#Is awareness the right word for this?????

[springintosummerxx]

❀ downbad for you ❀

op81 x reader

in which oscar changes in little and big ways. aka oscar's downbad for you

warnings: suggestive, fluff, bit of pining, humour

word count: 1.9 k

masterlist

nicole piastri was not an impatient woman. she raised four kids, all of them talented, intelligent and painfully oblivious in some way or another.

so when oscar had started travelling on his own and barely - rarely - picked up phone calls or checked texts, she learned to wait for him to come to her. very reasonable, in her opinion.

but when she called him, early in the morning hoping to catch him before a sprint race, she was surprised to find that he actually picked up.

"hello?" he asked, tone a little eager and not it's usual monotone.

"oscar," she replied, a little startled.

"oh. hey, mum." he answered absentmindedly.

now she was suspicious, "why are you answering your calls all of a sudden?"

"didn't you call me?" he asked, with that born-nonchalance that made her want to rip her hair out sometimes.

"yeah, just checking in. everything good for the weekend?"

"sure, everything's fine. listen mum, i'm actually waiting on another call. i'll call you again after the sprint, okay? thanks."

then her own son, the one she'd painfully pushed - okay, that was a bit gross, but she was a little offended.

then it clicked.

the question she should be asking, instead of rolling her eyes over her firstborn's antics, is who is he waiting on?

nicole calls hattie next, who answers reliably on the first ring.

"is your brother seeing someone?"

"woah, mum. hello to you too," her eldest daughter huffs, "and yes, i think so."

she nearly jumps up in excitement, "who?"

"that, i have no idea. but he's been answering his texts so quick lately, and he asked me about what flowers were suitable for a first date."

"finally," nicole sighed, and then perking up, "when do you think he'll bring her home?"

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌lando is staring at oscar as he puts on suncream.

he looks so...serious, squeezing out lotion from a bottle that looks way too tiny in his hands, concentrating on the thin white lines that coat three of his fingers.

"what?" he then is rubbing it into his face, and lando is scared.

"mate, what the fuck?"

"i'm protecting my skin," the australian answers, straight-faced.

he is 100% sure he's never seen oscar put on sunscreen, ever. especially not in the middle of the day, right between filming videos outside.

it's probably a good idea, if they don't want to get sunburnt; oscar, especially, with his pale complexion.

and who is lando to judge? he used to love it when his ex-girlfriend's did his skincare or forced him to exfoliate - wait.

before he can think through what he's going to say, he blurts, "do you have a girlfriend?"

oscar stares at him, and the faint, pink blush that's rising from his neck is enough of an answer.

"oh, my days you do!" he gasps. oscar shakes his head, the corners tipping up despite himself.

lando watches him, half-disgusted and half-proud.

his teammate has an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face, eyes bright. he leans back in the chair, looking dorky in his team kit and a little bit of sunscreen not blended in at his jaw.

lando could say with full confidence, after watching oscar not flinch at turns or crashes, that this reaction means that he is in love.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌the first time oscar brings you around (and hard-launches both of you to the moon) is during the miami gp.

the two of you, your smaller hand tucked into the crook of his arm, make your way across the green turf of the paddock.

he's aware of the cameras and eyes; it's kind of hard not to be, but he doesn't mind like he usually does.

it's probably gross and neanderthal, and he will definitely deny it if you bring it up, but he's so proud to have you on his arm.

the two of you met a months ago, in monaco, where you were starting the second year of your doctorate degree.

you were (and are, in his opinion) way too smart for him, drop-dead gorgeous with a dry sense of humour.

although monaco was known for hosting f1 drivers you weren't super well-versed in the sport.

he likes that about you, and even more the way you ask him to tell you about it as you run your fingers through his hair, when the two of you are out on a date in some little cafe.

"okay?" he murmurs, and you squeeze your fingers around his bicep once.

"hmm," he can tell you're a little overwhelmed by the crease between your brows that he smoothes out with his thumb, "m'okay."

the little yellow sundress you're wearing makes your skin glow under the florida sun, and he wants to press his nose to your shoulder.

"it'll get better when we're not-"

"hard-launching at one of your races? you sure go big or go home, baby."

however many times you use that nickname, whether in the early morning when you're bribing him with coffee or hushed as he presses himself into you late at night, it never fails to make him flush.

it sounds so pretty from your lips, so personal and intimate his stomach lurches still when he hears that pet name.

"yeah," he laughs, "can't help it though. want to show you off."

this time, it's your turn to be flustered.

he can't believe someone as put together and elegant as you turns into a pile of mush for someone as unromantic as him.

but perhaps he's changed, he thinks as you twist your mouth and brush a hand over your sun and love-warmed cheeks.

"god, oscar. you can't say things like that. i'm going to turn into a liquid."

"a very beautiful liquid," he offers, his free hand grabbing the yours that's tucked into his elbow.

he moves you to his other side, the one closer to the cafés and motorhomes as more people start flooding into the paddock.

"c'mere," he murmurs, pressing a kiss into your forehead.

normally, he would be against any sort of pda. but you look so relaxed under the sun, skin glowing as you watch him behind a pair of sunglasses that he can't help himself.

oscar hears the shutters of cameras, and he rests his cheek on yours.

"love you," he grins boyishly.

"love you, baby. good luck."

he wants a real kiss, one that makes you whimper the way he likes, but he's pushed his luck enough.

someone from the team leads you to the back of the garage to find a headset.

later that night, when the both of you are laying in bed, faces damp with skincare, he comes across an edit of you on tiktok.

there's some thirst-trappy song in the back and an annoying filter that makes everything a bit blurry, but he watches it three times anyways.

the first clip is of you in the garage, standing towards the back, fingers fluttering over your papaya headset. you look serious (though he thinks you do look a little confused, adorably so) with your eyes locked on the t.v. broadcasting his onboard.

the little skysports banner pops up, citing you as his partner.

oscar piastri's partner, it reads in block letters.

his heart warms in his chest, and he has to rub at it because of how intense he feels for you; you are so much more than that, and he can't wait for people to realize.

the next clip is you with alexandra, who you knew from someone's neighbor. or cousin. monaco was small, after all.

the two of you are laughing, striding with leo between your legs.

lastly, oscar watches with attentive eyes as the videos of you and him together come up.

it's undeniable that you guys look good together; he's smiling more than he probably has, ever, and you look up at him, adoringly as you blend some smeared sunscreen under his ear.

the sound of the tiktok has repeated four times by then, and you slide yourself into his embrace, wiggling up his chest.

he tilts his phone to you so you can see, and you bury your face in his neck.

"help," your breath warm on his skin, "i'm being perceived."

he laughs, pulling you up to kiss him, for real on the mouth, "thank you. for coming with me."

"of course," you say, a little surprised at how sincere he sounds, "anytime, baby."

now it's his turn to bury his face into your neck.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

"he's never like this," hattie tells you.

"what?" you ask, smiling as your boyfriend's sister hands you a drink.

"he's so...touchy. it would be kind of gross, if you guys weren't so cute."

"yeah," edie pipes in, sipping her own drink, "it's freaky. unnatural."

"are you talking about me?" oscar asks drily as he slides into the seat next to yours.

frowning at the distance in between your chair and his, he wraps one large hand around the leg of yours and tugs until you're close enough for his to rest his arm to loop behind you.

mae shudders comically, just as edie pretends to gag. hattie hoots in laughter.

oscar, cheeks pink, unabashedly rolls his eyes as his parents take their seats around the table in their backyard.

it's nice seeing him in his natural habitat, teasing his sisters, helping his mum carry dishes to the dining table.

you insist on helping nicole wash up after dinner, and as you dry the dishes she hands you, she says something you don't expect.

"thank you," she tells you, "for taking care of him."

before you can respond, she goes on, "he's never been too good at taking care of himself. you know, he used to put his washing in the oven?"

you laugh, imagining oscar, on the cusp of adulthood, crouched over a oven with wet socks in his hands.

"but i can tell he's been well. so, thank you."

you blush, "i don't think it's anything to do with me."

she snorts, an easy smile on her face as she nudges you with her shoulder, "he's been calling more, he's eating well. i don't think he's been sunburnt or gone without fresh laundry for months."

you hum, "he takes care of me too, and i should thank you for raising a good man."

"i've got to stop leaving you alone with my family members." oscar sidles next to you, peering at his mum.

she brushes your cheek and pats his shoulder before wandering off to find his sisters.

"hi," he whispers into your hair, turning you around so he can crowd you into the kitchen counter.

"hi, baby."

he groans, burying his face into your neck. you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder, and you grin.

"okay?" you ask quietly.

"more than okay," he responds, smile content and squinty, "it's nice. to see you here, with my family. they love you."

"i love them," caressing his cheek, you press a kiss to his nose.

"this is probably weird for them," he hums, leaning into your hand, "to see me like this."

"i'm not going anywhere, so i think they'll get used to you being all gross and down bad."

"not downbad," oscar mutters, wrapping his arms around your waist in a hug and swaying the two of you back and forth, "just in love."

"downbad," you giggle, and he doesn't disagree, not when it makes you smile, so lovingly and soft at him.

maybe he is downbad.

[callsign-fox]

Distract Me - Bob/Robert Reynolds

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Fem!Reader/Superhero

Warning: 18+ / Foreplay / Sex

Y'all definitely wanted this, so here you go! More to come because I can't seem to stop.

Thank you for all the love! xo

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

Y/N entered Bob’s room without knocking, the soft creak of the door the only sound to announce her. She didn’t need to ask—she knew he’d be here, stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling like it held answers only he could see. And there he was, headphones in, still except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

She lingered in the doorway, heart heavy. He’d used his powers today—again. And again, it had been for her.

She hated it. Hated what it did to him. Every time he tapped into it, the Void stirred, threatening to take him from her. It left him drained, quieter, the light behind his eyes a little dimmer each time. She was always the first to say no when the others asked. The one who stood between him and danger if it meant keeping him from turning.

But he did it anyway. Not for glory.

For them.

For her.

She closed the door softly and crossed the room. He didn’t look at her, but his fingers twitched—he knew. She slipped off her boots and socks, letting them fall quietly to the floor, then climbed into bed beside him. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was thick with unspoken things—gratitude, frustration, fear.

She reached out, and her fingers brushed his—warm, steady, familiar.

He turned to look at her, his eyes glowing with that unnatural, golden-white light. It was still there—burning, dangerous—but dimming, as if her presence was pulling it back, grounding him.

“How are you doing?” she asked gently.

Bob took a slow breath, but the lines in his face didn’t soften. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t believe him. Her heart ached at how far away he seemed, even lying right beside her. But she didn’t look away.

“I’m here if you need me. If there is anything I can do…”

He hesitated before answering, voice low. “Distract me. Somehow.”

She nodded, a quiet decision settling in her bones. They hadn’t been intimate—not yet. What they had was slow and tender, full of stolen glances and careful touches, like neither of them wanted to risk breaking something fragile. But tonight, that caution felt distant. He needed her, and she needed him to come back.

She climbed over him, straddling his hips with deliberate care. The hem of her skirt brushed his thighs as she leaned in, taking his hands in hers.

Bob didn’t resist, just watched her closely. 

Wordlessly, she guided them to her bare skin, placing them on her thighs—warm, soft, grounding. Her fingers didn’t let go, urging his touch higher, coaxing him gently back to her, to now.

“Is this okay?” She asked softly. 

He didn’t speak. Just nodded, slow and sure, like any words might break the moment.

She kept her eyes on his as she moved his hands higher, slipping them beneath the edge of her skirt. Her breath caught as his fingers brushed over the thin fabric between them. She could feel him beneath her, already hard, already aware. Still, she guided him, rolling her hips just slightly, showing him exactly where she needed him most.

His touch was tentative at first, as if he was still afraid he might hurt her—or worse, lose control. But she didn’t let go, guiding him with gentle pressure, rocking her hips in time with the slow, steady movement of his fingers over the thin fabric.

A soft sigh escaped her lips, her head tilting back just slightly. It wasn’t just the pleasure—it was him, still here, still hers. She could feel his heartbeat through his fingertips, see the golden glow in his eyes flicker, weakening, retreating.

They stayed like that for a moment, the room wrapped in silence but thick with tension—his hand moving in slow, careful circles, her thighs tightening around him. He watched her with awe and something deeper, something broken and tender all at once. It made her breath hitch, made her chest ache in the best and worst way.

But then something shifted in him—some tether snapped. Maybe it was the way she moaned his name so quietly, or the way her body arched into his touch like she trusted him completely.

He exhaled sharply, then moved.

In one smooth motion, he flipped them, pressing her down against the mattress, his body settling over hers. She gasped, breath stolen by the sudden change—but her hands gripped his shoulders, grounding herself in him.

He hovered just above her, eyes wide and human again—clear blue, no trace of gold. Just Bob.

He stared at her like she was a lifeline. “You brought me back,” he murmured, voice rough. “You always do.”

He hovered over her, breath ragged, eyes searching hers as if still trying to believe this was real—that she wanted this, wanted him. She reached up and cradled his face, thumbs brushing across the sharp edge of his cheekbone. He leaned into her touch.

“I’m right here,” she whispered, soft and sure. “Stay with me.”

Something in him broke then—not in fear, but surrender. He dipped his head and kissed her, slowly, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth, the way she tasted, the way she breathed into him like he was something worth saving.

His hands moved to her waist, sliding beneath her shirt, warm and calloused as they explored bare skin. She arched into him, welcoming the heat of his touch, the way he handled her like she was something precious. When he finally lifted her shirt over her head, it was with careful hands, taking a moment to admire her like she was the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen.

She helped him out of his shirt too, fingertips trailing along his chest, feeling every muscle twitch under her touch. He was warm and solid beneath her palms, familiar in a way that made her heart ache. 

He took his time, fingers brushing along the insides of her thighs, making her breath catch. When she was bare beneath him, he just stared for a long moment, eyes dark with awe and restraint.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

She reached for him, undoing his belt with shaking fingers, and he let her. Let her take her time. Let her feel him, like she’d been waiting to do this forever. When they were finally skin to skin, nothing between them, he paused—forehead resting against hers, breathing hard.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

She nodded, pulling him closer. “I’ve never been more sure.”

He entered her slowly, gently, every movement unspoken but full of meaning—trust, want, something deeper they didn’t have to say out loud. He kept his eyes on her, watching the way her breath caught, the way her fingers gripped his arm like she was holding onto something real.

Their bodies moved together easily, instinctively, like they’d been made to fit this way. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just the quiet rhythm of two people who had been waiting for this without realizing it.

Y/N’s nails scraped lightly down his back as he kissed along her jaw, his breath warm against her skin. 

“Bob.” She whispered his name again, softer now, as if the sound alone steadied her.

Time didn’t feel like it mattered anymore. The world outside faded into the background, quiet and unimportant. It was just them—skin, breath, a shared warmth that pulled them closer with every slow roll of their hips.

It was just them. 

And when they both came undone, his face buried in her neck, murmuring her name like a prayer—his eyes were still blue.

They lay tangled together, their breaths slowly returning to rhythm, skin damp and flushed from everything they’d just shared. Bob had one arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close like he wasn’t ready to let go, not even for a second. Her fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along his chest, while her lips brushed softly over his. 

Then, a knock came. 

Both of them froze as a quiet voice came from the other side of the door.

“Bobby… you doing okay?” It was Walker.

Y/N blinked, then looked at Bob, whose eyes had flown open. He let out a barely audible groan, burying his face in her shoulder while she bit back a laugh.

Then, without raising her voice, she called back toward the door— “he’s perfect.”

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@debs171110 - because you asked nicely :)

[wileys-russo]

rage room II l.williamson

"babe. i love you so much but fucking please hurry up." the milton keynes local groaned, twirling her keys around impatiently on her pointer finger, jingle echoing through the hallway. "lee we are literally not booked in until three and it's only eleven thirty." you laughed at her lack of patience from the bedroom.

"technically correct but you’re gettin your nails done at twelve and i’ve got a haircut, and then we’re going for lunch and i said we’ll pop in to see grandma for tea and then we have the rage room at three. so we're on a tight schedule here woman, chop chop!" the defender clapped, popping her head through the doorway with a raised eyebrow.

"so sorry! i'll hurry up." you made a point to bend down and lace your sneakers in super slow motion, leah leaning against the door frame with a deep and annoyed sigh.

“oh i lost it…we’ll have to start again.” you purposefully let go of the half done knot with a shake of your head, going even slower now as you began to retie it.

"nah i'm gettin grey hairs here man." your girlfriend huffed with a shake of her head, hurrying over and smacking your hands away, kneeling down and quickly lacing up your shoes for you.

"sure babe you can borrow my limited edition vintage dunks i’ve worn twice, thanks for askin." leah mocked sarcastically as you grinned. "sure love you can borrow my prada sunglasses, thanks for asking." you quipped back quickly as the smile was wiped from her face.

"fair point. right come on then!" she took your hands and forcefully pulled you to your feet, hurrying out of the bedroom and yelling for you to follow.

“woman you are walking a thin line here!" leah moaned as you dug your heels in and walked at a tortoises pace just to annoy her further, trudging slowly down the hall.

“sorry babe safety first, what if i fell and got carpet burn?”

"you're such a fuckin wind up!"

~

"thank you for today lee, its been perfect." you smiled sincerely, now sat opposite from your girlfriend at your favourite sushi spot, leaning across the table and meeting her lips in a sweet kiss. "anything for you and that smile gorgeous." leah smiled charmingly as you shook your head.

"if only you were this smooth when you asked me out the first time." you teased as leahs cheeks suddenly flushed bright red. "oi you promised to stop bringing that up!" the defender groaned burying her face in her hands.

you'd transferred to arsenal from everton three seasons ago, and leah had been enamored by you from the moment you stepped foot into the locker room with a shy wave, a little taken aback by how forward and friendly the entire team was right off the bat.

her friends very quickly picking up on the developing unsubtle crush leah had been relentlessly bullied into eventually asking you out on a date.

though with half the team well aware of her feelings and the lingering fear of rejection, it was safe to say she'd been about as close to a nervous wreck as she could get.

so when she did come over to you and try to speak the words got jumbled up together. then her attempt to ask you out for coffee wound up with her rather aggressively asking you to buy her a coffee, and you hurriedly leaving with a confused nod thinking you’d done something to have her annoyed with you.

so then showing up the next day with a flat white in hand for her (which was from your messaging around to a few of the girls to get leahs coffee order right) lead to a very embarrassed vice captain who hurried to correct what she'd really meant with her tongue in a twist.

"love its a crucial part of our epic romance story, i can't pretend it didn't happen." you beamed as your food arrived and you both thanked the server, leahs cheeks still flushed rosy pink as she muttered something under her breath and hurried to change subject. "show me please?" leah asked eagerly holding up the chopsticks in hand.

"leah, my love we tried this last time." you smiled sympathetically but unable to say no to her pleading eyes you walked her through it, the brunette eventually dropping them to the table with a clatter and a list of swear words dropped from her lips when she didn’t even get close to success.

"fuck this." leah grumbled, snatching the fork you'd made sure to have on hand for her and stabbing the chicken role before shoving it angrily into her mouth in one go.

"what?" your girlfriend asked with a frown, mouth still crammed full of food having you wince.

“you know sometimes i miss when we weren't so comfortable around each other."

~

"so obviously the walls are off limits! they are cement though so i wouldn't recommend to hit them anyway, because the shock of the bat hitting it could break your hand." the worker shrugged casually as you and your girlfriend shared a look of concern at his laidback demeanour.

"well thats everything. have fun ladies!" he shrugged, stepping out and closing the door as music filled the room. "ready?" leah grinned wolfishly, stepping forward and tugging your glasses down over your eyes for you as you nodded eagerly and music began to blast through the room.

"go!" you yelled, leah swinging her bat at a stack of plates as you cheered and the music got a little louder. you watched on with a grin as your girlfriend wreaked havoc, letting out a war cry and this time hauling a few plates at the wall by hand.

"go on babe!" the blonde encouraged with a wave as you lifted your bat and swung at an old computer monitor barely knocking it over. "nah you can do better than that my girl. think about that prick from your old job, the one we used to scream into the pillows about!" leah remembered suddenly, clicking her fingers as your eyes narrowed.

a sudden rage filling your body you let out a war cry of your own and swung at an old tv sending the glass screen flying in hundreds of tiny pieces around the room.

"christ babe i didn't know you could hit like that." ella whistled in shock. "fancy a bit of baseball?" you gave her a wolfish grin holding up a mug to toss in her direction as she perked up and readied her bat.

"you know you should really bring captain kimmy here babe, im sure dealing with you lot everyday she has a lot of pent up rage."

[pearlywritings]

Who said the night was over?

pairing: Alhaitham, Childe, Gallagher, Ifa, Jing Yuan, Kamisato Ayato, Phainon (seperately) x fem!reader

prompt: morning after 😏

word count: 4.2k+ words in total

tw: NSFW, nudity, hints of sex in the shower, hints of public intimacy, oral (female recieving), consensual (!) somnophilia, implied breeding, cockwarming

~ The Music of the Night event ~

gathered all the requests down here! also, yes to the anon who requested Ayato, i'd be glad to put you down as either of these two emojis! (why not both though?)

Alhaitham

With Alhaitham’s dislike for early mornings, it’s an often occurrence for you to wake up while he is still in bed with you. Today, however, blindly feeling the spot next to you with a patting hand makes your sleep-heavy mind aware that your husband is gone. But the sheets and the pillow are still carrying the warmth of his body, so he couldn’t have been absent for long. 

Satisfied with the thought that he might’ve gone to the toilet and that your alarm clock hasn’t rung yet, you steal your lover’s pillow to hug it close to your chest and settle back into the mattress to catch some more minutes of sleep, especially after the busy night you two had. And also before you have to face the reality in which you have a teaching job.

When the alarm goes off, however, and you shut it down with a dissatisfied yawn, the other side of the bed appears to be empty, with the only difference being its coldness.

Huh, how strange.

But you don’t have time to question the lack of the man in your shared bed. Just as you are sitting up and tugging your askew-sitting sleepwear in all the right places, the door to the room opens, and your half-dressed lover steps in with a tray balanced on his open palm. Delicious smell of food and coffee fills the air and your nose, making you sniff the taunting aroma with a blissful smile.

“Coffee and breakfast in bed? My, aren’t you romantic this morning,” you tease, but when you finally meet his eyes, the discontent etched into his handsome features cuts your already-prepared teasing short. There is a furrow between his brows and a scowl tugging on his lips, when he closes the door and walks further into your shared space. “Habibi? What’s up?”

“Our dear roommate is ‘up’,” he huffs, putting the tray on the space between his and your halves of the bed and carefully climbs onto it. Your eyes widen.

“Kaveh? But wasn’t he staying over at Cyno’s tonight?” Suddenly your whole body is crawling with dread. If the architect was here the whole night when he definitely heard you two-

“He was,” Alhaitham says sharply, grabbing his mug of coffee and taking a gulp to calm his already spiked nerves. “But apparently he forgot to grab some things to bring to the meeting with the client this morning, and came back earlier to finish it, waking me up in the process. I’m actually surprised how you didn’t jolt awake when he dropped the pile of scrolls he was carrying from his room to the living room.”

“I had no idea…” you murmur, still a bit shaken from your initial thoughts, but willing yourself to focus on something else - for example those delicious-looking pita pockets. “But that’s a total bummer then.”

“Oh for sure,” the Scribe rolls his eyes, picking one of the filled breads too. “Though it’s surprising to hear this from you - you like Kaveh.”

“Yes, I like Kaveh,” you sigh, scooting closer to your husband, leaning your shoulder to his. “But I don’t like him very much right now.”

Alhaitham actually stops chewing and stares at you.

“What do you mean?”

“Had hopes for the morning sex before I have to get up and ready to deal with the students,” you grumble, grabbing your drink and taking a sip, “but it’s fine, I’ll manage.”

“...I can kick him out if you want to–”

“No!” you grab his wrist, even though he hasn’t moved yet. “No need, it’s fine, really. Tonight was more than enough.”

“Clearly not, if you are still feeling needy, habibti,” Alhaitham’s arm slithers behind your back and settles on the hip. He leans his cheek onto the top of your head. “I have an idea. Let’s finish our food and then we can fuck in the bathroom. The running water should mask the sounds– if you are quiet enough,” he wears a smirk, though hides it in your hair with a kiss. “Even if you are not - it’s our house, we can do whatever we want.”

...Well, not looking Kaveh in the eyes for a week it is then.

Childe

Do not look the Fatui Agents in the eyes, do not look the Fatui Agents in the eyes, hold your head high and proud as you walk down the hall of the Eleventh Harbinger’s capital residence, and try not to think about the burning marks hidden under the layers of warm clothes and how evident the limp in your steps would’ve been, had Tartaglia not offered you his elbow to latch onto.

The mask, gifted by the Lord Pulcinella, is covering the upper half of your face - just for good measure, even though the soldiers are trained to not ask questions or gossip. The black furred coat you arrived in is replaced by a pretty azure one, perfectly matching the lapis pools of the man by your side. You look like a refined noble from a long-running bloodline, so it’s hard to imagine you are to be interrogated for the business you could possibly have with one of the Harbingers.

Finally, the exit from the manor. The morning chill is biting at your cheeks and chin, and with it, your worries are swept away. The purely white snow is crunching under your boots as you are descending down the wide-stepped staircase. Then, led by your partner all the way through the alley caged between well-taken-care-of pines from both sides, you walk right to the carriage, waiting in front of the gates.

You are truly exhaling in relief only once you two are settled inside, and the coachman whistled, flicked his whip and the horses started off.

“Phew, now I understand your struggle at keeping your identity a secret,” you say in a low tone. You don’t doubt the people who work for Tartaglia, but being too careful never hurts.

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” his big hand slides out of the mitten and covers your gloved ones, resting in your lap in a tight lock. “I am so proud of you, my sneaky little mouse.”

You can’t help but giggle, gazing at him from behind your mask, eyes sparkling with joy.

“Thank you! Oh, I am so excited to see the capital! I am so happy you got half a day off to spend time with me.”

“You better believe this feeling is mutual,” the gingerhead smiles widely, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your lips. You practically melt, reciprocating the affection, and wiggle your hands from under his palm to cup both his cheeks. It was probably a mistake to leave his own limbs unguarded - because the moment your attention got occupied, his fingers went wandering.

It’s warm inside the carriage, and it soon becomes a little bit suffocating - the fervor with which Ajax is devouring your mouth, stealing one kiss after another, is enough to rival the furnace’s flames. You notice too late when all the clasps of your fur coat come undone, and your lover pushes it down your shoulders. It’s only once he breaks one of the scorching kisses, staring at you with hooded eyes, burning cheeks and swollen lips, the understanding dawns on you.

“Ajax, wait–!” You whisper-scream at him, trying to dodge a new wave of kisses. “We are not doing this in the carriage!”

The young man promptly stops, closing his mouth and staring into your eyes. He has the audacity to be pouting! After igniting a wild fire in your chest!

“But why not?” He murmurs dejectedly, settling both his palms on your waist. “It is a lengthy ride and I hoped to make up for the rushed awakening. Feels like after the night of passion I owe you an equally affectionate morning.”

That’s true, in order to enjoy the little ‘journey’ to its fullest with your lover, you two woke up at an ungodly hour and made quite a haste to get ready. Which significantly shortened your usual morning routine. Ah, you can admit now that it was a bit disappointing.

“Fine…” You sigh, sliding your arms back around his neck, much to the ginger’s delight. “But nothing that can alarm the people outside.”

He is nodding like crazy, before diving back in, and you just hope that you hold enough power over your partner to stop him when he goes too far.

Gallagher 

Standing before the mirror in nothing but panties, you cannot mask your horror. Bright, almost angry-looking hickies and bite marks are littering the expanse of your neck, shoulders, chest and– oh shit, thighs!?

Your lover, with only his sweatpants thrown on, returns from the balcony after finishing the first cigarette of the day, scratching his stomach and yawning when you jump on him with a punch to his shoulder. The yawn is cut mid-action and with a strange noise of a strangled cat the man looks at you. His thick brows fly up in confusion.

“Watcha doing, pretty thing? Is it one of your playful fights to get us both tangled in the sheets?”

“‘Tangled in the sheets’ my ass!” You throw your arms in the air. “Look at me, Gallagher!”

Vermillion eyes observe your face for a few seconds longer before casting their gaze down. Understanding immediately appears on his face along with a smirk. A quiet appreciative whistle makes your cheeks heat up and arms cross over your breasts right after.

“‘Tangled in sheets’ is what left me in such a state! Damn, Gal, I know I joke a lot about it, but maybe you’re really a dog? I’m all bitten like a pack attacked me!”

“And yet all of these belong to just one mutt,” he releases a low chuckle, wrapping his strong arms around your waist, pressing your almost naked body flash to his barely covered one. You have half a mind to punch him again, but when he starts kissing your cheek and temple, you squint with a pout and plant your hands onto his pecs, trying to shove him off.

“Go shave!”

“Don’t remember you complaining when this face was between your prettily marked thig-” you butt his chest with your head, wrapping your own arms around his wide frame. Gallagher hisses when you dig your nails into his back. “Careful, kitty, you are not the only one covered in the reminders of last night.”

“Like I care,” you mutter, but nevertheless put your palms flatly. The kiss is pressed to your shoulder right after, yet this time you do not complain about his stubble.

“You are cooking breakfast by the way.”

“Oh? And what will my beautiful girlfriend do?”

“Spend who knows how much time in the bathroom trying to cover with a concealer the damage you caused. Thighs are alright, chest is too, but my NECK!”

“Never looked better,” Gallagher says seriously and before you could retort, crouches and grabs you under the knees. With a horrified shriek you are thrown over his strong shoulder, and are patted on the ass three times.

“Atta girl. Now let’s go and take a shower. We can talk there about how pretty your neck is and have you give me some more hickies as well. And then we’ll discuss the breakfast part.”

You are fucked.

Ifa

The mouth-watering smell is what makes you leave the warm bed, throw on the first thing you grabbed from the chair and leave the bedroom. Led by the delicious aroma you tiptoe to the kitchen of Ifa’s house, and find the man himself standing in front of the phlogiston-fueled stove. You should’ve guessed that the vet, dressed in nothing but pants, apron over his bare chest and with his signature hat gone (probably still lying somewhere in the bedroom…) is the reason for your awakening. 

You can’t help but lean on the doorframe and stare: at his back, at the way his shoulders roll when strong arms move, at the way that pretty tattoo circles his neck in a zig-zag pattern, at those soft, white with a tint of light mint hair, which are still the definition of a “bed head”... Oh, and not to forget that fine ass of his that looks so good in those pan–

“Good morning, sunshine,” a mirth-filled greeting shakes you out of the dreamy stupor, and you have to shake your head to chase it away.

When you look at your lover again, Ifa is bringing two plates to the table and gives you a cheeky smile. You mirror it with one of your own, stepping into the kitchen and skipping right into his arms.

The man doesn’t waste a second, leaning down the moment your arms wrap around his neck and capturing your lips in a morning kiss. You giggle softly at his eagerness, relishing in the moment.

“Good morning to you too, love,” you murmur between kisses and immediately squeal when he turns your body around, cups his palms under your ass and lifts you onto the counter. “Ifa!”

“Damn, babe, you look good in my shirt.”

Ah, so it was his. To your defense, you were so focused on the smell of the breakfast that you really didn’t care what you wore in your boyfriend’s house.

“And it looks like it stayed unbuttoned just to the point of you losing your patience last night and dragging it over my head.”

You notice how his gaze slips down your body, and have to also look. Oh... The shirt is open and barely covering your breasts, giving your lover a perfect view of all the marks he’s decorated your skin with. As the blush is rapidly creeping up your cheeks, you grab the hems, closing them. 

Ifa laughs, flexing his grip on your hips and dragging you closer to the edge of the table. As he presses his pelvis into you and puts his mouth on your neck, you can feel the outline of his semi-hard cock through the pants. 

You need some form of distraction. Urgently.

“And where is–mmm–where is my feathered baby?

“Cacucu?” The way his breath fans over your cheek makes you shiver and try to close your thighs. To no avail, of course. “Probably went outside for the night. Have you forgotten the last time we had sex? You moaned so loudly, the poor guy burst into the bedroom thinking you were being hurt.”

“Ifaaaa!”

So much for the distraction.

Jing Yuan

Even through the veil of sleep, you feel your body ache in a pleasant languor. You also feel a gentle, almost intangible caress on your cheek, which travels down, slowly, following the length of your neck and then the line of your arm. Goosebumps appear in its wake and you can’t help but shiver, jerking your shoulder.

There is a quiet, affectionate chuckle next to you, and the touch returns to your cheek, brought by a thumb that starts rubbing circles on your skin.

Something in the back of your mind tells you to summon the willpower to fight the clinging sleep and join the world of the awake. It’s so hard though - the lovely scent of the fresh bedding and the softness of the mattress and the pillow seem to make your eyelids heavier and body - more indolent.

But then the thumb gently swipes across your lips, dipping between. Instinctively you bite, and a hitch in breath in front of you is finally enough to tear you away from the sleep’s clutches.

It's hazy and you have to blink a couple of times. The display must be amusing to the disrupter of your dream, since he is chuckling again, and the sound is rich and warm and totally belongs to your husband.

“Good moooorning,” you drawl around his thumb, eventually releasing it and giving the pad a sweet kiss. Jing Yuan hums, reaching both hands to your waist to tug your bare body close to his, and kisses your forehead.

“Good morning to you as well, my love,” you smile blissfully at his response, throwing your arms around his neck and one leg over his hip. Your husband gets the hint and rolls onto his back, effectively moving you on top of him.

As you use his shoulders to lift your upper body, his wide palms slide down to your ass, kneading the supple flesh. You giggle, looking down at him with a half-lidded gaze, and the general has the images of last night flashing before his eyes. More specifically the ones where you pushed him onto the bed and straddled his thighs like a queen claimed the throne.

He can feel his cock stir. You can feel it too, right under you.

“Oh?” There is a smirk on your pretty lips. “Does my lion have something to tell me?”

“Hmm… I suppose he has,” Jing Yuan smiles, letting go off one of your cheeks and softly grabbing at your tit instead, working a quiet mewl from the back of your throat. “I propose you a few courses of action, my dear, and you can pick, agreed?”

“Sounds intriguing,” you can feel your own arousal gathering in the form of slick. “What options do I have?”

“First: we get up, dress up and go have breakfast,” by the way you grimace at that, Jing Yuan laughs. “Second: we stay in bed for a little bit longer and let the night’s love-making proceed.”

“And what if I chose the second option?” You shift so his cock is right between your labia petals and roll your hips to smear the juices all over his length. The man groans, palming at your breast.

“Then you can choose either the oral way of doing things or penetration.”

Something - maybe it's the way he hungrily looks at you - tells you that the answer is ‘both’. And you are all too happy to respond in kind.

Kamisato Ayato

Mornings at the Kamisato Estate were always quiet. Despite numerous retainers that took care of the mansion’s inside and outside, the early hours of the day were filled with serenity and a warm breeze entering the room through the window, slightly cracked open.

You are shielded from the little ray of sunshine that's peeked into the bedroom and began its travel across your lover’s body, yet are still coaxed from the dreamland by the soft calls of your name.

“My darling wife, be so kind and grace me with your lovely gaze,” one of the murmurs is against your hair, ghosting across your temple. “I know you hate it when I leave the bed without you, but the duty always calls,” you huff through your slowly dissipating sleep, inching even closer to the warm body behind you, tucking your head under Ayato’s chin, much to his amusement. “Come now, my beloved. If you keep squirming and pressing yourself to me like this, I won’t have any choice but to pick up from where we stopped last night.”

Last night… Ah, right, last night. The first time in two weeks when Ayato managed to clear his schedule for the evening completely. The marvelous moment spent together, which he started with gifting  you a new skilfully sewn attire, proceeded at the restaurant and a night stroll and ended with your bodies tangled in the sheets.

The last night, when your husband got determined to cum inside as many times as his body allowed it, all because you teased and were handsy with him when no one saw. Because you put your hand onto his chest and whispered into his ear, like it was some well-guarded secret, that you were ovulating and would love to try for a child again.

The head of the Kamisato clan cannot deny his wife many things. Well, not for long at least, if his own teasing and edging is anything to come by. But he knows that everything is worth it, when with an exhausted but absolutely satisfied exhale she settles with her back against his chest, his cock plunged into her pussy and an arm wrapped around her middle, as the two of you drift off to sleep.

And wake up the next morning, positioned in the same embrace.

Ayato’s breath hitches when you clench around him unconsciously.

“My precious jewel,” he tries again, not losing hope to perform the morning routine together, “we should really get up, before one of our retainers comes storming through the doors, worried that we are still absent.”

“Not my problem you usually get your ass up at the crack of the dawn,” you finally groan, voice thick with sleep, and surely hoarse from all that moaning he railed out of you. “I’m exhausted, Ayato, let me sleep.”

“Exhausted? My, you say it like you weren’t the one jumping my bones the moment the bedroom door closed yesterday,” your husband hums, using his free hand to move your hair to the side. When he presses a lingering kiss to the back of your neck and rolls his hips, you arch slightly, letting out a quiet moan.

“Well, I was horny and I am not sorry for it,” huffing you try to settle on the bed with the full intention of falling back asleep. But the hand that slips between your thighs and presses on your pelvis to move you flash against him, suddenly makes you hyper aware of his hardening cock still resting between your walls.

“W-wait, Ayato,” you gulp, snapping your eyes open and trying to turn your head to look back at him. You do not like the way his eyes squint and lips pull into a knowing smile. “Didn’t you say that ‘duty always calls’?”

“Oh, so you were listening,” his smile gets wider and fox-like eyes even more cunning, as the pads of his index and middle finger press into your clit. It makes you throw your head back on the pillow with a mewl. “But we’ll discuss your lack of response later. Now my duty is my wife and it calls for giving her a few more ‘tries’.”

Phainon

Your morning begins with a wanton moan and an arched back. Your thoughts are a bunch of incoherent sparks of conscience, running through your head and incapable of forming a thing, but your body knows to try and close your legs and hands gripping the pillow and sheets.

Something stops you from slamming your thighs close, there is a strong grip on them, forcing them open and holding in place. And there is blinding pleasure, coursing through your body, tightening the knot in your stomach and hardening your nipples, that got exposed to the morning breeze with the blanket’s and shirt’s absence.

You have to blink and forcefully rub at your eyes with a trembling hand to finally chase away the sleep and see the ceiling of your bedroom. Your and Phainon’s bedroom.

A new surge of pleasure makes you moan louder, and your hand shoots down, grabbing the messy locks of your lover and pressing his head harder into your pussy. This time the moan is not yours, vibrating against your clit and driving you insane. There is slurping and needy whines, as well as a hot heavy tongue sliding between your labia and pressing against the tight numb.

Just one suck and you are gone, letting the knot in your abdomen snap and body go lax with a breathless plea of his name.

“Phainon…”

Your lover perks up, unlatching his mouth from your poor loins, and, feeling your grip on his white locks lessen, lifts himself on his elbows.

“Good morning, princess,” he says cheerfully, and when you find strength to glance down at him, it gets hard to believe that this man was just eating your pussy out seconds ago.

“M-morning…” you rasp out, still shaken by the orgasm. “What w-was that?”

The way he cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy makes a warm feeling bloom in your chest. How can a man be both this cute and indescribably lewd? It’s like the two images can’t exist together.

“Oh, you mean this?” He points at his mouth first and then between your legs and suddenly you want to kick him in the ribs. “You see… After we had sex yesterday, - which was the first time after so long, - the yearning seemed to become…more prominent, and I–” you notice the red tinting his cheeks and his gaze avoiding yours, “I had a wet dream.”

Your eyes widen at the admission, mouth going slack.

“You had a wet dream? About us?”

He nods, almost shyly. The mattress sinks when he pushes himself up, and a moment later he is resting on his side next to you, supporting his head with one hand and putting the other on your stomach.

“I woke up hot and needy,” he murmurs, lovingly rubbing your belly. “And I remembered how you told me you’d like one day an experience of being woken up by oral. So…”

So instead of being mean and shaking you out of sleep just to fuck, he decided to bring you pleasure by fulfilling your little fantasy, not even hoping you’d reciprocate upon arising. 

Which leaves him hard and leaking still. Which, in turn, makes you smile and reach out for his face to drag your beloved in the morning kiss, tasting yourself on his lips and turning your still aroused body to his, being trapped into the embrace of two strong arms.

How can you not reciprocate?

author's note: fun fact, but Childe's part was actually written with my A birthday surprise fic in thought hehe~

[websterss]

THE HAND THAT’S FORCED (2) — ROBERT REYNOLDS

SUMMARY: You hadn’t meant to get attached to Bob, much less fall in love with him. You hadn’t meant for things to slip out right from underneath your grasp. Out of your control, much like Valentina holding your love for one another over your heads.

WARNING(S): SPOILERS!!! angst, some visual descriptions, but nothing too extreme, I believe, dead parent/sibling illusion, Valentina being a horrible being again.

WORD COUNT: 5,164

PAIRING: Robert Reynolds (Sentry/The Void) x fem!reader

A/N: Hope you guys like it. There will be one more part to this now mini series lmfao. It was supposed to be a one-shot, but the ideas kept coming.

MASTERLIST | PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3

Valentina had opened the door, the light from the hall greeting the body that lay slumped.

“She’s not dead, is she?” She looked over at Mel, holding a tablet to her chest. She was wearing a black blazer over her white blouse. Her eyes widened as the directed question finally settled into her mind. "Told some people to rough her up a bit, but geezus...look at her."

“Oh! Um…” She rushed forward, her jacket flailing outward as she crouched down, reaching two fingers forward, pressing them against your neck. She glanced at the watch on her wrist. Counting the barely there heartbeats. “Her heartbeat, it’s faint but there…Is she gonna die?” She stood slowly from crouching down before you.

“No. Why? Does her chart imply otherwise, because I need her alive? The kid may be gullible, but the other one…That one is a force to be reckoned with. Though I’m not too sure if he’s even aware of her state. I did separate them for a good while.”

"She should be fine. Her vitals look good. Her energy is still stable. A broken rib or two perhaps." Mel glances up from the tablet in her hand.

Valentina let her shoulders fall. The relief was so obvious that she nearly clicked her heels for you. Probed with genuine concern for your well-being. It was a change from the cold demeanor and indifference she carried for you.

"What is she worth to you?" Mel asked out of curiosity.

"What is she worth to me? She’s leverage, Mel. To sway that other one out there.” Valentina lifted her phone to her line of sight. "Bait him in with her while we still have the upper hand. It came with some force on my end, but she altered his memories before. Just as I hoped she could. Now, if we could just get her close enough to do it again. Come on, let's get a move on with transporting her. Two hands are better than four!"

"Isn't it four hands that are better than two?"

"Two hands!" Valentina called over her shoulder. Gesturing for Mel to follow her with you hauled up in her arms.

She looks back down at you.

“I guess I’m dragging you. Sorry.” She grimaced.

-

You didn't know the length of which you'd been out cold. It hadn't been long before you came to. Shaken, more like. Your disoriented state adjusting to the harsh darkness bleeding through a massive broken window. The tower. You sit up slowly, pushing up with your hands to steady your rise.

"Easy there." A voice spoke to your right, just barely above a whisper. You knew whose voice it belonged to. The false sincerity was evident. “Take it slow now, sweetheart. You’ve been through hell.”

Valentina. You turn your head steadily. Your gaze meets the smile you’ve wanted to slap off her face.

"You-" You muster enough to say. "You sent men after me, and then, they beat me down. Then you drugged me."

"I did." She admitted without a hint of shame. You scoff at her accountability.

"W-Where's Bob? What have you done with him now?"

A moment passed before she responded, the silence growing heavy. Terrorized screams and cries ran past the entrance. You finally glanced around, taking in the rubble of drywall disregarded, the entryway glass windows shattered, as though driven into. Your attention shifts to your left, eyeing the random delivery truck parked inside the building with genuine curiosity.

"Oh, your lover, he's outside right now, thrashing New York City for the umpteenth time, turning people into shadows, that sort of thing. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" She hums.

"Shadows?" You mutter to yourself before you push yourself off the ground, your legs try to give as you stand. "No...It's taken control over him again. It's happening again like it did in the lab." Your eyes shut.

She took note of your confusion, watching your movements carefully. "What do you mean, like it did in the lab?"

"You have no idea what we witnessed in Malaysia. It was something unexplainable. Way beyond our jurisdiction and capabilities, and you never bothered to try and hear us out. You have no idea what you're dealing with."

"You're right." Valentina conceded, taking a step forward. "I have no idea what we're dealing with…but what I do know is how you managed to go this far, this whole time, and not tell a single soul the abilities you possess. I mean a telepath? Mental manipulation, and a PHD under your belt. You're a shoo-in for the front cover of the New York Times, sweetheart."

Absolute dread consumes you.

Her lips curled into a smirk, noting your panic. "Oh, don't act so surprised. Your mother was quite a special lady, I hear. Talk about mother of the year, am I right? Those developed mommy issues, I’m sure. God, what kind of parent experiments on their own child?"

“She was unwell. S-She was lost after we lost my father.” You try to justify her actions like you'd done for half your life.

"Right…" Valentina stepped forward once more, the coolness of her breath hitting your face. "You always defend your mother's abuse? Even I know better than to believe that she wasn't anything but mentally unstable, not that you'd ever admit it, as I can see."

"What do you want from me?"

"Information. A way to control him." Her words were straightforward. No beating around the bush. Your gaze was drawn to the slight bruising forming around her neck.

Your stance grows confidence, as does your smirk. "This is way above your pay grade, huh?"

A scoff escaped her lips. "You're gonna go out there, use that bond you created with him to your advantage, and alter his memory."

Was she serious?

"You really believe altering his memories will stop this chaos?" You scoff at her this time. "You're in over your head, lady."

She paused, taking a moment to examine your reluctance. "Then what would you suggest to stop him?" She complained.

"I don't know-"

"Then how the hell can you stand there and claim that I'm the one in over my head? The nerve you have, kid-"

"Look, the last time we dealt with him this way. Two of our doctors died. I was a last resort to bring him down from his own mind, they thought I could talk to him, since I was the only one he was comfortable around, but-"

"Perfect! We'll use that then." Valentina was satisfied with the idea and started dragging you outside.

"No wait! You don't know what you're dealing with, Valentina. I wasn't able to-" You grunt as she shoved you out onto the road. You catch your bearings as you peer up at her with anguish.

"I don't care what we're dealing with. You're gonna fix this and put this city back to the way it was, or so help me!"

"Just stop and listen for once! I can't help him the way you think I can. I-It didn't wo-" You begin to shake your head until you flatten against the concrete. Left as a shadowed victim in her wake. Valentina falters backward. Peering at the shadow of you that begins spreading like a wildfire.

"Shit!" The silence that followed Valentina's panicked outburst was unsettling.

-

“Where do you go…” Bob looks up from the IV you inserted into his left vein. “When you’re not here…with me?”

You paused your insertion, then continue putting tape over the line to prevent it from falling out of his skin. His curious eyes make the corners of your lips curl up.

“Home.” Your tone was casual as can be. “I-I go home. Then come back here to do it all over again.” You pick up your chart and jot notes down. They’d kill you on sight if your documentation was behind. They wouldn’t be able to rely on the existence of your tests if there’s no proof of you doing them.

“What’s something you like to do for fun?”

You feel the gentle caress of his fingertips, pushing back a strand that got in the way of his view of you.

Your pen stops moving as you tilt your head up. His eyes soften as he timidly curls the hand on your face around to cup your neck. A small gasp leaves you as a flash crosses the forefront of your mind. A little girl watches from behind an ajar door, peeking inside a lab where a disheveled woman, near right, trashes her equipment. ‘It’s not working? Why isn’t it working?’ The woman exclaims. Bob's voice pulls you back.

He watches how your face goes blank for a split second until life flashes across your eyes again. He didn’t mean to make you relive a memory. A new ability of his that he had yet to gain control over.

“I’m sorry.” He goes to pull his hand back. “I didn’t mean to make you see that-“

“You can’t help it.” You reassured. “But umm…besides talking to you and the guinea pigs…” You breathe a nervous laugh, wanting to make light of the troubling memory you saw. His grin widens a bit as he senses the notion of your teasing. “I like to write sometimes. Reading is what I do most, though.”

“W-What do you write about?” He focuses his attention on caressing your skin with his thumb. Taken by your good nature, how pure you were compared to the others who manhandled him. Your touch was always so sweet, gentle.

He hated himself more than ever in this moment; he made you relive a memory unintentionally. He couldn’t help that when he came into contact with someone, they’d get a relapse of their past.

“Anything. Everything. My life. What life could be. How my life could have been. Though it's mostly about a girl who wants to live a life that's not her own, someone who's entered this false fantasy she craves more than anything. I don’t like to dwell too much on reality when writing honestly. It’s trying to escape it, I write more of.”

"D-Do you think your writing helps you to cope...with reality? From certain pain."

"It distracts me for a short while." Your eyes flutter as he continues to trace your neck to your jawline. The slight twitch of your muscles didn't go unnoticed by him. His thumb gently presses just a bit under your ear in response. "It's temporary, though. An...illusion. It only helps so much. You still have to come back to reality at the end of the day. You can never escape from what’s truly real."

“That’s a bit ironic, no?” Bob’s brows furrow in thought. His smile remains the same. Gentle and serene. “Wanting to run from reality doesn’t seem like something a doctor like you would do, since you’re all about the science and the logic of things?”

"Science and logic doesn't always have to be applied to all things in life." You respond nonchalantly as you make another mark on your paper. A soft hum escapes you as he continues to rub your neck with his thumb at the same time. "I prefer to see things from a variety of perspectives, through emotions, for example."

He nods, taking in your response. He's not too surprised that a woman like you isn't confined to thinking one particular way. For one, you never saw him as a weapon, a subject to be tested on. He wasn’t another candidate, he was just Bob to you, and you were Y/n to him.

You tilt your head up, your gaze meeting his once more. “Just because I'm a scientist doesn't mean I'm not human. I have vices. I have opinions. I have feelings. I have fears as much as I do doubts. I have weaknesses...As I have certain strengths." You mutter the last bit. Bob locks eyes with you. His eyes softened. “So yes, I suppose it may seem ironic, but when you know certain truths, you start to wonder if logic and reasoning are enough anymore to justify the reality of them.“

Bob’s gaze remains locked onto yours, his smile disappearing as he seems to get caught up in his thoughts. He seemed hesitant to speak aloud. He continues to gently rub your neck, the touch of his thumb on your skin sending ripples down your spine.

After a few moments of him not saying anything, you speak up. "Penny for your thoughts?"

“I-I know exactly what that feels like and I wanna kiss you for it…”

Your head snapped up instantly, your eyes widening in surprise. You can visibly see that Bob's demeanor has changed. The calm, gentle aura he had before has turned into something much more intense, something much more charged and desperate and full of want. His grip on your neck tightens just a bit. His gaze is fixed on your lips, as if he's been starved.

The faint flicker between his amber eyes then to his blue ones had you wanting to take precaution like they taught you all to do, but you don’t remove his grasp on your neck, and let him in. Let him kiss you. It wasn’t long until Bob wrapped a hand around your waist to tug you closer.

“She was your person…” Yelena‘s heart hammers with guilt. The others quietly take in the tender scene unfolding.

“S-She’s the only one who saw me.” Bob’s eyes tear up at the sight of you and him together. “And I couldn’t save her, I-” Bob flinches as another you enters the room they’re all in, the door having been slammed open.

“What’s this one?” Yelena reaches for her gun by her side, having been startled by your appearance as well.

“I don't know…” Bob’s brows furrow as he watches this version of you, fear-stricken. “I don’t have any memories of this, at all.”

“Y/n?” Bob sat up.

“Bob! Oh my god, thank god!” You exclaim, rushing forward to cup his face. “You're okay. I’ve missed you!”

“Y/n, what are you doing here?” Bob was startled by your hurried entrance. He hadn’t seen you for months. Then he woke up alone with no clue where he was, and now you appeared out of the blue.

“I don’t have much time-“ You hurried around the space, frantically pulling out a syringe and a bottle. "Valentina will know I'm here and send people after me."

“Wait, what do you mean?” Bob steps back.

“I need to hurry. I gotta get you out of here.” Your shaking hands fumbled with the syringe. Bob reaches for them. Another memory pulling you from this reality at his touch. You stood still, motionless, until Bob pulled back, guilt eating at his features as he heard you gasp. You looked around, out of breath, until your gaze settled on him once again. You were still here. You were still here with him.

“I-I don’t understand-“Bob's brows furrow as he holds his hands out.

“They don't know that you made it through the final trial.” You stop altogether, meeting his scared eyes. "That you're alive. Valentina only knows what I've been telling her, but they don't know. I can get you out of here while I still can. We can go like we talked about. O-Our mediocre picket fence cliche." You breathe out a laugh. "We've got to go now, though!"

“Alive? But I am alive! Why would she think otherwise…” Bob’s innocence always seemed to fill you with dread. You close your eyes.

“Because I told her you didn't.” You peer open your eyes. Finding his resolve disappearing.

“You what?”

“I was never gonna go through with it. The others didn't make it, and when you came to us in Malaysia, every test we ran kept working...Your trials exceeded our expectations. The way things were heading, though, they were only gonna weaponize you. I couldn't do it. I couldn't stand with them, while you only endured more pain. You have to know this! It’s why you woke up.” You held his arms. Eyeing his entire being, head to toe. He wasn’t scarred or injured. He was fine. “I had to make it look real, but she knows now. She found out about what I did.”

“I don’t remember this.” Bob walked towards the replica of yourself. “She told me she wanted to out Valentina's secrets to the public? This isn't my memory.” Bob shakes his head. "I don't remember this!"

The memory glitched. Your body convulsed until the memory glitched once more, and the next you were kneeling before him, crying.

"I don't want to. I don't want to. You took them from me." You choked back a sob. You were talking to yourself.

"Y/n? Don't want to what?" He cupped your face.

"I'm so sorry..." A tear fell down your face before your hands reached up, cupping his face. You gasped before his body gave, and he slumped into your shoulder. You cradled him close. Closing your eyes as you kissed his hair.

“Well, if it’s not yours, then whose is it?” John questioned.

“I-It’s mine.” Their heads whip around. Your disheveled state catches them off guard. You’d been walking for what felt like hours through various doors of your past. All filled with some form of pain, guilt, and dread, you had to endure. Much like this one. “Hi.”

Bob’s shoulders dropped when he realized that it was really you. You curled in on yourself as five suited figures stared back at you. All curious, all wondering the same thing, like how the hell you’d end up here with all of them.

“Y/n…” Bob called out your name as though it made it all the more real. “I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming.” He shook his head as you grew closer.

“If you’re here, then…you weren’t dead when I found you.” Yelena was taken by her realization. Your pulse had been nonexistent when she checked. Now you stood amongst them, facing your own demons like theirs in the void. “You were dead.” She stated. "I felt no pulse. They beat the shit out of you."

You nodded, peering up at the blonde, lifting your chin, which was facing the ground. “They call it Tetrodotoxin B; it slows the heart to one beat per minute. It’s how I slowed Bob’s to trick them into thinking he didn't make it.” Your voice croaks, dread overconsumes you.

“She wanted me dead,” Bob states. "I thought she got you, too."

Your hands shake, tears falling past your waterline. You shake your head. An ache returns to the forefront of your mind, but it settles in your chest. “Valentina can eat shit. You can't take me down that easily." You shrug, a faint smile on your face. You were worn out.

"Y-You changed my memories." Bob's bottom lip trembled. "Could you do that all this time we were together? I never knew you could do that."

"Since I was fifteen, and I only altered it." You reassured. "Gave you a reality that wouldn't hurt as much to remember."

"The memory with Valentina holding a gun at you-"

"I gave it to you. It wasn't real, but keeping us apart was real. Her sending her men to beat the shit out of me. Real. I'm good now." Your voice cracks with exhaustion.

"You told me you were, are you still, is that real?" You gathered what he was trying to ask in front of the others. Your own dam broke. You begin to shake your head no.

"No." You mutter. "I'm not pregnant. What you saw was an altered memory of my mother and father."

"Oh."

"Yeah..."

"What are you?" Ava speculated.

"My mom's lab rat." That was all you gave them. You didn't want to pursue the memory of her in whatever this place was. "Gone wrong..."

"Why wouldn't you tell me?" You look over to Bob.

“I thought I was protecting you…I didn't want to add on to here.” Your voice cracks, lightly tapping his temple. “I can give anyone any memory, make them see something great or horrific rather than something they want to forget. I wasn't gifted with the ability to take away any of the bad ones, though.” You couldn’t stop the tears from falling. "Why would she do this to me? I can do something incredible, but it's flawed. It's good for a specific use, when it could be something greater." You push your arms outward in question. You pause before continuing, catching your breath. "She got them like she said she would, my family." Your voice cracks. "After she found out I knew you were alive, she made me watch. So now there's not much left for me to mourn over...but I'm damned if she tries to kill you.”

A curdle scream made you all flinch, four shots firing off, but two dead bodies dropping over, the telltale signs of your trauma. You peer at them, your brother, your mother. Numb to the sight, but the ache lingered like a burned-out candle.

“What is this place, Bob…?” You mutter as the gory imagery fades into another illusion. Yelena steps over to you, placing a steady hand around your forearms, pressing her head against yours gently. You look back at Bob, who stared at the spot where your mom and younger brother lay. Then he turned back to you. Reaching out for your touch.

"A void." Bob presses his nose into your hair for comfort. You lean into his embrace, comforted by the soft texture of his jumper. "Where'd you come from?"

"I don't know, Valentina threw me out onto the street. Thinking I could sway your void-self. Which I got to hand it to her, she had high expectations." You scoff. "I'm sure he took one look at me and well...here I am going through endless doors of hell." You laugh at your own predicament.

"How dare he..." Bob's gaze softens. “I would’ve left you alone.” He muttered, holding onto you in a way he had been deprived of for months. You let a soft chuckle escape your lips as you buried your face in his chest, soaking up the heat that radiated off of him. The steady beating of his heart was a sound you’d heard plenty of times before, but you took the time to appreciate it anyway. You feel his lips place a soft kiss down on top of your head, melting away your burdens.

"I know you would've." You peer up at Bob, but he doesn't meet your gaze. Instead, he stared dead ahead, glaring at the empty void that now presented itself before you all. The others exchanged uneasy looks. "Bob?" You called out softly, but he remains still. You finally glanced around. "This is the lab..." You push back from him. Your gaze settles on your workstation. Moments, flashes of laughter, and grunts of frustration are displayed like a broken record.

"He's not gonna come back, is he?" A timid-natured Bob looks back towards the entryway. Then settles his gaze on you. He reaches forward to fix the collar of your lab coat.

"No. He's out for a bit. You can relax."

"Hey, Y/n-"

"Mhm." You're writing something in your notebook.

"If it doesn't work out tomorrow-"

"It will!" You turn, facing him, to calm his worries.

"Y-You don't know that. I mean, anything could go wrong. Surely something is going to go wrong-"

"I do." You nod, but you sound uncertain.

"It's okay if it doesn't. I know you've always had my best interests. You've been there for me when no one else has. It's okay if the procedure doesn't go the way you want it to."

"No, I don't think it will be. Okay, I mean. I don't know if anything will ever be fine again if it doesn't work."

You step closer to the limited fond memory. Another flash appears before the previously existing one fades.

"Will it hurt?"

You tilted your head at the sight of yourself, first meeting him.

"No. You shouldn't feel a thing. It’s just got a bit of a sting, more like a poke. H-Have you ever pricked your finger on something? Maybe a splinter stuck in your skin. A needle point, maybe even a-"

"Does a slap count as a sting?"

"Oh...Um, I-I suppose it could, but trust me when I say it won't feel as bad as-" You gasped as you stumbled into the bed's edge, he sat perched on.

"Dr Y/L/N?" Your eyes rolled to the back of your head before you fell to the ground. Bob panicked as he lurched forward in an attempt to save you from your head crashing against the hard, cold floor.

"H-Help! Can someone help! S-She needs help in here!" Bob cradled you in his arms, calling out to any listening ears, before he was dragged into your memories.

"I've been here already," Yelena tilts her head.

You shift your attention, being drawn towards the eerie figure sitting on the bed.

"This is where it all started. I was roaming around Southeast Asia, thought I'd figure something out, or at least find more drugs." You step with Bob as he cautiously tells his story. "Then there's this guy. He started talking to me about a medical study. A trial drug that can make me stronger. I met Y/n shortly after that. It felt like a miracle...I'd finally get to show everyone that I was more. That I was something."

"And look what you unleashed." The void spoke. His head lifted as he got up to round the bed. "The most shameful thing of all was thinking you could be anything more than nothing."

"We're leaving." Yelena straightened her back as she stood before the Void.

"...No."

Before you knew it, your air circulation was being prevented as you fell to your knees before the dark figure.

Yelena made a beeline for you, only to get thrown back with Alexei. The rest of the group followed your demise. Wrapping them in metal and wires against your work stations and the back wall.

Void chuckled under his breath as he lifted his gaze to meet your eyes, locking you in place. “You thought I’d show you mercy? You limited us. Fed us false hope. Love is weak. Why should we spare you? You don't care about him. You don't accept this part of him. Bob and I will remain alone.” He taunted, gripping tighter, forcing your windpipe shut. You watched helplessly as you were thrown around like a ragdoll, then fell a few feet from Bob, still grasping for air as you clutched at your neck, tears welling up in your eyes. No one there to soothe you.

Bob watched in stunned horror. He couldn't move, but you saw his body tense, fight response kicking in.

"D-Don't listen t-to him, Bob- please!" You rasp out in labored breaths.

The mention of his name snaps him out of his stance. He focuses his attention on you. Worry was a clear indicator across his eyes, but he stood his ground in front of the Void. Moving his body to block his view of you.

"Stop. J-Just let them go." Bob pleaded.

"You think they care about you? You don't matter. To anyone." The Void replied, his tone sounding smug.

"That's not true-ugh!" Yelena's protests of pain were emitted out loud. A wire tightened around her neck

"We do care about him-argh!" You exclaim, an immense pain pulsing in the center of your chest. You choke back on air, raising a hand to your chest, grabbing at the sting that settled in it. Your body gave up as you fell to your side slowly.

"Don't hurt her..." Bob responded. "We don't hurt her."

"She won't last." The Void, not done hazing the group, pushed glass particles towards all of you. A few miniature cuts were caused by the sharp pieces. "Robert the hero." He chuckled darkly.

To instigate him further, he felt the need to forcefully pull you towards him. He gave you a moment's worth of rest before his shadowed hand gripped itself around your neck. Lifting you off the ground five inches. You grasped at them, trying to pry them off you.

"Let her go."

"No." The Void pulled you closer to him. Its shadowed demeanor added to the fear you felt when you pushed against it. The two orbs for eyes did nothing but unsettle you. He leaned in, pressing his nose against your temple much like Bob had done earlier in a comforting manner.

Bob stepped forward, squaring his shoulders like a lion guarding its territory. "I'm stronger than you."

"Let's see." He tilted his head. Then he was shoving you onto the ground beside Bob in a split second

It didn't take Bob long to rush at him. You slumped onto your side. Your head resting against the cold ground. Your energy was drained as you tried to regain oxygen in your system. "N-No."

Void and he went at it for a few seconds. Punching, dodging. Though Void got the upper hand as Bob was sent to the floor.

"Get up, Bobby!" John encouraged.

"You thought you were gonna be some great man. Some savior." Void mocked him, Bob slowly pushing himself off the floor. "You can't even save yourself." Bob lurched forward again. Until he received multiple punches to his gut. Void threw in a good lick across his jaw before he sent him to the ground once more.

"Bob, get up...get up." Your outcry made him meet your gaze.

"We will always be alone."

If you didn't think it couldn't get worse, you were wrong, as the room expanded. Increasing the distance between you all and Bob. Out of reach.

Bob pushed up a bit, glancing at each one of you, before he made up his mind. Turning to run, to tackle Void to the ground. The ongoing right and left hooks never ended as the room began to shake and tear itself apart.

"This isn't right." Bucky shook his head.

"Bob, stop!" Yelena called out.

"It's taking over him again..." You close your eyes, feeling lightheaded. You peer down at your side, your hand pressing into your abdomen, pulling it back to take in your red-coated palm. You were bleeding. Void's manacled laughter growing as Bob continued punching the shit out of him, did not easing your worries. "T-This is what he wants..." You mutter to the rest of them before your vision grows foggy.

"Y/n?" Bucky tries to push against the light protector wrapped around him. "Hey, kid!" Bucky grunts.

With all his strength left, Alexei freed Yelena. She made a run for it. Towards Bob. Your vision gives as the last thing you see is her wrapping her arms around him.

[fanficgirl429]

The Next Door Neighbor

Bucky x fem!reader

Prompt: A mysterious neighbor moves next door and the more you get to know him the more you begin to fall for him

---

The apartment next door had finally been occupied. For months, it had sat dark and silent, a blank space behind a closed door. You’d almost gotten used to the quiet, but still, you hoped that whoever moved in would be… calm. Quiet. Preferably not the kind of person who threw loud parties until 3 a.m. like the last tenants had.

It had been nearly a week since the new neighbor arrived, and despite your curiosity, you hadn’t crossed paths with him yet. Sometimes you’d hear the soft thud of a door closing or the muffled sound of footsteps echoing through the hallway, but it wasn’t often. Whoever he was, he was low-key—and that was fine by you.

This afternoon, a notification buzzed on your phone: your package had finally arrived. You slipped on your shoes, grabbed your keys from the bowl by the door, and headed out toward the mailboxes, hoping to beat the usual afternoon rush.

Just as you stepped into the hallway, the door next to yours swung open. A tall figure emerged, and your eyes met for the first time.

He had striking blue eyes—bright against the contrast of his dark hair—and an expression that hovered somewhere between tired and guarded.

“Hi! I’m Y/N,” you said with a friendly smile. “I live next door.”

“Nice to meet you,” he replied, his tone neutral but not unkind. And then, without another word, he turned and started walking down the hall.

You blinked after him. What the hell?

Without thinking, you headed in the same direction. After all, you still had a package to grab—but your pace quickened, trailing just a few steps behind him.

He glanced back, arching a brow. “Are you following me?” he asked, a teasing note in his voice.

“No,” you replied, holding back a laugh. “I’m just trying to get my package.”

He gave a small, amused shake of his head as he stopped in front of the elevator, pressing the down button. You came to a halt beside him, trying not to make things any more awkward.

“I don’t bite,” he said with a grin, flashing a hint of charm that hadn’t been there before.

You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth tugged upward in response. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

“Lobby?” he asked, stepping aside so you could enter first.

“Yeah.”

He pressed the button and moved to stand next to you, his shoulder just a few inches from yours.

“I’m Bucky,” he said after a moment.

“It’s nice to meet you, Bucky.”

Silence followed, filled only by the soft whir of the elevator and the distant hum of the building. The air felt thick with something unspoken. Not quite tension, but awareness.

“So… been in the city long?” you asked, breaking the quiet.

“Just got in last week,” he replied, eyes fixed on the doors. “Still figuring things out.”

You nodded. “Well, if you ever need tips or directions, I’ve been here a while. Happy to help.”

He looked at you then, just briefly. “Thanks,” he said, and though it was soft, it sounded sincere. “Might take you up on that.”

The elevator slowed, then opened to the lobby. You both stepped out and walked side by side toward the row of mailboxes. Your package—small, rectangular, with your name scrawled in thick black ink—was waiting right where it should be.

To your surprise, Bucky stopped at a box just two down from yours. He fiddled with his key, then cast a glance your way.

“You always that friendly to new neighbors?” he asked, a subtle smirk playing on his lips.

You grinned. “Only the ones who don’t throw wild parties.”

He chuckled—a low, warm sound that made your stomach flip unexpectedly. “Guess I pass, then.”

----

Over the next few weeks, you and Bucky ran into each other more often. Casual hellos turned into longer glances. You began to notice the little things: the way he always wore the same worn leather jacket, how he disappeared for hours and came back looking a little winded, the quiet way he moved through the building as if trying not to draw attention.

Before long, you found yourself timing your trips into the hallway to line up with his. Maybe it was coincidence at first… but eventually, you had to admit it: you’d developed a bit of a crush on your mysterious, handsome neighbor.

There was something about him—something that lingered just outside your memory. As if you’d seen him before. As if you knew him from somewhere.

But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t quite place it.

-----

You tried not to overthink it. People looked familiar all the time—maybe you’d passed him on the street before, or seen him in a coffee shop. Maybe he just had one of those faces.

Still, it nagged at you.

One evening, you found yourself standing at your stove, half-distracted as pasta boiled over. You grabbed your phone and opened your messages, staring at the blank space where you'd thought—maybe—about texting someone about Bucky. But what would you even say? "Hey, do you know the guy who moved in next door? I think I might have seen his face in a dream." Yeah, that wouldn’t sound unhinged at all.

A soft knock on your door snapped you out of your spiral.

You turned down the burner and crossed the small apartment to answer it. Standing there, holding a paper bag and looking a little sheepish, was Bucky.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you, uh… like Chinese?”

You blinked. “Are you asking me out, or trying to unload leftovers?”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Bit of both. I may have ordered way too much.”

You stepped aside, gesturing him in. “Lucky for you, I was just about to burn dinner.”

He walked in, careful not to track in dirt from the hallway, and set the bag on your counter. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just got a mix of stuff.”

“You’re already doing better than the last guy who tried to feed me,” you said with a smirk. “He brought instant noodles and thought it was romantic.”

Bucky laughed under his breath. “Ouch.”

The two of you settled on the couch, balancing takeout containers on your knees as an old sitcom played quietly in the background. Conversation flowed easier than you expected. He told you a bit about moving to the city, how the pace was different from where he used to live, though he didn’t say where that was. You got the sense he was still adjusting, still figuring out how to be here.

You didn’t push. Instead, you told him about your job, the weird neighbors down the hall, the best place to get coffee nearby. He listened more than he spoke, but when he did talk, he was thoughtful. Wry. Honest in a way that made you feel like you didn’t have to try so hard.

At one point, you caught him watching you—not in a creepy way, but with quiet curiosity, like he was trying to memorize the way you moved or spoke. You looked back at him, and for a moment, the air between you stretched taut.

“What?” you asked, pretending to sound casual.

“Nothing,” he said, but his voice was lower. “You just… remind me of someone.”

There it was again. That something.

You tilted your head. “Yeah? Anyone good?”

His smile faded just a little. “Yeah. Someone good.”

The moment passed, but it left something behind. A question neither of you asked out loud.

By the time he stood to leave, the sky outside had gone dark, and the half-eaten containers sat forgotten on your coffee table.

“Thanks for the food,” you said, walking him to the door.

“Thanks for not slamming it in my face,” he replied, grinning again.

You hesitated. “Hey… Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever feel like you’ve met someone before, even if you’re sure you haven’t?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to yours, something unreadable in them.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I do.”

Then he nodded once and disappeared into the hallway, leaving you standing in your doorway with your heart doing an annoying little flutter behind your ribs.

----

After Bucky left that night, you didn’t bother cleaning up the leftover takeout. You just stood there for a long moment, staring at the door, heart still thudding in your chest like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

There was something about him. Not just his face or that quiet charm he didn’t even seem to realize he had—it was deeper. Like your paths were meant to cross. Like maybe they already had.

The next few days passed with more of the usual: work, errands, passing hellos in the hallway. But everything felt a little more charged now. You were more aware of the way Bucky’s eyes lingered on you when you talked. The way his arm brushed yours when you passed in the narrow corridor. The way he smiled at you—hesitant but real, like he was still trying to decide if he was allowed to enjoy it.

One night, close to midnight, you found yourself standing on your tiny balcony with a blanket around your shoulders, staring out at the city lights. It was one of those warm spring evenings where the air felt like a soft whisper on your skin. You didn’t hear the door next to yours open, but you heard him—the sound of Bucky stepping out onto his balcony, just a few feet away, separated only by a wrought iron divider and the hush of midnight.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, voice low, like he didn’t want to wake the world.

You looked over. He was in sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, blue hoodie, hair messy, eyes soft in the dark.

“Nope,” you said. “City’s too loud tonight.”

Bucky leaned on the railing, glancing over at you. “Funny. I thought you said you were used to it.”

“I am. Doesn’t mean I always like it.”

He was quiet for a second. Then: “Want some company?”

You hesitated, just long enough to feel your heart skip, then nodded. “Yeah. Come on over.”

Moments later, he stepped through the door and onto your balcony, pulling the blanket from your shoulders and wrapping it around both of you without asking. His arm brushed yours as he stood beside you, the warmth of him bleeding into your skin.

“Is this okay?” he asked, glancing down at you.

You looked up, met his eyes. “Yeah. It’s more than okay.”

The city sprawled out below you, but you barely noticed it anymore.

“You’re not like most people I’ve met,” he said suddenly.

You laughed softly. “Is that a good thing?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Most people… talk too much, want too much. You don’t push. You just… let things be.”

“I don’t want to scare you off.”

His gaze dropped to your lips. “Maybe I wouldn’t run.”

The air between you changed, turned heavy and sweet. He stepped a little closer, one hand lifting to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your skin, lingered there for just a second too long.

Your breath hitched.

“I should probably ask if this is okay too,” he murmured.

You smiled, heartbeat thundering. “It is.”

And then his lips were on yours—slow, deliberate, like he wanted to remember the way you tasted. You leaned into him, hands resting lightly against his chest as the blanket slipped slightly, forgotten, pooling around your elbows. The kiss deepened gradually, not rushed, not frantic. Just… real.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, both of you breathless and blinking like you weren’t quite sure what just happened—but neither of you wanted it to stop.

“Okay,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Definitely more than okay.”

Bucky smiled then—really smiled—and you felt something unfurl in your chest. Something new, but familiar. Like you’d been waiting for this moment and didn’t even know it.

[pilgrimagesource]

🚨 E-BOOK "AUTHOR" IS PLAGIARIZING PILGRIMAGE FICS 🚨

Buckle up, folks, this is gonna be a long one.

Our prolific author, @relicshamecircle (aka EnduringParadox on ao3) has been made aware of an e-book "author" named Layla Moran who has been blatantly plagiarizing her Diarmute fanfics and just changing the names and a few words around. This is absolutely unacceptable. I always like to think of this fandom as a safe haven and an accepting, kind community. But this is disgusting.

These are the three specific works listed on Layla's account that have been plagiarized from EnduringParadox:

This seems to be the work of someone within the fandom, because how else would she have found these fics and read them and decided to pass them as her own? So Layla Moran, if you follow me and you're reading this, you have made Pilgrimage fanfic authors, who are already so few and far between, feel unsafe to post without you getting your greedy hands on them and trying to take advantage of a small fandom for your own profit. Did you think you would never get caught? My advice to you would be to take down the works yourself before this has to get nasty.

To everyone else, I urge you to report and/or leave one-star reviews stating that they're plagiarized from fanfic. Links and proof below the cut:

The summary of The Beauty and His Beast:

Which is CLEARLY An Invitation to Happiness:

Ugh, Everild and Camdyn... what ugly names. But I digress. Here's the link to the GoodReads page if you feel so inclined to leave a one-star review and report.

An excerpt from An Invitation to Happiness, EnduringParadox:

"David hadn’t fought for glory or gold. At the time, he thought he’d stood for God—that the king’s cause, which he so readily made his own, was not only legitimate but justified both on earth and in the eyes of Heaven. More than five years later, carved into adulthood by the sword’s blade, his body a hardened knot of scarred skin, his throat ravaged by his own roars of rage and anguish, David knows better. That he had gone to war simply because he had been foolish. Because he’d been a young man but had still looked at war with a boy’s eyes—half a solemn duty, half a game. Something that would be done and done with satisfaction."

An excerpt from The Beauty and His Beast, Layla Moran:

"Everild Reed hadn't fought for glory or gold. At the time, he thought he'd stood for God--that the king's cause, which he eagerly made his own, was not only legitimate but justified both on earth and in the eyes of Heaven. More than five years later, carved into adulthood by the sword's blade and burdened with the weight of his choices, his body a hardened knot of muscle and scarred skin, Everild knows better now."

--

The summary of The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband:

Which, obviously, is Bluebells and Daylillies and Wild Roses Running Rampant:

Come ON, even naming Diarmuid's character "Ciarán"???? (And misspelling it Ciarian in the summary??) Here's a link to the GoodReads page. You know what to do.

And THIS ONE she's making money off of. You can buy it for $2.99 on Amazon.

Here's a link to the Amazon page, please report.

An excerpt from Bluebells and Daylillies and Wild Roses Running Rampant, EnduringParadox:

"David had almost joined their company. He’d gone nearly the entire war without being shot and damned if near the end of it all someone hadn’t gotten him right in the leg. The surgeon had told him they needed to take the entire limb. David had grabbed his collar, pulled him close until they were nose-to-nose, and gritted out that he’d break every one of his fingers if he tried it. He kept the leg, earned a limp, and found later, when he was beset by memories and the scent of blood and gunpowder, dizzy, pulse racing, that he’d gotten what they called the soldier’s heart, too."

An excerpt from The Rancher's Mail-Order Husband, Layla Moran:

"Graham had come close to joining the dead himself, narrowing surviving a gunshot wound to the leg near the warn's end. The surgeon wanted to amputate, and Graham, fueled by desperation, had snarled at him through gritted teeth, threatening to break his fingers if he so much as tried. He kept the leg but earn a limp that followed him everywhere, along with something the doctors called 'soldier's heart'--a condition that left him shaking, sleepless, and burdened with memories of blood and gunpowder."

--

And, finally, a summary of The Warrior and The Monk:

Which is just Temu how rich the earth, how bright the stars:

Here's a link to the GoodReads. Rate, report.

An excerpt from how rich the earth, how bright the stars, EnduringParadox:

"One morning, strangers in longships stepped onto the shore. Their arrival was no surprise. Along the sea's coast they drifted, slow, languid, in their monstrously large and narrow vessels with their monstrously large, woven sails dyed in bright, garish colors, a beacon to all that saw them, telling them—as their longships loomed like a pack of wolves stalking their prey—that they were coming."

An excerpt from The Warrior and The Monk, Layla Moran:

"One early morning, strangers in longships silently stepped onto the shore, their presence casting a heavy weight upon the land. Their arrival had been anticipated for days, maybe longer, and was no surprise to those who dwelled in the monastery overlooking the coast. The ships had been visible for miles as they drifted slowly, languidly, along the sea's edge, cutting through the waves like beasts with a purpose. They moved in their long, narrow vessels, which seemed both too large and too lean, with sails woven from thick cloth and dyed in bright, garish colors that stood out against the pale sea and sky. The sails themselves were like beacons, drawing attention,"

--

This is all so blatant and egregious. Shame on Layla. EnduringParadox is a kind and dedicated person writing all of these wonderful stories for our small fandom for FREE and Layla has taken advantage of that. We are small but we are mighty and protective of our own. Let's make Layla regret fucking with Pilgrimage.

[rowdydevs]

what was bardown!rafe’s reaction to hearing pornstar??

Thank you so much for your ask! 💕This can absolutely be read as a standalone—no need to read Bar Down first. All you need to know is that Rafe and the reader got together quickly, but they agreed to slow things down after a misunderstanding. Much to Rafe’s frustration, they’re “just friends” for now… but it’s anything but simple with these two. Rafe is a defenseman on the LA Kings, and this story takes place in Los Angeles. Kelce is the goalie, dating the reader’s best friend, Stassie. If you have read Bar Down, this occurs right before Valentine’s Day and the Four Nations Tournament.

*intentional text message spelling mistakes*

+18 -> smut

𝓱𝓸𝓬𝓴𝓮𝔂!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓹𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

c/w: pining, teasing, swearing, ownership (you're mine, etc.), pet names, smau at the end, mutual masturbation <- neither one is aware, but there are graphic depictions of Rafe and the reader in fantasy, dirty talk, sex toys, wet and messy, Rafe and the reader are down bad, pathetic!rafe

Rafe’s phone lights up with your name. Mid-stretch on the couch, he answers like he’s been waiting all day.

“Hey, you,” your voice hums through the speaker, warm and teasing. “You free?”

He smiles, already sitting up. “It’s an off night.”

“So?”

Rafe leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees like you could somehow see him through the phone. “Off nights are for you.”

You laugh—bright and helpless—trying to play it cool but giving yourself away instantly. “God, you’re a sweetheart,” you murmur, smiling so wide it almost hurts.

“A sweetheart, huh? You know Kelce thinks I’m pathetic, right?”

“Kelce?”

“Yeah. Says I’m whipped.”

“Mhmm… And he’s not with Stassie?” you tease.

“Nah, we both are, sweetheart,” Rafe shrugs with a grin. “Lost causes when it comes to you two—like you didn’t already know.”

“I wasn’t aware…”

“No shit?” He laughs and sighs softly. “Guess I’ll need to come on stronger—”

You giggle and sigh too—a little laugh that lets him know you’d love that more than anything. “Well, I actually called because I need your help with something—”

“My help?” He asks, and you can hear the smile in his deep voice.

“Mhmm…”

“Anything for you.”

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

You’re standing in front of his door. All dolled up: lips glossy, hair curled, heels high, holding a garment bag and a heavy-looking canvas tote.

Rafe opens it and takes one look at you, any semblance of a “cool guy” act folding with a single glance. “Damn. Please tell me you’re moving in—”

You laugh and roll your pretty eyes. “Ha, ha.”

“M’serious,” he says as you stroll past him, tossing the garment bag onto the couch. “I’m here on business?”

“Business?” He repeats, one brow lifting in that teasing way he knows drives you crazy.

You spin around, eyes dancing as you dig into your tote, pulling out a smaller bag—and from it, a chunky, silver-trimmed camcorder straight out of the early 2000s.

Rafe blinks a few times, staring back at you. “Okay…”

“You’re helping me shoot a music video,” you say sweetly.

Rafe stares even harder, brows rumpling with confusion. “You’re jokin’… Me?”

“Of course you.” A grin tugs slow and wide across his mouth as he reaches for the camera. “It’s supposed to look like it’s shot at home, very chill, relaxed—”

“Holy shit,” he mutters, voice already dropping into that soft, playful tone he only ever uses with you. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” you coo as you reach into the garment bag pulling out a black satin dress you know he’ll love.

“My pleasure…” The words leave his lips slower than intended, almost comically slow as his entire night takes a turn for the better. His dream girl in his apartment, dressed like a fantasy. Yeah, it’s not getting any better than this.

You hold up the dress by the hanger, fingers delicate as they slide down the material before throwing Rafe a wink and disappearing down his hallway. His eyes track the swing of your hips until you vanish behind the bathroom door. The door stays cracked open—just barely, but enough—enough to send him into a tailspin.

Rafe stares at the space between the hinges like it’s a portal; a portal filled with mistakes he can’t afford to make if he wants you back. One where he’d slam the door and take you right there on the bathroom counter, dismissing any ‘just friends’ rule he has the displeasure of following.

His heart hammers in his chest; palms sweaty as he grips the camcorder like a lifeline. Rafe drags a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. “… Think pure thoughts,” he mutters. “Be normal. Be cool. Be a friend.”

He fiddles with the buttons, clearing his throat like that might somehow fix him. “I, uh… Wha—what’s the name of the song, sweetheart?” He calls, desperate to redirect his thoughts.

“Pornstar,” you answer, light and bubbly like it’s just any other word and the man hearing it isn’t Rafe Cameron.

Rafe freezes, staring at the wall blankly before looking down at the camcorder in his clammy hands like it might catch fire. He laughs—dry and nervous—shaking his head, trying to rattle out his impure thoughts. “Of course it is,” he mutters. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Rafe leans back against the counter, staring up at the ceiling, trying to redirect his thoughts, derailing in a moment as the door creaks and time stops. You step out in a satin dress—the inky black fabric clinging to your soft skin like it was painted on.

Your hair is tossed messily; lashes dark and fluttering. You look through the camera at him, giving him that come-hither smile that has him holding his breath.

You walk past him again—dressed like sin, and Rafe follows you like a puppy, angling the camera down at you as you sit down on his couch, the high slits on the sides of your dress teasing upper-thigh—tormenting him. Rafe lifts the camera, hands already trembling.

You reach over, pushing play on the track, letting your new single swell through his lavish apartment. “Action.”

♫⋆｡♪ I wanna watch you like a movie

I wanna put you on the stage

I wanna know what you’d do to me

I wanna put you on the tape…

Flashing red light

Baby, you’re a star…♫⋆｡♪

Rafe is fixated; following the slow drag of your palm down your thigh, the curve of your lips when you mouth the words of the song coming from your phone, the arch of your back when the chorus drops.

♫⋆｡♪Fuck me all night

Show me who you are…

Pornstar…♫⋆｡♪

He swallows hard, jaw tightening, knees locking, brain short-circuiting as you tip your head slightly, eyes wide and longing as you lip sync.

Because this isn’t just a song. This is you asking, Do you still want me? And every part of him—the broken and longing—is screaming: Yes.

You stand up mid-chorus, smooth and deliberate, and he follows, still clutching the camcorder, still forgetting how to breathe around you as you walk toward his bedroom.

You don’t say a word as you push open the door, disappearing inside, leaving it wide for him to follow.

He catches every moment, the shift of your hair when you move, the stretch of satin over your curves, the sly bend of your smile. He barely makes it through the doorway when you spin around, grinning wickedly.

“Cut.”

His eyes widen, lashes blinking like that can’t possibly be true. “That’s… uh. That’s it? Don’t you need more?” He almost whines, looking back at you helplessly.

“Yeah, silly. I just have to change,” you tease, walking past him and running your hand across his broad chest as you move toward his walk-in closet.

Rafe sets the camcorder carefully on the nightstand and rests his hands on top of his head.

His ears perk up at the rustle of clothes, the sound of hangers sliding, the breath of satin hitting the floor. He turns, just enough to catch a glimpse of black pooling at your feet, before looking away.

“Can I help you find somethin’?” He asks hopefully—just a few seconds too late—but his disappointment is quickly interrupted by the sight of you stepping out in nothing but heels and a game-day button-down—white, oversized, freshly pressed, hanging half off your shoulder.

“Fuck me.” He can’t stop those two needy words from slipping past his lips. His cheeks burn with embarrassment as you giggle and roll your eyes.

“That’s not very professional, Cameron,” you smile.

“Well,” he huffs, his eyes refusing to blink, “never said I was… M’workin’ for free, by the way—”

“Damn,” you giggle. “This isn’t a part of our friendship agreement. You wanna get paid?” You ask as you step toward him slowly, designer heels clicking across the hardwood.

“I guess… I—” He mumbles, swallowing hard, eyes locked on the valley of cleavage peeking from his button-down. “What, umm… What was I talkin’ about?” He asks as his gaze lifts to yours.

You shrug and smile, and he moves a little closer. Your heart races as you feel the heat of his body radiating off his clothes, his rich cologne muddling your thoughts. You lean in, breath warm and teasing, as you press your hands against his chest feeling his heart bang under your palms.

“Action.”

You walk away and he shakes his head, rattling out those thoughts, fumbling as he raises the camera to meet you. Your hips are slow and fluid, swaying to the music bleeding faintly through the room.

Your fingers trail along his black curtains, the edge of his dresser that he fucked you on once before, running your nails across the glass of the stand up mirror he watched you from as he took you from the back—moment after moment, memory after memory–marking your territory without ever saying a word.

When you reached the balcony doors, you slid one open, letting the cool LA night spill in, goosebumps rise along his strong arms. You step outside; the city lit up around you, a halo of gold and blue washing over you.

The hem of his shirt flutters around your thighs; hair caught up in the breeze–Rafe’s jaw clenches tight as he watches you back up into the balcony rail, arching your back, letting your hair dangle over the edge.

You lean forward, twist around like he grabbed your hips, arching your back slow and deliberate.

♫⋆｡♪I wanna hear you talking dirty

I wanna see it on your face

I wanna feel you put the work in

I wanna watch you entertain…

Flashing red light

Baby, you’re a star…♫⋆｡♪

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t fucking think. Could barely remember why he was supposed to stay still at all.

♫⋆｡♪Fuck me all night

Show me who you are…♫⋆｡♪

And then, just when he thought it couldn’t get better your hands moved up your body. Pinch. Twist. Pop. The first button came undone and Rafe’s stomach dropped. You moved to the next as you walked past the stunned man before you. Pinch. Twist. Pop. Pinch. Twist. Pop.

When the last button slipped free, the shirt slid from your shoulders onto the floor. And underneath? Nothing but black lace. Thin straps clinging to your shoulders. Bodice hugging every perfect curve. The fabric, sheer in all the right places. Cut high, curved low—designed to kill him on sight.

♫⋆｡♪ Pornstar

Pornstar

Show me who you are…♫⋆｡♪

Then you turn around and it knocks the air clean out of his chest. He knows that lingerie. Knows it down to the little bow at the center of your chest, the sheer black lace, the thin straps framing your hips just right.

You’re standing in front of his bed like you never left it. Same look in your eyes… His girl. It’s like his body remembers before his brain can catch up—a sudden ache behind his ribs that makes it hard to swallow.

Tears threaten before he even understands why as his frustration swells in his throat because why the fuck are you so pretty? And how the hell did he mess this up?

He’s already burning it into memory again. The way the lace hugs your curves. The way your hair falls. Every inch of bare skin he hasn’t seen in weeks. He takes a mental picture—one he knows he’ll see every night when he closes his eyes and reaches for himself.

Then you hold out your hand and without a second thought, he gives you his. You pull him gently toward the bed, the camera still rolling, catching the gold glint of his Rolex and the way his big hand perfectly wraps around yours.

You step backwards, guiding him, eyes locked on him. And when your knees hit the edge of the bed, you let yourself fall back.

Your hands drift higher and higher, fingertips skimming up your sides as you stretch across the comforter. And just before he crumbles and waves his white flag of defeat you whisper a soft, “Cut.”

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

Neither of you sleep. Not really. Not even after you say goodnight and goodbye. He stays sprawled out on the couch, muscles aching, sweat cooling on his bare chest, breathing hard. Even harder when he thinks of you—smiling in that hoodie he let you take home.

His mind reels with snapshots of the night: you in that black dress, dropping his shirt off your perfect body, you in the lingerie he thought maybe he had just imagined in some sort of lucid dream but it was that same pretty little set. His same beautiful girl.

His cock throbs against the waistband of his sweats—trapped and leaking—twitching with every heartbeat.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡ ˚

Across the city, you lie twisted in his sweatshirt, flushed and panting, vibrator buzzing steady against your clit.

Your thighs are slick, trembling; your whole body on edge, hypersensitive and starved for him. You whimper into the sheets, grinding against the toy in frantic, needy little circles.

In your mind, it’s him—his hands, rough and greedy on your skin as his hungry mouth moves desperately with yours. His voice, low and deep in your mind as it swirls around like a song. ‘You have no fucking idea how bad I need you right now, sweetheart.’ You press the toy harder, making your stomach coil, your hips rolling faster.

It crashes over you—sharp and hot. Your orgasm rips through you, thighs shaking, hips bucking helplessly, but it barely scratches the surface.

You’re still burning; still clenching around something fake, craving something real, dragging the sleeve of his hoodie to your mouth, breathing him in deeper.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡ ˚

Rafe groans, low and broken, as he shoves a hand in his pants and wraps it around his thick cock. He’s already a fuckin’ mess, sticky with precum, throbbing and sensitive, hissing at his rough touch.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but all he can see is you—slick and spread wide, whimpering into his pillow with his cock buried in your pussy.

In his head, your voice ruins him, ‘Say it, Rafe. Say you’re mine.’

He fists himself harder, rough strokes dragging over the fat head of his cock, hips jerking off the couch.

“Fuck,” he gasps, breathless as his orgasm hits, spilling all over his fist and stomach, groaning into the empty room. Ropes and ropes of cum, picturing it filling you up; your glossed hole creamy and wet, leaking onto his sheets.

He pictures the way your fingers reach between your thighs, showing it off like you’re proud, gathering him on your fingers before you take it between your lips, your pretty pink tongue swirling slow, sucking yourself clean, making his thoughts turn greedy as he thinks about ruining your mouth, the man not even close to coming down from his high, already dreaming about the next with you.

But the second it fades… the second he thinks those thoughts, he’s hard again. Still aching. Still desperate.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡ ˚

But you don’t stop either. Tears sting your eyes as you tow the toy back up to your clit, nipples dragging across the rough material of his hoodie.

You picture him slamming the bedroom door open, crossing the room in two furious strides. Tearing the toy out of your hands.

Your second orgasm crashes into you harder than the first—sharper and meaner, soaking the sheets, dripping down on the mattress.

You toss the toy beside you, chest heaving as your body shakes, chasing what only he can give you. You reach over, rolling to his side of the bed, grabbing his pillow you couldn’t bring yourself to wash.

You shift just enough to straddle it, thighs burning as you start to ride, eyes screwed shut as you picture Rafe below you.

You can see him so clearly—his hands on your hips, jaw clenched, blue eyes dark as he drinks you in. ‘Look at you, baby… So needy for me. So fuckin’ wet. I’ve got you. You don’t have to beg. I know exactly what you need. You’re mine. You know that, right? You were made to fuck me.’

You cry out, grinding harder as the pressure inside you builds fast. Your hips rock, frantic and filthy, your soaked pussy dragging against the pillow in tight, desperate rolls. You picture his hands gripping your ass, guiding you faster.

His head tipped back, breath ragged, smiling up at you like you’re his whole fuckin’ world. ‘You’re so beautiful when you cum for me. So fuckin’ perfect. That’s it, baby. Just like that.’

Your eyes squeeze shut, hands clawing the pillow, and your release finally hits. Tears spill hot down your cheeks—you don’t even try to hold them back.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡ ˚

Rafe slows down… That’s what you would do.

He lowers his pants down on his hips, laying down on the couch, gathering his cum on his hand for lube before starting again.

He bites down on his bottom lip, picturing you riding him slow; hips grinding, tits bouncing. ‘You’re dripping for me, baby. Look at you.’

It’s a full-body fantasy of you straddling his hips, eyes rolling back, mouth slick and swollen from kissing. He pictures your hands on his chest, nails scratching down, voice soft and breathless. ‘Fuck, Rafe… Feels so good, baby… You’re so deep.’

He pictures you tilting closer, taking in your sweet perfume, the warmth of your breathing hitting his lips as they brush against his and you whisper into his mouth, ‘—It’s like you were made for me…’

“Fuck,” he groans, head falling back.

‘You like watching me ride you, don’t you?’ Your smile is so ingrained in his mind—burned into his memory—your soft giggle and the sparkle in your eye making him groan with need. ‘I know you do, Rafe. Let me make you feel good, baby… Let me take care of you. I love taking care of you. I love you—’

And with those sweet thoughts, he’s gone.

‘Tell me you’re mine, Rafe. Say it so I can cum for you—’

“I’m yours,” he gasps—pathetic and hoarse. “All yours, sweetheart. Always.” He strokes faster, rougher, your voice wrapping around him like silk.

He chokes out your name as the orgasm crashes over him, cumming in thick, messy spurts, hips stuttering, body jerking under his own hand. Moaning deep into the quiet.

And without thinking, hands shaking, he grabs his phone…

Rafe: i miss you so bad it’s pathetic

Rafe: can’t even close my eyes without seeing you

He tosses the phone on the table, rubbing his hands over his eyes in annoyance, grumbling about his lack of self control.

Your phone buzzes on your night stand, making your stomach flutter. Your body clenches the second you see his name; heart melting when you see the words on his text you were dying to say yourself.

You snap a photo—messy hair, glowy skin, thighs bare, his sweatshirt bunched around your hips, hiding just enough, and send it.

Your Name: me too

He lets out a strangled, broken laugh and buries his face in the couch, smiling like a fucking idiot. Like he’s hopelessly in love… because he is. There’s no surviving you. There’s no getting over you. There’s only you.

His thumbs shake as he types:

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

@rafesthroatbaby | @blair-bears-blog | @iikximii | @akobx | @gri959 | @ch4rrykisses | @st8rkey | @laniirackssss | @barnesboo1967 | @justdamnpeachy | @dylsdaily | | @rafesheaven | @my-name-is-baby | @wtfisastiles | @skye-44 | @anothershorthuman | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @maybankslover | @frankoceanluvr11 | @rcameronlova1 | @lhhlver | @yourmomdotcom42069 | @kdoll-7 | @angelicameron | @imsiriuslyreal | @alphabetically-deranged | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @hyperfixationgirl | @faephoria | @wtfdudesblog | @rafesdoll | @yasmin-oviedo | @lizzysmith110 | @ietss | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @lilithblackkk | @premiumshitt | @littlelamy | @prettybabyyyy | @star017 | @hannieskzzz | @biascriptum | @laylalovesbmth | @aris-void | @rafesbabygirlx

[skyguy8108]

😢

Jedi vs. Sith: The Essential Guide to the Force

We now know that Anakin Skywalker and Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo married in secret in the year 22 B.B.Y., just after the Battle of Geonosis. It was only after the astromech droid R2-D2 divulged recordings of Anakin and Amidala that contemporary scholars became aware of their relationship. It is almost a certainty that Anakin told no one of his marriage, and subsequent interviews with Amidala’s relatives have determined that family members were also oblivious.

After Leia Organa Solo discovered the identity of her mother, she realized that Pooja Naberrie—a former representative of Naboo and a friend she had known since her service in the Imperial Senate—was not only Padmé Amidala’s niece but also her own first cousin. In 35 A.B.Y., Pooja Naberrie recalled meeting Anakin when she was a child, just prior to the Battle of Geonosis:

I was just a little girl, only four years old, when I first saw Anakin. Oh, my. I thought he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen, and so tall! My memory of him is entirely from a child’s perspective, and I still envision him as a giant.

I was at my grandparents’ home with my sister Ryoo, who’s two years older, when he came to Naboo. He came walking up the street with Aunt Padmé, and they brought an R2 unit. Ryoo and I always got so excited when Padmé would visit, because we sometimes didn’t see her for months at a time. And if you’re four and six years old, months can seem like years! Anyway, if I remember right, I think Ryoo and I must have thought that Anakin had brought the droid to us as a because we just started dancing around it, right there in the street outside the house. We were so silly.

I’d overheard someone say that Anakin was Padmé’s bodyguard, and I don’t think I thought there was anything strange about that. Padmé was often accompanied by a security officer named … Oh, my, what was his name? Ty? No, Captain Typho! Anyway, I just imagined that Anakin was Padmé’s boyfriend. I thought they both looked so beautiful together.

Well, Ryoo and I were just heartbroken when we learned that they weren’t staying at the house. They left just a few hours later for the Lake Country. I recall our mother saying something about Padmé needing to get away from the city and rest for a few days. We cried because we wanted the droid to stay and play with us!

A few days later, I remember there was some concern in our house about no one knowing where Padmé was. She and Anakin had been staying at a retreat in the Lake Country, but then they’d left without telling anyone where they were going. My mother was a bit frantic until a few days later, when she received word that Padmé was alive and well.

It wasn’t long after that that Padmé returned to Naboo with Anakin, and that was the second time I met him. I remember that encounter more clearly because of the way I reacted when I saw that his right hand had been replaced with a prosthetic. The fingertips were made of a gold-colored metal, and I thought it looked cold. And there were exposed wires. I guess it may have been just a temporary prosthetic. When my family and I greeted him and Padmé, I couldn’t stop myself from staring at his new hand. And then I looked up into his eyes.

He looked … well, I thought he looked angry, and I just started crying. Maybe he was angry, but in hindsight, I’m certain it had nothing to with me. My mother apologized for my behavior, but Anakin said there was no reason for anyone to be sorry. He knelt down beside me, held out his left hand to me, and asked me if I’d put my hand in his. I did. He smiled and gave my fingers a gentle squeeze, then said, “That’s for good luck, so we’ll all hang on to our fingers from now on.” I’m sure he just wanted to make me feel better, and he did. But I still felt so awful for him for losing a hand.

And then, three years later, Padmé was dead. It was awful. She was so young. And no one in our family seemed to know how she had died, or at least no one told us. My sister and I did learn that there had been assassination attempts, and that was why Anakin had been acting as her bodyguard.

At her funeral, I didn’t just weep for her. I thought Anakin was dead, too. We’d heard that the Jedi had attempted to overthrow the Republic, and that most of the Jedi had been killed. To Ryoo and me, Anakin was our hero. We couldn’t imagine him doing anything wrong. I had all sorts of fantasies about how he might have been killed or injured while trying to save Padmé, or that he’d gone into hiding because he refused to participate in the so-called Jedi takeover. Silly dreams.

But all that was … How long ago? About fifty-five years, I think. And now, my dear friend Leia Organa Solo tells me about her discovery that Padmé was her mother, and of what became of Anakin. My head is still reeling. I’ve known Leia ever since we both served in the Imperial Senate, and to think that neither of us ever had the slightest inkling that we were first cousins.

If Leia hadn’t told me herself, I don’t think I ever would have believed that Anakin Skywalker became Darth Vader. It’s just so … so entirely inconceivable that that lovely young man could have become Vader. And yet that’s exactly what happened, isn’t it? To think I held his hand. His good hand. Oh, my.

the naberrie family over the years <3 (happy may the 4th!!)

(commission info // tip jar!)

[livesincerely]

Buck bows his head beneath the falling water, his ribs shuddering around a shaky exhale. 

He’ll pull himself together eventually. Slap a smile back on his face and remember how to be grateful for what he already has.

But first he needs to mourn. He needs to mourn and mope and shed a tear or twenty: then he can bury these stupid feelings and finally put them to rest.

Maybe it’s time to re-download Bumble and Hinge, make a proper effort at getting back out there and moving on⁠—

The bathroom door slams open with a bang! Buck whips around so fast that he nearly loses his footing, then nearly keels over anyway when he realizes it’s Eddie standing there amongst the clouds of steam.

Eddie, whose chest heaves like he’s just run a marathon, his hair a mess and his shirt only half buttoned⁠—like he’d hauled ass out of the locker room in the middle of changing. Eddie, whose expression is granite but whose eyes are wild, his irises totally eclipsed by burning crimson, that spiced-dark-chocolate-char scent rolling off of him like thunderclouds sweeping in over the horizon.

They stare at each other for one long, charged moment. Buck can barely meet his eyes; there’s something almost feral prowling in the shadows of his gaze⁠—sharp and accusing, honed like a knife’s edge⁠—and it cuts him all the way to the core. 

Buck’s throat clicks around a nervous swallow, his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Eddie,” he says, almost helplessly, more of a breath than a word.

Eddie’s nostrils flare, his upper lip curling back to flash a single, pointed canine. Then he’s wrenching open the shower door and stepping determinedly into the spray⁠—still fully dressed, boots, belt, watch and all, what the fuck⁠ is he?⁠—and he braces a hand on either side of Buck’s waist, caging him up against the shower wall.

“Eddie!” Buck yelps, suddenly and extremely aware of the fact that he’s bare-ass naked, soap dripping down his arms and conditioner clinging to his curls. He clutches his hands to his chest like that will somehow mask the aforementioned nakedness. “What the hell are you⁠—? Hey!”

“Did you actually think,” Eddie starts, and his voice has settled in this gravely, dangerous place that’s making Buck’s stomach do somersaults. “That I wouldn’t come after you?”

“You— C’mon man, you’re getting soaked. Did you even take your phone out of your pocket⁠—”

“You did⁠,” Eddie decides, continuing as if Buck hadn’t spoken, anger and disbelief dueling across his features. “You thought I was gonna just let you go⁠?”

“Jesus, Eddie,” Buck sighs, letting his head thunk back against the tiles, already exhausted with this whole conversation. “Can’t this at least wait until I’m out of the fucking shower⁠—“

“Clearly it fucking can’t,” he growls, and he cups both of those huge hands around Buck’s jaw and yanks his head back down, forcing him to hold his gaze.

“Because last time I checked, we were in this together,” Eddie says—demands, really. Water streams through his hair and down his face in dozens of rivulets, his wet clothes clinging to every sodden, gorgeous inch of him. “That’s the deal, right? You have my back and I have yours. You go in and I’m right there on you six. I’m the one on the other end of your radio, I’m the one that double checks your harness, I’m the one that anchors your line.”

They’re plastered together: a tangle of water and limbs, fabric and skin. Buck’s mouth moves soundlessly, his voice trapped somewhere beneath the weight of his longing, but even if he could say something he wouldn’t have the words. Static blurs the edges of his vision, his mind emptied of anything that isn’t Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

“There isn’t a universe where I don’t come after you, Buck,” Eddie tells him, with all the force and certainty of gravity itself. “I’d have to be dead in the fucking ground before I’d let you go, and maybe not even then. Because you’re mine. You’re mine,” he insists when Buck can’t help the involuntary little noise that escapes him at the declaration. “And you’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m going to let you spend another second thinking I don’t want you.”

Buck’s heart stops dead in his chest, then kicks in again twice as fast. 

“Eddie,” he manages, barely able to hear himself over the sound of the shower pouring overhead. Thank god he’s already got a wall at his back⁠—he’s not sure his legs would support him otherwise, hope turning his joints to jelly. “You… Don’t do this if you don’t mean it. I can’t… I can’t.”

Eddie shifts impossibly closer, angling up until their faces are a hair apart. Their noses brush⁠—a gentle, almost exploratory touch⁠—followed by a solid press of forehead against forehead. 

“If you still don’t think I mean it,” he murmurs, his eyes burning like twin flames. “Then you clearly haven’t been listening to me.”

A shared breath. 

“Maybe this will finally convince you,” Eddie says, and he leans in and seals his mouth over Buck’s own.

[badgerbl00d]

you've reached situationship central!

☆ characters: akagami no shanks (pt. 2)

☆ up next: TBA

☆ summary: being stuck in an on again off again (very indulgent) relationship with the notorious red haired shanks is not for the faint of heart..

☆ content: angsty, happy ending, nsfw, smut, complicated relationship drama, 18+ mdni

☆ a/n: hi my loves!!!! i am knee deep in midterms right now but as we all know, one piece smut is more important so here i am. will try to have another fic up next sunday <3

#i would tolerate a concerning amount of disrespect from this man wc: 5k oops 🙈

Never in his life had he so clearly felt jealousy. What was, an hour ago, a small, weak fire in his chest had grown into something more sinister– the thick, heavy heat spreading throughout his body. His mind was fogged by an onslaught of nauseating images- his hands on your waist, fingers digging into your plush, soft, forgiving flesh. His lips on your neck, placing light, arid kisses against your sensitive skin. Your pliant, charitable attention being focused on him, his face, his words, his touch, his authority. 

It was blinding, Shanks felt as though he was losing control of himself. He fought against his own wandering thoughts, trying to focus on the drink in front of him. The sickening sound of your gentle laughter filled his ears, you were so enraptured by the trivial, pointless conversation you found yourself caught in. The sound of your voice, of your focused occupation, your precious attention should be directed at Shanks and Shanks alone.

He pounded back the small cup filled with whiskey; never in his life had this kind of possessiveness taken him over so quickly. White hot jealousy wrapped its hands around him and he could not struggle out of its grasp. Of course, there had been moments with past flings and more-than-casual acquaintances that left him feeling a twinge of jealousy, a hint of what he now felt. He was always well aware of the nature of these relationships, they were meant to be fleeting, unsustained. Sweet, induglent moments in the otherwise chaotic uncertainty of his life. His reputation preceded him, in both bed and in battle he was ruthless, commanding, completely in control. To be rendered so weak, so desperate by the sweetest, most docile woman he’d ever met in his life was… he wasn’t sure what it was. Karmic? 

A degree of it, he supposed, was shame. Embarrassment at his own past actions as the realization dawned on him that he has most likely made countless others feel the same. He’d always brushed it off as the inevitable nature of these things– they were, at their core, impermanent, unserious. You weren’t any different, he’d supposed. 

Perhaps, he thought, he was incredibly naive. You were different– in every possible way! You weren’t only a lover but a member of his crew. He implicitly and absolutely trusted you with his life, the lives of Beckmann, Yasopp, Lucky, his family. You were family. 

Glimpses of your time spent together within the last few weeks flashes through his whiskey-addled mind: 

The way your cheeks squished against his chest when you obliged his requests to spend the night in his room, “I sleep better with you, sweetheart,” he’d explained. The softness of your voice in the morning, asking him, “Ten more minutes, Captain?”

The small, soft smiles you’d give him when you crossed paths on the ship.

Never had he felt so entitled to ownership of a person. 

The sound of your laughter once again caught his attention, and worsened his mood. Your friend was smiling with pride, clearly happy to have elicited such a sweet sound from you. It was his last straw. He quickly stood, leaving more than enough money on the counter to pay for his drinks, and walked over to you.

It was difficult to not notice when a man with Shanks’ energy was directing all of it toward one, unfortunate person. As he walked, he began drawing the attention of most of the other patrons in the bar. 

“Y/n,” he said, his voice more stern now than it had ever been with you, “Let’s head back. It’s late.”

Your lips parted in shock, and you slowly looked up at him. 

Ignoring the man in front of you was easy– child’s play. But ignoring the surprise and confusion on your face at his tone– not his words, but the harsh, indifferent manner in which he said them– was something he wished he’d never have to do again.

“So soon?” you asked, voice soft, “Benny said he’d let us know when he wanted us back–”

“Now.”

You sharply inhaled, and closed your mouth. Blinking up at him, taking a second to process whatever this sudden change in personality was. 

Your friend was silent, the evident awkwardness of the situation earning an uncomfortable pause in sound from the three of you.

“That’s alright, Y/n,” your friend said, “I was… just getting ready to head home myself.”

Shanks clenched his jaw, refusing to look at either of you. 

“Well, alright,” you said, gathering your coat and standing, “Thank you for the drinks, lovely to see you.”

He shook your hand, placing a soft kiss on the back of it– a soft pink hue began to color your cheeks.

“Write to me,” he said, putting on his coat before offering you a half-smile and leaving.

Shanks grabbed your arm, practically dragging you out of the bar into the cold of the night. Your breathing was fast, white clouds forming in the winter air with every exhale. He was walking quickly, his grip now firmly settled on your wrist– you were struggling to keep up, practically jogging as he half-dragged you behind him. 

“Shanks,” you yelped, “Slow down– Please!”

He ignored you, maintaining his pace. Your wrist was beginning to ache, “Shanks!”

Another pointless plea. Your frustration was increasing and had begun to boil into anger.

Though it took a lot to get a rise out of you, your Captain’s behavior was starting to seriously upset you.

Your wrist ached, badly now, and you were tired. Your body had not properly adjusted from the warmth of the bar, the dim yellow lighting and strong drinks had spread a soft heat throughout you and the sudden cold of the deep blue winter night you were now being dragged through was an unwelcome interruption. It was no later than half past nine and you knew that his excuse about it being late was complete bullshit. You couldn’t even count the number of times Shanks had come back from a night out at noon the following day. 

You came to a sudden stop, planting both of your feet firmly in the snow and yanking your hand out of his grip with a cry.

Shanks turned, taking a deep breath– the anger on his face only upsetting you further. 

“What is wrong with you?”

He laughed, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, “With me? You were practically fucking that guy in front of me and you have the audacity to ask what’s wrong with me?”

Your eyes widened at the harshness of his words, completely taken aback by his attitude. Never had he spoken to you so obscenely. You gasped, partially from the shock of his speech, and tears welled in your eyes. 

It was overwhelming, to have a man of his size and notoriety talking to you in such a filthy, angry manner. But, after all this time, Shanks was an idiot to think you would crumble so easily to harsh language– you were, after all, one of the stronger members of the crew. 

“What did you just say?” you bit back, your tone just as venomous.

“You heard me,” Shanks scoffed, “Laughing at his jokes, accepting the drinks he bought you, promising to write him back? At this point just fuck him.”

You were completely infuriated. How dare Shanks– the most notorious womanizer on the ocean– reprimand you for flirting. Since when was your relationship a marriage?

You inhaled, carefully calculating what to say to piss him off even more, “Okay. I will, then.”

You turned and started walking quickly back the way you came, slightly unnerved when you didn’t hear his footsteps following behind you.

You ignored the absence of sound and held your head high as you walked back toward town.

“Y/n,” Shanks said your name once, a clear warning.

You ignored it and picked up your pace. Your vision was blurred with tears, and your nose bright red from the cold. You steeled yourself– now wasn’t the time to let your Captain know how badly his words hurt you, how shocking it was for him to speak to you so cruelly. 

You barely heard the flurry of his footsteps by the time he’d caught up to you, turning you around to face him.

You avoided making eye contact with him, not wanting to dignify his insults by showing the tears that resulted from them.

“Get off me,” you said, but your voice had significantly weakened.

Shanks’ grip on your arm loosened, an effect of guilt. He hadn’t expected you to cry.

“Fuck you,” you said, “Don’t act like we were ever exclusive.”

Shanks swallowed, you weren’t wrong. In the year you had been seeing one another he’d had multiple encounters with past and new flings– all less important than you of course, but your point remained. 

“Not once,” you continued, pushing through despite your wavering voice and sore throat, “Have I ever been with anyone since we started… this. But you?”

He let go of your arm, hoping now that you’d turn away. 

“You have forfeited any right to jealousy, Shanks. Don’t you dare fucking tell me who I can and can’t sleep with. Have I ever said anything to you about your dozens and dozens of partners in the past year?”

You emphasized your point with a harsh jab at his chest.

He was silent, guilt beginning to wrack through his quickly sobering mind.

“Well?” you insisted.

“Y/n,” he started.

“No,” you said, answering yourself, “I haven’t.

And do you think it was easy? To watch someone I cared about so much– Someone I love toss me to the side repeatedly over and over and over? Week after week, month after month, you’d use me and entertain me when it convenienced you just to put your hands, your lips on someone else the next day. Treat me like I was something to you, play the role of a husband, a lover, a friend and then do the same to another woman right after?”

“I didn’t realize–”

“Of course, not,” you choked out, “Of course you didn’t. Until I had a conversation, a fucking conversation with someone else. That’s all I had to do to finally get you to want me? Talk to someone? I wish I would have known that a year ago, you fucking asshole.”

Your tears flowed freely now, the cold not helping hide the emotion on your face. Your cheeks were a deep shape of pink, your lips puffy from the cold. 

Shanks was overcome with guilt and regret. He was an idiot, as you had so graciously confirmed. What could he do? What could he say? 

“You acted so indifferent,” he responded, “We’d spend a week in love and then… when I did start to entertain someone else, at a bar, or party, or wherever, you’d act so indifferent. Like you didn’t care at all.”

“What else could I do? What right do I have to you?”

“Every right,” he gasped, sinking to his knees in front of you, wrapping his hand firmly around yours. He looked up at you with a sort of reverence that momentarily took your breath away. But that was what he did, he treated you like a goddess, like a divine creature one moment, and like anyone else the next.

“They were all distractions from you. I thought that if you cared so little for me I might draw something out of you with them– jealousy, anger, hatred, anything.”

“You succeeded,” you whispered, sniffling.

“No, no I haven’t,” he said, “I’ve done the opposite. I’ve guaranteed your indifference now.”

You sighed, not even trying to fight the tears now, “I’ve tried, Shanks. I’ve tried to be indifferent. 

I tried, tonight, to spark up old affections for someone else. I used to be in love with him, you know? He’s a writer and a good man. And despite all of that, despite his intelligence and wit, despite his kindness, despite how handsome he is I found myself sitting in that wretched chair drinking and thinking about you. Your touch and your lips and your voice.”

You broke out into a sob, falling against Shanks who gently picked you up and started the walk back to the ship. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, tucking your face into the crook of his neck placing a kiss against it. You were helpless, you’d realized. You were in love with Shanks. 

The walk was short, ten minutes at most. Shanks spent it half-delirious, cursing himself in every way possible for having done you such harm as he felt the crook of his neck getting more and more soaked with tears. 

For the first time in his life, he deeply wished that he were religious so that he might directly ask a higher power for forgiveness. You felt so light in his arm, your figure so perfectly wrapped around his that he realized, at the very least, he would spend the rest of his life making it up to you. 

How many times had he flirted pointlessly with a girl at a bar, at a port, on an island leading her back to his room hoping to get a reaction out of you that would confirm your feelings for him just to be welcomed with your indifference and send her home anyway? 

If he’d doubted his love for you earlier it was undeniable now, pressing against his ribcage like a rabid caged animal– hungry and desperate, willing to cling on to anything offered to it. 

Your confession fed it, not enough, not even close, but enough to sate it for the time being. 

You loved him, Shanks reminded himself as he carried you on board the ship and started to walk toward your room. 

“Shanks,” you whispered, tugging at his collar, “Let me sleep in your room. It’s warmer.”

He redirected his path toward his own bedroom, quietly opening the door and placing you in his bed. He helped you take off your coat and shoes before removing his own and crawling into bed next to you. 

He racked his brain for the words with which to start his apology. 

You wouldn’t even look at him. 

“Y/n,” he said, “Please look at me. Talk to me.”

You slowly turned, scooting yourself closer to him.

“I’m tired.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he brought up a hand to your face, “Can I hold you?”

You paused for a moment and then gave him a small nod. He situated you on his lap, and slowly placed a soft, chaste kiss on your lips. 

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, as he finally conjured up the bravery to begin his apology.

“In the past year,” he started, “The women, the girls, all of them were just to elicit a reaction out of you. When you’d ignore it, or act indifferent I’d just send them home. I never… slept with them.”

He felt pathetic, it was a humbling admission to say the least. 

You pulled him in for another gentle kiss. “I know,” you whispered against his lips, “I figured after I accidentally ran into one leaving just a few moments after you’d shown up on board with her. But it wasn’t just the sex that was hard, Shanks. It was having to watch you talk to them, charm them, and for them to all fall for it so easily. Like I did. Like I am right now.”

He nodded, wiping away the tear that had begun to make its way down your cheek, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was all just a terrible way to try and… to get you to love me back, I suppose.”

“But I do! I do, Captain, I have since I first set foot on board this ship, from the moment our eyes met. I can’t even entertain the thought of anyone else. It makes me sick to think of anyone that isn’t you–”

He crashed his lips into yours, he could no longer bear the passion that had been slowly burning inside him. His hand came up to the base of your neck, tangling itself in your hair gently tugging your head backwards leaving your neck open to him.

He nipped at it, leaving small bites and sucking it– the warmth was addicting, inebriating.

You melted into his touch, your back arching into him– sweet moans pouring from your mouth.

“Mmmh,” you whined, nails digging into his shoulders, “Shanks, I need you. I need you.”

His lips found their way back to yours and he freed his hand from your neck, helping you take your shirt off, unclasping your bra. You tugged at the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head, pouting when the cloth forced your lips to leave his. They quickly reattached, your mutual desperation increasing. 

He palmed your tits in his large hand. Your body was so warm, so soft and buttery, melting in his grip. His palms were still cold from the harsh temperature and the walk back home, the coolness earning him a gasp as he brushed his palm over your nipples. 

The heat between your thighs was increasing, your slick arousal beginning to dampen your panties. You moaned into the kiss, welcoming his eager tongue into your mouth, gently sucking on it as he teased your nipples, now pinching and flicking. 

“Mmmmm,” you moaned.

He pulled away, his hands never stopping their ministrations on your sensitive buds, a heart-stopping smirk on his handsome face, “What’s that?”

“More,” you panted, a small string of saliva hanging from your swollen bottom lip, “Please.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, an expression of desire and want settling on your face.

“I could never say no to you, sweetheart,” he said, running a finger under the band of your pants, “Let me make everything up to you. Please let me earn your forgiveness.”

You nodded, granting him the permission he so desperately sought. 

Shanks worked quickly, a man who greatly concerns himself with how you spend your time did not want to waste any of it.

Your pants are quickly removed and you lie back on his bed, left in only a pair of pink panties. 

He leaves his own pants on, and lies on his stomach pressing soft kisses to your feet. He started working his way up your body, giving equal attention to right and left sides, peppering you with kisses, gentle bites, and soft licks. He spent a frustrating amount of time on your inner thighs, biting hard enough to earn a yelp or two, leaving possessive marks in the shape of his teeth. He kissed the wet spot on your panties, that was now dripping onto his sheets, expertly avoiding the spot where you wanted to feel him so badly.

He gently sucked at the fabric, eyes shutting as he savored your taste, “This is for me?” 

“Y-yes,” you whimpered, “Shanks…”

You brought a hand to your pussy, to attempt to move your panties to the side.

“Tsk, tsk,” he warned, “Hands above your head.”

You were far too sensitive and pliant to disobey now.

Your hole throbbed, earning a kiss from your Captain, “Very cute. Stay still, sweetness.”

His tongue tucked itself beneath the side hem of your panties, and pushed them to the side. You gasped at the split second of contact his warm tongue made with your pulsing clit. His finger replaced his tongue to hold your panties out of the way, and quickly, without any kind of warning whatsoever, he began to ravish you.

His tongue expertly licked from your hole to your puffy clit, generously spreading your arousal over your pussy. He sucked and licked, he wasn’t just eating you out– he was making out with your pussy. You let out a soft cry and your hands found themselves tangled in his hair and your chest heaved with rapid, desperate breaths. Your moans filled his room, you were completely overcome by the sensation of his tongue against you. He was as close to eating you as he could be without hurting you. The sounds coming from his mouth against your pussy were disgustingly obscene, like a starved dog eats without second thought your Captain feasted on you– savoring the proof of your love and affection. 

Your eyes rolled back and your lips parted to form a perfect ‘O’ as he slipped a thick finger into you, and then another. 

Shanks had fucked you before, how many times exactly you had lost count of. You were more than familiar with each others’ bodies and, in truth, this was far from the first time that he had made you feel so good. But something was different this time. 

Knowing now that it was you that brought him down to this level of depravity allowed you to release completely– give him full control over you, your body, your thoughts. 

It felt sinful, wrong, terrible to reduce him to such a state of animalism. You felt as though you, minxlike and tempting, had corrupted a great man, led him to a point of such violent desperation that you were the only thing that could sate him. 

You gave him this illness and now, cruelly, were also the only person who could cure it. 

Your arousal coated his fingers completely and had started to drip down his hand. He pulled back, removing his fingers to bring his hand down to his own pants. His tongue’s assault on your pussy stopped, and was momentarily replaced by kisses and he removed his pants, and stroked his leaking cock a few times, coating it with your sweet, precious arousal. 

“Ohh,” you moaned, “Please, Captain, please.”

“Please what, hm?” A soft slap landed on your cheek, “Use your words.”

“Fuck me.”

Just as quickly as you had asked, Shanks had lined up the dark pink head against your slit and was rubbing it up and down your pussy, drawing small circles on your clit letting his precum leak out onto you. 

“Perfect pussy,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, “Looks so cute painted white.”

You whined, and he made eye contact with you. It nearly broke him, to see you so desperate, so open for him. He realized, now, that you were his in every sense. Your body, your mind, your emotions and feelings– all his. 

His head pushed into your hole, a tight fit at first, drawing some soft cries from you.

“Shhh, shh,” he said, “You’ll adjust.”

Once the head slipped past, the rest followed easily– Shanks had to hold himself back to avoid bottoming out in you at once. 

The stretch was the most delicious pain you’d ever felt– even now, a year after you and your Captain first spent a night together it took you a minute to adjust yourself to his girth. 

“I can take it,” you said, bringing a hand up to caress his cheek , “I can take all of you.”

He turned his head to kiss your hand, and lowered himself slowly onto you, kissing you with an unexpected restraint. He bottomed out in you, and your breath hitched.

“Breathe, baby, breathe.”

You took a breath, eyes shutting as he began to rock his hips slowly, sliding his full length in and out of you each time.

“Good girl, take me just like that,” he encouraged, “Look at me, bunny.” 

You blinked your eyes open, tears pooling in the corners and he smiled at you.

“I love you,” he kissed your forehead, “I love you.”

He repeated it over and over, kissing a different part of your face each time, his dick throbbing and pulsing inside you as a smile began to form on your face and your cheeks darkened.

“You’re mine,” he said, “Only mine.”

Your lips parted to moan as he began to thrust faster in you, still blessing you with his full length every time. His sticky, swollen tip kissed the deepest parts of you and you could feel him in your tummy. 

“Feels so full,” you muttered, “Don’t.. stop, please, daddy.”

Shanks groaned, you were addicting. He thanked the powers that be that you came to him as a human and not a siren for he would have not only fallen into your trap but willingly jumped to his death if it meant having you for even just a moment. 

His pace was intoxicating, he had rendered you unable to form even a simple thought. Your brain was filled with the sounds of thick, wet slaps echoing in the room and the sweet musical moans that fell from your lips and his. His lips were on your neck, biting and sucking– harshly, this time. You were both close, the tell-tale sign with Shanks was when he finally shut up. So used to his teasing and jokes and wit were you that it was obvious when he was finally silent.

“Close, baby?” you asked

His eyes were shut in ecstasy and he gave a small nod as he panted.

“Cum inside me,” you whispered in his ear, running your tongue along the edge. 

That was all it took. 

A simple, dirty request from you (one he had indulged in many times before). 

Almost on command, his hips began to stutter as he filled you with weeks’ worth of pent up sexual frustration. You moaned as you felt it dripping out of you before he had even pulled out. 

Shanks collapsed onto you, kissing your cheeks and petting your head, “Let me drain everything into you, sweetheart. It’s yours, all yours.”

You hummed and kissed his forehead, speckled with sweat. 

He lied there, on top of you for another few minutes, his cock twitching inside of you erratically. 

When he had fully spent himself inside you he got up, slowly pulling out– an expression of hunger settling on his face as he watched himself pouring out of you. 

It was almost as though you weren’t there, you felt like an intruder watching as he looked at your pussy, creamed and puffy. 

He joined your ankles together in one hand and lifted your legs up to your chest, bending his head down toward your pussy.

“Ah- Shanks,” you whined.

He ignored you completely, placing his lips onto your pussy, licking and sucking his cum out of your hole. The feeling was indescribably indulgent. He gathered his cum into his mouth and bringing his head up a foot or so away from your pussy he slowly spit it out onto you, the liquid landing with a plap on your clit. You moaned, it was the filthiest thing you’d ever seen him do. 

He let go of your legs, which you were now holding against your chest, and used his hand to slap your puffy, swollen pink pussy a few times, the cum making the slaps louder than usual. Smack, smack, smack. 

Your body completely relaxed, entirely submissive to your Captain. You were his. 

Shanks’ tongue found its way back to your clit, his fingers once again resuming their place from earlier. He slowly slipped in a third finger, shushing your (weak) protests. 

In seconds your orgasm was approaching, fast and hard. You barely had time to let out a cry when a gush of liquid squirted out from your pussy, dousing Shanks’ face and hair. He growled into your pussy and kept going, earning a series of slutty whines from you as you came around him, hips bucking into his face and chest heaving.

“Shanks, too much, too much!”

He laughed against your pussy and placed one more kiss on your clit before pulling away. 

His face was soaked, and you playfully pushed him away from you with your feet when he tried to kiss you. 

He grabbed your ankle and pulled you toward him, earning a series of giggles from you as he scooped you up and rubbed his face all over you.

“Gross!” you whined, “You’re like a wet dog.”

He wiped his face with your discarded shirt before snatching you back up and lying down with you, face to face. 

“You’re hard again, aren’t you.”

He chuckled, burning his face in your shoulder, “No.” 

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Only with you,” he confessed, sitting up, “C’mere.”

He pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arm firmly around your waist. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, gently kissing you, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, okay? I promise.”

You cupped his face with your hands, scooting in on his lap closer to him, so your chests were touching, “I know. So am I. That guy… he doesn’t mean anything to me. I just wanted to make you jealous.”

“It worked,” he admitted, a sheepish smile settling on his face, “If I had drank any more I probably would have punched him.”

You smiled, surprising him, “Is it bad that I’d like to see you fight someone over me?”

He laughed, kissing you again, “No– and I will, if it ever comes to it.”

“So…” 

“Hm.”

“What do we do now?”

“Well,” he glanced at the clock on his bedside, “It’s only eleven. Got another round in ya?”

You rolled your eyes, “I’ve got at least two more in me, but I’m talking about us.”

“Oh,” he said, smiling, “Didn’t I tell you my plan?”

You shook your head.

“We’ll get married.”

Your eyes widened and you smiled, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. Why don’t you ask me to be your girlfriend first.”

“Mm,” he pretended to think about it, “Not good enough. You’re my wife.”

You sighed, his cock was rubbing up against your pussy and you were quite ready for a second round. 

“Alright,” you conceded, starting to grind your hips into his, “Let’s talk about it tomorrow morning.”

He caught onto your little game immediately, hands coming up to start groping at your tits, “Alright, sweetheart. Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock. My bed.”

He winked at you and you smiled, your lips finding each other for the millionth time tonight. 

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

[ask-underfazverse]

More demons come in, and present their gifts one by one, bowing. Fine weaponry, beautifully woven clothes in bright colors, bone totems of themselves, inscribed with words of honor, meals, jewelry. All offerings of condolences.

...this whole time the demons of Gehenna respected them, and they didn't tell them because they thought they already knew-

The first demon rises. "Well, now all of Gehenna will know. That you need to be aware of your honor."

One by one, the other demons rise, telling them what they admire. "You hold your heads high, even when it feels hard."

"Your laughter and joy brings solace to all, especially our... extremely ignorant gods. With all the chaos, we have missed the warmth of your own." 

"You are far more intelligent than you give yourselves credit for. Your wisdom has pointed our leaders in the right direction, when they find time to listen."

“You are a cherished treasure, and our saviors. We would not know that all stories of beauty were true, had lucifer not met you. The sky, water, soil, plants, living animals, having a full stomach... we thought it all fantasy, beforee you and your worlds gave us all a chance to leave Jehovah's gaze, to see the world.”

"You tended to us all, when you did not have to. You spared every ounce of food you could, to make sure we all could eat. You got our leaders to eat, who almost never see a crumb out of guilt of not providing it to us."

"You stand with us, even when you're terrified out your minds. When your own are slaughtered, you continue to stand. Sure, you freeze, and sometimes you run, but who wouldn't in this war? The fact you're still here, even as our new gods turn their eyes towards their own newfound comfort they would not have without YOUR help, you stay. That is a testament to your loyalty and strength."

"You have learned to stay stoic in your suffering. To stay strong for others, and bite your tongue in the face of ignorance. But you have also snapped at quite appropriate times, showing lucifer his place when need be. We envy demons still thing fondly of the one doug who attempted to manipulate him out of madness with that one book belonging to the mother. Your audacity is both humorous, and useful!"

The multiverse is full of infinite possibilities...

Most worlds tend to connect through similar builds. Through stories, people, themes...

It's no surprise seeing a stranger to the multiverse. What IS surprising, however, was his condition. Covered in deep wounds, limbs twisted and torn, and he appeared to be drowning in his own blood by the time he was found. Holy weapons were embedded in his skin, and the flesh sizzled liked bacon around it.

He had red skin, gray hooves, horns that looked far too round and circular to have normally grown out of his head. His long pointed tail is covered in hand prints, and there are bones exposed out of his back. He lays face first in a pool of his own boiling blood, barely breathing or moving.

@ask-underfazverse

Cry’s come from the mass amounts of strangers, many just back away to cowedly to do anything, but a few step up, and begin to heal him. Mainly the younger, less evil Malak’s, a few Doug’s that are just simply concerned, and only one Bierce.

Dream Malak very hurriedly takes him to his hospital, with the help of the others.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

First time between virgin reader and viktor??🫢

how to lose your virginity like a pretentious poet

word count: 1,8k

this turned out rather vague, but still explicit enough to... titillate, so to speak. virgin!viktor, virgin!fem!reader, protected sex, oral (f receiving), dirty talk. this was supposed to have a different ending, but i figured why write about a perfect first time when i can do a more realistic scenario where it doesn't exactly work out? plus, i'm known for edging my readers, so... there you go.

and i'm sorry for how... strangely this is written. i read too much anaïs nin and it shows.

—

His fist swallows him, bottomless, in a dry toe-arching vortex of his climax—a conflux of cum and spit shriveling in the oblique of a lean hip. Vortex climax conflux. A lewd stanza that he croaks at, snicker-like, thinking of its triple-X ending waning alongside his own—perplex, postsex, unorthodox. The poetry of touching oneself to sleep. 

His mind is all thighs and ankles. A shy affinity inching on a fetish. Every night, he yearns for it in a fist-fight with his cock. All but twists his nipple out of the aureole and wishes it were yours instead, dotting his skin a hot, sticky white of sheer hunger. 

In person, it’s much tamer. He’s almost through with the conduit: of groping uphill, from knees to chests to necks, of name-whimpering litanies waiting to become fleshed-out moans, of artifices in friction not yet daring to evolve into orgasms. You know he yearns for resumption. He knows you yearn twice as fierce. The ouroboros of awareness has been choking on its tail for a while. And you envy it. You’d like to choke on a certain appendage, too. 

The night he caves, you lose the nylon and let him topple inside: a thousand taste buds flat against your thigh like a tickle. A hundred tiny spit-flicks fumbling with the peach fuzz. Which then diminishes into a dozen meek bites and, finally, mere units of thrusts—airtight, approbatory, avid. It’s a poem. It has been one, all along. Now, clumsy stanzas are licking through: Viktor simply added some alliteration. Ah. Ah. Ah. Right here. Right there. Ri—mhm! 

“You taste… acidic,” Viktor says. Looks up from beneath your skirt and pushes the linen out of your fist—his fingers are rather selfish. Still damp from whatever had preceded this mouth-to-mound endeavour, they claw at your palm and pin it down—a sparring of digits bending into loops. 

And it’s such a silly thing. You, prying your hand free and squeezing his chin in a way that’s both commanding and inept—tugging his tongue out to assess the slight swell. Him, almost slipping off the bed on a numb knee. The regrouping that follows—a tangle of legs and elbows. A kick here, a tackle there. Splicing until the rhythm is back and the poem becomes sloppy—a vers libre, shirtless and blouseless. The underwear hasn’t slid to its ‘less’ yet. It billows around your ankle—with a frilly twist, baby pink all over. A sinful stain still wet on the very gusset he’d licked before pushing the thing aside. 

“Acidic?” You push a finger into his mouth and gasp when the muscle bends under your touch—pliant, sheepish tongue swirling around your thumb like sleazy sin. And then it gnaws at you—the playful force of his teeth, aiming at your phalanx in a tender strike. Drawing an offended ‘ouch’ and lining into a grin—about thirty whites beaming at you mockingly. 

“Mhm,” he finally answers. Sexily. Perhaps just a little conceited. 

“Acidic?!”

“Er, savoury might be a better word.” 

“Might it really?” 

“Why the frown? I like savoury.” 

“Can’t you just talk dirty to me like a normal person?”

“I can certainly try. Just be mindful of my… non-existent experience. I’m a debutant, after all.”

“So am I, but you don’t see me telling you that you taste weird.”

He laughs, undismayed. Prowls to your mouth with a smile so quivering that yours falters along and tumbles under this Klimt-esque endeavour. It tinges you tart. Licks stolen sour right back into you. Peels your bra off one flushed nipple after a strained ‘May I?’ and bites down, harshly soft. Breaks a moan into toothy half-whimpers and dribbles, treacly, down your ribs in a stream of besotted spit—a clumsy glaze of startled gooseflesh reaching a bumpy aureole. 

“You taste—“ Viktor rasps, slick-jawed, “s-so good.” Throws your thigh over a shaky forearm and pulls you close, lisping an earnest ‘sorry’ when your nipple gets caught in his brace. “I want you to— I want to–“ he gulps, “Oh, if I had it my way, I’d devour you until you burn a hole through my tongue. Yes, render me physically speechless. I doubt I’ll be doing much talking from now on. My mouth has found its purpose between your legs.” 

That disarms you. Languishes your mouth in a way that leaves it agape and rolls some breathy praise into his throat—and he swallows it, chokes on it, spits it back into you. “How did I do?” mumbles toothily. Like he doesn’t already know the answer. 

“Good. For a pretentious poet, that is.” 

“A pretentious poet?” He snickers, humbled. Grabs you by the calf—reverently, with an obsessive humm—and tugs you upright, chest to flushed chest, wondering what strained sound to pick for your next remark. His repertoire is scarce. A chuckle, for something cheeky. A moan, for something obscene. 

And, sure enough, you’re licking into his ear. “Mhm. Are you fucking me or serenading me?” 

Ah. A moaning chuckle, in that case. “Can’t it be both? Clearly, it’s efficient.”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“There’s no need for that. The evidence—“ he reaches under your skirt and plows a finger over slickened folds, “is overwhelming.” 

The silence, aside from the audacious moan he draws from you, lingers. By convention, it evolves into a kiss, then into a teeth-clattering sparring. It stains everything bloody—more clumsy than malicious, yet bloody nonetheless—and this time he doesn’t come out unscathed: there’s rouge saliva shining on his chin, no doubt thick and tasting of intermingled iron. Viktor licks it up, too—the ever intrepid gourmand—and stares at you with the splendour of, well, a victor. 

“Condom,” you gasp—an order, “I want to fuck that attitude out of you.”

His eyes turn glassy—voidy pupils bursting out of ivory apples. “A-Are you certain?” A stumble, that’s nice for a change. “I’ve never done this before—“

“Neither have I.”

“Precisely. Are you—“ He clears his throat, then retaliates with a gentler, “Are we certain we can go all the way tonight?”

“Do you want that attitude ridden out of you or not?” 

His gaze snaps back to its usual almondy shrewdness. “I do. If you’re up for the task.” 

And you reach for his nape, whispering a promising, “Take your pants off.”

The filthy poem reads on.

He fumbles with the rubber with contrived effort, wiping puzzled perspiration off his flushed forehead—a man ungracious, fatigued with his want. You crawl from behind his shoulder—a cautious succession over each bony slope—a pendulum of strike and stroke swinging between each sweet option. Then a comfort, sibilant, is tongued into his hair—a deliciously inane plea that wraps around his cock in a supportive squeeze: keeping it upright so the slick cover slides right on in a satisfying roll. 

“It’s funny,” he says, leaning back. Bucks against your shoulder in a delirious shove and moans, half-undone, at the loving bob of your hand. “I was touching myself to the thought of this just this morning.” 

Your laughter pinpricks his neck. An aspiration—hasty, homely, husky. “The thought of what, exactly? Struggling with condoms?”

He twitches—internally, with a transient cramp. Peels your wrist off of him in a confluence of plea and order and turns around, excitedly, to help you onto his lap: hands on hips-on haunches-on heel spurs. The fetish had finally inched to its utmost. 

Your world comes propping down onto his shoulder—a descent conferred. It’s a staunch thing—breathy, crude, a little undirected. He offers his skin for the lancing of five prickly nails and waits, politely impatient, for you to take the staking. A delicious one, he hopes. But it’s a fit tight enough to strangle. Now, which head is a question of your aim. 

The tip scorches its way inside through a curse. You wince, then leave his worried pout behind blurry eyelids, stilling mid-downward slope. A cautious kiss upon your jaw tips your gut out of the spasm and soothes it, darlingly, to a mushy, liquid feeling somewhere between tense legs. When you open your eyes again, a pair of huge, pensive ones looks back into you. 

“I’m fine.” A promise, strangely coherent. You lean him against the headboard, weaving shaky fingers into his hair just in time to muffle the thump. And he whines for it, gratefully, and rushes to pet the cramp out of your calf. The smile that follows prompts an attempt to take another inch. 

“Do you need me to—“ Viktor swallows his words and looks at the impressive stretch of you around him. Pulls you into another kiss and chokes on cloying saliva, easing you into the friction of excited taste buds. 

It ends with a wet plop. Bumps sweaty foreheads together and has you gulping as you assess the sensation. “No. It’s…” Immense? Wet? Sultry? “Good. Feels good. Just a little intense. Er… prickly.” 

“Ah.” He chuckles, relieved. “Certainly. I, eh, could touch you, if you like?”

And you like. Of course you do. You plunge downward, and squeeze him to the hilt, and pull him, graspingly, by the strap of his brace into a halation of glowing eyes and spitslick mouths contorted in none other than a drawn out ‘Please’, which arcs into a ‘Fuck’ when his fingers come down in a tender onslaught on your clit, schlicking along the very first clumsy thrust. 

Then comes the comatose. Of insides, taut and startled, burning in a pervasive pooling of ‘way too much’. Painting you a pained rouge and causing a rasp that you all but spew into his shoulder, crestfallen. And he seeks you, shakily, from beneath the tousle of his hair—bleeds disjointed confirmations, incidentally, in a language you don’t understand, having caught but an isolated ‘Lásko?ʼ

“I.. I think I—“ It comes out of you gutturally, with a spasmodic writhe. “I think my… eagerness got the best of me.” 

He nods, mouth agape, with his tongue arched under his palate. “Would you like to stop?” Asks piously, swiping a careful peck across your knuckles. 

You cower, arching off of him—a clumsy hesitation between retreat and resumption. And, surely, the former prevails, easing you from around him with a guilty gasp. “Yes. I would.” Then, an addendum, meek and muffled, “I’m sorry.”

Viktor frowns and hurtles you into a tangle of arms—moulds your face into his in a fleeting touch of lips, and smoothes a palm over your shaky thigh. “None of that, please. Come hold me. I’ll get this, er—“ He winces, poking the shrivelled condom, “thing off.”

You laugh—bubbly, perhaps just a little hoarse. Stumbling over a purr-like sound, you curl into the sheets as he pushes his limbs under yours—a beauty, dishevelled, and staring at you, awestruck. You nose his clavicle, contemplating a playful suck.

“Could we—” you offer, sheepishly, “reschedule this? For later tonight. I promise I won’t rush this time.” 

The chin above you comes to rest on your head. “Only if I get to carry on with my pretentious obscenities.”

And you smile at him, wanly, for the umpteenth endearing time. 

“Of course. Serenade me all you please.”

[flamingpudding]

Can you write a fic about this if you can

https://www.tumblr.com/hello-eden/759003690226024449/is-it-a-enemy-or-a-child?source=share

Thanks for the ask, I will try! But first...

Link and credits to the original op: Prompt by @hello-eden

Now onwards! :D Hope you will enjoy....

-----------

Damian stared. There before him was no longer his Grandfather but a boy some years younger than him. He glanced over at his elder brothers. Richard was already on the coms reporting back. Drake was on his wrist computer typing away about something while muttering. He glanced back at the boy, suddenly realising that what he thought was his resemblance to his father could also be resemblance to his grandfather.

The boy before him, probably around the age six, had dark black hair with a white prominent sideburns, similar but far more prominent then Todds white forehead streak. The boy's eyes were not just the simple green Damian had been familiar with but one of the boy's eyes was red, heterochromia. Something Damian hadn't been aware his grandfather apparently had. All his life he had never seen his grandfather like this. The youngest that man had ever appeared had been 60, though Damian was acutely aware that his grandfather was far older than that.

But right now, there sat a six years old boy, his grandfathers ropes, oversized and barely hanging to the boy's shoulders, in the middle of the aftermath of one of his grandfathers plans backfiring. The boy glared at them eyes narrowed as he clutched the robes around himself, Damian noticed the shift in the boy's eyes, red and green wandering around but keeping them in his field of view. He noted how his shoulders tensed before they turned back onto them. It was clear his grandfather did not retain his memories.

"Hey there buddy." Richard, the one who probably had the best handle on small children among them stepped forward and Damian watched how his de-aged grandfather took a step back growling. Damian blinked, that was not what he had expected from his usually dignified grandfather, but then again, he was de-aged and a child.

"Where is mom?"

There was a pause among everyone and they could practically feel the drop in the air of reality hitting hard. With how old his grandfather truly was, there was no way his great-grandmother was still alive. Damian's head turned to look at his eldest brother, his eyebrow arched his masks on his face moving according to that. The silent question of 'now what?' Passed on towards Richard before he turned back.

"Some things happened, and we are here to help. You don't need to be scared of of, in fact it would be create if you could help us better understand-" He watched how his brother tried to gently explain the situation to his grandfather, a sense of strangeness filled Damian watching that seen but he snapped out of it as the boy cut Richard off with a small growl.

"Mom would never leave me. The only reason he would is if something happened to Ellie!" They stared and the conviction the boy spoke these words with, yet they all caught it the brave front the boy was putting on. The slight barely audible stutter, the wet sheen to his eyes as he stared back at them. It tucked at all their hearts. And Damian could accept it right now, this wasn't his grandfather Ra's Al Ghul, but a small boy lost and confused.

While Damian came to terms with the situation Tim caught on to something else. The boy before them asked about his mother, but then used the pronounce 'he', while Tim hadn't expected it that clearly indicated that Ras mother wasn't a simple female that might have died long ago. He had noted the use of a different pronounce that 'regularly' associated with the term mother.

Despite the show of hostility Tim crouched onto eye level of the boy. "Could you tell us your name, and age?" He tried to ask gently, the way he had seen Dick interact with children before. "We could help you find your mom then or maybe Ellie, if you tell us who they are?"

Tim ignored the looks his siblings were sending him and burning into the back of his head. It didn't matter if that was a small lie, they needed to calm the boy down and confirm information. While there likely was no doubt that this was Ra's, they still needed to confirm it, the de-aging happened to quickly before their eyes there was no guarantee that they really could completely trust what they saw.

Though judging by the glare the boy was now giving him, that had a lot of similarities of how Damian tented to glare at them at times. Tim could say there was no changes that, that wasn't Ra's. Still they had to proceed logically just to be on the safer side, in case this wasn't just a villain plan backfiring but a part of a bigger absurd plan, to appeal to their consciousness with the use of a innocent looking child.

The boy on the other and stiffened more, eyes darting towards each of them, then around the area before coming back to stay on Tim. In a way the teen hoped to see some sort of recognition. But instead he saw contemplation, the gears turning in the small boy's head as red and green eyes wandered over them once more.

"Dan."

Was the court answer they got after several minutes. Dick blinked under his mask glancing back at his siblings before at the child again. "What was that Buddy?" He kept his tone friendly and calm, anything to make the child feel safe at the moment, even if that child was Ra's Al Ghul.

"Dan, that's my name." The child version of Ra's, Dan spoke again eyes on them as the boy clutched the oversized robes around him tighter. Not speaking up more.

"Dan?" Dick heard Damian murmur, it was the least to say it confused them all but then again, Ra's was very old originally, he might have changed his names a couple of times during his life time so far. It wasn't like they could track down anyone anyway or keep to what Tim had told the boy, about trying to find likely already dead people for the boy.

"Anything else you want to tell use, Dan?" Dick ask gently in hopes to get anything more out of the boy but, realised a moment later that they hit a wall as the boy's eyes narrowed with dangerous glint. Something he tried not to react on as he had seen that kind of look from Damian before and dear god, this child version of Ra's was making them more and more aware that Damian was related to that man after all.

"That's all I am going to say." The boy growled a little, though Dick could still see the hints that all of that was just a brave facade to not appear weak before them. A mannerisms he remembered all to well Damian had for a long time when he first came to Gotham. A mentality of 'don't show weakness'. Dick sighed, this was going to be difficult to handle wasn't it?

Dan stared at the place these strangely dressed people had brought him too, by now he was wearing more fitting clothes instead of that oversized robe. Though the shirt and shorts where still to big for his current frame. For a moment he cursed his small build as he quietly walked about this 'safe house'. While Dan was no stranger to strangely clothed people or entities, he was wondering what he had gotten himself into as he watched them from the corner of his eyes. The last thing he remembered was being with his Mom and Ellie, they had just gotten back from a checkup with Frostbite and his mom had promised him that he was allowed a spar with Frightnight.

And then...

Suddenly he was before these people strangely dressed people in the mittel of what looked like a destroyed altar, robes that were way to big barely fitting him. While Dan acted bravely he couldn't help the childlike fear at the sudden change of situation. Frostbite had explained it to him and Elly, that because of now properly growing up their mentality would reflect on their actual ages now. It was annoying and by all means Dan didn't want to appear weak in front of potential danger, but his eyes still watered at the thought of his mom suddenly leaving him.

Sometimes he hated how attached he had gotten to Danny after all these years.

He glanced back at these 'heroes', his ears twitched as he tried to catch what the conversation the oldest of them was having on what appeared to be a earpiece communicator. Dan had noted that everything seemed, a lot more modern that what he was used to. It made him wonder if maybe something happened to the timelines again and he got flung into a different time. If that was the case he knew he could relax and just wait for his mom to pick him up, but at the same time Dan had a feeling that wasn't the case. There was no green post-it note from old Clockwork.

Keeping these people in his peripheral vision he angled his body away. One hand out to the side and definitely kept out of their side he tried to see if he could still access his ghost powers, he knew Frostbite had told them not to do that while they were still in a delicate state of re-aging but he needed to know, in case he needed to defend himself. It didn't have any Fenton weaponry on him either.

Dan hissed as a pain shot up his arm and he dropped trying to summon his powers, with a slight bout of annoyance. Okay Frostbites warning was valid, noted. Thought the next moment the kid dressed like a streetlight, Robin if he remembered right, snatched his arm up, inspecting his hand and Dan blinked for a stunned moment before growling. He didn't liked getting touched. He was just about to voice that when he froze.

Recognising something he hadn't before. "You...." He mumbled stunned. That kid had a ecto signature, it was weak, washed out and not really strong, but Dan recognised it and swallowed hard, it was similar to his moms and his own and Ellie's. Before he could comment on it more a gleam got his attention and suddenly Dan saw something else peaking out of the collar from the colourful dressed boy.

Without thinking Dan snatched it and stumbled back from the boy, inspecting the green, emerald like stone. The gold chain around it broke as he had ripped it of the others neck as he looked at it carefully, his thumb going over the smooth surface. While Dan did that he did not notice how Robin got held back by the teen from lashing out. He didn't noticed how the three 'heroes' seemed to hurriedly hiss and discuss something among themselves as Dan inspected the calling stone.

He would be a fool to not recognise this. It was a stone made from concentrated ectoplasm, it appeared like an emerald to mortals but in truth was made from his mothers ectoplasm. A calling stone, to call him when ever they were in trouble and his mom wasn't with them already. Dan clutched the stone, it looked different from the one he remembered his mother giving him. His head snapped up as he stared hard with narrowed eyes at the other boy only a couple years older. Noting some resemblances to Danny.

Suddenly he had the thought that maybe, just maybe Clockwork had sent him here on purpose. Because maybe these people had done something to his mother, to Danny, and maybe even Ellie too. Because why else would they have one of these calling stones.

"How did you get that? Where is mom?"

[applereid]

— HIS CAMGIRL, DEAN WINCHESTER.

MDNI smut, camgirl!user, male masturbation

Was Dean the type of man to indulge in something like this? Absolutely. More than anyone else he knew, Dean was aware— unapologetically— that this was exactly his kind of thing.

He sat alone in a dimly lit motel room, the familiar creak of the mattress beneath him as he leaned back against the headboard. Sam was out— running errands or maybe chasing a lead— and Dean knew he had time. Time to unwind in his own way. With one hand he began to unbutton his jeans, the other deftly maneuvering the mouse of his aging laptop until he landed on a site he knew far too well.

BecomeACamGirl.com

His preferred distraction. His favorite money sink. Hundreds of dollars funneled through fraudulent credit cards, all to indulge in moments of digital intimacy that felt far too real. He justified it easily— if the money wasn’t theirs to begin with, then why not spend it on something that made him feel something?

And then there was you.

Or rather, Sugar— your screen name, sweet and simple, but with a bite that matched your smile. You were his weakness. The way you spoke to him in chat, the way you said his name— moaned his name—it drove him to the brink every single time. It wasn’t just lust. It was obsession, tangled with the illusion of connection.

He clicked through to your profile. You were live. Thank God.

It had been weeks since he’d had the chance. Sam had been glued to his side lately, and solo moments like these were becoming rare. But now— now he had you.

“Dean,” your voice purred through the speakers, sultry and teasing. You sat on the floor of your softly lit bedroom, framed by plush carpet and shadows. Lingerie hugged your curves like a second skin. “Nice of you to join. Was starting to miss my favorite boy.” You smiled, biting your bottom lip just enough to make his heart race.

Dean let out a breathless chuckle, jeans and boxers shoved down in one practiced motion. He typed with one hand, the other already gripping the base of his aching cock as he sent a $50 tip along with a message.

Dean: Missed you, sweet thing.

You glanced to the side to read it, your smile widening as you spoke. “You remember the last time you were here? Bought me something off my wishlist?” You leaned off camera for a moment.

Oh, he remembered. A white lace lingerie set— soft, delicate, almost innocent. He’d imagined you in it for days. Then, he imagined it crumpled on your bedroom floor.

You returned, holding the set between two fingers like a promise. “Should I go put this on for you guys?” you asked, your voice light with a playful lilt. You giggled as you scrolled through the chat.

Dean didn’t hesitate. His body moved on instinct, fingers flying over the keys as the tension in him built higher.

Dean: Fuck yeah.

After stepping off-screen for a few moments, you return to view— Dean’s white lingerie hugging your curves, your hair now loose around your shoulders. With a coy, knowing smile, you sit back down, settling gracefully as you flash a bashful grin to the camera.

“Do you like it?” you murmur, your voice soft and teasing. Leaning back on your palms, you subtly adjust your posture, striking a few flattering poses to show off your body in all the right angles.

On the other side of the screen, Dean exhales sharply. Without hesitation, he spits into the palm of his hand and rewraps it around the base of his cock, slicking himself up slowly, his eyes never leaving the screen.

You reach off camera and return with a pastel pink dildo, bringing it into view with a lazy smile. You drizzle lube into your free hand, the bottle making a soft sound as you apply it, then start stroking the toy with practiced ease.

“God, baby… you’re so big,” you whisper breathlessly, eyes flicking up toward the camera, every word dipped in desire.

“Let me taste you. Please? Want you in my mouth,” you plead softly, your lips forming a pout as you lean in, giving the silicone tip a slow, deliberate lick while holding eye contact with the lens.

Dean lets out a low groan, whispering as if you could actually hear him. “Yeah… you can,” he mutters, nodding to himself, immersed entirely in the illusion that you’re in the room with him.

His breath catches as he watches you take the toy fully into your mouth, lips stretched around the shaft until you reach the base. When you pull back, a glistening string of spit connects your lips to the toy, and his grip tightens reflexively.

Dean’s imagination runs wild— wondering how your throat would feel around him. Could you handle all of him? Would you gag? Would you moan around him, tears in your eyes as you took every inch?

You moan softly, your free hand rising to cup your chest as you begin sucking on the toy once more, slow and sensual.

“Fuck, sugar,” Dean groans, closing his eyes for a moment, hips jerking upward into his own hand as pleasure courses through him.

“Cum for me, baby,” you whisper sweetly, pulling off the dildo and stroking it slowly, resting your cheek against it as you gaze into the camera with wide, pleading eyes.

“I’m cumming, sugar… fuck,” he gasps, his voice low and broken. With a series of quiet grunts, Dean finishes into his hand, his body tensing as he rides out the wave, breath stuttering in his chest.

You smile softly, reading through the flood of chat messages and generous tips rolling in. One by one, thank-you notes and donations appear— until Dean’s $300 tip pops up, rocketing him from second place to the coveted top spot: your highest tipper of the night.

Dean: Until next time, sweet girl.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. Thank you, Dean.” you say gently, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “You were amazing. I’ll see you next time, yeah? And don’t forget, there’s a new $20 chat option if you ever want to talk one-on-one.”

Dean’s eyes narrow with interest at that last line, watching as the camera clicks off and your profile reappears on screen. He grabs a towel from beside the bed, cleaning himself off as he scans the new feature you teased.

A direct message option—private access to you, his favorite camgirl. For $20, he could talk to you directly, one-on-one.

He smirks.

He just might have to give that a try.

[beaniebaneenie]

The only problem is that some of these folks signing that letter (including Paapa Essiedu) are still very much continuing their role as a part of the series. And are still showing up for "guest star" appearances (like Redmayne, when the latest Fantastic Beasts thing opened).

Quite a few of these celebrities who are "coming out in support" of trans rights are still stopping shy of putting their money where their mouth is.

There's a reason why Tom Felton is the one visiting and opening the Chicago Harry Potter Store... because Dan, Rupert, and Emma wouldn't touch it with a 39 1/2 foot pole, because they are aware that supporting Rowling = supporting bigotry and they don't want their name associated with it.

Nicola Coughlan signed that letter, but she also called Rowling and her TERF buddies losers, and then ran a fundraiser that donated over £70,000 to trans charities, and then matched it with her own money. THAT is supporting us. That is how you come out in support of trans rights- it has to be done with more than mere words.

Eddie and Paapa signed the letter, but are still perfectly happy taking that Potter Paycheck, and aren't upset enough to walk away, despite knowing what Rowling plans on doing with that money.

An open letter saying "I'm a #ally" isn't good enough, especially when they're waving to trans folks with one hand and making money both from and for transphobia with the other.

Ally is a verb. It is something you DO.

You really want to "stand in solidarity" with trans folks? Walk away from a project guaranteed to make you a millionaire. Have principles and use them to guide your actions. Put your own career on the line- refuse to work projects led by transphobic assholes, even if it hurts your own checkbook. Even if it makes your career harder.

Otherwise you're not in solidarity with us, not at all. (And the proof is in the pudding- JKR has stated she has no problem with Paapa's statement, since trans activists and regular trans folks are pointing out that his actions are merely performative. She also knows this is not real support, and so it doesn't bother her.)

I have no time for celebs who claim they support us yet refuse to actually stand on business.

Something funny about another wave of actors who starred in Harry Potter films coming out against the Supreme Court ruling - and therefore JK Rowling who funded the campaign.