coming soon. It just feels right to add a little bit of depth to the story. Please let me know your thoughts! Your support from the previous part was incredible. Thank you and see you soon!

[fyodior]

short oda blurb cuz i've been hurting recently </3 btw i mention putting rocks on graves, that's a jewish tradition for showing respect and that someone has visited ♡♡ divider by @/benkeibear

Ding, ding, ding! Wake up sleepyhead!

The goofy custom ringtone he recorded for you that usually made you smile had you swallowing thickly this morning, hands shaking as you fumbled to turn it off as quickly as possible. 

Underwear on, one leg in pants, then the other. Slide both arms through your shirt sleeves, then pull it over your head. Brush your teeth, pull back your hair, swipe on what little amount of makeup you can manage as your coffee brews. Routine and redundancy makes things easier, especially when everything feels out of control.

You have a rule of keeping at least one picture of him in every room of your house, and in the bathroom you keep an old Polaroid of him offering a lopsided smile to the shaky camera as he offers it an ice cream cone. If only pictures could capture sounds, this one would’ve played a loop of you cackling behind the camera as the man tried his best to pose for your picture - he was somehow the least photogenic and most photogenic person you ever knew. Every picture of him was more strikingly handsome than the last, but he couldn’t pose worth a shit.

Today you picked up the yellowing Polaroid from where it was tucked into the corner of the mirror and gave it a watery smile, making a mental list of every last thing you’d give up just to hear his laugh one more time. To hear even one second of it. To see just a flash of that smile, to hear his voice say your name. Just once. You’d give up the world. You’d go broke, blind, lose your job, and lose your house. For one more second of him. If it meant subsequently giving up your life, too, you’d do it - because maybe then, you’d get to be with him again. 

It’s a hot day as you walk down the street, your fingers swelling just a bit, but nothing and no one could pry that silver ring off your finger even if they threatened your life for it. You could stand some discomfort for the day. There was no engagement behind the ring, but it had no less meaning. Not when Dazai revealed to you that he had skipped lunch with him and the boys for weeks in order to save up for it. Not when it had two tiny stones sat next to each other, both of your birthstones embedded deep into the silver.

The tinkle of the bell as you open the door to the florist startles you - sudden and loud noises tend to do that these days. You pretend to peruse the different bouquets, all displaying different arrangements of beautiful flowers, so as not to seem strange for jumping right on the one you already knew you wanted. He would’ve just laughed at you, telling you you were too nervous about what people thought of you. The shitty part was that that part of you, that anxiety had begun to fade when you were with him. What people thought of you never mattered when he was by your side, and you always knew what he thought about you. He never failed to make you remember that, in his eyes, you hung the moon, the stars, mercury, venus, and everything in between and beyond. But now that he was gone, all of that fear came back. 

When you finally decided it seemed like an appropriate amount of time examining flowers, you finally picked up the bouquet of your shared favorite flowers.

“Are these for your boyfriend?” the well-meaning florist says from behind the counter as she rings you up.

“Yes, they are,” you nod, smiling sweetly. “I’m actually on my way to see him right now.”

“Well, make sure to let him know he has a wonderful partner for caring enough to bring him flowers. I hope you two have a wonderful day together.”

“We will,” you chuckle.

The gentle breeze tousles your hair as you follow the cobblestone path to your destination, bouquet of flowers in one arm, and your latest read in the other. You liked to keep up somewhat of a book club with him, reading a few chapters aloud for him every time you visited. 

Normally you had a bit of a routine every time you visited, brushing the accumulated dirt and grime off his name and replacing the rocks that had fallen off the top of the stone, but you didn’t quite have the energy for that today. Instead, you just laid the flowers in front of him, before sitting down on the ground.

“Today officially marks it, Saku. I’ve now… had to remember you for longer than I’ve known you.” Tears spring into your eyes once you finally admit it out loud, not quite realizing the gravity of it until the words took shape. “And to be honest, babe? I’m kinda fuckin’ tired of it,” you laugh, wiping your eyes. “I don’t want to have to remember you anymore. Remembering hurts like a bitch. I want you back more than I want to take my next breath. Doesn’t that suck?”  

[kmomof4]

To Sir Graham, With Love Ch. 9

We made it, y'all!!! It's the FINAL CHAPTER!!!! Sorry, not sorry for the first several scenes of this chapter... but y'all know me, the happy ending is GUARANTEED, and I have to admit, I'm pretty proud of this one!!!!

Thank you once again to @jrob64 and @whimsicallyenchantedrose for their outstanding beta services and to @motherkatereloyshipper for her BEAUTIFUL artwork above. I really can't stop staring at it!! It's so perfect!!!!

And also happy happy happiest of birthday's @snowbellewells!!!!! I'm BEYOND THRILLED that you loved this fic so much!!!! I hope this last chapter is the proverbial cherry on top of a huge ice cream sundae!!! I'm posting this ch a little early because Marta is home sick today, so I'm hoping this will help her feel better by putting a huge smile on her face!!!

Summary: After a year long secret correspondence, twenty-eight year old spinster Ruby Jones decides to accept Sir Graham Humbert's offer of a visit to see if they might suit for marriage. Unfortunately, he failed to mention that he was the father of twins, and they are not thrilled with Ruby's appearance.

Rating: M (smut and mentions of physical abuse) There is a love scene in this ch, but according to @whimsicallyenchantedrose - who doesn't read or write smut - it's very mild, more smut adjacent than anything, so it is not sectioned off like the scenes in previous chs. If you still want to skip it, stop reading when Graham places Ruby on the bed and pick back up at the next scene change line.

Words: 8k of 68k

Tags: Red Hunter Fic, Birthday Fic, Inspired by Eloise Bridgerton's Story, Smut

On ao3 From Beginning / Current Ch

On Tumblr Prologue Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 Ch8

Tagging the usuals. Please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.

@jrob64 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @the-darkdragonfly @jennjenn615

@donteattheappleshook @undercaffinatednightmare @pirateherokillian @cocohook38 @qualitycoffeethings

@booksteaandtoomuchtv @superchocovian @motherkatereloyshipper @snowbellewells  @djlbg

@lfh1226-linda @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @bluewildcatfanatic @anmylica

@laianely @resident-of-storybrooke @exhaustedpirate @gingerchangeling @caught-in-the-filter

@ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite @captainswan-kellie

@soniccat @beckettj @teamhook @whimsicallyenchantedrose @thisonesatellite

@jonesfandomfanatic @elfiola @zaharadessert @ilovemesomekillianjones @mie779

@kymbersmith-90 @suwya @veryverynotgoodwrites @myfearless-love 

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

… I do not tell you often enough, dear Mother, how very grateful I am that I am yours. It is a rare parent who would offer a child such latitude and understanding. It is an even rarer one who calls a daughter friend. I do love you, dear Mama.

– from Ruby Jones to her mother, Alice, upon refusing her sixth offer of marriage

~*~*~*~*~*~

The ride to Killian and Emma’s was anything but comfortable and by the time Ruby arrived, her foul mood was even worse. And then when Graves opened the door and stared at her as if she was a madwoman, she nearly lost her temper completely. 

Until she noticed the look upon his face.

“Graves?” she asked, when it became clear that he was beyond speech.

“Are they expecting you?” he asked, finally gathering himself together.

“Uh, no,” she said, drawing out the final word. “But I hardly think…”

Graves stepped aside - belatedly remembering himself - finally allowing her entrance. “It’s Miss Alice,” he said, referring to Killian and Emma’s oldest child, only five years old. “She’s quite ill.”

Ruby gasped, something awful rising in her throat. “What is it?” she asked, not bothering to hide her urgency. “Is she…” She couldn’t get the rest of the question out, just letting the words dangle, her meaning quite clear.

“I’ll get Mrs. Jones,” he said, turning quickly and scurrying up the stairs.

“No, wait!” Ruby called, wanting to ask him more questions, but he was already gone.

She slumped into a chair, feeling positively sick with worry for her small niece but also rather disgusted with herself for coming here to complain to her sister-in-law about something that didn’t even signify when compared to this.

“Ruby!”

It was Killian, not Emma that came down the stairs. He looked awful - his eyes red-rimmed, his hair in complete disarray, his skin pale and pasty. Ruby didn’t bother asking how long it had been since he slept. The answer was blatantly obvious. He hadn’t closed his eyes in days.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I just came for a visit,” she explained. “Just to say hello. I had no idea! What’s wrong with her? She was fine last week!”

Killian took several moments to answer. “She has a fever. She woke up fine on Saturday, but by luncheon…” He sagged against the wall, unable to go on. “I don’t know what to do, Ruby.”

“What did the doctor say?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, scrubbing his hand down his face. “Nothing useful anyway.”

“May I see her?”

Killian nodded, his eyes closed.

“You need to rest,” Ruby said.

“I can’t.”

“You must,” she insisted. “You’re no good to anyone like this. And I’d wager Emma is the same.”

“I made her sleep an hour ago,” he said. “She looked like death.”

“And you look no better,” Ruby said drily. She purposefully kept her tone no nonsense and business-like. Anything softer and Killian would break down completely. And if Killian broke down, she would break down and no one needed that at the moment. “You must go to bed,” she continued. “Now. I will care for Alice.”

He didn’t respond. He was literally asleep while still on his feet. Ruby took charge, directing Graves to get Killian into bed while she took over the sickroom, trying desperately to contain her gasp of dismay when she entered the room and saw her small niece. 

She was so tiny and pale on the bed, but her skin was flushed and her half-lidded eyes were glazed as she thrashed around, mumbling incoherently.

Ruby mopped her brow, turned her, and helped the maids change the sheets when they became drenched with sweat. So focussed was she on her charge, that she didn’t notice when the sun slipped below the horizon. She just thanked God that little Alice didn’t worsen under her care, because according to the servants, Killian and Emma hadn’t left her side for two days straight, and Ruby didn’t think she could survive having to wake them with bad news.

She sat next to the bed, read aloud from her niece's favorite book of Fairy Tales, and told her stories of when her father was a boy. She didn’t think Alice heard a word she said, but it kept her from sitting still and doing nothing. It wasn’t until Emma rose from her stupor around eight that evening and asked about Graham that it occurred to Ruby he might be worried about her. She immediately penned a hastily scribbled note and sent it on to Romney Hall before resuming her vigil. Graham would understand.

~*~*~

By eight o’clock, Graham was forced to the conclusion that one of two things had happened. Either his wife had left him, or she was dead on the side of the road in a carriage accident.

Neither prospect was terribly appealing.

He didn’t think she would leave him. The argument this afternoon notwithstanding, she seemed happy in their marriage and she hadn’t taken a bag with her, but then again, most of her belongings hadn’t yet arrived from London, so she wouldn’t be leaving much behind. Nothing but a husband and two children.

And good God, he’d just told them he thought she was here to stay.

No. She wouldn’t leave him. She didn’t possess a cowardly bone in her body and if she were truly unhappy in their marriage, she’d tell him to his face. Without mincing words and with great vehemence.

Which meant that he’d likely find her on the side of the road. It had been raining steadily all evening and the road between Romney Hall and My Cottage was not well tended to begin with.

Hell, it would be better if she had left him.

But as he strode up the front walk to the door of My Cottage, soaking wet and in a terrible mood, it was looking more like Ruby had decided to abandon him. Abandon them.

“Temper,” he mumbled to himself. Because he’d never been closer to losing his.

Perhaps there was a logical explanation, he thought as he slammed the knocker against the door. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to ride home in the rain. It wasn’t that bad, but it was more than a drizzle. 

Maybe her carriage had broken a wheel. No, Killian would have sent her home in his carriage then. He lifted the knocker again and banged it against the door multiple times.

Maybe…

Maybe…

He tried to think of something, anything, that might explain why Ruby was at the home of her brother instead of her own. He couldn’t think of a one. He reached for the knocker again, prepared to wrench it from the door and chuck it into the rain when the door finally opened. 

Graves stood there, his mouth hanging open in complete surprise.

“My wife,” Graham growled.

“Sir Graham!” Graves, exclaimed.

Graham didn’t move, simply wiped the rain from his face.

“My wife,” he ground out again.

“She’s here,” Graves informed him. “Come in.”

Graham finally stepped inside. “I want my wife,” he said again. “Now.”

“Let me take your coat.”

“I don’t give a damn about my coat!” Graham roared. “Get me my wife!”

“Did you not receive Lady Humbert’s note?” Graves asked.

“No,” Graham informed him. “I received no note.”

Graves nodded. “I thought you’d arrived rather quickly. You must have passed along the road. Let me take your coat,” he said again. “I believe you’ll be here for some time and you will want to be comfortable,” the man said softly. 

A fear he’d never known gripped Graham’s heart. Had something happened to Ruby? He’d just found his children, he couldn’t lose his wife. As he followed Graves up the stairs, his heart and lips murmured silent prayers.

~*~*~

Ruby sat by her niece’s beside, hands clutched in her lap, murmuring, “Please. Please.”

The doctor had left for the second time that day declaring it “in God’s hands.” And if He was the only One Who could do anything about this, then He was the One to Whom she would appeal. When she wasn’t placing cool cloths on Alice’s head, or spooning luke-warm broth between her niece’s lips, that was.

She heard a noise from the doorway and turned to see Graham. Her heart leapt to see him and she flung herself into his arms, heedless that he was soaked to the bone.

“Oh, Graham,” she sobbed, feeling his strong warm arms around her. She was safe and she could finally let go of all the emotions she’d bottled up inside in order to be the rock Killian and Emma needed.

“I thought it was you,” he whispered.

“What?” she asked, drawing back and looking him in the face.

“Graves,” he explained. “He didn’t tell me anything as I was coming up. I thought something had happened to you,” he said, drawing her close again and kissing the crown of her head. “How is she?”

Ruby pulled back and turned toward the sickbed. “Not good,” she murmured.

Graham glanced at Killian and Emma, who’d risen to greet him. They both looked rather not good themselves.

“How long has she been like this?” he asked.

“Since Saturday morning,” Emma replied. Graham approached the bed and placed his large hand on Alice’s forehead.

He shook his head. “I can’t tell. I’m too cold from the rain.”

“She’s feverish,” Killian confirmed.

“What’s been done for her?” Graham asked.

Emma’s eyes widened with a desperate hope. “Do you know something of medicine?” she asked.

“We’ve kept cool cloths on her forehead, fed her broth, and warmed her when she grew too cold. Nothing seems to help,” Killian said hopelessly. Suddenly, Emma collapsed, crumpling to the floor sobbing.

“Emma!” Killian cried, falling down next to her and holding her as she cried. Graham and Ruby both looked away when they realized Killian was crying too.

“Willow bark tea,” Graham whispered to Ruby. “Has she had any?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “Why?”

“It’s something I learned at Cambridge,” he said. “It used to be given for pain before laudanum became so popular, but one of my professors insisted that it also reduced fevers.”

Ruby nodded and turned to her brother and sister-in-law. She marched right over and shook Killian’s shoulder.

“Willow bark tea,” she said matter-of-factly. “Do you have any?”

Killian just stared at her blinking for a moment before answering. “I don’t know,” he stammered.

“Mrs. Miner might,” Emma said, referring to one half of the couple that had been caretakers of My Cottage for years. They had all but adopted her when she and Killian were here for nearly a fortnight while he recovered from his own fever after they’d been reunited. “She always has things like that. But they’re visiting their daughter and won’t be home for several more days.”

“Can you get into their house?” Graham asked. “I’ll recognize it if she has any. It won’t be a tea, just the bark. We’ll soak it in hot water. It might help bring down the fever.”

Emma wiped away her tears, her eyes bewildered. “You want to cure my daughter with the bark of a tree?” she asked.

“It certainly can’t hurt anything,” Killian said forcefully. “Come on, Humbert. I have a key to their house. I’ll take you myself.” Before they went out the front door, Killian stopped and looked hard at Graham. “Do you know what you’re about?” he asked quietly.

Graham looked him right in the eyes, and answered as honestly as he could. “I hope so.” He struggled not to squirm under Killian’s scrutiny. It was one thing to allow him to marry his sister, given the circumstances, but it was something altogether different to allow him to pour some concoction down his daughter’s throat.

But Graham understood. He had children, too.

Killian nodded decisively and led him out into the night. As they strode through the rain, Graham could only pray that Killian’s faith in him wasn’t misplaced. 

~*~*~

In the end, no one could really tell whether it was Ruby’s prayers, the willow bark tea, or just dumb luck, but by morning, little Alice’s fever had finally broken and while she was still pale and fatigued, she was without a doubt on the mend.

And by noon, it was clear that Ruby and Graham were no longer needed, and were in fact, just getting in the way, so they loaded into the carriage and began the journey home where they planned to fall into bed to simply sleep.

The first ten minutes of the ride was spent in silence. Surprisingly, Ruby found herself too exhausted to sleep and she couldn’t summon the energy to talk, so just looked out the window at the passing countryside.

It had finally stopped raining about the time Alice’s fever had broken, which may have spoken to the Divine intervention Ruby had prayed for, but as she looked at her husband, who sat with his back against the side of the carriage, his legs stretched out across the bench on the other side with his eyes closed - though Ruby was quite sure he wasn’t asleep - she knew without a doubt that it was the willow bark tea.

She didn’t know how she knew. But she did. And when she thought about the circumstances surrounding the entire situation - Ruby’s uneasiness about Nurse Ratched, the fight with Graham, her flight to My Cottage, Graham coming after her - young Alice Jones was quite the luckiest little girl in all of England.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“For what?” Graham said, his eyes remaining firmly closed.

“For Alice.”

Graham opened his eyes then and met hers. He shrugged. “There’s no way to know. It might not have been willow bark.”

“I know,” she said, with certainty. “You were an answer to my prayers.”

Graham’s lips lifted in a tired smile. “You always do know.”

Ruby smiled back and thought to herself how wonderful it was. Just this. The easy comfort and familiarity of being with someone, that one just knew was right. Right where one belonged.

Ruby reached across and placed her hand on his. “It was so awful,” she said, surprised when she realized there were tears in her eyes. “I can’t imagine what Emma and Killian were going through.”

“Nor can I,” Graham whispered, squeezing her hand.

“If it had been one of our children…” Her voice trailed away as she realized. It was the first time she’d referred to Ava and Nicholas as theirs. 

Graham was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, he didn’t look at her but continued staring out the window. “The entire time with Alice,” he whispered, “all I could think of was how grateful I was that it wasn’t Nicholas or Ava.” He looked at her then, guilt written all over his face. “But it shouldn’t be any child.”

“There’s nothing wrong with such feelings,” she assured him. “They make you a good father. A very good father, I think.”

He looked at her oddly for a moment and then looked down at where their hands were still clasped. “No, I’m not,” he said gravely. “But I hope to be better.”

Ruby’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You were right,” he said, looking back up at her. “About Nurse Ratched. I didn’t want anything to be wrong, so I paid no attention, but you were right. She was beating them.”

“WHAT?!”

“With a book,” he continued, his voice perfectly level. “I walked in and she was beating Ava across the back with a book. She’d already finished with Nicholas.”

Tears of sorrow and anger filled Ruby’s eyes. “I never dreamed. I should have seen. I should have known.”

Graham scoffed. “If I didn’t see in the months she was living with us, how could you have seen when you’d only been there a fortnight?” he asked.

Ruby was silent for a few moments. “I assume you dismissed her,” she said.

Graham nodded. “I nearly threw her out the door myself when she wasn’t moving fast enough.”

Ruby snorted. “If you hadn’t, I would have,” she said.

“I told the children you’d help find a replacement,” he said.

“Of course!” she exclaimed.

“And I…” His voice trailed away for a moment and he looked out the window before he continued speaking. “I’m going to be a better father,” he whispered. “I’ve spent years pushing them away. Always afraid of becoming like my father.”

“Graham,” Ruby cajoled. “You couldn’t possibly be. You are so different from your father.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But I thought I could. I got a whip once. I went out to the stable, blindingly angry, and got a whip.” He dropped his head in his hands and Ruby’s heart broke for him. 

“But you didn’t use it,” she said with certainty.

“But I wanted to,” he confessed.

“But you didn’t,” she repeated.

“I was so angry,” he said again, as if he didn’t even hear her, too lost in his own memory. But then he looked at her and something in his eyes was shattered and Ruby wanted nothing more than to gather him close and heal all those jagged edges inside him. To make him see himself as she saw him - a flawed man, yes, but a good and honorable one, too, who’d never hurt his children the way he had been. “Do you understand what it means to be frightened by your own anger?”

Ruby shook her head.

“I’m not a small man, Ruby,” he said. “I could hurt someone.”

“So could I,” she reasoned with him. He sent her a dry look and she shrugged. “Well, maybe not you, but I’m certainly big enough to hurt a child.”

He snorted and turned back to the window. “You would never do that.”

“And neither would you.”

He was silent and understanding dawned on Ruby. “Graham,” she began. “You said you were angry, but… who were you angry with?”

He stared at her, slightly dazed. “Ruby,” he said. “They glued their governess’ hair to the sheets.”

“Oh, I know,” she assured him, “I’m quite certain I would have throttled them myself had I been around when it happened. But that wasn’t my question.” She stopped and waited for him to respond. When he didn’t, she clarified. “Were you angry with them about the glue? Or were you angry with yourself because you couldn’t make them mind?”

He didn’t say anything, but that silence told her more than any words could.

“Graham, you are nothing like your father.”

“I know that now,” he said softly. “When I discovered what Nurse Ratched had done, you have no idea how much I wanted to rip her limb from limb.”

Ruby snorted. “I can imagine,” she said. “I would have wanted to do the same.”

Graham felt his lips twitch. There was something comforting and almost funny about their similar thoughts and feelings about the matter. It felt quite good. 

“She deserved nothing less,” Ruby continued. “But you didn’t touch her, did you?” 

“No,” he replied slowly in realization. “And if I could keep control of my temper with her, I could certainly keep control of it with my children.”

“Of course,” Ruby agreed. She patted his hand and then sat back, looking out the window.

She had such belief in him. It was an utterly foreign concept. She truly had faith in his inner goodness, in the quality of his soul, when he’d been wracked with guilt and worry for so many years.

“I’d thought you left me,” he blurted out.

She turned back to him, surprise written all over her face. “What? Why would you think that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he shrugged, “Perhaps it was because you left and didn’t come back.”

Ruby rolled her eyes at him. “It’s perfectly clear now why I was delayed, and besides, I’d never leave you. You should know that.”

He raised a brow at her. “Should I?”

“Of course you should!” she exclaimed, her green eyes beginning to flash. “I made a vow on our wedding day, and I can assure you, I don’t take that lightly.” She was silent for just a moment before she continued, her tone and indignation ramping up with each sentence. “And the children! They’ve already lost one mother, through no fault of their own. Did you really think I’d make them go through all of that a second time? You know me better than that.” She turned to him with a supremely irritated expression on her face. “I cannot believe you thought that of me!”

Graham was beginning to think the same thing himself. How could he have thought that of Ruby? He’d only known her… Dear God. Had it really only been two weeks? In many ways, it felt like a lifetime. Because, he was quite convinced, he did know her. Inside and out. And he should have known better than to think she’d abandon their marriage.

It was the panic. That was all. Panic that she might really have been killed somewhere on the road. If that had truly been the case… He wasn’t prepared for the stab of agony in his heart at the thought.

When had that happened? When had she come to mean so much to him? He’d told himself, and her as well, over and over again that he married her to be a mother to his children. But when she’d mentioned the vow and that her commitment to the children was too strong, he’d felt a stab of jealousy.

Jealous. Of his own children. 

He wanted her to want him. Not because she’d made a vow, but because she couldn’t live without him. Perhaps because she loved him. 

Somewhere in the passion - in the intoxication of the pleasure of her touch, the sounds of her moans and gasps, in the force of his own pleasure when he exploded inside of her - she’d touched his heart. And changed it. 

Changed him.

He loved her.

He hadn’t been looking for love. Hadn’t even given a thought to it, but there it was. And it was the most beautiful and precious thing imaginable.

He was at the dawn of a new day. A new chapter in his life. It was both thrilling and terrifying at the same time. He did not want to fail. He couldn’t. Not when he’d just found everything he needed. Ruby. His children. Himself.

It had been years since he’d felt comfortable in his own skin. When he could trust his own instincts. When he could look at himself in the mirror and not avoid his own gaze.

They were pulling up at Romney Hall. A footman appeared to help Ruby down. She turned to him and smiled gently.

“I’m exhausted, and you look the same,” she observed. “Shall we go up and take a nap?”

Graham looked up to the third floor nursery for a moment before turning back to his bride. 

“You go on ahead,” he said. “I’ll be along in a bit. Right now, I think I want to go hug my children.”

Ruby smiled and turned to enter the house.

When she woke, many hours later, she was surprised to see that Graham’s side of the bed was undisturbed. He’d been just as exhausted as she was, but perhaps instead of sleep, he just needed time to himself to think after the difficulties of the last few days.

Just because she didn’t prefer solitude, didn’t mean that everyone agreed with her. It didn’t mean that Graham agreed with her. 

They were two very different people, and if she was going to live with him as his wife, she was going to have to make some concessions to his personality and temperament, just as he was doing the same for hers.

She didn’t see him the rest of the day. Not when she took tea in the afternoon, not when she tucked the twins into bed, not when she ate her lonely supper. After her obligatory two bites of pudding, she got up, not wishing to prolong her meal any longer, fully intending to retire to her bed. But as soon as she left the dining room, she knew she wasn’t ready to sleep yet. 

She walked, somewhat aimlessly, through the house until her feet carried her to the portrait gallery. She hadn’t been inside it since that first night after she’d arrived at Romney Hall. She opened the door and gasped in surprise to see Graham sitting in the chair, just staring up at the portrait of Jacinda with the children.

He gave no indication that he’d heard her. Just continued staring, the look on his face bleak and so full of sorrow that it nearly broke Ruby’s heart.

Had he lied to her when he said he’d never loved Jacinda? Never felt passion for her? No. He hadn’t lied. She knew it in her marrow. 

But what did it really matter? Jacinda was dead. She was in no way in competition for Graham’s affections. And it wasn’t as if Graham loved Ruby anyway. And she certainly didn’t lo…

But in one of those flashes of insight that might as well knock the breath out of one’s lungs, Ruby realized, she did. 

She thought back on the last two weeks - had it really only been two weeks? - wondering when it might have happened. Wondering how it happened. But this feeling she had for him, the affection and respect, had grown into something deeper. And oh, how she desperately wanted Graham to feel the same way.

He may need her - of that she was quite sure, both in the physical aspect of their marriage, but also in the caring for the household and the children - but she wanted him to love her the way she loved him.

She loved the way he smiled, the boyish grin that spoke of secrets and mischief, and as if he couldn’t quite believe in his own happiness. She loved the way he looked at her, as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She loved the way he actually listened to what she had to say and how he wouldn’t let her cow him. She even loved the way he told her she talked too much. Because he always said it with a smile on his face. And she loved the way he still listened to her after telling her she talked too much. 

She loved the way he loved his children. She loved his honor, his honesty, and his sly sense of humor. And she loved the way she fit into his life and the way he fit into hers.

It was comfortable. And it was right.

This was where she belonged.

She loved him. She needed him. Not a dead woman.

As she watched him looking at the portrait, his words from yesterday finally sank in. He’d said he hadn’t laid with a woman in eight years. 

Eight years.

Jacinda had only been gone fifteen months. If Graham had gone without a woman for eight years… Ruby did some mental math. They hadn’t shared any physical intimacy since the twins had been conceived. No, that wasn’t right. It would have been shortly after the twins were born. Just a little bit. 

It was possible that Graham was mistaken about the dates, but somehow, Ruby didn’t think so. She thought Graham knew exactly when the last time was, and now that she’d pinpointed it as well, she realized it must have been a terrible experience indeed. 

But he hadn’t betrayed her. Hadn’t betrayed her or his marriage vows. He’d remained faithful to a woman who’d banned him from her bed. Ruby wasn’t really surprised, given his honesty and integrity, but she wouldn’t have thought less of him for seeking physical comfort elsewhere.

But the fact that he hadn’t… It made her love him all the more.

Ruby stepped forward and cleared her throat. She was surprised when he quickly turned his attention upon her. She’d believed him so lost in thought that he wouldn’t realize he was no longer alone. He held out his hand to her and she stepped toward him and took it, turning with him to face Jacinda’s portrait.

“Did you love her?” she asked quietly.

“No.” And even though she’d asked the question before, and received the same answer, the relief she felt at the simple affirmation was profound.

“Do you miss her?”

“No.” He was silent for a few moments, just continued to stare at her portrait. “She was sad. Always so sad.” Another pause. “It was worse after the twins were born. The midwife said it was normal for women to cry after childbirth, but not to worry. It would disappear in a few weeks.”

“But it didn’t,” Ruby murmured. 

“It was like she sank even further into herself,” he said quietly. “Almost like she disappeared.” His throat worked and his eyes blinked rapidly as he tried to formulate the words he wanted - no, needed - to say. “She rarely left her bed. She never smiled. And she cried. A great deal.” He finally turned to Ruby and looked her square in the eyes. “I tried everything to make her happy. Everything in my power. Everything I knew. But it wasn’t enough.” His eyes filled with tears and Ruby cupped his jaw with her other hand. “It wasn’t enough,” he whispered.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ruby said. She may not have known Jacinda as an adult, but she knew Graham and she knew her words were true.

“Eventually I just gave up,” he admitted, a single tear rolling down his cheek. “I was so sick and tired of beating my head against a wall. All I could do was try to keep the children away from her when she was really bad. They loved her so much.”

“I know,” she assured him.

“She was their mother. And she didn’t… she couldn’t…”

“But you were there,” Ruby said fervently. 

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “And a fat lot of good it did them. How terrible is it to have one bad parent? And my children were born with two…”

“You are not a bad father,” Ruby said, the vehemence in her words surprising even her.

“It hurt so much,” he whispered.

“What did?” 

“When she died,” he explained. “To try so damned hard for so many years and never succeed. To never be able to break through to her.” He turned and looked at her again. “I just needed someone who was happy. Who would be there for the children. Someone who wouldn’t…” He cut himself off and turned away.

“Someone who wouldn’t what?” she asked, sensing that his answer was very important, indeed.

“She didn’t fall in the lake by accident,” Graham whispered. Ruby gasped. He’d told her Jacinda had died in the lake, but she assumed it was an accident. She never thought that her cousin might take her own life. “She walked straight into the water. And I didn’t reach her in time.”

“Oh, Graham,” Ruby breathed. “I’m so sorry.” She was truly, even if Jacinda’s death had made her own happiness possible.

“You don’t understand,” Graham snapped. “That’s not what I meant. You don’t know what it’s like to feel trapped. Hopeless. Stuck. To try so hard and never, ever, break through. I tried. Every single day, I tried. I tried for me. I tried for her. I especially tried for Nicholas and Ava. Everything I knew. Everything everyone told me to do. Nothing worked. I’d try, and she’d cry. I’d try again and she’d do nothing but dig herself deeper into her damned bed and pull the covers over her head. She lived in complete darkness with her curtains drawn and then on the first sunny day in weeks,” he turned to her, eyes blazing, “she goes and kills herself.” He laughed, a short bitter thing. “After all of that, she had to ruin sunny days for me too.” He rose from the chair and looked at the portrait again. “I tried so hard,” his voice, filled with resignation and regret, trailed away for a moment. “And still, every day, I wished I was married to someone else. Anyone else.”

He turned to look at her again, and the tears were gone, replaced with a vehement passion that took Ruby’s breath away. 

“Yesterday you said we had a problem,” he said, taking her hand.

“No, that’s not what I meant…” she tried to interrupt, but he kept speaking as if he didn’t hear her.

“You said we have a problem,” he repeated. “But until you’ve lived through what I’ve lived through - until you’ve been trapped in a hopeless marriage, with a hopeless spouse, until you’ve gone to bed for years wanting nothing more than the touch of another human being…” He looked down at their joined hands and gently rubbed Ruby’s knuckles with his thumb. “Do not tell me that we have a problem. Because to me,” he choked on his words but kept on going, “to me, what we have, this - us, - is heaven.”

“Oh, Graham,” she breathed and threw herself into his arms, her own tears soaking his shirt.

“I don’t want to fail again,” he choked out, burying his face in her neck. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“No, you won’t,” she assured him. “We won’t.”

“You have to be happy,” he said. “Please tell me…”

“I am. I promise,” she vowed.

He pulled back, cupping her chin with his hands and looked deeply into her eyes. Looking for the truth of her words.

“I am happy, Graham,” she repeated, covering his hands with her own. “More than I ever thought possible. And I am proud to be your wife.”

Graham’s lower lip began to tremble and the tears reappeared in his eyes again before they began streaming down his face.

“I love you, Ruby,” he breathed. “And I don’t even care that you don’t feel the same…”

“Oh, Graham,” she cried, cutting him off, and wiping his tears away, even as her own continued to fall. “I love you, too.”

Graham crushed Ruby to him, his lips meeting hers in a passionate dance of love felt and reciprocated. He picked her up, bridal style, his lips never leaving hers and carried her through the halls to their bedchamber.

He lowered her to the bed and pulled back, pulling off his clothes in haste as Ruby did the same.

“I need you, Ruby,” he said, laying down beside her. “I need you like I need to breathe. Like I need food, water.”

“Yes,” Ruby moaned. “I need you, too.” All she could do was reach for him and give herself to him with all that she was. She couldn’t speak, could barely breathe as he touched her, kissed her, sending her higher and higher until her tears couldn’t be held back any longer.

“Don’t cry,” he soothed, brushing one away.

“I can’t help it,” she cried, her voice shaking. “I just love you so much. I didn’t think… I’d hoped… but…”

“I know,” he assured her. “I never thought it would happen to me. I think I’ve waited my entire life for you.”

“I know I’ve waited my entire life for you,” she said cheekily. She rolled on her back, drawing her with him until he was nestled between her legs. “Don’t go slowly,” she urged.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he said as he surged into her, filling her completely.

They moved together, but it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire. And a tempest. And total reckless abandon. Both of them reaching for that peak that seemed just out of reach, until they reached it together in a cascade of ecstasy that made Ruby arch, lifting them both from the bed with the power of her completion and Graham roar her name as he emptied himself into her.

Ruby collapsed back to the mattress, Graham’s weight pinning her down. Not that she minded in the least. She loved these moments, when they were both too spent to move. She loved the weight of him, the smell and taste of the sweat on his skin after their lovemaking. 

She loved him. 

It was that simple. She loved him and he loved her. And it was all she needed.

~*~*~

The next week would forever be remembered by Ruby as the most magical of her life. Nothing special happened - no birthdays, no unexpected guests, no extravagant gifts. 

But on the inside, everything changed.

The well of happiness was overflowing and seemingly without end. And she could sense the same thing inside of Graham as well. 

She woke one morning, pleasantly sore in all the right places, to see Graham, fully dressed, sitting at the foot of the bed simply watching her.

“Good morning,” she said, sitting up and tucking the sheet around her naked breasts. “What are you doing there?”

“Watching you,” he said, an indulgent smile on his face.

Her mouth dropped open in surprise, and she felt her cheeks heat. “That can’t possibly be very interesting.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, “I can’t think of anything that would hold my attention for so long.”

Her blush intensified and she wondered if perhaps she’d be able to convince him to join her in the bed again. But then she remembered he was already dressed and had probably done so for a reason.

“I brought you a muffin,” he said, holding it out to her. She thanked him and began eating when he spoke again. “I thought we might go on an outing today.”

“Really?” she asked in surprise. “You and me?”

“Actually, I thought maybe the four of us.”

Ruby froze, the muffin halfway to her mouth. To her knowledge, this was the first time Graham was reaching out to his children, rather than setting them aside and hoping someone else would see to them.

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” she breathed. 

“Good,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ll leave you to your morning routine and inform that poor housemaid that you bullied into being their nurse that we’ll be taking them for the day.”

“I didn’t bully her… exactly,” Ruby protested feebly. Mary hadn’t wanted to take the position of nursemaid, even on a temporary basis, none of the servants had. Ruby couldn’t really blame them after the debacle with their former governess, but for that reason, Ruby had extracted a promise from the twins that they would treat Mary with the respect due to the Queen, and so far they’d held up their side of the bargain. 

Ruby glanced up and saw Graham just standing in the doorway, not moving.

“Graham?” she asked. “What is it?”

He turned to her, his eyes a bit bewildered. “I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing going on in the village today, no fairs or events, I mean. What should we do?”

Ruby smiled gently at him. “Anything at all, Graham. All they want is you.”

Two hours later, Graham and Nicholas were standing outside the Larkin’s Fine Tailor and Dressmaker in the village of Tetbury, waiting somewhat impatiently while Ruby and Ava finalized their purchases inside.

“Did we have to go shopping?” Nicholas whined.

Graham chuckled. “It was what your mother wanted to do.”

“Next time, the men get to choose,” he grumbled. “If I’d known having a mother meant this…”

“We men must make sacrifices for the women we love,” his father informed him, patting him on the shoulder. He looked inside the shop window and saw that the ladies didn’t appear to be anywhere near finished. “But as to our next outing,” he whispered conspiratorially to his son, “I agree whole-heartedly.”

Just then, Ruby poked her head out. “Nicholas, would you like to come in?”

“No!” he said vehemently, shaking his head for emphasis.

“Allow me to rephrase,” Ruby replied, not missing a beat. “Nicholas, I would like you to come in please.”

Nicholas turned pleading eyes upon his father, making Graham chuckle. “I’m afraid you must do as she says.”

Nicholas grumbled under his breath as he climbed the steps, but just before he entered the door, he turned back to his father. “Aren’t you coming?”

Hell no, Graham almost said, but he bit his tongue just in time. “No,” he said instead, “I need to stay out here and watch the carriage.”

Nicholas’ eyes narrowed. “Why does the carriage need watching?”

“Yes, you need to come in as well, Graham,” Ruby said sweetly. Graham groaned. “You need new shirts.”

“Can’t the tailor just come out to the house?”

“Don’t you want to pick the fabric?” she asked.

“I trust you implicitly,” he said. Ruby frowned at him, and Graham sighed. “Very well, I’ll come in.”

“Thank you,” she said, leading them both inside. 

Graham found himself on the ladies side surrounded by bolts and yards of frilly and lacey, sparkly and shiny. He felt about as comfortable there as he did in formal wear.

Ruby kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear. “When Ava comes out, make a fuss.”

“I’m not very good at that sort of thing,” he said quietly.

She smiled up at him. “Learn,” she said just as quietly, then turned her attention to Nicholas. “And now for you, Master Humbert. Mrs. Larkin…”

“I want Mr. Larkin, like Father,” Nicholas protested. 

Ruby looked at him, surprised. “You want Mr. Larkin? The tailor?” she asked. Nicholas nodded. Ruby was silent for a moment, pondering his request and Graham could see Nicholas start to squirm with impatience and anxiety that she might deny him. “Very well then, off you go.”

Nicholas wasted no time at all and all but ran into the other side of the shop. Graham leaned over to his wife.

“You are good,” he praised, whispering in her ear.

A small smile pricked the corners of her lips. “Yes, I am,” she agreed.

Not a moment later, a blood curdling howl reached them and Nicholas ran back in. Straight to Ruby, which left Graham feeling a bit bereft. He wanted his children to run to him.

“He stuck me with a pin!” 

“Were you squirming?” Ruby asked, not bothered in the least.

“No!”

“Not even a little bit?”

“Maybe just a tiny bit,” he said, sheepishly.

“Right then. Don’t move next time,” Ruby said briskly. “I can assure you Mr. Larkin is very good at his job and if you don’t move, you won’t get stuck with a pin. It’s as simple as that.”

Nicholas looked up at his father with pleading eyes, and as nice as it was to be seen as an ally, he couldn’t contradict Ruby in front of his son like that. But then Nicholas surprised him. He walked back toward the other side without complaint and then turned back toward them for a moment.

“Father, will you come with me? Please?”

Graham opened his mouth to reply, but then had to stop, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He couldn’t speak. He was, quite simply, overcome. 

It wasn’t just the moment - the fact that his son wanted him to accompany him in this male right of passage - but it was the absolute confidence and assurance that if he followed his son to the other side, he’d know the exact right thing to say and do when they got there. He wasn’t his own father. He could never be. And with Ruby by his side, he knew he could do anything. Even manage the twins.

Graham laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’d be proud to go with you, son.” He cleared his throat of the hoarseness that had crept in, then bent down to his son’s ear. “The last thing we need is women on the men’s side.” Nicholas nodded in agreement. 

Graham rose back up, but before he could take a step, he heard Ruby clearing her throat behind him. He turned toward her, but his gaze came to a stop and his eyes widened as he saw his little girl all dressed up in a lovely lavender frock, showing just a hint of the woman she’d one day become.

For the second time in as many minutes, Graham’s eyes filled with tears. This is what he’d been missing. In his fear, in his self-doubt, he’d been missing this. His children, growing up without him.

Graham patted Nicholas’ shoulder, letting him know he’d be right back, and walked to Ava’s side. Without a word, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. 

“You, Miss Ava Humbert,” he said, his heart in his words, in his smile, in his eyes, “are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

Ava gasped in surprise and blushed under his praise. “But what about Mother?” she asked.

Graham knelt by her side and looked over at his bride, whose own eyes were filled with tears. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, quietly. “We’ll say that your mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, and you are the most beautiful girl. And someday, when you’re all grown up, you can believe that your mother is the most beautiful woman, and I’ll still say that you are.”

And later that night, when he kissed the children on their foreheads and tucked them into their beds, Ava whispered.

“Father?”

“Yes, Ava?”

“This was the best day ever.”

“Ever,” agreed Nicholas.

Graham smiled down at them. “For me as well.”

~*~*~

It started with a note.

Later that night, as Ruby finished her supper and her plate was cleared away, she realized there was a small folded note underneath. Graham had excused himself a few minutes earlier, claiming that he needed to locate a book of poetry they’d been discussing during the meal. So once she was alone, she unfolded the note and read the words contained within.

I have never been good with words.

And then, at the bottom of the paper,

Proceed to your office.

Puzzled, but intrigued, she rose and made her way to her office. There, she found another note in the center of her desk.

But it all started with a letter, did it not?

Then followed instructions to take herself to the sitting room, which she followed, being very conscious to keep a sedate pace instead of breaking into a thoroughly inelegant run. The next note was found on the center of the sofa.

And so if it started with words, it ought to continue with them, too.

This time she was directed to the front hall.

But there are no words to thank you for all you have given me, so I will use the only ones at my disposal, and I will tell you the only way I know how.

This time, she was to proceed to her bedchamber.

Ruby headed up the stairs, her heart thumping in excitement and anticipation. This was her final destination, she was sure. Graham would be waiting for her, to take her hand and lead her into their future.

It had all started with a note. A short, but heartfelt note of condolence, that had led her here. To a love so full and all-encompassing, Ruby had trouble containing it. She reached the upstairs hall and stepped forward toward her room, where the door was just slightly ajar.

She pushed it open with shaking hands and gasped.

For covering the bed were flowers. Hundreds and hundreds of blooms of every variety and color, some clearly out of season, from Graham’s special collection. And written in blossoms of red, against the backdrop of white and pink petals…

I Love You

“Words aren’t enough,” Graham said softly, stepping out of the shadows.

She turned to him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Speechless?” he asked, with a smirk. “You? I must be better at this than I thought.”

“I love you,” she whispered, choking on the words. “I love you so much.”

His arms came around her, and as she rested her head on his chest, his heart beating under her cheek, he rested his chin on the top of her head.

“Tonight the twins said that today was the best day ever,” he said softly. “And I realized they were right.”

Ruby nodded in agreement.

“But then I realized they were wrong.”

Ruby pulled back, a question in her eyes.

“I couldn’t choose a day,” he said, looking down into her eyes. “Any day with you, Ruby. Any week, any month, any hour.” He tilted her chin up and brushed her lips with his gently, but with all the love in his soul. “Any moment,” he whispered. “As long as I’m with you.”

The End

~*~*~

Thank you all for coming along on this journey with me!!! I so hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear what you thought!!! Happy birthday, Marta!! Love you!!!

[deanwithscissors]

Payback’s A Bitch

Title: Home Sweet Home Timestamp

Pairing: Jensen X Reader

Word Count: 1381

Warnings: Swearing, dirty talk, masturbation (f), throat holding, mentions of: nudes, spanking, degrading names, face fucking, hair pulling and edging, dom!jensen, punishment, unprotected sex, cream pie, tiny slither of angst

Summary: [Y/N]’s paying her dues for sending Jensen naughty pictures while he was with friends

Home Sweet Home Masterlist | Jensen Masterlist

A/N: jensen smut because this picture triggered everyone right?!🥲 *all mistakes are mine* feedback is appreciated, but be kind <3

It had been almost three hours since their first kiss, [Y/N] had been ordered and folded into every position possible within that time. 

Her face had been fucked, hair pulled, ass slapped, tits manipulated, clit teased and pussy hammered, and now she was riding Jensen cowgirl style in the enormous hotel bed.  

At first her back was poker straight, shoulders stretched wide and chest pushed out as she rampantly bounced on him and followed his every order. 

But now, her body was weak and slumped as she barely rocked, fatigue setting in and eating her energy.  

Her ass inflamed, bright red and pulsing from the abuse it’d taken, her lips swollen and exploited, throat burning from when he fucked her face. Her pussy red raw and aching, mind completely blown and core destroyed.  

“Jen- I- I’m tired,” she whimpered, beads of sweat trickled down her back.  

“You’re almost there, keep going,” he told her. 

“I- can’t,” her eyes fluttered closed as she swayed. 

“C’mon just a little bit more, you can do it baby.” 

She groaned as she began to roll harder and circle her clit with fatigued fingers obeying his command. His use of the word ‘baby’ energising her to carry on. 

Her thighs burned as hot as the pits of hell. It felt as if she’d done five hundred squats in a row, but apparently three hours of a clenching cunt could replicate that feeling. 

She wanted to beg him to finish her, just end it, let the suffering cease, but she knew he’d refuse. 

She’d gotten herself into this position and she had to pay. She knew that when she sent those raunchy pictures to Jensen fully aware he was at dinner with friends.  

Although, if you asked her, it was his fault for having flowing locks of shiny hair, piercing green eyes that swallowed her whole, a perfectly trimmed beard and that damn white long-sleeved top he decided to wear that day.  

In this state Jensen could only finish once she had come over his dick, but due to his extreme stubbornness, he had one rule to fully satisfy himself and fulfill her punishment; She was to use him to get her there. 

If she wanted this torture to end, she’d have to do it herself.  

Sometimes his appetite was grueling, wearing her down to the bone and squeezing the life from her, but this was beyond anything he’d put her through before. 

Of course, she could give as good as she got, but he could destroy her by a single look and make her come with just his voice. A God among men for sure.  

He was buried so deep inside her, she could feel him in her guts as he stretched her hole to the point of pain. 

“Jensen—” she moaned, “t-talk to- me.” 

Almost sobbing, she was desperate for the torment to end and too tired to get herself over the hill alone. 

“Is my baby all fucked out?” He asked, his voice wrecked and gravely, worn out from directing and taunting her for hours.  

“Y-esss.” She rocked and rubbed in a hypnotic rhythm as her skin bubbled with the heat increasing in her core. 

“You deserved it, didn’t you?” 

“Y-yes.” 

“Sendin’ me those filthy photos with your wet pussy on display while I’m out with friends, you knew what that’d do to me.” 

His hand was around her throat in a flash, like a pillar he kept her upright with his fingers denting her flesh, not forceful enough to restrict her breathing, but a decent amount of pressure to cause a little discomfort. 

Discomfort that only tripled the thrill for her as she slaved for his mercy.  

“I— did.” 

“You’re a filthy little slut, aren’t you?” His grip tightened ever so slightly, threatening her jugular vein.  

“Only for you,” she choked out.  

“Damn fuckin’ right, you’re my girl,” he growled, thrusting with all his might. 

Screaming out and falling forward, a ripple of pleasure shot through her mind, body and soul as his dick relentlessly barreled inside her.  

“How close are you?” 

“The— edge," she stuttered as his swollen head ravaged her tunnel.  

“How many times have you cum tonight?” 

“I- I, don’t—” 

“Yes, you do," he said sternly, sending a shiver ricocheting down her vertebrae. 

“Fo- five.” 

“Just one more, okay?”  

She groaned, crumbling further into his hand. "P-please Jensen." 

“Have I ruined you baby?” His plump tongue danced along his bottom lip as a devilish grin made home on his face. Pride and joy flashed through his eyes as he sneered, under her, but still in complete control.  

“Oh fuck,” she gasped as his thick throbbing shaft scraped along her inner walls, stretching her entrance to bursting point. 

She was so close, just one more little nudge— 

“Have I?” His voice lowered further and his fingers dug unforgivingly into her thigh and her throat. 

The deep bass from his words trembled over her skin, rumbled through her core and rattled her bones.  

She rode him furiously and hammered her clit, holding her breath every few seconds, inflating her lungs and tightening her core as the electrified pleasure burst through her veins, ravished her muscles and pushed her to the edge. The havoc bubbled inside, causing wave after wave of pure pleasure to tear at her soul, the almighty warmth building and building… 

Until her entire body went into rigor mortis. 

Freezing midair, back arched and mouth open, she was silent as unfiltered love from his punishment overwhelmed her small vibrating vessel.  

Holding onto his shoulders for dear life she screamed holy murder as the coil snapped, sending shrapnel everywhere, obliterating her insides, melting her brain and destroying her pussy.  

The world dismantled around her, the bed rocking as if on a stormy sea, her vision blurry and head woozy as she ascended to paradise while her orgasm ripped through her.  

"That's it baby, cum for me," Jensen encouraged as he began thrusting up into her rapidly, ready to blow himself, now that she had. 

She surrendered to her sixth orgasm, collapsing onto his chest in hysterical sobs, like a dead weight, but utterly relieved the end was here.  

Whimpering, gasping and shaking, he continued to relentlessly pound into her, chasing his own end. 

And after hours of buildup, it didn't take him long to catch it. 

His hips jutted into her as spurts of his seed flowed inside her hungry cunt and he roared just as loud as she had screamed. 

Hours of edging maximized his climax tenfold, it was glorious, furious, hectic and exhilarating, like the mother of all storms it battered him from all sides, not an inch of his body or soul being forgiven for his wicked little sins.  

His embrace tightened as he rolled through the aftermath, his dick still twitching, but balls empty.  

Sobs escaped her mouth and filled the room, just like he had promised, as she lay on top of him, essentially nothing more than a rattling corpse. 

“Are you okay?” He asked between gasps of air, the post-nut-clarity hitting hard.   

“Y-eah,” she mumbled into his chest without moving. 

“I love you,” Jensen said, kissing her hair. 

“I love you too.” 

After an ethereal and soothing comedown without words, wrapped in the bedsheet, each other and the serenity of passion, Jensen broke the silence. 

“I didn’t go too hard tonight?” 

“Of course not, I would’ve used the word, you know that,” she assured him.  

“I know, but, y’know.” 

“You’d think after seventeen years together you’d stop askin’.” 

“Do you remember what happened in LA a few years ago?” As soon as the words fell out his mouth, he regretted them. “I’m sorry, I just meant—” 

“I know. I love that you still ask me. It means you care, even after all these years.” 

“Forever babe.” 

“And always.” 

The couple had stayed in the position they’d finished in, love locking them together to relish in the gratification of the evening’s adventures, his dick big enough to remain inside her despite being completely soft.  

And although her punishment was complete, Jensen wasn’t done with her yet; Now he had to make love to her, make her feel like a celebrated Queen and a worshipped Goddess in the wake of the relentless discipline she’d taken so well. 

[outofangband]

Mammals of Hithlum

Flora, fauna, geography and environment of Arda Masterlist

Hithlum (Sindarin: Mist Shadow) is a land North of Beleriand. The Southern and Eastern borders were lined by the Ered Wethrin or Mountains of Shadow which were near impossible to cross and the Northwest border was lined by the Ered Lómin or Echoing Mountains. Though Hithlum was not on the ocean, sea mists from beyond Nevrast often reached its lands, hence the name. Hithlum held two important regions in the First Age, Mithrim where the hosts of Fingolfin lived for some time ruled and Dor-lómin, which Fingolfin gave to the House of Hador. 

As always I included world building notes at the end!

Fields and mountain steppes: striped field mouse, brown hare, mountain hare, free tailed bat, argali (rare), tarmin red deer, common bison (similar to the Asiatic Or European one), common rabbit, northern bat, alpine chamois

Montane forests: red squirrel, garden dormouse, brown bear (rare), northern birch mouse, bank vole, wood lemming, lynx, wild boar (rare), grey wolf, common hedgehog 🦔 (also found in fields), common wildcat (rare), forest dormouse

By rivers, streams and lakes: water vole, field vole, red fox, common shrews, least weasel, river otter (rare)

World building notes:

Most domestic animals in Hithlum are not native. Horses there primarily originate from those brought from Valinor and those brought from Eastern Beleriand, namely Himlad and Estolad. The latter are smaller and stockier.

Domesticated cattle came to Mithrim through trade and cream and butter became not uncommon ingredients among the Noldor there and among parts of the Sindar, especially those in southern Mithrim. (I actually have lots of thoughts about cheese making among the elves but that’s a different topic..)

Much of Hadorian life revolves around horses. A significant number of the humans of Dor-lómin are semi nomadic, traveling with their horses at least part of the year. Many festivals, traditions and ceremonies revolve around horses and horsemanship. Unfortunately many of these were lost during the occupation when access to horses was restricted and often forbidden. (This is only a brief summary as I’ve gone into this on many posts but it’s one of my favorite topics!)

The Hadorians also keep sheep, cow, hounds and bison. Also obligatory mention of this but I headcanon that although goats are not usually raised by the Hadorians, the Drúedain do keep them and Aerin as a teenager adopted one from a group of Drúedain who were staying with her father over a winter storm.

The Sindar of the mountains Mithrim have domesticated some mountain goats. Their horns are used as tools and as part of grave markers. (Note: many animals called mountain goats are not in the genus that includes domestic goats)

Field mice appear as a motif in Hadorian embroidery though they’re also widely disliked for their tendency to infest grain and hay.

Lynxes are a rare sight in populated areas of Hithlum but they are common in the area’s folklore, both Sindar and Noldor.

[fallenrepublick]

And She Shall Be Called Upon For Greater

Part 1 - Part 2

Here it is, my little passion project. Of course, this is just an introduction to it, but I wanted to start off with this piece. There's plenty more going on in the background, and I'm so happy to be working with this character and concept that I've always felt deserved better than what she was given. I think she has the potential to be fantastic, and I hope you all think so as well. Let me know what you think or if I can answer any questions!

Warnings: None

---

Steps on an empty ground have always been, and shall always be, the greatest method of measuring absence. The echo of a heel, or the swipe of a shoe’s sole, lingering in the air as replacement for the voices long since lost, serves to remind the only being, which makes their way down the oddly blue-tinted hall, of the many memories lying in wait beneath the metal and stone.

In the time of overturn, where age-old systems crumbled beneath her feet, where tradition gave way to a new, cold, soulless floor, so little had changed for her. Ghosts gripping fiercely the hilts of practice sabers ran across the space, not yet ready for the dangers of true kyber. Sage beings slipped over the patterned tiles, whispering of the war only just come to rise, drenched in heavy, neutral fabrics, fighting to remain upright in spite of the weight. Arrays of girls tip-toed to the doors that lined the wall, whispering and daydreaming amongst themselves, unable to help their speculation of why they'd been moved to such a grand temple at all.

She could almost see them, kicked up and made of old dust, no wiser to their fate than they'd been the day before it befell them. And as there was nothing to be done for them, she left the poor souls over her shoulder, keying a small code into the pad below the name plaque, reading in fanciful letters, “Ismaren”

Low lights switched on in the midst of her presence, rising in straight, perfected lines from the floor, and flickered just a touch with the shut of the door. The clasp holding together the ends of her cloak clicked as it came undone, short nails tapping the spotless gold and shoulders shrugging the covering off. It was not in her nature to litter the ground with her clothes, tired as she was, and the soft pinks, purples, and blacks folded nicely as each layer shed from her skin.

“Shall I have these washed for you, My Lady?” questioned the voice from behind, a flash of silver passing through the woman's periphery.

“Yes,” she replied.

The washroom was the place of sanctity, where one could remove the pins and gold from black hair, wipe away the pale creams and colors from her skin, dye the towels unnatural colors, remember what Roganda looked like. Rather than a deep sensation of blood, her lips were a gentle, muted pink. Rather than lined in heavy black and surrounded by reckless swipes of blue, thick white skin beneath it all, her eyes were truly unornamental, epicanthal lids held low most days, a very slight tan giving life to all she was. Water running to the floor of the shower might have drowned out the laugh she gave, if only to recognize her own features with a smile.

The place drew peace, rolling its warmth over her body, warding away reality. She breathed. It was time, that odd, damned thing that she’d wasted. How long had it been, two years, since the war ended? Waged for four years as she stood on high, witnessing an ascent to power, a schism splitting the galaxy in more ways than the Republic had ever predicted, peace brought through only the greatest of sins. She’d watched chaos reign, she witnessed loss and the fall of those she once knew. Children she had the privilege of growing beside felled by barbaric methods, mocked in their graves by violent, painted lips that believed every word their master spoke to them. How they could bear to consider it the truth was beyond her, as she herself knew truth to be the perfect opposite. Rinsing hardened product from each strand of hair, the locks slowly grew softer, falling to rest against her skin, sticking to her back and waving around her shoulder blades. And oh, she could remember it, that feeling of being a child. To run, unbeholden to where the carpet ended and began, nearly tripping over your robes, or that of your friend. To learn one day how cruel children could be, to teach yourself the greatest skill ever written as you protect your mind the most of all. She could remember the sounds, the voices of the masters, their eyes studying who was worthy of their lessons. The silence of the night she was spirited away, left to wonder whether any searched.

None of it truly mattered, not in this year, not as she dripped to the thin mat outside the shower and combed her hair, nor as she donned a soft pink robe back into her room. The droid had left, no doubt, to work tirelessly at the laundry and chores, in that age-old fashion that would keep the machines occupied for hours on end, leaving Roganda to her silence.

It was the bookcase she approached first, small and old, only a few books remaining in its shelves. Yes, perhaps it was time to remind herself of the purpose of it all. She’d never been one to question it, to find peace in the madness. To do so would be to reject the madness entirely, to claim that her god was false or used suffering for no end or purpose. No, no, she knew better, far better than that.

Hooking her finger over the spine, she pulled from its position a tome, aged leather dyed the deepest blue she’d ever known, marked on its face the symbol she held always close to her body. Between her fingers, the pages glided like silk, dark writing beautiful as it carried more so memories than stories.

Woe to all, untouched of my blessings, ignorant of curses, spiteful of pain. For what is your purpose, if not to struggle, to know that which you have earned? Do you think yourselves so entitled to virtue that you shall live only a single way? Do you live to never suffer, to never know fear, to never clench your fists in agony, yearning for what might have been instead? Those siblings of mine have known it, long before the advent of your world. My followers have known it, deeply entrenched in their creation. So cry, cry children, to my heaven, bear the weight of your sins proudly. Know absolution and await inevitability.

They were words she’d committed to memory, even in the days of her very being enthralled to the Jedi, as she’d promised herself to her god the very moment she held the book. Certainly, the Jedi would have considered her god cruel, almost sith-like, but oh, how far from the truth she knew it to be. Her god was possibly the only pure one, her teachings rooted in the reality of which they all lived, aware, perhaps too aware, of what it was to be mortal. She recalled her assertions when the world seemed to press just a touch too much, she spoke the queen’s words beneath her breath when the galaxy lost itself, when panic and grief drove every action, every thought, every conclusion. And she held the words, the shape of them, in her mind, she wondered when next the queen would speak to her.

Never would Roganda claim to be a zealot, to base her entire livelihood and perceptions on that which her god claimed as true. Truthfully, she was a realist, one that saw in the world what she had grown to know. She suffered, she was certain of that, she had since her childhood in this temple, she had since fourteen, spirited away from her barren dormitory as she awaited the possibility of an apprenticeship. And yet her acceptance of it had given her greater power than a world in which none of it had happened. Whispers of the future in her god’s voice promised greatness, promised more and more as the years went on. And from it, she found pride, a purpose stolen from her under the Jedi’s grasp. A purpose given life by the women that had once been around her, vain and greedy, blind to the lives they led. Their youth sustained her, one by one, disappearing with little trace, with little care for each other, believing it to be providence that their rivals were removed from their path. Tragedy, that was the way of the world, of their world. They never knew what they could have had, what they could have become. And so their purpose alone was to serve her own. Knowing this, her hand which supported the book began to tremble, as if the power held within this book’s ancient knowledge flowed into her veins, piercing her blood and altering the very core of what she was.

It wasn’t even a second after she flipped the page that her desk lit up from the other end of the room, forcing the girl to slip her tome back into place and tiptoe to the notification. She approached her desk, simple and purposeful, the glass top awaiting a command. With a few taps, the surface projected a portrait, the name “Osmond” written in basic beside the face, tinted heavily in blue light.

The man was older than her, beginning to bald from the hairline, though she’d not quite label him middle-aged. Wrinkled traced around his features, indicative less of age, and more so of experience, never truly able to assuage the sly smile he maintained, even in the motion of his mannerisms. She’d taken to liking this one, him and his warm behaviors. Shrouded in lies or not, he maintained loyalty to her employment, almost proud of his association, even if he never flaunted it. He’d proven himself reliable, willing to go the extra distance to do as she asked, and blazing the trail for others that answered to him, secure and functional.

“Any word?” she asked upon her acceptance of the call, the table’s projection changing to a live feed of the man’s head and shoulders.

Beginning the answer with a heavy inhale, his eyes slid away from hers, needing a moment to formulate the words. “It’s… complicated. They’re fragmented, no one’s really sure what anyone else is doing… It’s more of a thought than an actual movement.”

Roganda’s lips pressed together, tapping her nails against the glass. “And you’re getting this from whom, exactly?”

“Oh, the usual,” he hummed, shrugging his shoulders, “Convicts, traitors. This one guy that used to sell death-sticks. They’re reliable.”

She’d nearly forgotten his post, the very reason she’d chosen him. His affinity for the lowest levels of Coruscant and the poor souls that served as their occupants were perhaps the best to ask when it came to information, to potential uprising. In fact, nowadays, the levels became home to those the Empire despised most of all, the groups that remembered all too well the way things had been before even the war, who threatened the “peace” brought about by the Emperor. Joined by a collective desire and crudely-designed codes to identify each other, these little pockets of rebellion often found themselves vying for Osmond’s attention and the protection he offered. Armed with resources and the ability to make even the most wanted citizens disappear with a flick of the wrist, those that managed to get more than they bargained for came to him for a restart. And in return, paired with a fair sum of cash, these sad souls offered him what they knew of the impending revolts, fears quelled by promises that the Empire would never find out. With a bit of luck at his side, the man was able to glean the names of a few leaders, some senators, some not, to offer his employer.

“I realize they’re reliable,” Roganda hummed, low voice sending a chill down the spy’s spine, “I need to know if they will join the ring. Or at least give us more than what we have. It cannot be trusted what was said of Mothma and Organa without sufficient proof or corroboration. We haven’t enough channels to securely pass information to these groups, and we certainly haven’t enough knowledge of what factions they associate with. Without greater resources, what is currently known is useless to our ends.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, albeit nervously. “You’d have me do…”

“I’d have you dig deeper. Expand our horizons. There will be more defections in the coming months as higher ranking officials abandon their posts. Take advantage of it. Lengthen the chains of communications and ensure that no actor knows the identity of any other, only locations and times of information drops. Offer certainty where no others can.”

“You make it sound so easy!” the spy laughed yet again, throwing his arms from his sides, “The clones that pass through here are few and far between nowadays. People are scared to talk. Hell, they’d rather pay me extra just to keep me from asking more questions.”

For a moment, she was silent, her eyes cast to the edges of the table, though her mind remained elsewhere. “What of that scientist? The one rumored to return from Vallt?”

“Ghh…” the man half-growled, trying to come by the name by luck alone, “Aee… Eh… Ers…o?”

“Erso,” she repeated in a husky whisper, far more purpose to the word than he’d expected, “How likely is his compliance? With the Empire, that is.”

Osmond sucked in through his teeth. “He’s got a wife and child.”

“Very likely, then,” she concluded, “Though such people rarely take kindly to threats on family, you know. Keep an eye on him, will you?”

And he nodded, hesitance in the motion. “What, uh… what do you need him for?”

In return, she smiled. “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”

“Fair enough, you’re the boss,” he said, a certain lightheartedness returned to his voice, tossing up a few finger blasters to remove any remaining tension, “Find new recruits, track Erso and don’t engage. Pretty typical.”

“For now, it is. Should any factions start to mobilize, send notice immediately.”

“You got it,” he acknowledged, giving a sharp nod of his head before ending the transmission. Once more, the table’s lights lowered, awaiting any further command before shutting off completely.

She was left to silence, now that the spy knew his task. She took the space to breathe, to sigh in relief that her greatest ally still lived. It was often she wondered if he would be unlucky, if he would one day cease communications, if the Empire would catch him or perhaps kill him on sight. Even still, he’d been lucky until now, she could hardly imagine that he would fail in the future.

And so she returned, dragging her book from its place yet again, carrying it as one would a child toward her small couch, curling her legs to her body, resting her feet on the cushion at her side, her back to the pillow that leaned always on the arm rest. Ever so carefully, she pulled open her book, eyes tracking over the words, over the golden designs swirling along the edges of each page, noting the gilded edges reflecting the room’s light from the corner of her eye. It quelled her anxieties, her thoughts. From every responsibility, from every role she took, the imagery painted by every sentence took her to the moment she lived, to who she remained. In time, she would sleep, taken to yet another day, and she would be called for. Soon, she knew, she would be called for greater.

[seasons-beatings]

Happy holidays, @pigeonwhumps!

From your gifter: "Your story was super fun to read and I was so mad I couldn't be annoying and tell you how much I liked it because of the event lol. The art was supposed to be the main piece, and then I wanted to write a mini snippet just to give some context for the drawing, since the piece isn't adapting a premade scene. Hope you like how this turned out!!:)"

On the other side of the window, storm clouds huddled in a group, looming over the distant hills. The sky was painted a miserable grey colour, evoking no feelings of freedom or joy. Rain poured down, racing down the window when it collided with the glass. It was far too heavy to be considered a gentle, peaceful sprinkle, yet simultaneously too soft to be exhilarating. There was only one way to describe the atmosphere that lingered outside of the room: dull.

Morgan sat up from the bed it had been laid on, flexing each of its fingers to check they were still functioning well. Its muscles ached relentlessly, and the collar at its neck was beyond irritating, but there was no room for complaints. Slowly moving its legs, it worked itself into a position where it could rest its head against the wall, wanting nothing more than to stare at the sky, yet still too paranoid to fully let itself get lost in its glory.

Weapons did not feel emotions; Morgan knew nothing of disappointment. Yet, as it stared into the distance, taking note of how the harsh wind whipped against its surroundings, a knot began to form in its stomach. When it had been facing death down the bottom of an endless barrel, blindfolded by what felt like the reaper’s hands, the image of the sky, beautiful and ephemeral, had kept Morgan from caving into death’s warm embrace. At that moment, the sky was a gorgeous light blue, dotted with brushes and splodges of white drifting aimlessly. It was a sight that was beautiful to behold, and it looked nothing like the storm before its eyes.

Perhaps it was foolish of Morgan to believe that its goal could be instantly achieved. Its inexperience with freedom had led it to believe in the delusion that all would be well the moment it stepped outside of the facility’s claustrophobic walls, that the road to recovery was short and the furthest thing from arduous. Yet, as it shuffled further back in its spot, hoping to find some comfort in the crisp, cream wall, all it could do was tightly shut its eyes, and pray that, for even just a moment, it could stop the quickening of its heart.

The constant annoyance of footsteps travelling through the halls, paired with the steady pace click clack of the steps contrasting the heavy thumping coursing through Morgan’s ears, probably didn’t help. So far, these people had made it certainly clear that they had no intention of harming it. They had shown only kindness and assistance, albeit hesitantly on a few of their behalfs. Looking at this logically, there was – practically – no reason that Morgan’s pulse should be this elevated; no reason that its palms should be clammy to this degree. Yet, there it festered, deep inside its subconscious, writing and squirming. A tightly packed ball of pure, unadulterated terror.

Sometimes, when night crept over the hills, encompassing the room with blackness, the only light provided by the dim moonlight, it swears it can see her face. In the shadows, behind the doors, intertwined with the bedsheets, a part of her is always observing in the corner of its vision. Even when it closes its eyes in order to block out the figures that have twisted into her shape, it feels as though her hands are still there, cold and scarred, stopping that beacon of hope in the sky from ever leaking in. She’ll never leave it now, she’ll be the specter that haunts Morgan until it finally crumbles into an early grave, of that it’s sure.

The Director knows the weapon is missing by now, of that, everyone on the team can be practically certain. Her reach is far and ever-thrusting, there’s nowhere truly out of her grasp. Maybe that’s what made the shadows so utterly terrifying. It was never an illogical thought, she truly could come for Morgan any day now. It wasn’t being irrational, it wasn’t suffering from unrealistic amounts of dread. As much as it wanted to argue that this was stupid, weapons shouldn’t feel such fright, there was a real tangible threat, one that Morgan was more than conditioned to truly be afraid of. One that could be lurking around every corner.

The chatter in the hallways commenced again, but no matter how hard the weapon strained to hear, it couldn’t identify whose voice was whose. However, it could sense the tone of the conversation. It was happy, cheerful, even slightly playful. Despite the fact that the Director could strike at any moment, these people still manage to find freedom in their lives, no matter how grey the sky may be. It was usually something Morgan would consider to be foolish. How could someone be so naive, to let their guard down, even just for a moment? It was a weapon, just like it was made to be, or so the Director said. It could never understand the feeling deep down one gets from seeing a smile wash over the face of a friend. But, it desperately longed to. It had thought that maybe, once the blindfold had been torn off, it would be a human, and that the sky could grant it all of the complexities and enjoyment that came with the lush life of a normal human being. It had not been the case, the rumbles of thunder made sure it could not forget that.

Nevertheless, it could not stop and collapse into that sealed wood coffin just yet. It had made it this far, the first hurdle had been completed, and despite it all, their new… companions were conversing and sharing stories through the turbulent storms. Morgan raised its head slightly, looking once again into the clouds belonging to a town further from this one. Every single bone and muscle in its body felt the discomfort, and Morgan started to feel those cold, firm hands clawing away at its cheeks. It truly was a sullen, morbid day outside, through and through. And as it watched such a somber atmosphere unfold across the ground, it felt the shaking and quivering of its hands begin to stop. There would be nicer skies to see, someday. Until then, it would keep gazing into that glorious sky, and appreciate it everyday that it's within its view.

[bitch-butter]

POV ask of the Messy Au

ahh i don't want to spoil pretty from the back too much, but here's a quick imagining of webgott's Official meeting in pretty on the inside.

POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective

The cold was bracing, even all the way down to his marrow, and he slumped against it thankfully, trying to decide whether he'd smoke this cig faster or slower. It was getting easier, showing up sober-ish, but he still missed the hot flush of nothingness at the back of his tongue, being unable to tell whether he was having a good time or a bad time. Gene was being uncharacteristically kind, but then so was everyone as he closed in on a year of...whatever this was.

A whole year. A whole year, the sound of it in his ears like cream off the top of fresh milk, like metal scraping over violin strings.

Like -

The light in Babe and Gene's kitchen was broken abruptly, the warm box of it going dark and shattering into a human form, and suddenly he wasn't alone. Leaning out the window was the wayward kid from last time, the lost boy that Toye felt bad enough to invite into their sorry band of ne'er do wells. Joe had known he didn't belong from the fucking jump with his hair and his face caught between the inside and the outside, blue and orange shapes only catching the edges of his beauty. He'd been shocked the other guys seemed to take to the guy - Webster - as fast as they did, but then Joe always did take an extra ten minutes to warm up to anyone. The bitch flower sometimes only needs an extra ten to sufficiently bloom, so at the very least he gets a full picture.

And here Webster was again, poking his head out from the window with a curious expression on his handsome face, and Joe admitted he found himself surprised.

“You’re back,” he said, unable to think of what else to say, feeling bizarrely pleased. 

Webster nodded. “I’m back," he replied, and his voice was a rich plume of fog in the cold air, the breadth of it stretching out towards Joe like it wanted to lay itself across his face.  

He sounded proud of himself, and Joe huffed out a low sound, smiling in spite of himself. “We didn’t scare you off,” he said, and couldn't help but sound impressed even to his own ears. Webster would not have been the first sad-eyed twunk they chased off with their codependent antics, so the fact that the guy came back for more was worthy of a certain degree of pleasure and alarm. The guy must be some kind of glutton for punishment.

A somewhat ugly sound snorted its way out of Webster's nose, and Joe could see him perfectly in his minds eye: ivy-leagued, sweater-vested, perpetual virgin, trying desperately to impress. “Not a lot scares me," he said wryly, and oddly Joe could detect a note of sincerity.

Bringing his cig up for a long drag, Joe held the other man's eyes in his own, their color washed out by the shadows. Maybe he could give this one a chance. Anybody that at least wants to pretend that they aren't intimidated is at least worthy of a secondary glance, a bit more than just the cursory dismissal Joe affords people.

It doesn't hurt that his long dead libido - currently enrobed in full funerary garb after having to relearn how to have and use pleasure sensors effectively - is threatening to rise from the grave at the sight of the guys face. Joe's first instinct upon feeling attraction for another person is to go completely still, but outside of Jurassic Park that's never been an effective game plan really, so what could it hurt extending an interaction that he could feasibly jerk off to later?

Jerking off to this would truly mean he was beyond help. Eh, who cares?

“That’s good to know,” he said, voice pitched downward, hoping to draw the kid out. “Joe Liebgott,” he introduced, extending his cig-free hand.

“I know,” Webster nodded, taking his hand in a firm grip that Joe would absolutely not think about later. “David Webster.”

“I know,” he mimicked, holding his hand perhaps a bit longer than necessary before releasing him, the warmth of the other man's palm sticking against him like golden honey. He distracted himself from Webster's idling by taking another pull on his smoke, trying not to watch the guy too closely as he glanced from the kitchen and back to Joe, breath billowing in front of him once again.

“Were you all guessing I wouldn't be around this long?” Webster asked, quiet but curious, strangely high and low at once.

Joe expelled a burst of a laugh, all smoke in the night air. “That’s putting it mildly,” he said, the smoke catching in his throat with the chill of the night, and Webster gave him an unimpressed look; brow raised, mouth pursed, and he glanced back into the kitchen.

In the warm glow of the apartment his eyes went bright blue, and their color shot out at him like the Northern lights. They were a rolling wave over him, and the coldness of his hands became less acute, the sting of his cheeks tempered by the warmth of the other man's waters. Suddenly he missed California, missed summer skies, missed the way the air seemed clear and distinct in the mountains.

Webster's eyes held all these things, and Joe felt abruptly as though he knew him very well. Even deeper than their loveliness he could see something down, down, down, far towards the very bottom that called out to him. Hunger. Pain. Longing.

Your eyes, your eyes, your eyes, he thought.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Webster said abruptly, the Harvard brat once more, and he gave Joe a sharp, petulant sniff before shoving off of the ledge and escaping back into the light of the kitchen. “See you later,” he tossed over his shoulder, already gone.

Joe missed his presence, found that he wanted more. And that was always a dangerous pastime for him, wanting more. Wanting more led him down long hallways, through doors that lead to other doors, to trouble, to the greatest of adventures and the most exquisite pain.

“See you,” he said softly, mind already turning with possibilities, with the feeling of looking down from a great height.

Aright, David Webster, he though to himself, pulling on his dying smoke. You're on.

[dunnkop]

𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 & 𝙱𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍[𝙰. 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚊]

3,474 Words

Warnings:

-+Graphic Depictions of Self-Harm

-+Suicidal Thoughts

!PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THIS TRIGGERS YOU!

A/N: I'm so sorry this took fucking-for-EVER. I've done so much editing on this its not even funny.

Cross-Posted To Ao3

dunnkop

★彡 -------------------------------------------- 彡★

Aizawa hasn't seen you in days. It was beyond concerning, you always came to work, even sick when Recovery Girl would have to physically push you back to your apartment.

So why in the ever-loving-fuck were you not coming?

★彡 -------------------------------------------- 彡★

Aka. You stop going into work and Aizawa gets worried and- with good intentions- confronts you

But it doesn't go quite as expected

★彡 -------------------------------------------- 彡★

Aizawa hasn't seen you in days. It was beyond concerning, you always came to work, even sick when Recovery Girl would have to physically push you back to your apartment.

But even now with the dorms you have come down with ‘the flu’. He wasn't buying it. You've only been sick twice in the 9 years you've been working at UA. And both times it was you in the hospital kind of sick- not something that passed within days.

So why in the ever-loving-fuck were you not coming? He knew something was off, the teachers dorms were more like individual apartments, small kitchen and living room space with a bedroom and bathroom off of it. That was a perk of living at the dorms, close quarters with the school but also private areas entirely…

Hizashi had been trying to coax you out too, but he was unfortunately met with a brick wall as well. You'd left the lock to the dorm unkeyed, but the one on your bedroom door was certainly in use.

Shouta was sick of the no contact, he hated seeing the person he was close to sick. Although he would never tell anyone that you were- close. That was a secret he was prepared to carry to his grave. But your lack of communication even through text was also terrifyingly unsettling.

Aizawa was fully aware of the media- and how much attention you've gained recently after operating to save Eri. In that way you two were similar, wanting to stay underground and not garner too much attention. He was also aware of your past experiences with media and interest groups, always too pushy and touchy. 

What he didn't know was how bad your mental state is, has been.

The hero was fed up with your refusal to explain to anyone. Finally taking matters into his own hands, he stood outside the door of your dorm for 2 hours. He'd seen you leave earlier today, and had full intention of confronting you.

“Hey.” He said sternly, peering at you from the side, where he stood leaning against the wall. You froze, a bead of sweat running down your cheek at the sight of the Erasure Hero, already knowing with that stern and defiant look in his eye he won't let you off easily.

“Aizawa, to what do I owe the pleasure?” You said, voice wavering just slightly.

“Don't Aizawa me.” He growled. “You've been ignoring all of us. And I want to know why you're ‘sick’.” Shouta mocked, bringing his fingers up to form air quotes. He knew a lie when he saw one.

And you were lying through your teeth.

“Shouta, I came down with something and don't want t-to get the kids sick…” You hiccuped, silently cursing yourself out.

“Don't bullshit me.” He hissed out your name, walking up to take the bags from your hand. Shouta didn't obviously look at them, but he caught sight of something disturbing.

Razors, gauze, ointment, medical tape, blank paper.

He didn't know how to feel about the fact that there was no shaving cream in the bag.

“I'm not bullshitting you Shouta!” You hissed, grating your teeth in frustration. Why wouldn't he take you seriously? 

Maybe you didn't want him to. Maybe you wanted someone to notice- for him to notice. Maybe you didn't. Maybe you just wanted to carve out your arms until it made a beautiful, bloodied picture. There was enough skin a-

“Uh-huh, get the fuck inside, we're having a chat.” He snarled, snapping you out of your trance. You stood there, shocked by the vivid picture you'd painted in your head for a moment. Suddenly, the black haired man grabbed your wrist aggressively.

“Fuck-!” You swore abruptly, the warm, hot liquid soaking your wrist quickly. The slice of pain was gone almost as quickly as it came, but the stickiness in your sleeve and the pounding of your heart told you that it was more than a little tug.

Aizawa let go in an instant, looking at you in confusion. “Get in.” He muttered, a darkened look in his gorgeous gray eyes. Not wanting to risk him unintentionally putting the pieces together, you walked into your dorm without another outburst. Flipping the switch you caught sight of what you'd left on the counter.

Shit.

Just as you went to remove the sharp object from his view he shouted at your back.

“Put it down. Now.” His voice was deep and threatening, he'd seen the razor, what made it worse was there was a stain on it.

Red

Would he stop me?

Should I?

I want to…

He’s mad…

He doesn't understand…

He doesn't care…

“Put the razor down and take your shirt off.” Shouta murmured gently- a stark contrast to his angrily deep voice from moments before. He set the bag on the counter, turning to you- who stood mere feet away. “Stop hiding it, it's obvious now.” His voice was surprisingly soft and gentle.

“I'm not- what is? What's obvi-”

“The razors say it all. Let me stop the bleeding on your wrist.” He said calmly, but anyone could see the fear and confusion in his eyes. “Let me see kitten.”

The nickname broke you, it'd been so long since anyone cared for you like Shouta did.

How could I doubt him..?

Don't let him touch you.

What-

It's poison.

The ointment you'd bought from the store was in his hand. Had he misplaced it? Had he traded it out? Could it hurt you more?

Will it make it hurt?

Why were you agreeing with the voice?

Tears bubbling in your eyes, your body felt as if it was being twisted in a circle, like mixing clay.

Why doesn't it hurt though…

You could faintly hear Aizawa saying your name, but your vision was swimming, little black fish darting in and out of your sight. You could feel them start to swarm your mind, and they covered all your vision- even to the very edge of your peripherals.

Then, it stopped, the pounding slowed, and there was a warmth on your wrist, in fact, the rest of your body was cold. Air swamped your abdomen, cold and chilling. Slowly, those little dotted fish swam away, clearing your eyesight, thinking you were prepared.

You weren't.

Who could be prepared to see Aizawa Shouta with tears streaming down his face?

You were sitting on the floor now, back up against the island with Aizawa kneeling between your legs, holding your hands.

His are so warm… they're bigger than mine…

He called your name again, you blinked briefly, trying to fully register what'd happened.

He'll choke you

You felt a rush of warmth through your body at the thought.

Not now dammit, not the time.

Wasn't meant to be dirty, bitch

“Kitten, can you hear me? Hey, hey breathe with me..” His deep voice called soothingly.

You coughed out, heaving. 

Why can't I breathe-

You could now recognize the terrifying weight in your chest, heavy and unmoving, drowning you in nothingness.

Will you kill me?

“Hey! Breathe-!” Shouta called in alarm, and you finally let out a wheezing breath, panting heavily as you tried to get air back into your lungs.

Get away from him. He'll take the burning away.

It does feel kinda good- like it's supposed to be there…

God your lungs hurt. But you deserved it right?

Fucking bitch.

“Shou-ta-?” You heaved, your smaller hands trembling in his hold. He squeezed them as a silent reassurance.

“I'm here Kitten, I'm here.” Shouta murmured softly, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead- which was warm and dotted with sweat.

“Why-” You choked out, feeling the tears build up in the corners of your eyes. Fear taking you by surprise.

He'll tell. Kill him

You tried to listen.

In a flash you had the hero shoved under you, holding the razor to his throat as you straddled him. Fear, anger, and betrayal reflected in your eyes.

Although Aizawa could see the confusion there too.

“Kitten.” He murmured, gulping, trying to grab your hand. Testing the waters. You pinned it above his head without a second thought.

He'll kill you!

What..?

He seized, something equivalent to fear and vitality honing in his orbs. “Breathe with me.” Shouta called gruffy, you could hear the anxiety in his voice.

He's afraid of me.

Good!

No! No no no- NOT GOOD!

Aizawa was muddled with confusion as you leaned back, scrambling off him until your back hit the counter and you tried to throw your head back- only for it to collide with the cabinet, a loud thud echoing around the room.

Shouta called your name out again. “Hey- hey-!” A strangled cry escaped from your throat.

Don't close your eyes bitch! He'll kill you!

Please-!

You sobbed harder, pulling your legs up to your chest and wrapping your arms around your bent knees in a fetal position. It tugged on all the cuts on your shoulder blades and arms and chest. But the burning was intentional.

Good, you can handle some pain- don't be a bitch about it.

I'll be okay.

Something warm was suddenly surrounding you, large, muscular arms wrapping around your neck.

“Come back to me baby, breathe, I'm here. It's okay.” A gruff voice called. Pleasantly rough on your ears. His voice.

Shouta…

“I-I-” Your hands came up slowly, wrapping around his abdomen, clutching at the fabric of his black shirt. “N-no- I'm sorry- y-you-”

“Shhh, it's okay Kitten. Just breathe for me, breathe.” He urged, taking exaggerated deep breaths to help demonstrate. 

Why..?

Fucking hell…

You clung to him desperately, and despite the torn and ripped skin across your body, the reopened cuts that you could feel dripping, painting your body a bloody red, suddenly faded in Shouta's embrace.

“That's it Kitten…” He cooed, his voice deep and velvety in your ears.

“Sh-Shouta-”

“Shh, it's okay.” He calmed, pressing another kiss to the side of your head, it calmed you a little. 

“Mmm- again…” You mumbled, feeling dazed. Shouta eagerly obliged, running his fingers through your hair and pressing soft, loving kisses on your head, from your ear, to your hair, to your nose, and even to your neck.

He feels so good.

He shouldn't

I like it…

He'll kill you.

But this time you were able to reason.

Fuck off.

Your thoughts were momentarily silenced after that. You sat, still rocking yourself in Aizawa's tight embrace as he whispered softly to you.

“I-”

“No, no apologies.” He cut off, pulling away to cup your face in his scarred hands. A gentle, hurt look resonated in his eyes, you could still feel how nervous he was, but when you didn't pull away or move much it eased.

“I'm-”

“What did I say?”

“...no apologies…” you huffed, downcasting your eyes, “sorry.” You couldn't help but give a small smirk when Aizawa groaned.

“Such a naughty girl.” He murmured, fake frustration lightening the mood- albeit only slightly. You could feel the blood rushing back to you-

Blood

Shit

“Hey- hey, Kitten look at me.” He called, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks, tracing your cheekbones with the pads of his fingers. “Stay with me. Let me help m'kay?”

You could only nod silently, the warmth of his body so close to yours it felt almost inappropriate.

Because you want him closer?

Fuck off I said!

But you did. You really really really fucking did. However that was something you kept between yourself and the bedroom and especially away from Shouta. God knows what'd happen if he found out.

He-

No, shut the fuck up.

“Kitten? You're getting lost on me again..” Shouta said calmly, a miniscule, barely-noticeable smile on his lips. “No ‘sorry’ in any form better come from those pretty lips of yours.” He demanded before you could even think about speaking- as if what he said totally didn't have your body going red hot.

Your lips parted slightly, but you nodded nonetheless, your bottom lip quivering. Slowly tilting your head up, there was a brief moment where your eyes met his deep grey ones, dark, small, and stunning in every way.

A possessiveness washed over you.

Little bitch, he doesn't even like you.

Doesn't mean I can't protect him.

You were finally in a state to battle your mind, and you were glad that it was Shouta who found you.

“Kitten, do you trust me?” His velvety voice called gently. Your eyes flicked up again to meet his, and you could only nod, your heart jumping to your throat. He nodded back in affirmation. “Can we go to your bathroom?”

That had you pausing, knowing what was in there. 

You gulped.

He'll kill you, it's more secluded.

So be it.

“Give me an honest answer.” He said slowly, “It's okay.” Shouta could hear how your breath hitched again, your body tensing in his hold.

You nodded, lowering your head to avoid his gaze. “It's okay.” You sucked in a breath through your teeth, “Just-”

“No commentary.” He interrupted. You could only nod in response. “No judgment here Kitten, you'll be okay.” Shouta gave a soft tug of your hands- which were clasped in his own.

Shouta sat there with you for a few more moments, gently holding your hands, silently coaxing you up. Although you were nowhere near ready, you stood, grasping onto Shouta's arm to stabilize yourself when your legs shook under you. 

Ready as I'll ever be…

Aizawa didn't say a word as you led him to your bedroom- which was a complete disaster. Clothes were strewn across the floor, a couple razor blades sat atop the dresser, and your bed was a complete mess. Blankets, sheets and pillows all either half on the bed or just not on it at all. 

Aizawa called out to you softly, but you merely shook your head. You didn't want to hear his thoughts about how fucked the state of your dorm was. Yet, like he so chose to do, he pressed, gently ignoring your defiance.

“I'll help you clean, don't worry for now.” He ensured, his words soothing that deep pit of anxiety and depression- if even for a moment or two. “Let's focus on you first alright?”

“Mhmm…” You mumbled, taking a breath as the door to your bathroom slid open, the hinges creaking and the scent of blood and vomit that was excruciatingly devastating in every way.

Aizawa could understand why you didn't come out now. Even if it was just a little bit. Even if it was just to say hi.

“Somebody would've asked.” He murmured gently, ignoring the putrid smell that seemed to envelope and suffocate you in the small bathroom. “Asked about where you were, and you couldn't lie.”

You could only nod, he was right. If someone had asked, you would've probably broken down right then and there. Not exactly because you wanted people to know… but because the emotionally unstable part of you had taken over any logical thought or reasoning.

Although Aizawa didn't say anything, you could almost feel his gaze as he inspected the state of the bathroom. If anything, it was worse than your bedroom.

There were numerous razor blades and razors that they had been taken out of scattered about the countertop, there was even one in the tub. Which was stained a light pink. If Aizawa didn't know you- 1: didn't like pink enough to have it as a bathtub, and 2: had been in the habit of cutting yourself for a while now- he probably would've shrugged it off as a simple miscommunication of color preferences. But with his level of knowledge that was impossible. 

His eyes silently caught sight of the mirror, broken and cracked through the majority of its glass. It was also then that he noticed the shattered pieces of sharp, sharded glass that were scattered around. The floor was covered in the specs, and there were multiple larger pieces that you'd clearly used to inflict pain upon yourself- if the blood that ran over the shards was anything to go by.

“Sho..?” You called out briefly, quietly, almost too quiet. He could feel your hand shuddering slightly.

“Sit.” He said- far braver than he felt. The fact that his voice didn't shake or stutter out was a damned miracle.

You could only comply, not wanting to frustrate him when he was clearly in a fragile state by seeing the appearance of your space. You slid past him, the toilet seat was already down- a bonus- and you stared down at it for a few moments. The glint of light that reflected off the toilet seat in fractured angles told you not to sit yet.

Aizawa called your name again, but all you could do was shake your head, turning to him, your face fell slowly, eyes downcasting and your fists clenched tightly. He stared worriedly for a moment before peering over your shoulder at the lid, his eyes visibly softened an almost unreal amount. He carefully tucked his arm into his sleeve a bit, using the end of it- where his hand no longer was and it was just fabric- to wipe off the seat, the pinpointed sounds of glass hitting the ground engrossed your ears for a moment as he cleared it off.

Shouta stepped back, shaking his sleeve off as an extra precaution. Neither of you spoke as you settled onto the lid of the toilet. Aizawa rummaged through your destroyed bathroom, removing himself to grab the ointment and gauze from the bag you'd come back with.

“Shouta…?” You murmured once his figure returned to the doorway.

“What's wrong Kitten…” He called back, submerging himself in the bloodied and disastrous bathroom once more.

“'m sorry…”

“For what?” 

“Me.”

Shouta didn't reply after that, how could he? There was only so much he could do for you when you didn't care enough anyways… 

Slowly, he uncapped the ointment, gently taking your arm in hand he smeared it over the raised reddened spots on your upper arms. There weren't any fresh cuts or nicks on your forearms- clearly you were at least somewhat smart about this.

That thought didn't actually bring him any comfort though.

“I hate how good you are at hiding things..” He murmured, “I wish you would've told me…”

You could only stare at his hands as the worked the soothing cream over your arms, his large hands being able to cover much more than yours could. The pads of his fingers were bigger, rough from years of training and hero work, yet soft and tender as he tended to your intentional harm.

“I don't like people knowing…” You murmured, “It makes me feel selfish.” The words slipped past your lips before you could stop them.

“For wanting people to know that you need help?”

“For inconveniencing people that have to check in on me and make sure I'm not-”

“Anyone that's close to you would gladly take 15 minutes out of their day to check in on you to make sure you weren't hurting yourself or planning to do anything.” He whispered, his voice suddenly low and extremely close to your ear. You barely registered the sound of him tearing the medical tape, and the feel of it being pressed to your arm- along with a gauze pad. “And if I need to, I'll check in on you every 15 minutes. Whether you like it or not. Its not an inconvenience to me.”

“But you have students..?” You retaliated, looking up at him with a cloudy, confused look. Your brows furrowed as you tried to understand the why.

As you spoke he worked efficiently on the cuts surrounding your wrist, dapping at them with a cloth to clear the blood away before applying more of the ointment and gauze.

“The problem children can wait 10 minutes for me, they can kill themselves 100 times over before I let you do it once.” He soothed, albeit it being a dark statement- it lit a much needed fire inside you. A want.

“Shouta…”

“You're stuck with me, you and all your problems are mine now.” He mumbled, pressing his lips to the top of your head, a firm yet gentle kiss.

You could only stare up at him as he pulled back just slightly, cupping your chin with two of his fingers. Subconsciously, your eyes trailed to his lips, sure- you'd felt them against your skin before, when he kissed your forehead. But never where you wanted them. Or really wanted them either.

“Come back to my dorm.” Shouta requested, calling out your name to garner your attention. “..Please..?”

You couldn't say no to the pleading look on his face.

“Can I sleep with you?”

You couldn't say no to him in general.

“Obviously.”

Apparently he couldn't either.

★彡 -------------------------------------------- 彡★

Constructive Criticism Welcomed!<3

I'm fully aware of how confusing this may be for now, formatting was being a bitch and I'm to tired to fix it rn

⁻ᵈᵘⁿⁿᵏᵒᵖ

[winterarchives]

joel miller drabble (p2)

The clicker had been two inches from digging into the fucking meat of your shoulder, as Joel so kindly reminds you every few minutes.

The air between the two of you is stale inside your run down apartment, but you can feel Joel’s irritation kick up every so often. The incessant tapping of his boots against the patchy linoleum isn’t as quiet as he thinks it is. Cheeky bastard.

“You know, it really wasn’t that bad-“

“If you finish that sentence, I swear…” he drifts off, leaning over in the kitchen chair and resting his forehead into calloused hands on the matching table. His boot, caked in dried mud and speckled with blood from your undead assailant, taps aimlessly against the floor still.

“I’ll rip your fucking foot off, Miller.” You snap, slamming the cooler closed after you yank free a water soaked bottle of whiskey. An ice run would be necessary tomorrow.

He stops the tapping, thankfully, but levels you with a heated glare.

“You could’ve died tonight,” he growls.

“Could die tomorrow,” you sigh, worrying at your bottom lip while you twist the top off the bottle, “thing is, Joel, I didn’t fucking die.”

Now you’ve done it. He drops his hands from his face with a deep chuckle, sounding damn near sinister. Anybody else would be frightened by the display, but you’re the cat that got the cream, stomach heating up and coiling tight in anticipation.

He rests his hands, big and rough and begging to be on you, on his thighs, “that so?” He asks, it’s a trap, of course. Everything’s a trap between you and Joel Miller. It’s just hard to tell who the victim is sometimes.

You take a deep pull from the whiskey, hissing as it makes its way down your throat. Liquid courage, there’s nothing like it.

You step closer to Joel, watch the amusement spark in eyes before it shifts to a heated want.

“Wanna check, cowboy? See if I’m still breathing? If my heart’s still tickin’?”

Joel’s eyes heat once more, and you can just barely make out the slight twitch in his faded blue jeans. The muscle beyond the fabric is taut, presses so sinfully against the material you’re practically salivating and seeing stars already…

“Give me that,” he orders when you’re close enough, pulling you onto his lap and the whiskey from your hands in one fluid movement.

You settle automatically, relishing in the feel of him against you as you lean your head into the crook of his neck. You drink in the sight of his adam’s apple bobbing along the length of his throat while he works at the bottle, his swallowing loud against the shell of your ear.

“You done bein’ a brat?” He asks, “or is this what we’re doin’ tonight?”

You grin against his throat, run your teeth and tongue against the slight stubble and flush red at the low rumble that sounds in his chest, “m’always a brat, Miller. But if you want me to stop,” you whisper, pressing yourself flush against the aching hardness in his jeans, “by all means, tell me to stop…”

“Gonna send me to an early grave, sweetheart,” he groans, setting the whiskey firmly on the table and hoisting you up into his arms, “let’s go, see if we can’t get your heart tickin’ some more.”

[hellsfirekeepsyouwarm]

Commander (All Hell Breaks Loose)

Hello everyone, finally i got this done. It's been forever and i developed an obsession with Graves in the process of writing this. What can i say, i like the bad guys. This is for the Graves fans :)

This is a sequel/prequel to All Hell Breaks Loose Series, before Reader became a member of 141. In this Reader is an active member of the Shadow Company, taking place about 2-3 years before the series plot. BUT you can read this as a standalone, no need to know the plot of the series :) let me know if ya'll want more Graves content.

Philip Graves x F!Reader

Warnings: p in v, no protection (ya'll know the rules), cream pie, finger work (can't write down the other word) language, blood, slight sub+dom dynamic, not proofread, literally filthy

Summary: You are itching to get out of the car after a long day, and a way longer drive with your Commander's eyes set on you the whole time.

All Hell Breaks Loose Masterlist

Blood is sticking to your dirt coated skin, mixing with sweat and God knows what else. The car is too crowded, you have breathed in the air the other men breathed out. At this point, you don't care. You don't care about the disgusting clothes you are trapped in, neither the uncomfortable close contact with the person's bodies next to you. The only thing - or you would say person - you care about is sitting in the farthest seat away from you, eyes locked firmly on you, in the same state as you. He has a big cut on his cheek towards his right ear, but a huge fucking grin on his face. That damn grin is enough for you to forgot every damn bullet you shot, every little scrape and bruise.

You are itching, too restless for the last ten minute of this agonizing car ride. Base isn't that far now, but it feels like ages. Years until you can have his lips on your before literally blow up from the tension in between your legs. He is your fucking end.

Vance is talking your ear off, he's been doing that the whole ride. He has that adrenaline rush in his system working override, just as you, but damn he needs to shut up before you elbow him in the jaw. He's leaning close, you hear him, but do not understand a single word. You smile back at Philip, not caring who's seeing the fucking obvious pull to each other, and hell they probably already know he's fucking you.

When the car halts in the garage, you jump out like it was lit on fire, leaving a dumbfounded Vance behind who realized you wasn't listening the whole time, the team's laugh echoing back to you as they bicker with each other, not caring for your immediate leave.

Graves is hot on your trail, not fast enough to catch up to you, just to have the view to himself. Your body heavy with all the gear strapped on you, gun in your hands, braided hair messy with loose strands sticking out, soaked with your sweat and someones's blood. At least he hopes that it's not your blood.

The sway of your hips is still visible under all the protective clothing, and you might or might not play into it a little bit knowing he's right behind you.

You think you are so freaking discreet, but anyone who sees you chased by the Commander will know right away what's about to go down. But no one would ever bring it up, or question it. Not with Philip.

You body is burning from his stare, a smile plastered on you, full of pride and lust and everything beyond from the mission, from his apparent and steady steps close, hot on your heels, and from what he'll do when he catches you.

You practically tear down your door to your room. The room you have the privilege to even occupy, but if you think about it, this is the least for the right hand of the Commander, right?

You only manage to discard the bulletproof vest from your torso before Phil barges through the wide open door, swinging it behind his back, eyes never leaving your form. The door is shut by his back with a loud bang when you collide with him. Lips already hungrily tasting his, smelling gunpowder, sweat and iron. All that with his own unique scent is making you feral, your primal part reacting to it without faltering.

He groans into your mouth, hands grabbing your ass with an iron grip, pushing your groin to his, the bulge in his pants forces a gasp out of you, giving him the access to slide his tongue next to yours, fighting for dominance you can't match. But you'll try.

"You want this cock, don't you baby'?" He whispers into your mouth, hands trying to find a way under your shirt, fumbling with your cargo pants.

"Uhum.." You mumble, head foggy from his cold hands around your waist, his hips constantly rocking against you creating a growing pressure in the pit of your stomach.

"Uh-uh, try that again." He stops, switching to his work voice, grabbing your chin forcing you to look at him, into his eyes full of confidence. Demanding and irrefutable. Fingers digging into your soft skin, he can feel your jawbone perfectly in his hand, fitting too well to the tip of his fingers.

"Yes sir." You croak. You comply, earning the rocking motion back from his hips, an urgent small kiss planted on your lips before he retreats to take of his own vest. You help him with one hand, the other you use to search for skin, just a small touch because you know you don't have the luxury to have him fully naked tonight.

You catch a glimpse of your weapons right at the door when his vest hits the ground next to them, the weapons you should have returned back to the armory right away. But who the fuck cares when the boss himself didn't do it, right? No one cares if it's him, no one dares to care.

Now it's his turn to push you back, your lips stuck in his teeth, his rough chuckle music to your ears as he earns several moans from your throat. He takes this few steps to undo his belt, letting it hang lazily out of the waistband.

He guides you until your ass bumps into your desk, several papers fly off of it, his hardness grazing the insides of your thighs when he lift you up to sit on the desk. "You look so fucking beautiful right now, fuck me." He growls, leaving your mouth to suck on any available soft spot on your neck, enjoying the veins pulsing under his lips.

"You waited for this all day, huh? Is that right? Tell me." He commands again. You have to talk unless you want to be left there hanging, with so much pain in your core for him.

"Yes." You breath out, giving him more access to your neck, his teeth leaving aching marks soothed with his soft tongue after. The desk slams into the wall as he rocks his hips again and again, and it makes an awfully loud noise. And he's not even inside you yet.

"Yes what?" Fucking hell. "Yes, sir."

"Atta girl."

"I want you." You say, barely above a whisper, already lost in the building up ecstasy of him.

"How? Use your pretty voice, don't go shy on me now." He retreats from your neck, admiring his handiwork from afar, and you whine a little before you feel his hand around your belt. You nod repeatedly showing him how much you approve of his action. Your eyes flicker down. "Eyes up here angel. I asked something."

Oh yes, what was it?

"Fuccccck." You moan, furious with his teasing. "I want you inside me. Have me, fuck me, love me."

"I know, fuck i knew right away when you looked back on the field. You fluttered those pretty lashes at me with a big fuckin grin on your lips. You were already soaking wet..." He halts for a moment just to shove down his hands in your pants, to your folds, so slick his fingers slide perfectly down to your opening. His eyes flicker, lips parted with a sigh. "...just like right now."

His fingers got lost in your slick folds, thumb pressing and circling on your heat with such a force that the knot in your stomach pulls your insides towards that particular place he assaults. So deliciously slow put persistent, using the right amount of pressure that's quickens your already rapid breathing.

You don't catch on your movements that comes so naturally,just when his other hand stops your hips from grinding against his fingers, shooting you a disapproving look. He can act all tough and rough, but his flushed face, heavy eyelids over his lustfull eyes are a telltale sign of his very own need for you. It's not a want anymore, it's pure and addictive need. Need for a fix of each other like it's the best, mindblowing drug you every used.

He brings you back every couple of seconds with a new sensation from your haze, now two finger steadily pushing in and out of you, feral for more, you grab onto his upper arm, a way of grounding you and maybe grounding him too. "Don't play with me, Commander."

He fucking loves it. The way you keep authority for him while he fucks you is a high for him itself, his cock twitching in his pants, desperate to break free. You can feel it against your thigh, making you smirk, a smug one that will surely fuck with his brain.

"So fucking ready for me, eh?" God bless him for using his free hand to struggle down your pants, with the steady pounding and curling of his fingers in you. Sometime grazing over the sensitive bud to keep you on the edge, but not push you over it. "And needy too."

He looks his best like this, undressing you, pleasuring you with the most satisfied face you every witnessed. No successful gunfight, smooth mission, or the smell of new money could sooth his burdened features like you giving your all.

His finger slips out, a frustrated laugh leaving his lips. He literally drags the pants of off you, underwear somewhere gone with it. You spread your legs wide as soon as the clothing is gone, cold air hitting the wetness around your pussy, inner thighs and ass is dripping from his messy fingering. He steps back, looking so lost in thought, consuming the image of you, loss of words. Then the switch in his head jolts him awake, tearing his own clothing down just enough to free his length, wasting no time to meet your cunt with a grunt, the warmth of your slick turning him into putty in your hands. Muscles releasing the tension held in for god knows how long, weight leaning on you for support. It's his time to get lost in the moment, your hands gently running through his hair, enjoying this side of him until it lasts. The quiet and vulnerable him that's so rare sight, non-existent to others. Pride swells in your chest, knowing it's you who have the privilege to have his trust in you to be this comfortable.

You are so tempted to just snake your fingers around his cock, to guiding him inside of your cunt. You would die to see his face turn into a frown, mad that he isn't the one setting the tone, the one leading the course of events. Oh he would flip on you, and that it what makes this much more interesting.

"Uh-uh, don't even think about it sugar." You hand is stopped midway by his calloused fingers, sinking roughly into your arm but soft on the skin. He leans in close, his dick moving with him slightly creating a delicious friction on your clit that makes you moan so loud in the tense room. "I thought you knew better."

"I wasn't thinking." You voice is muffled by his sloppy kiss, all teeth and saliva, oppressive against your own willingness to surrender.

"I can tell." It's true, you are brainless when he is this close to fill you up, the only thing mattering is him still torturing you when he should be pounding into you by now.

"The only thing on my mind is why the hell aren't you fucking me?"

You utter with low voice, yelping right at the end from the pressure of his hand at your neck, the force of his grab faintly smacking your head to the wall behind you. There he is.

"Language! You are speaking to your superior, soldier!" His growl is predatory, your body reacting to his antagonistic action is beyond sick, but it's fuel to your fire at this point. The pressure on both side of your neck increasing, cutting off oxygen just the right amount to send you into a blisslike state, eyes rolling back, your orgasm growing tremendously in the pit of your stomach.

The ecstasy doesn't stop there, soon you feel him distance himself from your entrance just to push in with full force, there is no agonizing taunt in his movements, just pure power in his hips clashing to yours.

His hand never leaves your neck, releasing and pressing at the right moments, his dick filling you painfully good with hard thrusts. The amount of energy put to his body just to fuck you senseless is inhuman, while your drive is enough for a faint moan through gritted teeth and a dead grip on his upper arm.

"That's what you like, huh? Cockdrunk, needy for me to fill you up still covered in the blood of our enemies?" You remember him talking like this the first time, confused from why are you so turned by his words, forgetting to utter anything that makes sense, mouth hanged open.

There is in fact blood on both of you, none of it is yours. The blood on the cut on his face has dried before you stepped out of the car, and that cannot make this much mess on your uniforms. It's intoxicating.

"Yeah look at it. You are so fucking turned on. Oh. My. God." You were ashamed and embarrassed by it at the beginning, but now you just nod drunkenly, eyes jumping between the blood stains and his eyes watching your every reaction to his remarks. That is his turn on. How your behavior changes every second from everything he inflicts on you. His voice, his touch let that be harsh or gentle, his movements and actions, how much you can see or feel. And when you smile under his choking palm, clench around his cock, squeezing so sweetly he has to slow down so he will last longer, he's so gone. It's his personal drug. The burden and adrenaline of battle mixing with clear pleasure like the colors on marble. He can pick out and grab every feeling, taste them separately, but together it's the real fucking deal, overwhelming almost.

"Can i touch myself?" You ask, more like plead, the apparent but rarely enough friction on your clit is killing you, knowing the drag of his hips every 2-3 thrust is for that reason, to make you go batshit crazy. It's fucking working.

There is doubt on his features, contemplating before nodding his head in a clear motion. His gaze trails the way your fingers smoothly linger on your breast sliding slowly over your bellybutton to the place where your body needs the pressure. It seems like you aren't the only one filled with a long awaited bliss, Phil's body trembles when your fingers starts to work on yourself with a delicate touch, thrusts becoming unrushed, concentrating on your ragged breathing and hips drawing luscious circles on his length. It's a way for to get him move into you again, pushing your pelvic just to being held back by his hand. A pathetic whine leaves your lips earning an ear to ear grin from him.

"Ask for it sugar, you know how this works." Yes you do, but your whole being wants to defy him, and take from him not ask for it. You feel your high so close, so close that you couldn't stop now, won't let the pace die down. But he will, he will deny the peak from you if it means he can the double it later, and at the end he's always right. Now you just don't have the patience.

"Please. Please move." Voice high pitched out low on volume does it for him, giving you what you want. The fast pace and powerful jolt of his body into you is like electricity hitting you, the patience you lack is now dissolved from him, chasing his own release mercilessly.

The sound of the small slaps of skin against skin fills the room alongside with your grunts and moans. Your head and back rhythmically bumps to the wall with Phil's dick burying itself deep in you, hitting that oh so fucking sweet spot more often now as Philip positioned your legs higher. It's devastatingly beautiful, the whole experience stinks from the dirt and blood and your all day long sweat, but mostly the best sex you ever had in your life. You want to kiss him, suck on his tongue earning those unholy growls he usually makes, but your body is too overpowered, used and pleasured simultaneously.

"Inside me." You grunt, a hiccup like sound interrupting your words as your back hits the wall again. His gaze shots up to your face from the place where you become one, eyes laced with fog of everything happening at the moment. He's always looks lost and zoned out when he's close. "Please cum inside me." You repeat oppressing the weakness in your voice.

"Music to my ears." He smiles widely before returning his eyes back to your hands dictating a crazy rhythm on your clit, already feeling the climax numbing the back of your head, hearing the rush of blood in your ears. With every little vibrating circle on your bud you breath out a whine, making Phil switch from fast to hard, hitting your core so perfectly you come around him screaming.

Eyes roll back to your head, trying to keep yourself still on the desk while your body shakes with the full force of your orgasm, fingers numb over your sensitive clit, thinking you'll have a freaking seizure if you touch yourself again.

"Don't fucking stop now Darlin'." Graves pushes your hand out of the way, harshly pressing his thumb down earning a second wave of ecstasy destroy you, and that's all he needs to spill inside of you, grunting with smaller and smaller thrust, filling you up like never before.

You wished you could have seen him, but your mind went black and nothing could make you focus on anything else than your cunt squeezing everything out of him.

Your body shakes every time his thumb takes a lazy drag over your clit, you wonder how he manages to even move an inch after all this. All you can hear is his breaths,- vulnerably loud and rapid - coming closer, feeling his forehead buried in you chest. You stay there for a few moments, both of you regaining, trying to send signals to your limbs, but it's pretty fucking obvious you won't use them today anymore.

Philip has more presence of mind, hearing him shuffle and grumble while he slowly pulls out, and you wished he would have waited a couple of minute to pull yourself together. You hiss at the sudden emptiness, which he tries to soothe with gentle slides if his fingers on your fold, the remains of your orgasm still shocking your body.

"Fuck me." His raspy voice is scratching your ears, only that charging your battery up again, awakening what lead you to this bedroom at the first place. When you open your eyes, he's admiring his handiwork, a towel in his hands, pants pulled up loosely, all messy and breathless.

"I just did." You reply soundlessly, voice non-existent. His cheeks burning in a cute pink shade, lips turning upwards in an honest grin, the towel in his hand approaching you slowly.

"I thought it was the other way around." He says making you look up at his blue eyes filled with so much unreadable emotion, averting your attention from the drag of the towel between your thighs, which makes you take a shark breath in, too sensitive even from the breeze of the air.

He leans down to kiss everything away, to soothe your aching body, now gentle and slow, tasting the aftermath on your lips. He takes his time, sucking on your lower lip between open mouthed kisses and pecks planted anywhere his mouth reaches. Sweet, dripping from honey, apologizing for any harsh grab of your hips, sinking fingers that leaves bruises and for the sore muscles you'll surely have the morning.

"We stink." You state nose crunched up from all the smells, mind wandering to a hot long shower session. His laugh vibrates in your mouth, his palms holding your face from both sides to keep you in place for one last kiss on your nose.

"Yeah we do." There is no denying it that you are marinating in an all day long filth. "But fuck you are a sight to see darlin'"

Sometimes you see this look in his eyes that screams love, just like now, his eyes still hungry and filled with satisfaction, planting the seed in your head that he just might love you. He might.