#Yes sir you know the tradition around here

[justvoidsdumbstuff1]

Heh, old man's

[teamred]

gtfih (get the fuck in here)

✩‌ wade wilson/deadpool x reader | fluff | 1.3k

SUMMARY | every morning, you see a man and his dog walk past your bakery and all he does is stick his head through the door, inhales deeply, make a comment, then walks out. what gives?

WARNINGS | flirty banter with sexual jokes, none really!

RATING | teen+

“Oh, that smells like unicorn farts wrapped in rainbows!” 

At the bakery's front counter, you glance up at the chiming bell above the door. Your first customer of the day... with a really strange comment.

A tall, mottled man stands before you in a grey hoodie holding an equally odd looking dog with a lolling tongue. Definitely not a sight you see every day. 

He takes a deep, exaggerated sniff of the air.

“Morning!” you greet with a smile. “Come on in and—”

And just like that, he bolts out the door and back onto the street. His dog licks his face—actually, his open mouth—as they disappear from view.

What the fuck?

The next morning, it happens again. 

“Mother of holy Mary and Marvel Jesus, that smells like a threesome between me, a donut, and fuck-me chocolate syrup!” 

The man, again in the same coloured hoodie, pauses dramatically, closing his eyes and taking another long whiff as he half-leans into the bakery.

“Would you like to try—?” 

But before you can finish, he’s gone again, leaving you standing there in disbelief.

The third morning is not much different. 

Same man, same dog, same routine. However, this time, he doesn’t even say a word—just inhales, sighs in contentment, then spins around and exits as quickly as he entered. 

It keeps on happening until the end of the week. By then, you've had enough. 

Leaning on the counter, arms crossed, you watch from the counter as he comes into view by your window. 

His dark maroon hoodie is drawn tight, and in tow as usual is his dog drooling slightly against his shoulder. You brace yourself, eyes narrowing.

The door swings open.

“Wow—” 

“You, Mr. Dog Man!” You cut him off and point at him sternly. 

He raises an eyebrow, pointing a finger to himself as if saying, “Me?” 

“Yes, you,” you confirm, then you jab your finger towards your glass counter. “Kindly get the fuck in here.”

He chuckles, amused. “Did you just tell me to ‘get the fuck in here’?”

“Kindly,” you say, tilting your head with exaggerated politeness, “but yes.”

The man shrugs, complying with a casual stroll to the counter. 

“Alright, I'm in. What’s the dealio?” he asks, leaning on the counter with a smile. 

“What’s your name, sir?” 

“It’s Wade,” the stranger supplies, his smile widening. “Wade Wilson. Is yours ‘The Bitchy Baker Who Didn’t Have a Good Dicking This Morning’?” His words drip with sarcasm, but there’s a playful twinkle in his eyes. 

“Ha-ha. So funny,” you reply dryly. “You know, you can't just keep sticking your head in my bakery, make a comment, and then leave.”

“Why not? It's a free country,” he says, feigning innocence. 

You roll your eyes. “If you like the smell of my baked goods that much, why don’t you actually buy one? I can assure you that they taste better than they smell.” 

Wade smirks. “That’s what many of my ex-girlfriends said, but I could never trust them.” 

You ruffle your eyebrows at his offhand comment, but he moves on quickly. “Look, I never carry my wallet on my morning walks. Mary Puppins here would guilt-trip me into buying way more stuff than I need.” 

Your gaze drops to his dog, who’s happily panting in his arms and looking up with big eyes. “Her name is Mary Puppins?”

“Yup. Her previous owner—may he rest his soul—named her. Her new baby daddy—that’s me—just kept the tradition going.”  

“And she guilt-trips you into buying stuff?” you ask slowly in equal parts disbelief and intrigue. 

“Look at this face!” Wade exclaims, holding his dog out closer to you. “Wouldn't you buy her anything she wanted?” 

For a few beats, you inspect the dog and its outfit. A little red and black costume that looks awfully similar to something you’ve seen before, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. But yes, her owner was right; she did have something oddly endearing about her. 

“Is it okay if I pet her?” 

“Oh yeah,” Wade nods enthusiastically, “go right ahead.”  

Based on her lack of facial expressions, Mary Puppins seems indifferent to your pats and scritches, but her tail is wagging, so she must be enjoying it slightly. Wade watches you in approval.  

You retract your hands, wash them quickly, then grab a tray of goods out from one of the shelves in the counter. 

“Well, since you don't have your wallet, have one of these on the house,” you say, placing the tray in front of him. 

Wade gasps theatrically, eyes twinkling in delight at all the choices he can possibly have. He takes his time, hovering his free hand over the array of pastries, until he finally decides on a chocolate croissant. 

One bite, and his reaction is nothing short of dramatic, but that seems to be this guy’s style.

His eyes flutter to a close, and he lets out a moan that echoes in the quiet bakery. You smile proudly and mentally pat yourself on the back. 

“Oh my God, they always talk about having a foodgasm, but my mouth is literally coming with each bite. Oh my fucking God!”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Okay, bring your wallet tomorrow and you can have plenty more foodgasms.” 

“What—my handsome features don't get me free baked goods?” Wade leans the rest of his croissant towards Mary Puppins, who’s trying her best to nibble at it, but is mostly just licking it.

“You're cute, but you’re not that cute," you tease. Looking beyond his skin condition, he was a teensy bit handsome, you had to admit.

“I used to wear a wig. I’ll put it on again if it means I get free shit. Would that help?”

It’s hard not to smile in front of him. “No, I don't think so.” 

“People say I look like Ryan Reynold’s hotter cousin when I’ve got a full load of hair on me.”  

You huff and shake your head in disagreement. 

“How about a date?” Wade asks with a wink. “There’s financial compensation in that—that’s gotta count for something.” 

A date would count for something, but you didn't want him to be out of the waters yet.

“Come back tomorrow with your wallet and a date could maybe be in your future,” you reply flirtatiously. 

Wade nods with a grin and begins to walk backwards towards the door. 

“If I’m late though, it’s ‘cause I’m too busy jerking it while fantasizing about having those beauties in my mouth again.” 

You sputter a laugh. Feeling brave, you decide to channel his humor and reflect it back at him. “Wow, maybe you’ll be only one minute late, if you can even last that long.” 

He gasps in mock horror and jogs back to the counter again to take another baked good. 

“This is compensation for that comment…” he says with squinted eyes, stuffing the pastry into his mouth. 

“Don’t come too hard tonight, handsome,” you say with a wink. 

“I’m legitimately so hard right now,” he says with a full mouth, pointing the half pastry braid towards his crotch. “As the kids say these days, you match my freak, lady. Say bye-bye, Mary Puppins!” 

Wade awkwardly adjusts himself to make his dog give a little paw wave, while she simply wags her tail. You laugh and shake your head, amused by his antics. 

As he finally exits, you hear him call out, “And if anyone asks, I’m just here for the sweet, sweet baked goods. Totally not because of the hot baker!” 

You bite your lip, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, as you watch him and his dog disappear down the street. As you return to work, you replay your interactions with Wade over and over, and realize he’s just as endearing as his quirky dog. 

You’re buzzing in anticipation to see Wade and Mary Puppins again tomorrow morning. 

[recareels]

something ‘bout you

character: professor!alhaitham

genre: smut ; modern university au set in teyvat

notes: waaaah it’s finally finished!!! i have no idea how this piece got to be as long as it did but alas, here we are. this has got to be the longest blow job i’ve ever written ehehehe. as always, please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: dangerous woman by ariana grande

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, praise, professor/graduate student relationship, sir kink, face fucking, cum swallowing, a teeny tiny bit of manipulation, lying via omission, reader is a film and linguistics student, a bit of academic jargon but nothing crazy or crucial, dom/sub dynamics

words: 8k

synopsis:

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers.  He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning.  “Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?”  Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights.  The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea.  He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes. “I want you,” you admit instead.

The banquet hall is small yet elegant, beige walls warmed by the fuchsia beams of the setting sun, streaming in thick strips through the floor-to-ceiling crystal windows. Silverware clinks delicately against fine china, glass champagne flutes clacking with front teeth as lips wrap around the edges, daintily mingling with the soft murmur of voices blanketing the room. 

Such is the life of a University of Sumeru elite. 

Classes don’t officially begin until Monday, but the entire graduate faculty of the Department of Linguistics had been invited to a prefatory mixer held at one of the grand hotels in the city. 

It is a long-standing tradition, the email invite had informed you, that the professors and supervisors of the department throw the graduate students—new and old—an intimate yet extravagant start-of-the-year dinner. 

It’s mostly meant for new students—only five accepted into the program per year—to introduce themselves to their colleagues and supervisors, becoming familiar with the faces they’ll be seeing for the next one-to-five years of their lives. 

You had been special enough to receive an acceptance letter into the PhD program, travelling from your Masters program in Liyue to the city of Sumeru to study under some of the most renowned scholars of the subject. 

And so now you stand, lingering near the immaculately organized table of hors d’oeuvres and fidgeting with the crystal flute between your palms, index finger absentmindedly tracing the rim as eager, interested eyes sweep across the room again, soaking up the atmosphere. 

You have worked so hard to get here, to get to this point, to stand in this room with the gilt-edged supremes of the scholastic world and be one of them—a part of this exclusive, highly-coveted club composed of the outstanding, the superior, the royals of academia.

A large, smooth hand yanks you, rough and abrupt, from your appreciative daydream, blinking rapidly as you stare up at the man who is unexpectedly talking to you—talking at you—as if he knows you well, already mid-sentence about the legend of King Deshret by the time your shock dissipates, concentration tuning into his frequency.  

“—And that’s why he went mad.”

Teal eyes hold yours, steady and intent and willing you not to look away, the fingers wrapped firmly around your bicep flexing the moment your stare begins to stray, watching through your peripheral vision as a man with white hair and rust eyes passes by, features set in hard stone. 

It is only after the man is out of earshot that your captor relaxes, fingers loosening but not fully releasing their grip on your flesh. 

“Thanks for that,” he says, suddenly sounding disinterested and distracted, gaze flitting around the room. 

“Was that true?” 

“What?” he looks back over at you, as if he’s surprised you just spoke to him. 

“Was that true?” you repeat. “I thought that since Nabu Malikata had warned him of the repercussions of the ritual prior to them performing it that he knew she’d die—that he knew she had chosen to die—and went mad with guilt due to him choosing his own selfish desires over the love of his life.” 

He shakes his head, swallowing a mouthful of his scotch. “A common misconception, often due to mistranslations and the incorrigible feelings of the translators themselves. Romantics, you know,” he shrugs, head tilting as he observes you, bright yet sharp eyes studying your face in slow, excruciating detail, as he he’s trying to divest your thoughts through your features. “Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you around the department before.” 

Razored teal glints like a scalpel as it attempts to dissect you, his scintillating gaze carefully shaving away at any pretences. 

“I am,” you confirm with a nod, struggling to suppress the pride tugging at the corners of your lips as you introduce yourself. “One of the three lucky souls to have been accepted as a PhD Candidate.” 

“Nice to meet you,” the man murmurs, giving your arm another little squeeze in greeting before finally releasing it. “I’m Haitham. Alhaitham, if you want to be formal, but Haitham is fine.” 

His body relaxes, shoulders no longer pinched, muscles no longer coiled as he gets more comfortable, leaning against a large column, his stance becoming permanent. 

“So, tell me. Where did you complete your Masters?” 

Your heart thumps against your ribs, pushing hard breath up your throat, nerves suddenly buzzing beneath the swelter of his intense stare, fighting the urge to shrink away from his fulgurous attention. 

“Liyue,” you say. “I studied under the guidance of Professor Zhongli.” 

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow in lazy intrigue, notes of condescension glazing his tone, a small smirk adoring his lips. “That’s impressive.” 

“You know him?” 

“Everybody in the academic world knows him, sweetheart. I’m sure you know that, as well.” 

Bashful heat seeps into your cheeks, tingling little pinpricks of embarrassment sprouting beneath your skin. 

“Well, I just—”

“Please,” Alhaitham cuts your off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The man is a master in several subjects; there’s not a chance anyone who is a true scholar hasn’t encountered and studied his work. What did you study beneath him?” 

“Um,” you begin, wincing at how idiotic it sounds, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “I wrote my thesis under his supervision. During my undergrad I majored in linguistics and specialized in cinema studies, so naturally my thesis aimed at analyzing and dissecting the role and importance of language in film—more specifically, how particular language conveys meaning and impacts the psychology of the viewer, as well as how particular language influences, dictates and affects the way a viewer derives meaning from the piece.” 

“Wow,” Alhaitham breathes, and for the first time tonight he sounds genuinely impressed, sincerely interested, notes of intrigue imbuing his tone. “I’d love to read it, if you’ll allow me.” 

“Of course,” you preen, the pressure on your lungs letting up a little beneath his praise. “It took me nearly two years to complete, and under Professor Zhongli’s supervision I was even able to conduct field studies and experiments to gather information and data.” 

“Is that so?” his smirk grows into a lopsided grin, his eyes sparkling with supercilious amusement. “Like what?” 

“As I’m sure you’re well aware of, how a certain character speaks and the words they use says a lot about who they are and where they hail from, but that’s only half the equation. The other half depends on the viewer themselves—their own background, upbringing, experiences, beliefs, and intelligence all influence the way they will perceive and derive meaning from an individual film. The research concluded that, based on these factors, two individuals from separate classes more often than not arrive at substantially different meanings of the information provided from the same film.” 

“Well done,” he murmurs, appreciative, and you can’t help but glow beneath his words, his commendation a beam of nurturing sunlight, drawing you closer to his heat.

“Thank you,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “And what about you? Are you a student?” 

He laughs, bright and warm, almost as if your mistake is cute. 

“No, no, I am a Professor.” 

“What do you teach?” 

“Syntactic Patterns in Ancient Runes, and Advanced Morphology,” he says easily. “Speaking of which, will you be TAing any classes this year?” 

“I will! Though I have not yet been approved to teach my own class, only tutorials for the first years. Understandable, I guess, since I’m a new student and all.” 

Your disappointment is palpable, hanging thick and heavy in the air, and his demeanour softens a little, a warm hand clasping over your shoulder.

“Cheer up,” he says. “I’m positive they’ll give you your own lecture the moment you hit your third year—those positions are usually reserved to upper-year PhD’s.” The tips of his fingers press into your muscles in a comforting massage, and you can’t help but lean into his touch a little, body deliquescing. “Which class will you be TAing for?” 

“Intro to Linguistics: Sentence Structure and Meaning,” you make a face, the thought sobering you slightly. “By the way, would you happen to know who’s teaching that class this year? There’s no professor listed on the website yet, but if they’re here I’d love to introduce myself.” 

Something darkens his eyes, his smile turned wolfish, a shock of unease unravelling slow and sticky in the pit of your belly.

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” he says dismissively, though there’s a shard of something submerged in teal irises, sharp and dangerous, glimmering beneath crystal lights. “He’s a jackass anyway. Antisocial, selfish, you know the type. Introducing yourself to him wouldn’t make much of a difference—he isn’t a fan of those overeager polite types, not unless they’re genuine.” 

“Oh,” you frown, deflating a little, ignoring the ice prickling at the base of your spine. “That’s a shame. I was hoping to be on good terms with him.” 

“I don’t think anyone’s on good terms with him,” Alhaitham mutters dryly, eyes narrowing as they sweep across the room, almost accusing in manner. “But who knows,” he says as he looks back at you, hard gaze palliating just a touch. “You might be the one to change that.” 

Confusion sprouts across your face, features crinkling as you draw in a breath to inquire, but a booming voice cuts you off, briskly announcing that it is time for dinner and requesting everyone take their seats. 

“Here,” Alhaitham murmurs as slim fingers cuff your wrist, leading you. “Come sit with me.” 

The dinner is several courses long, but you hardly remember any of them, too caught up in teal eyes and a velvet voice, in the hand that has found it’s way onto you knee, thumb stroking the bone in rhythmic motions through your tights, in the ankles currently tangled around your own, tightening every so often and hauling you a little bit closer—any time you say something that procures that amused little sound, playing on the back of his tongue; any time you say something that raises his brows and leaves his eyes shimmering, head tilted cutely in curious study.

The conversation flows seamlessly as the night passes, as servers bring and remove plates, as guests mingle around the ballroom, arriving to and departing from your table—but the two of you don’t dare move an inch, entirely captivated by your intimate discussion; heads bowed, legs locked, words murmured between the steadily dissipating space between your mouths. 

He tells you about his most recent excavation into the long lost tomb of a prince, about the runes he found intricately engraved on the gorgeous sarcophagus, about what they said and how they fit into his most recent collection of essays—highly coveted information, he had mentioned, sure to note he hadn’t told anyone about this; not until tonight, not until you, his voice taking on a slight air of incredulity, as if he can’t believe he just revealed such information so easily. 

You tell him about the research Zhongli personally funded after you were nearly expelled from the program for sneaking into the film reel archives despite being explicitly denied access—all in the pursuit of knowledge, of course, you had bristled with a roll of your eyes, insisting that such important pieces should not be so inaccessible to scholars—and of the many trips your valued Professor took you on, traversing film festivals across the whole of Inazuma. 

He tells you about his childhood in Sumeru, about what got him interested in semiotics and linguistics, about the first language he learned—and about how his grandmother taught him, eyes gone soft with fondness for the since passed woman. 

You tell him about your childhood in Fontaine, about scraped knees and local theatre and sparkling blue water, about your favourite Fontainian film movements and how they first sparked your passion for the performing arts. 

“I don’t know anything about Fontainian Neorealism or the Fontaine New Wave,” he admits, “but I do know that Sumeru has a flourishing arts and culture sector—and I assume that’s why you’ve chosen to study here. Am I correct?” 

“You are,” you nod with a small smirk, sipping on red wine. “It is exceptionally difficult to study Sumeru’s robust art history without actually being here. All I know are the things I’ve read in books—which are not nearly a suitable substitute for experiencing it with your own eyes.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement. “Let’s make a deal, then.” 

“A deal?” 

“A trade, of sorts,” he begins, smirking when you blink twice in curiosity. “I’ll take you to a performance at Zubayr Theater, and you take me to see a Fontainan film. Sound fair?” 

“Sounds wonderful.”

A small smile graces his lips, wispy at the edges, a peculiar sentiment sparkling in his gaze. “It’s a date, then.” 

And you can’t help the fizzy feeling that starts to froth in your veins at the word, at the promise of seeing him again, of spending more uninterrupted time with him, just the two of you. 

It must show on your face in some way, must be evident in the sweet, girlish giggle that bubbles uncontrollably past your lips, because his smile stretches, still soft, and he chuckles gently, nothing more than a huff of breath on his tongue.

“I’m looking forward to it, too.” 

The palm cupping your knee is hot and heavy, his grasp flexing with his response, staying itself for a moment before it slides up your thigh, slow and careful and appraising, thumb stopping a millimeter shy from the hem of your short black dress.

Keen teal eyes stay trained on your face, focused in their evaluation, ready to analyze any slight change in expression his action may elicit.

But you only lean closer, legs spreading an inch or so wider, shuffling to the edge of your seat, a silent plea for more. 

A silent plea that does not go unnoticed by Alhaitham, as indicated by his small smile, sharp eyes dulling a little with their inquisition and fingers sinking into plush flesh, grip strengthening before relaxing again, the tip of his thumb stroking the material of your dress.

All without a single hitch in his words, swiftly and smoothly moving onto the next topic. 

And you only fall further. 

You can’t manage to keep your hands to yourself, either, it seems, touch vying and voracious for more of him: playing with the gold bangles encircling his wrist; twisting the gilded jade class ring pressed firmly against his second knuckle; drifting over the back of his hand, a single fingertip outlining the bones and veins contouring his flesh. 

He doesn’t appear to mind, though, flipping his hand over to gift you more access, allowing you to trace the lines of his palm with a manicured nail, his fingers spreading wider, presenting more of himself to you as you vividly discuss Metz and how he built his cinematic semiotics theory off of structural linguistics. 

His hand is nearly in your lap now, your thighs cushioning one another’s, knees bumping clumsily against the edge of each other’s chairs as you subconsciously try to inch closer, caught up in every fucking thing about him; his viscous voice, cascading over you like melty syrup; his vivid stare, so bright and full of passion it’s practically glowing; his magnificent mind, gears churning at a rapid yet efficient pace, producing ribbons of wisdom, flowing smooth and fluid from his lips, confident and self-assured. 

You’re drowning in him, submerging yourself further and further into his presence, more intoxicated by his aura than the wine roiling warm and sweet in your belly. It produces something insatiable, a starved clawing at your chest that grapples for more and more and more of him, every fragment of information you manage to extract doing nothing to satisfy the hunger, instead exacerbating the craving. 

You’ve never met anyone like him before; never met anyone so blunt and real and unabashedly themselves, never met anyone so sincerely scholarly, so dedicated to their studies, so zealous in their never-ending pursuit of knowledge.

It’s inspiring; it’s intoxicating.

Alhaitham’s mind is brilliant, beautiful, an ornate maze of thoughts, each one leading to something new, each one unravelling like the petals of a lotus, sparking further debates, remarks, ponders. 

You could get lost in here forever, you think—stumbling your way around sharp corners and down twisting corridors, consistently in awe of the next thing you discover. 

You must murmur it out to him, dreamy and wine-drunk and wrapped up in him, sentiments streaming seamlessly from your brain to your lips without your permission, because he laughs, the sound mild and tender, his gaze softening. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mm,” you nod, lazy and languid. “It’s so beautiful, Haitham.”

“I’ve never had anyone call my mind beautiful before,” he muses. “But I think it might be my favourite compliment to receive yet.” 

Bubbles of pride tingle behind your ribs, and your chest puffs out a little, spine straightening beneath his praise, murmuring out a little self-satisfied, well, then, you’re welcome. 

“Proud of yourself, huh?” he teases, though the notes infusing his voice are playful, his eyes shining as he studies you, cataloging your expressions.

“Yes, Sir,” you confirm. “You’re a hard man to please.”

“Oh, am I?” he snorts, head tilting in question.

“S’not a bad thing,” you continue, words slurred just a touch, heavy with admiration. Dainty hands find his own, your fingers beginning to toy with his, idle and absent-minded as they curl and straighten knuckles. 

“No?” he smirks, pinky catching yours in a swift hook. “I mean, you seem to be doing a pretty good job so far.” 

“I could do better, if you want me to.” 

It’s bold, brash, and entirely unbefitting, but the offer slips from your mouth without thought or consent, startling you in it’s veracity, a jolt of desire zipping through your veins. 

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers. 

He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning. 

“Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?” 

Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights. 

The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea. 

He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes.

Because the desire is too strong, a potent drug infusing your blood and hazing your brain, overwhelming your senses and overriding your better judgement, and you find yourself unable to resist, easily placing blame on the wine and the party and the undeniable allure of this stranger, instead of your own ravenous craving. 

“I want you,” you admit instead, the confession oozing from between pouted lips, stark with it’s honesty, unapologetic with your longing. 

Alhaitham laughs, low and smooth, watching you through thick, fanned lashes. 

“How do you want me?”

He’s playing with you now, a hawk toying with his food between razored talons, forcing his prey to go exactly where he wants it to. 

You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

“However you’ll give you to me,” you respond, brazen but sincere, glassy eyes wide and captivating his own. 

Teal searches your face for a moment, pries apart your features in search of falsities and finds nothing but unadulterated candour, so sheer it boarders on pathetic. 

“All right,” he finally says, hand smoothing along your wrist to press your palms together, lacing your fingers with his and giving a gentle tug. “Come.” 

You tread behind him like the sweetest little kitten, inebriated galaxies swirling in your irises, desperate and obedient and eager for your treat. 

But you’re just a touch too impatient, it seems.

Because he barely makes it to the washroom, free hand on the doorknob, intending to throw one last glance back at you—one final confirmation, are you sure? written in the motion—before you’re surging forward, soft palms cushioning a defined jaw, dainty fingers hooking behind the hinges and yanking, crushing his lips to yours.

It isn’t graceful in the slightest, a rough mangle of tongues and teeth, incisors catching on lips and canines scraping slick muscle, but Alhaitham recalibrates quickly enough, large hands curling around your hips and pulling you to his form. 

The door to the men’s washroom swings open as your knotted bodies fall through it, hinges loose and creaky, the metal handle slamming against the tiled wall, the resounding bang! bouncing throughout the room.

The stumbling of your footsteps echoes around you, obnoxious smacking of lips and slurping of tongues amplified by the open space as you gulp down his breathy little chuckle, the sound warm and tingling as it spills down your throat. 

A tangled mess of legs and limbs, you fall into the first available stall, rickety door whacking off the side, the lock jingling from the force. 

He allows you to crowd him into a corner, hinges of the flimsy door tinkering again as your legs slotting together and your tongues grind, tips teasing each other in curling little licks, catching one another and then slipping away, tracing the ridges of teeth, burrowing into the divots of cheeks. 

A strong hand stays wrapped around your neck, nails just barely nipping your skin as he grips you in place, his other hand busying itself with a palmful of your ass, fingertips planting bruises into soft flesh. 

A responding hiss slithers from your mouth into his, the sound massed on his tongue, the muscle folding around it and sucking, savouring your pain until it melts into his flesh.

Your hands are indecisive, traversing the buttons of his shirt and the loops of his trousers until, finally, they find his belt, fingers eager and vying as they pick at the heavy buckle, and he snorts. 

“It’s cute, how utterly desperate you are,” he mumbles into the kiss, slippery mouths sliding together, leavings streaks of saliva painted across chins. 

You are desperate, too desperate, and if you were of sound mind you’d be rightfully embarrassed of such behaviour, pawing at him like some impatient teenager, pathetically aching for more of him. 

But the wine and the glamour and Alhaitham’s intoxicating taste—cedar wood and mint, cloaked by expensive scotch—has cast a murky cloud over your brain, stuffing your skull full of nothing but ardour, dulling all of your senses, honing all of your needs, to him, him, him. 

The thigh wedged between your own, sculpted from strong, lean muscle, flexes twice, hitching up further into your core, a pitchy mewl spilling onto his tongue as a reward. You can feel his cock, hot and hard and pressed tightly against your hip, rutting into you in small, uneven little motions, dense heat sprawling, slow and sticky, in the pit of your tummy. 

“God, you’re already making such a fucking mess,” he nearly moans into your mouth, thigh tensing again in emphasis, cotton doused in slick arousal. “And I’ve barely even touched you. I guess you really do want me, don’t you?” 

And although his words are teasing, imbued with notes of playful mocking, his tone is sweet, almost as if he’s in awe of how honest you were. 

“S’bad,” you whimper, tongue sketching out the curve of his cupid’s bow. “So bad.”

“Yeah? Tell me,” he pants, a hand wreathing around your jaw, keeping your stare trapped in his. “Tell me what you want.” 

The demand is damp as it drifts across your face, scalding little pinpricks erupting beneath your skin, paired with a low whine of embarrassment. His gaze is too vehement, eyes wide and unblinking as they impel you, your own lids squeezing shut in the face of such fervour. 

“Ah!” the hand clamped around your jaw tightens. “Open them. Look at me, and tell me what you want. You’re a big girl, I know you can do it.”

It almost hurts to look at him, another bout of humiliation flushing through your veins as you squint, features twisted up in a wince. 

“C’mon,” he goads, fingertips thrumming against you cheek once in a fluent wave. “Where’s that big beautiful brain gone now? You were so eloquent at dinner.”  

“I—I wanna ride your cock!” you nearly sob, the profession a stringy plead shoved from your tongue, tangled in threads of saliva. “I really wanna ride your cock.” 

“Aw, how precious,” he clicks his tongue, as if it’s such a shame, words filtered through a slight faux pout. “Too bad naughty girls don’t get to ride my cock.” 

“Wh-What?” you blink, tears beading at the corners of your eyes, just barely caught in outer lashes. “Naughty?”

And, oh, the smile that spreads across his cheeks is downright sinister, eyes flashing with levity. 

“Do good girls put their hands all over a stranger’s cock?” he tilts his head, that shiny sliver in his iris catching in the light. “Does that not qualify as misbehaviour to you?”

“But—But I—I’m good!”  

The response is automatic, barreling up your throat and out your mouth before you have a moment to seize it, a fierce need to prove yourself igniting behind your ribs, eyebrows knit cutely as you stare at him, eyes beseeching despite your bratty tone. 

“Are you?” he raises a brow, eyes hard, but mirth plays with the corners of his lips. “Your behaviour thus far says otherwise.”

“I am!” 

Your gaze steadily holds his own, daring, challenging, insistent, your features scrunched up in a stubborn petulance.

“All right, prove it to me,” he says after a beat, exhaling an amused little huff. “Show me you’re a good girl and suck my cock.” 

And that’s all the encouragement you need, really, desperate to prove yourself worthy and capable as you slide down his body, knees on his toes, lidded stare never breaking contact with his own—heavy, dark, starving.

His collarbone, sharply prominent and peeking out from beneath his shirt lapels, heaves a little with his laboured breaths, the faintest sheen of sweat beginning to lacquer the bones, catching delicately in the fluorescent light. 

Nosing along the impressive bulge straining against his trousers, you hum a little in appreciation, trailing hot, humid kisses up the length in a haphazard outline. A hushed giggle vibrates in your throat as his cock jumps beneath your touch, begging for what Alhaitham would never dare to, tongue unfurling from your mouth to roll, slow and hard, over the clothed head. 

The slick muscle wraps itself around the tip as best it can, wet heat seeping through his pants as your tongue siphons his cock into your mouth, lips closing around the head and suckling, hard. 

A breath snares on his sternum, his hips twitching once in complement, chased by a low, alluring chuckle. 

“Huh,” he says to himself, though the letters are breathless. “I didn’t know good girls were little teases…” 

The implication is not lost on you, and you roll your eyes, grumbling out a muffled no fun into his groin before your fingers immediately get to work—button popped, zipper tugged, knuckles curled in the elastic waistbands, hauling his pants and briefs midway down his thighs. 

His cock is just as gorgeous as he is, thick and velvety and twined with pulsing veins that surge and swell the moment they’re wrapped in your tongue.

It’s impossible to silence the pathetic whimper of appreciation that spills from your throat the moment his cock is free, massive and magnificent, and you can’t resist nuzzling your cheek into it in admiration, catlike, the flushed head leaving a fat streak of pre-cum painted just below your eye.

A curse pries its way past his lips, fading into a breathy exhale, his fingers latching beneath your jaw and tilting your face to his, taking a moment to cherish the sight. 

You look so beautiful stained with him—glistening pre-cum dashed across your check in a perfect stripe; lips swollen and licked raw, shimmering with his spit—and he can’t help but stare, ravenous pupils having gnawed away at teal irises, desperate to soak up as much of the scene as physically possible, leaving nothing more than a thin ring to outline the orbs. 

His thumb swipes through the sticky substance, rubs it into your skin until it’s gone dry, seeped into the tissues and absorbed completely, and your neck strains a little, yearning to present more of your cheek to him, offering.

Another second or two passes as he grants himself one final moment of marvel, before his fingers release your head, a non-verbal command to continue. 

And you obey flawlessly, instantly. 

A dainty hand wraps around the base of his cock, tongue darting from between raw lips to lap kittenishly at the head, flattening along the curve and dragging twice in unhurried succession before digging the point into his slit, procuring another pretty pearl of pre-cum, oozing enticingly to adorn the tip. 

It’s so dense, so bloated it looks mere moments away from dropping, your tongue stretching out   far and wide in a precursory measure, ready to catch it when it falls. And it does, only a beat later, dripping slow and gross into your waiting mouth in a single strand, thick and viscid.

A hefty moan resounds in your throat as it seeps into your tastebuds, his flavour bitter and strong, fluttering lashes framing rolling whites. 

The noise that splinters in his throat is strained, yearning beneath a heavy hedonism, and his fingers tighten in your hair, a subtle caution. Smirking, your glance up at him again, sinful tongue laving lasciviously over your puffy lips, yet your eyes are not bratty, instead glittering with such potent awe it almost hurts, like he’s some sort of veneered saint, exalt pouring from your gaze. 

It crushes down on his chest, flattens his lungs and makes it difficult to draw in breath, oxygen stalling in his throat, the urge to yank you up and kiss the goddamn life out of you near unbearable as it tears at his chest. But he comes back to his senses, restraint held intact by a single spider silk thread, a dull, distant voice in the back of his skull reminding him of your task, of your lesson.  

You seem to know, too. 

No words need to be spoken, no warnings need to be issued, the hand around the base of his cock flexing slightly as it readjusts its grip, feeding him to yourself, taking him inch by inch down your eager throat. 

“S’it,” he encourages as he watches you, eyes lidded and hazy with lust. “That’s it, baby, take as much of it as you can for me.” 

The incentive, haunted by the ghost of potential praise if you succeed, only makes you more avid in your quest, throat stretching around his girth as you stuff it full of his cock, reflexes instinctively attempting to push him from the gummy column, constricting as you gag around the head.

It’s hard to know what he likes—how fast, how deep, how rough and filthy—but from the limited information you’ve gathered tonight, you can infer that he isn’t a fan of teasing; at least, not when he’s the one being teased. 

“A little more,” he instructs, but the command is gentle, a thumb skimming along the line of your jaw, hinges straining as you immediately submit, mouth opening wider, throat sexpanding further as you take more of him, more for him.

“Fuck, look at that,” he pants out, thumb caressing your jaw again before his palm cups beneath your chin, tilting your head up, the action inadvertently forcing his cock farther down your throat. “You’re so good.”

Blinking twice in response, you stare up at him, irises encrusted with stars of worship, their shine unhindered by the bleary gloss of reflexive tears that have already begun to collect, lashes clumped into soaked spikes, just barely keeping the torrent at bay.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt more respected, revered, in his entire life. 

Another blink—a quick beating of lashes—sends crystalline dewdrops flowing down your cheeks, the softest sniffle, half-stifled, shuddering delicately around his cock. 

“H-Hah,” he breathes out, an involuntary little sound pulled from deep within his chest, your agape mouth working itself open greater, lips stretching over his bulk.

He holds you still for a moment, takes time to admire such a pretty sight, hips jolting slightly, eyes watching as the bulge in your throat jumps, as you choke around him but don’t dare push him away, instead squeezing the base of his cock, attempting to jam it down even more. Your chin juts forward in a futile attempt to aid, salacious squelching echoing throughout the bathroom as you swallow, hard and with conviction, trying to lead him further into your body. 

The back of his knuckle swipes through a stream of glittering salt, collecting your tears on his skin and bringing it to his mouth, tongue washing over it slowly, savouring your taste. 

And you wait. 

How very good of you.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he finally says as he releases his grip, permitting you to take control again. “Show me how much of me you can take down your throat.” 

And, really, that’s all of the enticement you need, head beginning to move the instant he demands it, mouth gliding down his shaft, slow and steady, until the tip of your nose just barely brushes your second knuckle. A pause, a mere millisecond for him to feel your throat convulse, before you’re pulling back up, lips puckering as they tighten around his shaft, glazing his flesh in a thin, shimmering film of saliva. 

Each stroke of your mouth has your pace accelerating, opting to keep your fist wrapped firmly at the base of his cock to steady it instead of allowing it to follow the trajectory of your lips.

It grows sloppy quick, your spit-soaked hand readjusting it’s slippery grip as your upper lip repeatedly bashes into it, the threads of saliva keeping your mouth and finger connected snapping each time your lips reach his head, nearly pulling off of his cock completely before your mouth sinks down again

“Yeah, yeah, there you go,” he grunts out, words torn around the edges, breathing raw and ragged. “Good girl, my perfect girl, doing so well for me.” 

A whine reverberates around his cock, your legs spreading slightly as your back bows and your neck arches, an ambitious attempt to take more of him, throat gaping and split open, drenched cunt grinding into the toe of his polished shoe. 

He groans a little, the sound tapering off into something choked and broken, his hips stuttering forward and involuntarily plunging his entire length down your throat, body retching at the abrupt intrusion. 

And suddenly, all of this isn’t exactly enough for you. 

Because while you can nearly fit all of him down your throat on your own, and while he seems to be more than satisfied with your progress, there’s still an inch or so that you’re missing, palm curled around it in a manner that’s almost protective, and you want to take all of him. 

You want to prove that you can take all of him, for him. 

A thick, milky string of spit and pre-cum dangles and droops heavily in the space between your lips and his cock as you peel your mouth from his shaft entirely, wrecked little coughs furling on your tongue, eyes wet and wide and full of reverence as you look up at him, imploring.

With a little effort, he hefts his lids open from their sedative state, staring down at you with glazed, gluttonous pupils, head tilting a little in inquiry.

“I want you to fuck my throat, Sir,” you rasp out in explanation, voice rough and raw, request grating against your throat. “Please, fuck my throat, Sir, please.” 

The plead is garbled, drooled out from the corners of your mouth curled in copious drivels of foamy spit, collecting on your chin and dripping off your jaw in viscous glass cords. 

Chest heaving with ragged breath, he watches as drool drizzles across your collarbone and exposed bosom, sticky and sloppy. You’re making such a mess—he’s making such a mess of you, and you’re so willing, so unwavering, raring for more. 

“Fuck,” he nearly whines out, the curse cracked. 

Deft fingers grip your face, blunt nails biting into your cheeks as he forces your head up further, an attempt to get a better look at you. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, the word drifting across your face, eyes hunting after it in an almost rabid manner. “You want Sir to fuck your mouth?” 

A whimper vibrates on your tongue, head nodding as best it can in his firm grasp. 

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, wanna take as much of you as possible, Sir; wanna take all of you, Sir; wanna be so good for you, Sir,” your head quirks a little, nuzzling into his touch. “Please, help me, help me show you how good I can be.” 

Your confession is molten and dreamy, flowing from your lips in one thick, continuous stream, your eyes limpid, desperate with the desire to please. 

“Though you’ve proven you are capable of doing it on your own, it’s precious that you’re asking for my help.”

A hum of contemplation rumbles in his chest, head tilting in observation, his scrutinizing gaze framed by heavy lids, eyes now slow and steady as they search your face.

“You need Sir to guide you, huh?” he’s asking as his other hand replaces your own, wrapping around the base of his cock and giving it two good, quick pumps before bringing the head to your lips, mouth obediently dropping open, a sound of confirmation playing on the back of your tongue.

Yes, yes, you’re nodding, tongue curling in the air a little, almost as if enticing him closer.

“No, not need,” he revises, smudging a thin stroke of pre-cum across your waiting, urgent tongue. “Want. Isn’t that right?” 

It’s true—you don’t technically need his assistance, could manage perfectly well on your own the task of sucking him off and stuffing your throat with his cum, but you want his aid; want to show him that not only can you succeed, but you can surpass.

“Please,” you whimper, the word a distortion trembling against the tip of his cock. “Please, help me be the very best for you, Sir.” 

Something sharp flashes in his pupils, hungry and craving and full of teeth, his chest stuttering with it—a growl he snuffs out, strangles in his throat before it can grow into a coherent response, replaced with a simple nod.

“All right, all right, baby,” he’s pacifying as you take his cock down your throat again, the hinges of your jaw straining as your mouth stretches around him. “Sir will help you out this time.” 

A mewl of thanks vibrates around his cock as he threads himself down your throat, his hips jerking once, fast and short, a matching whimper spilling from his lips. 

Delicate fingers curl in his waistband and tug a little, begging him to fuck deeper, and he concedes, groaning out breathy praise as your nose presses into that neat smattering of curls adorning his pubic bone, lips kissing the root of his shaft. 

“Christ,” he whines, hips thrusting forward a hint further as he leans back against the stall wall to get a better view, your throat tightening around him with the action. “So fucking gorgeous.” 

The stuffed full column of your throat ripples around him as you swallow with conviction, a greedy attempt to garner him even deeper into you, his shaft swollen and protruding in your neck. Tear-lacquered eyes close briefly, forcing streams of crystal to leak from the corners as you nuzzle into his groin again, the laudatory action causing gummy walls to spasm around his cockhead. 

“F-Fuck,” the curse fragments on his tongue, head tipping back against the flimsy stall wall, angular jaw and Adam’s apple on display. “Look at you, so full of me.”

There isn’t any more time to admire, though, as idle chatter, muffled and indistinct, seeps under the heavy washroom door, yanking both of you from the heavenscape you had conjointly created and shocking you with a bitter dose of reality. 

There’s no warning after that, the brute reminder of the steadily encroaching public entirely shattering whatever trance the two of you had been enveloped in, Alhaitham’s hips snapping sudden and sharp, fucking your throat with a renewed vigour. 

Your grip on his slacks tightens, knuckles curling over the waistband in a feeble attempt to help him, to pull him even closer, jaw wrenched open even wider as his hips work, so fucking dedicated to him, to pleasing him, despite the pang beginning to settle deep within the hinges.

It’s rough, and sloppy, and so fucking hot, scalding saliva smeared all over him—coating his thighs and dribbling down his balls and soaking the matted curls at the base of his cock, slippery and sticky and stained with you. 

“Doing so—so fucking good for me,” he pants out, pace never faltering. “My perfect little toy.” 

Something mangled and muted sounds in your throat, another pair of tears cascading down your cheeks and streaking them with pretty gleaming trails.

It hurts, your throat burning and fucked raw with every ram of his cock, your lungs beginning to shrivel as he smothers your breath, routinely shoved back down in time with the piston of his hips, chest swelling painfully beneath the backlog of unreleased air. 

Hiccups splutter around him as you desperately try to draw in tiny gulps through your nose, the fluttering of your throat eliciting another hoarse groan, tumbling from his lips. 

The ache in your jaw has radiated across your face now, a pounding in your temples keeping flawless rhythm with Alhaitham’s thrusts, a twinging in your cheeks weighing heavy on the bones, creeping into your sinuses.

Yes, it all hurts so very much, but you take it all for him, just like a good little girl is supposed to, just like he asked, just like you promised you would—dutiful, doting, devoted.

And even though his hips are ruthless, avid in their chase to catch his impending high, his grip is tender, the knuckles rooted against your skull firm but not painful as they hold your head in place, his thumbs massaging soothing little circles along your hairline.

You’re weeping around him now, a potent concoction of drool and tears trickling off your tongue in viscid strings, the slick muscle curled flush around the underside of his shaft, protecting sensitive skin from the edges of sharp teeth. 

A dull pain is beginning to seep into the tip of your nose, no doubt a response to the constant collision of your face into his pelvis, and you can feel the early formations of a bruise, fragile capillaries busted open from the consistent blunt force. 

“Oh, Christ,” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before springing back open, gazing down at you with fervour. “M’gonna—ah, ah—” his hips judder, thumbs pressing into the sides of your head, steadying his grasp. “M’gonna cum, and I want you to—f-fuck—to swallow it all, y’here me? Don’t waste a single fucking drop.” 

And, well, you’re nothing if not unwaveringly obedient.

Two more drives of his cock, rough and rapid, and then he’s forcing hot, thick cum down your throat, stuffing the column full with his potent seed.

It’s so much, too much, and you sputter around him, the syrupy substance overflowing back up your throat and into your mouth to seep, slow and sticky, past the tight seal of your mouth.

But he helps you with that, too, holding your head still and pressing your face tightly to his pubic bone, ensuring that his cum shoots straight down your throat as his cock continues to throb weakly, weighting your tongue. 

And you, obedient little girl that you are, devour all of it, even the few stray dollops of cream that managed to escape your mouth and roll down his balls, tongue curling hungrily around them and sopping up the remnants with gentle sucking. 

Truly, you did not waste a single fucking drop. 

And he’s so proud of you. 

“C’mere, precious,” he’s breathing out once he’s sure you’ve swallowed it all, releasing his grip on your skull and hoisting you up, strong hands hooked beneath your armpits. 

He hauls you to your feet in one fluid movement, pliant legs struggling to find stable footing on the tiled floor, and props you up against his body, supporting you. Those big hands cup your jaw, tilting your face to his, aquamarine flying across your features—quick, but efficient—and surveying the damage.

“You were so perfect,” he murmurs, sowing a smattering of chaste kisses along the top of your head. “You were so, so perfect for me.” 

A response hitches in your throat, mangled by the sob desperately attempting to claw past it, and Alhaitham frowns, concern creasing his forehead. 

“Hey, you okay? Huh?” gentle palms tip your head up even further, thumbs killing tears as they swipe over your cheekbones. “You okay, sweetheart?” 

“M’fine, Sir,” you croak out, voice ruined but eyes filled with reverence. “Th-Thank you for giving me your cum.” 

The worry saturating his features is eradicated in an instant, eroded by tender awe, his lips twitching into a small smile as his eyes sweep across your face again—slower, this time, more deliberate, appreciative—thumbs continuing their soft caress. 

The sudden shouting of his name decimates any potential response before it has a chance to form in his mouth, a low growl of irritation rumbling in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he calls back, the moment the washroom door swings open, effectively halting the perpetrator in their steps. “I’ll be there soon. Give me a moment.” 

His voice is hard, stern, cold yet dripping with authority, the meek messenger squeaking out some semblance of acknowledgement before rushing from the room. 

You’re still sniffling, cheeks stained with dried, crusty salt, hair mussed and messy, and his frown returns as he looks back at you, his features pinched, reluctance weighing heavy on his form. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?” 

“I am,” you nod in his grasp, finally standing on your own two feet, as if to prove it. “Promise.”

His eyes hold your own for a moment longer, assessing, before he accepts your answer as truth, fingers beginning to fuss with his dishevelled tie. 

“All right,” he sighs out the words as he primps, palms smoothing down his shirt, wrinkles casualties from your fingers. “Take your time to regain your bearings.” He looks up, a sardonic grin on his face. “I, unfortunately, have business to attend to. Such is the life of a Sumeru professor.” 

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure it’s such a drag to be faculty at the top university in the world,” you snort. 

“Enjoy your ignorance while it lasts,” he retorts, but his smile has softened to something playful. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

“Looking forward to it, Sir.” 

“Good.” 

He refolds his lapels one last time, squaring his shoulders as he mentally prepares, turning toward the stall door.

“Oh, and uh,” hand curled around the stall handle, he pauses, throwing a glance over his shoulder, eyes shining with something mischievous. “Maybe next time you can actually ride my cock, like you wanted to.” 

Head quirking, confusion crinkles your brow, your eyes searching his face. Next time?

A smirk spreads across his lips, smug and supercilious. 

“See you in class on Monday, Teaching Assistant.” 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Long Snake Moan 4

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Loki

Summary: your boss gives you a task you’re not prepared for.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Yes, please, he should be waiting,” you confirm and hang up the phone.  

You’re still in a daze. You barely remember getting to your desk or dialing the call. You’re functioning on habit alone as your mind reels. 

“Ahem,” the throat clear makes you wince and you look up at Loki as he looms on the other side of your monitor. 

You sit up straight and fix the screen, adjusting it so you can see. He tuts and grabs it again, stopping you from sinking into your work. That’s how you deal with things. You just ignore them. 

“What?” You look at him. 

“What?” He echoes.  

“Why are you still here? You have the...” you can’t even say it. You’re married. Somehow.  

“I’ve every right to stay close to my wife.” 

“Ooh, don’t say that,” you shake your head. 

“Pardon?” His brows tweak. 

“Don’t say it out loud. That word. Wife--” You suck in air and hold it in your chest. You shudder as you let it out slowly. 

“You should be flattered. I am a god. You are... minuscule, even for a Midgardian,” he slithers. 

“So why did you do that?” Your voice peaks. 

He snickers. “Well, let’s not get off to such a rough start. There are things still to tend to. As I have it, your marital traditions require a band?” 

He leans in to look over the monitor as your fingers flutter nervously by your keyboard. You follow his gaze and find a large green emerald mounted on a golden band. Where the heck did that come from? You raise your hand and try to wrench it off. It’s stuck! 

“It cannot be undone as easily that,” he taunts. “So, in my research, you are not so dissimilar to Asgardians in the way of marriage, however, I don’t think you’d be fond of a blood sacrifice so I’ll spare you that.” He laughs as you blanch at him. You’re annoyed at how amused he is. “Though the matter of consummation...” 

“Alright, no,” you stand and wave your hands. “No, no. I’m working. I’m busy.” Your voice is brittle and salty in your throat. You sweep around the desk and shoo him, “you need to go, alright? I have work to do and this is insane. So please, leave.” 

He catches you by the wrists as he faces you. You gulp at the iron in his grip. You tug but he doesn’t even flinch. You stare at his pale fingers. He feels like ice. 

“Loki, sir, later when I’m done we can discuss--” 

“I preferred when you called me a prince. Yes. Proper titles. ‘My Prince,’" he sneers. 

You sniff and squirm against his grasp, “my prince, please, will you go? I can’t handle this right now.” 

His lip curls as his green eyes blaze down at you. Is he angry? Entertained? Annoyed? 

“You needn’t be so scandalized. I am perfectly attractive. I am an exceptional choice in mate. By any standard in this universe, I am coveted. Don’t pretend that heart isn’t skipping a beat at my very touch,” he drawls. 

“Yes, it’s a condition. I’ve had it checked. They said it’s nothing to worry about,” you babble dumbly. You know he doesn’t mean that but you really can’t deal with his true implication. 

“We have to seal this union or I have no case for my residence--” 

“Got it. I get it. I understand,” you ramble. “But right now is not the time for that--” 

“There’s an office right there--” 

“Not now,” you repeat. “Loki,” you rip your hands free as his hold on you slackens. “I need to finish my work here and to be honest, I could use a little time to process this.” You turn away and stride back around the desk to face him from the other side. “I should have everything wrapped up at six and then we can figure things out.” 

You sit but your chair is higher than you expect. You blink and he’s gone. No, he’s below you. You writhe in his lap as he wraps an arm around your middle. You push on his elbow and squeal. 

“What are you doing?” You whine and kick your legs. 

“Well, darling, you sat in my lap. It’s rather forward of you,” he laughs. 

“Stop, stop!” You shove his arm helplessly. “I’m begging you to just--” 

“Oh, I knew you would beg--” 

“Enough!” You yell and stomp his foot. You get free and throw yourself off of him. You hit the desk and spin in the small space between you. You puff out as your adrenaline pumps behind your ears.  

You put your hands out, speechless. You can’t think. It’s all a scramble. You clap your palms together and twine your fingers. Then you cup your hands and cover your mouth. 

“Darling, you are dramatic,” he muses. 

You finally untangle your fingers and throw up your arms. You shake your head and turn to storm off. You don’t look back. You are going to hide in the bathroom until the world doesn’t feel so shaky. 

[laneywrld]

call out my name | Lewis Hamilton

request: heyy, can we get a story with call out my name by the weeknd as the base line of the story .

word count: 3.6k

warnings: none

When you first met Lewis, you had a feeling it'd end like this.

If you could go back and change that night, you would, with no hesitation. You missed the days when Lewis was a nonfactor in your life when you didn't know he existed.

You remember that night all too well. Miami was always alive when the Grand Prix came around, your friends, like the partygoers they were enjoyed taking the opportunity to take on the vibrant nightlife and enjoy the crowds the race brought in.

It was an annual tradition, you could say, to party like tomorrow didn't exist when the lights shut down and engines roared to life.

When you first moved to Miami, you hadn't understood the essence of the sport or the crowds it brought in, until you met an overly enthusiastic Daniel Ricciardo.

You had no clue who he was when he quite literally stumbled into your path; his boyish smile and golden retriever energy made it almost impossible to be mad at him as his drink soaked your dress.

"I'm so sorry!" He calls out, stumbling over himself.

"You're not from here?" You called out as you reached down to help him stand up straight. His thick accent was a dead giveaway.

"No, I'm Australian."

"Long way from home," you shouted over the music, dragging his frame into an open seat further away from the dance floor.

"I'm working." He slurs, smiling up at you.

"Mhmm, doesn't look like you're working," you trail off, "what's your name?"

"Danny. After work fun."

"Ahh," you hum, "okay, understandable. I'm going to get you some water, okay? Did you come here with friends?"

"No. Was actually planning on making some friends." He laughs, and it makes you chortle as well.

"Miami is not the place to make friends Danny." You informed. "Stay here, I'm going to grab that water."

You saunter away, keeping an eye on the lean man as you approach the bar. You order a water, paying for the overpriced bottle with your Apple wallet, and quickly return to the drunken man. You don't know why you helped him; it was just in your nature to assist anyone you could.

Danny smiles up at you with an appreciative smile as you uncap the bottle for him, "Can you hold it, or do I have to give it to you?" You inquire.

"Give it to me, please."

You both break out into childish snickers at his words. "Easy there, buddy," you warn, tilting his chin up and directing the bottle to his mouth.

You pull it away, tightening the cap and placing it in front of him on the table. You then slide into the booth beside, "I'd feel better with myself if I stay with you for a while, just to make sure you're okay."

He nods, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, "Yeah, I get it; I'm so shitfaced right now."

It is quiet between the two of you for a while, you constantly reaching over to make sure he's hydrated and him smiling at you all dopey-like.

"You from here?" He asks as he starts to regain his sober mind.

You shake your head, "No, just moved here though."

"You can be my Miami friend." Danny grins.

"I'll probably never see you again after tonight, Mr Australia." You joke, nudging his shoulder with your own.

"I come here every year around this time." He announces. "Work."

"Work," you nod. "Right."

"Yes or no?" He prods.

"Have to see if you can hang; it doesn’t look like you can." You joke.

He scoffs, leaning away and eyeing you. "Please, I am a good time, the best time."

"Sir, I've just met you, and I'm taking care of your drunk ass." You cackle.

"How about this, stick with me for the rest of the night, and if we have a blast, every time I'm in Miami, you ride with me."

"You're going to get white girl wasted every time?" You inquire with a raised brow, and he laughs hard.

"Probably."

It was safe to say that Daniel was a blast. Even if he did party like a fratboy, you enjoyed his company. He gave you the energy of a teenage coming-of-age movie, doing whatever and saying whatever with his friends. It was a connection you hadn't experienced before.

And you enjoyed it, you liked spending time with your Australian friend. Which is how you ended up meeting Sir Lewis Hamilton six years later.

Lewis didn't know why he allowed his enthusiastic coworker to convince him to spend a night in Miami with him. The only solace he found in the situation was knowing that he wasn't the only driver there. Everyone was there, in a section booked by no one other than Daniel Ric himself.

It was nice for sure, and Lewis was curious as to how Daniel, of all people, knew so much about the lively city of Miami and their restless nightlife.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Lewis, just felt out of place a little bit, without his usual crew.

"Hey Guys, I'll be back in a second, I'm going to grab my friend."

Lewis rolls his eyes taking another sip from his glass.

He doesn't know who he was expecting, a Ken doll, a high-energy frat boy like Daniel, or even a valley girl with a high-pitched voice. This was Miami, so logically his smartest anticipation would be a surgery-riddled Kim Kardashian lookalike. But not you, Lewis would never expected you to enter the section, arm wrapped around Daniel's waist as you cackle at whatever nonsense leaves his mouth.

He is instantly intrigued, his phone being powered off and stuffed into his hoodie pocket.

You were beautiful with your rich complexion and beaming grin as he walked you down the line introducing you one by one.

His eyes never leave you as he watches you interact with everyone. You cloud his vision as you get closer. His eyes trace your hair and flow down to your brows and your alluring eyes. His view travels down your nose and lingers on your spread lips. And he physically lets out a sigh as he traces over your body.

You would drive him mad. He knows it.

-

As you take the time to introduce yourself to Danny's coworkers, you aren't surprised to see, well, to make it short, people who are not of your crowd.

But to your surprise, they're all friendly and welcoming. You're not surprised to see that you have met some of them before on your trips with Daniel or when you fly out to see him.

When you reach the end of the line you see him and your confidence falters as your eyes meet his. You should've known by the way his eyes were drinking you in that he'd be a problem.

With conviction, you approach him, bearing a sly smirk on your face.

"I'm y/n." You declared, and Lewis returned the same decency.

"I'm Lewis."

Your hands meet in the middle and he has a soft grip on you, refusing to let go.

"What's a girl like you doing with Daniel."

"He's my friend." You reply.

"Just a friend?"

"Just a friend." You confirm, and the way he looked at you through his fluffy lashes was evidence enough of what was to come between the two of you.

-

Lewis wasn't all that the media portrayed him to be. He wasn't overly confident or carefree. He actually worried a lot and was stressed a lot.

You knew that he felt like he had something to prove. You met him at his peak, and even now, when he feels like he's at the worst in his career, you're still here.

"So you're going to leave?" You hum, rubbing your fingers through his parts.

"Do you think I should?"

He looks so stressed out that is it has your heart is aching for him.

He's slumped like a kid in your lap with his face set in a frown. "I think that if you're unhappy and there are ways that you feel can change that, that you should look for something new, yes."

"Did you mean what you said last time?"

You think back to the last time you were in his presence, how he had gotten drunk for the first time in years. You wince internally as you recall how you had to nurse him back to health that night, how he cried like a baby when he mentioned how alone he felt at Mercedes. Lewis Hamilton wasn't used to being an afterthought.

"Yes, I don't think they appreciate you, Lewis. I don't think they are valuing your feedback or honoring your talent. I think they are making you miserable." You confess. "There are so many other teams that would love to have you, who would fight for you to reclaim your eighth. I don't think you should keep going through this with that team. Look at how they have you."

"Is your favorite team still Ferrari?" He opens his eyes and stares up at you.

"Duh,"

When you first met Daniel, you had only heard of the sport, but as time went on, he fully immersed you into the world of Formula One. You quickly took a liking to the red team and its intricate history in the sport. When you met Lewis in 2018, he was shocked that you knew so much about them (and barely anything about him).

"Don't tell me you're considering Ferrari, Sir Hamilton." You grin and he only smirks up at you.

"We'll see."

-

After the eventful first night you had spent with Lewis nearly six years ago, Miami has become a frequent destination of his. And New York of yours. The two of you guys had a chemistry unlike any other, every night filled with breathless pants and chants of each other's names. It was electric and erotic all at the same time.

You were fully aware that you and Lewis weren't necessarily together.

You were fun for him and him for you.

It was a mutual agreement, a bond strictly built from the amazing sex that the two of you had together.

You were aware that when the time came for Lewis to settle down and spend the rest of his life together it probably wouldn't be with you. You had believed you'd come to terms with the fact. But the idea of you two being together in the future still lingered in the back of your mind.

But as you scroll through Twitter, images and small clips of Lewis walking hand in hand with a Brazilian model have your heart tightening.

It wasn't like Lewis hadn't given you that false hope of a relationship, because you'd like to think that all of those little small things were him giving in. Surrendering that stupid ideology of his that made him believe he was a permanent bachelor.

You'd been by his side and in his bed over and over again for the last six years. And you’d be doing the same again tonight.

You almost feel grimy, sitting and waiting for him in his hotel room as he takes another woman out on a date, but a part of you knows that you’d accept anything from Lewis. You had standards and you had morals, but for a man like him, you always seem to throw them all out of the window.

Your phone vibrates and pings as your social media erupts in a frenzy.

That was another thing that had your mind in shambles right now.

How open he was when it came to you.

How quick he was to show you to the public, none of his other flings had gotten that opportunity, well until whoever this chick was.

Before you, Lewis hadn't introduced his "fun times" to his friends or even bothered to take any of them to the track.

That was something reserved only for you, though, you feel sort of naive, watching the tan and leggy woman prance around hand in hand with Lewis as he leaves the paddock.

You feel like you're stuck at the crossroads as you wait for Lewis to return.

He'd flown you out here partly because he claimed he missed you so much and the other half because of how much of a hard time you'd been having with your life in general.

Lewis was also a sort of saving grace for you, when you were with him, none of your other problems mattered. So you were quick to accept his invitation.

You'd never have accepted if you knew that he'd be playing a cruel game with you like this.

When the door creaks open and he emerges with a happy grin on his face, and bags filled to the brim with what you know are gifts for you, you can only grimace. Your attempt at a smile seems good enough for him as he approaches you and places a sudden kiss on your head.

"Hey love," He smiles, "I've got some gifts for you, yeah, knew you'd need a pick me up."

And you can't help to wonder if you'd needed the pick me up from his actions or what had transpired within this last week which was the sole purpose of you going to see him.

"I'm going to wash up, really fast, yeah? And then it'll be me and you tonight."

You say nothing as he places the bags at your feet and rushes into the bathroom.

You don't move, but you allow your eyes to skim through the bags and sigh as you see just how much he spent on you.

You had gone and done it.

Gone and made some glorified elaborate fairytale out of a man, who'd only treasured your body and in return showered you with gifts.

You laugh at yourself as your hand comes up to palm at your forehead.

You were his goddamn sugar baby, not the kind of woman he'd settle down with.

You feel even more stupid at the realization, that all of the nights you'd lay with him and console him after giving him your body were not as you had made them out to be.

It wasn't romantic, it was transactional. Those nights where you offered Lewis emotional solace always came with a hefty reward the next morning.

And now, you feel tainted, knowing that all it took was a simple call of your name for you to come flying to him and land in his bed, wrapped around his body.

You found Lewis in his prime and stuck by his side through his decline. You comforted him throughout his entire descent down the totem pole. Helped him out of that broken place, and gave him reassurance and something to look forward to.

You treasured this man.

Put him on top, time and time again, when he would leave you feeling used after your time together. And if it was up to you, you'd probably continue this cycle. Giving him your all and getting nothing in return.

You really wanted him, you wanted him to want you, which is why you were fine with keeping his bed warm, at least he wanted you in some kind of way, craved you even if it wasn't the way you wished to be desired.

When he emerges from the steamy bathroom, body clad only in a pair of briefs and his body soft and glowing, you swallow back all of your thoughts allowing yourself to take him in.

He nestles beside you on the bed, taking one of your hands in his, "everything okay?"

You can only push out a meek "yeah."

And the night goes on as planned.

The dim light of dusk spills through the blinds of the grand hotel room, casting long shadows that dance across the walls. You sit against the headboard, The melancholic melody of the empty night mirrors the turmoil in your heart.

Six years ago, you met Lewis at a nightclub, your paths crossing in a haze of neon lights and pulsing music. He was charming and mysterious, with eyes that held secrets and a smile that promised adventure. Your connection was instantaneous, a spark that quickly grew into an all-consuming flame. You spent endless nights talking, laughing, and dreaming about a future together. Well at least on your end.

But as the years passed, you began to notice the cracks in your seemingly perfect world. Lewis' past as a bachelor was a shadow that loomed over your situationship, a constant reminder of the freeness he carried within him. He would disappear for days on end with no communication, leaving you in a state of anxious uncertainty, your mind racing with thoughts of where he might be and who he might be with. Yet, you had no right to concern yourself with these sorts of things.

As you lay in bed, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on you, you find the courage to ask, "Lewis, do you love me?" His silence is deafening, and the look in his eyes speaks of a love that is nonexistent, a love that is more of a need for you than a want.

"I care about you," he finally whispers, his voice tinged with regret. "But my heart belongs to someone else. I’m sorry."

Your world shatters at that moment, the pieces of your heart shattering like broken glass. You know you have to let him go, to find a way to heal from the pain of a love that was never truly yours.

You realize that you have been holding on to a love that was destined to fade, a love that has left you feeling empty and lost.

You deserve a love that is real and true.

He’s like medicine, he makes you feel good and at the same time, he’s like poison, running through your system and finding a new part of you to sicken. Lewis is a walking contradiction, you don’t know if he’s helping you or hurting you, if he loves you, or if he hates you. Surely, he hates you, why else would he be okay with making you feel like this?

And as the city lights flicker on, you vow to never lose yourself again.

You shouldn't ask, because you know you can't bear the weight of his answer but you do.

"The woman from earlier?"

He sighs, his response weak, "Yes."

"So no more us? Right?"

"I think this is the last time." He admits and you swallow back your tears.

"Okay."

"I still want to be your friend."

"We were never friends Lewis, and we're not going to be friends after this."

Lewis swallows, sitting up to catch your gaze through the darkness.

For years, you and Lewis had maintained a delicate balance, a friends-with-benefits arrangement that allowed you both to keep things uncomplicated. You cherished the intimacy, the shared moments of laughter, the comfort of his presence. But deep down, you always knew that this arrangement had an expiration date, an inevitable end that you tried not to think about.

And now, that end has arrived. Lewis has fallen in love with someone else. You can only turn away from him.

You stand up, the cool air of the room a stark contrast to the warmth of the bed. You begin to gather your clothes, each movement mechanical, your mind numb with the reality of it all. You glance around the room, taking in the familiar surroundings that now feel foreign and distant.

As you pull on your jacket, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your eyes are filled with unshed tears, your expression a mixture of sadness and resolve. You know that this is the moment you have to let go, to walk away from a love that was never truly yours.

You think it's kind of ironic.

How you'd been there for Lewis, and when you needed him most, he's leaving you behind.

"Do you love me?" Lewis' voice echoes from his place on the bed.

"No." You lie. "It was fun, was fun being a pit stop for you." You chuckle.

"It wasn't like that-"

"No, it's fine, we weren't anything, you fucked me and brought me gifts in return, I ate that up, that's all. I knew I was only here until you made up your mind, I'm happy you did."

You had a tendency to become a bitch when you were hurt and you knew that your words were low blows, but your pride was too hard for you to allow Lewis to see himself affect you in real time.

In reality, you'd hoped that if the unfortunate and impending doom would occur, that Lewis would have the decency to allow you to fall out of love with him first.

Then it wouldn't hurt.

You knew what the arrangement was, you knew that you and Lewis were technically nothing and you always thought that when the day came for him to finally leave you, you'd be fine. You'd feel nothing. But you do.

It feels like when that one character who doesn't care about dying has a sudden brush with death, how almost dying rids you of every sane thought you have, a person who fears nothing all of a sudden fears death, fears everything.

You always thought you'd feel nothing, but losing, could you even say losing Lewis? 

Being left by Lewis feels terrible, being left by him feels scary, like everything you knew before was not as it seems. 

You always thought you'd feel nothing, but you feel everything you thought you never would.

And in the end, you still wanted him to stay. You wanted him to choose you. Even if he didn't want you.

here you go babes @greedyjudge2 !! I'm sorry it took so long <3

part two in the future fs.

[arctrooper69]

As Iron Sharpens Iron

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another." Proverbs 27:17

Beta-read by @dragonrider9905

Chapter 9:

Previous // Next

Warnings: Jealousy, hurt feelings, tiny bit of sexual tension

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

The flight back to Ord Mantell was silent. Hunter sat stiffly in the cockpit after checking on Omega. The rest of the team sat in silence under the dimmed lights.

The situation played over and over again through his brain.

Omega dropping from the vents alone. Without you. It was so hard to dispel the fear that flooded his veins like ice water.

Were you hurt? Captured? Dead!?

Then you’d entered the room with that staff, that blaster bolt so narrowly missing your head.

Why was it so important to grab that staff? Why risk your own life and Omega’s just for a few lousy credits.

I thought I knew her better than that.

Then there was that all-consuming guilt-laced horror when the pair of you fought the guards so viciously and he could do nothing but watch. Powerless. Afraid. Angry at the smugglers. Angry at you for being so reckless. Angry at himself for being able to do nothing but watch it happen.

---

The others seemed to know better than to bother Hunter right now, but you had to know why he was so upset.

Part of you knew it was you - your reckless plan that could’ve gone wrong in so many different ways.

But how was it any different from one of his plans that always seemed to turn to chaos? That tiny thought voiced defiantly, only serving to fuel the anger and frustration that boiled through your veins.

Against your better judgment you strode into the cockpit.

“Hunter, I…” you stopped as he held up a firm hand.

“Go sit down, we’re about to land. We’ll talk about this later.”

No, I want to talk about this now! The impatience rattled around inside, barely able to be contained.

“But…”

“Now.” He commanded, pointing to the seats. “I’m giving you an order, try not to disobey this one too.” His words were sharp and impossible to argue against.

“Yes sir.” You answered harshly, matching his tone.

There wasn’t much discussion upon landing, either. Nor was there any argument when Wrecker and Omega took off to celebrate their Mantell Mix tradition.

Echo and Tech disappeared soon after. The bitter taste in your mouth festered as you watched Cid carefully place the staff in her back room. You stood and walked out of the parlor.

We got the staff, we got paid, and nobody got hurt. It sounded fine to you. In fact, it sounded like success, yet you couldn’t shake that growing hurt of disappointment and shame.

That should’ve been enough. I should’ve been enough. Maybe I could’ve done more. Maybe I should’ve done less.

But the reality of it all only served to solidify the nagging knowledge that you really didn’t belong here.

Sighing, you walked faster down the street away from the figure you knew was following you.

"What the hell was that!?" Hunter growled from behind you as you stalked back to the Marauder. Clenching your jaw, you purposely ignored him, just wanting to shower, grab some food and forget about the whole thing. You were starving and could definitely use a good long nap.

“Hey!” Hunter grabbed your arm, forcing you to face him. “No. You don’t get to ignore me when you nearly got Omega and the rest of this squad killed!”

You jerked your arm free with a huff which just seemed to aggravate him further. “Omega is fine.” you snapped. “I wouldn’t have let anything happen to her. I got the job done. You got paid. What more do you want from me!? You wanna hold hands and talk about our feelings?”

Heavy, angry breaths forced themselves from your heaving chest. You were fully aware that Hunter could easily hear how quickly your pulse thundered in your ears without a chance to easily reign it back.

“I gave you a direct order and you disobeyed it!” he snapped.

You scoffed, “You all do it all the kriffing time! I don’t see you shouting at Omega when she plays by her own rules! So what’s so different when I do it!? Huh?”

Hunter was silent. You could feel the anger simmering beneath his skin. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, sounding more like a groan of frustration. "For once in your life would it kill you to use your damn head!? You almost got yourself killed out there, and I…!” He stopped himself.

“What do you care?” You spit venomously, spinning around to face him again. “According to you lot I’m just a ‘useful asset’!”

“What?” Hunter ran a hand through his hair, visibly confused.

You took a breath. “I heard you talking to Tech!”

A look of realization began to appear on his face as you looked down. “That's not - “

“No!” You interrupted angrily. “You think I'm reckless and irritable and only useful when you need me.”

“No! I didn't mean it like that. I was - “

You held up a hand to stop him. “It's fine, Hunter.” You said coldly. “At least I know my place now so thank you for bringing that to my attention.”

“But I…” Hunter stuttered, looking completely bewildered.

“Stop.” You commanded. “I said it's fine. It hurt, but I forgive you. Everything's fine.”

He could only watch as you stormed down the ramp, leaving him in a cold silence as it hissed closed behind you.

He sat unmoving for what seemed like hours.

The hatch opened again after a few minutes and for a brief second, Hunter felt his heart race raising a hopeful gaze as the ramp slid down but it was only Wrecker clamoring up the ramp with a crate of thermal detonators. He set them down and raised an eyebrow sticking a thumb out behind him towards the open door. “What’s with her?”

Hunter sighed, “Don’t ask.” Shoulders slumped, he turned and headed into the cockpit. Maybe he could convince Tech to let him help with one of his projects. He could use the distraction.

Tech glanced up as Hunter all but fell into an empty chair. He raised an eyebrow. “Is everything alright?”

“She heard us talking the other night,” said Hunter.

A look of confusion flashed across his face for a split second before quickly realizing what his brother was referring to. “Oh!” Tech looked up, “So then, I assume she now knows how you feel, and judging from your facial expression and closed off body language, she does not reciprocate those feelings.” Tech paused and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry.”

Hunter shook his head. “No, she only happened to hear you say that she’s a ‘useful asset’!” He glared at his brother as though to blame him for the entire misunderstanding.

“Ah..” Tech put a finger to his chin in thought. “That is most unfortunate.”

Hunter slumped lower in his seat. “Yep… and what’s worse is that she heard me agree with you and now she thinks that’s how we all feel about her.”

“But that was only a small sample of our conversation and very much taken out of context. If she had stayed and listened a bit longer she would have realized this.”

“Well she didn’t, and now she thinks I hate her.”

Tech frowned. “Per our conversation, that is quite the opposite of the sentiments you expressed.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Perhaps you should speak with her about it. Explain to her that what she overheard when she was eavesdropping, was entirely incorrect.”

Hunter shook his head.

“Or I could tell her if you prefer,” Tech continued helpfully.

“No!” Omega leapt from her room, bypassing the ladder entirely, and landed on her feet with a thud, nearly tripping over Gonky as she slid into the cockpit in front of them.

Hunter’s head snapped up in alarm.

“No.” She repeated adamantly, “Do not. Please do not. The last thing she needs to hear from us is blaming her for the miscommunication!”

“Speaking of eavesdropping…” Hunter crossed his arms, looking at his sister who responded with a sheepish grin. He rolled his eyes, not able to help the smirk that pulled at his lips at her antics.

“What? It’s a small ship. I can hear everything.”

“I wasn’t blaming her.” Tech said defensively. Hunter’s face fell again as Tech brought their attention back to the matter at hand.

“Well she’ll probably think we are if you say it like that.” Omega told him.

“She won’t talk to me.” Hunter shook his head, “Besides, she left after I yelled at her.”

Omega looked up at him with a grimace, “You did sound really mad…”

Hunter winced at the blame that flashed nearly imperceptibly through her eyes. “She almost got both you and herself killed during that last mission!” His voice grew hard again. “She’s reckless and I hate it!” His voice grew softer, “I can’t wa- ”

A scoff interrupted his lament as both Tech and Omega sported alarmed looks. Hunter turned to see you leaning against the bulkhead, face contorted in a mixture of anger and hurt. He could see the telltale shine of unshed tears you fought so hard to hide. Hidden from the world but not from him. Hunter noticed everything - especially when it came to you.

You chuckled dryly. “Nice to know how you really feel.” Your voice cracked, desperately straining to hold back tears. “I came to apologize and hear what you were going to tell me before I left. I gave it some thought, you know? I thought, ‘maybe I did misunderstand him’.”

You shook your head, “But no…. I guess I was right.” You spun around, heading to your bunk, pushing past Echo who’d returned just in time to witness your words.

“Wait…” Hunter stood up, calling after you but you did nothing to let him know you’d even heard him.

Quickly taking a few steps forward, fueled by a burning need not to let you slip through his fingers again, he grabbed your arm, spinning you around.

You let out a gasp as your back hit the cold of the wall, feeling a strange warmth sink into your bones as he pressed you in place.

No. You didn’t want to be here. Hunter didn’t want you to be here.

But yet…

All was silent as you found your eyes drawn up to his. A painful longing drove a wedge in an ever widening crack in the wall you’d so carefully thrown up to protect yourself from him.

This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong.

“Please…” he was practically begging now. Then he froze.

There it was again. That scent. The one that drove him crazy. The one he’d smelt on you when you’d come out of the fresher just a few days ago.

“Hunter!” Your voice had an edge to it.

No matter the hurt, leaving was the best option. You couldn’t stand how these mixed signals, sending you spinning one way and then the other.

He groaned, “Will you please calm down and let me explain!?”

"Calm down!?" The moment was broken and the anger returned, hot and fierce, sending rivers of steel to reinforce the shoddily crafted walls, turning it into a fortress. He would not break through so easily.

Not now. Not ever. He made his choice.

You ripped your arm from his grasp and spun around, anger blazing through your eyes. “Go kriff yourself, Hunter!” You turned to leave but spun back around, eyes blazing. “Actually, no. Go kriff Tara!”

The anger and hurt bubbled over. If he wouldn’t be honest with you, at least he could be honest with himself.

Conscious thought was gone. Emotion spewed like venom. “I saw you getting cozy with her at Cid’s so you obviously have feelings for her!” You spun back around, forcefully grabbing your go-bag from the foot of your bunk and strapping your blasters tightly around your thigh and another at your side. Without a second glance, the ramp hissed open and you strode out, missing how Hunter’s mouth fell open in a confused, but reluctant understanding as the ramp hissed shut behind you.

Oh. The realization soaked him to the bone as if he’d been woken up by a bucket of ice water.

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

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[sophswritingthings]

Omg imagine Mizus reaction to English!readers wedding dress like their cultures are so different and so beautiful in different ways aaa!!💕💕

pairing: mizu x fem!english!reader

warning(s): swearing

a/n: you having a beautiful ballgown wedding dress made for you with the patterns of flowers and cranes on it without mizu’s knowledge to combine your culture…. UGHHH

summary: it’s the day she’d been waiting; the day you were set to be her wife. she sees you in that stunning dress of yours; and she swears she feels her heart stop.

word count: 821 words / 4,420 characters

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

“you promise me it’ll be done by the wedding?” you say the words, as if they were almost a plea. you were wearing glasses, much like mizu’s, and a hood over your head to conceal your face.

“it will be does, miss,” she glanced at you. “and you know you don’t have the wear those things around me; I won’t tell.”

she winked, smiling as she was fiddling with the sparkly tool.

“I am the one making you an english dress, aren’t I?” she cocked her head.

“I suppose you are,” you murmur, smiling a bit. “and I thank you for that. I just wanted something from home; since my parents won’t be here to see me married.”

“I understand that,” she smiled.

“thank you.” you sigh, “you really are great, you know?”

“I know,” she chuckled again. “am I ever going to get to meet the groom?”

“mmm.. well, he’s coming to find me after being out for a while—picking me up before we go home, I suppose,” you shrug. “if he decides not to be stubborn you may.”

“if who decides not to be stubborn?”

you whip your head up, seeing your fiancé standing there.

“you couldn’t possibly be talking about me,” mizu raised an eyebrow.

you giggle, walking over to mizu and standing on your tiptoes to kiss her cheek.

“couldn’t possibly be,” you whisper into her ear, feeling her twitch a little.

“as I thought.” she murmured.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” aiko smiled, bowing her head toward mizu.

“mm. you as well, miss,” she said in a low tone, trying to keep up her masculine appearance. “we best be going, then, yeah?”

you wrap your arm around hers, nodding to aiko, “yes, we best be. I’ll see you tomorrow then? to pick up the dress.”

mizu looks at you with a raised eyebrow. she hadn’t heard anything about a “dress”. she supposed you’d be wearing a white kimono, to.. blend in.

put the look on your face, combined with your words, told her you had other plans.

the couple slid out of the shop, smiling softly as the gentle snow fell onto the cobblestoned path. 

“so..” she whispers, “what’s this about a dress?”

you giggle, “I wanted something from home,” you murmur, your eyes fluttering as you attempted to clear them of the snow. “so.. I asked aiko to make me a traditional english dress. with a bit of a twist.”

she chuckled, “I see,” she mumbled. “you’ll look beautiful either way.”

you lean your head on her shoulder, “thank you.”

slowly rising out of bed, you snicker as you see mizu has already gone from bed. excited, was she?

well, it was the day of your wedding.

and though it may not be “legalized”, you didn’t care. just to call mizu your wife would be all you needed to keep yourself happy for the rest of your days.

ringo would conduct the ceremony—and you would only have a few people there. akemi, ringo, eiji, and a few of your friends you’d met along the way.

you didn’t need some big ceremony to be married. you just.. needed your love, and each other.

you had collected your dress, the weeks prior. you hadn’t let mizu see it, though, you wanted to surprise her. 

it was a beautifully constructed english dress, with the patterns of japanese cranes and flowers flowing down the rim of the skirt. it combined your cultures in all the good ways you could think of.

“I have never been so excited in my entire life,” you giggle, your accent seeping through your words as akemi does your hair. “I really haven’t.”

“well, good. you should be happy to be married,” akemi smiled softly, “especially to someone who really does love you.”

you blush a little, “I’m lucky.”

“you are,” she confirms. you knew what she’d been through, the ups and downs of her marriage status was a rollercoaster you never wished to ride.

“I know.” you whisper, “I love her.”

“hm, good,” she brushes a few strands of hair out of your face, tucking them behind your ears. “now, let’s get this makeup done so you can go and finally get your wife all to yourself.”

you stood at the alter, smiling as you waited for mizu to appear. 

and when she did, she looked absolutely stunned.

her eyes never left you. your beautiful complexion, the makeup that akemi had done suited you do well. and the way your hair was curled and pulled back..

and that dress.

a dress that was a beautiful blend of yours, and her, culture. the depictions of cranes and flowers scattered across the bottom of the dress, and the large silhouette she’d seen so many women wear—including you—back in england.

yet it seemed so different, the way the fabric shone against the sun.

she was so ready to call you her one and only.

her wife.

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

[rory-cakes]

Bar Lupin isn’t a well-known bar. It’s underground, in a shady neighborhood, and its only form of advertisement is the sign outside. However, for those who do know of the place, it’s common understanding that if you want something done, moved, or gone, you go to Bar Lupin and talk to the woman with a kind smile. 

The Boss had ordered Chuuya to arrange a meeting with the woman. Chuuya had never been to this bar for business before. Only coming here on occasion after a hard day. 

As he walked in, a blanket of warmth washed over him. The warm lighting and faint smell of wood soothed the soul, especially one as tormented as Chuuya. He looked behind the bar, and there she was. 

She was taller than him, slightly above average for a woman. Her posture was as peaceful and composed as her face. She wore traditional bartender attire: a white button-up blouse, black slacks, a black tie, and a black vest, but when she turned around, he saw the back of it was red. 

Her features suited her well, almost entirely perfect.

All in all, She was beautiful. 

When Chuuya showed up at the bar, previously, an older man was working. Chuuya had heard that the man was her father, but Chuuya didn’t see any family resemblance. Eh, It wasn’t any of his business. 

Chuuya finally snapped out of his little trance when he heard a greeting from the woman he had just been “analyzing.” (His words, not mine) 

“Hello, Sir, what can I get for you?”

Damn it. Her voice was fucking beautiful too. 

“Sir?”

Chuuya realized he had yet to move or respond, so he walked over and sat on a stool across from her. He pulled out a paper from his pocket and slid it towards her. 

“Sorry, I was wondering if you know how to make this? You see, my boss tasked me with finding someone who makes his favorite.”

(The boss needs you for a job; when are you available?)

“Ah, yes, but we don’t have the liquor needed for this in stock right now; it’ll be ready in two weeks.”

(Of course, I’ll be ready in two weeks.)

“I’ll let him know. Thank you. Also, it would be preferred if you could deliver it to the address on that paper.) 

(Meet him at headquarters) 

“Sure. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Ah. Fuck it. Why not?

“You could make some time for dinner if you want?”

Chuuya’s ears were beat red. 

“Oh, um, I’m flattered, but I’m actually married,” she replied softly, holding up her left hand. 

Chuuya’s face was now beat red. 

“My apologies.”

Getting up to leave and hide from his embarrassment, Chuuya said a hasty goodbye. However, before he could leave, the beautiful married woman grabbed his arm.

“It’s alright.” she giggled. 

She’s laughing. That's good. 

She doesn’t think he’s a creep for flirting with a married woman. 

“So, Mr. Hat, tell me, why is a top executive doing grunt work?”

Mr. Hat? 

“How’d you know?”

“Hear about you from an old friend who was in the mafia.”

“Was? As in, he left or-”

“He died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s alright. It’s been a while since he passed.”

Chuuya didn’t reply.

“Anyway, he said you liked wine. Want a glass?”

“I would, but I’m on the job. So I’ll pass.”

“How responsible.”

“Well, I better get going.”

“Alright, Mr. Hat. Take care of yourself!”

Maybe he’ll come by later for that drink. 

“Will do.”

And that was the start of an unlikely friendship. 

Prev/Masterlist/Next

A/n: Hi, my lovelies!! So sorry about forgetting about this. As I am still writing and have a full-time job, I will hopefully be posting bi-weekly! It just depends on when I get to write. So this story won't have a set schedule. Thank you so much for supporting me!! Also if you wanna be added to the taglist pls fill out the form linked in the masterlist!

taglist: @surrealitea

[bleedingcoffee42]

Something I started that's been untouched in my Docs for a while so posting to either get it out of my mind or feel guilty and pick it up again.

Speirton showering in Haganeau. Nothing raunchy yet, just bros using the community shower with some Ivory soap floating around.

“In here.”  Ron said and held the flap open on the shower tent.  Lipton was tired and sick enough to almost walk entirely into it before stopping and looking at him with confusion.

“The showers, sir?”  Lip asked and got shoved the rest of the way in as the captain huffed impatiently and dropped the flap behind them.

Ron pushed him toward the livestock trough filled with warm water.  “You sound like shit.   Take a bath.  It will help clear your lungs and you sweated out that fever last night something fierce.”

Lip felt himself pushed towards the tank and he put up very little resistance because he genuinely was worn out.   Captain Speirs pointing out he knew he was sweat soaked and feverish last night didn’t exactly help his mind stray from the fact the man was sharing a bed with him for the past two days. Or that it was currently the middle of the night and they were alone in the shower.   Or that he was probably going to watch to make sure he used the bath and didn’t drown in the process.  “As much as I appreciate it, I can take a shower.”

“You’re barely standing, just get in there.  I had Grant and Talbert drag it all the way from some farm, clean it and have it ready for you after the patrol. I stole that soap for you too.   So please, don’t make me order you.”

“Yes, sir.”  Lip said and watched Speirs walk past and over to a bench, running his hands through hair that was too long and shaking some debris out of it.    He looked like he was getting ready to indulge in a hot shower too, so that made him feel a little better about having the nicer accommodations again.  He looked down at a bucket with a towel folded over something, flipped it open and saw a bounty of supplies: soap, cigarettes, a lighter and a hershey bar. 

As Lip stripped down he began to doubt his ability to stand for a shower.   He had to admit he was worn out.  Be it the pneumonia or maybe being up all night again, even if there wasn’t a patrol tonight, was making the warm bath look incredibly inviting.  He wasn’t going to protest again, especially since Speirs was already stripping and probably eager for his own shower. He managed to get down to his t-shirt and pants before looking back down at that Hershey bar and hearing his stomach rumble.

It would probably be nice to ask if the captain wanted some.  He had basically been his caretaker for the past few days, between yelling at him to ride in the front of the truck, to securing a decent billet, to having a nice old German couple pity him and give him strudel and schnapps, to insisting he take the bed to….well, sharing it with him.   Yeah, Speirs had gone above and beyond and probably deserved half a Hershey bar for it.  

The shower was running already, indicating Speirs was probably naked and enjoying the first shower he’d had in months.  Lip could have just asked–just asked without turning around to look at the man who probably had his back turned to him and didn’t require eye contact at this very moment. 

Lip looked over anyway, knew he shouldn’t as looking around during community showers was taboo unless someone was starting shit.  But since Foy, he couldn’t stop stealing glances at their new CO, and this glance was longer than intended.   Thankfully his captain’s back was to him, but it’s not like he would have looked away if Speirs was staring straight at him.   It did allow him to admire what he saw as Speirs washed his hair.   He saw a wound, a scared-over wound on Speir’s ass.   The irony of their new commander being marked with the traditional wound of Easy Company not lost on him.   Nor were his lean, well-defined muscles.

“Holland.”

“Sir?”  Lip asked, knowing damned well he had been caught.

“Shot in the ass in Holland.  Swam across the river, got shot on the way back.  Barely made it to shore.”

Lip didn’t try to pretend he wasn’t looking, just marveled at the man’s uncanny ability to see what he shouldn’t be able to see.  “Have you given up on swimming into enemy territory?  I’m surprised you didn’t just do yesterday’s patrol yourself if you have all that experience.”

There was an amused snort.  “Well, you probably would have been the one to shoot me if I left this company to fend for itself with whoever they found to replace me.”

“That I would have, sir.” Lip smiled, glad the teasing landed well.

“Drop the ‘sir’ when we’re naked and talking about holes in my ass.”

Lip smiled, laughed a little.  “I’ll try, si…shit.”

“Ron.”

“I’ll try, Ron.”

“Try getting in that bath before the water’s cold or I finish my shower and throw you in there.”

Lip smiled, “Yes,sii…if you wanted a piece of this Hershey bar?”

“Nice save.”  

Nice ass.  Lip thought as he took one more look before getting undressed. He moved his gifts off the bucket so he could sit and take off his boots.   

“No, Luz saved that for you.   You need it.”

Carwood got his boots unlaced and kicked off and everything else came off a lot easier after that.  He stepped in the tank and the warm water beckoned to him, inviting him into its civilized embrace.   He felt like this could have been a fine hotel in Paris instead of an army shower tent set up in a back alley in Hagenau.   He slipped into the water and closed his eyes. It felt simply amazing.

He heard the shower turn off and figured Speirs was done with his shower.   Considering he was already told his CO wasn’t going anywhere because he had concerns he might drown, Lip struck up a conversation.   “Where did you get the soap? Ivory, that’s hard to come by.”

“You don’t want to know.”

Lip took a deep breath and started coughing immediately.  Dammit.   He tried to play it off as a laugh but Speirs, no Ron, was already over beside him making sure he wasn’t going to pitch forward and put water in his already fluid filled lungs.  “I’m fine.   I just, uh, remember Nix looking for soap for Winters yesterday.”

“Probably because someone stole his soap.”

Lip looked at him, a dangerous admission.  He was squatting beside the tub.  Speirs’s, no Ron’s, eyes had a light of amusement in them, paired with the small smile tugging at the edge of his lips made Lip gasp,  “You didn’t.”

“He probably used up the battalion's supply of soap shaving and bathing in Bastogne.   Won’t kill him to go without shaving for a day.”

Lip couldn’t help but let his eyes drift down to the stubble on Ron’s cheeks before looking back at his eyes and seeing a cocked eyebrow.   Damn, when he smiled he looked so young.   “Ivory too.”

“Mmm.” Ron stood up, aware doing so would put everything at eye level for Lipton since he was naked and still dripping wet.   “Nix has a stash from the states.  Only the best for his Captain.”

Lip managed to follow Ron’s face with his eyes as he stood up.  Ron looking down at him with that amused smile was making him glad the bath water was now dingy and cloudy.   Damn, the man was fit.  He took a chance and leaned back in the tub, put his arm on the side of the tank and said, “Remember those ads Ivory used to put in the magazines?”

“The ones that suggested soldiers were fucking and using soap for everything from brushing their teeth to using it for satisfaction?”  Ron asked and held his stare.  “Yeah, I do.”

Lip swallowed hard, telling himself to not break that stare even though Speir’s valuables were at eye level to him in the tub and he could hear a voice in his head asking, ‘How are those nuts, sarge?’

“I also need that soap when you’re done with it.”  Ron said and grabbed the bucket and went to sit down over by the shower head he was using.

Lip let out a ragged breath, his lungs screamed at him less because of the steam that was helping, but also probably because blood started flowing elsewhere and moved the inflammation further south.   Okay, so there was no way to misinterpret that, right?

[fallstaticexit]

Benji has always been a bit different from the other Briars. There's no doubt he loves his family but money talks and his phone is always ringing.

prev / next

Benji: Go for Ben.

Ami: Guess who had a very amazing 6 month check up.

Benji: Obviously it’s our best girl-

Finn: Hi papa! S’ Finn!

Benji: Hey, buddy. Had a good day in school?

Finn: Uhhhh huh!

Ami: He was the line leader a 4th day in a row.

Benji: Line leader today, global powerhouse tomorrow, you know.

Ami: Are you sitting down?

Benji: Yess...?

Ami: So...don’t make a big fuss but, Mama and Baba invited us over for dinner.

Benji: Ami...

Finn: Yay!!!

Ami: You have to come this time, Ben. Baba is starting to get antsy.

Benji: Well Baba thinks Papa is a big stinky poopy head.

Finn: [giggles]

Ami: He does not. You know Baba. He’s...traditional. He doesn’t understand the vast complexity and nuances of the corporate world. He values family.

Benji: I value family! Our technology advances the modern family dynamic. Servos pick up the slack so parents can spend more time with their kids-

Ami: I know that, Ben but Baba is old school. He thinks you can work and play and you do too much work. It’s just dinner.

Ami: Tell papa, Finny.

Finn: Yeah, papa. S’dinner!

Ami: Your mother and father will be there. So no excuses.

Benji: [grumbles] ...yes, dear.

Ami: We love you. Dress casual. That means wear jeans. Bye-Bye.

Benji: [groans]

Secretary: Sir? You have a representative from the Landgraab Foundation on line 2 about the merger.

Benji: Take a message, please. I have dinner with my in laws.

Finn: Hellloo! Yooohooo!

Mama Ito: Oh, I am so glad you all were able to come for dinner. You all look like you’re hungry!

Elliot: Thank you for having us.

Benji: Oh yeah. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Baba Ito: Mhm. No big hot shot meeting to tend to, Mr. Hot Shot?

Ami: I thought you said you’d behave?

Baba Ito: What! I only make small talk. They don’t small talk in those big shiny offices?

Baba Ito: How was your trip back home, Willow?

Willow: Oh, it was lovely! I’ll take any chance I can get to see our family.

Baba Ito: So your mother makes time to visit family in the states, eh? When is the last time you seen your family, Benjamin?

Ami: Baba...

Benji: I mean...it’s been...some time...

Willow: I was just telling Benji that we’re invited to his Uncle Silas wedding this fall. Perfect time for the kids to meet the rest of the family.

Benji: And that does sound lovely, but the quarter ends at the beginning of fall. My schedule will only allow one trip, and that’s for Winterfest.

Baba Ito: Tuh! You think you have it so good, business man. Next thing you know, you’re an old man and time has passed you by. What then!

Elliot: Mr. Ito is right, beta. He has alot of wisdom we can all learn from.

Baba Ito: Heh. Yeah. Yeah! I am right, aren’t I?

Benji: My company can’t run itself, you know!

Finn’s Inner Monologue: I sure don’t know what the heck is going on here and I’m not sticking around to find out. See ya next episode!

[kickingitwithkirk]

Winchester's Folly

Summary: When Dean gets into trouble John decides to hide the truth for his family

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader x Alpha!Sam

WC: 1828

Dark! Fic-don't continue if you are disturbed by the subject matter.

Warnings: A/B/O, dystopian au, canon elements, non/con, dub/con, incest, subjugation, pandemic, mentions of nudity, physical/mental abuse, mention of collaring/leashed, sexual/slavery, rut/heat, physical altercation, death/murder conviction, show level violence, parental dominance, trafficking, branding, panic attacks, bondage, forced mating, dated derogatory terms

*Additional warnings will be added

Square filled: @spnaubingo -Non-Traditional Alpha Traits @spnabobingo -Bed Sharing

A/N: This part has a couple of flashbacks in italics

A/N II: Still working on reigning myself in, keeping each part reader-friendly length, and have no clue how many parts this will end up being.

A/N III: a few notes about designations in A/O sub-genders for this story.

Alphas-Dominant (head of the pack/family) Subordinate (obey Dominant) Breeders (rare & highly coveted by the government. Can challenge Dominant for pack/family leadership)

Omegas -Domestic (mostly wiped out by plague, few natural born left) Feral (government-supplied breeders sold commonly called O's) House O’s (3rd generation+ Feral/Dominant breed. Used as servants/sex workers) Pack (rare & highly coveted by the government)

*Divider by @firefly-graphics

*No Beta-all mistakes are mine

PART IX

Partway down the drive, the car sputters and dies, rolling to a stop a few yards from the house. Bobby got up, mumbled idijits straightened his trucker cap, and heard the Impala’s squeaky doors simultaneously open; then Dean's voice was carrying on the night air, “If you’ve screwed up my car, I’m going to kick your ass!” 

Bobby marches towards the car and spits, “Stop giving your brother a hard time.” His rebuff dissipates when the elder brother's scarlet irises lock on him. Dean moves in front of a female sitting in the backseat like a predator protecting its kill and menacingly growls at him. 

****

Sam quickly rounds the car, blocking the Beta from his line of sight. “Dean, calm down, it’s Bobby. Remember when he'd play baseball with you instead of practicing with the shotguns?” Dean ignores Sam and tries to round-end his equally quick brother when a hand grabs his wrist. Dean halts and peers back at the O, who points to him, her ear, and Sam, who advises, “Listen to your Omega Dean."

Bobby’s jaw drops upon hearing the youngest Alphas' words. He sees the O wince as she holds her arms up and watches Dean quickly shift from aggression, something the younger man is prone to, to the gentleness he remembers from childhood. Once out, she scented the air before making the universal sign for Beta. “Yes, he is. Bobby, this is..," Dean strumbled over what to call her when she held up her hands and, with her fingers, indicated the number 4444968503.

“That’s a helluva lot of numbers for your name, little lady,” Bobby remarks, looking sternly at Dean. “Do I have to worry about you going for my throat while sleeping?” Thoroughly abashed by his reaction toward the man he considers a surrogate father, he responded No, Sir. “Good. We’ll discuss this," gesturing to Deans still scarlet-hued eyes, "later." Bobby peered around his darkened scrap yard. "Let's get inside. I feel like a crow waiting to be picked off here.”

Little did the seasoned hunter know how right he was as two celestial beings observed the group from the shadows.

"You know,” the one in a business suit said, “When they told me the apocalypse had gotten the green light and the job of watching over Michael and Lucifer's vessels to my department, I thought, this is it, this is what’s going to make me more than employee of the month for the fifth, no, sixth consecutive millennium. And I was this close," held two fingers centimeters apart, "To getting the key to the Axis Mundi and mano e mano with the big guy.” His features hardened, “Of course, that was before you. Care to explain why disregarded orders to get rid of that birth defect?”

The other looked across the yard at the parties retreating to the house while his unerring memory returned to the past. 

****

Castiel was assigned to watch over Dean from his conception. As his charge grew, he was in awe of the boy's perception of others' emotions and intuitive knowledge of how to comfort them.

Shortly before his fourth birthday, John and Mary told their son that he would be a big brother, showing him the ultrasound photograph and Dean got excited, saying he’d be the best big brother to his two siblings. His confused parents again explained there was only one pup but Dean skewed his little face into a fierce expression, continuing to insist there were two amused his father.

On the other hand, Mary felt apprehensive at her offspring's insistence, and the feeling grew throughout the pregnancy. A few months later, she was fixing lunch when Dean came running in and began talking to her middle, saying he would be the best brother in the world to them. He placed his tiny hands on opposite sides of her swollen belly, and Mary felt kicking directly under them.

Several weeks later, Deans bounced off the walls, saying his siblings would be here tomorrow. John and Mary reminded him it would be longer before his brother was ready for his debut, but in the wee hours of the following day, Mary’s water broke.

John found himself juggling a hospital bag, his son, and his mate to the car for the hospital. The angel sat in the backseat gazing at his excited charge and felt—regret, aware that fulfilling his orders to eliminate the extra pup would unduly distress the vessel.

But before Castiel could further analyze this sudden human emotion, he got distracted by the doctor saying there were complications with the pup. They needed John's permission for an emergency procedure. Not detecting any unnatural issue in the mother or pups, he quizzically followed to the delivery room where Mary, despite being drugged, had a quick delivery.

The angel watches the doctor evaluate the slightly sedated pups and deems them healthy before handing them to a nurse. But instead of taking them to the nursery, they detoured to the stairwell, and Castiel quickly realized they weren't a staff member but rather someone intent on stealing both pups. The angel intervenes and then finds him in a quandary. 

Saving Lucifer's vessel left him holding the baby—specifically, the unnecessary pup whose existence puzzled heaven. When the female gazes at him with disturbingly focused eyes, other emotions trigger in the angel, leaving him unable to complete his task. Momentarily searching, he transports her to another state and swaps her with another stillborn pup. 

****

"You disregard the plan that's been in place for eons because some reject made you feel?!" Zachariah barked out a laugh of disbelief and turned to his companion. “I’m going to ask and don’t lie. What made you grow a conscience this time? Strike that. I don't care. Now, who else knows about your screwup?"

"I told no one."

"Then we've got a mole within our midst." Zachariah is interrupted by the Winchester Alpha pulling into the yard. Pointing a finger at Castiel, the senior angel says, "This is your only chance to return to my good graces. Find out who is behind that thing's reappearance."

“Okay, thanks.” Bobby tossed the cordless on his desk. “Dr. Stevenson can get it, but it’ll take a day.”

“Good," John says, tossing back his third glass of whiskey. "The sooner that implants back in, the better.” Bobby sipped it on his glass, studying the other hunter he’d known for years. 

Bobby learned the day they meet that John Winchester was an obsessive bastard who’d do anything to get the demon that killed his mate, including dragging his two very young sons into the hunter life.

****

The first time the boys were left with him, Sam had just turned three and was curious about everything. Dean? Well, he found the seven-year-old rather odd. He would get out of sorts if his training schedule were changed but patient as Job with the toddler, answering every question, no matter how crazy they were, and caring for Sam as if he were his pup. 

One night, screaming woke him up. Rushing to the room the boys were sharing; Bobby stopped dead in his tracks. Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, rocking a howling Sam, trying to comfort him with tears streaming down his face. When he saw Bobby, Dean panicked and began apologizing, babbling on that Sam didn't mean to do it and he’d clean up the mess, confusing the Beta before noticing Sam had wet himself and the bed.

Reassuring Dean it wasn’t a big deal, Bobby gathered some clean sleep clothes and rustled them into a warm bath. Leaving Dean to watch Sam, he stripped the soiled bedding and tossed it into the washer, making a mental note to get a bed protector, grabbed a lawn bag, split it open, and placed it under the spare bedding.

He had just finished remaking the bed when Dean, carrying his sleeping brother, entered with a weary expression that made Bobby sad and angry. 

Putting on his kindest smile, he helped them back into bed, left a small lamp he’d found on, and told Dean to wake him if they needed anything, no matter how trivial.

****

Bobby returns to the present when John drops the now-empty bottle on his desk. Reaching into a drawer, he pulls a fresh one. Topping off his glass he remarks, "You wanna tell me why you failed to mention Dean has a fresh claimed Omega, let alone one beat all to hell." He stares John straight in the eye while sliding the bottle toward him.

John suppressed snarling for such an impertinent question, knowing he needed to stay on good terms with the Beta until Dean finished his mandatory probation and told him about Helms's establishment, Sam witnessing the O fighting with his Alpha lugs—explaining why it looked like it went three rounds with a vengeful spirit—to purchasing it for a dollar.

However, John couldn't hide the flash of guilt in his eyes as he skimmed over what happened at the clinic before admitting the judge's enforcement of the claiming statute was his fault, but didn't sugarcoat the details of witnessing Dean's claiming horrified Bobby.

“If everything is like you say, what'd you need Frank's help for?"

John looked directly at him, saying he needed the state order to take Sam erased if Dean failed to fulfill his probation. Bobby knew the Alpha was lying through his teeth but didn't call him out. Instead, he threw his drink back and headed to bed.

Passing the room the boys still occupied when staying; Bobby could hear them talking before loudly closing his bedroom door, giving John time to finish that second bottle. When he reopened it later, he could hear the Alpha's loud snoring, and carefully snagged the keys from his jacket, slipped out the kitchen door, and took the scenic route to the Alpha’s truck.

Bobby knows whenever John is hiding won't be in the regular places, i.e., in the glove box, over the visor, ect; began examining the vehicle's exterior and, finding nothing, opens the weapons catch. Nothing stands out when he spots a curse box and recalls John inquiring about creating one some time ago.

Bobby fiddled around with the unfinished box when, bingo, it popped open, revealing a bunch of rolled papers inside. He crossed to the garage and fired up a printer, making copies of the documents then returned everything to its original position because John would notice if anything were misplaced. Heading back to his room, Bobby noticed light still coming from underneath the boy's door and lightly rapped it before opening it.

The elder brother was spooning his mate from behind, which made sense since Bobby knew from personal experience that lying on bruised ribs dulled the pain. However, it was difficult for the man to process why his brother was sleeping snugly against her front, his fingers twined with Dean's, resting on her hip.

PART X

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx  @lyarr24  @flamencodiva   @lassie-bird  @nancymcl   @spnbaby-67 @leigh70

Dean/Jensen: @thoughts-and-funnies @stoneyggirl2  @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl

WF: @slamminmine @ladysparkles78 @deans-spinster-witch @ilovetaquitosmmmm @strawblueberrys  @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @kazsrm67

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

[staytinyville]

Stay Alive (31)

BTS poly!ot7 x Reader

Magical Creatures AU

Series Masterlist

Warnings: smut (MDNI)

A/N NOT BETA. YOU GUYS! I have a permanent taglist in my main masterlist if you wish to be added to my imagines. Taglist for my fics are currently not available though. It is currently closed for this story and my OUTLAW one. However if you wish to read my imagines (I have a couple coming out soon) Please be sure you check it out!

The area your grandparents lived in was surrounded by mountains. The town was small and consisted mostly of farmers who traveled by foot rather than car. Everything was close by so there was no need for such bug vehicles that only took up space. Reaching your childhood summer home, it made you smile as you passed by the same trees and winding roads. 

It was night time though, and a good majority of the boys seemed to have huddled together as you took winding roads that were close to cliffs. They would cry about going slower on the turns. You shook your head, Namjoon in the passenger seat telling you that they were just scaredy cats. 

So when the roads evened out and you were finally at your grandfather’s traditional home, they all piled out taking in the smells and sights. Well what they could see for the moment. As you grabbed your backpack, you noticed the lights still on in the house making you frown. 

“Grandpa!” You called after knocking on the door. “What are you doing awake?”

You noticed the man wrapped in a blanket watching tv. He sat cross legged on the couch, cuddled into the cushions. You smiled at how adorable he looked, moving to take a seat next to him. When he turned to greet the boys, his face suddenly changed into one of shock as one by one the boys walked into the house. 

“I was waiting for you.” He told you. “You told me you were coming with friends but I didn't think they were boys. And seven of them.” He spoke up, looking back at the boys. 

“Yeah.” You said, standing up to stand next to them. “I'm sorry about it.” 

“I don't know if there's beds for all of them.” He said.

You smiled as he didn’t seem to question why you had seven boys visiting him. You didn’t know how to break it to him yet that they were magical creatures. Now that you would have to leave the home for a while. 

“Don't worry.” Namjoon told your grandpa. “We'll figure something out, sir.” He gave a dimple smile that made your grandpa nod his head. 

“Well alright.” The old man nodded his head, coming to a stand from the couch. 

“Let's go to bed, Grandpa.” You told him, leading the man to his bedroom. “We'll talk in the morning.”

After making sure your grandfather was in bed, you softly shut his door and walked back out to the other boys. 

“Everything alright?” Jin asked you.

“Yes.” You nodded. “He might forget things but he means well.” You told them. 

“It's no trouble for him?” Yoongi spoke up. 

“Yeah.” You grinned. “He was excited to have me home.”

“This is where you grew up?” Jimin asked, looking around at the pictures your grandma had put up in the house. 

“I'm from here.” You told them, leading them back out to take them to the second bedroom. “But I moved to Seoul for university. My grandparents were so excited to hear I was going.” You slide open the door, moving to the side. 

“Four of you can sleep here.” You spoke up, looking around the small room. “The other three can sleep in the living room.” You turned back to them. 

“I'll make the bedrolls.” Taehyung spoke up, looking for things to transfigure. 

When you got them all settled, you went to check on the room that you often used. When you opened the door, Hobi had taken a peak in. While the others seemed to be talking to themselves, the man followed you around as he took in everything about the traditional home. 

“Do you mind?” He asked when he stepped into your room. 

“Not at all, Hobi.” You smiled, gathering some things to take to the boys for them to sleep comfortably. 

When you returned back, Hobi was smiling over the trophies and ribbons you had from when you were in school. 

“You were in dance?” He asked you when you returned. 

“Yeah.” You smiled, looking at your pictures that showed you on stage or in an extravagant pose. “When I was a kid I had the dream of being an idol.” 

“And?” Hobi suddenly looked at you with wide eyes, waiting for you to continue.

You laughed a little, remembering how long it was you wanted to be on stage and perform for people. But that changed when you got older. 

“I like helping people more.” You told him. “My grandfather was the doctor in the village for a long while. I used to go to his clinic to watch him. It's where I found the love for medicine.”

“They would love you back home.” Hobi told you.

You noticed how well they seemed to be holding in their tears about finally being able to leave the facility. Had it been you in their place, you would have already started to bawling back in your apartment. And they had from what you vaguely remember hearing on the trip here. Some of them had slept and the others watched the passing scenery. 

Namjoon was the only one who held a conversation with you, but he still kept his eyes on the road, lips trembling each time you would turn to look at him. 

“How does it feel?” You asked. “To be going home soon?”

“I'm kinda scared.” He sniffled, looking down with a sad expression. “I missed so much.” Tears began to well in his eyes. “Did my family move on? Is my older sister doing okay? Does she have her own family? I'm sure all the boys feel that way.”

You frowned, reaching out to grab Hobi’s cheeks delicately between your hands. Giving him a smile when his eyes met yours, you leaned forward to place your forehead with his. 

“Hey, I'm sure they're still waiting for you.” You told him. “A family never forgets one of their own.”

Hobi closed his eyes as he felt your heat radiant onto him. He could feel your energy calming him down. It wasn’t the same as Namjoon’s empathic abilities or Jin’s way of sensing someone’s aura, but it was his way of feeling someone’s true nature. Everyone had an energy about them that created the kind of person they were. And your’s was something that brought Hoseok comfort. 

You looked up at him as he pulled away, a soft smile on your lips. “You mean a lot to us.” He told you, holding you by the waist. “The world we are from–we want to share it with you.”

“I’ll follow you.” With that Hobi softly placed his lips against yours. 

Hoseok was passionate about everything he did. He put so much work into reaching the place he wanted to be–and even then sometimes it might not be enough for him. He wanted to make sure that others were able to appreciate what he did. He wanted people to know that he tried hard for each one of them. 

It showed in the way he would take care of his brothers–in the way he would care for you if you ever had questions. It also showed in the way he kissed. You wanted to be there for him, let him know that all his efforts were being acknowledged. Just like Taehyung, Hobi also needed to be told how great he was when it came to magic. While he so obviously was someone who took charge, much like Namjoon, you wanted to have the chance to take care of one of them. If they allowed you to, that was.

When you pressed yourself closer to Hoseok, the man immediately placed his hands on your waist, keeping you from moving closer to him. You pulled away from him, keeping your forehead pressed to his. 

“I know you want to take care of us, Hun.” He breathlessly spoke. “But trust me–us taking care of you means a lot more than you taking care of us.”

His lips brushed against yours one more time. “All you have to do is be ours.”

“I already am.” 

His lips moved with more vigor this time, sucking in a large breath through his nose as he allowed his inhibitions to leave his body. His hands moved down to the back of your thighs, quickly gathering them between his hands and pushing you to jump. Your ankles locked behind him, his hands holding you up but gripping onto your backside. 

His fingers touched the folds between your legs causing you to flinch from the tickle. It was a light touch that had you grinding your hips down. Hobi pulled back from the kiss giggling to himself at how you seemed to wither from his touch. 

He moved you over to the bed, softly placing you down as he pulled back to look at you fully. Every touch he seemed to give you made you giggle, your body buzzing from nerves. Anything that seemed to touch your skin caused you to wiggle away from it. 

“I’m not even doing anything.” Hobi laughed. 

“I’m sensitive.” You breathed out.

“Were you like this for the others?” He teased leaning down to brush his lips against yours. 

“Not this much.” You told him honestly. 

“You’re buzzing. I can feel your energy–it’s intoxicating.” He explained. 

His fingers moved down to your pants, pulling at them slightly. When you raised your hips up, he used it as permission to take it all off. When he finished taking off your pants he pulled his shirt over his head, feeling overstimulated with the fabric touching his skin. 

You watched as he rolled his shoulder around, his fingertips gripping onto the skin of your thighs to help ground him back from the sensitivity. You laughed lightly, seeing as he was going through the same thing. 

The slight sting that came to your thigh had you gasping, looking at Hoseok with wide eyes. He glared playfully, giving you a scolding. “Don’t laugh.” He told you. 

You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling, nodding your head. You pulled your own shirt off wanting to feel Hoseok’s skin against yours. After you did, you tugged on his arm, wanting him to place his body over yours. 

However he quickly gathered both of your hands and shoved them above your head, keeping them from moving. He did lay down against you, his chest pressing against yours causing you to sigh and arch further into him. 

“We’ll get to it, Hun.” He whispered. “Be patient.”

“Hobi.” You whine, lips forming a pout.

He laughed slightly. “You’ve had the others. It’s my turn.” He kissed you one last time before standing back up. 

You sat up a little to watch him take off his pants and boxers. Once he was fully naked, you felt your heart rate spike and had to curl your fist into a ball to keep from reaching out for him. Once he got comfortable, he places his knees on the edge of the bed, making you spread your knees. 

You squeaked, suddenly feeling shy over the whole thing, trying your hardest to close your legs again. However Hoseok kept his hands on them, keeping your legs open for him to fit between them. 

“What happened?�� He teased. “Why are you trying to fight me?” He kissed his teeth, thrusting his hips forward to nudge his length against your core. 

The noise he got from you made him smile evilly, moving his hips back and forth as his length became wet with your slick. He sucked in a breath, using his thumb to keep his length nestled between your lips. 

“Wait like a good little mate.” Hoseok whispered, being mesmerized by the way your core clenched around nothing. 

Each time the tip would get caught on the hood of your slit, he would bite his lip nudging the spot harder as you seemed to react to it as well. He moved back a bit, grabbing your ankles to hold them up and close them. His head tipped back as your thighs added to the stimulation. 

You whined and bucked your hips, huffing each time his tip would catch on your entrance. You would try to move against him to make him enter but he was quicker than you and moved before you could do anything. 

“If you don’t stop, I will.” Hoseok warned, crawling back between your legs to hold your hips down. 

As he watched you wither against the bed, he smiled sweetly. “Does the baby want me to fuck her?” He pouted. 

Leaning over, he moved some of your hair away from your face, pecking your lips as he nudged his knees closer to your thighs to get comfortable. 

“Hobi.” You whined out.

“Since you helped us so much.” He whispered. “You deserve everything you want.”

He leaned up for a moment, grabbing onto his length to line it up with your entrance. You groaned out, trying to be quiet by focusing all your thoughts into gripping the sheets. When he pushed forward you let out a whimper that was music to Hoseok’s ears. The way your toes curled behind him. The way you seemed to clench your thigh muscles to allow the nerves of everything to go down your body. 

And when he started to move, he had to hold you down to keep from separating too far. As he watched his length disappear in and out of you, his breathing seemed to go ragged. He was so focused on the way his hips moved you began to grow mesmerized with the way Hobi was so focused on you.  

His look of bliss made a shiver go down your body, starting the build up of your orgasm. As your whimpers grew to be quick and whiny, Hoseok looked up, shifting his legs just a bit, causing him to hit the edge of your core. 

You grunted out, crying as you felt full from his ministrations. He leaned back over to your face, continuing to move inside you. 

“Pretty girl,” He cooed. “Are you close?” He asked. 

“Hobi.” You whined shutting your eyes closed. 

You were quick to grip onto his shoulders, fingers messaging into his skin. 

He groaned when he felt you clench. “Come on. Let go for me.”

With a cry of his name, the bubble that had formed burst and you were seeing stars. Hobi groaned out loud going faster in order to finish with you. And the way your core seemed to clench onto him from the overstimulation and pulsed around him, it was easy to find release. 

His groans were amazing, something you could hear all the time. Just like some of the other boys, Hobi was someone who enjoyed performing and showing off. And when he released onto your thighs, you let out a quiet moan from the warm feeling. 

Hoseok panted as he turned onto the side of the bed for a rest. He only needed a few moments to get back up and help to clean you. However as he watched you play with his cum on your thighs he seemed to gulp and take in a deep breath. 

You turned to look at him, eyes hooded as a lay smile was on your face. “You okay?” You asked quietly. 

“More than okay.” He grinned.

Series Masterlist

[alicedopey]

Sending a snuggly sweater for the cooler season

Soft to the touch

A/N: So errr... I did a thing. It has haunted me since I got the ask. I hope you are proud of yourself, Roo :)

No warning under the cut, just some bad written stuff.

You softly knocked on the mahogany door of your CEO and opened it after hearing his prompt and professional, “Come in.”

You opened the door and entered the room. The sight that greeted you almost took your breath away. Jonathan Pine was standing in the middle of the room in all his glory and you thanked whoever had decided to create this “casual Friday” tradition. Your boss had replaced his traditional suit for a pair of jeans and what looked to be the softest and comfiest sweater you had ever seen. The blue grey shades were mirroring his kind eyes that matched his so soft and charming smile. His hair had grown since the first day he had been introduced to the staff six months ago. He had let his curls loose and you fought against yourself to not raise your hand and let it run through them. 

He cleared his throat and you startled, suddenly realizing you had been staring for too long.

“is there something wrong, Miss Y/L/N?” He asked and you swore you could feel the smile in his voice.

“No, Sir.” You also cleared your throat to try to regain some composure and chased an invisible dust on your blouse. “I was just admiring your sweater. It seems very…comfy.” So very tempting to the touch too.

As if reading your mind, he casually slid a hand down his sweater. “It is and it is also perfectly warm for the season.” 

Perfect for snuggles too, you could bet. But there was no way you would say it out loud. “It looks like it. You wished to see me, Sir?” You asked to change the subject and rescue you from your own humiliation. 

“Yes, I did. I’m sorry for making you wait so much, especially on a Friday night, but I wanted to finish my few corrections on your different accounting reports.” 

“Is there something wrong?” If there was one thing you were sure of, it was your team. You knew they were working well and you always knew you were not often inclined to make any mistake. 

He handed you the files you had given him earlier this afternoon and threw another one of his ever-charming smiles your way. “Not at all. They are absolutely perfect. It seems your team is one to be trusted.”

“Thank you, sir”. You smiled back and hugged the precious files against your chest. 

“I must apologize again for keeping you so long here.”

“It’s quite alright, Sir. Work has to be done. It will make me enjoy my weekend a bit more.”

He chuckled and you felt yourself shiver at the sound. “Good thinking.” He took a few steps towards you. “I hope you will have a nice one.”

“You too, sir” You gave him a nod as goodbye and walked to the door. You were about to reach the handle when his voice startled you. 

“Would it be very unprofessional of me to ask you to have dinner with me tonight?”

You spun around so fast, you let go of the files and lost your balance. Luckily for you, Jonathan was just a few feet away and instantly circled your waist. “Are you alright? I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you that. I don’t want you to feel any pressure…”

“No!” You almost shouted, resisting the urge to touch him again so that he would not let go. “I mean, I don’t feel any pressure at all. As unprofessional as it may be, I would gladly accept your dinner offer.”

His arm tightened a bit around your waist. “Wonderful. Do you have any preference?”

“No, as long as I’m with you.” You instantly felt mortified and let out a squeak. Why on earth would you say such a thing out loud? You were so going to get fired. 

To your surprise, your boss chuckled again. “It’s quite alright. I also like your company, Darling. Let us enjoy this very unprofessional evening. Who knows what it has in store for us?”

Your belly did a tiny somersault at the term of endearment. This evening was not turning out as you had planned but you were certainly not going to complain. A nice dinner with your boss sounded way more exciting than your usual Friday nights with your salad and an old sitcom to watch on Netflix. Who knew indeed what the night had in store for you? But the way Jonathan Pine was looking at you gave you the tiniest hope that he could maybe feel the same attraction towards you. Maybe you would not sleep alone tonight either after all. 

Your hands finally found their way on his sweater and you almost purred at the softness you met. It was as good as you had imagined. Softest to the touch, perfect for snuggles and…more.

“Promise me, one thing Mr. Pine.” You looked up at him, your hands still running on his sweater dreamily. “Whatever happens, do not take off your sweater.”

Your boss smiled and leaned down until his lips were almost touching yours. “A lady’s wish is my command.”

Tagging: @thezombieprostitute @naaladareia

[stupidphototricks]

The thing about The Truth is that it's actually a great action movie. I mean of course it is:

"Do you know what they called a sausage-in-a-bun in Quirm?" said Mr. Pin, as the two walked away. "No?" said Mr. Tulip. "They call it le sausage-in-le-bun." -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

But my very favorite scene, the one that reaches out and grabs me, is when Mr. Pin and Mr. Tulip are threatening William in the newsroom, and the realization hits that Goodmountain can secretly communicate with William through typesetting:

Goodmountain's hand moved again, flicking letter after letter from its nest. Armed? coff 4 yes -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

which is brilliant, so there's a silently-planned insurrection with an unexpected denouement that all plays out as if it was filmed in Technicolor with surround sound, teach me your ways, Sir Terry.

And we're only a little over halfway through the book here. There's still time for characters to make light conversation as everything falls apart around them:

"And there's another magazine that would sell, too," said Sacharissa. Behind her, a piece of the press collapsed. "Hello? Hello? I know my mouth is opening and shutting," said Goodmountain. "Is any sound getting out?" "Cats," said Sacharissa. "Lots of people like cats. Pictures of cats. Stories about cats. I've been thinking about it. It could be called... Completely Cats." -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

and for Chekhov's Paper Spike to fulfill its purpose, and for Sacharissa to try out some nonstandard negotiation tactics:

"Let us use your 'ing' presses or I'll 'ing' shoot your 'ing' head 'ing' off!" she screamed. "I think that's how you're supposed to say it, isn't it?" -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

and for Otto to save the day again:

Otto Chriek dropped to the floor, hands raised like talons. "Good evening!" he said to a shocked bailiff. He looked at his hand. "Oh, vot am I thinking of!" He bunched his fists, and danced from foot to foot. "Put zem up in the traditional Ankh-Morpork pugilism!" -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

and for William to get A Talking To from Law Enforcement:

"Fred, send someone to take Mr. de Worde down to the cells, will you?" he yelled. "I'm calling it protective custody for now," he added, turning back to William." "Protecting me from whom?" "Well, I personally have an overwhelming urge to give you a ding alongside the ear," said Vimes. "But I suspect there are others out there without my self-control." -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

and for a poignant moment when it's all over:

"I mean, I didn't try to do anything. I thought: This is a Story, and I have to tell it." "Yep," said Sacharissa, still bowed over her writing. "We've been press-ganged." "But it's not--" "Look at it like this," said Sacharissa, starting a fresh page. "Some people are heroes. And some people jot down notes." "Yes, but that's not very--" Sacharissa glanced up, and flashed him a smile. "Sometimes they're the same person," she said. -- Terry Pratchett, The Truth

which, I mean. You see it, right?

Sir Terry Pratchett.

Our hero.

Who thought of Stories, and had to tell them.

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

hey, sleepy! hope you’re having a wonderful day :)

If im not mistaken, you were/are studying visual art in college (correct me if i’m wrong), and id be glad to know your opinion about it: would you say that the college helped you to improve your art? (1-10)

im about to finish school and i do want to work with art, yet, im uncertain about colleges and what they will be offering (if the content will be taught by fundamentals to coloring or character design)

tysm! all the best 🩷 keep going w the inktober drawings, they’re amazing

Hello! Hope you have a wonderful day as well!

Okay so yes I did go to visual art college. However, the thing is, I major and got my bachelor degree in "Visual Communication Design" the emphasis being the "Communication" here. So we study communication through visual arts. I learn to not only make art to only be understood by me, but also by everyone else. The lecturers taught psychology, perception, and so much more!

It actually depends on yourself. I personally would categorize the art college experience in 3 categories : PERSONAL, FRIENDSHIP, and LECTURER aspect. (This is my own personal experience in college in Indonesia. Your college and the culture in your country might be different)

PERSONAL ASPECT - Art college will assign you with countless assignments. With hundreds of drawings every year. It depends on me to half-ass it or give it my all. Giving it my all means I study what I'm supposed to be drawing, and work with what I can do and can't do. Say, there's an assignment to make a comic about traditional medicines in Indonesia. I learn to research. What should people who read it know? What's not required. Which one is just additional information? I learn to organize/put hierarchy on information. Now that I know which one is important and which ones don't, I have to convey it through drawings. Now that's the thing I study. On the other hand, I myself developed my own artstyle as the assignments go. You draw SO DAMN MUCH by the second/third year my artstyle has finally gotten established (plus as some of you may know, I also started drawing CoD fanarts as sleepyconfusedpotato in Tumblr around the start of college, so GhostJade also helped me find my own artstyle). So the lecturers don't really TEACH you much about drawing. They give you lessons and assignments so you can learn to draw by yourself. What you need to do is to learn how to study - develop your brain so it's always in constant learning mode.

FRIENDSHIP ASPECT - Art college HUMBLED me. When I was in high school, I was THE art kid of the class, but when I got into art college, I was just a speck of dust! I meet more developed friends and even more experienced friends who've achieved more. HOWEVER, the college experience is to experience it with friends. In Indonesia we tend to do the art assignments together, lend art supplies together, go to cafe's together. Work independently together in a communal way. I learn to ask friends what they think, and what they think should be improved. I can't tell you how much my friends' comments and ideas have broken me out of art block. A second, third, fourth opinion is always a good additional consideration. Because they see our art without knowing what's inside our brain. They're good test screening for audiences.

LECTURER ASPECT - Lecturers are there to GIVE YOU OPPORTUNITIES. Makes you a better thinker, and gives comments about our drawings. They give the final feedbacks. To make use of the lecturers, CHASE THE LECTURERS. Ask them stuff, make their knowledge yours. Another thing is, lecturers are usually famous people/known experts in their fields. Ask them for opportunities. "Sir can I join you in one of your researches?" "Ma'am do you know a good resource/book if I want to learn about this?" "Sir, do you know people from this field that I can contact so I can start working with them? I'm interested in what they do and I think it'd be exciting to work under their guidance." From there, your connection to the art world BEYOND your college will broaden. Your lecturers can even write recommendation letters! You'll get to go to internships in various companies/studios with their recommendations. This can fill up your portfolio and CV for when you've graduated from college. College is first and foremost a Field of Opportunities. Student Exchanges! Researches! Guest Lecturers! The lecturers are your doors towards these things. ----

SO. After I yap so much, I guess the final thing I can say is this : College experience won't be much different if you just stay still and work alone. As much as an introvert I am, I learn to communicate with others, how to befriend people, how to communicate with experts respectfully, etc. I learned that if I want to thrive in art for life, I need to make use of this college experience, make the 4 years I spend in this institution worth my time.

So that's what I can share! Once again, I want to remind that this is my Indonesian college experience. Your college culture might be different, but college is supposed to help you grow.

PHEW I yapped a bit there, but thank you for asking!

[pinkiemme]

Getting caught in the wrapping paper

Getting caught in the wrapping paper

Captain Rex x Reader

This is my gift for @sunshinesdaydream for the @cloneficgiftexchange Secret Santa!!

Prompt: "Are you sure this is how the tradition goes?"

Words: 1k

Warnings: It's spicy, but no smut

“What kind of torture are you practicing to that poor box?” You look up from your awful try at wrapping up some gifts to give to the 501st to see Rex, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed over his armorless chest. Your mouth opens to reply something but you just let out a soft whine and look back down, feeling your face warming up.

You barely talked to Rex, ever. What was he doing on this part of the civilian barracks, watching you make a disaster of something you wished to gift to him and his vode.

You hear him getting closer to you, and then you see his hands when they reach out to your poorly attempt at a wrapped up gift. “What’s this thing supposed to be?”

“It’s just a gift, Captain…” you bite your lower lip trying not to look at the expression he’s making while he grabs the box from the table you're working at. And you’re so worried about what he’s thinking that you don’t notice the gasp that leaves his lips when you call him captain in that sweet voice of yours.

“A gift? Who do you hate so much to gift this to?” He chuckles a bit and grabs a nearby chair to sit next to you. Rex notices you’re not looking at him and how your brows are scrunched in worry and whispers a soft “hey” while bumping his knee against you.

You finally make eye contact with him and he presses his knee harder against your leg, getting closer, needing more of your contact. “Don’t worry, I’m sure whoever receives this will be happy to”. 

At least, he knows he would be happy to receive something from you. The captain was head over heels for you, always looking at you when you crossed paths on the hallways of the ship. On the days when you briefly had touched him passing by he had to spend the night with his hand wrapped around his leaking cock thinking about how warm and soft you had felt. Imagining how you would feel pressed against him.

You smile up at him and he feels his heart skip a beat at the sight. His eyes focus on your lips when you separate them to talk to him in a hushed tone “It’s a gift for Life Day. I’m preparing a bunch of them to give to the troopers”

“Life Day?” He says, looking back at your eyes. “And what did you do to them?”

“Well… I was trying to…” he can tell you’re feeling intimidated by his stare so he goes back to focusing on the box in his hands, playing with the colorful paper hanging here and there around it, trying not to make you uncomfortable. 

This was the most you had interacted with him without running away and he was holding in his breath, feeling the skin closer to you tingling with need. But he didn’t want to scare you away. “They’re supposed to be wrapped up, so they’re a surprise” you say handing him the roll of wrapping paper.

“Whatever for?” Rex hadn’t received many gifts before but they sure never had been wrapped up, so right now he doesn’t see the need for you to go through all this struggle just to wrap some gifts up. He’s sure his vode will love any gift they receive from you, even if it’s unwrapped.

“It’s the tradition?” your soft voice sounds so unsure he feels his chest contract when he hears you, he wants to protect you, to make you feel better.

“Are you sure this is how the tradition goes?” he’s trying to encourage you, not wanting you to have a bad time because you’re trying so hard to do this right, and its not going as well as you wish it was. So he starts to unroll the wrapping paper and holds up his hand towards you “hand me something to cut this up”.

“Yes, sir” it catches him off guard and he swallows loudly, feeling himself getting hard just from those two words. “And I’m sure! I used to celebrate Life Day with my family, but I have always been awful at wrapping the gifts up”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He can’t think. Your words replaying in his mind again and again. His cock slowly twitching to life. He has to bite his own tongue to avoid any sound to escape his mouth. Instead the captain starts to cut the wrapping paper and centers the box on top of it to distract himself. 

Rex can feel your eyes on his hands so he makes a show of moving them slowly. He wants you to touch them. He needs to do something to feel you closer to him. “Come here, let me help you”. He wraps his arm around your body, caging you in, against the table, your body now pressed on his side. Safe enough so you don’t feel his bulge but close enough so he is indulging himself.

He inhales your scent, and starts moving his hands and yours, wrapping the box up together.

It takes a while, your fingers tangling with each other and a few nervous giggles escaping you. He’s so focused on you, your heat, your hands, the way your breath feels against his skin when his arm moves near your face.

Everything keeps making his cock throb. He wants more. But he will settle for this. For now.

Once you finish wrapping them all up you get away from him, a breathless whimper leaving his mouth. His hand reaching towards you not wanting to let you go.

“Here, this one is for you, Captain” you then hand him one of the recently wrapped up gifts with a small smile and warm cheeks on your face.

“For me? Thank you, cyare” he grabs the gift and feels his heart beating fast, why was it beating faster than when you were between his arms? That didn’t make any sense. He could feel the tip of his ears heating up, and felt like he might choke, his heart on his throat.

“And.. well… thank you for helping me” you then grab his chin and press your soft lips against the skin of his cheek, making it itch in the best of ways. He could now feel his cock leaking precum at the mere touch of your lips against him, as innocent as the act was. “Happy Life Day, Rex” the captain then gasped loudly, his mouth open and looking at you. He nodded slowly and mumbled his goodbyes, being him the one to run away for once.