#gold plated god frames

[axelsagewrites]

Cregan Stark*Princess

Pairing: cregan x princess!reader (team not specified)

Kinktober Day twenty-one: face fucking with Cregan Stark: to gain his loyalty Cregan demands that you earn it, and he enjoys watching the tears streak down your face as you do

Warnings: cregan being a bit of a dick, arguing, m!reciving oral, face fucking, tears, deep throating, slight praise, suggested further smut, smut 18+

Word count: 1535

Masterlist Here

Kinktober List Here

You were a princess, a Targaryen, the future queen of the seven kingdoms and this stubborn northerner who had tried to refuse your stay. Cregan stark was a fickle man at best and an arse at worst. You had tried to talk to him in the halls, but he left, tried to join him at his table but he moved his plate, tried to catch him at the gods wood but he walked faster than you.

Now you found yourself rattling on his bedchamber door as his guards rapidly approached. You span on your heels, glaring at them, “Dreamcatcher is on the other side of that wall. Try it,” you spat at them when you saw them reach for their swords.

“If you’re done threatening my men,” Cregan’s voice had you spinning back around to glare at the tall northerner, “Can I help you with something princess? After all it is far past your bedtime,”

“Let me in now,” you demanded, ignoring the squeaks of the men behind you, “I didn’t come here to be ignored,” you stated, pushing past him into the bedchambers.

The doors shut behind him with a thud as you angrily began to pace the room, “You’ll wear a hole in my carpet,” he warned, moving to sit on a chair by his desk.

“I didn’t come here to sit in a cold room twiddling my thumbs- “

“Then why are you here?” he barked, cutting you off with no care of rank. Your pacing paused as you turned to glare at him, “Here to buy my loyalty with some false promise you never deliver on? The north doesn’t need your Targaryen nonsense,”

“This isn’t nonsense,” you spat, arms flailing in shock of his attitude, “This is the crown, the kingdoms future- “

“No Targaryen king nor queen gives two shits about the North and you know it,” he said, standing up from his chair, “So why should I care for wars that will do nothing but starve my children and kill my men?” he questioned as you began to take in the sheer size of him.

Not only was he tall but his shoulders were broad, and his hands could break through several inches of ice you reckoned, “Perhaps we have something you need. Gold or ships- “

“What use is a ship on frozen lakes?”

“Grain and livestock then,” you sighed, “The queen-my mother, we need the North. You care about your people well I care about mine. So, tell me your terms since you clearly don’t want to listen to mine,”

Cregan paused for a moment before his head dipped and he sank back into his chair. You were ready to huff and leave on dragon back when you noticed his eyes trailing up your frame, “If its marriage you want- “

“I want a dragon,” he said, his head finally raising to meet your eyes.

Your eyes grew wide for a moment, but you quickly tried to cover your shock, “The north is far too cold for a dragon and there’s no way I’d hand over my child to- “

“I didn’t mean that kind of dragon- “he said, cutting you off once more as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “I want you,” he stated, his eyes hungrily trailing your frame, “I want to tame a dragon,”

You felt your mouth grow dry, “My betrothal has already been set- “

“The north is far too cold for a dragon,” he cut you off once more, this time standing from his seat and slowly crossing the room towards you. you felt your feet carry you backwards, but he did not pause, “I don’t need a wife. I need proof of your loyalty,”

Your back hit against the cold stone wall, your eyes gazing up at his in shock as he moved only an inch from you. “You want me to tarnish my maiden head? That is the price of a stark’s loyalty?”

Cregan’s chuckle was dark as were the eyes that hungrily gazed at your lips, “You may keep your maiden head, it would dishonourable of me to ruin your virtue,” he said, his deep voice making your mouth grow dry, “But if you want my loyalty,” you didn’t move even as you felt his hand cup your jaw, his thumb running over your bottom lip, “You’ve got to earn it little dragon,”

Your jaw was already slack in shock, so it did not take much effort for his thumb to slip in, pulling down your mouth for a moment before resting on your tongue, “Suck it,” he commanded. You weren’t sure if it was his tone or the way his eyes looked at you like a hungry wolf, but you soon saw him smirking, “Good girl,”

His hand slipped away from your mouth but not before he smeared your spit across your bottom lip, “Tell me princess,” he commanded as his hand trailed down till it past your breasts, “Have you ever been touched like this?” he said, his hands squeezing your tits suddenly over the fabric of your dress making you gasp.

“No, my lord,” you stuttered out, biting back a whimper as he leaned his head down to the crook of your neck, catching a peak of what lay under your clothing.

“Ever been kissed?” he asked but he said nothing else when he felt you shake your head no. instead his lips crashed onto yours, his hands grabbing your arse tightly as he pulled you flush against his chest. You gasped into the kiss, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, but it only allowed his tongue to slip in.

It knocked the air out your lungs and no sooner than it had started it had finished. His hungry eyes met yours again, “Kneel,” he commanded, and you did without complaint. You looked up at the man who towered over you now, seeing how sharp his jaw truly was from down here.

As his hands tugged at his waist bands he asked you a final question, “Ever had someone use this pretty little mouth of yours?” as he spoke, he slipped his breeches down, revealing an already hardened cock, precum leaking from its tip. You were too shocked to answer his question, but he no longer cared about that.

“Kiss it,” he said, and your eyes darted up to his, sudden insecurity washing over you. his hand moved to cup your cheek, a single tender action in this whole time.

Your hand moved up slowly to grab his shaft and you heard a small groan come from your touch. You looked up one last time before leaning in, pressing a soft kiss to his tip making a louder groan fall from his lips. “again,”

more confident now you began to place soft kisses down his shaft, then trailing back up to his tip. Cregan’s hand moved from your cheek to the back of your neck, groaning when he felt your tongue run over his tip. “Fuck,” he murmured, his hand slowly tightening in your hair, “Open,” He commanded and as soon as he felt your lip’s part you gasped as he thrust his member in.

“Fuck,” he groaned loudly, hand tightening in your hair. Your hands reached out, grabbing at his strong thighs to keep yourself steady. Slowly he began to guide your head down, bobbing around his cock as his spare hand moved so he could lean against the wall, caging you between him and the stone.

“That’s it,” he muttered, drawing in breath the further down you reached. Your movements became more confident with each praise as a warm feeling spread through your stomach. You felt his tip hit the back of your throat, your movements faltering for a moment, but a switch seemed to snap in the Stark.

A low growl left his throat as he swatted your hand off what had not been able to fit. You couldn’t even question him before you felt his hips begin to buck. You tried to speak but your mouth was otherwise occupied as Cregan began to fuck your face, curses and groans falling from his lips.

“Fuck,” he gasped, and you could feel his cock twitching in your mouth as spit dribbled around the edges. Your hands snaked from his thighs to his balls, cupping them gently in your hand making him groan loudly.

His thrusts were messy and hard but grew sloppy as you squeezed gently. You felt his body tense but before you could tell what was coming a salty taste filled your throat. Cregan’s hand moved to hold the back of your head gently, his thrusts far slower as he rode out his orgasm.

“Fuck,” he murmured as he slipped his member out your mouth, his hand moving to cup your jaw. He tilted your head, forcing you to face him with spit dribbling from your lips and a few stray tears that had fallen during his fun. “Get on the bed, “

“But- “you tried to object despite a flutter rising through your chest at the suggestion.

His hand tightened around your jaw, “Now princess. You’ve earned my loyalty now let me return the favour,”

Taglist: @clairacassidy @valeskafics @starkleila @jacesvelaryons

[beaniegaebie]

i don't really have any solid conclusions about this yet but i noticed A Thing in a rewatch and i haven't found it mentioned elsewhere yet so here we go

(apologies for the appalling image quality you're about to see, i can't screenshot easily rn pls bear with)

OKAY so in the scene where crowley confronts gabriel about "shut up and die", something about the arrangement of book stacks caught my eye a little

the majority of the books are angled so that we mostly just see the page edges and not the spines clearly, EXCEPT for a particularly shiny and familiar colour combo right here-

but nothing too weird going on there, i thought, crowley coloured books in a bookshop so what? right up until i registered crowley's line when we get a closer look-

hhhhmmmmMMmmmm yes yes "everything just the way you wanted" huh, very interesting considering that we know how much thought goes into props huh

and for most of the shots we get of crowley in this position those freaking books are just quietly nestled right there in the corner-

look at that god damn framing i fuckin see you, you glorious bastards

so i paused to see if i could figure out what the hell was up with those fuckers and this is when i absolutely lost my mind, your honour

A and C you say?? in crowley colours???? framed like this?????? localised entirely within your kitchen???

anyway long story short they're two books from an Agatha Christie Crime Collection set (24 volumes, three stories per volume) and guess whats on the mfing front covers I'm-

(its a rant for another post but when paired with this other set of initials spotted in s2 i want to scream actually)

ANYWAY back to the books, through an absolutely unhinged comparison of the formatting of gold text blobs i reckon the two we have here are:

(on top) The Pale Horse; The Big Four, The Secret Adversary

(on bottom) 4:50 From Paddington, Lord Edgeware Dies, Murder in Mesopotamia

(I'm fairly confident but if anyone has a better image to confirm/correct this pls do)

now here is where I'll need a bunch of help from some Christie-heads out there bc I haven't read any of these and I've only seen the tv adaptation of one of them, so i dont know for sure if these are like A Clue, or A Cool Thing, or if I've just fully brainrotted myself into a fun lil corner here? wa-hoo

but here's some initial stuff that jumped out at me after skimming the basics:

(some of) the titles: Pale Horse/Big Four - death's horse ofc, the four horsemen mayb? the them+adam?? ; Mesopotamia is a very biblical choice bbz ; 4:50 From Paddington- azi likes trains i guess? idk that one's tenuous lmao ; honestly no idea with the other two but Secret Adversary feels a tad ominous

iirc Big Four just has kind of an unusual history, it was initially twelve short stories that she later compiled into one, and it was published fairly soon after christie's mysterious disappearance/reappearance

in Big Four, poirot fakes his death at one point and doesnt even let hastings in on it and I'm hoping sure its totally irrelevant to the ineffable bois

part of the Pale Horse story is a group of assassins that basically try to pass off all their murders as being actually caused by like ✨satanic powers✨ which is interesting

christie knew a fUCkton about poisonings thats why she wrote so many into her work and, while i don't believe the poison coffee theory myself, it sure is an interesting link with how cyanide is associated with almond smell/flavour and that metatron chooses almond syrup in particular

(ALSO random side note that is mostly meaningless but I've worked in a good few uk coffee shops and have never worked anywhere that stocks almond syrup; almond milk yes, hazelnut syrup yes, but never almond syrup...? prob just the places i worked though lmao)

EDIT forgotten point: I've seen some speculation that the bently's plate reading "CURTAIN" could be a reference to poirot's last story, along side that alternate scene of crowley ordering the sherry for "miss marple", its just one too many agatha christie references for my melted brain to handle and I'm SUS

so this is where i run out of idea steam and hand it over to you lot because i have no clue what this could mean, if it even means anything other than a cool set feature

is there something here actually or am i yelling into the void just for fun?

who knows, who cares!

[blue-jisungs]

another idea i had and was gonna write i swear i have so many i abandoned but i will give them to u now LMAO but ricky!!! specifically this ricky with the mask!!!

ofc masquerade ball and im just thinking abt his deep sophisticated voice like whispering in ur ear skdjksdk oh my god

perfume scented letters

# author's note ... zanzan i fear u ate with that req ?! hes soooo royalty coded i couldnt wait to finish it up hehe i hope u like it<3

# warnings ... yn is really coquette pink girly lmfao i just felt like it ?! xiaoting cameo bc yk, haha,,, ricky n her are under wakeone..... both r chinese............ wow... wow genius ?!

# word count ... 1465

a dreamy sigh left your lips as you stared off into the distance. the panoramic view from your window displayed the beautiful royal gardens, basking in the summer sun. your favorite place was the marble fountain, with a woman statue adorning its top. on days such as these you normally sit there and read books; however, today you need to get ready for the ball.

the sweet smell of fresh flowers and strawberry cookies filled your room with the entrance of your maid, xiaoting. 

“is everything alright, my lady?” she asked softly, resting down the plate on the countertop of your golden framed vanity. you quickly moved some letters that were resting there, quickly putting them onto one of the drawers.

“naturally. de facto, i feel rather fabulous. how could i not?” you sent the girl a playful smile and reached for the cup of rose tea that she had prepared. 

you allowed your mind to drift away as xiaoting called other maids and the started preparing your dress for tonight. 

this night marked the 30th anniversary of your parents’ wedding and they decided to organize a masquerade ball since they met at one. you were excited, the thrill of mystery buzzed through your veins. 

you did hope, however, that one particular man was going to be here too. your correspondent… well, fiancé. your heart longed for him more than words could express. quanrui was a prince from another country, who visited your lands three years ago. even though it wasn’t his offer to marry you – rather, it was both of your parents’ incentives – you just established an immediate rapport. alas, you only had a week to share precious moments and make memories that you’d treasure forever before quanrui’s journey back home. ever since you haven’t seen him… nevertheless, he started writing letters to you. and you were writing back. 

quanrui’s letters were always of the highest quality. the texture of the cotton paper he used was always feeling luxurious under your fingertips and took his black and gold ink well. additionally, his handwriting itself was a piece of art. his cursive looked majestic, as if taken out straight out of history books. sometimes he used gold ink to emphasize certain words or, which was a more frequent occurrence, to sign the letter. however, a trait of his letters that you cherished the most was probably the way they smelled. quanrui started spraying them with his fragrance (and you started doing that as well, decorating the end of an letter with a kiss. quanrui would often trace the shape of your lipstick with his fingers but would never admit that) so you could feel a small ounce of his presence. soon enough the drawer where you kept the letters would start to smell like him too. 

there was a sealed deal between your families that once quanrui’s prince duties allow him to take a rest and travel back to your land, the marriage could take place. however, as for what your beloved explained to you, there was no upcoming moment of peace. 

you understood that. but there was a spilling feeling of bitterness that wouldn’t stop filling your lovesick heart. 

you bowed gently to your parents and handed them a gift wrapped in the finest silk in the shade of a blooming rose. your mother accepted it and placed a tender kiss on your cheek. 

“thank you, dear. nevertheless, you’re the best gift life could give us. now go have fun, dove” she smiled politely and your father nodded. 

“will do, mother” you replied and turned around to enter the ballroom. 

you fixed your mask – white with hand painted small pink roses. it was framed with gold on the edges and had a small, also pink, feather. you asked the mask maker to add a golden string so it wouldn’t require your hands holding it all the time. 

it matched with your dress. obviously it had tons of layers, a corset, and puffy sleeves but it wasn’t too restraining. it’s color was similar to the peonies in the royal garden – adorned with bows and details in white and lighter shades of pink. it all composed beautifully, especially with a golden necklace resting between your collarbones. quanrui sent you the piece of jewelry once, attached to a letter. you’ve worn it ever since. it was shaped like a heart and had his initials engraved. even though you never told him that, this gift pretty much reflected your real heart. you kept him in it all the time. 

you touched it, fingers brushing against the cold metal in a reassuring motion. with a small sigh escaping your lips, you entered the room. 

the ballroom was huge and beautifully decorated, the glow of chandeliers lit up the place. gold and marble ornaments were placed around the room in a cohesive manner. various foods displayed on porcelain plates were more tempting than devil by a window, smells and colors catching attention. the music was stunning, enchanting one’s legs to keep dancing. 

however, it all seemed bland and mediocre without quanrui by your side. you would trade this room and all the goods in a heartbeat if that meant seeing your lover.

you were asked to dance by someone, probably one of the governors. you tried to keep a conversation with him but couldn’t help your mind from wandering. the governor was skilled in dancing and respectful - he held your hand gently. 

the night was passing painfully slowly, like melting ice. song after song, dance after face, chat after chat. you were absent minded, allowing people to lead you in the swirl of dances. 

“may i have this one?” 

you just nodded, in your head already planning what to tell quanrui in your letter. you were going to write it as soon as you came back to your chamber. 

the young man who asked you grabbed your hand and bent his knee to place a kiss atop of it. the gesture was sweet (alas, it would be sweeter if quanrui executed it). 

then, he stood up. he was quite tall, his blonde hair were pushed back stylishly. a strand or two fell on his forehead. the mask he was wearing was lacy. an unusual choice; nonetheless, it was pretty. black and thin, you wondered if a gust of wind would be able to blow it away. you could see the outline of his eyes but not them fully. 

he was also dressed in a well fitted, black suit with golden details, such as earrings. 

the man leaned closer, lips next to your ear. 

to be frank, you smelled it first. 

the peculiar scent. 

the scent that quanrui’s letters carry. the fragrance that emerges from the drawer you keep his letters in. the aroma that you can’t get out of your mind. 

his lips ghost over your ear. if you weren’t somehow sure before, you are now. 

“you look breathtaking, darling” 

your arms wrap around his neck and instantly pull him into a hug, too shy to kiss him. quanrui’s hands gently hold your waist closer and you breathe in his perfume, melt in his hold. 

“is this a dream? please don’t wake me up” you mumbled, face pressed in his neck. a low chuckle vibrated through his throat as he caressed your waist. 

“i’m standing right here, tangible” quanrui said and smiled. his heart was pounding against this ribcage at an unprecedented rate “shall we dance?” 

you nodded enthusiastically and leaned away, suddenly everything surrounding you gaining more color. his tender hands remained on your waist and you put yours on his shoulders. despite not seeing his eyes, you did feel his gaze on you. 

his pretty lips were shaped in a whipped smile as he rocked you two to the rhythm. 

“why… why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, not able to look away from him. 

“i realized the letter wouldn’t arrive in time so i decided to surprise you. my heart couldn’t wait longer, i just had to see you” quanrui whispered and “y/n, your letters kept me sane everyday”

“yours as well, i… i stored them” you admitted shyly, biting down on your bottom lip gently “you… you do realize what your arrival means?”

he grinned, nodding his head. 

“i am fully aware” quanrui hummed and leaned closer, leaning his forehead against yours. a proud smile was dancing on his lips “we can get married”

up close you could see the outline of his eyes, even his long lashes. 

“can i ask you for one favor?” you asked, hands sliding to the back of his neck.

“everything you wish for” quanrui mumbled.

“kiss me, please” a whisper, barely audible, left your lips. alas, he heard you. 

and with a tender, honey-alike kiss he sealed his promise.

masterlist <3

taglist. @slytherinshua ,, @weird-bookworm ,, @haecien ,, @stryroses

[lets-try-some-writing]

Heavy is the Head that Wears the Crown

Based off this post. Enjoy this short little thing.

Many times the Matrix was given, and many times its bearers writhed in agony at its touch. The priests told them they were worthy.

But Optimus knows he is not.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

The priests always said that he was worthy. Like every Prime before him, Optimus's frame forever ached with the weight of the holy relic he bore. Fire leapt in his fuel lines. His hydraulics burned with exertion that he had done nothing to earn. Every waking moment was a form of torture as the relic within him made its opinion quite clear.

He was not worthy.

━━━━━━

"Your station is the most holy on all of Cybertron. Bear this weight with pride." The priests smiled as he passed, gilded in gold and draped in fine cloths. The people cheered as they saw him step out of the Citadel. He despised it.

They did not know the pain that came from carrying the relic within him. They did not know that just like every single Prime who came before him, he was not intended for this station.

"Rise, Optimus Prime." The head priest blessed him as he stood before the masses. The Matrix burned within his spark chamber, reminding him that he did not belong.

"Glory to the Empire!" The people shouted in joy. Optimus remained still, his battlemask ever present as he watched the celebration. Whispers spoke in the back of his mind, murmurs offering wisdom even as his spark flared in quiet agony.

The price he paid for divine knowledge was high. Such was the consequence of imposing on Primus's most holy.

━━━━━━

"You make an excellent Prime." Ratchet smiled as Optimus passed by. The doctor affixed his brooch to his cape, and while the act was tender, the Matrix thrummed in warning. If his corrupted form was to taint the divinity of the Primes, he was to have no joy.

"Now we can make some real change!" Ironhide exclaimed with glee as he patted Optimus on the back. Optimus nodded, but he did not smile. He was not allowed to smile. The Matrix was clear.

Every decision he made was done with agony clouding his thoughts. He learned to stop twitching when the Matrix caused his nerves to shoot with pain. He quickly silenced his instinctual cries when his plating felt so tight around him that he might suffocate.

"You alright Prime?" Jazz asked after one long cycle of legislation discussion. Optimus said nothing. Voicing his pain would bring only suffering to those around him.

"Of course." He answered simply. Jazz didn't believe him. No one did.

━━━━━━

"The Decepticons have turned Kaon into a fortress. It won't be long until they march on Tarn too." Prowl frowned as he hunched over a map. Optimus stood still, his vision hazy as ghostly forms surrounded him. Their glares were so intense that he couldn't help the way his plating flared.

"You are not worthy." They whispered as Optimus pointed out a location on the map, the knowledge of his unworthy predecessors guiding his thoughts.

The forms of the old gods pressed up against him, their ghostly frames burning everywhere they touched. The only ones who did not harm him where those who shared his fate. Countless presences wrapping around him and shielding him from the wrath of the ancient horrors that denied him the holy rank he had been forced to bear.

"Send our forces to the northern border and prepare for war. Cybertron will not fall." The ghostly optics never left him as he made his declaration. They held no love for him.

━━━━━━

"Sir, we need you." Ultra Magnus reached out, touching Optimus's shoulder as he looked out over the remains of the burning city of Rodion. It had all happened so fast. The flames of war engulfed their world before he had the chance to react.

"Please Prime, guide us." His Council begged, pleading with what they saw as the most holy for salvation. Optimus had nothing to give. The Matrix denied him. He could give no blessings or assurances.

"Optimus, what are we going to do?" One by one his companions came to him for comfort. Optimus's spark burned with righteous fury every time he offered another battle plan instead of some sort of prophecy, a promise of peace.

His frame forever burned. The Matrix cursed him, but the people needed him.

He would make himself worthy, if only to give his people something to cling to.

━━━━━━

"Energon shortages are increasing. This war is devastating the planet." Perceptor noted clinically. The rest of the war council grew grim. They knew how far their people had fallen. Centuries of war were killing their world and they all knew it.

"If a true Prime had been chosen, this would have never come to pass." The old gods whispered, their digits digging under his plating and setting his circuits alight with agony. Optimus did not react. He had long learned to remain silent when the Matrix saw fit to punish him for his hubris.

How a mortal could have ever dreamed of carrying the Matrix was beyond him. And yet, he had to be worthy. Whatever the Matrix said, his people needed him. Perhaps he was not a proper Prime, but he was all that remained.

He would tear himself apart to be worthy of the mantle he bore.

━━━━━━

"Optimus, your frame is falling to pieces! You need to rest!" Ratchet demanded as Optimus stood watch. His digits were shaky, as was now his regular state of being. His plating was cracked, his hydraulics were weakened, his optics strained more with every passing cycle. Already he had been forced to permanently wear his mask just to hide his eternal frown. It hurt too much to pretend anymore. Such was the curse of his station.

The longer he stood in the place of a divine, the more he deteriorated. All those who came before him fell this way. Optimus merely endured because he had to.

"Pride shall be your downfall oh foolish mortal." Their whispers forever haunted his audials. He could hardly recharge anymore. And yet, while Megatron still reigned, he could not falter.

"Orion, please, this has got to stop." Jazz pleaded with him as they prepared to leave Cybertron. He wasn't sure if Jazz meant the war or his increasing distance from his troops. Optimus wasn't sure he wanted to know.

He had to be worthy... there was no other choice.

━━━━━━

"Prime." Megatron met his gaze, and Optimus returned it. What was the use in fighting anymore? After so very long, they had new concerns. Cybertron needed to be restored. Their war was irrelevant.

"Let us get this over with." Optimus murmured as the words of the Matrix drowned out all else. He wished it could all end.

His frame was battered and he had not recharged properly in millennia. His life was one of pain. The Matrix never allowed him a moment's rest, not while he defiled it with his very existence. Over and over it murmured-

"You are not worthy."

He knew it, and he believed it.

━━━━━━

"Sup OP!" Hot Rod held out his first, an Earth custom that he had picked up from Primus knows where. Optimus stalled as the eternal whispers quieted. Hot Rod tilted his helm in confusion as Optimus reached up with shaky digits to wipe at his face.

It didn't hurt anymore.

"You are worthy." His voice was breathless as his knees felt weak. Megatron came to support him as Optimus struggled to stand upright. The pain had begun to fade. The Matrix sang with joy as he set his gaze upon the warrior before him.

"Prime, you alright?" Hot Rod nervously came forward, unsure how to act. Optimus retracted his mask. Those gathered gasped as Optimus dropped to a knee, a smile on his face.

"You are worthy." He repeated, echoing the words of the gods within him.

"What? I don't get it? What's going on?" Optimus continued to smile as the Matrix pulsed within him. He knew what it desired and he had no interest in denying it. Soon, very soon.

Soon he would not need to be worthy.

━━━━━━

Vorns came and went. Optimus endured the pain. Hot Rod needed more time. He was not prepared for his station, not yet. The Matrix flared every time he approached the warrior, prodding but not demanding, not yet.

But finally, after what felt like an eternity, the time had come.

"Hot Rod, will you accept this station?" Optimus asked, and the warrior before him paused. The mecha gathered around paused in their steps, dropping whatever they were doing to stare. Optimus had come from nowhere. He could see why they were concerned.

However, he could not wait any longer. Not when salvation stood before him.

"I don't understand." Hot Rod stared in confusion. Optimus smiled.

"You will. For unlike me... you are worthy." His chest plating parted, the Matrix shone. For one in his functioning, Optimus felt its approval. This was the correct choice.

The relic tore away from him, and Optimus fell to a knee as he caught it and held it out to the mech before him. The Matrix burned his servos as he touched it, but the holy fire merely served to have him shake. His freedom stood before him.

Hot Rod reached out, his hesitation obvious up until he touched the relic. A smile spread across his face. He looked as though he had found a piece of himself long lost. Optimus smiled alongside him as the Matrix finally found its Prime.

"Rise, Rodimus Prime." A new Prime stood before him, holy flame his to command. Optimus relished in the flames that whipped across his plating. They burned, but not as the Matrix had tormented him for so long.

He was free.

He was not worthy.

But he did not need to be.

[rizsu]

cherry balms gojo, nanami, geto.

sum. ex bf gojo, ceo nanami + one night stand geto. zzz not proofread sry !!

gojo satoru.

“literally why are you sneaking around?” gojo questions. although he's basically crashing in your house, he still finds it odd that you're acting as if he hasn't seen above and beyond from you. his eyes trace your figure, he engraves every detail in his mind—almost as if he's slowly forgetting and doesn't want to.

gojo leans back onto the bed's frame, hands folded behind his head with one leg up. if you were to be honest, he looks devourable—if it's even a proper word. he's sporting a fitted black t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and a silver chain. a fit that'll make anyone drop; simple yet defines.

you waddle to your closet, careful to not slip on the water dripping from your body. yeah, you just finished your bath and would've changed your clothes right in your room, but someone decided to welcome himself. piling your outfit on your arm, you grab your phone from the bed and waddle back to the bathroom.

well, that was the plan but yet again gojo had other plans. one swift movement of his hand (lightly) gripping on your robe and you're pulled right back down to his level.

“do you need something!?!?” “you maybe. i dunno.”

.

.

.

oh okay! you think, not sure if you should act surprised or if you should bite his arm to set you free. either way, it's not like he'd react. after all, he's been your (ex) boyfriend for more than two-three years. he knows you.

gojo doesn't let you go—in fact, he uses the same hand to wrap it around your waist and keeps it there. surely enough simple touches between exes are fine right..? maybe it isn't. who knows and who cares? not him!

even though your break-up was mutual, it didn't fail to leave a salty taste in gojo. he's good at masking his negative feelings but sometimes, that barrier is broken and he has no proper/healthy way to deal with it. approximately two weeks after the break-up, gojo tried flings, one night stands, hook ups, and even dates but they all failed after he reveal his longest relationship being two-three years. absolutely no one wants to compete with someone who was practically his soulmate.

“SA-TO-RU!” a call of his name along with slap on the arm shakes gojo from his thoughts. apparently, he's been zoning out while staring directly at you without blinking which creeped you out. you know better than anyone that when gojo zones out, he zones out. it's like having the eyes of god spawn in front of you without warning.

gojo ruffles his hair, redirecting any out of place hair strand back to its position. sighing, he looks at you before speaking his mind, “let me kiss you.”

now it's your turn to sigh. eons of knowing gojo and you still manage to react to his shameless requests.

nanami kento.

“okay, can i change first at least??”

“no, thanks.”

“what do you mean “thanks”!?”

busy and boring. that's it. those are the only words that can describe office worker life. you agree, it's nice to work for a large corporation as their advisor but it's so boring. you can't stress enough how many times you forced your eyes to stay open. the time can be two hours into work and here you are, opening your eyes with your fingers to not succumb to the creeping slumber.

stretching your body, you let out a yawn before fixing all documents to deliver for your boss. every day you thank god that your boss isn't some old man that's impatient. your boss, nanami kento, likes punctuality but he gives a grace period of one day. anything later than a day results in extra work and payment cut.

throughout the long hallway, the clacks of your heels can be heard but you don't mind; it's actually a nice sound. makes you feel like a true professional. standing in front the door that reads ‘Nanami Kento: Official C.E.O’ in a gold plated sign, you knock twice while speaking your name, “y/n l/n here, boss.”

no more than thirty seconds later, nanami orders you to enter as he says his goodbyes to some random that you assume to be a business partner. gesturing you to come closer, nanami folds his glasses into his shirt as he spins a pen on his hand.

“i take it you're finished with the documents?” he assumes, glancing at you before his gaze returns to the stacks of paper on his desk.

marking every fifth booklet with your fingers, you neatly place them on the less crowded side of his desk, “yes. they're all signed too, boss.”

clicking his pen, nanami praises your work with a little “good job.” and signs off his last signature needed for the day. placing his pen in its holder, he reclines back into his chair with a moan of relief. the feeling of his back getting some support will never not be good.

you awkwardly stand in your position, hands clasped together behind your back as you await his next instructions. luckily for you, he never delays anything.

“sit here,” nanami taps his lap twice. he watches you hesitate before you make any movement towards him. closing his eyes, he leans his head back into his chair, stretching it to the left and right. nanami feels your weight shifted to the edge of his knee—yeah, he doesn't like that. why are you closer to his desk than you are to him?!

“i said here, y/n” “my bad..”

shifting closer to him, you get close enough to sink your head in the junction of his shoulder to neck. just close enough so that you don't need to rest your entire upper body on him.

“if i'm going to be honest, this feels so wrong.”

nanami hums at your sentence. with his head is still resting on his chair, he questions you, “how so?”

you fiddle with your fingers—you can't quite put it into words. there's something about it that feels taboo but it's not. this overthinking can possibly be the side effects of indulging in too many drama t.v. shows.

“i dunno.. it just does? not really but yeah.” “quit overthinking.”

although he's holding a neutral expression, nanami's smiling at your worry. he thinks it's actually the dumbest thing to worry about but he'll keep it to himself.

“you're here because i want you here. also, you're a talented woman.” he reassures you, squeezing your thigh with one hand in an automatic rhythm.

geto suguru.

geto enjoys the sweet dream he's having. after a long night, all he needed was a nice shower, one or two cigarettes, and sleep. twisting and turning, he relishes in the soft sheets until his hand accidently slaps something—most likely your face. his hand halts in its position as he sits up sharply at a perfect ninety degree angle. who the fuck, he wonders, looking at you who's also enjoying a good sleep even after that slap.

it takes geto about ten minutes to function his brain's thinking ability and remember what took place before he knocked out cold. oh right, he thinks. he remembers meeting you at some club, offering to take you to his and the rest is history. surprisingly, that was out of character for him. as much as he flirts and makes out like his fellow friends, he's never gone more than a make out session.

taking a big yawn, geto runs his hand up and down his torso before concluding that he should go back to sleep. slamming his head down, he reaches for your waist and pulls (drags) you close enough so that your back's directly on his torso. if he can't hug his pillow because you stole it, he'll simply hug you.

with a leg thrown over you, one hand comfortably resting on your upper body as the other's under his head, geto sinks back into slumberland with you. he's going to keep you there until he wakes up again—whatever happens before that is not his business.

[chronically-ghosted]

bloody kisses — part three: cinnamon girl boy

pairing: shane morrissey/tim rockford rating: E (18+) mdni word count: 10K content: vaguely takes place in the 00s, age gap (shane is 23, tim is 40), internalized homophobia, self-doubt, shame, worries about aging, heavy petting, oral (male receiving), first time giving head, gag reflex training, assplay, doggy style, protected p in a, discussions of dom/sub and top/bottom, bad family dynamics, hints of poverty, discussions around divorce, tim's internal battles, dominant!tim, bratty!shane, nasty dirty talk (anyone who identifies my favorite line gets a gold star), lmk if anything has been missed! dividers: @saradika-graphics a/n: i wanna cry @perotovar let me play with their beautiful blorbos and i had so much fun. i've never written m/m before so they took a HUGE risk on me - thank you so much for trusting me to treat them well!

series summary: shane has been in denial about himself for a while. newly single and with the help of one of his favorite singers, he opens his eyes to a new venture he could possibly take: the cop he sees on a semi-regular basis, detective tim rockford.

series masterlist

for updates, follow @oakslibrary and turn on notifications ♥

(from @chronically-ghosted: if you liked my humble take on this, you can find my masterlist here!) ♥♥

Russet streaks of late afternoon light filter in through the vinyl slats over the grungy carpet when Shane opens the apartment door. He shuts it with a sigh, locking it behind his back, before tipping his head against the frame, closing his eyes, and taking a long inhale. On the exhale verging on a sigh, he tosses his keys onto the ripped and faded black couch to his right before trudging into the linoleum kitchen. 

There’s a note on the counter:

Gone to visit Barry’s kids in New Jersey. Be back on the 10th. Money for food is on the fridge.

Shane’s dark eyes flit to the M magnet that Samantha left here the last time she visited from Maine. Even their father came that time. 

He snorts resentfully when he sees it: twenty bucks to last him two weeks – thanks Mom. 

Chances that she left him anything in the freezer are lower than the chance he’ll be able to stretch this twenty till Friday. 

Shane slips off his leather duster and tosses it over one of the precarious bar stools. He snatches up the half empty packet of cigarettes from the scuffed living room table, takes one out, and lights it. He flops into the cracked leather, stuffing fluttering out of the cushions on impact, one of the metal springs stabbing him in his flat ass. Head against the ridge of the couch, Shane lazily puffs out smoke rings, his lips pursed, up to the ceiling. 

There’s about a dozen – maybe even twice as many – feelings in his chest right now, all bubbling and curling and spitting and scratching at his insides. Some of them are good – most of them are great, actually (god he can’t remember when he last felt this fucking ecstatic about anything) but some of them . . . some of them scare him so much he can barely breathe. 

Call, Tim had said, in his soft, low voice, the smell of sweet syrup still in the air, the plates with pancake crumbs sitting in the sink behind him. Call, if you need anything. 

The detective’s card sits in the left pocket of his duster. 

Shane shakes his head, a grim smile on his face. Can I call if I’m just fucking lonely without you?

He sips at the cigarette a bit, following the hazy trail of smoke as it wafts around the room. His eyes fall on the cracks of his life, this apartment he shares with his mother and her boyfriend. Stacks of newspapers by the bookcase that’s missing a few shelves. A cereal bowl he left by the window two days ago when a few friends invited him out to go check out Maxxx’s new stereo system. Takeout boxes and beer cans. Unfolded laundry in a plastic bin, the edges cracked and torn off. A few pictures when he was a wiry kid, then a wiry teen. He has a few good memories with Samantha, when he was fourteen and she was seven. That was the only time in his life when anything ever made any sense.

When she’d ask if he’d play her a s–

Shane’s eyes narrow at his bedroom door. Without looking, he snuffs the cigarette out in the nearest ashtray and stands up. Barry knows what would happen if he went into Shane’s room without Shane’s express permission – mother’s boyfriend or not – but Shane locks up every time. He keys open his bedroom door and finds everything as he left it. But that’s not what has him moving down onto his hands and knees, laying flat on his stomach to get a long arm under his bed. With a bit of searching, Shane’s face breaks open wide in surprise as he fingers curl around the long wooden neck. Slowly, Shane crawls back and with him comes his old acoustic guitar. 

By the line of dust on it, it really had been several years since he played this thing, but turning it over, the rightness of it settles into his hands, his hips, his bones. This is where it was always meant to be. 

Seems like I’m finding all kinds of rightness out of nowhere. 

He strums once. The strings are horrifically out of tune, but the thoughts swirling around in his brain make him smile. Fist under his chin, he props his head up on the guitar’s body, contemplating. 

He can still smell the sugar from breakfast and Tim’s aftershave from after breakfast. His heart squeezes without his control . . . and his ass twinges. Heat roars up his entire chest and he has to curl in on himself, rolling onto his back, to keep from exploding, a big stupid grin all over his face. The last twelve hours flit across his memory, each moment better than the next. 

Call, if you need anything, Tim had said.

I need you to tell me what to do now. Am I the same person? Do I want to be? If I left all of this and everyone behind, who would I be tomorrow? Would you keep me around then?

Do you even really like me now? 

He takes his hands down from his eyes, sighing and staring up at his popcorn ceiling, not unlike Tim’s. 

Beneath his right hand, his metal bracelets clatter with the wood of the guitar. 

Samantha. 

Samantha likes him, or at least used to. She loved some version of him. Little sisters are always supposed to love you, but maybe he could find that version again. If it’s still there.

Shane sits up and begins to clean his room.

Night comes and the light from the Morrissey apartment stays on a young man gathering trash and throwing it away. 

Tim hasn’t been this on edge since the four or five times he’s tried to quit smoking. He sits in his car, rain pouring down, heating set on low for an early November evening, and he thinks about all the ways this can go wrong. He stares up at the second floor of the tenement apartment, his fingers flexing around the steering wheel. 

Like file folders, he sorts his worries from least to most earth-shattering.

Shane is vulnerable right now. There is no one else in his life he can turn to with questions, and he had been left to fend for himself on and off since he was fifteen (Tim has pulled up his file only half a dozen times for follow up work on the shooting and Shane’s rap sheet often catches his eye). Of course, he wants nothing more than to be the person who Shane comes to with questions or concerns, or fuck, even just an ear to listen to. But, at his age, Tim is all too aware of what a situation like that could do to him. 

He’s already in too deep and he fucking knows it. 

Earth-shattering worry number two: he is a cop and he has booked this kid more times than he can count. Just for petty stuff and he was never the one to press charges – always the DA looking for an easy numbers game to boost his image before the elections. Tim fucking agonized over that and not just in Shane’s case – these kids weren’t in need of help, the attorney’s office said, they were problems that needed to be put down. So how fast would the DA’s head spin around and explode if he showed up to the policeman’s ball with the “Satanic Temple” on his arm, nevermind just another man? While that would be a sight Tim would cherish until he died, he can’t ask anyone – especially someone as new to all of this as Shane – to handle something like that. 

Which brings him to his final worry, the big concern that has him nearly start up his car and drive off, to call Shane on a payphone and apologize for not being able to ever see him again. Tim’s old. He’s fucking old and Shane shouldn’t have to carry decades worth of baggage when the kid’s got a fucking trunk of it himself. He’s old and a has-been and Shane has the rest of his life ahead of him. 

Of course, this is all assuming Shane would ever want something more with him and this isn’t just sex for him. But maybe that’s all it should be. Both of them dirty little secrets to each other that can fuel Tim’s fantasies until his cock finally stops working (which is probably pretty fucking imminent), and something that Shane can laugh about with his partner some day. 

With a sigh, Tim watches a figure move around behind dirty windows on the second floor. 

The only way Tim would walk away now is if Shane told him to take a fucking hike. And that’s a really big problem.

He turns off the car, grabs his tan raincoat, and heads towards the apartment building.

When Shane opens the door, Tim wonders if he had a stroke and is seeing things that aren’t really there. Shane still has all his earrings, his rings with his unusually jet-black hair, but the duster is gone. Shane has answered the door in a black sleeveless shirt, with faded but roughly-intact jeans, and bare feet. He looks –

“Laundry day.” Tim’s eyes snap up and Shane frowns petulantly. “‘S laundry day . . . n’ this is all I had.” His fingers around the doorframe tighten. “You gonna come in or just stand there and make me look like a fuckin’ rat?” 

Tim is very much aware of how much he looks like a cop even in plain clothes, and the tie with slacks isn’t helping. But he can understand why it might make things difficult for Shane to be seen with him.

But, fuck, if he only knew . . .

“Sorry.” 

He steps across the threshold and Shane shuts the door behind him, sticking very close to the wood to give as much space between the two of them as possible. The rain patters in the silence as Tim tries not to stare too much, but that pattern-picking part of his brain can’t help but lurch into overdrive. 

The apartment is empty. That’s the first thing he clocks. The second are several black garbage bags by the front door and the distinct smell of Pinesol in the air, sitting only faintly above the stench of cigarettes. Tim’s eyes fall to the cracked patio door, then the ashtray that has three very freshly stamped-out cigarettes in the bowl. Either two of Shane’s friends just left or –

“You want, um, something to drink?”

Shane moves swiftly from behind him to the kitchen and Tim’s gaze latches to his back. His ears are by his shoulders and Tim gets a brief flash of the borderline fear in those dark eyes before he disappears behind the wall.

“No, uh –,” Tim clears his throat and takes off his coat, then his holster, laying both flat on the counter that separates the living room from the kitchen. “I’m good. Mind if I smoke though?”

Shane returns, a beer can in his hand and slides into the plastic chair on the left side of the chipped table beneath a sickly, hanging fluorescent light. He cracks it and takes two long pulls before putting it on the table with a thud. He picks up his own packet and Tim thinks he might see a tremble in his hand.

He’s not sure if he feels vindicated, even elated, that Shane might be as nervous as he is, or just terribly awkward. 

“Make yourself at home.” Shane indicates the chair across from him with a jerk of his head before he lights up. The chair squeaks on the linoleum as Tim pulls it back and gingerly sits down. He stabilizes his elbows on the table to keep his hands steady as he takes out a cigarette from his own packet and lights it against his mouth. 

The heady rush of smoke combined with the fresh scent of rain soothes something and he forcibly tugs at his own courage.

“So, um, how’ve you been?” Fantastic start, Rockford.

Shane lifts those thin shoulders, eyes skirting the edge of the table. “Good. Went, uh, to see X the other day. He’s getting better. Says the hospital should let him out soon.” 

“Good. That’s good.” 

The room is so quiet, he can hear the paper burn and curl from the smoldering end of the cigarette between his fingers.

“And you? You've been – um?”

“Yeah, I’ve been good. Xavier – sorry – X’s testimony was really useful for identifying the shooter and establishing a timeline. Should be a pretty open and shut case.” 

At that, a wry smirk curls across Shane’s face. He looks at Tim with something that might be described as a teasing grin as he knocks loose a line of ash. “Probably the last and only time X is gonna be helpful to the police.” 

Tim responds with his own grin. “Wouldn’t expect anything different. Where’s the fun in easy cases?” 

They both chuckle, eyes on anywhere but each other. And yet the tension has cracked, just a bit. Enough to let Tim lean back in his chair and breathe out a long, relaxed plume of smoke. 

“But, uh, you called because you wanted to ask me something?” 

Shane’s ink-wet eyes glance up at him and Tim feels the knot beneath his chest bone throb. 

“Oh – yeah, right. Um, I was thinking about something you said over breakfast the other day . . .” Tim’s heart swells; he thinks about that morning all the fucking time too. Soft golden light and harsh black hair, spread across his chest. “And I was wondering if you still talk to your old friend in the NYU music department.”

That is not the question Tim had been expecting.

“John? Who works at the guitar shop on 7th?” 

“I’m not thinking of going to school,” Shane adds quickly, the tips of his ears going red and Tim has to make an effort to keep his eyes on Shane’s face. “I still think school is a fuckin’ racket made for rich people to make themselves richer and maintain authority over –,”

“Yes, I still talk to John from time to time. Why?” 

At this, Shane shifts in his seat, eyes low, shoulders rigid with tension. He taps his thumb on his knee uncomfortably. 

“Iwanajob . . .”

“Sorry?”

Shane scrunches his nose (the band around Tim’s chest tightens – god, he’s so fucking cute) and huffs.

“I want . . . a job. At the guitar shop . . . and I was hoping . . . you could introduce me to your friend. John, or whatever.” He adds sullenly as if Tim hadn’t just said his name twice. 

The buzzing awareness that is always present at the back of Tim’s mind suddenly clicks on. Like a camera taking film, he looks around the room. The trash bags. The tidy apartment. Fucking laundry day.

“Oh,” he says flatly. “Why, uh – why that place?”

Shane stiffens imperceptibly again. He’s got that “caught-in-a-trap” look about him – the kind his suspects get when they’re about to confess something, willingly or otherwise. Shane’s wide eyes glance over Tim’s shoulder as if he had pointed a finger. Tim turns and is rail-roaded again for the second time since coming here.

“Is that yours?” Tim stands, leaving the cigarette in the ash tray, and crosses the room, careful not to touch the shining guitar on its holder but getting as close as possible to examine it. It is a beautiful guitar, the body waxed and the silver of the tuning pegs bright in the low light. It takes Shane a second to answer.

“Yeah.” The admission is breathy, a release from a too-long-held inhale. Tim thinks his voice wobbles a bit but he dare not turn around to see what’s on Shane’s face. “I used to play a lot. I loved music as a kid, thought I was pretty good. Samantha loved it when I wrote songs for her. When we got older, she’d sing along with me.”

Tim clocked a white note stuck on the counter when he walked in, but he was too far away to read it. The way Shane said her name, Tim gathers that she’s not an ex, but someone closer. However, his file never mentioned any Samantha, so she must not live nearby or be someone he sees frequently. 

When we got older . . .

Tim straightens up and looks at Shane. “Is Samantha your sister?” 

Shane stares at him wide-eyed for a minute before shaking his head, smiling faintly. 

“I hate it when you fucking do that.”

Tim’s stomach knots. “Do what?”

“Figure me out as soon as you look at me. Yeah, dude, Samantha is my sister. Half-sister anyway. Mom and Dad tried to do the whole divorced parents who get along thing for a while, but it didn’t last. Now I don’t see her unless she can get the car for the weekend. But she says she won’t come if she’s not invited and I . . . it’s been a while since I’ve seen her.” 

Tim nods, the sick knot in his stomach melting into butterflies.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. Just . . . curious, I guess.”

Shane watches him silently as he rejoins the table. The chair squeaks again. Tim lights another cigarette when he knows he shouldn’t but Shane’s smile has him trembling. 

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” 

Tim swallows. “Can’t help myself do what?”

“Be curious,” Shane says softly, something unreadable and expansive in his gaze. For a second, he looks a decade older and a millennia wiser. He lifts his voice, louder, deeper when he continues. “Guess that’s part of being a cop.”

“You know, technically, I’m a detective, right? Not on patrol, only handling specialized cases.” 

Shane sucks the last bit of his cigarette, his eyes bright with mischief. “A-Cab, Rockford. I don’t make exceptions.” 

Tim wants to kiss that smirk right off him. He squeezes his own knee briefly before leaning into Shane’s space, the corner of the table separating them, to tap out his ash. He relishes in the way Shane’s eyes skitter up his forearm to his shoulder. He’s not the first to be intimidated by Tim’s size, but he is the first that Tim would gladly overwhelm with it. 

“Seems like you did the other night,” he replies, his voice throaty and scratched. It’s not entirely intentional – Tim’s mouth has gone shockingly dry. 

 This time, Shane’s entire face flushes pink and Tim grins. Old dog still got some tricks, don’t he?

“I’m just fucking with you, kid.” He chuckles. “Relax. Your secret is safe with me.”

He hears how that last part sounds and bites his tongue in regret. Of all the things Tim wants Shane to know, assuming he thought their time together was a mistake is definitely not one of them. He does not want Shane to think he is something that Tim wants to keep a secret. 

But by Shane’s unabashed intake of Tim’s forearms, chest, and curls on his hairline, he probably didn’t need to worry too much. 

It’s been years since he was so shamelessly checked out and it makes his heart pound. He wouldn’t dare return the ogling but, fuck he wants to. Last time, it had been all about Shane and making Shane feel good, which he would do without question again and again and again. But he is desperate for an exploration of Shane’s body as much as he knows it needs to be an exploration for the both of them.  

Or it would be, if he could get a goddamn grip. Last time - probably only fucking time, you sleeze. 

“I k-know–,” Shane’s voice cracks and the blush flares again, only briefly this time. He clears his throat and sits up a bit in the chair. “I know that. I know. It’s just . . .” Shane sucks on his cigarette nervously, his cheeks hollowing, like he’s warming up to something. Something sour rolls down the back of Tim’s throat, his stomach clenched, but years of training keeps his face as smooth as stone. Those dark brown eyes, as gentle and fluid as mercury, stare up at him and Tim knows he’s such a fucking goner.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Tim nods. Rolling his bottom lip into his mouth, Shane leans forward, drumming out another line of ash into the glass tray. He straightens against the back of the chair as he tugs one knee to his chest, expression wary, and wraps a skinny arm around his shin. 

At the last second, Shane drops his gaze and instead decides to interrogate a dirty spot on the table.

“When I first met you,” he began slowly, “you wore a wedding ring. But now . . .” 

His eyes flicker to Tim’s left hand, third finger, absent of any jewelry, sitting on his thigh. 

Tim thinks of the first time he saw that irate seventeen year old punk in the station. He had a ripe black eye and an annoyingly smug smirk on when the officer on duty chucked him roughly into a holding cell. 

“That’s perceptive of you.” He flexed his hand into a fist, once, then twice, then met Shane’s stare ahead on. Tim has to hastily swallow a deep lungful of smoke to smother the sudden uptick of his heartbeat. “You’re right,” he says, stiff, on a throaty inhale. “I was married until about five years ago.” 

A large knot visibly slips down Shane’s throat, his cigarette tilting dangerously between his fingers, ash hovering over the carpet. 

“Hm, and to a . . .”

The way his eyes go wide, Tim wants to bury a kiss into that agitated pulse on Shane’s throat, but instead, he just nods slowly, avoiding sudden movement that might startle the wild animal ready to bolt across from him.

“Yeah, Shane, to a woman.” 

Shane continues to tear into his own lip. He retreats before Tim’s eyes – crosses his arms on top of his knees and leans his head back. He stares into the rain outside, the beer at his elbow long forgotten. This isn’t the answer he was hoping for. 

“Oh,” he says. 

Tim leans forward onto his elbows, entering into his space again, but this time more hesitantly. Shane’s bare foot is inches from Tim’s fingers. 

“Shane.” 

“Hm?”

“Look at me.” 

With a steady hand, Shane flicks the end of his cigarette with his black thumbnail, ash falling, and with a very level gaze, he returns Tim’s watchful eye. His face is so blank he barely has any features.

“What?” 

“I’ve fallen in love with women and men.”

The impenetrable ice in his eyes melts and Shane frowns. “You can do that?”

Again, Tim nods, this time a faint smile on his face. How easily he forget how fucking clueless this kid is and how fucking cute his obliviousness makes him.

“But I’ve only slept with women before, am I–,”

“It’s not about who you’ve slept with, to a certain degree. It’s who you are attracted to.” 

“So there’s more than just being gay?”

He wants so badly to reach across the edge of the table and take Shane’s hand. Soothe him. Feel those rough calluses against his skin again. He can feel the heat of his own cigarette coming painfully close to the backs of his fingers so he tamps out the cigarette in the glass bowl, Shane’s eyes watching him the whole time.

“There’s a lot of things, sweetheart,” Tim says softly, the nickname slipping out as it had before, in his own apartment with Shane in his lap. He hopes that sweetheart sounded casual, a nickname more than a reflection of the hot knot tightening in his groin. “But at the end of the day, it comes down to what feels right to you. How you see yourself. You might have to spend some time figuring it out, asking yourself some hard questions, but you’ll get there.”

Shane nods, again swallowing the words that are so clearly caught in his throat. He switches the cigarette to his other hand and stares out the window at the rain. Tim’s mouth dries up at the sight of his long, exposed throat. 

“Is that why it didn’t work out between you and your . . . wife?” Shane asks quietly.

Tim runs his gaze over the piercings in Shane’s earlobe, the delicate bones within the cartilage, then to his set jaw and, finally, over his plush, pouty lips.

“No.” He can hear how hoarse he sounds, how wrecked, but having Shane in front of him again, all those feelings, all those basic urges he denied for the past few weeks come roaring to the front again. He of all people should have known suppression and repression never, ever work. “We were just different people. It had nothing to do with the fact that I also fuck men.”

He watches Shane tremble, the skin on his bare arms suddenly electrified. Slowly, with a shaking breath, Shane twists out his own cigarette, pushing it down roughly with two fingers. 

The thing that has been circling Tim’s mind – like a rabid dog tearing out chunks of his ability to think straight – slides out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“What have your other partners told you?”

Call it twenty years on the force.

Call it a finely tuned bullshit detector. 

Call it whatever you want, but in that moment before Shane opens his mouth, Tim knows he just considered lying to him and Tim’s heart plunges into his gut. He loathes the idea that Shane might lie to him, lie to him about being queer or an aspect of himself he still has questions about. Having someone older and more experienced than him in life alone at Shane’s age would have made all the difference to him as a young man and more than anything, more than his stupid cock, that’s all he really wants. He wants to be there for Shane because no one, not even his own family, has ever told him he means a damn. 

And you mean so much to me already.

Then Shane lets out a shaky breath, the crease in his brown carved deep, but one glance at Tim and it melts away. Without warning, he stands up right and for a split, wonderful second Tim thinks he’s going to crawl into his lap again.

But Tim realizes he’s waiting for something.

With a voice that comes from a very small place, Shane mutters, “there hasn’t been anyone since you.” 

He blinks up at Shane for one second, and then two, and his words register, click in, and everything else fades away. Tim’s on his feet with his finger snagged through one of Shane’s belt loops before common sense or patience can catch up with him.

“Is that right?” Tim purrs as he takes the curve of Shane’s neck in his massive palm, the other going to waist, and Shane instantly gasps at the touch. But that initial elation hardens and he glares at him. Tim is distinctly reminded of an annoyed puppy. 

“Don’t sound so fucking pleased,” Shane snarls through bared teeth. His black nails dig into Tim’s forearm, a warning and a plea. “It’s not like I think about you all the time or anything.”

His eyelids droop when Tim squeezes the back of his neck and Shane lets out a low moan. Tim drops his head against the other man’s forehead. The boy smells like cloves and cinnamon and definitely pot and it’s going to haunt Tim’s memories forever. He closes his eyes and resists the urge to nuzzle that bare cheek. 

“You’re all I think about. Every minute, every day,” Tim hums, “I can’t stop thinking about you and all those little sounds you made when I fucked your ass.”

Another sound, a better one, squeaks out of him – one of protest and desperation and carnal need – and Tim’s control snaps in his hands. 

The hand on Shane slides to the back of his head and Tim all but shoves those pouty lips into his mouth. 

It’s just as fucking fantastic as he remembered. 

Frantic. Needy. Tim kisses him like it’s his job to lick clean the cigarette smoke embedded on Shane’s tongue, on the inside of his mouth, the split cracks in his dry lips. His fingers tangle into that starkly black hair, the strands faintly damp, and his other hand slips to his low back. At that, the boy pulls back enough to let a whine escape from his open mouth before Tim yanks him against his chest. He feels Shane grow hard against his thigh and all the blood rushes out of his brain. 

Briefly dizzy, Tim stumbles forward, his hands catching the table behind Shane’s hips, pinning the younger man between him. He nips at Shane’s neck, trying to get the world to stop spinning.

“Fuck me, baby. You’re going to give this old man a heart attack.” 

Shane guides him into his mouth, his fingers clawing gently at the scruff of his beard, a slower, softer repeat of how Tim had initiated. Warm air puffs across Tim’s beard when Shane retreats, eyes searching for something he needs to find on Tim’s face. 

“Actually,” he breathes softly, “I really do think about you all the time too.”

Tim has never been more grateful for the rough grip on his cheeks because that’s all that’s keeping him from sinking to the ground on wobbly knees. Shane takes another kiss before his hand slips into Tim’s meaty paw and tugs him into the living room. He guides him back to the couch and, with a not-too-gentle push, shoves Tim down against the cushions. The detective goes without resistance.

The pale light from the rain beyond the window and the fluorescent glow behind him etches Shane in a soft halo. Brightness in Shane’s eyes tells him that the man is running on instinct alone – and that’s perfectly fucking fine. Whatever – anything – Shane wants, Tim will gladly offer it up. 

But when his hands drop to Tim’s belt buckle, the rush of heat up his body leaves him almost catatonic. 

“Mhmm, f-fuck, sweetheart, wait a second – d-don’t wanna rush things if you’re not –,”

The sound of his zipper tearing open is like a gunshot and there’s no denying the raw hunger that smears the edges of Shane’s eyes to a dangerous black.

“You have to walk me through it.” He sounds awe-struck.

He sinks to his knees and Tim considers he might actually die on this fucking couch. The heat radiating from those black-tipped hands that run up his thighs has Tim moaning in the back of his throat. He wants to curl that beautiful hair around Shane’s elegant ear – what would he say if Tim told him he has an elegant ear – but he’s using all of his energy to not immediately come when Shane tugs his pants down his hips, just enough to palm him through his boxers. 

As if the sensation of a half-hard cock surprises him, Shane’s lips split apart, eyes locked onto the wet spot beneath his hand. Tim swipes his bottom lip with his tongue, knuckles white as he grips the cushions, watching with aborted breath Shane stroke him gently. He grits his teeth.

“Tell me you want this.” Tell me I’m not forcing you into anything too fast because I’m fucking obsessed with you.

“I want this.” Shane shuffles closer, his hand dipping down to cup his balls, the scent of his cloves hitting Tim again, and Shane quietly gasps as the cock beneath his hand hardens more and more. “I wanna s-suck your cock.”

Tim grunts, his legs opening wider, sliding low into the cushions and now Shane hovers over him. Here is where with other partners in recent years, Tim would lock up. There’s gray in the curls at the base of his cock and his tummy hangs out a bit more, no matter how much he runs. But Shane doesn’t seem to register any of that. His mouth is still open in raw fascination, as if showing off how fucking deep he’s going to take the cock inches from his face. The sight splits heat between his groin and his heart. Tim is not going to fucking rush this. He’ll let Shane touch whatever he wants for as long as he wants even if it makes him come like an overeager teenager. 

Suppressing that peak of heat at Shane’s touch, Tim digs his fingers into Shane’s mop of hair like he’d been wanting to since the kid first offered that drink. At his immediate touch, Shane’s eyes roll back in his head and Tim takes that as an opportunity to scratch at his scalp, with a slight tug at the end. 

“Oh, fuck, please lemme me suck your cock.” 

Shane’s breathing hitches when Tim loosens the grip on his hair, runs his thumb down his temple, scuffs his cheek, and then drags that puffy bottom lip down. He looks absolutely ruined, eyes misty and shoulders slumped forward, and Tim has barely touched him. 

“Take me out, baby,” Tim murmurs, “and I’ll tell you what to do.”

Wide eyes never losing their nervous light, Shane dips his hand below the elastic waistband (why didn’t he put on better underwear?) and cups him, slowly dragging his shorts lower as he pulls Tim’s cock into the light. 

Tim has to remember to breathe. Fuck, it’s so hot in this fucking room. With trembling fingers, he tugs the knot of his tie away from his throat and unbuttons his shirt down to his ribs, as Shane runs an experimental grip up and down the length of his cock. Tim hisses as heat flares brightly and a little too fast. 

Shane’s eyes flick up to his face. “Sorry, too dry?”

Without waiting for a response, Shane cups his hand beneath his mouth and spits, a giant, slick glob. It might be the hottest thing Tim has ever witnessed with his two eyes. Shane’s hand returns and Tim’s eyes flutter shut as he groans. 

“S-s-shit, baby, that’s really good.” 

Tim wants to open his eyes, to see Shane’s face, to get a glimpse of what is going on in that beautiful head, but he can’t drag himself out of the lusty haze long enough. 

And then, after several slow, long pumps that have him harder than he can ever remember being, Tim feels Shane’s palm twist just as his thumb swirls the head and swipes the leaking tip. Pleasure roars up his spine and his hips jerk off the couch. His eyes snap open and find Shane not proud, but surprised. His mouth opens again in glee.

“I fucking love that too,” he murmurs, his hand moving a bit faster now. “Love it when they play with the tip.”

“Mhmm, hmm.” 

As Shane finds a slightly hurried rhythm with his strokes, Tim is greedily storing away images and sensations in lockbox after lockbox in his memory. Has Shane’s hands always looked so thick?

“You can try whatever you want.” Tim murmurs, his gaze jumping between the hand around his cock, Shane’s mouth, and that hand with the black nails against his thigh. “If you like something, I’ll probably like it too.” 

Shane wets his lip, his eyes darting to Tim’s face as if looking for permission. Tim nods, his heart pounding in a completely different way than from exertion, and has to breathe into his stomach as Shane parts his lips and lowers his mouth to his cock. Inch by inch, he takes him deeper and deeper, his hand falling away to Tim’s other thigh, as he sinks closer to those gray-streaked curls.

Tim is genuinely caught on the knife-edge of pleasure and pain. Exquisite pleasure saps his entire body of energy, every grunt and sigh bursts of tiny releases, but with every inch into Shane’s warm, wet mouth, his tongue a rough glide on the underside of his cock, it becomes harder and harder to not buck his hips and god, does he fucking want to. He wants to grab Shane by the back of the head, hold him steady, and fuck that mouth like it’s the last fuck of his life. But he won’t, he can’t – Shane isn’t ready for that and quite honestly, neither is he, despite how the arousal of that mental image floods him with hot satisfaction. He’s going to tear apart this couch with his bare hands, though.

Shane gets about halfway and then chokes and Tim is yanked out of the dream in a panic.

“B-baby, are you okay?” 

Shane splutters and nods, the back of his hand coming to his lips, as if trying to hide his smile.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he croaks. “My gag reflex is shit though.” 

Tim sighs with relief and a strangled orgasm. He’s so hard it hurts but he doesn’t give a fuck. “You’re doing fine, sweetheart. Better than fine, actually.”

Tim meets his eyes as they go dark and hungry with a flash of that spitfire that Tim only ever saw on the other side of a metal interview table before. 

“Guess you’ll have to train up my reflex, then.”

“Yeah?” This kid has no idea what he’s playing with. Shane kneels between his spread legs, hands gently rubbing the meat of his thighs, those dark eyes swirling almost maliciously. Tim pinches Shane’s chin between his thumb and curled forefinger, thrusting that belligerent mouth up. “You gonna listen to an authority figure for once in your goddamn life?” 

“I’ll try my best,” he pouts, his neck arched back. 

“Blow on it.” Tim commands. “Start from the bottom and go to the top.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tim’s cock visibly throbs and Shane hasn’t even opened his mouth. But then he does, leaning forward when Tim releases his chin. He blows a quick burst of air around Tim’s curls, before opening his mouth wide and breathing heavily, wetly, warmly around the base of the cock in front of him. Then, as he was told, he lifts up and to the very top of that leaking head. 

“Take the tip – just the tip – and suck on it, gently at first.”

Shane does as he is instructed, his eyes never leaving Tim’s face or losing that maniacal glint, and he sucks, making a similar face (Tim assumes) as when he’s slurping up ice cream. Shane sucks harder and a loud, lewd moan rips out of Tim’s throat. 

“Now take it all in, as much as you can. Then swallow.”

Shane dips his head, mouth gliding down his veiny shaft, spit slipping out of the corner of his mouth, going down and down and down until he breathes sharply through his nose. Tim, clutching at sanity as it sprinkles through his fingers, watches the sharp planes of Shane’s shoulders and back churn and roll as he lifts his head up and down. He wants to loop his fingers through those black curls so badly.

“I’m gonna touch you now, okay?” Shane grunts his approval, the blush of air against his groin sending a bolt of pleasure up Tim’s spine, and he soothes his own tattered nerves by digging into Shane’s hair, scratching a bit like he had before. But then he loosens and just lets his hand rest contentedly on the back of his head. 

The drumming beat of rain and Shane’s wet mouth is a narcotic. The sight and sounds and smells of it all makes his brain melt, deep desires usually chained down by his restraint snapping and popping free like fireworks.

What’s he going to feel like when Shane can take all of him?

How long and how often does he have to do this to train him up?

Could he come home after working a twelve hour shift to Shane crawling onto his knees and sucking him off, just like this? Like this, in perfect domestic bliss –

Out of nowhere, Shane swallows and Tim has to claw into his own thigh to keep from coming right then and there. 

“Oh, fucking Christ –,” he yelps. As if encouraged, Shane tries to go a little deeper, swallow a little harder, but he gags again. When he lifts his head, his eyes are wet and Tim wonders if it's possible to black out from being so aroused. 

“Sorry,” Shane mutters, wiping his mouth again. “Your cock is so fucking big. It felt big in my ass but this –,”

Tim’s eyes slip closed. “Shut the fuck up. You can’t – can’t say those things.” 

He breathes heavily, the pounding in his heart only slightly stronger than the blood pounding in his cock. But Shane is suspiciously quiet.

Tim opens his eyes and finds a curious expression on Shane’s face as he stares at Tim’s cock. No, not his cock, a bit below –

Shane turns and tugs the low, tattered table behind him closer. He puts Tim’s foot against the edge, and then does the same with the other. The haze in Tim’s brain won’t let him piece it together until Shane dips his head, tongue already out.

“Whoa, whoa, baby–,” he grasps Shane’s shoulder and he stops. “I can’t ask you to do that. I don’t want to push you too far tonight.”

Shane rolls his eyes, flatly annoyed. “I’ve eaten ass before, Tim. I’m not a blushing fucking virgin.” 

Tim can actually feel the second that sweat breaks out across his hairline. “A-are you sure?” 

“Yeah, I actually know what I’m doing there. I mean, an asshole is an asshole, right?”

He isn’t sure if he likes how fast Shane has grown in confidence, or if it’s the sexist thing he’s ever seen. Maybe he’s the one not entirely ready.

“Y-yeah. Alright. Fire away, then.”

And with that first kitten lick, Tim finally comprehends just how fucked he is. He knew he was, but it’s not until Shane masterfully rims the edge of that ringed muscle does he know, with clear certainty, this kid is going to ruin him.

Shane’s hand curls around Tim’s shaft, his tongue prodding his asshole, and Tim makes a loud, open-mouthed moan that hits the quiet air of the apartment and shatters.

Within seconds, he’s hurling towards a release so violent, his thighs shake. Shane pumps him slowly, his mouth making everything wet and drippy, his eyes eagerly catching every twitch and moan Tim makes. 

When Tim feels his balls draw up, dangling over the precipice, he snatches Shane by the hair and yanks him back. Again, Shane makes a sound like an irritated cat.

“C’mon,” he huffs, his face red as if he had mitigated his breathing. “Lemme do this.” 

Tim swallows everything – his tongue, his orgasm, the desire to lick the brat right out of Shane’s pouty mouth – and shoves it all down as far as it will go. He’s left sweaty and panting, holding Shane by the flat of his hair at arm’s length. He swallows again and sits up, that airless high settling. Shane scowls petulantly

“You still want me to fuck that ass, right?”

His glare cracks in half. Those swollen lips part and he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Then you fucking listen to me when I tell you to stop sucking cock. Got it?”

Shane nods more insistently, tongue swiping fast against his bottom lip. “Y-yeah.” 

Tim lets go and resists the urge to correct him to how he addressed him before, but fucking Christ, one thing at time.

“Which one is yours?” Tim nods towards the two closed doors across from him. Wordlessly, Shane points to the one farthest from the living room. “Show me.” 

Tim barely grunts as he stands up, his knees dangerously unsteady, his back twinging from the low position on the couch and the fact that there’s more padding on a highway road than inside of those cushions. 

Again, just as he thinks he might tip over, Shane takes his hand, intertwining their fingers, and leads him through the door. 

The sun had set on an already dark day, so in the burgeoning twilight, Shane’s room is a collection of shadows and blue outlines. Beyond the vinyl window slats, the rain pours harder than ever, muffling the sounds of cars on the street and the blunders of other people in the building. With the door closed, the air is warm, but not uncomfortably so, more like a soothing hand against his sweaty neck. The pleasant scent of incense is unmistakable, a far cry from any other smell in the apartment. 

The effect of it all, standing in Shane’s room, alone, is . . . isolating.

“It’s not much,” Shane murmurs, as if he worried Tim would find something about his space distasteful. “But I did clean up.” His eyes grow wide as soon as the words leave his mouth. “Not that I thought, or even expected that this – that you’d –”

Tim brings their locked hands to Shane’s cheek and gently, sweetly kisses him on the mouth. For a man so confident in his ability to drive his partner insane with his tongue up their ass, the boy quivers beneath a soft touch. Tim pulls back and finds blurry, unfocused eyes. 

“What do you want to do tonight?” Tim hums and strokes an errant curl back from Shane’s cheek. 

“This.” Shane says immediately. “This feels so fucking good.”

“Where do you sleep?” Tim asks, quietly, letting the words slow to a rumble, his free hand gently cupping the boy’s neck. The bed is unmissable, but he wants to give Shane as much control as he needs. Beneath his hands, Shane’s breathing stutters for a moment, before biting down on his bottom lip and leading Tim to the haphazardly made-up bed. He sits, big eyes staring up at him, at their bound hands, before releasing his grip and lying back on the bed. He scoots up, nestling that all black hair against his gray pillow.

“Here.” His voice is strangled, choked, his fingers twisting together as he picks at his nails. “Right h-here.” 

“Is that why you look so good right here, baby?” Tim slides the tail end of his tie out of the knot and off his neck. Shane licks his lips, transfixed, as Tim continues to unbutton his wrinkled shirt. The bit of clothing falls to the floor and Tim nearly matches Shane in a white sleeveless shirt. Black and white, punk and cop. There’s poetry in there somewhere.

Tim continues to undress; shoes first, then socks, and finally his slacks. Shane gets a little jumpy as he crawls up the bed. 

“Are you comfortable?” 

“Yes.” Tim raises an eyebrow at the jeans confining his hard cock. “No, sorry, n-no – I’ll take them off.” 

Tim gives him enough space to unbutton his pants, then sloppily jerk them off. He flings them over by Tim’s and Tim grins. He settles back down with Shane nearly underneath him and gently strokes his cheek. Everywhere he touches on the boy, it’s warm. Women aren’t like that, usually, and in turn, it satisfies something deep inside of him. Tim thinks of the tender warmth of the heated skin of a deer after it’s run a long distance. 

“You still want it, baby?” This he asks honestly and without the grungy purr to his voice. 

Again, without hesitation, Shane nods, but then stops. His chest swells like the words he wants to say are caught on the back of his throat, his nails gently biting into Tim’s chest, so Tim presses thoughtfully into the arch of Shane’s jaw, encouraging him. His doe eyes darting across Tim’s face, tension coiling up in his thighs, Shane says,

“I want it from the back this time.”

Oh, fuck. 

With half of a groan and half of a laugh, Tim dips forward and loosely bites Shane on his ear. “You really are trying to kill me, aren’t you?” 

Shane giggles as Tim’s nips slowly turn to open-mouthed kisses. He sucks sharply on the thrumming pulse of his neck, and Shane groans, his whole body writhing to be closer to Tim’s mouth, his skinny arms going around Tim’s broad shoulders. 

“Do you mind?” Shane asks, breaking apart for a moment, his lips brushing Tim’s mustache. “I know you did it last time and if you wanna, um, I mean I can try but –”

Tim grins through the smile pressed onto a corner of that sweet mouth as he sits up on his knees. He smooths a hand up through the faint trail of hair just above Shane’s waistband, then up his ribs, stopping to thumb a hard, pink nipple, before kissing both of his cheeks. 

“No, I don’t mind. I will never, ever mind when you ask so nicely.” 

“But one day – you w-want me too, right?” 

Ribbons of meaning hang over that question, their soft tassels hard to grab before slipping through Tim’s grasp. His brow furrows, his hand resting on Shane’s hip. The boy stares up at him like he hangs the moon in the sky.

Those ribbons drag forward new questions of their own, questions he can’t ask himself, much less out loud. They all clatter and fall into one big heap in his mouth and he can’t untangle them right now, not while he has Shane looking like that, but one slips through before he can stop it.

“You wanna do this again, with me?” The question lingers in the air like smoke, as gentle and insistent as the rain outside.

Shane’s fingers curl around Tim’s wrists. He smiles. “Yeah, of course. I . . . like you.” Blush trickles up his neck and into his ears, but he keeps his grip. “If you wanna keep me around, I mean.”

His voice goes small, from somewhere he never lets anyone see. Just as Shane’s eyes jerk off him, shame hot in his gaze, his body going rigid, Tim leans down and kisses him, the softest kiss they’d ever shared. The scent of cloves comes again as Shane offers his tongue and Tim takes it. 

They kiss in the cover of the rain, in the shelter of the space that is entirely theirs, for one eternity and a half. When Tim opens his eyes, he is someone new, someone changed. Someone he doesn’t recognize and that’s a wonderful thing.

“I’ll take you like you want,” he says softly. Beneath his chest, skin to skin, he can feel Shane’s heart pounding. He hopes Shane can feel his. “But I wanna see your face for a bit. Is that okay?” 

Shane nods and kisses him as he tries to pull away. Tim smirks and rubs Shane’s hip bone with his thumb.

“Remember what I said about preparing? Have you been doing that?”

Shane bites his lip as if caught doing something particularly filthy. “Yeah, I’m up to three fingers now.”

Fucking hell. Be cool about this. 

“Good, baby. Do you have lube?”

Shane rolls his eyes, that blush now blotchy on his throat. “Duuuh. I don’t know why you think I’m some bl–”

“– ushing fucking virgin. I heard you the first time.” Shane narrows his eyes playfully and Tim cannot wait to spank that smirk right off him. “Then go get it.”

Shane wiggles out from between Tim’s legs and crawls over to the bedside table. He digs around a bit before pulling out a box of condoms and a blue bottle. He tosses them at Tim like he’s throwing laundry detergent, before hovering for a moment. Lips between his teeth, he stiffly slips his underwear off and down the floor. His bracelets clink as he moves and Tim can tell it sounds like an air raid siren to him. Naked, he crawls back to bed and settles beneath Tim flat on his back.

“For someone who is so bothered by authority,” Tim begins and just as Shane frowns, wrenching his mouth open to argue, Tim sits back between his thighs and folds his knees up, spreading him wide. Whatever retort Shane had dies on his throat and the only thing left is a soft whine. “You are such a good boy. I didn’t even have to ask you to get naked for me.”

Shane’s cock, exposed for the first time all night, twitches on his stomach. He squirms as Tim picks up the bottle and clicks up the lid with his thumb, his other hand resting briefly on the arch of Shane’s foot. 

“I’m gonna start with one again, but move faster into two this time, okay? Then we’ll see if you’re lying to me or not.” Resistance flashes in Shane’s eyes at Tim’s smirk, but the boy stays silent. 

But that defiant look melts away to aching bliss when Tim drizzles the lube between his cheeks, and then Tim’s own fingers. His other hand curls around Shane’s knee and squeezes, grounding them both. 

“Probably should have gotten a towel,” Tim mutters and the sound Shane was going to use to reply fractures and crumbles, oozing into a throaty moan when his asshole spreads apart around a single finger. 

Maybe it’s his age, or maybe he’s never had his asshole played with in a way he likes, but Shane is so fucking sensitive. He’s twitching and gasping after a few strokes, black nails curling into the bedsheets. His eyes are squeezed shut, not from pain or discomfort, but from trying desperately not to come. Tim recognizes that look; he wore it himself fifteen minutes ago. 

Shane’s cock is trickling all over his stomach by the time Tim adds a second finger. And true to his word, it goes in without much resistance, much to Tim’s delight. This means there can be a bit more fun than just aimlessly prodding. Shane lets out a high moan when Tim’s fingers change angles. 

“What the fuck are you doing down there?” Shane pants, sweat peaking at his hairline. He moans again before Tim can answer, his back arching off the bed. 

“Searching.”

“For fucking what? I–,” Shane’s eyes snap open, horror and heat etched in the dark rims. “You can’t touch that, it’s not fair. You’ll make me come.”

Tim kisses his knee as he adds a third finger, grinning when Shane’s head thumps back against the pillow. “I think that’s the whole point of this, sweetheart.” 

Shane whines his answer; Tim speeds up his thrusting, giving up for now. 

“You’re doing so well, darling, so well. You did so good to prepare for my cock.”

Shane fists the bedsheets, his thigh muscles tightening. Tim thinks he can’t actually comprehend his words, until he wrenches his jaw apart. “Just your cock. I did it for your cock, Rockford, no one else’s. Don’t - don’t want anyone’s cock but yours in me.” 

This is just cock-drunk babble, tongue loose with whatever nonsense fills his mouth, his brain no longer in control.

Right?

Either way, Tim slips his fingers out with practiced precision, easing on the condom, then squirting his cock and Shane’s exposed hole with lube in one go. If Shane has noticed anything, his blissed out expression doesn’t change . . . until he feels the tip of Tim’s thick head expand his asshole.

His stare locked onto Shane’s blissed out face, Tim pushes forward, using Shane’s knees as leverage. 

The boy honest to god chokes. His cock spits up his chest. 

“Ohmy god . . .” 

Tim goes slow enough he knows it won’t hurt, his fingers opened him enough that the lube only adds to the pleasure, but he’s not entirely worried about that right now. He wants him stupid and babbling again.

“This cock, sweetheart? This is the cock you’ve been making room for?”

Shane whines, lips white between his teeth, nodding vigorously. Tim rubs his hip soothingly and Shane’s face breaks open with a loud gasp. His eyes snap down to where he swallows Tim inch after inch.

“You’re so much bigger than my fingers. Holy fucking shit. I forgot how big you are.” 

“But you like that, right?” There’s a collective sigh of relief as Tim finally is flushed against him. Huffing like a wounded animal, Tim pushes the mop of hair back from Shane’s sweaty forehead. “You like how I fuck you, don’t you?”

Shane nods again, as Tim grips his waist and he wraps his fingers around Shane’s forearms, his bracelets tinkling softly, as he settles in for what he can’t even possibly imagine.

“You’re damn fucking right I like how you fuck me.” Shane rasps out. “Wouldn’t let you do it if it didn’t rock my fucking world.” 

“I’m gonna go a bit faster than I did last time. You say stop if it gets to be too much.”

“I know what a safeword is, Rockford, I’m not –,”

Tim rolls his hips forward, knocking a surprised breath from Shane. He stabilizes a bit better with his knees and then picks up a rhythm, slow but deep.

“If you say blushing fucking virgin one more time, I’m putting you over my knee and spanking you.” 

But words fail him.

They fail Tim too, eventually, when rings of heat stack, one upon the other, up his spine. Every time Shane’s asshole clenches around him, those rings drop lower, closer to his groin. 

It feels too fucking good. 

The rhythmic chime of Shane’s metal bracelets clinking together can barely be heard over the rain outside, and the peaks and valleys of the heavy moans piling up in the room.

Shane’s flattened hand against his head board, he grinds his hips down, forcing even more resistance than just his tight hole. 

“Fuck,” he whines high and loud, Tim tightening his grip on his waist as he all but bounces Shane on his cock. “Oh god, I can’t – I can’t –,” 

Tim’s skin is so hot he wonders if he’s giving off steam. He’s sweating from his forehead, his neck, the backs of his knees, a slick wetness spreading across his groin every time he slams that cute little ass back against him. Not another single word of derision has passed Shane’s lips in what feels like forever, his mouth switching rapidly between grinding his teeth and dropping open when Tim brushes up against something nuclear. 

If Tim is steaming, Shane is melting. Every muscle in his body is weak, knees around Tim’s hips to give him better access. Cum rolls in white streaks off his stomach and onto the rapidly shifting sheets. 

Tim knows if he just breaths on the that pink cock, it’s all fucking over – so he slows, and pulls back out of him. 

A Shane with a functioning brain would have demanded an explanation but the gooey mess of a boy in the bed only lifts his gaze. 

“Turn around,” Tim pants. 

“What?” 

“You wanted me too . . .” Tim spins his finger, squeezing the base of his cock with his other hand. “Turn over.” 

“Oh, right.” Despite that almost sleepy murmur, Tim can hear the disappointment. At the head of the bed, a shaking hand swipes away one pillow then the other and Shane buries his face in the mattress.

His ass is already pink as Tim spreads his thighs, his knee nudging his right leg to bend, and lines up. But Shane is murmuring something into the sheets. 

“… stop.” 

Tim freezes, one hand around his cock the other flat against the bed by Shane’s hips. 

“You want me to stop?” 

Shane lifts his head enough to look back and whine. “Don’t — don’t stop.” Crackling with unspent energy, Shane rubs his face against the sheets like a cat. “Please.”

Tim grins as he lines himself up again, his free hand coming to Shane’s thigh when the cockhead spreads his cheeks. 

“Don’t worry, darling, I’m not gonna –,”

Tim stops moving. It’s long enough and unusually fraught enough for Shane to lift his head in confusion, Tim’s cock barely in.

“What happened?” 

Tim is staring, struck dumb and mindless at the sight of Shane’s lower back.

“You’ve got two dimples here,” he murmurs, the growl in his voice thick and rough.

“Yeah? So?”

Without warning, Tim yanks Shane onto his hands and knees by his waist. The sudden movement is rough for his loose muscles and he yelps. 

“Fuck – what’s got you all fucking twisted up now?”

Tim is no longer entirely himself. His shoulders seem broader, nose sharper, mouth firmer. His eyes have been eclipsed by black as one by one, he puts his hands on Shane’s hips, and then twists his thumbs to fit into the divots of his dimples as he, achingly slow, pushes back into Shane’s abused hole.

“You’ve got fucking handles built in, baby.” Tim murmurs and heat radiates from where they are connected, Shane’s skin flushed with red and goosebumps. The sensation jams the signal to Shane’s brain. 

Behind him, Tim kisses his back almost lovingly.

“I’m definitely gonna wreck your shit now.” 

On the first tug, the one that snugs Tim’s groin right up against his ass, Tim knows he only has seconds left in him. 

These strokes are brutal, fast, and short. Whatever sounds tears itself from Shane’s throat is the prettiest thing Tim has ever heard. His mouth goes wet as he watches Shane’s shoulders and back go loose again and on another day, he’s going to clench his fist around that mop of hair and pull until Shane begs him to stop.

Another day. But not today. 

Tim focuses on the things he can control to elongate that enormous orgasm that rattles his teeth. His thumbs in the perfect little divots of Shane’s back; he pushes down, increasing the pressure higher up, and actually hears the cum squirt out onto the bed, followed by a groan that shakes Shane from head to toe. He focuses on his breathing, the short huffs out his nose, mouth closed shut but tiny mhm mhm mhm’s escape anyway. He tries to focus on the glint around his pelvis but that makes things worse. 

He focuses on – fuck, what can he focus on? – Shane hasn’t made a noise in –

“Shane, baby, are you okay?”

He gasps out as though electrified. “I’m trying so hard not to come, I don’t want it to fucking stop, but you hit my g-spot three thrusts ago and I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Tim can’t help but chuckle. He rubs a warm palm up Shane’s spine, then gives his neck a reassuring squeeze, before leaning forward and draping himself over Shane’s trembling frame, never slowing those fast, rough thrusts. He noses his ear as his hand slips around the cock leaking profusely onto the sheets. 

“You can come, but it has to be loud and messy.” 

Just half a stroke down and Shane comes with a cry that paints the inside of Tim’s brain permanently. And he keeps coming, gasping, wet and whining. Over his shoulder, Tim feels a dribble against his knee and that, combined with all of Shane’s delicious fucking sounds, knocks free Tim’s own release, the swell and burst far away from his control. Shane’s elbows are trembling by the time he slumps to the side, trying and mostly failing to avoid his own cumstain. Tim drops behind him in a haze. 

He’s already sore, every muscle tightened then released over and over and over again. He can’t inhale properly and he’s got a stitch in his side. There’s a pulsing all over his body and he isn’t sure if that’s from coming so hard he nearly shot off the condom, or his heart pounding like it’s about to explode. His skin is wet and sticky and he’s hungry but exhausted and he would hate all of this if he was alone, but . . .

Weary down to his bones, the breath settling in his chest and the fog lifting slightly, Tim puts a hand on the narrow waist in front of him. Fingers join his, wrapping together, as the frenetic energy of the room slows to a crawl, each moment plodding along in front of the next like fat water droplets. 

“. . . good, that was good,” Tim slurs to no one in particular, his eyelids flickering open and shut. “You’re . . . s’good.” He knows they should talk, but he’s past speech, or rather anything coherent, his consciousness slipping beneath the churning dark waves of sleep.

The smooth back in front of him, shiny with drying sweat, shakes in a dizzy, silent chuckle.

“Go to sleep, old man.”

Tim knows he should be offended, or he thinks he should, if he could comprehend language right now, so instead he settles into the warmth and the darkness. Soon the only sound he can hear is the rain pattering against the window and Shane softly snoring before reality winks out.

+

[liketwoswansinbalance]

What if Evil Rhian and Evil Rafal interacted? Give me a good show, boys. 🍿

Note:

Expect violence and all-around ugliness.

Also, thanks for the prompt. This was a fun one!

⸻

Rafal: The one thing I can agree with Vulcan on is that we should've kept the name: The School for Evil and Good.

Rhian: What.

Rafal: You heard me. Clear as a death knell. Vulcan should've killed you while he had the chance. Instead I'm bedeviled by you, a foul nuisance spawned from "Vulcan's stithy."

[To clarify: In his Shakespearean insult, Rafal is now referencing the mythological, Roman god Vulcan, not Vulcan of Netherwood.]

Rhian: Well, you're a raging egomaniac, for someone who thinks himself the finest puppetmaster in the Woods despite being inadequate when set next to me.

Rafal: As if you're not one. And such language from the so-called Ever. Dean 'Headache' would blush.

Rhian: All right, let's say I descend to your wretched level, if only to vanquish you: you left me in the Doom Room, to rot!

Rafal: If you weren't a traitorous snake, I wouldn't have left you. Besides, you went behind my back to the Kingdom Council to frame me! To launch a war campaign against me without a jot of forewarning. I should have done worse while you were still vulnerable, hanging there, numb.

Rhian: And yet, I overheard you say to Midas that your aim was to take over all the Woods? What say you to that, devil brother? If I win and take over, I'll string you up by your vocal chords.

Rafal: [derisively] That's anatomically impossible. You're new at this, aren't you?

[Rhian lunges for Rafal, and they get into an all-out duel to the death, executing remarkable feats of arms, considering the pitiful weapons they're armed with.]

⸻

[During an intermission afterwards:]

[They are black and blue, battered and bruised all over, sustaining minor cuts, each gasping for his breath, and they are seated on chairs, beside one another.]

Rafal: I should've brought my poleaxe, or even a halberd, so I could fracture your skull properly. Strike out the brains and dash them on the floor. [shakes his head.] Would've been great fun to ram a longsword through your ribcage, too, had I brought it along. [He twists his letter opener around idly.] This meager, little thing isn't suited for thrusting; it barely did any damage.

Rhian: [nursing a long, open slice on his forearm] I think you did enough with that letter opener. [He sheathes his dagger.] Though, someone should've died, even if you failed to shear me in two. What gives. What's the matter with us?

Rafal: [glances over at the Storian] Looks like someone or some thing wants us alive to provide the entertainment. I'm not opposed to trying again though. Why don't we? I'd love to rip out your heart. It's not as if it's getting regular use anyway.

Rhian: And I wish to wreak the same harm upon you, with your tongue besides. I hate hearing that grating voice. So monotonous. You could be a punishment for others in Hell where you belong. Your lectures are torture enough.

Rafal: Well, you won't have to hear me much longer. Not that you ever listen. Your dismembered ears will make excellent trophies of war. I could have them plated with gold—gold on the outside, rot on the inside, just like your tainted soul. [He smiles to himself, satisfied, and then, fishes through his jacket pocket and finds a long piece of thread in a clump, trying to untie it, so he can use it to garrot Rhian, or at the very least, choke him effectively enough.]

Rhian: And I'm sure your bones would make a lovely tea set, once they're pulverized. [Rhian reaches over to clock Rafal upside the head with a book.]

Rafal: [leans out of reach, rolling his eyes] Child's play. [He shoves Rhian off his chair and that devolves into a second fistfight on the floor, more vicious than the first, in an all-out brawl as they forgo all dignity.]

Rhian: At least I have HONOR! [he bellows to stall Rafal, while attempting to summon his dragonfire.] I'll scorch you like I would a snowman!

Rafal: [raising his voice as he throttles Rhian in the neck, punctuating every sentence with a punch] You? Honor? You're the least honorable man I know. At least my Evil's out in the open, for all to see. Everyone knows I use underhanded means. Everyone knows I'm a two-faced backstabber. And they rightly take precaution and obey me. [spoken through his teeth with a clenched jaw.] My Evil's a publicly-acknowledged fact. Can't say the same about you, you who went to the Kingdom Council, who indelicately skirts around Ever customs despite claiming to be one. Which makes me the "honorable" one, by your twisted definition.

Rhian: How dare you— [as he rakes his nails across Rafal's face, drawing blood that clots immediately due to their self-healing, as per the original oath, leaving shallow, stinging wounds that knit themselves right up.] I will outlast you!

[Don't ask me how they can still heal despite breaking their oaths. The Storian derives sick entertainment from mindless repetition and senseless, brutish violence. That's why.]

[And, the Storian doesn't bother to write because this is a regular occurrence with two Evil twins—it's unworthy of a tale, infighting not balance. And so, the Pen just watches and waits and watches...]

[orderforbrian]

Day 6 - Time Travel for @jonmartinweek!

im late again but only bc i drew waayyy too much for this lol - i couldnt help it tho i really love those kid-centric aus where jon and martin's future kids come visit their s1 selves - they're just full of so many cute moments and little jokes 🤭 i'm also just a sucker for anything jmart kid related. plus watching s1 jon and martin, who have budged hardly an inch past absolute loathing, grapple with the fact they not only get married in the future but have KIDS too is soooooooo good 😆they get to talking and realize "oh god you really are my ideal partner ohno OHHH NOO"

[Start ID: Multiple images of Jon and Martin from The Magnus Archives as well as their future children for an AU. Jon is a thin Persian man with dark, curly hair streaked with grey and rectangular glasses. Martin is a fat, mixed Polish/Korean man with dark brown, wavy hair, browline glasses, and a beauty mark by his lip. 1st image: Jon and Martin are sitting at a wedding table decorated with flowers, a plate with half eaten cake, and a green napkin. Jon is wearing a white shirt with a dark green bowtie, his hair is slicked back into a low bun with some styled stray hairs. His black suit jacket covers the chair behind him. He has light beard and a gold column earring. Martin is wearing a white shirt with a dark blue bowtie, his hair is styled back as well and he wears a gold diamond drop earring. They sit side by side, noses almost touching - Jon smiles wholesomely at Martin, holding up a coupe glass of champagne, and Martin smiles back with his eyes closed, left hand resting around the base of his own coupe glass. Jon's left hand sits on top of Martin's, each hand has a gold band on the ring finger. The drawing looks like a polaroid, Jon's handwriting at the bottom says "Jonathan and Martin Blackwood-Sims. June 27th, 2023." Martin has placed a red heart sticker and written "J+M" in blue marker on the photo. 2nd image: Jon and Martin are older and pose with their children on their backs. Their children, Mina and Jules, have dark, curly hair like Jon's, Mina has a beauty mark by his right eye and Jules has one on her left lower cheek. In this image Mina has her hair tied back into two pigtails and is smiling with one tooth gone. She wears overalls with a scalloped shirt, a sensory bracelet on her right wrist, and sneakers. She is riding on Martin's back, gripping his shirt with one hand and lifting up the other one behind his head, laughing loudly. Martin side eyes her with mirth, his hair is more choppy and down past his shoulders, he has a patchy beard, and wears a simple lined shirt. In this image, Jules has her hair tied back into a ponytail and is wearing a t-shirt, jean shorts and sneakers with a star on them. She sticks her tongue out towards the camera and winks one eye, both her arms are laced around Jon's neck. Jon's hair is past his ears and he has a fully grown mustache and beard, he wears a collared short sleeve shirt. Underneath ths photo Jon writes "Picnic after 2nd year primary. Mina (7) Jules (8)." Martin has drawn a yellow sun and written in blue marker "too old!!" and a crying face. 3rd image: Mina and Jules (off frame) hold up multiple photographs to younger Jon and Martin (season 1). Martin is wearing a collared shirt and his hair is side parted, cut just past his ears. Jon has his hair slicked back aside from a couple large curls at the front and wears a suit jacket, collared shirt, tie, and vest. Martin and Jon stare down at the photos with flustered surprise, confusion, and disbelief, both blushing. Martin pinches one of the photos with his right hand. Jon holds his glasses in his right hand.

4th image is a 7 panel comic. Mina and Jules both wear glasses and school uniforms with a backpack, Mina wearing a tie and vest, her hair done in two braids, and Jules wearing a collared shirt and tie, her hair in a bob with two clips. 1st panel: Jules outstretches her hand while looking angry at Mina who is looking away with a huff. "We would've gotten here way sooner if you didn't have to stop and pet that dumb dog!!". 2nd panel: Jon crosses his arms and sneers at Martin, who is looking unimpressed and annoyed and holding a tea mug. "They get that from you...". 3rd panel: Mina points at Jules and retorts "Well if you weren't so impatient we wouldn't have gotten caught, stupid!!". 4th panel: Martin lifts up the tea mug to take a sip and shoots back to Jon, who frowns, "They get that from you...". 5th panel: Mina and Jules yell at each other with closed eyes and hunched shoulders, "UGH!!! WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS ARGUING WITH ME!!!". 6th panel: A simplified drawing of Jon and Martin, one speech bubble connecting both of them saying "They get that from you". 7th panel: Jon and Martin whip around and stare at each other with offended anger, saying "ME?!".

5th image is of Mina and Jules in full color. They have the same descriptions as in the comic, the school uniform is a purple gray, the skirts plaid. Mina wears a green colored sensory bracelet and Jules wears a blue colored one. Mina has a nervous frown, a couple sweat marks coming off her head, while Jules smiles with quiet confidence, a couple gold sparkles by her head. They hold hands in the middle, Jules is slightly taller than Mina. Above Mina are the following words: Mina (Mia) *younger sibling *a bit shy *fave color is green *loves when Dad does her hair. Above Jules are the following words: Julia (Jules) *older (by 11 months) *more adventurous *fave color is blue *loves when Baba buys her ice cream. End ID.]

[hippolotamus]

Inspiration Saturday 🪩

Tagged by the delightful @thekristen999 @daffi-990 @lemonzestywrites @bidisasterevankinard @wikiangela

@theotherbuckley for Fuck it Friday. Thank you darlin’s (tagging you back for today) mwah! 💖

Made a lil moodboard for today's snippet. I'm not in love with all the words but that's what editing is for. So, here's Buck visiting Eddie's workplace for the first time. Surprise (because I don't think I've mentioned this before???) Eddie's not a firefighter in this either. He's a mechanic who works with a bunch of homophobic jerks. But also with Hen! Buck knows Eddie isn't out to most people so this is an... enlightening moment for him. Some of it's under the cut to save your dash. masterlist of posts here and no I'm not writing this remotely in order

“Oh, thank fuck,” he mumbles to himself when he pulls the door open and is greeted with a cool blast of air conditioning. 

Looking around the interior, he thinks it could pass for a museum. A snapshot in time, forever preserved exactly as it was. Gold framed articles about the 1973 grand re-opening hang on the wood-paneled walls alongside prints of hot rods and muscle cars. There are vintage metal signs mixed in for Shell, Texaco, Gulf, and some other brands he’s never heard of. 

“Do you have an appointment?” A gravelly voice asks from behind him.

Buck jerks around to the desk where a middle aged woman with auburn hair and green gray eyes glares at him with a mix of boredom and curiosity. Or maybe suspicion? He can't quite tell.

Her bronzed skin is littered with freckles and screams that she’s spent too much time outside with no sunscreen or other protection. A name plate, half hidden under papers and key rings, identifies her as Estelle. He’s heard a few stories about her from Eddie, but he’s not sure any of them did her intimidating demeanor justice.

“Uh, no?” He answers, not sure why it comes out as a question other than he’s not entirely convinced the five foot something couldn’t somehow manage to hurt him. 

It must take every ounce of strength to conceal the whole body sigh she wants to make as she looks down, licks her fingertip and begins flipping through a giant paper scheduling book. “If you don’t have an appointment I can maybe get you in next Thursday. Depending on what you need.”

“Actually, uh, I don’t need anything.” Estelle glances up, mouth slightly parted and eyes narrowed as if she’s about to ask what he’s doing standing in her lobby. He quickly adds, “Well, what I mean is, my car doesn’t need anything. I’m here to see Eddie? Uh, Eddie Diaz.”

She nods with something like understanding. At least he hopes that’s what it is as she picks up the phone receiver and punches in a few numbers.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Hey, is Diaz around? Someone here asking about him.” 

“No, it’s not the cops! What’s the matter with you? I don’t know. Just some guy here looking for Eddie.”

Estelle huffs an exasperated sigh and looks toward the ceiling like it’ll give her strength. “Jay, I don’t have time for twenty questions and, quite frankly, I don’t care.”

“About time you quit screwin’ around. Send him out.” She hangs up the receiver and mutters something about not caring that he’s a relative. 

“He’ll be a few minutes. Take a seat.” She gestures to a line of metal chairs with sticky looking vinyl cushions without so much as glancing in Buck’s direction. 

He momentarily gets excited when he spots a gumball machine in the corner until he realizes it would require actual coins that he definitely doesn’t have. And he’s not about to ask Estelle if she’s got change for a twenty just so he can satisfy his sweet tooth. 

“Buck?” Eddie appears from a side door, wiping his hands on a rag. His hair is sweaty and mussed, likely from pushing it out of his face. His gorgeous, kissable face that Buck very much wants to kiss even more right now despite the streaks and smudges of god knows what decorating it. The corner of Eddie’s mouth twitches like he knows what Buck is thinking, but he clears his throat and schools it just as quickly when Estelle grunts, reminding them they’re at his workplace. 

“Uh, Buck. Hi. What can I do for you?” Eddie tilts his chin in the direction of the parking lot. “Everything okay with the jeep?”  

“Hi,” Buck answers, a little too breathy for their current situation. He can’t seem to help himself. Eddie’s always cleaned up when they meet, whether it’s at the club, a date out somewhere or an evening in. He’s never seen him marked up from his job, in his grimy army green coveralls. 

“Uh, yeah. Jeep’s fine. Just, you know, was nearby and thought I’d stop in.” Buck tracks the movement as Eddie’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips, before sneaking him a flirty, amused smirk. 

“Glad you did.” Eddie chances a look at Estelle who still has her head down, shuffling some papers that probably don’t need it. He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. “I haven’t taken my lunch yet. Give me five and we can get out of here?”

Buck nods, not knowing how to respond without giving anything away. 

Eddie puts more distance between them again, sticking his hand out. Buck takes it, thrown by the familiarity of his boyfriend mixed with the very conventional, socially acceptable handshake. “Great to see you again, Buck. Check that place on Viscount Boulevard. I think you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks,” Buck answers, reluctantly letting their palms slide apart. But he gets it. Eddie’s coworkers are all a bunch of ignorant, homophobic assholes. Well, except for Hen apparently. Regardless, Eddie can’t be risking his job and livelihood when he has Chris to think about. “I’ll go check it out. You said it’s about... ten minutes from here?”

“About that, yeah. Maybe fifteen.”

A warm, fluttering feeling washes over him as Eddie winks and smiles, seeming pleased that Buck caught on to his little game. He has to force himself to turn around and leave instead of watching his boyfriend walk away. 

“Have a nice day,” Estelle says as he opens the door, setting off a chime. It’s enough to snap him out of his haze, offering a weak ‘you too’ as he hurries back to his jeep.

np tagging @actuallyitsellie @epicbuddieficrecs @loveyouanyway @a-noble-dragon @tizniz

@mountedeverest @fortheloveofbuddie @weewootruck @saybiwithme @shipperqueen6

@ramonaflow @taketheplanspinitsideways @spotsandsocks @dangerpronebuddie @stereopticons

@kitteneddiediaz @mrs-f-darcy @drowsy-quill @your-catfish-friend @filet-o-feelings

@underwaterninja13 @lizzie-bennetdarcy @rainbow-nerdss @steadfastsaturnsrings @queenmabcreates

@inell @jesuisici33 @rmd-writes @shortsighted-owl @queerbuckleys

@bi-buckrights @elvensorceress @bucksbiawakening @giddyupbuck @hoodie-buck

@indestructibleheart @ladydorian05 @monsterrae1 @statueinthestone @slightlyobsessedwitheverything

@the-likesofus @thewolvesof1998 @watchyourbuck @welcometololaland @wildlife4life and anyone else who wants to 😘

[desicanary]

Some thoughts after finishing the double that I need to expel from my consciousness:

1. I haven't enjoyed a show so much in a while. It had all the drama, and it didn't sacrifice it for the romance

2. Princess Wanning! She killed her dad and I think that was queen shit. She should have killed more people, frankly. She deserves to do so much murder

3. Shen Yurong how I hate you. This man is not only a murderer and a coward, he's also incompetent. None of his plans have ever worked. Mans couldn't manage to successfully kill his wife even if every god were on his side. I loved every time Xue Fangfei did psychic damage to him simply by existing

4. Xue Fangfei! Xue Li! Jiang Li! Xiao Limao! A'Li! Many other terms of address I've missed! She truly is that girl. She is gaslight gatekeep girl boss. She's a girl's girl. She stabbed a man in the dick 7 times. She has the man who once called her a pawn wrapped around her pinkie. When her man tells her he has to get into a political marriage for the nation she says do it then, and then he has to admit he was never gonna. She inflicted +9999999999999 damage on those who wronged her and Jiang Li. She can't fight to save her life (as evident) but can and will confuse her opponent into tripping over their own nonexistent shoelaces

5. I loved the progression of the relationship between A'Li and Xiao Heng. They weren't immediately lovers or friends. They fully used each other until they were willing to be used. The chemistry, the flirting, it's too much and too good. Also, Xiao Heng serves. See: the fans, the fucking gold plated murder fan, a walk-in closet full of capes, the most dramatic entrances known to cdramas, and all the audacity

6. BUT what were the last 20 minutes! They don't exist to me! My buddies Wen Ji and Lu Ji are watching their boss embarass himself at Duke Su's mansion and sharing in the hot goss, to me

7. Plus, I've gotta be missing something about the Longwu army. I do not understand them at all. Not a single one of them would survive the Nuremberg precedent. Not only are they not guided by ethics and morals, they're also not guided by loyalty or revenge or anger or hate or any understandable motivation. Instead, they're guided by a rock carving of a fish. wut. They find out the dude holding the fish works for the guy who betrayed and killed their general, their comrades, and even some of their family. And their response is: "How could they?!?!?! But we still have to listen to them because they have the fish!" Truly what. Someone explain this all-powerful rock fish to me

8. I do think that the Jiangs deserved more. And by more I mean worse. I think Xue Li should have told Jiang Yuanbai exactly how Jiang Li lived and died, and that she hated him for his negligence. I think she should have told the grandma too. They had their hand in this and they deserve to feel the full weight of Jiang Li's life and death and hatred

9. Also Jiang Yuanbai being like "It's not that I didn't know what was going on at home it's just that I was so busy working for the nation uwu". Sir, disrespectfully, no. You had not a clue. And if you did, that makes it worse. Like "Oh no! I'm so busy working that I have no choice but to let my wife frame my 8 yr old for her own attempted murder! The murder of the same stepmom that she, until yesterday, adored! Oh well, I gotta go to work so I'll just let that happen and abandon her for 10 years until politics makes it necessary for me to bring her home! And I'll feel really bad about abandoning her now, but I'll also never believe a single word out her mouth!" Actually, I think he should be hunted for sport

10. Anyway, that got off track! But I love this show, and how even the antagonists have arcs and backstories and aren't countering our girl just cuz. I love the fleshed out characters, all the looks it serves, the drama, and the adorable Wen Ji and Lu Ji and Jiang Jingrui

[anderstrevelyan]

wip wednesday

I haven't done one of these in a minute because I've been focusing on polishing and reworking rather than drafting new words (hopefully by next week I'll have some!), but you know what, let's do one anyway!

Here's the opening of my as-yet-untitled multichapter project, aka my early days of durgetash project (set about a year after they first meet):

*Valas is the son of Gorion's Ward rather than a strictly canon Dark Urge: mentioning to avoid confusion since it's relevant here!

It’s dusk when they first discuss it, a desire so deep Valas has never said it aloud. Were anyone to look up at the quiet manor on a corner in Bloomridge, perhaps on their way home from selling trinkets in the Wide, or while they wander to a tavern bleeding laughter and light onto the street, they’d see them there, the pair of them. A half-drow dressed in deepest black and a human with gold on each finger, the plates laid before them picked clean, the wineglasses in their hands stained with two layers of red, lounging at either end of the settee long past when one of them should have risen to draw the curtains shut. He should do it now, Valas thinks as he turns his glass, watching the candlelight refract. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t, just as he doesn’t know how they arrived at the subject, his confessing the name of the person he most longs to kill.

He lets his voice trail off, and swallows against the dry in his throat. Tries to find his footing. He’s not one for quick words, the thoughtless flow that pours from so many like blood—he often prefers to listen. For a heartbeat, for an opportunity, for the guiding voice of his god. And Enver Gortash doesn’t seem one for silence. Not like this, chin in his hand, long gaps between the sound of his own voice—not unless he’s waiting, too, searching for a flaw. Perhaps he understands this weakness for what it is. Skie. Skie Silvershield. Skie Silvershield the second—not the same young woman said to have died at the hands of the Bhaalspawn who sired him, but Valas yearns for her blood all the same, Torlin’s daughter named for the ancestor plucked too soon. Sometimes, in Valas’s worst moments, his mind whispers that it would be right. To prove himself better than the one who raised him before he found his true Father’s embrace, who always claimed he hadn’t been the one to kill his Skie. That it would be good, further insult and honour to the man once Chosen by his god—Torlin proved unworthy the moment Valas set in motion his death, but he was a Bhaalist all the same, and there’s nothing more Bhaalist than the slaughter of one’s kin. But it’s weakness, coveting one death over all others, no matter how he twists his thoughts. He’s seen such a thing in his acolytes’ eyes, when they come to him soft and raw, his Father’s voice in their heads a mewling thing—they don’t understand, in the throes of those first few tastes of blood, what their work really means. They dwell in emotion, in grudges, in hate, longing to kill an old rival, a scorned lover, someone who did them wrong. The faith shows them: there’s no value in the personal, in passion, if it’s not needed to reach the right holy end. It’s weakness, then, too, how much he’s come to enjoy this new ally’s company. Valas turns his gaze to the window, to the motion on the street below—feet catching on cobble, glances cast over shoulders, plumes of breath climbing in the cool evening air—just as Gortash looks away, too. He must be admiring the curves of his own furniture; the works of art in their golden frames, some so new they sit still propped against the wall; the piles of papers and gadgets, their places not yet found, sketches and plans and small, delicate tools. The home he’s building, here in the Lower City’s most fashionable neighbourhood, so different from where he’d laid his head just months before. But when Valas turns back his way, he’s looking out into the dark. Toward the wall, just steps to the north, that separates them from the Upper City. Valas can almost hear him thinking. “There would be a beautiful kind of symmetry to it,” Gortash says finally, and Valas busies himself with a sip of wine. “One Bhaalspawn filled with remorse, peaceful against his nature, and then all these years later another to do it right. It’s not far from our other discussions of late.”

[monstersinthecosmos]

okay I think we should take inventory of what we learned about Marius's house.

In fact, the impression was one of comfortable messiness.

(i think the tiktok kids started calling ADHD clutter clustering or something LMAO marius de romanus cluster girlie i guess. thanks i hate it)

Here's some stuff that Marius had on his island!!!!!!!

stone benches

a lighted oil lamp on a stand

a pair of heavy wooden doors

a sarcophagus with a plain lid, cleanly fashioned out of diorite

The lid plated in iron and contained

a golden mask, its features carefully molded, attached to a hood made up of layered plates of hammered gold.

a pair of leather gloves covered completely in tinier more delicate gold plates like scales.

a large folded blanket of the softest red wool with one side sewn with larger gold plates

Magnificent Grecian urns on pedestals in the corridors

great bronze statues from the Orient

exquisite plants at every window and terrace open to the sky.

Gorgeous rugs from India, Persia, China c

giant stuffed beasts mounted in lifelike attitudes-

--the brown bear,

--the lion,

--the tiger,

--even the elephant standing in his own immense chamber,

--lizards as big as dragons,

--birds of prey clutching dried branches made to look like the limbs of real trees.

brilliantly colored murals covering every surface from floor to ceiling

a dark vibrant painting of the sunburnt Arabian desert complete with an exquisitely detailed caravan of camels and turbaned merchants moving over the sand

a jungle warming with delicately rendered tropical blossoms, vines, carefully drawn leaves

creatures everywhere in the texture of the jungle-

--insects,

--birds,

--worms in the soil-

too many monkeys in the jungle,

too many bugs crawling on the leaves.

thousands of tiny insects in one painting of a summer sky.

a large gallery walled on either side by painted men and women staring at me

Figures from all ages these were-

--bedouins,

--Egyptians,

--Greeks and Romans,

--knights in armor,

--peasants

--kings

--queens.

--Renaissance people in doublets and leggings,

--the Sun King with his massive mane of curls,

--people of our own age.

droplets of water clinging to a cape,

the cut on the side of a face,

the spider half-crushed beneath a polished leather boot.

a library, blazing with light.

Walls and walls of books and

rolled manuscripts,

giant glistening world globes in their wooden cradles,

busts of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses,

great sprawling maps.

Newspapers in all languages lay in stacks on tables.

Fossils,

mummified hands,

exotic shells.

bouquets of dried flowers,

figurines and fragments of old sculpture,

alabaster jars covered with Egyptian hieroglyphs.

comfortable chairs with footstools,

candelabra or oil lamps.

a forest of cages.

birds of all sizes and colors

monkeys

baboons,

Potted plants crowded against the cages-

--ferns and

--banana trees,

--cabbage roses,

--moonflower,

--jasmine,

--other sweetly fragrant nighttime vines.

purple and white orchids,

waxed flowers that trapped insects in their maw,

little trees groaning with peaches and lemons and pears.

a hall of sculptures equal to any gallery in the Vatican museum.

adjoining chambers full of paintings,

Oriental furnishings,

mechanical toys.

fine rosewood paneling with framed mirrors rising to the ceiling.

painted chests,

upholstered chairs,

dark and lush landscapes,

porcelain clocks.

A small collection of books in the glass-doored bookcases,

a newspaper of recent date lying on a small table beside a brocaded winged chair.

the stone terrace. where banks of white lilies and red roses gave off their powerful perfume.

a pair of winged chairs that faced each other

a dozen or so candelabra and sconces on the paneled walls.

brocade cushions

[bibiwrld]

The Sweet Babysitter🧁🎀| Miguel O’Hara

previous: –nine.

–ten.

KENEDI’S POV

Getting ready was a hassle, I already knew what I was wearing, but my hair, my God, how annoying it could be sometimes. I brushed it back once more, sleeking it down so it could be pulled into a large low puff. After bursting about 3 hair ties and what felt like an eternity, I succeeded in putting my hair into one.

My outfit was on, admiring myself while fixing my edges. I rarely wore fancy dresses, but Mommy always insisted on getting me them, because I don’t know when I’d be asked on a date. Before I even got ready, I was on the phone with Miguel. He had to visit his Mom, which meant he’d be running a bit late, so he told me to go by the house and wait on him as he got ready and we’d take his car to the restaurant.

Looking in the mirror once more to apply more clear gloss to my brown lip lined lips, I rubbed them together so the lip liner and gloss could mix into the beautiful cinnamon color. I put my things into my purse and texted Miguel while walking out my room.

Me

Leaving home now

My stomach fluttered after sending that text. This was my first date ever and it was with a sexy ass man. Walking towards my car, my phone went off. I knew it was Miguel.

I didn’t check my phone until I got into the car and started it.

Miguel <3

Just got out the shower. Drive safely <3

I imagined him standing in his room, a towel lazily hanging from his hip—oh God, I shouldn’t be thinking of things like this. Patting both of my cheeks lightly, I tried getting rid of my provocative thoughts and started my car.

🌸

“How’s it taste?” Miguel asked, removing the fork from my mouth. He gave me the last bite of his food, wanting both of us to enjoy each other’s meal.

I chewed slowly, savoring the taste of the salmon. “It’s very good, but not better than your cooking.”

That gained a low chuckle from him.

Our plates were now empty, but we weren’t ready to leave yet, so engrossed in our conversation. But I found it hard to keep up with Miguel.

Focus. Focus. Focus. I just can’t. I’m listening, but my eyes are focused on every inch of his perfectly crafted body.

I don’t know if it’s the mood of this restaurant, very gorgeous by the way, but he looked more handsome than ever.

His white button down, having a few buttons undone to showcase his hairy chest and gold cross chain— how can I be normal right now??

Then I looked up, his hair framed his face so nicely, it looked little a different, almost like he got a—

“Did you get a haircut?”

He stopped mid sentence and touched his hair, smiling shyly. “I did, you noticed.” He sounded so pleased. “Do you like it?”

“I do, y-you look very cute, Miguel.”

He smiled again. “Thank you. I wanted to compliment you the entire night, but I don’t even know what to say, you’re so out of this world, Kenedi.”

My back straightened up at his words. An uncontrollable smile crept up on my face, my teeth on full display for him.

“Dios mio..” I heard him mutter, with his eyes locked on me.

“Are you ready for the bill?” The waiter asked.

Miguel shifted his gaze to the waiter. “Uh.. yes.”

After he paid, which he didn’t hesitate to do, we walked out the restaurant hand in hand. Our conversation strung on even on our drive back to his house, but soon came to an end as we stood on his porch.

“I had a very amazing night with you, Miguel.” My voice came out softer than I wanted. I couldn’t even maintain eye contact with him, it was so intense.

The air felt thicker and hotter. Our bodies felt like they were getting closer.

“Thank you for allowing to me spend the night with you, I had lots of fun.” He took his hands out of his pockets. “We should do this again, yeah?”

Nodding quickly, I smiled. “We should.”

“Kenedi..” He breathed out, staring deeply into my eyes.

My heart quickened. “Yea—”

His phone blared in his pocket. He began mumbling under his breath, clearly pissed at whoever was calling, totally ruining the mood.

“I-I’m gonna get going, I’ve got work in the morning.” I said to him, excusing myself.

He looked up from his phone and clearly he didn’t like what I said. His lips formed a slight frown. “Oh..okay, just let me know when you’re home please?”

His phone rang again and he groaned.

“I will, good night.” I got into my car, heart racing as I started the engine and drove off.

Was he going to kiss me if his phone didn’t ring? What would’ve happened after that?

My thoughts continued until I made it home, even as I got undressed.

I should probably text him and let him know that I’m home, but my phone wasn’t the purse I used. It wasn’t even on my bed.

Maybe I left it at the restaurant? But I remember checking the time on my phone in my Miguel’s car.

I sighed, grabbing my keys and going back downstairs to my car.

Can’t believe I forgot my phone in his car.

For what like forever, I made it to his house. I stood outside his house, praying the spare key was under the flower pot, and thankfully it was. Quickly, I opened the door.

“Mi—”

“I’ve missed you.”

The woman’s voice sounded familiar.

“Lorelai..” I heard Miguel in the distance.

Lorelai. How is ex wife. Is that who called him?

I didn’t even notice her car in the driveway.

“Think about what Gabby would want, she’d want us back together, Migs. She misses us together.”

Footsteps began making their way closer to me, then a door opened.

“She said that? Gabby told you that?”

Instantly I panicked. What if they come down here? Should I hide?

“Yes Migs. Would I ever lie to you?”

I shouldn’t even be hearing this conversation right now. I feel sick, jealous, and maybe just a little bit betrayed.

I heard him sigh. “Lorelai, I need to go to bed right now, you should too.” His voice was now clearer.

“I still love you!” She shouted.

I stood there awkwardly, looking at the two.

They were now downstairs and didn’t even notice me standing there awkwardly until I stifled a cough.

The tension in the room was incredibly thick.

Miguel turned around in complete shock when he saw me, as if I wasn’t supposed to be there. “Kenedi.”

“Uh sorry for interrupting you guys, but I forgot my phone in your car.” I rubbed my shoulder awkwardly, ignoring the glares from Lorelai, who had one of Gabby’s plushies in her hand.

“Lorelai, please leave.”

Lorelai strutted out the house, her eyes never leaving mine.

“Kenedi—”

“My phone, Miguel.” I wasn’t in the mood to hear any type of explanation. I just wanted to go home and lay in my bed and cry a little bit.

He looked so hurt when I cut him off. “Right.”

I followed behind him and he unlocked the car. Lorelai was gone by then. I searched for my phone and found it underneath the passenger seat.

“Thanks.” I said quickly to Miguel and scurried away to my car before he could say anything.

I could see his silhouette standing on his porch, just watching me drive away.

🎀

next: –eleven.

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

roundtable writing : open group : reblog with your addition in a below the cut : go off : add characters and ocs : blow up canon : 🔥🔥🔥 : flash fiction

ch 1 (written by dathomirdumpsterfire)

You own a diner in the lower levels of coruscant, one that never closes. It's a few hundred stories below the surface, just far enough down to be a little rough and tumble. Your little business is hard work, but good work. Steady.

One night like any other a young zabrak walks in, looking around the seating space with glittering gold eyes beneath a heavy hood.

You seat him and ask if he'd like anything to drink besides water. The answer is no.

You leave him with a menu and go to snag that yourself. It's three in the morning, so there's only you, your chef-droid, and this guy. You come back with that water, and ask him what he'd like to eat.

He prevaricates, stoic, and you get the hint he's a bit unsure of himself. That's not uncommon, with a mixed species menu as eclectic as yours. You know what zabraks like to eat though, so you offer a few choice options.

He picks the second one. It's a simple dish, and you ask your droid to cook it up while you idle around doing clean up and organization tasks.

When you deliver his food the zabrak politely thanks you. He eats everything on the plate without taking off his hood, pays, tips well, and disappears. You don't make much note of the visit, anymore than you'd make note of another.

The guy comes back though, three nights later, and asks for another recommendation.

Again you give him some suggestions. He picks one, eats it and disappears.

When he wanders in at late night a third time, you start to take notice. Regulars are what keep you afloat after all. This trend continues too, until one day you realize you only have a single recommendation off the menu for him left. He's tried everything else his species might like, though he's never expressed his opinion on the result.

Well. He clearly liked to try new things, so you do some research that very day, and have three more options ready for his next visit. You don't even bring the menu this time.

This trend continues, week after week, month after month. Every few days the red and black stranger comes in, picks a dish, pays generously, and leaves. You don't know his name, though he's always formal and polite, just not one for conversation.

That is, until one day he comes in smelling of blood and shivering, his steps slow and unsteady...

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ch 2 (written by @krazykupidspoems)

The blood staining his careful steps is the second thing you notice. You yell for the chef droid to bring the med-pak. It's meager but you will do what you can to help. Some bacta bandages, wrap bandages, a needle, and thread for temp stitching (never been used thank the Gods).

You rush to the Zabrak to stabilize his steps. He's as heavy as he looks you note as he accepts the assistance in walking.You brush the thought away and lead him to the attached owner's suite. It's small but you haven't much choice, enforcers wouldn't do anything but direct the man to a med speeder. And he came to you.

So yes you will help even as his two still beating hearts inexplicably speed up at the sight of your small room.

Colorful tapestries made by your grandmother's hand frame the rough ramshackle bed that was shoved against the wall. The quilts for when the blackouts start are hidden beneath the bed. Your thin sheets that probably should have been thrown out years ago cover the bed now.

Well after tonight they will be thrown or perhaps burned.

You guide the Zabrak to sit on the bed careful of the side he is obviously favoring.

The Zabrak takes in a sharp breath as he sits and shakily lets it out through his mouth. A quiet whine building deep in his chest.

Oh, that's not good...

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ch 3 (written by @mcu-supersoldiers)

The third thing you notice, after the blood, is how warm he is when you help him sit. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. You seem to recall hearing somewhere that Zabraks ran warmer than your own species. Some holodrama celebrity interview or something. It would probably be much more concerning if he was cold, you reason to yourself.

Your hands hover helplessly, afraid to touch more until the droid comes back with the med-kit. The sound coming from him was clearly one of pain, and he held himself stiffly, as if afraid of jostling whatever injury his dark cloak and clothes were hiding.

"Look, I uh- I know we ain't been real personal-like, when you've been coming in. But um. Well, I mean... Gotta see where you're bleeding." You trip over your words in embarrassment.

There was a professional distance you kept with your customers. Sure, you might get to know the chatty ones. Hells, you even went on a date or two with a couple that were bold enough to ask. But you don't touch them. You don't take their clothes off. In your room. This was crossing all sorts of boundaries.

"Do what you must." He replied, his voice breathy, from behind gritted teeth.

You nod, and peel his cloak away from his body. You could see a few tears in it. And more in his clothes. And... you swallow hard.

His left leg has a large shard of what looks like transparisteel embedded high in the meat of his thigh, near his hip. There are smaller pieces and what looks like honest-to-small-gods wood dug into his side and leg. His black clothes hid how badly he must have been bleeding. The transparisteel or whatever it was glittered strangely in the low yellow light of your living unit.

"Oh dear." Your droid exclaims from behind you, making you jump. It hands you a pair of small but sharp scissors.

Your hands tremble slightly as you cut open first the side of his shirt, then his loose fitting pants almost down to the knee.

You knew his skin was red and black. He never took off his hood when he ate at your diner, but you'd caught enough glances. It was quite different to see ALL of that red and black. Red wasn't a common color for a Zabrak, outside of some high fashion holos you'd seen. Nor was the stark black of his markings, the zabraks you'd met personally leaning towards brown on brown, or perhaps browns over more muted oranges and yellows. This was... well, 'STRIKING' didn't quite do it justice.

You scold yourself. The man was bleeding from multiple shrapnel wounds, and you couldn't stop the tingling flush you can feel rising in your cheeks from seeing so much of his skin.

So much of his muscle. You had known he was fit, under that cloak. Something about the way he moved... gliding through your diner to his regular booth. It made something in your baser instincts warn 'predator!'. You'd learned to ignore that fear reaction, after a couple of years. Lots of people in the lower levels were like that. Kinda rough, kinda dangerous. But they very, very rarely came to your establishment looking for anything other than a meal.

So, you wondered... what in the hells could hurt a man that your instincts told you was plenty dangerous in his own right??

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ao3 link in the comments

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