#it feels like its tailored to me bark bark bark

[skitskatdacat63]

The length of the f1 break is getting to me, I've started looking back on old ships, and I feel like a feral dog about them again

[wannaeatramyeon]

Goo Kim x Reader: One Night

G/N. Crazy Stupid Love Emma Stone/Ryan Gosling scene but make it Lookism. Masterlists

"Are you nervous?" Goo murmurs, a smile tugs at his lips when he feels you trembling.

He peers down at you and pauses. His hand, having worked its way under your top and caressing your bare skin - stops.

Tonight, you have aimed for sexy and sensual. It worked well. Fake it until you make it, and you made it when this handsome blonde at the bar invited you back to his apartment for a night of debauchery.

But your mask slips. It's hard to keep it on, y'know. When you are both half naked, about to be even more naked, there's nowhere left to hide.

Your nervousness comes out as a snort, because duh and you think some of your previous sexy and sensual points are deducted.

"Yeah," you respond with an awkward giggle. Then your mouth runs before your single brain cell can.

"- Also, something has been digging into my back all this time," Goo waggles his eyebrows at you suggestively, "No. Definitely not. I think it's a spring or something or I don't know... crumbs? Have you been eating in bed? Either way I think this is the most uncomfortable mattress I've ever laid on. Your silk bed sheets are something else though - who even has silk bed sheets? It's like something from the 80s along with waterbeds but god they feel so fucking great on my legs."

Goo is stunned into silence momentarily before he barks out a laugh.

He rolls off you and onto the left side on the bed, full body wriggling around slightly, experiencing the silk bed sheets for himself and chuckles.

"Sweetheart, you're right. And I've always hated this mattress." He sighs, adding, "I got conned by fucking influencers."

You whip your head towards him and give him a look, "Influencers?! What. Is this those fancy brands that I've been seeing them shill all over my social media-"

Goo turns towards you, a pout on his lips and eyebrows pinched together in a pitiful expression. "Yep. I've hated it since the first night."

"Then why didn't you return it!"

He shrugs and you laugh, your previous nervousness dissipating.

"I always wondered what idiot would fall for those."

"Hey!"

A brief moment of silence then-

"Did you buy these sheets from an infomercial or something?"

"Excuse me!" Goo shuffles, angles himself so he's fully facing you. Head held up by the palm of his hand and resting his elbow on the mattress.

There's mischief, life in his face that wasn't there earlier tonight. "Sue me. I have money to spend, sometimes I can't sleep, and those sales people sell things so well."

You let out another unrefined snort, amused by this guy.

Suddenly finding there's so much personality, a touch of vulnerability revealed in that statement, behind the expensive glasses, his tailored suit and his muscled body.

"Wanna see what other crap I've bought?"

.

.

You both wander around his apartment, which turned out to be a huge fucking penthouse now that he has the light on and is giving you a guided tour, in your underwear. 

Goo, no shame and expanses of skin on show, and you follow closely behind with his silk sheets wrapped loosely around your body.

He gestures at what you assume to be a coffee machine sitting proudly on his kitchen countertop. All sleek and stainless steel with dials and buttons on every surface.

"I can't even use this thing. I've had it for 2 years."

"Look," Goo opens an overhead kitchen cupboard, gesticulating like he's going to perform a magic trick, and dramatically shows you rows and rows of trendy kitchen gadgets, no doubt also purchased during moments of insomnia. Pizza scissors, spiralizer, bread maker, air fryer, pressure cooker.

"Never used."

"This," he points at the far wall, and you squint, barely making out a framed art piece of the ugliest monkey face you have ever seen. But hey, art is subjective, right-

"-is an NFT. I bought that too."

That tips you over the edge.

You cackle and cackle, doubled over and holding onto him for balance.

.

.

There's a dusty segway sitting pitifully in the corner of an unused spare room.

You jump out from round a corner, LED mask on your face and flashing a menacing red - "Boo!"and Goo actually jumps.

A lonely treadmill, placed beneath one of those fancy sit-stand desk catches your eye.  Goo smirks, "Babe, I don't even have a desk job."

Instead of spending all night tangled in his silk bedsheets together, Goo jogs down memory lane of sleepless nights and impulse buys with you by his side.

Your laughter starts to tinge all his memories.

Your good natured ribbing and mocking.

His hyena cackle joins yours, and he wonders when was the last time he was able to laugh with someone. Has he ever spent an entire night talking to someone like this?

"Ask me something personal." He requests, both now lying on his uncomfortable bed. You in his arms, hair tickling his chin.

"What do you want from life?"

"To make money."

"Why?"

"I want to be rich."

"Why?"

"Well, who doesn't want to be rich, sweetheart."

"Yeah but why do you?"

Goo remembers running errands, doing anything to earn some money. Anything for a price. His cousin calling in his services, and he happily beat up some middle schoolers to help him (and who was it again, Tabasco?) out.

He doesn't really know where his thirst for money making has come from. Maybe there's some deep set trauma from his life pre-juvie or some shit he should pay a therapist to decipher but alas.

He tells you this, all this and more. At some point, his head is the one lying on your chest and you absentmindedly stroke through his blonde locks, humming noises of encouragement, listening to his words.

Weird, Goo thinks, when he finally drifts off to sleep with you snoring gently beside him. 

The morning sun already filters through the blinds, and the hustle and bustle of Seoul has started to pick up.

How comfortable this feels. How natural your connection with him is. How this is the spark people dream about, and somehow it has hit him when he wasn’t looking for anything more.

That someone as different to him as you are, that is only ever supposed to be company for a few hours, a night at best, could spell trouble. Raise his hackles, send his alarms blaring.

When he's usually the walking red flag.

Because you’ve got him thinking. A lot. That shrewd brain hidden behind playfulness has been whirring; wondering about what happens if you become a regular fixture.

Maybe you might doom him, in the end. Maybe this will lead to a dead end and nothing more.

But he's curious enough, the spark is shining brightly enough, to see where else you might lead him to too.

[silverseaming]

At the harbour there’s noise everywhere — hurried rushes of footsteps, snatches of conversation, the voices of street-sellers rising above the everyday din with cries of “Fresh whelks! Fresh whel—”, “Apples and pears! Fresh today!”, “Roses, sir, roses for your Mis—!”. Along the quayside cargo masters bark instructions to their men, and crates clatter earthward from the decks or are borne aloft on the shoulders of brawny dockers. Beneath it all is the sound of the shipyard, a constant beat of hammers that Kit can feel in his chest.

Kit pushes on through the crowds, buffeted along by the busy current of fellow humanity. He wishes dearly for the open fields or leafy avenues of Brindleton. There the air is sweet, not thick with the salty seaweed taste, the people don’t rush, don’t crowd together, shout, or jostle.

A journey of bumping shoulders and muttered apologies washes him up on the doorstep of The Lermond’s Cove company, as the modest brass plate beside the door proclaims. The building is smaller than the grand shipping offices, tucked on the end of the harbour frontage, but it’s smart enough, and offers welcome shelter from the bustle outside. A small bell rings above the door as Kit makes his way inside.

“Hello, sir.” The young woman greeting him sits behind a solitary desk, a large ledger arrayed in front of her. The frugality of the outside of the building is continued on the inside, with the only ornaments to the small room besides its occupant being a few framed charts and maps. The whole arrangement gives the impression of being newly established. “How can I help you?”

“I, er, have an appointment with Mr Allen,” Kit says, suddenly abashed.

After checking an entry in the ledger, the young woman gestures down the hallway.

“It’s the first door on the left, sir.”

Making his way to the indicated door, Kit hesitates a second before knocking. He can hardly turn back now, with the secretary watching in the entryway.

His knock is answered by a curt “Enter.”

The man behind the desk rises to greet Kit, extending a hand over the tabletop. He’s smartly dressed, in a well-made suit of the latest fashion. The clothes look new — too new, perhaps. The thick callouses beneath Kit’s hand betray the lifetime of hard work that the suit tries hard to erase.

“Fred Allen,” The man says, by way of introduction. Releasing Kit’s hand, he gestures to the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “You must be Calloway.”

“That’s right, sir. As I said in my letter, Mr Miller up in Brindleton heard you might have opportunities going for someone willing to sell their crop.”

“Well, he heard correctly, I guess, though I have to say I wasn’t expecting anyone round here so soon. How’s about you tell me what set up you’ve got going, and then I’ll think about it?” says Allen.

“I’ve got about two-hundred acres just outside Brindleton, wheat and potatoes mainly. Only took over two years ago, but the last two harvests have done well.” Kit picks at a loose thread at the edge of his jacket, wishing he hadn’t done his collar up so tightly.

“You got any hands, or is it a one man show?” Allen asks as he sifts through a stack of papers, running a finger down a column of figures.

“Just me at the moment, sir, but some of the local lads help out around harvest. There’s room for expansion, though, if we come to an agreement.”

“Hm.” Allen seems to be considering, rubbing a large hand across his coarse chin. The more Kit looks at him, the more he struggles to see the businessman through the farmer — or is it sailor? At any rate, Allen’s tanned skin and deep crow’s feet speak of a life that, until recently, was spent working out of doors. The tailored clothes seem almost like a costume. It’s reassuring, perhaps, to know that Allen would understand something of the toil put into producing the crop.

Eventually Allen reaches the end of his deliberations with a great sigh.

“Look, son, I won’t pretend this isn’t somewhat of a cowboy venture, and that I haven’t got as much capital to be free with as certain larger companies. But I think we understand each other, and on account of your being the first to come and see me, I’m willing to give you an offer. I’ll take half your next wheat harvest, and I’ll give you two dollars a bushel if you’re willing to shake on it now.”

“I’m more than willing, sir, thank you,” Kit says. There’s a weight that’s lifted from his shoulders with Allen’s words, the anxious knot in his stomach loosening a little. Somehow, he’s managed to grab hold of the life ring thrown to him, and for a minute the hard work of hauling to shore can be forgotten.

Arriving home that night, dusty from the road, Kit feels lighter than he has done in months. For once he looks at the farm and sees it as something beautiful, rather than a never-ending source of work. There’s a little moonlight dappling through the trees, outlining the farmhouse against the night sky behind it.

For a moment, he leans against the fence of the cow-pen, taking slow lungfuls of the cool night air. Then he turns towards the house, and the faint glow behind the front door that draws his weary feet over the threshold.

Meg’s standing at the kitchen table, placing the finishing touches on a freshly baked cake. From the untidy tendrils of hair she keeps trying to blow from her face and the flour down her apron, it’s been a hard-fought battle with the sponge. The weak firelight from the stove behind her casts her in a rosy glow, and oh, it’s enough to knock the air from Kit’s chest.

“You’re up late,” he murmurs, giving into the urge to take her in his arms. Her body is warm against his, and she smells slightly of strawberry jam.

“I had to remake the sponge,” Meg sighs, finally pushing the finished cake away and leaning into his touch. “And I split the cream. It’s all a horrible mess.”

“Well hang the cake then, because I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up.” Gently Kit spins her round to face him, pulling her close.

“I take it your meeting went well?” She smiles.

“I think so. He’ll take half of next year’s wheat, and for a good price as well.”

“Oh, you wonderful man,” Meg says softly.

Kit’s reply is to lean down and kiss her. Even though he’s only been gone a day, it feels like he’s waited months for that kiss, for Meg’s hands on his shoulders and lips on his. Without thinking, he lifts her onto the table, hands finding her waist and hair.

“Christopher James Calloway, if you want to carry on with this nonsense then you will unhand me and let me clear up before we go upstairs!” Meg pulls away, trying to sound cross, but the barely concealed laughter rather ruins the effect. “I love you very much, but I will not ruin this cake for you.”

“Consider me told,” Kit laughs.

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirty

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: Hey, y'all! Happy New Year! I am giving another big thank you to everyone who moved on to 2024 with me. I never thought I would have this much recognition for a story if I'm honest. I can't comprehend how many people like something that I put so much effort and time into. It's honestly so wild, and I can't thank y'all enough. <3

Chapter Warnings: Larys Strong AGAIN, sexual humiliation, a lot of misogyny. 

The discussion with Queen Alicent hung heavily and close to your heart, yet you held firm even when Aegon badgered you with questions about what she said, following you everywhere in the Keep like a pesky fly on a summer day. It was not right for you to divulge the information of private conversations; you wouldn't want someone to do that with yours, but as you thought on the subject in the following days and the eldest son's persistence, you let one thing slip.

"All right, Aegon, just be quiet!" you groaned with exasperation as he sat straight like a pup being scolded.

At first, you regretted telling him of Alicent's orders for you to leave King's Landing, though you realized it was more advantageous to do so. It furthered the divide between Mother and son, adding a sprinkle of animosity in your favor. After the discussion with Ma, it was necessary to ensure she still agreed to help prevent the Prince from becoming king.

Talking with her helped chisel the heavy rock lodged in your stomach since Aegon came floating into your chambers with jests of ruling the kingdom. Madam's network of spies ranged far across King's Landing but had yet to surpass that of the Master of Whispers. She assured you that even though Lord Strong had many, he did not have those that mattered.

You had to put trust in someone who was not yourself, and that was something that never ceased to cause the rock to mineralize again.

***

The crimson leaves of the Heart Tree swayed in the winter breeze, its bone-colored bark reflecting the cold temperature. You pulled your cloak together, a rather elaborate thing of golden furs and embroidered satin.

You would not have chosen it for yourself, but Aegon insisted on purchasing it while you visited the Street of Loom. And once the tailor noted two finely dressed individuals, one with silver hair, buying a matching gown was simply a must.

The merchant pitched the garment much higher than you saw his other items and fellow workers. You planned on letting the Prince use his coin any way he wanted for your trip, but that was something you could not let him do.

The Loom merchant resisted your haggling, his expression one of offense for thinking he would ever overcharge a crowned Prince, but you knew better. As a girl, it was your job to purchase supplies and food for the working women, and with golden dragons far and few, you managed to afford enough to survive. Or, well... steal.

By the end, you left the swindling tailor with a new fur cloak and a dress to pair, an intricate solid gold belt with asscher cut diamonds thrown in for the trouble.

You felt proud of yourself for securing such a bargain. Your inner child who sought the approval of those you admired was fulfilled. Even though the gown matched the elaborateness of the coat, something you would not choose if, in your wardrobe, you wore it with confidence, your chin high and shoulders rolled back.

Aegon made you feel these emotions, you thought as you listened to the whispers of bloody leaves above. He helped you grow and blossom in ways your Father or Mother could never. He lifted you onto the pedestal you deserved. You were not the bastard daughter of Daemon Targaryen to him; you were everything.

You were his friend, lover, the only person who understood him, listened, comforted, and dried his tears when no one else cared. You deserved to have someone who treated you the same, gave you the acceptance and validation you craved, someone who did not see you as an extension of themselves to do their bidding. Aegon gave that to you, a perfect equal of give and receive to one another, a match made of love and not politics.

And his love was peaceful. It was calm. It kept you warmer than the coat the Prince bought you, even as the winter air swept through your neatly plaited locks.

"Princess," a masculine voice called, the sound softer than the whisper of mist surrounding you in the early morning.

It was so quiet you hadn't a clue who it was, turning with a polite smile and your arms neatly tucked behind your back. You wished you hadn't acknowledged the man as Lord Larys Strong stood before you, hunched over his finely crafted firefly cane, curly hair loose at his ears.

The sigh you released at his presence was hardly proper, squaring your shoulders as you spoke with all Courtly people. "Lord Strong... What a surprise. How may I be of assistance?"

The man snickered, bowing his head as he waited for you to take a step closer as was deemed polite. When you did not move, your amiable expression never leaving, he grinned, finally speaking again.

"Yes, Princess, a pleasure. I was hoping to speak to you on matters of the Prince," he expressed.

All the color drained from your face.

"The Queen has brought it to my attention that, perhaps, you are spending too much of your time with the Prince. She believes that it mayhaps be better spent else where."

The flame of hatred for Larys Strong was reignited with a sudden burst; your jaw clenched as your eyes became slits.

"I believe what you speak is untrue. The Queen and I have come to a..." you paused, unable to find the correct way to express the secret Alicent unwillingly divulged, "certain understanding. We've discussed her concerns and come to an agreement. You've no need to worry yourself on her behalf." You nodded with a genteel but firm finality, pulling your fur coat closer to your body as you began to exit, set to see only one person in mind. "Good day, ser."

Larys was not foiled so easily. He had spent the entirety of your stay at the Red Keep waiting patiently for the perfect opportunity to trap you in his web. He refused to let the bastard girl with dark eyes and blood on her hands get away and moved his wooden cane into your path.

Despite the Lord being hunched over due to his deformity, you still had to look up at him, his blue eyes sharp and cold like the brackish waters that clashed on the cliffs of Dragonstone. "Forgive me, Princess, but Her Grace has sent me to speak with you, and I do not intend to keep her wishes unfulfilled."

You squinted in response, taking a single pace back and rising to his eye level. "I believe we can speak plainly here, Princess. I know you find the manners of courtly talk abhorrent." When you did not halt him in his silence, he continued, slightly tilting his chin down like prey seeking to appear meek and unappetizing to its predator. "Do you recall all those years ago, when you were just a young girl, stolen from all she knew?"

The recollection of those events was something you still had difficulty allowing yourself to recall. So many life-changing and heart-shattering things happened in that short time, but you still sought to process it. Larys' lighthearted approach to it caused your chest to feel hollow. The memories of isolation, loneliness, fear, and anger all came flooding past the protective dam you created.

"I thought to extend you a helping hand in your time of need, but you turned it away. It hurt me deeply to see such a young child broken and scared enough to reject an offer from the goodness of one's heart," he expressed, blue eyes lowering to the frosted ground in mock reverence. "I am, once again, simply a man seeking to help a scared girl in a world over her head."

Fury ran hot through your veins, boiling your bones and the very blood that gave you life. Before you realized it, your hand was wrapped around the Strong Lord's throat, fingers digging into the flesh and tendons as his gaze filled with fear. It would be easy to kill him. A simple twist of the neck would be all it takes, just the way your Father taught you. You were sure he would be proud of doing so.

The thud of Larys' cane hitting a stone as it found its way to the ground caused you to realize the severity of your actions, looking around to ensure no one saw. A young servant scurried along the covered hallway separating the Godswood from the Keep, realizing he was caught.

It was most likely one of the Master of Whispers' "spiders" that he so lovingly called, keeping watch to ensure that if anything of value happened during the conversation, there would be more than one witness.

Your grip loosened for Larys' neck, his unruly stubble scratching against your palm as it slid down to the collar of his intricately sewed tunic, resting your hand on his chest. You giggled, the sound eerily contrasting the seriousness of your attempted murder, a heart-stopping grin pulling your cheeks.

"The only thing that is preventing me from putting you where you belong is justice for all the other little girls you sought to take advantage of." Your breath was hot, steam hitting his face as a dragon would. "It is not me who will execute your punishment. The Gods have a place in the Seven Hells for men like you."

You let go of your hold on his jerkin, the Lord crumbling at your feet without his cane. The sight was fitting. A man who constantly searched for ways to hurt people, to harm people, for his own game was cowering before you. It was his proper place.

"Tell the Queen that my decision remains, and that my Mother also remembers their shared youth fondly."

You spared the Strong Lord no parting glance, leaving him to reach for his walking stick with embarrassment that only a man like him deserved.

***

The force of Aegon's thrusts pushed you up his extravagant bed, mewling and moaning as you sought for purchase in the sheets. He was feral as he plowed through your walls, noises emanating from his chest that sounded like a growl.

"These fucking tits," he groaned, eyes locked onto your jolting mounds. Your head tilted back in euphoria underneath his gaze, clenching around him.

Your breasts were moving in time with his brutal thrusts, making you unable to fully catch your breath as the air was pistoned out of your lungs. Aegon's hands pawed at them, kneading the malleable flesh underneath his fingers roughly as you released a nasally sound.

The Aegon that was submissive to your touch was gone and left only a man who chased his desires inside a woman's cunt. Each push caused his cockhead to kiss your womb, moving his hips more mind-numbing than the last.

Aegon had one goal in his sights, fuck that sweet puffy cunny of yours until you forgot all worries. He grew to know the telltale signs of your distress: cuticles frayed, mouth crude, and constant fidgeting. He had noticed the rawness of your lips, skin nipped and picked until the flesh turned red and white, legs never ceasing movement at rest.

He did not believe it despite you telling him about the conversation with his Mother, and now Larys Strong did not bother you. Aegon understood that expressing your dolor was foreign, never having someone to divulge your worries to and have them validate them. He knew it would take some time for you to grow comfortable and accept that someone would give you a shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen with, but he knew one way that always helped him forget his troubles...

Getting fucked.

And if Aegon so happened to get the added benefit of his pleasure, it was not something he would refuse.

His arms hooked under your knees, spreading them apart as he continued to rut into you, droplets of sweat glistening on his chest, creating a sheen that sparkled in the candlelight.

He was such a pretty boy. It was a thought that ran through your mind every time you saw him, and it created a deep envy to be a part of the same House and yet gifted such plain features. Aegon, with his elegant silver hair, exotic purple eyes, and smooth porcelain skin that showed veins of blue and green that looked like threads weaved into the tapestry of his flesh. With your dark hair and eyes, you have simple features for what people believe to be a simple girl. The only thing that indicated your Targaryen lineage was the white in your strands of ebony and the purple hidden within your irises. 

Your hands couldn't help but run over the planes of his chest, muscles rippling from exertion. It made you grateful to have someone so close to a god panting above you as his cock rubbed against your sweet spot.

Aegon's fists grabbed your own, leaning over to place both on the pillows beneath your head. Hot arousal shot through you at the action, his face hovering above yours.

You captured Aegon's lips in a desperate kiss, whining and wanting intimacy as you swallowed each other's breaths. The hair at the base of his manhood rubbed against your pearl, causing your legs to jerk inward to your body and your hips to move on their own accord, grinding against his pelvis.

"Fucking take it," he hissed against your cheek, hips pistoning into you like an animal in a rut.

"So good," you sighed, legs wrapping around his waist.

"You fucking love this, don't you?" You nodded into another kiss, his lips trailing down to suck at an already tender spot beneath your throat. "It's so hard being the one who takes care of everything. Sacrificing your happiness for the good of the realm, being the dutiful daughter your Father wants you to be."

Your nails dragged down his shoulders, digging into the thick muscle as he bit at the vein on your throat, licking the sensitive spot to soothe it. "I don't-" you breathed, voice faltering as his fingers snaked to the throbbing bundle of nerves, circling it swiftly, "I don't want to think about that right now."

"Oh, but all you do is think," Aegon purred, balancing his weight on his unoccupied forearm. "You think, think, think about the realm, family, the future, me." He exaggerated, punctuating every word with a thrust.

Each movement of his hips and fingers hurdled you toward the edge at breakneck speed, your body unable to catch up as you felt slick leak around his cock, trickling down through your arse. The sounds coming from between your legs caused you to shy away in embarrassment, attempting to hide your flushed cheeks in the goose-down pillows.

"Oh, no, no, no," Aegon teased, pushing your head back to its place, seeing the tears that gathered in your shut eyes from his forceful thrusts. "Let me see that face, and those eyes, pretty thing. Beautiful."

You released a sob at his compliments, unable to process the intensity of his gaze, the mere centimeters away his countenance was from yours. You could see every microexpression form on his features, every pull of his brows, every pinch of his lips and clench of his jaw. The noiseless grunts in your ear were better than the finest music you had ever heard, better than anything a bard could play, sending you teetering over the edge.

"Come on. Peak for me, Princess. I know you can do it."

Aegon did not falter in his actions, continuing with the harsh snaps of his hips, jolting your breasts, causing you to grab them for purchase as his fingers rubbed your swollen nub until you finally burst.

A gush of slickness rushed from your womanhood as you released with a fierce cry, your peak crashing into you like waves in a storm at sea. It collided with your body as you arched and shook, digits digging into your breasts, eyes seeing the night sky and stars blooming in your vision.

"That's it. You're doing so well," Aegon grunted, halting his movements as you clenched brutally around his shaft, keeping him firmly in place. "Just let it happen."

Your hands tangled into his hair, gripping the roots meanly as the spasms of your cunt eased, leaving your waist and limbs trembling and twitching beneath your lover. As your heart calmed with your chest heaving, you grabbed Aegon's face, smashing your lips against his, realizing he hadn't reached completion.

"Aegon," you whispered against his mouth, beginning to question him.

He shushed you, knowing what you would ask before voicing it. He understood you would not give up so easily as he felt your hips begin to undulate, pushing past your overstimulation in search of pleasing him. The Prince pulled out before you could assist him at the expense of yourself, lifting your pliant body and positioning you on your stomach, head at the foot of the bed.

Delicate strands of ebony stuck to the back of your neck, trapping the heat and sweat into a sticky, uncomfortable mess, though you hardly cared. You lay there flat on Aegon's wrinkled sheets, your chest rising and falling as you fought to catch your breath.

Everything had been so quick and intense that you had trouble comprehending what had happened. One moment, you were sitting in the Prince's solar, fuming over Larys' words, and the next, you were rutted into at such a pace you thought the bedframe would crack. Yet, despite an underlying notion of befuddlement, you were at ease. Your limbs felt like they were melting into the mattress, a euphoric warmth wrapping your body in its comforting blanket, mind fuzzy.

Aegon gently nudged you from your head with tender touches of his digits, smoothing your hair away from your neck and above your shoulder with tender kisses. A deep, nasally moan came from you at the action, slowly rousing and returning to your body. His kisses began to travel lower, sweetly nipping and sucking places where the skin rolled.

He pecked each vertebrae of your spine, cherishing the very flesh of your bones. Aegon knew that kisses and actions of affection would never be able to display how deep his love for you went, but he would try. He would honor the very ground you walked on, worship your body as if it were the Maiden's, and pray to the sacred passages written in your veins. He knew it was sacrilegious, but he would gladly suffer the wrath of the Gods as he had a sliver of your love.

Finally, Aegon's lips reached your bottom, leaving a last kiss to your tail as he leaned upright, gazing at the ambrosial sight before him. Your curves, hips, waist, and arse were almost celestial in their beauty, the yellow candlelight illuminating your form. His hands dragged down those very features, squeezing when he reached your bottom, pushing the globes together as he dribbled a line of spit from his mouth to in between them.

You perked at the unexpected sensation, turning your head to see Aegon fisting his cock, angry and red at his procrastinated release. He pushed your skin closer together, member sliding in between the two mounds of flesh with ease.

It was strange to have him fucking the crease of your arse, skin enveloping his manhood like a glove, but it wasn't unpleasant. Any touch from Aegon was something you welcomed, especially when he was satiating his desires within your body. The mere thought excited you once more, your abused cunt arousing as he continued to seek his fulfillment.

It felt almost freeing to be used in such a way. You would allow Aegon to do as he pleased because you trusted in him. You both went through enough anguish and heartache to leave you raw and unable to hide, your soul bare for the other. For once, you had no worries, no purpose other than to lay there and let someone take care of themselves without the anxiety of wanting your help. The thought made your cunt clench with arousal.

Aegon's thrusts were sure in their intent as his fingers pinched at your cheeks, keeping the skin taught to resemble the feeling of your velvet walls. You let out a breathy sound, keeping your legs closer together as your thighs rubbed, seeking friction you knew only one thing could give you.

"Awe. Is that little cunny of yours wet again?" he patronized, voice sounding like a dove. "Do you need your brat prince to fuck you mindless again?"

You nodded, hiding your face in the crook of your elbow with a pathetic mewl that would leave your Father ashamed as Aegon slowly entered. The stretch was not as severe, your walls having grown accustomed to his girth as he began to do shallow, sturdy thrusts.

A low, almost inaudible grown released from your throat as pleasure leisurely began to mount. Aegon slowly lifted your hips, leaving your upper body prone as he used the new position for better leverage, skin molding under his fingers.

His pace was rhythmic, rooting into your cunt with a sureness of a skilled musician with their instrument. The contrast in dynamics between the Aegon who was impuissant against the denial of your presence, the Aegon who had brutalized your womanhood, and the one who now tenderly groped and massaged your flesh was stark. It sent your head spinning, retreating into your mind as your pleasure soon overpowered your senses.

"So beautiful," the Prince rasped, drunk on the pulsing sensation of your cunt, "so beautiful, my beautiful princess, my goddess."

His words were mumbled together, too far drowned into the cup of sex, spouting incoherent confessions of love and oaths that would put even the most lovelorn of poets to shame. Aegon could not shake the captivating movements of your body, enthralled with the repetitive ripples of your skin, violet eyes flicking to where his cock disappeared.

***

The halls of the Keep were bustling, being only a few hours past high noon, the sun shining over the top of the grey clouds. Ser Arryk had just left his midday meal, something you insisted he take after learning about his tendency to skip it in favor of his duty.

His path was sure as he walked between the red rock walls, armor clanking with every step. You had told Arryk you would meet him at the library in the west wing after his luncheon, but you had yet to show. He waited until the sun was in a low position before he left, conjuring excuses the entire time.

You were a princess, a woman who had duties to attend to, so it was common for you not to be punctual, but typically, you would send word by either servant or guard. It put an uneasy feeling in the knight's stomach, though he told himself not to worry. You were capable and could defend yourself if need be, yet he was still concerned.

Arryk was your protector. He swore an oath to the realm and you that he would serve and lay his blood before yours.

He knew he could be rather melodramatic at times; you told him so with a shake of your head and a bright smile. He repeatedly replayed the melodic lilt of your voice inside his head until he reached the eldest Prince's doors, his twin brother standing outside it.

He greeted Erryk with a nod, his twin staring back at him with a furrowed brown like his own.

"I am unaware of the Princess's whereabouts. She told me that we would meet in the library, but has yet to show. Have you seen her, brother?" Arryk questioned with a stiff spine.

Erryk continued to gaze at him with curious blue eyes. "Did she not tell you?" he inquired, tilting his helmeted head as he answered. "Her Grace and Prince Aegon have been within his chambers since this morning."

Arryk's heart began to race, blood rushing to his head and thumping in his ears. "In his chambers?" he echoed, voice rising. "Brother, you know this is entirely inappropriate. You are directly putting a child of the crown in danger within the hands of-"

He couldn't finish, his twin swiftly grabbing his arm and looking to ensure no one heard his treasonous confession.

"I know this, Arryk!" he shouted, a blue vein popping on his forehead. "I know the depths of his depravity better than anyone, yet I continue to do my duty without fail! What say you, brother?" He interrogated with an intense gaze, anger simmering into a steady boil. "Where is your, Princess now? In the bed of a lecherous wastrel who entertains himself with whores and drink."

"She is not," he replied hastily, like a child trying to convince a parent. "She would not debase herself."

Erryk stared at his twin, the person he shared a womb with now so distant and cold. An air of anger and disbelief he had never seen Arryk possess in his entire lifetime shook him to the bones, causing him to pause.

He had heard of the rumors of Princess Rhaenyra and her former protector, Ser Criston Cole, but never thought it was possible. The Kingsguard swore an unspoken oath of celibacy and no romantic love, yet here, his brother held a fury and sense of betrayal only a lover would feel. He needed to stop him from going down a path he could never follow.

Erryk stepped away from the door, and his brother entered without hesitation.

Arryk traveled through the Prince's entry room, dodging furniture and end tables with more skill than a stag. He heard noises from beyond the bedroom walls, and his stomach sank. He understood what they were, but his denial was too strong, guiding his limbs with a forlorn dread to the eldest son's bed chambers.

Hope did not die that he would enter into nothing. The soft grunts and moans were, for some other reason, only the Gods would know. He would even be relieved with the possibility that Aegon was taking you by force. Arryk would be able to do what he swore and protect your honor.

Anything. Anything would be better than what the knight's icy gaze saw.

There you lay on the Prince's bed, arse up and curves on display in Aegon's hands, moaning in adoration as he pounded into you from behind.

Arryk wished you were dead, oath be damned because this... this was far worse. The pair of you beat his already shattered heart bloody on the floor, crushing in time with the Prince's sure thrusts.

You did not hear Ser Arryk open the door. You were too lost in pleasure to be aware of anything. Aegon brought his appearance to your attention, blood running cold.

"We have a guest, little one," he jested, unceasing in his movements.

Your limbs went rigid, your body going into fight, flight, or freeze, your mind scrambling on what to do, where to go, and what to say. Aegon's unwavering ministrations did not help as you inhaled panicked breaths.

Pushing yourself up to hide in shame, he quickly grabbed you, hooking his arms around your waist and across your chest to your neck, putting your naked form on display.

You yelped at the sudden change in position, Aegon's cock nestling inside you impossibly deeper as he continued his ruts. You couldn't comprehend what was happening. It was all too much.

Pleasure, embarrassment, shame, and fear were at the forefront of your mind as your eyes burst with tears. It set your nerves on fire, your already overstimulated body alight with every emotion and sensation you felt. Your muscles were too weak to protest against Aegon's hold as his hand snaked down your mound of black curls in search of that bundle of nerves.

"Please," you simpered, attempting to hide your face in the Prince's damp hair, "don't look at me."

Rivers fell from your peculiar eyes at an alarming rate. You felt like that same little girl on the day Madam cast you out. The day that had set everything up into the perfect maelstrom you now lived. You were ashamed, almost fearful of Ser Arryk seeing you in such a vulnerable state, a condition you required the utmost amount of trust for you to be in.

You should be furious at the person who put you into this situation, displaying your most sacred parts for a common person to see, but you couldn't. You were only confused and terrified.

"My sweet girl," Aegon cooed into your ear. The kind words created no comfort, instead causing a guttural sob to release from your chest. "Tis all right. There is nothing for you to shed those pretty tears over."

Nothing could stop them, yet soon they turned into wet moans as his digits swiped at your nub with more purpose, a singular, humiliating, yet arousing goal in mind.

"Please... get... out," you beseeched the knight, finally bringing your watery gaze to meet his aghast one.

You could see it written plainly as the tomes you studied, Ser Arryk's betrayal. His sheer disgust for the sight before him. It made everything so much worse.

The protector's thoughts were treasonous, oath-breaking. You were a fine warrior, Visenya reincarnate, yet you let this man defile you. He wished you were another one of Aegon's victims, raped and uncared for, because then he would not have to witness this... this vulgar and repulsive display of pathetic, willing vulnerability you gifted Prince Aegon.

Arryk had worshiped you on a pedestal in silence. He compared you to that of the Mother and fantasized about a life separate from societal constraints where you could be what he dreamed.

But that was gone now, burned in the flames of those who shared the dragon's blood.

"Come now, Ser Cargyll, I am not blind to your affections toward my Princess. You should feel honored to see her in such a way," the Prince antagonized, his thrusts sure as they wound the already-formed ball in your stomach.

"Stop," you pleaded breathlessly.

That was the word Ser Arryk waited to hear, hand going to the pommel of his sword as he took a dangerous step forward.

"Oh, don't be so tense," Aegon chortled. "She may say to stop, but if I do, she'll beg me to continue. Isn't that right, little one?"

You refused to dignify his belittlement with a response, instead choosing to release a low mewl, head lulling as if the weight was too heavy.

You were growing dangerously close to your peak despite the horrendous shame that bubbled up inside, and you desperately did not want a member of the Kingsguard to see you in that defenseless state.

"You are going to bear witness to such a sight, ser. You shall be the second ever to see the glorious act of her release," Aegon continued to deride, making that feeling of self-hatred all the more prevalent. "I can feel her clenching, her cunt begging to peak, milking me for my seed." His lips moved flush against your hair, his breath moist as he uttered subdued grunts.

"Let go, my love," he pleaded, voice now noiseless and tender with scores of love and adoration. "Do this for me, please? I need you to come. Show him that you belong to me, that you desire me, love me."

You could never deny Aegon; it was one of your shared vices.

With a gentle kiss to the crown of your head and a handful of harsh ruts, your second peak arrived. It rattled your bones and overwhelmed your senses, feeling as if your mind had left this realm of existence from the sheer intensity of it.

Moans of ecstasy pierced Ser Arryk's ears like a needle to the eye, the sound causing bile to fill his mouth as he ran from the room, unable to keep watching and missing how the Prince sullied your perfect skin.

It relieved Aegon that the knight finally left. He grew increasingly guilty for the tears he had caused and continued to flow freely. Perhaps he had pushed you too far, he mused as his hot spend dripped from your stomach and onto the sheets. Anxiety crept into his chest as he felt your body finally grow limp, your hands grasping any part of him you could find to ground yourself.

You realized then that this moment was more for Aegon than you. His tears welled in his amethyst orbs as he began to apologize profusely. His actions came from a deep-seated insecurity that no reassurance could ever mend, and while it did not excuse what he did, it provided reason.

Remorse was the least he could offer after disgracing you in favor of tending to his broken ego as he kissed every piece of skin he could find. It would take time for you to forgive Aegon for the sexual humiliation he put you through, and you realize that he understood that, too, as he spouted incoherent regret.

You loved him, perhaps too much to be considered sane, but that was another item on your list of shared vices.

Masterlist of Series

You know that no one can be happy for long in this universe. That's all I'm going to say xD.

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn , @malfoytargaryen , @targaryencore , @justasmallbean , @omgsuperstarg , @sommornyte , @silverslive , @prettykinkysoul , @djlexi , @ynbutbetter , @legolas017 , @iiamthehybrid , @dd122004dd , @ladybug0095 , @millies0bsimp , @kalfild , @sheislonelyalways , @tempt-ress , @minttea07 , @trikigirl271 , @esposadomd , @prettywhenicry4 , @daenerysqueenofhearts , @justarandomflowerchildofthenight , @partypoison00 , @please-buckme , @pastelorangeskies , @existential-echo , @priyajoyy , @valaenatargaryensdragon , @merovingianprincess , @candy12110 , @w3ird11 , @ruhjkie , @somemydayy , @marikkjj , @zillahvathek , @sunfyresrider , @heavenly1927, @prettylittlelady, @hjgdhghoe , @im-sidney , @aurorathi , @marihoneywk

[canmom]

post-animation night 177 comments

brief thoughts on kizazi moto (more substantial tomorrow perhaps): visually that was so lush. we're really full post-Arcane/Spiderverse nonphotorealistic stylings here, with a powerful dash of Trigger/Flying Bark-esque Neo Kanada School as well. this was like a cross-section of the current big styles in animation and it kicked ass for that. I'm not entirely sure what the production pipeline looked like - the Irish film board was apparently involved somehow! and maybe some Irish studios so it wasn't a purely African production - but it was an extremely impressive showing all round.

narratively, putting it right beside Fatenah kinda highlighted the places it wasn't willing to go. though I had heard the directors had a lot of freedom, there were some very consistent themes running throughout the anthology - nearly every film involved parent-child relationships, many of them revolving around a kid hoping to prove themselves in the eyes of their society/ancestors. the uglier side of history is touched on lightly: one film shows us a flashy cyberpunk city from an alternate timeline where 'Great Zimbabwe was never colonised', complete with 'the most advanced justice system in the multiverse' (a giant robot bird that chases our protagonists), but doesn't expand on that as more than a colourful backdrop. the last film gets closest, presenting a mother-child pair of two gods who are wounded by extractivism and retreat from the world - I appreciated the understated bleak implication of its ending.

I think while the creators were probably not given too much overt creative restriction, they were surely aware this was to be broadcast in English on Disney's streaming service, and tailored their stories accordingly. so you'd probably avoid "Disney is the face of American imperialism: the movie". Disney money is a bit of a double-edged sword that way.

besides parent/child reconciliation, we had a lot of ancestors and more than a few gods. a few stories centred on coming of age rituals; other had a more or less central focus on social media fame and its corrupting effect. at times it verges into the preachy - characters who stand between two families, or between humans and aliens, and resolve to honour both sets of ancestors - but the presentation is more than engaging enough to make it a compelling watch, regardless.

there's a lot of wonderful lighting, set design and architecture throughout. Mọrémì had a very cool desaturated style with toyetic, colourful 'soul-stealing giants' that put me a little in mind of Absolver.

Stardust had a bit of a Star Wars feel, almost feeling like an extra Visions short, but the injection of Islamic architecture was very effective.

a certain Arcane/Riot influence is very overt in many of the films - not just in the widespread use of paint textures in the CG environments and the approach to light and colour, but also with plot elements like the neon-drenched surfer gang in Surf Sangoma (episode 4) - which was definitely a fantastic-looking episode with the wonderfully out-there premise of a world where you have a squid suck on your face to gain surf skills. (just say no to squids, kids! you don't need 'em! rely on your magic ghost mum instead.) but I think this is something that's true in the animation industry more generally of late - the last few years have really kicked the door open to 2D stylings in 3D (paint textures, reduced framerates etc.). no doubt having a Spiderverse director as exec producer played a role in that too!

all in all I really enjoyed this anthology, and I'm super excited to see what comes next from the studios involved.

Fatenah meanwhile was fantastic, and an absolute gut punch. the fact that the hospital seen in the film has been in the news for being emptied out at gunpoint in the last week gave it a special level of 'oof'. its style may seem disarmingly simple, but the puppet-like styling ends up bestowing a huge degree of weight to the characters. the scenes of the border checkpoint, the monotony of cages and guards, and the concrete environment resembling a Half Life 2 map, were very impactful. highly recommend taking 20 minutes to watch this film.

[libbycurtiswebb]

Forest Walking Therapy: A Path to Inner Peace and Wellness

In today's fast-paced world, finding a moment to reconnect with nature can feel like a luxury. However, it is in nature where we often rediscover our balance, inner peace, and physical well-being. "Forest walking therapy" is a growing trend in holistic wellness that provides these benefits and more. In this article, we’ll explore the concept, benefits, and how Libby Curti's Webb is transforming lives through specialized forest walking therapy programs.

What is Forest Walking Therapy?

Forest walking therapy, also known as forest bathing or Shinrin-Yoku, is the practice of immersing oneself in a forest environment for relaxation and rejuvenation. This therapeutic approach goes beyond a simple stroll in the woods; it is a mindful, intentional connection with nature to heal the body and mind.

The Essence of Forest Walking Therapy

At its core, forest walking therapy focuses on slowing down and engaging all your senses. Participants are encouraged to take deep breaths, touch the bark of trees, listen to the rustling leaves, and absorb the serenity of the surroundings.

Origin and Popularity

This practice originated in Japan in the 1980s as a response to increasing urbanization and stress. Today, it has gained global recognition for its profound physical and mental health benefits.

Benefits of Forest Walking Therapy

The therapeutic effects of forest walking therapy are backed by science and personal experiences alike. Here’s what makes it a transformative practice:

Physical Health Benefits

Forest walking therapy can lower blood pressure, reduce cortisol levels, and improve cardiovascular health. The fresh air and gentle exercise contribute to better overall fitness.

Mental Health Benefits

This therapy is a natural stress-reliever. Spending time in forests helps reduce anxiety, depression, and feelings of burnout. The tranquil environment fosters mindfulness and clarity.

Connection with Nature

Incorporating nature into your routine can enhance your appreciation for the environment, encouraging sustainable practices and a deeper sense of gratitude.

Why Choose Libby Curti's Webb for Forest Walking Therapy?

When it comes to embracing forest walking therapy, Libby Curti's Webb stands out as a trusted name in the USA. With years of experience in holistic wellness, the programs offered by Libby combine mindfulness, nature immersion, and personalized guidance.

Expert-Led Sessions

Each session is led by trained professionals who understand the science and art of forest walking therapy. This ensures participants receive maximum benefits in a safe, structured setting.

Tailored Experiences

Libby Curti's Webb offers customized programs that cater to individual needs, whether you’re seeking stress relief, improved focus, or a deeper connection with nature.

Accessible Locations

The programs are conducted in some of the most serene and accessible forested areas in the USA, ensuring convenience without compromising on the quality of the experience.

How to Prepare for a Forest Walking Therapy Session

For those new to the concept, preparation can enhance the experience. Here are some tips to make the most of your session:

Dress Comfortably: Wear weather-appropriate, breathable clothing and sturdy walking shoes.

Pack Essentials: Carry water, a small snack, and any personal necessities.

Leave Technology Behind: Minimize distractions by keeping your phone on silent or leaving it behind.

Set Intentions: Take a moment to reflect on what you hope to achieve from the session.

Testimonials: The Impact of Forest Walking Therapy

Participants from across the USA have shared their transformative experiences with Libby Curti's Webb:

Sarah T.: “Forest walking therapy with Libby changed my perspective on stress management. It’s like hitting the reset button for my mind.”

Michael R.: “The guided sessions helped me reconnect with myself and nature in ways I never thought possible.”

Emma W.: “I can’t recommend Libby Curti's Webb enough. The personalized approach made me feel seen and valued.”

Incorporating Forest Walking Therapy into Your Life

Forest walking therapy isn’t just a one-time experience; it’s a lifestyle choice. Regular sessions can lead to long-lasting benefits, helping you cultivate a mindful, balanced approach to life.

Start Small

Begin by dedicating a few hours each week to forest walking. Over time, this can become a meaningful routine.

Join a Community

Connecting with like-minded individuals through programs like those offered by Libby Curti's Webb can enhance the experience.

Explore New Locations

Diversity in surroundings keeps the practice fresh and exciting. The USA offers a variety of stunning forests perfect for therapy.

Where to Learn More

If you’re ready to experience the life-changing benefits of forest walking therapy, visit the official Libby Curti's Webb website. Here, you’ll find detailed information about available programs, session schedules, and how to book your spot.

Conclusion

Forest walking therapy is more than just a wellness trend; it’s a proven method to improve physical and mental health. By choosing Libby Curti's Webb, you’re not just embarking on a walk in the woods; you’re investing in your holistic well-being. Embrace the power of nature and discover how forest walking therapy can transform your life today.

[alisondentaldesign]

Transform Your Smile: Teeth Straightening at Docklands Dental House in London

In a bustling city like London, where every smile tells a story, having straight teeth can make all the difference. Whether it's for confidence in social situations or a boost in professional settings, a radiant smile can leave a lasting impression. However, achieving that perfect smile often requires a bit of assistance, which is where Docklands Dental House steps in, offering cutting-edge teeth straightening solutions tailored to your needs.

Located in the heart of London, Docklands Dental House is renowned for its commitment to delivering exceptional dental care in a warm and welcoming environment. With a team of experienced professionals dedicated to staying at the forefront of dental technology and techniques, they provide personalized treatment plans to help you achieve the smile you've always wanted.

One of the most sought-after services at Docklands Dental House is teeth straightening. Traditional braces might come to mind, but the advancements in dental technology have revolutionized the way teeth can be aligned. Here are some of the innovative teeth straightening options available at Docklands Dental House:

1. Invisalign: Say goodbye to metal braces and hello to clear aligners. Invisalign offers a discreet and comfortable way to straighten your teeth without the hassle of brackets and wires. Custom-made aligners gradually shift your teeth into place, allowing you to achieve a stunning smile with minimal disruption to your daily life.

2. Lingual Braces: For those who require a more comprehensive treatment, lingual braces provide an effective solution. Unlike traditional braces that are affixed to the front of your teeth, lingual braces are placed on the backside, making them virtually invisible. This option is ideal for individuals who want to straighten their teeth discreetly.

3. Clear Braces: Clear braces combine the effectiveness of traditional braces with a more aesthetic appeal. Made from translucent materials, they blend seamlessly with your natural tooth color, offering a subtle way to correct misalignments and achieve a beautiful smile.

4. Fast Braces: As the name suggests, fast braces offer a quicker solution for those looking to straighten their teeth in a shorter amount of time. With innovative technology and gentle yet effective treatment, fast braces can deliver noticeable results in a matter of months, making them an ideal choice for patients with busy lifestyles.

What sets Docklands Dental House apart is their commitment to providing personalized care every step of the way. From the initial consultation to the final adjustment, their team takes the time to understand your unique needs and concerns, ensuring that you feel comfortable and confident throughout your teeth straightening journey.

Moreover, Docklands Dental House prioritizes patient education, empowering you with the knowledge and resources to maintain your oral health long after your treatment is complete. With guidance on proper oral hygiene practices and regular check-ups, they strive to ensure that your newly straightened smile remains healthy and radiant for years to come.

In conclusion, if you're considering teeth straightening in London, Docklands Dental House is the place to be. With their state-of-the-art facilities, experienced professionals, and innovative treatment options, you can trust them to transform your smile and boost your confidence. Book your consultation today and take the first step towards a brighter, straighter smile!

Docklands Dental House

51-53 Barking Road

Canning Town

London

E16 4HB

United Kingdom

info@docklandsdentalhouse.co.uk

Dentist Docklands & Canning Town - Dentist Near Me (docklandsdentalhouse.co.uk)

Tel: 020 7511 1234

[hoesoflamentation]

K!nktober: That's an order. | Leviathan x GN!MC | 18+

Prompt: Uniform k!nk

Pairing: Leviathan x GN!MC

Warnings: (sort of mutual) masturbation, uniform k!nk, dom!Levi, heavy degradation (use of "bitch," "slut," "whore"), praise k!nk, fingering, hair pulling, finger sucking, mouth covering, dacryphilia, choking, bruising, slight voyeurism/dubcon (listening to someone without their permission)

A/N: holy hell, fam -- i need to go touch some fucking grass. admiral levi horny hours have hit me HARD and i may never recover. it's a long one. brace yourselves.

Laying on their side, MC shifted uncomfortably in bed, thighs rubbing together as they tried unsuccessfully to ignore their growing arousal -- and the scandalous thoughts that ran through their head.

That evening, MC had gotten home from RAD at the same time that Levi was leaving. Lucifer was busy, so Lord Diavolo had asked Levi to accompany him to a party in his place...

...and because it was a formal occasion, Levi had been wearing his naval uniform.

The brothers had often alluded to Levi's prestigious position in Hell's Navy, which Levi found mortifying. His ears flushed red with embarrassment every time someone brought it up, making him a blushy, stammering mess.

While MC was vaguely aware that Levi had obligations as an officer, he took precautions to avoid them whenever he had to put on his uniform -- so this accidental run-in was the first time MC had seen him in full regalia.

The tailored gray jacket accentuated the lean muscles Levi typically hid beneath his baggy clothes. Several medals decorated his breast, making MC wonder how he had earned them.

Dressed like this, the second-born seemed to stand a little bit straighter. However, any gravitas the uniform gave him disappeared the second he made eye contact with MC.

"M-MC!" Levi stuttered, his cheeks turning red enough to match the piping on his jacket. "You weren't supposed to see me like this!"

Unexpectedly, seeing Levi dressed like this... did something to MC. Freezing in their tracks, they instantly forgot how to use words, their tongue turning to putty in their mouth.

MC barely managed to squeak "bye Levi! Say hi to Diavolo for me!" before scurrying into the safety of the House of Lamentation. Their heart pounded wildly in their chest as they slammed the door and leaned back against it to catch their breath.

Now, laying in bed, MC couldn't help themself from replaying every detail of that moment. They had always thought that Levi was cute, but this was the first time he had made them feel so needy for something more.

Thinking about him kept them awake for what felt like hours, and it was driving them crazy.

The thing was, Levi was the first person they had truly connected with during their time in the Devildom (whatever Mammon said about being their "first," it had always been Levi for them). No matter how they felt about Levi, they couldn't just show up at their best friend's door, begging him to fulfill their fantasy of fucking an officer in uniform...

Yet they also realized that what Levi didn't know wouldn't hurt him. And in their imagination, they were free to let him do whatever he wanted.

So, their hand wandered down their chest, their stomach, to the throbbing space between their legs, teasing their most sensitive spot with their fingertips as they thought about his body on theirs...

Everything on the desk clattered to the floor as Levi reached around them and swept his hand across the tabletop in one fell swoop. The gold buttons on his uniform jacket glimmered in the dim light of the lamp, reflecting MC's desperate expression back to them.

"That's 'sir' to you," Levi barked, shoving MC into the now-empty table. "When you speak to an officer, you'll address him with respect."

Emitting a primal growl, Levi dug his claws into MC's hips, turning them to face away so their back lay flush against his throbbing cock. His arms wound around their waist, his calloused hands wandering up their torso until one found its way around their throat.

Breathlessly, MC managed to choke out the words, "Yes, sir."

They let out a tortured gasp as Levi clenched their neck, hard. Bruises in the shape of his fingertips were already beginning to form beneath his brutal grip.

"Bend over," Levi snarled. "That's an order."

Before MC could obey, Levi's hand was on their back, forcing their chest onto the desktop. They turned their head to one side, whimpering as the demon carelessly yanked a fistful of their hair.

"Mm, I love your pathetic little moans," Levi cooed, unbuckling his belt with his free hand. "You want it so badly, don't you? You fucking slut."

MC could already feel tears dampening their lashes, making their cheeks as wet as the space between their legs. "Please, Le- I mean, sir... I n-need you."

"Use your words, baby," he mocked cruelly. "What part of me do you need?"

"N-need your cock inside of me," they mumbled into the desk, their hips involuntarily grinding against his hardened length through his boxers. "W-wanna be your cumslut."

"That's my good little whore-" Levi bent to lay a series of affectionate kisses on their neck, sending shivers down their spine. "-showing your master the respect he deserves."

A high-pitched whine slipped from MC's lips as Levi roughly yanked their bottoms down.

"Suck," he ordered, reaching around to hook two fingers into their mouth.

Obediently, MC wrapped their lips around them, slobbering over them with their tongue to prep them for entry. But before drawing his fingers from their mouth, Levi first shoved them deeper into their throat, pushing past their tonsils until he felt the protest of their gag reflex.

The tears they had been trying to hold in immediately streamed down their cheeks. MC couldn't help but moan as they choked around his hand. Combined with the sight of them crying desperately, the noise made Levi smirk in satisfaction.

"That's it, baby," he praised, reaching around to slip his two lubed fingers into their hole. "You're doing so well."

They let out a tortured sob, bracing themself by gripping the edge of the desk as Levi pumped in and out.

"Aw, look how badly you want me," Levi teased mercilessly. "You're so desperate. I'm not even inside you yet."

Though his movements were aggressive, he still managed to glide his fingertips across every sensitive spot in their hole with each thrust of his hand.

Already, MC could feel the heat gathering in their core -- and Levi could tell.

"Mm, you're such a little whore. You just can't help yourself around me, can you?"

MC shrieked in surprise as Levi began to fuck them faster and harder with his fingers. He yanked them closer by their hair, eventually releasing his grip on it so he could cover their mouth with his hand.

"Shut up and cum for me, bitch," Levi growled. "Let's see how well you can keep quiet."

The feeling of being completely under his control, physically and emotionally, sent another gush of arousal straight to their pleasure spot. Something about fucking him in his uniform, and hearing him treat them with such irreverence, made them feral with lust.

They barely managed to whimper, "Y-yes, sir," as their walls clenched around Levi's fingers, his pace unrelenting even as it started to make them feel painfully sensitive.

"Fuck, Levi! You make me feel so good."

MC's thighs shook as they milked an intense orgasm from between their legs, writhing beneath their sheets. The fantasy was so vivid, so realistic, that they could practically feel Levi's hand covering their mouth, his breath warm and inviting against the nape of their neck.

But as the wave of pleasure dwindled, MC's cheeks grew instantly hot as they realized they had cried Levi's name aloud. Panicking, they yanked their pajama pants back on and dashed to the door, peering carefully into the hallway through a small crack.

They sighed in relief as they recognized that all the lights were off in the hallway, meaning the demon brothers were probably fast asleep (with the exception of Lucifer, who rarely slept -- but whose office was far enough from MC's room that he likely hadn't heard them, either).

With their little problem taken care of, MC was finally able to relax. They collapsed into bed and turned off the lamp on their nightstand, ready to drift into a peaceful sleep, when they were startled by a deep groan from beyond the wall:

"Yes, MC! That's it. Cum for me, baby..."

In the room next door, Levi had heard everything -- and when he realized they were fantasizing about him, he simply couldn't stop himself from stroking himself off to the sound of MC's pathetic cries.

Spurts of his seed streamed onto his bare stomach as his cheeks burned with embarrassment at the realization that he had said their name aloud.

Levi was absolutely mortified at the fact he was doing this at all, let alone the idea that his best friend might have heard him moaning their name...

Until he heard MC knock on his door, ready to make their shared fantasy into a reality.

taglist: @everyday-girl9041-blog @bunna-does-stuff @obey-me-tho

(dm me if you would like to be added!)

[land-of-appletun-and-anime]

Mask & Scepter, a short Pokemon crossover

An orange dog Pokemon came running up to Allister, startling him with a poke of its nose. Everyone else in the bustling city of Mesagoza had kept their distance, no doubt because of his mask, and he didn't mind the privacy. This little guy seemed to feel differently. It appeared to be friendly enough, so he squatted down and spoke softly to the fascinating Pokemon.

"You're really made of bread. That's mad." he said, getting a bark in response. "I've seen Dachsbun before but you're the first one I've met in person."

Gengar's mischievous chuckle announced its arrival before it actually solidified next to him. It presented something long and shiny.

"What's this?" he asked, examining a metallic scepter roughly a meter long with a Pokéball at its head and what looked like two simple wings protruding from just beneath the ball. Were they insect wings? Or maybe the ends of an elegantly tied handkerchief? Either way, Allister knew Gengar hadn't just found it lying around.

"Where did you-" before Allister could finish his question, a boy around his age came running toward him from the direction of the massive staircase that lead to the central feature of Mesagoza. It was clear from the boy's shoes, metal shining in warm colors from the setting sun, that the scepter belonged to him, but even without them there would've been no question. In contrast to the casual clothes of everyone else here, he wore a tailored suit colored the softest pink, with white frills framing the exposed triangle of elegant shirt beneath. It was complete with white gloves and coattails flailing behind him as he ran.  He didn't sound like a high-class little gentleman, though.

"Give that BACK! It's mi- AH! What the HECK is with that mask? It's seriously creepy!"

"I-I'm sorry. I'm really shy," Allister responded quietly,  "but if people can't see my face, I feel a lot more comfortable in public."

"You really need to speak up. Anyway, that belongs to me. I passed by earlier and your Pokemon stole it and swapped it out so I wouldn't notice."

"Gengar! Um, I'm sorry. He likes to play pranks on people."

Gengar appeared looking ashamed and took the scepter from its trainer, but instead of returning it to its owner, the Pokémon vanished again and began floating the scepter around the boy in an uneven and everchanging orbit, just out of his reach, and chuckling while doing it. The boy spun around grabbing after his scepter with increasing agitation as Dachsbun, apparently belonging to him, watched playfully with a wagging bun. The clean lines of the boy's perfectly styled pink-brown hair were quickly disappearing, leaving a disheveled mess atop the undercut below. When he'd had enough, the boy pressed his arms straight against his sides with fists curled upward in frustration. He stomped on the ground flamboyantly with one shining shoe.

"That's ENOUGH! You are the most annoying Pokemon EVER!" he fumed.

"Gengar, give it back," Allister instructed his Pokemon.

The scepter then vanished altogether and Gengar appeared before the boy. When the Pokemon opened its spacious mouth, the ends of the scepter stuck very obviously out from the center of its rolled up tongue. Gengar rolled its large tongue out like a carpet, presenting the scepter. The boy made a disgusted sound and produced a white handkerchief with which he took his possession back. Gengar chuckled again once out of sight.

"I'm wicked sorry," Allister said, more nervous now than ever.

The boy produced a Luxury Ball, black with red and gold metallic accents, and sent out another unfamiliar Pokémon. This one was mostly bright blue and rabbit-like, standing upright with tall ears over an ellipsoid body. A bright blue ball of a tail bobbed cheerfully in the evening air. The Pokémon loosed a cloud of sparkling bubbles in which the boy cleaned his scepter, holding it by the end with the handkerchief like it was something smelly and unpleasant.

"Who are you, anyway?" the boy asked while working.

" M' Allister. From Galar. I'm a Gym Leader there."

"A Gym Leader? Okaaaay. I'm Ortega. Let's have a battle. We’ll see how you measure up to a Team Star Boss!"

"Y-yeah! Let's battle!" Allister felt the cold presence of Gengar close to him again and wondered if it had just wanted the boys to be friends all along.

[twst-drabbles]

I know you asked about the favorite fic question a while ago. But we shall call this fashionably late!

I’ve always got a sweet spot for the Octavinelle bunch! I was the one who requested the wind up toy one and Azul’s first words.

My favorite pieces are Octavinelle 3 and Savanaclaw, Scarabia, and Pomefiore 1. Honestly I couldn’t tell you how much I read them over the span of a couple of months. It was like a nightly ritual. I’m not sure what it was about those but I’d give them a quick read before bed and be immensely satisfied.

And a new favorite addition is the windup toy one. I love how you described Floyd more as observant in that one. And every time you described one of em punching the frog I imagined a peacock mantis shrimp punches. I can so vividly see the sand being scuffled about.

I’d have to say you’re like the famous last bite of a meal. Or a tart pastry! You don’t over sugar your stuff and I love ya for it! In fact you’ve become the only way I’ve been reading fluff nowadays and am eager to see more constantly! Which is so weird cause I’m an angst reader/writer 100%.

I really admire your short formatting of writing. At first I’ll admit I always wanted more but then I thought to myself what else could there possibly be to add? Thus I discovered your talent for endings! As you can tell from this long message, I always write a bunch so seeing impactful short stuff “by my standards”, will help with that issue I hope.

And lastly I really like how the caretaker can either be their own character or a self insert! I’d never go on any trips with Vargas yet here I am giving a pat on the back to caretaker and telling em good luck! Or how while I’m not the most avid Silver or Kalim enjoyer sometimes I’m like ok caretaker gimme the wheel again I think I’m starting to “L word” them a little more. Also nicknaming the Octavinelle bunch “little shits” is always super homey to me and it feels so right!

This is just a long winded thank you for what you’ve written thus far! I really enjoy everything you put out. And I can’t wait to breach into your oc blog. If you love angst I’m a great supplier in requests!- Signed yours truly Frosty!~

No need to worry, there isn't a due date to any of it and I'm always welcoming to such essays spouting what your favorites might be! It cheers me up no matter how late they may be.

I certainly do love messing around with the Octavinelle group as one of my family members actually used to take care of fish. I loved feeding them and just watching them swim from one end of the tank to the other. While, by all means, they're not your standard fish, it's still fun to sneak in a little fun fact about aquatic life when I can.

Actually, back in the middle of my high school years, I used to write rather long winded myself, as a result of all the old novels I would read that would have such a writing style.

Example from one of my oooooold pieces of writing down below, regarding a Church Grim.

It didn't make any noise whatsoever. It didn't leave footprints in the soft grass, or even a lingering stench on the tree's bark to indicate it might be something of this living world. But, there was nothing to remember it by, beside those angry red eyes that would shift into sight from under its smoking plume of black. It would take a glance at you, and you would stare back into it. Then it would be gone by letting its form be embraced by the shadows created from leafy tree branches. You can see it again through the lush trees blanketed by the cloudy purple night. You watched it float through the flower garden without a purpose, much like a piece of paper in the wind, shifting from one place to another in an effortless glide.

Well, actually I can still write like this, but it's not a writing style tailored for my decaying attention span. I have to be in a certain mood to really get into it. But yeah, I preserve this style specifically for horror writing and professional novel writing.

And yes the self insert certainly has a personality that it won't match your actions word for word, as the reader insert is a character, a part of the narrative, so they must have some amount of agency to keep the story going less they become replaceable with a lampshade or camera.

So, instead of going down the route of keeping the reader insert as blank as possible, might as well give them a personality that people will remember. Every time I write about the Caretaker, I feel like a little unseen ghost looking over their shoulder, just wondering what they'll do next.

Thank you Frosty for taking the time to write all that to me. It really cheers me up while I'm laying in bed, under mountains of blankets.

[as-i-watch]

Oooh so what would be your ideal strawhat outfit? You have some preferences like blue for Sanji, more fun for Nami and robin but I don’t think you’ve been asked what your ideal outfit you think they’d rock 25/8?

For me Nami needs to be in something flowy but strapless so it’s still flirty. I really liked her one look in the filler arc with Z with the white strapless dress?

And ofc a cowgirl hat for robin (but I’d keep the sunglasses). I agree with getting rid of the skirt too

I stil stand by the top 1 in the Top 5 Outfits i made, i would modify stuff in the middle but n°1 undefeated

For Luffy i wouldnt mind something a bit more different like in Strong World.

Zoro either in the Film Z suit or the Blue Tank top just slaps. Whatever he preffers but both of them have to go with their respective googles/sungalsses accesories.

Nami i still like the island of strange animal's movie one. Its flowy but not an impractical gown, its sexy, its badass, you can see where she carries her staff. If im free to imagine, i would die to see Nami in a suit, like long tailor jacket and all.

Usopp is the one of the best dressed on on the crew and i have stated that he chooses practically over style most of the time. Still he has great vibes and any laid back / urban chill outfit he pulls is a win for me

Chopper, i liked the Enies Loby outfit, they gave him a cool tiny leather jacket and thats enough for me. I dont really care fot the costumes he wears on the movies.

Sanji, call me a slut but Sanji in his usual suit, any shirt, but hear me out...without the jacket. Even more, let him loose his tie and we are game. Its all i want for him

Robin i do miss her purple looks with the hat and even tho Thriller Bark dress and Enies Loby dress are still on the very top, i just want for her to wear a lot of different things and dont have a 'regular' look. Like wear trousers, mini skirts, hoddies, shorts, what ever. Just let her have fun with it like in the movies

Franky easy. Idk why but i feel at some point he should wear a cowboy outfit or doble denim. Idk, i just have this vibe

For Brook i want more wacky patterned trousers and more head accesories. Like, give him more bandannas pls

I dont remember where we got this brook but more of it 25/8

[thetriggeredhappy]

can I request sniper and scout planning a little secret symbolic wedding for themselves? its just self indulgent, since they wanna have this connection so they do a tiny intimate thing for the two of them but then all the two teams show up, ms pauling, sniper's parents and scout's family to celebrate too, and they all have a happy day

i dunno if this one will be coherent or and i dont have a joke for ya so thats where we’re at today

(no warnings)

-

He notices Scout looking at things just a little longer. Scout was a man of motion, of emotion, of elation, so seeing him pause, ever, for any length of time, was enough to pique Sniper’s interest. It had to be a big deal, of Scout was looking at it, and he prided himself on being observant.

So seeing the things he paused in front of—jewelry stores, boutiques, flower shops, at first it confused him, but then he saw what Scout was looking at in them. The flower shops had pretty arrangements right in front, labeled vaguely in some with phrases like ‘arrangements for your special day!’ and less vaguely in others as ‘wedding arrangements available’. The boutiques often with white dresses towards the front, and pictures of smiling couples nearby.

Little cards in the display of the jewelry store window proclaiming ‘engagement rings’.

It didn’t take long to piece together.

A number of issues were present. The concept of legal marriage alone was a big one. First because they were two men, one of whom was shaky in terms of immigration and two of whom were shaky in terms of being legally defined as criminals of the highest degree, potentially legally dead in some ways, and certainly smart enough to not walk into a courthouse. Besides that, the paperwork involved, the idea of getting either of their families around when Scout’s family was constantly on the wind in at least one corner and his own hardly on speaking terms with him, the heartbreak—

But Scout paused when he looked at the engagement rings.

Sniper was increasingly exasperated and helpless against the little voice in his head that seemed to watch out for Scout’s well-being, that said, well, couldn’t he at least try and figure something else out?

So it took some thinking. Some rehearsing his words in his own head. Some justifications being made, torn down, analyzed and readdressed with a clearer mind. And he came to a decision.

And when he next got the chance, he called his mum and had a talk with her about a lot of things, so many of them at least a decade and a half in the making. And she didn’t understand, not at all, not on that first phone call, not on the second. But on the third she took care to assure him that she would try, she really would, she really would, and finally gave him permission to use the old family heirloom engagement ring.

And it was subtle and sudden when Sniper proposed. Scout was sat on the steps of the camper, using Sniper’s pocket knife to pick mud out of the soles of his shoes, and Sniper took a seat next to him, plonked a pair of bottles between them. Scout leaned over to bump their shoulders together, grinning at him, and Sniper smiled too, started drinking his own.

Out clear on the horizon line, most of the clouds hadn’t quite blown far enough to obscure the sun. It would be setting soon, and then Scout would be off to eat with the rest of the team and Sniper would get to his own routine. It was a nice night, though.

Finally Scout flicked the knife closed, tucked it into his pocket best he could, reached for the bottle still sitting next to him, popped it and started drinking before it could foam over (he didn’t know how it always did that, he just had awful luck, apparently).

Sniper finished his own drink before Scout could get very far into his own. Stared out across the desert.

“You good?” Scout finally asked, picking idly at the label. “You seem, uh... I dunno. Sad, maybe. One’a those?”

“No, er... just...” Sniper tried, cleared his throat. Now Scout’s eyebrows were raised. “Nervous, is all.”

“Oh, one’a those,” Scout said, and frowned when Sniper shook his head again, drawing a hand down his face, taking a deep breath. “Is... is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Sniper nodded, took another deep breath. “Yeah. Just...”

He paused for a long few moments. Reached to fish through the pocket of his vest, held his closed fist out to Scout. Scout freed up a hand to hold a hand out, palm-up, still frowning, and pulled it back to look at the item Sniper had dropped in his palm.

Blinked. Blinked. Sniper gulped, wishing he had a drink still, something to help with how dry his mouth had gone all of a sudden, watching Scout’s expression carefully.

“Oh,” Scout whispered. Barked a laugh, like shock more than humor, the volume abrupt. “Oh.”

Sniper gulped hard again, looked away, looked back. Scout’s expression didn’t change in the time he wasn’t watching it. “You seem, er... surprised,” Sniper said carefully.

“Well, yeah, duh, yeah, I didn’t—“ Scout said all in a stumbling rush, and took a breath, and seemed to hold it. His eyes hadn’t moved from the ring since he first saw it. He blinked a few times, barked that laugh again. “I didn’t think you’d want...”

“I do,” Sniper said, voice tight, and Scout looked up at him for the first time in a while, and his eyes widened in even more surprise.

“Oh, shit,” he said quickly, seeming to finally register the nervousness, the fear, the worry, and he surged forward, hands on Sniper’s shoulders, one wrapped in half a fist around the ring. “I, yeah, yes, I, yes to the—yes! I’m—“

And then he kissed Sniper, hard, almost bruising, and it didn’t get particularly far before it was broken by another huff of air against Sniper’s lips, and when he pulled back Scout’s grin was a little weak.

“Just never thought you’d ask me, not in a million years,” he admitted.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to cry,” Sniper teased, entire body awash with a sense of relief.

“Oh, fuck off, you’re the one with the watery eyes here,” Scout scoffed, and kissed him again.

And they both made sure to note that they knew there were more conversations to be had, but those could wait until both of them had a clearer head again, which took damn near a week and a half, both so much more giddy than they’d expected to be, then another week when Sniper next saw the ring, hung on a little chain usually tucked beneath Scout’s shirt, worn around his neck apparently since the day he got it.

He liked the word fiancée more than he’d expected to, and he’d expected to like it a lot, and even then, Scout seemed to like it even more.

And Scout admitted half his surprise up front had been because he himself had no real idea how this was going to work, it was just that the idea of being married made him really really happy. He liked weddings, loved weddings, loved the idea of... of settling into something. That really, marriage was the only kind of settling down that he’d ever liked the idea of. And even if it was just... just something quiet, just the two of them, that was fine by him.

And Sniper had nodded, and there had been a pause, but then suddenly Scout spoke up again with a ‘but, I mean, my Ma is always going on about wanting to see me get married, so I kinda have to invite her to whatever we do’.

That was a good start for the plans they had. No particular pressure on it, really, considering they decided not to tell anyone at first. Sniper started trying to figure out where might be a good place to hold... something, maybe not a whole ceremony, but something. Scout started trying to figure out where to get a suit, and where Sniper could get his own tailored, but they weren’t in a rush, and a few months passed without making much progress at all, nothing even feeling like it had changed except that now Sniper would catch Scout fidgeting with the chain he kept the ring on and grinning.

The first real change came when someone else noticed too.

Pyro, stood in-between matches and pointing at the chain around Scout’s neck as he switched into a less charred shirt and mumbling a question, made Scout stammer. Scout stammering made most of the team turn to look. Then more of them saw the chain there, saw the ring there, and some of the more perceptive ones pieced together a few things rather quickly. It was Demo who first said something, outright asking ‘is that an engagement ring?’.

A beat of silence where all were frozen, then the voice over the intercom rang out telling them they had ten seconds until battle, and Scout was off like a shot towards the gate.

In his absence, eyes turned to Sniper instead, who proved to be even less helpful in that he stuttered his way through all ten of those seconds and the team had no choice but to follow Scout’s lead and leave it for later.

Sniper was hoping that he’d be able to escape the team’s questions after battle if he could make it through the Resupply room before everyone else did. But he realized very quickly that would also mean throwing Scout to the proverbial wolves, and besides that, he couldn’t run from this forever. So instead he kicked around the Resupply for a few minutes waiting for the team to come back from chasing down the other team in the humiliation round, and wasn’t entirely surprised when Scout was one of the first back, expression tight with nerves up until the exact moment that Demo and Soldier came wandering in, elbowing at each other and chatting at well above speaking volume.

Neither of them, apparently, had much to say, besides Demo clapping Sniper hard on the shoulder and proclaiming that it took them long enough, and Soldier brushing off their ‘fraternizing nonsense’ in favor of continuing his argument with Demo. Pyro was in the room next, talking and gesturing enthusiastically, and while Scout was trying to translate to Sniper the Engineer came in and shoo’d Pyro along, telling them to mind their business, albiet with what Sniper would almost refer to as a proud smile aimed in Scout’s direction. Medic and Heavy were in the room next, and all that Heavy seemed to be confused about was the legality surrounding marriage between anyone besides a man and a woman in the United States, with Medic attempting to explain but also largely clueless to the actual logistics of the thing. Spy only stuck around long enough to quip that it was a little ridiculous for any of them to worry about legality of all things, which Sniper wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret.

Demo, across the room, in the middle of trying to unstick his jacket from himself with all the mud coating one side of it, quipped that he’d better be invited, and asked what he had to do to get the best man position. From there, a series of what Sniper interpreted as mostly jokes followed, the team chiming in about their attendance, including a number of them laughing that they weren’t exactly allowed in any churches and Pyro insisting that they wanted to be the one throwing the flowers (and no they would not in fact set any on fire) and Heavy saying that if they couldn’t find a good glass to stomp on then Medic had plenty of spare beakers that he wasn’t using for anything, much to the doctor’s protest.

This became the team running joke for a while, was everyone constantly bringing up the wedding. When Spy stomped into the room fuming because of another perfectly good shirt ruined by the base’s washing machine, the Engineer quipped that oh no, what would he wear to the wedding now? When Soldier got into an argument with Pyro, Demo referred to it as a spat between groomsmen. When Sniper was acting particularly cranky one day (not his fault, the base’s coffee machine was awful and they really needed to replace it one of these days), Spy muttered into his tea that it was a shame Scout had to put up with such a bridezilla, a joke Medic chortled about well into the afternoon.

It might have gotten out of hand around the time that poor Pauling had to hear about it, just trying her best to oversee delivering a set of brand new weapons and explaining their assorted bells and whistles, accosted through her entire explanation by jokes that this was a bit extravagant for a wedding gift, that hopefully she’d at least get time off to attend the reception, that competition for maid of honor wasn’t exactly steep but she’d probably be winning anyways, until finally she snapped that if Sniper and Scout were actually going to get married then they needed to note that on their upcoming contract renewals but to otherwise stop talking to her about it so damn much.

This, Scout said, is when he started feeling bad for not talking to his Ma about it yet. Miss Pauling knowing he was getting married before his own mother felt wrong, he said, and so he spent the afternoon steeling himself to make the phone call.

From the combination of relief and vague dismay on Scout’s face when he came back, Sniper could tell something was up, and it was with a number of pauses in the middle of speaking that Scout explained that he’d barely gotten through the news before Ma had started calling over various brothers to tell them the news too, each taking a turn on the phone to get halfway through some kind of third degree that they needed to pass along to Sniper before actually congratulating him, each asking when they’d need to get down there for the wedding in turn. Apparently he’d accidentally called when some of his brothers were over for dinner, and so he explained to Sniper that word was as good as out, because as much as he loved his brothers, not a single one of them could keep their mouths shut to each other.

And so they both sat down with a calendar and had to pick an actual date for a wedding.

Altogether, the date they picked was a little over a year since Sniper proposed, which felt appropriate, and only a few months from then, just long enough for Scout’s brothers to get time off of work. They decided against a whole entire proper ceremony with a priest and vows and all, mostly because legality being an issue, they didn’t have much a reason to stick to tradition. A few things would end up sticking, though. They’d have seating, because Sniper’s mum wasn’t up for standing around for long periods of time anymore and one of Scout’s brothers had that bad leg and cane from his time in the army. They’d dress up for it, because Scout was truly looking forward to that part, to looking nice on the actual day. Vows weren’t necessarily going to be on-script, but they’d both take a moment to say something to each other, and there would be a kiss, and then they’d have a bit of time set aside for if either of their families brought up any traditions they truly wanted to do. And, of course, there’d be some kind of party afterwards, because they both knew that the team would make there be a party afterwards either way.

What they didn’t expect was how quickly the team jumped to help as soon as they mentioned they’d set an actual date in stone to some degree. The Engineer was quick to offer to help with setting up chairs and tables, carting things around if they needed it, having a truck and all. Soldier was happy to offer suggestions for if they wanted catering, having eaten at and subsequently been banned from every eatery in the county, and Pyro started baking at an until then unprecedented clip as they tried to find the exact right recipe for a good wedding cake because they had to have a wedding cake and it had to be perfect. Heavy, to his credit, pointed out a few logistical issues with having the wedding, namely that it couldn’t be anywhere on the base and that they weren’t allowed in the town of Teufort, and Demo was so kind as to offer up his own house and property, given that it had so much space and he knew his mother wouldn’t mind it and besides that, it was a very pretty place.

And then Spy found in the mail the magazines Sniper was looking through when trying to pick out something suit-adjacent, and he could tell Spy was gearing up to really lay into him about it before Sniper pointed out that Spy should really just stop snooping through other people’s mail, and by the next day he found a pair of order forms in his camper on the table, almost entirely filled out except for a few of the fields regarding things like the color of the suits and payment information.

And then he and Scout were trying on suits, and figuring out which hotels were close enough for Scout and Sniper’s families to stay in, and looking at flowers, and figuring out how many days they should schedule off of work and whether the team would be doing the same—

—and then it was the week before, and one night Sniper found himself standing in the camper with Scout, late at night, half-exhausted and stressed out and more terrified than he’d expected to be, arms tight around Scout’s waist. And Scout held on just as tight, and inhaled, and exhaled, shifting with that breath in Sniper’s grip. And Sniper found himself breathing out apologies, so quiet they didn’t quite catch against the grit in his voice, for causing such a fuss about all this, for things getting so out of hand. And Scout had laughed, had squeezed him tight in arms usually used for hurting people to instead give him so much comfort in that moment, and said that he wouldn’t want it any other way. Anything else and it wouldn’t exactly feel like them.

And the two days before the wedding stretched out infinitely, a mix of terror and impatience lacing his every move, and then the day of the wedding itself felt like it took no time at all.

The sun didn’t quite beat down upon them, a blessing even with them wearing simple vests as opposed to full suits, a scattering of cloud cover making the heat bearable and throwing the sunshine out away from them. And the grass around the DeGroot residence was slippery in the morning, slick under their shoes, and Sniper watched nervously across towards his mum and dad as his dad squinted suspiciously around at things and his mum patted him consolingly about only god knew what. And one of Scout’s brothers had brought a camera and was dashing around taking pictures, and most of the team had managed to dig up assorted formal wear, and the Engineer bustled trying to make sure everything was set up just right as Soldier helped Pyro with carrying the frankly ludicrous cake towards the table somewhere. And on one side was Scout’s family, all rowdy, and on the other was the team, even rowdier, his parents squashed between and being vaguely protected from the team by the more generally responsible ones (namely Heavy, who Sniper’s father clearly approved of in some way for being so imposing, and Spy, who Sniper’s mother approved of on the basis of him being entirely polite). And Miss Pauling was there much to Sniper’s surprise, claiming that she was meant to oversee off-base activities (although he suspected she just wanted the time off and was glad to watch the final nail go into the coffin of Scout’s long-gone infatuation with her). And Medic was so kind as to let Sniper know the other team had left a present at the base for them that morning—assuring him, at his alarmed look, that it was merely a prank dummy bomb set to tick as loudly as possible within the packaging, and a note thanking them for the free time off. That was as much a relief as the cloud cover.

And then the ceremony itself happened, so long before Sniper was ready, as if he could ever truly be ready. And he’d seen Scout’s vest already, but not worn, not standing across from him with a glitter in his eyes and a watery smile and hands fidgeting nervously with grip tape that wasn’t there, face red. And Sniper’s hands were sweaty and clammy, and his voice cracked from the very first word of what he had been rehearsing in his head over and over since he proposed, but the way Scout’s expression shone with pride and love had made so much of that nervousness disappear, and he couldn’t find it in him to be nervous, to worry about the team.

He didn’t have it written down, felt that note cards would make this feel stiff, and he wasn’t all that good at writing down his thoughts regardless. But Scout was sniffling by the end of it, and his own voice had gone rough as he just barely kept it together, so he at least knew he was doing something right. 
And Scout didn’t have anything written down either, and when his turn to speak came, there were a few long moments where Sniper worried he’d blanked, forgotten what he wanted to say. But Scout got there, voice surprisingly steady, surprisingly level. And he didn’t remember all of it, but he remembered some in the middle.

“I still can’t believe you love me, that you wanna stay with me for as long as we can, that you trust me and care about me,” Scout said, “but I’m gonna try, I’m gonna try so hard, and I’m gonna do whatever I gotta do to make sure you know I love you too, every single day, and to earn it. I promise. That’s what this is, is me promising. I promise.” 
And that’s when Sniper broke, the first tears falling, needing to wipe at his face gingerly with his sleeve and accompanied by a general ‘aww’ and chuckles from the crowd of loved ones gathered there, and Scout smiled all the wider.

And Sniper did end up stomping on a glass (not one of Medic’s beakers), and both of them were all but showered in assorted confetti by the family they’d somehow gathered over the years, and there was eating, and dancing, and drinking, and dancing, and by the time the sun started to set down beyond the horizon line he found himself stood there with Scout in the middle of it all, kissing him over, and over, and over again, each and every one a promise that he very much intended to keep, come what may.

“I love you,” he said, again, again, and Scout never once stopped smiling.

[levixreader]

Levi x K-Pop Reader - It's not what it looks like - Chapter III

Summary: A dinner turned into a friendship. Friends could hold hands, right? Friends also disliked gameshow contestants who couldn’t keep their hands off you, right? Yeah, just friends.

Request by anonymous

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It's not what it looks like

《 Chapter III 》

He had picked a very nice restaurant; The rose on the wall. It was a very private, exclusive restaurant that, despite its minimal marketing, had a waiting list of at least a month. You had been a couple of times at the restaurant, their menu changed monthly. It was one of your favourites. “Guess being CFO does have its perks”, you thought following the host, Levi walked in front of you. His suit was well-tailored, you could see his shoulders, they were broader than what you had remembered, then again, you had been basically straddling him when you had looked at them. A small shy blush coloured the tip of your nose.

“Is the usual table alright Mr Ackerman?”, the host asked. Levi looked back at you for a second and smiled, “Yes, thank you Loui”, Levi responded returning his eyes to the front. Your cheeks coloured. “The usual”, you echoed. So, he was here often. Well, at least he had taste. Levi stopped, the host opening what had previously looked like part of the wall. You stopped almost tripping against Levi’s back. There was no chance of you repeating the embarrassing moment again, ever. Levi nodded at the host and stepping inside the private room with you trailing closely behind. There was a waiter already inside pulling out a chair for you to sit on. You paused. In front of you was a wall of windows, a view of the city greeting you. It was beautiful. You could see the small lights from the buildings glimmering like stars, small red lights sprinkled around. The roads lit by the moving cars. The sky was dark, a dark blue background. Your eyes widened. It was like a painting had come to life.

“Is this nice enough for an apology?”, Levi’s deep husky voice called your attention. You turned to look at him, awe written all over your face, he was smirking. As quickly as you could you sat on the offered chair. Once sited, you cleared your throat, “If we order wine, then perhaps”, you said playfully. He propped his head against the palm of his hand, his smirk widening. He called the waiter behind you with his free hand. “Is red okay?”, he asked, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. You met his silver gaze, “You’re the expert”, you answered as casually as you could. He smirked again “Submissive”, he mused, “A bottle of the usual”, he ordered, his eyes never leaving yours. You swallowed a little nervously.

* * *

He frowned; his eyes glued to the tv above him.

He didn’t like it.

“That was incredible!”, Hange called out, louder than need be, from the seat next to him. He could feel unwanted eyes on their table. “Stupid shitty glasses”, he thought inhaling the double whiskey he had been holding the entire time.

It hadn’t been incredible.

She twisted to look at him, he knew what was going to happen next. He closed his eyes bracing himself for the impact. “Do you think you can ask her for concert tickets?!”, she asked excitement bouncing from her every word. Her chair wiggled, as she restlessly waited for an answer. “No”, he said firmly. There was no way he would ask you for tickets for stupid Hange, it would mean he would also need to go. After what had happened six months ago, there was no way he was going. “Please?, shouted Hange, earning them more looks, she looked at him pouting and her eyes opened as wide as she could. “What the fuck kind of stupid face are you making”, Levi called out signalling for a waiter. “Oh common, when she does it, it works!”, Hange complained, pointing at the TV raised so that people around the bar could see.

Sure enough, Levi’s eyes returned to the TV, his frown back in place.

You were still on the screen, the boy next to you still holding your shoulder. His eyes willed his finger to break in half. You looked happy, holding some sort of award. It was a game show and your team had evidently won whatever stupidity they had you doing. “No, it doesn’t”, Levi said calmly, nodding at the waiter he had called bringing him another whiskey. “It’s okay to admit you love her”, Hange said nonchalantly. He could have choked on his drink. His eyes widened and his face swinging abruptly to look at his ‘friend’. “I am not in love with her”, he barked, more panicked than angry. He wasn’t in love with someone who had her face plastered in shaving cream and smiled. You were a million years too early for that. “Sure~”, dismissed Hange with a hand as she finished her beer and stared at the TV. His attention returned to the TV; his eyes narrowed.

You were hugging the boy.

His eyes trailed as you exited the stage.

He groaned, gulping the rest of his whiskey.

He was going to need another one if he was going to convince anyone that he wasn’t at least jealous. His phone lit up. His eyes lazily turn to observe the thing.

Did you watch it?

It was a text. He groaned again, signalling the same waiter again. He wasn’t in the mood to answer but, he knew you had been very excited for him to watch you on TV. He picked up his phone reluctantly answering.

Yes.

Simple and short.

“Is that her?”, Hange asked with renewed enthusiasm. Levi grunted in response.

Did you like it?

Pinged his phone. “Is it?”, Hange insisted shuffling her chair closer to his. No, he hadn’t like it.

You looked stupid.

He answered curtly. “Let me see!”, came Hange’s whine. He moved his body, shielding his screen from her prying eyes. You send him a pouting emoji. He pictured you pouting, the corner of his mouth lifted up. “WHY ARE YOU SMILING???”, Hange squirmed desperately trying to look at his phone.

Where are you?

Another text.

Rose Bar

He answered. “Tell her to come!”, Hange managed to say, Levi’s hand firmly on her cheek keeping her as far away from him as possible.

See you in 20

His screen lit up again, his earlier anger melting right off. “Yeah, she’s coming”, he said calmly. “Really???”, came Hange, “yes, now get off”, he said giving her a harsh shove. “I still can’t believe you’re dating a k-star”, she said her hands on the table trying to stabilize herself. “We’re not dating”, Levi corrected.

Truthfully, he didn’t know what you were.

“I’ll tell her you said that”, she screamed making Levi roll his eyes in contempt. “Mind your own business shitty glasses”, Levi warned, the waiter bringing him his third double whiskey.

True to your word, you appeared at Rose Bar twenty minutes later.

“Look”, whispered Hange pulling on Levi’s dress shirt. He turned per her request; his eyes landed on you. You were in ‘disguise’ today. He could still see a lot of men in the bar staring at you. You looked a bit out of place. The Rose was bar mostly frequented by high position office workers, and you, well, with your black shorts, thigh-high boots and thick sunglasses, obviously didn’t belong there. He groaned, his eyes lingering a little too long on the hem of your boots.

“Oi!”, screamed Hange, catching your attention. You smiled and trotted towards them, sitting next to Levi. “Hey!”, you greeted, smile still in place. Hange’s eyes twinkled, “That was awesome!”, she cheered making you smile even wider. His eyebrows knitted together. “I can’t believe you won too!”, Hange continued. “I know! It was Mingyu, really… I did nothing”, you explained, stretching your legs from beneath the table.

Mingyu

So that was the boy who was touching you so much’s name. His frown deepened.

“You looked stupid”, he said repeating his earlier comment. You rolled your eyes already used to his brashness, “Yeah but I won!”, you argued. He sipped his fourth whiskey, you stared at him waiting for any kind of reaction. He could feel both yours and Hange’s eyes drilling holes into him. He sighed, “Congratulations”, he finally said caving in. You smiled triumphantly, “Thank you”. You turned to rummage through your purse, now Levi’s turn to patiently watch as you scrambled around the small thing.

“Here!”, you said pulling out two neon tickets. Hange’s eyes widen, Levi’s closed. “Are those-”, Hange said her hands inching towards your raised one. “Yes!”, you said eagerly. “No way!”, Hange said finally reaching your fingers. You grinned letting her take the tickets. “Levi look!”, Hange cried, shaking Levi. He sighed opening his eyes and regarding the overly large tickets on her hands. “Your not girlfriend got us tickets to the Laker's basketball game!!”, Hange mused still in disbelief.

“Girlfriend?”, you asked your head coking sideways. Levi turned to look at you taking advantage of Hange’s dace. “When is it?”, he asked making you smile. “In a week”, you answered proudly, “You’re coming, right?”, he could see the hope in your eyes. How could he say no? He sighed, “Sure”. Before he knew it you had thrown yourself, looping your hands around his neck, squeezing him as hard as you could. This was a rare sight of public intimacy.

Carefully you let go of his neck and settled back into your seat. Levi was careful not to touch you intimately in public, opting for lingering stares and grabbing your hand under tables, like he was going to do now. You felt his rough fingers on your thigh, it made you jolt. You could never get quite used to the roughness of his fingertips. “You don’t mind then?”, you asked, your own fingers finding his hand. His silver eyes stared at you, “mind what?”, he asked absentmindedly, enjoying how soft your hands felt. “Because it’s so public”, you clarify lacing your fingers with his. He hummed in response practically feeling you pout. You wanted a more verbal answer. “Hange is coming too”, he added caving, once again, to your whims. His other hand raising the short glass of whiskey to his lips. “I suppose”, you answered squeezing lightly his hand.

He didn’t know how this happened and to be fair, you didn’t either. One dinner turned into an exploration of the city and a concerto invitation. One outing turned to five and the next thing he knew he was calling you to talk about his day. Of course, you had given a joint press interview explaining the situation. The stories hadn’t stopped but at least the narrative did, instead of secret rendezvous and romantic conspiracies, the internet became obsessed with the unlikely friendship that had budded from the whole ordeal.

But, one night, when he was headed towards your apartment to drop you off, you had been staring out the window, the soft white light from the moon showering your features, his eyes had lingered and he knew. He liked you. He could see your hand laying on the middle section, manicured white nails relaxed. It was an impulse really. He inched his hand towards you, you didn’t flinch, so he grabbed it. His own face impassively looking out his own window now. You gripped his hand back, opening your fingers to allow his between yours.

That’s all it took. You never spoke about it. But every time you met up with him, you looked for his hand, for his callous fingers to touch you, to heat up your skin in a way that only he knew how to do.

“This is awesome!”, squealed Hange finally coming out of her daze. You breathed out, grey eyes still on you, “Yeah, awesome”, you echoed not really paying attention to her anymore.

[theleftovertaco]

April Fools

I’ve always wondered if April Fools existed in the wizarding world. I’ve come to the conclusion for this fic that it doesnt so the reader can introduce the Weasley twins to it. Chaos ensues. This takes place in harrys 3rd year and the twins 5th year. Technically you would be in 5th year as well, but your gender nor house are specified.

-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-

You were writing your potions essay in the quidditch stands when an identical set of loud voices brought you out of your trance.

“Hey, short stack.” Fred and George flew up to your section.

“Oh look, it’s the demonic duo.”

George smirked, “Because we’re so devilishly handsome?”

“No, because your both so ugly that even Jesus couldnt save your face so satan had to take you.” You heard two squawks of indignation but continued on.

“Also, I’m not that short. Y/H is average.”

“Ah,” Fred sat down to your right, “but your shorter than us, so your short.”

“Everyone’s shorter than you two beanstalks.”

“You’re still short.” You stuck your tongue out at George and he mirrored you.

“What do you two want?”

“I’m hurt... always assuming we want something..” Fred trailed off.

“Yeah, we can’t have a conversation with our best friend?”

“I feel betrayed.”

“Depressed.”

“Cheated!”

“Is our friendship a lie?”

“Enough!” You giggled out.

“You don’t have to need something, but you stopped in the middle of practice for a reason.”

“Well... Gryffindor team likes to listen to music when we practice right?” Fred leaned in and put his chin on your shoulder.

“Ok and?”

“Well, all we have is Celestina Warbeck music and your muggle music just is much better than ‘a cauldron full of strong, hot love’”, George sung that last bit.

“So we wanna know if we can borrow your CDs and player?”

“Flawless impression. Yes you can use them, I’ll bring them out next practice. Though honestly, I really ought to get you one of your own so you don’t have to keep asking every time u want to listen to music.”

George hummed in agreement next to you.

“Maybe that’ll be your birthday gift. When is it anyways... I’ve known you two for almost a year and you never told me.”

“It’s in about a month. April 1st.” George confirmed.

You let out a bark of laughter. “Yeah, that checks out.”

You got a rare pause of silence.

“What do you mean ‘that checks out’?” Fred looked honestly confused, and so did George.

“Are you both messing with me? You have to know what holiday is on April 1st right?” They shook their heads no.

“Really? Hold on a second let me ask Hermione if she knows anything. ‘Mione!” You got her attention from a few stands over and she jogged over to the three of you.

“Yeah, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, can you answer a question?” She nodded and you continued, “ without saying it out loud, you know what holiday is on April 1st, right?” She nodded again.

“Yea, why is that relevant?”

“Because they don’t!” You motioned frantically to the twins behind you and Hermione shook her head.

“Do not tell them they don’t need another reason to go around causing more chaos.”

“Oooh,” Fred lifted up his head in interest, “this sounds interesting. What holiday is on April 1st that we don’t know about?”

Hermione shook her head as Harry flew over and dismounted. “What’s going on, practice is over, why aren’t you lot leaving?”

You turned to him quickly, “Harry, without saying it, you know what holiday is on, April 1st, right?” He nodded before realizing what was going on and started laughing.

“Don’t encourage them Harry!” Hermione pushed him slightly.

“Why not? It would be funny to see what they do with that.”

Fred and George were getting frustrated, “With what?”

“Don’t tell them, Y/N!”

“Tell them, Y/N!” “Tell us, Y/N!”

“Ok ok I’ll tell you!” You conceded and Hermione threw her hands up in exasperation and left to collect her bag.

“On two conditions!”

Fred and George whispered to each other for a second before turnin to you and nodding.

“Of course.” Said George with a sly grin.

“What are these conditions?” Fred finished for him.

“Number 1. When I tell you the holiday, I get full immunity from the days effects.”

“But of course.” They spoke in unison

“Number 2. Anyone asks, I had nothing to do with this.”

Fred shrugged, “That’s fair. So, what holiday is on April 1st?”

You grinned before replying, “April Fool’s!”

“What is April Fool’s?” George’s eyes went wide.

“A holiday dedicated to playing pranks on people. Muggles prank their friends, family, teachers, principal. In my primary school one of my friends put a bunch of live chickens in a teachers car.”

They looked at you with pure glee.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!” Fred and George each planted a kiss on you cheek and ran off.

-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-

Fred and George dropped into the library chairs in front of you two weeks later.

“So we were thinking.” Fred grinned from the chair closest to you.

“And since you were the one to tell us about this glorious holiday, you should be part of the celebration.”

“No.”

“Why nooooot?” George whined, setting his chin on the table and looking at you with his best puppy eyes.

“I’m not going to get in trouble for a holiday and besides, its your holiday. You don’t need me interfering.”

“But we want you there so you should do it, right? And you wouldn’t be interfering. Please?” Fred joined his brother in puppy eyeing you.

You sighed and nodded in agreement.

“Yay! So we were thinking that maybe we could pull something minor on each of the teachers and then something major on the whole school. What do you think?”

“It could work, but you would have to tailor it to each teacher. Snape can’t stand background noise and high pitches, McGonagall hates being even remotely interrupted, Flitwick can’t stand his bookstack being messed with, and Lupin, for whatever reason, doesn’t like fish.”

“Fish?” George tilted his head like a confused puppy.

“Yeah, he thinks they’re gross or something.”

They both nodded before Fred spoke up, “Ok, so what are you suggesting?”

You thought for a moment before responding, “For snape, I have this little old transportable music player. We could charm it to follow him around and play a bunch of kazoo noises in the background. The more he tries to get rid of it the higher pitch and louder it gets.”

“Ooh, I like that. What else?” George nodded for you to continue.

“We could find a spell where every time McGonagall tries to speak, she gets interrupted by, I don’t know, a horn or something? Flitwick I don’t really have anything.”

“I like the way you think.” Fred grinned and added in, “ . We could turn Lupin’s class into a tiny lake and fill it with fish while he’s up in his office?”

George nodded, “And we could make Flitwick's stack fly around the room while he’s on it?”

“You’re both evil. It’s fantastic.” You high fived them and the three of you left to enact your plans.

-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-

The next two weeks were a never-ending whirlwind of prank planning and late night kitchen runs, but finally the three of you were done. The plans were set up and now all there was to do was wait.

First class of the day was McGonagall’s and the three of you walked in trying to wipe the grins off your face.

“Good morning class, please turn to-” *HONK* Your professor whipped her head around to see where the sound was coming from to no avail. She shook her head and continued on.

“As I was-” *HONK HONK* “Where is that noise coming from?”

The class stifled laughter as she ran around looking for the origin of the honking.

For twenty minutes.

“I swear to” *HONK*

“Oh for the love of” *HOOOOONK*

Eventually McGonagall grew tired and dismissed the class half an hour early.

Snape was next on the hit list.

Your professor strode into the classroom, looking obviously annoyed. A tiny radio followed after him playing a nonsense tune with kazoos. The class  burst into laughter but was promptly shut up by a particularly harsh glare.

The next hour was trademarked by Snape repeatedly trying to destroy the radio physically or through magic while he had the class make a healing potion. The noise just got louder and louder and when the bell rang for the last class before lunch Snape barked at everyone to “GET OUT NOW”.

At lunch, you, Fred, and George each grabbed a sandwich and an apple and were about to rush out to have time to set up Lupin’s prank when Harry, Ron, and Hermione stopped you.

“The radio in Snape’s class, who’s bloody idea was that?” Fred and George pointed to you and Ron responded with a high five.

As you three left you could hear Hermione reprimanding Ron for encouraging you.

Lupin’s class took time to set up, but he always took lunch in his office and rarely opened the door.

The three of you placed a tiny device in the center of the floor, rushed out of the classroom, and waited.

You heard a loud BANG and then a stream of curses before running off to hide.

By the time you three returned for class, a student had opened the door to find Lupin taking refuge at the staircase and yelling that class was cancelled for the day and to read Chapter 17!

This brings us to Flitwick’s class.

The plan for his had already been enacted. Since when the three of you stepped into his class, he was clutching onto  Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 and yelling out instructions while also asking that someone help him down.

You three took pity halfway through class and found a ladder for him to use.

The four pranks had gone off without a hitch, now you just needed to pull of dinner and everything would be perfect.

Fred and George snuck into the kitchens and as food was being prepared to go out, they placed a few drops of a specialized potion on about half of the platters.

So they reconvened with you at dinner.

You each sat there, and then you waited as people dug into their food.

After about thirty seconds the chaos you had been waiting for occurred. Half the Great Hall turned into various zoo creatures, all frantically running around the tables and crashing into people. The human half of the hall was torn between laughing and running.

They ultimately settled on running.

As everyone cleared out of the hall, the students were ushered back to their respective dorms, and the three of you escaped to the kitchens.

As soon as the portrait entrance was closed, the three of you looked at each other before bursting into laughter.

“AHAHAHAHA- OH that was BRILLIANT!” You half screamed.

“Did you see the look on Sprouts face when Snape turned into a peacock? A PEACOCK!” Fred screeched, nearly on the floor.

“I don’t know if we could ever outdo that!” George replied, who was on the floor.

Eventually the three of you calmed down and you caught your breath to reply.

“Knowing you two, you could. Before we leave, come on. I got you something.”

You brought them over to a table in the middle of the kitchens where two cupcakes and a CD player was set up, along with around 10 CDs next to it.

“I completely forgot about that!” Fred exclaimed.

“Thank you so much!” George and Fred leaned down a little to hug you at the same time.

“Uh, guys, getting a little crushed here.”

“Right, sorry.” George detangled himself from the hug.

“I’m not, gonna keep crushing you.” Fred squeezed tighter.

You laughed and hugged him back.

“Happy Birthday.”

[flying-nightwing]

Double Cross (Jason Todd)

Hi people! So this is my little project I was talking about. A sudden blurb of inspiration led me to this and uh. Here it is! Once again, this is super experimental so yeah idk about its potential. You’ll be the judge of that I guess

This time I worked on time jumps back and forth and perspectives, so let me know how it turned out!

Masterlist in bio/pinned!

Pairing: Jason Todd x gender neutral!reader

Word count: 6937

Warnings: swearing, uhhh idk it’s dc so you know what you’re into 

-- 36 hours ago --

Your heart was beating hard against your ribcage as you flew down Washington DC's streets. Your motorcycle was burning under you, and you had a feeling you were on the clock to get off of this ticking time bomb before it exploded and brought you down with it. The bullet holes broke the black paint, decorating your bike in a way that flagged unwanted attention. About six blocks ago, unmarked cars had joined your fast paced parade across the city.

A terrible mistake, all of this was. That was certain. 

You took a sharp right, your knee scraping on the asphalt on the way. An infernal noise came out of your bike, but you still willed it to accelerate on the straight alley. You shot back on the main roads like a bullet, swerving around the black police car that had tried to cut you off. But soon enough, you saw the blockade on the street in front of you. You could never jump it with your bike so in disarray, and there were no viable alleys to sneak into. You shut your eyes tight for a moment, then exhaled.

"I'm sorry Jason" You muttered to yourself. "But you left me no choice"

With a firm grip, you pressed the brakes and came to a stop a fair distance from the blockade. You turned off your bike and kicked the foot to hold it up, slowly getting off and pulling your hands up. Shouts erupted around you as the police mobilised themselves in tight formations, guns up and ready to shoot. With one hand up, you undid your tinted black helmet and let it fall to the ground. 

"On your knees!" An officer shouted as he approached. "Keep your hands where I can see them"

You complied.

-- Now --

The white of the neons glaring down on you made your already tired eyes hurt, saturating your vision with a harsh and constant flash of light. You were left alone with a room temperature glass of water on your left and your own reflection on your right. You couldn’t hear them, but you knew they were there, observing you. Instead, all you could see was the dark bags under your eyes and your messy greasy hair. 

You perked up when two men in suits came in by the door in front of you, thin files in their hands and calculating glances. They were nicely dressed, one with a gray suit and the other, black. Both suits were obviously tailored to them. They sat down in front of you and observed you before the one in the gray suit spoke. Dark hair, blue eyes, taller than the other, maybe around six feet.

“Good morning, Agent”

You only nodded, looking down to the table. 

“My name is Agent Baker,” He said. “My colleague here is Agent Tanev. We will proceed to your debriefing”

“Sure” You nodded again.

Agent Baker set a recording device on the desk and turned it on. “Please tell us again why you are here today”

“I am--” You paused, clearing your throat. “I am here today to deliver crucial information on a wanted criminal in exchange for a pardon” 

“Which wanted criminal should that be?”

“The Red Hood” You said, meeting his eyes. “I have names of associates, safe houses locations, frequent territories of operation as well as his specific m.o.”

“How come you know all of this?” He asked, his voice neutral. “No seasoned agent has ever managed to get this close to him, let alone a rookie. We want to know how you gained his trust, start from the beginning, spare no details. Leave nothing out”

“I met the Red Hood during operation 7381 in northern Lithuania” You began as Agent Tanev started to take notes. “I was in the back up team for the extraction of General Kradiev from a local opposant group. I wasn’t supposed to even see action, as it should have been simple enough against an untrained mob, but when is it ever…”

They had known you were coming. A whole grab and go operation had been compromised by the feeling of invincibility of the CIA, that looked down so much on whoever they went against that they never stopped to think that maybe--maybe--they were prepared.

So when the Alpha team stormed the country house where the General was supposed to be kept and found it empty, all action plans were thrown out the window. The Beta team was mobilised to close off all the roads surrounding the area and to search for the hostage. You were ordered to search a single decaying house in between two pine trees because the structure was so old, so  nobody could have ever been hiding in its debris. However, as you were leaving, you heard whimpers coming from the cellar a few feet away from the foundations. Carefully, you made your way to the wooden doors on the ground, and after making sure your magazine was full and the safe of your semi automatic off, you kicked the doors open and raced down the stairs.

“Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off” You yelled, pointing your gun at the first person you saw. It was clearly a man, wearing a bright red helmet that shone under the single lightbulb hanging down from the ceiling. He slowly held up his hands, but he didn’t seem so bothered. Your eyes found another man next, tied to a chair and wearing a bag on his head. The military uniform was a dead giveaway of his identity, so you returned your full attention to the red helmet guy. “You’re going to back up and face the wall now”

“Or what?” He challenged. “You’ll ‘blow my head off’?”

“Shut up!” You barked, taking a step forward. Your firearm was ready to shoot. “Do as I fucking say”

“You’re CIA uh?” He changed the subject, looking down at your marked bulletproof vest and not listening to you. In fact, he didn’t seem worried at all by the situation he was in. “Should have known. You guys have never cared who lived or died. What fucking difference does it make, as long as they’re good pals with the good ol’ US of A right?”

“God would you just fucking shut up and back up” You were getting impatient, but also nervous. You were alone without backup, with a guy in a red helmet who was clearly taunting you, and you had never shot anyone before. It was your first oversea mission, and already it was fucking catastrophic.

“See, that’s the thing” He held a finger up. “You’re pointing a gun at me like I’m the bad guy, while you are trying to rescue the scum of humanity. You’re going to extract him, give him a nice long life on Florida’s golf courses with the taxpayers' money and wipe out from History the mass graves in the woods two miles away”

You remained silent.

“Oh, did you not know about the mass graves?” He asked rhetorically in a mocking tone. “Your friend here decided he wanted to test the new shipment of automatic weapons, because their bullets per minute capacity had been expanded. And what better targets than the group of students that opposed the american military presence in the country? The youngest was 16 and her name was Vera Beliskava. Isn’t that right, Kradiev?”

He pulled the hood from the general to reveal his bloodied and bruised face. He had been gagged and beaten, that was obvious. He looked at you, pleading. 

“You’re the only one who saw” The man in red said, softer this time. “You don’t have to save that piece of trash. Just say your search came up empty and I’ll make him disappear from the Earth's face permanently without leaving so much as a trace. Nobody else will know, and you will go to sleep knowing you made the world a better place”

You took a breath, a million thoughts running into your head. Who was that guy? Why was he here? Why did he not attack you, while he clearly had a handgun strapped on his thigh? Could he be right about Kradiev? You knew he didn’t have the cleanest record concerning human rights, but mass graves? 

“Beta team, report”

You both froze as your comm broke the silence. He gave you a challenging look as you were still debating. You wanted to do good, that’s why you went into the secret services. Being complicit in mass murder wasn’t something you signed up on. 

“Nothing to report on the north road”

“Clear in the valley”

“Farmer’s house empty”

“No traffic on the south road”

You knew it was your turn now. Slowly, you reached for your comm, not breaking eye contact.

“Pinetree house’s clear” You spoke in a flat line, decided and direct as you lowered your gun. You shut down your comm and glanced at Kradiev, whose relief morphed into fear once again as your decision registered. You averted your eyes. 

“You made the right choice”

“I hope so, or I’m dead” You mumbled. “I’m going back now. Don’t make me regret my decision”

“You won’t”

“So just to be clear,” Agent Baker frowned. “You just… Believed him? And you let General Kradiev in his hands?”

“When I left, I went to check, and the graves were there. Kradiev was guilty”

“That was not your decision to make” He pointed out.

“I know” You sighed. “That was my first mistake. I-- I lost it for a moment. He mentioned the graves and the victims and there were so many people the same age as them I could think about and I decided with my feelings rather than my judgement. And I’m paying the price today”

“Alright” He mumbled, passing a hand on his face like he was already done with this debriefing. “When did you cross paths with him again?”

“We were back in America” You continued. “By that time, I was no longer on training wheels. It was a little more than a year later, in Newport Oregon during operation 9004. We were busting a trans pacific drug dealer on the docks when we got unexpected company…”

You were running as well as you could through the maze of freight containers on the docks, trying to push back the pain of the bullet in your leg. You had drawn the fire of the hired gang so your colleagues could proceed, but things went down the drain when you were met with heavier fire than the briefing stated. Outnumbered and outran, you stopped in your tracks and closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. You wouldn’t go out as a coward, that was certain. If you went down, you’d take as many of them as you could with you. 

You reopened your eyes and checked the magazine of your gun, letting it drop on the ground and pushing a full one in. You loaded and clicked the safe off, flexing your fingers on the handle as footsteps surrounded you. You spun around and pulled the trigger, but before the bullet even reached your target, two men dropped on his side. 

You weren’t the only shooter. 

Thinking it was backup from your team, you allowed yourself to back up against a container, trying to stop the bleeding. You were starting to feel light headed, but you still had a bit more fight in you. Soon enough, all hostiles were down, and you were in for a surprise. Instead of the black uniform of your colleagues, you looked up to a red bat, a leather jacket and a familiar red helmet. You squinted your eyes and let out a chuckle of disbelief.

“Do I even wanna know?” You asked.

“I owed you one” He shrugged. “You okay?”

You looked down to your leg, your pants soaked in blood that was already cooling, then back up again. “Peachy” You gave him a thumbs up. “You were right about Kradiev. He was a fucking trash bag”

“It’s often the case” He said as he rested his hands on his hips. 

“You here for Hiko?”

“Yep” He nodded, then snorted derisively. “Any tips?”

Ever since Kradiev, you have developed a habit of researching your target better. Most of the time, it was a capture or an execution on site, so it didn’t matter the extent of their crimes. But there were moments when you were extracting the package without knowing what came next, and those times usually meant they’ll make them disappear under a new identity, without giving them any repercussion for their actions. This one, Hiko, was the later case, without any plan revealed for when you get him back. He was a known drug trafficker, but he was also rumored to smuggle people back and forth between Asia and North America through the docks he owned. The Red Hood’s appearance was well timed, to say the least. 

“Sneak past the squad through the east” You panted. “If you can move on top of the containers without being seen or heard, you’ll cut them off with about two minutes to spare. Make sure you’re gone with Hiko when they bust through the door, or neither of us will ever find him again”

He paused, studying you. “Thanks…” He trailed off. “Why are you telling me this again?”

“Well, you said it yourself” You managed to smirk. “If I can go to sleep knowing I made the world a better place”

He didn’t answer with anything else but a quick nod before he climbed the containers and disappeared from your field of vision. You sighed, then reached for your comm. “Alpha 003 to central, I’m down and need medical attention, Northwest entry of the docks”

“So if I understand correctly, not only you let him go again,” Baker exhaled, looking bewildered. “But you told him how to get there first? You realize those are becoming serious crimes right?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t” You snapped, before recomposing yourself. Both agents had backed away just a little at your outburst. You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Sorry. I’m just tired, it’s been a crazy last two days” 

“Did he offer you any medical help then?” Baker returned on topic. 

“No, I called the medics and I was extracted with the chopper” You replied. “I knew he was there for Hiko, not for me. It was a coincidence we crossed paths, and at that point I thought it was the last time I’d see him. I mean, what are the chances, right? But you see, that here was my second mistake”

“How so?”

“The CIA goes after threats to national security, but so does he, in his own way” You said, locking eyes with Baker. “The guy’s everywhere, even where we don’t go. And he’s at least three steps ahead of us at any turn. He has good funds, good intel and exceptional skills. You don’t find him, he finds you. And that’s what he did”

“He contacted you after the affair on the docks?” He raised an eyebrow.

“We could say that...”

You finished washing your tea cup when you heard a thud coming in from your living room. Slowly, you grabbed the gun hidden in your cupboard and held it up, quietly making your way to the next room. You rounded the corner and pointed your gun to the man standing with his back to you, registering his identity as he turned around. You must have been a sight in your baby pink pajama shorts and mismatching turquoise tank top, pointing your handgun to a man in a shiny red helmet. 

You scoffed and lowered your gun, clicking the safe back on and putting the firearm on the lamp table. “Breaking and entering, really?”

“Wouldn’t be the worst crime I’ve committed” He shrugged, and you could just imagine him rolling his eyes, whoever he was under that helmet. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked, crossing your arms against your chest. “How did you find me?”

“Like I find anyone” He answered like it was the simplest of evidence. You waited for him to continue, but he seemed to have no intention to reveal his methods. This time, you rolled your eyes. “And I’m here because I wanted to check on your leg”

“No you’re not” You snorted. He would have come months ago if it was about that, and even then, the little you knew about him told you he was not the kind to just check upon people who didn’t mean anything to him. “But I’m doing fine, thanks”

“You’re welcome” He nodded. “And you’re right. I need something from you”

“Well, go ahead, since you’re already in” You gestured at him to go on.

“Wait wait wait” Baker held his hand up. “He broke into your house and you just let him? You put your gun down and didn’t call anyone?”

“Yeah, that’s what I just said” You replied slowly. 

“And it never occured to you that he was dangerous?”

You paused, thinking your answer over. “No, it didn���t. I mean, if he wanted to get rid of me, he would have done it on the docks where I was an easy target”

“Fair point” Tanev muttered under his breath, earning him a glare from Baker. 

“Now do you want to know what happened or not?” You said, annoyed at the interruption.

“Please, go ahead”

He reached inside his jacket and handed you a file. You took it and opened it, staring at the picture and the description beside it. “This is Ian Markstrom, he has been suspected to kidnap young women, mostly tourists, to sell them on the sex trafficking market” He began. “Not only is he friends with your big bosses, but those who were brave enough to try and get him locked up never got anything to stick, and that was the best case scenario. The others either disappeared or ended up dead, so I’m assuming someone in this government does not want Markstrom to stop”

You nodded. “What can I do for you?”

“There’s a secret auction strictly reserved for the elite, Markstrom will sell his best teenagers there” He explained, a hint of disgust in his voice. “The CIA chief of operation received an invitation. I want to know what it says on the card”

“I’m not sure I’m good enough to reach anywhere near it” You mumbled. “But sure, I’ll try”

“No, I believe in you” He said, and he seemed pretty sure of himself. You raised an eyebrow to hide your surprise at his compliment. “What I’m wondering though, is why you’re not asking questions”

“Well, you are two in two so far about targeting the bad guy” You said after a moment. “You seem qualified to spot ‘em, and you’d be real twisted to to make up that scenario for a petty revenge, so I’m guessing you’re on the mark again”

“Huh. You might just be the only smart CIA agent I’ve ever met”

You snorted. “Well, the more it goes the more I’m questioning the integrity of my employer”

“You keep impressing me” 

“With what I saw, I believe the bar was pretty low to start with”

“Keep talking like this and I might need a cold shower”

“You’re an ass, you know that?” 

He let out a short bark of laughter. “If only you knew”

“I’ll do my best for the invitation” You brought him back on topic, closing the file and putting it beside your handgun. “How can I contact you if I get it?”

He paused, then took a step forward and grabbed your wrist. He fetched a pen from his jacket and wrote a number. “This is a burner phone, which I will destroy after this whole deal. Don’t try and trace me with that, it won’t end well for you”

“Yeah yeah” You rolled your eyes, pulling back your arm when he was done. You cleared your throat, trying to ignore his overwhelming proximity. “I gave you two fast passes just to trick you into seeking my help to finally bag you, I’m busted”

“Hey, listen” He backed up, holding his hand in surrender. “I make that threat to everyone. It’s only a disclosure thing, I didn’t doubt your motivation”

“To each their own I guess” You shrugged. “Alright. If this is all, please get out of my apartment”

“Oop, sure”

Baker blinked slowly. “And did you? Communicate him the details?”

“Yeah” You nodded. “I managed to get into the chief of operation’s office, break into his safe, memorize the date, time and place of the auction and communicate it to Red”

“Red?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Short for Red Hood” Tanev clarified, and judging by yet another glare from Baker, he wouldn’t speak anytime soon.  

“He kept it on the quiet, but after that the chief of operation did seem a changed man” You smirked, before dropping it instantly. “And I didn’t hear anything from Markstrom, it was like he disappeared for good, which he most likely did. So I guess the Red Hood succeeded in taking him down”

“Jesus Christ” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Why do I have the feeling it wasn’t the last law you broke?”

“Because it wasn’t”

“Are you going to make a habit out of dropping out of nowhere to ask me for favors?”

This time, you knew who had broken into your property without even looking. You put the keys into your car and turned the engine on, trying to warm yourself. The Red Hood pulled himself upright from your backseat, shaking his head.

“Your car is very comfortable,” He declared. “You have good taste”

“So that means yes”

“Back at it again with your superior deduction skills” 

“What do you want?” You went straight to the point, but you were just a little amused. You could have a worst stalker. 

“I’ve been thinking this through,” He began, moved his legs so he was properly seated on the backseat. “You are skilled and you’ve got balls of steel. I could use your help more often. A partnership, if you might”

“Why do I have the feeling it took a lot to admit that and reach out?” 

“Because I don’t just trust people” He said plainly. “They disappoint me, among other things”

“So why me?”

“Like I said, skills and balls of steel” He repeated. “You went against the fucking CIA not once, not twice but thrice to do the right thing. That’s enough of a test of will for me. And besides, your job would be an advantage that is hard to turn away”

“Makes sense” You mumbled as you put the car in reverse and pulled out of the parking spot. He buckled his belt like it was a reflex. “Will this partnership imply me shooting bad guys?”

“If that’s what you wish for” He shrugged, leaning forward in the space between the two front seats. “I won’t be the one to limit you”

“Okay, yeah” You nodded. “Where do we start?”

Baker was looking into nothing, processing your words. He shook his head slowly in disbelief before he met your glance. “I shouldn’t be surprised” He spoke after a moment. “But this is Everest high levels of stupid”

“At that time it did seem like a good idea” 

“Yeah, might as well jump off of a bridge…” He trailed off, eying you suspiciously. “Did you do that too?”

“Well, if we consider the time when--”

“You know what, don’t tell me” He cut you off. “Please go on”

“Alright” You held your hands up in surrender. “So, where was I?”

You and the Red Hood operated on the field like a well oiled machine. Your expertise and contacts with the CIA helped him get into places way more easily than alone, and your somewhat reckless ways were compatible with his mode of operation. You knew who he was as well, you found out after he nonchalantly took off his helmet after a stakeout. You had not been prepared for what you saw then, when you were faced with what you could qualify with the most beautiful man you had ever seen. 

“Hey, you okay?” He waved a hand in your face, making you snap out your daze. You blinked a few times, shaking it off.

“Yeah” You replied. “I just wasn’t expecting this”

“Expecting what?”

“I mean, the helmet did give disfiguration vibes… Obviously I was wrong” 

“So you think I’m hot then?” He snorted derisively.

“I do” 

His head did a whiplash. “Huh?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable” You backed away. “Sometimes my filter doesn’t work”

“No it’s--” He tried to find his words, then sighed. “I’m just not used to that, I guess”

“What’s the point of this?” Baker groaned, his head in his hands. 

“It’s a turning point that brought me here today” You explained, turning your palm up briefly. “You asked for details, I’m giving you details”

“I kinda wanna know what went down, to be honest” Tanev added sheepishly.

“Tanev, I’m going to drive you through the mirror if you do not shut up”

“Jeez sorry” He mumbled.

“As I was saying”

That day was the moment things changed in your relationship. There was this tension that hadn’t been there before, the little brushes of hands when you were side by side, the staring at the other while they weren’t looking, the unspoken invitations to stay a moment longer after a mission for a cigarette and a good conversation. He was one of a kind, you had to give that to him. He was passionate, driven, smart in a way that told you he never really had it easy but always made it work somehow; the way he always thought of the less obvious way to do things, how even his messes seemed calculated. 

It was raining in Chicago and the air was crisp. Your muscles ached from the fight in that warehouse against drug lords that enrolled kids in their schemes, that and from the unforgiving cold of January. You had one too many whiskeys back in that little studio flat he rented under a false name, and it led you straight to his bed. Trying to find warmth, trying to find a connection, it didn’t matter why, as long as you were as close as humanly possible to him. 

And it didn’t stop there. The night after, and the night after that, always in his company past the business hours. Your chemistry translated way beyond the field, for you found him in a partner in more ways than one. You grew quickly to feel love for him, more than you had ever felt for anyone. The number of times you woke up naked and tangled with him--

“Okay I don’t need to know this-- I do NOT need to know this” Baker yelled. If he could have flipped shit from the table, you’re sure he would have. 

“You told me to spare no details!” You argued. “This is a detail. I’m being as thorough as I can”

“You know what-- Forget it” He brushed his hand in the air aggressively. “Just get to the part we have interest in, for God’s sake please just skip to that”

“Okay, okay” You muttered, rolled your eyes. “It went well for the first months or so, it was great. Nothing to say on that front, I was happy and fulfilled in this new englobing partnership we had going on. That was my third mistake, to get into that kind of involvement with him. Because then, like all good things must come to an end, mine slowly began crumbling down in my hands”

“Okay” He sighed, half in relief. “Tell me more about that”

“Well, he started to show his true colors” You admitted, pulling your hands under the table. “Sometimes, he became something else. Something dark. And sometimes became most of the time, but I was too in love to see it. He became manipulative, controlling. He was everywhere, in everything I did. It’s like I didn’t even have control on my life anymore…”

“Where do you wanna eat?”

You looked away from the car window, your feet comfortably up on the dash. You took a deep breath and shrugged. “Dunno, where do you wanna eat?”

“Don’t really care” He shrugged too. “You decide”

“What about chipotle?”

“Sure” He nodded. “Chipotle sounds good”

Tanev shook his head sympathetically. “He wouldn’t even let you choose a restaurant?”

“Never” You looked down, sadness weighing your voice. 

“I’m so sorry you had to live through that”

“Thank you” 

“Alright, moving on” Baker broke the moment. “What happened next?”

“Next? Next came what comes every time in screwed up relationships” You answered, returning your hands on the table and crossing your fingers. “We burned like a meteorite as it tears through the atmosphere, falling to our demise to high velocity and taking everything in our wake”

“That was poetic” He pointed out sarcastically. “What the fuck does it mean?”

You raised an eyebrow. “We got dangerous for real, Agent Baker” You paused to take a reserved sip of the water. “If you thought I was reckless before, you’ll need to reevaluate your scale. I was in for real. I was his battle horse, his wildcard, his whatever that he needed to succeed. And I was good at it. The worst was, I didn’t even realize he used me as a smoke screen. He put me more and more often in fucked up situations that were way more dangerous for me than him, and I was naive enough to think it was love”

“No. This is not up for discussion”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You said you would let me choose--”

“I said I would let you choose, not let yourself get killed” He interrupted, slightly raising his voice. “This plan of yours is stupid dangerous. If it backfires, you are almost guaranteed of not making it out free, or alive for that matter. I’m not allowing you to take that risk. Not for me.”

“Again, ‘if’ being the keyword” You insisted, following him as he stomped out of the storage room. “I am capable of executing it flawlessly. I know I am, you’ve always told me I am”

He halted his steps, hesitantly turning to face you. His eyes softened as he sighed, taking your hand. “I know you can, it’s not about that” His voice was back down, even lower than his usual volume. “I can’t lose you. I won’t lose you for something I dragged you into in the first place, I would never forgive myself”

You closed your eyes and rested your forehead on his. “Okay” You finally said, nodding lightly. “We’ll find another way. Another plan. But we’re hitting that ball out of the park either way, I won’t let Preston get away with it”

He smiled. “Oh no, we won't indeed” He kissed the top of your head. “We’ll get him one way or another, I promise”

“I almost feel sorry for you now, Agent” Baker gulped. “I cannot begin to imagine what terrible things the Red Hood forced you to do under his manipulation. We however must continue this debriefing”

“Of course” You nodded quickly, breathing deeply. “So we planned our next move, but he wouldn’t tell me the final target. I found it weird, he always told me the targets. I don’t know, maybe he sensed I was trying to find a way out”

“And that plan was…”

“Yes” You didn’t have to let him finish his trailing thoughts, you knew what he was getting at. “So this brings us to 36 hours ago”

“Be as thorough as you can” 

“So the Red Hood gave me those instructions to follow” You began. “I was to draw the attention of the authorities to me in a city wide chase. Now, I am rather good with a bike, that I won’t hide, but outrunning police and secret services? That was impossible. I still don’t know how they got there, but it saved me. He would have never dared to come into the melee to get me back, and risk getting caught”

“Was he not afraid you’d talk to us?” Baker asked. “That was a pretty big gamble”

“He thought I wouldn’t talk I guess, probably for the same reasons I stayed with him for all this time” You said, biting the inside of your cheek until it bled. You hated to think about these words. “Because I believed I loved him”

“I guess that wouldn’t be too far fetched” He hummed. “Wouldn’t be the first time we saw it happen”

You nodded, remaining silent. Baker made eye contact with Tanev, then looked into the reflecting glass. He took a deep breath and returned his attention to you. 

“We are going to get you back to the holding cell while we process this information” He said. “But once we do that, you’ll be free, and with a new identity if you wish, as your agreement states”

“Thank you” 

“Just one more thing before we wrap this debriefing” He leaned forward. “You must know his name"

“Of course” 

“Then what is it?” He asked. “What is the Red Hood’s name?”

You looked down, taking a deep breath, then back again, locking eyes with Baker. Then, you spoke. 

-- 36 hours later --

The sunset over the valley was gorgeous. The mixes of pink and orange on the yellowed sky was straight out of a fantasy world, and Jason couldn’t help but appreciate the scenery. It was soothing, like it could swallow up his anxiety at least for a minute or two. He leaned on the wooden ramp, the sightseeing roadside station seeming not so cheesy at the moment.

He only tore his eyes from the burning sun when he heard a motorcycle approach from behind. He pushed himself off the ramp and faced the sleek black bike--the lack of use on it showing him it was brand new--then, the driver with a black tinted visor. 

You took off your helmet and smiled at Jason’s stern expression, whose eyes showed relief anyway. You turned off your bike and parked it, then got off and walked to him. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” 

You walked past him and leaned on the ramp he had been on moments ago, and he joined you. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered you one. He lit up both with his lighter, and you took a long draft before speaking. 

“A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice” You smirked, bumping your shoulder to his. “I did save your sweet ass, after all”

“I thought we agreed not to do that” He glanced at you sideways. His annoyance was also mixed with playful disbelief, like he both wanted to throw you off the cliff you were admiring the view from and do celebratory shots with you. 

“We did” You nodded, chuckling. “But circumstances changed. You weren’t out by the time I reached the monument, so I had to draw them away from you, or we would not be having this conversation. ”

“Still” He tilted his head to the side, before his head snapped in your direction. “Wait, did you call the secret services after yourself?”

You shrugged half heartedly. “Mayhaps” Your lips curved upward, while he shook his head. “I mean, it kinda was my fault too. I misplaced the bomb and it barely detonated. I had to flip to plan B, then they shot my bike. They had me surrounded, and my it was running low on life, so I skipped directly to plan fuck this”

“So you gave yourself up”

"Played the victim, pretended I wanted to exchange information on you for my freedom” You sighed, taking a drag of your cigarette. “None of which was relevant enough for them to even get close to you, worry not”

“They must have asked for a name” He hummed, now turning his full body toward you. “What did you tell them?”

“My grandpa’s name” You snorted. “He died two decades ago. Let me tell you, when they found out the last update on him was in the necrology of the 2001 Sunday paper, they were not happy campers”

“Then how did you get out?” He squinted his eyes.

“Oh, do not underestimate me, sweetheart” You grinned. “I’ve spent my whole career getting to know the buildings and the procedures for people like me. It was a piece of cake”

You were escorted out the interrogation room and into the small, yet cozy holding cell. You were on the clock, because the lies you’ve slipped into your story would unravel pretty quickly once they discovered that the name you gave them was a farce. Then, you wouldn’t be put in a minimal security room, but probably somewhere way less fun. 

“Hey wait” You called after the guard before he could close the cell door behind you. He paused his actions, waiting for you to speak up. “This wasn’t there last time”

He frowned and took a few steps into the cell, trying to spot over your shoulder whatever you were talking about. When he didn’t see it, he got closer and closer until he was all the way into the cell. “What wasn’t there before?” He asked, annoyed. 

You smiled. “You” 

With a quick jab of your elbow behind his head, he fell down unconscious on the floor. You grabbed his keycard and exited the cell, locking the guard in. You winked at the camera on the upper left corner of the hallway and made your way down to the garages as the alarms blared through the whole building. That meant it entered lockdown, closing all the escape routes. But you had your own fool proof plan.

Agent Baker began swearing when the hallway was plunged into the red glow of the lockdown alert. It hadn’t taken long for him to figure out you had led them in circles, and he had appeared a fool in front of his colleagues when he proudly revealed the name of a long deceased old man instead of anything tangible. He had been on his way to your cell when he realized the depth of this foolery, understanding you had been stalling them for this opportunity. 

“Sir, we are reporting engine noises in the garages”

“Fuck” Baker shouted, pushing the other man aside. Tanev was a step behind, his weapon drawn. They had stored your bike there, you must have gone back for it. “All units report to the garage, we’re having a break out. I repeat, all units to the garages”

They all flocked to the lower levels, ready to enforce the barrages at the doors and trap you with no exit. It was an excellent execution of emergency measures, but they definitely weren’t prepared for what came next. As they kicked the storage unit of your motorcycle, they came face to face with the bullet ridden bike with no driver in sight. Baker lowered his gun, squinting his eyes. Then, they widened comically as the dark smoke coming out of it and the strong smell of gasoline registered in his brain.

“Motherfucker” He spat. “Everybody out!” 

Seconds later, it exploded.

“You’re unbelievable” Jason scoffed, shaking his head. However, he now had a full blown grin to match yours. “I gotta give it to you though, blowing up your bike as a distraction was smart. Balls of fucking steel”

“Of course it was!” You replied, then reached in your pocket for your phone. “And it’s not even the best part, look”

You unlocked your phone and passed it to him, showing him your most recent picture of the CIA’s chief of operation dead with a letter opener through his neck. His eyes widened. “You got Preston?”

You turned around from your position, now leaning back on the ramp with your elbows resting on it. “The bike opened a window big enough for me to get the target” You said, finishing your cigarette and disposing of it in the ash bin on your right. “And with all those idiots guarding an empty garage, t’was easy enough”

“After all this time, you’re still impressing me” He nodded, holding up his fist. “Good fucking job”

You bumped your fist sideway with his, laughing at his baffled expression. The sky was getting darker and darker by the minute, but the air was still warm. You could hear the crickets in the high grass, and the silence was a peaceful one. You could admit that you had cut it close this time, that this gamble could have very well turned to shit, so you just took a moment to let the pressure slip away from your muscles, at least for now. You had the time to smoke another cigarette before you spoke.

“So now what?” You hummed, looking up to the bright stars above your head. “Markstrom’s ring is no more, and I’m pretty sure I not only lost my job by pulling that stunt, but also bought myself a ticket on at least three intelligence services’ most wanted list”

“Well, that’s nothing a good ol’ fake death can’t fix” He shrugged. “But until we find the right moment for your tragic public demise, I’m sure we can manage to find on our own some domestic assholes to beat up. What do you say?”

You met eyes with him, then raised your eyebrows. “I say let’s get to it”

[shootybangbang]

[Talking Bird] Ch 16: In which the plot finally makes an appearance

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: suicidal ideation, mild gore

[Note]: this fic has gone through some serious revisions — mostly expanded scenes/dialogue. The chapters most heavily affected are 1, 2, 3, and 7, but I’ve added a changelog to the end notes of each previous chapter detailing the edits that have been made. To save you some time though, here are the three main things to note:

The reader character does not have the bonds

The reader character refers to Arthur by his last name due to unfamiliarity

The horniness from last chapter has been moved to a future chapter. sorry!

This chapter is also pretty long in comparison to the others. From here on out, the chapters will probably be 2000+ words.

———

You look out into the plains, at the last pale band of light disappearing beneath a horizon of prairie grass and dark, looming buttes. The shadows of the scant trees stretch long and thin, their branches like a thousand spindly fingers grasping, searching. The landscape is dimmed to a tableau of reds and blacks, anything not illuminated by the fire slowly sinking into the featureless canvas of night. All of it blurred and indistinct behind a curtain of rain.

It’s a prettier sight by far than any you’ve had in St Denis. Or San Francisco. Or anywhere else you’ve lived, really.

And yet it hangs like featureless gauze behind the endless reel playing out over and over behind your eyes, spinning round like the printed images on a zoetrope.

The O’Driscoll’s hands wet with blood and mud. His eyes wide and uncomprehending. Trying to put himself back together the way one might a broken toy, sieving his viscera between his fingers and scooping it into the cavity of his chest. That initial, stunned bemusement giving way at last to the dawning horror of his own end.

And accompanying it, the numb realization that what bothered you more was the bare abstraction of the act. The burden of this sin weighing heavy with all the others, its addition tipping some moral scale, and —

“Hey.”

Morgan’s voice, jarringly brusque against the murmurings of your own private judge and jury, is almost mercifully irritating.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“Get up,” he says. “Start strippin’ the wet bark off the firewood.”

“For chrissakes, at least give me a second to catch my breath.”

“Why, so you can keep sittin’ there feeling sorry for yourself?” He leans one hand against the stone wall of the outcrop and drags himself back to his feet. The barest shadow of a grimace flits across his face as he straightens his back. “C’mon. Sooner we get set up proper, the sooner we can get back to ignorin’ each other. Then you can sulk all night in peace.”

The cottonwood branches are covered in cracked, ash brown bark that scrapes rough against your palms and fingers, rasping the skin raw as you hold the wood firm for carving. One of the downsides of living easy for so many years, you suppose — all the protective calluses atrophy to nothing, and what remains becomes susceptible to old and familiar hurts. But habits run deeper than skin, and what the mind forgets the body keeps.

As you work your way through the firewood, Boadicea nickers and paws impatiently at the dirt.

“I’m sorry girl,” you hear Morgan say. “Been a hard day for us both.”

You snort contemptuously. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he unhooks the horse’s bridle and lifts away the saddle, then starts grooming her with a battered looking brush, brushing with quick, circular motions, going against the grain and fluffing up her coat to dry out her fur with a solicitous measure of care that seems wholly unfitting of a man of his temperament and occupation.

Boadicea makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat that sounds almost like a purr. She dips her head down and chomps at the yellowed prairie grass lining the floor of the outcrop, tearing up mouthfuls with a sedate contentedness that makes you sorely wish you could share in her circumstances.

A sense of fatigue more complete than any you’ve ever felt before settles over you like heavy snow. For the moment, you feel blank and washed out, stripped bare of all pretense.

“Morgan,” you admit. “I don’t have the bonds.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” He unpacks his canvas roll and yanks free from it the saddle blanket of coarse, undyed wool, then unfurls it over the horse’s back, pulling it over her flank and adjusting the fit. “Figured as much before we left Strawberry.”

“Oh.” At this point, you haven’t even the energy to be surprised. “Huh.”

For a long while, the only sound is that of the knife scraping against bark and the intensifying patter of rain, fat droplets coming down hard and fast.

In a small voice, you ask him, “You’re not really gonna sell me to a brothel, are you?”

He scoffs. “What makes y’think that ?”

“Thought you seemed too… too decent to do something like that.”

“Me? Decent?” Morgan lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Thought you’d know better by now.”

He turns partway to face you. In the dim light of the fire only half of him is lit bright enough to see, the rest tapering sharp into dark silhouette. For the lapse of a heartbeat it’s as if all the irreverence and bravado has been ripped away like a sheet of paper, and underneath a viciousness, a suppressed violence that you’ve been too blind to see.

This whole time you’ve been treating him like a dog, when the teeth at your throat are those of a wolf.

Your mouth goes dry and your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand. You stare up at him like a deer caught in his sights — blind panic rising up in your chest and throat like cold water. You swallow hard and try to force it down so you can maintain at least a semblance of control.

“Mr. Morgan…?”

“You ain’t been half as scared of me as you should be,” he says. “holed up with a wanted man, nobody around for miles. Some of the men I’ve run with, they…”

He lets the sentence trail off, the implications clear enough without him saying so. Then he shakes his head, and there is a weariness in him, a kind of cynical exhaustion that ages him far beyond his years. “Girl,” he says. “You keep at this line of work, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a year.”

Morgan slicks his fingers through his wet hair to keep rainwater from dripping into his eyes, and you can see that the hangdog look is back on his face, all his suggested cruelty vanished like smoke. He shifts his attention back to the saddlebags. “No, I ain’t decent,” he continues. He pulls out a tin cup and the individual components of what looks to be a collapsible grill. “But I ain’t so far gone that I’d hurt a woman. Or sell one.”

“But you’d ransom one.”

“Figured it out, did you?” he says. “Thought you might.”

He sits back beside the fire and pieces the grill together, twists its winch tight and positions it over the fire. Then he fills the tin cup with water from the canteen and sets it atop to heat.

“If you don’t hurt women,” you say slowly, your right hand still holding the knife tight as a vise. “Then what’re you going to do to me when you find out I’m not worth ransoming?”

“Doubt that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Had a brand new Mauser on ya. You know how much those things cost?”

Mentally, you kick yourself. Looks like begging the gunsmith to lend you the best pistol he had in stock has come back to bite you in the ass.

“The gun’s not mine,” you say quickly. “It’s a loan.”

“Those bloomers in your room were real silk. You gonna tell me those were a loan too?”

“You — my bloomers?! Why were you going through my bloomers, you fucking degen—”

Of all the things you’ve accused him of today, somehow this is the one that actually rankles him. “You think I like rummaging through women’s underwear? Had to go through ‘em to get to your billfold.”

You flush hard enough that even the tips of your ears feel hot. “I… I saved up for those bloomers. Not that I’d expect you to understand the importance of—

“That shirt’s custom tailored, ain’t it? Those boots, too. And that’s good leather right there. Far too good for your typical drug mule. Either you come from money, or you got rich friends.”

There’s not much you can rebut here. All you can manage is a lame, “You don’t even know who I am .”

“Got a friend not too far from here who’s plenty familiar with St Denis. He’ll know.” Morgan holds his hand out towards you. “Gimme that knife a second.”

The knife is the only scrap of protection you’ve managed to grab hold of through this entire ordeal. You squeeze its handle tight.

He lets out a short, impatient sigh. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. So c’mere and hand it over.”

You’ve known men who take a certain vicious pleasure in abusing women. Merchants with cringing wives. Clients with kind faces who’d leave working girls battered and bruised. There’s usually a certain mien about them that sets you on edge and that Morgan, brusque as he is, thoroughly lacks.

You brush the wood shavings off your lap and approach him. When you reach his place beside the fire, he tilts his head upwards to meet your eyes, the look on his face calm and expectant. A self-assured confidence that you’ve seen many times before, in the guises of many different men. It sends a familiar shiver of resentment down your spine.

You could cut out his eye right now. You could sink the blade into the thick cord of his neck. And he’d shoot you dead just for trying it — oh, you’ve no doubt of that — but it’d be quick and it’d be painless, and here comes that pathetic urge again, that little whisper coaxing you deeper, deeper towards the welcoming dark —

But equally pathetic is the nagging insistence that always stays your hand, that strident, desperate plea born from bodily instinct. The shared fear of all life from the inevitable. Cowardice — that’s what it is. A cowardice you’ve never been able to shake, a resentful, stubborn tether that you’ve bitten and clawed at over the years, but that still stays looped firm around your neck.

( And what about Mei? What about her son? )

You hand him the knife, and he receives it without incident.

The water in the tin cup is boiling. Morgan slips the point of the knife through the cup’s metal handle, and delicately removes it from the grate to cool. As you stand there, wet and cold and resentful, but not sure what else to do, he saws the top off a can of beans and sets it on the grill to warm, then pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it in your direction.

Somehow, you manage to not fumble the catch. It’s a can of peaches.

“Don’t eat ‘em yet,” he says. “I wanna take a look at your arm first. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

You grimace. One of the pros of tailored shirts is having sleeves that actually fit. “It doesn’t roll up that far.”

“Then I’ll cut it off for you,” he says, putting the knife to the shoulder seam.

“Like hell you will. This is my last decent shirt.”

Morgan shrugs. “No way around it, unless you wanna take it off.”

A shirt nice enough to present a veneer of respectability costs at least $4. Your usual tailor’s fee runs about $2, plus tip. That’s $6 total: the equivalent of two week’s worth of food for Mei and her son. Good food — white rice and cabbage, maybe even a bit of pork belly. Not the bits of offal scrounged from the butcher and wilted produce she’d resort to otherwise.

You hold out your hand and say, “Give me something to cover myself with.”

Your time spent reading Ovid in college would have probably been better served learning to dress like him, you think to yourself as you try and try again to wrap Morgan’s blanket around yourself like a toga.

“I said I’d give you a minute to yourself,” he says. “It’s been more than three now. I’m gonna turn around.”

“Just ten more seconds,” you respond, hastily tucking the corner of the blanket into the horizontal swathe pulled taut across your torso.

The sheer amount of irritation he manages to convey in the sigh he lets out is really quite impressive. In it, you can somehow hear him rolling his eyes.

When you finally let him know you’re ready, he takes one look at you and has to stifle a laugh. “You could’ve just wrapped it around your chest. Woulda been more practical.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” you snap, keeping one arm pressed against your chest to keep the whole improvised garment from falling apart.

“Alright Caesar, c’mere. Let me see.”

The cut looks like an angry red furrow ploughed through the field of your skin. Its edges are ragged and torn, separated like poorly cut cloth. In between, the wound itself gleams red and raw, with particles and fibers mixed in with blood and indeterminate tissue.

Earlier, when you’d gingerly untied the makeshift bandage and taken off your shirt, you’d taken a silent moment to survey the damage, wondering with horrified fascination if it was perhaps your own muscle you were glimpsing, that particular facet of your body surfacing through its dermal barrier for the first time.

“I’m gonna hold your arm,” Morgan says. “That ok with you?”

You nod, a little dumbfounded that he of all people would have the foresight to ask for permission.

He lifts your arm towards the firelight so he can better examine the wound, and in doing so handles you with more care than you can remember any lover ever giving you. You tell yourself that it’s a rebuke of your own terrible taste than an indication of any extraordinary kindness on his part, then forcibly dredge up the memory of his gun at your back for good measure.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a scar after this,” he says, running his thumb along the unbroken skin below the cut. “No inflammation, which is good. I’ll patch you up the best I can, but we’re still gonna want to check on it every couple hours to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He gets up to rummage through his saddlebags and returns holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of clear liquid. “You’ll be wanting this,” he says, handing over the latter. “This’ll hurt.”

You take a swig and nearly choke on it. “What the hell is this?”

“Grain alcohol.”

Grimacing, you bring it to your lips again and take in two more mouthfuls of the stuff before handing it back, gulping it down quick to get the burn of it down your throat and off of your tongue.

Morgan hovers his hand over the tin cup to test its temperature. “This needs to cool down first. Gives you some time for that liquor to set in too.”

“I think it’s going to my head already,” you admit.

Heat is spreading from the warm pit of your stomach to your neck and face, branching through your veins as sure as blood. The thud of your heart, previously an imperceptible thing, now asserts itself like a metronome.

He glances over at you and whistles low. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not usually.” You press your palm against your cheek. “Am I turning red?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It’s strange, settling into this oddly comfortable limbo between cordiality and aggression. Your sustained caution of him is beginning to wane so steadily that you have to consciously remind yourself the only reason he hasn’t shot you dead or at least seriously injured you is due to the fact that you’re worth more intact than otherwise.

“So,” Morgan says. “What’s someone with silk bloomers doin’ all the way out here runnin’ opium to Strawberry?”

“It’s a very long and stupid story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

You stare at the ground as though it’ll offer you some way to condense the sordid affair of your life into a couple easy sentences. He’d asked the question with what sounded like genuine curiosity instead of interrogation, and for once you feel inclined to blurt out the whole of it, like a girl in confession.

You want to tell him about how small the missionaries had seemed when you’d waved at them through the train’s grime-smudged window, not knowing it’d be the last time. The tweed jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the cool, smooth sheen of mahogany against your skin. Feng fishing you out from the dark water lapping at the docks. The money, the opium, the blood.

The sight of the Heartlands for the first time, its blue horizon impossibly vast.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” you say finally, fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, tearing into halves and halves and halves. “He said it was either this or the brothel.”

“And you chose this. Runnin’ dope to those poor bastards working the railroads.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this particular tone of voice. The kind that implies its speaker’s higher moral ground as it categorically condemns you. But coming from him makes its sting especially hard.

“I don’t force them to buy it,” you say hotly. “It’s not just me that’s at fault here.”

“You ever seen a dope addict? They ain’t got a goddamn choice —”

“Well, d’you know what the average lifespan of a Chinatown whore is?” You don’t bother waiting for a response before plummeting to the answer. “Two years. After that she’s either dead from syphilis or suicide. At least with the opium I’ll die out here in the open and not in some squalid closet of a room that smells like piss and men.”

The liquor is starting to hit hard , and a part of you is fiercely grateful for it. It’s been a long time since you’ve been given an excuse to scream out the inequities of your life to someone, and a man who’s holding you for ransom seems as good a target for your vitriol as any.

“You think that just ‘cause it’d be better for the greater good or some shit, they should get to fuck me over? Is that what you think?”

Morgan seems a little taken aback. “I didn’t say th—”

“I don’t give a shit about the addicts. I don’t give a shit who’s life I’m ruining, as long as it isn’t mine. I don’t… I don’t care about anyone else because I’m a terrible excuse for a human being. That’s what you want to hear me say, right?” At this point, you realize that you’ve transitioned into a hysterical rant, that you don’t properly mean half the things you’re saying, but saying it out loud feels good nonetheless, like sucking venom from a festering wound. “But people like you don’t get to tell me so. Because at least I don’t hold people at fucking gunpoint . I don’t rob banks or kidnap women or beat debtors. I’m not a fucking murderer like you—”

The last statement barely clears the air before the image of the dead O’Driscoll, sprawled across the ground with his belly torn open, flashes through your head. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if doing so will let you swallow back your words.

“No,” Morgan says, “You ain’t a murderer. And that’s why you won’t last long.”

“Good,” you seethe. The hot sting of tears begins prickling again at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to.”

He raises his eyebrows and regards you with a vague, detached kind of pity that makes you almost wish he’d just outright condemn you instead, then touches his fingers to the tin cup. “Water’s cool enough now, I think.”

You feel like a petulant child who’s just thrown an ineffectual tantrum. Rendered self-conscious and obedient for the time being, you allow him to secure your elbow with his hand and begin irrigating the wound with warm water.

“Jesus fucking god,” you hiss. You reflexively try and jerk away, but he holds you still and tells you to stop squirming, his grip firm as iron.

It’s the worst pain you’ve felt in years. Like a lick of flame passing over your skin, echoing its progenitor again and again as he washes the cut with a series of short, measured trickles of water, flushing away the combined grime of dried blood, dust, and lint.

“You think this is bad,” he says, unscrewing the bottle of grain alcohol. “Wait’ll I sterilize it.”

If the water was flame, then the alcohol is a streak of molten lava, wet fire soaking through the wound in a rush of white-hot burning pain. You don’t scream — you let out a weak, choking sob so pathetic that you cover your mouth again in an attempt to stifle it.

But you’re a little drunk and your subconscious recognizes this as an excellent excuse to cry, and so it lets flood the tears you’ve kept stoppered up for hours now. You whimper, meet his eyes briefly, then start bawling.

Your crying before hadn’t seemed to bother him, but now he looks almost comically alarmed. He must think it’s the physical pain sending you into hysterics, because he starts trying to comfort you the same way he did Boadicea when he’d led her into the river.

“You’re doin’ good,” he says, cajoling you in a soft, affectionate voice. He sets the bottle of alcohol on the ground and pats you awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just a little more to go, and we’ll be done.”

Another agonizing, scorching splash of fire. He doesn’t chide you this time when you try to pull away.

“Shhhh… I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? I’m gonna give it one more rinse, and — yeah, there we go. You’re alright.”

Morgan wraps the bandage over your arm with deft, practiced fingers, and you wonder briefly how many times he’s had to do this for himself, with no one to soothe him. Though better that than the shoddy job you’d done on him six weeks ago, frantically patching him up with just the barest idea of what you were doing.

He ties off the bandage, then picks the can of peaches off the ground, pops open its metal lid with the tip of his knife and proffers it to you like a peace offering. “Here. You’re hungry, right?”

It’s very hard to cry and eat at the same time. You decide to concentrate on the latter.

After tapering your sobs down to a series of quiet, resentful sniffles, you begin gulping down mouthful after messy mouthful of sliced peach. It’s the first morsel of food you’ve had in over ten hours, and you wolf it down so quickly you hardly taste it. Just an impression of cloying sweetness mixed with something faintly aromatic (cinnamon, you think) lingering as an aftertaste.

The old instincts of hunger are hard to shake off. All decorum thoroughly discarded, you raise the can to your lips and drink down what syrup remains, tilting it nearly perpendicular to the ground to get at the last few drops.

“My god,” Morgan says. “I seen dogs with better manners.”

“If you’d fed me earlier, then I— what’re you doing.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he asks. He holds his bandolier in one hand. The other is working at his shirtcollar. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta these wet clothes.”

You clutch at the empty can of peaches as his union suit reveals itself in a revelation of blue. A blue which, you admit to yourself with an uncomfortable surge of appreciation, suits the shade of his eyes extremely well. But when he begins unbuckling his belt, you quickly avert your eyes. “Really?” you ask. The scandalization you probably ought to have felt from the very moment he’d begun undressing finally begins to surface. “Your pants, too?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m keepin’ the union suit on.”

“Are you usually this brazen with the women you kidnap?”

“D’you usually sit around half-naked with the men who kidnap you?” he asks, jabbing his thumb towards your own discarded shirt, which you’d spread out neatly beside the fire to dry.

“That’s different,” you hiss, knowing very well that it isn’t. “I had a medical reason.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I don’t wanna get pneumonia.”

He has a point. You look down at your own sodden trousers, which cling to your skin in a cold, wet embrace, and your internal scale of comfort versus propriety tips decidedly towards the former.

“Turn your back again,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take my pants off too, and I don’t want you trying to sneak a peek at my bloomers.”

He laughs, then winces and gingerly splays his fingers across his ribs. It’s the first sign of real levity you’ve seen from him. “Oh, that is the last thing on my mind right now, girl.” There’s a tired grin on his face, and were it not for the events of the day, you might have almost found it endearing. “Besides, you ain’t hardly my type.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” you reply, a little offended. “Because I’m not interested in men with terrible taste.”

But he does as he’s told, and when you’re satisfied with the oblique angle of his range of sight, you let the borrowed blanket fall from your shoulders and pull the ribbon securing your braid free. You rake your fingers through your hair until it hangs loose, then gather the ends of it in one hand and twist it tight to wring out the rainwater. Only then do you pull the blanket back over your shoulders and begin to undress.

First, your boots. Then the knee-length woolen socks, which have left their cable-knit weave as an imprint on your skin. After glancing at him one more time to make sure his face is turned discreetly away, you unbuckle your belt and wriggle your way out of your trousers. It takes some maneuvering, and some thoroughly indecent posturing, to finally get them off. You leave your cotton bloomers on, figuring that the warmth of the fire will dry the thin material soon enough.

When you look back at Morgan, you find that he’s since turned back towards you. Not to gawk, but to get a better look at his own wounds in the firelight.

His union suit is half-unbuttoned. Most of his bare chest is visible, and along with it, the bruises from the ricocheted bullet. A mottle of blue and violet, like a spill of ink that radiates from the negative imprint of the flask that took the impact in his place. And right below it, a glimpse of your own handiwork.

When you’d first found him, the cut had spanned diagonal across his torso, trailing shallow from his chest and biting deep near the ridge of his hip. Most of it’s healed over since, but the edges are angry and inflamed still, and you can see the fading marks of your inexpert stitches laid like railroad tracks over the land of his skin.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t looked at you,” Morgan says. He probes gently at an indigo patch and inhales sharply. “Too busy lickin’ my own wounds.”

If you look closer, you can see the remnants of multiple scuffs and scratches. A history of violence storied across his body, told in the pale lettering of scars, many of them recent. An unwelcome pang of guilt settles itself low in your belly. It looks like he’s been on the road for a while, healing sporadically through long stretches of hard journeying. Hard journeying made worse, no doubt, by your theft of his bonds.

“You… uh. You want me to keep carving off wet bark?”

“Nah,” he says distractedly, still trying to determine the depth of the damage left behind. “Should be fine leavin’ the rest of it to dry out by the fire.”

You draw the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then root around your head for something, anything to talk about. Anything to get this burgeoning sympathy for Arthur Morgan out of your head.

“Your friend in St Denis,” you say finally. “He’s not gonna know much about me if he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

Morgan absentmindedly scratches his chin as he begins buttoning his union suit back up. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I know he’s had dealings with ‘em in the past.”

Something clicks in the back of your head. Long overdue recognition like puzzle pieces fitting together. “What’s his name?”

“Josiah,” he says.

“Josiah,” you echo. The spark of some fit of emotion is beginning to rise in your throat. “Josiah… Trelawney?”

His bewildered face is enough to confirm your suspicions. Relief, anger, confusion — all of them flood you at once with such intensity that you have to take a moment to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them, you take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Josiah Trelawney’s the son of a bitch I sold your bonds to.”

———

Massive thanks to @reddeaddufus for editing not only this chapter, but the entirety of this fic. This whole thing would be a lot more disjointed if it weren't for her.

Definitely give her fic Red Dead Pursuit a look. The main character is extremely compelling, the plot is fast-paced, and the porn is A+. Her writing style is also a delight to read.