#but also he's looking at his hands self consciously so he doesn't come too close and when he throws the fake punch he looks roy in the eye

[cilantroodon]

[ID: Four gifs of Jamie from Ted Lasso in black and white with text over them. The first two are Jamie having his cheek pinched by his mom, and him grabbing Roy's face, with the text "How much of my mother has my mother left in me? / How much of my love will be insane to some degree?" The second two are of his dad shadowboxing up to him before punching him, and Jamie shadowboxing Roy in Amsterdam, with the text "How much of my father am I destined to become? / Will it wash out in the water or is it always in the blood?" End ID.]

“could I change it if i wanted? can i rise above the flood?”

[astraystayyh]

seungmin taking off his mask brainrot. allusion to sex but no smut. still mdni.

honestly i struggled with tagging this, because it's not smut but also not fluff either hshshs enemies to fwb??? anyways i hope this reaches its target audience,, enjoy <33 (lowercase intended)

seungmin is an asshole.

you don't like him. he's always around, nagging you, throwing unnecessary comments your way about every little thing you do or say. if it were solely up to you, you wouldn't talk to him ever again. but he's jeongin's best friend, who also happens to be your best friend, so seeing him is inevitable.

he's there sipping on his iced americano, wispy bangs falling in front of his brown eyes, fixated on you. he's there sitting across of you in the campus garden, hitting your leg repeatedly with his foot. he's there at jeongin's dorm, who also happens to be his roommate, strolling around shirtless with no care in the world.

he's infuriating, everything about him makes you mad. from the way he smiles proudly when he sees that he's getting on your nerves, to the way he leans his face onto yours, faking interest in whatever you are saying.

seungmin is an asshole, and to your surprise, he's here to pick you up.

you know it's him, from the red converse he is wearing, and his familiar black leather jacket. you can also tell from the hands gripping the handles of the motorcycle. they aren't clad with rings, so it can't be jeongin. the friend who was actually supposed to pick you up.

you half debate staying home, cursing jeongin in your brain for forcing you to spend more time with seungmin. but you really wanted to go to that party chan is hosting. you needed the free alcohol, badly.

so you huff, as seungmin takes his sweet time parking, mentally preparing to curse him too. but the words die in your throat as soon as he removes his helmet.

he has caramel colored hair now.

he slides off the motorcycle, running an easy hand through his hair. it looks soft, and you wonder what it smells like. citrus, maybe, or pinewood. he then leans onto his engine, smirking at you slightly. you roll your eyes, taking one step forward towards him.

"i think you're obsessed with me."

"yeah? why is that?" he smiles, tilting his head to the side, his arms now crossed in front of his chest.

"you just had to pick me up right. couldn't stand being away from me that badly?"

"correct." he doesn't deny and you huff, grabbing the second helmet and putting it on.

"let's make this as short as possible."

"my pleasure," he bows slightly and you bite your lip, trying to suppress the tiniest smile from coming out. you really liked his hair, it made his honeyed eyes stand out more.

he gets on first, and you follow suit. you were used to riding with jeongin but this is your first time doing it with seungmin. you hesitate for a couple of seconds, before wrapping your arms loosely around his waist.

"hold tight," he tells you, adding a soft "please" after a few silent beats. you oblige, and then he takes off with no further warning.

the drive is short, and you can't seem to focus on anything but the warmth emanating from seungmin's body. you are hyper aware of your thighs pressing against his, and his broad back snug against your chest. it feels intimate, for some odd reason, and you almost close your eyes to fully savor it. almost.

when you arrive, you're quick to hop off, handing your helmet to seungmin. he takes it from you silently, before removing his own too.

strands of his hair stay upwards and you debate internally for a second, before reaching to smooth them down.

you were right, his hair is incredibly soft to the touch.

"you look pretty," he says. and he sounds sincere- different from how he usually speaks to you.

"thank you," you reply quietly, " i like your new hair."

"really? I'm not sure if it suits me," he admits, running a hand through it self-consciously. it felt weird, to see him anything but confident and boastful.

"it does. what shampoo do you use?"

"i don't know. something citrusy, i think."

"figured."

....

your naked chest is pressed to seungmin's, limbs so tangled you can no longer tell where your body ends and his begins.

you didn't exactly plan on ending up here tonight, you weren't even sure how this happened. you just couldn't take your eyes off seungmin's hair, and then his eyes landed on your lips and suddenly he was leading you to the nearest bedroom.

but you don't mind, not when seungmin looks this way. the light is dim and dark shadows reflect on his face. there is a sheen layer of perspiration on his upperbrow, and you imagine you must look the same. sweaty and slightly dazed, a pink hue adorning your cheeks.

seungmin traces your lips with his thumb, going over your cupid bow ever so slowly. it makes shivers run down your spine, and you huddle closer to him. as close as you physically could anyways, since you were practically glued to him.

"had i known this would happen i would've died my hair sooner," he smirks cheekily and that brings you to his hair again. you run your hand through its soft locks gently. a stark contrast to how hard you were tugging them moments ago.

"mm, it's all because of this caramel color," you smile back, its citrusy scent wafting to your nose. "i really like your shampoo."

"are you turned on by scents?" he jokes and you swat his arm, leaning a bit away from him.

"it just smells nice. sue me."

"it's okay, you smell nice too," he chuckles, burying his nose in the crook of your neck. you appreciate it. it makes you feel less weird about how affected you are by him.

"i... i told jeongin that i wanted to pick you up," he mumbles onto your skin and you feel yourself tense slightly. "why?"

"wanted to see you first," he says quietly, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone. it makes you dizzy. you don't find him infuriating any more.

"let's talk about this later," you finally reply, pulling him away from you.

"mm. what do you want to do now?" he smiles, grazing your naked arm with the back of his hand.

you straddle his lap, swiping his bangs away from his forehead. that damned hair of his.

"you."

[harleys1nhawaii]

"NOT TO ME, NOT IF IT'S YOU"

pairing: dabi/ todoroki touya x gn!reader

warnings: s3lf h4rm, blood, suicidal thoughts, mentions of blades, mentions of reader's family problems, self doubt, etc.

wc: 3k+

a/n: not proof read. also idk why i chose a plot like this to write on but i know it's not only me who suffers from these kind of addictions and know that wherever or whoever you are, you're not alone. <3

you're lying with your back pressed to the cold bathroom wall. you shiver, almost drop the blade in your hand.

why am i like this?

the house is quiet. the world also is. the voice of the tapping water sound of your faucet is all that catches your ears. but your mind's too blurry to care.

you're soaked in wet blood from your chest to your knees. its stupid is what it is, you think. what was wrong you? even though if you suffer you shouldn't give in your thoughts that easily. your self control felt way too far at the moment. the sore feeling of your arm made you drift into the heavy silence as your eyes closed shut.

the next thing you hear is banging. you jump awake from your sleep as you try to gain consciousness of the situation.

"doll? i know you're here, open the door."

you stood up as quick as you can and pulled down the sleeves of your shirt. your figure catches your gaze from the reflection on the mirror. you looked horrible, and the blood soaked clothes didnt seem to help you any better.

you quickly put on a jacket you tossed aside sometime you dont even remember when and thank your luck for it.

when you open the door, you see your boyfriend with a frown on his face.

"what took you so long?" he mutters as if he wasn't almost torning your door apart just a few seconds ago. "you got me worried."

you take a few steps back and turn your back to him. you didn't want him to see your drained face. "why are you banging the door like that? jeez, calm down, i'm here."

his gaze travels around your body and stops at a specific place when the little blood stain on your sleeve catches his eye. he frowns and and tiltes his head.

"what's wrong with you?" he throws. even though his voice comes out nonchalant, the worried look on his face gives him away.

"what do you mean?" you bite back. "i'm fine."

the tension in the room is poisonous. you're scared shitless that he might notice your situation and in the other hand he knows something is terribly wrong but he doesn't know how to throw hands.

so you both do what you two do the best, rage.

"you don't look fine." he hisses. you swear you see him clenching his jaw and giving you the look that sent shivers down your spine. you move your trembling hands in front of you so he wouldn't see how fucked up your situation was right now.

fucking christ, you thought. is it really the best time for you to be here?

when his question remains unanswered, he calls your name. however, you're convinced to not answer. you're scared for your life that if you say anything he'll notice it.

"touya, i'm sorry but i just want to sleep. if you're just here to rage at me then i'm afraid i won't be returning it bac-"

your words get cut when you feel the grip of his rough hands on your wrist. you hiss in pain at the sudden movement as he stands just a few inches away from your face.

"answer me, y/n. answer me when i ask you what's wrong." you feel your gut turning in your stomach when you feel his deep and serious voice hitting your face. you swear he hears your pumping heartbeat at that second.

"i did." you try to sound calm and perfectly fine. though, you knew you couldn't put an act. not with him. you knew incredibly well that whatever you were selling, he wasn't buying.

"i told you that i'm fine. why are you exaggerating?"

he lowers his head and his lips are now just in front of yours. his rough gaze never leaves your eyes and you desperately wish for a miracle to pull you out from your situation. "because i know for a fucking fact that you're lying."

when you don't answer, he shifts his grip from your wrist to the sleeve of your jacket to slide it up. the next thing you feel is a gut wrenching fear and pain when you pull your arm from his hands as hard as you can.

"the fuck you're doing?" you hiss. you take a few steps back but realize your struggles weren't working when he took the same amount of steps at you till you were captured between him and your window.

"get away." you spit out. "you're being fucking weird." he blocks you with his huge figure when you try to get out of the situation by moving out from the side gape.

"i said get away!"

"talk to me!"

you have tears in your eyes that are just waiting for your next move to spill on your cheeks. you cuss yourself, even despise yourself mentally. you couldn't cry here like that, not in front of him.

"talk to me so i can fucking understand what's going on! i can't just miraculously find out the issue!"

"nobody asked you to do it anyway!" you finally push him away with the last strength you found in yourself. "stop creating a scene and let me fucking rest god dammit!"

when you try to walk away to your bed, your movements are once again cut with another grip on your wrists. this time, you don't only hiss, but yelp at the sore pain of the cut he was squeezing between his hands.

"i told you to get away from m-"

this time, you're cut with an embrace instead of an another yell from him. your body shakes under his as your knees give in to his warmness. he keeps you like that till you silently sob on his chest with his hands caressing your scalp gently. he patiently listens to you spilling out your venomous drops of pain as he whispered quiet nothings into your ear.

"sshh, doll, it's okay. i'm here, alright? everything's fine. you're safe here, angel. you're okay."

when your tears subside, he gently pulls your head from his chest and look at your eyes with a bright spark of care and love in his' nobody has probably ever seen before.

"are you feeling better, love?" he strokes your cheek with his thumb carefully, like you were a brittle tea cup in front of him that could shatter into pieces by any second. all you can do is to nod tiredly at him and try to erase the pain in your chest that's been strangling you ever since.

he gently holds you from your waist and your wrists, this time more carefully. he leads you to your bed and sits you there. he pecks a kiss on your forehead. "wait me here." you hear him speak, but can't really keep up with his pace. by the time you turn your head to see where he went, he was already gone.

a few moments later with you sitting silently at the same spot he had put you, he came back with an aid kid in his hands and sit on the bed next to you.

what happened after was silence. you turned your face away from him in shame when he gently took off your jacket and revealed your torned apart arm. no words were spoken as he carefully wiped the dirty blood and patched up your fresh scars with bandages. he silently dressed you up in fresh clean clothes and tucked you into bed as he turned the lights off.

"are you mad at me?" you ask, after what feels like forever. he tightens his grip around your waist at that. "why would i be?"

"i don't know." you mutter, it's almost unable to hear. "i am insufferable."

he raises his face from the crook of your neck to your chest. no matter how dark the room is, you swear you see his azure irises looking at you right by your side.

"i'm mad at the world. for having you get so hopeless and done with your life. i'm mad at your family for wasting you and doing all of this with no spark of care. i'm mad at myself because no matter how long i knew you were on thin ice, i didn't do anything about it. i am mad at everything but you. i can never be mad at you. you have done nothing for me to be mad at you."

"im sorry." you whisper.

"and why's that?"

"i put you through a lot. i always create a problem and always get you worried about me."

your gaze once again turns back at him when he wraps his finger around a strand piece of your hair and tugs it behind your ear. his voice is soft and careful when he speaks. "you're all i have in this life, doll. you deserve every good thing in this life and every little thing that it brings to you. you give me everything i could ever ask for. you love me, not for who i can be, but for who i am. that's the least i can do for you."

you don't talk for a few moments after that. his thumb brushing on your cheek helps you just perfectly to slip off of your worries. his warmness was all you have needed.

"you don't have to do that though."

"but i want to." he's clear on what he's trying to imply and your words could only make him go harder on you to believe his words. he once again drops his head in the crook of your neck as he holds you closer.

"i'll take care of you." he kisses your neck.

"it's rotten work."

"not to me. not if it's you."

[suzukiblu]

Day fourteen of fic NaNoWriMo; obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

Kon comes back before Tim has finished having his internal crisis and immediately makes it worse, because as it turns out the clothes fit and he looks extremely good in cashmere. 

And extremely good in skinny jeans. 

Oh no, Tim thinks with no small amount of dread. A flash of self-consciousness slips across Kon's face, and then he puts on a confident smirk and strikes one of those stupid teen-magazine poses, which he unfortunately makes look very good despite, again, how stupid it is. 

Tim is so far gone, isn’t he. 

“What do you think, man? Is it my color?” Kon asks, smoothing a broad flat palm down over the chest of his sweater. Tim, very desperately, wants to be the person doing that. 

Jesus Christ, no one should be allowed to look like this in cold blood. Especially not in an outfit thrown together in four minutes and fifty-nine seconds. But of course Kon would, the asshole. 

“We should style your hair differently too,” Tim says, trying not to choke and die on how hot this stupid fucking bastard looks in stupid fucking cashmere.

“Why?” Kon asks, looking puzzled. 

“You'd be amazed how different changing your hair up can make you look,” Tim says. And also he desperately wants Kon to let him change his hair for weird, weird reasons that he doesn't want to examine very closely right now.

Later. He'll examine them later. 

Privately. 

“Uh, okay,” Kon says, and does in fact let Tim dig out his hair gel and a comb and re-style his hair. Tim tries not to obsess over having Kon’s hair in his hands and just slicks it back off his face with a little of the gel because that’s the most efficient option, although then he’s reminded of the Kool-Aid incident and Kon standing in front of him in the base in his soaking wet skin-tight suit and raking his rainbow-dripping hair back out of his bright, bright eyes and–

Later. 

Tim is in so much trouble here, he thinks in resignation, and then wonders both why he decided to re-style Kon’s hair himself and why Kon just let him. Why the hell did either of them let that happen? 

He steps back, trying not to think weird things like how Kon probably would’ve tasted like black cherry Kool-Aid and wondering what he might taste like now, and then a much, much worse thing happens to him, because then he meets Kon’s eyes again and realizes Kon just let him dress and style him. Just–everything but his boots, Tim picked out. Gave to him or did for him. That pettable sweater and the tight, fitted jeans and the slicked-back hair all out of the way of those bright, bright eyes and–

Fuck, Tim thinks with far, far too much feeling. 

“There we go,” he says, then reaches out for the shopping bag in Kon’s hand. “Jacket and glasses in here?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Kon says, blinking at him as he lets him take the bag in apparent bewilderment. It occurs to Tim that Kon has probably literally never had someone else carry something for him unless it was something exceptionally fragile or difficult to operate, but he’s committed now and also it’s not like it’s heavy anyway, so . . . yeah, he’s committed now. 

Anyway, having super-strength doesn’t mean Kon has to carry everything. Especially when the bag barely weighs a thing anyway. Tim can swing around Gotham one-armed while carrying a panicking civilian; a shopping bag with a leather jacket and a couple of accessories in it is not exactly an imposition. 

And, well . . . this is a date, technically. So why wouldn't he carry Kon's bag? 

Aside from the doomed effort that is mapping heteronormativity onto a non-heteronormative situation and possibly making Kon feel emasculated or awkward or potentially coming on too strong and–

Kon reddens, just a little, then grins brightly at him. Tim forgets literally every single thought in his head, which is actually a very impressive feat because Tim is usually thinking several layers of thoughts and they're always annoyingly complicated. This situation is more “head empty, stomach doing quadruple-backflips”, though. 

Kon grinning is bad enough when he's not doing it at him, though. 

Tim should've better prepared himself for this, but in his defense, in what possible world would he have been able to predict this situation? Really? What possible one? 

“Smoothie time?” Kon asks. 

“Smoothie time,” Tim agrees, because anything else would require the capacity to actually think straight and that's going to take a few minutes. 

They head across the courtyard towards the smoothie shop. Tim does not succeed in regaining the capacity to think straight because Kon continues to be wearing clothes he bought for him. Clothes he bought and picked out for him, specifically. 

That is . . . a whole thing, apparently. Apparently that's a thing. Suddenly Tim has to reexamine the way he felt every time he gave Steph a Bat-gadget and wish he'd thought to examine those feelings sooner.

Like much, much sooner. 

Tim orders a basic blackberry smoothie that has maybe four ingredients in it, counting the yogurt and almond milk base. Kon orders some ridiculous flavor monstrosity with basically every tropical fruit on the menu, which is the least Gothamite option he could've gone for but therefore not particularly surprising. There's guava in it. Tim doesn't even know what guava tastes like. He's not even sure he'd know what one looked like, if Poison Ivy wasn't a thing. Like–why would he, after all?

Tim pays, obviously. Kon gets a little bit of an odd look on his face again, but doesn’t say anything about it. Well–he thanks him, but nothing else. Tim considers that a good sign, or at least a good start. 

The smoothies come in clear plastic cups, and Tim's is a uniform purple with darker flecks here and there in it. Kon's, on the other hand, looks like a sunrise with a swirly straw stuck in it, because of course it does. Tim doesn’t know what else he should’ve expected, really. 

“Do you think they could’ve fit a few more islands in there?” he asks wryly. “Maybe a peninsula or two?” 

“I mean, it could use some päpipi, probably,” Kon says before taking a sip. Tim has no idea what that is, but is distracted pretending not to pay attention to his mouth. It probably doesn’t work, but Kon’s not always the most observant guy, so it’s . . . fine, probably? Hopefully? “Wanna try it?” 

“I’m good, thanks,” Tim says, because he cannot possibly handle even the implication of putting his mouth on something Kon has put his mouth on. Like, ever. 

Ever. 

“You sure?” Kon asks, grinning slyly around his straw at him. “It’s pretty tasty.” 

Tim is a very, very weak man. 

“Maybe just a sip,” he says.

[dandylovesturtles]

okay okay so can I ask for a treat with imbi leo and a future leo :3

This is about to be extremely self-indulgent lol. And maybe a little OOC but at this point in IMBI Leo's not really feeling up to his normal jokester schtick.

CW: brief talk of "giving up" and becoming a ghost forever, mention of family being dead but in a non-traumatic sense

set in the first part of chapter 14

---

The place he lands is warm and quiet, well-lit but not bright, formless but still small and cozy. Leo feels calmer than he has in weeks, a deep, soft peace washing over him.

He knows he's not alone; looking around, he spots the other occupant. Head and shoulders taller than Leo, face creased by trials but also laughter, missing an arm but still looking at him with a bright spark in his eye.

Himself, over twenty years older.

Leo comes closer, and his doppelganger smiles at him, calm and reassuring.

"You're... Master Leonardo."

The older turtle chuckles. "I'm not your sensei; just Leonardo is fine. Maybe Leon, if you want."

Leo comes closer, until he's standing within arm's reach of Leonardo. "Sooo... is this a dream, or what?"

Leonardo's smile flickers, but doesn't go away. "You took a little bit of a break from consciousness; you're dissociating pretty hard, champ." He shakes his head. "But no, I'm not a dream. Turns out, Hamato "ancestor" is defined pretty loosely."

He holds his only hand out for Leo, who hesitates. "I can't..."

"Hey, it's okay." Leonardo beckons with his finger. "I can see you. We're talking. You don't think this will work, too?"

That's some logic he can't deny. Still, he's hesitant as he reaches out and puts his hand in Leonardo's palm. It's even bigger than Raph's, he thinks, and he wonders how huge his brother will get in the future.

Leonardo wraps his fingers around Leo's hand and gives a light tug, pulling him closer; the shock of it, that he actually can be touched, makes Leo jump. "Hey, it's alright," says Leonardo soothingly. He urges Leo to settle down in his lap, but Leo hesitates. If he does, it'll be obvious how bad he wants a hug.

Unsurprisingly, Leonardo sees right through him. "Who are you trying to be cool for?" he asks, his voice lightly teasing. "It's just us here."

Again, he can't argue with that logic.

Leo sits in Leonardo's lap, and immediately his older counterpart wraps his one arm around him. Leo can't help the full body shiver that runs over him at the touch, nor can he help but nuzzle into Leonardo's plastron. Leonardo chuckles again, voice warm and kind, and rubs Leo's arm and shoulder. The calm that's been present since he arrived here grows deeper, stronger, and Leo lets out a long, content sigh.

He loves and appreciates Donnie from the bottom of his heart, but there's something about being totally wrapped up in a hug like this that makes him feel safer than anything.

"We've all been watching you, you know," says Leonardo after he's let Leo sit and soak up the contact for a few minutes.

"Oh." Leo grimaces. "That's... kinda embarrassing."

"Don't be embarrassed. Everyone's so proud of you."

Leo presses his face into Leonardo's chest, hiding from whatever stares he may be getting. "Haven't done much to be proud of."

"Hey, hey, no." Leonardo takes him by the shoulders and pulls him back, enough to look in his face. "You're doing so good, champ. You're doing so good."

"According to you," says Leo. "And we've always been kinda full of ourselves."

"Okay, one, you know that's not entirely true." Leonardo pulls him in close again, rubbing his shell. It feels nice. "And two, it's not just me. I meant it; the whole family is proud of you. The ones on my side, and the ones taking care of you right now."

There's a sudden lump in his throat, and Leo swallows harshly around it.

"...I gave up," he admits softly, his voice ragged. "I gave up in there. I wanted to... wanted to stay like this."

"Ah, kid..." Leonardo pulled him closer, wrapping him as securely as one arm could hold him. "You were being hurt. You just wanted the pain to stop. That's not giving up."

"But I did. I really... really thought I was just going to..."

"No you didn't. You thought about it, then you got back up." Leonardo gives him a light squeeze. "That's all we want, Leo. For you to get back up."

"Getting up's hard."

"I know. But you did it."

"How'd you do it?" Leo shifts so he can look up at Leonardo. "All those years. How'd you get back up every time?"

Leonardo tilts his head. "It was hard for me, too. But I think you already know why. I didn't want to be without them." He smiles encouragingly. "And they didn't want to be without me."

Leo sniffs. Curls himself back up against Leonardo.

"Thought it wasn't supposed to be about me."

"Some things are about you, champ," Leonardo assures him. "This? This is very much about you. And that's okay."

Leo sniffs again. Feels his eyes burn.

"I should... probably go back, huh?"

"Don't push yourself. I'm here for you, and they're taking good care of you out there."

Leo nods. Shifts to get more comfortable.

"...Maybe I'll hang out a little longer."

"Sure thing, champ. As long as you need."

[moonspirit]

Heyyy since we’re having sex-related discussions, one more horny question 🙈 Do you think Armin would go down on Annie the first time they have sex? He seems like the kind of guy who would worship his partner despite inexperience/self-consciousness etc.

Nono, keep the horny stuff coming!

[N/SFW]

So the thing is, Armin's thinking about going down on Annie even before they have sex. The fantasy is vivid and beautiful in his head: to eat her out until she's positively quaking in his arms. He's also all read up on how best to do it: long and slow movements with his lips and tongue, never rushing it, taking his own sweet time, devoted to her cunt, worshipping it like his life depends on it. Even though he might be worried if he'll do it right or be able to give Annie the pleasure he envisages, he's ready to go down on her, 100%.

But will he actually ✨do it✨ on their first time?

It depends on Annie, I think.

You see, Annie lies in this incredibly delicious gap between "Other girls might have more to offer, what if he's disappointed with me?" and "I need him I need him I need him so much, please please please." She's worried he won't find her as appealing while also wanting him to keep touching her over and over and over again. I picture it as something that goes like: when he gets off her underwear and really "sees" her, he's so enamored and spellbound, he's immediately pressing soft kisses down her thighs and between them, coaxing them open as he goes. His desire to eat her out becomes quite apparent in the look he gives her and in the soft tone of voice when he asks if she'll let him kiss her there. Despite his apprehension and hesitance over his own lack of experience, the way she looks and feels and smells is making his head spin.

If Annie says yes, whether verbally, or with a teensy tiny nod, or when she pushes her fingers his hair, too far gone by the sheer desperate need to feel his mouth where it hurts the most, Armin's going to eat her out likely until the sun rises.

On the other hand if she's struck by a sudden wave of insecurity where she feels he's going to be disappointed in the experience because she's not enticing enough or is unpleasant, that will make itself quite clear when she pushes him lightly and closes her legs, too scared. Putting your face close to a person's most vulnerable areas on the body is not just a new position; it involves more of the senses, more intimacy, more gentleness and care - it needs more trust (as does sex as a whole, but anyway, you get my point). So in this case, he might not because he doesn't want to force her.

Edit: I made a related post on this a while back!

[lucky-clover-gazette]

prince's gambit highlights & annotations

chapter 19 and a half

(quoted BY HAND from the PAPER BOOK)

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

Damen was happy.

i love that it starts like this. for the first time in the entire series, it really is that simple

He felt the warm, wonderful, impossible fact of the situation. Bed slave.

interesting subversion here. i love how it hovers over discomfort for the reader, like we get why damen is pleased by this, but we can't 100% be on board with the sentiment. demonstrates damen's tendency to look away from the unpleasant in favor of the pleasant, even when those things overlap

'Come back to bed,' said Damen. 'I, said Laurent, and stopped.

ooooh he got the laurent speechless "i" with that one. laurent's probably feeling some shame and disbelief and maybe some dissociation? which makes the fact that damen takes his hand after this even better. it helps to ground him

'I—thought to towel you down.' The sweetness of it was startling. He realised with a little pulse of his heart that Laurent meant it. He was used to the ministrations of slaves, but it was an indulgence beyond any dream of decadence to have Laurent do this.

i think laurent's need to be clean after sex is a trauma/shame thing, so him offering the same to damen is almost a weird kind of protectiveness? like "it makes me feel better and safe after this overwhelming thing, and i want you to feel that way too." it's sweet in a different way from damen's understanding, or i guess just a deeper one.

Laurent had indeed taken care of matters, and had removed any evidence of their activities from his appearance. He did not look like someone who had just been fucked. Laurent's post-coital instincts were remarkably self-denying.

see comment above

'I lack," said Laurent, "the easy mannerisms that are usually shared with,' you could see him pushing the words out, 'a lover.' 'You lack the easy mannerisms that are usually shared with anyone,' said Damen.

i am so sad that this exchange isn't in the original book, because it's one of my favorites in the entire series. it pulls together so many thematic and character beats at one, with the book's consistent poignancy and humor. it's a great example of pacat's subtle dramatic irony and damen's corresponding lovestruck distraction from the truth. damen isn't being neglectful by misunderstanding laurent, he's accidentally manifesting a safe place for them both to be silly and strange and loving despite all the things he doesn't understand. which is what laurent really needs, to see that he can be loved and trusted, even if he's realizing this while actively caught up in his own lie.

also i'm a sucker for affectionate teasing.

'You thought of it?' 'You kissed me,' said Laurent. 'On the battlements. I thought of it.'

the contrast of damen looking at laurent in book 1 chapter 1 and thinking immediately "he'd be a very expensive sex slave" and laurent only starting to consciously think about damen in a sexual way after they kissed in the end of book 2...

Laurent was silent, as he fought an internal battle. Damen felt the quality of his stillness, the moment when he pushed himself to speak. 'You were different,' said Laurent. It was all he said. The words seemed to come from a deep place in Laurent, eked out from some core of truthfulness.

different from [redacted?] i sure hope so

'You can call me by my given name,' said Laurent. 'If you like.' 'Laurent,' he said.

LET'S GOOOOOO

gonna be a while until we get a 'damen' from laurent, but that's okay, i like the fact that i thiiiiink it comes after the reveal? and kind of a synthesis of the disconnected damen and damianos currently in laurent's head

'I'm not afraid of sex,' said Laurent. 'Then you can do as you like.' And that was the crux of the matter, it was suddenly clear from the look in Laurent's eyes. It was Damen's turn to hold himself still. Laurent was looking at him as he had since he had returned to the bed, dark-eyed and on the cusp. Laurent said, 'Don't touch me.' He was expecting... he wasn't sure what he was expecting. The first hesitant brush of Laurent's fingers against his skin was a shock. There was an odd sense of inexperience in Laurent, as though the role was as new to him as it was to Damen. As though all of this was new to him, which made no sense. The touch on his biceps was tentative, exploratory, as though it was something new to be marked out, the span of it, the shape of the curved muscle. Laurent's gaze was traveling over his body, and he was looked in the same way that he touched, as if Damen was new territory, unexplored, that he couldn't quite believe was under his command.

at the risk of exposing too much about myself, i will just say... real. and to see an approach like this depicted as endearing rather than unattractively strange is nice. some of this analysis gets a little too close to personal stuff that i'm not going to share, but i know why a lot of it hits and why it's helpful to me as a writer and a person to analyze.

also, just beautiful writing here. so little dialogue says so much, and the stream-of-consciousnesses from damen is perfect.

'He hadn't given himself over to sensation, he'd caught it up in an internal struggle.'

yeah.

Dark-eyed, as though touch was to him an extreme act.

from damen's perspective, it simply isn't. but to laurent, and a reader like me... man.

Laurent said, 'I didn't think anyone was good enough to get past your guard.' 'One person,' said Damen.

okay i get that damen was aiming for a double meaning here about laurent, but i do also want to make an almost certainly incomplete list of people who we know, at some point in this series, have gotten past damen's emotional and/or physical guard (whether to hurt him, seduce him, connect emotionally with him, or all of the above):

kastor

jokaste

the regent

laurent

nicaise

ancel

aimeric

kashel

erasmus

Then Laurent's gaze lifted—not to his own, but to the collar. His fingers lifted to touch the yellow metal, his thumb pressing into the nick. 'I haven't forgotten my promise. That I'd take off the collar.'

i think this is the exact moment where laurent's cognitive dissonance starts to irreversibly crumble. irreversibly, because he can't bring himself to keep reinforcing it. he knows who damen is, and what he did, and he still wishes to show him honor. i think he wishes for a lot more than that, but doesn't believe it's something he deserves. he still doesn't plan to tell the truth, probably for damen's sake more than his own, which is a kindness within itself. but i think laurent is accepting that damianos is damen, and in this moment at least, he feels at peace about it.

of course then nicaise happens and damen sticks around and laurent gets tortured and then they have to co-parent an army and shit just gets REALLY complicated in general, and then laurent does not feel peaceful about it at all. but right now, in the simplicity of damen's inevitable departure, i do think laurent feels a saddened kind of peace and acceptance of who damen really is: damianos the prince-killer, and damen, his lover. who he will love in return by setting him free.

'In the morning, you said.' 'In the morning. You can think of it as baring your neck to the knife.' Their eyes met. Damen's heartbeats were behaving oddly. 'I'm still wearing it now.' 'I know that.'

i'm intrigued by what they're really saying here. i'm mostly stuck on "you can think of it as baring your neck to the knife." laurent's comment could be a reference to previous dialogue, damen saying that he's only let his guard down for one person. as in, laurent's saying that he knows he's that person, and damen can think of laurent freeing him as removing the guard that laurent has both managed to reinforce and get past (the collar was literally a guard, in the case of the battle where it saved his life, and figuratively in many instances where his station as slave protected him). without the collar, and laurent's figurative protection, damen will find himself significantly more vulnerable than before—baring his neck to the knife of... life.

meanwhile, i think damen just wants another round while he can still have it. so he reminds laurent that he doesn't need to worry about that shit until the morning

(also: OH MY GOD. "BARING YOUR NECK TO THE KNIFE." NICAISE.)

His touch, once there, made its inevitable discovery. 'Overconfidence?' said Laurent. 'It's not—to a purpose.' 'I seem to recall otherwise.' Damen was halfway to being pushed down onto his back, with Laurent kneeling in his lap. 'All that self-restraint,' said Laurent.

hooray for another round of "sam tries to figure out what the fuck the dialogue has to do with the actual sex!" here's what i came up with:

l: (finds that damen is physically keen) (in the context of telling damen he's not allowed to touch, allowing laurent to do whatever he wants) you think i'm going to do anything about that for you?

d: it's there, but it doesn't mean that i want/need you to do anything you don't want to do

l: (choosing to take the literal meaning, instead of what damen actually meant, to deflect from his own discomfort) there have been plenty of times where you've clearly wanted to get off adjacent to me before (makes intent to fuck known) you must be restraining yourself so much

As Laurent leaned in, Damen unthinkingly lifted a hand to his hip to help balance him. And then realised what he had done. He felt Laurent's awareness of it. His hand was singing with tension. On the boundary of what was permitted. Damen could feel the shallowness of Laurent's breathing. But Laurent didn't pull away, instead, he inclined his head. Damen leaned in slowly, and, when Laurent didn't draw back, he pressed a single soft kiss to column of Laurent's neck. And then another.

He wanted to slide his hands up over Laurent's body. He wanted to see what would happen if this gentle attention was lavished on all of him, one part at a time, to see if he'd relax for even one, if he'd slowly begin to come apart, giving himself over to pleasure, the way he hadn't quite allowed himself to do at any moment except the climax, coming with flushed cheeks under Damen's thrusts. He didn't dare move his hand. His entire world seemed to have slowed, to the delicate shuddering of breath, the skitter of Laurent's pulse, the flush of Laurent's face and throat. 'That—feels good," said Laurent.

Laurent had forgotten himself enough to start moving against him. There was not even anything practiced about it, just a closed-eye seeking after pleasure. It was a shock to realise in the slight tremors, the flickering of breath, that Laurent was close, and how close he was, that he could come from being kissed, and this slow back-and-forth.

Maybe Laurent had always been this sensitive to tenderness.

it would make sense that the mindfucker supreme would also be supremely mindfucked, if he actually allowed someone to affect him in that way :)

That's it, Damen wanted to coax, and did not know if the words would be condescending.

a good call not saying it. praise kink would drive laurent insane, but probably not in a good way given his specific trauma. too close to past stuff, and hard to distinguish earnest sweetness from condescension

still hot though, which is probably part of why pacat included it in thought form

His own body was growing closer than he would have believed possible, from the feel of Laurent against him.

sex god fucking-since-he-was-thirteen damen discovering new orgasm strats from the traumatized not-quite-a-virgin-but-close laurent

Damen was smiling helplessly. 'That was adequate.' 'You've been waiting to say that.'

it wasn't even cleverly placed he just wanted to be a part of the bit 😭 and laurent is so fucked out that he can only half-heartedly mock him for the poor execution

'Let me.' Rolling him over and towelling him down, softly.

this sex scene literally has an arc. at the start: laurent doesn't even ask, just helps himself clean up, and offers the same to damen. is dissociated and unsure about what they've done. at the end: damen cleans laurent and laurent lets him, after giving himself to damen sexually and genuinely experiencing pleasure in his body.

'You can,' said Laurent, after a moment, meaning something else entirely. 'You're half-asleep.' 'Not quite.'

laurent assuming that he owes damen sex is so sad, but it also makes sense. and the fact that he doesn't take damen's respect of his consent and sleepiness seriously, because he's never been led to consider his own consent an important factor in whether or not he gets fucked. it's incredibly sweet to have this deeply erotic and gratifying moment for laurent where he doesn't actually have sex, because he doesn't need to, and that's respected and okay and portrayed just as lovingly and passionately as the actual sex.

Order me to stay, he wanted to say, and couldn't. Laurent was twenty years old, and the prince of a rival country, and even if their nations had been friends, it would have been impossible.

okay, but you just thought a few chapters ago that you could have totally courted him in those conditions. don't convince yourself you can't have this, that's what laurent literally just learned not to do in bed (very clever juxtaposition, by the way). i hope that someday these dumbasses can both manage to be honest with themselves at the same time, but today is not that day

'Until morning,' said Laurent. After a moment he felt Laurent's fingers come to rest on his arm, curling there slightly.

i think it's really unfortunate that this scene is not included in all versions of the book, although i do recall sex scenes in book 3 covering similar arcs/character development territory. but still. beautiful scene and i love them very much, and it also makes the nicaise stuff coming up feel even worse, and laurent's subsequent regression even more sad :(

[rainismdata]

I am obviously bad at this, but here we go.

What if House had a motorcycle accident in s3e8? The one when Wilson was waiting for the bus? Maybe Wilson had already on the bus or the taxi when it happened.

Either way, he got stopped by the crowd and police officer ask the bus/taxi driver to choose the other way.

Wilson asked for the reason as to why the road was blocked, and the answer is there's a big accident. He offers his help, letting them know that he's a doctor and could possibly help to call for ambulance from PPTH.

Until that point he got into the point when he's looking at someone he probably recognize. He found the person under a vehicle, trapped by his leg. Wilson looks around to found a broken motorcycle. A motorcycle that he knew. Also, a familiar cane was scattered.

He rushed to the person just to find out that it was House. He calls for his name, getting no responds at all while he breathes weakly and his heartbeat is slowing down. Not only there's scratches on his body (even his jacket got torn), House obviously got bleeding on his head.

He tried to waking him up, while others tried to getting him out of the vehicle. He's bleeding pretty badly, in pain, the weather doesn't help either.

I want to say that the moment they got him out, House heartbeat suddenly stopped (to make it more dramatic). Wilson says things; calling his name, telling him to wake up, telling him that he was here, telling him that he needs house's heart to beat... while trying his best on working on it.

Finally got a pulse back, he calls for another emergency on PPTH's E.R. This time, he calls Cameron to get her prepared. She wasn't prepared on what was happened to whom.

At the road, on their way to PPTH, consciously or not, House mumbles things to Wilson. Wilson's heart beating faster; he knew as much as he want House to stay sound, he needs House to save his energy. But— there's a clear words on something House said. House calles his name and says, "It... It doesn't hurt anymore..." The mumbles stop, but he's still breathing, barely.

Wilson finally got House to the PPTH. Obviously got concussion, head trauma by the state of his head's condition.

To make it worse (and unreal), they had to make him into coma (or House just fell into coma by himself, so it needs tests or something for later) for a few days (or hours if it's possible, I need to research on that, obviously. Weeks is too long, but who am I to say that) because of his head injury.

Wilson stayed on his side for days. Even it should've been unusual for the fellows to witness him on House's side, it's almost questionable to also witnessing him sleep on House's side of the bed, keeping close to him, found him keeping House's hand in his, kissing House nape when he has to get out of the room.

The fellows knows nothing about them, how close they were, but they knew they are close. But, these latest weeks has been hell for the two (and both departments, and the PPTH, go to hell, Tritter)

Wilson... He's trying to stay vocal to House, telling him things as if House is there to heard him. To the point he was so desperate. He confesses his feeling to House; telling House to come back to him, telling House to wake up for him, telling House that he doesn't know how could he live without him, telling House that he loves him all this time, telling House he was so stupid and all that stuff because he doesn't make the move and all.

Until the time House brought out of coma. Another "hell" came.

House doesn't remember who he is, having no idea of his self. But— He's still there. He's still House. He could responds to the diagnosis. He still remember those hard names of diseases.

The fellows hoping it would just be temporary. But about how long would it took, they don't know exactly (I'm imagining it would be just for days or a few weeks).

Tritter tried to came to him. But Cuddy somehow could use her "connections" to overpower him. He could do nothing anyway, now that House doesn't even remember a thing.

Either way, he feels familiar around Wilson. He's afraid to ask Wilson about things, to ask the fellows about things. But, he feels that he heard things when he was in coma. He's unsure about the things he heard.

Took months (or just another weeks) for House to recover his memories. Wilson and the fellows were helping him through it, and has made more and new memories. And until then, when he's finally getting familiar— recovering his memories of Wilson; House recognizes the voices he heard when he was in coma. He was sure it was Wilson's voice. Wilson was always helping him. He could do his work at any how he could do, but still got most of his time to be with House.

It was one day, the diagnostician fellows came to House' house, having differential diagnosis, evem though House haven't yet officially came back to his position, and Cuddy still letting the fellows to go to House. Even Wilson helped through the DDx, having opinions and recommendations.

When the fellows going back to PPTH, House finally ask a personal question. He called Wilson's name when Wilson was helping him preparing the packaged foods to the table.

House asked if Wilson really intended about what he said. But, House didn't say anything about what was he was talking about or when he did say it. Confusion arises on Wilson, bit he still asks further.

"I mean— what you've said... When I was in coma— I think..." House wasn't sure on what did he remember of the voices said to him. "Ignore it. It's just my hallucinations...”

Wilson take a moment of silence, as if he's going to his memory on what he said to House on his coma. House was never talking about anything happened in his own coma.The question does make him taken aback, but not surprised. He didn't say anything about his confession either since House awake from his coma. Wilson smiles through it, continuing what he was doing. “If it contains the word that I love you, then it's real. I mean it.”

House blue icy eyes is looking for answer on those chocolate browny eyes. He does remember that whatever going on between both of them, House feels familiar and he loves every bit of it; mostly, he feels he loves Wilson too much that he couldn't even say anything about it out loud, or even seriously confessing on the younger.

Wilson is making sure that his confession is now being heard. He told House the things he said when House was in coma; telling House to come back to him, telling House to wake up for him, telling House that he doesn't know how could he live without him, telling House that he loves him all this time, telling House he was so stupid and all that stuff because he doesn't make the move and all.

[marvelqueenhere]

Merthur being idiots in love aka self sacrificial

Being attacked and left in the middle of a forest to die is not how Merlin imagined his birthday would be spent. However, when he sees Arthur being in that critical condition, there's not much else to consider but to fix the problem. How can he ensure Arthur is safe? He is breathing so faintly, barely concious with so much blood loss.

Merlin isn't doing much better himself but that's not the point. He knows he doesn't have enough strength to use magic at this stage. But if he used up all his energy, his magic and life force, there's a chance he can save Arthur. He'll take his chances, thank you very much. As for hiding his magic, he couldn't care less at this point. Yes Arthur will be angry, almost feral when he realises and recognises Merlin for the monster he is. But he certainly would rather spend all his energy to transport Arthur to Camelot. After that, it's not like he'll survive anyway. Maybe that betrayal would help Arthur in his grief. (yes, he'll see that Merlin's loss is not worth spending much time over). He knows what he has to do now. He looks at Arthur one last time. Sees him a bit wide eyed and exhausted, trying to roll towards him. He smiles at him one last time. It always has been for you, Arthur, he thinks. My magic, my loyalty, me. It was my absolute honor, serving you, Sire.

Arthur is trying really hard to hold on to his consciousness. He really is, especially after Merlin smiled at him. That idiot! He knows that face. It's his 'I will do whatever it takes because it is the right thing to do face'. He sees his stubborn set of jaw, his shoulders rolled back, as his eyes turn golden..What?! Everything seems to click in slow motion for him. Merlin, despite bleeding and injured as bad as he is, looks positively radiant. He has magic! Right now, covered in blood, oozing out golden light from his body, it seems more apt to say he is magic, rather than he has it. However, he hasn't much time to think of it. Merlin's focus and his determination alarms him. There's definitely something insanely stupidly self sacrificial about it. He can feel his panic rise. In his fear, he instinctually rolls over with all his energy as does the one thing he can think of : hold onto Merlin. Whatever is happening, he knows in his heart he can face it if Merlin is with him, by his side, where he always wishes him to be.

3 days later

He sends for Merlin. He needs to make sure how to keep him safe. He can't think of what would happen if news of Merlin's magic gets out. He arranges the funds to send him away, speaks to someone he knows so he can work. He also makes it that it's halfway between Camelot and his hometown.

Merlin enters. Worn out, dark circles and pale skin. It pains him physically to see him this way. At least he has a trusted horse to take him where he needs to be, with enough money that he can sustain himself comfortably even if he doesn't work at all the coming couple of years.

Merlin's shoulders have a resigned droop, his eyes a sign of quiet peaceful resignation. Arthur wants Merlin to sit comfortably, have a healthy plate and then discuss his plans. Alas he can't afford such a luxury when every minute is an added risk. He had waited for Merlin to recover just enough and it was already 3 days too many.

Merlin walks slowly but surely. However what he does next makes Arthur startle a step back. Merlin comes close enough to him, makes very very brief eye contact, enough to give him a small smile and then kneels! He has his hands behind his back and head bowed enough to almost touch Arthur's ankles.

"Sire, I accept the consequences of what I am. It was my absolute honor to serve you. If you will let me can I ask of you one last wish before I meet my end?"

Arthur has no idea how to respond. What is Merlin talking about? What end ? Sure it might be his last time in Camelot, but Arthur knows and can feel Merlin means something more than that. He's trying very hard not to acknowledge what Merlin is thinking. Merlin takes his shock as hesitation. His face twists before it clears with renewed perseverance. "Please Sire. Gaius has nothing to do with what I am. He's old enough to be spared seeing me burn. If you'll only grant my request to make this a private affair, I'll be infinitely grateful for it"

With horror, Arthur moves with the intention of pulling Merlin up. But he only bows further to touch his forehead to Arthur's feet.

Arthur CANNOT take this anymore. Merlin really thought this of him? after all this time? and came to him like an animal to be slaughtered? His blood boils. He always knew anger is his worst enemy.

To be continued...

[seventeenlovesthree]

Since I've been talking about headcanons/AU possibilities so much, here is still one of my favourite sexuality headcanons for Koushirou.

He did tons of research on sexual attractions to figure out how his own attractions work - because he absolutely didn't understand all the back and forth between some of his friends or the fawning of certain people around him displayed towards certain individuals. Sure, he adored and appreciated his friends himself, some more than others, but "why do some people get so extreme about this?"

As he experiences his teens in the early 2000s, sexuality terms aren't as widespread yet, but he still has access to a lot of spaces and resources - to some degree, it still confuses him that terms about asexuality do seem to apply to how he feels. On the other hand, while his whole character arc had always been about accepting himself how he was, he would take his time to come to his own conclusions. If we take Tri into consideration, that actually makes perfect sense! The conclusion he might come to is "I only fall for people close to me, regardless of gender (= demisexuality)" but for now, he also still feels he has to conform to heteronormativity for at LEAST a few years.

The idea here is that he texted a lot with Mimi throughout the years since Adventure and since she had moved to America in particular - and felt more and more attracted to her self in text and thus, naturally, started liking her physical appearance too. (Because, duh, look at her!!!) Once she came back to Japan, there were some hiccups between them, as they may not have been as compatible emotionally with each other's rl!selves at this point in time. (And it may also explain his weird reactions to Jyou scolding him for having "the ladies hate him", because he may be frustrated with himself. "This is exhausting, I do like Mimi-san, but this is not working out and I don't understand why.")

Until his early to mid-twenties (2010 onwards), he will have embraced the "it probably doesn't even matter whom of my friends I'm attracted to" attitude, but he is not pushing it, just naturally lets the course take place. That's also why he eventually becomes so comfortable with Mimi again - but he had to become comfortable with himself first.

In this context, I also personally like to use the infamous "Koushirou likes Taichi a little too much" quote, because Taichi will always be his gay awakening in my book. Which, in context of how Taichi treats him, enables and encourages him, makes perfect sense to me again. But Koushirou suppressed these feelings and never pursued them romantically as a teenager aside from maaaaaybe that one love letter incident, who knows, because, ya know, best friend pining angst. And since we're already at tropes, I love the "one fell first, the other fell harder" trope for them, though actually: Koushirou is the one who consciously falls first. Taichi doesn't realize it for YEARS and then it hits him even harder. It works the other way round too, but that one is my favourite scenario.

Long story short, you CAN apply his demisexuality to a lot of other Chosen Children as well, but to me, Mimi and Taichi will always be his awakenings.

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Nightmares (Ashes)

(A/N: Aaaaay, here's your reminder that they are platonic soulmates.

I also want a Glen plushie. With a little felt orange-and-grey arm. He has become my comfort person as well. I want a Glen plushie and a somewhat grumpy Arya plushie and a Brom plushie for when I need to talk out plotlines and an Eragon and Saphira plushie for when I need to feel warm fuzzies. TW for injuries, though I think I kept the description down this time.)

~~~

It was too hot. 

It wasn’t like the sun. The sun beats down. This was coming up, up through his already charred pants and the cotton shirt that stank of burned fibers. Wrapped around his head, his combat jacket was the only thing saving his face as he lay with his covered cheek pressed to the ground. Puffs of ash billowed up as he panted, clogging his nostrils and settling above his lip to trickle into his mouth when he tried to wet his lips. 

He reached out with his right hand, as far as he could, and growled. The blinding pain shocked up his other side as his limp arm dragged across the ground, heaved himself from flat on his belly to resting on his elbow. Shoved off, toes of his boots leaving gouges in the dirt as he pushed away. Screamed as the impact down again jolted his dead limb. 

The body slid forward with him. The belt tying them together dug deep into his shoulder. 

“You…You’d probably…” Glenwing spat out the grit that lined his teeth. “Probably make a joke about…about wishing you’d…skipped breakfast…about now.” Down here the smoke wasn’t as obliterating to his lungs. But the ash was just as bad. 

Fäolin lifted his head. His eyes were hollow. But that little smile, so annoying and endearing, he always had was still on his lips. “But I did skip it, remember?”

Glen grunted. Steeled himself for a moment before reaching out again. He could feel the cinders that caught in his skin burning deep at his left thigh. He had to move again, try and knock them loose with friction alone. If he rolled over and pulled them out, he wouldn’t start moving again. “Sure doesn't feel like it.”

The sniper laughed. “For a bruiser you’re acting like a lightweight.” He fell into silence at Glen’s repeated howl of agony as he hit the ground. Stayed that way for a few more repetitions. “Hey. Why aren’t you going back?” 

The medic didn’t answer. Set his teeth and breathed hard through his nose. 

“Glen. Where’s Arya?” A serious tone this time. Fäolin didn’t like sounding like that. Glen didn’t like it either. “She’s not here. Where is she?” He closed his eyes. “Hey!”

“She…” He had to stop. Just for a few seconds. Had to get a breath away from all the ash. Rolled on his side and lifted his head. Managed to suck in a single clear breath before his ruined arm lolled and bent in a direction it shouldn’t have been able to. 

He didn’t know he was able to sound like that. Never wanted to hear a scream, a screech, from anyone, so loud and ear shattering and guttural and wrong wrong everything is wrongeverythingiswrong!

“Hey, quit your bitching!” Fäolin was latched on to his leg, fingers digging into the burns on his thigh. “You didn’t even look! You just left her there, what the fuck, Glen!”

It took every ounce of his self control not to kick Fäolin in the face, let out the pain in a way other than screaming himself hoarse. He panted a few clear breaths before, with another scream, he rolled back onto his belly. “She knows…what she’s doing.” 

He couldn’t tell Fäolin the truth. That he had felt the surge of magic, bright and green and desperate, during a brief return to consciousness. Her magic. That spell practiced for decades, a spell that was one of the many reasons she was picked as courier. Felt that she was just…gone when he woke up again. And the shade was gone. The Urgals, gone. 

Arya was gone. 

Fäolin did not relent. “You left her there!” The other elf’s nails felt like claws digging into the back of his leg. “Go back! Go back, now!”

“Shut up!” With a burst of strength, Glenwing managed to heave himself over a fallen branch. The bark, ebony black and still clicking with heat expansion, raked across his chest. Fäolin took a firm yank to bring over. He landed on the medic, elbow digging into his side and face to face. “Fäolin, just…she knows,” The words out of his mouth tasted like carbonized pine, acrid and sticky and heavy. “we…we can’t save everyone.” 

He resecured the belt holding them together, one hand fumbling with the buckle. “I can…can at least save you.”

“No you can’t.” 

The words were nearly lost in the ragged yell of Glen’s next attempt to move forward. Alarmed, he looked back. He couldn’t let Fäolin give up now, not….

Fäolin’s empty eyes and cold face streaked with soot and ash stared back. His expression was locked in rigor, neck turned at an awkward angle. His mouth didn’t move.

“I’m already dead, Glen.” 

~

He could hear screaming when his eyes opened. Something was tight and suffocating around his chest, pinning his arm to his side while something else pressed into his face. Heat washed over his neck and under his chin. 

Glen thrashed, threw his weight, tried desperately to free himself from everything pressing down. He heard something slam, a crash, and suddenly there was light. The thing encasing him ripped away and fresh air burst across his overheated skin. 

He sucked in a deep breath, and in that moment of quiet he realized he was the one screaming. A gentle voice was hovering by him, a murmur in his ears as he dug his fingers into whatever was closest and–

Felt only his right hand close. The left was clenched into a fist so tight he could have crushed iron, wouldn’t open when he tried to flex his fingers and release the pain that was building. 

There wasn’t smoke. There wasn’t ash. His mouth felt tacky but still tasted like…like the mint from his toothpaste and the chamomile tea he had before bed. Tea he had drank with–

Glenwing bolted upright, scrambled as his left side dipped and threw his balance. He had to find her. He had to go back, had to find her.

He slammed into something, someone. 

“Where are you?” Glen stared at them blearily and pulled away. He had to go back. “Answer me, Glen. Where are you?”

The question brushed against his barriers, direct, firm. If anyone else had asked it that way, he wouldn’t have felt the buried undercurrent in their thoughts. The spidersilk thin thread of worry, recognition, the even thinner thread of pleading. 

She hated pleading, with anyone. He hated it too. 

The urge to bolt eased. 

“I’m…” It was hard to speak. Needed water. “Ellesméra.”

Relief just barely colored the next question. “What do you see?”

“You.” 

“Specifics. Who am I?”

He swallowed. “Arya.”

“Good. What do you hear?” 

He had to slow his breathing. Inhaled, held it. Exhaled. Again. Listened. “...Frogs. Chorus Frogs. From the creek by Tani’s.” Again. “Crickets.” Again. Picked up on something else. “Pulse…sixty two. Higher than usual.”

He saw her tight lips quirk up a bit. She gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “What do you feel?”

Glen wriggled his toes and felt the cool moss rise up around them. The underlayer was damp. The top was soft like terry fleece. “Pincushion moss.” He paused. “Your hands. They’re cold. Don’t let go.” He was quick to add. 

She didn’t. “What do you smell?” 

“Pine. Lots of pine.” He didn’t add the undercurrent of gunpowder, gun oil and leather. That was just the scent she gave off. It calmed him down, just as his odd combination of cedar, vanilla, machine oil and antiseptic calmed her. Fäolin’s sharp notes of tea tree oil, gunpowder, ferns and well worn cotton had rounded them out. They each smelled like safety to each other. 

“What do you taste?” 

“Tea. Toothpaste.” 

Arya squeezed his shoulders again. He could see her completely now. Her eyebrows were knit in a concerned yet hopeful rise, that half smirk at her lips wavering. “Hey. You grounded?”

Glen breathed a shaky sigh. “I’m grounded.” 

Ritual complete, Arya led him to sit on the bed. “Do you want your arm?” At the medic’s mute nod she retrieved the prosthetic from the side table and helped him slide it on.

The moment the nerves connected all the fingers snapped into a tight fist, forearm shaking with the signals the crushing phantom pain was sending. Glenwing doubled over with a rough gasp, pressed the metal limb to his belly as the rebounding sensations increased in a feedback loop. It took everything he had to look down at his new hand and force it, slowly, to open. 

The relief wasn’t instant. And it wasn’t total. But seeing the fingers unfurl at the command of a brain that still hadn’t quite accepted the original limb’s loss…it helped. The pain eased away to the occasional pinprick, at least for the time being. 

He became aware of Arya’s hand on his back, not moving but there. He had always preferred a physical connection during his episodes, even before…all this. It grounded him more firmly. 

“Thank you.” Glen’s voice was still thick, and with a wordless pat to his shoulder Arya left the room only to return with two lukewarm mugs of the same chamomile tea the medic had made earlier. She held it out to him at his center, unsure of which hand to offer it to, and he took it with his right. The ceramic was warm against his palm. 

He took a sip and couldn’t help a little grin. “You added sugar.” It wasn’t a bad thing. He knocked back half the mug in three gulps. 

Arya gave him her own nearly hopeless smirk as she crossed her legs beside him. “Something sweet after that can’t hurt.” She took a sip of her own. “Helps the hangover.” They sat together in silence until their mugs were empty. “Do you want to tell me what it was about?” 

Glenwing turned the mug over in his hand, shifting it by bouncing it slightly in his palm. He didn’t trust his prosthetic with something fragile at the moment, something Rhunön would probably chastise him for when he told her about it in the morning. More tweaking to the nerve reaction path was in his future. “...Not really.” He felt the sweat drying on his skin. He had already taken his shirt off before bed, hoping it would alleviate the encroaching warmth of summer. “It’s too hot in here.” 

“I got the window.” Glen didn’t protest when Arya pushed the panes open, the screen sliding into place with a rustle. “Want one of the thinner blankets?” 

“No, thanks.” She returned to the bed and sat with him again. From the corner of his eye he took her in, practiced as he was from their decades fighting together. Her hair was still in the tighter braid she wore during the day, the loose fringes still wild as ever. Though she was wearing her usual sleep clothes of shorts and an old, torn up tshirt they didn’t look slept in. Her eyes were bright and alert, with no sign of shaking off sleep or even dozing. 

He hadn’t woken her up, at least. She had already been awake, probably the entire night.

It was a half hour before he could finally feel the tingling seep away. His burns, most healed before they could scar but a handful still splotched across his chest and legs, still buzzed with static after these episodes. He could sleep again, knowing for sure where, when, he was. 

But still.

“Hey.”  Arya paused at the door, one hand raised about to extinguish the werelight and the other holding both the mugs by their handles. “Watch my back?”

The smile she gave him was gentle, understanding. “Definitely. One sec.” She returned with one of her own blankets draped over her shoulders and climbed onto the bed beside where he lay. “Scoot over.”

They arranged themselves back-to-back, curled on their sides and shoulder blades pressed against each other through the blankets. They had spent nights like this before, out in the field, sitting up rather than laying down and braced against each other to catch some sleep while still remaining at the ready. It was less comfortable but more stable with a third when sitting up, but they had always made do before. 

It wasn’t the first time they slept in the same bed since finding each other again. The first time Arya had ripped herself from her nightmares straight into a Recall episode Glen had found her cowering in the hall, shivering and whimpering and unsure of what was real and what was in the past or if the past was even over. It took hours of coaxing, of grounding exercises and assurances, before she could even see him through the memories, the pent up stress and tumult and trauma of months finally releasing its first wave as her body and mind realized it was safe and still for the first time since the ambush. He made sure she was grounded and then, with all the care in the world, wrapped her in a fluffy blanket and carried her back to her room, curled around her protectively till she finally, finally fell into a dreamless sleep. He kept watch the last dregs of the night and into the midmorning hours, vigilantly kept his pistol and blades beside him despite knowing no one would come through the door. 

She paid him back for it. It was only a week before his own episode. He ran himself into his bedroom door, knocked flat on his back and thrashing, clawing at the electricity shooting down his phantom limb. Glen wasn’t even aware of when she had come in, just that someone was holding him and the smell of smoke was fading. The half open window and the gentle breeze carrying in the scent of pine burning from a distant lightning strike in the hills was shut and the air cleared. When Glen choked on his last mouthful of ash he could hear her again, grasped onto her hand where it held him up like she was going to disappear again if he let go. Arya wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tight, physically grounding him and walked him through the questions he had taught her until he could answer them all over and over. Half carried him back to bed, pressed her back to his and promised to take watch the rest of the night. 

That she was still there in the morning, awake and alert, meant to him more than she would ever realize. It didn’t erase the thread of guilt Glen swore he never felt when she asked. But it did chase away the ghosts.

~~

(A/N: Because I'm not entirely sure it's clear. Fäolin was dead by the time he hit the ground in MIC. Glen was hallucinating and also sorta in denial. Fäolin was also voicing Glen's own thoughts, arguing against his own decision to leave the ambush site because he needed to get himself away to tell others what happened/help Fäolin when all he really wanted to do was go and find Arya and help her protect Saphira's egg.)

[ayellowcurtain]

Hi lovely, could you please write a little something about robbe and sander being friends and going on a trip with the gang and having to share a bed?

It was a terrible mistake to come on this trip during winter, Robbe thinks for the hundredth time since they all got here this morning. The house is old, and it's clearly a month away from being completely abandoned by Jens’ family. He looks at the old walls in the dark room and imagines how the insulation is old, dusty, and completely inefficient after so many decades of use in wet weather such as this, a few meters away from the beach.

No number of heavy comforters and blankets can make this a comfortable night of sleep. He can feel Sander's warmth helping a little bit but he's still shaking uncontrollably. The extra layers of clothes weren't as helpful as they should, so Robbe got rid of his hoodie before Sander fell asleep because he didn’t want to bother his sleep doing it later. Nobody else seems to be struggling as much as he is. He can hear a bunch of heavy breaths, some snoring but no rustling of sleeping bags or shivers from the cold.

“Stop moving...” He jumps as he hears Sander's voice, a little breeze of freezing air swirling around him as Sander turns to lie on his back, his shoulder over Robbe´s.

Sander puts his other arm over his eyes, and his hand gently reaches Robbe´s hair, and he starts gently playing with his curls, probably trying to help Robbe relax and fall asleep and consequently stop moving and making them both freeze even more.

“Sorry,” Robbe whispers, closing his eyes and trying to keep them that way.

“I can go check for more blankets if you want…”

Robbe shakes his head, feeling another hard wave of shivers that he manages to control by turning his body a little bit, a second away from putting his leg over Sander´s to strap them together. His self-consciousness can't help but ring every alarm with his movement but he tries to argue it was better than to shake uncontrollably, making Sander even more annoyed to be sharing a bed with Robbe.

They have known each other for a very long time. Sander is closer to Zöe, Robbe's big sister and it feels wrong to be so…close and in a (probably) too intimate of a position with someone who's constantly pointed as his sister’s possible future boyfriend and husband.

But, in the safety and privacy of his own thoughts, Robbe has dreamed about this guy for so long. It doesn't help that he is kind, very affectionate, very liberal, with his modern way of thinking about every subject, the most beautiful human Robbe has ever seen, not bothered to share a twin bed with him, hidden beneath layers and layers of heavy blankets. Robbe opens his eyes, trying to keep himself under control from where his brain was going. He pulls the first layer of comforter on them and covers their head completely. Sander doesn't flinch or ask anything about it, he just keeps playing with Robbe’s hair once he settles down again.

Now he can´t concentrate on relaxing and falling asleep, obviously. So, he takes advantage of being in the complete dark to stare at where he assumes Sander’s head is, his profile, with his lean arm over his eyes.

He starts to think of how life is made of countless now moments. He´ll never be under these blankets, sharing a bed with the man of his dreams, with nobody watching or knowing how close they are, how Sander is absently playing with his hair, how they could be holding hands if they wanted to because Sander’s arm is on top of Robbe´s, helping him keep his warm but also from shivering even harder.

Robbe gently holds the hand that was in his hair and puts it down on Sander´s chest. He feels Sander lifting his head a little bit, facing him.

“What?”

It´s funny how upset he sounds from being prevented from touching Robbe´s hair. Before Sander can complain again or Robbe can change his mind, he moves his head and presses their lips together. It´s likely just a second but it feels like a lifetime, and before Robbe can regret his impulse, he feels a gentle hand on his cheek, holding them in that position.

Instantly, he feels his body warm up, buzzing with excitement, and he snuggles even closer, just still pressing their lips together until they stop, resting their forehead against each other while they both adjust their positions, lying on their sides, pressing their lips together again. Sander is the one to deepen the kiss, his hand on the small of Robbe´s back, pressing their whole bodies together.

They kiss for a long time, until Robbe´s body is completely warm, feels like it's melting even. He holds Sander´s face, feeling his hair getting long enough to start covering his ears. Robbe hears himself let a moan slip in between kisses, and he feels his whole face get red as he feels Sander smiling. He lies his head back down on his pillow, realizing he can’t apologize if he wants to pretend that stupid sound didn’t come out of his mouth.

“Was that more helpful than me playing with your hair?”

Robbe laughs shyly, needing to push the blankets down to uncover his face to breathe fresh air. Sander follows a second later. He can feel he´s being watched, and Robbe starts to regret kissing Sander, thinking he went too fast and clearly didn’t leave much room for a single responsible thought. He doesn’t regret it but he´s afraid his dumb actions can have bigger consequences.

“You ok?”Sander whispers.

“Yeah…Like a dream come true.” He decides to try to explain his feelings with the minimal use of words possible. Sander snorts, pulling his pillow to be as close as possible to Robbe´s before he can lie his head down too.

“You’re cute.”

Robbe rolls his eyes. He doesn’t want to be cute; he wants to be hot. Sander holds him by his waist, and Robbe kisses him again, slowly pulling the blankets over their heads again, finally putting his leg around Sander’s waist.

[korereapers]

If I may pop in again and send more Adajima, haha, how about "relationships are built on trust, and i trust you"? 👀

The first time they manage to have a drink after Adachi is out of prison is, unsurprisingly, in Okina.

Adachi isn't really sure if he should go back to Inaba. It has been years, of course, but the town still brings back memories... and then there's the fact that he did murder two people in there years ago.

He looks up from his drink, his very first drop of alcohol in years. It couldn't be beer this time, of course. The fruitiest, most colorful cocktail sits in front of him, and he doesn't really remember what it's made of, but it's nice to the palate, and Adachi has drunk enough cheap beer and tapwater for a lifetime.

For now, at least.

Dojima sits in front of him, too, dark grey eyes that were cold as metal back in the day looking at him as if they were melting under an anvil.

Adachi wishes he got it.

The man, now older but still so, so handsome is drinking an alcohol-free beer.

Sober, he wants to be completely sober, Adachi reminds himself. He wants to be sober for Nanako, of course, but also for himself. And this time, also for him.

Alcohol works in funny ways, Adachi knows that. Put enough in your body, and it will make your shame and self-consciousness go away. Put in a little more, and you start saying or doing shit you will later regret. Put in way too much, and it makes you dig your own grave, slowly, deeper and deeper. Until sadness and apathy make it impossible to climb back up.

Dojima's hand is resting near his, almost touching him, and Adachi wants to close the small gap, but he can't.

His smile is small, contrasting with Dojima's one, that feels way too big, way too honest. Adachi has never been too good at dealing with honesty.

"You're really that happy to have me back, huh..."

Dojima snort, as if Adachi had said something really stupid. Adachi just sighs, drinking from the little strap. It tastes of cranberry, orange, and peach. And well, of hungover if he keeps drinking them like they're water.

"I don't really see why not."

Adachi's sigh is louder this time.

"Who's to tell that I won't start killing people again when I get bored?"

"But you won't."

Adachi is not drunk enough for this shit.

"And how do you know that? Are you sure you're not just being delusional?"

He can feel Dojima's forearm twist in anger. For a moment, Adachi wants him to hit him, to show him that nothing has changed, that he is right, that there is no hope, that this was all a mistake.

What Dojima does, instead, is grabbing is hand. It's a weird gesture coming from him and Adachi watches it all happen in slow motion. The way rough lips brush against his knuckles, choosing to cherish, and not to hurt. He just watches him, speechless, until Dojima decides to talk again.

"Relationships are built on trust, and I trust you," is everything that Dojima says. Gentle, honest. More than what Adachi deserves.

Dojima smiles against his skin, knowing he has rendered him speechless. He feels his ears boiling, even more when a thumb brushes against his hand. He is pretty sure that it's not just the alcohol at play.

"Okay... well..."

Dojima's breath tickles his skin as he speaks.

"That's what I thought."

[omoiintensifies]

Part 2 of Part 1

Disclaimer: I'm not a part of Ichihime Or Ichiruki debates. Stan whoever. Just don't be a misogynist. I'm just observing the plot here.

---

Let's go back to the part where Orihime is upset af that she can't cheer him up (in that weird naked scene). At that point, Ichigo was struggling with his Hollow. Specifically upset and embarrassed that he couldn't protect Orihime.

Next, we've have the Grimmjow fight where Orihime is a spectator. She sees Ichigo for the first time in the mask and is unnerved if not outright scared (which is a valid reaction as a human, contrary to what most people think). In response, Ichigo is hyper aware of how uncomfortable she is. Eventually, she realizes that it's only surface reality and his life matters more than his consciousness.

CUT TO ULQUIORRA PLOT, WHICH IS...

If you're following me closely, a mixture of both these dynamics! 🎇

In Naruto, most villains are doubles of Naruto. So, Pein represented Naruto's own Kyubi self that he could not master. Similarly, Ulquiorra is also a part of Ichigo (it is insane how I overlooked it😭). It dawned on me after watching the Change opening sequence where Ulquiorra's face merges with Ichigo.

He represents Ichigo's own emptiness. The emptiness that Ichigo feels after his mom's death. Emptiness that he has always felt even before...a very young Ichigo tells his mom how sunsets make him sad.

What else represents emptiness? Hollows..duh. So Ichigo is definitely fighting emptiness even though it's not too pronounced. He's fighting it even though he wants to hide it (like he would hide from his mom/hiding is a big theme from the beginning). However, when the hollow comes out, and Inoue sees it (he's scared how she'd react, which is a VERY valid reason for people who hide their bad mental health), he's left in a vulnerable position.

Finally, after enough time in Hueco Mundo, Inoue understands the world of Hollows. She doesn't hate her enemies, instead...she has love for them. There is a point in the fight where the Hollow girl who wants to kill Orihime gets confronted that she's only doing it to "fill her emptiness."

But Orihime forgives them. Looking at Ulquiorra (like I said, an extension of Ichigo), she tells him that she's not scared of him...or his emptiness, which if you're following me so far, is a big nod to Ichigo's fears. She sees the emptiness, and she extends her hand (something that happens with Ichihime a lot by the way) and gives him her heart. A very beautiful gesture to emptiness.

That's it,

Why, I have a life. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

[caranfindel]

Fic: Go on and kiss the girl

genre: het | length: about 3800 words | rating: pg 13? r? i dunno; sex happens but nothing explicit | characters: dean winchester, sam winchester, ofc

Synopsis: A few years ago, several of us plotted out an entire alternate season 12, which would take place on a boat. Go take a look, it is marvelous. (Oh, all those missing friends; it makes me sad.) Anyway. I wrote one of the stories I pitched, though I changed it due to the original idea being a little too noncon. So here's Sam and Dean and a mysterious woman they find at sea...

also on ao3

><> ><> ><> ><> ><> ><>

Sam's the one who spots her. They're sitting on the deck drinking beer, and Dean's not necessarily watching the sun set over the ocean, because he's not that kind of person, even after a month of aimlessly drifting around the Gulf of Mexico on a borrowed boat. But he's not exactly ignoring it either. Sam, on the other hand, seems totally into this gazing-into-the-sunset business, until he suddenly stands up, thrusts his bottle into Dean's hand, and walks to the edge of the deck.

"You see that?"

"See what?"

"Shit!" Sam grabs the top of the rail and vaults right off the boat, swimming with long, even strokes toward something floating in the water. Crap, it's a person. A woman. Sam hooks an arm around her and hauls her back to the boat, where Dean lifts her onto the small sunbathing deck.

She's unconscious. And completely naked. She's young, mid-twenties maybe, lean and muscled like a swimmer. At first glance it looks like she has seaweed entangled in her long platinum blonde hair, but it's actually her hair itself, with highlights of green and purple twisting through that give it an iridescent mother-of-pearl sheen. Peeking through her hair is the soft pink shell of her ear, decorated with a quartet of small pearl earrings. Another pearl nestles in her navel. A pastel tattoo climbs up the outside of one pale leg, the barely-noticeable undulating pattern inked in ghostly shades of lavender and aquamarine.

Sam pulls himself onto the sunbathing deck and kneels over her, saltwater dripping from his hair onto her fair skin. He presses his fingertips against her throat. "She's breathing. Strong heartbeat."

"Where did she come from?"

"I don't know," Sam says, frowning in confusion. "She was just floating out there." He stands up and scans the horizon. "I didn't see any debris, or a lifeboat, or anything. Just her." He bends down to gather her in his arms. "Let's get her inside somewhere."

Sam's cabin is the one with a single queen-size bed (stupid rock-paper-scissors), so that's where they take her, lowering her gently onto the mattress. Dean lifts her slightly so Sam can slip one of his t-shirts over her head. Her skin is cool and silky against his fingers. Sam digs out a pair of clean swim trunks, hesitates self-consciously, then covers her with a blanket and places the trunks on the bed next to her. He stows the few things he'd actually unpacked back into his duffel. There doesn't seem to be anything else they can do for her, so they quietly close the door and Sam drops his bag on the second twin bed in Dean's cabin (seriously, stupid fucking rock-paper-scissors; never again).

"What now?" Dean asks.

Sam contemplates the door of his former cabin. "Leave her for now, I guess. It'll be completely dark soon, and neither of us is experienced enough to sail this thing at night, so we should stay put. We can head back to shore in the morning."

><> ><> ><> ><> ><> ><>

Dean wakes just before dawn, silently climbing out of bed and slipping out of the cabin without waking Sam. He opens the door to the larger cabin, just a crack. Their mystery girl has changed positions and is curled on her side, looking more asleep than unconscious. That's a good sign. He gently closes the door with a quiet snick and slips into the small galley. A few minutes later he's sipping coffee on the deck, watching the horizon slowly turn fiery shades of pink and orange.

The faint click of a door opening and closing announces that Sam is up. Dean refills his own coffee and pours one for Sam, setting it by his chair. But by the time he finishes his second cup, his brother hasn't made an appearance. And it's not necessarily anything to worry about, but, well. Dean is Dean, so he's going to investigate. He opens the door of their tiny cabin and stops, stunned, his senses assaulted by an eyeful of naked back half-covered with a spill of mother-of-pearl hair, perfect heart-shaped ass, and a quick flash of a tramp stamp that looks like a… no, that can't possibly be right. And suddenly the tattoo is framed by a pair of huge hands gripping a narrow waist and oh, Christ, it's Sam's hands, she's riding Sam cowgirl-style, and Dean has never noped back out of a door so quickly in his life.

><> ><> ><> ><> ><> ><>

The sun is fully up by the time Sam makes his way above deck. Without a word, he plops into the chair next to Dean's and takes a swallow of lukewarm coffee.

"Sleep well?" Dean asks.

Sam stares at the horizon. "Yep."

"Wake well?"

"Yeah." Sam smiles into his mug, not meeting Dean's eyes. "Yeah, I did."

"And I take it Aqua Woman is feeling better."

"Seems to be." Sam's lip twitches and he does not have the courtesy to look even the tiniest bit ashamed.

"Exactly how good does she feel, Sam?"

Sam grins. Big. "Pretty damn good, actually."

They're interrupted when Aqua Woman herself appears on the steps. She's wearing Sam's t-shirt, and maybe his swim trunks underneath — it’s impossible to tell, because the shirt is huge on her, slipping off her shoulder and reaching almost to her knees. She walks gracefully toward Dean, and the longer he soaks up her full lips, wide blue-green eyes, and thick dark lashes, the more he's convinced she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

"Hello," she smiles. "I'm Alana." She holds out a hand and it's cool and soft, like her voice.

"Dean. I see you've already met my brother Sam."

"Yes, I have." She turns to flash a blinding smile at Sam and then slips her hand from Dean's grasp, resting it on his shoulder. "Thank you both for rescuing me. I would have been lost without you."

"No problem, sweetheart." He gives her his most seductive grin. Just making sure she knows what a mistake she made by picking the wrong brother; not trying to lure her away from Sam or anything.

Although. There really is something about her. Something kinda perfect.

"It'll take us a couple of hours to get you back to shore so you can get checked out at a hospital," Sam says. "Are you feeling okay? Do you remember anything? How did you get out here?" Asking all the questions now, since apparently they weren't talking much earlier.

She bites her lip, and Dean desperately wants to feel those perfect white teeth nibbling on his own lip. And other parts of him as well. "Do we have to go back to shore?" she says. "I'm really fine. And there's nothing for me there. I'd rather stay here with you."

Sam meets Dean's eyes and he's all furrowed brow and tight lips and something's not right here, and Dean knows what he's going to say, but Alana steps over to him and lightly plants a kiss on his cheek. "Please let me stay here with you," she says softly.

Sam's face softens into a dopey grin and he says exactly what Dean is thinking. "Of course. You should stay here with us."

><> ><> ><> ><> ><> ><>

They spend the rest of the morning doing nothing. Alana doesn't explain how she ended up in the water, but it doesn't matter. She's safe on their boat now; everything's fine. Everything's fine. She sits on Sam's lap and drinks his coffee and plays with his hair while Dean tries not to imagine her soft nimble fingers running through his own hair, she leans over the railing to watch the fish gliding alongside the boat and it turns out she is wearing the swim trunks Sam left her, rolled up high on her legs and riding low on her hips, and finally Dean decides he needs to go below deck and take a not-particularly-warm shower.

Everything's fine.

><> ><> ><> ><> ><> ><>

When he comes back up, Sam's in the big fishing chair, facing away from him, and oh, for fuck's sake, they're at it again. Alana is straddling him, head thrown back, slender fingers twisted in his hair, moaning, and Dean desperately needs to step away but he's frozen to his spot - and then she opens those huge blue-green eyes and fucking winks at him.

Dean probably needs to hang out in his cabin for a while. Everything's fine.

Lying on his bed, it occurs to him that she never did answer the question of where she came from, or why she was in the middle of the ocean, unconscious. It didn't seem important enough to pursue at the time. But now it seems important. He should go up and ask her again. Yeah, he'll do that.

><> ><> ><> ><> ><> ><>

By the time Dean's brave enough to get above deck again, Sam's alone.

"Where's Aqua Woman?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Alana is sunbathing."

Damn. Topless, probably. If he stretches just a tiny bit, he can see the sunbathing deck and yep, there she is, lying on her stomach, completely nude. Dean swallows. And tries to think about what was bothering him so much earlier. Something about Alana… something Sam probably doesn't want to hear. He can't really remember. He's too distracted by something else he wants to talk about. And there really is no way to say your girl oughta be banging me instead without sounding kind of churlish.

"You know what you're getting into?"

Oooh. Sam's face suggests this wasn't a good opening. "Yeah, Dean, I think I can handle it."

"Not exactly your type, is she?"

"In what way?"

"Come on, dude, the bad girls are my type."

"Bad girl?"

"Yes, a bad girl. You go for librarians and I go for bad girls, and this one is a naughty girl, Sammy. I mean, she's got a 69 for a tramp stamp, for fuck's sake."

"Okay. One, have you forgotten Ruby?"

(Yeah, she was a very bad girl; Dean's got to give him that.)

"Two, don't call it a tramp stamp; that's douchey even for you. And three, it's not a 69, it's her zodiac symbol."

"You're telling me there's a sign of the zodiac that's symbolized by a 69?"

"It's not a 69; it's on its side. It's Cancer."

"All right, but I swear, she winked at me while you two were hunting for Moby Dick."

"I don't care."

"Hey, I'm just saying, she may be regretting her life choices at this point. Did she say anything about me?"

If Sam rolls his eyes any harder, they're going to roll right out of his head. "What, you mean, while she was having sex with me, did she mention you? Sure. Absolutely. She climbed on top of me and then said hey, I like your brother too; why don't you call him over here and we'll have a threesome."

"Seriously?"

"No, you idiot."

"Because if she did… you know… I would be… if she was interested…"

"Dean. No, she did not say that. And even if she was interested in a threesome with you and me, I'm not."

"Oh. Yeah." Dean rubs the back of his head. "Wasn't thinking about the you and me part of that."

"Obviously."

"So… did she say anything about me when she wasn't having sex with you?" But Sam's giving him the are you shitting me? face and maybe he's got a point. "Yeah, you're right. This is an awkward conversation."

"Yes, it is. Let's stop having it. Please." Sam turns and walks away, probably heading for the sunbathing deck, probably to sit next to her and rub sunscreen over all of that smooth sun-warmed naked skin and… dammit all to hell.

Dean stomps below deck again, and halfway down the stairs realizes he had a completely different conversation from the one he meant to have.

><> ><> ><> ><> ><> ><>

That afternoon he stands beside Sam at the railing and they watch Alana swim, if you can call it that. Because she doesn't just swim like a normal person. She's literally cavorting naked with dolphins, laughing and splashing with them like some kind of fairy tale creature.

"For someone who spends so much time naked in the sun," Dean says, "she sure is pale."

Beautiful pale Alana waves, then tumbles and twists out of sight, swimming to the other side of the boat. Sam’s forehead folds into puzzled creases as stares silently at the Alana-free waves.

"She doesn't have any body hair," he eventually says. True, Dean noticed the Brazilian when Sam dragged her out of the water, but he's kind of surprised his brother would consider that an appropriate topic of conversation. But before he can respond, Sam continues. "So maybe she's a competitive swimmer. Something long distance. Do swimmers shave their arms? Or wax, maybe? She'd be stubbly by now if she shaved her arms and legs," he muses. "Anyway. Maybe that's why she's out here."

"We should ask her about that. We should really, really ask her about that."

"Yeah… I just keep getting distracted."

"No shit."

Sam smiles. "You know, I didn't approach her. I just woke up and she was standing next to the bed."

"You complaining?" Dean asks, with a raised eyebrow.

"No. No, God no. It's… she's amazing. It's just…"

"Inexplicable?" Dean offers. "Inconceivable? Incomprehensible?"

Sam turns to him with a surprised frown. "Unexpected."

Dean shrugs. "Beautiful naked woman shows up out of nowhere and, of the two of us, latches onto you? I'm going with incomprehensible."

Sam can bitchface all he wants at that one; it's the God's honest truth. But he isn't bitchfacing. Alana is back in view, and he's staring at a flash of long leg and full breasts bobbing in the water, and there's that dreamy expression again, and oh, fuck this. Dean needs to go read a book or something. He turns on his heel and heads back to his cabin.

"And another thing," he calls over his shoulder as he heads below deck. "You two obviously don't need separate beds. I'm moving your shit back into your room."

><> ><> ><> ><> ><> ><>

Dean's alone in his cabin when he wakes up the next morning, but he doesn't have to wonder where Sam is. The walls on this boat are not particularly thick and he can hear murmurs next door. Laughter. Other things. And okay, maybe it's payback for all the times he brought a girl back to whatever shack they were hunkered down in, but Jesus. Sam always had the ability to at least take a walk and get away from it. All Dean can do is lie here and listen. Finally it occurs to him that this is a safe time to venture above deck, so he makes coffee and enjoys the breeze and the solitude.

When Sam and Alana emerge — him in swim trunks, her in another of Sam's t-shirts — Sam heads toward Dean. Alana pouts prettily and takes his hand. "Swim with me, Sam. You promised." He shrugs apologetically at Dean and lets her lead him to the sunbathing deck, where she pulls the t-shirt over her head and jumps naked into the water. Sam jumps in after her, still wearing his trunks, thank you baby Jesus.

Swimming was rarely a form of entertainment for Dean when they were young, not anything he normally did for fun or relaxation. Swimming was something he usually did with a monster in his sights and a blade clutched in his teeth. But Sam was always thrilled when there was a pool at their motel or crappy apartment complex, or a pond at their cabin or ancient farmhouse. He took to any body of water like a fish, dutifully swimming laps when Dad was around, playing like an otter when he wasn't, nose and shoulders constantly peeling from layer upon layer of sunburn. And now he's splashing with Alana like one of her goddamn dolphins and okay, he deserves this. It would be petty for Dean to resent it. It really would. He keeps repeating that to himself as he watches Sam and Alana frolic (there is no other word for it, they're fucking frolicking) in the water. And then as they climb onto the sunbathing deck and dangle their legs over the edge, with eyes only for each other. And as they come back onto the deck and Alana hops onto the rail, still as naked as the day she was born, shimmering in the sunlight.

Dean tries hard not to stare at her. She doesn't seem to care. She wears her nudity casually, as if a shirt were as optional as a hat or a necklace. But it still seems impolite, and Dean is nothing if not polite around beautiful naked women. He settles for grabbing quick glimpses when she's not looking. Which turns out to be pretty easy, since she spends most of her time staring at Sam. Right now she's pretending to be interested in whatever boring story he's telling her, something about almost falling overboard on their first day on the boat, whatever; it's hard to pay attention when she's right there, beautiful and wet and naked and happy, throwing her head back and laughing at Sam's stupid story.

"I remember that!" she says. "You were so funny. I was afraid I might have to come rescue you."

Sam stops, brow furrowed in confusion. "What? What do you mean, you remember?"

"Oh." Alana looks away and bites her pretty lip with her pretty teeth, then shrugs. "I have a confession to make. I've actually been watching you for a while."

Sam's alarm goes off first, because by the time Dean parses that conversation, his brother has stepped back from Alana and is already in hunter mode — narrowed eyes, defensive posture, a quick glance to confirm Dean's location.

"What are you?" he says.

Instead of answering, Alana strokes a finger down the faint tattoo on her leg and it darkens, deepening from lavender and aquamarine into purple and teal. The color spreads over her leg, then across both legs, and as Dean gapes in disbelief, her legs meld and extend into an iridescently-scaled tail. "Jesus Christ," he breathes. She's a goddamn mermaid? Suddenly, everything makes sense.

"Did you put a spell on him?" he yells, waving at Sam, who looks completely bewildered. "Is that why he can't think straight when you're around?"

"Of course not. I'm not a siren," she says, with a pretty little frown. "I don't take anybody against their will. I don't have to trick anyone into my bed." She turns to Sam and smiles warmly. "I'm just very enchanting. Difficult to resist. Sorry."

"Not complaining," Sam says.

"Good." She holds out a hand, beckoning him closer. "All I want is to make you happy. I've been watching you for weeks, Sam, ever since you arrived in my part of the sea, and I've grown to love you more every day." Sam's at her side now, holding her hand, looking at her like she's his everything. "And now we don't ever have to part."

"But I… this…" Sam stammers and falls silent, staring into her eyes.

"Come with me, Sam. Join me in my world. I know what your life is like, above the waves. I know it's cold and cruel and dangerous. You don't have to live that way any more. You can come live in peace, under the sea with me."

"Wait. No." Dean turns frantically to Sam, who isn't saying no. "Dude. You can't live underwater!" (Although what he really means is you can't abandon me. Please.)

"Of course he can." Alana doesn't look at Dean, her gaze still locked on Sam's dreamy smile. "Anyone who pledges their eternal troth to a mermaid can be granted the ability to breathe underwater, as we do. Will you, Sam? Will you come with me?"

Sam clasps Alana's tiny hand in both of his and her tail (her tail, she has a fucking tail) curls gently around his legs and oh, God, Dean can't watch, can't say goodbye, not like this. But he can't blame Sam for wanting to leave the pain of this life behind him, to escape to a world where he's not a hunter, to love someone again. He's not going to stop him. He's not.

But Dean goes weak-kneed in relief as Sam shakes his head. "I can't, Alana. This job we do, it's too important. I'm taking a break, but I have to get back to it. And I don't want to leave my brother behind."

Alana sighs a small, pretty little sigh. "I understand." She cups his face in her hands and pulls him down for a kiss. "I'll be here if you ever change your mind." Then, with a wink at Dean, she flips gracefully backward and plunges into the water. He gets one last glimpse of pale skin and iridescent tail, and then she dives out of sight.

The brothers stand at the rail in shock, staring at the empty surface, until Dean breaks the silence.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Sam sighs. He turns around to lean against the rail, facing away from the water. "I mean, she's great, she really is. But that whole thing, just. Not a long-term situation. No. I'm good."

"Good." The feeling of dread that had settled in the pit of Dean's stomach finally pulls up its anchor and drifts away. Everything's fine. Weird, but fine. Which is about as good as it gets for them.

"So, uh, I guess she was your type after all," he says. Sam frowns at him. "Because she's a —"

"I know what she is, Dean."

"Yeah. So. Cancer, huh?"

"Uh huh."

"I'd have guessed Pisces. I mean, Cancer, the crab, sure, that works too. Just seems like she'd be a Pisces. Because she's a — "

"I know."

"You're not gonna let me say it, are you?"

Sam rubs a hand down his face with a sigh. "Fine. Go ahead."

"Because she's a mermaid! Because you fucked a mermaid! Because Sam. Winchester. Fucked. A mermaid!"

Sam's glare suddenly turns into a grin. "And you're so jealous, you can hardly stand it."

Dean's thrown. "You're jealous." Dammit.

Sam laughs at Dean's lame attempt at a comeback, which is hardly fair. It's been a stressful day. "Got it out of your system?"

"Are you kidding? I am never, ever going to get the fact that you fucked a mermaid out of my system. I mean, you've had some inhuman girlfriends in your life, but this one's my absolute favorite."

"Well, save it." Sam turns and heads down the stairs. "I'm going to take a very long nap."

"I hope she didn't give you crabs, Prince Eric," Dean yells at Sam's retreating back.

Yeah, he's going to enjoy this for a while.

[writing-good-vibes]

tell me you'd like boys like me better.

literally nobody asked for this but here i am. do i think corey would set out to be a homewrecker? no, it's canon that he really admires the allens. do i think he would be easily persuaded by an older man that he respects? yes. do i think mr allen is being an asshole in this story by taking advantage of corey's daddy issues and need for attention/affection? also yes.

WARNING for corey cunningham x mr allen relationship, smut (nothing graphic but it isn't mild either), daddy issues on corey's part, a legal age gap and some (very) mild implications of prostitution/sex work.

Corey knows exactly what his momma would think if she knew about this.

At best she'd think he'd turned to homewrecking in a desperate bid for attention. She'd wail and yell and ask, "Don't I give you enough? Is your mother's love not enough for you all of a sudden?" He'd never get another moment alone for the rest of his life.

At worst, however, she'd be accusing Mr Allen of taking advantage of her poor sweet boy. Her poor sweet boy who doesn't know any better, who couldn't possibly have ever agreed to do any so filthy with that sleaze.

But what momma doesn't know won't hurt her, Corey thinks, and he intends to keep it that way.

To be honest, he isn't completely sure how this all happened. Corey needed the money for engineering college, he'd been taking as many cash-in-hand jobs as he could, but the Allens were the only family who gave him regular, weekly work. He'd started doing their yard work in the spring, just as their perfect flowerbeds were coming into bloom and their lush green lawn was needing to be cut more regularly.

As spring turned to summer, Corey quickly started to grow comfortable with the Allens. Theresa was like the mother he wish he had, balanced and hospitable, and Roger was, perhaps not surprisingly, more attentive than Ronald had ever been towards him.

Midwest summers are humid and, without thinking much of it at the time, Corey would take his shirt off to combat the temperature while he toiled in their yard. He wasn't the fittest guy in the world, but he was in shape, something which hadn't meant anything to him until this summer --

Actually, Corey does know how it all started. It started with a beer.

One such summer day, as he is shovelling the last of the lawn clippings from the mower into a trash bag, Mr Allen appears at the back door. He has two beers in hand and sits down in one of the expensive wicker garden chairs on the patio.

Corey switches the shovel to one hand and waves tentatively.

"You finishing up?" Mr Allen calls over.

"Yeah, pretty much," Corey brushes the stray blades of grass from his hands onto his basketball shorts. "I can put the hose on, water the flowerbeds before I go?"

Mr Allen shakes his head dismissively, "Don't worry about it, I'll sort it later."

Corey nods attentively, grabbing the trash bag and walking back to the patio. As he approaches, he realises his predicament and a wave of self-consciousness crashes over him. His t-shirt is draped over one of the garden chairs, the one next to Mr Allen.

Corey grabs for it while trying not to get too close. When he pulls the shirt over his head and looks back at Mr Allen, the older man is holding two twenty dollar bills and the second beer bottle out to Corey.

"This weeks pay, plus something extra, for all your hard work," he says. Mr Allen has a roguish sort of smile, it feels misplaced on his clean-cut, white collar face.

Corey smiles softly, his lip quirking up over his teeth. He takes the money but he shakes his head at the beer, "Oh, thank you, really, but I couldn't."

"Ah c'mon, you deserve it. You're a good kid Corey, relax a little." He kicks out one of the chairs for Corey to sit on.

Corey is already 21; Mr Allen isn't doing anything wrong. And, if he chews some gum on the way home, his momma won't even be able to smell the alcohol on his breath.

Nothing actually happens that day. Corey takes the beer and sits on the expensive patio set with Mr Allen. They talk for a while, about Mr Allen's -- "Roger, please," -- job and about Corey's community college work. Corey finishes his beer and Mr Allen walks him to the front door when he leaves, watches him cycle off home to have another unbearable dinner with his momma.

This happens again, a few times. It's almost a routine. Until one day, Mr Allen calls Corey in from the garden before he's even finished trimming back the hedges. Corey comes inside, a nervous tension in his shoulders; he was about to be fired, right?

Roger is sat on the couch in the living room, arm splayed over the back and legs stretched in front of him. He gestures for Corey to come in and he does, follows like a puppy to its master. "Thought you could use a break a little earlier today, it's a scorcher out there"

He wasn't wrong, it'd turn out to be one of the hottest days of that summer, but at the time it was simply an excuse. Like usual, they talk, drink. Mrs Allen and Jeremy are out at a birthday party, Mr Allen says. For some other spoilt rich kid, Corey guesses.

There's a football game on the TV, but neither of them are really watching it. Corey's never been interested in sports, but Ronald watched the NFL. When he'd first started dating Corey's momma, he'd taken Corey to a football game once.

"So, how are things at home?" Mr Allen asks.

The sudden change of topic makes Corey jump, almost worried he'd said something out loud to prompt the question. "They're fine," Corey nods, taking another sip of beer to occupy his mouth.

"You don't talk much about your family," Mr Allen continues, gently. "Do you not get along with them?"

Corey shakes his head, not sure if he's agreeing with or rejecting the idea. "No, well, I mean. My mom can be kind of a lot, and Ronald's nice, he's just not, y'know, my dad."

Mr Allen nods. He takes his car into Prevo Garage, he knows Ronald well enough. "I get it. You know, if you ever want someone to talk to, about your folks -- or about anything else -- you can come to me."

Corey glances over at the older man, "Thanks, Mr Allen."

He's looking intently at Corey, a kindly look on his chiselled face, "Hey, you can just call me Roger, please."

Mrs Allen and Jeremy are out visiting Mrs Allen's parents the next time Corey comes around to do the lawn.

He's still breathing heavily from his cycle over, peddling harder than usual to burn steam off after another interrogation from his momma.

Mr Allen greets him at the door, lets him in and offers him a beer before he's even done any work. "You look like you need to cool off already," he says.

"No, it's okay, I'm just," Corey takes a deep breath in to settle his breathing. "I sort of had an argument with my mom before I came over," he shrugs, then hastily adds, "It was nothing though, just normal stuff."

Mr Allen nods knowingly, guiding them through to the kitchen,, "What did you argue about?" He pops the cap off a beer with a bottle opener and hands it to Corey.

Corey takes the offered beverage but doesn't drink it, "She's just overprotective. She doesn't like me doing yard work, thinks I'll hurt myself."

"That's understandable," Mr Allen says, taking a swig of his own drink, "But you can tell your mother she can rest assured knowing you're safe and sound here, right?"

"Right," Corey holds back a smile. It wasn't great advice, his momma would be having none of it, but it was something. And as silly as he knew it sounded, he kind of did feel safe at the Allen's house, with their soothingly modern décor and gentle demeanours and peaceful, domestic lives.

While he's thinking over this revelation, Corey didn't notice Mr Allen step closer to him. Closer and closer, his breath ghosting Corey's lips. A hand on his waist.

Corey had never, ever been kissed before. He didn't know what to do; with his mouth, his hands, anything at all. Strong, surprisingly soft fingers grip his chin, keeping him steady. Subconsciously Corey leans back, trying to find the counter for some stability, letting Mr Allen crowd him until he's pressed snuggly into the kitchen island. Mr Allen's knee finds it's way between Corey's legs and his hips stutter. He forces himself to stay still, to not rut and show how easily he's getting worked up.

The whole thing is languid and slow, seducing Corey into it until he isn't thinking about how he looks, or what to do with his tongue when his mouth is coaxed open, or about where his hands are meant to be now that they're settled on Mr Allen's shoulders. Corey isn't thinking about anything at all.

And then it's over. Mr Allen pulls away and Corey stands there, trying and failing not to look like the hapless virgin that he is.

The older man smiles, picks Corey's untouched beer off the counter and hands it to him, "Don't work to hard out there."

Corey nods, takes the beer and hurries out to the garden. Standing on the sun-trap patio still feels less stifling that the heat he experienced indoors.

After mowing the lawn and weeding the flowerbeds, Corey is almost out the door before Mr Allen stops him, pulling his wallet out. Of course, Corey's yard-work pay. He takes two twenty dollar bills out, then retrieves an extra ten dollar bill. He folds the small stack and hands it over.

Corey hesitates, "Oh, um, normally it's just $40."

"You're a good kid, Corey. Call it a goodwill pay rise," Mr Allen insists.

2 a.m. rolls around and Corey is listening intently. His momma and Ronald have long since gone to bed, but he waits anyway. Wants to be absolutely sure no one is still awake.

Eventually he plucks up the courage, slips a hand down beneath the cover and over his pyjama pants. He's so hard that even the lightest touch makes him twitch.

Kicking the covers off himself, Corey readjusts, shoves a hand down his briefs and feels just how hot his skin is. There's lotion on his nightstand but he doesn't need it, his cock slick enough with how long he's waited.

Mr Allen kissed him, he thinks. With his strong hands and sharp features. Thinks about the way he laughs and the way he seems so self-assured, so understanding of the world. And he is so nice to him.

It doesn't take long and Corey gasps into the empty darkness when he comes, too soon and too suddenly for him to even cover his mouth.

One kiss turns into two, which turns into every time they found themselves alone. Mrs Allen has a bustling social life.

Today she's at lunch with her friends, and Jeremy has a playdate, and Corey is sat in Mr Allen's lap, face pressed to the older man's neck, with a forgotten football game still playing out on the TV.

Heavy petting is as far as they've gotten in the up to now and Corey is getting used to it, rocking his hips just right to keep a baseline buzz of arousal coursing through him. Feeling the hard bulge of an erection beneath him. He wonders how Mr Allen hasn't got bored yet, isn't dry humping a little juvenile for a man like him?

The firm, commanding hands on Corey's hips slip further down, squeezing the flesh of his ass through his jeans.

Mr Allen turns slightly, to whisper gruffly in Corey's ear, "You've never given head, have you?"

Corey shakes his head, unwilling to leave the safe crevice of Mr Allen's neck, not with his face as flushed as it is.

The grip on his ass loosens and Corey is being guided up, off Mr Allen's lap and back down, lower this time. There's a lavish, short-pile rug in front of the couch that cushions his knees.

Mr Allen grips Corey's chin, strokes a thumb over his cheek. Wide, wet brown eyes stare up at him. Eager to please. Mr Allen chuckles as he pulls himself out of his shorts with his spare hand. It isn't a sound meant to to make Corey feel like he was being laughed at, but the twitch of the younger man's cheek beneath his thumb made him think that might of been the result anyway.

Slowly, Mr Allen's hand drifts to the back of Corey's head, fingers sliding through his curly hair at the roots, before he instils a gentle pressure on the younger man.

Corey lets himself be moved, eyes up the cock in front of him and tries to relax. Mr Allen directs him; tells him to loosen his jaw, to mind his teeth, to let his tongue work the tip when he lets him up for air.

"That's it, good boy," Mr Allen's voice is rougher than normal, but the praise warms Corey from the inside out. "Good boy, Corey, you're such a pretty boy like this."

He tells him when to swallow.

Corey still gets paid his $50, even when he doesn't actually get around to doing any of the yard work he was meant to. If Mr Allen wasn't so nice to him, Corey thinks he should be feeling a little bit exploited. Sometimes he worries Mrs Allen will be upset that her garden is not being kept as spruce as it used to be, but Mr Allen promises she won't even notice.

It's not that Corey didn't feel guilty, because he did, he really did. But if he stopped doing this, then Mr Allen would stop giving him attention, and Corey really, desperately didn't want the attention to stop.

Usually he could push these thoughts away, but sometimes they pervaded. Especially when he graduated from quickies on the couch or bent over the kitchen counter to the luxury of a bed. There was something about doing it in the bedroom that made Corey feel dirty. Lay back on expensive cotton bedsheets, glasses discarded on Mrs Allen's nightstand, hands twisted in the pillow and letting Mr Allen do what he wanted to him. Knowing that in the evening, Mrs. Allen would be sleeping in the very same spot with no idea that her husband had been getting busy with some sweet young thing in their bed.

Corey can smell her perfume, something flowery and expensive, -- though not unlike his momma's -- on the sheets when he turns his heard to try and muffle his noises.

"There's a good boy," Mr Allen whispers, two fingers spreading Corey open. And he is being such a good boy, legs spread and panting. "So easy, that's it. Good boy."

"Pl-ease," the word gets caught in Corey's throat as Mr Allen hits just the right spot. His leg twitches pathetically with his need for more.

"You want it bad, huh?" Mr Allen slows his pace to teasing. His other hand smooths and kneads Corey's stomach, working up to his chest.

Corey nods, a childish pout on his lips.

Mostly they did it missionary, with Corey's legs locked tightly, desperately around Mr Allen's hips. Corey thinks it's because Mr Allen is a traditional, straight-laced man at heart.

Corey's hands curl tightly in the sheets. After a while, when all of his inhibitions are gone, he clings to Mr Allen's toned, tanned back instead, careful to keep his blunt nails from digging too deeply. Mr Allen thinks he doesn't have to be so careful, leaving hickies on his chest and and bruises on his hips that Corey pokes at in the bathroom mirror to keep them tender for longer.

Now and then though, just as Corey is getting stupid with how good it feels, Mr Allen would flip them over and with firm, fatherly hands, he'd grip Corey's hips as he bounces in his lap. Corey knows Mr Allen likes to watch him like this, likes to watch his face scrunch up and the whimpers leave his lips when he finds that spot all by himself. The first few times he was painfully shy about it, trying to keep all his embarrassing noises inside even when he was falling apart, but now he shows off, whines and pants and begs because that's what Roger wants to see.

Later, Corey stares at himself in the vanity mirror in the Allens' en suite. He's a mess, all swollen lips and wet cheeks. He cleans himself up, like he always does before leaving. Swills his mouth and spits into the spotless porcelain sink. Splashes water over his flushed face and scrubs the sweat and sex from his skin. Combs his hair back into some semblance of a style with his fingers. Reminds himself to pick up his yard work money from the table in the entrance hall. He needs to leave soon, momma will throw a fit if he's late for dinner.