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askdawnandvern · 5 years ago

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Vernon: Admittedly...it's been sorta er...hard to do anythin' in the bedroom with the youngin's on high alert fer ol' Santa Claws.

Dawn: Ally's hearing is nearly as good as her fathers, even if they aren't related genetically.

Vernon: And while I've got my er...big O' howl purty close to under complete control, We really don't want to take the chance of breakin' down our door lookin' fer Santa and well...er...findin' him? Sorta...I mean, what's more festive then ruttin' yer mate dressed as a sexy Santa Claws, right?

Dawn: And I was supposed to be his naughty reindeer toymaker. *Giggles* Sadly though, we couldn't do that for Yule's eve.

Vernon: Thankfully Wade was willin' to let Eddi and Ally spend the night over in Tundra Town a few days before so....I mean, we got our little...' reindeer games' in.

Dawn: *Giggles* Oh Puppy.

Vernon: o' course we kept Paige home cause she weren't gonna burst in on no one. Sides, we didn't want to saddle Wade with a newborn.

Dawn: Not that we don't trust him, we just thought it would have been more fun for him and the pups to not have to worry about Paige's needs.

Wade: Nice save.

Vernon: I'm sorry, y'all wanted to Pupsit Paige too? Considerin' that Paige basically starts cryin' if anyone other than me, Dawn, Allison, Eddi 'er Ma hold her?

Wade: I...er...Okay...that's fair.

Vernon: Wouldn't have been easy takin' a newborn snowboardin' either...

Dawn: Alright, alright...So...what about you and Giselle? You do anything special for Yule?

Giselle: Well, we were toying around with some...erotic body paint...

Wade: Edible stuff, Yule themed. I was gonna paint her neck up like a yule candy cane and lap it off.

Vernon: Was?

Wade: Well...I er...

Giselle: *Giggles* We both sort of underestimated just how long that much time that would take.

Wade: It was erotic at first, but by the time I got about two-thirds of the way done we were both kind of done with it. It went from foreplay to chore play...

Giselle: *Giggles* We decided to cut out the middle-mammal at that point and just get to the actual rutting.

Trenton: Me and Qails tried that once...granted it was a lot easier to do. But they don't warn ya about just how bad a hairball yer gonna earn lappin' that edible paint back up, so y'all dodged a bullet there.

Qali: *Giggles* Yup. I think that stuff was made with short furred mammals, or sheep in mind.

Trenton: As fer us,. This year we did a Yule campout in Qails family Yule tree fields.

Vernon: In the snow?

Qali: Hey, we were built for snow. *Giggles* Well, I was anyway...

Trenton: Sides' , we had a space heater. Still, y'all would be surprised how invigoratin' it feels gettin' intimate with yer mate with nothin' but a tent seperatin' y'all and the snow storm brewin' outside. Feels almost...like primal. Like how our ancesters musta felt.

Vernon: Our ancestors didn't have space heaters.

Qali: Still it was lovely...and no one could hear Trenny's mating howl over the wind! So we didn't whip the neighbors into a howling frenzy!

Trenton: Ehhehe...*Blushes* Foxes Glen is right near Wolfsborough so...you can get a purty nasty howl whipped up under the right circumstances.

Kodi: Val and I did the camp out thing too...granted that was in the Sahara dunes.

Val: We spent the night watching shooting stars...*chuckles* Among other things.

Kodi: It wasn't exactly very Yule-ly, but it was pretty magical...

Val: And somebody was howling quite a bit out there if I remember correctly.

Kodi: Well...*Chuckles* I wasn't the only one, was I?

Val: Heh, maybe not Cremepuff, maybe not.

Ada: Tankfully dere ain't dat many wolves in Seaotta', udderwise my little Mookie would set da whole place off on da regulas.

Yuri: Damnit Ada...why d''yall gotta tell 'em that fer?

Ada: like dey didn't know you was a howler anyways! Dey grew up witch yas!

Xavier: She isn't wrong.

Ada: Besides...it kinda toins me on when I know I'm givin' it to yas good enough to get ya to howl! *Cackles* Day said, we's didn't do all dat much outta da usual. Ya knows, da sexy festive lingerie and a love bite here and dere....*Chuckles* Yuri said i looked just like a present.

Yuri: Y'all did...*mumbling* I mean...*whispering* Best present a wolf could ask fer. *Coughs*

Ada: What was dat?

Yuri: That rut was the best present I could ask fer. *Laughs*

Ada: *Gives Yuri a playful punch* Real classy. And youse wonder why youse are on da naughty list.

Yuri: If the naughty list rewards me with a gift like that, I swear to be naughty till my dyin' day!

Melanie: Ah, you went with the gift wrapping thing too huh? Great minds thing alike I suppose. *Chuckles*

Gus: I was out getting some last-minute groceries and what do I find when I open the door to our apartment? Melly all trussed up to our electric fireplace and dolled up like a present.

Melanie: Hardest thing was to get the ribbon's tied around both wrists so I could kinda hang it from the stocking hook. I mean, I didn't tie it tight or anything, but still...

Gus: She even laid her...uh...stocking out so that it was lined up to...well...I er...*blushing* it made kind of a runway...

Melanie: I wanted to make it clear that I wanted my Gussy to 'stuff' my 'stocking'.

Vernon: And y'all fainted didn't ya?

Gus: I...I did...*Blushes*.

Melanie: *Chuckles* But he was fine after ward...mhh...more than fine...

Gus: Geeze Melly...

Zach: Looks like that makes three couples that used the whole 'festive wrap' trick eh...granted ours was more of a combination of what Dawn and Vern did to...but...

Vanna: Goofball...please...*Blushes*

Vernon: Y'all had a Santa Claws costume?

Zach: The ones we had from the station, y'all know we do the whole 'orphanage thing' every year. Part of the NMPD community outreach. I mean, we technically own the costumes...so lets just say we got a little more use out of 'em than normal this year...well, them and some ribbons.

Vanna: Zaaaachhh....!

Malcolm: Don't worry Darlin', I'll swoop in and save y'all with a story of my own.

Xavier: Oh heavens, please don't tell them...

Malcolm: What? It's funny. Sides' iffin' we can't laugh about it what's the point.

Vernon: What happened?

Malcolm: There wasn't too much 'festive' frill to our little Yule day ruttin' session. Me and Xavey got warmed up on some eggnog after openin' presents...and well...y'all can see where this is goin'...

Xavier: Gingersnap please...

Malcolm: So we started makin' love by the tree, but we got so into it we sorta forgot where we was and ended up knockin' the tree over onto us durin' the thick of it.

Yuri & Ada: *Cackling*

Zach: Pfft...*Stifling laughter* T-That's a new one, I'll admit...

Xavier: *Shakes head* Sigh...

Malcolm: *Chuckles* It did sorta spoil the mood in a way, but it made us laugh so hard my gut was fit to bust.

Yuri: So y'all busted a gut instead of bustin' a -

Xavier: I'll bite you if you finish that joke, I swear it.

(WT: Just so you know, those of who follow my other art sites might like to hear that there is currently a pin-up featuring Melly in that exact described scenario. Check out my Sofurry or Furaffinity, but warning, it’s NSFW.)

#Zootopia #askdawnandvern #ask blog #Assistant Mayor Bellwether #dawn bellwether #Vernon Hunter #fan character #zoosona #Yule #christmas #wastedtimeee

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sheepsandcattle · 5 years ago

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Chapter 16

There’s a week in August that Jordan books off work so Curly can stay with him for a while. They never argue or even bicker (too new to it all to feel the need to) but he’s still not taking drugs when he’s at J’s house if he can help it and withdrawals make him cranky at the best of times.

He’s already feeling said withdrawals one night, when Jeff lets it slip.

“I just can’t believe how fast you got rid of him,” he says, and Curly thinks he sounds impressed. He tries not to pay too much attention though because they’ve been on about Rhys for a bit now and he’s so bloody sick of hearing about it.

But then Jeff adds, “don’t get me wrong, I mean, good for you man, but I remember when the four of us went to Feral. He was still living with you, right? Remember he threw that fit because you were out with Curls until—”

J just hums, specifically not looking in Curly’s direction as he interrupts his friend. That was The Night. That was when Jordan asked Curly out, and he was still living with some other bloke.

Curly keeps his mouth shut because nobody knows about them still. They’re still a secret. Exciting and sneaky and all that bollocks.

He stays quiet until they get back into J’s newest temporary car where, after a short silence, he leans over to turn the music down and says, “so you were still with Rhys when you asked me out, then?”

“Hm?” Jordan acts like the question’s taken him completely off-guard; like it’s come out of absolutely nowhere. “I mean, barely.” He gives a short laugh as he keeps his eyes on the road ahead.

“You were still living with him and you asked me out.” J doesn’t respond. “Were you ‘living’ with him when we went to Beverley’s?”

“No. No, Curly. God. I mean… Yeah, he lived with me, but I ended it for good on the night we were at the bar. He just didn’t have a place to stay.”

“Were you ever going to say owt?”

Curly has a banging headache. He’s been breaking out in sweats all day and his whole body aches and this is exactly what he doesn’t need.

“Say what?” He’s not sure why cocky, confident, unfiltered Jordan has reduced himself to playing dumb. Actually, he’s got some idea.

“Is that what you do? Move blokes in with you until someone else takes your fancy?”

“N—“

“I bet you were fucking gutted when you realised I wasn’t putting out for you,” he pushes.

“Woah, hey, chill out, alright? It wasn’t like that. You know it ain’t like that.”

“I know fuck-all, apparently.”

Curly just can’t stop thinking about J trying to kiss him in the car and whether or not that’s all it was ever really meant to be - at first, at least. It makes him feel embarrassed and stupid and small. He wonders if Rhys gave him a good hiding for being home late on that night, too.

“Curls, we were on the outs. He was gonna move out anyway, jus’ not so soon. I told him that night he had the weekend to figure it out, a’right? Because I liked you, and even if I didn’t know where we were going, I didn’t wanna still have him at my place when I—“

“When you were trying to get me into bed?”

“What? No. Why are you—“

“So you spoke to me at the bar, went home, told your boyfriend he needed to leave, and—“

“He wasn’t my boyfriend then! He was already leaving in a matter of weeks! I just— Fuck, Curly, quit bustin’ my fuckin’ balls. This ain’t like you.”

“Just hope you got a last shag in before he left, cause it’s been— ‘ow long now?”

J decides not to answer, probably reckons it’s for the best, but then Curly adds, “well,” just to test him.

“Curls, I stopped fuckin’ around with him the second we got serious,” which was the absolute worst thing he could possibly��have said, because next is a whole new argument about when exactly that was.

The argument is painfully unconstructive. By the time they get back to J’s flat, Curly’s pure fuming because now he knows that Jordan and Rhys met up twice (fucking twice) after their date.

They walk into the apartment in silence though, because they’ve exhausted themselves by then - or, Curly has exhausted both of them and Jordan’s dug himself so deep he’s stopped trying to dig himself out.

He doesn’t go back to his own place, but the rest of the evening is strained and awkward. J jumps from keeping his distance to suffocating Curly with sweetness but it’s not bloody working.

When they go to sleep, things are still tense, and at 3am Curly’s heaving into the toilet and shaking violently from head to toe.

Jordan promises that “it’ll be fine if you let it pass,” because argument or not, he’s seen it all before and he insists it’s not his fault. Curly just feels patronised and simplified, which never happens with J but he’s sick of him acting like he knows what’s going on as if he can read Curly’s bloody mind.

So now Curly’s physically withdrawing and he’s irritable and panicking and doesn’t know how he feels about the sort-of-secret he’s discovered which all translates to ‘MAD!’ in his brain.

“I can’t be arsed with this anymore,” he spits when he finally has it in him to stand. He shoves past Jordan, cutting back through to the bedroom and grabs for his belongings which he shoves into his bag with one hand as the other reaches for his phone. “You're doing my head in.”

“Oh get a grip, Curly. I’m tryna help, just— What are you doing?”

“Leaving. I’m sick of it.”

“Sick of what?” Jordan’s stood with his arms crossed over his chest beside the door. He’s not trying to stop him but Curly recons it’s less about him not caring and more about him being cocky enough to think Curly is only bluffing.

“You make me feel this big,” he snaps, holding up his hand as he almost-pinches his fingers. “I’m sick of it. I’m sick of feeling so bloody small and of you turning your nose up and… Babying me.”

So he’s talking some shit, maybe, but he’s mad and needs more reason to be so, so it can all feel justified — and it does feel justified. He just can’t figure out why. Jordan just doesn’t feel genuine anymore and he’s sick of feeling like he’s being picked up and controlled without even bloody knowing it.

“I’m helping you. God knows nobody else is.”

“Well, I don’t fucking want it!”

“If you go home it’ll get worse, you can’t— You don’t have control over this anymore and you know it, Curly.” Jordan crosses the room but it’s not to stop him, but instead to grab his glasses from the side, which he puts on as he leaves the room again, so fucking casual and unfazed. Is it denial or ignorance? From the lounge, he calls, “you’re not yourself right now. Just lay down and I’ll—“

“Oh do me a fucking favour, Jordan!” He's not crying necessarily (for once, he isn’t bloody crying) but his breathing is right off and his voice cracks when he shouts back: “That’s all anyone bloody says anymore: you’re not yourself. Nobody ‘ere knows who I am; that’s the problem! Don’t—“

“Hello?” Jules sounds tired and puzzled through the phone and, honestly, it had been ringing for so long that Curly had forgotten he was calling him, even with the device pressed to his ear.

“—Can you pick me up?”

Jordan must finally snap out of whatever daze he’s in because Curly hears a door slam and a glass shatter in the other room.

***

Within thirty minutes, Jules texts to say he’s parked up outside - probably in some car that he’s not insured on that Curly’s never seen before.

As he leaves the apartment, Curly hears Jordan shout, “he’s the one that got you into this mess,” but he never even bothers to follow him out; never even leaves the kitchen as Curly slips through the lounge and out of the door.

He trips over his laces on his way down the steps but descends them so fast that he’s caught himself before he even realises he’s falling. His bag’s open and his jacket’s over his arm rather than on his back but when he finally gets to the car and drops into the passenger seat, Jules just tuts calmly and says, “how did you get into this mess,” as he pulls away from the curb.

***

It was one of those things that he knew he was asking for but thought he’d dodged. Even as he took hits to avoid migraines and nausea, and told Jordan he couldn’t stay with him for more than a night or two at the very most, he thought he was just… Teetering on the edge of dependency.

He has a hit that night (morning) and calls Jordan telling him never to contact him again. Jules recons it’s for the best because he felt like he was losing one of his best friends.

Curly thinks, ‘yeah. Yeah, I was losing myself, wasn’t I?’

Jordan doesn’t even put up a fight. He says, “whatever, have it your way,” and is the one to end the call.

His mum says a similar thing the next day when he shows up twenty minutes late for dinner. He’s in no fit state to drive and walks to her house instead. She takes one look at him and just sort of… Knows.

She says, “either come in and stay until you're sober so you can apologise to Dom—” he forgot dinner was for Dom’s birthday, “—or you can leave now and come back when you’re clean.”

He doesn’t know how she knows, or for how long. He thought he was playing it off pretty well, but he’s too busy trying to prop the plant pot that he’d knocked over back up on the porch to give it much thought.

Curly says, “I can look after myself,” as he backs away from the house, jaw twitching, and she says, “suit yourself,” and shuts him out without hesitation.

He shouts a few obscenities through the closed door but by the time he’s out of breath, he can’t even remember half of it.

***

“You know,” Oz breathes, smiling at the backs of his eyelids although his head is tilted in Curly’s direction. “It’s actually good to have you back.”

The flat’s freezing again and the window by the cabinet won’t close properly. Doesn’t really matter though ‘cause, if things go his way, he’ll be half-numb soon enough anyway, and Oscar’s clearly already there; head lulled against the back of the sofa as he melts into it; the picture of bliss.

He smiles as he pulls his feet up onto the sofa and turns to look back at his mate. “Yeah? Why d’you seem so shocked? Didn’t think you’d miss me?”

His flatmate chuckles, shaking his head as he does. His eyes open then, darting to find Curly’s and he’s squinting as he asks, “where’d you go?”

Gaze still on Oscar and knees bent near his chest, Curly shrugs as he gives himself time to think.

He’s learnt that he’s allowed to do that; stop and think before he speaks rather than saying the first daft thing that comes to mind for the sake of dodging an awkward silence. He says, “can’t remember,” though, because it’s the truth.

It’s clearly not his geographical location they’re talking about here (even when he was home, his mates were asking where his head was at) but that makes the questions neither easier or harder to answer.

“M’back now, though. Back to square one,” and Oscar is still smiling even though Curly isn’t anymore, so he must think that it’s a good thing.

Maybe he’s right.

#Hate writing Curly going through withdrawals he's SO SO not himself #Miserable bint #ch #ch16 #writing

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nolabred-archived · 5 years ago

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laughter

one word prompts | accepting

laughter : my muse hears your muse laughing uncontrollably and approaches to see if they are okay.

❝ and what the hell can be so damn funny that has you bustin’ a gut, like that ? ❞

not that dwayne was complaining about jason having a good time - he was just genuinely curious.

#sxdere #「 asks 」 shouting over the music to hear.

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carry-the-sky · 6 years ago

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like thunder under earth, the sound it makes

(aka an AU in which Frank makes his way to Karen’s place after the hotel bombing. Hurt/comfort, a whole lotta angst, absolutely no semblance of a plot, and probably some medical inaccuracies because I really just wanted to write the smut. Also on ao3.)

His old man used to say — if you’re gonna do something wrong, Frankie, do it right.

Well, shit — guess the joke’s on him. He’d laugh, if it didn’t hurt just to fuckin’ breathe. His arm is a deadweight, cradled to his torso as he follows his feet, stumbling, from the hotel, and he thinks sharply of those old marionette dolls Lisa used to play with when she was little, nothing but string holding their limbs together.

(What’s holding you together, Frankie boy?

He’s not sure he could answer even if he wanted to.)

The flowers are still in her windowsill. He focuses on that, keeps his eyes fixed on them even as he sags against the fire escape. Every inch of him aches — his field of vision splinters like a kaleidoscope when he blinks, but the roses —

He thinks of Karen, bleeding. Red on those white, white petals.

Frank heaves himself up, and the world lurches with him. He can hear himself breathing, fast and wet like someone’s kneading his lungs into a pulp. The window’s an arm’s length away, so he staggers into it, bracing a splayed hand against the glass. It slides open with a hiss, when he tugs at it.

He grinds his teeth together, to keep from laughing. After every fuckin’ thing she’s been through, she still —

Her place is the same. At least he thinks it is — everything’s sliding out of focus again, narrowing like a scope. Frank gropes blindly for something, anything to keep him upright, but he must black out for a second or two, because when he he blinks, he’s on the ground.

Karen’s hovering over him. Her hand is on his shoulder, warm even through the fabric of his shirt.

“Jesus, Frank,” she breathes. She sounds — scared, he thinks, and he almost laughs again, because he didn’t think she was afraid of anything, because it’s fuckin’ hilarious he’s the thing she’s decided to waste her fear on. He wants to tell her as much, he wants to —

“Y’didn’t — lock your window,” he says instead.

For a moment she says nothing. He can’t get a read on her face, probably because he’s about two seconds from going unconscious, but he tries anyways, catalogues the pinched line of her mouth and the column of her throat as she swallows. She’s scared, she’s pissed, she’s —

It startles him, when she laughs. “Frank, I swear to christ —”

Karen dips her head, hair sliding over her face like a curtain. Her hand is still on his shoulder, and that’s how he can tell she’s laughing, her whole body convulsing with it.

“So this —” he rasps, “this is funny, huh?”

She only laughs harder at that, which — is okay, actually, because the sound stirs something to life in his gut, slow like sun-warmed honey. He’s never heard her laugh like this. He could listen to her do it all day, he thinks, even like this, battered and bleeding on her apartment floor.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” she’s gasping, “I’m sorry, it’s just — you’re here. You’re — here, in my apartment, after —”

She drops her face into her hands, and for a brief moment he thinks she’s laughing again, but — no, her breath is slower, fragmented. The warm spot in his stomach turns to ice.

“Hey,” he says. He feels far away from her, so he props himself up on his good arm, tilts his head and tries to catch her gaze. Bright spots burst like fireworks in his periphery, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t fuckin’ care. “Hey, Karen —”

“It’s okay,” she says, swiping at her eyes. “It’s okay, Frank, come on —”

They stand together, slowly. His right arm is slung around her neck, but the movement still jostles his other side, sends a fissure of pain up through his shoulder girdle. He hisses through his teeth. Karen threads her fingers through his, squeezes gently. “You good?”

He looks at her then, really looks at her like he did in the elevator. Her eyes are wide, tracing every line of his face, every angle and edge. He can feel her trembling, from shock or supporting his weight or — something else, he’s not sure, but she’s still here, holding him up, keeping him on his goddamn feet.

He shouldn’t — he shouldn’t do what he does next. It’s the pain, he thinks, it’s making his head fuzzy, but he leans in anyways, presses his lips to her temple. Her hair is soft, against his cheek, the smell of her shampoo filling his nose and his lungs, clean and sweet.

“Think —” he mumbles into her hair — “think ’m good, now.”

Karen squeezes his hand again. She sways, holding him up, but Frank knows — she won’t let him fall.

They make it as far as the couch before his knees give out.

“Just sit tight, okay?” Karen says as she eases him down, and then she’s moving away, towards the kitchen. He hears her rummaging around for something in one of the cabinets.

“Yeah, okay,” he croaks, or tries to. His throat feels like it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper. He closes his eyes for a second, just a second, and when he opens them again, Karen’s crouching next to him on the floor. She’s got a glass of water in one hand and there’s a med kit open at her feet.

“Here,” she says, handing him the glass and three ibuprofen.

Frank forces himself to drink slowly. “Don’t suppose you have anything stronger?”

Karen gives him a look, but he can see the corners of her mouth twitching. “Let’s do your arm, first. Get it out of the way.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Frank says, handing her the glass of water. She pushes up on her knees so she’s eye-level with him, and grips his arm below the elbow.

“Ready?” she asks, and he nods, keeps his eyes on her face even when she looks down at his arm. “On three, yeah? One, two —”

There’s a popping sound, a jolt of pressure. His shoulder throbs in protest, but the stabbing pain is gone. He blows out the breath he was holding. It really shouldn’t surprise him that Karen knows what she’s doing. She’d have made one hell of a marine, he thinks, and immediately regrets it, horrified at the ease with which he inserted her into his past, blurred those boundaries.

“Hey,” she’s saying, eyes wide with worry. “Hey, you still with me?”

Frank feels heavy, like he’s being pulled straight through the floor. He’s not sure which way is up anymore, he’s not sure of anything, except that coming here was a mistake. He shouldn’t be here, looking into her blue, blue eyes, he shouldn’t be bleeding all over her couch.

He’s not sure he would do anything differently, given the chance.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says. “I’m here.”

(What’s holding you together, Frankie boy?

He thinks he’s starting to figure it out.)

It takes him a second, when he comes to. He shoots up, disoriented, fist swiping at empty air —

“Whoa, easy —”

Frank blinks, and Karen’s there. She’s got a hand around his wrist. “Easy, Frank.”

He blows a breath out through his nose. “What —”

“You’ve been for awhile. Resting.” She gently eases his arm back down. “And I really, really, don’t want to reset your shoulder again, so — easy does it, yeah?”

Frank looks from her to his arm, gives his fingers an experimental flutter. Good as new. It’s coming back, now — he remembers Karen stitching his forehead, setting his arm, him gritting his teeth and keeping his eyes on her, just her.

He remembers feeling delirious, watching her. Wanting —

Frank pushes himself up. It’s early evening, judging by the angled shadows stretching across the living room. He’s on the couch, and Karen’s perched next to him, fingers lingering on his forearm. She’s changed her clothes, but the purple-blue bags beneath her eyes tell him she didn’t rest while he was out. Guilt twists his insides.

What the hell was he thinking, coming here?

“You, uh —” he sputters, glancing away. “You really should lock your window.”

Karen snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She’s quiet for a beat, so he darts a glance her direction — but she’s smiling, softly. He wishes she wouldn’t. He wants to grab her and shake her, shake and shake until the smile slides from her lips and she finally sees, finally gets it, who he is, what kind of man he is. He doesn’t deserve that smile. He doesn’t deserve anything as beautiful as she is in this moment.

Get away from this, he remembers telling her. Get away from me. Only he’s the one who couldn’t stay away, couldn’t stay out of her orbit. Frank’s never been one to believe in things like fate or karma, but that shit — that shit’s funny.

God’s kind of funny, even.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m — I’m sorry, yeah? Bustin’ in on you like this — ‘m really sorry, Karen.”

Her thumb is moving, tracing lazy circles against his arm. “I meant it, when I said I care about what happens to you. You know that, right?”

“I —” he clears his throat, tries to focus on something other than where her skin is touching his. “I figured you’d be, uh — tired of my bullshit, by now.”

She laughs sharply. “I’m not gonna lie, Frank. You coming back into my life — it hasn’t been easy. After Schoonover — I thought that was it. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. But, all of this —” her eyes flick from his arm to the stitches running down his temple. “This is your life, Frank. It’s your life. It’s not bullshit, at least not to me.”

He meets her eyes. Her face tangled in light and shadow, from this angle, like those abstract paintings that almost look real, something and nothing all at once. He wants to reach out and touch her face, make sure she’s real. He wants —

What, Frank? What do you want?

(If you’re gonna do something wrong —)

It’s not his body, anymore. These aren’t his hands, hooking around the nape of Karen’s neck to pull her close, not his lips, slanting up to meet hers. It’s not him.

But — it has to be, because she’s kissing him back. Her lips are slightly chapped, rougher than he’s expecting, but he feels her holding back, the uncertainty even as her mouth moves with his. He’s feeling it too. Every nerve in his body is humming like a livewire, potential energy ready to bolt, turn tail and run. He should. He should get as far away from her as he can.

He kisses her harder, instead.

Her lips part as she sucks in a surprised breath, and he seizes the opportunity to catch her lower lip between his teeth. Karen makes a sound low in her throat, and — christ, it’s been awhile since he made a woman sound like that. Her hands are on his arm, still, like she’s bracing herself against him, but there’s still too much space between them, so he slides an arm around her waist and pulls her flush against him.

“What —” she gasps in between kisses — “what the hell is happening, now?”

Frank kisses her deeply, slips his tongue between her teeth. “No fuckin’ idea,” he manages, breathless. “You okay?”

She pulls back, then. Her breathing matches his, fast and shallow, and for a split second, he thinks this might be it. She’s calling it, she’s done. Probably would be for the best, he thinks. She always was smarter than him.

“Why did you come here?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “C’mon, Karen, I don’t —”

“You do.” Her eyes are bright, searching his face. “You know, Frank. Just say it.”

He could. A million responses crowd behind his teeth — it’d be so easy, to open his mouth and let one of them slip past. After everything he’s put her through, Karen deserves this. She deserves something true. She deserves a hell of a lot more than he can give. There’s pieces of himself buried in the cold ground with his family, and he knows, he sure as shit knows that those pieces are gone for good. He’s not sure if the rest of him is enough.

He’s not sure if it’s enough, to be broken.

Frank dips his forehead to rest against hers. “I don’t — have the answers, Karen. This thing, you ‘n me —” he lets his eyes drift shut. For a moment, all he can hear, all he can feel is her breathing, out and in. “I can’t lose this, Karen. I can’t lose you.”

She tilts her head up, lips ghosting over the corner of his mouth. “I’m right here, Frank.”

( — do it right, Frankie. Do it right.)

They come together again, slowly, his hands cradling her waist, fingers splayed just beneath her ribs as she settles on his knees. He takes his time, kissing her — his lips drift to the soft hollow of her cheek, then down, tracing her jawline. He wants to savor every second of this, the way her skin feels under his mouth and the stuttered little sounds she’s making. He’s going straight to hell for this, he knows it, he knows, but that doesn’t matter, not when she’s threading her hands through his hair, fingers curling just hard enough to sting. Her breath hitches ragged in her throat, and he thinks it might be the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“Frank —” she gasps — and, no, that’s the most beautiful sound, his name in her mouth.

He responds by pressing his mouth to her collarbone. She — shudders, tipping her head back, and the movement grinds her hips forward, against his thigh. He’s halfway to hard in a second, canting upwards to chase the friction.

Karen seems to notice, because she bears down on him again, harder, this time. Hazy-hot desire shoots straight through him — his chest, his dick, everything aches with wanting her, wanting nothing but her. His hand drifts south, drags across the thin band of her sleep shorts.

“This okay?” he asks the sweet, soft curve of her clavicle. When he looks up, she’s watching him hungrily. Her eyes never leave his face as she dips her hand beneath her shorts.

“Meet you there,” she says, and the fuckin’ noise he makes is — undignified, to say the very least. Karen smiles, her head falling back again. He’s dizzy, looking at her, eyes tracking the long column of her throat down to the juncture of her thighs, splayed wide over his as she works herself.

He’s in over his fuckin’ head, but that doesn’t stop him from sliding a hand past her underwear and pressing the pad of his thumb to her cunt.

“Oh,” she sighs, eyes screwing up. Her wrist is moving, the wet, rhythmic sound rushing in his ears — he almost misses the half-choked noise she makes when he digs a knuckle into her clit.

“I got you,” he pants against her throat. She’s so, so warm. His skin burns everywhere he’s touching her. “I got you, yeah?”

It’s muscle memory, after that, his fingers skimming and teasing and slip-sliding against hers until she’s good and slick. Nothing is real, nothing beyond the slope of her body as she arches back, the bite of her nails digging half-moon imprints into his shoulder.

Danger, he thinks, as together they slip their fingers inside her.

“Jesus, fuck —” she hisses as they stumble through the first few strokes, and she drops her forehead to his shoulder. “Just —” her other hand closes over his, and he freezes, holding his breath. “I’m okay, just give me a second.”

He’s terrified, suddenly. She feels so fragile beneath his hands, every inch of her trembling and the way his entire palm cups the back of her skull. He’s killed, with these hands, and worse — all that ugly shit, and he’s touching her with them, wanting the warmth of her skin even as he knows it’s wrong.

Karen pulls back slightly, changing up the angle and easing back down with a slow swirl of her hips. “Okay,” she says, “okay, Frank.”

He swallows past the ball in his throat. “You sure?”

Karen just smirks, and he feels her finger press against his, a long, languid stroke. Her other arm twines around his neck as she buries her face there, her breath swooping hot and fast against his skin. Everything goes concave, his only reference point his finger, and hers, as they thrust together into her sweet, hot center.

“C’mon,” she pleads between gritted teeth, a sound that goes right to his dick. He’s not sure if she’s talking to herself or to him, but he pumps his finger faster, slick and hot and hard. “Oh — god —” Karen snags his earlobe between her teeth, and he growls, strumming a rapid staccato against her swollen clit in retaliation. It’s almost too much for him, the way she’s matching him stroke for stroke, but he wants it. He wants all of it, less and slow but also more, now. He wants her to fall apart.

He feels it when she does, her tight walls clenching around his finger as she goes taut against him. “Frank,” she gasps, shoulders heaving with the force of the aftershock. “Frank —”

“Shh shh,” he breathes in her ear, “It’s okay, Karen, you’re okay.”

He’s not just telling her. It’s a mantra in his head, turned over and over again like a record skipping. You’re okay, he thinks as they cling to each other, her cheek soft against his. You’re okay, you’re okay. Karen’s heartbeat’s a rapid-fire flutter, through her shirt, and he wonders if she can hear his, rushing like thunder in his ears. His brain’s reeling with what this means, what happens next — but his hand’s still between Karen’s thighs, moving softly. He’s still here.

He’s okay.

#kastle #kastlesmutweek #kastlenetwork #kastle ff #my fic

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brimbrimbrimbrim · 7 years ago

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Smutember Day 2: Masturbation

Fandom: Mad Max: Fury Road

Summary: Slit tried to release some tension but Toast is patrolling the corridors like a damn busy body. <3

Lots of the other Warboys did it, most times they didn't even bother heading to their bunks to get it out of their system either. Slit knew for a fact that the short one - the one with skin the color of the wood-stuff, all organic but ancient - had seen Gibs slobbering his rod with engine oil at the sight of her. As far as Slit knew, she didn't smack him upside the head as she'd just done Slit after catching him grunting over a very angry flesh rod that needed bustin’ before it got too distracting.

Toast, that's what her name was - one of the wives he'd almost kissed Valhalla soil for, and she'd smacked him like he was some pup!

She was a pup! About as tiny as one and weaker than one too boot.

Fang her for thinking she could stop Slit from stroking the gunk out of him. He’d run better after the clog went loose; more kamikrazy and clean. Having all the Wives just walking around without a fuss was making everything reek of organic grease and the slippery stuff that shot out their rods, coming in loads when the blood got too octane heavy.

The smell was making Slit worse off than usual.

The sight of the Wives made his stomach twist like he had warm shrapnel in it and that short one, Toast, she was walking around wearing Warboy pants high up on her waist and something dingy around those generous milkers.

Slit wasn't stupid. He knew what those were for. He'd been yelled at for staring at them but what did she expect? Everything was hard and dense in the catacombs, and she was all softness, and those fatty rounds on her chest always bounced when she walked. The little tips bulged under the cloth; needing something, someone to suck on them… drain them dry. Nothing else like them down here in the dark pits cept nothin’.

Nux told Slit that his Wife liked having her milkers mouthed, but Slit hadn't heard of him feasting on mother’s milk yet, though knowing how much Nux got despite being so bloody unworthy, it wouldn't surprise Slit to hear he filled his belly every night on it.

So, the reek of gunk, of sweat and the constant distraction of the Wives, especially soft Toast, got his rod hard enough to beat Gibs over the head with.

Slit had tried solving this problem twice. The first time Toast found him, saw the sight of him working the burning flesh like a lancer’s pole with a furiousness he barely enjoyed, she’d waltz right on up and smacked the side of his head like he’d been some disobedient pup. It would have been funny, because she had to get up on her tiptoes to do it and even then she barely reached his ear, but it wasn't.

She'd interrupted him right before getting the clog out, and the next day she did it again! - but the second time she poked him with a thunder stick and not in the head but in the ribs right where the stitches had made his skin twisted and beautiful.

Slit must have spooked her last time without realizing it because she was keeping her distance the second time; huddling close to a wrecker and a rotgut-full group of snoozing Warboys as if they'd help her if he went kamikrazy on her.

“Fang off!” He howled, snarling with bared teeth until the flesh around his stables pulled tautly. Toast startled, but only for a second before she jabbed the end of that guzz bottle back under his ribs.

Proud little thing. Thinking she could stand up to him?! No one stood up to Slit, not even Nux… except once or twice.

Toast hovered there in the dim corridor between twisted metal, and wet rock and Slit dared to give his desperate flesh another oily drag and thrust while looking right into those prey-wide brown eyes.

She looked like he'd gutted a pup in front of her - the look of horror was massive. The little, gentle breeze she let past her lips got him about ready to pop - unsurprising but what was surprising was that the thunder stick stopped jabbing his side and her eyes darted down to his red rod, watching him tug it with a nasty snarl. Seemed like she liked the way it looked. Couldn’t be true, Slit thought, but a well of pride bolstered in his chest as he churned his hips for show while fisting the flesh and squeezing it hard enough that the motions started making warm wet noises like knuckles on sweat-slick skin during a brawl.

“It's your fault,” Slit hissed, “... dumb Wives - Warboys can't even do war no more thanks to you and the red one.”

Slit growled out his venom when Toast didn’t take a step back or falter. Her eyes were locked on the brutal smack of hard skin and sleuthing sounds. Slit gave his rod a mean squeeze and wagged it a bit just to see her eyes following it. He grinned, barked a laugh and fanged it all the faster. A glob of pre-clog wet his palm, which just made his grasp glide over the iron skin all the faster - all the smoother until he braced a palm on the sodden wall and hunched over with the ripping sensation starting to build.

Toast watched - the thunder stick shaking in her hands - and frowned. She grumbled, eyes still hot on his flesh rod and laid the guzz bottle on the stone floor while Slit fucked and fanged and stroked the heavy meat in his fist until the clog came undone, pulling up from the soft flesh hanging between his thighs and burst out in thick lines along the floor. The expunged fluid gave Slit an immediate high, better than war, better than rotgut and left his head feeling clear and muscles loose.

Toast made a sound; more gentle breeze through the world holes in the catacombs and caught his sloppy attention.

She was eying the stains on the floor, skimming the dribbling tip of his softening flesh and there, in the dark, licked her ruddy lips. It was then, with the clog gone and Slit on his way to getting back on a cabby, chasing war, that his stomach quivered and he wanted those lips around him when the flesh eventually went to steel again…

Kamikrazy.

Maybe Slit would swallow some of his pride and ask Nux if the red one put her mouth on his shriveled up rod, and if she did, then Slit wanted to know how to get this Toast to do the same.

The next time Slit drained the annoying flesh, it was with the closed-eye image of Toast’s little plush mouth sucking the clog out, making those breezy sounds all the while.

Read it again over at AO3 HERE.

#fanfic #drabble #smutember2017 #MMFR #Slit #not saying i'm going to do every day but maybe writing some short drabbles will be good for me!#<3

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mzcashcomedy · 5 years ago

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#blackfriday #bonnienclydeofcomedy

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laurens-lil-fics · 7 years ago

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Choices (Star Lord x Reader)

Star Lord x Reader

Word Count: 1955

Author’s Note: this took me so long and I’ve had it in my head for forever. But it’s finally done >:’3c

It was just another night at another dive bar for Peter and the Guardians. Peter had spent so many nights chatting up men and women who he took interest in, drinking till he saw double, and dancing to his heart’s content.

So what was it about tonight that made him want to run out of the skeevy bar as fast as his legs could carry him?

(Y/n).

She had joined the team a couple months ago after proving herself when she managed to get the guardians out from between a rock and a hard place. Peter took a liking to her quickly; she was from earth, she loved music and dancing, and understood all the obscure references he made.

She was also able to catch Peter up on the latest songs and trends since she visited Earth often, something Peter never even dreamed of doing.

Despite her love of music, she refused to go out with the Guardians. Peter never really understood why she was so adamant about staying on the Milano while the others drank and gambled the night away.

‘I prefer to puke my guts out in private,’ was her telltale excuse. It got a chuckle out of everyone while sending the message to them.

And yet for some reason, (Y/n) finally agreed to go out with them that night.

This was Peter’s chance to make his move. Or at least see if (Y/n) wanted him to make a move.

The Guardians had a system when they went out to drink. Rocket, Groot, and Drax would go gamble and get white boy wasted, Gamora would drink alone in a peaceful corner, watching the group like a hawk, and Peter would latch onto anyone who caught his eye.

If (Y/n) chose to stick with him for the night, it would be proof, or enough proof to Peter, that she was interested.

At first, she did. She sat at the bar with him, drinking and laughing all while Peter chatted her up. It wasn’t like all the times he made half assed attempts at getting someone to his ship though; the two were friends. Peter was able to do his ugly laugh in front of her and she was able to practically fall into his arms every five minutes when she’d slip off her stool.

But all good things must come to an end, and Peter eventually had to go to the bathroom. When he came back, someone had taken his place at the bar beside (Y/n). Peter could feel his chance slipping away as he watched (Y/n) crack a small smile at whatever the stranger just said.

Peter plopped down into the open space beside Gamora, ignoring the knowing look she gave him.

“He just sat down a couple seconds ago… unless he’s…” Gamora paused, thinking to herself before speaking up once again in a teasing tone. “Bustin Shinylake? You still stand a chance.”

Peter sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, muffling his response.

“I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Justin Timberlake,’ and that’s not helping…” he mumbled, looking at (Y/n) from the corner of his eye.

Gamora placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “Look… you two are bound to have a lot more in common than he ever will with her. She’ll probably shoo him away in a second.”

Peter nodded slightly, looking down at his lap as Gamora continued to speak.

Before she could continue, a loud THUD caught their attention, and their heads whipped around to look at the commotion.

(Y/n) was laying on the floor, pretty dead looking, with the guy at the bar looking mortified.

Peter was kneeling beside her in a second, lightly smacking his fingers against her cheek to get her to wake up.

One second the other patrons were looking on worried, the next it was all out chaos.

At some point, Gamora accused the stranger of drugging her, and Drax, hearing that, knocked his ass out. This prompted everyone to start brawling, and Peter ran out of the bar with (Y/n) in his arms.

Once he got to the ship, she was awake and clinging to his jacket. Peter took her to her room and carefully laid her down, looking her over for any injuries.

“I dunno if he roofied you or what… but you went down hard, I’m surprised you don’t have a goose egg.” he said, gingerly running his fingers along her scalp.

(Y/n) sat up slightly, staying silent as she tugged down the fabric of her dress, keeping it from bunching up around her thighs.

“Can you go please?” she spoke, barely above a whisper.

Hearing that was like a slap to the face, but Peter didn’t argue, he didn’t question her. He just left.

He understood that something was going on, and it wasn’t his place to push her to talk. Peter would check on her later to make sure she was alright.

And he did. He checked on her every day for the next week, and was either asked to leave or met with silence.

Peter was worried to say the least. It was quiet on the Milano without either of them blasting music or talking up a storm somewhere on the ship. He had no idea what happened that night at the bar, just that something was wrong and she wanted to work through it herself.

The Guardians were preparing to hit up another bar, but Peter wasn’t feeling it this time. He knew (Y/n) wouldn’t want to go either, and he didn’t wanna leave her alone on the ship after what happened.

After everyone left, Peter started cooking dinner, hoping the aroma would catch (Y/n)’s attention and lewer her out of her room.

Once the food was finished he stepped into her room, sitting at the edge of her bed as he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Hey...I cooked some spaghetti...Or at least the closest thing to it. If you’re hungry…” He watched her peek at him from over her shoulder, giving him a slight nod as she sat up.

The duo ate in silence, occasionally making eye contact only to look back down at their plates. It all reminded Peter of her first nights on the ship, how weary she was of everyone, especially him. He couldn’t go back to that, especially after how close they had become.

Peter washed the dishes in silence, feeling (Y/n) stare at his back as he worked. She played with the fabric of her pajama shorts, swinging her bare feet above the cold steel.

“Can I talk to you?” she asked, her voice hopeful as he shut off the water. Peter dried his hands and turned to face her, leaning against the counter as she continued.

“I’m sorry that I’ve been shutting you out… I’ve just had a lot on my mind since the bar…” she trailed off, fixating her eyes on her feet. Peter sat beside her and lowered his head, hoping she would see him through the corner of her eye.

“Hey now… I get it, you had a bad night. You just needed some time to bounce back…” this made her sigh softly and rest her head in her hands, hiding her face from him.

A sob forced it’s way out of her parted lips and Peter was quick to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “I get if you don’t wanna talk… but I wanna help. I can’t help if you don’t let me.”

(Y/n) took a deep breath and wiped her eyes, resting them on her lap as she shook against him.

“That guy… what’s-his-face, he put his hand on my thigh that night, at the bar…” she said, keeping her head down.

“I’ve always had people making choices for me, never letting me have control… My parents on Terra did it… my boyfriends did it. My old teammates did it… I just wanna have control of something for once, and when guys act like that at bars… It just takes the control away…” Peter held her closer, feeling guilt swell up in the pit of his stomach.

“I know that that’s what you do… and you only stopped cuz of Gamora, then picked it back up again when yall split… I know you’d never force yourself on anyone. But I still felt like I couldn’t talk to you about it because of it…” she finally looked up at him, meeting his eyes for what was probably only the third time that night.

Peter turned to fully face her, prompting her to do the same.

“I understand. And I’ve stopped again, since you showed up, I’ve stopped doing all that. I know that doesn’t make what I’ve done all that acceptable… but hopefully you knowing that will make you more comfortable about talking to me about these things… I just wanna help you.”

(Y/n) was in tears again and quickly wiped them away, taking in everything he had said. That was as close to a confession Peter would give her anytime soon.

“I just want to make my own choice… decide what I want for once.” (Y/n) sighed, brushing her hand through her hair.

A moment of silence passed between the two as Peter decided what to say. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but just the thought of saying any of it made his stomach knot up and his palms get drenched with sweat. Besides that, there was no reason to make what was going on about the two of them.

Taking the focus off of (Y/n)’s issue was practically like taking away the control she never had. It was clear from the shock she was in that night that a repeat of the incident wouldn’t be the best thing for her right now.

“What is it you want?” he finally asked.

A wave of confidence, or adrenaline, washed over (Y/n). No one had ever asked her what she wanted, at least not with the intention of giving it to her. And now here was Peter, who had made a poor, but good hearted attempt at confessing his feelings to her.

(Y/n) brushed some of her hair behind her ear and inched closer to him.

“I want to try something…” she practically whispered, locking eyes with him.

She carefully maneuvered herself into Peter’s lap, feeling her legs shake as she closed the distance between them.

Her fingers that gently cupped his stubbled cheeks captivated him, but that was nothing compared to the feeling her her lips gently brushing against his.

Peter waited for her to deepen the kiss, and gingerly gripped her back as their lips met once more.

Before the two could continue, the sound of the ship’s door opening pulled them apart and (Y/n) quickly moved out of Peter’s lap, leaving him cold without her touch.

The Guardians greeted the two, giving them suspicious looks as (Y/n) excused herself.

She scurried to her room, stopping to cast one last look at Peter from over her shoulder.

They stared at each other, saying nothing and everything all at once before she went back into her room.

After the Guardians were all asleep, Peter tiptoed into (Y/n)’s room, noticing how she was propped up against her headboard, watching him enter.

She silently made room for him in her bed and couldn’t help but smile when he crawled beside her.

The two dozed off in each other’s embrace. That was the best sleep both (Y/n) and Peter had in years.

The last thing (Y/n) heard Peter say before she drifted off was him whispering to himself, “Thank God she chose me…”

#peter quill x reader #peter quill #star lord #star lord x reader #guardians of the galaxy #gotg fic #gotg fanfiction #gotg imagine #gotg

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stansellenterprisesblog · 5 years ago

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brokeassgoth · 7 years ago

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So here's a story about self confidence. When I was younger, I always smiled like this. Wide, open, showing full teeth and gums. And at some point, some boy told me I shouldn't smile like that cause it showed off my jacked-up teeth. It made me so self conscious that for the longest time, I smiled with my lips securely together. I was already insecure about my teeth. This just made it worse. Years later, @when.gingersnaps and I went to a drag show. The lady on stage had me bustin a gut laughing! She was stunning. And since my laugh is as boisterous as the rest of me, she took notice. This woman came over and told me I had an infectious smile! "Absolutely beautiful!" She called it. Ever since then, I smile with my whole mouth. The words you choose effect the way people feel about themselves and about you. Choose wisely.

#selfie #self confidence #smiles #big smiles #plus size #goth #plus size goth #fat bat #chubby goth

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qtsp00k · 7 years ago

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Behold! My creation!

U wanna make some new frrnnnnds?? Aww she’s shy… Mwah ha ha

Inky Pie: “whoah!”

My Monster Pony: “hey!”

Inky Pie: “HORSES EAT IT! LOL. U rhully put the *hi-i-i-igh* in monster high. ”

… look who just appeared… 😕

Kitty: “at this rate, she’ll be making chocolate scrambled *egggs* for dinner…

[Inky Pie goes from bustin a gut laughing to puking hers out]

Kitty:” … again….“

PSSHH. Mmay-be I shuldnt a put the new kid in with the tough crowd. Hahaha, heh

My Monster Pony: "thaz okay. I Dont exactly wear my heart on my sleeve”

#Monster hybrid #My dolls #Mlp #Mh #Eah

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sylveon-official · 7 years ago

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bustin out the mpreg fluff as everyone else busts out the porn lol

Pt. 3 of Otayuri mpreg adventures

It's two in the morning and Yuri just wants a damn cheeseburger.

ao3 or under the cut

“Beka…”

“Mmmm…?”

“Beka, wake up.”

“Wha… what time is it?”

Yuri purses his lips, but continues to softly, yet urgently jostle Otabek by the bicep. There are more much more important matters to worry about than a little thing like the time.

“Beka, please…”

Otabek finally groans and rolls over to face Yuri, an arm flung over one eye as the other seeks out the digital alarm clock on the side table, just past the bulge of Yuri’s six-and-half-month pregnant belly.

“Yura…”

“Beka…”

“It’s two in the morning…”

“I know, but—”

Otabek cuts him off with a sharp sigh, thumbs going to massage his temples.

“Babe… you promised me no more middle-of-the-night snack runs.”

Yuri huffs, folding his arms atop of his belly in defiance.

“I can’t exactly help it—”

Otabek clucks his tongue and Yuri really doesn’t think he appreciates the sound of it. Before he can vocalize that thought, Otabek cuts in again.

“I know. Yura, I know. It’s just—I also know you know I have to be up for practice at five—”

Yuri splutters indignantly. “Yeah, well, you went to bed at like nine last night—”

“—and this is the third time this week—”

Yuri scoffs as Otabek rails on, voice increasing in speed and volume.

“And I seriously can’t help but think you’re just doing this on purpose to test my patience at this point!”

The air stales in the ensuing silence, Yuri biting his lip to quell the impending outburst.

Yuri briefly catches Otabek side eyeing him, frozen in horror as Yuri’s lip trembles and small whine escapes, inevitably bubbling over into a broken wail.

“Yura!” Otabek cries, clearly exasperated, as Yuri’s sobs grow more forceful.

“Yuri, shhh, you’re going to wake the neighbors up again—”

“Is that all you care about?” Yuri whines through big, fat, theatrical tears that he honestly can’t really help, but isn’t really trying to hold back.

“Of course not, Yurachka, it’s just—”

“When your pregnant as fuck mate is right next to you, fucking starving and in a hormonal rampage no thanks to you,” Yuri sneers through hiccupping sobs and judging by the way Otabek draws in a tight breath he knows he’s pushing his mate to his wit’s end, but once he gets this wound up this tight he can’t stop until he—

“Come on, Yuri! You can’t just cry me into getting you McDonald’s at fuck-all-o’clock in the morning every fucking time you—!”

—snaps—

“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU, I FUCKING HATE YOU, JUST FUCKING STOP!”

Yuri is gasping ragged breaths by the time he’s done, and one glance at Otabek tells him he’s really gone too far this time.

“Yuri…” Otabek breathes, features twisted into something in between concern and shock.

Great. As if he needed another outburst to add to the stockpile of reasons for Otabek to leave him before the pup’s even born. Yuri wouldn’t even blame him at this point.

“Yura, relax,” Otabek says, barely a whisper, and it isn’t until his hand is hovering cautiously over Yuri’s own that he realizes he’s shaking.

Before his brain can catch up with his actions, Yuri’s pulling away his hand as if its been burnt.

“Don’t touch me,” Yuri rasps back belatedly.

He needs to get away from here. Yuri shuffles to his left so that his feet are off the side of the bed. He uses the side table to hoist himself up, breathing deep for a few moments to steady himself.

Otabek doesn’t say a word as Yuri slips out the door.

Yuri sits cross-legged on the couch, staring into the black of the television screen as he works slowly on his next spoonful of peanut butter. He strokes absent-mindedly at the bulgiest part of his tummy where his spawn has been kicking up a storm for the better part of the last hour, clearly an act of spite for waking her up in the middle of the night.

Tears are rolling silently down his cheeks when Otabek rounds the corner, softly knocking at the partition between the hallway and the living room. Yuri sniffles and makes quick work of brushing the tear tracks away.

“Hey,” comes Otabek’s voice, soft and cautious.

“Hey,” comes Yuri’s response around the mouthful of peanut butter he’s still working on.

“Can we talk?” Otabek ventures a little further into the room. Yuri tenses up, because when is the phrase ‘can we talk’ ever indicative of anything good? Still, Otabek’s never been that sensitive to layered meanings and Yuri nods ‘yes’ anyway, scooting towards the far end of the couch so that Otabek can take a seat a safe distance away.

Yuri is still staring into the empty television when Otabek sits down, legs spread wide enough to touch the edge of Yuri’s pinky toe that’s hanging off of the couch. He draws back instinctively, but sighs when he earns a vaguely hurt expression from Otabek in his peripheral.

“You know I don’t hate you…” Yuri starts lamely, letting the sentence hang in the air before he’s interrupted by a sharp kick to his bladder. “Ow, fuck.”

“I know. Is she keeping you up?” Otabek tentatively reaches out towards where Yuri is kneading at his belly, hand hovering and eyes questioning.

Yuri shoots him a guarded look, but it melts down quickly. He’s too tired to keep up the act and his wrist is cramping anyways. He grabs Otabek’s hand and guides it towards where the baby is kicking.

Otabek huffs what counts as a small laugh for him as he takes over the gentle massage. “Feels like she’s kickboxing your guts.”

Yuri grimaces. “Yeah. Payback for waking her up I guess…”

Otabek hums noncommittally as they lapse into a silence that’s not exactly tense, but is slightly weighted on top of the exhaustion that’s clearly settling over them both.

Yuri’s the first to give into the exhaustion and follows his instinct, setting the thoroughly licked spoon down on the coffee table sothat he can slide back into Otabek’s chest. Otabek accommodates him easily, shifting so that his back is against the armrest and one leg is behind Yuri. Yuri adjusts so that he’s lying sideways on top of him. He noses at Otabek’s neck, relaxing at the familiar scent.

Otabek’s other hand snakes around to stroke at Yuri’s elbow, thumbing tenderly at the skin there as his other hand continues to massage just below his bellybutton.

“I’m so sorry, babe,” Otabek sighs into Yuri’s hair, before pressing a long, sweet kiss into the crown of his head.

Yuri tenses up at the admission, and it’s not long after that his face is scrunching up in a sniffle that he tries to suppress — which unfortunately, just leads to more tears leaking from his eyes.

“Fuck!” Yuri whispers through a hiccupping little sob, hiding his face in the crook of Otabek’s neck while gripping helplessly onto the collar of his boyfriend’s shirt.

“Shhhh,” Otabek breathes into his hair, nosing along his scalp and peppering the occasional kiss there. “It’s okay, Yura.”

“Ugh!” Yuri beats a fist half-heartedly into Otabek’s chest once he’s gained control of his breath. “It’s not, though, Beka! I’m the one who should be sorry. I know I’ve been a fucking pain in the ass—for months now. I know I’m doing it, but I can’t stop, and I—” he chokes on a small sob before forcing through his tears, “I feel like I’m pushing you away,” Yuri sniffles, voice small and fragile.

“Yuri…”

Otabek sighs and for a split-second Yuri is genuinely anxious that he’s simply going to agree. Instead, Otabek lifts his hand from Yuri’s belly to tilt his chin up so they can lock eyes. Yuri knows his own eyes must be gross and puffy and bloodshot, so he quickly lifts a hand to cover them.

“Yuri…” Otabek sighs again, this time with a hint of laughter behind his tone that convinces Yuri to let his boyfriend gently remove the hand over his eyes.

Yuri sends an exaggerated pout in Otabek’s direction as his mate thumbs gently at the tear tracks he can feel starting to stick to his skin.

Otabek smiles softly in return, that rare, dope-y lovesick one that would leave Yuri weak at the knees if he weren’t already lying down.

“I don’t know if you realized it yet, but you’re pregnant, kotik.”

Yuri rolls his eyes and huffs at that, but Otabek just presses a kiss to his hairline before continuing, “Cravings, hormones… temper tantrums...” Otabek pauses meaningfully and smirks, the bastard, “They’re all part of the experience. And besides, if you being an ‘asshole’ is what was supposed to drive me away, I think that would’ve happened a long time ago.”

Yuri’s mouth drops open at that and he has every intention of verbally chewing his mate out, except he really can’t help the way his mouth twists into a grin on its own accord.

“You are a fucking dick!” Yuri manages between disbelieving laughter, slapping Otabek hard enough on the chest that his breath gets knocked out of him.

“If you’re the asshole and I’m the dick, we fit together perfectly—,” Otabek positively leers before leaning down and blowing a raspberry into the crook of Yuri’s neck.

“Gross!” Yuri cries out, giggling as Otabek assaults his neck, raspberries devolving into a deep chuckle that vibrates against Yuri in a way that causes a shiver up his spine…

… and an attention-starved baby to make her presence known once more.

“Ow, okay, okay, Beka, stop— she— oh…”

Otabek detaches himself from Yuri’s neck instantly, peering down as Yuri clutches at the round of his stomach.

“Yuri?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just gimme a minute—” Yuri bites out, palming at the spot where he’s cramping up.

Otabek’s hand joins him as the pain starts to subside.

“Just two more months,” Otabek sighs, gently stroking over Yuri’s bellybutton. His eyes flutter closed and he sinks deeper into the couch, pulling Yuri more firmly against his chest.

“Try two and a half. Don’t try to pretend those last two weeks aren’t going to be hell… I already feel fucking huge. If I can’t walk, you’re gonna have to carry me everywhere,” Yuri yawns, snuggling into Otabek’s chest as his own eyelids grow heavy with fatigue.

He feels Otabek scoff from the rise of his chest against his cheek but before his mate can get a word in, Yuri continues, “Also, you owe me a McDonald’s breakfast if I wake up with a fucked up back from sleeping like this.”

“Brat,” Otabek whispers behind a short laugh and Yuri smirks against his collarbone in return.

“You love me.”

“I do,” Otabek replies, and Yuri can feel him smiling lazily against his hair.

The next morning, Yuri smiles as he wakes up to the smell of egg McMuffins and hash browns.

“I figured it was better not to risk it,” Otabek is leaning smugly against the kitchen counter and ready to explain when Yuri cracks an eye open.

“I love you so much,” Yuri groans dramatically before burying his face into one of the throw pillows.

“I know,” Otabek responds with a laugh.

And even though Yuri’s back does kind of have a crick in it, he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything – even for a two in the morning food-run.

#yuri on ice #yuri!!! on ice #otayuri #otaburi #yurabek #yuri plisetsky #otabek altin #mine #mpreg #abo

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