#but it still got a satisfying titter

[chapinii]

I love watching clips of the various spongebob musical productions and seeing the line "we know we can always trust the government" get the laugh it absolutely should. So far i've seen US, UK and Brazilian audiences all respectively losing it <3

[xxblairexxss]

Swimming lesson

Pairing : dad!Charles Leclerc x mom!reader

Theme : Fluff

Words count : 1.7k

Requested!

It was your daughter’s first time in the water and she needed Charles’ help to overcome her fear.

Short one that is full of fluff since my next one is gonna an angst

﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎

"Blue!" She squealed and pointed her little finger at the blue whale on her swimsuit while you tied up her hair into braids. When she went to her dad, you had no idea what Charles did, but she came back with a very funny-looking hairstyle that made your little one look as if she just got into a fight. Despite that, she was very satisfied because Charles kept on saying she looked cute with it.

"It’s a blue whale! Can you turn around?” She turned, facing you, and you smiled when you saw her little dimple, the same one as her dad, right on her cheeks. "You are all done! Go and get daddy!"

"Dada!" She skipped in joy and ran to get your husband, who had gone into the pool first to ‘check the water’, he said.

"Mommy! Swim?" She ran back to pull on your hand as you approached the swimming pool right outside of the hotel room. You caught Charles’ gaze, smirking as he saw you in the one-piece swimsuit, as if he had never seen you before.

"Stop staring at me. I have a husband.” You commented and dipped your legs in the water as your little girl followed your act. Charles cackled as he moved and got in between while being in the pool.

"Mommy’s not giving me a chance at all, right, princess?" He felt the little hand on his cheeks as she giggled, with no urge to understand what it was all about. "Right! It’s your first day of swim class. Stand up!" 

She stopped tittering right away as Charles switched his mood; her little hands stopped clapping as she hugged your arm, eyes looking away from her dad’s.

"Daddy’s joking around, sweetheart. It’s alright." You sent an angry stare towards the guy as he chuckled before taking the little hands from grasping your arm.

"I’m kidding, love! Come here." He extended his arms as she cautiously jumped into the water, straight into his embrace. Charles had put on her pink, flamingo-printed arm and chest life vest beforehand to help her float in case she got in the water without anyone’s supervision.

She looked back at you and smiled, only when you grinned at her. She was scared; you knew it, but Charles had been wanting to send her to swimming class, but she needed to get used to the water first.

"Can Daddy let you go?” He kissed the flushed, chubby cheek before his grasp went a little loose around the little one, which caused her to freak out.

"N—no. Dada, no! No!" Her bottom lips were pushed forward while she tried to grab Charles when she felt like floating away.

"Okay, okay! You are okay, princess. See?" He tried to let go of her once again but gave in as she started to weep, his hands flapping to get back in his arms. "It’s okay! It’s okay, I got you."

"I want mommy..." She turned towards you, her little arm still wrapped tightly around his neck, as she started to sob even more.

"Aw, what’s wrong, love?" You picked her up when Charles brought her back to you as she clambered to sit on your laps. Her head moved a little when you wiped away her tears.

"Here comes a shark!” Charles came in front of you with his hands clapped together on his head which acted like a fin, causing your little girl to cry even more.

"Really, honey?" You laughed along with Charles and cradled your little girl’s head as she weeped in your arms. "It’s okay, sweetheart. Look! It’s just daddy."

"It’s just me, baby. Look. Daddy is the shark. There’s no actual shark in here!” He got closer and tugged on the chubby hands to get her attention. "Come here, sweetheart. I’m not going to let you go this time. Promise.” He clapped on his hands, inviting her to get in the water again, but she shook her head furiously and tried to cling on to you even more.

"I don’t want...” She mumbled against your chest.

"But Daddy’s waiting for you? I thought you wanted to swim with Daddy. It’s okay." You cupped on the cheeks and kissed on her head as she started bitting on her nails, still slightly agitated. Her eyes went on her dad, who was waiting for her to calm down.

"Are you scared?” Charles asked, though he knew what the answer was. He rested his chin on her fluffy little legs as she quivered in her arms.

"This much.." She pulled her hand away and pinched her chubby fingers to show how scared she was as Charles cackled and made her giggle in tears by acting like he was trying to eat the cute hands.

"But dada is here with you. See? Or do you want mommy to get in the water too?” Charles closed his eyes as you moved your hand closer to his face to brush his hair away. "Honey, do you want to get in?” Your hand that was stroking his hair was pulled into his as he moved a little further away to give you some space.

"No! No!" Seeing the way you scooted closer to the edge, the little one on your lap started becoming more agitated as she tried to get away. She even stepped on your lap a little rough just to get away, which made you halt and wince a little. "Mommy no!"

Charles wasn’t expecting her to go frantic. She didn’t even touch the water yet; it didn’t even reach your full knee when she went all anxious. She even accidentally pulled on your hair just to try and get away. Your neck was a little red from his daughter's belligerent attempt to get away. "Okay, baby—" He made a little jump to push himself out of the pool, seeing he wouldn’t be able to take the matter into hand if he chose to stay in the water and sat by your side as he picked her up, stopping her from tossing and turning in your arms. "Hey, princess. It’s okay, love. I got you. It’s okay." He mumbled the words over and over as she hugged him, one hand on his daughter’s back, stroking on it to sooth down her cries while his other hand was on yours. "No more swimming? Should we stop? Do you want to stop?” He asked once she stopped crying, guessing she didn’t want to go back into the water, but she shook her head, telling the dad that she still wanted to, though her expression was telling otherwise.

“But dada don’t let go.." She replied, hiccuping between her words.

"Okay, dada’s not letting go this time. Pinky promise?" Charles and you chuckled, seeing the way she struggled to bring out her little finger to lock with her dad’s. "There you go! Good girl." He brushed his lips on the forehead hidden under the bangs after the successful pinky promise before picking her up to let her stand by the side. "Daddy will go in first, alright?"

She gave a slight nod, her hand rubbing on her red, rudolph-like nose, which was put to an end as you softly held the little hand.

"Okay, sweetheart. Ready? We’ll take it slow, okay?” Charles extended his arms, waiting for his little one to brace herself. Instead of jumping her way in like before, she sat back down and plopped into the water, with your hand hovering on her back in case she freaked out again. "Good job, baby! You are such a brave girl. Can you swim to Daddy?" Charles was just a hand away from her, but he stopped drawing her straight to his arms after seeing her try to kick her feet with a smile this time.

"Dada, I can't.." The dimples on the little girl’s face faded away when she realised she was going nowhere; she didn’t even budge from where she was a second ago.

"I’m right here, princess. Daddy’s right here. You can come to me.” He said, taking a step closer as she kicked her feet even more and grabbed on Charles’ hand. "You did it, baby! Good job! See? It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You smiled, silently watching those two in their own world as your legs flapped in the water. He always knew how to calm her down; it was as if he was born to be a dad that you often joked around by saying he used to have a secret kid with someone else because he just knew how to respond and act whenever she threw a tantrum or losing control of her emotions.

"Honey, are you okay?” Charles’ hand on your kneecap pulled you away from your daydream.

"Yeah? Yeah, I’m fine! Why are you asking that?” You looked to the side, checking on your daughter, who was busy playing with her ducklings by the side, her back leaning against you as her little chubby feet kicked the water at times.

"Sorry for freaking our little girl out. I didn't expect she would act like that.” He rested his arms on your lap while you played with his hair. The hair that looked like a shade of light brown when it got under the rays of sunlight, just like the hair of your little girl by your side.

"It’s alright, honey. She didn’t mean it.” You laughed, seeing his worried expression. He always got too worried about everything.

"Let me see?” You bended down, allowing Charles to see the side of your neck, thinking he was being extra apprehensive when he had a different intention.

"Charles!" You yelled out when the next thing you felt was his arm on your waist, pulling you straight to the water and completely drenched every strand of your hair. Right after you took a breath of relief, he earned a slap right on his bare chest. "You are so mean!"

Charles and you looked towards the little one as she giggled, both hands filled with her small ducks. "Daddy mean!"

"Right, baby?! I thought Dada actually cared about me.” You rolled your eyes, feet moved further from trying to get away from him, but he moved his arms on your waist, legs got in between yours.

"I’m sorry, baby! Are you sulking? He laughed, lips went to trail kisses on your jaw with your face tilted away. "I’m sorry, baby. Can’t leave you to be the only one dry amongst us." He smiled, seeing the way the ends of your lips tilted up despite the little frown you had. "Am I forgiven?"

"A little." You laughed and pulled away when he caught your lips with his.

“Take your shower with me. I’ll help you wash your hair—“ Charles looked to the side as he heard the sweet, adorable voice cried out.

"Ducky!" Your little girl pouted, leaning a little to catch her duck toy that started floating away while you went in front of her, afraid she would accidentally fall in the water despite the safety vest.

"Dada got it!” Charles grabbed it from floating further to the centre of the pool, and before he could make his way back to his wife, he saw the rest of the ducklings started floating away as well, making your little one whimpered.

"No, my ducky!" She stomped her feet, hands went into a clench fist, looking adorably distressed that she couldn’t catch any of it, but ended up laughing with you after seeing the way her dad struggled to catch all of them at once.

"Daddy looks funny, right?” You whispered.

"Yes! Dada cute!" She covered her mouth and giggled, her small palm wasn’t big enough to cover her dimples.

“Honey, I could use some help?” Charles looked at his wife and remarked.

[trendywaifus]

cw: fem! reader, reader works for pubsec, slightly suggestive but it’s just fluff, mentions of one night stands, i swear it’s mutual

—can’t quit you, you’re like drugs !

you rouse from your slumber, lazily moving a hand over your eyes to block out the early sun from getting into them as warm shades of yellow pour through the slightly opened blinds. a soft yawn leaves your lips and you turn to your side, subconsciously stretching your arm out for a certain woman who spent one of many nights with you. once feeling the warm, empty space beside you, you sighed with defeat. what did you expect? that woman always sneaks off and leave before daybreak. you don’t really expect her to stay and it wasn’t like you were in a romantic relationship with the criminology consultant. your interactions with her is purely sexual and full of one night stands.

were you satisfied with that? not really. her touch still tingles on your skin, leaving behind an invisible print that’s starting to find its way under your skin and seep into your bones, softening them. the sweet promises and honeyed words she’d whispered into your ear still stays in your mind, floating around like a cloud. “ don’t tell me i. .” you don’t finish your sentence and ran a hand through your tousled locks.

“ oh, i didn’t expect you to be awake this early, pretty. “ a saccharine voice giggles as the rat thiren saunters into your bedroom, wearing one of your cotton white robes that loosely hugs her well-endowed figure. her fluffy, saber hair is beautifully messy. her feline teal eyes softens with amusement at the puzzled look on your face.

“ well jane, i usually get up around this time. but i didn’t expect you to be, well— “

jane finishes your sentence smoothly as she walks over to the bed and sits down on the soft mattress,“ here? usually i get called a little early than this but, the timing seems to be different this morning. “

“ i can see that. “ you mutter, “ but why are you still here? “

she chuckles, grabbing her compact vanity mirror to check herself out. she uses the mirror to fix her bed head, smoothening out the wild strands with her hand.“ i just told you, silly girl. what, you don’t want me here? aww, i’m hurt. “ you can’t tell if she’s offended or not but you fall for it anyways.

you stammer, “ i-i do—that’s not what i meant! i mean regardless if they haven’t called you for a new case to operate on yet, i’m saying why are you still here with me? i assume you have things to do and you seem to be a very busy woman. “

jane titters, closing her compact vanity mirror and places it on the nightstand. “ i’m not as busy as you might think, “ there’s a fond glint in her eyes as she lays down with you, propped up on her side. her long tail sways in a relaxed manner while she speaks honestly, “ i’m just a woman who does side jobs. when you call, i beckon. “

“ yeah, at night. “

she merely smiles, resting her cheek against her palm while her hand reach out to brush the strands of hair away from your eyes. her gesture was affectionate and gentle, inducing a warm feeling inside your belly. “ it doesn’t always have to be that way, darling. things doesn’t have to be strictly sex. truthfully, i want more but i’m just being patient due to our demanding work field. “

you fall silent, processing her words. your gaze pools into hers, searching for any signs of deceit. jane doesn’t shy away from your skeptical gaze, instead, she challenges it. her lips spreads wider, her upper, subtle rat-like incisor teeth peeking through her easy smile. after a few moments of staring, you finally broke the eye contact with a shy expression marinating on your face. at least you know you’re not the only one who got attached.

“ . . .i also wa—“

a melodic ringtone from your phone abruptly cuts you off. you sigh with annoyance, reaching over to grab your phone from the nightstand on your side. “ it’s seth. “ you grumble, (e/c) eyes glossing over the caller id.

“ oh, that cat boy? i met him during my last case, he’s quite. . “

“ the naive hero boy. i know, that boy’s my partner. give me a moment jane.”

you answer the call, bringing the device to your ear. “ hey kiddo, you need something? “ you ask sweetly, ignoring jane’s fingers idly playing with your free hand.

“ uh, good morning (name)! i don’t mean to bother you but captain zhu yuan is requesting your presence for an emergency meeting she’s holding in two hours. “

huh? “ emergency meeting in two hours? ugh, does that woman know i’m off today? what’s it about, seth? “ you groan.

“ w-well, it’s about the new missing person cases that’s been increasing recently. there’s been a report of a group of college students going missing around the metro station just last night. there’s also been a immediate search party team sent out to look for them all over the area and around the city but nothing came out of it! “

your eyes widen in shock. jane, who can hear your conversation, hums in surprise.

“ that’s ridiculous! and nobody found them? i’ll be over there in an hour, don’t worry. i’ll see everyone when i get there, yeah bye. “ you ended the call with a heavy sigh.

“ that’s quite the emergency you got there. I heard about those cases in my department, it seems to have gotten worse in just under a week. “ jane notes with concern in her voice, watching as you sat up against the headboard, hugging the covers over your chest.

“ i’m sorry jane, it seems like i’m the one that has to be leaving early. we can continue our previous conversation sometime tonight or after the meeting. “ you cast her an apologetic look, reaching out to grab her hand and squeezed it. she shakes her head, bringing your hand up to her lips and kissed one of your knuckles. “ it’s fine, i’m actually expecting an agent to call me about it too. “

you shake your head with disapproval. “ wh-what? they shouldn’t be hiring consultants when people are going missing! we don’t even know who’s causing this—that’s like using you as bait! when seth explained me to what that razor guy had done to you a few days ago after the operation, i honestly was ready to lose my position over you. ”

jane blinks in shock, taken back by how much you truly care about her. her ears flutter, siren green eyes turning almost doe eyed. the earnest look in your eyes reminded her of seth when he stood up for her against razor. was everyone in the criminal investigation response team so honest? she recovers, chuckling at your confession.

“ you really are a sweetheart. you actually do care about me, huh? “ she tease with a mischievous smirk, you roll your eyes.

“ of course i do, i don’t just have consistent sex with someone i don’t care about, jane. “

“ is that so? maybe i should of figured that out a lot sooner when you’d always want me to kiss you after i ate—“

you abruptly cut her off, “ please woman. i’m trying to be serious here. anyways, “ you gently free your hand from hers and cradle her cheek with your palm. the rat thiren instinctively lean into your tender touch, soft turquoise hues staring into your own. “ if you feel like you’re in any danger that you can’t get out of, don’t hesitate to contact me personally at any time. if you can’t contact me, i’ll find you myself. i know that you’re amazingly strong and you can hold your own but that doesn’t mean i don’t want to prevent the chances of you getting hurt if i can. i can’t stand someone i love risk their life, that’s why i became an officer. “

you seal your words off by placing a passionate kiss on her plump lips. jane immediately kiss back with just as much ardor. you feel a smile press against your lips but you don’t pull away—you don’t pull away until your lungs are screaming for oxygen. finally, you break the kiss and rest your forehead against hers. jane whispers her promise back to you,“ and if you need me, i’ll be there for you too. even if we’re in different divisions and departments, i have my ways of coming out of the shadows to help you even when you at least expect it. “

[psiroller]

My Boy (We Don't See Each Other Much)

a third fic request from unkat has reached me for some gamer au shenanigans. cool, i thought, nice low stakes goofin off fun time au. lets put some military industrial complex in there

cw: institutionalized homophobia, vague references to USAmerican military operations in the 2000's, gamer lingo

The raid was a resounding success by their guild's lax standards. Chilchuck managed to pull a rare light armor piece he'd been looking for, finally catching him up to the modern game; he was surprised by how much damage the standard grinding mobs were doing to him now, even if his defense was always going to be lower than the tanks and fighters he partied with. Laios landed the biggest critical hit he'd ever seen; the broadsword Chilchuck nabbed for him off the Auction House was working well for him. He was clearly still riding the high, humming the victory fanfare under his breath as he took inventory and milled about with Senshi, comparing the ingredients they’d collected, trading amongst themselves. It was late, though, close to Senshi’s prep hours. Marcille was fighting against the cozy lethargy that followed a glass of wine and swiftly losing. Falin had already logged out to take a shower and head to bed, stopping by Laios’ door for a hug goodnight.

Laios went right back to the desktop after he shut the door. He pulled his headset back on and heard the familiar sound of Chilchuck’s raspy inhale and then a long, satisfied exhale.

“Chilchuck!” Laios said, too eagerly. “You’re still up?”

“No, I’m fast asleep,” Chilchuck drawled. Laios snorted and threw a rock at Chilchuck’s head. It passed through harmlessly; neither of them wanted the hassle of dedicated PVP. Maybe Laios wasn’t as keen on roleplaying as Marcille and Falin were, but the roleplaying server had been a lot kinder to him than the standard ones he usually played on.

“You were right about the sword,” Laios tittered. “I really have to start doing the math instead of just looking at bigger numbers—uh, focusing on how sharp the blade is, I mean.”

Chilchuck coughed through a laugh, leaning away from the mic so that it didn’t blow Laios’ eardrums out. “I think some of the guides are a little out of date,” Chilchuck said, relaxed enough to drop character. Marcille was still nearby, though the AFK symbol appeared under her name; the elf she played nodded off, ears drooping.  “Critical chance used to be calculated with this really convoluted system that also included timers, so there were only so many crits you could get in the span of a few minutes,” he went on. “They updated it recently so that you roll for a critical every hit.”

“Oh, thank God,” Laios said. “On a timer? How long did raids use to take?”

“Oh, upwards of four hours.” Chilchuck said casually. Laios sputtered. “I know, I know. I guess people had more free time back then… though with how people run multiple raids a night now, I guess it’s down to how committed you are.”

“So critical hit percentage is the thing I should focus on, then.”

“For your build, yeah.”

“Why does everyone recommend focusing on damage per second?”

“It’s a recent change, I think it got pushed out just before you signed up. They’ve tweaked it a lot, so people tend to get confused on how it works now, as it gets buffed and nerfed. Attack and attack speed used to be connected to the same value, so there are other ways you can focus on dealing damage instead of just right clicking the dragon and watching one of twelve timers tick down.” Chilchuck smiled and took another drag. “I think they’re trying to freshen things up a little. I like the changes.”

“Really? Everyone in the forums talks about how much they hate it.”

“If they’re old enough to be using the forums, they’re old enough to hate their favorite thing changing,” Chilchuck laughed.

“But not you,” said Laios. There was a warmth there that Chilchuck didn’t see a reason for.

“Eh.” Chilchuck’s ears burned under his headset. “Maybe a little bit. They don’t make shooters like they used to.” There was a pause. “Oh, right, you don’t like those.”

“Just the super hoo-rah military ones,” Laios breathed. “I can do Team Fortress 2. That one’s pretty fun.”

“Oh! I play that with—a friend, sometimes,” Chilchuck stammered. “Do you… I’m still kind of wired. I got a day off tomorrow. Do you—”

“Yeah!” His mic clipped. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

“Wait, you don’t have a test tomorrow or anything, do you?”

“… No.”

“I don’t like that hesitation.”

Laios huffed and puffed and logged out of Dungeon Divers with little warning, but usernames were exchanged and soon Laios’ avatar (a dragon, what else) popped up in Chilchuck’s scant friend list, nestled between Dan and May.

“I didn’t think you’d be cool enough to play TF2,” Laios teased.

“Cool people play TF2? I thought it was all screaming toddlers.”

“There are a few of those, yeah,” Laios admitted.

“I played the original game. It was a lot different. I don’t really keep up with it these days, but…”

“No worries,” Laios chirped. “I’ll take care of you.”

Chilchuck felt something zip down his spine. “I’m not that bad.”

They played three matches with the usual late night crowd, and it was a miracle if Chilchuck could stay alive for longer than a minute or two, let alone get a kill. Laios, on the other hand, clawed up every scoreboard and sat at the top. He started with Sniper; Chilchuck followed him while waiting for his respawn timer to run out, flicking between first and third person views. He watched as opponents’ heads would pop like grapes the moment they touched Laios’ reticle, faster than Chilchuck’s eyes could tell his brain to move his fingers.

“Okay, maybe I’m pretty bad,” Chilchuck admitted. “Compared to you.”

Laios missed a shot and sputtered. “I’m concentrating…!” A Spy knifed him, and Chilchuck could hear Laios whack his mouse against the table in frustration. Chilchuck laughed.

“Relax, that’s your first one this round,” he teased. “Your reflexes are crazy. Maybe I’m getting too old for twitchy games like this.”

“The mechanics have changed a lot and all the tryhards are on,” Laios conceded, breathing out the annoyance. “I’ll switch to Heavy. Wanna be my Medic? I can keep more of an eye on you.”

Chilchuck sniffed at his demotion to pocket healer, but then at least he’d be getting assist kills. “Alright, fine.”

Many assist kills were had, and all was well. It was fun to watch Laios’ brain work, bobbing and weaving and jumping around. He played like May did, hyperfocused on the movement mechanics; Chuck’s wrists weren’t any good for that anymore, so he usually hung back to support anyway.

“So why TF2 and not Call of Duty?” Chilchuck asked between matches, lighting another cigarette in search of the now-elusive nicotine buzz. “Seems like you’re really good. You could probably go pro if you wanted.”

Chuck heard a rustling against the mic. Sounded like Laios fiddling with the thing, maybe rubbing his face. He heard a scratch of stubble.

“Eh. I just—don’t like the military aesthetic very much, or something,” Laios mumbled. “I, uh. I served, and it’s a little…”

Chilchuck coughed. “You served? As in, served in the army?”

“Yeah.” There was a chuckle from the other line. “What? Is it that surprising?”

“Well, you just never…” Chuck scratched at the nape of his neck. “You never said anything that made me think… I don’t know what I thought. You didn’t seem like the type.”

“That’s because I’m not,” Laios snorted. “I was a good shot, but not a good soldier, if that makes any sense?”

Chuck wet his dry lips and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t lock into the next game, and the queue dumped them out. Laios didn’t reset it.

“So you objected? Conscientious objection? Is that what it’s called?”

“That’s what it’s called, but uh… it takes a while to get that done if you enlisted voluntarily. You have to plead your case for it. I thought about it, but I didn’t get the chance.”

Chilchuck swallowed dryly, then tapped some ash out into the ceramic tray Patty made for him many Father’s Days ago. “So you were kicked out?”

“Discharged, yeah,” Laios sighed. His chair creaked as he leaned back, too. “Other than honorable.”

Chuck winced. “What did you do?”

There was that rustling again. “I, um. If you don’t ask, I don’t have to tell you.”

“Oh, uh. Sorry, I”—Chilchuck’s eyes went wide—"ohhh.”

“Yeah.”

“Seriously? They booted you over a thing like that?”

Laios laughed weakly. “It’s in the regulations.”

“Still? When there’s, like, five wars going on?”

“Yep. I got a little pamphlet about it and everything. It’s rarer these days, and most people now get let off with an honorable, but…” Laios sighed. “My case was a whole thing. I didn’t fit in great with the rest of my platoon to begin with, and I maybe… I maybe misread some signals. You get bored out there, you know. Lonely. Got a little too close to my bunky…” Laios cleared his throat. “He let me down easy, but I guess he said something to somebody. I don’t think he’d go straight to the brass, he told me he wouldn’t, but someone must have overheard and that counts as credible evidence, so…”

Laios popped his lips with a click of his tongue. Chilchuck was frozen, ashes falling from the end of his cigarette into the crevices of his already dirty keyboard. The cigarette had almost burned down to the filter; money burning up in unsmoked nicotine. “I was probably going to leave anyway,” Laios said, to fill the silence. “I didn’t like being out there. If anything it kept me from being stupid and going AWOL. But if you talk to the VA—or my dad, heh—I  might as well have.”

Laios wheezed. Chilchuck blinked some smoke out of his eyes and stubbed out his cigarette.

“Hang on, you were on active duty and they’re hassling you at the VA over healthcare?”

“Oh yeah. Anything less than a general discharge is going to get you some hassle. I’m still on general health insurance, lowest tier. I’m not on TRICARE.”

Chilchuck pinched the pressure point between his eyebrows. “There’s gotta be a way to appeal that.”

“There might be. But I’ve spent about 40 hours of my life on the phone with them since I got back, and I’m not keen on spending anymore.” Laios made a blech sort of noise, disgusted, a little childish. “I hate phone calls. Besides, they gave me some money for college, so it wasn’t a complete wash.”

“Small miracles,” Chilchuck mumbled.

“Yup,” Laios breathed. He drummed his fingers on his desk, loud enough to reach the mic. Then there were a couple rhythmic bongo slaps against the table, nervous. “Ready for another game?”

Chuck looked at his watch. It was 4:32 AM.

“Sure. Night’s still young,” he said, for lack of anything comforting to say. “Play Heavy again.”

“Okay,” Laios said, and there was a smile in his voice. So that was something.

[smilingangel582]

Hii it's been long ik... im so sorry! But I actually decided to start writing after some time.

I waited too long for genshin impact new lantern rite... yet not a single lee!Ga ming?? I'm so sad

So I took the initiative to write, tho im not so good at it... hehe enjoy...

Ps. Ga ming seems adorable as hell! One of those fun and secret 5 stars!

Warning spoilers for genshin impact 4.4!

Punishment for payment

"Ga ming! Stop paying all the time!"

The wushoe dancers shrugs playfully, chuckling softly "But Paimon enjoys them a lot... I mean what sort of friend would I be if I didn't treat u guys to a regular dim sum?"

Aether groans, folding his arms as he looks at the young man with a wary expression. He casually turns to Paimon who has dozed off on the table like a white lump. His expression softens as he takes the final bite of the shrimp "You really are some thing..."

Ga ming gives a breif giggle, his tongue sticking out "Well I suppose you are giving in? Don't worry... I love to treat my friends to a regular breakfast"

Later that day, Aether and Ga ming left the restaurant... Paimon had insisted they could watch the Liyue vicinity in peace.

"Honestly you guys should visit more..." Ga ming states after observing the silence. Aether turns to him, leaning by the bridge as he smiles "We only went to fontaine for a few weeks you know"

Giving a childish whine Ga ming gestures "Still... its cool to hang out with you guys"

Paimon has gone earshot following a butterfly, and Aether gives him a pat on the arm "Well next time, let's go to Fontaine, and I will treat u to some cuisines"

The young wushoe dancer's eyes glistened like stars "deal! It will be dope to hang out with u Aether!" He adds frivolously "Also don't worry about paying... im gonna have to aid on the funds since your treating me"

Aghast, Aether gives him a playful shove "There you go being generous... stop it"

"What I mean I can't let the esteemed traveler pay for my starving needs" he winks and Aether pokes his side "Then allow me to split the bill at least"

With a giggly jolt he gently pushes Aether's hand away "Hehe but..."

Another poke as Aether smirks, "Now now, who was it that helped u with your family conflict?

Ga ming realises where Aether is going wjth this charade, he giggles more when the gentle playful prodding became precise, he squirms away "hehe you... its yoohou"

Aether Pauses for a moment, mischievous "Are you ticklish?"

Silence.

Ga ming notices Aether suddenly preparing and he stretches his hands front defensively, giggling in anticipation "H-hey uh what are you...?"

Aether grins wiggling his fingers "I'm gonna be paying the next Dim sum meal and you won't pay a single mora"

Ga ming bursts into titters the moment Aether tickled his ribs "ahh hehe hey! Haha come ohohon Aehehether"

Rolling his eyes Aether didn't stop "What did I say? No more tabs for you"

"Hahaha buhuhut"

Determined to get Ga ming, Aether playfully pressures his hips, a sensitive spot no doubt and sends cackles through him, high pitched and bubbly.

"Cute laughter you got there... I dont want to stop"

"EEK! OK OK WAHAHAIT" Ga ming shrieked as Aether pinches his hips.

"Oh? What is it?" Smirking. Aether traces patterns around his hips keeping him giggly and in anticipation.

"Ihihi uhuhu wehehell..." Ga ming squirms now in a mess of tumbling shrilled giggles. So cute.

Aether rubs his thumbs by the waist now "Ga ming~ what did u want to say?"

He bucks and then lets out "Ah ah! Hehehe uhum yohohou can tahahake the tab next time"

Satisfied, Aether backs off "OK so next dim sum will be my problem"

Flushed cheeks now finally returning to colour. He gasps "Haa... you sure are a merciless traveler... jeez the last time I was tickled to death was when my mom tried to punish me for pranking her"

"Oh so you were a rascal?"

Laughing Ga ming nudged Aether "Obviously... so, tomorrow's dim sum will be on me... byee!"

"Yeah, sure -no wait! Argh! Come here, you menace!"

Laughter spreads without haste... and soon Paimon joins forces with Aether to tackle him once more. The two playfully chase without cease. Ga ming will never meet a companion as great as the traveler, and the traveller will never encounter someone as delightful as the young dancer.

Liyue must be visited more often.

[actuallyjustabiscuit]

Preview for Ch. 3 of Jealous Jester

*Drops this and runs away*

Ragatha turned around when she heard her girlfriend let out a small groan.

“What’s wrong, Sweetheart?” The doll asked as she made her way to where the jester was seated on the bed.

“Mmn, something got in my eye I think,” Pomni responded while still rubbing at her face with her head down.

“Does it hurt?” Ragatha’s voice was now laced with concern. She quickly kneeled down. “Can I take a look?”

As she got closer to inspect whatever was bothering the jester, Ragatha found some humor with the way their height difference had changed. With Pomni on her bed and the ragdoll’s knees on the ground, Ragatha now had to be the one to tilt her head up. 

She hovered her hands close to the younger woman’s face, careful not to touch her yet.

“May I, Pom-Pom?” She asked softly. 

Pomni nodded, her right eye nearly closed shut. Having been granted permission, Ragatha finally settled her hands gently on her girlfriend’s cheeks. The doll leaned herself even closer and used her thumb to delicately stroke the eyelid, encouraging it to open for her and show what was underneath. 

And what was underneath…

…was nothing. 

Nothing about the eye looked irritated at all. The sclera was white and clear of debris. There weren’t even any tears. 

Confused, Ragatha backed away a few inches and realized that Pomni’s pretty pinwheels had flickered forward to make direct eye contact. She caught a glimpse of the sly smile that had curled on the jester’s face before feeling hands come up to clutch the front of her dress and quickly pull her forward. The ragdoll let out a surprised squeak when she felt her lips suddenly collide with her girlfriend’s. 

It took Ragatha a brief moment to register what was happening before she let her eye flutter close as Pomni leaned even further into the kiss with a slight tilt of her head. The doll melted against the jester with a quiet moan. She then felt Pomni’s hands move to her back, wrapping both arms around Ragatha’s shoulders to bring her even closer. 

The two savored the sweet moment they were sharing together, letting everything else around them disappear for a few minutes. Ragatha could feel Pomni smiling into the kiss, and it made her do the same. She could have stayed as they were forever with no complaints, but to her mild disappointment, Pomni’s face peeled away from hers. Ragatha was oh so tempted to pull her back in. It would have been easy with how her hands were cradling the jester’s face, but she knew better. 

Although the need for air was inconsequential, Ragatha couldn’t help but let out a series of small breaths to clear her head and cool her heated face. Pomni looked equally flushed but was wearing a triumphant smirk. Her mouth was now painted with the lipstick mark that always resulted from kissing the ragdoll, an obnoxious little feature of the Circus that the two were still getting used to. The jester appeared fully satisfied with herself, and the doll took notice of how her pupils had changed into hearts again.

With her mind still a little foggy after what just happened, Ragatha blinked questioningly up at Pomni before letting out an airy chuckle.

“Did you just steal a kiss by tricking me?” An amused smile of her own had made its way onto her face. 

The jester playfully stuck out her tongue and winked her perfectly unbothered eye, sending the doll into a fit of girlish giggles.

“Sorry~,” Pomni said while not looking apologetic at all. “I had to get you closer to my face somehow, Aggie.”

Ragatha recalled the strange way her girlfriend had been looking up at her during their embrace. If Pomni had tried being any less subtle about what she wanted from the taller woman, she would’ve stood on her toes. The doll blushed, embarrassed for not having picked up on the obvious hint.

“Silly,” Ragatha tittered, glancing away for just a moment while trying to tuck away some of her hair. “You could have just asked me to bend over.”

Something in the way Pomni’s eyes became slightly lidded as she bit down on her lower lip sent a small jolt up her spine that made her blush harder. But whatever it was that the jester was thinking in that half second was shaken away with a few blinks.

“I-I guess I just wanted to surprise you,” she said after clearing her throat, now looking a little bashful.

Ragatha was beyond charmed by these brief bursts of bravado that allowed her girlfriend to be more playful. She didn’t think it was possible to feel even more enamored for the woman she held in her hands. 

“Well color me surprised, Pom-Pom,” the doll whispered while lightly settling her forehead against the jester’s, noticing her shyness melting away.

“Good to know,” Pomni whispered back, then gave her a little wiggle of her brows. “But how about you color me instead?”

The doll felt her own brows shoot straight up at the unexpected comeback, before bursting out in laughter. The jester joined her, both leaning against each other and chortling away until they eventually came down from their moment of mirth. Ragatha leaned back to wipe away a tear and watched as Pomni rubbed the back of her cap n bells.

“Sorry,” she apologized after letting out a few stray chuckles, looking pink. “That was kind of a dumb thing to say, wasn’t it?”

Ragatha cupped Pomni’s face with both hands again. “Not at all.” She gave away the last of her giggles before gently turning her girlfriend’s head to lightly stamp another kiss on her cheek, smiling at the fresh mark and the jester’s blissed-out expression. “I actually think that’s a great idea.” She then eyed the girl carefully. “That is, of course, if you were serious.”

“[$#!%] yeah,” her girlfriend breathed out with a dopey grin.

That was all she needed. 

[hiskillingjar]

Cucking (Ren/Lawrence/MC)

something something, i’ve always loved how girls love. not a direct part 2 but. you know. same vibes, same vibes

day 20: cucking second person

"Sit still...good girl, just like that."

You took in a low grunt as he tied the final knot at the crease of your back. 

His bondage pinned you to the kitchen chair like a fluttering butterfly, fake velvet pressing into your skin, with your arms cuffed behind the high back and a coil of rope wrapped tightly around your naked chest (forcing it forward, framing each breast like a fetishistic painting), keeping it pinned still.

"You know I'm not going to do anything," You murmured, as he squatted down to check the ropes around your ankles, only growing more and more satisfied and excited as he inspected you(delineated quickly from his wagging tail and his twitching ears). "What's the reason for tying me up, this much?"

"Do I need a reason?" Ren asked with a little titter before he stood back to his feet with a little “hup!”, his hands trailing down your bare skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "I mean, you do just look beautiful like this, all pretty and restrained, just for me.” He leaned down and brought his face close to yours, smiling like a villain. “I like having you like this."

"Just for you..." You repeated quietly, your eyes going behind his shoulder.

Lawrence was stripping on the other side of the bedroom, a flat and somewhat dour expression on their face (pretty, in a twisted sort of way, like a car crash or a burning building) as they pulled their shirt off, pushing a hand through their hair when it was mussed in their face, grimacing as it got caught on a course snag.

Ren seemed to notice your gaze wandering towards Lawrence too, and he gave you a little huff, rolling his eyes.

"Eyes on me," He said, a possessive bite to his tone, his hand grabbing your face and forcing you to look up at him so he could examine your expression, examine your unrepentant loyalty to him."You're my girl, aren't you? I don't want you looking at anyone else."

"Mm-" You squeaked softly, hands flexing behind you as you tried to pull at the cuffs. "Y-Yeah, I'm...your girl, Ren..."

"Mmhmm, that's what I like to hear," He purred with a smile, letting go of your face (giving you a teasing, little slap as he pushed you away) and taking a step back to admire the pretty picture you made, all tied up and at his mercy.

Well, pretty in the objective sense. You didn’t think you were that pretty, after all.

"And just like a doll for us to play with, isn't that right, Lawrence?" He said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Lawrence was paying attention to you (like a kid trying to share a toy with a new friend), before trailing a hand down your chest, fingers idly brushing over the rope digging into your flesh as he spoke.

Lawrence grunted softly, their sea-glass eyes going to the side, as if to avoid looking at you too closely.

They didn't make their disdain for you at all subtle.

Not like you cared.

You didn’t care at all, actually. Not even a little bit.

Ren chuckled, clasping his hands behind his back as his tail wagged idly, amused at how easily he could rile Lawrence up through you.

His preferences were strikingly obvious, after all.

"Now now, be nice," He said in a mocking, almost scolding type of tone, idly sauntering behind you, taking a firm fistful of your hair in hand and forcing your head back to expose more of your neck, like he was trying to tempt a wary animal out of its cage.

That was probably a pretty apt comparison, now that you were thinking about it.

"Be a good boy and come here," He ordered and gave a little tug of your hair to emphasise the command. “Come and play with us, Law, before I lose my patience…”

They bristled slightly, their willowy body tensing up and on edge, at Ren's sweet talk (it didn't take a genius to recognise that they did not care for being called a boy) but obediently skulked to the other side of the room, their intimidating stature (you were probably the same height when they slouched, but not often) high above the two of you.

Ren seemed none the wiser to Lawrence’s overt discomfort though, smiling sweetly, his tail wagging and his free hand reaching forward for Lawrence’s naked hip, guiding them to step forward, closer to you.

"Behave and I'll make sure you're rewarded, boy~" He said, leaning closer towards them, still smiling like a villain.

Lawrence scowled slightly, their lip curling.

"Right," They murmured tersely, staring down at the two of you. "What do you want me to do?"

Ren hummed, amused and enjoying how easily he could rile Lawrence up (so maybe he was aware of their discomfort after all, and just didn't give a shit), like the little shit stirrer that he always was. 

"I'm feeling generous, so I'll let you choose.” He smirked a little broader, giving your hair another tug for good measure and jerking your head closer to Lawrence’s soft cock (it was always soft around you), before he spoke again, his tone still a low murmur. “Why don't you use your imagination and decide how you want to have fun with your doll for the night?"

"I didn't agree to this to play with your fuck pet, Ren." Lawrence said with a slight glare towards you, their jaw tensing a little. 

You just rolled your eyes at the title they'd given you, looking down at the ground, because hey, you weren't thrilled about any of this yourself.

"Oh don't get so tense," Red said in a chiding tone, digging his claws into your scalp and their hip (though they didn’t react nearly as strongly as you did, you wondered if they even felt pain at all). "I thought you were the type to enjoy breaking pretty things, Law. Don't you want to do that for me?"

Lawrence was quiet at that suggestion, probably because they were, indeed, that exact type.

But you had a sense that they'd prefer to break Ren, as opposed to you.

Ren let out another soft huff at the pregnant silence, watching intently as Lawrence's dead eyes darted between the two of you, the gears in their mind clearly turning with a hundred different ideas on what to do next.

"I can see the wheels turning in there," He cooed softly, appealing to Lawrence’s needier parts (parts like yours), his hand trailing up from Lawrence's hip and to their chest, tracing his thumb down the middle of their pecs and to their sternum. "Why don't you say what you're thinking, hmm? Tell me what you want, baby…"

Lawrence’s eyes immediately snapped up to meet Ren’s, and you felt a little like you were intruding on something deeply personal and intimate (something between two actual lovers as opposed to hostages), especially when Lawrence smoothed their hand down Ren's back and pulled on his little body, forcing their bodies closer together.

For some peculiar reason, though, despite the dark subtext which was lying beneath this scene, it made your body feel...hot.

"I don't want to be with anyone else," They murmured, a large hand reaching up for Ren's, squeezing it tight against their slow heartbeat. "I want to be with you."

"I know you do," Ren said with an understanding nod, before he used his other hand to gesture back towards you, helpless and bound to the chair, forced to just watch all of this happening without a say. "But I want you to play too. I want you to have fun with my toys…you get that, don’t you, love?."

Lawrence let out an annoyed sigh through their nose, letting go of Ren's hand and moving to step away.

"Why does it feel like you're not understanding?” They asked tersely, putting their hands into their hair and tugging on it (self-stimulation, a grounding method you recognised well). “This isn't fun to me, not at all.."

Ren pouted at the response, his eyes narrowing a bit.

"Oh come on, don't be like that," He complained, digging his claws into Lawrence’s slim hips and forcing them to stay still, a gesture that made their ‘stimming’ calm down a little (maybe they felt pain after all). "I just want us all to have a good time. Don’t you?" He paused for a moment before adding in a softer tone. "You wouldn't rather just watch us, would you?"

"If they must be here..." Lawrence said softly, leaning in and nuzzling a stubbly cheek against Ren's jaw, like a punished dog sought the comfort of its owner. “I'd rather they watch us…you get me?”

Ren hummed softly in low acquiescence, leaning into the slow, soft touch and closing his eyes to truly savour it how nice it must have felt. He let out a happy sigh, his tail swishing to and fro, before opening his eyes again and looking over his shoulder towards you, seeing your flushed face watching them.

Recognising the subdued hunger in your eyes, the desire that wouldn’t be fulfilled.

He smirked knowingly and took Lawrence’s free hand, guiding it down to his hip as he said; 

"Well, would you look at that…I think we have an audience, Law."

Were you seriously getting cucked right now?

How embarrassing.

A slight smile came to Lawrence's face (eerie and empty, like something you’d see in a nightmare and think about for days afterwards) as they pulled Ren closer to them, chests pressed together and their big hands roaming down his backside and taking a firm squeeze, fingers toying with the base of his tail.

A quiet gasp left Ren's mouth, his pale cheeks flushing a light pink as Lawrence continued to grope and touch his skin needily. He let out a soft breath, an almost keening whine, as he pressed himself onto his tiptoes, seeking more and more of their larger body, before wrapping his arms around Lawrence's neck.

"Mm, aren't you being touchy tonight," He murmured approvingly, his tone light and sweet, while he kept staring at you over his shoulder, an almost boating glint in his golden eyes, clearly enjoying how much you were starting to squirm in the chair.

Your thighs pressed together slightly (concealing the warm, wet heat gathering on the fake velvet), as you tried to keep your gaze relatively non-emotional, not wanting to give anything away.

"You're awfully quiet,” Ren said with a knowing smile, his tail brushing against your calves as it continued to wag and wag. “Enjoying the view, darling~?"

You didn’t have the chance to answer his question before Lawrence took hold of Ren's skinny hips and walked him backwards against the edge of the bed. To the young man’s surprise, gathered, at least, from the way he squeaked and gasped, he was then pushed down, his back colliding with the frame, before Lawrence straddled him, grinding their naked hips together and making the young man gasp and whimper even more.

Not that you could see that much.

Lawrence’s broad back, their pale skin and their fine muscles blocked most of the view, like a slab of marble or a fine Grecian statue.

You idly bit your lip, watching Lawrence rut up against bare skin, listening to each of Ren’s needy whines as his body opened up fo them, like it was what he was always supposed to do, two bodies perfectly in sync with one another and lost in mutual pleasure.

Amidst the begrudging arousal, you felt something else start to burn inside you.

Something akin to jealousy.

It wasn't so much jealousy as you knew it, though, because you didn't want to be in either of their situations. You didn’t want to put up with their mutual codependency, their damaging sadomasochism (because hey, it could be totally healthy when it was practised well), and outright dehumanisation of the other (for better or worse).

It was more of a yearning for...well, something else entirely. 

Maybe you were just yearning for the unspoken gentleness between the two of them that you didn't experience yourself, despite Lawrence wearing the same shock collar as you.

Lawrence was all sharp edges and thorns, too, bristly and dismissive and outright rude to you most of the time, but with Ren, for Ren, they were a sweet and almost affectionate lover (as affectionate as they could manage with each other, anyway, considering the damaging nature of their relationship). 

It seemed that Lawrence knew how to touch him, how to make him feel good, and that skill was all the more obvious from how much Ren just melted underneath them.

To your gratitude, Lawrence decided to change their positions, climbing onto the bed (probably giving their knees a well-needed break) and nudging Ren’s hips upwards in an exaggerated missionary style, encouraging his slim calvers to wrap around their waist as they rocked back inside him, filling his well-trained hole with their cock, to his obvious delight.

"Ren..." You murmured quietly, straining against your ropes as your body tried to keen forward.

He was too preoccupied with his own pleasure to respond to you immediately, his head tilted back into the sheets and his mouth hanging open in loud and needy moans, his fingers clinging to the bedclothes. He barely managed to actually open his eyes and look at you at all, minutes later, his vision somewhat hazy and his expression blissed out, but he still managed to smirk, his words coming out in between breaths.

“Mmhhh…” He hummed with a dreamy smile, his head keening to the side so that he could look at you properly. “Y-Yes, my darling?~”

"Can I...have something?" You asked softly, biting your lip in hope of suppressing even a degree of the shame you were feeling. “Please?”

You knew that Ren was a sadist at his core. You knew that he would take every opportunity to draw out every pleading whimper and watch you squirm.

And you knew he wouldn’t give you anything if you didn’t at least beg for it a little first.

Still, to your surprise, he nodded, his breath hitching in his throat as Lawrence adjusted their position again, pushing his hips a little higher up (almost bending his small body in two) and pulling his body closer, their hips bucking into his at an unforgiving pace, fucking him like a machine.

“Nhh, hah, w-what d-do you…want?” He panted, meeting your gaze with his own, however unfocused it was.

"Hey," Lawrence chided the young man, taking his jaw in hand and forcing his gaze away from you and back onto them, pressing his head back into the bed. "Stop getting distracted. Eyes on me, mm?"

Ren grunted softly at the force of Lawrence’s movements, a slight pout appearing on his face as he looked up at them, his hands clenching and unclenching in the bed sheets.

"But-" He protested anyway, giving a little pout. “Nhh…”

"I won't fuck you if you do," Lawrence then growled softly, pressing their foreheads together and forcing their eyes together. "Got it?"

A shiver ran through Ren’s little body at the mumbled threat, his expression falling. 

He huffeded, but he didn’t break eye contact again.

“F-Fine...” He said quietly, a hint of petulance in his tone, though he obediently kept his gaze locked with his lover’s. "Fine, alright, but just- just look after me, alright?"

Lying, little bastard.

"Of course," Lawrence murmured, their voice softening slightly, comforting (if you happened to be insane), and their grip on his chin loosening. "Of course, I'll look after you..."

Ren sighed happily, his shoulders slumping downwards as his body relaxed underneath Lawrence’s, taking in even more of their cock with a delighted expression of pure lust.

He still looked like a bit of a brat, a spoiled prince who wasn’t used to things not going his way for even a moment, but he couldn’t help the way his body melted at their words, leaning even more into their touch.

He closed his eyes for a moment before reopening them, locking eyes with them again and letting his head tilt to the side a little in an almost coy gesture

“Y-You promise…?” He questioned, a touch of pseudo-vulnerability in his tone.

As manipulative as every fox in a folk tale. And Lawrence, their clueless doe in a gilded cage.

What did that make you?

"I promise," Lawrence panted against his skin, leaning in to kiss his pouting lips. "I just get so jealous, and I want you so badly to myself...you understand that, don't you?"

“I know, I know, of course I do,” Ren leaned into the touch, a sweet, and almost love-drunk smile on his lips as he let out a quiet sigh and whispered; “…but I’m yours…I promise, I’m all yours, okay?”

“I’m all yours too.”

You were torn between wanting to puke and being so hopelessly turned on, you couldn't think. 

God, this wasn't fair. 

But that was probably the point, wasn't it?

[courtingchaos]

Blackberry + Smash

Pairing: Thirty something line cook!Eddie Munson x Fem!reader

Summary: You and the line cook from next door have been flirting for too long.

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: This started as something else, and ended up being a thing I put together for @newlips milestone of love! It's only in two parts because I'm incapable of writing anything within reason! Also I didn’t mention more than once I think, but Eddie and reader are 32 because I’m tired of pretending to be 20 again 🙃 (18+ NSFW etc. etc.)

“Eddie’s here!” One of the girls titters over the headset and you roll your eyes when you hear the chorus line out front. 

“Hi Eddie!” All singsong and sweet at him; he answers like Charlie to his Angels. 

“Hi baristas!”

It’s become rote at this point, his near daily appearance at 2pm, big smile plastered on his face when the bell rings overhead. He’s dressed for work, black t-shirt with ‘Stacy’s Tap House’ in large white letters across his back, black jeans and…crocs?

“Crocs dude?” You’ve moseyed out to the front register to greet him and notice his lack of steel toes. 

“What? You don’t like ‘em?” He lifts one leg up behind himself like a princess and dips his head into his shoulder to bat his lashes at you. “You wear them.”

“I don’t work with hot oil.” 

“Eh, I broke my laces and I’m lazy. Haven’t gone to the store yet.” He waves a hand at you while you type in his drink. It’s a truly atrocious thing with 14 pumps of syrup and 6 long shots and heavy cream. You give him shit every single time. You sneer playfully at him when he taps his phone against the reader. He follows you all the way down the line, mirroring your wrinkled nose. 

“What are you up to today?” You’re queuing up shots and pumping syrups and you catch him eyeing you over the glass. He crosses his arms over the top of the partition to lean forward and if he wasn’t Eddie, you’d ‘accidentally’ splash him with the rinser. 

“Oh you know, making some sandwiches, taking out some trash, selling hardcore drugs in the walk-in. Typical Wednesday.” He shrugs, bobs his head and keeps his eyes on you. You can feel it even while you have your head down, wiping the counter in front of you. You let out a little laugh and that seems to satisfy him. Looks back over his shoulder to the parking lot out front for a few seconds. You take the opportunity to stare at the long column of his neck, bared to you where his hair is pulled back into a bun. The tendon straining from the angle of his head. You could make real quick work of that pale skin, litter it with red and purple. 

“Is Jeff working today?”

“He’s in later, why?”

“Wanna bring him his americano?”

“Eh, sure.” He starts to turn back towards the register and you flap your free hand at him. 

“I got it, don’t worry.”

“You keep giving me free shit, they’re not gonna keep you around much longer.” There’s that smile again, the dimples that keep you up at night. What a bastard. 

“You think after 8 years they’re just gonna fire me? I’ll burn this store down first.” Smirking you hand him both drinks and throw two straws at him. His big hand slaps at his chest and he gasps, looking behind you to grab the other baristas attention. 

“Caitlyn did you see that? Is Andrew here? I need to speak to a manager!” 

Caitlyn just giggles at him, like you all do, and throws another handful at him. He snatches them all up off the counter top and the few that hit the floor to clutch in his fist. 

“These are mine now!” He’s backing up toward the door and nodding at the line who are all pretending to wave hankies at him. 

“Hey, Eddie? You make me sick, don’t come back in here tonight.” The smile is clear in your voice even if you are squinting meanly at him. He pauses for a second to wiggle his eyebrows at you. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.” His laugh follows him outside and you watch him jog to his green pickup. 

“Every time he comes in here he stares at you.” Caitlyn is still there hovering at your shoulder, watching you watch Eddie, and you can hear her smirking behind you. 

“Oh you don’t say?”

Hey chickadee. 

What’s up buttercup?

You’re closing, right?

Of course, what the fuck else do I do around here?

G a w d d a m n

What?????

Don’t gotta jump up my ass about it I was just trying to be a ~gentleman~ and see if you wanna hang later. 

Oh! Sure, I’ll check with Cate. 

 Jeff will have a shit fit. 

The restaurant closes at 10, your cafe at 9, so it gives you and Cate roughly an hour to race back to your apartment and change. You refuse to go out smelling like coffee and milk, even if Eddie tells you he likes the smell that lingers on your pullover. Weirdo. 

You’ve been digging around for ten minutes looking for your good pair of jeans, only to find them in the hamper. Still dirty from the weekend before where you’d gotten a little too rowdy and dropped a drink down the front of you. 

Plan B it is. Dress, tights, jacket. All black of course, why would you buy anything else? 

“Nah nah nah, I’m not third wheeling am I?” Cate asks when you walk into the living room twisting on your rings. 

“What? No. My jeans are dirty and this is like, the only other non work thing I have clean.” You’re a little defensive, sure. She didn’t need to point out the obvious so clearly now did she? Cate’s eyebrow starts to raise and your hand comes up, a loud ‘acht!’ falling out of your mouth. 

“It’s not a date! It’s just drinks. Like normal.” This isn’t new, you two going out with the kitchen staff at Stacey’s. It’s always been a little quid pro quo between the businesses and everyone is familiar with each other. They get free drinks more often than not, and you guys get free food (and also everyone gets to ogle Eddie). 

“I don’t know why you haven’t just asked him out yet.” Cate’s not wrong. However, “I’m having fun with it. Also maybe I’m waiting on him to ask me.” You shrug at her. 

The bar you all frequent is just down the street from the restaurant, small and a little loud it’s the best spot mainly because all the cooks know all the bartenders. 

Shots go down easier when they’re free. 

You’re off tomorrow, and Cate drove, but you’re still trying to keep it easy tonight. Didn’t need a repeat of last weekends adventure. 

This isn’t a date, like it always isn’t a date, but everyone knows. You two have been flirting for a few months now and it isn’t like you don’t know if he’s into you or not. You just like the chase on 

this one. He’s witty, funny, a complete asshole on occasion, and incredibly disgustingly hot. You’d told him about as much one night, everyone drunk in the parking lot trying to order an Uber home and he’d just flashed that toothy grin at you like he knew. 

“Has anyone told you how stupidly handsome you are?”

“Stupidly? No.”

“Well you are. Stupidly, for sure, but also handsome.”

“Hey.” He taps your shoulder with your drink, his insistence that he buy. 

“Hey yourself.” You grab the glass and smile up at him. Even after a full shift of sweating over grills he’s pretty, hair pulled down from his bun, loose curls around his shoulders. 

“How was work?”

“Other than the customers, it was fine.” You flash a fake smile and take a sip out of the tiny straw. Jameson and ginger ale. He remembered. A drink order shouldn’t make your heart beat faster but it does. Is the bar so low that you’d give it up for the simple act of remembering your drink?

When Eddie drops down into the seat beside you, his hand falls to your knee and gives it squeeze before taking it away to check his phone. 

No, the bar isn’t low, not for Eddie. But the drink is one of many things that makes you want to take him out to his truck and end this dance you two have been waltzing. 

All the times he’s obviously thinking of you you. Dropping off food and boba and cookies from that really nice bakery on his block. All the memes he sends you on his smoke breaks. The nicknames. It’s just been building really, ready to burst like an especially ripe blackberry. 

Oh it’ll be sweet. 

“What are you up to next weekend?”

“Well, I don’t know about Cate, but-“

“I didn’t ask about Cate.” He looks up from his phone, lays it face down on the sticky table top. Out of the corner of your eye you can tell Cate heard her name. As soon as she looks over at you two she’s facing back to Jeff to share a look with him. 

“O-kay. I was going to say I’m off actually. I have a wedding to go to on Sunday. Why?” 

“Is it in town?”

“Yeah, but I’m gonna be busy like, getting ready for it. I have to get my nails done on Friday. Why?” You lean towards him and push his own drink with your index finger. Anything to push a button. He watches you tease him, eyes dark in the dim lighting, and he reaches over again to tap his middle finger on your crossed knee. He delights in the way your eyes immediately snap to his hand to watch it. 

“Wanna grab lunch on Friday?”

“Aren’t you working?”

“Nope. Rare day off.”

Still watching his finger tap tap tapping away you realize you’re finally getting your wish. 

“Are you asking me out?” A bomb could go off next to you two you’re sure neither would flinch. His eyes on your eyes on his hand. He stops moving, clears his throat to get you to look at him. 

“And what if I am? You aren’t tired of making eyes at me in your lobby every day?” He breaks the tension and makes you laugh. 

“Oh me making eyes? Munson you’re a hypocrite and a liar!” You bicker at him while he scoots his chair close, leaned fully into your space to make big cow eyes at you. Calls you out on your bullshit some more. Gets you a few more drinks and before you know it the bartender is last calling all of you pointedly. 

Outside is cold but you’re buttered up with enough whiskey and Eddie’s giggles to keep your cheeks flush and warm. Everyone is milling around their cars and you’re just trailing along behind Eddie. You follow him to his truck, not intending on getting in. You’re still going home to your own apartment, your own empty bed, as sad as that makes you. 

That blackberry isn’t ready for picking yet, it would seem. 

“So Friday?”

“My appointment is at 11. We can meet after?”

“I can pick you up.” Hopping up into his driver seat he says that over his shoulder while he leans into the cab to shuffle through his glove box. 

“You don’t have to.” You swat his knee, a little admonishment. It might be a first date, but this isn’t either of your first go arounds. He doesn’t need to be chivalrous here. He sits up with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. 

“Will you just let me pick you up? Jesus.” Huffs around it while he tries to light it. You take the lighter from him and strike it only to hold it just out of reach. He leans forward and you pull your hand back a little, a smirk and a giggle on your lips. A pause and he grabs your fist and pulls it back towards himself, sucks in until the cherry lights and you can see it reflected in his shining eyes. 

Maybe you will climb into the truck, blackberries are your favorite no matter what season. 

Eddie sees you sway forward and as much as he wants to let you lean in between his knees you’re just south of tipsy. He doesn’t want either of you to regret anything. Instead he holds out his palm, gesturing for his lighter. You drop it, still leaning forward and a new glint in your eye. He takes a deep breath and swings his legs inside and grabs his door to close it. Doesn’t miss the look of hurt on your face. 

“Friday.” He says with a smile. 

“Friday.” You back up enough for him to close his door, spinning on your heel to make towards Cate’s car but you stop and spin back. He rolls his window down, eyebrows raised. 

“Can I ask you something?” You lean heavy on the doorframe. He takes a drag and nods at you. 

“Do you actually sell drugs in the walk in?” 

He actually full on laughs, wasn’t expecting that question. 

“Sometimes, yeah.” His wrist is loose on the top of his steering wheel, sodium lights glinting off his ring. Absentmindedly ashes his cigarette on the dash. 

“Oh.”

“Is that okay?”

“Eddie, this is Indiana. You aren’t the first drug dealer I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, but am I the first one you’ve had a crush on?” Smugness oozes out the window and you reel back, slap your hand against your chest in mock shock. 

“I’m sorry, I have a crush?! Have you met you?” 

“Oh I’m well aware of how I feel. Are you?” God, he’s feeling confident tonight. It’s only been months in the making. 

That itty bitty taunt brings you back in, hands still gripping his door. He watches your tongue poke out and swipe against your bottom lip, the little gem in your medusa piercing catches the light. 

Oh fuck it. 

He meets you halfway, soft lips warm against his own. You taste like whiskey and sugar and that last lime slice you ate while he paid the bill. He feels your hands snake up around his collar to hold, pulling him closer and it takes every single ounce of his willpower to not pull you in through the window. 

Off in the distance he vaguely hears Cate and Jeff and the rest of the bastards you’ve all been out with whistling and slapping car roofs. 

Both of you smiling breaks the kiss but your still in his face and hanging on to his jacket. 

“They’re so loud.” You whisper and he wants to chase it back into you. 

“I’ll kill Jeff later.”

“Oh don’t do that, he has such an easy drink to make.” There’s that laugh, the one that almost twinkles. Eddie wants to kick himself, he’s so far gone. Your fingers loosen, letting him lean back into the cab. He’s thankful for his long hair where it hides his growing blush along his neck. Finally you walk backwards a few steps, definitely heading toward your ride home now. 

“Friday. 10 o’clock?” Cements his plans. Nothing short of a black hole could tear these out of his hands. 

You nod about 20 times and watch him back up and then out of the parking lot, the cheer of everyone following his tail lights.

You nod about 20 times and watch him back up and then out of the parking lot, the cheer of everyone following his tail lights.

(Sacrifice for the read more)

[makeadealwithdean]

nsfw — 18+ only, harringrove smut

Billy inhaled the smoke into his lungs and let it out with a soft puff. The boy in the passenger seat beside him was still rambling on about something or other. Not that Billy wasn’t listening— just it was really fucking hard to pay attention to what Steve was saying when he looked that damn good.

Fuck— Harrington. Billy hadn’t been lying when he’d called him “pretty boy” so soon after they’d first met. ‘Course he was able then to pass it off as teasing, taunting, even. Like a good, old-fashioned, high school rivalry. No one would possibly read into that.

Billy guessed it was different if you were on the receiving end of said taunting, since reading into it had gotten Steve to where he was now, sitting in the front seat of Billy’s infamous Camaro. In an empty parking lot.

“And so then, somehow, I got roped into giving them rides everywhere and—”

“Jesus, Harrington!” Billy interrupted, throwing his cigarette butt out the window and onto the asphalt. “Do you ever shut the fuck up?”

Steve snapped his mouth shut fast, turning towards Billy and looking almost hurt in his soft eyes. But upon catching the wicked grin spreading across Billy’s face, his expression shifted from absolutely appalled to slightly confused, and yet, intrigued.

“Um…yeah?” Steve began hesitantly. “I do shut the fuck up, mostly when I’m not being forced to carry the whole conversation, Hargrove.”

And there was that bitchy, “King Steve” attitude Billy had heard so much about. Good, he thought, all the more satisfying when I’m the one to make him close that pretty mouth.

Billy smirked at Steve’s pouty lips, his huffy shoulders, now facing more towards the passenger side window than straight ahead, and huffed a laugh.

“And what’s so funny to you?” Harrington snapped. His snarl reminded Billy of, mmm, an angry kitten. He was just about as intimidating as one and twice as cute. “Y’know, I don’t appreciate you asking me to hang out with you, and then the second I do, you—”

Billy scoffed, interrupting him again and still smirking.

“Y’know,” Billy mimicked his tone, “you keep talking, and all I can hear is you begging me to shut that mouth for you.”

Steve’s eyes widened in shock, “I— I don’t— um, what—”

Billy rolled his eyes, “C’mere, pretty boy.”

He reached forward, his fingers finding the nape of Steve’s neck, just barely brushing through those famous Harrington locks, and gently pulled him closer. To Steve’s credit, he didn’t pull away, and soon Billy’s hand was cradling his jaw, he was leaning in, and Harrington was letting him.

Billy hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath, but then their lips touched, and Billy definitely sighed. Steve’s lips were melting onto his, and fuck yeah— so this is what kissing Steve Harrington felt like.

Billy guessed he couldn’t blame the girls he’d heard tittering at school about “making out with Steve” accompanied with dramatic, dreamy sighs, cause this was something else.

He’d intended for this kiss to break the ice, get his intentions across, etc. But he hadn’t accounted for the softness of Steve’s lips, the barely-there flick of his tongue, and the intensity with which he returned Billy’s initial touch.

Harrington’s palms were cupping his cheeks now, and though he seemed content to let Billy take the lead, he mirrored each of his touches with a growing passion.

Billy’s hands were everywhere in an instant, Steve’s thighs, his neck, his chest. They dipped inside his jacket, and the boy shivered into his touch. Billy smirked into the kiss at the reaction he’d elicited and decided right then and there that he needed more.

He fumbled for the hem of Steve’s shirt, unwilling to tear their mouths apart, and upon finding it, slid his hand underneath the fabric and up the soft bare skin. He traced the outlines of Steve’s curves, the firm edges and contours of his muscles, up into a patch of hair dancing between his pectorals that Billy hadn’t even known existed until this very second.

“Shit, fuck,” he muttered into Steve’s mouth. Billy’s cock twitched in his blue jeans at the feeling on his fingertips. If he’d been half hard before, he was definitely fully up now.

He reached up into Harrington’s pretty brown hair and tugged, effectively tipping the boy’s head back, and breaking the kiss. Steve let out the prettiest moan Billy had ever heard as his lips pressed against his neck for the first time.

Billy showered the pale skin with kisses, soft at first— then harsher, biting and sucking, and relishing in the gasps and moans that fell from those pouty lips.

“Billy,” Steve sighed, his hands roaming all over the tan skin of the boy in front of him. “Shit— Billy—” he forced each word out in a new breath, almost like he was gasping for air. “Fuck— I—”

“Hmmm?” Billy hummed, letting the very tip of his tongue trail up towards Steve’s earlobe.

Steve was grabbing onto his thighs, thumbs brushing the outline of Billy’s dick, over and over again, like he was willing the fabric separating them to disappear. “N-need— Ohh.”

Steve’s moan was nothing short of sinful when Billy let his hand drop to the boy’s crotch, where, as he’d hoped, his jeans were now tenting painfully. “Mm, what do you need, baby?”

Steve only hummed as Billy pressed the heel of his hand against his hardness, like he couldn’t remember what it was he’d needed.

“Use your words, hm? S’all you wanted to do a second ago, remember?”

Steve squeezed his hand over Billy’s dick again, “Wanna— feel you?” He’d said it like a question, but suddenly Steve was moving, pressing Billy back into the seat and climbing into his lap. He straddled him easily, sitting back onto Billy’s upper thighs, maneuvering until their clothed erections were pressed against each other.

Billy sat back and watched as Steve pecked his lips once before attacking the buckle of his belt.

“Holy fuck, yes,” Billy groaned as he watched the angel sitting atop him prying at the leather that sat so snuggly around the denim at his waist. He lifted his hips up to give him a hand and started working at Steve’s own belt.

When they’d both succeeded in ridding each other of the offending material, Steve had the button of Billy’s jeans popped and the zipper down before he could even blink. He was working Billy’s cock out of its confines by the time Billy found any words at all, and even when he did, all he could come up with was—

“Eager there aren’t we, Harrington?” though it didn’t come off quite as confident as he’d hoped. Not when his hips were practically rutting up into Steve’s hands on their own accord, and his breathing sounded like he’d just hiked a damn mountain.

“I guess we are,” now it was Steve’s turn to smirk, though his hips were moving slightly too, like they were fighting to meet Billy’s. His breath was warm and somehow sweet, and tendrils of his always-perfect hair clung to his sweaty forehead. He guided Billy’s hands to the button of his own jeans, and muscle memory must’ve been helping cause thank god Billy managed to free Steve’s length without too much fumbling.

Steve pushed first his own jacket off his shoulders, before coaxing Billy’s off. He slipped off his shirt, but left Billy’s shirt on him, opting instead to only unbutton it all the way, leaving the bronze expanse that was Billy’s chest fully bare to him.

“Touch me, Billy,” Steve murmured, and Billy coaxed him up onto his knees so that he could tug his jeans and boxers down as far as their position would let him.

Steve’s hands were on the back of the seat on either side of Billy’s head, and Billy took this golden opportunity to not only grab Steve’s ass, but also to tip him forward enough to bury his face in that soft patch of hair on his chest.

Their cocks were trapped against their bare stomachs, sliding and rubbing against each other as Billy pulled Steve’s hips towards him over and over again. Steve’s tip was leaking pre-come all over, and Billy was dying to taste it. Next time. Right now, he needed to come. Fast.

Something about the most perfect boy he’d ever seen basically, practically riding him was proving to be way too much for his brain (or his dick) to handle. He reluctantly released Steve’s ass, giving him a harsh squeeze and a little smack, before holding up his palm to Steve’s mouth.

“Spit,” he ordered. Steve obliged and sat back a little, allowing Billy to grab both his own aching cock in one fist and Steve’s in the other.

“C’mon, doll,” he panted, rhythmically stroking his own dick while the fist around Steve’s remained still. “Fuck m’fist. Wanna see you put on a show for me.”

“Fuck, baby!” Steve moaned loudly at Billy’s words, deciding that yes, that was hot as hell, so he’d do as the blond commanded him. He braced his hands on Billy’s shoulders for an experimental thrust of his hips.

“Thaaat’s it,” Billy praised him as he slowly gained speed to match the other’s fist. “So good for me, aren’t you?”

Steve whimpered, nodding as the pressure in his dick only seemed to build. His release was coming fast, but he desperately wanted to wait for Billy. Luckily, Billy must’ve felt Steve’s cock twitch in his fist.

“Yeah, baby?” he huffed as Steve pressed their foreheads together briefly before tossing his head back in pleasure. Fuck, he was beautiful. “You gonna come for me?”

Steve nodded and whimpered again, his eyes pleading, like he was begging Billy to keep talking.

“You wanna come all over my fist, Stevie? All over my chest, huh?” Billy wasn’t gonna last much longer. “You wanna come with me, baby?”

Those must’ve been the magic words, because Steve gasped like Billy had just given him a gift, “Yes, please— let me— with you!”

“That’s it, doll. Perfect,” the blond panted back in short breaths. “I’m gonna come, you gonna come? C’mon— oh fuck yeah—” He grunted, his forehead dipping onto Steve’s chest as white ropes shot from his cock, covering his fist and splattering against Steve’s stomach.

“Shit— shit, Billy!” Steve called as the other’s orgasm pushed him over the edge. Streaks of creamy white covered Billy’s fist and chest as he worked them both through their releases. Steve shuddered against him when he let go to grab a towel from the floorboard, hunching over his body, caging him in and not caring that he was smearing their cum all over both of their chests. He sighed, satisfied, and Billy couldn’t help but bask in the post-orgasm glow, Steve Harrington in his lap, his hot breath fanning over his neck.

“That’s right,” he murmured. “I gotcha.” Steve kissed his hair softly and laid his cheek on Billy’s shoulder.

He was hesitant to do it— he usually never let himself relax after sex, but he couldn’t bring himself to push Steve off. More than that, he didn’t want to. He wanted to sit here, run his fingers up and down the boy’s back, comfort him or calm him, whatever he needed. He wanted to pull him close and hold him tight; this felt nothing like the after-sex usually did. Somehow, this was safe, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Yep, Billy decided. Cleanup and the towel could wait.

beta’d by my love @hintsofhoney i love you I love you

Work for @billyhargrovebingo and @steveharringtonbingo

Squares filled: B3 "Put on a show" (Billy bingo) and A3 "Harringrove" (Steve bingo)

Title: do you ever shut up?

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1.9k

Tags: Smut, literally just car sex, no penetration

AO3 link

[crazyexdirkfriend]

snippet from an unfinished multichapter by me, Tony ao3 user artreactor, from 2016

--------

If someone had told Jake English at the beginning that, aged twenty-two, he'd still be dating Dirk Strider, he would have completely believed them to be quite honest.

Of course, his reasons for being in a relationship with Dirk now are far different from what they were when he was fifteen. At that age, Jake honestly believed that entering a relationship with the other would be the commitment equivalent of tying an anchor to his leg and throwing himself into the Pacific Ocean. Dirk's despotic nature was inescapable, suffocating and he was always more likely to drown from it than from a silly anchor. Once he let Dirk kiss him (with blood in his mouth, under his tongue, prying it from cold, dead-) there was no way Dirk would ever let him go.

But Dirk letting him go is precisely the reason that he now has an iron clad grip on Jake's hair, plaiting it with the intensity he used to direct into aggressive courtship.

There's a certain safety in knowing that there is an entire universe, made with the aid of his own hands, sprawling outside their room. Any time he wants, Jake can simply run down the stairs of their communal living quarters and escape into seemingly endless vast fields and plains of green. Knowing that he's here because he wants to be and not out of some disheartening feeling of inevitability makes him far more comfortable with Dirk's presence and that's obviously one major step towards a healthy romantic relationship. Dirk would let him go if he wanted to and that's really all it takes to make him want to stay. Jake is not a fussy guy.

For example, Dirk is probably doing a terrible job of fixing his hair right now and Jake won't even bat an eyelid if he looks in the mirror and he's suddenly missing a few inches. He's been growing his hair since the game ended but of course it's never going to get to the length Jade's is, let alone how long his grandmother's was. Getting a comb through it most mornings is difficult enough and once it gets below his shoulders the knots simply have to be cut out. It's far too much hassle to maintain even if the idea of having floor length hair sort of gives him a fuzzy feeling in his stomach.

“Are you almost done?” he asks, impatient and he hears Dirk click his tongue behind him.

“Almost,” he replies and Jake feels him triple tie an elastic hair tie around the last of the plaits. Jade gave him a little over one hundred after becoming tired of watching him fail to remove hair from his plate during meal times but he's lost all but seven at this point.

When Dirk's hands leave his hair, Jake shakes his head, feeling the plaits thwack against his cheeks and neck. Dirk dutifully leans back to narrowly avoid a bobbon to the face. He grins, almost apologetic. “Thank you once again, bro,” he says, “Although I think you're starting to have a knack for this. Perhaps you missed your calling?”

“I've enough hair stress of my own,” comes the easy reply as Dirk lies back on the sofa, pushing his legs forward in a way that forces Jake to either stand up and move away or defiantly lie down on top of him. Jake chooses the latter.

“Of course you do. You've only what, eight more years of a not receding hairline to enjoy?” He earns a shove to the shoulder for that. It's an irrationally sore subject but all he can do is titter.

“I've always got hats, broski,” he says but there's a tilt of worry in his voice that makes Jake choke out another chortle.

He didn't ever expect to find continuous streams of bro puns charming or endearing let alone expect to pick them up himself. He always thought he'd be more of a romantic cliche nickname kind of guy. Darling, honey, sweetheart, love. But Dirk awkwardly stammered out a “babe” three years ago and hasn't tried since and Jake's surprisingly satisfied with that.

“But if you wear a hat, what are you going to do with your shirts?” he asks, pulling out the collar of Dirk's tank top before letting it fall back against his collarbone. “You can't possibly be thinking of changing your brand this late in the game, surely?”

“Don't sweat, I'm not delusional yet. Wearing a hat on my shirt is still the vastly superior thing.”

“Good. I was worried perhaps you were going both loony and bald.”

He shoves Jake off of him and he rolls on to the floor. It's completely worth it and Dirk's scowl is almost audible over the exaggerated laughter from the ground.

They stay like that for a few moments until Jake's tittering dies down and his chest stops heaving. Once that happens, Dirk casually rolls off the sofa, landing on top of the other with a soft thump. Jake's breath leaves him again, stifling whatever complaints were bubbling up in his mouth. Before he can catch his breath again, Dirk leans in, rubbing their noses together in that silly, endearing way he does to allow Jake time to move away if he wants to.

It's been six years, yes, but there are still times where Jake does not want to be close to anyone, let alone close enough to breathe in Dirk's second hand air. Those times come more often than he would especially like but they come with the battle scars. Jake supposes it's a testemant to their maturity that now he can vocalise when he needs space and Dirk will give it to him, no qualms.

But today is not a day Jake moves away. Instead, he tilts his head, moving in to press his lips chastely against Dirk's. They stay like that for a few moments, shallowly breathing through their noses, before he pulls away, grinning widely. It's a beat before Dirk's face splits to match.

The serenity lasts a further thirty seconds before Jake finds himself crushed under Dirk plus an added weight that could only be Roxy if her grin looming over Dirk's shoulder wasn't any indicator.

“I can't breathe,” Jake complains, wheezing. Dirk's elbow is stuck into his ribcage and his hip bone is poking his thigh.

“If you couldn't breathe, talking would also be an impossibility,” Rose says simply, upside down from Jake's view as she stands with the toes of her shoes pressed against his scalp.

“Yeah, besides, you weren't complainin' about breathing when your tongue was down DiStri's throat,” Roxy croons and Jake's ears go pinker than her lipstick.

“No offense, but I'd rather macking on my bro be the cause of my suffocation than being crushed under your weight, Lalonde,” Dirk says but she only laughs.

“Rose, get in on this!”

“I couldn't possibly have the deaths of two so young on my conscience.”

Roxy somehow convinces Calliope to join in when she walks through the room and it's only when they're distracted with things Jake feels like he should be averting his eyes for that Dirk manages to heave both of them off him in a swift roll. Rose gives Jake a hand up to the sounds of Roxy wrestling Dirk to the ground for accidentally rolling Calliope into the coffee table. Jane is shouted in less than two minutes later to survey the prisoner, caught between Roxy's knees as she sits firmly, and triumphantly, on his chest. The resident detective solemnly notes that the only punishment fit for the crime of accidentally tossing a cherub into a piece of furniture is twenty years hard time, which apparently means enduring ten minutes of furious tickling. Jake thinks it's all slightly ridiculous.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

[bigmouthlass]

Title:  I'll Gitcha Fixed

Series: Supernatural B-Sides

Author:  BJ

Fandom:  Supernatural

Rating:  Explicit

Pairing:  Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader

Synopsis: Our Mr. Winchester takes it upon himself to help correct a friend's toxic thinking patterns..

Tags:  Dean Winchester, Female Reader Character, Female You, Depression, Toxic Thinking, Plus Sized Reader, Smallfat Reader, Songfic

AN:  The song is "Come to Poppa," written by Earl Randle and Willie Mitchel, performed by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band-- one of the filthiest songs ever recorded that stays within the bounds of good taste. I was in a Mood and this happened. For purposes of clarity, the You in this story is a smallfat at best-- i.e. needs to shop in the Plus section but can find clothes easily at most major retailers. All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

---

The door opens with the sounds of Lynard Skynard music and the stench of spilled beer and old cigarette smoke, the BEER’O’CLOCK showing just past eleven on a dead slow weekday night.  You're still decked out in that stupid dress, high heels swapped out for your biker boots.  You look, and feel, utterly ridiculous.  “Whiskey, neat,” you tell the bartender.

“You got it.”

Ah, Jameson.  Cheaper than therapy and available outside business hours.

"Heya baby--" at your death glare the fog of booze smell that might've once been a guy floats away, listing all the unflattering yet true facts that mean he wasn't really interested anyway.  God willing your standards will never drop that low.

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.  "Whiskey, neat."

"Hey," you greet the Devil as he toes over a stool and parks it next to you.

"Hey," Dean Winchester greets you back, tossing the whiskey down his throat and tapping the glass for another.  "You okay?"

"Peachy," you lie through your teeth.  "What happened?  You strike out at the Honey Hive?"

A shrug of those wide shoulders.  Stood next to the physical specimen that is his younger brother, it's easy to overlook certain things about Dean.  Like those big hands, those long legs.  "Wasn't in the mood I guess."

You narrow your eyes.  "Okay who are you and what've you done with Dean?"

He glares at you.  "That's not funny."

"Of course it is."  A twinkle on Dean's hand and you shake your head.  "Dude, if you're looking to hook up maybe take off the ring."

"What, you don't like being fake-married?"

So not the problem.  "Operative word being fake."  Don't fucking tease me, you want to say, nobody with working eyesight bought that we were anything other than the geek show.  It'd gotten the job done, distracting everyone at that party long enough for Sam to sneak in, set the fire, and sneak back out.  As Hunts go it'd been a layup.  Certainly not enough to make you forget the tittering, or the blowjob jokes, or the endless She's So Fat bullshit, as you and Dean playacted the tipsy bickering couple with no discretion or volume control.

Smiling that gotcha! smile, Dean says, "Then how come you're still wearing your rings, honey?"

"For the same reason I wear a wedding ring any time I go out drinking.  Men only think pussy's unavailable if somebody else's already got his name on it."

The smile disappears.  Maybe you were a little too mean with that one.  "What're you getting pissed off at me for?"

God damn it, you're just drunk enough to feel oversensitive and weepy.  Bob Seger's voice in the background singing low and insinuating -- if you neeeeed . . . a pacifier, call anytime . . . I'll try to be your satisfier -- doesn't help.  Part of you is back in the hot garage of your childhood listening to your older brother's friends make filthy jokes about your early-blooming body.  "Never mind.  Never mind," you finish your water and go fishing for your wallet.  Stupid fancy dress making you feel simultaneously overdressed and naked, stupid tiny clutch purse, stupid ring set that’s just loose enough to keep snagging on everything . . . you’re wrapped in fucking layers of stupid.

"No wait a minute--" you slip Dean's grabbing hand as you shove a twenty under the empty glass and a five into the tip jar.

"Leave her alone pal," the bartender warns.

"It's cool, it's cool, she's my wife," Dean says.  For that, you could cheerfully shoot him.  Instead you hit the door and juke around the side of the building, cutting back across the alley and over the fence to your motel.

The light's still on in Sam and Dean's room.  Of course, Sam must've kicked Dean out for some face time with his girlfriend, Dean struck out at whatever bar he'd gone to looking for company, and decided to come poke at you for lack of anything more entertaining to do.  It’s a pleasure working with Sam and Dean.  It’s the not-working parts that give you trouble.

You're halfway out of that stupid dress when a fist hammers on your room door hard enough to knock it off the hinges.  "Let me in!  I need to talk to you!" Dean yells.

"Get lost!" you yell back.

"No!"  You hear him swear under his breath.  "You got to the count of three before I get out my lockpicks!  One . . . two . . ."

"All right, all right, all right, shit," you surrender, "gimme a second."  You yank on a pair of leggings and your lucky green Mavs jersey.  Dean all but shoulder-checks you out of the way when you open the door.  "Won't you come in?" you grouch as you shut the door and lock it.

"Don't mind if I do," Dean sarcasms right back.  He turns around and his eyes widen.  Oh right, between the leggings and the lucky green Mavs jersey you look like a chubby leprechaun.  A chubby, braless, saggy titted leprechaun.

"What do you want, Dean?  I'd like to get some sleep since getting drunk's not an option."

“Okay," he counts on fingers, "one, getting drunk is always an option.  And two, why did you just assume I struck out somewhere else?”

“Be-cause you sure as hell weren’t looking for me?” you say, speaking slowly and clearly as one does with drunks, small children, and the obviously delusional.

“I was looking for you!”

“Like hell you were.”  Because like hell he was.

“Yes.  I was.”

“What the hell for, man?”

“Oh I dunno-- I kind of liked acting fake-married and I wanted to spend some time with my fake wife?”

“As opposed to literally anyone else on Earth,” you snap.  This needs to get over with before you start sniveling.  Stress weeping, you’ve done it all your life.

Dean blinks.  He opens his mouth as if to say something, closes it.  “Okay.  Explain something to me.  Why do you think any red-blooded American male with taste would not want to spend time with you?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake--”

“Answer me.”

“You and your brother were practically raised by wolves so let me clue you into one of the unwritten rules of modern etiquette,” you say.  You want to get mad, you need to get mad, but your voice isn’t co-operating.  The joke’s on you because it always is, and you’ve never been a talented enough comedian to take control of it away from the bastards.  “It’s polite to at least wait until the fat freak is out of earshot until you start laughing at her.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Especially when you’re supposed to be aforementioned fat freak’s fucking husband, you douche.”

Closing his eyes and using your name like a parent correcting a naughty child, Dean says, “I.  Wasn’t.  Laughing.  Shit I was this close to knocking that asshole’s teeth out.  Only reason I didn’t is somebody would’ve called the cops and blown our cover.”

You snort.  “Like anybody bought that we were a couple anyway.”

With a look in those beautiful green eyes you can’t read, Dean says, “Why not?”

You point at him.  “All-American eleven.”  You point back at yourself.  “Texas three, and that’s if the lighting is generous.”

“Jesus, babe!”

“Don’t call me that!  Just get out,” you whirl to run for cover in the bathroom and pray it’s got a lock.

Next thing you know you’re smushed against Dean’s chest, wrapped up like a rat in a snake’s coils.  The motherfucker’s cuddling you, swaying a little on his feet and rubbing your back.  You lose it and start sobbing.

“Sweetheart I’m sorry,” Dean keeps saying as you weep into his shirt.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

“What the fuck are you sorry for?” you snap.  “You’re not the one being a fucking crybaby!”  Over what, some sniggering and the same jokes you’ve been hearing all your damn life?  Christ.  He’s pulled the claws from your anger and all that’s left is humiliation.

"I had no idea you were thinking that,” Dean says.  Something presses against your hair.  You refuse to believe it’s Dean’s lips.  “I thought . . . when we had to get that rent-a-cop’s attention, I thought we had a moment there.”

Oh yeah.  The moment.  When Dean had taken it upon himself to interrupt your fake arguing with a firm kiss that had not felt at all fake.  You’d felt like a fraud all evening, dressed up in that stupid cocktail dress intended for someone a bit taller and a lot thinner and effortlessly outshone by Dean in white tie.  Trying desperately to prune back a totally inappropriate crush is what had driven you to the nearest dingy bar with every intention of slowly drowning your sorrows, having a hardcore mope in the privacy of your room, and moving on in the morning.  Storing the memory of that kiss somewhere dark and safe, only to be pulled out on very special occasions.

You’re sitting down on the bed and Dean’s bringing you a glass of water and a cool washcloth.  With a tenderness you totally wouldn’t have expected, he cleans you up and watches you drain the glass.  “I’m sorry,” you mumble, too embarrassed to look at him.  You might never look at him again.  “I’m a weepy drunk.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Dean says, taking a seat next to you.  “Hey-- look at me a minute.”  With your chin held in the crook of his forefinger, Dean tips your head until your eyes meet.  “I get not wanting to make a habit of blowing your own horn but good God damn, the shit you’ve been saying is just cruel.”

“It’s not cruelty if it’s true Dean.”

“That’s the thing though.  It’s not.”

“Well!  Let’s go from head to toe, shall we?”  Talking over Dean’s protests, you start with your lifeless too wavy to behave and too straight to be interesting hair and end with your ski-barge flat feet and ankles that roll like marbles unless you strap them up like a ballplayer’s.  “And that’s before we get into weird hobbies, picky eating, terminal dullness, self-centered assholery.”

Dean’s gone very pale.  “If I heard anybody saying shit like that about you I’d break their fucking necks.”

“Start with the one and only drunk impaired enough to hit on me at the bar.  Something about putting a sock in my mouth and a bag over my head, and only if he could put it up my ass.  Look, I ain’t pretty, I ain’t rich, and I don’t care.  I just want to get out of the day with a little bit of my goddamned dignity.  I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

“Am I allowed to speak now?” Dean asks.  Before you can say yes no or maybe so he says, “I wasn’t laughing with, at, or anywhere near you.  Sam was having trouble getting out from between those rosebushes and I needed to distract that dumbass with the cane.  The drunk wasn’t the only guy there checking you out.  I mean, does your brain just go bleep whenever anybody says anything nice about you?"

“Add stupid to the list,” you remind yourself.

“Stop it,” he orders.  “You’re not a freak, you’re not stupid, anybody staring at us was jealous, and they were jealous of me, not you,” he heads you off.  “I spent an hour after we got back to the motel pacing a hole in the carpet wondering if I should just grow a sack and come over with some dinner.  Sam finally kicked me out.”

What?

“What?”

“Swear.  Ask him.”

“He’ll lie.”

“Nope.”

If you were a computer you’d be bluescreened.  “You guys could be pranking me.  Of course you’re pranking me,” you say.  “Hah hah, very fucking funny.”

“Right, my brother and I are conspiring to play the world’s least funny joke on a chick who’s got three-tenths of a second and never goes anywhere without two knives and a Beretta nine millimeter,” Dean says dryly.  “Do I look suicidal?  Never mind,” he brushes off.  “Anything I say, you’re not gonna hear.  So let’s try this.”

You’re not ready for Dean to take your face between his hands and kiss you.  Like, really kiss you.  Not a half-angry smack of lips like earlier.  Those perfectly soft, plush lips gently tug at yours and your heart kicks straight into Overdrive.  He sighs into your mouth as you open for his tongue.  "You're so sweet," he murmurs, trailing kisses along your jaw, nibbling on your earlobe.  "I'm gonna find that stupid hoodie you always wear and burn it."

"What?" you ask.

"Are you kidding?" Dean asks you back.  His hand drops to your hip, sliding down your leggings and not finding a ridge.  "I knew it.  No panties either.  Come to the door, no bra, no panties . . ." he trails off as, careful not to pull, he takes the elastic out of your ponytail and spreads your hair in a cool curtain down your back.  "You're so mean, hiding all this from me all this time."

"What?" you can't help but ask again.  This isn't computing, your brain's blown a microchip or two.

"Fuck-- you still think I'm lying or something don't you?"  Dean sighs, closing his eyes.  It's so not fair, even his eyelashes are beautiful.

Your brain tries one last time to cut this off before something irrevocable happens.  “I’m not a pity fuck Dean.”

Dean’s eyes open and fix you with a look that dries your mouth out.  “Good.  I don’t do pity fucks.  Now where were we?  Oh yeah,” he takes one of your hands and kisses the palm, presses it to his cheek.  “This is where you kiss me.”

So you do, tasting whiskey on his breath.  Slow, giving you time, making you wait, he presses a hand up your ribs, caresses up to your tits.  Here it comes, the cringe when he feels the squish and the sag-- there's no cringe.  Why isn't Dean cringing?  God knows you do, and you have to live with the damn things. 

Dean pulls back, staring into your eyes.  He gulps.  “If you want me to stop tell me now,” he says.  When you don’t say anything, he adds, “I’m serious.  If you want me to leave I’ll leave, if you want to just hang out we can do that--”

Of course.  “If you want to go just go already!”

“I don’t-- shit.”  Dean grabs your wrist and presses your hand to his-- “I’m so hard I could break fucking boards.  I don’t want to be anywhere but where I am.  With you.”  His hand flexes, shapes your hand around his bulge.  He’s not lying.  At least not with that part of him.  “When you showed Sam that leg holster I damn near ripped the zipper out of my pants.”

“That was two months ago!”

“My point.  Why do you think I keep calling you for backup?  You’re smart, you’re tough, you’re fucking beautiful.  Jesus, I thought . . . I couldn’t figure out why you weren’t picking up the hints I was dropping.  Why do you think I volunteered to dress up and do the monkey dance?  I hate hanging around rich bastards!”

“Free finger sandwiches?”

Dean opens his mouth, closes it again and shrugs.  “The crab and cream cheese ones were pretty good.  Point is,” he says, and he’s not holding your hand any more and you can . . . that’s him, hot and hard and with no reason to lie.  “Point is I’m here because I wanna be.  So it’s your call.”

Something in you goes click and it hits you all over again just how fucking beautiful he is, all strong jaw and shining eyes and perfectly kissable fucking lips.  God damn it, you think as you feel the first high hit your brain, you do not need to be falling in love right now.  Not now, not here, not with this man.

There are, however, two very powerful factors working against your common sense.  Heterosexuality and eyesight.  “Stay?  I want you to stay.”

“Oh thank God.”  Dean pulls you close, grunting with you as he lays back on the bed.  “Climb aboard,” he laughs as the two of you make a mess of getting your legs up off the floor.

“I can’t, I’ll hurt your back--”

“No.  You won’t,” Dean tells you as he rolls you underneath him, a knee pressing between yours and opening a space for his body.  “I’m not hurting yours am I?  Pretty sure I’m bigger than you.”

“I . . . what’re you doing?”

Dean looks up from where he’s been kissing down your chest, on the fabric of your jersey.  “Kissing you.  What do they call it on your planet?”

“You’re being a tease!”

Grunting a negative, Dean says, “I’m on a mission now.  I’m gonna make you forget every minute of bad sex you’ve ever had.  And all I need from you is a little patience.  Can you do that for me honey?  Can you be patient for me?”

“Oh-- okay,” you agree.

That proves difficult.  Dean’s just . . . touching you.  His fingertips find your nipples, stroking them in itty-bitty arcs until they’ve poked up against your shirt.  All the blood and sensation in your body pounds downstairs.  Oh God, you’re soaking into your leggings, you can feel the fabric sticking to your pussy.  Protective reflexes are going by the boards; there’s no evidence Dean’s just waiting for you to take a hint and suck him off or give him your ass or something.

You gasp as he touches your damp crotch.  Christ your clit’s throbbing so hard it hurts.  Dean takes his fingers, sniffs at them.  You feel your face get hot.  No time to get a shower; you must fucking stink.

As though reading your mind Dean pushes your thighs further apart.  Hot lips fall to the wet patch between and you cry out, “Fuck!”

“Can’t resist,” Dean says without looking up.  More heat as his tongue presses to your wet tights and you writhe as Dean hums the yummy hum.  “Never understood that,” he says to himself, pressing and caressing until your entire center throbs against the hot material of your wet leggings.  “How can any man who loves pussy resist going down on one?”

“Dunno,” you manage.  Your fingers claw into the bedspread, taking up huge handfuls of cheap printed polyblend.  “Oh God, fuck,” you whine.  “Dean, please.”

“Patience,” he reminds you, sucking your honey from your leggings with an obscene sclurp.  Off he shucks his blue button-up and black T-shirt.  Oh fuck, how he manages to keep such a beautiful body on a diet of no sleep, max stress, and all the grease is a modern science mystery.  The flies on his jeans are undone too, and through his open zipper you can see his oh my poking up against his briefs.

You sit up and grab his face in a kiss.  Dean opens to you with a little surprised squeak.  Your tits drop and jiggle as he pulls your T-shirt off and throws it somewhere.  His hands feel like warm suede on your skin, all strong fingers.  You bite your lips on a moan as Dean kisses down and around and not where you need.  Holding you in place with a hand between your shoulderblades, he just keeps making you wait.  Lips and tongue and rough whisker-shadowed cheeks driving you clear out of your mind.  When Dean’s lips finally close around your painfully tight nipple you clench.  Your fingers sink into his soft hair, nails digging into his scalp.

“Ouch!”

“Shit!” you yelp, shoving Dean away.  “I’m sorry!  Are you okay?  I didn’t--"

Dean shuts you up with a kiss.  “I’m fine.  Just gotta get my boots off.”  He kisses you again.  “Don’t move.”  You don’t.  You just watch as he sits up and bends to untie his laces.  How does he do it, make every move look totally natural and artfully choreographed at the same fucking time?

“Lose the tights,” Dean orders, “or I rip them off of you.  I’m not kidding.”

He sure as fuck doesn’t look like it and you peel off your leggings.  Now it’ll come-- the little cringe when he sees the wiry hair between your legs, more twig pile than bush.  And the doughy look of your thighs.  And the stretch marks low on your belly.  And the literally everything because--

Dean shucks out of his jeans and naked, naked, he is naked now, nakedness is happening.  Something in your brain short-circuits.  Dean by-God Winchester.  Naked.  Bed is also there.  With you on it.  Also naked.  So much nakedness.

And good Lord he’s beautiful.  All the way to the wide head of his cock.  Which is hard.  Pulsing.  Leaking tiny beads of precome.  Which you can see because he’s naked with no clothes on.  Looking at you, Dean gulps.  “Fuck you’re beautiful.”

Don’t lie to me, you almost say, you don’t have to lie to me.  You can’t say it.  Not with Dean’s cock staring up at you.  Dean hisses through his teeth as you curl your hand around him.  “Hang on a sec, hold on, shit,” he says.  He fishes in his jeans pocket and slips you a condom.  “Wanna do the honors?”

“Sure.”  You can’t resist playing with that beautiful cock some more, making Dean squirm and flush.  Please Lord let this not be a one-time-only happening, you need time to enjoy this cock.  Pet it, kiss it, lavish it with affection.

When he’s finally wrapped up, Dean pulls you underneath him.  His hips fuck forward, rubbing his latex-covered cock along your soaked cunt.  “There we go,” Dean says as you reach between your bodies and fit him to you.  The air leaves you as Dean thrusts home, gliding and stretching and feeling fucking perfect.  “Fuck,” Dean whispers.  “Oh my fuck you feel good.  Knew you would,” he kisses your cheeks, your eyelids, nibbles on your neck hard enough you know you’ll be wearing marks in the morning.  He reaches up to cup your face and you moan when you feel the cool arc of the fake wedding band on his finger.

Even through the thin barrier of the condom Dean’s blazing hot inside you.  Instead of how it normally is during sex -- a vaguely pleasant rubbing that doesn’t really add up to anything -- as he moves, God it feels like he’s stroking up against every feel-good nerve in your body.  Not just with his cock, he’s pressed against your entire body, like he’s enjoying having all of you touching all of him, like he really isn’t grossed out by any of you.  For the first time in your life the sounds you’re making are totally unprompted; you’re not going for an effect, you physically cannot keep quiet with Dean making you feel this.  He’s making sounds too, dirty and sweet and they’re turning you on so fucking much.

Dean pauses.  “Don’t,” you cry, so softly.  Like this is a dream and you’ll wake yourself up to an empty bed and a tear-stained pillow.

“I’m not,” he says, kissing you and groaning when you quiver around him.  “Next time it’ll be slower.  Better.  I promise.”  Your brain’s still melting from the implications of the words slower and better when Dean shifts his weight a little and his hips start working in earnest.  He’s . . . somehow this magic fucking man’s rubbing your swollen clit and fucking you so beautifully, you’re afraid of the feelings building and building and building--

You choke back a wail as everything crashes into white sparks and you come in a full-bodied clench.  Christ it hits so hard your vision actually goes weird a second.  Dean cries out as your cunt clamps down on him.  His back arches on a final slam of a thrust and he moans his climax out loud to God and anyone else who might be listening.

“Oh man,” he heaves, collapsing on top of you in a hot press of skin and muscle, “that was awesome.”

A giggle pops out of you.  “Off.  Squishing.”  You ooze out from under Dean’s body and wobble upright on shaking legs.  Oh woah.  This is gonna hurt tomorrow.

After using the facilities you wash your hands and splash some water on your face.  You catch sight of your night-dark reflection in the mirror, lit only by the streetlight coming through the window.  Even in the gloom you can see whisker-burn on your skin and red marks on your neck because holy fuck you just had sex with Dean Winchester.

Your knees start trembling and you brace your hands on the counter.  Sex.  Sex.  Sexsexsexsex . . . your brain stutters.  Through the closed door you hear movement.  Of course.  Dean’s getting dressed and running for the hills.  Filing you away in his mental Regrets folder.  You linger there, staring down into the sink because you can’t bear to look at the marks Dean’s left on you.  I don’t do pity fucks your ass.

Quiet outside the door.   He must be dressed by now.  Maybe he’s already gone and you just didn’t hear the door.  Dean can be damned quiet when he wants.  God you’re tired.  You need sleep.  Reset the system.  Give yourself a chance to wake up from this dream.

Dean hasn’t left.  He hasn’t gotten dressed either.  He’s lying to the left, curled up a little on his side.  At the sound of your feet scuffing the carpet, his eyes open and he smiles.  “C’mere baby.  Come to Papa.”

You chuckle.  “Gotta love a man who loves the Silver Bullet Band.”

Dean’s eyelids lower and his lip curves into a come hither leer.  “If life is haaard to understand,” he sings in a low, tuneful, fucking erotic baritone, “and your life gettin outta haaaaand . . .”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you say.  Dean holds up the covers and you slip into bed.  Reflex has you perched far to the side, leaving plenty of space for Dean.  You take up more than your fair share of everything, including the bed meant for two.

Dean demonstrates his disagreement by pulling you close and tucking you next to him.  Like he a cuddler or something, like he actually doesn’t mind having your naked skin touching him.  Like he enjoys it or something.  Making a sleepy noise, Dean kisses you.  “You okay?”

Boy that’s a complicated question.  “Ask me again in the morning.”

“’Kay.”  Like a cat sinking itself into a cushion, Dean stretches and shimmies deeper into the blankets.  In the process, one of his arms goes around you, warm and heavy.  Your common sense is MIA.  Nothing’s telling you to take it easy, remember what you are, be careful with your feelings.  Your mind is quiet, peaceful.  You’re safe here.  You can lie here and be safe, for just a little while.

Just for a little while.

---

AN2: Ya know, I think this song's within Mr. Ackles's vocal range . . . um, 'scuse me, I think my ovaries just melted. 😉

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Thirteen.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C      

word count: 5.3 K    

chapter summary: Din watches Marathel make bread, Din and Marathel have words, and Marathel asks Fennec a question 

warnings:  angst, mention and aftermath of: rape/object rape/ physical abuse/ritual sexual abuse/violence towards women/ torture/enmeshed misogyny, Mando'a and English cursing, gluten 

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***   

You Were Marked: Masterlist 

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter 

Din awoke after a few hours of sleep with the kid draped across his throat.  Grogu’s hand was up under the edge of the helmet, and he had a good hold of Din’s lower lip.  Never did Din have a bed partner who invaded his personal space as much as this little green guy did. Din sighed and removed his glove to peel off the three little clawed fingers, only momentarily wondering when the last time was the boy washed his hands. Din kept a hand on Grogu and rolled up and out of bed.  Opening the shutter, Din could see that dawn was still just under the horizon. He carefully placed the still-sleeping Grogu in his carry sack and crept out of the room, heading towards Marathel.  Hopefully she was still resting, and hopefully her door was still open so that he could check on her. 

As he passed the kitchen, though, he heard her scolding voice saying, “No, no, no!  That is far too hot!”  He backed up and entered the kitchen, noticing Marathel with her back to him on the other side of the room, lecturing a hapless crew of kitchen workers, as well as Silnima.  Marathel was wearing a simple tunic top of a deep burgundy with slim black pants.  She had tied a kerchief over her forehead to hide most of the gash down her face, and the ends held her long hair in a tail that cascaded down her back. “Water that hot will kill the leavening, and then you’ll have a tough lump of cachu instead of bread.”  Someone in the gaggle of kitchen staff muttered something too low for Din to hear, and Marathel drew up to her full height and replied, “‘Shit’, madam, cachu means ‘shit’, and I prefer my meals shit-free, don’t we all?”  Someone else tittered, then they all laughed.  Din felt a hand on his elbow.  He turned to see Cobb leaning against the wall, nearly in shadow.   

“Here for the show?” asked Cobb with a grin. 

Din settled against the wall next to the lanky man. “I should have sold tickets.” 

Marathel was showing them how to test temperature on their skin, eschewing a thermometer as ‘silly nonsense, just like boomers that shoot fire’.  Cobb laughed. “I like her.” 

Din preened unconsciously.  “Thought you would.” 

“I wonder what she’s like in the sack.” 

“Shut your mouth.” 

“I hope she’s not as salty as that.” 

“I said,” -- Din turned his head to Cobb -- “Shut your trap.” 

Cobb shut his mouth, and both men watched as Marathel tossed crystallized sweet into the stone hearth, which flamed up and burned.  Marathel said the fire was far too hot; the sweet should have melted instead.  Two of the kitchen workers began lowering the gas jets to bring down the temperature.  Cobb took a breath, and then whispered to Din, “So how was she?” 

Din whispered back, “Magnificent.” 

Cobb chuckled, and both men crossed their arms, getting comfortable against the wall.  Apparently Marathel was satisfied that they could move past the leavening stage, but she was now chastising another worker for how they measured the flour by packing it instead of spooning it.  By the time they got up to the dough kneading stage, Grogu had woken up and was silently watching his Mahr move skillfully around the kitchen.   Marathel’s hands were still in the wooden blocks, but Din noted that the color in them was much better.  She was having a hard time explaining how to handle the dough, and she said, “No, no, you’re not trying to resurrect a dead man’s pudyn!”  This sent up a titter of giggles — apparently no translation was needed.   “More gentle!”  Frustrated, Marathel finally snagged a paring knife and cut the tape off her hands.  Din frowned, watching as her fingers curled up on themselves.  With a grimace, she forced her fingers straight, grabbed a dough ball and began kneading it.   “Like this!  Gentle rolls, pull it out, back in together, flip it over.  Gentle, but still firm, now!” 

Cobb leaned over and whispered, “Is she kneading that dough or trying to get it pregnant?”  Din snorted and bent over, trying not to burst out in laughter. 

Marathel worked out the dough to her satisfaction and put diagonal slashes through it in a pattern.  She once again tested the oven using the sweetener method, and pointed out that the oven was now at the proper temperature, as the sweetener melted.  She slid the bread into the oven on a long paddle, and then watched as the kitchen workers continued their kneading technique. Some time later,  Marathel’s hands were trembling, and she looked down at her hands in pain.  Din immediately went over to her, as did Silnima.  Din carefully placed Marathel’s hands back into the blocks as Silnima pulled out a roll of tape from her pocket and began to re-tape Marathel’s hands.  “Watching, were you?” asked Marathel. 

“It’s always a pleasure to watch a master at their craft,” replied Din. “Your hands look better.” 

Marathel looked at Din straight into his visor and smiled at him for the first time in days.  Din’s heart leapt in his chest.  “I wonder why,” she said, arching her delicate eyebrow.  She turned away and went back to the oven to check the bread.  It was ready, and a worker pulled it out and immediately washed it with beaten eggs, Marathel explaining how the smell of the bread should be able to tell them when it’s ready.  After giving the bread a few moments to cool, Silnima passed it around.  The slashes Marathel had placed in the loaf allowed everyone to easily pull off a part, and Din managed to grab pieces for himself, Cobb, and Grogu before it was all gone.  Handing off a piece to Cobb, Din turned to the wall and shoved the bread into his mouth, burning his tongue and filling him with both contentment and the painful ache of nostalgia.  How many more times will I have the honor of eating Marathel’s bread? 

Cobb took a large bite, chewed, and his eyes fluttered closed as he muttered, “Hot damn and hallelujah, that is good bread.” 

Din handed Grogu his share, now that the bread was sufficiently cooled.  “Told you so.” 

“I would put up with any amount of salty mouth from that woman so long as she kept making that bread.” 

Din absently stroked Grogu’s ear as he ate the bread.  Me too.  Me too. 

Silnima was profusely thanking Marathel for her expertise, and Marathel accepted her praise with a blush.  “If you would decide to stay with us, Marathel, you would be welcome,” said Silnima as she gently hugged Marathel.  Marathel dropped her eyes and tried to slip her trembling hands up her flour-dusted sleeves, alerting Din that Marathel was reaching her limit of what she could handle. 

He moved to her side,  gently taking one of her splinted hands.  “Tired?”  Marathel nodded, and he placed his other arm around her back, but only touching her upper arm, leading her out of the kitchen.   

“Who is that tall man?” whispered Marathel. 

Cobb stepped forward, introducing himself before Din could speak.  “Cobb Vanth, Lady Marathel, I happen to be the Marshall of Freetown.”   

Marathel didn’t understand half of what he was talking about, but she dropped her eyes and tilted her head.  “Cobb Vanth,” she replied quietly.   

“Din has told me much about you, and your bread-making skills.  I’m happy to find out that he was not exaggerating,” said Cobb with just enough coyness in his voice that made Din want to punch him, and not in a friendly way, either. 

“Here, Marathel, I’ll get you back to your room,” said Din, escorting her the short distance.   

“A friend of yours?” 

“An old friend, yes.” The door to Marathel’s room was open, and she stepped through, hitting the light switch with her wooden hand splint.  “You should keep your door closed.” 

Marathel shook her head.  “I can’t bear it.  I feel trapped in here.  At least with the door open I know… I can get out.” 

“It would be safer.”  Din put his carry sack on Marathel’s bed, and Grogu crawled out, sitting down to watch the two adults. 

Frowning, Marathel looked at Din’s visor.  “Are you saying I’m not safe here?” 

“No, no … the palace is safe.” 

“Then why do I need to lock myself in here?” 

Din couldn’t answer that, at least not using a frame of reference that she could understand.  As someone who had probably lived more than half of her life outdoors in a covered wall-less shelter, doors with locks must be an anathema for her.  The only doors with locks were probably the ones in the Hold … like the doors she walked through, holding her head high, to her assumed death, while he stood motionless with a bag of gold in his hand.   

“Are you all right?” asked Marathel, worry in her voice. 

Din shook himself out of his thoughts, noticing that Marathel had sunk into a highly overstuffed chair, and was looking up at him.  Grogu had climbed up on Marathel’s lap, snuggling against her.   “Sorry.  I was …” 

“I understand you suffered a head injury,” said Marathel. 

���I was hit in the back of the helmet with the marchwyl.” 

Marathel looked away.  “The hammer of the under-Captain.  I know it.  I know it well.”  Her mouth curved down in disgust. 

Din sighed, wondering how much he should tell her.  He dropped to one knee and gently took her splinted hand.  He felt her try to pull it away, but he held on.  “When you went through those doors, Marathel … I … after seeing them do those horrible things to you … I attacked the Captain.  I didn’t pay attention to my back, and the guy clocked me, and down I went.”  He looked at Marathel’s face, which she was keeping expressionless.  He turned his head to show her the back of his helmet.  “What I don’t think you understand, Marathel, is that the only thing that can do this kind of damage to beskar, is beskar.” 

Marathel’s brow twitched as if she’d been bitten by a tiny insect.  “You are correct.  I don’t understand.” 

“The marchwyl is made out of beskar.  How, how, is there a weapon made of beskar on your planet?”  

Marathel shrugged and dropped her eyes.  “I don’t know.  I had never heard of beskar until you told me about your armor.” 

“Is there a possibility of any other beskar weapons in the Hold?” 

“I don’t know.  I never paid any attention to the types of metal in the weapons.  I just cleaned them.” 

Din was taken aback.  “You … cleaned them?” 

Marathel swallowed.  “Every morning, myself and other girls would enter the Hold to clean, polish, and sharpen the weapons that had been… used… the previous night. I have cleaned the marchwyl many times.” 

“No other weapons seemed like the same metal as the marchwyl?” 

“Blood cleans off one metal the same as another,” Marathel said with a shrug. 

Din, shocked at her blasé statement, looked down at the hand he was holding, the hand that was at the wrong end of the marchwyl. Her fingers were twisting against themselves, the skin a vile shade of yellow-green.  “The marchwyl won’t be used on any woman’s hand again.” 

Marathel’s face went white as a glacier on Hoth.  “What are you saying?” 

“I have the marchwyl. I will take it to my covert, to the Armourer.  She will melt it down, to make armor.  Beskar is not to be used for weapons.  We will set that right. This is the way.” 

“You … took the marchwyl??” Marathel jerked her hand away.  It hurt, but her outrage outweighed her pain.  “You took it?” She leapt to her feet, hugging Grogu tightly, and began pacing.  “How?  How?  How did you take that weapon from the Hold?” 

Din stood up as well.  “The women who brought you out, they were able to bring it.  Olba, Tymfy, the other two … I never learned their names.” 

“They willingly brought you the hammer?  No, no!  They never would have!” 

“It was not willingly … the woman with white hair and blue eyes was quite against it.”  He thought of her, with the fire in her eyes, spitting on his boot. 

“Lorica, probably.”  Marathel’s shaking hands carefully put Grogu down on the treatment table, and then her hands went to her forehead.  “What have you done, Bounty Hunter?!  You took one of the Elder’s weapons?  Oh …” She bent over at the waist, making a wailing noise.  “What is it with you men?  Take take take, that is all you do! Take what you want, take who you want, never a thought for anyone or anything!  Not everything is yours to take!” cried Marathel. 

“Beskar is sacred to my people, and it was taken from us!  I am bound to bring it back!” snapped Din.   

“And what of the people you take it from?  You don’t think they suffer because of its loss?” 

Din stared at Marathel, knowing she could not understand.  “Silnima is right.  I only seem to upset you.”  He plucked Grogu off the treatment table and left Marathel’s room in silence.  As he stalked down the corridor, he could feel Grogu’s cold look of reproach.  “Don’t look at me like that,” Din muttered. 

In her room, Marathel sat back down with a heavy sigh.  No, he couldn’t understand.  Any behavior outside the acceptable in the Hold was met with swift punishment.  Olba and the others would be made to suffer because they had brought her out to the Bounty Hunter.  She couldn’t imagine what would be done to them once the hammer was discovered missing.  The under-Captain was mad about that hammer, and he liked to use it even in the most unnatural ways … as she well knew.  She’d cleaned more than blood off that handle.  She’d felt that hammer used on her in more ways than one. 

Marathel leaned back in the soft chair, staring out the window.  From this angle, she could only see the pale sky of this planet … Tatooine, that’s its name … and I hate it.  All she could see was sand and dust in all directions.  She could feel it grinding into her skin, coating her hair.  She longed for her hut, the rich blue sky, the sweet sea air that would waft through as she leaned against her post.  Then Marathel felt a seeping line of blood fall from the gash in the middle of her face.  She was so weary. She thought of her simple life before the Bounty Hunter … Din Djarin is his name.  At least have the decency to call him by his name. 

A name he didn’t offer until I pleaded with him to tell me. 

Marathel closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.  The Bounty … Din meant well, or at least he thought he did.  She should be more kind, for he had suffered as well to bring her here.  And suffering should not be a competition. 

Marathel must have dozed off in her chair, as she heard Fennec telling her to wake up.  It must be time to glue me back together, thought Marathel.  Fennec had been nothing but kind to her, and she knew she was taking up so much of the woman’s time with these injuries of hers.  Fennec had glued her skin twice already now.  Marathel knew that this Fennec Shand was very important in this palace, somehow equal to this Boba Fett, the helmet-less Mandalorian.  She had not spoken more than two words to this Boba person, but he’d been kind as well.  Spare of speech, like Din had been in the first days at her hut.  Then there was this lanky man named … Cobb Vanth, that was it.  A curious man, with his easy smile.  Marathel wondered what a Marshal and what a Freetown was.  Silently, Marathel got up and mostly closed the door, leaving only a slight sliver of open space.  If there was at least a splinter of light coming through the gap, Marathel felt safe from her fear of being closed in, of being caged. 

Marathel felt comfortable around Fennec; the dark-haired woman’s dichotomy of no-nonsense backside-kicking versus her fairness and quiet poise reminded her of Diwhyn Olba.  There had been a question on Marathel’s mind for however many days now, and whatever Fennec had injected her with to help with her pain seemed to have the same warm and fuzzy effect of too many dreamberries, as Marathel lay face-down on the table, stripped to the waist.  The painkillers also seemed to have loosened her tongue … or at least her inhibition to chatter. 

Fennec had been working in silence for some time before Marathel posed her question.  “Fennec, what does it mean if a man says to you, I’m fixed and I’m shooting blanks?” 

Fennec dropped the bacta spray bottle on Marathel’s back. “I’m sorry?” 

Marathel, surprised at Fennec’s shock, wavered.  “I, uh … nothing.” 

“Who … Mando told you that? When? How?  What were the circumstances?” Fennec went around the table and dropped down to Marathel’s eye level as Marathel flushed with embarrassment and closed her eyes.  

“Please Fennec, leave it alone.  I shouldn’t have …” 

“No, this is very important, I mean, we know practically nothing about Din Djarin … so you two got … cozy, right?” 

“It is … a lot to explain.” 

“I have time.  Nothing but time.”  

Marathel sighed, and started with a brief explanation of the Dahls and the story of how she could hear the Dahls and how she was able to bond with them. This fascinated Fennec.  “That’s the kind of thing I read about in fantasy stories as a child … or in religious texts of certain systems.  You mean you had an actual biochemical reactive bond to these creatures?” 

“I suppose you can say that,” said Marathel, flushing bright pink once more.  Closing her eyes tight, she relayed the tale of the first night of the Dahls mating, including her reaction to the Dahls … and the Bounty Hunter’s reaction to her. 

Fennec's jaw hung open. “Dank ferrik, Marathel … right up against a post?  I mean, good on you.  But did Mando … he didn't seem to mind, did he?” 

“I suppose not; but then, why would he mind?  He is a man, after all.”  Fennec frowned at this statement, but Marathel didn’t notice.  “But …  he was kind after.  He calmed me, covered me up … he asked me if I was all right.” 

“You mean was if it was all right?”  

“No, he meant me.  I was so frightened and upset.  I think he knew it wasn’t quite me, not fully.” 

“Not quite you?” 

“I mean, I was there, but … because the Dahls were so loud in my head, almost possessing my mind, it was as if I was outside myself, although I could still … feel him.  But that didn’t matter to him at the time, I don’t think, that first time.” 

First time? Holy loth-cats.  "So, he asked if you were all right … and then?”  

“He told me I had bitten him very badly.” 

“You bit him?” 

“Yes, I did.  At the end of Dahl mating, the female turns her head and bites the male, as if she’s saying, get off me.  I apparently bit him when I was … fully pleasured.” Fennec's eyes went wide.  “He had his back to me as he was cleaning his wound.  He asked me if my cycle was the same as the Dahl’s, and I said no, it wasn’t, and then he said ‘well, you should be okay anyway, I’m fixed, I’m shooting blanks.’” 

“Just like that?”  

“Yes.  And then we went to bed … each to our own.”   

Fennec stood and went back to gluing Marathel’s skin.  Gently, with what she hoped was an off-hand tone, she asked, “Why were you so frightened after?” 

“I was afraid and upset because … it ruined me.” 

“Ruined you?” 

“For the Bishop. I was marked for him, and no other was to have me before he did. I was to be his Whyn and no one else’s, not even the under-Bishops.” 

“And I’m assuming a Whyn is a girl who reaches an age of a certain … usefulness?” 

“Well, yes.  More or less.” 

“You weren’t one before you left the Hold?” 

“No.  I was changing but … it seemed to be taking such a long time.  My cycles were … A girl cannot be made a Whyn until her cycles become regular. Then she is ready.  Does that make sense?”  

“Yes, of course.”  

“The other girls would regulate quickly, but my cycles were erratic, maybe only happening once to other girls four or even six cycles.  And I always bled so badly, for many days longer than the other girls, to the point where I could barely do my chores.  Some of the girls I started with had borne one, two children, and I was still not yet able to be a Whyn.  Then I heard the Dahls, and I left the Hold.  I think … I think Olba wanted me out of the Hold, that she feared I would have to be made a Diwhyn instead. That happens, sometimes.  And for me, who was specially marked for The Bishop … it would have been so shameful.  He might have made me a Belwhyn instead, out of spite, just because I was unable to be his Whyn.”  Marathel’s voice started getting strained, panic-stricken. 

Fennec wanted so much to ask Marathel about the different Whyns, what each title meant exactly, but she also knew that Marathel was getting close to shutting down and did not want to derail Marathel’s train of thought.  “What if … what if you had been able to stay away from Mando while the Dahls began to mate?  If you and he hadn’t …?” 

“Then I … I would have lied.  That I had indeed taken him. My confession would have been believed over his protests, regardless of the truth.  In all things the woman is at fault; the woman must be punished.” 

“But … why would you do that?  Why lie?” 

Marathel was silent for a while, and then she said in a small voice, “I would rather be made a Belwhyn for one day, and die, than live however many seasons as the Bishop’s Whyn.” 

Fennec worked on Marathel’s wounds quietly for some minutes.  “Marathel, when you came here, you assumed you were dead.  Can you tell me what was going to happen to you in that Hold?” 

Marathel blinked and took a breath.  “I go the the Hold, the Bounty Hunter gets the coins, he leaves.  I … stay.” 

“You knew what was going to happen to you?” 

“Of course.” 

Fennec frowned but did her best to keep her voice gentle.  “All this, just for coins?” 

“I was to be made a Belwhyn anyway, because of what I had done with the Bounty Hunter.  The Elders didn’t need the coins, not when the Bounty Hunter told me they would be a great help to his people.” 

“Did Mando … the Bounty Hunter know this would be done to you?” 

“No.” 

“Did he try to stop it?” 

“No.” 

Maker.  “Why not?” 

“I told him not to.” 

This woman made a Mandalorian not fight for her.  Fennec, amazed and disturbed, was silent for a few moments.  “What Mando was telling you was that for whatever reason, he cannot father children.”  

“So, he was telling me that he would not impregnate me?” Fennec hummed in affirmation.  “That is a good thing.  If he had, the infant would possibly have been killed right after birth, and I still would have been made a Belwhyn regardless.” 

“Is that what happens to women who have … been with others outside the Elders?” 

“Yes.  If there is a pregnancy, it must always be brought to birth.  If it seems obvious a girl-child was not fathered by the proper Elder, or by one of his highest underlings, then the cord is not tied off, and the infant just … slowly bleeds to death.  I’ve sat with mothers during those births.  It takes so long for the infant to die.  It’s such a terrible thing to watch, and no one is allowed to intervene, for the suffering of the mother is most important.  Olba had sharpened a long thin piece of hard wire, and she and the other midwives would drive it into the top of the infant’s head to shorten all our agony. Most of those mothers kill themselves before being made a Belwhyn.  I would have.” 

Fennec swallowed. What is this horrible place she came from?  “They only kill girls?  What about baby boys?  And what happens to the men?  The ones who father these children?” 

“Nothing.  Nothing happens to them.  Why would it?”  Marathel began to cry.  “Please, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” 

“Of course, Marathel.”  Fennec surreptitiously wiped her eyes and went back to spraying and gluing Marathel’s wounds in silence. 

In the corridor, Din quietly moved away from the door, where he had been eavesdropping from the moment Marathel posed her original question.  He turned and began walking away, unaware of which direction he was going, deep in his own worrisome thoughts.  Sometimes children die, Marathel had told him.  Sometimes mothers die.  He thought about how the meteorite burning up in Unmanarall’s atmosphere was the tears of a mother whose child was taken away to be killed.  The stars were the eyes of the mothers that went before her, who had to watch over the girl-children, because the boys were already protected.  The Elders were systematically killing baby girls, and only baby girls, because of doubtful parentage?  There was so much Marathel refused to tell him.  Fennec had now heard Marathel speak of Whyns, Diwhyns, and Belwhyns, but she did not ask Marathel to define each, although he was sure she wanted to know as much as he did.  He knew now that the torture inflicted upon Marathel was referred to as “making her a Belwhyn”, but the significance was still murky.  And the knowledge that Marathel was willing to lie about her having had sex with him — so that she would be punished regardless — disturbed him greatly. 

Din was leaning against the wall, so lost in his thoughts that he did not notice Cobb talking to him until the taller man took hold of his elbow.  “Din?” Cobb asked, his voice full of concern. 

“Hmm?” Din gave himself a shake and turned his attention to Cobb. 

“Are you all right, friend?” Din gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.  “Let’s go out into the courtyard.  Get some sun.  Your tan is fading.” 

The two men went outside and sat on the wide low wall that went around the perimeter of the courtyard, leaning against the palace wall.  Cobb turned his face up into the sun, while Din sat with his knees up, hugging his knees with his elbows while he contemplated a slow-moving beetle on the ground, listening to the children and Grogu play.  The boy seemed to make friends wherever he went, and the children of the palace residents were no exception.  He’d been once again adopted as an unofficial mascot, and it seemed Grogu was teaching the others the alleged rules of Marathel’s running game, which still made no sense to him. 

“How is she doing?” asked Cobb. 

“It is hard to say.” 

“You know … it’s not your job to fix her, right?”  

Din swiveled his head to Cobb.  “Isn’t it?” 

“I don’t believe she blames you.” 

“She doesn’t have to.” 

Cobb chuckled.  “You two already fight like an old married couple.” 

They sat in silence for a while.  “I think I should go to Nevarro, get my helmet repaired.  She’s out of danger for now.” 

Cobb nodded.  “Good idea.  Taking the kid?” 

“Of course.  Keep an eye on her for me?” 

Cobb grinned.  “Never has an easier promise been made.” 

“Dank ferrik,” said Din with a sigh.  Cobb clapped him on the shoulder. 

Grogu came running over.  “Sad Patu,” he said, jumping up to hang off Din’s arm.    

“Hey, kiddo,” Din swung his arm, making Grogu laugh.  “You up for a little trip to Nevarro?  See everyone at the covert?”  

Grogu squealed and jumped into Din’s lap, making him grunt uncomfortably.  Grogu put his little hands on Din’s helmet. His eyes turned sad.  “Mahr?”  

Din shook his head.  “Mahr has to stay here.  She still needs medical attention.  But we will come back to Mahr.  I promise, little guy.”  Grogu hugged Din tightly, and then jumped down and toddled off back into the palace.  “I suppose I’ll see you when I get back,” Din said to Cobb, as he got up and followed the boy, down this corridor and that, until Din could see the tall figure of Marathel walking slowly away from him, splinted hand trailing lightly on the wall for balance.  “Marathel?” called Din, softly.  She carefully turned, looked at Din, and then turned her attention to her feet:  Grogu had attached himself to her ankle again. 

“I appear to have grown a Grogu.” 

Din nodded.  “You’re walking.” 

“Fennec and Silnima want me up and moving as much as possible.” 

“Grogu and I are going to Nevarro.” 

“To your people?” 

Din nodded again.  “I must have my helmet repaired.” 

“You must also give the Aurodium coins to your people … and … and the marchwyl.” 

“This is the way.” 

“This is the way, just so.”  Marathel carefully bent down and picked up Grogu.  “Are you coming back?  Do I need to say goodbye to Grogu?” 

“We’re coming back, mesh’la.” 

Marathel looked up at Din, and then stepped over to him.  She carefully placed her splinted hand on his arm.   “Stay safe … Din.”  Upon hearing her say his name, he wrapped his arms around her as gently as he could, but she stiffened in his arms, making him regret his move.  “Stay safe, and keep Grogu safe,” she whispered. 

“I will.” 

Marathel swallowed nervously. “I’m scared to be here by myself.” 

“Don’t be.  Every one of these people here will kill anyone who tries to hurt you.” 

“What about that Cobb Vanth?” 

“Oh, he’s a menace.  Stay away from him.”  Marathel laughed at that, the sound making his heart leap.  “Mesh’la, cyar’e …” He pressed his forehead against hers.  “I will be back.  Keep getting better.  Gar morut’yc.” 

“Din Djarin … th’ych’lyth, Din Djarin, far’hosa.” 

Din pulled back and stroked her cheek.  “What does that mean?” 

“‘Be safe, Din Djarin, be careful.’”  Marathel gave him a tight smile, kissed Grogu on his cheek, turned away, and continued her walk down the corridor, before her eyes gave herself away … her Oldtalk words were not what she told him.  She didn’t tell him to be safe and be careful. 

She had said, come back to me, Din Djarin, I await your return. 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter

[consul-valerius]

Submission Looks Beautiful on You

In a sudden spark of devotion, Lucio finally deals Sam a pleasant surprise that triggers long-gone memories. What other way can he repay the count than showing him a good time in return?

Rating: 18+ 🍋 Minors DNI

Word Count: 2328 (be proud of me that it’s under 5k u_u)

Content includes: canon complicit violence; established dom/sub dynamics; ownership kink/possessive language; daddy dom elements; light exhibitionism/public setting; knife play; general rough play/choking; vaginal fingering; oral play; Sam and Lucio being Sam and Lucio (aka bastard men with little to no morals lmao); T4T (some gendered language used [i.e. cunt, dick, etc.])

A/N: I got high and finally finished this LMAO was thinking a lot about Lucio’s possessiveness and devotion that he shows in his reverse ending and how it is pretty similar to how Sam felt towards Mara—and thus we got character developing finger fucking LMAO header is from the game and obviously edited (by moi✨)

Preview undercut because Tumblr formatting was hell for this one LOL😤💕 Full linked in the title on AO3 !

It wasn’t abnormal for Sam to receive some inane, snide comment from a nameless nobleman. When he was a bit younger, he relished their discomfort with his mere existence. A nobody suddenly appeared in their most esteemed circles seemingly out of thin air. They all had spent years kissing someone else’s ass, playing a game with no rules, only for Sam to sit amongst them with not so much a care in the world. It was as if this came naturally to him—and they knew it did not. 

It was that alienation, that seemingly obvious marker on his forehead—that was always present to others but never himself—that wore on his nerves. His initial glee had long subsided. He couldn’t deny the queasy mortification about being made to face his upbringing (as distant as that may be) and, without it needing to be spoken out loud, understand that he was worthless in the eyes of this crowd. Decades now had passed, and yet the same prolonged stares followed him, the tittering of gossip loud enough to be heard like a gnat in one’s ear—there, but impossible to trace. 

Still, Sam had learned that he could not fight every dimwitted fool that turned their nose up to him. He had exhausted himself silly trying to do it before. No, he had to be mindful of when he could have his “moments.” For instance, he could not afford to get into a scuffle at a gala Nadia was hosting. His life was easiest when she was content with him—he knew she would never break her silence to tattle to her mother, but she was crafty enough to find other ways to make his day hellish without her help. Like mother like daughter—all royals were the same: annoying . 

However, what Nadia could not control was Lucio. Try as she might, she simply could not wrangle him. Of course, in the bedroom, he worshipped her like a goddess. That went without saying. But in the light of day? Lucio was an unruly pup, and Nadia was ready to toss him out. It was cute in its own right, and it made Sam’s ability to tame the Count all the more satisfying. 

Lucio was his.

The thought never occurred to him until Lucio was snarling in the face of some diplomat, a blade pressing into the squirming, squealing man’s throat, his gauntlets pinning him to the wall. Despite his scathing words, tinged with such sharp teeth, Lucio was smiling , glowing almost. He had reacted before Sam could even pretend to laugh, before he could even fantasize about doing the very same thing himself. But Lucio had known, and more importantly, cared about nothing but realizing that fantasy for him. 

The scene was oddly nostalgic, and Sam could only stare and blink, his lips twitching into a smile as he watched those alarming blue eyes sparkle with frenzied glee.

[rosescries]

Only Good Things

Idk if you typically get fan-stories here, but after reading There's Still Magic this scene after thinking about Taylor getting tried for her "last stand" just came to mind. Might be OOC but nonetheless, hope you enjoy.

----

Taylor's life had fallen apart. And all at the hands of you. Not even the once liberating feeling of seeing you in a crutch had been enough to soothe her when the judge declared her guilty of...

"Aggravated assault, voluntary manslaughter, and domestic abuse" said the judge, then the gavel banged.

The rest of what was said had been drowned out by the ringing in her ears and tears welling in her eyes. She stumbled from the defendants stand, barely able to make out what was in front of her. Her lawyer tried to stop her from leaving, though she wriggled out of his grip screaming, "I need the fucking bathroom!"

There was a groan from her boyfriend - the jerk - some clamoring from the jury, and even the obnoxious tittering from those damned skeletons...

Fuck her life.

When she got to the bathroom, she immediately found a toilet. Puking like she did at all those parties she attended, though instead of the satisfying feeling of getting it all out, all that came back was more nausea. She was being so loud everyone probably heard her... and were laughing their asses off!

The thought made her retch once more but she held against it. Opting to cough roughly and get to a sink.

She doused her face in water, cooling it down from the puffiness. Then she looked in the mirror, disgusted at what she'd seen. Face all red, hair tousled, and eyes bloodshot. She hadn't even noticed she was grinding her teeth... or the woman eyeing her from the other sink.

"What? " She bit out. The woman smiled pitifully. Cause that's just what she needed right now... pity.

"Bad luck out there..." She sighed, "And you have your whole life ahead of you." The woman shook her head as she began to wash her hands. Though, Taylor couldn't recall seeing a stall used...

All she could say in response was, "Yeah." She hated how her voice sounded, all stuffy.

"Things will only get better, y'know?" The woman said, looking at her with a pleasant smile.

"...How?" Taylor replied, wondering where she was going with this.

The woman shrugged, and her smile brightened, "Nowhere to go but up."

Well, that was something losers only said when they had noplace else to go. But Taylor supposed that's what she was right now, a loser. No money, no home, no boyfriend - assuming the one she had survived prison.

Even still, it was somewhat... nice, knowing someone was on her side.

"Thanks," She muttered, "Miss um..."

"Ah, Catherine!" The woman said, holding out her hand. She'd give her this, her positivity was infectious, Taylor even felt one coming on herself.

Though as she reached her hand out, a stinging sensation struck her cheek, and she was suddenly met with a hard stall door, before collapsing onto the cold floor. Feeling herself shake, she looked up at the woman she thought to be an ally, who was now flexing her hand and wiping it on her leg like she'd just smacked a bug instead of a young woman.

Catherine glowered down at the shaken girl. In any other context, she might've pitied her, but this had been a long time coming.

"That's just a taste of what's to come," she said coldly, "they're much rougher in prison."

Taylor stared straight ahead at the wall before her, not wanting to face the woman as the tears began to well up again. The click of flats signified Catherine's leaving as she gave a final taunt,

"Yeah, only good things to come..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@kurocantcommunicate

Oh! I've never gotten a story before! I like it! Well done!

[princeinsomniavoid]

Love Languages

Part 2/4

Mentions of Blood, Implied Murder.

Service- ♦

Be Diamonds Droog =>

Your name is Diamonds Droog. You are currently standing in an alley outside of a burning building sighing as you hear the panicked shrieking of its former occupants working fruitlessly to put out the blaze. Beside you your cohort The Joker is bent over double, cackling at his knees like a mad man, which you privately suspect is his general disposition to a lack of contrary evidence. As he straightens back up after a few false starts, you cant help but notice that all the fracas and excitement has left him in quite a disarray vis-à-vis his clothing and general appearance. You wrinkle your nose in disdain.

“My my! That was quite an entertaining bout of 52 pick up!” he exclaims, “We should probably skedaddle before the cops arrive and turn it into a stick up!”

“Indeed.” You say, turning to face the mouth of the alleyway, “Deuce and Boxcars should be around with the car in a moment, as for Slick, I have the distinct feeling that he’ll be making his own way home-” Your sentence is punctuated by small explosion erupting from the already chaotic blaze, a barely audible yet menacing peal of raucous laughter following it, accompanied by yet more frightened screams. You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“I always appreciate a good blaze, though how this one started I am in a bit of a daze!” the Joker ponders.

“I believe it wouldn’t be too far of a reach to say it was Deuce’s fault. He did get up to use the bathroom right before the kitchen exploded…” You don’t want to be uncharitable, but Clubs Deuce could start a fire in a flooded aquarium. The Joker chuckles. You sigh. Looking down at your companion again your eyes narrow at their state of clothing. Their bow-tie is undone, vest wrinkled, the jacket around their shoulders askew and covered in dust, his face speckled with blood. Its unseemly and an offense to your sensibilities.

“Come here you.” you mutter, sharply grasping their shoulders and turning him to face you properly. You start with the jacket, snatching it deftly off their frame and patting the dust off it violently as if it were insulting you personally. Satisfied you kneel and reach for the buttons of their vest, to which you hear them titter with laughter.

“Oh my how forward of you, Droog! Normally its custom to ask a fella out to dinner first, how rude!” they tease. You roll your eyes.

“That didn’t even rhyme and you know it, Joker” you mutter, slipping off their vest and giving it a once over with a scoff, “Its no use, I’ll have to iron it.” you say despondently, tucking the garment over your arm. You go for his tie next, reforming the bow expertly, folding the fabric into place effortlessly, twisting it until it sits perfectly between his shirt collar. You also recenter the pin in his lapel for good measure.

“You try coming up with a rhyme on the spot then! I assure you it’s not-” You reach up and take the Joker’s chin in your hand, holding it easily between your index and thumb, turning his head up to look intently at his face. The suddenness and possibly even the intimacy of the movement silences the verse before the next syllable can be spoken. You hate to do this, but its short notice and you haven't got a glass of water or a handkerchief handy. You present the thumb of your other hand to your compatriot’s lips.

“Tongue out please.” You say simply. Stunned and face growing warm under your grip he complies. Pressing your digit to the exposed grey flesh you wet it with his spit and wordlessly swipe it across his cheek, scrubbing slightly at the carapace to wipe away the smears of already drying blood. He stares up at you dumbly, forgetting to close his mouth again. When you’re satisfied you straighten, draping the big overcoat the Joker uses for a cape back over their shoulders, wiping your now bloody thumb absently on their vest still slung over your arm. You look him up and down with some scrutiny, reaching down one more time to brush some more dust from off one of his shoulders before you are finally satisfied.

“There, that’s better.” you say, reaching into your pocket for your cigarettes. The Joker continues to stare up at you with a wide eyed expression, and for a moment you’re worried that maybe you’ve overstepped some boundary. As you open your mouth to ask however, his face rearranges itself into his signature wide grin, though this one notably has a giddy element to it.

“Wow…” He says, in an odd way, almost wistful if you aren’t mistaken, “That was very…” He interrupts himself with a dopey laugh, “Wow…” he finishes lamely. Ah. You flustered him. You feel the corners of your mouth twitch up and fail to resist the urge to rest a hand on his shoulder, which you feel them lean into. You hear the roar of a car engine and an abrupt honk as the DeSoto pulls up at the mouth of the alleyway.

“HEY! Yous mooks get the hell in tha’ car!” Booms the voice of Boxcars from the drivers side, a frantic Deuce in the passenger seat bouncing up and down excitedly.

“THEY CALLED THE COPS!” the little carapacian squeals. The two of you scramble over to the car and hop in without bothering to buckle your seat-belts. “WHAT ABOUT THE BOSS?” Deuce asks, turning to Boxcars, who has already hit the gas, speeding away towards home.

“He said ta’ go on without ‘im! Probably wants ta’ go fer a drink or somethin’” The big man replies. You nod with a sigh, that sounds like Slick alright. You’ll be sure to keep a look out for him back at the hideout. Absently you look down at the Joker’s vest, before feeling a sudden weight on your other arm. Your cohort having leaned up against your side as he looks out the car window back at the blazing house with a serene smile on his face. As the two in the front seat chatter back and forth with each other you feel yourself smiling too at the odd fellow clinging to you with sentiment. The drive home is soft and pink.

You Are No Longer Diamonds Droog.

[just-some-random-blogger]

[...] her eye is drawn to the Hand of the King. He is older than her by at least three decades, but he is refined, tall and ruggedly handsome.

dont let anyone stop meeting the grandpa of your dreams 🤩 also dont forget the wheelchair for your old man

He titters at her jokes and she is enamoured by the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles [...]

BESTIE WHAT YOU GOT HIM TWIRLING HIS HAIR AND GIGGLING? I- 💀💀💀💀 GAYUMA REVEAL (gayuma is like a magic spell love potion thing)

“I have not felt like this about a woman in years,” He tells her.

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀 IM SO SORRY THIS IS SO FUNNY

[...]and after a hastily put together ceremony in the Sept, Otto Hightower is her husband.

yn's dad losing 10 years of his life. dont worry yns dad,you've been retired, she's gotta new daddy now 🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦

He surprises her with his virility on their wedding night, wringing peak after peak from her pliant body, leaving her exhausted but with a satisfying ache between her thighs the following morning

ok daddy workin overtime huh gotta prove ya still got it ok i see you

Otto spoils her beyond comprehension, she wants for nothing and has the finest of everything; jewels from Lys, gowns of Myrish silk and lace, wines from the Arbor. He is diligent in keeping her sated in every aspect of their marriage.

“I have seen the way that you and Aemond look at each other, I am no fool.”

i can explain

“I do not mind,” He rises from the bed, pulling on a robe. “I wish for my darling wife to be satisfied, to have everything she desires, so I shall make it so.”

Arranging herself atop the bedspread, she relaxes knowing that he desires her just as much as she desires him. She beckons him to her with a crook of her finger. “Come now, don’t be shy.” He goes to her eagerly.

It is just one of the many perks of being Otto Hightower’s wife. He is nothing if not generous in every aspect of their marriage, and so dedicated to his family.

Would That I

Pairing: Otto Hightower x nameless femme Warnings: Smut, age gap, keeping it in the family. Word count: ~1.1k Summary: Otto makes sure his pretty, young wife has absolutely everything she desires. Based on this request.

She is smitten with Otto the moment she lays eyes on him. Arriving in King’s Landing she anticipates a week of uninteresting jousts and tedious formalities, but as she sits in the stands, thoroughly uninterested by the spectacle of the two knights charging towards each other on horseback, her eye is drawn to the Hand of the King. He is older than her by at least three decades, but he is refined, tall and ruggedly handsome. While the potential suitors within the capital are seemingly endless, none of them compare to Otto Hightower

Using every excuse within her arsenal over the coming days, she seizes all opportunities to see and speak to him, and is delighted to find he is every bit as charming as he is handsome. He titters at her jokes and she is enamoured by the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles, the green of his iris appearing to sparkle as he does so. His voice is deep, yet velvety smooth and she hangs on his every word. He is intelligent, diplomatic and sharp as Valyrian steel.

Her desire for him intensifies as the days press on, and emboldened by one too many cups of Dornish red following a feast one evening, she leans forward and presses her lips to his, her heart fluttering as she feels the warmth of his large palm cup her cheek as he returns the gesture.

“I have not felt like this about a woman in years,” He tells her.

She smiles at his words. She has not felt like this about a man ever.

There is no need for her to leave come the end of the week, King’s Landing is now her home, and after a hastily put together ceremony in the Sept, Otto Hightower is her husband.

He surprises her with his virility on their wedding night, wringing peak after peak from her pliant body, leaving her exhausted but with a satisfying ache between her thighs the following morning. Otto spoils her beyond comprehension, she wants for nothing and has the finest of everything; jewels from Lys, gowns of Myrish silk and lace, wines from the Arbor. He is diligent in keeping her sated in every aspect of their marriage.

It is obvious his daughter, Alicent, does not approve, though she does not say it, and who can blame her? She has to admit that she’d be annoyed too if her father chose to marry someone younger than his own daughter.

It is not Alicent’s silent disapproval that bothers her, however, it is how the ladies of the court love to gossip. It is not unusual in Westeros for men to wed women much younger than themselves, yet she finds herself at the center of all manner of prying questions regarding the nature of her marriage to Otto. She supposes it is because of the responsibility he holds as the King’s Hand.

“What is it you see in him?” One bold lady dares to ask.

She bites her lip, considering her answer. She longs to say that it sends a thrill through her body to wait upon her knees for him, gazing up at him as he presses the head of himself past her lips. Such talk would cause a scandal, however, so she gives a tight smile and says that he is tall.

“Surely that can’t be all?”

“No, he is handsome too,” She says wistfully, thinking about how he gazes up at her from between her thighs, the softness of his beard tickling her soft flesh, the sensation causing her to clench around nothing.

“Is he kind to you?”

“Oh, yes, Otto is extraordinarily generous!” There is a particular necklace that Otto insists she wears, with nothing else to accompany it, whenever they are alone in their marital chambers. It sits tight against her throat, adorned with emeralds that gleam in the same shade of green as the Hightower house colours. It likely cost a small fortune, but in his eyes nothing is too good for her, not when he is buried to the hilt inside of her.

“Is that your favourite quality of his?”

“No,” She muses. “I adore his dedication to his family.”

The combined heat from the fireplace and lit candles that sit upon every surface of the bedchamber make the room stiflingly hot. She feels sweat trickle down her neck, disappearing beneath the emerald choker that sits snugly around her neck, every green gemstone glittering in the dim light as she rolls her hips against Otto’s.

His grip on her waist is vice-like, every sensation heightened by warmth, as the length of him nudges against a spot inside of her that makes her tense with every undulation of her body. She feels taut, pulled tighter than a bow string until it eventually snaps, sending her headlong into oblivion, waves of ecstasy rolling through her as she collapses against her husband’s chest, triggering his own release.

His fingers stroke gently over her dampened skin as he holds her close. Already, renewed desire throbs between her legs.

“Are you satisfied, my dear?” Otto asks softly.

“I will never have enough of you, my love,” Comes her playful response.

“That is not quite what I had in mind.”

“Oh?” She lifts her head, eyeing him curiously.

“I have seen the way that you and Aemond look at each other, I am no fool.”

She laughs softly, shaking her head. “It is nothing, I can assure you.”

“I do not mind,” He rises from the bed, pulling on a robe. “I wish for my darling wife to be satisfied, to have everything she desires, so I shall make it so.”

He opens the chamber door, uttering “you can come in now” and her eyes widen in disbelief when she sees Otto’s second oldest grandson hovering in the doorway. It seems outrageous to her that he would suggest such a thing, yet she cannot deny the way it makes her pulse race.

“I shall be back in an hour.” Otto informs them both, before leaving.

She is too stunned to speak at first as she takes in the sight of Aemond. He seems stoic and unaffected in his demeanour, until she studies him more carefully. She takes in how his pupil is dilated with lust, the prominent bulge that presses against the lacings of his trousers, and the slight parting of his lips as he struggles to control his excited breaths.

Arranging herself atop the bedspread, she relaxes knowing that he desires her just as much as she desires him. She beckons him to her with a crook of her finger. “Come now, don’t be shy.” He goes to her eagerly.

It is just one of the many perks of being Otto Hightower’s wife. He is nothing if not generous in every aspect of their marriage, and so dedicated to his family.