#a lot of them will probably take some grinding to get... weighing up how committed i am to getting them all

[toastsnaffler]

been checking off all the stuff I've gotten everything of in elden ring so far (nothing crazy just cookbooks, crystal tears, deathroot, paintings/artists spirit, dragon hearts and the tools like crafting pots etc and I've done all npc questlines I can in this run + gotten all the bell bearings that carry over to ng+ 👍) and I was looking at the lists for great gloveworts + ancient dragon stones and I have most of them already so I was feeling pretty good.. and then I counted how many distinct weapons I have so far (166) and searched up how many are in the game..... WHAT DO YOU MEAAAAN 308????

[ifmywishescametrue]

#8 "Come here, I'll carry you." for WinterIron. Can you add some smut to it please? Thank you.

this took longer than expected, but it's finally done! thank you for sending one, and i hope you like :)

it is most definitely explicit lol

“This is why I don’t go hiking,” Tony complains, wincing when Bucky gingerly touches his left ankle. It doesn’t look too badly injured, probably not even a sprain, but it doesn’t stop Tony from telling him I told you so. “I said that I would trip and fall and roll down the mountain, and then I would die there, at the bottom of a cliff for birds to scavenge my body until I’m just a pile of bones.”

“You twisted your ankle on a root, baby,” Bucky says, amused in spite of all of the grumbling. It doesn’t help that Tony’s disgruntled, pouty face is one of the cutest things he’s ever seen. “I don’t think you’re going to die.”

“There’s still a chance.”

Bucky rolls his eyes fondly, standing from where he was crouched next to Tony on the ground. He holds out his hand, and Tony takes it to get back to his feet.

Despite all the complaining, Tony doesn’t actually like looking weak. He hides pain and discomfort and doesn’t let himself get taken care of very often. Bucky knows that too well by now, after nearly a year together, and it’s why he easily notices the grimace Tony tries to disguise with each step.

He stops walking, making Tony turn back to look at him when he realizes it.

“Come here,” Bucky says. At Tony’s questioning look, he adds, “Come here, and I’ll carry you.”

Tony raises his eyebrows, “Seriously?”

“Seriously. We’ve only got about another quarter mile to the cabin, you’re in pain, and it’s not like you weigh much anyway.” Bucky takes another couple steps forward, hands on Tony’s hips, and he whispers into Tony’s ear, “I was strong enough to hold you up against the wall yesterday, remember?”

He smirks as Tony shivers, and he tucks a strand of Tony’s hair back, brushing his fingers against his skin to feel the goosebumps rise on it. “Bet I could carry you all the way back and still have the energy to do it again.”

Tony laughs, shoving playfully at Bucky’s shoulder. “Alright, I didn’t really need that much convincing. I was already going to let you do it.”

“Let me?” Bucky repeats, shaking his head with a smile. “I didn’t realize you were doing me favors here.”

He turns around and crouches lower to let Tony climb onto him, holding onto his thighs to support him when he rises up again with Tony on his back and his arms wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders. Tony’s legs tighten around Bucky’s torso, and he tucks his face into the side of Bucky’s neck to kiss him there. Teasingly, he says, “We both know you like this even more than I do. Being my big, strong hero. Pretty sure it’s a kink for you.”

Bucky grins as he starts back down the trail. “I ain’t admittin’ to nothing.”

Tony hums, and he loosens the elastic holding Bucky’s bun in place to tangle his fingers into his hair. He pulls a little, another thing he knows that Bucky likes, and his voice is seductively low when he says, “You don’t have to admit it, darling. I already know.”

“You keep that up, and I’m gonna drop you,” Bucky warns, and he can feel Tony’s smile against his skin.

“You’d never drop me.”

“Wanna test that theory?”

He lets go of Tony’s thighs for just a second, letting his legs fall a bit before grabbing on again, and he gets Tony’s screaming laughter in return as he clutches onto Bucky tighter.

“If you let me fall off a cliff, I’m coming back as a ghost to haunt you for the rest of your life. Not the nice Casper kind either. I’m talking full blown poltergeist.”

“The rest of my life, huh? That’s a lot of commitment.”

“Well, you’re already stuck with human me for that long anyway. Ghost me should get to have some fun too,” Tony reasons. “I’ll start with you, seeing as you’d be the one responsible for my untimely demise, but Clint’s really going to regret that prank he pulled on me last week by the time I’m done.”

“Can you haunt Sam a little too? He’s got a thing about ghosts.”

“Oh, I’ll get you all, don’t worry.”

Bucky twists to look at him and asks, “Why does it sound like you’ve thought about this before?”

“I’m naturally vengeful,” Tony grins, and Bucky laughs.

“Sure you are, honey.”

The cabin for their weekend getaway is back in sight through the trees, just a few hundred feet away now, and Tony seems to view its appearance as the perfect time to continue on the track of their earlier conversation. He twirls a strand of Bucky’s hair around his finger and says, “So are you really going to fuck me against the wall when we get back? Because I was leaning towards the shower first, then again in bed after, but I’m pretty flexible. Very flexible, actually, but you already know that, don’t you?”

Tony kisses the spot beneath his ear, mouth lingering there before trailing lower. Bucky groans, and his fingers flex on Tony’s thighs.

“Baby, can’t you be patient for just one more minute?”

“Nope,” Tony says lightly. He hooks a finger in the collar of Bucky’s shirt to pull it to the side to revisit a mark he left the day before and trace it with his tongue. “Maybe you should walk faster.”

Bucky does, carefully sidestepping the larger rocks and fallen branches and trying not to get distracted by Tony’s wandering hands. He takes the stairs up the front porch two at a time and clumsily fumbles with the handle on the door while Tony slips a hand into the front of his pants.

Dropping Tony back down to his own feet, he turns immediately and presses him against the closed door. Tony laughs into it at first, presumably at his eagerness, but it fades into a moan as Bucky grinds against him.

“Such a fucking tease, aren’t you?” Bucky murmurs, biting down gently on the tendon on the side of Tony’s neck. Tony moans, hands finding Bucky’s hair again and tugging to spur him on.

“Can you really blame me when this is what I get for it?” Tony asks in stuttered breaths as Bucky puts his knee between Tony’s legs to push them apart.

Bucky hums in consideration, then pulls back abruptly when he gets the idea. Tony blinks at him dazedly with a noise of protest, and Bucky smirks as he traces the pout of his bottom lip with his thumb. “I should make you work harder for it, then. Can’t just keep rewarding you for bad behavior, can I?”

“Yes, you can,” Tony whines, grabbing at his t-shirt to pull him in again.

Bucky puts his hands on the door on either side of Tony’s, elbows locked to keep his arms straight, and doesn’t give Tony as much as an inch. “Don’t think so, honey.”

Tony gives him an indignant look, but it quickly morphs into another one that Bucky recognizes well. It’s his defiant, you’ll regret this by the time that I’m done look, but Bucky already knows he won’t have a single regret. Not when it starts with Tony popping the button on Bucky’s pants and sliding them down his hips.

Every movement is slow, and it’s almost graceful when Tony drops down to his knees in front of him.

“You want me to earn it?” he asks. His wide eyes give the illusion of an innocence they both know he doesn’t have, and he holds Bucky’s gaze while palming him through his boxers.

Bucky nods, carding his fingers through Tony’s soft, unruly hair, then letting them drift down to caress his cheek. Tony leans into the touch like it's a subconscious reaction, and he turns his head to kiss his palm. The tender moment doesn’t last long once Tony wraps his mouth around Bucky’s fingers and swirls his tongue like a preview.

Bucky’s hips jerk forward into Tony’s hand on their own accord, and he groans at the pressure. He’s been half-hard since Tony first started this back on the trail, and now he’s aching with how much he wants him.

Pulling his fingers out of Tony’s mouth, he drags them across Tony’s lips to leave them spit slick, then frees his cock from the confines of his boxers. Tony wraps his hands around Bucky’s calves to urge him forward, and Bucky guides the tip of his cock into his waiting mouth.

“So good, baby,” Bucky murmurs, pushing his hair back from his forehead to get a better view of his face, and he watches Tony’s eyes brighten at the praise.

He’s completely pliant for Bucky to use his mouth, and Bucky plans to take full advantage of the opportunity. He slides in a little deeper and groans at the feeling of wet heat around him, forehead hitting the wall with a loud sound as his head falls forward.

“Just pinch me if it’s too much, alright?” Bucky says, and Tony nods the best he can. “Once to slow down, twice to stop.”

It’s still a little careful and cautious at first. He tests the limits slowly, inch by inch, pulling back when he feels Tony’s throat contract around him. He does it again, then once more when Tony makes no move to stop him and instead moans around him. It’s the permission he was waiting for to completely let go, and when he has it, there’s no further hesitation.

His hand fists into Tony’s hair, holding him still, and he watches every rough thrust of his cock into Tony’s mouth.

He’s beautiful like this, and the visual is nearly as good as the feeling itself. Eyes watery with tears that threaten to spill over his lash line and spit wetting his chin from where his reddened lips stretch around him. He isn’t going to last long at all with Tony looking at him like that, and every sound that escapes Tony’s throat only pushes him even further.

“You’re fucking perfect, baby,” Bucky groans out. “So pretty on your knees for me.”

His nails dig at the wall as he tries to keep himself upright on shaky legs, eyes twisting shut. He loses himself in the moment for god only knows how long. Tony swallows around him occasionally, but otherwise doesn’t move so much as an inch, even with how obviously hard he is in his jeans.

The hand in Tony’s hair falls slack as he nears the end, and it’s apparently a mistake, because suddenly Tony’s mouth is gone from around him. He opens his eyes again, and Tony is wiping his chin with the back of his hand as he stands.

“Now that’s called being a tease,” Tony says, voice hoarse but entirely smug. He turns towards the bedroom and gives Bucky a smirk over his shoulder. “But since I’m feeling generous, you can still join me in the shower if you’ve learned your lesson.”

Bucky gapes at him, frozen in shock, but when Tony strips off his shirt and throws it his way, he’s all but running down the hall to follow.

[themadlostgirl]

Abandoned (9)

*They’re making progress. Slowly but surely.”

~~~

I was confused when I woke up the next morning because I wasn’t on the beach in my little hut like I always was when I woke up. Then I remembered last night and how I had ended up in this treehouse. Peter was next to me. That wasn’t a big surprise but it eased my worries that he was still with me after yesterday.

A lot had been said last night. Secrets that we had both been harboring pulled into the light of day. I felt lighter now that I had shared with Peter the scars I carried. For so long I had been swimming with a cannonball strapped to my leg as I tried to paddle helplessly to shore. Now, it felt like that cannonball had come unshackled from my ankle and I could finally move forward. I wasn’t to shore yet but I had confidence that I wasn’t going to drown.

I wondered briefly if it felt the same for Peter. Obviously he’s been harboring this secret about his curse for a long time and has been trying to be brave in the face of his own death. This weight that he’s been carrying with him, literally watching his life tick away in a golden hourglass, that’s not something one can take lightly.

There was a small part of me that was kind of relieved to see Peter cry. I don’t like seeing him in tears but just knowing that this boy that I have looked at as indestructible and unflappable was capable of breaking down was a needed reminder that he was human. He may act like a demon but he is still a boy. He has emotions, whether he chooses to acknowledge them or not.

The time following that night in the treehouse stretched peacefully. Peter looked much more relieved to be free of the burden of bearing his secret alone. The only change he did show were the sad looks he passed to me any time we were alone together. I could blink and miss it with how quick they came and went but I still saw them all the same.

He looked at me as if his world was balancing on a frayed string. His hold on me got a little tighter and his words got softer. I figured it was his curse weighing on him but when he pulled away from me one night when things were getting frisky I saw that same sad look in his eyes and realized the truth.

It wasn’t his secret causing him this grief, it was mine. Before when Peter would sometimes allow the moment to heat up between us he doused almost as soon as it begun now. I know that he’s doing it so not to make me uncomfortable but it just made me feel unwanted at the end of the night. One such day we had gone out swimming together by this waterfall. We were having fun splashing around and exchanging a few kisses.

I teased him by sneaking up on him under the water and quickly poking him in the thigh or butt before swimming off. He was getting red in the face and cursed that I kept slipping away faster than he could grab me. Eventually he did catch me and held me tight to his chest to keep me from swimming away again. Laughter and squeals turned into deep kisses and happy giggles. I wrapped my legs around Peter’s waist to help keep myself in place while we made out.

While making out I felt something poke against me. For a few moments Peter was too grounded in his pleasure at the embrace he didn’t notice. Normally when he got an erection he immediately shied away from me and I was waiting for him to do it this time but he hadn’t. As subtly as I could I let myself grind against it a bit and felt a pleasurable jolt ripple up my spine. Peter must have felt it too cause he groaned against my mouth.

I was able to get away with going slowly for a while but when I started moving faster the lustful spell Peter was under broke and he finally fully realized what was going on. I had to keep my legs locked around him so he couldn’t shove me off.

“Peter,” I grabbed his face and forced him to look at me, “It is alright. I want to do this.”

“But--”

“I. Am. Enjoying. This.” I enunciated the words clearly. “You don’t have to be so worried about scaring me off.”

Peter sighed, “I’m sorry, swordfish. I just never wanted to overstep.”

“I’ll let you know if you do. But you need to stop keeping me at an arms distance.” I kissed his cheek, “You said that you would banish that bastard from my memory, right?”

“I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Well, how can you replace all the bad memories he created if you won’t let us create new better ones?”

“You really trust me that much?”

“I trust you even more.”

“I love…” his gaze searched my face, “I love...I love that you trust me so much, swordfish.”

My heart sank a little at his words. I guess I had been hoping he would say something else in that moment. Then again, I don’t know how capable Peter Pan is of something as scary and committed as love.

I shrugged off the moment of disappointment and rested my head on his shoulder. “I trust you with my life, Peter. I always will.”

Peter spent the night sleeping next to me that evening. I cannot say for sure when the word love became something I wished to hear Peter say. Nor do I remember when I started wanting to say it to him. It came upon so gradually that I hadn’t even noticed until it was too late. My heart belonged solely to Peter and it terrified me. I was in love with him and I wanted nothing more than for him to love me too.

Peter was the first to fall asleep. I wasn’t surprised. He said he slept better next to me. I stayed awake listening to him breathe until his snores got deeper and I knew he was fast asleep. “I dreamt that you called me your love the other night. It made me so happy.” I whispered, “I hope that it’s true cause I love you too, my Peter.” I kissed his cheek. It felt good to say it out loud even if he didn’t truly hear me. Maybe it would trickle into his ears and he’d hear it in his dreams. Maybe he would remember and in the morning he would say he loved me too.

I had a dream that night. I was in a town slumped against a wall naked and cold and scared. There was no sign of life. Not from the tavern behind me nor anywhere else in the town. I ran to the pier trying to find a ship to board but all the docks were empty. I searched the sky for the star that could lead me home but clouds covered it.

No way out. Nowhere to run. I wanted to yell for Peter but no words left my mouth. I couldn’t breathe. The world was too cold. Where had Peter gone? Why was I here? Why had I been abandoned again? A pair of arms grabbed me from behind and pulled me into the chest of someone. A gruff voice whispered in my ear, “Kitten…”

I woke with a jolt breathing hard and shaking. When I closed my eyes I was thrust back into the dream and it only made me cry.

��Precious, what’s wrong?” Peter’s groggy morning voice reached out to me like a tether through the darkness. I reached for him and found his waiting arms. He rubbed my back in smooth motions and whispered words of comfort in my ear.

“I was back there,” I cried, “I was back in that town and I couldn’t get out. He found me...he found me and I couldn’t--”

“Hush now,” Peter whispered, pressing reassuring kisses to my temple. “That bastard can’t touch you. You’re on Neverland with me. You’re safe. I’m never gonna let anyone hurt you again, my pearl.”

My breathing evened out but I still clung onto Peter like a vice. Tears silently streamed down my face, unable to stop.

“Hey Lost Girl, are you awake yet? I have bananas if you want one.” A head ducked down to look inside my hut. Baelfire.

The three of us froze. I felt Peter tense next to me.

I could tell he wanted to jump up and grab Baelfire. This boy had been eluding him for so long and now he finally had him within his grasp. All he had to do was let me go. My grip on Peter slackened.

“Go away,” Peter muttered darkly.

I looked up confused. Peter stared daggers at Baelfire. “Don’t be stupid, Baelfire. Leave us.”

Baelfire turned and sprinted away. Peter sighed and pulled me closer. The question I wanted to ask sat waiting on my tongue but I was too stunned to say it. Peter looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Did you think I was gonna leave you, precious?”

I nodded dumbly.

“My pearl,” Peter rested his forehead against mine, “Don’t you know you’re more important than some stupid game?”

Fresh tears sprung to my eyes but they were of a different breed then they had been earlier. I was happy. Why was I crying if I was happy? Peter didn’t leave my side for the rest of the day. That night he felt the moment Baelfire escaped the island but didn’t say anything. He sighed and nuzzled his face more into my neck.

I didn’t ask him why he didn’t seem concerned that Baelfire had escaped considering how much he wanted to capture him in the first place. All I wanted to remember was that when Peter was faced with the choice of capturing Baelfire or staying by to comfort me he chose me. He told me I was more important.

Peter eventually did have to leave to go talk to the boys and tell them that Baelfire had managed to escape. He figured that it was news that would not go over well. He may not be able to see me until late tomorrow evening but if I needed him at all before then all I needed to do was call and he would be there.

It was lonely without Peter but I took the day away from him to go and talk to Tink. I hadn’t seen much of her since my relationship with Peter really started and I had missed talking to her. It would probably be healthy for me to talk to someone other than Peter. I could have pleasant enough chats with the Lost Boys and when Baelfire used to come around but they were all boys. Girls needed girls sometimes.

Tinkerbell was surprised to see but invited me in and talked to me all the same. We agreed we needed to spend more time together and I promised to come see her more often. Peter didn’t mind that I was hanging out with Tink more as my time with her gave him time to rally with the boys. The upside was that now that Peter and I were spending most of the day apart that meant that he almost always spent the night with me. Once evening fell Peter was all mine and I was all his. I preferred it that way.

It had been several weeks since Baelfire had escaped. Life on the island was as normal as it had ever been. Then one night Peter’s shadow returned. I hadn’t even noticed that the shadow was ferrying someone when I saw it shoot across the sky. The shadow was dark and the person it carried was pale. They almost looked like a shooting star streaking across the sky before they got closer and I was able to make out the shape of a human. It flew above me into the jungle before I could get a good look.

Peter also watched it go but shrugged it off saying he would make his greetings in the morning. Strangely enough though when morning came the boys had no news of a new boy in the island. No one had even seen the shadow drop someone off. Perhaps they were lost in the jungle. The boys scattered the island but came up with nothing. Whoever the shadow had brought they had disappeared into thin air.

This was more than alarming to Peter who didn’t like the idea that someone was loose on his island that he didn’t know. His days were spent with the boys as they combed the island again and again trying to find the escapee. I checked Baelfire’s old camp to see if the new guy had hunkered down there but it was as abandoned as the day Baelfire left it.

I went to visit Tink and told her about the strange happenings going on in the jungle.

“That is strange.” Tink shrugged, “And the boys have no idea where this person could be or even what they look like?”

“Not a clue. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?” I asked.

“Can’t say I do. All the Lost Boys look alike to me so if there is a new one running around I couldn’t say that I could recognize them.”

“The boys are all in a tizzy about it. This boy is really good at hide and seek and it is starting to piss Peter off to no end that he can’t figure out where they’re hiding. Understandable since it is his island and all.”

I set my cup of tea down and paced around the treehouse. “I mean, they have checked every nook and cranny of this island. Where in the world could they be?”

I plunked down on top of Tink’s big treasure chest.

“Eep!”

“What was that?” I asked, looking around the treehouse. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Tink said.

“I swear I heard something. Almost sounded like a wounded bird or something.” I strained my ears to see if I could hear it again. Tink had frozen in her seat. Her eyes were cast down into her cup.

I narrowed my gaze at her. Why was she acting skittish? I stood up and noticed her gaze flicker to the chest I had been sitting on. Hm…

I turned to the chest and lightly kicked the side of it. “Hey Tink,” I spoke calmly, “What is it you keep in his old chest of yours?”

“Just a bunch of junk. Some blankets, extra set of clothes, a few useless odds and ends.” She shrugged. “Nothing of interest.”

“Uh huh,” I reached for the lid, “You wouldn’t mind if I snooped would you?”

“I would actually,” She said, her eyes met mine, “It may be junk but it is personal junk.”

“All the more reason I want to take a peek.” I pulled the lid up.

“Don’t!” Tink jumped to her feet.

“Oh Tinkerbell, Tinkerbell, Tinkerbell,” I ripped the blanket away to reveal our hidden guest nestled tightly at the bottom of the chest. “I thought we were better friends than this.”

“Listen,” Tink tried to pull me away, “You don’t have to do this. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“That’s your opinion.” I reached into the chest and pulled the figure in her white nightgown up to standing. “Hello again, Wendy Darling. You shouldn’t have come back here.”

“I’m here to rescue Baelfire!” Wendy ripped her arms from my grasp. “And I am not leaving without him!”

“Oh, did Tink not tell you?” I laughed, “Oh you poor, pretty thing. Baelfire escaped the island weeks ago. He’s not here.”

“No…” Wendy breathed out in horror, “No! You’re lying!”

“I am? Fine. Then let’s ask someone else. Oh Tinkerbell, is Baelfire still on Neverland? Be honest now.”

Tink met Wendy’s eyes with regret. She nodded. “He isn’t on Neverland. He managed to escape a long time ago.”

“Oh god…” Wendy was shaking, “If Baelfire isn’t here then--”

“Then you walked back into the open jaws of a lion voluntarily, Darling.” I pinched her cheeks. “No use trying to run or hide now. So how about you come quietly? I’m sure Peter would love to see you again.”

“Please, just send me home, I know you don’t like me. You don’t want me here. Just send me away again.”

“No. That’s too easy. Besides, I have no reason to be jealous or angry at you anymore. You’re just a blemish on my life now. Annoying but tolerable if I can’t see you.” I shoved her towards the rope ladder. “Now move.”

I brought Wendy back to the camp. She was silent the entire time. Resigned to whatever fate awaited her. Easy enough to say, the boys were surprised when I walked in with her. Peter most of all. He had truly not expected to see Wendy Darling again after he sent her away the first time.

“What to do, what to do?” Peter circled her. “My Lost Girl was right about not sending you home. That’s what you want. I cannot have you roaming about as you did before though. Ideas?”

“Just stuff her in a cage and be over with it.” Felix said. “What else is there to think about?”

“Too easy.” Peter said, “We need something unique for this equally interesting happenstance.”

“I have an idea!” I bounced on my heels as an idea started to take root in my mind.

“Speak it, spitfire. I’m interested in what you have to say about this.” Peter grinned, pulling me close to him.

“Well, if she wants to go home so bad then I saw we give her the opportunity.” I said.

“This isn’t the same scenario you proposed I do with Baelfire is it?” Peter asked, disdain clear on his face.

“Oh no, nothing like that.” I pulled him aside so Wendy couldn’t hear. “She will be our very own Sisyphus.”

“What?”

“It’s an old tale I remember hearing about. Sisyphus was some man that was cursed in the afterlife to constantly push a boulder up a hill. He was told that if he could push the boulder to the top of the hill then he could go free. But no matter what, every time he gets near the top the boulder rolls back down dooming him for eternity. We could do something similar with Wendy.”

“Stars you are perfect.” Peter grabbed me and kissed me hungrily. “What impossible task were you thinking?”

“Something simple enough to give her hope but maddening enough that she’ll never accomplish it. Like a jigsaw puzzle.”

“A puzzle?”

“A puzzle with a million different pieces that never actually seem to fit together. Tell her that if she can solve the puzzle then she can go home. If she doesn’t complete the puzzle within the day though it will reset and she’ll be forced to start all over again. It’ll keep her busy and out of the way until you have need of her.”

“I love that devious little mind of yours.” Peter kissed me once more. We strolled back over to the bound Wendy as Peter explained his terms. A spark of hope flickered in Wendy’s eyes and she readily agreed. She was taken to the Echo Caves to stay and Peter conjured the puzzle. I nabbed a piece and stuffed it in my pocket. A personal assurance that even if she somehow did ever get close she would never have an actual chance of completing it.

---

(Previous) (Next)

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Out Tonight (Part 2)

K!nktober 2020 Kink Bingo!: Papi

<- Part 1 | Part 3 ->

Summary: After a night of karaoke, Barba teaches you some Spanish, gives you some slightly patronizing advice, and follows you up to your hotel room. (Lo siento por mi español. Por favor dime si cometí algún error!)

Rafael Barba x female reader

Warning: NSFW/18+, Dub-con!! Everyone is enthusiastically willing, but also super drunk.

For @thatesqcrush​’s kink bingo!

6,089 words

“So… Rafael Barba,” you changed the subject away from today’s trial. His failure to get a conviction had sent him into such a steep emotional spiral he cried in your arms at the bar, despite having just met you an hour ago. “That’s Spanish, right?”

The vulnerability in his eyes flattened. “Cuban,” he said, already bracing for the “but you don’t look Latino” comments, or worse, something about rafts or cigars. Instead your eyes got wide like he just ripped off a mask and revealed himself to be David Bowie.

“Cool!”

“I… guess?” There were eighty thousand Cuban-Americans living in New York, but sure.

“Hablar… I mean, hablas español?”

“Sí, lo hablo,” he answered with wry amusement, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You chewed your lip in thought before slowly saying, “Aprendí un poco de español en la escuela, y lo me gusta mucho.”

His brow raised. You actually knew more than he expected, which is to say, you could string more than two words together. “Not bad. Toda mi familia es de Cuba, así que el español es mi lengua materna. Soy el primer estadounidense.”

He spoke faster, at a natural pace, expecting you to follow, but when your eyes glazed over and you awkwardly squeaked out, “...Qué?” it became clear you did not, in fact, speak Spanish.

“Let’s stick to English,” he grimaced.

You whined in disappointment. “But that was so hot! Please? Un poco más. Dime algo en español!”

“Algo.”

An unflattering snort erupted from your nostrils, and you started giggling like a manic school girl. Barba shook his head with second-hand embarrassment, though a smile crept over his lips as you continued struggling to contain yourself, pleased at how well his bad joke had gone over.

“Come on, teach me something,” you pouted, leaning towards him, pushing your chest out. “Por favor… papi?”

He choked on his drink so hard burning whisky shot up his nose. “Ay, dios!” He pounded his chest and ordered a water. “OK, OK, bueno,” he put up his hands in defeat. “Hablaré en español. Solo para ti, mamita. Te gusta?”

“Mucho, papi.” You were taking advantage of calling him that now that you’d seen his reaction. He didn’t nearly die this time, but a red blush was sweeping up his neck under his shirt collar. Emboldened, he leaned toward you, eyes heavily lidded as he flirtatiously held your gaze.

“Tienes novio?”

“A husband? Do I look married?” you flipped your ringless left hand back and front and worried about your age.

He laughed, raising a hand to his forehead with his palm shading his eyes. “That would be esposo.”

“Oh. Right.” Your face darkened. “No, yo soy… single.”

“Estás soltera,” he prompted.

“Ah, gracias. Estoy soltera. Y tú?” you tilted your face down shyly and looked up at him through your lashes. “Tienes esposo? O novia?”

“Nope,” he popped the p, staring into the empty bottom of his scotch glass and wishing he hadn’t decided to cut himself off. The sip of water he took was boring and not numbly soothing at all. He had been single for a depressingly long time, in fact.

“Muy bien,” you smiled with delight, and he suddenly realized his years of failure at relationships were, tonight, a positive. It was the answer a very beautiful woman was hoping for. He may have been suffering from a string of humiliating losses, but winning you over reawakened his cocky self-assurance.

“Acércate.” He curled his finger to beckon you closer, and you swung onto his lap. God, you were so close. Your body fit so perfectly in his arms and you smelled like strawberry lemonade from that cocktail. Before he could help it, he was kissing you again. Softer and a little less desperate this time. A little more… something else. He just met you, but the way you made him feel cared about was stronger than he had ever felt, depressing as that was to admit. The one time he had put his whole heart into a relationship, he’d had it shattered so badly he was still picking up the pieces. Since then, he chose relationships that were mutually guarded, partners he knew he would never connect with, and who didn’t expect anything back. Barba did not open up to people. He’d never let himself cry on anyone before, except his abuelita. He must have been extremely drunk to let his guard down so much, but he pushed the realization out of mind as your fingers curled through his hair around the back of his head and pulled him deeper, your strawberry tongue slipping between his bitter lips. He wanted this. He needed it. He felt so close to you, so right—that was all that mattered.

He started whispering to you in Spanish between kisses, phrases you couldn’t understand, some that you got the gist of. He cringed a little at your attempts to reply in his first language, but kissed you more softly each time. You were trying, at least. You were trying very hard to understand a piece of him. The phrases he murmured against your lips grew progressively more filthy, which your keen ears picked up on even if you weren’t entirely sure what they meant.

“Como se dice, ‘fuck me harder’?” you asked in a low voice full of lust, fingers tightening against his scalp.

“...damelo más duro,” he said with a shudder. His cock twitched and he wondered if you’d noticed the growing erection pressed against your thigh as you sat in his lap. What you would think. But you must have noticed, and you weren’t moving to get away from him.

“Damelo duro, papi,” you purred, leaning to say it into his ear, your breath warm and tickling.

He swallowed, heart hammering in his chest. Barba, always so eloquent under pressure in court, could barely form words to express a coherent thought. You were just joking. You must have been. To you it was a foreign language, and it didn’t sound like a real request to your ears. This was just a flirty game, teaching you naughty Spanish. “Y-you are… getting into dangerous territory here,” he tried to laugh jokingly, but his throat was dry. He swallowed again.

You lowered your voice and your eyelids. “I mean it,” you whispered against the shell of his ear. To punctuate your point, you rolled your hips, deliberately grinding your inner thigh against his forming erection. He was so wildly aroused with alcohol he thought he would come right there, but its effects were also preventing him from getting completely hard yet, something he should probably have been concerned about, but wasn’t.

“Would you like to go somewhere?” he said, voice strained with urgency. “I would very much like to go somewhere immediately and fuck your brains out, please. If that’s… alright with you.”

***

The streets of Midtown were as bright and crowded as they were during the day, just a little less hurried—except for two people. You held Barba’s large hand, long elegant fingers laced with yours, laughing giddily in the warm summer air as you raced toward your hotel, stopping only to desperately kiss each other, fingers in each other’s hair, reigniting the flames that pulled you together.

Barba broke away panting, his lips wet with your saliva. The fresh air had a sobering effect, and something serious occurred to him. He had been animated and outgoing all night at the bar, but he suddenly very much resembled the shrewd lawyer whose picture you had seen in a news article. You felt like you’d been called to the principal’s office under the severity of his gaze, waiting for whatever it was he had to say.

“Did you take any pictures of us together?”

“I… might have taken a few selfies,” you admitted, terrified you’d committed a heinous faux pas.

“Good,” he said. “Do you have location data enabled? You should send those to someone you trust, along with the time you left the bar, and where we’re going.”

Gears in your head turned slowly to put together an intelligible response. You opened your mouth and declared, “...whuh?”

“You’re out drinking alone, taking a stranger home!” he gripped your shoulders as if to shake you. “Do you know how many cases never get off the ground because there’s no ID, no proof the victim and assailant were ever in the same room? Those photos would establish a timeline and a suspect, and would be enough for a warrant. Do you know what I would give to have evidence like that in every case? A lot more rapists would go to jail.”

“Are you… saying you’re a rapist?” you said slowly, cocking your head.

He stiffened, mentally replaying his own words. His eyes darted to the side, up, down, and three other directions in rapid succession. “N-no… But you have no way of knowing that. You’re too trusting. No matter how charming someone seems, it’s better to be paranoid and take precautions.”

“Uh-huh. Real charming. You know, it’s creepy telling someone that right before you’re going to sleep with them. How do you say that in Spanish?”

He groaned and looked so crestfallen it impressed upon you how much horror he must deal with every day, prosecuting special victims cases in the big city. How much that weighed on him and made him see nothing but worst-case scenarios around every corner. It didn’t seem so strange now that he was single—it must be impossible to connect with anyone when you live like that.

“I just… want you to be safe,” he said quietly, eyes down. A swelling of sympathy flooded your heart, and formed a lump in your throat. Before you could think twice, you’d pulled him into your arms.

“I feel very safe with you, Rafael.” Your words drew a tiny, strangled noise from his chest, and his grip around you tightened.

The mood had shifted catastrophically, to the point that it seemed unlikely a one-night stand was in your future any longer. Barba walked slowly by your side, lost in reflective silence. Sex or no, you invited him up to your hotel room. You would never get enough of being around him, and couldn’t bear to say goodbye, even if you were only sitting up talking of somber issues late into the night.

But by the time the elevator doors closed, leaving you completely alone together for the first time, your libidos overpowered the gloom and his hands were all over your body, his mouth hot and fervent against your throat. You moaned wantonly, confident in the privacy the elevator afforded as it whisked you upward toward the eleventh floor. You slipped your hands inside his jacket, feeling his solid pectoral muscles stretching his shirt, and he cupped a hand between your legs, kneading the crotch of your pants. Even through your jeans, it sparked a fire that sizzled through your whole body. You pulled at his back, drawing more of his weight against you.

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. Several cleaning ladies stared unimpressed as you and Barba quickly unhanded each other, stood straighter, and tried to pretend you were dignified professionals just riding an elevator together and definitely not almost having sex in there.

They were far more used to seeing this sort of thing than you were, judging by their almost bored eye rolls, but as you passed them on your way into the hall, one of them muttered something in rapid Spanish that made the other women giggle and Barba trip over his feet, face neon red, and look down at the front of his pants which were sporting a very conspicuous tent.

“Madre de Dios,” he groaned.

Shoulders convulsing with laughter, you took his arm and led him to room, uh… You fumbled in your purse for your room key with the number written on it.

“This is my first time doing this,” you confessed as the magnetic lock clicked and the light on the door changed from red to green.

“Having sex?”

“With someone I just met. In a bar!” you teased, turning the handle.

Part of you wondered when both of you were going to wake up and realize you were acting like horny teenagers—that you shouldn’t be doing this. But you hoped you wouldn’t, at least not until morning. You weren’t nervous. If you had been introspective that night, that would have surprised you the most. The whole confident, sexy Mimi Márquez, Out Tonight act was just a character you put on for karaoke to get psyched up and out of your shell. If you had been questioning yourself, you would have wondered how a shy good girl was having a one-night stand with a handsome Manhattan lawyer wearing a suit that cost more than your mortgage and not having an anxiety attack. But you weren’t questioning yourself, and you weren’t nervous. You looked in his intelligent eyes that were as pale as the underside of a silver maple leaf or dark as a dense hemlock grove depending on the lighting, and you simply wanted him.

***

He followed you into the dark hotel room, which was disappointingly small and shoddy for how expensive it was, so you left the lights off to preserve some mystery. The city glowed through the window brighter than a full moon, anyway. Barba pulled off his suit jacket, tossing it recklessly aside as he prowled toward you. Almost immediately, he thought better of this and found the heap of designer fabric on the floor next to the sandals you had kicked off, picked it up, smoothed it out, and carefully folded it over the back of an office chair at the little desk. He removed his tie and did the same.

You grinned behind your hand. Changing tunes so quickly from ravenously horny to prim—it didn’t surprise you that a guy who dressed as sharply as he did would have his priorities on wrinkle-avoidance even in the heat of the moment. It might have rubbed you as snobbish if it wasn’t so funny.

When he returned to you, his back was to the window, so you couldn’t make out the expression on his shadowed face, but the silhouettes of his shoulders were tense and his voice sheepish as if expecting a rebuke. “Sorry. I couldn’t leave it there. It’s a Brioni and—”

You slid your fingers under the pink-striped suspenders at both shoulders, closed your fists around them, and tugged. He lurched forward, and you caught his lips with yours. Letting out a surprised moan, he closed his eyes, and wrapped his arms around you, grateful you weren’t accusing him of vanity. You held firm to the elastic bands like a leash on him, pulling him closer when you wanted to deepen the contact until he was so enraptured he needed no extra encouragement to shove his tongue between your lips as they parted, his hands roaming your sides, your hair, and over the swell of your bottom, grabbing a handful.

“You really do… have the best ass… below 14th street,” he said devilishly, in between crushing his hungry mouth against yours.

Running down the length of his suspenders, your hands took a tour of his entire torso, enjoying the firm bulk of his chest, and the softness of his belly. You liked that there was something to love there. Gym rats with nothing but hard muscle were painfully dull. His stomach twitched ticklishly at your probing touch and he broke away from your lips to protest, so you continued your suspender tour all the way to the bottom, where the leather straps attached the elastic bands to his pants. His hips rocked forward, and his clothed cock pressed into your thigh. You let out a sultry breath and pushed your own hips back against him, lining him up against your clit to ignite a burning, tempting pressure between you. You couldn’t even kiss him. Your mouth hung slack, and all you could focus on was the friction of his hard cock against your aching cunt. You had to get out of these clothes.

“Bed. Now,” you huffed.

“Yeah.”

As he toed off his leather shoes, you slipped his suspenders off his shoulders and were slightly disappointed this did not immediately make his pants fall off. He climbed on top of the blanket, and you climbed onto his lap, throwing a leg over his hips.

An impressively sized hand with a vein meandering across it curled around that tempting leg, palming the tight denim stretched over your thighs. The hand rode up, found the bottom hem of your blouse and dove under it. You shivered as warm fingertips crested over your jeans and found your waiting skin.

“Are you okay with this?” he rasped, eyes flicking across your face.

“Keep going,” you nodded, the prickles of your skin screaming in protest at the thought that he might stop. His hand worked up your side, exploring new territory under your shirt. Every point of contact sent warm waves vibrating out to your most intimate parts. You lowered your mouth to his and your lips melted against his, pussy soaking through your underwear as you felt his body respond beneath you. His clever fingers found the band of your bra and inched over the fabric.

“Is this alright?” he paused his advance to check in again.

You leaned close and whispered, “I want you to touch me, papi,” darting your tongue just below his ear, and rolling your hips over his cock again. “Touch me everywhere.”

He growled, deep and throaty and thick with lust, his own hips bucking up to grind himself against yours. With your carte blanche permission given, a switch flipped inside him and he dove in, roughly palming your breasts with both hands, rolling the fat and finding your hardened nipples through your bra cups. Even through the thicker fabric, his thumbs circled and pinched the sensitive peaks hard enough that you whimpered with every sensation. Your hips were moving without your leave, desperately driving against his cock while your hands quickly worked to unbutton the front of your shirt. He had become an animal, his eyes unfocused, breathing heavy, lost in voracious need.

“S-slow down,” you tried asking, wondering if he would—if he could at this point, despite all his earlier talk of consent.

His hands were off you in an instant, and he was apologizing and asking if you were OK.

“Just testing your off switch,” you smirked as you finished the final button, and your blouse opened up. Marveling at the man beneath your legs, you unhooked the front clasp of your bra and felt his cock stir at the naked sight of you. Any lingering uncertainty was gone—you managed to score the most principled lay in all of New York sitting by himself in a karaoke bar, and you trusted him completely. “Since I already know your on switch, don’t I papi?”

He swore in Spanish, some excitingly lusty expressions you would have to take note of later.

“What was it again? Cómo se dice...” you teased, tapping your index finger against your lips in thought. You watched his pupils widen as you pinched your finger between your teeth. “Oh yeah. Damelo, papi. Damelo duro.”

Hearing those words from your perfect sensuous lips drove him wild. Grabbing your hips, he rolled you onto your back, swapping positions. His fevered mouth pressed wet kisses all over your exposed skin, heated breath dancing over your neck as his tongue flicked out to taste you. You reached down to curl your fingers into his thick, dark hair. He pushed your breasts, which had fallen to the sides, back together and ran his tongue through the cleavage. You drew in a sharp breath. “Just like that, papi,” you moaned. He took a nipple in his mouth, sucking and circling his tongue over it until your cunt was pulsating and your breath coming out in hard, ragged whimpers, then pinched it between his teeth, drawing a yelp of pleasure mixed with pain. You yanked at his hair and your hips bucked jerkily. Your core ached with emptiness, longing to be filled by his cock. You wrapped your legs around his lower back and pulled his hips down against you to feel more of him. The strangled noises in his throat were practically feral as his clothed sex rutted up against you, valiantly striving to be inside you through your pants. His mouth sloppily devoured your breasts until they were burned raw from his stubble.

He released your nipple with a wet noise and sat up to free his straining erection from his pants. The latching mechanism didn’t seem particularly hard, but after nearly a minute of fumbling he had made very little progress, and you held up a hand and told him to stop.

He whined and gave you puppy dog eyes, but did as you asked. “Is this another test?”

“No. It’s just… those pants are not that complicated.”

His head tipped in confusion.

“You’re really drunk, aren’t you?” You were tipsy yourself, but considering you could at least manage buttons, you had a sudden, sinking realization that he was far more incapacitated than you. He was so well-spoken and thoughtful you hadn’t noticed, but he was a lawyer—staying controlled and eloquent was his job. You might have been drunk, but he was drunk drunk. “If we have sex right now I think that would make me a predator.”

He frowned, cock still straining against the binds of his pants. “Technically, in New York state, being intoxicated does not invalidate sexual consent.”

“Don’t you lawyer this! I don’t care what’s technically legal—you are way too drunk. And I don’t want you waking up with regrets.”

His shoulders fell, because he knew you were right. It was a law he considered a glaring loophole, and he admired you for doing the right thing, but ¡maldita sea! he wished you were just a little less ethical. Deep down he knew he wouldn’t be doing this if he were in full command of himself tonight. But that was why he was so desperate to do it now. He would never let himself go again, not for a long time, and he would miss out on experiencing an intense—if ultimately not real—connection with someone. He would miss out on getting to be with you.

“Well...” you hesitated, watching the disappointment in his eyes displace what had moments ago been confidence and excitement, and tormented by your own unsatisfied ache. “I mean, we can still fool around, right?”

He laid his body down alongside you, his breath still coming in hot, shallow pants. His comforting weight settling beside you on the soft hotel mattress stirred up the coiling insistent heat between your legs. “Is this OK?” he whispered, voice heavy with lust. Blood pounded in your ears as his hand slipped under your waistband.

“Y-yeah, that’s OK,” you nodded. A compromise. It wasn’t sex. Technically.

Trapped tightly between your skin and your jeans, his fingers reached your slit, spreading it with surprising deftness to find your clit. Waves of pleasure exploded through your body as he pressed an irresistible finger to it, making your thighs spasm and lift off the mattress as you bit back a sinful cry. You were almost screaming from just one touch. The sound of throbbing blood in your ears was deafening, and your cunt throbbed in time with it to an unbearable tempo. God, you wanted him to fuck you with his cock.

He drew in a shaking breath as he observed your response, his lust-clouded eyes boring into you with a hint of the keen perceptiveness he used in court. He risked probing deeper, pushing a long digit farther into your panties, dragging it through your pussylips as you squirmed beneath him, then drew it back, dripping, to circle your clit, and smiled as you clamped a hand over your mouth to keep a neighbor-waking vocalization in check. You were soaking wet for him, and it made his erection strain jealously against the closure of his slacks. It had been too long, since he’d allowed himself time for anything other than work. It was almost unbearable having someone moan for him and not be able to fuck them. But you said no, so he focused on what you would allow him to do—on giving you the most earthshaking orgasm you’d ever experienced.

The tightness of your jeans was too restrictive, and you quickly unbuttoned them and zipped them down. “My papi’s fingers feel so good,” you groaned. “I want more of them.”

“You feel… so good,” he answered, lowering his mouth to yours for a fervent, but surprisingly tender kiss as he moved his fingertips over your swollen, stimulated cunt. He traced over your dripping entrance, and pressed in just the tip of one finger, leaving you gasping for more. He withdrew from your pants and brought his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean, his eyes closing as he savored it. “You taste good, too,” he whispered low and gravelly, almost a growl, though not one you would describe as predatory. There was no danger lurking behind those perceptive eyes—the thrill he gave you had a different source. Your tongue darted over his, dipping into his mouth to taste yourself on his broad tongue.

“Is papi going to fuck me with those fingers?” you challenged, enjoying the way his breath hitched every time you called him that. You’d heard it in passing and knew it was something like calling him “daddy,” but you’d never expected it to have such a big effect.

He helped you pull your jeans down below the swell of you ass, not bothering to take them all the way off and interrupt your pleasure any longer. Once he had all the access he needed, he plunged his fingers into you. He observed carefully, gauging your reaction in the way the slick walls of your cunt gripped and twitched around him, and the tone and frequency of your pleading moans. When one finger wasn’t enough, he added a second, satisfied with his judgment as you cried out and arched against him, your hands gripping the blanket at the stretch. “Te gusta, mamita?” he purred, but you were too breathless to give an answer except a throaty carnal whimper.

Adapting himself to your responses, he alternated penetrating you with his fingers and teasing your clit, kissing you hot and fierce, ramping up his intensity to draw louder and louder cries, leaving a trail of wet bruises down your neck. Curling his fingers inside you, he hit a sweet spot that made your legs begin to tremble. You wailed uninhibited and raw, too overwhelmed with pleasure to try to rile him with another “papi.” He sucked your pulse point under your ear, savoring the feeling of your blood racing beneath his lips. Knowing how turned you were, how much he was affecting you was so deliciously invigorating to his ego. As easily as he could command a courtroom, he’d never had the same confidence in his body. Past lovers would say he had perfect technique, but no soul, no intuition for what a they needed—but here you were, cunt twitching on his fingers, moaning over and over for him.

Your eyes kept closing to focus on what he was doing between your thighs, but when they opened you saw how intensely he was watching you. The arousal on his face as he watched was intoxicating. You had never seen such anyone look at you with such wanton lust, and it heightened your excitement.

“Rafael… Raf—oh, fuck,” you hissed, jerking your hips up to deepen the penetration. “Keep going... deeper!”

“Dime, ‘más profundo,’” he ordered softly, but confidently.

“M-más profundo, papi.”

“Eres buena estudiante,” he praised, a smile lighting his eyes as he sank his fingers deeper with enthusiasm. You were getting close, the fire singing between your thighs blossoming outward through your entire body but always coiling tighter in your core, building an unbearable tension that threatened to break you. He rocked his hips, and the heat twisted tighter at the feeling of his iron-hard cock grinding against you.

You squeezed your hand between your two bodies, groping blindly down his stomach until you found his pants and the massive tent he was pushing into your leg. You grasped the hard outline of his cock, squeezing it and working it through his clothes. He drew a sharp breath and for a moment the rhythmic thrusting of his fingers stuttered and paused. His hemlock-green eyes were black with arousal as they examined you. Then he rocked his hips, thrusting into your palm with a low groan, and his fingers pumped into you again with renewed vigor.

“Que buena chica eres… Just like that,” he croaked. His breathing was growing ragged, he was starting to fall apart with your hand working his cock.

He adjusted his weight to free his other hand, stroking the side of your face as he pressed a passionate kiss to your lips. His thumb kneaded your cheeks as they smiled against his mouth and went slack with lust. His mouth wandered lower, teasing your collar bone with light nips to make you yelp and sigh, then bending to take a mouthful of breast. He withdrew his two slick fingers from the depths of your cunt and circled your clit slowly, gently—then fast and rough as he sucked at a hardened nipple, drawing a shattered gasp from your throat. You rubbed his cock frantically, trying to repay some small amount of the pleasure he was giving you. When he plunged his fingers back inside, he added a third, and you moaned at the added fullness—at being stuffed tight, almost too much for you to handle, an intense pleasure threaded through with pain.

“Oh, fuck,” you cried out, eyes rolling back as you felt your climax build, every nerve ending in your body on fire.

“Is that a good fuck, or a bad fuck?”

“Good,” you stammered, barely holding yourself together. “Don’t stop, papi, I’m almost there.” The hint of pain faded into pure bliss as you imagined it was his cock splitting you open.

His eyes gleamed wickedly as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, watching you come undone with every stroke. This horrible week, he had felt so helpless, useless. It made him doubt himself. But this—this he had control over. Your body. Your arousal. Everything that had fallen apart wasn’t his fault; it was because of circumstances outside his authority to influence. When he was given complete control, this was his effect. He could get any result he wanted, elicit any twitch of your cunt, any moan from your lips, and have you singing in ecstasy just from his fingers. Imagine if you let him fuck you, the songs he could have you singing then.

He angled his hand so his palm was rubbing against your clit as he thrust, and he could tell you were riding the edge of the precipice by the helpless mewling whimpers pouring from your lips with increased fervor, how your walls began to invite him deeper, taking more of him until he was buried three knuckles deep and you were still bucking your hips to intensify each thrust, starving for more. His own hips began rocking at a frantic pace into your hand.

“Rafael… Oh, Rafael,” you moaned. You loved the shape of his name in your mouth. It was like you weren’t even strangers, the more you said it. For him, it would have been too personal for a casual hookup most nights, but for some reason it turned him on even more than when you called him papi.

“Ven conmigo,” he urged softly, his hips stroking at a delirious pace that did not match his calm tone. You didn’t recognize what it meant, but the sound of Spanish rolling over his tongue mixed with the wet lewd noises of his fingers fucking you drove you to the edge.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna...” Your voice broke.

He ducked his head back to your chest and drew a nipple between his teeth, sucking hard just as you came over the precipice and pushing you off it with a violent shove until you wailed out loud, careening into a free-fall steeper and farther than you’d prepared for, your back arching and your walls crashing around his fingers, clenching and convulsing around them.

“Open your eyes,” he said. “Look at me.” You could hear the lawyer in his voice—controlled, assertive. Not quite a command, but your eyes fluttered open obediently. Holding eye contact while your body was being rocked by wave upon wave of fierce climax was too intimate, but he repeated his request low and soft as a tiger’s purr. Your met his gaze and held it. The look of lust on his face, his lips softly parted, lower lip quivering, renewed the strength of your orgasm and sent another shockwave coursing through you.

He kept pumping into you through your orgasm, riding out the aftershocks, until your legs were shaking and weak. The sensation of you coming on his fingers turned him on so much, he only needed to rock into your hand once more, flick his tongue over your breast, and he lost control. He was not vocal as you were as his thighs trembled with his own release, but his hips slowed, and then stopped, their desperate thrusting, and you felt a warm, wet spot soak through the front of his pants. Your gasping cries were stochastic and desperate now, overstimulated—you pushed his hand out of your underwear to stop his relentless fingers, and he rolled off of you heavily.

Laying back on the soft pile of hotel pillows, he slowed his breathing, then sucked his fingers clean one by one with a lascivious growl of pleasure. You watched him, shivering with fascination, and he glanced back at you with a piercing gaze. “I want to fuck you next time. Por favor, déjame a cogerte.”

Next time. You turned away, your cheeks burning up. You never assumed there would be a next time to this, but your heart wouldn’t stop beating at the thought.

“Next time sounds good. That was…” You turned back to praise him, but his eyes were already closed, and a light snore was emanating from his nose. “...Amazing, you lightweight.”

The dizzying effect of all the booze was catching up alarmingly quickly now that you were spent. After the strenuous effort of tugging the blanket out from under Barba so you could tuck it over him, you were completely worn out, and within a minute you were fast asleep as well, cuddled under his arm, your chests rising and falling in unison.

[talabib]

How to Break Free From The 9 to 5 Grind And Find A More Meaningful Life.

What did you do last week? Was each day about getting up, going to work and coming home exhausted?

Is your house filled with gadgets and toys meant to distract you from the dreadfulness of those 50-, 60- or 70-hour work weeks?

In case you haven’t realized this for yourself, there’s little happiness to be found in devoting your life to a job that only provides you with a paycheck. And to make matters worse, the meaningless things we buy to make the job easier to cope with only serve to clutter up our lives and cause more anxieties and distractions.

As these post points out, it’s time to reprogram our minds and bodies away from the corporate culture of fast-food, disposable goods and instant gratification. With some simple techniques and a bit of effort, you can reclaim your life, declutter it of all that’s hollow and useless, and refill it with meaning and purpose.

Money and stressful jobs are not keys to happiness.

Many people grow up with the expectation that getting “a good job” is everything. From this perspective, true “success” is based on how good the job is – which is largely dependent upon the size of the paycheck. But the truth is: money doesn't buy happiness.

Even rich people will tell you that more money comes with more problems, including being so stressed that you resort to comfort eating, waste money on meaningless gadgets and constantly think about the future while never enjoying the present.

Success often comes at another great cost: very few hours to spend with loved ones. Hired help raises many children from families of success-oriented adults, just so their parents can spend more time earning money.

So, more often than not, the thing that money really buys is unhappiness. Ask yourself this: Is any stressful job worth having?

Ryan Nicodemus asked this question while working at what many would consider to be a great job. He was even on the rise, getting promoted to a managerial position, but the role came with 80-hour work weeks and huge amounts of responsibility and pressure. What it added up to was debilitating anxiety, stress and depression.

Nowadays, Nicodemus believes there is no amount of money to justify the toll a stressful job has on your mental health. However, when you’re wrapped up in the job-is-everything mentality, it feels like you always need to make more and more money.

Both Nicodemus and his friend, Joshua Fields Millburn, thought they would be happy once they hit $50,000 a year. But after reaching that milestone, the goal quickly crept up to $75,000, then $100,000 and so on. At no point did they feel satisfied.

Part of the reason for wanting more was that, as their paycheck grew, so did their financial commitments and responsibilities – in the form of loans, cars and mortgages. Eventually, enough was enough and they both quit their jobs and decided to live on less money.

It was at this point that Millburn and Nicodemus finally experienced happiness. All thanks to their decision to adopt a minimalist lifestyle of working and consuming less.

But as we’ll see, the minimalist ethos is about more than money and work; it’s about letting go of everything that holds you back.

To begin your shift to minimalism, pay off your debts and declutter your surroundings.

If you were to ask yourself “What are the anchors that are dragging me down?” the answer might not be readily apparent. But there’s a good chance that you have some form of debt, be it a mortgage, credit cards or student loans, that weighs heavily on your well-being.

That’s why the first and most crucial step to minimalist living is to pay off all your debts.

At some point, you may have been fooled by credit-card ads or a banker telling you to take advantage of a certain mortgage, but let’s be clear: there’s no such thing as “good debt.” All debt is bad, plain and simple.

As Joshua Milburn was preparing for a minimalist existence, he followed a strict budget and spent two years saving as much as he could to pay off his debts. This meant a hundred weeks of no vacations, no restaurants and no luxuries of any kind. But it was worth every minute for the relief he felt in finally paying off his debts. He was now free to live the life he wanted.

While you’re decluttering your finances, you should also turn your attention to reducing your material clutter.

First of all, it’s important to recognize that your possessions aren’t a meaningful statement about who you are as a person. Instead, you should ask yourself whether your belongings truly help you live in the present or if they prevent you from doing so.

For decades, Joshua Milburn’s mother had four sealed boxes in her home that she never opened. They contained every scrap of work John had brought home from elementary school, from handwriting tests to drawings.

Millburn understood that she was hoarding these things in an effort to hold on to her little boy, but the cherished and meaningful things in life aren’t objects, they’re our memories and relationships. This doesn’t mean you need to throw away everything, but Milburn’s mom could keep one meaningful drawing in a frame rather than four sealed-up boxes.

By decluttering, we not only give ourselves more physical breathing room, but we also provide more mental breathing room. Having objects everywhere vying for our attention can easily weigh us down mentally.

Minimalism is also about reducing the amount of junk you put into your body.

There’s no shortage of diets or fitness programs out there. In fact, the sheer amount can seem overwhelming. But you can avoid trendy diets and temporary fixes by reprogramming the way you think about your body.

From now on, think of it as a machine: when you give it high-quality fuel, you’ll allow it to perform at its maximum potential. With this frame of mind, it should seem obvious that junk food, like processed and prepackaged goods, should be avoided.

This kind of food is full of additives and preservatives that add zero nutritional value to your diet. All they provide are empty calories, especially sugar, which are terrible for your health. Sure, these foods may taste good in the moment, but they can often make you feel awful afterward. So any temporary pleasure is far outweighed by the long-term damage they can cause to both your physical health and your mood.

A good decluttering regimen should also include dairy and bread. We’ve been eating wheat and pasteurized milk for a relatively short period in human history – only since the invention of agriculture. Our bodies were never designed to digest the vast quantities of dairy and bread contained in the average modern diet.

So, whether you have a gluten or lactose intolerance or not, you can benefit from cutting back on these foods and replacing them with natural whole foods like vegetables, fish and beans. Once you’ve made this adjustment to your diet, you’ll soon find yourself with a surplus of energy. And this is a good thing to have for the next step: getting the most out of your body.

Fitness is something that works best when you have a constant growth mind-set, which means you’re always aiming for more than last time – whether it’s a faster running time, more repetitions or heavier weights.

To adopt this mind-set, you need to demand more from yourself. To help make this happen, you can reprogram your thinking away from “I should...” to “I MUST...”

Don’t tell yourself “I should go out jogging three times this week;” instead say “I MUST go for a run tomorrow at 8 a.m.” With some persistence, you can even make yourself accomplish new things.

Maybe you can’t do a single pull-up now, but you can probably hang from the bar for 30 seconds. So, do that and then tomorrow, hang for 40 seconds, and then continue doing more until you build up enough arm strength to do a pull-up.

Change and improvement don’t have to impact your authenticity; they can lead to better relationships.

Friends and loved ones are important. If you’re currently feeling isolated or unhappy with your relationships, it may be time for another round of reprogramming, this time to become more accepting of others as well as appearing more acceptable to others. The first step to making this happen is to have a willingness to change.

It’s hopeless to try and change other people – in fact, it’s cruel to even attempt to do so – but it is possible to improve yourself.

However, you may be resistant to the idea of change if you think that there’s nothing wrong with being your “authentic self.” But it’s important to take an honest look at your behavior and recognize when you’re doing something that upsets people or is a turnoff.

If you’re unhappy about being shy, a poor listener or overweight, don’t think “that’s who I am.” Instead, do something about it and be proactive in your self-improvement.

Changing yourself isn’t betraying your authenticity; it’s simply a way to attract better relationships. Would you rather be lonely or would you rather work on yourself so that you’re a better conversationalist and a more appealing person?

Another avenue toward self-improvement is to be more accepting of those with different opinions than your own.

Don’t think that you’re meant to find someone who thinks and shares the same opinions as you – this is just another fallacy. Relationships aren’t about hobbies and tastes; they’re about love, so you should accept that people are going to think differently than you.

If more people were open-minded about whom they hang out with, there would be far fewer lonely people in the world!

So, don’t just tolerate and accept your loved ones' peculiar habits; respect and appreciate them!

Let’s say your loved one has a hobby you find annoying, like collecting action figures. After all, isn’t a silly collection the opposite of minimalist living? Actually no, especially if they get a lot of meaning and pleasure out of that collection. So don’t deter them; understand that the collection enriches your partner’s life and therefore should be cherished as part of what makes them the person you love.

With this in mind, here are the four steps to help you better tolerate, accept, respect and appreciate the person you’re with:

Tolerate their unique hobby or passion;

Accept that it will always be there;

Respect the effort your partner puts into their pastime;

Appreciate the hobby as a part of your life because it is an important part of your loved one’s life.

Don't let work define you as a person.

Just as we saw the importance of breaking away from the idea that money and work are the most important things in life, so too should we avoid thinking that our jobs define us.

Think of it this way: You’re a complicated person with a variety of interests and talents, some of which make money, some of which cost money. So you’re far more than just your job. Nevertheless, it's easy to fall into the trap of letting your job title define you.

Many people will find a job in a certain industry and feel they should stick with that industry for the rest of their lives as if it's a part of who they are. But remember, a job is just a job. In fact, your job might even be an anchor that weighs you down.

Consider this: your job isn’t even one of the top five most important aspects of life. Those are: your health, your relationships, your passions, your personal growth, and your contribution to society.

These are the aspects of your life that make sense to measure yourself against, not your job title or how much money you make.

This is why you should avoid the annoying small-talk question of “So, what do you do?” This is often asked early on in a conversation as if it were the most important characteristic of someone’s life and not just a different way of asking, “So, how much money do you make?” Instead, why not ask them, “What are you into?” or “What are you passionate about?”

And if someone asks you, “What do you do?” you can redirect the conversation by saying something like “Oh, I do a lot of things, but my current passion is gardening. How about you?”

For more freedom, reduce your dependency on money.

One of the primary purposes behind minimalism is to spend less of your life working at a job. Naturally, this means finding ways to become less dependent on a big paycheck.

There are a number of ways to help with this, including learning how to make things yourself rather than buying them, and selling off the needless clutter in your home. But the next reprogramming you should learn is how to live on a small income.

The first step here is to create a monthly budget and stick to it. So start by making a list of needs, which includes all your fundamental household costs, such as food, pet food, gas, electricity, insurance and transportation. These are basic needs that have to be met, so there’s no getting around them.

Next, start a second list of wants, which might include categories like new clothes and entertainment. Now, at the start of each month, separate your extra money so that both of these categories are given a budget. And to make sure you don’t break the budget, you can separate them into different spending accounts.

Remember, every dollar in the budget should be accounted for. So, if you dip into the entertainment budget to buy new shoes, you’ll have to wait until next month to go out to that restaurant.

To reduce hard feelings and make things fair, get the entire household to agree on the budget. Since everyone has a say, there should be a feeling of mutual responsibility for making it work. For example, by making the kids part of the process, they’ll know not to bother trying to get extra money for video games when that money is being set aside for school supplies. But it’s still wise to set up a safety net.

Once you get yourself set up, you’ll find that it isn’t hard to live comfortably with less money, but that doesn’t mean life won’t surprise you with something unexpected, like an illness or the car breaking down.

This is why it’s smart and sensible to establish a safety net of at least $500 to $1,000 at first. You should not only do this as soon as possible, but you should also put the money in a place where it isn’t easy to spend.

Once you're out of debt, you can add to this safety net. And with your new found powers of budgeting, you’ll find that this fund can grow quite quickly.

Make life more rewarding and purposeful by taking on difficult work that contributes to society.

So you’ve cut all your anchors and are finally free from your dependencies. The only question now is: What are you going to do with your newfound freedom?

Sure, you have your new plans to get healthy, fit and friendly, but you won’t get far without a strong purpose in your life. And true purpose only comes from a meaningful life that allows you to actively contribute to society.

You might think that donating money to a charity means doing enough for society, but you can only have it be meaningful and purposeful if you’re directly involved.

What you’re sure to find is that the most rewarding activities are the ones that are the most challenging.

Some activities are easy, like reading in the park or swimming in the pool, and while easy activities are fun, they aren’t very purposeful.

Challenging activities, on the other hand, might make us feel uncomfortable while we’re in the middle of them, but afterward, they make us feel fantastic. This can include child rearing or running a marathon – there are a lot of difficulties involved, but the rewards make these efforts feel worthwhile, and they become the most significant experiences in our lives.

That’s why these are the kind of events we should seek and build our lives with, especially when we don’t just contribute to our lives but to society as a whole.

Fortunately, there is no shortage of charities looking for volunteers for this kind of meaningful work, whether it’s building affordable homes for the poor or turning vacant lots into community gardens. This is tough work, but it’ll be extremely rewarding when you’re looking back on it.

You can still make these tasks fun, too. If you’re building homes for the needy, there’s a good chance some days will be rainy or cold, and morale might take a dip, but you could rally together to sing songs. Or you could have an emergency supply of hot chocolate with marshmallows.

But unlike a cushy office job, where you may not even understand how your work contributes anything of value, this difficult work comes with a strong sense of purpose that will make your days a lot easier to get through – no matter how bad the conditions might get.

You are not your job, and you don’t need as much money as you think. You can restart your life by dispensing with all the “stuff’ you don’t need and the relationships that are dragging you down. Living simply will help you open up to and relish a more meaningful life.

[unfolded73]

Top Five (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

Reaction fic to 6x06. David and Patrick discuss the possibility of a threesome, and sexy time ensues. Rated Explicit, 3150 words. (AO3)

Other Season 6 reaction fics: 6x01, 6x02, 6x04

NOTE: This fic doesn't definitively say whether David and Patrick are ever going to incorporate a third into their sex life. It is pro-threesome as a healthy thing that a committed couple might do, however, so if that's not your thing, don't read.

__________________

The first several seconds after they were back in the car were quiet. Patrick pulled away from Jake’s building, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “So that was an orgy,” he finally said, his voice flat.

“Mmm. A sex party of some sort, yes, it would seem,” David said. “Not exactly what we were planning on.”

“No. Because we…” Patrick felt the need to say it out loud without euphemisms about whiskey. “We were planning on a threesome.”

He felt David’s hand patting his thigh before it settled, heavy and warm. “We were planning on only doing what we were both comfortable with and no more.”

Patrick didn’t find that as comforting as David probably intended it to be. “I wish I knew what I was going to be comfortable with ahead of time. Deciding in the room with you and Jake or… or whoever is sort of a high-pressure situation.”

David didn’t say anything for a few seconds, but Patrick could feel his fiancé’s eyes on him. “You know I would be fine with never… if I find myself old and infirm and on my death bed and haven’t had sex with anyone but you for the entirety of our very successful, multi-decade relationship, that will be totally fine. That will be great. I love our sex life and I don’t need anything else.” He cleared his throat. “But I got the sense that the idea… appealed to you. And if you want to explore something like a threesome, then it’s like any of the other things we’ve tried together in bed. You wanting it makes it something that I’m going to enjoy. Besides, threesomes can be fun.”

“Maybe it would be good if you told me more about… that.” He gave David a sidelong glance. “More about your experiences.”

“Well, most of my experiences have been with a man and a woman? I’ve been with a few women who, once they learned I was pan, suddenly got very thirsty for a threesome with me and another guy.” Patrick rolled to a stop at a stop sign and looked at David’s smirk, and he could see a flicker of pain beneath it. Hints of a time when it seemed like people only wanted him for what they could get from him. “So I did that.” He fluttered his hand as if to dismiss those memories. “But I’ve been with two guys before too.”

“And what did you do?”

“Like, specifically?”

Patrick nodded. “It would help to hear details, I think, maybe to understand why it…” He huffed, frustrated with his difficulty putting it into words. He felt a little bit like he had near the beginning of their relationship, when the sex was new and the idea of what their bodies could do together was somewhat intimidating. It had made it difficult to put his desires into words. Patrick thought he’d mostly gotten over that, but here he was, right back in it. He tried again to verbalize it. “I do find the idea exciting, but also I still feel the way I did when you tried to get me to go out on a date with that guy, Ken — that I only want to be with you. And I’m struggling to reconcile those two conflicting feelings.”

“It’s okay to feel one way about it emotionally and another way about it physically,” David said.

Patrick smirked. “That sounds like maybe it’s just my dick that wants a threesome and I should probably ignore it.”

“Or maybe it should be something we only fantasize about together. Or maybe we should do it, but further down the road. You don’t have to ignore it.” Patrick pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building and turned the car off, turning toward David. “But anyway, as far as details go… sometimes there was just a lot of rolling around and desperate, sloppy handjobs. Or everyone lying on their sides, with two guys rubbing off against each other while the third fucked one of them in the ass. Spit roasting is a classic, of course. I’ve even seen men in, like — sixty-nine is the wrong way to put it, because when there’s three—”

“Okay, okay,” Patrick said, flushing at David’s laundry list of filth. “That’s… okay, I get it.” He pulled on the door handle, opening the door and getting out of the car.

“‘Okay, I get it,’ meaning nope, not for me?” David asked as he followed Patrick into the building and up the stairs.

Patrick focused on putting one foot in front of the other and tried to dissect the intense bolt of desire he’d felt when he pictured what David was describing. Part of it was the transgressiveness of it, of course, and part of it was the way it felt like another way to explore himself as a gay man. But most importantly it felt like another adventure in a series of ongoing adventures with David. A new way to enjoy sex with each other. And new ways to enjoy sex with David had always been intensely exciting when he first approached them.

He still hadn’t responded to David’s question when he was putting the key in the lock.

“Anyway, like I was saying,” David started babbling as he followed Patrick into the apartment and closed the door behind them, “we don’t have to do anything like that, or ever even bring it up again, for me to be totally satisfied in this relationship. So you can just ignore all that stuff I said, it’s fine. It’s, you know, it’s stuff from my past, and—”

Patrick pushed David back against the door, his hand firm on David’s leather-clad shoulder. “David, what you said was really hot.” He leaned in, dragging his nose along David’s neck, inhaling the body moisturizer that David had apparently put on specially, just in case. “I don’t know if I want to do those things, but I definitely want to talk about them more.” He felt his own lips quirk up in a smile against David’s neck. “Maybe now.”

David hummed, a rumble that Patrick felt in David’s throat. “What do you want me to say?”

Patrick bared his teeth, dragging them against the delicate, stubbled skin of David’s throat. “Fuck, you look so hot in all that leather, David.” He reached around and grabbed David’s ass, pulling their groins flush against each other.

“Yeah?” David’s voice was breathy. “You like it?”

Patrick pushed his hips against David’s, the sensation making him weak in the knees. “I love it.”

“I love the way you look in this new shirt,” David whispered, picking up the rhythm of Patrick’s hips.

“Oh yeah?” Patrick asked. “You like the shirt?”

David kissed him, deep and filthy, tongue plunging deep into his mouth. “I don’t care for the shirt itself, but I love the way your body looks in it,” David confessed. He trailed his fingers up Patrick’s arms. “I love every muscle in your arms. I love your shoulders.”

Patrick laughed, thinking about the constant presence of David’s hands on his shoulders. “I know you do.”

David’s hands came down and his fingers pressed against Patrick’s nipples, which were sensitive already from the way the silky fabric had been rubbing against them all night. “Fuck, and your chest. Your chest looks amazing. You’re so sexy.” He slipped a couple of the buttons from their holes, and then bent over enough to bite teasingly at Patrick’s nipple, making his hips thrust forward helplessly.

“You should talk,” Patrick said. “You look so fuckable.”

“I’m trying to look unattainable,” David said with an attempt at an imperious sneer.

“Unattainable by anyone but me.”

“Yes,” David gasped, hips grinding against Patrick’s.

Patrick paused, weighing his words. “Me, or anyone we allow to have access to us,” he said, guessing at what David might find hot about the threesome scenario.

The way David’s pupils widened told Patrick he’d hit the mark. “Yes.”

“If we ever do that, it doesn’t mean I want an open relationship. I don’t,” Patrick said, wanting to make that completely and totally clear, remembering their minor missteps with Ken.

“I don’t either,” David said, and Patrick let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Tell me what you and Jake would do, if we were together right now,” Patrick said.

“We’d want to make you feel good,” David whispered, continuing to unbutton Patrick’s shirt. “Make it a good experience for you.”

“It’s not just for me,” Patrick said, reaching up to shove the leather jacket off of David’s shoulders.

David gave him a crooked smile. “I know. Trust me, I would enjoy it too.”

They pulled their shirts off, pausing the foreplay long enough to get shoes and socks and pants off. For David in his leather pants, undressing required quite a bit of shimmying that Patrick found so amusing that it threatened to derail the mood. Patrick moved over to the bed and David followed, sitting down next to him and pulling him into another kiss. The mood very quickly began barreling down the tracks again.

“How does Jake kiss?” Patrick asked.

He watched as David pondered it, accessing his memories. “He uses his hands a lot, like this,” David said, putting his palms on Patrick’s face, fingers combing through the hair on the back of his head. He tilted Patrick’s head just so before moving in, licking into Patrick’s mouth in a rhythm that felt like fucking. “Would you let him kiss you?”

Patrick blinked, pulling back. They’d talked that afternoon a bit about hypothetical boundaries, but the discussion had focused on things below the belt — that handjobs and oral with a third were tentatively okay, but anal would only be between the two of them. Somehow they hadn’t talked about kissing. “Would that be okay with you?” Patrick asked.

David paused, taking the question seriously, and then nodded. “I think I’d like to watch someone kiss you. I’d like to watch you being kissed.”

Fuck. Patrick’s hand tightened where it had been resting on David’s thigh. “Then yes, I’d kiss him,” he said before their mouths crashed together, tongues meeting sloppier than before, every moment of it infused with the heady anticipation of newness.

David pushed and Patrick pulled until David was on top of him, hips cradled between Patrick’s thighs, chests pressed together as they writhed on the bed. “Were any of the scenarios I mentioned in the car… particularly appealing to you?” David asked between kisses, his cock thrusting against Patrick’s. “Or anything you were imagining we might do?”

Patrick felt his face heat up in a blush. “I’ve… the idea of you fucking me while…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “While I sucked someone off is… I’ve thought about it.”

David kissed him like he couldn’t not be kissing him after saying something like that. Then he broke the kiss, levering himself up and staring into the middle distance for a second, like he was mood boarding the rest of their evening in his mind. “Okay,” David said. Pulling out of Patrick’s arms, David reached into the nightstand and took out the lube, then he crouched down by the side of the bed, reappearing with a wooden box.

It hadn’t been long after Patrick moved into his own apartment that David had relocated his box of toys here, figuring there was little reason to continue to keep them under his bed at the motel. As Patrick watched with interest, David pulled out a decently-sized dildo. Not the biggest that David owned, Patrick knew, but similar in length and girth to David’s own cock.

“I’m not sure that me fellating a piece of silicone is really that hot,” Patrick said, assuming the intention was for the dildo to be the Jake stand-in.

“You’d be surprised, but that’s not my plan,” David said, lying down next to Patrick again, his hand settling on Patrick’s stomach.

“So… the other way around, then?”

David nodded. “I know I don’t have Jake’s insane abs, so you’ll have to use your imagination.”

Patrick was used to David’s self-deprecating comments about his own body. “You know I love your body.”

“I know I saw the way you were checking out Jake’s body.”

Patrick didn’t rise to the bait. “I wasn’t the only one.”

David grinned. “Okay, that’s fair.” He reached down, skating past Patrick’s half-hard dick to his thigh, pulling on the back of it until Patrick’s knee was in a deep bend. David slicked his fingers with lube before reaching around, teasing at Patrick’s hole. “Who would you want to get you ready?”

“Just you,” Patrick gasped. “That’s just for you.”

His grin widening, David massaged Patrick’s rim. “Just for me.” As he slid in a finger, he asked, “What would Jake be doing?”

Patrick’s dick twitched. “He could… put his mouth on me, on my… my chest.”

Humming with approval, David leaned over to do just that, his teeth scraping across Patrick’s nipple as his finger worked in and out of him. He kept it to wet drags of his lips and teeth, frustratingly gentle, until he pulled his finger all the way out. When he pressed back in with two, he took Patrick’s nipple into his mouth and sucked sharply. Patrick cried out.

David used every trick he knew, curling his fingers and pressing in while he continued the onslaught on Patrick with his mouth, leaving red marks in his wake. Patrick’s need climbed and climbed, his hips shifting to pull David’s fingers deeper, to get more. He brought a hand down to his own cock, desperate for friction, but David batted it away. “Not yet, sweetheart.”

Whining, Patrick bucked his hips. “Please, David.”

“You want me to fuck you?”

Patrick nodded, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Okay, I’m going to fuck you.” David’s fingers slid out of him and then he heard the lube again, before he felt the press not of David’s skin, but of cold, unyielding silicone. “Imagine this is me,” David whispered, slowly pressing it inside, filling him up. Patrick focused on relaxing and taking it, his mouth seeking any part of David’s skin he could reach.

“Yes, David,” he groaned, the sensation of fullness tingling up his spine.

“You take me so well, Patrick. I love how badly you want it.”

“Want you. Always,” Patrick gasped as the last inch slid inside him.

“Okay,” David said, and he picked up Patrick’s hand and guided it down to the flared base of the toy. His intent was clear, and Patrick pulled it out a fraction of an inch before pushing it back in, the motion triggering all of the nerves inside him to fire with pleasure. Patrick opened his eyes and watched as David straddled his chest, shifting forward carefully until his cock was poised at Patrick’s lips. Patrick reached back with his free hand and adjusted his pillow to elevate his head a bit. “Ready for me?”

Patrick nodded, more than ready.

David braced himself against the wall with one hand and took Patrick’s hand in his other, effectively preventing Patrick from touching his own cock. “Close your eyes and imagine I’m… anyone you want.”

Letting his eyes slide closed, Patrick opened his mouth, his tongue flicking out to lick the slit of David’s cock before David shifted forward and filled his mouth with it.

Patrick sucked like his life depended on it, still fucking himself with the dildo with short thrusts, and imagined what David instructed him to. Imagined it was David fucking his ass while Jake fucked his mouth. No, while Sebastian Stan fucked his mouth — it was a fantasy, no reason not to go for broke with it. He scrolled through his mental file of hot men before settling back on Jake, the person they could conceivably do this with if they really wanted to. He thought about himself at the mercy of two men using him like this, taking their pleasure from him. He imagined the way David looked when he lost control and fucked his ass hard, chasing his orgasm and coming inside him. The thought made Patrick whimper around the cock in his mouth.

Without anything touching his dick, Patrick didn’t think he could come, but the sensation of fucking himself while he had a dick in his mouth was holding him on the precipice for so long that he thought it might drive him insane. He was so out of his mind with pleasure that he barely noticed when David groaned and came, spilling down Patrick’s throat with a few shallow thrusts of his hips.

“Need to come,” Patrick rasped as David’s cock slid from his mouth. “Let me, please. Let me.”

“I’ve got you, honey.” David shifted off of him, then licked his palm and closed a fist around Patrick’s straining cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Patrick almost shouted, hips coming up off the bed as David stroked him. It couldn’t have been more than four thrusts into David’s fist before Patrick was coming, all his muscles going tense, his toes curling and eyes rolling back with the intensity of it.

Patrick was floating inside his mind, only barely aware of David carefully pulling the dildo out of him and disappearing, presumably to the bathroom to clean up. He lay perfectly still, breath slowing with every inhale and exhale, body humming with delicious feelings.

The next thing he was aware of was the sensation of a warm, damp cloth as David gently cleaned him up. “Good?” David asked.

“Top five,” Patrick said, his voice shredded.

“You’ve told me ‘top five,’ like, a hundred times,” David said a crooked smile on his face.

“And every time it was true.” Patrick said, his mouth sliding into a grin. “You just keep topping yourself.”

David snorted. “There’s a joke somewhere in there but I can’t think of it.” He pulled the blankets up over them both, curling into Patrick’s side. “So I wonder what the actual top five are.”

Patrick hummed, thinking about it. “The night I proposed. The last time you tied me up.” He tried to think of another stand-out orgasm, but a lot of their time ran together now, all of that wonderful sex with the love of his life. “I dunno.” He rolled, slinging an arm over David’s waist and nuzzling into his chest. “Looked at another way, the top five are probably all in our future.”

“Mm hmm.” He could hear David smiling. “Maybe one or more of them with a special guest star?”

“Maybe.” He looked up at David. “I’m not sure. I think I need some time to mull it over.”

“Of course,” David said, kissing his forehead.

Patrick yawned, snuggling close. “Let’s table it until after we’re married.”

“Okay. That sounds like a good idea. I love you.”

Drifting between sleep and wakefulness, Patrick mumbled. “Love you too.”

[alitheamateur]

The Grind- Chapter 16

Warnings: Language.

We parted ways in the café parking lot, only for a brief hour or so, giving me just enough time to swing by my building to swap into the proper apparel, and shove some small essentials into a ratty gym bag from high school.  I was whispering regretful murmurs to myself as I pulled into the lot of Temple Fitness.  I draped the bag over my shoulder, water bottle in hand, and hesitated towards the main entry. It was a newer structure, but it’s reputation of cleanliness, a well-stocked weight room, and a staff equipped to provide nearly any fitness services on the market had flourished by word of mouth throughout the tristate. The atmosphere of this establishment leaned way more pristine than the damp, mildewed basement ambiance at Mac’s place. Skylights haloed the front lobby with welcomed July sunlight, and I heard the whine of a juice machine in the corner where I turned to discover a small juice bar. Teal round arm sofas lined walls down each side, and what I would assume were artificial potted plants were carefully arranged about. Clearly, this place had a woman’s touch.  

“Hey Elliott, you showed,” I heard the familiar voice of the very person who had suckered me into this plan. “C’mon, I wanna introduce you to a few people.” 

She motioned me to follow, and we marched down a narrow, quiet hall that eventually opened up revealing what seemed to be a training room of some sort in the back of the building. There were a couple guys going through the motions of what my very amateur opinion would’ve gathered to be Muay Thai, or perhaps Jui Jitsu? I was clueless in that moment, but something told me by the time Tia and her crew were done with me, I’d be able to effortlessly distinguish the difference between the two, along with most likely being able to demonstrate them as well. I was lagging behind Tia’s strides trying to get a handle on all the yoga studios, and the saunas cutting the halls, as she greeted a woman, and two men she was waiting to introduce me to.

“Ok, so Austin, Cal, Willow, meet Liv,” she pointed down the line naming out the strangers. “Liv, meet my team.”

“Nice to meet you all,” I indirectly smiled, making friendly eye contact with each individual set of eyes, and wiping my clammy palms over the slick spandex of my joggers.

“I gave them a little play-by-play on our chat from lunch LC, and we decided it’d be best to stick you with Cal here first for a while. A while will be determined by how long you think you’re gonna stick this out, ya’ wuss. He’s my personal trainer. He’ll be essentially laying the ground work here to see what you’re made of. Doing some basic cardio, and weights, oh, and gettin’ a meal plan in place for you, too.” Tia’s laugh turned dark at her ending remarks, and mockingly menacing. She knew what a hopeless, dedicated foodie at heart I truly was, and that I wouldn’t take kindly to someone limiting my calorie and carb intake all the live long day. “How much do you weigh, anyhow?”

She didn’t waste any time, ay?

“Um, I don’t really know like, exactly. Around 130, I guess? And 5’3”.” I spoke back to the peanut gallery hanging on my every word.

“Okay, okay. So that’ll put her at bantamweight, I think. Right, Cal?” The sculped man towered over me by nearly a whole foot, dressed in black from dri-fit shirt to sneakers.

“That’s right. We’ll start there at least, then I’ll leave the final decision to you and Willow once you guys see what she can do in the ring. Liv, you feel comfortable with cutting some weight if need be?” Cal rubbed his palms flat together. These guys weren’t playing pretend with all this, it was clear. But, I elected if I was going to step into this world, I might as well commit fully, and skip the lazy dabbling. “You guys are the experts, I’m just the silly girl behind the computer.” I saluted them lightheartedly.

…….

The first two weeks I spent under the watchful eyes of Tia and her three ruthless minions wasn’t a walk in the park by any means, but I made it through with only two bouts of splintering muscle cramps, and one upchuck all over the crisp white tile floor of the weight room. My past in athletics familiarized me closely with cardio, so the 3 miles a day on the treadmill, along with 30 added minutes on the stair climber hadn’t killed me. Definitely wounded, and maybe caused me to develop asthma, but hadn’t killed me. My visits to the weight room however might as well have been sure fire, mortal combat. Cal had precisely mapped out a specific regime to suit me, and scheduled each day to target a specific area. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays were upper body strength, leaving us to work on muscles such as bicpes and traps, and some brutal core exercises as well. Wednesday and Friday, had very abruptly became the very most dreaded days of my always demanding week. Legs. Cal seemed to get particular delight in leg day. He and Tia would watch idly by and smile like Cheshire cats as I grunted, and sobbed my way through 3 sets of one-leg barbell squats, and 4 sets of lying leg curls.

“You’ll thank us when you’ve got a fine ass man pinned between those legs of steel, Liv.” Tia piped and cheered alongside Cal as he coached me through the punishing onslaught.

As much as I wanted to break both of their smiling jaws for dropping the bombs of leg day, I was very much mastering the 4,000 calories a day he’d laid out as my goal to keep building my muscle mass. It may not have been the ideal menu, but eating was one step in this whole process I felt I wouldn’t falter. I carried what felt like pounds of almonds in my purse to work daily, snacking them with the power bites I discovered online of peanut butter and oatmeal. I should’ve bought hefty amounts of stock in chicken farms considering the quantity of eggs I cooked for myself. Scrambled. Poached. Tia even pressured me into downing a raw one if I needed a quick intake.

My new team of the 3 amigos decided to settle with a game plan of at least a month of basic training with Cal before I was passed on Willow and her Muay Thia, and fight training. During the given time that had passed the first few sessions, I began to notice miniscule results as I dressed in front of my floor length mirror. Only a slight thigh definition, and a barely there tightening of fabric through the spans of my blouses over my biceps. I was happily surprised in the progress I was making in adventuring this previous unexplored territory. In the short days spent in shadowing Tia, the respect and admiration I already had for her, flourished immensely. And although I was losing sleep due to the nerves that had commenced in thinking about actually stepping into a sparring session possibly sometime sooner than later, was also a growing thrill in the thought as well. I contemplated what the danger, and power, and adrenaline, and ferociousness would feel like swimming through my own veins, and it caused carnal arousal to flicker to the center of my belly. I understood now the orgasmic energy of command that Tia and Colton must feel when they step toe-to-toe with an opponent.  The fuming high fell quickly at the thought of him. What would he think of me now? I blushed a little, and surging tears burned into my eyes wishing Colton was walking this quest at my side.

 It was day one of expedition with Willow and Tia on the mat. I made sure to fall into bed at a decent hour the Friday night before. We determined the Saturday day before a Monday holiday was the most appropriate day to dive into the more rigorous aspect of my training, in case I took a face to the mat, or hyperextended some sort of body part from incorrectly executing a kick to the punching bag. The long weekend would give me time to recover if necessary, and soak in lots of Epsom salt and ice baths, as Tia said I would definitely be needing it, along with making a trip to the market to hunt down some Turmeric, a natural inflammatory she suggested. I had taken a shopping trip earlier in the week only in search of some seemly attire for the kickboxing I gathered I’d be learning, and that particular morning I pulled on a thin gray spandex short, and tossed a lightweight zip up over my elastic sports bra. Chocolate almond milk protein shake in hand, I headed in pursuit of the Temple. It was barely 6 a.m., and traffic on the commute was next to none at this weekend hour, so the drive was soft and refreshing. The brown-noser in me, I arrived a little over half hour early, just minutes before Tia turned into the spot beside me. I gathered my necessities to head inside with her to the torture chamber, but halted opening my door when Tia jumped enthusiastically through my passenger side.

“Morning, you. Ready for this?” she sighed with a toothy grin.

“To be honest, I’m not really sure,” I cocked a look of genuine contemplation toward Tia. “But, I think I am. I mean, I’m excited, but I feel like a could hurl up those two raw eggs I smashed down this morning.”

“You’ll probably do that anyway before the day is done, my dear.” Swarms of busy butterflies flapped inside my nervous, roaring belly at her harsh truth.

“God, I saw Colt project some barely digested broccoli right in the face of his partner during an intense sparring session the before his championship match. I’ve hated the color green ever since.”

I reminisced aloud to my friend next to me swiping through her phone. She turned her attention to me at the mention of my missing other half.

“You heard from him lately? I mean, does he try to reach out to you?” she pried, more with concern than displeasure this.

“Nope, haven’t seen him since the conference that night. He doesn’t have any cards coming up though. News usually travels fast around the city when he’s got a fight. Why? I mean, is there something I shoud’ve heard?”

My peculiar, shaky tone didn’t go unnoticed by Tia, I’m sure. Did something happen? What had she heard, and why I hadn’t I heard it too?

“No. Not really, I guess. Cal…uh, he just mentioned that he ran into him at some bar last weekend. They apparently went to high school together, strangely enough.”

Then, she just, stopped. Didn’t make another peep, just peered blankly out the window, watching the parking spots fill up as the city woke up.

“Oh, gotcha. Well, did he say anything else? Like, did Cal talk to him? Was he alone, or…?” I was waiting timidly for my lecture, like a child who’d just said a curse word to their mother.

“He was with his trainer, and a couple other guys, Livvy. And yes, Cal said they talked briefly……” The look in Tia’s eye gave away that she had more to say, but she was stifling it with much reserve.“I don’t know that I should spill the rest though.” She chewed her lip.

“Oh no you don’t, ma’am! There’s no way you can’t finish what you started now. Go on.”

“I just, I don’t want you to get sucked in, Liv. You’ve seemed so clearheaded the last month. Happy, ya’ know? I don’t want you to get all heavy, and emotional again. You’ve worked hard to get things pretty close to normal.” She was fidgeting. The snarky, loud, poignant spitfire I knew, was brutally stammering on her words.

“Wait a minute, Tia. It wasn’t long ago that you told me, if I’m recalling right, that it was okay for me to love him still. You said that. Your words.” My rebuttal instantly sounded thornier than I had intended once I unleashed my tongue, but it was too late to pull it back in now, so I waited for her comeback.

Tia nearly snapped her head right off her shoulders when she threw her daggering eyes at me. “You’re right. And I meant that, but it doesn’t mean I want you running right back to him either, LC. He’s fucked up. That’s not news to you, or anyone else. He may have treated you like a queen in the beginning, but the way he dropped you, Liv? Damn it, you didn’t deserve that! I just don’t want it to happen again, okay?” Her angry, heeding eyes were visibly softening as she trailed on, the anxious hands that were nearly rubbing the hide right off her sculpted arms, had now slowed. “And I’m afraid once you hear all the shit he was talking to Cal about, you’ll peel outta this parking lot on two wheels to find him…” What could he have possibly said to my now trainer. I firmly settled on the fact that Colt must’ve been incredibly tanked for him to go spilling his feelings to some other dude in a bar. It was the only logic behind the scenario. He wasn’t the man always in touch with his feelings, and he certainly wasn’t the man to let outsiders be involved in his feelings. Unless his feeling being that he was seething, fuming and wanted to smash your orbital bone, he’d let you know that emotion one way or another. Rage and darkness were two emotions he was well acquainted with.

“Please, Tia. For the sake of my sanity, just tell me.” I took a much more pleading, and soft approach with her this time, partially because I felt shitty for being so short with her a moment ago, and partially because I knew she’d cave in.

“Cal just asked how he’d been since they hadn’t crossed paths in a while, then Colton dug into him about how he’d lost to Mendez, but he was keeping the ring hot with all the fights he’d had scheduled, the usual fighter talk, I guess. But apparently the small talk led to him asking Colt if he was with anyone, had kids, how his parents were doing, things like that…”

Okay, T, let’s get to the gist here.

“Cal said he went on for about 10 minutes, spilling about a girl he had fucked over, and he hadn’t been right ever since the whole thing went down. Said he scared the only good thing he ever had away, but she was probably better off. Something about him being too twisted, and mad all the time, and had too many issues to ever truly give any woman what she needed.”

Tia hadn’t looked at me until that second. She finished the details of what she knew, and now waited reluctantly to gauge my reaction. I could almost hear the prayers silently passing through her mind, hoping what she said hadn’t just sent me spiraling back into Colton Ritter’s black magic trance. I situated in the seat to face her, and nudged playfully at her left arm, I wanted to tell her that truth about how I felt hearing the news, and I intended to do exactly that. For the most part, at least.

“I mean, yeah, that tugs at my heart strings for sure. I wouldn’t be human if I said it wasn’t a relief to hear that the first man I ever loved, regrets stomping on my open heart then practically spitting on it. Yeah, it’s good to know he has the balls to finally say out loud what I knew was true all along. He did love me, and it scared the coward shit out of him. He let his emotions from the loss cloud his better judgment, and yours truly just happened to be the weakest link in the chain for him to place that anger on.”

I was muffling the cries I so, so desperately wanted to express, but I was finished, bound and determined to never shed another ounce of salty pain over him.

“BUT, he said those things to the wrong person, T. Where’s MY explanation? My closure? Colton Ritter is going to have to do a lot better than professing his apologies in regards to me, to some dude in a bar, babe. There’s a lot of love for him in here for that foolish asshole.” I stroked open palmed over my thrashing, unsteady heart, “but it’s been smothered and stoned with a harsh hatred. Hate that I don’t know will ever go away. And as long as I’m holding any hate for him, no amount of love can overtake that. And I won’t be with a man who I hold all this resentment toward.”

Tia seemed a bit cautious at my words, hasty to believe honestly what I had admitted to her, but her clouding anger seemed to have subsided.  

“Alright, alright. I’m gonna take your word for it. Only because I love you. And, as a matter of fact, I love you soooo much, that I’m ready to go inside and rip you to shreds in the ring with Willow. Hope you are your Wheaties this morning, Elliott. I’ve got 911 on speed dial for ya’.”

Tia exited the car as quickly, heading inside without so much as a glance back to me. I sat in the silence alone for a moment with the white noise. A smile had snuck like a thief in the night across my quivering lips. I’d never say it to Tia, or Sara, or anyone for that matter, but hearing then and there, receiving the needed conformation that Colton was still with me, heartstrings still intertwined with mine in a steadfast Fisherman’s Knot, made my body temperature rise with hope of what may come. But, the itching question of forgiveness was one that just wouldn’t go away.

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935

[kiruuuuu]

More Montagne/Bandit in which Monty discovers he actually enjoys being Bandit’s rope bunny. (Rating E, nothing but explicit sex, ~6k words) - written for @kapcan because I love you 💖 and also for Bandit himself seeing as it’s his birthday today!

The other parts can be found in my Masterpost! (Mobile version here)

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“We can start light”, Bandit suggests, out of breath, in between toe-curling kisses. They’re more intense than usual because it’s the first time they’re alone since Montagne came back and so he treasures every little touch, commits each detail to memory. After welcoming him with entirely too few kisses and hugs at the airport and refusing to let go of his hand while he was greeted warmly by teammates and colleagues alike, both of them sighed happily once they finally arrived back in Montagne’s room, alone and undisturbed. A short glance later, Bandit jumped into his arms, Montagne stumbled to the bed with him, fell on top of it – and making out is pretty much all they’ve done since then, Montagne covering Bandit with his large body and pressing him into the mattress but neither of them is complaining.

“What does that mean?”, Montagne murmurs against his lips. They’re like teenagers who finally confessed to each other, frantically snogging and yet hesitating to go a step further. No clothes have been discarded so far, they’re dry humping and pawing at each other but apart from that it’s surprisingly chaste. Hands card through hair, lips find their counterpart again and again and tongues wrestle now and then, leaving behind an almost electrical feeling in Bandit’s limbs.

“I can just start out by -” He trails off when teeth pull on his earlobe. It’s getting harder and harder to think, especially because he’s been waiting so long to finally hold this man in his arms that all the things he wanted to do to him are wiped off his brain. A moan escapes him upon Montagne sucking a bruise onto his skin right above his collarbone and he loses his train of thought completely, wonders why he’d ever suggest anything other than just letting this happen, having Montagne wash over him and carry him away to mind-numbing pleasure, writhe on his cock and groan into his mouth.

“Yes?”

The request for him to keep talking is decidedly mischievous and he can feel the smirk against his own mouth. Montagne is getting cheeky and with how much power he holds over Bandit he’ll probably end up allowing him anything. Still, he scrapes together the last of his countenance and picks up again: “I can just tie part of your arms.” He’s interrupted by another scorching kiss and chases soft lips when they withdraw to allow him to keep talking. “And if you like it, we can keep going. If not, we’ll stop. Start easy. No commitment.”

His lover considers it a while, pushing one of his hands into Bandit’s clothes, strokes over his chest and hipbones and finally nods. “Alright. We can try.” And though he seems hesitant, he adds a sincere: “I trust you.”

Bandit is smitten. When they discussed the topic, Montagne mentioned not being comfortable handing over that much control so Bandit had largely given up hope, and yet he now apparently feels safe enough with him of all people to give it a shot nonetheless. For a few seconds, he just blinks and stares up at the source of all these emotions inside him, devotedly and like an idiot, until the quiet resolve in Montagne’s face gives way to amusement.

“I don’t have any rope here”, he states and no, of course he doesn’t. But the hand splayed over his ribs is weighing Bandit down, leaving his only option to not move a muscle and continue gazing lovingly into blue eyes. Montagne chuckles and rearranges their bodies, seemingly satisfied with how pliant Bandit is, before he rises, lifting the other man with him. Bandit ends up pressed against the door by a large body around which his limbs are wrapped, snogged breathless and thinking we should try this position sometime. “How about you go and get some?”

As usual, his mouth is faster than his brain: “I’ve been trying to get some this entire time.” To his relief, Montagne just laughs good-naturedly and puts him down, which is a solid move as Bandit probably would’ve clung to him forever if allowed. “Okay, I’ll be right back.” Despite his words, he lingers, eyes locked with Montagne’s, and a few seconds later his tongue is down his lover’s throat once more and hands are kneading his ass while his own stray to the front of Montagne’s trousers. He’s so primed he fears he could come literally just from blowing him and thinking about it certainly doesn’t help, holy hell, his desire is like static in his head, all-encompassing and drowning out everything else.

Without even noticing, he’s undressed Montagne to the point where he can easily pull his erection out – so of course he does. His eyes are closed in bliss, preventing him from marvelling at the sight, but the heavy weight of it in his palm is enough to make his head spin already. “If you’re too impatient, we can postpone it”, Montagne suggests softly and looks like he wants to add something but his breath hitches when fingers encircle his shaft. He’s unusually receptive to Bandit’s touches as well, courtesy of the prolonged absence, and therefore reacts with small thrusts into the tight fist, each robbing Bandit further of his sanity. His only option is to break the kiss yet even this doesn’t save him as Montagne latches onto his neck immediately and reciprocates the touch, rubs over the bulge in Bandit’s jeans. Now they’re both straining towards the delicious friction, desperate moans clawing their way out of Bandit’s throat as he basically humps Montagne’s hand and dear God he won’t be table to take this much longer.

“Stop, stop”, he whispers, panicked, “no, stop, I’m gonna come, I’m -” A whimper escapes him when the stimulation ceases and he loosens his grip around the hot flesh before he actually ends up hurting Montagne. He’s panting and shuddering, his abdomen tensing up with the spikes of pleasure threatening to push him over the edge entirely too quickly. His lover gives a last nip to his jaw and straightens up with a curious, inquisitive expression. “Remember the time we – you know, on the phone?” He feels the need to explain himself because even the embarrassing first time Montagne got him off, he didn’t have a hair-trigger quite like this. A nod. “I didn’t – I haven’t jerked off since then.”

Montagne’s eyebrows rise, visibly intrigued. Experimentally, he pushes the heel of his hand against the head of Bandit’s extremely sensitive erection, making him mewl, hold his wrist in place and grind against him before any of his actions have even registered in his mind. “Are you sure I can’t just… take my time a little?”

“No. I’ll literally die”, Bandit protests breathlessly and sways unsteadily as soon as the hand disappears again. “Fuck. I’ll go get the rope. You can undress already if you want.”

“Why don’t you help me with it instead?”

Fucking cheeky. Bandit throws him a dark look and escapes out into the hallway, where it’s safe and where there are no ridiculously attractive Frenchmen who make him question his entire existence. He probably looks as dishevelled as he feels, his hair sticking up in all directions, clothes rumpled and askew, not to mention the tent in his jeans.

Which is probably why Blitz is studying him with a shit eating grin on his face. Why does he have to be creeping around here right now? “Forgot something?”, he asks innocently.

Under normal circumstances, Bandit would reply with something along the lines of yeah, the reason why I shouldn’t beat you up, but all his muddled brain can muster up is: “Fuck off.”

Blitz just laughs and keeps walking without further comment which probably also stems from his wish to not hear anything more about Bandit’s love life. He should use this in the future, maybe disclose a few details and watch him squirm in discomfort. Still – right now, he’d rather watch someone else squirm, and so he quickly dashes to his room, thankfully not meeting anyone else on the way, and hurries back as soon as he got what he came for. Hastily, he slips back into Montagne’s room, shuts out the rest of the world once more and stops in his tracks as soon as he throws a glance at the bed.

Because the sight is delectable. Montagne did, in fact, rid himself of all his clothes, and is now stretched out on the mattress, perfectly on display: the one hand behind his head shows off his muscles, the other is lazily toying with his dick, and the knowing smile on his face is merely the cherry on top. He looks magnificent. Bandit swoons and wonders when this happened, when Montagne became this confident in his own appearance around him where he was almost skittish in the beginning, clearly worrying about the physical aspect of their relationship – whereas Bandit admired him straightaway, worshipped his body whenever possible, dipped his hand into every valley, splayed it over each ridge and wondered how he’d come to deserve touching this man at all.

“That’s a lot of rope”, Montagne states and yes, it is, in his enthusiasm Bandit basically just grabbed his entire stash, in his head preparing a long list of excuses should he have run into another colleague on the way. I’ll have to go discipline a bunny was the first thing coming to mind and he’s extremely glad he didn’t meet anyone else.

“Well yeah. You’re -”, his eyes glide further down, attracted by the slow movement centred on Montagne’s lower half, “… big.”

“Come here, Dom.” As asked, he walks over, drops the various restraints next to the enticing naked body and straddles his lover, humming into another deep kiss as he’s greeted by Montagne sitting up and embracing him. His arousal which had calmed a little returns full force – Montagne’s warm skin is just as addicting as his clever tongue and by the time they finally take a break to pull his t-shirt off, his heart is desperately trying to beat its way out of his ribcage. Montagne is just so fucking captivating. “So how does this work?”, the Frenchman wants to know and quite unfairly doesn’t look like the act of not drooling all over his partner required any effort from him. As opposed to Bandit.

“Huh?” He’s too busy covering the side of Montagne’s neck with impressively dark lovebites to even pay any attention to the repeated clarification but once his brain catches up, he remembers he’s meant to be doing something else entirely. “Oh. Oh. Yes. I’ll explain, but you need to stop – stop it. Don’t touch me. No -” And the next thing coming from his lips is a whine as the tip of a tongue swirls around one of his nipples, wiping his brain once again. For a time span which is decidedly too long, Montagne just sucks and laps at it, guiding the aimless movements of Bandit’s hips with his hands so he finds no friction and smiles at the frustrated noises Bandit produces endlessly.

Eventually, Bandit is fed up with the teasing and pries Montagne off of him with herculean effort while his weeping erection mourns the lost contact. “Okay. If you -” He takes a deep breath and swats his lover’s hands away decisively. “No. If you feel uneasy or start hurting, let me know and I’ll untie you immediately. If you want to stop, tell me. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Montagne’s smile is unwavering and shines at him with the light of a thousand suns. “I never am around you”, he says and if Bandit wasn’t so amazingly horny, his heart would melt. It still does, but his cock twitches as well and since when are compliments a turn-on for him?

Wait. Are they?

“Really?”, he prompts just to test his theory – he doesn’t like fishing for compliments normally but in this case, it’s necessary.

“Yes. You’re either very attentive or extremely responsive when we have sex. It’s lovely. I’m not used to it to this extent.”

A convincingly large part of Bandit simply wants him to curl up on Montagne’s chest, purr and let him shower him with praise whereas another part – just as big – demands for him to roll over, have Montagne dick him down and keep whispering compliments into his ear as he moans and holds on for dear life. It’s just… neither of those options are part of the plan, a plan which apparently includes him discovering he has a praise kink. “I’m – I’m just going to tie your wrists now”, he mumbles and reaches for a short, soft cotton rope without much give. He stretches Montagne’s arms out above his head and has to lean over him to reach his wrists, meaning Montagne gets the chance to leave butterfly kisses all over his neck and shoulder. Absence certainly made both their hearts grow fonder seeing as how desperate both of them are for any kind of caress. They’re aware of it, too, smiling into the exaggerated gestures of affection but neither of them is complaining.

Once he’s done, Bandit sits back up and lets his fingertips trail over his lover’s chest distractedly while asking: “How is it?”

Montagne tests the restraints curiously before a strange look flits over his face. He fights the rope once more, wiggles the rest of his body a bit and then fixes Bandit with a determined gaze. “Do more.”

He feels his eyebrows rise in disbelief. “D-do – are you sure?” Montagne just nods but he seems serious, so Bandit doesn’t question him. “Alright. Just your ankles?” He senses hesitation and forces his voice to stay even: “Or do you want me to go all the way?”

They look at each other, Montagne thoughtful and Bandit holding his breath in anticipation. He’s always been partial to rope, likes the feel of it gliding through his fingers, learned as many different types of knots as he could and amassed a collection not currently with him but well cared for regardless – whether it’s him or someone else getting tied up normally doesn’t matter to him too much though he did develop a strong preference to being in control over the past few years. With Montagne, however, he’d gladly let him string him up, suspend him, anything.

Still, getting the chance to do all this to the large man below him instead is more than enticing. So when he eventually nods, Bandit feels a rush of desire sweep him up and carry him away. Wordlessly, he chooses a relatively elastic cord, slides off of Montagne’s lap and motions for him to sit up. Once he’s done so, shaking hands begin to deftly wrap the pristine white material around his broad chest, forming a pattern and looping through the wrist restraints, forcing Montagne to bend his arms backwards and keep his immobile hands behind the back of his neck. No more rope is added to his arms but plenty makes its way down his ribs and even below his navel, which is when Bandit gently pushes him back into a flat position.

He works quickly and practised, his nervousness vanishing after a while due to the familiarity and because Montagne is quietly accepting all he’s doing. He’s watching raptly, eyes focused on Bandit’s fingers and threatening to undo his confidence despite him being in the zone now, solely concentrating on keeping the rope tight enough so it doesn’t slip but loose enough as to not restrict breathing or cut into skin.

But now he’s stopped. And instead of continuing, he’s staring at Montagne’s cock, thick and hard, leaking impressively and jumping under his gaze. It’s unbelievably inviting and Bandit can feel his mouth watering, fingers twitching towards it and the urge to do something, anything to it is overwhelming for a second. What he told Montagne was the truth, he didn’t wank himself to completion for a week but that doesn’t mean he didn’t touch himself at all – and right now he’s regretting all of it fiercely since it comes crashing down at once, all the times he stopped just before, all the times he used his fingers without laying a single one on his dick, all of it makes him want viciously.

Normally – especially if it’s the first time tying someone up – he goes slow, maybe just brings his partner off after teasing them a little; normally, he’d take his time with Montagne, test whether he’s ticklish anywhere, let him get used to the feeling of being completely at his mercy and reassure him a bit. But right now, all he wants is this magnificent huge cock to be inside him.

Impatiently, he finishes his task, ties Montagne’s ankles to the respective thigh so his legs are bent as much as possible and then parts his knees, pushes them out of the way until his lover is spread-eagled before him. It’s a view for the Gods, oddly tasteful and yet so enthralling and sinful that Bandit’s head is starting to feel encased in honey again. Almost elegant. Definitely more than fucking hot though. For a brief moment, the vision of taking his lover in this position, making him writhe crosses his mind and punches all the air out of his lungs.

He catches Montagne staring at him with wide, excited eyes and registers something he’s noticed yet not fully understood before: he’s enjoying this. Immensely so, if his rock hard erection and blissful expression are anything to go by and the realisation of what it means hits him out of nowhere. They’ll probably do this again.

“I have to blindfold you”, his mouth informs Montagne before his brain is even aware of this necessity but it’s as if all his inner workings are being openly displayed on his face and he’s not used to feeling this vulnerable when he’s the one who can still move freely.

“But I like looking at you.” He’s pouting a little, utilising the only weapon he has left, and Bandit can’t bring himself to explain that it’s exactly why he has to make eye contact impossible. He’s so weak for this man and thus it pains him to dig up one of his ties and wrap it around his head, hide his piercing gaze. Now he’s free to ogle him, in all his glory, powerless, at Bandit’s mercy. It’s titillating.

“Fuck”, he breathes and grabs yet another rope, unceremoniously wrapping it around the base of Montagne’s cock as well as his scrotum, careful not to trap any of the loose skin, before tying a simple knot. “Is this okay? Can you breathe? Does anything hurt?” Despite his words being directed at Montagne himself, he’s transfixed by the hard erection jutting towards the sky, jumping at every tiny touch, the head wet and even thicker than usual.

“No, it’s all good”, Montagne replies huskily and groans when Bandit experimentally runs his fingers along his shaft. “It’s – it feels strange. But not bad. I’d still prefer being able to see you.”

Bandit ignores the last comment and fetches the lube, all his patience worn thin by now. He wants him and he wants him now, and if he won’t be able to sit the next few days, then so be it. Without any further ado, he pours a large amount directly onto Montagne’s dick, making him wince from the cold, and slicks it up with a few strokes. With the blood trapped inside, it’s definitely bigger than normal. He’ll have to go slow.

However, as soon as he starts climbing on top of the other man, he’s met with protest: “Wait, Dom, what are you doing? You’re not -”

“I’m so fucking ready”, Bandit growls in response and gets comfortable straddling him before sinking down so the tip of Montagne’s cock lines up with his hole. With one hand, he steadies the shaft and uses the other to pre-emptively silence his lover by putting it over his mouth, stopping him from objecting further. Yes, he’s done this before, thank you, and he knows exactly just how much he can take. When the head touches his ring of muscle, he pauses, consciously relaxes and tentatively grinds against it, spreading the lube and turning possible friction into a smooth, promising slide.

He’s been waiting for this forever – or that’s what it feels like because two weeks might as well have been forever – so he’s impatient, rocks into the dick and feels his mouth fall open the moment it enters him. Montagne’s legs twitch and he struggles against the hand over his lips but Bandit is adamant about this, he’s going to take him without preparation and without being told off for it. Sinking lower agonisingly slowly, he notices a faint burn which only serves to heighten his pleasure, sharpens the sensations to an edge cutting into his mind. He really is here right now and so is Montagne who allowed him to string him up and is moaning into his palm with every centimetre Bandit lowers himself further.

It’s not like he hasn’t done this before though admittedly, most of his previous partners weren’t quite as large as Montagne, and so he takes his time, pauses now and then to make a feeble attempt at catching his breath but mostly focuses on the hot flesh inside him on which he’s impaling himself. The ropes dig into his own skin, especially the ones wrapped around Montagne’s thighs, very close to his crotch, and the feel of them is merely a welcome addition to all the desire pooling low in Bandit’s belly. The slide goes on endlessly, there’s still more cock to take in even though he feels so full already, so he stops for the moment, panting and suppressing the urge to just start bouncing because as enticing as the idea is, it’s also very bad. Like this, he gets to appreciate Montagne fully though, and the sensation is brilliant and elating, the flesh inside him burning hot and what he can see of Montagne’s face is twisted in pleasure.

He takes away his hand to steady himself on Montagne’s chest and smiles a bit at the big gulps of air he immediately takes. The Frenchman looks oddly lost like this, unable to see but acutely aware of what’s happening regardless, unable to move but instead able to feel keenly. “Am I hurting you?”, he gasps.

“No”, Bandit lies – he doesn’t think he could explain that the vague pain is a more than welcome addition to the pulsing pleasure inside him. “You feel great.” His own member is protesting, demanding attention but he ignores it for now, reaches back and strokes over Montagne’s balls, massages them gently and moans when the large dick inside him throbs in return. In making it twitch, he ensures it hits all the right spots which further transform the residual discomfort into white hot desire, so he brushes the fingers of his other hand over a nipple peeking out from between white strings and feels his abs flutter when the pure need in him intensifies once more.

“Does that feel good?”, Montagne wants to know and receives his answer in the form of a throaty moan after a particularly vicious twitch which undoubtedly incentivises him to do it on purpose. Because that’s what he starts doing. Bandit is seeing stars by now, eager to outlast him by pinching the nipple between his digits and beginning with tentative movements spanning no more than a few centimetres but which feel monumental nonetheless. He fails spectacularly, ending up sprawled on top of Montagne, mewing helplessly into his ear and grinding into him. The head keeps rubbing right over his prostate and pushes against it with each throb and Bandit is fucking gone, hasn’t been this braindead and utterly controlled by physical sensations in a long while and feels like he could come any second now.

Oh. Wait. He can, actually. He’s done it before, suffered profusely at Montagne’s mercy several times in which he tried to cause a hands free climax and was successful in some of them. And not only does it feel bloody amazing, Montagne gets this smug little grin afterwards which Bandit so loves.

With effort, he forces himself to sit back up and move his hips which is easier said than done, especially when he feels as high as he does now, but he manages a steady rhythm after a few initial problems of having to adjust their position, not hitting the right angle and simply being too paralysed by roaring desire. Sliding up and down Montagne’s cock is addicting by itself already, but when he switches to lifting his entire body and not just rolling his hips against him, a high-pitched whine escapes him. Oh, this is it. This is perfect.

His fingers claw at the ropes criss-crossing over Montagne’s upper body and eventually hold on to them, using them as support while he fucks himself on the thick shaft, and the way his lover’s breath hitches and his ribcage rises and falls under his palms reminds him of the latent power sleeping in the warm body below him; a power currently contained yet tangible nonetheless. He’s beautiful, sweat on his brow, upper arms tensing now and then, legs trembling the faster Bandit moves – his position probably stopped being comfortable a while ago and still he carries Bandit without complaint, remains tied up for his pleasure and allows quiet groans to leave his parted lips.

The pleasure inside is building steadily and Bandit is now slamming his hips down against Montagne’s, desperate to reach a much needed orgasm but loath to touch himself. A litany of half-curses and helpless whimpering accompanies the slap of skin on skin, of skin on rope, and he can feel it coming, approaching at a snail’s pace but approaching nonetheless, he just needs to keep going, keep up this mind-numbing rhythm as he pulls on Montagne’s restraints – and that’s when he notices the other man tensing up. And thinks oh no you won’t.

“Don’t come”, he hisses, “oh my God, don’t you dare, don’t fucking come!” The noise erupting from Montagne speaks of desperation and powerlessness and pushes Bandit even further towards the edge because he can tell his lover is also close, so incredibly close but holding back now for his sake. He grits his teeth and switches to a slower speed and deeper thrusts, allows Montagne’s cock to bottom out fully and rises until he feels the ridge of the head stretching him. Bandit is thorough, relishes the long slide and gasps whenever the tip brushes his sweet spot. At this point, he’s been at it for entirely too long, his muscles are protesting, he knows his hands are going to be numb afterwards and he might regret this the next day but he’s right there, and that’s all that counts.

Montagne is biting his lip and baring his throat, muscles flexing prettily as he forces himself away from the edge with visible exertion, he looks so fucking good and it’s all just for him. All of this is just for Bandit.

He comes with a helpless cry, the air in his lungs knocked out by the force of it. His orgasm is violent, starts as an extreme spike of pleasure in his midsection and explodes into a full body experience, curling his toes and his fingers, making him bury Montagne deep inside him just to feel him in his entirety. Bandit shudders with every small movement, riding it out gingerly because everything else would probably make him pass out and each tiny motion of his hips has him gush out semen onto Montagne’s chest, even reaching up to his collar bone. His neglected cock jumps with every spurt and is accompanied by a disbelieving moan. Warmth spreads through his body, sating the deafening need and turning it into calming relief, appeasing the desire demanding for so much.

When he’s done ejaculating, his abdomen is still contracting, still sending pleasure signals to his brain and so he sinks down onto his lover, mouths at his ear and purrs contentedly every time either of their cocks twitch. He’d love to ride Montagne to completion as well but he’s wholly and utterly spent, not to mention boneless. Besides, he should really take the ropes off now. Catching his breath is a difficult task and it takes several attempts until he finally manages – by then, Montagne is moving restlessly below him, obviously wanting to either finish or be relieved of Bandit’s weight, so he lifts his hips until Montagne’s unwaveringly hard dick slips out and climbs off with a series of decidedly unsexy groans.

“This fucking kills me”, he slurs, tongue heavy and, like the rest of his body, not really obeying him anymore. “Fuck. That was perfect. You look stunning, holy shit. Let me die.” He stretches out next to Montagne, grimacing at the way his legs feel more like pudding, and reaches out to undo the knot by his lover’s wrists. As soon as the rope is loose enough, the Frenchman pushes it off, discards the blindfold and moves to rid himself of the rest of the restraints while Bandit simply watches him, entranced by smooth movements and graceful limbs. “I love you”, he mumbles, exhausted, and returns the adoring smile directed at him.

“I love you too”, Montagne replies and presses the long line of his body against Bandit’s, kissing him sweetly. “And I suppose we can do this again. It was… interesting.”

Bandit grins and barely manages to raise his arm to wipe some of his come off Montagne’s pecs, only to lick and suck it off his fingers. The scandalised yet intrigued expression makes it more than worth it. “We’re not done, stud.”

The pet name makes Montagne’s lips curl both in embarrassment and amusement. “You can’t even move anymore.”

“But you can.” He rolls over onto his stomach and wiggles his backside invitingly. “Hop on.” His lover remains unconvinced though his gaze lingers on his ass for longer than he’d probably admit. “It won’t hurt and I want you to come like this. Come on.”

As he hoped, Montagne does give in but not without hesitation and not without adding more lube either. He kneels over Bandit, breathing heavily, and guides his cock to where it’s been mere minutes ago, inserting it cautiously and this is when Bandit realises he might’ve made a mistake. Because his hole not only took a beating already, it’s also overly sensitive and this new stimulation makes his toes twitch and eyelashes flutter; it’s intense and probably more than he bargained for. His orgasm left him loose and relaxed yet when Montagne is all the way in once more, he can feel himself tensing up again, a certain fire inside being rekindled.

It has, without a doubt, also something to do with the fact that Montagne is now spread out over him, grunting at every of Bandit’s involuntary movements and contractions around him and nibbling at his neck, biting at his shoulder. One of his arms is keeping him steady and pressing into the mattress next to Bandit’s shoulder and so he takes hold of the wrist, feels the quickening pulse in his palm and prepares for the worst. “It’s okay”, he whispers and raises his ass a little for better access, “go ahead.”

And Montagne does. He starts slow but speeds up, drives into Bandit relentlessly and shows no pity. He nails his prostate with each thrust, moans into the nape of his neck and pets him almost compulsively, creates a crass counterpoint to the hard thrusts with his gentle strokes over Bandit’s back and Bandit is so overstimulated he feels tears forming in the corners of his eyes. It’s too much and not enough simultaneously, he can’t see straight and sobs in pleasure, must sound pathetic because Montagne keeps checking in on him, asking whether he should stop, whether it’s alright, whether Bandit is hurting, and the answer to all of these questions is no.

It’s staggering. He can’t get enough of it.

There’s no doubt about it, he will regret this tomorrow but right now he’s in fucking heaven, moaning and shuddering uncontrollably while a tongue endeavours to take him apart at the seams, running over his outer ear and forcing inhuman noises out of his throat. He bites into his own arm to stop himself from screaming when Montagne reaches his climax with a sharp gasp and the sudden pain distracts him from both the frustration as well as the tremendous pleasure of feeling this thick cock unload inside him. Every single throb is distinct and he moves his hips against it, prolongs his lover’s orgasm as much as possible while he basks in the feeling of being desired to this extent, of being claimed and marked and filled.

But he’s not done. Even after Montagne has peppered his spine with kisses and withdrawn, he’s not done, turns back around and tugs on the other man’s arm, moves it to his crotch while pleading, asking for something he doesn’t know what and feels a deep seated want calming as soon as fingers enter him, push the sperm back inside and massage this special spot which makes his mind turn blank. His tender ring of muscle is sore already but he doesn’t care, he wants this, he needs this, and so he sinks into the odd mixture of aching pleasure like into a bath which is too hot. He rolls his hips against Montagne’s hand, head swimming and heart pounding, and tries to concentrate on the feeling despite the overwhelming dizziness.

When he climaxes again, a fist is encasing his dick, having taken pity on him, while the other hand is mercilessly stroking over his prostate, and his orgasm is almost dry and hurts but it hurts so good he’s moaning regardless. He’s lost in his desire, displays it openly and unashamedly, thrusts up into the slick grip and only comes down extremely slowly.

Several minutes pass during which he’s vaguely aware of being moved and cleaned, feels a warm washcloth on his skin as well as soothing touches and when he comes to himself fully, he’s wrapped in a thick blanket and sitting sideways on Montagne’s lap, him having moved them both to the sofa. He’s petting Bandit’s hair while holding him close and the motion is so reassuring he decides not to move for a bit and maybe pretend like he’s sleeping.

“Have some water”, a voice rumbles against him and well, so much for that. He untangles one of his arms from the blanket and accepts the proffered glass, empties it and notices a change for the better instantly. “We overdid it a little, hm?”

Bandit is about to protest but notices the stripes on Montagne’s chest where the rope cut into him – the rope on which Bandit pulled without fully realising. “Did I hurt you? Are you alright?”, he murmurs concernedly and looks up, only to be met with amusement dancing in deep blue eyes.

“You didn’t and yes, I am. Don’t worry.”

“In that case it was the hottest fucking thing that’s ever happened to me and we should do it again as soon as possible.”

Montagne laughs and squeezes him in appreciation, stealing a kiss and putting their foreheads together. “I really did miss you. And that reminds me, do you think we…” His tone of voice is serious and so Bandit waits patiently, gives him the time to sort his thoughts or build up courage. He can’t fault him for wanting to do so, in the past he’s had to struggle to convince Bandit of some things which ultimately benefited them both. “Ah, let’s talk about it tomorrow. You look very tired.”

Part of him wants to question him further, extract whatever is on Montagne’s mind, but a significantly larger part is entirely too exhausted to even shake his head. “Yeah. Alright.” He stuffs his arm back into the safety of the blanket before it gets cold and snuggles closer to his lover. “Do you think you can carry me back to the bed and talk some more about your mission while we cuddle?”

“Of course”, Montagne responds and kisses his temple, “I would love to.”

[kivaember]

(Aza shows just how much he’s improved since starting to find healthier coping mechanisms - and seeing the closest thing to a therapist in ffxiv - and that Aymeric has some issues of his own too...

i.e i just felt like writing this bc i was in weird mood)

Stone Vigil was a hot mess.

That was Aymeric’s eventual assessment as wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his nose stinging with the near overpowering stench of dragon blood. With the revelation of Ishgardians carrying a trace of Dragon’s blood, it was standard practice for knights at risk of combat to cover their mouths and nose with a facial mask. Whilst it protected them from accidental ingestion, it made fighting a lot more uncomfortable.

Aymeric’s own facial mask was damp from condensation, and he irritably tugged it down beneath his chin, keeping his bloodied fingers away from his mouth. They were ambushed on one of the exposed corridors that led to the strongroom near the rear of the vigil, and he tentatively eyed the scorched stone and stress cracks running along the wall and floor where the dragons had barrelled through.

This corridor was going to collapse long before they finished fixing and reinforcing it. How many attacks had this vigil endured, now? They had reclaimed it due to Aza’s help, but the weakened walls, compromised foundations, as well as the insistent skirmishes, were making it more of a dangerous burden than a strategic reclamation. Their manpower was already stretched thin between the territory they already held and fulfilling their commitments to the Eorzean Alliance, that they couldn’t do anything more than keeping Stone Vigil by their mere fingertips. It was… frustrating, to say the least, to go through the depressing cycle of fighting back a dragon skirmish, fixing the damage done in said skirmish… only to go through it all over again a week or two later.

It was causing a lot of grumblings in the House of Lords, grumblings Aymeric could ill afford right now. He needed to find some way to break this vicious cycle…

“Lord Commander,” an exhausted knight pulled up next to him, drawing him out of his thoughts, “All men are accounted for and the dragons are completely routed. However, the corridor has taken extensive structural damage, so it’s been suggested by the engineers to relocate to a more stable location, sir.”

“Understood. Thank you, Knight,” Aymeric said distractedly. The knight saluted and dismissed himself – to be swiftly replaced with a much more welcome presence.

“Well, that was fun,” Aza said in the tone that implied it was the exact opposite, “I sure do love fighting dragons in cramped, narrow hallways while tripping over a hundred bumbling knights.”

“Yes, yes, you could have killed them all single-handedly,” Aymeric said with a quiet huff, “Unfortunately, they didn’t give us a chance to politely excuse ourselves from your magnificent presence.”

“How rude of them,” Aza tutted, slouching his shoulders in a near-comical exaggeration.

Aymeric looked him over, taking in his partner’s relaxed, satisfied posture. For all his belly-aching, he seemed to have found the fight invigorating enough to be in a good mood. There was blood speckled against his cheek, as well as thick, drying streaks of dragon’s blood smeared across his breastplate. The cloying smell of so much blood was beginning to make him feel ill, a nausea he ignored with some difficulty.  

“Anyway,” Aza said, straightening up and giving him a small smile, “I keep being heckled to move to ‘someplace safer’, so…?”

“The corridor’s structural integrity is unreliable at best, so, yes, best we move,” Aymeric confirmed, gesturing for Aza to start skedaddling. His partner did so, and they started to pick their careful way down the corridor. Debris and chunks of masonry threatened to trip them, and the cracked floor was slick with half-frozen blood and ice. Dragon corpses lay sprawled in the narrow space, all of them sporting the downy feathers of immature Aevis. Very young dragons, remnants of Nidhogg’s crazed brood.

It made Aymeric tired to think on it. He had naïvely thought that Nidhogg’s death would bring about the end of this, but the dragon’s brood stubbornly and insistently dashed themselves on Ishgard’s walls. They were too disorganised, too few and too weak to have any long-damaging effect, yet still they persisted. Did they intend to fight them down to the very last dragon pup? Didn’t they want peace at all, or was vengeance all they had left?

“You’re quiet,” Aza noted once they were two thirds down the corridor, “Something on your mind?”

“Mn,” Aymeric pushed those worries away, “No, I’m just tired.”

“Well, in that case,” Aza began, “We-”

“DRAGON!” Someone yelled, then-

The warning came a split second too late. Before Aymeric even processed it, before he even had a chance to whirl on the exposed side of the corridor – the Vigil violently shook beneath his feet hard enough that he almost staggered into Aza. A grinding cracking noise thrummed all around him, the groaning of stone pushed to the very limits, a very, awful, lurching feeling in his belly when he felt the stone floor shift beneath his feet, pale brick dust half-blinding him from the force of whatever the hell just rammed into the corridor-

In that frozen split-second, Aymeric’s mind processed several things at once.

The monstrously huge Aevis determinedly clawing its way into the narrow corridor, having rammed headfirst into the structure with the blind, maddened fury of a rabid animal. The chips of stone flinging everywhere as its claws tore at everything. The cracks of stressed masonry literally falling apart. Hot embers choking the air. The abrupt, terrifyingly cold knowledge of there is a thousand fulm drop beneath our feet and-

And by pure, beautiful, sheer instinct, Aymeric blindly lunged sideways into Aza, just as the floor gave way beneath their feet.

---

Aza weighed too much.

It was an awful, terrifying thought to have in that moment. Aymeric’s shoulder was a hot throb of agony, strained past its limit as he balanced dangerously, perfectly on the very edge of the massive hole that just opened in the corridor. Around him was yelling and shouting and the furious, pained howls of a dragon. Aymeric’s mind frantically pushed away all that noise and focused on his numbing fingers clenched tight around Aza’s forearm, the way the edge of the half-crumbled floor dug into his belly, the way he could feel gravity plucking at him, trying to tease him over and to tumble into that fucking terrifying expanse of steel grey below. It was taking all his core strength and weight to stop himself from sliding forwards, helped by the fact that Aza did not struggle or flail or do anything any sane man would’ve done when finding himself a thousand fulms above ground.

“Oh, fuck, okay,” Aza was saying, his voice breathless and strained but calm. A dragon roared somewhere, “You’re good, Aym. You’re good. Just hold on.”

“I… am…” he forced out in a curt grunt, his free hand pressing hard into the stone when he felt himself almost slip forwards a damning half-ilm. His shoulder was on fire. He was losing strength in his grip. Fuck, he might’ve pulled something when stopping his partner’s very rapid descent, “Aza, I can’t… you’re t-too…”

“If you say ‘you’re too heavy’,” Aza laughed a little wildly, reaching up with his free hand to grip Aymeric’s bicep, “No, it’s good. I can- I can get myself up. Just- just stay like that, handsome, okay? It’s okay. Just stay there.”

The entire corridor felt like it heaved, masonry cracking somewhere out of sight. A flare of heat at his back, everything lighting up in a glow that reflected in Aza’s eyes. His partner was disturbingly calm. Aymeric was… calm. His mind compartmentalised everything, broken up into manageable chunks to deal with later. He focused on; Aza, his weight, his shoulder, the steel grey sky below their feet. Everything else was boxed up and put away. Later. Focus.

“I’m really sorry,” Aza said to him, “This is probably going to hurt a lot.”

Then, with an abrupt yank on his arm, almost making Aymeric’s vision go white with pain, Aza hauled himself up from sheer upper body strength alone, his fingers gripping hard into his shoulder, the other hand – the stone edge. Blindly, Aymeric gripped at him, shuffling back and half-dragging, half-holding as Aza scrambled and crawled over the edge onto solid ground. Semi-solid ground. Everything was still trembling.

“Phew! Okay!” Aza said shakily, giving him a wobbly smile, his face alarmingly pale, “It’s good. We’re all good. You did good, Aym, you’re amazing, holy shit, thank the Twelve for your fast reflexes, okay? Okay, so- oh, fuck, I forgot about the dragon-”

Aymeric, on his knees, still honed into that calm, focused edge, turned to see the Aevis reeling from one smart knight aiming a still functioning Bertha cannon into its face. It screeched, writhed, wildly spraying spluttering fire, sending knights scattering with shouts.

“Oi!” Aza roared, his near-death experience instantly forgotten as he leapt to his feet and charged forwards, “Fuck off, you stupid lizard-”

Aymeric knelt there for a few seconds, then quietly stood on weak legs and gripped his sword hilt with a trembling hand. He took that moment, boxed it up, and put it into the back of his mind for later. He followed his partner a moment after, grip steady and sure on his blade.

---

It hit him when they were back in Ishgard.

He was sitting on the sofa of their living room, well, sprawled more like, bone-weary and his shoulder aching. He’d lightly torn a muscle, according to the chirugeon, and whilst a dash of healing magic recovered the worst of it, he was told to do only light exercise for a few days. Aza, of course, acted like his arm had been ripped off and stitched back on again, and refused to let Aymeric handle anything heavier than the house key.

Despite the fact he’d been the one to almost die today.

Then, it hit him.

It hit him that Aza had almost died.

This wasn’t anything new. Aza almost died all the time. But it was always out of sight, something he heard about and never really saw with his own eyes. He saw Aza, injured and limping, wincing from serious wounds but alive and well enough to grumble and whine about it. It was different to hear ‘Aza almost died again’, different than actually, physically, holding his partner from the very jaws of death, to know that if he had been too slow, or if his grip slipped, or if he fell over too, or if the dragon had turned its attention to them, or if, or if, or if.

It hit him, that Aza could have very easily been one of those. Aymeric saw many of them, during the height of the Dragonsong War. Of knights plucked up and dropped several hundred fulms, to dash against the rocks. Of ‘heretics’ forced to leap from Witchdrop and having their bodies paraded through the Holy See, lauded as loyal martyrs who proved their faith by willingly leaping into Halone’s halls (as if they weren’t thrown, begging and pleading for mercy). As Lord Commander, Aymeric had stood and watched far too many of those, seen to many of those, scraped up too many of those, and even after twenty years of witnessing them he still felt clammy and nauseous whenever he had to look at those broken things.

Because, they were never bodies at the end. They became smears, stains, pulp, rather than corpses. Even just thinking about it made his pulse unsettlingly fast. To imagine it as Aza-

Aymeric shifted to lie down on the sofa instead. He felt a swell of nausea rise in his throat, and he clasped his hands over his belly, feeling the fingers tremble as he very carefully prodded at that bone-deep fear. He understood himself. He knew how he worked through moments like these. He had a system to compartmentalise his trauma and feelings and emotions and work through them piecemeal by piecemeal. Only. He did that by himself. Normally.

There was none of that here. Aza was in the kitchen. He could hear him lightly singing in that lilting, odd language of the Steppes. For some reason hearing it made his throat clench up and he had to take a very deep, long breath. Eventually Aza will have to come out of the kitchen and will know something was up. Aymeric wasn’t hypocritical enough to hide it from him either.

Something prickled at him uncomfortably – Aza was messing up his routine, something said anxiously, but that wasn’t meant to be a bad thing, was it? No, it wasn’t. He should be relieved and fucking happy Aza was here and not a Fury-damned smear somewhere. Still, anxiety lingered and gave birth to guilt. It just tangled up together in a very confusing jumble and he found himself unsure on how to pick it apart. This was going against his usual system and he didn’t like it.

He didn’t know how long he spent staring up at the ceiling, very carefully pushing down the burning tight feeling in his throat and chest. It was, rationally, a silly thing to be getting upset over now. Aza didn’t die. Dwelling over what ifs was useless. He should just be content that it all ended well and, honestly, he needed to get a fucking grip.

Still, emotions and rationality rarely, if ever, went hand in hand.

It took him a moment too long to realise Aza wasn’t singing anymore. The very second he noticed that, his partner leaned over the back of the sofa and into his line of sight. He looked worried.

“Aym?” Aza said warily, “I called your name like, five times. Did you fall asleep with your eyes closed?”

“…no,” Aymeric said roughly, “I’m having a moment.”

“Um,” Aza wavered, clearly not expecting that, “A moment? Like, a bad one?”

“Yes.”

Aza said nothing for a moment, then went, “Okay. Budge over.”

Aymeric budged over, but there was barely any room on the sofa anyways when Aza climbed over the back of it and wedged in the narrow space. Aza was half-sprawled on top of him, but Aymeric curled his arms around him and pressed his nose into Aza’s hair and smelled the lingering smell of metal, oil, sweat and brimstone. It wasn’t a very nice smell, but it was an Aza smell. That was enough.

Aza gently nosed at the crook of his neck, his hand resting on his aching shoulder and very lightly pressed his thumb against the tense muscle. It ached, teasing slightly into pressure pain, but Aymeric didn’t mind. His breath caught in his chest, shuddering audibly.

“You upset about today?” Aza asked him quietly, tilting his head enough to kiss the pulse point in his throat, “About us nearly falling?”

“A little,” Aymeric murmured, hating how his voice came out all strangled, “I almost dropped you.”

“But you didn’t,” Aza told him gently, “You caught me. Okay? You caught me, it’s all good.”

“I know. I shouldn’t be upset, but…” Logically, he understood that he caught Aza and everything was fine. Emotionally, he kept imagining Aza as one of those smashed up corpses and felt ill and clammy at the near ‘what-if’. It was exhausting and annoying. Around this point he would find some work to tunnel-vision on and work himself to the point of falling into a dreamless sleep. Probably not a healthy way of dealing, thinking on it.

“… Lucia tells me,” Aza began after a short pause, “That sometimes our brains are dumbasses and makes you feel stupid things, but those stupid things are still valid. So, you might feel dumb for feeling upset about me almost dying, because, well, I’m obviously not dead, but it’s still a valid feeling. If… that is what’s worrying you.”

“Lucia said that, in those exact words?” Aymeric asked, finding a whisper of humour in him somewhere.

“Shut up. I’m paraphrasing, you asshole,” Aza muttered, then continued in a slightly nervous tone, “I just mean, um, I don’t think you’re stupid for being upset about it. And, I won’t judge. I’ll just keep reminding you that I’m okay, in case your brain forgets, and you deal with it at your pace, okay?”

Aymeric was quiet for a moment, briefly stunned. Lucia was a very good influence and an effective pseudo-therapist, what the hell. He needed to give that woman a raise.

“Alright,” he said, “I’m very upset.”

“About dropping me?”

“Imagining you… if you dropped.”

“Mn. That sounds like it’d be messy.”

“It is…” Aymeric said a bit listlessly, “I’ve seen many knights or supposed ‘heretics’ die from fatal falls. It is… it is never a clean death. Some, they must have died on impact. A grim fortune for them, I suppose, but the afterwards, is… for those who needs to pick up the pieces…”

Aza nuzzled his throat, distracting him from the very uncomfortable, queasy clench in his gut, “Let’s not talk about that,” his partner murmured against his skin, lightly kissing his fluttering pulse point, “It’s making you all clammy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Aza sighed, “S’okay, Aym. Maybe we should talk about something nicer? You need a break, it sounds like.”

Aymeric took a moment to consider if he wanted to do that. He felt too tense and weary to really… no, he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He was too tired and sore, too mentally drained. A break was needed.

“…did you see Lord Dounon’s atrocious hat the other day?”

“Ugh, you mean that ugly fucking pancake that’s sitting on his head?” Aza scoffed lightly, “Unfortunately.”

“I almost broke a rib trying not to laugh whilst staring at it.”

They spoke a little longer on a few Lords’ unfortunate fashion choices, but eventually exhaustion began to win its war against Aymeric. He failed to stifle a yawn mid-sentence, his eyelids drooping shut. He was so tired, and he grumbled when Aza laughed and cooed at him and kissed the tip of his nose.

“Take a catnap, handsome,” Aza told him, “Then you can shower the stink off you, eat something and face the day a bit more refreshed. I can call Lucia over too, if you want.”

That actually sounded tempting… and leagues better than what he would’ve done if left to his own devices, which was work himself to exhaustion and wake up hungry and groggy and unhappy, “Are you cooking?”

“Yup. Gonna make pancakes – if you go to sleep now.”

Aymeric muttered about tyrants, but Aza just laughed at him and kissed his nose again.

Like this, it was easy enough, to compartmentalise, take a breath – and relax. The anxiety was still there, but… it was better. Just a little. Just enough.

[zodiacspot]

Horoscope - March 18 2017

Aries Horoscope

(Mar 21 – Apr 19)

The world is starting to look brighter by the minute as you throw open the windows of your mind. Nothing seems off limits when it comes to how you fashion yourself, modeling different styles and attitudes like you try on new clothes. They're undoubtedly outside your usual image since chic Venus is retrograde in your sign, but the good news is that experimentation without decision is a safe move. There's a brand new chapter to write and it looks nothing like your past.

Taurus Horoscope

(Apr 20 – May 20)

The world is starting to look brighter by the minute as you throw open the windows of your mind. Nothing seems off limits when it comes to how you fashion yourself, modeling different styles and attitudes like you try on new clothes. They're undoubtedly outside your usual image since chic Venus is retrograde in your sign, but the good news is that experimentation without decision is a safe move. There's a brand new chapter to write and it looks nothing like your past.

Gemini Horoscope

(May 21 – Jun 20)

It feels as if the chains of your daily grind are falling away and you're eager to kick up your heels and make up for lost time. Although some of your friends might have slipped off your radar, older ones are coming back into the picture. Reaching out to an old or new buddy is the perfect way to start the weekend as the cheerful Sagittarius Moon harmonizes with chatty Mercury in your 11th House of Networking. A lift in spirits is guaranteed when you invite someone to share in the warmth of fellowship. Life is more enjoyable when you're in the company of those you love.

Cancer Horoscope

(Jun 21 – Jul 22)

You're ready to shake off the blues and do something useful today. Sometimes the best way to give yourself an energetic boost is to get your blood pumping; making the time for a walk or even a fun workout is favored as the sassy Sagittarius Moon bounces through your 6th House of Wellbeing. Even if fitness isn't your speed, any activity that ignites your enthusiasm is sure to bolster your sense of self-worth. The body may reflect the mind, but physical activity can get the mind moving.

Leo Horoscope

(Jul 23 – Aug 22)

The limitless possibilities of worlds beyond your own hold a strong fascination. You want to intellectually sample all kinds of exotica when delectable Venus joins interactive Mercury in your 9th House of Adventure. Some things may be so stimulating that you wish to give them a permanent place in your bag of tricks, but there might not be enough room in your suitcase. Your tastes are bound to keep expanding, so indulge without committing your heart. Don't make a final decision based upon a fleeting fancy.

Virgo Horoscope

(Aug 23 – Sep 22)

There's a lot weighing on your mind and it's easy to get frazzled by all the recent changes. But today you have a chance to settle in and process your feelings while the affirming Sagittarius Moon resides in your 4th House of Security. A supportive lunar contact to rational Mercury makes analyzing your psychological riddles less daunting now, allowing you to see them through a wider lens. Although you still want to resolve these issues as soon as possible, appreciating the developments as they unfold will make your growth more meaningful. Strive for progress, not perfection.

Libra Horoscope

(Sep 23 – Oct 22)

You don't have to look far to introduce some levity into your day. There are a few juicy stories to share when talkative Mercury bumps into amorous Venus retrograde, who is backtracking through your 7th House of Relationships. Although unusual recurrences may be happening in your love life, sometimes laughter is the best way to navigate emotional drama. Reba McEntire said, "To succeed in life, you need three things: a wishbone, a backbone and a funny bone."

Scorpio Horoscope

(Oct 23 – Nov 21)

It's the little things that catch your eye today. However, rather than dwelling on what is wrong, it's more fun to only acknowledge what's right. As the optimistic Sagittarius Moon trines analytical Mercury in your 6th House of Minutiae, it's easier to see how the details figure into the life you want to build. Although you may not be completely certain what that future looks like yet, you're happy to entertain a brighter outlook in the present moment. Beautiful things happen when you distance yourself from negativity.

Sagittarius Horoscope

(Nov 22 – Dec 21)

Dawn breaks in your personal world as you breathe in the crisp air of a new day. You're enthusiastic about taking off the training wheels and debuting your skills. But don't overestimate your proficiency or your passion just yet. Although the cavalier Moon in your sign encourages ardent Venus to run wild in your 5th House of Self-Expression, her retrograde motion indicates you will probably play the field even more before deciding what makes you tick. Sampling life's pleasures is sometimes more rewarding than pursuing a single path.

Capricorn Horoscope

(Dec 22 – Jan 19)

Oddly enough, you can ascertain more information from behind the walls of your fortress than out in the field today. It's almost as if you're able to see with your eyes closed as the far-sighted Sagittarius Moon traverses your 12th House of Invisibility. Although conversation flows freely, it's most likely regarding lingering family issues. Staying close to home allows you to sort out matters of the heart with those who know you best and are sure to keep your confidence. Rumi wrote, "Remember, the entrance door to the sanctuary is inside you."

Aquarius Horoscope

(Jan 20 – Feb 18)

Your mind is quick to grab onto any brilliant idea passing by today. Fortunately, there are plenty to go around now that mental Mercury and resourceful Venus are teaming up in your 3rd House of Information. Many of the concepts appear to have the potential to morph into marvelous plans, but determining which are just diversions is a challenge now. However, gathering your friends for an impromptu think-tank is a perfect panacea for a case of too many options. It takes a village to narrow your focus.

Pisces Horoscope

(Feb 19 – Mar 20)

Although your preferences are rearranging themselves before your eyes, today ushers in an ease with which you can ponder this mental evolution. A favorable alignment between the expansive Sagittarius Moon and a passionate Mercury-Venus pairing emphasizes your 2nd House of Values, opening your mind to the ways your emotional needs align with your material goals. Prosperity begins with a state of mind.

Source : Rick Levine

Read more about your horoscope here

[enkelimagnus]

Scissors

Bucky Barnes Gen, 2618 words, rated M for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame

Bucky goes to get his haircut, and ends up talking about his and his hairdresser's dating lives.

TW: homophobic language/terminology typical of the early 1900s, mentions of past rape and abuse

Read on AO3

Part 9 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

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

The only reason he makes it out of his house on Tuesday morning is because Charlie’s a nice girl, and he doesn’t want to be rude.

He even manages a shower, but it’s probably obvious to anyone he bumps into that he’s just crawled out of a proverbial hole. He’s going to have to deal with being in front of a mirror during his haircut and he’s dreading it.

It’s been three days since the Target incident.

Three days of forcing himself to eat, of no shower and barely any sleep, an endless loop of misery and darkness as he sat on the floor of his living room and waited for days to pass.

When he sleeps, he sees the deaths of Arkady Shostakov and his wife. It hadn’t been a good kill. It had been sloppy, with a boot print in the puddle of blood and brain matter on the apartment carpet. It had made for a good message sent to his handler’s other political enemies, however. He’d been punished for the sloppiness, with a whip. His handler, his обработчик, called himself traditional. He liked the whip. Bucky’s still surprised he healed without a trace from those days.

Needless to say, he’s barely functioning, but he has an appointment, and Charlie always puts time aside and lets him come early so he can be okay. She goes through so much trouble for him. So he’s going to show up, even if he would rather eat glass than stare at his own reflection for any length of time.

The sun is pale and hesitant as he reluctantly walks away from the locked door of his house. It’s less cold than it was a couple days ago, and the wind has subsided a little. His breath still forms clouds in the air.

He pulls out a cigarette and smokes one on the way to the salon, adding to the clouds he breathes out. He hates the new packages with their pictures of charred lungs on them. He gets why they’re there, but he also hates it. Too little too fucking late.

They got the American people hooked on cigarettes during the first world war, and have kept pumping it out ever since, under the guise of trying to make soldiers’ lives a little less terrible. His da didn’t smoke before the war, at least that’s what his ma used to say. They supposedly didn’t have many cigarettes in Romania when they were growing up. The reason why lungs like that exist in the first place is their own desire to make a profit. That kind of greed is the root of all fucking evil.

He crushes the butt of his cigarette against a wall two blocks from his destination.

The salon is small, modern. There’s a lot of dark wood, a lot of metal and white walls. There’s a crack in the wall behind the entrance desk, but they don’t seem to want to fix it just yet. It’s the kind of crack that might hide structural issues and he gets it. It’s not cheap to get that work done.

Charlie is not standing behind said desk when he walks in. He clears his throat a little loudly to announce he’s there but stays dutifully in front of the register, looking around the room. It’s half plunged into darkness, the timid sunlight not enough to chase the shadows of the deepest parts of the place.

The lights aren’t all on. They’re not officially open yet. It’s a privilege for him to be there. God Almighty, he doesn’t deserve that sort of kindness. He’s a broken shell of a man with a kill count that would make anyone kick him out without a second thought.

It takes a couple minutes before Charlie walks out from the backroom. Her hair is incredible, one side shaved so close to the skull it’s practically bold, the other flowing and beautiful, the back braided to keep the delimitation clean. A work of art, really.

“Sorry for making you wait,” she calls out and walks up to him. “Good to see you, James.”

He nods at her. “No worries.”

She shows him to his usual chair, gives him that weird robe to put on, grabs the spray bottle to wet his hair and her tray of things. He sits down on the leather, swallowing hard, staring down at the stack of magazines in front of him rather than the mirror.

Tension knots his shoulders high, he can feel it. He knows he looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. He doesn’t want her to think he’s not thankful, but he can’t really bring himself to relax right now.

“Everything okay?” She asks as she walks back to him, putting everything in order by her side. She’s precise in how she moves, almost surgeon-like. He likes how she doesn’t move recklessly. When she does, it’s for a good reason. It’s comforting. “So the usual scissor haircut? Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

Bucky nods at the first and second question, but pauses at the third. He hesitates long enough that she feels she has to justify her questions.

“You look a little worse for wear, buddy,” she explains. “I just want to make sure I’m doing everything I can to make you comfortable.”

Bucky opens his mouth and closes it. He looks up at her reflection for a second, trying to ignore his own face in the mirror. She looks a little tired, but kind and genuine. He’s going to leave her the biggest tip he’s ever given.

“I don’t mind accommodating you, okay? As long as it’s doable for me, I’ll do it, I just need you to communicate with me.”

Fuck, this is the nicest anyone has been to him in months. Sam talks to him like that too, sometimes, when he’s putting on the counsellor persona.

“Do you need the mirror to work?” He asks quietly.

He can almost hear the grinds in her head turning as she looks around, thinks through things… It takes a moment, and he’s about to open his mouth to say it’s no big deal when she smiles at him. “I might need it at the end, to make sure everything’s looking good together, but for most of the haircut, I can put something over it. Does that work for you?”

Bucky nods. The flood of relief and thankfulness unleashed into him rises up to his eyes. They prickle with tears. He immediately swallows them down as Charlie walks off to grab another of the robes. He’s not going to cry in public.

He immediately stands up when she comes back and helps her drape the robe over the mirror. She’s tiny and he’s already asking for so much. The least he can do is help.

They go back to their earlier position. He’s sitting in the chair, she’s standing by him, arranging her tools. He sees her slip off the ring that’s on her left ring finger and puts it on a chain that rests around her neck. She’s married.

“I’m going to start now and touch you,” she warns. “Let me know if you feel uncomfortable any time, okay?”

She’s asked that every time he’s been there. Granted, it’s the fourth time. But it’s more courtesy he’s been given within the last two months than he ever was for seventy years with Hydra. No one usually asks if he’s okay with being touched.

“Yes. Thank you,” he says quietly as she lays her hands onto his head, running her fingers through the strands and starting to figure out where and how she’s going to cut.

Her fingers are gentle but firm. Her touches are never too light. When she touches him, he can feel it, and he can feel when she doesn’t. There’s a clear, obvious difference.

Within minutes, he’s relaxing into the chair, eyes half closed, the exhaustion of the last couple of days weighing his eyelids down.

“You can’t fall asleep on me, James,” Charlie says softly. “I need you to hold your head up.”

He hums and shifts, opening his eyes to stare at the black fabric draped over the mirror. He straightens up a little. He’s going to fall asleep if he doesn’t have a conversation, so he tries to find a topic.

“You take off your wedding band for work?” he asks after a moment.

“Ah, yeah. I got tired of having bits of hair getting stuck between my skin and it.” She explains.

He doesn’t nod, because he doesn’t want to disturb her work. “So who’s the lucky fella?”

The energy of the room shifts. She has a small sigh and hesitation before she goes. “It’s a woman actually. My wife.”

“Ah, fuck,” he blurts out. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.”

It’s been a struggle and a half to figure that part of the world out. He’s sucked more dick than most people alive can say, but seeing two people of seemingly the same gender kiss in public makes him want to run and hide.

“It’s all good,” Charlie mutters, and she seems a little less hesitant now.

“Really, I got… I don’t have a problem with it,” he says, and realizes how terrible that sounds. He closes his eyes with a grunt. “I sound like an asshole.”

Charlie chuckles behind him. Her scissors work lightly against his ears.

“Really, I’m happy for you. The whole marriage thing, it’s awesome. Back in my day, we couldn’t imagine that kind of thing.”

He’s pretty sure she knows who he is, how old he actually is. Hopefully, she’ll get what he means.

The last time he tried his hand at dating, sodomy was illegal. It could get him in prison or in a mental institute getting tortured to try and ‘cure’ him. He couldn’t even look at a guy too long, in case they’d take it badly, or worse, in case it was an undercover cop sent to find sodomites and arrest them.

When he was growing up, there were a few big name celebrities who were openly homosexuals, but by the time he hit his teenage years, they had been booted out of Hollywood and the world had turned even more oppressive against anyone they saw as different or wrong.

The only place a guy like him could perhaps get some action safely with another man was the YMCA. Bucky went there even if he was a Hebrew, and they famously turned the other way when it came to homosexual acts commited by their members. He’d never been with any guy there. With a few girls, once or twice..

Like Dorothea, the daughter of some rich donor who’d sponsored some of his matches. A spitfire sort of girl, who played coy and poked his bruises and went ‘oh, these must hurt so much’, then shoved him against the wall and wrapped him around her little finger so tight she almost had him calling her mistress when they did it.

“It’s been a lot to get used to,” he admitted, out loud this time. “Sometimes, I see two men kissing and I… it feels like I’m going to see them get beaten up on the spot. Or arrested.”

Charlie sighs softly. “New York’s nice, but it can still get pretty dangerous for people. Depends on the neighborhood, depends if you’re white or not… but it’s not perfect yet.”

For a second, he wishes they hadn’t covered the mirror, so he could look up at her.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “You’d think that kind of shit wouldn’t happen anymore, in 2024.”

She huffs behind him. “We take it one step at a time. We could get married, so that’s already that. At least the laws are less against us than they used to be,” she mutters. “The people… all we can do is keep existing.”

Bucky likes her a bit more every time she opens her mouth.

“May I ask about your wife?” He says after a moment of silence.

Charlie chuckles. “My favorite topic of conversation.” She starts a stream of information, their marriage date, how they met, and Bucky lets her talk, smiling slightly at the obvious tenderness in her voice. It’s nice to hear someone talk about their loved ones like that.

Her name is Katherine, she’s a psychology student at NYU, pursuing a PhD. They’ve been married for about four years. Neither of them got snapped, and they pretty much exchanged vows the second they found a working administrative structure.

They keep chatting about Charlie’s wife for a moment until she starts working on the fading hairs into his collar.

“So, what about you? Did you end up finding a partner?” She asks and he swallows.

He’s no good for dating right now. Who’d want a guy like him as a partner? Sure, the girl from Izzy’s, Leah, is cute and sarcastic and makes him smile more than a lot of people do but… He’s 106, with more trauma-related issues than anyone alive.

“Nah,” he mutters. “I’m not the dating kind. There’s a lot I gotta figure out first,” he says quietly.

Besides, it would be hard for anyone to exist in his world with Steve’s shadow hanging around every corner. ‘Yeah, the last person I was in love with is Captain America’. That would be unfair to anyone.

And there’s the whole issue of sex too. The last time he’s had sex was in 2014, if you can even call it sex. It’s not a problem of looks or opportunity. He’s aware he’s attractive, or at least desirable. He’s been made well aware of that fact, thoroughly, over the course of decades. He knows all about his eyes, his lips, his hair, his ass, his dick, his chest, his thighs, his prosthetic arm, his flesh one, his throat, his fucking feet.

He knows. He just has no idea what sex with someone that doesn’t hold pain over his head would be like. His fantasies are fucked up half the time, either violent or way too fucking sad. And he just doesn’t fucking trust anyone. He can’t. Charlie’s pretty much the only person he trusts to touch him.

“Yeah,” he adds. “I’m not in that place yet.”

Charlie nods. Her voice sounds like she’s smiling next time she speaks. “Take care of yourself first. That’s the smartest way to go about this.”

“It’s the only way,” he admits.

They fall to silence after that. Bucky feels self-conscious pretty much immediately. That hairdresser knows more about his personal life than anyone alive, including his therapist. It’s a horribly vulnerable position to be in, and he shudders at the realization of how much fucking trust he’s putting in this girl he’s barely ever met.

She’s a complete stranger and he just unpacked a lot of his shit to her, easily. She gently pulls his head until it’s tilted to the side and allows her to finish out the edges of his cut and he lets her. He lets her move his head around without complaint, barely tensing. What the fuck is wrong with him?

It’s not incredibly long until the cut’s over and he can pay for it, leave her twice the amount in tips, and hightail it back home, both cursing himself for his stupidity and more relaxed than he’s been in a long time.

His house reeks of sweat and misery when he comes home so he opens the windows to let the air flow through it. It’s vulnerable like this, anyone could get in, but it feels good. Sometimes, opening a little is what you need to chase away the misery.

[theconservativebrief]

If you’ve ever bought eggs in a supermarket, you’ve probably faced this conundrum: do I buy the regular, cheap eggs, or the nicer, organic/cage-free eggs? And supposing you want to spring for the humane stuff, how do you know which farms are really treating their hens right, and which are just throwing up smoke and mirrors?

The short answer: yes, you should be buying cage-free eggs. But the case for buying organic or free range eggs isn’t very compelling. When shopping around, be sure to look for “Certified Humane” and, even better, “Animal Welfare Approved” stickers on your eggs. They’re your best bet if you love egg products but want to be sure the hens laying them are being treated well.

Most eggs are produced in a way that severely hurts chickens. About 97 percent of egg-laying hens in the United States are confined to what are known as “battery cages,” holding 5 to 10 birds each, with United Egg Producers’ minimum standards mandating 67 square inches per bird — a smaller space than a standard 8.5-by-11-inch piece of paper (UEP estimates that about 15 percent of hens are raised by farmers that don’t even meet those standards). These spaces severely disrupt the laying process, causing huge pain to birds. “The worst torture to which a battery hen is exposed is the inability to retire somewhere for the laying act,” the Nobel laureate ethologist Konrad Lorenz once said. “For the person who knows something about animals it is truly heart-rending to watch how a chicken tries again and again to crawl beneath her fellow cagemates to search there in vain for cover.”

There are three broad alternatives to traditional cages: barn systems, aviary systems, and “enriched cages.” The following illustration from the book Compassion by the Pound by researchers F. Bailey Norwood and Jayson L. Lusk shows how the four options compare:

Alternative confinement systems for chickens. Norwood and Luck; made horizontal by Vox

In barn systems, a large flock gets an entire barn within which to roam freely, with food and water provided at various locations, perches available, sawdust for scratching, and nests for hen to lay in, usually with a curtain to provide privacy for the hen. Norwood and Lusk estimate that the typical barn provides 200 square inches per bird, nearly triple the amount given to battery caged hens. Aviaries are like barns, but with multiple floors at different heights that birds can fly or walk up to. That might give the birds more space, depending on the floor space allotted, and it makes it easier for them to run away from bullies in the flock. Both aviaries and barns can provide access to the outdoors, making them “free range” systems. In the enriched cage system, birds are still in cages but get “more space, a small perch, a pan for dust bathing, and a private nest for egg laying.”

There are some disadvantages to the barn/aviary cage-free approach. Most significantly, mortality is significantly higher: Norwood and Lusk estimate that the mortality rate in cage systems is 3 percent, while it’s 7 percent for cage free, 9 percent for free range, and 13 percent for organic. At first glance, that’s a point in favor of an enriched cage approach, not a cage-free approach.

It’s not clear how much of this is due to differences in confinement conditions, and how much is just due to differences in the type of chicken being raised in each environment. Brown hens tend to work better in cage free environments, whereas white hens are preferred by cage-egg producers, for example, and experiments have found that when raised in identical environments, brown hens have higher mortality rates anyway. But in practice, what’s causing the deaths doesn’t really matter. Buying more cage-free eggs these days means bringing into existence more brown hens with shorter lives and fewer white hens with longer lives; you have to weigh that against the higher quality of life the brown hens get while they exist.

Luckily, there are relatively rigorous ways to weigh those factors. One is FOWEL, a mathematical model used to estimate the welfare of laying hens under various conditions on a scale of 0 to 10, 10 being the best. Norwood and Lusk report that FOWEL gives the typical cage system a 0.0, enriched cages 2.3, aviaries 5.8, barns 5.9, and barns with free range provisions 6.3.

So cage-free is better than caged. And this matters not just at a macro level, but when it comes to individuals’ spending decisions about eggs. The level of egg production — and thus the number of hens who suffer through this — is highly responsive to changes in consumer spending: 0.91 fewer eggs are produced for every egg not consumed, per Norwood and Lusk, as farms birth fewer hens into these awful conditions. Put another way, each caged egg you don’t eat prevents about a day of chicken suffering by helping reduce the number of chicken who are raised for this kind of treatment.

The brown hen/white hen divide isn’t the only thing accounting for differences in mortality rates, though. Free-range birds and organic birds face even higher death rates than non-free-range cage-free birds, and those differences probably are a consequence of differences in how the animals are treated. Free-range birds are at very real risk of predation, which leads to them registering similar stress levels as caged birds. They also face a greater danger from parasites. This can be overcome to some degree through predator protection measures like tall wire fencing, but merely knowing that eggs are “free range” doesn’t tell you that the hens had that kind of safety. “The desirability of any free range system depends crucially on predator protection and the indoor housing facilities provided,” Norwood and Lusk conclude. They argue for considering free range an “optional component” of cage free production.

In other words: don’t go actively looking for free range eggs. Cage free alone is good, and in some cases even better than free range.

Producers of organic eggs in the US have to provide some outdoor access, raising similar concerns as non-organic free range eggs; they must be cage-free as well. But organic producers also aren’t allowed to provide synthetic amino acids to chickens (even though those acids significantly improve chickens’ nutrition and overall health), and are restricted in their usage of antibiotics. “A farmer cannot treat a sick animal with antibiotics and then sell the animal for organic food,” Norwood and Lusk write. “This causes some farmers to deny antibiotics to sick animals. As a result, hens suffer. A number of animal scientists in the US believe organic production is cruel to hens for this reason.”

Add in the fact that organic eggs aren’t any better for you — just like most organic foods — and you have a pretty good case for preferring non-organic cage-free eggs to organic ones. Organic’s still better than caged eggs, to be sure, but the policies toward antibiotics and amino acids are cruel.

The most rigorous animal welfare certification program when it comes to eggs is Animal Welfare Approved. Their logo is a white sun with blue rays over a green pasture:

This is the one to aim for! Animal Welfare Approved

As the Humane Society of the United States explains, AWA has the highest standards of any private animal welfare auditing program for eggs. It prohibits producers from beak cutting, in which farmers remove part of newborn hens’ beaks to prevent pecking, and from starving birds to force them to molt, another unfortunately common practice. But AWA-approved eggs can be hard to come by. There aren’t any stores selling AWA eggs within a 15 mile radius of Washington, DC, for example.

A second-best option is Certified Humane, which bans forced molting but not beak cutting. Both AWA and Certified Humane – Free Range require outdoor access, for better or worse (Certified Humane has different levels of certification; the basic level doesn’t require outdoor access). Certified Humane is a lot easier to find in the grocery store, with brands like Nellie’s and Open Nature making the cut. The logo is pretty easy to spot:

A Certified Humane carton of eggs at a Safeway in Washington, DC. Vox / Dylan Matthews

“American Humane Certified” and “Food Alliance Certified” offer similar protections as Certified Humane. “United Egg Producers Certified” is a much weaker certification; it bans forced molting but allows for hens to be kept in cages. “Pasture-raised” means much the same thing as “free range” labels. And a lot of common labels tell you nothing at all about chicken treatment: vegetarian-fed, natural, farm fresh, fertile, omega-3 enriched, pasteurized, etc.

That said, many animal advocates would urge consumers to not just buy better eggs but to reduce egg consumption in general. One reason is that a lot of the eggs we eat don’t take the form of eggs we buy in cartons, but come in mayonnaise, salad dressings, frozen foods, restaurant meals, and other contexts where it’s hard to judge where the eggs came from, and what conditions the hens were raised in.

More importantly, though, most hatcheries that supply hens to farms — even cage-free or free range farms — use a practice called “chick culling,” in which male chicks are slaughtered en masse, usually by grinding them alive:

[embedded content]

Gassing is also sometimes used. This is not an inevitability of egg production. The use of dual-purpose breeds of chicken, where the males could be (humanely) raised for meat rather than killed immediately, eliminates the need for culling; so does identifying chick gender inside the egg, which new technological developments have made possible. Two years ago, United Egg Producers committed to eliminating culling by the year 2020 using in-ovo sex detection. But until then, culling is still a reality of American egg production, one to which people eating eggs today are contributing.

Cage free eggs are definitely better. There’s no doubt about that. But eating fewer eggs altogether is better still.

Correction: The original version of this article said that all Certified Humane certifications require outdoor access; only some do.

Original Source -> Cage-free, free range, organic: what all those egg labels really mean

via The Conservative Brief

[douchebagbrainwaves]

OK, I'LL TELL YOU YOU ABOUT STRANGER

I should have spent less time worrying and more time building. The bad news is that I got over 100 other responses listing the surprises they encountered. Sometimes it reached the point of this essay, you already know most of what you need to know about M & A conversations can be like nothing you've experienced in the otherwise comparatively upstanding world of Silicon Valley. Mostly because they're optimistic by nature. It's much more of a grind than glamorous. This amounts to asking what I got wrong, because if you start measuring something you start optimizing it, and I know it's the wrong thing to optimize. Some of Silicon Valley's most famous companies began in garages: Hewlett-Packard in 1938, Apple in 1976, Google in 1998. Tranched deals are an abuse. Unfortunately picking winners is harder than that. Only a few do so far, but I didn't realize how hard it was to get the first commitment, because much of the difficulty comes from this external force.

On the other hand, are weighed down by their eminence. Icio. At one end of the scale you have fields like math and physics, where nearly all the teachers are among the best practitioners. Founders who fail quickly tend to blame themselves. A site for college students to waste time? When you're an outsider, take advantage of Ajax. Us. And while there are in fact lots of ways for such information to spread among investors, the main vector is probably the founders themselves. That's what the title corp dev means. Till recently I thought it didn't, but the pool allowed to write on general topics was about eight people who went to the right parties in New York. The second big element of Web 2.

The way to do it with explicit goal of keeping their product off the market. It takes a conscious effort not to do that too. If you work fast, they expect everyone else to. And I wasn't alone. In startups one person may have to like debugging to like programming, considering the degree to which persistence alone was able to dissolve obstacles: If you pitch your idea to a random person, 95% of the time but occasionally cut someone up and bury them in your backyard, you're a bad guy. If you work patiently it's less stressful, and you think Oh my God, they know. Frankly, though, if I've misled people here, I'm not eager to fix that. There's a physical analog in the Intel and Microsoft stickers that come on some laptops. And he said that there weren't really any annoyances, except—and he got a wistful look when he said this—that he got so much email. I think there's a general principle at work here: the less energy people expend on performance, the more they expend on appearances to compensate. So for the better technology companies, the patent pledge does fix may be more serious than the problem of patent trolls. In social settings, I found that I got over 100 other responses listing the surprises they encountered.

Maybe they'll listen to one of the reasons I like being part of this world. If you cared about design, you could buy a Thinkpad, which was at least not actively repellent, if you even tie, you win. The emotional ups and downs are surprisingly extreme. And now I have independent evidence: the top links on Reddit are generally links to individual people's sites is as good as or better than the stuff I read in newspapers and magazines. One founder said explicitly that the relationship between founders was more important than ability: I would rather cofound a startup with a friend than a stranger with higher output. We'd clean up our offices, wear better clothes, try to arrange that a lot of people probably thought we'd have some working system for micropayments by now. The Ajax boom didn't start till early 2005, when Google Maps appeared and the term Ajax was coined.

[scottadcox]

TLDR Version

Got up early.

One kid went 1-2 for a first and a second.

Other kid went 2-1 against a single opponent for a first place.

I went 2-1 with a first and a second.

Had a lot of fun. Learned a lot.

Long Version

We headed out for Jacksonville at 5:30 am the morning of the event, stopping by to pick up Coach Frank and The Hurricane along the way. Parking and check in went really smoothly, and man…UNF is a really beautiful campus! I was competing in my very first competition, as were the two oldest girls, and all of us were right on the cusp of a weight class, so we went for a quick urination break and came back to have our weight right on.

All I’d had that morning was a half cup of coffee and a boiled egg, so I was ready to eat. Luckily, I wasn’t competing until the afternoon, so I had plenty of time to get food and water in me.

Bug was first up in no-gi, and the girl she went against was awesome! I was glad we’d entered her into the Novice bracket with no submissions. She’s been exposed to BJJ for 10 months or so, but she really hasn’t shown any kind of spark until the first of this year. I think her opponent’s aggression was a little bit of a wake-up call for her. Bug would escape mount, but end up getting swept every time and was unable to pass the girl’s guard. On one hand, it was tough to watch. On the other, it was awesome to see her continue to fight (and fight and fight) a losing battle.

Her next match was against the same girl, and we were really proud of her for going back out there knowing what was coming. She showed more aggression this time and scored a few points herself, but the result was the same.

Second Place Novice No-Gi

After those first two matches and the podium pic, we found out she still had another match. This one was a different story–the little boy she was grappling with seemed to be much more on her level. She did a great job of listening to Coach Frank throughout the match and executing the moves he was calling out. She ended up winning, and to our surprise was awarded first place in that division (a sword). I’m not sure how NAGA brackets for kids, but we thought maybe her first two matches with the more experienced girl were just to give her opponent some matches in a bracket that was empty…maybe? Dunno, but she was really happy with the experience (and getting to pick the color of her sword), and we were really proud of her for not giving up in the first match and being brave enough to go out for another whoopin’ in the second.

I hope she found a switch inside herself she didn’t know was there before. What a great confidence builder to know you can fight through and survive difficult situations and come back for some more!

First Place Novice No-Gi

There were a couple of other kids competing on our team, and they did great as well. It was awesome to see the kids cheer for, console, and congratulate their teammates. This is the first time any of our kids have ever competed in a sport, and I loved seeing and feeling the nervous energy, excitement, and comradely come out of them. It was palpable.

Pea was up next in the gi division. While we had a good idea going in how Bug was going to respond, Pea was more of a wildcard in my eyes. She is really focused and serious in training, but she hasn’t really felt that feeling of being dominated by an opponent before. How would she respond if she was put in the same situation Bug was in during her first two matches?

She was pretty evenly matched with her opponent, and won the match with a take down, sweep, and mount points. But it was a really good fight and a challenge for her. She ended the match stretched out on the mat and tired. They were the only two girls in their division, and in order for them to get two matches they had a second with each other. Different story this time around–flipped script. They ended up needing a rubber match to decide the winner of the division.

Pea was ahead on points with about a minute left and was controlling her opponent’s posture from guard really well. The other little girl started crying, but she didn’t quit. It was hard to watch, but I was so proud of that little girl for hanging in there and fighting, fighting, fighting to break that guard. I was even cheering for her a little bit when Pea went for a sweep and the girl defended it.

I was proud of Pea for not letting up while the match was going on, but I was even more proud of her when the match ended. She let her empathy for her opponent come out and started crying as well, hugging her and telling her she was sorry and hoped she was okay. They got up on the first place podium together for the awards photo, which I think was appropriate for their three hard fought matches.

First Place Beginner Gi

Plenty of downtime between the kids competition and mine. I’d heard lots about anxiety and nervousness for your first competition, but I didn’t think it would be a huge deal for me. True, I’ve never competed in wrestling, judo, or any sort of combat-type sport, but I have enough experience competing in general that I didn’t expect to be very rattled. I’ve put my body in harm’s way against guys who were out for blood countless times, and it’s not like these guys were going to be punching me in the face or anything.

It’s the gentle art.

The last time I was truly nervous before an event was in 2006 when I was ill-prepared for a triathlon, didn’t believe I could do the distance, and didn’t even want to be there. I’m usually pretty good about believing in the work I’ve put in during training, having a game plan in mind, and feeling comfortable tweaking it midstream if I feel the need.

Honestly, watching the kids was much more nerve wracking that competing myself.

My plan was to get on top and stay on top–passing if I’m in the guard, and taking any submissions that were presented to me without trying to force my way into them. I think I was pretty well prepared for the most part, realistic about my ability in the take down game (average at best), and confident of my ability to maintain a dominant position once I got there.

I was not prepared for the difference in competition and training in the gym. Yes, the intensity is definitely amped up, but I was ready for that; even counting on it. I felt that my conditioning would probably be better than most people in my divisions, and my “calm-before-the-storm” level head would keep me from adrenaline dumping the way others might.

The difference I wasn’t prepared for was the amount of time white belt matches spend in closed guard. I very seldom use closed guard in training for any extended period of time,mostly because it just isn’t very fun. We play King of the Mat a lot, and I always choose open guard because it’s more dynamic and energetic. If I could change one thing about my training, I’d have drilled the crap out of three or four options from my back and been able to cycle through them on auto-pilot. I had a definite plan for passing closed guard from the top, but should have spent more time thinking about the bottom.

More about this in summary of my last match.

My first match was no-gi against the only other competitor in my division. He carried a lot of his weight in his upper body–shoulders and neck, not gut. More of my weight is in my lower body. Pre-match pep talk from Coach Frank was, “Get in a dominant position and get heavy, squeeze, and start looking for submissions.”

Exactly what I’d been planning.

I’m not very confident in my take downs, but I attempted a double leg. I wouldn’t call it a “shot”, just a half-assed attempt. My lack of confidence was probably apparent. I was, however, confident in my ability to defend and my cardio. He had his arms near a guillotine, so I thought he may go for it, and as I was thinking that and grabbing his arm to defend it he pulled guard and attempted it. One point for him and encouraging for me–at least I didn’t lose the take down, I’m on top, and am ready to start working a pass to take the point lead.

I got my head out and started to build my posture, getting mentally prepared to work my higher percentage passes.

Credit to my opponent for this–40-49 year old beginner weighing ~190 pounds immediately goes for a gogoplata!!! Dude was game!!!

Luckily for me, The Missus also trains and is super flexible. She loves that gogoplata type stuff, and I’ve had lots of practice with her trying to get it on me. My hand instinctively came up and defended my neck. Another point for him for the submission attempt, but I was able to push his leg away and create a scramble situation, settling in half guard.

I’ve been working on half guard a lot, from the top and the bottom, so I went into auto-pilot mode here–established cross face and the under hook on the open-leg side and put his back to the mat. As I flattened him out and glanced up at the time to see there was ~2:30 left. This is where I wanted to be–on top with lots of time to work. I knew I was down by two points, but also knew all I had to do was pass this half guard and we’d be back to even. Then I’d be a submission attempt away from the win.

I know it’s boring to watch and probably more boring to roll with, but I pretty much just grind. The difference between training and competition is that in training I try to adjust my pressure to the opponent–just enough to make them give up something to work with. In competition, the plan is all the pressure the whole time. I was a little concerned that the matches would only be 4:00 long, but there was plenty of time left in this one, and I liked my chances and told myself to be patient, conservative, and methodical.

He went for the lock down on my trapped leg (exactly what I would have done without the under hook), which was an issue for working my preferred pass. Bells went off, but it wasn’t a ton of pressure on my knee, so I doubled down on the commitment to pressure and started trying to work my leg free. He bailed on lock down and I could feel that I may have an advantage in leg strength, remembering how we sized up before the match. I decided to go for a more conservative pass than my original plan, which would put me into mount instead of side control.

As I started working my leg out I felt some wiggle room there. Maybe I should have exploded through and gotten mount earlier, but I just kept inching until my leg was clearly through and flopped down to the mat. Then I squeezed.

And I heard Coach Frank yelling, “SQUEEZE!!!!”.

I sprawled my legs to the closest I could get to a grapevine and squeezed harder. I was thinking that I’d go for an Ezekiel choke first and get a point, hoping an arm presented itself. I like that option because I wouldn’t have to give up a ton of pressure to go for it, and if he were to try to bump out I could just bail and post–pretty conservative.

I never got to attempt it though. I guess I had a pretty good amount of pressure and squeeze because he tapped. I was a little surprised because I didn’t think I was in a submission position–hard to know what was going on.. Not really the way I’d have chosen to win. I’d much rather have been able to do something more technical, but I guess I’ll take it either way. I have a feeling if I rolled with this guy regularly we’d have a lot of fun.

[EDIT]: Todd left a comment on Facebook that the tap was due to a smother. Ugh. Very unsatisfied with that. That’s one of those that you want your partner to tell you about in training because it’s just inadvertent and brutish. Yeah…it’s a competition, and you’re supposed to be trying to submit however you can, but if I’m going to win with a smother I’d at least want it to be intentional.

First Place No-Gi Directors Beginner Light-Heavyweight

In the gi division, I was bumped up a weight class, but it was cool–the other two guys only weighed in at ~194, and I was probably close to that after eating and hydrating, so there wasn’t a huge weight discrepancy. They went the full four minutes, and I got the loser. If I win, I get the winner of their match, if I lose, I’m third place.

Pre-match advice was, “Just like the last match–position and control!”

I didn’t get to see their match, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. I set up my “insurance policy” as soon as the match started and we both worked gi grips. I got the sense that his stand up game was about on par with mine, so this would be 50/50. Somehow, I ended up standing belly to back and controlling him. The first thing that popped into my head was, “No suplexes!” I didn’t want to risk being DQ’d, so I sort of drug him to the ground.

Two points for me and a good position.

He was in a loose turtle so I attempted to jump on him without getting too high and get my hooks in for the back take. He threw his legs up to defend the hooks and sort of rolled to his right side. I landed on my right side with my left leg over this shoulders and neck and both hands on his right arm. I had an arm and could control his posture!

I started looking for a way to an arm bar.

Coach Frank was giving me directions, but I didn’t do a good job listening here. Not exactly sure what he was even telling me to do, but I solved the riddle by sliding my right knee behind his elbow and using both hands to keep his wrist in place as I pressed my knee in for the tap. I kind of wish this one could have lasted longer because this guy was bigger than me and we never got a chance for any sort of back and forth.

Next up was the championship gi match. I learned a lot in these four minutes.

I expected this opponent to be technically better than the guy I’d just faced since he seemed a little smaller, but had earned the victory. When we locked up, he immediately went for a throw, which I defended. That should have been a cue for me to pull guard–that his take down game was going to be better than mine. If I’d pulled guard I could have locked up closed guard without losing any points and gotten an advantage point at least for attempting submissions. Again, I’m confident enough in my strength and cardio to think I could hold a closed guard against most people at my skill level for four minutes without much of a problem, but I haven’t practiced this as a competition tactic.

As I type this, I’m thinking about one of the biggest lessons I learned in competing–the SPORT of jiu jitsu and the ART of jiu jitsu are entirely different things. I have another post swirling in my head about this matter, but here’s the spoiler: I much prefer the art.

Long story short, he went for another throw and got it, and passed to side control for a total of five points. I didn’t have a lot of trouble working my way from side control to half guard. That was the good news–I’m pretty comfortable in working my way to the top from half guard, and I work on it a lot. The bad news was that I had half guard on my stupid side. I established the under hook and tried to work my way up using my favorite move to the top from half guard. He was able to fight that off, but I moved on to plan B. This move is even weaker on my stupid side, and he was able to base out and stop it pretty easily.

This should have set off another alarm in my brain–this guy had a solid base and was not going to be easy to sweep.

From there we got into an under hook pummeling contest, which I thought he’d be happy to do for the rest of the match since he was ahead. I felt like I could keep him from smashing me no matter what, so I started setting up a baseball bat choke we’ve worked on from half guard. There’s some risk here, because I’d have to let him pass to get it. Maybe I didn’t commit to it as a should have because of this risk. I actually heard his coach yelling, “Watch the baseball bat choke he’s setting up!”

It didn’t work, but I was able to re-establish my guard before giving up any points. Is the reason it didn’t work because I didn’t fully commit to it…worried about points? I’m not sure, but I don’t get it a lot in training either. Nevertheless, I gave it a shot. My thought from here was to get to closed guard (still plenty of time left), sweep to mount for six points, and grind like I’d done in my no-gi match.

But, duh, this guy wouldn’t be easily swept.

Once I’d made the decision, I got to closed guard pretty easily. I felt like he was being conservative and was happy to take that position knowing he didn’t have to pass, just hang on. I’m sure if he’d been down on points it would have been tougher to get. Replaying the match in my head, this guys definitely made good decisions.

There was some grip fighting, and I almost caught his arm once, but he got it pulled back. We were pretty even on the posture fight as I remember it, but we were playing two different games because of the points. I was finally able to get my knee in to attempt a scissor sweep. At this point I had “sweep and mount” on the brain, and that’s what Coach Frank was yelling for too. My first attempt at the scissor sweep was not very good technically, but it ended up being as close as I was going to get. I could hear Coach Frank yelling for me to focus on the knee with the sweep, and I thought I did a better job with that on my next two attempts. But he based out even harder and I know after talking to Coach and The Missus after that I was missing a key detail–something to work on this week!!!

Time was ticking down, and all he had to do was keep a solid base and hang on for the win. Coach Frank was yelling out the time left, and I knew I was going to have change tactics. I was able to get into position for a triangle attempt with 20 seconds or so left. My best shot at it was in the first few seconds, but I wasn’t able to get a full figure four with my legs, and I couldn’t move his arm across. Something else to work on. I heard his coach yell, “TEN SECONDS….YOU ARE NOT GOING TO TAP TO THAT!!!”

Haha…that didn’t mentally defeat me, and I kept trying my hardest, but it crossed my mind that if I heard my coach yell that at me, I’d get choked out before I tapped, and it takes about 6 seconds to get choked out when it’s in tight.

This one wasn’t in tight.

Time ran out and I stood up with a huge grin on my face. Even though I lost, that was, by far, the most fun match of the day, and I’d love to have the opportunity to train with this guy day in and day out. Tough guy who played hard, played smart, and was friendly both before and after the match. He could definitely help me get better, and seemed like the kind of guy who’d be happy to do so.

2nd Place Directors Gi Cruiser Weight

A pretty good haul for our family at our first competition–three first places and two second places. Having been involved in running MUCH smaller rugby tournaments, I think the organization of the competition seemed to go pretty smoothly, especially when you consider the dynamic situations with that many divisions being run.

We all had a great time and learned a lot, but it was a long day for a whole family to compete.

[scottadcox]

TLDR Version

Got up early.

One kid went 1-2 for a first and a second.

Other kid went 2-1 against a single opponent for a first place.

I went 2-1 with a first and a second.

Had a lot of fun. Learned a lot.

Long Version

We headed out for Jacksonville at 5:30 am the morning of the event, stopping by to pick up Coach Frank and The Hurricane along the way. Parking and check in went really smoothly, and man…UNF is a really beautiful campus! I was competing in my very first competition, as were the two oldest girls, and all of us were right on the cusp of a weight class, so we went for a quick urination break and came back to have our weight right on.

All I’d had that morning was a half cup of coffee and a boiled egg, so I was ready to eat. Luckily, I wasn’t competing until the afternoon, so I had plenty of time to get food and water in me.

Bug was first up in no-gi, and the girl she went against was awesome! I was glad we’d entered her into the Novice bracket with no submissions. She’s been exposed to BJJ for 10 months or so, but she really hasn’t shown any kind of spark until the first of this year. I think her opponent’s aggression was a little bit of a wake-up call for her. Bug would escape mount, but end up getting swept every time and was unable to pass the girl’s guard. On one hand, it was tough to watch. On the other, it was awesome to see her continue to fight (and fight and fight) a losing battle.

Her next match was against the same girl, and we were really proud of her for going back out there knowing what was coming. She showed more aggression this time and scored a few points herself, but the result was the same.

Second Place Novice No-Gi

After those first two matches and the podium pic, we found out she still had another match. This one was a different story–the little boy she was grappling with seemed to be much more on her level. She did a great job of listening to Coach Frank throughout the match and executing the moves he was calling out. She ended up winning, and to our surprise was awarded first place in that division (a sword). I’m not sure how NAGA brackets for kids, but we thought maybe her first two matches with the more experienced girl were just to give her opponent some matches in a bracket that was empty…maybe? Dunno, but she was really happy with the experience (and getting to pick the color of her sword), and we were really proud of her for not giving up in the first match and being brave enough to go out for another whoopin’ in the second.

I hope she found a switch inside herself she didn’t know was there before. What a great confidence builder to know you can fight through and survive difficult situations and come back for some more!

First Place Novice No-Gi

There were a couple of other kids competing on our team, and they did great as well. It was awesome to see the kids cheer for, console, and congratulate their teammates. This is the first time any of our kids have ever competed in a sport, and I loved seeing and feeling the nervous energy, excitement, and comradely come out of them. It was palpable.

Pea was up next in the gi division. While we had a good idea going in how Bug was going to respond. Pea was more of a wildcard in my eyes. She is really focused and serious in training, but she hasn’t really felt that feeling of being dominated by an opponent before. How would she respond if she was put in the same situation Bug was in during her first two matches?

She was pretty evenly matched with her opponent, and won the match with a take down, sweep, and mount points. But it was a really good fight and a challenge for her. She ended the match stretched out on the mat and tired. They were the only two girls in their division, and in order for them to get two matches they had a second with each other. Different story this time around–flipped script. They ended up needing a rubber match to decide the winner of the division.

Pea was ahead on points with about a minute left and was controlling her opponent’s posture from guard really well. The other little girl started crying, but she didn’t quit. It was hard to watch, but I was so proud of that little girl for hanging in there and fighting, fighting, fighting to break that guard. I was even cheering for her a little bit when Pea went for a sweep and the girl defended it.

I was proud of Pea for not letting up while the match was going on, but I was even more proud of her when the match ended. She let her empathy for her opponent come out and started crying as well, hugging her and telling her she was sorry and hoped she was okay. They got up on the first place podium together for the awards photo, which I think was appropriate for their three hard fought matches.

First Place Beginner Gi

Plenty of downtime between the kids competition and mine. I’d heard lots about anxiety and nervousness for your first competition, but I didn’t think it would be a huge deal for me. True, I’ve never competed in wrestling, judo, or any sort of combat-type sport, but I have enough experience competing in general that I didn’t expect to be very rattled. I’ve put my body in harm’s way against guys who were out for blood countless times, and it’s not like these guys were going to be punching me in the face or anything.

It’s the gentle art.

The last time I was truly nervous before an event was in 2006 when I was ill-prepared for a triathlon, didn’t believe I could do the distance, and didn’t even want to be there. I’m usually pretty good about believing in the work I’ve put in during training, having a game plan in mind, and feeling comfortable tweaking it midstream if I feel the need.

Honestly, watching the kids was much more nerve wracking that competing myself.

My plan was to get on top and stay on top–passing if I’m in the guard, and taking any submissions that were presented to me without trying to force my way into them. I think I was pretty well prepared for the most part, realistic about my ability in the take down game (average at best), and confident of my ability to maintain a dominant position once I got there.

I was not prepared for the difference in competition and training in the gym. Yes, the intensity is definitely amped up, but I was ready for that; even counting on it. I felt that my conditioning would probably be better than most people in my divisions, and my “calm-before-the-storm” level head would keep me from adrenaline dumping the way others might.

The difference I wasn’t prepared for was the amount of time white belt matches spend in closed guard. I very seldom use closed guard in training for any extended period of time,mostly because it just isn’t very fun. We play King of the Mat a lot, and I always choose open guard because it’s more dynamic and energetic. If I could change one thing about my training, I’d have drilled the crap out of three or four options from my back and been able to cycle through them on auto-pilot. I had a definite plan for passing closed guard from the top, but should have spent more time thinking about the bottom.

More about this in summary of my last match.

My first match was no-gi against the only other competitor in my division. He carried a lot of his weight in his upper body–shoulders and neck, not gut. More of my weight is in my lower body. Pre-match pep talk from Coach Frank was, “Get in a dominant position and get heavy, squeeze, and start looking for submissions.”

Exactly what I’d been planning.

I’m not very confident in my take downs, but I attempted a double leg. I wouldn’t call it a “shot”, just a half-assed attempt. My lack of confidence was probably apparent. I was, however, confident in my ability to defend and my cardio. He had his arms near a guillotine, so I thought he may go for it, and as I was thinking that and grabbing his arm to defend it he pulled guard and attempted it. One point for him and encouraging for me–at least I didn’t lose the take down, I’m on top, and am ready to start working a pass to take the point lead.

I got my head out and started to build my posture, getting mentally prepared to work my higher percentage passes.

Credit to my opponent for this–40-49 year old beginner weighing ~190 pounds immediately goes for a gogoplata!!! Dude was game!!!

Luckily for me, The Missus also trains and is super flexible. She loves that gogoplata type stuff, and I’ve had lots of practice with her trying to get it on me. My hand instinctively came up and defended my neck. Another point for him for the submission attempt, but I was able to push his leg away and create a scramble situation, settling in half guard.

I’ve been working on half guard a lot, from the top and the bottom, so I went into auto-pilot mode here–established cross face and the under hook on the open-leg side and put his back to the mat. As I flattened him out and glanced up at the time to see there was ~2:30 left. This is where I wanted to be–on top with lots of time to work. I knew I was down by two points, but also knew all I had to do was pass this half guard and we’d be back to even. Then I’d be a submission attempt away from the win.

I know it’s boring to watch and probably more boring to roll with, but I pretty much just grind. The difference between training and competition is that in training I try to adjust my pressure to the opponent–just enough to make them give up something to work with. In competition, the plan is all the pressure the whole time. I was a little concerned that the matches would only be 4:00 long, but there was plenty of time left in this one, and I liked my chances and told myself to be patient, conservative, and methodical.

He went for the lock down on my trapped leg (exactly what I would have done without the under hook), which was an issue for working my preferred pass. Bells went off, but it wasn’t a ton of pressure on my knee, so I doubled down on the commitment to pressure and started trying to work my leg free. He bailed on lock down and I could feel that I may have an advantage in leg strength, remembering how we sized up before the match. I decided to go for a more conservative pass than my original plan, which would put me into mount instead of side control.

As I started working my leg out I felt some wiggle room there. Maybe I should have exploded through and gotten mount earlier, but I just kept inching until my leg was clearly through and flopped down to the mat. Then I squeezed.

And I heard Coach Frank yelling, “SQUEEZE!!!!”.

I sprawled my legs to the closest I could get to a grapevine and squeezed harder. I was thinking that I’d go for an Ezekiel choke first and get a point, hoping an arm presented itself. I like that option because I wouldn’t have to give up a ton of pressure to go for it, and if he were to try to bump out I could just bail and post–pretty conservative.

I never got to attempt it though. I guess I had a pretty good amount of pressure and squeeze because he tapped. I was a little surprised because I didn’t think I was in a submission position–hard to know what was going on.. Not really the way I’d have chosen to win. I’d much rather have been able to do something more technical, but I guess I’ll take it either way. I have a feeling if I rolled with this guy regularly we’d have a lot of fun.

First Place No-Gi Directors Beginner Light-Heavyweight

In the gi division, I was bumped up a weight class, but it was cool–the other two guys only weighed in at ~194, and I was probably close to that after eating and hydrating, so there wasn’t a huge weight discrepancy. They went the full four minutes, and I got the loser. If I win, I get the winner of their match, if I lose, I’m third place.

Pre-match advice was, “Just like the last match–position and control!”

I didn’t get to see their match, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. I set up my “insurance policy” as soon as the match started and we both worked gi grips. I got the sense that his stand up game was about on par with mine, so this would be 50/50. Somehow, I ended up standing belly to back and controlling him. The first thing that popped into my head was, “No suplexes!” I didn’t want to risk being DQ’d, so I sort of drug him to the ground.

Two points for me and a good position.

He was in a loose turtle so I attempted to jump on him without getting too high and get my hooks in for the back take. He threw his legs up to defend the hooks and sort of rolled to his right side. I landed on my right side with my left leg over this shoulders and neck and both hands on his right arm. I had an arm and could control his posture!

I started looking for a way to an arm bar.

Coach Frank was giving me directions, but I didn’t do a good job listening here. Not exactly sure what he was even telling me to do, but I solved the riddle by sliding my right knee behind his elbow and using both hands to keep his wrist in place as I pressed my knee in for the tap. I kind of wish this one could have lasted longer because this guy was bigger than me and we never got a chance for any sort of back and forth.

Next up was the championship gi match. I learned a lot in these four minutes.

I expected this opponent to be technically better than the guy I’d just faced since he seemed a little smaller, but had earned the victory. When we locked up, he immediately went for a throw, which I defended. That should have been a cue for me to pull guard–that his take down game was going to be better than mine. If I’d pulled guard I could have locked up closed guard without losing any points and gotten an advantage point at least for attempting submissions. Again, I’m confident enough in my strength and cardio to think I could hold a closed guard against most people at my skill level for four minutes without much of a problem, but I haven’t practiced this as a competition tactic.

As I type this, I’m thinking about one of the biggest lessons I learned in competing–the SPORT of jiu jitsu and the ART of jiu jitsu are entirely different things. I have another post swirling in my head about this matter, but here’s the spoiler: I much prefer the art.

Long story short, he went for another throw and got it, and passed to side control for a total of five points. I didn’t have a lot of trouble working my way from side control to half guard. That was the good news–I’m pretty comfortable in working my way to the top from half guard, and I work on it a lot. The bad news was that I had half guard on my stupid side. I established the under hook and tried to work my way up using my favorite move to the top from half guard. He was able to fight that off, but I moved on to plan B. This move is even weaker on my stupid side, and he was able to base out and stop it pretty easily.

This should have set off another alarm in my brain–this guy had a solid base and was not going to be easy to sweep.

From there we got into an under hook pummeling contest, which I thought he’d be happy to do for the rest of the match since he was ahead. I felt like I could keep him from smashing me know matter what, so I started setting up a baseball bat choke we’ve worked on from half guard. There’s some risk here, because I’d have to let him pass to get it. Maybe I didn’t commit to it as a should have because of this risk. I actually heard his coach yelling, “Watch the baseball bat choke he’s setting up!”

It didn’t work, but I was able to re-establish my guard before giving up any points. Is the reason it didn’t work because I didn’t fully commit to it…worried about points? I’m not sure, but I don’t get it a lot in training either. Nevertheless, I gave it a shot. My thought from here was to get to closed guard (still plenty of time left), sweep to mount for six points, and grind like I’d done in my no-gi match.

But, duh, this guy wouldn’t be easily swept.

Once I’d made the decision, I got to closed guard pretty easily. I felt like he was being conservative and was happy to take that position knowing he didn’t have to pass, just hang on. I’m sure if he’d been down on points it would have been tougher to get. Replaying the match in my head, this guys definitely made good decisions.

There was some grip fighting, and I almost caught his arm once, but he got it pulled back. We were pretty even on the posture fight as I remember it, but we were playing two different games because of the points. I was finally able to get my knee in to attempt a scissor sweep. At this point I had “sweep and mount” on the brain, and that’s what Coach Frank was yelling for too. My first attempt at the scissor sweep was not very good technically, but it ended up being as close as I was going to get. I could hear Coach Frank yelling for me to focus on the knee with the sweep, and I thought I did a better job with that on my next two attempts. But he based out even harder and I know after talking to Coach and The Missus after that I was missing a key detail–something to work on this week!!!

Time was ticking down, and all he had to do was keep a solid base and hang on for the win. Coach Frank was yelling out the time left, and I knew I was going to have change tactics. I was able to get into position for a triangle attempt with 20 seconds or so left. My best shot at it was in the first few seconds, but I wasn’t able to get a full figure four with my legs, and I couldn’t move his arm across. Something else to work on. I heard his coach yell, “TEN SECONDS….YOU ARE NOT GOING TO TAP TO THAT!!!”

Haha…that didn’t mentally defeat me, and I kept trying my hardest, but it crossed my mind that if I heard my coach yell that at me, I’d get choked out before I tapped, and it takes about 6 seconds to get choked out when it’s in tight.

This one wasn’t in tight.

Time ran out and I stood up with a huge grin on my face. Even though I lost, that was, by far, the most fun match of the day, and I’d love to have the opportunity to train with this guy day in and day out. Tough guy who played hard, played smart, and was friendly both before and after the match. He could definitely help me get better, and seemed like the kind of guy who’d be happy to do so.

2nd Place Directors Gi Cruiser Weight

A pretty good haul for our family at our first competition–three first places and two second places. Having been involved in running MUCH smaller rugby tournaments, I think the organization of the competition seemed to go pretty smoothly, especially when you consider the dynamic situations with that many divisions being run.

We all had a great time and learned a lot, but it was a long day for a whole family to compete.