#he might be old enough to be mature about it but he's getting tired of this misconception and you can see it on his face

[littlelightfish]

I realized that Maizuru, despite being with Kabru's party for a while, still gets Holm's race wrong.

At first I thought it was kind of the joke of the whole thing. Calling Marcille a frog woman, Holm a dwarf, and getting Rin's name wrong. Holm looks tired, annoyed or maybe a bit embarrassed by this mistake. He's the only one who's background is not "explosive". Marcille's and Rin's are, and his is just plain, dark, and with those lines at the bottom. Why? Maybe for comedical effect. Probably because he's been telling her he's a gnome before this. Just like Chilchuck doesn't like being called a kid and people still call him that, Holm doesn't like being called a dwarf and people keep calling that.

It's not uncommon for people to mix those races, and since Shuro's party isn't the best with races (they don't even know Chil's a half-foot) they probably just think Holm is a wierd-looking dwarf. They probably hadn't seen any gnomes before. If it was Maizuru's first time seeing a gnome and calling it a dwarf, it could be understandable. But she's been with kabru's party long enough to realize that that dwarf is, actually, a gnome.

I think she doesn't believe Holm is a gnome, just like Marcille or Senshi don't believe Chil's an adult.

That's the face of someone who's tired of this shit. It's like when someone tries to guess your country just by the way you look. There's maybe a bit of ignorance at first, but I think Maizuru is deliberately deciding to not believe Holm when he tells her he's a gnome for the first time. And he's so done.

[sh1-n0bu]

♡︎ 𝙞 𝙙𝙤 𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 ♡︎

anon asked: nobu could you do something with scara and feminization?? thank you!

characters: sub!scaramouche x nb!dom!reader

warnings: edging, overstimulation, praise, dacryphillia, feminization, just scara fucking himself stupid on your cock, as always cock can also mean strap on

notes: i gotchu nonnie, i gotchu😌 also scara is a bit of a yandere here ig??? this came out much more softer than i imagined. as a fellow scara-nation person, SCARA NATION COME GET YALL FOOD🗣

reposting bc tumblr has started a war against someone they can’t beat by deciding to suddenly flag my posts as mature

“aah! aanhg! m-mine. mine mine mine! only mine! n-no one else’s! mine! minemineminemine-gyaah~!”

bouncing on your lap with a cute purple, lace lingerie and stocking on was your sweet boyfriend. eralier today when you had your friend and co-worker drop by your house to drop off some of your work documents, scaramouche saw how awfully close you two seemed. your friend even gave you a hug! so he decide to surprise his loving partner with a gift.

after finishing the documents, you didn’t expect your cute boyfriend to be sitting on the bed with the latest lingerie you bought for him. pink nipples being seen through the bra and his already hard cock poking a bit out of the panties with the stocking hugging his thighs just enough to cause a little pudge, he looked absolutely delicious. throwing himself on you and guiding your bigger hands to roam around his body, scaramouche started grinding himself on your legs.

“aww love what’s this gift for?” kissing the old hickeys and marks on his neck, you gently squeezed his ass. even that little action seemed enough for scaramouche to moan in your ears.

“just-just wanted to make you happy” came in the breathy response of your short lover. he oddly seemed quite desperate today. wearing a cute set, throwing himself on you, selfishly grinding his ass over your thighs. but it’s not like you were against it. if your sweet boyfriend was feeling nice might as well enjoy it.

dragging you to the bed by the collar of your shirt and pushing you down on the bed, he seemed more like himself now. straddling your crotch and grinding himself, scara started mumbling and whining about some stuff about how you’re his and he belongs only to you. how you should only look at him, need no one else but him and something along the lines of it.

and that’s what led to this point. with your sweet kuni fucking himself stupid on your cock.

“[n-nameee]~ please? h-help me! ca-anngh aaGKK! pleasshee~ help me! tired. shoo tired nngk~” whining about how tired he is and how he can’t ride your dick anymore he looked down at your face with a pitiful look and tears running down his cheeks. but you only smiled at him and squeezed his hips, gently making him grind down on you. he sometimes hated how easily in control you are.

“shhh, it’s alright baby boy. you can do it. i know you can. do it like how you always do okay? up and down baby boy. up and down” toying with his cherry red tip with one hand while guiding his hips to meet yours, scaramouche found himself growing more and more desperate. soon enough he came with a loud yell of your name and fell on top of you like a deflated balloon.

“aww you did such a good job darling. surely you don’t mind if we go a few more rounds right?” flipping yourselves over and kissing his cheeks you asked him for his permission. he can get overstimulated a bit too easily at times. nodding and smiling dumbly up at you with hearts in his eyes with a dazed look, this was gonna be a long night.

[literaila]

I was thinking, if reader and gojo decided to have a baby of their own, I'd wanna honor Haibara and name that baby after him but I have this gut feeling gojo would hate it. Also most ffs I read where they have a baby, the child inherits gojos limitless but I have a feeling that wouldn't be the case. Watchu think?

“kaoru?”

“boring.”

“izumi?”

“too common.”

“ami?”

“blech, no.”

you sigh, shaking your head at him. “ami literally means beautiful.”

“and boring.”

satoru is sitting at the end of the couch and rubbing your feet (because you threatened him) and you’ve been at this… well, technically six months. but currently? fifteen minutes.

it’s not like you agree on most things—but you didn’t expect satoru to really care all of that much about a name. he might care about the color of the nursery, but he’s not that sentimental. indifferent, if anything.

though, if satoru can defy your assumptions in any way, he’s sure to do it.

it would be kind of sweet… if it wasn’t completely annoying.

“you know you’re supposed to make your own suggestions?” you ask him, wearing his pout. “not just turn down all of mine.”

satoru grins and you groan on instinct. “i like megumi for a girl.”

there’s a cabinet closing from the other room and then a brief: “shut up,” like megumi can’t be bothered to care any further.

you refrain a smile and point a finger at your antagonistic husband. “don’t ridicule the blessing,” you tell him, and very sternly too.

“i heard that too,” megumi mumbles, setting down two mugs on the coffee table.

you grin at him in thanks. “i know.”

while satoru pours a gallon of sugar in his tea and megumi idles through the baby names book you’ve been hoarding, you close your eyes, thinking again.

“how about sayuri?”

“that’s too close to mine,” satoru resumes his methodical feet massage, much to your relief. “we’d get confused.”

“that’s not even remotely close to satoru.”

satoru make a face. “besides i don’t want any flower names. too girly.”

megumi frowns, snorting. “she’s a girl.”

“and you’re a boy but you still—“

“don’t even,” you interrupt satoru, kicking his leg. he sticks his tongue out at you because he is very mature. “you make a suggestion, gojo.”

“i already did,” he wags a finger at megumi tauntingly.

“so two megumi’s in the house is fine, but god forbid her name shares a syllable with yours?”

satoru pretends to consider it. “yup.”

“i’m moving out soon,” megumi tells you, rolling his eyes at his father—they have a very loving, respecting relationship (obviously).

you pout again and megumi nudges your mug—more of a mother hen then you’ll ever be. you grab it reluctantly, and he turns away.

“see!” satoru points at him, reaching over to ruffle the boys hair—and failing. “he’s okay with it.”

“i do not find you funny, satoru.”

“yeah, you do,” he grins at you, tickling your feet just enough to make you squirm. you would have a fond look on your face, of course, if you didn’t have a reputation to uphold.

no one can know that you actually like satoru and the stupid things that he says.

and you both glare at each other for a minute—or two—but then megumi murmurs, “i like akemi.”

you blink and look at him, but he’s staring down at the book in contemplation.

hes really been so helpful with everything. cooking dinner when you’re tired, dealing with satoru constantly, going with tsumiki to find baby clothes and useless (but adorable) baby shoes.

you can’t help the little twitch of your lips, or the admiration the pit of your stomach holds for him. “that’s pretty,” you whisper, sitting up again, “bright, right?”

megumi nods.

you turn to satoru, eyebrows raised.

he immediately rolls his eyes. “no.”

“what? come on, that’s nice.”

satoru crosses his arms, your feet aching with his absence. “i’m not taking suggestions from a fifteen-year-old.”

“are you kidding?”

he frowns at you, eyes shining much too bright for the middle of the day—or anytime, really.

you nudge him with your foot and lean back again, readjusting. “why are you better at this than your father, megumi?”

“hey!” satoru sits up, looking dejectedly at both of you. “he just has more room in his brain to think.”

megumi snorts and you laugh, sipping on your tea again.

“it’s true,” satoru insists, “it’s hard being gojo satoru.”

you roll your eyes and nod exaggeratedly. “oh, i’m sure. big decisions to make.”

satoru pouts.

megumi hums. “glasses or blindfold, today?”

“should i threaten this kid with execution, or save his life?”

at that, megumi actually laughs and satoru slides even further down on the couch, arms still crossed.

“that was once,” he says, glaring at the both of you.

you blink at him.

“twice.”

“and yet you still can’t decide on a name,” you tut, megumi is still flipping through the book, trying to hide his smile.

“where is tsumiki when you need her?” satoru whispers, looking back towards the hallway. then he scoffs. “and i would decide if your names weren’t bad.”

“your name is literally satoru—“

“kazue?” megumi interrupts, tapping on the table.

satoru rolls over, groaning. “ugh, no.”

you sigh again, looking down at your belly. the baby is lucky that she has three more months before she has to deal with any of this.

“we may need to replace your father,” you tell her.

at that, satoru basically squawks.

***

of course. they are having a girl because megumi needs another sister. so no haibara—but reader does suggest yu.

and besides i think she would want to save that name for nanami and refrain from crying every time she has to fill out a school form for her third child.

to answer your other question—it does seem unlikely for the baby to inherit satoru’s techniques (considering he’s the first in a century) but maybe the genetics are just that strong.

i wish i knew more about the actual statistics of cursed techniques and how often they’re passed down/how many people receive a technique from their parents. based on what megumi says (“how many people have you met that can actually see curses?”) it’s probably more likely that their baby has no cursed energy at all.

it would be fun to play around with their techniques though. and to imagine satoru teaching another poor child how to manage cursed energy.

[bleedingoptimism]

Steve only agreed to go out with Tommy after their parents set them up because he “owed” his dad for ruining a potential business partnership for him at a dinner party.

To the rest of the guests, the man had just tripped and embarrassed himself but he knew and Steve knew and Steve’s dad knew: Steve had tripped him. But the guy had groped his ass when he crossed him on his way to the bathroom. He had it coming.

And even if his father had agreed with him after Steve told him the truth, he still needed help landing another client since his most profitable opportunity turned out to be a big ol’ creep. A date with another client’s son. Young, rich, good-looking, a single dad. It didn’t sound that bad.

And so Steve met Tommy. 

At first, Tommy was… good. He was charming, cute, a praiser and a joker but the more Steve got to know the less he liked. After a while the compliments stopped and the commanding requests began. Get me this, pick this up, cook me, blow me, dress me, feed me, drive me, me, me, me.

But if Steve wanted or needed something? Tommy was sooo tired and busy. He hadn’t even made an effort to meet Steve’s friends yet. Plus he was always making Steve feel dumb and unimportant, saying his job was silly, even if Steve made almost as much money as him with fewer hours.

Telling him not to ‘worry his pretty head about it’ when Steve asked for clarifications or wouldn’t talk to him about work because Steve ‘wouldn’t get it’. He talked down on Steve all the time and offered him money to “buy himself something nice” in a degrading manner as if Steve was nothing more than arm candy for him.

The worst part was when he realized Tommy… wasn't funny. At all. All his jokes were based on making fun of other people. And he was the only one who laughed at them. He was no better than a bully. He… kind of sucked.

And Steve would’ve loved to never have to see him again. But the problem was he had fallen in love with Tommy’s daughter, Tarja. Because Tommy might have been a terrible boyfriend but at least he was a good enough father. So the weeks Tommy got Tarja, Steve spent most of his time with her. 

She was just a delight. Cute, smart, and actually funny. She had the most deadpan sarcastic humor a 6-year-old could manage and it cracked him up. She was also super creative and loved drawing, reading, bedtime tales, and coming up with stories of her own.

Her emotional maturity was impressive, better than her father’s actually, and one of Steve’s favorite things about her. He’d never forget the day he went to pick her up from school and she’d been upset. When Steve asked her how he could help she had calmly explained what had happened, how it made her feel, and what she could do about it… over ice cream, obviously. It made him wonder what kind of person her other dad was like because she had clearly not learned how to communicate like that from Tommy.

And the thing is, Steve had always wanted a kid, ever since he was young all he wanted was a family and even if Tommy wasn’t great he just couldn’t make himself leave the connection he felt with Tarja. And he couldn’t just come out to Tommy and say: ‘Hey I wanna break up, but I’d love to keep seeing your kid,’ that would land him at best a punch, at worst in jail.

There was also the fact that, no matter how much he tried to deflect, Tommy’s comments were starting to get to him. Maybe Tommy was as good as he’d get, maybe he was dumb and uninteresting and the only thing he had going for him was his looks, maybe this was his only chance for a family. So he stuck it out. Cherished the times when they were all together.

And then he met Eddie.

👈previous part

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☕🥐💕?

[cheeeeseburger]

It might be worth it for once

Fernando Alonso x Reader

Masterlist

A/N: English is not my first language, apologies for the mistakes! This was inspired by the song Slut!, by miss Taylor Swift! Enjoy!

You had just posted a picture on Instagram of Fernando driving you took when you were in the passenger seat, on your way to date night. You thought your caption was hilarious: “shut up and drive”, quoting the song by Rihanna. An hour later though, as the hate comments poured in, it suddenly wasn’t as funny.

Leaning on the railing of the hotel room you shared with Fernando, you scrolled through endless comments calling you names, criticizing you and your relationship. Of course, the classic “gold digger” was there. Even after four years of being publicly in a relationship with Fernando, people still didn’t get it. Even though you were used to it, it still hurt.

“Mi sol,” Fernando joined you on the balcony, pulling you into a hug from behind. He noticed that you were scrolling through the comments, “Same old, huh?”

“Always. Don’t they get tired of hating me, hating us together? It must be exhausting, after four years.” You replied, sighing.

Fernando took your phone away from you and put it in his pocket. He spun you so you were now facing him, with your back against the railing.

“You cannot let them get to you, mi sol. None of what they said is true. These people don’t know anything about us or our relationship. I love you, and that’s the only thing that matters.”

He tucked a few loose strands of your hair behind your ears, trying to comfort you. He could see that the comments had made more of an impact on you than they usually did.

“I know, baby, and I love you too. It’s just that we’ve been together for a few years now, and I had expected the hate to slow down. So what you’re older? That doesn’t change anything!” You were getting frustrated.

He kissed your cheek, wanting to calm you down.

“You’re right, it doesn’t change anything. We are just a normal couple, doing things the right way. We moved together, we’re gonna get married someday, have our own family, grow old together…” He laughed a little, “Well, I’m gonna get older earlier than you, but who cares?” He shrugged it off, not noticing your eyes were as big as saucers.

“Fernando, did you just say we were going to get married someday?”

He looked confused, and almost hurt.

“What, did you not expect us to get married someday? Or do you not want to?” He asked insecurely.

You were quick to respond: “No, no, I mean, of course, I want to get married to you! I’m just surprised that you would want to marry me!”

“Mi sol, why would I not want to make you my wife? He asked, genuinely surprised.

“Well… It’s just that I expected that you would grow tired of me one day, realize I was too young, not mature enough for you, or something like that…” You replied, looking away.

He forced you to look at him by pulling gently on your chin.

“How can you believe that I will ever get tired of you? Mi sol, I could never have enough of you. I always knew I was going to be proposing to you one day. It has been part of my plan ever since we started dating.”

You were blushing, ashamed of yourself for being so insecure: “Maybe one day you will start to believe the comments on my Instagram posts, and you will leave me because you think that I am a gold digger, or that I’m only using you for fame… Even though none of this will ever be true, of course!”

Fernando took both of your hands in his, then he exclaimed “I could never believe lies like this! Frankly, I am a little disappointed. Do you not have faith in me or our relationship?”

You gasped, realizing you had hurt his feelings: “I’m sorry baby, I did not mean in that way! I know that you love me, and I love you too. I promise, I’ve always imagined us being together for the rest of our lives, I just wasn’t sure if you shared my plan. If you didn’t, baby, I would be crushed to death. In fact, I have so much faith the future of our relationship that I already have a Pinterest board for our wedding as well as a list of potential baby names that suit the last name Alonso!” You admitted desperately, but also sheepishly.

Fernando immediately softened at your words.

“Mi sol, you have a list of names? Which ones are at the top?”

You turned a deep shade of red. “Right now, it’s Santiago for a boy, and Marisol for a girl, because it reminds me of the nickname you have for me.”

“Don't be embarrassed. These are very nice names, all in Spanish too… You’ve really thought about this huh?” He stroked your cheek, then pulled you closer to leave soft kisses on your jawline. He was clearly pleased to learn you had planned ahead.

“Of course. It’s not a simple task, it cannot be rushed.” He could hear your smile in your voice.

“Yeah? I kind of want to put a baby in you right now,” he whispered in you ear. You immediately shivered at his words.

“Me too. God, it would be so hot to walk around the paddock pregnant by a man fifteen years older than me. Everyone would know it was you that knocked me up. Everyone would know how good you treat me.” You were getting turned on by this fantasy and the trail of kisses Fernando left all over your throat. He was getting worked up too, and you could feel it on your thigh.

“I can do all of that, mi sol. Multiple times, even. I would love to see you at the races with a baby or two in your arms, and another one on the way.” He left your throat to give the same treatment to your shoulders, pushing the thin straps of you dress to the side. His hands were working efficiently too, getting access to your thighs by lifting the hem of your dress.

You brought him even closer to you by pulling him by the loops holding his belt in place.

“Baby, go ahead then. We would be the talk of the town. Oh, the scandal it would cause, especially since we’re not married.” The thought was thrilling.

Fernando went back to your neck, one hand lifting your leg and the other one on the side of your boobs.

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that part. I want to make you my wife before I get you pregnant. I want you to have my last name before I give it to the baby.”

You were conflicted, but also pleased. On one hand, you really, really wanted to get pregnant as soon as possible. But being his wife before being the mother of his children was also really tempting. You teased him: “Sounds like you are ready. Pretty please, tell me, do you have the ring already?”

Your boyfriend smiled against your neck. “In the first drawer of my dresser, hidden underneath my socks.”

You shrieked: “No way!” Fernando laughed at your excitement.

You hugged him tightly. He really was serious earlier.

He answered simply: “Yes.” You kissed him, and he kissed you back immediately. The kiss was soft and tender and had a thousand words hidden in it. It was full of I love you, no I love you more. It was the kind of kiss that creates buttefly. It was the type of kiss you remember forever. After a few minutes, or maybe a few hours, the driver pulled away.

“Mi sol, I know I haven’t even proposed to you yet, but what if we went inside and practiced for our wedding night?”

You laughed and followed him inside.

A year later, it was his turn to post on his Instagram. This time, it was a picture of your wedding. Multiple songs by Rihanna could have been fitting for the caption: We Found Love, Only Girl, Love On The Brain, and many more. Ultimately, he chose a simpler one: Mi sol.

And when you welcomed your little girl, his caption was similar: Mi sol y mi Marisol. This time, the comments were pretty nice.

[joeys-babe]

Joey B Imagines: Rocky Mountain Way*

————————————————————————-

Summary: Flashback. You take Joe on a trip with your family to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. It was an annual trip your family took every year when you were a kid, and this year, you took your boyfriend Joe for the first time.

Warnings: Smut, fluff

Pairing: Joe Burrow x reader

Imagine universe: Just the Two of Us

————————————————————————-

December 4, 2023

(y/n’s pov)

Today, Joe and I were leaving for Colorado with my family.

My parents have been taking me and my two brothers on this yearly trip our whole lives, and this year was my first time taking Joe.

I was the oldest of my two brothers, being 27.

The middle sibling, Tanner, was 21.

The youngest, Harrison, was 18.

Harrison was a senior in high school and had a girlfriend, but he wasn't allowed to take her with us on our Colorado trip.

Tanner was bringing his fiance, Lucy, though. They had been dating since the 8th grade, and Tanner knew from the beginning she was the one. He just wanted to wait to propose till they could celebrate their engagement with drinking.

As soon as they were both 21, he proposed.

Crazy that my little brother got engaged before me, but I know Joe is taking his time. It’ll happen eventually, I hope.

Lucy had been coming on the Colorado trip with us since they graduated high school. My parents found her and Tanner mature enough to share a room.

When Joe found this out, he was slightly offended as to why he hadn't been invited to come.

I had to break it to him that he had been invited every year since we started dating at twenty years old.

And that I had declined the offer from my parents before even asking him.

Joe was annoyed, confused, and a little hurt. He thought it was because I didn't want him there.

That couldn't be further from the truth.

The real reason I didn't want to bring Joe? Sex.

When I told him, Joe laughed at my reasoning, but it was a genuine worry.

Since we started dating in 2017, Joe and I have pretty much, at least, had one round of sex a day.

Of course, there were some days missed since then because life got in the way or we were too tired at the end of the day, but it slowly became a part of our daily routine as a couple.

Why would this be a problem, though? Why would this make me decline an invitation for my boyfriend to go on vacation with me and my family?

I’m not comfortable having intercourse under the same roof as my family.

There were no problems for me if it was under the same roof as strangers or friends, like quickies in an event bathroom or a friend’s bedroom at a get-together. It was purely just my family.

The thought of my parents hearing me make a sound or the headboard of the bed hitting the wall… made me want to puke.

Eventually, though, I gave in to Joe and told him he could go with us this year.

My only stipulation? No sex the entire trip.

Joe happily agreed, saying he could go a week without it, but here we were…

Day two, and Joe was lying in bed next to me, complaining of unresolved horniness.

“Baby, please. We can be super quiet, and you can ride me so the bed doesn't move that much…” - Joe

“Convincing, but no. You knew what you were getting yourself into when I agreed to let you come.” - you

“I know, but I was way in over my head. It's been 48 hours, and I already can’t stop thinking about sex.” - Joe

“Typical man.” - you mumbled

“You don’t feel it?” - Joe

“Feel what?” - you

I asked in a slightly apprehensive manner, hoping he wouldn't just say “My dick”.

“Slightly deprived?” - Joe

“Baby, you're not being deprived… but, no I don't. It feels a little weird going two days without it since it’s become a part of our routine, but no I don't feel deprived.” - you

“Yeah. Maybe I am just a typical man.” - Joe

He rolled over to where his back was facing me, and I started to get worried that he might think I was mad at him.

Reaching out to rub his muscular back with my hand, I scooted closer to him and laid my chin on his shoulder.

“I shouldn't have said that earlier. I'm sorry, Joey.” - you

“It's okay, I guess. Goodnight.” - Joe

“Goodnight, Joe. I love you.” - you

I leaned my head over to place a kiss in the crook of his neck, and Joe laced his fingers with mine of the hand that was lying on his stomach.

“I love you too.” - Joe yawned

——

December 9, 2023

It was the day before Joe’s birthday and the last day of the trip.

When we woke up this morning, everyone was gone already, probably already at the slopes.

Surprisingly, Joe had gone snowboarding with us every day and he was pretty good at it too.

It wasn't too surprising, though, because Joe Burrow doesn't half-ass anything.

That includes the snowball fight that broke out between us while we were snowboarding yesterday.

I had jokingly thrown a snowball at Joe while we were discussing which path to take, and it unleashed a whole war.

Joe didn't hold back or go uneasy on me. He was throwing them pretty much as hard as he could, football-style, and I ended up on the ground.

In the end, Joe lay in the snow next to me, and we made a no-snowball-fight truce for the rest of the trip.

My family would be in the mountains for a few more hours, skiing, sledding, and snowboarding.

So Joe and I had the cabin to ourselves for the majority of the day.

After eating breakfast while cuddling up on the huge couch, Joe asked me what we should do with our alone time.

“Wanna get in the hot tub? We can drink some champagne and just relax.” - you

“Sounds amazing.” - Joe

Joe leaned into me and pressed a kiss to my lips before we hopped off of the couch and went to our room to change into our swimming clothes.

I went out onto the deck first because Joe had to stay back for a second to use the bathroom.

It was absolutely freezing outside so I immediately hopped into the hot tub and cranked the heat on.

A few minutes later, Joe came running out onto the porch with champagne and two glass flutes for us.

“Holy fuck, it's cold!” - Joe ran

Laughing at his little run, Joe launched himself into the hot tub, his big body making the water splash over the sides.

“Joe!” - you laughed

“Sorry…” - Joe gave you a sheepish smile

Joe got settled next to me and gently grabbed my legs to drape them over his lap.

“May I interest you in some champagne?” - Joe

“You may.” - you giggled

He handed me both of the flutes and uncorked the champagne. My eyes lingered on his sexy, veiny hands.

After pouring the bubbly liquid into the glasses, Joe stood up and moved to the other side of the hot tub to put the bottle on the table.

I couldn't help but stare at my boyfriend’s trained, muscular body. His toned torso and built chest looked even more appealing as the beads of water ran over them.

When Joe turned around, I felt a flutter in my stomach… and in other places as the defined muscles in his back flexed.

“Lookin’ good, Joey.” - you purred

Joe settled back down in his spot and sent a flirty wink my way, those big hands finding my thighs to place them in his lap yet again.

We clinked our glasses together and took a sip, Joe resting his hand on the inside of my thigh.

“I love you.” - you

“I love you too.” - Joe grinned

I ran one of my hands up Joe’s torso before keeping it against his chest.

“Since no one’s around… wanna make out?” - you

Joe laughed at my forward question but nodded his head before leaning forward to kiss me.

The kisses were feverish and rough. Joe’s tongue slid into my mouth and tangled with mine.

Eventually, Joe pulled me onto his lap and gently grasped my hips to start moving me on him.

It didn't take long for me to feel Joe get hard in his swim shorts, and I broke away from his lips.

Joe’s usual pink lips were red and wet with my saliva, and he looked so hot like this.

“I need you.” - you

“Take me then.” - Joe

I reached down to palm Joe through his shorts, relishing in his groan before moving the waistband away from his stomach.

Joe’s erection immediately sprang out of his shorts, and he winced at the feeling of the hot water around his cock.

Feeling the need to hurry, I maneuvered myself to hover over top of Joe and sank onto him.

He slapped a hand over his mouth to stop any loud sounds from leaving his mouth. Joe wasn't usually loud during sex, but after a week without it, I wasn't surprised when he muffled a loud moan.

“Take your hand off.” - you

“I- don't wanna be loud.” - Joe

“It's hot, I promise.” - you

I gently took his hand off of his mouth and started moving on him.

The expression on his face told me that he wasn't going to last very long, and I decided to do something that I'd never done.

“You’re not allowed to come till I say you can, okay Joe?” - you

“Fuck… okay.” - Joe groaned

Joe’s dick twitched inside me when I said that. He must like it when I take charge.

“You feel so good.” - you moaned

“Missed you, baby.” - Joe

He buried his head into my neck and moaned lowly, I could tell he was feeling self-conscious about being louder.

“I love it when you moan… so hot.” - you

After moaning myself, Joe removed his head from my neck and looked at me with an appreciative smile.

“Really?” - Joe

Just after he asked that, his cock bottomed out, and the tip brushed against my cervix, causing us both to moan.

“See? So damn hot.” - you

My walls squeezed his length and Joe finally felt confident enough to moan louder… and fuck.

“Joey, oh god!” - you

“Shit, I'm close.” - Joe groaned

“Don’t come yet.” - you

Joe nodded his head but a couple of minutes later, he couldn't wait any longer.

“Please? Can I come?” - Joe

“Not yet, wait, Joe- fuck.” - you

With every movement of my hips, Joe whimpered. I could tell he was starting to get overstimulated but I wanted to finish at the same time.

“Baby, please.” - Joe whimpered

“Just a little longer.” - you moaned

“Shit!” - Joe grunted

I started moving faster, and Joe was writhing beneath me. He was biting his bottom lip so hard that I was surprised that he hadn't drawn blood yet.

Shakily, Joe moved his hand towards where we were connected and circled over my clit with his thumb.

“Mmm. Shit, baby.” - you moaned

Joe was panting in my ear and his cock continuously throbbed deep inside me.

Feeling myself getting closer to my release, I slammed my lips against Joe’s and started hotly making out.

After a few seconds of kissing, I slowly broke away from him, pulling his lower lips between my teeth before letting go.

“Come for me.” - you

Almost immediately Joe grabbed my hips and slammed his entire length as deep as it could get.

“Fuck, y/n!” - Joe moaned loudly

Just as he was shooting his load deep inside, I came around his length, and we moaned into each other’s mouths.

Joe hunched over into my chest, his head falling onto my shoulder. I rubbed over his back to comfort him.

“You okay, Joey?” - you

I kissed his temple sweetly, and when he didn't answer I pulled his head away from my shoulder.

“Mhm. Think I passed out for a sec.” - Joe mumbled

“I kinda got carried away.” - you giggled

“S’all good. It was kinda hot.” - Joe

“Yeah?” - you

“Yeah.” - Joe cuddled back into your neck

——

An hour later, we had taken a shower that Joe almost fell asleep twice during and were now cuddled up on the couch.

Joe lay on top of me, his head buried in my chest as I simultaneously played with his hair and rubbed his back.

He had fallen asleep right after I started the movie.

I giggled when I thought back to what he told me right before falling asleep.

“Shit, I'm so tired after that, but I think it's safe to say that Rocky Mountain Way is the best sex we've had. We seriously need to buy a hot tub for the house.” - Joe

Of course, this man is already thinking about sex again.

“Is the jacuzzi bathtub not enough?” - you laughed

“Uh-huh.” - Joe

“I'll start looking for one.” - you

“Good. Love you, bab-” - Joe

I waited for him to finish his sentence, and when he didn't I went to look down at him.

Before I could, though, little snores filled the air.

Laughing to myself as I pressed a kiss to his forehead, I shook my head looking down at his sleeping face.

I'm so glad I finally decided to take him with me.

————————————————————————-

Authors note: idk what to say really.

Request included in this fic;

[ryuzakemo128]

Goodnight

Chapter One: Family Ties

Pairing: Poly 141 x female reader (Boomer)

Words: 1733

Masterlist - Prequel

Divider Credit: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Content Warnings: Boomer is both a callsign and nickname for the female reader, Violence and Aggression, Mature Themes, Family Dysfunction, Mental Health, plus many others I might not have covered here.

Summary:

What could he even give her in return?

What would he be able to give her?

What can he offer her that she doesn’t already possess?

Does he bring joy? Does he offer security?

What does he have to offer her?

John had to look up at her, stretching his neck to get a clear view of her face. Towering over him, much like her father would tower over many others around him.

Her mother, Meredith, warned him about her daughter’s height and intimidating presence beforehand. He assumed it was some kind of joke. An oddly specific joke.

Seeing her in person now? He started to swallow down the words of doubt piling up. Eat each word, each one as they clawed, crawled from the depths of his throat.

She had given him her file, and it made his skin crawl once I started looking through it. Her genetics written in the many medical forms. In greater detail than he bargained for.

Boomer hasn’t spoken to her mother since her parents divorced. She was nine years old at the time. Her opinion of her mother changed when the affair came to light. She couldn’t even look at her.

Adamant in her refusal to be around her. She wanted to stay with her father. She didn’t want to live with her mother and the affair partner.

Not only that, but she wanted nothing to do with her or her ‘uncle’.

Boomer never changed her mind on her choice. Not even once.

What took precedence over the other mission?

What did her mother hope to achieve by doing this?

Boomer, a daughter, descendant of a lineage of soldiers, political figures, legislators, and engineers. A young woman taught to be self-sufficient, independent, self-reliant, and autonomous.

What could he even give her in return?

What would he be able to give her?

What can he offer her that she doesn’t already possess?

Does he bring joy? Does he offer security?

What does he have to offer her?

Boomer, the operative with 'quirks' inside of her genetic DNA. According to the information, her mother had provided him. Heavily documented, recorded, detailed enough to make any scientist and genetics researcher wet their slacks.

The files listed them in great detail to make sure nothing was or ever will be left up in the air for assumption, postulation, conjecture or theorised.

Mental, physical, and technical prowess, all rolled into one intimidating package — that's how John Price saw the Australian operative.

All written down by numerous doctors, specialists, consultants, physicians, and practitioners.

Mental traits passed down to her from her father's side of the family genetics were:

Eidetic Memory: Also known as photographic memory and total recall. Essentially, it’s the ability to recall an image from memory with high precision for at least a brief period of time.

Hyperthymesia: This condition is known as Hyperthymestic syndrome or high superior autobiographical memory (HSAM). Leadings to people to be able to remember an abnormally large number of life experiences in vivid detail.

Indefatigability: This is a trait that allows Boomer to never get tired, even when everyone around her is begging for a break.

Physical traits passed down to her from her father's side of the family genetics were:

Hypermobility Syndrome: Also known as double-jointness. Which means the joints can move beyond the normal range of motion. Often stretching farther than the norm. Some hypermobile people can bend their thumbs backwards to their wrists and bend their knee joints backwards.

High Pain Tolerance: The ability to endure pain without succumbing to it. A trait that would come in handy in the line of work she's chosen.

Efficient Metabolism: A high metabolic rate that supports her indefatigability, keeping her energised and allowing for rapid recovery after physical exertion.

He had to take a short break to process through this new information. Boomer would be inducted into the task force sometime before the month was over.

In need to make sure this was the right choice for his squad, as well as Boomer, the woman in question. Her mother certainly didn’t.

John Price picked up the phone and dialled a familiar number, one that had been etched in his mind for years.

“Meredith,” he began, his voice ringing the bulk of his considerations, “I need to know more about your daughter's condition. What aren't you telling me?”

The silence between them stretched on painfully as a result. John had an on again, off again relationship with her for the past three years.

What would this mean for Boomer?

He imagined Boomer saying, 'Cheaters like her cheat serially without compassion' with the same conviction that she'd say, 'A bullet doesn’t care how much you believe it won't hit you'. He recognised she wasn’t one to forgive easily or ever.

Most likely, she had gridlocked her mother out of her thoughts entirely, and that was something he had to be ready for once she allied with the team.

“Look, Meredith, I need both sides, not just the father’s. Don’t put your own bias by removing your flaws from the equation. It won’t be fair for my team and ultimately you are withholding information from your own child.” John sighed disappointed Meredith didn’t put the entire genetic history forward into her medical file.

John looked up from the medical file in his hand, “It reeks of personal bias. I don’t understand why you would prevent her from learning these things.”

Meredith’s voice quivered over the line, “I wanted to protect her, John. You know what they’ll do if they find out she’s got my genes. They’ll turn her into a lab rat, not a soldier. You have to promise me, you’ll keep this between us.”

“You can’t protect her if you can’t be bothered to tell her the truth.”

Traits from her mother’s side of the family still remains a large unknown. Even to Boomer herself. She still doesn’t know what they entail for her and her health.

And considering she hadn’t spoken to her mother since her parent’s divorce at the age of ten. Even then, school took precedence, and her father fought for full custody.

Her father didn’t care what she wore growing up, as long as she wore clothes. He received backlash from it after the mothers at the school noticed how he parented Boomer.

As well-behaved as Boomer was. Her father wasn't above the ire of the housewives, the stay-at-home mothers, the ones who saw her father's nonchalance as a form of neglect. Boomer knew better, her father didn't talk much, but he fixed more teddy bears than anyone she knew.

His tools were his words, his workshop his sanctuary, and his love, unspoken but as sturdy as the furniture he crafted. She often found refuge in his workshop, the smell of sawdust and the hum of his machines, comforting. It was here she discovered her love for tinkering, for creating, and for fixing things.

“D'ya think ebony varnish would look good for the bee's aviary?” Boomer asked one afternoon.

Her father, a six-foot ten giant of a man, broad shoulders, grey streaked beard, he didn't have the typical military buzzcut like most men inside the military.

Any blueprints he looked over for Boomer were meticulously studied, each piece of wood measured, sanded, and crafted with precision. Her curiosity grew with every project they completed together.

Sometimes, she frequently found herself lost in thought about the mysterious talents she might have inherited from her mother's lineage.

The odd questions, which slowly became rather uncomfortable, too personal and delving far too deep into personal information. If either one of them answered them, told them.

“I don’t feel comfortable talking about this with you. Can you please stop asking about it?”

They hated that answer.

Loathed it even.

Assumed they were anti-social losers of some kind.

They remarked that Boomer wasn’t ‘female’ enough because she wore overalls after school, got her hands dirty, played violent video games and loved horror movies.

Comments of:

‘If she was my daughter, I would have taken those violent video games from her and sent her to ballet classes’

‘If she were my wife she would not be allowed to leave the house dressed like that, she needs to learn to be a real woman’

‘Why is she so tall, she’s going to scare the men away’

‘What happened to her, is she a tomboy, why can’t she be more like a lady’

They echoed in the room like a symphony of ignorance.

Small comments to her father's disdain grew into a crescendo of whispers that followed her everywhere.

Meaning to those mothers. Boomer is the definition of the word ugly.

He didn't know mothers could get this vile or even be able to sleep at night being this level of horrid.

Part of him wanted to walk up to each one of those mothers and shake them until they saw some kind of sense between their ears. Telling them to leave his daughter alone.

He also knew he couldn’t do it and get away with it on legal terms.

What he could do? Send a passive-aggressive letter to each one of the mothers to get them to leave Boomer alone, or he would dig up so much dirt on them, they’ll regret ever speaking about his daughter in the first place.

The same moms who were poking, prodding and invading his privacy.

“You sure you want to give them those letters? They won’t or might not react all too nicely to them, dad.”

“It’s also for your safety, Boomer.”

“I know. I know. It just feels….nasty. Petty. Going down to their level.”

“Bullies often pick on those they deem to be weak or too shy to stand up for themselves. Often assuming just because the person they target is too weak to do anything about it.”

“I thought you said they also have a rough home life, too.”

“Children are bullies. Often because they have a rough home life because they have awful parents who shouldn’t have been parents.”

“And?”

“It means they never saw what they did was the wrong thing. They didn’t see it as a problem. Now, they’re still making everyone else’s life miserable.”

“These women could just double down on their stance.”

“And they could also take the hint. We won’t know until we find out.”

“Ten bucks to say they will.”

“Ten bucks and an extra week of laundry, they will take the hint.”

“Fingers crossed they don't get physical.”

“Fingers crossed they leave you alone.”

“Only one way, someone is gonna win this bet.”

“It's to let it play out.”

[ofallthingsnasty]

Bill gives off “will fuck you minutes before you have to go meet up your friends so he can get out of it AND have you embarrassed” energy so I’ll love it if you can write that scenario 👉👈

Nothing but facts here 🤭💕 He's such a smarmy asshole haha @flameshadowwolf 😘

fic referenced - please give it a read before you jump into this one, you'll probably need the context.

tags: yandere, heavy dubcon, Bill being condescending as always, breeding mentioned, talk of future knotting, past noncon + forced impregnation + forced marriage, chubby reader, f!reader, werewolf/human, minors dni word count: 3k

You haven’t done your makeup in forever. It’s been at least two months, you think, as you try to remember which of the colors in your little eyeshadow palette is the best for a monochrome look. You don’t really have the time to duke it out with a more complex style right now, especially with your rusty skills - there is barely an hour left until you're supposed to meet Ellie, car ride not included. Your mind sings at the prospect of a quiet evening, with friendly chatter and good food - and you not having to do anything. No needy toddler, no sticky little hands and pouty mouth to rob you of every last ounce of patience and energy, just adults-only conversations and friendly faces. Ellie and her husband Francis are the only members of the pack that are making an effort to include you and you like them all the better for it. You buff out the eyeshadow a little closer to your brows while you try to keep your bitterness down.

That fateful night three years ago had been your D-Day, and everything that followed was just punch after punch to your face - including being shunned by the very community that you had unwillingly become a part of. Of course, the whole pack knows what happened. Three years might have passed, but they still stick their necks together and whisper about it as though it all happened yesterday, avoiding your presence like you’re some bad omen, the hangman’s bride herself. Only Hugh and the Evett couple are cordial, the rest act as though you’re the black sheep of the family. It’s a small relief but at least they treat your daughter fairly well. It might change once her peers reach a mature enough age to be included in the gossip but for now your little toddler girl doesn’t have to play alone on the playgrounds and is invited to birthday parties only her father can take her to.

You rummage through your little makeup bag, searching for your brow powder. It’s probably too old to use safely, but you don’t care as you smudge it into the hairs. It’s not like you have the time to buy a new one.

Out of the whole pack, only your life is ruled by some archaic tradition. You had asked Ellie once about her and Francis and when she answered that they were high school sweethearts, you had quickly ducked into your coffee, ashamed of your own fate. 

Of course, she knows. You’re close enough in age - she’s a few years younger and still bright-faced, probably taking a giant heap of pity in your circumstances. It doesn’t matter to you, you’re just glad that someone who knows about this whole supernatural business is friendly with you - your old, blissfully unaware friends have long since grown tired of your bitter rants about your husband, not understanding why you’re still with him.

Oh, if only they knew. Their not-so-subtle nudges to get you to go to therapy (or to ditch Bill) get nothing but a grim laugh out of you now. No therapist could get you out of this mess, no stupid self-help book could give you the courage (with a sparkle and fire emoji, of course) to just leave. Just leave. God, it’s so stupid it makes you grimace.

Your life simply isn't your own anymore - right down to your name. Now you're just Mrs. Timmons, with a small golden band and his goddamn scent all over you (marking you as his possession). He had dragged you to the altar kicking and screaming, breaking plates and ripping up that gaudy number he had proposed as your wedding dress, but in the end, he had succeeded.

You had threatened to leave once, when Claire had been so very little, to pack her up and go - to the other side of the country, out of the country, across continents - just to get away from him. It had all been hot air, said in a dark moment of despair, of fear.

The solemn truth is that there is no way out of this. No matter how much you screech and fight - you’re not up against a regular man. Behind that grubby smile and dark eyes lies a creature that can track you down with deadly precision and has claimed you as its own, until the day it dies.

It sure is easy to forget when he throws his dirty shoes down onto the couch table or when he smokes when Claire is in the room, when he doesn’t do shit around the house and you get to stew in your anger, ruminate on the abysmal hand fate had dealt you. Then he’s just a regular piece of shit, just another good-for-nothing husband you get to nag and scream at and fume around. But when he fucks you - that’s when he’s back to the snarling beast he had been in that shed. The way he holds you down, even as a mere man, his grip like iron, his eyes feral and wide - even thinking about it makes you shudder.

It doesn’t matter right now, you think. You’ll be safe from his wandering hands and salacious comments in a matter of minutes, able to be yourself and not the always-scowling fury you have been turned into.

Just a swipe of mascara and your purse- 

A soft knock on the door frame interrupts you.

The sound of Bill’s heavy footsteps save you the glance over your shoulder to confirm it’s really him. “Wow, look at you”, he whistles, a freshly lit cigarette in his right hand. “Did I forget something? Date night? Our wedding day? My birthday?”

He laughs at his own joke as he takes a drag and you can already feel the annoyance starting to boil in your stomach. “I kid, I kid. You’re gonna meet with the Everett girl tonight, right? Girl’s night, eh?”

 “Yeah. Francis will join us later, though”, you say, clipped, brushing your mascara wand over the lower lashes of your left eye.

  “That so?”, you can hear him sucking in another lungful, sounding almost pensive. “Sounds awfully nice, princess.” You hum, finally done with your look. “I did invite you to come. If you remember.” A husky laugh behind you makes your brows furrow. “Jesus, woman, what did I do to you now?” You bite your tongue. Oh, you know. You just forcefully impregnated me three years ago and maybe I still haven’t worked through that. No biggie, though. “Be nice to your old man, yeah?”

He takes the cigarette into his left hand and presses a kiss to your temple, then drags his lips down to your ear. His stubble scratches the thin skin that is stretched over the cartilage of your helix and you can’t suppress the shudder. The right hand that lands on your shoulder is heavy and warm as it rubs and presses the fat over the joint, thoughtful but firm. “I have been nothing but kind, haven’t I? If you had ended up with that little freak, you wouldn’t have seen the sun ever again.” Crinkling, dark eyes meet yours in the mirror. 

Evan. You still think about him sometimes, but he moved just shortly after you started showing, too distraught that it had been Bill's kid and not his. You'd pity him if he hadn't done the unthinkable to you, just like Bill did.

“You do know that, don’t you?” Despite yourself, you nod - suddenly hot and cold at the same time. “I keep you fed, I keep a roof over your head, I let you run free, I let you tear up my shit when you’re mad, I let you go to your uppity little bitch you like so much- I think I’m doing way more than necessary, darling.” He mouths at your ear again, suddenly licking and biting the shell, only stopping when you visibly cringe. “I even think I deserve a little something for that, hm? And if it’s not gratitude, it might just be something else.”

He presses out the cigarette before you can even answer, right on top of your eyeshadow palette. Rough hands glide over the nape of your neck, down to your shoulders and settle right underneath your tits where he pushes them up and catches your eyes in the mirror again. “Just look at you, baby. I wish I could ruin all that makeup with my cum but we can’t have you be late for your little wine dinner, hm?” You see your own face twist in shock at his crude words and he watches in amusement, hands already working the soft flesh of your chest. He pinches and prods through the sturdy fabric that cups your tits, rubbing the material between his fingers to appraise it. “Aw, you’re wearing only a t-shirt bra today, aren’t you? Not my favorite lace number?”, he says and squeezes over your clothed nipples roughly, making you yelp in pain. “Or maybe I should be glad you aren’t. Else I’d think you’re dressing up for the Everett boy.” “But you’d never do that, would you?”, his tone drips with something dark. “You’d never betray me, hm?” Your breath stutters. It’s not a question. It’s a threat. “Why, I-”, you gasp, the words enough to shake you out of your stupor. “Why would you think that?”

“Dunno, babe”, he almost croons. “Just wanted to put it out there. In case you got into your little head again.” His hands wander down to your stomach and grab your fat roughly, a deep growl ending the conversation. He buries his fingers deep into you, so deep it stings and you subconsciously stretch upwards, granting him easier access to your neck. He promptly uses it to nip the skin of your pulse point.

“Soft as ever. Makes me want to bite and devour you whole”, Bill laughs. “But I’ll settle for putting another baby in you.” The nails digging through the cotton of your shirt turn sharp and long - he chuckles as you yelp, as you try to wiggle out of the chair in front of your vanity. “Too late, honeypie.” The man who stares back at you through the mirror is no longer a man - he is a wolf again, the same one that sounded the bell for the end of the life you once knew. “Don’t give me those pitiful eyes. Where’s all that fire, huh?”, he snickers, grotesque notes strung together by a deeper voice, by bigger lungs. “Your snippy little attitude. You do know I love to fuck it out of you, again and again.” Your head is pushed down into the wood and it sends your mascara and brushes flying to the floor. He simply drags your face over the vanity until the crown of your head touches the cool glass of the mirror, your legs slowly rising with the stretch. 

You have a hunch of what will follow. “Ass up, sweetheart”, he bites out and kicks the chair underneath you to the side with so much force you can hear it splinter. You’re left to stand on shaky legs, the cartilage of your nose pressed into the furniture. “Good girl.”

You only whimper in response, too weak to struggle against him, even as his hands leave your head.

He shows little regard for your clothes, as little as he had for his in the moment he turned - sharp claws dig into your nicest pair of jeans with little care, thick hands pull them down by force - over your belly, then over your ass. They're left just above your knees as he targets the next layer, a simple pair of cotton briefs. He slices through them and groans at the sight of you - fully exposed, bent over, vulnerable and oh-so-soft.

 "The baby did you good, sweetheart", he laughs and spanks your ass so hard it echoes through the room. "Made you even better. Maybe another one will make that ass even fatter."

  You're mortified at his crude words - but any indignant squawk of protest gets stuck in your throat as he presses his whole muzzle into your cunt.

He licks and pushes and sucks - eats you out so messily that his spit drips down your thighs and you can't contain your voice any longer.

You're rewarded with a chuckle and even more fervor. 

It's too much and yet not enough - his tongue only brushes your clit but he fucks your hole with it so well it makes your legs shake. You don't even register the way his claws dig into your ass, the pain barely noticeable over the mess he's making in between your thighs.

It’s not enough to make you cum but you feel yourself loosening up, growing pliant under his touch. Maybe he can feel it too because just a few precious minutes later he stops, licking his maw loudly. “Could eat you out all day, princess”, he chuckles behind you. “But you got a little girl’s night to go to, don’t you?” You manage nothing but a teary-eyed nod, throwing him a look over your shoulder, that terrifying creature staring right back at you, the man within it clearly getting drunk with the power he has over you when he is like this. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick.” He pushes himself into you slowly, but firmly - his saliva mixed with your own arousal making the most obscene squelch. It’s almost a relief to feel him in you after he fucked you on his tongue and you close your eyes, savoring the feeling of him working you open.

“You take me so well-”, he grits out and you moan in response. You should be ashamed of how much you long for his cock, how the years have made you compliant, even needy for him, even though you’re thoroughly terrified of him - but you can’t find it in you to care right now. The shame will come later, when you’re alone with your thoughts again but for now you just want to him to fuck you so well you’ll forget about everything. He starts out slow but it doesn’t last long - it never does. Just a few thrusts in and he’s found a rather harsh pace that has him fist the neck of your blouse to steady himself, claws puncturing the fabric. “God, I just wanna knot you, sweetheart”, he groans and you believe every word of it. “Bet you want it too- Always such a slut for my knot-” You clench around him both in arousal and shock - taking Bill’s knot is such a messy experience, one that would make you late for sure, with everyone able to smell just why you’re an hour behind schedule. “Ah, tomorrow- I’ll fucking knot you tomorrow.”

Your body is dragged over the wood with every thrust, the crown of your head bumps into the mirror every time he bottoms out - you feel like nothing more than toy with the way you’re rattled around. He seems a little extra desperate, probably trying to empty himself into you as fast as possible.

“Right now I’m- I’m- gonna make you stink with my scent, gonna mark you so that they all know how well I fuck you.” How embarrassing for you. Of course Francis will immediately smell it the moment he walks into the door and you’ll have to duck your head behind your wine glass - wolf that he is, claims like this won’t go unnoticed. “So you can’t run away from me-”, he gasps, out of breath with effort. “And no one can take you, either-” Even through your fucked-out haze, something clicks. He’s insecure. That’s why he’s in this form, why he’s so intent on filling you up before you sit yourself down with friends. Why he just won’t come with you eludes you - but that is Bill, ever so possessive, ever so puzzling.

You’d laugh at him if you weren’t currently getting mounted by a two meter tall humanoid monster, if you weren’t so literally fucked right now.  A groan pulls your attention back to the creature you call your husband. “Oh fuck, babe-”, Bill moans behind you, his pace getting even faster. It grates your insides, your body trying to keep you lubricated as he pounds you. Spittle flies through sharp teeth and lands on your ass as he unabashedly lets his maw hang open, too blissed out to care.

“I’m gonna cum, oh shit- Shit-”, he says and loses himself in a string of curses, trying to fuck you as you deeply as he can, rutting into you with so much force you’re scared the mirror is going to break off the vanity. “Fucking take it-”

The snarl he lets out isn’t human anymore, as are the claws slicing into your scalp, the sudden grip keeping you in place. He shudders violently as he pumps you full of his load, hot and wet. The feeling is enough to wring a throaty moan out of you - not enough to make you cum, but enough to make your legs shake and clench around him. “Damn…” Bill wheezes into the silence that follows, hands still iron on your skin. You slump into the wood beneath you, sweat-slicked and high-strung. He laughs as he hears the thump of your forehead against the vanity. “Fuck, sweetheart. You’re gonna make me go before my time with that pussy.” You don’t answer, already irritated with him again. “Well-”, he coughs and takes his hands off you, sounding much more composed. “Looks like you need to start over with your little look.” His words make you gasp and paw at your face, the sticky smudge of mascara palpable on your cheeks. You don’t need to turn your head up to the mirror to tell that you’re back to square one, that you’ll be late, with a dripping cunt and hastily scrawled on makeup. Your arousal is gone in an instant, replaced by hot rage burning its way through your stomach for good. A pat on the head and a content sigh behind you make it boil over, make you clench so hard you actually push him out of you. It’s laughed away, either mistaken for the wrong emotion or simply ignored. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, your old man will make it up to you tomorrow.”

[kitkats-and-kittens]

I know stan culture is a huge part of fandom and while yes, sometimes I find it annoying it doesn’t really hurt anyone, so I find it okay.

That said I need words with Percy Jackson and Tim Drake stans, because I am sick and tired 😭😭.

I was scrolling through the Will Solace tag because he is my baby and I will defend him for life and obviously as consequence I see a lot of artwork about the battle of Manhattan and all the angst that comes along with it.

I don’t usually see people blaming Percy for Michael’s death which is fine cause it absolutely wasn’t Percy’s fault, even if I personally don’t believe a 12 year old would be mature enough to see it that way.

Still, I saw a post talking about how sad it was that Will got dragged away to heal Annabeth and couldn’t help the Apollo Cabin search for his bother. It was mostly going into detail about how he might feel responsible for not being there when most of his siblings died.

And I thought wow, that’s really angsty and then I went to the comments and the first thing I saw was a Percy Jackson fan saying it’s not Percy’s fault and Will should get over it because it’s war and shit happens.

Like hello? That is a 12 year old??? No one’s saying it was Percy’s fault, but how the hell do you expect a literal 12 year old to get over his brothers death seconds after it happened?!?!

And again in Dc comics.

This happens way too often, but specially in that one scene where Damian finds out Tim has him on like this hit list-contingency plan thing and obviously he gets upset, because he sees it as Tim still punishing him over something he is trying really hard to redeem himself for.

And then I look at the comments and someone’s going.

Well Damian shouldn’t be upset, his actions have consequences and he was the one that broke into Tim’s computer. He shouldn’t get mad.

He’s 10???? Have you met children? Have you met a 10 year old?? They call you names and bully you but the moment you turn it back on them they start crying. Why? Cause they’re 10!

I don’t understand the disconnect some people have when trying to understand children. Like hasn’t everybody been a child? They aren’t mature enough to handle big emotions and nuanced situations cause they don’t have a frontal lobe yet.

I really don’t understand how anyone can get mad at the child character for not being ‘mature enough’ to handle a situation and it drives me insane.

[joannasteez]

tanks of blood (8) - muddy coffee & supermarket cake

pairings: biker!dean ambrose x june (plus size black!oc) | biker!cody rhodes x black reader (fluff) | biker!roman reigns x black reader (mature/explicit) warnings: mentions of criminal activity. descriptions that imply stalking. story dialogue that implies suicide, but not from any of the in-universe characters, reader being a little needy and making selfish decisions? unsavory language concerning addiction (cigarettes) which isn't present much but is mentioned with a one off line. description/talks of reoccurring panic attacks. authors note: multiple pov's in this chapter and intro-ing new characters! some world building. this chapter might take a long, thorough read, which is a bit time consuming BUT i think, for whoever reads it, you'll be thoroughly satisfied by the end... i hope... HAPPY READING! word count: don't get me started (17k) tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @kill-the-artiste @sortudademais

only at june's house, does this spooky, overworking buzz come. a dizziness. an undulation. like being caught up in the ripple of vigorously treaded water, but behind the eyes. the pull out before that tall, wavy, rush in, crashing over him in the morning. a float in his bones, in the body, his head drifting a ways away from him. from arms and legs and that grimy, nightly fearsome sense that sticks to him like thick summer air.

warmth covers deans face and his feet give an easy take to the floor boards. steps so light it's like he's hovering over. and fuck what a feeling it is. a feeling that yes, happens to only be a morning thing. a too bright summer daylight happening. gently giving a stir into a mug. having the type of patience and attention for such quiet work here that he teems with too much energy. almost like he can't hold the softness of it.

coffee thats not too light but not too dark either. an even brown with hints of sugar. because june likes it like this. likes the curtains peeled back to let the sunrise in. likes to nest under pillows and have her breakfast at her bedside. likes to wake up too damn early before her rush to leave the house because perhaps she'll cave under the pressure of the day if she just doesn't soak in that morning glow. 

the waft of the coffee curls up at him. blows in thick and homey. steams white over his bones till they ache from the weight of having to carry him up whole. brewing and lazying under the sunrise as it comes, a ritual he'd miss once upon a time to beat it entirely. a barely heard departure before the shutter of his car engine broke over the early morning day air. his walkings and his doings and his business better suited sunless. before june could ever have the chance to come from that sleep of hers.

but now he stays. stirs coffee filled mugs. bones and brains like feathers. high off that terribly spooky feeling that sweetens the blood just too much. makes everything sharp. the mint on his tongue. the emptiness in his belly. the break of light pass the window. that earthy coffee smell that pulls in strong. it's all just a little more here. the boldening of usual thin lines. a filling in, a filling over, till it's doubling to spill and flood and consume. only in the morning though, and only at june's house. 

"we playin house now?" 

june holds sleep in her voice well. so good that it makes dean shiver. like old, tired, almost too sad jazz. warm to him. cradling and soothening up against those dirty strong bits of resolve. an easy persuasion for him to come in further and further till he's setting down the cup of coffee and claiming her full soft cheeks instead. his lips trying to savor the life of this good sort of troublesome, spooky little whatever that rattles him whole. tongue unable to perform fast or deep enough, because this is june's house and dean can't work now, with the same ease and finesse that he uses on his bike when he's roaming about and doing club related business.

yeah, no, not on this street, in this house, where his precious little june stays. and she hates that name. precious. but he loves it. her body taking a smooth glide up and over the muscle of him till he's nestled under her and laying against the sheets. silently arrested. his fingers at her nape, running over short, tapered, coiled up hair, her touch curling into his chest. like carving into him to open him up wide. he groans, like he's content to rest here for sometime, moving and pushing against her till they lay parallel. pecking and licking and teasing at each other. 

her lips thick and gentle. meshing and pulling and the air that rolls out between them accented with bright thin sounding short caught up breaths. 

his chest does away, a hint of inconsistency. a beat that skips. fingers strong, curling into the warmth of her skin. her eyes so dark, they're near black, even when living amidst that spill in of shine from beyond the windows. eyes like the night, like the ether. 

dean nestles into her neck. nose running to get it's fill. something sweet with hints of spice. far too earthy to be wholly summer inspired. a groan lingering there as it escapes his throat. that swimming sensation behind the eyes still rocking with great force. lulling and caressing and coaxing him in. his tongue slipping over his lips. athirst. 

his teeth nip into her neck. fingers finding a home in the bend of her knee till they shift one of her thighs to fall over his waist. "this is premium domesticity", a mumbling sort of purr. oozing off the tongue like it'd been aching to leave him. mouth pursing to litter affection along that column of skin. "white picket fence, house on the prairie shit". reaching over to grab the mug he'd spent too much time stirring. because june hates when those bits of sugar remain at the bottom with the coffee dregs. her round cheeks grimacing, mouth full of unmixed sugar and coffee sediments. and dean doesn’t like the unhappiness of that expression. the way it casted over to rule with an unsavory air about everything. "two sugars and a splash of cream". 

june sits up from under his hard body. the sheets joining her to cover well as she rests against the headboard. eyes like obsidian. sharp and with a means, if hot enough, to cost him terrible ruin. cutting over him without delay. "this is a ploy", she gives. a smile thats all knowing. wry and anticipatory. "i'm gettin buttered up for grade A fuckery". 

he chuckles. palms running over thighs under the sheets. "fuckery requires plots and schemes and a whole lot of trouble honey. i got a maybe simple question for you at best, but nothing worth that look you givin me".

the air stutters. that dreamlike glow it'd helplessly soaked itself in dimming abruptly. june blinking. like the waking up from a daze. a blank destructive stare over the rim of her mug. like she's just gotten a mouthful of grainy sugar and those coarse grounded sediments. the porcelain of the cup clacking hard against the nightstand as it rests, a hardening of the eyes. this grand assessment. "so what?", she starts. a flare in her nose before it settles. "you couldn't inquire about nefarious little bullshit before sticking your dick in me last night?..." her fists balling and retracting. an edge to the voice, even in the permanence of its softness, these jagged corners about her words, shaped in a way as to mimic the dangerous work of shards of glass. a cutting sort of quality that pierces better than it should. better now than it would've some months ago. the natural dregs of him muddying her morning. something she has never been too fond of. "...and again after i woke up earlier?" the sheets ruffling, flipping over at the expense of such sudden anger. 

and dean is lost. dizzy still, like that ugly forceful jolt the body takes after an abrupt wake up. because they'd had a delicate passion before early daylight. something tender and skin burning. but this was not that. this was the beginning of its end. that harsh final moment of a dream, knowing the body will break and become alive again out of all that made up, distorted greatness. june's body naked now as she plucks up a robe to cover herself. giving the loose belt of it a mean, swift knot tie. 

"that's not what—"

"thats some wierdo shit ambrose", she cuts. a snarl of words that itch his skin in a bad way. and then they take on a smallness. like the low affections of their existence is too much to say loudly. "that doesn't feel gross to you? like—like a transaction?"

dean's palms grow damp. a slipping off sensation. the morning light stabbing his eyes. that lulling little swim behind them calming to a terrible stillness. like the receding pull in before a storm. "well...thats just wrong...", dazed and his words failing to meet strong. confusion forming still. because they were fine. wrapped up in each other and such. "thats not what this is". 

june scoffs. shimmy's into a pair of slacks that form over her legs just right. refusing to meet his eye line. the stark feel of something vicious in his chest, a pang that works so well he might bruise from it. going on with a greatness that he refuses to acknowledge the full brunt of it. 

"you have impeccable fuckin timing then", her voice gritting out. cold and loud. a steel impact.

and then comes a deep wavering, like the silent, disruptive ask for a reprieve. and this is no sign of some humble defeat no, but a tactical retreat meant to benefit them both. a fluid lift up off the bed to garner more space. to breathe in full, till the air encompasses his lungs enough to settle nerves. counted breaths. maintenance of a once piss poor disposition at the arrival of—of inadequate communication. the shock of her voice, the pitch and the height of it, jostling his belly. cold eyes a terrible opposition to how cute and full her cheeks are. but this abrupt elevation does him a shitty bout of violence. harsh bellows and mean crackling smacks against wood dirtying his ears. his fathers older brother, making it everyone's business to know of his wrath. memory working cruel. 

"hey", dean gives. eyes flitting up. the semblance of a warning. "lets keep it at an eight AM volume alright?"

"yeah keep your bullshit at an eight AM volume". 

"june...", dean sighs. restless in the space he's created. a cautious stepping up into her semi-walkable closet. fingers reaching for a touch. for that tender slip of skin that makes him feel high. 

she shifts hard. snatches herself away. "don't touch me". 

dean is grateful, he hasn't eaten yet. belly whirling about ridiculously. something akin to fear silhouetting already dark eyes. the hesitation of it cruel all on its lonesome. like she's unsure if her denial is sin. a punishable offense. the way his body holds up the space of the door, looking to envelope without any initial regard. like that way of being is something of a second nature to him. sewn into fabric. but dean steps back. releases the tension without much delay. closing in and crossing up his arms for good measure. "listen", watching her button up a collared shirt. "i'm not checkin in on you weekly and layin it on you raw just to tease little bits of information from you. i could do that with anybody that calls themselves a lawyer. especially greedy ones looking for a little extra cash—" 

"but you just implied—" 

"i misspoke, alright? i don't got the way you take coffee committed to memory cause i'm lookin to gain something. it's cause i like remembering stuff about you". 

june does that blinking she likes to do. assessing and reassessing. blank stares and wordless little evaluations. 

"look, lets drop it. i don't have shit to ask, ok?" 

"ok", she relents. meeting his eyes wearily. 

"can i touch you now?"

hesitation plays. performs in the fingers as she fiddles with the buttons of her shirt. mulling over the request. testing the weight of his desire to be near her—dean is sure—to see just how true it feels to her. something she does often. a short shuffle up to his hard body. peering up just under her feathery lashes. a gentle resignation she won't rest in for too much longer before her uncertainties take her again. because it's in june's job description to question and nitpick and pry and pull. but the tug of her lip under teeth is evidence enough of some wiggle room being granted in his favor. a chance to remedy. her own release of tension made despite poorly placed words and odd timing. 

"yes". 

stalling isn't dean's game. never has been really. the boots he wears too thick and loud to ever hesitate on anything. the vice president's patch on his kutte silver and too prideful about how long the stitching has lasted. a forever condition made by that earned worn leather, so surely theres nothing stopping him here. no hindrances in his spirit or ill skittish feelings that leave him unable. palming june's cheeks to kiss her firmly. lips meshing quick to dampen all that unwanted, shaky, shilly energy binding her up stiff. and when she's melting into him again, albeit slow and half committed, fingers running up his arms and her breathes short and pitchy, he peaks his tongue out for good measure. lures her into the beginnings of a dazing distraction. the wet slight of it along her full lips, drawing up a moan from her throat that sinks into him cunningly. like it's been formed and made as a counter to his own ministrations. her palm sweeping low. over the end his hard belly, just near his-

"how you gettin to the office?", thumbs over her cheeks. 

she pushes. slots her lips over again for delicate takes of affection. pats his arm dearly, a smirk playing as she steps back into her closet for shoes. "you're taking me. call it premium domesticity". 

"touche". 

but this all feels too easily done away with. surely the other shoe will drop soon. she'll rear back with something else. proclaim him guilty again of poorly chosen words given at terrible times. revoke her affections. point to the leather hanging over her dresser messily . cast a darker hatred over it. 

...nefarious little bullshit... as she so nicely put it. 

"hey", dean calls. that sensation in his hands again. a grief the palm feels after something has been dropped from the safety of it. "i'm sorry".

she hums. consideration. packing an accordion briefcase., with documents and slimmer folders. "it's noted". 

he dresses. a quiet efficiency. those harsh rays of daylight falling away to hide behind the build of the house to give his eyes neither that stabbing pain or the accentuation of some swimming daze of a dream. it leaned into neither extreme, but suffered the room to live as it did any other. with a normalcy. like the coming together to meet in the middle, the compromise of violence and a dream. because that's all there is to anything. violence and dreams. 

he plucks his leather off her dresser to put it on. the material heavy and singing in that odd scrunchy way that only leather can. eager maybe to fill the air. to attempt to conform to it, or have it be conformed to. who knows? 

"i'll be in the car when you're ready".

and remember? stalling isn't deans game. boots too thick and heavy and dark and worn and terrible to be anything else but sure footed. so why does his step falter, making to leave the bedroom, the house, foot hitching like it means to stop and retrace. waiting for another word of something to lighten the damn air. just a little something to re-brighten the room. restore it to former glory. an unrests of movements that usually live with a predetermined motivation. and he hates this. a calculated silence isn't it? punishment. torture. for letting the night in during daytime. for not keeping his boots and his leather far enough away from her bed. 

the summer breeze is as thick and mean and chill-less and disgusting as its ever been. the crown of his head performing dramatic like it's already been hit. like the other shoe has already dropped. something about his chest squeezing so odd, enough that it's troubling. the car air blowing hot and gross as he waits for it to cool. that inconsistency again. a skip near where his heart beats before its plummeting sorely into his belly. laying at the base there, spreading about to undo him messily. 'it's noted'. what the hell does that even mean? like she'd taken his sincerity and scribbled it on some feeble piece of loose leaf. words in the breezeless wind. the summer heat singeing the lined paper till it's a palms worth of billowing ash. 

...nefarious little bullshit...

..."its noted"...

he wants to bang his head into the steering wheel. feel it bluntly till that sweet swimming sensation is given back to him. 

the passenger door opens. a settling in accompanied with a long, thought filled sigh. like she's prepped for the ride. prepped to deal with the silence she's so graciously ushered in to sit between them. 

"what was your question?" 

dean can see the brown in june's eyes. curiosity fragile and warm. and he rather her eyes be darker, blacker like in the safety of her house. an unmitigated replica of nighttime. piercing him whole and sharp and without delay. but not this, an earthier blooming of a softer color. he doesn't like it.

"june...", like a plea to stop. 

"just ask". 

his throat thick and the words forming solid, almost cruel like. which is odd, silly even. because didn't there always live an intention to pick her brain? to ask? to meet at that middle place of a sweet dream and the reality of some always alive, waiting in the shadows violence. dwell in it for a moment before the easy retreat into a too beautiful thing. her lips and her skin and her hair and the smooth aching take of her words over his skin. a simple question that she'd answer without wait or overthought. a done up finely concession. dean huffs. his thumb and pointer squeezing to pull at his nose. a reprieve frustratingly sought after, in vain. 

he'll settle for a minimal thing. broach with a less worked curiosity. 

"had a car come by the shop recently. i think the plates on it might've been a clone. know anything about that?' 

she sighs. words cautious as they give. "i've heard some things, a few cases...", her lip skating to pull from under her teeth. mulling over her phrasings. "...charges for speeding, drag racing, red light runs. stuff like that...and then just clients disputing the fines, fighting charges...". her fingers pulling to press a scratch into the roots of her hair. brows pulling. everything of her unsure. a display dean's yet to witness till now. "...the cloning stuff, it's not new but, it's a bit more dialed for sure".

"ok". 

finally the air in his car blows cooler. rushes out hard and fierce. like it means to ache him quickly. 

"why'd you wanna know?" 

june's eyes are not so dark like obsidian. beautiful still but no, they are not colored with a nighttime darkness. june's eyes are burnt umber brown. an old, earthy, fine, warmth. it would be terrible wouldn't it? to ruin them. 

"don't make me lie to you". 

suffocating. roman is got-damn suffocating. a terrible issue since you were sixteen. hitches in your breath and small tremblings under the skin. and yeah, it was petulant then. a little gross in how full of adolescence it was. excusable behavior though for a young girl who'd never been touched by the crazed, racy desire of a boy. but this? this is stupid. that tight, airless feeling in the lungs still, after so much time. stifled and choking and helpless and weak. his mouth soft and his hands too strong for the body to do anything within them but succumb to that exacting tug and give. and yes, you were exhausted from work, delirious even, but it didn't mean you were supposed to like it. like the lazy slip of his tongue and the grip of his palm at your neck. his groaning and the flex of taut muscle under the pull over of your nails. teeth sinking into your lip to prick mean, like he was forcing you to remember him, to acknowledge the weight of his existence. his body tall and wide and fastening you to the wall and—

it's all your father's fault really. because kendrick greggs was a picture taker. kept memories stilled forever like any enthusiasts of a thing would. aimless photos of wheels and fenders and chrome, till the interest grew. his camera everywhere, clicking at everything. at his biker brothers, and his wife. so it didn't take long, for his lingering eye to catch you wrapped up in the arms of a boy amidst the reveal of the viewfinder. but not just any boy. roman and his fingers filled with finesse. mouth inching close and sneaky and faint. like that lewd twist of a kiss would give up everything. 

"don't pussyfoot around with my kid. if you gon kiss her, then do that shit with some balls!"

he'd made a fucking spectacle of it. the both of them did. KG smiling mischievously behind that metal little camera, clicking away as roman smothered your mouth whole. stealing the air from your lungs and humming. 

and he hadn't said much then after. your nerves split raw at the seams, waiting for him to draw up ballistic, because you'd heard the menace he could fall into. could feel even the darkness of it settling in, roman pressed into your body waiting just the same. but your father had only ever tugged a smile onto his mouth. something small. an acknowledgment that lived minimally. enough for recognition and nothing more. 

"i'll allow it", he'd given. turning to leave you be. 

it was enough for roman then. at seventeen and eighteen and nineteen and twenty and then at twenty one. it was enough for him to grow eager in how breathless he left you. and the time, the distance, did nothing to change it. 

it's a haunting really. something like a repossession. a mixture of both. the way he'd held at your nape, breaths cascading, like he'd meant to drape himself over you. it'd only been a week, but the impression of it stuck. nestled it's way to live in already terrible dreams. his presence troubling your sleep, rattling an imagination with a penchant for disturbed things. because the busyness of new york had done well in drowning out the older, terrible, unspeakable things. things riddled with blood and bones and dust that not many knew about. but your old house and the hot florida air and roman's everything, have all managed to fall into one another with this painful compliance of tearing you apart. a violent undoing that leaves you to break awake, sweaty and looking for air. 

you're sure, your heart would trouble itself with a dramatic rupturing if it were any weaker. 

and your phone bursts alive. a blaring little ringer and it does your head in. the morning's here at your parents' old house, too quiet. pin drops like the awful droning tumble down of an avalanche. 

but the number is unknown. (850) 201-7794. "hello", your throat dry. scrapping together to give weakly into the phone. a heavy breath plays. like it only means to listen. like it's waiting. "hello? who is this?" a growl gives. performing in the background. the snarl of a dog maybe. surely. disgusting, curt, barks echoing to punch into your ear. 

"who the fuck is this?", you grit. a small shake in your hands. a weariness from poor sleep and the disturb of this.

movement goes over the line. those heavy, painstaking breaths again, before an abrupt, nervy "fuck", is left, the dread of an accident already done, just before the drop of the call. leaving you alone to deal with the aching swim in your gut. a war of a headache at the forefront of your skull. pain just behind the eyes. 

8:22 AM. all this bullshit at 8:22 AM. 

a tired breath blows. surrendering to that sluggish, restless nag coddling your bones. a grogginess that leaves the eyes dazed and your hands slow. reaching for your phone again to tap at the screen. leaving it to ring in your ear. bottom lip tucking under your teeth as you wait for him to answer. and it's new york all over again. slipped under the cool of those too grey sheets, laying up in the bed of a cramped apartment amidst the dreary, rainy, bustle of the city. the drone of it lulling you in and out of a hazy sort of sleep. flashes of dreams but nothing sticking well enough to settle with a true definition. the disjointed blur of something awful, taunting. your hands shaky and unsure, the drag of your phone against the bedside table, a terrible fog behind the eyes as you make to call. looking for that thing, for him. for the sweetness in his tone and the warmth of whatever words would come with it. 

but that was then, the distance making it hard to reach him. clinging only to his voice, begging for it to settle your bones, and the aching cold growing over them.

now though, now is something else. something a ways more liminal and undefined. 

"yes?" a tired, deep drawl to his voice. skating delicate, seeping in, unfurling hot. 

you hum, nestling into it. "did i wake you?"

he's groaning in your ear and shifting about, the rasp of it taking you in whole. a small smile pulling even as you tug your lips still with your teeth. imagining all that taut muscle moving about. pale gold and herculean. the shine in his sky blue eyes and the slipping take he gives with his tongue over his teeth—

"i gotta get up anyways, s'fine", his throat clearing. trying to get away from the sleepiness of it. "you alright?" 

"yeah...", reaching over to the nightstand for a loose torn piece of paper and a pen. "yeah, i'm good", writing out that number from moments ago. "can you stop by before headin' in today?" 

"what's wrong?" 

a sudden shift into readiness, into urgency, this endearing little work that makes the nasty remnants of sleep and terrible dreams less awful and a little further away. phone tucked in to hold at your ear. rising up to throw on thin shorts and a loose—just on the precipice of too worn—flannel. tucking that piece of paper into the chest pocket. 

"might just wanna see you. is that allowed?", you play. 

"you'll see me then". 

the call drops comfortably. the air less thick. moveable, though remaining in it still is that almost silence. a just barely perceptible chord. this dull, bass filled, strumming hum. the compilation of everything far and deep and odd and unknown. the graceful taunting performance of a foreboding thing. or maybe you just need coffee. a bit of fresh air. some sun. the quiet of the house too quiet. from your bed to the bathroom, and then from your bathroom to the kitchen, a heavy stillness that is just too surrounding to live well enough in without the self given threat of going mad. but that's always been a condition of the house. the creaky hardwood floors and the walls and the air forcing you to fill in it's silence. to save it from itself. from the emptiness given to it. 

a light, sweet, melodic tune plays, setting an old record onto the player your father kept in the living room. 

...the deep rumble of his humming, taking against the air feather like. soothing and tender. his body sitting leisure on the floor, tall and upright against the couch. your mother tucked into his side. their fingers folded, one into the other...

fifteen and wondering then, slowly creaking in from that long stretching hallway, to watch them sit in silence. the florida nights not nearly as hot as they are now. the house smelling like lavender and leather and little bits of tobacco. sticking so well into the build of the walls that it still lives here. like a stain of fragranced oil on the skin.

there are remnants of it still. that lavender and leather and tobacco. earthy and old and thick in the nose. filling up the lungs like the rising in of a well. seeping into the cracks till its soaked to the core of that strong brick. and this is what that light, gentle work of the melody does faithfully. it fills in. brings life to dead things. folds over to embrace with tender touches, humming a soothing, ache-less song. carries over in the air like a breeze with sure directions. 

and kendrick greggs loved music. loved his wife, his daughter and his motorcycle. but God did he love his coffee. would pour out great, disturbing heaps of it to be filtered into water. a muddy, thickness to it. the smell filling up the house whenever he decided it was a good time to return. his palms holding the cup strong, despite the scars from old wounds over his knuckles painting the skin and etching in permanent like white inked tattoos. his silver rings clinking nearly everything they touched. leather over his shoulders like it'd been sown into the skin beneath it. the grays in his beard more white than gray and his eyes a mahogany brown that lives richly enough still to haunt your dreams. sipping his coffee and staring over everything. his kitchen and his couch and the walls cluttered with too many pictures. the patterns of the floor boards and his old record player and your face. 

sipping muddy, sugarless coffee, his eyes forlorn, prickling your skin.

"...you look like your mother...", he'd said. "...and i ain't all that pretty so...that's a good thing...".

you'd smiled tight lipped. sipped muddy coffee with him and dealt with the silence together. formed a thousand questions and had them die on the tongue before you ever mustered the courage to ask. because if you looked like her, enough for his sorrows to drown him whenever he looked up to meet you at the eyes, then it was true, you'd wind up leaving like her too right?  

the percolator rumbles to life. begins that process of making too strong, muddy coffee. the knob of the front door twisting as the lock clicks. heavy boots trying not to be too heavy. 

"it's me!"

the domesticity of it all runs a skitter under the skin. a comfortable feeling. 

"kitchen!", you throw over your shoulder. pulling draws to bring pots and pans up onto the stove. 

his approach is cautious and gentle. rounding the island as you maneuver about. his hand giving a squeeze to your arm, "good morning", before he's pecking your cheek gingerly. the touch of it safe and quick and not enough. 

"i got up, so i guess so right?" 

you wrangle a number of things from the fridge to set them aside. a line of a shiver drawing small down your back. those sky blue eyes trailing, and digging softly, looking. you can feel them working. cody's voice less horse from sleep but sure moving still. tired and sweet and low. 

"talk to me". 

"s'nothing...", trying to abate the mess of the morning. the aches and the shivers from unknown things. "...just a bad dream"..., turning to face him. "...it kinda fucked me up a bit but i'm good".   

"you shouldn't sleep in that room", his arms folding up to cross. a regard filled with concern. too much concern. "my mother sleeps in their bed still, says she can feel him at night, can smell him. thats not easy to deal with". 

"m'still cleaning up the others...", eyes squeezing tight. your hands slipping over your eyes and cheeks, as if it'd wipe away the full, overwhelming warmth stored there. "...it's a whole process". 

"cause you're refusing help, my help". 

you sigh. "i need to do it for me cody". 

"i hear you". 

and this, here with cody, is different. something like the deep pull of an inhale. tired muscles, tired still, but that faithful pulse of an ache, wavers. conceding for a moment. a strong, fine, tenderness that can only be made in the stillness of this liminal space. all the words of sharply defined things left to be nestled on the tongue and at the back of the throat. lodged for safe keeping. waiting to live and be spared from their silence, even if they're made to leave a little sputtered and awkward and graceless. and of course it's no different from that terrible suffocation, just as adolescent feeling under the skin. a frustration there too. like maybe you should have more finesse about this. not be so hesitant and artless. 

you reach for him. pulling at the fold of his arms, bringing him in to close up all that dead, needless space between the two of you. "be closer". 

he leans a hand against the counter, peaks of tattoos drawing up the arm, exposed by the scrunch up of his sleeves. fingers adorned with silver rings that used to be his fathers. his body leaning in so well that it fills the air in your nose with the spiced smell of his leather. his other hand pulling up under the baggy fall of your flannel, thumb nestling where the line of your spine ends. a shiver and a hum playing as you move to cradle his face. closer till he's nudging his nose and skimming his mouth to tease. his jaw cutting sharp, but the skin soft. your touch playing in delicate circles. shuddered little breaths that grow sore in wanting a better fullness. 

the splay of his palm, pushes in. brings you to flush against him. "m'following your lead on this. i don't wanna overstep and it takes us somewhere we don't want to be". 

you smile. "such a gentleman". 

"so i've been told", words licking into your mouth with the slight of his tongue over his lips. taking a small little taste before he's on you and pulling tender. warm lingering kisses that leave an essence of mint in your mouth. his throat humming again, deeper this time. not like contemplation, no, like satisfaction. like the enjoyment of this is too much for words and all his body can spare is the buzz and rumble of that noise. 

and then he sweeps in wet. teasing like. a sharp, fierce, excitement. lapping at your tongue in a thick, languid fashion that forces you to inhale. to breathe before pushing in for more. a purr bleeding hot and easy from your chest till it's alive in your fingers. clutching at the silver skull buckle of his pants. nipping his mouth and smiling delirious into his touches as his palm lowers and presses in. long fingers curling in at the fat of your ass. smothering there then with a kneading touch that makes you pulse between your thighs. 

another deep breath as you part to look at him. fingers having traveled into his hair. holding him so you can see that hot glimmer amidst all the soft blue in his eyes. "the coffee is almost done. you should stay for breakfast". 

"can't". apologetic. a short kiss to your mouth. then to the corner of it. "gotta be in on time. a lot of stuff to handle today".

your touch plays persuasive, drawing down his arms till you're guiding him to hold you closer. impossibly closer. hugging him in.

"you're handlin now". 

he chuckles. perfect teeth and all. a thumb of his raising to catch at your lip. your lips tender and swollen some. "i'd love to take care of you, i really would, but i can't stay that long". 

you kiss his thumb. short lingering little pecks. "that long huh?"

"it's been a while, a lot of ground to cover. i need time". 

"good to know". 

he sweeps your cheek. a gentle little strum along your face before it's meeting his other hand to rest comfortable at your hips. making a home out of the heat teeming there. "am i seeing you later?" 

a dramatic breath huffs, the evenings events forming back into a shapely remembrance. not just any welcome home celebration, but a bloodline welcome home celebration. the night bound to hold some fuckery to it somewhere.  dropping your head into his chest. "i don't have a choice", you grumble. "i was told to make a cake. m'being reeled in by naomi for hospitality duties". 

cody chuckles. rubs up your back. consoling. "like you never left. this is a good thing".

"is it?"

he takes your face. cradles it firm. forces your attention on him. "yes. stop worrying". stepping away to walk heavily towards the door. "walk me out". 

you follow. that spiced leather smell trailing in towards you still as you step behind him. the slim take of an emptiness growing in your belly, like a slow paced simmer, where the warmth had decided earlier to bloom and spread at the touch of his fingers and mouth. need. it's need. the same need that worked and curled in your voice with bits of persuasion to get him to stay. to get him keeping his mouth on you and his touch as firm as it was. the same need that fluttered your chest to live amidst the heavier morning aches and pains. that twisting in your belly after breaking awake hard and the unease beneath your skin after the strangeness of  that phone call—

"wait", pulling his arm to stop. his body standing tall in the doorway. "forgot to give you this". pulling out that torn piece of paper from the chest pocket of your flannel. giving it for him to take. "got a call from this number earlier...it was before you got here. something felt off, weird. look into it maybe?"

his eyes don't break from the paper. and he doesn't move in the doorway. giving short hard blinks. like he's gathered his thoughts away from you to be else where.  

"cody, is everything—"

he moves. quick. abrupt. out of his head. a firm peck at your cheek before he's stepping down swiftly to his bike just in front your house. "i'll see you later". he mounts. swings his leg over and secures his helmet. that playful, teasing air to him gone away so well, it's like it never was there. "call if you need anything".

the engine roars to life, a rumble forward till he's gone and disappearing down the street. 

sixteen and seventeen and eighteen, jitters all up in your skin from the slyness of him. that breathlessness of yours and those sweet bouts of trembling, nearly half his height way back when, just where his chest puffed out strong, but always having to look up to take him in. little flinches away but tugs to his belt loop to bring him closer too. hitches in your breath before that melt into the softest sound. a drawling, helpless little moan of a thing. like your needs and wants were playing too well against each other, warring and laying waste enough till there was nothing much left for you to do but grow weak and breathy for him. all the noises charming his ears. and it's natural isn't it? eventually growing out of all that unruliness in the body. being able to take the force of him without losing yourself. hell, by twenty four, trembly and overworked or not, you became real good about accepting the finesse of things. him handling your inner thighs and the hot whispers in your ears. his tongue pressing into your neck and his teeth pulling over your lips. the weight of him blanketing over. sounds he'd never heard before, sounds he fought to remember. 

but no, the unruliness of it all, that part of you is still there. a permanent housing that makes his chest swell. 

there in the bathroom of the clubhouse, grazed and bleeding and depleted of a long standing control, roman had done a not smart thing. throwing away nearly a decades worth of resolve and patience for ancient feelings. like the buzz of a taste after being faithfully cold sober. that slipping chill that courses the body. a too friendly reacquaintance.  

it was one of the dumbest things he'd done in a long time.

"can we see each other later?" a working there in giana's voice and in the run of her fingertips. gentle circling motions that attempt to root up a deeper intimacy. a leg thrown over his waist and her lips laying to kiss him. fingering with his beard and snuggling in closer every second. all this delicate allure draping over her, a thin veil to cover that growing necessity for other things. hooded eyes trying to claim him to a focus. a reel in from those far away thoughts—you— that plague him brutally in the mornings. "we could have a part two of last night", purring smooth and slipping over to straddle him more. her warm legs spread over him and her lips taking him in for another kiss.  

sharp quick flicks of tongue. exacting. like with the make of it comes too much method. too much forethought. like maybe it's all meant to please him. 

but bullshit begets bullshit. one dumb thing after another. a snowball of errors that roll into an avalanche. 

your face, the taste of your mouth, and the way your tired body surrendered with a faithfulness in the small corner of that clubhouse bathroom. memory sore as it corralled back into place under your skin. one image and then another, till he could hear and feel you too. his belly tight and his breath shuddering in that disgusting way. stuttered and weak and all consumed. loud and messy and lax all over. subdued and—

it was dumb. caught up in whatever throes of passion then, just last night, with a beautiful woman, with giana, but thinking about another. his everything haunted and possessed. crawling from the ground these undead things, pulling his muscles up taut to yank and prop and puppet him. his tongue curling in giana's mouth to find that taste again. holding her tight, and moving and doing, and these dirty little whispers in her ear, just the way you always liked it. a secret just for the two of you alone. shivering delicate in his hands so good, so sweet, that he'd kiss you sloppily from the drunkenness that came from him being all wrapped up in your embraces. nails in his skin, just deep enough there to make him groan and shake—God!— 

roman shifts, slips out of the sheets. the bed too hot and his chest racing. blood pulsing about the lightening draw of his veins, thundering hard there after. 

he slips on a pair of sweats, baggy and black and sitting low at his hips. fingers combing and tying his hair up into a knot. something untidy and loose and rushed, much like that curling feeling beneath his skin. eyes else where. trailing and cutting up and away and skating along but never meeting giana really. like coasting the borders of the bed where she lays still. beneath fluffy sheets all content and comfortable. 

his bedroom connects to a bathroom. flicking the light on quick. everything in his body, pressing out with a particular speed. that leather over his shoulders, resting over thick and black and absorbing, can't come fast enough. the rushing wind from the drive of his bike and the blurs of lights and bodies along the street. 

water over his face. a splash that chills the heat over his cheeks. his routine as efficient as it is hasty. like the time in the day here, in this bed-connected-bathroom, is passing too slow, forcing his bones to form over with metal. weighty and tougher to carry. a swirling in his belly, mint on his tongue and his eyes fresher now. is it horrible to leave her here like this? to deny her requests for something a little more? not extra, no, but more? padding back into the bedroom for a t-shirt. white and bright against the sun. plain but contrasty against that old, worn, black, grimy leather. 

this ugly little stomach feeling, it isn't new. no it's old. has upturned, pretty little defying eyes and a sweet mouth made just for him to feel. it presses his gut and roughs his nerves hard. almost like it's daring him to do something about the way it's living again to oppose him and all the progress he's made living without it. and so be it then. so fucking be it. 

"there's a thing happenin' tonight...", he gives. words working against that continuous twist in his belly, but against the other hesitancies as well. a war with many armies. "...one of our guys just got out, s'like a little welcome home party...", black jeans pulling up to rough along his legs. eyes flicking to giana in the large dresser mirror before he's moving and skating away from that lingering regard again. "...i'll be tied up there for the night if you wanna—but...", stopping hard to break course, because she doesn't want that. it's not really in the bounds of their situation, "...chillin with the club ain't all that appealin to you—"

"should i bring something?" 

no one ever really wins, when the war has too many armies do they? and if all the battles are within him—the work of keeping you undone from him, from his blood and his brain, something like the greatest brass shield and keeping giana's curiosities from lingering too far into a dangerous territory, like the finest double edged sword—housed in his belly so that it tatters him raw, then he becomes the only one to triumph and be defeated yes? right? a win and a loss just the same. 

but bullshit begets bullshit. one dumb thing after another. a snowball of errors that roll into an avalanche.

"a dessert or whatever...", looping his belt through his jeans. the buckle of it a snake. the head eating the tail. the silver metal of it so cold it tingles. looking to her finally. expectant, hooded eyes. "...nothin over the top, and no alcohol. punk doesn't drink". 

"punk?" 

and this is it no? the product of their agreement. a situation. because her eyes always slid over his leather with bits of apathy. flinching in his hold when he touched her with rings decorating his fingers. never remembering the names of his street brothers and cringing at the sweet nasty song of his bike engine. shuffling up to his door step only after the sun had set and leaving just before it rose up. there was never reason to know anything about anything. so yes, this was the product of a pre-determined wish. something she now so suddenly wants to break. to overcome and reset for whatever reason. 

roman sighs. a slight bristling effect in his shoulders. "thats what we call him". 

"oh..", eyes wide. a new understanding. settling into it before that full acceptance. "..uh, ok". 

and he waits after that. sipping coffee with a terrible sensation in his palms, in the fingers they stretch to, holding a mug. fully dressed and his feet begging for the mercy of leaving. for a reprieve. for fresh air and the way his bike cuts through it. waiting for her to ready herself. waiting for giana to leave. but it seems all her maneuvers vie for some form of normalcy. for an air that only settles comfortable with slow sips of morning coffee and talks about the weather. little pan sizzling pops and the steeping in of a heavy hot aroma that clues into the greatest breakfast. but this was not that. could not be that. and damn it, she'd agreed it'd never get there didn't she? so what was this? her lingering? her attitude at the funeral. a little brazen and curious then too.

when giana does go, she parts with a kiss. presses and holds at his mouth dearly. like his mother would his father. a tight look over him like an attempt to keep him hostage. some delicate arresting that never really takes him completely. 

and it irks him. he should want this shouldn't he? move onto something new and let those old failures be? 

the ride to the clubhouse isn't as comforting as he'd hoped it'd be. the air hot, always hot, but it seems that the mugginess of it all just presses into him so that it dirties everything. muddying up already terrible nerves. like that awful, grainy taste of the dregs and sediments left over at the base of good coffee. the goodness of it no longer mattering, because all thats there, sticking to tongue and teeth, are the loose, earthy bits. 

that slipping off sensation living in his palms still. like the dropping of some fragile thing is soon to come. looming to tease with a vicious smile. it flutters his skin when he handles the bars of his bike, hot wind zipping over, and when he bends the corner to enter the clubhouse lot, and even now, never leaving, as he moves to dismount.

and he shuffles up to hard, overworked, wooden steps. the face of the clubhouse like a porch. painted a black once that looks more gray now. a shabby, distressed, unreliable looking thing of a build to the eyes. an outward deception. but that seems to be the beauty of it. the way the wood and the work of it have all managed to survive in spite of. a consistency not known to many, not even to the most faithful of men. but it doesn't do much to help roman. no it makes that terrible grief in his hands worse. 

because it was sure to happen then right? all that beautiful rich color of control and command will wither and distress into a graying one day wouldn't it? ease out of his hands and crash into a sharp breaking. 

the wooden boards of the porch creek. roman caught out of his daze to find cody standing in the corner. his eyes facing out just opposite of where roman is, staring out somewhere far. here but not really. leaning against the banister and his cheeks hallowing to pull from the burn of a cigarette. 

the smell of it carrying over too well, roman stepping up the porch till he's just in front the double doors of the clubhouse. the acrid twist of it, thick in his nose and ugly feeling in the lungs. a grimace tainting his lips, his face, but not from the smell, no. it's from the way cody inhales the plume of smoke. the way his teeth clench to pull it back into himself. unrestrained and needful. like he's looking for a full consumption of it. that slip in roman's fingers again, like he's losing. because this is not such an unusual thing, but old things never are. habits and copings dying so hard they only really lose breath for sometime before reaching up again to feel the fresh air. yeah, roman has seen his before. stood in front the terrible reflection of this mirror. 

"i thought that was done?", roman gives. voice cutting hot, thick, air. 

cody turns. sighs. blue, far away, eyes coming back to the safety of this off-colored clubhouse. taking in the burning end of the cigarette before looking up to roman, "it is. just needed...y'know...something to carry me over till later". 

"you sound like an addict", roman cuts. annoyed because the anger becomes real in his belly now. because wasn't this over a long time ago? a fire snuffed out at it's core. "stomp it out. eat something", he roughs. trailing in with heavy thuds of his heel toe. the sound along the floors like a wordless call. like a command to move and do under the eye of his will. and it happened, as it always does. the guys all falling in behind him, wordless or loud or somewhere in between, till the double doors of the church push to their limits, accommodating that great big swell of men. 

the table still a polished perfection, ageless in that way really. the image of a snake carved at the heart of it. deep moving grooves and ridges that make the image of the soul of the clubhouse. 

the ouroboros. the head and the tail. the beginning and the end. one taken into the other to complete a never ending circle. 

roman sits at the head of the table. slips the handle of the gavel in his palm. the shine of it eternal. his wrist giving an upturn before it lays to knock the wood into the sounding block. a hard thwack! that silences the room. a call to order. 

"first order of business, before we get into all the ...extracurriculars...", he starts. eyes falling on him expectant. always expectant. "...we had a brother come out the cage yesterday...", the room erupting with a hasty excitement. fists banging the table and deep, doggish hoots. "...so if you gotta show up later filled with bullet holes and half yah dick in hand then thats what it is, but ya'll better show up. i need to be seein' all of ya'll there...", tone as meaningful as it is serious. "...punk did five for us, so we can take a night off from the shelf—"

the room breaks with a chorus of groans. childish little rumblings. teeth sucks and "boo's", thrown in the air. a semblance of a smile slipping onto roman's lips at the way they mock and scoff. 

punk's ideals were always a little more controversially charged than some others. a faithful way about him when it came to living his life completely dry one hundred percent of the time. 

those firsts taste for most of them, of whiskey or rum or tequila or vodka, as young boys woefully playing as men, like a baby's first ride atop a bicycle. 

"..you killin' me here uce...", jey drags. 

"...no bullshit...", jimmy chimes. 

dean scoffs, laughs, a mixture of both really. "cold sober and listenin' to seth whine about a bullet lodged up his ass for the tenth time this week like it's a day old IUD...", he jokes, fingers at his temple like a gun to pull the trigger. "...mine as well be showin' up with half my dick in hand. could give the people a real show, somethin' to remember".

"only half?...", seth rasps. a wicked sort of smile playing. "...figured you be dickless by now, the way june's got that shit choked up in a vice grip, you're givin' all the beta's with real commitment to the cause a bad name". 

the room "Ooo's". chuckles and grins spread about everywhere. dean flipping seth off before directing his attention back to roman. 

"speakin of june, if this issue we got is real, cloned plates and all, then it's not the first case of it". 

roman's jaw clenches slow. a pressing in that lives to stress that meddling skate beneath his skin. "what'd she say?" 

dean slouches, settling into the creaky wood of his chair. "s'alot of fraudulent games being played...of the vehicular variety of course. spooky petty stuff though", his hand smoothening over the reddish color of his beard, "red light runs, drag racin', etcetera. mostly with ghost cars". 

"rhea got pinched for racin' a while back...", the natural soothed drawl of jey's voice playing. "bad plates too. took the fall for mysterio's boy". 

jimmy chuckles. a wry little go of it. "you still messin' with screamo?"

and little noises of amusement ruffle the air. jey's eyes cutting to his twin brother. "she listens to metalcore dumbass, and we not messin with each other...", his neck maneuvering oddly. awkward. like the beginnings of a secret threaten to inch their way up his nape for some untimely reveal. "...it's just a calm..lil vibe".

jimmy points. "was". 

"was", he huffs. "…a calm lil vibe", arms dropping from that cool, eased, positioning. flustered and flailing down for some strained release. "...we just cool like that, damn". 

roman sighs. the sun breaking through the window behind him to heat up his neck and the leather draping him whole. "make your point jey".

"point being, if it's anybody that knows something about all of this, then it's her...", his fingers twisting the metal rings about his fingers as he thinks. "...it'd probably be better though to connect with priest. whatever the maneuver is, if we get in alright enough with him, she'll follow". 

"set up the meet then...", roman charges, to which jey accepts. "...i want a place and time tomorrow latest". the room falling quiet again. an inching in the air that forwards itself towards the head of the table. carries with it the eyes and ears of all these metal clad, leather born men. an expectancy that itches and delights roman in equal measures. sweetening his blood and aching his fingers. the impression of the gavel there still. always there. "what's the word on nico? he discharged yet?" 

the attention shifts in intervals. those fall of eyes staggering away from roman to cody. his bout of silence being urged to be done away with. 

and roman's words bite along the tongue as he speaks them. bits of a bitterness that form ugly and loose. something similar to bile. like the slip of it, is an admission only now given to live along the air, for, if given any earlier would cause for this taste in his mouth to live longer. breathe and rage and fester and spread and mold over. "you said before that she mentioned nico...", because mentioning nico, to cody no less, means that they'd had moments together wouldn't it? would affirm a fall they've taken, into a sort of vulnerable intimacy, where such unsavory things can be brought into question. his jaw pressing again, beneath his beard, where none are wise to notice. "...did she say anything else?" 

cody clears his throat. his eyes a cold blue. bright and unrelenting. softening at the mention of you. something in roman's belly jostling then as he listens. "i didn't give her anything worthwhile. she took the hint and stopped asking". 

a sharpness in his hand twinges. like the prod of a thousand tiny terrible little needles. that impression of the gavel still breathing to live in the skin. "...this shits gotta be flipped around quick...", his nails digging into the palm there, the ball of a fist that begs for it's own relief. "...i wanna know where this kid eats, where he sleeps, what room he stinks up when he shits, where his burnt skin peels and falls...", that wood and shape so true and longstanding in it's touch that it burdens him. wills roman into something hot and nearly unmodified. "...he's too unim-fuckin'-portant to be this much of an inconvenience". 

seth scoffs. grunts hard as he shifts in his chair. eyes narrowed and harsh and bordering on the promise of some ill-advised action waiting for it's release. "those assholes put a bullet in me. i'm sorry but i need a little more than some street espionage". 

"easy", dean pipes. "you'll get yours soon".

"solo", roman calls. his younger cousin stepping forward. "...the info, get on it".  

solo nods slow. a quiet steady air about him that promises.

the gavel catching up in roman's palm again. swinging to crack against the sound block. a call to order once, now a call to completion. but that usual wholeness of the moment is lost here. the bits of it chipped like too old, too dried up paint. the rich brown finish of the sounding block rubbed away to reveal the inner color of the wood and the head of the gavel slightly splintered with a faint crack. like a small break finally, from time and too much violence. from too many summers and schemes and leather bound meetings. words a little thicker and heavier in the throat and on the tongue. like the finality in them, the way it plays to be sure, is the greatest falsehood. 

"we're done here". 

sometimes he can't breathe. an exaggeration maybe, because yes, he is breathing. he has a pulse. can feel that intake that funnels the air into his lungs. but isn't it just easier to say he can't breathe when it feels like this? and well, he won't say it with his mouth, because no one needs to know he can't breathe. but here in the face of this bathroom mirror, he can tell himself he can't breathe, can rest odd in the terrible restriction of it. an ache in the chest like something there has decided to slowly tear him asunder. a meticulously drawn out clawing up to the surface. shuddered breathes and a running under the skin that goes on long with the fear of being caught. a marathon of anticipation. but this is not the first time this has happened. no, six days before his release he'd told the county jail nurse that his teeth ached and that he couldn't breathe. she said he was having a panic attack. he told her she was full of shit. 

the bathroom sink water rushes out cold. punks hands tight against the counter. for stability. he might fall if he lets go. because the weakness here in his knees, was not a symptom before. it's a new arrival. the toilet untouched. maybe she was right. fuck. maybe she was. 

a knock on the door, and then doom curling under flesh, giving a cold bite to his bones thereafter. his stomach lurching, from this coat of fear that comes with lack of breath and from the stomachs own emptiness. "m'takin a piss, gimme a second", grumbling. the water rushing still. coming down and out too fast, with too much pressure to ever successfully simulate a decent sounding ten-one. but he tries anyways, to hide behind this water white noise sanctuary, till it's no longer the sink of an old, still standing house, but the great pouring down of a waterfall. a flow strong enough that it undoes his feet from the ground and takes him in. takes him away. but that can't happen so swift and as easy as it used to, because it doesn't have to happen anymore. but whose going to tell his mind, his body, that neither need an escape to that drowning sort of safe space?  

another knock at the door. a quick steady pace into the wood. like it means to pry him from the closeting of this bathroom. like a call meant to will him up and out of drowning in that white noise waterfall. 

the door handle twitches. sharp and impatient. a warning before entry. the threat of seizing his space against his will. his shoulders hitching to tighten, squaring off. ready. that tingling in his fingers performing sorely, an exhausted guard that brings itself to work in spite of its age, as he holds his side of the door handle. "you wanna come hold my dick for me or you gonna let me finish?" 

"open the door punk". 

but it's not a command, no. not urgent or mean. it's something far worse. the type of plea that mixes itself in with a concerned sort of compassion. pity. fucking pity. and punk can't fight against that can he? not when the voice of a brother goes on with this tone of sadness. to work and war against it, would only serve to affirm his standing in this low place. so he opens the door. tries his hand at a deep breath. his palm slicking back his hair and the other twisting the knob of the door to open.

randy orton, the sergeant at arms, standing here in all his protective glory. tall and wide and with a look to his eyes that punk decides, leaving the full safety of the bathroom, he hates. the natural low sitting of them, always calling for the anticipation of something menaced and brutish. but they're far too tender for that here. too warmed over and patient as they wait. 

and this means the following in of an explanation doesn't it? his chest aching and the words lodged in with those shallow bits of air, needing to corral something together anyways to appease. to mend the confusion after his sudden disappearance. if so, then how does he explain this weak kneed, heavy chested problem without the exposure of that terrible fragility attached to it? 

"you got a bunch of people out back waiting...", randy gives. the voice of him deep and mellow and too cool to live amidst this awful, silent, ripple in punks skin. in his fingers and toes and about his bones. "...grand entrance out of the hole remember?"

punk scoffs. "oh?...", pulling air tight in his nose. his hands falling over his face to push in there. like if he wipes away at the skin, then the warmth in his cheeks will disperse enough to chill him. but that is not the case. the heat remains, pricks his neck and draws out into his shoulders. "...didn't realize the festivities were in my honor". a mirthless little chuckle. 

"you need another minute to bitch, or you gonna talk?" 

it's evident isn't it? the war, the silent hell in him. metal caged and immovable from the depths of this too low place. the smell of iron stuck in his nose and the repetition of that rattling song. the shuddered knock of the doors pulling to close in on him. "i did five years randy", he gives. hands resting on his hips and his head hanging low. the belief of it never taking him whole till this very moment. 

"i know". 

the darkness is clear. a nothingness that gives no rise for escape. "that's not a hole. holes have air. they have a way out". 

randy leans up against the wall opposite of punk. a resignation into something less protective. that faithful shield of a disposition waning till it's diminished enough for punk to breathe easier. without the threat of judgement from it's weakness. and this simple maneuver has somehow made randy appear less large. his eyes more curious than pitying. searching for the answer too. "what are you in then, brother?" 

punk lets his eyes meet here, and for the first time since his release, they linger. taking on the regard of another despite the turmoil of being seen, of being looked upon and read. "there's a book by this guy, Jerry Mayer, s'called 'the last man', you ever read it before?" 

randy motions with his hand, come hither like, curious to know. "tell me about it". 

"its a collection of short stories written by the last man on earth...", punk starts, fighting hard to hold randy's eyes. because maybe, if he keeps him here long enough, holds his attention, then all the novelty of the moment can be replaced with a question-less understanding. "...and he's just roamin' around. he's got all this air, all this space, but it's just him. nobody to share it with, and no rhyme or reason to do anything but be alone. in the last chapter of the book he digs a ditch. he said,

‘for the first time in a long, long time, i feel the embrace of something warm. the earth smelling strong as i lay, as my fists knock in, power in me once again, commanding the dirt to cave in over head. the sleep is good here, in this low place, and all the words i'd have to speak for how well this does me, stay laid, waiting in my throat. mixed in with that good bitter grain of dirt. finally, i am no longer the last man on earth'

"you remember all that?" 

"yeah", punk sighs, wearily. "i do". 

and randy hums. a slow, low, consideration that eats at the air. at the silence of it. his palm rubbing up at the stubble along his chin and his cheeks. and maybe this is too much. an overshare that unveils the scattered, caked up, muddiness of the mess sitting low in his underbelly. where all the other easy to break things lie. the pit beneath his stomach that rolls over sore, making him hungry and hunger-less just the same. yeah, this type of talk isn't for other ears is it? it's for those lonely, muggy, sheet-less nights. a deep stare into the ceiling as the fan whirls a janky tune. for him alone—

"well...", randy says. a drawling inflection to it like he's concluding his thoughts as he speaks. "...you're not dead till you're dead, and you're not alone". 

"five years...", chuckling mirthlessly. "...what do i have to show for it? gray hairs and shitty tattoos". 

randy smiles. "you'd be surprised, chicks kinda dig the grays now..."

"i'm being serious". 

randy pushes off the wall. standing to full height again. his palms coming up to rest along punks shoulders, as if, at one time or another, he'd been split into two halves. his heavy hands pushing in, thumbs into his shoulder blades, to will the two halves into a whole. and even if this isn't the intention, the burden of his hands and his height and his eyes, all speak for randy like it's true.  

"walk briskly to what you want. run to get the shit you need". 

punks eyes roll. "and what genius said that?"

"me". 

the hallway fills with small, comfortable amusement. punk's breathing not so caught up, and randy's eyes less pitying. 

"c'mon", randy patting punks back. "let's go get some cake". 

an error made by and against the self is the more terrible of the two, the other being, errors made against the self by others. yeah, the latter calling for a rich sort of righteous anger. done up so well in the blood that it draws in delicious. days, weeks, months even, settling to sit in high and justified. but this is not that, no, this is the sharp sickening twist of the former. a disgusting trouble that undulates the belly. makes it swim and swish and roll. because it was a funny little thing wasn't it? a short, sweet, silly little go of comedy to giana. because a guy could have enough morals to be straightedged, but not enough to keep himself out of jail? she needed someone to make it make sense. the store bought supermarket cake weighty in her hands. eyes slipping over the homey decor of the address roman texted her. framed photos littering everywhere, like the house was built to be more of a memorial sight than a living space. 

and the endless stretch of hallway connecting the kitchen to the backyard stands a little too lively for giana's taste. cluttered, maximalist bullshit. photos and paintings and plants. like the regressed, toothy smile, of some nostalgia ridden "remember when" story threatening to break against the air. a flavor so rich it becomes too thick in the mouth to handle. those little jogs to the past are terrible and lengthy, her feet a perpetual skate at the border, waiting for entry. to be folded in. on jokes and tears and old bouts of anger diffused now to underbelly deep bits of laughter. 

but this is the way in right? this is the key that opens the door. that settles her in more comfortably. store bought vanilla icing cake and a toothless smile. and how could she be any worse than him?, than punk—or whatever the fuck his actual name is—if she happens upon hypocrisy just as easily, making the mistake of a self made error. 

the photo at the end of the hall, just before the sliding door that leads to the backyard, works like an old, tired anchor. takes a joyful rusting to her eyes and her skin and the sure breaths in her chest. the patience in her body, stored in her fingers holding this cake, trembling, warming red and chemically undone. a tiny mahogany frame to enrich the delicate form of this memory. teenagers all lined up chaotically, drunkenly even along a sandy beach. the sun beating over harsh. twisted in an endless glee. and roman can't be unseen. his height and his face noticeable anywhere. a cheesy adoration about him. his arms holding a girl like she's his bride, eyeing her as she points to the camera. and he pays the picture no mind. seemingly enraptured and fine with his arrest. 

and the girl is not so unfamiliar. her face similar to the woman giana saw at the funeral some weeks ago. the same funeral she could not wait to escape. the same woman roman could not bother to speak to, but could not bother to look away from. 

surely, the hypocrisy of being here of her own free will without wanting to is no different from a straightedged man going to jail. it's just as laughable anyways. hypocrisy is always laughable. 

but the backyard is lively, loud and full in the ears enough to deaden that taunt of amusement she can't help but to give herself. bodies everywhere and a soft bass bleeding into the short grass so well it thumps into her feet. and this is ridiculous isn't it? the sudden shift. impatience. an appetite for more. feeling odd enough for an uncomfortable suffocation to come about amidst the boundaries she'd created. because they were fine. giana and roman were fine, albeit existing along a blurred line of a relationship in ways. not together but... together. ending and meeting where it only felt viable. so yes, only at night or, only when bored. 

that woman from the throwback photo, from the funeral. giana can see her face more clearly here, as she stares and stands intimately in front one of roman's boys. his hair cut a short blonde and his expression playing with notes of admiration. all of this she gets just next to the sliding door, but to decipher the skitter here in her skin is harder. theres no reason for hatred is there? for disdain towards a woman she doesn't know. but her familiarity is troubling. even as she moves away from him, floating almost and speaking and indulging about the grass and amidst this great guarding fortress of people, with hugs and smiles and those pretty shaped eyes. and God no, giana doesn't want to be her, but the comfortable way she goes about all this is envying. to have to not impress, is it's own nice little thing. 

the dirt and grass and wood chips crunch. roman and a new sort of color to his eyes as he comes up slow.

“you made it". a statement of surprise giana is sure. the way he says it, like he's trying to confirm more with himself than with her. like the possibility is so unbelievable. 

and he looks good. smells better. hair tied into a knot and those stray lines of gray in his beard like some tantalizing decoration. leather over his shoulders. an itch to touch him, to feel the worn texture of his jacket. to have it, for once, not tingle wearily and stress her nerves there in her fingers. but how do you find favor with a dead-lively sort of thing like this. his leather, just a tough little fabric stretching over skin, but the wrinkles and slim distresses like veins full of blood. pumping and beating to give life to something so far beyond her, but connected dearly to him just the same. this sort of urge new. rolling in with her appetite for more.

“i did". 

his eyes flit to the covered dessert. a blink-less stare that doesn't mean to offer anything but the blank of it. and maybe here, for the first time, or the second even, giana can feel it in the pit of her curiosity. this short, fast uprooting desire to know his thoughts. to look past the guard of his eyes and feel him wordlessly. forgoing the usual resignation that befalls her when he chooses to keep things close to the chest and undiscovered, for the sake of course, of staying within those drawn boundaries she'd made. but that was a while ago wasn't it? when she told him the conditions. made it so that they'd only meet to fulfill something lustful. but rules have always been made with the possibility they'd break. right? 

"you bought cake". 

the curt way it leaves him. like she wasn't supposed to. 

"you said to". 

and when the weight of the cake finally leaves her, giana is glad for it. roman taking it upon himself to set it along a table lined with other sweet treats. 

she could very well be wrong about this too couldn't she? those distracted little glances he'd taken at the woman from the funeral, the same ones he takes now, these could all be intricate looks of disdain maybe? a sharpness to his eyes that lends to some deeper hearted vexing. 

the grass and the dirt and the wood chips making terrible little impressions beneath her sandals. the air hot and thick. made thicker by this energy of celebration giana has yet to really settle into. like even the access of it is limited to just breathing. words and gestures too valuable for her to afford. 

and roman is there still, not at the center of the life of this thing but amidst it. orbiting close enough that his importance doesn't go without notice. but he's far away still. captured else where as he smiles and indulges in his own ways. like any president would. 

he's only abiding by the conditions isn't he? the rules of engagement made at giana's word. 

...only when bored, only at night....

giana could very well be wrong. the twirl in her gut. the warm prick at her ears. they all speak wordlessly, saying so with great volume....no, you're not wrong...these are not intricate looks of disdain, but the terrible masking of undead desires. and here, giana feels like nothing more than a bystander. a witness. watching on as roman gives away pieces of himself in the silence to be known to this woman. like a reveal of his hand, a proud little daring statement only made with the way his eyes bore into her. undressing and taking and spreading without ever moving from where he orbits the center of this celebration. 

giana's fingers tremble. the sort of shake that happens after a faithful endurance has waned from holding a too heavy thing. that store bought cake cut up and plated but somehow in her palms still. 

a coarse voice breaks. scrutiny and amusement bleeding. "...what dumbass bought supermarket cake?..." 

because her's was vanilla flavored. brightly colored and pristine in that professionally made way. packaged with the store label and too damn perfect. the other cakes and pies and pans and trays of food, housed in those homey little containers, like they came straight from decades-owned-home-kitchens and into cars and to this hot as hell backyard. 

her rules of engagement and conditions didn't involve fucking home made cake. fingers tingling as she moves quietly to the sliding door, a deep regret running to bed itself into the skin. the type of ruefulness that comes after the fall away from a not tight enough hold on a fragile thing. 

that old, hanging photo just inside by the sliding door, and this too long stretch of a hallway. minutes that feel like hours, till she can get to the front of the house. the air not so thick, not so filled and taken up by that overworking of a celebration she can't seem to break into. her temples pulsing sharp and an itch on the mouth. feeling her way into the bag slung over her shoulder till a box of cigarettes slip in her palm. an opaque orange lighter flickering before it burns the end. her cheeks hallowing for a deep generous pull. white plumes into the air to join the sticky heat. 

that dirt deep bass of the music, bleeding in faint from the backyard to the slab of sidewalk just in front the house, like it means to run under and loom over. have giana remember her failures. 

the front door opens as she drags long from her cigarette. hissing to pull in the smoke of it. hesitant steps that follow a gentle closing click. 

she looks over her cigarette like she would a fresh set of nails—a chilled satisfaction—and then casts a glance over her shoulder.

the woman from the picture, from the funeral. the one roman can't seem to stop eye fuck—

"giana right?" 

her throat clears. wrestling out the inconsistencies for something whole and uninterrupted. "yeah". 

and as she, you, step down the summer warm steps, giana wonders if this is a game. that when you stop at the step just before the sidewalk, do you mean to look down at her purposefully? to make it known without words what the balance of this is. or is this all by chance? coincidences and nasty, tired, angry tricks being played by the mind to ruffle her into some irate storm to punish her for trying to impress the black leather crowd with supermarket store bought cake and a silent disposition. another pull from her cigarette. a simple drag and a flick to watch the embers fall and die. the silence threatening to swallow them up whole less they say something. but giana's already failed once tonight, and never has such a thing happened before. she doesn't wish for that type of emptiness again. 

"look...", you start, shifting terribly odd till your arms cross up. throat clearing in that same way giana had done, to rid your words of inconsistencies. for something sure and measured. eyes carrying a serious weight. regret. "...m'sorry about that...the guys can be dickheads sometimes, but it was sweet what you did. bringing the cake". 

"s'alright". 

"you mind if i bum one?"

"uh..", frozen amidst the heat of the night. giana, of all the things she'd expected, had not expected this. "...yeah, no, sure". the silent intimacy of giving away a measly cigarette and reaching to burn the end of it with her lighter. your bodies so close for these little slip aways of some seconds. the fire of the lighter and your eyes meeting. 

"thanks".

there is no reason to hate you. to grow weary from a stomach troubling sort of disdain. not yet anyways. 

but you don't pull from the cigarette like you need it. small, dainty takes that barely get the end to burn. like maybe this is all for a better establishment of rapport. and giana wonders, as you look to the orange burn of tobacco, if your hands grow tired the way hers did. aching from the weight of supermarket cake. from a try that doesn't hold enough effort. 

giana smiles at all this. amused by your trying. "you don't smoke much do you?"

"i used to...", sheepish. like the call out isn't something worth defending much. "...or tried anyways. i think i wanted the addiction too much, so it didn't really stick". your eyes taking to every part of her. but not like you mean to commit to memory. more like, you're attempting to remember. to sift through the histories to place her face. a look thats unnerving. the way it lingers here. like her face is only good enough for some distant recollection, but not for a readymade decent into remembrance. a bystander on the peripheral too far away to leave a stark enough of an impression. 

"do you know me?" 

"i think i do". 

giana hums. chuckles a little. "is this the part where you ask me who my father is?"

you smile. understanding. "it is".

smoke pulls from that burning orange. tobacco full in giana's nose. "he's done with it now, but he used to make jewelry". 

your eyes light. forsaking your smoke to eat at itself as it burns the paper. "ronny right? simmons?" 

"yeah". 

"he made all my fathers rings... small world". something soft and wistful in your tone. notes of a somberness that cool over the heat in giana's belly. and it'd be terrible to decide on some resolute disdain now, wouldn't it? when you've gone about bringing yourself to the front of the house to mend up that awful attempt of breaking into the seams and vein like distresses of all this ancient leather. giana is unsure of where exactly all this goes. the pleasantries and silent tobacco filled air. adjusting the sling over of her bag against her shoulder as you go to speak again. "...the guys are good people...it takes time, they just—they take some warmin up to". 

the picture near the sliding door that leads to the backyard. how would you know that exactly?

giana's cigarette proves shorter as she holds it up to her lips. a patient pull before release. "how long did it take you?"

"we were all young when i met them...just kids...the history there, for me, is different". 

"so i guess you wouldn't really know then..."

"i guess not". 

"you looked real cozy with him, so i just assumed you and blondie were together", giana gives. "i guess that's why i asked".

"oh?...", pulling the cigarette to your lips finally. a longer draw from it than giana has seen before. cheeks hallowed and that white plume meeting the air with the strain of a laugh that dresses over a minor cough. "...yeah thats...thats complicated". the air in your throat restricted. the bane of every amateur smoker who feigns the need to look professionally verse and addicted. but maybe it isn't the smoke, giving another one of those lingering glances giana's way. thinking and sifting. that pull in of toxic air just a nasty blanket for the dirtiness of words that hesitate—"how long have you and roman been—"

"together?" giana wants to laugh. wants to feel the richness of this reversal in it's fullest fashion. because this isn't a pure streak of kindness is it? it's the heaviness of supermarket cake. that after taste of the too sweet icing thats coated itself on the tongue. the way it vies to impress the palette but fails from overwork. "we're not...it's just. it is what it is with us". a phrase he'd used before, when giana's appetite for more began to simmer hot, abruptly so, from a lukewarm staleness. flicking her cigarette to the sidewalk in what feels like some small victory. because theres room for some contempt now isn't there? "so should we get into it now? hash it all out or do we wanna twiddle our thumbs a little more for the fuck of it?"

"excuse me?"

giana's eyes roll. mirthful. "...we could make a schedule for it...something tentative...", body buzzing over. a frenzy. bliss. that faux clueless light about your eyes darkening slowly. "...we could meet up. exchange notes on how absolutely fan-fucking-tastic the dick it". 

incredulous. "wow, ok". your finger flicking away the cigarette you'd let burn to nothing. 

like you're suddenly unaware of such context. 

like giana is stupid. 

"or am i still pretending thats never happened ever?"  scoffing dirty. an annoyed disgust. "or that he hasn't wasted a second eye fucking you since we've been here?"

and here giana can see the dissipation of all that terribly built cordiality. the complete draw back of the curtain. an amusement to you that aches her belly and heats her blood. standing on that step above her still, looking down. "blaming me because the man you let hit it raw or otherwise has no self control is nasty work. very much, unwell behavior. lets maybe reevaluate who the issue is for you". 

"lets dead the formalities yeah? you thinking you need to play nice". the air hotter than it's been all night. and that grass deep bass of the backyard music finding it's way to her feet again. to pulse and disturb. "i don't need you rollin out a welcome mat, and i don’t need to be small talked 'cause you're all curious, and feel some way about fuckin' my man once upon a time, thinkin' now, that you need to connect with me. trust, it's no sisterhood here 'cause we both happen to know what he tastes like". 

your feet take to walking up back to the door. something wry and rotten spreading a smile on your mouth. "not to be that pedantic bitch but he can't be your man if you aren't together. thats not how those words work". 

this is all so damn silly, isn't it? the smoky burning taste still lining itself at the back of your throat from that cigarette you'd attempted to suffer through out of obligation. and yes, it was out of obligation, out of a sure founded kindness because the guys could be so brutish and exacting and ill-fit to empathy sometimes. just a little too comfortable in their insensitivities when it comes to the smaller, more trivial things. the apology was a nice thing to do wasn't it? an attempt at mending her feelings. to set over a new foundation after the careless breaking of the old one. because she was new and out of the loop on all the nuance. how would giana know that dean was being a dick, but in a simple, amusing, non-threatening way? a rough sort of fun making. no, what you'd done—trying to bridge the gap—is initiative is what it is. fucking initiative. right? right. 

and to think that you'd spared her from the details. eye-fucking is just the tip of the iceberg of whatever mischief she thinks her boyfriend-not boyfriend gets up to. 

a feverish buzzing, helped by the summer heat, sticking to your skin till its beneath it and melting over bones. talk about fucking audacity! being blamed for his lacking in decorum. it's pure bullshit. 

and was it so evil, to hold a bit of curiosity about the status of their...thing? considering roman had put in a sizable amount of effort into blurring the lines of your perception on it all. again...sparing her the details out of kindness. 

but there is another issue to all of this isn't there? a smaller formed thing, that lays at the base, waiting for some much needed uprooting before it can expand to a full truth. takes the burned bitter taste of that cigarette on as it's own till it's painting over your tongue and down low to bruise your stomach. but you were being nice, had left the backyard party with the fullest intentions of—then why did this feel so odd? an unsettling drive in the line of your fingers. something impending in your palms. like the endurance of them is sure soon to fail—

steps sound over the hardwood floors, inching towards the kitchen from that endlessly long hallway. heavy boots that make no qualms about their heaviness. and you know it's him, can feel it in the way the heel-toe drops into the floor. a patient swagger thats paced only to please himself. a sort of rhythm that conquers the time and space it walks through. 

an unsettling drive in the line of your fingers. like the endurance of them is sure soon to fail...

and you'd made it a point to engross yourself in the festivities of the night. break so deeply into the celebrations that you wouldn't have to face him. but now it all seems like a complex task done in vain. his leather dressing cooly over his broad shoulders and his fingers adorned meticulously. hair pulled out of his face enough that you can spot the edge to his eyes as he makes to pass the kitchen, phone slipping from his ear to his pocket. 

but this can't be ignored too much longer can it? someone will have to take a knife to the air eventually. cut through it deep enough for a compromise of the shared space. your arms folded up, and your teeth threatening to bite sharply into your lip as you lean against the kitchen counter just where the sink is. "can we talk?" 

he stops. bringing himself to the edge of the u-shaped counter space to lean over onto it. his leather singing as it bends and adjusts and touches up against the marble as he moves. the kitchen lights yellow and far too dim feeling here, or maybe it's just him. a moment of a drink in to really look at him. the night time rendering the homey space darker than usual even with all the small kitchen fixtures giving off their bits of brightness and warmth. the way they spill above him, shinning his hair but never really catching all of his eyes. a curl in your belly as you watch his jaw shift beneath his beard. like whatever he's thinking can't help itself enough to remain hidden away from his tells. that jaw tick did always give him away didn't it? 

'm'listening". 

"...we're in, maybe? stable situations right now...", fighting to keep that strength of voice. "...you have your person and i have—which...y'know, i'm happy for you", the waver of it just there. amidst the way the words tumble. forming as they air without much forethought. "...an i'd just—it'd be nice to co-exist without all the..."

he sighs. "say what you mean". 

you clear your throat. ridding it of all those nasty, bitter inconsistencies. "it'd be nice if you didn't stick you tongue down my throat again without permission". 

he scoffs. a dirtied sort of wryness to it. "without permission?" 

and maybe your wording wasn't the greatest in the world there. thoughts stuttered by the width of his presence. by the air about him and that ruinous look in the eyes. yes, maybe it'd be better to just have him leave you be all together wouldn't it? conditions of permission aside. a peaceful compromise of co-existence where you don't have to worry about the darker lustful streaks of his intentions. attempting maybe to relive something ancient and far away. yes. it's better this way. for all involved. especially for his girlfriend, whose not really his girlfriend, but wants or thinks the position is assumable off the basis of whatever bullshit she's got cooking up in side that smoked out brain of hers. 

that acrid taste on your palette again. less like burnt leaves and more like bile maybe. a small thing trying to expand to some bigger truth. but thats a worry for later, when you're alone enough to roam freer in all this uncomfortable thought. 

"...i spoke to giana". 

he stands to full height. leather sounding just the same. breathing to take bits of the air with it, with him. "about what and why?"

...say what you mean...he'd said that didn't he?...

"i've taken up so much of her attention tonight, i figured thats what she wanted...", a mirthless spread over your lips. all those former pleasantries and bids for something diplomatic and cordial, shedding off like a fast to slip second skin. because no one wants the niceties it seems, so why should you? "...i guess i didn't realize you fuck girls with no etiquette till now, so yeah, thats on me for trying to be nice". 

you hate his laugh. the way it plays snarky and oddly pitched. too high to be suited to his regular tenor. almost like the unusualness is on purpose. "nice?"

"m'not sure why she isn't, but she should be just a little more receptive when someone makes an effort to—"

"effort huh?", rubbing up along his beard. thumb and pointer tugging and combing through to play at a mull over. for some better take of amusement obviously. mouth spreading for a coarse smile. "you tried to take a big dick swing, i already know". 

"thats not—"

"that toxic nice bullshit". finger jutting out to point. the sharp precision of a dagger. nicking the air to poke at the thickness. like if he wanted, he could give it a less dull slicing for some fuller feel of relief. but he doesn't. heavy boots claiming the kitchen floor slowly. a steady-tempered pace. the patience of a snake. laughing in that way again that shivers your skin. "you played a game and loss". 

"you think everything is a joke". cutting thin through your teeth. 

"you tryin' to play the manipulation game for details on my dick is funny, so yes, it's a joke....", and where did all the light go? all those small bursts of warmth from the kitchen fixtures swallowed up as he makes to creep up closer. a devious streak against brown eyes. "...especially since it didn't need to be done...", those mellow notes of pine pulling in full to swim in the lungs. clinging to his leather for some years. now stretching out for an embrace, making to ruin your sense of—"...it's clear there's a deficit in attention being given if you're so curious". 

this is sixteen and seventeen all over again isn't it? the body outdone by history. that dangerous inability to do or be anything but weak and arrested. "i don't need a damn thing from you—", an abrupt press in. slotting up short to wedge you in place. your arms unfolding fast, fingers bracing against the counter. palms digging into where the edge starts, and his thigh slips out to nudge. breaking in to push between. "don't—"

and he's hot everywhere. his breath and those sly touches. or maybe its the summer air. that saturation of pine. ancient things sweetening your senses. arms like pillars for a fortress, holding the counter at your sides. that small, nasty, disturbed thing welling up so well in the body as it expands, you can feel it in your ears and behind the eyes. dazed and wordless from it. from him. from the way he uproots it. 

"the only thing new york made you is distant and delusional, but i see you. i know you. been knowin' you all your life, and this shit is so shameful you can barely look at me". his pointer curling beneath the line of your jaw to bring your eyes to him. "you left me, could give less than a fuck about what and who i was doing, but now that you're here, you gettin' real bold ain't you?" thumb sweeping in to roll over the soft line of your lip. his sights taken there. but taken at your eyes to. "got the nerve to feel threatened about a position, a space, you gave up" and then that pitiless streak, in his brows, in the firm touch at your jaw. triumph. "you can't get rid of me, and that eats you up bad don't it? because now you gotta remember how needy you used to be. so damn greedy for attention. you still are". 

and theres no fight really. not anymore. all that wrestling for air in the lungs gone and the small buried things you'd hoped saw no great uprooting, fully bought up pass the surface. nerves in disarray and his thumb pulling up to sooth over you cheek. hooking the other fingers under to hold your face. seated in his palm just right. but he had to be wrong. the cigarettes and small talk, it wasn't all a facade. there were bold enough streaks of  sincerity there. you felt for her. felt for that on the outs feeling. but it couldn't be helped. soft, pitched breaths, almost tasting the ginger beer on his tongue. no it couldn't. that nagging curiosity, a terrible need in the pit of your belly. having to know just what it all was between them. it'd make this better wouldn't it? or maybe easier even, to sit in. the desire and the suffocation. 

"i need that permission of yours". 

that dark tenor rumbling into a strong bass. rolling over till you're shivering. 

"we shouldn't—", pushing at his leather jacket. or bracing into it maybe.

"look here", tugging your face. 

a hum like thunder from his chest. meeting him whole at the eyes. a string together of silence to catch those deeper breaths. and you hope this fall into him is enough permission granted. slipping your tongue through to push pass his mouth. slow and languid and slightly messy. desperation corralling sharp in the skin, like all that space and time apart has no use for anything refined and modified. a drawling mezzo of a moan that spurs him into action. palms shaping down the outline of your body till he's pulling at and kneading in. something firm and testy just under the zipper of your jeans. palming to cup there as you grip into his jacket tighter. 

nose knocking into yours. a little more tender than expected. his tongue lapping over into a kiss to savor. "you're still the same", he hums. peeling down the zipper. smiling and so damn satisfied. "still so responsive", fingering pass the thin underwear to glide through slowly. your head falling into his chest. a warm embarrassment in your cheeks. "always been sensitive, right?", hooking in to swirl two fingers against your wet clit. breath hitching at the touch. that firm tenderness old but new. "real nice for me". adulation. his other hand bringing you back into him, cradling your nape to adjust for a lingering kiss. 

you can feel him breathing. stealing all of your air. your body trembling and clenching about nothing but that sweet anticipation. and he knows it doesn't he? smiling and tensing his teeth over your mouth. groaning long and lazy, rubbing sweetly into the tender beginning of your pussy. prolonging and biding time, like it's been made for him. like at any moment all those backyard eyes and ears wouldn't be turned to the both of you. 

"spent the last week wondering if you feel the same. kept dreamin' about it". 

"...please...", your hips twisting into fingers for better friction. clit catching to work along the length of it. lips falling open in that swimming daze. 

his mouth trails over your cheek. kissing and breathing to pull in the scent as he goes. tongue lapping into your neck, the wet slight of it just where your pulse is. a groan breaking through in attempt to mask the deep tremble that takes him. nose roughing in as he suckles and prods wet. "still smell the same". dipping his fingers in easy. gathering the drool of arousal to push in patient till he's nestling in at the base of his knuckles. 

"..ohhfuckk..", a tight breaking out from the throat. rutting into his palm again as he holds, cupped against your clit. a salacious little song playing as he drags out to just the tips of his fingers. stroking in shallow to tease and play before he's slipping in again to the hilt. nudging softly at that sweet, deeper place. resting and sweeping just how he used to. to elicit a more reckless tune. broken little things that just barely form. "..ah—rightthereee.." 

he grunts. scoffs. a mixture of the two and something a little lighter in amusement. taking the grip at your nape and placing it to guide and push into the back of your jeans. shoving off the fabric there to claw in and tuck his fingers where your ass curves under. steering the soft, tight, riding grind of your pussy as keeps his fingers slotted deep. "...after all this time and you still can't take much without makin' all that noise...", mouth breaking from your neck to kiss at your lips again. "..s'pretty though..". messy still and indulgent. but he'd always kissed you a little messy. not like he had no qualms about it, no, more like, he just couldn't help himself. like he couldn't make a more refined work of it, if he tried. 

your body seizes, holds in to clench dangerous about his fingers, nailing into his leather as all the breath you'd lost returns. funneling in fast with that hot take to bliss. the summer heat breaking over your forehead and cheeks and at the back of your neck. hushed little curses tipping off your lips in between the kisses of his. 

the backyard music cuts abruptly. voices carrying in loud. a rush in that breaks the ending bits of all that lingering pleasure. your awareness coming back to you in a less than steady fashion. shaky and drunk still. his hands easing out to let you fix yourself up. 

but you don't miss the way he suckles his fingers clean. like that course of action was somehow more functional and faster than using the sink just behind you. snagging a piece of tissue to wipe his palm before he's creating the distance again. heavy boots thudding against wood till he's out the door. 

[signiorbenedickofpadua]

Anachronistic Greetings

by SigniorBenedickofPadua — Read on AO3

Pairing: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling Rating: Mature Words: 2900 Tags: Sleep Deprivation, Accidental Kissing, Professor Hob Gadling, First Kiss, Getting Together, Dream Sex, Middle English. Counter Sex, or counter-foreplay to be precise, Accidental Confession, Daydreaming, Feelings Revealed by Daydreaming

Summary:

Hob is sleep deprived. That's fine, it happens, he's used to it. It's just that when you're 600-something the centuries can start to blend together a bit when you're tired. Enough so, apparently, that when Dream pops by for a visit, Hob's muddled brain decides to greet him with a "Salve!" and a kiss on the lips like it's still 1389 and he's greeting any old friend and not the cosmic being he's secretly in love with in the year of our Lord 2023. It's a good thing Dream is understanding. Very understanding.

Hob stared down at the kitchen table he was sitting at, resting his head in his hands as he absently followed the pattern of the wood grain with unseeing eyes, mind occupied with thoughts of absolutely nothing at all. He could have been sitting there for anything between seconds and hours for all he knew when he suddenly blinked and realised that he had entered the kitchen to get something to eat. Probably. He was fairly sure he hadn’t eaten yet.

He shook his head, forcing himself to snap out of it and come back to the then and there. He had just gotten home from work, and he was going to have dinner. Right. Yes. Only problem was he hadn’t quite got to that point before spacing out and forgetting what he was doing due to the fact that he hadn’t slept a wink last night. He’d had to stay up late marking essays, after which his brain had just refused to shut off and stop thinking about Middle English syntax for long enough for him to fall asleep.

Actually, come to think of it, that was two nights ago. Had he been awake all of last night too? He thought he might have been, having been too tired to fall asleep because the human body was bloody stupid like that. He attributed the fact that he hadn’t simply collapsed in front of his students while lecturing to his experience marching for days without proper rest back when he was constantly fighting for or against one Plantagenet king or another. But just because his body had kept going through the day didn’t mean his brain had followed at the same pace.

He felt a little bad for his students, to be honest, because he doubted his lectures had been up to his usual standards. At one point, if he remembered correctly, he had slipped into Middle French for several sentences before realising it, and, while talking about how the printing press had contributed to standardising the vocabulary of the English language, he was pretty sure he had used the pronouns “I” and “we” a few too many times to be entirely advisable for someone who was keen on keeping their immortality a secret.

He blinked again. Food. Right. He’d gotten distracted thinking about why he was distracted in the first place. Maybe he should just give up and go straight to bed, to catch up. Or maybe he’d better stay awake and go to bed at a normal time so as not to fuck up his sleep schedule even more by going to sleep at five in the afternoon. Hm. Dinner first. Then decisions.

He had just gotten up from his chair with the intention of opening the fridge to see what his options were when he heard a knock on his front door. Seconds later, he heard it opening. Hob instinctively reached for a sword which no longer hung at his hip before realising that a burglar probably wouldn’t bother knocking before breaking in, and that he had, in fact, forgotten to lock the door behind him when he got home.

The door closed behind his visitor, and he heard a familiar voice call, “Hob?”

Ah, of course. Who else would just waltz into his flat without waiting to be let in? He supposed he should be grateful Dream had learned to knock at all instead of just travelling by sand straight to Hob’s living room as he had often done back when the two of them had first started spending time together outside their centennial appointments. A wide smile spread across his face as he made his way into the hallway and laid eyes on his old friend. Sleep deprivation or not, Dream was always welcome.

“Salve, my freend,” he greeted him, laying his hands on Dream’s shoulders and standing on tiptoes to reach up and plant a kiss on his lips. “Wel y-mette.” He turned and headed back towards the kitchen. “I was just going to figure out dinner. Can I get you anything?”

There was no response, but Hob hadn’t really expected much of one. Asking Dream if he wanted something to eat or drink was mostly just a habitual courtesy — he knew he rarely indulged in such things in the waking world. He opened the fridge and looked over its contents with his own needs in mind as he waited for Dream to catch up and join him in the kitchen, which took longer than expected. Settling on some leftover stew, he removed the tupperware from the fridge and wandered over to the breadbox on the counter, cursing when he realised he was out of trencher bread. Wait. No. Why the fuck would he use a trencher? He had plates nowadays. Christ, he needed to sleep.

“Is this style of greeting coming back into fashion?” he heard Dream ask from the doorway, and he tore his eyes from the breadbox he had been blindly staring at for just a bit too long to look up at his friend.

“Hm? What greeting?”

Dream raised an eyebrow. “You do not usually kiss me when I enter your home.��

If Hob’s brain had been moving slowly before, now it froze completely. “Kiss? I didn’t—” His short-term memory finally caught up with him and he felt suddenly faint. “Oh, God… I’m— Fuck, I’m sorry, Dream.” The ice-cold fear that had gripped his heart was somewhat lessened by the fact that Dream looked mildly amused rather than offended, and he buried his rapidly flushing face in his hands. “Christ, I didn’t mean to— Sorry, I’m really out of it today and I think my brain has been stuck in the wrong century the entire day. I was going for a friendly greeting and apparently chose something that would’ve been appropriate six hundred years ago — before, you know, kissing on the mouth like that had the, uh, intimate connotations it has today.”

“I am aware of the greeting customs of humans, past and present,” Dream said, and when Hob dared to look up again, he could see the corner of his friend’s mouth twitch slightly, “I was merely taken aback by the anachronism.”

Hob took that as confirmation that he was forgiven for his slip-up, and he allowed himself a slightly nervous chuckle to lighten the mood, trying very hard to push back the thought that he had actually kissed Dream. He now knew what those lips felt like against his own, after having fantasised about it for ages. And this is how he found out? Through an absent-mindedly archaic greeting that was over in a second? Fucking hell, Gadling, get a grip. He needed to invest in sleeping pills after this, to prevent anything like it to ever happen again.

“Well, still. Sorry. Wouldn’t have been appropriate even if this had been the 14th century, would it? We’re hardly equals — you know, with you being a literal king and all. Someone like me should have kissed the hem of your coat, or the ground at your feet, or something like that.”

Dream took a step closer to where Hob was leaning back against the counter. “You are not my subject, Hob Gadling. You are my friend. I would rather have you kiss me like an equal.”

And wasn’t that a thought? Hob tried to remind himself that Dream’s words were on the subject of platonic greetings in a historical context, but he was finding it very, very hard not to imagine him saying the same thing in a modern context — as an invitation. His eyes dropped down to Dream’s plump lips, which looked so much softer when turned up in fond amusement than when pursed in annoyance or fury. Quite against his conscious efforts not to, he recalled the way they had parted slightly in surprise when he had covered them with his own and how they had not been as cool as he had previously imagined them, but pleasantly warm and lush. He imagined they would feel even more so if Dream initiated a kiss instead of being surprised by one. Especially if he abandoned the platonic pretence and kissed Hob the way he had dreamt of for far longer than he cared to admit.

Dream’s lips moved, saying something that Hob didn’t quite register, but which at least made him realise that he had been staring rather rudely.

“Hm?” he said again, tearing his eyes away to meet Dream’s. They were darker and closer to him than they had been before. “Sorry, what?”

“You are sleep deprived,” Dream stated simply.

“How did you know?”

“I am Dream of the Endless. I know.” He stepped even closer to Hob, almost crowding him against the counter. “And, being half asleep as you are, your daydreams are far more vivid and harder to ignore than usual.”

“What— Oh.” Oh no… “Fuck, I’m sorry—”

“No need to apologise,” Dream murmured. He was practically hovering over Hob at this point. “Unless…you did not mean it?”

His nose brushed lightly against Hob’s, and Hob forgot how to breathe. “Mean what?” he managed to squeeze out, dizzy with proximity to his oldest friend.

This close he could smell him. He could feel Dream’s breath (which he did not strictly need) dance over his lips when he spoke again, a low rumble which reverberated through Hob’s entire body and lit a fire in his belly.

“Do you wish me to stop?” Dream clarified, and there could be no question as to his meaning. Not when his body made contact with Hob’s, pressing him up against the counter, gently but insistently.

“No,” Hob breathed, half suspecting that he had, in fact, fallen asleep at the kitchen table and that this was a dream. But he had been friends with Dream long enough to be able to tell the difference between dreaming and waking, as well as how to tell if his friend was actually there in his dreams. As unlikely as this was, his feet were firmly planted in the Waking, even if his mind was at risk of straying dangerously close to the Dreaming in his current state. “No, I don’t.”

“Very well.” Dream’s voice was halfway between a purr and a growl as he surged forward, closing the remaining distance to slot their lips and bodies together.

Hob had been right. There was a world of difference between giving Dream a little peck on the mouth and being kissed by him in earnest. To say that sparks flew would be an understatement. It was more akin to being consumed but a wildfire, burning hot and fierce. Gone was the reserved stiffness his friend often exhibited in public. Now he sank his hands into Hob’s hair with passionate abandon and licked into his mouth like a man dying of thirst hoping to catch every last drop of water in his cup. He pressed himself close to Hob, slipping a knee between his legs and rolling his hips experimentally, obviously pleased when it wrung a moan out of Hob.

Hob’s hands flew up to Dream’s hips, finding their way beneath his stupid, elegant coat which he still hadn’t removed. He clutched at the fabric of his shirt, using it to pull his friend even closer, marvelling at the solidity of his thin body as he splayed a hand over his ribs and moved it in a caress around to his back. He could count every knob in his spine by touch, yes, but the muscles surrounding it were strong and firm and they danced beneath his hand as Dream reached down and lifted Hob onto the countertop like he weighed absolutely nothing — and fuck, if that wasn’t a turn on…

Hob retaliated by wrapping his legs around Dream’s lithe form and groaned when his friend rutted up against him. He was reasonably sure that Dream must have made himself taller than he’d been a moment ago for their groins to still be at the same height, but he had a hard time focusing on that when it felt so damn good to have Dream’s obvious erection rub against his own, even through far too many layers of clothes. 

“Fuck, Dream…” he gasped when Dream, a good while later, broke the kiss to instead mouth at the side of his neck, then up to nip at a sensitive earlobe, all while slipping his hands under the hem of his shirt to palm at longing skin. “Are you… Ah! Do you want to take this to the bedroom?”

He was proud of himself for managing the question without his voice trembling. Despite the fact that Dream had initiated this whole thing and was clearly as excited about it as Hob was, he still felt the half-irrational fear that any sudden moves or potentially offending propositions might send his friend running like he had the last time Hob had dared presume too much.

Dream hummed against the spot where Hob’s ear connected to his jaw and dragged his fingernails lightly down his back, sending a shiver down his spine. “A sensible idea. You are weary and need to rest.”

“Not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Nevertheless, I think perhaps you ought to get some sleep. I can feel you yearning for the Dreaming, in mind and body alike.”

“For its ruler, maybe. I may be a bit tired, but I’d rather continue this than try and fail to go to sleep right now.”

He would never admit it, but a pang of anxiety shot through him at the thought of interrupting this at this point. He needed them to see it through, and to talk about it afterwards to figure out what the hell it meant. If they stopped now, if Dream left… Would they have the courage to bring it up the next time they saw each other, or would they dance around it for a few more centuries? He wasn’t sure he could bear that.

Dream pulled back enough to meet Hob’s eyes. His lips were red and puffy and sported an amused smile. “Hob, I shall join you in the Dreaming, naturally. I too am quite keen to finish what we have started.” He punctuated this with a roll of his hips which chased Hob’s fears away to make room for arousal. “As for falling asleep — there are certain benefits to keeping the King of Dreams as one’s lover. It will not prove an obstacle.”

Hob hardly heard anything he said after the word lover, which bounced around in his head like an intoxicating echo. “Well, then… Bringe me to bedde, louer myn,” he murmured, lifting a hand to push a strand of Dream’s wild hair behind his ear. It was just as soft as it looked.

His lover smiled and whispered, “Slepe, thanne, my biloued.”

Dream bent his head to place a gentle kiss on Hob’s forehead, and suddenly it was nigh on impossible to keep his eyes open. The last thing Hob was conscious of before sleep claimed him was his head slumping forward to rest on Dream’s shoulder. Then everything went dark and fuzzy.

***

When Hob next opened his eyes, he knew he was dreaming. He found himself in a room he did not recognise, but he knew it belonged to the Palace of the Dreaming. It was unclear whether he knew it because he recognised the stone the walls were built from, or the style of the lofty stained-glass windows, or because of the way you just knew things sometimes when you dreamt, but it hardly mattered. What mattered was that he was lucid, that he was in a bed, that he was naked beneath the sheets, and that Dream stood before him by the side of the bed, dressed only in a diaphanous black robe which was seemingly woven from pure shadow.

“Hello, Hob,” Dream rumbled, voice impossibly deep and sonorous here in his natural habitat. His eyes gleamed with starlight as he looked down at Hob.

“Please tell me I’m not currently asleep in a heap on my kitchen floor,” was what Hob managed to say after suppressing the urge to just whine and rip that horribly teasing robe off of Dream’s body.

“Of course not. I carried you to bed. The point was to ensure you got some restful sleep, which the floor is hardly suited for.”

“Oh, that’s the point of this, is it?” Hob asked with a breathless laugh, running his eyes down the neckline of the robe, which plunged dangerously low.

Dream smirked. “Among other things.” He placed a knee on the bed, and then, in an unnaturally smooth movement, he was seated across Hob’s hips, their bodies separated only by the gossamer fabric of the robe and the silky satin of the sheets.

“And what were those, again? Would you care to remind me?” Hob teased, reaching out to slide his hands up slim but powerful thighs.

“It would be my pleasure.”

That night, as Hob would later reflect, put every wet dream he’d had in his very long life to shame. The next morning, he woke up well-rested but starving, with a distinctly uncomfortable situation in his pants and a tupperware container full of spoiled stew waiting for him in the kitchen. That didn’t matter much, however, when he also woke up to find the King of Dreams in his bed.

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook: Sugar & Spice (Spoiled)

In which Jungkook might be spoiling you a lot- but he's also more than capable of reminding you of your manners if his love gets to your head.

Tags/Warnings: Raccoon Hybrid!Reader x Idol!Jungkook, established relationship, opposites attract because I love that concept, are you tired of my hybrid stories yet because I'm not, fluff, romance, smut, jealous koo, slice of life, ddlg themes

Chapter length: short

Other content: Intro, calm

━━━━━━━━━━.~°♡°~.━━━━━━━━━━━

"Don't you think he's.. babying her a bit too much? I mean, she's technically not even that much younger than him.." Namjoon wonders to Seokjin next to him, everyone on break right now after practice.

Both he and his older bandmate are currently watching the youngest Idol of the group lay on his back in the middle of the dance hall they use to practice in, the singer uncaring of any eyes on him as he has you laid out on his stomach, playing around with your ears.

"Even if he does, it's not our business." Seokjin shrugs, setting his water bottle down. "He's old enough to make those choices, and she seems more than happy with the way he treats her." The oldest singer responds, smiling as Jungkook adjusts your collar around your neck, fingers turning the identification marks to look at them fondly.

"I know.." Namjoon sighs. "I just- I don't know. It's still a little odd seeing him bring her along so much. I guess I never really saw them interact so much." He explains, and Jin nods.

The oldest had looked after you multiple times throughout the years Jungkook has had you- So to him, there's nothing odd about seeing you around the singer. He's gotten used to it, knows you and him and most of all your relationship fairly well- but what Namjoon said is true. Only recently has the singer decided to openly bring you along to schedules and meetings, considering that the management had revealed you to the public in a controlled manner. Now that there's nothing to fear anymore when it comes to Jungkook's Livestreams for example, he's clearly more than eager to have you around as much as he can now.

But while he, and Jin, and Taehyung all know you very well, and know how you both act and behave around one another, to the rest of the band, it's still very much a new sight.

Jungkook however doesn't notice the glances and stares at all it seems, as he wraps his arms around your middle, your body heavy but not uncomfortable on top of his own. "You wanna take a bath together when we come home later?" He wonders, watching how you rest the side of your head now on his chest.

"Hmhm." You hum affirmative, making him chuckle.

"You tired?" He asks, and you nod again, stretching your legs a little. "So all you're doing when I'm at work is napping? What a lazy bear, sleeping while I work my ass off!" He teases, fingers suddenly attacking your sides, making you squeak in surprise. He can hear some staff and Seokjin laugh in the background as you roll away from him playfully, leading to the Idol crawling after you, catching you easily as he pulls you in, hugging you tightly.

"Alright you two, lets get back to work." Jin claps, making Jungkook audibly whine, but comply- albeit not without teasingly smacking your butt as you get up to walk away from him back to your spot at the side. Taehyung gently pets your head as he walks past you, and the others also share some glances with you before they continue to work on their choreography.

It's later that they see a more relaxed and mature side of the youngest, as he carefully carries you to the car, completely in control and aware of everything- from the obvious like your jacket and bag, to the more smaller details like the fact that he needs to wake you up in the car or you'll get a headache later.

And later, back home and away from prying eyes, Jungkook relaxes with you in his arms, warm and tired after some rather heated bath time. "Jungkookie?" You wonder, mumbled more or less into his chest, as he hums. "Do you think I bother the others at work?" You ask, and he shrugs.

"Don't think so." He answers, voice already a bit raspy from his tiredness. "You're not in the way for all I know. And I like having you around me more these days." He tells you, pressing a kiss to the side of your face. "Don't worry about that, alright?" He tells you, and you nod.

"You think they like me?" You ask, yawning and making him laugh.

"Not as much as I do." He says, tangling his legs with yours. "Cause I love you most." He hums.

"Maybe I love you more though?" You ask, and he playfully turns to bite at your neck, making you laugh.

"Are you talking back at me right now, you brat?" He growls, and you simply nuzzle back into his neck, clearly submissive at his tone of voice. "Now sleep, we can be lazy tomorrow all we want." He reminds you, and you nod, letting yourself fall asleep with his hand lazily running over your back-

only stopping when he himself starts to dream alongside you as well.

[halastar05]

You know what? Cold Front character headcannons!

I’m bored, and these two idiots live rent free in my head. So here are just some of my personal headcannons (do know that I have adopted a decent amount of these from fics 👍)!

Augustine:

In college, would get into wood carving as a hobby.

While waiting to get accepted into a different college, Augustine would work as a hockey coach/teacher for little kids in his hometown.

Actually a pretty good cook, not the best baker though (he helped his mom with cooking a lot as a kid).

When he was finally old enough to drink coffee, he immediately ordered a black coffee since it was “more mature”. However he despised it so now he always either discreetly adds a decent amount of milk/sugar or if no one is with him he’ll order a Mocha.

Has a single mom.

Likes corny movies, shows and stories a lot.

Has ADHD.

Is constantly at least a little tired.

Listens to Elton John

Winnie:

In college, he would switch from hockey to figure skating, however he now treats sports a bit more like a hobby.

He hates people touching his hair, there are VERY few exceptions. He works hard on it!

Good at baking, not the best at cooking.

Doesn’t like wearing gloves, he finds them itchy.

He’s the type of person who remembers everything about a person as long as he’s relatively close with them. He’ll remember something you like something even if you only brought it up once in passing.

He CAN drive well, as long as no one else is in the car. If someone else is there (or at least in the passenger seat) he will always feel the need to make eye contact with them while talking, which means his eyes are often not on the road. Even if the other person purposely doesn’t talk, Winnie will either start a conversation himself or get distracted by the presence anyway.

A space nerd, he also just enjoys looking at the stars.

He’s autistic (I’m putting this here since it’s only kinda confirmed)

Likes blueberry muffins.

Doesn’t swear much, but isn’t necessarily against it. However he will sometimes jokingly “scold” his friends for swearing.

That’s it for now! Feel free to share some of your own. Might do this for the rest of the SIG characters.

(Edit: added the last one on Winnie’s since I wanted to add it earlier but forgot)

[missgavi]

NSFW Alphabet - Pablo Gavi

authors note : sorry for being MIA y'all, sooo, to apologise for it here is a full fic. (my first ever full fic might I add) hope you all enjoy it !!

nsfw under the cut

a = aftercare ( what is he like after sex ) 

As much as I would like to say he's extremely sweet and caring and puts you first, he's a teenage boy. He is aware that some bit of aftercare is always need it and does the bare minimum but he isn't mature enough to realise HOW important aftercare is . I can see him getting up to throw away the condom and on his way back he'd bring you a towel and wipe you down while kissing your knee. Maybe he'd go to the kitchen and grab some water for the both of you and after that he'd get into bed and cuddle you to bed but that's about it. He still has more to learn but I see him willing to in the future. 

b = body part ( what's his favourite body part on him and his partner) 

on him, it's definitely his defined abdomen. he knows girls dig it and he definitely gets cocky about it. not to mention he's proud to brag about it from all his intense hours of training. he also loves it when you kiss his abs and will constantly tease you about it. sometimes, when he knows you're watching a game, he will intentionally raise his shirt to wipe some sweat of his forehead when actually he's just showing off his abs. 

on you, he's definitely a tits guy. as most teenagers he is absolutely obsessed with boobs. yes, he likes ass and thighs as well but he isn't mature yet to fully appreciate them yet. so , tits it is. he absolutely adores it when you wear a more fitted top that shows cleavage or one of those short silk dresses that hug your breasts perfectly. not to mention he loves to see them bounce when you ride him or when he fucks you into the mattress . you always have hickeys, marks and bites all over them and you always scold him for it but he just shrugs and keeps doing it. 

c = cum ( anything to do with cum ) 

coming inside of you is a huge no. he isn't a fan of becoming a teen dad so he always uses extra safe condoms even if you are on the pill. maybe sometimes he'll pull out, get rid of the condom and spill over your tits but that's about it. he isn't taking any chances. 

d = dirty secret ( one of his dirty secrets ) 

he has a password protected album on his phone full of pictures and videos of you. either ones you sent him when he was away, dressed only in lingerie or nothing at all or some he took of you.his favourite video is one he took of you while you sucked him off. he's always extremely careful to not show his face in any of the videos and besides the two of you no one knows about the album. he doesn't want that piece of information to fall into the wrong hands.

e = experience ( how experienced is he ) 

ok so listen very carefully. if you aren't aware of it already, Spanish boys are ones of Europes biggest play boys ever. fact. they learn to flirt before learning to walk. I don't get why all fanfic writers portray Gavi as some dumb and unexperienced teenager as if he isn't a horny 18 years old. not to mention that yeah sure, he seems sweet and shy but for gods sake, he's the youngest player for FC Barcelona. He's also the youngest World Cup scorer in the world. He's good , he's hot an he knows it. he definitely isn't some scared little virgin. Sure, there is space to learn and improve but he knows what he's doing and he absolutely knows how to make you feel good. 

f = favourite position ( his favourite position to have sex ) 

cowgirl. he adores it when you ride. mostly because he can play with your tits but also because it doesn't require to much force from seeing as his legs are tired most of the time from practice. this way he can just relax while you set a pace enjoyable for both of you. oh but god forbid you want to tease him , he will immediately grab your hips and start thrusting up into you or flip you around and pound you into the mattress. 

g = goofy ( is he goofy or serious during sex ? ) 

I can see him as both actually. if he's angry or stressed out or just in the mood for a rough fuck, be sure he'll fuck you into the next day without as much as a smirk on his lips. but , mostly in the morning, he's a sucker for soft sex where he leans in to kiss you passionately and then pull back giggling while looking in your eyes, a huge boyish grin on his face. 

h = hair ( how well groomed he is and if the carpet matches the drapes) 

he's definitely taking care of that area. he shaves when needed and keeps things nice and trimmed down there. not completely bare but definitely tidied. 

i = intimacy ( how is he during the moment ) 

it definitely depends on his mood, Pablo can play both ways. his short temper is definitely a fan of rough , fast and intense sex, loving the powerful feeling of a quick fuck but again, he's a sucker for soft and intimate sex. as all teenagers he will never admit it but he craves that deeper connections and just loves to be held and softly caressed. on of his favourite positions for soft sex is spooning. in the morning he'll just slip right in and gently fuck you awake while hugging you close to his chest. 

j = jack off (masturbation headcanon )

he's a teenage boy. he'll rub one out 24/7 . if he has you in reach, he will definitely fuck you instead of his fist but if he's away for a game, wakes up alone in the bed or has some extra time in the shower he'll definitely give himself a little release. his favourite way so to say to jack off is when he's away for game and that's when that little photo/video album will come in handy, a video or candid photo of you always doing the trick for a quick release.

k = kink ( one or more of their kinks ) 

this might sound a bit weird for him seeing as he is still young but he loves to dominate you. on the field , he's always the youngest and people love to kick him around, and that sometimes can make him feel powerless. so, in result to that, he loves to feel powerful in the bedroom. he adores when you listen to him and is always willing to praise you up to the heavens for it . but also, he gets a kick out of you being bratty. he's obsessed with putting you back in your place. 

l = location ( favourite place to have sex ) 

his house. literally any place in his house. bedroom, kitchen counter, bathroom, couch etc. it's his own little safe place and he loves to fuck you there. he also likes it that it's risk free. he isn't a big fan of getting caught while his dick is down your throat or his fingers buried in your cunt. 

m = motivation ( what gets him going ) 

anything. literally anything. something as innocent as putting lip gloss on or smelling your perfume. this boy will get turned on by anything. his favourite how ever is when you give him those eye. for instance, if he's across the room talking to someone and meets your sultry eyes, he's done for.

n = no ( something he wouldn't do ) 

coming inside of you. he doesn't care if you're on birth control, he isn't taking any chances. he's down to coming on your ass or tits, even your stomach but he for sure doesn't want to risk getting you pregnant. it's too much of a risk for him. 

o = oral ( preferences on oral ? does he enjoy more giving or receiving ?)

i don't know what y'all are on but Gavi, like most teenage boys, definitely prefers receiving over giving. he's down to give head and his ego explodes each time you praise him. however, he definitely gets a bigger kick out of seeing you on your knees for him, looking up with glassy eyes while his hand is tangled in your hair. 

p = pace ( what's his pace ?)

Gavi fucks like he plays, fast, rough and passionate. His fiery temper fuels him to go all the way out. Don't get me wrong, he loves a good session of love making in the early mornings, when he's tired or when he's in a romantic mood but most of the time he fucks. hard. 

q = quickie ( what's his opinions on quickies ) 

he's a sucker for quickies as long as they are safe. it means he's totally down to quickly fuck you before going out or have quick session in the shower but he isn't a huge fan of fucking in risky places like club bathrooms. he's way too scared someone might recognise him and he doesn't want to ruin his reputation just cause his downstairs friend can't wait 5 minutes. 

r = risk ( is he a risk taker , is he up for new things ) 

once again, he's down for everything besides breeding as long as it's in the security of his bedroom. 

s = stamina ( how many rounds can he go for ? what's his stamina like ) 

for anyone who hasn't see Gavi playing, this man is constantly running from one end of the field to another. If he gets knocked down , almost instantly he's back up. this man's stamina is incredible. not to mention the endless intensive training hours. he definitely can go for a few rounds one after the other. perks of being a high performance athlete. (danny ric)

t = toys ( does he own any toys ? does he like using them on you ) 

he himself hasn't purchased any toys but he's down to teasing you with your vibrator. that is until he gets bored and fucks you into the mattress. he is however thinking about buying some ties or maybe handcuffs just so he can tie you up with something other than his black tie. 

u = unfair ( how unfair is he ? does he like to tease you ) 

i don't care what any of you say about this, Pablo is one of the biggest teases on this planet. He absolutely adores to tease you and reducing you to a begging mess. wether he's innocently caressing you during dinner or denying your orgasm for the third time this night, he will tease you for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

v = volume ( how loud is he ? how loud does he want his partner to be ?)

gavi himself isn't too loud in the bedroom. mostly grunts and groans and maybe the occasional whimper when he lets you tease him before he gets agitated and pounds you into the next week. however, he thrives of hearing you moan and whine under him. it's music to his ears. the more you whimper the more his ego grows and his hips snap faster against yours.

w = wildcard ( random handcanon) 

[ as mentioned earlier, gavi prefers receiving over giving. oh but when he gives, he isn't playing]

pablos lips were busy sucking marks onto your inner thighs while you whine for him to move them to your pussy. 

“come on princesa, you know whining isn’t gonna get you what you want. tell me what you really want and i’ll give it to you,” he says, biting your thigh softly before soothing it with his tongue. 

“pablo please,” you continue to whine, trying to wiggle your hips but he just pins them down. “please what, bebe?”

“i want your tongue,” you whine. “and where do you want my tongue?” he asks, continuing to mark up your inner thighs as he kissed his way up your body. 

“here?” he asks, kissing your stomach up to your tits where he’d leave a few more hickeys. “or here?” he continues as he sucks on your nipple. 

“pablo,” you whine. “come on bebe, just tell me where you want my tongue,” gavi coos at you. 

“my pussy! please, i need your tongue in my pussy!” you finally let out and he moves his head back down between your thighs. 

“now was that so hard?” he asks before diving into your pussy, eating it like a starved man, bringing you to as many orgasms as you wanted.

the next day, as you’re getting ready, you finally notice all of the purple marks he left on your skin. 

“pablo!” you yell at him and he runs into the room, worried that something had happened. 

“what’s wrong corazon?” gavi asks as he saw the glare on your face. “what’s wrong? look at me! i look like i got attacked by leeches!” you exclaim, pointing at all the marks on your neck, chest and thighs while he just had a smug look on his face. 

“you look so pretty covered in my marks though,” he grins. “in fact…” he starts as he moves behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. 

“why don’t i give you some more?”

x = x-ray ( let's see what's going on underneath those clothes ) 

listen, if he was anything out of this world we would have known by now from those football jersey's close ups but he's doing more than fine. i see him more on the lengthier side rather than thickness. 

y = yearning ( how high is their sex drive ?) 

through the roof. this man would fuck you every breathing second if he could. 

z = zzz ( how fast does he fall asleep after sex ?) 

if he's tired and all cuddled up besides you, he's out like light. but in other cases he's up for a little bit of pillow talk before dozing off. 

[dontexpectmuch]

My God! Please do a part two of the girlfriend 2 years older than the jude! I need it!

jude bellingham dating someone that’s older than him could be like…:

pt. ll

though teasing might not be an official love language, it sure is one of judes. he never had any problems to tease those he liked the most and with you, whether it was fortunate or not, he liked to do it the most. “hey, grandma.” would be one if his usual greeting, accompanied by a smirk dancing on his lips.

groaning and laying down after a stressful day at work or university was normal occurrence for you, running around to get some papers or organizing meeting throughout the day strained your muscles a lot. however, jude thinks it’s really funny, laughing at the sight of you buried in his hoodie and laying in his bed, as he carries some tea and snacks on a tray to the bedroom. “c’mon, can’t be that old now, can ya?” rolling your eyes, you huff, sitting up to take the sweets, “you don’t understand how hard it is to run around all day, okay?” you put some sweets in your mouth, eyes looking at his laughing face. “yeah, like, oh man, poor you. running around all day, how tiring!” - “jude!”

jude really appreciates that he is able to come to you whenever he needs advice. yes, you two understand each other well and you both are mature enough to deal with most of your problems on your own, yet he feels relief wash over him when you give him the advice he needed. it’s almost like him being the player and you being his coach, telling him how to deal with certain situations the best way.

“babe, babe, babe.” jude chants, tapping your foot repeatedly. his body laid at the end of the couch, your feet next to his upper body. “yes?” you ask, putting your book down to look at your boyfriends comfortable form. maybe you should go and lay next to him? let his body warm up your own. “jobe asks what he should get her.” - “his crush?” - “yeah, that one from barbecue.” jude nods, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. you stayed quiet for a bit, thinking about what he should get his crush. “tell him,” you begin, sitting up slightly, “her favorite book and a single rose. but, it should be wrapped up nicely.” you tell him. jude immediately starts to type your words onto the phone, muttering a quiet ‘thanks.’

you tend to use the ‘i’m older and have more experience’ -card when needed, since jude could be stubborn at times that were unfortunate. for example, when telling him to rest due to his injuries. at first he refused to do so, but your stern eyes and crossed arms convinced him to actually listen to you.

“do you really have to leave?” jude asks, sulking as he stood in front of you at the airport. you drove together, to spend as much time as possible before your flight. it was a short business trip, but apparently too long for jude to handle, as he was pouting and sulking all day long. “love, ‘t’s only a few days.” you smile at him, tilting your head aa your fingers affectionately scratch the back of his neck. “just stay at home, no need to leave.” he tries once again, hands resting at your hips, “who’s going to take care of me now?” he continued. rolling your eyes, you step back and begin to walk to the security line, “i knew that you only dated me for me to be your maid.” - “babe, nah wait!” he laughed, jogging after you.

————————————

reader might be even more years older, you decide :)

[ndisalover]

CUMBERSOME PASTS L.S.KENNEDY

synopsis: you return home from a trip, to be met with a horrific situation, and end up meeting one of your old 'horrific situations'- your ex boyfriend- Leon S. Kennedy.

PART 3

It was baffling that you could even recall how you met each other, you’re confident you just blocked most memories of your relationship with him to avoid the pain of thinking about how it ended. Standing up dizzily from that bin, you became in dire need of alcohol. It became a slight habit after breaking up with him and being disowned by your parents.

You could hear Leon talking to someone else in the room, hearing a concerned voice lowly sat

“She alright?”, coming from a voice you didn’t recognise.

Which was followed with silence, presuming he answered with his face instead.

Your legs felt a little sluggish as you walked over to Leon, and a police officer who seemed very injured. The man’s brown skin was paling, blood marks staining his shirt as well as his bloodied hand. The beating of your heart increased at the sight, he needed help, and quick. Which was ironic as you needed help too.

No matter how hard you wanted to deny it, you were becoming really sick, and if you didn’t get some type of medical care. It looked bad.

But that also made you acutely aware of your injury, deciding to zip up your jacket to conceal it. It was worse enough having it, but letting people know you’re weaker know like Leon, would make it horrible.

“I’m Y/n L/n” All you could do was offer him a smile, trying to act like you weren’t just heaving your guts out.

“Marvin Branagh, you doing ok?”

As tired as he seemed, the injured man offered you a little smile, reminding you to show a little emotion of your own.

“Yeah I’m, I’m good, just don’t do totally well with the guts and everything”

It was a lie, but not an unbelievable one. He didn’t need to know you were injured if he was too.

He nodded in agreement, glancing at Leon while doing so.

In your head you were debating just leaving, even though you’d probably have a better chance at surviving with these two, it was just too mentally torturing.

You nefariously felt like dying was better than spending this night trying to survive with Leon.

The thought genuinely made you shiver.

You subtly shook your head in disbelief. What was wrong with you?? Marvin was injured, he needed help.

“Ok Lieutenant , I’m ready”

Leon suddenly moved forward after meddling with his outfit you realised what it was, an RPD outfit?

That brought you back to your original question as to why the fuck he was there? Maybe Marvin had given him the uniform for protection, that idea comforted you more than the other one.

The scratchy tone of his voice had changed, it sounded a lot more mature, resonant.

It made you realise how long it had been.

“Hopefully the..,” The bloodied man glanced at you, which caused you to shuffle forward a little, trying to make sure he didn’t have to bend his neck so far.

He gripped a small notepad in his hand, you noticed.

“two of you’ll be able to find a way out of this station. That officer you met earlier- Elliot. He thought this secret passageway might do the trick”

Marvin handed Leon the notebook, which he held with his gloved hands, letting out a grunt of pain in the process.

This guy wanted you to team up with him?

Him announcing it made it all real and that’s when the panic hit in. Maybe you could grab a glance at the notebook, then leave them alone.

Or just leave anyway.

“Uhm, sir with all due respect, I think I’m gonna go now. If I meet anyone that can come back to help you, I’ll definitely ask them to!”

Your face was already apologetic, biting your inner cheek, but you were being truthful.

The heels of your boots were ready to swivel to leave before you heard something.

A slight scoff was thrown out into the air. You already knew what to do, tilting your head to glare at the blonde haired man, who didn’t even offer his gaze back, obnoxiously staring at the book instead.

The audacity of him to already hold such attitude even at a time like this. You hadn’t even said hello to him. It wasn't like him to stoop to such childishness, but you'd broken up so long ago that maybe he'd changed, and for the worse.

“Y/n, as you’ve been able to come from outdoors, undamaged, you already know how soon it’ll be that something happens. Trust me. I don’t know what happened between you and this young man here, but you’ll need all the help you get, even if it’s from your enemy.”

He sighed stiffly once done, looking at you with a familiar expression of pain, most likely from his injury.

The few curls that dangled in front of your face, failing to be held back by your now loose slick back, shook a little as you dropped your head in thought. You squinted your dry, messy mascara-d eyes for a second at the searing pain as you lifted your head up, hoping he passed it as slight annoyance. All the sides of your head pounded in a deceptively warm tingly pain, warning you.

The pack of stolen painkillers that was am you could from a looted medicine store was sitting in your jacket pocket, at least you had something to soothe the pain. Although you had to try and find some first aid protection, like bandages, or even spray.

"Alright, I hear you.”

It was bittersweet, Marvin’s berate sounded so similar to listening to your dad lecture you, he even looked like him a little ironically I. Except you knew Marvin had the best in mind for you, your father on the other hand wouldn’t have.

“This is good news, we can get you to a hospital.” Leon had a hopeful glint in his dark blue eyes, looking over the hunched over man.

At least he had the same idea as you. It was hard to not notice how he had consciously put an effort in at avoiding to look at you, throughout the whole of the conversation. How nice.

“No- no I am not the priority here”

You felt your heart drop at his suggestion, opening your mouth eagerly to detest. He wanted to be left behind?

“Lieutenant, I’m not just gonna leave you here-“

Leon had already beaten you to it, protesting in that same tone you heard whenever he spoke to higher authorities.

“I’m giving you an order, rookie! You save yourself first.”

The man turned his gaze between the both of us, still clutching his side.

It was hard not to flinch at the sudden raise of his usual level voice, you could tell he was trying to be harsh to get his message across. Clearly he didn't feel want to be harsh though, as way as you watched his blood splattered fist, clench then unclench.

He was insane right?

Leon stepped back slightly, which you understood.

“Marvin-“ It wasn’t right to leave him here, when help could be found, even if it was a bad situation, it wasn't fair for him to put himself second. So you spoke out.

“I’d come with you both but I’d just slow you down.”

The man held your gaze, showing his sincerity in those struggling eyes of his.

Defiance was still rumbling within you, but in a sense you understood now. It was a sacrifice he decided to make, the least that could be done was giving him the option in the first place.

“Now…you’ll need this”

You watch Marvin hand Leon his knife you presumed, which saddened you. He really doesn’t have the power not energy to attempt to leave.

It was hard to watch so you turned away, deciding to look through some of the drawers at the station, before you had to go.

Tears glistened in your eyes like rainwater hitting dry land as you pulled some ammo from a random metal drawer in a messy desk. The whole day felt overwhelming.

As you had the chance, you pulled out the pack of pain relief, popping 3 pills into your mouth and dryly swallowing them down.

Even if you found water, it wasn’t worth risking infection.

It was the right moment to take a pause before facing what you were about to face. You could feel your hands threaten to shake as you took a couple of unsteady breaths, closing your eyes in an attempt to stay calm. The amount of emotions and pain you were in was overwhelming, but the nerves were something you always struggled with. Although you reminded yourself that now wasn’t the time to freak the fuck out.

A firm clear of the throat caused you to turn your head, which you immediately regretted, feeling a tear of pain as you strained yourself a little.

Leon stood idly, he moved his low eyes from yours, down to your torso then he suddenly turned away, expression remaining blank as always throughout his whole inspection. A sense of resentment radiated of him when he had his critical glare on you, but what irritated you the most was his lack of shame or embarrassment.

Oh he was unbearable.

He turned away heading towards a shuttered doorway, indicating it was time to move out.

You decided to say bye to Marvin, walking carefully over to him and thinking that it would hopefully not your last word to him.

“See you later, Marvin”

The creases under your eyes lifted up to show a little bit of hope, while he looked at you lifting his eyebrows weakly.

“Stay safe y/n, and uh..”

“Yep?” Your eyebrows scrunched a little in question.

“You really should get that situation on your side sorted out, if you don’t want to end up like me.”

He knew.

The knowing twinkle in his eyes looked sympathetic after a second as he gazed over you. A small part of your heart was soothed to hear that weirdly. It might’ve been the only expression of worry for you from anyone that you’d heard in months. Even from your boss at the bar you’d worked at here, the ‘Star and Duke’, didn’t care if you’d fallen down a flight of stairs unless you couldn’t work.

It was cruel that the world decided to show it now, and by a good man that was at risk of a painful fate.

You bit your dry lip before quietly mumbling out a weak,

“I’ll try”, looking him in the eyes while doing so.

Marvin nodded , turning his face away while tightening his hand on his side, hissing in pain.

A shroud of doom sat in you, as you walked over to Leon in your heavy boots.

What if you died in this city tonight? You’d never be able to go back to travel the world like you’d planned to, or start a family like you’d dreamed of..

Life must’ve been laughing at you too, Leon was the man you thought you’d do all those things with at some point in your life. And, how was that going?

The beep of the button to open the door made you blink away those thoughts. Right now, you had to focus on surviving, there was no point lingering on the negative outcomes.

Leon already had his gun out ready, so you followed in unison, preparing for the horrors awaiting as you walked behind him,

He was like a stranger to you now, you thought, as you studied his unfamiliar tense figure.

The obvious resentment he felt towards you just caused the cloud of pessimism in your mind to darken.

Would he even care if you died in there? In a sense the whole situation was karma towards you, and maybe that worsening wound was too.

notes: guys the injury I described is pretty bad but Marvin survived a day with a similar injury to it. Y/n can do this!!😭 also this chapter kinda sucks bum, but the juice is coming quick from now! Prepare for action ehehe‼️

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