#i lobe old man yaoi

[loveinwisteria]

Me reading viper/duke: hmmmm old man yaoi going at it like they're still young 🤤

[glittermutt]

kristopher volkov and i go way back (to the entire weekend i spent day and night making him and my sim fall in love and elope)

[awriternamedart]

a collection of my middle aged man yaoi sampard headcanons -

Sampo has poliosis, a condition that can cause premature greying in areas on the scalp.

Gepard has lots of facial and body hair but it grows slowly because of their cold enviroment. His beard is a stopwatch for how long hes been on the frontlines that time around as he only gets to shave when hes at his home/stationed in the city.

Sampo has a few beauty marks n moles ! mostly on his back and shoulders.

Gepard has freckles! All the Landaus do!

Once Gepard scared the ever living shit out of Sampo because the Landaus have reflective eyes. So Sampo just saw two blue dots in his bedroom once and nearly fell out the window he climbed in through.

Gepard has piercings! Two simple lobe piercings, he only wears them when hes on break. (so like, never.) Serval pierced them for him when they were teenagers so its a little botched but he does his best to take care of them because their a fond memory of his sister. (He also owns a pair of studs for each of his sisters - a snowflake set for Lynx, and a music note set for Serval. Otherwise, simple black studs.)

Sampo has sideburns!! He tends to keep them trimmed well , since his appearence is a huge part of the show. Hes incredibly meticulous down to the last detail in order to sell it, and can spend up to two hours every morning making sure hes ready for the stage .

Gepard is an amputee. I need to update my arm lore doc but basic gist - his gauntlet is a prosthetic used to trap Fragmentum in his arm nub and uses that Fragmentum as a powersource for the Geomarrow to bounce off of and create the ice and mist he uses in battle. He still deals with phantom pain but most of the time it is soothed with his prosthetic - though it can still flare up horribly when overused.

Sampos really weak to being kissed on the nape of his neck, right where his hair is. Hes not quite sure why.

Gepards easy to blush but inCREDIBLY hard to fluster. Hes so used to keeping himself in check and in control that to catch him in any form of stupor is rare.

Related - Gepard struggles immensely when hes out of control of a situation and someone he is unfamiliar with or doesnt trust holds power over it. Hes so used to being in charge and being looked to and only having those he trusts as peers or over him in the power system that being thrown into that situation crawls under his skin in a /neg way. Physical vulnerabilty is also not easy and very stressful.

Quite the opposite for Sampo - emotional vulnerabilty ties this guy in KNOTS. Hes pretty open to touch (once your on his trust list and ONLY if your on the trust list) but youll have to drag him kicking and screaming if you want a glimpse at his actual thoughts.

also Sampo has a wheezy hyena laugh.

Gepard only has only one or two potted plants he tried to use as motivation to go home more often- it was a suggestion from Pela. But uh, yeah it didnt work. Hes a great cook though!

On the other hand- do not let Sampo within 5 meters of a kitchen. For your sake and his. (hes not that bad and can make enough to get by- but it really .. does not taste great ...)

Sampos not entirely sure how old he is, but Natasha figured he was somewhere in his late twenties early thirties when he arrived on Jarilo and hes kinda been rolling with that ever since.

Gepard overheats really easily when he gets off planet eventually. Like it is bad how easily he gets heatstroke.

Sampo uses his blades to pick at his teeth sometimes. Both Natasha and Gepard hate this .

Gepard has a nasty resting bitch face. Hes learned to be able to nullify it a little bit but when hes tired it drops back to usual and makes it look likes constantly about to murder someone.

On the plus side, this control over his expression means he plays a nasty game of poker! (or whatever the Jarilo 6 counterpart of poker is)

Sampo has on more then one occassion forgot that he has the ability to neutralize most of Belobogs cold and has wandered outside without his jacket. Many people looked at him like he was insane.

Gepard always cuts the sleeve right above his gauntlet implant and sews a new hem to keep it from getting caught in machinery.

Hook called Sampo Gramps once. He never recovered.

Gepards hair is slowly turning brown instead of greying! Sampo is infact, salty about this.

Gepard has three majorly noticable scars. He has frostburn on his flesh hand that wind up his arm, he has Fragmentum cracks that wind up his opposite shoulder (amputated arm)(inactive so it looks like scar tissue or a lightning scar rather then black or gold) , and an impact scar/explosion scar across his lower back. Other minor scars are shrapnel cuts and his knuckles being scarred from being a fistfighter. Also his nose is slightly crooked.

Sampo has done a damn good job at making sure he looks the part of the shifty businessman but he has a few marks of his own. Being an Emanator means he heals quickly- and can mask any scars and injuries he gets with relative ease - but he prefers to not rely on this aspect. His biggest scar is an ugly blade cut into his right shoulderblade, and its only so prominant because it struggled to heal properly.

Sampo is shorter the Natasha! Natasha is just tall !! She is shorter then Gepard who is the tallest among the Belobog cast but shes second.

In order of tallest to shortest of Belobog adults its - Gepard, Natasha, Sampo, Serval, Luka, Bronya, Seele. Sorry Seele.

The Landau eye color and color crest is so recognizable in Belobog that that shade of blue is called Landau Blue.

When Sampo has a difficult time sleeping, he wordlessly buries his face into Gepards neck, who simply begins to hum if hes also awake.

Gepard is a light sleeper- he wakes up very easily. Sampo is not. Gepard has had to fight an extremely sleepy Sampo to get up in the morning more times then he can count.

Gepard actually does have a good singing voice, its just that he has poor discipline and tries to match Servals octave. Which is. Way to high. He also has good rhythm!

This does not mean he is a good dancer.

He can get through on dancing, it being part of his upbringing and studies growing up, but he can only do what steps he knows. Any improv and he falters.

Sampo has in fact trust falled on Gepard multiple times. Once at Bronya and Seeles wedding. He basically forced Gepard to dip him.

Gepard is actually incredibly sassy. Its just that hes awful at inflection and everything comes across as matter-of-fact or dry as fuck. That, and he only dares to sass Serval most of the time- theres not many other people hes comfortable enough with to let loose that much.

When it comes to fishing out back alley deals, few are more knowledgable than Sampo. Even before the Trailblazers, Sampo and Gepard had an under the table deal where if Gepard was unable to crack a case alone, he could get information off Sampo in exchange for supplies and shield. He was not happy about this deal but he deemed it a necessity- for the sake of Belobogs safety.

Sampo would and still does anonymously tip the Guards off on major crimes that could severely impact Belobogs already fragile economy. Hes no saint , but he has his personal morals and he sticks to them.

Gepard had many sharp teef , lil fangies even ! but theyve been worn down over time.

Sampo also has lil sharp teef ! his are more snake fang like tho, thinner.

[the-other-soup]

why am i just learning abt lucifer/frederick lobe rarepairs and toxic old man yaoi where was this before why did no one tell me abt this

[mhaccunoval]

i was slightly productive but mostly silly. yet now i'm getting eepy and struggling to brain the yaoi...

i should be productive after i shower but only time will tell if i think about old man yaoi instead

[powderblueblood]

the king of hawkins high

hawkins, indiana. 1960-somethin'. al munson reckons with the reality of his brother being shipped off to vietnam, and carries on a years-long tradition of swapping a ring with his best friend, ray doevski. which could mean nothing. cw: swearing, mention of criminal activities, era-typical misogyny and implied homophobia, guys is it gay to wipe motor oil from your homie's face when they've possibly just set a heinous crime in motion, murder but kind of not really. i didnt proofread this i am really just running on the fumes of vibes atp wc: 6.1k. what goes on. tagging @slowdancer, without whose continued interest in the old man yaoi aspect of hellfire & ice, this would not be possible. i appreciate you more than you know part of the hellfire & ice universe

He comes to with his head against the tile. 

Comes to as in wakes up or comes into jettisoned back to sobriety by the force of his own piss stream, he’s not sure, but he is here and he’s awake. 

With his dick in his hand. 

Al’s mouth feels like a fucking shag carpet. Every bud on his tongue has grown its own ecosystem after the amount of beer and whiskey and tobacco and ketchup and mustard and sugar and salt and smoke and someone else’s spit he’s let populate there. 

It’s been a long… however long it’s been, cooped up in this clubhouse on the outskirts of town. 

Undesirable types like to hole up here and pretend it’s a bar, but it functions more as a halfway hovel. Some genius calls it the Hideout. 

Al just about keeps himself steady as he shakes the last drop out (more’n three and you’re playin’ with yourself), zipping his pants back up with a hop that he instantly regrets. A knife slices right through his temporal lobe. 

The tubular bells have begun to ring and remorse starts to churn in his stomach. 

Time’s up, party’s over, away we go home.

Staggering back out into the front bar, Al catches a fond sight–a shapely, tanned rump lying bare across the pool table. Given that he’s missing a shirt, he figures he must have been splayed underneath that body before nature had called. 

God given miracle he’d made it to the bathroom in whatever state he was in.

One of Al’s hands reaches out and caresses a perky, round cheek, giving it a squeeze. A grumble from the mouth it belongs to, buried under a mass of blonde curls. 

“Kar-ennn,” he sing-songs, voice sputtering like a fuckin’ chainsaw, “It’s after ten.” 

“Mmnff.”

“On a Sunday.” He bends, bringing his mouth to the peachy mound. Teeth sink in. “You’re gonna be late for–”

“--church!” yelps the blonde, darting up and rolling over in this mad scramble to get her frilly old halter dress back on her body. “Shit! Shit-shit-shit!”

“Oh, slow down,” Al says, his brain moving a little slurrier than he’d anticipated–which is to say, he’s still polluted. He cages his arms around Karen where she’s sitting, leaning his perspiring forehead into her chest which stills her in an instant. “God ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“Yes, but my mother is,” she grabs him by the ears, yanking him to her eyeline–woof, way too much movement, “gonna kill me.”

“Proposal,” Al mumbles, leaning for her mouth but landing on her neck, “I tell your mama that we’re gettin’ married. Tell her the next time you enter the house of God it’s ‘cause you’re gonna make an honest woman outta me.” 

“Al,” Karen sighs, shoving him off and dismounting the pool table. This bouncy blonde, this head cheerleader apple pie type… Al had her nailed the moment he walked into her homeroom that first day at Hawkins High. Stacked to the ceiling, her gorgeous baby blues stuck on him like a fly trap. 

He hadn’t expected to stumble across a babe like her in this glorified cornfield of a town. 

“You’re very cute, and you’re a lotta fun. I mean, we have,” she shuffles in her little skirt; so cute, scandalized by herself by the light of day, “a lot of fun, but no matter how many times you ask, there’s no way I’m marrying you just so you can avoid shipping out.” 

He adopts a slump. “But what if I said I loved ya?”

“You’d be lying!” Karen cries, a phosphate giggle. She manages to find that letterman jacket she came in here wearing and slides it over her shoulders. Lobs a guilty look over her shoulder at Al.

Like he’s supposed to share in some reverent moment of shame, like he should feel bad that he’s giving her what that Wheeler meathead can’t. 

Guy’s graduated and still insists that she wears his letterman jacket. It’s sad. 

“Look, are you coming to that Gomes chick’s party, at least?” 

“Gomes? Gloriana Gomes?” Karen’s gone all incredulous on him. “Al, I’m going to have to try and sneak past my mother after being out here all night–you really think I’m going to risk my neck going to some greaser cookout?” 

“Tell them you’re goin’ to Bible study. Repenting and all that.”

Her mussed curls shudder as she shakes her head, heading for the door with her tennis shoes in her hand. “See you at school. Last week of senior year!” 

—

To Al’s shock and delight, someone’s been paying the phone bill at the Hideout–he wonders what kind of bootlegging operation necessitates a phone line, but he’s thankful for it all the same. Lets him punch in one of the only numbers he knows in this shitheel town and bark, “Bring the Caddy ‘round, Jeeves!”

Forty minutes, his found shirt and a flat beer later, a battered, rusted truck kicks up dust outside of the Hideout. 

“Thought you were dead,” a clipped voice echoes out the driver’s side. 

Al takes his time ambling over. He reaches through the driver’s window and chucks Ray Doevksi’s chin with his ringed hand. 

“Wished I was, more like.”

The greased slick of Ray’s pompadour catches an offensive amount of light, and Al’s got to shield his eyes. He throws himself into the passenger side and lets Ray size him up with customary disapproval.

“Christ, you smell like Corn Nuts and pussy.”

“Take a big whiff, Doevski!” Al rifles through the glove compartment before Ray shoves a soft pack of cigarettes at him. “Might be the last one you get for a while, seeing as you’re liable to strike out tonight.” 

“And what makes you say that?”

“Because you’re sniffin’ after a girl whose big brothers are known Hawkins heavies,” Al scoffs back a mouthful of smoke, more to curb the ever-present craving than anything else. “You don’t got the stones to see a thing like that through.”

He catches Ray’s sidelong glance at him, the line of his hardened jaw with the shiny fucking hair on top. A dollop of oily black, showing up starkly against his pristine white t-shirt. Ray is crisp and calculated-looking, without the starched strangulation of looking like some prep. Ray looks like they peeled Jimmy Dean off the blacktop and reinflated him, gave him a Presley dye-job. 

Brought him back wrong. 

See, Ray Doevski, Al’s best friend, he looks like the sensitive type but he’s all mean streak. 

Al, ever the other boy’s foil, looks like exactly what he is. A hick with a perpetual hard-on and a mouth too smart for his brain to catch up with. Luckily, Al sucked up all the charm in his gene pool; Hawkins has been a cakewalk ever since his folks moved him and his sullen older brother down here from the good ol’ hills of Appalachia. 

In fact, Ray was the first person to step to him about that. Make some crack about they got running water up there yet? Or y’all still bathin’ in pig spittle? 

‘We haven’t quite gotten to experience the spoils of modern plumbing, but your mama was kind enough to let me wash off after I balled her into oblivion.’

Up went the scuffle, and they were immediate friends after the fisticuffs were thrown. 

Since then, Ray’s led Al into the underbelly. The doper contingent that Ray’s foster family has connections to, the bikers trafficking shit through places like the Hideout. The only exciting thing about a town like Hawkins is how many secrets it can hold, and there’s not a whole lot, but enough to keep them entertained for now. 

Ray has designs on fleeing to business school after they graduate. 

The only designs Al has on are his boxer briefs. 

Speaking of, he scratches his crotch. 

“Don’t get crabs on my passenger seat,” Ray monotonously scolds him.

“This passenger seat’s a ward of the state,” Al grumbles. Translation: he knows this truck is stolen. 

“Am I driving you home, then? Is your tail sufficiently tucked between your legs yet?” 

Al hates when Ray acts like he’s his own personal O. Henry story, reading him down to the last punctuation. 

See, his last three lost days on the tear with Hawkins’ grimiest and all their passers-through had been the result of some family problems. Well, not problems. Consequences. Of living as a part of the greatest country in the world. 

Al’s brother Wayne had been drafted. Ticket up, number called. Death certificate as good as signed. 

You’re next, boy, Al’s father had said, If they can find any goddamn use for ya.

 “I’m conscientiously objecting to the whole thing.”

“Shit. Didn’t know you had one of those.”

“Just trying it on for size. I can still return it for store credit.”

The rubber on Ray’s tyres squeal onto Philadelphia, stopping dead outside of the Munson household. Clapboard. Best they could do on short notice–needs a lick of paint that no one got around to sticking their tongue out for. But it’s home. 

It always will be. Al understands that might be why his heart feels like it’s sinking. 

He feels Ray watching him as he stares out the passenger side. A dry swallow. 

He doesn’t want to go back in there. He toys with the idea of telling Ray to hit it again, to keep driving til the wheels come off this thing, so he can stay unmoored and un-privy to the disappointment dripping down the walls of that house. Those stains don’t lift. 

They never will.

“Pick me up at eight, sugar?” Al snaps back into character, simpering with Donna Reed sweetness at Ray. He rolls his eyes under long-lashed lids. 

“If you survive ‘til then.” 

A heave to the rustbucket of a door and Al’s hopping out of the truck. 

“Al,” Ray calls, gunning the engine back to life. “If I make it with Gloriana Gomes tonight…”

“Mighty girthy if.”

“... that calls for a changing of hands.” Ray gestures to the rock on Al’s finger. The Hawkins High class ring, the big brass bastard with its imitation emerald. Green and gold, the colors of their proud and mighty cowpat of a school. It had been Ray’s originally, seeing as how Al had all but dropped out at this point. But there were few things Ray had that Al didn’t want, and vice versa. 

Balls. Charisma. Something big and ugly and shiny. 

Something to be proud of. 

So one day Al goes, ‘Bet your ring I can’t aim this stink bomb clear through O’Donnell’s classroom window,’ continuing his habit of torturing the newest faculty member. Ray’d said sure, because Al’s aim was reliably shitty– except for that day. Bullseye. Screaming. 

Ray had reluctantly handed over the ring. 

Then, at the derelict drive-in where they’d watched On the Waterfront together, Ray’d said, ‘Bet your ring I can’t shake down the candy shack for whatever’s in the register.’ 

A made-up kid-choking emergency and fifty-odd dollars later, Al was handing the ring back.

It went on like that, the bets increasing in risk and moral soundness. The ring bearer was dubbed the King of Hawkins High, a stab at the squares that actually gave a shit. Al lived for it. Not because Ray was easy to best, he wasn’t. One really had to get creative, or not be afraid to be hauled in by the heat. Ray was a worthy adversary. 

Made Al feel like he could accomplish things. 

“That’s a little tame, don’t you think?” Al says. The stakes had crawled up a little higher than balling some chick, no matter how white hot her family supposedly was. Unless, this is Ray really trying to prove something.

The Gomes brothers were the number one name in town for racketeering, gun thuggery, speed distribution… you name it, they had dominion over it. 

If he won over their princess Gloriana, eased into their good books… that’s the making of a man. Al knows that. 

Ray knows Al knows that, leveling him with a steel-edged stare over his sunglasses. 

“See you at eight, sugar.”

—

The Munson household is dark and quiet, thank Christ, allowing Al to slink into the bedroom he shares with his elder brother and catch some well-earned hungover shuteye. 

Sleep sinks him quick, his exhausted, wrung out form hitting the mattress without so much as kicking his boots off. His dreams are vivid and vague, parched and sweaty, indecisive and arresting as they always are after a sleepless bender. In the one he can recall the best, he sits behind a cartoonishly large wheel of a cartoonishly small van. He’s driving around labyrinthian turns, around a trailer park that he vaguely recognises from the outskirts of town. 

Gravel crunches underneath, sounding like bones cracking. Grinding teeth. 

He wants to get out, but he can’t find the lot that he’s looking for. Someone’s yelling at him from outside the vehicle; and he can’t exactly turn his head to see, but he’s vaguely aware of a baby girl lying in the passenger seat beside him. She’s crying and he’s hushing, promising that they’re almost there. 

It’ll all be okay, honey bear! Al’s gonna fix it.

The window of the van is slung low, and hailstones begin to rain in on him and the baby, pelting him in the forehead–

Takes him a minute or two to come to. Wayne stands, a shadowy figure in the doorway with a handful of peanut shells. 

“Dinner,” the elder Munson grumbles. 

“I’m comin’! Jesus!” Al whines.

“No, this is your dinner,” Wayne keeps tossing the shells. “You wanna run off and join the circus, you better get used to circus food.”

“I’d sooner crawl inside of a lion’s asshole than bend over and take it up the chute for Uncle Sam, I’ll tell you that,” kid brother grumbles into his flat, yellowing pillow. 

“Real nice, Allen.”

“You know what,” Al, annoyed now, rustles up in bed, furiously blinking his bleary eyes at Wayne, “When did you go and get so fuckin’ patriotic anyway? Far as I know, your greatest contribution to society was teaching me how to boost a car on my sixteenth birthday.”

Wayne scoffs, tossing the last of the shells onto the floor. “Yeah, and a fat lotta good it did. Still got that… Doohickey pansy chauffeurin’ you around, huh?”

“Christ, you really fell out the sad bastard tree and hit every branch on the way down, huh? Just ‘cause you ain’t got no friends, man–”

“Allen.”

“--doesn’t mean you need to go buzz your head and get a rifle about it, I mean, my god–”

“Al.”

“I think it’s really pathetic, y’know, real pathetic that you’re gonna go play stooge for a system that wouldn’t piss on folks like you or me or Ma or Pa if we was on fire–” 

As if Al really gave a damn about the system.

“Al, you’re gonna have to grow up pretty soon. You know that, don’t you?”

That plugs him up fast. Al’s vision has unbleary’ed itself. A cold jolt arcs through him, one he tries to scoff away. Wayne always does this, drags out the stoic shit because he knows it’s a surefire conversation ender. He’s so solid that way, this living full stop Al has to call a brother. His way or the highway. His way or the chopper. 

Wayne was always telling Al no, always telling Al do this and do that and take the fall, they won’t care, you’re the youngest, they’ll go easy on you and watched as their father snatched a knot into Al’s head that a navy man couldn’t untie.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

Wayne leans a little heavier on the doorframe. Al can see paint chips loosening where his shoulder presses. 

“Means I gotta go and do this because Ma and Pa won’t be able to survive if I don’t. Not if they got you leechin’ off ‘em still. Which, signs point to,” Wayne gestures to their shared bedroom. A harsh split down the middle; Al’s side is a ragged explosion of dirty socks, underwear, records, comics, cigarette butts. Wayne’s side is so orderly, Al bets he could bounce a quarter off the bed. 

Like he’d been waiting to ship out his whole life. 

“I’m warnin’ you, boy,” Wayne’s tone darkens. Al wishes it didn’t make him flinch on instinct, but it does. “You better clean up your act. Get some kinda life together. Otherwise, you’re gonna end up in prison before your ticket’s even drawn.”

He lets it simmer for a minute, drawing out the silence that he’d usually feel like he has to fill. It’s so muggy, it has been muggy, this quiet between them since Wayne decided he was the kind of person that wanted to do the right thing. Do what he’s told, more like. 

Another knot of a different kind tightens in Al’s sternum. Fear. He doesn’t look at Wayne because to look at him, he would know. Wayne would see it in Al’s face, and Al would see it in Wayne’s. They’re terrified, the both of them. 

Munsons are no heroes. They don’t pull out of things like this. 

Even if Wayne uses all the right moves, likelihood is he catches a stray bullet or blowback from a bomb and goes down. Stupid for him to think anything else would happen. 

Every time Al looks at him, he knows it might be one of the last.

Then again, what else has Wayne got? He wasn’t happy about being dragged by the ear from Appalachia to Indiana. He couldn’t shake the stubbornness to make friends in town. Left school before he even broke tenth grade. He couldn’t hold down a job for nothin’-- Hawkins decided they didn’t like the smell of hick shit that the Munsons were dragging through the place. Their father was barely hanging onto the gig he’d moved them here for, drinking what little he did make. Their mother was catatonic most of the time, drinking twice as much as their father did. 

Wayne is floundering, if not practically dead in Lover’s Lake already. 

Might as well die someplace tropical. 

But where does that leave Al? Al, the spitfire kid who needs Wayne to anchor him so he doesn’t spin completely out of control. He gets this notion of speed, thinks he’s capable of beating God at his own game–not in small part spurned on by Ray Doevski. Gasoline, matches. He needs Wayne, needs his big brother to remind him that the ground below him is hard, not soft. What goes up must come down, and all that shit. 

So, how dare he. 

How dare he choose Vietnam over Al. 

“Well, brother mine,” Al says in a tone smooth as silk, rolling onto his back and stretching his wiry arms up like a languid cat. Smug beats stoic. “Just so happens that army green ain’t really my color. I’ll take my chances.”

—

Hastily scrubbed and half a shoulder of stolen bourbon deep, Al kicks rocks in his shoddy driveway. If he had a watch that wasn’t broken, he sure would check it, then drunkenly shake his fist at the sky and curse Ray Doevski’s tardiness. 

Just as that thought occurs, of course, Ray hits his mark. Skids up to the facade on Philadelphia with a little more urgency than usual. 

“Don’t burn that rubber too fast, now,” Al says, almost missing the step as he climbs in, “You know how tyres are a bitch to lift.”

“Ain’t you gonna offer me a drink?” Ray’s voice is a little reedier than usual–that usually means he has something on his mind. Something cooking. 

Through the encroaching fog of his inebriation, Al gives him a little once over. He’s got a smudge of motor oil on his cheek. 

Al wipes it away with a clumsy hand and feels Ray stiffen. His dark, delighted eyeballs seem to jitter in his skull before he jerks his head away from Al’s hand. 

A moment throbs, and Al pushes the booze towards him. He doesn’t totally understand and it shows as much on his face. 

“S’goin’ on with you?” 

He watches as Ray mechanically reminds himself to relax, chill out, they’re headed for a party. Like the gears are clicking behind his face, evening out his expression.

“Lemme ask you something,” and that vibrancy is back in Ray’s voice, “Your folks still on your ass about gettin’ a job?”

“Like flies on shit.”

“What if I told you I had an opportunity that would make them very happy?”

“Happier than they are with my brother, the Colonel?”

“Way,” Ray’s teeth gleam in the late Autumn sunset, the bodacious orange twisting the planes of his face into a handsome Jack o’ Lantern. “Real cash. And fast.”

Al slugs a little whisky and slouches further down in his seat. “Can’t be any dumber than the bullshit I’ve already heard. Hit me.”

“You’re gonna fuckin’ flip,” Ray shakes his head, “The Gomes brothers wanna cut us in on a deal. They, uh, they’ve gotten familiar with us. Told you it was worth showin’ your face at the Hideout every once in a while.”

Every once in a while, sure… Ray and Al skulking the parking lot, chainsmoking and playing marbles like a couple of errant kids in order to get familiar with the local heavies. Prove they were trustworthy. That they’d see shit, but they wouldn’t say shit.

Flies on shit.

Al jerks forward as Ray steps on the gas. 

“A deal, huh?” Al finally manages. 

“Distribution,” the gentlemen’s term for slinging dope. Speed, hash, benzos. Whatever. “This is a real business, Munson. With real payout. We make the right connections, there’s no tellin’ what we can do with it.”

Ray’s just about frothing at the mouth; Al’s never seen him so jazzed about something before. Similar to Wayne with that cool as ice, hard rock front. It’s unnerving to see it crack. Al’s stomach winches. 

Prison before your ticket’s even drawn.

Then again, what else has Al Munson got going for him?

Ray’s shark eyes reflect a bolt of lightning that doesn’t appear in the sky. 

Al’s groan sounds like thunder. “Fuck it. Sure.”

“Thatta boy! We gotta be at the pickup spot at midnight sharp, Cinderella.” Ray’s hands drum against the wheel, and Al could swear that he sees his bare ring finger twitching. “And–listen, Al. Don’t go spreadin’ this around at the party, alright? Especially to the boys. Mixin’ business and pleasure… just puts a bad taste in people’s mouths, y’know.”

“I’ll behave.”

—

Easier said than done. 

Al wobbles through Gloriana Gomes’ backyard with the grace of a newborn gazelle, but at the very least he can make almost falling into the band’s drumset look cute. Lantern lights above him triple, quadruple, and he’s wondering just what the hell the bruiser bitch put in this punch. 

“Munson.”

“Ah! The lady of the hour,” Al manages almost coherently. “Lemme get look at you.”

He squints through one eye to take in Gloriana’s shapely figure, packed tight into a halterneck catsuit that would make any man shed a tear and cry glory to God. She’s stunning, this chick, with her blunt black bangs and her lacquered cherry lips and her spike heels–but by god, is she lethal.

Al needs exactly this amount of Dutch courage to even fathom speaking a full sentence to her. 

He heard she keeps a switchblade in her bra, which is how she’s won so many pageants. Pure intimidation.

He wants her to shave him bald all over with that very same switchblade.

Lurching forward, his lips brush her bouffant and almost swallow her earring. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

“It’s not my birthday,” Goddamn, he can feel her nails dig into his bicep. Whisky dick is being rendered a myth with every passing second. “It’s just a party.” 

“Thassa damn shame, ‘cause here I am with this biiig ole gift for you,” Al’s choking on the chemical tinge of her drugstore perfume and the copious amounts of hairspray she wears. This, the girl with always has a lit cigarette perched in her fingers… walking fire hazard. White hot. 

Al’s hand slides over Gloriana’s hip, only distantly aware that he’s likely in Ray’s direct line of vision–that man rarely takes his eyes off the baddest Betty Hawkins has to offer. 

“You wanna see it? S’in my pocket…”

Those Dutchmen are really onto something.

Her nails dig again and Al wonders, with a throb to the crotch, if she’s drawing blood yet. 

“I’m gonna do you a favor, creep,” Gloriana hisses into Al’s ear, “I’m not going to slap the shit out of you in front of my brothers and their friends, because I don’t feel like helping anybody chop up your lousy little body tonight. I just did my nails fresh.”

“I can feel that.”

Gloriana lightly but politely shoves him off. Her face curls up into this charm-offensive, butter-wouldn’t-melt smile, which is completely at odds with her tough girl appearance. Still, it’s like a cherry nipple on a milkshake tit. Just perfect.

“You and that foster home freak are made for each other,” she says to Al, and he sees two pairs of ruby red lips instead of one. She makes it sound like she’s being friendly. Foster home freak—that’d be Ray’s calling card. Hawkins loves to remind Ray and Al that they don’t really belong here.

And then she’s gone, and Al feels a hand physically propping him upright. It’s dinky, bony and feminine so it can only belong to one person–

“Joycey!” he bellows into the young Maldonado birdy’s face. Now, Joyce is a gal that Al has always had a minute for and vice versa. She was always good for a smoke and a jaw about nothin’, as was he, but he didn’t love having to share his stash of finely toasted tobacco with that lug Jim Hopper she’s so goddamned fond of. 

Joyce flinches at the greeting, wiping a little of Al’s spittle off her cheek. “Jesus H., Munson, wake the neighbors muchly?” 

“Oh, between me and Dick fuckin’ Dale over here,” he gestures in the vague direction of the garage band that belongs to one Gomes or another, he’s sure, “they’ll be up all night. What’s shakin’?”

Joyce digs around her grubby jeans for her smokes, doing Al the honor of both putting it in his waiting maw and lighting it. She shrugs in that tight-shouldered way that she has, always wound up about something or other. She’s so twiggy, this girl–probably why Al’s never tried to put a move on her. He’s scared she’ll have a nervous breakdown or something. 

“Just wanted to see how you were.”

That’s the other thing. Bleeding heart Maldonado, always checking in on her good pal Al. Ever since he’d broke the news that Wayne was Viet-bound, she kept looking at him sidelong, all sadlike. 

“Me? Spiffy, sweetheart. Just darling, if you must know,” Al says, volume and theatricality increasing. “Any day now, I’ll have a full bedroom to myself. Ain’t that exciting?”

Joyce snorts, a puff of smoke coming out of each nostril like she’s the world’s most anxious dragon. “Gonna invite Karen over for a sleepover?”

“Ixnay on the aren-kay, Joy-say! My god, we can’t have the whole of Cherry Lane know I’m balling a cheerleader,” hands cup around Al’s mouth, cigarette still dangling from it, “It’d be just about my ruination!” 

Joyce giggles all big and unbridled, which Al likes because he likes when she loosens up, but it’s swiftly cut off as Al finds himself stumbling into the nearest deck chair–which is to say, into the lap of the person sitting on it. This lucky customer happens to be one Leonard Gomes, affectionately nicknamed Lurch. Guy’s built like a brick shit cathedral, not just a house, with a selection of fascinating prison tattoos covering his neck. Al can’t make ‘em out, even up close.

“Myyy sincerest apologies, big boy!” Al slurs, but doesn’t get up right away. Lurch’s little black eyes are blackening and blackening. “But hey, I’ll catch you later. For our big date, right? Right? Can ya gimme any clues for what we’re movin’, can–” 

Oof, hauled up by the front of his ribbed tank! Only Ray Doevski in full crisis management mode could manage such a feat. 

Just kidding. Joyce could probably do it if she put her mind to it. Al’s about a hundred pounds soaking wet. 

“Hey, this is my favorite shirt, man! Don’t stretch ‘er out!” 

A seething Ray hauls him all the way to the front of the house and about heaves him into the truck. Al complies pretty limply, not hating the feeling of being puppeteered around. His limbs were getting heavy. 

“Daddy’s givin’ me a time out,” Al pouts. And promptly leans out the passenger door and pukes. It’s all bile, three or four days of full bender bile. He’s barely eaten. It scores his nostrils and steams up on the pavement. 

Ray stands just out of the splash zone with his arms folded, waiting for Al to let up. 

When all the blood has been sufficiently drained out of his face, he does. Slumps against the seat. 

Ray doesn’t exactly look at him with anger. Or annoyance, even. There’s a pillowy nature to the way he stares him down, before he walks over to the Gomes’ garden hose and turns it on, stretching it so it’ll reach Al. 

He laps at the water gratefully. A hound. 

Ray digs a vial from his pocket, the kind that comes complete with its own little spoon. Something he’d lifted from some foster kid he’d lived with, he had told Al before. This little number is a sight for sore eyes. 

“The smelling salts. You shouldn’t have.”

Al huffs a bump up each nostril and shoves the heels of his hands into his eyeballs. 

Whammo. Slowly coming back to reality. 

“Sorry.” 

“S’alright.” Ray’s head swivels around, evidently spotting the Gomes brothers heading to their hot rod. His voice comes out tight and he bolts for the driver’s side of the truck. Moves so fast he makes Al dizzy. “We gotta move anyhow.” 

“Midnight already?”

“The witching hour.” 

—

His head wedged into the corner of the open window, Al breathes deep the dusty night breeze on Holland. On the drive out here, you can count down the seconds until you smell the lake. 

Five, four, three, two… Cannonball. 

They drive in an imbalanced silence. Tense on Ray’s end, nauseated on Al’s. But he’s just about starting to come to, starting to clock into the reality of their situation. 

Al had tossed around a little grass before; he came by it easy and could move it even easier. An operation like this, however, with clandestine pickups under the cover of night, with the armored Gomes vehicle tailing them–this is serious. 

Wait. 

Hold on. 

Al cranes his neck to get a look out the back window. They’ve lost the Gomes’ headlights. Nothing but dark, dark road beyond the reddened back beams of Ray’s truck. That’s funny. Guys of that caliber, big pieces of gristle and meat, they’re hardly going to be tardy to their own drug pick-up party. 

“Where’d they go to, Ray?” Al’s voice is a croak when it comes out, fighting against his burning throat. 

“Shut up, Al.” 

“Ray–”

“Shut up, Al.” 

Al shrinks down in his seat, a child admonished. Ray’s hand flexes over the wheel, a man desperately trying to keep control.

They pull around to this shitheap looking place on Lover’s Lake, so bent it’s practically sliding down the embankment. A van already sits there. Black, sleek. The kind a serviceman would have or something. 

Ray kills the engine and some force from beyond prompts Al to grab at his arm before he can jump on out. 

“Ray.” 

“You’re doing this for your family,” Ray seamlessly reminds him, the gaze he turns on him empty. There’s not a waver in his voice. Like he’d been preparing this little bon mot of encouragement. “I’m doing this for mine.”

“But w–”

“Doing it for love. That’s honorable,” Ray nods. His features have taken on this waxy sheen under the moonlight that threatens to bring Al to a dry heave. He’s like a ventriloquist doll, down to the wooden way he’s moving. “I’ve done things for love that you wouldn’t believe. Now get out of the fucking truck.”

Beat for beat, Ray exits the truck, Al exits the truck, then a guy in overalls appears from the shiny black van. All of it moving in this rhythm that’s making Al’s head swim–feels like an unreality. Feels like he’ll blink, be behind the wheel of that van with a crying baby to his right. Feels like a dream. 

Al, for once, clams up. Doesn’t say anything at all, because it’s the only way he can mask the nervous twitch his face takes on when he’s this piss-pants scared. 

But it’s funny. It’s not like a drug operation he’s ever dreamed of. There’s no real shadiness to it. Guy just opens up the back of his van and tosses Ray a brick wrapped in brown parcel paper. 

“Lurch and Palo on the way?”

It’s incredible. To Al’s knowledge, this guy, this guy with all the drugs in the back of his fucking van, has never seen Ray before but implicitly assumes he’s taking point on this deal. What if he had been a cop?!

But Ray Doevski does have this thing about him. Gives you one good, meaningful look and he has you shackled for life. You can’t help but trust him. 

Still waters, man. Just like Wayne, Al thinks and feels something different rise in his throat. 

“Lurch and Palo got caught up. Car trouble.” 

Overalls guy just shrugs and helps load the rest of the packages into the passenger side of the truck. Al, he just stands there. Rooted. Watching him. Ray doesn’t pass any heed; like he’s not even there. 

“Not much of a talker, your guy?” Overalls jerks his head in Al’s direction. 

“Nah,” Ray grins in the briefest of flashes. “Strong and silent type. Right, Munson?”

A light flashes on at the porch of the half derelict looking house. Al can spot a hulking figure in the window, obscured by what has to be clouds upon clouds of smoke.

Ray raises a hand in the form’s direction, as howdy doody casual as a fucking neighborino.

“Who is that?” Al hears himself ask.

“Rick. I’ll introduce you next time. You two’ll like each other.”

Next thing Al’s physically aware of is the pile of packages at his feet as Ray guns the truck to life. This insufferable smirk curls up the corner of his mouth, the kind that Al has an immediate instinct to slug right off. 

A bad feeling, a terrible feeling twists up his guts.

It’s justified about fifteen minutes into their drive back. 

Al sees the flames licking around the plumes of black smoke first, easing up into that inky sky stabbed through with needlepoint constellations. He sees mangled hot rod hardware wrapped around a great big tree. He sees blue lights, he sees red. He sees an ambulance. He sees two stretchers and two body bags. 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he spits, his lips feeling loose and panicky. “Ray, Jesus, we have to stop!” 

“You wanna stop?” Ray laughs, voice so light you’d swear Al had asked him to pull in so he could take a piss. “You’re sittin’ on a small fortune of narcotics and you wanna stop? Don’t be such a morbid little rubbernecker, Munson.” 

—

The untimely passing of the Gomes brothers brought with it a varied reception. The angle from one end of town was that it’s great when God deals with hoodlums before the law has to. On the other, someone had to pick up the slack and keep the seedy underbelly of this wicked little place nice and satiated. 

Ray Doevski didn’t leave Gloriana Gomes’ side from the moment she got the news about her beloved brothers. She’d broke down wailing in his waiting arms, her red lipstick bleeding at the edges.

Those same brothers who regarded the scheming nowhere kid with such distaste that they’d never let them anywhere near their sister, or their business. 

Over their dead bodies.

The only reasonable move was to remove them from the picture entirely, and step in gallantly. The hero. A picture of suave severity, backroom business acumen seeping from his blacktop hairdo. He’d fill the hole, he’d keep the cash flowing.

When he got the time to cut the Gomes’ break lines, we’ll never really know.

Al couldn’t fathom pulling off such a stunt. 

Ray never admitted to it, of course. Can’t show your hand. Not to anybody, not even your best friend. But there was always this sense of knowing… even if he didn’t do it, he was capable of it.

Once he got over the shock of it all, how quick and seamless Ray had made that elimination, Al was overtaken with admiration. Tinged with latent fear, of course, but admiration all the same. 

When Ray dropped him off at the house on Philadelphia in the wee hours of the morning, Al pressed the Hawkins High class ring into his hand. 

“Well played, my liege.”

“Couldn’t’ve done it without ya,” Ray smiled. “Pleasure doing business.”

Business was right. At Al’s feet sat serious cash. Cash he could use to pull his weight around the house. Cash he could use to get out of Hawkins entirely. Cash he could rub in Wayne’s face, show him, hey! I’m not nothing! I can move this, I can be part of something huge and heavy! I can run this fucking town!

But he didn’t have any clear designs on doing anything without Ray’s say so.

The only designs Al had were on his boxer briefs. 

He was only really sure of one thing. He’d spend his entire life trying to best Ray Doevski. Trying to get that ring back on his finger.

Just for the love of the game. 

[puppybot]

need my frontal lobe to stop developing so i can go back to drawing old man yaoi 9 hours a day

[transmascnepetaleijon]

uhm. bored now

[writteninsunshine]

It’s In His DNA - Clint Barton/Pietro Maximoff - NSFW

Title: It’s In His DNA Author: Donnie Fandom: MCU Setting: Clint Barton’s Home Pairing: Clint Barton/Pietro Maximoff, Clint Barton/Laura Barton (Mentioned) Characters: Clint Barton, Pietro Maximoff, Laura Barton (Vague Mention) Genre: Romance Rating: E Chapters: 1/1 Word Count: 1831 Type of Work: One-Shot, Part of the Clint Barton Bingo: Round Two Series Status: Complete Warnings: Gay, Slash, Yaoi, ABO Dynamics, Claiming, Biting, Blood, Polyamory Mention,  Male omegas have both sets of genitals, Vaginal sex, Breeding, Alpha!Clint, Omega!Pietro, Hair Pulling Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. Summary: Clint is ready to stake his claim, but Pietro has to behave to get what he wants. AN: Hey, everyone! Here’s something a little different from what I’ve been writing lately because I started the Clint Barton Bingo! I got my card on the seventh and worked from the eighth to the tenth, apparently, on this. I don’t know if it’s very good, I’m sort of… Flying by the seat of my pants. The last little bit of this was written after a sad discovery and honestly? I’m really… Not okay. But I plan on writing more. I think writing is the only thing keeping me sane right now. Note about Pack Gene Alphas: A pack gene Alpha has what is called “Old Blood”, and is capable of mating more than one Omega at a time without any confrontations. Conversely, “feral” or pack gene Omegas (which are rarer than Pack Gene Alphas) can mate several Alphas at once with much less confrontation than usual. Feel free to use this idea if you like it!

Clint Barton Bingo Round 2 Masterlist It’s In His DNA ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ A soft, contented sigh left the elder man as he drug his face up the smooth, pale expanse of skin over Pietro’s ribs. Kisses washed over Pietro’s flesh, only to be punctuated with another harsh bite that had the smaller man jerking a little into his mouth.

“Haven’t you eaten me already?” Pietro asked lazily, leaning into the Alpha’s mouth regardless. Clint chuckled softly, slowly biting his way up to the Omega’s ear before whispering against the shell of it. “I like seeing you covered in my marks. My Omega.” The subvocal growl in his voice made Pietro whimper softly, and he subconsciously lifted his hips as much as Clint’s body would let him. Grinding down against the cleft of Pietro’s ass, he smirked a little, sucking the lobe of his lover’s ear for a second before finally pulling away. “I can’t keep my mouth off of you.” “Obviously.” The cockiness in his smirk was offset by the love-drunk dullness to his eyes as he looked over his shoulder. “I’m delicious. Wanda did always say she’d eat me, first.” Raising a brow, Clint lifted his head, tugging some skin with him before letting it fall from his teeth. Giving the white-haired man a pointed look, he reached up to tug out his hearing aids, placing them on the bedside table with a purposefully languid motion. Pinning the Omega to the bed was easy enough, and having his attention was even simpler. Letting Pietro hear the pop in his jaw as his mouth opened, feeling him gulp at the wet sound of his lips parting, he leaned forward to latch onto the back of his neck. Clearly, he didn’t need to hear to know that Pietro’s loud croon filled the house when he finally sunk his teeth deep into his flesh. Blood flooded his mouth and he rocked his hips absently against the other’s strong thigh, closing his eyes to focus on the bond he was creating. Beneath him, Pietro wriggled minutely, mostly limp even as he rubbed himself hesitantly on the blanket he was pinned to. Eyelids fluttering against his cheekbones, he let out a ragged pant as his heart flooded with the knowledge that he was safe. For once in his life, he was safe, with an Alpha that wanted to love him. Never in Clint’s life did he think he could find an Omega that would both turn his world upside down and be willing to shack up with a pack gene Alpha. There was no telling when the pair had discovered their feelings for each other, but he’d been increasingly proud of Pietro for coming to him and presenting his case. It led to this moment, to be able to claim the only Omega other than his wife that had ever stolen his attention. Popping off, saliva and blood tethering them together in a thick, sickeningly pink string, Clint panted softly, staring down at the deep craters his teeth had made. Pregnant with blood, they didn’t leak until Pietro rolled onto his side and parted his jaw. Clicking his teeth twice, he tugged at Clint’s hair slightly, distracting him from watching the red pooling on the blanket. “Huh…?” He asked dumbly, blinking until blue eyes came into focus and Clint couldn’t help but smile slowly. His eyes stayed on Pietro’s lips, his attention on them whenever they moved. He’d have to grab his hearing aids again soon, knowing how much Pietro liked to talk. “It’s my turn.” Rising despite his sudden dizziness making the room spin, he crawled forward to nudge his nose into the juncture of Clint’s neck and shoulder. Finding the elder man’s collarbone, he took no time in digging in. Another throb of liquid love coursed through his veins as the circuit was completed, and Pietro’s eyes rolled back. His own hips jerked forward, and in a second his ruby red lips were pressed to Clint’s. Bowled over by the speedster’s excitement, Clint found himself on his back, digging his fingers into Pietro’s neck and relishing the sticky wet slide against his fingertips. Pietro’s hips rolled in a rhythm too quick to follow, and Clint’s patient, steady hands shot out to remind him what he needed to do. “Slow.” His voice was thick with arousal, and a particularly shaky round of Pietro’s hips poured a telltale gush of slick down his stomach, “And lower.” Pietro nodded just slightly, angling his hips back as he turned to look over his shoulder, gripping Clint by the base of his building knot. With those strong fingers digging crescents into his thin hipbones, Pietro let himself be guided back at the elder Alpha’s pace, even if he didn’t want to wait. Toes curling, he exhaled a loud, hoarse moan as Clint bottomed out inside of him, and his eyes rolled back, then closed. Pietro wasn’t the only one becoming a speechless mess, though, a low growl in his chest as the Omega sat still, getting used to the feeling of being full again. Whimpering after a solid minute of being held still, Pietro huffed and whined, giving a stuttered wriggle at first before amping up the speed and power to his movements. Clint didn’t seem particularly fussed with the writhing Omega in his lap, however, holding the other still until his muscles gave in. Despite himself, Pietro gave a high-pitched, disgruntled growl high in his nose, and Clint rubbed his hip lightly. “Shh, that’s it, Rabbit.” Clint purred, licking his teeth slow, “Shshsh, calm. I know you want to ride me like you stole me, baby, but it’s better if you have to wait for it.” “Nu ... am nevoie acum. Trebuie să fie acum.” As the Romanian fell from Pietro’s lips, Clint gave a sudden, harsh thrust upwards. A loud shriek peeled from his lips, and he babbled wordlessly for a moment. Seconds later, he was returned to being a whimpering mess, staring down at his lover with heavily lidded eyes, pupils blown wide. “De ce?” Clint answered him by reaching back over for his hearing aids, taking his time in putting them back in. Thankfully, his Omega knew better than to take advantage of his freed hips; Clint didn’t take kindly to being disobeyed. He wasn’t cruel, but this was sexual torture enough, Pietro wasn’t looking forward to anything more. “Believe me, pretty, I want to wreck you into next week--” “Then do it.” Pietro snapped impatiently, rocking his hips like it just might do something. Clint clamped his hands back down on those thin hips, narrowing his eyes slightly. “But, I need you to be able to listen to me. And I need you to be patient, and then I’ll tear you apart.” Wriggling again, Pietro huffed before sighing, dropping the tenseness in his muscles and trying to show he was pliant. Baring his neck, his shoulders fell back as he showed off his heaving chest, the wild look in his eyes enough to show he was barely holding it together. Letting his hands crawl up from Pietro’s hips to roam over his stomach and chest, Clint smirked. “Good boy.” The keening whine that earned him made him lean up as he thrust, moaning gently so as not to cover up Pietro’s purrs of pleasure, “Such a good boy for me.” Those strong hands finally reached Pietro’s neck, and he gently dug his fingers into the dip of his collarbone before both hands converged over his bite mark. Tugging Pietro down by it, he kissed him solidly, unrelenting as his hips finally snapped forward. The Omega saw stars blossom behind his eyelids, happy to purr his way through the vicious onslaught Clint had planned for him. Unable to stay on Pietro’s lips for too long due to his own distractibility, Clint sunk his mouth against his neck and shoulders instead; He all too happily left a collar of dark purple hickeys and rough, red-dotted bites behind. After a moment of thoroughly marking him, the Alpha couldn’t handle it anymore, uncurling from him to roll them suddenly. The Omega gave a startled yelp, staring up with wide eyes at the man above him. With Pietro finally pinned beneath him, baring all and prepared to get thoroughly pupped up, all he had to do was get him pressed down just right and take him. His instincts were screaming it at him; take, take, take. It didn’t really take long before Clint held Pietro down by his thighs, bowed over him as he pounded away at his tight, wet cunt. Grunting and growling possessively, he dug one hand into the fold of Pietro's hip to help him angle himself just right, reaching up with his free hand. Tugging his head down by a fistful of hair, he locked his lips over what he could reach of the mating mark he’d left behind. Biting it once more pulled the most beautiful cry he’d ever heard from Pietro and it only made him piston his hips forward that much quicker. It wouldn’t be a long session, not at this rate. Clint was high on their new bond, and he knew that there was no way that he could push himself back from the edge this time. A loud snarl marked the beginning of his knot popping in and out of his lover, and he felt his own eyes roll back. Pietro’s eyelids fluttered and he gasped loudly, shoving his ass back hard against the other’s hips to finally lock Clint’s knot in place. It pulled a guttural grunt from Clint, whose breath was punched from his chest like a physical blow. Gripping both hips tight once more, he rocked and rolled his hips to help milk himself, his mind long gone. All he could think about was filling his Omega, pupping him up good and proper, and using him to get what he wanted. He hated that last bit, the idea that he wanted to use and abuse Pietro, that he looked pretty with blood dripping down his pale skin, but his brain had all but absconded to leave behind instinct. By the time his hips began to slow and he leaned forward to rest against the other’s chest, he kissed his shoulder as he tried to shift them to lay on their sides. Clint needed to stay inside of him; the only acceptable amount of space apart was none. Tugging his new Omega close, Clint kissed his neck gently as his left hand slowly drug down his side, petting his hip. “You made me bleed a lot.” Pietro murmured absently, already half asleep. “I’ll clean you up. Go ahead and sleep.” Clint had a nice evening planned, even if Pietro slept through most of it. It would start with tending to his wounds and kissing over that mark for an hour, all while staying firmly locked inside of him. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ AN: So, I finally finished this. I’ve been working on it for two days, and I’m glad to finally get it done. It just seems like everything in my life keeps going to shit, but I’m trying to keep going. Translations: Nu ... am nevoie acum. Trebuie să fie acum. - Romanian - No... I need it now. It has to be now. De ce? - Romanian - Why? Prompt: G3 - Biting Anyway, I wanted to let you guys know that I have a writing discord, now! Here’s a link: discord.gg/3FuN9vy