#all that just to be resolved with one kiss???

[passengerprincessblog]

“A Little Attention” ~ Lando Norris x reader short

WARNING: smut, NSFW, lowkey fluff

Summary: Y/N is totally focused on her project, but Lando isn’t having it—he aches for her attention, willing to do anything to pull her away from the endless photos and glitter. When he wraps his arms around her and presses a soft kiss to her neck, all her resolve begins to melt.

I hear the door creak open, followed by a familiar groan echoing through the apartment. Lando’s home. Without looking up, I smirk, focusing on the photo in my hand, carefully cutting it to fit perfectly into the page.

I hear his heavy footsteps padding across the hardwood floors as he walks toward the kitchen table where I’m hunched over, sorting through piles of photos, glitter, and little scraps of decorative paper. The moment he stops right next to me, his shadow looms over my project. I know he’s watching, but I keep my attention fixed on the paper, trying not to laugh.

“You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice casual, as if I haven’t noticed his obvious attempt to make his presence known.

“Oh yeah… totally,” he says, dripping with sarcasm.

I can feel his stare burning into me, but I don’t take the bait, pretending to be fully absorbed in my best friend’s scrapbook. This only seems to fuel his irritation.

“You know…” he says, his tone laced with the tiniest bit of irritation, “you could… maybe fix that piece there.”

I finally glance up, raising an eyebrow as I see him pointing to a tiny, tattered corner on one of the photos. I smile, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Good eye,” I say sincerely, like I’m actually considering his feedback.

He huffs, louder this time, clearly annoyed that his “constructive criticism” has only been met with politeness. I hold back a laugh as I glue down the next piece.

“Put the photo down, Y/N…” he whines, drawing out each word like a little kid. “My whole body hurts, and here you are… ignoring your boyfriend.”

With an exaggerated sigh, I set down the scissors and turn to face him, my expression one of pure confusion. “Lando, baby, I have to finish this tonight. You know that.”

But he’s not having it. He lets out another exaggerated groan, stepping closer and leaning down to wrap his arms around me from behind. His face is dangerously close to my neck, and I can feel his warm breath on my skin.

“Please, take care of your baby…” he says in that adorable pleading voice, the one he knows I’m weak to. He punctuates it with a soft kiss on my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Lando…” I try to sound annoyed, but my resolve is already cracking. “Come on, I’m so close to finishing.”

“No,” he murmurs against my skin, “I’m taking this away…” He reaches down, gently tugging the piece of paper out of my hand and placing it aside, like he’s grounding me from my project.

“Lando!” I protest, but he’s already smirking, tugging me up from my chair and into his arms. I can’t help but laugh as he presses his forehead to mine, a playful glint in his eye.

“Yes,” he says, his voice low and teasing. His cheeks are flushed, and there’s that mischievous smile tugging at his lips. Before I can argue again, he pulls me closer, his hand finding the back of my neck as he leans down to kiss me.

I melt into him, finally surrendering, wrapping my arms around his neck and letting him steal my attention – just like he wanted. His hands slide to my waist, pulling me even closer, and suddenly, I can’t remember what I was even working on.

I let out a soft gasp as Lando drags me into the bedroom, his hands already working to undress me. "Lando..." I breathe, looking up at him with lust-filled eyes. His own gaze is intense, filled with a desperate need for me.

"I need you, baby," he growls, pushing me down onto the bed. His fingers make quick work of my clothes, tugging them off and tossing them aside carelessly. I'm left bare beneath him, my skin already flushed with desire.

"Please..." I whimper, reaching for him. He answers by pressing his lips to mine in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into my mouth possessively. I moan into the kiss, arching up against him, craving his touch.

His hands roam over my body, caressing every curve and dip. When his fingers find my aching center, I cry out, bucking my hips into his touch. "So wet for me already," he praises, sliding a finger inside me. I clench around him, desperate for more.

He adds a second finger, pumping them in and out, curling them just right to make me see stars. "Lando, please..." I beg, my hands fisting in the sheets. He answers by leaning down, capturing one of my nipples between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to ride the line between pleasure and pain.

"You feel so good," he groans, his voice rough with desire. "I can't wait anymore, I need to be inside you." With his fingers still buried deep, he reaches down, freeing his aching cock from the confines of his pants.

He positions himself at my entrance, teasing me with the head of his dick. I'm practically vibrating with need, desperate to feel him inside me. With a single thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, filling me completely.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he moans, starting up a steady rhythm. Each snap of his hips drives me higher, the pleasure building inside me. I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, harder.

Our bodies move together in perfect sync, lost in the heat of the moment. With each thrust, I can feel my legs twitch.

His fingers find my clit, rubbing tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves. "That's it, baby, let me make you feel good," he coos, his voice dripping with adoration. "You're so perfect, so responsive. I love watching you come undone for me."

I can only moan in response, lost in the overwhelming pleasure. His cock pistoning in and out of me, hitting all the right spots, combined with the relentless stimulation of my clit, is almost too much to bear. "Lando, I... I can't..." I whimper, my body tensing as I teeter on the edge.

"You can and you will," he commands, his grip on my hips tightening. "Come for me, baby. Let go. I've got you." His words, combined with the intensity of his thrusts, send me flying over the edge.

My orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, my inner walls clamping down around his cock. "Yes, just like that," he groans, continuing to thrust through my climax, prolonging the intense waves of pleasure. "So beautiful when you let go."

I'm boneless beneath him, my body still trembling from the aftershocks. But he's not done with me yet. He flips me over onto my stomach, pulling my hips up as he enters me from behind. "I love you so much," he murmurs, peppering my back with soft kisses, a stark contrast to the roughness of his thrusts.

His hands roam over my body, squeezing my breasts, pinching my nipples. "You're mine," he growls possessively, his hips snapping harder, faster. "All mine."

I can only nod, too lost in the sensation to form words. He's everywhere, surrounding me, consuming me. I've never felt so owned, so cherished.

"Again," he demands, his fingers finding my clit once more. "Come for me again, baby." His words, combined with the relentless stimulation, send me hurtling towards another peak.

This time, when I fall, it's with a scream of his name.

My body spasms with another intense orgasm, waves of pleasure crashing over me as Lando's skilled fingers work my clit through the aftershocks. "Lando!" I cry out, shocked at how easily he can bring me to the brink.

"That's it, baby, let it all out," he praises, his voice rough with his own impending release. "You're so responsive, so perfect."

Each thrust of his hips grows more erratic, more desperate. I can feel him throbbing inside me, ready to explode.

The added stimulation sends me flying once more, my inner walls clenching around him like a vice. "Fuck, I'm gonna..." he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. With one final snap of his hips, he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he fills me with his hot cum.

We collapse together onto the bed, both panting and spent. He rolls us onto our sides, still buried deep inside me, unwilling to separate our joined bodies. "That was incredible," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses to my shoulder. "You're amazing."

I can only nod, too blissed out to form words. I've never experienced anything like that before, never been able to cum so easily, so intensely. And the fact that he came too, filling me with his essence, makes it all the more special.

We lay there for a while, basking in the afterglow, our bodies entwined. When he finally slips out of me, I feel a twinge of loss, but the warmth of his embrace more than makes up for it.

"I love you," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you so fucking much."

"I love you too," I reply, tangling my fingers in his hair. "More than anything."

————————————

Forgive me for anything that doesn’t make sense or typos. I didn’t get to review this well.

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[moonstruckme]

jilly x reader where the reader gets hypothermia

cw: symptoms of mild hypothermia, (implied?) freezing water, non-sexual nudity

poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

James half carries you back to the cabin. This is partly because you’re shivering too hard to walk as quickly as you’d like, and partly because your legs simply won’t move the way you tell them to. Your wet lashes feel heavy with the ice crystals you imagine forming on them. 

He passes you off to Lily while he unlocks the front door. She rubs one hand uselessly over your arm through your soaked coat, using the other to unstick a frigid piece of hair from your face. 

They both help you inside. Set you down on the couch, and James makes a sound close to a laugh when you protest about getting wet on his mother’s cushions. 

“Start a fire, please?” Lily is all business, panic making her stern. Or maybe not stern so much as resolved. Her features are set, green eyes alternating between worried and determined, but her hands are characteristically gentle as they unzip your coat and pull you out of it one arm at a time. 

“Love?” 

You realize she’s been talking to you. “Hm?” 

Delicate brows pinch in either concern or relief. “How do you feel, sweetheart?” 

“Oh. Um.” Your chittering makes your words come out jolting and stilted. “Cold.” 

“Tired?” she asks. You put your arms up when she motions for you to, letting her lift your jumper over your head. The thought that you’re the only one getting undressed between your partners doesn’t occur to you; you only know that Lily seems urgent, and you trust her. 

“Ye—yeah.” 

“I think we have an electric blanket around here somewhere,” says James. He’s poking at a log in the fireplace, trying to provoke a bigger flame. “Get her closer to here, love.” 

“I’m still trying to get her out of her wet clothes. Can you help me?” 

James helps you to stand so Lily can tug your trousers off. They stick to your legs but crinkle oddly, stiff with ice. James kisses your temple and murmurs something you can’t quite make out. You feel guilty for ruining what was meant to be a fun afternoon of ice skating on the pond near James’ family cabin. You’ve never heard Lily shout like she did when the ice broke beneath you. 

They wrap you up in an electric blanket and put your hair up in a towel to get it off your neck, and you let James massage warmth into your fingers while Lily makes something warm for you to drink. 

“Jamie,” she calls from the kitchen, “do you all keep a thermometer here?” 

“Um, I’m not sure,” replies James. “If we did, it’d be in one of the drawers in the bathroom.” 

You hear your girlfriend whizz off in that direction. 

“How are you, angel?” James presses a couple of firm, warm kisses to your face, squeezing your hands. “Do you still feel tired?” 

“A little,” you admit. Your shivering has lessened, though. “Is it okay that we left our skates by the pond?” 

“What?” He gives a little laugh. “Yeah, it’s fine. That’s not really the top concern right now, you know?” 

You frown. It’s supposed to snow again tonight. “I don’t want them to get buried…” 

“I’ll go get them later,” James reassures you. He kisses your nose. “Don’t worry about that, lovebug. Just try to get warm, okay?” 

“I sort of feel like you guys are doing all the work for me.” 

James’ laughs as Lily comes to sit beside you. 

“Here, can you keep this in your mouth for me, please?” You nod, but when she slips the thermometer under your tongue she evidently makes a last-minute call to hold it herself instead. Lily’s thumb drags heavily over your cheek. You notice her bottom lip looks colored and bitten. 

“I think I’m okay…” you try to tell her, but stop when she shushes you gently. 

“That’s good, lovely, but don’t talk with this in your mouth.” She gives you a terse smile. 

James transfers both of your hands to one of his, using the other to squeeze her elbow consolingly. Both of your partners watch you intently as you wait. 

When Lily deems it's been long enough and looks at the thermometer, her posture slumps with relief. 

“Oh, it’s—that’s not so bad.” 

James grins, reading over her shoulder. “It must be coming up,” he says confidently. 

You offer your girlfriend a smile. “I told you, I think I’m fine.” 

Lily makes a soft, strangled sound, eyebrows pinching in the moment before she throws her arms around you. You see some of your own surprise reflected in James’ expression as you catch her, bringing her into the heated dome of your electric blanket with you.

“I didn’t know…I was really scared,” she confesses tearily, squeezing you around your neck. 

You rub her back in an attempt to reassure her. Behind her, James is doing the same. He gets his arms around the both of you, holding your shoulders through the blanket. 

“It’s alright,” he says. “We must be doing something right, yeah? Or she wouldn’t be getting better so quickly.” 

Lily exhales a shaky breath. “I am never, ever going ice skating again.” 

“Yes, you are,” you tell her fondly. 

“No. And you shouldn’t either! In fact, I hope our skates do get buried, and neither of you can ever find them.” 

You make a sound of protest, but James speaks over you, “Alright, lovely. We can let nature roll the dice tonight, if that’s what you want.” 

“But James—” 

“Angel, you weren’t witness to your own blue lips,” he tells you, rubbing your shoulder pacifyingly. “I think we’re permitted a bit of overreaction right now. I say bury the skates.” 

You give a little laugh. “You’re both taking this too far. We don’t have to use them, but there’s no reason to leave perfectly good skates out there in the snow.” 

“Mm, let’s say we return to that debate when you’re no longer shivering.” 

You all sit there for a while, holding each other while the fire crackles and warmth seeps into your fingertips. Lily’s hands are actually quite cold around your neck, but you refuse to tell her lest she spring away from you. When the kettle starts to whistle, she sniffs and pulls away anyways, wiping under her eyes. 

“I’ve got it,” says James, standing with a kiss to each of your heads. “What are we having?” 

“Hot chocolate.” She takes a breath, collecting herself. “She needs something with sugar. Thanks, Jamie.” 

You smile at her. “You’re so brilliant. How do you know that?” 

Lily’s lips tilt slightly in response. “I read it somewhere.” 

“So brilliant,” you repeat, kissing her softly on the lips. They’re noticeably warmer than yours, but you feel much more yourself than you had when you first got back to the cabin. “Thanks for helping me.” 

She makes a scoffing sort of noise. It doesn’t sound terribly derisive when it’s bent by fondness like this. Lily touches the backs of her fingers to your cheek, caressing. “You don’t have to thank us. Either of us,” she says. The tears have cleared from her eyes, leaving a raw caring in their wake. “We love you. A lot.” 

Your heart feels more than sufficiently warmed as you close the gap between you again. “I love you a lot, too.”

[cherryheairt]

If I must

Cregan x reader one-shot

angst

'his wife' never named or described

summary - Cregan is forced to choose between his wife and his child

cw- death, blood, very sensitive topic ahead

Cregan paced outside of the birthing chambers, as he had for hours now. As tradition stated, the Lord was not to be by his Lady's side. Like his father Rickon Stark, Cregan had remained steadfast in his ruling of the North and its ancient traditions. The one time he had broken tradition in his four-year rule had been the night of his wedding, when he refused the bedding ceremony to keep his wife's dignity.

However, his resolve waivered greatly with every scream from his dear wife.

When her water broke on their morning walk through the Godswood, a routine they had developed since their first moon of marriage. His wife had insisted she could do it alone, as every woman in her own family had. They had both thought it to be over fast, just as her own mother had experienced with all of her children. A mere few hours for each, and they were out, healthy as horses.

Neither had expected the difficulty nor time her own birthing experience would be. It was approaching dawn, and no word had been given about the head breaching.

Finally, when it had gotten too much for her, Cregan's wife yelled out for him. Grateful for the excuse to break the tradition, Cregan stormed into the room like a man on fire. Immediately he went to his wife's side, allowing her to clutch onto his hand and arm to steady herself.

Maester Lyson and the midwife, an older lady that had seen many births of Winterfell and its surrounding towns, protesting his entrance immediately.

"My Lord, you must stay outside—" Lyson started before being sent an icy cold glare from Cregan, shutting the old man immediately up.

"Cregan..." His wife hoarsely called out, squeezing his hand as he held it in his. Her head leaned to his shoulder immediately, though the warmth was great and she felt like overheating, she still found a small comfort in his touch.

She was a mess of sweat and tears, skin glossed from the sheen of both. Her thin shift to conceal her modesty was drenched, sticking to her skin in a way that looked most uncomfortable. But, in front of a man, she was unable to remove the annoying fabric to cool off. Even though said man was gazing directly at her most intimate parts for hours as he waited for signs of the babe.

On one side of the bed were two of her handmaidens, who fussed over their Lady with glossy and concerned eyes. At the end of the bed sat the midwife and maester, with sweat dripped from each of their brows and concern lacing their expressions.

"What is the progress?" He asked them, gritting his teeth at their helpless glances.

"The babe has not yet breached, my Lord." The Maester replied, shifting to sit up straighter.

"Still? What is the matter?" Cregan asked, soothing his wife's hair out of her face as she yelled out in pain again.

The maester and midwife shared a glance that Cregan could not appreciate. Maester Lyson stood, beckoning his Lord to the door. "If I may speak with you a moment, privately."

His wife looked up at him, tightening his grip on his forearm and shaking her head, as if she knew something he did not. "Please, don't leave Cregan." She pleaded, though barely could conceal another groan of pain.

He kissed her forehead sweetly, rubbing a thumb over the apple of her cheek. "Just one moment, I promise." He told her, following the maester anxiously outside.

Maester Lyson wrung his hands, "Lord Stark, there has been a complication that we recently found."

Cregan knitted his brows together, sternly nodding for the Maester to continue.

"We thought the opening was simply taking a while to grow, so we waited. By now, it has been at proper size for hours."

"And what does that mean?" The Lord shifted on his feet.

"The babe is stuck in the canal somewhere, sideways instead of facing forward like he should." Lyson told him.

Cregan paled, swallowing harshly. "Can...Can he be moved?"

He recalled his own mother's birth complications with his younger brother, Breton, and how the maester was able to turn him within the womb to properly face head-first instead of sideways. It was painful for his mother, he knew from sitting outside anxiously with his father and hearing the sounds from the birthing room, but it was successful in the end.

The Maester avoided his intense stare, instead finding the floor more suitable to look at. "We could, my Lord. But, it would take a long time. By then, the babe might have suffocated."

"There is no other way?" He demanded.

"There is one, my Lord Stark." Lyson said, though did not look glad at his own revelation.

"Go on." Cregan said, irritated at the hesitance of the old man.

"We could cut the belly open, to retrieve the babe before he suffocates in the womb."

Cregan sucked in a sharp breath at the words spoken delicately to him.

A forced choice.

Between his firstborn child and his beloved wife.

Both were irreplaceable in his eyes. Both were the very beings he lived and breathed for—the ones he swore to protect before his own House and the entirety of the North. He would choose them over his duty to the North as its' warden, something his ancestors would turn their noses up at hearing.

But, it was true as the compass pointed North. Cregan would have to make a choice.

"If I must choose..." Cregan swallowed harshly, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching a fist at his side. "I would choose my wife." He said, though his voice shook for perhaps the first time in many years.

Lyson looked sympathetic as he nodded, but Cregan interrupted before he could speak again.

"She will get a choice, too. I can not force that from her, nor take away her autonomy." He said firmly. Cregan lifted a hand in a 'stay' gesture, entering the hazy room once more.

"Everyone out." He demanded, watching the women in the room hesitate before slipping past Cregan to wait right outside of the door.

"What's wrong, Cregan? No one is telling me anything." His wife grit out, taking his offered hand once more instead of the splintering wood of the bed.

He took a long moment to look over his wife. A glossed over look laid heavy in his stormy eyes, admiring her even in the disgruntled state she was in.

"My love," He started, kissing her paled knuckles gently.

She looked up at him, a sudden distraught look in her eye as if she knew exactly what he would say. "No." She shook her head rapidly before he could. "I can't, Cregan, please!" She pleaded, panting after as another wave of pain hit her hard. Through a whimpering groan of agony, she sobbed into the crook of his neck.

"Can't what, sweet girl?" He asked in a soft mutter, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. She had to make the final choice. He could not force something so cruel upon her. If she wanted the babe to live on in her place, it would be something he had to accept.

Even if it meant living without her.

He desperately, selfishly perhaps, wished that she would choose herself.

"I don't want to die." She sniffled and breathed rapidly, almost panicking herself into hyperventilation.

Cregan 'shushed' her quickly, smoothing down her messed hair in an attempt to calm her from working herself up even further. "You won't. You won't." He said firmly, holding her sideways to his chest.

"Cregan," she whispered again. "I can't do it." She shook her head, hot tears wetting his tunic. "I know what they do. I've heard the tales. Our own Queen—cut open on her bed by her husband. Please, Cregan, don't make them cut me."

Cregan felt his stomach drop at the words from his wife. She thought he would do that to her? Against her wishes, just hold her down and order the babe to be cut from her stomach, though the pain would be excruciating?

"That won't happen, my heart." He kissed her temple, glancing anxiously to the chamber's door. "But, the babe will not be likely survive if we turn it." He told her slowly.

"He will!" She insisted through a muffled sob. "I know he will. It will just take more time. I need more time."

Cregan found himself lost for words. He couldn't decieve her about her own child. She had been the happiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms at the news of her pregnancy many moons ago. That first day, she immediately sent ravens to all of her closest friends and family about the good news. She got to work on making blankets and clothes, embroidering hankerchiefs with potential names, even setting up the Great Keep's nursery early for preparation.

All her hard work, all her tears of joy and discomfort, her fears of not being a good mother, would all be for naught in her eyes. Every morning when she woke and every evening before she slept she would silently whisper a prayer to whatever Gods were listening: hoping for a babe that might grow to be just like their father. The life she had cherished for so long would not live to see the day's light.

Cregan would delusion himself, too, if the situation was not in front of his eyes so clearly.

The Gods must have turned their backs on the Starks this time. Even after hearing Cregan's dutiful prayers every morning at the Weirwood tree in the Godswood, praying for his wife and future child's good health and happiness, both requests were denied.

When he had been praying daily for the health and happiness of his House for every year prior to his marriage, that request was fulfilled kindly. Why were they shunning him now? Now, in the most important event of his life?

He summoned the awaiting crowd of people back into the room. They could wait no longer, lest both lives be put more at risk.

Maester Lyson looked up at Cregan from the end of the bed, brows raised impossibly high and indenting the deep creases on his forehead even more.

"Save her." Was all he could mutter.

They immediately moved to work.

The two maids dropped down to grasp at her arm from the other side of the bed, causing his wife to jerk from his shoulder in a panic. "What are they doing?" She asked, looking between the four people in the room and then Cregan.

"They have to turn the babe." He said, shifting to hold her hand and hold her arm subtly towards the mattress. "It will hurt, but it will be swift. You will be okay, you are so strong." He focused on her directly, gently caressing the apple of her cheek and brushing tears from her skin.

She heaved raggedly, though tried to calm herself and closed her eyes tightly. "Okay, okay. It will be over soon." She whispered to herself in comfort.

Cregan nearly broke down himself, but hardened himself for her sake. "It will."

It had already been a full day of the pain. A full day of her just waiting for it all to be finished with and their babe to be in her arms. She didn't need any more, though she would have to deal with it for a while longer.

The pain would soon fade. It would only last minutes. Then, the recovery would start. No one could tell Lady Stark how long that might take. Weeks, moons, years.

The Maester, though weathered with age and grey, still carried skillful and strong hands from his days of experience. Placing them at the sides of her belly, he whispered a plea to the Gods before beginning to apply great pressure on either side in a subtle twisting motion.

Cregan winced as his wife let out a curdling cry. Her head lept forward, though she was quickly soothed down to Cregan's chest by his own hand. His other, still grasping her arm within his to steady her, shook.

After minutes of more tears, cries, and aching pain, the Maester had successfully pushed the babe to position. Panting, he sat back into his chair heavily and leaned forward again. "Push, my Lady." He urged gently.

Lady Stark took a moment to breathe carefully, grounding herself on the bed. She was beyond tired, mentally and physically. She felt as if a single push might bring her to an early grave, never to wake again. But, it had to be done. The worst was yet to be over.

The pushing part might have been the easiest for Lady Stark if she were not so exhausted and pained already. Unlike most other ladies' excruciatingly painful yet amused tales of their babe's giant heads providing a bump in the path on the birthing bed, Lady Stark's babe came quick. Though the hastiness of it did not lesson the pain of what felt like a giant pumpkin leaving her belly, it helped her to ease her own mind. The quicker the babe was out, the quicker it could breathe.

The room was dead silent after the babe was in the midwife's arms. Lady Stark laid back fully, eyes squeezed shut and chest heaving up and down, face shining with exertion. It was over. She could meet her babe, and possibly even never go through that sharp blade of fear again in her lifetime, if it were a son.

"A boy, my Lord..." The Maester whispered out, barely audible though the room.

She opened her eyes, glancing up to Cregan, who held tears from falling from his eyes as he held eye contact with Lyson.

"A son." She gasped out, squeezing Cregan's hand as his head whipped down to look at her again. "You were right." She weakly smiled.

"I was, my love. You did so well. Rest, now." He commanded gently, kissing her knuckles with all the adoration in the realm. Lady Stark fell asleep quickly, allowing herself to rest after all this time. She entrusted the care of her newborn son to Lyson and Esmerelda, and Cregan of course, the three who's been loyally by her side the entire pregnancy.

🗡

Lady Stark was awakened by the soft 'click' of the chamber door. Her blinked herself awake, adjusting herself to sit more against the headboard. As she did, she winced at the feeling in her back and lower region. Taking a deep breath in, the Lady placed a soothing hand on her own stomach, a habit she gained for her time in pregnancy. Feeling the emptiness, she was reminded of the previous day.

Cregan silently planted himself at her side, looking to be in the same clothes he had been in since her labors started. Quite unlike him, she thought with amusement, their son must be keeping him busy.

"It's been nearly two days since you fell asleep. Gave us all quite a scare." He started, smiling weakly at his wife with those tired eyes of his.

Surprised, she raised a brow. "I must've been exhausted from the labors. Where's the babe, have you decided on a name yet?" She asked quickly, peering behind him as if the wet nurse might come in any second with her son in her arms.

He hummed. "Callan."

She smiled, huffing a small laugh. "That's the one I put on most of the babe's stuff." There were many that she planned, boy and girl names, but Callan had been a not-so-secret favorite of hers.

"I know, my dear."

Lady Stark frowned. "Is something wrong, husband?" She asked, wiping at a line under his eye. "You look worse for wear."

He took her hand, leaning into it and rubbing at her soft hand with his calloused one. "Rest up some more. I'll send someone in with your favorite." He said vaguely, standing from his seat and abruptly leaving the room. Lady Stark was left alone, feeling all but abandoned.

A million thoughts ran through her mind. Had her appearance changed after the birth? She'd been the one to comfort her friends whilst they cried about their husbands started favoring maidens after they provided heirs. She'd never feared the same for Cregan, he'd never gave any hinting towards such things. If anything, his hunger for her grew just as she did.

If not that, then what? Cregan was not a liar, and had never been. What he wouldn't lie about, he would simply stay quiet about. As a bowl of potato soup and soft rolls were brought into the chambers, Lady Stark found herself without an appetite even after three days of no sustenance. Weakly sitting herself fully up, she nearly cried at the feeling of pressure. Steadying herself and steeling her nerves, Lady Stark pushed through all the pain to leave the bed (that felt more like a prison by the minute) and stand to her felt. She hunched over like an old lady, clutching at her abdomen at the sharpness. It was a mistake to stand up without aid so soon, but she'd pay the consequences later. For now, she needed to see her son.

Every step felt like ten. She wabbled slightly each time, feeling as if she might tip over. The hearth and walls were her temporary crutches as she leaned against them, slowly but surely exiting the room to the Stark's family hall. Her and Cregan's chambers were just doors down, unused since she had been in the birthing room and he presumably hadn't slept.

Ahead, she found Cregan in the archway leading to the councilroom with Lyson in front of him. Neither spotted her as she leaned her full weight to the cobble wall. Lyson had a guilt-ridden look on his aged face, mostly avoiding his Lord's eyes as they spoke hushedly. She could barely make out the conversation.

"...will be fine, my Lord. As far as complicated births go, she is lucky."

"Lucky?" Cregan hissed, stepping forward. "Tell that to my wife's face. Nothing about this is fortunate, Lyson."

Lyson nodded solemnly, apologizing. "Of course, my Lord. I only meant that the Gods have blessed her with heath. She will be fine, and with some time, she will be healed enough to have another."

She almost groaned at the thought. Yes, it was her duty to provide at least an heir and perhaps a 'spare', though she hated the thought of people calling her second son a spare just because of birthing order. She would need a few years before she'd be ready for that again.

Cregan threw his arms up in frustration, running fingers through his hair. A sign of stress, one that she found he had recently been doing more since her pregnancy.

"We will not talk about her like that. Like her worth is just her womb."

"I do agree, Lord Stark. You know I do." Lyson said weakly. "But it's the people's expectation."

"My son is gone. The people can pretend to give their sympathies, but my wife cannot simply move on that swiftly. I cannot move on like that." Cregan insisted, almost sounding tearful despite present company. It was unlike him to cry, or even show any weakness at all. But Lyson had basically raised the boy since his parents passed.

Lady Stark felt that familiar pit in her stomach fall.

It had to be a lie, a falsehood from the Gods themselves. She had pushed through all the pain she was tasked with. She delivered her babe swiftly, leaving no time for him to suffocate like predicted. Callan was in the nursery.

Lady Stark turned as fast as she could, limping her way backward toward the Stark nursery. Whipping open the door, she was met with a stillness. The room was barren of any noise or life. Not even the trees outside of the window moved, not a leaf stirring. It was utterly lifeless. Moving towards the crib, Lady Stark leaned over the bassinet. The bundle of soft velvety pinks, blues, greens, and yellows lie perfectly still. Moving them, she found nothing but the sheet underneath. All kinds of names were sewn onto corners.

Aevery.

Rickon.

Aelise.

Benjamin.

Callan.

She clutched the grey-blue blanket to her chest, feeling it grow wet with her own tears. Falling to the floor, her knuckles paled at how hard she fisted the blanket.

She should have allowed it. She should have cut herself open to bring Callen out from her womb herself. She killed him. Selfishly, she picked her own menial life over that of her own son. The boy who never got to breathe a single breath outside of the womb. Never got to see the fresh powdery snow of Winterfell fall. Never felt the warmth of the sun on his face. Never got to live a day.

She was unaware of how much time had passed, if any at all, when she heard that soft and deep voice behind her. "Wife?"

She could not find a will to reply. Could not find anger at her husband for him keeping this from her, nor sorrow for her own failure. A stilling numbness surrounded her like a cocoon of protection.

"My heart." It came again, surrounding her. Arms wrapping around her from the front, encasing her further. Though she was silent, he continued to murmur. "I am so, so sorry. I wished to wait—until you recovered a bit."

Lady Stark did not yell. She did not scream or cry, nor pound her fists on his chest til he left her alone in her solitude. She sat there, lifelessly.

"Say something, please. Anything." He pleaded desperately, seperating them only to hold her face in his hands. She lifted her gaze, finding his sturdy grey eyes to be filled with wet tears. They, too, dampened the blanket.

"I miss him." She whispered. "But how can I, when I haven't even met him? When I killed him before he got his chance."

His gaze hardened, "do not ever speak such things. You did not kill our son. This is not your fault."

She stayed silent, nodding simply to please him. He sighed deeply, settling himself lamely next to her and leaning her head upon his shoulder.

"I miss him, too."

🗡

Wanted to do more with his in terms of length and fleshing out the characters but its been sitting in my drafts for so long I just needed to finish 😭

obviously this is written from the povs of the parents, post partem anything is super tough and emotional. it is in no way selfish to pick yourself or your wife over the baby. In fact, it is what I would do. the lady blaming herself for 'killing the babe' and being selfish for not killing herself to do it is purely in grief and not my real perspective on this type of thing.

Needed angst rn im sick of happy endings 😝

[mapis-putellas]

𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒖𝒍𝒕

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x reader

Words: 2700

Warnings: just general sickness

Summary: You force Alexia to get her flu shot. As a result of that, she gets sick, and she blames you. [requested]

You'd been nagging Alexia about the flu shot for days. It was flu season, and with her being a professional footballer—captain of her team, no less—she couldn't afford to get sick. But Alexia was stubborn, insisting she was too busy, that she didn't need it, that she didn't have time. It was every excuse in the book, her stubborn side flaring up in a way that you both found infuriating and adorable.

"I don't need the shot," she had told you one night, leaning back on the couch with an exasperated sigh. Her Spanish accent thickened whenever she was annoyed, and you had to admit, it made it all the harder to stay mad at her. "I am strong. The flu is nothing to me."

"Is that so?" you'd said, raising an eyebrow. "No kisses until you get it, then."

She stared at you, looking horrified. "What? No... cariño, don't joke." But when you'd crossed your arms and raised your eyebrow higher, she'd narrowed her eyes, muttering something colorful in Spanish.

"It's flu season, Alexia," you'd reminded her, with a tone that was half gentle, half scolding. "Just get the shot. It'll take five minutes."

"No kisses?" she asked, her voice small and wounded, and you could practically see her resolve crumbling. With a sigh of defeat, she muttered, "Fine. Fine, I will get the shot."

And so, the next day, she went to get the shot after training. When she came home, she immediately let you know she'd done it, even holding up her arm with a tiny plaster on it as proof, looking both proud and aggrieved. You'd rewarded her with a kiss on the cheek, which had softened her grumbling... for a little while, at least.

But then, a few days later, it all went south.

You woke up to the sound of sneezing—a loud, dramatic sound coming from your left. Turning over, you found Alexia curled up in bed, her face flushed, her eyes watery, and her nose red. She looked at you with a pout that could only mean trouble.

"I am sick," she said, her voice hoarse, thick with her accent and stuffed up nose.

"Oh no," you murmured, brushing a hand over her forehead. "Alexia, you're burning up."

She batted your hand away with a weak swat, looking thoroughly offended. "This is your fault."

"Excuse me?"

"You... you made me get that shot," she said, sniffling as she rubbed her nose. "I was fine. And now I am not fine."

You couldn't help but stifle a smile, despite her glare. "You know the flu shot doesn't actually give you the flu, right? It's supposed to keep you from getting it worse."

"Does not matter. I was fine before," she muttered, rolling over to bury her face in the pillow with a sniffly huff.

"Alright, alright, come on," you said gently, tugging at the blanket. "Let's get you out of bed and freshened up a bit. You'll feel better, I promise."

She just groaned, pulling the blanket tighter around her. "I don't want to feel better. I want to be left here... to die in peace."

You laughed softly, slipping a hand under her blanket to give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Well, unfortunately, you've got me to help you feel better. So, let's go brush your teeth, hm?"

Her response was an unintelligible groan, and you had to practically drag her out of bed, guiding her to the bathroom as she shuffled along like a reluctant child.

Once you got her to the sink, she planted her feet, crossing her arms in a pout. "I don't want to brush," she mumbled, her voice small and congested.

"Alexia," you sighed, picking up her toothbrush. "Just open up, it'll only take a minute."

But she shook her head stubbornly, eyes narrowing at you in defiance. "No quiero. I don't want."

With a little smirk, you stepped closer, pressing her back against the counter as you gently took her hands, holding them in one of yours to keep her from pushing you away. "Be good for me, hm?"

She squirmed in your grip, cheeks flushing. "You... you're being a bully," she muttered, her eyes widening as she realized she was completely trapped.

"Oh, am I?" you murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before holding the toothbrush up to her mouth. "Open up, love."

With a long-suffering sigh, she finally parted her lips, letting you brush her teeth, though she continued to glare at you the whole time, like this was the greatest injustice she'd ever suffered. You finished quickly, wiping her mouth gently with a towel before releasing her hands.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" you teased, giving her a soft smile.

She huffed, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. "You're lucky you're cute."

You chuckled, attempting to guide her through to the kitchen, buts she stubbornly resisted, insisting she wasn't hungry. "I'm not eating," she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest like a petulant child. "Not hungry."

"Alexia, you need to eat something before you can take medicine."

"I don't care," she muttered, turning her head away. But her defiance was cut short by a sudden sneeze, and you sighed, pulling a tissue from the bedside table and gently wiping her nose.

"See? You're miserable, and you'll only feel better if you take care of yourself." You smoothed her hair back gently. "Let me make you something light, just a little fruit and yogurt."

She grumbled under her breath, muttering what you were sure were more Spanish curses, but she didn't stop you as you headed to the kitchen yourself, deciding it would be best to just leave her in bed. When you returned with a small bowl of yogurt and fruit, she was curled up under the blanket, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"Come on, just a few bites," you coaxed, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding out a spoonful.

With a dramatic sigh, she opened her mouth, taking a tiny bite and chewing slowly, her expression making it clear that she was doing this entirely against her will. "Happy now?"

"Very," you replied, feeding her another spoonful.

After she'd eaten enough to satisfy you, it was finally time for the cold medicine. You held up the small bottle, and she looked at it like it was poison.

"No," she said, shaking her head with absolute certainty. "I'm not taking it."

"Alexia," you warned, your tone gentle but firm. "It'll help you feel better."

She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes narrowing. "I don't need it."

You let out a little sigh, knowing you'd need to take a different approach. With a determined smile, you climbed onto the bed, straddling her lap and pinning her arms to her sides with your legs.

Her eyes widened. "What... what are you doing?" she stammered, clearly caught off guard.

"Ensuring cooperation," you replied, holding up the medicine with a teasing smile. "Now, you can either take it willingly, or I'll have to make you.”

She squirmed beneath you, cheeks flushing as she glared up at you. "You are... you are a tyrant," she muttered, though the hint of a smile tugged at her lips. "I can't believe you."

"Oh, the horror," you teased, holding the spoon close to her lips. "Now, be good and open up."

After a moment of stubborn silence, she finally sighed, parting her lips just enough to let you give her the medicine. She grimaced as she swallowed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"Disgusting," she muttered, wrinkling her nose.

You leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Good girl. Now, back under the covers with you."

She scoffed, though you could see the hint of a smile in her eyes as she settled back into bed. "I will remember this, you know. One day, I will get my revenge."

You chuckled, tucking the blanket around her. "I look forward to it."

*

You'd barely left Alexia's side since she'd gotten sick. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, her nose chapped and red from all the sneezing, and her voice, hoarse and scratchy, sounded pitifully weak. As miserable as she was, she still held a death grip on you, refusing to let you out of bed for more than a minute or two at a time.

"I'm not kidding, Alexia," you murmured, gently rubbing circles on her back with one hand. "I really need to pee.”

She just grumbled, shifting so her face was buried even deeper into the crook of your neck. "No. You can hold it."

You sighed, smiling despite yourself as she tightened her arms around you, determined not to let you go. Her hot breath tickled your neck, raspy and uneven as she tried to keep her congested breathing steady.

"I'll come back, you know," you tried to reason with her, running your fingers along her back. "You'll barely even notice I'm gone."

She lifted her head just enough to give you a pouty look, her eyes narrowed. "You leave... and I'll... I'll be alone. Sick. And alone."

You laughed softly, cupping her cheek. "You're so dramatic when you're unwell, you know that?"

She sniffled, her glare softening only slightly as she leaned back into your embrace. "I am sick because of you, so you should be here."

"Oh, so now you're blaming me again?" you teased, reaching for a tissue as she began sniffling more insistently.

"Yes," she said, sounding a little choked as you brought the tissue up to her nose. "You made me get that stupid shot."

You couldn't help but smile as she blew her nose, letting out a small huff when you dabbed her nostrils gently, trying not to further irritate the already raw skin.

"Okay, you're right. I'm the villain here," you said, pressing a light kiss to her forehead as she snuggled back down. "So I'll be right back to atone for my sins. Just give me one minute, alright?"

She pouted, but after a moment of hesitation, she finally relented, albeit begrudgingly. "One minute," she grumbled, watching you with narrowed eyes as you slid out from beneath her.

You were barely gone for thirty seconds when you heard her weak voice from the other room. "¡Cariño!" she called, her hoarse voice laced with a mixture of impatience and distress.

You hurried back, finding her curled up in bed with a fresh pout. She immediately extended her arms out to you, looking as needy as ever.

"Come here," she muttered, pulling you down as soon as you were within reach. "You're taking too long."

"Alexia, I was gone for less than a minute," you chuckled, allowing her to tug you back under the covers.

"Too long," she insisted, her voice muffled as she snuggled her face into your shoulder. Her nose brushed against your collarbone, making you realize she was probably on the verge of sneezing again.

You sighed, grabbing another tissue just in time to catch her next sneeze. She sniffled, her nose redder than ever as you gently dabbed at it again.

She winced, pushing your hand away with a small groan. "Ow. Stop. You're hurting me."

"I'm sorry, love," you murmured, brushing her hair back from her forehead as she closed her eyes. "I know it's sore. Just a little more, and I'll leave it alone."

She let out a tiny huff, shifting closer as she adjusted her head against your neck. "This is your fault," she muttered, half-asleep. "You know that, right?"

"Yes, yes. Entirely my fault," you agreed, pulling her tighter against you as she sighed in sleepy satisfaction.

For a moment, she was quiet, her breathing shallow and uneven as she drifted off. But it didn't last long. Within a few minutes, she was shifting restlessly, her forehead crinkling as she sneezed again. She groaned, sniffling miserably as she buried her face deeper into your shoulder.

"Ugh," she mumbled, her voice raspy and stuffed. "I hate this."

"I know, baby," you whispered, rubbing soothing circles on her back. "It'll pass soon. Just gotta hang in there."

She shook her head, her brow furrowing. "No, I won't. I'm... I'm dying." She looked up at you with those big, tired eyes, looking completely pitiful.

"Oh, really?" you teased, trying not to laugh at her dramatic declaration. "You're dying?"

"Yes," she insisted, her tone dead serious. "This is the end for me."

You couldn't help but smile as you wiped her nose again, ignoring her glare. "Alright then. Anything you want me to tell your teammates?"

"Tell them..." she paused, her eyes fluttering closed as she leaned heavily against you. "Tell them... I went out a hero. Strong... noble."

"A strong, noble hero taken down by a common cold?" you joked, earning yourself another weak glare.

She let out a tiny huff, her head falling back to rest against your shoulder. "You are mean to me," she muttered. "When I am sick, you should be... you know. Nicer."

"Oh, I'm not being nice right now?" you asked, raising an eyebrow as you resumed rubbing her back.

She sighed, her face softening as she nuzzled closer. "You are... a little. But I need more," she mumbled, her voice fading as she drifted off again.

For the next hour or so, you stayed snuggled up with her, her feverish body practically glued to yours. Her head was tucked beneath your chin, her arms snug around your waist as if she were afraid you'd disappear if she loosened her grip even a little.

Her breathing grew heavier as she fell into a deeper sleep, her face twitching every now and then when a fresh wave of congestion hit. She coughed, letting out a weak whine that made you squeeze her a little tighter.

You must've dozed off at some point because the next thing you knew, she was tugging on your sleeve, her expression both sleepy and grumpy as she looked up at you.

"Thirsty," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

"Alright, I'll get you some water," you murmured, starting to sit up. But as soon as you moved, her arms tightened around you, pulling you back down with surprising strength.

"No. Don't move," she muttered, her voice sounding even hoarser than before.

"Alexia, I need to get you the water."

She shook her head, snuggling closer. "No. Just... just stay a little longer."

You couldn't help but laugh softly, pulling her back against you. "If you don't let me go, you'll stay thirsty," you pointed out, trailing your fingers along her back in gentle circles.

She sighed, clearly torn, before finally loosening her grip with a pout. "Fine," she muttered. "But hurry."

You got up quickly, grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen before hurrying back to her side. She accepted the water gratefully, taking small sips as she looked up at you with a suspiciously grateful expression.

"Better?" you asked, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her face.

She nodded, setting the glass aside before pulling you back down with a determined look. "Now stay.”

"Bossy," you teased, letting her wrap herself around you like a clingy octopus.

"I am sick," she muttered, her voice muffled against your shoulder. "I can be bossy."

"Alright, alright, fair enough." You gently traced your hand over her back, feeling her finally relax against you again.

For a few minutes, she was quiet, drifting in and out of sleep. But soon, she was shifting again, looking up at you with a soft, miserable pout.

"My nose hurts," she mumbled, sniffling loudly.

"I know, love," you murmured, kissing her forehead. "But it'll feel better soon, I promise."

She huffed, clearly not convinced, and nuzzled back against your neck, her nose brushing your collarbone as she settled in once more.

After a few more minutes, she started coughing again, her whole body shuddering with the effort. You held her close, rubbing her back in soothing circles until the coughing fit finally subsided.

"This is all your fault," she mumbled once she'd caught her breath, looking up at you with a halfhearted glare.

"Yes, I know," you replied, smiling as you kissed her forehead. "All my fault."

"Good," she muttered, closing her eyes again as she snuggled closer. "At least you know."

You let out a soft laugh, resting your cheek against her hair as she drifted off once more. Even sick and stubborn as ever, she was still your Alexia, your fiercely independent, soft-hearted girl who refused to let you go.

**

Tags:

@girlgenius1111 @codiemarin @ceesimz @marysfics @goldenempyrean @silentwolfsstuff @xxnaiaxx @liloandstitchstan

[omgkatherine01]

Beauty of A Dragon (Aemond Targaryen One Shot)

Summary: Your twin brother comes for you at night.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Targaryen reader

Masterlist (requests are currently open for now)

Warning: Incest, Smut.

Aemond had been Prince Regent for a few months now, and although the Valyrian steel of the Conqueror’s crown didn’t rest upon his head yet, it was now an undeniable fact to every member of the realm that he had been born for this. All could finally witness his real worth, his superiority and how good he was at being a commander, a King.

No, he excelled at it. The Blacks haven’t even dared to approach King’s Landing even once in the last few months, and under his command all fear him, all obey him. He was far better at this than his father ever was, than his older sister ever will be, and certainly than his broken brother is, tucked in his bed.

His new duties obliged him to be away often, to ride Vhagar and lead his armies on the usurpers who wanted to decimate them and take his city, but when he was back in the Red Keep, all he sees is you.

His twin sister.

He walked into your chambers using the secret tunnels, and saw you by your bed, pulling down your robes to go to bed.

He approached silently from behind you, but you could sense him. You looked at him over your shoulder and smirked lightly, "Nice try."

Aemond chuckled softly, the sound low and intoxicating in the stillness of the night. “You always were too sharp for your own good, sister,” he replied, stepping closer, the heat radiating from his body wrapping around you like a cloak.

With a practiced ease, he moved to the side of your bed, leaning against the ornate post, his sapphire eye glinting with mischief and hunger. You turned fully to face him, your heart racing at the sight of him—tousled hair framing his angular face, lips slightly parted as though they had just whispered secret promises.

"Are you disappointed now?" you teased softly as you stepped closer to his body. He hummed, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, lavishing it with a hungry touch of his lips.

His breath was warm against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Disappointed? Not in the slightest,” he murmured, his words laced with an intoxicating blend of desire and mischief. “In fact, I find it quite the opposite.”

Aemond’s arms encircled your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between the two of you. The world outside faded into a distant memory; it was just you and him amidst the flickering candlelight of your chamber, where shadows danced around you like whispers of longing.

You tilted your head back, exposing more of your neck to him, an unspoken invitation that made his fingers twitch with eagerness. He nipped at the delicate skin there, drawing a soft gasp from your lips. “You know I can’t resist you,” he growled lowly, his voice thick with want.

Together you collapsed onto the plush bed, laughing breathlessly as he landed beside you. His fingers traced the delicate outline of your jaw, moving down to your collarbone, igniting a trail of heat wherever he touched. “You’re too tempting for your own good, sister,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as though sharing an intimate secret meant only for you.

Your heart raced in response, the thrill of having him so close overpowering the weight of propriety that lingered like a shadow in the corner. “And yet, here we are,” you whispered back, your own fingers slipping through his hair, tugging him closer still until his lips hovered just above yours.

He captured your mouth with fervor, kissing you with a hunger that had been building during his long absences. The taste of him was intoxicating; a mix of heat and desire that left you breathless, yearning for more. Aemond pulled away for just a moment, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me to stop,” he challenged softly, though you both knew it was a challenge neither of you wished to accept.

“I would never,” you breathed, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his gaze. Aemond's lips curled into a smirk, a predator reveling in the thrill of the chase.

With that unspoken understanding, he captured your mouth again, deeper this time, as if he intended to draw every breath from your lungs. His hands explored your body with a fervency that set your skin alight; fingers skimming down the curve of your waist, over the swell of your hips, igniting every nerve in their path.

“Gods, how I’ve missed this,” he whispered against your lips, before trailing kisses down the side of your neck. Each brush of his mouth sent delightful shivers coursing through you, a beautiful torture that made you arch against him instinctively.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, urging him closer as if you could meld into him completely. “And I you,” you confessed breathlessly.

Aemond's hand slid beneath your robes, his calloused fingers tracing patterns on your bare skin. You shivered at his touch, arching into him as he explored the curves of your body with a reverent hunger. His lips found yours again, capturing them in a searing kiss that left you breathless and aching for more.

With practiced ease, he unlaced your robes, peeling them away to reveal your naked form beneath. His eye roamed over you appreciatively, drinking in every detail as if committing it to memory. "Beautiful," he murmured, voice thick with desire. "Always so beautiful."

You reached for him, tugging at his own clothing with impatient hands. He chuckled softly, helping you remove the layers until he was as bare as you.

Aemond's scarred body pressed against yours, skin to skin, as his lips found yours once more. The kiss deepened, tongues dancing in a passionate duel as his hands roamed your curves. You arched into his touch, fingers tracing the hard planes of his chest and back.

He trailed kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking at your pulse point. A soft moan escaped your lips as he lavished attention on your breasts, tongue swirling around each nipple. His hand slid lower, caressing your inner thigh before finding your wet heat. You gasped as he stroked you, building the pleasure with practiced skill.

"Please, Aemond," you whimpered, hips rocking against his hand. He smirked against your skin before positioning himself between your thighs. With one smooth thrust, he entered you fully, both of you groaning in unison. The sensation of him filling you, of the heat and hardness of his body pressed against yours, was enough to send shivers down your spine.

Aemond's hips began to move in a hard, demanding rhythm, driving himself deeper inside you with each thrust. Your nails dug into the comforter, the pleasure building within you like an inferno waiting to blaze out of control. His name escaped your lips on a gasp as he angled his hips just so, hitting that delicious spot deep within.

"That's it," he growled in your ear. "Let me hear you moan for me, sister."

His words only served to fan the flames of desire coursing through your veins. With each movement, Aemond brought you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy. The room was filled with the sounds of your passion—heavy breathing, moans of pleasure, and the rustling of sheets tangled around entwined limbs.

As the rhythm of your bodies intensified, Aemond's lips found yours again in a searing kiss. His tongue danced with yours as his hips continued their relentless pace. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper inside you. The new angle drew a guttural moan from Aemond's throat.

"Gods, you feel incredible," he panted against your neck.

Your fingers raked down his back as waves of pleasure washed over you. Every nerve ending felt electrified. Aemond's muscular body moved above you with fluid grace, his skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat in the candlelight. You marveled at the raw power contained in his lithe form.

He shifted slightly, bracing himself on one arm while his other hand snaked between your bodies. His fingers found that sensitive bundle of nerves and began trailing exquisite circles that sent you spiraling further into bliss. You gasped, the sensations overwhelming as pleasure built like a raging storm inside you.

"Aemond," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of your need. He lifted his head to meet your gaze, those piercing violet eyes darkened with lust and fierce determination.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, an order wrapped in velvet. You complied willingly, locking your eyes onto his as the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, lost in this moment, this tempest that had long been brewing between siblings forged by fire and fate.

He quickened his pace, thrusting deep and hard, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the chamber. Each movement ignited sparks beneath your skin; every brush of his fingers brought another wave of pleasure crashing over you. Aemond's breath became ragged as he leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours as if seeking the solace that only you could provide. “I want to feel you come undone for me,” he murmured, his voice thick and heated, vibrating through both of you.

Your breath hitched at his words, a shiver of anticipation coursing through your body as he moved with unrelenting intensity. The tension coiling in your core grew tighter, winding around your heart like a serpent ready to strike. You could feel the familiar spark gathering, becoming a blazing inferno ready to consume you whole.

“No one else,” you gasped, the thought of anyone else in this moment felt sacrilegious. “Only you.” The declaration felt primal and raw, binding you both in a way that transcended the physical realm.

Aemond’s eyes flashed with something fierce at your promise, his movements growing more desperate, more possessive. He captured your mouth again in a kiss that was both claiming and tender—a reminder of who you were to each other amidst the chaos of the outside world. Aemond poured every ounce of himself into the kiss, each thrust echoing the rhythm of your hearts beating as one. You surrendered completely to him, your body arching upwards to meet his every move, urging him deeper, higher.

“Feel me, sister,” he breathed against your lips, the words a command and a plea. “Let go.”

With every stroke, you could feel the storm inside you reaching its peak—an avalanche of sensation that threatened to sweep you both away. It built and built, swallowing you whole until there was nothing left but the two of you entwined in passion.

Aemond's fingers worked their magic, sending ripples of pleasure cascading through you. “That’s it,” he urged, his voice a low growl filled with possessiveness, as if he were staking a claim not just on your body, but on your very soul. “Let it go.”

His intensity drove you onwards until with a final thrust, the dam broke, and you were swept away in a tide of ecstasy. The world around you shattered into a million brilliant fragments as the pleasure surged through every fiber of your being. Your cries filled the chamber, echoing off the stone walls, intertwining with Aemond’s deep groans as he followed you over the precipice.

Your body convulsed beneath him, waves of bliss crashing over you like a violent sea—each pulse igniting a fire that burned brightly in your core. Aemond’s grip on you tightened, his own release flooding through him in tandem with yours, creating an intoxicating blend of sensations that left you both gasping for breath.

As the intensity of your shared climax began to ebb, Aemond's movements slowed to a gentle rhythm. He pressed his forehead against yours, both of you panting softly as you basked in the afterglow. The air around you felt charged, crackling with the energy of your passion.

Aemond's eye met yours, a storm of emotions swirling in its depths. His fingers traced the curve of your cheek with surprising tenderness. "My beautiful sister," he murmured, voice husky. "My Queen."

You shivered at his words, feeling the truth of them resonate deep within you. Whatever crowns or thrones awaited outside these chamber walls, here in this moment, you ruled together absolutely.

Slowly, reluctantly, Aemond withdrew from you. But he didn't move far, instead gathering you close against his chest. You nestled into his embrace, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your ear, a comforting rhythm that grounded you in this turbulent world. The warmth of his skin against yours was a soothing balm, and you closed your eyes, savoring the intimacy of these quiet moments together.

[levisjinchuriki]

confession - toji fushiguro

summary: toji, in his own complicated way, loves you and fears it's too late to tell you

warning: toxic!toji, toji being vulnerable, fluff, angst, almost crying, possessive!toji

your heart races as you grip the door handle, refusing to look back. the weight of yet another argument lingers heavily on you, each harsh word replaying in your mind, cutting deeper with every step you take away from him. you’ve reached the end of your patience with toji's anger, his possessiveness—it’s too much, too hard, too painful to keep holding onto hope that things might someday change.

just as you start to turn the handle, you feel his hand wrap around your wrist, firm and unyielding, stopping you in your tracks. you try to pull away, but his grip only tightens. “don’t walk away from me” he says, his voice low and fierce, barely masking the desperation underneath. there’s an urgency there you’ve never quite heard from him before, but you force yourself to ignore it. 

“let me go” you fight him, wanting to leave before he can see you break down.

toji doesn’t respond with words. instead, he turns you around and pins you against the door, his presence overwhelming. his chest heaves, his jaw tight with a frustration that almost mirrors your own, and before you can get another word in, he leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s fierce and insistent, as if he’s trying to solve every misunderstanding and apologize for every argument.

your hands instinctively go to his chest, pushing him away with all the anger and hurt you feel, but his lips are unrelenting, filled with a need that’s raw and intense. your resolve crumbles as you feel the weight of his emotions breaking through the hard shell he so often hides behind. against every logical thought, you find yourself giving in, your hands softening against his chest as he pulls you closer, every breath, every touch, pleading with you to understand him.

finally, when you’re no longer fighting him, he pulls back just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breaths coming heavy and ragged. his hands hold your shoulders, afraid that if he lets go you might run away.

he doesn’t say anything right away, and in the silence, you feel the weight of everything left unsaid, heavy between you. slowly, you open your eyes to look up at him, your breath still shallow and your pulse racing from the intensity of his kiss. you’re surprised to find an unfamiliar expression on his face. there’s no anger or frustration like before—just a look of deep, quiet remorse, softening the hard lines of his features. his brows furrow,  eyes full of emotions he’s never fully shown you until now.

you’re almost afraid to break the fragile silence hanging in the air. his eyes flicker up to meet yours, and you see the conflict written all over his face, his expression caught between wanting to hold you close and wrestling with the regret of every argument that brought you to this moment.

“i don’t know why i always mess this up” he finally murmurs, his voice thick with frustration and guilt. his jaw clenches, and he seems almost angry at himself, as if grappling with emotions he doesn’t fully understand.

you watch him, taken aback by the vulnerability he’s allowing himself to show. this isn’t the strong, unbreakable toji you’re used to—the man who keeps his emotions buried, always hiding behind his tough exterior. this is the man behind the walls, the one who’s just as scared of losing you as you are of being hurt by him.

“don’t go” he quietly pleads. and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he speaks the words you never thought you’d hear from him. “i love you”. his tone is raw, almost broken. 

toji’s love for you is fierce and consuming, even if it’s sometimes buried under layers of anger and silence. he’s not good at showing it; he’s never been good at showing any of his emotions. life has taught him to hide his vulnerability, to be strong even when it would be easier to let his guard down. you can feel the weight of that struggle, the way he battles with himself just to find the right words for you.

love isn’t soft or easy for him. it’s wrapped up in everything he’s never known how to say and every touch that lingers just a little longer, as if he’s afraid to let you slip away. his hand tightens slightly on your shoulder, grounding himself—and you—in this moment. the intensity in his gaze says what he can’t, those three simple words spilling out of him like they were pulled from the depths of a place he barely knows himself.

he’s rough around the edges, yes, and prone to silence when you crave reassurance. but in the way he protects you, in his instinct to keep you close and safe, he hopes you can see his love. it’s clumsy, flawed, but real. and for him, this is everything he can give.

his confession lingers in the air, heavy and vulnerable, a plea wrapped in the few words he knows how to say. his gaze softer than it’s ever been. there’s fear there, a desperation he’s never shown before, as though he’s finally realized he’s been risking too much, that he’s about to lose something he can’t afford to let go of.

“i'll be better, just– don’t leave me” he begs. your eyes brim with tears at his confession. here he is, letting you see his fear and his need in a way that tugs at your heart.

you reach up, brushing a stray piece of hair from his face, fingers lingering against his cheek. “toji… i don’t need you to be perfect,” you say, voice wavering as the intensity of the moment settles over you both. his shoulders sag and he leans into your touch. for a moment, you see something almost childlike in his expression, something hopeful and fragile, like he’s allowing himself to believe he can be what you need him to be. “i just… i just need to know you’re willing to try”.

he nods, eyes never leaving yours, the weight of his feelings clear as he lets himself fall apart in front of you. with one last, shuddering breath, he closes the small distance between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s deep and tender, a silent promise that he’ll keep trying, as flawed and messy as it may be.

---

thank you for reading! please send in requests!!

[alpaca-clouds]

Let's Talk About "Marvelfication"

Okay, let me try to get this out of my system, because I do have some thoughts on this one.

See, as you know, I finished Dragon Age: Veilguard last week. And I did enjoy the game. I never was that attached to the franchise. I really enjoyed Inquisition back in the day when it came out, but after doing two runs with it never have really returned to it. I also did play one of the older games, though I am not fully sure which one, because it was a long while ago. But I just never got that attached to the franchise. (Which mostly has to do with my own personal issues with High Fantasy.)

But that is not what I wanted to talk about. What I wanted to talk about is more the thing I have seen now multiple people call out: "The Marvelfication" as some have called it. And mind you, I absolutely do agree with this: There were several scenes in this game where I thought to myself: "This feels kinda MCU."

However, what I kinda want to talk about is the specific wording here: "Marvelfication." Because it is super understandable that the first thing that comes to mind (for me as well) is the MCU. But I think the issue is way deeper than "MCU is popular, so let's do something like the MCU".

A lot of folks on Youtube and other platforms have talked about how a lot of "tropes" that people blame on the MCU are actually older than the MCU. The reason people associate it with the MCU is moreso that the MCU is just fucking everywhere since it became this big thing. It is what defines the media landscape.

The big issue actually is another one, though: Those tropes are everywhere because in a more and more conservative media landscape they are considered safe. These types of jokes are not risky in any way. These types of characters are not risky. These types of stories are not risky.

It is stories that are set in societies that are messed up, and then there is a big conflict that only tangentally relates to the ways the societies are messed up in, and then that conflict is resolved but the status quo does not change.

And that more than anything is what I would criticize about the game. Outside of very prominently centering some trans issues, the game has taken very little risks.

I wrote about that a bit last week in comparison to BG3, how safe the companions in Veilguard feel. This shows so harshly in direct comparison to BG3, because really, Larian sat down with player and told you: "Those assholes are your companions. Take it or leave it." Those people I know who never finished BG3 mostly never did because they could not stand the companions. Meanwhile those who, like me, got obsessed with the game, mostly did it because it feels so fucking satisfying when you start to get through to the companions after they started out as those assholes. This satisfaction is something Veilguard never really offers you - because... Well, I can assume that some of these characters had some edges at some point. But whatever edges there had been, those have gotten smoothed down, so now everyone is perfectly sweet. Sure, they might argue a bit here or there, and if you make decisions they do not agree with, they are gonna be pissy with Rook for a bit, but that's the most of it.

Same with a lot of other stuff. There is basically no sexual content in this game. You get one sex scene that is super tame and you see nothing - and one to two kisses per romance. No risk.

Any no matter what kinda choice the characters make, they are all gonna be nice, you know?

There is one thing in the finale of the game that is kinda risky, I will admit. But I will not talk about that yet, because I knwo a lot of people have not finished the game.

But for the most part the game does not risk anything.

And really, that is the core of what folks call "Marvelfication". Because pretty much this is also the issue with Marvel and Star Wars and pretty much all American made media: Outside of some smaller productions, some of which do well with the tumblr crowd but barely get any attention from mainstream audience (*coughs* Interview with the Vampire *coughs*) there is little risk taken. The humor is the same everywhere because this humor is considered safe. The characters feel kinda samey everywhere, because those characters are safe.

It is why I have stopped going to the cinema, because these days there are barely any movies I consider worth watching. It is ironically also why I have recently watched a whole lot more Japanese stuff, because it is easier to find stuff there that does not play it that safe.

It is also why I do these days mostly consume western stuff that has a 18+ rating on it - because at least with that stuff I know that it probably is not gonna play it "safe".

I just wish some media took more risks. I want those medium budget projects back, that cost like 30-50 million, so can make a profit with 100 million at the box office, without doing billions. I want some stuff in there that is not a big IP. I just want... stuff.

Right now I am looking at the soon end of What We Do In The Shadows, mostly because it is one of the few things on right now that does some risky stuff. And I miss those SyFy low budget originals, because some of it was kinda risky. Ugh.

The issue is not Marvel. It is not even Disney. It is that the creative industries in the US right now mainly put out big budget stuff that because of that big budget needs to be loved by everyone.

And look, I am trans. Hence I absolutely do see some value in the fact that Bioware clearly took position and said: "Okay, we get to do one risky thing, so that thing is gonna be to incluse a variety of trans characters." Which I love and respect. But I kinda wish the game had not been quite that pretty and instead also included a bit more edges on the characters.

... But I guess in the end there is still fanfiction, where I can still make the characters messy. lol

[alessabriel]

And it didn't.

Summary: with the scars left by civil conflict, of broken relationships and shattered bridges the years passed, and she was finally caught up with the consequences of what she did.

Cw: NO CAITVI, angst for Caitlyn, post arcane 2 and my soft imaginings, Vi x Reader.

✄ — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Caitlyn had lost herself and neither time, nor regret could bring back the people she lost what was important to; I saw the one she pushed away so many times because of that stupid instinct to see her down for being from Zaun who contaminated and infected her, Jayce who even though I told her everything was resolved I still saw that resentment in her eyes and did not blame, her father still loved her and was there for her but in his eyes at times there was a disappointment so palpable that it hurt to see her because she had destroyed what her mother worked so hard for costing lives in Zaun. She knew that her owner and suffering was not justification, it would never be, just as she knew that she had made many decisions that were wrong and even today, at 35 years old, they still haunt her, stalking her in every free moment to think, in every corner of her psyche and heart, it is a curse that would never leave her and she accepted it, she let the remorse bite her skin, scratch her bones fragmenting them until it reached the organs underneath and stay there forever. Not that all Zaunites' looks at her were better or let her forget what she had done in the past, they all looked at her with a well-hidden and civilized rancor, which, in contrast to what happened years ago showed that Zaunites were not animals.

"It's in your blood, it will always be in your blood!"

These are words that still to this day follow her relentlessly, spoken to a woman who stood by her side unflinchingly, daring to wear the uniform of the very beings who murdered her parents, who oppressed her for years and who were part of Zaun's continuing misfortune. Vi wore the uniform and became an enforcer for her, and a with it at that moment, after a shared kiss hurt her and it was not the blow that hurt the most, but hearing Vi cry at the bottom of the well and left her without looking back, at that moment she never regretted it and thought she deserved it for not letting Vi go, she herself pushed her away. Now, as Sheriff with Piltover restored and Zaun in better condition after joining forces to drive away Noxus and his threat, she is surprisingly alone. She had managed to catch Jinx and served her sentence, helped restore Piltover as part of that sentence but even with everything Jinx was never left alone but was supported by all of Zaun and, to her own selfish pain; For Vi, Vi was in the process of Jinx's improvement and her mental treatment, when she was imprisoned and released by herself, she watched as Vi received her and although there was an uncomfortable air Vi saw her with a filial love and bright, shy accompanied by Ekko, Sevika, Isha and another person who did not hesitate to embrace Jinx. Even Jinx even with all the crimes on her list, she had so many people surrounding her and she on the other end just and Sheriff was alone, she knew it was her own fault.

There was a sea of guilt that was always at her feet, threatening on her worst days with a huge swell, monstrous waves that threatened to swallow her whole and sometimes she wished they would but, it would be selfish not to bear the consequences of her actions.

The council had been renewed for the sake of progress since they all had such archaic and cruel ideas by the next leaders of those same houses who were young, people who saw beyond prejudices and painted a difference, a before and an after. A renewed council, like Piltover, with Jayce and Mel at the head, but there were two representatives of Zaun who never showed up leaving two chairs together empty in their name. They had all changed, Piltover finally after seeing how hundreds of Zaunites risked themselves to drive Noxus away without caring about coming back alive showed them how much damage they inflicted on their twin city.

Damage she contributed to, added to, and how it tainted her mother's contribution so that the Zaunites could breathe.

She hated herself but dared not ask for forgiveness, because she did not deserve it and she knew it.

She lives each day mechanically in the Enforcers base office, and with documentation up to her neck, in a cold and monotonous rhythm until that day came, a day where Loris was coming to visit her as she had not agreed to stay in the Enforcers corps with the others but rather, was sentinel in Zaun an organization created by two people in Zaun along with other creations that Zaun did not have before.

"Wow, you're still dating the paperwork Sheriff?" questions Loris, walking into the office with a lazy smile looking at the paperwork by the pile.

"Let's just say they're nice dates" replies Caitlyn, inviting him to sit down, it's the little visits and sincere interactions he has that let him see that he kept too good people away from his surroundings because even Seb kept her at a distance, Maddie walked away from her after he had used her to forget Vi; spoiler he never could, Vi as soon as the conflict ended and the trials came she didn't return to Piltover, so Loris was the only one who still maintained some pleasant air between the two "Something going on? You usually come over on Fridays when I go out for a drink together."

Caitlyn looks at her former partner and notices it, a nervous uneasiness almost shy about how she keeps herself hidden and how Loris tries to keep the air light, jovial and pleasant. Loris was a very short time active part of the Enforcerd but damn but he was a good element and the Sentinels would take a good element. She watches silently as her former partner takes a seat, but it never goes unnoticed the conflicted eyes of the man in front of her and she honestly can't blame him as Loris is one of Vi's best friends and continuing to talk to her feels like some sort of betrayal, or so Caitlyn assumes.

"Well, I'm not wasting your time with my humble visit Sheriff" she concedes, lightening the mood and tension, pulling out a simple envelope sealed with wax and a unique flower that only grows in Zaun "Consider coming, she asked me to deliver it to you."

Caitlyn with that, spends the rest of the day dreading opening the letter leaving it on her office bookshelf as if it has the toxic and poisonous in it, so at the end of her day with the evening light streaming in through the glass she plucks up her courage. She sits up from her chair and takes the letter, it is made of a soft and in plain sight recycled paper but it has a fresh floral scent, with some fear creeping up her joints she opens it using the letter opener seeing how the black wax falls on her desk next to the small single flower of Zaun that she takes and keeps it, inside the envelope is a paper folded in three and when she opens it something stirs in her gut with such force that she feels her organs pushed into her bones and the physical exterior of her body, she restrains herself and swallows the bile to start reading, though she knows that doomed her because she suspects it is.

† Violet and [R] †

Just reading that line generated an immense, monumental dismay in him, had he stopped loving Vi? She didn't want to know the answer because it would hurt, because when she pushed Vi away, making her feel guilty for everything, guilty for not being able to stop loving her sister in spite of everything, what was she thinking back then? Making her choose implicitly only served to further establish the imbalance and mistrust in whatever it was they had, and lo and behold the consequences years of loneliness and minimal, if any interactions with Vi that were for matters merely concerning both cities. At the very thought, the very image of it tightens her chest.

Vi was getting married and he was inviting her to his wedding, with a +1.

She dropped into her chair, tossing the pretty invitation on the desk before scrunching up her face, stressed, hurt, regretful and with an amalgam of feelings of self-pity and cruelty towards herself for the past, for the hatred her being since she was a child had harbored towards Zaunitas which only incubated until it exploded that fateful day where she took it out on Vi, took it out on a woman who knew how to read her better than she did herself and prevented her from doing something she would regret more. He knew he could not give, if he would fail as Vi said but his pain did not allow him to see, understand, or comprehend. His hands tremble running it over his face in an attempt to get rid of that mutilating feeling in his chest, and he feels the pain climb up his bones, Vi was going to marry someone and by name it's a woman; [R]. A short, concrete text, a wedding which will be held in the newly opened temple of Janna, signed below in sweet, flowing calligraphy in Violet's name, next to another straighter, linear calligraphy signing with [R]. They sure did that cute thing of writing each other's name would Vi love her? Would that unknown woman love Vi? How long had they been in a relationship? Did they love each other? Why was Vi inviting her?

She doesn't want to go.

[sidewalk-cracks]

In the wake of hearing that DC is making a Dick Grayson and Jason Todd movie and that they're supposedly gonna be screwing up Dick and Jason's backstories, I started thinking about what kind of Nightwing & Red Hood movie I would want to see, in addition to what kind of batfam movies in general I would want to see. I offer for consideration:

Nightwing and Red Hood: Last Defenders. While on patrol, Nightwing stumbles upon the hints of a truly diabolical plot taking shape to topple not just Gotham, but possibly the entire planet while the majority of Earth's heroes are presently indisposed, including most of the batfam. Batman and most of the JL are off world, the Titans are tied up, even Alfred's away, etc- leaving Nightwing and Red Hood as the only two people left to defend Gotham. This is set in a world sometime after UtRH; Jason's identity has been revealed, and he has an uneasy truce settled with the Bats ("you don't bother me, I don't bother you"). The movie follows them through their journey as Dick tries to convince Jason to work with him, they narrowly escape lots of explosions, and argue about Dick's failings as a brother and everything Jason has done since coming back. It all culminates in an epic 2v1 battle with the Big Bad and resolves with them saving the day and coming to an emotional understanding- a hopeful ending, looking towards a future in which Jason might be able to improve his standing with the Bats. BONUS END CREDITS SCENE: Bruce arrives home to a quiet manor. He goes to the kitchen and makes some tea. Goes to the den, and draws up short in the doorway. Dick and Jason are sprawled across the couch, half on top of each other, dead asleep. The credits of a movie are scrolling on the TV. Bruce buffers for a moment, before smiling and deftly whipping out his phone and snapping several pictures. Then he turns off the TV, drapes a blanket over them, and kisses both of them on the forehead.

The Waynes in: Mission Impossible. Bruce and his sons must attend the fancy gala of Evil Rich Man, and foil his diabolical supervillain plot while undercover as the Wayne family. Ideally, without ruining the gala. (Spoiler: they ruin the gala). This is firmly an action comedy, with maybe some sprinkles of family angst thrown in. Otherwise, though, this movie includes a gratuitous amount of puns, the Wayne Men in really sharp tuxes, Jason blowing up several things, Tim and Bruce holding the only braincells in the operation, Jason losing his suit jacket and tie 5 minutes into the gala, and Bruce being Tired. At a later point in the mission they need a distraction, and without hesitation Damian whips around and punches Tim in the face. They proceed to have a very loud and explosive fistfight. Tim YEETS Damian into the dessert table. Bruce groans into his hands.

The Battle of Wayne Manor. Dick, Jason, and Alfred are the only ones home to defend the Manor against a dangerous team of superhuman home invaders, Home Alone style. As soon as the three of them are aware of the situation, Alfred marches over to a panel in the wall, opens up a secret compartment, and pulls out an AK-47. "I have not spent three-fourths of my life at this Manor for a group of brutish, arrogant thugs to think they can just waltz in and lay claim to the place. As you like to say, Master Jason- let's light em up, boys." This can be a serious film or another action comedy. It's pretty much just Home Alone with some guns thrown in. They blind the invaders with several disgustingly bright glitter bombs and then Alfred whips out from behind a corner with his rifle, they've got booby traps on all the staircases, Jason's throwing pies at people, etc. The most important detail is that they successfully defend their home as civilians. No use of vigilante skills whatsoever. The news are baffled and the boys cheekily only comment that Home Alone is a cherished childhood film in their household. This plot could be edited to include Tim, Damian, and even Bruce as well, I just initially thought of it as just Dick, Jason, and Alfred.

[gilverrwrites]

Dick being a bit of a perv towards Tim’s friend…you and Tim obviously have crushes on another, but Dick subtly convinces you that it’s unrequited, that Tim is turned off by how naive you clearly are…unless you want Dick to teach you some things, he’s be more than happy to *do it*…of course his hands are already creeping down your pants as he says this.

What?! Anon you're crazy. Dickie would never ever do something like this! Anyway... Warnings: Coercion, manipulation, choking, slut shaming, implied age gap Virgin!Reader.

The very first time he met you; Dick made it his mission to ensure he was your favourite member of the family. He’s often the first to invite you to events. He’s always cutting in at galas, much to Tim’s chagrin, and telling you how great you look. Not just the fancy stuff either, he showers you with compliments all the time. He just loves your cosy hoodie, and did you get a haircut? It looks great.

Sometimes he’ll make a show of staring at you, all starry-eyed as he says shit like “Wow. You really are just sooo beautiful. Tim’s a lucky guy.” Knowing full well Tim and you are not an item.

“If only I’d got there first.” Knowing that his comments will almost certainly embarrass Tim.

“What did Tim do to deserve you, anyway?” That the embarrassment is liable to make Tim push you away a little bit.

But it’s not all flirtation. Dick also asks about your life, your friends and family. He learns about your hobbies, and watches your favourite films so he can talk to you about them. He's always offering advice, warranted or not. He just wants to be ‘the best soon-to-be brother-in-law’, you know?

So, he's unsurprised and elated when you call him one night, on the brink of tears after seeing Tim on what looked like a date with someone else. “I feel so weird calling you since you're brothers but you're the only one who knows us both.”

“No, no, no. Don't ever feel like you can't talk to me. You can always come to me for anything! Why don't I come over?”

Half an hour later he's on your couch, listening to you lament about your hopeless crush on Tim. He pats your shoulders, and rubs your back throughout, subtly getting closer and closer until you're all but sat in his lap with his hand dangerously high up your thigh.

“Listen, Tim is my brother, and I love him, I do. And I don't believe in slut shaming, that's not what this is, but he does get around. A lot.” He catches a stray tear with his thumb. You don't move when he lingers, so he keeps shooting, caressing your cheek until he reaches your lips where he grazes their softness far longer than is appropriate. His cock is rock hard from cradling you, there's no way you haven't noticed it digging into your asscheek. You can't be that dumb? “I shouldn't say this, it’s not my place but you deserve to know. He’s a cheater. He's cheated in almost every relationship he's been in. I think he gets bored… Sexually.”

He hadn’t thought you could look any sadder, but you managed it. He almost feels bad. Almost.

“You should be fine though. You know what you're doing, right? No? That's crazy, you're so lovely.”

It takes a little persuasion, but it's cursory more than anything.

“Tim doesn't need to know; it’ll be our little secret.” He promises as he slides his fingers under your waistband.

That night he makes it all about you. He practically spoils you, never using anything but his hands and mouth to make you melt for him, over and over. It takes all his resolve not to kiss you stupid, only because you make such captivating sounds. Such moreish whimpers and moans. For his ears only.

He’s the worst brother in the world.

But that doesn’t stop him from calling you every chance he gets.

He knows he’s going to hell when he’s filled with a sick sense of pride, after dropping you off for a coffee date with Tim, having cum all over your tongue only moments earlier and driven you there with his hand practically lodged between your legs.

Sometimes he fantasises about sucking his name into your chest. Just so Tim will know exactly where you've been if he ever has the balls to close the deal.

But the veneer can only last so long, and you unknowingly chip away at it, bit by bit every time you say Tim’s name. “Do you think Tim would like this?” “I can't believe I'm asking but do you know if Tim…” “Oh, I can’t tonight, Tim and I…”

It finally shatters the first time he fucks you though. You take it so well, slowly letting him stretch out your tight, virgin hole. He barely even has to coach you through it, just a few sweet words of praise, his fingers brushing you in all the right places and your bouncing on his cock like it was made for you.

But then you go and spoil it. He barely even remembers what you said exactly. “Something, something, Tim.” and he's seeing red.

The next thing out of your mouth is a startled gasp as he fixes his hand around your throat and squeezes, pulling you close and pushing his length so deep inside that your eyes roll back as he spits; “Tim doesn't want you.”

You're like a deer in the headlights, wide-eyed and confused but still moaning like a slut as he ruts up into you. “He did, but do you really think he'd ever touch you now? When he finds out you've been hanging off his big brother's dick? Should of taken photos so he can see how bad you wanted it.”

“But- but you said-”

“I know what I said.” You look the most aggrieved when he cuts you off. Never in a million years did you think golden boy Dick Grayson would be so callous. “And you bought it all. God- you’re too easy.”

He trails off for a moment, getting lost in how fucking good you feel, walls tight and twitching around him, milking him a little bit more every time he pinches your throat or bites out another nasty comment. All this time he’s been so nice to you; he should have known you’d like him mean.   

“Fucking shit~ I was never gonna let Tim have you. You were mine the moment you walked into the manor.”

[tkwrites]

Okay I'm done now and heading to bed, one last question.

Can you name a favourite fic for each of the boys?

Hi my Lovely,

There are quite a few of your asks I haven't answered, but please know I'm not ignoring them. They'll just take a little more time to respond to.

I can tell you my favorite fics, though:

Matthew Tkachuk - Back To You because it's such a complete story. I love the way he and Jessie meet, lose each other, and then are thrown together by fate again. I also feel like I really captured that sassy side of Matthew's personality in this fic, which I was really worried about at the time I was writing it. This is also the story that I think would be easiest to flesh out into a full length novel.

Nico Hischier - I love all the parts of his story for different reasons, but I think It Doesn't Matter Part II is my favorite. I had actually written the whole sequence of nude sketches for another character, but ended up scrapping the whole story because I couldn't find any real conflict for them to resolve. When I realized I could use it for Nico and Lena if she was an artist, I was thrilled and got to work rewriting it for them. In the end, the only things that stayed the same were 5 of the 6 poses. Getting into and out of them changed, as did the characters relating to each other during them. I love all the longing and awkward tension between them in this piece, as well as how they finally end up confessing their love for each other. Finally, the culmination of all of their longing into the final sex scene? Chefs kiss.

Quinn Hughes - This one is so hard. I've written so much about Quinn and Sarah and I love all of the pieces for one reason or another. If I had to pick three favorites, they would be:

1). Five Days of Joy because I'm so proud of this fic. It took SO long to write, but I love the way it turned out. I love that we go through so many consecutive days and such a gamut of emotions with Sarah and Quinn.

2). The Second Time is Better because I love the portrayal of a more real first time. One of the things that drives me batty about romance novels is how the characters get together and always seem to have this instantly amazing sexual connection. No room for human failing or first time jitters. In reality, it takes time to build sexual chemistry and connection, and I went into this piece wanting to show at least some of that.

and 3). Second Nature because I think it has the prettiest prose. I still think this passage is some of the best writing I've ever done:

This was ultimate flirting in Quinn’s book. Something he knew he could do. When someone wanted to talk about music, or art or classic cars, he was a fish out of water. But talking hockey? He could do that all day long. Convincing someone to like the sport he loved so much? There wasn't a more ideal situation. 

“Oh, good,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him. 

This was a perfect evening. Casual and comfortable. Cooking for someone he - liked, and kissing her whenever he wanted, taking no worry of who might be watching. 

Letting himself get swept up in the kiss, he slid his hands over her hips and tried to commit her scent to memory. No matter what happened - though he was pretty sure nothing bad was ever going to happen with Sarah - he wanted to remember this. She smelled like a dream he’d had as a boy. Like vanilla and warm skin and fireside, summer nights. It was an outlandish notion, but he couldn’t shake it. 

All her life, Sarah had read stories about star-crossed, fated lovers thrown together by chance and circumstance and serendipity. But those were all just stories. Even when her grandpa talked about meeting her grandma - like they were always meant to be together, and just had to find each other to make it happen - it seemed like folklore. A tall tale he spun to make their love story seem more epic. 

After writing all this out, I realized perhaps you meant favorite writing from other authors. Let me know if that's something you'd like me to answer.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Mad Maxxing - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Just your average Zaunite road trip...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

"You're smiling," Sevika says.

"I know."

"Why?"

"You'll know soon enough."

And, daring, he lays a hand on the headrest of her seat. Nothing else. Just his hand, and the flying kiss of her hair against his knuckles.  But he can feel the border between public and private dissolving like a chalk sketch in the rain.

The subterfuge, he senses, has become a game of chicken. Sooner or later, one of them will break. The thrill is in feeling the tension ratchet higher and higher.

In bracing, as a magician prepares for the big reveal, for the pure, unbridled shock of inevitability.

A burst of white arcs across the horizon. The flash, so close and bright, nearly blinds them. A boom, seconds later, cracks the darkness open, from north to south.

Cursing, Sevika slams the brakes. Tires screech. Silco, jolted forward, catches himself against the dash. The entourage, likewise, rumbles to a halt. The air thickens with the scent of burning rubber. Silco hears, through the open window, the crackle of radios, and the rumble of idling engines, and the thunder of boots as a phalanx of blackguards swarm from their cars.

A second flare goes up. The light bathes the flatlands in a scorching flash.

"What the hell," Sevika mutters, and thumps a fist against the steering column. 

The radio crackles. She snatches the receiver, and the distorted squawks resolve: the scouts on duty, reporting back from the perimeter. The soundscape beyond the vehicle is a chorus of shouts and loading guns. At the horizon, a dark line bleeds into unreal brightness. The night's torn open. And spilling forth, by inches, is a row of armored vehicles.

"Shit," Sevika breathes, and turns the ignition.

"What is it?" Silco demands.

She jerks the gearstick. "Eramis."

"Ah."

Silco smiles.

There's the diversion. Right on schedule.

Sevika relays orders into the radio. The entourage rolls headlong into the fray. Silco, no longer smiling, keeps low in the seat. He'd anticipated that Eramis would retaliate to his township's takeover. That he's responded, so soon, with a show of force bodes well.

It means the bastard's rattled, and ripe for the picking.

Sevika, in her element, steers the entourage with ruthless efficiency. Over the radio, she raps a rapidfire succession of orders to the scouts, and relays a series of tactical maneuvers to the blackguards. Eramis' convoy is a dirty-dozen. Six motorcars are equipped with gun nests, and six semi-trucks are laden with canons.

A formidable force, if it weren't for one factor.

Sevika's own fleet has sevenfold the firepower. And, more importantly, she's got her finger on the pulse of Eramis' psyche.

"He's trying to pull a feint," she says, as she takes the first curve at full speed. "He knows his toys are no match for ours. He's planning something. I can feel it."

"So can I." Silco stares out into the jagged horizon. "The ravine's up ahead."

"He'll try to force us there with an arrowhead move, and pin us against the ridge. Then the trucks will roll in, and the canons will start blazing." Her face is set in grim concentration, and her hands move with the surety of oiled sprockets. "We'll split the caravan. Meet his charge with the first half, send the second half around. Box him in, and cut him down."

"Are the scouts prepped for the maneuver?"

"Stocked, locked, and ready."

"Then, by all means," Silco says, and his teeth cut bright as a blade in the dark. "Show him how it's done."

A third flare bursts overhead. In its brightness, the dimensions of the battle emerge. Eramis' troops, advancing steadily, have already breached the midway. As Sevika predicted, they are aimed for an arrowhead formation: six motorcars, at the vanguard, flanked by two semi-trucks. The canons, mounted atop the flatbeds, are armed and ready to rip.

Eramis himself will keep behind the convoy, in the biggest motorcar, until the battle's won. Then, the spoils will be his to collect, and the Ditch his to reclaim.

Except the spoils, and the Ditch, are already in the Eye's safekeeping.

The only thing waiting for Eramis is the long drop—and the short stop.

Sevika calls the entourage into formation. The two four-wheelers, armored and bristling, ride shotgun. The ten scouts, on the bikes, veer out, circling to form a blockade. The remaining entourage, zooming towards the arrowhead, cuts the distance in two.

As the gap shrinks, Eramis' troops open fire.

Machine-gun blasts rip through the night. The scouts, zigzagging across the plains, dodge the barrage with practiced ease. From their holsters, they unload, not gunfire but canisters, which they toss at the approaching motorcars. A shower of smoke pours from the canisters, and a thick miasma of smog rolls forth. The arrowhead, blinded, slows and stutters, losing momentum.

The blackguards, from the motorcars, make their move. Riding with the wind at their backs, they, too, split off and peel towards the arrowhead. Eramis' troops, struggling through the smoke, fire wildly. The air lights up. Bullets strike off the armor-plated cars. Divots ping against reinforced glass and alloyed chrome.

The entourage is undeterred.

With a surge of tremendous speed, the motorcars barrel forward. Then, at the last moment, they trifurcate into a three-pronged charge. One, a split-second ahead, veers sharply to the left. The second, at the rear, swerves hard to the right. The third, in the middle, plows forward, and drives the arrowhead broadside.

Gunfire cuts a wedge into the enemy's charge, and drives a spike through the core.  Eramis' troops, blindsided by the assault, struggle to hold their ground. Sparks fly and metal groans. The arrowhead becomes a sloppy arc, swinging wildly to and fro. Three of Eramis' motorcars begin fishtailing, then flipping, end over end, into the smoke. A truck skids to dodge the wreckage, and the canons, tipping with their weight, tear loose from their bindings. The vehicle tumbles, wheels-over-axels, and crashes into the dirt. The remaining three motorcars, screeching to a halt, are swallowed by the smog.

Meanwhile, the second prong of the entourage has circled around. It begins closing, by degrees, for the rear. The third, too, is closing in, from the opposite direction. As the smoke begins to clear, Eramis' troops find themselves pinned. Trapped by the wreckage and the Eye's encroaching riders, panic sets in. Retreat would be the sensible choice.

Eramis, tragically, is not a sensible man.

The remaining four semi-trucks, lagging behind the convoy, begin rolling full-tilt into the melee. Their canons, fully-operational, swivel and aim into the eye of the storm. With a deafening BOOM, the sky erupts. The force of the explosion splits the airwaves into a thousand screaming fragments. A  fireball rockets into the fray. The impact is a cataclysmic shockwave.

The Eye's entourage is thrown into disarray. One of the motorcars skids with a metallic screech, and rolls onto its side. A second, flipping, smashes head-on into the smoking hulk of Eramis' downed semi. The third, veering, narrowly misses a collision with a jutting boulder.  Three scouts, caught in the blast, are flung from their bikes. They land in the dirt, only to be crushed under the wheels of Eramis' advancing trucks.

Cursing, Sevika wrestles the wheel. Flaming spiders of debris pinball off the Humvee's windshield. A strip of metal, long as a broadsword, caroms off the hood and embeds itself in the asphalt. Silco braces himself against the dash. His ears are plugged as if with cotton. All he can hear is a high-pitched aria.

The curving sky beyond the glass is red with fire.

In her seat, Sevika stays centered. She's seen this scale of devastation before, and dished out worse. The canonfire is nasty, but its underlying impetus is a dead giveaway: Eramis has no clue what he's doing.

His only recourse is to run the field red. And take anyone and everyone down with him.

"Bastard," Sevika says, and floors it.

Tires shriek, and the Humvee shoots forward like earthbound lightning.  The road ahead, a patchwork of craters, is an obstacle course. But Sevika doesn't slow. She weaves, darts, and dodges, taking the terrain like a rampaging juggernaut.

When the chips are down, she's the best damn driver in the Fissures.

Over the radio, she shouts for the remaining troops to fall in. The second and third prongs of the entourage, shaken by the blast, regroup to surround her.  One, two, three, four, and they're rolling hot. The motorcars, pocked with scorchmarks, are still operational. The four-wheelers, similarly singed, have the treads to weather the worst. The surviving seven scouts have revved their bikes and are closing the gap.

"They're reloading for a second blast," Sevika shouts over the radio. "Don't give them the chance."

A chorus of affirmatives crackles over the line.

Silco keeps a steady grip on the dashboard. The road unspools beneath the tires. The night's clogged with fumes. But his adrenaline is redlined, and with it comes an absolute clarity of purpose: the cold-edged readiness for the kill.

The four semi-trucks, bearing down on them, are a wall of steel, with armor-plated grilles, battering-ram fronts and spike-studded chasers. Their canons, pouring smoke, are swiveling into position.

In Silco's own crosshairs falls a dinged-up Model T, fishtailing badly on its rightmost tread. It stays well back, behind the semi-trucks, and seems content to hang in the periphery. The glass is tinted and there are armed gunmen crouched on built-in platforms at either side of the hood. The passenger's an unknown quantity, but Silco recognizes the flashy gold-plated ornament winking on the bonnet: a gaudy pair of brass knuckles.

Eramis' calling card.

"Sevika," Silco says.

"I see the swine."

"Our priority target. The rest are window-dressing."

"Window-dressing with a side of canonfire."

"I've got a plan."

Sevika's eyes, in the rearview, cut him a glance. "Is it a good one?"

His lips tug, and Silco feels the smile down to the bone. "It will be."

Sevika listens to his terse instructions, and nods. With a flick of the radio switch, she passes the order along. 

The bikes, zigzagging in formation, break off from the Humvee's flank, and close the gap with the trucks. The canons, reloading, pivot to keep the bikes within their sightlines. Their artillery shells are the size of beer kegs, and the blast radius could level a railway. If the bikes get caught in the crossfire, they'll be obliterated.

"Stay tight," Sevika orders on the radio, "and keep a bead on the canons."

The bikes, in response, fan out, and close the gap further. They're a whirr of black chrome and flashing silver, their riders hunched low. The canons, tracking them, prepare to launch the second salvo. Sevika, watching through the rearview, grits her teeth.

"That's it," she mutters. "Just a little more..."

The canons' barrels swivel. A series of sharp clicks sound, as the mechanism locks. The gunners, braced, prepare to fire.

The scouts, a split-second in advance, make their move.

As one, they break formation, streaking off in separate directions. Reaching into their jackets, they lob a volley of little black spheres, which strike the semi-trucks with a resounding series of pings.  Each sphere is the size of a peach pit, and the surface is studded with tiny beads. As the spheres make contact, they burst, and a dark sticky webbing explodes from the center, adhering to the truck's wheels.

In an instant, the webbing solidifies, and the treads are locked into place. With a jolt, the semi-trucks lose traction. The canons, locked in position, are thrown off-balance—and wildly off-target. One truck swerves on its axis, and smashes broadside into the adjacent one. Its own cannons, ripped from their bindings, fly loose and pinwheel in a massive crunch of metal and sparks. The third truck, struggling to break, rams its cab into the wreckage. The canon arcs high and ejects a premature round. The shell, careening skyward, belches a rainbow of sizzling sparks.

"Now!" Sevika orders.

The bikes, dispersing, fall clear as the canons' artillery shell drops and detonates in mid-air—a moon-white zit swelling to swallow the stars. The concussion shears the night into pieces. The Deadlands are swallowed by a searing white light. As the heat washes over the plains, the air itself seems to liquify.

Silco's fingers, folded into Sevika's good ones, are the only anchor.

Her cybernetic handstays locked on the wheel. The Humvee's course is locked straight and steady.  As the blast ripples and ebbs into a distinct stink of ozone, the road resolves once more. The enemy's trucks are a wreckage enrobed in flames. Their canons are smoking hulks. The scout's bikes are circling in a tight formation, and the men, unharmed, are riding high.

All that guards Eramis' Model-T is one lone semi-truck.

Its treads are gummed up with the scouts' webbing. But its canons are intact. And the gunners, though shaken, are scrabbling along the flatbed, and struggling to reload a fresh round of shells.

The Humvee's wheels, spitting gravel, barrel straight ahead.

"Silco," Sevika says, and squeezes his hand before letting go. "In the back."

"The back?"

"Jinx. She left it there."

"Left what?"

"A parting gift." Her eyes lock on his in the rearview. "She must've stashed it, before she sailed off. I saw it in the backseat, when I went looking for you. Maybe she figured you'd need it."

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Silco turns, and reaches to the rear. His fingers grope blindly along the upholstery, until he finds the compartment beneath the backseat. Inside is a small wooden crate. It's wrapped, tightly, in canvas, and there's a note scrawled, in Jinx's unmistakably loopy handwriting.

Semper Paratus

XOXO

Silco pops the crate's lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of straw, are stacks of grenades. Chemical aerosols, shockwaves, incendiaries. And, a few rows down, the real gem: a trio of Chompers.  They're hand-tooled beauties, each with a detachable detonator that, at the squeeze of a button, will unleash a payload of barbed-wire shrapnel at a wounding radius of forty feet.

Silco chooses the biggest, and holds it up to the light. The canister's spraypainted with blue and pink stripes. The clockwork mechanism is crafted into a shark's pointy-toothed grin.

Silco's own grin threatens to split his face in half.

It's a as real as the risk. Real as the battle beyond. Real as the bloodied heart of Zaun waiting in the wings. 

Real as the girl who, wherever she goes, will always have his back.

"Sevika," he says.

"What?"

"Cut in close. I'm going to need a clear shot."

"Like hell," she says, not breaking her stride. "You stick your head out the window, they'll rip it clean off."

"I've no plans to stick my head out."

"Then where—"

"Eramis." He holds up the Chomper. "He deserves the honors."

It takes a moment for Sevika to catch on. When she does, a smile carves the stone of her features. Then, her hands a blur on the wheel, she cuts a hard left.  The Humvee accelerates to the head of the pack. The rest of the entourage follows, kicking up a roostertail of dust. Over the radio, Sevika issues her last orders.

"Blackguards," she raps, "engage. Scouts, with me."

As one, they blaze down the road.

Ahead, the sole remaining truck is struggling to regain traction. The treads are still gummed up. The axels are grinding, and the engine's whining at top pitch. But their artillery, as Sevika advances, is slotting into place. At a hundred yards equidistant, Eramis' Model-T is well out of range. But for the first time, the passenger window is rolled down. There's an unmistakable rotund silhouette peeking out at the advancing storm.  His guards, at the front, are already priming their weapons.

His cannons, finally reloaded, swivel and aimed square.  

"Ready?" Sevika calls.

Silco steadies himself against the seat. "Floor it."

Sevika veers left. The Humvee, swinging hard, cuts a diagonal, and closes the gap with the Model-T. Three scouts, in close pursuit, form a barricade at each flank. The rest of the entourage, in a V-formation, zoom straight for the truck. From beneath the chassis of each motorcar, a row of  cartridge ejectors emerges. Each is mounted with a nozzle, trigger, and a set of canisters.

"Blackguards," Sevika orders, "on my mark."

The canons hum. The blackguards' trajectory is a perfect bullseye.

"Fire."

The motorcars, in unison, unleash their payload. A thick cloud, acid green, spews from the nozzles and billows over the battlefield. Spreading, it envelopes the semi-truck in a haze. It is not the same smog the scouts used earlier to blind their foes. Rather, it's a concoction of potent Fissure gas and nitrous oxide that, in high concentrations, can induce delirium, dizziness, and, if not treated promptly, a long and lingering narcosis.

Both Jinx and Silco have used it: twice, to great effect.

That Sevika—both times—was the target only lends the moment an extra-personal piquancy.

The haze engulfs the semi-truck. The gunners, clinging to the flatbed, cough and cough. They cannot man the cannons. They cannot aim at their targets. They cannot even breathe. Their faces go bright-red, then purple. Their bodies, convulsing, drop like dominoes. A split-second later, the blackguards converge on the truck. As the last man falls, they disembark, masked and armed, and storm the flatbed. Their boots thunder across the metal, and their war-whoops fill the air.

Silco hears none of it.

All his attention is funneling into the distant speck of the Model-T until it swells to fill the glass. Sevika's foot is jammed hard on the gas. The Humvee leaps like a bucking bronco down the mythic Shuriman plains. At its flanks, the scouts keep pace. They are a tight, cohesive unit. Their bikes, like the spokes of a wheel, revolve around a single fixed point.

The Eye and his hand-delivered retribution.

Eramis' guards have already opened fire. The .50 caliber slugs, ripping through the night, land helter-skelter. Bullets zip off the Humvee's enforced plating, and drill small craters into the fender. The scouts, on either side, swerve and spin to evade the strafing. One bullet ricochets off a scout's helmet but doesn't penetrate, a tiny spiderwebbing of cracks fanning across the polycarbonate. Another, zinging past the rearguard, clips a second scout in the shin. He fishtails, but manages to regain control.

The Humvee is undeterred. Sevika keeps a deathgrip on the wheel. Beneath her boot, the accelerator is flush with the floor. The Model-T, with Eramis inside, is a hundred feet away. Then fifty. Then thirty. Then it's there.

Behind the glass, Eramis' face is a ballooning white moon. His eyes are the size of planets. He is howling like a madman.

Sevika relays the signal over the radio.

"Scouts," she shouts. "Break off."

The bikes, as one, peel off the Humvee's flanks. As they do, Sevika yanks the wheel hard right. The Humvee, braking, slides at an angle. Grit fans out. Tires shriek. The rear, jackknifing, cuts a precise U-turn. The momentum sends the guards tumbling over like bowling pins. Their guns go flying. Their bodies roll across the gravel. An unlucky few catch the full brunt of the Humvee's weight, and are crushed underfoot.

As the dust settles, the Humvee is poised, nose-to-nose, with the Model-T.

The two vehicles are separated by mere feet.

The scouts, circling, blockade the spaces in between. Each one is poised on their bike, guns leveled. They are prepared, at a moment's notice, to mow down any survivors.

In the Model-T, Eramis is still howling. His face is a mottled caricature of terror. 

The Humvee's door swings open. Silco slinks out, and steps into the descending silence.

The air is clogged with the stink of cooked rubber and creosote. The moon, cutting its delicate incision through the clouds, unveils a scene of utter carnage. The six motorcars are reduced to flaming heaps. The semi-trucks, gutted and overturned, are a twist of mangled metal. Men are laid out in coffins of hardpacked dirt. Others, twitching feebly, are trapped inside the wreckage.

The final count will be a body-bag or a dozen.

Beyond the perimeter, blackguards, rifles poised, are securing the perimeter. They've already disarmed the straggling guards. The men, cowed, are being lined up against the hoods of their mauled vehicles. The few blackguards wounded in the fray are being hauled off to the medick's vehicle.

In the space of twenty minutes, the battle is done.

Silco takes a savoring breath.  It is a moment of rare serenity, before the next inevitable wave of violence.

But he's ready to meet it—and mete out worse.

With a measured tread, he approaches the Model-T. The windshield is a warped distortion of the smoke-scudded horizon. Behind the glass, Eramis is petrified. A pistol—gold-plated—is brandished in his meaty grip. The safety's off, but the barrel's too shaky to present a real threat.

It's the last showoffishish bluff of a man who's been beaten, and knows it.

"Eramis," Silco says. "Hello."

[safficranger]

Fake Scenarios In My Head #33

“Casey?” Alex stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, glaring at the pile of blankets and pillows where her girlfriend had buried herself. Only a tuft of red hair was visible, poking out from beneath the blankets. The pile shifted slightly, a clear sign that Casey was awake—and had heard her.

“Care to explain how The Decisive Moment ended up sandwiched between The New York State Constitution and The Turn of the Screw?”

A hand waved sleepily from under the blankets, aiming in Alex’s direction. “Hmm?” Casey’s groggy voice murmured, still thick with sleep. She peeked out, squinting at the bright light as she tried to focus on Alex.

Alex's voice was sharp. “It seems a little goblin broke into our apartment last night and completely rearranged my bookshelves.” Her tone held a slight accusation. “Or is there another explanation for the mess I found this morning?”

Casey blinked again, stifling a yawn as Alex’s words registered. A sheepish, crooked smile crept across her face. “Um…” She scratched the back of her neck, clearly searching for an excuse. “I... couldn’t sleep. Court was brutal yesterday, and I just... wanted to unwind.”

Alex arched an eyebrow. “And you thought dismantling my entire system was a good way to unwind?”

“Well...” Casey hesitated. “I thought a little... organizing might help clear my head.” She gave Alex her most hopeful smile, but it didn’t budge her.

“‘Organizing’ is a strong word for what you did,” Alex shot back. “I have a system, Casey. I love my system. It took me years to perfect that bookshelf.”

“I know, but... come on, color-coding isn’t that bad, is it?” Casey ventured, biting her lip, half-amused but trying to soften Alex’s annoyance.

Alex huffed and crossed her arms more tightly. “Casey, it looks like a rainbow exploded all over my shelves. And... poetry in the history section? Really?”

Casey stifled a laugh, trying to keep a straight face. “Yeah, okay, maybe not my brightest idea.”

“You don’t say,” Alex replied, her voice dry, but a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Sitting up fully now, Casey reached for Alex’s hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Alex let her take it. Casey looked up with wide, pleading eyes—eyes that had softened many an argument between them.

“I’m sorry! I’ll make it up to you, I swear,” Casey promised, tracing slow circles on Alex’s knuckles.

Alex softened, though her expression stayed firm. “And what do you suggest?”

“A luxury breakfast. My treat. Whatever you like,” Casey grinned, pulling Alex a little closer.

“…and?” Alex’s voice held just a hint of curiosity.

Casey’s grin turned mischievous as she pulled Alex even closer, her arms slipping around Alex’s waist. “And maybe a special breakfast before we head out?” Her hands slid under Alex’s shirt, fingertips grazing her warm skin, making her shiver.

Alex’s resolve wavered, her cool composure slipping under Casey’s touch. “I could… be persuaded,” she murmured, her voice softening.

Casey knew she had Alex. With a triumphant smile, she pulled her down into the blankets. Her lips found Alex’s jawline, trailing warm kisses that chased away the last of Alex’s irritation.

“I can’t stay mad at you, can I?” Alex murmured, her voice softening under Casey’s touch. Casey chuckled, well aware of the effect she had on her.

“Wouldn’t be wise to try,” Casey whispered with a playful grin. She kissed Alex deeply, her hands moving purposefully, each caress making Alex gasp, her body relaxing with every kiss. The argument faded into the background as Alex’s tension melted away. Soon, she lay limp and satisfied in Casey’s arms, a content smile on her lips.

As Casey began to drift back to sleep, Alex’s voice broke the silence, teasing but gentle. “Still waiting on that breakfast... and I hope you saved some energy.”

Casey cracked an eye open, a smile tugging at her lips. “For breakfast?”

Alex grinned. “For putting every one of those books back where they belong.”

[mushynka]

This story is intended for mature audiences (18+). Please note that English is not my first language, so there might be some language errors or awkward phrasing in the text sometimes. Feel free to correct me in the comments. I am still learning english so pls. try not to make too much fun out of me. Additionally, this story may not strictly follow the events as depicted in Marvel films or comics and contains creative deviations. I kindly ask that you do not copy or redistribute my work without permission. Yes. I know it's cringe lmao. Enjoy anyway!

𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦: 𝘚𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘶𝘻𝘻𝘺 𝘙𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴: 𝘓𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵 𝘹 𝘍𝘦𝘮. 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 * 𝘍𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘓𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘪𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵 (𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘰)

Logan grumbled as he rifled through the dresser drawers, the absence of a single clean sock taunting him. The once-sizable stash had dwindled down to nothing but empty fabric and lint. The problem was that laundry had somehow become an occasional activity—one he only ever thought about whenever he was completely out of clean clothes. And tonight, with a dinner he didn't even want to go to, he found himself in a small predicament.

He shot a quick look at the bathroom door, slightly ajar, where you had your usual mountain of colorful socks scattered around. They were yours, of course, and didn’t exactly scream “Pick us, Logan!”—there was the orange pair with tiny foxes, a light green set with smiling avocados, and, right in the front, a fluffy pink pair with large white polka dots.

With a quick, mischievous grin, he grabbed the pink polka-dotted pair and tugged them on. Soft and fuzzy, they were surprisingly warm and soft, tickling his feet a bit. He chuckled to himself, picturing how you’d probably roll your eyes if you'll saw him in these. But it was a harmless little act of rebellion. No one at this dinner was going to see his socks, anyway.

After all, Logan had no plans of showing up sock-less just to prove a point. Not that this dinner was high on his list of favorite ways to spend an evening: in fact, he’d tried to dodge it altogether. But you gived him that look—the one that softened his iron resolve like butter under a warm sun. And so, he’d reluctantly agreed to join you and your friends.

“Logan?” Your voice pulled him out of his thoughts. You were standing in the doorway, dressed in that emerald green top he loved. The color made your eyes shine, and you looked… perfect. The kind of perfect that made his heart clench a little every time.

“Almost ready,” he muttered, pulling on his jeans and a casual shirt that had somehow passed your inspection earlier. But as you looked him over, a smile tugged at your lips.

“Nice and sharp. You sure you’re feeling alright?” you teased, knowing how rare it was for him to even consider being "presentable".

He scoffed. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he replied with just enough sarcasm to make you laugh. And for a brief moment, you reached up, pulling him into a quick, warm kiss that left him feeling a little less grumpy.

When you two finally arrived at the place where your friends were hosting dinner, Logan was a little surprised by how friendly everyone was. They greeted you with hugs and smiles, clearly thrilled to see Logan. He mostly hung back, content to observe. The conversation flowed easily, though the mention of certain cultural quirks started to make him just a bit uneasy.

“Over here, we like to keep our shoes by the door,” your friend, Sofia, mentioned casually, pointing at the line of shoes neatly placed by the entrance.

Logan’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his gaze dropping to his feet. He’d left the comfort of his own home wearing socks that looked like a child’s fuzzy teddy bear collection. He glanced up pleading silently, but you were too busy with your friends and their newborn to notice.

His options dwindling by the second, Logan reluctantly tugged off his boots, revealing the soft, pink fuzziness for all to see. Sofia, stopped in her tracks, raising an eyebrow as she took in the sight of the man—big, tough, battle-hardened Logan—now standing in those pink, fluffy socks. Sofia’s husband tried to keep a straight face, but it was clear from the way their eyes met that they were both barely holding back laughter.

“Logan,” Sofia said, with feigned seriousness, “those are… quite the socks. I really like your approach to fashion.”

Logan grumbled under his breath, trying to ignore the teasing. "Yeah, well, they're comfy," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and attempting to look as tough as possible, even while wearing the most ridiculous socks imaginable.

Sofia smirked but decided to be kind. “Don’t worry, Logan. We’re all friends here. No judgment.”

But Logan could tell that everyone was trying hard not to laugh, and the whole situation was starting to get on his nerves. He shifted uncomfortably, but then he felt a gentle touch on his arm.

It was you. You leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, voice soft but reassuring. “You look great."

Logan's eyes softened as he turned to face you. The teasing from your friends wasn’t so bad, especially with you by his side.

“You really think so?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the gruffness melting away for just a moment.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind ear. “I know so. Besides, I think they suit you,” you teased, reaching down to lightly tug at the top of the pink socks. “You’re the only man I know who could pull off pink polka-dots and still look... well, like Logan.”

Logan smirked at that, his usual tough exterior softening just a bit. “Yeah, well, maybe next time I’ll wear something even more ridiculous. Maybe rainbow-colored ones,” he said, raising an eyebrow playfully.

As dinner went on, Logan found himself actually enjoying the evening. Your friends were kind and welcoming, and despite their playful jabs about his socks, he could tell they liked him. Even Sofia, who had started the teasing, couldn’t help but offer a few compliments as the night wore on.

“Well, this has been fun,” Sofia said, giving Logan an apologetic smile. “And, seriously, those socks were the highlight of my night.”

Logan chuckled, feeling the tension finally slip away. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied, earning a laugh from the group.

As everyone said their goodbyes, Logan felt a tug on his arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” you said. “I think we both deserve a quiet night.”

Logan nodded, his heart light. “You’re right. Let’s go home.”

As you stepped out into the cool night air, Logan glanced down at his pink socks again perking shyly from his leather shoes. This time, instead of feeling embarrassed, he simply smiled.

“You know,” he said as you two walked hand in hand, “I might just keep these socks. They’ve got a certain... charm.”

You laughed softly, squeezing his hand.

“You think I could wear these with hello kitty next time...?”

This fic was created thanks to this meme:

(Tell me it's not giving Logan vibe, I dare you)

God bless the memes ❤️

[latibvles]

THE TASTE THAT YOUR LIPS ALLOW.

this week on longform ficwriting that nobody asked for — june & benny first kiss that has been rotating in my head like a rotisserie chicken for the past few months. a special thanks to @flipfloplogic & @upontherisers for lending me two lovely girls who get some name drops in this (Missy Campbell and Henrietta Hobbs, namely)! No warnings for this one besides yanno, June being dramatic as per usual.

[ Read it here on AO3! ]

The lipstick’s out in the hut tonight.

Fern’s singing, so it’s a given. They flew a practice mission today while the other three squads flew over the channel — she went right to the Red Cross girls to ask about hair rollers after the fact. Her hair’s long enough for that now, and she was brimming with excitement about the prospect of “dolling herself up.”

As usual, the beds are alight with conversation.

“And you all better be on your feet,” Fern declares from her spot by the mirror, near the door. “Or I’ll never forgive you for it.” She’s dappling rouge onto her cheeks, soft and subtle enough to get past uniform regulation.

“Yes ma’am,” Missy Campbell, one of Rivera’s girls, affirms from her spot on Jo’s bed, where she’d been showing Jo a letter she’d gotten from her husband down in… Australia? Something like that.

“Oh I know you got me, Soup,” Fern hums, June can practically hear the wink that accompanies the affirmation. “I’m talking to that little rain cloud in the corner over there.”

June lifts her hand, and gives Fern the bird from her spot laid out on her bed, staring up at the curved ceiling. Fern giggles still, and June feels her cheeks burning.

“Come on, Juney,” she pleads in that sing-song tone that she so often uses to get whatever she wants, whenever she wants. June’s resolved to not give in this time. Instead she scoffs, rolling her eyes from her spot and letting her hand fall unceremoniously onto her stomach.

“Hm. No. I could say it in Polish if you want.”

“Nie, right?”

“Well somebody better call the General, Sergeant Carmine’s trilingual!” June announces sarcastically, raising her hand in a faux-triumphant fist before letting it fall once more. That garners a laugh, although it might just be because of the ridiculousness of their current bickering.

“So mean,” Fern counters, more than likely faux-pouting in the mirror, which garners in a few scattered, quiet laughs.

“S’fine,” Lena hums. June can see her crossing the room to sidle up behind Fern, patting her shoulders. “Just send DeMarco after her. She’ll sing a different tune then.”

June’s head snaps up.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” She asks — or rather, demands — her voice raising in pitch. She can see Lena’s smile in the mirror’s reflection, watches her shrug her shoulders and June has to fight every urge to cross the threshold and shake the woman around until she fesses up her secrets. As if Lena can sense June’s current urges, her grin only grows infuriatingly wide.

“You just seem to be spending a lot of time together is all,” Lena hums, but June scowls.

“We do not.”

“Very convincing,” Lena counters, “It’s like he’s got Meatball on a leash and you’ve got him on a leash. Making sure he doesn’t wander off or something. Like he’s gonna get lost and wind up in France.” June hates that it’s a good joke. There’s another round of laughter from the other girls, she even sees Willie in her corner of the hut running a hand over her mouth, trying to maintain a level of composure. June has half a mind to shove her head beneath her pillow and call it an early night. She doesn’t though. She rolls her eyes, standing up and crossing over to swat at Lena’s head. Lena ducks out of it and grins, sticking her tongue out.

“Missed me.”

“I was doing you a favor. Trying to knock your goddamn screws back into place.” June declares, cheeks burning as she glowers at Lena, who’s unsurprisingly all smiles.

“If you two mess me up, I’ll tell Benny you’ve both got the hots for him and started a cat-fight in the barracks over it,” Fern declares as she sweeps a brush over her upper lashes, drawing attention to the vibrant green of her eyes as she paints her eyelashes black. Lena takes a couple steps back, hands in the air in mock surrender. She's still snickering and June thinks her head might just light on fire.

"He's all yours, Junebug," she offers, and June scoffs, throwing her hands up in the air before making her way out of the hut into the waning twilight. Sometimes the clouds break and make for a half-decent sunset out here — orange and purple broken up by chunks of white clouds and wispy chem-trails.

A few feet off, she hears a dog barking, and elects to ignore the beat of butterfly wings once again making themselves present in the pit of her stomach.

—

It isn't that she has a problem with liking Benny DeMarco.

Okay, that's not exactly the truth, either. She does have a problem with it. Mostly that she doesn't want to like him — didn't want to before, but for some reason he wasn't deterred by her habit of snapping at whatever and whoever inconvenienced her in a day. It made him a good friend, and presumably, a great pilot to his boys. That patience of his that has him dragging her to the nurse's station after dark to tend to her torn knuckles. That keeps him from being mad at her when she does something admittedly dumb.

She knows that she is, innately, hard to swallow. And while June isn't especially ashamed of that fact, she also knows that there are easier girls to be around — even in the influx of female crews coming to replace the ones lost. Nice, pretty girls, who he doesn't have to scruff like a stray kitten trying to take out someone's eyes.

So maybe it's not a problem with liking Benny DeMarco, and more like a problem with the nearly-impossible chance that he could like her, too. There's a war on, which is much more pressing than whatever inconveniences she could thrust upon him. And either way: he never would, a fact that has her stomach twisting in a knot in a weird mix of rejection and relief.

"Juuuuuuuney," Harrie's waving in her face, pulling her from her thoughts. She's sat between Jo on her left and Henry on her right. Across from her, Harrie's looking at her puzzled, with Carrie right next to her and an open seat right next to the younger girl. "You hear a thing I jus' said?"

June clears her throat, looks down at her beer.

"Repeat?"

Harrie smiles, seemingly unbothered by June's poor listening skills.

"Cap's birthday's next month, s'what I was sayin'. Wanna know what t'get 'er."

"We still do birthdays?"

"I'm still doin' birthdays," Harrie declares, tilting her nose up proudly into the stuffy air of the O-Club. "We did your birthday. N' we did Fern's in Iowa," she points out. Harrie casts a look across at Fern, who's talking to the conductor over by the band with her megawatt smile, made impossibly brighter by her red-painted lips. She claps and bounces on her feet, which is how June knows she's got her way again.

"So what're you gonna get her?" June asks, resting her fist on her cheek.

"I was thinkin' maybe a nice scarf or somethin'. Could ask my mama to knit it. Gets cold up here 'round fall," she explains, and June's listening, but she's also taking in the space around them. Lorraine and Lena are over by the bar, shoulder-to-shoulder. Willie's by the Bucks. Inez is listening to some conversation Croz and Payne are having that she can't hear from over here.

No Benny yet. She elects to ignore the urge to get up and go sniff him out, not wanting to give anyone at the table ammunition.

"Dunno what I'll get her. I'll sign the card, though," June leans back in her seat. Over on the other end of the room, Fern giggles into the mic and greets everyone with her signature: You all miss me?

Scattered clapping, a couple loud whistles and a Hey Fernie! from Dougie, somewhere else in the room. June feels a hand on her shoulder, and nearly jumps three feet in the air. She whips her head around, tilts it up.

Benny smiles down at her apologetically. There's a stray curl brushing his forehead, falling out of place.

"Didn't mean to scare you," he offers as the other girls start getting up, understanding the assignment given to them back in the huts.

"You didn't scare me," June huffs. "Just… surprised me." She feels warm again. Can see Lena's traitorous grin and Fern's half-baked threat about telling Benny she's got "the hots" for him.

"Alright. Didn't mean to surprise you then," Benny corrects. She thinks he'll make a move to sit, but he doesn't as the music kicks up again and Fern starts singing; loud and proud and melodic in a way that Bucky knows he's not. She recognizes the song, too — Harry James, Helen Forrest, she'd heard it a couple times stateside. His hand is still on her shoulder, a paperweight pressing her into her spot.

She thinks, briefly, that if he retracts it she might melt into the floor. It's a thought that bruises her ego, if nothing else.

Benny looks like he's debating something before he says it, hand moving to run through his hair instead of ensuring she doesn't run from him. The strand just flops back onto his forehead defiantly.

"Dance with me."

June pulls a face.

"Get turned down by a Red Cross Girl or something?" she asks, brows furrowing. Benny puts his hand over his chest, still smiling even as he feigns hurt.

"Low blows, Juney. You mad at me?"

"No," she counters, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "Just think you got options, is all." Easier ones, at that. Benny shrugs, lips pulling into a contemplative pout, nodding slowly.

"Maybe," he counters. "But I'm askin' you," he then casts a look towards Fern, over by the band. "And maybe saving your skin." June snorts at that, rolling her eyes.

"My hero," she chuckles a bit, looking down at the floor for a moment before meeting his warm, dark eyes once again.

"Yeah well, I'll be here all night." Benny grins, teasing, and offers his hand to her. She stares at it for a long second — a couple torn callouses on his palms. She's been yanked along by him enough times to know they're warm, rough. She tries not to shudder at the idea of those hands pressed into the small of her back.

She sighs, and takes it.

"Thanks for sparing my feelings," Benny teases again, half-tugging her towards the floor where people are already dancing.

"Sparing your feelings would be declining." June lets him tug her towards him, her hand finding his shoulder to steady herself. "The real victim here is gonna be your toes."

"I can forgive it," he offers of her. His hand is warm on the small of her back. June glances down at their feet, self-conscious in a way that's foreign to her. His thumb traces a small circle where it presses against her uniform. "I've gotcha though. Think I'm a halfway decent lead."

"You think?"

"I've got three sisters and a ma who all like dancing and I think at least one of them would tell me if I was bad by this point."

She laughs at that, looking up at him instead of fixing her gaze on the floor. He's laughing with her, breathy and still managing to crease the corners of his eyes.

"Well I'm trusting you, then." She offers and elects to ignore the weight of a sentence like that.

Benny nods, moving with her around the floor, and she tries to keep looking at him to ignore the feeling that she's being watched in some regard. Like there's something to laugh at right now. She preferred being the center of attention when it came to her crew's flying, not so much her own shortcomings. Benny spins her and is grinning like a madman when she settles back in his arms, wondering if he grew a second head.

"Your brothers never teach you?"

"And give boys another excuse to talk to me? Hell no. Think my dad would throw a fit," she admits after she gets her bearings once more. Benny chuckles at that, nodding slowly.

"And what would they think of it if they were here now?"

Why are you asking me that?

"Piotr would be whisking me away and Antoni would be taking you out back to have a word." It's an immediate response, one that has Benny whistling low and has his brows raising, slightly nudging that hair that she can't stop staring at.

"I'll keep that in mind when I visit."

"When you visit?" June fixes him with an odd look, but he just smiles. She thinks, briefly, about how Meatball stares up at the two of them sometimes — mouth open in a pant, tail wagging without a worry in the world.

"Well if I'm allowed that is. You banning me from the residence, Juney?"

"You don't even have my address."

"Well can I have it?" June blanches at him. She can't really tell if he's kidding or not when he asks that. He spins her again, a little slower, like he's giving her time to think about it without him staring at her. June sighs, reaches up to tuck that stray, defiant hair back into place, and rolls her eyes.

"You're ridiculous." She can feel her cheeks burning, and Benny chuckles.

"That wasn't a no." He points out, and he's right. No, it wasn't. But if she thinks too long about the idea of him showing up on her apartment building's front stoop in his dress uniform, she'll wrench herself out of his hold right now and run for the hills before she does something stupid.

"My mother likes violets," she says instead, tilting her nose up. He nods again.

"Hope that keeps me from getting thrown out on my ass, then."

"No promises," June declares.

And there it is again, butterflies in the pit of her stomach. She wonders if he can feel the sweat forming on her palms, which leads into her wondering if he's disgusted by the warm dampness of it.

When the fuck has she ever cared so much about what a person thinks of her?

The song ends and another begins, this one much slower in nature. For a moment, June's breath hitches, and she swallows hard, feeling shy for once.

"I can go sit if you— if you wanna sit this one out," she points out, feeling obligated to give him that chance to maybe get another girl on the floor. Benny's smile turns almost shy. His hand presses a little firmer into her back, the other giving hers a squeeze.

"Do you want to?" She hates when he asks that, bouncing the ball back into her court and leaving her to make the decision. Because her brain's telling her yes, I want to, this is getting ridiculous, but that stupid desire to be near him is screaming no, no, no.

So maybe Lena's had it wrong the whole time — Benny's the one who's been holding the leash, and she's the dog that might just wander into occupied France if he doesn't tug it with stupid, unassuming questions like this.

"I… don't know," June answers, feeling dumb. He smiles, arm looping around to rest on her hip, pressing her closer to him and leading them in a sway. He leans forward and she feels like she might light on fire with his lips so close to her ear.

"I'll let you figure it out then. Feel free to run whenever you want."

Whenever I want, June parrots internally, ruefully. Sure, Benny, you're really making a great case for me running for the goddamn hills.

He's so warm like this, solid beneath her hand on his shoulder. June wonders if he can feel the powerful hammering of her pulse in her wrist, if he heard it when he lent down to mutter in her ear near that spot by her neck. Fern's still singing, low, smooth and sweet, a proper showgirl if there ever was one. It makes her want to hide, press her face into the crook of Benny's tanned neck and pretend that they're not here.

A dance hall in Chicago would be nice. One of the ones her friends from high school would drag her to begrudgingly — she never liked going to them, because she was no good at this. And she didn't want to give anyone an excuse to laugh at her.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" he asks after a beat of quiet between them.

"First he wants to know my address and now he wants to read my mind. Anyone ever tell you that you're nosy?" June asks, just to feel that rumble of laughter against her.

"Mostly my sisters," he admits.

"Well they're right. And I was thinking of, uh, high school."

"Yeah? What about it?" June swallows, wondering how much she could share before she ends up as the butt of a joke.

"I used to hate dances. But I don't anymore. That's all."

He hums in that pensive, thoughtful way he always does when she says something that's more loaded than she means for it to be. Putting a little bit of space between them, he looks her over, and June tries not to squirm beneath his gaze. His lips part on a sentence she doesn't get to hear before the shrill sound of someone whistling pierces the room.

"C'mon everybody! Race in the Mess Hall!" she doesn't know who said it, but Benny tilts his head before letting go — not entirely, because he takes her hand in a familiar way and tugs along as people start flooding out of the O-Club. June makes a noise of protest, halfway between a whine and a shout of his name as they follow the flood of people.

"Didn't you eat dust last time?" June points out as the guys who have bikes start tugging them along towards the mess, from where they were lined up outside the club. Benny gives her a wide set grin, tugging her with one hand and his bike by the handles with the other.

"I did not, we had that bomb raid before we could call it. Have a little faith in me Juney," he counters, insistent as they stop in front of the mess. He pauses, swathed in the warm glow of the light from inside. It makes his hair look so much darker, his skin even more warm than before. His smile is blinding, the only thing between them being the bike handles. "Do I get a kiss for good luck?"

"What?"

"Benny! You in or what?" Benny looks into the room, then back at her. He hesitates, then walks into the room, still giving her that smile before he goes.

June feels like she's just been knocked in the chest, had all the oxygen siphoned from her lungs. Dizzy, she leans up against the entryway, watching all the guys shouldering and nudging at each other from their bikes, and her knees feel shaky. Her hands curl into fists.

He wasn't serious, she scolds herself, trying to shake it off. No way he was being serious.

And yet her feet can't move those couple steps to walk fully into the room — forcing people and, on occasion, their dates, to squeeze past her. She can't see him past so many people with dark hair and uniforms, and she doesn't even know if she wants to. What if he looks at her and she really does fizzle into dust, right there in the middle of their makeshift bike track?

She can't. She can't do any of it. She's stumbling back, until her feet hit the grass, and then she's standing there with cool summer wind piercing her clothes. It doesn't do much in way of cooling down her pinkened cheeks, but oxygen fills her lungs good and proper again as she turns her back to the door, hugging herself.

Her heart is still pounding, like it had when they danced, and when he'd touched her shoulder, and—

June could come up with an alphabetized list of all the times Benny DeMarco's made her heart race. She wishes it was something she could indulge happily, but really, it just makes her feel mad and dumb like a little kid with a school crush. Like he knows it and does it all on purpose to rile her.

She shuts her eyes, lets the wind brush against her face like it had a month ago when she'd laid in the grass and he'd watched over her to make sure "no other jokers let their dogs off the leash." The thought makes her squeeze herself tighter, like she could force the memory from her brain.

But she can't. He's embedded himself there.

June feels like she's been waiting there forever, but it's only maybe twenty minutes before the night swells again with laughter, people cheering and bemoaning losses, and of course—

"June! Hey, thought you went to—"

She's walking off before he can finish the sentence, towards the gravel road and down it, hoping that maybe Bucky's decided to go for a drunken nighttime drive and will run her over with a jeep. No such luck, the roads are empty and he can hear Benny behind her still.

"June? Slow down, would you?" Benny asks, and she feels the tips of his fingers brush her shoulder before she's turning around and trying to glare.

More hair brushing his forehead, expression so clearly puzzled.

"Your joke's not funny," June declares with a huff. His brows furrow.

"My… joke? What are you talking about?" June points an accusatory finger at him, face burning as she pokes his chest and crowds him.

"Your- your joke! That whole… kiss for good luck, visiting me stateside thing? It's not funny. It's mean!" She's thankful that they've moved far enough away that no one can pay much mind to her words, or her actions. "Did Lena put you up to it? Or was it- was it one of the Red Cross girls? Since it's so damn obvious, right? I'm just—"

"June, what are you talking about?!" Benny hasn't moved her finger from where it pokes at his chest, over his pilot's wings. The metal is cold against her finger tip, a sharp contrast from the warmth of him. She swallows hard.

"That I— That I like being around you! That I like you! It's all just a joke to you, right? That's why you asked that before that stupid bike race!"

"It wasn't a joke!"

Silence between them, heavy and only broken up by the distant murmurings of others. She stares at him, wide-eyed and flushed, finger still pressing into his wings. She feels like she's just run a marathon around the whole of England — heart pounding in her chest, ribs aching, face burning. She wants to bury her head in the dirt.

"What?"

She doesn't have any time to process it before it's Benny's hands on either side of her face. It's Benny, pulling her forward. It's Benny pressing his lips to hers, firm and insistent and warm. He's so warm. His lips taste like whiskey, and they're soft, and her knees are going weak — hardly registering what's happening here beyond that urge to kiss him back, which she does. Eyes fluttering shut, trying to match the pace he's set — insistent and hungry, like he's trying to convince her of something right now.

It's working, she thinks, feeling dumb as she reaches up to card her fingers through messy dark waves, ruining them further.

They part once her lungs start aching, but he hasn't let go of her. His finger traces a line against her jaw, and she stares up at him dumbfounded.

"I wasn't joking," Benny repeats, and June's well of words has run dry in the wake of it. Like in kissing her he's just stolen coherent thought from her as well. "Jesus Christ, June, you really think I'd be that mean? To you?"

She can't tell if she's really hurt him with that or not. She assumes that she has, and she stares at him for a long moment.

"I-I'm sorry.It's just—" June's lips press into a line. "…I'm pessimistic," she starts out. "And… and I'm not patient, not like you. And I hate losing, bad. And I'm really bad at staying up late and I suck at dancing and being all romantic and all that stuff that girls are s'posed to be good at and—"

"June," Benny cuts her off again, thumb sweeping over her cheek. "Makin' it real hard for me to follow you here, honey."

Her stomach twists at the nickname. She wants to kiss him again.

"I'm giving you a warning," June breathes out. Benny chuckles, searing a kiss between her brows.

"Don't need one. I know what I'm getting into," he insists. "S'why I like you."

Benny's smiling like he's just said the best pickup line of all time. And it works, because June is tilting her head to kiss him again and taste the last bits of whiskey on his lips.

[luvcrs]

julia knew it was almost impossible to think her family would ever accept her relationship. it was either their way or the highway, something that had almost torn her and ashton apart. sometimes, julia felt like she could see her mother's resolve breaking but ultimately she was a scared woman. too afraid to defy her father in fear he'd make an ultimatum and take everything away. "so do i," julia whispered back, finally broken out of her reverie. she then voiced her inner thoughts. "i know my mother doesn't always agree with the way my father is. i can see it in her eyes. but she's so scared; i know how ruthless he is and he would probably threaten her." it made julia feel helpless. she had felt guilty for leaving, but she couldn't live another second under her father's thumb. ultimately, she'd had to do what was best for herself. as they kissed, julia knew this was where she was meant to be. she had her peace and that's all she could ever ask for. "i can't lie, i think seeing you challenge my dad is gonna do something to me. he needs to be knocked down a few pegs." she chuckled, pressing her forehead against ashton's. she could just stay there forever and truly get lost in the moment. unaccepting families be damned, they had each other. "yes, they've been a breath of fresh air for me." julia smiled as they walked back to the car. "of course," she answered without a second thought. she didn't have much longer left on her lease so it'd be simple to break it earlier. "you're stuck with me now."

julia felt her eyes light up as they stepped inside the store. she had spent her life being showered with the fancy jewellery but none of it held any meaning in the end. nothing like this. as they browsed the cabinets, she took note of the prices but didn't say anything as ashton didn't say anything about it either. still, it was a huge splurge and she couldn't help but feel some guilt until she stopped in front of one of the cabinets. "look, baby. that one." she pointed. it was simple, gold with a few tiny diamonds encrusted on top of it. but it was perfect.

ashton held on to the hope that they would be able to win over julia's family. they didn't want her to have to feel what they did when their family had disowned them, even if she was the one walking away from them. they knew they would never be the hot shot lawyer or doctor they wanted for her but what they could offer her was much more than job that held status. "i wish things were different," they whispered against her lips, "that they could see how happy you are, how important this relationship is to you." ashton knew it was no use, that they had to prepare for the worst, especially when they find out the two are married. as julia finished, ashton brought their lips back to hers, full of appreciation and love, kissing her passionately. no-one had ever stood up for them the way she did. "i can't stand by and let them talk down to you either, you know that, right? i'm not afraid of your dad. i'm going to stand up for you always. stand up for my wife," they whispered, their smile grow on their face the woman's new title. "who would have thought my family were going to be the easy side to deal with," they chuckled before pulling away. nodding, ashton took her hand and led her back to the car, "you think you'd move in with me?" they wanted to ask her if she'd be okay with daxton moving into her apartment to get them out of their pick-up and into a home but that was a question for later.

as they stepped through the doors of the jewellery store, ashton couldn't believe the size of the place. besides julia's parents home, this was by far the fanciest place they'd ever been inside. as they walked past the cabinets that held the rings, they were relieved they'd been saving up for this moment otherwise they'd be on the floor in cardiac arrest. their hand gripped julia's as they followed her in browsing. "any of these rings could blind anyone in the right light. what do you think? any that really speak to you?"