#and she was sitting on a table and she was wondering what to do when suddenly dick sliced it in half perfectly with his jump knife

[luveline]

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐬

You’re in love with Spencer from the minute he gets you in his bed. [4k]

c: fem/afab. smut mdni, p in v sex, oral, fluff, aftercare, early intense feelings, spencer in sweetheart mode, flirting.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆

It’s a cold day in November when you see him across the bar. He’s sitting at a table of friends drinking from a tall glass of coke. He’s normal. Non-imposing, undeniably cute, laughing with a smile that shows his teeth. His tie is to his belt and his suit jacket’s been thrown over the back of the chair. 

He looks like he might have fun with you, if you can catch his attention. Something about him seems… eager to please. 

You watch him, and you watch his friend. He seems more your usual type, muscled, confident. He’s the key. You let your gaze linger on the curly-haired boy until the friend glances your way. You give him a look. Hey, who’s your friend?

You look away once you see an arm rise. There’s elbowing, arguing. You sit relaxed at the bar and twists your straw through cherry spritz, ice cubes tinkling. After a minute you think, Oh, come on. After two you worry you aren’t his type. 

Then comes salvation. The curly haired boy slots between your seat and the next, beckoning the bartender forward with a nearly perfect, “Excuse me?” 

“Right there with you.”

You wait. He seems cute, but you’re not trying to take him home if he doesn’t have the chops for it. And not because you see yourself as some deadly thing to be pleased, but you can’t spend another night fluffing someone else’s feathers. 

“Hey,” he says finally, surprisingly without the nerves you’d read before. He must’ve breathed through them. “How’s it going?” 

You lift your gaze from the dark purple of your spritz. The first thing you notice are the beauty marks you couldn’t see before, along his cheeks and hiding among a light shadow of stubble. “Hi, handsome,” you say softly. You can’t imagine him liking a firm touch, but that might become more apparent later on. “Nothing’s going on, I suppose I was just waiting for you.” 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Mm-hm.” 

He puts one arm on the bar. You let your eyes dawdle on his hand. “Are you here alone?” 

“I was with a friend,” you confess, lifting your gaze to his, making steady eye contact for as long as he’ll allow you to. His gaze flits to your mouth as you continue. “But she met somebody. I was told not to wait up.” 

“So you’re in need of company?” 

You tip your head to give him the best glance at you, all eyes and gentle smiles as you nod. “Would that be you?” 

“What are you drinking?” 

“Cherry spritzer.” 

“Can I buy you another one?” 

“Just one, please.” You believe in the overarching reach of sexuality, of being with someone, but you don’t believe in drinking and sex, nor allowing a man to pave the way. “This is my first. If I have more than that I’ll be too tipsy to do what I want tonight.” 

“What’s that?” he asks. 

You tap your nose. The boy —the man— to your delight, seems to like the gesture very much. 

The bartender approaches. Your unknown, lovely looking man asks for a coke and a cherry spritzer, extra cherries, though you didn’t tell him too. He nods to your little plate of cherry stems and asks, “Can you tie a knot?” But before you can answer, he adds, “I’m good at it.” 

Spencer proves to be good at a few things. Kissing, touching, his face in sweet places and his spit-wet thumb to a nerve. One moment you’re sitting at the bar wondering if he’ll take you home and the next you’re taking a taxi, you’re lying in his bed being stripped of your stockings, being laid on top of. You didn’t know he had it in him, this sweaty, adoring kissing in the dark; there’s a difference between kissing for hunger’s sake and kissing with love, and for some strange reason Spencer doesn’t seem to know the difference. 

“Have we met before?” you ask, the ache between your legs sharper than ever as his hand flirts with the boundary of your stomach and the apex of you, begging to go back there and prolong what he’d started. 

“No.” His lips are on your neck, kissing as he slips a finger behind your ear. “I’d remember.”

His chest pushes into yours again, triggering a breathy gasp as the button of your nipple takes the brunt of him. He turns your face, that flirting hand abandoning your wanting cunt to squeeze at your sides, your ribs, the soft hill of your breast. 

“Do you wanna cum again?” he asks softly. The best part is that he’s earnest, not a second of bravado in it as he lays his lips against your cheek. 

You could. He’d done stuff with his mouth you’ve never experienced before, fingertips teasing your wetness as he told you something about tantrics and pleasure, his hand under your knee, holding you open. You’d felt so suddenly out of control and —and honestly, you’d thought yourself half in love with him for the way he was kissing you alone. No shyness, but softness. No rushing, no annoyance when it took you time to tip into pleasure. He’d been delighted when you seized, had sat up to draw the climax out with circles, matching pace to your rising chest. 

You slip a hand into his curls and treat him with the same sweetness he’d given you, kissing him like you love him: for whatever time this is, you really do. He’s the prettiest boy you’ve ever fucked. All it took to meet was a snowstorm and a need to escape the rigid cold. 

“I think you should fuck me now,” you say, scratching his scalp lightly, not so frantic, no more pulling. “Please.”

He kisses you, kisses your jaw, and doesn’t pretend he isn’t eager as he snatches the condom from the dresser. For a while things are giggly and breathless, nervous for a pause, then achingly tight. You stay and Spencer wraps his arms behind you, kissing your neck as you let your leg fall to the side. 

“When did you tell me your name?” you ask, breathless again as his kiss matches his rhythm, slow grinds of his hips, flirting as his hand had been, just a few inches from filling you completely. 

“I don’t remember,” he says through a kiss.

“Spencer.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I just thought I’d try it,” you say, covering your eyes with your hand as his hips flex and he touches that worst part of you over, and over, and over. 

Spencer turns your face to take your hand, slowing to a crawl. He checks your gaze, and sinks into you again. Slow fucking, long kisses, his hands rubbing up the juncture of your neck and down again, then stroking your arms, comfort for a pain you don’t feel. 

“What do you want me to do?” he asks quietly. 

“Just this.” 

“No, but what do you want?” he asks, lips pulled into a smile that didn’t quite make it into a laugh. “What feels best? I can get you there again.” 

So you end up more on your side than your back. He helps you lift a leg over his hip and then he’s back to kissing you senseless. You can’t think of anything but being kissed, being fucked, it doesn’t just feel like an okay pastime with a vaguely handsome guy heightened by a drink, it’s fucking with intent. He curls an arm behind your back to hold you against him and he lets you have everything. 

Something must give you away, a shaking leg, the way you breathe; he knows you’re ready before you do, kissing down your chest as his hand sinks between your hot thighs. Slick or not, he finds where he wants to touch, your eyes filling with heat as he slows. 

He draws it out. The second his lips find your chest you trip into cumming for the second time. You hadn’t realised he was close but you cum and he quickly follows, his nose at your collar. He sounds insane. Beggy, breathy moans, a shade from laughter.

“Can I keep going?” he asks just under your ear. 

You can’t say yes fast enough. He’s kind, ignoring your desperate tone. 

You don’t count the number of times you fuck that night. It’s not clear, really. They aren’t separate occasions. You come down and he’s stroking the skin of your neck as you catch your breath, drawing lines down your arm, murmuring, “You okay?” as you nod and slip a hand behind his back. 

He hugs you like he’s known you for years. When you kiss his blushing chest, kiss downward, he turns breathless. It goes on like that for a while. Afterwards, he situates himself between your legs and lets his weight force your thighs into your abdomen, just enough to feel the pressure, searching kisses pressed to your knee. 

It’s not that you fuck all night, it’s just different than before. And when he encourages you under his sheets to lay behind you, there’s a part of you that wants his hand to stray between your legs again, no matter how tired you are. 

“I’d say sorry for keeping you up, but you sounded like you liked it,” he murmurs in the dark, wrapping a solid arm around your stomach and pulling you tightly to him.

You have no regrets. For perhaps the first time ever, it feels as though all your gasps and teary sighs were adored, and not just smugly kept. “You didn’t notice me falling asleep?” 

He laughs at your teasing, his breath kissing the back of your neck. “When did that happen?” 

“…I don’t want to fall asleep, now.” 

“You don’t have to… I can make you a cup of tea, or…” He draws another line down your arm, ending in a swirl before your elbow. “You could shower.” 

Both sound nice, but no. Your legs are still weak from being held, the ache of a good fuck taking home in your stomach. Truthfully, nothing could make you wanna leave whatever it is he’s doing to you now. The shape of his lips warms your shoulder. 

“That was amazing.”

“You’re amazing,” he says, wrapping you up all over again. He can’t decide how to hold you. You grab his hand and keep it there under your breasts, letting your eyes flutter closed. 

How can he say that? He has this strange way of touching that’s making you feel yards prettier than you usually do, and he’d just fucked you like a dream. You couldn’t manage that sort of pleasure alone. 

“Where have you been hiding?” you whisper, toying with his fingers. Might as well do everything you can while you can. 

“Nowhere.” 

“So where have you been?” 

He takes a breath. “Turn around?”

You begin turning and he takes you like a dance, leaning in slowly to kiss you, until his smoothness gives way to a smile. He pulls back. In the barest lick of light from the window, you can see a blush spreading across his nose. 

“Sorry. I should ask, I shouldn’t just kiss you,” he says, cupping your cheek. 

How might you go about marrying this boy? You decide to play it cool, kissing him until you fall asleep in his arms, your lips still parted for another lazy press of his as he pulls the sheets over your shoulders. 

—

You wake to something new. There isn’t a man against you hinting for a morning tryst, nor an empty bed, a note to let yourself out when you’re ready. There’s a real, gentle hand on your neck. It slides to your shoulder and rubs. 

“You okay?” a voice asks. 

You force your eyes open, blurry vision further occluded by a face. 

His hair is damp. Like he showered a while ago. Spencer’s hand travels to the back of your neck and touches accordingly. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but it’s almost one. I was worried you might be sick.” 

You close your eyes, smiling, better when he scratches the back of your neck with short nails. “I was up late.” 

“I know, I’m  sorry.” 

You wait for him to tell you why you have to leave, any manner of excuse, but nothing comes. 

“So are you? Okay?” he asks gently. 

“I’ll leave soon.” 

“That’s not what I’m trying to say. If you’re not sick, you can go back to sleep.” 

“And just lay in your bed all day,” you murmur, disbelieving. 

“If you wanted to. Or… you can shower, and I can make you something to eat.” His thumb takes to your cheek. One night stand sex can’t be something he does often, or there’s a real possibility that he’s the first man to ever do it right.

His eyes are so much bigger than you realised. “Do you wear glasses?” 

He stammers, embarrassed, “How would you guess that?” 

You raise a hand to his face and draw a short line against his nose. “You have the marks here. Were you reading?” 

“Just while I was waiting for you.” 

“What do you do?” 

“What?” 

“I didn’t ask what you do, I don’t think we managed to ask each other much of anything,” you say, rewarded for your vulnerability with a chest-aching smile, his canine teeth peeking from under his lips. He still looks kissed, lips a shade of sore you’re sure you’d see on yourself in the mirror. 

“I work for the government,” he says, catching your hand to cradle your wrist, “for something called the behavioural analysis unit.” 

“Like, statistics?” 

He lets your hand fall against his chest, a thin grey t-shirt under your knuckles failing to hide the shapes of him, of which you’d explored at length last night. You kissed as much of his chest as you could and it hadn’t felt like enough, Spencer leaner than you’d realised with a stomach on the soft side, easy to kiss relentlessly. 

Your mouth is drying thinking about it. Spencer watches you wordlessly, before saying, “I guess it is like statistics, especially for me. We try to think about serial criminals in terms of their motives. It’s an attempt at math for something not usually quantitative.” 

“And you’re good at it.” 

“I’m good at math, yeah.” 

“Probability of a,” —your breath betrays you, slightly too hopeful as it catches— “morning kiss if I brush my teeth first?” 

His eyes light up. He leans down carefully, and gives you a chaste, firm kiss. 

You forget that you’re naked, not worried about being shy. The sheets fall away from you as you lift up to meet him. He holds them to your naked waist, the other hand skirting just below your breast. You wish he’d touch you like he did last night, but he isn’t so forward. His kiss is kind. You frown as he pulls away. 

“I had a really great time, last night,” he says, tip of his thumb setting your nerves aflame as it drifts over your skin. “Really great.” 

“Me too.” 

“And you’re okay?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Nothing hurts?” he asks. 

“No, of course not.” Your confusion clears. “No, you weren’t like that. I think my legs might be aching but that’ll go away in the shower.” 

“I can run you a bath, if you want. It’s a half bath so you might not be able to stretch out, but it’ll help.” He gives you a smile. The familiarity between you doesn’t want to ebb. 

“Shouldn’t have showered without me,” you say, soft, lest playful be something he doesn’t want on a new day. 

“My hair was greasy. Someone kept touching it.” 

You sit up. Spencer’s hands fall to yours.

It’s hard not to play with someone’s hair when it’s in their face, and when they’re trailing kisses in warm places. He doesn’t blame you really, you can see it in his eyes. 

For a pause, you just sit. 

This is nice. Not being thrown out, left with that aching gap in your chest like you gave something you hadn’t intended when it started. Sex will never be easy again, you realise, not when you know it can be good. 

“You’re not working today, are you?” you ask. 

“No, why?” he asks in turn, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. 

“Maybe we…” He waits. He’s pretty enough to force your hand. “We could get to know each other,” you say, gaze taking refuge on his hands. “If you want to.” 

”Really?” 

“I’ve never had that with someone. Maybe we’re, I don’t know, compatible in more ways than one.” You remember yourself, lifting your head, startled by the sheer want in his expression as he holds your fingers. “You’re handsome, and you seem kind. We could have fun.” 

“We could have so much fun,” he says, that flushed blush already spreading across his nose again. 

You draw a line up his chest. “I might need help getting my back, in the shower. That’s not a tight squeeze, is it?” 

“We might have to stand very close.” 

You giggle wildly as he pulls you up, worse when he drapes a sheet over you worrying about the cold. It’s treatment you could grow used to. 

— 

Spencer’s trying to figure out how he got here. You, across the bar sending him looks —Derek swore you were— and the second he got to your chair he realised you were out of his league, but he had nothing to lose beside his pride. 

Then there was you, in bed, pulling on his tie murmuring sweet somethings, sweet pleadings, really, taking another kiss as he moved as you asked. 

Then you, the morning after. You’d slept for long enough to scare him, but when you woke you were exactly the girl you’d been the night before, only slower. Ever so slightly bashful. We could get to know each other. 

Spencer’s not sure how he managed it, but you don’t go home. And on Monday you go to work and come back. On Tuesday he meets you outside of your building to take you for dinner, and you come back with him again, another night up in his arms, tangling his hair with enthusiastic fingers. The sex is good, it is, not just ‘cos his past catalogue of lays were with women who wanted casual experiences solely, or those few times with Ethan where it ended too fast and left him useless. You fuck him like you love him. It’s crazy, except he’s acting the same way. 

When you’re not fucking you’re in his lap, or sitting at the coffee table with your face on his thigh driving him crazy, or you’re laying with your feet tucked under him telling him something about you. He is desperate for the details. 

Like, this is it. You’ve pulled your chair as close to his as humanly possible and thrown both legs over his, basically sharing his seat as you laugh around a messy mouthful of Thai noodles. 

“Don’t look, I’m being disgusting–”

“You’re never disgusting, let me–”

He’s heard you pee. He’s kissed you all over. The human aspects of you don’t bother him. 

“Spence, can you–”

“It’s going up your nose–”

“–stop, holy s–”

He pinches your nose clean. “Tada. Kiss now?” 

“You wanna share?” 

“Yes!” 

“No.” You press your hand to your mouth before he can lean in.

He lets you swallow your mouthful. Your ankle is cool in his hand. When people talk about love, it’s about meeting someone, the dates and the phone calls, the big questions. Spencer didn’t know you could do it like this. Every time you go home, you’re asking if you can come back or pestering him to come your way. 

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks imploringly. 

“No, we’re done kissing for a bit. I want another one of those massages.” 

He can’t joke about it or he’ll turn crimson. You enjoyed a polite leg massage, until he got to your thighs, and things got out of hand. 

“No massages.” He taps you under the chin, letting his hand travel wherever it wants over the side of your face. 

“Fine, no massages. Unless you want one?” 

“No, we agreed tonight we’d just– sleep. My boss is onto me.” 

You wink involuntarily as he cups your cheek, his fingers pushed lightly over your eyes.

You aren’t fiends, but finding someone who matches as you do makes it hard to abstain from the fun. Last night was tame, though; he’d made sure you were happy and fallen asleep to grateful neck kisses. Tonight, he won’t say no, but these all-hours affairs have to stop. Derek’s suspicious of him, Hotch has the situation entirely sussed, he's sure, and Spencer’s sixty percent sure Rossi saw you both outside of Quantico tonight kissing against a toll booth.  

Not that it matters. Spencer has a good feeling you’re not a fling. 

“I got you some stuff earlier,” he says. 

You pull his hand from your face and ask, “What stuff?” 

“Like, stuff you need here. I don’t know what you like, but there’s a cleansing balm– are you allergic to chamomile?” You shake your head. “Um, it might be weird, I got you underwear, just ‘cos of the situation yesterday–”

“I liked wearing boxers, they were snug in a certain region is all–”

“–and some shampoo. That sort of stuff. Just so you can stop suffering with mine.” 

“You know what shampoo I use?” 

“I deduced it.” 

“Ah, yes, mister profiler,” you mumble, bending into your knees to hold his face. “If I hadn’t looked you up online I’d think you were a stalker. How can you guess my favourite ice cream flavour when I never told you?”

He smiles shyly. “I just can.”

“Is there anything else you’ve guessed about me?” 

“Every meal with you takes a half hour. You’re easily distracted.”

He laughs as you protest, “You’re distracting! You don’t need to guess that.” 

“You distract me, too.” 

You gather yourself up and stand over him to kiss his nose. “Spencer,” you whisper, your fingers sliding into his hair, “thank you. You don’t have to buy me stuff, I could’ve just gone home.”

“I don’t really want you to.” 

You raise your head to see him eye to eye. “I don't want to either. This is… I like you.” 

He hums, wrapping his arms around you. The hugs are rarer than kisses, but only because you’ve shared so many of the latter in the dark. He’s been thinking of kisses as the extension to fucking, that they’re okay as long as it’s done in bed, but the more time you stay, the more kisses you’ve shared for no reason at all. You kissed his cheek on the train earlier and he felt it like a shock, tipping his chin down to peck you on the lips, your arm curled behind his back as the traincar rattled over a bend. 

“I like you too,” he laughs. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, of course I do.” 

“Not just…” 

“It’s not just the sex,” he says, waving his hand behind your shoulder as you curl into him all over again. It feels amazing. 

“Should we go out, then?” 

“We do.” 

“No, should we date? We could be partners, officially.” 

Spencer can’t take it, scooping you into his lap, though you do sit obligingly on his thigh. He shifts to take the weight. 

“Please, let’s be partners,” he says softly. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t, it’s still soon.” 

“Five days and counting. That’s longer than some marriages, you know.” 

“Maybe we can be, like, tentative boyfriend and girlfriend. If you change your mind, no hard feelings.” 

“And if I don’t?” he asks. 

“Then we get married in Vegas.” 

“You could meet my mom.” 

“I’d love to meet your mom.”

“Do you really wanna be my girlfriend?” he asks. 

“I mean… there’s not such a big difference in dating and what we’re doing, right? This is relationship stuff, we just sort of skipped the awkward first dates.” 

“We did,” he says, failing to hide his grin. 

You stroke his cheek with your nose.

Your attempt at abstinence doesn’t last, but neither party is to blame. You have to celebrate somehow. So you finish your takeout dinner and wash dishes bumping hips. He locks the door for the night and you, giggling, struggle to change his A/C. When he drags you by the sleeve to the bedroom, he doesn’t intend on jumping right into it, and for a while he doesn’t. You lay on top of him between his parted legs and he spends a sluggish hour stroking your hairline, listening to you talk. But his devotion turns to your ear, and he’s kissing behind it, and you’re hitching yourself up his chest soon enough. 

“That cherry spritzer was worth it, huh?” you ask lowly, scratching his jaw as you sit over him.

You really are pretty, amplified by your syrupy smile. 

“I guess that depends what you think. Was I as good at making knots as I promised?” he asks. 

“I can’t remember.” 

“I can remind you?”

“That might be prudent, Dr. Reid.” 

“I never should’ve told you about that,” he murmurs, your lips atop his, ready to be parted. 

“I would’ve found out eventually. I’m gonna find out everything about you, honey.” 

Spencer lets his eyes shutter closed. Me first, he thinks, giving in to another endless kiss. He has the advantage, after all. 

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆

thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed please consider liking reblogging or leaving a comment/reply it makes my day and I am so grateful<3 

[waterbottlegrey-blog]

The thing is. The thing is. It really is just a cat, though. It may be an immortal cat. Or a magical talking cat.

But you'll be damned if you'll involve yourself in whatever nonsense made Grandmother Veaselburbley take all those visits to their Majesties, and looking more annoyed and resigned than you saw her arranging the seating order for Christmas Dinner- she always took the cat with her.

And so, you order your maid to accompany you when you are possible to encounter the cat. You make up some nonsense about a bad dream and feign hysterics.

And it works! The cat tries to seek you out several times. Jump on your lap, and so forth. Unsuccessfully.

The servants, by now aware of your caprice, are always with you. Gently picking the cat up and carrying it away.

And then the invites start. Every member of your family in turn is summoned to the Palace. You do not bother to wait yours.

A sudden fit of fragile nerves - you trust Dr Markham made something convincing up, you certainly paid him enough - and you're on your way to Swiss, to recover in fine mountain air.

A summons come for you, in your lovely vacation. You pretend a fit of consumption. And then a broken leg. And then exhaustion. The Swiss doctors are really much more expensive for these things.

It goes on for a year, or near as.

Then the summons stop, because the entire damn country goes to hell. There are upraisings, their Majesties are dead, and there is a confusing period where every member of your family is quite possibly destitute - but thankfully, someone had offshored the family fortune at some point, and you watch, vaguely guilty, as the fires of revolution burn, and burn out.

Order restores itself, and a year and a half after this nonsense started, you are sitting on a terrace, sipping hot chocolate, wondering if you should accept the proposal of a very charming Belgian royal - Duke? Well. Certainly charming.

An then out of nowhere, a man in a sleek black suit sits opposite to you.

You freeze at the audacity, and the incompetence of the staff - he does not even wear a hat! Nor gloves!

"I beg your pardon-"

He grins at you. The words die as panic closes your throat. His hair is white, and his eyes are blue, and his teeth are -

He pushes something across the table.

A gold embossomed leather band. It is the collar. The damn cat has found you. You stare at the mane in horror.

He blinks his eyes slowly at you.

"Thanks," he says. The he gets up.

And leaves.

You have no idea what has happened.

But you're damned glad you never let the cat be alone with you.

Your grandparent passes and your parents inherit the palatial estate as well as the care for its cat. After going through several family records you realize the cat has been inherited throughout the generations. You try telling others but they forget. Now it keeps trying to be alone with you.

[razrbladekiss]

CRAVE | Joel Miller

SUMMARY: there’s only one thing that joel craves, and it isn’t the mental fucking torture of an overly stubborn twenty-something teasing him ‘til he’s blue in the face. and balls.

PAIRING: dbf!joel miller x afab!reader. legal unspecified age gap.

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI, 18+ CONTENT BELOW THE CUT. alcohol consumption. pervy old man joel. reader’s dad (i’ve named him sorrrry) is there before joel gets pervy. some religious themes and also descriptions of religion in a negative light (this is MY experience with christianity, if you do not agree then please don’t read), no explicit smut but descriptions of what joel wants to do to youuuu so: mentions of piv, cock-riding, oral f!receiving, choking if you squint, dirty talk asf, joel being cocky which leads to his cock being sad and alone. reader is cunty. not proof-read ‘cus, once again, i’m a lazy bitch and i don’t have time for that. enjoy. 🫶🏻

An end to craving is an end to suffering.

Today’s last stream of sunlight fulgurates through the branches of your father’s prized Texas Ash, hitting perfectly the dime-sized crucifix situated comfortably between two pert tits sheathed in sheer black cotton.

Joel tries not to stare, but it’s impossible. He’s been watching you all fucking night. Every time you get up, he’s been glued to your ass. Whenever you lean over, Joel can’t seem to pry his eyes away from your cleavage. The more he’s been drinking, the more brazen he’s been with his stolen glances.

When your father rambles about some work-related spiel—and you’re sitting so innocently across the way—he can’t help affixing his eyes to the swell of your breasts. Wondering what it’d be like to touch, and grope, and suck on them.

Your mother was right about him. For all of the years that she knew Joel while your parents were together, she’d always say that he was trouble. A good-for-nothing, splenetic, perverted old-man who was but a bad influence. And you never noticed, never cared. You always thought that he was a great friend, and a stand-up guy.

Until today. Until you saw him scrutinizing your form—in front of your dad—you had a lot more respect for Joel. But now you realize that your mother was right. He is a perv. But—fuck—do you love that.

You’re not sure what you enjoy more—disrespecting your insane Catholic mother, or knowing that Joel is undressing you with his eyes—but you can’t help yourself feeding into his fantasy.

“Daddy?” Your father hums, not entirely bothered by the fact that you’ve just interrupted his conversation. He smiles. “Do you want another beer?”

“Please, hon.” He hands you his empty bottle, mumbling something about how he was going to get himself one and that you don’t need to. But you insist.

The blanket over your thighs is being discarded, hiking your dress up with it. Joel gets a glimpse of your lace panties that he likes to imagine you wore just for him, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Bare, supple skin is on display as you get up from the deck chair. You turn to him with a prurient twinkle in your eye, and ask if he wants a drink too. “Yeah, another won’t hurt. I’m already pretty—“ he hiccups, “pretty far gone, anyway.”

Dad laughs while you saunter to the cooler and make a big show of bending over, completely unaware of the way Joel is trying to conjure up a plan to get you alone tonight. But then…

“Same ‘ere, bud.” He laughs before he’s nodding toward Joel. “Stay the night, if ‘ya wanna. I mean, you’re in no fit state to drive—none of us are—and I got a spare bedroom.”

His nose scrunches up, as if to decline, before you’re turning around with two unopened beers and a small bottle of wine. Your hand wraps around the neck almost romantically, leaving very little to his imagination.

“Yeah, you might as well stay, Miller.” You put down the beers on the table, still holding firmly the Merlot. “I’m stayin’. I got nowhere to be in the mornin’, and dad bought breakfast stuff.”

Two brown eyes are latched to each of yours, and you feel beads of perspiration roll through the valley of your breasts. Despite the evening cooling down, you’re stifling beneath his unyielding gaze.

“Alright, I’ll stay.” Joel concedes. He takes his can and cracks it open, lifting it up to cheers your father. “S’long as you’re makin’ me breakfast, Gary.”

Dad salutes and you smile, sinking into the purple cushion with a satisfied hum. You ogle Joel, biting fiercely the skin of your bottom lip. And it doesn’t go unnoticed.

Joel swigs his beer—letting your dad drunkenly ramble—and doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Wondering how he’s going to make you pay for torturing him like this.

But this hadn’t been your intention when Joel showed up to watch the Cowboys v Browns game this afternoon. In fact, him staying past nine o’clock was completely unintentional and if it weren’t for your dad pumping him full of Coors and Old Milwaukee, he’d be fast asleep at this very moment.

He supposes that he doesn’t mind, being here. Especially because he’s buzzed—still able to speak and think coherently, which is surprising—and gets to spend some rare time with you. Even if it is with your dad.

You watch them converse—the way that friends do—admiring how patient Joel is with him despite him being a little bit too inebriated for his own good. He’s the kind of friend that your old man needs; understanding, forbearing. And it baffles you that they’ve not known one another for longer than seven years, but surmise that they’d definitely be best friends in every other timeline because they just work so well.

But it’s the thought of them being friends—brothers—that urges feelings of unease. Trepidation. Gary’ll have a cow if he finds out the way that his so called buddy has been making googly eyes at his little girl’s titties for the last eight hours.

Joel senses the shift in attitude—you’re not teasing him now—and turns the topic of conversation to you. Dad doesn’t mind, though. Never minds talking to—or about—his kid.

“What made you stay in with us oldies tonight, huh?”

Wine is being swiveled around the glass before you take it back in one swig. A grimace flits over your features, but they both catch it.

“Didn’t feel like hittin’ the bars.” Candidly, you say. It’s refreshing. “Can’t be dealin’ with pervy old men tryna touch me.”

Less refreshing.

Joel’s blood runs cold, and you smirk. He swallows thickly the liquid acrimony bubbling from the chasms of his throat. He wants to screw that stupid grin off of your face—stuff his cock straight between those plush lips and throat fuck you ‘til you’re crying and gasping for air.

He just nods instead of saying anything.

“I’ll kill anyone that touches you.” Dad says, not sensing Joel’s sudden frigid state. “Seriously. ‘Specially if it’s an old fuckin’ degenerate asshole—“

“Alright, Gary.” You halt the hate train, pouring the last few dregs of wine into your glass. “No need to get all protective. No old coot is comin’ anywhere near me.”

You look directly at Joel when you say; “old men can’t do what guys my age can, anyway.”

Dad grimaces. Joel scoffs. You can’t help smiling, feeling very proud of yourself.

“Y’know, you’re still my kid? And hearing this shit is nasty.” Your father tells you around a burp, and realizes that this might be the time to call it a night.

He’s never been able to handle his alcohol, especially after being married to your psychotic beer-loathing, hymn-signing, prayer-group-leading, holier-than-though moronic fucking mother.

He lets himself get too drunk too fast, now. Ever since she went back to Kansas—which was totally code for I fucked the priest and got extradited from the church—he’s really let his hair down, and you’d be lying if you said this version of your old man wasn’t the very best. Because he’s living his life the way that he wants to, now.

It’s nice.

“It might be nasty, but ‘least you don’t have to worry about me bringing home a man your age. Or even worse; older.”

Gary gets to his feet—knees clicking and cracking as he does so—and nods. “‘Spose that’s true, kid.”

Joel. Is. So. Fucking. Pissed.

As you say your goodnights—and put on a few lights so that your dad doesn’t trip over his own feet—Joel is mentally counting down the minutes until he gets you alone on this damn patio. He’s determined to make you regret the few little comments that you’ve made tonight.

“Don’t stay up too late. Y’know how cranky ‘ya get with no sleep.” Dad reminds you. “You too, Miller.”

You hum your response, lifting your empty glass and indicating that you’ll be retiring to your room soon, too.

“Night dad.”

“Night, pumpkin.” He turns to Joel. “Make sure she ain’t up too late.”

He nods and shifts his gaze to you, eyes darkening. “Yessir. I’ll put her to sleep.”

Your father grunts and slides the patio door to close. Leaving his daughter and best friend alone together might be the biggest mistake that he’s ever going to make.

Joel watches him intently behind the glass door, heeding him stumble across the tile. He might be about to rearrange your guts, but he at least wants to be courteous.

Your legs squeeze together, for the only sound you hear is the reverberation of Joel’s I’ll put her to sleep in that sexy, beer-slick tone.

He sees it.

“She makin’ ‘ya squirm?”

You blink at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your pussy.” Joel—as candid as ever—elaborates. “Is she flutterin’ ‘cus ‘a me?”

The fallout of a chemical bomb would be much more appealing than having to look Joel in the eye after such a lewd statement.

“Don’t worry if so. I have that effect on the ladies.”

“Makin’ yourself sound like a slut, Miller.” Coolly, you respond. Your hand is reaching for a can of beer, twining fingertips around the base while another pulls the tab.

Two eyes screw shut when a spritz of alcohol is flushing over your face, neck and chest. Droplets of Bud trickle between those perfect tits that Joel’s eyes have almost burned fucking holes into; forcing even the horniest man on planet earth to render himself utterly speechless.

You trail a finger through the valley of your breasts, collecting the sticky liquid before you’re putting it straight into your mouth; sucking it clean. Your eyes are locked on Joel’s.

“What? Cat got your tongue?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. The sight before him is truly one to behold; his friend’s sweet daughter with her fingers between her tits out in the patio. Nobody’d ever believe him if he told them this. Joel probably wouldn’t even fucking believe himself.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ’ya?” Is what he says in response. He’s quick witted, you’ll give him that. “My tongue stuck in your pretty little pussy—“

Heat flashes over you.

“You’re fucking vile.”

“Ain’t that the way it’s meant’a be?” He lurches forward, and your eyes travel to the small opening of his shirt’s midsection that highlights perfectly the fact that he hasn’t a base layer beneath the flannel.

You see a small patch of hair; brown, and gray and seems a little fuzzy. It’s a sudden reminder that this man is a smidge too old for you. But you can’t find it in yourself to care very much.

“Don’t think so.” Trying to out-douche him, you respond. Joel’s thick fingers are twined together, hands resting over the peaks of his knees. “Think youre meant’a have some kinda respect for me. Y’know, as my dad’s buddy, ‘n all.”

Joel snorts a laugh.

“I’d have respect for ‘ya, but the way that peachy fuckin’ ass was in the air when ‘ya bent over the cooler tells me that daddy’s ’lil girl is more of a slut than me.”

Your jaw rolls. Reaction: gauged.

He inches nearer to you; slimy grin plastered across rough, rugged features. “Only pullin’ your leg, hon. I know you’re no slut. Too much of a prissy bitch—“

“Oh, really?” Irked, you spit.

Joel nods. Pushing at your buttons has never been much of a difficult feat. It’s something that he quite enjoys, actually.

“Mhm, yeah.” The man is leaning backwards in his chair, now. Arms folded behind his head; hands pressed against his dark curls. “Gonna have to prove that you ain’t like your mama.”

Your blood boils. And then it runs cold.

“Don’t gotta prove shit to you.” You defend. Very defensively.

“No, that’s right. Don’t gotta do nothin’, kiddo.”

You see the outline of his dick as it stiffens within the confines of his dark, navy-denim jeans. He’s actually getting off on this.

“Unless you want to—“

“Nah, I’m good.” You’re leaning back, now, lifting your legs to sit criss cross applesauce. The barely-covering-your-crotch sheer fabric of your thong catches his eye; a glint of something wicked flickers through them as he clears his throat.

If you’re playing the long game, then so is he. He can out-stubborn anybody.

“So I’ve heard.” He jabs, insinuating that you’re a prude. Again. “Can prove ‘em all wrong, if ‘ya wanna.”

It’s killing him, this. It’s torture. But he’s strong. Ish.

You shake your head, reaching for your almost-empty can of beer. You’re taking another long pull, making a dramatic show of tilting your head back and puffing out your chest as you do so. His lips purse.

“I’m good.” You tell him again with a syrupy smile. “Rather we just talk. Y’know—be civilized, ‘n all.”

His arms are moving to the sides of his deck chair, now. Joel’s tongue runs along his bottom lip. He gives a quick bob of his head.

“Yeah, we can talk.” His eyes zone in on your pussy; the engorged wet patch situated on the part of fabric that kind-of clothes your cunt. His mouth waters. “But what’ll we talk about, baby girl?”

Another surge of pleasure oozes out from between your thighs, turning what was once a purple thong into a jet-black one. Joel doesn’t mind, though. The sight is sweet; it’s prurient, in some sick way.

“Hm.” You pretend to think, all the while spreading your legs a little bit more. He sees perfectly the outline of your folds as fabric hugs and highlights the inner workings of your beautiful anatomy. “Why don’t we start with what you’re thinkin’ about, Mr. Miller?”

A weakness of his, that is. You referring to him as Mr. Miller has always gotten him hot. It’s innocent, almost. It’s like that’d been engrained into your brain by the god-fearing fruit-loop that brought you up, and you can’t quit saying it in these situations.

“Oh, doll. Not sure you’ll wanna hear what I’m thinkin’ of.” His tone is rough, now. Like 180 grit sandpaper against the wooden walls inside of your fucking brain. You hum.

Mentally, Joel’s cock is spearing open the tight hole between your legs; making you scream his name. He’s thrusting his prick up into your cervix while you ride him like he’s the last cowboy on earth, desperate to feel a kind of pleasure that no man your age could ever bestow upon you.

In his head, he’s picturing your crucifix dangling in his face while you’re pleasuring yourself on his length; glistening with sweat, and cum, and Sierra Nevada. Howling at his girth, speechless at the size of him.

He wants nothing more than to wrap a hand around the base of your throat and fuck you into next week; feeling damp walls contract and seize around his cock—

“No.” You snap him back to reality; halting his train of thought. “No, you can tell me. I’m a big girl, I can take it.”

Oh, I’m fuckin’ sure she can.

“Fine.” He clears his throat. “Just thinkin’ of stufin’ that warm ‘lil cunt with my big ‘ol cock, ‘s’all.”

“Oh, is that all?” Your tone is teasing.

Joel does not like to be teased.

“If you’d shut your fuckin’ mouth, I’d be able to finish.”

In a moment of pure, unapologetic submission, you nod. The skin of your bottom lip is getting fucking gnawed at by your teeth in an attempt to conceal a moan.

It works. Kind of.

“What was I sayin’…” He strives to recall his last few words; and then he remembers. “Oh, yeah. Stretchin’ out that cute pussy ‘a yours.”

That cute pussy ‘a yours, is twitching. Fuck that, it’s pulsating.

“And you’re so sure of that? You being able to stretch me out, I mean.”

“Dead sure, angel face.” He quips. “I know for a damn fact that you’d be havin’ trouble takin’ my fat cock all in one go; be cryin’ for everyone to hear.”

Through long, thick lashes, you stare at him.

“You’d be seein’ stars; and not just the ones above us right now.”

You look up to the sky and hope to alleviate some of the mental pain being bestowed upon you right now. Which is entirely your own doing, of course.

Joel shifts in his seat so that he’s a little bit more sunken, able to heed clearly the sickly sweetness blanketing the chair you’re on.

“I’ll eat your pussy, too.”

Your attention is snapped back down to Joel, now. Your brows raise.

“Suck your soul right out from between your legs.”

“Oh, Joel.” You moan, a little. He lets his eyes shut for a brief moment, only to open them again to find you taking off your panties.

It’s like Christmas fucking day, this.

“I’d love for you to take me right here; fill me up on one ‘a the sunloungers.” You’re getting off your chair, and Joel’s heart is starting to pound within the chasms of his chest.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

You’re walking toward him; thong in hand. Fingers wreathed through soaked purple cotton.

“Can’t think of anything that’ll bring me more pleasure than you fuckin’ me ‘til I’m crying. Or gasping for air.”

“You ‘n me both, beautiful.”

You smile. You give Joel your underwear, before you’re running your fingers through his hair and he’s letting a hand glide up the meat of your thigh and beneath your skirt.

“Just a shame, ain’t it.”

“What’s a shame, sugar?”

The feeling of his fingertips—calloused and covered in rough skin—is almost orgasmic. But you’re stronger than what he is. So you pull yourself away from his hold, and begin to feel an unwavering sense of need. You shirk it, though.

You’re leaning into him now, breasts pressed against his shoulder, lips touching the shell of his ear. Goosebumps prickle over his neck and you assume that they’re making their way down south, too.

“Huh?” He says to get your attention, for you still haven’t answered. “What’s a shame?”

Fingertips trace over broad shoulders enveloped in soft, warm flannel. You’re leaning closer; hot breath on his skin. Your lips part to whisper:

“If daddy ever found out about this, he’d kill ‘ya.”

“Baby—“

You’re taking the panties from his hand, and tucking them into the breast pocket of his shirt. Fighting a blush—feeling very proud of yourself—your face remains straight.

You tap at his chest and walk away, but not before throwing a “night, Miller” over your shoulder.

Joel looks down at the ground, presently wallowing in some sort of self-pity. But then remembers the visible effect that his words had—and the way he looked at—you, and he can’t fight the stupid fucking grin pushing its way onto his face.

He might’ve just experienced blue-balls at his big age, but to see you submit to his gaze was absolutely worth it.

He just hopes you’ll never tell a soul about his dirty-talk. He has a reputation to uphold, these days.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Bradford Has a Princess

I used one of the amazing Tim Bradford ideas posted by @nevereclipse for this!! I hope you like it and it's along the lines of what you were thinking!☺️

Pairing: Tim Bradford x younger(24-26y/o)!fem!reader

Summary: Tim Bradford is whipped for you, treats you with nothing but the best princess treatment, and when his fellow officers call him out on it, he realizes how he truly feels about you.

Warnings: fluff! princess treatment and Tim being a SOFTIE™

Word Count: 1.6k+ words

You blow your hair out of your face before you tug it painfully behind your ear.

“Easy,” your boyfriend mutters, reaching over carefully. He gathers your hair much gentler than you had, pulls it loosely behind your ears, and uses the hair tie he wears around his wrist to secure it. “Better?”

You hum before you say, “Thank you, Tim.”

His hand moves down your back, resting comfortably against the base. After you finish your project, you take a paper towel from the nearby roll and wipe your hands.

“Need anything else?” Tim asks.

You smile over your shoulder as you rest against Tim’s chest. He’s older than you, and though some people might frown upon your relationship, you love him, not only because of the selfless way he treats you. Tim places his arm around your shoulders, then uses his free hand to pull your hand closer to him. He traces his thumb over your knuckles, then looks at your nails as his calloused palm holds you like you are the most precious thing in his life, in the world.

“I can make you an appointment at the nail salon you like,” he offers. “Tuesday?”

Tim shifts his hands, running his fingertips up and down your palm as he smiles.

“I can wait,” you answer. “I actually saw a kit online that lets you make your own nail art. Maybe I should try that next time.”

“Send me the link.”

Tim kisses your temple, then twirls the ends of your hair around his fingers. He decides he could spend forever here and wouldn’t even care what his friends thought about it.

“Tim!” Angela calls. “We’re all going to Andre’s.”

“Actually,” he begins.

“No, you skipped out the last three times, you’re coming with.”

“No arguments,” Nyla adds. “We might even make you pay.”

Tim sighs, his shoulders dropping as he nods. He follows them out of the station and is unsurprised to see Lucy, Nolan, Aaron, and Wesley waiting in the parking lot.

“Tim, you’re coming too?” Wesley asks. “I thought you’d finally sworn off fraternization.”

“Ha ha,” Tim deadpans.

“Can I ride with you?” Aaron asks. “My car’s getting a new wrap and Wesley’s backseat is a little tight with the carseats.”

Tim doesn’t answer but doesn’t say no, so Lucy nods and encourages Aaron to go. Aaron climbs into Tim’s passenger seat and buckles his seatbelt without a word.

“Oh,” he exclaims as Tim backs out of the space. “Who’s the Dior lip gloss belong to?” He lifts the tube out of the floorboard and recognizes it as part of a set his mom has. “This is expensive, they must be missing it.”

“She knows it’s here,” Tim grumbles, extending his hand to take it.

“Your sister?” Aaron guesses as Tim places it in the center console. He sees several other items, like a scrunchie, a receipt, and powder.

“None of your business,” Tim snaps. “Why are you getting an expensive car wrapped, anyway?”

“Because I can.”

Tim and Aaron fall silent, Tim thinking about you as Aaron wonders if the others know about the woman taking up space in Tim Bradford’s truck and in his life.

During your next date night, Tim opens the door for you, then wraps his arm around your waist as you enter the restaurant. He moves to his left to stand slightly behind you as you wait to be seated, and you smile over your shoulder at him.

At your table, Tim pulls your chair out for you, but you stop before you sit when someone says his name. You turn, and Tim’s shoulders tense beneath his blazer.

“Angela,” he greets tightly. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m on a date,” she answers with a smile. She looks at you before she asks, “And you?”

You sense the tension and interrupt to introduce yourself. You provide your name and shake her hand, then look to Tim.

“My girlfriend,” he tells Angela. “We’re on a date, so…”

“I’ll ask more later then. I mean that Timothy, you have a lot to tell me.” She turns toward you again and says, “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

Alone, you take Tim’s hand across the table and apologize for interrupting him and his friend. He promises that he wasn’t bothered by that and assures you that he wasn’t avoiding introducing you on purpose but was just surprised. You fall into easy conversation, as usual, and the date is over far too soon.

When the waiter leaves the check on the corner of the table, you ask, “Going Dutch?”

“Going insane if you think I’m letting you pay for a date,” Tim mumbles before speaking up to say, “My treat.”

Tim offers his blazer before you walk out into the windy Los Angeles night, and you wrap your hands around his arm as he leads you to his truck. You’ve never felt as loved and as cherished as you do with Tim Bradford.

As you enter Tim’s house, he uses your joined hands to pull you back toward him. He dips his chin, gesturing for you to sit on the couch, then lowers to the table before it. With a gentle touch, Tim runs his hands down your leg, from your knee to your ankle. After he hooks his finger under the strap of your heel, he pulls your foot up, resting your calf on his knee to unhook the small buckle against your ankle and remove your shoe. He repeats the process with the other shoe, then lays his hands on your knees and leans forward.

“Hi,” you whisper with a smile.

Tim smiles in the proximity, then runs his hands up your legs to rest on your thighs.

“I love you,” you add.

“I love you,” he replies before he moves beside you on the couch, cups the back of your neck in his hand, and pulls into a kiss that proves it.

Tim stops mid-step as he enters the roll call room the following morning. Angela and Aaron are perched atop the tables to watch him with matching looks.

“What?” Tim asks.

“You have a girlfriend,” Angela says.

“That I’m thinking you bought Dior for,” Aaron adds.

“Who are you and what did you do with Timothy Bradford?”

“Yes, I have a girlfriend, and I bought her some makeup,” Tim admits. “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal?” Aaron repeats incredulously. “You, Tim Bradford, are whipped.”

“He took her to an expensive restaurant last night,” Angela tells Aaron without looking away from Tim. “I bet he footed the bill, too.”

“There is no reason to be discussing this at work,” Tim points out. “So, drop it.”

“Drop what?” Lucy asks from the doorway.

One word, Tim mouths to Aaron. Aaron nods, but Angela smiles. Tim knows he has no power over her, but when she changes the subject, he sighs and nods once. She’ll bring it up again when he least expects it, but for now, the ‘news’ of his ‘being whipped’ for you is contained. He isn’t ashamed of you, of course, but some things need to be private.

Immediately after walking into Tim’s house, he kisses you so hard that you can feel the sticky texture of your lip gloss as it smears from the corners of your lips and onto your chin. When he pulls back, holding you up as you blink at him, breathless, he uses his thumb to wipe away the shiny mess he made.

“I missed you too,” you say.

“I was told today that I’m whipped,” Tim replies.

You furrow your brows, and Tim taps his knuckle against your forehead and smiles as he shakes his head. You relax but hold his side as you wait for more information.

“Aaron and Angela know about you, and he told me I was whipped. I realized that he’s right.”

Terrified that Tim is about to break up with you after this realization, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. He huffs and tugs it free.

“I am more in love with you than I ever dreamed of being capable of. So…”

Tim is clearly trying to find the right words, and you smile as you offer, “Incandescently happy?”

“Completely and incandescently happy,” he agrees. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Tim smiles, then notices he disturbed your outfit with his sudden affection. He tugs the ridden-up fabric down over your hips before dragging his fingertips along your upper arm to fix your top.

“Remember when you bought me the makeup wipes?” you ask.

Tim nods and inquires, “Do you need them?”

You try to contain your smile but fail. “No, you just proved you can take off lip gloss without them.”

Tim tugs you closer, hooks his arms under your hips, and lifts you up. You gasp in surprise before gripping his shoulders. After he carries you to the kitchen and sets you on the counter, he takes your shoes off and stands between your legs.

“Should I make dinner or are you going to keep distracting me?”

You tap your finger against your jaw and pretend to ponder the question. “That depends… will your friends still be okay with this relationship when they find out you’re a cradle robber?”

“Maybe I should give you back then.”

You pout, and Tim kisses your forehead before he turns away. He passes you a bouquet of red roses, then sets a glass of your favorite beverage beside you. It’s the response you hoped for, and after you gently place the flowers aside, you pull Tim closer by his collar and smile against his lips.

[quarterlifekitty]

When I saw the Weaknesses blurb I was going to ask if you'd care to expand on König and his clingy s.o. THEN I SAW THAT YOU DID AND SCRUMPT A SCREAM. I love clingy headconnons. Purely because I'm clingy in a cat like manner (aka annoying) and extremely emotionally needy. Imagine König sitting on the couch texting Horangi while his s.o. has their head in his lap. He hasn't looked down in almost a minute so she reaches up and knocks the phone out of his hands. Does she have something to say? No. But his attention was needed. Or König is making breakfast and his s.o. comes up to him half asleep, hugs him from behind, bites his shoulder blade hard enough for him to roll the muscle to get her to release him, then she rests her head on his back and goes to sleep. Now his movements are limited because he might accidentally knock her off his back. (I just swoon over someone accepting the annoying and goofy parts of their partner.)

Keep scrumpting babygirl 😈

König just looooves how much attention you demand. He loves it when you hide things that keep him away from you…. He just thinks it’s too cute for words. Before you lived together, you’d wake up first and put on his shirt and boxers so he wouldn’t have enough clothing to leave. He likes it when you pull his phone from his hands (he lets it go easily, he could keep it from you if he wanted). And when you lean really far and put it on the far corner of the coffee table, as if he couldn’t just get up and get it.

And you’re not above kicking his shoes under the couch so it takes a few extra minutes before he can leave for work.

Whenever he’s doing something and you just come in and park yourself by or on him, without saying a word, like it’s the most natural thing in the world— he feels so painfully domestic. It makes him wanna keep you forever. When you play with his hands he wonders about your ring size.

But maybe his favorite thing is favorite thing is when you wake him up in the middle of the night, needy. He’ll always ask what’s the matter, lammchen? In that smug, slightly groggy voice, but he knows why you’re waking him up, grinding on him and whining.

And my god. When he wakes up in the morning with you practically on top of him. When you stretch and moan and blink awake slowly, looking at him so you can say “I missed you”. The idea that you miss him not just when he’s out of the house, not just when he’s in another room, but when he’s asleep. That’s how you guarantee that you get fucked in the morning.

[hypnagogics]

have the teensiest blurb ever i wrote as a writing warm-up ♡ fluffy nonsense! i know we're all in an arcane mood, but i can't forget about my girl. (i promise real writing is coming LMAOO im workin on it)

a cozy night in with ellie williams is more healing than the most researched of therapies. full of love, care, fun, relaxation, they were your favorite nights of the week.

at the end of a long, hard week, ellie knows just what you need. she starts of by preparing you a soulful dinner in advance before you get back—a warm and hearty stew. she sets the table, lights a handful of candles, and makes the atmosphere soothing.

when she hears you trudge inside with a groan of exhaustion, she's by your side within milliseconds, removing your coat and taking your heavy bag off your shoulders, finishing off with a heart-to-heart embrace and a kiss on your forehead.

she's intuitive enough to register your energy levels too, without you having to tell her how you're feeling. the smallest markers on your face set off alarms in her head, and she knows that today is a quiet kind of day. she lowers her tone of voice to a whisper, does not inquire excessively about your day, but just leads you to the dining room where you're greeted by the steaming bowl and elegantly set table.

when you sit down you beam at her, internally pinching yourself at her generosity and wondering what you could have done to deserve her, she was sweeter than honey, truly. your smile is infectious, and her familiar toothy grin plays upon her delicate features. she keeps you company while you both have your meal, then she follows you to the living room, already calculating what she can do for you next.

you slump into the silken cushions of the couch, your voice crackling, “els, could you play something for me?”

you nod at the guitar in the corner of the room, covered in wear and tear but housing a sound that felt like home.

she grabs it and plops down next to you, clearing her throat.

slender fingers creating magic on the steel strings, downy voice caressing your ears, you were enveloped in a momentary calmness.

her husky voice, and the lyrics and melody of a-ha's take on me never fail to woo you, she plays it perfectly. you curl up with a blanket, and close your eyes to intensify the experience.

now in darkness, her music caused shapes and colors to form in your minds eye, you could even hear her love-filled smile.

a lullaby in your favorite place, with your favorite person playing it just for you, you were at ease. your heart felt as if it was about to burst with adoration for the girl on the couch next to you, and you were lulled into a restful state, her music painting a mural in your shallow dreams.

rest up, you deserve it.

taglist: @andersonfilms @ch6douin @aouiaa @sapphic-ovaries @astro-cat2 @paqerings @littlefallenangel111 @srooch @sinfulprayerss @lvlymicha @sunnsh1ne @pinkcwake @marsworlddd @caszzine @saturnsdrafts @mascdom @ashaynep @angelynn-nicole @wilddrown @aylabv02108 @lonelyfooryouonly @melsmunch @e11williamsgf @flowrmoth @liddysflyer @fortune777 @brunaedn @funclebunni @infiniteinquiries @mimasroom2 @thekill3randthefinalgirl @kissyslut @autisticintr0vert @mellifluousgirll @uhhscarr @sozvuchiy @kaykeryyy @zzombiegirl @jbimsorry @dearangxl @spncrrdlvr @thatgyalfisher

[backinmyphase]

I've got to know...

·········⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆·········

You wished you could forget yesterday.

The taste of the overpriced drinks. The loud music overplaying the girl that was crying in the bathroom. The way people were grinding on each other under the red lightning.

The way your bestfriend!Satoru sat in the vip area of that expensive club.

You shouldn't have went up to him. Shouldn't have had that many drinks. But he had dragged you here, so why didn't he talk to you?

There were many girls sitting next to him, the couch already full. They didn't hear or see you as you tried to get near. There was a strong smell of alcohol, since glasses full of it were on the table, a bottle right next to them. The girls were laughing, giggling as one of them touched his arm.

Why did she do that? Why did he look so pleased?

You felt like throwing up. Felt like the sticky floor under you would disappear as you saw her smile. Felt like such an idiot when he smiled that smile back at her. You wanted to go home.

But you couldn't since he was your ride home. And you didn't want to ruin his good time. So you made your way to the bar again. Bumping into other people, apologizing on the way.

Time went by as you sat there at the bar. You felt more and more looks on you as you took more and more shots. You were starting to sway in your seat, having no longer a feeling of balance.

That was until you felt a hand on your shoulder. For a split second you thought, wished, it was Satoru. But it wasn't.

"Are you okay?"

It was a guy you didn't know. Well, you probably should, but in that moment you couldn't think of any name.

"I don't know." screw the alcohol, which made your tongue lose.

He frowned as he saw in what state you were.

"You don't look good, you should head home. With who are you here?"

"Satoru Gojo." your voice was nothing more than a whisper and in hindsight it was a wonder he understood you over all that music.

His eyes widened. He had that look of pity that made you sick. Then he shook his head. "I can give you a ride home? If you want to?"

"Where is Satoru?" you tried to look behind the guy, but you didn't see anything other than people just slightly swaying from left to right.

The guy gulped. "He is busy."

You tried taking another look, that's when you saw it. The area Satoru was sitting in, now empty. The glasses of alcohol missing. His jacket no longer hanging on the wardrobe near the door. That's when you understood.

Satoru had already left. Probably with one of these girls.

"Oh." the lights around you began to blurr. The music wasn't loud anymore. It was deafening. The alcohol in your system now unbearable.

"Let's get you home."

You wished you could just forget it all. But even though you were wasted when you got home and threw up multiple times, you didn't. Didn't, even when you heard Satoru call at 3 in the morning.

You were such an idiot. You had really hoped, that maybe he took you with him because there was more to you than just a friendship.

How naive.

You didn't talk with him today. Ignored his obvious stare of confusion. His stare that turned to guilt. And didn't turn when he called your name at lunch.

You wished you could forget yesterday, so you wouldn't cry as you read his message.

Are we still friends?

·········⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆·········

[fanfics-i-find-here]

Do I know you?

Jason Todd X Reader

Synopsis: In the aftermath of a brief Kidnapping, Red Hood seems to think your important and wont stop hanging around your apartment.

Or in other terms, Jason got scared you were gonna die and doesn’t want to leave you alone

Notes: Reader is a waitress at a local bookstore/coffee shop that Jason frequents and he has grown very fond of her. They are vague acquaintances And she does not know that Jason is Red Hood. This is literally my first-ever attempt at a fanfic and Jason Todd has been rattling around in my brain. I might attempt to make this like a short series or something. Anyway, I hope it's enjoyed!!

“I think I have a new favorite stalker,” you say loudly out your open window.

 Keeping your window open in Gotham was probably the worst idea you could ever have but your curiosity got the better of you when started to notice the fleeting red hanging out across the street and occasionally on your fire escape over the past two weeks. At first you were worried considering your recent encounter with Scarecrow as an attempted research rat.

However, the longer the red stayed near the easier it became to recognize. His helmet was shiny, which is what made it so easy to spot him. How that was helpful to a vigilante you didn’t know. Red hood was watching you and you had a feeling it was to make sure you were okay. You had heard of other bats checking on Civilians after traumatic incidents when they could, but every night for two weeks seems a bit excessive and he hasn’t actually talked to you. So what was he doing?

With no response to your jab, you lean out your window and repeat yourself, making a point to stare at the red helmet on the building across the street.

“I said I think I have a new favorite stalker!” You continue to stare him down.

Even in the minimal street lighting you can see his body tense, ready to run.

“Maybe he’d like to chat?” you tilt your head in questioning. You don’t why you asked. You were bad at keeping a regular conversation. If he came over and did, in fact, decide to chat, it might end up a short conversation. 

A clattered thud pulls you from your thoughts and you gaze turns from the opposite roof top to the very large man now standing on your fire escape next to your window. You can’t help but stare at him. 6” something and built like a brick wall. Intimidating even leaning against the building.

Was he this big when he saved me?

“Hi?” is the only response you could muster. The urge to slam the window closed and shut your curtains itches at your finger tips. He stares at you, or at least you assume as much, the helmets white eyes giving away nothing. No wonder people were terrified of Red Hood. You haven’t even done anything wrong and you could wet yourself  right here and now.

“Hi” You don’t know why your shocked to hear the modulated voice. He had talked to when he saved you from Scarecrow but it was still strange to hear. Slightly robotic but definitely a person underneath.

You realize that, maybe, you’ve been staring for too long.

“Tea?” you back away from the window and head for the kitchen expecting him to follow, as well as taking a moment to breath.

You just invited a good/bad vigilante into your home! What is wrong with you?  Your mind is a swirling, anxious debate as you fill your kettle.

“I only have Green tea, I hope you don’t mind.” you yell from the kitchen, unsure if he was even in the apartment.

“Not at all” His voice is close then you anticipated, assuming he stay close to the window.

Instead you turn to find him sitting comfortably at your dining room table, watching you move about the kitchen. He looks out of place in your soft warm toned home. His brown leather jacket the only thing that could blend in. The harsh red bat on his chest sticking out like a sore thumb. Your gaze lingers a moment at the holsters on his thighs, suddenly realizing that if he wanted to do something to you, you were screwed. You turn back to your cabinets and pull out a couple of mugs, pushing away the thoughts. Red Hood was good guy, despite what previous attempts at bad he had in the past. You stand at the counter and stare at your kettle, willing it to heat faster. After a moment, You hear a distorted sigh.

“You wanted to talk?” Red Hood asks

You shrug your shoulders without turning, not entirely prepared for a conversation just yet. Red Hood doesn’t push you. The kettle begins to whistle, and you pour the two mugs, settling tea bags into them. You pick them up and set one in front of red hood, and settle into the seat opposite his, blowing on your tea. You take a sip and promptly burn your tongue, hissing in pain.

“it’s hot”

Your eyes fly up to Red Hood. You choke out a thanks, Having not realized he had taken off his Helmet. You let eye linger across his face, very handsome. A scar on his lips, that rests in a smirk, and another across his cheek. As you eye move up you let out a startled laugh, Another mask keeps his eyes hidden.

“What?” He asks, The smirk on his lips grows.

As your laughing fit slows, you pause to breath.

“You wear two masks.” You pause waiting for him to laugh. All he does is furrow his brows.

“it’s funny” you insist but he doesn’t respond. You settle down again. Well as much as you can considering the man in front of you, staring at your mug, slightly embarrassed

“So I’m your favorite stalker? You got a few?” Red's voice rings out in the silence. It’s rough and deep, like he’d been yelling.

A flush creeps up your face. If you were embarrassed before, you were definitely embarrassed now. It had taken you all day to come up with the throw away comment. You thought It was funny. You also didn’t think you would get this far in your interaction with Red Hood.

“Not really, just the one I hope” you chance a glance at him to find him still unsettlingly staring at you as a he takes a sip of his tea, now cooled. Your mind searches for what else to say.

“That’s good, I wouldn’t want that either” Jason finally breaks eye contact with you, looking around your apartment.

With his stare no longer on you, you take the opportunity to really take him in. Despite the scars on his face, there was kindness there. And despite his intimidating stature, he seemed to pull himself in, like he was afraid to take up space. His forearms exposed through his suit. What a weird design. Not that you were complaining. Overall, Red Hood was hot. You flush at the thought.

“Thank you, by the way” you rush out, “for saving me… it really means a lot”

Jason turns his gaze back to you. You brave up and hold his stare. Suddenly thinking, he looks familiar. You furrow your brows for a moment.

“Do I know you?” You ask before you can stop yourself. You physically cringe and try to back track.

“I mean, obviously I know you, you saved my life and all but I mean like I know your face? Maybe, not that it matters. Course you wouldn’t tell me if I did know your civilian identity because then it wouldn’t be a secret. I just think I know your face but that doesn’t mean that I want you to tell me. And maybe you just have one of those faces…” you continue to ramble some more. Jason watches you carefully and finishes his tea. You pause to breath in your rant and he jumps in.

“Thanks for the tea” he grabs his Helmet, sliding it on before continuing, voice changed, “and your welcome, for saving you.”

You watches as he walks back toward the window, frozen and unsure what to do. As climbs out onto the fire escape you yell out.

“Your welcome and you don’t have to hide outside, you can come in next time.”

He’s gone before even finish the sentence. You sink back in your chair.

What is wrong with you? Why are you so awkward? That was terrible!

You try to push the interaction from your mind as you close the window and go about spot cleaning your apartment. Once done your anxious thoughts return.

This is going to be a long night. You think as you turn into bed.

[cosmicanakin]

╰ ﹒ (sorta) long awaited PART 2 to this DEAN BLURB. 🍋‍🟩

i'm shit at writing a second part to any standalone FICS or BLURBS so i'm rlly sorry if this isn't the 'makeup sex' type blurb yall were lookin' for <3

⎯⎯ warning(s) smut | emotional vulnerability | strong language | semi-public sex | rough sex | praise kink | dirty talk (yum) | jealousy | overstimulation | POSSESSIVE!DEAN | power dynamics | mirror sex. ఌ︎ EIGHTEEN PLUS! ADULT CONTENT | minors do NOT interact.

the bar is loud, filled with the familiar hum of conversations, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. you sit at a table near the back, surrounded by a few of your close friends—hunters like you, women who know the life, know the dangers, and are just as good at blowing off steam after a successful hunt. tonight, the drinks flow easily, and the laughter comes even easier. it's rare to get a reprieve like this, to have a night off where you can just relax and enjoy yourself. you deserve it. you know you do.

but even as your friends trade stories and jokes, your mind keeps drifting. keeps circling back to him. DEAN WINCHESTER. it's been weeks since you left him in that motel room, since you walked away without an explanation, with only a hastily written note. you haven't spoken to him since, haven't called, haven't reached out. not because you didn't want to. GOD, you wanted to. but fear held you back. fear of what he felt, of what you felt, of how everything had changed with those three words he'd let slip between gasps of pleasure.

i love you.

you still hear his voice in your head, still feel the way his body had tensed beneath you when he realized what he'd said. you'd thought about calling him a hundred times, a thousand times actually, to tell him you felt the same. that the reason you ran was because you were scared—scared of how much you loved him, how deeply you'd fallen without even realizing it. but every time you picked up the phone, you hesitated, and the moment passed.

now, sitting in this bar, surrounded by friends, you can't help but wonder if you made a mistake. if walking away from him was the worst decision you could've made. but before you can spiral any further, you hear it—a laugh. a deep, familiar laugh that sends a shock of recognition through your entire body.

you freeze, your drink halfway to your lips, as you turn your head and see him. DEAN WINCHESTER. standing at the entrance of the bar, his brother, sam, by his side. dean doesn't see you at first, too busy scanning the room, probably taking in the scene out of habit, always the hunter, always alert. but then his eyes snap to yours.

it feels like the air is sucked from the room. your heart stutters in your chest, and for a moment, you can't move, can't breathe. he looks just like you remember—broad shoulders, brown leather jacket, that chiseled jawline you've traced with your fingers more times than you can count. but there's something in his eyes, a flicker of something raw and unresolved, and you know he's thinking about that night, about the last time you saw each other.

he doesn't move. neither do you.

but his gaze lingers on you, even as a blonde woman sidles up to him, clearly trying to get his attention. she's pretty—tall, curvy, the kind of woman who turns heads in a place like this. but dean barely spares her a glance, his eyes locked on you like he can't tear himself away. you feel a surge of something hot and uncomfortable twist in your chest—jealousy, anger, desire. god, you miss him. you miss him so much it hurts.

and it's not just him. it's the way he made you feel, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered, the way his hands felt on your skin, rough and gentle all at once. the way he'd held you that night, the way he'd said he loved you, like it was the most natural thing in the world. like he couldn’t help it.

you tear your gaze away, pretending to focus on the conversation at your table, but your mind is spinning. your body is buzzing with the awareness of him, of how close he is, of how much you want him. but the thought of facing him, of having that conversation, of admitting how you feel... it terrifies you.

so you do the only thing you can think of. you excuse yourself, telling your friends you need to use the bathroom, and slip away from the table, weaving through the crowded bar until you reach the small, dingy restroom at the back. you close the door behind you, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead, and lean against the sink, staring at your reflection in the cracked mirror.

your heart is racing, your skin flushed, and all you can think about is dean. about the way his muscles flexed under that leather jacket, the way he looked at you like he was starving for you. heat pools low in your belly, and filthy thoughts flood your mind—thoughts of him pressing you against the mirror, fucking you from behind until you're a mess, just like he did that night in the motel.

you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push the thoughts away, but it's no use. your body wants him. you want him.

and then the door creaks open.

your eyes snap open, and you see him—dean, standing in the doorway, his eyes dark with that same hunger you feel. he steps inside, closing the door behind him, locking it with a click. your heart pounds in your chest, and you can't move, can't speak, as he crosses the small space between you, his body heat radiating off him in waves.

he doesn't say a word. he doesn't have to.

his hands are on you in an instant, rough and desperate, pulling at your clothes, as you do the same to him. his leather jacket hits the floor, followed by your shirt, your jeans, his belt clinking as he yanks it free. his breath is hot against your neck, and he's whispering in your ear, his voice low and gravelly.

"you're such a bad girl for leaving me like that," he growls, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. "but god, y'feel so fucking good... s'perfect."

his words send a shiver down your spine, and you can't stop the whimper that escapes your lips as he spins you around, pressing you against the mirror. your breath fogs the glass as his hands grip your hips, his body pressing against yours from behind. he wastes no time, thrusting into you with a force that makes your knees buckle, but his strong arms hold you steady, keep you grounded.

you're a mess beneath him, a blubbering, trembling mess as he fucks you hard and fast, his hips pistoning into yours with a desperation that matches your own. he's everywhere, all at once—his hands, his mouth, his body consuming you, and you can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but feel.

"you're mine,” he growls, his voice rough and possessive in your ear. "you've always been mine."

and it's true. you know it's true. you've always been his.

you lose track of time, of how many times you come, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, your body shaking with the force of it. by the time he finally pulls out of you, you're spent, your legs trembling, your breath ragged. but dean takes care of you, cleaning you up, pressing soft kisses to your skin as he helps you back into your clothes, his touch gentle and tender, so different from the roughness of moments ago.

when you're both dressed, you turn to him, your eyes meeting his, and without thinking, you pull him into a kiss. it's not like the others—it's not fueled by lust or desperation. this kiss is soft, slow, full of something deeper, something you've been too afraid to admit 'til now.

when you finally pull away, dean looks at you, his eyes searching yours. "what was that for?" he asks, his voice quiet, vulnerable.

you take a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest. "i love you," you admit, the words catching in your throat. "and i'm sorry for leaving you like that. i was scared. but, fuck… i love you too, dean. i always have."

the smile that breaks across his face is like sunrise, brilliant and beautiful. he pulls you close again, pressing his body into yours. "yeah?"

"yeah," you whisper back. "turns out you're kind of hard to resist, winchester."

he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest where you're pressed against him. "good thing i'm not trying to resist you anymore either, sweetheart."

when you eventually make your way back to the bar, sam takes one look at your slightly disheveled appearance and dean's stupid grin and rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. your friends are also giving you knowing looks, and the blonde from earlier has long since found another target.

none of that matters, because dean's hand finds yours again, and this time, neither of you are running anywhere. he also pulls you close to him again, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both tender and passionate, a promise of something more.

something real.

꣑୧ UNOFFICIAL TAGLIST. @anqeliclust @aileenunfiltered @embarrasingmf @stereotypicalbarbie @ninii-winchester @suckitands33 @ohheyguyss @spxideyver @artyandink @titsout4nicholas 𓂃 ݁ 𖦹

[lvnleah]

our little footballer.

find the series masterlist here!

May 2028 | 3 years old. 

“Mumma! Mummy!” Finley's voice rang through the house, bright and eager, just before the bedroom door swung open. The sound of his small feet pattering on the floor signalled the start of the day. The sun hadn’t even risen fully yet, but Finley was already wide awake. 

“Wake up! I play football today!” he shouted, his excitement contagious. 

Leah groaned softly as Finley climbed up onto the bed, his small but surprisingly strong hands gripping the duvet as he scrambled over to her side. He didn't hesitate before plopping himself right down onto her chest, causing her to let out a playful “Ooft!” in protest.

“When did you get so big, huh?” she asked, her voice still thick with sleep as she blinked her eyes open to look at him. “You’re still a baby!”

Finley giggled, his blonde curls bouncing as he sat proudly on top of her, his eyes shining with excitement. “Me a big boy now, silly Mumma!” he declared, puffing his little chest out. “I play football today!” He wiggled with joy, barely able to contain himself as he repeated the words.  

From your side of the bed, you smiled at the scene, watching the two of them. Leah looked at you with a tired but affectionate smile. 

Leah gently lifted Finley off her chest and sat him between the two of you. “And what time is it, Mr. Big Boy?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.  

Finley frowned, his face scrunching up in concentration. “It’s... football o’clock!”  

You and Leah both laughed at that. “Football o’clock, huh?” you said, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Pretty sure it’s still early, bubs.”

“Early birds score goals, right?” Leah added with a grin. She sat up, rubbing her eyes before planting a quick kiss on Finley’s forehead. “Alright, alright. Let’s get you ready for your big day.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Finley scrambled off the bed, hopping down and running toward his tiny closet where his kit and boots waited. Leah had laid them out the night before, knowing full well he’d be up at the crack of dawn, ready to go. 

“Look!” Finley called out, holding up his mini Arsenal kit with pride. “I’m gonna score a goal today! Beffy said I’m the best striker!”

Leah smirked, glancing over at you with that playful gleam in her eye. “Beffy said that, did she?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but smile. “You know she’s been trying to claim him as a striker since he was born.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” Leah said, “He’s got defender written all over him.”

Finley, still holding his kit, looked over at you both, confused. “What that?”

Leah walked over, crouching down to his level. “It means you stop the other team from scoring goals. Like how Mumma does.”

“Oh,” Finley said, considering this for a moment. Then his face lit up. “But I want to score goals like Beffy!”

Leah laughed, shaking her head. “Alright, little striker. We’ll see how you do today.”

You got up as well, heading toward the kitchen to make breakfast while Leah helped Finley into his kit. His little boots were placed neatly by the door, and you could hear him excitedly chatting away as Leah knelt down to lace them up. 

By the time breakfast was ready, Finley was already fully dressed, bouncing from foot to foot as he waited impatiently. 

“Look, Mummy!” he called out, running toward you in his mini kit, his boots thudding against the floor. “I’m ready!”

“You sure are,” you said, smiling as you set his plate down. “Now let’s make sure you eat something before all that running around.”

Finley, never one to sit still for long, hurriedly ate his breakfast, his legs swinging beneath the table. He had gotten so big over the past three years and you sometimes wondered where your tiny baby had gone. 

He was now in preschool for two days of the week and was a little chatterbox, you and Leah never heard a minute of silence anymore. 

A few weeks ago, Leah had insisted on getting him the best pair of boots, even though you knew he'd outgrow them in a matter of months. She’d picked up a tiny pair, with bright blue stripes running along the sides. 

“He looks so grown up,” Leah said, her voice cracking just a little.

You smiled and shook your head. "He’s three, Leah. He’s still a bubba."

After what felt like an eternity to Finley, the time finally came to head out. The drive to the local park was filled with the sound of Finley’s non-stop chatter. He talked about scoring goals, saving shots, and how Beth and Lia were coming to watch him just like he’d asked them to. His excitement was infectious, and even though Leah tried to stay calm, you could tell she was as eager as Finley was to see him play.

When you arrived, Finley hopped out of the car and immediately started bouncing up and down, his energy at an all-time high. 

“There’s Beffy!” he squealed, pointing as Beth, Lia, and Viv got out of their car. 

Beth knelt down to greet him, pulling him into a hug as he ran into her chest. “There’s my little striker! Ready to score some goals today?”

“Yes!” Finley replied, nodding enthusiastically.

Viv chuckled, ruffling Finley’s hair. “You're going to be so good, Finn!”

Finley seemed to consider this for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m gonna score goals!”

Lia smirked, nudging Beth. “Looks like you’ve already won him over.”

Leah crossed her arms with a teasing glare toward Beth. “We’ll see about that.”

The session began soon after, and as Finley joined the other kids, the rest of you stood on the sidelines, watching proudly. His excitement was still there, but there was a determination in his little face as well—a little frown identical to Leah’s. 

When the ball finally came to him, he took a deep breath, and with one swift kick, sent it straight into the net.

The cheers from the sidelines were deafening.

“Striker!” Beth shouted, grinning as Leah just shook her head with a smile. “See, what did I tell you?” Beth grinned, nudging Leah. “Natural-born striker.”

Leah shook her head, but there was no denying the joy in her eyes. “Beginner’s luck.”

But then it happened again. Another shot, another goal. This time, Finley turned to the sidelines, arms raised high as if expecting a stadium’s worth of applause. And that’s exactly what he got. You and the girls clapped and cheered like you were in the stands of the Emirates.

Beth was the first to run over, scooping Finley into her arms again. “Two goals! He’s definitely following in my footsteps.”

Leah laughed, though her eyes never left Finley. “We’ll see. He’s still got time to be a defender!”

Lia smirked, leaning in toward you. “I’m betting on goalkeeper.”

The session eventually came to an end, and Finley ran over, red-faced and grinning, sweat dampening his blonde curls. He plopped down on the grass, looking up at you and Leah with a satisfied sigh.

“Can I play for Arsenal one day,” he asked as you handed him a juice box. 

Leah knelt down next to him, “You just might, buddy. But remember, it’s all about having fun.”

As you all made your way back to the car, Finley chattered non-stop about the session. His excitement was infectious. Leah squeezed your hand as you both walked behind the group.

“Our little footballer,” she said quietly, her voice filled with pride.

You smiled, squeezing back. “Yeah, our little footballer.”

And though it was just the first of many football sessions to come, you both knew it was the start of something special. 

[merv606]

Any thoughts on Terry being truly scared that he could have lost Daniel (supposing that Daniel was stabbed instead) and he goes to the hospital while Daniel recovers. Danny is surprised at how…soft and gentle Terry is with him, treating him like glass, and realizes that Terry was terrified of losing him.

I’ll try to answer this without having the fill by @thereminwriting influence me too much but I am going to take the idea of Terry being the one who saved him because it adds another layer of 🌶️ to the whole fucked up situation. There may be some overlap with Mercy but, with Silverusso there always is, as the themes with them are always the same.

Link below for her take - a suggestion to read it as it’s brilliant! It will live rent free.

What this ask inspired, while I feel hits some points made in the ask it may ultimately fail to hit the mark for exactly what you were looking for.

“You think you’d be grateful, is all,” Terry says, picking at some imaginary lint on the bed, which is not there. They both know that. The place is pristine, more high end hotel than hospital. The thread count on the bedsheets has to be higher than what he has at home, and he is an admitted snob when it comes to his night time comforts.

“Gratitude?” Daniel says slowly, like he’s both processing what Terry said and also surprised he’d even say it.

If it wasn’t for the dull ache in his side, the way he can feel the stitches and staples pull when he moves he’d do something stupid. As it were though.

“Gratitude, gratitude,” his voice rising, and then suddenly Daniel just deflates, that little bit of anger burning through the little energy he has built up.

That scared Terry more than anything. His boy’s fire was always so bright, so warm to bask in, so strong and big, despite the small frame it lived inside. That was why it came out so often, too big for it’s confines, never truly able to be contained at all times.

A fire that drew Terry to it like a moth to a flame, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it’s seductive allure. Helpless in the knowledge that like the moth stunned and destroyed by the light it sought, he too would die by it’s heat.

He could’ve think of a better way to go though.

Softly, “it’s just another cage, Terry.”

“Never pegged you as the religious type,” Terry says after a few long moments.

He’s not, not really. He goes through the rituals of it - mass on Christmas Eve - stopping only when his kids got older and Amanda admitted she was only going for him, and he had to admit he really didn’t know why he did, except that he did when he was a kid.

Daniel looks at the keychain’s pendant in his hand, the keychain having been ripped off and stretched to pick the lock of the cage, and he hadn’t even realized, at the time when he bought it what it was, he had simply handed the kid over some money.

He only kept it because he considered it a lucky charm of sorts considering, what it saved him from - that belief was cemented by the fact it was in the pockets of the leggings he wore under his GI when this happened.

A coincidence, he’s sure, but still, he thinks he needs all the help he can get. He’s probably in the most danger right now, after all.

It had been placed on the bedside table, and it was one of the first things he saw when he woke, and when he groggily reached for it, Terry had stilled him, telling him not to move, placing it the palm of his hand.

Here now, he turns it over in his hand.

Even you can’t save me now, Daniel thinks.

Sitting in a hospital paid for by Terry - his life forfeit it wasn’t for Terry.

His life forfeit all the same.

All the same.

More like delayed, all things considered.

Because now he owes Terry.

He owes Terry a debt he cannot possibly repay.

He wonders how Terry will try to collect; what he stands to gain.

“I must say, I was surprised to learn of your skills.”

“I’m from jersey,” Daniel answers absently. “Of course I know how to pick locks.”

Terry chuckles but then the doctor comes in and like always, Daniel is not made privy to the decisions. Everything in Terry’s hands which, as much as he hates that, they have proved to be quite capable.

He’s alive because of them.

——————————

When a few weeks have passed, he finally gathers the courage to watch the video, and for the first time he sees Terry, how he was saved, how calm Terry was, how efficient, how …. Not what Daniel expected.

He doesn’t know what to feel, not only about watching himself get hurt but about Terry. The feed had cut rather quickly all the same. He doesn’t know why, but he hits replay.

Terry comes in, and freezes, grabbing the tablet from Daniel, shattering it against the wall. A nurse rushes in, and Terry barks something to her as he strides out, and after she cleans the mess, she injects something into his IV bag. He doesn’t bother asking, they never tell him.

Terry finally reappears as the drugs settle through him. Daniel can feel them as they move through his blood, dulling everything further, the pain never truly gone, leaving behind heavy limbs and bad coordination, but a sense of peace even as he feels the bed dip and Terry’s side press flush to his. Daniel goes slack against the older man, his weight fully pressed against him until Terry is the very thing holding him up.

Terry puts Daniel’s hand in his, the only apology he’ll get for the outburst, the thumb rubbing the skin.

“My team will have it removed,” Terry explains, like they do anytime a new one pops up, and although Terry knows he can’t get rid of it entirely, it helps. Having something he can control.

Daniel, after all, makes him feel so out of control.

Daniel, after all, had never made him feel so scared.

All the blood that was already arising the Matt by the time Terry got to him, and it had only taken moments.

The knife - Kreese’s knife - embedded deep - and the white of Daniel’s skin as more blood appeared, watching life drain out of him right before his eyes.

Something that only hit Terry after. Terry only allowing it to hit him after, needing to, in that moment, focus on saving Daniel.

Not willing to accept anything else.

You can lose something you never really had.

But Daniel will be now. Something he has. Finally. And Terry will be damned if he’ll lose it.

———————————

“I can’t believe you put me in a dog cage,” Daniel grumbles as he eats his steak and buttered lobster.

Well he can, but a part of him can’t - won’t - examine it too closely. The same coping mechanism he’s been using when it comes to Terry for thirty years now. It mostly proves successful,

“Danny,” he starts.

“Thought that would, what? Make me submit? Like before.”

A deep sigh, and really Terry has no right sound that put upon.

He wasn’t the one locked in a dog cage.

“Of course you would see it like that.” Both exasperated yet fond.

“How should I see it?!”

At first you would think humiliation, and Terry’s attempt to install fear in Daniel - the same fear Terry felt but, that wasn’t it - not at all.

Nothing could be further for the truth.

It was protection.

Cages keep things in, but they also keep them out.

They keep things safe.

They keep them from leaving.

He actually hadn’t wanted Daniel to wake up until reaching the desired destination.

“I fear cages,” Terry starts but stops, not sure what to say, off kilter in a way only Daniel manages to do to him.

“Why do you fear cages?”

The story pours out, and Daniel sits, stunned.

He had no idea. At all.

Terry’s loyalty to Kreese makes so much sense now. As does their falling out. Which has hardened into hate since the accident.

Part of Terry blames Kreese.

It was his knife after all.

“He always tries to destroy the good things in my life.”

It not only makes sense but Daniel realizes, with a clarity he wouldn’t before, as he too carries that same burden now. Carries the same mixed feelings about being indebted to someone you do not wish to be indebted to.

An understanding, a part of him connected to Terry.

A part of himself that will never belong to him again.

———————————-

He protested in the beginning, Terry helping him change, but now he doesn’t; there would be no point.

He winces, the scar twisting, so new it’s still more deep purple, the skin too tight from where he was sewed and stitched back together.

Terry frowns, his hand touching it, and Daniel flinches; he can’t help it. Even he doesn’t even like touching it himself

It feels wrong - foreign. It feels like a change he didn’t want but will have no choice but to accept.

Isn’t that Terry whoever he comes into Daniel’s life.

It feels like the situation he finds himself in.

It looks ugly, even if he knows in time it will fade to pink and then further still until it’s faded to the point that it nearly matches his skin

He knows he should be grateful to be alive, to be here, even if here is with Terry.

He knows all of this but still, he will carry a piece of this always.

He carrie enough of Terry around with him - he has for thirty years.

The older man’s fingers are so damm gentle as they trace the new skin forming, solidifying into something permanent.

Everything about Terry has been so damm gentle.

All his touches, all the looks directed at Daniel, even when Terry thinks Daniel isn’t paying attention.

Terry helps him into his shirt.

————————————-

“Why?” Daniel asks when he finally gathers the courage. The thing that took him the longest to do.

“I wasn’t about to let you die, Daniel,” Terry nearly scoffs. “I’m not that much of ….”

“I know,” Daniel interrupts.

And he does. Truly. Terry is a Bond villain, and like all Bond villains, he lives to monologue and come up with elaborate plots, plots he knows, deep down, won’t work.

Just like they know Bond will walk away each time, that they want him to, so does Terry.

Because If you really want someone gone, it’s not hard. Simple is best.

If you truly want to win, that is.

But the winning isn’t the point. The end isn’t the point, because it’s not even a journey.

It’s a game, and it’s the fun in playing the game.

But when you take out the opponent, and you win the game, oh how you stop having fun.

Because the opponent was what you actually wanted all along, this game, was the only way to get that.

Something almost ruined this ages old ritual, something the villain hadn’t planned himself, hadn’t even accounted for.

“Why all this?” Daniel gestures around. It certainly is above and beyond. Putting aside the part Daniel can never hope to possibly repay, can’t even begin to, the money alone Terry has spent is astronomical, and shows no signs of stopping. The money Terry has assured Daniel he does not want, nor does he seem to even care about.

They stare at each other.

“I think you know,” is all Terry says, and it’s not cryptic, not at all.

Because Daniel thinks he does too.

Daniel thinks, he always did.

—————-

The plastic surgeon is flown in.

Daniel is fine with the scar.

It’s Terry that hates it.

It reminds him of too much.

The overwhelming fear in the days after, the unbridled anger at it even happening. Something Terry has been felt before.

How he had failed.

How he had almost lost something, that while never was his, was something he had never wanted more.

How he would have lost everything all the same, had Daniel not pulled through.

No.

No part of his boy is to be reminded of this.

No part of him will be marked by any man but Terry.

If his body is to change now, to open and accept anything inside, to be split open, to bleed, it will be by Terry’s doing.

And it will be by pleasure and not pain.

——————————————

The night he wakes to Terry sitting in the side of the hospital bed, everything dark expect for the light of the moon filtering in through the near floor to ceiling windows, is the night he really sees.

The older man’s back is to him, and although everything is silent, eerily so, he can tell Terry is crying.

Daniel sits up, hand holding onto his side, where he thinks it will always twinge slightly, although it’s more a habit now than a need, and the fact that Terry doesn’t turn to him, doesn’t hone in on the fact he’s awake and moving adds to the wrongness of this whole thing.

He gently and slowly lays a hand on the older man’s shoulder, not wanting to spoke him, he’s clearly out of it, and in an even softer tone, the ones he’d use on his kids when they were younger and upset, he asked, “Terry?”

Daniel expects the older man to get up, leave, but instead a large hand comes up and covers him.

They say nothing, but then Terry’s hand squeezes his, and in a broken voice finally speaks.

“I could have lost you.”

Terry made a mistake.

A mistake he can’t fix. - not now. Because he’s in too deep, because he loves Daniel.

And this, this was never the plan, all those years ago. To fall for the boy …. to fall again for the man the boy became.

Because when you love something, you now have something that can destroy you.

Destroy you without even meaning too.

Daniel would have destroyed him, without even trying.

Destroyed Terry in away that he would not have been able to rebuild himself from.

Even a phoenix eventually loses its will to rise again.

A world with Daniel is not one Terry wishes to be in. He tried, for thirty years, and it was no life at all. It certainly wasn’t living.

He got it back though, that feeling of being alive, but oh, what he traded for it. Because now he has this fear, heavy on his chest.

This fear of losing something you cannot replace.

When he looks down, sometimes he can still see the blood on his hands.

“You didn’t though.”

Daniel kneels, his chest to Terry’s back, his head on his shoulder, thin arms wrapped around the older man.

“You saved me.”

He had.

Terry had battled death with his bare hands for Daniel and won. But one day, one day …..

“We saved each other,” is all Terry says, focusing on that to stave off the panic.

“Let’s focus on that,” Daniel says, nuzzling his cheek into his shoulder. Terry can feel the warmth of his breaths gaunt his neck.

Plastered against his back, Daniel moves with Terry almost, to the feel the rise and fall of Terry’s breathing. Terry can feel the beat of Daniel’s heart, they’re pressed so tight.

Concentrating on that. On the moment. On what he can control in the here and now.

The dread subsides, for now, even if Terry knows it has simply retreated.

The moonlight shines down on them, this moment in time, and they stay like that until the sun chases it away, illuminating the sins instead.

———————-

“Oh god,” a breathy little moan, as Terry’s cock slides home, opening Daniel to him.

Four fingers, four of Terry’s thick fingers, and his mouth, had put the time in to get Daniel here like this, body open enough to accept the older man inside him; to accept his love.

Like a virgin on a mound, about to be offered up as sacrifice, this is how he will repay Terry.

Daniel arches up, legs squeezing tighter to the older man’s sides as his eyes squeeze shut, blunt fingernails drawing down a broad pale back.

They’ll both bleed for this tonight.

They’ll always bleed for each other.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Terry groans, and Daniel kisses him, only because he can’t handle much more.

He can’t handle Terry here inside him like this - how good it feels - how right it feels - and hear the raw truth in Terry’s voice.

He can’t.

His body is already the temple Terry is about to worship at - to ruin and rebuild - his body the vessel for this offering of his.

He knows his heart and soul will follow suit. If he was being honest with himself, something he seldom is, they already have.

The older man will accept nothing else. Daniel finds he wants nothing else.

Hands roaming, touching warm sweat slick skin, sharing the air moving between them.

The older man so damn gentle as he keeps sliding in.

Daniel finding within himself, to somehow open more and more, until Terry’s cock is all the way in, both men joined as one.

Terry carving a spot for himself that only he will be able to fill.

Hips snapping in, the wet noises of their coupling, the pin pricks of pleasure when the older man’s cock brushes his prostate, the sharp grin, like a shark sensing blood in the water as Terry concentrates on hitting that spot.

Hands pins above his head, Daniel opening his eyes at the older man’s command, Terry staring down.

“I love you. So much, Danny. So damm much,” he groans, rocking in, burying his face into the smaller man’s neck.

The slapping noise of skin on skin as he’s taken, as Terry chases his release, both of their releases, in each other.

Hands grab slim hips, feeling the bone under his palm, fingers digging in, greedy and covetous, but Daniel can feel the love even if he can also feel the bruises it is leaving.

Love with teeth, it suits them.

Always did.

And a love that leaves marks from those teeth, stained red with blood.

A love that is visible - a mixture of pleasure and pain, sometimes in equal measure.

That is them.

“Oh,” he sobs out as he comes in the space between them, not even a hand on his cock needed.

The clenching of his body, already a tight and perfect fit around Terry’s cock, is the older man’s undoing, and his hand grasps the smaller man’s side, covering the now barely visible scar, as empties himself inside the smaller body.

Daniel’s legs fall off his sides, splayed open obscenely as Terry fills and fills and fills him. He moans softly at the sensation of Terry’s come inside him, which doesn’t seem to be stopping, the warming blooming through him as his hips keep gently fucking in, making sure it’s as deep as it can go, making sure Daniel is even more full than he thought possible.

Finally finished, Terry collapses on top of Daniel, careful as he does though. He’s always careful with his boy, even if sometimes it’s his own personal brand of it.

He doesn’t bother to pull out, loathe to leave Daniel’s body until he absolutely has to, even if he is eager to see the mess he’s left his boy in.

There is always later for that.

They have that luxury of later now.

Who would have thought that here, of all places, a second, third, and fourth chance.

Terry’s lost count.

As many as they need to get it right.

Terry will see to that.

[ashblooddragons]

My Heart, My Ruin (Chapter 2/?)

(sorry if this chapter is on the shorter side, I got back on a med I hadn't had in a while because my doctors weren't refilling it, and one of the side effects of this med is making me tired and fatigued. I honestly didn't even know if I would get chapter 8 of The Red Queen so I'm really sorry if this is short, or not written well or anywhere near as well as I try usually, I'm just trying to stay awake to get this out. sorry for the rant I'm gonna let you read now lol)

28 ac

Rhaellas Pov

I try not to fidget as Papa makes a speech, it's my sixth nameday which means I'm officially a big girl. 

“I warn you all, our little girl is a curious one. She will ask about the gift you have given her and want all the details. There is a reason we call her our curious dragon.” Papa says making all the lords laugh and making me blush and hide my face in my hands.

“So let us feast on this great day as we celebrate my sweet little girl, my firstborn, for her sixth nameday!” Papa finishes making everyone cheer as they take sips of their wine.

He bends down and kisses my forehead and whispers. “Happy nameday my curious dragon.” 

“Thank you, Papa.” I say making him smile before he and Mama walk down the steps of the high table to talk to some of the lords.

“When will you get to open your presents?” Rhaena asks picking at the food on her plate.

“Yeah, we're bored!” Aegon my little brother exclaims. He's only two but he's very smart, Mama calls him her little genius.

“I'm sure Papa or Grandsire will announce when I can open them.” I say grabbing Aegon's arm before he runs off. Have I mentioned he also never stops running! How he can run into a tree head first and laugh before running again is beyond me. I hope the baby in Mama's belly is a girl, I can't handle another brother.

“I want to see the dragons!” Aegon demands stomping his feet.

He always throws tantrums if he doesn't get his way so I try and find Mama or Papa in the crowd of lords and ladies.

“Don't speak to your sister that way boy.” I hear the deep and cold voice of Kepus. 

Aegon stops and turns to look up at him just when I do too. I know Kepus must be mad from the scowl on his face.

“I just wanted to say hi to Quicksilver.” Aegon says sheepishly already turning to hide in the shirts of my dress.

Kepus only hums before taking a sip of wine from his chalice. Thankfully for Aegon and Rhaena Papa and Mama seem to have had their nursemaids come to get them as it's time for them to go to sleep.

Once my siblings are taken away Kepus sits in the chair next to me that was previously taken by Rhaena.

“Happy nameday, ñuha prūmia. I got you something.” He says as he reaches into his jerkin pocket. He holds something in his fist holding it out to me. “Hold your hands out, ñuha prūmia.”

I do as he told me, holding my hands out under his. When he opens it I'm ready to catch something but nothing falls into my hands, but when I look at his hand I see he's dangling a beautiful necklace from his pointer finger. It has purple stones that appear almost like tear drops, and the metal looks like a darker silver. 

“Happy nameday, ñuha prūmia.”

“It's wonderful, where did you get it?” I ask, reaching out to feel the cool metal against the skin of my palms.

“It was in our family archives, supposedly it was Daenys the Dreamers. It's made of Valyrian steel and is encrusted with amethysts. Daenys was always said to love amethysts.” He says with a soft smile.

“Daenys? she wore this?” I ask excitedly, he knows how much I adore Daenys the Dreamer. I've probably made him read me the story of her more than a hundred times by now.

“That's what the Maester said, now turn around let me help put it on you.” He says in that tone that I know means he's not asking, he's telling. 

So I do as he says turning in my seat so my back is to him and grab my curly hair hoping I got it all. I feel the chill of the metal against my throat as I feel Kepus clip it. 

“There, now let me see.” I hear him say as he gently takes my hair out of my hands so it can fall down my back once more

I turn and look up at him watching as he smiles fondly. “Lovely, it matches your dress wonderfully, but it matches those eyes much better.” 

I smile touching the pink velvet dress Mama gave me for my Nameday. It has gold dragon embroidered along the skirt and at the neckline. But for some reason his words about my eyes is what makes me blush. But my joy is soon cut off my none other than Ceryse Hightower.

“I see you've given her the present you chose.” She says resting her hand on Kepus's shoulder. 

I watch as he tense something dark, something cruel flashes in his eyes before they become the stoney ones he lets the world see. 

I like the ones he has with me much better. I think before turning to his wife.

“Yes, it's a wonderful gift.” I say trying to stay kind even though I don't like her.

I never knew why I didn't like her, she's kind, gentle, sweet, but she's so boring. Her idea of fun is sitting and sewing, my idea of fun is running in the fields or flying with Papa or Grandsire. 

“That's wonderful, I'm glad you like it. Maegor worked very hard to find it. Had to be the perfect one, he said.” She says smiling at Kepus but he only seems to be getting more and more upset.

Cersye seems to catch the tense atmosphere and hands me a black leather journal with red ribbon to tie it. It seems to be imprinted with the Targaryen symbol on the front and back.

“As you are six namedays you'll start your studies with a Septa. I found having a journal helped me to remember my lessons and to take notes. I hope it helps you as much as having one helped me.” 

I can't deny that it's a thoughtful gift, and one she seems to have commissioned just for me. She obviously didn't just pick this up at some random book store in a rush. I think, feeling the soft leather against my palms.

“Thank you, it's a lovely gift. I'm sure it will get much use.” I say setting it back on the table. 

I'm about to ask if Kepus will dance with me when I hear the music start but his wife beats me to it.

“Dance with me, darling? You know this is my favorite.” She asks, already pulling him out of his chair.

I watch as he walks away with her to dance, I don't know why it hurts my heart seeing him with her, but it does. I hear a dragon roar from outside, it gives a pull at my soul like always.

“Come to me! I'm waiting!” it's starting to sound desperate, if only I could find out where it is. No, where she is.

This is the necklace Maegor gies Rhaella, or at least what I see lol

Special thanks to @sugutoad for making the header for this fic! I swear I'd be lost without you girly!

TAGLIST @sugutoad @ilikefelines @sachaa-ff @classicsimpforaaronwarner @mmogurl

[darlingshane]

Let's pretend it's 1996

Duncan Carmello x F!Reader

Summary: You've always wondered how things would have turned out between you and Duncan if you didn’t break up. It takes 10 years for you to see him again at your High School reunion. This night brings a lot of bittersweet moments between you and him, and you can't help but wonder if after all this time you could make this work again.

CW: fluff, crack, light angst, regrets, memories, exes, high school reunion, drinking, singing, kissing.

Word Count: 3,8k

A/N: This fic is set in 2006, the year the show was released. Duncan never dated Nicole, instead he was with reader. Also, I'm not a lyricist so forgive my cheesy ass song that I wrote for Duncan, but I know this is something he'd write.

— Links: AO3 // Masterlist

After sitting down at the table, you start bobbing your head to the sound of Car Fire, the band playing live, led by none other than Duncan Carmello—your ex. They've taken the stage to kick off the party, while the stragglers keep arriving.

Your friend Pam has left you alone momentarily to procure a couple of drinks. In that time, you've found yourself caught in a web of memories about your Duncan that trace all the way back to high school. It's in this very same gym you're in where you cheered for him from the bleachers when he played basketball. The very same place where you dance together during prom, and you couldn't imagine life with anyone other than him. And now it hosts your 10 Year High School reunion. You promised yourself that you'd never attend any of these cheesy events, but Pam convinced you to come along. She’s in the organization committee, and she was very adamant on you being here tonight.

Pam sets your glass of wine on the table right in front of you, and gets close to your ear to say something over the music playing, “you're staring.”

“What?” you slowly pick up your glass and bring it up to your lips.

“Tell me that you're not still pinning for that asshole.”

“I am not pinning,” you scoff and take another sip to swallow the lie. “I’m remembering. Remembering is not pinning.”

“Tell that to your face.”

You've always wondered how things would have turned out between you and Duncan if you didn’t break up. You were high school sweethearts, the ones that every thought they'd be together forever. But fate had different plans. You wanted to become a journalist, had your mind set on going to college on the other side of the country, and that put a strain on your relationship. Distance was not kind, and a year later there was no more you and Duncan. The last time you saw him was that summer, when you came back and everything went to hell. You haven't seen him in person since. You’ve seen him in pictures that your old classmates have on Facebook, but you never thought of reaching out, despite him being on your mind more often than not.

All the relationships you had after Duncan didn't work out, and it was solely on you. You could never bring yourself to love anyone when he was still a constant presence in your heart and mind. It’s something that you probably never got over, which is kind of pathetic considering he was the one who couldn’t overcome his issues about your long distance relationship. You should hate him, but you never did. You never could. All his concerns were valid, but you were too focused on getting your degree and traveling all over, something you’ve dreamed of since before you met him. And he felt like he wasn’t part of that. He had his life here and wasn’t willing to consider moving away, even if it was just for trying. The pressure was on you to make it work, and it made you feel like a failure for not doing your best to fix the situation. That’s why he was an asshole. He was just a kid, people would say… but so were you. There was too much you had planned for your future to throw away for him. He could've met you halfway, but because he was so damn stubborn that it all ended in a bitter note that left an aftertaste in your throat for years to last. This is mainly the reason you didn't want to come here today. You know it'd be hard to ignore everything you've put in boxes in the farthest corners of your mind. Now, the dust has cleared, lids are open, and you can't bring yourself to close them again.

This evening, he's singing all the songs he wrote in high school, which you remember every lyric to. You're the sole owner of two copies of the one and only album they ever recorded. One of those he gave to you, it came with a special dedication at the back. And a second one you bought to support the band. They're both in an old box labeled ‘Don't open’ that contains everything that you collected from that past relationship and that you've always been unable to get rid of that sits in the back of your closet.

You try to think about all the horrible things he said to you the last time you talked face to face in an attempt to put him out of your mind; but to be honest, it felt like such a surreal conversation you're not sure if it happened or not. You're not the one to hold grudges and yes, he was just a kid, who had just turned 19, and it'll be really petty of you to hold onto that forever.

As the short performance comes to an end, Pam leaves again to set up the next activity at the stage. Music starts playing from a playlist now as you wander around to pick up some appetizers from the buffet table to stuff your face with. Then you meet your colleagues from the school paper that are all gathered at the bar. You have a couple of drinks and a few laughs while catching up with them and everything that's going on with their lives.

Your social battery starts draining as your bladder keeps filling quickly. When you come out of the bathroom, you make a stop in the hallway to study the wall of memories of the class of 96 that holds a lot of moments frozen in pictures that you had forgotten. School events, trips, different clubs, yearbook portraits and personal pics of different groups of friends shine anew as if they were taken yesterday. They're all labeled by year, and the walk down memory lane ends with a graduation picture of the whole class. Your eyes travel back to a collection of snapshots dedicated to prom. There's one of Duncan where he's smiling proudly in his messed up tux after being crowned prom king. Another one of the two of you where he has put his crown on your head to share the win. He later on bought you a tiara, saying you were his only queen. Your heart sinks when you see a more intimate pic of you slowly dancing in his arms. You still remember what song was playing, how he smelled, how his hands caressed the exposed skin at your back. It seems to come alive for a second when you hear his voice behind you…

“I still think you should have been crowned that night.”

“I was a nerd. Haven't you heard? Nerds don't get to be prom royalty,” you say after swallowing the knot in your throat. You don't look back, you can't face him yet. Not this close.

“That's not true. Look at you, you were by far the most beautiful in that gym.”

“Well, it wasn't a beauty contest, either.” You sigh, staring at the most popular girl in school standing on stage with her crown next to Duncan.

“So, you're not going to turn around?”

“I don't think I can yet.”

“That's cool. Take your time.”

“You sounded good up there. I thought you guys went separate ways.” You fidget with your fingers, unable to move any other part of your body to look at him.

“We did. We just got the band together again.”

“You still got it.”

“You think so?” He still sounds so boyish when he says that.

“Hm-hmm.”

“I was hoping you'd come today.”

“Yeah? Why is that?” you keep your eyes glued to the pictures on the wall.

“Cause I needed to tell you that I didn't mean any of that shit I said when we broke up.”

“Duncan, you don't have to say anything. It's—”

“No. I do have something to say, cause I was a jackass. Thought that you deserved better than me. I knew if we stayed together, I'd hold you back. You were doing what you loved, and I'd have just gotten in the way so… I took the coward's way out. I thought that if you hated me, you'd just move on. Then it was too late when I realized that it was the biggest mistake I've ever made. I need you to know that.”

Listening to him opening that old wound makes your eyes well up, but you manage to reel those in.

“I tried to hate you,” you say. “Never could. Even when it hurt, even when I couldn't move on… I couldn't bring myself to hate you.”

It's then that you finally gather the courage to shift in your heels and face him.

“Hey.”

“Hey, you,” the way his lips curve up at the corners is utterly disarming. “I didn't think you'd talk to me.”

You shrug, “I didn't think so either. But here we are.”

“Here we are,” he echoes. “You look great.”

“You do, too.” And he does. Up close, you can see he's really grown up into his own with his simple dark suit and unbuttoned black shirt. “Look at you. You're wearing a suit, and you've gotten rid of that horrible mullet.”

“Yeah,” he laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his nape, messing up his shaggy curls. “Would you have a drink with me?”

“Hmm,” you pause and try to decide whether that it's something that you'd like to do right now. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Why? Did you come here with anyone?”

“No, I just don't have anything else to say to you.”

“Are you still mad at me?”

You shake your head. “Whatever happened all these years ago is all water under the bridge, Duncan. You said what you wanted to say. I don't think it'd be healthy to sit down and keep rehashing the past.”

“Oh, I get it, you're scared.” He says with a teasing tone.

“I'm not scared.” You scoff, crossing your arms tightly against your stomach.

“No? You look terrified right now, hotshot.”

“I'm not.”

“Are so.”

“I'm not”

“Are so.”

“What, are we in school?” You bring a stop to it.

“Well, we are in a high school.”

You both stare at the other and break into laughter.

Duncan tucks both hands in his pockets and shrugs like he used to, biting his bottom lip with a smile before trying again.

“C'mon, let me buy you a drink for old times.”

“I think drinks are free.”

“Even better.”

“So I'm a cheap date now.”

“Hey, I didn't say anything about a date.” Duncan starts walking backwards, heading to the gym doors. “I'll be at the bar. Come. Don't come. It's up to you.”

You watch him disappear behind the big doors that clank upon closing. The music buzzing behind them temporarily comes to stop, and you hear murmurs in its place. You step closer to see through the window that Pam is taking the stage to inform everyone with mic in hand that games would start soon before letting the music resume. You look to the side to get a glimpse of Duncan taking a seat at the bar. Against your own wishes, your hands push the door open and let your feet zero in on his direction.

His face lights up when he sees you. He raises his glass up to you. “Look who decided to join me. I knew you couldn't resist.”

“Please, don't flatter yourself. I just needed a place to sit,” you say, parking your ass on the free bar stool beside him. “These heels are killing me.”

The waiter comes over, and you order another glass of wine while you watch Duncan go over a booklet left on the bar with the necessary information of all the attendees from the Class of 96.

“Is this true? You live in New York now?” Duncan shows up your page with your bio, and two pics of you side by side, one from your teen years and a recent one you send to Pam to assemble the class book.

“Hm-hmm.”

“And you write for a surfing magazine, huh?”

“Surfing magazine? What are you talking about? It’s called Surfeit. It has nothing to do with surfing.”

“I know,” he scoffs, “I was just messing with you.”

“Were you now?” You squint at him.

“Yeah, I gotta confess I’ve known for a while. I subscribed to that thing a few months ago.”

“Get out of here.”

“No, it’s true. I know you’re one of the founders. I’ve read all your pieces, I particularly liked the one about the invasion of the cum trees. It was fascinating.”

“Yeah? You think that one will put me on the right track for a Pulitzer?” You chuckle before taking a sip from your glass. “So, you’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

“Just recently.” He puts down the booklet and lifts his beer to his lips.

“Just recently? Why would you do that now?”

“Why?” he sighs. “I don’t know, I guess I missed talking to you. I found one of your articles online a few months ago, and it felt like I was hearing your voice when I read it, so I started looking for more, and I found Surfeit and I got most of them in the mail— It’s kinda pathetic, isn’t it?”

You balance your head side to side, measuring which side you lean on. “I think it’s sweet. I like this new side of you.”

“Which side?”

“You’re honest. Well, I suppose you always were, for the most part, but I used to have to pry words out of you when we weren’t talking about music, sports, or video games. I like that you offer them now without me asking, and that you’re capable of reading anything that didn’t come from a Playboy. I don’t think you were our target audience when we started the magazine, but I’ll take it.”

Biting his bottom lip, he looks down for a beat. “Okay, now it’s your turn to share something pathetic you’ve done to level the scales.”

“Hmm, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win, and you’d laugh at me.”

“C’mon, I promise I won’t laugh.”

Clearing your throat, you look down for a beat before confessing.

“You know, I was just thinking earlier, when you were playing on stage, about all the stuff I kept from you in a box and that I still have. All the mixtapes, the Car Fire albums, the tiara you bought me, all the anniversary presents… all the pictures… I’ve hauled them over several states. I took it by accident to London once. I just can't get rid of anything. I never look at what's inside, whatsoever. I don’t need to, but it's always there cause, you know… cause I’m a pathetic loser and I never got over you.”

You feel your face going numb as you finish saying that, and when you look at his eyes, you see that his smile has disappeared too. Is he pitying you? It’s the only thing you can read on his expression right now, and you instantly regret telling him that.

He opens his mouth to talk, but he takes too long to respond. And before he can say anything, you promptly stand up and try to head out the door.

Surfing the crowd, you bump into Pam.

“Hey, I was looking for you. Come on, games are starting. Sit down.”

“I was going to—” You point at the door with your thumb, but she doesn’t hear you. She grabs your arm and takes you to the tables where everyone is gathering.

Your weak protest attempt goes unheard by your friend, who leaves you alone once more to explain the first game on the microphone as someone else starts handing a sheet filled with trivia questions to everyone. They range from school-specific questions to 1996 pop culture. This is the last thing you wanna do right now, but you pick up a pen and start filling your answers without putting too much thought into them.

“Hi—” the high-pitched feedback from the microphone tears your eyes from the paper, and you find Duncan back on stage, strapping a guitar to his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I’m taking the stage again,” he says as the people from the organization committee start asking him to get down, with Pam fuming on the side.

“Actually, I’m not sorry. There’s someone here today and she… she opened her heart to me and I just stood there like an idiot cause I’m not good with words like she is. I… I thought I could say better with a song.”

You lock eyes with him instantly. You can see him swallowing the lump in his throat as he positions his hands on the guitar. He looks down at the strings for a beat before letting his fingers play the first chords. After a moment, his voice joins the melody in a mid-tempo rock ballad…

Your voice knocks down my own pride, All the things you wrote, all the things you shared. Sleepless nights, restless days. Guess I never figured out, How to let go, how to walk out.

Wish I had gone along, But baby, it’s too late now. If I could go back, I’d rewrite our last goodbye Instead of losing you that night.

There’s nothing like a fatal flaw, Caught up in my own fears and lies, I pushed you away, said you weren’t it. You walked away, I stayed right here Watching the years slip by.

Wish I had gone along, But baby, it’s too late now. If I could go back, I’d rewrite our last goodbye Instead of losing you that night.

And just for kicks, let’s pretend it’s 1996, We’re flying high, we’re back in that field The grass holding us up, watching stars collide.

Wish I had gone along…

Please tell me it’s not too late…

I’ll wait for you to say… baby, there’s still a chance.

The gym goes silent when the last chord fades away, and you can’t hear anything over the sound of your beating heart as you study every word sung in his song. You’re aware that all eyes are on you, expecting to see your next move, but you’re paralyzed in your seat.

Someone starts clapping, and the rest of the gym follow suit, breaking the spell you’re in.

You raise up from your chair and head out the door at a fast pace while the party resumes like nothing happened. You make it all the way to the courtyard and when you look back you see him following several yards behind, closely catching up.

Your feet come to a halt by the fountain, and you wait for him to face you.

“You know, you’re a liar,” you utter as he stops in front of you.

“All I said in that song was true.”

“No, you said you weren't good with words. I beg to differ.”

“You liked it?”

“Well, it wasn’t Bohemian Rhapsody, but it was good. It sounded like Oasis in their good years.”

“I mean, no one can beat Bohemian Rhapsody,” he snorts, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging in true Duncan fashion.

“Did you really mean it? If you could take it back, would you? You think we would’ve made it?”

“I meant every word of it, sweetheart. I never wanted to be with anyone else. I don’t know if we would have made it. I’d like to think that in another universe we did… You said you kept everything and I just choked up cause I did the same thing. I could never let you go, you know?”

“So, we’re just two wallowing assholes that couldn’t pick up the phone in 10 years?”

“Guess we are.”

“What do we do now?” You ask, folding your arms against your stomach.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I’m not the same person you remember, Duncan. We can’t just pick it up like nothing happened.”

“I don’t think I am, either. Maybe we could just stay in contact and see where that goes?” He takes out a hand out of his pocket that comes with a cell phone attached to his fingers. “Here, put your number in there.”

“It's funny,” he says as you pick it up from his hand and start typing your number in his contacts.

“What's funny?”

“Us being here, standing on the same spot where I first asked you out.”

You gaze away from the phone for a second. “Right, I didn't notice that. What was it? Homecoming?”

“That's right.”

When you're done saving your number, you call yourself to have his number registered on your end and give it back with a warning look, “don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t. I give you my word.” Duncan purposely clutches his fingers softly around your hand when reaching for the phone. He uses his opposite hand to caress the shape of your knuckles.

The familiar touch makes your hair stick out, your breath gets caught in the knot of your throat, wrapped in a layer of regrets and unsaid words. There’s an I love you trying to force its way out, but you don’t let it. You can’t. It’d be ridiculous if you did. Instead, you step closer and cup his face. He lets out a sigh, preparing for what’s coming as your face shortens the distance. The same magnetic pull that brought you to him the first time over ten years ago takes hold of you as you capture the warmth of his lips in a tender kiss. His hands, driven by that same force, smoothly travel to your waist to hold you closer against him. You sway with the gentle breeze as you allow your lips to move with his to the sweet rhythm of that song that still lingers in the way his tongue delves past your lips. As you're drawn into the depth of his mouth, you curl your arms around his neck in a tight lock as one of your hands slides into the back of his hair. He moans in your mouth as a reaction to your fingers massaging his scalp. It’s easy to get lost in that moment and forget how to breathe as your lips ache for more, for all those missed years of kisses, you suddenly feel fused with him making up for all that lost time.

You’re not sure who pulls back first, perhaps it’s both.

He’s just as breathless as you are when your lips part and your foreheads meet instead.

“Wow,” he says under a shallow breath.

“Yeah, wow,” your lips draw a smile.

“Do you wanna go back inside?”

You shake your head. “I like it here.”

— Credits: beautiful divider by @firefly-graphics

[thatonegreyghost]

Neuvillette has the perfect day picked out.

Breakfast at the cafè, a day of shopping and strolling on the beach, and finally, dinner and a play at the Hotel DeBord. A masterful idea. It could not be more perfect.

Except.

Wriothesley wakes up that morning and just... leaves. Puts on a casual outfit and walks out the door without even stopping to look at the card Neuvillette put on the table. He barely even looks at the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" Neuvillette calls after him.

"Just wanted to run some errands before we hang out all day. We're out of milk. And sugar. And eggs, I think."

And he leaves before Neuvillette can explain that they are supposed to go to breakfast. Wriothesley knows that Neuvillette intended to surprise him, but apparently, he isn't thinking much about that right now.

Alright, that's fine. Wriothesley can do as he likes. It is his day, after all. They'll still be able to do some shopping and that beach stroll together. And when Wriothesley comes back, they can talk about what they'll do first.

So, when Wriothesley does come back, Neuvillette is shocked that the first thing he asks for is to lounge around all day.

"You don't want to go out?" Neuvillette stammers.

"Not if I can help it. It's a warm day, though. If we had the supplies, I'd suggest a picnic." Wriothesley laughs. "Oh, we should plan one! I haven't been on a picnic in ages."

A picnic. That is certainly sonething achievable. Neuvillette sets his mind to it, and immediately rushes to the kitchen to prepare some food.

Two sandwiches– roast chicken for Wriothesley, tuna salad for himself– and some fruits, as well fresh water and Fonta for the both of them. All packaged in a fun little basket he had intended to use for some tea he bought Wriothesley.

At the last second, he also slips in a box of homemade macarons from Navia. Peppermint, Wriothesley's favorite flavor. He'd nearly forgotten she got them for him.

He returns to the living room, basket in hand, and declares the plan to Wriothesley. Wriothesley answers him with a smile, and within minutes, they are out the door.

Of course, by the time they make it to the secluded beach outside the Court, Neuvillette realizes they have no blanket to sit on, no games to play, and no cups to drink with. Wriothesley doesn't mind– in fact, he laughs, calling it a "good first attempt".

"Seriously, Neuv, don't sweat it." He insists as he devours his sandwich. "It's more than enough that you went through to trouble to surprise me with this."

"I wanted it to be more special." Neuvillette pouts, plucking a Rainbow Rose from the grass and twirling it in his hands.

"It is special." Wriothesley assures him.

Neuvillette does not feel very assured. In fact, he feels like he's messed up everything. But, there's no space for doubt in this moment. He must believe that it will work out for the best.

"Navia made some macarons for you." Neuvillette mentions as he lays down in the grass.

"Really?" Wriothesley perks up, sitting up quickly and rummaging through the basket. "Well, look at that! We'll have to repay the favor."

"No favor necessary, Wriothesley." Neuvillette sighs with fondness. "They're a gift."

"Huh. What's the occasion?"

There's a genuine curiosity to his question, and it's at that moment Neuvillette realizes– Wriothesley never asked about his gift. Didn't ask for special treatment. Hasn't even mentioned a list of wishes all month.

"Wriothesley, they're your gift." Neuvillette emphasizes.

"Well, yeah, you mentioned that. I'm just wondering what the occasion is." Wriothesley rolls his eyes, like Neuvillette is being silly. "You still haven't answered my question, by the way."

Wriothesley is leaned over him, smiling and acting coy, but Neuvillette can't bring himself to reciprocate. Does Wriothesley not remember? Did something happen to make him forget? Surely he can't be serious right now. Who in their right mind forgets their own birthday?

"It's your birthday." Neuvillette answers quietly. "I wanted your day to be special."

Wriothesley startles, his face going very pale. He glances away from Neuvillette– he's upset now, and Neuvillette doesn't know how to fix it.

"Wow. Is it the 23rd already?" Wriothesley laughs wryly. "Time really flies, huh?"

A soft rain begins to trickle down as Neuvillette gently caresses Wriothesley's cheek. He's gone and cocked it all up, hasn't he? Wriothesley's all upset now. Was the picnic not good enough? Should he have done more? Something is wrong, but he doesn't know what.

"Did I do something wrong? Is the picnic not to your liking?" Neuvillette asks softly.

"What? No, the picnic is fine!" Wriothesley assures him, his voice urgent yet soothing. "I just... I haven't celebrated my birthday in years. I honestly forgot it was today. I mean... it's not like I had a reason to celebrate."

Neuvillette's heart breaks for Wriothesley. Ever since they began dating– since the prophecy was averted– Neuvillette has become more and more aware of just how harshly Wriothesley was treated when he was young, and is more and more in awe of how gentle he turned out regardless. But this... it's too much. To know that even at his best, Wriothesley has not seen reason to celebrate his birthday, hasn't given it any sort of consideration.

Neuvillette embraces his lover, and the sky weeps for Wriothesley. Wriothesley holds him close, his voice unsteady and his embrace unyielding.

"Are you ok?" Wriothesley asks.

"I... I'm sorry." Neuvillette gasps. "I'm sorry no one has celebrated you. I'm sorry you got used to it. I'm sorry you never saw a reason to ask for that attention."

He doesn't say "I'm sorry you never got to feel special". He doesn't have to.

"Oh, Neuv, it's ok. Really, I haven't thought about it at all, much." Wriothesley insists. "I love the picnic. I love that you went to all this trouble, just for me."

"It isn't perfect." Neuvillette protests. "I forgot the blanket."

"The grass is plenty soft." Wriothesley shrugs.

"I forgot the games."

"We can play "I spy" and cloud-watch."

"We haven't any cups for the drinks."

"It always tastes better straight from the bottle." Wriothesley laughs. "You tried. That's the important part."

"Oh, Wriothesley." Neuvillette sighs. "I'm sorry, I'm making a scene with my crying."

But the rain has stopped, and the clouds are dispersing, and Wriothesley smiles down at him, amd everything is right with the world.

"You know, they say there's nothing new under the sun," Wriothesley says slowly, "but somehow, a picnic in the warm sunshine never gets old."

"Indeed." Neuvillette smiles back. "Happy birthday, Wriothesley."

Somehow, a picnic in the warm sunshine never gets old...~

(Happy Birthday, Your Grace!!)

[pastlivesandpurplepuppets]

[...]at age thirty-five, Winters put in for a transfer to U.S. Army Ranger school.

The transfer was granted and Winters found himself in familiar surroundings: Fort Benning. He enjoyed the training and the challenge of the Rangers because they shared his philosophy of doing one’s best. Still, it didn’t take him long to get off on the wrong foot with some of the ranking officers. A few weeks after his arrival Winters was assigned to a bevy of field-grade officers, mostly majors and lieutenant colonels, to observe the Rangers as they undertook a three-day field problem that included a mock night attack. At first Winters was excited. He longed to get back out into the wilds and live in the field. So he was horrified when he discovered that the officers would simply observe the Rangers as they left for the training session, and be there when they got back. Winters sought out the colonel in command.

“Colonel, I’d like to go along on the exercise,” he said.

The colonel looked startled.

“No, no. That’s out,” he said. “That’s not the way we do it, Major. This is an extremely arduous exercise, and it’s hard enough on these younger men. This is a tough assignment.”

“Respectfully, sir, I understand that. But I’d like to go along,” he insisted. “I can’t see the point in observing them if I can’t see them in action.”

The colonel again tried to dissuade Winters, but failed to budge the insistent major. Obviously displeased, the colonel finally relented.

Back in combat gear and helmet, fully loaded backpack and clutching a rifle, Winters trudged into the North Carolina wilderness for three days of hard living, surrounded by men, most of whom were fifteen years his junior. The three-day training exercise gave Winters the exhilarating opportunity not only to observe, but to participate in everything from lengthy hikes to cliff scaling.

“I did the whole damned thing,” he later said.

In the wilds, men lived on field rations except for one day when providence provided unexpected, and far tastier, fare. Bivouacked by a roadside, Winters was beginning to shave, a holdover from the days when Colonel Sink ordered all officers to shave every morning, when a civilian truck carrying a load of chickens roared past. An improperly closed cage swung open and several chickens escaped, making themselves fair game for men living on K Rations. Winters caught one of the escapees, which was now destined to become his lunch. He restrained the flapping bird by tying it to his leg with a shoestring and returned to his shave. Winters lathered up his face, then scraped away the minuscule growth of whiskers with his razor. As he shaved, a movement on the ground caught his eye. Not far away, a copperhead snake was also anticipating a chicken dinner. Winters froze as the snake slithered quietly closer. Winters slowly reached down to his field pack, and withdrew his machete. With one quick, sure motion he killed the snake, giving the chicken a temporary reprieve. He resumed his shave.

With the coming of darkness, men donned combat gear and blackened their faces. Their assignment during the night attack maneuver was to seize an enemy command post. Winters accompanied the Rangers as they moved silently along a wooded trail. As the command center loomed ahead, Winters and the others spread out, dropped to the ground and began to creep forward.

Winters spotted one soldier at the command post, possibly a sentry, standing alone. Slinking through the underbrush as carefully, and as lethally, as the snake he had killed earlier, Winters stalked the man. He worked his way unseen behind the sentry, then leaped up. He wrapped an arm around the soldier’s neck, closing a hand over his mouth to stifle any sound, and drew his other hand to the man’s throat.

“You’re dead,” he whispered.

Winters was ecstatic. It was a sure kill. His training from ten years earlier had stayed with him. The sentry had never heard him approach. For Dick Winters, it was the high point of his entire military experience since his recall.

After the three-day exercise, the Rangers hiked back into civilization, and the thirty-five-year-old Winters marched right along. The younger men appreciated Winters’ abilities and endurance, and poured respect on him. He returned their respect. However, the glowering looks on the faces of the observing officers plainly showed their dissatisfaction.

“They didn’t appreciate me going out one damned bit,” he recalled years later. “Basically, I was showing them up.”

~ Larry Alexander

[beaversatemygrandma]

At roughly 4 to 5am one of the cats decided to climb on top of the shelves right above my head where i sleep. Shelves that we put there specifically bc they couldn't reach them. (They grew since then. They can now...) And I was rudely woken up by a lego succulent that was on display hitting me right in the head.

The little shits have mastered verticality and I'm hating it.

Anyways. Anybody have any recommendations of museum putty for displayed lego sets? (Bc anything that isn't plastic isn't out in the open bc of them.)