#and he doesn't know what my expectations are

[zepskies]

Headcanon: Flirting (And Jealousy)

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader, Russell Shaw x Reader

AN: This one was requested by one of my lovely Patreon members, @lacilou. And surprise! For the first time, I'm trying out adding Russell Shaw to the lineup because I thought he'd be an interesting addition for this prompt. 💜

Prompt: How would Dean, Ben & Beau react to either other men flirting with us or them obliviously/cluelessly letting other women flirt with them? And how we would react to them -- like how they'd make it up to us, their excuses, etc.

HC: How Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Russell Shaw would react to someone flirting with you. (And others flirting with them.)

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, oblivious flirting, unwanted advances, jealousy, some toxic masculinity (you know Ben 🙄), but ultimately lots of fluff, and some spice too.~

Dean Winchester

Dean isn't one to get jealous...at first.

He knows you're hot as hell. He pretty much expects guys to try and shoot their shot.

Plus, he's secure enough in his relationship with you to know you wouldn't consciously entertain someone who's flirting with you.

He also knows you're strong enough to take care of yourself, even with a persistent asshole.

However.

The second a man gets into your face or tries to put his hands on you, Dean's stepping in -- either to twist the man's arm nearly out of its socket, or deliver a swift punch between the eyes, or his personal favorite, grabbing the back of the guy's neck and slamming his face onto the counter.

Dean finds the sound of bone breaking against varnished wood, followed closely by the heavy tripping thud of a body to the floor, deeply satisfying.

You heave a sigh. Not because you're all that annoyed at Dean, but because you tried to warn the guy.

Now, Dean knows he used to be...well, a "ladies man," putting it mildly. He's improvised more panty-dropping one-liners than a Magic Mike stripper. His success rate is 9-and-10 (because there's always room for improvement).

He directs all that flirtatious, playful, sexual energy on you. He's fallen for you, committed to you, and once he makes a decision with his heart, Dean Winchester doesn't have an unfaithful bone in his body.

However.

He can't altogether stop women from flirting with him. Like at one of the many diners you, Sam, and Dean stop to eat at after a hunt.

"Let me know if you need anything else, okay?" the waitress says. She brushes her hand up his arm and squeezes his shoulder, giving Dean a too-bright smile that leaves nothing to the imagination (at least to you).

He smiles back at her. "Thanks, sweetheart."

It's like a reflex. He thinks he's being polite. He doesn't even follow the path of her hip-swaying walk with his eyes -- like he certainly would've before he met you.

You still stare at Dean incredulously. When the woman walks away, he smiles at you as if nothing happened. Sam wisely keeps to himself and sips his beer, hiding a smirk.

Dean notices the way your lips are pursed, bitchface activated. "What?" he asks.

You cross your arms. "Really?"

He frowns. "What's the matter?"

"Really. You need me to tell you not to let that woman eye-fucking you to put her hands all over you?" You shake your head. More dryly you add, "Right in front of me, too. I gotta give it to her, she's got brass balls."

Dean is bewildered, but then he replays the moment in his head and realizes that you're right. He kinda fucked up.

He sees the way you're getting all testy, and he has to chuckle.

"Okay. I'm sorry, sweetheart. My bad."

He reaches for your hand and manages to uncross your arms. You're stubborn in your irritation, but Dean is the king of persuasion, giving you teasing, flirty bedroom eyes and waggling brows as he pulls you towards him.

If you're still reluctant to soften, he adds, "Come on, don't be a sourpuss. Come 'ere."

Eventually he breaks you, making you laugh and hit his arm with no real force behind it.

Even Sam shakes his head, seeing how his brother manages to pacify you by sliding his arm around your shoulders across the booth. Dean leans in and kisses along your neck. He inhales your scent and hums in pleasure.

Sam clears his throat. He has to awkwardly look away.

"Gonna forgive me?" Dean asks, his lips moving against your skin. "Though I gotta admit, I kinda like it when you're jealous. All growly and fiesty. Got myself a little tiger."

You roll your eyes, but your lips tug at a smile. Your face warms in a blush, especially as his hand wanders under your jacket and teasingly up your side.

You slip your fingers into his hair, making sure to give a sharp little tug on it for good measure. He just laughs.

Oh, you'll forgive him, but maybe you'll make him do a little more penance when you all get back home.

Beau Arlen

Beau is a jealous man from the onset when a man flirts with you.

His lips purse, his jaw clicks, and he keeps a firm eye on the situation. He doesn't like it.

But to his credit, he tries not to act on it right away, letting you handle it the way you want to.

However, like Dean, the moment someone gets into your personal space or tries to touch you, he's pulling out some Sheriff moves.

If the man grabs at you, Beau's got his arm twisted behind his back so fast, he can almost feel ligaments popping. Beau gives a calm, but firm warning before sending the guy on his way. (He'd like to do more, but the department frowns on excessive violence.)

Maybe part of you gets annoyed at the show of jealousy, but a larger part of you can't help but be turned on when he protects you. You know it's not because he thinks you need protecting, but because he wants to.

"Can't help it, darlin'," he's said. "It's just how I was raised."

But you're the one that bristles when Danielle, a PTA mom at Emily's school, flirts with him. She laughs at his corny jokes with her white teeth and her perfectly layered and coiffed blonde hair.

She even gives him an extra cookie from her offering at the school's bake sale. (She knows what most of this town knows -- that the way to the Sheriff's heart is all too often through his stomach.)

Beau just nods along, smiling polite with that charming grin of his, totally oblivious while he eats. The last straw for you is when she wipes a bit of chocolate from the corner of his mouth.

Your mouth falls open in shock. "Are you shitting me?"

You accidentally say it out loud, earning not only your boyfriend's surprised look, but Danielle's guilty one as well. (And some of the kids.)

Blushing in embarrassment, you pivot on your heel and start packing up your supplies for the bake sale.

That's when Beau realizes that he fucked up.

He politely excuses himself from Danielle and goes to help you (wiping the crumbs off his face and licking chocolate off his thumb). He can tell you're feeling more than a little icy towards him, but he tries to make up for it by doing all the heavy lifting, bringing back things to the car, and helping you with the bags before he calls Emily over.

It's a long car ride home, awkward and tense. Emily can tell something's off between you and her dad, but when she asks about it, you claim nothing's wrong.

Beau knows better.

He waits until the three of you get home to the apartment you share with him, and after putting the bake sale stuff away, he follows you into the bedroom.

"Sweetheart--"

"What the hell was that, Beau?" You come in hot with it, and Beau is quick to try and ease your tension with an apology.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Couldn't you see that she was eyeing you like a honey-glazed ham?"

Beau's lips twitch at a grin, but you're not amused. You cross your arms and give him a warning look. That's when he wises up.

"Okay, you're right. I'm sorry." He chances taking a few slow steps towards you, raising his brows and keeping his hands up in surrender.

You eye him narrowly, but you let him get close enough to slip his arms around you. He gathers you against his chest and presses a lingering kiss to your cheek.

"I mean it. Won't happen again," he promises. His hands mold to the curve of your waist and squeeze gently. His lips move, burning a sweet path along your jawline, your chin, over the apple of your cheeks, and finally your lips. You breathe into it, and you can't help but cling to the front of his buttoned-down shirt.

"Do me a favor," you say quietly between kisses. "Don't eat Danielle's cookies."

Beau smiles against your lips. "Don't you worry, darlin'. From now on, I'll tell her that I've got some good cookie at home."

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Oh, Ben doesn't fuck around.

...Well, in the sense that he can't tolerate another man even looking at you flirtatiously, or otherwise with any kind of intent.

Depending on the severity, at best, it'll have Ben shooting the man a stony look of warning.

At worst, it ruins the day -- namely with the sound of bone snapping and a man's sobbing howl of pain.

You try to get him to tone it down ("For God's sake, Ben. It's fine. Just relax."), but this is one thing he well and truly doesn't budge on.

Ben is possessive. Because you're his. His to touch, and his to protect.

In his mind, it's fucking simple.

Whenever you get irritated with this brutish, knuckle-dragging, caveman mentality, you try to remember why he does it.

It's indicative of how much he actually cares about you.

Because if he didn't, he wouldn't really give a shit if other men were flirting with you. (He'd just find another woman to try and charm back to his apartment.)

So you've learned how to try and finesse these situations so that Ben doesn't notice.

You've also stopped letting down men easy, proverbially cutting off their dick and balls with your words.

Because it's quite literally to save their dumbass life.

But when other women flirt with Ben, he takes it all with indulgent smiles, throwing in a wink and a sweetheart every now and then.

He doesn't blame them for flirting with him, checking him out. He's Soldier Boy, after all, and in his mind, it's not his fault they can't help themselves around him.

However, a smile and a wink is all that he allows himself.

If he truly cares about you (and though he doesn't often express it in words, he does), then the unfamiliar twinge of guilt stops him whenever he almost accepts a woman's alluring invitation--spoken or unspoken.

His mouth might spew arrogance and gilded lies, but his actions too often betray what he really feels.

And what he really feels can't be any more clear than when he goes after you, instead of indulging the woman who basically undressed him with her eyes, whispered sultry, sexy offerings in his ear, and invited him to go home with her.

Seeing you take off out the double doors of the club, Ben rolls his eyes. He brushes the woman off without a backwards glance, and follows you out into the night air. He grabs your hand before you can get far in your heels.

"What the hell's the matter now?" he asks dryly.

You turn on him with an incredulous look.

"That woman was practically sucking your neck, Ben!"

"All right, don't fucking overreact. You're getting hysterical," he says, before guiding you back into his arms.

"I'm not fucking hysterical, you ass!" You push against his chest, but he doesn't budge, nor does he let you go. This isn't a good area, and he doesn't want you out in these streets at this time of night without him at your side.

"Ben," you say sharply. You look up at him in irritation, but he just smirks and strokes your side with his thumb.

Yes, (in his mind) you're being a little difficult, but he thinks your jealousy is amusing, adorable, and kind of hot all at the same time.

Ben doesn't bother with saying anything more to convince you. He just slips a hand behind your neck and kisses you soundly.

He invades your mouth with his tongue and devours you, reminding you that you're the one he wants.

He waylays you with his strong hands framing your body against his, and with his sinful mouth, until you finally melt into his embrace.

He's chosen you countless time before, and he knows he'll keep choosing you, for as long as this lasts.

Russell Shaw

Russell always clocks the "situation" right away when a man starts to flirt with you.

He's not one to make a scene of it at first, depending on the time and place.

But he is quick to sidle up to your side, pointedly slip a hand along your waist, and greet you with a deceptive smile.

"Hey, sweetheart. Let's grab that table over there. 'S more comfortable than the bar."

He glances up at the man, sharpness hidden well behind his green eyes. Whether the guy picks up on it or not, Russell is making a mugshot in his mind -- and he never forgets a face.

You eye him knowingly, but you let him guide you away. He's kind of cute when he's jealous, and it doesn't take much to spark that well of protectiveness that lies in wait just under his skin.

Russell isn't easily fazed by most things, but one sure way to provoke his temper (and those rougher, darker shades of him that he tries his best not to show you) is for a man to push his luck with you.

It really wouldn't take much effort at all for the former soldier to have a man clutching his bloody, shattered nose, let alone to dump his broken body in front of the closest hospital. But somehow, Russell manages to curb those darker urges. (Again, don't tempt him.)

But when another woman flirts with him, you're the one who starts to have steam coming out of your ears.

Russell doesn't miss much. He recognizes the sultry inflection in the woman's words. He catches the subtle, sensuous gleam in her eyes when she rakes him up and down with them.

He also notes the moment you look over and realize what's happening.

Regardless if you're looking or not, he tries his best to stay distant, but polite, even as a warning twinge of "aww shit" runs up his spine.

He tries to play things off with an amiable smile and being purposefully oblivious.

Until the woman gets bold, slipping her hand over Russell's and up his arm a bit, before she withdraws, tilting her head with a sweet-as-pie smile.

Cue Russ's awkward laugh/clearing of the throat. Before he has time to fully pull away and just come out with the, Sorry, I actually have a girlfriend -- you return to his side and pointedly grab his hand.

"Come on, honey, we'll be late," you say, giving him a tense smile.

The aww shit feeling is back, but Russell just nods and falls into step with you.

When you two have enough privacy to hash it out, you let him have it.

"What the hell was that?!"

Russell can't help but chuckle. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I tried to keep it classy, but that woman was persistent. Not that I blame her--"

"Oh, shut up." You roll your eyes (not that you really blame her either). Then you stare at your man in annoyance, crossing your arms. "I didn't see you trying all that hard to fend her off, huh, Romeo? If another man had touched me like that, you would've broken his fingers off, like a fucking caveman."

Russell's brows raise at the dig, but the way you're getting all testy is kind of cute (and also kinda hot).

"All right. You got me there," he says. He slips his arms around your waist and tries to soften you with a charming grin. "Come on, sweetheart. You know I'm not going anywhere."

"Do I?" you blurt out, before you have a chance to reign it back in.

Russell's contract jobs take him all over the country -- all over the world. Yes, he's on his way out, he claims. He wants to settle down with you, or so he says.

But you have no idea of knowing what he does when he's not with you.

All those days out on the road, crashing in skeevy motels, winding down at dive bars -- has he ever been tempted to "sample" the local fare? Has he ever...

Russell's amusement fades, sobering into a frown and a furrowing of his brows. He hums in disapproval. He doesn't like what he's seeing in your eyes: doubt, most of all.

"Hey," he says. It's a serious tone you don't often hear in his voice. He curls a finger under your chin and tilts your face up to meet his.

"I'm gonna need you to listen to me, and listen good," he says. You frown at that, but he brushes his thumb across your cheek, a small, but tender caress. "You and me, we've got something good. I know what that means. So you can believe me when I say, I'm in this. I'm right here, even when I'm not here."

And he smiles at you. "That make sense?"

Slowly, you start to smile too. "Not really," you laugh.

But it does. You know what he's trying to say, and...you believe him. Your fingers curl in the front of his shirt.

Tentatively, you lean up and press your lips to his; just a sweet, slow meeting.

Russell cups your cheek and leans in for a deeper taste, a deeper conviction of every word he just said.

I love you, is what it really means, even if he's not able to say that just yet.

AN: 😮‍💨 Well, there we go! lol I love me a protective man. 💜 Hope you enjoy this set of headcanons!

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[lunebulous]

Playing with your body in non-sexual ways

A.N: This is my first time writing fanfiction. Any feedback is very much appreciated. I hope you enjoy! I have no idea what tags to put here so, just trust me bro. cw: thigh worshipping (zayne), plus-size reader (rafayel).

Xavier

There wouldn’t be a lot of occasions where his caresses would be in a non sexual way - that's why he's known to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. But don't get me wrong, being sexual does not equal condescending or rough. Not for him. - well, sometimes. - It's just that if he focuses too long on your face when you’re sleeping soundly, or when you're admiring the lantern lights at another festival, he gets this sensation that he should own you once more, just to be sure you're his. 

So when he kisses, it's only to leave you wanting more of him.  So when he caresses your body, it's only to let himself know he's the one making your skin get goosebumps.  So when he embraces all of you in a tight hug, it’s only to feel like you’re finally real this time.  And when all of these inevitably turn into that feeling of ownership again, he frowns internally. Initially, he wishes that he was different and that he wouldn’t feel like this everytime he stops to think about you; But it's just so much love that it overflows from his heart, dripping right into the lowest part of his torso. When he realizes, he’s slowly kissing you against the wall again. He can’t help it, he's naturally drawn to you like a magnet. And that feeling gives place to a necessity, a craving that hurts so deliciously he gives up on being different. So when you gasp for air and tug at his hair to breathe a little, he just can’t understand why. Or how can you do this to him. He wants more. And more. And more. He needs it so bad he can’t help but pin your hands to the wall so he can kiss you longer, raveling in the way you squirm under him. After all, just because he can't help it, doesn't mean he's not enjoying every second of the fruits of his own possessiveness.

So he caresses you all the time - the problem is that it often turns into a primal need to own and to explore each cute face - each little sound - you make for him. He feels like a victim to his own desires. Poooor Xavier… (irony included).

Rafayel

Rafayel is completely enamoured by your hands, making sure to always kiss them whenever he gets the chance. When he doesn’t, he’s more than expected to caress them while you wait for food in a nice restaurant, or when you’re walking on the shore with him. He is the king of intertwining your hands all the time - never letting go even if for brief moments. He says his bodyguard should be aware of where he is at all times, and when you replied that having one of your hands busy would actually get in the way if danger arrives, he puffed his chest, saying something along the lines of “i’m lucky I have the best bodyguard that can fight 10 men with only one hand then!”. You sighed, giggling because of him. “You’re not actually expecting me to fight with 10 men without letting go of your hand, right?” “Well, I'm pretty sure that was on your job description when I hired you.”  “No it wasn’t.” “Now it is.”  --- He also kisses and grabs your stomach and love handles all the time, especially when lying down, like now. There were some times when it made you feel a little bit insecure, but he always buried his face on it with a big smile, hugging your waist. When you voiced your insecurity to him for the first time, he simply said: “Well, I never saw a painting of any muse that didn’t have enough body for me to drown in it. - he stares up at you intently, before looking at your stomach again. - In fact, it is the only scenario where drowning would be possible for me. - Now he’s getting a hold of your love handles. - And actually, i'd love it. Thank you, my muse!” Right before nuzzling his face on your belly again, giggling. You blush furiously, caressing his purple locks, but he’s too busy to see it.

Zayne

Zayne would always need a bit of a push to touch you like he wants to - and you know that. He’s slowly coming out of his shell and being more confident when it comes to being intimate with you, getting over his irrational fear of hurting you again. The ‘push’ he got today was seeing you come home after brunch with your friends, wearing a dark and muted red lipstick, blended on your lips so perfectly it reminded him of a vintage doll. He made a note to himself to compliment you later when you had your attention on him - because you were busy taking off your shoes, your coat and yapping about some BIG gossip you just found out. He listens attentively, putting two and two together with you as you happily stride towards him. 

You sit beside him on the couch and hug his arm, leaning on his shoulder. He places his hand between your thighs, trying not to pay too much attention to it - a task quite hard for him, as you were wearing light brown stockings that made your oh-so-loved thighs look even more bite-deserving; But he tries to shake the thought away. 

It doesn’t take long before you’re well-invested in the documentary he is watching, but the position is getting quite uncomfortable now, so you crawl between his legs and rest your back against his chest, both of you laying down on the chaise part of the couch. First he stares at you, finding adorable how you don’t hesitate before making yourself comfortable with him. He lays a chaste kiss on the crown of your head, making you snuggle against him even more, getting it just right like two puzzle pieces. And he swears to himself he’s a good man. He is not going to turn this into something more just because your ass grinded against him innocently, no, no. Breathe, you touch-starved man! 

But the same man now is fighting for his life to NOT look at your thighs, the stockings making them look so shiny for him, he couldn't help himself but imagine the shadows his fingers pressing onto your skin would look like. He imagined you in not-so-innocent lightings more than he’d ever admit, and as his thoughts stray away, he doesn’t notice how he’s been caressing your chest and collarbones for some time now, lightly using his fingertips to circle around your skin, as if memorizing each part of it. Then he's slowly directing his way to your neck, with four fingers on one side and his thumb on the other, going up and down with featherly touches as his eyes are glued to your legs, completely blank, admiring each curve going from the arch of your feet to your calves, and then to your thighs, stopping at the start of your tight skirt. Now he’s gripping your neck - just lightly pressing on it, your airflow is completely free. (for now). You can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside his mind, lying to yourself that feeling his firm hand around your neck is not making you want to rub your legs together, but you're already doing it a bit, discreetly, not knowing you’re being very thoroughly watched. As he’s breathing deeper to try to not get excited, you feel his hand slowly letting go of your neck and you whine inwardly at it. But then his hands hesitantly go higher, his slender fingers sliding across your chin to play with your lips as he remembered to compliment you. He opens his mouth to do it, but being so lost in thought he just stops. Staring at your legs with an empty gaze, completely out of it. God, they’d look so good around his cock. Fuck.  You look up, a bit surprised with his actions, slowly tilting your head to the side, looking at him. - the movement makes him get out of his trance, suddenly confused as to how his fingers got to your lips - but as if reading his mind, you part them, waiting. And then he gets it. The key to making himself touch you like he wants to is just to - not think. It makes sense, it's a part of him he never let himself explore. He then lets himself do what he wants, sliding his middle and index finger on your tongue, experimenting. As you close your lips around them, looking at him so puppy-eyed, he can't help but smirk as realizing he could get used to this very quickly. You start feeling him growing against your ass now.

He presses down on your tongue, smiling. “You look so beautiful wearing this color, love.”

So, Zayne doesn’t play with any part of your body - because as soon as he does it, he gets a problem under his trousers. And now that he knows how to let go of control, - you got one too.

Sylus

Sylus wouldn’t be the type of man to touch you without being full-on intentional with it. The same amount of hate he has towards ‘quickies’, he has for the idea of touching your most sensitive parts without being completely devoted to them. So when playing with you, it is usually filled with admiration and love, silently appreciating your presence by his side. That’s why you often find him mindlessly braiding your hair as you lay your head on his lap to watch a movie, or how he gently runs his fingernails - once claws - on your calf under the table when he’s discussing his next moves with the twins. Yeah, sometimes his hands wander a little bit higher, a little bit firmer, but always looking at you to watch your reaction; as if to just - test the waters, tease you to see your ears turn red.. or warm you up for what’s coming next.

[cheshirewrites]

It's been years since you fought the dragon, years since you pierced it's crimson scaled and dug your blade into its heart. It was a quick death, and not the slow, painful kind that the King had demanded of you, and some might have even called it merciful.

You fought a lot of things, back then.

You've learned better now.

You left the King's service, citing a quest for your godly patron, and it's not quite a lie. Your patrol is a wild thing, a once scorned Goddess who adores the loyal, but not like most would expect. The Goddess prizes dedication to someone's own ideals, and well-

After what you learned, leaving is not a hard choice to make.

But your Goddess approved, her laughter curling in the back of your mind, and the King hadn't argued, or at the very least, he doesn't make any arguments that aren't easy for you to refute.

It wasn't easy, at first, transitioning from a busy knight to an aimless wanderer. There was no order or schedule to follow, just an endless road through the contry side and all of the towns built around it. And the people, of course, you know now that the people were what made it all worth it.

And now?

It's been years since you fought the dragon, years since you heard those ominous words. I will come back, the beast had said, you will not know what form I will take, or how long it will take, but you will see me again.

These days, you were less rash, slower to anger. The kind of person who asked questions first, and rarely ever raised a blade. You have a wife, a brilliant alchemist with dark curls and a cutting smile. Rose calls herself a cottage witch, and she laughs alongside the Goddess in your head, twin voices ringing with amusement, and you have never been more happy.

You have a son now, too, though, neither of you had expected it.

The boy introduces himself as Victor, standing outside your door with a crooked, toothy grin as he holds out his hand. Says that he'd heard they were the people to talk to, if you had a certain aptitude for magic, and well, here he is.

And indeed, here he is.

Victor, with his fever bright, golden eyes.

The you from years ago would have raised your sword in an instant, pushed Rose behind you and demanded some kind of response. It's what you were trained to do, after all, but you've learned better now.

So you smile, and shake the boy's hand. He's warm, you think, but don't say. "Welcome," you say instead, "why don't you come inside? Rose, my wife, is the one you should speak to."

To put it lightly, Victor and Rose get along like a house on fire.

Victor isn't necessarily quick to anger, but he knows exactly where to redirect his words, and Rose, witty as she is, knows exactly how to manage it. Knows how to redirect his sharp tongue into something calmer, whether it's muttering curses under his breath or bantering back and forth far too quickly for you to keep up.

He's good for her, too, you think, watching them experiment with magic. Rose has always wanted an apprentice, someone to pass her life's work onto and -- if they were interested -- try and create something new.

And gods, they create.

You, a heroic paladin have successfully slain a fearsome dragon. But the dragon warns you that death is but a door, and dragons don’t die, they reincarnate. You paid it no mind….until your son was born with golden, slitted eyes.

[toaster-fire-art]

I've offically come full circle a decade later since I'm back hyperfixating on the Arthurian legend distracting myself from everything and listening to the same music as my 14 year old self was. But hey at least I have the confidence in drawing them now.

I love them so so dearly I'm going just a little insane, I'm sorry to everyone who doesn't know me beyond my usual fandoms, you have to put up with what rearranged my brain chemistry when I was a kid.

This started as just a few of the knights, Lancelot, Gawaine, and Galahad and then it became: "Oh but then I should draw __" and here we are. My designs are all over the place and I cannot be bothered to actually draw armor I'll die i just want to draw pretty patterns. But I think the mismatch of clothing styles and all that makes it cohesive?

And I'm going with Malroy and T.H White influence as it's what I know best, that being said all the boys have their coat of arms alluded to in some way but you might have to squint.

(my laptop absolutely hates me for this one. imagine exporting a file and then having to manipulate the sizing 3 times for it to even be able to upload anywhere, couldn't be me. I don't even know how to show the full thing..)

[demonic0angel]

(With Dani as pup) The rumor mill that hood has a kid with wolf 'WILL' get back to the other bats! How do you expect that to go down?

Part 1

Nightwing screeched, "WHAT??!"

Robin and Spoiler nodded in agreement. "Right!" Spoiler said, "How come he never told us that he had a kid?!"

Robin added, "I was listening to the rumors, and supposedly, he only recently found out that he had a daughter. The mother, Wolf, only sought him out now but she knew him before. Something must be afoot!"

"Do you think it was when he was fifteen...? And since he was missing awhile, she wasn't able to find him until now?" Spoiler asked, unsure.

Red Robin, who had been frantically clicking on his tablet and looking for more information, then said, "His daughter is named Pup, but since she's wearing a helmet, no one knows what her face looks like. None of us have met her, so we can't determine her age either, but judging by her height in comparison to her parents, she must be young."

Spoiler let out a breath. This was basically confirmation of what they knew. "Oooh, this is bad! B doesn't know! And if he finds out... Jason is gonna kill us!"

Nightwing groaned and clutched at his hair. "Oh no... Little Wing... he's already a dad?! I need to get to Gotham right now! And meet my niece!"

They all boggled at him. "Excuse you?! Neither of us have met our niece either! Why do you get to meet her first?!"

Nightwing gave them a glare through the screen and shouted, "Give me 30 minutes! I'm racing over!"

"How?!" Robin cried. "Blüdhaven is 2 hours away!"

"Watch me!!" And then the call disconnected.

The three looked at each other in silence and then bolted out of the Cave, piling into the Batmobile with Red Robin driving.

Like hell they were letting their big brother see their little niece first!!

[charmedimsure]

Think Differently

pairing: Thanos/Choi Su-bong x f!reader

word count: 470

A/N: a short one today. trying my hand at writing thanos. i also just think it's really funny that he can't remember nam-gyu's name. if you find any mistakes no you didn't <3

Thanos' eyes scan through the crowd. He already has Gyeong-su and Nam-su, or whatever his name is. Now he just needs two more.

He smiles once he sees you standing alone, looking at the people around you. Thanos can tell you don't have a team yet, and he's more than willing to add a pretty face to his own. He makes a beeline toward you, the two boys behind him trying not to get lost in the crowd as they follow.

"Señorita, excuse me."

You turn around, not expecting to see the loud, purple-haired man smirking at you from between his posse.

"Let's play the game together."

You cock an eyebrow at him. "Do I know you?"

"You don't know him?!" Gyeong-su asks incredulously. "He's Thanos, the rapper. I'm gonna kill half of humanity with my raps."

Thanos watches as your lip quirks in amusement before covering your mouth with your hand, pretending to itch your nose.

Nam-su grabs his shoulder. "Hang on, a girl? We don't know what the game is."

Without a word, Thanos pushes Nam-su off him, still looking right at you. "I, Thanos the great, will protect you."

This time, you don't hold back your laugh. "Thanos?" The man gives you a cocky nod. "Where are the infinity stones?"

"Right here, baby," he holds his hand up to his face. You give an amused smile at his rainbow colored nail polish, each the color of an infinity stone. "I'm going to destroy anyone who gets in my way."

You take a step closer to him, mirroring his smirk. "Like how that man destroyed you and your little friend here yesterday?"

The smirk falls from Thanos' face. For once, he doesn't know what to say. He just stares at you, mouth slightly open.

Nam-su takes a step past Thanos. "You fucking bitch."

"Nam-su, stop," Thanos commands, putting an arm out to stop the boy.

The boy sighs. "Nam-gyu." Still, he listens and takes his previous place behind the rapper.

Ignoring Nam-su, Thanos smiles, bringing his hand in front of his face and pointing at you. "You have quite the mouth on you. I like that." He smirks to himself, thinking of what else that mouth could be used for. "What do you say? Join my team? Thanos will keep you safe."

You raise your eyebrows, a whisper of a smirk still on your face. "Is your team going to win? I don't play on losing teams."

"We'll win no problem," Thanos says confidently, feeling giddy inside when he sees a small smile form on your face.

"Then alright," you say. You take a step closer to whisper in his ear. "But if we lose, I'll kill you before the pink ones get a chance."

Thanos feels a shiver run down his spine. Oh yeah, he likes you.

[rhube]

Gavin doesn't smoke! No one smokes in DBH! They have envisioned a future where society has moved past this deadly and unnecessary habit! Why the fuck are ppl reintroducing it?? It's such a rubbish shorthand for Bad Boy. You don't need smoke breaks for people to go outside and talk! This is a trope that hasn't even been common on TV for 30 years! What are you doing?? Stop it! You know that would make his mouth taste bad to kiss, right?

There is also no suggestion that he engages in any kind of substance abuse - not alcohol, not smoking, not drugs, not even coffee! He's just about the healthiest-looking human in the game. He had the body of a gym-rat. My man is STACKED. That is a man who watches his diet! Counts his protein! He cares what goes into his body! You see him request ONE cup of coffee, and he doesn't even drink it!

AND WHILST WE'RE HERE, there is fuck all evidence that he is in any way related to Elijah Kamski. Sure, they are played by the same voice actor. A very skilled voice actor who makes them sound completely different, and he's animated by a team who worked hard to make the characters LOOK really different. They have different skin-tones, face shapes, hair and eye colours, body types and heights! These are not brothers!

Pitching up at my fic in which Elijah Kamski is not tagged saying 'I can't wait to see how you work in Elijah being Gavin's brother!' I'm NOT. I don't LIKE him. He skeeves me out. I will not be woobifying him for plot convenience because billionaire geniuses can solve everything. They can't. He's a canon abusive arsewipe and that IS what billionaires are like. He will be staying far away from all my precious babies!

Like... listen, I can deal with it. Some of my favourite fics commit these crimes. You do you. I have not rocked up to your comments to tell you you shouldn't. Just tag your fanon appropriately and don't show up at my fics expecting it of me. Fanon is NOT canon.

tfw "popular" fanon becomes so embedded in a fandom & discussions within fandom spaces that people just start treating it as the default and all interactions with others are coloured by this interpretation. have you considered that I actually don't subscribe to this take, which is nowhere in the source material? wait nvm, clearly not.

[wannabanauthor]

What if Tommy and Eddie discussed the breakup, and it goes from serious to funny?

So Eddie goes to Tommy's house and is like "I'm here to check on you, let's get a beer."

Tommy tries to refuse, but Eddie says, "You broke my best friend's heart, so the least you could do is explain your reasoning to me."

Tommy reluctantly goes. After a few beers, he starts rambling.

"I fucked up, and I don't know how to fix it or even if I should fix it. I was falling in love with him, and it snuck up on me. I didn't expect for it to get more serious," Tommy says. "I thought it was just going to be fun for awhile, and we'd go our separate ways."

"Your second date with him was to his sister's wedding," Eddie points out.

"Oh so sue me! It's not my fault I caved. He gave me these pleading puppy eyes, and I found myself agreeing."

Eddie rolls his eyes. "Well, if you never expected it to get serious and didn't want it to get serious, then why haven't you found your rebound yet? It's been weeks. Even Chimney and Maddie are telling Buck to start dating again."

Tommy groans into his hands and then rubs his temples. "Fucking traitors."

"Well, I know this hot priest-"

"Been there, done that," Tommy says and takes a swig of his beer.

Eddie looks at him with a bewildered look on his face. "What?"

"What?" Tommy responds with a shrug. "I was raised Catholic. Guilt about sexuality is easy to spot, but he made the first move."

"Do I even want to know how?"

"Ever had sex in a confession booth?"

Eddie's eyes are wide and horrified. "Please don't tell me-"

"It was an old booth in storage, but it was still pretty hot. Once I admitted to myself that I was gay, I had a lot of catching up to do."

Then Tommy goes quiet and gets sad again. "I'll never meet another Evan in my life. I think he's ruined me for other men."

"Don't say that. While, I prefer you two together, you can always find someone else."

Tommy snorts in disbelief. "Yeah, not gonna happen. At least when it comes to sex. His adorable face and cheery smile haunt my dreams, and his proficiency with dick makes it impossible for me to get it up even when watching porn."

"Oh no, I need more alcohol for this," Eddie says and orders some shots.

He and Tommy go through a couple of them.

Tommy's tongue gets looser. "His dick is fantastic. Perfect length, thickness, and stamina. I know my body pretty well, and let me tell you, the prostate orgasms from him were out of this world. I barely lasted five minutes before coming just from him fucking me."

Eddie is drunk enough that he's not even fazed.

"Not to mention he has this slight curve that makes him hit the spot every time, and goddamn, I miss that dick and the dork attached to it," Tommy continues. "He made me feel comfortable and safe and cherished. Being around him was effortless, mostly, and I miss him so much."

Tommy starts sniffling, and then tears roll down his cheeks. "Fuck, I don't want to cry."

Eddie puts a comforting hand on Tommy's shoulder. "Call him. He's a mess and miserable without you. He's been baking so much that the entire station's hemoglobin A1C levels are pre-diabetic. We had to force him to focus on savory cooking."

Tommy shakes his head. "He doesn't want to hear from me. I broke his heart. I'm the last person that should be contacting him."

"He does want to hear from you. He's only been baking and cooking so much to stop himself from contacting you because he wants to give you space and respect your boundaries post-breakup."

"What would I even say? That I panicked and ran? I told him he would break my heart if we moved in together. There's no coming back from that."

Eddie sighs and sets his drink down. "Listen, the first time you ended things with Buck, I told him he was an idiot but to call you anyway. Now it's your turn to be the idiot. Go get your man back. Call him. Talk to him. He'd settle for a text. Just do something! You both are suffering without each other. You don't have to move in with him. He just wants you back in his life."

More tears run down Tommy's face and it turns into full sobs. Eddie scoots closer to him and gives him a hug. Tommy clings to him, sobbing even harder.

After drinks, they stop by a taco place and sober up while eating delicious birria tacos. They go back to Tommy's place, and Eddie sleeps on the couch just to make sure Tommy is alright. Before he falls asleep, he texts Buck.

"If Tommy contacts you, go easy on him. He's an idiot too."

When Tommy wakes up the next morning, he nearly stops breathing when he sees that Evan texted him.

"I miss you." was all it said.

Tommy cradles his phone in his hands for several minutes before pressing the call button. He holds his breath until Evan answers.

"I miss you too," Tommy says.

[loves-alibi]

something bad

dark!141 x reader

original post

summary: There’s something wrong with the 141…

1.6k words

warnings: implied cannibalism, violence, blood, reader gets hurt, reader is implied to be smaller than simon

***

You’re not there for the op– out on the basis of a nick to your side. Not really a nick– but rather a 3 inch blade you hadn't seen before it was hilt-deep in you.

Kate calls you in the night. You're still not well. The stitches are out but you're not ready to be in. The wound aches and burns and keeps you up at night. You consider it a blessing tonight. On account of the throbbing, you're awake when Kate calls. She doesn't mince her words.

They've gone dark.

Are they supposed to?

No.

You're on base in less than an hour. They refuse to send you after them. Hell, they don't even allow you to go in uniform. Too official for someone who’s supposed to be resting. This is on a need-to-know basis, Kate says, and you need-to-know.

Siberia in December. You’re nauseous just thinking about it. Guilt, you think. You were supposed to be on that op, leading a platoon of non-141 soldiers. You should have been there, maybe things would have gone differently.

It takes thirty-seven days on base to track them down, on top of the fourteen that they were missing before Kate called.

You’re cleared by medical by the time the big day comes, yet Kate doesn’t let you join the rescue team. She says that the op needs a level-head. So you wait on the tarmac, arms crossed over your chest to stop the trembling of your hands. You squint up at the sky for hours waiting for the silhouette of their plane to finally appear. Eventually, it does.

You’re off before the engines stop chugging, running as fast as your legs will carry you to the lowering ramp. Please be alive, please be alive, please, oh please be–

They’re not just alive. They’re�� statuesque. There’s no other way to describe it, but John, Simon, Kyle, and Johnny– each of them look better than when you saw them last. Warm skin and full cheeks. Your eyes are more sunken from this last month and a half than theirs. You’re so happy to see them alive that you don’t bother to wonder how.

The boys are kept in medical for a few more days. Something about hypothermia and wanting to monitor their vitals for longer. You don’t get it. Their vitals are strong, stronger than yours have ever been. But the doctors know best.

You visit them every day, spend your breaks by their sides. None of them talk much about Siberia, an eerie silence falling over the room every time you try to bring it up.

In the time you spend outside of the medical ward, you hear whispers. People look at you out of the corner of their eyes, lowering their voice to make sure you can’t make out what it is that they’re saying.

It isn’t until you’re in the mess hall one day, when a dumbass private who doesn’t know who you are tries to impress you.

“Did you hear about the 141?” He asks, a mischievous smirk across his face. “My mate was on the rescue team– said they found bones with scratches on them. No flesh, no blood, nothing left.”

Unfortunately for the private, you’re running his drills that afternoon. You make him and all of his meathead friends who bought all that nonsense run until they collapse. They call you a bitch when they think you’re out of earshot. You ought to give them another lap– another ten –but you can’t. You’re too deep in thought– images of bones, scratched up and licked clean–

No. Not licked clean. Decomposed, you tell yourself despite the nagging voice in the back of your mind saying that the Siberian winter would certainly slow down decomposition.

The nagging is over quickly, when the next afternoon, the boys are let out of medical. They hop right back into work. Meetings, paperwork, and training.

The day after their release, you join them at the gym. You don’t expect much, maybe some light lifting and cardio on their end, but you’re dead wrong.

Johnny’s on the bench. Kyle, Simon, and John watch from a few feet away. There are more plates on the barbell than you’ve ever seen. You don’t even need to count to know that there’s about three hundred pounds looming over Johnny. Johnny’s always been strong, but even he’s never benched that much weight before.

But he clears it.

One rep. Two reps. Three reps. All without breaking a sweat.

He stops when they realize you’ve entered. Nobody addresses Johnny’s newfound hulkishness. Instead, John clasps his hands together and suggests some friendly sparring.

Sure. You could do that. It’ll do everyone good. The whole team is out of practice, so when John calls you and Simon up first, you don’t blink an eye.

However, it quickly becomes evident that something’s not right. Simon’s always been strong. He’s nearly six and a half feet of pure muscle and rage. It’s a well-known fact that sparring with him will always end in a victory for him.

Against an opponent of his mass, agility is your strength. Where he’s poised to use brute strength, you can duck and weave. It’s enough to throw him off guard enough to delay the inevitable.

But now? You can’t keep up. It’s as though Simon is predicting your every move. Moves that once would make him flustered don’t

You’re thrown to the ground face first. You’re waiting for John to call the spar. You lift your head to look at your captain, but his face is a blank slate. No, not entirely blank, his eyes are sharp, observant. It’s not just him. Kyle and Johnny are right at their captain’s side, breathing heavily. Kyle’s canines tug at his bottom lip.

“Call it,” you groan. Something warm trickles down your nose and into your open mouth. The taste of iron explodes across your tongue. A heavy weight looms over your back. “John, call it!”

“Missed you,” Simon whispers. His breath burns the skin of your ear. “Smell good, so good.”

Something touches the back of your neck, wet and warm. It feels like a tongue, you think, before realizing that it is– Simon’s tongue. He groans as he licks a stripe down the length of your neck and to your shoulder where you’re met with the stinging sensation of teeth sinking down into flesh. Hard enough to sting, but tender enough not to break skin. Yet.

“John–” It comes out breathy and high pitched. “For fuck’s sake–”

“That’s enough.”

In the blink of an eye, Simon is gone and you’re hoisted up by John’s strong arm. He takes you to a bench tucked away in the corner of the room, though not away from the prying eyes of your fellow sargeants, now watching you with parted lips. Simon’s nowhere to be found.

Simon, who had just cornered you and pinned you unlike anything you’ve seen before. It was animalistic, like you were his prey. For the first time ever you found yourself afraid of what Simon could– would –do to you.

John reappears with a rag and a water bottle. He soaks the rag and hands you the water. You lean back to down the water. It’s a mistake, you realize as blood drips down the back of your throat. You were so out of it you hadn’t realized that your nose is still bleeding.

“Look here,” John grunts. He peers in your eyes and grunts again. “No concussion.” One hand comes to pinch your nose as the other uses the rag to clean up the blood. “Nose isn’t broken.”

You hum, eyes fixated on John. He seems so calm, like he hadn’t just watched his lieutenant go utterly ballistic on you and–

You shudder, remembering the feeling of Simon’s tongue on your skin, his teeth in your–

“You’re alright, sergeant?” John asks.

You consider lying, but John’s looking at you like he already knows what you’re going to say. “I just–” You stumble over your words, “Simon… He was so– I don’t know how to describe it –unlike himself? Did it seem weird to you?”

“No.”

You frown. “John, I’ve sparred with him before. It’s never been like that. It felt unnatural.”

John swipes the rag over your lips. “You’re just out of practice from the nick.” John takes his hand off your nose and lets it slide down your body. It toys with the hem of your shirt for only a moment before creeping up your side and to the healed wound. His touch is muted by the thick scar tissue, but that doesn’t stop heat from exploding throughout your body. “How is it, anyways?”

It’s undignified the way you lose focus. John’s so close to you, having moved in closer to feel the scar. He’s tracing it, fingers half on the wound, half on the sensitive skin over your ribs. “Good,” you whisper.

“Good,” John repeats.

Someone clears their throat behind you. You try to turn around but John tightens his grip on you.

“We’ll take the rag if you’re done.” Kyle. And you assume by the sound of shuffling feet that accompanies him, Johnny as well. John hands them the rag with a nod.

The sound of footsteps fade, but before they're entirely gone, you hear Kyle and Johnny bickering about first dibs. It curdles something in your stomach.

Your heart is racing so close to John. Everything instinct screams to get away, but you simply can’t. At least, not yet.

“John,” you ask. “What happened in Siberia?”

John smiles. He removes his hand from your side and brings it back to your face. Your nose is bleeding again. A much calmer drip than earlier. John brings a thumb to the stream and swipes it away.

“We survived,” he says. “Isn’t that enough?” John pops his bloody thumb into his mouth and smiles.

[threadbearsweater]

one warm day is all i really need | arthur morgan

When you find yourself taken in by a gang of outlaws, the last thing you expect is to grow sweet on one of them- and have the feelings reciprocated. Arthur Morgan doesn't have time for romantic nonsense, but a few memebers of the gang want to make sure that he gets to indulge in his obvious affection toward you. Tags: 3.9k words, an unlikely romance, meddling gang members (with the purest of intentions, one might suppose); female reader, alcohol use, smoking, emotional smut. A repost from a (regretfully) deactivated blog.

Arthur first notices your eyes on him one evening around the campfire at Shady Belle. He won’t accuse you of staring– Lord knows he’s been known to look at you with the same foolish grin you’re wearing now– but he tips his hat to acknowledge you. The heat in your cheeks is suddenly warmer than what the fire has already provided; your grin only grows until your teeth are showing, and you duck your head into your shoulder to hide. Arthur takes a long swig from his whiskey bottle and grimaces as it goes down. He hasn't had a drop of anything in days, and the burn takes a little while to grow numb to now.

“Think she's sweet on you, Morgan,” Sean says in his Irish lilt, giving Arthur an elbow in the ribs.

“Naw, she's lookin’ at you,” Arthur deflects, though he hopes he's wrong. He thinks he knows.

“She told me last week to keep my eyes on my own work,” Sean continues. “I really don't think it's me she wants, Arthur.”

You turn to whisper something to Sadie, who laughs out loud with her face tilted toward the stars. You dare a glance back at Arthur, who is, in fact, looking at you.

Maybe there's some truth to what Mary Beth told you yesterday.

“Arthur's been awful quiet lately.”

The sun shines through the trees and dapples the table where you're seated with bright spots of pale yellow. It's your third round of dominoes with Mary-Beth, and she's whooping your ass, as usual. You don't know how she does it, but each game you play, you're a little more privy to her prowess.

“You think so? I don't know him as well as you.” You hope it isn't obvious that your heart started beating a little faster at the mention of his name. It leaves you breathless.

“Oh yeah,” Mary-Beth continues. “He's been scratchin’ away in that journal of his a lot more, too.” She leans closer, conspiratorial, her eyes twinkling with the gossip she's about to share. “Karen said he went to town twice last week to have a hot bath. If you knew Arthur like I know Arthur, why…you'd know that's highly out of character for him.”

“But you said he'd been quiet. Is that unusual for him, too?”

She hums and purses her lips. “Well you see, Arthur isn't usually a man of many words on a good day. But it's been real bad lately. He don't even give John a hard time like usual.”

You ponder the dominoes for a moment and then make your move. It doesn't earn you any points, but at least you didn't have to draw. “What do you think the problem is?” you ask, nonchalant as possible.

Mary-Beth smiles. Big and bright and sparkling. “Oh, it's not a problem at all.” She lowers her voice and cups her hand to her mouth. “Arthur's in love.”

You gasp, then giggle behind your hand, and Mary-Beth follows suit. Hosea looks on and shakes his head, so you quiet down, reaching across to grab Mary-Beth's hands. “Who do you think it is?”

Her cheeks are tinted pink, and she looks around to make sure there aren't any ears to hear. Word travels fast around camp if one isn't prudent. “I think it's you.”

A thunderstorm rips through Shady Belle a little over a week later. Your little tent that you share with Sadie is ripped straight off its supports in a terrible gust of wind, and you and the others hightail it inside the house to take cover just as it begins to hail. There's quite a ruckus as everyone huddles inside, windblown and rain-soaked. A few of the men hold up lanterns to illuminate the darkness while you watch the lightning and feel the thunder shake the old bones of the house.

“Everyone just calm down,” Dutch calls, descending the stairs, wearing some ridiculous robe with his arms spread wide. “Are we really gonna let a little old thunderstorm keep us from getting a good night's sleep?”

“Says the man with a bed inside the house,” Arthur bites, rounding the corner from what used to be the kitchen, holding a lantern up high in front of him. “Dutch, you better allow these ladies to take cover in here for tonight, or I'll–”

“Or you'll what, Mister Morgan? Pray tell, what kind of man do you take me for?” Dutch's eyes are fiery as he stares Arthur down; a display of dominance. A veritable cockfight.

Arthur's jaw twitches, but he doesn't back down. “The kind of man I should hope would have some goddamn respect for his family.”

There's a tense moment or two where everyone is quiet, then Dutch relents. “Fine, fine! But I expect everyone out there pitching in to clean up in the morning.” He points at Arthur and raises his voice again. “That includes the other man with a bed inside the house,” he sneers.

Arthur shakes his head, then looks away only to catch sight of you, shivering in your wet undergarments, huddled close to Mary-Beth for what little warmth the two of you can share. For a minute, he forgets to breathe, then composes himself enough to cross the room.

“Come on in here. Get yourself warm and dry by the fire.” His hand on your elbow is rough but warm as he leads you toward the fireplace. You nod and look back at Mary-Beth, who shoos you away with a flick of her wrist and a wink; you notice that her teeth are chattering. Despite the humidity that hangs heavy in the air, the temperature has turned chilly with the storm.

Arms crossed over your bosom to preserve any shred of modesty you might have left, you allow yourself to be led away by Arthur. Dutch and some of the others head upstairs while Charles and Javier keep watch from the front porch.

“You alright?” Arthur asks. He covers your shoulders with one of his heavy winter coats, and you pull it around you, grateful for the weight and warmth of it. Another clap of thunder shakes the house and you jump. Arthur chuckles.

“You laughin’ at me?” you quip, placing your palms flat in the direction of the fireplace. You don't even bother to hide the grin you feel curling on your lips.

“No madam, I am not,” Arthur says earnestly, taking a seat beside you on the old wooden crate he's set up as a makeshift bench.

“Then just what do you find so funny, Mister Morgan?”

He scratches the back of his neck, looking into the flames. “Aw, I dunno. I'm sorry. It's just that you're…”

You bump him with your hip, unable to stop the giggles that bubble up from your chest. “I'm what?” you pry.

There's a clatter of something falling on the front porch, and Arthur uses it as a good excuse to get out of this hole he's dug for himself. “I better go see what's going on out there. Charles might need my help.”

“I'm what, Arthur?!” you call, to no avail. He's gone before he can see the proverbial hearts in your eyes.

The saloon in Rhodes is a little nicer than the ones you visited in Valentine, though it's a far cry from the ones you used to frequent in Saint Denis. Still, when Sadie and the other girls decide that it's high time you have a little fun in town, you throw on your best dress and let Karen curl your hair and even apply a little of the makeup you snagged from a homestead up north. For the first time in months, you feel like a proper woman. There isn't time to be melancholy about the past, though, when the boys start whistling and cat-calling upon the sight of you and the other girls.

“Aw, knock it off!” Sadie hollers. She's decided to dress up a little tonight, too, much to everyone's surprise. But she hikes up her skirts to hop into the wagon, calling for the rest of you all to hurry it up. “I've got a bottle of rum with my name on it that's waiting for me to come drink her all down!”

You catch the sunset on the way to town. It's dazzling over the meadows, all golden light and warm, blazing oranges and reds that settle into a brilliant pink by the time your reach the main road into Rhodes. You wish you could see Arthur's eyes, but he's got a handle on the reins next to Charles in the front of the wagon. You've seen him watching the sunset before; he always looks so peaceful those evenings at camp, and you often wonder what he thinks about in those few minutes before the horizon is painted in pastel hues.

Karen starts singing a song that everyone eventually joins, and before you know it, you're pulling up in front of the Rhodes Parlour House. You can already hear the piano and a few voices from outside; the sound of it stirs something in your soul that makes you long for the familiarity of home, but you quickly shove it aside in favor of the company of your new family.

“Madam.” Arthur's voice brings you out of your thoughts and back into the present, where he waits at the back of the wagon with his hand extended to you. You beam at him, and he feels dizzy. And when your soft hand fits into his, he straightens his knees so they don't buckle and betray him.

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” you say, lifting the hem of your skirts to step out onto the dirt road.

Arthur leans in, dangerously close to your ear. You can smell the whisky and cigarettes on his breath, along with the faint tang of gunpowder and hair pomade. “You sure do look nice in that dress.”

You demure and fan yourself with your hand. “Just how much have you had to drink already tonight?” you giggle.

“Ahh, just a little nip to take the edge off.”

“Mm-hm. Sure, Arthur. Whatever you say.”

The night starts off relatively calm, as most nights do. You and the other girls find an empty table to sit and pick up on the town gossip, and the men start a hand of poker. It grows loud and crowded sometime around midnight, and it's hard to have a conversation without shouting over the din of voices, the clink of glass bottles, and the slow drag ragtime music from the piano. The ambiance is charming and lighthearted, and there are even a few couples drunkenly dancing on the porch.

You push back in your chair and find that when you stand, you're a little more wobbly than you thought you would be. The alcohol has loosened you more than you realize, and you grip the table for support until you feel a firm arm around your waist. “Whoa there.”

It's Arthur, who has won the last round of poker and has come to check in on you and the other ladies. You're pulled tight against his chest for one fleeting moment, and you look up into his eyes. He, too, seems drunk, with his eyes gleaming and drooping at the corners, his smile easy and his cheeks flushed.

“My knight in shining armor,” you slur, pretending to faint in his embrace. He only pulls you tighter against him, both of his broad hands splayed across your back. You laugh, and he smiles.

“You weren't getting another drink, were ya?” he questions with a raise of his brow.

“‘m thirsty,” you whine, lifting your empty glass entirely too close to his face. It knocks against his nose, which sends you into another fit of laughter.

Arthur takes your wrist– gentle but firm– and lowers the glass away. “Think you need to drink something that's not whiskey,” he drawls. You can't help but watch the way his lips form around the words; the slip of his tongue between his teeth, the way his mouth turns up into the hint of a smile when you pout. Before you can think too long and hard about it, you lunge forward and kiss him. Hard and clumsy and impulsive. You don't give him time to react. You're far too involved in the kiss to notice, but the girls at the table behind you have all gone silent. Arthur slides his hand along the side of your face and presses his fingers upon the nape of your neck, kissing you back like he really means it. (He really does.)

You pull back suddenly, breathless and reeling, swiping the back of your hand over your mouth. You're still held firm in his embrace, but the playfulness in his gaze has been replaced with an intensity that makes your knees weak all over again.

“What'd ya do that for?” he asks.

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, you started it.”

“And you finished it.”

“Oh, I ain't finished with you, yet.”

“That a promise or a threat?” Your pulse is thumping wildly in your ears.

“Ya know, they got rooms upstairs for that!” Sadie shouts. There's a ripple of laughter across the table. Arthur's hand on your cheek feels like a brand, his arm about your waist an anchor. The rest of the room comes back to you in a woozy blur, and you look around, a little lovestruck and a whole lot drunk. Arthur's lips at your temple make your eyes flutter shut, and the room fades to black as tIt'weight of you slumps against him. He staggers only slightly, but holds you firm, chuckling softly.

“It's a promise,” he whispers.

You come to some hours later. Your mouth is dry as the desert, your head feels like lead, your skin broken out in a cold, uncomfortable sweat. At some point, it seems you were covered with a downy soft blanket, and the pillow at your head is much more fluffy than the makeshift one you made out of a bedroll at camp. At first, you think you're dreaming. Then, you wonder very briefly if you're back at your childhood home in Saint Denis. You almost call out to your mother when you hear a soft snore from the other side of your bed.

The room spins when you turn your head, and you rub your eyes until Arthur comes into focus. He's sprawled in an armchair a few feet away. His arms are crossed over his chest while his chin is tucked into his chest. Off to the side, you spy his boots; his big toe pokes through a hole in his sock and you smile at how vulnerable he looks.

“Arthur,” you whisper, shifting slightly as you pull the blanket up around your chin.

He grunts and lifts his head slowly. He frowns a little at first, but when he focuses on you lying there, so close he could reach out and kiss you again like he did last night, there's a slow, easy smile that spreads across his face.

“Hey there, party girl. You feeling alright?”

You could kick yourself for all the giggling you've done around him lately, but you can't help it. He brings out something giddy and downright foolish inside you, so you toss a pillow at him and bury your face in the sheets.

“Aw, come on now. I'm just messin’ with ya.” He leans forward and rubs your head affectionately. “I'd say you were feeling pretty good last night.”

It's in that moment a white-hot jolt of sheer panic shoots down your spine. Quickly, you check to make sure you're still wearing clothes. Aside from your breasts being a little lopsided in the confines of your bodice, you're relieved to find that your dress is still intact and– more importantly– on your body. You dare another peek at Arthur and notice that his shirt is unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest and he's discarded his vest somewhere, but he, too, is fully clothed. Thank the good Lord above.

You must've said that last part aloud, because Arthur laughs. “Don't worry, nothing happened. Though it weren't for lack of tryin’ on your part,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought I was gonna have to lock you in here like some feral cat till you settled down.”

Oh. Oh Lord. You try to recall what happened that led you to this room, but all that comes to mind is a lot of loud conversation, some dancing, a spilled drink across Sadie's lap, and Arthur's hand on the side of your cheek. “Oh…”

Now you remember it in vivid detail.

“Didn't know you cared for me like that,” he says. It's earnest and tender, a few shades less intense than the kiss you now recall, the one where it felt like he wanted to eat you alive right there in the middle of the saloon. Now, he thumbs your cheek and looks at you so fondly you swear your heart jumps right up in your throat. “I mean, I'd been hoping. Wasn't sure you was looking for a romance.” He huffs a short sigh, frustrated with himself. “Aw, hell, what am I saying? ‘Course you weren't. You're just looking to survive, just like the rest of us, and here I–”

“Shut up,” you say, taking hold of his hand and tugging him closer. He resists until you pull even harder, watching the fire in your eyes blaze to life. “You talk too much, Yankee.”

“I ain't no damn–”

“Kiss me.”

He's over you in an instant; you're pressed flat against the bed, completely and totally at his mercy. This kiss feels different than the drunken one last night. It's sober and honest, if not a little hesitant, as if he's holding himself back from devouring you wholly. The warmth of his body against yours takes your breath away. Or maybe it's the way his tongue laves heavy into your mouth, unashamed of how badly he craves the taste of you. You grip his hair at the roots and tug him down to kiss him harder, lifting your upper body to meet him until he presses down, his chest flush with yours.

Things get heated quickly.

His mouth moves across your cheek, down your neck, and he groans against your skin, rutting his cock against your thigh. You fleetingly wish that he had managed to get you out of that dress before he presumably tucked you into bed and passed out in that chair, because there’s a whole lot of fabric between you and him that really pisses you off right now. Arthur must feel much the same, because he’s bunching your skirts up past your knees while you’re fumbling with his belt buckle, desperate to feel him against you, inside you. It’s clumsy and crazed, rushed and rough, but you manage somehow to shuck off every last bit of your clothes and his until you’re breathless and so, so eager beneath him.

“Need you now,” you whine. You feel insane. Dizzy and dehydrated, impossibly turned on, every nerve ending on fire when his callused hands grip the fat of your thighs and open you to him.

“Greedy little thing, ain’t ya?” One of his hands slips between your legs to find you wet and swollen. He presses the pad of his thumb against your clit and pushes a finger inside you; the sound you make nearly has him finishing there on the sheets, so he wastes no time in getting himself as close to you as humanly possible.

“Never wanted something so bad,” he murmurs into the dip of your shoulder. He wants all of you– all at once– wants to fuse his hands against your skin and sink himself into you so deep that it would be impossible to tell where he ends and you begin. The heat from his body takes away what little breath you have left, his mouth on each part of your body building the buzz in your chest until you feel like you might just burst open. You grabbed at each other like it was the first and last time you might have this opportunity, as if you wanted more than what the other of you was able to give.

Considering the kind of life you’ve both led so far, it’s a good possibility that you might never get to do this again.

“Give it to me,” you plead, opening yourself further to him, fingers wrapped firm around the base of his cock. “Please.”

Arthur Morgan is a man of incredible strength and self restraint, except when it comes to a woman like you.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he takes you. It’s primal, sweaty, filthy, rough. Arthur pushes as far inside you as he can go, then pushes further when you beg for more. He cups your knees with slick palms and presses you open as far as you can bend; you tug roughly at his hair and bite down on his shoulder when the pleasure builds to a blinding ferocity. The wooden bedframe knocks angrily against the wall with each thrust, but you can’t bring yourself to care if anyone hears. You can’t focus on anything beyond the feeling of him filling you with every stroke of his cock, of the taut, corded muscle in his back and shoulders as you grapple to hang on as tight as you can. Your orgasm hits your hard and fast, and he encourages you through it, taking his time to give you long, controlled strokes. It’s as pleasurable for him as it is for you. “‘Atta girl,” he rasps, lips moving against your ear. Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle your cries, but he pulls it away and threads his fingers with yours, pressing it onto the pillow. “I wanna hear it.”

Your moans are what drive him over the edge.

He buries his face against the side of your neck, panting heavily as he comes, driving into you so hard that you can almost feel the mattress beneath you begin to sag under the weight. You cradle his head in your hands and link your legs around his waist, boneless and languid in the aftermath of your own pleasure. When he moves, you move with him, riding out the waves together until you’re both too tired to move another muscle.

Neither of you speak for a while. He lies on his back with an arm around your shoulders while you curl against him, tuned into his heartbeat and swirling little patterns into the hair on his chest. It’s comforting to feel him next to you, to watch his chest rise and fall as he steadies his breathing, to soak up the warmth of his skin against yours.

You’re the first to break the silence. “Did everyone else go back to camp last night?”

Arthur nods slowly. “Something tells me they planned all this.”

“Planned it? You mean…” You lift your arm slowly and flick your wrist to acknowledge the room you’re laying in. “This?” You lift your chin and grin at him. “Or getting us together?”

“Room was paid for before I even had a chance to ask if they had one,” he explains. “Think it was Mrs. Adler.”

You vaguely recall her shouting something about a room after you kissed Arthur last night, and you shake your head. “You complaining?”

He turns to his side, draping an arm across your hip. “Me? Never.” You’re suddenly pressed beneath him once again; from the looks of it, you won’t be getting out of this bed anytime soon. “Specially when I’ve got you here to help me keep warm.”

[captain-huggy-bear]

"Can- Can you come over please?" (I believe prompt list 1 number 80?) with whoever you're inspired for please 😊 thank you! - em

Em, it was giving soft boy Luke who's maybe feeling shitty after a bad game, so I hope you like it. First time writing Luke so I'm super sorry if it doesn't feel right for him (as we think of him because obvs we don't know him but still) Also I like how I was like let's write something short and then...just kept writing...😂 Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :) Writing Masterlist

You'd been friends with Luke Hughes for almost as long as he'd been in New Jersey, both of you new to the city at the time had stumbled into each other quite literally one wintery afternoon. Your coffee going all over his hoodie, his doughnut squishing chocolate icing over your sweater. You'd expected him to yell, instead you learnt that day how utterly sweet and kind Luke Hughes was. He replaced your coffee and refused to let you buy him a new doughnut, but did let you invite him over so you could put some stain remover on his hoodie.

You might be thinking, 'are you crazy? Inviting a strange man to your apartment?', but you can only explain your risk through two pieces of information: 1) You knew roughly who he was. You weren't a fan of his by any means but you followed Hockey and had heard about the newest addition to the Devils, so you at least knew he wasn't a criminal, 2) Luke Hughes had been wearing snoopy socks and something about that had screamed 'non-threatening'.

Looking back it was probably slightly insane on your part, but it bagged you a close friend who you may or may not have had a massive crush on, so you couldn't really say you regretted risking it.

It wasn't unusual for Luke to phone you after a game, more often than not you got a quick phone call or a few texts sent through while he was out celebrating or commisserating with the team, often being invited out even when he knew you weren't much for late nights out on the town.

It was unusual though for that phone call to come in at 1 in the morning while you were sleeping.

You're groggy and half awake, hand patting the bedside table until you grip your phone, Luke's ringtone blarring through the speakers only because he was one of your few exceptions. One of a handful of people who could call you after 11pm without being sent straight to voicemail, the others being your family.

"Lukey? It's..." You stop to squint at your alarm clock, "1:41 in the morning, what's wrong?" You knew the game had ended late, but Luke should have been in bed by now or he should have been out partying with Jack and the boys, definitely not phoning you. You half expected him to be drunk on the other end of the line, maybe having phoned you while out with the team.

Instead his breath is shaky on the other end of the line, voice raspy like he's been crying and that's what has you sitting upright and swinging your legs out of bed before he even finishes his question.

"Can- Can you come over please?" His voice is scratchy and strained, a rasp that sounds defeated. You don't even considering getting changed from your pajamas, you just throw a jacket on from your closet.

"Yeah, yeah, of course, what's wrong?"

"Just...just come over please, angel" You're quick timing it as you shove your feet in a pair of shoes and grab your keys off the side, locking your apartment door behind you. It didn't matter to you that it was nearly 2am or that you hadn't brushed your hair or that you were half-asleep, all that mattered was Luke and the way he sounded like the world might be just a little too much for him right now.

"Okay, okay, want me to stay on the line?"

"No, just...drive safe?" You pause in the hallway, heart hurting at his concern, that even now when he's begging for your help he cares that you're safe.

"Yeah, course, Lu, i'm leaving right now, sweetheart." He lets out a shuddering breath on the line, right before he hangs up and you're certain you might cry because God, Luke shouldn't sound like that, so utterly defeated, so fragile.

You do your best to honour his request on the drive to his and Jack's apartment, even as you want to break a hundred traffic laws just to get there sooner, but you don't. It doesn't take long, but ten minutes feels like one hundred when all you want is to be see Luke and make sure he's okay.

He's at the door from the first knock and you don't say anything, just take him in. His tall form hunched at the shoulders like he's trying to hide within his hoodie, hood pulled over his head and eyes red rimmed, blotchy. There are dark, deep circles beneath his eyes and his lip is bruised and split, a few neatly placed stitches holding it together.

You don't say anything, just step forward and wrap him in your arms as best you can, tiptoeing to press your chin to his shoulder, arms tight around him as if you can protect him from whatever is going on in his head.

He grasps as you like you're a lifeline, fingers digging into your jacket, face pressed so tight to the crook of your neck that you're certain he'll fuse there.

He doesn't protest when you pull him into his apartment, door slamming shut. Doesn't protest when you pull him to his room, asking where Jack is, only to get a short clipped reply of 'club'. Doesn't protest when you sit him on his bed and join him, shoes being kicked off. It's not until you try to pull away from him that he really seems to come to life, hands grasping you firmer, pulling you back, "Don't go, please don't go..."

"'m not going anywhere, Lu, it's okay..." You pull back just enough that you can pull his hood back, fingers carding through his brown curls gently like he might break. "What happened?"

"Just needed you..." His face presses back into your shoulder as your fingers work through his hair like it's a perfectly normal thing to say to your best friend, like he didn't call because he had a shit game, because he doesn't want to talk about it."

"Lu...talk to me, baby"

There's a stark silence, broken only by a shaky breathe that comes from Luke as if the idea of talking is enough to make him cry for the second time that night. "I'm...i'm not good enough for the team, did a shit job tonight and we lost...it's my fault. Played like shit."

"What did Jack say?" You're gentle with it, soft voice, soft fingers on the nape of his neck. It's silly, he knows he's being dramatic, he also knows that it's not a friend thing to do. Knows he wouldn't call any of his other friends at near 2am because he needs them, knows he wouldn't beg for their fingers in his hair to sooth him or feel better just by the smell of their laundry detergent and shampoo. Luke knows he called you because he loves you, pretty sure he loved you the moment you excitedly showed him you'd gotten the coffee stain out of his UMIC hoodie.

"I was being too hard on myself, that it wasn't the 'Luke Hughes show'." He immitates Jack's voice, a pouty sort of tone riding his voice because he knows his brother is right even if he refused to sit moping with him and went out drinking instead.

"He's right. Hockey is a team sport, Luke, you aren't even on the ice the entire time! You do not get to decide that you're the reason a game is won or lost, you don't get to shoulder that."

"But.." Your palms cup his face, pulling him up to look at you. Your face is dead serious brows furrowed, lips pursed.

"No, you're a good hockey player. They picked you to play for them because of what you bring to the table and maybe you didn't play your best tonight , but you deserve to be on the team. You can't always be at 100." Your thumbs brush his cheeks under his eyes, like you might be able to wipe away the dark bags there. He looks worn, exhausted, tears just welling in those green eyes of his.

You're not entirely sure he believes you, "If I said I wasn't good enough because I had a bad day at work, what would you say to me?"

"To shut up and stop being mean to yourself..." Luke frowns at you like you're insane for even suggesting something like that, and it's what makes you smile for the first time that night, as if to say I told you so.

"Exactly, so stop being mean to yourself, Lu. You're amazing, i'm always in awe of how you skate..." You brush a curl from his eyes and watch them flutter closed slightly, throat tightening a little because you know this isn't the way you're supposed to feel about your best friend.

"Really?"

"Really..." You watch him carefully, the way he just leans more into your hands like he trusts you entirely to hold him up, the deep swelling of his lip, the beauty marks across his cheeks. "What do you need from me, right now?"

He takes a moment, like the words are stuck on the tip of his tongue whether unsure of how to ask or worried to make things weird. Both of you always toeing the line between friends and something decidedly more romantic.

"Can...can you just hold me? Just stay the night?" He blinks up at you with such big sweet eyes that you're not sure anyone would be able to refuse him, so you don't.

"I can do that."

You treat him delicately, like he's not a nearly 200 pound hockey player that regularly gets body slammed against boards and ice, who's covered in bruises and currently sporting a split lip. You pull him to lie down with you, curling around him like a protective blanket, pulling his face back into the crook of your neck, legs twisting with his. It's definitely not what friends do, but it's what he needs, so he grips you back tight, presses his face firmly into your neck and pulls your leg over his hip to be as close as possible.

You don't move more than the brush of fingers through his hair or down his arm, across his back. Even when you can hear soft snores, the sign of him having fallen asleep, you don't move because as much as Luke said he need this, you kind of need this too.

[gokyrts]

what about when patrón!carlos finds the little sister?

i das thinking about him being like "Eres libre de irte, I've found her" while he opens the door to his office and both girls storm out without a wors cause the youngest just wanted to get home but his princesita is no longer visiting cause she thinks that he doesn't want to see her ever again after all the strings he had to pull but he's actually craving g

hiii nonnie, sorry it took so long!! hopefully this will be enough of an apology <3

Read the introductory fic here!

18+ | warnings: cartel politics, mention of kidnapping, suggestive, Carlos getting handsy

wc: 1.3k

The blood in your veins nearly ran cold when you saw motorcycles pull up outside your home — the rev of engines deafening like the unmistakable energy the sicarios had around them. The rapping of knuckles against the front door spiked your anxiety. Standing frozen in your kitchen you didn’t dare move. Have they come for you too? More insistent rapping on your door and then a voice.

“Señorita, if you don’t open the door I’ll tell my boss his search was in vain and that he can return the little girl.”

Your heart hammered. He found her. Carlos found your sister. You sprinted to the door, nearly pulling it off its hinges as you threw it open.

“Where is she?”

Your insistence amused the man standing outside, his smirk widening.

“Whoa… easy,” he stopped you, eyes trained on your body. He licked his chapped lips and you suddenly felt self-conscious in your comfortable home attire. “Throw something pretty on, hmm? Then we can go.” With that he turned on his heel and walked back to his motorcycle, hip cocked against it and waiting for you to change.

You threw on a dress that had just finished drying in the evening sun and walked back outside, earning a few whistles from the men who came to pick you up. Avoiding their gazes, you approached the sicario who talked to you. He checked you out thoroughly and it was just as uncomfortable as the first time.

“Not bad. Hop on.”

His words were ringing in your mind nearly the whole ride but the closer you got to the safe house the more you thought about reuniting with your sister. When you got there, the procedure went as you expected — you were patted down by a pair of bold hands before being allowed inside and even then you were accompanied by armed men.

Carlos was leaning on his desk, his large hand wrapped around the handle of a gun, the other using a rag to clean the barrel. He noticed the bated breath with which you arrived, your eyes searching the room for any presence of your sister. Yet the room was devoid of any other woman except you. You searched his eyes next, the unspoken question hanging on your lips.

“Señor Sainz,” you breathed out, acknowledging the man.

Carlos put the rag down next to him on the table but the gun stayed in his right hand. You were defenseless yet intimidation tactics were used on you, to make you feel a bit more helpless and indebted. You swallowed thickly before speaking.

“T-They told me you found her…”

The stutter didn’t help your case, it only made everyone in the room want to play a little more.

Carlos loaded the gun, the metal clicking in place reminding you of the cold sweat on your palms. You watched as he tucked the gun into his pants, the masculinity with which the grip stuck from behind his belt making you scrunch your nose.

“Sit down. You look like you’re about to faint.” His voice was every bit like honey over your ears but you knew there was poison in it despite the initial sweetness. Nonetheless, you pulled the leather chair by his desk up and took a seat. Your hands were folded in your lap and you felt smaller than before, even more when Carlos stood up at his full height. He circled you like the predator he was, getting ready to pounce on his prey.

“Sí, I found your sister. She is safe.”

That fact made you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, relaxing in your seat. But your relief was cut short when you felt his hands on your shoulders.

“But it was no easy feat,” your shoulders slumped under his wide palms and thick fingers. The pressure made you burrow further into the leather chair with no hope of escaping. “lives were lost… for your fairytale rescue.”

Your breath hitched. The weight of his hands seemed to grow gradually. The fingers of his right hand toyed with the strap of your dress. From his perspective, Carlos could see into the lowcut dress, the tops of your breasts on display for his hungry eyes. You had to remind yourself they were all criminals… or else the guilt would eat you alive.

“I-I’m sorry for your loss…” you forced out. The weight wasn’t only physical but psychological too. Your father left you a debt, and you added to it by asking for a favor, now you owed Carlos Sainz more than two lives.

Carlos hummed, his thumb sliding up the back of your neck, gently pushing your head forward, seeing how pliable you were under him. His other hand was dangerously close to pushing off the strap of the dress off your shoulder.

The touch was making you more uncomfortable by the minute and forced your next words.

“Please, can I see my sister?” you whimpered, not able to take the pressure any longer.

The corner of Carlos’ mouth twisted up in a smirk and he squeezed you before taking a step back. He mentioned to one of the guards, who opened the door next to him and shouted something down the hall.

Your heart pounded against your ribcage but in a few seconds, your little sister appeared from around the corner. Before you knew it you were sprinting in her direction, enveloping her into a tight hug. She looked exhausted, dirty, and beyond scared but once she was in your arms, she relaxed, clinging to you.

Carlos watched in amusement, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia at the sight but he pushed it aside, as there was no time for softness.

Despite the need to take care of your sister immediately, you knew there was something you had to do first.

“Gracias, señor.” you replied, turning back to the man but you knew your words did little to repay him. His fingers caught your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. Carlos looked you up and down, lingering on your chest before speaking. ”You’re free to go but remember… I didn’t do it for her, I did it for you, princesa.” The reminder was crushing, the intimate petname sending chills over your body. You would have stood there still had your little sister not squeezed your hand, her comfort more of a worry than the favor or two owed to the most dangerous man in the city.

“Sí, señor.” Your reply was firm, a bitter acknowledgment of his power over you.

The tone of your voice made Carlos smirk and his hold on your chin relaxed. He nodded next, letting you leave but the smugness with which he leaned back against his desk made you feel you weren’t as free as you had hoped.

Your sister and you were escorted outside the compound where the guards slammed the door behind you and you made your way home.

The following days were filled with dread. Your sister noticed you by the windows more often, on lookouts, not hiding your anxiety well.

“Why did you go to Sainz of all people?” she said to you one morning, making you furrow your brows in confusion.

Upon seeing that, she clarified. “You could have contacted the police, DEA…”

You felt anger brew in your stomach at her words.

“And how successful are they at getting hostages back? If Sainz hadn’t found you so quickly you could have been dead!” you snapped back, turning away from the window.

The way she flinched had you feeling guilty. She went through hell she barely told you about at the hands of the other cartel.

“Sainz was the only option…” You softened your tone and put a hand on her shoulder, which seemed to comfort her. She nodded, trying to understand even if you knew she had doubts about your decision.

The moment was interrupted by the chilling sound of revving motorcycles and you felt your heart drop. Turning back to the window, your eyes were met with a familiar sight — Carlos’ sicarios.

Your sister got up too and her voice broke through the barrage of sound.

“So you got me out and gotten yourself in, huh?”

want more patrón!Carlos? Lemme know in my ask box!!

2025 @ gokyrts . do not distribute or translate my work on other sites.

[unopposablethumbsao3]

Julian getting a little too enthusiastic in the gym after everybody finds out he's an augment.

He's never been able to actually push himself while working out in public before, he's always had to hold back to avoid attracting too much attention. So, horrific and traumatic as it was to have his secret revealed like that, to hold on to his career and his life and everything he cares about by the skin of his teeth, there are things he's looking forward to now, things he just couldn't do before.

All of which adds up to Julian in the gym at 0500, figuring out his absolute max deadlift, dropping it down to his 90% and doing set after set until he simply can't lift it anymore. It takes fucking ages, he's even stronger than he expected, and he's having such a good time...

Until about two hours later, right at the start of his shift, when he feels himself start to stiffen up. He tries to push through it, tries to just keep moving and get rid of all the lactic acid that's building up in his glutes, but there's only so much you can do when you've put your body through that and by lunch time, he's locked in a chair in his office and he doesn't think he can stand up anymore, actually.

Which, of course, is when Garak shows up to ask if he still wants to have lunch. And Julian would really like to say yes, but if he can't even stand up then walking to the Replimat is right out, so he just tells Garak that he's got to catch up on some research, actually, and can they take a rain cheque? And he adds his most charming smile for good measure, but now Garak is just *looking* at him, one of those inscrutable looks, with his eyes squinted and his head tilted to the side.

"My dear doctor, are you quite alright?"

And Julian could just tell him! He could just say 'no, actually, I worked out far too hard and now I can't actually stand up to go and get the muscle regenerator I would need to fix it, let alone to join you for lunch!' But that would require *admitting* that he'd overdone it, which of course is exactly what Garak warned him about that morning as he was leaving their quarters at 0430. 'Don't push yourself too hard, my dear, genetically engineered or not, human spines are simply structurally inadequate in some respects..."

And of course he was right, and of course Julian can't let him *know* he was right, and so they're at a stalemate. And Garak just keeps *looking* at him, and then he walks into the room and around the desk and he just stands there, looking down at Julian until Julian is just like "...yes?" And Garak's like, "oh, I just thought I would give you a kiss, since you can't join me. Because of your research." And Julian's like "...okay?" And Garak's just like "so why don't you stand up so I can kiss you properly?" And Julian knows he's fucked but of course he can't admit it so he just stares at Garak until Garak starts smiling and says "you can't, can you?"

And that's how Garak ends up carrying Julian out of the infirmary in the middle of the day to drop him in an Epsom salt bath while he lectures him on the importance of *moderation*, my dear, you really must learn *moderation*

[nikethestatue]

No, no, you don't understand how big this is!

"What if the Cauldron was wrong?"

"Why not make them mates?"

"If I were you, I would keep that question from Lucien."

"I don't want a mate. I don't want a male."

We have two individuals who outwardly question the Cauldron. Both times, to Rhysand. First it was Feyre, who is not very knowledgeable in the ways of the Cauldron and in mate bonds, not really understanding how it works. The first thing that Rhys does is that he warns her not to raise the question with Lucien, who is a newly mated male. The second thing Rhys does is that he begins to explain the ramifications of societal pressures of the mate bond and how even with terrible bonds, most couples would try to 'work it out'. And accept it. (Sounds a bit like a battered spouse syndrome. He/she will change! or 'we are staying together for the kids!')

The next time, it's Azriel who questions the Cauldron and the mate bond assignation. He says this in front of Rhys, and then Rhys--knowing that Azriel is fully aware of the SOCIETAL expectations--goes on a fairly angry rant about political ramifications.

Elain states unequivocally that she does not want a bond. She doesn't want Lucien. She doesn't want 'a male' that was given to her, and whom she did not choose. And she does not want a bond. She doesn't want to adhere to the societal expectations that the bond obligates her to.

But what's interesting is that the one person who never seems to question it is Lucien.

Something clicks for him, he realizes that Elain is his mate and he states it plainly 'You are my mate'. But he never questions it.

Even when, he clearly isn't interested in Elain. Beyond her being attractive, almost generically attractive because it's the one thing that everyone notices about her, he has no feelings but base instincts and lust. He doesn't know anything about her. Doesn't know what her likes/dislikes are. Doesn't know much about her character. Her wants and her struggles.

Lucien, regardless of his own feelings, which are ambivalent at best, just accepts it. The bond is there. He has no recourse. He has to make the best of a crappy situation, because that's what he is expected to do. How do you fight a Cauldron-given bond?

Which brings me to my point: Azriel DOES question the Cauldron. The ordained will of their deity-like item. It's one thing when Feyre questions it, because she doesn't know. It's a wholly different thing when Azriel voices his disdain for the decision. It's not entitlement. He is actually being heretical in that moment. His desire for Elain is so enormous that he is willing to question Prythian's religion and the will of a god-like thing. He isn't complaining about not having a mate. He isn't questioning 'why didn't the Cauldron grant me a mate?!!?!?"--which could be an acceptable question, akin to us questioning why haven't we found 'the one' yet. But no. He questions a very specific bond. And he dares to say 'what if the Cauldron was WRONG?' Can god made mistakes? Generally no. But in Azriel's mind, G-d made a mistake. Because it created the wrong bond for Elain. Again, he doesn't say 'why don't *I* have a bond?" He asks why was Elain given to another? He perceives it as a punishment for HER. He adds that she is not interested in Lucien. It's a burden on Elain. He doesn't say 'I', he always thinks of her. He actually views her bond as punishment. For her. And he knows what he can offer her instead. When Rhys berates him and says:

(He had never before dared speak  the words aloud.)

Rhys's face drained of color. "You believe you deserve to be her mate?"  

Azriel scowled. "I think Lucien will never be good enough for her,  and she has no interest in him, anyway." 

Azriel doesn't say 'I should've been her mate. I am better for her!' (even if he thinks that). His attention is always on her and her unhappiness. Which aligns with how he thinks of her in general--where her pleasure, her safety, her happiness are always on the forefront of his thoughts and actions.

Furthermore, 'he never DARED speak the words aloud.' It's a sentence that people don't pay enough attention to. Because this is Azriel. And he is not afraid of anything. Or anyone. He fights High Lords. He threatens them when they insult any female in his presence. He argues with his own High Lord, and his High Lady. He doesn't fear Amren. He doesn't fear the Blue Annis. He'll fly with a tree attached to his back. He will sneak into the Hybern camp. He will stand up to the King and steal something from under his nose. He sneaks into the darkest and most dangerous places in the world. He dares.

But questioning the bond and the Cauldron--he doesn't dare. That's how monumental this is.

Lucien never questions the Cauldron. Both Tamlin and Rhys sort of shrug off their parents' respective (unhappy) unions. Cassian doesn't question. Rhys certainly never thinks as to why he would be mated to a human girl.

But Azriel questions.

And that will be the story. Because what happens when the Cauldron IS wrong and you decide to go against fate and gods?

[stuffeddeer]

Idk if your like still taking asks since your last one was 2 whole weeks ago but i really just wanted to talk about 15!Dazai cause i miss my pookie and i reread your first kiss hc’s and ughhh being Dazai’s first ever crush, hes so smitten with you and doesn’t even understand why, maybe also forces Chuuya to be his unwilling wingman because he deadass uses cringey one liners on you and chuuya is sick and tired of it.

15!Dazai deserves to be a giddy infatuated teenager and kicking his legs like a schoolgirl when you give him your attention 🤧

Smitten 15!Dazai needing a wingman | Bungo Stray Dogs | Dazai x reader

nearly 8 months later i am here to complete this request!!! hope this is what you wanted (and was maybe worth the wait lol)

Chuuya doesn't really get the whole "Demon Prodigy" thing. Oh, Dazai is just soo smart and soo scary - what a joke. Chuuya has seen him spend ten minutes trying to figure out how to open a cereal box. Sure, the ginger didn't know either, but he figured it out quickly once the brunet gave up.

On the battlefield, Dazai can be quick-witted and ruthless, a foe worthy of his title. Yet right now, Chuuya watches with his arms crossed as the man beside him stumbles over his words while trying to talk to you about the weather of all topics.

It's sickening, almost - seeing the "genius" Dazai so blatantly ignore every signal you're sending. It's true, of course, that the brunet teen is exceptionally off-putting and non-socialized. The bandaged kid with unruly black hair and one emotionless eye (the other bandaged up and hidden away) is the type of weird befitting a title such as Demon Prodigy. While he is a mere 15 year old, his presence rouses unease wherever he goes.

Or so Chuuya was told. With him, the 15 year old is just that: a 15 year old. Dazai is bright but childish, boisterous and witty, ready to spar verbally until Chuuya has to walk away to calm himself down. The Dazai that Chuuya had come to know during their relatively recent partnership would never falter like this around someone his age - someone of equal standing. He isn't one to falter with those of higher standing, either.

Lackeys fear him, new recruits find him off putting and so on. But there are a few in the mafia - Chuuya and yourself - that are privy to see what he can really be like. Or, Chuuya, more exclusively. You... get an interesting version of him, to say the least.

“So that’s why it’s actually bad that it’s sunny out,” Dazai finishes, cheeks dusted an embarrassed red and hands wringing together. Is that… sweat? Dripping down his forehead? The man is always annoyingly cold, usually shoving a freezing hand onto Chuuya’s neck just to laugh while watching him recoil.

Jeez. Chuuya already knows how smitten Dazai is for you, but this is a new low he wasn’t expecting.

You politely smile, trying to act like his rambling made any lick of sense. “Well, I suppose I like flowers enough to concede. A little rain is good now and again.”

“We both like flowers!” Dazai points out. You idiot; everyone does.

Chuuya takes one hand out of his pockets to readjust his hat. “Dazai’s been tryin’ to get me to go to some flower garden on the other side of Yokohama,” he decides to lie. As if it wasn’t clear before, you pretending Dazai’s argument held any merit only proves that you like him back. Helping you is all he’s trying to do, because that stupid mackerel will never make a move on his own. “But I keep tellin’ him I’m not interested. Would be nice if you took my place.”

Eyes widening ever so slightly, you turn to Dazai with a timid expression. “I didn’t know we had one.”

“Wait, I— “

“It’s free admittance. Paid for by the government to clean up our city or somethin’ - Kouyou told us about it,” which is true, minus the part where Kouyou told Dazai as well.

The excited smile you give causes Dazai’s usually-controlled heart to leap into his throat. “That’s super cool! I totally wanna go, if you’re still up for it, Dazai.”

He doesn’t reply. The stupid, idiotic strategist that supposedly has been bolstering the Port Mafia’s defenses is left defenseless by a pretty smile. Seriously? This is what Chuuya has to put up with? He should just smack Dazai and take it all back. He’s never helping this lost cause again.

With one gloved hand, Chuuya slams it against Dazai’s head to force it into a nod. The slam is hard enough for Dazai to snap out of his stupor, but soft enough that you don’t notice how rough the ginger is being. “Say yes, idiot.”

And Dazai quickly follows through. He swats Chuuya’s hand away with an “I was gonna do that,” before clearing his throat. Looking back at you clogs it up once again and he gives an awkward smile back and a nod of his own this time. “Y-yep! I wanna go. With you. Well! Not like with with you, but like, with you. So, not like a date, just— I wanna go and you should come.”

Chuuya did his part. Can he leave yet? God, remind him to never help Dazai ever again. This was embarrassing for Chuuya and the short man is just a bystander. Though, the flush on Dazai’s face and the excited grin on yours helps to keep Chuuya’s annoyance at bay. At the very least, now the two of you can finally move on from this awkward crush stage and he won’t have to see Dazai metaphorically drown himself in every conversation with you.

And when the two of them got back a week later out of breath from running, Dazai’s hands covered in dirt and you holding an uprooted bouquet of fresh flowers, Chuuya realizes that maybe he chose the wrong location.

[mimipolo]

Nam-gyu x GN!reader headcanons

I started writing just because I had so many scenarios of him in my head I needed to get out to tysm for liking my last post.

No this is not proof read, I MIGHT edit it later.

This man is horribly clingly to an extreme. Will hold onto anything in reach clothes, arm, shoulder. Honestly anywhere you'll allow him to. He won't touch the obvious places that would vouch for consent but he'd definitely be eager if you say you could.

And if you're someone's that's not into being constantly touched all the time he'd try his best to respect that but there'll definitely be moments when he reaches out for you and stops midway or his hand brushes you briefly. At some point he can't take it and takes a different route by standing so close your shoulders touch or instead urging you to initiate.

I feel like he takes care of his hands the best, his hair is choppy and his apartment is a state but he'll always make time to trim and take care of his nails. You asked him about it before and he just said he bites his nails a lot and didn't further explain why.

He seems like the type to be jittery a lot even when he's not high, in fact I think his hands would possibly shake less when he is. His hands shaking doesn't always necessarily means he's nervous but if you take them in yours to comfort him he'd definitely milk the hell out of it and hold out his hands to you expecting you to run your thumbs over them, that playful grin he always wears when he knows he's about to get what he wants on his face as he tilts his head at you.

Jealousy is in his top three emotions. He's far from perfect unfortunately and his possessiveness is definitely one of those defining traits. He would casually bring up bad things a person you're getting close to has done like he's any better. Rubbing your back and preaching about how you should just stick with him.

Likes it if you run your hands down his back and sides, at first he found it annoying because of how ticklish it felt but shut up when you pointed out how hypocritical he was being. Being the fraud he is he quickly grew to like it, slumping his body over yours and as always expects to receive the embrace.

Lets you cut his hair, it's honestly the least of his concerns, is what he tells you at least. Sometimes you'll catch him picking at his hair in the reflection for too long. He's say on the floor of your bathroom as you sit on the bathtub rim facing the mirror, his eyes are trained on your hands the whole time and just couldn't help constantly making distracting pointers, a nudge to his side earns a scoff before he eventually just let's you work.

Would constantly be twirling your hair if he's on call, he's persistent. If you have short hair or bald he'd scratch your scalp or nape of your neck, anything nearest to him.

He'd genuinely be happy if you initiated touch, even if it's not in public. He just liked the knowledge that you also like him enough to reciprocate.

This guy definitely has a staring problem, usually on your side or back profile but sometimes he zeroes in on random places that make you raise an eyebrow at him or push his head away flustered. And no you can't stare at him back he'll start blubbering about something that doesn't make sense and rubs his hands together to ease the nerves.

Defends you quietly, anyone that has talked behind your back gets confronted away from you. Obviously if they insult you in front of him he's swearing and throwing out threats he can't stand up to. If he wins (if) he'd try to act cool as he shrugs and wipes the blood from his nose and nudges you playfully, scolding you for "always getting him in trouble."

Absolutely insufferable during movies, won't shut up. Constantly pointing out bad acting or something he would've done in the characters position. Will only be quiet if you take charge of feeding him popcorn when you can tell he's about to yap, the instinct comes naturally after being around him for so long. Only times you'll mostly let him talk is during tense scenes in horror movies, it's alright then as he talks your ear off about random stuff in the movie that's somehow not relevant. Your eyes screwed with anxiety to the screen as he laughs and pulls you closer to his side (he starts talking to calm himself down because he's just as scared.)

Likes how warm your stomach is, always coming up behind you just to lay his cold hands on your stomach, causing you to jolt because he's like freezing?? He only chuckles and presses himself closer against you as he squeezes your sides. It's almost as if he knows how annoying he is.

Whenever you two lie in bed there's always a moment where he's lying on your chest, he honestly just looks thoughtless as he stares into the gap where your shirt meets your collarbone. Sighs heavily like a burdens been lifted when he smooth your palm over his hair and kiss his temple. You always fall asleep before him, I honestly believe he's an insomniac or at least has some problems sleeping, he's content just lying on you as you doze off though.

If you had a specific or unique style he'd admire it a lot. Honestly proud because he can't be asked to put the same effort into himself. If you do dress him up he'll feel good for a moment before feeling like an imposter and taking it off. The only accessories he has are his necklace and rings (you complimented them once and he hasn't thought of going back since.)

As much as he refuses to admit other people's views and opinions of him are a big part of his life. And after so many negative comments about himself he didn't see the point in trying to change it, instead he indulged in all the guilty pleasures they accused him of because what did he have to lose. But any kind words you give him he hangs onto like a life line, even just saying his name correctly has him hooked(Thanos...). He'll act all smug as you praise him, nodding and grinning while his ears flush red.

He also love your hands. Kissing the tips, knuckles, pulse joint, everywhere. Makes you involuntary hold his face or put your hands on him. Likes seeing your hands intwined a lot, it feels solidifying.

Geekiest smile ever oh my days. He always looks so intimidating when he's outside but the moment another person (especially you) enter his bubble he's all smiles and chuckles, ducking his head softly as his hand covers his mouth. He could not handle being alone for too long.

The type of guy to randomly show up outside your apartment with takeaway with no warning and fully expects you to let him in, he knows you don't go out so it's the least you could do. Is a foot inside your doorway when you finally door when you stop him, hand on your hip as you look him up and down.

"Since when did you have takeaway money?"

"Do you not wanna eat? Damn just let me in."

Chat can you tell I adore him 🤓