#do you think buck’s mouth tastes different when he pronounces it. do you think it’s sweet ? do you think it’s refreshing? do you think

[thatbuddie]

i know we’re (understandably and logically) concerned with other stuff at the moment but the amount of times buck has said eddie’s name this season is insane, like… yeah…

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Silky Sweet (requested)

gif credits @mult1ple

request: could you write sub jonathan levy please.

pairing: fem!reader x jonathan levy

contents: 18+/NSFW/MINORS DNI, no use of y/n, smut, established dom/sub relationship, mentions of oral (m. receiving), handjob, edging, teasing, cum eating, aftercare, minor angst, confessions of deeper feelings

AN: hope this is enjoyed, i had a lot of fun writing it!

word count: 1.7k

misc. masterlist | requests are open

“Oh, god, please, baby?” Jonathan whines, his hips bucking up against your hand desperately.

The two of you are laying in your bed as you bring him just near the brink of his impending orgasm over and over. His chest is flushed, moving rapidly as he breathes deep and ragged. This is the longest he's lasted during one of your edging sessions; he’s let you do this to him a total of four times without cumming. All you can think is about how good he is for you. How soft and sweet and malleable he grows under your touch.

“What is it, sweetheart?” You murmur against him, the taste of his skin wet and salty from your activities.

This is exactly how you love him: fucked out, needy, and begging for you. You love him desperate, how fuzzy and saccharine his eyes get when you handle him like this. Jonathan loves it too, that he can just crumble in your arms and be as open about his needs as he wants. When was the last time he truly got to do that before you? He’s not sure.

“I need,” The words get caught in his throat when you tighten your grip on his cock, sliding your hand up and down the length.

The sounds of you stroking his cock are lewd and obscene. The tip is covered in lots of pre-cum and some of it has dripped down, working as a lubricant. There’s plenty of your spit on him as well; the first time you’d almost let him cum was with your mouth. You glance down at where you hold him, mesmerized by the way your hand moves up and down. You squeeze him tighter, just on the precipice of pleasure and pain, and he lets out a choked whimper.

“Need what?” You look up at him innocently, dusting soft kisses on his sweaty collarbone.

“Need to cum,” He breathes, his eyes mirroring his verbal pleas.

“Let’s get you to the edge one more time, and then I’ll let you come. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

“Whatever you want, baby,” He agrees easily and dips his head, slants his mouth against yours in a hungry, sloppy kiss that you return.

You resume your strokes, holding him tighter as you increase the speed. He squeezes his eyes shut, his body going rigid under your touch as you toy with him once again. His hair is wild, damp, curling in different directions from his twisting and turning. The sight makes the ache between your legs almost unbearable, but you continue to focus on him, leaning forward to take his earlobe in between your teeth.

“Such a good boy for me. Are you close, sweetheart?” You run your nose up and down his cheek, inhaling his muted scent, a mix of linen and pine.

“Yes, so close. Please, let me cum. Please,” He begs, his fingers knotting into the sheets as he tries to hold on for you.

You watch him closely, taking in every detail about his willpower– it makes you feel a little drunk. His eyebrows are furrowed together, the vein in his forehead pronounced as he bites down on his lip. He’s holding on for dear life and you can’t help but grin.

“Go ahead and come, baby, you’ve been so good for me,” You encourage.

Your words are all he needs, and he lets go quickly, letting out a low, filthy moan as he cums. His cum is warm on your hand, and you slow the pumps, effectively covering his cock in it. You bring your hand up, resting two fingers against his lips, and when he’s come down from his orgasm he sucks them eagerly, lapping up his own cum. You moan as he does it, watching as his tongue slips into the crevices of your fingers. The kiss you give him afterward says it all, full of affection and praise. He sinks into the mattress as you get up and head into the bathroom, returning with a wet towel that you clean the both of you up with.

Once you’re back in bed next to him, you tuck yourself into his arms, “You okay?”

He hums lazily, tightening his grip on you, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“How’s that head of yours?”

“Quieter now.”

He’d showed up at your apartment looking completely frazzled, and you knew that his mind was moving at a million thoughts per minute, none of them kind. Mira often had that effect on him, taking him to a low place that he struggles to get out of. To give him credit, he’s gotten better at it since the two of you started whatever this is. Today must’ve been brutal, she must’ve really laid it on thick– a thick layer of all the things he could be doing better and all he’s done wrong even though they’re not together anymore.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask cautiously, knowing that he doesn’t generally like to get too transparent about what she’s said to him.

“She knows that I’m a good father. She knows that there’s little to critique with Ava, I dedicate my life to her, and today she went there. Today she…” His voice begins to tremble.

“Hush, it's okay,” You lean away to get a look at him before kissing both his cheeks and capturing your lips with his. “It’s okay. It’s safe here, Jonathan.”

“I know. Thank you,” He whispers into your ear, and the gratitude in his voice almost brings tears to your eyes.

You sit both of you up on the headboard and hand him glasses as you debate whether or not to tell him about your feelings. It's been hard not to fall for him, impossible not to fall for him, because ultimately you have. He has a lot of healing to do and you can acknowledge that, but he’s sweet and supportive and makes you laugh. He’s a person that you can be yourself around unapologetically. The thought of him makes your heart warm and your body relax. Why not take the risk?

“I know that we started this as a distraction, and I’ve been having a lot of fun spending time with you and doing…things to each other but…”

“But?” He prompts, sliding his hand into yours as an act of encouragement.

You look down at your hands and notice how perfectly yours fits against the smoothness of his. Your heart is beating rapidly in your chest, your mouth a little dry as you try to formulate your sentences.

You keep your eyes downcast, fixated on a mole on his hand as you speak, “You started this with no desire for it to turn into anything beyond this, and I’m happy to do that if that’s all that you want but I think I want more with you.”

He moves towards you, his free hand coming up to raise your chin so you have to look at him. His eyes are inquisitive, searching your face for any hints of doubt. He wants to make sure you’re being genuine, that you know what you’re getting yourself into because he wants more with you too. And while he doesn’t find any doubt, that confidence that you always exude is fractured. He’s surprised that you’re nervous, you’re usually the one in control, holding the reins and guiding you both through the complexity of this. The more he looks at you the more distracted he gets, lost in the delicacy of your features.

“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs, his voice full of wonder.

You immediately take his words as a start-up to letting you down easily, “But, Jonathan-”

He shakes his head, interrupts you quickly, “I want more with you too, just let me look at you.”

So you shut your mouth, and let him stare at you. It's the most intimate moment the two of you have ever shared, and though you feel comfortable with him your skin heats under his gaze. There’s nothing but tenderness in his eyes, and he sees that reflected back in yours. Both of you feel properly held, suspended in this moment in time in the arms of the other.

He removes his glasses again, leans in to rest his nose against yours, his damp curls against your forehead, “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Well, I was nervous. I didn’t know if you felt the same way,” Your lips brush his as you speak, and you feel rather than see the smile spread across his face.

“Let me reiterate that I do. Can you be patient with me?”

You take his head into your hands before propping yourself against the headboard again, “Jonathan, I’ve been feeling like this for a few months now, I think patient is my middle name.”

That makes him laugh, and he rolls onto his back, bringing you with him in a move that makes you squeal. It makes it easy for him to kiss you, but this kiss feels different; slow, intricate, and silky sweet.

“Can I take you to dinner?” He asks, after kissing you breathless, his cheeks golden skin slightly flushed.

“Like…on a date?”

“On a date,” He confirms.

“You weren’t really dressed for a date when you got here,” You gesture to his pile of sweats on the ground.

“I didn’t say it was going to be fancy,” He teases, and now you’re the one laughing, your warm breath tickling the skin of his cheek.

“Oh, so you’re gonna take me to just any old place, huh?”

“You only get to have that smart mouth in bed,” He pinches your hips playfully, planting one last chaste kiss on your lips. “Go get dressed. Something nice.”

You drown him kisses first, brushing your lips against every exposed inch of his skin you can reach before jumping up and heading back into the bathroom. And when you look into the mirror, all you can do is grin like an idiot; what a risk that was.

if you’d like to be on my jonathan/oscar issac characters taglist let me know!

jonathan levy taglist: @giona45-5, @angelfxllcm, @sweetascherrylies, @hotchs-bitch, @jakelcckley, @mrspector, @jitterbugs927, @myorestes, @winwin70, @ninebluehearts, @siezethenights, @my-rosegold-soul

[hockey-hoe-24-7]

Since the Beginning, feat. Andre Burakovsky

Plot: You finally - and drunkenly - admit your feelings to the man you’ve wanted for years. Word Count: 2,013 Warnings: Some smut, mentions of drinking and being drunk

You heard Andre grunt as he collapsed on your bed next to you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Poor thing isn’t used to a man’s weight, you thought, giggling. Damn, you were drunk. But so was Andre, so it could have been worse.

“The room is spinning,” he finally said, his accent pronounced because of his drunkenness. “I’m surprised you aren’t dead from all the shots you took,” you replied.  “Hey,” he answered. “People were buying them for me. It’s rude to say no.” You closed your eyes and smiled.  Yes, the shots had been free, though you hadn’t had any because you were a lightweight and would very much be dead if you had taken more than you already had.

“Those guys were really nice,” you conceded. The two of you had run into a group of die-hard Avs fans who had immediately recognized Andre and insisted on buying him celebratory shots for his record-breaking season.  Your heart had warmed when you saw how happy he was at their appreciation.  He had been flourishing in Colorado and it made a warm feeling of happiness run through your blood. It didn’t really help that you were halfway in love with him.

It had all started in DC, where you were from, and where Andre had been drafted to the Caps. You had been a sophomore in high school when you had first met him because of your brother, who knew some of the young guys team and were friends with them. He and Andre had hit it off immediately and were pretty much best friends.  Andre had been over at your house as much as his schedule would allow, which was frequent enough to earn him a spot as an honorary child to your parents.  For you, he was much different. You had been in love with him since the second you had laid eyes on him.

Your mom had told you it was just puppy love, but your feelings had not changed in the 7 years you had known him.  As a class-A nerd pretty much your entire life, your confidence hadn’t always been that high, and the thought of approaching a guy nearly had you breaking out in hives.  It had been the age-old tale of the nerd pining after the jock.  Even though he didn’t act like a typical jock, the imbalance between your lives was obvious to you.  So you had kept to yourself and admired him from afar, content in your position as the cute kid sister, as you were to many of your brother’s friends. You saw each other sporadically as you made your way through college, and all contact had pretty much been cut when you had received early admission and a full ride scholarship to a graduate school in Colorado.  Then, the universe had decided to either reward your or torture you and Andre was traded to the Avs.

Now, the two of you spent most of your down time together.  He had called you on his first day in Colorado and your relationship had grown enough that you were confident to call him your best friend, and he would call you the same.  But as great as it all was, your heart hurt because your feelings had really only grown since you had gotten to know him better.  He was a wonderful man and his smile made your heart flip. It also made your panties wet.

“Did you get that girl’s number?” You asked, remembering the blonde he had been talking to when you were apart during the night. You knew you were being catty, but liquor made you brave. Or bitchy. It depended on the topic. Andre didn’t answer for a few seconds. “Yeah. I don’t really want to call her though.” Another beat of silence. “Did you give that guy your number?” His voice was harder and he sounded more sober now.

You shook your head, even though Andre wasn’t looking at you. “Nah, didn’t want to give it to him.”  Against every instinct screaming in your brain, you kept talking. “I’m kind of into someone else.”

There was another long moment of silence and stillness, the only motion you were aware of was Andre’s chest moving slowly up and down, expanding with every breath.  “Do I know him?” His voice was darker now.

“Yeah.”

“Who is it?”

“Guess.”

“Seriously, Y/N, who is it?”

Damn, your name sounded good when he said it like that.

Both drunk you and sober you liked the sound of his voice like that, so you kept going.  “He’s really tall, he likes Chipotle, aaaaaand…he plays hockey.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Andre’s head turned toward you. “Is it one of the guys?” Guys meaning one of his teammates.  

You smiled, enjoying this way too much.

“Yes and no.”

“What does that even mean, Y/N?”

“He plays for the Avs…but he’s not one of your teammates.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Think about it, Andre. You’re a smart boy.”

There was another long, long moment of silence and you could practically hear him thinking.  When he finally figured it out, the air around him seemed to change.  In one smooth motion, he pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked over and down at you.

“Wait…seriously?”

The tequila still warm in your blood, you turned to look at him beneath hooded lids. “You get it now?”

He just blinked at you and you could have laughed at how adorably confused he looked.  “For-For how long?”

You closed your eyes again and let out a sigh. “Since the beginning.”

Another silence echoed around both of you.

“Can I kiss you?’

At Andre’s question, your eyes flew open. The room wasn’t spinning anymore and you felt more sober than you had before you had even started drinking.

“Yes,” you answered on a rush of breath. It took everything in you not to practically beg.

Andre leaned down slowly and it seemed like eternity before his mouth touched yours.  He tasted like tequila and mint.  You were too afraid to move, so you stayed perfectly still, only letting your mouth open slightly against his. It was light and chaste, but still lit a fire between your thighs.

His hand moving slowly across your stomach didn’t even surprise you, as if you had been expecting it.  You let your own hand come up to his chest, move slowly over his throat, and wrap around the nape of his neck.  When his tongue moved against your bottom lip, you opened your mouth gratefully, allowing him in.  He took full advantage and angled his head to go deeper.

It was like sipping on water after having none for months. Letting your head fall back against the bed again, you lifted your other hand to cup his jaw, take more.  As his hand moved slowly up your hip to just beneath your breast, you arched into the touch.

That seemed to let loose something in him.  On a deep inhale and surge of strength, he moved on top of you, settling his weight over your chest.  Your breath left your lungs at the heaviness and you split your thighs to accommodate his hips.  The kiss was deep and desperate now, and the need you had felt since the day you had learned what it meant to want a man lunged to the surface.  Throwing your arms around his neck, you opened your mouth to his, wordlessly granting him anything he wanted.  When you urgently nipped at his lip, he groaned into your mouth and tangled his hands in your hair, pulling you to suit what he wanted.  When the heel of your shoe dug into his thigh, his hand went down beneath your knee and jerked your leg up.  You gasped at the hardness of him.  Your dress had ridden up so the only things in the way were his jeans and your panties.  He ground against you and you gasped his name into his mouth, your nails sharp against his scalp. In another graceful move, he pulled himself away from your mouth and rose to drag his shirt over his head, throwing it to your floor.

He was gorgeous above you, all cut muscle that flexed as he panted.  Already missing his body against yours, you grabbed his wrists and pulled him back down for another deep, wet kiss.  When he pulled his mouth from yours again, you whimpered and pulled at his shoulders, but your strength was no match for his. He moved his mouth from your cheek to your throat, nipping at the skin.  From your throat he moved to the exposed skin of your chest. His hands were now coming up your sides and you barely had to time to relish the feeling of them before he was hooking his fingers into the straps of your dress and yanking it down.  When he saw that you were braless, he groaned your name and shuddered. Dipping his head, he took one pebbled nipple into his mouth.  Crying out, you arched beneath the pleasure and pushed his head closer with an arm around his neck.  He sucked deep, his tongue moving slow over the bud.  

“Andre, please,” you gasped, completely without shame.  You had wanted this for so long, spent so many nights wondering what it would be like.  He moved to your other breast, this time nipping hard enough to make you yelp at the painful pleasure.  When he suddenly cupped you through your panties, the heel of his hand against your clit, you bucked beneath him, chasing the sensation.  With a growl, he moved lower, leaving a trail of long, deep kisses between your breasts, your stomach…

His loud groan startled you and you propped yourself up when he buried his face against the bunched fabric of your dress.  He was heaving in breaths of air now, as if he was in pain.  Your arousal faded as panic set in. “Andre?” you asked, your voice husky. “Are you okay?”

“God, Y/N, don’t say my name like that.”

With that, he pulled himself up and away to stand over you.  “You are drunk and so am I.”

Not minding your state of disarray, you glared.  “I am more sober than I have been all night. You are not taking advantage of me, Andre Burakovsky.”

“No, no, I know that, but…I really want this when we’re both completely sober. I don’t want to forget any of it. And I don’t want it to be rushed and messy and…whatever. I’ve wanted this for too long.”

Your heart skittered in your chest. “R-Really?”

He scrubbed his hands over his face.  “Y/N, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted you. And how long I’ve wanted you. God, you have no idea. I will not let it be some drunken thing.”

“I had no idea,” you replied, not knowing what else to say.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you’re the best friend I have and I didn’t want to lose that. I can’t imagine you not in my life, Y/N.  That, and your brother would have killed me. I had no idea how you felt.”

The tension broken, you threw your head back and laughed.  “Andre, I have been touching myself to you since I was 19.”

He groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Don’t say shit like that when I’m barely holding on here.”

“Then will you kiss me again?”

“If I kiss you again, you will not be walking for the next two days.”

Another burst of heat you felt through every nerve ending.

“Well, if you get me food I will sober up very quickly and then you can kiss me all you want. Wherever you want.”

Grabbing your hand, he pulled you up off the bed.  When you stumbled against his chest, he allowed himself one more quick kiss before pulling away, much to your chagrin.

“Okay, but you have to change or we’re never going to make it out of this apartment.”

[chilling-seavey]

Heartbreak Hotel (d.s.) - Chapter One

A/N Hey there, ladies and gents! It’s time to be swept away into an alternate universe where 1950s LA is the place to be. This is my first ever soulmate au and it took a lot of planning to make everything fit just right so I hope you all enjoy! 

Summary: It’s 1958 and summer has just begun, sending the teenagers of Los Angeles into warm weather freedoms and part time jobs. Eighteen-year-old Daniel finds himself spending his days trying to find his soulmate and he refuses to give up until he has her.

Los Angeles in 1958 was a thriving city of luxury and fame; housing many of the greats and certainly more to come in upscale Beverly Hills mansions with top dollar views. They lived in their own worlds in the coastal city; unbothered by the working class with 9-5 jobs and single-family bungalows in the suburbs. To the everyday person, life in Los Angeles was more than nice with the beach on one side, the mountains on the other, and enough cultural entertainment to hardly ever be bored. People were happy you could argue and, in a sense that was true. Happy that they were able to settle down in that warm American Dream with the one they were destined to be with. Their soulmate.

This wasn’t a world full of lonesome heartbreak – unless one would choose to live that way – as everyone was assigned someone that they were meant to be with. By their eighteenth birthday, strange habits started to arise where you could taste whatever your soulmate was eating at any given time. It started faintly the day of your eighteenth birthday, as just a light sensation on your tongue, sort of like what it feels like to have a craving for a specific type of food. As weeks progressed it became more pronounced until after a month or so you could taste nearly exactly what they were eating as if you were eating it yourself.

It was something to get used to at first, but it was reality, and everyone went about their day to day lives with this invisible connection to the one they were destined to be with. Some people never found their soulmate – after all, the world had a population of almost three billion, so the odds weren’t always on your side – but eighteen-year-old Daniel refused to let that be his fate.

The second the clock hit midnight on April 2nd, 1958, Daniel shut his eyes really tightly in his bed and swirled his tongue around his mouth to try and taste something. You see, he was in love with the idea of love for as long as he could remember, and he had been counting down the days until he turned eighteen since he was old enough to know what numbers were. His parents had that perfect love story; high school sweethearts in 1935 where his father knew she was the one from the first week he turned eighteen, married and expecting their first child by 1936 and had three boys with a baby girl on the way before his father was drafted into the war in 1942. His father returned home in 1945 just as in love with his mother than ever before and the rest was history. Daniel wanted a story just like his parents; one where it all just fell into place.

The two-and-a-half months from the day Daniel turned eighteen to his high school graduation gave him absolutely no clue as to who his soulmate was. He tried scrounging the cafeteria at lunch time to see if any of the girls were eating that turkey sandwich he could taste or drinking that cold bottle of Coca-Cola, but he was met with no luck again and again. His soulmate seemed to eat something different everyday for each meal, but he soon came to realize that the only consistent thing was strawberry milkshakes. Usually around the time Daniel got off the school bus at home he’d lick his lips with the sweet flavour of strawberry and whipped cream that was rolling its way along his tongue.

He was just glad it wasn’t chocolate. He hated chocolate.

On the first real day of summer vacation, after graduation and their final high school dance, Daniel was staring out his bedroom window towards the street, impatiently waiting to see his older brother’s shiny red Thunderbird turning onto their street. Sure enough, he got a glimpse of the shiny red sports car in the distance and with an excited gasp, Daniel took off for the stairs.

“Christian’s home!” he shouted through the house, hopping the last three stairs and whipped open the front door just as the car pulled into the driveway.

He jumped off the porch as his parents came out of the house behind him and Daniel rushed to set his hands on the pretty red hood of the car that was still warm from the long drive from upstate.

The tired nineteen-year-old stepped out from the driver’s side and pulled off his sunglasses to offer a dimpled smile to his family, “Hey, you guys. What’s shaking?”

“Christian! How was college?” Daniel asked with a grin.

“Just swell, little brother. Why don’t you come help me bring my things upstairs? I have something for you.”

Daniel absolutely idolized his older brother, so he didn’t need to be asked twice to carry his things. As Christian headed for the porch to greet his mother with a kiss to her cheek and his father with a handshake, Daniel opened the trunk of the car to unload the bags. Out of the four Seavey children, Christian and Daniel were closest in age; Christian was only four months old when their parents fell pregnant with Daniel; leaving the two boys at only thirteen months apart. This made them very close and they shared a bedroom up until their oldest brother Tyler moved out for college a few years before. It was safe to say that when Christian was next to leave for school, Daniel had a hard time adjusting to life in the house without him.

But he was finally back, dressed in his usual slicked back dark brown hair and finished with a leather jacket. Leather was never usually Christian’s choice and Daniel let his eyes linger on the back of his brother’s jacket as he helped him carry his things upstairs to his room.

Christian stopped in the doorway to the left at the top of the stairs, poking his head into the light pink painted room, “Hey, ankle biter, I’m back. Did ya miss me?”

Their younger sister, Anna - a moody force to be reckoned with at fifteen - glanced up from her magazine she was reading on her bed, her record player playing quietly from on top of her dresser, “Didn’t even notice you were gone.”

“Did you get that Elvis guy to marry you yet?”

“Oh, shut up, Chris.” Anna blushed, throwing one of her stuffed animals at him before getting up to slam the door in his face.

Christian glanced back at Daniel with a small smile before heading into the room adjacent to toss his bag on his bed. Daniel set his suitcase by his closet and leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

“What’s with the new getup?” Daniel finally asked.

“Oh, this old thing?” Christian grinned, pulling at the hem of his leather jacket. “A buddy in the dorms threw this little bash back in the fall and there were all these swell guys there talking about this new fashion tread. Said it was what everyone’s doing now. I think it looks pretty good, don’t you?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?” Christian scoffed. “Well something’s coming to you of this whole business too.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. The guys got me a job at the car shop upstate for the year, I made a bit of dough, fixed up some wheels, and I’m even transferred to another shop down here for the summer. But with the big bucks I made since the fall I can afford a new car.”

“That’s great, Chris.” Daniel said slowly, unsure of where his brother was going with that.

“So I want you to have my T-Bird.” Christian tossed over the keys.

Daniel tried to grab them in his shock but fumbled them and they fell to the carpet. He bent down quickly to pick them up, “Are you pulling my leg?”

“Nope. Car’s all yours. That or I’ll resell it but I know you’ve had your eye on it since I first got it.”

“Yeah! Oh, boy! Thank you!” Daniel grinned.

“Only thing I ask is that you tell me how your birthday went.” Christian smirked, flopping back onto his bed. He leaned back against the headboard with his hands tucked behind his head and his shoes resting up on his bag.

Daniel bit back a small smile, sitting gently at the end of his older brother’s bed, the car keys still in hand, “It was nice. Mom made me a cake. Vanilla, of course. And I had a few friends over to watch a movie on tv and we ordered a pizza.”

“You know that’s not what I’m asking.” Christian kicked him with the toe of his shoe lightly.

Daniel’s whole family knew about how excited he was to turn eighteen, solely for the purpose of finally being able to find his soulmate. The younger brother blushed lightly through a smile.

“I haven’t found her yet. But she likes strawberry milkshakes.”

“Strawberry? Well, thank God it’s not chocolate or you’d be miserable.” Christian chuckled. “Think she goes to your school?”

“I dunno. High school’s over anyway. But I want to try and find her this summer. She’s gotta be in the city, right?”

“It’s a big city, little bro.” Christian said.

“You’ll help me, right?”

“I gotta work.” Christian shrugged. “Besides, I gave up on that junk.”

“That junk? Finding your soulmate?” Daniel frowned over at him. He thought back to the late-night talks in their shared bedroom when they were nine and ten, sitting up facing each other on their adjacent twin size beds, talking about what it would be like to grow up and find their soulmates.

Christian hummed, sliding his tongue over his lips and in his mouth, an obvious unaware habit that meant his soulmate was eating something right then. Daniel wondered what he could taste.

Christian clicked his tongue and sat up with a deep inhale as if to pull himself out of his own thoughts, “Yeah, no use stressing yourself over it. Plenty of swell birds around to find, right?”

“I guess.” Daniel mumbled.

“I gotta unpack my things. Why don’t you take the car for a spin before dinner?” Christian suggested, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

“Sure.” Daniel stood up, glancing down at the keys in his hand. “Thanks again.”

Christian only sent him a dimpled grin and Daniel left his brother’s room without another word. He walked down the stairs and to the front door, calling over his shoulder to his parents that he would be back in a little bit before heading for the driveway. Daniel hopped over the door of the convertible and settled into the red leather seats with his hands falling gently against the steering wheel. He let a small smile come to his lips as the engine roared to life and the familiar taste of strawberry milkshakes grazed his tongue.

[firstdegreefangirl]

Love Starts With a Toothbrush

Word Count: 3772

Original Pub Date: 5 June 2020

Relationships: Evan Buckley/Eddie Diaz

Author’s Notes: I really should be banned from listening to country radio in the car, but this is completely and utterly inspired by Brad Paisley’s song “Toothbrush.” If you haven’t listened to that yet, check it out here

Read on ao3 here

Tagging: @theycallmebobbob @rebeccaofsbfarm @thisissirius @hearteyesforbuck @dramamineontopofme @twinien @meloingly

Buck looks at himself in the mirror, pondering his own reflection and the way the white foam covers his chin before breaking his own eye contact and tipping his chin back. He focuses his gaze on his jawline as he pulls the razor over his skin, watching the blades slice through the light stubble and push the shaving cream out of the way.  

His touch is light, his strokes are careful, and he can’t think of a time he’s shaved more carefully since he was 17 and half-convinced that he’d slit his own throat with a Bic safety razor identical to the one he’s holding now.  

The stakes tonight are equally high, just as life-or-death, but in an entirely different way. He thinks about it as he rinses the razor, flicks his thumb downward across the blades to clear any stuck hairs from between them. He’s going out for dinner with Eddie, just like they’ve done probably hundreds of times in the time they’ve been friends. This time is different though, in the way Eddie couldn’t look him in the eye when he asked, the way he’d tentatively added “... it could be a date, if you’re OK with that,” when he’d mentioned an Indian restaurant he’d been meaning to try.  

Buck wonders if Eddie is feeling the same amount of pressure he is tonight, if he’d tried on half a dozen shirts before settling on his favorite go-to, then realized that he needed to take the shirt off and shaved before he gets dressed. 

Part of him hopes that Eddie isn’t so uncertain about the night they’re going to share, hopes that he’ll have enough bravado for them both. But he also wants this to mean as much to Eddie as it means to him.  

Because it means everything, he realizes as he drags a wet washcloth across his skin, lets the warm water clean the last dregs of shaving cream from his face and rinses it out. He leans up over the sink, examining his skin closely to make sure he didn’t miss any stray hairs. As blond as he is, it’s not like they’ll show up, but he still wants to make sure everything is perfect tonight.  

Satisfied with the shave, he shakes the razor dry and sets it back in the medicine cabinet, reaching for the tube of toothpaste on the shelf above.

He squirts a blob of the mint-flavored gel onto his toothbrush and sticks it into his mouth. Dental health isn’t usually such a focus for Buck; most of the time he squishes the foam around his mouth and spits as soon as every tooth is mostly brushed.  

Tonight, though, he scrubs every tooth carefully: front, back and top. He angles the brush down to get his gum line, and even gags himself when he brushes his tongue. It might be the first and only time he’s actually brushed for two minutes, and he briefly wonders how weird it would be for him to call his dentist in the morning and brag.  

Very weird, he decides as he plucks a soft blue paper cup from the dispenser on the counter and fills it with water to rinse his mouth out. As the foam swirls down the drain, he rubs his favorite aftershave across his hands and his hands over his face, wincing at the sting against the freshly shaven skin.

It’s the scent he saves for special occasions; he can’t remember the last time he wore it, the last time something felt important enough to warrant the high-quality leather notes that pair perfectly with the fresh citrus scent of his best cologne.

He grabs his shirt from where he’s hung it on the shower door handle and shrugs it on. The buttons are straightforward, but take just enough time that he decides he needs to run a comb lightly through the edges of his hair again.

When that’s done, he looks down at his phone. 7:28, the screen reads, and Eddie is supposed to pick him up at 7:30. He makes it halfway down the steps, though, before he’s turning around and ducking back into the bathroom long enough to swish some mouthwash around and rinse it down the sink.

It’ll probably wear off before they’re even through eating, but hey, who can blame a guy for trying?

Buck doesn’t think about it again until Eddie is walking him up to the front door at the end of the night. But the hope that the mouthwash is lingering on his breath is his last coherent thought as Eddie backs him up against his doorbell and leans in for what has to be the longest single kiss Buck has ever had.

They’re both breathing hard when Eddie breaks away, lingering just long enough to murmur a ‘goodnight’ against his lips before he walks away, leaving Buck standing there in a daze, hoping he’s not imagining the minty taste Eddie left behind in his mouth.  

Two years later, to the day, they’re dropping Chris off at Pepa’s, promising to pick him up on Sunday night and waving from Eddie’s truck as they back down the driveway. Buck looks at Eddie as they turn the corner, sees the way he’s worrying his bottom lip.  

“Hey, you’re sure about this? We can go pick him up, bring him with us. Or ditch the plan altogether, do the big ceremony in a few months.”

“No, I’m sure. I want to marry you tonight. And I like the idea of that being just for us.” Eddie sighs, and Buck wishes he believed him. “I just … feel bad for lying about the double shifts all weekend, telling Bobby we needed the days off for a ‘family thing.’”

“This is a family thing. It’s us, becoming a family. Legally.” Buck rests his hand on Eddie’s hand, wrapped around the gearshift.  

“We’re already family, Buck.”

“I know, but this makes it official. And we’ll talk to Bobby and Athena when we get back, see if we can borrow their backyard for a big reception. Everything else can be for everyone else, but this? This here, our wedding? It’s for us.”  

Eddie nods and releases his lip.

“Yeah. You … you’re right. Pre-wedding jitters, am I right?”

They laugh together, relaxing as Eddie drives them a couple hours up the coast. He’s not sure where they’re going, taking directions from Buck, who’s reading off of a list of turns he’s scribbled on the back of a junk mail credit card application.

He’d taken every other aspect of this to the n-th degree, as soon as Eddie suggested that they stop trying to plan the perfect wedding for their friends and family and just have the perfect wedding for them. Just the two of them, wearing the best suits they already owned and brand new matching ties, standing somewhere beautiful and private to pledge their lives to each other.  

Buck had looked for close to a week before finding the perfect spot: a tiny beachfront town with a little wedding chapel. He’d found the referral on a same-sex wedding forum, with a litany of stories and photos from couples praising the picturesque waters and friendly staff, willing to personalize intimate ceremonies for a reasonable cost.

All he had asked Eddie to do was make sure their bags were packed and pick him a ring. Everything else was a surprise, from Eddie’s brushed steel wedding band with its fine gold stripe pressed into the pocket of Buck’s jeans to the three tiny crystals on the tie clips: each of their birthstones and Christopher’s in the middle.

The ceremony is everything they could have imagined; every last detail Buck planned went off without a hitch. And he couldn’t help but privately noticing that the officiant who pronounced them husband and husband resembled the surviving half of the elderly gay couple he’d met on the car accident scene only a couple of months after Eddie came into his life.  

Mitchell, he’s pretty sure.

It’s coincidence, he’s sure, but it feels fitting nonetheless. Even if it was still over a year before their first date, talking to that man, hearing him tell Buck that a truly lasting love is made, not found, was a pivotal moment in his relationship with Eddie. It was the first time he let himself consider making something more than a friendship with him, so it feels fitting that Mitchell would visit him again today, give him a sign that he’s in the right place, marrying the right person for him.

Not that he needed a sign, not after he saw the way Eddie’s eyes watered when he ran his finger across Buck’s tie, understanding the gems the moment he saw them.  

He knew he was making the right choice.  

Even if he did have to go all the way down to the lobby of their hotel that night, get a couple of flimsy plastic toothbrushes from the desk agent.

“Really, Eddie? The only thing you had to do was pack our bags. You got the suits, you got my shampoo, but you left our toothbrushes on the counter?” He rolled his eyes as Eddie shook the toiletries bag open on the bedspread, no toothbrushes to be found.  

Of course, Eddie was fresh out of the shower, so it fell on Buck to go downstairs, sheepishly explain that he hadn’t packed for their trip (even if he did preen a little bit when he said ‘my husband was in charge of the luggage,’ the new title feeling perfectly at home on his tongue) and ask if they had any for sale.  

The clerk had come back with two barely opaque white-handled brushes that Buck is pretty sure he could have broken in half easier than a pencil. But they’re free, and they’re better than nothing, so he smiles gratefully at her and accepts the brushes and packets of toothpaste.

After their teeth are brushed, when Eddie is tucked in and waiting for Buck to join him in bed for their first night as a married couple, he snaps a quick picture of the cheap toothbrushes.  

It’s the sort of story that will make a good memory years from now, he knows already, and he never wants to forget this moment. He never wants to forget the way he feels two days later, either, packing up to leave and slipping the disposable toothbrushes into the bottom of his bag, tucking them away to be remembered and laughed about later.  

Their love wasn’t found; they made it between toothbrushes and minty fresh kisses along the way.

The first day off Buck and Eddie have together as husbands is spent boxing Buck’s loft and moving his life into Eddie’s home.  

Their home.

They’d talked about it, over breakfast on the beach the day after their wedding, thrown around the idea of buying a new house, a place that they picked together and decorated as a family. But ultimately, they decided that Eddie’s place was almost perfectly located between the station and Christopher’s school, it was already accessible for him, and Buck has long felt at home in Eddie’s living room.

He didn’t need a new house, he just needed Eddie in his bed and Christopher right down the hall, every night for the rest of his life.  

So he’s the only one moving, a whopping 17 minutes from where he had lived. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Especially when Eddie suggests redecorating after Buck gets settled, giving the house a new feel for their new lives together. It’s just turning to summer, the days growing warmer and longer enough that they can start with the backyard. Eddie puts out grass seed, plants a couple of twigs that will hopefully grow into lemon and orange trees.  

Buck takes it upon himself to watch a dozen YouTube videos and visit the hardware store, borrowing Eddie’s truck to haul cords of lumber home with the promise of a picket fence around the back of the house.  

He’s never built a fence before, but Bobby lends him a small table saw, spends an afternoon standing in the yard and teaching him how to use it before leaving him to finish building his fence. As with everything, Buck throws himself completely into the project; every spare moment he’s got is enough time to cut a couple of boards, drill a few holes.  

It’s one of the most fun projects he’s ever embarked on, especially when Christopher starts joining him in the backyard, plopping down on the fresh grass with a book and reading out loud to him, or telling him stories from his latest sleepover. Sometimes, when he’s got a brand new board, all 10-feet of it to control against the vibration of the saw blade, he’ll ask Chris for a hand. He’s got a tiny pair of safety goggles, bulky enough to go over his regular glasses, and kid-sized work gloves, and he’s always excited to help hold the long end of the board, tiptoeing forward as Buck pushes his end across the saw blade.  

Digging the post holes is its own kind of challenge, especially when driving his foot against the top of the shovel makes the pain in his leg flare up. But for those moments, Eddie is there. He’s always watching Buck out the kitchen window or from the back deck; Buck can feel his gaze following him around the yard, especially when the high heat of the summer gets the best of him and he pulls his T-shirt off.  

But when his leg start to hurt, almost like Eddie can feel the pain too, he appears beside Buck, pulls the shovel gently from his hands.  

“Here, I got it,” he says, squeezing Buck’s arm gently. “I’ll dig for a bit.” When Buck starts to protest, tries to tell Eddie that he’s fine, he can keep working, Eddie raises an eyebrow. “I know you can, but it’s almost lunchtime, and if you don’t cook, I’ll have to.”  

They both know it’s a cop-out. Eddie can handle sandwiches and pouring lemonade from the gallon jug in the fridge. But it means that Buck can take a break, sneak back to the bathroom and swallow a couple Advil when no one is looking, without having to admit that his physical limitations stop him sooner than they did before his myriad of near-death experiences.  

It takes a few months, but then their fence is up, pine boards marking the edges of a backyard that Christopher keeps mentioning is probably big enough that they could get a dog now, since he’d have somewhere to run.

“Maybe for your birthday, Superman.” Eddie ruffles his hair, shares a knowing glance with Buck. The three of them admire the handiwork for a few minutes longer, then Buck jumps and pulls Eddie’s truck keys out of his pocket.

“Ooh, hang on, I forgot the last part. Chris, you up for a trip to the hardware store? Think you can keep me on track?”  

“Sure! Dad, I gotta go make sure Bucky doesn’t get lost.” With that, they’re gone, chasing each other out the new gate and around the house. Buck hears Eddie’s confused shout, and feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He doesn't have to look at the message to know that Eddie has sent him a long string of question marks, but he and Chris have a mission.

They’re back 45 minutes later, Buck hauling a five-gallon bucket in each hand as he follows Christopher around the back gate. He hears the back door open as he’s taking the plastic sack from Chris and pulling out paint trays and rollers.  

“Alright, what’d we talk about, kiddo?”

“Dad! Buck says I can help paint, but only if you wrap me up in a trash bag first so I don’t get messy!”  

Eddie laughs but leads Chris into the house. They emerge a few minutes later, Chris covered in a trash bag with sloppy holes cut into the bottom for his head and arms. The three of them spend the afternoon painting, and most of the next day too, but when they’re finished, the picket fence is a crisp white, contrasting starkly with the grass around it.

Except the parts of the lawn that got their own coat of white paint, but Buck can’t bring himself to care. The grass will grow, he or Eddie will cut it short and no one will be the wiser. And they’ll still have their backyard, with the white picket fence that he built, for his family.  

He’s pretty sure this sort of thing is the best that his life is ever going to get, that nothing could ever top the feeling of standing here, Eddie’s arm around his waist and Chris leaning against their legs, admiring something they made together.  

Buck grunts as he lifts their toddler out of the bathtub and wraps him in a towel.

“Jeez, you’re getting big, Trey.” He rubs the 4-year-old's hair dry and helps him tie the belt on a tiny camouflage-print bathrobe. “Alright, what’s next?”  

“Brush teeth!” He shrieks with delight and grins at his papa.  

“That’s right, let’s go brush your teeth with Daddy and Chris!” Buck scoops him up, without grunting this time since he can get a better angle to lift from, and carries him down the hallway to the master bathroom. Eddie and Christopher are already standing in front of the mirror, trying to untangle Chris’s curly hair enough that it’s not totally insufferable in the morning.  

He’s 11 now, old enough that he can get most of it on his own, but there’s a patch at the back of his head that’s hard to reach, so Eddie helped him with that while Buck and Trey had a rubber duck war in the bathtub.  

“Daddy! Time to brush teeth!” Trey grabs for the side of Eddie’s pants leg as Buck situates him on the step stool beside the counter. “You can help me?”  

They’ve had Trey for almost two years now, and he’s always been very diplomatic about dividing his attention between Buck and Eddie. If Buck helps make his lunch, Eddie can sit with him while he eats. On the days that Eddie drops him off at preschool, he likes it best when Buck picks him up.

When Buck gives him a bath, Eddie helps brush his teeth.

“I sure can, kiddo. Chris, you’re all good. Get those pearly whites, bud.” He passes a tube of bubblegum-flavored toothpaste to his older son, watches him carefully squeeze a blob of it onto a blue toothbrush with a distinctive red ‘S’ logo on the handle. Christopher hands the tube back and jams the brush into his mouth while Eddie reaches for the smallest toothbrush in the cup.

Buck isn’t sure when it started, but somewhere along the way, all four of them started sharing a bedtime routine. Sure, that’s parenting, but this is a little bit more. The boys have their own bathroom, full of plastic boats and low-hanging towel bars, but still all four of them gather in Buck and Eddie’s bathroom at night to brush their teeth together.

He’s scrubbing across his own teeth as he thinks about it, white minty foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. When he catches Christopher looking at him, he turns his head and growls playfully, baring his teeth.

“No, Bucky! Don’t get me!” Chris’ toothbrush is still in his mouth, so the words are distorted and he sprays pinkish flecks all over the mirror when he cries out.  

Buck laughs, splattering his own toothpaste foam to create some sort of abstract bathroom art that he knows Eddie will wipe away while he sees the boys down to their shared bedroom.  

Trey leans back against Eddie’s hip, tipping his chin and opening his mouth.

“-Eddie, -addy!” He tries to say, without moving his jaw. ‘Ready, daddy!’ they both know it means, and Buck leans forward to spit as Eddie starts brushing carefully through their son’s mouth. He counts the teeth out loud, just like every night, even though the number hasn’t changed since six months after they welcomed him into their home.  

Buck leans back upright, looking at his family in the mirror as he reaches around Chris to take a paper cup from the dispenser he brought with him when he moved in. He fills it with water, freezing when he sees the design on the side.

The water flows over the top of the cup, down his hand, and it’s enough to shake him from his stupor. It shouldn’t have surprised him; he’s the one who’d purchased the box of planet-themed bath cups, remembering how excited Christopher had been to be able to recite all nine planets in order. He's staring down at a smiling planet, Mars, according to the reddish label beside it.  

Even if it were a surprise, there’s no reason that a Mars cup should stop him in his tracks like this. But he’s suddenly thinking of a different day, a different paper cup in a different bathroom. That cup was blue, plain blue, and he’d stood alone in the bathroom.  

He remembers every detail, the sting of the aftershave and the way the mouthwash tingled against his gums. And he remembers everything that came after, too, right up to Eddie kissing him against his front door. He’d gone inside that night and imagined a future with Eddie and Christopher. But never, not even in his most elaborate fantasies had he dreamed of having all of this.  

This is the most in love Buck has ever been, standing here in the bathroom with his family, watching Eddie hold a light-up toothbrush in one hand and a Jupiter cup in the other. He’s helping Trey spit into the sink – not onto the counter – and Buck feels his heart swell at the simple routine of it all. He puts his own toothbrush back into the cup and thanks his lucky stars for every moment like this, every night he gets to be a part of this. Every time life has caught him by surprise, every day that was better than the one before it, even when he hadn’t thought that would be possible.  

There are four toothbrushes on his counter, three people at the center of his world, and he thinks it again, this is the best moment I’ve had in my life.  

Because love, he’s come to learn, isn’t found in any of the obvious places to look.

Love starts with a toothbrush.

[virsamin]

Come Home

Victor x Reader

Genre: NSFW

Word Count: 1,978

Summary: Victor has been neglecting you and you call him out on it

A/N: I’m a sucker for soft Victor too so you’ll see small bits of that with the rough side of him too sksksks

Additional: Rough Sex, fingering

******************************************************************

A thunderstorm rages against the mansion as rain pelts the shutters and the wind howls in angst. Light pours through the kitchen window as a strike pronounces itself in my midst. The storm keeping pace with the torrent coursing through me. Another night alone. 

I bring the blood red wine against my lips, savoring the sharp taste that tinges my mouth. The gold band around my left finger glints under the fluorescent kitchen light, more so as I tap my fingers against the table. Over. And over again. 

The production report mocks me from the counter, scraps and details very far from the forefront of my mind. Only a lingering thought of his soft lips and intense eyes looking into my own.  

Victor has been extremely busy, he doesn't hold me gently in his embrace as he used too. He comes home late and leaves early, and it’s as if I don’t matter anymore. My frustration builds, feeding my torrent of emotions once again. 

Seething, I close my lips around the wine glass again as I flip once more over the manila folder. My distraction.

*Click*

The sound ricochets through the silent house like a bullet, making the hair on my neck raise at attention. My body thrums to life as powerful footsteps echo closer to the doorway of the kitchen. He clears his throat to make his presence known. My back straightens and breath hitches slightly.   

“Late for you to be up.” 

 His deep masculine voice reverberates through the kitchen and across my body, igniting a tremble through my spine. I shift to hide it and sip my wine once again, without responding. His eyes burn into my body as he strides across the kitchen to bring out another bottle of wine.

 I sneak a glance up from the folder to catch a glimpse of him. Familiar taut muscles protruding from his dress shirt, his front shirt buttons undone showing his resilient chest. Messy hair cascading across his face, tempting me to go up and brush it out of the way. 

Before I can look away, dark fiery eyes meet my own. I only stare back, daringly. 

His eyes widen slightly before they narrow, his fire beginning to rage against my storm. 

I glance back down to my portfolio and take yet another sip of my wine as if bored by his glare.. though I'm far from it… I’m exhilarated.

I hear his footsteps as he quietly walks around the island counter until he is only a hot breath away. My whole-body quivers under his heated glare, his breath stirring the hair of my neck. 

Pushing myself to ignore the throbbing desire for him, I focus my attention on the glass in my hand. Swirling it slightly. 

Victor pulls the glass from my hand and downs it himself as he eyed the almost empty wine bottle carefully. He takes the folder from me and skimmed over it. 

"Is this the report I asked you for yesterday?"

"Mmm." I nod nonchalantly, never meeting his eye. 

He frowns as he flips through the papers and grimaced as he realized that I couldn't care less about the project. 

"Are you trying to provoke me? This the worst report that you've ever written. Have you left your common sense back at the research center with Professor Lucien?” 

My head snaps in his direction, anger quickly flowing through me with little effort.

“Y/N.” He quips.

“No. Don’t 'Y/N' me. You've been gone for how long now? A month? And ever since you've been back, you've refused to see me, to spend time with me and you're going to get upset with me spending time with someone else? 

You've neglected me for weeks. Weeks. I thought I was worth more to you than that- You haven’t touched me, you haven’t acknowledged me, you just ignore me. And I can’t even get this stupid report-” 

He whips my chair around and shoves his delicate tongue into my mouth, soft lips roughly caressing my own. 

“You think…” he kisses my neck “…I don’t…” he kisses further “…think about those sweet lips…” his hand squeezes my breast “…these plump breasts…” his finger travels down until it slides under my skirt and panties to coax my wet lips “…this lovely pussy. That’s...all...mine.”

A traitorous moan passes my lips when his finger slides into me, pumping deliciously slow. 

“Victor…” 

My gaze catches the desire in his eyes that most definitely reflect my own. He pulls me into his firm chest and thrusts two more fingers inside of me, almost driving me over the edge. 

Before I slick his hands from a beckoning high, he pulls out and steps away from me. A whine almost escapes, his vacant warmth leaving me cold. His eyes ignite. Victor shrugs off his jacket, pulls his tie off and takes off his shirt.

He quickly and purposely strides up to me, kissing the life from my lips. My fingers tangle through his hair as his hands run over my hips and under my blouse. Tingles of delight dance at his warm touch, overwhelming my senses.

Before I can react, he hoists me up around his torso and slams us into the kitchen wall. I moan and bite his lip fiercely, a snarl scrunches his face as he digs his hips into my own, grinding himself against me. His kisses shock and excite me all the same as he continues from my now swollen lips to the soft skin of my neck. Nipping and kissing along the way. 

Victor presses his warm body over mine, spreading warm tingles over me. He unbuttons my blouse hastily and unclasps my bra, capturing my breasts in his hands. Desire burned through us both, unrelenting from our days without. 

His hand massages one breast as they pucker out for him in need. He pinches hard on my nipple, and I gasp, my core throbbing. His hot mouth replaces it as his hand moves to my other breast. 

His trails his soft hands down my chest and grips my waist tightly, pulling us from the wall, the both of us still breathless as he strides from the kitchen towards our bedroom. I press myself to his body, relishing the feeling of his touch. 

He smashes his lips to mine once again, dominating my mouth without rebellion. His tongue swipes over mine, his knuckles digging into the small of my back as he carries us into our room. 

I open my eyes to find his heated gaze scorching my own desirous ones. 

He laid me on the bed, following with himself on top of me as he sucked and nibbled at my earlobe. 

"Victor...please..."

"Hm...?" He continued his assault, trailing kisses down my jaw and neck before he gently bites down and sucks. I moaned, reaching for the waistband of his pants, and tugged.

"Eager aren't we?" He arcs a brow and smirks at the sight of me being so disheveled. 

He bends down before me and strips me of my skirt and panties, pressing a gentle kiss to one knee and then the other. I can’t help but smile. 

He rises from the position and instantly his face hardens, he wasn’t losing sight of his goal tonight. 

Swiftly, he pulls my nakedness into his half-clothed self. My nipples flush against his chest, leaving only our bottom halves untouching. His bulge begs to differ as it makes itself known against my upper thigh. Victor grinds himself further into me. 

“This is only for you, and never will be for anyone else. Now, what do you want?” His hands draw circles against my back teasingly. 

I wrap one arm around his neck, pulling him closer as the other trails downward, scratching his back. My hand drops to his bulge and caresses over it slightly as I whisper, “You.” 

The answer makes him chuckle as he presses his lips onto mine lovingly.

“As if I wasn't already yours.” 

Exhilarated and ready, I spread my legs over the mattress and leave myself to him. His gaze sears my skin as he pulls off his pants and frees his pulsing cock. I lick my lips at the size, waiting eagerly for him to join me. Victor’s soft hands glide over my thighs as he makes his way forward. Trembles quake my body as he pumps two fingers through my folds.

He kisses up my stomach and pecks my nipples before he makes it to my lips, devouring them without mercy. He continues circling my clit and pumping his fingers, sending me into overdrive. 

He pulls his fingers from my folds, and I whimper. His eyes find mine and he smirks as he sucks my essence off of his fingers. My mouth falls open again, and he takes advantage, taking my lips into his own.

I buck my hips up against his erection, achieving the friction I craved all evening. A short moan releases from me. 

Victor growls low in my ear before, without warning, he thrusts himself deep inside of me, emitting moans from both of us. He pumps in and out, stretching and filling me whole. His name falls from my mouth and echos across the room fast and louder as he drives himself deeper into me. 

Becoming merciless, he rams into me roughly and thrusts faster. My eyes roll in ecstasy as I scream his name over and over in the room, raking my nails across his back. He grunts over me, picking up even more speed as we both climb to our climax. 

"Victor!” I scream as I peak, my core tightening around his shaft as he moans loudly over me. Pulsing inside me after reaching his high as well. 

Victor rests on top of me, both of us panting for breath. Delirious and exhilarated. 

When both of us have caught our breath, Victor pulls out from me and stands over me next to the bed. He kisses the top of my head as I continue to come back down from our sex cloud. I see him walk over to the bathroom and then I hear water running. 

When he comes back in his still naked glory, I look up to him lazily, wondering exactly he was going to do. Answering my inner curiosity, he picks me up bridal style and carries me to the bathroom. 

When we get there, I realize he was preparing a bubble bath. He slides me under the warm water and settles himself behind me, pulling me to his chest. 

Victor grabs a nearby washcloth and begins cleansing me, running the washcloth over my chest and legs. His hand steadies me, spreading warm tingles everywhere he touches. Caressing and kissing here and there. 

When he’s done, I twist in his light grip and take the washcloth from him. “Your turn.”

I proceed to run the washcloth over him, enjoying my excuse to keep touching him. His hands rest on my hips as he leans his head back and closes his eyes, relaxing. His hands tighten on my waist when I reach his cock, but I simply run the cloth over it and move further. It twitched slightly and then he relaxes again, a ghost smile on his face. 

I finish and rest my head on his shoulder, drawing random shapes on his chest. His fingers entwine in my hair and play with it. His other hand rests against the small of my back, both of us just enjoying the long-needed company. 

 ****************************************************************

We both lay in bed, him cocooning me from behind. I doze to him caressing my skin and playing lightly with my hair. Before I completely fall asleep, I hear him whisper.

“I expect you to revise that report by Thursday. Do well and you'll find yourself rewarded.” He kisses the crown of my head as I hum lowly in response, already half asleep. 

[im-a-slut-for-an-accent]

The Party

Prequel to Embarrassing Breakfast

A/N: I really love Sam Wilson and I had the idea for a prequel in my head and @that-damn-girl​ told me to go for it so I did. I made it for them and me. 

Summary: This is how you and Sam Wilson finally made it to bed.

Rating: Explicit. Sex. Lots of sex, like mostly sex. 

              Dad knew how to go all out, you thought as you stepped into the party. You were arriving a little late after deciding to finish some paperwork before the weekend started. Also taking an extra amount of time to pick out an outfit, you knew that Sam was going to be there, and you really wanted to impress.

              You had your hair up in a semi messy bun, tight jeans, and a black crop top. You have dealt with some self-hatred towards your body over the years, but you decided enough was enough and it was time to embrace every curve. Even though you weren’t a size two you still looked good and you were happy with the way you looked almost sure enough to finally get Sam Wilson.

              You knew Sam had to be at least a little bit interested. The two of you had a very flirty friendship. Nat and Wanda both assured you several times over the past two months that he was more than just into you. When Wanda told you to trust her you sure as hell didn’t argue.

              There were still several doubts floating around in your mind. What if he was only physically attracted to you? What if it didn’t work out? Things would surely be awkward if they didn’t. Would he be weirded out with such a large age difference? What would the press think? All these questions ate at you, but you knew the only way to find out any of these answers would be to shoot your shot.

              Sam watched as you walked into the party, his mouth went dry and his heart pounded in his chest. Damn you looked good, the thought of lifting the crop top and exploring the rest of your exposed skin went through his mind.

              “Earth to Sam,” Bucky waved his arm in front of Sam’s face.

              “Y/N just arrived we no longer have his full attention,” Steve informed Bucky.

              “Good, maybe now I’ll have a chance to win.”

              Sam had started to worry that you weren’t going to show after the first half hour of the party and when you didn’t show up by the first hour his heart sank with disappointment. Now here you were, and he couldn’t be happier.

              You looked around the party trying to find Wanda or Nat, even Sam. Then you felt a pair of eyes watching you, looking around you noticed Sam staring. He was watching you, you blushed but looked him right in the eye gave a smile and then a wink. Sam smiled back and you caught his tongue dart out to lick his lips. You considered it a win on your part.

              You weren’t one for too many games but decided to play a little, see how far you could push this before one of you snapped so instead of walking over to Sam you found Nat and Wanda chatting with Maria and headed in that direction.

              When they noticed your arrival, Nat looked at you and gave a whistle and said, “I told you that top would look amazing on you.”

              Maria smirked, “Yeah, Sam seems to love it too.”

              Your mouth dropped open, “Who told you?”

              Maria laughed, “Honey, no one had to tell me anything. We can all see it, well except maybe Bruce and Tony. They seem oblivious to these kinds of things.”

              “Great,” you pouted, plopping down on the couch next to Wanda as she handed you a drink.

              The four of you sat around chatting for a while enjoying your drinks and the idle gossip about the lower level agents that Maria oversaw.

              Sam really was trying to focus on the pool game but every time you laughed his focus drew back to you. Steve sighed, just a tad annoyed, “Why don’t you just go over and talk to her?”

              “Because that means he’d have to have game,” Bucky chuckled as he made his shot.

              “Shut up, Boomer.”

              “Excuse me but we are the greatest generation and you are just a little millennial,” Bucky poked Sam with the pool stick.

              “Whatever just shut the hell up,” Sam smiled.

              The party slowly began to die down until it was just Wanda, Tony, Nat, Clint, Sam, Steve, Bucky, and you. Everyone filtered into the lounge area, you sat on the floor leaning against the front of the couch. Soon Sam was sitting next to you even though there were at least one or two spots he could’ve sat down at.

              Nat smirked and you mouthed, ‘shut the fuck up,’ at her only causing her smile to grow.

              Everyone sat around chatting, you even got into a heated debate with Clint on how gif was pronounced, he was of course wrong.

              As the minutes ticked by and everyone seemed to get a bit drunker you felt a rough but very warm hand touch your back, you let out a little gasp causing Sam to remove his hand.

              “Don’t stop,” you whispered hoping that only Sam could hear you and Sam gave a small smile as he put his hand back on you, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

              It felt so damn good and you craved more. You began to feel lightheaded unsure if it was the alcohol or Sam’s hand on the small of your back, most likely the mix of them both.

              “Y/N, are you alright?” Wanda asked, obviously faking her concern.

              “Uh, yeah, just a little lightheaded. You know how it is ton of alcohol with no food never mixes well,” you answered somewhat truthfully.

              “Sam, why don’t you help Y/N to her room,” Natasha did her best to seem helpful. Still you shot daggers in her direction.

              “Oh, uh, yeah, sure, let me do that.” Sam sat down his beer, smoothly removing his arm from behind you so no one saw. Standing up he pulled you to your feet. The sudden lift causing you to wobble. Sam expertly held you till you could properly stand.

              “Let’s get you into bed.”

              You blushed at the comment, unsure if he meant it how it sounded. “Good idea.”

              This time Sam’s cheeks heated. Sam wrapped his arm around you to keep you steady as he walked you out of the room and to the elevator.

              Once you were in the elevator Sam dropped his armed to his side. Your face fell at the lack of contact.

              “Sam-.”

              “Y/N-.”

              You spoke at the same time causing the two of you to chuckle.

              “You go first,” Sam insisted.

              Sam’s kind stare and soft smile had you at a loss for words. Instead you leaned up and captured his lips with your own. He tasted of beer and salty pretzels, it was intoxicating, and you wanted more. In mere seconds Sam had you pressed against the wall of the elevator. One hand holding the back of your neck as his other hand flattened against the side of your hip.

              You kissed like that until the elevator dinged and opened the doors. The both of you stepping out of the lift. No one spoked until you reached your bedroom door.

              “Would you like to come in?” You asked.

              Sam looked at you then looked down, “I better not.”

              Your heart jumped into the back of your throat, “Why not?”

              “It’s not that I don’t want to because by God I do but you’ve had a lot to drink tonight and Tony would probably kill me and-.” Sam rambled.

              “Stop before you dig the hole too deep,” you placed your hand on his chest. “I am not that drunk, and Dad will just have to deal. I doubt he would kill you anyways, now if you don’t want to come in then I will take your no gracefully but if you do want me, us, then please come in because I can’t take this anymore. I really do want you to come in.”

              Sam grinned, “You really want me that bad?” Sam teased.

              You smacked his arm playfully. “Maybe not now, you being such a cocky bastard and all.” You turned to leave to enter your room, pretending that you had changed your mind, but Sam grabbed you by the waist, his arm around you pulling you back to him. You could feel his hardness against your lower back.

              “I think I will come inside, if the offer is still open,” he whispered into your ear.

              You nodded, “It is.”

              Entering the room Sam wasted no time in flipping you and pinning you against the door as his lips pressed into your own. You gasped as his lips traveled down your throat and his hand traveled up the front of your shirt.

              “I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he rasped in between kisses. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

              “You can have me,” you gasped as he bit your neck softly.

              Sam groaned as he bucked into you, “Clothes are in my way.”

              You reached up and began to unbutton his shirt. He only removed his arms from your body to shrug out of his shirt before he was removing you of yours. Your lips once again connected. Sam patted your legs letting you know he wanted you to jump. You did and he wrapped your legs around him as he carried you to the bed laying you down gently.

              He looked down at you, staring. “See something you like?” You teased.

              “Yes, I do, and I would like to see a whole lot more.” He answered as he reached down to undo your pants. He had a difficult time removing them. “Baby girl as much as I love seeing you walking around in these tight things, they are kind of a bitch to get off.”

              You chuckled, deciding to help, you lifted off the bed and as sexily as possible you removed them from your body.”

              “Now that’s more like it,” Sam cheered.

              Instead of getting back on the bed you dropped to your knees in front of him. Slowly you undid his jeans bringing them down to his knees. You were pleased at the lack of underpants as Sam’s cock was standing almost upright.

              Sam hissed as the cool air. “You-You-don’t-.” Sam was cut off as he moaned when you wrapped your lips around his tip.

              Sam was large, much larger than anything you’ve ever had before but you were determined to give him the best blow job of his life. You bobbed your head sucking as your hand grabbed ahold of the base. Sam’s hand undid your hair tie, letting it fall but quickly tangling his hand in your hair as he slowly began pumping himself into your mouth. He wasn’t rough and he never pushed farther than you could take, which you were very grateful for.

              Soon he tried to pull you off of him, but you weren’t having it, you wanted him to cum, you wanted that power of having him come undone by just your mouth.

              Sam gripped your hair tighter as he came down your throat. It wasn’t the most pleasant taste, but you swallowed what he gave you.

              “Baby girl, that was the hottest thing I have ever witnessed.”

              You smiled at his praise. You stood up but yelped in surprise as Sam pushed you back, landing on the bed.

              “Let me return the favor,” his hand slipped down your torso and then he finally noticed.

              “Are you wearing Captain America panties?”

              “Oh, um, yeah. They didn’t have any Falcon ones,” you shrugged in embarrassment.

              “These have got to go,” Sam raised his eyebrows at you as he ripped them off your body, discarding them somewhere across the room.

              “Hey! Those were comfortable.”

              He lightly slapped your thigh, “I will not have my girl wearing my best friend’s logo on her ass.”

              “Well then I definitely can’t show you the winter sold-.” you were cut off as Sam slowly licked through your folds.

              You moaned as he sucked your clit and slipped his fingers inside of you. You wondered how he became such and expert on eating women out but instead of commenting you enjoyed it as you toppled over the edge. He continued as you rode out your orgasm.

              Sam grinned as he used the back of his muscled arm to wipe your juices from his face which frankly just turned you on more.

              “I need you now,” you begged.

              “What was that baby girl?” Sam smirked as he climbed above you, his cock rubbing against your opening.

              “You cocky bastard. I Need You Inside Of Me.” You punctuated each word making sure your want was made very clear.

              Sam chuckled, “That’s all you had to say.” He slowly entered you, causing the both of you to moan. He went slow, letting you both adjust to the sensation.

              Once he bottomed out you nodded your head letting him know he could continue.

              His pace started out slow but as your hips began to push down to meet his, he picked up the pace. The room was filled with moans, grunts, and the sound of sweaty flesh meeting each other.

              Sam was rather vocal, and it had you close. “Baby girl, you feel so damn good. You gonna cum for me?”

              You frantically nodded your head.

              “Use your words baby, you gonna cum?”

              “Yes, Sam, Yes. Please make me cum!”

              Sam leaned down, capturing your lips as he reached down to rub circles across your clit. You were impressed and so fucking close.

              “I’m so close Sam,” you moaned.

              “Cum baby, cum on my cock.” Sam ordered.

              That’s all it took and you came for the second time that night. Sam following you soon after. You both laid there for a few minutes as his hard frame pressed against you, his breath was heavy as he tried to catch it.

              He eventually rolled to your side.

              You entwined your fingers with his. “Will you stay?” You asked.

              “I’ll stay with you as long as you want me,” he squeezed your hand.

              “I want you to stay.”

              “Okay.”

              “Okay.”

              You rolled into his arms as the two of you fell asleep.

[apparentlynotreallyfinnish]

Think of Her

Here’s some un-edited, un-betaed college!rhink that just appeared on my Word document when I tried to write a completely different thing. Maybe you’ll like it.

---

Rhett is sitting on his bed and pouting when Link steps into their dorm room. He is buzzing with excited energy, babbling on and on about a particular class he likes and a professor he is obviously in love with. He bounces around the room, throwing his things here and there, discarding his t-shirt on the floor, going to his drawer, picking out a new shirt, pulling it on and apparently, deciding he’s made a grave error. His nose scrunches up and he sniffs his armpit. That t-shirt ends up on the floor as well but Link doesn’t bother to get another one. Instead he marches to their cupboard and takes out a box of cereal. All the while he’s gushing about the professor and the class. Rhett is irritated beyond belief.

“What have you been up to today?” Link asks as he sinks on the couch and pours himself a huge bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Rhett just crosses his arms across his chest and growls. Link’s gaze immediately snaps to him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Rhett mutters and feels stupid as the word slips out. Obviously Link can see something is bothering him.  So, he continues: “Everything.”

“Tell me,” Link orders mouth full of Crunch. Rhett closes his eyes and tries to drone out the sounds that seem to penetrate his soul.

“Just…I don’t know. It’s all stupid stuff. Practice sucked today and I managed to fall on my face in the cafeteria. And I got a C on that paper. I worked so hard on it but apparently it was uninspired and redundant.”

“Aww, man, I’m sorry. Sounds like one of those days. Tomorrow will be better. Besides, everyone knows Professor Miller is a hard-ass. C from him is basically an A.”

Rhett huffs, annoyed, because he knows Link is right. But he had been so proud of what he’d written and certain he’d get at least a B.

“Also, Claire cancelled our date. She claimed she wanted to concentrate on her studies. And I mean fine, that’s okay. But then  I saw her kissing a guy on the courtyard so…she’s either studying dentistry now and was doing some intense homework or she was just lying to my face,” Rhett mumbles.

Honestly, the Claire thing stings way more than any of the other stuff. He’d gotten a bit ahead of himself with Claire, imagining all kinds of futures together after their first few dates. Seeing her with the guy had been like a gut punch.

“Shit, that sucks,” Link says sympathetically. He’s straightened his back and abandoned the rest of his cereal to slowly soften. He is looking at Rhett with an expression Rhett can’t read. His eyes are lit up - he almost looks excited - but he’s gnawing on his bottom lip and wiggling his leg anxiously.

“What?” Rhett asks with too much sharpness in his voice. He feels bad; it isn’t Link’s fault he’s having a bad day. But Link doesn’t seem to either mind or notice. He gets up and creeps to Rhett’s desk next to their bunk bed. Link’s eyes wander over the desk and he picks up a pencil, twirls it between his fingers a bit before putting it down and picking up a text book. Rhett frowns as he looks at Link twiddling with his things. Just as he is about to ask what Link is doing, Link mutters, without looking at Rhett.

“I could help you.”

“With what?” Rhett asks confused. The paper is already done and it isn’t like Link can help him with practice. Sometimes you just have bad days, it’s normal. And Link definitely can’t help with Claire. After watching her play tonsil tennis with a guy with a ponytail Rhett doesn’t even want her back anymore.

“I could help you feel better…help you relax,” Link whispers, still staring at the text book. A faint blush has crept on his cheeks. Rhett’s own cheeks immediately heat up and suddenly, he feels parched.

“You mean…?” Rhett asks with a hoarse voice.

“Yeah.”

Rhett feels a bit faint. A memory after memory resurfaces in his mind and he feels like hiding his crotch under a pillow. But that would be too obvious. He tries to appear nonchalant as he says:

“We decided not to do that anymore.”

“You decided. I… Anyway. What does it matter?”

“We shouldn’t.”

“Why?” Link presses on. He’s looking straight at Rhett now and Rhett feels like squirming under his intense gaze. God, have his eyes always been that piercing blue? They seem almost otherworldly.

“Because,” is all Rhett manages to answer. As his dick hardens, his resolve crumbles.

“Because why?”

“Because it’s gay,” Rhett says the word under his breath, barely audible. Link snorts.

“It’s not gay if we’re not gay,” he says, like it means something. Rhett frowns.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Neither does saying no to something you clearly want. And need.”

“I don’t need it!” Rhett says aghast. That’s a bit much.

It’s not like I know how long it has been since the last time. (Two months and four days.)

It’s not like I think about Link when I go to bed every night. (He touches himself after he is sure Link is asleep.)

It’s not like I actually want him in any way. (He still hasn’t touched Link and it’s slowly killing him.)

 “No?” Link asks putting the text book down and taking a step so that he’s right at the edge of Rhett’s bottom bunk.

“No,” Rhett replies with a shaky voice. He watches with wide eyes as Link sinks on his knees in front of the bed. The simmering heat inside Rhett’s stomach ignites into a blazing roar. His cock is straining against his boxer briefs, its outline clearly visible through the thin basketball shorts. Link’s hand settles on Rhett’s bare knee and starts to inch up. Rhett’s skin is buzzing with the sensation.

“I know this always makes you feel better. Helps you relax. Helps you sleep. Let me make it better, Rhett,” Link is coaxing him with a silky voice as his hand slips inside the loose pant leg of Rhett’s shorts.

We shouldn’t. (Link’s hand is so soft.)

We’re good Southern boys. (Link’s voice is soft too.)

Think of all the people we’d disappoint. (Link’s mouth is going to be even softer.)

 Rhett’s shorts have been pulled mid-thigh and his cock has been drawn out of his boxer. It’s leaking precum and twitching in Link’s hands. Link is licking the head as his eyes are flitting between Rhett’s cock and Rhett’s face. Rhett’s hands are on Link’s shoulders; he’s not sure if he’s about to push him away or pull him closer.

“Fuck,” Rhett mutters voice strained and gravelly. Link looks up at him again and says: “It’s okay. You don’t have to look. Just close your eyes and think of her.”

Rhett’s eyes flutter close as Link’s soft, wet heat envelops Rhett’s cock. He bucks into his best friend’s mouth and gasps for air. He can feel Link hollow his cheeks, he can feel the pressure build, and he can feel Link hum against his overexcited skin.

It’s too much this time. It’s been too long. The waiting has been torture and now he’s in heaven. Link moves around his cock slowly, methodically, pumping Rhett with his spit-slicked fist as his mouth is fast making a ruin out of Rhett’s mind and soul.

Rhett feels the tears on his cheeks before he even realizes he’s crying.

Link stops. The warm softness of him is replaced by the sharp chill of the room and Rhett whines.

“Don’t stop,” he whimpers, not daring to open his eyes. It’s like he’s afraid that all of this has been a dream again.

“Rhett,” Link whispers, voice weirdly wet and saturated; Rhett’s cock is a ghost on his lips making his lisp more pronounced. Shiver runs through Rhett and he opens his eyes. He pats his eyelids, tries to focus his swimming vision to see the boy between his legs.

“Why are you crying? Do you want me to stop?” Link asks. He sounds worried.

Rhett sniffs pathetically, embarrassed over the fact that all of a sudden his soul has been laid barer than his cock that’s still throbbing between his legs, uncaring of the emotional turmoil going on above it.

“C’mere,” Rhett beckons voice thick with emotion. Link’s eyes widen and he awkwardly climbs into Rhett’s lap, crushing Rhett’s dick between them and making Rhett moan and push against him.

“What’s wrong?” Link whispers. He looks at Rhett like he’s afraid he’ll break at any moment. Rhett thinks he might be onto something. He’s never felt this fragile before.

Rhett lifts his hands. They tremble as he cups Link’s face. Link responds without much prompting and closes the distance between them. Rhett tastes himself on Link’s lips. He doesn’t care. They fall onto the bed; shaky breaths and whispered words. Link is everywhere. He’s tugging Rhett closer. His hands are making Rhett bolder. His words are making Rhett stronger.

This can’t be wrong. (It feels like fate.)

It took me too long to let myself love him. (It was inevitable.)

They’ll learn to love us like this. (How could anyone hate something so pure?)

Link’s hands find Rhett’s impatient cock again.

“Don’t think of her,” Link pleads against Rhett’s neck.

“I won’t,” Rhett breaths.

“Think of me,” Link continues as his hands move with familiar pressure.

“Always have,” Rhett confesses with a whimper.

Link groans as Rhett’s hand palms the bulge in his jeans. They move away from each other, just enough to release Link from the confines of his pants. A wide smile spreads across Rhett’s face as his hands wrap around Link’s length.

“I’ve dreamt of this. Dreamt of touching you. Dreamt of making you cum. Dreamt of making you mine,” Rhett whispers making Link whine and thrust his hips against Rhett’s eager hands.

“Tell me your mine,” Link orders voice rough and breathless.

“Yours. Only yours!” Rhett cries out and finds Link’s lips again with his own. They breathe into each other’s mouths, barely kissing but needing to be as close as they can.

Rhett comes first, calling out Link’s name in the peak of his passion. It still echoes off the walls as Link follows him over the edge.

Their breaths slow down. Their hands still. Their eyes open.

They look at each other and smile.

[serenity-writes]

IkeRev HC - Oliver Knight (NSFW)

The second of my NSFW IkeRev series~ Many thanks to the IkemenWriters discord for their help and support. I’m sorry I teased you guys so much hehe. Enjoy! And it’s adult Oliver, obviously.

He’s got a sharp tongue, and he knows damn well how to use it. The man is constantly looking for ways to get you squirming. Sometimes that means turning a sweet hello kiss into a deep French, shutting you up as he yanks you deeper into his arms, so he can hold you as your knees buck. “That’s enough to have you shaking? Weak. How are you going to handle the rest?” But he’ll pick you up and whisk you into the bedroom. If he’s feeling particularly mean, he’ll just leave you wanting instead.

If not your lips, then he’s tracing your nipples, endlessly fascinated by the way your softness gives way against his touch. He’s a frustrating tease, intentionally ignoring the taut peak until he gives it a flick with the tip of his tongue to coax that swollen moan from you. He has a desire to know every inch of you, already committing your curves to memory as he traces them. Light pinches aren’t out of the question though; anything to have you bucking against him, begging for more. “Someone’s an impatient girl.”

He tortures himself with your noises; they get his cock painfully hard, but he refuses to touch himself until he’s finished with you. There’s something so yummy about the way his bulge strains against his pants but he’s got you too distracted to reach for him as he laps at your clit. He needs to taste you. He’s constantly researching new techniques and ways to please – it’s every bit as exciting as inventing something new. “Let me try something.”

Speaking of cock. Oliver is definitely a grower. He’s not the thickest, but he makes up for it with length. He’s slightly curved to the right, but is undoubtedly smooth, with one thin vein running down the length of it. His ridge isn’t quite pronounced, but that curve is enough to have him smacking against your sweet spot when he fucks you.

Wasn’t much for touching himself before meeting you. Now he can’t stop. The slightest of things will get him going. Once, you purposefully left a pair of panties in plain view and he was distracted the entire day just thinking about how you looked in them. You came home to find the underwear in a different place than you’d left them, and slightly more wrinkled…

Will never admit it but finds it damn arousing when you sass him back. There’s nothing that gets his cock up faster than when you hit him with a lightning fast quip; it makes him think what else your mouth can do, and then he has to make that fantasy a reality. Sometimes he’ll just be working, and he’ll happen to glance over at you licking your lips or blowing on a cup of hot tea, and his imagination will run wild. He’ll want to shove you onto your knees, so he can stuff you full. “Use that mouth for something better.”

Truthfully, you love going down on him. It’s the one time he’s a mess, with slight whimpers falling from his lips as he refuses to make eye contact because he’s so red. And his body is so completely honest with you. You could spend hours just experimenting, listening to the subtle way he gives himself to you. “W-What are you doing to me, you ditz?” But his protests aren’t so convincing when he’s moaning them.

Oliver’s favorite thing to do during sex? Pull out midway and sink himself back into you inch by inch so you can feel every damn bit of him stretching you out. It’s as if he’s training you to crave no other shape than his. He’s possessive like that. Bonus points when he positions himself to slide against your clit. It’s just enough pressure to make you clench deliciously around him. Leaning down against your ear, he’ll growl “tell me who you belong to” just to feel you twitch.

Most of the time, he’ll go at your pace. Feeling playful? Tease him and he won’t disappoint with some sweet torment of his own. Want it slow? Give him tender kisses and he’ll understand to cradle you in his arms as he languidly slides his dick into you, grinding his crotch against your skin, only extracting an inch before he’s hilted again; he can’t bear to be away from you any more than is needed. It’s when you make love like this that he allows his guard to fall. “You feel good wrapped around me,” he will sometimes admit with slightly pink cheeks.

But if you turn the tables on him and tease him enough, he may reach a point where he loses all control. With you on all fours, he’ll drive himself into you with enough force to have you and the bed shaking. Nobody fucks quite like Oliver when he’s on the edge, only able to focus on pumping pleasure into the both of you. He’s pushing his hair away from his eyes as he grips your hips with enough force to leave red marks, but never bruises. “I’m going to fuck you until you cum.”

You asked him to yank your hair once. Without hesitation, he obeyed. “My naughty girl wants it rough?” A fistful of your hair was enough to yank you up against him. He sucked hard on your neck while he pounded his cock upwards. He liked the power beneath his fingers, and the way you unravelled around him. Plus, he had better access to your clit. It was easier to make you scream. “You love the way I fuck you, don’t you? Your moans don’t lie.” He does it again when the mood strikes.

Once, you decided to tell him he wasn’t the best you’d ever had, just to tease him. Big mistake. You were in the workshop, but he dropped the commission he was working on. You were in his arms in seconds and thrown onto the bed as he crawled towards you, a predator ready to savor his prey. “We’ll see about that.” He toyed with your clit, massaging just around it. Then he used only a single finger to slide into you, curling against you until you were practically crying for him to fuck you. He did eventually, but not until he was satisfied you’d been punished enough. “Nobody can please you like I can.”

Oliver is ridiculously aroused by his cum on you. It doesn’t really matter where, but it seems to be most often landing on your chest or on your stomach. It’ll drive him insane if you dip a finger into it and bring it to your mouth to taste. Nothing will get him raring to go faster than watching your tongue wrap around a finger dripping with his cream. “Do you really think you can tease me without consequence?”

After the act, he’s surprisingly soft. He’ll lay his head in your lap and start to complain when you stroke his chocolate locks. “I’m not a pet, dummy,” he says, but he’ll never move away. Occasionally, he’ll even drift off; nothing comforts and soothes him more than your scent. Other times, the scent alone has him imagining the taste of your arousal, and then he’s hard again.

[sidpah]

Color Blind

Red socialist flags wave on recommissioned poles because even anarchists have a trademarked logo…  Sweet angels steal their wings from the spines of the poor…

Boasting red and white eyesores these houses rally as one set of bars and stripes, ambling across a distended tapestry – White door, red brick, white siding, red wood, white molding, red cheeks surveying the street through white window panes with unceasing paranoia, red blood, white skin, the rumble of distant red bomb skies and deep fried white potato freedom fries, and redcoats in red ties shooting because they can’t see the whites of their enemy’s eyes… Red flags in black basements mourning spilled blood, plotting how much more’ll need to be spilt –

While above, white women who wish they’d been born heiresses, blue striped scarves double wrapped around bronze throats in late August Sun sip burnt Starbucks under black anonymous glasses, shivering to each other because it’s never been cool to be hot – And they’re gone quick as they came ‘cause life’s about the entrance and exit – The stay’s the least climatic scene –

Left fingerprints on glass tables, toe prints clinking toe rings cast in pewter by an Indian tribe whose name they never cared enough to pronounce correctly, on glass floors where their skirts would’ve been looked up if they weren’t wearing jeans molded tight so every ghost of undergarment excised for sake of unsightly lines could be ogled by a red-eyed degenerate sucking thin white cigarette to pacify his oral fixation – It’s not lit. He doesn’t like the taste of smoke, but people look down on you when you suck your thumb or pens or cocks, but cigarettes still get the public approval for now, so he can hold his head up, as he looks up the skirts of little white girls carrying little white dolls with red blush on their high plastic cheekbones…

And they wear short white skirts, both the doll and the girl because the girl wants to grow up to be the doll and the girl’s mother waxes nostalgic about her days when she exuded the polymer mystique, fresh allure of that doll, lives vicariously through her daughter and her daughter’s sordid little doll, and her father sneaks covert glimpses at the doll and gets a little hard-on and he wonders why he doesn’t get one when he sees his wife who was once his pretty little consolation prize… A ribbon of white gold wrapped around the ring finger of his left hand reminding him of his duties to this little girl and her little blond doll and his miserable wife and their red and white house and Hawaiian blue swimming pool and jade grass and imported tropical flowers of ruby, amethyst, saffron, his black car and his white-washed office and his black secretary at his white-collar job with his black suit and white cuffs and his black caviar and white wine and the black eye he gave his wife after drinking too much white wine and the blackout that followed the same white wine and the red flush his ears take on when he lies, little white lies about not sleeping with his black secretary and not taking too many of those little white pills and not giving his wife that black eye as an anniversary present and not that he noticed the man with the oral fixation flipping a spare cigarette between his fingers, rolling it over and under each knuckle and thinking about nothing in particular other than panties and air –

He’s not so much thinking about them as seeing them superimposed on the rolled up screen of the coffin nail that’ll never seal his coffin because he had the good sense not to set it alight, and he doesn’t wonder who’s dying right now on the other side of the world, who’s dying in this city only a mile away.  Alone in hospice, alone in a motel, surrounded by family at a ski lodge, driving to a concert or wedding or peace rally…  Will they clear their mirror or cling tightly to their ersatz riches? – He doesn’t wonder who has a bomb strapped around his midriff and who’s making his peace with his god, or wondering is his god the same as the stranger’s god or who will be invaded tomorrow and under what false pretext, who makes up this shit, who rolled that cigarette, who picked that tobacco, who profited from that tobacco, how many people those poor tobacco pickers indirectly killed, how many dollars a year the white man makes who’s fucking his black secretary and snorting lines of white Go Powder, and whether he ever thinks about panties and air or whether that’s all trivial to him as the tri-colored ribbon stuck to his black Lexus trunk with a magnet that’ll be stolen by some privileged white teenaged suburbanite who’ll sell it for ten bucks to an old lady who’ll think it’s the most touching thing that this youngster is so patriotic and oh, how he supports his troops! And the kid’ll laugh as he spends the money on condoms and pot and searches for more ribbons to peel off to sell the geriatric population… (this only works in little old lady white neighborhoods…) The ones with the red and white houses flying tri-colored flags with yellow ribbons tied around their old oak trees and young maple trees and middle-aged pine trees (because it’s the thought that counts) –

Ribbons tied on in a red rush of commitment, the feeling that we need to do something even if it’s only this, even if it’s only putting a bowtie on local foliage, even if it’s only bombing the government infrastructure, even if it’s only assassination, only genocide, only nuclear warfare… The feeling that change must be made and that the red of muscle and carnage will be seen on nightly news, in papers, on the street, on the lawns of every little white house, every Big White House, every little red house until the blood stops being shed – it must stop being shed, there’s too much blood run loose of body, too much counterfeit innocence, too much manic sadness, these are the colors flying on every doorstep, up every flagpole, on every faded-out bumper sticker that proves these colors do indeed both fade and run… They fly on rooftops and car antennas and GOP rallies superimposed beneath a 9/11 two stories high, behind sloganeering defendants bullshitting the bullshitters, the blood, the fraud and the tears, and they say you can’t bullshit a bullshitter, so they cut you down to the ankle and suture your lips shut before you get the chance to try –

I must remember to have compassion, compassion for the seeds they sow, the seeds that may take millennia to sprout and bear fruit, but will form forests in the wake of their atrocities…  

They’re ignorant – a disease like malaria – and because they live life spiked on illusion doesn’t mean I can’t mourn their future incarnations, mourn their future pain I will feel next to them as their mother when they’re lying half dead on a battlefield fighting for the war they were close enough to start and too close to run away from…

All things seem safer from a distance – Until the bomb whistles its homecoming tune...  

Remaining shielded and safe in bunkers and resorts… Until they join the ranks at the fresh age of seventeen because of some compulsion they can’t enunciate – It’s deeper than in their genes, it’s in their karma – In the Alayavijnana – Even now they warn you not to mourn the dead, so don’t mourn them when their intestines are baking in the desert sun, don’t mourn them when you get the call saying your son has died in the line of duty, don’t mourn the collateral damage, don’t belittle their sacrifice. Could you imagine mourning the virgin who was given as gift to your Mayan god?  You’re not a red-blooded American patriot if you love your enemy, (or don’t fear your god) – you have to live and die in the knowledge of your enemy (who is your warlord god) – know his weakness, his hunger, his thirst, his dirty little secrets to exploit (both your enemy and your vengeful god) – and you know them well because they are your thirst, your weaknesses, your same dirty little secrets (you and your ignorant god are already one) – and don’t be angry – I try not to be angry but I am, there’s too much fucking red in all our eyes these days – History shows red streaks and great red oceans seemingly insurmountable by few awakened minds whispering calm to enraged toddlers hurling explosive toys across the living room...  

Great Mayan pyramids stained crimson, ropes bleed from mouths and draw holy glyphs of implication – Kings shed their own life for the gods, shed the life of the queen through her forked tongue, empty their sex and their humanity onto an altar for the servants, for the multitudes who will never climb those steps, the surrogate self left locked in sandstone tomb painted the colors of sunset, too much red in those historic eyes too…

So the torn yellow ribbon still flaps years later because no one sees it anymore, least of all the little patriot who tied it there. Part of the old familiar scenery stripped of meaning.  Those solemn days are gone and he did what he could do, she tied a knot, bought a ribbon, profited a charity, supported her troops, hoped they’d stay there until the job was done which means one side or the other is decimated to the point of collapse.  

The error is in the distinction.  We see inside those vehicles, those layers of Kevlar and camo and remember these are human creatures, people, stories, and not soldiers… But that’s our error, because they’re Troops, they aren’t mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, they are the Military Machine. Visceral extensions of the tanks they drive and jets they pilot, and it is offensive to think of them not fulfilling their assigned duty, the culmination of their twenty-some year destiny.  Imagine the disgrace they’d wear in place of their fatigues, the indignation sported like the Purple Heart they never had the opportunity to earn because a bunch of commie liberals stood in their way...  They did what they had to do, as we all do what we feel we have to to believe we’re making a difference. Whether we want change or fidelity to the status quo. We are driven to allegiances straight and crooked, broken and bloodied, hidden and garish – unaware that in reality, there are no fucking flags – there are no fucking colors – only a single unbroken spectrum stretching far beyond our perceptual limitations…

Illusion! Illusion! Oh, most Immaculate of Illusions – When will we at last be tricked no more?  

[sirius-archive]

kiss you all over (George Weasley x Reader) SMUT ***

Warnings: smut (underage, unprotected sex), swearing. 

Request: Hi can you write a George x reader where she's stayin at the burrow and they sneak around to get naughty ;))

A/N: Yes, I am alive. No, I don’t want to be. This is my first actual George x Reader fic. The smut isn’t very good, sorry, I kind of got lazy because I’m super tired. Also, I just realised I wrote this a little differently to the request? oh well. Excuse the shitty title I had no idea what to call this other than George Weasley is a sexy beast so....?

You learn that dreams really can come true when you and George decide to get freaky and release all the pent up sexual frustration between the two of you. 

The Burrow is strangely quiet as it sleeps, yet you are wide awake. Perhaps it’s because the Quidditch World Cup is on tomorrow, perhaps it’s because of the wild, sex dream you just had featuring one George Weasley. Maybe it’s both. But whatever it is, it’s keeping you awake while Hermione and Ginny are fast asleep on either side of you.

Staring up at the ceiling, you try to steady your racing heart as you emerge from the orgasm your brain had just conjured. You feel hot and sticky, especially in one certain area, and you don’t think there’s enough water in the world to cool you down. The dream had felt so real. When you had raked your fingers through George’s hair, when his lips had spilled over your collarbone, when he had pushed inside of you with a wild moan of your name, it had felt as though it was really happening. Your subconscious was teasing you cruelly.

Hermione murmurs something in her sleep and rolls over, facing the wall. Ginny is lying flat on her stomach, dreaming peacefully. As you watch your friends sleep, you can’t help but wonder what George is dreaming of. You hope, somewhat vainly, that it’s you. But who can blame you? When you’ve had a crush on your best friend for as long as you have, you’re surely going to hope with every cell in your body that he’s thinking of you the way you think of him.

Feeling irritated and disappointed, you decide it’s better to get up rather than lie around, moping and thinking about George.

You slip out from the sheets and creep out of the room, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Every step you make sounds like someone’s dropping bombs in your ears but the rest of the house remains undisturbed. You walk past Harry and Ron’s room, Ron is sleep talking about spiders and if you had been less distracted, you would have stopped to listen. Maybe you’ll tease him about it in the morning and watch him go bright red.

Tip-toeing down the stairs, you cast a look over your shoulder, hoping you hadn’t woken up the house. Everything is still, and you nod with a satisfied expression filling your features. Until you crash into something hard.

You gasp, stumbling backward, but strong arms catch you before you hit the ground, and you look up to find George Weasley grinning as he holds onto you.

“George?”

“(Y/N)! fancy meeting you here…in my house…at midnight…”

“What a coincidence!” you murmur, smirking, “Do you live here or something?”

“Nah, I just came to rob the place,” George grins, “But I am truly curious…what on earth are you doing down here at midnight? Searching for a late-night snack?”

“More like a midnight drink…”

“I like the way you think,” George smirks, sending you a wink, “Waiting until mum’s asleep before you crack into her firewhiskey stash…smart. Knew there was a reason I hung around you…”

“Well, I’m not just a pretty face,” you quip, flashing him a charming smile.

“No, you’re not,” George gives you a look you don’t recognize, and your heart feels like a cloud hovering in your chest, “Let me get you a drink.” He finally says after a moment of silence pulses between you, and the next minute, you’re sitting in his and Freds’ secret cubby house, staring up into the stars.

“I still think you’re joke shop is going to be a huge success,” you whisper, giving George a genuine smile, “All of your ideas are so unique. No one has ever seen or heard of them. I hate to say it but you and Fred are genius’”

“Oh stop it now,” George murmurs, “You don’t have to butter me up to get a discount…”

“No, I don’t, actually,” you smirk, “I should be getting things for free.”

“I wouldn’t go that far…how about 10% off?”

“10%?” you hiss, “10% off for your best friend and the person who came up with the name ‘Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’?”

“Alright, 8%”

You punch him in the shoulder and laugh. “You know, you really should own a charity…”

George smiles. “How about 50% off for being my girlfriend?”

“Now that’s just ridiculous, I should still get free stuff for being your girl–“ You stop, realizing what George had just said, “–What?”

George sits up, leaning on his forearm while his hand reaches out and takes yours. “I was going to wait until tomorrow to ask you but…well…I can’t wait any longer. (Y/N), you’ve been my best friend since you turned Percy’s hair into a mop of live worms in our first year. Now, I want you to be by my side as my girlfriend as Fred and I enter this…business. I’ve always wanted you. So, I guess I’m asking you to be mine?”

For a moment, you were lost for words. You had no idea George had felt the same way, otherwise you would have ‘swooped’ sooner.

“Damn,” you whisper, “That was a good speech…”

“It’s from the heart,” George smiles softly at you, and your heart soars with the stars. 

You can’t wait any longer. You have to kiss him.

Reaching up, you seal your lips over his and the kiss scatters any thought you had from your mind. Your lips move together like water as you drink him in, and he tastes like chocolate melting over your tongue. He’s sweet and addictive and you tilt your head and pull him closer by the collar to deepen the kiss.

George takes full advantage of the new position, swiping his tongue against your bottom lip before exploring your mouth, tasting every part of you. Your fingers comb through his red locks, tugging gently as you moan against his lips, your mind clouded by euphoria.

You broke the kiss to breathe and George took this opportunity to explore the skin of your neck, leaving a trail of moist kisses as he pecked and nibbled. You moaned his name as his hands wandered beneath your top, roaming against your skin, and he moved to hover over you as you stripped off your shirt.

George leaned back down again and crashed his lips against yours, and the world fell away into nothingness. There were no more fireworks, but instead, the thirst for passion built up inside of you like a ravenous beast, and you bit down on his bottom lip, bucking your hips up against him. George groaned against your lips and you reached up to tear his shirt from his body.

In a matter of seconds, the two of you were in nothing but smooth skin, bodies flush against each other and locked in a tangle of limbs. Moonlight bathes you as desire surges through your veins, making you gasp and moan as George explores your body with his lips.

“I need you,” you whimper and George does not hesitate, climbing up your body and pressing his lips against yours as he pushes into you slowly. You gasp and moan as you stretch around him and George lets out a loud groan as he enters your moist warmth.

After taking a moment to adjust, George begins to move. He finds a steady rhythm and you cling to him, moaning with every thrust. George moans your name like a mantra, and you don’t think you’ve heard anything more beautiful than your name on his lips, because he pronounces each syllable with more love than a heart could ever contain.

He plunges and pulls, delving deep inside of you and reaching every corner, and it makes you shudder and tremble and mewl and you’re a mess, but you’re his mess and nothing else matters anymore. It is just you, him, the moon and the stars in this single moment, an exchange of soft moans and passionate kisses, and you don’t want to be anywhere else other than here in his arms, loving him in all the ways a woman can love a man.

George’s pace begins to quicken as he approaches his release, his hips snapping against you, and you don’t think you can last any longer.

“I’m going to come,” you whisper into his ear and George grunts.

“Come, (Y/N), I’m right behind you.”

And, just like in your sex dream, you came, hard and loud, your orgasm swimming through you and filling every corner of your body. Your orgasm encourages George to climax, and he does, spilling his seed in streams deep inside of you and grinding out your name.

The air is filled with pants as he pulls out of you and collapses beside you, hot and sweaty and soaring on post-coital bliss. The summer breeze ruffles leaves in the tree surrounding you and you suddenly remember that you’re on earth not flying on cloud nine. You decide to break the silence, smiling broadly as you remember your conversation beforehand.

“Wow, that was phenomenal,” George rasps, still panting.

“I’d better be getting a bloody discount at your joke shop, then,” You quip and George chuckles, snaking a hand around your waist and tugging you closer to him

“You’ll get everything you want for free,” George breathes, leaning in close and pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I’ll take care of you.”

This is so shitty nughhhhhhhhhhh I just realised how short the smut is in this but i’m like....lazy? someone slap me in the face with a giant fish, please. 

[arlome]

Taste

Ok, so @dismiss-your-fearsx and yours truly had this conversation about the dialogue prompts a few days ago. This no’ (44) came up, and Megan said I should write it, so...

Here it is. Be warned, be VERY warned. This is extra smutty- more than my usual style. 

I hope you like it:)

 Her nimble fingers untie his neckcloth slowly, the pads of her digits brushing against the freshly shaven skin of his neck.

"Shall we pretend this is our wedding night?" she asks almost shyly and the silken cloth slips off her palms.

Her husband –finally, she can call him so in public!- looks at her with eyes afire, a promise of a devoted life together burning brightly in them, and the corners of his lips arch upwards just a bit.

"No pretense needed." He says with a small shake of his head, "Every night is our wedding night to me."

He kisses her then, and though his eyes are soft with love, there is nothing soft about the way he presses up against her and picks her off her feet, or about the way he nudges her towards their joined bed.

They meet in flames, each burning brighter than the other, and Caroline thinks that the covers on the giant bed might get scorched by the heat. The candles cast a faint, warm glow about the room, the shadows dancing on the floors. Caroline sighs into her husband's mouth and thinks of a different night, in a different room, where darkness reigned. That bed creaked and groaned, and the feeling of his body was unknown to her as he settled above her, his waistcoat buttons pressed against her frock. That was their wedding night, but this-this is the first night of the rest of their life.

Dwight lies between her thighs, the fabric of his breeches smooth and pleasant on her heated flesh; one of his hands pushes the edges of her nightgown up her body, dragging the material as he seeks to touch her skin. He kisses her fervently, with so much passion that she can scarcely breathe, while his other hand fumbles with the ribbon that holds her stocking in its place.

Caroline's own hands glide down Dwight's back to his sides and from there, to the fastenings of his breeches. He lifts up his hips upwards, eager to assist her in her task, his lips never leaving hers.

The discarded clothes lie orphaned on the wooden floor, while their masters blatantly betray them and seek each other for warmth. The covers of the bed are trampled and wrinkled beneath them as they move, hands and mouths and skin engaged in dance.

Dwight leaves Caroline's lips and bends to kiss her neck, but his journey does not end there. He moves to worship the collarbone, then to sing praise to one pink nipple, and just when Caroline thinks she will go utterly mad, he proceeds to lick and nibble on her stomach. She furrows her eyebrows in perplexity at Dwight's intentions, unsure of where he set his destination, but then she feels his hot breath on that place that no husband, not even of the medical persuasion, should ever encounter face-to-in lack of another word, face.

"Dwight!" she jumps and squeaks, mortification dyeing her face scarlet.

Her husband raises his angelic face from between her thighs to look at her innocently.

"Yes, my dear?" he asks innocuously as it is the weather they are discussing, instead of his proximity to her lady parts.

"W-what are you doing?" she squeals and attempts to press her legs together, but his hand on her inner thigh blocks her efforts.

"Well, scientifically speaking, I am about to stimulate your clitoris orally in order to induce climax," Dwight replies cheekily and grins, "but if you prefer the more endearing version, then I am about to give you your most intimate kiss yet."

"Where is this coming from?" she asks, blushing fiercely, more in need of stalling for time than in actually receiving answers, "And what is a clitoris?"

To her utter mortification, Dwight doesn't sit up or moves at all. Instead, he leans his cheek against her inner thigh and brushes his fingers through the golden curls before his face.

"I will answer your second question first, " he says as his fingers slide down a bit, "the clitoris is this little button in the female anatomy – right here – that, when stimulated, brings women pleasure." The feeling of his hand there- between her thighs- is a familiar one, and the sudden tension in her lower abdomen that settles in her pelvis at the touch of his fingers is a dear old friend. Caroline moans and bites her lower lip, one her feet sliding down the bed. Dwight seems to take pride in her reaction because he smiles and kisses her inner thigh, making her shudder.

"Now, for your second question," he says, and his fingers slip away, wet and cool, to rest on her hipbone; Caroline resists the urge to whimper at the loss of his touch, "as you must know, sailors gossip more than old wives and…" here he seems to hesitate a little, biting his lip as a faint blush comes into his cheeks, "well, a surgeon often hears more confessions than a vicar, and I have heard some bawdy talk on my voyage that I could never repeat for fear of appearing ungentlemanly, but there was this one thing…"

Dwight kisses her inner thigh again, only now the kiss lands a little higher, and Caroline can feel the wet tip of his tongue against her feverish skin. Her breath catches in her throat, and her fingers bury deep into the covers.

"I confess, this is something I thought of doing to you, of wanting to do to you, ever since I first heard of it, and now that we are finally here, together…" he trails off, but his eyes stay fixed on hers and Caroline can feel herself being slowly burned from the inside. His face half in darkness, the gleam of his eyes and the proximity of his lips to her center, all make her almost ache with need. Dwight bends down and places a soft kiss on the golden curls.

"Please, Caroline," he almost begs, and the way he asks sends a thrill through her body, "Allow me to do this; if there is no pleasure in it for you, I will desist immediately and never speak of this again."

If she is completely honest with herself, Caroline's interest is piqued. What harm can it possibly do to let him try this new method on her? She has always trusted him before, never had any complaints about anything regarding their intimacy, so why start questioning him now?

Caroline nods slowly in resignation.

"Alright," she agrees and settles back against the pillows; Dwight smiles widely and with a quick wink bends to his task with eagerness.

In two minutes he has her moaning so loudly, that she has to push her face into a pillow to prevent the footman from barging in and inquiring after her safety. He uses his tongue as he uses his fingers, in circles and swirls, only the strokes are more languid; more pronounced. She sighs and squirms and bucks against her husband's devilishly skilled mouth; her thighs clenching and unclenching about his head.

"D-Dwight," she cries as the tightening comes upon her, "Oh Dwight! A-ah!"

She descends from the heavens slowly, writhing against the lazy strokes of his tongue and pushes at his shoulders. Dwight lifts his head and gazes at her, enamored and grinning like a fool.

"Well?" he asks and kisses her inner thigh for the third time this evening.

"God save the Navy," Caroline gasps into her arm, and Dwight laughs so hard, she fears he might choke.

He moves up her body slowly, with an almost feline grace, and when he settles back between her thighs, Caroline wraps her legs around him firmly and waves her fingers into the hair at his nape.

"So, more of this in the future, then?" he asks, smiling, and bends to nuzzle the spot below her ear.

"Yes, Oh God; yes!" she cries eagerly and kisses his shoulder and the sound of his chuckle lights a fire in her stomach.

They spend the rest of the night above the covers, twirled and entwined in each other, as the candles slowly die out in a thin line of smoke.

                                                                            ***

Breakfast is a peaceful affair for the tired lovers, full of shy smiles and blushing cheeks, as is expected from all newlyweds.The servants are clearing away empty plates, smiling to each other at their masters' sudden spike in appetite, and hurrying out of the room, eager to give the couple more privacy.

Dwight sits at the head of the table, engrossed in a letter that came this morning from London by post, while Caroline, who sits to his right, stares at him openly, her chin in her palm.

"What has you so engaged, dear husband?" she finally asks when the silence proves to be too much. Dwight folds the paper in half and places it back on the tray on which it was brought in.

"Oh, nothing," he says and smiles at her brilliantly, "just some medical news that my school friend, Dr. Adams, sent me. I may need to go to London in a few weeks time, but it is not yet-"

Before he has the chance to finish his sentence, a footman walks in and apologizes for the intrusion.

"A man to see you, sir," he explains, "he says it is urgent, someone had a bad fall."

Dwight leaps from his chair, letter and breakfast and London forgotten.

"Yes, of course; Thank you, Tom. Tell him I shall be with him directly, please."

The footman bows and leaves the room; Dwight turns to Caroline and smiles apologetically.

"I am sorry, my dear; I am afraid that duty calls."

Caroline frowns at him and pouts.

"And what about duty to your wife?" she asks petulantly, thoroughly disgruntled at the impending lack of a husband.

"I will make it up to you," he says and bends down to kiss the crown of her head as she reaches for her tea.  

He doesn't move for a second, and Caroline basks in his close proximity as she sips on the warm liquid; then, she can suddenly feel his nose in her hair, and then his lips against her ear.

"I still remember the way you taste," he whispers sweetly- diabolically – and turns to leave her.

Caroline sprays tea all over the breakfast table.

[alicescripts]

Part 2, Chapter 2: Mouth of the Water

First the dogs will bark. They’ll know before any of us. Then I will have six to fifteen minutes.

I’ve been taking long walks on this coast, just north of the Oregon border. Bald eagles, actual bald eagles, sitting on a wide sandy beach, and I’m the only one here to see it. I can’t see anyone else in either direction. Waves repeating themselves at the tideline, clouds of birds fluttering up and resetting. 10 to 30 seconds after the dogs start barking, the ground will shake. 6 to 15 minutes later, the tsunami will come.

An earthquake is due here, and afterward the tsunami inevitable. If I began running when the dogs started barking, could I make it to the grassy dunes and up to the hills?

No. I can see the root, can make any plan I want, but I couldn’t outrun the wave. Six to fifteen minutes after the dogs started barking I would die. That’s what would happen.

No one in sight in any direction. Birds at the tideline, actual fucking bald eagles.

I finished my walk still alive. When what’s coming for me finally comes, there will be no warning.

[theme song]

Alice Isn’t Dead by Joseph Fink. Performed by Jasika Nicole, produced by Disparition.

Cape Disappointment. As picturesque piece of land as you’re going to find in this world. Northwest forest overlooking the point where the gray ocean, all froth and wave, and the mouth of the Columbia River, tranquil and turquoise, meet. A dangerous place for boats. Up on the cliffs above, the coast guard keep constant watch from a lighthouse.

I went up there, stood near their lookout. A panorama where so many have floundered, so many have died. But for now, just a beautiful view of the ocean.

The coast guard officer came out of the station, stood next to me in the railing. She closed her eyes, let the wind sweeping in off the river and the wind coming down the coast fight with each other in her hair. She was beautiful, is maybe why I talked to her. Or maybe it had been a long time since I talked to anyone except myself. Monologues broadcast to a wife who is out fighting a fight that I’m still trying to understand.

“Aren’t you supposed to be watching the boats?” I said. I meant it like a joke, but I think it came out like a reprimand. She opened her eyes, glanced at me. “No traffic right now,” she said. “I think it’ll be safe for me to take a second of fresh air, but don’t tell my bosses down the hill. They have different ideas about safety.” 

“[chuckles] Always do, I said. I’m Keisha.” 

“Laurel.” 

“Not Officer something?” I asked. 

“[scoffs] Yeah, Officer Something,” she said. “But for you, Laurel.”

A pressure in my chest that could have been pain or could have been laughter. It had been so long since I had flirted, or felt the fleeting pleasure of the five-minute crush. “What about that boat there?” I said. “Seems like you’re derelicting your duties, Laurel.”

There was a boat, medium-sized, tiny in comparison to the mighty cargo ships that come and go through this passage. It was painted black and sitting motionless near the mouth of the river. As soon as I pointed it out, I wished I hadn’t. There was a wrongness to it that didn’t belong to a spring afternoon’s flirtation.

Laurel didn’t look at the boat or at me. Any friendliness that had been in her face, or that I had imagined in her face, was gone.“I’m not supposed to talk while on duty, Ma’am,” she said. “Excuse me.” She went back into the station, slamming the door. [chuckle] I haven’t lost my touch, Alice!

We have a problem as a society. Our goal is efficiency, but the result of efficiency by definition is that it takes less work to get things done. And less work to get things done means there is less work to do. If there is less work, there are less jobs. Progress destroys jobs.

Another result of efficiency is an explosion in population. The easier things get, the less of us die. More and more of us, less and less jobs.

This place was named by a fur trader who stopped here and failed to discover the Columbia River around the corner. And so this little piece of coast line heaven is Cape Disappointment. There’s this one beach on an inlet tucked away from the main trail. I had to go down a path that was more a controlled fall than path. The water was shallow and clear, the sharp blue of a tropical sea in a postcard. There were people living in tents on that semi-hidden beach. I watched them play with their dogs. The dogs swam way out into the inlet. I wanted to swim too but the water, for all its tropical appearance, was freezing.

When I went back to where I had parked, a buck came out of the woods and crossed the road right in front of me. Slow, leisurely, unafraid. Later I went up north a bit, to a place that billed itself as a free museum, but was more of a gift shop with some stuff stuck to its walls. Jackalopes and two-headed calves and the like. Old coin-operated stuff. A coin-operated execution. You put in your quarter and the minute your castle doors opened, a priest read last rites, the prisoner was hung, and a black flag rose over the castle walls. I paid to see it twice.

They had a body they built as an alligator man. I think it’s an actual corpse’s head stuck on the body of an alligator which is… Well, it’s something. They had it in a glass case, next to a T-shirt rack. For a quarter I could get a penny smashed with its image. I didn’t.

I bought a Piña Colada flavored saltwater taffy. While I was buying it, I asked the guy behind the counter about the boat I had seen. I don’t know why, but the reaction of Laurel made me curious. He frowned. “Not many people ask about that boat,” he said. “Tourists don’t stick around long enough to notice it. Locals know enough not to talk about it. That’ll be 3.99.” “Why don’t locals talk about it?” I asked. What, I was gonna be friends with this guy? Either he’d tell me or he wouldn’t. He looked past me to the next customer. [monotonous voice] “It’s been in the same spot for three decades now,” he said. “Don’t seem to be anchored, just unaffected by currents. Holds its position. No one is ever seen onboard. People who ask questions about it learn that they shouldn’t. I need to help the next person in life.” “OK,” I said, wondering why I had bought saltwater taffy. The taste is disappointing, the texture’s garbage. “Thanks!” and I left the free museum with my four-dollar shitty candy.

Down the street was an arcade called Fun Land, but I took to pronouncing it Funland, like Iceland. I spent an afternoon playing skee ball. I’m looking for a vacation from this endless search for answers, and here on a sliver of land on the coast of Washington, I think I’ve found it. Can’t last long though. I can’t live forever in Funland. I can’t live forever period.

Humanity’s drive toward betterment has resulted in two things: more people and less jobs. None of our choices were wrong, exactly. Each was made with good intentions, hell maybe every choice was correct. The problem wasn’t the choices but the values. Survival is no longer a value, because survival has become easy. It used to be old people were revered, because they had outrun death longer than anyone else. Now old people are just the ones who waited around too long. Anyone can become an old person with a little luck. It’s not a collapse of morals that has diminished our respect for the elderly. It’s an inevitable response to the changing meaning of age.

I ate Indian food down in Astoria, a lunch buffet. As I was eating, a woman came in looking for me. I didn’t recognize her at first out of uniform, but it was Laurel. She sat across from me. I felt the faint pang of a passing afternoon’s crush. Without a greeting, she held out her phone to me. A photo of a middle-aged man, bushy silver mustache, arm in arm with a teenage boy. “That’s my brother Bobby,” Laurel said. “And that’s his son, my nephew Evan.” “Ah, OK,” I said. This seemed like a strange conversation, but I lost my ability to judge strangeness somewhere around Texas. “Bobby was obsessed with the black boat,” she said. “Spent hours watching it, said he never saw anything on board, then one day he did.” “What did he see?��� I asked. “Wouldn’t tell anyone. Rented a kayak in Navy Heights and went out into the mouth of the river. Said he had no choice and he had to get to that boat. Wouldn’t listen to anyone telling him different, wouldn’t let anyone come with him. We lost sight of his kayak - don’t know how, it was broad daylight. There and then gone. Never found any kind of body.” “I’m sorry,” I said. “This is a country of the vanished, of the missing. We’ve got a lot of space to put them, I guess. Then his kid Evan, he gets obsessed with the idea that the black boat took his father somehow. We tried to get him interested in other things, put him through therapy, stuff like that but it doesn’t take. The answer to his pain is in that boat, and so he goes to the same place as his father, rents the same kind of kayak, takes the same kind of journey.” I knew the ending to the story. “How long has he been missing? “I asked. “It was a year three weeks ago,” she said. “You seem like a nice woman. Hm. Maybe in a different life, you know? Maybe in a kinder world, but I like you enough to tell you this: forget you ever saw the black boat. Never ask about it again, it’s not a mystery to solve. It’s a depth to drown in.” She held my eyes for a moment more and then left me to my lunch, which I had no more appetite for. That all you can eat buffet got a good deal on me.

I knew exactly what that black boat was. A supernatural oddity stealing innocent people? It was a Thistle boat. There were Thistle men onboard. And so tired, lost me, I would have to stop them.

Out to Cape Disappointment with binoculars from the truck. Went up on a ridge above the trail to the lighthouse and I looked out at the Thistle boat. I knew what I would see. Sagging face, yellow teeth, yellow hat, “Thistle”. The boat had no name, no markings. Every surface was painted black. I watched for a long while, but there was no movement on the deck, nothing in the windows. It seemed truly abandoned except that it stayed in position against the current. I put down the binoculars considering my next move.

And that’s when I noticed something on the deck, even with my naked eyes from this distance. Dots of various colors. They hadn’t been there a moment ago. I looked back through the binoculars. The entire deck was covered in people. They were all facing me, looking right back at me through the lenses. I was too far away for anyone to see me against the hillside. They saw me.

They weren’t Thistle men. They were people. Women, men, mouths open, dull eyes. Some of them are dressed in clothes that could only have been worn without irony in the 80’s. others wearing clothes that could have been worn without vintage cool in the 70’s. there was a man with a bushy silver mustache. I could taste the horror on my gum line. Bobby, slack-jawed. Bobby, staring. And a gangly teenager, Evan, across the deck from Bobby. Nowhere near him, same expression. Both staring back at me as I stared at them.

I put the binoculars away. I stepped back down onto the trail and descended toward the parking lot. This was not a Thistle boat. That’s not what Thistle does to people. This is some other horror, unrelated to whatever I’ve been chasing.

I have enough terror in my life. I can’t add more. [scoffs] A boat that eats people. It will have to be a story without me. I am leaving.

Since we no longer value survival and age, we need some other way to rank people. Because we need that, we need some people to be worth more than others. We have many ways to do that, but here’s one: we value wealth. The ones who own more are better. Not for any reason, just because. And since theoretically but rarely actually in practice, the way toward owning more is work, work has become a measure of someone’s value, second only to money. A lazy rich person is better than a poor person with a good job, but a poor person with a job is better than a poor person without a job. Ranked first by wealth, then by worth. And so that is the situation. There are more of us, there are less jobs, and we value people by whether they have a job or not.

What happens when you have a world where it is impossible for people to create value for themselves in the eyes of society? What happens when we judge people for the inevitable outcome of our collective actions? I don’t know. But together we’re finding out.

Driving back over to Astoria. The long bridge across the mouth of the Columbia River. Starting out it’s a causeway right on the water. Seagulls flying overhead, riding the same wind that’s nudging my trailer toward tragedy. Once you drive out under the bridge, you can’t turn around for four miles until you’re back on land. Which is fine, which is normal. But also I feel the anxiety. Being trapped on a course, no alternatives except the disaster of water. The bridge rises steeply, creating a section that the cargo ships can pass under. This is uncomfortable in a truck this size, the engine roaring against the weight behind it. And now break lights. We’re stopping. Construction, traffic going in one way only, we have to wait our turn.

I’m on a slope so steep that I’m looking at clouds in order to see the car in front of me. It’s less that they’re in front of me and more that they’re suspended above me. [sighs] Breathe. Your anxiety does not change your circumstances. You can get as anxious as you want, the world will stay the same. [breathes deeply] It doesn’t help that just the turn of the head puts the black boat in my view. No one on board again, those empty faces gone. Or not gone, but not visible to me. I must always remember that not visible to me and not in existence are not the same thing. That would be a good thing for all of us to remember, I guess.

Here’s a cargo ship coming. Modern, a tiny control center dwarfed by the vast expanse it controls. The kind of ship that crosses oceans. Huh. The ship is gonna pass really close to the black boat. It might even.. that’s gonna be a near one. It’s going to.. oh my god, hold on.

I’m on the highway to Portland now. Logging depots, gas stations with stalls outside selling fresh fruit picked nearby. The great cargo ship collided with the black boat. I gout out of the truck, went to the side of the bridge to watch. A lot of people did. We were stopped anyway. We were standing on this steep slope that swayed with the wind and jittered with the movement of traffic in the other direction. Flimsy, like we were all perched on the thinnest branch at the top of the tallest tree. I covered my mouth, anxiety kindling into horror.

The ship didn’t slow. Didn’t see the other boat maybe? Or-or a miscalculation, an error? God knows there are plenty of those.

The ship cut through the center of the black boat and the black boat turned up on its side and then tore in half. The force must have made a gash in the hull of the larger ship because it sagged forward in the water, like a person falling to her knees, and then listed sideways. This might have taken a while. We all may have stood there a long while. One of the containers on the bigger ship wasn’t secured correctly. It toppled off the deck. The black boat settled under the water, a slow disappearing act. I never saw anyone on board the entire time.

The police got us back into our vehicles, got traffic moving. Coast guard boats rashed to the collision, rescued the crew of the bigger ship, but there was no sign of anyone from the other boat. They reported that initial sweeps found no sign of its wreckage under the water. I don’t suspect they’ll ever find that wreckage. I don’t suspect they’ll look too hard.

There once was a black boat on a wide blue river. The only people onboard were the people who had asked the dangerous question. And one day, it sunk and was never seen again. It’s a simple story, a story with no ending. The kind of story that happens every day in this country.

Vacation over, I guess. Back to asking my own dangerous questions. Back to receiving my own dangerous answers.

-- Knock knock. [left speaker] Who’s there? [right speaker] No one. [left] No one who? [right] No, no one is here. It’s been quiet out here for a long time. Once there were people, I think but they moved on. Why haven’t you moved on? [left] If no one’s here then who is talking? [right] No one is. [left] No one’s talking? [right] Yes. [left] OK. [right] OK. [left] I love you. [right] I know.

[winterbuckytho]

MEANWHILE, IT’S CALM ⁽ᵖᵃʳᵗ ²⁾ : THE CHERPUMPLE CHALLENGE

Pairing : Recovering!Bucky X Reader

Wordcount : 2395

Warnings : SFW, PTSD, Depression, Fluff…Fluff Everywhere

Plot : A slice of life with Bucky in his current living situation.

A/N : This was going to be the next morning from part 1 but, I decided to cut it to shorten the story trying to figure out if people prefer short or detailed stories. I guess my readers like long stuff so, this is probably the shortest I’ll go. Enjoy!

“Goddammit!” His chrome fist crackled with electricity less than a millimeter from the mirror’s surface and he strained against himself, wanting to punch and knowing it wouldn’t do any good.

“Who the fuck are you?!” He wailed. “What are you?! What are you even doing?! I want my life back, I want my self back!!”

Bucky dropped his arm and grasped the rim of the sink. “Who the fuck am I now?” He questioned the silence.

Ever since coming to in that garage, his head had been just swirling in a vortex of memories. Everything about what happened was awful including the way he now appreciated not knowing, not remembering; just following orders and completing his purpose. He could remember teaching other assassins with confidence, killing with no qualms, accepting their lies for so so long.

When he thought about that feeling after a jolt from the Mind Crown, that fresh, alert, empty blank clean feeling, he felt a vertigo and nausea so strong he spent most of the morning vomiting and wanting to just…be put back to sleep. 

Which made everything worse, considering everything Steve had gone through for him.

He knew that it wasn’t he, himself, Bucky, that had done those things, that he’d literally had no control over his body, But being in the back seating watching it all was so sickening… so many of them had no idea he’d be coming, he has so many memories of ending peoples lives, easily, like flipping a switch and shutting off the lights.

And of all the things they can do now-a-days, time travel is still a no-go, so there was no returning to the Bucky he was before enlisting. He would just have to live with it, live and know he’ll never be that Bucky Barnes again (’…there’s no going back’  a malicious voice in his head whispers, ‘you can’t get it back…’), live with it all inside him, live and carry all the memories with him each day from now until…

“I gotta do this…I gotta do this for him.” Bucky breathed. ’Take deep slow breaths.’ he thought. He closed his eyes and pictured Steve’s honest and beautiful face. That smile that just radiates with joy.

Maybe things can’t be the way they were and maybe they’ll never be perfect. But maybe things can be…ok. If he can push away the dark in his head, focus on that light Steve stands in, focus on the things that light up with positivity around Steve, he’ll never have to be alone with it all and that’s worth something, right?

But Steve is unavailable right now, he’s off doing even more for Bucky, negotiating his return to the US. All Bucky has is Y/N. He gives thanks to goodness for Y/N. You have fun, get along well, you have some much in common in the most unlikely ways, but he always wonders how much of being close to him is too much. Is he making your job harder, do you think of him as a client, a patient, a subject or a friend?

You’re currently lovers and Bucky knows Steve wouldn’t be mad about that. But how much can he depend on you and still call himself a man?

He shakes his head and turns on the water. The last time he made a comment like that around you, you turned on him stridently and said “Hey, you deserve good mental health just like anyone else. Yes, even men need help time to time. I know you grew up in a different time but, all that I’m-so-manly-I-eat-trauma-for-breakfast stuff is only hindering you.”

He’s rinsing his face when you knock on the doorjamb. You came over here because your aware this is one of Buck’s bad days. You’ve known each other a short while, but since you sleep together often you know while he loves sleeping, mornings can be hard for him.

He says it’s like being a tv that’s been turned on with the volume and the brightness all the way up in a dark quiet room. Waking in cryo is different, you drift up instead of off, he explained. The disorientation is so bad some days it takes him about three hours to roll out of bed, groom, eat and all the while having spells of vertigo and nausea.

“Bucky?” You say quiet and reassuring, “I’ve got some ginger tea when your ready.”

The water shuts off and the door opens. His dark hair is a literal bird’s nest of a mess, it looks like he started to comb it then gave up. His almost turquoise eyes are red and puffy. He’s a big man but he somehow crumples into himself when he isn’t feeling well, appearing short an stocky instead of tall and thick with muscle on an athletic frame. Bucky wears a pair of socks, grey lightweight sweatpants, an undershirt and a long sleeved thermal shirt. One of his pant legs is pushed up to his shin and on that same side he’s slowly losing a sock, which is a 1/4 of the way off his foot laying floppily in front of his toes. He’s pale and looks so miserable you could laugh with how much he projects how he feels without words; you’ve never seen anything that needed a hug more.

“Here,” You say, “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen. I want to show you something.”

You push the warm mug into his hands, which he takes eagerly. He’s learned the power ginger has over stomachs and welcomes it. You lead him by the elbow to the kitchen, he slips on to a stool and you walk behind him rub his shoulders lightly in a reassuring gesture. You brush your fingers through his hair loosening tangles and then use the hair tie on your wrist to pull it up into a bun piled on the back of his head.

“Bucky, wanna make a cherpumple today?” You ask, sitting down to your coffee beside him. His accent isn’t too pronounced, but it’s rubbing off on you any way.

He moves his head back just moving his neck, a movement that says ‘Say what!?’

“Make a what-what?” He asks, startled out of his sour mood. He literally can not tell what a cherpumple is or how it’s made. He in fact has never heard the word before now.

You turn around your phone in it’s holder and play the preloaded video. He doesn’t speak the entire time it plays, he just watched the young woman following through her recipe, sometimes shaking his head and sometimes making a closed mouth noise, “Uhnt Uhnt Uhn” that universal sound for 'What a shame’.

When it’s done he sips the hot tea and says, “That’s a terrible mee-mee. I don’t think that joke is funny. People waste so much these days, you guys take all this food for granted, Y/N!” He looks at you with a look in his eye like fatherly disappointment.

You shake your head slowly. “It’s not a prank, Bucky. It’s a real recipe and we are going to make one for Bruce’s birthday party. If we do it now and take it with us–"You start to say.

"Take it in what, a  wheelbarrow? It’s enough cake for 50 people!” Bucky interjects hotly.

You laugh and say “Your exaggerating and it will be for about 30 people.”

“You’re actually serious!?” He almost shouted back.

“Yes!” You say emphatically,“Besides you could stand to do something recreational. It’ll be fun.”

He flashes a charming grin. “Listen sweet pea, all you had to do was ask. My mind may be a little off kilter, but my body don’t quit and there ain’t ever been anythin’ wrong with my libido, baby.” He’s leering a bit and if a modern man tried this it would be disgusting, but this guy…

You roll your eyes and say, “I mean fun outside the bedroom. You know, I’m starting to wonder if this is really because you just don’t know how to cook and don’t want to embarrass yourself.”

When he’s feeling stubborn nothing gives him a boot to the ass like a mild challenge. Sometimes you’re sure he learned it from Steve.

He crooks an eyebrow and says,“I’ll have you know, I can cook and I cook really good. It may have been ladies work to the upper classes but in poverty finding enough food is work for everyone; kids, women, the elderly. Everyone chipped in and yeah, even little boys helped with cooking. I’ll have you know some more, I can cook Spanish, Italian, Jewish, Polish and Irish foods in circles around you. Let’s go to the grocery store!” He’s already rolling up his sleeves.

Bucky’s eyes are sparkling a bit. His color has come back and he seems like he’s broken out of the funk he woke up in. Your heart soars every time you can distract him from the pain he is in. Mostly it’s such a pleasure to be with him, you feel so lucky sometimes that it’s a gift to you to be of help. He makes you feel like such a good person and you love doing the same for him. 

You wish he didn’t need it, that he could wake up and just love himself one day, but you know it doesn’t work that way. He’s got to fight every inch now for everything positive he wants. It’s up to the people in his life to help him equip himself and you’re honored to be one of those people. He’s so beautiful and it hurts your heart that he can’t see it.

“Yeah, let’s cook this monstrosity! I stocked all the ingredients last time I went to the grocery, so what do you say, we’ll put on some music. I promise when you taste it, you love it.” You say with a giggle.

You start laying things out and he just can’t help himself, immediately making comments like “That’s almost the whole dozen!” and “That much cinnamon, how’s that supposed to tasty?!” But then you put on the radio and his mood further shifts from ‘We-can’t-do-this’ to ‘Let’s-do-this!’.

You measure and he mixes, pausing sometimes between ingredients to do a little swing dance move, crossing his right foot behind his left and doing a little twirl in place to the late 70’s tunes coming from the speakers. At one point he threw his hands up and did a little bouncing thrust move to Everybody Dance by Chic. You burst out laughing, you never seen someone this confident in their dance moves.

“What!?” Bucky says smiling, startled out of his groove.

“Nothing!! I’m sorry. It’s just really great seeing this kind of dancing.” You say measuring flour for the next batch of cake batter.

He uses his the back of his hand, silicone spatula still in it, to brush at a spot on his cheek leaving behind a lil’ patch of white there. “Oh, yeah, dancing was a huge past time in those days. There were so many kinds, it was really wild.”

“That’s sounds great. I’ve got a feeling you got a lot of music to catch up on, huh?” You reply helping him pour the spice cake batter over an apple pie in one of the three pans; 1 down, 2 to go.

“Oh, yeah. So far I’ve heard something of Queens of the Stone Age, Nine Inch Nails and Deftones, which, well, I guess you could dance to those but may be a different sort of dancing.” he says flattening the batter over the pie.

You try to imagine Bucky listening to the slightly erotic desert rock of QOTSA and you get images of him pulling some pole dancer-esque Magic Mike moves. You feel three pulse-like throbs below the waist and blush so hard you can feel it making your forehead tingle. You take the bowl and rinse it at the sink so you guys can start mixing the vanilla cake.

You get that one set up with more pauses for dance moves from the both of you and you wash up the measuring and mixing implements getting them ready for the next cake, the white with a cherry pie inside.

You take a quick break between mixing the next cake; he has some more tea and a scone, you have coffee and a cup of yogurt. Before returning to the kitchen you switch up the music going with an instrumental pop Pandora station. Bucky removed his long sleeve and just wears a sleeveless undershirt with his sweats.

The cooking is a bit quieter this time, the two of you enjoying the piano version of Heroes by David Bowie. You find yourself watching his every move at times like these. His strong dexterous hands gently distributing the ingredients as he mixes, the muscles in his neck shoulders and arm flexing and uncoiling smoothly, his other arm, for all it’s fluidity and seamless movement still existing in the uncanny valley, it whirs softly and clicks as metal plates shift and brush each other, the mild attentive look on his face, his bright lovely eyes catching the light, the faint upward tilt to the corners of his mouth.

Once each cake and pie are settled in their pans, you set timers for when the baking should be done and another for when to rotate two cakes from the bottom to the top and you settle in to watch Planet Earth. Bucky falls asleep part way through and you let him snooze whilst checking the cakes till they’re done. When they are, you set them on racks to cool. 

As you do you hear Bucky’s breathing quickening and sharpening: a sure sign he’s having a tough time waking up.

You mute the tv and rush to his side, take his right hand in yours and put your hand to his cheek. In a quiet calm voice you say, “Hey, everything’s ok, take your time. You are safe, there are no threats. You fell asleep watching some nature documentaries. You’ve been sleeping about 25 minutes. You’re lying on the couch in the parlor of your suite in Wakanda. Take a deep breath for me. Do you smell that? It’s the cakes we were baking. Breath slowly and open your eyes when you are ready.”

His breathing slows and he squeezes your hand in his right. He squeezes hard at first, almost on the verge of panic. He takes in your words nodding, still unable to speak. He slowly opens his eyes a little by little taking quick peaks at your face, reassured no one has come to drag him off to the Mind Crown as you’ve learned what the Russian memory erasing device is called. He’s always afraid on waking up that he’ll be there being wiped again and given a new mission that, even if he refuses, his body may just carry out anyway.

He lies quietly just holding your hand, looking around a little then closing his eyes for a few seconds. His grip loosens slowly and he takes in a shuddering long breath.

“Ughk, hate that feeling.” He croaks. Tears squeeze out from under his eyelashes and roll down the creases at the corner of his eyes.

“It’s ok. There’s no right and wrong way to experience trauma and it’s after affects. I’m here for you, so you don’t have to do it alone. Do you need ginger tea?” You respond.

“No, my stomach seems ok. It’s so bright, though.” He says.

You smile a little. “Sorry, Buck. We can’t turn the sun down, but I’ll go draw the shades. Just let yourself adjust here, don’t sit up yet, just ground with your senses for a few minutes, ok?”

“Y/N, thanks. Thanks for your help.” He says, sniffing and clearing his sinuses.

You walk over to the windows and balcony, shutting out some of the light. “Hey, no problem. I am here to help.” You come back to the couch, help him sit up a bit so you can squish in and rest his head on you leg.

“I know. And I think I need so many things, so  m-much help and your job kinda confuses me, how much of this is work to you? How much is us?” He says as he does you can sense him becoming sullen.

“Aww, come on. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to. Yes, some of my work over laps with the things I do for you because I want to. But put it this way, I get my cake and get to eat it, too. They pay me to do what I love.” You say, brushing hair from his squinting eyes.

“Me?” He asks with a little smirk, his voice a little raspy, lifting both arms and wrapping them around your waist in a strange semblance of a hug. If he were standing up he’d be carrying you over his left shoulder as you held on to his head and face with your knees bent behind his head. The image is so silly to you, you smile down at him.

“Yeah, you.” You answer leaning down and kissing him in an upside down and slightly sideways kiss.

[luckylq61-blog]

The laugh lines creasing your eyes are more pronounced

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hi @captain-catcat I deleted the oc ask on accident long post incoming 🖤

How do they respond to having a song stuck in their head? Does that happen to them often?

This happens very often with Aphys’s brain. It’s unavoidable and sometimes exacerbated by the fact that she took the mantle of sheogorath.

How do they feel about confronting their friends when issues arise? 

Aphys will be very blunt and very clear and if they don’t get it the first time, well, fuck them.

When speaking to themselves in their mind, how do they refer to themselves?

Mantling Sheogorath means unwanted input quite often. Every conversation in her head is often a two person convo

Do they enjoy wearing socks/stockings when they aren’t wearing shoes?

Absolutely, she likes being warm

Do they have any unappealing habits (ex: picking their nose, hawking loogies)?

Making noises with her mouth without noticing and annoying everyone in the room

How do they cope with losing a game?

Sulking for a while before ruminating on another possible strategy and then going back

How do they cope with losing an argument?

Not well. The yelling is overwhelming and abrasive enough and the disrespect would mean she has to leave for a while and sulk

How do they cope with losing a friend?

Friends are few and valuable to her, it’d be like losing a finger. She’d never forget about it and would often still wonder if she could every remedy the situation. She may grow and move on but there will always be a lasting imprint in the back of her mind.

How do they cope with losing a lover?

Very similar to losing a friend. The relationships blur and it’s often just “special” to “most special” in her mind. Losing two lovers in a short span of time pushed her to go into the shivering isles to fuck with Daedra so she doesn’t take it well at all

Do they enjoy sitting on countertops?

Likes to be tall

How expressive is their face? Are they easy to read?

Aphys is often blank and monotone, but the facial expressions that are involuntary reactions to what she’s hearing are VERY telling on what she’s thinking

How do they deal with experiencing physical pain?

Try not to cry and buck up, essentially

Are they easily insulted?

Absolutely easily insulted and holds grudges

Would they prefer to act or react?

Aphys needs time to sit and plan for the best possible outcome, she doesn’t make brash reactions.

How would they respond to performing on stage?

Panic and try to save face

Would they ever wear perfume or cologne? When? What would the scent be?

The constant strong scent might be an annoying sensory thing to her, but if she could pick anything it would be the smell of her home in Valenwood right after it rains

Could their personality or interests be considered “flighty?” Do they change their mind/interests often?

She loses interests relatively quickly if something newer and cooler is introduced to her but is prone to obsessive hyperfixations

Do they daydream? Of what?

Aphys is constantly lost in her own fantasy world of what’s happened, what could be, idealized versions of events currently happening, whatever is happening in the Shivering isles,

What is the most inappropriate thing they have ever done in public?

She’s so obsessed with appearances that the worst would be public intoxication and whatever that entails

What was their favorite toy as a child?

She still carries around a small stuffed frog from her childhood! It’s everything to her!

What was their favorite way to play as a child (ex: playing pretend, playing games with rules like tag,)?

Hide and seek because she could fit into closed off small spaces and doze off until she’s found, and of course elaborate role plays

How do the sneeze (ex: loudly, quietly, openly, into their elbow, hold the sneeze in)?

Pretty loudly for someone so small but always concealed into an elbow or a sleeve or something

When engaged in an irritating conversation, how to they conduct themselves?

Increasingly agitated movements like rocking, tapping, unable to focus for more than few seconds

What words make them cringe?

🤔 probably something pronounced in a way that would annoy her

How do they feel in large crowds?

Overwhelmed! But sometimes the noise can dissolve into a droning buzz to help her stay focused on the task at hand

Would they ever spend an afternoon in a library? What section would they spend the most time in?

Oh absolutely. Probably the horror or fantasy fiction section

Do they find it difficult to try new foods?

YES. Routine is everything

If a friend asked them to taste something and it turned out to be unpleasant, how would they handle it?

Lots of tortured facial expressions but would still say it’s good for the sake of being nice

Do they wear underwear?

Aphys wears so many layers that she’s basically created her own chasity belt

Can they pee in front of other people?

Absolutely not unless she’s drunk and this is a conversation that NEEDS to be continued with someone very close to her

What story gave them nightmares as a child?

Being told about the Wild Hunt and the Ooze

How would they respond to being handed an infant?

Panic internally but make sure she’s holding the infant as carefully and comfortably as possible

How would they respond to being asked to watch over a child for an afternoon?

She enjoys kids and their input about the world around them! She doesn’t like the responsibility and she’s quite stiff and awkward but she wouldn’t adamantly refuse

Do they enjoy climbing trees?

As a kid in Valenwood, all you did was climb trees

In which of their own skill sets do they have the most confidence? Why?

Archery! In Valenwood, she would be considered average, nothing special. But in Skyrim, her methods of archery are completely different to the Nords and their stiff hunting bows so she feels like the top dog

Do they enjoy receiving compliments? How do they respond to it?

Flustered! She LIVES with praise, can’t cope without it. Not very good at receiving it though

How often are they the one to initiate physical contact?

Words are hard for her, finding the right words for certain specific situations is even harder. Sometimes direct touching is the best way to communicate

Do they prefer salty or sweet things?

Salty and sour

Do they get the urge to jump from high places?

Absolutely not, what if she twists an ankle or lands wrong

Have they every written a dirty letter and actually sent it?

She often keeps Those thoughts to herself to ruminate on for a while

How would they describe their love life?

A dumpster fire of mixed emotions and pining and torture and nothing seems to work out ever

How would they describe their sex life?

Active and fun with complicated and twisted emotions lying underneath

Do they hide objects? What and where?

She’s been conditioned to hide the things she collects (like shells or certain rocks) out of fear of it being taken and used as leverage. It’s become a habit to quickly stick something into a hidden pocket and arrange it behind a shelf later

What are their reasons for getting up in the morning (outside of achieving their main goal)?

A garden, her newfound family

Who is their greatest confidant? Who confides in them?

Lucien’s ghost will always be a go-to because she can stomp him back into the void if he gets mouthy. He was always a source of guidance since he seemed to have his shit together, and he’s had 300 years in the Void to be mature about things

What is something they’ve always wanted to do, but know they shouldn’t?

Rob a house for the fuck of it

Is there someone whose laugh makes them laugh as well?

Probably Farkas. I feel like he just has ~ infectious laughter ~

How festive are they on holidays?

She HATES it and will do the bare minimum for everyone else to enjoy

How would they respond to their ears ringing for an extended period of time?

Slowly get angrier and snappier

How likely is it that they would be the first to point out a full moon or a beautiful sunset?

Always the first! She’s the most observant!