#The typos and other crap

[revenantghost]

Like, I knew not to expect anything with how money-grubbing they seem to be, but

It's really been over two weeks, there's been a major backlash, and Dark Horse really isn't saying anything about the shit quality of the deluxe editions, huh

[disdaidal]

Sometimes I really kind of envy you native English speakers who make writing and posting fics seem so fucking easy. With near perfect grammar and hardly any typos. Or those of you who are capable of writing & updating your fics whenever the muse hits you just right... and not like, once in six months. Actually, try two years lol.

Whereas me, a non-native speaker, who occasionally struggles even with basic English grammar:

I'm fine. Totally.

[a-wandering-ghoulette]

A Ghost official Discord server ?

I see 1000 ways for it to go wrong and apparently it already started with a dead link

[morporkian-cryptid]

Welcome to the wonderful world of Arsène Lupin Copyright Shenanigans

Have I ever told y’all about the absolute madness that is the legal issues around the Lupin franchise ? Probably. Can I find the post in question ? No. Am I going to tell you again ? You fucking bet !

The year is 1905, and detective stories are all the rage. Maurice Leblanc, a young writer, is commissioned by the magazine Je Sais Tout to write a short story on the same model as Sherlock Holmes. Maurice Leblanc says « Screw this detective shit », and creates the character of Arsène Lopin, gentleman thief.

No, this is not a typo.

Arsène Lopin, a municipal advisor in Paris, hears about it and contacts Leblanc. « You are not fucking writing a story about a thief who shares my name. » To which Leblanc replied, « Lopin ? No no, you misunderstand, this is Arsène Lupin, completely different person. »

And he gets away with it.

Leblanc writes a bunch more stories about Arsène Lupin, they get popular, and he decides he wants to write a crossover with the famous British detective, Sherlock Holmes. A crossover in which, of course, Lupin will win and Holmes will be humiliated.

Arthur Conan Doyle hears about it, and is not thrilled. He contacts Maurice Leblanc with a message along the lines of « You are not fucking writing a story where my Amazing-Original-Character-Do-Not-Steal gets bested by a thief. » To which Leblanc replies, « Sherlock Holmes? No no, you misunderstand, this is Herlock Sholmes, completely different person. »

And he gets away with it.

The years pass, more Lupin stories are written, they’re translated and exported outside of France, and wouldn’t you know it, Japan takes a strong liking to the « gentleman thief » archetype in general and to Arsène Lupin in particular.

The years is 1967, and mangaka Kazuhiko Kato, best known by his pen name Monkey Punch, is commissioned by the magazine Weekly Manga Action to create a manga for their first issue. He reads 15 of Leblanc’s stories, and creates Lupin the Third, a character who is the grandson of the famous gentleman thief. He does not bother asking the Leblanc Estate for permission, as Japan doesn’t give much of a crap about French copyright laws.

(For the record, Weekly Manga Action was the first manga magazine for an adult audience (outside of erotica), and Lupin III was published in its first issue, effectively making it one if not the very first adult manga in the history of manga.)

The Lupin III manga gets popular, is adapted into an anime, the anime gets popular, it gets translated into other languages and exported to Europe…

And then the Leblanc estate rears its head. «You are not making an anime about our character without paying us fucking royalties, » they say to Monkey Punch. To which Monkey Punch, channeling the spirit of the deceased Maurice Leblanc into his very soul, replies : « Lupin ? No no, you misunderstand, this is Rupan, completely different person. »

And he fucking gets away with it.

(Arsène Lupin became public domain in France in 2012. Before that, Lupin the Third took many different names in European releases, among which Rupan, Wolf, and in France, Edgar de la Cambriole (Edgar of Burglary).)

Additional tomfuckery :

The year is 1982, and science-fiction animated series are getting extremely popular. TMS decides to try and get a slice of the cake, and begins the development of Lupin VIII, a sci-fi spinoff about Lupin III’s descendant. The anime is being produced in France, and the Leblanc Estate once again rears its head. « Sure, you can make that anime, » they say, « but pay us fucking royalties. » TMS, as previously established, does not want to pay the Leblanc Estate diddly squat, and so they scrap half of the project, recycle the other half, and go « Lupin VIII ? No no, you misunderstand, this is Inspector Gadget, completely different person. »

The year is 1930, and famous Japanese writer Tarō Hirai writes The Golden Mask, a novel in which his detective character Kogoro Akechi goes up against none other than Arsène Lupin. Hirai’s pen name was Edgar Allan Poe- wait, wait, no, sorry, it’s Edogawa Ranpo, completely different person.

(Later, Gosho Aoyama names his character, Detective Conan Edogawa, after Arthur Conan Doyle and Edogawa Rampo (and the anime is distributed by TMS).)

(More than fifty years later, the Lupin III anime makes a tribute to Ranpo’s Gold Mask with the double episode The Imperial City Dreams of Thieves.)

The year is 2021, and Capcom is releasing the video game The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles, in which famous detective Sherlock Holmes plays a central role. Unfortunately for them, a few Sherlock Holmes stories are still under copyright, and the Conan Doyle Estate is about as stubborn and greedy as their French cousins. « Pay us fucking royalties, » they say.

In the English release of the game, Sherlock Holmes is renamed to, you guessed it...

...fucking Herlock Sholmes.

[endlessthxxghts]

Lay Off The Flannels

DBF!joel miller x afab!reader || W/C: 1.3k

Summary: Joel gets handsy while your father temporarily steps away.

Warnings: Age gap (unspecified - obviously a legal one though, hello??). No physical description of reader (pic above is used for aesthetic only!). SMUT 18+ MDNI. Oral sex (F receiving). Using a flannel to clean up🫣... Awkward interactions with an oblivious father. Fluffy/light-hearted ending :). I think that's it! Let me know if otherwise!

Author's Note: Hey y'all! Soo my personal definition of a drabble is when something is written and posted on a whim, and that's exactly what I'm doing here.. This was only proof-read once by me, so if you see any typos and confusing wording... NO YA DIDN'T. Anyway, I have a bunch of WIPs needing to get done, but the stress was getting to me, so I took a break from those and wrote this fun little scenario to calm my mind and give me a good little laugh. I hope you guys enjoy!💚

MASTERLIST

“We shouldn’t be-”

“I know,” he says. 

“It’s too risky.”

“I know,” he says. 

You pull his lips back onto yours, breathing in each other’s breaths, consuming each other eagerly as if the world was going to end if you didn’t. 

His lips drag down to your jaw, to the sweet spots on your neck that make you mewl such addicting sounds he’ll never tire of, tasting the product of the hard work you did today with your father. His best friend.

His best friend, who- 

“He should be back any minute now,” you say breathily as Joel drops down to the ground, his knees cracking from the sudden change. 

Joel is desperate. Frantic, even. The speed he unbuttons and unzips your jeans and yanks them—underwear included—off of you has your hands flying to grasp at the edge of the workbench you’re sitting on. “Don’t care,” he says, inhaling in a breath, inhaling your arousal. “Need to fuckin’ taste you.” 

Your father’s car crapped out on him a few days ago, and being the untrustful man he was, he bought the parts that needed replacing to do it himself. He had you working on his car with him, teaching you what to do if you were ever stuck in a similar situation—”It ain’t worth the bill, takin’ it to them mechanics. It’ll cost ya an arm and a leg just for them to diagnose your car’s issue even if you tell ‘em ya know what’s wrong, never mind actually fixin’ it,” he said to you this morning. 

As soon as your father left, Joel was making his way to you, large strides cutting the time in half. His arms wrapped around your waist, picking you up from the seat you were situated on and lifted you to the bench against the wall behind you. His lips were on yours immediately, open-mouthed and needy. His hand slammed onto the black button beside your head, the garage door sliding down thereafter.

Joel grabbed onto your thighs, settling them onto his broad shoulders, stabling you and opening you up to him all in one. Wasting no time, his entire face dives into you, tongue immediately going to your sobbing entrance, hooked nose pushing directly onto your clit. 

“Fuck,” you gasp out loud, “Joel, oh my god,” your head hitting the wall, eyes rolling back. 

The moans you’re feeding Joel has him groaning into you, his hands tightening his grip on the bottom of your thighs, the dull ache of it an indicator that you’ll have bruises forming within the hour. 

His tongue—god, you love his tongue—always reaches places you never thought was possible, offering you a glimpse into Heaven each time he tastes you. The squelch of your pussy and his groans equivalent to that of an angel’s choir. You never want him to stop. Especially because his mouth is the closest to Heaven either of you will ever get. 

Your hole begins to flutter around his tongue, your slick pouring out of you at this point. You’re close. Joel knows it. His tongue leaves your hole and is quickly replaced by two of his fingers, sliding in with ease because of your level of arousal. His tongue meets your clit, licking and circling and absolutely worshiping it as if it’s the most unique of pearls to ever exist. 

The combination of his fingers and his tongue—plus his whimpers—are what do it for you. After a few more circles from his tongue, you’re cumming and you’re cumming hard, your liquids running down his wrist and soaking the rim of his sleeve. He gives one last suck to your clit before he lifts off of it, tilting his head up to watch you come undone, his fingers never pausing as he works you through your climax. 

“Baby,” you’re whining, reaching that point of oversensitivity with his fingers, but your hips betray you as they grind into his hand. 

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, gauging the contradictions of your body’s needs and wants. He slowly pulls his fingers out of you, greedily sucking them into his mouth, not letting a drop of your liquid gold go to waste. 

He stands at full height again, his hands on your thighs to scoot you back from the edge, giving you more stability, so he can let go of you and take his flannel off so he can wipe you down with it. 

He sets his flannel beside you, reaching for your bottoms on the ground. He puts them back on you, gentle as ever, and guides you off the bench—albeit, on some wobbly legs. Once you’re breathing returns to semi-normal, you’re grabbing him by his t-shirt and pulling him in for a heady kiss. Your tongue breaches his mouth, and he lets you in selfishly, sucking on your tongue for anything more you can give him. You taste yourself on him, tangy with a hint of something that lights your neurons on fire, turning you on more even though he just pulled one of the most draining of orgasms out of you. 

Joel pulls away from you, and like clock work, the garage door is whirring open. Your father. He’s walking up the driveway with a Harbor Freight bag. 

“Got what you needed?” you immediately ask, trying to control the topic of conversation. 

“Yeah. Why’d you close the garage?” 

Your eyes widen for a fraction of a second before going back to normal. “The heat was getting a little much. Was gonna open it up when you got back,” you say. 

He nods his head, then looks to Joel. “Hey, bud,” he says as he sets his bag down, walking up to give his best friend a handshake. “What’re ya doin’ here?” he asks, “Not that ya need a reason, of course,” he adds quickly, a light chuckle leaves his mouth. 

“Just thought I’d swing by. Thought your girl here was workin’ on your car all by herself, was gonna make sure the damage was minimal,” he teases, looking at you with a wink. “But now you’re here,” Joel smiles. “I gotta take a leak anyhow, I’ll see y’all later, yeah?” Joel says as he makes his way to the end of your garage. 

Your father offers a quick yeah, his eyes zoning in on the flannel atop his workbench. Before you can stop him, your father grabs it. “Oh, Joel, don’t forget ya flannel,” he says waving it in the air as he lightly jogs to him before he gets too far. Joel’s face immediately flushes, as pale as if he’s seen a ghost, as he realizes what your father is holding. His eyes dart to you, your expression just as traumatized. 

“Oh, y-yeah,” Joel says as he quickly takes it in his grasp, “T-thanks.” 

“Yeah, no problem,” he says as he begins walking back to you, stopping midway to turn back to Joel. “And Joel?” your dad yells out.

Joel turns around, reluctant. 

“Maybe lay off on the flannels during the summer, yeah?? That shit was soaked in sweat!” Your father says as his laugh grows to an uncontrollable level. 

Joel’s jaw drops to the floor as your face turns to absolute terror. 

“Dad!” you exclaim, absolutely stunned at his comment. “I’m done helping you for the day,” you say as you shake your head, gathering your things and heading inside.

Your dad’s laugh turns into a howl at your reaction, not realizing (thankfully) what’s got you so uncomfortable. 

As soon as you make it to your room, the entirety of the situation finally hits you, and you’re gasping for air at how hard you’re laughing. 

As you lay on your bed to try to calm yourself down, your phone rings. It’s Joel. Your laughter immediately starts back up again, and you answer, skipping all forms of introduction.

“Better lay off the flannels, Miller,” you say, barely able to keep it together by the end of your comment. 

“Shut up,” he says, stoic as ever.

A giggle erupts out of you, causing the biggest of butterflies to flutter all throughout his belly. “Can I come over later?” 

“I was expectin’ you to, darlin’.” 

End note: I'm sure there are a few fics out there with a premise similar to this, of reader doin some ✨things✨ with dbf!joel in reader’s dad’s garage 🫣 — I think it's pretty common given that Joel is a pretty laborious kinda guy, so if you've read anything similar, please share them in the comments or message me them! I'd love to read them and also give credit where credit is due. This fic fandom we've created is about spreading creativity, and that's exactly what I would like to do here. :)

Tags: @javierpena-inatacvest @katiexpunk @teatree121 @farmerlarrry @mellymbee @jobee403 @soavenuepenguin @rainbowcosmicchaos @untamedheart81 @babygal-babygal @pedritoferg @akah565 @pedrostories

EDIT: As of the new year 2024, I no longer do taglists!! Follow @endlessthxxghtsnotifs and turn on the notifications to be updated when new stories come out!!

[incorrectbatfam]

Why did the batfam get turned down for a job?

Interviewer: How much experience do you have with kids?

Dick: *flashbacks to prying Tim and Damian apart while Jason eggs them on*

Dick: A good amount.

———————

Interviewer: Can you pass a criminal background check?

Jason: No.

———————

Interviewer: We got a reference from your old coworker, Alvin Draper.

Tim: Oh, that was fast.

Interviewer: He says you suck.

Tim: Pfft, yeah. Some old workplace beef. You think he'd be over it by now.

———————

Interviewer: Do you have a valid driver's license?

Damian: Tt. Age limit this, driver's license that. If this was truly a free country I can get by without one.

Interviewer: Normally I'd agree with you, but we're a traveling petting zoo.

———————

Interviewer: Tell me about—

Killer Croc: *throws a car outside the window*

Duke: Um... gotta use the restroom. Be right back.

[10 minutes later]

Duke: *slides into his chair*

Duke: Where were we?

Interviewer: I was asking you about—

Scarecrow: *plants a fear gas bomb across the street*

Duke: I think my phone's ringing. One moment please.

———————

Interviewer: It says here you were fired from the movie theater. Can you tell me why?

Cullen: I spoiled the end credit scenes of Marvel movies.

Interviewer: And how can we be sure it won't happen here?

Cullen: This is Hot Topic, right?

———————

Stephanie: —long story short, I decided "to heck with it" and went to prom with an inflatable Riddler clone named Fernando. I'm sorry, what was your question again?

Interviewer: ...How are you?

———————

Cassandra: *shows up*

Interviewer: For the last time, we're not hiring!

———————

Barbara: There's a typo in your job posting. I also found that your LinkedIn page needs to be updated. Here is my full analysis with all my suggestions. And of course, assuming your application portal is up to date, you can see that I meet all of the qualifications.

Interviewer: Except you must be 35 to run for president.

———————

Interviewer: Why do you want this job?

Harper: Money.

Interviewer: Other than that.

Harper: *thinks for a second*

Harper: No that's it.

———————

Interviewer: What's your greatest strength?

Carrie: I'm double-jointed. I can bend my fingers like this. See?

———————

Interviewer: Please explain this gap in your resumé.

Kate: Don't tell me what to do.

———————

Interviewer: Have you ever stolen from your workplace?

Selina: Never.

*interviewer's wallet falls from Selina's pant leg*

———————

Interviewer: And why should Wayne Enterprises hire you?

Bruce: My name is literally on the building.

———————

Interviewer: We're sorry, Mr. Pennyworth, I don't think you'll be a good fit for us. I heard the Waynes are hiring next door, though.

Alfred: This is preposterous.

Alfred: *leaves*

Alfred: *goes next door*

Alfred: Good afternoon, I am here for—

Martha: Oh thank heavens, he's here.

Thomas: We're late for our conference. Keys are under the mat, the bed still needs to be made, and the baby took a huge crap just now.

Martha: *hands over baby Bruce*

Alfred: I supposed I'm hired then?

Baby Bruce: *blows a snot bubble*

Alfred, chuckling: At your service, young master.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Riding a Vaquero. || Alejandro Vargas

Rating: E Words: 2.4K~ Pairing: Alejandro x F!Reader CW: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. crack + smut, piv (protected), oral sex (m!receiving), throat fucking, cumming (f! and m!), swallowing cum, praise? ('that's it'), Spanish terms of endearment (nena, mamacita, vaquerita + caballito). other tags: crack, one night stand, dating app, flirting, roasting/mockery/slander of Alejandro. summary: You meet Alejandro on a dating app. Despite roasting the crap out of him he still lets you ride him :) a/n: Inspired by my "It's a Match!" fic... but very loosely and also it's so much fucking worse. + Thank you to @loveandplanet for helping me write this because I was struggling, my goodness.

Friday night. 5:30 PM.

You just got home from work and threw yourself on the couch before even making yourself dinner.

You're tired and bored and sort of... lonely.

The perfect cocktail of emotions to make you dip a toe back into the dark, cesspool of a lake that is the only dating app you keep on your phone: Tinder.

Slowly, you begin swiping away on the pictures of men on your screen.

Most of them are gym bros, there's a few nerds... You're pretty sure they're great, they seem it, you're sure they'd offer wonderful company and conversation over a quick meal...

But for the sake of what you're looking for, they might as well have a sign stamped on their face reading "[ Boring ]".

Boring. Boring. Boring.

That's when you see him.

Alejandro.

A handsome man, older, with crow's feet, and deep laugh lines, and a broad nose, and a bit of grey already creeping onto his beard... or maybe it's just the lighting? Either way, he looks... delicious.

So, you scroll down to read what his bio has to say.

A soldier, originally from Las Almas... 6ft tall... And a good cook... Looks like you've just caught yourself a two-in-one... A dinner and... if his bio is anything to go off of, a one night stand.

Although that bio...

You find yourself swiping right and in an instant, your phone displays a 'It's a Match!' screen, signalling that he liked you back.

You open your DM with him and carefully type a message:

you:

"Do you know your bio has a typo? You wrote horse twice."

His reply was surprisingly quick, almost like he was already in the DM screen as well, waiting for you to reply:

Alejandro:

"I know. I did it on purpose so people would DM me to correct me." "Pretty sure it increased the amount of women reaching out to me." "Women like you."

Cocking a brow, you can't help but scoff. Of course, he uses that typo as an ice-breaker!

No wonder he answered so quick! He was already anticipating you'd call his attention to his typo...

Sitting up on the couch again, you shift your weight and sit into a more focused position, leaning forward, before you type out an answer.

It has to be witty. It has to be funny. It has to catch him off guard...

...

you:

"That explains it." "And now that I got that out of the way..." "Is your forehead really that big or is it just the angle?"

You set your phone down on the coffee table in front of you and bite your lip, hoping that your comment wouldn't have pushed him too far...

A couple of new messages pop onto the left side of the screen in a row, causing you to lean forward to read them.

Alejandro:

"Excuse me?" "I bet you wouldn't say that to my face."

Trying not to giggle, you carefully grab the phone and type another reply:

you:

"More like say it to your forehead you mean?"

You wonder if you're going too far.

He's the first and only interesting guy you've found on Tinder today, the only one that you didn't deem boring upon one glance of their face and bio...

What are you even doing, making fun of him like this?

What if that just causes him to unmatch and block you?

What if-

Alejandro:

"I've never in my entire life been spoken to like this." "Other than when I was a boy pissing off my sisters." "And I hate to say that I sort of like it."

Your eyebrows raise and your eyes widen, feeling like you somehow just caught the biggest fish in the lake by blindly throwing in the lure and reeling it back out when you decided you should.

Sheer fucking luck.

you:

"I have more of those if you'd like." "Can keep going all night just making fun of you."

He paused again for a moment before replying with:

Alejandro:

"And you wouldn't run out of things to say?"

you:

"I'm sure I wouldn't."

Alejandro:

"And what would I have to give you in return for this to happen?"

you:

"Cook me dinner?"

Alejandro:

"Sounds like this was all a ploy to taste my food."

Taking a deep breath, you look around your room aimlessly, trying to hold back from saying the first thought that popped into your mind at reading that message...

But you can't help it.

And, hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

you:

"Maybe it's not just the food I'm planning on tasting."

Alejandro:

"Oh." "Maybe I'd like that."

you:

"Doesn't scare you?"

You almost patted yourself on the back for making a joke about his profile's stupid little 'if you think you're into something that scares me' line.

Alejandro:

"I'm an army colonel. Of course it doesn't scare me." "It just intrigues me." "You sure do look like you're starving. Who am I to deny you?"

Stifling a scoff and a bit of a groan, you reply with:

you:

"That line sounded straight out of a porno."

Alejandro:

"Haven't even cooked you dinner and you're beginning with the insults?" "You don't waste any time, huh?"

you:

"No and neither should you."

Alejandro:

"Then how about you let me cook you dinner right now?" "No stalling or wasting any more time."

Biting back a smirk, you shake your head in amusement.

you:

"Sounds good to me." "Address?"

-

"I was right, wasn't I, nena [babygirl]?" Alejandro asks as he looks down at you as you crouch before him in his kitchen.

You look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, muffled sounds escaping your lips as you keep your mouth stuffed with his cock.

"That's right... You really were starving..." He cooed as he looked down at you, his voice carrying a pleasant growl and gravel to it.

Your head is pressed nicely against the cupboards of his kitchen, as he carefully prepares pico de gallo for the tacos he's making the two of you for dinner.

You hadn't expected to end up in this position so soon after driving up to his house, a small 1-store casita with wooden frames and details and a wonderful little tiled patio out back.

You had expected some flirting, some jokes, you roasting him...

Instead, you had somehow ended up pressed against the kitchen counter with his tongue deep in your mouth and his hand up your shirt, fondling one of your breasts...

And now, here you were, perched on your own heels, with his big cock slowly and repeatedly bruising the back of your throat as you moaned softly around it... While he cooks dinner for the both of you like nothing's happening.

It's almost infuriating, how calm he seems, how he looks down at you with those stunning brown eyes of his, and a smug little smirk on his lips...

And yet, he also looks absolutely breathtaking, standing there in a charcoal grey button-up, the first few buttons popped open to reveal a generous speckling of chest hair and a golden crucifix and a few other chains resting over his pecs…

And the way the sweat pools on his brow, and slips down the side of his robust neck, and disappears under his collar…

The light of the setting sun, warm and orange toned, filters through the windows and illuminates his small home, warming it, and reflecting off his sweat, and shining so bright on him.

It almost doesn't get better than this... letting him fuck your throat against the cupboard while he cooks you a meal which, by the scent, will be delicious, proving he wasn't lying about being a good cook...

Setting your hand on his hip, you tap your fingers on his lower back, gesturing him to go deeper into your mouth.

He picks up on the signal and thrusts harder into your mouth, causing you to choke and gurgle around his large shaft, some saliva slowly slipping down the length and disappearing in the generous bush of hair at the base.

"Mmmm, you like when I make you choke, huh?" He coos as he wipes one of his hands on a tea towel and then grips your hair, protecting your head from bouncing back on the hard wood of the cabinet.

Then, his other hand holds onto the edge of the counter, fingers curling and tightening around it, to keep him upright, before he starts thrusting more decisively into your mouth.

Your eyes roll in delight as he bullies his way deep into your mouth in a more consistent and violent pace, his own head falling back and allowing him to grunt and groan as your throat tightens and constricts around him.

"¡Ay carajo! [Ah, fuck!]" Alejandro groans as he pulls your head closer to his crotch, burying your nose in the coarse hair at the base of his cock, keeping the tip buried deep inside your mouth.

Sputtering and gurgling around him, your hands find a perch on his hip, on either side, but, rather than pulling him off, you hold onto him, close and against you, your nails digging into the muscles of his ass cheeks through the fabric of his jeans.

Your tongue laps up at the underside of his cock just as it begins to throb, Alejandro groans above you, leaning his head on the upper cabinets as he slowly floods your mouth with his tangy cum, which slowly slides down your throat as you make an effort to swallow around him.

With a long exhale, Alejandro licks his lips and looks down at you as he slowly pulls his softening cock from your mouth, letting you finally catch a proper breath too.

"Your mouth is very talented, mamacita." He compliments you, a smirk already forming on his lips again, his hand reaching down to help you wipe some drool off your chin.

"Thank you." You reply with a chuckle and push yourself up to your feet, side stepping him as he tucks himself back into his jeans and resumes making you dinner.

"So... What were you saying about having a lot more insults to tell me?" He quips and smirks at you.

"Well, first of all, I could still see your forehead from all the way down there,"

-

You break the kiss in favor of carefully rocking back and forth on his dick, buried balls deep within your slick cunt.

His large hands grip onto your hip and thighs to continue moving you atop him, making your clit grinding against his pubic hair in a way that made you squirm and whine.

His head is leaning back on the back of his couch as he watches you make yourself feel good, overstimulating your sensitive clit with the help of the coarse hair on his pelvis, and feeling the tip of his slightly curved cock rub against your g-spot.

"You like that, hm, vaquerita [little cowgirl]?" He coos at you, as your head dips back and you moan softly, before bouncing up on his cock for a moment and sinking all the way down, drawing louder groans out of you both.

It's a surprisingly slow fucking session, probably because of your bellies are full and warm with the recent meal, and you just sort of stumbled your way onto the couch afterward, for a make-out session that turned to slow, lazy sex.

Leaning against Alejandro in the low sunlight as the afternoon turns into evening and the sun sets through the window, you rock your hips against his again and again.

Your lips find his for what must be the 50th time tonight. Your tongues intertwine as you huff and moan into his mouth, his fingers digging your thighs as he squeezes you down and rubs you onto him, back and forth.

Breaking the kiss, you set your head down on his shoulder. It's almost too intimate for a first time, but it's strangely nice. His skin feels nice and warm against you, albeit a bit dewy with sweat.

Your eyes look up at him as he relaxes his head back and grunts softly, continuing to guide your hip back and forth on his, to seek out extra friction for you both, and murmuring incoherent Spanish curses and words of praise.

Slowly, you find yourself leaning forward and lick a stripe up his neck toward his stubble-speckled jawline, feeling the saltiness of his sweat on your tongue, as, even now, he's still producing more and more little droplets that slide tantalizingly slowly down his tan skin.

Then, you lick across the bottom of his jaw and around to the back of it, then, your head lowers and you lick another stripe up his neck. Alejandro reacts the same every single time, with a soft shudder and a grunt, throwing his hips up into yours.

"Oh you like that, huh, vaquero [cowboy]?" You tease him this time, using his own words against him.

The look Alejandro shoots you at that quip makes it clear he didn't appreciate your sarcasm... What a shame.

You lean back, your hands coming to rest on his thighs behind you, before you start bouncing in fervor. It drives a groan out of him, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

His left hand goes to your waist to steady you while he brings his other hand up to your lower stomach, pressing down onto it and allowing him to feel himself through your walls.

His thumb finds its way to your clit, rubbing it side to side, as you continue carefully and steadily bouncing off his lap, his own thighs having stiffened and raised to allow you and easier time.

The slaps of your ass and his thighs meeting echos throughout the living room, along with the sounds of your and Alejandro's moans.

It's a slow build-up, the both of you too lazy to actually put in too much effort into chasing your orgasm, but, steadily, and with Alejandro's thumb consistently rubbing against your clit, you find yourself reaching your peak.

Alejandro watches you with heavy-lidded eyes, leaning back against the couch and a stupid smirk painted on his lips, seeming so smug over the fact he got you to fall apart on his cock...

Only to watch you dismount from him and take a seat beside him on the couch, your body feeling too hot and tired to even remain in touch with any part of his.

His smirk vanishes and he cocks a brow, giving you a silent, judgmental look, as if asking 'What are you doing? Get back here.'.

And his face downright settles into a scowl when you mirror him by raising your own brow and ask him "You're a colonel, you've got this, right? You don't need my help.".

And, with an extra little impish smile you add, "Don't be scared, I believe in you, caballito [horsie]!"

for @lyralein , so you stop fucking bullying me because I "never write Alejandro" or whatever 🫶

[palajae]

hypegirl! | final.

PAIRING ▸ soccer player! niki x afab! reader

GENRE ▸ soccerl! au, roommates!au, she's the man! au, romance, fluff, angst, humor

WORD COUNT ▸ 4k

SUMMARY ▸ all you want is to join the boys’ soccer team. all niki wants is to get minji’s attention. as roommates, what better than to strike a deal and help each other out? nothing really, except for one glaring issue: your blossoming feelings for said roommate. oh, and the fact that you’re technically supposed to be your brother, kim sunoo. 

AKA a hopefully more sfw version of she's the man? 

NOTES ▸ based off she’s the man (2006), reader is sunoo's sister and pretends to be her brother sunoo, gender swap, like one curse word, kissing,— please let me know if there’s any typos!

masterlist. | previous.

I DON’T WANNA FIGHT YOUR SHADOW…

“what? you want to do what?”

niki doesn’t say anything as his head hangs low. he stares at the ground, dark eyebags prominent. 

“niki,” jungwon sighs in exasperation, “let’s think rationally about this. we’ve been working toward this day for weeks. this is it. we can’t make any last minute changes now.” 

“right,” jay chimes in. 

“sunoo’s become a valuable player on the team. we need him. seriously, what could have possibly happened that you suddenly want to kick him off the day of playoffs?” 

niki only shakes his head as the rest of the team exchanges looks. 

“sorry man, but we keep personal business off the field. sunoo’s in, whether you like it or not.” 

sunoo’s worried—to say the least. between you not replying to any of his texts and the current dilemma at hand, he isn’t sure what to do. 

all he can do is clench his trusty flute as his band arrives at your camp. 

it’s hectic, with kids and directors running around attempting to prepare the performance for the game. essentially a perfect chance for sunoo to sneak and snoop around. 

sunoo manages to spot the boys locker room, and he takes his chance. 

the minute he steps in, he’s greeted by the smell of deodorant, grass, and… the mustiness of sport locker rooms. 

guys are everywhere, clothes and gear strewn all over the place as they prepare for the tournament. 

he glances around for any sight of you, not exactly sure what to look for but still keeping an eye out for a smaller figure. sunoo takes about three steps forward, until he yelps. 

he feels an arm roughly pulling him toward the side, and he whips his head around. 

“sunoo-dude, where were you? we were starting to think you weren’t gonna show up! get changed, the first match is gonna start soon.” 

his heart drops. no way, did they think he was-

a jersey is flung at his face. somehow, in the midst of the chaos, face paint is slathered onto his face, effectively concealing his identity even more. 

where were you? 

first match, first half—to everyone’s shock—enhypen’s down. 

most yells are directed at, who’d you least expect, kim sunoo. 

“kim! what are you doing?” 

“pass! no-here! to me! ”

“why are you so slow today?!”

all sunoo can do is apologize while wheezing. he wasn’t built for this. it’s not like he had much of a choice, he was shoved onto the field. 

at one point, jungwon’s eyes flash at him and he visibly shrinks.

“dude, i don’t know what’s going on, but we’re subbing you out.” 

you jump up to the sound of cheers, an announcer yelling—

“and enhypen takes home their first win with a great comeback in the second half!”

enhypen? win? comeback?

you scramble to your feet, heart racing. 

crap. what time was it?

you pat your pockets to no avail. 

that’s right—your phone was left in your dorm…that you couldn’t access because niki kicked you out. 

more cheers from outside bring you back to your current situation. you overslept since you didn’t have your phone alarm. 

the tournament started. enhypen played and won their first match, without you. 

you frown, scrambling to get to the stadium. who in the world played for you? 

once you make it past the crowd of people, coaches, and players, you scan the field. 

and your mouth drops open. 

on the opposite side of the soccer field, sitting on the bench right in front of you, was kim sunoo. the real one, your brother. 

he was decked out in face paint and—

was that your uniform? 

somehow, you manage to make eye contact. you begin mouthing words furiously at him, only for him to point at the crowd. 

frowning, you turn around toward the audience and performing band. you squint. 

your mouth drops again. because there in the crowd, sitting in the middle row right in front of you, were your parents.

immediately, you turn around and flee toward the locker rooms, signaling for sunoo to follow while everyone was still distracted with your team’s win. 

you don’t even get to take a single step when the announcer clears his throat to say something. 

“attention everyone! enhypen is disqualified. they must forfeit this match and immediately report to the main office.” 

gasps and protests immediately ring out. 

you hide behind a water cooler, gauging the guys reactions. they all look confused and upset. 

niki stalks over to the camp director and coach, where an unimpressed taehyun stands with his arms crossed. 

“what’s going on? why do we have to forfeit? we won fair and square, there’s no-“

“i wouldn’t count lying and having a girl on your team as fair and square, nishimura.”

the whole team outbursts, while your coach sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. 

the director eyes sunoo, “we have pretty good reason and evidence to believe that kim sunoo is not who he—or she—states they are.” 

sunoo immediately stands up as the rest of the team gapes at him.

“females are not allowed at this camp, let alone allowed on a team to play in the final championships.”

taehyun nods. he had found too many irregularities with you, kim sunoo. the conversations with your mom, video footage of you sneaking into the locker rooms as a guy and exiting as a girl, and the fake sideburns and eyebrows in the trash can. 

niki stands still, hands clenched as he glares at sunoo. 

he can hear the rest of the guys whispering in disbelief.

“this makes no sense. how could he be a girl after all this time?”

“and no one noticed…”

“—this is absurd.”

the announcer sighs, and speaks up once more to the entire stadium. “i apologize once again to the crowd and opponent team for the inconvenience. enhypen will be removed from the tournament due to dishonesty and lack of regards for the rules. 

i do not want to repeat it—no females are allowed to play on any team for any reason whatsoever!”

you gasp, covering a hand over your mouth. you were still partially hidden, and you know if you were found, it would be over. 

sunoo sighs, facing the guys and camp director. 

“put enhypen back in the game. we didn’t break any rules. i’m not a girl.” 

taehyun’s eyes narrow. “you can’t lie your way out of it again. we have all the evidence we need.”

sunoo gestures out grandly, toward your team and the crowd. 

“do i have to spell it out to you? i’m a guy. this is ridiculous. what, you want me to prove i’m not a girl? i’ll pull down my pants or-“

clamor follows, but it’s stopped by a desperate yell. 

you watch from afar, as your parents stalk up to the director. your mother, as expected, seems adamant as she validates her son’s words. 

“excuse me, but there seems to be an issue with my son, here. there’s no possible way you would be doubting his identity?”

“ma’am, we have submitted evidence that your son sunoo is actually a-“

“and so do i. would you like to see his birth certificate? i didn’t pay for my son to attend this camp to simply get disqualified for a ridiculous accusation.”

after a few minutes of deliberation, against taehyun’s protests, the director sighs and rubs his hands together. you hold your breath. the verdict?

“we apologize for our mistake—enhyphen is not disqualified and will be moving on to the next round. let the next match commence!”

you watch your team breathe a sigh of relief, clapping sunoo on the back. but your gaze can’t seem to stay off of niki. he stays off to the side, fists still clenched. he hasn’t looked or said a single word to sunoo—you. 

you know him, there’s a storm brewing inside. 

and it’s all because of you. 

you see the crowd return to normal, your mom furiously spewing nonsense as your parents walk back to their seats. 

you nod at your brother, this is your chance. 

you run towards an empty hallway, waiting for your brother to bring you your clothes. 

“sorry,” sunoo heaves, “they’re sweaty.”

“it’s okay,” you grab them and shut the unused closet door behind you. “i’m used to it by now.”

sunoo waits outside the old janitor closet, keeping watch as you change and exchange identities, once again. 

once you exit, sunoo’s eyes widen.

“wow, you look exactly like me.” 

you smirk. “and you’re horrible at soccer.”

he shoves you softly and you laugh. “thanks bro. i really owe you one for saving me out there.”

he nods, “anything for my sister. i need to sneak back to the band though. let me know if you need anything and good luck.” 

you hug him quickly. “of course.” the confidence that surged through you as you walked back toward the field, knowing your brother had your back, empowers you. 

“guys,” you call out, “i’m back. what’s going on?”

some of the guys still send you weird looks, but you ignore it. niki’s still ignoring you, and it makes a dreadful feeling grow in the pit of your stomach. 

the matches were cut down in order to fit all of them in one day and preserve the player’s energies. 

but your team was excelling. you had already advanced to the semifinals, as expected. with you back and eager to play, the team was running smoothly. 

after winning your third match, jay and heeseung high five you. 

“nice, sunoo. i don’t know what happened to you during the first game, but you redeemed yourself.” you cough, muttering some lame excuse. 

everything was going great, all except for one person. every break, time out, the whole time, niki acted as if you didn’t exist. 

in the middle of the game, you would keep up with him, waiting for him to pass the ball. but niki being the stubborn person he was, ignored you and tried to keep going even when you were open.

mistakes were costly, and you could feel the tension building up. the other guys were getting agitated, you could tell, but he wouldn’t budge. 

you kept telling yourself, one more match. all you needed to do was win one more match and that would be it. 

it was nearing the end of the day. everyone was sweaty and exhausted. half the crowd had left, but your parents were still there, cheering for their son meanwhile in reality, he was playing in the band a few meters away in the stands and their daughter was on the field. 

the final match was occurring, enhypen vs. zerobaseone. you knew, it wasn’t going to be easy. not with an uncooperative niki. 

and by the first half, you were right. after calling out niki so many times to pass the ball and receiving nothing in response, everyone was on edge. 

the score was still 0-0. several times niki would get the ball stolen or make the ball go out, all while ignoring you. you swear he even tripped you at one point. 

at halftime, your coach and teammates were fed up too. “come on, niki. get your head in the game!”

“what’s going on with you and sunoo today?”

“you’re costing us too many opportunities. kim’s open and you’re obviously not giving it to him for a reason! figure it out, nishimura.” 

all he does is shake his head, chugging water and staying silent. 

you’re tired. your coach shakes his head in frustration, muttering off about personal issues.  

the team is completely off balance, and everyone can feel it. 

but only you can do something about it. 

with heavy breaths, you match up to niki in front of the whole team. 

“nishimura riki!” you call out his real name, causes him to react for a second with the slight widening of his eyes before he reverts to his cold facade again. 

“why are you doing this right now? we’re a team, now that we got so far, don’t you want to win?

“maybe you should’ve thought about that before lying to me and breaking our friendship,“ he replies ruthlessly.  

you sigh, pinching your nose bridge, “it wasn’t my intention to do so! i never had any intention of doing so, and i never will! i don’t like minji and i never tried to get with her.”

you exhale, trying to calm yourself while the whole team was watching. 

“i will never like minji.”

he scoffs, “why should I believe you after everything?”

“because the whole time i’ve been genuine. you’re one of my closest friends i’ve made here at the camp. if i really wanted to date minji, i would have told you that. you know i tried my best to help you,” your voice cracks at the last sentence. 

he looks confused for a second before his eyes harden. 

“whatever, it doesn’t matter anymore. i can’t trust anything you say or do now.”

you grab his arm, desperate. 

“we’ve been honest about everything, haven’t we? i don’t want to lose you, and i don’t want our team to lose this chance of winning. i don’t care about minji. i could prove it right now.”

he challenges you, eyes dark. just like he had since the first day. 

“how? how will you prove it?” 

you close your eyes, taking in a deep breath. you decided this was your chance to let it all out. after this, you would go home anyway. whether you would be forced back to your old, mundane life as your mother wanted was up to the future. you open your eyes, finally feeling like yourself as you begin taking off the fake sideburns, eyebrows, and finally, the wig. 

“like i said, i don’t care about minji.”

you finally untie your hair and shake it out free. 

“i care about you.” 

with an eruption of shocked gasps and whispers, you falter. perhaps you should have waited until after the final game. your true identity and appearance were revealed. everything was out in the open.  

niki states blankly at you, chest heaving. 

you think you faintly hear your parents shriek your name. ignoring them, you step closer to him. 

“i’m sorry. i’m sorry that i lied to you about this. but please believe me when i say i’m y/n, and i never meant to hurt you. so for right now, can we save this for later and just focus on beating the crap out of our opponents?”

you take the chance to glance around, seeing everyone’s shocked expressions.

silence falls as your coach speaks up, “this is illegal…”

you glance away, unable to say or do anything. 

what you don’t expect is the team’s clamors, especially from jungwon who you abruptly make eye contact with. 

he’s the first to speak up and advocate for you staying on the team. 

“coach we all knew the rules… but we can’t not let her play after she’s proven herself all this time.”

“it’s unfair to deny her the right to play after she’s been working so hard this entire season with us!”

as the rest of the boys join in, your coach looks helplessly at the director. soon enough, people from the audience join in too. 

you can’t help the hopeful smile that breaks out on your face, seeing your parents still in shock yet not disapproving.  

after a couple of minutes of deliberation (and your internal praying and pleading) along with the crowd and band’s support, the camp director begrudgingly allows you to play. 

the guys cheer, clapping you on the back and high-fiving you. all except niki, who still lingers at the side with an unreadable expression. 

then, it’s time to play. 

it feels different, already. you feel different—with the wind blowing your hair behind you and the ability to speak in your normal voice, act as your normal self.

no, to be your normal self.

you ran faster, spotted clearer, worked harder. you felt renewed. 

and once you saw the opening, with three minutes left, you glance at niki desperately. you hoped you conveyed everything in your face at that split second, like extending your arm out and hoping he would help you up from the ground. 

niki cleanly passes the ball to you, just so you can score a final goal. 

you don’t even realize it, once the final whistle blows, you almost collapse onto the grass. 

roars erupt in the air, people around you lift you up and throw you around. yet, your eyes are only on one figure to your left. somehow, in all the commotion, niki grabs your hand in happiness. then he realizes the situation and your grip is broken by your ecstatic team. 

your eyes lock for a moment before niki turns away, head slightly shaking and you frown. 

you won. but at what cost? 

on the last day of camp, after surprisingly receiving a lot of praise from your parents on your performance (as well as an apology from keeping you and sunoo from your respective passions), you finish packing up everything. 

when you got back to the dorms last night, niki was sleeping with the lights off and his back to you. you were still hurt, but at least he let you back into your room. 

you pack up silently, in case he was sleeping. 

even if he was asleep, you speak up softly. 

“i’m sorry. i’m really, really sorry niki….”

his shadowy figure remains unmoving. 

“i-i hope you know everything i ever said and did was genuine. at least, to me it was. i li-“ you bite the words back on your tongue. 

“i cared about you a lot. i care about you a lot. i’ll cherish this summer forever. thank you for the best memories. thank you for changing my life completely. thank you for being you, riki.” 

figuring that anything you two had was over, you got your stuff ready to go while blinking away the tears. 

during the final breakfast, you talked to minji and apologized. she took it much better than you expected, promising to keep in touch as real friends now with no hard feelings left. 

the boys on your team were just as quick to warm up to you. besides consoling you over niki, they promised to keep in touch as well. you were more than glad and appreciative to have friends and soccer mates. 

in your daze, reflecting over the course of the last day or so, you feel your phone vibrate. 

[11:36 am] sunbro: we’re on our way back  

[11:37 am] sunbro: better hurry up if you’re not packed and ready!

you gather your stuff and say your final goodbyes to your coaches, friends, and finally, the camp. 

you’re happy and sad to be leaving it all behind. maybe until next year now that they decided to let girls join this soccer camp. 

with your heavy bags, you trudge along your way outside. you stared around at the campus for the last time by yourself. 

it was strange to have some peace and quiet without the ruckus of the soccer camp and guys. one last attempt to capture everything one last time—one of your most memorable and life changing summers. 

and maybe a tiny bit of you was searching, holding onto that little piece of hope just to see that one person’s face for the last time. 

but it’s silent. you come to a slow when you reach the gates, gathering your stuff to head out. 

now you wait. you wait to leave with much more than you entered with. 

sighing, you freeze when you hear shuffling, the sound of… footsteps approaching you?

you don’t want to get your hopes up, but you hold your breath. 

turning around, you see him. 

your grip on the suitcase squeezes harder. 

he looks divine, comfy in his last day fit that wasn’t his jersey or training uniform. 

“hey,” he starts off. 

“hi,” you breathe. for some reason, you can’t bring yourself to meet his intense gaze.

niki doesn’t say anything at first, so you take the chance to speak up. 

“what’s up? i figured… you wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”   

hands shoved in his pockets, he fidgets on his feet. a tiny smile appears on your face. 

“i don’t know, there’s a lot i’ve been thinking about.”

your chest tightens. “i see. d-do you want to share?” you finally look him in the eye and it’s like time freezes. 

niki isn’t able to handle seeing you like this, your real self. he thought you were too pretty for your own good. too good at pretending to be a guy and too good at making him react like this without even doing anything. without even knowing. 

he thought it was over too. but after he heard what you said that night after the championships, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. about the entire summer with you. this time, he wouldn’t let you slip away from him like you did at the fair.

niki glances down, taking a few steps closer as your eyes widen. “i miss my roommate who was also one of my closest friends. i really, really liked him. but i also really, really like the girl i met at the fair. she was beautiful, charming, uplifting.”

you place a hand over your chest, “i think they feel the same way,” you whisper. 

“i’m really sorry that i didn’t tell you,” you start off, “i was afraid of getting caught-and of all the consequences, so i tried to hide and cover everything up. it was incredibly selfish of me to hurt others, you, without realizing it. i’m so sorry.”

niki reaches a hand out to grab yours, “yeah, you hurt me. but you also healed me. in more ways than you think. i think, if you hadn’t snuck in as a guy, we would have never met and gotten as close as we did. you really changed my life too.” 

he says your name, and you look at him. hesitantly, fearfully. 

as if you would mess it all up again and he would leave you once more. 

you swallow. 

“everything we did together as friends, as someone i wasn’t, just made me like you even more as myself.” 

he takes a step closer. 

“is there any chance we could start over?”

niki chuckles and you feel your face getting hot.

“i’m nishimura riki. and you are?”

you stare down at his offered hand in shock. 

it takes only a second for you to proudly state your name, reaching a hand out to meet his. 

“a pretty name for a pretty face.”

you flush. where did this side of niki come from? 

“it’s very nice to meet you,” he adds, “quite nice. almost an honor after all the things i heard about you, well, from yourself-“ 

you shove niki. there was his playful side again. you relax a little seeing him be more like his old self. 

although, he catches your arm and quickly pulls you into him. 

you almost yelp, wide eyes boring into his playful ones. it feels comfortable in his embrace, almost like home. 

the distance between you two closes, smiles on your faces growing as you feel your heartbeats collide when his lips finally touch yours. 

“bye mom! i’ll text you later, sunoo!”

your mom yells for you to be careful as you slam the door shut behind you (not without giving your brother a quick hug on the way out).

you carry your duffel bag on one arm as you head over to the waiting vehicle, with a particularly dashing man inside. 

he, however, gets out as you run towards him. he picks you up and spins you around as you laugh at his excitement—it was his favorite sound that he could never get enough of.

he places a sweet kiss on your lips and you smile happily at him. 

“you ready to play, babe?”

“as ready as i’ll ever be, bro.” 

“you totally just did not call your loving, awesome, superior boyfriend that…”

“but i did?” you raise an eyebrow as to challenge him, “and you’re gonna accept it because you like me too much.” 

with a sigh, your boyfriend heeds your words as he always does. 

niki’s arms stay forever wrapped around you and your soccer bag as he awkwardly walks the both of you to your side of the car. 

“whatever, let’s just go kick some ass.” 

“oh, you bet i will.”

a/n ▸ hi guys... surprise?? yes, i'm alive. i was in the hospital for a little and really needed to focus on my health so i decided to take a break. i apologize for the longass wait on the ending of this series, so i crammed to get it done :) thank you as always for the support and love. i appreciate all the feedback <3 i'll be trying to get back on a better, more consistent schedule so see you guys soon again!

MAIN TAGLIST ▸ @precioussoulofmine @kynrki @heesterical @jungwonize @rerequire @nvertheless @duolingofanaccount @hoeshii @love-4-keum @nyanggk @luvhyun3 @dimplewonie @yjjungwon @flwrshee

@kflixnet

SERIES TAGLIST ▸ @lwavander @eloelooo @heatrache @harufluff @kjrcrz @kpopstanmeg @luvkpopp @yunicide @nunugget @kyanmeai @enhastolemyheart @j-wyoung @yinviyang @enhawinnieee @suvgs @zhounauts @123-678h @rshmra @they2luv1naia @hoodiebangtan @bachiwrld @lprww @riskiriki @minhosprettywife @fakeuwus @yumilovesloona @microwvdstrawb3rri3s @k25vi

[priniya]

hii can i request jameson hawthorne x fem reader who is kind of like his aunts or grandfathers intern? ans j like them w a super flirty relationship and tension. ty!!

˗ˏ` INTERNSHIP! 🎞️ ´ˎ˗

pairing. jameson hawthorne x intern!reader

summary. jameson’s life seems to get undeniably more boring than ever and alisa comes with a rescue.

author’s note. i LOVE jameson hawthorne. i felt like i needed to say that. idk if this is flirty enough but i hope u like it <3 thank u so much for the req, i love my boyfriend 🫶 not proofread! i wrote it at night so might be lots of typos or grammar mistakes 👎👎

EVERYTHING WAS BORING, college was boring, annoying grayson was boring, which truthfully made jameson feel as boring as ever. it almost felt as if his life lost its true meaning. it reached the point, where avery would poke fun at him, saying things like nana probably threw a spell on you, or look at that, jameson hawthorne has nothing to do, the world is ending, which was, well… amusing, although he couldn’t admit it.

jameson’s life was getting more and more monotonous each day and for the first time, he didn’t know what to do with it. there was no thrill, no adrenaline rushing through his veins, nothing — and as a certified middle child, he was going absolutely crazy, becoming almost insufferable. xander thought it was funny, seeing him all worked up, but not at all at the same time.

it would go on until alisa brought an intern, who — as it turned out later — was the girl he met on a trip to tuscany during his gap year. someone he had an incredible connection with, but back then, jameson didn’t want any strings attached, which… resulted in a wave of regret, because he couldn’t let himself get your name.

hawthorne could feel his throat getting dry as his eyes scanned your outfit. the light beige shirt with the top button undone, so it wouldn’t suffocate you, the pencil skirt hugging your hips and thighs, exposing your legs almost perfectly. if he was even more unhinged than he usually is, he would probably had his mouth full of foam.

what was even worse than the outfit, which made him extremely feral, was that you didn’t even flinch when alisa introduced you and your eyes fell upon him. maybe he was wrong and mistook you for the tuscany girl? maybe you were just a random girl, who looked incredibly attractive in her work attire, that looked extremely similar to other girl he met in italy? so many questions, yet so little answers.

a long sigh has left your lips, the second you ran your face with cold water. of course, your luck had to bring you to the house of the guy you spent the best month of your life with. how was that even possible? neither of you had ever believed in the ‘we’ll meet again if we’re meant to be’ type of thing. you always said that life is made by coincidences, nothing is ever planned for you beforehand and as long as you’ve the money, no one will care what you’re doing. but here you were, in his house, wearing pieces of clothing you wouldn’t wear if you knew, feeling like a crap from pulling an all nighter the night before.

jameson winchester hawthorne has looked as good as you remembered him. dark, velvet dress shirt embracing his toned stomach and muscular arms that once (or twice) were wrapped around you. though, after all this time, he still wore the rings you bought him, which made your heart race.

you genuinely thought that the racing of your heart would stop after some time, especially since the internship at mcnamara, oren and jones had you spending an excruciating amount of time in the hawthorne house with jameson always being somewhere around. he’d often find you in the hallway, hardly ever exchanging more than few words, though always making sure to brush against your skin slightly.

“you’re agitating.” you muttered, when his back leaned against the counter, while you were fixing yourself a coffee, which unlike at the company, was truly amazing. “don’t have anything better to do?”

“c’mon, yn.” he sighed almost playfully, rolling his eyes at you. “can’t even crack a smile for me?” jameson’s tone coated your mind, sending a warm wave to your cheeks. it was the most thrilling thing to him these last couple weeks. seeing you get so flustered over the smallest act gave him the same feeling like when he cliff dived.

“i’m working, jameson.” the way his name rolled off your tongue made him smile. “it’s not tuscany. i need to get stuff done.”

“you remember tuscany, huh?”

this man was driving you insane. the way he smirked at you, the way his words had such an effect on you, the way he always knew what to say to make you flustered. “you’re such an idiot.” was all you said about his last comment, rolling your eyes at him as you noticed the red lipstick stain on the white mug.

YOU COULDN’T REALLY PINPOINT THE MOMENT when the strictly–formal conversations with the hawthorne brothers and grambs sisters became so casual. you couldn’t wait for the hawthorne days as you called them, when you could leave the bureau and the paperwork to join alisa with whatever she was doing there. most of the time, xander would steal you away to ask you the stupidest questions about law enforcement and law in general just to leave you fifteen minutes later.

as much as you tried to push jameson away to not raise any suspicions of the history you had, he was irresistible. always making sure to tease you in some kind of way. unfortunately or not, you started caving in, just like he predicted.

before you know it, your thighs were met with the cold surface of the bathroom counter in some fancy restaurant, the fabric of your emerald silky dress has ridden up as jameson pushed his right hand up your thigh, the left one squeezed your waist. his lips were pressed against yours, moving with a rough, possessive manner. some would say it was the tense atmosphere building up, when he couldn’t get you where he wanted.

and in that exact day, exact moment, jameson had you right when he wanted. it was a casual hangout, just him, his brothers, libby, avery and her friend, who also happened to be soon to–be–girlfriend of his youngest brother. but to jameson’s pleasure, everyone grew so fond of you that avery suggested you should go with them.

the theme was comfort, but elegant. so, the outfit of your choice was the silky dress that was accompanied by the necklace you got back in italy. the first words that came out of jameson’s mouth was a stutter. the sight of you made him stumble over the sentence he tried to make.

“you look — so amazing.” he groaned as his lips made a trail down your neck, sending a shiver down your spine, when his teeth had bitten the sweet spot right above your collarbone. “so fucking gorgeous.” the chain of praises was never ending.

your hands got on the collar of his shirt, gripping it as he continued to leave marks on your collarbones and shoulders. as much as you enjoyed his actions, you missed the feeling of his lips on yours. you pulled him up, hungrily crashing your mouth into his.

fifteen minutes later, the red lipstick was nowhere to be found on your face. on the other hand, there were lots of it on jameson. you were still sitting on the marble counter, legs wrapped around hawthorne’s hips. his mood was definitely better as he was zipping up your dress.

“a quickie in the bathroom, when did you turn so naughty, hm?” a chuckle escaped mouth as he watched you wipe the excess of your lipstick off his chin and bottom lip. “i met this cute guy during my vacation in europe. a real charmer.” you replied with a smirk, fixing the lacy strings of the dress as you jumped off the counter.

your chest was touching his, but neither of you moved away. you were still a little breathless from the unexpected activity and to be completely honest, it wasn’t enough — just looking at his stupid, handsome face made you crave him even more. you weren’t the only one though, considering that hawthorne couldn’t take his hands off of you as he brought one to your chin, tilting it upwards to have an easy access to kiss you again.

an involuntary grin hovered over your lips as his fingers brushed your cheek in a tender manner, before fixing his messy hair and leaving the bathroom. he closed the door just to open it again to wink at you and leave to get back to his siblings.

YOU COULD TELL that everyone already knew about the tiny thing going on between you and jameson. nevertheless, pretending like it wasn’t true was easier than admitting it. as long as alisa wasn’t asking any questions or forbidding you from showing up to the hawthorne house, you didn’t really care.

it was early, maybe even too early for your liking, when the alarm in your phone went off, earning a hoarse, incoherent groan from jameson, whose arm only tightened around your naked body. the only things covering you from flashing someone accidentally were the white sheets that kept you warm at night.

“turn it off.” another groan escaped his throat. he knew what this meant, it was five o’clock and you had to get to your dorm to get ready for the bureaucratic nightmare, as he liked to call it, at the law firm, which always handled all his familial issues. “gorgeous, there are lots of your stuff here, just go back to sleep. you can get ready here.”

“i can’t.” you replied, planting a few sweet kisses on his bare shoulder. “everyone will know i was here if i left later.” you added, your voice soft. your fingernails gently scratching the back of his neck.

“you act like they don’t know already.” you could swear he just laughed, his sleepy demeanour made him even more attractice at this point. “sorry to break it to you, gorg, but once you start, you forget all about quietness.” ironically, this shut you up immediately, red already spreading all over your cheeks.

“you know what’s funny?” a question rolled off his tongue, catching your interest, even though you couldn’t quite make out his words as his face was buried in the white pillow. “xander texted me to ask you to moan a few decibels less.”

“oh god, i am never leaving this room again.” you said embarrassed, hiding your face in hawthorne’s arm.

“i like that idea.” he laughed, pulling you even closer, shifting a little to shut your phone off completely. “make it my early christmas gift.”

[laluv-469]

"The Other Woman"

synopsis: its a mean one. gojo is cheating on his girlfriend with you and the guilt of sadness of it all is starting to hit you. practically a flashback and a psychological breakthrough contemplating why you tolerate his shit. but whether you continue to is an entirely more difficult question.

content: smut, jjk x reader, cheating gojo satoru x reader, vaginal sex, rough, hair pulling, unprotected, gojo on top, angry sex, dom, angst, asshole gojo, etc idk i dont write smut often lmao

for clarification; gojo would NEVER cheat, at least that's what I think. uh I just had this really neat, angsty idea linked to this song, and I know how to write gojo better than any other character. granted, toji or most definitely sukuna would fit better, but again, don't know how to write those characters as well. i also think this is a very poor interpretation of gojo and his personality, but it cruely exposes his flaws related to being a little boasty f-boy. hope it doesn't disappoint too much, i am not an experienced writer <3

deepest apologies for any typos and grammatical errors. literally editing this at 1 am ♡

word count: 1,526

As much as you hated thinking about it, you were undeniably the other woman. You were the woman Gojo would sneak out of the room to text once his girlfriend fell asleep. You were the woman he would call when he got lonely and sad. You were the woman he would take out on secret dates across town. And, of course, you were the woman Gojo would ruthlessly fuck at the local motel. 

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

“Fuckkk” Gojo would greedily groan as he slid his thick member in and out of your squelching hole. “You're nothing like her…” He chuckled to himself in awe as his grip on your hips tightened. 

“So- fuckin’ tight~!” He bared through gritted teeth.

You shifted your weight slightly, burying your head down into the sheets with furrowed brows. Your long locks of hair fell loosely over your shoulders, draping down over your forehead. You only hum lazily in response, a bored expression on your face as he pounded into your little pussy. 

God, he felt painfully good, but you hated when he compared you to her. You hated the way it made you think too much. And for awfully too long. Your eyes drifted off into long, angry thought. Gojo noticed this, and he also hated when you weren't receptive to him.

He had you bent over on your stomach,  breasts smushed against the sheets as his hips rolled against your ass. The man lowered himself to your head, his warm breath tickling your neck. In a swift motion, he moved his hands toward your stomach and pressed firmly, pushing himself deeper inside you. His thrusts soon became rough and intentional… like he was testing your limits. 

He managed to get a whimper out of you, your face contorting slightly with his change in pace. “Nngh~”

You tried to remain nonchalant though, turning your face away from him, not letting him see your arousal. 

With the hand that wasn't clenching your stomach, he pulled a large chunk of your hair to the left, forcing you to meet his piercing eyes. They were narrow and.. almost dark with deep passion.. anger.. whatever it was your actions made him feel. 

“Not feelin’ it hon?” He questioned with only slight irritation in his voice. 

"Am I doing a crap job, hm?” He asks in a low voice, humor and frustration swirling into one. 

Both of your heads were bobbing up and down with the intensity of his thrusts, heavy pants accompanying that. Still, he managed to stare into your soul as awaited your response. The room was filled with nothing but the sound of skin slapping and the reserved whimpers you let out through tight lips. 

You avoided his eyes, closing them while trying to endure the pain. Each thrust sent him further inside you, his hips barely moving away from yours. It's like he was nearly locked in place with you, his hips bucking back and forth, keeping a small distance between your bodies. His grip on your body was tight, holding onto your hair and waist like his life fucking depended on it.

He scoffed at your silence, yanking at your hair again, harder this time, causing your head to whip back. You finally broke, your mouth was open and now loud. He seemed to have reached your core, repeatedly hitting that sweet spot. Each time, you swore you saw stars. It's like he was becoming one with you, his entire size stuffing you grossly. 

“Ah, ah ah!! S-Satoru-nn!!” You pleaded, your voice loud and squeaky, yet barely coherent.

“Don't- fucking ignore me…” He spoke in a low growl, his voice breaking in a similar manner to yours. 

He placed his temple against yours, your foreheads now pressed against each other as his movements grew more sloppy and erratic. His grip on your hair was still tight, practically using it for support as his body moved restlessly against you. Your scalp wss being stressed, strands sure to fall out after it's next brush.

“What's wrong, hm? Before.. I-” He stopped, struggling to speak and fuck you at the same time, “Before I pull out.. tell.. me” He panted heavily in an ugly rhythm with your moans, a lewd melody of slaps and grunts filling the air. 

He was close, you felt him throb inside you, and you were too. Your walls began to enclose, almost trapping him inside your hole. “Tight fuckin’ cunt…” He grunted lowly, chuckling to himself once again at the marvel that was your pretty little pussy. 

You shut your eyes tight as your orgasm neared, mouth gaped open, trying to find the right words. What could you possibly utter to him? You hated that he was in this secret “relationship” with you.. yet you let it fly. Why, though? Speak up, tell him! And so you did.

In broken words and whimpers, “Break.. up with her..” You regretted the words as soon as they escaped your lips, biting your entire lower lip in immediate guilt.

Gojo's hips stuttered a bit, your words clearly catching him by surprise. But you were too lost in the rhythm to stop. You felt a rising sensation in your stomach, a hungry desire to completely let loose everywhere. It was strong, so very strong, and you just needed this orgasm so badly. Your pussy was puffy and throbbing, his large member surely leaving you sore. He fucked and fucked and fucked, that lovely spot being tapped and played with till it went off. Shortly after, you came all over his cock, juices spilling out and dripping onto the bed. He fucked your cunt still, helping you ride out your orgasm as he neared his. Your eyes rolled back, the feeling of being emptied and filled all over again overstimulating you immensely, yet satisfying your desire so beautifully.

He followed shortly after, shooting his load inside you accompanied by the release of your hair, relief washing over the both of you. Letting out a heavy, slutty breath into your ear, he slowed down significantly, gently fucking the mixture of cum inside of you. Your head was soon back on the bed, red from shame and regret at what you said before. However the man simply pulled out and collapsed beside you, both of you simply laying on your stomachs, backs rising and falling with the aftermaths of an intense session. He raised his hand to your head, caressing your scalp in a comforting manner, as to apologize for the pulling and yanking.

He sighed, a worrisome look on his pretty fuck-boy face. “Break up with her?” He whispered.. sounding sad… Sad? 

This asshole, what did he have to be sad about? You were the one crying yourself to sleep every night and eating alone more often than not. And imagine how his girlfriend would feel if she knew? This entitled, pretty asshole.

Your eyebrows furrowed angrily, turning your head to face the white-haired man. “Yes. She doesn't deserve to be cheated on for one, now you're just leading her on. Are you that dense or what?”

His head pulled back slightly in a contorted facial expression, seemingly offended by your comment. But he knew you were right, his eyes drifting away in thought. “You're right… Just.. let's sleep on it.” He sighed, his eyes fluttering shut.

Yeah, he sure did have a habit of putting this off. He'd always find an excuse not to think about it or talk about it.

You huffed, pulling away from his touch and rolling out of the trashy motel mattress. “No, that's your decision.” 

He pissed you off, his eyes fluttering open again and stupidly following you with the dumb puppy face. You ignored him though, limping your way to the bathroom with a change of clothes. 

Took a piss, showered, and changed within the next 20 minutes, you stepped out fully clean and refreshed. You dried up your hair a few feet away from the bed, Gojo watching your every move. Your face was scrunched up and angry, hating the fact that he was looking at you so desperately right now. Why'd you even let him fuck you? 

“I'm going home,” You grabbed your bag and phone, heading for the door.

Without even realizing, Gojo was rushing out of bed, quickly stumbling toward you, “Fuck do you mean? I'm not driving you back over right now..” He leaned against the door frame butt naked, dick hanging loose and head tilted sideways.

You pushed his chest lightly, “Put some clothes on, get some sleep. I'll take a bus or something.” Again, you turn away from him, heading for the door knob.

Gojo's hand grabbed your arm, tugging you softly. “Why are you mad… baby… you know how this goes..” He practically pleaded, a tired and worn out expression on his stupid face.

“Cut it out, please I'm done Satoru I'm tired of feeling like shit every day.” You threw your head back, sadness and anger finally broke through. 

“I'll cut her off, okay?” He spoke quickly and firmly, almost as if just to shut you up. After that, it was all a blur.

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

That day though, you fell for the facade, running right back into his arms, climbing right back into that bed, and continuing to be just the other woman.

Why you still do it? For the thrill? For the love? You sat for hours thinking about it, writing about it, crying about it. You almost told his girlfriend a couple of times. You have countless pages saved in your notes explaining everything to her, yes everything. But your heart and soul know you won't ever tell her, better yet jeopardize the “relationship” you have right now. 

“Hey love…” He would greet you, caressing your cheek and brushing through your hair with his pale slender fingers. “You're so beautiful baby… I don't deserve you.” He smiled warmly at you, love genuinely radiating from his body.

Was any of that real? He was right though. A cheater doesn't deserve you. But you weren't any fucking better that's for sure. You're not sure when this will end, but damn you hope it ends with you finally being content and happy. No longer, the other woman.

[libraryofgage]

Addams Family B-Side (5)

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually

Debbie and Fester Addams One | Two | Three | Four | Five (you're here!) Rick and Evelyn O'Connell One | Two | Three Harley Quinn One | Two 10th Doctor and Rose One | Two (on the way!) Scooby Gang (there are plans for this one lmao, so plz be patient with me orz) Jedidiah and Octavius (from Night at the Museum) One Queen Clarisse Renaldi One | Two

This part was line-jumped on Ko-Fi, which means y'all got it sooner than I originally planned!

If you want to line jump your favorite series, you can learn more here

Steve meets the other CC boys in this one, and they all realize just how perfect the two are for each other hfjdks

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't :^)

---------

Steve realizes something very important about Eddie over the next few days of school: he's a coward. Not that Steve minds, of course. In fact, he likes that; it means he gets to have more fun teasing Eddie to his limit and watching him get flustered.

He has to find Eddie to do that, though, and he starts with the Hellfire Club room (an English classroom that the teacher lets them borrow during lunch). Without knocking, he walks right in and looks over the three boys huddled together with monster figurines placed between them.

The boys look up at Steve, and the four of them begin a minute-long staring match before Steve finally smiles at them. "Gareth, Jeff, Asher," he says, pointing at each boy in turn. "Nice to meet you. Where's Eddie?"

"Who's asking?" Gareth asks, his eyes narrowed as he looks over Steve in his sweater-vest and chinos.

"Steve Harrington."

They recognize his name, if their expressions are anything to go by, and before Steve can ask again where Eddie is, Jeff stands up and crosses his arms. "Why do you wanna know where Eddie is?" he asks.

"Because I want to talk to him."

"What about?" Asher asks, leaning around Jeff to level a similar glare at Steve.

"Our project."

"Let's cut the crap, Harrington," Gareth says, moving to stand next to Jeff. "What are you trying to pull here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Someone like...you isn't interested in Eddie unless you want something," Asher says, looking Steve up and down once more for emphasis.

Oh. They think he has bad intentions. Steve can't help a slight smile, glad Eddie has good friends. "I do want something," Steve says, nodding once as pride and vindication flash in the others' eyes. "I want to chain Eddie to my bed and never let him leave until he's so utterly enthralled by me that he'd never think of looking away even if I did unchain him."

"Wh....what?" Jeff asks, his voice cracking slightly.

Steve nods once and sighs regretfully. "Unfortunately, Mother would never let me because his disappearance would raise too many questions," he admits, pouting slightly as he looks up at the boys, "So, I have to get his attention in other ways."

"Like...leaving gifts?" Asher asks.

"Exactly," Steve says, smiling brightly. "It's as close to proper courting as I can get."

"Okay, you're weird," Jeff decides.

"What do you even like about him?" Gareth asks, his eyes narrowing slightly now that he's over his surprise.

"His conviction. And Eddie is so cute when he's flustered or jealous. And he gets along so well with Nox. He didn't scream when he met my father, and he seems perfectly happy stabbing Pubert's kidneys, too. I think he's got such Addams potential, I can hardly control the urge to slip him a little belladonna or raspberry to get him all breathless and gasping."

"Dude, do you wanna kiss him or kill him?!" Asher asks.

Steve blinks, frowning slightly at the question with such an obvious answer. "Well, murder attempts are only appropriate after marriage, don't you think? Nothing says I love you like a post-nuptials bomb or a toaster in the bath."

"Oh," Jeff says faintly, "you do wanna kill him."

No, they still don't get it. Steve's frown deepens, trying to figure out how to explain things properly. "Even if Eddie did die, I wouldn't let him stay dead," Steve explains, "I would get him back. We have an understanding with Death. I want to make Eddie's wildest nightmares come true and keep him company in his dreams. I want us to bury ourselves alive in each other's arms so we can pass out breathing the same air. I want to dance a Mamushka for him. I want Eddie to feel accepted and support his deadliest ambitions until he feels absolutely smothered and helpless to get away."

A few moments of silence pass. Steve waits patiently, smiling at them as they process his words. "I've got it," Jeff finally says, "he's clinically insane."

"How'd you know?"

"You know what?" Gareth asks, looking to Steve, "I think you and Eddie might be perfect for each other, maybe just leave us out of whatever weird flirting thing you've got going on here."

"I need to find Eddie to do that."

"He's in the loft in the black box," Asher says, "That's where he goes to, uh, think."

"Oh, does he have buyers today?"

"No, he goes there to actually think, too," Gareth explains.

Steve smiles brightly and nods. "Thanks! I'm glad Eddie has such good friends. I think we'll get along, too," he says.

"Yeah, if you don't kill us first," Gareth mutters.

"I wouldn't! Not until we were friends ourselves, at least."

With that, Steve turns on his heel and waves as he leaves the classroom, heading straight for the black box with a plan already forming.

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

Eddie grimaces as he hears someone climbing the loft stairs. He throws an arm over his eyes and soon realizes that only makes the image of Steve leaning close and looking up at him even harder to ignore. With a huff, Eddie squeezes his eyes harder as he calls out, "I'm not selling today!"

The steps pause, and Eddie thinks the person is going to leave only for them to continue again. He frowns and drops his arm in time to see Steve's head poking around the railing. His face is a little blotchy, his eyes are slightly red, and his voice is rough like he's been crying when he says, "I'm not here to buy."

What else is Eddie supposed to think when Steve looks like this?

He jerks up, leaning against the arm of the prop couch with wide eyes. "Have you been crying?" he asks.

Steve sniffs and looks away, still hesitating at the top of the stairs. "No," he says, his voice closer to normal as he takes a deep breath and marches over to the couch. He stares at Eddie for a moment before sitting on the other end. "I've done something wrong, haven't I?" he asks.

"What? No!" Eddie says, jerking forward and stopping himself before he can actually touch Steve's shoulder. He clears his throat and forces his hand to drop. "Why would you think that?"

"You've been avoiding me," Steve says, his tone resigned as he sighs. He glances at Eddie, briefly meeting his eyes before looking away. "I guess I can be overwhelming, huh? I'll stop now. With the gifts and all. Just pretend it never happened. You can even keep Nox."

Eddie feels the entire world lurch beneath him at Steve's words. Yeah, he's been avoiding Steve, but only because he felt at risk of confessing undying love in the middle of the crowded hallway if he so much as met Steve's eyes. Not to mention how Steve's voice as he offered to contribute more to their project keeps echoing in Eddie's head, making him think of things that definitely aren't school appropriate.

But it backfired. It backfired so so bad. How could Steve not realize that Eddie wants to be more overwhelmed, actually? Like, please keep overwhelming him until he dies, thank you.

Without thinking, he pushes himself into Steve's space, hesitating a moment before throwing his arm around Steve's shoulders as the smell of cookies and cream washes over him. "You definitely didn't overwhelm me, sweetheart," he says, the name just slipping out.

Based on the way Steve's eyes widen, he doesn't take it back. "Then, why were you avoiding me?" Steve asks.

"I, uh...I just...," Eddie looks away, frowning as he tries to come up with an answer that doesn't involve him confessing to Steve on a couch at least three different couples have fucked on.

"Is it because you don't like me? You could just say that, Eddie," Steve says, his shoulders slumping as he leans out of Eddie's space.

Oh fuck. Eddie scrambles, his brain reaching for anything to say that will fix this. Finally, he blurts out, "I like you too much. I like you so much I want to smother you until you can't breathe." Steve blinks, and Eddie feels the world fall out from under him. Well, he's confessed on the couch. Shit. He swallows around the nervous lump in his throat and pulls away, an anxious laugh bubbling from him.

And then Steve smiles, robbing Eddie of his laughter. His face is no longer splotchy, his eyes are no longer red, and Eddie feels like he's fallen into a trap that couldn't be more obvious. "Did...did you just..."

Before he can get the rest out, Steve leans closer until his lips are brushing over Eddie's earlobe. "I like you, too," he whispers, the words ghosting over Eddie's skin and sending a shudder down his spine. With that, Steve pulls back and stands from the couch, walking over to the staircase.

"Where are you going?" Eddie asks, leaning so far forwards that he falls off the couch and lands on his ass on the floor.

Steve looks back at him and smiles fondly, the curve of his lips making Eddie's hands curl into fists so he doesn't reach out to drag his thumb across them. "I was thinking of skipping the rest of the day to see a movie," he says. "Wanna join me?"

Eddie scrambles to his feet faster than he thought possible, hurrying after Steve as he starts down the stairs.

-------

"I just don't get it!" Steve says, frowning as he paces across the room. His mother is stretched out on a chaise lounge, idly flipping through a VINTAGE MACABRE magazine Morticia lent her. "I mean, I took him to a movie, it was plenty dark, I leaned in and whispered to him the whole time and did that thing you taught me with dragging my finger up his arm, and nothing!"

"He's just a tough nut to crack," Debbie says, her voice reassuring as she flips a page.

Steve turns on his heel to face her, his frown deepening. "What am I doing wrong?" he asks, his voice breaking slightly at the end as sheer frustration overwhelms him. He's given Eddie gifts, he's dressed provocatively, he's made it so clear that he wants to be with Eddie, but nothing has happened. "Can't I just...ask him out myself?"

That makes Debbie pause. She looks up, closes her magazine, and sits up on the lounge, gesturing for Steve to join her. He carefully sits next to her, sighing when Debbie pulled him into a hug. "You're doing nothing wrong, dear," she says, her fingers running through his hair. "You're just impatient. It's only your first hunt."

"My only hunt," Steve mumbles, resting his head on his mother's shoulder. "I don't want anyone else."

"You should enjoy it more, then," Debbie says, gently tugging on a few strands of his hair. "Don't get so caught up in your end goal. The longer the hunt takes, the more you'll savor your victory. Besides, he'll just be more passionate when he finally breaks."

"Well," Steve says, "Eddie is cute when he's flustered. And when he's jealous. He has great potential, by the way, I mean, he really wants to kill Pubert, I think."

"I'm sure it's nothing Pubert doesn't deserve," Debbie says lightly. "Anyway, I think you're doing just fine, Steve. From what you've told me, Eddie isn't going anywhere anytime soon."

"Should I try harder, though?"

Debbie thinks for a moment, humming softly as she considers the question. "How about this," she says, perking up some as the idea comes to her, "Invite Eddie to dinner on Friday. I'll get a look at him myself, and if he still hasn't cracked by the end of the night, you can crank things up a notch."

Steve slowly nods, turning the suggestion over in his head. He wanted Eddie to meet his mother anyway, especially since he already met Fester. This would also be another opportunity to spend more time with Eddie alone. In Steve's room. With the door closed.

And maybe something will finally happen.

"Okay," Steve says, "I'll invite him."

-----

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[zer0wzs]

hihihi!!! i love ur work sm!! would u possibly write something about ryro :-) something fluffy like cuddling or something ^_^ thanks!!

𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙨, 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙨 ( 𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙪𝙡𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 )

[ gn!reader ] if an evening with him is what you want, it certainly is what you'll get wc :: 647 ryro x reader

AN :: hii!!!! this is my first ever req here omg!! i hope this ok thank u so much ure so kind ^_^ 🫶 um if there are any typos ill correct em later HAHA im sleepy T-T

Needless to say, you missed him.

Crap, if you had to be honest, you’re almost certain that you spent a significant part of your day just wanting to be with him.

Who could blame you, though?

You’re sure that anyone who has ever had the privilege of knowing, loving him could never be the same ever again. You’re sure you aren’t. He’s changed you—you reckon for the better.

Your whole day was a miserable waiting game. From the moment you set foot outside your bedroom (Ryan was still out like a child.) to the final moments of your trip back home, all you could do was just wish for time to take itself more seriously and pass by faster.

Like a bored high schooler in their math class, you’d been watching, waiting for the seconds to count down.

Needless to say, you were impatient.

Finally, you reached the footsteps of the door. You find yourself haphazardly going through your bag for your keys and making multiple attempts at jamming it in the door. Patience. Patience is something you lacked, clearly.

“Oh, hey, babe. How was your da-”

When you got the key in and opened the door, without thought—almost like instinct, or perhaps just an overwhelming need, your body kicked your shoes at the entrance, locked the door, and dashed to Ryan, who was sprawled out lazily on the couch. Heedless, you stay put, resting on top of him.

“Oof.” He buzzed with his small chuckle that filled rooms up. He immediately pulled you further into his arms, then carded his fingers through the strands of your hair.

“Are you okay?” You feel a sense of worry laced in his words.

You hummed. That was enough for him to know that you were alright. Clearing it up, you mumbled into his shirt a soft, “I just missed you.”

Not missing a beat, he replies, “I missed you too.”

For a few moments, both of your eyes are glued to the TV.

You find this whole moment you’re sharing at least a little funny because, parallel to the two of you, Ryan was watching Goodfellas. In fact, what was playing as you two were cuddled up was the spider scene.

More than distracted, though, you looked around the living room and saw Elwood and Dottie snuggled up against each other in a similar fashion to you two.

While out of concern, you already knew the answer to your question and yet asked, “Has Dottie eaten yet?”

“Mhm.” He answered, nodding.

Maybe you just wanted some attention. No, you knew you did. “What about Elwood?”

“Yes, dear.” He laughed, bringing a hand up your cheek and squeezing it. Seems like he knows it very well himself, too. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

“Mmmmmmm.” You buzzed, smiling at him—be it a mix of both giddiness and guiltiness.

“Ahh,” he clicked his tongue. “I haven’t either. Come on, I’ll make us something.”

As you felt him bring the both of you up, you made a quick effort to stay put on the sofa. “No.” you pouted.

“Hmm?” He replied, turning his head to the side in slight confusion.

“I wanna stay like this first.” You said, wrapping your arms around his waist as tight as you could as you buried your face in the crook of his neck.

It’s not that it felt like he’d disappear if you let him go. Like, he would—only to make you guys some food. It’s just that you’re just really fucking clingy, and you wanted his touch and full attention all to yourself right now.

But what’s the harm in that when he assures—more like enables—you?

“Alright.” You feel his smile radiate above you, brushing his knuckles with a feather-light touch against your cheekbone.

Yeah, you both know you’re both all to each other right now. What’s the matter with a little bit of indulgence?

[samueldays]

Sam Reviews: Phoenix Point, part 1

Phoenix Point is down to ten bucks on GOG, DLC included!

I bought it, figuring even a half-decent XCOM clone is worth it for ten bucks. So far it feels like a $10 game indeed. I'm probably not going to finish it before the sale ends, I have a job, so here's my initial impressions for those interested and I'll come back with part 2 later.

Tutorial missions, fine. First regular mission against crab monsters, fine. Second regular mission pits me against gun-happy human bandits, and I am unpleasantly surprised that they return fire whenever they're shot at, getting 4 counter-attacks in a turn if 4 people shoot at them, they even "return fire" upon having a grenade thrown at them.

Solution: run up and bash them in the head with the butt of a gun repeatedly, they don't get to return fire from that. I grumbled about that, and the game feels like 'that' repeatedly.

I didn't like the puzzle boss nature of infinite return fire. One return fire per turn would have been cool, and enabled tactical counterplay options. Unlimited return fire breaks the action economy, breaks my immersion for the game abstraction of "action points", and makes me feel this is going to be a game about cheesing AP limits and ruleslawyer combos. Also, the infinite return fire ability was on multiple nameless minions in that mission, not even reserved for a boss. Bash bash bash bash!

I didn't like the lack of game hints in this context. I had Hints turned on for a first run at low difficulty. The Hints make suggestions for what to research, how game mechanics work, and provide informative popups the first time a new strain of crab monster appears. But there was no Hint popup about the first encounter with an enemy having the Return Fire ability, no tooltip on mouseover of enemy, nor was there any indication of what actions trigger Return Fire, despite this being significantly more impactful than "this crab monster regenerates".

I didn't like the solution, which felt like a rules loophole rather than a sensible way to approach rapid-firing enemies. Oh yeah here's a guy who can interrupt your turn to shoot multiple times per turn, you should all walk up to him and punch him and he'll politely submit to the beatings.

I really didn't like that compared to recent XCOM games, Phoenix Point added a micromanagement tracker for Weapon Durability, and bashing the return-fire-goons in the head damages your weapon! Also they brought back ammo management, so now your weapon has two stats that can run out during combat.

But I also recognize that these things aren't bugs or crashes or typos or other objectively wrong things about the game, they're design decisions that I disagree with. The game runs fine. I have a series of grumbles and no dealbreakers.

Moving on from the Return Fire-associated crap...

This is an XCOM-genre game, definitely. It has base building, squad management, research and production, capturing crab monsters for research, psychic mind control, a strategic "Geoscape" layer and numerous tactical battle missions. The one thing that's oddly missing is gear upgrades. New gear is mostly sidegrades and tactical options, on the other hand it offers far stronger character upgrades than in most XCOM games, to the point of looking partly like a CRPG with classes, levels and skill points.

The Geoscape has more content than the waiting game that was some previous xcoms. There are other factions moving on the map, there's some trade and diplomacy with them, there are unknown sites to explore, you reactivate old bases instead of building them from scratch. Sometimes this means clearing them of crab monsters.

The Phoenix Point interface inherits a lot of XCOM 2's cutscenery that I dislike. It is very beautiful, very zoomed in, and wants to make sure you see it. There's frequent waiting to watch stuff resolve, and the game insists on having the camera follow unimportant actions like the run animation of every soldier's every move, and locking the interface during this. Move orders (particularly out of sight of enemies) should not hog control, I should be able to tab to the next soldier and begin giving a new move order immediately after the previous! Each individual animation is short, but multiply it by several soldiers, on each of several turns, on each of several missions, and my frustration at an unresponsive interface accumulates.

The zoom-out is limited. Soldiers will frequently be so far away from each other that I can't see them on the same screen, and have to pan back and forth. Bleh.

The gun system is quite detailed with damage types, damage values, accuracy modifiers, weapon ranges, armor, armor-shredding weapons, body part targeting and hit location, disabled limbs, bleeding, cover, et cetera. The game then offers options to skip a lot of this gunnery where enemies get to resist, and instead go for special abilities that Just Work, like War Cry:

AOE, autohit, no save, renders most enemies unable to attack for a turn.

About that limbs stuff, Phoenix Point has tried hard to make hit locations relevant. Crab monsters have game-relevant organs and limbs that can be disabled for far less damage than it takes to kill the whole monster. It's neat, but feels a little underwhelming. I don't blame the devs much for this, balance is hard when there's hefty player optionality plus RNG, and there's a fine line between making targeting relevant and making a monster the Shootmeinthegland monster where shooting it in the gland simply becomes the new default target instead of shooting it in the head/center mass.

Guns are weak, and armor is powerful as part of making limb targeting relevant. Also, armor-shredding weapons. This feels related to the CRPG class-and-level stuff: with the smaller squad and the more personalized characters and the more important individuals, the game has to give more leeway for characters to survive being hit to avoid player frustration. We've moved a long way from X-COM:UFO where casualties were routine and replacements were cheap.

I don't know if it's good or bad that the game plays "fair" about the least relevant nameless NPCs being similarly padded, but I know one of my mutuals will hate this combination of health padding and detailed targeting:

I have caught this thief at close range (2 tiles). I am about to launch a six-round burst from my character's assault rifle into his head. The targeting reticle, the highlighted yellow outline, and the info popup all agree that these bullets will go into his head if I fire here and now. The segmented bar at the top indicates that the result of close-range burst fire to the head through the front of the face is that the thief will lose about half his hitpoints.

To underscore that I've gotten a head hit, not a glancing blow off the helmet, the game displays the thief with a bloody face and blood-splattered clothes after the shot. But he lives. Somehow.

There's also a plot to Phoenix Point. I don't play xcoms for the plot, but there's definitely been some work on the plot beyond "kill and loot aliums :)". After the second world war, blah blah secret organization, moonbase, something something precursor civilization. It looks like good lore, I'll re-read the accumulated notes when I have more notes and fewer darkly hinting clue-scraps bereft of context.

(update: part 2)

[er1th4cz]

Patched up with kisses !

AN: first time writing ever, had to be special for my dookie pie husband Charlie kenton, English isn't my first language so bear with me with any typos or grammar mistakes

It was a long night, getting beaten up by bastards. They were always the same bunch of bastards that bothered you about Charlie, of course, Charlie always told you "They aren't worth your time." But, they were worth your time. They were always talking shit about Charlie, Charlie Kenton. The man you grew up and fell in love with. He told you to stop worrying about those thugs who made fun of him, talked badly about him, and ruined his name. But you knew better than to listen to his ass, even though you knew where it always got you.

Blood was dripping down to your shirt, dirtied, stained, and messed up. The only thing on your mind was to go back, back to him. You stumbled back into the gym, with a soft groan escaping your throat. Charlie, who was working on Atom with his own few frustrated groans, turned to see what the noise behind him was and he stopped with a "What the fuck?" Look in his eyes that soon turned into "Oh, Crap."

"What the hell happened to you?"

He asked, dropping everything in his hands. He made his way over to you quickly, cupping your cheeks with his large, warm hands as he inspected your current state. It made your heart quicken, the added adrenaline wasn't helping.

"Just those thugs I keep telling you about." You shrug, like it was nothing but it was everything to Charlie. You were hurt and damn it, if he continued to allow this to happen to you, he wouldn't forgive himself for not being able to protect someone he loved. He knew better than to deny it was just love for a close friend.

"Those thugs? Those thugs I told you weren't worth your damn time? Are you shitting me?"

Oh, he wasn't happy, no, not at all, his words were laced with worry and deep concern, rather than anger which gave you a little hope that he wouldn't scold you all night long, it happened a few times before and it wasn't pretty.

He quickly but gently pulled you, sitting you in a chair while he grabbed a clean cloth and held it to your gash, which he instructed that you keep a hold of tightly as he went to the first aid kit. He ran back as quickly as he could, opening it in a hurry. He took hold of your wrist and slowly pulled your hand with the cloth away so he could see the wound. Thankfully it didn't need stitching but it was still quite a large laceration. (Me after searching wound synonym on Google.)

So, he got a little close and started to clean the wound on your forehead. A certain tension was rising but neither of you decided to speak on it, too focused on getting you patched up. You can see the way he was looking at you with such care, a cautious hold on your cheek, the lightest touch on your gash you could barely feel it.

The closer you two got, the closer your heartbeats synced with each other. It didn't take long for that to happen. You could feel the brush of his lips on your skin which made you shiver lightly, he didn't notice, or at least that's what you thought. That was something you wanted to feel, but on your lips, is that too much to ask for? The man was too busy with the gash on your forehead to even notice how close he had gotten but you weren't complaining. He started to wrap your forehead in gauze which made you look like a bald man especially with how tight Charlie made it but the kiss he gave you on top of, it was more than enough to silence your thoughts.

He hesitated for a moment, rethinking his actions before he gained the courage and kissed you again, between your brows, then on your nose, the soft of your cheek, and the corner of your mouth. Charlie's kisses were soft, loving, longing for more, wanting for more, wanting you. He stopped right on your lips, before looking at you with his beautiful eyes, asking for permission silently but you beat him to it and your lips met.

finally, after years and years of trying to catch the fish with bait, it's happening on such a night. It was a slow and light kiss, he was afraid to hurt you, afraid he was going to mess up your first kiss together. His hand traveled towards your neck and deepened the kiss, wanting for more, the passion, tenderness, and fondness were overwhelming but it was something you were drinking up like a dog who's been parched with water. Before things escalated, he pulled away, with a soft pant and a smile.

"Feeling better now, I hope?"

"I sure as hell am."

And they lived a gayppily gayever gayfter.

@morgans-hat I don't know how to end a story 😼 heh... you can say I'm just awesome like that. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT ONG I'M SWEATING MY BUTTCHEEKS OFF.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

omg bond would be an incredible choice for a knight/queen au,, I would go so crazy if you ever wrote that

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Minors interacting with this work will be blocked.

Notes: Not beta-read. Reread several times and will probably spot 87 typos once I hit post.

Sometimes you write a regular fic and other times you find yourself googling whether or not people performed oral sex in the medieval era. it's all a crap shoot.

anyway.

Length: 7.9K

Warnings: Slow burn; explicit sexual content - oral sex; vaginal sex

From the moment that he kneels before you—as the light sets a halo about his blond hair, and as he tips his chin up to meet your eye and murmur his oath of fealty—you know that he’ll be trouble. It’s in the flash of his eye. 

His crisp blue gaze flickers to yours, and he shoots you a wink with such speed that your husband hardly has the chase to catch it. It makes your stomach flip with an allure and vehemence that nearly unseats your stern concentration.The feeling that rises in you isn’t love. It’s not even interest. 

It’s fear. 

-- 

He trails you like a shadow. 

You can’t blame him; you know that he acts on your husband’s orders. Blofeld worries for your youth, and fears the possibility that you may stray. You have a guard set on you every day and night. On the evenings that you don’t spend with Blofeld, you sleep with Bond posted just inside your door on your husband’s insistence, ensuring that your bed remains empty, and cold.

On those nights that he occupies the stool beside your door, you sleep very little. He stays awake out of a sense of duty; you stay awake with the lingering, heavy knowledge of the man just a few feet away. You know that he’s popular with the ladies of court. He can’t stride or ride by without inspiring the twittering of giggles and whispers by the ladies gazing from behind their fans, or over the tops of their books. You hear of his bawdy teasing, his warm smiles, his winks. You’ve never been privy to them, save for the single flash of a wink as he swore his oath to you, and to Blofeld. When your protector’s name and nighttime companion are brought up in conversation among your ladies, you force a straight face regardless of their speculations and teasing. For all of your interest and fascination, you have no right, no daring to look toward a knight with interest. 

Even if you did—even if you had any sort of designs on Bond, any interest in the way his gazes hold to yours, and the way his careful grasp lingers as he helps you from a horse or carriage—your affair would be nigh on impossible. 

It’s no matter. 

Your husband has spies in the court, so many that you have no trust in Bond’s exclusion among their number. You hardly trust your ladies maids. For all of their own secrets that they share, and their encouragement to trust them with the matters that occupy your head and heart, you shield yourself from them. 

Well, from most of them. 

Lady Eve is the only one of your ladies maids that came to Blofeld’s court with you when you were sent to wed him. She’s your only true confidant, quick with a smile and a joke if needed, and skilled at unsheathing her sharp tongue to guide the other ladies back into line if they begin to speak or act out of turn. She manages several duties that you wouldn’t trust others with: running messages, communicating with cooks and servants. Between Blofeld’s controlling insistences and Eve’s obliging care, you slowly build a wall around yourself, separating you from the court, and the people that look to your husband for guidance. 

--  

“You ought to try smiling one of these days.” 

It’s not an unexpected criticism, but it’s certainly an unwanted one. You’d be happy to spend the afternoon in the garden in a companionable quiet, but it seems that she has other plans. You cast Eve a surly glance, but her smile remains bright and unwavering. Her hands work just as steadily, knitting needles clicking softly as she casts off. 

“I mean it,” She insists, finally lowering her gaze to her work. “If you’re not careful, you’ll forget how.” 

You sigh softly, shoulder slouching slightly as you look around the expanse of grass, and the vines creeping up the sides of the castle walls. 

“I’ve no reason to smile.” 

“You’re alive. Is that not reason enough?” 

“No. It is not.”

“...You know what you ought to do.”

Your stomach churns with the conspiratorial edge to Eve’s voice. You glance toward her again to find her pointedly fixated on her craft. 

“It would never work,” You insist. 

“It could.”

“He would have my head.” 

“Only if you were caught.” 

Eve’s conspiratorial gaze flickers to you again, her smile widening. You can’t bring yourself to feel the same sense of mirth, of excitement. 

“Your Majesty.” 

You whirl around, spotting one of your husband’s advisors. Bond lingers not too far behind, his hand poised on his sword as if the man is a stranger—as if you’re about to ask him to take the advisor’s head off. 

“The King insists on your presence in the throne room.” 

You nod, stony-faced. “I will join him presently.” 

The advisor gives a low bow before he turns, striding away without you. You shift up onto your knees, wobbling as the fabric of your dress catches beneath your shoe. Before you can tumble backward, a firm hand rests against your lower back, and another hand catches hold of your own flailing one. You freeze at the steady contact, your eyes widening as you look up at Bond. He draws you up gently. Your legs feel unsteady, even when you’re drawn to your full height, with your feet planted firmly on the ground. Bond’s arm skims against your side, his fingers flexing in the fabric of your desk as his thumb sweeps tenderly across the side of your hand. It sends heat skittering through your body, and sets your heart fluttering in your chest. Bond’s eyes search yours in silence, his brow scrunching slightly. Your gaze drops to his lips, and damnably lingers as his pink tongue sweeps across his lip. 

You’re jolted by the clacking of Eve’s knitting needles, and the sound of her pointedly clearing her throat. You step out of Bond’s grasp, yanking your hand from his as you avert your nervous eyes. 

“...Thank you, Sir James.” 

“At your service, Your Majesty.” 

You stalk around him with Eve hot at your heels. You feel him tracking you as you leave him standing alone in the garden. 

--  

He would have your head. 

Blofeld is not known for a tendency toward kindness. He has a reputation for his traps, for tricking opponents into showing their hands for the purpose of identifying their weak spots. He makes no attempt to shield you from his bloodlust and cruelty. You take each instance of outward barbarism as a warning, each smiling goad and teasing admonition as a silent threat: 

This could be you.

--  

The festivities to celebrate the day of Blofeld’s birth are a mighty affair. The events are to last a week. Lords, ladies, vassals, and knights arrive from all over the kingdom. There are dances, plays, poetry readings—and most importantly, a tournament. Of all of these events, you know that it’s crucial that you’re present for the tournament. With all of his barbarity, Blofeld adores the play of war. He takes inordinate pleasure in watching his knights fight for his attention, and finds amusement in the spilling of their blood. 

You have little interest in watching men beat one another senselessly, but you know that you must make a public showing, not only for your husband, but for the court, and his people. 

For all of your impatience and disinterest, you can’t help but keep your eyes trained on Sir James. His form and composure are a fascinating sight. You see the man nearly every day, but hardly ever in this way. It bolsters your belief that should you be attacked in the night, the man hunkering by your door will protect you with his life—and come out cleanly on the other side. 

When he approaches the stands on horseback before the joust, you’re certain that he’ll ask your husband to look on him with approval. But after he dips his head in deference toward your husband, he turns his attention to you. 

“Your Majesty,” He speaks up loudly enough for others in the stands to hear him, “Would you do me the honor of allowing me to wear your favors today?”

You can see Blofeld turn to you expectantly out of the corner of your eye, and hear the murmur of others around you. In the two years you’ve been married to Blofeld, you’ve never given your favors to any knight—every knight has been too afraid of your husband to ask. And since the very first moment you saw Sir James, since he gave you that quick wink as he swore his fealty, he has avoided untoward outward displays of interest. This is hardly untoward, but you know that it’ll set tongues wagging among the court. Now, you rise from your seat, fingers twining in the rich purple fabric. Sir James raises his lance, resting it on the railing for the stand. You look down, fighting to steady your shaking fingers as you carefully tie and knot the favor around the lance’s blunted tip before you step back again. The two of you trade a genial nod before you lower yourself to sit on your cushioned seat again. With nothing else to hold to, you rest your hands on the arms of your seat. 

It’s no great surprise that with his skill, Bond rises through the standings throughout the tournament. You watch time and again as he lowers his visor, tilts his lance, and sends his opponents off-kilter, or crashing through the ground. But his form, while near-perfect, is not invincible. Perhaps it’s just as well that the one man that matches him equally is the one that he’s closest to in court. In the rare moments that you’ve seen Bond relaxed, he’s been with Sir Felix. They were squires with the same knight, became warriors in the same war—and, if rumor is to be believed, became men with the same woman. They are as near to brothers as any two unrelated men could be. 

Perhaps it’s this familiarity that drives them both to tilt with such ferocity—a ferocity that nearly knocks Bond from his horse during the second round. A gasp catches in your throat as James’ body is bounced, nearly prone in his saddle. It’s another moment before he straightens. As he removes his helmet, you can just make out his expression twisting with discomfort, his startled, dazed blinking as blood runs from his forehead, nearly obscuring one of his bright eyes. Your stomach flips, and you tighten your grip on the arms of the chair to keep from rising to your feet. You have a damnable urge to run to him, to use your sleeves to wipe the blood from his face, and insist that he leave the tournament to see a physician.

Bond just impatiently pushes his squire’s hand away as the young boy tries to clean the blood from his master’s head. Bond crams his helmet back onto his head and grasps his previously fallen lance. Your gaze darts between him and Sir Felix as each man takes up their positions. Blofeld leans in to you, mistaking your panic for rapt interest. 

“Now all Felix has to do to finish him off is land a blow to James’ arm,” He says, “And he’ll win the championship.” 

“Has he ever won before?” You ask. 

“No. There’s yet to be a tournament that Bond hasn’t won. But that is all about to change.

Turning to look at your husband, you find his smile split wide into a bloodcurdling giddy grin. When he turns it toward you, you push a smile onto your lips, and murmur, 

“If his defeat pleases you, then it shall please me.” 

Blofeld’s grin manages to widen, and he claps his hand over yours with stinging force. You break your attention from one another as the thundering of hooves fills the air. Your gut tightens, your heart sinks—and then soars as a solid blow sends Felix tumbling from his horse and onto the ground. The crowd roars as James hoists his lance high in victory with your favor blowing in the wind, and you have to bite back your own sound of excitement. You feel Blofeld’s grip go slack, then drop away to grudgingly applaud Bond’s efforts. 

Bond’s face is as victorious as he tosses off his helmet, despite the river of red obscuring part of his face. He turns finally to the stand again and slides from his horse, kneeling to Blofeld. 

You know that Bond will be crowned champion. You’re certain that your husband is displeased. 

-- 

For all of his cruelty, Blofeld hardly exerts that power over you in your bed chamber. You spend most nights alone, and it’s rare that he orders for you to join him. His birthday is always one such occasion. You resign yourself to a dispassionate evening—a handful of thrusts, an encouraging pat on your cheek, and a mumble of producing an heir before he rolls away from you. You’re certain that he spends most nights with other women. 

You are at once grateful and pitying of their place in your husband’s affections.

Tonight, there is no knight in your chamber. It’s simply you, your husband, and the shock of Bond’s bright gaze and shining halo of hair in your mind’s eye. 

--  

You’re told of Bond’s carousing. Eve recounts how the evening unfolded to you as you breakfast together in your chambers. She tells you that Sir James and Sir Felix’s antics continued through the evening, starting with an arm wrestle, and ending with a drinking contest. She teases that Sir James was seen leaving the hall, following Lady Vesper into the night. The news unsettles you so much that you lower the last of your bread, unable to stomach it. For all of Eve’s teasing, she quiets when she notes your discomfort. 

“...You would have enjoyed yourself,” She finally offers. 

“I did enjoy myself.” 

It’s a hollow insistence, and one that she knows as well as you is a lie. 

-- 

Despite his victory and the whispers of his evening with Lady Vesper, Bond is as attentive and consistent with his attention toward you the following day. He has a bandage on his head, and you recognize a smear of salve that the physician uses on wounds. You go about your day as usual, fighting the urge to ask Bond if he needs rest, or if he’s in any pain, if he feels that your favors brought him any luck. 

The question sits on your lips all day. In the evening, alone with him, you can’t bring yourself to quiet it anymore:

“Are you quite well?” 

He hasn’t settled on his stool yet. He stands firm by the door, his hands clasped in front of himself. Surprise flits across his expression so quickly that you nearly don’t catch it, but he smooths it away again. 

“Well, ma’am?” 

You swallow thickly, tightening your robe around yourself and gesturing toward the bandage on his forehead. 

“You took a hard hit at the tournament yesterday.” 

His hand raises to it, but he stops and lowers his hand before he can touch it. 

“I have taken worse.

“I’m sure.” 

Perhaps that was a wrong thing to say; Bond’s gaze seems to narrow just a touch. 

“I am well, ma’am.” 

You give a short nod, mumbling, “Good,” Before you shuffle over to your bed. You blow out the remaining candles, plunging the room into darkness before you shrug your robe off and toss it aside. You curl up under the covers, curling your arms under your pillow and peering toward the window as you hear Bond lower himself to the stool. Tonight, you can’t abide by the quiet. Tonight, you find yourself fearing that you may have offended James when you simply meant to ask after his help.

“Goodnight, Sir James,” You murmur. You hear nothing for a few long moments, and you resign yourself to a cold loneliness. And then, so softly that you nearly miss it— 

“Goodnight, ma’am.”   

--  

The trip is a mandatory one, and something that you’ve undertaken twice before. It’s customary for Blofeld to make the journey, as he has every year since he was a young boy. The trip is long and arduous, tracked over the same path time and time again. You school your focus and try to embroider or read, despite the lingering headache that it inspires. You’ve learned the hard way that Blofeld doesn't care for idle hands, even if the efforts are to your detriment. 

Still, you squint narrowly, fighting to hold the book steady as the carriage rocks and jostles along the forest path. You push off the lingering fatigue that you feel, certain that if you nod off, Blofeld will level some whack or shove to bring you to again. It’s no use. Your eyelids begin to droop, and your head begins to hang over your book as your focus grows…dim…

You’re awakened at a thwack on the side of the carriage. Your eyes snap open, and you startle, shrieking when you spot an arrowhead buried beside your head in the wall of the carriage. You realize that the carriage has come to a standstill, and the air is filled with shouting voices and the hammering of hooves. The carriage door is flung open, and you cower as best you can as you hear Blofeld demanding, “Take her!” 

You think that you may be greeted with the concern of one of your loyal knights, but shock and fear twine in your belly as an unfamiliar bandit shoves his face through the door. He gives you a sinister grin, showcasing his scant, yellow teeth before he grasps your wrist and yanks you roughly from the carriage. You scream as you’re dragged out into the cold, your face pelted with torrential rain. You try in vain to dig your heels in, struggling and tugged through the mud. You can hear a fight around you, the yowling of Blofeld’s commands in his thin, screeching voice. For all of your efforts, you’re pulled nearer and nearer to the tree line. You wobble, losing your footing as your toe catches on the root of a tree. You stumble, and are shoved to the ground as your attacker lets go of you. You shriek as he catches hold of your collar, yanking you along like a disloyal dog. 

You draw in tight breaths, hands scrabbling with your clothing. You hear the thudding of boots running through mud before you’re abruptly dropped to the ground. Looking up, you hear the singing of steel, and the clash of it makes you wince, the sound grating to your ears. You recognize one of the knights as one of Blofeld’s men, but you can’t make out which. It’ll win. You scramble to stand, hands suctioning to the mud as you push yourself up before hurrying away from the road, deeper into the woods too dark to see which one—and for as much trust as you have in their skill, you have no certainty that they’s. 

You pant as you run, looking back every few moments to ensure that there’s no one following you. When you see a shadow falling into step with you, your heart pounds impossibly harder, and you face forward, pushing your legs to pump harder than your screaming muscles ought to allow. Someone catches hold of your hand, and you scream as you’re yanked to turn. A gloved hand claps over your mouth, and familiar blue eyes catch on yours. 

Sir James hushes you, snapping, “It’s me!” 

You push his hand away from your mouth, heaving in greedy breaths. You glance around as you hear the clashing of steel, the shouts of men that must still be by the road. Sapped of speech by your panic, you allow him to pull you along through the woods, winding a path that you’ve never known and will never be able to remember. Night is falling as quickly as the rain tumbles from the sky, and it becomes harder and harder to keep up with Bond. You finally manage to yank your hand loose from his, leaning back against a tree. You’re weak with fatigue, and your lungs and legs are pained. Sir James turns to face you, glancing around the tree that you’ve leaned against. 

“We cannot stop, ma’am.” 

“I need—I need a moment,” You insist between pants, bracing your trembling body against the tree. Bond glances around you again, taking a couple more steps toward you cautiously. 

“We need to get to safety before these woods grow too dark to travel.” He shifts his saddlebag on his shoulder, glancing over you as well as he can. 

“Are you hurt?” He asks. 

“No.” 

“You’re shaking.” 

“I’m cold.” 

Sir James reaches out, gently sweeping a few drops of rain from your cheek. Heat pulses through you despite the chill, your lip wobbling a touch. 

“Your Majesty,” He urges, “I know that you are tired, but we must go. There is an inn not far from here. We will room there for the night, and then we will find a way back to the castle, or to the king.” 

The king. You hadn’t thought of Blofeld, had time enough to well up your righteous anger. It surges up so harshly and suddenly that it pushes your breath from your body in a harsh pant. You swallow thickly as the sound seems to rouse Bond’s concern. 

“Alright,” You concede softly, “Alright. But…Must we run so fast?” 

Bond’s lips twitch slightly, and you know that he’s fighting off amusement. 

“Perhaps not quite so fast, Majesty.” 

--  

The inn is a ramshackle little thing compared to the castle that you’ve become accustomed to. You can’t help your embarrassment as passersby cast you curious and pitying looks, taking in your mud-soaked garments and chilled body. Your confusion is jolted when you hear Bond’s barked argument, the slamming of his first on the table. You turn toward him and find him staring the innkeeper down. 

“I told you,” You hear Bond growl, “I will pay you in four days time.” 

“You pay me now, or you sleep outside, in the mud.” 

You start forward before you can stop yourself, yanking your wedding ring off of your finger and joining Bond at the table. 

“This will cover it,” You insist primly, pressing it into the inn keeper’s hand, “Along with firewood, and meals. We will need hot water as well.” 

The innkeeper seems stunned by the sight of the thick gold band encrusted with rubies. Shock radiates from Bond beside him. You keep your gaze on the innkeeper before you clear your throat firmly. The innkeeper snaps to, stumbling over himself to round the table. His words fumble, offering to take Bond’s saddlebag in the same breath that he urges you to follow him. 

-- 

The room is nicer than you expected, but only slightly. There’s a large bed across from a fireplace, with a wool rug in the middle. There’s a shallow washbin in the corner with a pile of linen beside it, and a bar of soap sitting atop the fabric. Bond waves the servants carting the water deeper inside, and nods innkeeper away as he tries to further offer services. Bond simply insists that food and wine is brought as quickly as possible. Once he’s gone, Bond lowers his saddle bag. He looks around, catching sight of a solid partition divider. He takes hold of it, moving it around to the basin and setting it in front. You watch him stride back to his saddlebag then, drawing off his gloves and tossing them aside before he begins to look through his things. After a few moments, he draws out a long tunic, and rises. 

“It…” His gaze drifts over your muddied clothing. “I’m sorry that it isn’t what you’re used to.”

You shake your head a touch. 

“It is clean,” You insist, “And at this moment, that is all that matters.” You pluck it gently from his hands, muttering your thanks before you round behind the partition. You remove your soiled garments one by one, wincing at the dried mud crackling and dirtying the floor. 

“If you give me your garments,” Bond’s voice rings out on the other side, “We’ll have them washed.” 

Embarrassment churns your stomach, but you force it back and away in favor of throwing them over the divider. You wince as it rocks, then puff out a breath of relief as it settles without falling. After a moment, the cloth slips over the other side of the partition. You wash yourself as thoroughly as you can, scrubbing away the muck and the sweat and the panic. You feel yourself relaxing incrementally. It doesn’t disappear fully; it can’t, with you fully bare on one side of the partition, and your protector fully clothed and waiting just on the other side. Your heart flutters in your chest when you hear him move, or sigh, or clear his throat. Once you’re clean, you pull the light grey tunic on. The fabric is a little itchy, but it’s a far cry from the fabric you’re used to—lighter, and…Shorter. It hardly brushes your knees. You go warm with nerves as you gaze at the expanse of your bare legs that will be revealed to him. You’ve really no other choice, and you try to make peace with that. 

You’re about to step from behind the partition when you hear the door open, and freeze. The murmur of Bond and the innkeeper’s voices exchanging food and soiled clothing drops away quickly enough, and is chased by the door behind closed again. You wait a few moments in testy silence before speaking up:

“May I come out now?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

You step out from around the partition, pointedly avoiding Bond’s eye as you walk to where plates laden with food have been set down on the wool rug. 

“Smells good,” You mumble, lowering yourself to the floor. When Bond makes no response, you glance warily uup at him. You thrill when you find his gaze sweeping your bare skin with covetous fascination. When his eye catches on yours, it lingers. You’re a touch stunned by his boldness, though perhaps you ought not to be. This man sees you every day—but not like this. He finally turns from you, mumbling that he ought to freshen up. You sigh softly once he’s moved behind the partition, scooching closer to the fire and letting your legs stick out straight, warming your feet with the heat coming from the hearth. You wiggle your numbed and chilled toes, resting back on your hands as you listen to Bond disrobe, then the babbling sound of cloth being pressed into water, wrung out, and, presumably, scrubbed across his body. 

What must he look like? You can only imagine—and you have imagined before. Seeing him at the tournament had only bolstered what you thought his body must look like, the expanse of muscle. Would there be a scar, or two? All accumulated before his squireship? Some during his knighthood, surely. 

When Bond rounds the partition, pink-cheeked from his vigorous washing, he seems surprised. 

“...Have you not eaten?”

You shake your head a little, pushing yourself to sit up straight. 

“I was waiting for you.” 

He seems even more stunned by the prospect, but he lowers himself to sit on the other side of the plates, and the pitcher of ale that had been brought up with the food. The taste is far sharper than the wine that you’re used to, and you just manage to stave off a wince. It warms you right through as well as the fire, and you take two deep swigs. You hear a soft huff, a warning of, 

“Perhaps you ought to slow, ma’am. You’ve had nothing to eat.” 

You grunt softly, setting the glass aside and using the long sleeve of the tunic to swipe at your messy mouth. The food isn’t much, but it is delicious. It’s nearly enough to fill you—and would be if there was only one of you there. Bond eats with less ravenous hunger than you do. Perhaps he’s less hungry; perhaps he’s doing his best to oblige you for the sake of how trying your day has been. Regardless, when you’ve finished, you lean back against the wall behind you. You point your toes again, wiggling and watching them as fatigue begins to creep up in the place of hunger. 

“...I will get you home safely.” 

Sir James offers it without provocation, and you wonder if your face has belied some concern, some confusion. You glance up toward him and find you watching him closely. 

“I am sure of it,” You nod. 

“And I am certain the king is well.” 

You laugh bitterly, then. You can’t help the way it falls from your mouth, or force it away again in the twist of his confusion. 

“I am sure,” You agree dryly. “I am sure he is well. God save him. God save the noble king.” 

If Blofeld were there, he would order your head struck from your shoulders. If Bond relayed your words, you were certain you would face the gallows. But now, with your belly fool and your head swimming slightly from panic and ale, you can’t bring yourself to care. You take your tankard up again, wincing at the scent that rises from it, the low slosh of liquid. 

“You shouldn’t have given that man your wedding ring,” Bond chides. 

“He told them to take me,” You tell him. “When those…Men,” You spit it, “Came to the carriage, the King told them to—” Your breath hitches in your throat, hand tightening around the tankard further. You raise it and swallow roughly as tears prickle your eyes. You set it aside once it’s empty, sniffling as the tears rise further. For all of his cruelty, Blofeld’s blatant disregard for your life was a step too far. How were you to know whether or not he’d set the attack himself? You’d always feared that he’d grown tired of you, your charms. 

You hardly registered the shift of Bond’s shadow until he’s standing over you.

“Are you still cold?” He asks softly. You nod, and Bond holds his hand out to you. You take it, allowing him to tug you to stand. You wobble a little, stilling only when his other hand rests on your hip to steady you. He tows you to the bed, and you let him push the covers back and nod you in. You scooch down against the mattress, pouting at the feeling of the odd piece of straw poking through. You watch as Bond turns his back, settling down on the wool rug again. You push yourself up onto your elbows, frowning. 

“Where will you sleep?”

He turns to look at you, brows furrowing a touch. 

“Here.” He gestures to the rug. 

“But,” You shake your head, “You’ll freeze.” 

“We’ve a fire.” 

“We’ll take turns.” 

“Ma’am.” 

“We will.” You use your most imperious tone, but he doesn’t so much as blink. 

“You need rest,” He insists. 

“As do you. If you fall ill…” You consider for a moment. You know this man, a little. You think you know what may spur him to action. You force a slight pout, urging: 

“What will I do without my protector?” 

Darkness flashes across Bond’s gaze. It’s another moment before he pushes himself up again, walking around to the other side of the bed. He pushes the covers back, carefully lowering himself to the other side of the bed and tugging the sheets up around the two of you. You glance over toward him and find him stalwartly watching the ceiling. You hesitate before you finally scooch a little closer. His gaze skates sharply toward you, and you bite your lip to silence your panic. 

“I’m still cold,” You mumble. Bond is quiet for a moment before he rolls onto his side, shifting closer. 

“Give me your hands,” He urges softly. You roll onto your side as well, holding your hands up from beneath the covers. Bond cups them, drawing them close and puffing his hot breath against them. Your fingers twitch in his gentle grasp, and you shiver softly as his lips brush against your fingertips. You well up your courage, your want, your sorrow, and turn an index finger toward his lips, pressing it gently there. It’s a moment before he presses a tender kiss to it. You gently draw it back as if moving too fast will startle him, turning your finger toward yourself and pressing a kiss to it in turn. Bond’s gaze drops covetously to your lips, his own parted as his grip tightens on your other hand. You shift a touch closer, brushing the tip of your nose to his. His eyes hold steady on your lips, even with you this close. 

“Your majesty,” He warns softly. 

“Sir James—” 

“We ought not to—” 

“Please.” 

Your plea seems to shock him. Perhaps he’s never heard a queen beg. Perhaps he can’t imagine her needing to. Perhaps what spurs him is his oath of fealty, to serve at your pleasure. Before you have any further time to question his motives, he dives in, pressing his mouth to yours. 

There’s far more heat to the embrace than you’ve ever felt with Blofeld, and it’s hardly more than a kiss. But James’ jaw grasps warmly at your cheek, holding you steady as he spears his tongue between your lips. You whimper softly, raising your free hand to slip into his hair and keep him close. He draws away with a slick sound, and before you can whimper or whine, he pushes you onto his back, covering your body with his own. You splay your thighs for him, whimpering as his warm, solid body settles over you. Your fingers grapple with the fabric of his tunic, nails catching in the odd snag. James kisses you with an almost ravenous force, as if there’s some great fire in him that only your lips can quench. 

James’ hips rock down against yours, and you quiver at the feeling of him hardening against your thigh. It’s not a sensation that you’re unfamiliar with, but you’ve never thrilled in the sensation in quite this way before. You tip your hips up toward him, letting out a pleading moan as your cunt throbs. 

You expect it to be perfunctory, and you’re resigned to it. For all of Bond’s passionate kisses, you’re content with a handful of quick thrusts before settling into sleep and silence. But Bond pushes the fabric of your tunic up, drawing it over your head and off. You lick your lips as his kisses skim over your neck, brushing along your clavicle, then drifting over the swell of your breast. You suck in a soft, stunned breath as his tongue swipes out, swirling around one of your pebbling nipples before toying it tenderly between his lips. You bite your lip, desperate to stifle your moan as his thigh presses against your core. You don't know what possesses you, but your hips seem to roll on instinct, chasing the tantalizing pressure. Some part of you brushes against the muscle of his thigh, and your hips give a jolt of their own volition. 

The sensation that ripples through you knocks loose an embarrassing moan. Bond’s smile goes rakish and wide, his hands and lips tenderly smoothing their way down your body. You’re dismayed as he draws his knee away, certain that your time together is nearing an end. But rather than spear into you as you expect, he pushes your thighs wide. You bite your lip as his finger trails gently over your slick, aching skin before you feel the tender brush of wet heat. You jump in shock, but Bond’s arm keeps your hips pinned to the bed as he gives your cunt another tender lick. Your body goes hot as you catch sight of his darkening eyes peering up at you in the dim light of the room. You push out a shaky breath, your hips giving an exploratory tip toward him. His eyelids flutter as he laves his tongue along your plumping lips. You slide your hands down over his head, chasing your stunned pleasure. Your mouth parts as you pant, as Bond laps and licks and teases you with his fingers and tongue. 

For every tumble into your marriage bed, you’ve never felt yourself come alive like this before. You’d been a virgin when you met Blofeld, and have only ever been with him. For the scant whispers that have made their way back to you in court, you’ve never heard that Blofeld has any additional vigor or passion with the other ladies at court. You’ve just assumed that that is what the act of lovemaking was: quick, simple, and unenjoyable. 

You’ve never been so happy to be so wrong. 

When James hikes your leg up around his hip and eases into you, your mouth drops open in a wail. He claps his hand down over your mouth, shushing you softly. His already-bright eyes are brighter still with mirth; his lips and chin are slick from his lapping and teasing; color is rising in his cheeks. 

“You don’t want them to know what we’re doing in here, do you?” He murmurs. “If they should learn whose ring that is, who you are…” He rolls his hips, “It’ll be both our heads.” 

You nod slightly in agreement, cunt throbbing as his hips begin to drive more roughly. Your mouth drops, and you pant hotly against the broad stretch of his palm. The odd whimper and whine still slip from your lips as James fucks you with an almost leisurely pace. You’re used to a shove, a harsh pounding, a spill—but James lowers his hands and strokes reverently over your body, loving you with an unhurried pace, as if he has all the time in the world. 

– 

Waking is slow going. You immediately feel that something is…wrong. Your bed isn’t nearly as soft as it normally is; you can hear the calls of voices below, bellows for breakfast, and hot water, and for someone’s horse to be brought. You draw in a deep breath, shifting and wincing as a piece of hay jabs at your back. You still as you feel someone’s foot brush yours, then draw in a quiet breath as you feel James’ lips brush your shoulder. You turn your head to find him still blinking the sleep from his eyes. You raise your hand, gently stroking over his cheek. He smiles softly, tipping his head toward you and pressing another kiss to your skin. You let your hand slide down from his cheek before you roll onto your side. James’ smile drops away for a moment as you nudge his shoulder, urging him on to his back. It blooms again as you slide your leg over him, straddling his thighs. You let your gaze drift openly down his chest, trailing your fingers over fading scars and raised scratches from yesterday’s fight. You bow over him, nuzzling into his neck as his hands smooth over your back. 

“How did you sleep?” He murmurs. You have to fight away a shiver at the sound of his voice, so much deeper than you’re used to hearing. 

“Well enough.” You brush your cheek against his, drawing in the still-lingering scent of the soap that he’d used the night before. 

“We’ll need to leave soon,” He warns. You don’t let him see you pout; you just hum your agreement as you tenderly draw his earlobe between your teeth, giving it a tug. You feel James’ hips twitch beneath you, and a little thrill curls in your stomach as James’ hands smooth over your thighs. Your body is a touch sore, but you know well enough that it’s a result from your stumbling through the woods as quickly as you could the day prior, and not from your night with your knight. You smile as James tips your head to the side, his nose nudging gently against yours before he catches your lips with his. You let out a happy little sigh, shifting atop him. Your cunt throbs as the apex of your thighs brushes against his muscled stomach. James’ hands raise to cup your cheeks, loosing a soft, encouraging hum as you begin to roll your hips down against him. 

Your night of tender care has brought out a boldness in you that you’ve tempered for a long time. James urges you on, his hands closing around your hips and guiding your aimless grinding. He eases you back after a few moment, your plumping cunt catching against your opening. 

You don’t need convincing, and he doesn’t need urging.

--  

You’d clung to him as long as you were able, but your grip had grown slack as the castle had come into view. Sir James had lowered his hand, resting it gently atop yours. 

“What do you say if he should ask where your wedding ring went?” 

“I lost it in the woods,” You mumble obediently. 

“And where we were?” 

“It was dark, and I can’t remember.” 

“Good girl.” 

You press your face into his neck, grip tightening around him again. 

“And if he should ask if you took care of me?” You murmur. James gives your hand a soft squeeze. 

“That answer is at your discretion.” 

--  

He isn’t happy that you’re alive. 

Blofeld manages to feign relief for a few seconds, but it quickly drops away, leaving behind an apparent disdain, one that you wouldn’t know if you hadn’t known him for so long. But you throw yourself at his feet, and sob, and swear that your only thought for days has been for his safety. 

Blofeld insists on staying with you on your first night back, but he hardly touches you. It’s not for a lack of trying. You force yourself to curl up to him, to rest your forehead against his shoulder and grasp his hand, dropping kisses to his skin and pressing as close as you dare. It’s a relief that he doesn’t take as he likes, knowing that Sir James is just on the other side of the door. 

--  

He’s been your shadow for so long, but he sticks even closer now. James is hardly a step or two away from you these days, close enough that you can feel the heat of him bleeding through his armor as he lingers behind you. 

Your bed is no longer cold in the evening, and James’ stool sits unattended. His body covers yours, his cock sheathed in your loving cunt as you bite your tongue and dig your fingernails into your muscles, silencing your moans and whimpers. 

You’ve never known what it was to be cuddled and held through the night, to wake up day after day with the press of lips to your forehead, a murmur of, “I must go,” and, “I shall see you soon.” He’s always at your side, in your bed, in your arms. Sir James gives you the constancy that you were meant to expect from your husband. It occurs to you that you are breaking your marriage covenant, that your actions may lead to trouble, to Hell. 

But as you peer up into James’ eyes, and tenderly swipe the beads of sweat from his forehead as his cock softens inside you, you realize that you’ll take your steps into the underworld happily. 

He begins to openly slight other women. Lady Vesper makes her advances. She flirts in the dining hall, and makes eyes as she sits with you and your other ladies maids. You can’t help but glance toward Sir James as she does, as she bats her eyelashes and pushes out her chest. They’re valiant attempts for a valiant man, but Sir James keeps his gaze focused ahead of himself, hardly flinching, not even bothering to give her a wink. It makes your smile widen villainously as you lean back in your seat, raising your book to cover your grinning face. 

--  

“They want you, you know,” You murmur. James shifts his head questioningly on the pillows, tipping his head to the side as you ghost your lips over his strong chest. 

“My ladies,” You clarify, waggling your brows. He smiles a touch, raising a hand to stroke your cheek. 

“I haven’t noticed.” 

“Oh, no? It’s been difficult for me not to notice,” You argue. 

“I’ve no interest.” 

“None?” 

James grasps your jaw gently, tipping your chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes bore warmly into yours, mischief and affection sparkling in his gaze. 

“Whose bed am I in now?” 

Your skin heats at the reminder. 

“Mine,” You murmur. 

“And you think I care for anyone else’s affection?” 

“Your king’s?” 

James gives you a shove that catches you off-guard. You land on your back, sucking in a gasp as he grasps your thigh and tugs you closer. You lay flat and open beneath him, heart pounding in your chest. 

“I have no king,” He swears. “Only you.” 

-- 

It’s Eve to notice it first, and it’s no great shock. You don’t think of it at first—you have other things on your mind. Your body is constantly aching; you’re so satisfied that you simply don’t think of it. 

But after two weeks—after she grasps your arm upon your waking and asks if your courses have stopped—your heart plummets. 

You don’t call for a doctor. You think that perhaps you’re merely late. But you know, deep down, that that simply can’t be it. You haven’t been with your husband in months, not since your birthday—not since you tried and failed to entice him on your return. There’s no doubt of whose it is. 

--  

James groans, shoving your hips more harshly against the castle wall as his hips push more insistently against you. You’ve taken your leave early from a banquet, pleaded your shadow to follow you into an alcove so that you might have a chance to talk, unable to wait until you reach your bed chamber. 

A child. 

His hands had grasped and tugged at your skirts, spreading you wide in the darkness and pressing into you as if he can give you another just now. You press your face into his neck, muffling your moans. 

“I have nothing but you,” He growls, sliding his hand down to smooth over your belly, “We have nothing but this.” 

-- 

“It isn’t safe for us here.” 

He murmurs it against your hair as he smooths his hand up your bare back. You consider for a moment, fingers trailing over his shoulder as sunlight begins to creep into the room. 

“Where could we go?” 

“France.” 

You frown, tipping your chin up to get a better look at him. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling as he adds, “Blofeld only has enemies there. We are to become traitors to the crown.” 

“We are already traitors to the crown.” 

James hums in soft concession, and you let your eyes slide closed. 

“When would we leave?” You mumble. 

“As soon as we possibly can ” 

“And how?” 

“You leave it to me.” 

“But James—” 

He looks down, running his thumb over your lower lip and silencing you. 

“Do you trust me?” 

You turn your head, pressing a kiss to his thumb. 

“Of course I do.” 

His smile widens as he ducks in for a gentle kiss. 

“Then you leave it to me.” 

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight; @amneris21 ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ;

[cliophilyra]

Intimacy Prompt 23:

Wearing Someone’s Clothes - Saltommy

For @thingbe Thank you for this prompt!! It doesn’t have a title yet but if I put it on AO3 I’ll have to think of one 😊

Saltommy - rated T (Not beta read so apologies for any typos)

>Sal: Fuck me this rain is biblical

>Tommy: Yeah it’s a disaster out there - where are you?

>On way home, gonna change then should be at yours by time you’re back. That’s the plan anyway - if I don’t drown.

>Don’t text and drive deluca

>Har har - does it count as driving if you haven’t moved in 30 mins?

>🙁

—————

>No one in this fucking town can drive

>Except you of course

>Naturally 😉

—————

> How are we still this bad at driving in the rain? It happens every fucking year now and it’s still a shock?

>Calm down old man you’ll give yourself an aneurysm

>Fuck you Kinard

>Maybe later

>I’m gonna hold you to that

>😘

——————

>Fuuuuuuuccccckkkkk

>Can I help you?

>The fucking truck just died

>???

>idk it just crapped out on the side of the road 🤷‍♂️ I can’t see anything obvious but it’s still pouring down sideways so it’s not easy to see.

>Can you get a tow? Where are you?

>Oh fuck it. I’m like 10 mins from yours. If I go straight there I can grab the truck tomorrow if the fucking rain calms down. I do NOT know what the wait is gonna be today.

>Tommy?

>K, there’s a key in the fake rock thing on the drive

>Yeah yeah I know. Game starts in 90. Also you gotta get a better hiding place for the key.

>🙄

—————

>Fuck this. I am never going to be dry again

>10 mins seems a lot longer in a fucking monsoon

>The next car that splashes me I swear to god I’m going to fucking murder someone

>Made it!

>Hooray. And you were so stoic about it too. Should be done in 30 🤞

>🍆💦

>😏

——————

>Ah shit there goes the bell, I’m going to be late. Sorry babe

>Oh this is a fucking nightmare

>En route to the 500th RTA of the day

>Fuck the rain. You were right I take it all back

>Finally!

———————

When Tommy finally gets home it’s two hours later than he expected. The rain had brought with it an seemingly endless stream of RTAs as Angelinos struggled to get to grips, sometimes literally, with the unfamiliar road conditions and flooding. He drops his bag inside the door with a heavy sigh and kicks off his wet boots.

He can’t deny Sal asking to come here when he was out kind of took him by surprise. They’ve been friends for years and...whatever they are now...for long enough, but this is the first time Sal has been here without him. It caught him off guard somehow, how he was so casual about it. Not that he would have said no. Just…

He can hear the TV from the other room and he walks in expecting to see Sal with his feet up, drinking his beer and eating chips with a cocky grin. Maybe there’d be a suggestive look and a hand on his belt, dragging him in.

What he’s not expecting to see is Sal asleep on his couch, stretched out on his front with his face cushioned against his arms, wearing Tommy’s clothes.

Tommy is aware on one level that he did tell Sal to grab dry clothes but he was in no way prepared for the warmth that blooms in his chest when he looks down at him. Of course there’s the way his sweat pants stretch across Sal’s ass, a little tighter on his broader waist, and the way his shoulders fill the old LAFD t-shirt, sleeves stretched tight around his biceps, hem riding up over his stomach to reveal a strip of tan skin that makes Tommy’s mouth water. But there’s also the damp towel draped over the arm of the couch, the half-empty beer bottle and bag of chips next to his spare key on the coffee table, the warm sandalwood smell of Tommy’s soap clinging to his skin and the way his face looks so soft, his breathing deep and even, muscles lax in sleep. How he looks like he belongs here. Like he’s at home.

Tommy reaches out a tentative hand and pushes his fingers through Sal’s short hair, smoothing the damp strands back softly. Sal makes a deep sound in his throat and pushes back against Tommy’s hand, stiring slowly.

“Hey Kinard,” Tommy grins softly. Sal opens his eyes groggily, blinking up at him.

“Huh?”

“Nice t-shirt.”

“Oh,” Sal laughs, twisting a little as if he could see Tommy’s name emblazened across his own shoulders. “Yeah.” He looks up again, brow furrowing slightly as Tommy scratches gently at his scalp making him groan.

“Sorry I’m late. Shift from hell,” Tommy says softly.

“S’ok baby,” Sal sits up and fixes him with a look, eyes darkening. There’s that smirk and that big hand reaching out for his belt, drawing him in.

Tommy goes willingly, as always, but this time, instead of unzipping his fly and taking him in his mouth, or pushing him down to his knees, Sal pulls him in by his waist until Tommy stumbles against the couch and drops into his lap, knees either side of his thighs, then curls his fingers around Tommy’s jaw and presses their lips together in a kiss that is unlike anything they have shared before. It’s soft and slow, insistent and deep and it makes Tommy’s skin tingle all over. He feels like he could shoot sparks out of his fingertips as he slides his hands over Sal’s shoulders and up his neck, warmth flooding through him as Sal cradles his head as if he is something precious, smoothing his thumbs across his cheekbones as he kisses him. Tommy kisses back, hoping he’s somehow communicating everything he felt when he saw Sal asleep on his couch. How much it felt like home, like something he wants to see every day.

Sal pulls back eventually, Tommy makes a noise that could be described as a whine, although he certainly wouldn’t call it that.

“Welcome home baby.”

“Where did that come from?” Tommy says, trying to sound less breathless than he feels.

Sal shrugs. “Felt like the thing to do. I kinda liked it...waiting for you to come home.”

“I kinda like it too,” Tommy smiles, kissing him again. “I like coming home to you.”

Sal bites his lip, sucking it between his teeth, making Tommy hiss and grind down against the hard-on he can feel pressing against his own cock.

“Also my clothes looks really fucking good on you,” Tommy murmurs against his lips.

Sal smirks. “Mmm I dunno, think they’d look better on the floor.”

*****

Afterwards, when they’re collapsed in a heap on the floor next to the couch Tommy reaches up and grabs the spare key from the coffee table and dangles it from his finger.

“I think I’ve thought of a better place to hide this,” he grins.

“Yeah?”

“How about you look after it?”

EDIT: It has a title now! Keys To Fit Our Locks on AO3