#Through The Heart Is The Only Way

[bisexual-horror-fan]

Through The Heart Is The Only Way. Chapter Twelve. "The Bigger Picture."

Well hey! I wanted to update this one more time before the new year and here it is! With some time to spare! I hope you all enjoy this, cuz it has been a long time coming. There is a moment near the end of this that I have been planning since before I started writing this fic, so I hope this lives up to expectation. Series masterlist here.

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 7.3K. Charles Lee Ray/Tiffany Ray Valentine/FEM! AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings. Polyamory. Fluff. Date. Stealing. General Crime. Making Out. Grinding. Vaginal Fingering. Raw Sex. Rough Sex. Forced Cream Pie. Spanking. Praise. Degradation. Dirty Talk. Scratching. Multiple Orgasms. Kink Without Communication. Choking. Overstimulation. Cigarette Burns. Feelings.

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You wake up with feet that are a little sore from so much dancing in your heels, hair that is a mess and caught in the middle between him and her. Tiffany is already awake and starting to untangle herself, she gets out of bed and fuck, it’s cold! You huff and roll over, Chucky already pulling the blanket up higher to cover you both, you nudge closer into him, and he slips an arm around you. Ahh, blessed warmth, much better.

This is such a comfort, you find yourself craving this more and more the nights you are away, wishing you could wake up to Chucky and Tiffany, you cuddle more into the firmness of his chest as you muse silently. Your nose traces up his throat as you inhale, smelling the slight lingering of last night’s post sex cigarette, a smell you have come to associate with them and find yourself enjoying in a way you never used to B.C. (Before Chucky)

You can hear Tiffany messing around in the ensuite bathroom, you still doze a little until she comes back into the room, the drawers start to open as does the closet and is she already getting dressed?

Chucky must be thinking the same thing, after another minute of rummaging, he lifts his head up slightly and asks Tiffany, “Where the fuck are you off to in such a hurry?”

She laughs, a beautiful melodic sound, you look over your shoulder to see her fondly shaking her head, “I told you last night before I left for my date, I had that appointment this morning, and then the thing after it, and after that too, basically my whole day is booked up so I gotta go.”

You sit up and Chucky groans, “Don’t you get up too-” Ignoring him and the chill on your exposed skin, arms crossing over your naked chest, nipples hardening with the temperature shift and attempting to ease it, you ask her, “You didn’t say anything last night, everything okay?”

She smiles in that comforting way you love, she comes over, she is half dressed, bra and jeans on, she leans down and kisses you, it’s soft yet firm, a hint of tongue and totally Tiffany, your eyes fall closed. As soon as you lean in she is pulling away with a laugh, you pout, eyes opening back up to see her apologetic expression as she says, “I'm sorry baby, really, I wish I could spend the whole day with you both and I hate to have to run, but I can carve out a little time to see you later this week?” 

You sigh, pretending to be put out, hiding the true reaction inside, the one of your heart fluttering over getting to see her multiple times this week, “I suppose I can live with that.” 

“You’re too good to me.” She straightens up and walks over to the dresser, she pulls out a tank top and slips it on before reaching for some socks. You finish watching her get dressed, and then she is sitting at her make-up vanity, you love to watch her do this, you bring your knees up and hug them as you observe her. She applies powder, liner and eyeshadow, lipstick in such a precise manner, knowing exactly the look she is striving for, you enjoy the domestic nature of it and the quiet of the morning, lose yourself in sweeps of colour over her lips and the clink of the jewellery she puts on, the hum of the radiator kicking on.

She is done with the process all too soon, she comes over and gives you both a peck goodbye, Chucky tries to entice her into a deeper kiss which makes her smack his shoulder in response before she breaks off, “Asshole-” She says it with approximately zero bite, tone lighter as she said next, “-love you Chuck, I’ll see you later, bye!” 

“Bye Tiff, love you.” Chucky echos your statement, you hear her shoes being put on, and the door slamming closed, and she was gone. 

You look at him, he is laying back, one hand behind his head, the other resting on his chest, he is looking up at you and with a smile he says, “Hey.” 

A small laugh as you greet him in kind, “Hey.” 

“Just you and me, hmm?” He reaches over to his pack of cigarettes that had been left on the nightstand, you watch him do the usual moves of pulling it out, putting it between his lips and grabbing his lighter. You hum in response as he lights up, once he exhales he says, “Almost feels like you’ve been favouring Tiff over me.” 

You laugh, “I have one date with her just us and you start getting jealous?”

He scoffs and bites back as he flicks the lighter open and closed, a habit you've seen him do many a time while smoking, “You have had more than one solo date with her, and no I am not fucking jealous, I just wanna spend some time with you too.” 

“Just us?” The question is soft in tone and content as you look in his eyes.

He takes another drag, maintaining eye contact, confirming on the exhale, “Yeah, just us.”

You lay back down beside him, facing him on your side, and you say, “Well I’m off today. What are you doing?” 

His eyes squint in consideration, “Not a damn thing. Why?” 

“I was thinking how about we spend the day together then? I have nothing planned, and I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.” You grab his hand that wasn’t holding his smoke and pull it towards you, kissing the back of it.

He grins at that, fingers run over the curve of your cheek and says, “Soon as I am done with this-” he gestures to the cigarette, “-we’ll get presentable and go out for breakfast and then plan what we are gonna do.” 

Sounds perfect. You and Chucky laze in bed a little longer, enjoying the warmth of the sheets, before finally starting the day. As you are using your finger to give your mouth a once over with some toothpaste, you wonder if you are going to be spending the night more often if you should keep a toothbrush here, you wonder if that is too soon to suggest, or is it okay to ask because you are their girlfriend?

You end up borrowing some clothes so you aren’t running around in last night's clubbing attire, you can get away with a pair of Tiffany’s pants and one of her tops, your shoes and coat are fine and honestly, after brushing your hair and stealing some eyeshadow and lip gloss? You feel pretty cute, you think she’d approve, the heels elevate the whole thing.

Spring is coming in, you can feel it in the nearly aggressive sunshine, the warm wind starting to blow, you are glad you got that last skate in, no way would you be able to have another go at the rink until next November at the earliest. You and Chucky are holding hands as you make your way to the usual diner, the sidewalk is wet, much less icy from the thawing of winter hitting the city, you think that you kind of love that breakfast food is becoming your thing with them. 

Once seated in the usual booth, steaming food in front of you and a mug in your hand, the conversation flows over what to do, starting with a joke from you, “So what are you going to do to win my favour? Because I dunno if you’ve noticed, but Tiffany plans some superb dates.”

He nearly chokes on his coffee, setting his mug down, with a clearing of his throat, he asks, “And what was last night's date that was so stellar?”

“She took me out to my first gay bar.” You say nonchalantly, and he pauses for a second before cursing, “Fuck, that is good.” 

“Duh.” You taunt with a smile, and he says, “Well I can show you a good time too, and I don’t need an abundance of lesbians paired with flashing club lights and too loud music to dazzle you-”

You mouth the word, “dazzle” in question, disbelief that he said that as your eyebrows furrow, and he cuts in before you can make fun, “-shut it, point is, I can prove, by day's end, without a shadow of a doubt that I can give you a date as good as she does.” 

“I’m excited to see you try, doing it sans lesbians though will be a challenge.” The tone is playful, and he sighs as he starts cutting into his eggs, then pointing at you with his now egg yolk coated knife, “You need to have more faith in me.”

Taking a sip of your coffee, you hum before setting the mug down, “You are right, so what are you thinking of for the rest of our day?”

A swallow before he imparts, “I feel like any day out like this needs to have some element of spontaneity, so here is what I think, we pick the main event and then see where the rest of the day takes us.” His offer held endless appeal. 

“And what do you think the main event should be?” You inquire, and he says simply, a gesture of the silverware in his hands, “The museum.” 

You like it, but still you ask, “Which museum? There’s kinda a lot of them in a city like Chicago.” 

He laughs, as if it is obvious, “The Art Institute Of Chicago.” 

Of course, where else would you go? You remember very vividly the conversation you had over pizza and sodas that night awhile back, after Tiffany spilled about his love of art, told you about that date he had with your shared girlfriend where he painted her. You suggested going to the museum sometime offhandedly, and him remembering and suggesting it first made you happy.

“I love it, let’s do it.” You gush, and he seemed pleased by your enthused reaction. 

Breakfast is delicious, he thoroughly enjoys the usual eggs, bacon, potatoes and toast, as do you the fruit and whipped cream and syrup laden waffles you decided on. You steal a bite or two of his hash browns, he gives you shit over it, a joking call of, “Hey!” 

You mollify him with some bites of waffle in trade, which he accepts without complaint.

Next up you go to throw money down for the meal, and he stops you, “Put that shit away, I got it.”

“You sure?” Asking as you bring your mug up to finish the remaining coffee.

He pulls out the appropriate bills and puts them down on the bill. “Yeah, honey, M’ sure, think of my masculine pride.” 

You laugh unapologetically, “Oh if I don't, who will?” 

A raise of his eyebrows, a mischievous smile as he starts to put his coat on, “Exactly. Now come on, got a whole day ahead, let's not spend it all in this diner, hm?”

That you more than agree with, your own coat shrugged on and you were off.

You had a good handle on the subway system and finding the nearest station and how to get to the museum was an easy enough task, it was near the water, totally too far to walk from the diner you all liked. The trip took less than an hour all in, the time filled with idle chat and comfortable silences. 

While you and he were on the train, you were seated, him standing and holding the bar above his head in front of you. He had his favoured long coat open, showing off the mostly buttoned red wine coloured shirt and dark-coloured slacks, he still had some gloves on to fight the lingering chill. 

“So you’ve been to this museum before?” You asked, and he gave a nod, “Yeah a few times, when I got the time and want to-” still holding the bar with one hand he made air quotes as he said, “-immerse myself in the arts.” 

You smile at how he said it, and ask, “And that is often?”

He shrugs as he tells you, “Yeah, often enough. It’s a good way to kill time, especially since they almost always have some new stuff or exhibits that are there for a shorter stint, hard to find a better place to wander for free.”

You had to agree, and you were very excited, the knowledge of him being an art lover and a painter was relatively new to you, and being in a place where you could talk on it at length and hear all his opinions? Sounded like a fantastic way to get to know him on a deeper level. 

The ride passes smoothly and once getting off at the right stop you both make your way to the museum. You had never been to this particular one, you’d been to others in the city sure, but this one had escaped you till now, that fact made this date all the more special in your eyes, sharing this brand-new experience and letting him take the lead, Chucky was good at that. You both had your coats off and holding them, folded over one arm, while you held hands with the other, making your way through the rooms. 

“So, I gotta know-” You begin, and he hums questioning, a look away from the impressionist work he had been eyeing and instead turning his attention to you. 

“-where did the love of art start?” 

He looks thoughtful for a moment, he usually speaks his mind easily, his mouth opens and words flow off his tongue, natural, him taking time to seriously think on something wasn’t the norm. “Probably sometime before I started school even. I was one of those kids that could be easily entertained with finger paints or a box of crayons and sheets of paper.” 

“Early start then.” You say, and he tells you, “Yeah, kinda always remember being into it, sure it has changed, shifted, focused over the years, but it’s one of those-” he makes a gesture with his hand, a kind of wishy-washy movement, eyes up to the ceiling, before snapping his fingers when finding the word he wants, “-constants! Yeah. It’s been a constant in my life. You?”

“Eh, I took a few art classes in school, but it all kinda stopped after that, the most artistic and creative thing I do now is nail art.” You say, holding your joined hands up, showing off your current manicure, a deep sapphire blue and sparkly. 

“Still a skill, still pretty, besides, I dunno if my ego could take it if you were a better artist than me.” He teases, and you laugh, he piles on before you can respond, “I mean it! I need to be the most creative person in the relationship, otherwise what am I bringing to the table?” 

“Oh, I dunno, your sparkling wit? Your car I still haven’t seen or ridden in? Your company? Your dick?” You list off, grinning all the while, and he says, “First off, thank you, second off, when the salt is off the roads you’ll get a ride in her, third, so true it is a gift and I think that last point should be higher up on this list.” 

“My mistake, you are right, my sincere apologies to you and your fantastic dick.” You pivot next, “So, back to the topic at hand, what do you like the most about art?” 

“Full of questions-” He starts, and you scoff, “Oh fuck off, you can’t have it both ways! We are in an art museum, you are THE artist boyfriend, the supposed creative one in our little three-way relationship, this is the time and place for this, so please, expound.”

You said it in a very comical way, and he laughs this time, head thrown back, and you add on, “Seriously Chuck, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, your girlfriend is over here begging for you to brag on your artistic knowledge, do I gotta wave you in like a plane coming in for landing, just so I can lap up your every word? You’ve got a good thing here, take advantage of it, perhaps?” 

“Quit while I’m ahead, hmm?” He offers, and you release his hand only to link your arms together, pull him nearer as you walk, “Yes, precisely. Now. Tell me, puh-lease, what do you like most about art?”

“I think it’s the practical application, the execution, the reward of it. You think of something, you put in some work, you see the results, and when you nail it? When it matches your expectations? It’s satisfying, a kind of rush on its own, an odd kind of power in the feeling.”

You sigh, “I can relate to that, not in a big way, but in small ones, seeing the fruits of your labour is one of life’s pleasures.” 

“Exactly! It’s a pleasure, the work can sometimes be hard, or frustrating or whatever, but it is a pleasure.” 

You and he share a look, and you feel good, hearing him talk about something he is passionate about is good. 

The conversation grows, evolves, you ask about favourite artists, and he has ones he likes, but he doesn’t know much about them as people, said he didn’t care to know about their lives, just could appreciate their work. You pried a bit, and he pointed out aspects he liked, colours, use of light and shadow, and he went on further, it wasn’t so much about technical skill but more personal than that. It was about how it made him feel, if he likes a work it isn’t about who it came from, or how expensive or old it was, or any other pretentious crap, it was about the complete work in front of him. The bigger picture.

He had some artists he liked, but he could be objective, he wouldn’t quote, “-be some dick sucker like oh everything this guy does is amazing, if I don’t like a subject or a pose looks weird, I’ll be honest about it, every work should stand and speak for itself, not be lauded just cuz what’s his face slapped his name on it.”

You listen to everything he has to say, you provide some of your own thoughts when he asked your opinions on paintings you stopped in front of. You’d on occasion ask what the true meaning and artist intent’s was on some work, and he laughed that off, “Who cares? I read some art books sure, but I mostly just looked at the pictures, or read how a couple particular brush and paint techniques worked, that is the important stuff.”

“Really? You think the original artist's intent doesn’t matter?” You asked, and he said, “Sure it can have some value, but you know what I find much more interesting?” 

“What?” He stopped your step and put his hands on your shoulders, he turned you around and steered you towards another work, a massive painting that took up several feet, no one else was around, he stopped you right in front of it. He leaned over your shoulder and said, “I’d find what you have to say about how this looks and makes you feel a thousand times more interesting over what the jackass who painted it was thinking or ‘intending to say’ with it.” 

He squeezes your shoulders and says as his hands falls away, “So!” He steps to be right beside you, he claps his hands once and then points, his eyes on you. “Enlighten me.” 

Wow. You weren’t sure what to say or where to start or why he was even doing this, you say, “Chucky…I…I’m flattered, sure but why?”

Your eyes meet his, and he looks confused, a cock of his head, and he says what might have been one of the sweetest things he ever has to you, “Why? Why I would find the opinion of my girlfriend, who I care for, and give so much of a shit about it is crazy, over, what? Some dead dude I have never met? Why I would value your insight on this work of art and what that says about you more than the idiot who put a brush to a canvas?”

When he laid it all out like that, it seemed painfully obvious, and you felt a little stupid, not from how he spoke to you, but because of the doubt you had in yourself to begin with. You say softly, “Yeah. I guess.” 

“Humour me?” He asks, and you can do that. You shake your head and breathe out, confidence still a bit shaky, but you are willing, you start. 

You take in the work, the people, figures walking in the rain, the architecture of the buildings, the wet cobblestones, the almost yellow cloudy sky. Taking a moment you let yourself think, as you look, let your eyes get naturally drawn along, and finally you speak, “It feels weirdly, lonely. Considering all the people depicted.”

He hums, and you say next, “The more muted colour emulates how a rainy day feels to walk through, so does the body language of the people. They aren’t enjoying being out there, it’s more rushed, trying to get somewhere, it gives me the feeling I get when I have to brave shitty weather because life demands it.” 

You can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Go on.” 

“I am left with a question though, this couple, here-” You point at the pair in the foreground to the right, sharing an umbrella, “-their gaze is somewhere off over there, I wonder what has their attention on a day like this, what they are looking at, what can make them linger for a moment in weather like this. I like a painting that lets you wonder about things like that. I like this one. It feels rooted in reality and human nature, even painted so long ago, also I love how wet the ground looks, it’s what sells it to me even without actually painting in the raindrops, the hazy quality of it all helps communicate that.” 

You look, and he isn’t looking at the painting, he is looking at you, and you are unsure of how long he had been doing that. “How was that?”

“Illuminating, obviously truthful, it was revealing about you, everything a guy could hope for when talking about art like this.” He sure can have a way with words sometimes. 

“So that is why you find this interesting? For what it can tell you about someone else?” You inquire, and he says, “That’s one reason sure, another is, I just like hearing what you think, now come on.” 

He starts to pull you away, and you look at the name of the painting as he does so, you laugh and ask, “Wait what about your thoughts about it?”

He looks over his shoulder and says with a smirk, “Baby, why do mine matter when you already nailed it?”

The shockingly sentimental fucker. “Ask me about the next one.” He offered, and you would take him up on that. 

Two hours flew by at the museum, when you are leaving the sun is higher in the sky, it is warmer still and both you, and he were happy. You feel a little high, you come away feeling like you have a better understanding of a side of him he doesn’t trust just anyone with, and you feel special. 

As you walk down the street, coats on but open, you wonder what to do next and soon enough an answer presents itself, you see a thrift store, and you decide to go in, browse about, because why not. 

You aren’t looking for anything in particular, except for some stuff that you could wear outside of work, something fun, a thing you can get just because you like it, and not because of the tips it could rake in. You are flipping through racks, as is he, and after a while you come across a shirt. It is cute, weirdly it reminds you of him and her, it is a more masculine style but in a colour and material Tiffany would totally rock. You think you could pull this off, wear a tank top under it and have quite a few buttons open, pair it with some pants and that would be a good look, and one you wouldn’t traditionally wear to work. 

You take the hanger off the rack and turn around, holding it out, “Hey, what do you think of this?” 

He looks over at you, a brief scan of his eyes over the garment in question and he smiles, “Oh, I love that.”

“Me too.” You then look at the price tag for the first time and your eyebrows raise, “Yeesh.” 

“What?” He asks and you say, “Expensive.” You look inside at the inner tag and see it is a higher end brand name, usually thrift stores don’t know what they have, but not this one apparently, they are all too aware how much this is worth. You have a couple bills you need to square away and as much as you like the shirt, it probably isn’t a smart idea. Putting it back with a sigh, you look at a few other tags, and apparently this is the cities most expensive thrift store. 

You both leave empty-handed and when you are down the street a few storefronts, he turns his head to you and says, “Hey.”

A quirk of your brow, paired with a sideways glance, you respond, “Hey?”

He opens his coat and pulls a wad of fabric out, he tossed it to you, “Catch.” 

You reach out and snatch it out of the air, “Woah!” You stop, holding it, you unroll it, eyes going wide, “Holy shit, you bought me the shirt? When? You were beside me basically the whole time and also fuck, it is SO expensive, you really shouldn’t have.”

“Oh don’t worry. I didn’t buy it.” He said, an air of mystery and a shit eating grin on his face. It takes all of two seconds to connect the dots. Your voice drops, “Chucky, you stole this?”

He says in a way that shows how proud of himself he was, “Yeah, I did.” 

“Oh my God, why?” You were genuinely shocked, and he said, “I saw how bad you wanted it, and that place is charging highway robbery, so fuck them, I’d much rather you get that shirt than some rich asshole.” 

You step forward, shirt gripped in one hand, arms hooking around his shoulders, hands behind his neck, you say genuinely, “Thank you.” 

He is staring into your eyes, mouth so close to yours as he says, “Hey for you? Anything, anywhere, anytime.” 

He calls you variants of sweet all the time, but you think he is the real sweet one, especially today. You kiss him on the street corner there, revel in it, before he breaks it, “C’mon, not a good idea to linger at the scene of the crime.”

He leads you down the street, quickly, as you ask, “You got a lotta experience with this?”

He throws a look over his shoulder as he says, “Oh yeah, more than you know, haven’t you picked up on it by now? I’m a total bad boy.” You laughed then, if only you knew how true that statement was. 

Once you were another block away, you were wondering what to do next, and he said, “Well, to be perfectly honest, I think I want to see you in that new shirt.” 

You could do that, but before you could think of taking your coat off, he says, almost as if he'd read your mind, “Just that new shirt.”

Smooth as butter and very doable. Your place was closer to where you were than theirs, and also, you honestly just wanted to host him, so the effort was made, and you find yourself back at your place, you picked up light groceries on the way to make lunch eventually too. 

The door is unlocked, and you hold the door open, “After you.” 

He heads in, you follow, door closed, keys and bag dropped, coat hung up, and you take his as his own shoes come off. You tell him, “Welcome back.”

“Been too long.” He admits as he looks around, you go to the kitchen and start to put away the groceries, once they are in the cupboards and fridge you come back out, leaning on the door frame of the kitchen entryway, looking at him, “You want a drink?”

He was standing in your living room, a few feet away, “Sure, won’t say no to that.”

“Anything you are craving?” You ask, and he tells you, “You mean other than you?”

A look over your shoulder has him saying in a tone of mock innocence, a hand to his chest, “Oh, you mean for the drink? Nah, I’m not picky. Surprise me.”

Soda it is, you bring back a can for him and yourself, he has taken a seat on your couch, you come close, and hold out the can, he takes it with a simple, “Thanks.”

You set your can down on the coffee table and you step away, you pick up the new shirt from where you had set it down, hearing him crack open the can behind you and make your way back over, dropping the shirt on the couch beside him, you start to undress. Chucky’s eyes are immediately on you as the shirt comes up and off, you open the pants and slide them down until they pool on the floor, stepping out of them, leaving you in just your underwear. 

A move is made to pick up the shirt again, and he stops you, a hand on your wrist, “You forget what I said already?”

You hadn’t, but you liked him stepping in, taking charge, reminding you in that tone with a slight edge of warning to it. You grin and say, “Nope, just testing you.” 

He lets go of your wrist and sighs, “Swear to God, more playful than a puppy, that’s you.”

“You got my number, alright.” Your hands go behind yourself, you unhook your bra and slip it off, dropping it with the rest of your clothing on the floor and then your thumbs hook in the sides of your panties, you drag them down and now standing there totally naked, him drinking in the view all the while. “Don’t think I am ever gonna get tired of this.” 

Why would he? You feel the same, a partner stripping in front of you is a treat no matter what, it strikes a chord, what is that old saying? A sunset is beautiful whether the first time it’s viewed or the thousandth? You think there is something to that. 

“Flattery suits you.” The comment is light as you start to shrug on the shirt, it fits a little loosely around the waist, but doesn’t obscure your curves in any major way, the material feels good on your bare skin. It falls near your hips, you do up the two buttons in the middle, a fair amount of stomach and cleavage on display, you lean forward, a hand resting on the back of the couch near his shoulder, body brought closer for him to get a better view, “What do you think?”

His own drink has been abandoned on the side table, on the end of the couch that you keep your telephone on, hands coming forward to rest on your waist, thumbs rub, he says, “Looks better than I thought it would.”

His hands grip tighter, he pulls you nearer, and you allow it, you lean down, a knee comes onto the couch cushion he is seated on, and you kiss him, one of his hands slides onto your lower back, and soon you aren’t half standing bent over, you are on top of him, straddling him, seated comfortably on his thighs. It is one of those kisses that as soon as your lips tough you feel yourself filling with lightness and warmth, nerves coming to life and need curling low in your stomach.

Your hands find him the same way his do you, with an easy kind of intimacy, the kind that has been improving and developing, deepening as of late. Your fingers run over the back of his neck before starting to tangle into his hair, winding carefully and using that point of contact to draw him closer, and in response it has his hands running down your back and kissing you more fervently.

This is by no means the first time you’ve made out with Chucky, and not the first time you’ve done this solo, but it is the first time you’ve had him like this totally alone in your apartment. You do notice that the mood feels more intense this afternoon, the atmosphere a little hotter, a bit needier, you aren’t sure what it is, maybe the increased vulnerability earlier, it feels incredible and right, so you go with it. 

You feel lightheaded by the time his hands are on your ass, and he starts to lead you, helping you grind on him, and you feel that you are not the only one who is excited and wanting more. A particularly good grind has your mouth breaking apart from his, a moan falling freely, it gets louder when his mouth doesn't relent and attacks your throat. It is messy, teeth bite and your body tenses, you can't help it as you grind down, you curse his name, and he says yours in kind. You tug on his hair, and you get the wanted response, he bites you again, harder. Yeah, you don’t want to be in the living room any longer. You remove your hands from his hair, and get up on slightly unsteady feet, you take his hand and pull, “Come on.”

You lead him to the bedroom, leaving the cans behind, and in less than a minute you are falling into bed. Next you are on your back, he is on top of you, his hand is between your thighs, fingers curling inside of you, causing your own fingers to fumble as you unbutton your shirt, letting it fall open. 

While all this feels incredible, you want him already, you reach out to the nearby nightstand and open it, fumble blindly and fingers catch on the cardboard of the box. You yank it out and towards you, moving to dump out the contents, only to find it empty. 

You groan and ask, “Do you have any condoms?”

“On me? No.” He sighs, fingers slowing, and the idea of not getting to fuck him simply won’t do. You've been seeing him for a while, and you are official, he is your boyfriend for fuck’s sake. It isn’t like he is fucking around to catch something, and you are on birth control, the condoms were meant to be an initial precaution anyway, and now? You feel like throwing caution to the wind.

“Fuck it, we don't need condoms anymore, I'm safe.” You breathe, his fingers curl into that sweet spot once more, and you bite your bottom lip. Giving him a pleading look, you tell him, “I want it raw.” 

Time isn't wasted, he trusts you and there is no asking if you are sure, he has been wanting this, badly. He pulls his fingers out, you are glad for it, no more foreplay is needed, you are aching for him, and you start to help him undress, you rush, and soon he is even more bare than you are. 

You don't let him get on top of you, as soon as he is on the bed, you get astride him, one hand wraps around the base of him, and you line him up, tip kissing your hole, he speaks, “Fuck hurry up, enough wasting time.”

 He doesn’t get the full sentence out before you begin to drop your hips. His hands grip your thighs as you sink down, taking more of him inside, the stretch is as amazing as it always is but combined with the feeling of him bare it is even better. Your eyes are on him, taking in his expression the same way you are sure he is, the wash of pleasure across his features is intoxicating when you settle down. You enjoy the feeling of fullness for only a moment before you start moving. The ride doesn't stay easy for long, his nails bite into your thighs, and you moan, your hips rise and fall, you adjust, pitching forward so you hit the spot you need, grind inside and out beautifully, a hiss of pleasure sucking the air through your teeth as you grapple with the intense feeling.

You've had a good amount of sex so far, but this afternoon, it's different. He is more intense, rougher, you aren't on top for long. You work yourself up, he helps, encourages, or rather demands you find release, and it works, the cocky half smile, brows knitted together as he tells you to, “Go on, do it.”

His words are what tips you over when you are close, you cum while gasping his name, and before you are even through the pleasurable spasms he is taking over. 

The position is switched, quickly, he manhandles you, and you end up face down, ass up, your cheek to the covers and he roughly renters you, one hand gripping the back of your shirt, the other in your hair. He is in deep immediately, every thrust in grinds over that perfect spot inside but still, goes further past that, he bottoms out and that is accompanied by a slight stab of pain. It has you loud, like potentially get a noise complaint loud and his ego eats it up, increases his efforts. The mix of pleasure and pain is fantastic, he pulls your hair, and it's like both points are connected, every tug on your hair causing your cunt to pulse and ripple around him, threatening to milk him early.

The words he spits are degrading, talk of what a slut you are for not only letting him fuck you like this, but for clearly loving it, and so loudly at that. You do love it, every scratch of his nails and slap to your ass, the loud skin on skin of your bodies meeting, you cum again pinned under him minutes later, his chest to your back as he taunts you, “Cumming again so soon?” 

You are squirming, weak, your body is failing you, legs slipping out from under you and that isn't going to do so another position is found. Once you are on your side, one leg brought up, knee to chest, and he slides back in. His hands are now focused on your throat, they wrap around, and he squeezes, the pressure and slight lack of air has you wide-eyed, pleasure renewed as he thrusts with abandon, no care for a sense of rhythm, you've had yours a few times over, now he's getting his. 

Even with all the rough treatment, the bruises that will surely form tomorrow and him still getting so deep at this angle he is battering your cervix you experience a new sensation, ripped to the edge, your legs together how they are squeezing and putting just enough pressure on your clit to aid as much as needed, but this orgasm you experience is derived much more from pain than pleasure. On your come down, weak and struggling to breathe with his hands around your throat, and with you gripping firmly at his wrists, he reaches his end, a few more sure thrusts, and he is cumming raw inside of you.

He didn’t ask, as if being allowed to fuck you raw was all the permission he needed, like it was a question he never thought even needed to be asked, he is inside you raw? Cumming into your pussy is a give in. As he unloads in you with a groan of your name that is so arousing it sends a shiver through you and causes your cunt to clench around his shaft involuntarily, trying to draw every last bit of him out and into yourself.

His hands let go, you suck down a few deep breaths now that you are able, in a few minutes, you've untangled, laying beside each other. Your mind is quiet, you feel satiated, sore and happy, you ask him, “Where the fuck did that come from?”

“What do you mean?” He leans over the edge of the bed, gets his smokes out of his pants pocket, and comes back onto the bed, carton and lighter in hand. He lays back and starts the ritual of lighting up, and you are reminded of this morning. You laugh as you respond to him, “What do you mean, what do I mean? Look at my ass! Redder that tomato soup.”

“Figured why not try something new? Besides, it seems like you really enjoyed yourself, came yourself stupid, seriously, how many orgasms was that?” He quips, cigarette lit and exhaling, a healthy lungful. 

“Who counts?” You joke, your shoulder nudging his. 

This day has been one of your favourite in recent memory, a truly fantastic date, you feel unbearably happy, honestly the sex with them both has already been some of the best you’ve ever had but this afternoon, you feel like you’ve unlocked another level. You feel like your compatibility is ever-increasing, you feel soft, warmth, content beyond measure. 

He hums, amused by your joke, and you decide to take it further, “But seriously, wasn’t expecting all that, trust me I am not complaining, I did love it, just didn’t know you had all that in you. Anything else you are hiding from me?”

“I am an incredibly deep individual, I contain multitudes that will continue you to surprise you, I promise.” The look in those intense eyes, you believe him and yet you can’t help it, an unshakable urge to twist your finger in an open wound. “Oh, I dunno, I doubt you have that much more that could shock me.” 

“Oh yeah?” He gives you a considering look, as if mentally weighing his options, before he sits up, one hand rests on the back of your neck, he leans in and kisses you, slower than before, a searing meeting of your lips and his that could melt you, completely ruin you if he so desired it and then, the twist he promised. 

His other hand, the one with the cigarette held between two fingers, comes down, he touches the burning tip to your thigh and your whole body responds, you tense, attempt to move away, but he doesn’t let you. He presses the cigarette closer, twisting, burning you deeper as his tongue parts your lips, his tongue touches yours and once again, joy and agony meet, a new experience foraged that when both points of contact lift, you feel changed on some level. Your eyes had closed when you were overcome by what he had done to you, now they opened to see him, that wide grin, face still mere inches from yours as he asked, “How was that? Surprising enough?” 

His gaze drops for a moment, his thumb passes over the fresh burn, and you can’t help it, everything has built up, it all swells, and you gasp out, “I love you.”

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Conceal, don't feel, don't let it show.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[autumn-may]

terrisas really funny ithink

[1000sunnygo]

The Rocky Port incident...

...turned out to be another instance of Law meticulously crafting a plan only to shoot himself in the foot, then forming an emergency alliance and somehow turning the tide in his favor. That's incredibly consistent 😭

But now everything makes more sense. It seems Law's intended bargaining chip for becoming a Shichibukai was to hand over a Poneglyph/rubbings to the World Government, and he was accepted not because he submitted 100 hearts of random pirates, but primarily because he played a key role in taking down Ochoku and saving some VIP royalties (also for securing the Poneglyph, I suppose).

According to the translation we have in hand rn, the name of the vessel Law hijacked was "Rocky Port". We know there's a port in Hachinosu with the same name. Maybe it was named after the ship after this incident? (edit: it seems it'd always been a ship and not a port, so, nevermind lol)

But what "important" Poneglyph was there, anyway?

I don't think it's the missing Road Poneglyph. Probably a Rio Poneglyph protected by the resident pirates. I wonder if Law was originally looking for the Road Poneglyph possessed by the man marked by flame, but then changed his target. Curious that he didn't know two of the Road Poneglyphs are possessed by pirates, let alone Kaidou and Linlin..

The chaos that broke out was not part of Law's plan, he was lucky that Blackbeard arrived to join the fun, and they could come to an agreement. Koby, on the other hand, was probably the only marine who agreed to work with the pirates, and thus was able to save the most number of innocent 'Rocky Port' passengers.

I'm pretty sure it was Law who proposed the alliance. Scoring cookie points aside, his conscience surely kicked in. It wasn't his style to drag a ship of innocent civilians to a devil's nest, so he offered to form a pact with the marines to reduce casualty. Without his presence that buffered both sides, a three way alliance wouldn't have been possible.

I had a hunch that Blackbeard and Law might have worked together for some time. But why did Blackbeard need to work with Law? Was Ochoku that strong?

It seems Law didn't know Blackbeard could use two fruits at once (during their flight at Winner island), so Blackbeard likely didn't go all out. Possibly it was of Blackbeard's best interest to secure his victory without greatly damaging the island that he was soon going to rule, so he decided to follow Law's plan. He likely invited Law to his crew too, similar to Kuzan.

In retrospect, it makes sense as to why the alliance with the Straw hats puzzled Law so much, it wasn't because he didn't expect the chaos but because it was entirely different from his previous experience.

I didn't expect the main story the dive deep into Rocky Port incident, it was only a matter of time until we got a short summary. There's enough meat to it to extend it into a short comic, and there's plenty of time in future.

For now, I'm looking forward to the Japanese fanworks flood on Monday 🍿

[lightningbig]

sorry twilight princess will always be eating holes in my brain. constantly and forever. I cannot ever be normal about it.

it's such a haunted game. you are a dead thing going through a dead world. you are something in between. you can go back but it will never be the same. you will never be the same. you are walking, constantly, through ghosts of what came before. you are exploring places long forgotten. you are the only one on this path because there is no one else that can walk it. you were just a farm boy. you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. right place at the wrong time? wrong place at the right time? you were just supposed to deliver a sword.

[lotus-pear]

rewatched madoka magica again today bc i fucking hate myself and to absolutely no one’s surprise i went through all five stages of grief in a single evening

[starry-bi-sky]

Clone^2 - Separation Strikes

"Why do I have to go?" Damian asks, surly and accent-thick, it sounds more like a demand and a whine at the same time. Sitting on the kitchen table with his arms crossed, in a green t-shirt that Danny bought him at a whim when he was at a thrift shop, and black shorts, he's never looked more like a kid. There's a little backpack leaning against the table leg, Damian begrudgingly picked it out when they went shopping.

His English has grown in leaps and bounds since Danny found him -- er, or more accurately; since Damian was spat out in front of him. -- and very little did they have to use the translator on Danny's phone these days.

Which meant one thing: Damian can start attending school comfortably now. And 'go' was the Amity Smiles Child Care Center. Danny and Jazz went as kids until they were twelve, and Mom and Dad actually managed to convince the center director to let Damian enroll for the summer.

And it was summer; Damian starts today.

"Because," Danny says, trying and failing to hide the smile pulling on his face, his heart warm and soft, and also laughing at Damian's expense; "being cooped up in the house all day isn't good for you, and you're starting school in the Fall. And, in Jazz's words: you need to have interactions with other kids your age for the benefit of your social development. And besides, it's only for the morning."

Damian's nose scrunches up, and his eyes roll so violently that for a moment, Danny thinks about joking that he'll get his eyes stuck like that. He holds his tongue; his little brother already looks like he's five seconds away from committing an act of violence.

"I don't need social interaction." Damian sneers, his cheek in his hand; a neverend pool of pride. "I am--"

"The Blood of the Demon Heir, better than everyone else." Danny cuts off, waving his hand in dismissive circles, his voice mockingly deep. Damian's brown skin darkens in embarrassment, and he scowls at Danny. "I know, bud. But Jazz is right, -- don't tell her I said that, -- you should be around kids your age."

Especially when he starts First Grade in the Fall. Honestly -- Danny was a little nervous to send him to the center. Damian's long since cut the habit of trying to kill or otherwise maim people, his palms ache-burn with gentle reminder, but his tongue was as sharp and as cutting as his sword. He still struggles with trying to quell it when he's upset. Vicious child-weapon that he once was, and will never be again.

Danny knows that it comes from a place of fear and defense, that Damian lashes out because that's what he's been taught. That at the end of the day, he doesn't really mean what he says, and he's learning to express himself better. But the other kids don't know that, and kids can be unforgiving and cruel.

Danny just...

His slow beating heart sighs, melancholy settles behind his lungs.

He doesn't want Damian to be outcasted. He doesn't want him to be alone.

Not like he was.

Damian sneers again, but says nothing, his shoulders crawling up to hide his ears like a turtle receding into his shell. Danny watches him silently, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own arms crossed. The clock hanging on the wall ticks in their ears -- it's almost time to go.

He watches Damian, careful, and so he sees it when his little brother's stone-shell pride and petulance shudders, and cracks. The darkened furrow of Damian's brows weakens, and for a moment, slants back.

Ah, Danny thinks, his own shoulders slumping. Epiphany washes over him, and his sad-heart soothes in warm understanding. So that's what it is.

His head tilts, and his hair spills over his shoulders, messy and fluffy, tickling his neck. Some of his bangs fall into his face. "Hal 'ant easabiatan ya habibi?" He asks, voice low and soft. Just as Damian's English has improved, so has Danny's Arabic. He still stumbles over himself some days, and Damian says his accent is trash, but they can have whole conversations now in Damian's mothertongue.

(Danny was incredibly proud of himself for it.)

Damian's face darkens, his blush spreading across the rest of his face, and he ducks his head down. Grown-out curls, black-brown and springy, falls over his eyes. "La!" He yells, loud and indignant, and not at all convincingly. "La 'asheur bialtawaturi!"

He was nervous. Danny can see it now, in the hunch of his shoulders and the tightness of his face, and faintly, he can feel it too. In the ecto-rich air of the Fentonworks House, it thrums, barely-there, like a hummingbird behind his lungs.

Danny can't stop the little, fond smile that forces itself across his lips and upticks the corner of his mouth. "It's okay to be nervous, little brother." He says, he sounds like Jazz when he says that. He doesn't think she'll mind him borrowing the nickname.

He pushes himself off the counter, and Damian refuses to look at him, hiding behind his hair and in his shoulders. It takes three long strides for him to reach the table, and Danny turns, plants his hands on the ledge, and hoists himself up. Right next to Damian.

Damian leans into him easily when Danny's arm wraps around his shoulders and tucks him close to his heart. He can feel his ear against his ribs. Danny hunches over him, resting his chin on Damian's head. "It's so okay to be nervous, actually. I was nervous, Jazz was nervous." He tells him, scratching the blunt edge of his nails across his scalp. "Everyone gets nervous."

"'Ana last aljumiea." Damian mumbles, as small and feeble as he was the night on the OPS Center balcony, realizing that his mom and the League weren't coming for him. Realizing that he was replaceable.

Danny's half-working heart squeezes; in grief, in rage, and his faucet eyes sting. He breathes in carefully, and presses his nose into Damian's hair in a loving faux-kiss. "You're right, you're not everyone." He says, steady and strong, because if he's not a pillar for his family, who else is he?

He can feel Damian's eyes flick up to him, and Danny smiles into his black-brown curls. Tilts his head to squish his cheek against him instead, hand dropping to thumb below Damian's lashes. "You're Damian Fenton," Because the adoption went through a few weeks ago, and he's still riding that high, "You're my baby brother. O' Artist Extraordinaire, Kickass with a Sword, Vegetarian and Wonderful Co-Ghost Hunter."

Damian tries to stifle a smile, and fails. Score! Triumph gathers in Danny's gut, his smile grows wider. He squeezes Damian tight, and only releases him so he can look him in the eyes. "And if anyone gives you a hard time at school, and I mean anyone--"

Danny has bad memories of the teachers looking the other way when the other kids were bullying him, all because he was a Fenton.

And Danny, bleeding heart, bleeding hands, loves his family more than he will ever love himself, will never let Damian experience the same injustice. Not if he can help it.

His eyes narrow, and the buzzy-film of ectoplasm covers his eyes, making them glow, "--You tell me. And as your awesome great big brother-and-technically-dad-but-only-biologically, I will handle it."

Damian, wonderfully made, full of light, his little brother Damian, giggles weakly at him. A sound that's worth it's weight in gold. The scary eyes dissipate, and Danny matches the sound with a cock-eyed, impish grin, dragging Damian into a soul-crushing, too-tight hug. The kind that only annoying older brothers can give. "Got it?"

That gets a proper, if short, laugh out of Damian. He wriggles in Danny's arms, trying to break free. But Danny does calisthenics, his arms are as big as Damian's head, so it doesn't work. "Understood, now, daeni 'adhhab ya 'akhi!"

Danny laughs, loud and bright, and loosens his hold just a smidge, only so he can adjust his grip and hop off the table with Damian still in arm.

"Never!" He crows, hoisting Damian slightly. One eye flick at the clock, and in one quick move, he secures Damian under one arm like a football, and hooks his foot under the strap of his backpack. Kicking it up, he tosses it into the air and catches it with his free hand, and slings it over his shoulder. "Now, to the car, my boy! Before we're late and Mom and Dad get charged."

Damian groans, childish and dramatic and long, but his face is all squished up with a wide grin and glee. Danny can taste his joy beneath his tongue.

"And, if my little pep talk didn't encourage you," He says, reaching the door to the garage, flipping Damian up onto his hip instead. "If you have a good day today, I'll make you bal mithai when you get back."

Like all kids at the promise of sweets, Damian's eyes widen and glitter. Danny loves seeing Damian be a kid, it's his favorite thing in the world. "I will!"

[secriden]

You know what makes me soooo excited for the next phase of Fadel and Style's relationship? It's that they will finally slot into the CORRECT relationship dynamics because this whole time, it's been flipped.

From the beginning, something felt off, and I think it's because Style's true desire is to be pursued. We are shown this pretty much in Style's introduction when he blatantly puts his body on display with the Crop Top Stretch. Style wants to be approached, wants to be propositioned, wants to be desired. Also, remember how he initially flirts with Fadel when his only motivation was his own attraction? He pinned the Heart Burger badge onto his chest to create an opportunity for Fadel to put his hands on Style's body.

Of course Fadel wasn't pursuing Style; was in fact, actively trying to get away (for reasons OTHER than a lack of physical attraction to Style), so it is the plot that has to drive our lovebirds together using Kant's request and partly Style's own desire to get some revenge.

But throughout their interactions, we constantly see glimpses of Style's desire to be pursued: every single time Fadel even shows a HINT of wanting Style, he immediately falls pliant, like he can't wait to let Fadel take the reins. And nothing shows this more clearly than the absolutely blissed out look on Style's face in Ep 4 when he thinks Fadel has finally admitted that he wants Style.

(Fucking hell, just look at how dazed and almost euphoric Style looks here? It's like Style has been starving for the barest hint that Fadel truly wants him.)

Which is also why we've gotten so many fake outs. Because although Fadel IS attracted to Style (Ep 2 made that...abundantly clear), he isn’t remotely ready to pursue anyone. Not only is Fadel nursing a broken heart, barely beating, he also has very justified suspicions about Style’s connection to Kant and Style's unnatural persistence.

So it's Style that has to pursue - he dodges Fadel's footsteps, and bullies his way into Fadel's life; but in between the frustration and annoyance, Fadel's walls begin to crack. And I think it's SO COOL that the first significant evidence we have of Fadel's walls crumbling is because Style puts his body on display for Fadel. Because Fadel responded to something that was naturally part of the way Style operates before he even met Fadel. And there are other, more compelling reasons why I think Fadel begins to fall for Style, but that's not really the point I'm trying to make here.

When Fadel said "If I like you, I'll do the pursuing", it wasn't just to get Style to back off. Because now that Fadel has finally chosen to explore something real with Style, we are seeing Fadel's words in action. I know some people have said Fadel's switch to flirting so blatantly with Style in Ep 4's gym scene came out of left field, but I think it may well be confirmation that this was always the dynamic they were meant to be in. Fadel likes pursuing and Style likes being pursued. They fit, they match, they're perfectly compatible.

(Fadel looks almost faintly amused by how "flustered" Style is. Because he doesn't know that Style is actually afraid of him - why would he, when Style has evidenced zero fear so far? So this comes across like Style is getting shy in response to Fadel's unexpected and more overt approach. And possibly this is Fadel starting to remember how much he enjoys the chasing.)

Unfortunately, Kant's revelation is going to screw allll of this up. But, we are finally going to see glimpses of how they work when they're aligned correctly in their dynamics! And while it will take a journey (and oh, it will be gloriously painful, won't it?), our boys are finally on the road to something lasting and I am sooo glad we get to come along for the ride. <3

[localgardenweed]

They are taking over

[a-n-i-m-a-t-i-o-n]

I love this man so muuuuuuch ❤️ ❤️❤️❤️

[bisexual-horror-fan]

Through The Heart Is The Only Way. Chapter Eleven. "Trying To Get Settled."

I know a bit late today but here is today's addition to Multi-May! The long awaited update to Through The Heart Is The Only Way! Sorry for the eight fucking month long hiatus, but we are back! Hopefully updates will be more frequent from here on out! Series Masterlist is here. Hope you all enjoy this and find it worth the wait! Also partly inspired by me going to my first gay club last summer.

---

Rating. Explicit. Length. 4K. Charles Lee Ray/Tiffany Ray Valentine/FEM! AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Stressed And Anxious Reader. Drinking. Softness. Making Out. Fingering. Implied Threesome.

---

The rest of the shift goes by in a blur. Rachel stays behind after close, you and your coworkers sit, huddled around a table, all the other ones already wiped down, chairs upside down on top of them, hushed tones as you try to comfort her. Logan makes drinks, the lights are low as you all talk it over, trying to make her feel better. By night's end she looks less shaken, you and Jackson walk to the train station, hand in hand. 

You hold his hand very tightly, fingers interlaced, you wonder if your grip makes his knuckles ache. You walk with him and the air feels a bit tense. Jackson and you talk about anything and just about everything, filling the spaces with whatever else mundane shit that you can. When finally on the train platform, a moment of silence has overtaken. You are the one to break it. You ask quietly into the cold, breath fogging in front of your face, “Why am I so scared right now?”

Jackson’s head turns, so does yours, he looks down as you look up and concern has painted his features, his mouth opens and then closes. He seriously considers what to say before responding, “Because it’s normal. It’s really normal to be scared by this kinda thing, Rach was…She was freaking out, and we care about her, so we are freaked out too.”

You know it’s more than that, you are sure Jackson knows it is more than that, too. You remember a conversation you had with him over a year ago where he confessed to you his own story similar to the one you had about Trent.

It was winter back then too, it was cold, you and he were having a drink post work, crowded around a table, hoping the snow died down a bit before leaving as he filled you in. Jackson told you about some guy who came onto him and then, asshole that he was, got violent with him after, making claims that he “wasn’t really like that” and blaming it all on him, that Jackson was asking for it on and on. You held his hand and listened intently over half drunk cocktails and didn’t judge him, handing over a napkin for him to wipe his eyes. 

It was totally unfair bullshit. 

What happened with Rachel is another fucking reminder that this job is a touch more dangerous than you’d like. It reminds you that there are total fucking jerks at every turn, whether it be customers who treat you like shit and less than human, or even some of the good ones could be at the mercy of similarly terrible treatment. You love your job most of the time, but it is exhausting on nights like this.

You rest your head on Jackson’s shoulder, and he says as he leans his head on yours, “She is going to be okay. I am going to be okay, and so are you.” 

Your mind wanders to them, thoughts flood your brain of your newly minted boyfriend and girlfriend. You worry. What if something were to happen to them? What would you do? Your heart is beating out of your chest and your palms are sweaty, you are thankful for the gloves you wore, that Jackson couldn’t feel how slick your hands were and feel in turn your massive anxiety. Christ you are being crazy you just started dating them, you need to reel in your emotions right now, this is an outlier of a situation, this is fine, you are fine. You shake off the bad thoughts and look back up at him, a quick glance as you make the decision to try and believe him, you say, “Yeah you’re probably right. Thanks.”

Jackson smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

You stand in heavy silence once more, both your eyes and his staring forward until the train comes. When it does arrive you part from Jackson reluctantly, waves and promises to see each other the next day at work again. The ride feels too long, when you come to your stop you race home and once there you have trouble sleeping, when you eventually attempt to. 

Tossing and turning, sleep claims you after quite some time. 

Over the course of the next few days, you slowly start to calm down, but you are still on edge, the knowledge of what happened to Randall poking at the back of your mind, reminders cropping up at inopportune moments and giving you small setbacks. You should be over this, it’s been a long time, why is this sticking with you so badly?

There was no news.

You’d see Rachel at work and meet her eyes and she’d know what you were going to ask, she’d shake her head and your look would turn from pleading to know what she did, to instead sympathetic as your stomach turned and heart ached for her. 

It’s late, it’s after work on a different day, you need some serious stress relief, Jackson had the day off and so you didn’t have accompaniment to the train station, too alone with your thoughts at the moment. You can’t keep feeling like this, you can’t keep hiding, so you make the decision to do something for yourself, try to feel a bit better. 

You go to your favourite rink. 

Winter is slowly on the way out, the extreme storm is beginning to thaw, this will probably be your last skate of the season. The rink is closed this late, you weren’t planning on this and don’t have your skates, so you snagged a pair that other people would pay to rent, no one was around, not like you’d get caught. You find your size easily under the open air renting counter, and soon you are at a bench, boots off and lacing the skates up. 

Your bag is left near the bench, and you make your way out onto the ice. You start to skate, gliding on the ice easily, it’s quiet, cloudy but not snowing, it’s very still and the only sound is metal on frozen water and your breath. Mind turns to them as you turn on the ice, the last time you were here was on your date, you smile, lips turning up as you recall how shitty Chucky was at skating, how he had to cling to you and Tiff to stay upright. You wonder if you will still be together to do that again next winter, maybe you can teach your new boyfriend a thing or two. 

You pick up the pace, skating faster, sharper turns, you enjoy the speed, the wind on your face, the chill and then the silence and rhythm you had gotten into before it is broken, a call of, “Hey!”

It makes you stop short, ice shavings kicked up from the abrupt halt, a turn of your head towards the voice and look who it is, boots crunching through snow, tight jeans, a fashionable jacket and that familiar blonde head of hair with a warm smile. 

You skate up as she reaches the edge of the rink, she holds her hands out, and you take them, a quick glance and no one is around, so you do it. Leaning in, she meets you in the middle, she kisses you and the cold of the night is forgotten. The bliss is short-lived, but it is a balm to your frayed nerves and calming to your rushing mind. You pull back, smile stretching wider as you say softly, finally returning her greeting, “Hi.”

You squeeze her hands and ask, “What are you doing out?”

“Coming back from seeing a friend, just cutting through the park on the way home-” She leans closer while looking in your eyes she jokes, “-probably a bad idea with all the news lately.” 

You stiffen immediately and without meaning to, your smile faltering a little. The reminder isn’t helpful, it’s well after midnight, and you are skating alone in a park, it’s asking for fucking trouble. Gaze has dropped, and your mind is churning, one of her hands releases yours and cups your cheek, tilting you to look at her again, “Hey, you okay?”

You bite your bottom lip, and you know that you should be honest, if you can’t be with your girlfriend than who could you be? You spill, “I’ve been having some stress lately, not been feeling the best, just kinda, bogged down.”

“Oh sweetheart.” She hums, she pulls you into a hug, arms tight around you, “I am so sorry.” 

You slip your arms around her, return the affection, and melt into her closer. God, you needed this, needed her, you had really been missing her without realizing it. The smell of lingering cigarette smoke and her favored perfume has become an intimate comfort, mixing with the winter night air, it’s more than welcome, it was craved. Eventually she pulls back, her hands on your arms, and she says, “I think you need some help with your stress and if there is one thing I am good at, it’s relieving stress.”

A small laugh bubbles out of you, “Okay, doctor Valentine, what do you recommend?”

“I’m gonna take you out, night on the town just you and me, a special date.” She offers, and you ask, intrigued, “A special date?”

“Yeah! I know a great club, I think a night to cut loose would do you good.” Her eyes were alight with mischief, she seemed excited and honestly, so were you at the idea, your first official date out with her being your girlfriend. It had been forever since you’d gone out to a club, last time was probably before you started working at one, the idea of going out to one with her sounded like just what you needed. 

“Tiffany, that sounds amazing, I’d love that.” You tell her sincerely, and she makes a sound of pure delight, it’s adorable,  “Yessss! When is your next day off?”

You tell her and the date is set for then. You end up taking your skates off and returning them, she walks you to your train station as you talk and get caught up on the past few days she had, and then she bids you goodnight, leaving you excited about your next night off.

Tiffany came by to get you as opposed to you meeting her out and that felt nice, not like you didn’t like going to her, but getting picked up was still special and an appreciated gesture. 

You’d seen her dressed up for clubbing before, obviously, the many times she came to your work, this was just a touch different, almost hard to put your finger on, but then it clicks. She is wearing things you’ve complimented on her previously. The instances flit over your mind, times you’ve told her particular hem lines or cuts look good, what colours you think look best on her skin and further, she absorbed every sweet word, took it to heart and was dressed not explicitly for you, she was still dressed like herself, but had just taken what you’d expressed that you liked and applied it. Her coat was open at the moment, leather gloves on her hands to combat the cold outside your apartment building, the skirt was tight, the top was flattering, the belt sitting on her hips was more decorative than to help keep anything on, and you wanted to dip your fingers in the shiny chains and tug her close to kiss her, ruin the pretty lipstick she wore. 

Your arms open, lean close, inviting her in, the hallway is empty, and she takes you up on it, the hug is nice, the kiss is nicer, you breathe the compliment as your lips break apart, “You’re stunning.” 

“And you’re sweet.” She hums, pulling back she tells you, “And you’re one to talk, you look incredible, angel.” 

You preen under her praise, you had purposefully made sure to wear something different from what you usually did to work, typically dark colours and clothing designed to get boat loads of tips as opposed to something that reflected your personal style, not tonight. Now you’d chosen something with colour, a dress that was well suited to go out, on the tighter side, you felt good in it and hoped it’d invite her to touch, give her that same craving you found yourself always infected with when near her. 

“You ready to go?” She asked, and you nodded, your own coat was shrugged on, purse over your shoulder, and you closed the door, she stood next to you as you locked the door. Soon you and her were walking down the hall, headed to the stairs, and you asked, “So where you taking me?”

“I told you already, M’ taking you to a club, gorgeous.” She teased, and you laughed slightly, “Yeah I know that, but what club?”

She refused to tell you, not until you were there. The club entrance was a little hard to find, well it would have been hard to find if you were trying to get there solo just off the address information, Tiffany seemed to know just where it was, the front of the building was dark, a single light over the metal industrial looking door with one person standing out front to let people in. 

You were ushered in with no issue, the music now reaching you once the door was opened, you check your coats and let her lead you deeper into the bar, coming near the end of the darker hallway you ask, “You finally gonna tell me what is so special about this place?” 

In a moment of ridiculously perfect timing, you come around the corner, the music gets louder, the lights are bright, and you see the crowd, people close together, dancing and as your eyes struggle to adjust, she leans closer. Next, she is saying into your ear so you could hear over the thrum, “It’s a gay bar.” 

Holy fucking shit. 

What that means hits immediately, you can act like any other couple, can act like her and Chucky do out at your work or how you and her do in private, you can hold her hand and kiss her and more without worry. A full on date without restrictions in public. You had no idea this was possible for you and her.

You were so happy you could hardly stand it, you threw your arms around her neck and hugged her tightly to you, “Oh my God, are you serious?!”

She laughs, her hands rest on your waist before sliding slowly over your lower back, hugging you as she responds, “As the dead, beautiful.” 

You pull back, hands on her shoulders as you say, “Well c’mon, I don’t want to waste any time.”

Tiffany grins and let's go of you, taking your hand she leads you deeper inside. First order of business was getting you both a drink, you pass through the moving bodies on the dance floor towards the bar. You stand next to her, fingers lacing together with hers as you observe the people nearby, you try not to stare any place for too long, which is easy because you can’t help moving from one person to the next. You see couples not unlike Tiffany and yourself, groups of friends, easy displays of intimacy in any and every direction, it makes you feel warm and affectionate. You lean closer to her, press a kiss to her cheek, and she turns her head, saying, “You can do better than that, can’t you?”

You take her hint, the hand that wasn’t currently holding hers coming up, fingers stroke over her impossibly soft cheek, and you lean in, soon kissing her. She kisses you back, the taste of her lipstick and faint cigarettes greets you, it is easy to get swept up in it, in her, you can’t believe you can do this in a crowded public place. One thing snaps you out of it, namely a person misjudging how close they were to you, accidentally bumping into you, the kiss breaks and the person says, with a wave, “Sorry!” 

The stupid grin takes over your face, you squeeze Tiffany’s hand and say, “No problem.” 

And there really wasn’t. Just the fact that it has the potential to happen, a totally harmless and innocuous annoyance of someone accidentally interrupting you kissing your girlfriend, is a fantastic change of pace. You would gladly take it over trying to steal small moments of affection, terrified of someone seeing you and outing yourselves.

You get your drinks after that, fruity cocktails that Tiffany selected, you end up at a standing table near the dance floor, it is hard to talk over the thrum of the music, but you are just giddy to be out with her. After the first drink you can’t help it, pulling her out onto the floor, the music isn’t even necessarily to your taste but who gives a fuck about that when she is pressed against you like she is at this moment. The smile on her face is infectious, the sway of her hips captivating, and the mood is undeniably high. You realize you’ve only ever watched Tiffany dance before this, never had the opportunity to dance with her and God, you need to go out clubbing more often for the chance to. 

You love the time you spend with her and Chucky together but getting to have her to yourself is addicting, how she brushes hair aside to whisper in your ear, leading you as you dance, you find yourself forgetting your stress, all your problems seem so far away. 

After getting both of you another drink, you come back to someone hitting on Tiffany. She looks amused at the nervous attempt, the short haired redhead is doing her best, and it’s endearing, sweet, you come up and slot yourself against her side, giving her the cocktail, she takes it as you kiss her cheek, “Hey honey, who’s this?” 

“Someone who I think is trying to ask me out.” The blonde responds with a smirk. The cute girl ends up profusely apologizing not aware she was seeing you, “Oh my fucking God, I am so sorry, I wouldn’t have if I knew-” Tiff and you laugh it off, and end up having a good conversation with the girl.

The night stretches on, you end up talking to some other people, you have more drinks and dances, at one point you are in the bathroom, she is washing her hands, and you are looking at her in the mirror. Her eyes caught yours, and she grins, “What? Something on my face?”

You laugh, a shake of your head, “Sorry, just, I can’t get over how great tonight has been.” 

“Yeah?” She asks as she dries her hands, and you nod once, finding it impossible to look away, “Yeah. I am so out of the loop, I’ve never been to a place like this and coming here with you for my first time has been incredible, you, Tiffany, are incredible.”

She tosses the paper towel into the trash. She inquires, “You always this soft and sentimental when you drink?” She closes the distance, no one else is in here at the moment, funny how you keep finding yourself alone in empty club bathrooms with her. 

“Hardly.” You reach out, fingers brush down her arm as you tell her, “You just bring it out of me.” 

“My sappy little sweet thing.” She hums before leaning in, she kisses you, and it has the ability to do your head in more than any drink. The realization you are kissing again in a club bathroom is not lost on you.

The time together flies by after that. 

The club is getting near closing, you and her are splitting one last drink, you ask over the music, “Can we come here again sometime?”

She beams and tells you, “Anytime you want.” 

Lucky you. 

The last dregs swallowed, the last call completed, you and her are headed back out into the night, you see that redhead from earlier ended up with someone else, and it makes you happy to see. Your coats pulled tight around yourselves, holding hands and unable to stop smiling.

“You wanna come back to our place?” She asks, and you couldn’t agree faster. 

Your feet ache, and you feel lightheaded and joyful as you stumble into her apartment, heels are discarded, you are moving backwards towards the couch, fumbling to get your coat off. She has shrugged her own coat off, letting it drop onto the floor along with yours, you’d pick them up later. 

Her mouth is moving down the side of your jaw and down your neck and soon the backs of your knees hit the edge of the couch, and you flop onto your back, hands hooked on the straps of her top you pull her down on top of you. 

The heat sparking inside of you is stealing your breath away, you gasp her name as her leg slots between yours as she starts to suck a mark into your collarbone. You tug uselessly at the straps, she is already as close as could be, but the move shows just how needy you are, a move of your hips, grinding on her thigh you let out a weak moan. 

She breathes out your name as your hand moves, slides down her body and between her own legs, her head tips forward with a sharp inhale from the rush you provide her. You are constantly taken aback by how she can make you feel, whenever you have a moment like this, that you affect her in just the same way, it does everything for you, strokes your ego, turns you on further. 

She helps with her clothing in the way and your hand is in her underwear now, you can feel how wet she is and when your fingers slip inside, curling to find that spot you’ve come to know so well, you remember you aren’t alone. 

“Man, you two are not good at being quiet.” Your head jerks up as does hers, a look over, and you see Chucky standing there in the doorway of the living room, cocky half smile on his face. 

“Who says we were tryna be?” You giggle as you press, fuck your fingers in and out of Tiffany, and she moans louder, unapologetic smile on your face at the sound you dragged from her. 

“Ye-ahhh, sorry sweetface, did we wake you up?” Tiffany asks with a small upward curve of her own mouth. 

“You did! Terrible, the both of you.” He laughs, very amused, as he comes over. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, or socks, just a pair of pyjama pants sitting low on his hips, and you want to reach out and touch him too. 

“We are the worst. You should come teach us a lesson.” You tease, and he gets onto the couch next to you, a hand reaching down, fingers stroke under your chin, tilting your head up, and he says, “Yeah I think you are right about that. Can’t let you go around thinking you can just do whatever you want, when you want.”  

“Mmm, that would be truly awful.” Tiffany mused, watching as Chucky kissed you, making you melt. Being pressed between both your partners, passed back and forth, in the early hours of the morning, there isn’t anything better than tasting the heady mix of him and her.

[arthursfuckinghat]

"I was gonna say you're like a son to me.. but you're more than that."

"It ain't that complicated!"

How quickly that shoulder pat of comfort turned into a condescending one.

[not-so-superheroine]

Jesus is my older brother, not my dad.

other christians don't seem to feel the same?

am i missing something where he insists on such a thing except perhaps with actual little children?

[bakudekublogblog]

kacchan there is actually a way you and izuku can be together forever i have this crazy inventive solution for you it's called a marriage license

[thetorturedlovergirl]

Something I´d love to discuss more about is how traveling in the TARDIS probably changes a companion´s body.

I’m not saying eldritch horror stuff but they’re doing something their body is not used to, and will probably have to adapt to. You´re telling me they can´t see things better or be more sensitive to the passage of time? That their perception about the things around them hasn’t improved?

Like if River being conceived in the TARDIS makes her half time lord, then what happens to those who travel for years? They too must change, even if to a small extent. But still, subtle changes. Things that make them no longer like the rest of humans, even though they still look like one.

[lindseymcdonaldseyelashes]

Leverage 4x1 - "The Long Way Down Job"