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apparitionism · 2 years ago

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Alarm

This is a pointless AU one-shot. It goes on too long and is (as happens too often with my work lately) not fully baked. You’ll see why that’s ironic, or possibly just a bummer, if you read it... the initial idea here was wonderfully supplied by @typeytypeytypey , and all blame for screwing it up—or rather, for not realizing its full screwball potential—belongs on me. It took a turn away from the acerbic, toward the sweet (literally), and I couldn’t drive it out of that saccharine ditch. Also the pacing isn’t ideal... have I disclaimed enough yet? Now that I’ve done all I can to discourage engagement, I want to mention that I’ve lately seen some yelling on this site about how terrible it is to just put likes on posts and not reblog them. Tumblr users of course differ; me, I’m fine with however anybody chooses to interact with anything I post: like it, comment on it, reblog it, read it (or don’t) and move on. Also, lurkers are always welcome.

Alarm

BRAAAAAAP!! BRAAAAAAP!! BRAAAAAAP!!

The noise launched Myka Bering out of her bed in a full fight-or-flight adrenaline-swamped panic—smokealarm! smokealarm! smokealarm!—but no! smoke alarms! so many smoke alarms! all at once! there had to be so much fire! everything on fire! getoutgetoutgetout! No time to think; she grabbed the only thing that seemed in that instant essential to save, and she dashed for the door of her still-dark apartment, frantic to escape what had to be a devastating fire, and in the midst of her darkened scramble she heard someone banging on the door—firefighters, had to be firefighters, such a blessedly fast response, they would save her and the apartment too, please please please no devastation, and she flung open the door to see—

—a woman in an ivory silk dressing gown?

A beautiful woman in an ivory silk dressing gown. A beautiful angry woman (in an ivory silk dressing gown), one who yelled, “It is four o’clock in the morning!”

What did that matter in the middle of a fire?!? Myka grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to turn her around, to push her toward wherever safety could possibly be—where were the emergency stairs, they had to get to the emergency stairs, Why didn’t I memorize emergency exits, why why why??—“We have to get out!” Myka yelled above the din.

The woman wrested her body away from Myka, yelling back, “Don’t manhandle me! Why are you not fixing the situation!”

“It’s a fire! How am I supposed to fix a fire?”

“It is not a fire! All your smoke alarms are blaring but there is no smoke and where there is no smoke there is no fire unless it is electrical and in the walls and I would not put that past this godforsaken building but in that case the smoke alarms would be of no use whatsoever!” She swung her head around, looking for something, then exclaimed, with great exasperation, “Where is a chair!” The last word was hugely effortful; Myka watched the cords in the her neck work as she strained to outshout the earsplitting alarms.

I am looking at her neck because I’m relieved there isn’t a fire, which is a reason that makes perfect sense.

Myka tried to compose herself enough to explain, loudly, “I just moved in! All I have is folding chairs that I—” She found herself gesturing toward the living room, trying to explain it all in that gesture, trying to push or pull some sense into everything.

The woman, catching sight of Myka’s sad, unfolded folding chairs leaning against the far wall, stomped over to them, wrenched one open, marched to the kitchen smoke detector, flowed her way up onto the chair like she was made of the same silk as her dressing gown (which was gaping, but Myka was absolutely not doing the same), twisted the smoke detector from the wall—it fit easily in her hand, and how could such a small plastic thing generate so much terrible, painful sound?—tugged the back open, yanked the battery out, and then stood there, on the chair, glaring and glaring down at Myka as if marinating in her anger until she might choose to swoop down, as a hawk to an offensively elusive vole, or as an angel engaged in wreaking not god’s vengeance but her own.

“What are you doing!” Myka shouted, the cords in her own neck now struggling.

“What does it look like I’m doing!”

Hawks and angels. Myka bit her tongue.

The woman rolled her eyes at Myka’s failure to speak. “I’m resetting it so it won’t start screaming again when I put the battery back in! Go do the others!”

Myka realized she had acoustically discounted the remaining blare, despite its volume; now she scrambled to obey. Grabbing the other folding chair, hustling it into the hallway, trying to wrench and flow as the woman had, failing miserably, settling for an awkward wrestle and clamber followed by a snap-twist of latch that caught her fingertip in a way that made it scream too, she got the battery out of the appliance... but then she didn’t know what to do. She was devastatingly embarrassed by not knowing what to do, but her previous interactions with smoke detectors had been minimal at best.

She was no avenging angel, here on her chair, but rather a befuddled Neandertal: Do what with thing?

The woman, having flowed down from her own chair, demanded, “What are you doing!”

I’m having a nightmare. I’m turning every possible shade of red. I’m wishing the apartment really were on fire. “Resetting it!” she announced, resolving that she just wouldn’t put the battery back in until the woman left; she’d be able to look the device up then, so as to understand its components and their functions, and then everything would be fine, or maybe she could take the batteries out of all the alarms and risk fire in perpetuity so this hideously embarrassing situation would never happen again, but that would probably void her renters’ insurance, so she—

“Hand it over!” the woman commanded, now looking angrily up at Myka.

Myka did as she was told, noting her new view of the dressing gown. It gaped differently, seen from above. Was it problematic, the taking of such note? No, Myka told herself. Surely anyone, even in the midst of an alarm crisis, would be likely to make a technical comparison with regard to perspective.

“Now do the one in the bedroom!” the woman shouted, but sharply, like a finger-snap to a hypnotized subject. But she couldn’t have discerned what had semi-hypnotized Myka... could she?

Quit ordering me around, Myka felt herself begin to object internally, but that was nonsensical, for of course the woman had to order Myka around, because Myka was showing herself incapable of taking initiative with regard to even the most basic of actions... then again, she’d been jolted awake, into what she thought was an emergency... but then again, so had her beautiful, angry neighbor, and she was just fine.

Who in the world looked like that at four in the morning, anyway?

Myka did the one in the bedroom, standing on the bed to reach it, balancing on the edge of the mattress, stretching, grabbing at and just grasping it, collapsing gracelessly down but with the shrieking prize in her hand.

Compartment open—this time, at least, without pain—and battery out.

Silence shocked her ears.

But not for long: there came a new banging on the apartment’s front door, disrupting the hard-won peace.

Bearing the alarm in a careful hand, hoping it might find its heart so moved by her solicitude as to never again explode in anger, she hurried to answer the door. Ideally she would be able to defuse any more animosity by explaining to this next person disturbed by the noise, whom she prayed would be the last person disturbed by the noise, that the sonic crisis was over. Her rush was so headlong that she was almost unable to stop herself from smacking into the dressing-gowned woman, who was now... opening Myka’s door?

“—this racket!” a man was shouting as it opened. “Why’d it take so long to... hang on. Helena?”

“Hello, Nate,” the woman—Helena?—said.

“But this isn’t your apartment,” the man—Nate?—said.

“No,” Helena agreed.

“And it’s four in the morning,” he said, with clear implication.

“It is four-fifteen in the morning,” Helena disagreed.

“Right. So why are you...” He gestured at her dressing gown.

“Surely a woman may wear what she prefers, where she prefers, at any hour she prefers,” Helena said, and Myka did admire the hauteur of her tone. She did also agree with the sentiment. “Small mishap. Malfunctioning alarms. Hardly surprising in this building, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s not surprising. This is.” His accompanying gesture included Myka, who in the face of his contemptuous “this” felt herself turning even more red, having an even worse nightmare, wishing even harder for a devastating fire.

Helena shrugged, the movement dismaying the silk of the gown. “Your surprise is your own. But we’ve resolved the situation.” She crossed her arms. Myka imagined that provided no view at all, dressing-gown-wise.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” he asked, his gaze turning fully to Myka.

She did not like his gaze.

Another shrug from Helena, this one even more dismissive. “At this hour of the morning? I think not.”

He made a face that portended trouble, but he said, “Just... whatever. Cut the noise.” With a curt turn of heel, he walked—stalked—away.

Helena closed the door, then turned to face Myka.

“What just happened?” Myka asked. She had a reasonable idea, but more importantly, the interaction had humanized the angry issuer of commands. She wanted—needed—to hear what that less-harsh figure would say.

A wince. “You’ve been conscripted. I apologize.”

Myka hurried to say, “Please don’t; I’m the one who should be apologizing, and I am, because I clearly—”

“Yes, you should,” Helena interrupted, her tone slightly touchy. It sent Myka fully back into her embarrassment, particularly when Helena added, “How can you not know how smoke alarms work?”

Because I’m an idiot. Instead of articulating this obvious point, Myka questioned back, “What exactly have I been conscripted into?”

“Oh.” That was bleak, not touchy. “My attempts to rebuff his unwelcome advances.”

Myka’s reasonable idea had unfortunately been correct. “I guess telling him no hasn’t worked.”

“Not as yet,” Helena said, with an eyeroll of what was most likely extremely justified frustration.

“And you don’t mind that he thinks you and I...” Myka couldn’t say it. Out loud would have called it into being and that was... the phrase “too early” came to mind. “Too early”? For... what? She pushed the phrase aside—no, away. Fully away. What was she thinking? Unthinkable things.

Helena said, “I don’t mind at all.”

Myka had no idea how to take that. None whatsoever. Particularly because Helena had looked her up and down as she said it.... up and down... and it was then that a horror hit her: What am I wearing? Not an ivory silk dressing gown, that was certain. Myka closed her eyes, wished, then looked down at her body. Result: a T-shirt so old as to be embarrassingly thin. Shorts so short as to be embarrassingly... short. She tried to stop herself from picturing how absurdly ungroomed her slept-on hair must have looked. Tried and failed. Obviously her hair couldn’t possibly look anything but unhinged.

“Do you mind it?” Helena asked.

“Me?” Mired in her mortification, Myka could think only, How could I mind anyone getting the impression that someone who wears an ivory silk dressing gown actually chose to be with someone who doesn’t have the sense to retire her sleep shirts when they devolve into shabby attenuations that barely even qualify as gauze?

“Hand that one over too,” Helena said, but more gently now, with a soft beckoning hand.

“It’s okay,” Myka said. She didn’t want to return to the idea of her incompetence.

“Hand. It. Over.” Well, that was a return: to command.

It would at least spare Myka having to look everything up. At least tonight. No, this morning. Because it was four-fifteen in the morning; Helena had said so.

While Helena reset that last device, Myka tried to imagine how she might remedy the situation. What if I... make cookies for her? It’s what neighbors do, don’t they, if they’ve made some faux pas? I’ve always been pretty good at baking; can I bake my way out of this? But she didn’t want to overstep. She asked, “Are you turning him down because you have someone who—”

“Oh, no,” Helena said. “Not at all.”

Hmmm... delivering cookies is a way to get to know someone... maybe I can bake my way out of this, and even, who knows, into something, and maybe it isn’t too early to think—

“I’m far too busy for anything of the sort,” Helena continued. “I’m a pastry chef.”

No, I cannot bake my way out of this. Or into anything else. Early, late: Helena is far too busy for anything of the sort.

Helena went on, “I wouldn’t have been so put out about the noise, but the number of hours available to me for sleep is vanishingly small.”

I have to move out of this apartment as soon as humanly possible, Myka told herself. Maybe even transfer to a new city. Or I’ll die of embarrassment every time I see her, because there is no remedy.

“In any event, I do appreciate your willingness to masquerade as my paramour,” Helena said.

“I didn’t do a lot of masquerading,” Myka said, “just stood here. But I’m glad I could... help?”

Okay, I did accidentally participate in something helpful—that has to fall somewhere on the road to remedy. Maybe I won’t have to move after all.

Helena smiled, conspiratorial, as if she were pleased not only with the masquerade, but that she and Myka now shared a secret. I want to conspire with her, Myka thought, with a follow-on of: I am going to have to move away. Far, far away. Just to stop myself from imagining I could be her paramour.

“Next time perhaps a bit more quietly,” Helena said, then sylphed out the door, the dressing gown wafting in her wake like smoke itself, making no sound at all, as if providing an object lesson.

Myka, no doubt foolishly, fixated not on the lesson, but on two words: Next time.

****

Later that morning came a delicate knock on Myka’s door. Well, “later.” It was six-thirty.

She opened it to find Helena: fully dressed, but just as smoothly dazzling. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” she said in greeting. “And I need to know it, for I’ll need to use it. Nate will persist.”

Myka could have objected to the idea of this information being truly necessary at such a still-early hour, but she had to admit, if only internally, that there was a certain amount of pleasure to be had in seeing Helena again. Regardless of the hour. Regardless of the lack of dressing gown. “Myka,” she said. “Bering. What’s your last name? I might need to use it too, you know.” Then she dared, “Paramour.”

That won her a chuckle. “Wells. I’m pleased to meet you.”

“I don’t believe you,” Myka said.

“Believe it or not, but that is my last name. As for whether I’m pleased, I’d know better than you, wouldn’t I?” Helena Wells smiled. Then she turned away.

The brief interaction tantalized. Once again, Myka looked down at her own body, hoping against hope that she had risen to the occasion of Helena’s regard. She hadn’t, but at least her not-night T-shirt was less... revealing.

That evening—late, but not intrusively so—Helena came to her door yet again.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” she said. Her fingers were fidgety, surprisingly so, wringing and twisting.

Those fingers were immensely distracting. They pulled Myka’s attention, pulled and pulled, until she wrenched away to ask, “Is there?”

“When the alarms were blaring.” More hand motion, more twitch. “Why were you holding a large rock when you opened your door?”

“I...” Myka began. She had no good answer, so she stopped. She watched Helena’s hands some more.

“Did you expect to have to knock someone unconscious?” Helena asked.

“No. I was...” Myka gave up. “Saving it. From the fire.”

Helena tilted her head. “In the event of fire, you found it vital to save a rock? One of the few objects that would be likely to survive a fire unscathed?”

Had she recognized that, in the moment, it would have saved her from this embarrassing conversation. “I was disoriented,” Myka tried to explain. “The alarms were so loud.”

“I’m aware.” But with a smile.

“Right. Anyway that rock’s from right next to Yellowstone.”

Helena tilted again, now with a squint. “‘Right next to’? Is that significant?”

“You can’t rockhound in Yellowstone.”

A silence rested, through which Myka interrogated herself: Should I invite her in? To... do what, exactly? Enjoy the sound of silent fire alarms? Regard a rock from right next to Yellowstone?

“Should I conclude that you’re a rockhound?” Helena eventually asked.

Myka considered for a moment launching into the explicatory story: a family saga about Yellowstone, about trauma and time and reconciliation... but the hour was late. Helena had a vanishingly small number of such hours available to her for sleep. In truth, so did Myka. So she said, “Honestly? No. But I hold onto things.”

“In the event of fire.”

“In the event.” Myka had in fact been castigating herself about having seized upon the rock, and she voiced her rethinking: “I should have saved a manuscript instead.”

“So you’re a writer?” Helena drooped a bit as she said this, as if disappointed to learn it.

Could being a writer be that bad? Nevertheless Myka was glad to be able to reassure, “No, I’m in publishing. An acquisitions editor.”

Helena’s brow furrowed. The seriousness of it, the concentration, sent Myka’s knees near collapse. Just accept that her face is irresistible and move on, Myka told herself, even as Helena sighed and said, “Not so different from parts of my work, I suppose. Attempting to predict what the public will want to consume?”

“That sounds about right,” Myka agreed.

“The public: so difficult to please. Don’t bore them, but don’t surprise them in ways they’re unable or unwilling to appreciate.”

“That sounds exactly right,” Myka said.

Their interaction ended on that consonant note: their shared disdain for (and yet reliance on) the intransigent, demanding public. Myka wished they could have transitioned to a more-personal key... but if a professional consonance was what was available? She’d take it. At this point, having thought and accepted “irresistible,” when it came to any interaction with Helena... she’d take it.

****

Three days later, in what should have been the silent middle of the night:

BRAAAAAAP!! BRAAAAAAP!! BRAAAAAAP!!

No no no no no no no...

It was inevitable: the banging on the door—Helena’s exasperated face—her disarranged ivory silk—the clear accusation of a repeat—but it wasn’t, it wasn’t! “This isn’t what it looks like!” Myka declared in desperation. “I mean sounds like!” Not this interaction, not like this, not again!

“It sounds like a replay of Saturday!” Helena shouted.

“This time there’s smoke! I burned cookies!” How that compounded the sin: not only was she disturbing Helena’s ears yet again, she was wronging her profession. In what was of course the most offensive way possible.

“May I be of assistance!” Helena yelled.

“If you could get the kitchen alarm! I’ll do the others!”

The alarms were all three stopped, and far more efficiently this time. After resetting the one in the bedroom, Myka tried to reset her nerves as well. She returned to the kitchen, the atmosphere of which still smacked of sugar char, and braced herself for whatever Helena would do or say next.

The dressing-gowned pastry chef was regarding the blackened not-cookies with some skepticism. She looked up at Myka and said, “I was happy to help with the alarm, but I meant—genuinely, so don’t object—of assistance with the baking.”

“Usually I can do this,” Myka tried to explain... to protest. To explain/protest. “Not like you, of course, but like a normal person.” Well, that wasn’t right. “Like an amateur person. Anyway I don’t know what happened.”

She didn’t know. But she couldn’t help thinking, Did I subconsciously want this—want this—to happen?

An aggressive hammer on the door interrupted her wondering.

She opened the door. No surprise: Nate.

Helena interposed herself between Myka and the limen, saying an admirably unruffled, “Small mishap. Swiftly remedied.”

“Not swiftly enough,” he said, his eyes narrowing. His features were blunt, but his eyes could sharpen. “And this time I smell smoke.”

“That was the mishap. Slightly singed baked goods.” Helena’s tone was this time admirably blithe.

“You cook those for a living,” he accused, and Myka had to curb her impulse to interject an expiating babble of “not her doing, not her fault.”

“I was distracted,” Helena said, glancing back, pointedly, at Myka. “I’m sure you can imagine.”

He breathed and didn’t look at Myka. It was worse than his gaze. “Happens again, I’ll take measures,” he said.

When the door closed, Helena turned around. “He’ll take measures,” she mocked, her eyes sparkling—they were sharpened, too, yet warm—with glee.

“But I did disturb him,” Myka said. “Which means I disturbed your equilibrium. So I’m sorry. Again.”

Helena waved her hands, dismissive. The gown’s sleeves waved as gentle wings, enticingly angelic, this time with no threat of vengeance. Quit noticing what she’s wearing! Myka told herself, with desperation that was obviously pointless: she had no hope of heeding herself. “Don’t be sorry,” Helena said, and if only she could have been absolving Myka for her mental failings regarding... textiles. But she went on, “Me, I’m grateful. Again. If only for the hilarious impotence of ‘measures.’ And again, won’t you let me offer, in gratitude, my assistance with the biscuits? I’d hate for you to be deprived of your intended treat.”

“I wasn’t going to eat them,” Myka admitted, and continued, “I don’t really eat sugar.” Foolish continuation. And clearly yet another insult to Helena’s profession. Great. “I was going to take them to work. Which is I guess funny, because the whole reason I started making them was to do something productive that wasn’t work.”

“Productive,” Helena said, making the word a rumination.

“I should’ve cleaned the kitchen instead of filling it with smoke,” Myka gloomed. “You’d still be asleep, and I’d be admiring my reflection in my shiny cooktop.” Wait, that sounded vain. “Really, just admiring the cooktop. It’s really shiny when it’s clean.”

“Predicting the results of productive efforts is hardly an exact science,” Helena said.

“Are you saying you think I would have had some cleaning-product accident?”

Helena left that alone. “In any event, you produced my presence also.”

Myka was thus returned to wondering what her real intent had been.

“And reinforced our masquerade,” Helena added.

Myka was then thus caught, a bit stickily, in thoughts about that masquerade.

After a moment, Helena said, “If you don’t need—or want—my help, then I’ll withdraw.”

Did Myka need Helena’s help? No. But thinking on the idea of this chef, this wee-hours angel, working for some little while in Myka’s kitchen... did she want Helena’s help? Without question. “Wait,” Myka said. “I really was going to take them to work, so...”

Helena’s eyebrows rose, as did the corners of her mouth. “So my help could redound to your coworkers’ benefit?”

“I’m still new. I was thinking cookies might go a long way,” Myka said.

“Let’s impress them,” Helena said, with a wolf-smile that gave Myka a genuine shiver.

Together, they made a new batch of chocolate cookies, using a recipe involving cayenne pepper that Helena said had been popular at the restaurant in the past.

Myka suspected that the additional layer of flavor was something Helena concluded was necessary based on the unsophisticated ingredients in her pantry... so she said many variations on “sorry” for the quality of her cocoa powder, her chocolate, her butter, eggs, everything. There was probably such a thing as premium baking soda, too, and she wished she’d had the foresight to acquire some.

“No need to apologize,” Helena said, “because it’s my turn to do so, and to confess: this little bite is a favorite of mine, but it might not truly impress. Chocolate and pepper, in a sweet preparation... it’s a bit passé now in the restaurant world.”

“Insufficient surprise?” Myka offered.

“Correct. On the other hand, diners did seem to enjoy these. Enough cayenne to register on the palate, not enough to truly heat.”

That struck Myka as an apt description of how she was caught by Helena... but of course registering something, some attraction, some affinity, might never rise to the level of palpable heat.

“I’d ask you to try one,” Helena said, “simply to test. But you don’t eat sugar.”

“I never said I don’t make exceptions.” Myka lifted a cookie from the cooling rack. It was less weighty in her hand than she’d expected. The aroma itself was filling: dark, deep. Then she bit. A sinking texture, thick yet velvet, dissolving in her mouth, and the flavor—there were notes, the bass of the chocolate contrasting with the high sharpness of the pepper; yet at the same time, the red-pepper warmth sang against, without drowning out, a bitter, standoffish chocolate counterpoint. “This is an exceptional cookie,” she said. She had never before in her life uttered that sentence.

Helena gave a satisfied nod. “Your reception suggests they might catch fire again,” she said. “Perhaps I could rename them for interest... what do you think of ‘midnight biscuits’?”

“Catch fire,” Myka deadpanned, to which Helena gave a swift smile. “But also, it’s after two.”

“An ‘after two’ biscuit? Shouldn’t you of all people understand the importance of a vivid title?”

“Midnight is more evocative,” Myka conceded. Its evocative nature made her think even more inappropriate thoughts about the dressing-gowned pastry chef who was now regarding actual cookies with great satisfaction. After two in the morning. “You should go,” she said, then heard herself. What a terrible thing to say to such a good Samaritan. Such a good and beautiful Samaritan. “Because of sleeping, I mean. That’s why.”

“Sleeping,” Helena said. “So often the why.”

But she must have agreed with Myka’s “should,” for she then took her leave.

****

Myka’s coworkers, and particularly her department’s podcast maven, Claudia Donovan, fell over themselves praising Myka’s culinary skills. “Not mine,” she felt compelled, and also proud, to say. “My pastry-chef neighbor.” The privilege of saying so thrilled her. The privilege of being exhausted today because she had played sous-chef to that neighbor through the greater part of the night thrilled her also.

“I’m marrying her,” Claudia declared.

Oh no you’re not, Myka snapped internally, but she stopped herself from articulating the thought. While she was pretty sure Claudia in fact had no chance of doing any such thing (certainly not if Myka had anything to do with Helena’s marriage situation, which of course she wouldn’t), in any case saying so wasn’t really functional as a response to appreciation for Helena’s work.

“I’ll let her know,” she said instead.

****

Myka had told Claudia she would deliver that message, so she felt justified in waiting until she heard Helena arrive home that night, then knocking on her door: reporting on the cookie reception was an obligation. If she had really just wanted another chance to talk to—or even just look at—Helena... well, there was nothing wrong with that, was there? Surely not, not in that instant between when Helena got home and when she retired. For the vanishingly small number of hours available to her for sleep.

“The cookies were a huge hit. You got a marriage proposal,” Myka said.

Helena seemed pleased that she had opened her door to Myka, and to that news. “Well,” she said. “Perhaps midnight biscuits belong on the menu after all.”

“Are you looking for proposals?” Myka asked, daring at something like flirty.

“That depends on the proposer,” Helena said.

Had that been flirty back? Myka couldn’t tell, so she reverted to reality. “Claudia—the proposer—seems like a good person. Young, though.”

“I do prefer a bit of maturity in my wives.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Myka said. She tried not to wish she could inhale it back for being too bold.

Helena didn’t seem to find it so, for she said, “I have a report of my own. Not quite so exciting as a proposal, I’m afraid, but: the masquerade seems to be having an effect.” Her voice changed from (possibly?) flirty to delighted. “I ran into Nate in the elevator, and I was able to deploy your name, ever so casually. I also told him you’re a publishing executive.”

“Acquisitions editor,” Myka corrected, but with delight of her own, to have contributed to such obvious happiness.

Helena offered her a nondismissive shrug. “Tomahto, tomayto. I couldn’t call the correct title to mind in the moment.”

“I appreciate that you gave me a promotion,” Myka said, and that was where they left it, with Helena smiling at Myka’s appreciation.

****

Time moved forward, as it could not help but do. As it did, Myka began to understand, as vague perceptions accumulated into knowledge, that Helena was increasingly inclined to make little physical accommodations to support the Nate situation. He would catch sight of them—from across the lobby, or in the hallway—and in that event, Helena would move closer.

In response, Myka moved closer too.

Little accommodations, yes, but also, little progresses: that was how Myka, with spasms of hope and desire, came to read them.

But nothing seemed to push those progresses into progress. Not of the sort Myka had begun to crave.

****

One completely undistinguished evening, Myka and Helena arrived home at the building at the same very late—or was it early?—hour. They nodded at each other wearily and stepped into the elevator, their mutual fatigue permitting no words, just a shared slump of exhaustion.

The door was closing, its soft whoosh almost complete, when a hand stopped it. The reverse whoosh, louder: it revealed Nate.

He heaved an aggrieved sigh.

At that, Helena moved to Myka, moved closer than she had ever been, and was that closing of distance a cloak—more masquerade—or was Nate’s presence an excuse? Myka hoped, hoped, hoped for the latter, but her body asserted Who cares? The intimacy of Helena’s face turned into Myka’s neck, that hot breath, right there, that was all that mattered.

Smoke alarms? All the alarms. Was it a problem, him looking on, for this first (maybe only, maybe never to be repeated) intimacy? Myka rejected any idea of difficulty, for her body and Helena’s were warm together, warm and strong. He was erased from the space, gone, gone, gone.

On their floor, Nate exited the elevator first, but Myka wished he had not—wished that she and Helena would need to keep up the physical pretense as they walked down the hall, for as long as his eyes might follow them. Even without the pretext, she couldn’t bring herself to be the one to pull away, but so concentrated were her thoughts on prolonging the closeness for a few precious seconds more that it took her those seconds to become aware that she wasn’t the only one clinging: Helena kept her proximity too.

Only as the door began to close did Helena move away, presumably to arrest its slide so they could escape this small box that had hosted their masquerade theater. Myka resigned herself to making a memory of it: she pressed her cheek here; my pulse jumped to meet her skin thus. But should she allow herself to relive it, once made, or should she try to hide it from herself?

So concentrated, now, were her thoughts on that decision point that it took her some seconds to see that the elevator door had closed.

Closed, and Myka was not alone.

Closed, and the elevator was not moving.

Closed, and Helena was leaning back against that door, regarding Myka. Regarding and breathing, the moment suspended—had she managed to stop time?

“What are you doing?” Myka asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

Hawks and angels.

Helena moved closer again to Myka, and her mouth took up residence again at Myka’s neck. Took up residence... and began to move.

“You’re far too busy for anything of the sort,” Myka reminded Helena, and herself as well—tried to remind herself, because elevators and time could not remain stopped forever.

“So are you,” Helena said, each word a warm exhale. She raised her head to meet Myka’s eyes and said, “Publishing executive.”

“Acquisitions editor.” It had become a joke. They had a joke. They had smoke alarms and a joke.

And midnight cookies... but Myka’s insecurity got the better of her. “What we have. So far. Is it enough?” she asked aloud. “To start something?”

Helena moved her head against Myka’s neck, a gentle up-down, up-down. “We could do with more time in each day, but I’d say we’re reasonably well acquainted. And I can’t help myself—I find you devastatingly attractive.”

Well. That was new—and very nearly unbelievable—information. “You do?”

Helena stepped back and spread her arms in what was clearly meant as “of course.” She said, “Haven’t you noticed that I continue trying to find ways to spend time in your presence?”

Myka wanted to believe it, but she balked. “I thought that had more to do with the way I can’t control my... smoke alarms.”

Helena tossed her head. So dramatic... so devastatingly attractive. “You didn’t discern my delight at that second alarm event? My relief that it afforded me an excuse to ‘storm’ your door once again, given that I’d exhausted my questions?”

The idea of Helena’s delight charmed Myka, but also confused her. “Exhausted your questions? You asked me my name. And then the next time you asked why I was holding a rock.”

“Precisely! And then you destroyed me by volunteering your profession! I’d intended that to be my next conversational gambit, and I couldn’t think of anything else. I’m not imaginative.”

“You create for a living,” Myka said, but then winced at her inadvertent echo of Nate... she hoped Helena wouldn’t hold it against her.

Apparently not, for Helena was busy exclaiming, “Categories! Are you a madeleine?

“Am I a... oh. The cookie.”

“Yes. But more of a cake, in fact.”

“Categories,” Myka conceded.

“Yes.”

“I find you devastatingly attractive too,” Myka said, and that was no concession.

“I worried that you found me pushy. Taking up residence on your folding chairs.”

“You were pushy. But it was justified. Besides, if you hadn’t been, would we be here right now?”

“It’s fairly likely we would be here,” Helena said.

“Really? You think we’re destined or something?”

“Here in the elevator,” Helena said, with a sweet little moue. “Neither one of us tends to take the stairs.”

A tiny-twist joke. It twisted Myka’s heart. “And you say you aren’t imaginative,” she accused.

“I’m not. I can’t imagine taking the stairs when there’s an elevator.” But then, clearly discarding any vestige of joke, she was moving toward Myka again, as the temperature in their little theater-box rose, and as a culminating meeting of lips was at last absolutely inevita—

BRAAAAAAP!! BRAAAAAAP!! BRAAAAAAP!!

Helena stopped moving.

Myka said, “That’s coming from my apartment. Isn’t it.” Because of course it was.

“Fitting. Ignore it.”

“You know who’ll complain.”

“Mister ‘Measures.’” Helena tossed her shoulders, as if she could throw Nate entirely away. “Fine. But I’m holding my thought.”

Threat or promise? Obviously both.

Nate was lingering in the hallway. “Why were you still on the elevator?” he asked.

“Small mishap with the doors,” Helena smoothed. “But wouldn’t you prefer we concentrate on stopping the noise?”

“I guess, but—”

Myka interrupted, “We’re really in a hurry.”

“To get away from you,” Helena said, not quite sotto voce.

Myka said, to drown that out, “Alarms to reset!” And she hustled Helena into her apartment, both because of that reset need and because she was desperate, now, to get Helena into a space of real privacy.

Once in the apartment, they performed their established alarm-silencing choreography: Helena in the kitchen, Myka in the hallway and bedroom. She lingered for a moment, there in the bedroom, toying with the idea that Helena might be moved to join her if she just waited long enough... but no Helena presence was forthcoming.

Myka went back to the kitchen, where Helena gestured accusingly at what she had had to use to reach the alarm, saying, “Do you ever intend to purchase real chairs?”

“These are totally functional! As you know.”

“For emergency interventions, certainly. But just as certainly, you need decent chairs. These can’t be comfortable for sitting.”

“I haven’t really used them for that,” Myka said.

“You don’t sit?”

“Not... as an activity.”

Helena sniffed. “In my profession, we encourage sitting.” She tilted her head: a reconsideration. “Well, for as long as ordering continues. After that, we discourage it.”

“So you’re saying sitting is situational,” Myka tried. She was extremely unsure about what was happening, and what should be happening.

“I suppose I’m saying that sitting is—wait. Why are we having this conversation?”

“You started it,” Myka reminded her.

Helena said nothing, for a moment that stretched.

Was she now questioning the certainty she’d exhibited—no, seemed to have exhibited—in the elevator? Had it been more of a theater-box than either of them had initially umderstood?

If they really wanted to lunge at each other, here as they stood and stared and breathed, they would have done that. They would already have lunged. The impulses from the elevator—to cling, to continue—were evaporating, evanescing into a silence both delicate and intimidating.

Into that silence, with what she hoped was sufficient delicacy, Myka placed the least threatening, most tangible thing she could think of. “We could make cookies,” she said.

The suggestion seemed to give Helena new life. She began to chef her way around Myka’s kitchen, as she had so many midnights ago, and Myka supposed she could settle, if she had to, for this choreography becoming as familiar as their alarm ballet.

But in fact the cookie routine ended prematurely, because:

“You bought new chocolate,” Helena said as she extracted it from the pantry. “Expensive chocolate.”

“I had hopes,” Myka said. “I was pretty sure they were unrealistic, but I had them. I wanted to impress you.”

And that was apparently enough to bring Helena’s thought, the one she had said she would hold, right back. She moved to Myka, more quickly even than on the elevator, and didn’t bother with words: it was that first, inevitable kiss.

The irate dressing-gowned woman was now someone Myka was kissing. Like they were destined or something. Their hands were on each other, moving in ways that spoke of intent... spoke of heat... wait, heat...

“I think we have a problem,” Myka said. Because the temperature was rising. Everything was rising.

“That was an exceptional kiss,” Helena told her. “Unless you disagree, I don’t see what the problem could be.”

Helena’s words were crisp, yet her eyes were dreamy. Myka wanted to dream with her, but... “Do you know how smoke detectors work?” she asked. “Not just how to shut them up, but how they really work?”

“By detecting smoke, I presume.” Slightly less dreamy.

“You’d think,” Myka said. “But not really. They have an electrical current flowing through them, and any disruption in that current sets them off. Smoke does that, but they don’t know it’s smoke.”

“I’m failing to see how this is relevant,” Helena said, with an edge, like she might lose the dream.

“Anything that’s heavy in the air can do the disrupting,” Myka said, in what she hoped would be a dream-saving explanation, “and I don’t want anything to—”

Helena’s face turned unreadable, with neither edge nor dream. But then she kissed Myka—second kiss, not inevitable, but welcome and warm—and after a moment moved her mouth to Myka’s ear, whispering low and, yes, heavy, “Batteries out?”

How was it possible that out of every utterance meaningful in English or any other language, those were the most arousing words Myka had ever heard?

They did the choreography again—but together at each station.

Helena fake-glared down at Myka from the chair in the kitchen.

Myka laughed up at her. No dressing gown, but the perspective was a new reward: This feels good.

After the next step: “Do you want me to hand it over?” she asked—teased—as she stood on the chair in the hallway.

“I want you to pocket that battery and move on as quickly as possible,” Helena said, so Myka did. That felt good too.

The sequence ended, of course, in the bedroom.

Myka would have regretted the awkwardness of her clamber onto the bed, her reach for the alarm, her equally clumsy descent, but... there Helena was. In her bedroom.

Facing battery-laden Myka.

Not saying anything.

“I’m just going to put all these down,” Myka said of the 9-volts. Which she did. Why do I have a dresser, onto which I can place batteries, but no chairs? “You’re right,” she said to Helena. “I need real chairs.”

Helena looked down at the batteries, then back up at Myka. “This minute?” She pointed at the object next to which the batteries lay. “Bear in mind that if you say yes, I will set fire to this Yellowstone-adjacent rock to which you are so attached.”

“It’ll survive unscathed,” Myka noted. She smiled as she recalled that mesmerizing hand-twisting, that fidgeting. She wished, now, she had been able to read that as the tell it was.

“Fine,” Helena said, smiling back. “I’ll knock you unconscious with it instead. I repeat: this minute?”

Everyone was smiling. It felt fantastic. “To hear you tell it,” Myka said with a shrug.

“You heard wrong.”

“I do that a lot. On the other hand, you heard right.”

An eyebrow. “Did I?”

“The alarms, that first time. You knew there wasn’t a fire.”

Helena offered a “yes I wisely did” hand, then said, “But is there one now? Bear in mind that if you say no, the previously articulated consequence applies.”

“Well, there’s no smoke...”

Helena picked up the rock.

“On the other hand,” Myka hurried to say, “a philosopher once told me ‘where there is no smoke there is no fire unless it is electrical.’ Does that work as a metaphor here?”

“I’d think a publishing executive would have some insight into metaphor.”

“Unfortunately I’m just an acquisitions editor,” Myka said. She paused—and this was a savory pause, a fine one—looking at Helena, knowing something was about to happen—electric, electricity, electrical. No smoke, but fire. “Do you think we’ll survive unscathed?”

Helena shook her head, causing her hair to shift and shimmer and murmur like a miracle. She kissed Myka again, this third time a clear and present charm, and said—threat and promise again—“I certainly hope not.”

END

P.S. I may put up some outtakes from this thing later on this week. I threw a lot of landings at it to see what would stick, and while I’m not fully satisfied with how it does land, I think this is better than the other options... but mileage and varying and whatnot.

P.P.S. I know others have written Helena as a pastry chef, and I hope it’s clear that I’m not trying to encroach on that territory—I just wanted the “I can’t bake my way out of this” joke, plus the burned cookies later, plus some stuff that’s part of the outtakes. This Helena is, I think, relevantly different from others of similar profession, but if I’ve inadvertently overlapped with anybody else’s work, I hope someone will let me know, and I’ll revise as necessary.

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Alarm #AU week #consider this a minor variation on the theme of 'they will always find each other'#anyway the universe can be insistent #and sometimes very loud #but it's important to pay attention #both to the shouts and to the hints #given that designs rarely seem as obvious from inside the snowglobe #as they do from the outside

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sylverstorms · 4 years ago

Text

Cassandra x Maiden ----Anonymity Ch. 8

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7

It has come to a point where you can’t even pretend to yourself that you don’t care for her.

All the time you spend with Cassandra every evening has made certain feelings impossible to deny, though you are too scared to name them all.

You don’t name the smile you can’t contain when she excitedly pulls you to the armory to show you her collection of blades –and explains, in a very animated fashion, about the optimal use for each one. You don’t want to know what the stutter in your heartbeat means, every time she genuinely laughs, pale neck thrown back, nose slightly scrunched and all.

And it’s not just Cassandra you grow a tad closer to.

Bela comes to you whenever the two of them have argued and goes ‘Tell my sister’ this or that. Daniela is apparently not allowed within a twenty meter radius of you, but she approaches to poke and prod at you whenever she wants to annoy Cassandra. She never manages to do either, because the middle sister always swoops in, fuming, dragging her away by the hood of her robes like a kitten.

Lady Dimitrescu is the only one as distant as the day you first saw her –and it’s probably for the better. You don’t see her much, anyway, not with how Cassandra takes you to empty castle wings to have you all to herself.

Tonight is different.

After dinner, Bela leaves with her mother and you go to help the other maids present clean the table. But your lover steps in the way and grabs your elbow, instead, hurriedly pulling you along.

“Do not tell me you’re seriously thinking to make me wait longer.” she says.

Of course, you promised to watch a movie you found on your phone with her and she’s been buzzing with impatience since.

That is, until a certain redhead blocks your way.

“Daniela, move.” Cassandra huffs.

“What are you doing? Take me with you.” the younger sister replies, brimming with childlike curiosity.

“No. Go bother Bela.” A shooing motion is made.

“Bela’s no fun. I wanna come with you and Alexia.” she drops your name so casually it’s startling.

“Wait give me a moment to think about it –moment over. No.” Cassandra states, fast.

But Daniela shoots forward and grabs your arm like a koala. Your eyes go wide at the same time as Cassandra’s, for different reasons.

The brunette immediately grips her sister’s robes, none-too-gently. “Don’t touch her, she’s mine!”

“If you don’t take me along I’m telling mother where you found that music player and phone!” Daniela answers, her hold enough to cut off your blood flow.

You send Cassandra a pleading look before they break your arms with how they’re tugging at you.

“On one condition.” the elder sister holds a finger up to her sibling’s face. “You sit next to me and you don’t move around.”

“…she’s warm, though.” Daniela says, all but pouting. “Mother says sharing is caring~”

“Find your own human.” Cassandra growls out as the three of you make your way to the main hall and the couch adjacent to the fireplace there.

“You and Bela have gotten the prettier ones!”

“You snooze, you lose.”

Cassandra quite literally pins you to the arm of the couch with her body, to keep Daniela as far away from you as possible. Even as the movie starts, you can feel her sulking by your neck for not being able to touch you the way she wants.

You are not as focused on the movie as you are cute way she plays with your hand throughout its duration.

It’s getting harder and harder to remind yourself of what they are.

Especially when, ten minutes after the credits have rolled, Daniela is still crying over the death of the protagonist. Even Bela comes to the hall and asks Cassandra what she did to her.

By the time she’s done dealing with her sisters, your lover comes to you sporting a headache.

“We’re leaving this wing right now.” Cassandra says and that is about all the warning you get.

The next second you feel a rush of air and your stomach leaping to where your heart is supposed to be; Your eyes only make out a blur and an augur of black flies.

When she comes to a halt you crash into Cassandra’s side with a gasp. Your arm aches from the pull. The world spins for ten solid seconds.

She laughs by your ear. Low and satisfied as it is at your disorientation –it reminds you of drinking wine by a fire in the heart of winter— you can’t help but bask in the timbre of her voice so close.

“Ugh, why is it so cold in here?” she complains in that same quiet tone you love.

It is very cold compared to the more lived in parts of the castle, but your body is warm enough from your sustained proximity and the rush of adrenaline she always causes in you.

“Oh, well, I can bear it for a little while if it means we won’t be interrupted.” Cassandra trails off and lifts your chin with a chilled finger.

Your lips meet and slide together in a practiced tango. Her manicured nails run over your throat and shoulders, making you shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with the temperature.

Both of you are starting to get really into it when Cassandra walks you back into the nearest wall. It happens to be a window, covered by a flimsy curtain. You have half a mind to realize it’s probably been forgotten slightly ajar, judging from the frost that graces your shoulder, but you have more important matters to focus on, like the brush of her tongue over your bottom lip.

Until Cassandra braces her bare hand over the unseen opening, to box you in like she usually does.

And-

She shrieks.

She jerks away so powerfully her back crash-lands into the painting on the far wall, knocking it down with its frame broken. You’re left there still and mute, watching in frozen horror as her face distorts into pure, raw anguish.

“Shut it!” Cassandra screams at you. “Shut it now, now!”

Your nerves suddenly kick into overdrive and you pull the window closed like your life depends on it.

What just… happened...?

In slow, cautious steps, you approach her. She’s clutching her hand like a wounded animal, baring its teeth to hide its vulnerability. It is the first time you see her like this. Void of control, bent over in hurt. Gasping.

Something in your chest breaks.

You look at her hand, to find her pale skin nearly crystallized, grey and breaking apart —like cheap china, like weak porcelain— into flies that drop to the floor, faintly twitching.

You thought… you thought they could just control the insects. That dissipating into swarms was just a trick allowed by their mutation. But now you realize, the flies are her body.

All this time trapped under the looming terror of the daughters… and escape was as easy as opening a window on them.

“Cassandra…?” you ask in a wavering voice when the initial burst of rage leaves her form.

She looks up at you, torn, when you hear the heavy sound of heels rapidly approaching.

“Cassandra?!” a different voice calls, this time, deep and authoritative. When Lady Dimitrescu rounds the corner in her immense height, your instincts scream to run.

But one look at Cassandra makes you stay.

Alcina halts for a moment to take in the scene. Then her lips curl downwards and bladed claws extend from her gloves, easily half your body in length.

Oh my… God…

“What did you do to my daughter?!” she demands and advances on you, but Cassandra gets in front of you before she can truly threaten your life.

“I brought her here, mother. It’s my fault.” she hurries to explain.

Alcina stares at you like she wants to crush you underfoot… but then softens, somewhat, at the look her daughter is giving her.

“Come with me. Now.” She says in a stern motherly tone that leaves no room for objections.

You clutch Cassandra’s uninjured hand, silently asking if she’ll be alright. She turns, looks at you for a moment, then nudges your head with hers.

“...I’ll see you later, Alexia.”

But, as it turns out... “later” is subjective.

In Alcina’s Private Chambers…

It is not often that Cassandra is reprimanded by herself.

She has never before been the only one at fault. She’s used to having her sisters beside her while Alcina scolds the three of them… except this time they’re outside the closed door and she is there to face their mother’s ire alone.

She can’t stay still under that yellowish-grey, narrowed gaze. Her fingers fidget with the edge of her robes’ sleeve to keep occupied, while Alcina takes that deep, calming breath she knows heralds no good things. Ever.

“Cassandra. Do you understand the severity of the situation?”

“Yes, mother.” She keeps her gaze downcast.

“Even if the maid didn’t harm you on purpose, she now knows your weakness. Yours and your sisters’. You were careless to allow this.” Cassandra feels anxiety rise up from the pit of her stomach and threaten to swallow her whole at that tone.

“I know, mother. Forgive me.” she replies quietly.

She wants to say that Alexia won’t use this knowledge against any of them, but she cannot bring herself to lie to Alcina. Because the truth is, Cassandra doesn’t know for a fact that she will not.

Why was that window open? Why?!

“You didn’t let me fix your mistake. I assume that means you will do it yourself?” her mother asks and Cassandra’s gaze snaps up.

What…?

At first, the temptation to chain Alexia up and watch as her blood drained from her lithe body had been sweet and strong. But now, at the thought of killing her –losing her— in whichever way, Cassandra is sick to her stomach. It is strange, because she feels like she is hyperventilating when she isn’t breathing at all and the world has tilted and—

Please don’t.

“Since when did you ever hesitate to kill, Cassandra?”

“…If.. that is what you ask of me…” she replies but she doesn’t sound like herself at all, not even to her own ears.

“How can I ask that of you and break your heart?” Alcina throws her arms up in exasperation. “I should have stopped this months ago but I thought it a fleeting fancy. I never imagined you would end up so attached.”

“I’m- I’m not-” she tries to protest, but her mother is having none of it.

“You’re not? You’re with her every day and she barely sports scratches anymore. Your eyes follow her everywhere when she’s in the same room. You instinctively lean closer whenever she comes over to refill your wine. Do you think I do not notice?” Of course. Of course she noticed.

Cassandra swallows, silent.

The memory of laying, too weak to move a single finger, on her deathbed along with Bela and Daniela pierces through Cassandra’s brain like a bullet. Her hand gives a violent spasm and flies break off to buzz frantically around her as she drops her forehead into her palm.

She’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown and it’s just so difficult without her sisters there. They’ve always been together, since the very beginning.

They were born together, learned to control their powers together, they died together-

Alcina is on one knee in front of her the next millisecond, stroking her hair and gathering her into her arms.

“Shh, calm down, my love.” she coos. “I’m sorry to be so harsh on you. I only want the best for you three.”

Cassandra doesn’t talk because she can’t, because she cannot wrap her head around what that flash inside her brain was.

“Oh, my Cassandra. I will not harm the maid if it will harm you, too.”

She waits for the eventual ‘but’.

“But I cannot let this dalliance continue any longer.”

It’s probably for the best. Her mother knows best. It is true, after all, that she has not been acting like herself, lately. So, yes, this decision is for her own good.

But.

Cassandra’s heart has the same reaction upon hearing it as being exposed to sub-zero winter air.

#Cassandra Dimitrescu #Cassandra Dimitrescu x oc #bela dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu #resident evil village #where the baby of the family is baby #and Alcina is a mother hen to her three chicks #and she KNOWS #mothers know everything #fanfiction

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bastillia · 4 years ago

Text

Loyalties Lie

AO3 Mirror

Summary: You're a bartender in a Lothal cantina, living a quiet life in the Outer Rim after the fall of the Empire. You can't help but wonder what more might be out there for you. One dangerous guest in particular keeps catching your eye. Unfortunately, you've also caught his.

Rating: E

Words: 6.1k

Warnings: possibly mild dubcon, threats with a weapon, rough sex, verbal degradation, mentions of alcohol, cumplay, Boba Fett has a 24oz monster can dick and he knows how to use it.

A/N: Remember when I said I had a Boba Fett WIP laying around like, months ago? Well guess who showed up in Mando S2 with a sexy dad bod and the fattest dick in the galaxy to overhaul my dreams and make them a reality. Fuck me. Yes this is the first thing I’ve written in months hi I’m still here. No I don’t know how many chapters this will be. I live in hell. Welcome. Thank you to @kylorengarbagedump for graciously beta reading and listening to me literally scream about this man all the time. Love y’all so much PLEASE ENJOY.

It’s the kind of night that hums.

Like a moonlit Lothal prairie, quiet and alive somewhere beyond the outskirts of town. Except that in here, the crickets swoop past your bar to buy shots, and the stars fall steadily to become the lovely tink of credits in your tip jar. The twin moons are shifting hues of neon light, and time seems to stroll by, like it has nowhere better to be.

Tonight has been steady.

It’s not busy enough tonight to challenge you, but not slow enough to let you rest. Your guard is up, as it always is when you’re behind the bar. But your hold on it can afford to be loose.

Tonight has been…

Boring.

No brawls, no assassinations, not even a drunken paw fumbling across the bar towards your tits, attached to some overly rowdy patron who you then get to watch with quiet glee as they’re dragged out by the ears. No, in fact, it’s hard to remember the last time something remotely interesting happened around here. So much for the Outer Rim’s rugged reputation. You hate to say you miss the Empire’s occupation from time to time. But at least it brought nightly intrigue.

Tonight, your guests are especially calm and happy, lulled by liquor and the easy flow of conversation, murmurs blending like a stream through the grassland. And you suppose you shouldn’t complain. You’ve more than earned your keep for the night, and then some. Best of all, your boss has no reason to be breathing down your neck.

In fact, he’s happy, too, you note when the Lasat’s bellowing business-laugh resounds overtop a few flutes of spotchka, glowing inside a booth across the room. You pass a cloth around the rim of a clean glass, feeling a tickle of interest as to who he might be schmoozing this time. When you glance up, you can just make out a pair of well-dressed Rodians seated across from him through the leisure-thick air of the cantina, nudging each other and laughing at whatever witty, schmoozy thing he just said.

A soft snort puffs through your nose. At least Dakk is a predictable man, if nothing else. Must be rich folk, probably well connected. Good. You’ll get no help tonight, but at least he will be occupied for a while.

In fact...

Flicking a quick glance around the room, you take your chance and shrug your outer tunic off your shoulders, quickly smoothing down your much more revealing undershirt until it clings to the shape of you. You know Dakk hates when you do this, always goes on about keeping the place “classy.” But he’s not looking, and if it puts a few extra credits in your jar by the end of the night, it’s worth it. Anyway, you’re in a good mood tonight. Bored nonetheless, and the combination always forges a mischievous kind of boldness in you; a tiny spark that glows just bright enough to cast the idea of consequence in shadow.

You scan the bar for an empty drink, a flirtatious urge rolling off of your freshly bared skin and filling your ribs with air. It’s not long before you hone on your target-- an unsuspecting guest sitting alone, head turned away. Probably eavesdropping. A smirk curves your lips and you sidle over, plink a glass down between you, leaning your elbows on the bartop.

“Something else for you, sugar?”

His head whips around with a guilty swiftness, but you just offer an easy smile, shifting your weight through your hips to coax his eyes down your body. It works like a charm.

“I, uh...“ The young Mirialan stammers directly at your tits. “Yeah, c-can I, ah…”

As you wait out his struggle, an idea sparks in your freshly emboldened mind. Maker’s sake, might as well help the poor thing out.

“Got a ruge liqueur in stock, last shipment off Alderaan. Rare these days.” Your lashes flutter, tongue just barely playing your along your lower lip as if teasing some unspoken promise. “I just couldn’t help but notice, you seem like a person of exceptional taste.”

The words are warm summer air on your tongue, practiced and enticing. You can see them go to the kid’s head like spice smoke, his cheeks immediately flushing deep emerald beneath diamond-shaped tattoos.

“Y-yeah?” He straightens, runs a hand through his hair, grinning sheepishly. “I mean...yeah! I, uh, I am. That s-sounds great, yeah. Um. Please.”

You smile. Too easy.

Now, it’s not technically a lie. You do have the ruge in stock, it’s just that--well, it’s definitely nothing this kid can afford. But you’d bet a week’s worth of tips that you can slip him a cheap offworld varietal instead. Charge him triple its price, pocket the excess. Poor thing wouldn’t know the real stuff if it bit him.

You swell with the thought. That amount might even let you buy something nice for yourself for once. It might be a little slimy, but... fuck it. Kid seems well off enough. Decently nice clothes, cologne, that misplaced air of belonging that comes with sheltered entitlement. Surely he won’t miss a few extra credits. Anyway, you deserve this, right?

Moving to speak again, you prepare to lay the flirting on thick, really sell the gambit. But before you get the chance, a loud bang snaps your attention upward just in time to see the cantina door slam open.

You straighten where you stand, irritation and curiosity pricking your ears in equal measure. But then a slight hush cuts the ease of your buzzing meadow, and your chest squeezes with it.

Boba Fett.

The hunter takes up almost the whole doorway, a broad tower of matte green beskar catching the soft neons of the cantina. The distinctly cold gaze of the Mandalorian helmet scans the room, stirring murmurs and averting eyes until it comes to rest, finally, upon you.

It feels like two cold weights set down on your shoulders, being the focus of that stare.

Even as the energy picks back up around you, as conversations cautiously resume, it’s like you’re trapped in it, breathless under its weight and unable to look away. You vaguely register the Mirialan turn back to your tits and ask them something about when your shift ends. But you’re still transfixed, watching the armored man take a few deliberate steps towards the bar and straddle a stool, the visor trained like a crosshair upon you as his forearms settle on the bartop.

You’ve seen him here before. Heard his name whispered in weighted ripples ever since news spread through the Outer Rim that Bib Fortuna was dead. Since then, he’s come through maybe once every few dozen cycles, each time with a couple new chips in the paint of his armor. He comes here on business--or at least you assume that’s what it must be, since he always meets someone, speaks in hushed tones enshrouded by the dim corner booth in the back. He’ll toss a few credits on the bar when he leaves, but has never uttered a word to you, never ordered a drink.

Never even glanced your way, for all you know. Until right now.

You swallow. Fucking hell, if there’s anything you’re used to, it’s being looked at. So why is this gaze kicking your pulse up into the base of your throat, making you feel exposed? A prickle of heat is already settling in your cheeks.

And then the visor cocks, and just barely tilts down the length of your figure.

A tight breath snaps into your lungs, and your eyes dart to the bartop, across the room, back to the Mirialan still babbling dumbly at you, your face now hot. Kriff, what is wrong with you? Since when are you outright flustered by some stranger copping an eyeful? You try to breathe, ignoring how the hairs stand on your neck.

But you can still feel his attention like the heat of a sun warming your bare shoulder, and it makes something start to coil in your belly and glow there.

“I’ll have that ruge right up, sweetheart.”

You’re pretty sure you interrupt the kid, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just calls out a stammered thank-you as you pivot away towards your new guest, your heart kicking against your sternum. Your feet almost feel weighted to the floor, and by the time you reach him, your pulse has an edge like a blade.

“Something I can interest you in?”

There’s a breathlessness to the warm air of your voice now, and you pray to the Maker that it doesn’t betray you. You lean against the bar, hoping that the solidity of the wood will somehow teach your nerves to follow its example. It doesn’t.

He seems to study you for a moment, motionless. And then his shoulders shift, his elbows widen, and he leans in towards you.

“Information.” His voice is low and direct, barely above a graveled whisper, the single accent-laden word dragging through your belly and sparking like metal on stone.

Fuck.

Of course he’s after the one thing you’re not willing to sell.

Your heart stalls while your mind starts to race, eyes searching the dark visor. Of course you’d be a fool to deny him, and he knows it. That’s why he’s asking you. Why would you risk rousing a scene in your own bar, especially when the night is so mercifully calm? Easier to give him what he wants. Tap into your collection of liquor-loosened secrets, and knowledge of the local crowd.

The thing is, you’ve built a good rapport for your discretion. You think. Not to mention the number of cutting warnings Dakk has laid on you about the consequences for selling secrets in his bar. Is it really worth risking? Fett intimidates you, no doubt. But he’s also banking on the assumption that you won’t make this difficult for him. He has to be. And now unease and excitement are starting to play a game of catch between your ribs with that tiny, dangerous spark of boldness.

“Fresh out.” Your fingers drum the wood beneath them, trying to ground your reflexes through the rush of adrenaline that accompanies your words. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and you stare into the blackness of the visor as you let the tiniest, playful smirk flit over your face. “Perhaps something to drink?”

Slowly, achingly slowly, Boba Fett settles back on the bar stool. Unease lances you, splintering with the immediate question of whether you just made the right choice. You don’t want to think about how many he’d manage to kill before you could even blink, if he decided to do something extreme. His hand starts to shift back along his thigh, drawing a path towards the blaster at his hip. You swallow, panic pricking your neck.

Just as your muscles are primed to dive behind the bar, convinced you’re going to have to evade his quickdraw, his palm just takes a lazy rest on the hilt. The helmet levels, and then leans slowly to the side.

“No.”

Dizzied, you blink. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking through that helmet, and he’s offered you all of two words. But was that… amusement, you heard? No. Anger? Fuck, now you’re really imagining things.

Still a little breathless, you straighten, sensing that you’re dismissed. The thought of flirting with a killer was a much-needed rush, but you need to take his indifference as a mercy after that little stunt and get on with your job while he’s giving you the chance. What little you apparently have left of a survival instinct is at least telling you that much.

You shrug.

“Suit yourself.”

It feels dangerous to take your eyes off of him. But you force yourself to do so anyways, turning your back on the hunter and making your way to the dim doorway at the end of the bar, his attention still heating your spine.

It’s a fucking relief to slip through the door to the storage room, ease the door shut behind you, and for the first time in what feels like moons, you let a long breath fill your lungs. The familiar scent of dust and wine-aged wood floods you, and something like disappointment tugs at your heart.

Maybe that stupid, adventure-craving side of your imagination took things too far, fueled by your boredom and the prospect of something exciting finally happening. You suppose you projected that naive hope onto Boba Fett, if nothing else just because he’s the first person to come through here in a long time that actually intrigues you. That confounds your prized, finely-calibrated radar for reading people without having to speak a word to them.

Fuck, he really wouldn’t give you much more than a word, would he? Guess he’s determined to keep scrambling your sensors. It shouldn’t deject you as much as it does. But... come on, the least the son of a mudscuffer could do is flirt back if he was gonna fucking undress you with his eyes like that.

Or maybe that was just your imagination, too.

You sigh, scanning a shelf on the back wall for a ruge that will make a convincing enough dupe. A synthetic varietal, perhaps. No--too cheap. You’ve got something from a Naboo vineyard in here somewhere. Anyways, whatever, since when are you desperate for any man’s attention?

No, okay, it’s... you know that isn’t what this is really about.

It would just be nice to feel important, is all. Like the secrets you’ve gathered might be worth something. Could someday give you a place in something bigger. Or at least like anything about you might be worth more than equivalent to a shot of shitty spotchka.

Forget it. As if that will ever happen.

Your finger absently traces the dusty label of a bottle, and then a soft clink of metal behind you freezes your blood.

You whip around to meet a wall of beskar, inches from your face.

You start to scream, but the sound catches in your throat when a big hand seizes you by the back of the neck and wrenches you around, bending you at the hips and slamming you chest-down against the stale wood of a storage crate. Cold metal presses your thighs and your heart smacks your ribs, your body completely trapped under Boba Fett’s mass in one motion.

“I said I need information, little one, and you’re going to give it to me.” His voice scrapes over your body, sliding through the dim room like the shadow from a candle flame. You quail beneath him, brain racing with shock.

“I d-don’t—ugh!” The weight of his forearm comes down between your shoulder blades, pressing breathy little grunts from your lungs as you squirm. “I don’t sell out my customers.”

You freeze when the distinct click of a blaster registers right at your temple.

“Never said I was buying.”

Panic zips down your spine, your chest heaving against the wooden crate as heat slams your core. Somewhere, your rational brain is scrambling to parse the threat, but something about the sheer filth and danger of it is setting your whole body on fire, making far more primal nerves come alive. Trying to shake the feeling, you squirm.

“At lea--ngh, least nothing’s changed there.”

Fucking hell, what are you doing? Besides sassing the known murderer with a blaster currently trained at your head, alone in a dark room. Yet somehow that very fact is making arousal bloom so wicked and fast that you can already start to feel your cunt throb against the fabric of his pants.

“Willing to die to protect a few spineless slime crawlers who don’t even know your name?” Boba rocks his weight against you, powerful and lazy in the way he simply leans into his hips, grinds them up hard against your ass to keep you flattened over the edge of the crate. “Boss man lines his pockets while his good little pet works for scraps.” Air feels more scarce to your lungs by the second. “Interesting, how your loyalties lie.”

Indignance flares up your spine.

“I w-ouldn’t expect you to understand.” You try to put venom in the words, but it’s difficult between your breathlessness and the sheer eroticism of this position you’re in. “Small price to pay, f-for a good life.”

Through your annoyance, you can’t help feeling a twinge of enjoyment at his solidity, at how you can just discern the outline of him through his pants. An excited thrum of your pulse snaps to your core like a fuse.

Above you, Boba Fett chuckles.

“Is that what he gives you?” There’s a mockery to his tone that heats your blood, and you start to squirm in defiance before remembering the blaster at your temple. Fett simply crushes you harder, drawing your attention back to his crotch. “Seems to me like you’re the mouse in his attic.”

“I suppose you’re better than him? Than any of them?” you immediately bite, not wanting to acknowledge the truth behind his words. Instead, you grab that spark of bravery and crank the voltage until it drowns your doubt, throwing your caution to the stars faster than punching an airlock in hyperspace. “Do you even know m-my name, Mando?” A tiny giggle ripples your chest. “I know yours.”

“Might be the last one you know,” Boba growls, but you’re becoming fixated on his cock now, the way you could swear that it’s growing more distinct by the second.

Fear and pleasure wrack your brain, the combination intensifying so deliciously with the pressure of his groin against your ass that you can hardly think straight any more. In a moment of sick indulgence, you arch your back and shift just slightly, wanting to feel that pressure against something now pulsing and sensitive.

The grip on your neck locks tight, and your breath stops.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, princess.”

He kicks your legs apart and crushes his hardening bulge against your pussy. And, fuck, you moan. You don’t even mean to, but the thrill of helplessness has you so mindlessly turned on that you can’t stop the noise from squeezing out of your throat.

“Filthy little thing you are.”

There’s a shift in his tone now. The vice hold disappears from your nape just before your pants are wrenched unceremoniously over your ass and down to mid thigh. You gasp at the feeling of air brushing your bare lips. He takes a moment, and you think he must be looking at you. Heat blossoms from your face all the way down to your chest, and then he’s against you again, a palm coming down between your shoulders as coarse fabric presses flush with your cunt.

You can really feel the outline of his cock now, hard enough to rival his armor but warm and thick against you, and you whimper. It’s only a click that snaps your awareness back to the weapon pointed at your head.

“Let’s try this again, little mouse.” Boba’s voice comes lower and airier through the vocoder now in a way that blazes right through you. “You give me what I want, and perhaps you’ll inspire my generosity.”

In emphasis of his intent, he rocks his erection against the cleft of your pussy. Your eyes snap wide, an almost painful stab of arousal making you immediately whine louder than you intend to. “Fuck--oh, please!”

“Careful.” His hand slides up your neck, angling your face so that he can see it twist in shame and pleasure. “Wouldn’t want anyone finding you like this.”

Your cheeks blaze. Shallow breaths stutter in your lungs as his thumb tugs the pillow of your lower lip. And then he releases you, his hand moving back somewhere you can’t sense. The pressure against your ass shifts for a moment, just before the wide, hot shaft of his bare cock caresses your cunt.

“Last night there was a man here, Mon Cala, middle aged.” Your body is on fire as he speaks, the skin to skin contact dousing your brain in blind want. You grit your teeth, screw your eyes shut, trying hard to focus on what he’s saying while your pussy twinges around nothing. “He talked to the owner here, then he met with someone. Tell me who.”

A reluctant whimper leaves your lips, and the noise might just be one of the most pathetic you’ve ever made as your tongue still stubbornly refuses to slip. But Fett’s words ring again through your head with a resentful pang: the mouse in his attic. Is that what you’ll die as?

At your temple, the blaster’s safety disengages.

“Fuck! Okay, okay.” Your breath comes heavily, brain uncertain and lust-addled, fumbling for the details. “He um. Met a--mmh, a woman, I d-didn’t catch her name. Please--” Your voice trails off in a soft whine, your hips shifting back, trying to find the means to swallow his cock where it teases your tender core, entice him with the diversion now that you’ve given him a crumb.

“You must be dumber than I took you for, sweetling.” His hips retreat slightly, evading you. The sheer display of restraint is infuriating, electrifying. It shallows your breath with need. He stills again, a rough, gloved hand running firmly up your spine, pushing your shirt up to bare more of your skin to his view. “Tell me the rest.”

Your teeth set with a final, feeble whine of hesitation. More instinct than anything. But then a cold ring of metal presses your temple, and fresh fear unbinds your tongue in a deluge.

“S-she had, ah--civilian clothes, but, um… an Imperial s-standard issue blaster.” Your eyes screw in concentration, details flickering like a glitchy holocom through your brain. “I heard them talk about, uh. A shipment. For… Fuck, uh. Th-three cycles from now.”

Boba hums, a sound that makes your eyes roll back as you feel yourself nearly dripping against him, your slick coating his cock where it just barely parts you.

“Smart girl.” His hand drags indulgently down your back, coming to rest on your hip and squeezing. “Where’s the shipment going, princess?”

Torture. This is some kind of galactic war crime, you’re sure of it. Pleasure surges from your teased cunt and his grip on your flesh, and his voice is almost soothing now, coaxing you further towards complacency. It’s all too much. Your head rests against the crate, defeat washing in a gentle tide over you.

“Going... to Hosnian Prime.”

A soft, satisfied puff of noise comes from the modulator. The barrel retreats from your temple.

“Now, there’s a good girl.”

Warmth crashes through your lower belly, a strange and exhilarating sensation that suddenly makes you want to... purr? No one has ever spoken to you like this, and it’s tickling a part of your brain that feels far, far too good. But then his cock glides thick and heavy along your folds, obliterating your thoughts, and all you can think about is having that inside of you.

“Fuck,” you whine as he slowly aligns himself, teasing up and down the drenched, tender flesh of your pussy. He takes his time, massaging the blunt head over your clit and sending little shocks through your muscles, making you shiver and clench. “Please, please…”

“Tame little creature when you want to be,” he grits, pressing against your entrance with an exhaled groan. “Keep being good for me.”

Slowly, he starts to push. And, oh, fuck.

You’re not ready.

You’re wetter and needier than you’ve ever been in your life, and you’re still not fucking ready to take a cock like this one when it crushes in and stretches you, setting an ache through your hips that tells you whatever happens, you’re bound to feel him for days.

A cry sticks in your throat and you will yourself to breathe, to relax as he sinks in further, forcing your walls to flutter and part around him. It truly feels like being broken open, and your fingers have to dig into the wood beneath you when he pulls out an inch and then pushes again, sinking deeper this time as a choked noise pulls through the vocoder.

By the time he finally bottoms out, you swear you can feel him shifting your guts. Every muscle in your pelvis is straining to take him, the intensity mind-numbing already. You’re nearly choking on your own attempts to breathe while he pauses, sheathed like this for a few moments, seeming to concentrate on his own breathing at the same time.

And then his voice comes again, a growl, pitched even lower and more ferocious than before through a clutched breath.

“Fuck, you’re a tight little thing.”

Stars.

This is different.

It’s so hard to think, you’ve never felt more full, but something in the back of your mind is unfurling, turning hot and primal with a roiling kind of need that burgeons and begs at the feeling of his cock rooted so fucking deep inside of you. You’ve had sex before, sure, but this…

You’re about to get fucked.

“Please…” you mewl. Desperation pierces you when you feel his fingers flex strong and firm around your hip in response. You turn your head, trying to glimpse him--only to realize that the blaster is still right next to your face, its angle nonchalant, close enough to brush your lips.

Your mind is so drenched in lust, the first urge that strikes you is to stick out your tongue and wet the metal, its sharp alloy piercing your senses and making your pussy seize with the shudder of danger.

In your periphery, you see the visor snap to attention, like he wasn’t fully looking at you before, lost in his own pleasure. But now he is. And he gives the weapon an experimental twist, allowing for your lips to wrap, delicate and wet, just around the tip of the barrel.

“Fearless little mouse.” There’s something dark and charged in his voice. “You look good like that.”

A slight wiggle to open your jaw, and the blaster shoves past your lips, resting thick and cold on your tongue, lighting your spine with a new thrill. Your voice swells on a muffled moan around it, such a soft and lovely sound to accompany a thing that’s orchestrated countless deaths.

“There we are. Nice and quiet now.”

Finally, finally, he starts to thrust, slow and measured, forcing your body to yield around the width of him. Something burns hot in your belly with each steady stroke, wiping your brain of everything but his presence.

The rough material of a glove smothers one of your asscheeks, grips and pulls at the pillowy flesh, spreading you open as his thrusts take up a steady, powerful rhythm. Boba Fett lets out a long groan, and you can only imagine the view he has right now. It sears you alive, the knowledge that he likes looking at you like this, pitching and whimpering with his rhythm, the sight of your pussy stretched, helpless around his cock and your mouth wetting his blaster.

Your spit slicks the barrel more with every thrust, and you can feel the mechanics shifting dangerously between your lips. But his trigger finger is steadier than death, and his control gives you the nerve to let your tongue lick out along the barrel, bathe in the electric wash of fear that sets all of your nerves into overdrive.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he snarls as his pace starts to kick up wilder.

Intense pleasure cracks through you now, visceral in a way you’ve never felt, and it’s all you can do to keep relatively quiet. The barrel on your tongue is a sharp enough reminder, yet it fuels your arousal to burn hotter and wetter all the same. The more you concentrate on the powerful bliss coiling in your core and rippling outwards, the more you can feel yourself starting to tighten around him, your body yearning vaguely towards a release it can’t seem to center on.

You hear him groan as you squeeze him, his grip on your flesh flexing and shifting. A few more strong thrusts, and then his cock pulls all the way out of you with a woeful pang, the blaster vacating your mouth in the same motion to leave you empty, dizzied and clenching. But before you can unscramble your brain, the blaster slots back into its holster and he’s moving you. With an effortless kind of control, he flips you over, shifting you until the solid wood of the crate supports your ass.

He hikes both of your legs onto one shoulder and in one swift, easy motion, whisks your pants over your shoes and off of your ankles, tossing them carelessly into the darkness of the room before hooking your legs around his armored waist.

“Going to watch you cum, princess. Nice and pretty.”

Your mouth opens on a gasp at his words, and a gloved thumb immediately presses your tongue, the taste of leather and plasma residue grounding your senses enough to register that he’s lining his cock back up at the heat of your entrance. You whine around his thick digit, and he growls somewhere low in his chest as he pushes the thick head back in, this new angle making you see stars all over again.

He doesn’t bother letting you adjust this time, just uses your wetness to his advantage to start railing through your tightness, burning and stretching you as that warm swell starts to crest again. It’s such a deep, full feeling, spreading a delicious ache from the spot where he hits you deep in your tummy.

Your brows draw together, your whines pitching higher as you search the visor. It’s a wordless plea, your vision swallowed by the power of him fucking you deep, your body now screaming to cum but needing something you can’t quite pinpoint.

The hunter’s thumb slips out of your mouth, his hand forging an eager path down your body. He palms your tit over your shirt, before grabbing the low collar and yanking it down, baring your nipples to his view one after the other. His whole hand spans your torso as he hooks the lower hem with his thumb, bunching the material until both your belly and tits are bare, your shirt like a handle at your diaphragm that he uses to pound you even harder, watching your body jolt, overpowered by his thrusts.

Airy little wails brush through your lips, the pleasure all too intense and not enough at the same time. You can’t take it anymore, you need something on your clit, and your fingers twitch to seek out that precious target. But he’s already moving, his hips slowing to a lazier pace while his free hand finds some destination at his belt, and what he produces freezes you in your tracks.

“Steady now,” he breathes as he slips a long blade out of his belt and spins it by the hilt, his fingers almost too quick, too tactful for such a brute.

Instinctual panic grips you at the sight of the weapon, making your legs try to close. But he’s pushed too deep in you, his frame has you pinned open, and there’s nothing you can do against the sheer breadth of his body. Powerless, you simply whimper.

“Wh… what are y--”

“Hush, princess.”

A flick of his thumb and the vibroblade springs to life, its hum filling the quiet air. He starts to bring the blunt hilt of it down where your body yields to his. Alarm pierces you one final time, but then he touches the pommel, just barely, against the tender swell of your clit.

You want to fucking scream. As if in anticipation of this, he claps his hand over your mouth just in time for you to bite down on his glove while your eyes roll back in a powerful wave of ecstasy. The vibrations surge through the sensitive nerves, lighting your whole body up in a way you’ve never felt before. It’s pure bliss, and then a low, long growl slips through the helmet’s modulator at the feeling of your walls pulsing tight, strangling his cock.

His thrusts deepen again, powerful and steady, stroking some devastating spot deep inside you. Your muffled wails get lost in the breath-dampened fabric of his glove while the intense pleasure crests from your clit, higher, higher, lasering in on that intangible cusp and barreling you straight towards it.

You suspend at the peak, all senses failing, and then your orgasm takes you in a riptide, surging through your nerves like liquid fire. The magnitude of it rends you, stronger than you’ve ever felt, dragging you under and forcing you to ride it out while it just pulls and pulls. By the time you regain your sight you’re shaking, waves of bliss still pulsing and crashing through your body in time to the strong rhythm of his hips, the glowing epicenter that unwavering vibration at your clit.

Sobs wrack your chest, pour out high and lose themselves somewhere in the meat of his hand, and you think you try to catch a few breaths, but you can’t even come down. Boba’s voice cuts through the rush in your ears.

“Good. Good girl.”

He holds the buzzing hilt of the blade impossibly steady against your clit and that glow is still so bright, twitching, starting to spill through your nerves again and holy shit you think you just might--

“Again.”

Your second orgasm shreds you like a plasma cannon.

You’re blind, numb to everything but the intense pleasure, nerves now as raw and sharp as the edge of the blade itself. His hand is tight over your face and you feel your cunt convulsing and gushing around his cock, slick cum spilling to wet your asscheeks, and it must be your own because his pace hasn’t let up.

A clatter resounds on the edge of your consciousness and when your eyes come into focus, Boba’s hand is locking into your waist, the blade discarded somewhere in the room. His hips piston hard with a few vulgar slaps of flesh, the head of his cock crushing against your deepest parts before he wrenches out of you and spills over your bare stomach with a strangled roar, gripping himself at the base and thrusting against you as warm, thick ropes paint your skin.

His release is long. Grunts distort into rough static through the vocoder as he rides out the last pulses, until finally he braces himself on the crate beside your head, hunched over you like a beast, his chest plate rolling with heavy breaths. You can only blink at him through hazed, damp eyes, your body feeling weak and utterly fucked dumb. The hand over your mouth slowly unlocks its grip, dragging downwards and leaving you to take shallow gulps of air while he gives your tit a deliberate squeeze.

And then he drags himself off of you, straightening with an almost-concealed groan as he adjusts himself and leaves you to blink at the dark ceiling, still letting oxygen find your brain.

When you shakily manage to sit up, you just glimpse him slipping the discarded vibroblade back into his belt and turning towards the door. Even through your dizziness, you scoff. Figures. Bastard is just going to fuck your brains out and then leave you like this.

“You know,” you sigh, watching him and lazily trailing your fingers in a circle on your tummy, enjoying the lingering buzz of your skin and gathering a bit of his spend where it coats you, still warm. “I’d say that tip-off was at least worth a handful of credits in my jar on your way out.”

He turns and looks at you then, the helmet cocking in consideration for a moment. As soon as his attention is on you, your fingers move from his mess on your belly to your mouth, where you slowly suckle him off of your fingers, never once taking your eyes off the visor, a tiny ripple of playfulness wiggling your shoulders and curling your lips.

His shoulders square to you, and that hunter’s stance still makes your chest seize, sends a pulse to your exhausted pussy.

Metal clinks softly as he walks towards you, stepping between your knees until you’re forced to drop your hand from your mouth and look up at him, heart fluttering again. He brushes the knuckle of his forefinger under your chin.

“Fresh out.”

His back turns as you stare, speechless. And then the door swings on its hinges, and Boba Fett is gone.

#boba fett #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #boba fett smut #star wars fanfiction #smut #loyalties lie #my works #masterlist

516 notes · View notes

svnaslove · 4 years ago

Text

cuddles. II

Genre: fluff !! and chaos 😔 !!

Characters: Kishoshita, Narita, Kageyama, Hinata, Tsukishima, Yamaguchi

warnings: uhm.. yams’ part is a lil suggestive 😳

#7 | Hisashi Kinoshita | 木下

kinoshita !!

chile let me take a moment to breathe because he’s so underrated but idk how because this man is so pretty !! and kind !! and respectful !!

im about to bark

n e ways

he’s a lil insecure bub🥺

since he sits alot i feel like that did a little something to his confidence :((

but it also made him more aware of his surroundings and he’s very very supportive !!

when you first said you wanted to cuddle he was like

“😳 y-you wanna cuddle?”

kinda scared to at first because he doesn’t know what to do lsjfdls

so you guys started small like just leaning on each other, then laying on each others laps and then full on cuddle sessions <3

he’s so fcking cute !!

if your hair’s long, he ties it up while you’re cuddling so it doesn’t get in the way for you 🥺

if anything he’s trying to make sure you have a good time when cuddling more then himself

#8 | Kazuhito Narita | 成田

cutie !!

again, another v underrated boi, imma cri real quick

he’s literally the cutest ever

he was the first to initiate cuddles and it was so cuteee

he went in to give you a hug while you were standing in the kitchen and he was just like “i miss you :(”

he was touch-starved😭

but then he just...

didn’t let go DSFJLKDS

“kazu, baby, do you want to cuddle?”

HIS EYES LIT UP, HE GOT SO EXCITED

but then he got bashful,,, “if you want to....then i want to too... “

“dummy, i saw how excited you got, let’s go cuddle”

literally happy boi, just trailing after you to the bed to cuddle :))

holds u so tight >.<

but a comfy tight :)

#9 | Tobio Kageyama |影山

my heart goes out to kageyama this absolute baby😭

he’s so awkward because he doesn’t know how to initiate anything and the only thing he’s ever thought about is volleyball

it’s to the point where he has this weird feeling that he just wants to hold you but he doesn’t know how to ask ??

and sometimes he doesn’t know what it is either so he’ll be like, “damn, maybe if i drink some milk, this odd feeling will go away”

spoiler alert: the milk does not help 💔

heart 💔 been broke 📉 so many times ⏰ i don’t know 🤔 what to believe 💯 mama 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 said 🗣 it’s my fault 😢 it’s my fault 🤦🏻‍♀️i wear my heart ❤️ on my sleeve 💪

so one day you guys are just late night watching tv together and you’re both under the blanket and he’s like “damn, here’s that weird feeling again”

and he just

stares

he just stares at you because he doesn’t know how to ask because he’s scared to feel embarrassed

you feel him looking and you just turn to him like

“😳 hello?”

literally this pretty ass boy is just staring at you and you’re freaking out and he has no self realization and you’re just there, mad blushing

he gets all blushy too and looks away

SLKDFJLSDJF

“im sorry :(”

then he can’t take it anymore

he stares again 😭

“ 😳 tobio, do you need something?”

“c-can we cuddle?”

THIS CUTIE SLDKFJSDLKF

and you’re like oH, THAT’S WHY HE WAS STARING AT ME LIKE THAT

“yeah, come here”

you hold out your arms and he just goes to your arms

you’ll be laying on your back and he’s laying on your stomach

and you’ll just play with his hair and hum and he just feels so relaxed and he just takes in your scent and gets smiley sometimes

and now every time he just stares at you, you know that he wants to cuddle, its just a non-verbal agreement now fldsjsljf

bonus:

this position of cuddling with him was the first time he told you that he loved you 🥺

you were just the only person that could keep him grounded, and when he’s like that with you he just feels so at peace and he just realized out of nowhere that he fell in love with you 🥺

#10 | Hinata Shoyou | 日向

🥺 🥺 🥺 !!!

so baby !!

he can’t stop smiling when you guys are about to cuddle

like his cheeks are hurting !! and he’s still like :DD

like nishinoya, he would tickle you too but it wouldn’t go as far as a tickle fight, just a little something to get you to giggle

squeals “you’re so cuteeee” ALOT

he will squish your cheeks

honestly, at this point, you guys’ cuddles are more like both of you just laying next to each other really close face to face, some limbs intertwined and just squishing each others cheeks, tickling here and there and just tracing each others features

literally about to cry, the puppy love energy is astronomical 😭

count each others beauty marks, i just feel like that is def something that would happen one day lfkjs

silly faces !!

he compliments you all the time like “you’re so prettyy 🥺” but when you compliment him he’s like

“wait🤚 😳 , u talking about me?? 😳” will blush so hard he will blackout

he’ll have to hide his face into like the crook of your neck because he’s all blushy

#11 | Kei Tsukishima | 月島

i hate him with so much love

does that make sense

yes, it does.

will tease the HELL out of you when you show that you want to cuddle

gets all smug too😤

but tbh he just does that because he just gets wayyy too excited and his hearts all chaos

it’s his coping mechanism for being a simp 🤡

so he’ll just play with you

“oh? you wanna cuddle? hmm, i don’t know, ask me again in 5 minutes”

MF I SWEAR I WILL CLIMB U

also he gets way into that “hmmm” as if he’s thinking really hard about it SDLKJFSDLK

then you get all pouty and leave and he’s like

“IM JUST KIDDING JESUS WHERE ARE YOU GOING”

he let his simp side show 😔 r.i.p. ur pride tsukki

and you’re shocked, like where tf did tsukki go?? this ain’t him fkjsd

so you mess with him too

“oh? so you wanna cuddle with me now? hmm, i don’t know, you were kinda mean to me earlier, maybe i’ll just ask tadashi or something.”

you’re literally reaching for your car keys and walking out of your apartment and he just

*SWOOP*

this tree ass mf swooped you out of the floor over his shoulder earning a loud and embarrassing yelp from you and just carries you to bed

“you’re not going anywhere, don’t be an idiot”

puts you on top of the bed and just lays on top of you to keep you from moving anywhere

“KEI THIS IS NOT COMFORTABLE I CAN’T BREATHE”

“then stop being weird saying you’re going to cuddle other people and cuddle me already dumbass”

gets off and you guys lay comfortably together

“i hate you kei” ~in a playful manner ofc <3

“i know” *gives you a kiss on your forehead* 🥺

#12 | Tadashi Yamaguchi | 山口

i will violently *🥺* for yamaguchi any day, everyday

i love him so much he’s just so 🥺 🥺 !!

ok !!

so cuddling with yamaguchi is the softest experience any human could ever go through

he so soft ???

he’s so sweet ???

he’s so cute ???

he’s so respectful ???

im in love.

will always be asking if somethings okay, if you’re alright, if you’re comfy, if he’s doing anything wrong

but it’s never in an overbearing way, it’s more in a reassuring way !

he was def awkward the first time but he just got more comfy with you over time

but that doesn’t mean he still doesn’t get all blushy and a lil nervous on where to put his hands because he does

he just wants to know if you’re okay, he doesn’t want to accidently make you uncomfortable

but uhm....

one day...

you two were cuddling

and everything was going good, everything was just fine

in fact, he didn’t even need to ask if you were okay or comfy etc,, because he just knows what you like now and he can tell from your body language

but uhm...

you were cuddling, you were the little spoon and he was the big spoon

and you just wanted to get closer

so you nuzzled back into him

and he just

froze.

“tadashi? what’s wrong?”

“uhhhh.....”

literally his face is so red

and then...

u felt it.

you tense up too and you’re face is starting to get red and you’re like

“uhh.....is ....that...?”

yamaguchi looks like he’s about to cry lsdfkjs

“IM SORRY, I CAN’T CONTROL IT, YOU JSUT FJSDKL YOU BACKED INTO ME AND IT JSUT DID IT IM SORRY”

literally already standing up ready to run out of there

but then 😳

you just grab his wrist n you’re like

“let me help”

his v*rgin brain just short circuits like $(*#$)(#@*#*)$(@#*$)(@#$*

R.I.P. Yamaguchi Tadashi 2020

damn we already lost daichi and now we lost yams too 😔🕊️ fly high

TOBE FLYYYY HIIIIGHHHH ASE TOTHIDONARIDADE

HIKARU SUBASEYO IMA ZENBU ZENBU FLYYYYYYYY

*raw guitar riffs going WIIUM WIIUM WAUUM WAUUM WIIUM*

Part I: Daichi, Sugawara, Asahi, Nishinoya, Tanaka, Ennoshita

Part II: Kinoshita, Narita, Kageyama, Hinata, Tsukishima, Yamaguchi

Part III: Kiyoko, Yachi, Ukai Keishin, Takeda

Part IV: Saeko Tanaka, Akiteru Tsukishima, Shimada, Takinoue

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wevegottogetaway · 4 years ago

Text

The one where it turns sweeter (part2)

TW: smut

So... this is my first time writing smut. I just hope that I did the piece justice and that you’ll like it. Tell me if that’s something you’d want more or also if you have any feedback/criticism/idea/request, I would love to hear your lovely thoughts. Please don’t be shy xx

Part 1

"Just shut up and come kiss your dork."

Y/n certainly doesn’t need more incentive to comply; the sweet taste of his lips seeping through hers is plenty enough as it is. Her mind is a nerve-ending away from losing any semblance of a grasp on reality. This feels too much like a dream: fuzzy mind, sensitive skin and a desperate plea not to be awakened yet.

Except, all her senses are on overdrive, buzzing with more fervency with every new inch of her that Harry explores. And no matter how dreamlike it all seem, the thrills are much too intense to be sleep-induced and the details much too accurate to be conjured up by a deceiving mind. The way chills spiral up her spine as they follow the roaming of his hands underneath her shirt; the way her skin erupts in tiny goose bumps where his lips leave wet spots after careful ministrations. Starting at the corner of her month, as if reluctant to retire from their twin set, all across her left cheek to finally tease the area right below her ear and mischievously graze his teeth around the earlobe.

Definitely real.

"Fuck. I’ve been wai’in." He almost whimpers the extent of his relief, the rasp of his voice triggering a new wave of shivers across y/n’s straddling body. "Been waiting so long, love."

"No more waiting now." She quickly answers with a pointed shake of her head.

Her hands also have a mind of their own, not wasting a second more to finally tread the land that had been forbidden to her until tonight. Now his neck was hers to scratch and his wondrous locks hers to grasp and to pull in taunting fashion. Now the grunts coming out of his mouth still tending to her ear, were hers to revel in and to swallow in a searing kiss. Now she was his to hold, to touch and to undo like the final tug to a bow on a wrapped present. Now the pleasure was theirs to share.

"Off, take it off" Y/n breathlessly inquires after pausing their kiss long enough to voice her request. Her fingers have already made their way to the bottom of Harry’s jumper, slipping underneath the heavy material only to be met by more fabric. She pouts as she realizes there was more work than expected, but as soon as the first layer has been discarded and she takes in his disheveled hair and flushed cheeks, the disappointment melts right off her lips. Her hands cups at his face as she bits a growing smile and her eyes dive into the green gems already focused on her. "Flustered, are we?" She teases before rearranging his hair back in one brushing gesture and sealing their lips back together.

"Mhm, got me all hot an’ bothered, darlin’" he quips back as he rids her of her top, successfully leaving her in a simple black laced bra. Damn, she didn’t have the same multi-layer luxury he had apparently. The special endearment is also not lost on her, its appearance quite new between them, but in retrospect it can just be added to the list of ‘new’ things their relationship now entails.

Harry takes in the sight of her exposed cleavage, one hand swiping the strings of hair still resting upon her right collarbone, before finally dropping kisses down her neck and across the top of her breasts. One soft grip at her waist, his other hand crawls back to press against the area between her shoulder blades in a desperate attempt to get her that bit closer than she ever was.

"You’ve got one more." Y/n reminds him, her head slightly tilted upward as to avoid a mouthful of Harry’s mane. At her words, he slowly leans back to take in her own flustered state.

"This not enough fo’ you?" He asks knowing full well she was just as antsy for skin-to-skin contact as he was.

"Not even close" she proudly responds while taking the matter into her own hands. In a swift and not too clumsy motion, she’s got his undershirt in a bowl that she hastily throws behind them.

"Better?" He smirks at her.

"Halfway there" is all she retorts and goes back for a much needed kiss, hands finally embracing the smooth expanse of his bare back. She can feel his own smile spreading so wide he can barely follow the kiss’ dynamic. "What?" She finally asks him in suspicious banter, keeping her face an inch away from him, a finger swiping across the corner of his bottom lip.

"Nothin’" He murmurs along her jaw, before elaborating. "Just…livin’ on a prayer."

Y/n can’t help but laugh at the Bon Jovi reference, the moment is so Harry-like. A few words were always enough to make random songs pop into his head, and then the temptation is too hard for him to pass up the opportunity to make a pun about it. That’s just how he’s brain works and y/n has always loved this quirk of his. He is a music enthusiast after all, and the passion he’s derived from is what made him such a force to be reckoned with, so really, y/n doesn’t mind.

"Care to clue me in on that prayer of yours?" She says instead, before she suggestively takes a bite of his lip. The statement earns her a chuckle as Harry goes back to flowering her neck his tender pecks.

"Don’t worry darlin’, you’ll be singing them in no time." He chirps back seductively, bringing his hands to grasp at y/n thighs still straddling his lap. Then in one swoop, he lifts her and lowers her back until she’s laying on the ground. Quickly his tattooed torso follows suit as he comes resting above her figure and reunites their lips in an unprecedentedly passionate kiss.

This time around, y/n’s hand concentrate on the inked work adorning his front, fingers tracing each of the artist’s lines. It mesmerizes her how the art seems to be such an intrinsic element of his skin now. Like all the graphics and doodles had been embedding the tissue since birth. Swallows flying across is chest as he learnt how to walk; laurels flourishing along his pelvis as he became less boy and more man; butterfly metamorphosing some every day he grew closer into the amazing being he is now.

So y/n may have lost it a little, but in her defense, Harry has always been her weakness and now he’s kissing his way down her chest and playfully nipping at her belly button…so she’s officially relinquished any sovereignty she may have once possessed over her body. Harry softly pecks the palm of her hand when she brings it to his cheek, her gaze already clouded in euphoria. After sharing a knowing look like two accomplices on the brink of mischief, he mutters a soft "can I?" as his fingers tease at the waistband of her jeans.

A hazy ‘please’ is all he needs to work her zipper down and button off, all the whilst sporting a smug corner smile. The task gets a bit more tedious when it comes to peeling the fabric from her legs but it’s not Harry’s first skintight jeans’ rodeo. Plus, the sight he is privy to once they’ve joined his long forgotten undershirt and jumper somewhere behind the couch, is quite unparalleled in comparison. Smooth legs that take his head for a spin with how elegant yet how strong they look; cotton panties, still matching in color, covering wonders he has yet to experienced; so much flesh and skin ready for the taking and calling out for his touch.

A soft groan escapes him as he lowers himself back to place a wantsome kiss on her timid smile. "Fuck, look a’ you, love." More kisses. "So pretty…so delicious." He utters against her throat, nose tenderly rubbing against the skin.

His lips retell the same stories as they travel down y/n’s body once again, this time making a longer halt as they gloss over her breast, blindingly enclosing themselves around y/n’s nipple though the garment’s lace. She swears she can feel him smiling against her boob as the small bud hardens from pleasure, and when he adds in a quick graze of his teeth once he’s satisfied with his work, y/n’s hand flies out to the one making its way up to her other nipple.

The gesture isn’t meant as a restraint so much as an encouragement which Harry happily embraces. His thumb starts circling the areola in a slow and teasing manner, every now and then applying increasing pressure in its center. Y/n’s hand is still wrapped around his wrist, as if afraid he would suddenly stop, while the other slides down his back to squeeze at his bum.

"Touch me" she breathes out.

"I am."

"Touch me more." Her insisting words have him lift his head from her skin to process her demand: at this point, his mind might be fuzzier than hers.

"My girl wants somethin’ more? Just have to ask, darlin, I’ll give it straight t’you."

His hand starts moving underneath hers, and once she’s pleased with the path it’s taking, she lets go of it. Just as her hand settles back on his shoulder, her fingers dig in the flesh in retaliation to the dragging caress Harry is delivering underneath her panties. He is being awfully slow at it, collecting wetness all around and bringing it back to slick up her neglected clit. He has readjusted his body back to her level, not wanting to miss the slightest manifestation of her pleasure on her face.

As his movements around the bud speed up, her legs fidget more and more in between his, until the pressure starts building strong in her lower belly and her mind is once again pleading to get him closer to her. Untangling their lower limbs to wrap hers around his waist, his response comes in a feverish kiss and his ministrations moving from her tingly clit to her wet opening. They resume their circling motion, index teasing its way in but never quite making an entrance; the patience game he seems to be playing not to y/n’s liking as she groans against his lips.

"Flustered, are we?" He has the audacity to use her own words against her but somehow it turns her on even more. Makes her all the more curious to discover just how sassy he can be when he’s got her in a puddle at his fingers. Quite literally.

"Don’t be mean." Y/n pouts before laying open mouth kisses along his neck. Maybe that’ll motivate him.

"Sorry, love. You’re just so drippy down there, it’s driving me crazy. Is it all fo’ me?" He kisses her forehead in a vain attempt to make up for all the riling up he’s doing.

He forgets he can be as easily riled up though, when y/n susurrate at his ear "You know it is."

The admittance has him pushing his hips against her, effectively pressing his fingers harder on her pussy. They both moan in unison at the friction, heightened pleasure coursing through their bloodstream, saturating their veins. It’s then they realize there’s so much more to come, like the moment ticked something off in their brains, and now they can’t get naked fast enough. Frantic hands pulling at the remaining clothing articles left of their bodies while their lips are caught in an equally raging war. A war they’re battling on the same side as they fight for the same thing: intimacy, passion, closeness.

Once they’re both left bare to the other’s eyes, they take a second to revel in the moment. It took all the patience and abnegation in the world to get them to this point. Days of yearning stifled in silent admonition and nights of supposedly wishful thinking that left them wanting more at every new sunrise. So much anguish turned into so much elation as the truth prevailed though. That’s a lot pleasure warranted to make up for lost time.

"Been dyin’ to taste you, darlin’. What d’ya say?" He asks in between kisses. Their naked bodies are so untangled they can’t tell beginning from end, but Harry is all too willing to unweave himself form y/n’s loving limbs if it means he gets to have her on his tastebuds. And apparently so is she, if the high-pitched ‘please’ breathing past her lips is any indication.

The smugness returns on his face as he once again undertakes the delightful descent to her sensitivity. There is no material stopping him this time though, just more skin begging to be brought to life. And when his lips finally surf across her mound, the goose pumps blooming in their wake just prove him right. Her breathy noises only spur him on, tongue finally taking a long swipe across her lips, like a secret weapon kept under wrap for the most opportune time.

Y/n’s hands are quick to grab onto something, and the absence of linens underneath her only hastens her reach for him: one hand buried deep in his headful of curls, the other resting on his own hand at her hip. She feels his thumb rubbing soothingly at her skin there and she loves how tender he can be, even while simultaneously devouring her in greedy licks. The contrast as her vision blurring and no matter how much she wants to watch him have the meal of his life, her body is too riddled by pleasure to keep herself focused enough.

The feeling only keeps intensifying as Harry properly delves into her, tongue first, his other hand eventually coming to hold her thigh down as it keeps clamping back shut at every new wave of ecstasy rushing over her. "So good, Harry. Feels so good." She keeps chanting in delirium, and Harry’s own excitement is starting to grow unbearable. There’s no way he can’t let go of her to relieve himself for a second though, he’ll just have to wait for her unravelling.

"Taste so sweet, love. Come on, please cum fo’ me. Need it real bad." He pleads for her undoing as though Time was about to rip her away from him before he got to properly have her.

Deciding the moment calls for a change in tactic, he brings two fingers to her wet hole and swiftly slides them inside of her. Rejoicing when he is met with no resistance, he quickly brings his lips back to her sensitive bud, alternating between hard sucks and pacifying licks.

It doesn’t take much longer for the knot inside of her to come undone and her orgasm to take over every parcel and every atom of her. And Harry can’t get enough. She’s everywhere: all around his tongue as he keeps fucking into her in earnest strokes; up to his nose while the angle has him brushing against her clit; down his ears with songs of uncontrollable bliss; underneath his hands as he can feel every spasms seizing her body.

He tends to her sensitivity until she’s too overwhelmed to bear it, and complies when she gives a small tug at his hair. Their lips immediately find each other even though they were both rendered breathless by y/n’s climax. She can taste it on his lips so vividly, it makes her moan at how utterly crazy he’d gone at it. She tenderly swipes away the wetness on his chin while their tongues waltz together, and brings him closer to her with a koala move. Soon they are both made acutely aware of Harry’s excitement as his hard member is trapped between their heated bodies.

"You’re incredible." Y/n finally voices with a look of unadulterated love and pure wonder. Her smile only emphasizes her confession and Harry’s heart swells so hard, he wonders if the butterfly on his stomach feels it too. He mirrors her beam with one of his own before lowering his forehead against hers. His muscles are starting to feel sore from the tension that has yet to be liberating from his body, and it takes all he’s got, not to drop the support his arms provide as they lay on each side of y/n’s face.

"Got me so hard, love. Feels like imma bout to explode." He admits while sliding his cock back and forth along her sweetness. He feels like a ticking bomb, winded so tight from years of nerve-wracking suspense, that have never felt more like foreplay than right at this moment, as y/n reaches out to him. Her hand confidently wraps around his shaft to deliver long strokes that have him shudder in pleasure.

"Gonna do something about it?" She murmurs tauntingly at him.

"Mhm" is all he can respond before taking her hand from his cock and holding it down above her head in an interlocking grip. Taking a hold of his hard member, he then proceeds to gently tap her clit with his sensitive tip, in retribution for a teasing behavior. "Do we need a rubber?" He remembers to ask in between her moans.

"Not on my account." She answers truthfully, and Harry exults in knowing there will be nothing but warm smooth walls enveloping his dick once he finally has her.

"Yeah? Gonna let me just slide in? Take me all the way an’ keep me there forever?" The words have a clear purpose to wind her up further, but Harry thinks he might have screwed himself over with that one, as he finds himself equally aroused at the idea. Precome is already leaking from his reddened and swollen tip, only adding to the mess they’ve made together.

She answers him with a gentle kiss and her free hand comes to hold his jaw, thumb caressing his cheek in light motion. Their lips part for a shaky breath as Harry slowly pushes himself inside of her. They both sigh when his hips meet hers, every tensed molecule in their body uncoiling at the delicious friction.

As he starts rocking into her, Harry’s hand grabs at y/n’s thigh to keep it close around hip. His other hand is still interweaved with hers by her head and he doesn’t think he’ll ever let got of it.

He’s movement starts to speed up, as the pleasure becomes stronger and the change in pace has y/n arching into him. He takes the opportunity to slide his hand up her back, when his fingers come in contact with a tiny item on the floor. In confusion, he takes it out from under her, and brings it up between them. Puzzled faces relax in recognition as they take in a square shape piece of their long forgotten game, the letter G carefully painted on its surface.

"Guess I found it, huh." He jokes before tossing the piece away, and they both burst in laughter at the silly pun, Harry’s face buried in her chest. How can one have still so much wit even when balls deep in their secret-not-so-secret-anymore crush for the first time? Y/n loves it, though. It makes all the rapture even more delectable to know the one giving it to her is the same old Harry who almost gave her a heart attack once from how hard she was laughing.

Laughters quickly merge into gasps of pleasure at the pressure of y/n’s walls tightening around Harry’s cock. Just like that, the playful interlude is over, letting lust conquer all. Powerful thrusts resume their pounding motion as y/n once again dissolves into colorful moans, and Harry takes his hand back up her spine until he’s holding onto the back of her neck. Kisses are trailed down her throat as he tilts her head slightly to the side. "Squeezin’ me so hard, love. Must be doin’ somethin’ right," He says against her skin, as he pounds into her. He can feel her walls clenching again, body twitching around him and he knows she’s close to her peak.

Removing his hand from underneath her, all the whilst not relenting from his earnest fucking, he brings two fingers to her lips, caressing the soft flesh before dipping past them. "Come on darlin’, make ‘em wet for me." He commands and the mere word have her throbbing from anticipation. Obediently, she accepts the digits in her month and starts wrapping her tongue around them like she would his cock. As she indulges in a soft suction, Harry’s hips snap even harder, making her wheeze in response.

Fingers free from the confine of her warm mouth, he fits them down where their body meet and starts rubbing at her clit. "About to cum, aren’t you? Can feel it too, you know," he starts rambling to distract him from his own impending climax, "Gonna give it to me good, yeah? Wanna feel it all around, makin’ a mess o’ me, alright?"

"Yes, Harry. ‘M so close," y/n answers before giving a sharp tug at his hair, "fuck me harder, please." It takes all his might not to nut right then and there, but the prospect of sharing the sweetest high of all with her, gives him enough resolve to hold back. Instead, he endeavors to make good on her request by delivering hard and vigorous thrusts that has her bucking against him. Wet noises start feeling the space around them, arousal coating their joined bits as well as Harry’s busy fingers. "That’s it, that’s it, almost there" he keeps muttering like prayers whispered to the Almighty. And it seems like the heavens are responsive tonight as a couple of hard calculated shoves is all it takes for y/n’s orgasm to rupture and send her spiraling.

"Harry," his name on her lips at this very moment might just be the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. "Feels so good." Bliss and ecstasy are written all over her face, and the visual coupled with the sensation of her pussy still hugging tight onto his shaft, send him to a euphoric release of his own. Goose pumps pave their way across his skin as he gives a few more rolls of his hips to accompany the ribbons of cum spurting out of his cock. Y/n’s name is the only thought consuming his hazy mind, the only sound leaving his mouth against the tender skin of her throat where he’s buried his face. Slowly he then removes himself from her - not without a whine at the newfound emptiness greeting them both - and plops down by her side.

The living room is filled with an eery silence for a minute, as both y/n and Harry process everything that just transpired and give their body and chance to recuperate. Their sides are still touching, sticky from sweat, their breathing slowly regulating back to an even level. Harry carefully slides his hand into hers and they both share a look of affection.

"That was amazing." Y/n breaks the silence first in a hushed voice, and her confession makes Harry smile in pride.

"Fuck, com ’ere." He says although he’s the one lifting himself up on one elbow to give her a languid kiss. As he settles next to her, yet another Scrabble piece makes an appearance, this time stuck to the skin on the side of his shoulder before it falls off in a soft thud on the floor. He must have laid down on it in post-orgasmic bliss and the sweat made it stick there for a second.

Y/n picks it back up with a beaming smile as she inspect the little token. "Damn, for once I was actually kicking your ass at Scrabble. Kinda screwed myself over, didn’t I." She laughs at how she’d been so intent on winning the game, yet had been the one to throw the game board along with caution to the wind.

"Actually love, I believe I was the one you screwed." Harry playfully retort, earning him a small slap to the stomach. The gesture only makes him laugh some more as he engulfs her in a crushing embrace.

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles smut #harry smut #harry styles imagine #fluff #harry fluff #reader insert #harry styles fic #Harry Styles #harry styles fanfic #creative writing

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beautifulterriblequeen · 3 years ago

Text

Trickster: an Ethari theory

I've had yea many Ethari headcanons, and I hope I live to have yea many more. Most of them are probably wrong, or incomplete at best. But boy are they fun.

I love to wonder what Ethari will really be like in canon when we get to know him for more than 3 minutes, but whoever he really is on his own, he will have an effect on Runaan , Rayla, and everyone who loves him, because they love him.

The first headcanon I can remember having for "Tinker" was that he could be like Leonardo da Vinci: a genius, creative, surrounded by beautiful ideas given shape by his hands, but also capable of creating deadly weapons, enchantments, and devices with equal beauty, and perhaps not really seeing where the line between them was. It was fun, but Ethari has ended up far softer than my headcanon, and I love and support him in his softness!

After a nice string of Ethari headcanons, this year I've started poking at the Trickster archetype and seeing if it applies to him. And I think it absolutely does!

Tricksters often seem like Chaos. But they're not. They're just Difference. "Chaos" is subjective. Like the "divergent" in "neurodivergent." Who says? Divergent from what, exactly? Perspective matters, and Tricksters have a very broad take on things which allows them to think outside any box people might try to invite them into.

My enjoyment of Loki has brought all kinds of ideas to my dash with the arrival of the Loki show. I've got a copy of the Edda, and I highlighted the hell out of it a couple of years ago as I searched for the roots of Loki's origin story. (It's truly fascinating reading and the symbolic language hidden inside their poetry is dazzlingly amazing and I'm super using it sometime just so you know)

Loki is a Trickster, and he's far from alone in myth and legend. Anansi, Coyote, and Sun Wukong are some you may have heard of. Aaravos is another, of course. Tricksters can be called upon to lend aid and wisdom when the rules don't have an answer for some extraordinary circumstance which the Trickster's people find themselves in. But that's not because they are truly outside the rule of order. They are actually a part of it. They are the catch-all for when the everyday ordinary rules fail people, and something "unthinkable"--in the literal sense--might just hold the answer.

This post crossed my dash today, and something finally clicked in my head, and all of this coalesced from what felt like separate places. But they're not separate, not anymore! Serotonin, baby. It's basically upped my headcanon to a full-blown theory.

What caught my eye was an answer to why Ethari's clothing is so determinedly asymmetrical, compared to Runaan's specifically, but Moonshadows in general. It's because of this:

Long protective sleeves below patterns on shoulders. A high collar paired with a bright and noticeable swoop around the neck. Fine detailing and graceful taste. Asymmetrical tunic point on the left, below broad strappy leather. Knee high boots with stylish protective gaiters.

And let's not forget the curling horns! In some comics, Loki has a broken horn. So does Ethari.

Yes, there is a lot of similarity here, but I'm not focused so much on the visuals as the reason they were chosen. Feel free to consider other aspects of Ethari's personality and how they might be similar to certain parts of Loki's. I did! But I wouldn't be me if I didn't go deeper than that.

My favorite book in the universe (so far) is Lois McMaster Bujold's The Curse of Chalion, and one of the many reasons why is because of her pantheon. It holds five gods, represented by a hand: Father, Mother, Son, Daughter, and Bastard. The first four all have their roles and places. The Bastard--the thumb--inherits everything else. He is the god of all things that do not belong to any other gods, and that includes self-sacrificing vengeance and queerness. He is a Trickster, and his influence on Cazaril's life is far deeper than at first glance. Chaos has its place. It belongs, and so do the Tricksters who engender it. God, I love this book. Please read it if you haven't. Bujold's work is amazing.

If you've seen or read any version of MDZS/Untamed, you know that Wei WuXian is a trickster. Competent and badass in battle, but playful and teasing to the point where sometimes even he isn't sure what he truly wants, he can bring a massive amount of power and focus when he wants to. It's always a matter of "but is it important to me?"

I love WWX so much. The Trickster vibe is very apparent in his character, and in a way you just don't get in Western media. We see him on his own, and we see him with family and loved ones. And he's always feeling something so intensely! He's driven by his emotions, for good or ill. He vibes with chaos, and he will create it if it doesn't exist yet. But he will also create family from nothing, and that's something you don't see enough of! WWX is a Trickster with an emotional preference for joy.

In TDP, Ethari doesn't have a lot of lore yet. It's being Moonshadowed because spoilers for future seasons, and I respect that. The longer the wait for S4, the more ideas I will just amuse myself with in the meantime--and yeah, this is one of them, so what? :))) But we do know a little about him.

He loves music. He loves to read. He leaves his mark on things in swirly form. He works very hard, even through headaches, because what he's doing is that important to him, even though he would much rather be making jewelry. He loves taking the time to polish rough stones into brilliant jewels, and he adores big pretty flowers and had them at his wedding.

Ethari has a temper, but he also loves puns. The weapons he crafts are exquisite: "light, elegant, strong, and clever." And he knew darn well that Runaan was trying to flirt with him, but why return a sentiment he may or may not feel yet when he can play with the overly earnest assassin just a little bit first?

Okay, just... A "simple craftsman" deciding that it's going to be fun to toy for a bit with a broody assassin's feelings? Would you risk that? Ethari got balls the size of the moon, and a brain to match. When he has to make weaponry, he does not half-ass it. Ethari's stabby creations nearly have a life of their own. His creations are literally called "trick weapons." This elf is a lot, okay. And it's possible that he doesn't even know how "a lot" he is. Yet.

We're meeting Ethari after he's found something that is, in fact, genuinely important to him: Runaan, and Rayla, and Laindrin too. Ethari has found a relatively stable place to settle and find a role to adopt. I say adopt, though, because making weaponry for his loved ones is not what he grew up wanting to do. It's what he had to do to keep them safe, once he found a place to bestow his heart.

But in the show, Ethari has lost his family, one by one. First Lain and Tiadrin, ghosted. Then Runaan, supposedly fallen on his mission. Then Rayla, ghosted for abandoning Runaan. He and Rayla have reconnected now, but the rest of his family is still out of his reach. If Rayla has indeed told him, by S4, what she learned at the Moonhenge in TTM, then Ethari may parallel Rayla's journey to seek answers. But even if he doesn't know yet, and gets pulled into some other story arc first, we will be seeing Ethari without his family.

Remember the ATLA episode "Zuko Alone"? Consider: "Ethari Alone."

Ethari has chosen, for love, to fit himself into a box that wasn't of his own making. And now that box has broken. His family doesn't need him to be their craftsman anymore. Perhaps others will need him to be other things to them. Or perhaps he will know that his family does need him, but to be far more than just a maker of pretty swords. A rescuer, perhaps. A healer, a guide? An avenger?

A trickster. Capable of taking many shapes, because he understands them all. Ethari works with form and function. If he needs to transform himself, he will.

That's what Tricksters do. It's delightfully queer and delightfully neurodivergent. Ancient peoples accepted and revered the different among them and actively sought their help with things they themselves struggled with.

Tricksters are Difference. Sometimes that manifests as chaos, sometimes as genius. But if you do not love and appreciate your chaos, it will absolutely turn on you. Wei Wuxian did. Loki certainly has, many times. Perhaps Aaravos is doing so as well.

I cannot wait to see what Ethari does with his difference. I have something very specific that I hope he goes and breaks.

All this from a picture of Tom Hiddleston in his Avengers 1 Loki costume? Yeah. Because Ethari was designed to wear asymmetrical clothing, in a Moonshadow culture that prides itself on balance. Sure, there are some other Moonshadows who wear this or that asymmetrical item, and I do love to see it. But Ethari has the most asymmetrical lines of them all. The meta glee I feel knowing that Moonshadow elves are designed to hold many layers of meaning in their appearances--that the writers, creators, and character designers just flexed with them--is truly a delight.

Ethari is asymmetrical. The full and practical application of that is a glass casket, and I hope it becomes a gift that keeps on giving, because boy do I want to keep receiving it. But right now, I'm genuinely seeing evidence of the Trickster archetype in him. And I really hope it gets to come out and play.

#tdp #tdp theory #ethari #trickster #tdp speculation #yes this means a whole new category for ruthari opposites #order and chaos #ethari and order are both on runaan's list of likes #but ethari is higher so #loki #wwx #wei wuxian

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wandsandwheezes · 4 years ago

Text

Gala | R.D

WARNINGS // 2k // SMUT 18+, Unprotected sex, Public (??) sex, Exhibitionism (??), daddy kink, breeding if you squint, jealousy.

A/N // Hi I am kinda coming back from writing because I literally don’t know where this inspiration to suddenly write came from and I’ve never written for our bb Rog before so this is a whole experience for me, I hope you enjoy <33 this one goes out to my Roger whores @darthwheezely and @amxrtentias xoxo

There was no denying that Roger was able to light up the room with his smile, he still held all the charm and confidence that being a quidditch captain gave him. Thankfully for you, he also had enough personality to hold a conversation with anyone he had the pleasure of greeting or introducing himself to, meaning that you could lazily drape off his arm while sneaking glances at the way he had pulled himself together for the event.

The days you saw your boyfriend in a suit always seemed to end in a mess of kisses and half-removed fabric as you desperately tried to grasp as much of each other’s skin as humanly possible. His hair was swooped almost too perfectly from the messy ruffle that he would usually wear. The shirt he wore was buttoned up to the collar, accentuating his sharp jawline and striking smile, at his neck sat a tie, grateful that by the least you were able to convince him to not wear a bow tie, at least not to an event like this.

Fred and George would usually hold an annual gala in celebration of the anniversary of Weasley Wizard Wheezes opening and every year both you and Roger would be sure to get the invite. This year was no exception, you were dressed up in a simple but elegant satin gown, hair pushed out of your face and makeup perfectly done, not only making you look like a billion galleons but also feel it.

Being close with the Weasleys meant that you were sat right up at the head table with the two owners of the shop. You would often lend a hand whenever they needed a spare pair of hands or someone to bounce ideas off of, to the twins you were just part of the family, the same way any of their siblings were.

You were sat next to Roger, his hand resting protectively on your upper thigh while your arm had looped through his, temple resting on his shoulder as you waited patiently for the first course to arrive. You were always pleasantly surprised just how many tables the Twins were able to fit inside the shop when all of the displays were packed away and the space was cleared away.

“You seem distracted,” Roger spoke quietly, a small smile on his lips as you looked up at him, you laughed a little, pressing a kiss to his cheek before going back to the comfortable position you were once in.

“Just hungry, love.” You hummed, I’m truth you were distracted, very much because throughout the course of the evening, he had ran his hands through his hair so much that little pieces had started to fall into his eyes much like they usually did and you couldn’t help but marvel at just how breathtaking he was.

“When aren’t you?” He joked, giving your leg a playful squeeze before you return with a laugh and a weak elbow to his side, watching as he broke out with a laugh, making you even more distracted by him.

“I should be offended, Davies.”

“You’re telling me you aren’t always hungry then?”

“That’s beside the point, Rog-”

Midway through the second course Fred leans over, whispering about how a girl from another table was throwing daggers your way, making a joke that he could give her something to look at, the thought in your head causing a laugh to fall from your lips as you dabbed the edge of your napkin against your lips.

Your boyfriend had observed the interaction, the grip on his cutlery tightening slightly at the way you reacted to Fred, a bubble of jealousy growing at how your friend had dared get so close to your neck, a place where he was already planning to paint with his tongue, leaving deep red hickeys in its place.

He accidentally dropped the knife against the plate, grumbling at the clattering sound as he picked it up again. You turned your head towards the noise, noticing the tensed jaw and disgruntled look that flushed upon his face. Roger was always easily jealous, not that he didn’t trust you but the thought of other people gawking at what was his gave him that edge.

“Rog, baby, what’s wrong?” You asked softly, hand placed gently on his bicep as you turned your full attention to him.

“Nothing, sweetheart.” He smiled, nose scrunching up sweetly as he licked his lips, head ducking down to bite the food from his fork before smiling again at you with his cheeks full of food.

It wasn’t until after desert had settled that you were being pulled away from the chatter and laughter up the stairs, being met with Roger’s bruising kiss as soon as you were out of sight from the rest of the guests. It was at this point that you realised when he said there was nothing wrong, he was most definitely lying.

His hands were practically tugging the satin away from your body as you melted into his touch, arms snaking around his neck, lips pressed together messily as he took charge of the situation, not realising that he was walking you backwards until your back was flush against a solid surface.

In the mess of kisses and the way you were practically putty in his hands at his very touch, you had hardly realised your surroundings until you broke away for air. His lips continued to pepper kisses over your neck while his hand pressed into the small of your bare back ever so slightly, arching your back for him at the feel of his electric touch.

“Baby, we can’t do this here, It’s Fred’s off–” You stuttered out through faint moans.

“Hmm... I don’t care, love.” He chuckled, nipping a kiss at your jawline, trailing kisses along until he pressed a kiss to your chin, each corner of your mouth then finally your lips.

“Now am I going to have to teach you how to follow rules again or can my good girl remember?” He hummed, deep voice rumbling into your chest, a faint whimper falling from your lips at the feeling.

“I’ll be good, daddy, I promise I’ll be so good for you.” You mewled, taking a quick and sharp breath in as he pulled you into his chest effortlessly with the hand pressed to your back, using his free hand to teasingly guide the zip of the dress down and over the curve of your ass, noting quickly the lack of underwear covering you.

“Yeah? Were you being good when you let Fred get all close? practically bearing your pretty little neck to let him mark… was that being good?” His hand slipped under the loosened material of the dress, his large hand squeezing at your bum as he chuckled, answering his own question. “I don’t think it was.”

“Roger, I–”

He cut you off, spinning you around quickly with his hand wrapped around your throat, back pressed to his chest as you whined against his firm grip.

“Breaking rules already are we, little one?”

You quickly shake your head, letting out a deep breath as he released his grip on your neck, hands working quickly to push the straps of the dress off your shoulders before taking your exposed breasts in the palm of his hands, pressing a sweet kiss to your earlobe before nibbling at the soft skin.

“Words, princess.” He hummed, thumbs teasingly running over your hardening nipples as your breathing grew staggered. Your boyfriend knew just how sensitive they were to touch, using that sweet spot against you as he teased you into speechlessness.

“Daddy, I–”

“What’s wrong, baby?” He teased, smirking as he used the same tone you had used with him earlier.

“I need…” you trailed off, his lips peppering kisses along your shoulder.

“You need what? C’mon, princess, you can tell me.”

“I need you.”

“Me? Hm, you’ve got me already haven’t you now, dumb baby? What do you need me for?” He chuckled, one of his hands hitching your thigh up while the other threw the spilt of the dress open, his fingertips finding your clit with ease.

“That what you needed? To be touched?” He began slowly circling at the bundle of nerves between your thighs, feeling the way he had already gotten you soaking wet, having hardly touched you.

“Yes, Daddy, I like it when you touch me like that.” The words could hardly come out as the grip on your thigh became tighter, making sure to keep your legs open for him.

“There you are, using your words like a big girl.” He praised, proudly drawing noisy moans from you, no longer caring if anyone could hear you at all, in fact he would rather everyone heard how you whored yourself out for him, drove him crazy in fact.

Spinning you around, you quickly found yourself with your backside pressed against the cold wood of Fred’s desk. Roger’s hands worked seamlessly on unbuckling his belt, pulling himself free before your hands quickly found his length, stroking him ever so slightly as he grew harder at your touch.

“Do you know how hard it is to stop myself from splitting you in two, princess? From filling my precious girl’s cunt up and leaving her ruined.” He mused, hand reaching up to tuck a fallen strand of hair behind your ear.

“Then don’t, daddy.” You whispered, hand tangling into the hair at the back of his head to pull him into your lips, kissing him roughly as you felt him groan against your lips.

His cockhead teased at your slick entrance for a moment before he began to push himself inside of you, forcing your legs to wrap around his hips as he leant forwards to make sure he was getting the best angle.

With every thrust, the handles of the drawers rattled and the wood creaked, Fred’s office becoming filled with breathy moans and the sounds of slapping skin. He wasn’t being particularly rough for the moment but the angle he hit was enough to send you to heaven, every time you thought he had bottomed out, he found another way to push deeper, filling you completely.

“Feels so good, daddy, please.”

“Tight little thing you are, feel so nice around me, my good girl.”

He began to pick up the pace, fucking into you at much faster speed than you were expecting, moaning out loud enough for anyone to hear, one hand pulling your hip so that you met every thrust while the other toyed with your clit, helping bring you to release.

“You gonna cum for me, baby? you’ve been so good.”

“Cum with me, daddy, please.” You begged, his forehead pressed against yours as he swallowed you moans with a kiss for a moment.

“Yeah? You want that, do you?”

“Please.” You whispered, feeling that familiar knot in your stomach as he continued to hit your favourite spot with his slightly slower but still deep thrusts. Releasing over his cock as you felt him painting your walls with his own release.

“Well done, baby, looking so beautiful.” He lovingly ran his hand over your hair, smoothing it out.

“Hope you’re ready for when we get home, I’m not quite done with you or your perfect cunt yet, princess.”

He took your hands in his, holding them both above your head before switching to hold both wrists in one hand while the other ghosted down your half-naked side.

“Get used to this, love, I’m gonna tie these wrists to the bed and absolutely ruin you.”

You leaned in to press a kiss to his lips, smiling at him bashfully. “Thank you, daddy.”

“You’re most welcome, sweetheart, now let’s get you home shall we?”

You nodded quickly, letting him pull your dress into place before leading you quickly out of the shop, leaving Fred’s office in a state. You both were avoiding the gaze of others as you ducked away from the function, eager to be at home with only each other’s presence.

It was surely going to be an eventful night.

taglist // @pansydaisy @feetoffthetablee @darthwheezely @http-caitwo @omghufflepuff @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @loony-loopy-lupinn @Sky-ran-away @theweasleytwinsgirl @pandaxnienke @turtletaylor98 @whizboyhalo @georgeweasleysbabe @lilypad-55449 @gaycatlord-stuff @garyluly @asthmax @planetasteri-blog @the-unmanaged-mischief @hufflepuffalice @weasleysprofessionalhoe @jorduhnn @the-clearest @freds-slut

((to my taglist - sorry if this is something that isn’t for you but I really do hope you enjoy <3))

#roger davies x reader #roger davies #smut #harry potter fic #harry potter writing #harry potter smut #fred and george #roger davies smut

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thr-333 · 4 years ago

Text

Mismatch- Part 5

Bio Dad Bruce Wayne Month 2020

Fine if meeting them didn’t give them a clue maybe this will.

First < Previous > Next

------

“So Tim said you have a lot of siblings?” Marion asks Dick as they walk down the hall, he chuckles.

“You could say that, we aren’t all blood, but we’re still family,” He guides them down the stairs, the elevator not being large enough for the whole class.

“Doesn’t matter to us,” Marinette chimes in, “We’re adopted too, we never met our birth parents,”

“Really?”

“Mhm,” Marion hums, “I don’t think Aunt Selina is actually related to Papa either,”

“People always say that we look like her though,” Marinette smiles, “Although they do say the same about Maman,”

“I’m sure you’ll fit right in with us, you’ve got the whole black hair, blue eyes going for you,” Dick jokes, as they reach the end of the stairwell, “On this floor we have some of our publicity team who manage the image for Wayne enterprises and the Wayne family,”

“It’s still kinda rude for him to ignore you,” Alya was clearly unaware of her own hypocrisy. Dick ignores them in turn and carries on.

“Bruce was just surprised, I didn’t want to interrupt,” Lila explains, clearly not having heard any of the conversation between the newly acquainted cousins.

“Hopefully you get some time with them, if the twins don’t hog it all,” Sabrina glare can be felt.

“I’m sure once the shock runs out they’ll have plenty of spare time to catch up,” Lila gloats, “I have known the Waynes a lot longer, the twins are just strangers,”

“You two do seem pretty strange to me,” Dick whispers teasingly, before speaking out to the rest of the group.

“You have no idea,” Marion glances at his satchel carrying two small gods.

“-I’ll talk to them,” Kim speaks up, speeding up to reach the twins. Lila having said something in the five seconds they weren’t paying attention that caused him to take action.

He walks over to them, to his credit only hesitating slightly under Kagami’s glare.

“Hey, you should know Lila’s pretty upset you didn’t let Bruce say hello,” Kim whispers to him, even though everyone could hear. Marion stops and turns to him.

“Kim, if Bruce wanted to say hello he would have,” Not that Bruce would have, “In case you didn’t notice we were talking with Dick most the time,”

“I just think you should back off, Lila doesn’t get to see the Waynes often,” Kim frowns, glancing back at Lila who was playing her part, looking distraught.

Marion tries not to smirk, thinking; ‘Clearly not as she can’t recognise one right in front of her’

“Kim you know we don’t get to see our Aunt often,” Marion scolds, Kim flinches probably at reminder they were childhood friends, “Mr Wayne can invite whoever he wants, he could be literally anyone, I don’t care, I just want to spend time with my Aunt,”

Marion leaves the shocked Kim behind, he rejoins his sister and friends.

“The idiot doesn't talk to you for weeks but comes running the second Lila beckons, ridiculous,” Chloe is glaring back at the boy who is talking to Lila now, as her frown grows.

“Maybe he’s telling her to back off?” Marinette rubs comforting circles on Marion’s shoulder.

“I doubt it, he’s pissed at me for some reason,” Marion shrugs, Marinette takes the hint and drops her hand with one last pat.

“Probably Lila related,” Adrien says sadly, as Kim rubs his head sheepishly with a quiet laugh.

“Can’t completely blame her,” Marion speaks the most unlikely words, “You guys know how we are with plans,”

“A true friend would not betray you for a few cancellations,” Kagami fumes, as they walk through an office area with a view looking down at the street below, “Adrien and I also have similar situations,”

“That’s right, I’m the only one in this group with any sense of punctuality,” Chloe boasts teasingly, Dick doesn’t interrupt them.

“You were once an hour late for a picnic cause you were doing your hair,” Marion snickers.

“Did you see my hair that day?” Chloe gestures to her hair, “Worth it,”

“It was-”

Kagami was cut off by the loud shattering of glass. Everyone ducked as glass spilled everywhere, shouting or screaming. Marion drops into a defensive stance, Marinette, Kagami, Chloe and even Dick doing the same. Marion watches as a figure lands on a desk with a grunt, an employee hiding underneath it. Marion's eyes go wide as he watches Red Hood- the Red Hood trying to push himself up. His totally-not-fanboying is cut off when a villain he doesn't recognise jumps through the broken window. Marion watches as the villain takes slow purposeful strides towards Red Hood, glass crunching underneath his boots. Marion ignores Dick as he tries to herd the class out of the room, most employees already making their way to the emergency exits. Minus the one who was trapped underneath Red Hood.

“Well Hood, seems I’ve got you,” The villain looms over him, taking aim.

Marion sprints into action, using his momentum to tackle the villain. Sending him off balance, bullet hitting the opposite wall. First order of business; the gun.

“What the-get off,” The villain aims the gun at Marion, the angle making it hard as Marion is standing on the opposite side.

As he turns Marion holds on tighter lifting his feet off the ground. Putting the villain off balance again and keeping Marion out of reach. Marion uses the hesitation to slip behind him, vaulting onto the villains shoulders. He wraps his legs around the villains neck

“You little-” Both arms come up out of instinct to get him off.

Marion grabs the arm with the gun, holding it with both of his. Pointing the gun up to the ceiling. A punch connects with his side, the impact muted by the bullet proof armour he wears underneath. Marion looks behind them, judging if the space is big enough to pull him down without hitting the desks. He also looks further back, making sure no one would be in the path of gunfire. Deeming that both are clear he leans back, making the villain shout as he loses balance, sending them both down. Marion falls as safely as possible in his position.

They hit the ground with a grunt. The villain loses all the air in his lungs because of the impact. Marion doesn’t risk losing his grip on the villain to disarm him. He keeps his hold as steady as possible as the villain starts to struggle. The punches to his side start to give a dull ache, the angel making the blows less powerful at least. Great, this was usually the part where Ladybug would swoop in. In light of any magical Ladybugs marion squeezes his legs tighter, trying to make the villain pass out. The villain starts firing his gun blindly, Marion flinches at the sound, far too close to his ear. Making him realise just how close the gun was to his head, he closes his eyes and turns away instinctually. He braces for another blow but it doesn't come, then the shooting stops.

“Fuck,” The villian shouts, Marion opens his eyes turning his head towards the gun. He sees the heel of a boot pressing down into the villain's wrist. The grip on the gun goes lax and the boot kicks it away.

Marion follows the leg up to see Red Hood standing over them. The angle making him seem much larger, casting a shadow over Marion. The expressionless mask staring right down at him. Marion gulped, yeah that might be slightly intimidating

“Sorry,” Red Hood grunts, pulling the villains arm at an unnatural angel making him yelp.“Getting thrown through a window ain't fun,”

“Tell me about it,” Marion knows exactly how that feels, as Chat Noir, and this guy is just a human. How quickly did he get back up? It couldn't have been over a minute in the scheme of things. And oh wow he was still standing over him and Marion was having a hard time keeping his eyes on his face or rather helmet.

“I think he’s out,” Red Hood says with a slightly amused tone.

Marion jolts, not having even noticed how the villain stopped struggling. He relaxes his grip cautiously, ready to hold back on if he starts moving.

“Pass me that arm,” Red Hood says, taking out a pair handcuffs snapping them around the wrist he was already holding.

Marion just keeps staring until Red Hood starts to just reach down. He startles, thrusting the limp arm into his hand and scrambling up, trying not to blush. Red hood secures the villains wrists before dropping them. He steps to the side and pushes the villain out of the way.

“Are you ok?” Red Hood crouches down to ask, Marion stares dumbly, “What's your name? Where are you?”

“.... Marion…. Wayne Tower….” Marion falters a little(a lot) star struck, before realising why he’s asking, “I don’t have a concussion! I’m fine really!”

Red Hood nods, standing back up. He reaches out an arm to help Marion up. Marion wants to take his hand, he really does, but his arms don’t seem to be moving. He’d probably just trip over anyway. Red Hood lets his arm drop once its clear Marion won’t be responding anytime soon. Instead he reaches down and throws the unconscious villain over his shoulder.

“I’m sure you’re going to get plenty of lectures on how stupid that was,” Marion cringes at the harsh tone “So… thanks…. that was really brave,”

Marion is left to internally combust as Red Hood swings out the window with a grappling hook.

“Marion! Mari! Are you ok,” Marinette rushes to him, followed by the rest of the class.

“What just happened?” Marion is still staring at the spot Red Hood disappeared from.

“Dude, you took that guy down in seconds!” Nino exclaims, Marion fixes his glasses only the magic of the miraculous keeping them on.

“Huh, it felt longer,” Marion turns to his class to see everyone, minus Lila, looking down at him with concern.

“We need to get you checked out,” Dick helps him stand,“There's a medical bay in Wayne tower, lets go,”

Marion just nods, slowly coming to himself to realise he was very much not alright. He clutched his side that ached, armour shielding the majority of the damage didn’t mean it wasn’t hurting. His back also hurt from landing on the ground, luckily Marinette had reinforced his jacket so he knew it wasn't cut up. Apparently he had gotten away with no cuts, as he had kept his head off the ground and was wearing reinforced gloves. His ears were ringing from the gunshots, in hindsight, that hold wasn’t the best idea, but they rarely had to deal with actual guns so he was left unprepared.

They reach the medical bay, Dick trying to get his classmates and teacher to calm down the whole way. Marion didn’t answer any of their questions, knowing he had to consider his answers carefully. He made sure to pass Marinette his baton, for her to hide in her backpack. In the medical bay there were a few employees who were part of the attack getting their cuts disinfected. Marion gets a thank you from an employee who he recognises as the one trapped under the desk. Marion nods in response, being guided to a seperate room only Marinette was allowed into.

The nurse checks him over, revealing a growing bruise on his side. He seems surprised it's not worse after Marinette explains what happened, luckily he doesn’t notice anything amiss about his clothes. He also checks his back, telling him it should be fine in a day or two and if it’s not, to see a professional. Marion knows that even if something is wrong his increased healing ability from his time as the black cat would set it right.

“The ringing should wear off in a few days,” Marion knows it will stop by the end of the day, “It’s a natural symptom after loud noises,”

Marion nods and the nurse leaves him to rest, letting Marinette watch over him.

“That was reckless,” Marinette states simply, as soon as the door closes.

“Can we save the lecture for later?” He rolls over on the bed the nurse insisted he rest on.

“Marinette is right,” Tikki flies out of her purse, followed by Kaalki and Plagg. Plagg doesn't say anything just comes to sit on Marion’s chest. “Your whole class was watching,”

“I know! I just wasn't thinking!” Marion pats Plagg's head, silently telling him he’s alright.

“I don’t know,” Marinette leans back and smirks, “I think you were thinking of one thing in particular,”

“No, go back to the lecture,” Marion buries his face in the pillow.

“So how was meeting him? You seemed a little flustered,” Marinette leans her elbows on her knees and holds her face.

“Ugh, I was totally embarrassing, wasn’t I?” Marion fixes her with pleading eyes.

“Oh, definitely, you also completely ignored him trying to help you," Marion screams into the pillow,

“This seems to be an effective punishment,” Kaalki muses, zipping away with the rest of the Kwamis when someone knocks on the door.

“Come in,” Marinette calls, as Marion sits up.

“Marion Cheng-Dupain, explain yourself!” Aunt Selina bursts through the door.

“Auntie! Who I love so much, so good to see you, did I tell you that you look lovely today,” Marion shifts back as she approaches.

“Nice try, why did I get a call from Dick telling me you were in the medical wing?” She stops to stand in front of him, hands on hips.

“I assume it’s because of the villain attack,” Marion glances at the door to see Dick peek in before closing it, “But I’m not sure,”

“A villain attacked you!” Selina bellows, Marion realises its probably a good thing he can't give her their name.

“Well no. The villain attacked Red Hood, I attacked the villain before he could attack Red Hood,” Marion rambles making gestures to explain the process. Marinette gives him a flat look.

“So you thought attacking a villain unarmed was a better idea then running away?” Their Aunt looks horrified through her anger.

“Yes that would be the gist of it,” Marion agrees, Marinette face palms.

“Don’t worry I’ve already given him a lecture,” Marinette covers and Marion knows he owes her one.

“What am I going to do with you?” Their Aunt sighs rubbing her face.

“Give me a hug and ask if I'm alright?” She rolls her eyes knowing exactly what he’s trying to do, but sits down next to him anyway.

“Come here you two,” Marinette comes and sits next to her and she pulls them both in for a hug, “You’re not allowed to scare me like that ever again,”

“Ever?-ouch,” Marion yelps as Selina pinches his cheek playfully.

“You’re meant to say ‘sorry I won’t do it again’ and then be sneakier about it next time,” She scolds, as Marion rubs his cheek.

“I promise next time I decide to impulsively fight a villain you won’t find out about it,” Marion swears, making their aunt roll her eyes.

“You’re a brat,” She ruffles his hair, not that it wasn't already messy.

“I get it from you,” Marion grins, Selina sighs.

”... yes you do,” She gives him a sad little smile and they fall into a familiar silence.

This was something their Aunt did often, randomly becoming solemn and closing off for a little bit.

“Marion, Marinette are you ok?” Madame Bustier pokes her head through the door.

“Yeah, nurse said I’m fine, just a few bruises,” Marion sees her relief, "Did you call our parents?"

"Yes I called yours first, I told them you were being looked at," Madame Bustier explains, "You should call them soon,"

"We will," Marinette promises, neither looking forward to that conversation.

“Alright then, are you free to go?” Madame Bustier asks, “The rest of the tours been cancelled and the class is ready to leave,”

“I’ll take them,” Selina steps in, hugging them tighter “I’ll drop them off at the hotel later,”

“Alright then, don’t stay out too late” Madame Bustier gives them a smile, disappearing behind the door.

“She isn’t even going to ask where we’re going,” Their Aunt huffs, glaring at the door.

“Aren’t we going to dinner?” Marion asks, Marinette nodding.

“I was planning on just letting you rest without your classmates bothering you,” Their Aunt admits

“I’m fine, I want to go to dinner," Marion receives an unconvinced look from their Aunt.

"Please,” They chorus using their twin powers, that breaks her.

“Fine, fine," She relents, ruffling his hair again, Marinette's hat sparing her, "But Bruce probably needs some time to sort everything out,”

“Already handled,” Bruce walks through the door right on cue, “I must apologise for this happening to you both in my building,”

“Don’t worry about it, we’re fine,” Marinette answers for him, Marion getting tired of repeating himself.

“I watched the security footage," Bruce tells them, standing at the bed.

'right that exists' Marion thinks, 'I can practically fell Marinette scheming how to steal it', if only to immortalise his pain.

"Where did you learn to fight?” Bruce inquires, neither missing the subtle glance to Selina.

“Um, we taught ourselves, did some self defence classes,” Marinette answers, both feeling their Aunt relax against them

“Plus Aunt Selina has trained us a bit since we were kids,” Marion adds, with a teasing smile.

“Has she,” Bruce states, looking at his fiance.

“You little snitch,” Selina mocks anger, ruffling his hair with both hands now in retaliation, Marion laughs.

“If you aren’t up for dinner we can postpone to a later date,” Bruce tells him, Marion swears he can see a slight smile.

“No, no, I’m perfectly fine, I’d love to come,” Marion tries to push his Aunt away.

“If that's the case, we can go to the manor right now,” Bruce offers, the twins nod, “Just a minute, Selina?”

Selina leaves Marion's hair alone and follows Bruce out the room. Marion starts to go over the events of the last hour in his mind. Coming to a horrible realisation.

“Wait a minute… did Red Hood see me wearing his outfit!” Marion turns to Marinette.

“Oh come on, like he recognises it,” She says through her laughter.

‘He was wearing my MDC outfit’ Jason thinks excitedly to himself, having dropped the criminal off to the police.

‘He seemed scared so he probably isn’t a fan, maybe he just likes MDC’ Jason's thoughts sour, back at his shared safe house with Roy.

His phone rings. Jason is about to ignore it when he sees Alfred's name on the caller Id.

“Hello?”

“Master Jason I would like to invite you to dinner tonight,” Alfred speaks from the phone, as Jason paces around the apartment.

“What's the occasion?” Jason asks, Roy glances up from whatever he's making on the couch.

“Miss Selina’s niece and nephew are in town and it would be nice for them to meet the family,” Jason snorts.

'Family huh?' he doesn't dare say to Alfred.

“I believe you already met Marion today at Wayne Tower,” Jason pauses, recognising the name as the boy gave him when he was checking for a concussion.

“He’s Cat Woman’s nephew?” Jason whispers into the phone.

‘Makes sense his movements did seem similar to hers,’ Jason wonders if she properly trained them.

“Yes, although I doubt neither he nor Marinette are aware,” If Alfred was saying that it was probably true.

“Alright fine,” Jason agrees, drawing Roy's attention again.

“Very good Master Jason, I will see you this evening,"

"Bye," Jason hangs up shortly.

“You’re actually going to dinner?" Roy knows his relationship with the rest of the Bat's is testy at best, plus he broke Bruce's window today.

“Remember the civilian I told you about?” Jason plops down onto the couch next to him.

“The one who saved your butt? The one you haven't stopped talking about? The one who's kinda cute? nope,” Roy pops the 'p' turning back to his newest gadget.

“He’s going to be there,” Jason ignores Roy's taunting.

“Why?” Roy keeps fiddling with a gear.

“Apparently he’s Cat Woman's nephew,”

“What!" Roy drops the gadget, cursing as pieces scatter everywhere.

“I want to check on him, he seemed really out of it,” Jason ignores Roy's outburst.

“Wait so does that make you two like... adopted cousins in law or something?” Jason chuckles without any humour.

“In case you haven't noticed I haven't been Bruce's son for a long time,”

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chockfullofsecrets · 4 years ago

Text

Critical Role: Stains and Apologies

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Gen

Summary: Without breaking eye contact with Fjord, Yasha reaches over her shoulder again and this time pulls Molly out from behind her with a hand fisted in the collar of his coat. His heeled boots leave the scuffed wooden floor as she shakes him, gentle and chastising - dangling from her grip, he looks like nothing more than a naughty kitten. “Molly, you shouldn’t mess with people’s things.”

Molly pouts. “Yash, come on, it was funny!”

“You know what happens when you do that.”

And, just like that, oh so satisfyingly, Molly’s entire demeanor shifts - his eyes spring wide, tail twitching agitatedly to match. “Oh. Oh - no, hey, that’s not-”

Wordcount: 2302

A/N: Shoutout to @ticklishnonsense who’s been absolutely killing me with their switch!Molly content lately, and @eldritchtickles who requested lee!Molly fully half a year ago, i’m so sorry for the delay 🤦‍♀️

Fjord’s not going to kill Molly.

He can appreciate that it looks like he’s going to kill him, the way he’s currently sprinting with one hand brandishing his sword and the other grasping for a purple tail just out of his reach, but he’s not. Really.

He’s just going to Blink onto him, tackle him to the floor, and rub his face into whatever muck’s been sloughed off the bootsoles of the inn’s latest patrons until he apologizes.

Molly ducks through the nearest doorway, coat and horn jewelry flaring in a jangling arc behind him as he pivots. Fjord slams a hand into the already-splintering beam of the frame and skids after him. If he can just get a bead on where his insane roommate is going to be in the next six seconds -

His attempt at foresight is instantly thwarted as he comes up short - literally, his head smacks off a leather bracer as he’s forcibly stopped by someone a good head taller than him. He stumbles back, pulling his sword to his chest in an unfortunately belated attempt not to stab anyone, and looks up.

Yasha looms before him with one arm raised protectively, looking blessedly un-gouged. Her expression as she reaches over her shoulder for the hilt of her own sword almost makes him wish that wasn’t the case. “Are you going to put that away?”

“Put away - oh.” His sword vanishes with a spray of salt. “That was. Ahem. For transportation.”

“Oh, that’s a relief.” The lilting voice comes from further in the room, and it only takes a second past that to see the edges of Molly’s coat peeking out from his human shield.

Fjord attempts to scowl at him through Yasha’s chest. “Well, maybe now that we’re both in one place I can ask you what in Dwendal’s name you did that for.”

Molly becomes slightly more visible as Yasha turns to him. “Oh… Molly, what did you do?”

There’s a distinct lack of the guilty silence that Fjord thinks the situation deserves. “I,” Molly says, completely confident, “gave him him a gift-”

Fjord scoffs. “He stole the soap I keep in my pack and replaced it-”

“With better soap-”

Yasha’s gaze has been flicking between the two of them, and Fjord waits until it swings back his way before holding his hands out indignantly. “Is that what you’d call this?”

All three of them stare at his hands. He doesn’t mind the flowery scent - the sea breeze has scoured his nostrils enough that he’s beyond caring what he smells like most days.

The purple streaks staining his hands and forearms are a bit more offensive.

Yasha reaches out slowly to try and scrub some of it off with her thumb. Molly just snickers, waving his own fully purple hand out at Fjord. “To be fair, there’s no way I could have known that would happen.”

Without breaking eye contact with Fjord, Yasha reaches over her shoulder again and this time pulls Molly out from behind her with a hand fisted in the collar of his coat. His heeled boots leave the scuffed wooden floor as she shakes him, gentle and chastising - dangling from her grip, he looks like nothing more than a naughty kitten. “Molly, you shouldn’t mess with people’s things.”

Molly pouts. “Yash, come on, it was funny!”

“You know what happens when you do that.”

And, just like that, oh so satisfyingly, Molly’s entire demeanor shifts - his eyes spring wide, tail twitching agitatedly to match. “Oh. Oh - no, hey, that’s not-”

The tips of his boots press towards the floor in a transparent attempt to get some leverage, but Yasha just huffs and scoops the entirety of his lanky form into her arms. “Here,” she tells Fjord bluntly over his protests, turning to one of the beds, “I’ll show you how we used to punish him at the circus.”

Fjord feels the heat of his anger sour instantly at the prospect of someone being punished on his behalf; it leaves a chalky taste in his mouth not unlike the leftover dust when he’s done filing. He catches Yasha’s eye before she can look back at Molly, holds up his hands. “Hey, let’s just take a minute here - now I’m not thrilled about this, but maybe we’re all a little too tense. We can talk it out like adults - there’s no need for punishment, right, Molly?”

His attempt at placation hits dead silence as Yasha swivels to regard him fully, Molly twisting in her arms to do the same. They stare.

Fjord stupidly wonders if he’s going to get punished now, and then, belatedly, he connects the dots - head on, it’s much easier to see how loose her grip on him is, to intuit the rote familiarity of Molly’s bickering.

He’s still learning what that kind of easy, endlessly warm camaraderie looks like. Hard to do, when he’s never had it before.

He opens his mouth warily, praying that he can turn the bitter invective on his tongue into some kind of apology before it comes out. Luckily, Molly beats him to it with a fit of giddy laughter that has him slumped halfway over Yasha’s bicep.

“What a gentleman! See, Yasha, I can’t help myself - it’s impossible not to mess with him.”

Yasha winces. It’s that more than anything else that has Fjord chuckling along, lowering his hands and shaking his head. “All right, I take it back, do whatever you want with him.”

“Hey!”

Yasha’s forehead unfurrows, and in one smooth movement she drops Molly on the nearest mattress with his tail arcing behind. He starts to get back up, no doubt eager to keep talking, but Yasha just reaches between his horns to grab the back of his neck and gently but firmly shoves him face-first into cotton sheets. “He squirms a lot,” she says, almost apologetically.

“Uh… what?”

“Hold on.” She pulls away the bunched fabric of coat and shirt to expose a strip of purple skin that bares the shallow outline of ribs and the smooth dip of Molly’s back, gently fluttering her fingers over the edge of a tattooed flourish, and instantly her explanation starts to make sense.

“Mmphhh! Hm, heh-” Molly tries to roll onto his exposed side, but that just pushes Yasha’s hand further up his back to tickle along the side of his spine. “Okay, okahahay, I - oh, that’s enough - nahaha!”

“His back is a good spot,” Yasha instructs, and Fjord nods numbly along. Her fingers stray down to Molly’s side, squeezing lightly into the shivering softness just under his ribcage, and no matter how Molly struggles and whines between bursts of snickering there’s not a thing on earth he can do to stop her.

Fjord blinks. There’s this weird swooping sensation in his belly, watching how little ability Molly has to fight back - he can barely even lift his head, though he doesn’t seem to be struggling to breathe. “Are you just going to do that till he apologizes?”

“No. I do this until,” Yasha pauses, lips pulling flat as she considers, “until he gets… floppier. Less bratty,” she enunciates to Molly, and curls her fingers just below the small of his back until a muffled shriek works its way out of the bedsheets his face is buried in. “When that’s done he’ll apologize on his own.”

“Ah,” Fjord nods again. He’s confused as fuck-all, but it’s hard not to smile watching Yasha make mock-contemplative noises that have Molly’s tail twitching anxiously in response against her knees. Judging by the frantic laughter as she makes a claw of her hand and goes after his ribs, he’s right to be worried.

It’s crazy, but oddly charming. Par for the course with their weird little group.

“You can join in if you want,” Yasha tells him. She’s not smiling back at him, but something in her multicolored gaze looks a little softer upon registering his tacit approval. “It’s faster that way.”

Molly currently looks to be trying to burrow straight through the mattress, anchored only by Yasha’s nails hooking under the back of his jaw, and Fjord feels a little bad for him.

Then, glancing down, he catches sight of the purple streaks on his fingers again.

He clears his throat. “Yeah? Any suggestions?”

Yasha shifts slightly to let him closer to the bed. “Get one of his arms and tickle under it. Gently.”

Fjord sets his jaw and goes to tow one of Molly’s arms out from where he’s wrapped it tightly against his belly. Molly, naturally, is unsupportive of his endeavors.

“Nooo - ha! - give that bahahack!” He almost twists free, too, but Yasha tickles his back again and that renders him flailingly incoherent long enough for Fjord to properly pin his forearm to the mattress.

Molly manages to peek out at him, the singular red eye that’s visible glinting with half-shed tears. Yasha’s stopped tickling for the moment to let him catch his breath in frantic heaves of air, but Fjord can see a glimpse of fang in the blissed-out grin he’s still sporting, a happy flush high on cheeks half hidden by hair and curling horns.

“You done?” he asks, just in case.

Molly sniffles in another breath. “Your hands look lovely, dear.”

Fjord raises an eyebrow and pokes him in the armpit, settling in on the floor and resting his chin on the mattress to better meet his gaze. Molly squeaks, eye squeezing shut as his grin jolts wider. “Now that’s uncalled for, isn’t it?”

Molly’s tongue flickers out at him, mocking. “Do what you have to.”

Fjord just pokes him again, wiggling his finger a little this time, and feels Molly’s bicep tense in his hold as a flurry of giggles erupts. He waits patiently for the giggles to calm, for Molly’s arm to twitch again - this time, with impatience. “Oh? What are we doing again?”

His eye cracks open, looking Fjord over, and then springs wide in horror. “Yasha,” he whines, trying and failing to squirm away from Fjord’s amusement.

Yasha sounds pretty amused herself. “Yes, Molly?”

“This isn’t how it works!”

Yasha mulls this over. “I think this is the best it’s ever worked, actually.”

Realizing that he’s going to get no help from that quarter, Molly huffs and makes a heroic attempt to struggle upright under their hands. “Okay, fine, clearly we’re done here - hngh!”

He’s barely gotten his elbow to budge before Fjord is worrying at his armpit with a single fingertip, sending shivers through his entire body that bring him right back down with a frustrated yelp. “Are we?”

It’s terribly hard not to break his faux-clueless tone and laugh. He’s never seen Molly embarrassed before, especially at the threat of not being tickled to death. But here he is, flushed all the way to the back of his neck, the dark purple blush standing out against Yasha’s pale fingers. That alone feels like enough recompense for the whole incident, so he sighs indulgently and lifts his chin to look over at Yasha. “Yeah, alright, let’s get him.”

Yasha takes her hand off Molly’s neck, letting him bolt up the instant before she shoves both hands under his shirt and Fjord starts tickling his armpit in earnest.He faceplants back onto the bed, curling up as best he can. “AH - hahaHA! Nahaha, hah - notthehehere, fuck-” Fjord glances over to see Yasha’s knuckles bulging through the fabric over his shoulder blades and grins, tickling up along the tops of Molly’s deltoids to bump knuckles with her.

Molly laughs and laughs and laughs, occasionally jerking his head up to reveal a dizzingly bright grin, and as his hysterics eventually trail off into helpless wheezing he lies completely limp and more than a little sweaty in tangled sheets. Fjord, shaking out his hands before they can cramp up, contemplates fetching some soap to throw at him. He settles for rolling Molly over and flicking him gently in the forehead.

Molly springs up suddenly, forcing him to step back, and completely ignores him to scrabble for purchase on Yasha’s arms. Fjord watches the both of them tug and rearrange until Molly is curled up half in Yasha’s lap, her making an extremely halfhearted attempt to smooth his mussed hair.

That bitter feeling inches back in, just a little, and he starts to turn for the door on instinct.

Then, eyes still bleary with tears of laughter, Molly looks straight at him. “Well, that was interesting.”

Fjord meets his gaze. “We’ll call it even,” he says, “provided you don’t touch my stuff again. Didn’t we literally just do this with Nott?”

“Even…” Molly muses. “Sure.” His fangs make a sudden reappearance, the crown jewels of a mischievously evil grin. “Until I find out where you’re ticklish, at least.”

Fjord wills himself not to take a step back. “Oh, that won’t be necessary.”

Molly and Yasha look at him with two completely different expressions that somehow manage to contain the exact same level of smugness. “It’s kind of a cycle,” Yasha admits. “He used to hide behind the tents and jump out at me, and then I’d have to do it all over again.”

The swooping sensation is back in full force, and the only thought that helps him force down a nervous smile is knowing it will expose the nubs of his tusks. “I…” He nods as calmly as he can at Molly. “I’ll be keeping an eye out, then.”

Molly says nothing, just keeps grinning implacably, but the edge of Yasha’s mouth quirks up in a soft smile. “Good.”

Fjord gestures hastily to indicate some kind of goodbye and takes his leave before Molly can start doing any investigating. Crazy, totally weird, but that feeling-

He’s halfway back to his room before he realizes that he never got an apology.

#tickling #critical role #yasha nydoorin #mollymauk tealeaf #fjord #chocfic

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wheelersdealer · 5 years ago

Text

Do It For Me

Request: “STEVE SMUT STEVE SMUT” + “sTevE smUt SteVe sMut” - Anon. Summary: Steve insists you would have despised his “King Steve” persona, but you’re insistent on wanting to see how the King’s famed bed-time activities really played out. Pairing: Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader An: Lmao, thanks anon. First time writing sin, so I tried to make the beginning make up for the second half if it’s not up to anyone’s smut standards. This was fun though!

“Bye bye Duuusty! Have fun!” With your head stuck out the window, you pucker your lips and Steve starts cracking up, leaning out his side and doing the same. “We’ll keep an ear out on Suzie for you!”

Dustin stomps onto Will’s porch, his backpack in hand among other things he’s slung over his shoulder to take to the Byers’. You and Steve are hooting and hollering, then sit back in your seats when Dustin is through the door. You can see his shadow, see his friends walking around in there, but admittedly for a moment forget about the open door as you and Steve lean close and you rest your head on his shoulder.

“Mmmm,” you hum, “young love.”

Steve chuckles. “Tell me about it. That kid is certainly something’…” he clears his throat and sits back in his seat, an elbow leaning out the window and his hand on the wheel. “I would not be able to do a long distance sitch, I can tell you that.”

You frown. “Really, not even for me?” Though you tease. Steve rolls his eyes and chuckles, but you save him having to fumble with an explanation when you wiggle your brows and say “And why is that, Harrington?”

Steve looks around for a minute, blush on his cheeks. “I mean…? Because.”

“HEY!” There’s a thud at your window, and you look to see Dustin with his hands on the door. You stop leaning over the center console and look at Dustin with wide eyes. Of course, nothing was happening (thank God) but you’re still heating up and embarrassed to your core. You manage to chuckle and drop your face in your hand. “Better not do any of that, what I just saw there, with my sister, Harrington!”

Steve scoffs. “Do what? Sit close and barely kiss — kid your mom’s done worse in her lifetime than we have, okay?” You almost choke, but this time you lean toward Dustin and you two give Steve absolute shock at that…burn? That gross, gross (but true) burn.

Anyway, “Yeah chill out Dusty, we’ll keep it PG-13.” You reach through the window and manage to tickle his stomach. After a boisterous giggle, he jumps back and glares, holding his fingers to his eyes then swiping them back to point at you before he rounds the car and pulls his bike from the trunk. You rest your elbow on the window ceil, twirl your finger through your hair, and give Dustin one last little wave. “See?” You shout as he sets his bike by Will’s porch, ready to go inside for the final time. “Everything will be fine!”

You’re tearing clothes off the second you get home.

“Hey hey hey!” You giggle and have to hold Steve by the shoulders to keep him standing up. His pants are halfway down his leg and you swore he was just about to fall on his face as he tried hopping out of his jeans. “Not yet, Steve, not yet!”

He scoffs but gets his footing, kicking them off the rest of the way and leaning forward to pluck them up in a quick second. He looks like a gentleman with his jacket folded over his arm. Only the ‘jacket’ is his jeans and he’s standing in the middle of your vacant living room in boxer-briefs that you’d say are tastefully tight.

You tease “My my Harrington, look what you’ve got,” through your teeth, and Steve jumps back all embarrassed and giddy when you cup him.

“Hey, hey! What did you just say? Not, yet.” He says through his teeth, unable to keep on the demeanor and letting a smile slip through. He pulls his pants from his arm and you yelp, skipping back and hurrying to your room as he tosses them at you.

Despite being half-nude in your living room, he really is a gentleman, picking up his jeans and balling them up again before dropping them the second he makes it to your room.

You peck him on the lips as you slip back out into the hallway.

You make sure Dustin’s room is empty, your mom’s room is empty, the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room is empty…You even head into the basement, getting only a few steps down before opting to just bend forward and squint hoping you’ll see anything (if there is anything) that way instead of having to fully descend down them. You come back upstairs, make sure every door and most window leading to the outside is locked…and then you hop right back into your room.

Steve’s standing in front of your bed with his back to the door. He still has his briefs on. He turns slowly, hands on his hips, and a sly smile on his face. Though his brows quirk as though he wasn’t expecting you.

“Why, hello, my lady,” he says, dropping his hands and wrapping them loose around yours when you’re close. “My my, what do we have here? Hmm?” You stare at him and his adorable self in awe, chewing your cheek and hardly noticing him very slowly tug up your shirt by the rim while he goes through the effort of trying to create commentary. “Ah, and right here we see the seam is very crisp, very strong. That’s always a good thing, especially in catalogs. Hmm, but let’s see what it looks like off, shall we?” You lift your arms while he pulls your top off of you, and then he grabs the shirt by its shoulders and shakes it out, holding it off to the side and looking at it against the light. “Mm, wow. Lovely colors, really quite poignant in sunlight, seems to perform in different lighting pretty well.”

This is cute.

But you grab the shirt and toss it to the side.

Steve goes quiet, his jaw slack and betrayal in his eyes. He hisses and goes “Ouch.” Before adding this sense of poise to his voice. “Ma’am,” he starts, “you’re a great audience member, I love you — but this is my show and I would appreciate if you didn’t do that and knock it off, okay? We have a lot of items from the catalog to get through with today and —“ you roll your eyes and step forward, putting your hands to his chest and pushing him onto your bed. He goes, “Hey, hey!” And snaps his fingers over your head, pointing dramatically and shouting, “Security! Security!”

You scoff and when you take your hands off him for a second to stand back and just look at this man, he scoots farther up on the bed, only his feet hanging off as he keeps the jig up.

“Oh my God, were you this much of a dork when you were ‘King Steve’?”

You crawl up and sit in his lap.

“Hey, we promised we would never talk about that.” Ah yes…memories of King Steve were off limits…But—

“Oh come on…” You whine, running your finger along his chest. “King Steve is like,” you roll your eyes at the ceiling, “what high school me fantasized about.”

“Wait a minute.” Steve sits up. “You had a crush on me?”

You hiss “Yessss,” and lean into Steve’s neck. You peck him and nibble at his skin, enjoying it for a moment before he grabs your shoulders and holds you up and away from him. You whine, pouting.

“Y/n, are you serious?”

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”

Steve huffs. “Well I mean, I don’t know why you did. I was a total asshole Y/n, you know that.”

“Well yeah, but…? Your whole macho man, King Steve attitude was like…” you chuckle, “Hot?”

Steve chokes on his breath. “Wow, you have terrible taste in men.”

And you slap his chest. “Hey! No I do not!”

“I mean,” He takes a breath and starts shaking his head, clicking his tongue disapprovingly, “I’m flattered you had taste in me but I’m frankly appalled. C’mon Y/n, King Steve? King Steve?” He grabs your wrists to pull you even closer.

And while you squirm, whining “Stooooop!” and trying (Barely) to get off his lap, you start to laugh.

And Steve does too but manages to quiet himself to say in a lecturing tone, “Y/n, King Steve didn’t deserve you. He didn’t then, and he wouldn't now.”

“Well I know but I just,” you groan, “think about the dominance sometimes!”

“Dominance?”

“Yes!” You scream ‘See, now you’re getting it!’ In your head and shake your wrist and therefore his hands about. “I love this Scoops Ahoy era Steve and I’m sure King Steve would have driven me crazy but like…are you telling me King Steve didn’t take his girls for a ride?” Before he can interject, you put a finger to his lips, his hands still around your wrists. “Not saying Scoops Ahoy Steve can’t take me for a ride cause he does, literally, but I mean is it so bad to wonder what a snooty popular boy would be like?” You lower your voice, “And I’ve heard some stories so I know you weren’t just self-serving and I mean come on, back then generous King Steve was a rarity.”

Steve sighs and lets go of your wrists. He leans back, resting on his arms, and after a moment he reaches and strokes your hair, tucking some behind your ear despite being unneeded.

“You really wanna see what King Steve was like?”

You clap your hands together and nod rapidly.

He groans “Fiiiinneee!” And with one swoop he’s gotten himself between your legs and you on your back? It is certainly a case of whiplash but you’re just chuckling (almost madly) now, holding yourself up on your elbows and trying to get your equilibrium back. “Is this really what you want? You want me to bring the spirit of King Steve back?”

You nod.

He rolls his eyes with a smirk and without looking he goes to reach a hand down your front, using some force to get it past the rim of your jeans.

“Nuh-uh,” you sit up, pulling his hand out before he even really got anywhere, “I want the whole show, Steve.”

“The whole show?”

“Yes! I want the whole show.” You crawl over his lap and tumble onto the floor (a quite common occurrence you and Steve tend to laugh about). Then you get to your shirt, slip it back on, and finally stand as you pluck Steve’s shirt and pants off the ground.

“Y/n…”

You toss his clothes to him, and he begrudgingly puts everything back on….he even puts his shoes back on. The dedication.

“Do it for me? Please?”

He glares softly while standing and trying to put his damn shoe on. He has to stop to really focus, grunting and scolding his stubbornness. It wouldn’t be this hard right now if he had stopped to untie his laces the first time around but he was in such a hurry then he basically slammed his foot against the ground trying to fling his sneaker off.

He even tucks his shirt back into his jeans and swoops down to grab the glasses that were tucked into his collar. He slips them back into place and you’re giggling in the corner with your hands over your mouth. Steve does a twirl in the doorway to see if you’re satisfied, and once you nod he drags his feet back to the front door. He even steps outside and leans in the doorway. He almost has a heart attack when you close the door thinking this was all just some elaborate rouse to get him out, but with a hesitant knock (in a set of three) you swing the door open again and gasp, tucking hair behind your ear.

“Oh! Hey Steve!”

He goes for an inside joke but recalls King Steve would not be such a dork. Then he shoves a hand in his pocket and snaps his fingers into a point at you. “Uh, you got the things, to study, right?”

After a moment, you nod.

“Great, great!” And he steps inside. He looks over to the living room and goes “Oh hey, hows it going Mrs. Henderson? Oh me? I’m doing alright uh, y’know. Actually, Mrs. Henderson, were you at the game Saturday night? You weren't?” Steve clicks his tongue and snaps his fingers. “Ah shoot, that’s a bummer. You know, I would have loved to see you. No, really! You’re an amazing woman, you’re lovely. Ah, anyways — just here to study with your daughter if that’s alright? It is, perfect!”

His eyes dart from you to the lounge chair, and he wiggles his brows at you before putting on a straight face as though the imaginary mother he just had a conversation with is now looking at you. He puts his hand to his forehead and gives ‘her’ a little salute, his eyes following her body. He stops when she presumably walks into the kitchen and behind a wall. And once she’s ‘out of sight’ he walks backward down your hallway.

“Hmm, Y/n? How was that one for size?”

You close your eyes and shake your head, following him. “King Steve screwing girls while their parents were home was such a common occurrence you had to include it as apart of the full experience?”

Steve smirks. He stops as soon as he gets to your door and raises his chin. “Uh, no thank you! We won’t be needing any snacks Mrs. Harrington, I think we’ll do just fine.” He ‘waits’ a moment, pretends he hears nothing, then winks at you.

He opens the door and steps in after you. And the second he closes it your back is against the wood and his arms are wrapped around you. His lips are on yours and to your surprise, they’re moving so slowly, so purposely. Your tense arms relax and rest against his chest, enjoying the closeness, the passion. You grab at his shirt, gently tug, and he steps closer in response, pressing himself into you.

“Oh wow,” you murmur against his lips.

His kisses have always been so quick and so sweet. They’ve been passionate but they’ve had speed, though they haven’t been hurried. They were kisses you could appreciate and embrace, but this is something else.

You wrap your arms around his neck and he stops, bringing his lips to your neck instead. He chuckles into your skin, “Not what you were expecting, is it?”

“No…not exactly.” You lean back. “Are you sure this is specifically King Steve or have you just never shown this side of you before?”

“Mmm,” he kisses you again, “please save all questions for the end of the ride.”

“Too cheesy.”

He leans back. “Was it?” And you nod. “Eh, oh well. Now…are you ready to take a ride on King Steve?”

You cackle, laughing in his face and desperately trying to stop. You bite your lip so hard you swear you might draw blood and eventually you give up, throwing your head back and bumping it against the door while Steve manages to keep a straight face…barely.

He looks away and shakes his head a bit before grunting, “That’s a yes,” and picking you up suddenly. You yelp and cling to him as he puts you down on the bed, standing between your legs and looking down at you with a look in his eyes much more serious than the ones he typically shows.

He leans over you with one hand going down between you to unbutton his jeans, and the other sliding under your back to support you. He kisses you again, just as slow and sensual as the last one. You hear his jeans rustle against the bed sheets as he kicks his jeans down. He chuckles into your mouth at the way he moves his legs to get off his shoes and unstick his jeans from his ankles.

And after that he goes for your jeans, unbuttoning with one hand and teasingly wrapping his fingers around the rim as he lifts himself up to the mattress before finally pulling them down for you. You pull your legs up, knees pointed to the sky, and with his help get them off. He chucks them off to the side before laying over you again, your legs wrapping around his back and maintaining their position as you carefully guide yourselves back to the pillows.

“Mm, babe or baby?” He asks.

“Huh?”

“You want me to call you babe?” He kisses your neck, “or baby?” You Ooo at that. “Babe?” He asks, and you nod rapidly. He chuckles and goes back to your neck. He nips at it and chuckles when you jump upon feeling him rolling his hips into yours. “Fuck babe, look at you…already gettin’ me hard.”

You gasp at the dirty talk (usually you make fun of each other and fuck around in dialogue) and he buries his face in the pillows behind you to keep himself from laughing.

He sits up again, and with your back supported by the pillows, he’s comfortable enough sliding one hand down between your legs, and using the other to tug your shirt off. You help him as best as you can before pulling at his shirt. He stops for a moment (to your disappointment, as you whine feeling the weight of his fingers gone) to take his shirt off and he appropriately chucks it in the designated corner of your room for discarded garments.

And then for the good part…

He sits up, breathing heavily (already) and smirking at you as he looks over your body. He bites his lip and wiggles his brows, the both of you stripped almost as far as you can be.

“You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” He says through his teeth as he grabs your underwear and lifts them up off your legs. He smiles, all giddy and sticking his hand into his briefs to ready himself as he leans forward again, kissing your cheek and jaw. He pulls his briefs as far as he can manage before opting to kick them off, finding success and showing you he’s found it by running himself along your folds.

But before he teases you too much, he freezes and looks around for a moment. His pants are across the room, but then he notices your drawer and with a stretch, he opens it and pulls out a condom (with some blind digging underneath everything else which you put in to avoid being discovered by any nosy family).

He bites his lip and gives a smug smile as he rips open the package with his teeth (carefully, but fittingly) and slides it on.

Then he’s back between your legs sliding himself against you.

“You ready for me?” He whispers in your ear.

And you close your eyes and groan, “Hurry up Harrington,” pulling his hair and making him look you in the eye as you spit out his name.

“Oooh, getting antsy now?” You feel him at your entrance, and your hips jut up eagerly. He raises his brows at you, almost mocking or reprimanding you with his look.

He leans down low, mumbles, “What do we say when we want something?” Into your ear, and strokes himself.

Groaning you say “Please.”

He smirks and pushes into you, the both of you losing your breath as he fills you. You bite your lip and close your eyes, your head pressing deep into the pillow. You moan softly as he begins to thrust into you. It’s painful in your psyche, painful how slow, how agonizingly slow he’s going compared to your usual escapades; which are faster and slicker and he isn’t so much of a tease.

Usually takes longer too with him having to repeatedly put you back in the mood following all of his jokes and ironic ramblings.

Still, you like it.

He goes “Damn Y/n, so tight for me,” and he clicks his tongue in a disapproving manner.

“Fuck,” you breath, “you better hurry up Steve.”

He chuckles, and for just a moment he thrusts his hips forward harshly. “Awe, but we’re just getting started.” He thrusts hard again, holding your hips for leverage and letting himself sit in you as he watches for your reaction. He enjoys the way your lips part and he enjoys the anger in your eyes at him being such a tease.

He leans forward and to keep you from lecturing him into hurrying, he kisses you, lips moving faster and less orderly this time around but it still keeps your mouth shut.

He rolls his hips, thrusting steadily and finding his rhythm. He moans into your mouth, chuckling as you repeat him. “Good God you’re squeezing the shit out of me Y/n.” He grabs the back of your head and guides your chin to his shoulder. You rest your head there and wrap your arms around his neck as he arches his back and actually thrusts faster.

You grip his hair again and hold tight as you moan into his skin. He stops just to lean back and grunt against your lips, “If you want this to last longer I’m gonna need you to not pull my hair, okay babe?”

Your eyes go wide and you almost start laughing.

But he grabs your chin and puts his forehead to yours. “O-kay?”

You bite your lip before humming “Mhmm,” and with a gentle kiss, Steve pushes your head back into place and fucks you again.

His hips rock harder and you both let out little gasps. You close your eyes and he does the same, hooking his chin around your shoulder and taking a hand from your hip to hold onto your back.

Steve pushes his legs out to spread you farther, allowing him to get deeper in you. You let out a strangled moan, and Steve smiles mischievously. He fucks you faster, deeper than he’s been, and he takes his other hand from your hip once you lock your ankles together around his back so he can toy with your clit. He chuckles as your body trembles against his and he groans “You feel so good,” in your ear.

“No you,” you tease, smiling expectantly hoping you’ve made him break. But he shakes his head and keeps his movement steady.

You curse “Dammit” at your failure before letting out a string of high-pitched moans. You cry out, “Fuck, Steve.”

And he insists “Hold on,” as he bucks harder, trying to get you there.

Your whimpering, the bed squeaking, and Steve’s grunting fill the room. Steve sits up some more and focuses his sight on you and the area between you, rubbing you in circles as he bites his lip, determined to help you. You get up on your elbows and watch for a moment before grabbing the back of his head and pulling his lips to yours.

And that’s enough to push him over the edge, his thrusts becoming jittery and staggered as he pulses inside you and cums. He’s surprised at himself, pushing against you to try and pull away and go back to helping you before he has the honor to fully finish.

But his heavy breathing and the way he moves inside you in the peak of his own pleasure is helpful enough, as that hot feeling in your abdomen grows too hot to bare and it bursts. You get even tighter around him and you feel the on-off sensation as you roll your hips instinctively and Steve’s thrusts finally start slowing.

You gasp for breath, separating from the kiss and letting Steve’s head fall to your chest. You kiss the top of his head and run your fingers through your hair, still dealing with the waves of strange pleasure his weight on your abdomen has on your body.

“Whaddya think?” He asks, sitting up though still inside of you.

You wince playfully and run your hand through your hair, unsticking strands from your face. “I could go for some more dialogue.”

Steve hums and nods, agreeing. “Yeah well, usually they’re screaming, so.” He clicks his tongue and tilts his head.

You blink. Then as you cackle and pull your legs out from under him.

“Hey, hey! I’m serious! Y/n, Y/n?!” He tries to get his words through to you, but you just can’t stop laughing, rolling on your side and hugging your stomach.

“Okay, okay, laugh all you want.” Steve sits up and holds his hands up in defense. He bites his lip and slaps his hand down on his thighs, looking around the room and thinking to go and get your clothes from the corner of the room. But when you accidentally kick at him in your laughing fit, he goes “Oh yeah? You think it’s funny?!” And he proceeds to tickle you, kneeling by your side for easier coverage. He tickles you and smiles wide as you scream, laugh, and cry all at the same time.

“Yeah that’s right, now you’re screaming! Now you’re screaming!”

“Y/N?” You and Steve freeze, the familiar voice of your damned little brother coming clear. You kick Steve off of you and he falls right off the bed and thuds like a son-of-a-bitch.

You crawl over to the edge of the bed and mouth ‘OH MY GOD’ at him as he tries to get his balance. He’s rubbing his head and sitting with his junk displayed (not like you’d care) and you’re waving him off in the direction of the corner he threw all of your clothes into.

He does a double take before stumbling to his feet and nearly skidding his knees against your carpet in his effort to get over there. You get off the bed and just as a precaution you lock the door, then roll your wrist for Steve to ‘hurry up’ and get dressed.

He mouths ‘I’M TRYING!’

He tries. He really does. He tries getting his boxer-briefs on and tries hopping on one foot without making a horrid thump every time he lands. He gets them on then does a frantic twirl, mouthing ‘WHERE’S MY PANTS?’

And course you can only shout in a hushed whisper “I don’t know!”

Steve gives a look of warning for actually speaking. He jumps over your bed, finding some items of clothing on the floor and fishing through them before coming up with a casual-enough outfit. You do the same, hopping lightly to get your pants on while making sure that any stray clothes are hidden.

Steve tries to make sure that your sheets aren’t too horribly jumbled.

“Y/n? You in there?” Dustin asks, knocking on the door just as Steve gets his shirt on not backward.

Steve’s eyes go wide and he looks at you for answers. You nod, urging him on as you try to very silently get comfortable and most importantly casual on your bed, some random magazine issue in hand.

Steve unlocks the door and opens it to Dustin’s fist in the air ready to knock again.

Dustin’s taken back a bit, seeing Steve breathing heavily with his hair a bit messy…but there you are on the bed (a neat bed in a neat room) with your legs crossed and focus on a magazine…

“Uhhhh…?”

“Need something kid?” Steve jumps when he sees the rest of Dustin’s party come into frame. “Oh, you uh…? All? Need something?”

You look up with your lips faintly puckered and portraying a look of absolute innocence.

Dustin lowers his chin and looks between Steve and you. “Actually we just decided to hang out here, for the day….and we came to tell you…but then I heard screaming.” Dustin eyes you specifically.

You look to Steve and Steve looks back at the group as he holds onto the door frame. “Nah, no.” He shakes his head, “No screaming here.” He shrugs. “Not that we heard at least.”

Will drops his eyes to the ground.

Lucas chuckles behind his fist.

Mike looks you straight on with his cheeks red and puffed out. When Dustin’s occupied with Steve, you wiggle your brows at Mike…he gets it and almost cackles but plays it off as a horribly wet cough.

You shake your head. “Yup no uh, no screaming around here.” You look out to the window. “I mean, it could have come from outside?” You and Steve shrug together.

“O…kay.” Dustin lowers his chin to his chest. “Just checking…” He squints curiously at you two as he pushes his friends back down the hall. “C’mon you guys.” Steve steps into the hallway and waves, only closing the door once they’re completely in the living room.

Then he turns to you, a smirk on his face.

“‘It could have come from outside?’” He mimics.

You gasp and point. “It could have!”

“‘It could have!’” He mimics again, crawling onto the edge of the bed and sitting on his knees at your feet. You’re both fuming and blushing, and after a moment Steve laughs and lunges forward again, ticking at your sides and sending you into a flailing fit.

While keeping your voice hushed, you ‘scream’ as best as you can to let out the pent up energy. You’re wheezing and coughing and Steve gives you an Eskimo kiss when you’re still enough.

“Now you’re screaming! Now you’re screaming!”

(Message me if you would like to be tagged whenever I post a Steve imagine!)

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mopeytropey · 4 years ago

Photo

Author’s note: This moodboard for chapter 3 was not a shameless excuse to post Lincoln glistening and shirtless ... OR WAS IT?

a beer buds series: chapter 3

(available below & posted on AO3 here)

Timeline: this takes place during chapter 3 of 'apu' after Clarke has gone running with Lexa but before game night at Lexa + Costia's apartment

Beer: Whirlpool NEW ENGLAND PALE ALE

Soft and citrusy, Whirlpool is Night Shift's flagship New England pale ale. Pours hazy blonde with a nose of ripe peach and grapefruit. Sips juicy, fruity, and crisp, with minimal bitterness and big clementine notes. A bright, vibrant beer that’s wonderfully drinkable and remarkably refreshing.

ABV 4.5%

Whirlpool: Night Shift (Everett, MA) Lexa slows at the base of an incline, bracing her weight with her hands on her kneecaps while catching her breath. Lincoln extends his run by a few extra strides, resting his torso against the black metal railing of an overlook that juts above the harbor. They stand just six feet apart, regulating their breathing, while pedestrians, cyclists, and young children in strollers filter past. Although the sun wanes, arching towards the water, its heat has soaked Lexa’s shirt and shorts so that the material sticks to her skin in several places.

“Bit more intense than your last run?” Lincoln asks when he circles back to stand beside her.

Lexa stands to her full height, using the bottom of her shirt to wipe sweat from her face. “What do you mean?”

“Octavia tells me you managed to coerce Clarke into running with you the other day. Somehow I can’t imagine there were any interval sprints in that particular course.”

That jolt of nerves—of which she is now regretfully quite familiar—at the mention of Clarke has Lexa shrugging off a laugh and heading for the shade of the Memorial Bridge overpass. Her mind betrays her in the worst way as visions of Clarke in running gear, jogging beside her and cracking jokes, resurface yet again. She would kill for some ice cold water.

Either to drink or dump over her head.

She walks with her hands folded atop her head, triceps stretching pleasantly as she leans against the bridge piling. The cold stone presses into her skin through the material of her shirt, and Lexa focuses on the sensation. Lincoln follows her with an expectant smile.

“Clarke can be coerced by nothing, I assure you. She was the one who asked to come with me.” Lexa kicks lightly at Lincoln’s chiseled calf muscle. “Anyway, I sort of lost my running partner when he started getting laid, didn’t I?”

“Hey, whoa, whoa,” Lincoln laughs, defensively holding up his palms towards Lexa. “You have not lost me.”

“Well, you’re certainly not as available.”

“Guilty,” Lincoln shrugs. “But, come on, you know how it is. You remember.”

She does remember. Lovedrunk and saturated by lust and desire—that overconsumption of physical touch that leaves no room for anything or anyone else. She remembers those first few reclusive weeks with Costia, both of them cancelling plans and shutting out the world.

It feels like someone else’s memories. A fading mirage from another life.

Lexa nods, conceding with a short exhale. “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

She stands to stretch her limbs and suddenly feels like she could run another ten miles.

“Let’s grab a beer,” Lincoln suggests, and Lexa is grateful for the change in subject.

“What—now? Where would we go? I’m disgusting,” she says, plucking her shirt from where it sticks to the skin of her stomach.

Lincoln bobs his head up the sidewalk, and Lexa’s stomach clenches to see the bright white siding of Dockside. “Octavia’s working. Let’s go bother her.”

“I need to shower,” Lexa stalls.

“Nah, come on.” Lincoln strongarms her, quite literally, by wrapping his arm around her shoulders and walking farther beneath the shadowed overpass. “The girls won’t care. We’ll sit outside.”

“Linc, I—“

“Nope, no arguments. Anyway, it’s Wednesday so Clarke is probably there too. Don’t you want to see your new best friend?”

Yes. All of the time. She is both the best and worst thing in my life at the moment. It is exceedingly problematic.

Lexa admits to none of this and instead allows herself to be escorted down the short path towards Dockside’s sunny patio. She angles her head so that she can see Lincoln’s face of self-satisfaction and scowls at his ridiculous smile.

:::

“You might not want to hug me, I’m incredibly sweaty right now.”

“Like that’s gonna stop me,” Octavia says, practically jumping into Lincoln’s embrace and landing a soft kiss against his mouth.

It’s brief and chaste, but Lexa nevertheless averts her eyes and lets her gaze fall across the boats in the harbor. They’ve approached the bar from its rear side, closer to the delivery hatch, crunching through the gravel lot that separates Dockside from the bridge.

“You guys are staying for a drink, right?”

Lexa quickly wonders if she can still sneak away for a shower and meet up with Lincoln later now that he’s got Octavia in his arms. “Actually—“

“Oh, no, sorry,” Octavia smirks. “That wasn’t a question. You’re staying.”

Lexa fully surrenders after that, following Lincoln and Octavia towards the patio entrance with a short laugh. Things could be worse than having friends hellbent on spending time with her.

It is this misguided thought that precedes Lexa’s gaze landing on Clarke through the windows that line the water.

Oh no, things are actually the worst they could possibly be.

Clarke in a strapless, summery dress. Clarke with her hair twisted at the back of her head in a delicate bun so that Lexa’s vision narrows to the shape of her bare neck and shoulders. Clarke’s bright smile as she spins to collect empty glasses from a table of two college-aged girls.

Lexa’s smile drains from her face, and when Clarke looks up to see her on the patio, she feels it like a punch to her abdomen.

She had not been wearing this particularly offensive dress during Trikru’s delivery this morning, and Lexa wonders if she often goes home on her long Wednesdays to freshen up and change clothes between shifts.

Perhaps she has a favorite customer coming in later whom she wishes to impress. Perhaps Clarke has invited someone to come visit her specifically, to make the gruelling shift more bearable. Perhaps—

“Grab a seat out here.” Octavia’s direction interrupts Lexa’s inconsequential thoughts.

Perhaps Lexa should stop theorizing about Clarke and her goddamn dress and pull her life together.

“There’s this obnoxious group of guys at the bar who keep trying to flirt with Clarke about kayaking,” Octavia continues. “I have to go rescue her, but I’ll be back with drinks.”

She leaves them with a quick brush of her fingers down Lincoln’s chest, and Lexa struggles to push images from her mind of Clarke being hit on as she climbs onto a stool across from Lincoln. The patio hasn’t yet filled with a late afternoon crowd, and she and Lincoln enjoy a minute or two of relative quiet.

Lincoln hadn’t undersold the location: the views at Dockside are stunning. The harbor is aglow as boats slice its shimmering surface. Lexa allows herself to relax under a setting sun. The sound of gulls in chorus with a quiet, perpetual clanging of cars going over the bridge soothe her previously racing thoughts.

When Octavia returns, it is with glasses of ice water, two, dripping pints of beer, and Clarke at her heels.

Lexa’s relaxation vanishes in a blink.

“Night Shift. Whirlpool,” Octavia says by way of explanation of their beverages.

Greetings overlap as Octavia places coasters and pints on the table, but Clarke’s voice, most prominently, rings in Lexa’s ears. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“I didn’t know you guys were coming by today.”

“Yeah, neither did I,” Lexa responds, avoiding Lincoln’s eye as he kicks her running shoe beneath the table.

She studiously ignores the swoop in her belly when she catches Clarke’s playful gaze instead.

“You two look properly gross and sweaty,” she comments with that unnecessarily striking smile of hers.

“Pretty sure our run was just a bit more intense than the casual little jaunt you and Lexa did the other day,” Lincoln teases.

“Hey!” Clarke reaches across Octavia for the sole purpose of pinching Lincoln’s bicep until he squirms. “I was remarkably athletic and agile, thank you very much.”

“Yes, we’re all incredibly proud of your fitness,” Octavia adds, condescendingly patting the top of Clarke’s head.

Clarke turns to Lexa. “Tell them!”

“Your endurance should be commended,” Lexa tells her entirely straight-faced.

“I hate all of you,” Clarke responds, narrowing her eyes at the three of them.

Lexa plucks at the strap of her damp tank top and represses a grin. The movement curbs Clarke’s teasing smile when she spies Lexa’s hand.

“How’s your hand?”

Lexa looks at the bandaging wrapping her right palm, almost as if she had forgotten it was there.

“Oh. It’s fine. It didn’t bother me at all during the rest of my deliveries. Stings a little now—probably from all of the gross sweat.”

Clarke rolls her eyes as Lincoln finishes a sip of beer and asks, “What happened?”

“I caught that sharp edge on the truck latch this morning.”

“Shit, I keep forgetting about having that looked at,” Lincoln says. “Did you let Indra know?”

“Yes. I had to fill out paperwork for the injury, and she said she’d have the latch replaced.”

“Why don’t you come inside and let me change the bandage.”

Having Clarke’s doting attention when it’s just the two of them is challenging. Withstanding her genuine care and concern in front of their friends is horrible.

“Oh, you don’t have to—it really doesn’t feel that bad, Clarke.”

“Hey listen, I’m not covering your deliveries tomorrow if that thing gets infected and gangrenous,” Lincoln tells her.

Lexa shoots him a look across the table for his ludicrous commentary.

“There’s no sense in you sitting there in pain just because you’re stubborn. I have all the supplies inside. Come on, it’ll just take a minute,” Clarke says and then hesitates as if she had briefly considered reaching out for Lexa’s upturned hand.

Lexa squeezes her fingers into a fist, sending a sharp, stinging pain against her injured palm. It does nothing to lessen the image of Clarke reaching out to her, but it curbs her own reckless impulses to run her fingers along the delicate curve of her shoulder just to see if—

She buries the thought and swallows hard.

“Okay,” she finally says, sliding from her stool so that she is stood beside Clarke. Eye-to-eye with Clarke’s stunning blue gaze. “Thanks.”

A tingling suspicion runs up the back of her neck as she trails behind Clarke off the patio. When they enter the cooler, darker interior of Dockside’s main room, Lexa turns to see Lincoln and Octavia huddled together and ignoring them completely.

Her paranoia—among other things—is really getting out of hand.

Clarke leads them behind the bar counter and through a swinging door into the kitchen. Lexa has never had such unfettered access to this section of Dockside, and she suddenly feels acutely aware of her damp hair and running clothes underneath the bright fluorescent lighting. Clarke grabs a plate of something from the salad line, says a quick thank you to the woman removing stems from baby spinach leaves, and they exit through another door into a dim hallway.

“My corner office with a view,” Clarke says upon approaching a heavy-looking wooden door. “Just kidding, there’s no windows in here.” She bangs open the door with her hip and steps inside, waiting for Lexa to follow her. “But, it’s where I keep the first aid kit.”

Lexa steps across the threshold with a timid smile. She’s never been inside Clarke’s office and already it feels like a line she should not have crossed. When Clarke had patched her hand that morning, they had stood in the drafty storage room with its high ceilings and spacious shelving lining the walls. It was a familiar space and vastly different atmosphere.

This room is cramped and dim. Intimate. Lexa feels out of her depth within seconds.

Clarke sets down her plate of food to fetch the box of medical supplies and is already stood too closely. Lexa thinks she can actually smell her shampoo because Clarke is just that much shorter and her head is angled to focus on removing the old bandaging from Lexa’s hand.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” Clarke says.

Her words are felt in short puffs of breath against Lexa’s upturned wrist. Lexa’s other hand fiddles the hem of her running shorts while her breathing shallows and her heart hammers loudly in her ears.

She hopes the tremors building in her stomach don’t translate to her hands. Particularly while one of them is gently held by Clarke’s careful fingers.

“Your mom is a doctor so I can trust you know how to properly assess a wound, right?”

“God no,” Clarke laughs. “She would probably be horrified by my technique. Or lack thereof.”

“Great. I feel better already.”

Clarke looks up at her with a smile so utterly devastating, Lexa thinks she should have risked infection instead. “I’m pretty sure you’ll survive.”

She wishes she had a modicum of chill when it comes to Clarke, but truthfully, she does not.

Lexa tries to keep her eyes anywhere other than trailing down the slope of Clarke’s shoulder, which is unfairly close and appears soft and smooth under the low light. She skims over the minimal clutter of Clarke’s desk to stop herself from shamefully ogling a close friend doing her a favor.

There is an assortment of hodgepodge frames that hang on the dark wooden wall behind Clarke’s desk. She sees a picture of Clarke looking much younger with a boy around her age, arms wrapped around each other and stood in front of Dockside.

She hears herself asking, “Who’s that?” before she can silently advise herself to mind her business and get out of this room as quickly as possible.

“All set,” Clarke says, and then turns to face the wall behind her desk. “Who’s who?”

There’s finally some small distance between them, and Lexa breathes out slowly. She looks down to her hand, freshly wrapped in soft white gauze, and flexes it twice into a fist.

“Thanks.”

Clarke’s voice is as soft as she has ever heard it. “You’re welcome.”

For a beat, they hold a steady gaze. It passes quickly, but not before Lexa’s pulse accelerates and her palms begin to ache with nerves. She breaks eye contact first, as she often does. She can hear Clarke quietly exhale a second later because the room is remarkably compact, but also because Lexa has started to believe that her body is attuned to Clarke’s the more time they spend in the same place.

Or, she’s just being dramatic.

“The, uh, middle frame. The kid hugging you outside of the bar.”

“Oh! That’s Wells.” Clarke walks towards the frame and plucks it off the wall so that she can examine it more closely. “He’s one of my closest friends and the reason I get to play bar manager at this lovely establishment.”

That has Lexa’s attention instantly, and she forgets her nerves in favor of learning something new about Clarke. “Oh, really?”

Clarke often does this—unintentionally creating distractions from Lexa’s problematic internal narrative. She drops these little tidbits of information that snare Lexa’s curiosity. Each time, it becomes easier to just relax and enjoy Clarke’s company without overthinking the way the air condenses around them when they are stood too closely. Between that and her penchant for terrible jokes, it explains why Lexa has been able to maintain any semblance of friendship.

“Yeah, we became friends in high school—we were both into the arts, so total nerds—but he left for San Francisco right after graduation. His dad owned and ran this bar for ages, but when his memory got worse and he had to retire, Wells more or less inherited a business he never wanted to manage.”

“And he asked you to take it over,” Lexa supplies.

“Yeah, he sort of caught me at an opportune time when I had no idea what the hell I was doing with my life.” She replaces the picture to its nail on the wall, crosses her arms over her stomach, and exhales a humorless laugh.

Lexa raises her eyebrows and nods. “I can relate.”

“Right.” Clarke’s short laugh is the last lingering sound in the room.

The moment stretches, Clarke watching her as if trying to solve a riddle. Three rapid knocks at the open doorway interrupt the heavy silence, and Lexa is glad she isn’t forced to be the one to look away this time.

“Call for you on line one, Clarke.”

Lexa recognizes Mindy’s voice at her back and watches as Clarke smiles and nods. “Okay thanks, I’ll take it back here.”

“Okay, boss.”

Lexa can hear Mindy’s retreating footsteps a moment later and shifts on her feet to prepare her own exit.

“I should let you—”

“I’m just gonna—”

Words trip over one another until Clarke’s embarrassed smile matches her own.

“Thanks again for …” Lexa raises her right hand to show its fresh bandaging.

“Try not to be so clumsy next time, yeah?” Clarke sits at her desk with a smirk and Lexa takes one, measured step backwards.

“I’ll do my best,” she grins.

She thinks that if Clarke showed up to the delivery hatch wearing that dress next Wednesday, she may very well sever her entire hand from her body from sheer distraction.

“Okay, you should get out of here—Lincoln will think I’ve taken you hostage, and I’m very busy and important taking calls in my fancy office.”

Lexa laughs in response, backing her way towards the open doorway. If Octavia has stayed to keep Lincoln occupied at their table, there’s no way he’s even registered her prolonged absence. She mock salutes to Clarke once she is back in the hallway.

“I’m leaving, Madame President. Proceed with your executive responsibilities.”

Lexa exits the darkened hallway to the trailing sounds of Clarke’s laughter.

:::

#a beer bud series #apu #brewkru!#clexa fic

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thanksjro · 4 years ago

Text

Dark Cybertron Chapter 8: Swoop is a Good Ally

Bumblebee doesn’t turn into a convertible, but that won’t stop Megatron from riding around with his legs hair in the wind, as the two of them book it for Iacon from the Crystal City. Bumblebee’s making great time, despite carrying a dude who is significantly larger than he is. As the burning city comes into view, they discuss the fact that the Titan that’s making its way downtown (walking fast, and it’s homebound) is full of Shockwave ores. The life and death ones, to be exact. This is a problem, because that means it’s neither alive or dead, and you can’t kill something that ain’t alive.  Then Megatron goes on about how Cybertron needs him, and has always needed him, to end oppression.

Mighty high opinion of yourself you got there, Megatron. We’ll see how that plays out as the day goes on.

Over with Starscream, our fearless leader’s reflecting on how true the term “rat bastard” fits dear Rattrap. Rattrap’s more concerned about the fact that people are literally dying right now while Starscream has a pity party. Good thing Rattrap brought some party guests.

Starscream double-checks that all these friendly faces aren’t with the Titan, then gets called incompetent by just about everyone. Prowl puts together a strategy for this nightmare scenario, staring directly into the camera and showing off his lovingly rendered nose as he starts giving orders. While everyone else is going to be either rounding up the injured or trying to pick a fight with a dude roughly 50 times their size, Prowl’s going to try to figure out how to stop the Titan.

Back inside Metroplex, things are looking tense, as Nautica and Chromia are about a hair’s breadth away from beating the Rod Pod Squad to death. In an effort to dispel the hostility, Getaway points at his bellybutton, and then sat Nautica’s, quoting Optimus Prime and saying that there’s no reason to fight, because a bunch of little murderous bastards are about to pour in and cause some trouble for everyone.

And then a bunch of little murderous bastards are about to pour in and cause some trouble for everyone.

Everyone starts climbing up the rope Nautica and Chromia dropped last issue, except for Whirl, who would prefer to spend his time kicking ass as opposed to hunting for Metroplex’s brain. As the gang crawls around in the vents- because of COURSE they do- Nautica realizes that she’s talking to none other than Ratchet, and has a bit of a moment. Ratchet’s more concerned with the concept of gender being introduced into his world.

You’re right, Ratchet, it doesn’t matter. Just let people live, dude.

Everyone ends up in the left shoulder blade area of Metroplex, where his brain is, and where we meet Windblade- our fan-created character, and a huge part of why IDW had to jam the concept of sexual dimorphism into their continuity posthaste.   In 2013, the Fan Built Bot polls were held on the Hasbro website, where fans could vote on several traits of a new character. One of these traits was gender. 

Which I’m sure Furman was thrilled about.

The majority rule was for a female Transformer to be created, one hailing from Kaon, who was an Autobot telepath who turned into a jet and had a sword. Not all of this information was kept, simply because it didn’t jive with what had been established about gender previously. Things were still very messy, so Windblade’s place of origin was changed.

But we’ll get to that later on.

Right now, all you need to know is that Windblade is here to keep Metroplex alive.

Over in the Dead Universe, Nightbeat leads Team -Imus to Kup, the lot of them blasting and gunning down zombie robots the whole way. Cyclonus still has the Hollywood Tuberculosis cough. When they reach Kup, Orion Pax calls him old. Cyclonus has a gun now. Rodimus explains why he’s got numbers carved into his palm.

After the nightmare that was Overlord happened, and then the Luna 1 stuff, Rodimus enacted the Crisis Act. Now, the last time we saw the Crisis Act was in Eugenesis. It’s been a minute, so here’s a refresher:

In this case, Rodimus enacted the Act on himself, having the crew of the Lost Light vote on whether he should remain captain. 89 voted for him to get the boot. This weighs heavily on his mind, so much so that he’s decided to carve the vote into his hand, so he can never forget those he failed.

Off in the corner, Cyclonus is dying, but this isn’t about him, this is about Rodimus’ sense of guilt.

Orion isn’t thrilled with how Rodimus handled the situation- he claims that Rodimus would have simply stepped down from his captaincy outright, if he really felt that badly about the situation.

Off in the corner, Cyclonus is still dying, but this isn’t about him.

Not my space dad.

Nightbeat scoops Kup off of his bed and helps the old man stand, not that he needs it. No sir, this crotchety old bastard is so full of piss and vinegar, he’s gotta have the entire Industrial Revolution backdropping his big badass speech.

And then that final claim is tested, as Cyclonus’ limp body is fastball-specialed into Kup’s torso. Nova Prime’s here, and he’s pissed. Orion decides he’s gonna square the fuck up. It’s time for Prime Prime-Time Fight Time.

Back inside Metroplex, violence is taking place, as Whirl, Getaway, and Skids are eviscerating the Ammonites. Over with Metroplex’s brain, Windblade is explaining her whole deal.

Chromia, don’t be fucking rude.

Windblade is a City Speaker, a robot who can interpret the the lights and wave patterns of a Titan’s brain module for the purpose of communication. It’s a pretty sweet trick. Brainstorm doesn’t care about that though- he’s more concerned with getting the hell out of here. Ultra Magnus agrees, though he’s more concerned about the current state of Cybertron and the fact that Shockwave’s still running around. Windblade tells them to do whatever, but she’s gonna stick with Metroplex. It’s at this point that we find out how our new friends got here in the first place.

Turns out Thunderclash’s ship was taking new crew members on, and these three lovely robots were a part of the new blood. The Vis Vitalis ran into Alpha Trion not too long after they joined, freaking the hell out because Metroplex- his best friend in the whole entire world, as established in Spotlight: Orion Pax- just vanished.

Not sure how you lose an entire city that you’re riding around inside, but whatever, Alpha.

Alpha Trion was worried about his friend, but not enough to stop looking for the Holy Grail. So he had Chromia, Windblade, and Nautica come out here to do it. Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to do much. This might be why Metroplex pulled the Lost Light over to this rinky-dink little water planet- so he wouldn’t die.

Do you think Roberts and Barber were aware that they were having a bunch of male characters walk all over the hard work of these female characters, by way of making them better at the thing they were sent here to do? Do you think they thought about that? Because that’s pretty much what’s happening here. They’ve been here all of ten minutes, and Nautica- who is a quantum mechanic and engineer, as will be established- has been outdone by a bunch of doofuses who’ve only got the benefit of being properly established characters helping them out.

With a little set up, Metroplex’s brain is plugged into the Lost Light’s engines remotely, and Ultra Magnus tells our boy to rise and shine.

Back on Cybertron, Fixit and Flatline are about to throw down, which Starscream thinks is hilarious. There’s a whole medical slab that contains only a single shin. People are laying in trailers, but I guess that lone shin has priority for whatever reason. Outside, Scoop is being a good lad and helping get the injured to safety. Rattrap is also there.

The Titan has hit the city limits, and everyone’s shooting at the thing to cope. The Dinobots are upset because they’re being ignored, but at least Swoop is proving to be a good friend, as he’s already acclimated to Slug’s name change. Good on you, Swoop.

The plan of attack here is shooting the Titan in the neck until the signals to the brain are cut off from the rest of the body. It’s not really working out so hot, but smart boy points for trying, Prowl.

A building explodes, because we haven’t had an explosion yet this issue. Prowl, whose little red chevron seems to be shrinking by the panel, asks Soundwave for his opinion on the current situation. Soundwave goes “I dunno” and then Megatron shows up.

Friggin’ drama queen.

Prowl, who’s had about enough of everyone at this point, breaks out a gun and tells Megs to start talking before things get uglier than they already are.

Megatron has a plan. Are you ready to hear it?

He wants everyone to:

Load up on ships

Fuck off into space

Come back later when the DJD show up

Bumblebee does not like this plan. He dislikes it very much, in fact, and throws Megatron’s legs on the ground in protest. Megatron pouts about being called a meanie warlord shit-for-brains.

Bumblebee rattles off a very inspiring speech about the perseverance of the Cybertronian spirit, and how you should never give up, and oh would you look at that Metroplex just showed up with the Lost Light.

Time for some Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots. Hell yeah.

#transformers #jro #dark cybertron #issue 8 #mtmte #issue 26 #maccadam #Hannzreads #overthinking about robots #incoming analysis #text post #long post #comic script writing

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harrieatthemet · 6 years ago

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Boring

in which you wear a boring dress and Harry can’t stand the silent treatment anymore.

For the life of him, he cannot fucking remember what he did.

It’s been eating away at him all week, day in and day out. And really, he’s racking his brain for every possible conversation that’s transpired between the two of you. Was it something he said? Maybe he said something offensive, or he didn’t say anything at all and that’s why you’re like this.

Quiet. So fucking quiet and he doesn’t think he’ll get through another minute under the same roof as you if it stays this quiet.

It’s killing him. There’s not a single noise coming out of you and, seriously, he loves a bit of peace and quiet as much as the next guy but this might just be overkill. No sneezes, no soft huffs of frustration as you scroll through your work emails. You’re not humming while you get ready for bed. You always hum while you get ready for bed.

“S’a bit chilly in here, yeah?” he means it literally, because the window is open and it’s inviting in the cold air.

And of course, he means it figuratively, too. Because it’s chilly in here, courtesy of your icy demeanor and your hardened posture as you sit up in bed beside him. You grant him with the usual; silence. Your eyes continue to trail the pages of your book, his eyes staring at you so hard they’re only seconds from falling right out of his head.

He can’t remember a time when there was this much distance between the two of you in bed. Your legs are not weirdly intertwined with his, and as much as he used to bitch and whine about it he can’t help but yearn for the physical contact. Your head isn’t using his bicep to prop itself up, like you usually do when you read.

You’re using the headboard instead, which is really pissing him off. He’s laying right here, ready and available to snuggle with you and talk about your day at work. He’s even ready to surrender his rights to being the little spoon, that’s how he knows he’s at the very end of his rope.

“Good book?” he chirps again, hoping this time he’ll drag more than just an eye roll out of you.

Of course, he doesn’t. All he gets is a lousy nod of the head, and you don’t even do so much as turn to face him. You just nod your head, obnoxiously flipping a page in your book.

This is it. He thinks he's gonna explode now. Surely you know this is driving him crazy, that’s why you’re doing it. But it doesn’t matter, really, if you know or not. He knows that if he has to keep talking to the side of your face with no response, smoke is gonna come out of his ears before his head unscrews. He thinks he’s gonna explode now.

“If I go t’bed,” he inquires, but his tone is snarky and riddled with irritation, “when I wake up tomorrow, will y’still be ignoring me? Or will yeh have fucking grown up by then?”

Now he gets to look at you, every inch of your face as you pull your eyes off your book and twist your neck to face him. It’s not exactly a look he’s particularly fond of, your eyes squinted in anger and your lips in an unamused frown. Angry, that’s what you are. That’s how you look.

Maybe he had jumped the gun a bit. Maybe he could have been less abrasive, a little less confrontational. But he'd tried that already, and to no avail, you continued to treat him with a cold shoulder and dramatic rolls of your eyes before slinking off to another room.

“Well y’can fuckin’ say something!” and again with the abrasiveness, but he doesn’t think he can help it.

“Is this boring to you?”

“Is wha’ boring me?,” he huffs exasperatedly, “You ignoring me? Yes! Bloody unbearable! Yes it’s fucking boring!”

He thinks that this is better than being ignored. And even though you seem incredibly un-entertained by the raising of his voice and the bewildered look in his eye, he thinks that it’s better than being ignored.

Hm. That's all he gets from you. A stupid fucking ‘hm’ before you close your book, sliding it off your lap.

The two of you just sit there now, demeanors and body language opposing one another. It’s clear that he’s grown very tense, his eyebrows raised and eyes wide. He’s frustrated, especially since he thought he'd finally got you to crack but instead all he got was a ‘hm’.

And then you throw the blankets off. He watches in confusions as you frustratedly hurl the blankets to the side, swinging your legs off bed before your feet begin to pad across the floor. And now he feels even shittier than before, because he’s thinking your going to collect the throw blanket at the end of the end and sleep as far away from him as possible.

“Coward!” He huffs, “Just tell me wha’ I did!”

All he gets is a hostile glare as you walk towards the foot of the bed, and he’s preparing himself to throw a fit once you grab the blanket at the futon at the front of the bed.

But you don’t, and now he’s really confused when you b line it for the bedroom closet instead.

The light goes on and he wants to ask what the hell you’re doing in the closet. But he doesn’t, solely because he’s not sure what the answer will be. He can hear the shuffling of closet hangers, hear you grumbling beneath your breath as you shuffle through racks of clothes.

“How about this!” you hiss from the confines of the small pace, Harry fully sat up in his spot in bed now.

If he was confused before, he’s truly stumped now. It’s approaching the later hours of the night and you’re stood in the closet doorway with a dress in your hand. And your eyes are narrowed, lips pursed out of frustration as you scowl at him from across the room.

“S’a dress,” he shrugs, “wha’ the hell do I have t’do with it?”

“Oh you don’t remember?” You snap, and he quirks a brow because what the fuck was he supposed to remember about your dress?, “Don’t remember last Saturday night?”

“Dunno,” he answers, trying his best to remember where he was last Saturday night, “was out with some people from th’label, right?”

“Uh huh,” you nod, “remember saying anything in particular?”

“Said a lot of fuckin things, (Y/N), I dunno.” he groans, unaware that you’re reaching the point of no return.

“Don’t remember calling my dress boring?” you growl and oh yes, now he remembers.

He can vaguely remember being a few glasses deep in a bottle of red wine, fiddling mindlessly with the fringe on one of your sleeves. A few people from the record label were sitting just across the table, one of them Kindly complimenting the dress you had just bought a couple hours prior to dinner. And you were happy to relish in the compliment, that is until Harry had to swoop in with the ‘M’not a fan, think it’s a bit boring’ bit.

And he’s trying his hard to swallow that wave of laughter, but it’s so hard to. So he can’t help but let a few chuckles slip right out of him.

“Ignored me all week fo’ tha’?” he snickers, “Yeh serious?”

“Oh you think that’s funny?”

“Honestly,” he snorts, until he gets a glimpse of the extremely unamused look on your face, “no, no I don’t think it’s funny. It is not funny.”

Another roll of the eyes ensues before you go back to hang the dress up, stomping into the closet because clearly he does think its funny. And fine, maybe you were being a bit dramatic, but you’re not ready to let it go yet. Which is why this time you do reach for the blanket on your way out.

“Oh love, m’sorry! Poppet, really mean it! S’actually really nice!” he coos, throwing off his blanket too so he could coax you back to bed.

“Oh fuck off about it!”

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sethrine-writes · 6 years ago

Text

Decadence Divine

Pairing: Vergil (Dmc5) x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Words: 2581

Warnings: Sex, Smut, The Good Shit, A bit rough, Spicy Stuff, Not meant for Children

Summary: For someone who seems the proud, quiet type, Vergil’s rather loud when it comes to wanting or needing intimacy. When he gets in one of those moods, it’s not that hard to tell.

A/N: This is the first time in YEARS that I've written full-on smut, no stops, all the good shit. I blame my lovely Pizza Thots for their ideas and contributions. This one especially goes out to my dear friend @mysticalkhfan, whose love for the trash husband knows no bounds. I hope you like it, dear!

------

For someone who seems the proud, quiet type, Vergil’s rather loud when it comes to wanting or needing intimacy. Perhaps it’s because he was starved of much needed physical affection for so long, or he just finds the most comfort with you, but when he gets in one of those moods, it’s not that hard to tell.

He starts with a bit more physical contact over the course of several days, hands persistent at the small of your back or your hips, even in more public places where he usually remained more reserved. It’s a tame change, but one to take note of.

His kisses linger, as well, his usual short, restrained pecks changing to longer, more intimate exchanges that leave you breathless.

A final sign of his usual restraint leaving him, however, is a single, thoughtful gift he leaves out for you to stumble upon, usually ranging anywhere from a lovely collection of poems to some form of jewelry. It’s always something sweet and well-thought-out, but it is merely a distraction that allows him the quickest way to get his hands on you.

This time, he leaves a box of chocolates for you on the dining table, the embroidery and accompanying bow both lined with gold and looking every bit as extravagant as you’re sure the sweet treats are inside.

“Thank you, Vergil,” you say sincerely, only marginally surprised when you feel a single arm wrap around your middle from behind.

He hums in acknowledgment as you open the box, revealing the delicate chocolates hidden within, each individually encased in a frilly, open-top wrapper. There is an assortment of flavors, a small card within detailing each careful ingredient hidden within the middles, and for a moment, you’re overwhelmed at the choices.

“Will you have one?” he asks, leaning in to leave a tiny kiss against your cheek.

“Maybe I should wait until after dinner,” you respond, your heartbeat quickening as Vergil leaves a persistent trail of light pecks to your neck, the sensation sending pleasant tingles across your skin.

“Just one,” he presses, and you find yourself quickly falling under his spell of a mood.

“Pick for me?”

He leaves another touch of his lips to your skin before plucking the flavor card from your weak fingers, eyes scanning over the choices for the briefest of moments. He shifts to drop the card on the table, reaching for the chocolates and pulling out a small, unassuming piece with a drizzle of white across its dark, rounded surface.

You don’t ask the flavor he’s chosen, fully intending to guess it on your own as you reach up to take the treat from his hand. Vergil is one step quicker and moves the chocolate to your lips, prompting you to open them. He pops the morsel into your mouth, fingers just grazing your bottom lip on the retreat, and you find yourself making an effort not to let out a whimper at the tingle such a brief caress leaves behind.

The chocolate melts against your tongue after only a few seconds, bitter and dark, but pleasant and smooth. Breaking the shell, you’re immediately surprised by the burst of flavor that greets your taste buds as well as the even silkier cream of the inside. You hum your astonishment, savoring the taste as it continues to melt against your pallet until all that remains is the bitter-sweet aftertaste.

“It’s vanilla, right?” you take a guess, turning with a smile in place. It would be just like Vergil to choose something so simple, but so decadent.

The atmosphere shifts with your change in position, and before you can say anything else, you’re being pushed against the table’s edge by Vergil’s body pressing snuggly against yours. His hands are cupping your jawline, pulling you up just as he swoops in for a devouring kiss. His tongue is instantly against yours without any preamble, licking against soft tissue and teeth and lips in long, languid strokes that leave you whimpering for more when he pulls away momentarily to kiss along your jawline.

“French vanilla,” he corrects, your ears just barely picking up his words through the fog that was quickly overriding your thoughts.

“It’s good,” you say, gasping at the barely-there graze of teeth against your earlobe.

“Even better on your tongue,” he says, voice pitched lower and words very nearly a growl, and he shifts to overwhelm you anew.

Things begin to move so quickly, but far too slow. Your clothes fall from your body with little effort on your part, some ripped from Vergil’s excitement at getting at more of your flesh. You barely have time to mourn yet another of your favorite shirts laid to waste before Vergil is biting at your revealed skin, creating blooming marks of red that were sure to get darker as the next few hours passed.

Your hands are not idle; as Vergil devours your very being, your grasp at his shoulders, his hair, his clothes, keening and panting and squirming under his ministrations. Cold, polished wood presses against your back, and it takes you out of the fog for just the barest second to register that you’re now flat against the dining room table before Vergil is on you again, suddenly void of any clothing on his person.

He’s insistent as he presses against you, hips rolling against yours and kisses sinfully distracting from the hands now ridding you of the remainder of your clothing.

“Sh-should we…should we move this to – ah!”

You’re shushed by Vergil literally dropping to the floor, hands spreading your legs and mouth immediately where you wanted him most. It’s such a shocking move that you very nearly come off the table, all-together, back arching violently and thighs simultaneously bracketing Vergil’s head.

He is seemingly unfazed, perhaps even welcoming the pressure of your thighs against his face as his hands grab your hips and pull you even closer to the edge of the table, allowing him more room to access you entirely. He growls against you when your hands find their way into his silver-white hair and pull, the sound vibrating against sensitive flesh and causing a shout to leave your kiss-swollen lips.

He is almost voracious in his appetite for you, building your pleasure higher and higher with each touch of his lips and stroke of his tongue. Questing fingers soon join the mix, and you’re finding it increasingly harder to keep your noises at a somewhat respectable level. Every time you quiet down, however, Vergil’s tongue strokes harder, his fingers twist just so, and you’re shouting your praises to the heavens above, which only eggs him on.

It’s no wonder how quickly the coil in your stomach tightens, how you are both excited by the messy sounds from your body and Vergil’s mouth. There’s no surprise when your first orgasm hits you suddenly and without warning, your vision whiting out for mere seconds as a sharp cry escapes you.

You’re only aware of the bruising press of fingers into the flesh of your hips when you’re finally able to make a coherent thought, aware of the harsh, gasping pants coming from Vergil as he rises and presses against you once more.

His excitement is evident, cock hot and hard as it presses between your legs. You jump at the touch, sensitive from his ministrations. Vergil takes a moment of pity and runs his hands down your shaking thighs, trailing them back up and continuing up your body. As he does this, he angles his hips just right and pushes into the snug embrace of your body with little effort, following the flow of his hands as he moves ever closer.

Below him, you’re already a wreck, gasping his name and all but clinging to his hands as his fingers thread with yours. He follows up with nibbling kisses against your neck, tongue dragging against blooming marks before sinking teeth once more into the hypersensitive areas.

A sudden, sharp thrust has him seated fully within you, a blessing as it is complete torture, and for what feels like an eternity, he is still. Had you any capability for thought, you would have wondered why he stopped then; his oddly labored breathing and the nearly crushing grip of his hands against yours should have been enough signs.

Vergil was losing his control.

“P-please,” you whisper, voice high-strung and almost whiny as you lean into your beloved. “Please, Vergil, p-ah, please!”

You are silenced with a low growl against your ear, only for your voice to ring throughout your home as his hips push harshly into yours. It was a warning, but your one-track mind was unable to comprehend it.

“You have me,” you continued, tongue poking out to lick at the shell of his ear. “You have me, so do whatever you want. Fuck me, Vergil.”

He snarls against your ear, bodily pressing you into the table for all of three seconds before his hips are pulling back, cockhead just barely keeping snug within you-

His hips thrust forward swiftly, and you shout for all to hear as he finds his pace, fast and hard and devastating. All you can do is wrap your legs around his waist, the heels of your feet digging into the small of his back to help pull him impossibly closer.

There is a sheen of sweat forming along the press of your bodies, though you hardly mind. You’re barely aware of it, or anything, for that matter. There is only Vergil as well as the constant press and pull of his body, a tide that washes you ashore and pulls you back to sea in a never-ending loop. You’re drowning in the sensation that his him, body wound up and muscles pulling tight with ever hard press of his cock within you.

Your second peak is upon you when Vergil suddenly tears himself away from you, a surprised, startled cry leaving you as you are left empty and nearly sobbing for him to come back. Clarity comes back to you swiftly in the form of a low, demonic growl, and you’re aware that the very atmosphere has shifted and changed before impossibly large hands are pulling you up and flipping you around.

For a moment, your fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, your body overly sensitized and vulnerable just as your mind was still trying to pick up the frayed pieces left in the dust of passion that had consumed you. Those same hands wander the expanse of your back, one pressing you against the cool tabletop as the other roams downward to grasp at your hip.

“Still,” he says, and you’re very aware that Vergil wasn’t quite himself, but more.

Your body relaxes almost instantly against the table, heart drumming against your chest and heated breaths nearly leaving a fog against the shine of the wooden surface below you. There’s a rumble not unlike a deep purr that shakes the air about you, and then you feel him pressing closer.

In his triggered form, Vergil is much larger in every sense of the word.

His cockhead presses against your entrance, and you can’t help but shake and gasp as he presses forward in small increments. A devil he may be, but Vergil prided himself in being careful with you, especially in your current predicament.

You gasp and groan with each increment he presses in, his hips undulating in slow strokes that continue to fill you. He’s so much bigger, so much deeper that you can practically feel him in your throat. An exaggeration, sure, but it feels as if he’ll never stop filling you until suddenly he does with a rumbling growl that feels as if it vibrates from within you.

Vergil has effectively rendered you mindless, and when he finally begins moving slowly in a show of stunning control, all you are capable of are mindless sentences and praises, whimpers and pitchy moans as your damp fingers attempt to hang on to something, anything to ground yourself.

It doesn’t take long for him to start off a brutal pace, one that has you seeing stars in a matter of seconds as the coil within you breaks. The pleasure is deep and profound and has you shaking against him.

Suddenly, you’re being shifted, body nearly limp as you let him do with you as he pleases. You’re in his lap, now, legs spread impossibly wide around the sheer girth that is his demonic form’s thighs. The new angle allows him an even deeper penetration, if it’s even possible, and it allows him to grope at the flesh of your body as much as he pleases without the hindrance of a table.

Whatever control he had is just as suddenly gone, and he’s slamming into you with brutal precision that has you sobbing his name, begging him for more, please, Vergil, more!!

Your nerves are oversensitive, limbs jumping with each pass of his cock through the channel of your body. Tears spring to your eyes, a confused mix of extreme pleasure bordering on pain, but you can endure.

Vergil’s close, if the increasing, growling grunts leaving his closed maw and the sharp pinpricks of his claws against your sweaty flesh are anything to go by. You do your best to hang on for the ride, trembling arms reaching back so that your hands can grasp at the soft, leathery feel of his skin.

Your touch is apparently exactly what he needs. His thrusts become just on the side of too hard, and then his hands are practically bruising your skin as he grips you tight against him. A final handful of thrusts has you screaming hoarsely, the sound of your own pleasure being drowned out by the near-deafening roar of Vergil’s own orgasm.

There’s a moment where you’re sure you blacked out, a blissful peace that lasts all of ten seconds before you’re aware of your surroundings. You’re still crying, your body trying to catch up to the sheer emotional experience you just had.

You can feel Vergil’s chest heaving beneath you, his body having already reverted back to its human form after finding release. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, though he doesn’t seem to mind, instead focusing what energy he has in nuzzling against your neck.

He shifts slightly, and you make a tiny sound of distress at feeling him shift within you, as well. There’s a slick feeling between your legs, and chancing a glance down proves exactly what you already knew.

“I’ve made a mess of you,” Vergil breathes against your damp skin, damn near feeling his satisfied smirk press itself into your shoulder.

You shiver at the feeling of questing fingers ghosting down your body, jerking and whining in your beloved’s hold as they press and prod against where you’re both still connected. He shushes you gently and pulls his hand away, holding it before you so that you can see the utter mess of his actions.

“In half an hour,” he growls suddenly, teeth gently grazing your earlobe and sending prickly sparks of pleasure down your spine, “after I’ve cleaned you up, I’ll have you again in our bed.”

You already knew how the night was going to play out, and though you were worn out, at that moment, you would be ready to go again, soon enough.

When Vergil was in one of those moods, it wasn’t that hard to tell, and you were prepared for whatever he had in store.

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc vergil #dmc5 vergil #dmc5 #reader #reader-insert #spicy stuff #they do the nasty

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