#It seems a bit ironic to tag this as a long post

[thisonehere]

heheh I just found your writing and! yet another mk writer im obsessed with :> if your requests are still open, I’d love something with raiden or tomas with a reader with a tomboy/ funny disposition that gets flustered easily (i have an AGENDA!)

Double Feature

A/N: I'll do you one better, how about BOTH. Least I can do for taking so long to get this done.

Tags: Tomboy reader, Mk x reader, Request, Post Mk1, Drabble, fluff, Heat

C/w: Mentions of heat exhaustion, Sexual Tension

Cool Down

(featuring Raiden)

"Y/n?"

Raiden asked, concerned, as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"I-I'm fine." You are quick to shut your friend down, quickly going back throwing cabbages into your cart. It was a hot summer day and you were hot and bothered. Not just by the sun, though it showed you little mercy already, but also by Raiden. He had rolled up his sleeves revealing his forearms. They were bigger, stronger than you remembered. You how you froze like a deer in headlines and stared at them.

Time at the Wu Shi really bulked him up.

"Are you sure? You seem off today" Raiden pressed the matter forward as he threw another cabbage into his cart. Today was the day that your dear friend returned from his hard work at the Academy as Liu Kang's champion.

"I'm fine! Just a little overheated." You straightened your hat and focused on your work. Uprooting the Cables with you Harvest knife and chucking and flinging the last bit of them, one, two, three, one right after the other into your cart. You were working much faster today, Raiden was struggling to keep up.

You two grew, alongside Lao, as farmers working in Feng Jian. Your family worked at the same farm as Raiden and Loa. A lot of the girls in Gang Jian were tough, you were no exception. You always came home and had scrapped knees and bruised knuckles from rough play. You remembered wrestling Lao and Raiden in these very fields when you were younger. With time they got stronger, it did get harder to fight them, but not impossible.

One time you had to wipe the smile off Lao's when he said something snide to you, you couldn't do what exactly, but it was something about you being a weak little girl. He was on his back in seconds with a very unhappy look on his face.

You were such a tough girl, it was ironic then that it was easy to get ruffled and flustered, especially around Raiden

Now was no different.

"Yes, well, I suppose today is...rather hot." A few beads of sweat trickled down Raiden's face, but other than that he looked barely affected by the sun's heat. Perhaps a bonus of the amulet that is on his chest, but truly, rather never seemed bothered by heat. His own secret way of reminding all his inherit perfection.

You hated this man's face; that's a lie, you love his face. You hated that you loved his face.

"Rather hot indeed." Raiden lifted his arm to wipe away the sweat on his brow, unintentionally flexing causing flexing muscles through his ill-fated shirt. Once more that knot formed from your belly. "Perhaps a trip to the Teahouse is in order. A nice cup of lemon barley water would do wonders, I'll buy us some."

You huffed as you reached for the last cabbage "I can buy my own lemon Marley water."

"Lemon Barley water." Raiden corrected causing you to roll your eyes. "Well, what's the difference? Barley? Marley? Bali? I'm sure they all taste just the same if you're not given to preference." You wondered whether or not the hotness in your face was from the heat, or from struggling not to look at Raiden. And yet Raiden looked at you, rather strangely. "We need to get you inside, the heat has you speaking nonsense." He laid his hoe beside his cart and walked over to you in the manner of someone concerned about the other would faint.

The wretched man outstretched his hand and laid omit on your shoulder. Taken by surprise, you feel as if your entire body collapses from inside. Chills run through your body at his touch, making you feel things you never thought to feel. "By the Elder Gods, your trembling, the heat you trembling. That does it, you are going inside." You shrug you shoulder, forcing Raiden's hand off.

"I'm fine! Madame Bo's can wait. We still need to get these cabbages delivered and-and-hey! What are you doing!?"

Before you could process it, Raiden throws you over this shoulder in a quick procession. "Put me down, you oaf!" It seems the Shaolin didn't just make Raiden stronger, they made him bolder as well.

...

You hated to admit it, but Raiden was right, the Lemon-Barbie-whatever-water did just the trick for your disposition. You found yourself sat in a booth at Madame Bo's.

The old woman would've come to greet you but she was too busy taking orders. It was just you and Raiden. The water proved refreshing enough that you drained the entire glass and pitcher. 3 pitcher to be exact. Raiden eyed the empty glass with a deep chagrin. It would cost him. "You did say you would pay."

Raiden slowly nodded. "I did say that, didn't I?" His eyes are mournful. He slumped back into his seat as he imagined the bill. You merely laugh. "You're almost as bad as Kung Lao." Raiden huffed, causing you to sit upright in your seat. "Now you wait just a minute! I'm many things, but I'll never be as bad as Lao." You snippily snark.

Raiden playfully scoffed as he took a swing of his hibiscus tea. "Well, at least you're a better company." He said with a satisfied sigh.

This merely comment sent you in a flush. Causing you to chug faster on your water. "But really, I am so happy to back. The monks at the Wu Shi Academy are wonderful, but I missed Feng Jian so much." Raiden gently places a hand on yours as he smiles, looking into your eyes. "I missed you." At that second you felt your whole body nearly burst into flame. You smiled as the world began to spin.

"I-Is Lao back too?" You ask rashly, placing your glass aside. "Um, Yes, I believe so-I" But you don't give Raiden a chance to finish as you quickly rise to your feet. "Then, why are we here? We should see him, I'd love to see him!" You slam money onto the counter and Get out of your booth. "Wait, we both agreed that I'd pay-Wait-What-H-Hey!"

Raiden is taken by surprise as you rush over to him, grab him, and throw him over your shoulder. "No so nice, is it? Ha! Let's go!" You rush out the door of the Teahouse, ignoring Madame Bo's yelling at you to 'be gentle with that boy or else you'll break him'.

Focus on Me

(featuring Tomas Vrbada)

"Watch my form."

Tomas said as he strikes the training dummy with a complex attack that requires immense attention. Attention that you couldn't give because you were too busy eyeing his bare body. He had gotten the bright Idea to take off his shirt while training, you were lost in a haze as you admired his smooth skin, and the sweat mixed with morning sunlight that detailed his beautiful muscle.

You two were training in new Shirai Ryu training grounds outside. You were a new recruit and already you showed great promise, so much promise in fact that you were set to train alongside Tomas, Harumi, and Kuai. A woman like you comes once in a generation after all, as Tomas put it.

It was a wonderful opportunity. If only you could pay attention, you get so easily distracted, easily flustered. For such a tough girl, it was so easy to get you scattered brained. Tomas especially seemed to be your kryptonite, everything thing man did drove you to jelly knees and a blank mind.

"Bow you go." Tomas huffed, breathing heavily as he wiped the sweet from his from his brow. With a deep gulp you walk up to the dummy, get into your stance, you swing, you miss. You were good, but not the way Tomas needed you to be. "Here, let me help." Suddenly you feel Toma's hot body behind you. His hands are on you, going up and down your body, adjusting and correcting you.

He then walks up to a nearby Dummy and redoes the move, a quick and fats paced one, again you must pay attention, and again you fail to. "Okay, now you try it now." Okay, you try and you fail from lack of paying attention. Tomas crossed his arms and pursed his lip, his eyes are on you. Analyzing up and down, figuring you out in every inch of your being. It took all in your to remain upright, to look strong and confident. "Y/n, step onto the training mat." He said sternly, putting his hand behind his back as he fixed his nose upward and hiss tare at you coldly.

Butterflies gathered and swarmed about in your stomach as you quickly stepped to the mat, feeling it's sunbaked warmth under your feet. Tomas followed you to the mat and stood at the other side of it. "It's clear that you are struggling with this." He decided, his eyes still beating on you. You tried to keep your head up high, but the way Tomas was looking at you was causing you freak out on the inside. "It's clear that you need something different. A dummy isn't working for you...so perhaps a real person works better on you." He spread his legs and got into his fight stance.

You eyes widen and you look at him like he's crazy, you? him? Could you handle being that close to him, or would you combust into flames. "What's wrong?" Tomas said, noticing you concern. "Scared of a little skin-on-skin? I promise...I'll be gentle." Okay, at this point this man knows what he's doing, you decided in you as you also get into your own fighting stance, being sure to be in the exact form Tomas wanted you in.

And just like that, you two go at it. Trading blows, dodging each other. "That's it!" Tomas cheered as you finally preformed the move correct. And so you keep training, Tomas insists that you keep doing the move on him again, and again, and again. He says he can take it, so you give him everything you got.

By the end, you both are on your back, huffing. "I think's that's enough training for now." Tomas huffed. You nodded your head in agreement, by now you forgot why you were so flustered. Why were you so nervous? This is just Tomas, he's nothing to blush over.

Tomas gets up to his feet, he stretches "You really worked me out."

...

Dang it.

You feel your entire body begin to burn again. Tomas doesn't notice, he instead helps you to your feet. "Get to the showers, we'll reconvene with Kuai Liang later at noon. We'll doing a bit of wrestling. I want you to be my partner." You just smile and nod and bow. You both part ways, going to your respective places to clean up. You didn't know about Tomas, but you were taking a coldest shower.

[asaka-lucy-dr-rc]

It was a very fun fan meeting! 🌟

▼I will post a detailed report later, but for now, just some photos and brief impressions ▼

The theater where the fan meeting was held:

Below is a photo taken near the theater where you can clearly see the Tokyo Sky Tree, one of the inspirations for the design of Kanai Tower:

------------------------ There was a display of official goods near the entrance and many fans lined up to take pictures:

The tapestry that will be a bonus for the purchase of the art book that will be released on April 2nd:

------------------------ Plushies!:

------------------------ Life-size panels of the main characters. Lots of fans lined up to take pictures of this, too, but some fans in line behind me said that Yuma looked very small. (Yes, that's right. He's only 150cm tall!)

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

Overall, it is no exaggeration to say that the entire content of this event was a surprise, as there was no prior announcement of what the event would be about, but one of the most sudden announcements was that Kazutaka Kodaka would be signing autographs for those who purchased the official soundtrack at the event's merchandising. I had already bought the OST, but there was an announcement that the version signed by Masafumi Takada would be sold, so I thought I would buy one if there were any left. As it turned out, a lot of people bought the OST, probably because they could get Kodaka's autograph. And of course I bought it too.

I was very nervous to talk to Kodaka directly! but it was a very good experience XD I will make another post about this later.

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

As for my impression of the event, the first thing I'd like to say is that I was very impressed. I felt the fans deeply thanking the developers and voice actors for making or working hard on RAIN CODE, and the developers and voice actors thanking the fans for playing and supporting RAIN CODE. Well, it seems kind of generic when I put it into words… but I think the event clearly showed a high level of passion for RAIN CODE.

What was particularly surprising was that the guest voice actors had probably played the game properly. I expected Katsumi Fukuhara, VA for Yuma, and Sayumi Suzushiro, VA for Shinigami, to have played the game, but I was surprised that even Yui Ishikawa, VA for Halara, and KENN, VA for Desuhiko, were able to discuss the game in detail.

And what is impressive is that they all "mentioned" a sequel. When I say "mentioned", they just said they wanted to do a sequel; unfortunately, there was no announcement that they had decided to do a sequel. But I think mentioning a sequel in front of the fans carries a different weight. Also, not just once or twice, but on various topics, Kodaka hinted at the possibility of various developments in the future. On the other hand, if something is already decided, it would be a good time to announce it at an event like this, so it is a bit sad that no concrete announcement was made, but I was very happy that all the guests showed their motivation to make a sequel.

I took notes on what they talked about and will post a report with some illustrations based on those notes. The event lasted about two hours * twice (day and night), but it was packed with a lot of topics, so it's hard to put it into text properly! But it was a lot of fun, and there are a lot of scenes I want to illustrate, so I'll post them one by one.

[youryurigoddess]

So one thing led to another, and I’ve just paid a visit to the first (that we know of) confirmed Good Omens S3 filming locations. Due to the obvious sensitivity of this material, please tag it accordingly and share only with the fans consenting to know potential spoilers.

A fellow Good Omens fan has mentioned that residents of a certain Edinburgh area had unexpected guests recently, knocking on their door and telling them they are filming in their street soon. Imagine their surprise when a polite question about the details led to the offhand answer: “IT'S ONLY GOOD OMENS”.

For those unaware, the City of Edinburgh Council has been working really hard on promoting the city for film and TV industry for a few years now (the effects of which we saw in S2), and has a set of very clear and very publicly available guidelines regarding the modus operandi here.

The Good Omens production has both large scale and a high impact on a specific location due to the crew size, amount of technology used, and requirement for crowd control in most of the exterior and interior scenes (e.g., bookshop, pub, or coffee shop windows), which is why not only the local authorities, but also residents were informed about the filming with an at least 8 days notice:

Ironically, I just had happened to have a trip here planned and a hotel booked within walking distance to the locations on the attached TM and parking plan map, so it would be a waste not to use this opportunity for the greater good of the fandom. Can’t stay long enough to see the actual crew, so unfortunately the hair photos will have to be made by someone else. Disappointing, I know. But there’s still a lot to be excited about!

According to the provided notice, the filming will happen within one working day with the required set-up planned for the day before, mostly in the afternoon hours. The attached map shows planned parking suspension and SYL dispensation on two streets close to the chosen locations, which is where the trailers and equipment vehicles will park:

Location One turns out to be, rather surprisingly, a cosy corner bookshop. The shop — one of the Edinburgh’s oldest surviving secondhand bookstores — is very small, but crammed with a wide ranging library of beautiful books to serve readers and collectors, including antiquarian true first editions and signed copies.

It’s giving Muriel’s sweet and whimsical charm, but the bits and pieces of the unpublished Good Omens sequel point out not towards Whickber Street, where the angel currently resides, but more towards a new in-universe location. Maybe one that will be opened in the future post-Second Coming, maybe one that will remind one of the characters about a home base of operations back in the heart of London’s Soho (and theirs— wait, who said that?).

Notice that the road closure includes north and south sides of the pavement visible in the last photo, so both indoor and outdoor shots could be expected:

Location Two seems a bit more complex, since it’s basically a skewed triangle consisting of one longer street and a short side street diverging from it. Conveniently for the filmmakers, the architecture here is uncharacteristic enough that it could be easily presented as British, Scottish, or even American. I’m personally a bit partial to the last option since it would make sense story- and budget-wise, especially now with the two people previously adamant on shooting the US scenes only on location there not on the production team anymore.

The contrasting structures and materials visible here easily offer background for multiple potential contexts and scenarios, so much in fact that it’s easy to imagine more than one scene being shot here for cost- and time-effective reasons. Some of the buildings along the cobbled road have the right look and feel for historical flashbacks, as you can see below. I find the two separate entrances next to each other particularly lovely:

A considerable part of the buildings in the area, however, belongs to a more modern complex that communicates a very different personality and function. With a bit of camera and post-production magic, it could transform to a wide range of settings — please let me know your thoughts and ideas if you have any!

Specific filming times and more detailed information are consciously not shared out of concern for the crew and cast members who clearly don’t want them to become public knowledge. Those of you who live in the area and might visit the set anyway, please don’t forget to make sure that your presence won’t bother them as well as other locals. And remember to keep any new photos and information contained with tags so that you won’t spoil it to the people who would rather wait for the movie itself!

[toruforuu]

gojo satoru x reader || gladiator au [18+]

Gilded Gage part one

➷pairing: gladiator!gojo x princess!reader

➷summary: a princess betrothed to a roman emperor whom she despises for his cruelty, sets her sights upon an ethereal looking arrival into the arena and is struck with an overpowering curiosity. the gladiator’s skilfulness earns him the emperor’s favour, keeping him alive for now, while the princess sneaks through the silence of the night to meet with him in secret — blooming with something the emperor could never bring to life

➷genre/tags: gladiator au, forbidden romance, sneaking in the night, historical au, the roman empire, strangers to lovers, female princess reader, gladiator gojo, smut (in the second part), angst with a happy ending, bit of fluff, smitten gojo, lots of yearning

➷warnings: implied misogyny and sexual harassment, description of violence and injuries/death, mentions of blood and vital organs, weapons, reader called princess a lot (cause she’s one, like literally)

➷word count: 11.3k

a/n: hello lovelies, it’s been so long since i last posted! i am genuinely finding myself in the biggest writer slump i’ve ever experienced, hopefully that’s past me now. here’s the promised gladiator au. in the end I decided to separate it into two parts, otherwise it’d be way too long and i doubt that anyone would actually read it. be sure to let me know if you’d also like the second part as well. no more yapping, enjoy!

The Colosseum is filled to the brim with people, standing and cheering loudly as the fight unfolds in front of them right down in the arena. The sun rays down at the circle shaped creation with no mercy, its strength wearing you down. Eager and bloodthirsty roars echo through your ears as swords clash, the sound of metal blended with the overwhelming buzzing of people. You fight the disgust lacing into your features as you sit in the area reserved for royalty, seated inches behind the emperor himself as his bride to be. Your fingers grip onto the handles of your seat, causing the gold jewellery you’re draped in to shackle. You blink, and blood seems to gush out, spilling on the ground due to the merciless slash of a sword blownwed by the winner — piercing through the flesh of the loser. Screams pinch through the air, earning frantic chants from the audience.

The sight hurls your insides, causing a nauseous feeling to take over you as the intestines of the fighter flee out of his dismembered body, falling to the ground without any trace of life. Even more aversion swallows you as you catch the grin tugging at the ruler’s lips from your angle. He’s quick to stand up and clap, the whole arena dying down into pure silence in response.

“You have fought well my champion, though today’s fight is not yet to be finished,” his deep voice spills through the Colosseum, the audience remains quiet as you continue to be on the edge in your seat.

“Rise,” the Emperor tilts his head in your direction, commanding you. You don’t dare to defy him in any slightest as you know any of your slip up could resolve in one of his episodes. You delicately lift your body from the wooden throne, quick to close the distance between you, and to step under the weight of the burning sun which paints the sand floor in golden fury. You create a shield with your palm, blinking away the sunlight before locking your gaze with the man you’re promised to.

The man’s hand sneaks around your waist, bringing your side to his. Your hands fly out to rest at the railing made out of stone, feeling a piece of security. The emperor looks down at you with a twisted smile, deliberately crafted golden crown consisting of laurels resting at the top of his head.

“Bring out the prisoners,” his other hand gripping a golden cup is lifted into the air, a gesture of bidding. As soon as he speaks those words out, large gate opens up. The guards push dozen of men inside the arena — their hands buckled together in one iron chain, bringing their rate of survival against the champion to absolute zero. With spears pointed at their figures, they have no other option than to step on the battlefield under the eyes of hundreds.

Most importantly, the emperor himself.

“My lord, you are going to have them fight in chains?” your soft voice breaks out into the open, questioning the outlook of the situation. The men are offered a weapon against all odds, but being connected to one another is seemingly putting all of them into a disadvantage. From their filthy and bruised appearance it’s clear these men are mere prisoners or slaves. Trapped souls dragged into the arena, not as warriors but as bait for the amusement of the citizens.

“Yes, is it not exciting? It is all for you, my future bride,” from the tone of his voice it’s absolutely clear this man who is yet to be your husband is serious, assuming he’s pleasing you with this dehumanising act. It awakes a terrifying and electrifying wave of anxiety within you. The emperor is known for his cruel ruling and rational punishments, regardless of it, it never ceases to shock you just how merciless he can be.

You don’t protest, only smiling at him and moving your hand to rest at his chest in gratitude. All of it a scene, an act you feel you’re bound to preform in exchange for your safety. You have no power to do anything but watch, your eyes squinting upward at the sea of spectators before falling on the muscular figure standing across the arena in chains. The champion covered in bronzed armor that glimmers with polish, he stands with the casual grace of a justified killer. He’s armed with a simple curved blade which is still dipped in blood from its previous encounter, and a round shield, bearing the imperial crest. The champion is a living legend among the audience — undefeated and unscathed.

They chant the name of the gladiator as if it’s a sacred prayer to the gods.

It sickens you.

The dozen men murmur among themselves, panic rising in their expressions as they throw their sword from hand to hand. A nervous gesture signalling their rising worries as the undefeated gladiator makes his way towards them.

“We cannot fight him head-on. But if we use the chain together as our weapon, then we might have a chance,” a man placed at the end of the chain mumbles to the other men, but panic has already taken its hold. A few men scream and rush forward, dragging the rest behind them. The chain becomes chaos, jerking bodies in every direction and dragging some of them to the ground while The champion moves.

He’s swift, a blur of lightning speed as there’s no baggage holding him back.

The first man falls, his chest opened with a single slash of metal. Another tries to keep away, unfortunately he’s yanked back by the chain, straight into the champion’s killing stroke — keeping his streak of robbed lives. A third decapitates himself by bringing the weapon to his throat, ending his misery before he’s killed by the hands of others. Blood paints the sand, pooling on the floor. The survivors stumble back, heaving with eyes wide open as sweat drenches their bodies and are left bereft of oxygen. Four lie dead now, perhaps five. It’s hard to keep a track.

The crowd is screaming, drunk on the violence and the man who spoke before forces himself between the others, grabbing the chain and snarling something which goes unheard by the audience. Leaving you to guess whenever they listen or lead themselves towards death.

And indeed, they hear him. Out of fear, if nothing else.

A man with unusual ball of white hair directs them to move in a circle, to feint and pull in coordinated tugs. They spread out, using their own bindings as both weapon and trap. When the champion charges, confident. They act. One man dives in sacrifice, drawing the champion’s first swing. Another yanks the chain, unbalancing the warrior.

Like a tide, they shift, loop, and bind.

In moments, the champion is tangled into the chains with no room to move his body, imprisoned just like them.

Without a scratch, not hurt, but humiliated and bested.

The crowd holds its breath. The emperor whose face is painted with neutral expression as he stands beside you, raises a hand to give his final judgment.

His thumb points downward.

Death.

The champion’s eyes shift into utter panic, unable to move.

“Kill the man, drive a blade through his throat and you may live another day,” The emperor calls out to the six men who survived the bloodbath. Your head jerks towards him, brows lifted in surprise at the punishment to his favoured champion. The man captured by the chained prisoners breathes hard, unable to mask his fear.

“Your majesty, with all due respect, spare the man’s life,” you wrap your arms around his bare biceps, closing the distance between you before anyone else can interfere to kill.

“What was that, princess?” his cold gaze falls down at you and you tense up with a swirling cannibalistic terror that you might have overstepped your set limits.

“He is your champion, let him have at least a gracious death,” you modify your words, offering a kind hint of a smile in contrast to his calculation gaze.

The crowd awaits his answer in silence, your words not audible to any one else.

���You are quite right, dear,” his palm pats your shoulders, his proximity distancing and you loosen up in quiet relief. From both his words and his action of leaving your personal space.

“You,” the emperor’s finger points down at the man who strategically brought his champion to defeat “you will face the champion one on one. Battle for either life or death,”

Not exactly what you had in mind when you pleaded for the man’s life to be spared.

Your gaze follows the direction of his finger, landing on the clever prisoner who saved five other lives along with his own. The man’s hair is coloured pure white, the exact shade of your delicate tunic — unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. His features are quite a mess from the distance you’re facing him, the details tucked away. The blinding white of his locks and a reflection of his iridescent eyes are the only two things to be mapped out.

“I do not kill for amusement, your highness,” the prisoner is fast to decline, bowing down to his knee. The other men mimicking his motion, which only appears to anger the ruler further. You stand unmoving, frozen in fear of what’s coming.

“You are brave to defy my orders,”

“Do it, or else you and your men are doomed for the same fate,” the madman demands with a crazed smirk, turning his gaze to glance at you briefly. From below, the victorious prisoner looks up towards the royal box as the emperor announces his decision, breathing heavily with sweat and blood running down his face. His eyes dart to you standing next to him, noticing you for the first time. Seeing you look down at him, the man's exhausted gaze meets yours fleetingly, but his attention is quickly called back to your soon to be husband.

“As you wish, your highness,”

He has no other choice but to fight.

The sun blazes higher than moments ago as it reaches its highest peak, casting long shadows of the Colosseum. The crowd roars once more like a tidal wave of bloodlust and anticipation. At one side stands Valerian, the undefeated champion who’s been gifted a second chance, armour glinting like a god’s wrath in the sweltering weather, though there’s a certain hesitation in his movements now.

At the other side stands the white haired prisoner— no title, no name, no armor, just chains recently broken and scars scattered across his body. The crowd jeers, expecting slaughter. But there's something in his eyes — calm like the sea before a storm, it creates a pit in your stomach.

The horn rings and Valerian moves forward like a warhorse, his massive blade cutting through the air. The unknown white haired man dodges with impossible grace, grabbing a fallen shield from the sand, and ducking under the swing. The wind coming from the blow nearly taking his head.

He answers with a broken spear, driving it into Valerian’s knee.

Gasps echo through the arena, painting an amusing grin on the emperor’s lips as the giant falters.

From now on it’s a dance — brutal and desperate. Valerian attacks with the fury of a man defending his honour, but the unfamiliar prisoner slips through his reach again and again, turning every mistake into an advantage. He moves like a ghost with precise strike.

Another drops of blood stain the sand, leaving marks of the battle.

The prisoner’s shoulder is cut.

Valerian’s leg wobbles.

They circle around each other, crowd no longer cheering as the fight leaves them breathless.

Then, in a haze of a motion, the prisoner feints left, ducking from a wide swing. Only to drive a dagger which was stolen mid-fight into Valerian’s side. The champion instantly drops to his knees, meeting the gaze of his opponent one last time before collapsing to the ground like a house of cards, unmoving. The arena erupts while the bloodied prisoner stands and towers over the champion’s dead body, collecting himself from the overwhelming adrenaline of the fight.

“What do you think of him, my dearest?” it pulls you of the awing trance, sending you back to present. Not knowing whenever you should be disgusted or pleased with how the fight had turned out. Your hands soothe down your tunic, eyes fleeting between the victor and the man you’re betrothed to.

“He has proven himself worthy,” you shakily breathe out near the shell of his ear, orbs still unknowingly flickering down to sneak glances at the extraordinarily looking man with fur of white hair. Meanwhile you’re held by the one who’s been letting the empire to starve and suffer under his reign.

One thumb pointed up, mercy.

The marble halls of the palace glisten under torchlight. Silent and still as though the night itself holds its breath at your bravery. Somewhere beyond the columns and guarded doors, Rome sleeps — drunk on the violence performed in the arena earlier that day.

You move like a shadow. A princess, betrothed to an emperor you neither love nor trust, slipping through a hidden passage behind your chamber’s tapestry. Feet tapping against cold stone. A hood drawn over your head to conceal your face as a secret from passersby, draped in your silken robes.

Every creak of wood, every echo of footsteps sets your heart pounding incredibly fast in your ribcage. The guard’s numbers are smaller at this hour, their concentration dulled by routine and drinking too much wine throughout the day. You time your movements with the changing of the watch, slipping behind statues, darting through moonlit courtyards, where a loyal servant from your home waits at a forgotten gate meant for deliveries, holding a satchel and a stolen dagger.

Your eyes meet briefly, both of you know what’s at stake if your soon to be husband was to find out about your whereabouts.

He’d have your head.

You carefully step out into the open, beneath the night sky that belongs to no ruler. The city looms ahead. The streets dangerous, filthy and still alive. You inhale its scent which consists of smoke and liquor. Behind you, the palace glows like a gilded cage. A cage where you’ll harbour by the end of the night anyway.

You don’t look back again, despite the guilt and fright nibbling at you.

As you stroll through the alleys of the city that’s drifting off to sleep, you no longer feel like a locked up princess who’s been sent off into enemy territory to play out a pack of marriage to attempt for peace.

The Colosseum spreads out before you, vast and silent beneath the cloak of the night sky decorated with small lights of the stars — towering arches of the architectonic building looming like a massive beast, the roar of the crowd now just a ghost echo in the stone. You approach it with no hesitation, heading for a narrow side gate. One not meant for nobles like yourself, but for the lowest layers of the society.

A man scouts the entrance. Old, bend, one eye milky with age. He doesn’t speak and neither do you. He simply nods and lifts the iron latch with a screeching sound. A debt repaid, nothing more. One’s coins you never deemed to recollect til now.

Inside, the air shifts as you descend underneath the huge arena. It’s surprisingly cold and damp, your silky robe not providing enough of warmth. The flicker of torches guides you down the narrow stone stairs, the further you go, the more of death hangs in the air. You move quietly like a mouse through the corridors, hood drown low to keep your identity a secret, robes brushing the filthy floor. The cells appear, row opposite to another row, dark iron bars separating men from the world above and from each other. Some sleep. Others sit in silence, eyes distant. Barely acknowledging your wandering gaze. Your attention peaks all over the place, glancing in all directions to not miss the glimpse of white hair.

You have no idea what force urged you to hurry down here, risking your life for a stranger — as if the gods poisoned you, rushing you in here.

You freeze in motion.

He sits before you like a god carved from war itself. The torchlight dances across his skin which is faintly burned by the overwhelming force of the sun, tracing outlines of his defined muscles. His chest rises and falls with a slow, steady rhythm, broad and unyielding. You could see the trail of old battles on him, pale scars that curl across his shoulders, a jagged line down his side.

They should repell you.

They don’t.

There he sits in the shadows, head of white hair bowed, arms resting on his knees. No chains this time, but he’s caged nonetheless. You clear your throat, gentle enough to not scare him, and it works like a charm. He instantly snaps his gaze in your direction, straightening his posture — arms hang heavy at his sides now, thick with strength, veins popping like vines winding over stone. Even at rest, there was a quiet violence to him, mixed with ethereal features of those worthy of being a prince. You had seen marble statues with less perfection, but none with heat of a real man.

“Who is there?” he asks, his voice a low growl as he tries to make out your figure in the darkness which perfectly helps you mask your identity as well.

“It matters not,” you respond firmly in the dark, keeping a reasonable distance between you and the bars. Partially out of fear, who knows what else he’s capable of after what you saw in the arena. The newly crowned gladiator looks at you, his expression guarded with suspicion but also curiosity. A scoff escapes past his lips.

“You are hurt, are you not?” worry embodies your tone, not sure why as this is the first time you’re ever directly speaking to the gladiator.

“What is it to you?”he mumbles, sounding tough and unaffected by your mysterious presence. The man's hand moves to his upper body, carefully touching the slashed area of his shoulder, and wincing slightly at the lightest of touch.

“Nothing. Still, takes this,” you mumble with all the politeness you were raised to offer, regardless of the strange circumstances you’re finding yourself in and bend down to slide a numbing cream in between the bars. In a quick motion, not wanting to risk anything.

“It is a numbing cream, for your slash,” the gladiator gazes up at you with narrowed eyes after he scans the cream, a mix of confusion painting his face. He reaches out for the box you slid in, only then noticing the intensity of his penetrating orbs. The colour of them is darkened by the dim lighting, nevertheless, they still shine like they’re crashing waves of sea water splashing against the rocks at shore.

“How did you get your hands on this?” he questions gruffly, though there's a note of gratitude in his voice, while he looks between the cream in his hand and your cloaked presence.

“That is unimportant,” you breathe out softly, swinging your hand in the air to brush it off. You tug your hood lower as you feel it sliding upwards, revealing parts of you.

“If you are not here to mock me, what for then?”he utters neutrally, his voice less rough than the first time. His hand hesitates for a moment, dipping his fingers to gather the cream so he can apply it on his injured shoulder. He’s wincing lowly as soon as the cool substance touches his raw wound. A soft sigh follows, his nostrils flaring.

“To help you, I know it is something you are not used to. I simply thought you fought well,” you mumble back with a hint of nervousness, hands soothing down your silky robes — the hems layered with dirt from your outing. The white haired gladiator listens to your words, his expression hardening at the mention of his performance in the arena. His digits finish massaging the cream into his injury, treating it.

“I fought well, so what? Not that it matters. I will just have to fight again tomorrow, and the day after, and then the day after,” he rises to his feet, startling you a little with the swiftness of his movement. You retrieve a step, tilting your head up to somehow catch a glimpse of him — the hood blocking your view.

“You fought unlike anyone I have ever seen before. I am sure you will earn your place here. Temporarily, of course, before you are freed,” you whisper into the dead of the night while his hands reach for the bars, knuckles turning white from his tight grip. It makes you swallow a lump forming in your throat, this is probably the longest you’ve ever talked to a man alone. It doesn’t help he’s practically stripped of his garments, muscular chest to your display.

And most of all, he’s a vicious killer.

“Freed? You either must be delusional or naive if you think that will happen,” the gladiator can't help but snort at your words as he retorts, skepticism returning to paint his sharply defined features. Desperately trying to see past the hood covering your face.

“You simply have to be good, keep winning and charm the audience,” you advise him with all you’ve come to know over the months you spent here, even though he seems to find your behaviour naive. He falls silent at your statement, contemplating your advice.

“And how do you know that, huh?” he hums, still wary — letting out a long sigh and leaning against the chilly wall of the cell, gaze fixated on your masked figure.

“I have lived in city for a long time to see,” what you say is not hundred percent right, however, your time spent in the city is great enough to know how things work around here.

“Why not stop walking around the bush and tell me who you are?” he leans forward into the bars again while still fixating his somewhat cold orbs at you, demanding to drop the mysterious act.

“Trust me, it is safer for you if you remain unaware of my identity,” you chuckle quietly to yourself at his pressing demand, finding his presence shockingly welcoming. The gladiator listens to your words, his expression hardening at your chuckle. He lets out a low huff of annoyance, but curiosity pierces his system.

Just who exactly are you?

“You someone of importance? Someone with power?” he goes on, pushing you to give him answers.

“No one has power in city expect for the emperor,” you frown automatically at the harsh reality of being in the hands of someone so cruel. His expression mirrors yours, your truthful declaration resigning with him.

“You got a point there, mysterious stranger,” he mutters, his hand mindlessly touching his shoulder where the injury is. As if out of habit. There's a moment of silence between the two of you in which you step closer, hand reaching for the bar — your gold ring illuminated by the moonlight revealed to him, unbeknownst to you.

“I will bring you food the tomorrow, if you live, that is,” his eyes linger on the gleaming gold of your ring, processing your words, expression conflicted. Part of him wants to know more about you, to uncover the mystery that shrouds you, but he also understands your sense for secrecy.

“Alright," he finally responds, his voice gruff but with a hint of resignation.

“What is your name?” you keep standing by the cell, less afraid of what he’s to do. Curiosity gets the better out of you and since you’re half hidden in the safe embrace of your robes and hood, you ask. Otherwise you wouldn’t be as brave.

“Two can play the game,” he curves his lips into a lazy grin, huffing out and refusing to provide you with it.

“See you tomorrow, oh saviour,”

Days stretch out into weeks and each night, you slip past the velvet-draped guards and silent marble corridors due to the help of your loyal servant. Your heart pounds louder than anyone’s footsteps as you sneak through the palace each night, crippled with fear that you may be caught. One would expect a practiced ease due to how often you preform, however, it seems to make an opposite effect. You’re worried your luck of being unnoticed will run out. Though you can’t bring yourself to sleep peacefully without paying the white haired man a visit.

The gladiator. Your gladiator.

At first you told yourself you were doing him a favour, treating his slash. That you have no reason of coming back here.

And yet, here you are.

Time and time again.

He waits for you in the shadows of the cell below the training pits, always stiff at first, as if unsure if you’ll come. As if each time might be the last and you wonder if someday, it might truly be.

His body is bruised and bandaged from battles played out earlier in the daylight in front of hundreds, but you never him voice his complains out loud, regardless of how roughed up he ends up.

You silently admire that.

Meanwhile you’re betrothed to the emperor, unbeknownst to your gladiator, weak and forced to follow his orders. You’re the empire’s prize, it’s what they call you. A future empress, beautiful and admirable. Expected to bring prosperity and sense into the crazed mind of the ruler. Bring children to continue the lineage. But they don’t see how your hands tremble when you hear the crowd roar, how you flinch at each touch of your soon to be husband, how you perk your ears each night — hoping you’ll hear silence and not his footsteps.

What frightens you perhaps the most out of all is each time the gladiator steps into the arena. It feels like a piece of you goes out with him. You’re on the edge of your seat, nervously gripping at layers of your tunic as metal clashes in the arena. Each time he fights to live another day.

He might have earned the favours of people effortlessly and the emperor himself, nonetheless, how long can you steal moments in the dark with him before the light of the world finds out? Before the emperor learns that his bride’s heart doesn’t belong to him, that it never did nor never will. That instead, it belongs to a man with blood coating his sword at the end of each day?

Who knows what would happen then, in the best scenario — he’d have you both killed.

Despite all the risks, you don’t regret coming to him every night like a prayer and leaving each morning, feeling like a sinner. Though every day, you fear the gods are listening, judging and plotting against your odds.

“You are Greek, I can tell from your accent,” you finally let out what you’ve been meaning to for the past few days, from the moment you picked up on his light accent. It wasn’t noticeable at first and those not born on greek lands would overlook it entirely.

“I was born there, yes,“

“I was leading an army into a battle. Lost, got captured, travelled miles without knowing where we are headed. I stopped hoping after endless days of walking, and by a miracle landed here —into an arena in the capital of the empire,” he shares his story with you, glazing you with a form of vulnerability and the simple reality behind his path leading him to you. It leaves you feeling sorry for him, but you don’t wish to shower the gladiator in pity. You’re sure he’s had enough of time to do that himself.

“No wonder you are as skilled,” you point out instead, tone tender as ever. He snickers in response, watching your cloaked figure from the corner of his eye.

“Where from Greece are you?” you investigate, since there’s not much you know about the man and he’s the closest thing to home in months. He’s cautious, only offering what you’re offering. So you’re afraid he’ll brush you off like you usually do with him.

“I was born on Mykonos, however, my time there was short lived as I was quickly transported to Athens for training,” the mention of his home sparks a memory of your own island within you — shimmering in the late afternoon sun, its walls and painted columns casting long shadows. The sea breathing quietly in the distance, and the scent of salt and thyme carried on in the breeze. Bells echoing from the high towers, marking time. You’d walk alone, past frescoes of dancing bulls and gods with lion eyes, your sandals gliding over mosaic floors. A child of Crete, promised to an emperor across the great body of water. One you barely knew, but whose ships brought you to the heart of the empire. Your home might not be your home anymore, though your heart will remain anchored on the island forever.

How you dread being separated from it.

Knowing the foreign gladiator was brought from the southeast, thrown to the beasts just like you were, brings you a sense of comfort.

You’re about to answer, opening your mouth to spill something of your own, but the interruption of footsteps prevents you from it. You’re quick to stand to your feet, brushing dust off your silky robes. Panic seizes you, heart thundering in your chest as the sound circles closer and closer, until you’re met with the face of the gatekeeper.

Relief fast to embrace you.

“I am incredibly sorry to interrupt, but here is what you asked of me, princess,” the gatekeeper bows a little as he hands you the list of all the gladiators in the Colosseum, eager to depart from the both of you. Your efforts to keep your identity hidden are crushed in a fraction of seconds, by one word. You grip the papers tightly, pushing it into your pocket without giving it a look. Papers which were meant to reveal his name to you.

The blue eyed warrior stops dead at the sound of the man's words, his thoughts racing as he processes your title spoken into the hollow walls of the Colosseum.

"Princess?" he whispers, stunned at the unexpected revelation from the gatekeeper. The white haired gladiator stares at you in disbelief, his gaze no longer curious, but now utterly shocked from your secret flattening. He takes a step closer to the bars, his expression bathing in disbelief while trying to make sense of the situation. You offer him nothing but overpowering silence, head tilted to stare down at the floor.

“You are royalty?” he ponders — hushed, needing to hear the words coming from you so he can be sure his mind isn’t playing any tricks on him. He takes yet another step towards the bars, reaching his hand out to wrap it around the metal bar.

“No, you must have misinterpreted the situation,” you attempt to play the doomed situation down, voice shaken up due to the unexpected reveal. The man on the other side of the cell certainly doesn’t buy it as he continues to tower over you.

“Do not take me for a fool, I heard him call you a princess,”

You remain unmoving, debating innerly on what should your next step be. He knows, there’s no turning back. You could run, never show up here ever again. Only watch him from the box, married to the brute.

No.

Without a word, you lift your head from the ground, letting out a deep and long breath. Your hood slides backwards, revealing the lower part of your face. The gladiator is left breathless as he watches the scene he fantasised about for so long playing out before him. He’ll finally be able to capture the face of the one who’s become his reason to keep fighting. In the faint light, he can make out the delicate curve of your cheek, the gentle slope of your nose, and the fulness of your lips.

He leans in closer, nearly coming into contact with the iron material. The beat of his heart quickens, crazily drumming against his ribs, mind struggling to reconcile the fact that royalty’s standing right in front of him.

The intensity of his icy blue globes suffocates you with anxiety, hand reaching into the air to brush away the hood entirely. Revealing your face, the one he’ll surely be certain to put a label to. And indeed, the gladiator’s breath hitches in his throat as you push away your hood fully, showing him your face in its full glory and offering vulnerability. In the soft light, your features are even more graceful and delicate than he could have imagined.

As he studies your face with great detail, the realisation dawns on him. He recognises you. You’re the woman who sits by the emperor's side everyday, watching each fight play out with a horrifying expression painting her beautifully sculptured features.

You’re basically forced to dart away your gaze, his eyes urging you to feel like you’re standing completely bare in front of him. You survey the long corridor, brushing a strands of your coloured hair behind the shell of your ear. Though his attention never entirely leaves your frame, eyes tracing every feature, studying the way you brush away your hair. He can't help but be captivated by your beauty — similar to the one gods posses — a wave of conflicting emotions swirls through him yet again. He should be respectful to you as a princess, bow down to you. Though there’s a part of him that simply sees you as this mysterious woman who visits him night after night. Nothing more, nothing less.

A mysterious woman whom he thought to be a commoner, turning out to be a princess betrothed to the emperor himself.

“I suppose it must be tad of a shock for you,” you huff out, continuing to look somewhere to the side. Successfully avoiding the gladiator’s eyes, not fully ready to capture them once more.

“You could say that,” he replies, still studying your averted gaze, the sight bringing him to chuckle softly in amusement. He’s baffled by the overflowing emotions you’re portraying, the way you’re unable to fully lock your eyes with him — he’s taken aback by it, even more so since you’re the closest he’s been to a member of a royal family.

He should be the one to be nervous, not you.

You lightly shake your head, in disbelief of the situation, which causes your hair to come undone from the clip that had been holding it together at the back of your head. A few front strands fall into your vision, urging you to blow them away with your mouth. The gladiator watches with a devoted look, the hair framing the shape of your face like you’re in an ethereal painting. He then fully presses his body into the metal forming the bars, face sticking out in between the space with the intention of wanting to reach out and touch you.

He’s so close, regardless of the barrier separating you. One brief movement and he’d be able to touch you, but he’s careful to respect your boundaries. A certain warmth radiates off him, luring you to give in as his breathing fanes across your face. Still, his orbs remain utterly glued to the sight of you — admiring the shape of you and your soft looking hair enveloping the sides of your hair.

His mind is clouded with confusing desires.

The gladiator can't help but be taken aback by your alluring presence, his heart skipping a beat as you leap closer. He watches you intently, his gaze locked on your face while his mind races with thousands of thoughts per second. He reaches out, fingers gently grasping one of the bars — touch tender despite the rough calluses on his hands, but rather swift in response to his own pleas.

Your body flinches away out of fear at his fast movements, a habit you harvested throughout your months at the palace. The emperor is unpredictable, you never know if he’s about to soothe your hair, pinch your skin or something far worse. You curse yourself innerly for your doubts, because you trust this caged man more than you ever would your soon to be husband.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, princess,” his voice is smooth as he makes out your fear, even if it appears for a mere second. He is quick to retrieve his hand from the bar, remorse filling him up to the brim. He shouldn’t have let himself go, shouldn’t have forgotten that you’re royalty and you’re not used to being sought after so casually.

The gladiator whose name you’re still unaware of steps back, creating distance between you in an apologetic manner.

“No,” you let out quietly, closing the distance again to seek out his proximity by sticking your hand in between the metal barrier, waiting for him to take it and scoot over to you once more. Your gesture shows him that you’re not afraid of him, though you perhaps should be as you see what he does to other men inside the arena. However, you can see it pains him. That he’d rather be anywhere else, he kills simply out of the need for survival. If he didn’t strike first, then he’d be dismembered. That made you grow fond of him in the first place.

He’s taken aback by your unexpected gesture of trust, mixture of awe and hesitation overtaking his being. With a slow movement, he reaches out and gently wraps his much larger hand around yours, holding it soothingly. His hands are rough and scarred while yours look like they’re made of porcelain, polished and well taken care of. Your own heart stops for a moment at the difference in the sizes and at how surprisingly gentle he is with you.

“How did you end up at the mercy of the madman?” he holds your hand delicately as he asks you, as if afraid he might hurt you, knowing the strength he possesses.

“I was born on Crete. My father is the king of the island, one well connected. The second the emperor’s mother announced that her son is to be wedded, I was brought to a ship as a candidate,” his touch electrifies you, not in the same way when you were near other men in your life. Not that you have ever been left alone with one like this before — in the night with only dim light illuminating your vision, tucked away from the sights of everyone.

When you compare it to polite gestures with your suitors, it failed to do such as his touch. It failed to do half of what this man stirs in your insides.

Your father would be furious, yet the simple thought of it excites you. The forbidding atmosphere excites and scares you at the same time.

“Sadly he took a liking to me. And although I loathe to breathe the same air as he does, I have no other choice,” you finish speaking, hesitant to lock your gaze with his again. Your tone picks up on a hint of sadness, lacing your expression as you retell him the simple story of how you became the target of the emperor.

“I’m sorry, it is horrible, and you do not deserve it,” he gently squeezes your hand, and it feels refreshing to hear someone voicing out their sympathies. All you’d get from the noble society is how ungrateful you’re for not being over the moon, that countless of women would throw themselves off a cliff for a chance to meet the ruler. How gladly you’d let them have him instead.

“Do not apologise, you do not deserve to be treated like this either,” your free hand flies to the air, gesturing at the darkened place where a metallic smell of blood hangs heavily in the air.

“No need to worry about me,” he mumbles to interrupt you, shaking his head to strip you of your worries.

“But I do, each time you step into the arena,” the words are simple, yet holding an immense power.

He bends down to your level.

It happens in a quick moment, away from the eyes of courtiers and the weight of your duties. In a place where the air smells of iron and stone. A princess of Crete, a bride promised to the emperor, raised in silks and showered in gold jewels. You’re meant to be wise, untouched and perfect — served on a silver platter for the empire. But when you look at him, the gladiator chained in these dungeons, all of your problems seem to unravel and dissolve like sea foam. He isn’t beautiful in the way noblemen are. There is nothing polished or rehearsed about him. He stands in front of you, inches separating you, bruised from the acts of the fight. His eyes holding no brutality when they met yours. And at this moment, you’d trade all of your life and all those noble men for a simple taste of a gladiator.

You truly didn’t know why you kept coming back. But you did at the same time. You told yourself it was curiosity, pity, maybe even rebellion ���though standing in front of him now with little space between you and the atmosphere heavy with something unsaid, you know it’s far more than that. You reach out absentmindedly, fingers slipping between the bars, brushing the line of his jaw. He doesn’t flinch nor forces you away, he welcomes it. His skin is warm beneath the pillows of your fingers, rough with scars, real in a way nothing in your world had ever been.

And then you slowly lean in, eyes fluttering shut in the process. Resulting in the fact you can’t make out anything besides the ramping organ in your ribcage.

Your lips meet, just barely at first. More a breath shared than a kiss. Something in you shifts into place as it happens though. It’s soft, then urgent, and another second you’re trembling with all the things you were never allowed to want, but dreamt of in secret. The white haired warrior kisses you back like he knows this might be the only time he’s offered the opportunity, like the moment is slipping through his fingers even as he holds you close.

It’s your first kiss, and it strangely feels just as natural as breathing.

You liked to imagine you’d share your first kiss somewhere in a garden, smelling petals of roses or at the foot of a golden throne with a prince. Instead you’re here, in the shadows, with a man whose name is a mystery waiting to be discovered. And still, none of your scenarios could compare to the real thing, to the heat shared between you as your lips move in sync with his.

“Satoru,” he whispers into your mouth in between your shared kisses, his hands slipping further past the bars to pull you closer by your perfect silky robes. Pressing you into the metal cell, in hopes of feeling your body against his.

“Satoru?” you repeat in confusion.

“Oh, Satoru,” you coo in realisation of his name, and whisper your own in addition.

“Say it again,” he demands, fingers brushing past your robes.

And you do.

Again and again and again and again.

It tastes sweetly on your tongue, just right.

And when you finally pull away due to the lack of oxygen, your lips are still tingling with the taste of him and suddenly, all is different. Your cheeks are flushed with a tint of pink, silently praying he won’t speak of it out loud. And he doesn’t, he actually seems to ride the same wave of adrenaline as you.

He clumsily sneaks and twists his hand in order to be able to caress the swell of your cheek. Pushing strands of your hair to rest behind your ear, causing you to chuckle fondly as the featherlight touch tickles you.

“Is there anything you would like for me to bring tomorrow, before your fight?” you suggest, hoping to make his time in the cell more accommodating.

“Just your company,” he smiles down at you, turning it into a smirk only a moment later. The one which grabs you by your throat, robbing you of any common sense.

Isn’t it crazy how one person can make you feel what other never could nor would in such a short period of time?

“I appreciate your flattery, but in all seriousness, do you not need anything?”

“No, your presence will be enough of a fuel,” he goes on, refusing anything before you even offer it.

“Do you think differently of me, knowing I am a princess?” you mumble worriedly, looking to the side for a while. Not wanting to appear pretentious, hoping his outlook on you won’t change despite him knowing who you really are.

“A stupid title will not alter the way I think of you,” his voice drops an octave, meant only for your ears. The gesture seemingly intimate, causing an entire havoc in your stomach.

You hold his face in your palms, memorizing the lines carved by his skills and the spots where the sun attacked brutally — surveying the kindness etched onto his features that hides beneath his nonchalant armour throughout the day. And you kiss him full of gratitude like you can press your soul into his, because by dawn, you both return to your cages.

It doesn’t matter whether it’s the arena or the palace.

The sun rises like gold urns pouring water over the city of Rome, spilling light through the stained arches of windows straight into your chamber. Soft beams brush against your bedsheets and the heading of your bed. You awake slowly as it reflects into your face as well, breath catching in your throat — not from your disturbed sleep, but from a creeping dread you could no longer push away.

Your wedding is in a week from today.

The scent of jasmine and rose water fills the room, meanwhile maidens move quietly as they notice your awake state to draw open the heavy curtains and to sett out gowns the colours of twilight and fire. All for you to try later in the evening. They smile as they walk past you, greeting you and whispering of the day’s important schedule. Their cheeriness brings you sorrows as they surely must picture you as their future empress already — you’re their fraction of hope for a better life. You force yourself to smile back, no sign of real joy as the rmperor’s image doesn’t stir your heart with same admiration as they imagine it does.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the silk sheets falling around you like waves. Outside, the palace garden blooms unnaturally early, flowers coaxed into blossom by alchemists to match the emperor’s vision of a perfect wedding day, not that he cares as much. Trumpets call faintly in the distance, and you recognise the sound instantly. The city below is already alive with celebration for your upcoming wedding. But all you feel is the weight of your duty, heavy as the golden jewellery you’re putting on.

A soft knock at the door echos through the walls of your room, handmaiden entering with a polite bow.

“The emperor sends word, princess. He awaits you in the throne room and then you will be allowed to have a breakfast,” is all she says before she places an ivory stola on the edge of your bed, disappearing with yet another bow. The long gown she brought fails to bubble up any form of excitement. You don’t move, gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the window, where smoke swirls through the air. Too mesmerised by yesterday’s occurrence, the ghost of Satoru’s touch shimmering you, regardless of his absence. The mere fantasy of his proximity sets you on fire.

Your nightly encounters are the only thing pushing you to get up, letting the maidens do their magic on you and slipping into the long gown your soon to be husband picked out specifically for you. You're standing tall, wrapped in the clothing which drapes over your shoulders like liquid moonlight. It’s beautiful, not what you’d choose but it works. The fabric is soft and cool against your skin, flowing down in elegant folds. Every movement feels you’re drowning in fluid, effortless. A delicate golden belt rests at your waist, shaping your figure not too tightly.

The palace buzzes with preparations for your upcoming wedding day as you stroll through the corridors of the palace to reach the throne room — golden silks hung, rose petals thrown across marble floors, laurels placed on the columns, songs rehearsed to honour an empire’s union by perfecting hymns dedicated to Venus and Juno. The goddesses of love and marriage. The sound nearly sickens you, the mere thought of standing in front of the altar with your palms rested in his and giving him your youth for free wrenches your gut. And for a moment, it truly feels like you might throw up. Especially when you reach the throne room, your heart thundering against your ribs like it might give out any second.

The emperor sits on his tremendous throne decorated with reflecting gems at the far end of the room, draped in crimson and gold robes. His presence nothing compared to the vastness of the room — he looks like a boy, a fool pretending to be a ruler and yet, you’re at his mercy. The throne is a masterpiece on its own, carved out of the finest marble. Unlike the ruler, it seems to pulse with the weight of power.

“Ah, there’s my bride,” he coos, eyes sharp and calculating as usual. Fixated on your every move, inviting you closer.

“Come,” his monotone voice lures you in.

Your heart pounds unevenly, caught between the sight unraveled before you and the impossible secret you carry in form of love that belongs to another, to one not too far from this gilded cage. The silence feels heavy, broken only by the distant hushes of courtiers and the soft shuffle of your footsteps on polished stone. As you approach, the emperor’s gaze never ceases.

“Your highness,” you let out softly, bending your body to show him respect in hopes of pleasing to achieve a piece of security for yourself.

“Come here, sit,” he pats his thigh, fingers gesturing for you to take a seat.

His words hang in the air as murmurs of servants ripple softly, awkwardness flushing you. Still, you have no choice, so you walk forward to climb the stairs — each one drawing you closer to the throne and to the man who plays to be the ruler. He extends a hand, guiding you gently onto his lap and cradling you not just with power, but possession. As if he owns you. And in a way he does. You feel overly stiff, unable to loosen and the fact it’s being witnessed by every bowed head in the room adds a sting.

At first, he speaks of your wedding day which is hurrying your way. The tone of his voice low, only meant for your ear. It causes goosebumps to grace your skin, not in a pleasant intimate way your lover would make you feel, but rather in fear and disgust. From time to time, mere sight of him boils your blood and spins your head, therefore sitting in such a close proximity makes you want to tear your hair out.

You loathe him dedicatedly, overflowing with hatred for the one you’re supposed to be wedded to, but you can’t be bothered to feel guilty while you’re seated in his lap. His heinous acts can’t make you.

“I must say I am growing rather bored of the new champion,” a mush of his words reaches your ear, they come unexpectedly and it feels like a punch to the stomach. You instantly recognise who he’s directing his words to and what it could mean, knowing his corrupted ways of thinking.

“How so, my lord?” you speak up for the first time since you sat down onto his lap, voice careful and precise.

“Winning over and over gets repetitive, does it not?” he cocks his head to the side lightly, peaking at you from the corner of his eye, a smirk tugging his lips up. A glint of mischief in his gaze, nearly making you choke on paranoia. There’s no possibility he could somehow find out about my nightly outings, you keep repeating in your head.

“I suppose, your highness,” you agree, not wanting to rile him up beyond recognition, even though it takes everything within you to not push him away.

“I will fight the gladiator,” he announces as if it’s some grant gesture, expecting to earn an encouragement, yet all it does is wake up a raging storm of emotions in your chest. Thousands of thoughts running through your mind, all sort of scenarios overtaking your sense. Each one ending in the favour of your soon to be husband and not the man you’ve grown so fond of, because wealth and power win in the end. Not strength and bravery.

“You have seen how skillful the man is,” your spoken statement is an opposite of what he thought you’d say, earning yourself a tight squeeze on your hip. His fingers digging into the fabric of the gown he picked out for you, into your tender flesh.

“Do you trust the slave more than your own emperor?” you can see it then, the change in his mechanisms. It’s like someone flipped a switch and there’s a whole another person, the action urging you to bolt. Nonetheless, you stay, loyal to the one you’re promised to — discarding your own needs.

“I would not dare, I simply worry too much,” you breathe out shakily, trying to appear genuine. It brings you to hesitantly reach out your hand, the motion slow enough that he could slap it away if he wished to. He doesn’t, he welcomes your touch instead, taking you by a surprise the second your palm comes into contact with the swell of his cheekbone.

“I appreciate it, though suggest you keep your mouth shut, sweets. Worry doesn’t look too good on you,” his lips curve into a malicious smile, hand flying out to grip your wrist tightly. You almost whine aloud, not from the pain, but from how unexpected the action was. You swallow the dry lump building up in your throat, barely visibly nodding your hand. And with that, he jerks your arm away from his face.

“In five days, I will face the champion,”

Your world crashes down, ambers of horror turning into flames. You don’t try to convince him to do otherwise due to his stubbornness, regardless of how unlikely he’s to win honourably in the fight. Your mind only wanders to the white haired gladiator, the worry you feel now incomparable to the one you feel each time he goes out to fight in the arena. It’s far more devouring that he’s ought to be robbed of his life in such a disgusting manner.

His arms untangle from your body, hand patting the side of your thigh to show you you’re no longer welcomed in his lap. He dismisses you, finally. The gruesome time spent in his presence seeming overly time consuming. And as soon as that, you’re on the path to your room, you feel both at ease and horrified. The thought of having breakfast making you sick as reality of what is to come for your heartfelt warrior crashes down on you just, coming your way in full speed. Your footsteps pick speed, flying through the corridors of your new home.

When you reach the inside of your chamber, your words are quick to send the maids away, not caring whether they’re finished with their task or not. The one sensation you can focus on is the burning in the walls of your throat and on the entirety of your chest. You manage to breathe slowly in and our in order to keep your emotions at bay until every single one of your ladies exits the room.

Then it hits you, like an arrow to your heart.

He’s going to die by the hands of your monstrous future spouse.

Tears spill from the corners of your eyes, running down the swell of your cheeks and continuing their way down your neck. Meanwhile, your back remains pressed against the entrance door to the room. You close your orbs shut, thinking that maybe — just maybe — it’d go away if you tried hard enough. However, you can’t stop the reality from dragging you down. And you feel pathetic for allowing your emotions to get the better out of you, because of a man who’s always been bound to be taken away from you. Although, it never occurred to you it could be done by the man you’re betrothed to. It makes you hyperventilate, each cell in your body bursting while trying not to let out a single sound. It’s agonising, all you wish to do is let it out, but with the ladies still lingering behind the closed door to your room, it’s unimaginable.

“In five days, therefore before our wedding,” you mumble out inaudible and in disbelief, piece of hope swallowing you whole as an idea bubbles up to surface.

Seven days to your wedding ceremony, five till the fight.

You’ve still got time to try, try to either talk the emperor into stepping away from the fight or help the gladiator escape before it comes down to it. Either way, you’d then proceed to marry the emperor, be miserable and preform your duty as a princess — bringing the empire a slice of hope for the future. And as great as it sounds, you know you’d regret it till the end of your days. And then there’s the last option, which includes packing up your necessities and losing yourself in the city, sailing away on a boat with Satoru’s hand in your. The fantasy robbing you of any logical way of thinking.

It’s all you wish for, from the marrow in your bones to your fingertips — your whole being years for a chance at a new life, away from the madness of the empire.

Small pieces of ideas begin to form a unit in your mind, and the last thing you need is the agreement of the one you’re so eager to run away with.

It causes you to pick yourself up, each shattered piece, and smile. You smile your way through the day, trying out dresses and answering all the prying questions coming from your court ladies to appear as much in love with the idea of marrying the emperor as they do. You lunch with him in the gardens, you endure each time he picks on you with grace and dodge everything which leads to suggesting being in any shape or form intimate with him. He hasn’t tried anything, but with the wedding date nearing its expiration, he’s certainly growing rather bold with his words and it’s simply a matter of time before he does try. You play out your role of the low maintenance loyal princess who appears to be amazed by what’s happening in her life. All of it just to wake up in the dead of the night, filled with anticipation and anxiety, ready to take on yet another nightly outing. This time being different, tainted by a horrible sense that you’ll soon run out of time for good.

In the stillness of the night, the city transforms and gleams in a strange way under the light of the moon. Each step a defiance to your obligations, betraying your lineage and the ruler himself by plotting against his judgment. The air feels exceptionally thick as you reach the entrance leading to the gladiator’s cells. Your heart heaves with news that threaten to shatter your clandestine fantasy. The emperor, perhaps having caught whispers of your affections, had announced his participation in the upcoming games — not for sport, but for execution. And you’re soon going to be the one to deliver these news.

“I need the keys this time,” you demand, the old man guarding the entrance nearly choking on his own saliva.

“But princess—“

“I said I need the keys,” your voice cuts him off before he can finish, repeating your wish once more and empathising it while reaching into the pocket of your silky robe to pull out a leather sachet, packed with gold and denariuses.

The nameless man scans your hooded figure, arm hesitantly handing you the keys in exchange for your treasure, and then he lets you in without any other words — aware this might not end up well for him. But it doesn’t stop you either like it normally would, you can’t bring yourself to care as you descend down the stairs.

“You are late tonight,” his voice calls out from the darkness of his cell, collected and oh so soothing. Your shoulders loosen up and the speed of your racing heart comes to a halt. You pull your hood down, revealing yourself to him as you inch closer towards the metal bars.

“I am sorry, I had to wait a little longer tonight,” you whisper into the silence, keeping the keys hidden in your pocket as there’s a small uncertainty blooming in you about using them, about stepping inside and that he might run.

“You came, that is what matters,” he exhales with a low hum, stepping out of the darkness to close the overbearing distance between you. Your heart ceases to function at the sight of his beautiful face, each time you see him it grabs you by your throat like it’s the first time and it doesn’t cease to amuse you. The sharp cut of his jawline and cheeks-bones, the delicate curve of his nose and the light sunburn grazing his skin from working in the open sun, but most importantly, the gleam in his eyes — the softness that defies the rest of his muscular frame.

“I am afraid I am not a barer of good news,” you break the silence with a heavy heart, the reality coming together once again as the amusement goes on to pass. Satoru furrows his brows at that, arms sneaking through the metal to touch you.

“The emperor, he is out of his mind, and he wants to fight you before he is to be wedded to me, Satoru,” pure shock paints his face the moment your words make the situation real, his hand gently squeezes your side before his fingers play with the slippery fabric of your gown.

“Let him, then. I will crush him with ease,” he states with confidence and if it were anyone else facing him, you wouldn’t dare to question his skills.

“You are not reading me correctly,” you shake your head slightly, tone cracking, and part of you knew it wouldn’t be easy to convince him of what is building up outside of the walls of the Colosseum.

“He is not to let you win,” you speak slowly and deliberately, allowing him to digest the meaning behind it in hopes that he’ll listen to you.

“He does not need to, I will defeat him,” he copies your way of speaking, trying to convince you to put your faith in him. His palm slides up your body to rest upon your cheek, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“Do you truly think he is a man of honour? He will cheat his way out,” the words escape your lips in a quiet and desperate way, while you pool your eyes into his. Their shade almost dark blue in the darkness. Like the ocean that threatens to drown sailors on a stormy night.

It makes you realise that there are no torches lit this night which is suspicious.

“I will send him to his own grave, I promise you princess. That you will be free,” your face falls into frustration even though his thumb works in small sensual circles on your skin, it’s still not enough to soothe down the raging ache.

“You cannot possibly think they will let you kill the emperor in an arena full of guards. In front of hundreds, it will be a charade,” you continue, growing more desperate. So much that you might start pleading, it’s what your eyes are doing anyway and it seems to shake him up a little, because you take notice of the way his features soften up.

“They will take your life too, even if you by some miracle will succeed in killing him,” you add, leaning into the security of his touch.

“At least you will be free, I am to take the risk,”

And that is what utterly undoes you, so much you have to pull and step away.

“Please, I beg you to stop,” you plea, clasping your hands together.

“There is no other way,” his voice is calm in comparison to yours, as if he’s already reconciled with his fate and it only deepens the hurt burning through you.

“Satoru, listen,” you start off shakily, but you manage to form it into coherent sentences, “we could board a ship in four days, sail to Greece together at dawn and leave this behind.”

Your hands tremble as you reach for the gladiator before you, but he’s the one to step away now. Your eyes are wide with desperation, searching his face for traces of hope. He remains still, his muscular frame silhouetting against the stone walls of his cell — your lips quiver, breath hitching as you silently plead for escape.

“I cannot strip you off your titles, your birthright,” he speaks up, crushing your build up hope in a fraction of second, making you reel.

“None of it compares to you,”

“I have nothing to offer you,” the gladiator's expression is a tapestry of conflict. His brows knit together, eyes reflecting a storm of love, sorrows and resignation. He gently takes your hands in his, the touch both tender and firm as he slowly shakes his head.

“It matters not, you are worth more than all the jewels they bathe me in and it would be silly to marry someone I would never be able to love, would it not?” you chuckle lightly, expressing the doubts you haven’t spoken out loud before. You squeeze his hands, urging him to give into this.

“I would simply not be able to forgive myself for robbing you of your comfort,” his iridescent globes pierce yours and it’s admirable, the way he so easily gives up what he wants in order for you to be secured. Even as you’re begging him to do the complete opposite, even knowing the marriage would never fulfil you, but he would rather die than to rob you of everything, give you nothing and make you more miserable. It’s better to be miserable in a palace than somewhere God knows where, it’s what he tells himself as he fights to not do what you’re asking him.

“You are not listening to me,” your tone becomes more firm, demanding. And it irks you how much this affects you, nonetheless, you can’t phantom a reality where you stay with the emperor and leave him to die.

“You are not either,” he doesn’t pretend to be calm anymore, the expression on his face a mixture of remorse and frustration.

“I cannot watch you leave your life behind, and for what? A gladiator?” the echo of his sarcastic chuckle rings through the long dungeon, striking your heart right where it hurts the moment. And you realise just how crazy this is, what you’re asking him to do — to steal a princess under the nose of the emperor — but it doesn’t stop you.

For once in your life, you want to be selfish.

“And I cannot lose you, do you not understand? I have fallen in love with you,” you say exactly what you’re thinking, cheeks flushing in the process due to the simple fact you have never felt the need to say those word nor had anyone ever to say them to.

The gladiator looks just as surprised by your confession as you do which unsettles you.

“What?” he mumbles, barely audible as he implores you to repeat what has left your lips.

credits for dividers: [ @zaldritzosrose @cafekitsune @enchanthings ]

[dollfacefantasy]

neglect kink with older leon???!!?!? like… you’re super horny whining and begging for his attention and he’s just. completely ignoring you. maybe he eventually lets you cockwarm him but he’s still ignoring you… the only way you know he’s enjoying this is because he’s still hard… no sounds or nothing. you’re so desperate for ANYTHING a kiss, a touch, literally any words at all but he’s just focused on his work!!! maybe daddy kink because everything needs daddy kink… maybe, like, you did something bad so this is your punishment… i don’t know… maybe he gives you the attention eventually or not!!!!

pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: you've been bad, but you never seem to learn from spankings. leon has to try something new to remind you why you should be a good girl.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, cockwarming, masturbation, overstimulation, daddy kink, praise/degradation, age difference, dom/sub stuff (rules, punishment, etc.)

word count: 6.2k

a/n: you're so right, everything does need daddy kink <3 thank you for the request, love. i hope it's what you were wanting. i imagine post-DI leon for this so he's a bit older, but i just used DI for the pic. anyhow, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

tags: @sleepyluxe @kaitkatme @tosuckmyweenis @pupthepokemonenthusiast @bizzarethirst @death-paint @iron-toxinz @wildest-dreams-at-midnight @nexysworld @explorevenus @luniaxi

Your deep breaths and soft whimpers had overtaken the quiet murmur of the tv in your bedroom. An old movie played on it, one you had seen time and time again. It no longer had your attention. Instead, you’re focusing on playing with the pulsing bud between your legs. Your fingers thrum back and forth over the sensitive spot, hips pushing down against the mattress as sparks fly in your belly.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be doing this. It was one of the rules you agreed to when Leon had approached you with some things he wanted to try out for your sex life, just a small set of guidelines to play with. ‘No touching yourself without daddy’s permission' had been listed among others. He counted each one on his fingers as he did, and you nodded your head and looked up at him with your sweet set of eyes. The same set that now flutters with ecstasy as you played your forbidden game. But as long as he didn’t know, it was fine, right?

Your heels dig into the blankets beneath you while your breasts rise and sink with each inhale and exhale. You feel that hot sensation between your legs, the tightening cord, the boiling pleasure. You’re about to let it loose until you hear the front door open and shut, keys clatter on the table, and the familiar grunt Leon does when he slips his shoes off, using the tip of one on the heel of the other.

You nearly miss these little cues because of the rain clashing against your windows, but in a stroke of luck, you catch it all and tear your hand out of your shorts at light speed. Leon’s just walking into the bedroom as you drape the blanket over yourself. Shifting around a little to get comfy, you then gaze up at him, putting some tenderness into your eyes in hopes of throwing him off your scent.

As he gets closer, you take in his appearance. Little droplets of water on the shoulders of his jacket from the rain outside. Shiny hair fresh from the shower he took this morning, shaggy bangs hanging down into his face. Tired glaze over his eyes, work must not have been a walk in the park. 

Once he approaches you, he raises his eyebrows, and for a second, you’re sure you’ve been found out. But all he does is sit next to you on the edge of the bed and run a hand over your head. His eyes fixate on you as if he’s studying your features. Your heart pounds, waiting to hear the words belt, over my knee, or sore & stinging leave his lips, but they don’t.

“Been having a nice day, baby?” he asks you, petting your head a few more times.

“Mhm,” you respond. Innocent enough.

“That’s good. What have you been doing?” he asks. Oh fuck.

“Um, just watching a movie,” you answer.

“Yeah? That all?” he continues. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Pretty much. It’s all rainy out. Don’t really feel like getting out of bed,” you say with a casual shrug.

He nods. It seems like an approving gesture, but you could swear there’s a little knowing glint in his eyes. Maybe that’s just your imagination. Hopefully, that’s just your imagination.

“Alright. I gotta go finish up some work for a while, just wanted to check on you first. Keep being a good girl for me,” he tells you. He gives you a small pat on the ass before getting up and walking out of the room as quickly as he had entered.

Your body relaxes, and your pulse descends to normal levels. Maybe you did pull it off. Heist of the century in your book. You settle in to truly just pay attention to the tv for now, but it’s not as simple as it should be when you’re still so pent up. You’d just breached the threshold of release, before you were torn out and back to reality. You could feel the slick that had gathered between your legs, the ache in your clit calling out to your fingers.

The thought of continuing does cross your mind. It would be so easy. Without any suspicion on you, all you would have to do is clamp a hand over your mouth and rub slower so the bed didn't creak. Plus, when he went in his office, he usually worked until the evening anyway. You could cum and be done with it before he had the slightest idea.

No, no, no. You told him you’d be a good girl. You wouldn’t wanna break daddy’s heart by being bad, right? No, you wanted to make him proud. You resign to wait until he wants to play with you. He always did; you can’t recall a night he left you wanting. So you lay on your side, eyes focused on the blue-tinted screen across the room, and keep it together.

But hours go by. And then more hours go by. You keep yourself occupied, marathoning nearly an entire franchise of movies, eating, going on your phone. But none of it fills the Leon-shaped void inside you.

This was the longest he’d ever been in that office. He never worked in there into the night. He always told you that he tried to spend as little time in there as possible. That’s time that could be spent with his good girl, that’s what he told you. Only you hadn’t been a good girl today.

You shake your head, and tell the stupid little voice inside to zip it. He seemed tired, remember? This is probably just an extension of that. He knew he’d have to come home and be in his office all day. It was all a coincidence, this whole thing. There was literally no way he could know what you’d been doing. But daddy knows you better than you know yourself.

Oh god. This was like some form of torture, you’re sure of it. Self-inflicted, or was it really? He was the one who’d made you this way. Whatever. Enough was enough. There was no reason to be paranoid. You could literally just go ask him. Sort this out and soothe your anxiety, so you can go back to waiting patiently like the good girl that you are.

Pushing the covers to the side, you slide out of bed and head down the hall to his office as thunder crackles outside. A gentle push on one of the French doors leads you into the room you rarely entered. Despite that, you liked it in here. Leon’s desk faced away from the door, towards the window that looked out onto the street. The curtains were drawn now, brown fringe overlapping with the spare cushions on the window seat below it. Some bookshelves lined the walls perpendicular to his desk, though you never had the time to actually check their contents.

You walk a few paces into the room. Your eyes cast over to him. He doesn’t even look like he’s doing much for someone working into the night, but who are you to judge? You step over a crinkle in the rug to stand in front of his desk. Your hands rest on the hardwood as you gaze at him over the monitor of his computer.

“Hi,” you say simply.

He nods. A movement so vague that he could’ve told you his head twitched, and you’d believe him.

“Whatcha doing?” you ask.

“Work.”

You stare at him for a moment. Sure, he wasn’t normally super chatty, but he also wasn’t usually so clipped. He knows.

“How’s it going?” you say.

You’re met with a shrug. You have to up your efforts.

Circling around his desk, you position yourself behind him and wrap your arms over his shoulders. You drag your nose against his cheek like an affectionate kitten and kiss the skin a few times.

“How much longer you gonna be in here?” you ask. Your voice remains gentle and undemanding.

“A while,” he grunts. The clacking of the keyboards starts up again, and his eyes remain locked on the documents in front of him.

“But you’ve been in here for hours,” you point out and feign a pout.

“And I’ll be in here for even more if you keep bothering me,” he says with a little gesture that wasn’t fully shrugging you off but at the same time was shrugging you off.

Ouch. Your pout was no longer feigned. You stand up straight and walk back to where you stood originally. He still doesn’t spare you even the smallest of glances.

“Can I stay in here with you?” you ask hesitantly.

“If you want to,” he says. Wow. Not that he wanted you to, no. If you wanted to. Sure, people could call you sensitive for being upset about that, you don’t care. You’re tempted to leave with a huff, slamming the door behind you, but now you’re even more curious if he was aware of your illicit afternoon activities. You kinda hope he is at this point because at least that would give a reason for his icy attitude.

You walk over to the one other chair in the room. Yeah, there was the window seat, but as pretty as you’d made it for him, decorating it with little throw pillows and cute coverings, it wasn’t very comfortable. You plop down on the corduroy cushioning of the beaten-up seat in the corner. with a sigh. Bringing your legs up over the armrest, you lean back against the opposite one and scan the room out of boredom. Your feet swing back and forth absentmindedly as you puff breaths of disinterest from between your lips.

You really try to give him time to finish, but it feels like he’s taking actual eternity. Also, it sounds like he’s barely doing anything, and now you are going to judge because he’s cutting into your precious personal time with him. You stare at him for several minutes, keeping your eyes locked on his face. Unlike any normal person who’d get uncomfortable, he just continues “working.” Finally, you crack.

“How’s it going?” you ask.

No response.

“Are you almost done?” you try again.

Nothing.

Your eyes darken, your frown growing. “Leonnnnn,” you whine.

And still absolutely nothing. You have one more weapon in your arsenal. If this doesn’t work, you know you’ll just have to pack it up for the night.

“Daddy…” you whimper, using the softest voice you could manage, the one that always shot right through him. You jut your bottom lip out a bit more and put that pleading in your eyes. After this, all you have is literal tears, and you’re hoping it doesn’t go to that point.

Leon knows this, and he doesn’t want it to get that far either. He finally spins his chair in your direction. His eyes land on your face. He has to repress the smirk rising to his face over your neediness.

“Funny how that name seems to always slip out most when you want something,” he replies.

At least he wasn’t ignoring you anymore. “All I want is your attention…” you say, keeping up your sweet performance.

“Oh yeah?” he taunts, “Tell me, baby. Were you thinking of daddy today when you were home alone?”

Your eyes dart away from his face, but you force them back. You couldn’t blow this by being too obvious, so you respond with a simple nod.

“I thought so, princess. What else would have had you so riled up today when I came home? It wouldn’t be because you were breaking one of your rules, would it?” he asks. His tone was obviously leading. He knew. You were so desperate for him though that at this point you were starting to think a spanking wouldn’t be that bad. At least it was some form of physical contact to sate you.

“I wasn’t riled up earlier,” you say quietly with a little shrug.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re not lying are you? Cause that’s another rule. Two broken rules in one day. That wounds me, babydoll,” he says.

“I’m not breaking any rules. I’m being honest,” you say.

“So you being all squirmy, hot skin, heavy breathing; that wasn’t you being riled up? Is daddy imagining things now? Do I not know what my girl looks like when she’s aching for me?” he asks, “What she looks like when she’s been trying to solve her little problem herself?”

Finally, he unveils his reasoning. You freeze and stare at him, trying to think of what to say. Even though you wanted attention, there was still that innate part of you that hated being in trouble. You’d much rather be perched on his lap to be loved on like the precious thing you were.

“I don’t know what you mean,” is your weak attempt at an excuse. He laughs and leans back in his chair, the old springs creaking with his motion.

“Did you put your fingers inside or just play with that pretty little clit?” he asks, eyes boring into you as he goes for the kill.

“Just my clit…” you mumble and look down.

Shaking his head again, he turns back to his computer. You watch him, expecting him to start in on you again. To lecture you about your impatience. Tease you about your borderline pathetic need for him. Take you over his knee and crack you on the ass while making you repeat each of your rules back to him.

But none of this happens. Instead, this man just goes back to straight up ignoring you. Your jaw drops and a confused whine comes from your throat. “Daddy, c’mon. I’m sorry,” you say.

He resumes typing, fingers gliding over the keys and eyes fixed on the little words appearing in front of him. You groan in frustration and sink back against the brown ribbed fabric of your chair. You glare at him from your place, trying to telepathically will him into entertaining you again. You must be lacking in mental communication though because he doesn’t change what he’s doing at all. One of your thighs crosses over the other, unintentionally giving your pussy a little friction.

That’s what made this all the more frustrating, you were still unsatisfied from earlier. You should’ve just made yourself cum like you wanted. You’d be in trouble either way. You could only hope he’d take it easy on you now for having chosen the former.

Different scenarios run through your head for how you want to play this. A spectrum of possibilities lies in front of you. On one end, you could just leave. Keep whatever dignity you had left, cut your losses, and go to bed. On the other, you could be over the top. Hop in his lap and smother him with a flurry of kisses before he could object. Either one would probably only earn you more punishment, so you try to think of a middle ground. A way to continue the game.

As you think, your right hand lazily runs up and down your chest. Your middle finger coasts over the area spanning from the valley between your breasts to your navel. Taking your lip between your teeth, you decide to start here. Your fingers move to your tits and round your nipples. The buds harden into small peaks beneath your shirt. You pinch and pull at them gently, and your cunt flutters in response to the teasing. You shift your hips up before shimmying your shorts off and letting them drop to the ground beside your chair.

You reposition yourself next to sit properly in the chair. Your heels come to rest on the plush cushion as you spread your legs and expose your damp panties to him. Not that he bothered to look.

Now your fingers moved down there. They pet your most sensitive area over the thin, wet cloth. Your breath hitches as your fingertips brush over your clit. You press down a little harder and make a soft breathy whine. His eyes flit in your direction, but they don’t linger. Take what you can get, you guess.

You slide your digits back down and massage your dripping entrance. The fabric becomes more wet as you rub it on your slick folds. Your middle and ring finger move in tandem to stoke the flames down there and to ensure the fabric is completely soaked. Once that mission is accomplished, you lift your hips for the second time to remove this garment. Only you don’t drop it to the floor. This time you toss them in his direction, landing them on his desk, lace half covering one of his wrists, half covering a section of his keyboard.

The sound of typing halts, putting the room into silence, spare the raindrops splatting against the window. His eyes remain stern and not on you. Without even looking down, he wads the panties up and shoves them in his pocket. The sound of typing resumes.

“Daddy,” you huff, “I got ‘em all wet just for you.”

He still doesn’t acknowledge you. You let out a growl of sorts and narrow your eyes at him. Your fingers slip through your arousal coating your center. You pay more attention to your clit now that it’s exposed.

“I just missed you so much today. I couldn’t help it,” you reason.

You whimper and squirm in your chair as you start rubbing faster. Your eyes are still locked on him, watching for the slightest crack in his resolve. So far there are none. You continue toying with yourself.

“I was thinking of you the whole time,” you whimper, “That should count for something. I was imagining your hands and your eyes looking down at me. I was pretending I could hear your voice.”

He remains unaffected. Your head tilts back against the plush cushioning as your hips rock in place. You mewl softly which soon turns into a long, drawn-out whine. Finally, he shifts in his seat a little, and you know right away it’s cause he’s starting to get hard.

“I just love you so much, daddy. Can’t control myself when you’re not around,” you say, further chipping away at the little dent in his stoic facade.

Your moans increase in volume as does the slippery sounds coming from your fingers moving through your slick. That feeling from this afternoon is starting to come back. Pleasure builds in your abdomen, one piece stacking on top of the other. You’re shaking more, voice getting less even with each little cry of joy. He finally turns to look at you when you start doing that thing you do when you’re about to cum, the ultra-specific puff of your chest that rolls through your abdomen to your hips. His eyes capture yours, unamused with your antics.

“If you cum right now, a spanking is the only kind of attention you’ll be getting until you learn some self-control,” he tells you.

In an instant, your fingers sputter to a stop. Your mind bounces back and forth on what to do like a metronome. But as always, your craving for Leon’s approval wins out over every other option. You remove your hand from between your legs and even sit up, closing your thighs. Maybe now, he’ll see you’re being good and cut you some slack.

Yeah, right.

He goes back to his computer. Again. You’re about to lose your mind or explode, you aren’t sure which will come first. Standing from the chair, you start walking to his desk. He still didn’t look at you! How rude, you’d think that the touching yourself rule was his favorite or something even though you knew it wasn’t. That title belonged to the rule that let him pick your outfit whenever the two of you went out.

A few paces in his direction, and you’re back right where you started. Arms looped over his shoulders, nuzzling your face against his cheek, and kissing the side of his head. “I said I’m sorry daddy,” you say softly, “I’m really really really really sorry. I know I was a bad girl, but only for that.”

He grunts and scoots closer to his desk, away from your embrace. A noise of exasperation leaves you, and without thinking, you roll the chair back a couple inches and embrace him again, only tighter. A grin rises on your face when you see the bulge that had formed in his lap.

“Pretty please? I’ll take whatever punishment. I don’t want daddy to be mad at me anymore,” you plead and give him some more pecks on the cheek. You knew you probably looked ridiculous, pantless and visibly horny, but that wasn’t a true concern at this moment in time.

“Go to bed,” he states simply, “I’ll deal with you later.”

That wasn’t good enough. You wanted him now.

“Daddy,” you whine, stretching out the last syllable. You lower yourself to your knees and slink down in front of his chair. “C’mon, I said it like a million billion trillion times. Can’t we just kiss and make up?”

He stares down at you, not impressed with your show of submission. He was playing harder than usual. He knew that wouldn’t deter you though. You squish your cheek against his thighs as your hands creep up his legs.

“Do I have to make a special apology?” you ask, looking up at him with puppy eyes.

He pushes your hands away as they reach his thighs. “Quit it,” he growls, “Let me finish my work and maybe we can work something out.”

But you don’t quit it. You move yourself closer to one of his legs, preparing to put on a little show for him if need be. Your eyes don’t quit and neither does the pleading expression on your mouth.

“But I need my daddy now,” you huff, “I-”

And that’s it. You’re cut off by Leon reaching down and yanking you into his lap.

“Such a fuckin’ brat,” he grunts, “Ready to hump my leg like a bitch in heat cause I don’t give you attention for a couple hours.”

You squirm a bit as his hands rub up and down your sides and squeeze your hips. He stills you with a firm slap to your ass. Both of your eyes gaze into the others, the small spheres swirling with arousal, annoyance, and adoration.

“I just missed you. I would’ve left you alone if you weren’t so mean to me,” you point out.

“Who says I have to be nice to you? You don’t get to decide when you wanna listen based on that,” he says and pulls you to his chest. You lean in against the muscular expanse while his hand snakes between the two of you to get at his button and zipper. “Your job is being a good girl. Not just when you feel like it. Not only when daddy’s giving you kisses and calling you pretty. The only time you stop is when I say, and that didn’t happen today did it? Am I imagining things again?”

“No,” you agree reluctantly, “But I-”

“Cut your yapping out. I’ve heard enough. Give me some quiet or I’ll put those panties to good use,” he threatens.

As your lips fall shut, you hear the tug of his zipper and feel him shift as he takes himself out. Now you’re really quiet, more from anticipation than obedience.

“Now I’m gonna let you sit on my cock, but that’s it. No squirming, no ‘getting comfy,’ no whining, no ‘but daddy.’ You act up too much, and I’m truly sending your ass to bed for the night.”

You look up at him and nod, not even speaking because you didn’t want to cut your chances at dick off before they started.

“Good,” he says.

One of his hands helps elevate you so that he can position his length underneath you. The tip slips through your folds, already soaked from your prior escapades. He doesn’t tease too much, wasn’t interested in hearing you beg right now. He’d heard enough of that for tonight. He pushes you down onto it. His mouth twitches, and he sucks in a deep breath as he feels the warmth of your walls engulf his cock.

You slide all the way down with ease. Looking back at his face again, you feel the insatiable urge to give him a little kiss. If you did that though, would that be one of the things you aren’t supposed to be doing?

“Daddy… can I have a little kiss first?” you ask.

He merely shoots you a look that tells you don’t push it.

With a final look of defeat, you nestle yourself against his chest, head on his shoulder so you can look up at his face. He was so focused. If you didn’t know you were here, you never would suspect he’d be up to this level of multitasking.

You let out a sigh. It was nice being full, but you still yearned for more. You were really trying to be good though, so there wasn’t much for you to do. Minutes tick by as you try in earnest to think of a potential solution. To make matters worse, at a certain point, after you’d been on his dick for a while, his hand starts roaming your back. A soothing touch that made your walls flutter around him. He knew it would too, you could tell from that little smirk on his face.

Trying to focus on the positives, you mentally study every feature of his cock that you can feel. It’s so deep, he’s resting right against the spot that could drive you wild when properly battered. It pulsed rhythmically, twitching slightly when your muscles would contract or release around his shaft.

You’re actually doing better than expected, letting your mind wander. But then, he’s the one to move a bit under the guise of necessary readjustment. The whimper that falls from your lips is inevitable. He shushes you, and you mutter an apology, but that simple movement was enough to reignite the fire in your belly.

You bite your lip, the neediness in your eyes intensifying. “Daddy?” you whisper, testing the waters.

Nothing.

So he had gone back to this? Not if you could help it. You don’t bother speaking again. Instead, you move the tiniest bit, rolling your hips as you act like you’re shifting to alleviate a cramp. To your shock, he doesn’t say anything, just shifts his hips a bit in return.

You glance up hopefully. Maybe he was going to ease up, but he just didn’t want to verbally admit it. You move a little more, but this time, you’re a bit too zealous in your attempt. His hands grab your hips and dig into your flesh, keeping you in place.

You’re so pent up and frustrated. Your forehead thuds back onto his shoulder. “Ple-”

“What did I say?” he asks.

“But da-”

“What did I say?” he asks again and tightens his grip.

“I just wanna cum,” you whimper, “It hurts, been achy all day.”

“Oh it hurts, does it?” he mocks. He jerks your hips to give you some fleeting friction while maintaining his control. “What is it about today that’s making it so hard for you to listen?”

“I-” you start to defend yourself out of instinct but can’t actually come up with anything. “I don’t know.”

“That’s right you don’t. So quit acting like you do. You think with that slutty little pussy, and then act like you don’t need daddy to make the decisions. It’s a little disappointing, babydoll,” he scolds.

Your eyes flicker with every stage of grief as he says this. That’s literally the worst thing he could say. He could call you any name in the book and you’d brush it off with an eyeroll or a “hmph.” But disappointing? That was evil. That word could worm its way into your heart and weigh on you for days.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly in a desperate attempt to remedy, “I just… I’m so pent up. Can’t think with my head when my pussy keeps distracting me.”

“Oh, poor baby,” he mocks with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

“That’s why I have to cum,” you plead, “I need it. It’s not even the same when I do it. I should’ve just waited. I’m sorry.”

“You need it?” he repeats, “So fuckin’ spoiled. I give you some dick even when you don’t deserve it, and it’s still not enough. I gotta train some gratitude into you next.”

“You’re the one who spoils me,” you pout.

“Oh, so it’s all my fault? So you’re saying I shouldn’t be so easy on you, huh?” he challenges.

You shake your head as fast as humanly possible, now set on backtracking your fuck up. But it was too late. “No, I was just sayi-” you start before he cuts you off yet again.

“And just when I was about to start fucking you too? That’s a damn shame,” he says.

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head more. This had gone from a slight improvement to a downward spiral.

“I mean, why would I bother now? All you care about is getting to cum. Don’t care about all the work daddy puts in to make you feel good the entire time,” he taunts, “If that’s the case, then go ahead. Cum. Take what you want, but don’t you dare move those hips.”

Your look of anguish evolves into that of confusion. You don’t really want to question him right now, but you’re unsure of how you’re supposed to follow that command. “I can’t…” you say softly.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Not enough,” you answer.

“Then make it enough,” he growls, “You were having so much fun today with those fingers. They don’t work anymore?”

Oh. Your face feels hot as the realization dawns on you. You shyly bring your hand to your center and awkwardly fumble with your clit. You look at him, silently begging to ride him.

“You can do better than that,” he responds, “You were putting on such a show earlier, so don’t act like you need my help all the sudden.”

Shamefully, your fingers pick up some speed. You whimper as the pads of your digits rub over a sensitive spot. The whole time he’s still inside you. It felt kind of weird, but still good. You weren’t going to complain. Your upper body twitches a bit, but he holds you straight up, making sure you're looking at him while you work.

“That’s it. How’s it feeling, baby? Is it as good as when daddy does it?” he taunts.

“No…” you whimper, “It’s ok.”

“Aw, well, it’s gonna have to be good enough for now because it’s the only way you’re cumming.”

You groan and whine at the statement. It was the truth, but that didn’t mean you wanted to hear it. You start circling faster and flicking your hand with more urgency. Your head falls back at the sensations as a breathy moan floats from your lips. He squeezes your hips again as you tighten around his cock from the euphoria you brought yourself.

“Look at that. Think you’re gonna be able to cum all by yourself?” he teases.

You nod. Your hips rock involuntarily as the pleasure ramps up, but his grip keeps you stationary. Little gasps like the ones from earlier when you were in the chair escape you. Your fingers move almost like they’re automated.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Please can I finish?” you whimper, “Wanna cum so bad, daddy, please?”

“I already gave you permission, baby. Guess you really wanna show me how good you actually are,” he chuckles.

You can’t even say anything back before the switch flips inside you and release tears through you. Your back stiffens up and a strangled rope of moans come out of you. Your hips jerk harder than before, giving you brief brushes with the head of his cock. He sighs contentedly as you flutter around his cock and provide him with a muted sense of bliss.

You’re still riding it out when his hands are no longer just holding you, but rather, beginning to bounce you. You feel it in your cunt before your brain even catches up with the general motion of your body. It’s because you’re still so sensitive. The tingly stab pulling a quiet shriek from you.

“Daddy, gimme a break,” you whine.

“What? Daddy doesn’t deserve to finish too? Is that what you think? You just get to have your fun, and leave me to deal with it. That’s not how it works, princess,” he says.

“I’m not- I didn’t… I just can’t… it’s too much,” you struggle to get out between the whimpers coming from you. He keeps bouncing you, groaning as that hushed ecstasy blossoms into an encompassing euphoria. The noises of him sliding in and out are nearly louder than all the whining and moaning you’re doing.

“You can take it,” he grunts, “I’ll say when you’ve had enough.”

You cry out in a mix of pleasure and pain as his hips start to meet your hips guided by his hands. A deep groan rumbles in his chest as your cunt’s constant contracting massages his length. After a while, it feels like you’re almost numb down there. The fire still rages in your belly, but your actual pussy has been beaten into submission by your boyfriend’s cock. He watches your face as he moves you, relishing the way your eyes are getting glossy with a cocktail of tears, both of overstimulation and relief.

“So pretty for me, sweetheart. Gonna be even prettier when you cum again all over my dick and milk me dry,” he grunts.

“Uh huh,” you moan without thinking, head wildly falling back and forth in what’s supposed to be a nod.

Soon enough, his chest and belly are tightening up. He knows the end is near and pistons into your cunt extra hard for the finale. You wail and grip his biceps for support as you explode. You didn’t ask to cum this time, but being so close to his own release, he couldn’t really find it to care.

He keeps going through your orgasm, practically making you sob in pleasure. You feel impossibly tight, warm, and wet. And when he sees how your precious face is getting tight too, scrunching up as you reach the peak of the peak, he can’t hold it off.

His fingers dig into your hips so hard that you feel like the future bruises are already there. Your eyes are rolled back in advance as he fires his cum deep inside you. A goofy smile graces his features as he pumps it in, enjoying the waves of pleasure that wash over him throughout. And the whole time you’re pulsing away through your own release. 

You look even dumber than he does, silly smile not just on your lips, but visible in your eyes too. You’re whimpering, extra whiny and a higher pitch. He rubs your skin to remind you he’s right there. He can see your head coming back to reality as the whirlpool of ecstasy subsides.

“Oh that’s it, there’s my good girl,” he coos as you finally reach the end of the high. His hand rubs your back in long, even strokes. “So proud of you, sunshine.”

A dreamy, self-satisfied grin comes across your face. His words were the best drugs while you were in this state, and the tone of his voice only made them that much more addictive.

“Such a good girl,” he repeats, “Now how ‘bout you give daddy a kiss.”

Eagerly you boost yourself towards his lips to connect in a hazy smooch. You’re a bit sloppy with it, but he expected that and found it cute. Of course you were dizzy. He just fucked you stupid. Once you pull away, he strokes your hair and smiles at your blissed out face.

“Aw, cutie. Looks like it’s time for you to head to bed,” he says as his fingers move to rub your cheek.

“You too. I wanna cuddle,” you say, locking your arms around him.

“Mhm, I’ll be right behind you. I gotta finish up the last of this. Now that I don’t have you distracting me, it should only take about fifteen minutes,” he teases.

“That’s like a million years, and I already had to wait all day,” you sigh dramatically.

“Then I’m sure you can handle a few more minutes,” he says and rubs his nose against yours, “Don’t start getting mouthy with me, little love. I still have those panties I can easily turn into a gag.”

With a playful glare, you get up on wobbly legs to make your exit, dizzy smile still plastered on your face. You start to stumble to the door when he calls out to you.

“Wow princess, not even going to say good night to daddy? I expected better from my baby,” he chides teasingly.

You roll your eyes while smiling and return to him to smack one final big kiss on his lips. “Night daddy,” you say with a small giggle.

He smirks at your clear happiness. As you turn to leave, he swats your ass. “I’ll be right there. Bet you’ll already be passed out by the time I get there,” he says as his fingers start working the keyboard again.

“I’ll be dreaming of you though,” you tease before going out the doors and down the hall to your bed.

[rogue-durin-16]

HEAD-TO-HEAD (part XXI/?)

Summary: Joe thought she was pretty. Had he just said that, things might have been different for them. Maybe they wouldn't have gone head-to-head at each other for three years like it was a contest.

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x Reader

Genre: angst/rivals to lovers

Tags:

Head-to-head: @derersketnoget @ladystardustfromarss @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @sxalbatf @jetjuliette @luvrottt @fromjupitertocentauri @ecompstolemysoul @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @bitter-post-millennial @gotxpenny @knight-of-thesun @scottstr3et

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

Warnings: language, smoking, gore, death, trauma, the Holocaust❗, unprotected sex (don't do that I AM watching you)

A/N: if you're fluent in German look away. LOOK AWAY. I took out like half the concentration camp bit because I was upsetting myself and I can't upset myself TWICE WITH ONE CHAPTER. I actually hate this one. Hope y'all enjoy it tho <3

Head-to-head masterlist

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

The place Second Battalion had occupied at Landsberg to house the American soldiers advancing through Germany was one of the nicest most of us had seen in a long while. A four story building with small but cozy apartments, covered in nice wallpaper and soft lights, with all the commodities a modest home should have. They were mostly untouched by war, and they belonged to people who didn't deserve them.

Maybe that was a cruel thing to say, at the end of the day these people—these civilians we had so easily removed from their homes—were nothing but casualties in a war that should have been over for a long time, but after what we had encountered in the morning, I didn't have it in me to care about what was cruel and what wasn't.

Wood creaked softly beneath my boots as I climbed the stairs, the iron grip I had on two tin bowls of hot stew preventing my hands from shaking. Dominguez didn't ask questions when I asked him to pour me one for Liebgott.

I passed a couple of soldiers on my way up, but no one said a word, just spared curt nods of acknowledgement.

The walls felt stifling, the air stale. Breathing had become the hardest task. The stench had yet to leave my nose; it clung to my skin, soaked into the seams of my jacket, lodged behind my eyes. Rot and piss and smoke, and worse things that didn't have a name.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The metal pail in my hands was half-full. I didn't remember filling it. I didn't remember much at all after Joe climbed up onto that jeep, except that someone had said we had to take the food back. They'll eat themselves to death, the medics had stated, as if that made any of it less cruel.

A bony hand had grabbed my sleeve when I turned. I couldn't meet his eyes. I couldn’t meet anyone's eyes. I just shook my head and kept walking, every step heavier than the last.

"Y/l/n!" Speirs' voice cut through the static in my head. He was standing a few yards away, eyes dark and haunted, worry tinting his usually aseptic face. He was flanked by a few other officers.

Joe stood with them, looking worse than I'd seen him before. His face was hollowed out, red-rimmed, lips slightly parted like he was still catching his breath. This place seemed to be taking years off his life each passing minute.

Speirs beckoned me closer with a tilt of his head. I walked over slowly; my boots might as well have been filled with cement.

"There's a second camp. Women's. Down the line, at the next railroad stop." Speirs explained, vaguely pointing outside the camp. "Right, Liebgott?"

Joe's jaw flexed swelled eyes averted from the officer, his hand holding a white-knuckle grip on his rifle strap. "Sir, with all due respect, it's a fucking terrible idea."

"Joe," Winters called the translator out, softening authority with much needed empathy. "that's not what Captain Speirs asked."

"Next railroad stop, yes, Sir." He relented through gritted teeth, swallowing whatever retort he was about to spit out at the officer's face. "That's what the prisoner said."

Someone spoke again; I didn't catch it, my attention snapping to a skeletal hand trying to reach into the pail. It took every ounce of will in me to move it away.

"We don't know what the hell we'll find there," Sink voice was purposefully louder, bringing me back to the circle of officers. "We could use some presence." He stated in tone of his as he spared me an intentional up-and-down. One of those orders he liked to disguise as a request.

"Presence?" I asked, unable to understand anything he might have implied.

Another set of five digits reached for me, stuttering pleas I didn't understand when I carefully pry them away, making me sick to my stomach.

"Sie kann dir nicht helfen." Joe jumped in, softer than I believed possible, zeroing in on the prisoner. "Bitte… hör auf diese Leute. Sie werden dir irgendwann etwas zu essen geben."

"Aber—sie nimmt es doch!" The man choked out, clinging on my jacket. "Sie nimmt alles mit, wie die anderen—!"

"What's he saying?" Sink questioned, confusion laced with the wariness of a man who trusted no one.

Pretending not to hear the commandant's inquiry, Joe went on speaking to the man latched onto me, his voice turning clipped. "Sie kann nicht helfen."

"Liebgott?" The older man insisted, too impatient.

"He wants the fucking food." Joe snapped, crossing the small huddle to separate me from the desperate captive. One of his palms gently pushed me further into the group while the other enclosed the prisoner's wrist, halfheartedly redirecting him to the opposite direction.

"Watch that damn tone, son." Sink sternly reminded the translator, who limited himself to exhale through his nose.

Another officer—one I didn't recognize—veered the conversation to the topic at hand, moving past the argument that threatened to break out.

“We'd like you to come too." He clarified, forcing out a kind smile no one in their right mind would have managed in here. "It might… soften the arrival. For the women.”

I blinked at him. "Why?"

"We think it'll help," A Major with a medic band around his bicep added, gently. "Seeing... you."

"Me." My mouth was dry. My hands were still clamped around the pail. "I'm not— Sir, I don't think—"

"You're coming, Y/l/n." Speirs said.

"Sir, this is a bullshit reason." Joe spat, too wound up to think twice about who he was answering to. Or maybe he didn't care.

"Liebgott."

My throat closed. Joe looked at me like he wanted to pull me out of there by force, drag me back through the mud, bury me in the snow until it was over.

I nodded. Not because I was brave, but because it wasn't a choice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I blinked harder. The bowls in my hands were still warm. I couldn't feel them.

My feet stopped at a door on the upper floor, my toe cap kicking the lower part of the wood as a form of knocking.

A minute passed before it creaked open, barely.  

Joe stood in the threshold, a forearm against the doorframe, his expression permanently caught somewhere between grief and something more dangerous.  

"What's that?" He gestured vaguely at my hands.

"Dinner."

"Shouldn't've bothered." His voice was flat, but I caught the edge underneath. "I'm not gonna eat it."

"Well, you gotta eat at some point."

He let out a heavy exhale, gaze drifting somewhere over my shoulder. "Are you really asking me to eat right now?" He was angry —not at me, but that didn't matter. "After what we saw?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The truck came to a stop in a low screech of brakes, and boots hit the dirt like echoes. We all hopped down one by one, the women's camp displayed in front of us, plain horror in broad daylight, right where the prisoners said it would be.

The gate was half-hanging, barbed wire twisted and rusted like a wound left to rot. The smell hit me before anything else. Not the same as the men’s camp. Worse. Sweeter, sicklier—decay baked in heat and sealed with blood.

The officers fanned out, a couple of privates rushing to cut off the chains keeping the prisoners captive. I looked for our commanding officer, standing side by side with Lipton, trying his best to keep a stoic expression. Speirs met my unsure gaze and motioned Joe and I to step toward the eery enclosure.

A corpse was draped over the gate, not freshly dead—weeks, maybe more. Stripped half-naked, jaw unhinged, arms thin as branches, skin tight over bone. Her mouth was parted like she had died mid-breath.

It hit the floor with a deafening thud when the soldiers pushed the doors open.

"Ohmygod—" The words caught in my throat, thin and fractured. I halted midstep, turned my head away on instinct. My hand found Joe's jacket, gripping it as if that would hold me upright.

Joe was already turning away when I caught the sleve, restless, uneasy, on the verge of collapsing, something unintelligible falling from his lips like a prayer. Not English.

A shaky breath in, a shaky breath out. A cough due to the stench an the ashes.

We moved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Yes, Joe, I'm asking you to eat."

He didn't move aside when I stayed planted in the doorway. He just looked at me, eyes hollowed out from the inside, and then turned his body just enough to leave space. I took that as a cue to step inside, pushing the door back with my shoulder.

The air felt heavier in the room, like one could choke on it if they took a deep breath. I set the bowls down on the rickety table in the corner, the stew sloshing slightly with the action. The three bags lined up against the wall caught my attention.

"Who you sharing with?" I turned around, arms crossed, faking normalcy. "Tab?"

"And Alley."

"Where are they?"

"Not here."

His tone didn't invite any follow-ups, and I didn't give him any. I knew where Talbert was. I'd seen him downstairs, muttering about how Joe needed space. How he was coiled too tight, like if you said the wrong thing he’d snap your neck before realizing you weren't the enemy.

"This room smells like mold." A stupid thing to say, but it was better than nothing—the silence was unbearable.

Joe shrugged. "Better than the alternative."

"Right." I muttered, flicking one of the bowls with my index's nail.

He rubbed a hand over his face. It was a tired motion. A familiar one. "You're not gonna eat it either, are you?" I didn't give him a response; he didn't need one. Joe jerked his chin slightly. "Wanna get a breather?"

I shook my head no. "Not in the mood for a walk."

"Not what I meant."

He nodded toward the balconet, and didn't wait for an affirmative response on my part before pulling at the half-rotted knob, yanking the door open to let April's cool flood the room. I followed him out, chasing the fresh air.

The space was small and cramped; the kind that didn't want a person in it, let alone two.

I leaned back against the railing and let the cold metal bite into my spine. Joe stood beside me, forearms braced against the edge, the curve of his shoulders drawn tight beneath his jacket.

The town below was quiet. Asleep. Or dead.

The faint glow of the streetlamps didn't quite reach Joe's face, but it caught the hollow under his cheekbones, carved from exhaustion.

I didn't know how long we stood there before I commented, "Popeye said you've been locked in here all day."

"Didn't feel like coming out." There was a worrying detachment to him. But then again, had he let himself feel it, really feel it, it would have splintered him wide open. "Where've you been?" he tossed the question back at me, catching on the fact that I hadn't stuck around enough to notice his absence.

"Stayed back for a bit. Y'know, helping the medics."

Silence bloomed between us, not soft or comforting. No, this one felt like cotton in the throat.

"You shouldn't've come." Joe said. "It was a bullshit reason. What difference did you make to those women? Same uniform, same gear, same gun. What good? You think they'd care if—" His voice cracked at the last word, breaking off whatever sentence he was crafting. "Shit."

I looked down. My boots were caked in dried mud and soot, and I felt the urge to throw them away. "I'm sorry, Joe." I murmured, unable to meet his form with my welled up eyes as I said it.

"What for? It's not your damn fault." His hand raked through his hair, leaving it messier than before, fists clenching on the rail like he wanted to crush it. "Could've been my Ma. If they'd stayed. Could've been my sisters. Or me. Hell—bet I had family in there. In those fuckin'—" His face twisted, contorting with something too big for words—rage, grief, disbelief. A gaping wound where language used to be.

His head dropped, shoulders hunched forward, and then I heard it; sob, raw and stifled, the kind that cracks ribs on the way out.

For a second, I considered leaving him to fall apart in private, to mourn on his own. Then it occurred to me that he hadn't told me to, so I stayed. I stayed and watched, and felt my heart shatter for him in a way nothing could ever mend.

I reached out with my left hand and gripped his arm, fingers curling tight into the fabric around his bicep. I didn't know if it was for him or for me. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

My touch didn't bring him back together —if anything, it made him unravel faster. He hiccuped. My own eyes burned. We stood there, wrecked and reeling, frozen in the dark, clinging to the pieces of what we were yesterday until they all slipped.

Joe willed his breathing to become somewhat even, puffing like he was at war with himself.

His hand dove into the inside of his jacket. he pulled out a small, crumpled piece of delicate fabric and swiped it across his face, quick and rough, like he was trying to erase the tears more than wipe them away.

I didn't notice it at first—too busy dragging my sleeve across my own cheeks. The edges, the stitching, the familiar worn softness of the fabric, the embroidery.

My handkerchief.

He still had it.

My throat locked up.

I reached into my pocket, and pulled out a nearly full pack of smokes. I lit one with numb fingers, took a drag, then held it out for the man whose shoulder was pressed to mine.

Joe took it without a glance. Trapped it between his teeth. Took a long drag. Handed it back. We passed it between us in silence, the ember flaring red with each inhale, lighting the space between us. Our hands brushed every time, too obvious to pass as an accident.

By the time the cigarette burned low, my lungs ached with something deeper than smoke. The grief sat so thick it felt like breathing through cloth soaked in blood. The back of Joe's hand grazed my arm, a gesture so slight it might've been nothing.

It was not nothing.

I glanced back into the room and, for a second, I could've sworn the shadows resembled the huts. Low ceilings, rotting wood, filthy corners, empty eyes. Haunted souls.

No, they don't.

They don't look like that.

Don't look.

I turned away, eyes dragging to Joe instead.

He was still hunched, twisted in on himself. Another darted glance at the empty room.

Don't fucking look.

I moved before I could stop myself, lowering my head until my forehead rested against his shoulder, seeking shielding and solace all at once. I pointlessly braced for him to tense. He didn't.

In fact, he leaned closer—enough to notice, not enough to call it comfort—and rested his cheek against the side of my head.

A beat passed. He stayed there for as long as I needed him to, and, when I lifted my head again, he mirrored the movement. His bloodshot eyes met mine, glassy and rimmed red, and a knot tightened deep in my chest.

He drew a breath, attempting to speak. Choosing not to. His silence buzzed unnervingly in my bones.

Joe straightened up, a hand finding the railing beside me, serving him as a leverage to sway closer until his nose bumped mine. Before I could register it fully, he leaned in.

His lips brushed mine—light, uncertain. A ghost of a kiss. More ache than touch. By the time my dulled mind caught up to it, he was already pulling back. Not far; he couldn't go far enough, not in here. I didn't think he wanted to go far enough, anyway.

His body had shifted between me and the dark, fingers curled around the metal to keep him from falling. His presence pressed in on me, blocking out everything but him—his breath, his warmth, the way my lips remembered his.

I swallowed hard.

This couldn't happen now. Not like this.

I was leaning into it either way.

"Joe," I tried, but it sounded more like a plea.

He exhaled, shaky, leaning in again. I chased him when he put the slightest distance between us, brushing his lips for a split second. He gave a faint shake of his head, as if trying to clear it, to stop everything from spiraling.

"Alright," he said, rough as gravel. A pause. His brows knitted. "...Alright."

He leaned in again, maintaining the ghost of hesitance, but too exhausted to bother with preambles. There were no pecks, no cautious press of lips—just an open-mouthed, aching kiss, slow and clumsy and hungry. I met him halfway, matching him without thinking.

My hands found his arms, fingers fisting into the fabric, holding him there. Holding myself there. Something to grip. Something solid in a world that was dissolving.

The moment, thin and breakable, trembled and stretched until it snapped. Joe exhaled like kissing me was the first inhale that didn’t burn.

The next kiss came harder, messier, a collision of grief and need. A plea made with teeth and tongue —make it stop, make me feel, don't let me fall apart.

We weren't careful, nor soft. We had never known how to be, and this moment wasn't any different.

JOE'S P. O. V.

The moment Y/n's palms slid under my jacket, something in my chest twitched. Not hesitation—God, I wasn't that noble. It was something uglier, sat behind my ribs like rot and grief and panic, waiting for a crack to crawl out.

I should've stopped her. Should've stopped myself when she pushed the fabric off my shoulders, parting it like she meant to take pieces of me with it.

Instead, I breathed against her mouth, "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She echoed, her lower lip grazing my chin. A white flag.

"Fuck."

I peeled off my jacket in one breathless shove, letting it fall to the ground and carry the stench of the dead with it. My digits locked onto her belt and yanked her forward, triggering a gasp as she caught herself against my chest. Her palms traveled down—slow, tracing where the shrapnel would hit if this was the end.

My mouth chased and found hers, quick, fingers already at the buttons of her jacket, fumbling like I hadn't touched another human being in years. Maybe I hadn't. Not like this. Not when it meant something.

She grabbed the back of my neck like she had in Hagenau, but there was no warzone behind us this time—just the ruins we carried in our skin. She dragged me down to her, and I let it happen. I let it happen because pretending this was about survival was easier than admitting I had never felt this hollow.

Her jacket dropped, but that horrid smell didn't.

Jesus.

It clung to her. To me. Ash and rot and that sweet, sticky stench of decay; those slave camps had carved itself into our pores. My stomach lurched.

I broke the kiss just long enough to rip my shirt over my head— I needed it off. Gone. Y/n didn't hesitate to follow my lead, her moves equally frantic.

I made the mistake to stop and look at her.

The light barely caught her skin—her collarbones, the shadow between her ribs, the slope of her shoulder where a bra strap slipped loose. She was haunted, colorless, wide-eyed and worn down to the bone —and still the most alive thing I'd seen in days. Weeks. Months.

I dragged her back in, my mouth crashing into hers, my hands rough at her waist, pressing so close there wasn't room for thought. Y/n didn't waste a second to shove me backward through the door.

I let her.

My heel kicked it closed and the sound broke through the air like a shot.

Her hands were impatient now, dragging over my back, around my waist, slipping down to my belt. I was already working on hers, undoing the buckle, the zipper, the fucking weight of it all.

"How—" I began.

How did she want this? How did she want me? How far could we go before the weight of everything we’d seen, everything we’d lost, collapsed on top of us?

She didn't give me the chance to finish.

"I dont care," she breathed, voice barely more than a gasp. Her fingers pushed her waistband down her hips. "Just… I don't care."

I swallowed, hard, lips still brushing hers. "No?"

She shook her head once, her touch skimming over my exposed skin, never once leaving me.

Her pants hit the floor, the clink of metal accompanying the soft fabric pooling at her feet. My grasp was back on her before she could step out of it, hands gripping her hips, teeth grazing her jaw. My breath punched out hot and heavy against her cheek.

Nothing else mattered. Not the war, not the fucking smell of death that still clung to the walls, not the ghosts I saw every time I blinked.

Just her.

God.

I wanted her to feel it—all of it. That she was real. That I was still here. That we weren't just some walking carcasses in a uniform. Dragged over every inch I could reach—hips, ribs, the swell of her breasts, the dip of her spine. Skin so warm I thought it might leave burns in my palms.

I reached for her bra clasp, but her fingers were faster. It slid down her arms, and I let my eager digits chase it, dragging slow, trembling lines down her back. I needed the moment carved into me. I wanted it to hurt.

She kissed me hard—desperate, trying to crush the ache in her chest against mine. Her nails scraped my shoulders, bit into the meat of my arms. She clung to me like she'd fall through the floor without the contact.

I didn't even notice her hand on my stomach until it slid lower.

"Jesus Christ—"

It left me like a prayer. Like a warning.

I shoved down my pants in a blur. The buckle clattered, loud in the silence, and I stepped out of the rest like it offended me to still be dressed. Her fingers ghosted over my thighs, and I almost stopped breathing.

She looked at the bed and I mimicked her on instinct.

Too small. Too far. Too civilized.

I turned and pinned her to the wall instead.

She winced when her bare back met the cold surface, a sharp inhale against my shoulder. My mouth attacked her breast, tongue circling, lips rough, unkind. The soft sound she made cracked me open to the point of no return.

Her hands dove into my hair, clutching hard when my thumb flicked over her nipple. Everything about her body was pulling. Pulling me in, pulling me apart.

Too fast. Too hard. Too much.

Good.

I grabbed under her thigh, yanked it high around my hip, and before I had time to second-guess it, I pushed into her—raw and full and overwhelming.

Y/n choked on a breath, head tilting back against the wall, lips parted, frozen in the moment. Crescent moons dug deep into my back, my nape—anchoring or punishing, I couldn't tell.

My forehead hit her shoulder with a dull thud. Her skin was damp. Warm. Alive.

This was bad.

This was so fucking bad.

But it could be worse, right? Or so I told myself. I could be in the room alone, crying so hard I made myself sick. And I wasn't alone, even if just for the night.

"Joe—" Her voice broke. The leg around my waist dragged me deeper, and I had to lock her in place, my palm splayed at her hip.

"I know," I rasped, chest heaving. "Just—fuck, give me a second." I pressed my forehead to hers, eyes screwed shut, every muscle in my body tight as a wire. I inhaled, deep, slow, buried my face in the crook of her neck. And somehow, somehow, under the blood and sweat and rot, I smelled it.

Her perfume.

Still there.

Still hers.

It made my knees buckle.

"Joe—fuck—please,"

"Gimme a damn second, sweetheart."

My throat worked around the knot rising in it. I pulled back just enough to see her face. Our eyes met—half a second of unbearable clarity—then we both shut them again, as if it hurt too much to witness the other breaking in real time.

I swallowed hard, shoved the swelling in my chest back down, and moved.

A slow, dragging pull. The friction of her body clinging to mine. I pushed forward again, hips grinding deep, and our mouths collided, raw and searching and needy. I swallowed the broken sounds she made, gave her my own in return.

The way we fell into a rhythm—frantic, intimate, unforgiving—was a goddamn tragedy, because she felt too good, and I was a wreck. The fact that this was how I got to have her, was almost funny.

Fucking comical.

Her skin, flushed and slick, shifted against mine with every movement. Her legs locked around my hips, tightening, guiding me, begging; her nails leaving raised welts that made me gasp; her crown tipped against the wall. I couldn’t stop watching the way her lashes fluttered with each thrust.

Couldn't stop watching her.

Couldn't stop.

It was heartbreaking.

I kissed whatever skin I could find—her neck, her collarbone, the space under her ear— between heavy pants and muffled cries neither of us would mention afterwards. My hands shook where they gripped her thighs.

Every time the pressure inside me started to give in, every time I felt myself teetering on the edge of falling apart, the feel of her against me, wrapped around me, with me, pulled me back.

God, I hoped it did the same for her.

I hoped.

[limerlove]

we could go there | a. anderson

tags: eighteen+, sexual innuendoes, mentions of sex, jealousy, ow*n, beware i'm an ow*n hater 'nd i display that hatred here, two gays in love, fem!reader, fluff city, get a snack bc this is the longest fic i've ever posted.

a/n. hi guys. it's ray, again. as i begin to roll out content slowly, i want to make it clear, i fully support palestine. anyone who consumes my content, i strongly encourage to do the same. i have no patience for ignorance. below are links to take a look at. educate yourself, donate where you can, and reblog if you can't. hopefully you guys like this one, it's been a labor of love and a bit different than what i normally post. anyways, with love as always ♡

wc. 9k

DO NOT BUY TLOU, FUCK NEIL DRUCKMANN + EDUCATE YOURSELF + DAILY CLICK FOR PALESTINE + DONATE TO PALESTINE.

divider creds — @cafekitsune

Owen could not have been this fucking stupid. Practically trying to piss all over Abby as if she were something to own, some damn property to own, as if she wasn’t an actual person with feelings who could make her own decisions. The man only thought with his dick and the ugly green head growing endlessly. He only thought of what he wanted – never what she needs.

Meaning the only thought bouncing in your mind? Punching his crooked jaw.

To put it simply, Owen was not managing the breakup well by any means. It had been three months and still Owen continued to grab onto Abby like a leech. For this exact reason, you told Abby you wanted to keep whatever was happening between you away from prying eyes. Everything with Abby was still new, and you did not want to rush it. Ruin it even. Really, you wanted to stay in this small, secure bubble with her for the longest you could.

So, you kept it this way.

It was nice when it was just the two of you. Abby always likes to cook for you after a long week. Friday nights ending with her, a bottle of red on the dining room table, her cuddled up to your side. It surprised you how willing she was to be available for you each week, only missing one Friday due to a nasty cold. There were no prying eyes, no preconceived judgement – absolutely no expectations. Just you and those gorgeous blue eyes you couldn’t help but fall deeper for. With a soft familiar shine, every word she spoke dripped like pure honey all over your heart, making it brand new again.

You didn’t know what sweet was until her.

Never been more sure of it until now.

As if there was never an ache to be had, a heart broken – she seemed to seamlessly mend every broken piece of you.

You were so soft on her, and the Friday night dates only helped the cause. There wasn’t a damn thing you could do to help yourself from falling for her. Even when your knee jerk reaction is to run in the opposite direction, your feet stay glued to the ground. Kind words and services of affection gripped your heart with an iron fist and somehow, she managed not to break it.

You loved it. You were terrified. You want to run into her arms and never let go.

But of course, the man was the complication. The retched, jealous ex-boyfriend who could not imagine her being with a woman when he was right there. Owen always seemed to try and worm his way whenever he was around the two of you. Abby knew, just as well as you did, he wouldn’t be able to stomach you two together. So, she tried to keep it concealed for his sake and she wants to protect you. Owen is her loose end to tie; the last thing she wants is you in the middle of it.

Especially when things were going so well with you. Abby really had not expected to move on so fast, or at least find someone as amazing as you so soon, but you were right under her nose the whole time. She felt like an idiot for never recognizing it, but she thought better late than never, right? It’s overwhelming guilt consuming her, telling her it’s wrong to feel this happy so soon, but there’s no choice but to shove it down.

If she wants to be happy, pretend like the stress of Owen’s instigations aren’t getting to her, she needs to shove.

So, Abby shoves.

The stoic-blonde tries her best to hide what you two had from the rest of the group. Not until she dealt with her baby of an ex-boyfriend and his unresolved feelings. She just wanted to give him enough space to move on, but now it would be impossible.

She knew it and you did too. To Owen, it had been the most obvious. You were almost certain he was starting to put the two pieces together.

God was he being even more insufferable than ever.

It was nauseating you the way he was acting. He needed to be talking to Abby, sitting by Abby, touching Abby. Abby. Abby. Abby. The ignorant man’s mind focused on one thing, and it was his ex-girlfriend. Deep in his bones he believed there was still truly a shot and part of you thought there was. She did not like girls, or you, as much as she thought she did. She kept him around, never refusing what he wanted, and the two of you were not official.

You told yourself so many times, lies of assurance turned into fact in your mind, masking what the truth actually is.

Truly, there’s little to do.

Abby did not really owe you a damn thing.

Sure, she was available for you and those nights were everything to you. Most of them spent together ending with her fucking you, whispering sweet nothings into your ear before you fell asleep in each other’s arms.

You’re just a need for her to fill. A quick fuck, that’s all you are.

Persistent as ever, thoughts of doubt seemed to nag and linger throughout your head.

You’re not good enough for her.

She’ll run back to him.

Abby just wants your body, not you.

Everything had an expiration date and possibly, you need to start facing the harsh reality, she could not possibly be ready for all of this. Although, the possibility of her still hung up over Owen filled you up entirely with disdain.

What else were you supposed to think? Abby refused to cut ties; she wants to keep the two of you a secret. Even if she had been stuck to your side like glue all night, it did not stop the anxious feeling rumbling in the pit of your stomach.

You craved for more, but it could be possible you were just the building block until she found the next person to move onto. It’s not like Owen and her were some short-term fling. They had been together for years and clearly, he thought it would be for the long haul. He knew her in ways you couldn’t. The pair had been friends since they were kids. He gave her the support she needed when she lost her dad.

You could even understand how difficult it would be to give up someone like that, even if it was Owen. You would never blame her for not being able to let go of it. Never would you be able to forgive yourself if you held her to this crazy expectation, just like Owen did. So, you tried to hide for both of your sakes. It’s been easier in your relationship with Abby in the beginning. When it was new and fun, it went unnoticed.

But it clearly written all over the two of you tonight.

You were too drunk and even if Owen’s eyes were on the two of you, all you saw was her. Everyone was busy roasting marshmallows, still cool enough in beginning of spring, fire crackling as you watched it glow Abby’s features.

Her freckled cheeks and ivory skin sporting an orange hue and you were a little too obsessed with it.

She’s so beautiful. All you can think about is pressing your lips against hers, claiming her in front of everyone. It’s all you want.

But your own insecurity gets the best of you and somehow, it’s possible to dig down deep, suppressing the urge.

So, you try to place your focus elsewhere.

Even if being here with Abby, side by side, was a bad idea. She shoved her pussy in your face for consolation. You come with her, a party Owen would be at, and you finally get to eat her pussy out which you took full advantage of prior to arriving.

-

Ellie thought it would be important for the gang to get together before spring break rolled in and you had agreed along with Abby. Thankfully, Owen had shown up late and the only spot available to him was on singular chair across from where you were snuggled up with Abby on a two-seat bench.

Your hand on her thigh as you told her something dumb, silly even, but the smile on her burned so bright – you couldn’t help it. Any day of the week, it’s all you want. To see her happy, beaming. It just so happened to be your luck she did it often with you. She might’ve been cautious with Owen around, especially when it came to her proximity with you.

You’d eaten her out on your bed, before you rode in the passenger side of her jeep. Fuck, did you love how happy she looked, how relaxed she’d seemed. Abby didn’t tell you, but Owen had never even offered to do that before. The fact you had been begging for it unprompted had her heart pumping. Delicate hands running over her thick thighs as she let you spread them out wide before you made yourself comfortable between them.

She was replaying it over in her mind as she smiled wide at you. Abby could listen to you talk about whatever, forever. You made her feel good, didn’t ask her anything in return, but she would absolutely return the favor. Maybe by the end of the night, even.

It’s moments like these, making you believe this could be something special. Even convincing you Abby would want this with you, to be your girlfriend. For her to be yours seemed like a fever dream, but the more time you spent with her, you couldn’t deny it’s all you wanted. You were just terrified she couldn’t possibly want to be like this with you.

The uncertainty was a bitch and you felt like you were choking on it.

“Where’d you go, sweet girl?” Abby’s thumb smoothed over your chin. She wants to pull you in closer, claim you in front of everyone, but she doesn’t want to deal with the heat from Owen. Abby is fully capable of handling him, yet she can’t find it within herself to subject you to it.

It’s the last thing you deserve, not when you’ve been anything but perfect to her.

She tries to pretend the fear isn’t there as her throat bobs, attempting to swallow it down.

“Just thinking about…someone.” You drew out with a smirk on your face.

“Someone, hmm? Is a certain blonde the someone? Is she in the room with us?” Abby looks around in faux cluelessness. You have no choice but to laugh as she roasts two marshmallows for the two of you in one of her large hands.

“She might be, but she’s being silly right now. I’m not so sure anymore.” You teased, a smirk pulling at your lips. Abby likes how it feels to have your hand on her thigh, thumb rubbing back and forth. She’s thankful for the fuzzy, thick blanket placed over you both, concealing unwanted eyes from the affection.

The chilly, midnight air bites into your skin, it’s dropping more quickly than you anticipated but you’ll live.

Abby still feels the rapid beating of her heart, it’s deep in her soul. She wonders if you can feel it too. She takes a moment to look at you, really let her gaze fall on you and she knows how badly she’s fallen. It feels obvious, in the way her blue eyes are glossed over in love, the way she offered to roast your marshmallow for you, the way she insisted on sitting next to you whenever you were making your way over to the other bench with Jesse. She takes note of the black hoodie you’re wearing, the one you stole from her closet, her cheeks are crimson, but she’ll blame it on the cold if anyone asks.

Yeah, it’s the cold making her heart skip a beat.

“Are you sure you’re not cold?” Abby asks again, taking note of your body shivering before her.

“I-I’m fine, Abs. Promise?” But you weren’t. Your body was shivering, and you couldn’t speak without your teeth chattering.

“Oh yeah. You’re fine, right?” Abby taunts.

“Abby…please. Not right now.”

“What?”

“You know exactly what.”

“Maybe you should spell it out for me.”

“Now, you’re just being mean, Abs.” You begged, pleaded with her to let this go. You didn’t need another reason for him to judge either of you. The two of you already had been more affectionate than you wanted to be in front of Owen.

“Oh, I’m the mean one?” She tilted her head cockily, her tongue poking the inside of her cheek. Dangerously leaning into you as her eyes took a quick glance at your lips. Forbidden fruit she could only have in the safety of your apartment or hers. Made her full warm, her mind wondering about how you made her feel. All the things you’d done to her, how you always picked up when she called, how you seemed to know what to say and at the right times.

It’s not fair.

“Tonight, you are.” You replied, trying to see if there was another conversation to escape into, but everyone was engaged in conversation, except for Owen. He was looking right at you, furrowed eyebrows and jaw clenching as he took Abby’s undivided attention directed towards you.

“He’s looking right at us, Abby. You guard dog looks like he wants to choke me out.” You turned towards her muscular frame, only to find she has leaned in even more. God, she was trying to torture you. Infinitely so.

“Well, he’ll have to get in line.” Abby teased, dropping a wink that made you feel hot in the bitter cold.

“Baby, you’re killing me.” You lightly pushed her, laying your head against her shoulder.

“Calling me baby in public? Are you trying to torture me…baby?” Abby whispered in your ear as she maneuvered her free hand underneath the blanket and interlocking with yours. She kept it against her thigh, but it was her turn to rub her thumb against your skin.

“No can even hear us.”

“Would you care even if they could?” You paused for a moment as you contemplated.

Would you truly? Owen’s reaction wouldn’t be the best, but it would take the relief off your shoulders. Honestly, you would have been nervous if Abby was truly serious about this.

About you, but she’s not.

“You’re holding my hand, Abby.” You sighed, content with her warm fingers heating up your freezing ones.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking doing more than just holding your hand.” Abby rested her head against yours, “But I’ll settle for this, at least for right now.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re pretty much all I think about these days, especially after you ate me out this afternoon.” You feel the heat even in the freezing cold, taking the sharp remark right off your tongue.

She was smirking wildly at her accomplishment, until she noticed the glare being sent her way.

Abby stares at Owen and she can tell how angry he looks, but she knows better than anyone he’s all bark and no bite. He won’t say anything to her right now, not until she’s alone. He doesn’t want you around when he says what he needs to.

Abby knows what he wishes to tell her. It’s been on the tip of Owen’s tongue after the breakup, but it’s a little too late. She doesn’t care to hear how sorry he is. It’s holding no weight. He only wants to fix things once he’s turned her into an afterthought. It makes her feel sick, unwanted even.

She feels none of those things when she’s with you. All the doubt, self-hatred, and regret piles in the back of her throat when she thinks about Owen. His presence no longer provides her with comfort and safety. All she sees is the blood on his hands and it fuels her with rage. She shouldn’t feel this way. Abby doesn’t want to, so she drowns herself in you.

Abby can’t feed into his delusion anymore; she knows she can’t. Not if she wants to keep you around and keep you happy.

Owen knows his limits. Abby will never talk to him if he interrupts her while she’s preoccupied with you, she’ll be out for his neck if he tries anything, the look she was giving told him that.

“Would you just stop being stubborn and take my jacket?” Abby speaks quietly. She removes the marshmallows from the pit of the fire, and you grab the graham crackers and the chocolate with your free hand.

Purposefully, you ignored her comment.

“You know, this would be easier if you let go of my hand.”

“Not going to happen, gorgeous.” Abby chuckled as she watched you struggling to remove the graham cracker from the plastic encasing. She takes in the way your eyebrow furrows in concentration, trying to get this god-awful plastic away from the treasure. Plump lips pouting, practically begging for assistance.

“Abbbyyyyyy.” You grunt, clearly frustrated with the damn crackers.

“Do you want my help, baby?” She asks innocently, but there’s nothing innocent about her voice. It makes you want to fuck her right in front of everyone. Especially with Owen watching. Yeah, fuck him. Why did you have to suffer for his shortcomings? Clearly, he wasn’t good enough for her, but you would be. You’d treat her like she fucking deserves. In your bones, deep in your very being, you would never make her feel like Owen did.

She’s perfect in your eyes. So precious and joyful, she made you feel good, and you hoped you did the same for her. Carefully, she set the marshmallows she’d be holding on the skewers and placed them carefully in your lap.

“Give it here, baby.” Abby’s delicious, big palm inviting you to place the bag in her hand and you did. It shouldn’t have been as sinful as it is, but she barred her teeth on the seam, creating a tear, placing the crackers on her lap. Immediately, Abby rested her head against yours once again. It made your heart skip a beat; how close she wants to be with you tonight.

Secretly, it’d been kind of an unspoken agreement when she was with Owen. Abby didn’t like public affection, never really had been into it. Made her feel nauseous at the thought. So, Owen stopped trying and because of it you’d make a point to never push more than she was ready for. But making her come on your tongue three times before you left the coziness of your apartment brought it out of her. Somehow, you had managed to subdue her into a needy, whining little girl who needed your touch, or she just might just die right then and there.

It's what you told yourself. You weren’t quite sure what else to believe.

Abby knew the truth; she’d been hiding tucking it away for safe keeping. She could let you know when she was ready, but right now, mindlessly she let herself lean into your body. With an open heart, Abby allows herself to feel the warmth and comfort only you could provide. The soft feeling in her heart she’d never felt with anyone else.

Silently, you brought your eyes to connect with Dina’s before she dropped a not-so-subtle wink.

Dina was the one who convinced you to even go for it in the first place with Abby. You really didn’t want to pick on the dead carcass of her fall out with Owen, but it was clear to everyone just how much Abby cared for you. Dina was sure the braided blonde didn’t even know it herself at the time, but anyone with eyes could see.

All of it had been so easy, being with her was the most natural thing in the world. This right here; she’s the blueprint for what it’s supposed to be like. It helps she’s sweet on you, more than anyone has ever been. You wish you could look at her right now. The beanie was so goddamn cute on her. She looked too good with her bomber jacket, the one she offered to you insistently. Repeatedly because she knew how damn cold you are. But you’d prefer her cuddled up into your side — her body heat felt better than any coat could.

“Do you have the chocolate?” Abby asks sweetly and you hand it to her, and she breaks up a handful of bars as she places on top of the the graham crackers she pulled out of the bag. “Can you?” She lets the end of her sentence drag off, but you know exactly what she needs.

You lift your head from her shoulder, and she pouts at the disconnect.

“Why’d you move?” She brings her hand closer to her inner thigh and it’s when you feel the bulge concealed beneath her trousers. You don’t say anything — you don’t want to spoil the fun she clearly has planned. Although, it makes you feel heated. The intention behind it sent shivers down your spine, goosebumps spreading all over your skin.

“You’re being stubborn, Abs.” You huffed trying to pull your hand away, but her grip tightens.

Got it. Better not poke the bear.

“Just place it right there. I’ll remove it from the skew.” You listen to her, picking up the first one and placing it delicately on top of the chocolate, and you slowly pull it away as Abby looks you dead in the eye. Making s’mores feels more sensual than it should be, but maybe just being around her makes you feel this way.

It’s just her making the tingling feeling between your thighs reignite.

Abby’s hands are sticky from the roasted pillow of sweet, white substance stuck around her fingers. Her heavy-lidded eyes, look down at her fingers before looking back at you. She seemed to be in a daze, thinking of something else. You could guess exactly what Abby was thinking of.

“I would ask you to clean it for me if we were alone, but this will have to do.” She slides her forefinger and middle in her mouth, and god, you’re imagining it. Your mouth wrapped around her thick fingers, tongue circling around it as if it was her cock fucking your mouth. It got her off just as much as you did.

She liked to have you like this, completely and utterly under her control.

Abby pulls off with a hardly subtle pop, her lips are moist and fuck, her fingers are incredibly wet. You can practically feel your cunt purring at her, the throbbing insatiable as you’re looking at your pretty girl like she’s a slab of meat to be butchered and slaughtered. Really, you can’t help it.

The sex isn’t just good. It’s fucking amazing. Stupidly obvious in the way it just makes sense with Abby. She’s reminding you of it, as she gestures for you to pick up the second skew. Sticky fingers getting caught on the marshmallow again, cleaning it off with her mouth again. Breathy, quiet, moan slips out before you can catch it and she’s smirking so loudly you want to kiss it off her deeply cocky face.

“Hm, guess I can’t blame you for getting all hot and bothered. I know how much you love my fingers. Especially when they’re inside you, huh? Just a little bit of déjà vu from last week.” Abby teased lightly.

“You’re going to pay for this.” Threatening the blonde beauty as you grabbed the finished s’more, and she grabbed the other one.

“Am I?” Abby’s voice dropping an octave lower than how she usually talks. Trying to do her best to bring out all the stops to do her best to effectively ruin you.

The answer to her question is left open in the air, the two of you silently finishing off your s’mores, her hand still in yours. Abby doesn’t want to let go. Even wants to hold your hand on top of the blanket, for everyone to see, but she doesn’t want anyone to ruin the moment. She’ll take for this now, but knowingly will push for more for later. When you’re ready for it. It’s still fresh, new and she needs to learn to be patient even if it’s the last thing she wants to do.

This time Abby is leaning her head on your shoulder. She takes in your sweet sent, pine mixed with vanilla, and it intoxicates her. Owen is finally engaged somewhere else besides her. It’s a relief. To not feel his accusatory eyes on her. Abby doesn’t want to feel guilty about her affection towards you. You’re too lovely for this to be seen as anything but beautiful.

She won’t let anyone take this away from either one of you.

You engage in conversation with Ellie and Dina, they’re to the left of you where you and Abby are sat. Dina’s, making you laugh about something stupid Ellie did earlier this week. Ellie claims it’s not nearly as stupid as Dina makes it out to be, which only sends you and Dina through a tailspin.

It obviously was just as idiotic as it sounds, but what Dina says next brings Abby to full attention.

“Hey, were you going to call Leah back? She sounds pretty interested in seeing you.” Dina questions you, a smirk playing at her lips, and it makes you want to scream.

Fuck.

Dirty fucking Dina.

She played it off as coy, maybe Abby wouldn’t question Dina’s intentions, but she sure as hell would give yours a second thought. Ellie let a small chuckle, earning a death glare from Abby. It was painfully obvious to the couple the feelings you felt towards one another, but neither of you took steps towards making it official.

“Leah?” Abby questions, her grip on your hand tightens, afraid if she eased up, you might slip.

“Y-Yeah, just a girl I met at the work event I told you about.” You let out, trying to land the blow gently but it already had made its impact with Abby. There was nothing gentle about the knife she felt in her heart.

Abby’s jaw clenches too many times for you to count, her grip is cruel, and she won’t meet your eyes. She suddenly finds the flames in front of her incredibly interesting. Ember reflects from Abby’s eyes, they’re still blue, but icy as you try to find them, but she refuses.

You want to tell her it’s innocent. It doesn’t mean anything, and it really doesn’t. You felt stupidly insecure that night. Pleading Abby to come with you, but it was Owen’s birthday dinner, and she couldn’t make it. Felt like a horrible slap in the face for her to pick him over you even after the breakup. One cocktail turned into five and before you knew it, you put your number into a pretty girl’s phone. She danced with you, she flirted, and it felt nice to be someone’s priority, their full attention seated with you.

The night ended with a sweet kiss on the lips, a promise she would text, and you would call her. Leah made good on her promise, and you found yourself falling incredibly short of yours. Abby came over around midnight, it felt a punch to the gut to make time for you now but not before. Yet, you let her in even after how miserable and alone her actions made you feel.

All you see is her. Her lips and the voice you love. She makes the anger melt away as if she wasn’t the one to instigate it in the first place.

She apologizes for not taking you up on the offer. Her puppy eyes pleading for forgiveness. She has a tote full of goods which allow her to breach past your door. Chocolate covered strawberries, a bottle of your favorite red wine, the ingredients for your favorite dinner, and tempting lips you’ll know will have their way with you by the end of the night. Abby knows just as well as you do, both of you are fucked.

It’s the first time she stays over at your place, and it feels solidified. This could all end up in flames, with both of you burned, but somehow it feels worth the risk. The light glistens through the bedroom window as it shines on her eyes, the blue standing out as she looks on your sleeping form. Black sheet concealing your body from her. Then it’s almost like you know she’s watching you and your eyes open meeting hers.

Smiling softly, it reaches your eyes, and your head nuzzles into her chest, sighing contently. Before, your brain could excuse how you felt, but after that night, it had changed. You realized just how much Abby had wormed her way into your heart, into your soul – you didn’t wish for her to leave.

But it still didn’t negate what you felt, the fear of losing her to someone she might still be in love with. Yeah, so she did feel remorseful for picking him over you, it didn’t mean she still didn’t care about him. It was Abby – of course she did. Everything was still so new, there wasn’t enough foundation to land on, for either of you to be sure. You had to hope it was strong enough to support the two of you.

You felt lonely, and Abby wasn’t there to give you the comfort you needed so this was your way of lashing out without speaking to her about it. It was small, but the thought echoed and occupied all the space in your brain.

She’ll leave you for a man, they always do. How could this be any different?

Past experiences drawing the conclusion for you, instead of actually speaking with her about how you felt, leaving Dina to air out your dirty laundry.

Dina kept talking, but she changed the subject. Still, didn’t stop how tense Abby is. She refused to notice anyone, her focus trained on the flames in front of her, anger brewing beneath the surface. You were holding onto the fact she hadn’t let go of your hand. Maybe you could settle your strong headed, burly bear.

You’d seen a couple times just how protective she could be over you. The fact you were possibly entertaining someone else, besides her, stung.

Everyone else had funneled inside, but Abby stayed by your side. She still wouldn’t look at you. She was as stoic as you’d ever seen her. She still wouldn’t keep her eyes off the fire, it was dying out and it felt like there wasn’t much you could do but watch it with her.

Owen would get exactly what he wanted. Maybe the two of you would never even become a thing because of your fatal case of loneliness. It made you nauseous. He didn’t deserve her, but it seems neither did you.

“So, who’s this Leah?” Abby broke the silence, her voice cracking in the process. “A-And why didn’t you tell me about her?”

You bite on your bottom lip, tugging it so carelessly you could taste the iron.

“It’s not important. She’s not important.” You reassure, but it doesn’t offer Abby much comfort.

“Obviously she’s important enough for Dina to know about her and not me.” Abby bites, her tone colder than it ever has been directed towards you.

“It’s not what you think, Abs.” You pause, not wanting to lie to her. You can see the self-doubt swimming in her eyes, and you need to do your best and reassure her, nothing is going on. “It was before, you know, that night.”

“So, you were seeing her? Both of us at the same time.” She thinks it’s not even a question. She states it as if there is nothing to be found but truth. It feels like there is a blade in Abby’s back, one you put there yourself, but now she’s only feeling the wound.

“No, baby, will you just let me explain?” Abby nods, allowing you to continue.

This won’t break everything will it? You should have told her. It really was stupid not to, silently cursing at yourself.

You’re going to kill Dina for exposing you like this. Fuck. Damn the red wine and her loose lips.

“The night we were fighting about you coming as my plus one or going to Owen’s dinner? Do you remember that?” She nodded her head, waiting for you to continue. “Well, I sort of, met someone the same night. She gave me her number and we kissed.”

“Huh.” It was more bitter than contempt. Rage? You weren’t sure.

“You’re mad.” Abby’s jaw clenched; her grip was tight again. “I’m sorry, okay? In my head, you had abandoned me for him. I was lonely and hurt. I just wanted you there with me, yet you went with him, and it felt nice to have someone’s attention. It was stupid. I only did it because I felt like I didn’t have yours.”  

“Did, um, you ever see her after that?” Abby looked at you, finally. Her eyes begging for the answer she needed. Preparing for the worst but found herself hoping for the best.

“Abby?” You tilted your head to the side.

“What?”

“Do you really think I would?”

“I don’t know. I thought I was the only girl you were kissing.”

“Well…we do a little more than kiss.” You teased lightly, a smirk on your face.

“Stop being cute right now, it’s not fair.” The blonde pouts, upset she couldn’t stay upset. “I deserve to be angry right now.”

“Do you?” You leaned in closer, your breath kissing Abby’s face. “Last time I checked, I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Baby.” Abby whines, her frustration wasn’t holding. It never really did, but you did have a point. Neither of you had made this official, but Abby would argue it sure did feel like it.

“Look, I know we decided to keep things just been us, not really label it, because of your messy breakup with Owen. We were still trying to figure out what this was, and it was new and terrifying for you.” Your free hand found purchase on the end of her braid, tugging at the open strands, your thumb smoothing over it.

“I respected your decision and I’ve kept this between us. I mean, our friends do have eyes and it’s not like we’re exactly doing a good job of hiding it anymore.” You laughed softly and Abby was sporting a hint of a smile on her face.

 “That night when I spent time with Leah, I let my insecurities get the best of me. All I could think about was you and Owen. I had convinced myself you were getting back together with him, and this is why you had ditched me. It’s not an excuse, I should have told you about it, but what else am I supposed to believe?”

You took a deep breath, trying to control your emotions. You didn’t want to break down in front of her, but someone had to start this conversation. Abby sure wouldn’t. If it made you the bad guy, so be it.

“Even now, he’s still a concern. He looked like his head was going to blow off from pure despite. We’re still hiding. I can’t just sit here and pretend I’m okay with this anymore. I deserve to be with someone who can hold me hand in front of our friends.” You sighed, pulling away from her entirely, stepping towards the flames. It was time for the two of you to come to an end. It’d be better for the two of you, before either of you gets too invested and someone ends up really hurt. Sick and wretched filling gnawing at your heart, telling you it is already a little too late for that.

You love her, but you love yourself a little more. It’s not her fault, but your past girlfriends always burned you because of the ex-boyfriend. Broken promises of a future together until they crawled their way back to where they put themselves, back in the closet. The shame of liking girls, you, too much for them to bear.

Ending the same, your heart beaten to a pulp before you stitch yourself together again.

Abby hasn’t disagreed with anything you’ve said, making you believe she still holds a torch for him. The single thought alone makes you feel nauseous. Just being a placeholder, whether it be for Owen or someone else.

She stayed fucking quiet, and it only pissed you off.

This is it, the final nail in the coffin.

“Abby, I think we should put a pin in this. I-I’m sorry. I know you’ve apologized since that night, but I can’t see past him. Not if this isn’t going to become more. I need more than this.” You confessed to her, continuing to walk away from a still silent Abby.

It wasn’t fair how much you cared for her, possibly even love. Finding yourself choking on it and she seemed to be doing just fine with the thought of never having it again.

Maybe she was still in love with him after all. How fucking pathetic does this make you?

-

Abby was stoic the rest of the night. Owen noticed the space between the two of you and tried to use it to the best of his abilities once everyone was sitting around the couch, watching a classic Christmas film. The rest of the group was adding commentary when considered necessary, stuffing their mouth full of chocolate goodies and kettle corn. Trying but failing, you couldn’t focus on the movie. Not one bit.

All you could think about is how quiet she became, hands stuffed in her pocket as she watched you end things and didn’t pipe in once. It was clear you overestimated your importance to her. A rebound. A steppingstone. An experiment. You hated all of it. You hated thinking about it. All your fears about her came true and now you’d have to pick up the pieces alone.

She would go back with Owen. She’d never consider you an actual option. You would give her the whole world if she asked, but that was just it, she hadn’t. She wouldn’t. Not in the entirety of the four months you spent together. Abby was always trying to protect his feelings, but never considering she was shattering yours into tiny little pieces.

Making yourself scarce to the kitchen, Owen’s cocky smile and Abby’s avoidance to meet you in the eyes was allowing yourself to drown in self-depreciation. You couldn’t stand it. So, you chose the most delicious vice you could think of – chocolate covered strawberries.

It would do for now, until your heartache subsides, allowing yourself to get a grip on it. You were halfway into your fourth one when she walked in, of course she would. Fucking hell.

Your eyes trained on the food in front of you as you took another bite.

Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her.

She let you stand there in the cold, like a pathetic, lonely loser practically begging her to say anything and she stuffed her big, lovely hands in her jacket pockets and stayed silent. Abby doesn’t care, her conscious won’t let her be the one who’s hurt you. All she wants is to make amends; she doesn’t want you.

The seasonal depression has its tight hold on you, and Abby unwillingness to catch you, fuck, it makes you want to punch her stupidly gorgeous face. Who gave her the right to make you feel this way? Painfully, you see in your peripherals her hands twitching by her sides, standing in front of the door, at least supplying a barrier from everyone but you can see the uneasiness in her.

But you do look at her.

You wish you hadn’t.

Abby isn’t moving besides her hands; she’s shed herself of the coat and she’s in a sweater you bought for her with a chain around her neck that you also had gifted her on her birthday. It’s not fair to you how cozy she looks, how much you want to escape into her arms and welcome the comfort she would offer in a heartbeat. Her body runs like a human furnace.

You crave for her to tell you everything is going to be alright; you want her to reassure you with her lips on your temple, you want to bury your face in the crook of her neck and focus on her heartbeat. You’re still so damn cold, even in this heated house. Your body craves her comfort more than you want to admit, it’s become second nature.

Her hair is falling past her shoulders, beanie has been abandoned. Abby combs her fingers through her hair, giving them something to do because she’s almost certain she’s going to faint from seeing your pretty eyes glossed over. You’re drowning in something sweet, no doubt due to the bitter taste Abby left in your mouth.

It makes you even more uneasy the two of you were supposed to share a bed tonight. After everything, you didn’t trust yourself around her. Not one bit. Even if you were hurt, the second she put her arm around you, all anger would be thrown at the window. You didn’t want her to drive this late, it wasn’t safe. The roads were beginning to ice over and Abby hates driving at night. The only other room big enough for two was Owen’s and the thought made you want to puke all over him.

She finally spoke up and you were strangely thankful for it. You weren’t sure where your thoughts would’ve gone, resentment growing with them.

“I know you probably won’t believe me but I’m sorry. I should have asked you how you were feeling about all of it.” Abby apologized, but she hadn’t moved an inch. “I just thought…” She left you hanging, basically prying your lips open for a response.

“What?”

“There hasn’t been anyone else for me, okay? I-I don’t want anyone else.” She looked around the room, trying to focus her attention on anything else but your undivided attention. Her palms were sweating as she wiped them on her sweatpants. “Can I tell you something without you totally making fun of me for it?”

“I would never make fun of you, Abby. Not like this.” You offer a gentle smile, encouraging her. She knows now what she should’ve done before – fight for you.

Abby thinks it’s why you’re avoiding looking at her. She can see the wanting in your eyes. If you’re not looking closely enough it drowns in disappointment, but it’s still there. Abby recognizes the look; it’s how she looks at you. Disappointment can’t be found, but her love for you can.

The most perfect girl for her. Fuck, she’d found a way to ruin it.

You’re really the only person who puts up with her day-to-day shit and you don’t complain. You’re you about it. Incredibly graceful, sort of hurts Abby’s cheeks because it makes her smile so damn much. She’s taken advantage of your kindness, and she needs to make sure she does everything in her power to make amends.

“It’s okay, Abby. Whatever happens, you always have a safe space with me.” Reassuring her while biting into another strawberry.

You’re still so sweet. Fuck, Abby wants to kiss you, hard.

“I really believed I was in love with Owen, I care about him. He was there for me when shit hit the fan. Sometimes, I feel like I owe him because of it.” Abby took a breather as she stepped forward, but you stayed sitting on countertop.

“It’s not fair to you and it is sort of my fault he hates you so much. I just want to protect you from it, but I haven’t done a very good job. It’s really embarrassing for me to admit this.” Abby sighed as she stood in front of you, her big frame standing between your spread legs, a snug spot for her to fit into.

You tilted your head at her curiously. “Just tell me. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”

“It is.”

“Abby?” You questioned her, but still chose to be tight lipped. “If you want to fix this, I need you to talk.” The cocky attitude had evaporated from earlier, leaving you with one you usually got. The girl who was too afraid to kiss you on the first night. Arguably, you like this version of her a little more.

“I, um, so, I sort of kind of used to think of you when Owen and I used to have sex.”

“Um, okay? Is there a reason I need to know this?”

“Well, the reason I think he hates you so much, on top of me kind of being all over you all the time is….”

“Abby, if you don’t tell me right now, I swear to god.”

“Okay, okay.” Abby took a deep breath before she let the confession tumble from her lips. “Whenever we would, you know, I would always kind of sort of, call out your name instead of his.”  Abby mumbled, closing her eyes in shame.

“Baby….you’re kidding.” An itch to laugh bubbles, but you’re able to muffle your giggle enough.

“Would you, you know, not laugh at me.” Abby sighs. “See! This is why I didn’t want to tell you. It’s embarrassing.”

“I’m not laughing at you, it’s him. He couldn’t even fuck you good enough to get your poor, gay brain off of me, huh?” Abby let you tease her, your smile, an equal trade for her pride. Her hands glide along your thighs, igniting a fire beneath your skin.

Abby loses the hint of teasing when she responds, “Yes, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I never stop.” Abby took a step forward, your pelvis pressed and to her, legs latched around her toned waist.

“I’m supposed to be mad at you.” She leaned forward, peppering kisses along your neck, you're gripping onto the chain around her neck, your initial engraved on the pendant. Boy, does she make you want to forget about everything as her teeth latch lightly, giving you a playful bite before her tongue soothes over the ache.

“Abs, fuck um don’t you think we should talk first?” Your strong resolve from earlier fading into the tranquility of Abby’s comforting arms.

“Okay. Then, talk babygirl.” She continues to kiss your neck as your neck as you struggle to find your footing.

“I-I just, um, I need…” Subconsciously, your fingers dip into her blonde waves, tugging at the root slightly.

“C’mon, use your words. You did a pretty good job earlier you know, felt a little humiliated back there.”

“Really?”

“What?”

“Abby…It was Dina. I never would have brought Leah up like that. Truthfully? I wasn’t going to bring her up at all.” Abby frowned, lips pouting, clearly frustrated.

She was red, tense, and the jealousy in her gray hues burned bright. Carefully, her hands gripping on your thighs, giving them a light squeeze.

“I didn’t like hearing about another girl kissing you. Someone else who isn’t me…it pisses me off.” Abby sighed, look down at your sweats. “Not hearing it from you just made it so much worse for me.”

With the admission, you tugged her closer to you, resting your hands on her defined traps, caressing the nape of your neck.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have told you and I didn’t.” You tugged her closer, if it was even possible, letting the safety of her arms comfort you. “Dina just wants me to admit to you how I feel. It’s why she said it.”

Abby perked up at your confession, neatly placed in the palm of her hand.

“How do you feel?” She asked, cresting some distance between the two of you, pulling you out of the crook in her neck, a new home you’d taken residence.

“One condition…”

“Yeah?” You grasp her chin, tilting her head up slightly, grip tight.

“Next time we’re fighting, and I ask you to say something, you better speak next time or so help me god…” You trailed off but Abby couldn’t take it anymore. She had been dying to kiss you all night, since you’d done the service of your sweet, skilled mouth eating her out like you were personally starved.

“It’s cute, baby.”

“I was talking. Abby?” She silent as you wait for Abby to respond but she just cocks her head to the side, a smirk plastered on her face.

She leans in, whispering in your ear, “You can keep talking. Just let me return the favor from earlier.”

Abby doesn’t give you much time to respond before she’s removing your legs from around her waist, her pretty honey-blonde hair is thrown into a low bun in preparation as she offers her hand, and you take it as she helps you off the countertop.

Abby catches you, strong arm around your waist pulling your body against her.

“How does that sound? You, bossing me around and giving you a reminder of just why you put up with my bullshit. Yeah?” You come down to your natural height, Abby’s presence even more damning. It didn’t matter if she was taller or just a bit shorter than whoever she was around, the confidence she exhibited was fucking damning.

She’s so broad, big, and intimidating and she’s willing to sink to her knees for you. Abby licks her chapped lips until they become shiny and pink.

Fuck, she has to be doing it on purpose at this point.

You nod but she makes no movement to take this somewhere.

“First, tell me how you feel.” Abby rubs her thumb over your soft skin, caressing your cheek with a delicate touch. “C’mon, I mean I might know but I just need to hear it.”

“I just, I’ve been wanting for us to make it exclusive…just me and you. Tired of hiding, in front of our friends especially. I want you to be my girlfriend.” You admit sheepishly, eyes trained on the floor until Abby tilts your head vertically by gripping your chin.

“Baby, it’s all I want you. Jus’ you and I against the world. Yeah?” Abby’s lips mesh with yours, the fit is perfect as if your earlier problems hadn’t melted away.

They didn’t. They were still there, but you could work through them together. You and your girlfriend, against the world, together.

reblogs are appreciated! ♡

[moodient]

Enclosed Temptation

(part i - part ii)

relationship: sevika + reader

summary: you and sevika work in the same office, the both of you bicker like no tomorrow, sabotaging each other, making each other's lives.. but one day, you're running a bit late and heading to the elevator and sevika is there, ready to make your day a living hell until the elevator shuts off.. you both finally snap.

tags; running late, pickering, sexual tension, malfunctioning elevator

a//n: inspired from an asmr i was listening to and couldn't resist. (yes, i listen to f4f audios.. it's a sad world out here.) i'll post part ii after this!

9:03 am.. panting, running, sweating, your heels clacked through the halls of your office building. your button-down shirt barely buttoned but enough for you to be covered... slightly. your skirt covering everything about your knee, but your ass was enhanced with it, you were professional but sloppily put together. your suitcase weighed you down, but you had to your work cut out for you.

still running, but you whipped out your id card and scanned on the clock-in machine and waved at the receptionist, who was currently taking a phone call for the boss. she smiles and gives you a brief wave before she continues to talk on the phone.

you began a slow jog to the elevator and sees one that started to close.

9:06 am..

"hold that elevator please!" you shouted, now quickening your pace. the elevator that was slowly closing started to open. you made it in and saw that the floor you needed to go to was already lit up. and with that, you knew who it was from the smell.. cigarettes, coffee, fresh linen and... a small hint of sweat, seems like she's late too.

you and sevika always had this rivalry that happened out of nowhere, from simple things like passive aggressive compliments to full out pranks, like pouring salt in each other's coffees or messing up each other's powerpoints for meetings when it's time to present them. needless to say, you both hate each other but you hated her more than anything.

"aren't you going to say thank you?" the deep feminine voice slithered in your ear. you were trying to keep it together since you were already off to a rough start, with your alarm not even waking you up and no source of nourishment or caffeine in your system.

keeping your composure, you turned to her and long and behold, your archenemy sevika, was smirking at you... reading glasses on top of her head, her button-down was neat, ironed, and had two top buttons unbuttoned, as well as her sleeves being rolled up, her deep red tie tied but loosely and her black pinstripe pants and black loafers fitted her perfectly.

"thank you.. sevika." you said, gritting your teeth and rolling your eyes. you turned back and started putting yourself together, tidying all things that were loose or unbuttoned. you finally looked put together, neat, a bit wrinkled but you look presentable. the ride up towards your office floor was uncomfortable, quiet.. awkward until sevika started tapping her foot. slow, then fast, then slow again and it drove you nuts.

the ride honestly felt like it went on for minutes, slower than expected. but that.. tapping, it just went on.. and on.. and ON and you finally couldn't take it anymore.

"for fuck's sake, sevika can you no-" you turned your head quickly to sevika being close to you. you paused seeing her so close to you, you could feel her breath on yours. you can admit that as much as you hate her with every fiber of your being, she's drop dead gorgeous, but you would never give her the satisfaction.. right?

"can i not what?" she teased, your face glowing a soft red. you pushed her away from you, now irritated that she got under your skin. she always had a way of making you tick, you stayed silent and you now started tapping your foot. this day couldn't get worse.. until the lights on the elevator started to flash and then, it completely stops moving. lights off, elevator stationary, and now your nerves are peaked.

you let out an enraged sigh, now tapping your foot aggressively against the floor, and then finally you give up. sevika watches as you completely shut down, now in a corner kneeled over. sevika whips out her phone and calls the receptionist.

"hello? hey, the elevators completely stopped moving, could you call the fire department and tell the boss?" you looked up, watching her. she's completely unfazed by the whole elevator shutting down, she's leaned against the wall, legs crossed.

"thank you.. bye." she hangs up, placing her phone back in her pocket. time goes by, it felt like hours until sevika opened her mouth.

"you know.. now that we're alone, i gotta ask you.." she starts, grabbing your hands and pulling you up. as she got close, you back up until your back reaches the wall, arms keeping you where you are.

"why do you hate me so much, hm?"

"did i do something to you?" she asks, face close to yours. you thought about it and really didn't know why. the silence told her everything and laughed.

"you don't even know, do you? we've just been rivaling each other just for no reason?" you really couldn't answer.. just one thing led to another and you both just started fighting.

"you know.. i can't keep doing this.. especially with how you look." sevika whispered softly, wrapping her arms around you slowly. she pulls you into her, eyes lulling you like a siren's song. you couldn't stop your face from turning red, your face looked absolutely pathetic, your eyes glossed over with lust but still confused, your eyebrows frowned, and lips quivered in anticipation to hear what she says next.

"... what do you mean?" you questioned, voice a bit shaky and hot from her body being pressed against yours. after that question, she pulls her tie off and smirks. "can.. i just show you?"

[steviewashere]

Something's Wrong

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Graphic Depictions of Supernatural Gore? (Like...describing shit crawling and bubbling out of somebody's mouth. Like when Will puked the demodog fetus thing into the sink.), Canon-Typical Violence, Steve Literally Gets Burned by a Hot Poking Iron (I have no other way to warn of you this but that's the canon-typical violence) Tags: Post-Season 4, Vecna is Not Defeated, But Everybody is Alive, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Possessed Steve Harrington, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Eddie Has No Idea What's Happening, Scared Eddie Munson, Everybody is Scared, (But Especially Eddie), Badass Joyce Byers, Boys Crying, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington's Friendship, Supernatural Stuff For @steddieangstyaugust Day 27 Prompt: "I thought we agreed it was over."

❄️——————❄️ The body on the coffee table may be his boyfriend, but it’s not him.

That’s what Eddie understands in the chaos. As he stands between doorways—to the hallway, and to the living room of the Harrington’s home. He can only watch. Look on in complete horror and half part devastation. How hadn’t he picked up on the new odd behavior from Steve before this, he isn’t sure.

Steve had become sort of…erratic. Sensing things before they could even occur. Looking off into distances; short and long, it didn’t matter. Angry, but Steve is always angry about something—it’s his natural state, practically: angry at Dustin, at Family Video customers, at Eddie when he just wants to sleep and Eddie won’t shut up, so on and so forth. He swore the lights would sometimes flicker when Steve would enter a room. “Faulty lightbulbs,” is what he always said, “I’ll get my parents to buy new ones the next time they head out to the store.” Were they ever near dead to begin with? Or was Steve compensating for this?

All it was was a simple sentence, “Keep it cold.” At the insistence that the fireplace be lit. That the thermostat be turned up a few notches. For the few open windows to be shut. It made everybody in the room look; everybody being everybody. It was Christmas, it was cold, and they were celebrating being in the warmth of each other. Of wanting and needing each other’s company. And at the mention of Steve’s new upsetting behavior, everybody decided—piled on—that maybe they should do their annual Christmas gathering at the Harrington’s; “Maybe his parents are out of town,” Dustin suggested. “They always are this time of year,” Max bitterly followed up.

So, they compromised. They’d keep it cold. No fireplace. Shut a few windows. Turn the thermostat up just one notch. Steve seemed settled. For a little bit, he seemed alright.

Then, Will reached behind him. Hand on the back of his neck. Wide eyes noticeably directed at only Steve. Which, Eddie found barely weird—maybe Will was nervous or overly excited or even sheepish about being in the presence of Steve; an adult crush, Eddie figured, that’s not that weird. But Will had opened his mouth, demanded of all of them, “Make it as hot as you possibly can in here. Something’s wrong.”

Steve had protested. Screaming, quite literally. Moving hastily and trying to get people away from the fireplace, from the windows, and the thermostat. Somebody even stood guard at the freezer.

Eddie wasn’t sure what was happening at-fucking-all. He stayed out of the way, when the kids told him firmly to move. When Joyce made eye contact with him, teary and protective. When Robin dragged him out by his shoulders to the hallway, whispered so low under her breath he had to strain to hear her, “I need you to not watch, okay? You’re going to hate us for what we’re about to do.” He was more confused, but he obeyed. Like a startled, starving, stray dog—he obeyed.

After that, things happened too fast to really catalogue. He heard things being shoved out of the way, but his eyes were set on the stairs—not the room behind him. Saw Hopper come rushing past him, shoving his way into the living room. Then, something slammed hard onto the surface of something—and Eddie was too curious for his own good, too scared.

He turned back around. Spotting the source of the slamming, Steve’s body laying on the coffee table. He’s shirtless and his muscles are straining, trying to fight against the people holding him down. Robin and Jonathan on Steve’s arms. Nancy was pinning down Steve’s right leg, Max and Lucas on the other. Dustin was holding one of his hands, despite the danger of being clawed at. And Mike was trying to keep Steve’s head in one spot, failing, but this was no time to tease. Will and El were watching something on Steve’s torso. And following the line of sight, it was to an odd swirl of dark, blue-black veins in the center of Steve’s chest—almost like it was ready to grow more, if need be. It was hard to watch, but he couldn’t look away.

And now, he’s staring at his boyfriend writhe and yell and practically howl at the people around him. The noises he was making weren’t the pained grunts that Eddie was used to, when Steve would pull something too hard in his back, when he’d strain the scars on his sides, or even when he’d get a basketball to the side of his head from Lucas. No, the sounds leaving Steve’s wide open, spit-burbling, red mouth were animalistic. Like roaring. Something tortured, that’s for sure.

Eddie wonders if this is what he sounded like under Starcourt. If he screamed like this, thrashing and wailing—that’s it, he’s wailing—for somebody to come save him. But he wasn’t sure, this sounded more like fighting. As if Steve was protesting this utterly and completely. As if he…wanted this. His stomach churns violently at the thought.

It was like watching a real life exorcism. That’s the only “real life” thing Eddie can compare it to. At any moment, he was expecting Steve—possessed, that’s what he realizes—to start floating from the surface of the table, to scratch names in people’s backs, and to start peeling the wallpaper with his voice alone. He’d prefer the exorcism to whatever was about to happen.

Joyce was armed and ready with one of the poking irons for the fireplace. It was obviously hot, glowing orange, and dangerous. She demanded of the people holding down Steve’s arms, “Move. But hold on tight. He’s not going to like this.”

Not going to like what, Eddie could only ask himself. His lips were sealed shut with terror, if that was a possible thing. With half-formed words and lost trains of thought and stuttered gasps. But he couldn’t look away.

She raises the poking iron over her shoulder. And at Hopper’s nod, she brings it down in one fell swoop. Straight to the center of Steve’s chest where that swirl of veins is. She presses it into his skin, not enough to sear through the muscles and bones, but enough that a scar will surely be left there. At the pressure of the hot iron, Steve then snarls. He yelps and shifts, kicking with the heels of his socked feet—Eddie tries not to think about how he’s wearing a pair of goofy mismatched polka dot socks, that he’s not just some kid despite his age, that he isn’t this thing—trying to get away and trying to fight and trying to keep himself protected. Eddie almost wants to lunge forward and help Steve, get him away from whatever the fuck they’re doing to him; “You’re crazy, Ms. Byers,” he wants to say, “the town was right about you, you’ve fucking lost it.” Because who does this? Who’s first instinct is something so violent and cruel as this?

But then, just as he gains feeling to his jelly legs, something in Steve’s mouth pools over. In the corners of his lips is a disgusting sludge of black and grey, thick like mucus, and staining his pale cheeks. He’s pale, Eddie notices right then and there, paler than me, even.

In slow motion, something begins to wriggle and crawl out of Steve’s black stained mouth. A little…creature. Some sort of symbiotic thing, having lived inside of him, having fed off of whatever chill Steve was allowing it. It was half-xenomorph, half-deformed fetus. A mass so terrible, so ugly, and so fucking disgusting—Eddie thought he may just puke.

Steve coughs around it. His wide eyes shedding steady tears. His body finally losing its momentum to fight. He begins to relax, to slump against the surface of his own coffee table. And as the thing begins to crawl away, Eddie distantly—over the ringing in his ears and the churn of his stomach and the sweat on his palms—hears Dustin yell, “Kill it! Somebody step on it! Something! Do something!”

It’s Hopper who smashes the alien thing with his heavy foot. The thing squelches, squeals, and chitters all at once as its life ends. And when the foot is pulled away, shiny mucus-like fluid sticking in strings between the floor and the sole of Hopper’s bare foot, the thing is nothing. It’s just sludge. It’s…dead, at least Eddie is to understand that.

Somebody’s at his side in short seconds. Shaking his arm, petting the side of his face, and jostling his shoulders. Like they’re waking him up, so he blinks. Blinks again. Blinks harder until it’s Robin’s freckled, dimmed-eyed, sour face that comes into his sight again. “What,” he asks half-conscious, “what the fuck was that? What was any of that?” He’s partially aware that his voice is shrilling, squeaking like he’s going through puberty all over again. But Robin doesn’t seem to care at all.

She takes a deep breath through her nose, to which Eddie follows suit, and releases it through her mouth. Her hands are firm, pushing down on his shoulders, thumbs running soothingly on his t-shirt. Robin opens her mouth to speak, floundering for a few seconds as she tries and fails to come up with words.

“Vecna,” he hears Will say, “it was fucking Vecna.” And it must be. It must be reality, if Joyce isn’t telling her kid to watch his language. If Eddie’s looking over Robin’s shoulder, spotting Dustin wiping Steve’s face with reverence and care, Joyce clinging to her little family, the others clinging to one another. Mike even looks affronted, cautious, terrified—and that’s the kid that’s usually one hair away from snapping at Steve at any given second. He looks like he might start crying. And Eddie feels that way, too.

“Vecna?” He hears his own voice warble, warp, and squeak. “I thought we agreed it was over?” Eddie mumbles. He looks back to Robin, the both of them shaking and sweating and ready to cry. “I thought we agreed it was over,” he states again, raising his voice.

“We’re okay,” Robin says, trying to soothe, “it’s okay, Eddie. We’re going to get him. We got this shit early, we know what we’re doing.”

He looks over her shoulder again, unable to believe any of that. But then Steve looks to him. His eyes wide, stressed, and too frightened. He’s never seen Steve truly afraid before, not really at least, it always seemed like things were okay. Like Steve could face a hundred grizzly bears and come out on top, barely a scratch, confident as ever. Then, though, Steve bursts into tears. His weak body angling away from Dustin’s wad of tissues to his face, hands reaching out for Eddie and Robin—like he’s a kid asking for cuddles—and he just wails. Not the yelling kind of wailing, but the hysterical sobbing kind of wailing.

It’s without another thought that he drags Robin by her elbow, back into the living room, crowding around other people. That it’s without another thought that he lets Steve pull them in close and fast, even sitting up on the old coffee table. That Eddie lets Steve bury his still stained face into the center of his pristine Hellfire Club t-shirt and just cry.

“You’re okay,” Robin rasps and whispers, “you’re with us, we’ve got you.” Steve only sniffles and cries louder in response. Her left hand goes to the back of his head. Tangling fingers into his sweaty rat’s nest, dully scratching fingernails on his scalp, and petting him to the base of his skull and back up again. The other hand, she places between Eddie’s shoulder blades. Huddled in close like some mismatched family, but knowing of the others all the same.

Eddie lays a heavy arm over Steve’s shoulders, the skin touching his forearm just barely room temperature—like it’s still working to make up for all the cold. And he doesn’t have words to say, none at all that would be helpful. He has nothing to make up for for whatever the fuck just happened in front of his eyes. There’s no connection in his brain that forms even half a thought as to what he just witnessed.

But in the face of something like this, he’s learned to ask questions later.

It’s time to plan. And it’s time to end this.

❄️——————❄️

[azaharinflames]

Hi!

Thanks for opening your inbox to all sorts of rants and opinions. You being so nice and accepting made me want to rant about something I haven't seen someone complain about yet lol (there's joy in being a hater as long as you don't lose your mind about it.)

Mine is less about the show and more about the fanfiction. I love Bucktommy fanfic, but as a new watcher, I sometimes want to read more gen fic like the 118 as a found family or something from before Tommy came back in s7.

But it is literally impossible to find any of these fics that don't have casual, background Buck x Eddie! Even after I've filtered out every single possible tag pertaining to that ship, there will always be a background moment that implies romantic feelings between them—as if them being a couple is canon or just a given. Always without tagging anything about it, even though the "background ship" tag is right there.

And it's so infuriating, bc I'll start a really good fic about like Maddie and Buck's sibling dynamic or Buck and Bobby's relationship (which I love!) or some kind of canon-style case fic or even a fic (erroneously!) tagged "Buck & Eddie" for best friendism—and, if it isn't a Bucktommy fic, at some point Eddie and Buck will have some kind of romantic energy with each other. The worst cases are when it's just other characters being like "well of course Buck and Eddie are going to end up together at some point. Just look at them. Also Buck is Chris' dad." It's come to the point where before reading any gen fics, I click on the author—and 99% of the time, every other one of their fics is Buck x Eddie.

It's so frustrating as someone who reads a lot of fic and wants to read a lot of different kinds of fic. In an ironic way, by constantly doing this, non-Bucktommy fic writers are just pushing me back into reading ship-only fanfic.

Absolutely nuts. Anyway, thanks for listening!

Hi! Thank you for your kind words! And apologies in taking a bit to respond, I decided to take the weekend off in preparation for the upcoming chaos this week

Honestly - big time agree! There are two tags that I personally enjoy a lot, and those are Post-Lawsuit, and the Tsunami tag. I love when we get to explore the 118's dynamics more, and as a Buck girlie I love to give him angst, so those two tags are perfection.

However! It's downright rare to find a fic in those tags that isn't about Buddie. Even the ones that don't have them getting together during the story heavily imply they will, or they do any of the things you so well explained. It used to annoy me even when I shipped Buddie, but now it's made the fics impossible to read for me, which ngl, sucks.

It also annoys me when all the characters are either Well of course they were going to get together / we all had bets on when you were going to get together / their love is superior and nothing like we've ever seen, etc. Buck being painted as Chris's dad also annoys me (less when I shipped Buddie to be fully transparent, but now it truly does annoy me lmao), as well as when Chris calls him Bucky (that might be partly because of my Marvel-obsessed-ass, lol).

Another thing that annoys me heavily is when they minimise Maddie's role in Buck's life, or downright play her as the villain (which, wtf), or treat her like she's a family friend at best, and not Buck's literal family and, arguably (especially pre-Tommy) the most important person in his life. Like. Bffr. The way that Jee-Yun (and Chim, too) is highly ignored also ties into this. It's like they minimise/reduce/ignore everyone in Buck's life that adds something to it, and instead choose to give it all to Eddie, in order to fulfill their fantasy. And by doing so, they full-on ignore reality and twist it in a way that Buddie seems co-dependent, when they're not.

And I will say I wouldn't mind it if it stayed in fanon. The issue here is that this world created in fanfiction is then, somehow, being taken as the actual canon. That's why so many Bobs are so mad whenever the show doesn't play into their Buddie is co-dependent and raising a child together, and everyone is in love with their love.

Anyway. I got sidetracked a tiny bit, sorry! Long story short: I heavily agree with you. I won't judge the writers for putting whatever they want in their stories, but it is a bit frustrating to go into a fic that does not have romance (or pre-relationship) tagged or indicated at any point, to then be hit by it. Or, more recently, to start reading a Bucktommy fic and realise midway through that it is endgame Buddie (it is especially upsetting if the fic also has Tommy bashing and it does not say that in the tags or summary)

Tagging correctly is important!

Anywho, sorry for this long rant, lol. I hope to have helped with my reply, and thank you for finding this blog a safe enough space to rant <3

[alyxmakesthings]

'Ignite'

Summary: Reader sneaks away from a Sacks Industries fund raiser to get some air.

So I’ve decided that I will post an ‘out of order’ chapter and then an ‘in order’ chapter, bouncing around in the timeline some building the story in an unconventional way. [So the next post will be Ash and Donnie’s second meeting and then I’ll put up a vote for the random chapter, before circling back to what ever chapter is next in the order!] Very, very excited to continue this experiment and to post this, I hope y’all enjoy!☺️ [Check the fic master post.]

Tags: Reader-Insert, GN-Reader, Post-Movie, Aged-Up Character(s), Flirting, Double Sided Pining

'People I Don't Like'

The night had been long and full of assholes.

Parties were fun, albeit a little socially draining, fundraising events however. Are the fucking worst. 

Navigating the throng of expensive gowns and suits with more pieces than you'd ever know how to deal with. Even the waiters brought in to serve the high level investors were dressed to the nines.

You hadn’t been lucky to get to swing picking your own clothes for the stupid thing. The chilled air and occasional wind gusts biting at any exposed skin, and in this stupid thing there was a fair amount of it. 

You had been irritated with it all night, the thin straps of the dress doing the exact opposite of what you wanted to be doing with your arm. 

It had been a while since Sacks showed you off in such a manner. He would apologize every time, “The small but necessary evils of dealing with money,” he’d always say. 

So when you had slipped away during his patented ‘Long Ass Speech’ to a room of the most annoying people in the world! It felt like Atlas losing his burden. 

At least for a bit, letting the city air take your worries as far as they could before you had to go back to the viper pit.

Now that you had achieved one goal a new one popped up.

An itch in your fingers, both living and robotic somehow.

‘I could text him.’

The thought made your heart jump like you were some dumb school girl. 

Your pacing left a continuous echo from the heels you’d been relegated to wearing, the black material blending into the low light on the roof. 

You had texted back and forth with Donnie a few times now and every time you did it made you feel better. He could make you feel better now.

‘Which I’m sure will bode well for future fights between us.’ 

You roll your eyes at your own sarcastic internal comment.

“Fuck it,” you open the small clutch that had come with the dress, the beading on the front not bothering your prosthetic. Retrieving your phone from the little thing you unlock it now to stare at your message screen, the little emoji you used for his contact stared back at you. 

Using your living fingers you type out a message to fill the empty space. 

|You: Talk to me I’m dying😩

The wait for a reply is short. Very, very short. One of the shortest you’d ever had from Donnie. Sure the sample size is small but that’s not the point. 

|👾: Now isn’t the time for dramatics.

“Mother f-,” you type a response.

|You: You don’t understand the pain of company fundraisers😡

“Alright ya little shit,” the wait for his next response was even shorter.

|👾: I’m close🙄

You can’t help but celebrate your victory over the ‘iron will’ the purple turtle seemed to like to brag about. 

Until it settles into you that he said he was close. 

‘Which means he’s coming here.’

You can hear the sound of Donnie’s jet pack before you ever see him, playing it cool you turn to see the terrapin hero.

“Close was a bit of an understatement,” you can tell he’s taking in your appearance. Tongue seemingly captured by the cat. 

You think of sending a little ‘thank you’ Irma’s way for helping you with your hair, and makeup.

“What’s this about dying?” Donnie’s tone is sarcastic but it lacks the edge you knew it could have, his eyes barely staying north of the openness of your neckline. 

“Do you know how hard it is to have an intelligent conversation with a bunch of fucking sales people?” He laughs at your candor and your heart squeezes, it seemed to be something he could easily do. 

Whether or not the purple mutant was aware of his affect on you had yet to be seen, but right now your affect on him is clear.

“Not something I have to deal with thankfully,” he was all soft edges now. 

You couldn't handle that, “Lucky bastard.” Trying to goad him back into his usual sharpness you turn your gaze from Donnie’s to look over the city.

He joins you at the building's edge, the slight grim from existing in New York coated the railing but you didn’t care. You left your hands to rest there anyway. 

He’s quiet, too quiet and you think you can still feel him staring.

The thought heats your skin. 

“Got here fast,” the statement is quick. More clipped than you’d have liked but when you turn to look at him again, you’re proven correct. He was still staring.

Trying to regain some decorum he finally answers you, “I was nearby.” The flippant delivery Donnie tries for doesn’t land very well but you’ll allow it in order to calm down. 

“The others near here too?” 

“No,” he lets out a little chuckle, “but this would be the perfect opportunity for an ambush wouldn’t it?” His overly cocky nature would be the death of you, but a return to normal banter would keep your head from exploding.

“Beat you and the boys once already,” leaning against the railing more you turn to prop just your prosthetic on the cool metal. Annoyance creased Donnie’s brow.

“You technically ran from that fight,” he’s closer now. Arms crossed with indignance, but with the softness from earlier blanketing his actions. It’s a good look on him.

Shoving down that thought. 

“Well I met my win condition while fending off four Mutant Ninja Turtles,” you can’t help but sound cocky remembering the last time you'd seen Donnie. “So I’d say that’s a hu~ge win for me. Got me free drinks.”

“It did?” The incredulousness from him was a little unwarranted, you did work for his ‘enemy’ after all.

“No. The bar where I live is open to off hours employees, no one pays for drinks.” It was a nice perk of having to live in a secret facility. 

The challenge on the turtle's face is clear, “If you’d have stayed it would’ve been a very different outcome.” 

“Oh, mm-hmm,” you can’t help the teasing manner in which you expressed the vocalizations. 

“I don’t know why you have to sound so incredulous,” you have to keep from laughing at his words. 

‘Said the pot to the kettle.’

“You pulled your punches in that fight,” you feel the corner of your painted lips quirk upward. 

The shit eating grin bringing out more of the Donnie you were used to, “Scoff!” He holds a hand to his chest, looking properly offended.

“Your brother was right and so am I,” you feel yourself get just a bit closer.

He doesn’t comment on the action, continuing his train of thought. “The very idea that I would go easy on anyone is laughable, I don’t even go easy on my family.”

“Exactly,” you turn so your hair can fall back, fully exposing the housing unit for your arm. You can see his eyes darting over it, taking it in, “So what does that say about me?”

Fucking with this man had become your favorite past time since you learned how easy it could be. Your proximity to the turtle now offered you a front row seat to how red he’d become. The shades of maroon he was turning rivaled the color of your dress. 

Which he seemed to be taking in again, “If you hate these parties so much, why even come?” The change in subject matter is abrupt and sharp, much like how Donnie could be. 

You concede with a sigh.

“Half of the robotics patents Sacks Industries has published over the past three years have all been mine,” you can see the processors of his mind racing. Your body sags before you continue. “The investors at this particular party know that, so I’m basically here asking for money.” 

You sigh again, heavier this time, the gross feeling of asking for money made your stomach churn a little. 

“And the dress?” You had been waiting for him to comment on it but it still catches you off guard, “It doesn’t really seem like your speed.” 

You would blame any flush on the night chill if asked.

“You’re right. I’m more of a suit person but Sacks says it makes me ‘more approachable’.” The hard air quotes you put on his words clearly got your disdain for the thing across to Donnie. 

It felt gross.

Everyone staring at where your metal arm connected to the rest of your body.

The prying eyes, the muffled comments.

That is.

You lean a little more, turning to try and show off whatever curves you can muster.

‘What are you doing!’ 

The inner voice chastising you for such a thing. That is until you see his face, eyes dancing over you. Committing as much of you to memory as he can.

“What do you think it does for my approachability?” He swallows. Hard. Sending a little thrill through you as Donnie composed himself.

“Burgundy is… nice.” It’s an obvious lead.

You take the bait he placed for you, “But?”

“There are better shades,” his eyes finally return to yours as he makes the statement. The intention is clear, you step a little closer to the purple turtle.

“Well maybe you-,” the alert from your phone broke the instant of intimacy between the two of you. The distinct tone meant that the message was from Eric causing you to groan at his poor timing. 

Snatching the offending device from your bag once more, you check the snippet of text on your screen.

You groan again.

“Not to cut this short but I have more sales people to talk to,” you make a little ‘yippee’ hand motion. Before you can head to the door to leave Donnie stops you.

“How’s your dancing?” You knew you’d been driving the poor guy crazy since he arrived but you hoped the dress didn’t give him the wrong impression.

“Not very ballroom,” you lean towards him, “why?” He’s clearly staring at your ruby lipstick as your mouth makes the words, his eyes observing each movement. 

“I know a place,” he clears his throat, “and I think it would be an enjoyable evening for you, us.” Your skin prickles from the shiver that runs through you. 

‘He’s asking you on a date.’

“You want to take me dancing?” You try not to sound as breathless as you are but you aren’t very successful. Looking at Donnie's beak-like mouth you notice how close it is to your own, the added height from the heels bringing it closer. “I-”

The second message from Sacks nearly has you throwing your phone over the edge of the building but you keep it under control. Choosing to stuff it back into the black clutch instead. 

The crushing responsibilities of your adult life were coming home to roost and you had to go.

“I gotta get back,” you pause searching his steely gaze, “but text me when and where.” You step back while maintaining eye contact with him, “I’ll be there.”

“Done,” the purple turtle's response is quick, any pretense of trying to hide his eagerness now gone. 

And as much as you’d like to stay in this moment. 

You know you can’t.

“I better split before they send security looking for me. Might be kind of awkward if they find us together.” You lean against the roof access door for a bit longer to soak in the moment. 

“Imagine the scandal,” you roll your eyes at him.

Donnie’s jet pack unfolds from his battle shell as you open the door leading back down to the party. You stop, turning back to call after him, “Don’t forget to text me!”

He pauses his accent, eyes searching over you once more. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

With his message delivered loud and clear you slip back into the building before returning to the conference room reserved for Sacks. 

The buzz in your body could carry you through a thousand of these stupid dinners, but you tame it as you’re approached by some other miserly investor Eric swings your way.

The buzz from your bag almost breaks your concentration but you’re able to reign it in.

You had a date.

TBH I used the dress Helga Sinclair wears when she picks up Milo in ‘Atlantis’ but burgundy because I love that movie. Thanks for reading!

Check the main master post.

[phant0mth1ef]

ch. 4: i’m starting to think you want him too.

days. he hadn’t texted you in days. but then again, you’d kissed him while drunk and without warning.

your team didn’t care, instead they snapped a photo of you both kissing as they sent it to multiple newspapers and news outlets, hard launching your relationship with the hero.

your team, although you were their most prized possession, they utilized you for as much publicity as they could possibly gain.

so that’s how you ended up in the studio with another rising teen sensation, shinsou hitoshi.

his voice was something straight out of a movie, and although you were currently “in a relationship,” he was an attractive man.

you’d both wrapped up your recording session, and you were currently gathering your things as you felt him tap on your shoulder. turning around, one of his hands was on his neck as his cheeks were slightly pink.

“you wanna grab dinner? it’s kinda late, and we’ve been here for a while.” he stumbled on his words, nervously rambling as you softly smiled at him.

“sure! just let me finish grabbing my things.” you said, trying to show that bakugou would be unable to dampen the chipper mood that you’d had to keep up for the public.

you’d grabbed your things as you both left the studio, shinsou was walking on the side closer to the road, a firm follower of the sidewalk rule.

the walk to the ramen spot was short, but shinsou purposefully took the long way in order to maximize his time with you, he had a crush on you. mainly the reason as to why he’d pushed his team so hard to get a collab with you.

“so, are you and dynamight like.. a thing?” he broke the silence that had been set in stone since the start of your walk, you smiled while trying to tell him your situation without telling him your situation.

“yeah, we’re together.” you spoke, your words seeming untrue. the silence that followed was loud as shinsou put his head down a bit.

you’d arrived at the spot when shinsou opened the door, holding it for you as you thanked him and walked inside. unbeknownst to you both, the paparazzi were lurking as you both sat in a booth across each other.

your night ended shortly after with the man waiting as your uber came, waving goodbye as he watched your leave.

come morning, your phone was blowing up with text messages, tags in social media posts, and you were a trending topic on twitter. you and shinsou, of course.

your first message was ironic, it came from someone who hadn’t texted you in days. bakugou katsuki.

he’d sent you a post that showed you and shinsou inside the ramen shop, you laughing at something he said, his eyes glistened as he watched you.

[Dynamight] the hell is this?

[Dynamight] why the hell would you kiss me if you were just gonna do this?

[you] are u.. jealous? 😲

[Dynamight] obviously i’m jealous.

for: @bakuettes

[fckwritersblock]

die with a smile - Chapter 3

Eren Yaeger x Black Reader

Description:

Word count: 1,800+

A/n: I am so sorry for the delay. If you ever posted anything on Tumblr before you may have had the misfortune of losing your entire post. Which is exactly what happened to me 😭😭😭

I’ve had this happen before when writing, and to avoid this, I normally type everything in my notes. Welp! For some reason while was doing all my writing and edits and everything for this one I did it directly in my Tumblr and fucked everything up and half of it is gone. I had half left last night and spent all day today rewriting it. So per usual it’s unedited and I don’t know if it’s as good as what I originally had, but I hope you guys like. 

If you’d like to be added to the tag list let me know

Tag list: @faerie-soirxx , @sasuvkee , @withthistreaserisummon

Masterlist

Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

Nervous

Eren was nervous, desperately trying to bury those feelings deep down. Based on his memories, everything was happening right on time, just as it was supposed to, but there was no room for error. The stakes were too high.

He couldn’t quite grasp the role Y/n played in all this, but he was certain she would help connect him with all the appropriate parties in some way, shape, or form. When it came to her and her part in the future chaos Eren could only see pieces of it, glimpses of a complicated puzzle. It felt strange; anything surrounding her seemed slightly fuzzy, and he had no idea why.

Speaking of Y/n, it had been a few days since he last saw her, and almost two weeks since they had spoken; the day he confessed to knowing her brother and wanting to help her break free. If the time frame between their meetings remained consistent, it would be just a few more days before he would see her again.

He recalled their last session together the one after the reveal. There were no words spoken between the two seeing as she had been accompanied by two strangers in lab coats, who seemed to be meticulously taking notes on her healing abilities.

Whoever they were, he could tell she was uncomfortable. Unlike their previous encounters, she didn’t say a word to him this time; she kept her head down, biting the inside of her cheek as if trying to contain her anxiety. He could sense her distress, even from a distance. Up close, he could tell she was stressed. While her touch was just as gentle as before her movement seem to be more meticulous and thought out. No extra bit of comfort, gentle in touches or anything of the sort like before.

She didn’t say not one word while she worked, the only ones doing the talking and mumbling were her two observers. Y/n made eye contact with him once, but it was fleeting. She gave a quick nod, a silent message that she was done before stepping back, waiting for the two men to give her further instructions.

Inside, Eren was seething.

This is why I'm here he thought, anger coursing through his veins. People shouldn’t be treated like this—held captive and experimented on. Used. Treated as if they are anything less than human.

It had been a long time since he felt that kind of fury boiling within him. Fury, he could do nothing with.

Ironic isn’t it?

One of the most powerful beings had to act like a docile, insignificant subhuman to achieve greatness.

My situation is temporary he reminded himself. Soon, I won’t have to worry

That was four days ago. While he still had three more to go before his next treatment, someone decided to shake things up for him a bit.

“I think you could use some fresh air, don’t you?” Nurse Patsy smiled warmly as she entered the room.

Before he knew it, he was being led to the common area outside, where a few other patients were milling about—some chitchatting, others aimlessly walking in circles, while others simply sat or stood in solitude. The sun was shining, and it was a beautiful day overall.

It is a nice day, he thought taking a moment to appreciate the change of scenery.

“Feeling better already, I see.” Patsy commented, noticing the way his shoulders relaxed slightly.

She was pleased with herself.

Patsy really was a sweet person—motherly, in a way. He could tell she genuinely cared for her job and the people she took care of, regardless of whether they were Marley or Eldian.

The thought made his chest ache, reminding him of his own mother and her tragic demise.

One he had a hand.

The same way he’d have hand in Patsy’s.

“I’m not sure you’ll see any familiar faces here—oh, Y/n! I see you’re outside enjoying the weather. Mind if Mr. Kruger joins you?”

There she was, sitting quietly on a bench with her back against the wall, staring off into the distance. A small flower was twirled between her fingertips, while her other hand danced along the delicate petals. With a subtle tilt of his head, he noticed that one of her ankles was chained, the metal linking her to the wall.

Eren’s eyes found Y/n’s, but once again, she looked away, this time shifting her gaze to Patsy. She offered a nod.

“No, not at all,” she said softly.

Whynthur made a sound of bewilderment upon hearing her voice. Y/n never really spoke to others. Half the staff probably didnt even know what she sounded like. Put she would speak to Patsy and two of the other charge nurses. She didn’t have a choice, but to speak to the higher ups in charge. And now, now she had Eren to talk to.

Eren quite liked the sound of her voice; it was soothing and a welcome distraction from the chaos of their reality.

Eren’s wheel chair was parked at the near the edge of the bench right next to her. The quiet between the two was peaceful once they were left alone .

A bit of time passed, neither of them saying a word but secretly enjoying each other's company. It was Eren who finally broke the silence.

“Are you okay?” he called, trying to make his voice sound as gentle as possible, though he hadn’t really used it in quite some time.

Y/n hesitated, her fingers stilling on the flower. “I’m… managing,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

The question felt strange to her; nobody ever really asked how she was doing. Occasionally, Patsy would inquire during the days of those visits, especially when things were really bad, but that was it. Sure, the patients were nice—especially the children who came through the facility for treatment. They would speak to her sometimes, but she never really had a friend.

Eren could see the sadness in her eyes, and it fueled his anger once more. “You shouldn’t have to just manage,” he said, his voice filled with passion.

“I’m used to it,” Y/n shrugged, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Because for her, it was.

It shouldn’t be

“Who were those men?” Eren asked, hoping she would provide some intel.

“Striker and Stone.” He noticed her shudder at their names. “They come quarterly to check if anything has changed with me. They monitor how my body reacts to healing others and how patients' bodies respond as well. They take samples from me and check on my regenerative process the same way they do with our Titan champions here.”

“Titans,” Eren echoed, his mind racing with the implications.

“Yeah. The way our champions heal in their human form is at an accelerated rate compared to normal people.”

“So I’ve heard,” Eren commented, drawing from the firsthand knowledge he had about Titans.

He wanted so badly to trust her completely, to share his plans with her. He felt that she would understand, but he wanted to take things slow. She had her own way of surviving, and until he fully understand it and was certain it was time for them to escape, he didn’t want to disrupt that. For now, he would keep everything she needed to know for both her safety and his own.

“Well, as long as there are no fatal wounds to the head, they heal pretty quickly,” Y/n sighed, closing her eyes slightly, a faint shake of her head accompanying her words. “Because I have this healing ability, they assume we’re connected in some way and share some of the same traits. What they don’t understand is the extent to which mine goes, so they like to push and test it.”

So like Hange, but less compassionate Eren thought remember his friend and commander.

“Do they hurt you often?” Eren asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer. He noticed the way she pulled down one of her sleeves, as if hiding something.

“I do not heal like the Titans do,” she replied. “Faster than the average human, yes, but if you cut too deeply, it can be fatal for me.”

“I see.”

Everything about Y/n's situation felt absolutely barbaric to him. As much as he wanted to know more, he wouldn’t push her right now—not out in the open like this.

“Enough about me. What do you need?”

“Hmm?” He replied, surprised by the sudden shift.

“What do you need to set in motion whatever it is you’re planning to do?”

“What makes you think I need something?” She rolled her eyes at his attempt poor to deflect.

“Cut the crap. You’re an observer, Eren, but so am I. There’s not much to do in this place. I know the ins and outs of this entire operation and then some. Not to mention, I can read people extremely well.”

“Yeah? Read me,” he challenged, a hint of defiance in his tone.

“I’ll give you a quick one—if you tell me how to help you.”

“An eye for an eye, then?” he suggested, a spark of intrigue lighting up his eyes.

She turned to look at him, staring up for a moment before breaking into a grin. Focusing back on the view before them, she gave a small ‘hm,’ surprised by his sense of humor.

“You’re in pain, outside of your physical situation,” she said slowly. “It’s also mental and emotional. You’re angry, and that drives you. You’re smart and calculated.”

“You are also sad and a bit lonely,” Y/n added, her voice low, just enough for him to hear.

A huge part of her wanted to reach out and hold his hand, to let him know that he wasn’t alone in that feeling. It was what she would have wanted someone to do for her. Alas, she didn’t know him that well, nor how comfortable he was with touch outside of their healing sessions. Instead of using physical contact to convey her feelings of empathy, she voiced them.

“It’s okay. I am too,” Y/n confessed, her eyes finding his.

Silence enveloped them as he stared at her, completely caught off guard.

For the first time in a long time, Eren felt seen. Seen by a young woman he had met only a month ago. It was validating—this sudden, strange, and foreign feeling was almost peaceful. He felt heard without needing to say a word. It was as if they were two normal individuals having a normal conversation, getting to know one another.

It was almost as if he didn’t have to fight.

Almost.

But he was fighting. This was all part of the plan, after all. The strategy he had come up with—and if he knew anything about war, it was that the greatest advantage came from being able to get into the enemy’s head. To reach into their minds and destroy them from the inside out. That’s exactly what he was here to do.

“Can you get a message to someone for me?” he asked, his voice steady.

“They don’t let me leave or roam by myself,” she replied, glancing away for a moment. “Besides, it’s not like I have anyone wanting to communicate with me. So, no, I can’t.”

There was silence again, comfortable as they both processed their thoughts. The distant sound of footsteps running toward them made Y/n perk up a bit.

“But I know someone who can.”

A brief moment after those words left her lips, a small boy approached them, seemingly out of breath.

“Hi, Miss Y/n!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I haven’t seen you outside in a while. It’s a nice day, isn’t it?”

“It is a nice day. It has been a while, hasn’t it? How are you?” Y/n smiled in the boy’s direction.

“I’m good! Got banged up a bit during training, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Y/n noticed the scrape above his brow. Under the guise of moving his hair out of his face, she discreetly used her power to heal it.

“Thanks, Miss!” The young boy blushed, his smile brightening. “Hey! Who’s your friend?”

“This is Mr. Kruger,” she introduced. “He’s one of our veterans who was injured in recent battle. Same one Porco got all banged up in. Mr. Kruger, this one here is in competition to be our next Armored Titan.”she said, her eyes sparkling with warmth as she turned to the boy.

“Meet Falco,”

[scrollypoly]

So let's talk about this post I found on a trending tag

Theres not much to it, just a link to a website that talks a bit about this "secret boycott" against "woke corporations". But i can't help but find it interesting, because as a "woke" leftist person, this kind of stuff actually sounds closely aligned with my consumer habits (minus the conservatism).

There are links to get invited to this store i didnt click on, because I can't verify if they're safe. So I don't know what this store is. But i think just looking at how this store is presented says a lot about how leftists and right-wingers have some of the same values.

Theres a focus on supporting small American owned businesses over mega-corporations. Leftists are also boycotting mega-corps, albeit for different reasons. But we both vote with our dollar. Supporting local smaller businesses is very important for local economies, especially with the way our economy is going. We, as citizens, can't avoid the tariffs that have been imposed on other countries by Trump. Hence supporting local is going to become very necessary as our economy gets thrown all over the place.

I also can appreciate the emphasis on safe, nontoxic ingredients, in a country where plastics and preservatives seem to permeate laterally everything we buy. If whatever products this store is selling is made of locally sourced and grown, nontoxic and/or natural ingredients, its not only better for us on a consumer scale, but it'll be more beneficial for our economy on a production scale too (so long as it's made with ethical labor practices, wouldnt that be ironic if their stuff was produced on underpaid immigrant labor?)

Ig all this is to say that. Yes, its about punching up. It's about taking back control from these mega corporations that have ruled our lives as Americans and dictate our very government at this moment. Left or right, the common people have more in common with each other than we do with the mega wealthy and out of touch people in out government that will say anything to have control over us. As a queer person living in a very small town in the very deep south, i think it's important to remember that sometimes, while keeping to our own values.

[cloudstongue]

um, a thing (art?)

sooo i decided to TRY and participate in objectober 2024, because these are. good motivators and stuff i guess and good ideas so i dont have to keep cramming ideas in,, thiugh. i do have a lot my heads gonna explode probably…its long so, cut! (also sorry if i seem gloomy or out of it rn im just not in the best of moods)

@apandainoveralls made these prompts, and if im not mistaken wanted to be tagged so—hello!! ^_^

i missed two whole days already, so i might as well post right now. i think. it hink its okay,, a new prompt everyday is tiring!! so. without a further ado

DAY 1: OBJECTSONA grenade counts, right? i think people would just do whatever oc. anyway, angel grenade!!! i love grenade with religious imagery/themes/whatever!! (again, despite my very love/hate relationship with religion,, eapecially catholicism.) did you know that yesterday, when i drew this, waa guardian angel day?? I DIDNT KNOW THAT?? pretty ironic if you ask me!! can you guys imagine grenade as a guardian angel? whom would they guard? okay ill stop rambling now ALSO NO LINEART!!! all my homies HATE LINEART!!! (really only rei and milly but…)

DAY 2: FAVORITE SHIP okay, i dont really have a favorite ship, but i love these two dearly. theyre shoer underrated. the coloring made it feel like i used crayons,, which. i like drawing with crayons btw bcuz im a loser. mop really loves his boyfriend…hes a bit obvious about it i liked the circle btw. it was a good cricle i wanted to keep it ☹️

DAY 3: RECOLOR i didnt know what to do…this counts, right? i mean, each of rubys sisters is a recolor. sorry if this is wonky, i cant draw limbs if my life depended on it!!

okay das it!! :3

yay!! ^_^

[theolivetree123]

Soul♡Cure!

We'll heal your many wounds and spread positivity!

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Four girls come together to make an idol group to spread love and positivity with their songs! Aiko is a bubbly airhead who has a huge heart! Honoka is determined and brave, willing to help her friends with anything! Madoka seems cute, but she is quite feisty, so don't get on her bad side! Shiori is shy and reserved but still cares a lot for her friends!

Soul♡Cure! seems so perfect! But off-stage, things aren't as they seem.

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Soul♡Cure! and its singers are my ensemble stars ocs! I made them a long while back when I first started to play enstars, but I just now decided to revamp them and show them on my blog. This post will be an introduction to each character and a synopsis of their main storyline. (Note: I have not read through the entirety of the main story of enstars and have only read some of the event stories. Because of this, Soul♡Cure!'s story will not have much, if any, tie-ins to the original story of enstars and will basically be a separate arc unrelated to the main story.)

More below the cut ♡

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Introducing....

The stars of Soul♡Cure!

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Aiko Akiyama

Age: 17 / Pronouns: she, her

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Honoka Koizumi

Age: 19 / Pronouns: she, her

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Madoka Hibiki

Age: 18 / Pronouns: she, they

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Shiori Higa

Age: 19 / Pronouns: she, her

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Story

Soul♡Cure!'s big concert is coming up, and Aiko has been working hard to make it perfect for her fans. She has made three new songs for her and her team to sing and has learned the choreography to a T. Though, the same cannot be said about her other colleagues, Honoka, Madoka, and Shiori. The three other girls haven't been prioritizing their performance, and Aiko is extremely frustrated but she doesn't have the confidence to tell them, as they can be rather hostile towards her. But Soul♡Cure!'s concert is almost here! Seems like Aiko will need some help to get her team back on track...

In Soul♡Cure!'s story, you learn about each of the members' goals in life and how incompatible they are with Soul♡Cure! Each girl has differing goals and because of this, the four leading ladies don't get along very well. During Aiko's lowest point in the story, she ends up meeting Hiiro and accidentally tells him about how she has been feeling about her colleagues. Upon hearing her frustrations, Hiiro promises to help Aiko with her concert.

At the end, Aiko has a talk with Honoka, Madoka, and Shiori, telling them all about how frustrated she has been with them. It starts out argumentative, but Aiko slowly learns that, whether she likes it or not, the other three girls have different goals in life and Soul♡Cure! won't be the same forever. Honoka, Madoka, and Shiori apologize to Aiko for being cruel to her, and the four decide to get along to make their concert the best it can be. After the concert, Aiko has become a little friendlier with the other girls, and they all go out to coffee together. The story ends with the four girls finally exchanging contact info.

The story still needs a bit more ironing out, but uuhhh this is what I have for now 😭😭😭

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Tagging moots (not many cus I don't wanna annoy yalls): @screamintoad @taruruchi @cheerleaderman @sunnysidesevenup @treydia @justyouraverageuselesshuman