#i will not stand for that man slandering buck

[tommygotwrittenoff]

if t says anything negative to or about my boy buck buckley...he better watch his fucking back

[wannabanauthor]

For me, BuckTommy fits quite nicely between "opposites attract" myth and "people usually fall in love with people who are similar to them" psych stuff I learned 10+ years ago.

Because when it comes to certain things, like their personalities, they are very different. But they also have a lot in common: good sense of humor, firefighters, flirt, masc4masc, horny4horny, dork4dork, and all that fun stuff.

And for their differences, they seem to like those differences. Like black cat and golden retriever duo. And except for the episode that shall not be named, Tommy treats Buck like he's an adult, unlike the FireFam (no slander but they treat Buck like a kid/teen). Tommy knows that Buck is a grown ass man capable of standing up for himself, and I feel like Tommy is one of the few people who treat him as an equal (except when it came to Buck's realization that he's queer, and Tommy gave him the space to figure it out, but that's still a positive thing).

They fit perfectly together, and I hate that 8x06 undid all the hard work that the previous episodes did.

[storiesfromafan]

Rumours - Buck x Reader

A/N: okay, this is my first attempt at good old Gale 'Buck' Cleven, so please be nice 😅 And I am sorry in advance if its not that good haha.

Warnings: angst, possible grammer and spelling mistakes

Prompt: “You think I wanted this to happen? You think I, of all people, wanted to fall in love with you”

Tag list: @strayrockette

When you signed up to be a nurse during the war, you had been scared of what you would see. And see you did. Many times you questioned why you did it. But meeting both Buck and Bucky, you understood why. They were funny and sweet guys. Buck the more level headed one, while Bucky was a wild card. You never know what he would do. You did what you did for them, and men like them. They needed someone that was like home while doing what they did and through this war.

They took you into their circle. Making it hard to say no to their company, which you were grateful for after a long day after being on stand by, as those injured came in for treatment. The hurt and broken men you saw, it was heartbreaking and soul crushing. Yet you did your job. Helping Doctors and tending to those in recovery.

Over time you found yourself having a silly crush on Major Cleven. And when it turned to something more – love – you thought yourself foolish. He had a sweetheart back home, waiting for him patiently. So you put those feelings away, in a box which you locked and hid the key.

Unfortunately, a few of the other nurses, ones who you think fancied Bucky more than Buck, had it out for you. For rumours started to make the rounds about you and your affections. The way eyes would watch you as you entered a room. Silence falling between those that had clearly been conversing before your arrival. And then when you heard what they were saying, it hurt. It hurt because these people, whom you thought highly of, had tarnished your reputation.

“She's trying to steal another woman’s man, how shameless".

“I heard she's thrown herself at Major Cleven and Major Egan. It's why she's always with them".

“I always thought she had no morals. She’s always too friendly with the Doctors".

That was just some of the stuff you'd heard. So you took to distancing yourself from everyone. Only being present during your shifts, meetings or at meals. Otherwise you were in your quarters, walking around the base or going into town. It was lonely being separate from everyone. But you didn’t want to stir any new gossip.

Currently you were taking a walk around the base, enjoying the nice weather. You had been over worked the last few days, having a moment like this was just what you needed. In the distance you could hear the air crafts being worked on. But other then that, it was quiet. A contrast to back home and where you lived.

If only your peace was to last. Coming up behind you, as you were looking off into the vast open area and the blue sky, was Buck. He looked worried as he studied you. It felt like forever since he had spoken to you. He was concerned about you and how you were taking the rumours going around base. Ones which he and Bucky had been working to clear up.

You heard the rustle of grass from moving feet. But you remained where you were, waiting to know who it was. You had a fifty-fifty chance on knowing who it was, though you hoped it was Bucky.

“Hey" came Buck's soft voice. And squashing your hopes on Major Egan.

“Hi" you replied, still not turning around.

There was a moment of silence between you both. You hoping he wasn’t here to talk about what people were saying. While Buck was trying to think of how to say what he was thinking. He wanted you to know he didn't believe what was being said, that he knew you were a nice and good woman who didn't deserve this slander.

“Look, about what I've heard” Buck began, making you stiffen. “I don't believe what anyone has been saying, you know that right? You're not that kind of woman".

You nodded your head slowly. “W-what have you heard?” You asked, not entirely wanting to hear his answer.

Placing his hands on his hips, Buck looked down, unsure if he should answer your question. “Let's just say what I heard, I didn't like. And both myself and Bucky have been doing our best to shut it all down".

That was when you turned around, a sad but thankful smile on your face. Seeing your face and how worn out you look, it pulled at Buck's heartstrings. He could see you were tired, but that was due to the busy last few days. But also he could see the toll how this whole rumour thing was taking on you. When you distanced yourself, it broke his and Bucky's hearts.

They had come to enjoy your company, and your spirit. The three of you always finding something to talk about or laugh at, though it was usually at Bucky's antics. He never understood how women could be so catty. But in some cases, men are just as bad.

“Everything will be alright" Buck said, looking you in the eye. “Give it a few days and it should start to go back to how it was...”

You frowned. “I'm afraid the damage is done Buck. Even if people aren't saying it, they'll be thinking it. I'll be surprised if I don't get pulled in for a meeting over it...”

“Bucky and I will stand up for you".

“That might not be a good idea. It may only make it worse" your voice weary, eyes falling to the ground.

“But none of its true, right?” He questioned, hoping he sounded worried and not accusing.

You should have said no right away, though it might have given him the wrong idea. But the prolonged silence didn't help either. You avoided his eyes as Buck tried to meet them. You turned away from him and wrapped your arms around yourself.

“(Y/N), none of its true...?” Buck repeated himself, now with worry.

You sighed. “No...except for one thing...”

Buck moved closer to you. “What is true? You have to tell me so I, Bucky and I can help".

Thinking he was going to place a hand on your shoulder, you flinched, taking a few steps back. “I-it's embarrassing...and childish...”

Buck remained silent, urging you with his eyes to go on.

You sighed. “I-it's my feelings...for you" you ended on a whisper.

But Buck still heard it. He had heard how some women had gossiped about you being in love with him. And he had found it ridiculous. You were friends, that was it. So he had thought. But now, from your admission, those women had been right. Which didn't help the unease he was feeling over it all. He felt angry that they had spread your true feelings. Feelings you had kept to yourself, never acting on. Unlike some women he had seen. They were more shameless then you.

“I see...” he stated, voice calm and gentle.

“Yes...now you know how silly I am" you started, feeling tears rise in your eyes. “How silly I am to be in love with you. When I know I shouldn't".

“It's alright" Buck said reassuringly. “It happens...”

Those words hurt, like a slap to the face. Like he was trying to play it off, or sweep it under a rug. Like it didn't matter. Well it didn't, but some kind of assurance would have been nice. But in stead, Buck was keeping you at arms length over it. And it sparked different emotions in you; anger, frustration, hurt and sadness.

“You think I wanted this to happen? You think I, of all people, wanted to fall in love with you” you said with a strained voice. Tears in your eyes, which you were managing to hold back for now.

The look on Buck's face was like pity, how his eyes looked guilty and in despair. “(Y/N)...” his voice soft and weary.

“No Buck, don't" you held up a hand. “I don’t, can't hear it". A tear escaped and ran down your cheek. “I don't want to hear your kind words, as you let me down...I know you have Marge. And I shouldn't have let myself get carried away with being around you and Bucky. But you were both nice to me, the company that I needed. Yet I let my feelings get away from me...”

You dropped your hand, your shoulders slouching slightly as you looked down. Unable to face the gorgeous Major who'd stolen your heart. From the dashing smile, to his warm heart dancing with Meatball, and everything in between. Major Gale Cleven was the man of your dreams, but he belonged to another. A woman that Buck spoke fondly of on the nights when you had to bunker down as bombs went off near by. A woman that made you feel less than in just about every way, except being a nurse during the war.

“Marge is a lucky woman...” you stated with a small laugh. “You're lucky to have a woman like her waiting for you back home...no doubt you'll both be happy" you voice dropping at the end.

It was silent after that. You having said your piece, something that shouldn’t have been aired out, if it wasn’t for the other nurses. Buck was quiet because he was processing your words. Which struck a cord in him. And dare he say that he felt for you. Over this time together, bonded in the worst way, he had grown closer to you. He sort out your company and spirit, especially after returning from a mission that was tough. He revelled in your sunshine. Seeing you like this hurt his heart.

Neither knew what to say after all that. Buck had opened his mouth and closed it a few times. Hoping when he would go to speak the words would come to him, but there was nothing. He should have agreed with you, and said he appreciated your affections. But he couldn't. Because a small part of him liked this, and wanted it from you. And even a part of him at one point had entertained the idea of you.

But he let it be just that, a thought. He had a girl back home waiting, a sweet thing who wrote him letters and cared. Could he really lose that? Or juggle both? No, he wasn't that kind of guy. Yet Buck had feelings for you, that weren't entirely friendly.

“F-forget this ever happened Buck...” you said softly, so softly that Buck wondered if you spoke at all.

And with that, you took your leave. Heading back to your room. Back to solitude and your thoughts. It wasn't great, but its all you had till either people stopped being asses. Or the war was over. Which ever happened first.

[takemeorleaveme]

The People who are overreacting and turning on eddie for GOING OUT TO DINNER never liked him to begin with & I stand by that... I don't even understand it either because putting this whole story aside Eddie is bucks best friend and loves buck fully just as he is and people. I have seen alot of people call out eddie while also defending Buck kissing lucy by calling buck a victim because she initiated the kiss which is hypocritical af considering tommy did the same fucking thing.... buck wasn't drunk he was drinking but he wasn't drunk he remembered everything Buck also isn't this little kid people need to protect all the time yes he was a victim in the past and has had a rough life but he is still a grown ass man who makes mistakes.. those same people acting like eddie is this villain when its CLEAR he is obviously not mentally alright & has been dealing with these same issues for seasons now it doesn't sit right with me... I personally don't understand how in the same breath people love buck and dislike eddie it feels illegal to me.

I will not take eddie diaz slander.

[saintmurd0ck]

shatter me

masterlist

pairing: michael kinsella x f!reader

summary: when michael has a rough night on the job, he looks to you as a source of relief

warnings: lowkey DARK dominant michael, submissive reader, amanda slander, choking, face fucking / m!receiving oral, fingering, p in v, orgasm denial, cockteasing, creampie, etc who the fuck knows

a/n: this is dedicated to my wonderful, beautiful @marvelswh0re -- to whom this was owed from back in october last year 😭💗 also CAN WE FUCKING TALK ABOUT THE BANNER?

song pairings: michael kinsella (an anthology)

The front door shuts with a soft click, bringing with it cool tendrils of night air that snake around your arms. The words in your throat sit thickly as the zipper of his jacket hisses open, thick leather crinkling as it’s draped over the banister.

“It’s late, Michael,” you call softly, setting your book down next to you. Your eyes search for the man who’s kept you up all night. 

Despite him being a shadow in your periphery, you feel him stiffen. Calm fury washes over the house for all of two seconds before Michael sets his gun on the console table, metal meeting wood with a heavy hand.  

On near-silent feet, he emerges from the hallway a minute later, his hardened gaze meeting yours. 

You’re the first to extend an olive branch, casting aside the urge to grimace at the blood speckling his face, or the haunted look in his eyes. “You okay, Mikey?” 

He stares blankly ahead, lips pressing into a thin line. It’s not his blood. 

That’s as much emotion as he’ll ever show on nights like these. 

You leap from your spot on the couch, to intercept him before he reaches the kitchen, but he holds out a hand. “Need t’ do it myself.”

Chewing on your lip, you watch with strained eyes as he wets a cloth before lifting it to his bloodied face. The water runs crimson as he wrings it out, droplets sliding over the reddish-purple splotches marring his knuckles.

“That bad, huh, Mikey?” you say, ignoring the uneven rise and fall of your chest. His shoulders slump as he throws the cloth in the sink. 

“Michael,” you insist, restlessness colouring your tone. “Talk to me.”

He shakes his head, bristling as he pushes off the countertop. He doesn’t talk, no. Instead, he makes his way over to you, his steps deliberate enough you almost assume he’s heading back outside. 

Michael blows out a shaky breath as he towers over you, hazel eyes boring into your own. Unable to look away, the hairs on your arms stand up, on par with the want beginning to pool deep within. He swallows, tracking the way your gaze flits to the muscle feathering in his cheek, to the trace of hair peeking out from underneath the edge of his sweater. He toys with the hem of your shirt, bunching the fabric in his hand, before dragging the tip of his finger up the column of your throat. 

His name is a trembling prayer on your lips as he lifts your chin up, faces bare millimetres apart.

“Don’t wanna talk, pet,” he murmurs, catching your bottom lip in his teeth.

A shudder fires down your spine as you slip your tongue into his mouth, savouring his warmth, the taste of smoke and whiskey that’s always been Michael. “Then show me what you want.”

It isn’t the lack of urgency in your voice that fractures his restraint. As he wraps his hand around your throat, a faint growl resonating in his chest, it’s what you leave unspoken that makes him explode. 

Shatter me. 

He drives you down onto the couch, stifling your moan as he squeezes your neck tighter. “I don’t want you hurt, pet,” he whispers, leaving open-mouthed kisses over your jaw, “so you tell me if you can’t handle it, yeah?”

You smirk, bucking your hips into his erection. “You know I can.”

The melody of his groans spur you to hook your legs around his middle, giving him full access to grind into your core. He wrests back his control, determined to replenish the well, to rebuild the walls of his resolve. 

For Michael, this isn’t about blowing off steam. It’s more of an intimate fact that no-one in the family is or ever will be privy to. Not even Amanda. 

Never Amanda. 

So you’re entrusted with the understanding that when words fail him, when all he’s left with is the knowledge of how to take… 

You’re his profane virtue, the hellfire to his gasoline—slashing-and-burning time and time again if only to keep these demons at bay.  

Bearing his weight down on you, Michael slides one hand into your hair, gripping the strands tight while the other lifts your shirt, exposing your already-peaked breasts to the chill of the room. The frosty air stings your bare skin, but Michael closes his mouth over the pebbled flesh, claiming you with his teeth and tongue. 

And as you surge forwards, the thrill of his ministrations fuelling your molten centre, you trace your kisses around his tattoos; the delicate arrow on his collarbone, the swirls on his outstretched wrist. His skin tastes of gunpowder, pine and sweat, a testament to his previous whereabouts, and the resolute, internal force Michael tries so desperately hard to conceal. 

I see you, your eyes blaze. I see you. 

When he kisses you again, fire wreathing in every breath, he yanks your dampened underwear to the side, fabric ripping somewhere, anywhere. 

“Who do you belong to?” he snarls, plunging two fingers deep inside you, wetting his lips as your pussy stretches around him. 

You squeak your answer as he thumbs your clit, slipping over it with absolute ease. “You, Mikey.”

His other hand drifts to your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. “Tha’s fuckin’ right.”

You keen into his touch, eyes squeezing shut as he curls into that spot, bringing you to the edge almost instantly. 

“Tha’s fuckin’ right,” he hisses, pausing to spit onto your gleaming cunt.  

Release barrels through your body as you clench around him, your breathing turning ragged with the tide of your orgasm. He withdraws his hand, springing back onto his knees to take his clothes off. 

Clarity blankets his face for a second as he remembers the cum coating his knuckles, and so he acts. Lifting his soaked fingers to the seam of your lips, Michael’s voice turns vehemently low. “Suck.”

You oblige him, reveling in the taste of yourself and his domineering command, watching as he pulls away to remove his sweater. 

He catches your stare, lip curling in amusement. “You too, pet.”

Nodding furiously, you slide your panties off, frowning at the sizeable rip near the seam. Michael says nothing as you throw them to the side, palming his straining cock through his boxers instead. Your tongue presses against your cheek as he nears, brooding hunger radiating from every inch of his body.

He kicks his boxers away, cementing your position on the couch by straddling your chest, eyebrows furrowing into a piercing glare. Bracketing his knees on either side of you, he pins your arms above your head, his beading precum salty on your awaiting tongue.

“Gonna take it?” he whispers, every word clipped.

“Yes,” you breathe, angling his cock into your mouth, moaning around him as his length reaches the back of your throat.

He grits his jaw, pushing downwards so he can look at his picture of sin: your lips, wrapping around his cock with every deep, rolling stroke, the honeyed anguish of your fingernails digging into the tops of his thighs, and your ardent expression as he fucks your face, as deep as he can go. 

At the sensation of his torment ebbing away, with gratification remaining as the only kindling for his sparking nerves, Michael curls a hand in your hair, fisting the strands at the nape of your neck. Hot tears spill down your cheeks as his pace quickens, Michael’s hushed grunts of ‘take this cock like you mean it’ almost pushing you over the edge.

He skirts the precipice, but that’s as far as he’ll go. For now.

He flashes you a furtive smile as he climbs off you, only to assume a position between your legs. He licks his palm before dragging it across your folds, pausing for a moment to spit where his hand meets your pussy. 

The moan in your throat falters as he pumps himself, moving slightly to tap the head of his cock against your clit. You inhale sharply as he nudges himself into you, but he withdraws before you can even think to claw at him, to beg him for even an inch. 

It’s the sweetest kind of agony, knowing that you’re moments away from being satiated, yet you’re hopelessly trapped underneath him; the mercy being his and his alone. 

He coats himself in your slick, flexing his hips to rub his length against your folds. You glance upwards, at the wild look of determination spilling across his face. 

It turns out that that’s all he needs for the inferno to come to life.

Michael slides home in one smooth stroke, wasting no time in hauling one of your legs onto his shoulder, pounding into you as deep as he can manage. With every snap of his hips against yours, his restrained groans blend into the crook of your neck—a fevered combination of your pulse, caught between his teeth, and a fervoured haze that he can’t help but lose himself to. 

You match his pace, thrust for thrust, biting down on whatever part of him your mouth skims over first. You’re close—so goddamn close that your pussy becomes a vice, the dam about to break with the force of a tidal wave. 

“No,” he rasps, shaking his head forcefully. “Not until I say you can.”

You lurch forwards, a plan unfolding in your head to simply do it and face the consequences, but that tiny, almost insignificant, obedient fragment of you moves to get your leg off his shoulder, resolving instead to curse him a thousand ways in your mind.

Your vision fringes in white as he drives himself forward, grunting his approval at your subservience. He cages you in, almost entranced at his effortless ability to angle his thrusts to hit all the right places, to arm you with a satisfaction no toy could ever hope to achieve.

A corner of his mouth quirks upwards as you start to whimper, close to tears because he feels too fucking good not to let go. He draws back to squeeze his hand around your throat before sealing your lips with his own.

“Soon,” he whispers, pulling away to lift your hips up.

Nothing is delicate about the way he fucks you; not with his hands spreading you apart, or the mixture of your sweat and arousal dripping down his body. 

Michael knows, just from the way you’re panting his name, that you’ll take him with you when you explode. 

His eyes flutter closed as he leans over you, bracing his forearm around your waist and grasping the arm of the couch for balance. A kind of delirium washes over him as he moves quicker, not intending to stop until he gets what he wants.

On any ordinary occasion, his answer would be your pleasure, but not tonight. 

Tonight belongs to him.

He looks to you, tersely repeating the command he’s been yearning to give. “M’gonna fill ‘ya up.”

And he clamps his hand over your mouth as your knees dig into his sides, his fingernails marking you all the same with the force of your tandem orgasms. He bows his head as he spills into you, his entire body taut with the kind of hedonism derived from being your equal, the mirror image of your resplendent apostasy. 

You don’t keep track of how long you stay like that, or the time it takes for you to muster the energy to roll away.

What you do notice is that for once, Michael lays there with no hints towards his previous stressors, no recollection to the very thing that had plagued him to begin with. 

You find that your voice is steadier than it was before. “Better, Michael?”

“Better,” he affirms, reaching for your hand to intertwine it in his own.

tags {x} for some of my mikey girlies (yes, even if you haven't seen the show) @bellaxgiornata @peterman-spideyparker @marvelswh0re @mindidjarin @murdock-and-the-sea @reborn-rekall

[mybrothercainmybrotherabel]

no one: ...

My brain: hey, what's just the worse AU ever that ends bad for everyone?

Me: well I suppose it would be if Caleb didn't manage to push Evelyn back when the witch hunters attacked, but I don't want to write that...

My brain: 😈😈😈

Me: damnit

TW: hanging, violence, death

Before Caleb could react the mob descended upon him.

“Caleb!” Evelyn leapt forward, reaching out to him. Caleb tried to push her back, but he was too late. The world seemed to slow down while he watched helplessly as Evelyn was tackled to the ground.

“EVELYN!” Caleb screamed, “Get off her!” Flapjack tried to defend her, but the next thing Caleb could see was the palisman smashed underneath a heavy boot. “NO!”

Evelyn screamed. Caleb fought off six men trying to reach her. 

“Leave her alone! Don't hurt her!”

 Something hard hit Caleb in the back of the head stunning him just long enough for someone to gag him. The next time he caught a glimpse of Evelyn she was also gagged. Blood and tears streamed down her face. Her eyes were wide in horror.

Caleb threw his body towards her, he didn't care what happened to himself. But he had to get to her. He had to find a way to get her free. 

They were dragged to the hanging tree in front of the settlement, the bells ringing out loudly to announce their execution. Caleb did not stop fighting. He had to get to her somehow. He had to get her free. Perhaps if he could shake off his assailants and throw himself at hers she could have a chance to run…

People emerged from the settlement. Mr. Fuller amongst them. He saw Caleb and immediately confronted Mr. Archer. Caleb was too preoccupied trying to get to Evelyn to pay attention to their conversation. 

The next thing he knew he was being pulled in the opposite direction, while Evelyn was being pulled towards the hanging tree. Caleb fought harder. Sheer terror filled her green eyes. She knew what was about to happen. They both did. 

No! No! NO!

Caleb didn't stop bucking and kicking and throwing his body in her direction. He held her eye contact until she was ripped away from his view. 

He was dragged to the church, fighting all the while. Even when he was tied up to the pulpit and left alone in the darkness he continued to struggle against his bindings, hoping to loosen them. He only stopped when Mr. Fuller entered the church.

The older man hurried to Caleb and removed the gag from his mouth. 

“You have to save Evelyn!” Caleb cried as soon as he could get the words out. “Please, don't let them hang her!”

Mr. Fuller's face washed over in sympathy. “I'm sorry, son, tis too late.”

“No…No!” 

The knowledge that she was already gone was more painful than his shattered ribs. Mr. Fuller held Caleb’s face as he wept. There was nothing he could do. Evelyn was dead. She had died alone and terrified. She was dead because of him, because he had failed to protect her, because he was too stupid and too selfish to stay away from her even though he knew the risk. Had she died hating him? As she hung there, the life choking out of her, had she blamed Caleb for her fate?  

“I am sorry, son. Twas all I could do to convince them to allow you to stand trial. There was nothing I could do for her.”

“Tis all my fault.” Caleb sobbed. “I promised to protect her! I promised…I…”

“Breathe, son. I know how bad it hurts. Trust me, I know. But you need to breathe. We need to focus on clearing your name, once you are safe, we can mourn her. But first we need to come up with a plan. Philip is claiming you were bewitched, most people are inclined to believe him. No one can blame you for that, if we say that the enchantment broke when she died…”

“I wasn't bewitched. Evelyn, she…she would never do that. She isn't…she's not evil.”

“I believe you, but the others won't.” Mr. Fuller said, “I'm sorry, Caleb, I truly am.”

“I won't lie.” Caleb said, “I will not slander her, she is…” he could hardly speak. “She was kind and clever and thoughtful and…and good. She was good…and now…” 

…now she was dead…she was dead because of him…

“...I won't say she bewitched me. I won't stand trial. I won't.”

“If you don't they'll hang you.” 

“I know.”

For several long moments Caleb and Mr. Fuller held each other's gaze. 

Mr. Fuller was not Caleb’s father by name or blood but Caleb was his son, there was no doubt about it. Mr. Fuller had worked so hard to keep Caleb alive over the past ten years. Anytime Caleb thought all hope was lost Mr. Fuller would come and pull him through. But this wasn't something Mr. Fuller could pull him through. He had made up his mind. 

Evelyn was dead. Evelyn was dead because Caleb had failed to protect her. He would not betray her. 

Slowly Mr. Fuller closed his eyes and lowered his head. The weight of failure aged him, turning his face into that of a tired old man. 

He turned his head away from Caleb for a moment to regain his composure. He would not cry in front of Caleb. 

Finally, after what seemed like a very long time he nodded.

“You grew into a good man, Caleb. I am proud of you. I will always be proud of you. I only wish there was more I could do.”

“Take care of Philip for me.”

“I will, you don't even have to ask.”

“Do you think they'll allow me a Christian burial?” Dread was coursing through him. He was resolute, but not unafraid.

“I will do what I have to do to assure you are both buried. Your grave may have to be unmarked, but I will make sure the two of you are together.” 

Caleb nodded. 

“I'm scared.” He admitted.

“I know.” Mr. Fuller put his hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “I know.” 

“I can't repent. I can't with any honesty or conviction say I am sorry for the love I feel for Evelyn. If that means burning in Hell…”

“Do you want me to give you last rites?”

Caleb nodded.

Mr. Fuller took out the bottle of whiskey he kept in his pocket. “I know tis supposed to be wine, but this'll have to do.” 

He held the bottle to Caleb's lips so he could drink. Then he made the sign of the cross on Caleb’s forehead and recited the Commendation of the Dying.

“I commend you, my dear brother, to Almighty God, 

and entrust you to your Creator.

May you return to him who formed you from the dust of the earth.

May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints 

come to meet you as you go forth from this life.

May Christ who was crucified for you bring you freedom and peace.

May Christ who died for you admit you into his garden of paradise.

May Christ, the true Shepherd, acknowledge you as one of his flock.

May he forgive all your sins, and set you among those he has chosen.

Amen.”

“Thank you.” Caleb said, his throat tight and his voice hoarse. 

“Here, drink this, it will…it will dull your senses.'' The older man still did not cry, but it was becoming increasingly obvious how much of an active effort he was making to stay stoic. He helped Caleb drink a tincture of laudnuam. “I will make sure Philip is not there to see.”

“Thank you.”

There was still so much both of them had to say to each other that words could never express. Caleb could never express his gratitude to Mr. Fuller for everything he had done. There were no words to repay the guidance, trust, and understanding that Mr. Fuller had given Caleb throughout the years. Nor were there words that could express the depths of despair felt by a man looking into the eyes of the boy he had raised, knowing that there was nothing else he could do to save him. 

“Goodbye, son.”

“Goodbye. And thank you, for everything.”

With that, Mr. Fuller left. After a long time he returned with the other four men who more or less governed the settlement. Zachariah Archer, George Tilley, Eli Carver, and John Percy. 

“William says you wish to forgo your right to a trial?” Mr. Carver said. 

“Yes.” 

“He knows he is guilty.” Mr. Archer said, “I must say, Wittebane, I do commend you for choosing to face your actions as a man rather than put everyone through the spectacle of a trial.”

“Is there nothing you wish to say in your defense?” Asked Mr. Carver.

Caleb shook his head, “I was not bewitched. I truly cared for Evelyn and do not believe her to be evil. I believe we have a misunderstanding of witchcraft and that the witches are innocent.”

“Blasphemy!” Mr. Tilley hissed.

“Caleb, think of what it is you are saying.” Advised Mr. Carver. “If you were bewitched we can hardly hold it against you. We could not allow you to remain in this settlement, but you could leave with your life. If you claim such heresy, we cannot allow you to live.” 

“I understand.” Caleb said, somehow he managed to keep his voice steady. “I did not expect you to believe me. And I will accept my fate with dignity. I only request that I am allowed to say goodbye to my little brother, and that he is not punished for my actions.”

“Surely you understand we cannot trust you alone with him while you are claiming such blasphemy.” Mr. Archer said. 

“But you cannot deny brother's their farewells.” Mr. Percy argued. “Not when they are each other's only kin.”

“Very well, fetch Philip, but they may only speak under supervision.” Mr. Archer said. 

Mr. Percy left to get Philip. 

“Have you made your peace with the Lord?” Mr. Carver asked, his eyes full of sympathy. He was a kind man, Elizabeth's companion came from somewhere.

“Mr. Fuller gave me last rites.” Caleb said. 

Mr. Carver nodded, “I shall pray for your soul.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Percy returned with Philip, who ran straight to his brother. 

“Caleb! I don't understand! What's going on? Why do you refuse to stand trial?”

“Listen to me, Pip, we don't have much time. I need you to be strong for me, okay? You're going to have to take care of yourself now, but you can do it. You are smart, and Mr. Fuller will help you, lean on him if you need to.”

Philip shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “No! The witch is dead, tis okay now! The bewitchment is broken! They can't execute you! They can't!”

“Tis okay, Philip.”

“NO!”

“Philip, please.”

“Tis all my fault.”

“No. I do not blame you for this. I love you, I have always loved you. You're going to be okay.”

Philip squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

“I need you to promise you won't watch. I don't want you to see. Stay here with Mr. Fuller.”

“Caleb…”

“Promise me, Pip.”

“Okay…I promise.”

“One more thing.” Caleb leaned close enough to whisper into Philip’s ear. “Promise to stop witch-hunting.”

“I…I promise.”

“You'll be okay.” 

“Time to go.” Mr. Archer said.

“No,” Philip cried, grabbing Caleb's sleeves, “No, no…”

“Tis okay, Pip. I love you. Goodbye.”

Mr. Fuller silently came up behind Philip to hold him back as Mr. Archer and Mr. Tilley roughly pulled Caleb to his feet. Caleb made eye contact with each of them one last time. Philip’s eyes were swimming with tears. Mr. Fuller gave a solemn nod. It was the last bit of strength he could offer. 

Mr. Archer pushed him hard and he stumbled forward. Outside the church a crowd had gathered. Henry Jones and Elizabeth Carver amongst them.

“Father!” Elizabeth cried as soon as Mr. Carver walked out, she ran to him and clung to his arm. “Father, please reconsider!”

“Tis the law of the Lord, Lizzie. He confessed. Tis out of my hands.”

“Tis okay, Lizzie.” Caleb told her. “Go back to Henry.”

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and sobbed. “At least give him a barrel to stand on.” She begged her father. “Please.”

“Very well.” Mr. Carver said. 

“Thank you.” Caleb said, “and thank you for being my friend.” 

Elizabeth threw her arms around him.

“Eli, you would do well to teach your daughter restraint.” Mr. Archer said.

“And you would do well to show some compassion!” Mr. Carver snapped back. “Come now, Lizzie.” 

Mr. Carver pulled Elizabeth back, Henry came forward to comfort her. 

Mr. Archer continued forward, pushing Caleb along. Tears sparkled in Elizabeth's eyes until she turned and buried her face in Henry's chest.

Others came out to witness Caleb’s final walk. People whispered, but Caleb kept walking with his head high until they reached the palisade gate, that was when the hanging tree came into sight. His knees failed him at the sight of Evelyn's body dangling limply from the branches. 

Mr. Archer and Mr. Tilley caught him under his armpits to stop him from hitting the ground. 

“You'll join her in Hell soon enough.” Mr. Tilley growled.

Caleb closed his eyes and looked away, she was dead. She was really dead. Tears rolled down his face. I'm sorry, Evelyn. I'm so, so sorry. 

Mr. Carver called for a barrel and helped Caleb step onto it. He was far more gentle than Mr. Archer or Mr. Tilley. He was a good man.

“I pray your neck snaps quickly.” He said quietly as he slipped the noose around Caleb's throat. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

Caleb wanted to thank him for his tiny kindnesses, but he didn't think he could speak. His heart was racing in his chest, desperate to get as many beats out as it could before it stopped forever. At least the laudanum had been given a chance to work, causing the world to blur and sway a bit, but dulling the pain of Caleb's broken ribs. 

Mr. Archer addressed the crowd.

“Caleb Wittebane stands before you, having confessed to consorting with witches. We now condemn him to face God's divine judgment.”

The next moment the barrel was kicked out from underneath Caleb’s feet. 

William Fuller waited in the church as once again one of his children was taken from him. In spite of what some people said, he had never seen Caleb and Philip as replacements for his own children. The loss of his brave David, sweet little Felicity, and their mother would forever be a hole in his heart that nothing could ever heal. But when he found Caleb and Philip, they had started building around the hole. He had needed them as much as they needed him. They had given him a reason to carry on living even after he felt like his heart had died. 

Caleb had grown into exactly the type of man William had hoped he would be: curious, open-minded, noble…those traits that had drawn William to him as a child, the traits that made him who he was, those were the traits that led him to his death. 

Young Elizabeth Carver was praying at the pulpit, with Caleb’s buddy Henry Jones beside her. Philip was still clinging to William like a child might cling to their mother. 

Finally, Eli Carver returned. Everyone looked up, his daughter stood as if hoping her father had come to deliver news of a miracle.

“It is done.” He said simply. A new hole ripped wide open in William's heart. Elizabeth crumbled, Henry caught her and lowered her gently to the floor. Eli crossed the room to stand before William.

“William…I…” his eyes were full of sympathy.

“Tis not your fault, Caleb had made his decision, not even I could talk him out of it.”

Eli nodded, “His neck snapped. I thought you should know that. Twas over quickly.”

Philip let out a sob. William put a hand on his head to comfort him. He didn't suffer, that was a small mercy. 

“Thank you.”

“I presume that I need not remind you that giving a Christian burial to one accused of witchcraft goes against the King's laws.”

“I am aware.”

“I also presume that you have every intention of burying that boy.”

“You presume correctly. Are you going to arrest me?”

“No,” said Eli, “I will aid you.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

William exited his bedroom to see Philip dressed and ready to go in the main room. The younger boy had come home with William, unable to face the idea of returning to the empty Wittebane house. 

“You're not coming with.” William told him.

“You can’t stop me.”

“Caleb asked me to keep you safe. I'm not going to immediately go against that promise by bringing you out to break the law.”

“He's my brother.”

“I know.”

“I'm never going to see him again.”

“I know. But your last memory of him should not be seeing him like that.”

“I've seen plenty of hangings, nothing will be worse than what I am already imagining.”

William sighed. With both himself and Eli complicit in this crime, the likelihood of any serious consequences was low. How could he deny Philip the chance to see his brother laid to rest?

“Carry the blankets and for the love of God, keep quiet.”

Philip nodded and obeyed, William shouldered a shovel and led the way through the darkened settlement. 

Eli and Henry were both waiting at the gates to the settlement.

“Let us make haste.” Eli said. 

They approached the tree with the two bodies dangling in the dark. 

“Cut him down, Henry.” William ordered. He and Eli got into position to guide the body to the ground. It looked like Eli had been telling the truth. While Caleb’s neck lobbed at an unnatural angle, his face was absent of the telltale bloating that came with strangulation. Philip could hardly contain himself. He held his brother's corpse to his chest and sobbed. 

“You must pull yourself together.” Eli said.

“Give him a moment to grieve while we cut her down.” 

“Surely you aren't serious!” Eli said. “Tis one thing to bury Caleb, but the witch? Have you gone mad?”

“She is but a girl,” William replied, “By looks younger than your own daughter.”

“She is the one who led Caleb to his fate.” 

“As he led her. Believe what you will, but Caleb loved her, enough that he would rather die than sully her name. I will not leave her here to rot.”

Eli sighed, “Cut her down, Henry.”

Carefully, William guided the girl's body down. She was not as lucky as Caleb. It was clear from the red spots on her skin and her swollen lips that she had not died quickly.

He thought about all the stories Caleb had told about her. She liked exploring and watching animals. She had a little sister and an older brother. She loved to tell riddles and snorted when she laughed. She had hopes and dreams for the future. She was just a kid. They were both just kids. 

“I'm sorry I couldn't have gotten to know you.” William whispered. “I hope you find peace.”

Carefully, William shrouded her in one of the blankets while Henry and Eli wrapped Caleb in the other. 

“There is a clearing by the river where the ground is soft.” Henry said, “Tis out of the way enough that I don't think anyone would disturb it or notice fresh turned soil.”

“Lead the way, then.” 

William lifted Evelyn’s body into his arms, Eli carried Caleb's. Philip trailed along with the shoves, shaking hard. 

Henry had been right, the earth in the spot he suggested was soft and it did not take long to dig an adequate grave. William lay the two bodies side by side. Eli helped him climb out. 

“Heavenly Father,” William prayed. “Look down in mercy upon these two children whom we offer now to thy care. Forgive them their trespasses and cleanse them with thy holy light. Grant them everlasting life in your kingdom. Let them know no more pain or sorrow. For you are the most holy. In your name, Amen.”

[kronoose]

Offline live blog Pt 2

Ignore my simping for mothman

Damn sexy moth man

Wish that was Me being a robot and meeting mothman

Yes please

Mothman is Italian and jesus????

Wait did Tucker program in a period for her

God this podcast is insane

I hate this show *keeps listening*

Snap back to reality

Damn fuck ya moth Jesus

The pool uog confirmed fuck ya

Oh fuck that fuck that

Nope don't like this

😳😳😳

That fucking tone shift

Damn a rifle??

Get this child therapy

The shade against Francis's parents

Oh fuck yikes

Damn Francis

What did the Italians do to deserve this slander

DR MAN

Strapping young buck

Damn

Yay expressing emotions

The queen I forgot about that

Oh shit wtf they had a one night stand

Hehehe tony fucked up

[blurglesmurfklaine]

for the ask game: i desperately need to see your spiderman davey au 🙏🙏🙏

OKAY YAY I AM ACTUALLY SO GLAD SOMEONE IS ASKING ABOUT THIS!!! I was struggling with it for a long while actually, but I basically started from scratch and asked my irl bestie for help and I like it so much better!

It involves "It's not unrequited, they're just idiots" and also "love triangle that is actually just two idiots and one of them has a secret identity" so im having a blast

“Hey boys, what’s new?” Davey lets out a sigh of relief. Then, his mouth twitches. “Jack owes me five bucks.” “She said what’s new,” Race interjects. “Kelly losing a bet ain’t news.” “Wasn’t a bet,” Davey laughs, and he can feel the tension melting off him. Right now, all he has to be is David Jacobs—high school senior and resident bookworm within his friend group. Jack throws an arm around him, so casually tactile in that way Davey only enjoys when it’s coming from him. His stomach is suddenly swooping and his face burns. He hopes no one notices. (Katherine does. As always.) “I’ll get you a new copy of The World and we’ll call it even, how about that?” High school senior, resident bookworm, and stupidly head over heels for Jack Kelly since the sixth grade. Katherine subtly raises her eyebrows at Davey, prompting him to blush even harder, if that were possible. Still, she doesn’t mention it. At least not with her words. The way she excitedly knocks her knee into Davey’s says enough. She’s always been great at having two conversations at once.  “That’s how much my dad’s charging to slander New York’s favorite superhero? You’re getting ripped off.” Davey finds himself instinctively leaning into Jack’s touch. “I like to stay informed,” he says defensively.  “You’re not being informed, you’re being brainwashed.”  “Much as I can’t stand Pulitzer, he may have a point.” While the rest of the group bursts out into protests, Davey snaps his head towards Jack, praying that he can’t feel the way his blood has just run cold beneath his touch. Back in April, Jack seemed pretty unswayed in either direction about Spider-Man. Has he spent the summer forming a stronger opinion? Katherine rolls her eyes. “Just because you work for my father doesn’t mean you have to agree with him.” “I ain’t just saying that,” Jack says seriously. “I mean, think about it. I beat on someone for ragging on Charlie and I could get sent to juvie or something. But this guy puts on a mask, does the same thing, and he’s a hero? Don’t make no sense.” “Feel like it’s a little more complex than that,” Charlie replies.  “Yeah,” Race agrees. “The guy’s got super-strength and shoots webs out of his ass or whatever.” “Wrists,” Davey corrects him, under his breath. “You have to admit, he’s got a real knack for this hero thing,” says Kath.  “He’s got a knack for slipping away from the cops. Everyone else who does that ends up in prison. Back me up here, Davey.” Davey, who has been remaining strategically silent, feels his stomach knot up as his friends turn their gazes to him. “Oh, I’d love to hear this,” Katherine says. “What do you think of our friendly neighborhood Spidey, Day?”

Davey swallows.  How the hell is he supposed to respond to that? What does Davey think of Spider-Man? He’s faced with that question every time he looks in the mirror.

[marvelousescapism]

unpopular hc: post serum steve is actually a great dancer and there's no canon reason to say he wouldn't be. like he didn't have the energy and couldn't hear music too well before the serum but you're telling me mr genetically engineered perfection with probably enhanced senses wouldn't have an enhanced sense of rhythm too? Slander. the man started going to ballet/ballroom class to keep himself busy in the future (+ itd help in combat probably bc dancers kick like horses)

first off this hc is great because it makes sense, look at how this mf moves while he fights:

second of all this hc is great because it could start out so angsty

like, maybe circa 2011-pre-Battle-of-New-York-2012, when Steve goes to his gym one evening, he hears music he recognizes for once - music from the 40s - down the hall, and he's obviously irresistably pulled to it, and it turns out it's a swing dance class! and he's mesmerized because not only is everyone dancing like they used to but everyone's dolled up in 40s dress style (nothing is historically accurate but it's still jarring to see)

and he sits on the side and watches (just like he always used to do while Bucky danced with girls as he gave Steve bedroom eyes over their shoulders from across the room) but people keep beckoning him up and eventually he caves and joins in, and he warns everyone who takes a turn with him that he has two left feet, but he surprises himself with how quick he picks it up. and it'd be bittersweet because those classes very quickly become the highlight of his week, but he can never stop thinking if only Bucky could see me now...

he'd stop going after the Battle of New York though, once "Captain America's return to the 21st Century" stops being a conspiracy theory and starts being a newspaper headline :(

but the third thing that makes this hc so great is it would be so funny when Bucky gets back

maybe a couple years since he's settled and he's comfortable going out more and being more social, Steve encourages him to come with him back to swing classes, and Bucky's riling him up while they're on the way there like "you sure, Rogers? you can take the bench any time! I won't think less of you if you stand on my toes!" and Steve's like "😏😏 ok Buck"

and as soon as they're on the dancefloor Steve's swinging him around like a professional, and Bucky's too blown away by how well Stevie "Two Left Feet" Rogers can dance now that he doesn't let him dance with anyone else the whole night (and on the way back home he's so torn between joy and outrage because "you're such a good dancer now and that's great, but it's not fair!! I was supposed to teach you how to dance properly!!" "if it upsets you so much we don't have to--" "--hell no, we're going every week now! I'm gonna kick your ass next time!" "it's not a competition, Buck" "it is and I will win!" "whatever you say, sweetheart")

[plush-rabbit]

Corruption Kink + All Might - Headcanons

Request: Hey! I dunno if you're still taking requests for all might, but if you are and you have space, could i request a pre-injury all might x f!reader fic? I was thinking the reader could be significantly younger than him, with like a bit of a corruption kink and a lot of guilt for Toshi. I thought that one shot you wrote for him was adorable! Take care, bunny :)

A/N: Headcanons seem easier for me since I’m still new in writing Toshi (im also not sure if this is entirely corruption but i hope you like it)

-

To the public, All Might is the Symbol of Peace, he’s everything that children and heroes want to become. However, you know him better than that. Or at least, you know him in a way that others don’t and some that possibly wish they did. Toshinori is much older than you, everything about him screams of authority and power that you wish for. The public can approach him, ask for pictures and smile beside him. They can hold his hand and stand beside him, but you, on the other hand, can't do that. What you can do is more intimate, more than what anyone can wish for.

He’s an older man, and he’s a hero. He’s supposed to know what’s best; he’s supposed to be the responsible one in whatever relationship he’s in. You’re the complete opposite from him- you don’t have to worry about the status of being a hero, you don’t have these gruelling responsibilities that he has. While you two are together, he has yet to formally announce to the public about the relationship, which you don’t particularly mind. You know how it would look if he was seen out with a much younger partner. You could already picture the headlines and the comments that would appear, the slander that would go towards your partner. You’re okay with just playing the secret partner; if you were to be honest with yourself, you actually welcome the secrecy, the little bits of love and knowing that you’re the only one to see him in such a light that is anything but the hero face that he shows.

Due to the secrecy in the relationship, most dates are held at home. However, the idea of at-home dates that you both have are quickly depleted and repeated. Frustration plays a part, something heavy and thick in the air. You both are consenting adults, one that is just frustrated at being stuck at home with their partner and the other that holds the weight of the country on their shoulder. It’s only natural that the frustration would turn into something more primal and raw, that you two would comfort each other and become stress relievers to each other. You’re both still fairly young- despite the age gap that puts you at a much younger age than him- and couple that with stress and ansty feelings about the relationship, it leads the two of you to explore a rather more sexual aspect.

The Symbol of Peace is something that is untainted in the eyes of the public. He isn’t necessarily pure- often asked about the features that he seeks out in potential partners- but he is someone who is held to a high standard. He’s a savior to the people, the reason for the lack of crime. He’s the Symbol of Peace and you get to corrupt that. You get to twist his image behind closed doors. He comes from heroism, he holds the image of the golden boy well. On the other hand, you don’t have to worry about the image you hold, you can only hope to make time for your personal life and not make a bad impression on the people you meet. You get to see him in other ways that people could only dream of; you get to see him beg on his knee, his iconic grin ruined, stuffed with a gag and drool covering his chin as he bows before you.

His shoulders are weighed down by the country, by the responsibilities that he has to bear. He’s so used to being admired, to be the number one hero, that when you come along and tilt his head, your lips curved into an almost sadistic smile, he’s willing to listen to you. Even when he's on top, he’s doing what you tell him, listening to every command that you have to say, he’s opening his mouth and suckling on your breasts whining with your pert nipple his mouth as his hand desperately latches onto your body. His cock will be naked, rubbed against your thighs as he begs for release, whimpering about how it all hurts too much. He lets you take the lead, he does whatever you tell him to do, too drunk on lust to actually do anything more than whine and buck his hips into your greedy cunt.

Always in his All Might form, he has yet to reveal his smaller size to you. Perhaps it comes from trust issues or that he wouldn’t know how to bring it up so far into the relationship, but he’s always big around you. At first he felt a twinge of guilt of having you take him in his bigger form, to thrust his cock inside of your cunt and hear you yelp in pain, but if he were to be honest the sound of you in pain added with how your nails would dig into his skin, turned him on in a way that he hadn’t ever thought about. While he gets drunk off of lust from having you take control over him, he also has this more lustful nature to take control over you. He wants to witness as his bulging cock enters you, to hear you cry his name and arch your back to fill his hand with your soft breast and wipe the beading tears away from your eyes. He wants to know that he’s the reason that you’re crying, that it’s because you simply couldn’t handle his cock.

Corruption isn’t something that he wants to say- it leases a bitter taste on his tongue that doesn’t wash away so easily. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s corrupted, he doesn’t want to think what that word means when he’s out on patrol. He wants to rescue people, to help others and be the hero that he want to be rather than think about how soft the inside of your sex is and how it seems to mold to his shape. On certain nights, he’ll visit you when he’s supposed to be out on patrol. He’ll knock on your door and claim that he’s doing an inspection- something that he says for him, just to find a worthy excuse to actually leave his patrol- and he;l lock the door behind him. His moans aren’t loud enough to drown out your words, how you claim how he’s grown idle in his responsibilities- that he would prefer to have his cock sucked on rather than go out and patrol the area. But he is your hero, and you have to at least thank him for taking care of you for the time being that he is there, asking him with his cock in your hand and a devious smile played on your lips if you’re just special or if he does the same with others.

As a hero, he has built his stamina and you welcome that with eager arms and lips. Even after he’s reached his climax, he’s still hard, thrusting lazily into you, begging you to make him release once more. He’ll hold you close to him, his arms thick with muscle and littered with scars, his lips pressed against yours, his tongue thick as it fills your mouth. He wants to keep you close, to hold you and keep his cock buried inside of you until either you or him are too overstimulated to actually continue. You welcome it, you want him to say, to have him pleasure you and think about your needs for the day. Your lps will press against his neck, leaving a bright make in its place. Your words are alluring, asking him to stay the day with you, to ignore his responsibilities for the day and stay nestled inside of you. You promise him that if he were to stay the day, that you would try whatever he wanted, tightening around him and kissing his lips.

You encourage him to stay home by playing on his status. The streets are much safer thanks to him, he’s the reason for everything good right now. Just the mere sight and mention of him is enough for criminals to stop in their tracks and return home with their tails between their legs. He’s allowed to stay home, he’s allowed to take a bit of time for himself to just rest his cock between your thighs and fuck himself between your thighs. It’s during these times that you’ll grip his hair and have him kiss at your sex, pressing your thigh against the side of his head. You’ll tell him how he’s such a good boy, doing all the dirty work that other heroes would rather not do, running your hand through his hair and telling him nothing but sweet things.

There’s pleasure that you take, having him nestled so close to you, almost dependent on emptying himself inside of you. You were the one to reduce the number one hero into a puddle of goo. You were the one to see Toshinori as a sweaty mess, to have him nurse on your breasts and suck on your sex as if it held the sweetest nectar that he would ever have. You convince him to stay. You sit naked on his thigh as he wears his hero outfit, your sex pressed and leaking in heavy arousal onto him. You know that when he goes out, he’ll carry your mark on him. He’ll remember the way that you taste, how you bite into his shoulder and how he humped your leg like a dog, his semen dirtying the inside of a costume. You were the one to reduce the hero to nothing but some sort of lust-filled man who can only muster the thought that he had to release himself inside of you, to fill you with his cock until you’re leaking with his seed.

[roanniom]

okay but 10/10 would pull hot lawyer in by his tie and make tf out with him

Get You Off

(Original photo source @the-adam-driver-files but made b&w by me)

Lawyer!Kylo Ren x Reader

Word Count: 1,252

Warnings: NSFW, simple PIV smutty smut, I guess semi-public (there are people in the next room)

The real question is, are you doing this before or after the trial? You giving into temptation when you spend time in his office, brushing hands over legal documents as he goes over the details of the defense? He’s telling you some important info about the one thing you have to make sure to say on the stand, but you’re too busy appraising the way his body looks in that gorgeous, tailored, fitted suit to pay attention?

Kylo urges you to stay focused, you’re not going to win otherwise. But right now you want to win something else. His eyes widen as you grab him by his luxurious silk tie and wrench him forward, bringing his lips crashing to yours. Though you’re the one who takes the initiative he catches up quick, hands rushing to your waist, gripping your hips, squeezing your ass. You’re so eager, propelled forward by the tension that has been mounting over days of listening to his authoritative voice, watching those massive hands sliding across forms and papers, imagining them sliding through something else. He presses in against you, caging you in until you’re backing up, pulling him right along by the tie. 

Until your back’s against the wall and suddenly you’re being lifted. Pressed against the brick of his small office. Small since he’s still new to the firm of course, though with his many talents you’re sure he won’t stay here for long. What’s certainly not small is the massive bulge that presses up against you as he grinds his hips against yours, your legs squeezing around his waist to keep you aloft. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you say breathlessly with a smile and not a single ounce of sincerity. Your statement obligatory but only teasing. Kylo’s lips bruise their way down your jaw, your throat, until his teeth sink into the flesh of your shoulder, causing you to buck into him and cry out. You should care that the paralegals outside his office can probably hear you but you just don’t. You know that if roles were reversed they would be equally happy to wind their legs around this god in a good suit.

“You shouldn’t have committed that crime, either. Life is full of things you shouldn’t do,” he says in a low, measured voice. His eyes are hooded and he watches you as he tongues the spot he had bitten so deeply at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, just as a hand slides down to cup your mound through your stylish cigarette pants. His index finger presses tight circles through the fabric, somehow zeroed in right over your clit, if a little off center, making you gyrate your hips in desperate need for more, harder, him. 

“But you don’t strike me as a woman who says no to her desires just because they are improper.”

“And you don’t seem like a man who gives a fuck if a woman’s desires are improper.”

Suddenly you’re whirled around and seated on the edge of his desk, paperwork flying everywhere. You should probably care about that. Those papers were the key to your acquittal. To your freedom from scrutiny. To your ability to walk away from this world of hearings and trials and litigation. But as he pushes against you to make your back press into the hard wood of his desk, his body finding its place between your thighs, clothed cock nudging insistently at your core, walking away is the last thing on your mind.

“You, my dear, are more than improper,” Kylo says, his voice low. His hands leave your waist – rendered unnecessary by the intense way his pelvis keeps you pinned to the table – traveling up your body to rip open your blouse. Buttons ricochet and it’s absurd, its cliché, its overly dramatic, but the way his hands descend on your bra-clad breasts are none of those things. More like rough, delicious, demanding. He kneads the heaving flesh and licks a long stripe up the valley between them, starting from your sternum and ending with a lascivious suck right beneath your pulse point. You moan at full volume now, hips undulating against his, thighs pulling him in for more pressure. Kylo chuckles against your throat, holding you down against the table by the weight of his grasp on your breasts. “The word ‘obscene’ comes to mind.”

“That’s slander,” you reply, though it comes out in a huff. Suddenly Kylo reduces contact, pulling away his upper body. You sit up on your elbows in panic, only find him watching you with a bemused smirk, hips still slotted between your thighs, hands working deftly at his belt.

“What are you going to do, sue me?”

When Kylo frees his cock – and absolute monster, red at the tip and leaking with precum – his hands move to your hips, yanking down your pants as if they personally offended them. You’d teased him in short dresses and skirts every other day since he’d begun counseling you. How fucking dare you make it harder for him today, of all days.

Once divested of your pants you pull Kylo to by the tie again, this time slower.

“I’ll sic my lawyer on you,” you whisper against the shell of his ear when he’s finally bent over you fully, distracted by the task of lining himself up with your entrance. “He’s a real wolf. Goes for the jugular.”

Kylo practically growls in response before sheathing himself fully in your soaking cunt. You clench around him immediately, barely getting to flutter your walls before he’s pulling back and ramming right back in. The desk squeaks with the force of his strokes and the way your body slides against it. Oh yes. The paralegals are jealous.

“Sounds like he’ll get you off,” Kylo spits through gritted teeth, though humor dances behind his black-blown eyes. Your own eyes roll back in your head when his hand roughly takes hold of one of your breast, manhandling it and pinching at the nipple.

“Oh he’ll get me off – ah!” You almost lose your ability to speak for a second, which would a shame because it would mean you’d have to stop this verbal dance. Through heavy pants you speak up again. “He’s really…really…good.”

“Oh yeah? He’s good?” Kylo eggs you on. Sweat collects on his brow and his perfectly coiffed hair bounces looser, more tousled, but otherwise he still seems remarkably put together, in spite of the look of agonized pleasure rippling across his face. His cock protrudes from his open pants but other than that his clothes are surprisingly unrumpled. You, on the other hand, must look thoroughly debauched with your bare legs around his waist, panties pulled to the side, shirt ripped open and his hands pulling your breasts wantonly from their bra cups.  

“Yeah, so good – fuck!”

“Is he big?” Kylo prompts, snapping his hips so hard suddenly you swear you feel him in your throat. When you don’t answer his hand snakes up to your face to deliver a light, orienting pat to your cheek. Your eyes open, slightly unfocused. “His cock. Is it big?”

“W-what – oh god – what does that have to do with being a lawyer?” you challenge, which gets a breathless laugh out of him.

“Everything, baby.”

And Kylo is big, and he does get you off – two times in his office, once in the court room the next day at your trial, and then twice again back at his office.

After all, he’s big good. 

~*~

Smaller tag list since I don’t usually write Kylo and idk who is down (let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged in the future!) : @paper-n-ashes @foxilayde @maryforyou @maybe-your-left @finn-ray-nal-beads @mariesackler @sacklerscumrag @hopeamarsu @aliveandlonely @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @safarigirlsp @millenialcatlady @can-i-pls-get-a-waffle @mrs-zimmerman @clydesfavoritegirl @direnightshade @historyandfandoms50

***Retagged because some apparently didn’t work - sorry if you got double notified!!!

[detectivecarlosreyes]

In Case of Emergency (Ch 10/10)

Ao3 | 2.9/21.4k | Buddie | Status: Complete

Prev. Chapter 

Chapter 10: What’s Next: The Epilogue  Eddie and Christopher have a plan to ask Buck to move in, Buck gets his closure and Chris goes to camp. Set in the end piece of 3x18: What's Next.

As with all the other micro steps they had taken in the relationship up until this point, each one had to be approved first by Chris, because Eddie never wanted to overstep his son’s comfort, and this was no different.

“Bud, would you be okay with me asking Buck to move in with us?”

“Isn’t he already living with us?”

“Kind of, I know he stays over a few nights a week at the moment, but this will be a little different. It’ll mean he won’t have his apartment anymore and will live with us all the time instead.”

With understanding now shining in his eyes, Christopher was on board with the idea immediately bouncing in his seat, “Ohhhhh, okay!”

“So that’s a yes? You’re okay with him moving in?”

“You asked me ages ago if it was okay if he could stay over sometimes. It will be better with him here all the time.” And then he added, as sassily as a 9-year-old could, “Besides, I like it when he’s here, Bucky is a better cook than you.”

“Oh, so we’re being cheeky now, are we?” Unable to let the slander stand he descended upon Chris with a grin and attacked him with tickles, leaving peals of laughter echoing throughout the house in its wake.

Eventually, when the giggles subsided, he told Chris his plan and left him with the important job to decorate the small cardboard box that he bought the other day that they would present Buck’s house key in and make it official.

Now he just had one more thing to do before everything was in place.

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

In some ways, Buck had felt like he was still reeling from that moment he first saw Abby after all that time apart. Even now, it seemed as if after finally getting that long overdue sit down with her, that it didn’t seem like it was enough, maybe nothing they said ever would be.

Sure, he was glad to see her happy and had found herself again while she travelled, he could never begrudge her of that after the years she had with her mother. It just would have been nice to get some communication about where she was at wit the relationship. If she had been honest about it when she knew she wasn’t coming back anytime soon he would have been fine with it, because at least then he wouldn’t have felt so strung along, feeling like him waiting wasn’t enough, that he wasn’t worth coming back to.

The fact that though she was sorry for the way he found out about it all, she didn’t actually apologise for how their relationship ended; or more specifically by not actually explicitly giving him the courtesy of breaking up with him. Despite not wanting to harbour any grudges over it he knows it will probably always leave a bitterness to the relationship.

It wasn’t until after he walked away, leaving her on the park bench did he realise why the conversation left him lacking. His part in the relationship was never an important factor to her, not once in her explanation did she seem to consider what she did would affect anyone else but herself. And really, that was the crux of the relationship, it had revolved around her and her needs leaving the relationship unbalanced.

Eddie was right though. Seeing her again, getting that closure, it was something that he needed to finally tie up that frayed, loose end and allowed him to close the book on the chapter in his life once and for all, no longer questioning what went wrong.

It made him realise how lucky he was now. Having found himself in the best relationship he’s ever been in. One that left him and Eddie as equals borne out of mutual love and respect of one another that didn’t leave one more important than the other. They were partners in more ways than one, feeding off each other and becoming each other’s anchors.

As he walked away with Eddie on his mind as he left, he sent him a quick text saying he was going to stop at their favourite bakery and picking up their usual on his way home.

When he finally pulled into the driveway, Buck breathed a sigh of relief, happy to put the day behind him and just be with Chris and Eddie. Getting out of the car, with the bag of freshly baked goods in one hand and his keys in the other he makes his way to the door, fumbling to find the house key only to find it missing.

With a frown he knocked on the door, feeling silly not having his key on him. Eddie was quick to answer looking almost bemused by the circumstance and opened the door wide. Stepping inside, he touched a kiss to Eddie’s cheek as he passed.

“I think I lost my key? But I swear I had it yesterday, I-I can’t imagine how it could have fallen off the key ring.” He offered the explanation as to why he was knocking on the door, something he hadn’t done in some time.

“Don’t worry about it, we can just get another one cut,” Eddie responded lightly and Buck could hear Eddie’s footsteps following him after closing the door, trailing him to the kitchen.

“How did it go?” Eddie asked him gently, changing the subject as he placed his hand over his own still holding the bag of baked goods that he sat on the kitchen bench.  

He sighed another relieved sigh before smiling at him, comforted by his tact, “You were right. It didn’t go exactly how I thought it would, but I’m glad I saw her, I needed the closure.”

“That’s good, I’m glad you got what you needed.”

Before he could elaborate more on what else he realised from his meeting with Abby, the clatter of crutches interrupted them and Chris all but crashed into his side, wrapping his arms around his hips.

“Buck! You’re back!” Gasped Chris before turning to his dad excitedly, “Can we give it to him now?”

Buck looked between Chris and Eddie quizzically and only became more confused upon seeing Eddi’s face light up, seemingly unable to deny his son’s request. “Alright, we can give it to him now. Why don’t you go get it.”

“Okay!” And then he was gone, moving as swiftly as his crutches would allow back in the direction of his room.

He turned back to Eddie, feeling very much out of the loop, “Eddie? Mind telling me what’s going on?”

Annoyingly all the response he got in return was Eddie’s smiling eyes and him saying that he would just have to wait and see. Buck rolled his eyes and shook his head in amusement at Eddie’s answer but held his tongue in favour of waiting for whatever he was told wait for.

He didn’t have to wait long, with Chris re-entering the room at a hurried pace carrying a small blue box. Buck watched as Chris slowed to a stop in front of Eddie to which Eddie, bent over and whispered something in his son’s ear.

He knelt down when Chris turned back to him, much like when Chris gave him that card at his welcome back party at Athena and Bobby’s all those months ago.

“What’s that you got there, bud?”  

Chris just grinned his excitable goofy grin that Buck loves with all his heart and held out the box to him. Buck looked between Chris and the box outstretched in his grasp and took it delicately. Upon closer inspection of the box Chris had just handed him, Buck realised that it wasn’t just blue. It had been hand decorated with a blue marker around the sides, with the drawing of a house adorned on the lid.

With a sharp look between the two Diaz’s, he lifted the lid on the box to find a key resting on a pillow of white crepe paper that he knew was leftover from one of Chris’s class projects that he helped to construct. His key. The one that Chris insisted that they paint the thumb end of, so everyone knew whose key it was, was the same blue as the ring that he had attached to Eddie’s key to his own apartment.

“This is my key. I thought I lost it. What are you two up to?” He asked even though he was already putting the clues together, but he wanted a verbal confirmation of what this gift represented.

“Did you want to ask him Chris?” Eddie asked, moving to stand behind his son with his hands resting atop his shoulders, clearly as excited as Chris was about what was about to be asked.

“Bucky, will you move in with us? O-officially.”

Buck couldn’t stop the sting of happy tears prick at his eyes or keep the wide grin that threatened to split his face. “It would be my honour to move in with you.”

Opening his arms wide, he invited Chris for a hug who instantly fell into his chest wholeheartedly. Looking up over his head, Buck looked at Eddie’s glowing face and reached around Chris to take hold of his wrist to drag him down and make the hug and them complete.

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

Waking up the next morning, Buck revelled in the domesticity of the moment, sharing the bed with the man that he loves; In the place that he could confidently call home without any further hesitation even though in his mind he’d been calling it that for some time. Everything was perfect and felt so, so right. He knew that nothing had really changed considering that he had been practically living in the Diaz household but it felt different, there was a permanence to it now.

He watched as Eddie slumbered, a much more peaceful and restful version of the man than what he used to be when they first started sleeping in the same bed, no longer on high alert on their days off. Now, Eddie woke sluggishly uninhibited by expectation, knowing that there was no hurry to awaken while Buck was present beside him.

At some point, they left the comforts of the bed and migrated to the kitchen, where Chris would join them from the living room have been watching tv while he waited for them to wake. In the kitchen, he would begin preparing them a cooked breakfast, a common occurrence for when they have the luxury of having a morning together while Eddie moved around him to make the coffee.

With May’s graduation party in the afternoon, they eventually got dressed, doing their best not to dress too similarly but still end up deciding on the same colour scheme. And then, as with the last few gatherings they had been to, the three of them arrived together at the Grant-Nash household in Eddie’s truck.

And with that happiness that came with the day before, Buck found him celebrating and being even more affectionate and open than usual, riding on the excitable energy of everyone around him. Through it all he did eventually find himself seeking out Bobby, remembering what he said on the train and didn’t get the chance to address it in his office after the fact.

With the din of the music at their backs, he joined Bobby on the deck, hands in his pockets, “Hey, um, I just wanted to apologise, f- for the train.”

Bobby just waved away the apology with a shake of his head, “Look it’s alright, we both got a little hot. You doing okay?”

A grin took over at his face as he turned to Bobby, thinking about the previous day, “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Good.”

With his thoughts on Eddie and Chris, he corrected himself, “Actually, you know what? I know I am. I’m moving in with Eddie and Chris, they just asked me yesterday.”

“That’s great news Buck,” with that, Bobby offered his hand in congratulations before pulling him in for a hug. Buck sunk into it finding a parental comfort in the embrace and feeling like everything in his life was finally falling into place.  

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

And so, with him now living with Diaz pair, it was time for him to start the process of ending the lease to his apartment. He had a month to pack his things and sell what furniture he would no longer need, which was most if not all of it.

Boxes were gradually transported between the two locations with Chris helping with the packing and unpacking of the small bits and pieces that he had which decorated the apartment. Chris became the deciding force of what he should keep, even if he didn’t think he needed to keep them and helped find a home for them in the house, wanting to make the space his as much as theirs.

They only had a couple of weeks with him though, before he set out for the long-awaited camp, leaving a card with the two of them as they saw him off, decorated in hearts and stating simply:

You are going to have a Great Time.

Love, Christopher.

Eventually, through their days off, they had the last of his clothes packed in a bag and the last box was sealed, with the last of the bigger items from the bedroom finally sold and ready to be picked up by the buyers in the following days.

“I can’t believe this is it,” Buck said, sitting on the floor of the now empty apartment, Eddie sitting across from him finishing sealing the box, having let himself into the apartment like always only a couple of hours ago with a new roll of packing tape.

With the box sealed, Eddie propped his elbow up on the box before him, resting his face in his hand with a soft smirk playing on his lips, “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

“Absolutely not. Never in a million years.” He breathed, finding himself staring love-struck into Eddie’s eyes. They sit like that for longer than was necessary, faces only a couple inches apart and bodies separated by the box between them.

Eventually, he broke the silence huffing a chuckle to himself, reminded of something Eddie once said.

“What?” Eddie asked good naturedly, a laugh bubbling on the words as he spoke.

Buck propped his head upon his hand, mirroring Eddie, “Are my eyes twinkling like the stars, Eds? Cause yours right now are shining like the sun, they do that when you’re happy, did you know?”

“Oh my god!” Groaned Eddie, burying his face in his hands in embarrassment, “That was so long ago, Buck! I can’t believe I said that, and honestly, I had I hoped you wouldn’t remember.”  

“How could I forget!” Buck quietly exclaimed, bemused by the flush creeping up Eddie’s neck and warming his face, “You were far too cute saying whatever you were thinking, Mr astronaut. I’m surprised that you remember though, you were still so far gone at that point.”

“Don’t remind me, that was still the weirdest hangover I’ve ever woken up to. Not to mention the fact that you not only took off my boots for me, but you also plugged in my phone, set an alarm and left a message explaining what happened.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to sleep the day away or wake up confused, let alone do it all while still wearing your boots in bed!”

“Even back then when I was just your friend from work, you cared that much,” Eddie mused, wonder in his eyes.

Buck shrugged bashfully, “I just did what anyone one would do.”

“The fact that you think that--” Eddie shook his head, “The way you care about people is just one of the things I love most about you.”

Eddie groaned as he stood up, stretching his legs before stepping around the box and reached down to him, “Now, come on, it’s time we finished up here and take these boxes home.”

With a soft smile on his lips, Buck placed his hands in Eddie’s and let him haul him to his feet. They took the last of the boxes home, leaving the apartment completely empty, and unpacked them, and 3 days later they were dropping their apartment keys off at the realtor, making it well and truly final.  

It was strange to think that all that time ago when they first gave each other their key that they would end up here. Using them rarely for that intended reason of it being an emergency key before their use quickly evolved into something more intimate. That the key to their home was no longer used for emergencies but became an extension to their hearts instead.

*

*

*

And to think that Buck marked the day that the Diaz’s asked him to move in and mirrored it exactly a year later using a similar box that they presented the key in, having re-commissioned Christopher to reprise his role of decorating another one. except this time, it didn’t have a key but a very special ring instead.

Buck barely got the question out before Eddie was already saying yes.

[spiltscribbles]

Oooh! Prompts! Remus and Sirius moving in together please! 💛

Notes: Thank you SO SO much gorgeous<3 I’m like kinda embarrassed that this is kinda shit, especially because you’re writing is so fucking gorgeous, so I’m sorry.

.-

A Reblog Is Worth A Thousand Stars  |  Send Me A Prompt 

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“YOU!”

With a start that almost makes him drop the vase in his hands, Sirius turns around to find his surly looking  boyfriend glaring daggers straight at him, lips pursed and nose wrinkled ever so fetchingly. “Me?”

“You!”

“ Is this a Muggle game of semantics or something Moons, because for the life of me I’m not following.”

Remus’s glower only deepens, radiating a distinct sort of disapproval that could only ever be  honed in by years of prefectness. “You thief!” He squawks, hands perched on his hips, and mouth twisted up mutinously.

“Is this the part where you say I stole your heart?” Sirius goads with a cocked brow, resuming their unpacking.  “Because love, that line gets old after the millionth recital, but I do appreciate the spirit.”

“Wha? Na—no that is not what I was going to say you egotistical prick!” Remus scoffs— just a bit flustered with a dusting of pink touching the tops of his sharp cheekbones. “You ate the last spring role!” He accuses emphatically, almost tripping over the over a dozen boxes that are strewn across their newly furnished living room. Sirius can’t help but be endeared by Remus and his everythingness. 

“Yes, yes I did Wise Guy,” He confirms distractedly. “I also dipped it into some spicy mustard and drank a bottle of water while I was at it… Your point being?”

“My point you utter berk is that it was mine! I called dibs!”

“I remember no such thing,” Sirius sniffs haughtily, moving to rearrange the photographs  on their mantel. (And yeah, it’s still fucking insane to him that he’s become so domestic that he’s got a mantel over the fireplace that the man he loves more than any other had insisted was absolutely crucial to have if they were to move in together—probably for really romantical love making sessions in front  of it’s flames with the bliss of  no worries of anyone barging in on them, or griping  if they were being to loud—Which by the way, James honestly  had no right in complaining about considering his track record with his and Lily’s on again, off again mating ritual.

“Liar!" Sirius honestly  wouldn’t be surprised if Remus started stomping his feet right about now, and pouting up a storm if the childishly  cross expression    on his pretty face is anything to go by. (And honestly how could one man be so adorable and sexy all at once.)  “You were finishing up the shrimp tempura— because you are a posh idiot without any tastebuds— , and I said that I’ll be right back to get some of the boxes in the spare room, and to save it for me! And then I come here, and I find this! This breach of all we’ve built together!”

Sirius barely conceals his snort. “Is that right? The foundations of our whole, entire bloody relationship? And right after this afternoon, when I made you—“

Two spots of color blotch high on Remus’s cheeks and he cuts him off before Sirius can completely recount the frankly remarkable romp they had just finished with before deciding they needed some nourishment before getting back to unpacking. “Don’t you try to change the subject you stealing stealer who steals!”

“That insult leaves something to be desired Moonbeam.”

“You’re a prick.”

“And you wound me!” Sirius mock sobs, slamming his fist against his chest and swinging back his arm against his forehead. “A plague on you, and your family! And another on your family’s cow.”

Remus’s face morphs into his painfully unimpressed expression, (Hint, it’s very, very flat). “I’ll take your intentional dodge as an admission,” He scoffs, arms crossed tight against his chest.

“I admit nothing!” Sirius shouts in an overdone accent that would better fit the set of Downton Abbey. “Nothing Lupin!”

Remus rolls his eyes at Sirius’s hyperbolic attitude, and okay. Yes. Perhaps Sirius remembers a similar conversation akin to what Remus had described  occurring only ten minutes prior. But to be quite honest, Sirius was hardly listening. Remus’s got on one of Sirius’s oversized t-shirts, a pair of boxer-briefs,  and nothing else. So yeah, he should definitely not be expected to be paying anything any mind while his beyond gorgeous boyfriend is sitting there, impossibly long legs put out for display, and one perfectly alabaster   shoulder bare where the shirt has slipped right off, effectively derailing  Sirius's thoughts to how he’d teasingly kissed across his collar bone just earlier that night, nibbling on the hinge of his jaw while Remus had been  writhing beneath him. so   Really and truly, he should’ve never been expected to remember anything— let alone something as trivial as dibs—  if his utterly perfect partner is right there for the taking, a determined dent between his brows, and intermittently rinsing his hand through his disheveled locks of hair like  spun gold, excited  over the prospect of fixing up this flat that is now their home.

Dear Merlin above   does Sirius love this bloke with every fiber of his being.

“Well,” he relents, swaggering up closer to Remus so that they’re standing only inches apart.  “Even if I did remember that such a discussion had taken place how you’ve described it—“

“It did, and you know it Black!” He harrumphs, using Sirius’s  surname just to get a rise out of him.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now love, is There?.”

Sirius’s sure that he’s won the argument and they could just move on, until he catches the glint in Remus’s impossibly luminous eyes—a glint that always means trouble, a glint that’s never failed to make each one of Sirius’s nerve endings go ablaze.

“Is that right?”

“I reckon it is Moonbeam,” he leers, is momentarily distracted by the downright angelic smile Remus casts his way right then, but suddenly, an onslaught of fingers are piercing into his ribs, wiggling and tickling him into submission.

“Say you’re sorry!” Remus demands, an effortless grin of his own swept across his lovely face, brighter than the morning sun. And yeah, maybe Sirius should just admit that it was his bad, apologize a thousand times over in the form of lingering kisses and caressing hands.… But the thing is, Sirius’s  stubbornness  has always been too rigid for his own good, and he’s always loved prodding at Remus till He just went off like the world’s most darling firecrackers.

“Never you absolute wanker!”

“I won’t relent till you profess an apology to my satisfaction,” Remus scoffs— a playful giggle lilting his overly formal words.

“And I won’t surrender!” He parries with a leer. Sirius tickles back  harder, and Remus  shimmies around so much that He ends up jabbing him in the eye,  ramming straight into his chest, and  effectively sprawling them—all long limbs and crooked angles—onto the wooden floorboards.

“Just say you’re sorry!” He insists, strangled laughter starting to gargle his words while Sirius just gazes down at him, mercilessly besotted.

“”S not my fault you didn’t take it with you Lupin, i’ve committed no grievance.”

“Oh come off it pretty boy.”

“Oy! I’m ruggedly handsome you arse!”

“Testy, testy.”

 “You’re the pretty one.”

“Oh suck my cock.”

“Been there done that.”

Remus seems to be fighting down another laugh before he knees him lightly in the abdomen enough that Sirius tenses, giving Remus the chance to  switch their positions once again, so that  He’s back  on top. 

“My have the tables turned,” He taunts with one of his most dazzling smiles, dimples in full effect, and crinkles around his pretty sea glass eyes.

“I like how you think I’m at all opposed to this position,” Sirius says with a pixilated gleam, arching back enough so that their cotton clad dicks buck up against each other.

“Perv!” Remus scolds, smacking his chest playfully. “Now admit that I won!”

“Never!”

 Somehow, amidst all the thrashing bodies and choked peals of laughter, Sirius flips him over— slight body beneath his own, with Remus’s wrists pinned over his head and his legs wrapped around Sirius’s waste.

“Now, now Monsieur Moony, I reckon that spring has rolled into winter for you,” Sirius most definitely does not laugh raucously    at his own pun.

“That’s not even the direction that the seasons go in,” Remus frowns, nose wrinkled indelicately, a tell Sirius’s picked up on whenever He’s mad over an outcome.

“You still lost though,” Sirius barbs with no real bite, pecking a quick kiss to his lips in solace.

“You’re awful, and I’m breaking up with you,” Remus sniffs in turn—wiggling underneath him to try and get loose.

“Oh, you love me really.” Sirius preens like the cat who’s caught the canary— the world’s most beautiful and brilliant and ruffled canary that is.

“Lies and slander!” Remus waggles his tongue between his teeth, and Sirius dips down to bite it teasingly. 

“Hmm, now isn’t this cute,” the pair scramble away from each other, utterly stunned once spotting Lily of all people, gaze twinkling and lips set into a firm smirk, eyeing them while leisurely lounging against the door frame. 

“You two really can’t keep yr sodding hands off of each other, can you?”

Remus completely reddens, totally flustered, while Sirius only follies back a smug sort of grin at the force of nature  that is Lily Evans, his practical sister-in-law, remus’s best friend, and all around genius.

“How long have you been watching Red dearest,” Sirius asks wryly, making it so now Lily’s the one who’s flushing..

“I hate you Black.” She says shortly, and Sirius’s beam doesn’t falter. “Re, as your spiritual older sister—“

“You’re barely a month older Lils,” Remus interjects, but Lily just goes on as if he hadn’t.

 “I think it’s my job to remind you that he’s not the only bloke in London with a decent shoulder to waste ratio and nice hair. We can snag you someone with a bit of brains even.”

Sirius tosses her a V shaped salute, and Lily sticks her tongue out in retaliation,  but for his part, Remus only tries to cut through the tension with one of his friendlier grins, though it just comes out as an awkward grimace. “I forgot that you’re dropping off the boxes tonight.”

“Evidently Ace,” she snorts, strutting further into the apartment and setting down the box of photos Remus had asked her to bring over from their old place. “Far too busy snogging with the boy who single handedly received the most detentions in Hogwarts history, while also, somehow— by the grace of God— threatened our stances as top of the class.”

“Oy Evans, can’t take all the credit for myself. Jem was my better half, till he moved on to the likes of you.”

Lily ignores him, save for the way her pretty face gets a bit scrunched out of irritation. “Ace, I ask you, what would McGonagall say if she saw her favorite prefect gallivanting around with such a delinquent.

Remus lets out one of his rare and beautiful laughs, something that feels buoyant and is really more breath than sound, but is still so vibrant and splendid and it never fails to thrust Sirius back to the Hogwarts Express, where he and Remus had first met as a couple of wide eyed eleven year olds, and all the contradicting emotions Remus had provoked upon first sight. Wonder, and confusion. Intrigue, and diffidence. Wanting, and fear. It’s an attribute of Remus's that Sirius will never not be amazed by.

“Ah, Minnie my love, how I do miss her so, now where were we Moonbeam?”

“I’m still standing here Black,” Lily reproves with a scoff.

“I think it was about here,” Sirius continues, dipping down to kiss at Remus’s protruding  collar bones.

“Settle down mutt,” Remus rebukes with no real heat, a gentle hand carding through Sirius’s hair.

“God, you two are already an old married couple.”

“You really do know the best moments to interrupt sweetheart.” Sirius snipes with a playful roll to his eyes, his hand discretely resting over the small of Remus’s back.

“And you have no decency, corrupting   Remus the way that you do.”

“Okay first, I take fucking offense, you know better than me that Moony here was the mastermind behind most of our delightful pranks.”

“You mean your childish inconveniences you plagued on the unsuspecting public?”

“And secondly, we didn’t even get to the fun, currupting   part because of your oh so lovely interruption.” Sirius retorts moodily, though he soon suspects the joke was a wrong play to make  when Lily’s smile suddenly goes predatory and sHe flips back a lock of her wind blown curls, ready to pounce. 

“Well perhaps I just stopped by to make sure you weren’t further defiling   my dear Remus. But I guess that giant love bite on your neck proves that I’m too late.”

Sirius can’t help the chuckle that pours out of his lips at her needled observation, smacking a hand to conceal the hickey sHe’s taunting him about, knowing exactly where it is, it’s been a topic of teasing all morning long from a smug Sirius to a properly indignant Remus.

“He-he just marks easily,” Remus pipes out, cheeks completely infused red and worrying on his bottom lip. Sirius suspects that Lily just knew that the one chink in his armor is prodding at Remus’s less than poised acts. 

Lily rolls her eyes in a way that convinces Sirius that sHe doesn’t believe it for a second. “Whatever you say oh Saint Remus,” sHe smirks with no more argument. “but pray tell, are you guys about done swapping spit around me? Or is that going to forever be a regular occurrence in the Remus and Sirius show?”

“Now I’d reckon that’ll get a sold out crowd every night, don’t you?” Sirius asks, directing his question at the pair of  of them while taking Remus’s hand, and pushing him even closer— just always preferring to have some sort of contact with him.

“Oh put a sock in it,” Remus harrumphs, finally starting to return to his normal coloring in the midst of Lily’s unrestrained cackles.

“Aw, don’t be shy love, it’s only the truth.”

Remus presses the pads of his fingers to Sirius’s lips and glares at him for good measure, “Some things are better left for private.”

“Hah,” Lily scoffs, weight slung to her left hip. “As if I don’t get a front row seat every time  you two are within even in a ten foot radius of each other—OH hey, I know that look Ace! The one eyed squint, and the teeth. Well your “I’m about to kill my gorgeous best friend,” look has no place here, i’ll see my way out now. Just promise not to christen every room in this place, kay? We’d all like to visit without the residual specs haunting us! And I know how moody you get without your daily dose of my scintillating company.”

Sirius thinks that Remus’s trying to skewer a whole in the spot where Lily was just standing, if the terribly cross look on his face says anything. It’s precious, Sirius can’t help but snicker.

“Don’t laugh at me! I’m your boyfriend for Merlin’s sake! You’re s’pose to be on my side!”

“I wasn’t laughing at you Moons,” he kisses the fingers Remus has still got on his mouth, mock consolatory.  “Just incredibly turned on.”

That dent between Remus’s brows is back again for a moment, but then his beauteous features smoothen out and He just pecks a quick kiss to Sirius’s lips before rifling through the box Lily brought over, muttering a light,”Whatever,” as He does so.

There’s a quick wrapping to the window, and Sirius glances over to find his owl— Odysseus— with a bundle of letters attached to his left leg. By rote, Sirius feeds him some of the pellets they keep  there for convenience, and unwinds the bundle of parchments, beginning to shuffle through them.

There’s a copy of the Nightly prophet with the murder of another Muggle family splattered all over the front cover in a sickeningly gauche manner, a free trial subscription to the Quibbler with a reading for Scorpios in the month of October, a letter from Peter about his mum and sisters driving him up the rails, an invitation from Marlene for he and Remus to come out to dinner with them for Dorcas’s Birthday, and a ominous letter from James of all paper that simply says a gift for Moony.

Bewildered to why he hadn’t just sent it along with Lily, Sirius tares off the attached photograph only to find something truly, horrendously vile. a photograph of himself. One that was definitely taken fifth year— Sirius’s worst year where he absolutely could not stand being around his family for a moment longer, and James was getting more settled with his studies, an Remus was dating that prefect prick from Ravenclaw and was exceedingly elusive from Marauders nights out.  This was so obviously taken on one of those aforementioned nights out that it’s comical.  Sirius’s hair is as long as it’s ever been— touching the tops of his shoulders— and he’s chugging down a fruity, pink concoction— the type  that Rosmerta was always cooking up for them— hand over fist, and he’s got on puppy ears and a fake nose. In layman’s terms he looks like a complete and total pillock. Drunk off his ass so much so that you can see the stars in his eyes even through the clunky glasses he had stolen from James— convinced that he was sporting them for purely esthetic reasons and not because the knob is actually as blind as a bloody bat— and his finger is pointed and mouth is open in the way it always is when he’s ranting about something or the other.

It’s perhaps the only photograph in history where Sirius isn’t looking his typical, jaw dropping gorgeous self.

There’s about a thousand different retorts he wants to scribble on a spare parchment and  shoot right back to James— ranging from nasty to downright despicable— but then he catches the familiar peal of laughter coming from behind him. He’s not surprised when he sees Remus—beautiful, ingenuous, perfect Remus who’s physically incapable of taking a photograph less than effortlessly lovely, even while pissed— peering over his shoulder in utter amusement.

“Oh My God I need to ask James to send me one of the hundreds of copies he surely has.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sirius retorts darkly.

“I’ll use an enlarging charm and hang it up above the mantel, for prosperity. The one time Sirius looks the way he acts,” he moves his hand over an invisible marquee and looks so damn smug that Sirius could kiss him, and in fact, that’s exactly what he does.

“I hate him,” is all he says afterwards, once he’s pulled away.

“I can’t believe that’s you!” Remus continues with eyes full of mirth.

“I want to banish him, no. No I want to banish all of them. All of our friends, we can make knew ones Moons. I mean look at us! We’re a catch!” He tosses the letters onto the newly acquired sofa as if they have personally affronted  him and all he stands for.

“ Oh brilliant idea love.”

“That sounds like your sarcastic voice Moons.”

“No, you’ve got my full support. this’s our castle Pads, we can banish whom ever we like,” Remus balances on his tiptoes,  and smacks an exasperated kiss onto his cheek. Sirius can barely contain the glee that’s dancing in his eyes at the thought of this being their own personal castle— a fortress just for the pair of them to escape within—  causing another swell of fondness to pound in his chest.

“Well maybe we can give’m another chance,” he relents, melting into how Remus’s locked his arms around his neck, and is smiling up at him with all the love in the world shining unadulteratedly in his lovely eyes. “I mean they did help us move all those boxes and all.”

Remus hums his agreement while he presses his forehead against his own, endlessly endeared.

“What a generous king,” He goads, words hugged with fondness. 

“Ooo, I like that, call me that in bed and I might bless you with my royal sector.”

Remus thumps his nose, “Your more tolerable when you don’t speak and just stand there being pretty.”

“Aw, you think I’m pretty Moonykins?”

Remus shakes his head ruefully, the smile on his face one that Sirius knows well— one that means he’s reluctantly endeared. “Dork.”

“Plonker.”

There lips meet for another kiss and it feels like all the resplendence in the galaxy being distilled between just the two of them.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

bloodhorse

this was supposed to be a short fic,, i was wrong

the Jockey’s name is Sorrel!

also im sorry if i got the Netherworld wrong. i don’t quite know how it works but i am Trying.

using the concept where the Dead can feel the pain of how they died!

Word count: 6071

TW: Blood, death, implied child abuse

----------------------

Sorrel was eight when she first watched The Lion King, maybe nine. She couldn’t quite remember. But what she could remember was the horror of Mufasa’s death. Her jaw had dropped as the big, fluffy kitty was stepped on by all the weird-looking deer, and she screamed in reaction, floundering over to her smartly-dressed parents in tears to blubber about what she had just witnessed. They had, as they always had with anything she did, looked bothered by her presence around them, and her father tiredly explained what was going on to her, but even then she still couldn’t really understand. She just knew that it was scary and sad. 

But watching someone get trampled and actually being trampled were two entirely different things.

Despite her best efforts to forget, Sorrel remembered That Day clearly. She was sitting in the jockey room, in a far corner, away from all of the other jockeys. She had already dressed out and was patiently waiting for her race of the day. She was clad in black riding boots, white pants, and a checkered ruby red and white jacket that she knew was going to be covered in dust and dirt by the end of the race. Her safety helmet, goggles, and crop were beside her on the bench she was sitting on. She already had her long brown hair done in a braid and then a tight bun so she could tuck it safely out of eyesight when the time came to race.

At first glances, she almost looked like she knew what she was doing.

Okay, that was an exaggeration. She did know what she was doing, she had been training, but the anxiety of racing was getting to her, as it always did. For example, she had woken up that morning mid-panic attack before her eyes even fully opened.

And she knew for a fact that jockeys that knew what they were doing wouldn’t have that happen to them.

It didn’t help that everyone else in the room was a man, meaning she was not only the youngest, but also the only girl. Now she really had to prove herself worthy of being equal to her male counterparts.

Hoping to distract herself from her festering anxiety, Sorrel had looked up to watch the big TV up on the far wall, where the hosts of the racing channel talked about the odds and favorites of the next race today. All That Jazz was the favorite going into the race, with another horse by the name of Knock Your Socks Off right after.

Names Sorrel didn’t recognize at all continued to pop up on the screen, until, finally…

All That Jazz

Knock Your Socks Off

Fly Me To The Moon

Too Close For Comfort

Killer Whale

When Lightning Strikes

Donut Tell Daddy 

Rookie’s Gambling Chance 

Dime-a-Dozen

Blazing Berry

  “Would you look at that,” A biting voice cackled from the side. “Little girl actually made it in the top five.”

Sorrel whipped her head around to glare at the owner of the voice- a young man about nineteen with enough gel in his hair to start a fire. Sorrel did her best to just ignore him, busying herself with her boots instead, making sure they were fastened properly. 

Harassment in the jockey room wasn’t uncommon for Sorrel- in fact, it was weird if she didn’t get picked on at least once. Her young age didn’t deter the men, either. If anything, it made them even more manic in their persecution of her. More…handsy.

Sorrel swallowed thickly and tried not to think about the Other Times. When nobody could see the handprints because of the dirt slathered up and down her sides. When she was accused of trying to slander her opponents because she “couldn’t handle losing.” 

  “Are you ignoring me?” The young man said. He sidled more into view, and Sorrel could see that his uniform was yellow and white. She turned her head away more, saying nothing.

She was sure the man was about to spew out even more misogyny when someone came into the room to tell the jockeys it was time for them to saddle up. The man, quick to straighten himself up, headed out for the place where all the horses were being held at the end of the walk. Sorrel glared at the back of his helmeted head, considering using her whip on him, finally standing up for herself, but couldn’t find the courage to do so.

Maybe if she had, she would have been disqualified, and then none of this would have happened in the first place.

They all heard loud voices of the fans as they made their way to the paddocks. As the horses and trainers lined up came into view, each jockey moved towards their respective mount. There, amid the rising dust, Sorrel saw her stallion shifting anxiously on his haunches, looking all around as the sounds grew louder and louder. Her trainer was doing his best to calm the colt.

Her horse was well named. After SeaWorld’s most famous orca, Tilikum, aka Killer Whale while on the track, was a massive beast with sleek roan fur and an ebony black head, legs, mane, and tail, as if he had crawled out of the very shadows themselves. His eyes were pitch dark and wild, and he never seemed to stop moving. He was an aloof, ill-tempered, cranky young colt, and nobody ever seemed to have any idea how his caretaker became the most shy, anxious, and socially awkward girl to possibly ever exist.

That girl was Sorrel.

She and Tilikum just had a connection! She had raised him herself, despite how agitated he always was, and never gave up on him no matter how many times he bit her, bucked her, scratched her, or knocked her down. He was her best friend! Not that the bar was very high, she didn’t have very many friends to begin with, but still! They were a dynamic duo!

  “Come on, Sorrel,” Her trainer said impatiently. “Up you go. You have a race to win. We gotta pull in cash somehow.”

Sorrel nodded, put on her helmet and goggles, then grabbed the saddle and clambered onto Tilikum’s muscular back, which took a few tries because of how big he was and how much muscle she lacked. Surprised, the horse stumbled a little, pawing at the dirt with a front hoof. Then, he settled. Somewhat. He didn’t seem happy.

Tilikum hesitated. He shuffled back and forth. Under Sorrel’s thighs, his muscles tensed, and, for a moment, Sorrel feared he was going to throw her off (he had done that before. before a race like this. she had yet to get over that one). Then, he craned his head around, looking for something. Sorrel laughed softly and gave it to him- a sugar cube.

A watching jockey wrinkled his nose a little at this. Another bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

  “He shouldn’t be so fidgety when you get onto him,” Said the first jockey. He was sitting maturely on the back of his dark bay thoroughbred, probably thinking he knew everything about racing. “And you shouldn’t have to tempt him into listening to you with treats… Is he not trained?”

  “He is trained!” Sorrel snapped, causing Tilikum to stir in agitation at the tone of her voice. She quieted herself, hunching her shoulders in, and muttered an apology to her mount. “Tilikum’s just…he has a temper. That’s all.”

The jockey quirked an eyebrow at that, but didn’t say anything else. Sorrel looked away.

  “Remember,” Her trainer spoke back up. “Let him make his own pace coming out of the gate. Don’t push him until the very end. And don’t listen to those PETA pussies. It’s okay to use your whip. It’s there for a reason. If he isn’t listening to you, give him a good lashing.”

Sorrel didn’t like the sound of that at all. As someone who had been subjected to the other end of a switch (she lived in the country, after all, it was bound to happen eventually), she knew how badly it could hurt and she didn’t want Tilikum to have to feel that. But still, she nodded, not wanting to anger her trainer. He already always looked frustrated with her as is.

  “Good luck,” The trainer called after her as the horses were led out onto the track by escorts. “Don’t disappoint us this time.”

Passing that threshold, Sorrel realized she and her horse were no longer Sorrel and Tilikum.

They were Sorrel and Killer Whale.

Cheers erupted from the stands as the ten horses in the race were walked out onto the field. Sorrel had told herself to keep her eyes forward, to stay focused, but she found herself looking all around the track stadium to try and find the only people she wanted to see. It was hard to discern the mass of people, but she hoped they were here this time.

The escorts led the horses up to the starting gate as the announcer spoke loudly to the crowd, introducing the racers. One by one, each horse was walked into the stalls in order. Tilikum-- no, Killer Whale had no problem getting into his designated spot, number six, but once the door shut behind him loudly with a clank and squeal, that was when he began to act up.

Killer Whale began nervously neighing and backing up against the gate. Tilikum was starting to slip out of his race facade, which really wasn’t something Sorrel wanted to happen. Not during a race. Not again.

  “Shh, shh,” Sorrel whispered, leaning down to speak into her horse’s ear. “It’s okay. It’s--” She cut herself off with a yelp as the chestnut  stallion to her left rammed against the metal grating separating the two of them, startling Killer Whale further.

The clamor was starting to get to Sorrel, too. The stall was so small and it was so noisy from all the rattling iron and horse cries. She felt like she was suffocating and, without realizing it, she found herself becoming shortened of breath. All the dust was choking her. The smell of metal and horses burned in her nostrils.

Don’t freak out, don’t freak out… 

  “Holy shit, kid, are you alright?” The man to her left, the one with the chestnut stallion who hit into her grate (he apologized, at least) asked.

  “She’s fine,” Said the young man to Sorrel’s right- the same young man who had harassed her in the jockey room. “Let her work herself up. Maybe then she’ll realize this isn’t for her.” He laughed cruelly.

His taunting words registered in Sorrel’s ringing ears and she grit her teeth, stamping down her panic attack. It just kept bubbling to the surface, so she finally gave up on calming herself and rather turned to her horse.

  “Come on, boy,” She whispered, almost hissed through her clenched teeth as her anger mounted. “Calm down. It’s okay. I’m with you.”

Just when she thought she had Killer Whale settled, an ear piercing ringing sounded from above and the gates flew open.

The horses jetted from their stalls, and Killer Whale took off.

The sound of the hoofbeats was hypnotizing. And it only got more and more hypnotic the closer and closer Sorrel and Killer Whale inched towards the competition.

Sorrel leaned forward, keeping her balance with ease, her legs an iron band around Killer Whale’s girth. She could feel the powerful muscles bunching and releasing, the heat and sweat leaching through her pants, searing her skin.

The herd of professionals was galloping, yet Killer Whale ran just as fast. He twisted to the right, to the left, his body never straight. Sorrel felt like she was riding a wild, plunging river, a torrent that tossed her, battered her, until she hardly knew where she was.

It was incredible.

The first horse they passed was a deep red color, then a chocolate brown one, then one the shade of bloody mud.

  “Easy, Tilly, easy,” Sorrel said to her horse. “You’re doing great, buddy. Steady on.”

Killer Whale snorted and urged himself forward without his rider’s command. Almost sensing his need to speed up, Sorrel obliged and finally lifted herself fully off of the saddle, leaning forward and adjusting her weight so it would be at the front. Practically standing up on this sprinting beast’s back made a strong sense of vertigo wash over her, and she thought she might fall off, but Killer Whale’s increasing speed brushed away her worries.

Sorrel’s grip may have been tight on the reins, but Killer Whale was controlling himself. He weaved through two horses almost perfectly, despite them never training with moving obstacles, only the occasional stock-still ones. He knew to angle to the right to avoid getting his legs tangled up in an opponent’s and banked a hard left at the next turn that was so sharp it cut off the rider in front of him.

They both crossed the finish line for the third time, starting the final lap. Sorrel was still shouting in glee when, suddenly, something slammed into Killer Whale’s side on the last leg of the race, ramming him right against the wall where one side of the stands were situated above. Sorrel yelped as her shoulder and side were grated painfully against the metal as her horse was pushed further against the structure. She turned to see the man from the jockey room glaring at her from his raging red horse, Knock Your Socks Off.

  “You’ll learn one way or another, little girl!” The man spat, “This isn’t for you!”

Sorrel grunted and she heard Killer Whale screech a furious neigh. He whipped his head to the side, baring his teeth and rotating his ears back. His anger was a cold, deep, dark thing that Sorrel knew about well. He once kicked down a barn door just because he was pet in an area he didn’t want to be pet in. That being said, Sorrel has taken a lot of time to learn his mannerisms and techniques to calm the beast.

Now was not one of the times to use those.

  “You don’t belong here!” The man hissed.

Sorrel grit her teeth, feeling the scrapes already tearing open on her shoulder thanks to the wall. Even over the sound of hoofbeats and horses, she could still hear her trainer’s words ringing in her ears.

  “It’s okay to use your whip. It’s there for a reason.”

Sorry, buddy, Sorrel thought before yanking on the reins to get away from the man and unholstering her crop. The sound of it cracking against Killer Whale’s side echoed in her head.

That was her biggest mistake.

Killer Whale screeched. He sped up with a burst of speed, then began to have a fit. 

Sorrel helplessly cried for her steed to calm down, but her yelling only seemed to spur his frenzy further. He whipped his head back and forth, turned in every direction, reared and bucked until, finally, Sorrel came loose from his back and was flung to the dirt. 

Sorrel lay dazed on the ground for several long seconds. She was winded, confused, and very disorientated. She struggled to breathe as several other cries of horses sounded around her. They must have gotten spooked by Killer Whale’s tantrum.

And then, a hoof came crashing down onto her stomach.

Now, Sorrel had felt pain before, that in itself wasn’t anything new. Once, when she was ten, she had gotten stung by a hornet while at a birthday party for her younger cousin. At the time, she thought that was the worst pain anyone could ever go through. But now, five years later, with 1100 pounds of pure muscle pressing into her abdominal cavity, she would have much preferred the hornet.

Sorrel couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even wheeze as the horse that had stepped on her charged onwards, the edge of its hoof catching on her uniform and flesh and taking some of it with it. Another hoof came down on her, then another, then another, then another, until it felt like she was caught in a hurricane that had raindrops made of thick keratin. She tried to curl in on herself, tried to protect her organs, but they hooves kept coming and she couldn’t move and she was so fucking scared.

Through the dust and black spots that began to appear all along her vision, she saw Killer Whale, and his eyes were stark white and full of rage.

Pure rage.

She could see it now. That wasn’t Killer Whale looking back at her. It wasn’t even Tilikum. It was a horse she forced into racing because she wanted them to be a duo. And he hated her with every inch of his being.

I’m sorry, dear friend.

--

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the horses are up for the fifth race here at Hartford Stadium. Once again, Maxwell Gingham and the incredible All That Jazz bring up the front in a crowd favorite.

And they’re off!

With the gate up, Blazing Berry and Knock Your Socks Off tie for the front, but All That Jazz is not far behind. Donut Tell Daddy right there. Too Close For Comfort a length off the pace. Killer Whale is in front of When Lightning Strikes, but All That Jazz trails the leader by only three lengths. Blazing Berry leads by a head. Dime-a-Dozen hangs tight with jockey Richard Bride aboard. Rookie’s Gambling Chance is challenging the rest of the pack. 

Into the next turn, Blazing Berry still controlling the pace, with All That Jazz close behind. Knock Your Socks Off content with third place at this point. Fly Me To The Moon falling off a bit. Donut Tell Daddy and Too Close For Comfort are in good position in the second group. Killer Whale mounting a challenge, but it could be too much. He’s making a bold move on the outside and looking for a way in around the bend-- Look out! Killer Whale’s rider goes down! Jockeys do their best to avoid a pile-up! All the horses go through, but the rider… Oh dear-- oh god! Stop the cameras! Stop! Someone get help down there! I don’t think she’s--”

--

Sorrel had not been looking forward to dying. Not one bit. There were still so many things she wanted to do. She was supposed to become the world’s best jockey, become famous, finally be loved by her parents… She wasn’t supposed to die, not this soon, not this early.

But she could safely say that she was looking forward to not being in pain anymore. Death, at least, would provide respite from the awful way she went out. She would no longer feel the crunching of her bones, the tearing of her flesh, the ripping of her organs, the spilling of her own blood, the pounding of the hooves of her enraged horse who wanted nothing more than to pummel her into the dirt. It would finally all be gone and she would be at peace.

But she wasn’t. Because when her eyes opened and she found herself lying on the track, sprawled in mud that was mixed with her own blood, she was met with the unbearable agony of invisible hooves smashing her organs and had to roll over to vomit blood all over the dirt.

For a long time, Sorrel cried until it felt like she couldn’t breathe- and then she realized she wasn’t breathing. Not really. But she could still feel pain and her lungs felt like they were being ripped right out of her chest, her rib cage crumpling inwards to pierce her heart and diaphragm. She gurgled on her blood.

It was dark. The track was dead. She was dead. The only people around were a few stragglers who must have worked at the stadium. She tried to get up to run to them, but she couldn’t stand up. When she looked down, she saw that her right femur was sticking out of her thigh. She threw up again, then settled for crawling.

  “Help me,” Sorrel begged, dragging herself to a group of three people speaking in hushed whispers. “Please, please help me-- it hurts-- I want my mom--”

But her pleading went unnoticed. It wasn’t until her hand phased right through one of the men that she truly realized what had happened.

Sorrel curled into a ball again, weeping even more. The pain grew unbearable. She thought death was supposed to be peaceful. 

The group left, eventually. The moon rose high in the sky. Its glow caught on something lying listlessly in the dirt of the track. Sorrel crawled over to it. 

The Handbook For The Recently Deceased. That was what it said, and reading it made Sorrel feel even more sick. She forced herself to not throw up this time, though she could feel the blood slowly filling her lungs like a thick red tar.

Sorrel accidentally stained the dusty pages when she flipped through the book. Her gloves were coated in a fine layer of dust and blood. Her uniform was the same way, she realized, slathered in the muck of her own fluids and dirt from the track. Hoofprints trodded up and down her chest, stomach, and legs, marks to remember what had happened, though she was sure the trauma would never leave her brain, even after death. Her helmet was cracked down the middle, but still firmly strapped to her skull. It did its job, it seemed, because her head hurt the least amount out of every spot on her throbbing body.

She read through the book with cloudy eyes. She was exhausted, mentally and physically. She wanted to lay down and never wake up. She wanted the pain to go away. She wanted her mom.

Eventually, she managed to find a passage with directions to some place called the “Netherworld,” and she was in little room to question anything at that point, so she followed what it said. 

She didn’t have any chalk to draw a door, so she had to settle for her own blood. She hobbled to one of the stadium walls, which took forever because her small intestines came out at one point and made her have a screaming fit for five minutes straight before she was able to stuff them back into her abdominal cavity and continue her journey. When she finally got there, she slicked her already-filthy hands with the blood from her many, MANY wounds (god, those horses did a number on her, didn’t they?) and sloppily drew a red door on the wall. She added a doorknob, which ended up being too large because she had slammed her hand down in the reaction to the pain of her small intestines trying to slither their way out of her again, then knocked three times while hugging her stomach with one arm, trying to keep her organs in where they belonged. Slowly, the door opened up to her and she was bathed in green light.

It did little to comfort her.

The myriad of dead people through the doorway did even less.

Sorrel spit blood, then let her guts fall out as she sank to her knees.

She was so tired.

--

It was official: Sorrel hated being dead. And it wasn’t simply because she was dead, no, she could have dealt with that if the afterlife was cool like it was in Coco or something, but this-- this fucking sucked.

She was lonely. Even though the Netherworld was built like a regular society- a society that glowed green and sheltered walking corpses, but a society nonetheless- there were no people for her. Nobody ever wanted to talk to her, no matter how hard she tried. And even though she was only a “few dead days old,” she was already thinking about giving up because how the hell were you supposed to make friends in hell? Surely that was what this place was. That was what she got for being born into a family that was above middle-class.

It was also just so confusing. Why was she in debt? Why did she need a job when she was fifteen and, you know, DEAD? Why was there an economic system in the underworld? What was all this paperwork for? WHO WAS BEETLEJUICE???

She couldn’t wrap her head around any of it. And that was saying a lot because her head was the only thing apart of her that was completely intact after The Accident. 

She tried to get help, tried to ask questions, but everyone else looked at her in amusement or disdain whenever she did. It was the same way whenever she expressed any form of pain or didn’t understand something or let her organs fall out on accident. It was like they were expecting her to instantly know everything there was to know about being dead and if she didn’t, she was beneath them and wasn’t worth their time.

Funny. Her parents were the same way.

And then, there was the pain. It always came back to the pain.

Some days, she could deal with it, really. Some days it was only a dull pounding in her stomach or soreness in her chest. Some days it was only her legs, other days her shoulders, and other other days her sternum.

But some days, it was all over. And she couldn’t handle it.

This was how Those Days usually went: Her stomach began to throb and ache an hour after waking up. Joints and muscles started swelling two hours in. At three hours they’d go numb and heavy, forcing her to strain her body just to keep moving. Four hours in, feeling would return in the form of deep, slicing pain that lingered long into the day. After that, her bones would begin splintering, her organs would try to shove their way out of her, and her lungs start to hemorrhage. 

The pressure and pain her death put on her very being was constant. Oh how she wanted to be rid of this deep-seeded agony that was not only tearing her body apart, but her second “life”, too.

The way the shock from each throb made her fingers start to go numb if she had a grip on just about anything for too long, and she didn’t even know if she would be able to speak when she opened her mouth. The way her spine, heavily trampled and damaged from the hooves, knotted up until it felt wooden. The way her guts sloshed in her stomach like soup on some days, leaking viscous fluid that wasn’t really blood out of any opening they could find, forcing her to hug her middle or be shamed with them spilling out of her already-soiled uniform. The way her limbs screamed when she flew with an agony that seemed to echo in her more than her joints at some point. The way she would lie in the bed of her lonely Netherworld apartment and try not to shriek along with every muscle in her body, the way her body didn’t even seem to belong to her anymore.

She ached when she was lying down.

She ached when she was standing.

She ached when she was doing her job.

She ached on days she did nothing and she ached on the day that Breather in black came by with her father. 

She ached because she ached.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she sometimes found herself making a litany of her pain. A whisper of suffering that she tried to focus on so she wasn’t focused on the actual feeling. Anything but the feeling.

But if that wasn’t bad enough… 

The fact that she had to constantly deal with what felt like physical torture day to day wasn’t enough of a burden for one person. She had also been burdened with being an eyesore and a disappointment, though that wasn’t really new. She could feel the scorn and disgust the other dead felt when they saw her. Sometimes, that was worse than the pain itself.

It was just discomfort. All the time. Even things like getting up in the “mornings” (she still had no idea how time worked down here) and sleeping couldn’t be taken for granted. There was nothing good about her body.

It rocked to a rhythm that felt like it was being conducted by her very soul, but it did nothing to ease the fire in her veins.

She wished it was fire. That was what she had thought it was, at first. A little while ago.

Fire burned, but not in the same way. Fire was detached, impersonal. It didn’t care what got in the way. It burned and charred and devoured everything in minutes and went on its way, leaving the scorched corpses in its wake. Fire was powerful and murderous but it wasn’t torturous- the man who had gone up in flames because he smoked in bed proved that to her because he seemed to be doing just fine. Sulfur on the other hand…well, falling into a burning pool of that stuff was a different beast entirely.

Sulfur clung in a way that fire did not. It wrapped its monstrous hands around you, drawing you in closer, exposing more of you to its touch until it framed each piece of you intimately, until it was every much a part of you as your skin was.

Fire would leave. Sulfur stayed.

It stayed even after your death. It made you burn until you lost yourself, until there was nothing left except the fiery red afterglow and the screams inside of your head. It branded you, so that you and the whole fucking Netherworld knew that you were being burned. Being roasted alive. Being cauterized, like an open wound. You were something that was wrong, something bad, something that needed to be fixed or punished.

Mama has the switch. Can she get me down here? 

Sorrel would have much preferred fire.

The sulfur had burned her consciousness away, seared her eyes until all she saw was black spots. Filled her lungs until her chest felt like it was an open furnace. Blistered through her stomach and chest and legs and arms and back until they became a sick rendition of what they were supposed to be, like one big fucking cosmic joke. Sorrel was so sick of being the fucking punchline.

But, in the end, it didn’t really matter much one way or another because she suffered in silence. She strained herself to keep her body functioning so none of the other dead would get annoyed with her. She forced herself to go to work because she was a people-pleaser at heart and didn’t want to disappoint anyone. She tortured herself just to keep people who didn’t even care about her content, but there was nothing she could do about it. Not anymore. She was in too deep to do anything now.

This week had been especially brutal. The bruises stamped up and down the front of her body seemed to be at war with the cuts from the hooves, determined to see what could make her hurt more. Her lungs were bleeding extra today, too, and she kept accidentally spitting blood into people’s faces when she talked to them. She ended up spraying the wrong person, a woman with pale blue skin and deep purple brittle fingers and icicles hanging from her frosted hair (hypothermia, Sorrel guessed), because she was shoved backwards with enough force to send her careening into a desk in the office she had been bustling through. The edge of the table stabbed into her lower back, making her entire body tense up. When she tried to sidle to the side, a bloody apology dripping from her lips, her right femur suddenly snapped beneath her weight and she crumpled to the ground. Despite her training herself to not react to any pain she was in, she couldn’t bite back a scream this time.

There was a reason why broken femurs were so severe.

The hypothermic woman leered down at her squirming figure as if she were a worm she found nibbling on her corpse. “You’re a disgrace to the dead.” She spat.

Sorrel gurgled on her blood in response, digging her fingernails into the gash in her thigh where the bone was trying to inch its way out to freedom.

The hypothermic woman sneered in disgust. A cloud of freezing fog puffed out of her nostrils as if she were a terrifying ice dragon. Shaking her head in contempt, she wiped her face, then walked away, leaving Sorrel to reset her femur on her own.

Sorrel looked at the fallen stack of paperwork she had dropped in dismay. Juno wasn’t going to be happy with this one.

--

All things considered, Miss Argentina was quite lucky. Compared to the rest of the Dead, she had a rather simple, easy-to-deal-with death. Not to say that slashing open her own wrists with a razor blade wasn’t painful, but “living” with it in the Netherworld was like living with carpal tunnel syndrome- it was manageable.

Certainly more manageable than whatever the hell was going on with the horse girl in one of the offices.

Miss Argentina knew a lot of people. One of the perks of working in maintenance, she supposed. So she had seen this specific Dead before, quite a few times, actually, the most notable being when the goth Breather and her father stupidly decided to come down for a visit, but she never got around to talk to the child. 

Until now, of course.

When the “work day” finally ended and Miss Argentina was leaving for her apartment, she heard it. The whimpering. It reminded her of something a sick puppy would make or maybe a kitten with an upset stomach. Whatever it was, it was distressing, but also very intriguing, so she followed it deeper into the building. Stepping into one of the offices that was rank with blood, she found where those papers she had been looking for were.

Slightly sticking out from behind a table, Miss Argentina saw the little jockey sprawled on the floor, a fresh staining of blood seeping into her already-bloodied horse racing uniform. She was twisted into an awkward position, similar to how the corpses in those crime shows she used to watch when she was alive would be in- face-down with her arms tucked into her and her legs folded inward and knees pointing sharply to the side. Inching closer, fuelled by morbid curiosity, Miss Argentina realized why she was in such an arrangement.

The femur was sticking out of her right thigh. 

Miss Argentina couldn’t help grimace. When she was alive, she had a friend who broke his femur during a sports accident. He had to go to physical therapy to simply learn how to walk again. Death and the supernatural body, at the very least, saved this child from that, but the pain she had to have been in… No wonder she was lying on the floor.

Miss Argentina had heard about what happened to this little one. Trampled to death by horses. And she would admit that she got a laugh out of it at first, because what kind of death was that? But it quickly became less amusing when she saw the state the girl was in when she first showed up two weeks ago.

Hoofprints stomped all along the front of her body, uniform ripped and bloody, cuts and bruises all over, crunching bones when she moved and spilling organs that constantly tried to escape her abdominal cavity like restless snakes and gushing blood from her mouth. What made it worse was how little she was. A young jockey that died in the middle of a race. She couldn’t imagine what that had been like for her. 

The jockey didn’t stir when she stepped towards her, and Miss Argentina rationalized that she must have fallen asleep. Or blacked out, which seemed way more likely because that exposed bone looked worse and worse the closer and closer she got.

She knelt down to the jockey and gently shook her shoulder.

  “Honey?” Miss Argentina called out. “Wake up.”

The jockey gasped, sharply drawing in a useless breath of air, which quickly thickened with blood and came back out red. Miss Argentina grimaced and wondered if she should pat the girl’s back to help her get the gunk out of her throat (you were supposed to do that, right? or was it just a myth? she never thought to test it when she was alive), but thought against it when she saw the hoofprints on her back. She grimaced again. Did this child have any spot on her body that hadn’t been beaten mercilessly by horses?

The jockey eventually stopped leaking from her mouth and looked up at her dazedly, blood dripping from her chin in a dark waterfall of red. She squinted at her, then turned her head to the accumulating puddle beneath her head.

  “Sorry about the floor,” She croaked, and her voice was hoarse, but high and youthful.

  “It’s alright,” Miss Argentina assured her. “Are you okay?”

The jockey blinked at her slowly, as if confused as to why she was checking up on her. Miss Argentina could understand why, though. There was a reason she had told Lydia that everyone was alone in the Netherworld- nobody liked meddling in the affairs or business of others.

And yet, here she was.

  “Yes…” The jockey said slowly, sounding unsure. She tried to sit up, but froze when she moved her legs and looked back at them nervously. She bit her lip when she saw the state of her femur, but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you sure?” Miss Argentina asked.

  “Yes,” The jockey said again, this time less unsure, but much meeker. She ducked her head to avoid Miss Argentina’s worried gaze and the rim of her helmet fell into her eyes.

Miss Argentina frowned. She watched as the jockey twisted around and managed to sit up, bracing herself against the table she had been laying beside. She pushed her femur back into her thigh with a horrible grinding-crunching sound and was very clearly struggling not to scream.

  “Sorry,” The jockey whispered after a moment. Her hands were still resting on her thigh, and her gloves (Miss Argentina thought they may have been white at some point) were soaking up a new layer of filth as blood drooled agaisnt them.

  “What for?” Miss Argentina tilted her head. “You haven’t done anything wrong, sweetheart. I promise you that.”

  “Y-yeah, but--” The jockey sounded anxious, like she was afraid of being yelled at for simply expressing discomfort. “The Dead-- I don’t wanna be weak, but-- it hurts. Everything hurts. And I--” She caught herself. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

Miss Argentina frowned. She reached out and lifted the jockey’s head with one hand. Using the other, she pushed her helmet back and saw that her eyes were a brilliant shade of hazel. There were tears gathering inside of them. The jockey stared up at her in shock, then leaned into her touch like a kitten seeking warmth from its mother.

  “It’s alright, sweetheart,” Miss Argentina murmured to her. “It’s okay. You aren’t going to get in trouble for hurting. Everyone else are just uptight a--” She looked the jockey over, taking in how young she really was. “Jerks.”

That got a giggle out of the jockey, which quickly became wet with blood. She covered her mouth and swallowed, then pulled her hand away. Miss Argentina couldn’t imagine having to deal with a chronic bloody mouth. 

  “Okay,” The jockey whispered. She sniffled. “Sorry. I mean-- I apologize a lot. Sorry. Oh--”

Miss Argentina laughed. She felt endearment grow in her heart for this ragged, bloody child. 

  “It’s quite alright, honey,” Miss Argentina told her. She stood up and extended a hand down to the jockey. “Do you have anywhere to be?” 

The jockey took her hand and was pulled to her feet. She staggered for a moment, then steadied herself, wincing slightly. “No, ma’am.”

Miss Argentina raised an eyebrow. “‘Ma’am’?” She echoed. “That’s new for me.”

The jockey blushed shyly. “Sorry. Raised to be well-manered and all…”

  “No, no,” Miss Argentina was quick to assure her when she began to get nervous. “You’re a very sweet girl. It’s a nice change of pace from everything else. But you don’t have to be so formal with me.”

The jockey gave a light laugh. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. I was, like, bred to be the perfect, polite daughter.” She said. “But, ahh-- no. No, I don’t have anywhere to be. Usually I just sit in my bed after work and try to turn out the sound of screeching horses in my head.”

Miss Argentina blinked worriedly. “Why don’t you tag along with me? You look like you could use some good company.”

The jockey perked up. “Really?”

Miss Argentina smiled at her warmly. “Really.”

It could be a start to make the pain go away. 

[monstaxardeur]

Dom Wonho love making !!

Warnings: Mature

It was late and the night was a little hot, the a.c was humming and you sank back in the chair reading the files and notes even though husband dearest told you not to since you often couldn't handle the court case stories. You both were a very empathetic couple and so Wonho often requested you to keep away so at least one of you had your sanity intact. This current case wasn't anything extreme, but slandering of women's characters by their significant others was so common, you made a disgusted face closing the file. "So that's where you snuck to." Wonho spoke standing by the door frame still in his dress pants and button down shirt with an extra button undone. "It's hot isn't it ", you teased and watched him smirk while having his flavored malt, your big guy never drank, he didn't like it one bit, you however indulged at times. "You didn't say anything about seeing me in the courtroom." He asked rather honestly, you paused and looked away taking a deep breath. Wonho finished his glass and set it down before asking concerned, "Was it something I said there?" You smiled and shook your head fiddling with a post it note "Oh no it wasn't anything like that, it just; you- I mean.." You stopped and walked over to him and he made a confused face because he was curious now about your strange behavior. "You looked hot." That's all you said while feeling your face go red as you hid your embarassed face in your palms and Wonho's face lit up at first, he found it so amusing. He playfully tried to get you to look at him reaching for your hands but you just face planted in his chest groaning at your silly remark. Wonho's soft whispers in your ear became low as he asked, "Well will you tell me, did I get you hot and heavy." You refused now more than ever to look at him, you could tell from his voice he wasn't your sweetheart husband right now. His tone and talking mode sort of changed to that domineering one he had in the court room today. He tipped your chin and you were met with his darkened gaze and that damned smile that made your knees weak. His arms snaked around you pulling you closer and locked you in his grip. He was waiting for you to speak, his thumb brushing over your pink pout, "I am waiting for an answer." He spoke extra slow, his index finger tracing a line between your neck and all the way till the neckline of your night shirt. You opened your mouth to whisper out a soft 'Wonho' but he took your lips in a rather bruising lingering kiss. It wasn't gentle like his usual self it was a tad bit rough, he continued to leave open mouthed kisses across your jaw and stopped to be extra slow over that weak spot in the hollow of your neck. You let out a whimper, hands running through his blond hair. 

He was effortless when he lifted you and on cue you wrapped your legs around him. He didn't place you on the bed, no, instead he had you against the window in the pitch dark room, the barely there light that illuminated the room from the window clearly showed the floor length mirror that was right across you. You felt that knot in your belly as it coiled. "Like what you see?" he cocked an eye brow as he easily lifted your shirt over your head and kissed you more deeply. You struggled to get his shirt undone but you managed to catch a glimpse of the way the shirt was hanging off his shoulders in the mirror and you cursed, 'oh fuck!' Wonho was so smug in that moment he knew exactly what was happening. You spread your legs a little more and bucked your hips wanting to feel some friction through your soft cotton panties. "My baby is so impatient, did you want me to be stern with you? Like how you saw me this morning?" He pushed the fabric aside inserting his digits inside while his thumb made lazy circles on your bud. "Were you imagining me between your legs in the courtroom this morning?" You threw your head back hands clutching on to his undone shirt wanting more of his ministrations inside of you. With your neck exposed he found himself sucking marks on to you all the while his fingers pace increasing. Arching your back you felt yourself come undone letting out a soft slur of moans. He watched your head thrown back and you panting and he brushed your hair away from your face. "You're so sweet love, you taste so sweet." He whispered against your lips and you wrapped your arms around him, kissing him crazy and rushed to get his shirt off of him. He always had a proud feeling when he saw you break your restraints and become a spoiled mess asking him for more. He couldn't contain his grin like "I'm all yours sweetheart, I'll take care of you, I promise."

He picked you up and dropped you on the bed eventually. The way this man showered you with body worship had you sigh so deep in love, your hands tracing over his bare shoulder musceles as he discarded ur dainty undergarment. He latched himself on to your mounds and earned needy moans from you. You'd gotten tired of feeling just his clothed bulge and helped him out of his confines. If you were honest you loved being skin to skin with him, it felt intimate and you wondered if this feeling was normal or if it resonated with you two on a deeper level. As he'd stood to get rid of all article of clothing you gave his member a few strokes and watched him furrow his brows and scrunch his face. You left fluttery kisses over his torso before turning them into wet kisses. You slowed down on your strokes and he couldn't handle the teasing. Grabbing your wrists he pinned them over your head with one hand and hooked your leg with another. He'd aligned himself with you and bottomed out inside of you, the stretch making you a heap of moaning mess. He eventually let go off your hands and gripped your hips as he started moving with slow movements at first to find a rythm. With your head thrown back you could see him in the mirror, white knuckled grip leaving crescent indents into your skin as skin slapped against skin and the sight alone had you squirm from the building pleasure. You'd forgotten how vocal you'd become, your whimpering cries from euphoric bliss were driving Wonho off the edge. His eyes were lust hazed and watching himself disappear inside you made him groan. He let go off you and had you flip over on your front before moving in you again, his fingers threading in your hair and fisting them slowly making sure he's not gripping harshly, with gentle ministrations everywhere else and deep thrusts inside you, he picked up his pace. "Please don't stop.." You managed to mumble out face buried in the sheets. You were close and clutched onto the fabric beneath you. You suddenly felt his soft kisses over your shoulder, your skin burned and between your moans you mumbled his name endlessly in hushed whispers. He entwined his hands over yours as he rutted into you and grunted getting erratic. You came undone and convulsed from pleasure and he came right after, skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat. He stayed inside you for a while and buried his face in your neck hands wrapping around your frame in a needy embrace. He was your soft hubby again the one that loved you so sweetly and deeply. He kept planting soft kisses over your skin. When he pulled out, you turned in his arms to face him. You two shared lazy kisses while lying there bare and pleasured. "You're too sweet to me your honor." you joked and Wonho smiled silly planting another swift kiss and then buried his face in your chest. "You know I love you right?" he mumbled softly and looked up with puppy eyes at you. "You're an idiot but you're my idiot." he remarked on your cheesy joke further and buried his face again. He didn't see you gasp but then you smacked his head lightly, "That's my line." He only chuckled unphased by your smack. 

After a moment of comforting silence you two dragged yourselves to change, you took this chance to steal his button down shirt. His phone could be heard faintly ringing from across the hallway and you asked as he put on his sweats, "Won't you come to bed?" He helped button up your shirt and planted a soft kiss on your temples, "I have work but you should rest." You nodded but stopped him briefly, "You know I love you too right?" and he clutched his heart in a playful manner. 

Yeah he was definitely your idiot, a lawyer husband who had the softest heart and his love was as deep as the ocean, all for you.

[s-horne]

10. “Yeah, okay, but I’m cooler.” (Steve/Tony)

All Tony wanted was to curl up into bed with his husband and to switch off the whole world for at least eight hours. Twelve, if he thought he could get away with it, but that was probably asking for too much. He was proud to say that he had even left the workshop at a relatively reasonable hour for once, so that must make him deserving of a good, uninterrupted sleep.

As he stumbled his way up to their floor fighting off yawns, his blinks got longer and longer as his eyes ached to stay closed and start their slumber early. Finally, the elevator stopped and opened into his living room, waking Tony up with the annoying beep that it played. He needed to look into sorting that out, he told himself as he finally walked into his bedroom.

A small smile pulled at his lips at the sight of Steve already in their bed, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard, though it froze when he saw that Steve wasn’t alone.

Tony stopped in the doorway at the sight before him: namely, Bucky Barnes curled up beside Steve with his head resting in Tony’s husband’s lap. Steve was using the hand that wasn’t holding his book open to stroke softly through Bucky’s long hair and down over his back, fingers soothing out creases in Bucky’s worn sleep shirt. Tony half-recognised it as one of Steve’s, actually, one that Tony himself had often worn.

The two men in the bed both tensed up when they saw Tony standing in the doorway, Bucky’s hands sliding subtly up the bed until they could wrap around Steve’s leg. Tony’s eyes wandered to where Bucky’s fingers were tightening until they were digging into Steve’s calf with a pressure that would have been painful to a normal person. It was clear that he was drawing strength, though his face remained impassive as he stared straight ahead at Tony, eyes apprehensive but jaw locked tight.

There were a few tense moments before Tony did nothing more than shrug lightly as he crossed the room, continuing into the bathroom to get ready for bed. He pottered around whilst he cleaned his teeth and washed his face and when he exited the bathroom he saw both Bucky and Steve looking at him. It was clear that neither of them had moved, with their expressions reading almost nervous and even a little incredulous, the two of them just as still and as tense as they had been when he had walked into the en-suite.

“What?” Tony asked slowly, voice unsure as his eyes flickered between the two men on the bed. His gaze settled on his husband and Tony quirked an eyebrow in question, trying to come off as cocky even as his shoulders slumped.

Steve didn’t say anything and Tony groaned inwardly. Of course he had done something, he thought to himself. It was obviously his fault, hence the silent treatment, but maybe he could push the argument back until tomorrow morning so that he could get some much needed sleep. “What did I do this time?”

“What – no; why aren’t you mad?” Steve asked after a moment, squinting over at Tony sceptically.

“Why would I be mad?” Tony asked in confusion. Huh, okay. So maybe it wasn’t actually something that Tony had done for once, and a small hint of relief seeped back in. He thought about the situation for a moment more before he reworded his question. “Should I be mad?”

Steve levelled Tony with a strange look, a little reserved even as he continued his argument. Tony wasn’t used to seeing Steve guarded around him, and he wasn’t sure that he liked it.

“I mean, I am in our bed with another man.”

“Well, yeah, but not really. It’s just Bucky,” Tony said simply, as if that cleared things up.

It hadn’t been all that long since Bucky had reappeared in Steve’s life, but everybody knew the story of the two men, practically brothers, that had lost each other and been reunited nearly ten decades later. It was a legend and reporters had been jumping on the story since Bucky Barnes had been found alive and… not quite well. Bucky had been welcomed by everyone with open arms, fitting in like a missing piece, and was doing fantastic when one considered what he had gone through in his life.

“He’s in our bed,” Steve said, softly but insistently. “Tony, it’s just – well… there have been so many rumours printed lately that–”

“Steve,” Tony interrupted, holding up a hand as a small smile played around his lips. So that’s what this was about; it wasn’t Tony’s fault after all. In the several years that he and Steve had been married, they had never once doubted the other, even when the papers were filled with ridiculous gossip and libel in weak attempts to hurt them. Sometimes pictures were printed in an effort to support the lies, but they were scarily easy to brush to one side when you loved someone as much as Tony loved Steve. “If we were the sort of people that listened to rumours then you would never have gotten with me in the first place.”

“All the rumours about you were baseless accusations and downright slander.”

Tony couldn’t help the smile that graced his face at Steve’s unhesitant and protective defence and shook his head lightly. It was just typical Steve. No matter who he was in front of, Steve had always gone out of his way to defend Tony; he often even went as far as to take his defence to the press themselves with all the fury of Captain America, seeking reporters out to give his piece of mind. Steve had done so since before they had even gotten together officially and he hadn’t slowed down for a minute since their wedding. Tony swallowed down his grin as much he could as he crossed the room to the wardrobe and bent down to the drawers near the bottom, reaching in to find a fresh pair of pyjamas.

“Well then, there you go. The ones about you two are just the same.” He froze as he pulled out his clothes and turned his head slowly, eyes widening as a thought struck him suddenly, panic rising in his chest and up into his throat. “Aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Steve said quickly, immediately. It was said with such conviction that Tony couldn’t help but give another smile. If that hadn’t been enough to make Tony believe it – although he had never really doubted Steve for a second – the way that Bucky’s face screwed up in involuntary disgust before soothing back out to a careful blankness a mere second later sealed the deal.

“Fine, then,” Tony continued, his heart rate dropping back down to something close to normal. He turned back to the wardrobe and closed the drawer with his foot as he began to get changed, completely uncaring that Bucky was in the room. The man was now looking the other way, but even if he wasn’t Tony wasn’t exactly shy and it was nothing that no one on the team had not seen before anyway.

“Besides, I’m so much cooler than Barnes anyway. Why would you pick him when you could have me?”

Steve’s mouth quirked up into a grin as Tony shot a wink over his shoulder. “Why, indeed?”

“I get it, babe” Tony continued as he shimmied into his sleep pants and kicked away his jeans. “It’s okay. Bucky had a rough day today. I saw the little panic in the kitchen earlier long before the press conference even started and I–”

“It was more than a little panic,” Bucky said suddenly, his voice quiet even as a growl underpinned his speech.

“Not really,” Tony disagreed lightly before Steve could say anything. Tony purposely kept his tone causal and breezy as he pulled his shirt over his head, turning around when he was done but not looking down at Bucky. “It was totally justified if you ask me. I’d have done a hell of a lot worse. Have done a lot worse, actually.” 

Bucky scoffed and twisted his head to bury himself in Steve’s leg, hiding his face as though the memories of the day could be wiped away if no one could see him. Tony was used to that feeling, but he had learnt from personal experience that life didn’t work quite like that. Sharing a look with Steve over the top of Bucky’s head, Tony bit his lip and climbed into bed.

“Jarv? Get the lights, please. Leave the lamps, though.”

Jarvis obeyed Tony’s command and just as Tony had gotten himself comfortable under the intimidating amount of blankets that Steve liked to pile on top of them, Bucky sighed deeply and disrupted the whole bed. In the dim light, Tony saw how Bucky’s hands began to shake around Steve’s leg as he pushed himself up and made to get out of Steve’s embrace.

“Where are you going, Buck?” Steve asked immediately, his hands hovering over Bucky’s shoulders as he leant forward, alert and concerned.

“To bed?” Bucky said hesitantly, lifting an eyebrow at his friend as his eyes glanced over to Tony before back to Steve quickly.

“Um, you’re in a bed,” Tony pointed out, squinting at Bucky as he patted the comforter back down around him before any cold air could get in. “I know it might have been a while since you had one, but…”

Steve rolled his eyes at Tony and reached over to poke him lightly in the side. Tony fell back dramatically with the movement, a soft huff of laughter escaping him as he righted himself and gave Steve a cheeky wink.

“But–”

“Just go to sleep,” Tony said in response to Bucky’s stuttering as he adjusted the pillow under his head. “This bed is big enough for seven, so don’t worry, you won’t touch me in the middle of the night and offend your delicate sensibilities.”

Bucky huffed at that but made to keep protesting when Tony sighed loudly and pushed himself further up the bed.

“You obviously won’t sleep if you go to your room and if you don’t sleep then that means that Steve won’t sleep because he’ll be worrying about you all night long. If Steve won’t be able to sleep, I won’t sleep and I actually need to get some shuteye for once because I have a presentation in the morning so…” Tony reached out a hand and grabbed a hold of Bucky’s sleeve, yanking him back to lie down on the bed between him and Steve. “Lie down and shut up.”

It was a testament to how much Bucky didn’t want to be alone that he actually let himself be pulled back onto the bed, not fighting the touch at all like he would have done once. Hell, even that morning he would have shied away from any and all forms of contact.

Steve watched with a smile as Tony shuffled around a little bit more, scooting back obediently when Tony pushed Bucky gently into him and off of Tony’s favoured pillow.

“Oh my… how many blankets do we… this is getting out of hand.”

When Tony was finally settled and comfortable beneath the four hundred layers he lifted his head expectantly and met Steve’s gaze over Bucky’s awkward body.

“Goodnight, darlin’,” he said and smiled when Steve didn’t hesitate for a second about leaning over his best friend, obediently squashing Bucky between them as he bent down to drop a long kiss to his husband’s lips.

When he pulled away, Tony watched as Steve twisted to place his book on the bedside table and flicked off the lamp before he lay down too. It was a little strange, sharing their space with someone else and therefore not being able to cuddle close to Steve as he would normally do every other night, but when Steve held out his arm above Bucky’s head, it felt just like usual. Tony took his husband’s hand eagerly, linking their fingers together.

Steve lifted his head to whisper a goodnight to Bucky before they noticed that the man was fast sleep between them already, the lines of his forehead smoothed out and his whole face looking a lot younger than he usually did. Tony grinned at the softness on Steve’s face at the sight and squeezed his husband’s fingers a little tighter as he let his eyes finally slip closed.

It had been a funny year and in some ways it wasn’t getting easier but in other ways, well, maybe it was.