#Zero Hold Up/ Zero Hold Up Filter Press/

[aryanengineers]

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[daryltwdixon]

Kinktober #6

Cockwarming

warnings: smut, dirty talking daryl

notes: kind of a long one! 2.4k words, Alexandria, established relationship

It’s one of the hottest days ever since summer broke in Alexandria, and you’re headed over to grab tools from the garage where Daryl works on his bike all hours of the day when he’s not out doing only god knows what. 

“Hey,” you breathe, catching your breath as you step into the messy garage. The smell of cigarette smoke fills the air, thick and stifling. Daryl takes a drag from his cigarette, the small stick dangling between his lips as he watches you. His eyes follow your every move as you make a beeline for the shelves at the far end of the room. You’re wearing a pair of shorts that are definitely on the shorter side, paired with a worn tank top that clings to your skin in a way that draws his gaze. He knows you’ve always preferred to be braless, and today is no exception as his eyes linger on your chest moving with every step. 

Daryl makes a mental note that he most definitely missed the summer heat when he sees you without the multiple layers winter and early spring required.

You reach up toward the top shelf, straining for a box of screwdrivers that’s just out of reach. As you stretch, your shirt rides up, exposing the small of your back. Daryl’s eyes zero in on the exposed skin, his gaze lingering without shame, while you remain blissfully unaware, biting your lip in concentration.

Unable to just stand there and watch any longer, Daryl moves closer. With a quick, effortless motion, he reaches up and grabs the black toolbox from the top shelf, handing it to you.

You lean back on your heels, realizing how close he’s gotten. “Thanks, big guy,” you say with a half-smile, taking the cool metal box from his hand. He grunts in response, the cigarette still perched between his lips as he stares down at you.

Without hesitation, you reach up to brush his hair out of his face, your fingers grazing his warm skin. “See you at home,” you whisper, looking up at him under your lashes. As you rise onto your toes, you press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, just beside where the cigarette rests. When you pull back, there’s a tinge of pink staining his cheeks. 

You carefully make your way through the debris on your way out, and you’re just about to step into the air outside when Rick suddenly appears in the doorway, blocking your exit. The abrupt collision causes your chest to bump into him, and his hands instinctively reach out to steady you, still keeping you pressed against him. His gaze locks onto yours for a brief moment, suddenly holding you back at arm’s length before his eyes drop lower, lingering a second too long on your tank top and shorts. He clears his throat awkwardly, quickly releasing you as he shifts his attention to Daryl, who’s still watching from across the room.

“See you later, Officer,” you laugh, embarrassed, and slip past him with a playful grin.

—--

Later that night, the bed dips beside you as the pale moonlight filters through the window, casting a soft glow on the blankets. You’re curled up, but sleep never really finds you until Daryl crawls into bed beside you. The familiar warmth of his body slides under the covers, his presence enveloping you in his scent. You hum as you twist your neck around, your hand coming up to his face to kiss him in greeting. He returns the kiss gently, a soft sigh passing between you. When he pulls back, he doesn’t stray far, letting his lips trail down your neck, leaving a line of slow, deliberate kisses that end where your neck meets your shoulder. Goosebumps rise along your skin, his touch igniting a mix of comfort and desire. 

His arms wrap around you, strong and sure, his hands wandering over your chest with a sense of urgency that’s hard to miss. “Dare,” you whisper, starting to grasp the intensity of his touch. He hums in response, his voice a low rumble against your throat while his hair tickles your skin as he lets his teeth graze your shoulder in a gentle bite.

You gasp softly, the sensation unexpected. Your hands move to find him, surprise causing you to grip onto his hands.

“Mm mm,” Daryl murmurs in objection, his arms tightening around you, his grip possessive and firm. His fingers find your nipples through the fabric of your shirt, pinching gently but with intent. You squirm under his touch, a mix of pleasure and frustration making you wriggle, but his hold only grows stronger.

“This damn shirt,” he growls, his voice low and rough. “Had me thinkin’ about ya all day, wearin’ this thing.”

A small, teasing smile tugs at your lips, but it’s fleeting as you try to turn and face him, eager to see his expression up close. Daryl, however, is having none of it. His chest remains pressed firmly against your back, his hold adamant. You can feel the unmistakable hardness of him growing against you as you press back into his lap. He lets out a deep, guttural groan when you push yourself into him, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh firmly. It’s a mix of urgency and need, and though you’re still caught in his hold, there’s a raw tenderness in the way he touches you, his breath hot against your ear.

“You’ve been bad,” Daryl growls in your ear, his teeth nipping lightly at the lobe. You let out a small yelp, your mind scrambling to understand what you’ve done to earn his teasing.

“I didn’t do anything—” you start, but your words are cut off as his hand delivers a light slap to your thigh. His fingers slip beneath the bend of your knee, lifting your leg slightly to spread you open. You only ever sleep in a shirt and underwear for comfort, so the feeling of his fully clothed body pressed against the thin fabric is enough to drive you wild.

“You were such a damn tease, comin’ into the garage like tha’, bouncin’ around like a little slut in your tiny shorts n’ this stupid excuse for a shirt,” His words send a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively keep your leg up, wrapping your ankle around the back of his leg to keep him close. His hands continue to travel then, pulling at your shirt until it comes down far enough that your tits fall out of the top. 

“Daryl–!” but his hand roughly grabs them, kneading both tightly in one solid, large hand. You’re gasping at the sudden shift in demeanor, welcoming the hunger in him. He twists your nipple between the rough pads of his fingers, eliciting a moan from you as he pulls and teases them. 

“Such a fuckin’ tease,” he groans into your shoulder, biting down on you, “ya know what little girls who tease get, don’t ya?”

You shake your head vigorously, but it only barely hides the fact that you really want him to say what in fact happens to those who tease Daryl Dixon.

His hands are suddenly on your waistband, pulling your underwear off as he allows your leg to lay flat as he pulls them down. When they’ve been discarded, he balls them up in his hand, pressing them to his face, groaning loudly into the fabric of your scent. The sight alone is enough to elicit another moan from you, but it’s stifled as he tightly stuffs them into your open mouth, gagging you with your own panties.

“They get punished,” he says, lifting your leg again from the knee, “Now get mah cock out for me like a good girl,” he rasps against your neck. His accent always drawled out slower and thicker the more turned on he got, and you couldn’t reach back fast enough. He doesn’t let you turn around however, so your fingers travel along his pants to find his zipper while all along his lips are on your neck, shoulders, ear–biting and sucking and licking impatiently. Your mind is short circuiting, hands fumbling along the front of him. Finally, you manage to blindly pull down his zipper, and push his pants down a fraction. It’s enough to reach your hand in, your fingers finding the hot throbbing member below. You gently pull it out of its confines, thumb grazing the hot head of him, precum spreading as you gently circle his tip. His teeth bite harder into you as he grunts, and you moan around the fabric in your mouth. He lets go of your leg for just a moment to line himself up with you, and it's no surprise to feel his cock glide easily along your slick wet entrance. 

“Mmmm always ready for me, ain’t tha’ right?” he growls, and slowly pushes into you. Your eyes roll back, neck arching against him as he enters you, stretching your walls out so perfectly it's like you’re being filled to the brim. When his cock bottoms out in you, and you feel his balls pressing against you, surprise flits across your cock drunk brain when he doesn’t start moving right away. Your eyes open as you try to turn to him, and he chuckles darkly when you try to move your hips.

“Nuh, uh baby,” he says softly, cooing at you, “This is all you get. Bad girls who tease, flirt, and press their tits up against their man’s best friend don’t get to have fun,” 

Amazement briefly flickers across your mind by how talkative Daryl is today. You’ve noticed before that his walls tend to crumble when he’s deep in the moment with you, but this—this is a whole new level. The way he’s talking now, low and filthy, feels like both a confession and a delicious form of torture. 

His hand comes up to your face to pull your panties out of your mouth, but before you can say anything, he pulls your mouth to his, craning your neck. He kisses you so deeply you can’t help but grind against him. But then, the crack of his fingers against your bare clit makes you jolt.

“Don’t move,” he growls against your lips. You whine and whimper, but he doesn’t give in, and you can feel his cock pulsating inside of you. His hand gently comes up to your face to trace your cheek as his kisses become gentle, slow, and he pulls away just inches from your mouth. 

“Your pussy is so needy, tryna pull me in deeper, suckin’ my cock dry without even havin’ to fuck ya, hunny,” he says, almost so endearingly like he’s complimenting how pretty your eyes look today, “now cum on my cock,”

The growl surprises you as he brings his fingers back down to your center, the rough pads of his two fingers teasing and circling your clit, prodding and pressing so delicately, it’s like he knows every single nerve in your bundle to get you to the brink of pleasure within minutes. He’s spent so long studying you—what makes you shiver, what makes your eyes roll back, what drags his name from your lips like a desperate, guttural plea.

“Please, Daryl, please,” you manage to whisper, “I promise to be good, I promise,” you’re so desperate for him to move you’d say about anything in this moment.

“Yeah?” he coos, “You’ll be a good girl for me?”

You nod vigorously, your hand coming up to cup his neck as you hold onto him for dear life, and his fingers pick up pace. He’s rubbing you and pulling back the hood of your clit to press his fingers down, and you nearly choke on your moans that come from within, arching into him as he brings you to the peak of your climax. 

“Come on, pretty girl, cum for me,” he gravels into your ear, and your pussy constricts around him as the pleasure of your orgasm releases through you, the shivers of it running up your back and down your legs as you come undone around his cock as he remains unmoving inside of you.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, feeling every single twitch and pulse of your pussy enveloping him through your high. As you come down, however, you feel even more desperate and wanton than before.

“Pleeease,” you whine, so intoxicated and helpless in his arms. His breath is hot and heavy over your neck and side of your face, breathless as he chuckles again.

“Careful what you wish for, baby,” he whispers, and he pulls back agonizingly slow, but the movement is enough to pull a deep, ravenous moan from your throat. But you nearly choke on it as he snaps his hips into you hard. You nearly fall forward, his arms wrapping tightly around you, not allowing you to move any further away from him as he continues relentlessly fucking you from behind. He’s growling and grunting incoherently in your ear, hair sticking to your sweaty face. His cock nearly feels like it’s splitting you in half as he keeps up his onslaught of thrusts. The arm that wraps under you, keeping you in place, stays tight against your stomach, but the arm over you reaches down, his fingers pressing the pads of his fingers against your clit. You’re moaning and mewling and screaming so loudly, mixing with his whimpers and breathless growls, the vibrations sending more chills down your spine as you convulse against him. Your pussy clenches down on him as you release your second growing orgasm, the explosion of pleasure ripping through you as he thrusts into you, letting you chase your high until he can no longer take it. He pulls back one more time before burying his cock in you and cumming so deep you swear you can nearly feel him bottoming out in your stomach. 

You’re both utterly breathless as he keeps a hold of you from behind. His arms loosen as you both catch your breath, and he pulls out of you, letting you turn around and hook your hands around his neck. 

“So sorry I distracted you all day,” you smile up at him.

He hums, arms wrapping back around you as he pulls you into his chest, his lips finding yours with lazy ease. “Don’t be,” he murmurs against your mouth, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe you could wear those short again tomorrow,”

[theculturedmarxist]

In photos of 2023’s World Economic Forum- or Davos as it is commonly called, after the Swiss resort town where it annually occurs- you might not notice the HEPA filters. They’re in the background, unobtrusive and unremarked upon, quietly cleansing the air of viruses and bacteria. You wouldn’t know- not unless you asked- that every attendee was PCR tested before entering the forum, or that in the case of a positive test, access was automatically, electronically, revoked. And if you happened to get a glimpse of the strange blue lights overhead, you could reasonably assume that their glow was simply a modern aesthetic choice, not the calming buzz of cutting edge Far UVC technology- demonstrated to kill microbes in the air.

It’s hard to square this information with the public narrative about COVID, isn’t it? President Biden has called the pandemic “over”. The New York Times recently claimed that “the risk of Covid is similar to that of the flu” in an article about “hold outs” that are annoyingly refusing to accept continual reinfection as their “new normal”. Yet, this week the richest people in the world are taking common sense, easy- but strict- precautions to ensure they don’t catch Covid-19 at Davos.

These common sense, easy precautions include high-quality ventiliation, use of Far UVC-lighting technology, and PCR testing. You’ll also see some masks at Davos, but generally, the testing + air filtration protocol seems to be effective at preventing the kind of super-spreader events most of us are now accustomed to attending.

It seems unlikely to me that a New York Times reporter will follow the super-rich around like David Attenborough on safari, the way one of their employees did when they profiled middle-class maskers last month. I doubt they will write “family members and friends can get a little exasperated by the hyper-concern” about the assembled Prime Ministers, Presidents and CEOs in Switzerland. After all, these are important people. The kind of people who merit high-quality ventilation. The kind of people who deserve accurate tests.

Why is the media so hellbent on portraying simple, scientifically proven measures like high-quality ventilation as ridiculous and unnecessary as hundreds of people continue to die daily here in the US?

Why is the public accepting a “new normal” where we are expected to get infected over and over and over again, at work events with zero precautions, on airplanes with no masks, and at social dinners trying to approximate our 2019 normal?

We deserve better. We deserve to be #DavosSafe as the hashtag going around on twitter puts it. Your children deserve to be treated with the care that world leaders are treating each other. Your family deserves to be protected from the disease which is still- unlike the flu- the third leading cause of death in the US. We don’t deserve to be shoved back into poorly ventilated workplaces while our politicians and press assure us that only crazy people would demand to breathe clean air.

Clean water and clean food are rights we fought for; we have regulatory bodies that ensure we aren’t exposed to pathogens via our water supply nor our food. In 1854, John Snow famously conducted his Broad Street Pump study in London and demonstrated that cholera was water-bourne; however, it took decades for our public policy to catch up with our scientific knowledge.

A public health case study published by the NBCI describes the years that followed:

The first use of chlorine as a disinfectant for water facilities was in 1897 in England. The first use of this method for municipal water facilities in the United States was in Jersey City, New Jersey, and Chicago, Illinois, in 1915. Other cities followed and the use of chlorination as standard treatment for water disinfection rapidly grew. During the 20th century, death rates from waterborne diseases decreased significantly, and although other additional factors contributed to the general improvements in health (such as sanitation, improved quality of life, and nutrition), the improvement of water quality was, without doubt, a major reason.

Forty-three years passed from the initial demonstration that pathogens were being spread via water, and public action and regulation to halt disease.

Can you imagine, in the 1890s, being somebody who argued against cleaning the water?

Can you imagine, in those years of plentiful cholera, calling the people who demanded shit-free water “hold outs”?

One thing COVID realists are accused of is being “doomsayers” and “fearmongers,” so let me share a dose of optimism about the future with you. When we choose- whenever we choose- to get COVID under control, there’s an exciting new world awaiting us. One, not only without constant COVID reinfection, but where our kids can grow up free of colds, flus, RSV, and many other common bugs. And no, contrary to what you may have heard, staying healthy (shockingly enough) is not bad for children!

Once we choose to institute ventilation standards and introduce new technologies like Far UVC lighting- and embrace masking as an easy, kind, and useful tool to control outbreaks- we can bring every nasty airborne pathogen under control the way we did cholera. We didn’t have the science before; now we do. (I mean that quite literally; I can’t recommend enough the linked Wired article cataloguing the long journey to establishing that Covid is, indeed, airborne).

We face a stark choice; down one road, the one with zero infrastructure upgrades, no air quality regulations, and Covid safety only for those who can afford it, you and your family will get Covid this year. You will get Covid next year. You will continue to get Covid over and over and over again, as the health problems - like cardiac damage, viral persistance, and immune system dysfunction- continue to build up. (The billionaires, of course, will not).

Down the other road, we quite simply treat ourselves the way Davos would. We engage with what the science is telling us and we build a safer, better world for our kids. We embrace the lessons this pandemic is teaching us, and let go of things we now know are harming people. We stop clinging desperately to the idea that 2019 will come back if we just get the virus one more time, and we come together to achieve what we’ve been told is impossible: elimination.

The economic elite thrive on our divisiveness and blame casting. They don’t mind that we’re calling each other names, engaging in racial stereotyping, or leaving disabled people to die, so long as we keep their machine running. But we can choose to stop throwing blame at each other, and direct it where it belongs: at the powerful people who’ve left us to suffer, at the politicians who are whipping people into a frenzy over masks instead of over our millions of dead, at the talking heads on TV that work so hard to convince us: you want to get sick. It’s better than being a *weirdo* or a *hold out*.

We needn’t wait 43 years to redirect our energies. France and Belgium have already introduced new air quality standards, and DIY projects to build Corsi-Rosenthal boxes for schools and healthcare settings have popped up around the country. We have the science, we have the technology. All we need now is the political will and the solidarity to truly end the pandemic- the kind of solidarity the super rich always show with one another.

The billionaires at Davos don’t accept continual Covid reinfection. They demand better. It’s time we demand better too.

[bellaveux]

hi, are you still taking requests? if yes then i would like to request top! wanda x sub!reader where r was caught touching herself with their recent purchase wand vibrator and wanda decided to let r cums but r has to count 50 to 0. and after every time r cums the count will shorten by 10 but the wand will be increasing up a notch. and at the end wanda decided to finish it by fucking r senseless. please and thank you. 🥺

count for me | w. maximoff

pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: wanda comes home and finds her favorite girl playing with that new vibrator she had recently purchased.

content warnings: minors dni. smut; dom!wanda maximoff x sub!reader, pwp, use of toys (vibrator), overstimulation, strap-on sex (r receiving), kinda pervy wanda, rough sex, multiple orgasms, dumbification kinda, praising

wc: 1.9k

She could hear you. The moment she walked through the front door of your shared home. She could hear the way you whimper, whine, and try to muffle your moans—a soft buzzing sound breaking the silence that filled the entire house. The air seemed to be holding its breath as she walked slowly down the hall. The sounds of your pleasure had already started making her dizzy, almost as if she were getting drunk off of it. It had been too quiet when she first arrived home, and you were unusually nowhere to be seen, but the hushed silence faded away when she got closer to her bedroom door. With each step she took, the prettiest moans that fell from your lips got louder and louder, bouncing against the walls and into her ears. When she got close enough, Wanda's measured steps ceased, and a subtle tension filled the air.

The door stood just a crack open, revealing a slender slit of the space inside the room. A soft beam of light filtered through, casting a delicate glow that painted the room in muted hues. Wanda's gaze lingered on the partially open door, and in that suspended moment, curiosity mingled with a gentle sense of trepidation. She took a peak. She couldn’t help it.

The lamp was on. You were there. Laying on the bed you shared with her, writhing, trembling, and quivering with your hand holding that new vibrator Wanda had recently bought for you underneath your panties as you whimpered into the pillow. You looked so pretty. Her sweet girl, moaning her name quietly as you tried so desperately to chase the high of pleasure you were struggling to get. The sight of you made Wanda weak in her knees to the point where she almost just gave out and kneeled down. She composed herself remarkably, and took a deep breath before pushing the door open even more and stepping inside.

You couldn’t see her; your eyes closed shut as you continued to pleasure yourself. And before you could react, you felt a pair of lips press against your neck. You jumped slightly in surprise as Wanda held you down against the mattress.

“Started without me, sweetheart?” She whispered into your neck. You moved slightly, pressing your lips together as you tried to pull the vibrator away from your clit, but Wanda grabbed your wrist and pushed it even harder against your bundle of nerves. “Oh, don’t let me interrupt, baby. Keep going for me.”

“W-Wanda—”

“Tell me, baby. How many times did you come before I came in?” She asked as she left wet, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your neck all the way up to your jaw.

You shuddered at the feeling, your blush only darkening on your cheeks, “O-Once.”

“Is that the truth?”

You nod your head rapidly, eagerly trying to convince her that it is with just your face and doe eyes looking up at her.

“Hmm…” Wanda hummed into your ear. “How about you start counting for me, detka? Fifty to zero. You can do it.”

So you started. Fifty to zero, like she said. You could feel the way Wanda smirked against your chest, nuzzling her face against your breasts, immediately noticing the way your hardened nipples pushed themselves against the fabric of your thin shirt. A hand wraps itself around the wand vibrator, her hand tracing over the buttons softly. You were on forty-five, continuing to count as best as you could as Wanda guided the vibrator against your clit.

“Come for me, baby?” She said as you whimpered into her hair.

And you couldn’t help but obey, the sound of her voice ringing in your ears. You shuddered as you came, letting go of the wand to wrap your arms loosely around Wanda’s frame as she hovered over you.

“Again. Start on thirty five, sweetheart.”

And you tried, “T-Thirty—Ah!”

With a click of a button, Wanda turned the vibrator’s intensity up and pressed it even harder against you. You shook underneath her with your mouth open, unable to say anything. She smiled against your cheek before moving to press her lips against yours, shoving her tongue into your mouth as you moaned against her.

She pulled away after a moment of kissing you and smirked, “Count, baby.”

You counted. And counted and counted. All while it kept buzzing. It was faster now. Much, much faster. The wand, your pleasure on the rise, Wanda hovering over you as she watched you. Starting from thirty-five, you made it all the way to twenty-one before you fell apart and came underneath her all over again. Wanda groaned when you cried her name out, coming for the third time tonight. Eventually, your eyes teared up as she continued to hold the vibrator against your cunt without giving you a chance to catch your breath.

Then, she turned it up all the way to its maximum speed.

You squealed and desperately tried to push her hand away as you cried her name out like a prayer. “W-Wanda! Wanda, I-I can’t–”

“Yes, you can. You’re my big girl, aren’t you?” She said, holding you still as you quivered and tried to close your legs shut, practically trapping her hand in between your legs. “Count again, baby. From ten.”

You sobbed against her shoulder. It was too much pleasure. You couldn’t think. You almost couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t stop shaking. And Wanda just smiled at you, kept telling you how good you were doing. So, you kept counting. For her. You tried, at least. With your best effort, you made it to zero, but you came all over again, your slick gushing on the vibrator and Wanda’s hand. She pulled the wand away from your puffy pussy, turning it off, then throwing it to the other side of the bed, and you sighed in relief. A smirk graced her lips as you looked up at her, green eyes staring down at you with pride. God, you were perfect. Her pretty baby. You tried to catch your breath in the meantime before Wanda leaned down to capture your lips with hers, her hands softly smoothing over your legs.

Wanda pulled away to catch her breath. She looked at you with hungry eyes, carefully inspecting all of your features. Stray pieces of hair matted to your forehead as sweat dribbled down your temples. The way your chest rose and fell quickly. The way your hands gripped onto her own shirt. Your legs still quivering. A tiny smile lingering on your lips as you looked at her. Fuck, was all she could think.

Before you could say anything, Wanda pulled back and stepped away.

“Wanda?” You breathed, too tired to move from your spot on the bed.

Under the dim lighting of the lamp on your side table, Wanda suddenly came into your view after hiding in the shadows but immediately leaned down to kiss you once more. She swallowed your whimpers and your quiet moans before flipping you onto your stomach in a swift movement. The kisses she littered against your neck and back were soft as she held you down with her hands pushing you slightly against the mattress.

“Stay still for me, detka.” She whispered from behind you, her whole front pressing against your back.

The first thing you felt were her fingers playing with the hem of your panties, moving them to the side, exposing your already glistening pussy to her. She is too impatient to undress you properly. For a moment, you thought you heard her chuckle, but you could barely think already. She palms your ass a few times before you feel the tip of something hard and big against your cunt. Wanda didn’t give you a second to even ask, slipping her strap into you with ease. Your moan fills the room, louder than all of the whimpers you were letting out just a moment before.

“W-Wanda–”

“Can’t get enough of you, (Y/n),” she groaned, as she slowly thrust her strap into you.

And with the sound of your muffled moans against the pillow and the sight of your hands gripping the sheets, Wanda’s pace didn’t remain gentle for too long. She quickly sped up her thrusts, using your hips to balance herself. Nothing but sweet words of praise left her mouth as she fucked her strap in and out of you.

“Taking me so fucking well, baby. God, look at you. So pretty getting all fucked out by me, huh?”

Among all the mindless praise Wanda whispered into your ear, she straightened her back to admire you beneath her, getting high off of the way you cried her name out as she continued to fuck you. Her hand pulls the flesh of your ass cheek slightly over, watching the way her strap sank into your gushing hole, her length glistening each time she pulled out. Wanda can’t help but roll her eyes to the back of her head as she listens to the way your pussy squelches each time she bottoms out. You always looked so pretty to her, even more so when you’re taking her cock like the good girl you are. And with her name rolling off your tongue like you couldn’t even think about anything else, fuck, you were perfect.

When Wanda thrusts into you one last time, you clench hard, gushing all over her strap. She can feel the way your cum coats her lower half, and she stops for a moment, just to feel the warm, clear liquid running down her tummy and her thighs, feeling as the cold air hits them, leaving her wet and sticky. It wasn’t the first time she made you squirt, but each time she does, she always takes a second. To admire you. Her dumb baby trembling underneath her. How proud of you she was.

“Fucking hell, (Y/n)…”

Wanda leans over, pressing her front against your back as you feel the way her breasts squished against you. You can feel her hair brushing up against your neck and shoulders as she left gentle and soothing kisses against your skin and shoulders. Her hands palmed your hips softly, almost as if she was trying to calm your trembling legs.

Honestly, you didn’t really have the energy to say anything else but her name, “Wanda…”

“I’m here, baby,” you heard her say. “Did so good for me, you know?”

Wanda listened to you hum in satisfaction. She pulls out of you very slowly and carefully before flipping you onto your back. You felt her kiss your lips briefly before she disappeared again to discard her strap and grab a rag to clean you up.

This part was one of Wanda’s favorites. The gradual descent from the high she had you chase over and over and over. The warmth of her palm adorns the side of your face, her thumb smoothing over your cheekbone as your eyelids began to feel heavier with each second that passed. You try to keep your eyes open, just to see your lover staring down at you, still with those dark and lustful eyes. But they were also warm. And sincere.

Wanda rolls her lips onto themselves as if she were trying to bite back a smile. She tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear before leaning down to place the most gentle kiss she could ever give you, muttering those three little words softly against your lips.

— navigation!

[frracturedjaw]

Hi Hope u already did one but maybe s/o sleeping without pants because it's hot af and I am dying here :,)

Have a great day/night/morning :D

unspecified so i just did a few short ones for bo, vinny, and tommy.

warning(s): a little suggestive in some places

a/n: sorry this took nearly four months teehee

bo sinclair

* he could care less about nudity. he grew up with brothers, louisiana is hotter than hell. he gets it. however…

* he sees you half naked in any context and his mind is already going two hundred miles an hour into everything he wants to do to you. zero filter zero hesitation.

* assuming you’re already asleep, he’s not going to act on those thoughts. but he’s definitely chewing his lip and gripping the front of his jeans like the pervert he is.

* when you groan and twist around on top of the sheets, something changes, though.

* he’s still imagining himself pressed up on you. but he’s thinking more about how your legs would feel tangled up with his own.

* the twin pumping of your hearts. the feel of your breath fanning across his chest. each other’s hands curled up into one another so hard that his knuckles get sore.

* he wants the marks he leaves on you to be not from his tools, his pliers or his tape or his knife, but from him. his skin on yours. the pressure of your weight on him.

* you wake when he drops his belt and it clinks loudly in the little bedroom. there’s a mild panic in your expression that makes his chest twinge.

* but when he slips into bed and you shift to press the entire length of your body against him. when you fit your chin over his shoulder and hook a leg over his hip. when your breathing returns to the slow in, pause, out.

* that night he dreams of the usual things. his parents, the tourists, the museum. but also of you. just you.

* you making breakfast

* you sitting on the back porch

* you laying with your head in his lap

* for the first night in a very long time, bo sinclair sleeps peacefully.

vincent sinclair

* you’d been wandering around the basement all day in an effort to stay cool, but all the hot wax made it fruitless. eventually you’d vanished upstairs to one of the empty bedrooms.

* he comes up to find you later on, finally peeling off his sweater and tying his hair back for a moment of relief.

* he walks into the bedroom and freezes at the threshold.

* you look straight from a botticelli painting. you look like Bouguereau. you look like Picou and Matisse and Klimt

* you look cut from marble and silk cloth, crystal and soft earth and sun

* you look like sky and sweet and home and being held and warm breath and moving water.

* his breath hitches when the bed creaks under his weight.

* he counts. you breathe two, three, four long lungfuls of the cool blue night air. then you reach up at him.

* vincent gathers you in his arms like you’re quicksilver. like you’re going to dissolve through the bed and deep into the earth if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. like he’ll die without you.

* (he’s convinced he might)

thomas hewitt

* he’s wracked with guilt when he first walks in on you asleep without all your clothes on. Luda Mae taught him better than this.

* but… you’re in his bed.

* he has half the mind to go sleep on the couch, but the heat would be even worse downstairs.

* he says a quick prayer for forgiveness and walks in with his eyes averted and does his best to go about his business getting ready for bed.

* he himself usually sleeps in just a shirt and boxers, but for whatever reason, you doing the same feels… intimate. you’re not exposed in that way, but at the same time, it’s still vulnerable.

* after standing (looming) over the bed for longer than is probably appropriate, he eases himself into bed beside you.

* his eyes wander to the tender apex of your thighs, admiring the soft flesh usually hidden from sight

* you adjust in your sleep, rolling to your back. he watches the lengths of muscle in your legs flex, then relax. your shirt rides up somewhat, revealing more supple skin

* he squeezes his eyes shut and leans back. he shouldn’t be taking advantage of the situation like this. if he has any respect for you, he should be showing it here.

* he tucks his hands underneath his legs for good measure and examines the speckled darkness behind his eyelids until sleep finds him.

* naturally, he wakes up the next morning with you on top of him.

* your head is turned to the side, your ear to his chest. your limbs have fallen to either side of him, but his shirt is clutched tight in one of your hands.

* where your skin meets his, he doesn’t feel the usual startling, crackling sensation of being touched without warning.

* he just feels warm. weight. the pink mark on the side of your face where you’ve been pressed against him makes his mouth twitch with a smile.

[sceletaflores]

i really just need art and patrick in subspace.

they don't normally sub. and they've never even kissed each other. dom reader makes them realize how much they desire the other, and can't help but allow her to slowly leading them into subspace

and all the poor guys can do is follow her like dogs in heat ;((

-🐝

auurrr sub!artrick you’re real to me…

and the thing is that their attraction to each other is so painfully obvious to quite literally everyone around them, but they themselves are completely oblivious.

It's either obliviousness or straight-up repression—a refusal to see what's right in front of them.

maybe it’s for different reasons. maybe art’s religious upbringing is still burned into his mind every time he catches himself letting his eyes linger a little too long on patrick fresh out of the shower, water dripping down the hard planes of his abs when he gets dressed in the mornings. the memory of his sunday school's youth pastor reciting, “it’s adam and eve, not adam and steve.”

and maybe patrick still has his dad’s homophobic rants ringing in his ears when he catches himself staring art’s lips wrapped around the filter of a cigarette. their shared cigarette, wet from art’s mouth when he takes it between his own lips.

but then they meet you. you with your willingness to navigate such a complex situation so delicately, carefully treading along the line of artandpatrick to help them realize that wanting to fuck each other isn't the end of the world. that sharing a girl the same way they share a cigarette is just another excuse to get as close as possible without touching.

it’s a mission, and you’re strategic about it.

you get them in bed at the same time, and they're so skittish. working around each other instead of with each other, but you're patient. you know they're both used to being in control, but they get so fuck drunk. it's like all the blood from their brains go to their dicks the second you drop your skirt, voice soft but demanding as you sit on the edge of art's bed.

"i want you to eat me out, both of you."

two hitching gasps ring out, shaky and broken. they're both hard.

you get them on their knees before the bed, shoulders pressed together between your thighs and matching looks of hesitation on their faces. you smile, reaching out to brush your fingers through their hair reassuringly. slowly, you start to drag art forward by the back of his head, only art.

his nose bumps against your inner thigh, short puffs of breath fanning over your aching core until he sticks his tongue out and lets you drag him wherever you want him.

patrick watches art the entire time, eyes rapidly flicking over his profile like he doesn't know where to look. tracing the bridge of art's nose, the cut of his jawline, zeroing in on where his pretty pink lips wrap around your clit. he's so quiet, the quietest you've ever heard him.

when art gets too into it, moaning and drooling, you pull him back. he groans, leaning forward to fight your grip on his hair like he'll die if he's not fucking you with his tongue. you scratch your nails against his scalp, a placating smile on your face before you're turning to patrick.

he lurches forward before you even get a hand in his hair, dragging his tongue through the mess of spit art left pooling in your hole. groaning at the taste of your pussy.

art watches him, just like patrick watched him. his head resting on your thigh, staring through half lidded eyes with parted lips.

you hold back for as long as you can stand, giving patrick his one on one time with your pussy. moaning at the way his nose nudges against your clit each time he licks a broad stripe over your hole with the flat of his tongue.

when you can feel yourself getting closer, you gently start to guide art's head closer. patrick's hair still in the tight grip of your fist, you're not moving him away.

wide blue eyes flick to your face, hazy and blown out and worried. you smile down at him, 'it's okay, baby."

apparently, that's all go ahead he needs. leaning forward enough to get his mouth back on you.

patrick, who got lost in his own little world, opening his eyes to art mouthing at your clit, lips inches away from his own, has a surprised moan ripping from deep in chest. you feel the rumble of it against your fluttering hole, long and drawn out.

it's like they both have a gravitational pull towards the other, getting closer and closer until patrick's tongue finally brushes against art's. it happens once, twice, three times before they both go still, eyes meeting in a shared moment of realization.

there’s a charged silence, broken only by the sound of your heavy breathing. it’s like the world has paused, waiting for them to decide if they’ll take that last step. you stroke patrick’s hair, steady and reassuring, and he hesitantly leans back in, his movements slow and uncertain.

art’s the first to move, taking patrick's bottom lip between his teeth and giving it a gentle tug. patrick’s eyes flutter closed, a shiver running down his spine. they’re tasting each other now, sucking the taste of you off the others tongue.

it’s hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen.

you look down at them, at your boys. faces gone soft, eyes fluttered shut as they make-out over your pussy. heat zings up your spine every time their tongues tangle over your clit, chins messy with their spit mixing with the wetness leaking from you.

the smugness you feel only adds to your orgasm. all they needed was a little push.

[storiesofsvu]

Crafted By the Gods

Emily Prentiss x reader Warnings: language, smut, oral sex, face sitting. Covers a bingo square and a req from an anon.

You were sitting in the bullpen going over technicalities for a case, listening to the hunch Emily was going off about and you were completely aware that you were both not paying attention and also having the most impure thoughts at the most inappropriate time. What you weren’t aware of was that Tara had stopped paying attention, her eyes drifting towards you, small smirk on her lips as she watched you suck your lower lip into your mouth.

“You’re staring.” She murmured. You were far enough back that there was no way Emily could hear you, and it wasn’t like the task at hand was actually that important, it was nearing the end of the day you were just all trying to fill the time until punch out.

“Am not.” You grumbled back, your eyes never once leaving Emily, “just listening.”

“Yeah? What’d she just say?”

Something about behavioural patterns.”

“She was talking about geography.” Tara snorted quietly and you scowled, finally tearing your eyes off Emily to look over at your friend, “if you’re gonna stare you should at least actually listen.”

“And how am I supposed to do that when she looks like this?!” You quietly hissed back, pulling a soft chuckle from her.

“You don’t get much work done around here, do you?”

“Not if she’s in the room.” You quietly laughed back, “I mean, how could I? Look at her face!” Tara looked back up at Emily, as if she was paying attention to the brainstorming session.

“It’s a nice face.”

“It’s a stunning face. I wanna sit on it.” You admitted with absolutely no shame and Tara chuckled, “I mean, just look at her fucking nose, it was like it was crafted by the gods for eating pussy.”

Tara would have burst out laughing if she wasn’t used to the fact that you had absolutely zero filter. Instead she glanced back towards Emily, watching for a moment as the other woman continued to speak.

“Huh…” her head tilted in the same moment that yours did, both of you now having eyes on the other woman. “You’re certainly not wrong there.”

Across the room Emily happened to glance your way out of the corner of her eye, fumbling when she noticed the both of you staring at her, heads titled, Tara’s eye’s narrowed in that way she did while examining something.  She stuttered over her words and fully looked your way,

“I— what?”

“Nothing.” The both of you practically said in unison, finally breaking the gaze and looking between each other trying to hide your grins.

“Seriously, what?” Emily asked, “do I have something on my face?”

“Not yet.” Tara muttered to you as she stood from her chair, clapping you on the shoulder and you let out a cackle of a laugh, unable to hold it back.

“What?!” Emily asked again, watching Tara scoop up her bag and leave the room, “stop looking at me like that!”

“Nothing.” You laughed, “nothing, it’s not you.”

She definitely didn’t believe you, but she dropped it for the time being, getting a couple of last minute thoughts out before everyone called it a day. She’d be able to bring it up later, you already had your weekly plans for dinner and you’d promised her a delicious homemade shrimp scampi.

*

It was a few hours later that Emily was letting herself into your apartment, calling out a greeting as she kicked off her shoes and tossed her coat onto the rack.

“Hey.” You greeted, glancing up from the counter when she rounded into the kitchen, “I know white goes with the scampi but did you want it or red?”

“What I want…” she started, approaching your back and wrapping an arm loosely around your waist, her lips pressing into the crook of your neck, “is for you to tell me what you were talking about to Tara.”

“Mmm..” you chuckled, leaning back slightly into her embrace as her fingers began to tickle the exposed skin between your shirt and pants. “And you think you’re gonna get it out of me like this?”

“Worked the last time, didn’t it?”

“I suppose it did.”

“So…” her lips met your skin again, teeth scraping ever so lightly in a warning manner, “you were clearly talking about me… anything you’d like to say?”

“Do you have any idea how many moments at work I want to turn to you and say, ‘stop being so hot please, I’m trying to get my work done?’”

Emily snorted a laugh, her hand pinching at your hip as you turned around, “so you’re just out there bragging to Tara about how hot I am?”

“I said you had a real nice face.” You leant in to kiss her gently, “I mean she agreed, so, it’s gotta be true. Said I had a particular soft spot for this.” Your finger booped the tip of her nose and she laughed.

“Seriously? This honker?!”

“Em…” you laughed softly, placing a kiss to the tip of her nose, “and yes. Jesus Christ do you have any idea how fucking hot your nose is? Not to mention…” you grinned, leaning closer to her so your lips could brush against her own, “the way it brushes my clit when you eat me out?”

“So that’s what this is all about.” She chuckled, “you promised me shrimp scampi but have other thoughts about what I should be eating.”

“I was kinda hoping we could try something new.”

“And what might that be?” Her nose nudged against yours, urging your head up so she could kiss at your neck, “oh c’mon, don’t get shy on me now….”

“To be blunt, I wanna sit on your face.”

“I think that can certainly be arranged.”

Her hands toyed with the hem of your shirt, fingers sliding underneath, cool on your skin as they danced patterns across it. Her lips met your neck again, slowly kissing up it and across your jaw until they met yours once again, though this time they moved feverishly, her tongue surging into your mouth. You let out a groan as your arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her tightly to you, rolling your hips against her. Her tongue swept through your mouth, not leaving an inch unexplored while one arm wound around you, turning you so she could back you into the bedroom.

When the backs of your legs hit the bed she stilled you, tugging your shirt off over your head and tossing it to the floor. Your hands made quick work of hers while she managed to rid you of your bra, pushing you back onto the bed.

“Always so pretty.” She purred, her hands swiftly unbuttoning your pants, tugging both them and your underwear down your legs. She was about to cage you into the bed when you whined, hands reaching out to her belt buckle and she chuckled, knowing that even if this was all about you, you still wanted her as naked as possible. Swiftly undoing her belt she kicked off her pants before crawling over you, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. You moaned into the kiss when her fingers pinched at your nipples, sending sparks flying through your body, your pussy pulsing already.

Emily wrapped an arm around you, rolling so she was on her back with you on top of her, one of her legs bent, angled between yours perfectly so you could begin to grind down on her thigh. Her hands settled on your hips, urging you to roll them, your bare cunt smearing juices onto her skin. You broke the kiss with a gasp and she was able to sink her teeth into your neck, tongue sweeping across the mark to soothe the burn before she made home in the crook of your neck. Once she was sure she would have left a mark, she nudged at your hips, sinking back further into the bed.

“Well, get up here.” She smirked, patting at your thighs.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. I’ll pat twice if I need out.”

She squeezed at your body again, practically moving you herself and you let out a small giggle, crawling up over her, your hands bracing on the headboard as you started to lower yourself onto her face. With absolutely no hesitation Emily’s hands wound around your hips, tugging you down ono her awaiting lips. Her tongue lapped out, swiping through your folds, her nose rubbing right at your clit and you couldn’t help but moan, gripping tighter on the headboard. Emily’s mouth wrapped around you, tongue sinking into your pussy as far as she could while she sucked at you, eagerly lapping your juices into her mouth. Her hands groped at your ass, encouraging you to roll your hips, effectively riding her face.

“Oh fuck… fuck.” You gasped, unable to stop yourself from grinding down onto her face but she simply smirked in response, upping her antics as her tongue lapped through your pussy again.

She wasn’t about to forget the conversation you’d had right before this and she definitely wasn’t going to go easy on you. Moaning into your heat, she sucked, licked and kissed your cunt as hard as she could and with each movement of her lips, her nose nudged against your clit, each time with more purpose than the last. It wasn’t going to take long until you were a whimpering mess and she knew it. Her hands dug into your ass, nails nearly pinching at the skin as she continued to grind your wetness down onto her face. She truly could never get enough of you and was enjoying the entire thing just as much as you were.

“Oh god Em…” you moaned, “feels s— so good.”

One of your hands left the headboard in order to pinch at your nipple, rolling them between your thumb and forefinger. Pleasure was soaring through you; with each roll of your hips you could feel more wetness dripping onto Emily’s tongue. Each rock brought a small whine to your lips, clit beginning to throb with need as your pussy fluttered around the tip of Emily’s tongue, grinding harder down onto her face. Your skin was prickling, gasps and moans leaving your lips each time her face buried deeper into you, nose rubbing right where you needed it but it somehow still wasn’t enough.

“Please…” you begged, your hand shooting back to the headboard, clutching tightly at it, “please more… s’close…”

You could feel Emily’s chuckle, her lips smirking against your lower ones before her tongue darted out for one long heavy last lick, dragging out the nudge her nose made on your clit, pushing harder than before and you shuddered above her.

“Fuck!” You couldn’t help but cry out when her lips wrapped around your clit, sucking it into her mouth and she groaned against you.

The tip of her tongue flicked the swollen nub, humming in satisfaction at the way it was pulsating between her lips. Emily could feel your thighs starting to tremble on either side of her face, the way you were unconsciously putting more of your weight on her, the way that you were at a loss for words, only moans and whimpers leaving your lips. You were incredibly close and she knew it.

Your knuckles were nearly white, gripping at the headboard in an attempt to stay upright as you let out a loud gasping moan. Emily’s tongue pressed perfectly against you and pleasure was shooting through you as you reached your peak. You tried to still your hips but she had too tight of a grip, continuing to rock you against her mouth, sucking your pulsing clit deeper into her mouth.

“Oh fuck! Fuck… fuck Em…” You managed to breath out, your chest heaving as you very slowly opened your eyes, coming down to earth as Emily left little kitten licks on your cunt, sucking up as much of your juices as she could. Your body shuddered when her nose brushed against you again, this time an accident and she chuckled softly, helping you swing your leg over her and drop onto the bed beside her.

“You alright over there?” She asked with a smug grin, smoothing back your mussed up hair.

“Absolutely perfect.” You replied with a dreamy smile, pulling her to you for a kiss. You couldn’t help but moan into her mouth at the taste of yourself on her tongue. She smirked when she pulled away and you dragged a finger down the bridge of her nose, booping the tip of it, “crafted by the gods.”

“What?” She asked with a laugh that you returned.

“Nothing.” You pulled her to you for another kiss, “you’re perfect.”

“Yeah well, perfect is hungry. And don’t you dare say anything about just having eaten.”

“Is perfect okay with takeout? I don’t know if I can trust my legs long enough to cook right now.”

“Shrimp scampi is shrimp scampi.” She shrugged, “doesn’t matter where it comes from. Though yours is the best.”

“Lies.” You shot her a playful glare before you rolled over to grab your phone, rolling back toward her and settling on her chest, humming happily when she wrapped an arm around you.

She kissed the top of your head gently, nudging the blanket up from the foot of the bed so you wouldn’t get too cold while you scrolled through your phone until you found an acceptable dinner. While tonight hadn’t been what she expected to come home to, she certainly wasn’t complaining.

_______________

@mickey-gomez @momlifebehard @melindawarnersgf @somethingimaginative17 @temilyrights @alexxavicry @daddy-heather-dunbar @aliensaurusrex @rustyzebra @ilovemycrayons @mandy-asimp @leftoverenvy @kades95 @dextur @m00nkn1ghts @supercriminalbean @daffodil-heart @its-soph-xx @going-gray @just-a-torn-up-masterpiece @hopelesslyfallenninlove @peanutbutterprincess @kdaghay @emilyprentisssluvr @lex13cm @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy @riveramorylunar @s1ut4nat @midnight-sapphic @scorpsik @prentiss-theorem @unsubologyy @strongsassysexysloane @happenstnces @sapphicprentiss @heidss @geekyandgay98 @pagetboobstarcomments @onmykneesformarvel @inlovewithemilyprentiss @aws-l @akingcalledkris @desperate-gay @overtrred28 @emobabeyy @theclassicgaycousin @kalixxa

[inkformyblood]

never tastes so sweet (GhostSoap Mermay 2024)

Ghost x Soap, Mer! Soap, Scientist! Ghost; medical experimentation scene, established relationship. Lemon.

Something is hissing just beyond the broken edge of Johnny’s vision, mechanical in the back and forth tone of it, and he almost wishes that he would die so the noise would stop. There’s a dull throbbing ache at the nape of his skull, a matching pulsation along the swell of his forearm, and Johnny knows, without needing to look, that there will be a clotted hole where he had been injected with a sedative. 

The taste over his tongue, all discarded offal and the sterile swipe of antiseptic, would be enough to clue him in. 

Simon really has pulled out all the stops for this little fantasy of Johnny’s. 

Johnny chirps before he can catch himself, the vocalisation rumbling through his throat, his chest, the fin wedged between his back and the smooth glass of the tank trying to rise. Simon is entirely human, broad-shouldered with thick thighs that would propel him through the water if Johnny could ever coax him into swimming with him, so he wouldn’t understand the implication in the gesture Johnny cannot make at the moment. He would want to learn though, to set Johnny back to rights even with every muscle weighing him down like a diver’s belt and smooth Johnny’s fin out, his careful touch making sure every fold in the panels is exact. 

He cuts his teeth on another trilling vocalisation, forcing his eyes open as he swallows it back. Everything still tastes sour but the taste is slowly fading as he wakes. It does pull every mundane ache into sharp relief and Johnny groans as he stretches, rolling onto his belly and propping his chin onto his forearm. Outside his tank sits a lab, the walls bracketed by a row of counters in plain neutral colours. The walls are plain, windows stretched at a human’s standing eye level. There is a handprint on one, broad fingers splayed wide and Johnny knows, immediately, aching to touch, that it is Simon’s hand that left the mark. The lab is empty except for Johnny, the mystery hissing noise revealing itself to be a large filter attached to the tank, causing bubbles to spill over the top. 

If Simon isn’t coming to him, Johnny will just have to go and find him. 

Pressing his hands against the glass, Johnny pulls himself upwards. It is slower going than he would have expected, the remnants of the sedative still clinging like an oil spill in his veins, trailing lingering fingers over the spread of his chest as he breathes deeply, his arms aching by the time his head breaches the water. It smells sterile, lemon-scented clean, the same way that Simon smells when he drops onto the end of the pier, his shirt sleeves pushed up around his forearms and his palms dusted with ash. The air is cool, a shiver biting into the freshly exposed twitch of Johnny’s ears as he pushes himself up, hanging suspended in the air before he lets himself tip forward. 

The impact doesn’t hurt as much as he thinks it should. 

“I see I’ve picked a feisty one.” Simon’s gaze is cold above the dark fabric of his mouth, an indentation where his mouth should be but utterly featureless otherwise. He lifts Johnny up further in the cradle of his arms, one slung securely beneath Johnny’s fin and the other curved around the fin along his spine to press against his cheek. He pinches Johnny’s ear, bending it forwards so he can inspect the other side of it. “Number two-zero-seven-three-five-two-one.”

Just a sequence of numbers and it is so bitingly attractive. Johnny tugs against Simon’s hold, his tail flopping weakly against the other man’s thigh, and he goes nowhere, earning himself a twist to his ear in admonishment. The pain is dull, concentrated all the same, and Johnny expects it to end after a few seconds, his lesson begrudgingly learnt. 

It doesn’t. 

Johnny hisses, bares his teeth at Simon as he leans into the harsh hold, the continued twist of his ear until all he can hear is the blood rushing through his head, his vision consumed by pale blue eyes staring down at him. Observing him.

“Interesting,” Simon murmurs. He tips Johnny back into the tank, the warmer water a rush through his gills, over his bared teeth as Johnny rights himself. He covers his ear with one hand, searching for the open wound that must be there, pain radiating through his head in low pulses like a second heartbeat, heat bleeding through the rough pads of his fingers. There’s nothing. 

Simon turns to one of the desks, drawing out a dark blue notebook from one of the drawers. He checks his watch — a heavyset diver’s model that replaced the slimmer silver piece he used to wear before his visits to the pier became commonplace — and begins to write something. He doesn’t look up at Johnny, keeping his attention focused on the paper before him. A minute passes, then two. Johnny’s tail swishes against the empty base of the tank, trying to kick up sand so he could escape, old instincts rising to the surface. This is so much fun already. 

The pen clicks as Simon finishes his sentence and places it down. From this distance, Johnny has no hope of reading the words but it doesn’t matter as Simon begins to read his notes aloud, a fresh hunger cutting into the hollows between Johnny’s teeth, his belly growing warm. 

“Subject shows signs of discontent, initially attempting to escape the tank through a vertical escape. It was apprehended by scientist S. Riley and the identification number was confirmed. Subject responded reactively to a minor negative stimulus applied to it’s ear and was returned to the tank.” Simon turns, clasping his hands in the small of his back as he studies Johnny once more, his expression inscrutable, his stance making his chest press forward. He is framed by his lab coat, dark shirt beneath neat and pressed, his trousers similarly unremarkable except that Simon is wearing them.

Johnny had never been so fascinated by one individual before. Everything Simon does is notable because it is him doing them. He had suggested this scene, that Simon pretend to have captured him for experimentation while Johnny is however reluctant he felt like being, but this is far beyond his wildest imaginings. The identification number is likely false, not actually tattooed onto his ear, but it feels real. He bares his teeth up at Simon, keeping his belly flush with the bottom of the tank. 

He’s going to make Simon work for his data. 

“You’re only making this harder for yourself.” Simon’s voice is flat as if he’s addressing a piece of furniture in his way, an uncooperative machine that is taking too long to respond, and Johnny realises that that is what he is to Simon here and now. Johnny is a thing. An object. An inconvenient bullet point in Simon’s list of tasks. 

Johnny slides his hand down his torso, the slight curve of his belly, to the opening in his tail. Barely visible but he opens beneath his own touch, letting him press the pads of his fingers over the swell of muscle either side of his opening. His cock is soft, lying heavy and mostly concealed in his sheath, but Johnny stroked over it once, pulling the skin taught before releasing it. There’s electricity fizzing through his head, his breath coming in short bursts. He could call this off right here and now, scramble out of the tank and fuck Simon on the bleached-clean floor, mark up his coat with ink bled straight from the other man’s notes, Johnny’s unwieldy strength keeping them both stationary until they’re satisfied.

Needs some fucking patience.

Johnny chews his lower lip, works his teeth into the meat of his tongue when that doesn't work. Simon’s put effort into this, all because Johnny mentioned he’d like to try it. He won’t ruin all of this planning just cause he can’t hold out a little. He pulls his hand free, his fingers stained a faint pale blue and licks over them, tasting salt.

“Subject is displaying unknown behaviour,” Simon notates, his pen freshly picked up and scrawling across the notepad. “Additional research will be needed if this is due to the stress of capture and the negative stimulus.”

He places the notepad back down and turns away from the tank, from Johnny, picking something up from the drawer once again. Simon reaches down at his belt, his head bowed as he fumbles with something. Johnny creeps forwards, unable to make out anything past Simon’s bulk, pressing his nose against the cool glass of the tank. His touch smears, further clouding his vision, and he wriggles above the fog to keep his eyes on Simon. He almost wishes he hadn’t when Simon turns around, a recorder placed onto the desk behind him and a large noose on the end of a pole in his hands. 

Anticipation is almost as terrifying as the capture itself. 

The edge of the tank comes up to Simon’s chest, an uncomfortable angle for him to stand with his arms raised to catch Johnny with the pole, so he kicks a set of steps that Johnny hadn’t noticed previously over to the tank, locking them into place. He steps up onto them, staring down at Johnny curled on the floor of the tank. There’s something primal hissing at the base of Johnny’s skull, instinct digging claws into the furrows of his brain and tearing through soft flesh that doesn’t know what is happening. There is no cover for him to flee under, not enough space to manoeuvre by design, leaving fight as his only option. 

Simon tugs his mask down, a pre-arranged signal, and Johnny sits upright, curls his hands into his lap to tug at the webbing between the digits as he pays attention. 

“You good, Johnny?” Simon cocks his head to one side, trailing his fingers over the surface of the water. “Looking a little more spooked down there. Won’t be able to hold you properly with one of these if you fight me fully.”

Johnny pushes himself to the surface once more, lingering just beneath the pulled-taut tension of the water to snap at Simon’s fingers. He’d blunt his teeth over Simon’s calluses, tear his gums open by snapping the many bones in his hand for the sake of the marrow, kiss the remaining skin like it would make for every transgression in his life. Kissing the extended pads of Simon’s fingers is close enough and Johnny breaks through the water with Simon’s touch on his lip, his gaze focused utterly on Johnny. 

“Couldn’t break out the fancy tank for me, Si?” Johnny’s voice is a rasp, a blade drawn over a whetstone to try and hone it into a point. He coughs, dipping partially back beneath the water so he can push some water deliberately through his gills. It itches the same way a healing wound does, something natural but still horrifying all the same. He rises up to continue speaking, his voice clearer now. “I’m good, head’s a little foggy so I’m running on instinct first but I won’t fight you too much. Just a little tussle, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Simon pauses, his thumb working over a groove in the pole, his over hand still resting on the surface of the water near to Johnny, but not touching him. “Fuck, I love you.”

Johnny surges forward to kiss him, not caring about the water that splashes over the edge and onto the floor, onto Simon. His love tastes stale, old cigarette ash clinging to the seams of his gums, the edge of his lower lip rough beneath Johnny’s, but he still presses ever closer. It is only when Simon’s hands steady against Johnny’s shoulders, not merely holding him but lifting him, keeping him from sliding free of the tank entirely, that Johnny draws himself back. He balances on the edge of the tank, his earlier artificial exhaustion nearly a memory, only half of his tail still beneath the water in his haste to be closer to Simon. 

Simon’s eyes are wide, his pupils blown dark and his cheeks are stained the same shade as a sunrise bleeding across the water. The colour isn’t restricted to just his cheeks, flooding over the curve of his ears and leaking into the rough line of his neck, vanishing from sight beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. One of Johnny’s scales clings to the pout of his lower lip, another to the rough edge of the scar that stretches from one corner of his mouth, and Johnny reclaims them onto the pad of his finger, anointing Simon’s brow with them instead. They gleam beneath the harsh glare of the lights. 

“Love you,” Johnny murmurs, returning his hand heavily to the edge of the tank. It cuts into his palms as he shifts his weight, unwilling to sink back beneath the water until Simon knows it is the truth with every heartbeat. “Do you want to continue?”

“If you do.”

Johnny cracks himself open with a grin, would peel flesh and muscle from his bones to offer them to Simon, but he settles for lowering himself partially, leaning forward to kiss Simon again, brushing his mouth over the other man’s. He keeps his lips curved over the sharp jut of his teeth, unwilling to slice at Simon’s mouth and introduce another distraction. “Capture me, love.”

He sinks like a stone then, tearing himself away from Simon all at once, but it wouldn’t be an absence that would haunt him for long. Johnny lies flat along the bottom of the tank, first on his belly and then flips onto his back. It isn’t quite the same view as sunlight filtering through the water, a fisherman’s hook slowly making its way towards him, beautiful in its unobtrusive danger. No, this noose is crafted for Johnny alone. He scratches at the edge of his slit, his fin flaring out at the twist of pain and pleasure his rough touch causes. His cock is heavier inside the sheath, nearly sliding free, and his fingers come away bright with his slick. He hooks his fingers just inside his entrance, drawing it open as Simon looms over the top of the tank, pole in hand like a vengeful god, like Johnny’s vengeful god. 

The noose slips around his neck and Johnny fights it.

Not fully, not like he could, potential caught between his teeth like a mouthful of flesh, squirming through his veins to try and get him to struggle more. He could drown Simon, pull him enough that he would fall into the tank with Johnny and hold him down, swallow the final gasp of air that would rise from his lips. Johnny lets Simon pull him upright, his tail hitting an angry beat against the side of the tank. The sound echoes, deep and sonorous, a whale’s song seeking companionship, and Johnny snaps his teeth as Simon locks the pole into place along the top of the tank, keeping him stationary. 

He’s fully exposed now, the bright flash of his slit opening along his tail as his cock slides free, heavy and full. Johnny curls his hands over the line of the pole, tipping his hips towards Simon, presenting himself to the other man. He knows he is pretty to look at, all bright colours and attitude to back it up. Simon’s eyes are wide, dark as his gaze lowers to Johnny’s cock. He thumbs at the recorder on his belt, the fabric over his mouth moving as he speaks, but Johnny can’t make out the words over the rush of blood in his ears, the incessant need clawing at his belly. 

He wants to fuck Simon. Now. 

Simon looks like he feels the same way. 

“Gonna let me fuck you on your lab floor now, Si?” Johnny rasps, grinning at Simon wide enough to ache. “You just might soak through your neat white coat otherwise.”

Simon swallows, his gaze darting to Johnny’s face and then again to his cock. “Yeah, already am. We’ll do this again later, but I need you to fuck me now, Johnny.”

[twst-drabbles]

Floyd and Jade 9

Summary: Worry and abandonment manifests into agitation and anger with Jade and Floyd. It was entertaining, once, but now you’re bored of them and their strange affection.

(Man, my brain is refusing to churn anything out lately. Horrible!)

You will admit it was a bit of a gamble on your part, to switch back to treating those twins like strangers. You’ve been subject to their violent and viciously mocking tendencies a number of times, especially back when you were under Azul’s contract, but at that point in time, you were just an odd stranger in a college you clearly didn’t belong in. A fun target to mess with without having to worry about any sort of ‘friendship.’

But, of course, time has passed, things have changed, and your lack of mercy was something those two took an odd fascination with. Well, you suppose your own callousness was heavily responsible for Jade and Floyd wanting to float around you like little fishes. You couldn’t help it. Holding yourself back for the sake of being polite just wasn’t you.

Respect is something that must be mutually established and if one party refuses to even treat you like a human being just because they have been blessed with magic, then they don’t deserve to be talked to.

You have a body count, in the sense of how many people you’ve sent to the nurse. The number would be zero if those bastards didn’t “take it upon themselves to punish you and teach you a lesson.”

Fuck them.

Now, Jade and Floyd. Those two are strange. When they saw you dig your fingers into a wound you cut open in someone’s arm, Floyd was basically itching to join in on the fight while Jade was the calmest cheerleader you’ve ever seen.

It was a simple dynamic. Trouble would come your way, someone seeking revenge or whatever, and you would fight as dirty as you needed to so they would stop fucking around with you. And in the background, Jade and Floyd would just watch.

Their smiles were always at their widest when blood was spilled, no matter if it was yours or your opponent.

And one day, that irritated you. Maybe you were having a bad day, maybe you wanted to mess with them, but either way, you stabbed Floyd’s arm with a fork when he wrapped an arm around your shoulder. It wasn’t a light stab, it was something you drove in deep.

Floyd retracted, but he started laughing. A full, belly aching laughter like this was the best day of his life. And when Jade turned to you, to do what, you don’t know, you grabbed a plate a smashed it against his head. He fell, he covered his face, but the grin beneath his hands was manic. He was breathing heavily, like he was trying to keep from laughing as well.

It was… strange. Not unpleasant, actually. It was… fun. A different reaction from all the other expressions of anger and indignation you’ve seen.

It was fun, looking for ways to hurt them without sending them to the hospital, and they had fun getting hurt or avoiding getting hurt. A thrilling chase.

“I’m not interested today, Jade Leech, Floyd Leech.”

You got bored, plain and simple. There’s nothing to spice up the act anymore, and quite frankly, it gets too tiring trying to keep up with their enthusiasm. All the bullying that was once a constant had slowly filtered to a stop, so you weren’t as tense, as irritated as you were at the start of this college.

So you passed by them, telling them you’re not interested, again and again.

“Hey, Shrimpy,” Floyd bashed a leg against the wall, stopping you in your path, “don’t you want to play with us a little?”

There was a crack in the wall right under his heel. He was leaning far too into his leg, at an angle that would be easy to push him off balance. His face was grinning but the jaw was too tense. His fingers were gripping deep into his knee.

“Yes, you haven’t been keeping us company,” Jade pressed a hand against his mouth, turned away from you and gave a gentle sniff, like he was about to cry. “Are we so distasteful that you must treat us like strangers? How very cruel of you.”

There was tension in his hands, trembling only the slightest bit. Jade was right behind you and you could easily grab a hold of his face and poke out his eyes if you wanted you. And his tie wasn’t even properly tucked in.

They acted first, but your body remained untouched, like they wanted you to pounce first.

“I’m bored when I’m with you both,” you swiveled around Floyd, “and I’m not interested in being around boring people. Find someone else to play with, Jade Leech, Floyd Leech.”

You didn’t even wave them off. After all, they’re not your friends.

[mylordshesacactus]

OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE

I've alluded a few times to the Wish mechanic around which I centered the Suncrest campaign's climactic final battle.

The endgame option the party ended up pursuing involved reversing a mass-scale planar convergence by stealing a Scepter of Wishes from the Faerie Queen's center of power. That's an awesome challenge and it was fun to run! They had fun, I had fun, designing the Summer Palace as a series of mechanical, social, combat, and other skill challenges was really rewarding!

The dilemma I faced as a DM while doing endgame prep was: Once they've GOT the scepter....that's kind of it? Like. It's a Wish. There's no roll to see if it works. And, rules-as-written, the entire decision as to how a Wish resolves is...DM fiat.

So, my options were: Give them this massive months-long series of complicated, emotionally-resonant linked quest chains all leading to this moment, then just declare that the spell backfires horribly on them, screwing them over at the very end of the campaign when there's nothing they can do about it....or just, like, try to hope that pretty narration is enough to negate the inherent anticlimax of "yup, you pressed the Win button and now you won".

That's not a climactic final showdown, that's not a fun challenge! That's not satisfying! So, instead, I tossed together a final-battle mechanic to give my players some agency in how the Wish spell would resolve.

What I told my players:

"The question here is not whether the Wish will take effect. You will get exactly what you asked for. The question here is: Max [the bard attuned to the scepter] is...this isn't like casting a spell. There's no ritual, there's no incantation. For a brief second, you are channeling all the power that exists in the universe. Arcane, divine, nature, elemental--literally all forms of pure raw power being filtered through your own limited perception. Guiding that power into EXACTLY what you want requires you to hold the image of your ideal outcome PERFECTLY in your head until the spell can take effect. Do you understand? The spell will work. But the longer you can hold it, the narrower you can force its effect to become--the closer you'll get to your ideal image, the less severe the side effects will be--you might even get some benefits. Do not break concentration. That is your only job. Hold. This. Spell. So. Gameplay-wise, what does that mean? Ten rounds. Maintain concentration. Here we go."

I did it as a countdown--starting at Round Ten and working our way down to Round 1, then as a bonus, with the table's unanimous agreement to fight one more round and see if they can get 'better than golden', Round Zero.

It was a desperate scramble near the end--our paladin was killed (and her player--a first-time TTRPG player when she started the campaign, who was also stressed, actively grieving her first-ever d&d character's brutal death, and looking at a completely unfamiliar statblock--did a PHENOMENAL job at playing Shasta the androsphinx for the remainder of the battle, making excellent and effective use of totally new abilities and spells!), they barely scratched the Summer Queen, and I think everyone EXCEPT Max went down at least once.

But damned if they didn't hold out by their fingernails to do right by the city of Suncrest.

[hardly-an-escape]

I'm stuck on you (I'm mighty glad you stayed)

Square: D3 - "Why did you do it?" (June monthly prompt replacement) Rating: M Word Count: 8767 Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Warnings: No archive warnings apply Additional Tags: Dreamling Bingo fill, alternate universe - human, alternate universe - no powers, stuck in an elevator, claustrophobia, panic attacks, strangers to lovers, love at first sight, first kiss, post-break up sex, bog people, poetry recitation, bisexual Hob Gadling Summary: Hob is a secondary school teacher running late to meet his exacting girlfriend for lunch. Morpheus is a famous novelist just trying to fly under the radar on his way home. But when the elevator they’re in together experiences mechanical difficulties, Morpheus’s claustrophobia leads to a bonding experience that changes the lives of both men. Read on AO3 | fill for @dreamlingbingo | prompt from #dreamlingweek2023

The elevator has barely lurched into motion when it suddenly shudders to a stop. Hob is willing to bet it hasn’t even surfaced from the depths of the underground parking garage he is trying to exit. He rolls his eyes, checks his watch, and presses the door open button. Nothing happens. He presses it again, and a third time. Nothing. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “I don’t need this, I’m already late.” He hits the emergency call button with perhaps a little more force than is necessary and glances over his shoulder at the other occupant of the elevator, a handsome, dark-haired man who nods tightly when Hob catches his eye. “Alright, mate?” he asks. But before the man can answer, a tinny voice crackles through the speaker.

Hour Zero, 12:08 PM

The elevator has barely lurched into motion when it suddenly shudders to a stop. Hob is willing to bet it hasn’t even surfaced from the depths of the underground parking garage he is trying to exit. He rolls his eyes, checks his watch, and presses the door open button.

Nothing happens.

He presses it again, and a third time. Nothing.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “I don’t need this, I’m already late.”

He hits the emergency call button with perhaps a little more force than is necessary and glances over his shoulder at the other occupant of the elevator, a handsome, dark-haired man who nods tightly when Hob catches his eye.

“Alright, mate?” he asks. But before the man can answer, a tinny voice crackles through the speaker.

“Templeton Elevator Company. Are you experiencing an emergency?”

“Yeah, we’re in the lift at the underground car park on Monteagle and it’s just stopped.”

The tinny voice asks a series of questions, which Hob answers with increasing impatience.

There are two people in the elevator. Yes, they’re both adults. No, they don’t have any food or water with them. No, they don’t have any pressing medical issues (after waiting for a headshake from the stranger). Yes, he’ll hold while they contact technical services.

The tinny voice is replaced with tinny hold music. Hob curses under his breath again.

After a moment the voice returns. The elevator they are currently occupying appears to be experiencing a mechanical failure. High demand on technical services at this time. Their safety is important to the Templeton Elevator Company. A repair technician should arrive within the hour.

Click. And then silence.

“Fuck,” says Hob again, feelingly. “Fucking fuck.”

He sighs. Sits down. Takes out his mobile. No signal, of course. Or wait – maybe one bar? He dashes off a quick text to Gwen and sets the phone down gingerly on the floor in front of the door, thinking vaguely that the signal might filter down through the elevator shaft. It’s probably daft.

Heh. Shaft, daft.

He is going to lose his mind.

Hour One, 12:08-1:08 PM

“My girlfriend’s going to kill me,” he says conversationally. “We’re supposed to be getting lunch with some old school friends of hers. I’m already on thin ice, she’s always getting on me about being late all the time. This’ll probably be the final nail in my coffin.”

“Surely,” says the stranger, “being trapped in an elevator is a reasonable excuse for tardiness.”

“Yeah… She’s a bit strict about some things. I don’t know. She just wants the best for us, she’s just a little intense about it sometimes.” Hob shakes himself. “Sorry, mate. I shouldn’t be whinging to a total stranger. My name’s Hob, by the way. Hob Gadling.”

They are both sitting, now, on opposite sides of the elevator. Hob’s legs are stretched out casually and the stranger has his knees up, his arms wrapped tightly around them, hands gripping his own elbows, knuckles white. He looks almost defensive, Hob thinks, extending his hand across the elevator to shake. After a moment, the stranger takes it, squeezing briefly.

“Hob. That’s an… atypical name,” he says.

“Suppose so,” Hob laughs. “It’s Robert, actually. Hob is an old-fashioned nickname, but I got saddled with it in uni and it just sort of stuck. I studied history,” he adds in explanation.

“I am – you can call me Murphy,” says the stranger. Murphy. It has the flavor of untruth about it, but if a stranger on an elevator doesn’t feel comfortable giving his real name, who is Hob to judge?

“Pleasure. Have we met before? Only there’s something about you that seems familiar.”

“I do not think so.”

Murphy curls, if anything, even tighter in on himself. Hob does not pursue the topic.

They sit in silence for a while as the air grows slowly stuffier.

Hob taps at his phone and tsks when he sees his text has failed to send.

“I don’t suppose you have any service?” he asks hopefully.

Murphy pulls out a slim, expensive-looking phone from the pocket of his slim, expensive-looking suit jacket and gives it a cursory glance.

“I am afraid not,” he says.

“Damn. Oh well. Nothing for it but to wait, I suppose.”

Murphy clears his throat.

“How long has it been now?”

“About… twenty minutes?” Hob looks at his watch. “Twenty-five?”

“Thank you.”

Murphy’s voice is taut, and his knuckles are white where he is gripping his knees. Looking more closely, Hob can see sweat beading on his forehead, and realizes his chest is moving a little too quickly.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“I am fine.”

“No offense, but you don’t look fine, mate.”

“We are not mates,” snaps Murphy. “Nothing is wrong.”

“Okay, okay.” Hob holds up placating hands. “Whatever you say. No need to bite a bloke’s head off.”

Silence reigns for another minute.

“I. Apologize,” says Murphy finally. “That was uncalled for.”

“No worries.”

“The truth is that I am. Not fond. Of confined spaces. I am finding the prospect of being in this elevator for much longer. Distressing.”

“God, I’m sorry. You should have said. I ought to have told the elevator company, I’m sure claustrophobia counts as a medical issue,” says Hob. “Especially under the circumstances.”

But Murphy is already shaking his head.

“It does not rise to the level of a diagnosable condition,” he says.

“Even so,” objects Hob. “Do you want to call back? Tell them? Maybe it’ll get someone here more quickly.”

“It does not matter.”

“Isn’t there… is there anything I can do to help?”

Murphy looks puzzled.

“Why would you want to help? You do not know me.”

“Because I have a basic sense of empathy?” Hob says, slightly appalled. “Because you’re a human being who’s distressed? Jesus, what kind of people do you hang out with?”

“You will probably be shocked to hear,” says Murphy dryly. “That I have very few close associates and even fewer friends.” Hob snorts. “But I. Thank you. For your willingness to help. Unless you happen to have a Xanax somewhere on your person, I doubt there is anything you can do.”

“And here I am fresh out of benzodiazepines. I knew I’d forgotten something at the chemist’s this morning,” Hob says, and is rewarded with a tiny chuckle.

The rest of the hour passes slowly, but not too badly. They chat, stiffly at first, but more fluently after Murphy admits that the conversation is helping to distract him from the little metal box they find themselves in. Hob certainly talks more – but then, Hob generally talks more than everyone, something Gwen not infrequently rolls her eyes at.

He learns they both were graduated from Oxford, although their time there didn’t overlap. Murphy is cagey about what he does for a living, but shares that he studied literature and dabbled in student drama. He seems interested when Hob tells him about the secondary school where he currently works, teaching history.

“It’s funny, I used to picture myself as a professor at a university, you know, doing my own research on the side, publish or perish, all that,” he says. “Gwen – that’s my girlfriend – she thinks that would be better. Sounds better to be a professor, I guess; more money, too. But now that I’m working with teenagers, I can’t imagine doing anything else. They get a bad rap from everyone, you know, but they’re so interested in the world, and all they want is for someone to listen to them and take them seriously…”

Read on AO3 >>>

massive massive thanks to @tryan-a-bex and @karalynlovescake for beta reading. I can't thank you enough!

green = complete, orange = WIP

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 16: Lady of the Various Sorrows

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Grace Burgess x OC

Summary: Lucy begins to realize she can't keep her secret hidden for much longer.

Word Count: 2,971

Notes: I swear I did not plan for this to be so long, but I got a little carried away and kept adding things. I very strongly recommend at least reading Barren before reading this one. Warnings for depictions of infertility, polyamory, angst, and references to pregnancy.

Previous Part • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 1: Not Possible

They were all gathered around Charlie’s crib, just watching his little chest rise and fall with his breaths. He had Tommy’s nose, but Grace’s jaw. His cheeks were round, like Grace’s, but that could be more from the baby fat than genetics. Lucy tilted her head as she watched him sleep peacefully, smiling softly to herself. Behind her, Tommy pressed himself in close, wrapping his arms around her waist.  

“You and I could have one sometime, if you ever wanted,” he murmured in her ear, palm splaying out across her lower abdomen while he kissed her shoulder. Lucy felt the beginnings of a lump forming in her throat, blinking hard. Not trusting her voice to not betray her, she simply turned her head and kissed him, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the way that she had tensed just slightly in his arms.  

She had known, deep down, that her secret was going to have to come out sooner or later. Though a large part of her continued to cling to hope that wouldn’t be the case. There had been a bit of a reprieve, with Grace pregnant. But ever since Charlie had been born, both of her lovers had begun to drop gentle hints to her regarding the possibility of her and Tommy having a baby. A part of her sensed that they were trying to ensure that she didn’t feel left out. 

Of course, they couldn't know that their gentle suggestions were accomplishing little more than to make her feel worse.

∗ ∗ ∗ 

Grace watched as Lucy lifted Charlie high in the air, grinning at the way that the baby shrieked in delight, little arms flapping through the air as if he were trying to fly. Lucy laughed, pulling him back in close to her chest, blowing a raspberry into his cheek that made him giggle. 

It warmed her heart to see them together. At just how good Lucy was with him. Not that she had ever really been worried that she wouldn’t be.

But there was something that was worrying Grace. Quick, brief little observations that had been piling up to leave her frowning with a crease between her brows as she tried to puzzle it all together.

She and Tommy had brought up the possibility of him and Lucy having a baby on a few occasions, and every time, without fail, something seemed to crack across Lucy’s face, her smile breaking for just the briefest of moments. A sadness entering her eyes. Something that looked a lot like panic filtering onto her face.  

Grace couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Lucy didn’t want children. But that made no sense, considering how she had accepted Charlie with open arms near instantaneously. She had stepped into her role as a second mother to Charlie with enthusiasm and zero hesitation. She made an effort to spend time with him, was utterly wonderful with him when they played together, and had never passed up the opportunity to hold him or take care of him when needed. 

So maybe it was pregnancy that frightened her. That made more sense, Grace supposed. It would put a damper on her ability to fulfill some parts of her job, and she couldn’t see Lucy being all too happy about that. Especially now, considering everything that was going on at the company. Perhaps their suggestions, in an attempt to ensure she wasn’t feeling excluded, had instead made her feel pressured. Especially if she wasn’t ready. But Lucy was usually so forthcoming with both of them. And if she simply wasn’t ready, that was entirely fine. Hell, if she didn’t think that she would ever want to go through being pregnant, that would be alright too. It wasn’t like they were going to throw her out over it.

Surely she knew that, didn’t she?

Pursing her lips in contemplation, Grace tapped her finger against the table.

∗ ∗ ∗ 

Resting her chin on her hands, folded over each other on the edge of the bassinet set up in the sitting room, Lucy watched as Grace finished feeding Charlie and put him down for his nap. Adjusting the collar of her dress, Grace draped herself across her back, hooking her chin over Lucy’s shoulder as they looked down at the sleeping baby.

“He’s getting so big,” Grace whispered. Lucy hummed. Only a handful of months old, but Charlie was growing fast. He’d be a toddler before they knew it.

“Yeah, he is.”

Grace pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, pulling away from her to go sit down on the couch.  

“Have you had any thoughts about if you and Tommy will start trying soon?” Grace asked, voice sly and teasing. But there was something in her eyes that was almost calculated. Like she was trying to get at something. Lucy tensed before she could stop herself, swallowing roughly at the words as she straightened, going over to the shelf of whiskey and gin set along the wall. 

“I don’t know,” she said noncommittally as she poured herself a glass. “I haven’t really talked to him about it.”

“He said that he would be up for it, if you were.”

Lucy picked up her glass and moved to join Grace where she’d sat down on the couch. “You talked to him about that?”

“Only in passing,” Grace said with a shrug. “You and Tommy would make such beautiful babies,” she mused more to herself than to Lucy.  

“Mm,” Lucy made only a tiny sound in acknowledgement, staring down at her whiskey miserably. Grace seemed to take note of her reactions, looking at her with her brows furrowed.

“We’re not trying to pressure you or anything,” she added hastily. “It’s just that if we want the children to be close in age to Charlie…”

“I know,” her hands started to tremble as she realized that the walls were closing in on her. Putting aside her glass so she didn’t accidentally spill any of her drink, she twisted her fingers together, clenching them tightly in an attempt to hide her shaking. Grace was looking at her assessingly, eyes narrowed as she clearly tried to puzzle out what was wrong.

“Lucy, if you don’t want to have children–” she began to say, slowly.

“It’s not that,” Lucy said. Or maybe it was. She honestly wasn’t sure anymore.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Every time Tommy and I have brought up you and him having a child, you get…weird.”

“No, I don’t!” she tried to deflect, the pitch of her voice rising, the panicked feeling growing as Grace danced closer to the edge of sniffing out her secret.

“Yes, you do,” Grace gave her a stern look. Lucy made a whimpering sound and looked down at her hands. She had always known that her charade would have to come to an end sooner or later. 

She just always thought she would be ready when it did. 

It wasn’t the kind of thing she could hide from either of her lovers indefinitely. Especially when both seemed so keen at the idea of her getting pregnant.

They were both going to be so disappointed with her. 

“It’s not possible, Grace,” she said, taking a deep breath. 

“Oh, come on, now. We can make it work,” Grace smiled encouragingly, misunderstanding what she meant. “We’ll come up with some sort of lie. A cover story. Maybe we could all go on another trip together while you’re pregnant. Come back and claim we picked the kid up from an orphanage or something. And even if the kid comes out looking exactly like Tommy, no one is going to risk getting their eyes sliced out by saying something about it.”

It was deeply touching, how much she was willing to do to ensure that Lucy could have a child with Tommy if she wanted to. 

“No, Grace,” she said mournfully, shaking her head back and forth. “I mean…it’s not possible.”

Grace tilted her head, eyes slowly widening as she began to fully understand what Lucy actually meant. Her lips parted, as if she were about to say something, then closed again. “Are you sure?” she inched closer to her on the couch. 

Lucy shrugged. “That’s what the doctor said. And I’ve been regularly having sex with Tommy for years since, and nothing’s happened. So…”

“But, Tommy said that you two had a scare…”

Lucy nodded. “A few months or so after we started seeing each other. I went to the doctor, and it turned out that I just had an iron deficiency. He’s the one that told me that I…can’t.”

Grace scooted closer to her, reaching out to fold her fingers over hers. Lucy looked down, feeling her bottom lip tremble as she blinked hard, trying to force herself not to cry. 

“Oh, Luce, it’s okay,” Grace wrapped her arms around her, pulling Lucy’s face into the crook of her shoulder. “Maybe that doctor was wrong.”

“Grace,” she tried to caution.

“They were wrong about me. Maybe they were wrong about you too.”

“Yeah, but in this case, we know that Tommy isn’t the problem.”

“You could get a second opinion. I know a doctor in London.”

She pulled back, raising an eyebrow. “The same doctor who was sure that it was you who was the problem when you were trying with Clive?”

Grace let out a small laugh. “No, a different one.”

“I don’t know…”

“It couldn’t hurt to go get a second opinion.”

Lucy felt her face contract. There was next to no hope in her that the original prognosis had been wrong. Surely if it had been, they would have tangible proof of that by now.  

No, the diagnosis was correct. She felt it in her bones. 

But Grace looked so hopeful, and Lucy doubted that she would drop it anytime soon, so she nodded. At the very least just to humor her. “Fine.”

Grace’s face lit up. “Okay. I’ll make an appointment and we can go down together next week.”

“Alright.”

Her face fell at the deadness in Lucy’s voice, taking both her hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just assumed–”

“It’s fine,” she cleared her throat. “I should have told you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She sniffled and closed her eyes. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t want anything to change.”

Grace cocked her head. “Why would anything change?”

“Well, I-I mean–” Lucy stuttered, gesturing vaguely. 

Her eyes hardened sternly. “You really think that my love is so fleeting?”

“N-no, I just…”

Grace softened, reaching out to stroke some of her hair from her face, letting the auburn curls twist around her fingers. “I remember how it felt when I thought that I couldn’t,” she said in a very quiet, gentle voice, her fingers curled under Lucy’s chin, tilting her head up. “It’s not your fault. There’s nothing wrong with you.” 

Lucy nodded silently, letting Grace hug her as she stared over her shoulder at the window across from them despondently. Letting her go, Grace brushed her cheek delicately.

“Does Tommy know?”

She flinched at the question, turning away. “No, he doesn’t.”

Grace frowned. “You never told him?”

“No,” reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a cigarette and her lighter, breathing the smoke gratefully into her lungs once it was lit. “I always meant to…but I just kept putting it off.”

“Why?”

Sighing, she said nothing, instead swiping her thumb along the length of her cigarette, staring at the opposite wall. Grace looked down, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder in silent understanding.

“I’ll go call about that appointment.”

“Okay,” Lucy said, voice small and detached, and very, very quiet. 

∗ ∗ ∗ 

When she came into the sitting room that evening after talking with Mary, it was to find Tommy seated in front of the fireplace with Charlie, holding him in his lap as they played with the little wooden animal figurines that Lucy had whittled for him. Lucy was laying on her side on the couch, head propped up with one arm while she watched them.

Grace wondered how she could have missed the tinge of sadness that hid beneath the smile and happy glimmer in Lucy’s eyes as she watched father and son play together. She pondered what it must feel like. If, no matter how much she loved Charlie, there was a part of her that would always feel a stab of pain and longing at seeing them together.    

Worrying at her bottom lip, Grace made her way over to the couch, maneuvering around Lucy until she was laying behind her, curling up against her back and wrapping her arms around her. Lucy sighed, rubbing her hand along one of Grace’s forearms while the blonde hooked her chin over her shoulder so she could still watch Tommy and Charlie play. She wasn’t sure what else she could do to try to comfort her. Just holding her was the best she could think of.

But it seemed to be enough, as Lucy relaxed against her, sighing again as she let her weight sink more heavily against her. Giving her a squeeze around the waist, Grace rested her cheek against Lucy’s neck, just closing her eyes and breathing her in before she opened them to spot Tommy watching them from his seat on the floor, eyes soft and expression fond. 

At first, it had been baffling to her that Lucy hadn’t yet told Tommy the truth. Tommy had never given even the slightest indication that he would be put off by infertility. Hell, when she had told him that the doctors thought she was at fault for her and Clive’s inability to conceive, he’d been gentle and comforting in his response. Not at all judgmental, angry, or otherwise upset. It seemed obvious to Grace that he would react in kind to Lucy’s diagnosis. He definitely wouldn’t blame her for it. And it wouldn’t change his feelings for her. Tommy loved Lucy fiercely. It was one of the things Grace was surest of in the world.

But as she thought more about it, she began to think she understood. Insecurity could be a difficult fog to see through. And Grace was beginning to think that Lucy may have far deeper self esteem issues than she had originally thought.

It made sense. Considering everything she had been through.

She hated keeping it from Tommy, but Lucy clearly didn’t want to say anything to him until after the doctor’s appointment, so Grace hadn’t pushed it.

Swallowing, she shoved the thought to the back of her mind, curling in closer to Lucy. 

They could discuss it more once they actually had the results from the appointment.

∗ ∗ ∗ 

“Tommy?”

He looked up from his desk, pen held between his fingers where he had been about to scrawl his signature at the bottom of a paper. Grace was poking her head into the office, blonde waves fanning around her face.

“Do you have a minute?”

“Uhh…yeah,” he beckoned her in, glancing down at the papers while she stepped into the office and closed the door behind her. “Once second,” he finished signing the paper, folding it up and putting it in an envelope that he tossed aside. Putting his pen down, he clasped his hands in front of him on the desk and looked at Grace. “What is it?”

“I was wondering if I could borrow Lucy for the day on Wednesday.”

The request wasn’t particularly out of the ordinary. There were times when Lucy and Grace would spend time together, just the two of them. Just like there were times when he spent time with just Grace. It seemed only fair, since he and Lucy spent so much of their days, nearly everyday, together. 

“Uhh…” he dug around through the mountain of papers scattered around his desk until he found his diary, flipping through it to glance at Wednesday. “Yes, that should be fine,” he didn’t have any appointments that he needed Lucy to accompany him with that day anyway. Grace nodded gratefully.

“Thank you.”

Tommy eyed her carefully. “What will you two do?”

“Haven’t quite decided yet,” Grace said, but he noted the way that she didn’t entirely meet his eyes. Not as good at lying as she used to be. “We talked about going into London for the day.”

He nodded. “Well, have fun.”

“Thanks,” she smiled, moving around the desk to kiss him before going back towards the door. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes. Both his girls had been acting odd for the better part of the week, and he couldn’t piece together why. Grace was constantly hovering near Lucy worriedly, fingers brushing along her arm or her back while her eyes stared at her helplessly. And Lucy was quieter than normal. Jittery and clearly anxious about something.

“Grace,” he called, just as her fingertips met the doorknob. He twiddled his thumbs together before sighing. “Is everything alright?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, looking a little like a deer caught in headlights, her blue eyes wide and nervous. But she recovered quickly, lips pulling into a small smile. “Of course.”

Her attempt at reassurance did little to soothe the worry in his chest. But it didn’t seem like the time to push things. And he really did need to get back to work. So he just nodded, forcing himself to ignore the twisting concern in his gut. “Okay.”

She seemed relieved at his answer, his clear dropping of the subject, and that only made his worry grow, knuckles raising to his lips as he continued to stare at the door she disappeared out of. His mind whirling with thoughts, all of them terrible, of what could have happened to make both of his lovers start behaving so strangely.

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[makur0]

hello! can i request kuro finding his f!s/o who seems to be fragile and weak, actually has a very good material art skills? one day both of them went on a date and kuro excuses himself to the toilet, leaving his s/o alone. and then a bunch of guys started to surrounding her, making some nasty remarks and try to take her away. when kuro came back and see his s/o in that position, he's about to throw some fist until he saw her hitting one of them! she managed to take down all of the guys, kuro was shocked, but nonetheless very proud since he never seen this side of his s/o.

I LOVE THIS SCENARIO WAIT-

and plus its kuro i mean come onnnn (f! reader)

Kuro can't see past your small, seemingly fragile figure even if he tried. Whenever he looks at you he has the urge to burrito you in bubble wrap and hold you close to him so you feel protected. When you brought up that you learned martial arts to say the least he was shocked... but couldn't really take you seriously. Really? You? That's- quite a stretch.

You could understand his hesitance though, so you didn't press on the matter. Hopefully you didn't have to use them with him around, but there's always gonna be that one incident that's unavoidable.

It just so happens when the two of you are on a little, relaxed date, and Kuro suddenly has to stop by the restroom. So you're sitting at the nearest bench, scrolling through your phone, when a group of guys approach you.

Your day is basically ruined as you put your phone away, forcing yourself to look up to the gaggle. They don't seem to have a filter 'cause they're immediately trying to get you to walk away with them, throwing in disgusting compliments and being a bit too familiar.

Kuro's walking out of the bathroom, shaking his wet hands, when he sees you surrounded by the shady-looking guys. Immediately alarm-bells go off in his head, and his body goes auto-pilot as he marches toward you, zeroing in on the hand snaking right over your shoulder.

But before his heated-up figure reaches the group to knock the lights out of them, the guy who tried to touch you is now suddenly laying on the floor, groaning and cursing.

You were now standing up, looking ticked, as you brushed off your pants and got ready to deal with the other men. Sayonara to a peaceful afternoon.

Within minutes you were stepping over the pile of men, ignoring the stares of the public and going to wrap your arms around Kuro's frozen figure and pouting against his chest.

"You took to long, I was getting bored~"

He's never going to doubt you again.

[downbad4yoongi]

Bite Me

This is for @colormepurplex2 for the @bangtanwritershq ARMY Birthday Bash Event.

Vampire!Jimin X Vampire Hunter!Jungkook

4740 words

warnings: 🔞 smut, enemies to lovers, violence, blood and injury, semi-public sex

Summary:

“Were you looking for me?” Jimin whispers into the hunter’s ear.

Jungkook grunts loudly, immediately struggling in Jimin’s hold. “Let go, you fucking freak!”

“Tsk tsk. Now, why would I do that?” Jimin tucks his head down, nose burying in the back of the other man’s neck, “I’m rather quite enjoying myself, and you smell delicious. I think I just might be hungry enough for another meal.”

Jimin sits back with one foot propped against the low table in his VIP booth, gnawing on the end of the pick from his empty rocks glass as he glares across the space at the epitome of an asshole. Jimin can’t stand that Jeon Jungkook frequents the same bar owned and patronized by the "creatures" he claims to despise. All to brag about his skill in getting the upper hand and defeating the same people with whom the blood bunnies he's chatting up are obsessed. Each time without fail, he is able to bag a blood bunny for a quick lay before he moves on to the next one.

He can't understand why Yoongi allows the roach to do this. The solution to the infestation is glaringly apparent, but even Jimin won't cross Yoongi, the owner of Bite Me. The man is soft-hearted but can be very cold-blooded (pun intended) when necessary. 

Jimin is pulled out of his sulking as the bench seat dips, and his companion rejoins him. Drenched in sweat, Momo plops beside him, draping her legs across his lap. 

Her head lolls back against the back of the booth, "Are you going to sit here brooding all night?"

"I'm not brooding."

"What else would you call this?" Her hand waffles in front of his face. 

"Keeping tabs," Jimin says drolly. 

Momo rolls her eyes, "Why?"

"I'd be a fool not to; predators must keep eyes on their prey." 

“Word on the street is that we’re his prey,” Momo whispers into Jimin’s ear, a sharp nail dragging down the side of Jimin’s exposed neck. 

Jimin scoffs, “Only because he takes out the weakest.”

Momo grimaces, “You're no fun when you’re obsessing over him. Have you even fed tonight?”

Jimin snaps his eyes away from boring holes into the back of Jungkook’s head. His black eyes meet Momo’s chocolate orbs, a sign that she’s already fed tonight and fed well. Now that she’s drawn attention to it, Jimin can feel the aching burn in his throat. He’s been ignoring his need for too long. 

Jimin’s pale lips part with a sigh. “You’re right. I have let myself get distracted.” He leans in, kissing her lips before slipping out onto the dance floor for his next meal.

He stalks across the floor, smells and sensations swirling around him. He moves through the writhing mass of bodies until he filters it all down, zeroing in on the lovely woman before him. Her black, cutaway mini dress teased him in all the right places.

He slips in behind her, his hand around her waist, palming her lower abdomen to bring her back against him. Her movements don’t falter as his hips follow her gyrations.  Jimin noses aside strands of long, black hair to run his nose up the length of her neck, inhaling deeply. 

“You are simply divine,” Jimin groans into the stranger’s ear.

She tosses her head back, leaning on his shoulder, “Hmm, does that normally work for you?”

With a firm nudge on her hip, Jimin spins her around to face him. His hands slip to her lower back as his gaze captures hers. A smirk tugs at his lips as he feels her free will slip away, and her body sways toward him. “For me, always, Dahyun.”

Jimin’s back collides with the dark brick of the alleyway as their tongues tangle together. Dahyun presses closer, fingers diving into his hair as she tries to wrest control of the kiss from Jimin. Jimin nips at her lip, chuckling darkly, “Uh-uh, sweet one. Be a good girl and behave.”

Pinning her to the rough wall, Jimin kisses her lips before nipping his way across her jaw and down one side of her neck. With a wanton groan, he licks his way up the other side before nuzzling back down to just above the juncture of her neck and shoulder and grazing his teeth against the skin. Jimin can feel Dahyun’s body try to tense up but acquiesce in the wake of Jimin’s want.

Jimin’s lips part in a grin, enjoying the thrill before he strikes. His teeth easily part the skin of her neck as he latches on and enjoys the essence of Dahyun. He draws deep, letting the thick, rich liquid coat his mouth before swallowing. 

From the outside, it looks like a couple getting too intimate in a semi-public area, with Dahyun arching into Jimin, whimpering for more. One of Jimin’s hands cups the back of her neck while the other holds her leg around his hips as she rocks against him.

There is always the pull for Jimin to take it all, to take it too far. It’s hard to resist with each bite, but resist, he does. He pulls away when he feels Dahyun’s grip on his shoulders start to weaken. The key is never to take so much that the human can’t recover from what will feel like a moderate hangover.

Jimin laps over the minuscule puncture marks on her neck before trailing soft kisses back to her lips. His eyes now reflect light like the richest cognac, with a flush of pink to his cheeks and plump lips. With one last soft kiss to her lips, he asks, “It’s getting late. Don’t you think you should be getting home?”

Dahyun blinks slowly, “I think it’s getting late. I better get home.”

Jimin pretends to pout. “That’s a shame, but probably for the best. Wouldn’t want your hangover to get too bad.”

At that, Dahyun groans, “Ugh, my roommate will kill me if she has to take care of me again.”

Stepping back, Jimin helps her straighten her skirt, giving the final instruction, “You’ll go straight home and drink a glass of water before going to bed. Tomorrow morning when you awake, you’ll attribute feeling bad to having a hangover and having too much fun tonight.”

Jimin turns her on her heel and urges her back onto the street before turning in the opposite direction. He begins to slip back the other way but draws short as he catches a flash of shiny leather at the end of the alley. Jimin’s eyes narrow as Jungkook steps further into the alley, the light glinting off the silver of his blade. 

They stand there like that staring each other down at a standoff. Jimin crosses his arms, hip cocking to the side in a silent challenge while Jungkook’s eyes narrow even more in a heated glare as he twirls the blade in his hand. The minute tensing of Jungkook’s shoulder tells Jimin he’s about to spur into action.

In a blur, Jimin is moving toward Jungkook and pinning him to the wall leaving Jungkook’s blade to bury into the wall where Jimin was standing. Jimin’s fingers curl around the younger man’s neck, holding him in place as he struggles to escape.

“Fuck off!” Jungkook seethes, pointedly casting his eyes downward, preventing Jimin from bespelling him with his glowing cognac gaze.

“Aw, but this is so much fun. Why do you want to end it so soon?” Jimin taunts.

Jungkook grunts, producing another blade from behind his back and lashing out toward Jimin. He connects only with air as Jimin moves in a blink several feet away to casually lean against the alley wall tutting under his breath.

“What? Are you too chicken to meet your death head-on?” Jungkook spits at him.

“I like stiff edges, just not the silver kind.” Jimin laughs as the hunter’s face flushes red.

Jungkook charges at him but again is left with nothing as Jimin twirls away, now putting several yards between the pair.

“Stop running, you coward!”

Jimin’s dark chuckle rebounds off the walls, “This isn’t running. This is playing with my food.” He tilts his head back, taking in the moon's position, “Lucky for you, I am quite full and have other places to be. Until next time Jeon.”

🩸🩸🩸

The door slams back into the bedroom wall creating a soft dent in the plaster in its wake. Jungkook is livid. That should have never happened. Jimin should be a pile of ash, and he should be here at home celebrating ridding the world of one more atrocity. 

"Fuck!" Jungkook punches the wall. ? What the hell happened tonight? There's no way he is off of his game. He begins to strip, starting with removing his numerous blades. Each finds their home in their rightful sheaths before he yanks the clothes he was wearing off, depositing them in a hamper on the way to the shower.

The hot steam billows around him as he rests his forehead against the glass tile on the wall. Taking deep breaths, he wills himself to calm down. Anger and frustration will only hinder him as he figures out how to rid the world of Park Jimin.

🩸🩸🩸

Jimin steps out of Bite Me and turns in the direction of his home. The hard heels of his boots echo off the cobblestone as he makes his way past the back alley. It’s been several weeks since that confrontation he had with Jungkook, and ever since then, he hasn’t caught sight of the man at the club. 

Perhaps Jimin actually scared some sense into him, and he’s found a new calling. He snorts to himself because he can’t even believe that likelihood. Jimin only sent him off with his tail between his legs, and Jungkook probably found a new club to lurk at. 

With a shake of his head, Jimin puts the other man out of his mind and continues sauntering down the old cobblestone streets of the Old Town District. His hand is casually thrust into the pocket of his tight black pants, the off-white shirt he’s paired with them billowing slightly around him, only kept in place by the classic French tuck he used to style it. The outfit is simple but eye-catching, drawing just the right amount of attention he wants as he seeks out his next meal. 

As he’s on his own hunt, he senses that someone is watching him a little too closely. He resists the urge to scratch at the back of his neck as he uses the rest of his senses to confirm that he is indeed being followed. Jimin continues on his way, feigning ignorance as he finally sets sights on a suitable meal choice. The tall, muscular man with the wire-framed spectacles is attempting to balance a stack of books in one arm while digging through his satchel with the other.

Jimin comes to the rescue just in time as the books slant to the left and starts to tumble from the man’s grasp. “Here, let me help you with that,” he offers with a warm smile. He gathers half the stack under his own arm and is rewarded with a grateful smile from the stranger.

“Thank you! I would have hated to soil them on the street–Yes!” the man exclaims abruptly, his other fist resurfacing from the depths of his bag with a set of keys. “Found them! I knew they were in there somewhere., “ he says in relief.

Jimin adopts an awkward chuckle, further providing a false sense of ease, “Congrats! I assume you had thought you lost those?”

The taller man’s head bobs bashfully, “Yeah. It wouldn’t have been the first time I would have had to call for help to get into my car. But the crisis is averted, and I can go home now.”

Jimin hefts the books held in the crook of his arm, “Let me help you the rest of the way?”

“You sure? I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Not a bother at all. I’m happy to help.” After casting another grateful smile in his direction, the man turns and leads Jimin around the corner toward the public parking lot in the area. 

Jimin assists in loading his backseat with the numerous tomes in their grasps. The man turns to Jimin to thank him for his help, and that’s his downfall. Jimin captures his gaze, and he sways forward, held in Jimin’s grasp until he’s ready to release him.

“Wh-what?” the man questions, his last bit of willpower struggling under the weight of Jimin’s power.

Jimin draws him closer with a hand on his arm and plucks his prey’s name from his mind, “I was just saying I was happy to help, Namjoon.” Jimin hovers his lips above Namjoon’s, teasing him with a ghost of a kiss before dipping down to trail his lips down the thick column of Namjoon’s neck. Pressing closer, he draws his lips back, the light glistening off his sharp canines, ready to bite. 

He might have to revisit Namjoon, he was a tasty morsel Jimin muses as he navigates his way through Old Town again, having sent Namjoon on his way. He thinks about going home for the night, but first, he needs to rid himself of the little problem that’s been following him for the past several blocks. Jimin sensed his presence a few blocks after sending Namjoon home. As he moves to walk past another dark alleyway, instead of continuing forward, he darts to the side, disappearing down it knowing that his tail won’t be able to resist following him. 

His super speed takes him around the block and to the mouth of the alley behind Jungkook’s unsuspecting back. Jimin slows and, with light steps, sneaks up behind Jungkook, pouncing forward he yanks him back in a tight rear chokehold.

“Were you looking for me?” Jimin whispers into the hunter’s ear.

Jungkook grunts loudly, immediately struggling in Jimin’s hold. “Let go, you fucking freak!” 

“Tsk tsk. Now, why would I do that?” Jimin tucks his head down, nose burying the back of the other man’s neck, “I’m rather quite enjoying myself, and you smell delicious. I think I just might be hungry enough for another meal.”

Jungkook struggles even harder, throwing his whole body into it. Jimin tightens his hold and laughs loudly, continuing to taunt him. Jimins hold has slipped down to barricade Jungkook’s torso, but Jungkook is able to free one arm from Jimin's hold. He immediately goes for the blade on his thigh and lashes out with it. He manages to slice Jimin on the arm, surprising the supernatural being with the burning sting of silver. 

With a hiss, Jimin pulls back, dropping his hold on the vampire hunter. He looks at his bloody sleeve, his expression folding back into one of pure malice before he lunges at the other man. He easily manages to slam Jungkook back into the wall, bits of brick flying off with the force, stunning him.

The crash distracts Jungkook enough to cause his guard to slip, giving Jimin just enough of a window to capture him with his powerful gaze. The tension from the hunter’s frame eases as Jimin bends him to his will.

“See, I would have just teased you a bit, maybe played a little cat and mouse with you.” Jimin grips Jungkook’s shoulders and slams him against the wall again, “But now you’ve just pissed me off and ruined one of my favorite shirts. So I’m really going to enjoy this.” Jimin fists the back of Jungkook’s hair and cranks his head to the side, baring the long, tan column of his prey’s neck. With a fleeting tease of his tongue against flesh, Jimin strikes.

He moans, his senses flooded with the divine taste of Jungkook. Jimin transitions his hold to a gentler embrace, cradling the taller man in his arms as he feeds. Time seems to stand still as Jimin drinks his fill and battles the temptation of draining the source dry.

Before he’s ready, Jimin pulls off of Jungkook with a gasp. He rests his head on the taller’s shoulder, running his tongue along his lips and teeth to savor the remnants. It takes a few minutes, but he finally regains his wits and straightens up, intense glowing chestnut orbs take in Jungkook’s dazed state. 

Jimin’s had his fun but isn’t quite done with Jungkook yet. He pulls back on the thrall he’s kept the other man in, allowing him to become more aware of what’s happening. 

It only takes a couple of moments before Jungkook snaps out of it, or as much as Jimin allows of it, and tries to struggle. “What the fuck? Did you just feed from me?” Tilting his head down a bit, Jungkook can see the blood staining his collar, “I am going to destroy you!”

Jimin tsks under his breath, “Why would you want to do that when you adore me so much?”

Jungkook scowls fiercely, “What are you on about? I couldn’t despise you more!”

Jimin’s lower lip pokes out in a slight faux pout, “Then let’s rectify that.” Holding up his still bleeding arm, he shakes loose the ruined fabric and holds it to Jungkook’s lips. “It’s only fair you have a taste too.”

Jungkook shakes his head, clamping his lips tight, trying but failing to pull away.”

“Drink,” Jimin demands, this time weaving power into his voice.

Jungkook stops resisting his lips, going lax, allowing Jimin’s arm to press into his mouth. With Jimin’s aid, Jungkook’s head tilts back and the blood drips past his lips and down his throat.

With a vindictive laugh, Jimin pulls back and the full effect of the thrall Jimin had unleashed on Jungkook withdraws. Jungkook senses his willpower return and lunges at Jimin, but for some reason, he stops himself.

Jimin just smirks as Jungkook’s expression morphs from hatred to want. “Wh-what did you do to me?” the hunter asks, his voice losing its fierce confidence.

Jimin shrugs nonchalantly, “In laymen’s terms, I’ve made you my bitch.”

🩸🩸🩸

Jungkook collapses back against the tile wall panting, his cock still fisted in his hand as the remnants of his pleasure wash down the shower drain. It’s been a week, and the lust burning through his veins has yet to wane. Over the past few days, he has fantasized about having Jimin in various positions on a multitude of surfaces in his home. Every time he thinks, he is done, another fantasy overtakes him.

He turns his back to the pounding water beating at him to pound his fist against the wall. “What did he do to me?!”

Jungkook feels nearly on the verge of tears, he is so frustrated. With a flick of his wrist, he shuts the shower off and climbs out. He grabs his towel, wrapping it around himself as he moves into his bedroom. The towel does nothing to mask the raging hard-on he has perpetually been left with since his encounter with Jimin.

It’s not just the physical symptoms of lust and longing he is being pestered by; Jungkook spends every waking moment thinking about the bloodsucker. He’s had enough.

He yanks a pair of black sweatpants and an oversized tee, a resolution settling in his mind. Either Jimin fixes this, or he dies.

🩸🩸🩸

Jungkook thinks he’s triumphed over Jimin as he manages to break into the hidden office on the second floor of the high-end club. After all, one of the security measures is a wall of one-way mirrored glass that overlooks the balcony dance floor. 

With the snick of the latch releasing the sealed door, Jimin tsks loudly as Jungkook steps inside, “Allegedly, you are the premier vampire hunter in the region. Standards must be very low as I have waited for you to open that door for way too long. To say the least, I am not impressed; first, you fail to kill me, then you become entrapped, and now you can barely even break into a measly office?”

Jungkook’s breathing is slightly labored, not from exertion but from all the pent-up energy stored inside him. Under the layers of his leather jacket and matching harness, black sleeveless shirt, and well-fitted jeans, his skin is damp with perspiration and the need to be free of their confines as his cock strains against his zipper.

Jimin, meanwhile, exudes calm and looks completely unbothered as he pivots to lean back against the glass exterior wall that oversees the main dance floor. He’s donned another billowy ivory tunic that dips low, revealing a wide swath of his chest and the tightest pair of black leather pants that he has. The outfit is finished off with a pair of Chelsea boots with a subtle heel.

“What did you do to me?” Jungkook snaps.

Jimin’s brow furrows, “I thought we covered this?” Pushing off the wall, Jimin crosses the room to approach Jungook, lifting his chin with a finger, “You are now mine. People call it different things…Renfield, blood bunny, spawn, concubine….the list goes on and on, but basically, you are mine.”

Jungkook reels back, “I am not yours! I never will be so reverse this shit so we can move on.”

With a nonchalant shrug, Jimin utters, “No.”

Jungkook lunges, his hands flying up to go for Jimin’s throat– 

“Uh-uh,” Jimin says, and the other man’s movements come to a halt. “I know you’re desperate to get your hands on me, but this is not the way.”

Jungkook’s cheeks flush as he struggles against the invisible resistance holding him back. He tries but fails to ignore the persistent thought that he doesn't want to hurt Jimin. Jimin is his everything.

Jimin smirks as Jungkook’s hands fall limply to his sides, satisfied with the result. Jungkook whimpers as Jimin presses closer, “Please undo whatever you did. I’ll even beg if that is what you want.”

Jimin’s brow pushed at his hairline in surprise, not expecting to have broken Jungkook down so quickly. Settling back on his heels, he crosses his arms, “Well, this isn’t quite as fun when you’re not fighting me. I can be honest I never expected you to give up so soon.”

With a scowl, Jungkook’s head snaps up, “I’m not giving up. I just don’t want to play this game with you. I want to get on with my life without fantasizing about you every waking moment.”

“What kind of fantasies?”

“Not the point.”

“Kinda is if it’s got you like this after only a week.”

“Jimin!”

“Jungkook!” 

With a heavy sigh, Jungkook pleads again, “Please, Jimin. Put an end to this.”

With a twist of his lips, Jimin turns on his heel, saunters over to the desk, and leans against it. “Now you are making me wish I could after you requested so nicely.”

Jungkook splutters, “You wish you could? You wish? Just do it.”

“Well, here’s the thing…it’s not that simple. There are very limited options here,” Jimin raises a hand and starts ticking them off, “I kill you, I make you a vampire, or you run far, far away from me. The lost option is iffy, though. Most end up just going crazy and then have to be dealt with.”

Jungkook exhales sharply, “Are you telling me you do this to a lot of innocent people?”

“No, no, no, no. This is a punishment and is only used as such. In fact, you are my first.”

“I’m obviously not going to let you kill me or make me a vampire. And I don’t run. So what now?”

“Tell me about your fantasies.”

Jungkook scoffs, “Why? So you can taunt me with them?”

“I was thinking the opposite. I want to help make them a reality. You know, turn some lemons into lemonade.”

Several beats pass, the two of them staring each other down. The silence finally breaks when Jungkook stomps across the room, grips the back of Jimin’s neck and slams their lips together.

The kiss is fierce and messy from the beginning, teeth clashing as tongues fight for dominance. Jimin’s fingers curl around the leather straps of the other man’s studded harness and yank him closer. Jungkooks fingers tangle in the shorter’s hair as he slips between Jimin’s legs and deepens the kiss. 

Minutes pass like that, the room silent except for the labored breathing of the two men and the occasional creak of the desk as their hips rock together.

It’s Jimin who breaks the kiss first. Lips swollen and red, he breathes out, “This isn’t actually telling me anything.”

“Why tell you when I can show you?” Jungkook tosses back before slotting their lips together again. Jungkook steers the direction of the kiss as his hands wander down to slip under Jimin’s tunic to grip his hips and hoist him fully onto the desk. Jimin easily acquiesces, parting his legs further and wrapping them around Jungkook’s trim waist. 

Jimin’s own hands slip between them and work to undo the fastenings on Jungkooks’s jeans, all the more difficult due to the tight stretch caused by his erection. 

A choked sigh leaves Jungkook as one pressure is replaced with another, Jimin’s hand not even hesitating as he circles the younger’s cock and strokes. Jungkook yanks Jimin forward, attacking his lips as he works on the laces of the tight leather pants. He fumbles several times at the much-desired relief he is receiving, having to pause a couple of times, head to Jimin’s shoulder as he ruts into his hand. 

Growling, Jungkook pulls Jimin off the desk and spins him around, “You have been driving me fucking crazy.” Finishing with the laces, he roughly yanks the leather pants down below the globes of Jimin’s round ass, leaving them around his knees, he dives in. Long fingers kneed the plump flesh before pulling it apart to reveal Jimin’s pink clenching hole. 

Leading with a long, thick swipe of his tongue, Jungkook uses his mouth to bring Jimin metaphorically to his knees. The hunter rims the vampire within an inch of his undead life, using his tongue and lips to make Jimin a quivering mess on top of the desk.

“Oh, fuck, please…PLEASE! Stopstopstopstop,” Jimin rambles, his fingers numb from clenching the desk too tightly as Jungkook edges him repeatedly. His own cock flushed and dripping onto the wooden surface. 

Jungkook nips at one of Jimin’s asscheeks, “Not so fun when the shoe is on the other foot, is it?” he taunts. 

Jimin starts to rear up and push Jungkook away, but the younger slips one long finger into his dripping hole. Jimin moans loudly, dropping back onto the desk, and pushes back onto the other’s hand, demanding more. One quickly becomes two as Jungkook works Jimin open underneath him. The mess on the desk grows as Jungkook stops his teasing and attacks Jimin’s prostate directly.

Jungkook thought he had heard all the sounds Jimin could make, but he’s hearing a whole new level as the man comes undone on his fingers.

Startling both men, Jimin slams his fist on the desk, “Fuck me now!” Jungkook’s fingers pause briefly before resuming their scissoring as he digs into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a packet of lube. Jimin wails as the long, slender fingers that have been torturing him pull back.

He’s not left alone for long before Jungkook is thrusting in halfway with one single thrust. Jungkook tightens his grip on the vampire’s hips and pushes forward again, bottoming out inside of his tight hole. Pausing, Jungkook’s head falls forward, eyes closed, relishing the tight heat surrounding him.

Jimin rolls his hips, “Fuck me or get off of me.” Not much else is said as Jungkook draws back until just his tip remains inside and slams back in. With no inhibition, Jungkook fucks into Jimin, and all the other man can do is hold on as Jungkook uses him fast and hard. 

The drag of Jungkook’s cock was rough inside Jimin, but the pleasure was soon becoming unsurmountable as their orgasms built. The desk's height provides the perfect angle to drive them both insane. Both men are incoherent as they rush to their own pleasurable ends, one coming right after the other as Jimin tightens around Jungkook’s pistoning cock.

Heavy breathing flows through the room as they come down from their highs. The sound is only broken up by the whimper Jimin releases as Jungkooks pulls out and the sounds of them silently cleaning up and redressing. A peace settles between them as they reciprocate, helping each other become presentable again.

Jungkook clears his throat as Jimin finishes lacing up his pants, “So what now?”

“What now is up to you. I gave you your options earlier, what are you going to choose?”

[masterwords]

legend

I had this idea. And I sprinted it in 20 minutes and didn't edit it and if it sucks, I'm sorry but CM: Evolution has really put me in my Hotchgan feels HARD (as if I ever really leave but...) so this happened. It fits with the @comfortember prompt for today: proud. ❤

1.6k words. Cheesy, stupid, self-indulgent and so sweet. Hotch & Morgan semi-retired and freezing at a Northwestern University football game.

**

Breathing hurt.

Hotch tugged his hat down over his ears and pressed his gloved hands over his mouth and nose, sucking in one, two, three deep breaths through the filter of warm knit wool. It didn't sting his lungs the way the air did. Derek's aunt made them for him, and a hat to match, and they were holding up better than anything he'd ever purchased at the store. She had made some crack about how he was always cold and made him two pair...his indoor gloves and his outdoor gloves. It was meant as a joke, poking fun at the way he wrapped himself in blankets or seated himself as close to a fire as he could, but he'd never minded a good joke at his expense. Especially not when that joke came with the warmest gloves he'd ever put on his hands.

“WOOOOOOOOOOO! GET EM!” Derek shouted from beside him, startling him by jumping up and waving his arms in the air wildly. “YEAH BABY!” Hotch glanced up at Derek and smiled cold and dreamy. He had no idea what had just happened on the field, but it mattered little. He had sixty quizzes to grade and Derek had a game to watch, that was the deal.

“You see that? DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

Hotch blinked up at him and Derek knew what that meant. He hadn't. It was okay, too. He would explain that it was one of the boys Derek had mentored at the youth center, one of the many he'd helped get scholarships to Northwestern. He was in his last year and he was a stud. NFL quality, Derek said, and he was working his tail off to get scouts out, get him noticed. He had connections.

That was how games went with them. Hotch went along dutifully, sometimes watching the game, others absorbed by the work he had to do. Since retiring from the FBI, since choosing that his family had to come first, he'd been teaching part time at Northwestern Law. It made sense, taking on a class or two at Derek's alma mater in order to prove to Derek that yes, moving to Chicago was a good thing for all of them. Being closer to Fran, to Derek's sisters and the rest of the Morgans was important. He'd spent so many years away from all of them. At a certain point they both realized what it cost them to remain in the D.C area and it wasn't worth it. Once Roy passed, the decision was even easier because Jessica wanted to go too.

“Let's get away from all of this,” she'd said, sealing the deal when Hotch had his doubts, most of which involved leaving her. “There's nothing left for us here.”

She was right. But in Chicago, they had the Morgans, and it was a quick trip from there to New York to visit Sean once he was released from prison. They were doing better at that whole visiting thing, too. Better at being brothers. Sean sent birthday gifts and cards; he even came to Chicago to visit. Hotch couldn't remember a time in his life when family looked like this, and it was overwhelming at times, but it was always good.

Except the temperatures in Chicago when winter hit. If he had to come up with one complaint to file for the record, that would be it. Right now, they were sitting in temperatures that were in the single digits, and the windchill took them down below zero. His nose hurt, his lungs hurt, his joints ached, his nose ran. In his pockets he kept plenty of packets of Hot Hands, and his collection of wool undergarments had grown exponentially, but there was really only so much you could do to combat this kind of chill. It settled deep in his bones.

“What quarter is it?” he asked, blinking his frosted eyelashes as he tried to focus his eyes on the scoreboard. It was a blur of purple and yellow, bright lights and nothing else. His glasses had fogged up enough times he'd given up on them...he could see his papers just fine without them, everything else would be up to Derek.

“Third. One left baby. Hang in there.”

Hotch scrunched his frozen nose but he smiled and went back to his papers. He only had a few left to go, and they would occupy his mind until the frostbite set in at least. At that point...well, at least he knew Derek could carry him if his feet no longer worked.

“Hey,” Derek said quietly, nudging Hotch with his elbow. “That one of your students?” Hotch glanced up and squinted, focusing on a young woman a few rows up who kept turning back to look at him. He smiled at the vague shape of her and she lifted her arm in a nervous wave.

“Yes,” he replied, returning the wave with one thick gloved hand. Her eyes darted from him to Derek and back, the vague flicker of realization in them, and blushing she turned back around and turned her attention back to the game. He scrunched his nose; it was really about the only expression he had left available that his frozen face could manage and watched her for a moment longer. He had some misgivings about what she saw or thought she saw, some horror at the thought she might feel it was inappropriate in some way that he waved at her, or perhaps that he was here with his husband. Whatever it was made her turn in an instant, and all he could do was turn back to his papers and begin scribbling furiously in the margins with frozen stiff fingers. He was going to be a human popsicle by the time this game was over.

“Professor Hotchner?” came a voice from beside him, and he glanced up, sniffling a little. His nose was running it was so damn cold. The student he'd waved at was now standing above him with an expectant smile.

“Monica,” he answered quietly, nodding and pushing up to standing as fast at his locked and painful joints would allow. He steadied himself against the seat when it flipped up behind him and smiled. “How can I help you?”

“I um...” she started a little nervous. “This is probably really out of line and I'm sorry to bother you, but is that Derek Morgan beside you?”

Hotch glanced over at Derek who was so intently locked on what was going on in the game that he hadn't noticed what was happening beside him. He nodded.

“It is,” he replied. He left it open, just hanging there, doing his best not to make any assumptions about her intention. The stadium erupted around them, and Derek leapt out of his seat again, hollering. Without wasting a moment, hHe wrapped Hotch in a hug, arms tight around his shoulders and kissed his cheek. Not a care in the world.

“TOUCHDOWN!”

“Derek,” Hotch whispered, nodding his head in Monica's direction. “This is Monica Jordan, one of my students.”

“Oh, hey! Pleasure to meet you!” Derek released Hotch quickly, with only one arm, and extended his hand to her. The other arm stayed hooked around Hotch's shoulders, fingers digging into his puffy coat protectively. “He's nice to you, yeah?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, taking his hand. “Yeah, his class is great. It's my favorite.”

“Nahhh...that can't be true,” Derek said, shaking his head. “He's so boring. I've been forced to sit through this man's lectures. Come on, what's your real favorite class?”

“No, really,” she began, squaring up her shoulders as if she needed to defend him. “The way he presents topics is so engaging. You can tell he's got a lot of lived experience, it's not just something he read in a textbook and regurgitated for us. Did you guys work together?”

“Yeah, we did. For a long time.”

“I'm supposed to do an interview with someone I admire for my sociology class, and I was wondering if um...if I could interview you, Mr. Morgan?”

“If it's all good with the ol' ball and chain...”

Hotch rolled his eyes and sighed. Sometimes he just had to question his own sanity. “Derek.” He said nothing more, and Derek let out a soft chuckle.

“Yeah, sure. Let me know when and where, I'll be there. OH HELL YEAH! WILDCATS WIN BABY! WOOOOOO!”

Hotch couldn't blame Derek for his enthusiasm, the way he was easily distracted by what was happening on the field. It was the team's first win of the season. Likely to be their only win, too. The team seemed to be permanently ailing, it was kind of their thing, but Derek never wavered in his support. No one could accuse him of being a fair-weather fan, and Hotch followed him dutifully to every game. His support of Derek was unwavering, too.

“I um,” Monica started, stepping a little closer to Hotch. “He's a legend in my neighborhood. I grew up hearing stories about him from everyone. You're really lucky.”

Hotch, frozen as he was, beamed at that. His eyes shone bright with tears that froze before they could do much more than appear. “I am.”

Breathing hurt, but the celebratory kiss Derek gave him, and the warm air pushed into his lungs didn't. He hoped Monica had walked away, hoped she wasn't staring at them, but he wasn't going to let it stop him from wrapping his arms around Derek beneath his open coat and hugging him close. Sucking up all of the warmth he had to offer in the glow of the stadium erupting in loud cheers. “I love you,” Derek whispered between kisses, and Hotch smiled against his lips and muttered his reciprocation breathless and happy.

[langst-is-my-unborn-baby]

Dropping an ask down in your fab inbox! Would the fair writer consider the team pissing lance off for (insert langsty reason, like they’re all just being pricks or sth) and then lance just exploding and being a bamf as he big bro lectures the shit out of everyone (including shiro) Ending is up to you good sir of many talents I bid you adieu

The necessary author’s note: I made a few promises over the years to return to this account and to the fandom, and I’ve tried to start, and I have always failed. But I knew, the moment I went through my heaped inbox and saw your user – I had to try. You were one of my first supporters and really inspired me to get this blog as far as it went. So even if you’ve moved on, my return to VLD hell is in your honour.

 Binned Jacket

Perhaps the filter system of the castle was in need of servicing as Lance’s grimaced away his inability to breath coherently. Frustration was not a foreign feeling to him, of course not. He had always dived straight into arguments, letting his insecurities burn his bridges and bloat a boisterous ego. Regardless, he stewed in a beginning anger that left his cheeks hot. Of course, anger was a secondary emotion, it built on Lance’s unexplainable sadness.

 Scratch that- his sadness was most definitely explainable.

 “You got rid of my jacket?” the words had left his mouthbefore his thoughts could gather.

Allura’s gleaming look inferred that she had not taken his abhorrence seriously. Shiro beside her seemingly used to and unfazed by his loud tone. The team seemed incredibly nonchalant about what he considered a very personal attack.

“As I was saying, you are defending this Universe- ambassadors to many systems now. I just need to give you all that look,” Allura expressed, an uncalloused hand pressed against her chest as she preached. That look of far-gonejoy in her eyes was one that would have brought a smile to Lance’s face.

Lance could not help but snark back. “You only scrapped my clothes.” The twisted expression of his face made him feel moments away fromglowering. “You didn’t even just ask me not to wear it, you threw it.”

“Not threw, binned,” Pidge smiled from the couch, eyes never leaving her tablet. “Rest assured I’d be there if there was some coat-tossing game, my new gadget needs something to test its strengths.”

Lance could not believe it. Well, he could. It was becoming common to be laughed off by his teammates, for his possessions to be considered with little regard. He looked around, Shiro appeared to only be standing by to ensure Lance didn’t escalate this situation. Keith was arms-crossed and sighing. Coran smiling away behind Allura. Hunk was completely absorbed in his latest recipe transcription… bless him.

“Lance, I am going to give you new clothes,” Allura laughed, although it truly sounded humourless. “You understand that, don’t you? I am just tidying your appearance.”

“Pretty-boy does not want to hear that,” Keith said, whistling lowly afterwards. Shooting Lance, a quippy smile.

His jacket. His homely possession. His most genuine reminder of his sister Rachel who wore a matching copy.

“This is ridiculous,” Lance spat. “Where is your respect?” His eyes zeroed onto Allura, he was determined to hold her gaze, her gleeful expression fell in an instant.

Like the rotting of an apple, Shiro’s eyebrows drew together, a recognisable anger in his expression. Lance felt a tinge of a sting, string strangling his heart that struggled to beat evenly. His failing hero held his eyes momentarily. No apologetic look.

“Lance, refrain from such language,” Shiro said, his fingers running through his hair as he seemed to try to hide a huff of annoyance.

“It’s just a jacket, Lance,” Keith offered, a plain smile tempted his features. Dark eyebrows drawn together in parodied confusion. Lance’s chest constricted whilst his cheeks broke a hot and maddened red. Keith was finally warming from the cold rival he once was, but Lance felt revolted instead of pleased.

“It. Is. Not. ‘Just a jacket,’ you asshole,” Lance scoffed, his fingers making air quotation marks.

Shiro sounded breathless. “Lance!”

He was almost certain that a scolding was supposed tocontinue. Lance pushed his arms out, waving them off as he lifted his chin. “No,Shiro, you all-” the words fell from his mouth harshly. “You all can just listen.”

He was certain even Pidge was finally looking at him, shifting uncomfortably in her spot. Fingers running tirelessly against her tech as she sucked in a breath.

He made eye contact with Hunk, who had finally put down his work. The latter’s face has scrunched, his lips pointed downward. But Lance had trust. Hunk looked at him with concern but not contempt, he was worried, but he had not placed forth any expression of judgement. Bless him truly.

“You ‘binned’ my only reminder of my family, of my sister.” He was certain he saw Pidge lean back, shoulders tense and square. He turned to Allura, frustrated look unbreaking. “Tell me her name.”

“What?” She stuttered, wavering ever so slightly, a humbling discomfort appearing through her faulter.

“What is my sister’s name?” Lance repeated, an eyebrow raising.He turned. “Shiro, do you even know, I’ve told you.”

The man bristled, but then rubbed the back of his neck, eyes a wobble of confliction. “I don’t know.”

Keith’s voice came quiet but blunt. “How is this relevant, why does any of that matter?”

“Because it just does!” Lance said, fighting the urge to grab whoever was closest and shook them until they understood. “My sister, my person, the one who knows me better than any of you.”

“Lance-“ Allura tried her voice but fell silent. The galaxy fellsilent.

“But I thought you knew me, I thought you respected me, but what you did.” Lance struck a fierce look to Allura. “And to what you all allowed, encouraged. That was anything but.”

Shiro looked stricken, the first to look truly ashamed. “Lance,” he said, so quietly. His call of his name was different to Allura’s. It was remorseful, it was an attempt to tend a wound, but it was like a Band-Aid to a bullet-hole.

“We aren’t some team,” Lance suddenly shifted his gaze, hisfury burned as tears on the edge of his eyes. He steeled his stare to the ceiling. “All I had to connect me to Earth, and you took it from me. Rachel. I don’t know if she’s safe, if I’ll ever see her again.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.

Allura had a hand on her chest when he finally composed himself.

“I’m here for the Galaxy that needs us. I’m here for you all. You need to meet me halfway because we aren’t teasing children nor unfriendly co-workers. We are a family, so act like it,” Lance said, the scold falling easy to his lips. How often had he once spoken like this to the family youngsters?

He looked back on his once trusted team, their slack expression. Lips itching to say something but choking on their knowledge that they was no listenable answer.

“Now, get my jacket back.”