#for a while it was like Well actually hes not that deep. hes a side character. i dont need to act this way

[pagesfromthevoid]

I Think He Knows | j.t.

Joaquin Torres x Avenger!reader

There’s always a lingering question between them in these moments. Will they cross that line finally? Who’s going to be the one who does it? But neither of them ever do. Sometimes it’s an interruption, sometimes it’s one of them backing down. 

Word Count: 8.6k

Warnings: kidnapping, angst, pwp, Joaquin has a pacemaker (his heart literally had to be restarted in BNW, you cannot tell me he doesn’t??), SMUUUUUUT (p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, cockwarming if you squint).

Author's Note: This came to me in a dream. I don't have much else to say. Also, I'm so sorry if the Spanish in this is...bad. I tried my best. Let me know how to improve it!! Reader's codename is Glimpse.

Talk to Me! | Coffee?

2024

“So…,”

She looks up from adjusting her gear, the roar of the plane’s engines almost drowning him out. 

“What’s it like, y’know, being an OG Avenger?” He asks, leaning against the hull of the plane.

Bucky makes a disgruntled sound beside her while she gives Joaquín a slow, crooked grin and a raised brow –the kind of look that says she’s already figured him out and isn’t sure if she’s impressed or just amused.

“Oh, it’s great,” she says, and the look Bucky gives her is one of warning as he stands up. Then she’s leaning forward some, and clasping her hands together in a snarky little clap. “Everyone I love is either dead or in hiding. My closest friend fucked off to the forties with his ex-girlfriend’s aunt. And, oh, the general public doesn’t particularly like me because I’m the only one in the public eye still, so I’m easy to blame.”

Joaquín stares at her for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Oh.”

“It’s great,” she repeats, giving him a painfully fake smile. “Love it.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t –,”

“Give me a ‘chute,” Bucky orders, interrupting the stammering of the officer. 

Joaquín shakes his head. “Oh, no. We’re too low for that –,”

But the soldier doesn’t let Joaquín finish his sentence before he’s tearing off his sleeve and throwing himself out of the plane. Joaquín looks horrified for a moment before he turns to her, frowning deeply.

“Do you…can you jump out of a plane without dying?”

“You wanna find out?” 

“I really don’t,” he practically begs. 

“Too late, flyboy.” And she’s grinning as she falls backwards out of the plane with a salute. 

Joaquín stares down as she falls, bracing for her impact, but it never comes. Actually, she’s nowhere to be seen as he pulls back into the plane and looks up with a hard exhale.

“Dios mío,” he breathes out. “I might be in love.”

2027

For the last week, Sam has been complaining about two things: the New Avengers and her absolute refusal to get involved in the issue. She insists it's because she’s not going to choose a side; she’s known both him and Bucky long enough to be friends with them both. He insists she’s a liar and just likes watching the two of them argue.

She doesn’t deny this.

However, she’s not really sure why Sam is so concerned with whether or not she chooses a side. She literally lives in D.C. and works with him and Joaquín on a regular basis. Less than six months ago, she helped stop Ross and Stern and prior to that, she ran missions with both him and Joaquín overseas.

To be fair, there’s a two part explanation for why she’s stuck around D.C. as long as she has. One, because prior to this New Avengers nonsense, she fully intended to join the team. However, the second reason is much more selfish –though, she’d argue that she deserves to be a little selfish after the hell that has been her life.

And that selfish reason comes down to Sam’s very attractive, very confident partner.

When they met three years ago, she didn’t think much of Joaquín Torres. A little jumpy, way too hyper –but he meant well. Even then, she thought he was cute. And he helped tremendously with the Flag Smasher situation –proved he wasn’t just some fanboy with a hero complex (though he might still be a fanboy, deep down). But as she continued to work with them after Sam officially took up the mantle of Captain America, Joaquín just kept growing on her. 

When she settled into her life in D.C., it was Joaquín that became her closest friend in the capital. He helped find her an apartment that wasn’t the worst, and had given her a list of the best places to eat around the area. Then insisted he take her whenever they got down time. He calls it Team Bonding.

She calls it Not Dating.

“What’s the plan for dinner today, Glimpse?” He asks as she pops into their base of operations. He’s not looking at her when she appears, though he never does anymore. The signature whoosh sound that follows her appearance gives her away, now that he’s trained to hear it. 

“I was thinking that ramen place in Petworth?” She suggests, plopping down on the couch and looking at her phone. “It’s the next on the list, but your list seems to keep getting longer.”

It’s a passive observation; the list he gave her when she first settled in had maybe thirty restaurants and they’d hit about half of them. However, every time she opens the Google sheet he made, somehow there’s always two or three more that weren’t there before. 

He turns around in his chair, leaning back as he looks her over. Feeling his eyes on her, she glances up from her phone with a soft smirk. 

“Gotta find ways for you to keep me around, cariño,” he grins. 

Her eyes are glued to her phone, though she’s not actually looking at anything. Every single time he says something affectionate or flirty in Spanish, her brain sort of short circuits. She took Spanish in high school, but it never really stuck. There’s a handful of phrases she knows, and she’s learned some from working with Joaquín –anything she’s learned from him is either flirty or inappropriate, however. 

“Oh yes,” she chuckles in response, kicking her feet up on the couch. “Because I only keep you around for your food recs.”

“Food recs, good looks, witty banter…,”

“You’re just the whole package, aren’t you, Torres?” 

“Your words, not mine,” he points out, pushing himself out of his chair.

Sitting beside her, he lifts her legs to rest on his lap, one hand lingering just above her knee. They share a look –a knowing one, like they both are aware that they’re playing with fire. It’s always like this when they’re close; hyper aware of how it feels to touch one another in a way that’s nothing short of unprofessional. Sometimes it’s a hand on her knee when they’re seated together. Sometimes it’s her fingers brushing the nape of his neck when he’s at his computer. 

There’s always a lingering question between them in these moments. Will they cross that line finally? Who’s going to be the one who does it? But neither of them ever do. Sometimes it’s an interruption, sometimes it’s one of them backing down. 

But they never make it past the touching. 

“I feel like I’m interruptin’ something in here,” Sam announces as he walks into the room. 

Sam is aware of how she feels, and while he doesn’t necessarily tease her about it –he’s annoying about it. 

While she doesn’t jerk away from Joaquín, she does move her legs away from his touch. His fingers drag across the fabric of her jeans as she pulls away, like he refuses to give up that closeness. But she’s standing up and pocketing her phone. 

“We’re going to that ramen place,” she offers, and Joaquín is throwing his head back against the couch. “You in?”

“No go,” he responds, shaking his head. “We’ve got some intel we need to review –remember what happened last month?”

“Yeah, Bob,” she snickers, recalling the picture of the New Avengers in the papers. “Isn’t he just…a guy? I thought Bucky had that handled?”

“Not Bob,” Sam corrects, rolling his eyes. “Dude isn’t just a guy either. Not that point though –the other thing that happened last month.”

“Krane?” Joaquín asks, frowning deeply, standing now.

She groans, rubbing the hell of her palm into her eye. “Fucking Krane.” 

Dr. Lenora Krane –the reason she has powers and the reason Nick Fury brought her on board in 2015 after just barely being seventeen. While the New Avengers were off handling Bob, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was bribing the Senate to pardon the doctor in order to put her to work for the U.S. government on a military base in California. However, that lasted as long as anyone could have predicted: last month, the reformed doctor went off the grid and no one has been able to find her since. 

Until today, apparently. 

Joaquín shifts into work mode with ease, sliding back into his chair and opening the files Sam has sent over. She sits on the arm of the chair, reading over the files as they pop up. Grainy photos and half-assed security feeds show her in Manhattan shortly after the Bob incident, but she seems to be making her way down to D.C. again. 

Even in bad photos, seeing the woman who made her life hell for most of her teen years makes the hero’s skin bristle. 

Taken from the children’s home she had grown up, under the guise of being a foster parent, Krane made it seem like her life was going to be great. But then the experiments started and only ended when Maria Hill infiltrated the lab she was kept in. Hill took her under her wing, kept her out of the system, then gave her a place amongst Earth’s mightiest heroes. 

The rest is history –though it seems like it might be repeating itself.

“What’s her deal?” Joaquín asks, looking up at her now as he leans back in his chair. “You think she’s here for you?”

His arm wraps around her from behind, linking his thumb through a belt loop since she’s using his arm rest as a seat. It’s comforting, though, whether he means for it to be or not.

If Sam notices, he doesn’t say anything. 

“I mean, I am the reason that she lost all her work and went to jail for nearly ten  years,” she points out, crossing her arms over her chest as she glances down at him. The look on Joaquín’s face is genuine concern, and it makes her heart ache. “She’s had a long time to plot her revenge against me.”

“Which means you are in danger,” Sam concludes, looking down at her with deep concern. “I’ve already talked to Barnes, you’re going to stay with him and his team of assholes. Differences or not, that Tower is the safest place –,”

“I am not going into hiding,” she counters, shooting up from the chair. Joaquín’s fingers are still caught in her belt loop and she yanks him out of his seat as she jumps up. “Joaquín –,”

“Sorry, shit,” he complains, letting her go finally and shaking out his hand. “She’s right though, Sam. We can’t just send her away, she’s an Avenger.”

“More importantly, I don’t want to uproot my shit and go hang out with Bucky. His team is weird. And Walker is there.”

“I thought you didn’t have a preference?” Sam argues, brow raised as he looks between her and Joaquín.

“You know damn well I’d rather be here than there,” she snaps back, pointing at him. “I am more than capable of handling myself, Sam. You know that.”

For a moment, there’s a tense silence in the room. There’s no reason to pick a real fight over this, but she doesn’t like being made to feel small when she’s been doing this since 2015; it’s not her first fight and it most certainly won’t be her last.

But finally, Sam nods in agreement. “You’re right. I can’t bench you –but I can at least make sure you’re not alone. One of us will stay with you.”

She’s about to argue that she doesn’t need a babysitter, but Joaquín is throwing his hand in the air. 

“I volunteer as tribute!”

Sam and her both look at him like he’s lost his damn mind. Joaquín has enough self-awareness to look sheepish as he drops his hand and clears his throat. Then he tries to shrug nonchalantly. 

“I mean –I can stay with her. Not a big deal.” 

Covering her face with her hand, she shakes her head. There’s definitely a blush burning her cheeks, and his excitement doesn’t help the feelings that simmer just below the surface.

“Smooth, kid,” Sam sighs, and she can just hear the eye roll in his voice. “I’ll get a notice sent back to New York –S.A.B.E.R. is working on pinpointing her next location. Until then, you two go grab whatever you need from Torres’s place. Joaquín, when you get to her apartment, set up security protocols.”

“Heard,” he replies, sitting back down to transfer whatever data he may need to his laptop. Sam has disappeared back into his office, already on the phone. Then he grins up at her. “I got you, hermosa.”

Without thinking about it, she lays her hand on his shoulder gently. Their eyes meet, and she squeezes. “I don’t doubt that, flyboy.” 

And she doesn’t. Not for a second. 

It’s her that interrupts the moment this time, though, pulling away with a wave of her hand. “Okay –I used my powers to get here, so we can do that or you can drive.”

“Oh fuck no,” he immediately says, pushing his chair away from his desk to gather his cables. “Last time you quantum jumped us, I threw up.”

“It’s not quantum jumping,” she reminds him, rolling her eyes. “It’s teleporting. And you only threw up because you weren’t ready.”

“Nope. I’m driving.”

“But I’m faster.”

For a second, he stands up and she thinks he’s going to counter her again. Instead, he hands her a rolled up set of cables, and she takes them without question. With a sudden yank though, he’s pulling her closer and resting his free hand on her hip. Her hand immediately hits his chest as a way to keep herself upright, but the sudden closeness makes her heart pound in her fingertips –or maybe that’s his heartbeat. 

“Faster isn’t always better,” he murmurs, leaning down into her space. 

She’s about to respond –something wildly inappropriate, probably, but she’s not 100% sure because all thoughts have scattered the moment he pulled her in –when Sam walks back through the doors. With that distinctive whoosh, she’s on the other side of the room, cables in hand and for once, a blush burning her cheeks. 

Joaquín is trying to hold back a smug grin. 

Sam is unimpressed by them both. 

-><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><-

“I always forget how tiny your place is,” Joaquín comments as he drops his bag on her coffee table. 

If she rolls her eyes any harder, she’s certain they’ll get stuck that way. Setting their dinner on the counter –burgers, which she’s bitter about because she really wanted ramen –she takes out their respective meals. 

“I’m gonna go change, feel free to get comfortable.” 

Joaquín is looking around her apartment as if he hasn’t been there before, though she can feel his eyes as she walks into her bedroom. When she comes back out  –an old band t-shirt and sleep shorts replacing her jeans and top –he’s looking over the photos she’s hung up on the wall. She grins and taps his shoulder as she passes by, returning to the kitchen to take out plates for them. 

When he seems to have gotten over his surprise, he’s behind her with a hand on her lower back. The touch is warm, and secure, and she doesn’t flinch away from it. With no real threat of interruptions –no one to walk in on them or alarms to go off –the only thing standing between them is…well, them.

“The couch is a pull out, so you should be relatively comfortable,” she explains, glancing up at him over her shoulder. 

He’s reaching over and stealing a fry, hand still pressed against her back. The whole thing feels a little more domestic than she’s used to, but she’s not going to be the one that pulls away this time. Not as she turns around, and his hand is pulled around to rest on her hip again. 

Joaquín looks down at her, eyes searching, but not in a way that demands answers. It’s quieter than that –curious, cautious, like he’s waiting to see if she’ll bolt. 

She doesn’t.

“Didn’t think you’d hover this much when you volunteered to babysit,” she teases, glancing at him as she grabs another fry, tone light but not pushing him away.

“If it’s not welcome, I can leave you be,” he replies, his voice low, steady. His hand is still on her hip though, anchoring her.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t joke it off.

“It’s welcome,” she says instead.

He studies her for a beat longer, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. But his face breaks out into that boyish grin she thrives on seeing. “Okay,” he says, quieter now. “Good.”

But still, neither of them moves to close the space. The silence hums in the air, in the stillness, in the way his fingers stay at her hip like he doesn’t want to let go. Like he’s waiting for her to make the move.

She doesn’t know why he never does –not when he’s always the one who flirts first, who pushes the edge of that line just enough to make her wonder. And now, with nothing stopping them, it’s somehow harder. Closer. Sharper.

It’s him who pulls away this time, moving through her kitchen with ease as he opens her fridge and pulls out a beer. For a moment, she looks to whatever divine powers might be out there and silently wonders why the hell they keep dancing around this –and why the hell she can’t just man up and do it herself.

Nothing answers, of course.

“So what do you usually do when you’re home, all alone?” He asks as he takes what’s left of his food into the living room and drops onto the couch; he’d eaten half his burger on the way over. “Besides think about me, of course,” he adds for good measure, winking at her.

One more eye roll, then she’s joining him on the couch, sitting with her legs crossed under her. Her knee is brushing his thigh and he makes no move to get away. “Honestly, between watching trashy T.V. or reading trashy romance novels, I’m not the most exciting of people.”

Joaquín scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t believe that for a second. An OG Avenger and you don’t do anything exciting outside of work?”

“Being an Avenger isn’t half as exciting as you think it is,” she reminds him, giving him a pointed look. “You learned that the hard way, remember?”

Even if he pretends it didn’t happen, she can’t. Not when she sat in the hospital with Sam for days, worried that Joaquín wouldn’t wake up. She’s had a lot of close calls in her life, and she’s lost a lot of people in the last ten years. Watching him plummet into the ocean from the security feed of his mask scared the living hell out of her, and that’s most certainly contributed to their dialed up flirting recently. 

She’s not afraid to admit she thought she almost lost him. Truth be told, she told him that in the hospital when he woke up. But then he told them both how he just wants to be like them –to be a hero, to do right by the world. How he wanted to get out of Miami and prove himself worthy –and she couldn’t scold him for being reckless. Couldn’t argue with him that she almost lost him. Because he knew that. He knew the risks he took, and it wasn’t her place to remind him.

“Yeah, yeah.” He brushes it off. Always does. “When Krane is handled, I’m gonna take you out and show you how to use your down time.”

She raises a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Is this you finally asking me out, Torres?”

For just a beat, maybe two, they stare at each other. She’s crossed the line, finally. Pushed them to confront each other; to act on whatever these feelings they both clearly have are. Their food is long forgotten on the coffee table, and his hand is resting on her bare knee. 

“What if I am?” He asks, leaning in closer. 

“If you are, I’d say it took you long enough.”

A grin breaks out over his face, and Joaquín doesn’t waste any time as he wraps a hand around the back of her neck and pulls her into a kiss. He’s pulling her into his lap, and she’s on her knees straddling him. Other hand sliding up her shirt, he groans as his fingers skim below her breasts, realizing she isn’t wearing a bra.

“No sabes cuánto he deseado esto…,” he whispers against her lips, and even though she’s not sure what he’s saying, it sends a shiver down her spine. Taking advantage of his mouth being open, she licks into it, deepening the kiss as her hands trail down to the hem of his shirt. 

Just as she manages to pull his shirt over his head, glass shatters. They yank back from one another, looking at the broken window. It’s a split second –panic, a flash bang rolling into her living room. Joaquín is covering her with his body, just as a whoosh surrounds them. She’s not positive where she’s sent them, but they land with a thud against gravel and roll off one another with a groan. 

From the rooftop of the neighboring apartment building, there’s what’s supposed to be a disorienting bang and a flash of light. Her apartment lights up, and she sits up on her knees as they both watch smoke pour out of the broken window. Joaquín kneels beside her, feeling on the brink of throwing up from the sudden teleportation. He reaches out to touch her shoulder though, making sure she’s okay. 

“Fucking Krane,” she hisses, standing up. He watches her from the corner of his eye before looking back at the apartment. The D.C. air is frigid, and police sirens are echoing in the night as they approach the apartment building. “We need to call Sam –,”

“Both our phones are in the apartment,” he interrupts, reaching out to take his shirt from her. There’s a heavy feeling in his chest; another screw up. Another mistake that could have been avoided, just like when he tried to take down that missile. Only this time, it’s not his life that’s in danger. It’s hers. “Mierda –this is my fault.”

“How is it your fault?” 

“I didn’t set up the security protocols.” He slips on his shirt, then reaches out to take her hand. There’s no hesitation when he does this; just takes her hand and pulls her close as he leads them across the roof of the building. “We need to get outta here. If Krane is nearby, then you’re in danger and I don’t have…anything.”

The realization sinks in that the wings are at base, but his computer –his government issued computer, with thousands of gigs of data and files on it –has been compromised. If Krane gets a hold of that, and he can’t wipe it before she gets into it, then it’s more than just her that’s in trouble.

“Fuck,” he groans, running a hand through his hair. “My laptop –,”

“I can get it,” she quickly reassures but he’s putting his hands up. “Joaquín, that’s my whole job –in and out –,”

“The apartment is compromised,” he counters, shaking his head. “I can’t let you go back in there.”

“In and out,” she argues and he’s caught between not wanting to screw something else up and keeping her safe. He knows she’s good; she’s an OG. She’s been doing this long before he came along. But if something happens to her…

Except, she’s not giving him a chance to argue. She never does, because he’s not usually the one arguing against her. But that sound –that whoosh that has trained his brain to listen for –echoes in the air. And then she’s gone. 

“Dammit,” he hisses, pounding his fist once against the wall. 

He waits, watching from the edge of the building. 

Seconds. That’s all it should take.

She’s done this a thousand times. Disappearing across rooftops, slipping into sealed rooms, snatching intel mid-conversation without a whisper. The police are surrounding her apartment complex, guns drawn. No one has come in or out of the building since she entered, which is…bad. 

So why isn’t she back?

He paces on the rooftop, trying to calm his breathing. One beat. Two. Five. He stares at the spot where she vanished, willing the air to whisper with that tell-tale signal again. His ears are still ringing from the flashbang thrown through the window barely five minutes ago, and it sets his teeth on edge. But…

Nothing.

“She should be back,” he mutters aloud, to no one. “Why aren’t you back?”

His pulse hammers in his ears. She always makes it back. She’s cocky about it. Makes jokes. Teases him that she’s always going to be faster, always going to be a step ahead. Because she is, and he knows she is. In the three years he’s known her, he’s not once thought he’d ever be better than her. Because he’s too amazed by her –how could he want to be better when everything she does is so graceful and damn near perfect? 

All he had to do was protect her, and somehow…he blew it.

Sam’s going to kill him.

-><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><-

The guilt has been a slow bleed. Every hour without a lead makes it worse. 

Joaquín hasn’t slept. Not really. A few hours here and there, usually when Sam physically pries him away from the screen or the chair or the growing pile of coffee cups that he’s surviving on. But even when he does sleep, he dreams of her –trapped, bleeding, calling for him. Every time, he wakes up choking on guilt.

She’s been missing for seventy-six hours. Seventy-six hours since she vanished inside that apartment. Since she dove into danger to retrieve his laptop –his responsibility –because he hadn’t done his damn job in the first place. He was too distracted. Too busy being in love with her to remember that she’s not invincible.

Joaquín drags a hand through his curls, fingers catching as he stares at the rows of code on his screen.

“Come on, come on…,” he mutters, cycling through yet another security node.

He’s torn apart every digital trail Krane has ever left –fake aliases, ghosted emails, the occasional off-the-grid bio signature from a black market medical clinic. None of it points to where she’s keeping her. But Joaquín isn’t just looking for Krane anymore.

He’s looking for her. For the woman who scared the hell out of him by jumping out of that plane three years ago. Who teases him about his stupid restaurant spreadsheet; who kisses him like she’s just as wrecked as he is. 

He almost had her. Finally. And now?

Now all he has is silence. And a red blinking cursor on a map overlay.

But then –,

Something pings.

It’s small. Barely a whisper in the code. But Joaquín freezes, eyes narrowing. He backtracks, isolates the data string, and enhances the feed. It’s a signal bounce –from his laptop. A handshake request that shouldn’t exist, buried beneath three layers of dummy networks. Krane must have booted it, just briefly. Just long enough to trigger the dormant emergency protocol he’d hardwired into the system during a long forgotten all-nighter.

He stares at the screen as coordinates materialize. They’re fuzzy. The GPS is spoofed, bouncing between old S.H.I.E.L.D. black sites, but there's a pattern to the chaos.

“She’s not hiding you,” he says under his breath, breath catching in his chest. “She’s parading you. Daring us to come.”

He should feel fear. Hesitation. He doesn’t.

He locks onto the most consistent coordinate. An abandoned logistics warehouse 40 miles outside Richmond. Nothing special. No heat signatures from satellites. But something about it hums wrong. Quiet in a way that feels intentional.

That’s where she is. He knows it. He feels it in his bones.

Sam’s voice breaks the moment. “Any progress?”

Joaquín turns slowly, eyes still lit by the screen. “Yeah. I think I found her.”

-><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><-

She’s strapped to a reinforced medical chair, wrists restrained in a way that numbs her fingers. Her powers are suppressed –some kind of electromagnetic field layered into the restraints, maybe nanotech. It doesn’t matter. The result is the same: she can’t phase. Can’t jump. Can’t fight.

It’s like trying to scream with no voice. Like being a kid again.

Krane stands over her, monologuing in that smug, academic cadence that always made her want to tear her own ears off. She’s pacing now, dragging her fingers along the edge of a steel tray holding tools that aren’t exactly designed for healing.

“…quantum stability, neural mapping, synaptic plasticity,” Krane is saying, like she’s checking off items on a list. “You’re a blueprint with legs, nothing more,” the scientist finally concludes, looking over the hero with the same sadistic smile she’s always had. “You think you’re going to save the world again. But you’re just a failed experiment clinging to a label.”

She doesn’t respond. Not because she’s too weak –though Krane’s been dosing her with something, and her limbs feel like sandbags –but because she’s saving her strength. Waiting. Waiting for the moment when the sedatives slip, when the field flickers, when Krane makes a mistake.

Because the doctor always does.

But if she’s being honest, that’s not the only reason she’s quiet. The real reason –the part that burns low in her chest, white-hot and ugly –is this: she let Krane take her.

She didn’t fight back. Not really.

She had a window. A second and a half, maybe two. Enough time to jump. Enough time to leave. But she didn’t. Because the second she started to move, Krane said Joaquín’s name. Said it so calmly, so casually, like she hadn’t been watching them through the drone in his laptop camera.

“You go for this computer and I send a kill switch to your flyboy’s pacemaker,” Krane said, having picked up the laptop. There’s a remote in her hand –small, round, blinking. “You know he has one now, right? After that nasty fall into the ocean? Poor thing –you know, we had to restart his heart.”

“We?” She asked, looking at the doctor in disbelief.

“You should have read the file carefully, Glimpse,” the doctor scolded. “I’m reformed, remember? And before you, I was a very decorated military doctor.”

It was bullshit. It had to be.  But she didn’t know for sure. 

And that split second of hesitation –of imagining Joaquín’s body hitting the floor because she called Krane’s bluff –was enough. Enough for Krane to sedate her. Enough for the world to blur. 

Enough to lose.

And now, here she is. Chained and doped up in some forgotten corner of Virginia, reliving the worst years of her life like it never ended. Except this time, she’s not a little girl. She’s not powerless. And she knows that there’s at least two people looking for her.

And she knows neither of them will stop until they find her.

Her eyes flick to the blinking red light on the wall. A low pulse, like a heartbeat. It wasn’t there five seconds ago. That light isn’t part of the baseline infrastructure. She knows this place. Knows how Krane likes her labs –clinical, sterile, and absolutely under her control. 

That flicker is out of place. 

That flicker means hope.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t give Krane the satisfaction of knowing something’s changed.

Across the room, Krane is talking again –some self-righteous, pseudo-academic garbage about neural mapping and genetic anomalies and “weaponized empathy.” Her voice cuts through the silence like a scalpel. Her eyes are wild now, hands moving faster, yanking wires from machines and double-checking restraints that don’t need checking. Because something’s wrong. She can feel it.

And Krane knows it, too.

She tracks the shift in Krane’s energy with careful, weary eyes. There’s a tremor in her hands now. That smug detachment has begun to crack.

Good. Let it crack.

The moment comes in a shudder of metal. A deep, violent boom rattles the concrete walls as the lab door explodes inward in a spray of steel and sparks. The force of it echoes through her chest, more felt than heard. For a second, the light above her sputters out –then returns, flickering.

The first figure through the smoke is Sam. Wings half-folded, shield in hand, eyes like fire. He moves with that signature precision: not so much charging as cleaving through the space, knocking aside a pair of armored guards with brutal efficiency. They hit the wall hard and don’t get back up.

Joaquín follows half a beat later, sliding through the debris like a storm wrapped in a man’s frame. He’s dropped the wings for speed and brute force, shoulder-checking the last guard so hard the man’s body crumples like foil. He doesn’t slow –his eyes are already locked on her.

For a moment, she’s not Glimpse, a former Avenger. She’s just the girl strapped to the chair, covered in bruises and half-drugged, barely upright –but seen. Found.

And Joaquín looks at her like she's the only thing in the damn world worth saving.

He’s at her side in seconds, hands already on the restraints, breath coming fast and shallow.

“Hey,” she says, voice dry, mouth cracking into the ghost of a smile. Like this is just an everyday thing for them.

“Hey,” he breathes, eyes scanning her face like he’s checking for fractures. She’s certain she looks worse for wear; if the bruises on her arms are any indication, she’s certain her face isn’t much better. 

“Jesus, I –,” but he doesn’t finish. Just rips the cuff open with a grunt, tosses it to the floor, and moves to the next.

Her fingers twitch back to life. Painful, sluggish –but working.

Behind them, Krane shrieks. She’s at the far end of the room now, fumbling for something –another syringe, or maybe that damned remote again. Sam crosses the space in two strides and kicks it out of her hand before grabbing her by the collar and slamming her into the wall with controlled force.

“You’re done,” he growls.

Krane gasps for air, blinking like she can’t process how quickly the tables have turned.

Joaquín finishes unfastening the last restraint, and her body sags forward –only for him to catch her, arms steady around her frame. She doesn’t collapse, though. She uses his grip to pull herself upright, standing on legs that shake but hold.

“I’ve got you,” he promises. 

“I know,” she answers, but she’s pulling back some. Steadying her stance. She doesn’t need a full recovery. She just needs a little bit of spite and one shot.

“I can walk,” she adds, looking up at him.

Joaquín looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. Just stays close, hand at her back as she half-limps, half-strides toward the scientist that Sam has pinned to the wall. Half crazed, clawing at Sam’s hands to release her –Krane looks certifiably unhinged. 

Finally, her outsides match her insides.

“You don’t understand! All my work –everything I’ve worked on –it’s her!” The scientist screams, bucking against Sam’s hold. “I can change the world with her!”

And then she hears it: the click of a syringe behind them. Krane kicks Sam away, more force behind the movement than he expected. Still sneering. Still trying. The doctor lunges, chemical cocktail in hand –some desperate move to keep control. The scientist is aiming for Joaquín, but she’s not half as fast as the Avenger. 

Even if the drugs are weighing her down, and every muscle in her body is screaming at her not to, she shifts her weight, ducks under Joaquin’s arm, and slams her fist into Krane’s jaw with everything she has.

It’s not graceful. Not elegant. It's not powered or calculated.

It’s just…personal.

Joaquín lets out a low whistle as she nearly drops to her knees, but he catches her immediately. With ease, he’s lifting her into his arms, and she’s pressing her forehead into the crook of his neck with a wrecked sigh. All the strength she had left was put into that punch, and with Krane down –she’s able to finally drop her guard and give into the exhaustion. 

Vaguely, she’s aware of Sam telling Joaquín to get her out of here. But her body is exhausted, and finally quits on her as Joaquín promises he’s going to get her out of there. 

-><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><-

Luckily, she’s only in the hospital two nights. One night to clear her system of whatever drugs Krane had given her, a hook up to an IV to get her body regulated again, and another night for observation. Outside of drawing a little more blood than she should have, Krane didn’t intend to kill the hero –she intended to use the hero as a blueprint for more. 

Her apartment is still out of commission –smoke damaged and a crime scene, naturally –so he takes her back to his place. Sam brings her some clothes, and Joaquín zips her into his hoodie, saying she’s going to stay with him until she’s 100% again. He waits for an argument from her, but it never comes; she just slips herself into the passenger seat of his car and tells him to drive slowly.

The first few days are easy enough; she spends most of them asleep in his room, tucked into his bed like she belongs there. He makes her get up to shower and eat, but otherwise he lets her chill and recover from everything. He tries to leave her be during the day, especially when she’s asleep, but sometimes he just lays in there with her. Letting her curl into his side as he watches whatever is on T.V., holding her through the recovery. Maybe they should have talked about what this is between them, but Joaquín thinks there’s no reason to anymore. 

By the end of the week, she’s up and moving. 

More than that, really. 

Joaquín stepped out to help Sam with the last few details with Krane. He’d been gone maybe an hour –two tops. Left her in bed, sitting up and scrolling through her phone with a kiss to her temple and a promise to get dinner when he got back.

So imagine his surprise when he walks into his apartment and she’s standing in his kitchen, wearing one of his T-shirts and nothing else, cooking dinner. There’s music playing, and she’s singing along as she scrolls through the instructions on her phone. Joaquín can’t help it as he stares, arms crossed over his chest. This is the most awake she’s been in days, and the thought that maybe he has even a little influence on that makes him smile.

Pushing off the doorframe, he slips in behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. “Mírate...mi cielo,” he murmurs against her ear, grinning as he looks over the ingredients on the counter. “Need some help?”

She glances up at him, and the smile she gives him could knock him out if he really wanted it to. “I’m almost done –you can take the pan out of the oven though.”

He hums, debating. “If I do that, I gotta let you go. And I don’t think I wanna do that.”

“At least turn off the oven so it doesn’t burn,” she counters, but she’s reaching over to do it herself.

The motion is innocent enough –but combined with her bare legs and his shirt and her ass brushing against him as she does it…Joaquín’s grip on her waist tightens some, cock twitching in his jeans, before he turns her around and presses her against the nearest clean countertop. She raises a brow up at him, but there’s a smirk on her face as her arms wrap around his neck.

“I take it you’re not hungry,” she teases but she’s cut off as he lifts her onto the counter.

“Oh baby, I’m starving,” he reassures, hands sliding down her waist now to grip her thighs, parting them so he can stand between them; pressing the growing bulge in his jeans against her center. “But I’m gonna need to start with dessert.”

“What are the odds one of us gets kidnapped again?” She jokes, pulling him closer by the back of his neck.

“Let’em try to take you from me again,” he promises, fingers trailing up her bare thighs and over the front of her panties. 

He nearly groans at the wet spot he feels, toying with her carefully through the damp fabric. The sigh she lets out, coupled with how her head tilts back, encourages him to pull her closer to the edge of the counter and kneel down between her legs. Slipping them over his shoulders, he presses open mouth kisses on the inside of her thighs before finally kissing the fabric that’s slick.

Her hands find his hair almost instantly, and he grins against her as he pulls the ruined garment down her legs finally. With how much they’ve teased each other over the years, and how often he’s thought about this exact moment, he wants to take it slow. Wants to drown himself in between her legs. But now that he’s here, all thoughts escape him as he licks a stripe from top to bottom, groaning at the taste. Then it’s entirely useless to consider what he’s going to do next, because all he wants is to feel her cum on his face as he dives in entirely.

The fingers in his hair tug, and the gasps coming from her lips only push him further into her as he sucks on her clit. With two fingers, he spreads her wider, allowing both a better view and more room as his tongue laps up into her entirely, taking in every ounce of her that he can. 

“Fuck,” she breathes out, and her legs are shaking. “Joaquín, please –I need –,”

Mouth still on her, he looks up through his lashes at the mess she is. Then, he pulls away just enough for her hips to chase his mouth but his fingers are what she meets. She writhes under his touch, fingers tightening in his curls as he spreads his spit and her slick all over her.

“What d’you need?” He asks, teasing, barely touching her now as her hips buck off the counter. “Gotta use your words, cariño.”

“Touch me,” she begs, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. “Please, I need you to –,”

“Like this?” 

His finger slides inside with ease, and the feeling of her clenching around just the one is enough to spur him on and he pulls her into a messy kiss. Her frantic yes, yes, yes’s are swallowed as he licks into her mouth, letting her taste herself on his tongue. Then, he slips another finger inside and she bites at his bottom lip, causing him to groan in response. Her grip on his hair tightens, hips moving against his hand, a silent plea to keep going. 

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” He murmurs into the kiss, breaking it only to trail wet kisses down her jaw and over her neck. She’s nodding frantically against him, eyes screwed shut as he picks up his speed and brushes her clit with his thumb. 

That seems to be her undoing as she cries out, clenching around his fingers tight as he feels her drip down his hand. He doesn’t pull away, but slows down his movements, easing her through the orgasm as her body shudders and falls limp against his chest. When she’s finally come down is when he finally slides his fingers from her sensitive core, causing her to shudder at the feeling.

“You good?” He asks softly but she’s dramatically falling back onto the countertop with a sigh. 

“I’m…much more than good,” she manages to say, leaning on her elbows to look up at him. 

Her eyes are trailing over him now –taking in the slick that he’s certain is on his face, down to his hand that’s still wet from her orgasm then to his dick that’s too hard to hide at this point. The gears are turning in her head; he can practically see them as she sits up and reaches for his belt. He’s about to stop her, tell her that she doesn’t need to return the favor, but then he’s swept up in a whoosh and they’re falling back into his bed.

“Fuck, I hate when you do that,” he complains, but there’s no bite in his tone as she reaches out for him. 

“You’ll get used to it,” she promises, tugging his shirt off over his head. 

Joaquín doesn’t hesitate to toss it to the side, fumbling with his belt and jeans next to kick them off. Then she’s throwing the shirt she has on into the pile, and he leans back into the pillows, staring shamelessly up at her. Every curve, every scar, every freckle –he’s staring like he’s trying to memorize every inch of her skin just in case she suddenly changes her mind.

But she doesn’t.

Thank god, she doesn’t as she finds herself straddling his hips with her hands on his chest. Joaquín sits up, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her into him, trying to get as close to her as possible. Her hips roll against him as she pulls him in once again, kissing him like her life depends on it. His hands are guiding her hips, dragging her against his cock in order to coat him in the remnants of her first orgasm. 

The head of his cock catches her clit, and she gasps into his mouth. Joaquín grins into the kiss, unable to help himself, as he looks up at her again. His other hand gropes her chest, pinching and twisting at her nipples as he bites at her bottom lip.

“Joaquín, please,” she sighs, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe over his lips. She’s reaching between their bodies now to grasp his hard cock in her hands. “I need you –I need –,”

“What do you need, cariño?” He teases, trying to keep his hips from bucking up into her. “Take what you want, baby. C’mon…,”

She nods frantically, rising up onto her knees above him. Joaquín’s gaze drops to her hand around him, where she’s guiding his cock into her soaked core. As she slowly eases him into her, one of her hands shoots up to grip his arm, digging her nails into the skin to distract from the stretch. Joaquín’s head falls back again as she sinks down on him, his hands dropping to her ass just to hold something. Because if he doesn’t –shit, he’s going to lose any semblance of control he has.

Her grip on his arm tightens as their hips meet again, sinking him entirely inside her as she tries to adjust to his size. Joaquín groans as her walls clenched around him, and his hips involuntarily buck up –causing her to cry out in surprise and lurch forward, her hands gripping his shoulders tight. With her tits in his face, and his hands grasping her ass, Joaquín is done for –fuck control, he needed to ruin her.

Joaquín trails his fingers down her arms before wrapping them back around her hips, holding her tight against him as he pistons up into her. Not expecting that, a surprised cry leaves her lips as he catches her mouth with his again. He pulls her up, and she gets the hint as she rises to meet his thrusts, bouncing on his cock to bring herself closer and closer to the edge.

“Been thinking about you like this for so long,” he admits. He punctuates his last word with a hard thrust up that has the tip of his cock grazing a spot so deep inside her it makes her drop her face into his neck, crying out his name again.

“Fuck, Joaquín –you feel so good– please, god– please, please–,” Her words die in her throat when he yanks her down particularly hard, pressing her hips down to meet him and holding her there in slow, hard grind. She lets out a choked sob of his name, clenching hard around him and stealing a low moan from the back of his throat. 

She moans again, and Joaquín jolts up some as he feels her tongue trailing over the vein in his neck and over his jaw. Her mouth is on his again, and he can feel her tightening around him as her wetness starts to smear between their bodies. The sound of their skin slapping against skin only urges him forward, each thrust becoming messier and harder. It’s almost too much as his one hand dipped between their bodies, fingers fluently toying with her clit.

“Ven para mí,” he manages to breathe against her lips, nipping at her bottom one. “Cum for me again, baby, please –need you to cum on my cock –,”

Between the touch on her clit and the thrusts up into her, Joaquín can tell she’s close and he’d be damned if he came before her. Kissing her harder –all tongue, and teeth, and spit –he speeds up his thrusts in time with his fingers on her clit. She bites his lip for a moment before she gasps, closing her eyes tight as her body tenses up under him, only to spasm around him as she comes undone again. The only sound she makes are airy gasps of his name, begging him to keep going. Joaquín isn’t far behind as he thrusts up into her a few more times before his hips stutter against her. 

“Where –,”

“Inside –god, please,” she insists, holding tight to him as if afraid to lose his touch. “Pill -,”

Joaquín doesn’t think twice as he nods, taking hold of her jaw to kiss her again as he tenses up below her. He rolls his hips once, twice –then groans into her mouth as he fills her deep. She’s grinding against him still, riding out both of their orgasms now, as they both slowly come down. 

Then she drops against him, breathing heavily. Joaquín’s hand drops away from her jaw, pulling her back with him as he collapses on the bed. Her forehead presses against his neck, tucked just under his chin as she tries to catch her breath. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a breath himself, as he savors the moment of her skin against his, holding her close to his chest.

They lay like this for a while –basking in each other’s touch, enjoying the warmth both are feeling. Joaquín is still buried inside her, still half-hard, but he makes no move to pull out. Not when she’s laying on him like this, melting into his touch. Just as he’s about to say something –ask her if she wants to take a bath or something –both their phones ring. The same ringtone, for the same person –texting them both at the same time.

“You think he knows he’s always interrupting?” She asks, but her voice is hoarse. 

“There’s no way he doesn’t,” Joaquín responds, but he doesn’t move from the bed. Instead, he pulls her closer and pulls the blankets up over them both. “He can figure it out without us.”

“You know he’s gonna show up at the door,” she points out, but she’s pressing herself somehow closer to him as his arms tighten around her. 

“I don’t even care –I got my girl in my arms. He’ll understand.”

-------

Taglist: @messrkarmaismygf13 @thecowboyfiles (you asked me to share with the class so here we are)

[endahouselikecarpet]

Date Everything x Reader

Overly Emotional Reader

[taking a break from my Maggie series with this. Reader is basically that one vine of the girl getting knocked off the bed and yelling, “I’m SENSITIVE, Aubrey!” Also, I didn’t proof read this and I’m half asleep, so sorry if things are a bit jumbled. Will fix things later as needed]

Volt - he walked into the room to see you sobbing. “ Livewire? Oh! Come here, love!" He quickly rushed over to you and pulled you into his arms. “ There now. I've got you." he would hum as his hold would tighten. After you had settled a bit, he leaned back to wipe some tears from your face and look in your eyes. “Now, what has my livewire so upset, hm?“

You gave a few more sniffles before croaking out, "I thought about Eddie being mad at me."

His face creased with concern," Is Eddie mad at you?"

When you shook your head and buried your face into his jacket, Volt couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You’re overthinking things, love.” He soothed, “Come on, let’s go find him so he and I can kiss you all better.”

Timothy- “You were almost late!” He meant it more as a tease rather than an actual scold. However, that didn’t stop your lip from starting to quiver and your eyes from starting to well up. Honestly, he is so awkward about it at first tries to get you to stop by going, “Now, now! We don’t have time to cry written on the schedule!”

You try to stop, but that just makes you almost start hyperventilating. At this point, Timothy was wringing his tail trying to not panic and think of a solution.

Then it hit him- what’s the point of being part cat of you don’t act like it?

Loathe as he was to admit it, his Timmy side was handily bleeding through as he started nestling his head on your shoulder and purring in an attempt to calm you. It was a little embarrassing, but it was the least he could do after upsetting you.

Curt and Rod- You were all joking around and it accidentally went a bit too far. You still made yourself laugh and smile a bit because you didn’t want to make them feel bad. That didn’t stop them from noticing immediately though. “Aw, Curt! Look what you did!” Rod scolded as he pulled you into a hug.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to! Besides, you were in on it too!” Curt huffed as he tried to pull you away from Rod and to him.

“Huh-uh! I don’t think so!” Rod huffed as he turned around, “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll keep you safe from that bully!”

“I’m the bully? I’m the bully?! You’re the one holdin’ them captive!” Curt would argue as he tried to get around to you.

They use you for tug of war like this to try to get you to laugh again, but will stop if it’s making things worse.

Drysdale- He had just gotten done practicing a new routine, when he noticed you crying in the laundry room. He tried to see if he could spot the problem from where he was, but made his way over to you when he couldn’t. “Chin up, cherub! I’m sure whatever happened isn’t that bad.” He tried to encourage.

“But…but… it’s too much!” You barely got out.

“Too much? Are you feeling overwhelmed about something?” Drysdale was getting concerned.

“Soap…”

“Beg pardon?” Now he was perplexed.

What you said next was so fast and stuttered he almost didn’t understand it. “I accidentally put too much detergent in the washer and now Washford is going to be angry at me!”

He looked at the measuring cup in your hand and saw it was stained to the half cup mark instead of the fourth cup like you usually used. While it was indeed a bit overkill, it was still nothing that would do any harm.

“Oh, come, come! Our dear Washford could never be angry with you. You’re too darling for that to be possible! Not to mention, a little extra cleaning might be just what he needs.” Drysdale whispered the last part to you with a laugh.

“I heard that.” A deep voice scolded from behind you both.

Stella- You were about halfway up the stairs when you just stopped and silently started to cry. Stella is quick to check on you. “Dear, are you alright? Why are you crying?” She asks gently.

“I don’t know,” you reply.

“Oh, well, if you don’t know, then I don’t know how to help you.” She put a bit of a teasing tone to try to lighten things up.

“I’m sorry.” You try to stop, but it’s no use.

“Don’t apologize. You just focus on feeling better.” She shushes

Reggie- “Oh, we are gonna have to work on that or this world is gonna chew you up and spit you out.” They were almost in disbelief at how soft you were. The sort of person that will upset you (not too much, just enough to get you a bit tougher), but if anyone else even thinks about upsetting your it is over for them.

If anyone thinks they’re going to outdo Reggie, then they don’t know Reggie.

[holdinsteddie]

prompt: scarf

(for @miss-bushido , originally posted on bsky here)

[cw: omegaverse]

Okay, so.

The thing is— well. Eddie doesn’t really know what the thing is, is the thing.

Let’s backtrack: Eddie is an omega. Not a very typical one, mind you, but he is one and actually likes being one, despite what others might think.

He loves nesting and scenting his friends and making people feel welcomed and loved. Yes, he can have a prickly exterior and has been known to growl or hiss should the situation call for it (and sometimes when it doesn’t), but the fact of the matter is he’s actually very soft and squishy. A melty-ball of tender omega goop wrapped up in a spikey metal-head exterior. He can be multidimensional, okay?

Anyway. Back to backtracking:

Eddie is an omega.

Steve Harrington is also an omega, much to the surprise of basically all of Hawkins when he’d first presented.

Eddie had been surprised too, until he actually got to know Steve after going through Literal Hell™️ together.

What better pack bonding than defeating an evil inter-dimensional wizard that looks like the human(?) embodiment of an STD, right?

Eddie learned that while he loved being an omega and that it fit him in a way that worked for him, Steve seemed born to be an omega.

Yeah, he could be bitchy, but he loved and cared for the pack’s pups with all the love of the force of 500 moms, give or take. He was like, the epitome of Omega Mom. Always making sure that everyone was properly scented and well fed and had unlimited access to the pack nest he’d set up in his house. And during the winter, he was wrapping everyone up in scent-thick winter gear.

The pups (re: Mike) had complained exactly one (1) time about it. Steve hadn’t said anything, but had looked so sad that Robin had growled in the way that only pissed-off alphas can and had scared the shit out of everyone present. (Eddie included).

Anyway, sorry, keep getting distracted. All of this to say: Eddie is confused.

Because Eddie is an omega, and Steve is an omega, and if it were anyone else, Eddie would think that he maybe possibly might be… being… courted?

Because, that— that’s what it’s starting to feel like.

It had started a few weeks ago, when Steve had wrapped a scarf around his neck before sending him off to play with the pups in the snow. It was thick and warm, a deep black color with delicate silver accents only visible when you look closely. It was beautiful and had smelled so strongly of Steve’s woodsmoke-and-basil scent that he had kept his nose buried in it the entire time he’d worn it.

And if he’d sighed despondently when he’d hung it back up in Steve’s coat closet, that was between him and God.

(And maybe Max. She’d given him a knowing smirk that had drastically increased his blood pressure.)

Which is why he was surprised when, a few days later, he’d finished up his shift at the shop and walked out to his van only to find that same scarf wrapped around the driver’s side mirror.

He’d stared at it for a moment before slowly approaching and carefully unwrapping it.

And because he was a weak, weak man, he’d immediately brought it up to his nose and inhaled deeply. God, he loved Steve’s scent so much — it made him think of dinners cooked over a fire, hearty and warm and home.

Eddie hadn’t thought about it much at the time, and had brushed the sudden re-appearance of the scarf as Steve being extra thoughtful and doing rounds on the pack.

Eddie had worn it home (and maybe had snuggled it a bit, shut up Wayne) and then the next day he’d made sure to drop it back off at Steve’s.

But then it had reappeared the next day, this time at the coffee shop waiting for him at his usual spot.

And it kept reappearing, anywhere and everywhere, no matter how many times he returned it to Steve’s.

Which is how we get to now, with Steve standing in Eddie’s room, just outside his nest with an angry pout on his face and his hands on his hips, and Eddie having no idea what the fuck is going on.

“Why won’t you accept my courting gift?”

Eddie understands each of the words Steve said individually, but he can’t for the life of him comprehend what Steve is actually saying to him. “…What?”

Steve huffs before holding out the scarf he’d apparently been holding the whole time.

The familiar black wool with the silver thread causes Eddie’s heart to skip a beat or three, and all Eddie can do is stare at it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a part of him is screaming courting gift?? cOURTING GIFT??!! on repeat.

“What.” He gives himself a mental pat on the back for actually being able to get a single coherent word out.

The hands holding the scarf drop a little. “Look, I just—“ Steve starts, and Eddie tears his gaze from the scarf to Steve’s face.

He’s shocked to see that Steve looks… nervous, but not in a good way. “Is it— Do you— Do you not like the gift? Because I can get you something different. I’d already started making this before I’d thought to ask Robbie what I should get you but she said you’d lo— you’d like it and I thought— I just—“

Steve takes a deep breath and Eddie thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe entirely. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Steve keeps his eyes closed as he quietly continues, “I just need to know if you’re, if you’re rejecting the gift or if you’re rejecting me.”

A wounded noise punches itself out of Eddie, and before he can think, he’s tackling Steve into his nest.

Steve goes down with an oof but otherwise doesn’t resist as Eddie begins to shuffle him and his nest around until Steve is at the center, surround by all the softest and most comfortable parts of Eddie’s nest.

“Eddie?”

“Steve.” Eddie cradles Steve’s face between his palms and looks down into beautiful, confused hazel eyes. “Stevie, baby, honey, I am so, so fucking stupid.”

“Hey,” Steve retorts, brows furrowed, and Eddie wants to consume him whole.

“No, shut up. I’ve been stupid, Stevie, so stupid. You wanna know how stupid?” Steve opens his mouth but Eddie doesn’t let him answer. “I had no idea you were trying to court me.”

The way Steve freezes underneath him would be comical if Eddie didn’t feel like he was about to vibrate out of existence.

Steve blinks at him. Eddie blinks back.

“…you really didn’t know?” Steve looks so genuinely perplexed that Eddie can’t help the hysterical laugh that barks out of him.

“Didn’t have a fuckin’ clue, sweetheart.”

Steve blinks again, and his face smooths out. “Oh.” Then Steve looks up at Eddie through his lashes and Eddie wants to launch himself into the sun. “So, if I tried to give you the gift now…”

Between one blink and the next, Eddie grabs the scarf and wraps it around his neck way too many times. “Steven Harrington I am never taking this off ever again.”

Forget launching himself into the sun, all he needs to do is look at the way joy blooms in Steve’s expression to feel like he’s on fire. “Yeah?” Steve breathes.

Eddie nods vigorously, and because he feels so happy he could float, he flops over on top of Steve and attaches himself like an octopus.

“You’d better court the hell out of me, Harrington, ‘cause I’m gonna court your ass off.”

Steve laughs, and Eddie can’t wait to never get tired of the sound.

send me a 📝 and a one-word prompt and i will try and write a lil microfic for you!

[kawaiigirly21]

Our Little Soda Pop: Chapter 9

“Oh my gosh! Abby! Abby! Please!! Don't stop! Nmn! Mm!!” Natasha moaned loudly into her pillow as Abby took her from behind. His large thick cock drilling into her drippy cunt. “Good girl. Fucking take it.” He growled. His demon form fully took over his body as his clawed hands dug into her hips to flip her over on her back and put her in a deep nasty mating press.

The pair had been at it since the news of his aggression became the talk of the town. While the fans completely understood his outrage, news platforms and gossip columns made it seem like he was some coked up steroid high abuser who smacked around Natasha on the daily. Every word of theirs were complete fabrications. He was stressed. He was angry. And Natasha sweetly guided him to his own bedroom so he could have her all to himself that night.

He didn't exchange many words with the others when they entered their home, but he saw the look in Jinu's eyes. He understood as well. He probably was even proud of him. But at this time, he couldn't care. He was too busy holding Natasha down and fucking her deeply. “Abby!!! Yes! Yes!!” He hissed and growled when he felt her claws dig into his skin and rake down his back. Not deep enough to hurt him, but deep enough to leave deliciously scandalous marks.

“It feels so good!! Abby! Your cock is so deep!” Natasha moaned, completely on the urge of being fucked out. How she wasn't by that time would have baffled anyone else. But Abby knew it was her demon biology at work. But even then, it would only keep her mentally conscious for so long. “Shhh princess. Let me fuck this wet cunt in peace.” He whispered in her ear so sweetly. At that moment, when she started to tear up and babble incoherently, he knew she was done for.

She was gonna squirt and he was so ready for it. The smirk on his face said it all. Out of all of them, the only one who got her to squirt at least once, was Jinu. He and Mystery walked in on it and were completely mesmerized. Silently vowing to try it when they had the chance. “Aww you gonna cum princess? You gonna cum?” He continued to pound into the woman below him, pressing all his weight onto her while cooing in her ear. “C-cumming! Oh fuck!” She whined before she tensed up and came to a white hot release.

The feeling of her pussy clenching around his cock and the way he eyed it when she gave him what he wanted, nearly made Abby's eyes roll back as he came deep inside her hot gooey cunt. “FUCK!!” He roared loudly. His eyes glowed brightly as he panted heavily while Natasha whined under him. “You ok princess? I fuck you dumb?” He smirked, already knowing the answer.

The very next day, as Jinu and Abby talked about the incident, Mystery and Romance ran around the kitchen with efficiency making one of Natasha's more normal cravings. Strawberry milkshake pop tarts crushed up in cheesecake ice cream and caramel syrup drizzled on top. “Why does that actually look good though?” Baby asked as he walked into the kitchen grabbing a bag of chips from the cabinet.

“At least it's not watermelon and cheese dip or pickles and hot sauce. This is normal.” Romance chuckled as he watched Mystery take the bowl into Natasha. “Thank you honey.” She smiled softly as she took the bowl. “Doll! Do you mind if I turn on the tv?” Baby asked while sitting next to Natasha on the other side. “Go ahead.” After turning on the tv, Baby almost immediately fell asleep. “Unbelievable.” Mystery mumbled.

“He's been up all night trying to do damage control online honey. He needs it.” Natasha smiled before reaching over and turning the Tv off. Mystery then laid his head on Natasha's stomach to try and listen to the baby's heartbeat. “It's faint… but there. Hi little one.” He smiled softly. “So I got a call from this talk show, they want us on there and they want you too darling.” Romance said as he sat on the floor in front of the couch.

“I bet it's because of what Abby did.” Jinu replied as he and Abby walked over to the group. “Yea, we're getting so much support from the fans. They even started trying to name the baby. It hasn't even been born yet but you know how they are.” Natasha then sighed.

“I'm not sure I'm ready to be in front of a camera like that again. Back when I was famous… It was literal hell trying to get privacy. Once, a photographer took risque photos of me in a bathhouse and they were online for everyone to see. I had to lay low for months after that. I was called a whore for being lewd and everything.” Jinu nodded before pulling out his phone. “What was that guy's name? Just asking for… research.” He replied.

“I don't remember babe. I really don't…” Tears began to prick at her eyes. “I'm sorry. I know I'm being dramatic but I don't think I can handle another scandal..” Mystery then lifted his head. “Who said you had to? We'll be with you the entire time. And if they have something to say, then.. Well, we're always thirsty.” He smirked, showing off his teeth.

“You can't eat them.” Natasha replied. “Not even a nibble?” Baby yawned as he woke from his nap. “Not even a nibble… well… maybe? But you can't be obvious about it.” She responded. “Loooove you.” Baby smiled as he leaned over and pressed a sweet kiss to her cheek. “I love you too. All of you.”

Chapter 10

[prettyboystories]

Megumi // Shaving

774 words Premise: You and Megumi are childhood best friends; you help him shave his face Warnings: Female Reader implied, boners mentioned

“What do you even shave for?” you asked curiously, side-eyeing Megumi as you spat your toothpaste out and watched your friend dab the shaving cream on. “You don’t grow any facial hair.”

Megumi’s hand stilled as his eyes met yours and he tilted his head.

“...my face is clean because I shave every day.”

You appraised him with a childishly horrified look. “No way. I touch your face plenty. There’s no stubble.”

The corner of Megumi’s lips quirked up. “Yeah, because I shave it every morning.”

You stared at his shaving cream covered face for a while before scrunching your nose in displeasure, either at the mental image of him with a beard or his potential for growing one.

“What are you thinking of?” Megumi asked you after a few moments of wordless staring.

“Monkeys,” you answered and he dead-panned, scoffing at your association, prompting you to give him an apologetic smile. “Can I try?”

“Shaving?”

“You,” you confirmed with a quick, eager nod.

“S-sure,” Megumi nodded instinctively. Maybe Nobara had a point when she called him a pushover in regards to you. “Just be gentle.”

You led him to the side of the bathtub, pushing him to sit as you stood between his legs and tilted his head up for yourself.

“I won’t let your pretty face come to harm in my hands.”

You took the razor from between his fingers and started ever so slowly and carefully bringing it across his face. Megumi watched your eyes focus on your task.

“You don’t actually have to be that careful,” he chuckled softly when you turned to clean the razor before turning back around to him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you replied and changed nothing about your diligent movements. If his face hadn’t been spotless before, it definitely would be now.

“Would I be a bad person if I requested that you never grow a beard?” you mused, catching his gaze and giving him a fond smile.

“Oh please, we’re Japanese and I’m sixteen. I can’t actually grow a full beard even if I tried.”

“Good,” you assessed with a satisfied nod. “You’re too pretty to hide behind hair.”

Megumi let out a huff and turned away at your words to which you tutted and turned his head back so you could finish the last of your shaving.

“No compliments today?” you asked kindly though, ever careful with him.

“It’s just different when you’re so close, saying them quietly and… reverently.”

You just gave him a half amused smile before stroking the back of your pointer finger over Megumi’s now clean cheek and cupping said cheek as you brought your lips to his forehead because Megumi’s best friend was careful but cruel, too.

As you were about to step away, Megumi held on to two of your fingers and you looked back.

“Do you really find it gross? That I grow hair there?”

You hummed and tilted your head like the question required some amount of deep pondering.

“No,” you finally surmised. “As long as it’s shaven off at least, I just find it curious that you grow it. And it doesn’t gross me out like men’s armpit hair so I’m free to appreciate this boyish feature of yours.”

You underlined your assessment by smoothing your thumb over his clean chin once more before trailing it down his neck and over his Adam’s apple, pressing just softly enough that it was only mildly unpleasant. You’d finally learned to keep your touch gentle there.

He huffed your name regardless.

“Megu,” you replied with a smile. “Aren’t you happy I can appreciate these differences of yours now?”

He was. Of course he was. He was forever grateful that he and you were able to maintain their close bond despite all the effort the people around them, Japan and society at large had put into teaching boys like him that girls like you were embarrassing to play with, associate with or be alike in any way. As well as then warning girls that boys were just like that and fostering subtle resentment against them as pseudo-revenge for the resentment they faced first.

“I don’t know if I’d say ‘appreciate’,” he still countered. “You poke at my neck, scrunch your nose at my ‘monkey-hair’ and giggle at my boners.”

“They poke me when we cuddle. I’m allowed to giggle,” you stated. “Be grateful I find them cute.”

“Yeah, you are,” Megumi agreed with a sigh. The chuckling about his ‘horniness antenna’ was perfectly fine, much better than if he’d ever made you uncomfortable. “Think you’d want to ever do this again? You’re very diligent about it.”

[stevesgother]

Give me Steddie where Eddie's having a depressive episode and his best friend Steve (who he definitely does not have feelings for and who does not have feelings for Eddie) comes over to check on him and finds him in a complete state of disrepair.

Eddie's curled in on himself atop his bed, tangled in his duvet. He hasn't even been able to bring himself to drag his tired body to the living room to rot there instead; anything he's eaten in the past week was brought to his room and all but force fed to him by Wayne.

And Steve-- who knows he gets like this every year around the anniversary of his mother's passing despite him having been young enough to barely remember it-- makes his way to the Munson trailer equipped with an arsenal of tender love and care.

His knocks go unanswered, obviously. So, he lets himself in.

The trailer is dead quiet; dust floats in the beams of late-afternoon light that filter in from the windows. He knows exactly where to find his friend.

Steve pushes into Eddie's bedroom shoulder-first, "Hey, champ."

"Don't call me that." Eddie mutters, voice muffled with annoyance and where his mouth presses into his decade old, flat-as-board pillow.

"Sorry- would you prefer 'buddy'? Or maybe 'greaseball'?" Steve sets down the grocery bag of random shit he brought on Eddie's desk, "I think I like greaseball."

Steve's aware that the only way to penetrate Eddie's exterior when he's like this is with humor. But Eddie's not laughing, despite his shoulders shaking.

"Oh, dude- I'm sorry, man. I was just messing around," Steve assures him, rushing to sit by his side on the edge of Eddie's bed.

"I know," Eddie sniffles, congested.

Hesitantly, Steve pulls the covers off of Eddie's limp body, skin so pale you could see the blue outlines of his veins, despite it being the middle of July already. Eddie had always been a beautiful shade of milky quartz, but this was something different entirely.

When Eddie shifts, he can see the knot of tangled hair at the crown of his head; can smell the body odor that only comes from days of rotting in your bed. Steve doesn't mind though, doesn't even flinch.

"Don't- I'm gross." Eddie protests when Steve tries to touch him.

"Don't care," Steve waves, "Let's get you in the shower though, yeah?"

A fresh round of tears begins to well in the corners of Eddie's eyes, "I can't. I don't feel like I can."

"It's okay, I'll help." Steve tells him without a second thought, like that's what he was planning on doing anyway whether Eddie felt strong enough or not.

Eddie's brows marry, "Like, in the shower?" He asks with an air of incredulity.

"Why not? We're both guys, it's not weird. You can wear swim trunks if you feel more comfortable."

So that's how they end up in the shower, both naked as the day they were born, because that's normal for buddies to do, right? If Eddie were less depressed, maybe he'd be more embarrassed. If Steve were less concerned for Eddie's wellbeing, maybe he'd be more turned on. They will not talk about this later.

Steve's fingernails scratch soothingly through Eddie's scalp, massaging the shampoo as thoroughly as possible; he doesn't know if he'll ever have this opportunity again, and he wants to make Eddie feel good. Always.

His fingers comb the knots out of his long black curls, coating them with cedar scented conditioner. Steve's never been so privy to Eddie's smell before. In the foggy shower, he's surrounded by it-- like a cloud of his greatest desire.

After a while, it seems the energy it's taking to hold his head upright is more than Eddie possess. He rests his forehead tentatively against Steve's damp shoulder, breathes deep when he realizes Steve isn't pushing him away.

The contrary, actually. Steve pulls him in closer, wraps his solid arms around Eddie's frail frame and rubs circles into his back where the soap runs down the notches in his spine.

"I love you, Teddy." Steve speaks softly into Eddie's ear. The only person Eddie allows to call him that. The only person who's ever wanted to.

"I love you, too."

[c00ki3sandcr3am]

Lumiran Season

Rafayel x MC (Unnamed) | Smut +18

A/n: Heyy lads fans! My friend and I were talking about how in one of the cards it depicts Rafayel going trough some kind of heat. It got me thinking about a lot of different things so I made this one shot! Please don’t read if you are under 18, and I hope you enjoy as I don’t usually write smut.

Tags: Heat!Rafayel, (semi) submissive Rafayel, (slightly) teasing bottom MC, afab MC, female + male genitalia, multiple penises, dual penetration

Word Count: 3.5k

The night had fallen not too long ago, the breeze by the water cool as it wafts from the open balcony doors, pushing the thin curtains, though the cool air stung as it blew onto Rafayel’s skin. His cheeks were flushed, uncharacteristically dark, and the heat across his body was agony, like a fever but over every orifice of his skin. It was his time of the month, the dreaded day when he could barely contain himself, an unquenchable thirst filling him, his mouth salivating with need, and his body stiff in anticipation. He only envied humans for one reason: their ability to keep in control, never to have to feel as though stimulation alone is not enough. 

Rafayel couldn’t do much; he couldn’t paint while his angry members pressed against his tight jeans, he could barely even walk without the slight friction of his clothes making his members leak. He spent all day in bed, the side of his face pressed against his plush pillows, body completely naked, yet dripping with sweat, and his hands working simultaneously on his members. It didn’t matter how many times, how long, if he used his hands or toys, or even how he jerked off, every release only made him harder. By night, he was desperate, practically crying into his pillows as he orgasms once more, his members still hard and standing tall. He’s an absolute mess, his lower stomach, pelvis, and the top of his thighs are covered in his cum, dried and wet. It was unsightly to him, but he couldn’t help himself. What was he supposed to do?

MC arrived at a terrible time, forced to pull Rafayel from his mansion to the art show he was supposed to be at. She thought that maybe he didn’t care enough, which is expected from him, but as she opened the front door with the house key he gave her, and she saw that all the lights in the house were off, she was confused. A bit of anxiety rose from her stomach to her chest, worried that something might have happened to him. Though the two aren’t exactly together, they are close enough that she worries about his well-being. She carefully closes the front door behind her and walks further into the house, her shoes discarded at the door, her light and calm voice calls out for him.

“Rafayel?”

Her voice echoed throughout the halls, but no answer. 

Rafayel shot up slightly at the sound of her voice, though quiet beyond the door, it reached his ears. His hands stop, the warmth burning up his body once more as he stops the stimulation. Rafayel gulps, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip as he thinks for a moment, Why is she here? What do I do? I can’t let her see me like this. At a time, perhaps long ago, he would feel comfortable to let her see him like this, he would invite it actually, and she could help him. But this her is different; they aren’t as close as they once were, he couldn’t allow her to see him like this. Though he told himself to move, go into the bathroom so she couldn’t just bust in, his body was taut, practically a statue in bed. It wasn’t only because his heat has warped his brain temporarily, but deep inside himself he wants her to see him. Needs her to, actually. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand yearning for her. His senses were clouded by his own lust, unable to exactly gauge where she was in the house, but the anticipation thumped in his chest and tingled down to his toes, drool sliding down to his jaw from his open mouth, further presenting his thirst.

MC approached the door with apprehension. She had checked all the regular areas Rafayel would usually be at, yet he was nowhere to be found. She stood outside of his bedroom door for just a moment, trying to listen to see if he was in a compromising position, like getting changed, but all she could hear was his breathing. MC rolled her eyes, of course, he’s asleep. She thought. He didn’t really care about anything but himself most of the time it seemed like. With an exasperated expression and a deep sigh, she opens the door, ready to give him a scolding. She didn’t really react at first, still so convinced that he’s just sleeping, that when she saw his sweaty, messy, body completely spread on top of the strewn sheets, and members standing tall and leaking from the head, she stopped. MC stares at him for a second, her expression still holding frustration, but flattens slightly, shocked for a moment, before quickly changing to intrigue.

“Rafayel…”

Her mouth was open as she tried to say something else. It wasn’t that the scene was so obscene that she was shocked, it’s actually a rather pleasant sight, it’s the fact of what is there to say? Why speak at all when you can just act?

The sound of his own name spoken in her light tone, falling from the parting of those beautiful lips, nearly sent him to another orgasm alone. Rafayel’s purple eyes stared at MC, eyes dilated from the pleasure that the pink in the center was barely visible, his naked chest rose and fell with each heavy breath. He snaps to his senses for a moment, his head turns to the side, looking towards the open balcony as he lets a shaky breath escape him.

“MC…You-you shouldn’t be here…”

He spoke with a light, timid tone. It didn’t catch MC off guard at all, that timid, pouty tone is all too familiar to her, she notices that his fallen walls were building back up right in front of her. She steps into the dark room, the moon giving all the lighting needed, the shadows just as sensual as the atmosphere around them. She closes the door behind her, eyes watching Rafayel continue his timid act, as if it’ll make her go away. She slowly approaches him, her feet quietly padding against the hard floor, a small smirk on her full lips as she feels herself become hotter in her lower stomach.

“You are the one who shouldn’t be here…You know you have somewhere to be.”

Her tone is teasing, yet holds a matter-of-fact edge. She stops at the foot of the bed, tilting her head as Rafayel continues to deny her his gaze. She crawls onto the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, causing Rafayel to blush and gulp, which doesn't go unnoticed by MC, a wider smile stretching across her lips. She sits on her knees, leaning down her hands lightly trailing up Rafayel’s bare legs, and her head hovers just over his left leg, ready to kiss across the skin. Rafayel’s shaved legs twitched, a gasp escaping him as just the mere touch of her cool hands brought him more pleasure than what he felt all day. Rafayel looks back towards her, eyes looking down, seeing her head press against his leg, lips kissing up from his ankle to his calf. His breath was taken from his as their eyes lock, MC’s tongue dragging up from his knee to the start of his thigh, her body moving in closer towards him.

“Is this why you didn’t come to the event?...Because you were being naughty? That’s pretty shameful of you.”

MC’s voice held a dominianting tone, one that is unlike her usual sassiness, it catches Rafayel off guard, a mix between another gasp and a moan vibrating in his throat and passing his parted lips. MC gives him a teasing look, her eyes dark and lusty as her body inches up further, her face now right next to his members. This is not the first time she’s come face to face with his…unique feature, even the first time it didn’t disgust her, it made her more excited. She had spent countless nights wondering what it would be like to have both inside her at once, the thought as tantalizing as it actually happening. MC could tell the Rafayel was a little gone, his body trembling against the mattress, one hand gripping the sheets as the other was over his head, gripping his pillow, mouth parted as he panted, and his purple eyes full of anticipation. He is abnormally quiet; by now, he would have made some sassy remark or would have found a way to make her go away, but not tonight. MC could tell that there was something special going on tonight.

If he doesn’t want to talk, then she won’t talk either. After all, there isn’t really much room for words anyway, only actions. She reaches a hand out, her head resting against his thigh, her fingers curling around both of his members. Though her fingers could barely hold onto both, it makes the two appendages press tightly together, and as her hand jerks up and down slowly, it makes the members rub together as well. Rafayel moans, high and desperate, as the feel of her hand on him, her fingers tickling the skin of his shafts, precum dribbling from the head down to her fingers. Rafayel’s body is pulled taut, his bucking up into her hand before buckling back down, the action repeating. Hot breaths escape him, his stomach tightening, as a few tears prickle in the corners of his eyes, brows arched up in pleasure, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, and his half-lidded eyes stare at MC as she works.

The pleasure that fills Rafayel is too great, toe-curling, as MC only works her hand faster at his response. Yet, it’s not enough. Why would it be? His thirst was so great, too great, that simply jerking off was not going to help him. He needed more. He needed to feel the warmth of being inside a woman, this woman in particular. Rafayel could feel something inside of him snap, while his body felt as heavy as an anvil previously, a surge of animalistic desire shot through him, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time. Rafayel sits up from his spot, the pillow dented from where he lay for hours, his hands reaching to grip MC’s wrist, pausing her ministrations on his members, his purple eyes looking down at her as she looks up at him, confused.

“What’s wrong? You’re obviously desperate enough for this.”

MC states. She holds her confused expression as she rises up to her knees, staring at him, face to face. She can see Rafayel huffing, his fingers holding her wrist tightly as his eyes look down to his lap. She notices that he’s trying to hold back, probably because they’ve never gone all the way before. She wonders how he can be so out of control, yet in control at the same time. Rafayel can feel his desire heating up faster than he can control, heating up his entire body once more, burning him, but he didn’t want to do anything without her consent. Taking what he wanted, regardless if she feels good, without making sure it’s okay first, didn’t feel right, especially since he will completely ravage her with no regard. He gulps deeply, his purple eyes looking back up into MC’s obvious lust in his gaze, his intentions not at all hidden.

“MC…I need help…Please, help me…”

MC can feel a smirk stretch upon her full lips for just a moment, before she puts on a fake sympathetic look, her lips pursing out ever so slightly. She pulls her hands from his grip and moves to lie back onto the bed, against the soft pillows, her hands grabbing his biceps and pulling him down on top of her. Her hands trail up from the lean, yet muscular, arms to his back, finger trailing down his spine, causing him to shiver ever so slightly.

“Oh, you poor thing…Of course I’ll help you…What do you want me to do?”

She spoke to him like you would to a hurt child, pretending to coddle him as her fingers continued to caress him. Rafayel lets out a shaky breath, his arms on either side of her head as he lifts himself up, his body hovering over hers. He looks down at her, his mouth still open as he lets out quick puffs, a yearning expression on his face.

“Just…Just let me have you…”

Rafayle’s voice is low, barely raised above a whisper. His purple eyes search MC’s, a silent plea as his hands curl up into fists against the sheets. MC let out a soft breath, her hands pressing fully against his back, her nails pressing ever so slightly into his pale skin, leaving small marks from under them.

“Of course. When did you think you couldn’t have me?”

At her words, Rafayel lowers himself closer, their noses touching as his head tilts to the side, taking her full lips against his. A soft, wet sound reaches their ears as their lips connect, Rafayel breathing into MC’s mouth as her lips part for him, his hot tongue sliding into her mouth. A soft moan vibrates in Rafayel’s throat as their tongues touch, the taste of her mouth across his taste buds. His tongue glides across every surface of her own, sliding and pressing the muscles together as heavy breaths fan across both of their skin, MC’s fingers digging a bit deeper into his back.

Rafayel, fully prepared to stay in that kiss forever, pulls away to allow her to catch her breath. MC’s cheeks slightly flushed, she breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling as her lust-filled eyes stare up and Rafayel as they open. She can feel her arousal growing, a heat spreading from her lower stomach to her between her legs, a familiar wetness slicking up the sensitive area. MC removes her hands from Rafayel’s back, her fingers gently pulling down the strap of her dress off her shoulder. Rafayel notices and quickly helps with the removal of her dress, one hand pulling down the other sleeve as his other hand holds his body up. 

He pulls the dress down from her chest to her waist, her breasts covered by her bra, though a peek of her hardened nipples from under the thick fabric can be seen. Rafayel’s long fingers trail down her sides, continuing to pull the dress down past her waist and to her legs, where MC kicks the dress off her legs, the light fabric falling to the ground. 

Rafayel gulps at the sight of her body, an image tantalizing to him as her supple skin waits for the touch of his hands and lips. Rafayel leans back down, eyes closing as their lips connect once more, the kiss full of hunger and desperation, the heat from his body flaying him, great enough for MC to feel. MC wraps her arms around him once more, fingering holding onto his skin tightly, causing the flesh to stretch under her strong grip.

One of Rafayel’s hands trails down her stomach, causing it to clench as his skin runs over the sensitive navel, to her panties. He had no patiences left to fully remove the thin fabric, instead moving it to the side, wedging it in the crease between her thigh and pelvis. He pulls his lips away, head looking down between them, trying to catch a glimpse of her wetness, though his position denies him the gaze, only furthering his desperateness.

Swallowing thickly, his hand grips one of his members, the head glistening with his precum, a small bead escaping the slit. He lets out a shaky breath, as he lines himself up, his hips snapping forwards with vigor, bottoming out completely inside of her. MC hisses in pain, her slick enough to allow him to go in so quickly, yet not quite prepared. Her thighs spread a bit wider, allowing his pelvis to press fully against her’s and giving his waist some room. Her heels press against his lower back, toes  curling as she huffs, little moans escaping her parted lips as she looks up at him with half-lidded eyes.

“Can…I can move, right?’

Rafayel questions, his voice deep and breathy. The feeling of her heat and her wetness coating his cock was enough to cause his own toes to curl, his brows arched up in pleasure as his eyes search her’s. MC huffs, feeling herself get used to his size, her tight insides stretching around his, becoming more comfortable, her hot core slobbering on his cock coaxing his member to dive deeper inside. MC nods lazily, her eyes clouding over as she feels him start to thrust, his head hitting far inside her, soft squelching sounds filling the quiet noise, along with their moans. Rafayel moans desperately, his voice higher in octave as his moans pass him, his head hanging above MC’s, eyes closed. The pleasure he is feeling is good, by only half good, his other cock uncomfortably hitting against her skin, the air leaving a slight, unpleasant, tingling sensation begging to be put inside her wet core.

Rafayel pauses his hips, the squelching silencing as he huffs, his cocks twitching slightly in anticipation. He opens his eyes, looking down at MC, who looked like she could barely hold a thought, her face red with a deep blush and her full lips slightly wet with saliva.

“C-Can two fit?”

He questions, his voice slightly hoarse as he takes a deep breath. He knows they can, she’s been on the receiving end of his dual cocks and has taken them happily. But she’s not exactly the same person she was. What if it’s too tight? It feels too tight for him. Her walls are clamping down on his member, enough to squish it, and it’s only the one.

MC looks shocked at his question, flustered even, all of her air getting caught in her throat at the question. Of course, she has played with them both before, with her hands, but they’ve never been both inside her, anywhere. How was she supposed to know the answer?

“Mhm, yes, just put them in and…keep going.”

She answered, of course not confident at all in her decree, yet she was desperate enough that she would allow anything at this point. Rafayel nods as a huff of air escapes him, cheeks and ears red with a deep blush, somehow embarrassed of what he is about to do. His hand reaches down once more, other arm holding him steady, his fingers wrapping around his other cock, all the sensations on this one are heightened, more sensitive than the other one already buried deep into her,

Rafayel lets out a gentle whine, fingers trembling at the pleasurable sensitivity. He lines his other cock up, the appendage being slightly skinnier in girth, and wedges it between his other cock and the opening of her core. He uses his hand to keep either of them from slipping out, his hips pushing forward, MC’s opening stretching a bit more. MC takes a sharp breath, a mix between a cry and a moan leaving her lips a the stretch feeling slightly unnatural. Her nails dig into his back, clawing down the middle of his shoulder, her eyes slightly tearing up. Yet there is ecstasy on her face, a trail of drool sliding down from the corner of her mouth.

Rafayel moves his hips, snapping them forward and back, his movement becoming less sloppy once he insures both of his cocks will stay in, the appendages buried far into her. Rafayel’s hands clench at the sheets, his head leaning down to rest against her shoulder, whines escaping his lips as his hips continue to rock.

The headboard of the bed taps against the wall, the squelching noise filling up the sound once more, only a little louder. Rafayel moans along with MC, her wet insides clenching against him with each thrust, the dual penetration stretching her all the way through, and her g-spot rubbed against twice as frequent.

Rafayel kisses against her hot shoulder, his teen gently nibbling at the skin. He breathes heavily against her, hands pushing deeper into the bed as he snaps his hips faster, feeling his climax come quickly. Too quickly for his liking, yet he’s ready to let go. MC urges him to continue, the uncomfortable stretch now feeling better as if she molded herself for him, her hips pushing back against him, trying to get him as deep as possible. Her stomach clenches at the feeling of her heat rising under her navel, giving way for the oragams to come.

Rafayel works into her deeper, quicker, the king bed slightly trembling under the movements, his breathing only getting heavier as he feels the suffocating heat melt off of him. He lets out one last long whine as he releases, feeling MC clench against him squirting out her orgasm, coating his cocks and his pelvis. Rafayel completely lowers himself onto MC, his cocks staying nice and warm inside of her core, cheek pressed against her shoulder, feeling her chest rise and fall quickly.

“I can’t believe you saw me like this…”

He pouts softly, cheeks and ears bright red once more. MC was supposed to stay his Miss Bodyguard until the time was right…   

[prettyboystories-old]

Megumi // Shaving

774 words Premise: You and Megumi are childhood best friends; you help him shave his face Warnings: Female Reader implied, boners mentioned OLD POST (Switching blogs) Will be retired in a week. Go to this version to interact instead.

“What do you even shave for?” you asked curiously, side-eyeing Megumi as you spat your toothpaste out and watched your friend dab the shaving cream on. “You don’t grow any facial hair.”

Megumi’s hand stilled as his eyes met yours and he tilted his head.

“...my face is clean because I shave every day.”

You appraised him with a childishly horrified look. “No way. I touch your face plenty. There’s no stubble.”

The corner of Megumi’s lips quirked up. “Yeah, because I shave it every morning.”

You stared at his shaving cream covered face for a while before scrunching your nose in displeasure, either at the mental image of him with a beard or his potential for growing one.

“What are you thinking of?” Megumi asked you after a few moments of wordless staring.

“Monkeys,” you answered and he dead-panned, scoffing at your association, prompting you to give him an apologetic smile. “Can I try?”

“Shaving?”

“You,” you confirmed with a quick, eager nod.

“S-sure,” Megumi nodded instinctively. Maybe Nobara had a point when she called him a pushover in regards to you. “Just be gentle.”

You led him to the side of the bathtub, pushing him to sit as you stood between his legs and tilted his head up for yourself.

“I won’t let your pretty face come to harm in my hands.”

You took the razor from between his fingers and started ever so slowly and carefully bringing it across his face. Megumi watched your eyes focus on your task.

“You don’t actually have to be that careful,” he chuckled softly when you turned to clean the razor before turning back around to him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you replied and changed nothing about your diligent movements. If his face hadn’t been spotless before, it definitely would be now.

“Would I be a bad person if I requested that you never grow a beard?” you mused, catching his gaze and giving him a fond smile.

“Oh please, we’re Japanese and I’m sixteen. I can’t actually grow a full beard even if I tried.”

“Good,” you assessed with a satisfied nod. “You’re too pretty to hide behind hair.”

Megumi let out a huff and turned away at your words to which you tutted and turned his head back so you could finish the last of your shaving.

“No compliments today?” you asked kindly though, ever careful with him.

“It’s just different when you’re so close, saying them quietly and… reverently.”

You just gave him a half amused smile before stroking the back of your pointer finger over Megumi’s now clean cheek and cupping said cheek as you brought your lips to his forehead because Megumi’s best friend was careful but cruel, too.

As you were about to step away, Megumi held on to two of your fingers and you looked back.

“Do you really find it gross? That I grow hair there?”

You hummed and tilted your head like the question required some amount of deep pondering.

“No,” you finally surmised. “As long as it’s shaven off at least, I just find it curious that you grow it. And it doesn’t gross me out like men’s armpit hair so I’m free to appreciate this boyish feature of yours.”

You underlined your assessment by smoothing your thumb over his clean chin once more before trailing it down his neck and over his Adam’s apple, pressing just softly enough that it was only mildly unpleasant. You’d finally learned to keep your touch gentle there.

He huffed your name regardless.

“Megu,” you replied with a smile. “Aren’t you happy I can appreciate these differences of yours now?”

He was. Of course he was. He was forever grateful that he and you were able to maintain their close bond despite all the effort the people around them, Japan and society at large had put into teaching boys like him that girls like you were embarrassing to play with, associate with or be alike in any way. As well as then warning girls that boys were just like that and fostering subtle resentment against them as pseudo-revenge for the resentment they faced first.

“I don’t know if I’d say ‘appreciate’,” he still countered. “You poke at my neck, scrunch your nose at my ‘monkey-hair’ and giggle at my boners.”

“They poke me when we cuddle. I’m allowed to giggle,” you stated. “Be grateful I find them cute.”

“Yeah, you are,” Megumi agreed with a sigh. The chuckling about his ‘horniness antenna’ was perfectly fine, much better than if he’d ever made you uncomfortable. “Think you’d want to ever do this again? You’re very diligent about it.”

[freyafrida]

rilla of ingleside, chapter ten

same, girl

Also happy Canada Day, I guess we're celebrating with the white feather chapter 🥹 The initial contrast between Jem and Walter (Jem trying to be cheerful despite the mud, Walter being emo despite being safe at university) is...not very flattering to Walter on its face? That said, idk, while I do think Walter has a streak of selfishness in being moody and letting everyone know it...it's hard to find yourself on the wrong side of popular opinion (even getting dogpiled on the Internet is unpleasant, let alone feeling isolated from basically your entire town and family over a world war, multiplied by how much emotional investment people had in believing enlistment was good and right). Even if you're sure you're right, it's still a lonely place to be -- and Walter's not sure he's right, while Jem is. (i mean, u are right walter, but he doesn't know that.) I feel for him, is my point, and the smugness of people sending him white feathers is hard to read about in hindsight. It's...interesting, for lack of the better word, if the book is trying to make a point -- shaming Walter with a white feather is bad, but enlisting is good, and the Blythe boys do enlist. The book generally draws a line at actively shaming men who don't enlist, rather directing its ire at pacifists and people who criticize soldiers without having any sons at the front. That said, there is a sense as well that it's specifically wrong that everyone criticizes Walter, because he's actually The Bravest of All deep down, idk if it would take that tack with someone who was an actual conscientious objector.

“ And Una’s! Una is really a little brick, isn’t she? There’s a wonderful fineness and firmness under all that shy, wistful, girlishness of her. She hasn’t your knack of writing laugh-provoking epistles, but there’s something in her letters—I don’t know what—that makes me feel at least while I’m reading them, that I could even go to the front.”

My girl!!! \o/ I will ignore how she's apparently, like, unintentionally driving Walter to enlist because I know that's meant to be a compliment. That said, I am intrigued as ever as to what her letters are making him feel. Courage? Confidence? Or, given that he later refers to wanting to defend girls like Rilla and Una, is she making him feel as though he ought to defend her...? I love that Una is apparently firmer and bolder in writing than her tea rose-esque surface makes her seem, but I want to knoooow what she said that makes Walter think so. I love them 😭 Also, given how fast and loose the book is with who any of the kids are friends with, or what they're up to, it does feel meaningful ~*~to me~*~ that Walter's friendship with Una is singled out here -- we don't hear about how he's getting along with Faith, Nan, or Di at college, or even if he has any other friends there (his only non-Meredith friend is Ken I think??).

“there was her new knitting bag to finish—it would be the handsomest bag in the Junior Society—handsomer even than Irene Howard’s”

I need to know what this bag looks like, if only because my brain keeps mixing "knitting bag" into "knitted bag", and I had a friend who knitted herself a purse once and it was very brightly striped (not in a bad way! just like, it was very of a particular time period) and that's all I can picture here, and I feel like that can't be what Rilla's talking about lmao.

Ah, and Rilla and her hat. I love the flash of insight into her and Anne's mother-daughter relationship -- I feel like it makes sense for Anne to try and instill some financial responsibility in Rilla, given that she apparently blew the majority of her allowance on the hat. On the other hand, I don't love that Rilla immediately "hates" the hat and that's like her comeuppance for being frivolous in wartime. (Sidebar: hilarious implication that the kids don't know the whole slate-over-head story.)

“Then Irene told me the meanest, most contemptible thing that some one had said about Walter. I won’t write it down—I can’t. Of course, she said it made her furious to hear it and all that—but there was no need for her to tell me such a thing even if she did hear it. She simply did it to hurt me.”

Oh, and Irene and the slur against Walter is also in this chapter! So much is happening! Esp. considering the main event of last chapter was Doc running around with his head in a salmon tin. I knew a girl like Irene in high school (separate from the other girl from high school who reminded me of Irene, lol), and tbh also in college. I didn't learn my lesson for a while there, mostly because I enjoyed hearing the gossip too much until it backfired on me 😬 Oops.

Anyway, the mysterious slur, a key part of Walter Discourse 😂 I'm intrigued not only as to what it is but who Irene heard it from -- she apparently hears it from "Mrs. George Burr", which makes me think it can't be that shocking, because it seems unlikely that any of the adults in Irene's circle (e.g. not a rough family like the Conovers) would repeat an actual curse word or allude to sexuality in a relatively young girl's hearing. (Unless Mrs. George Burr is also fairly young, in which case I can believe the younger men/women are way less straitlaced in how they talk.) Assuming it was just a disparaging remark (the traditional definition of "slur", without the connotation that it's a specifically taboo insult), it could be anything, although Rilla also calls it a "falsehood". Apart from possibly being about cowardice/effeminacy, thinking of other Dark Themes that have come up in LMM books...maybe a suggestion Walter couldn't/wouldn't have defended his family, esp. his sisters, from a German invasion? (Walter himself alludes to rape during the invasion of Belgium.) Suggestion that Walter is intentionally letting other men, including his brother, die in his place? Suggestion that Walter is suicidal and he would be better off dead than Not Being A Man? Idk, again, I feel like it can't be that wild given a married woman said it, but it also seems serious since the book is otherwise pretty open about shaming people for cowardice, criticizing Mr. Pryor, etc. (I also wonder, given that Rilla hates "everybody responsible for Walter's unhappiness", if it really wasn't Too Terrible To Be Named and she is just being extremely defensive over her brother.)

Rilla feeling disillusioned over the loss of Irene's friendship is so real, such a hard part of growing up.

“I explained patiently that children have to cry so many minutes per day in order to expand their lungs. Morgan says so.”

I bet Rilla says "Morgan says so" all the time and it's become a running thing in the Blythe household. Also, Rilla calling Jims "that exasperating child" bc he enjoys being bounced always kills me. I love that Jims smiles for her in the end (achieved without bouncing!) and that Rilla still thinks of Mrs. Anderson and wishes she could've seen it. ILU Rilla ❤️

“Monday has become quite famous. A reporter of the Enterprise came out from town and photographed him and wrote up the whole story of his faithful vigil. It was published in the Enterprise and copied all over Canada.”

lbr, what doesn't the Enterprise report on (although Monday's vigil is a legit human interest story, fair enough)

glossary:

Readying Rilla bits:

Shirley originally builds Dog Monday's kennel, instead of Gilbert having Joe Mead do it. Why didn't we get Shirley building the kennel, it's so sweet (and I mean, Shirley has way more presence/relevance to this book than Joe Mead anyway) 😭 Also I'm gonna overthink it and wonder why it wasn't Shirley -- is he supposed to not be interested in building things? (I feel like this does not jive with the common fandom view of Shirley being similar to Gilbert's father, who was a farmer, so that would be interesting if he was meant to not be into manual labor.) OH WAIT i just remembered that if Walter's at Redmond, then Shirley is meant to be at Queen's, so he wouldn't be around to build it. Simply continuity there I guess.

Interesting cut bit where Rilla says she hates everyone responsible for Walter's unhappiness -- it originally says "She hated the Kaiser." Interesting to cross that out when the Kaiser is an object of much vitriol from the other characters.

Cut line that Anne and Susan "made much" of Jims (lol, clearly they're not too busy to fuss over him, no matter how much Gilbert wanted to make Rilla believe otherwise!).

Gertrude originally mentions specifically waking up at three AM fretting over Germany winning, and there's a line from her (then moved to Anne, then taken out entirely) saying that "three o'clock is an abominable hour", lol. Anne also says that she always sees Germany victorious at that time.

[gerardsbest]

Our Lady of Sorrows

Previous | Next

Chapter 1

Relationship: Gerard Way x Reader. Frank Iero x Reader

Tags: love triangles, slow burn, meet-cute, angst, fluff, falling in love, unrequited love, love confessions, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, awkward flirting, love at first sight

Summary: Gerard goes to a venue hosting local artists on a whim one day and sees you. Completely enamoured, he makes it his mission to see you again.

You see him, too. And you wonder what made him stand so close to the stage.

Frank sees the both of you.

(or the formation of mcr but you're there, and you have a special bond with gerard. frank is your long time friend, and the reason you got into music)

2.4k words | ao3

It all started with a gig.

There was an event held for up-and-coming artists held at the local theater. Everyone who had even the tiniest bit of footing in the world of music was to attend. You were no different, and you and your band were giddy with both excitement and nerve. Since it would be your first ever real gig.

Like, one with an actual crowd. At an actual place that was meant for concerts instead of the parks and basements you were used to. And more importantly, with people who had actual connections to people in the industry.

A chance to make it.

"Nervous?"

You turned to the side, "What do you think, Frank?"

Frank offered you a sip of his water, which you respectfully declined because even water felt like it would just regurgitate out of you at that moment.

"You have got to relax."

"Easy for you to say..."

"Look, you act like i'm some kind of fuckin'... master at this or something. But I'm not. I've only been at this band thing for two years now."

"And I've been at it for barely seven months now. This is our first real shot, don't you get it, Frankie? Mess up and we might as well be done."

Frank had switched out his clean bottle of water for a cigarette, you had to fawn the smoke every now and then as the two of you sat in that cramped dressing room, "So what?" He said after a while.

"What do you mean?"

"So what if you lose your chance here? It's not like the world is gonna run out of shitty studio execs dying to dig their nails into any piece of fresh meat with an inkling of talent - which, trust me, you guys have got way more than an inkling."

"You think so?"

"Take it from the pro."

You scoffed, "I thought you said you're not a master in this."

"I'm a master at some things in this." He prefaced as he blew smoke right into your face.

"Asshole." You laughed, shoving him as you coughed and tried to waft the fumes away.

"Frank? We're on in five."

A bandmate of his, Pencey Prep's other guitarist poked his head in for a moment and Frank got up right away after smushing the cigarette into the tray, which looked like a disgusting hodgepodge of ash and black.

Frank slung his guitar over his shoulder, "Wish me luck?"

"Good luck, Frank."

"Not gonna watch me?"

"You kidding?" You got up as well, making a show of going over to the door and opening it for him all dramatically, like this was the first date and you were the stereotypical "man".

And like a stereotypical "lady", always one to play along with your bits, Frank did a curtsey, "Thank you." As he walked out.

You cackled, which made him break character and cackle even harder.

"What songs are you guys gonna play tonight?"

"Well, we only have a twenty minute set, so we had to be real decisive. All of our greats. P.S. Don't Write, Yesterday, Trying to Escape the Inevitable..."

"Oh, please tell me you're gonna perform The Secret Goldfish."

Frank stopped walking and made a full turn towards you, "You actually like that song?"

"Totally! I thought I'd told you before?"

"You didn't..." He trailed off, then began walking again. "Why that song?"

"I dunno. The lyrics are nice. They're personal. Relatable but also poetic, y'know?"

Frank didn't talk for a bit, and you looked over to see that he was making one of those faces he made when he was deep in thought. Usually, Frank made this face when he was in the middle of practicing or writing something. It was a combination of slightly pursed lips and a light narrow of his eyes, he could hold this expression for dozens of minutes at a time which you found fascinating. You wondered for how long he'd keep the face this time.

He broke it quite early, though, and started talking again like nothing happened, "Sorry to disappoint, but we won't be including that in out setlist tonight. The guys thought it was too mellow. And I must agree," Frank shrugged, your shoulders drooped slightly and he took notice of that. "Don't be so sad about it. If you like it so much, I can just play it for you on my own time."

You smiled, "That sounds nice, Frank."

"Tonight, then? I don't think this thing is gonna last too long. Unless you wanted to go to the after party."

"You know parties aren't my scene."

He chuckled, "Right, right."

The two of you were at the edge of the door which led to the stage now. There were people rushing all around you; other bands, some staff members, even fans who'd been given the lucrative chance at going backstage with their favorite micro celebrity. The pure excitement on their faces were a sight to behold, especially as they were dressed in homemade merch to show just how deep their admiration went.

I want that, The thought echoed. Someday, I'll have it.

You turn your attention back to Frank, "Break a leg, Frankie."

"With the way I play? Maybe I will."

You give him an awkward side hug and send him off before immediately rushing back to find the exit and find your way into the crowd. Pencey Prep was small but had a loyal and rowdy fanbase, and you wanted to get at least close enough to be able to both have a good view while also not getting crushed in the moshpit.

Which was a hard rope to balance. 

So, you'd better hurry.

Pencey Prep was amazing. 

And you'd gotten out of the moshpit without any injuries this time! Well, your skin did get caught on the spikes of this one girl's jacket, which caused a scratch, but it was so minimal you wrote it off as nothing. Plus, she apologized profusely so all was well.

"Holy fuck, Frank, that was crazy good." You exclaimed once you made it backstage.

Frank was still sweaty as all hell, and he kind of reeked, "Really?"

"It was one of the best sets I've seen from you guys!"

Frank held a smile, the kind of smile where it was small but reached his cheeks so it was obvious that he was smiling. You loved that smile.

"You guys are gonna be big one day, I know it. I mean, god, your songs are played with such... fervent passion, y'know? And not to sound biased, but your guitar playing is just freakin' brilliant! Like, you play so well, of course, but it's the way you play. All crazy and high energy. Makes me wanna be a guitar player, too! And—"

"Alright, alright, you can stop with the praise fest, I get it," Frank held his hand up to you. "But thanks. Seriously. I mean, I'm Mr. Confident onstage, but I'd be lying if I said that things don't get at me."

You sat down beside him, "Things like what?"

"Like... is this really the right path? I've been at it for two years and I started this damn thing at seventeen for fun. Now, I'm nineteen and attending a pretty good university, but i skip so many classes and barely learn shit to pursue this," He gestured to his guitar. "And sometimes, when i'm here, on my feet and not flying around on some sweat-soaked stage, I ask myself - where do I go with this?"

There was a moment of silence. A long one which lasted at least fifteen seconds as you formed your thoughts on how to respond. 

"Well, like you said, you're nineteen. Still a teen, technically. And someone with his entire life still left to live."

Frank snorted, "That's the corniest thing I've ever heard in my entire life."

"It's corny because it's true," You retorted, and he shrugged at that. "Anyway, you didn't let me finish."

With a firm grip, you held onto Frank's shoulders and made him look at you, "Go at this gig for a bit more. Attend school, too. If it falls out and you decide this ain't the life you wanted, then great, at least you took the leap and tried to do something. Tried to pursue your passion in a way that was meaningful; if not for others, then for yourself. You're brave for that."

Frank didn't answer you. In fact, he cracked a smile and began chuckling to himself, which led to a full on half-hysterical fit of laughter, which made your cheeks all red.

You crossed your arms, "What a way to thank someone who was trying to comfort you. Ungrateful prick." 

"Sorry, sorry..." He wheezed. "Sorry, I... no, I... it was great advice. Awesome, even. And exactly what I needed if I can be, well, frank. It's just that it's so weird to see you this serious, and it's kind of jarring to see this side to you after you were pissing yourself from nerve earlier." Snorts and giggles followed this explanation, but at least he was genuinely smiling now.

"Whatever, then," You said under your breath, allowing a few moments to pass as Frank caught himself. "And, by the way, there was something untrue about what I said just now."

"What is it?"

You bit your lip slightly, then parted them slightly, to signify you wanted to continue, a detail Frank caught. 

Yet, you couldn't say it, so you just stood and paced around instead.

"Hello? What is it?" Frank interjected quickly, standing now, too. "C'mon, tell me! You can't just leave me hanging like this, the hell?"

"Give me a second, would you?" You hissed, blurting all the letters out at once.

Frank leaned against the dresser, playing with the strings of his guitar which laid flat against a wall. No stand or anything, just on the floor because Frank was just that kind of guy. 

Eventually, he let out an exaggerated sigh as he raised his eyebrow, beckoning you to continue.

"Okay, well. What I was trying to say was that, this whole... thing you're doing. You can know that it was at least look back on it like ten, twenty years from now if you decide to stop and know that meaningful to one other person besides yourself."

Being an emotive guy, Frank immediately raised both eyebrows and came all close, his eyes big and asking "what do you mean?"

You pushed past him and went to the door because the next part was too embarrassing to say when he was close like this, "That person is me," You put your hand on the doorknob. "And I'm about to go onstage in front of an actual crowd and actual scouts for the first time because of you. Keep that in mind, okay?"

🦇

"Wow, those guys were frickin' amazing."

"They really are a stand out amongst everyone we've seen so far. That guitarist is something else, don't you think?"

"Definitely," Gerard sighed, blowing out the cigarette fumes. It was stupid, but he just couldn't stop smiling. This. All of it was so exhilarating, so thrilling. The energy was so palpable and he so dearly needed it. "Hey, who's next?"

Mikey reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled up wad which unfolded into a colorful poster. His eyes scanned it for a moment.

"Oh, someone I don't recognize. They must be new."

"What're they called?"

"Mercy."

Gerard pursed his lips, nodding along, "Cool. Simplistic yet says the right message. I like it."

Mikey put the poster back, "Actually, now that I think about it, I think I have heard of them. On campus, maybe...? I swear I heard someone throwing around the word."

"Uh, maybe 'cause mercy's an actual word?"

"You know what I mean."

Did he? Gerard was sure he didn't, but didn't feel like pressing him further. Plus, the show was starting, and with a name like Mercy, he was pretty interested to see what sort of performance they'd come up with.

Since they were new as Mikey said, there weren't many who were too interested in being at the moshpit. People hung back, some left, there were definitely a visibly fewer number of people compared to the other sets. Gerard hoped it wouldn't discourage the band too much.  

The lights dimmed, he saw five figures come onstage. Three with instruments— two guitars and a bass if he had to guess— one going to the back for the drum kit and one coming right to the middle where the mic was. It was too dark to see anything, so facial features were amiss.

They took a bit to set up, then everything came back on and Gerard could finally see the group for who they were.

Two guitarists as he'd predicted, one guy and one girl. The bassist, a guy, was at the back. So was the drummer, also a dude. And finally, the vocalist was a girl.

Gerard gulped. 

A really pretty girl.

A really, really pretty girl wearing this cute little white slip dress with tiny rhinestone decals, clearly sewn on by hand, slightly falling apart, but resembling a floral design. It was gorgeous and Gerard wondered if it was made by her hand specifically. 

He was so enamoured by this detail that he was nearly blown away when the guitars boomed through the speakers and full blast. The girl guitarist began, riff heavy as hell, nearly deafening. the dude guitarist was quite a ways calmer, but still not "calm". He was also loud as hell.

When the drums came in, Gerard swore he felt the whole place fucking shake. And the bass, which he always considered an underrated instrument came in, steadily placing itself as an obscure but needed backbone to this whole song,

Then, the vocalist began singing and Gerard thought to himself, Oh, that's why they're called Mercy.

Because she was angelic.

Despite the loudness, the near crassness of all the instruments, her voice, and its seraphim hue lay gently on top of it all, like an embrace. 

Gerard found himself inching closer to the stage. Lost in a siren's song.

No, not a siren. An angel.

The spotlight above her looks like a halo.

Gerard was at the edge, the closest he could get to the stage. His eyes were wide and looking up; at the band, at her and her covenant grace.

[thebeeiswritng]

-Soap having a one night stand with someone that has Tourette’s syndrome

When he first met you he thought your tics were actually interesting, you could see the gears turning his head trying to wrap his head around the concept of Tourette’s syndrome.

As the night got longer and the alcohol’s effects got stronger, the offer of going to bed together was brought up. Soap had no qualms with the idea, even being excited about laying someone with Tourette’s, like it’s a new box to check on a check list.

Once you and Soap got to you bed, your tics slowed down, your body falling into the feeling of making out over ticing.

As soon as all clothes were off, final consents were given to proceed, Soap started to push in. Unsurprisingly your body was starting to tic in reaction to the intrusion, hiccup tics as well as both vocal stims and tics were flying from your mouth, even bodily tics here and there. But surprisingly this only turned Soap on more. He’s never seen anyone react like you do, it’s honestly kinda sexy.

Once his pelvis touches yours, Soap pauses, asks if you are okay, and rubs circles on one of your hips with his thumb, half in concern, half in anticipation, (and sort of waiting for your tics to slow again). Once you tell him he can move again, he doesn’t wait a second. Though he is still cautious he starts a slow pace starting to gage your reaction to him.

You are taking deep breaths, trying not to tic too much and scare him off, but soon Soap can tell you aren’t fully in the moment. He only ponders why for a second before he leans in close to your ear to tell you something.

“You don’t have to hold back. I’m not going anywhere bonnie.”

You only reply with, “if you let loose, I will,” while brining your legs up to wrap around his hips.

This reply makes Jonny smile cheekily for a moment before rutting into harder than even he imagined he would into your wet cunt. This in turn draws out a hiccup tic and a tic that throws your head to the side from you, and makes a cocky smirk form on Soap’s face.

Soap’s pace was still on the slower side but it was brutal, jutting and grinding his hips into you, as his thrusts kept coming so did your tics and the wet smacks from your pussy.

Each hard and slow thrust would earn Soap a hiccup tic, perhaps a whine, you thrashing your body intermittently, which he found intoxicating. It seemed he could go on at this pace for hours dragging out pleasured moans, whines and tics from you.

This went on for so long, him in captivation of all of your sounds and movements, and you slowly teetering on being overstimulated and delirious from being on the edge for so long tears started to spill from your eyes, each hiccuping tic letting a teardrop fall down your cheeks, while neck jeers let many run down in quick succession.

These tears made Soap impossibly harder inside of you. Soap licked the tears from your cheeks before saying:

“Tell me what you need lassy. Tell me what to do to make you break.”

This earned him a clench and some nonsense babbling, mostly boiling down to more and faster. With a quick kiss to your cheek, he swiftly delivered.

His quickened pace made your high, which once felt so far way come barreling towards you. And before he knew it your orgasm hit, clenching around him deliciously while babbling thank yous between tears and hiccuping tics.

With how exciting watching you was he didn’t realize how his own orgasm was about to hit his body full force. He barely had enough time to pullout before he immediately spilled his cum on your stomach.

With both of you still hanging in the after shocks of your highs, the rooms was full of both your ragged breathing and your hiccups finally coming to a stop, with your tears slowing down too.

Considering it was already in the wee hours in the morning, you both could only really drag wet wash cloths over each others bodies to clean briefly before knocking out.

The morning came and went and when you both woke up in the afternoon, it was time to say goodbye. You lead Soap to the front door, gave him a quick kiss to the cheek and closed the door behind him, as if the night before didn’t matter as much to you as it did to him.

Soap has however, created core memories with you, your address is quickly jotted down in his phone as well as the bar you two met at. As soon as he left he was planning how to get back into your apartment to create more memories with you and to hopefully learn just about all the tics he could pull from you.

Needless to say Soap had a good time, and perhaps got himself a new kink involving hiccups.

—————————————————————————

Sex with Soap: written by a girl with Tourette’s syndrome

[brunhielda]

Reposting for this year’s holiday.

New notes:

1) I am paying attention to costuming, it is so freaking well done.

You can tell from pattern, embroidery, and cravat type which characters work for a living, which are landed gentry, what state they are from, and what generation they are part of (there are at least 3). Some of the more notable characters have color pallets and pattern types. AND YET- it looks like REAL clothing of the era. Love it so much.

Also- watching the exactly 2 women in this movie run in their big flouncy dresses is GLORIOUS.

2) In an odd turn of events, I am watching this while in the middle of a rewatch of Dimension 20’s “Court of Fey and Flowers.”

My first thought was imagining Brennan Lee Mulligan’s laugh reaction to the line- “Have you ever been to New York? They talk very LOUD and very FAST and no one listens to anybody. As a result nothing gets done. I beg the Congress’s pardon.” 🤣🤣🤣

More to the point, I am suddenly way more invested in how the party for independence connives, finagles, and talks thier way to thier goals. It is first rate intrigue and diplomacy. They have to go around to every single delegate to figure out how they think and what they want and convince them that going to war with Briton will bring them that, while 3 separate factions fight the idea for completely different reasons.

Also- while there are loud declaratory insults, there are also tiny moments of deep slight and insult that I have never noticed before. (He walked RIGHT by Thomas without introducing him to the new guy! How DARE you sir! 😤)

While the Regency Period, starting in 1811, is almost 40 years after the setting of this story, the manners, costume, and communication style is still much closer to 1776 than they are to our own society. It requires a certain level of maneuvering to bring around a group’s good opinion that is simply so radically different today. Not easier or harder, just different.

Simply put, if you enjoy the background intrigue and side conversations nessisary to move any plot forward in a regency storyline, you might enjoy this story.

There is significantly less leisure and romance. There is some considerable amount of pining from husbands who miss wives though, which is always nice to see. 🥰

Also- in consideration to “A Court of Fey and Flowers,” there is a surprising amount of fucking in this highly mannered storyline. 😂

Honestly, the point here is- You don’t have to love the US to love this movie. You just have to love Drama.

Which brings me to- 3) in consideration of modern events…

Everything I said above about 8-10 hits even harder.

I want music vids to some of these songs done to news clips.

I want “Cool Considerate Men” over news broadcasts of modern government calmly discussing some of the bills put forth in the last year.

I want “Mama Look Sharp” over images of police action against protests.

And I want “Is Anybody There!” over news clips of… (guestures to every horrible thing to happen in the last 5 years).

Someone with more skills and time make this so.

There are other poignant moments.

“They are Americans- they are people and they are here.”

“Sometimes I fear there is no longer a dream, only discontentment.”

“Out of curiosity- are you with them, or are you with me?” “I am with the General.”

(There is something to be said about not truly caring about any political party, but truly wanting to stand with someone who is deep in the muck of it in any way you can. In that moment, a mouthpiece with no voice of his own uses someone else’s words to ask “Are you actually going to fix THIS?

Also the echo of “Is anybody there? Does anybody care?” from Washington to Hamilton to the Secretary of Congress to John Addams to Dr. Hall- getting a little louder and effecting just a little more change with every new voice. It feels like hope.)

Not every song or issue has a direct connection or metaphor, but it does give me a deep sense of the same exact damn conversations happening over and over again…

Anyways- go find and watch 1776 this weekend.

Not because it upholds the Founding Fathers as paragons of virtue and liberty, but because it shows them in the muck and the mess and the tangled web of diplomacy, and that is something worth revisiting.

As I am unable to indulge in my yearly Independence Day tradition this year, I instead reccomend it to total strangers on the internet.

(If you are reading this and it is not July 4th, USA, this is still a decent recommendation in general)

Watch 1776, the movie musical from 1972. (It is available on Amazon and Apple TV for less than $5, and is free with Hulu)

“Why?” I hear you ask, “would I watch that old thing when I have Hamilton?”

Firstly- I will not compare quality. The two shows are apples and oranges and the only thing they have in common is the subject matter being the Revolutionary period of the USA.

I will openly admit that Hamilton has much more dynamic staging/dancing, and there is simply no rap to be heard in 1776.

That said, reasons you absolutely SHOULD watch it:

1) You have already seen Hamilton. Presumably you have not seen 1776. It will be something new.

2) The line “Sit down John, you old f-!” from Hamilton is a reference to this musical, so you know Lin Manuel Miranda is a fan.

3) The main character, John Adams, is played by a much younger William Daniels. You may know him as “Mr. Feeny.” And yes. He is glorious.

4) You will enjoy such fun quips as-

“I have better things to do than stand around listening to Benjamin Franklin quote himself.”

“Hold on John- that was a new one!”

(Arguing with God)

“A simple plague of locusts I’d accept with some dispare. But no, you gave us Congress! Good God Sir, was that fair?”

“May my horse be turned to glue if I can’t deliver unto you a resolution on Independancy.”

(Said horse- a paid actor- turns around to bite him)

Jokes from old congressmen about being so old it hurts to piss.

Jokes about bull testicles.

(Refusing to help write the Declaration)

“I cannot write with any style or proper edicate! I don’t know a participle from a predicate! I am just a humble cobbler from Connecticut.” (He is so relatable for that. The whole song is one big- everyone is trying to ditch this “group” project)

5) Thomas Jefferson being too horny to work is a major plot point.

6) The most romantic subplot in this film, and I mean, actually beautifully romantic, is John arguing with his wife, Abigail, via letters. Best part about that is these parts are straight from their real historical letters. Perfect in every way. 🥰

7) The discussion on Slavery is intense. I will say this version of events paints Jefferson rather rosy, but it was written before we knew what we knew about him, and he is documented as fighting hard to end slavery with the founding of the nation. It is bizarre, knowing that, that he continued on in the manner he did. People are multifaceted, and some just get worse with age.

But the part in this movie that is worth watching is the argument the South gives back. Thier argument is basically “If we are sinning by this practice, then you are sinning with us, because you benefit.” While it is a lack luster argument to keep doing as you are doing, it does allow a nuanced understanding of privelege before the term was even used in that manner.

It also delivers a bone chilling example of the triangle trade in the form of a song that has haunted me since childhood.

“Molasses to rum to slaves. Who sails the ships out of Boston? Laden with bibles and rum? Whose fortunes are made in the triangle trade? Hail Charleston! Hail Boston! Who stinketh the most?”

8) “Cool Considerate Men” is also bone chilling, as a bunch of conservative congressmen dance calmly while listening to a casualty report from Washington. The song will never not be relevant.

9) In the same way, “Mama Look Sharp” will always always bring me to tears. It is a song from a Messenger Boy sent with Washington’s missive from the front. He sings about his friend calling for his mother as the young boy lay dying on “the green.”

The green was where people held meetings and parties and festivals- the green is the old fashioned version of “the Town Park.” The first battles for freedom were faught in town parks, where boys crawled off under thier favorite tree to die.

In light of everything that we have heard about fighting for freedom around the world, the line “The soldiers they fired! Oh Ma, did we run. Hey! Hey! Mama, look sharp,” is making me cry right now, and I haven’t even heard this song in a year. 😭🎶

10) “Is anybody there??? Does anybody care?! Does anybody see what I see? I see Americans, ALL Americans, FREE, forever more! Is anybody there??? Does anybody care?! Does anybody see what I see?”

The older I get the more I relate to John Addams screaming into the void because he simply cannot fix all the problems by himself.

There is more I could say about this musical, but at that point it would just be telling. Go watch the film. It’s funny and fun and poignant and powerful, and might make you cry. As good broadway often does.

[frostgnawdraws]

failure and futility

for day 2 of campfire fest! prompt: third eye (and i guess could also count for explosion, or a lack thereof lol) @outerwilds-events

[vaguely-concerned]

'strong poison' is high up there in the wimsey book rankings so far. most crucially for me: so much love for bunter, so richly deserved (the scene where he and peter are tiptoeing around each other like 'so uh... are you breaking up with me to get married then?🥺'/'of course not, that's -- wait what are -- are you breaking up with me if I'm getting married?? 😟😢😭'/'of course not my lord don't be silly'/'then don't scare me like that bunter oh my god!!!!'). also more bunter as pseudo-mother (/wife and very overtly so lmao the duchess directly comparing him to helen as gerald's wife... immensely favourably so.) figure, yes-tumblr-user-vaguely-concerned-you-are-so-valid textual underlining. peter literally wanting to smash his own reflection in a wild and unguarded moment. not doing it, because it would change nothing and bunter would just have to deal with a lot of broken shards before a new one got ordered. him recounting going to his mother in a State because uh-oh he's gone and love-at-first-sighted himself and if he can get her off death row and also maybe introduce himself to her the wedding is back on!! parker being a useless lesbian except he's a very well brought up boy with victorian values. mary noticing that peter's feeling low because he's class clowning it up at christmas and giving him a hugggg 🥹. harriet with the 'life is already so fucking weird. this might as well happen' vibe throughout quietly editing a novel from prison in the background because what else is there to do. ms. climpson who could set the murderous machiavel to school if she wanted to actually richard iii go home. in another world she's the moriarity of the wimsey 'verse. an honest soul with a fine criminal mind indeed. the hilarity of looking back through the ages and seeing with all the tiredness of living in the age that before there were astrology girlies there were ectoplasm girlies. peter having a pet safe cracker on speed dial who's seen the light ('allelujah) but y'know a man still has the pride of his craft. impey biggs is there. delicious. characterful. brimming with flavour and also arsenic of course

[lovesodeepandwideandwell]

It's crazy how I can be like "I'm having a depressive episode" until I'm with the right people and then it's like oh no I'm ok actually

[threegoldfish]

Well, that Marik-guy sure as hell ain't wrong - good coffee certainly makes holding conversations a lot easier for all participants included. Coffee's kind of a life-essence; If it tastes like boiled dirt, nothing good can come out of it, ever.

"---Coffee's kind of a... uh, like, a basic human right at this point." Marc shrugs, then arches a brow, accompanied by a lopsided smirk of sorts. "Dunno if it's the same for Asgardians, but... most of us require at least one cup of coffee in the morning to get things going. No coffee, no energy, no will to do anything at all - such things. And, yeah, if you're goin' to have a damn conversation about the world's fate or whatever, I guess that coffee, indeed, helps one to... go through it, in a way."

Marc definitely needs his cup of liquid gold whenever he's fronting. Steven, bless his British ass, consumes tea instead; Marc never really understood how he's functioning on Earl Grey at 6 in the morning rather than on a high dose of caffeeine... ... ---Anyways.

That lopsided smirk softens a bit, turns into a somewhat-smile as Marc's gaze falls to his cup once more, away from the god that's actually much easier to talk to than he'd expected. Watching his own reflection look back up at him for a little while - it's Steven, he realizes, once that rippling, distorted picture begins to smile wider than he himself is at that moment - he sighs, then those brown eyes trail and linger on the god of thunder once that question's spoken out into the space between them.

What has been the worst, that you have fought so far?

The worst? Marc hums, thoughtful, with that smile falling completely after a while; He glances to the side, licks his bottom lip, continues to cradle the warm ceramic between his wrapped-up fingers...

"---I fought another Avatar of another god once." Words gentle, something somber clinging to them, with Marc letting out a deep exhale before he goes on. "A guy named Arthur Harrow. He was the Avatar of Ammit - dunno if you've heard of her. A crocodile lady, focused on getting rid of everythin' bad, which... doesn't sound so bad at first, right? ---Well. Except for the fact that she did not only judge whoever did anything bad to begin with, but she would judge anyone who would, at some point, do something bad. Means she would judge one based on what they would possibly do in the future rather than what they'd already done. And...well, those people were killed by them. Harrow wanted to bring Ammit back, she was stuck in one of those stone-figurines, and...---"

Another sigh, with Marc shrugging as his gaze returns, focusing on Thor's impressive form - followed by an arch of both brows and a brief shake of his head.

"Anyways. Shit happened, I was killed. I went to the afterlife - yeah, like, the real Egyptian afterlife. The Duat. I rode on a boat and had to face some shit memories together with---" ---An immediate stop, with Marc hesitating, clearing his throat before dark eyes look elsewhere, on an imaginary point by his side instead.

Steven listens but does not interrupt, nor comment on it - it's Marc's decision to make, whether to talk about them, DID, or not. He just wants his partner to know that he supports him, no matter what Marc decides on, in the end.

Marc acknowledges it silently, then swallows...

"...Well. I had to face them. Almost... lost myself in the midst of it. But hey, I'm here, so... ---I survived. Came back from the death. Quite impressive, huh?"

A chuckle, one that's a little bit pained at the edges, perhaps, but meant in a playful way - to try and lighten the mood. Another sip of coffee, a sigh, and his attention is on Thor, like before, with a smirk on full lips.

"After that, Khonshu fought Ammit and I fought Harrow, with uh... help. My ex-wife actually helped me. She, uhm, had taken on the role of becoming a temporary Avatar for Taweret, a massive Hippo, and--- yeah, I know. Sounds absolutely nuts, huh? It was nuts. All of it was nuts. We managed, and uhm... yeah. No more Ammit, no more Harrow. Both are gone, and that's it. ---Certainly was the worst fight so far. I've never died before."

...

"---And you?" A gesture made at the guy built like a shit-brickhouse, accompanied by another chuckle. "Bet you've seen, and experienced, your fair share of bullshit, no?"

[ ϟ ]—– The god's gaze rests upon the man's hands curling around the heat, noting how it was handled as if it was something utterly precious. Peculiar, how this "suit" did not appear as amor in the slightest, yet somehow it felt protective still, curved tightly around the mortal over almost every inch of the human. Tension was sensed however, lingering in the calm and warm air between them, and in the shared momentary stillness something softer takes shape in thunderer's eyes, approving of the almost-there chuckle from the other.

' He is quite special indeed,' and there was a distinct sliver of pride emerging in the deep bass. ' As old as some of the dust the gods shake from their boots, though you would not think it looking at him. Age sits strangely on those who choose knowledge over war, he has watched more empires fall than I have counted stars.'

A brief huff of breath follows, not quite a full laugh yet very close to it.

' And yet he still brews his coffee the mortal way.'

Taking a sip from his own cup he allows himself to savor the bitter taste for a while, the richness of it grounding and cutting through the weight of what waits beyond the wooden cabin walls. At times even gods needed minor comforts, and he could not recall when he had allowed himself such.

' He will be pleased to hear you approve of it, he swears by the stuff. Claims every good conversation begins with coffee ' and here ceruleans flicker sideways again, studying the human beneath the suit, the hints of weariness behind the composure.

Brows begin a renewed furrowing then, the topic of the god claiming the human form somehow leaving a lingering sense of unease in the Asgardian. Entities like Khonshu thrived on dependency, making mortals feel their strength rests upon their divine favor, yet Spector was correct with his statement. Khonshu did need him more than the mortal needed the god, in every sense.

Another moment's quiet settles between them, broken only by miniscule pops of the fire, and thunderer considers the man's words once more, refraining from adding more commentary or languidly forming opinions on the other deity. The situation demanded to be approached with utmost care, and outside the storm emerges once more, dollops of thick snowflakes now descending, lashing at the windows.

With another sip taken and swallowed thunderer exhales a soft sound then, expecting Marik to emerge any moment.

' What has been the worst, that you have fought so far?'

And beneath the query hovers another, more pressing one, if Spector had ever faced the magnitude of what this is potentially going to become. Crimes and mortals, those came with ease when enhanced, yet facing divine calamities was a different matter entirely.