#laser the second he steps a little too close

[vityaposting]

how to heal a rusted heart - machine herald x gn!reader - part 2

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 to be released

For the next several days, memories of the betrayal taunt you. Your bed is colder than it’s ever been, and as tight as you hold your pillow, it just isn’t the same. Loneliness grips you from all sides. It holds you like a vice, keeping its claws around your heart from the second you wake up in the mornings to the second sleep claims you at night—sometimes even beyond that.

For those days you’re unable to truly rest without picturing Viktor. He’s the answer, you tell yourself. If you can make it through the week, he’ll save you, rid you of the emotions that have ruined your life. You think about the piercing quality of his eyes, the way his accent makes his voice sound even softer, the way he’s promised to help—then, and only then, can you sleep. You think of how warm he must be to the touch, considering how much of him is mechanized. You wonder what it would be like to fall asleep to the sound of his fans whirring. Does he have a heartbeat? Does he breathe when he sleeps? Does he even sleep at all?

The fantasies are ludicrous. Delusional. But you’ve thought worse things of yourself.

Four days in, you feel yourself beginning to calm. You’ve almost made it to the finish line. Soon, you won’t have to worry about heart-pounding fury or nausea-inducing loneliness. Feeling a touch like your old self, you decide to venture to the marketplace. Your pantry needs restocking, not that you’ve been eating that well recently. Fresh air would do you good—at least, as fresh as the air gets down here, anyway.

Shouldering your bag, you decide to head for the dairy stand first. For all the trouble you’ve been through, you figure you may as well bake yourself a cake. A celebratory, no-more-emotions cake. An I’ll-never-be-heartbroken-again cake. Congrats on the cure, you’ll write on the top in icing. You won’t have anyone to share it with, but… by then, you won’t care.

You don’t notice how empty this area of the market is until the rack of milk bottles in front of you darkens. Something looms over you, blotting out what little sunlight makes it into this corner of the Undercity.

You turn a bit tentatively. Someone.

Viktor stares down at you, eyes glinting like lasers through his mask. Behind him, this third arm whirs and pinches at the air as if it has a mind of its own. “Excuse me,” he says. His voice seems deeper, more mechanical. A small bit of fear flutters to life in your chest. “Could you pass me one of those?” He nods to the bottles stacked up on the table behind you. “I’ve been itching to make some sweetmilk lately. A glass or two always gets me through long procedures.”

You take a step backward out of pure shock. The sound of clanging glass makes you wince, but you manage to grab a bottle just in time, steadying the stack before they can all come tumbling down. The fingers of his mechanical hand brush yours when he takes it from you. To say you feel electricity at the contact may be cliche, but considering he’s half-machine, you suppose it’s at least fitting.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. You notice a bit postemptively that he’s parted the crowd around him like a sea. The rest of the marketgoers have slunk away, some forming a wide ring around the two of you. Curious gazes flicker between you and the Herald—some seem awed, some seem contemputious, like they think you an idiot for daring to stand so close to Zaun’s most infamous supervillain. Some of them seem to be waiting in terrified awe for you to get death-rayed. A few are leaning forward like they’re ready to watch a fight.

Not that any altercation between the two of you would be much of a fight. Viktor could crush you in one metal fist if he so desired. You have to admit the thought is a bit thrilling.

“Why are they all so scared of you?” you find yourself whispering. “If you were really so awful, would you be standing in the middle of the market buying milk?” It seems far too mundane an activity for a theatrical, cackling evildoer.

“It’s the armor,” he says plainly. “It intimidates people.”

“Why do you wear it out if it scares everyone?”

“You must be prepared to meet you enemies under any circumstances.”

It takes you a while to realize he’s not joking. You can’t search for any flicker of expression in his face, and he’s stock-still and silent next you, save for his third arm’s frantic whirring. “You have enemies… in the Undercity?”

He shrugs, the metal of his shoulder pauldron clinking against the side of his mask. “Not usually,” he says. “But it appears you do.”

“Me? I—”

He tilts his chin forward, and you spin around to stare into the crowd. Most of the faces are unfamiliar, but the intense gaze of one pair of eyes—tucked slightly into the second row of onlookers, makes you recoil.

How Viktor knows this is your enemy, you have no idea.

It’s hard to describe the physical sensations that overcome you when you realize exactly who it is that’s looking at you. You recoil like you’ve been struck, and your racing heart burns like someone’s taken lighter fluid and a match to it. Their stare never wavers. A fury you can only describe as animalistic makes your voice catch. Strength rushes to your extremities. You can run forward, snarl and bite, appease your need to attack, or you can listen to the fragile little prey animal in your chest and crawl away before you can get your heart broken again.

The monster and the prey animal are at war within you, and neither is winning. You’re frozen.

Viktor’s cool metal hand comes to rest on your shoulder. “Breathe,” he growls, an ironic command for someone who technically doesn’t need to. “That’s them, isn’t it? They’re why you sought my help. They’re the one who broke you.”

I was wrong about you. Their words come back to you like water rushing through a dam, one that’s been cracking rapidly for the past several days. We weren’t meant for each other. I can’t keep up with you. You’re too much. I can’t keep promising you every ten minutes that I’m not going to leave—

“Yes,” you manage weakly. Every nerve ending in your body tingles. The fire on your insides begins to spiral outward.

Perhaps you’re imagining it, but you almost swear heat begins to radiate from Viktor’s metal limbs. The cool winter air begins to feel like midsummer. His hand disappears from your shoulder. He stalks forward into the crowd.

He towers over your former lover, you realize. He’s so much bigger than they are, the shadows of his broad metal shoulders dwarfing theirs. The claw at the end of his third arm is spinning frantically.

Before they even have a chance to run, the claw flashes forward and grasps your betrayer by the collar of their shirt, hoisting them into the air like they weigh nothing. You see terror flash bright as day in their eyes, and pretend the sight doesn’t fill you with sickening glee.

The small market crowd is growing, but they’re backing away, their fears affirmed. Viktor is not doing a wonderful job at improving his reputation, but you’re not sure that’s what he even wants.

“You recognize me, yes?” Viktor begins. Your ex-lover thrashes, trying to peel the claws away from their neck. Viktor’s not holding them tightly enough to hurt them—you can still see their chest rising and falling heavily. He must only want to give them a scare. The thought relieves you. Pain is unnecessary, but a scare will be beyond satisfying.

“The Machine Herald,” they gasp. “Viktor.”

Viktor’s name sounds wrong coming from their mouth. These two sides of your life were never meant to collide, and a fierce surge of protectiveness crashes over you—protectiveness? Over Viktor? Viktor could level the whole of Zaun if he so desired. Still, the odd feeling doesn’t go away.

“I care deeply for each of my patients,” Viktor snaps. “And they—” his gloved hand points to you— ���have come to me asking to repair wounds you inflicted.”

This is not really his information to give away, but in the moment your adrenaline runs too high for you to force yourself to care.

“Nobody comes to me unless they are dealing with ailments they do not believe they will survive. It is only desperation that drives my fellow Zaunites to seek my help, and in this case my patient’s wounds are not without their inflictor. Perhaps I’m just the right person to teach you a lesson about carelessly breaking hearts, hm?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” they bite out. “I was wrong about them. But this whole city was right about you.”

If it weren’t for his mask, you wonder, would his face go dark with hurt? Can he even feel such a thing? Outwardly, of course, he doesn’t respond, but the grip of his third arm seems to tighten. “Reflect. Your actions have caused them to want to rewire their mind entirely. To do that much damage in one blow is borderline despicable.”

These are heady accusations to throw, but Viktor isn’t wrong. You feel betrayed. Slighted. Part of you wonders if you did something to deserve losing the one person who’d promised to love you. If you’re just as bad a person as they are, or if you’re simply unlucky.

“If you hurt them again,” Viktor goes on, “I have a death laser with your name on it.”

With that, he lowers them to the ground—not drops them, just lowers them, and he doesn’t remove his claw until their feet are safely planted on the pavement.

He turns back to you. The whole time, he has not let go of his milk bottle. Had you not been short of breath, you may have had to stifle a laugh.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, and the world shrinks. Suddenly the marketplace is reduced to this single patch of ground, and only grows smaller as Viktor crosses the distance toward you in a couple swift strides. There’s that hand on your shoulder again. “Look at me. Can you breathe?”

The edges of your vision are starting to darken. You don’t even realize you’ve lost the ability to speak until you open your mouth to greet him and no sound comes out. You’re frozen. Your heartbreaking past and desperate present are colliding, and getting caught in the middle of two different lives is shutting you down.

“Come back to the lab with me,” he says gently. “If you feel the same… I believe it may be beneficial to jumpstart the procedure.”

You don’t find your words again until Viktor has you seated comfortably on a ratty velvet lab chair, the softest thing he owns. Your hands are curled around a glass of sweetmilk, but you haven’t worked up the energy to bring it to your lips, delightful as it smells. He sits on a stool opposite you, sipping on his own. The lab is muggy. He’s discarded his mask and most of his armor, leaving him in plain gray clothes that hardly scream horrifying Machine Herald.

“It’s because I’m too much,” you tell him. “I love too much.”

He nods slowly. Patiently. Clears his throat to tell you to go on.

Nobody’s ever listened to you with such lack of judgement. It was always you’re being dramatic or everyone feels this way, just calm down—or, worst of all, this is an illness, and you are not trying hard enough to treat yourself.

You have always tried as hard as you could, but you weren’t always believed.

“That’s what they said,” you continue. “It was a good thing at first. They liked that I was passionate. Dedicated. Loyal. But they didn’t understand that… loving so much meant that I despair twice as hard. When I get mad I feel like I might burn Zaun to the ground if I think hard enough about it and I… I miss them too much. Depend on them. Even now, knowing I’m nothing to them, I… I don’t want to have to love anymore. Someday I’m scared it’ll kill me.”

“It will not kill you,” Viktor says gently. “It never killed me.”

“Do you even understand what I’m talking about?”

“More than you know. But I never turn away a patient. If you still wish to proceed, we will. Today, if you like. Or…” He tilts his head at you. “You let yourself unwind today. A strenuous medical procedure is only made more risky when the body and mind are fragile with intense emotions.”

“I suppose you’re right. I can wait.”

“Do you wish for comfort? What best soothes you?”

Your next inhale rattles in your chest. He’s only saying this for medical purposes, you tell yourself. He has no reason to care about you. Not when you’re laying your broken pieces bare at his feet. “Well, usually I… am calmed by the physical touch of someone I trust. I don’t think that’s in the cards for me anymore, though. Nobody ever really…”

Viktor blinks those piercing eyes at you. They glow like lasers, searing your skin. “Do you trust me?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

You must be dreaming, but your dreams are the one place you never feel quite so much. He’s real, he’s extending his hand to you with a second thought, and when you take it, the metal warms you from the tips of your fingers to the top of your head. His other arm loops around your waist and he pulls you down into his lap, settling his sharp chin on your shoulder. Both glasses of sweetmilk sit abandoned at your feet.

“Breathe,” he reminds you. “You’re tenser than steel. Try to relax your muscles. That will help slow your thoughts.”

You did not expect being nestled up to a literal cyborg to be so comfortable, but you’ve been proven wrong. He rubs comforting circles on your back with one hand and places the other on your waist to keep you steady. Your legs are slung over his lap, your face level with his shoulder. The metal plates on his neck are cool against your cheek.

He shifts a bit, a faint touch brushing the spot above your temple. You don’t dare hope it to be a kiss.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“What for?”

“For… wasting your time.”

“I have a death laser attached to my back and a lab full of hazardous materials. If I did not want you here, you would be long gone.”

You find yourself without an argument at that.

He doesn’t tell you to move, not for a long while, not before your waning despair leaves your mind foggy and your eyes heavy. You drift off to sleep in his arms. And you were right, you realize—he is warm, and he does still breathe. It’s the steady, almost mechanical rise and fall of his chest that finally puts you under.

You wonder if, once the procedure is done, you’ll miss feelings like this.

[heyitschartic]

I would have really loved to see what would happen if String Theory had survived Gold Morning. What do the Wardens even do with her running around except appeasement? There are a lot of countries getting close to war with Gimel, and she is essentially a nuclear detterant all on her own. No one wants to kick the country with a woman who can boil your seas. Permanently moaning, complaining, and insulting Dragon, except this time, she can't just ignore her since they're working together. More importantly, the second she got out of lockup, she'd go hunting down what happened with the egg Lab Rat had, and I'm sure she'd manage to find Chris.

Cannot imagine how horrible she would be as a bitchy aunt, there to permanently rub it in Lab Rat's face that she survived and all he has left is this teenage sorta-clone. They would absolutely despise each other. Would be a much more interesting conversation when Vicky goes to investigate his living situation though.

[itneverendshere]

maybe wheezie or even sarah needing rafe to pick them up from school or attend a back to school night. like the school calls rafe to pick up sarah after getting in a fight. or the teacher calls him in to discuss that wheezie struggling in math

thank you for the request!!! 🫶🏻🫂 i think rafe's always had a soft spot for wheezie so i did this one for her cause i personally can see their dynamic being really cute.

 we're both older now - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe)

Sitting in the passenger seat of Rafe’s truck, you couldn’t help but sneak glances at him. His hands were on the wheel, jaw clenched just enough for you to notice, but not enough to freak out.

It’s been months since rehab, and you swear, you’ve never seen him like this before—so focused, so... responsible. It’s kinda hot.

But that’s not what you’re here for. Not right now.

You’re headed to Wheezie’s school because, apparently, she’s been struggling with math. She didn’t want to tell Rafe because Ward’s rarely at home these days and she didn’t want to bother him. When you found out, you could’ve smacked her. You get it—Rafe’s been under a lot of pressure lately—but you don’t think she realizes how much he cares about her. That’s why you two are heading to a parent-teacher meeting like it’s the most normal thing in the world. It’s not. 

“I should’ve known something was off,” Rafe mutters, breaking the silence.

You look over at him. “You couldn’t have. Wheezie’s good at keeping stuff to herself.”

He shakes his head, his grip tightening on the wheel just a little. “I’m her brother. I should’ve noticed.”

You reach over, resting your hand on his arm. “You’re doing your best, baby. That matters.”

He lets out a breath, his tension easing under your touch. God, sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s the same guy who used to pick fights at every chance he got just a few years ago. It’s been almost a year since his last relapse, but every day you see him fighting to be better—for himself, for you, for his sisters. And honestly? It does something to you, seeing him like this. 

You pull into the school parking lot, and he parks the truck, turning off the engine. For a second, he just sits there, staring straight ahead. You know what he’s thinking. He’s wondering if he’s good enough to handle this, to handle all of it.

“You got this,” You say softly.

Together, you walk into the school, and after a quick conversation with the receptionist, you’re led to Wheezie’s teacher’s classroom. The room smells like dry-erase markers and stress, the kind you remember from my own high school days.

Except, this is a private school, completely different from what you were used to, and back then, you loved school. You were good at it too—really good, actually. Straight A’s, honors, full ride to a decent college…but life had other plans.

You look at Rafe as you wait for the teacher to start the meeting. He’s sitting up straight, listening intently, and your chest tightens a little.

The same guy who used to blow off any responsibility now sitting here, laser-focused, ready to step up for his little sister. The teacher starts talking about Wheezie’s grades, how she’s been falling behind in math, and you can see the guilt in his face. You squeeze his knee under the table, trying to ground him, but honestly? This was hitting a little too close to home for you, too.

“I can help her,” You hear yourself say before you’ve even really thought about it. Rafe turns to look at you, surprised, and you shrug like it’s no big deal.

The teacher blinks, probably not expecting the girlfriend to jump in with a solution. “What did you score on your final exams?”

You move in your seat, not expecting the question but not exactly shy about your answer either. "I got a 1600 on my SATs," You said, trying to sound casual about it, even though you could see Rafe’s eyebrows shoot up next to you. 

The teacher’s eyes widen slightly. "That’s impressive," she says, "You must’ve had a lot of options for college."

You shrug again feeling that familiar feeling of bittersweet regret. "Yeah, I had a full ride to a few places.”

“And you didn’t go?”

The way she says says it—like she can’t imagine why you wouldn’t go—hurts a little. 

"Yeah, well... life happened." You try to brush it off like it doesn’t bother you.

Rafe’s hand slides over to yours under the table, interlocking your fingers and giving you a gentle squeeze. It’s subtle, but it’s enough for you. To remind you that you made the right choices, even if they weren’t easy ones.

The meeting wraps up pretty quickly after that.

The teacher gives Rafe some advice on how to help Wheezie stay on track, and you both thank her before heading out of the classroom. As you walk down the hallway, he stays quiet for a bit, and you can’t really read what’s going through his head.

By the time you get back to the truck, he turns to you, his brow furrowed slightly, like he’s still processing everything. "You got a perfect score on your SATs?"

Three years into the relationship and he’s still learning things about you every day.

You let out a small laugh, brushing some hair behind your ear. "Yeah. It’s not a big deal."

"That’s kinda insane," he says, looking at you like he’s seeing a whole new side of you. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

You shrug for the millionth time today, suddenly feeling a little shy. “I don’t know. It just never came up. It’s not like it matters now, anyway.”

"It does matter." His voice is firm, and when you glance over, you can see how serious he looks. "You gave up a lot to help your sister. That’s not nothing."

Your throat tightens, and you have to swallow down the emotion rising inside you. The way Rafe says it, like he actually gets it, means more than he probably knows. "I just did what I had to do."

He nods slowly, like he understands that feeling all too well. "You didn’t have to offer to help Wheezie today. But you did.”

You don’t want to make a big deal out of it. "I want to help her. She deserves it."

Rafe doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with this soft, almost disbelieving expression. Like he can’t wrap his head around the fact that you’re still here, beside him, helping his family without a second thought.

"You’re amzing, y’know that?" he murmurs, his voice low and warm in that way that makes your stomach flip.

You feel your cheeks heat up, a shy smile tugging at your lips. "Stop."

"I mean it." He reaches over, cupping your face gently with his hand, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. His eyes soften as they meet yours, filled with so much adoration it makes you want to hide. "I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m really fucking grateful."

You bite your lip, glancing down at his other hand on your knee before looking back up at him.

"You’ve been working hard. For yourself, for us. I see that."

His jaw tightens just slightly, and he looks down, almost like he’s not sure how to take the compliment. But when his eyes meet yours again,

"I’m trying," he says quietly. "I’m trying to be better."

"And you are," you whisper. "Every day."

The months of hard work, the late nights when you’ve held him through his doubts, the mornings when he’s shown up for his family even when it was hard. It’s all there, between you, unspoken but understood.

Rafe leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Thank you," he whispers. "For everything."

You close your eyes, letting the moment settle around you. "I’ll always be here," you whisper back. "We’ve got this."

“I don’t think I would’ve made it this far without you.”

You swallow hard, trying not to let it hit you too deep. But it does. Because for all the mess you’ve been through—his ups and downs, his relapse, his constant fight to be better—it always comes back to you. To this.

“I’ll always have your back,” You remind him quietly. “You know that, right?”

He nods, like there’s absolutely no doubt in his mind. “I know. You’re really good with her," he says after a beat. "With Wheezie. And with Milo."

You smile, leaning back in your seat. "Yeah, well, someone’s gotta look after the kids, right? Might as well be me."

Rafe’s lips twitch into another smile as he leans over, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, "Thank you, baby.”

“For what?”

“For sticking around,” he says, pulling back slightly to look at you. “Even when I didn’t make it easy.”

 “You make it worth it, Rafe. You always have.”

Because seeing him like this—happy, strong, responsible, and healthy—it’s more than just him trying. It’s him becoming the person you always believed he could be, from day one on that stupid country club. And that? That’s something you’d stick around for any day.

When you and Rafe pull up to Tannyhill, the sun’s already setting. You grab your bag from the backseat, and he takes a deep breath, his hand hovering near yours like he needs to hold onto you just for a second longer. When you step into the house, you’re greeted by the usual stillness that fills the place. It’s huge, but it always feels too quiet.

Wheezie’s sitting at the kitchen island, hunched over her phone, clearly trying to distract herself. Her leg’s bouncing nervously under the stool, and you don’t even have to say anything to know that she’s been dreading this moment.

As soon as she sees the two of you, she freezes, eyes wide, "Hey," she greets, her voice shaky.

Rafe glances at you, and you give him a small nod. You know he’s trying to figure out how to handle this—he’s never really had to play the role of ‘responsible older brother’ before. But he’s doing it. He’s trying. And that’s what matters.

"Wheeze," Rafe starts, as he walks over to her, and you can see the panic rising in her eyes as she sits up straighter like she’s preparing for the worst. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

She bites her lip, glancing between the two of you. "I-I didn’t want to bother you," she mumbles, her voice small. "You’ve been dealing with a lot, and I thought— I don’t know. I thought I could handle it on my own."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s quiet for a second, and you can feel Wheezie’s anxiety practically buzzing out of her. She’s probably expecting him to yell, to go off on her, but instead, he takes a step forward and pulls her into a hug.

"You ever keep something like that from me again," he mutters into her hair, his tone firm but warm, "and you’re grounded."

Wheezie’s eyes go wide in shock, like she wasn’t expecting that at all. Her arms wrap around him a little awkwardly, but you can tell she’s relieved. She pulls back after a second, staring up at him with those big brown eyes of hers. "You’re not mad?"

Rafe shakes his head, but his expression is serious. "I’m not mad. I’m worried, Wheeze. I’m here, okay? I got you."

"I’m sorry," she whispers.

He sighs again, rubbing a hand over his face before looking at her. "Don’t be sorry. Just don’t do it again."

She nods quickly, and you step closer, offering her a small smile. "You’re not in trouble, Wheezie. I’m gonna help you with the math stuff, okay? I promise."

Wheezie looks over at you, clearly surprised, and then back at Rafe. "You’re… really not mad?"

Rafe rolls his eyes but in that big-brother way that’s full of affection.

"No, Wheeze, I’m not mad. But next time you’re struggling with something, tell me. That’s what I’m here for."

She nods, relief washing over her features. "Okay. I will."

Rafe reaches out and ruffles her hair, something so casual and brotherly it makes your heart swell.

"Good. Now go do whatever you do, and remember—grounded if you pull that shit again."

You slap his arm, “Will stop cursing in front of her?”

He shoots you a half-smirk, looking completely unbothered. "Please baby, she’s sixteen. You think she doesn’t curse?"

Wheezie lets out a small laugh, covering her mouth as if she’s trying to keep it together, but you can tell she’s relieved. 

"Yeah, but maybe not in front of her big brother," you tease, raising an eyebrow at him.

Rafe shrugs, looking like he couldn’t care less. "If she’s smart enough to hide it from me, more power to her."

Wheezie giggles again, and you can’t help but smile. "Yeah, yeah," you sigh, rolling your eyes at him playfully. "You’re a great role model, Rafe Cameron."

He groans, “Please don’t use the full name.” The corners of his mouth tug up in a grin that makes your heart skip. “Alright, no more big brother lectures tonight. We’re good, yeah, Wheeze?”

Wheezie nods, still smiling. “Yeah, we’re good.”

[vyzz-undercover]

pspspsps dinner time everyone

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(5,700ish words) (im cooked)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon [again]

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions of virginity

•vague breathplay

•even more negligible aftercare

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•tumblr's pisspoor formatting as per last time

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im once again doing a free magic show here and pulling a rabbit (this fic) out my ass. so, without further a-do the tagging... @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @pluvio-tea, @the-raven-lady, @bispecsual, @egrets-not-regrets, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @lemon-russ. let me know if anyone else wanna be tagged if i do a part three HAHAHAHHAHA i might double down on the comedy-of-errors and have Guilliman get involved. Not like a three-way with this particular fic, even if I'd love to slut papa smurf out. There's always another time and another chance to sexualise an old man :3

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Cato finds you relatively easily.

Truthfully, you make no actual sport of it. But he's never going to pass up a cheap bit of entertainment at your expense.

At this time of the ship's cycle you're most likely to be in the east wing, pointedly the lower libraries. He knows this. He won't confess why or how he knows, though—so, fuck off.

You're lazy and predictable. To say nothing of the fact you're far too comfortable scuttling about his Father's vessel. If a hypothetical assassin ever could get onto the ship without being stomped into paste by him immediately, they'd have no problems tracking you down. You may as well be a sevitor running on rails for all your movements stay the same.

He notes you're not on the first level.

Nor the second.

You are on the third, in the leftmost quadrant.

In the restricted reading area.

You do have clearance—but the fact still irks him. Typically, this was for his more decorated brothers to catalogue Xenos. Typically, one needed to be accompanied to even access this level.

But oh, no—no, you're allowed.

You're allowed because you are a damnable leach of a woman. And also the bane of his existence, did he mention that? And you're—you're—tucked up in secure side-room, reading on a data-slate; half-asleep in a little blue robe and looking the pict of adorable sloth.

You don't notice him immediately.

Clearly too absorbed in your gerrymandering-for-servitors cheat-sheet.

And that annoys him even more.

Because, are you really that obtuse? So unassailable in your own mind that you're this blatantly fucking oblivious? He's an Astartes, damn it. Sure, he's in casual rest attire instead of clanking plate—but he's a large, two-and-a-bit meter tall trans-human war-machine standing in the doorway—and you haven't even noticed him. Ignorant like some little rodent chewing away at crumbs in it's hovel.

His Father's got a vermin problem on board, and the mice are stupid and bold and literate... along with rather cozy, apparently.

A finely woven navy throw is swaddled around you where you're lying on the chaise lounge. And the sight of you bundled up inspires a vivid déjà-vu of the last time you were alone with him with little more than a blanket over you.

Cato hesitates for a heartbeat, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and sets his jaw.

He steps into the room and waves a hand over the laser-pad locking mechanism.

There's a fractional second in which you become cognisant to the sound of the shutter door closing and where you actively notice him.

Then there's a shrill scream as if you've pinched a nerve.

The data-slate goes flying, pelted at his head. But it hits the shutter door and clatters to the floor, far-off any hint of a good mark.

Useless woman.

Realising it's him a moment later, you heave out a racketing sigh.

"Throne of Terra, Ca—" you start, and it sounds like you're going to say his first name before you rightly correct yourself and say, "C-Commander, you scared me half to death."

He immediately sets about accosting you, "Have you been sitting here with the door open this whole time?"

"No," you nip out.

"You are aware that I can tell when you're lying?"

"I'm certain you can," your tone flattens in a way he's only ever heard you talk to particularly sleazy representatives with. It's not an honest exchange, it's double-speak. It's mocking. You're mocking him.

He grits his teeth.

You've grown more open in your defiance towards him as of late, certainly not because of any revelation or reason and it rubs him in a dangerous, new way. He's not about to let it slide, either.

"Is that so?" His words are sharp and accusative and he hopes—he hopes he'll get the delight of watching you cower like you usually do when confronted by him. "Have you been lying to me often, then?"

Half his hopes come true. You look away nervously and mumble something almost inaudibly, and he'd not have noticed if not for his far superior hearing.

It was, "...maybe," and all Cato can help but do being himself, is detonate.

"And what have you been deceiving me of, you scheming little whore?" He snarls, fuming—a dozen crimes and sins crowding his mind you might be tried for. Maybe he's been far too lenient to the actual reality of your evil. Finally, validation to corroborate his deviation—maybe you'll admit you're some Slanneshi fleshchanger, and that you intended to have burrowed so deep in his mind.

Nonetheless, you're nowhere near even close to fast enough to defend yourself. But it's not like he gives you the chance.

He's crossed the distance with a practiced speed. And quicker than you can even yelp, you are pinned to the lounge—a shackle in the form of his fist around your smaller throat.

The pressure is a limp handshake by his standards. You're not really choking. Just stifled slightly for good measure.

Still, it'd be a mere flex to break your neck. He could snap you like a stylus with what was to him, ultimately, nothing but a simple twitch of his fingers. And he would think more about the blatant contrasts between you both much longer if he wasn't far too distracted by the fact you even struggle prettily wantonly. Big eyes wide and glossy with animal panic. Involuntary tears gather at the corners as you register what's going on at last. The mad temptation to lick them if they so much as dare trail down your cheeks begins eating at him.

Some rational part of his rational mind reminds him he can't get the truth out of you when he's vaguely throttling you, though—and he lets you go begrudgingly. Instead opting for looming over you as you roll sidelong on the couch, breathing fast.

He crouches down to your level and grumbles, still absorbed in his raging.

"Speak," he barks, and pointedly grabs you by the chin.

"I–I hadn't actually—" you start, breathless as you mumble. "Actually, uh, laid with anyone, even though I nodded I sort of... had."

He's staggered at the statement, "...that's it?"

A vague lie of omission, but it's not the great corruption he sought to root out.

Then he actually thinks about what you've just admitted.

Like fog banished under a rising sun, his anger at the thought of treachery immediately dissipates into blistering revelation.

"Hold on, you..." Cato starts, baffled and completely knocked for a six, meeting your gaze slowly—genuinely stunned as he pulls his hand back fully. "I... I was the first?"

You look away cursorily, face reddening not only with your previous strains, but with embarrassment.

Now, that was the reaction of a guilty conscience.

Cato doesn't know what to do with the information. Nor does he really know what he feels.

He'd been the first. He feels like he's won something over his brothers. Therefore, fuck the lot of them—and fuck Titus, specifically. Even if he's not sure why. He truly couldn't believe it. There's success, sure—but then there's taking the laurels: whole and absolute. And this... this is exactly that. But oh, for some apparently vestal thing, you'd let him bully down to the hilt in your tight cunt; whining like a whore when he spilled himself inside you. Throne, it was almost suffocating to think back on it now. So willing to have your maidenhead taken, nevermind the fact you weren't the only one who'd had a new experience that day. But you didn't need to know that.

"Another notch to my mantel of victories then," he ultimately decides is the best thing to say, gloating to himself.

"Unbelievable," you sigh softly as you shakily sit yourself up.

But there's the problem again. The one tangible, constant problem with having laid you. It's made you mouthy. He only ever glimpsed your boldness when you interacted with other baselines in the past. You never sassed Astartes, or at least, he's never seen you do it. But now that stubbornness and unwillingness to back down in a political forum is on full display heedless of situation. As if you've suddenly become one of the auto-felating Imperial Fists—or any of Dorn's insufferable ball-busting scions, really. Worst of all, it's only managed to somehow make him even more enthralled annoyed with you than usual. You're still too good at quashing your anger, hard as it is to rouse. But he loves loathes that you bite the lure instead of shying off now.

"To think that I was the first—is your entire professional role not centred around charm? Would no one else have you with that rotten attitude you've been hiding?" he says, knowing he's being nasty, knowing he's twisting the knife; and absolutely praying for you to fall for it.

Cato watches a rainbow of emotions pass over your features, before you settle on one that makes you look like you ate something sour. He's hit a weak spot. But the sentiment holds true. His Primarch thinks you the best and brightest to sway planets? You couldn't even seduce some daft, drunken aristocratic fool to fuck you.

You, the prettiest baseline he's ever seen.

...maybe Guilliman is right in saying the Imperium has rolled belly-up with bloat.

"That's not—that's not why and you know it," you open your mouth and jumble your words briefly before getting out, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who won't have a panic attack because of the several Astartes that insist on following you around?" You continue, raving and flustered, "Do you think anyone would get near me with you—or—or... maybe Captain Acheran, or the good Chaplain, let's say, breathing over my shoulder?"

"You should be grateful any of us waste our time babysitting you," Cato oafishly shoots back like a petulant child, brows furrowing, "You should be thanking me for doing the brunt of it."

Your nose scrunches up, "Pardon me, Commander, it's surely entirely my fault that we are both at the whims of our Lord Primarch."

He pauses.

Something about this interaction isn't stirring his temper like it should.

He should be absolutely livid with anger, or at the very least blowing your eardrums out with a 'shut the fuck up,' at full Astartesian line-command volume.

Yes, he should be seething, and yet he's not. To his surprise, he's actually feeling more enthused than anything.

This feels... exciting, almost.

"You've only grown the backbone to talk back to me because I fucked one into you," he remarks sharply in reply.

You sputter, and go red, robbed of your words.

"Or maybe this is mere performance," He adds with a sneer, tipping his chin up proudly.

You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic puff of air, "Y-You're such a..." you start, but your voice tapers off—and you look away, pouting.

"I'm a... what?" He taunts, leaning close.

You grumble, apparently feeling brave again; meeting his gaze and puffing yourself up.

"You're a bully," you hiss, clearly upset but undeniably frazzled enough to be somewhat ranting again as you add, "A bully w-who's so disgustingly egotistical you've convinced yourself you're some great conqueror or... something... j-just for having been in me, as if I've never put anything in myself before."

Oh, but wait, Cato likes the idea of that. He likes it so much he completely forgets to acknowledge the insults in your statement prior. He likes the idea of you suffering like he had been—alone, yearning—aching for something you didn't know the dizzying reality of. He can imagine you smothering your sounds, those blessed whines he's got memorised, into a pillow in that cushy little quarters of yours, squirming on your meagre fingers, or maybe cold silicon. You didn't need that lesser imitation now. Cato'd gladly fill that role. He'd gladly fill that hole, too.

Nonetheless, he immediately wonders who you were getting off thinking about.

He'd streak the length of the ship for it to've been him you'd been fucking yourself over.

"Who were you thinking of?"

You blink at the completely offhanded question, then start sputtering, stalling.

"What? I-I—" you stammer, "That's not important or relevant—I just... did it, it's—"

"Keep lying and see where it gets you," He cuts in, raking you with an aggravated frown, and oh, excellent, you're starting to relearn he's not fond of your half-truthing, finally.

You duck your head a little, cringing under his gaze, trying to scoot yourself backwards. But there's nowhere to go.

Cato realises belatedly that in the middle of your antics, the sleeve of your robe has started to fall from your shoulder. His brain short-circuits momentarily with the sheer amount of air that floods his head. Your warm, soft skin on display just for him. He didn't get to see all of you last time. He felt a good portion of you, yes—but he didn't get the chance to admire acknowledge the whole vista. Not because he was too desperate to rut against to try. Or because he was probably going to swoon like a fool if he did. Shut up, he's no coward. Afterall, his hands had been close to your chest, but now—now he can actually look.

He's going to absolutely ruin that lovely canvas you've given him.

"Nobody," you say softly.

"Groxshit," he snaps.

"Fine—" You swallow and start scrambling for a response, "Malum C-Caedo."

Cato genuinely cannot help but bark a laugh at that, "Spare me, you haven't even met the man, moron—you're only saying that because your most recent reading was on his last briefing," he rolls his eyes. "You forgot I was there with Guilliman when you were given it."

You look at him like a cornered little mouse, and finally—finally, your sleeve falls just enough that he's given a perfect view of one of your tits.

"You already..." you grumble softly. "You already know who, then, so I shouldn't even have to dignify this."

"It's me, isn't it?" He asks darkly, and while he tries to sound haughty, the fact he's thrilled by both the notion and the sight of your partial nudity ends up warping his tone into a vaguely manic chuff.

You glance aside and stammer loudly, "N-No."

No, you say—but he hears your little heart flutter. And sees your pupils dilate.

"I hope you're aware you can't lie to save your life," Cato drawls.

Your gaze snaps back to his, and for a brief second, your expression is flushed with embarrassment; until it changes to a sour little scowl.

"I'm not a bad liar, you're just an Astartes—" you start furiously, but check your flustered anger.

Cato smirks.

It's not a completely clean victory, but it's good.

It means his own lusting madness is at least reciprocally vindicated.

And at that realisation, Cato's impulse control violently loses balance; and he's painfully aware he cannot, for the life of him, contain the hungered almost purr-like sound that crawls up his throat.

You go back to looking transfixed at that, and he pauses.

There's something... pulling him in even more than before. He feels as if he's taken the bait, and the hook, and the line and sinker—hell, he's taken a good bit of the rod, too. Everything's a little too heated, and he's got an innate, intuitive feeling you're just as wound up as he is—wait. He breathes in deep and slow, and scents the air. Throne, he may as well have been cold-clocked at the temple by a Dreadnaut for all the innate information he suddenly receives. You're quite frankly drenched in want. You're getting off on this. Smothering him in a dizzying biological chant of hormones that scream—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

He leans close, and puts a hand on the arm-rest; the other palm slowly moving towards your chest.

Your eyes follow it—but you voice no complaints nor rejections.

Justified now, he's ecstatic. And your skin is as perfect to the touch as he remembers.

His hand looks huge compared to the breast cupped in it, idly toying with the consistency of the flesh in his grasp. It's much softer and malleable than he thought it'd be. Almost like a water-skin. Thumb depressing your right nipple, before drawing a thoughtless circle.

You sigh lightly and relax a bit, and Cato takes that as another open invitation.

He uses the same hand to tug away the fabric from your other shoulder.

Quick as anything, he's practically stuffing his face against you without any real warning, ignoring your flinch at his haste. Cato's letting the urges he'd withheld in that wretched shack out. And it's so worth the wait. He groans, licks a fat band over your left breast, and worries at the perked little bud with his teeth until you're squirming; only to drag his attention up to nip at your fragile throat.

You're breathing hard, and you open your mouth as if about to speak—but ever spiteful, Cato rewards your attempt with the drag of his tongue and the press of his teeth; and that promptly shuts you up. The faint salt on your skin isn't half bad of a thing either, honestly. He rather likes it. It tastes like how you smell—and he's absolutely luxuriating in it. It makes it all the easier to map your chest from the curve of your breast to your collarbones, garnishing you with eager drags of his tongue and mouth-wrought bruises.

And now you're glorious. The marks on your skin are vivid—he's guaranteed you won't be wearing anything showy for a good while. No lovely vile plunging necklines for you to display to bastard dignitaries. Not unless you want to explain why they're Cato Sicarius sized. They'll also be a good reminder to you of exactly who's superior.

You're still too dazed by his efforts to realise the extent of his actions, but he knows exactly how hot and bothered it's made you. That honeyed reek of arousal is driving him insane.

Urged on, he digs a hand down and around your back and drags you off the lounge. Manoeuvring to turn so his back rests against the lip of the lounge, nigh dumping you before him on the rug.

"W-Why...?" You blink, stunned for a second before righting yourself and meeting his eyes. Cato's sat himself cross-legged, before letting them unfold, one tenting and the other splaying out.

"I did all the work last time," he starts impatiently, and leans up to grab you by the forearm; bringing your hand close close to the cradle of his hips, "Now it's your turn to do something for once."

...Cato's not sure you're actually listening, because he could've bet his helm you'd've become irate at that statement if you were. That, and you're glaring between his thighs.

Ironically, he also almost instantaneously finds he doesn't really care to continue the train of thought. Not when you trace the engorged bulge of him through the folds of his tunic. Groping at the base, before smoothing your palm to the rounded tip.

There's no accursed buttons between him and the open this time, thankfully—and that means he can simply tug aside the folds of his layered tunic and bare himself from the belly down.

His cock lays fat and heavy with blood, smearing precum as it moves from his navel to leftward on his hip when he straightens up.

You're staring.

He scoffs at your apprehension and says, "Alternatively, perhaps you can—"

A soft, "Shhh," leaves you.

He snorts like a big, angry stock horse, brow raised. No baseline, regardless of rank, would dare treat Cato like this; none would dare even think to treat to him like this. Except you now, apparently. You forget your station, your place. Making demands of an Astartes is nowhere near your clearance. Your best option is to implore, not command. Yours is to nod your pretty thick head and smile your fair rotten little smile and obey your betters.

"Did—did you just shush me, woman?" Cato's nigh instantly consumed by a rush of anger at the sheer audacity, sneering. "In what reality do you think you've any right to shush me? I'm Commander of the Victrix Honor Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of—"

Of... of something.

Suddenly your insolence is inconsequential to him. All that matters is the smooth glide of your dainty hand on his cock, and the sight of your thumb and pointer being unable to wrap around and meet given how thick he is.

You look up at him slowly for a second, before your focus returns to apparently sussing out how best to saddle him. It's a timid gesture, like you're anticipating overstepping—you're cautious.

He's about to remind you of the fact you've taken him before, so Cato's proven he fits and all this coyness of yours is arbitrary. But he guesses the point is moot when you're suddenly already stradling his hips.

With one small hand finding a place on his stomach, and the other holding his cock straight beneath the obscurity of your garbs, he feels you lower yourself enough to make contact; testing before offering a little more urgency.

With an agonisingly careful roll of your pelvis, the head of his cock catches against the soft ring of muscle at your entrance for a second.

He grumbles despite himself.

He can't watch his cock sink into you like last time thanks to the curtain of your robe, but at least he can certainly feel every millimeter of it happening.

Tight heat feels like a death shroud over his mind as he draws a blank on anything else.

And finally—finally he's stuffed down to the hilt—and oh, he's filled you to your end just like the last time. Throne, he's drunk off the spongy heat the thick head of cock is squared right up against.

This position's made your cunt just that bit shorter inside thanks to gravity.

You whimper, clearly trying desperately not to start shaking.

You start shaking anyways.

He's fascinated by the small, restless palms now pressed flat and trying to find a counterpoint on his broad, tunic'd chest. Soft and un-calloused aside from the small bump of a pen's rest on your writing hand. Everything about you is warm and soft. Inside and out, you're all his.

He exhales harshly through his nose and blinks, gaze shifting from your hands to your tits, then to your face.

You wear an even more flushed expression now, overwhelmed, with all your focus on him.

Right where it always should be.

"Hurry up," he grunts sharply.

You swallow hard, and promptly drop your gaze.

You, surprisingly, manage to lift yourself up despite your theatrics. And, little by little, he watches you strain up until just the tip of him is still buried in you.

Angling yourself, you keen, carefully sinking back down on his cock and reeling at the stretch again as you settle, ass meeting his dense quads with a soft plomf.

He can see you biting back a moan, pointless as the act is.

"Keep going," Cato grits out, "I didn't tell you to stop."

You frown halfheartedly, and your insides clench around him despite yourself.

You start a slow rhythm, the noise of colliding skin on skin echoes in his ears. Slick friction, and fucked-out, half-stifled cries. Your pace quickening. Riding him. Using him at your own leisure, like the precious wretched little thing you are. You repeat the same dizzying motion again and again, and again—rising and sinking—up, down, up, down; until it's clear you've found an angle that hits something just right, sending you over the edge with a rattling gasp.

A low groan crawls up the back of Cato's throat and slips free without restraint.

He's barely able to cope through the tight squeeze of your orgasm around his cock; but he steels himself, winning the fight to not spill in you right then and there at that. No small thanks to the furious couple hours he'd spent earlier in the simulated night cycle furiously attending his urges.

His calloused mitt can hardly compete with the nigh painfully silken clench of you. And the view—Throne, to simply watch is a level of spectacle he can't even put into words. It's nothing short of hypnotic seeing your face soften with fucked-out delight—he can't believe he'd ever thought it was good the first time around when he hadn't even seen you meet your end.

You stop suddenly, seated to the hilt, trembling and oversensitive—grinding back and forth, nails digging into his pectorals through his tunic.

"Just... n-need t'catch my breath..." You whimper, and that debauched tone wreaks havoc through his mind. An unceasing urge to pound you to tears overtaking what little sense he has left. It's the ravenous fact that you, the little parchment-pushing temptress, are all tuckered out from cumming on him so quickly. He's preening at the fact he feels that good to you—oh, he's going to send you limping back to your quarters.

He wants to watch you break.

"You lazy little cunt, you can't do a thing right, can you?" Cato groans, your thighs twitching as he lifts you by the hips and makes you sink back down.

He gets the treat of seeing your eyes swim back in your skull, dumb with sensation.

Lulled by the reedy, oversexed moans slipping from you with each motion; and he can't help but start thrusting up, matching pace.

"Hardly even four and a half minutes—and you're a mess, absolutely useless." He heaves, dropping you to full-hilt for a second to manoeuvre you better. You're nigh but a gasping dead-weight, delirious.

If you're going to act the entitled bitch, he'll screw you into something alike submission. Which is exactly why he's then pulling out, shoving you against the lounge on your back; and moving your thighs to bracket his hips as he half kneels on the rug. Just to slide himself back inside, balls-deep in willing flesh. The only dignity he affords you then is the space to wrap your arms around and behind his shoulders. Which you rightly do without demand.

Hold on, was the unspoken order.

Then he's fucking you into the lounge like his life depends on it. He's glad to notice it's bolted down, but the damned thing creaks—nonetheless, he can barely even hear it over the perfect sounds you're making.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, barely holding back the noises that choke his own gullet.

"You're so damn lucky you're a nice tight hole," he rasps harshly, "That's all you're good for, hm? For me to fill?"

There's a gutting sort of beauty in the way you're looking up at him with open desperation. He's trying so hard not to fall victim to the siren call of it, but it's perfect vile and he can't help but fold. He'd kill for that look to never leave your face when your eyes fell on him.

"Fuck, I must be in your womb at this rate—would you like that? My load in your womb?" Cato says between a great lungful of air, only to start huffing madly to himself when you nod drunkenly. "Good, because that's exactly where i-it's going."

Mind reeling with every resounding sticky slap of his balls against you, paired with scorching wet slide of him pumping in and out of you. You're crying, all your sensibilities lost in the thorough pace he's ploughing into you with; trying to pull him in by tugging at his shoulders, but with your meagre strength it's merely a vague suggestion.

Still, he leans into it, if only to finally seize the chance to lap the tears off your cheek, and you sob; trying to turn nose to nose with him. Your pathetic pawing at his broad back only exacerbates the overwhelming urgency in his blood.

He's so close.

Bliss crests up like a tide inside him, building and building, stunned with how it makes him buck into you. He's dazed in a way he surely wasn't designed to be resilient against. He can't even shut his damn mouth to stop moaning—and only technically manages to do so when you cover it with your own the very second he's about to finish; your legs squeezing impotently down on his hips, trembling through another climax.

His nerves light up like an orbital barrage, body rocking against the pretty, willing thing below him that you are. He has no idea what's going on beyond that. Are you kissing him? Is that what you're doing? Half his brain is stunned by the idea and the other half is flooded by the rushes of pleasure in his system making his tendons cramp, ravaging him with the sound of his hearts thudding in his ears.

Working himself right into agony; he's tensing against you as he empties himself as deep as he can. His pace finally breaks pattern and staccatos as his mind leadens.

Lulled by the molten satisfaction that swamps him soon thereafter, Cato blindly tries to chase forward and keep your lips on his. Emphasis on tries. He thinks he likes it, foreign as the sensation and sentiment is. He's got his tongue in your mouth, but no real clue what to do beyond lapping further in like a man dying of thirst—and then, of course, you decide to start weakly thrashing for air, blunt teeth grazing against the invading muscle—so, with a miffed groan; he pulls away, drooling as he slumps front-long against you and the lounge with a rumbling sigh, letting his eyes close as he basks in the afterglow.

You're panting still, nosing against the nape of his neck—likely having difficulty respiring under his weight—but despite that, you're still twitching around his spent cock, just like last time.

Wistfully, he wonders if he could sleep with you stuffed full of him like this. Slotted together and absolutely buried in your cunt; reaming you out as far as your small frame will allow. He enjoys the idea of that, and of holding you close.

He listens meditatively as your breathing steadily evens out, a soft in-out rhythm he can hear start in your chest only to feel warmly dancing across his collarbone a moment later.

Your small hand glides up the back of his trapezoid and combs through the short hair at his crown.

He shivers almost immediately at the act, thoughts clouding. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, now. He can't really bring himself to do anything. He's locked in. It's like he's been sedated, or scruffed about the neck. Then your fingers trace the bare skin behind his ear, and he snaps from the trance enough to crack an eye open to glance down.

"Don't push your luck," he bites out automatically and leers away.

You immediately stiffen, and lurch yourself back—seemingly completely confused.

He's not exactly sure why he reacted that way either, but he's certainly not going to address it.

Ultimately, he opts to pull his cock out of you with scant decorum rather than linger on the topic. Then he settles into a kneel as he eyes the soaked-in stain below the bunched-up fabric of your robe.

"Well," he snorts.

And damn, it's difficult to hold a straight face at the overdramatic, painfully oblivious pout you shoot him.

So, Cato just continues watching you with a cruel sort of satisfaction as you sit yourself up shakily, and realise the mess.

You blanch, promptly shutting your legs and fussing—your ass is half stuck to the fabric of the lounge by your own slick and his spent when you move to stand on shaky, unsure legs.

He's aware of the fact you're after something to wipe away the aftermath. But he's far too content observing you struggle for the moment. Pleased, even. Especially when he's treated to the cringing gasp that slips from you when his semen no doubt starts dripping down your thighs.

You're panicking within seconds. He can hear your heartbeat quickening, plus the acrid tang of baseline stress hormones pervading the room.

There's nothing to spare. Unless you want to leave another smear across the lounge cushioning, but he doubts you'd go so low. He, however, has no such reservations—and yanks the plush velour padded square up to wipe his cock off. It's not as if he wasn't going to toss it down one of the incinerator shafts on the library's second floor anyways.

"Do—" you begin softly, but amend yourself, "Would y-you have anything... to..."

He stares at you, brows furrowed.

Floundering now, you waddle close and swallow harshly.

"To... wipe this up?" You finish, barely a whisper. He can tell you're sour at the fact you're stroking his ego and essentially too full of him to go anywhere.

Cato scoffs, holding up the seating cushion, "What? Too spoilt to use this?"

You cringe at him, "People have sat on that—hundreds of people, probably. I-I don't have your immunity to infection."

Cato cedes on that point at least, because he assumes being a baseline is hell. And so very not his problem, too.

Completely out of left field, comes the temptation to lick you clean. His mulish hind-brain reasons it's a brilliant idea, namely because you'd likely be squirming for him again. Even if he has no real idea of what to do beyond that. Lap at your clit, probably—he's not actually done any of this before except—well, except just slamming into you. He has the basic gist of all of this from biologis graphics and pornographic motionpicts. Yes, the latter are technically contraband on Ultramarine chapter vessels—Throne, he actually remembers when that was put into force. He was still green behind the ears when that'd happened. But those specific brothers had displayed it for abstract amusement, not... it's intended purpose—rather: 'Lo, look at this curiosity, brothers! See they're fornicating, how very so strange! Baselines am-i-right?'

Honestly, it's never actually anything heretical, except for maybe the terrible acting.

He'd deem that punishable by death.

Regardless, Cato's guessing the process of licking something can't really be some sage art form. Not like duelling, and fuck, he's stellar at that. He's stellar at almost everything, he reasons. So why not that? You're such a wanton little thing he'd probably make you finish on accident.

Yet he decides against it as soon as the logical part of his brain boots back up. Largely given the fact he's probably already going to have a hard time as it is trying to avoid others on his way to mask the stink of sex. His brothers have keen noses, it wouldn't be difficult for them to notice the smell of you on his way to his chamber if he's not careful. Let alone if it's smeared all over his face. Next time, however—

"Surely it's not that bad," he says off-handedly.

A surge of shame appears on your face as a red, blotchy belt across your cheeks, and you seem about to protest before he grumbles.

"Still, you really ought to find a solution," he remarks idly, and he notices the implication isn't lost on you.

You frown softly, and wrinkle your nose at him.

"Maybe some manners would help you achieve your goals," he adds, with a clearer spite.

Your frown grows nigh comically harsh.

Cato grunts wryly, satisfied at your annoyance and paws at the hem of his tunic—tearing a portion off and holding it out to you.

You grab the edge of it and tug, but he doesn't let go.

"And what do you say?"

"Thanks," you answer hastily.

He raises an eyebrow and pulls the torn fabric back towards himself ever so slightly, causing you to over extend closer to him.

His stare stays locked on yours, and he gets the treat of watching you dither and fluster under his focus momentarily before you amend, "T-Thank you..." you swallow, and break eye contact, adding; "Commander Sicarius."

"Was that so hard?" Cato scoffs, especially thrilled as he lets go of the scrap—eyeing you as you trot aside, and gingerly begin to wipe away the mess of satisfaction coating your thighs and rear.

When you're decidedly done, you stomp back over to him and hold out the soiled fabric.

He reaches for it, only to have it promptly pulled away.

Cato scowls, and takes a step forward into your space—only for you to inch forward into his.

You're tormenting him then, he decides; or rather he thinks. He's not sure. You don't look smug—you look... nervous? Your lips have drawn into a thin line and you keep glancing between his eyes and behind him randomly.

"What?" He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Lean down," you mumble, then quietly make the additional effort of throwing in a "...please."

Cato grumbles at the request but complies, and Throne, he's glad he does; because suddenly you're up on your tip-toes, your hand on his jaw—and your lips are on his cheek.

He blinks, dumb as a mule. It's over as fast as it started and he can't even begin to unpack the elation he's abruptly feeling.

Heedless of his dazzled state, you clear your throat with a bashful laugh—and then the rag is suddenly stuffed into his open hand. He's still frozen there as you practically rush out the room, scooping your previously flung data-slate up as you frantically wave the door mechanism open and vanish from view.

A long wheeze escapes his throat in the empty room, his face thudding with heat.

Oh, he's fucked fucked.

[dearggntlereader]

Nr.11 Ice Rink ༻¨ : ·.. ｡⋆⍋*｡

Book!Percy Jackson x reader CW: probs OOC, picture does not represent the readers looks

You let out a scream that’s somewhere between a laugh, a yelp, and whatever noise a baby goat makes as it wipes out. You’re not sure. What you are sure of is that you’re about to faceplant into the ice.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there, Bambi!” Percy’s voice is full of laughter as he grabs your waist, saving you from total humiliation and bruises on your knees. 

Of course, he takes the opportunity to steady you a little too close, grabbing your waist instead of your Shoulders.

Your face heats up, but thank the gods, the biting cold explains the pink away. You glare up at him, teasingly offended. “Not all of us can be ice royalty, Your Grace.”

Percy smirks, the kind of smirk that would make monsters want to throw themselves off a cliff. “I’m the Ice King. Bow down, peasant.”

With that, he lets go of your waist (rude and slightly painful for his bleeding heart) and glides backward like he’s auditioning for Frozen: The Live Show, striking a ridiculous pose with his arms stretched wide. 

The loss of his warmth causes a stinging in your chest, but you know Percy: he’d sacrifice anything for a good bit.

You take a shaky step forward, laser-focused on remembering his advice: knees bent just slightly, feet pointed forward, back straight. Easy, right? 

Nope. 

You instantly flail like you’re being attacked by invisible harpies, stretching out your arms to save yourself. 

Percy doubles over with laughter, his whole body shaking.

“Oh gods, this must be what monsters felt like chasing me—slipping everywhere, totally desperate to keep up. Sweet, sweet revenge.”

“Percy,” you whine, glaring at him, wobbling dangerously, “if you don’t get over here right now and keep me from face planting—”

“Then what?” He raises an eyebrow, skating in a lazy circle. “You’re gonna chase me? While I skate away, all graceful and heroic?” He winks, but his smirk softens as he starts gliding toward you again, betraying his previous threats.

You try to focus on skating, but Percy’s stupid face makes it hard. His eyes are bright with joy, his laughter echoing off the ice, and you hate to admit it, but seeing him this happy makes every second of embarrassment worth it. The cold wind messes up your hair, your cheeks are probably redder than Apollo’s sun chariot, and yet—judging by the way he keeps sneaking glances at you—you might not look that bad, after all.

He reaches you, grabbing your hands in his gloved ones. Even through the layers, his touch burns like fire.

His hold on you is steady as he starts skating backward again, pulling you along easily.

You stumble a little, your fingers tightening instinctively around his. The movement pulls you closer—so close that you’re practically nose-to-nose. Percy’s eyes flicker down to your lips for half a second, and for once, no teasing remark comes to mind. He just...stares.

Before he knows it, he’s leaning in, his forehead brushing yours. 

He’s imagined this a thousand times—kissing you in some heroic, epic moment—but somehow, this is better. You, laughing and awkward and just...you.

And for once, Percy is absolutely, one hundred percent speechless.

Thank you all for supporting my blog!! As always, I appreciate all comments and reblogs. It's what keeps me going.

Comment to be added to the taglist: @dustie-faerie

[thursdaygxrls]

thin ice — two

part one | part two | part three

summary — peter invites her to his hockey game, and shocker, she shows up.

pairing — uni hockey player!peter parker x fem!journalist!reader

disclaimer — i do not own peter parker/marvel. marvel pls don’t sue me for making peter sexier 🙏

warnings — reader is referred to as ‘kitty’ (there’s a reason, i promise), slight one sided enemies to lovers, possible maybe slightly ooc, and very unedited

Stark Memorial Rink was a lot more crowded than she remembered. To be fair, when she was there two days ago, it was during a closed practice. Now it was loud, crowded, and filled with the blaring noise of the patrons and loudspeakers.

“What are our seats again?” MJ asked, hanging off her arm with a big, goofy smile. She was dressed in an Empire State University sweatshirt—‘I have to show my school pride’, she said. Sure, that was the reason.

“Section one hundred ten, Row C, seats four and five,” she replied, her voice near robotic.

“Y’know, you can at least pretend to be excited,” MJ teased. “I’ll buy you a soft pretzel if you act like you’re having fun.”

“Woo-hoo. Yippee. Hooray,” she said monotonously, a small grin curling on her lips.

“Come on,” a whine leaves MJ’s lips, “This is cool! It’s not just any game, this is the tournament—like, national. If they win this, they’ll make it down to eight teams. Eight teams!”

“And your sudden love of hockey spawned on its own, right?” She raised a brow at her friend’s words, “Not because of some sweaty guy who likes to ice skate?”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” MJ mumbled in reply, though her eyes softened a bit, a smile adorning her painted lips. They shuffled through the crowds of people with some struggle, but eventually made it to section one hundred ten.

When she was there days ago, she hadn’t quite paid attention to the format of the seats. The assumption, though, was that they flowed in alphabetical order, making Row Z the one closest to the plexiglass. They slipped towards the steps, ready to descend just a few stairs when they looked down. A big, yellow ‘Z’ was right under their feet. That meant–

“Oh, my God.” Her voice was more like a whisper than anything.

“You said Row C, right?” MJ asked, her eyes glued to the letter.

“Row C,” she confirmed, sucking her teeth. Was it even possible? Okay, sure, this was just a university game, but this game was a big deal. The place was insanely crowded. How could he just give away seats that close to the glass?

“Well, let’s go,” MJ interrupted her train of thought, tugging her arm to follow her. One, two, three, four…they descended lower and lower until the sound of ice scraping along the skates of those practicing was louder than the buzz of the crowd. Their seats gave them a perfect view right behind the net. Purple and black jerseys whizzed by in a flurry of sticks and pucks and ice shaving off the ground. They say for a minute, soaking up the reality of where they were before MJ let out a cough.

“So, Kitty, soft pretzel?” She glanced over with a smile.

“Yeah,” she agreed, already popping up from her seat. Shuffling back to the stairs, her gaze was pulled back to the rink where she caught a flash of a neon purple ‘13’ zipping by the glass. Hazel eyes settled upon her through the brackets of the helmet—but only for one second. One small ounce of time in which their eyes connected like laser beams. And then he was gone again, and so was she.

“I’ll get you a slushie, too, if you do a little cheering,” MJ’s voice pulled her back.

“Extra large?” She raised a brow in return.

“Whatever size you want,” MJ beamed.

By the time they were back to their seats, the game was almost starting. The National Anthem was sung by a local high school talent. The team introductions flew by (MJ, of course, screaming for Harry). When number thirteen, Peter Parker, Empire State Lightning Bolts Team Captain was introduced, the thunder of feet pounding on the floor rang through the stadium. He slid across the ice in an oddly graceful fashion. He was sort of gangly, and the bulk of the uniform provided a strange juxtaposition, but his movements were clean and precise, more like a figure skater than a hockey player.

“Look at that, number thirteen,” MJ giggled into her ear, receiving a smack on the arm for her laughter.

“I have eyes, I can see.” Was her grumbled response.

The game was intense. They were single-round eliminations, meaning that if ESU lost this, they were out of the tournament. Pennbrook, in their glossy green jerseys, were just as vicious. The net in front of them was the home side first, so they were able to see every goal that was blocked, and inevitably the ones that slipped through. What seemed to (begrudgingly) stand out the most, though, was Peter.

He was aggressive. At first, she thought it was just excitement, or anger, or some irrational emotion that sent him flying across the ice and ramming into people. But the face under the helmet was always calm. Cold, even. Every outburst was a precise calculation. Yes, he was combative, but it was never out of his control. Nothing was out of his control, not even when the puck went skidding across the ice on the other side. It took him seconds to cross the rink and swoop in for quick saves. Time seemed to flash by. The buzzer signaled the end of the first period, and the teams skated back to their respective sides.

“It’s not that bad, right?” MJ nudged her, sucking down the last of her blue raspberry slushie.

“I’m definitely viewing something,” she responded in a sarcastic tone. MJ groaned, nudging her as she collected their empty cups and discarded napkins.

“Keep up the good attitude,” she shot back, sticking out her tongue as she went to throw away the trash.

The second period was similar to the first: high tensions, high testosterone. By the third period, the score was 4-5 with Pennbrook taking the lead. It was, of course, only a momentary lead. A play by Harry and Miles tied them up again, and then a swift shot by Zack got them the lead. Pennbrook’s number ‘36’ had been on Peter’s ass nearly the entire game. He was always so close that half of the ice shavings on Peter’s ankles were probably from him. But it hadn’t been anything more than a chase until Peter brought the score up to 7-5.

The movement was quick, but not nearly as unnoticeable as he likely intended. While sliding behind the net, 36’s elbow came up to check Peter. He was probably aiming for his shoulder, but everything just came out wrong: Peter turned his head toward 36, 36’s elbow jabbed at an awkward angle, and the hit ended up slamming into Peter’s face.

Her breath caught in her throat. When he turned back to the plexiglass, blood was dripping down his chin. He’d been clipped just right so that his lip busted against the hard plastic of the mouthguard. Resounding ‘boos’ sounded through the stadium, but the sounds fell deaf on her ears as she watched Peter throw off his glove and swipe the blood from his skin. It was like she could see the gears turning in his head. Hit, blood, fight. He looked to 36, ready to raise his bloodstained fist. Then, for just a second, his eyes flitted to her.

He knew she was there. He knew she was watching. None of the hardness left his eyes, but there was something new there, too. Pride, maybe? Excitement? It lingered in his vision the entire time his eyes were on hers. When his bloodied lips curled into a smirk, she forced herself out of the breathless haze she was caught in. She was only concerned because that was the normal human reaction; you see someone get hurt, you worry. Or you laugh. It wasn’t like she was—

Peter’s fist connected with 36’s cheek. She could hear the hard smack through the glass to Row C. 36 stumbled back on his skates but regained his balance. Before he could deal a blow, refs blowing hopelessly on their whistles swarmed the two, pulling them like two growling dogs. Once again, Peter looked up at her, making sure that she was still watching. When he smiled at her, she could see that his teeth were now coated in blood from the wound on his lip.

“Holy shit!” MJ was squealing, but her voice was lost on the girl next to her.

“Yeah,” she nodded, “Yeah, holy shit.”

Neither Peter nor 36 were let back on the ice for the rest of the game. A penalty was dealt to ESU, but any other punishment was still unknown. She watched the rest of the game on high alert, trying to stop her eyes from traveling to the penalty box where Peter was seated. It was hard to view him from her position, but she could see a shock of brown hair every once and a while.

When the game was over, ESU had won 8-7. The crowd roared as the buzzer sounded, and when MJ shot up, she joined her. Adrenaline shot through her as she watched the guys on the rink scream and nearly slam into each other. Her view, though, quickly adjusted to Peter as he fled the penalty box. He slid onto the ice with the same practiced ease he’d used during the game. She could see him say something to Zack as he grabbed him by the shoulders. When his eyes finally landed on her, her pulse thrummed in her ears. He knew she was watching him, and that’s just what he wanted her to do.

“Where y’headed?”

The sound of someone’s voice nearly made her throw her water bottle. She’d only just left Xavier Hall when she was accosted (or rather spoken to) by someone who seemed to appear out of nowhere. Her head whirled around to meet hazel eyes and a busted lip.

“Are you stalking me?” She spat out, her eyes wide.

“Stalking you? Oh, my God, no,” Peter laughed, wincing when his split lip tugged into a smile, “I used to do a little photography for the paper, I know where the meetings are.”

“Right,” she nodded, “But, like, how did you know I would be leaving right now?”

“Lucky guess?” He suggests, cocking his head in a boyish way. She narrowed her eyes, but before she could say anything, he was already speaking again; “Saw you at my game yesterday.”

“It technically wasn’t your game. It was the team’s game. Both teams’ game.” Her voice was pointed as she spoke. When she began walking down the stone pathway that led to a dining hall, Peter followed without question.

“But I was there,” he responded, “And so were you.”

“MJ didn’t want to miss it,” she dismissed his words.

“Oh, yeah, she and Harry are getting pretty serious,” he hummed.

“Mhm,” she replied. She didn’t want to look at him, really. Every time she did, her gaze was drawn to the nasty gash on his lips. Her eyes, however, decided to betray her. She studied it, the way it moved with him, the way it would inevitably split further each time he grinned.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Peter said, almost as if he was reading her mind. Her eyes shot up to meet his.

“Did you get kicked off the team or something?” She asked as if she didn’t already know the answer.

“Hell no,” he laughed, “Just a slap on the wrist. Couldn’t finish out the game, but you already knew that.”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded, “I would’ve thought there would’ve been a little more.”

“I’ve never really gotten in a fight–and that wasn’t even a real fight,” he grinned

“So was that just you showing off or something?” Her brows creased.

“Something like that.”

They reached the entrance of the dining hall. Peter, in all his gangliness, was able to swipe his card before her and open the door. His smile just seemed to widen as she eyed him with a generous amount of suspicion.

“Thanks,” she said slowly as she stepped through the door.

“No problem,” he replied, “See you around, Kitty.”

“You can’t call me—”

He was gone before she could finish her sentence. The door fell shut in his absence, and she watched him walk away through the glass. He carried on down the pathway with his hands shoved into his pockets. A groan slipped from her lips when she realized that she was just staring at him. Her body moved into the dining hall, but her mind wandered (unwillingly) to Peter. He was annoying, and cocky, and smiled way too much for someone with a busted lip. Yet, the main thing stuck in her head was his hazel eyes and the way he watched her with them.

a/n — hey babes!! thanks for the love on this series so far. i’m not sure how long it’s gonna be, but i def have some plans, it’s def gonna get smutty at some point. anyways, hope you enjoyed!!

[gay-dorito-dust]

So so so so i need short reaction

“‘They’re your great aunt/ uncle y/n!’ Stanley shouted just as you fully stepped out of the portal before it closed behind you for one final time, plunging the room in almost darkness had it not been from the ember coloured gem that hung from your neck. You removed the hood from your head to reveal your aged face and slight hints of silver that streaked your hair permanently. “

The portal will shut down slowly And then a laser shot y/n from behind as they dies infront of them and the portal finally fully shut(cus y/n is off guard) CUS I THINK ITS FUNNY IF ‘i fixed this portal with my brother for 30 years, now i can see my lover again’ to ‘WHAT THE HELL, NO!’ AGAJAJAJAHAHJASG

You devious little shit. I love it!

Warning: reader is dead in this one. So sad.

The moment the laser hit you did Stanley thinks his entire life was one massive joke.

Ford has to quickly get the kids out of the lab to avoid them seeing their great aunt/uncle bleeding to death as the portal died almost immediately afterwards.

Thirty years and all Stanley got in return was to watch you die as you bled out in his arms, still smiling up at him while he felt his heart crumble and crack into nothing.

Thirty years of being apart and the only time you got together was when you were telling him that the minutes you got to see your precious Stanley’s face, handsomely aged like fine wine as you said weakly, wishing him happiness despite the fact that his entire reason for being happy was slipping away and he was helpless to do anything.

Sure Ford must be getting help upstairs while the kids constantly pestered him with what was happening but Stanley knew that even if they did arrive you wouldn’t make it, you were already starting to feel could as you would soon admit to him, but still found the strength to touch his tear stain cheek to tell him they he was far too beautiful to cry over you.

A call back to when he told you that you were far too beautiful crying over a douche of an ex as you sat on a bench in the rain, he wished he could go back to the night you first met and married you then like he always dreamed he would when you stayed by his side; even when you fell into the portal Stanley wanted to marry you as soon as you came out of the portal, only for you to get fatally shot right before his eyes.

He wasn’t destined to marry you, that wasn’t aloud and instead he was doomed to suffer a long and isolating life with your smile, laugh, kisses, hugs and willingness to go along with his schemes and yet not once did he ever had the strength to tell you he loved you.

Stanley has so many regrets and such little time to admit to them as his vision of you was blurred with tears that he felt like laughing, even his own body was against him seeing you.

‘Thirty years.’ Stan whispered as he pressed his head against the side of yours. ‘Thirty years I spent getting trying to get you back sweetheart, not once did I ever get you out of my head. I refused to as I thought that if I forgot you for a single second I’ll forget what you look like for the rest of my life and I don’t want to ever forget you when you’ve been nothing but the best thing in my entire life and now you’re being taken from me, again.’ Stan finished, pressing kisses into your cold skin.

‘I found a dimension where we’re married Stanley.’ You spoke hoarse. ‘Married and I’ve never looked happier than I did.’

‘Where was it sweetheart.’ Stan asked as he held you closer to his chest.

‘Here, at the mystery shack.’ You told him, smiling at the ceiling of the lab that would become your resting place. ‘You never liked the idea of signing an overpriced piece of paper just to officially show people they we are in love.’ You added with a chuckle that ended in you coughing up blood.

‘Stop speaking toots,’ Stanley panicked as he felt his heart break somehow even further as he burrowed his face into your neck, wanting to remember how you felt against him once last time, ‘stop speaking please and save yourself the energy.’

‘We both know it’s too late, so allow me to say this. I love you Stanley pines, I would’ve loved to have been married to you and scam people with deep pockets together in another life.’ You said and those were the last words you said as the last aspects of your life had left your body.

Stanley had lost his happiness for the second time and he didn’t get to tell you he loved you, or that he would’ve loved the scam people and be married to you too…

[lunarw0rks]

please tell me i’m not the only one who thinks soap would be horny at the WRONG times?

like let’s say you’re hosting your very first end of the year bbq and you invite your close friends, the task force, + los vaqueros. you’re excited because you just had moved into your first house as well.

all is good until good until soap starts getting needy, purposely brushing up against your backside whenever he passes by, mumbling the most sarcastic ‘oops my bad’. he even says something along the lines of ‘sending everyone back home so we could have some alone time’ and plays it off as a joke but you know he’s being serious 💀 like that man does NOT CARE, he’ll take you in the bathroom if he has to.

a/n: naur, you're onto something anon. I always picture Soap as a horny bastard; not much restraint in his not-so-little body. got a little carried away on this, lol. warning(s): nsfw, horny stuff, fem!reader

imagine you bought a house together and the nice idea of throwing a little housewarming party, for him, for you — inviting his co-workers and some friends of your own. he insisted a thousand times that you didn't have to invite them; but only because of all the embarrassing stories they were going to tell you about your boyfriend.

but, when all was said and done, it was a great gathering. you did it all yourself — the meals, the decor, the staging of your newly purchased outdoor furniture — everything. it was alluring to Soap, how frazzled and insistent on "perfection" you were. though, you heard about a thousand times, that they would eat anything you put in front of them.

when you two sat around the fire, gaz asked how you two planned on celebrating the new house once the festivities died down. an innocent question; but it sparked in your boyfriend's mind. "aye, we'll find a way to celebrate, that's for sure. jus' gotta make sure the timing's right," he played it off with a chuckle, but there was no mistaking how flustered it made you.

it was going perfectly, or as perfect as a party with these people could be. a lengthy dinner in the backyard, endless conversations, and a little too much indulgence in the booze for some of them. "great party, great house. should have you decorate the base sometime, eh? if it's half as nice, it'll help with morale." price commented as he talked to you and him.

Soap's arm remained around your shoulder, your waist, or anywhere throughout the night. you didn't think anything of it, frankly, you were too laser-focused — until his neediness grew. brushing against your backside, a caress on your thigh lingering, a small wink when the guests weren't focused on you.

some went off to the side to smoke, and others remained on the patio to continue their conversations. by now, it was time to get the mess cleaned up. plates, cups, wrappers, empty bottles, and the other trash that had accumulated.

"i'll help you with that, love. you've done enough tonight, haven't ye?" he approached after dismissing himself, grabbing the second stack of silverware and following you inside. Soap finally had his opportunity to seize what he desired, when he knew the party was much less alive, much less prying eyes on you two.

you stepped inside from the patio, him closing the sliding door behind you. dumping the plates into the sink, you turned on the faucet with the intention of beginning a long night of clean-up duty. his hand reached around you, turning off the faucet, "not what i meant by helpin' you, lass. c'mon," he motioned his head in the direction of the hall.

you took one more look out the window, seeing the preoccupied guests, most paying little mind to your guys' close proximity in your new kitchen. why the hell not? might as well cross the guest bathroom off your list of "places we've had sex in our new home" — right?

before the door even closes, he's hiked up the hem of your evening dress, shoving his hand down the waistband of your panties. Soap ends up fucking you senseless on the bathroom counter, gagging you with his fingers in case any of his co-workers came inside the house to grab another chilled drink. you were only a few feet from the kitchen, it was the definition of risky.

mid-thrust, there was a soft knock. price, goddamn price. "everything alright in there, sweetheart?"

even with his superior on the other side of a door, about a foot away, did Soap stop? no, of course not. he slowed down but never stopped. he removed his fingers from your mouth, biting his lip to mock you that look in your eyes, whilst they shot open in a frenzy. you cleared your throat to conceal a moan, using every ounce of strength to not feel Soap bottoming out over and over again. "uh, just a— just a little wine on my dress, John. no worries!"

as soon as price's steps retreated down the hall, Soap's ragged, growly breaths resumed. in a split second, his ruts went from mockingly slow, back to a relentless pounding.

before there was any chance of another interruption, he finished with a sneer on his face. "wine on the dress, eh? smart girl. i like that." he heaved against your lips, gently wiping any mess that smudged on your lips. you were livid, despite coming down from your own high. a palm smacked his chest repeatedly until he shut your heated whispers up with a hundred pecks across your jaw and mouth.

Soap walks outside first, blaming the lost time on him fishing through the moving boxes for a Tupperware you needed. whether it was believable or not, that was up for debate. the sweat lingering on his brow, the afterglow of sex on his face? unmistakable.

now, you've either have to splash water on your dress to imitate where you would've scrubbed a wine stain off. or... just, walk on out of there like you hadn't just been fucked stupid — with trembling legs, naturally.

[fabricated-misslieness]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: earth 42 miles morales x spider gn reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: the prowler and the spider had an infamous rivalry—the prowler was always improving, and the spider refused to die.

ᴀɴᴏɴ: Earth42! Miles had a s/o who was bitten by a spider as well (maybe just an AU where 1116 Miles didn’t get bitten by the spider or there was another one) and they are both rivals under the masks but literally love eachother without them bc they don’t know each other’s identity?? And some angsty if they were in battle and he was beating them tf up and literally about to kill them and removes the mask and MORE ANGST AHH.

ʀᴇ𝐐: yes ~ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.4k ~ alternate universe (within alternate universe) where the reader is bit instead of earth 1610 or earth 42 miles

part 2 (crackfic)

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: swearing, violence, blood, near death experience

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: we had so little of earth 42 miles so personally i dont like him yet but the request is good

☾⋆☆⋆☽

You had to hand it to him, he was good. He brought a new little gadget each time to take advantage of one of your weaknesses, which thankfully allowed you to discover them yourself and patch them up; but that didn't take away from the fact that he was inventing these little things so quick, or that he was noticing your mistakes.

The Prowler delights himself in your shocked little eye goggles when you punch him with your powers and it doesn't affect him, "D'ya like that? Can't use your little electricity powers on me anymore."

"Personally, I call it Venom, but I suppose," You pull back, regaining your bearings, cracking your knuckles, "it's too much to ask for a little respect."

"Getting tired?" Prowler closes the distance between you easily with his physics defying boots.

"Not at all." You press yourself onto the wall behind you, climbing on with your hands and feet to prepare for an attack. "Just caught me at the end of my shift, 's all."

"Exactly."

You ignore the little comment and aim up to shoot a web towards the ceiling, but then... click. Fuck, you were out of web fluid. He really was paying close attention to you.

You push yourself off the wall instead, diving towards him to topple him over. He dodges with his boots, leaving you to stumble onto the ground. He brings an empowered punch down while you're off your feet, but you roll over to the side, onto your back to dodge.

The ground beside you shatters as his punch lands, incredibly loud. Your ears ring as you hop back onto your feet.

"What's next? Lasers? Cat machine guns?"

"Cat machine guns?" The Prowler laughs, standing straight again. "What are you, nine?"

"Are you not nine? I thought we were the same age." You punch, but he blocks it with his sturdy gauntlets. You hop back before he can counter.

"Oh, you definitely did not." He lunges forward, aiming a punch to your head, but you dodge under and sweep his feet. He falls harshly onto his back, leaving him stunned for a second. You try to take advantage of it, but as you pull back your arm for a punch, your spider-sense warns you of something from behind.

You dodge to the side. As you regain your ground, your feet slip and you fall against the wall. For a moment, as the both of you focus up, you look around the room. What triggered your spider-sense? There was nothing or no one here, no one except for the Prowler.

Speaking of, he stands, clutching his head with one hand; and he's laughing.

"That was one of your tricks, wasn't it?"

Your powers allow you to regain your composure much faster and you take the opportunity to punch him.

The Prowler falters, taking a few steps back but keeping himself on his feet, "You punch like a baby."

"I don't want to kill you." You reason.

"Kill me?" He laughs, "With what, kindness?"

As he stabilizes himself, something else triggers your Spider-sense, and you dodge at nothing again. Another comes from behind and you stumble forward, right into his range. The Prowler punches, and it connects.

"What's up with that, anyway?" The punch knocks you back against the wall and you climb up desperately out of his reach. "You never kill. I always come back."

"It's my one rule."

"No one's asking you to keep it."

Another thing triggers your Spider-sense, then another, different directions, you can't keep up with them at the same time. Trapped in a corner, you let out a burst of Venom to try to decimate them before they can even reach you.

"What a pathetic little Spider."

The Prowler swings up, allowing his gauntlet to burst out with its usual mechanical power... and your Venom. The shock brings you to the ground, where you writhe in its cold tile with a searing pain and aftershocks of electricity. You're pretty sure you broke something–or pulled something, you really can't tell.

"Reusing my Venom?" You snicker with the last energy you have, "Running out of ideas, Prowler?"

"A blabbermouth 'till the end." You can hear the humor in his voice as he brings a punch down.

Crack!

His hands stays there, atop your head, his other one pins your shoulder to the ground. So this was it.

"I don't suppose," You wheeze out, "my rule applies to you?"

He ignores that comment, staring down at you. The mask tore in the area of one of your eyes.

His mask was always ruthless. It resembled a gas mask, preparing for the worse, but it also projected an image: his narrowed, emotionless eyes. To top it all off, he almost seemed to have the horns of a devil.

"You have nice eyes."

He was about to kill you and he was cracking jokes... he was about to kill you, and you never got to say goodbye to Miles.

"I wonder what you look like." He grabs a hold of your mask harshly with his gauntlet, "Did you ever wonder what I looked like?" and he pulls.

Now, without the mask in the way, you spit blood onto the tiled ground.

Suddenly, he seizes up, like he's frozen in place.

"Don't you think you're dragging this out?"

The Prowler lets go. He falls to his knees beside you, beginning to sob. He gathers you in his arms like you're glass, like he wasn't so hellbent on stopping your heartbeat just a few seconds ago.

Powerless, you simply rest in his arms. "This is a change, isn't it?"

"God, where do you find the strength?" He questions, chuckling a dry laugh. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"A lot of coffee, let's say."

"Shut up."

The mask on his face disassembles itself, and–oh.

"Miles?"

"I'm so fucking sorry." He buries his head into the crook of your weak neck. His sobs make you feel the need to protect him, to kiss the tears that stain his face away, but you can barely move.

You can still, however, heave a sigh of relief. "Look, I'm not dead yet." Though your mouth was lathered in disgusting coppery blood. "Surely my little genius can carry me to safety?"

"Yes." He stands, shell shocked, with you in your arms. You felt so light, so weak, and it was all because of him. "I'm–"

You bring a weak hand to cup his jaw, the highest you could bring it. You can feel the wet tears gathered there. "You can be sorry later."

☾⋆☆⋆☽

You examine yourself in the mirror of the Morales apartment–thank that little spider that you've got healing powers–when you hear the front door open, meaning Miles is back with some first aid shit. "Miles, how am I supposed to explain this to my aunt?!" You call.

Miles stumbles towards the bathroom, the rustle of the plastic bag accompanying his footsteps.

He didn't know how you were so quick to forgive all the injuries he'd given you, all the harm he'd caused. He didn't know how you weren't screaming at him, how you didn't want to kill him. He had done you wrong so many times and you weren't even angry.

But when he stops in the bathroom doorway and you turn to him, he sees the look in your eyes. It's the same as always, full of love for him, appreciation for him; like everything good in the world was embodied in him.

New scars were forming on your face, the same that littered his body, the telltale scars of being struck by lightning. "I guess we match now."

He stares down at the rolled up sleeves of his hoodie. He'd never shown them to you, the very scars you caused him unknowingly. They were like lightning up his arms and his legs and his torso, only missing on his face. He was a dangerous storm, and you had dared to love him.

"I love you." He drops the bag and brings you in his arms again.

Your knees give in, for you were still weak, but he had you. He was there to support you, to keep you up. "I love you too."

"I'm sorry." He says again.

"I know." You reply simply. "...you are what keeps me going, by the way. You're the reason I find strength even in the worst of times."

"Te amo, te amo, te amo..." Miles whispers over and over again. (I love you.)

He didn't need to question why you weren't angry with him, so long as you loved him.

[chicago-pd-is-weird]

Hank Voight x IAD!Reader

Synopsis: reader is an IAD an agent tracking Voight, but when Voight is gentle with a child, reader has second thoughts, later, when reader later gets into trouble, Voight is there for them.

TW: mentions of abuse, rape and suicide

Voight knew something was up. He was perceptive like that - smart. He knew you were tailing him when he ran a red light on purpose. It meant you had to stop. To not seem suspicious. Good thing you had his GPS location.

You continued tailing him as he drove. Originally, he seemed to be heading home, but now he was leading you away, to the outskirts of the city. You considered for a moment, asking yourself whether you should keep on him or just let him go and cut it as a loss. He was moving further and further out of the city, and seemed to be moving toward the silos.

You followed.

When you arrived, he was leaning against the side of his SUV, hands crossed over his chest. He watched as your car pulled up, his eyes staring into your soul, or so you felt, despite him not being able to see you yet.

You let out a soft breath, then got out of your car, walking around to the other side. “Sergeant Hank Voight,” you said with a hum. “Pleasure to finally meet you.”

“You could’ve come to my office, you know. You didn’t have to follow me all the way out here.”

“This is where you buried Kevin Bingham, right?” You abruptly changed the subject, cocking an eyebrow.

“If you know about that, then I’m sure you’ve read the report. There wasn’t any body found here.”

“It’s really funny how your buddy took the fall for that. Shame he had to lose his life over it.”

Voight visibly tensed, and you knew you hit a nerve. He looked you over. “Do you have a point to this?”

“I’m (Y/N), your new IAD agent.”

“And?” He looked back up to your eyes. “What is it you want? Doesn’t it say in my file that I don’t make deals with IAD anymore?”

You hummed, then nodded, taking a step closer to him. “Your file… has a lot of interesting things. The last few IAD agents ended up either resigning or arrested, right? Trust me, you won’t run me away.”

His lips pulled into a sly smile. “We’ll see how you feel about that in a few months. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

With that, the both of you got into your vehicles and parted ways. You were ready for the challenge that was Hank Voight. You were going to be the one to catch him in the act.

— —

The day finally came when Voight made a mistake. Looking over a few of his arrest reports, some things didn’t line up. You studied them, and recreated the cases as closely as you could, tracking his every move. You knew none of his team would flip on him to tell you what happened for sure, but you had dirt on a few of the beat cops that had been around. You could piece together a timeline based on their statements and what you knew. “Gotcha,” you whispered, before gathering everything and putting it into a neat case file, a small smirk pulling at your lips. Finally, you’d gotten Voight. Finally, you’d take him out of his job.

.

When you arrived on scene to find him, you had every intention of making a huge show of his arrest. However, after talking to his people, you realized Voight was inside a house they’d previously thought to be rigged with a bomb. Bomb squad confirmed it was safe and Voight had gone inside. You couldn’t be stopped by any of the nearby officers, simply opening the door to step inside.

The sight all but shocked you. A boy, sitting in a taped square with a laser pointer on his chest. He was upset, saying how he couldn’t leave the square otherwise the house would explode. One of the detectives, Upton, was sitting on the opposite side of the room. Voight was crouching, facing toward the boy. His back was to you, but he focused on giving the boy soft reassurance that there was no bomb.

Something inside you crumbled, tears brimming your eyes. Just like when you were little and scared, mistreated by people, and someone, a cop, came to your rescue. Voight was rescuing the little boy. You couldn’t help but melt at the sight. You watched intently as Vought coaxed the boy up and out of the square, then embraced him tightly, as if he were his own son.

With that, you swallowed hard and walked out of the house quickly, getting in your car and leaving without a word or even a look to anyone. How could you arrest him now? Knowing how gentle he was, and knowing that he really only did hurt bad people, how could you be so cold hearted? He saved so many women and children over the years. How could you take him off the streets?

You couldn’t, and Voight knew it. It was your weakness.

— —

“Hey, you work with that Voight character from the 21st, right?”

You glanced up at his name. He’d been more of a side project the last few months. You documented everything but took on other projects, ones that didn’t put as much guilt on your heart. “Yeah, I’m on Voight. What’s going on?”

“You’re going to want to see this.” Your coworker walked in and handed you a file speculating Voight shot a perpetrator out of revenge - an unarmed perpetrator, to be precise. All of the video in the file showed Voight shooting the man point blank. You nearly cringed, thanking your coworker and shooing them away.

You knew you could get Voight on this, but it weighed heavily on you. You needed to get a meeting with him, off the books, right away.

.

Later that night, you stood outside in the Chicago cold. Your eyes ran over the water, searching for answers. You still had no idea what to do. Do you take him in? Or, do you let him continue to go off the rails? Isn’t that why you have a job in the first place?

Voight wasn’t like other cops you worked with. He was older and more experienced, but most of all, he had this knack for always getting a specific outcome - one that always protected himself, even at the cost of others. Alvin Olinsky came to your mind pretty quickly as you pondered it. You hadn’t been on the case, but reading over the case files was the better part of your first week in the role. Olinsky had died in Voight’s place, to protect Voight from jail time and losing his job. To keep the intelligence unit alive.

You were pulled out of thought as an SUV rolled up, LEDs flashing past you, then turning off. He got out and walked over, his hands in his jacket pockets. “What was so important?”

You hummed and handed him the Manila folder of evidence. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s on book. Yet. This conversation will determine if this little ‘incident’ is included in the report.” You hummed as you gave Voight the ultimatum, taking the folder back when he was finished with it.

“You know, the last people to hang things over my head like this ended up in jail.”

“I’m clean, Voight. There’s nothing you can put me in on. Besides, I’m here to help you.”

“Help me?” He laughed mockingly. “Help me with what? I don’t need your help.”

“You do, because if anyone sees the footage on that disk, you’ll be doing life for murder.” You shook your head. “Like I said, nothing is on book yet.”

“So what’s your bargain, then?”

You looked back out over the water, taking it in for a moment before looking back to him. “You owe me. That’s all.”

Voight considered it, looking you over. “So that’s it? All you want is a favor in the bank?”

“Mmhm,” you affirmed quietly. “Can you manage that?”

“And what will happen to that footage?”

You turned back to the water, leaning on the railing. “It’ll show exactly what it needs to, making this whole thing cut and dry.”

Voight moved beside you, also leaning over the railing to look out to the water. “Alright, then. I owe you.”

You nodded a little, standing at the water for a minute more, though you weren’t sure why. You moved to stand, but his voice kept you in place. “That guy orchestrated the kill on Al.”

You didn’t look up. “I know. That’s why you’re being investigated like this. You and Al were close. There are a lot of people higher than me that want to put you away.”

“And you don’t?”

You sighed, looking to him now. “I came to arrest you a few months ago. Something petty you probably could’ve weaseled your way out of anyways. I wanted to be the one to take the trophy. To make a big show of it.” You shook your head, looking him over as he met your eyes. “And then I saw you with that little boy. I reevaluated. What was truly important? The methods in which things are done, or the people that are ultimately saved?” You shrugged a little.

“That’s why you’ve been off my back, then? Had my file tossed to the side?”

“I’ve still been collecting and doing my job. There’s just not much to go on. You cover your tracks really well.”

Voight hummed and looked back out to the water. “You know, I’ve looked into you, too. I have favors in the ivory tower.”

“I know,” you replied with a soft shrug. “I have nothing to hide. You could’ve asked me anything.”

“That’s exactly what they told me,” he said with a soft chuckle, standing upright now to face you. “But, I did read into your file, and your history. I even talked to Officer Buchanan.”

You nodded, looking away at the name as you remembered him. The man who had saved your life. The officer who had rolled onto the scene first when you were on the ledge, trying to find the courage to jump.

Every fiber of self-preservation in your body told you not to, but your mind pushed you closer and closer to the edge. You wanted to die. You needed to. You were a burden. You swallowed a sob, tears streaking down your cheeks. You heard a door behind you open, and you looked back to see a single CPD officer. He was standing in the doorway, putting his hands up. “Hey, I just want to talk.”

“I’m done talking. Nobody listens. It’s too late now. People should’ve listened when I spoke up years ago!” You sobbed, shaking your head. You were 25, and had been mistreated for years. Nobody listened to you, seeing as you were the spouse of a politician. “Leave me alone. Just go back to where you came from. It’s too late for me.” You wiped the tears from your eyes, your entire body trembling.

“It’s not too late. It never is. I’m here to listen to you now. I wish I’d met you earlier. I would’ve listened. Sometimes all it takes is the right person.”

For over an hour, you went back and forth with the officer, who you later learned was named Richard Buchanan. He became a close friend of yours after you got out of therapy, and even let you stay with him for a while until you got back on your feet. He lived alone, so your company was welcomed. He had never been married or had kids, thinking the job was too dangerous to put someone through the grief. You had mirrored that sentiment when you joined the academy, pushing away any and all romantic interests so you could focus on your job.

The beat was rough, but you had soon passed your detective test, and when you ended up permanently injured, you moved into Internal Affairs. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but you did it well.

You still visited Officer Buchanan on the third weekend of every month. You could barely believe Voight had talked to the man about you. You wondered exactly how that conversation had gone down. You looked to Voight as you pulled yourself back into reality, letting out a breath. “So, what then? You find any dirt on me besides trying to jump off a ledge when I was 25?”

“Nope,” Voight replied with a shrug, his eyes meeting yours. “Nothing substantial.”

You matched the hike of his shoulders and hummed. “Then I’ve got you, and you owe me a favor.”

“Alright,” he agreed, holding out his hand. You took it and shook firmly, then hummed and walked back to your car, manila folder still in hand. You took it away and to a friend, who doctored the footage to make it look like the man had reached for a gun. Then, you submitted your investigation a few days later as Voight having a clean shoot and no further action was taken. Having his favor in your back pocket would come in handy when you were ready to use it.

.

The morning after you’d submitted the clean report, an envelope was slipped beneath your door. You looked up, walking quickly to open your office door and see who could’ve slipped it, but nobody looked out of place. You furrowed your eyebrows, picking up the blank envelope and opening it to reveal a blank “thank you” card. It had no writing on it, nothing personalized, but you knew exactly who it was from. You smiled a little to yourself, then slipped it into your desk drawer.

— —

Over a year later, and you continued covering for Voight, but watching him to ensure he didn’t go off the rails all the same. You knew if he ever got in too deep, you wouldn’t be able to save him without going down yourself. You looked at the blank card and envelope often, even though all it said was “thank you” and some cheesy pre-printed message inside. It made you smile, and it was something you held on to. You hadn’t met with Voight again outside of official meetings when you had to investigate him or someone inside his unit. Of course, it always either came up clean or inconclusive for whatever reason.

That day, a call buzzed on your phone, pulling you away from witness reports on a beat cop case. You glanced to your phone, finding a familiar number on it, but you’d never saved the contact. You took the call, hearing “it’s time,” on the other end before they hung up. You grabbed your stuff and took furlough for the rest of the day, citing that your stomach was off.

That was an understatement.

Finally, it was time. Your stomach was in knots. You weren’t sure how to feel. It was all so bittersweet. You went to your house, dropping your car off and changing into clothes you hated - clothes you’d kept for years. You waited for nightfall, biding your time and getting everything ready as needed. You cleaned your gun, although you weren’t inclined to use it, it was in case something went wrong. You’d never done anything like this before, but studying Voight had given you a pretty good idea of how to cover your tracks.

You grabbed your knife set, still in the leather case, and put it into a small duffel bag, along with a change of clothes and some other things you’d need to get rid of the body. By the time nightfall arrived, a black car came up to your house, and you grabbed your duffel bag and left your house, getting into the car.

The man you knew from the phone drove you out of the city, right to the outskirts. An abandoned warehouse was there, where he was being held. Him, he who had abused you, raped you, and let you try to kill yourself. Him, who was so perfect in everyone else’s eyes. Him, who’d gotten away with it.

He won’t ever do it again. Not after today.

You’d been biding your time for years, over twenty years at this point. You were ready to do this. Ready to make him suffer the way you had long ago. You wanted him to feel pain. You wanted to take back what he had stolen from you long ago.

You got out of the car, watching as it drove away, then walked into the warehouse. You were on your own, now. What happened here stayed here. Nobody would ever know.

You walked in, seeing him tied to a chair and struggling to get loose, to no avail. You hummed and grabbed a crate, pushing it in front of him and sitting on it, letting your bag drop beside you. Your gun was in the back of your waistband, just in case, and you hummed as you watched him struggle. “Having fun?”

“You sick, psycho bitch!” He spat at you, still struggling to get out. “Fuck you!”

“You did, remember? You did it, over and over again, even when I asked you to stop. Even when I passed out, you kept going. Just to get yourself off.”

“Is that why you’re wearing that? I remember you had on the same thing the night you tried to jump. You should’ve done it.”

“Maybe, but then I wouldn’t be here to take the pleasure in this.” A dark smile creeped onto your face.

.

It was nearly 3AM when you were finished with him. When he couldn’t move anymore, when he begged you for mercy, when he laid limp on the floor, finally, you were finished. You took the gun from your waistband, bloody fingers gripping it as you knelt on top of him. “Good riddance,” you growled before finally giving him the mercy of death, putting a shot straight through his brain, and another through his heart.

Then, you picked up the shell casings and dug the bullets out of his limp body. You put them into a bag and set them aside. You pulled his body over to a tarp and began wrapping him up meticulously. As if you’d done it before.

You made good work of the body, then cleaned the blood before stripping off your clothes and changing into the fresh ones. You hauled everything out to a fire pit, where it had already been set up, dumping the body and your clothes into the pit and starting the fire. It burned and raged. The smell was terrible, but you somehow didn’t mind as you watched the flames dance, engulfing the man who had hurt you so badly.

As the fire went on, you heard a twig snap in the woods. You grabbed your now clean gun from your waist and turned quickly, just quick enough to see someone in a hoodie running away. “Shit,” you mumbled, debating as to whether you should stay with the body or run after the man. You decided on the latter, slinging your duffel bag across your body and bolting after the man who had seen you.

You chased him for about a mile before he got tired and you caught him, tackling him to the ground and holding the gun to his head. “Who are you?!”

“T-Travis!” He said, wincing and panting from running. “I-I-I’m sorry!”

“Sorry for what?!”

“Did you kill that guy? I-I didn’t mean to see you!”

“It’s your mistake,” you huffed, but before you could take care of the problem, you heard sirens and saw lights. You got up, pulling him with you at gunpoint. “Let’s go. And if you scream, you’re dead.”

The man agreed, shaking, probably high out of his mind judging by the skunk like stench radiating from him. After walking back toward your scene, you pushed him to his knees near a tree. “Stay here. If you move or scream, I’ll put a bullet in your head.” You huffed as he nodded, leaving him there and taking a few more steps toward the edge of the woods where you’d been earlier.

The fire department and police were there, trying to put out the fire. Your stomach dropped. “Oh fuck,” you mumbled to yourself, knowing it was only a matter of time before they figured out who was dead and who had done it. Your mouth ran dry and you felt like throwing up. Not only had it started to sink in that you’d mutilated, tortured, and killed someone, but you’d pretty much been caught now too.

You went back to the man, pulling him up and pulling him with you by the arm. He protested but you shushed him quickly as you ran. You ran out to the opposite side of the woods, then pushing him down next to another tree. You pulled out your cell phone, that had since been off, and turned it on. Then, you dialed the one person you could think of to get you out of this.

“Come on,” you mumbled. “Answer the phone.”

When he finally answered the phone, voice heavy with sleep, you swallowed hard, tears coming to your eyes. “You owe me,” you said sternly. “I need you. Now.”

A pause came over the phone as you waited in silence, then he spoke again. “Where are you?”

.

Some time later, you saw his car pull up. The man who was high had since fallen asleep, but you hadn’t stopped pacing. Voight pushed into the woods to find you, catching you and furrowing his brow. “Alright, tell me everything.”

You couldn’t help but let out a quiet sob, gun still in your hand, clenching it tightly. “Voight, I-I…” You swallowed hard. “This guy saw me and I-I didn’t want witnesses but then someone must’ve seen the fire and-and-“

“(Y/N),” he said, stern but soft as he reached out, gripping your shoulders to pull you back into reality. “Start from the beginning. Tell me everything so I can help.”

And so you did, telling him everything he needed to know to help. You cried softly as he held your shoulders, not knowing whether you should continue living or just shoot yourself here and now.

Voight held you as you spoke, then took the gun from your hand, putting it into his own waistband. Then, he pulled you into a tight hug, which made you break down further. Being in his arms made you feel safe, as if it were all a nightmare.

When he pulled away, he looked at you, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “It’s going to be alright. I’m going to keep your gun. Give me the shell casings and knives.”

You sniffled, handing him the entire duffel bag, then looking to the man who was sleeping. “What about him?”

Voight nodded. “You let me take care of it, all of it.”

“W-What do I do?”

“Don’t tell anyone anything. Business as usual.” He nodded to you. “Come on, go get into my car. I’ll take you home.”

You nodded and did as you were asked, sitting in the passenger seat. Voight took a few moments to wake up the high man and talk to him, then left him where he was. He put the evidence in the back seat, then sat in the driver’s seat beside you, nodding. “Everything’s gonna be alright, (Y/N). I promise.”

You swallowed hard, wiping your face as you tried to keep yourself together. “I can’t go home…”

“You have to,” he said with a small shrug. “It wouldn’t be right if you stayed with me, since you’re my IAD agent.”

You scoffed a little, shaking your head. “I don’t even care about all that,” you mumbled. “I’m only in IA because they won’t let me back in the field. I hate it there. Going after good cops? Screw my job. I want to quit.”

“You’re tired. It’s the grief talking,” Voight replied. “Don’t do anything rash. Just go in tomorrow, business as usual.”

You sighed shakily and nodded. Voight dropped you off, but before you got out of his car, he grabbed your hand. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay.”

You swallowed hard and looked up at him. “Thanks,” you mumbled, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“I owed you,” he replied softly with a small smile and a shrug. “Might as well go out helping someone I care about.”

You blushed, and with that, you leaned over again and kissed him softly. He reciprocated, gently putting his other hand on your thigh. You pulled back after a bit, a small smile pulling at your lips. “I care about you too.”

“I know,” he replied with a small nod, caressing your cheek. “I’d never let anything happen to you, favor or not.”

[niki-phoria]

⋆｡°✩ chishiya's different types of kisses

warnings: ooc chishiya, mentions of blood/injuries, 'i need you right now' is a little angsty 'are you sure about this?' gets kinda suggestive but no smut (they make out)

a/n: i want more aib requests pls i miss writing for them but i have no ideas

additional note: i made a post about this a while ago please reblog fics from creators and/or leave feedback on them. it means a lot to us. i've barely been getting interaction on my work at all lately and it's really hurting my motivation. it genuinely means a lot to hear that you enjoy the work writers/artists create

based on this post !! i didn't do all of them bc i don't write smut or angst lol

ARISU VERSION / KUINA VERSION

gn reader (no pronouns used)

requests open !! read my rules first

my fav chishiya gif returns

first kiss

(word count 270)

there’s an odd sense of tension in the air as you look at chishiya. his dark eyes are alluring - almost daring you to finally take the dive and fall deep into them. you can barely feel the warmth of his breath from how close you are. you scan the birthmarks and freckles on his face. you picture them creating a constellation across his skin that matches your own, as if the fates are pulling you together. 

“chishiya,” you whisper. your voice is low. your heartbeat pounds in your ears. the world around you slowly begins to fade. the only thing that matters is the man standing in front of you, looking into your eyes as if he’ll be able to read your mind if he searches deep enough. 

“y/n,” he breathes. you hesitantly reach a hand up to push his bangs behind his ear, exposing more of his face. your hand hovers before his face before you rest it against the skin. chishiya doesn’t move away. instead, he leans into your touch. he tilts his head a little closer to you. “can i kiss you?” 

your breath hitches in your throat. you haven’t been sure of anything since you entered the borderland until now. now, you’re sure. you want to kiss him. 

you lean in to press your lips against chishiya’s in a sweet kiss. his lips quirk upwards as he reaches out to hold your hips, coaxing your body even closer. the world could have ended - the beach fallen, vegetation taken over the land, lasers killed everyone - but none of it would matter. because you were kissing chishiya.

"i'm here now"

(word count 342)

it’s late. too late. the sun has set by now. the stars have begun to twinkle in the sky above chishiya. he sighs, leaning back against the wall. you should be back by now. where are you? 

an unfamiliar feeling of anxiety settles into chishiya’s stomach. he’s not used to caring about people. not like this. his mind is running like it always is, though it’s never felt so much like a burden before. chishiya had always prided himself on his ability to analyze situations. he could tell how someone was feeling, pick holes into any theories or ideas presented, find the most rational solution and use it to his advantage.

but right now, chishiya doesn’t want to be rational. all of the signs point to you being dead. why else would you be so late coming back? you’ve been missing for hours. it’s far past the evening now. even if you do come back now you’ll have to find the beach in the darkness. 

he’s broken out of his thoughts by something moving. he only notices it in the corner of his eye, but it’s something - someone. he steps closer, squinting into the darkness. it’s you.

you’re limping along the asphalt of the road towards the beach’s hotel. chishiya simply stares at you for a few seconds. before he realizes what he’s doing, his body begins moving on its own. he’s running towards you, wrapping his arms around your waist, supporting your body weight against his own as you lean against him. dried blood stains your clothes and is splattered on your face. 

“chishiya,” you sigh, clutching onto him. his mind is racing. instead of asking all of the questions that linger on the tip of his tongue, he pulls you closer. chishiya presses his lips against yours in a desperate kiss - as if you’ll disappear if he stops touching you. 

his hands linger on your cheeks when he pulls away, wiping away the tears and blood from your face. “it’s okay,” he whispers. “you’re gonna be okay. i’m here now.”

"come back to bed"

(word count 291)

you groan as chishiya gently coaxes your body to the side, maneuvering your body so you’re laying on the bed instead of his chest. you reach out to grab him, pushing him back down onto the bed. chishiya sighs in defeat as you nuzzle your face against him, effectively holding him down with your own body weight. “did i wake you?” he whispers. 

“you’re so warm,” your voice is muffled against his skin. “i always notice when you leave.” 

chishiya hums, raising a hand to rub against your back. he gently scratches his nails against your bare skin. it feels so intimate to lay like this. your chest pressed against his own, blankets only pulled halfway over your bodies, sunlight streaming through the windows. 

“we have things to do today.” 

“we always have things to do,” you whine, shifting to sleepily blink up at him. chishiya lets a small smile spread across his face. “we won a game last night. let’s just stay like this for a while.” 

you know you’ve won the debate when chishiya’s smile grows. he throws his head back to lean against the pillows. you smile yourself, moving upwards to press a kiss against his jawline before laying back down on his body again, this time with your head against his shoulder. “i hate it when you do this.” 

“do what? cuddle with you? kiss you? force you to get a good night’s sleep?” 

chishiya huffs, wrapping his arms around your waist. “you’re too cute to argue with.” 

you can’t help being flustered, shoving your face back into the crook of his neck. “you love it.” 

“i love you.” 

you press a kiss against his neck, smiling when goosebumps raise along his skin. “i love you too.” 

"are you sure about this?"

(word count 274)

“chishiya?” said man doesn’t even spare a glance at you as he continues working on yet another invention. his shoulders are hunched from how close he’s leaning in to see exactly what he’s doing. you can almost feel how stressed he is, even from across the room. 

you lock the door behind you before stepping closer. you slowly reach out to press a hand against his shoulder, leaning down to see exactly what he’s doing. he’s holding an empty soda can, fiddling with a mess of wires in his hands. a bottle sits on the desk - something he stole from the mechanics. kerosene. 

“you’re making another bomb?” this time he finally acknowledges you, albeit only with a small hum. unfazed by his dismissive behavior you reach over, slowly forcing him to set the wires down. chishiya looks up at you now, silently questioning what you’re doing. instead of answering you push his chair back. 

chishiya’s hands ghost against your hips as you throw your leg over his to straddle his hips. big brown eyes blink up at you as you lean in, finally pressing your lips to his. it starts off innocent enough. sitting in chishiya’s lap isn’t an uncommon experience in your relationship. though things quickly become more heated when he leans up to press his lips against yours into a deeper kiss this time. 

you’re nearly gasping for air when you finally pull away. his face has a light flush, disheveled blonde hair messily pulled into a ponytail. “are you sure about this?” you whisper. 

chishiya leans up, pulling you into yet another kiss. “i’ve never been more sure about anything else.”

"i could stay like this forever"

(word count 338)

chishiya sighs as he enters your shared room. what was supposed a free day was quickly turned into an incredibly long bore when hatter called him and the other executives into meetings for everything he could think of. though pointless, not showing up would risk damaging his position of authority, small as it may be, so he reluctantly dragged himself to the room and sat around at a table for hours. 

you’re sitting on the bed, already waiting for him. he raises an eyebrow at you, kicking his sandals off and stripping from his jacket. the beach’s air conditioning does little to cool him down after spending so long sitting around in a room. “i thought you were supposed to hang out with kuina tonight.” 

“i was,” you sigh. “but that was when i thought i would be spending the day with you. besides, she’s hanging out with arisu and usagi tonight. something about wanting to get to know them better.” 

chishiya hums, sitting down on the bed. you pat the spot next to you, gesturing for him to lay down. despite his questions he obeys, moving so he’s face down on the bed. you shift so you’re hovering over him, pressing your hands against his back. he groans, letting you massage the tension out of his muscles and shoulders. 

after a while, chishiya sighs. you take the cue to move off of him, rolling to lay next to him. he shifts onto his side to look at you, reaching over to pull you into a kiss. it’s gentle. sweet. your lips quirk upwards into a smile when he pulls away. you take the opportunity to hold him down, pressing little kisses all over his face. chishiya laughs at the ticklish feeling. it’s a beautiful sound - one you don’t hear far often enough. when you pull away both of you look at each other with small, loving smiles. an unspoken agreement passes between the both of you. despite it all, you wouldn’t give this up for the world.

[dxvxx]

Well, Fuck.. Pt.2

"This is not happening." I whisper as I lean back against the wall, spreading my thighs more, my eyes rolling up as the baby drops lower.

"Mmhm... You hear me, baby? You clung in there for an extra week, you can wait a few more hours." I scold my bump softly, my hands still rubbing the sides.

I can physically feel him slowly dropping lower, and what should feel uncomfortable weirdly feels good.

Too good, all things considered.

I wait it out until he's fully settled, the pressure on my hips and lower belly intensifying tenfold and then take few deep breaths, willing myself not to panic and do something stupid like call William.

It's not like I'm in labor. My water didn't break, it's intact.

I'm fine.

Everything is fine.

And I'm determined to go about my planned day, ignoring the fact that my belly visibly dropped lower, my waddle more pronounced.

~~~

The first sign that should've clued me in that there's no way that's happening should've been when I stopped for gas.

I get out with difficulty, supporting my belly with a hand as I place my credit card and punch in the right kind and amount before grabbing the pump.

As I'm waiting for my car to fill up, I feel my bump tighten painfully, nearly making me double over.

"No, please, no." I whisper breathlessly, my eyes screwed shut tightly.

Once it passes, I straighten up, taking a deep breath.

Maybe this was a one-off.

It has to be.

That's what I repeat to myself a few minutes later when I get another contraction as I'm getting back into my car.

This one does make me double over and I almost knock myself out on the steering wheel.

"Uughh... God, let this be a joke my body's... ooohh... playing on me." I whine softly.

I get a couple more contractions while I'm driving with one hand on the wheel, the other rubbing my hardened belly desperately.

Yeah, this is not a joke. Or drill.

The second and most important sign that I should've listened to was when I waddled my way to one of the on-campus restrooms.

I step into the gender neutral one, not really caring, my mind more laser focused on the feeling of my bladder close to bursting.

I sigh softly once I've relieved myself and to my annoyance, stay on the toilet as I ride out another contraction.

I'm breathing heavily, letting out soft moans. The contraction has been longer than the other. I attempt to stand up and whimper when I feel a gush of water between my thighs.

This time, my moan of frustration is loud, feeling myself close to tears.

This isn't fair. None of this is fucking fair and-

"You okay in there?" Asks a low-pitched voice, knocking on the stall door.

I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to reply, clearing my throat for good measure.

"I-I'm okay, thank-k... Ughh..." The sharpness of the contraction as it peaks cuts me off.

"You don't sound okay. Should I call one of the campus nurses?"

"NO!" I force myself to soften my voice before trying again, "I'm fine, thank you."

I bite back another moan, watching the little stall opening from the bottom as a pair of feet hover for a few seconds as if debating something before they walk away.

Thank fuck.

After that, I managed to make it to the exam hall without anymore alarming hitches.

I take a seat in one of the usual table arm chairs since nothing else is available, in the first row, in case I need to leave early. The table digs into my too big belly, and the seat is too uncomfortable, but I will see this through to the end.

Before I know it, an hour has passed.

An hour full of sweating, my thighs spread discreetly beneath the table, biting my bottom lip hard as my body goes into active labor.

I look up from my exam and to the clock on the wall as I feel yet another contraction rippling through me. I still have almost 2 hours and nowhere near done with the cursed exam.

I think I let out another small sound for the upteenth time, because the girl sitting next to me looks up and gives me a loaded look before she goes back to her exam.

I haven't dared to look at William, although I can feel his eyes burning a whole through the right side of my face.

The only time he's not watching me is when he glares at the two guys in the back row trying to copy off each other.

Before I knew it, another hour had passed, and I'm in a state of pure torture and bliss.

I'm in pain, yes, and all I want to do is spread my legs freely and let my moans free, but I'm also so turned on it's not even funny.

I had read about orgasmic labor, but I never thought I'd experience it personally. And I always thought it'd be a two person job, but nope, this is all me.

I shift in my seat, panting softly, the wooden seat feeling uncomfortably slick as I try to find some relief.

When that doesn't work, I slip my hand discreetly in and slip a finger inside, moaning softly in relief, which catches William's attention.

"Is something the matter, Ms. Hearst?" William's smooth but sharp voice pulls me out of my internal struggle as I snap my head up to him.

"N-no-ooh sir. I'm f-aahh-inee."

"Then stop disrupting your fellow students. If you're done with your exam, present it and leave." His tone has a finality to it, and I know he's pissed off because he can't do anything about the situation I put us in.

He's a little fucker for calling me out though.

I look at the time again, and I think about turning my exam in and leaving but I physically can't get up.

I honestly know that if I do, I'll drop down into a squat and won't get up until my baby is out of me.

And so, I bear it for the next remaining hour.

I clamp my legs, squeezing my fingers for all their worth, trying to hold off.

I can't quite hold back my soft moans even when the girl next to me glares daggers at me and stomps off as soon as time runs out.

William starts collecting the exams, and I don't care how I did or what I wrote as I hand it to him, looking up at him with desperation in my eyes.

He clenches his jaw and continues on, still keeping up the facade, and I stay seated until all the students clear out.

As soon as that happens and the door shuts behind the last student, I push the little table away from my body, spreading my thighs, my hand pushing my lacy underwear and finding my pussy in a second.

"Fuck, Will, he's... ooooofff... cominggg... uggghhh." I moan loudly, everything I've been holding back for the last three hours coming back tenfold.

To his credit, my man doesn't panic as he tries to lift me up.

"It's alright, sweetheart, I'll call your doula once we get to my car and-"

I'm not listening, though, as I shake my head. My legs refuse to cooperate as well, taking on a rhythm of their own as they rock back and forth in an attempt to alleviate the pressure or maybe find some pleasure.

We had arranged a doula for a private birth at the hospital, but without all the nurses and doctors around but the baby is coming NOW.

I tell him as much.

And so, without any more prompt, William runs to both sets of doors and locks each one before he runs to the windows and shuts the blinds.

[stevieschrodinger]

“You’ve changed,” Carol pops her gum, every snake on her head is turned and glaring at Steve.

“Yeah,” he replies stoically, “yeah, I have.”

Carol rolls her eyes at him, “so what? That’s it? One summer and you’re too good for me now-”

It’s Steve’s turn to roll his eyes. He’s aware that Robin has come up to stand next to him, their knuckles brush together and Carol obviously catches it, raising an eyebrow, “Really? You’re fucking Buckley?” She hisses at him, all her snakes weaving gently like they’re waiting for the strike, laser focused on Steve.

It ruffles his feathers, he can’t help that, but he keeps his expression neutral, “yeah, well, what I do doesn’t concern you.”

She hisses again, an actual hiss, forked tongue and fang making an appearance before she stomps off, no doubt to find Tommy. Rob moves closer, pressed together fingers to shoulder, she tilts her head so that her snakes can greet him. They nose Steve’s cheek gently at first, uncertain, before Steve nuzzles them and then they all join in, Steve’s face being licked by dozens of happy tongues. Robin giggles, “dingus.”

All of Robin’s snakes sit low, relaxed, all lovely shades of copper and bronze, just like the scales that decorate her cheekbones and eyebrows. Carol’s are venomous green and always look like they’re hunting for prey.

Steve looks down; she’s done something to the scales, glitter, or something, but it looks pretty. Steve before wouldn’t know how to do this; how to give a simple honest compliment to a friend. Old Steve only said things that were shitty, just to make him feel better about himself, “looks nice, the,” Steve gestures vaguely to the space next to his own eyes, where white downy feathers lie flat to his skin, “shiny. I like it.”

Robin grins up at him, “we could do you, silver would look good?”

“Nah,” Steve looks around again, “I’d never get it out of- hey is that Munson?” Steve asks, frowning as he watches the guy clop along, hooves poking out from the ends of his ragged jeans. It’s Munson, Steve already knows, obviously, but he looks really different, “his horns are in,” Steve realises.

“Yeah,” Robin agrees sadly.

It takes a second for Steve to put it together, “oh shit, Chrissy.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t realise they were so close...were they..?”

Robin shakes her head, “just really good friends. Her family...they wouldn’t let him go to the funeral.”

“Well...shit,” because that is shit. He knew Chrissy and Munson used to hang out all the time, didn’t know if they were a thing or whatever; didn’t care then. That was before this summer and Robin at Scoops and the shit with Max and her brother and the fall of king Steve. He knows the kids know Munson; knows they really like him. It’s not fair that Chrissy’s family wouldn’t let him go, just because of what he is. Just because he lives in the trailer park with the rest of the Demons.

He sits with the kids at lunch, just ignores all the looks he gets. He doesn’t need to do much, just sits and eats and listens as the kids prattle on about nerd shit. When Munson comes in, shoulders slumped and picking up a tray to join the line, Steve’s eyes are drawn to him. Dustin spots him too, the kid looks sympathetic, but his tail’s wagging away at the sight of his friend, “gonna’ go say hi to Eddie,” Dustin slides off the bench, ears pricked in Eddie’s direction.

Unfortunately he walks straight into Tommy Hagan, “watch it pup,” Tommy snorts, sets his ridiculously wide shoulders and lowers his horns as he pushes Dustin hard enough he stumbles a few steps.

Steve wants to rip the ring right out of his nose, he gets up, wings spreading and white feathers fluffing in a threat display. No one fucks with the kids. Dustin whines out a little puppy growl, “fuck off Hagan.”

“Watch your fucking mouth <i>dog,”</i> Tommy tries to push him again, but Steve gets in the way, shoving Tommy so hard he nearly goes over.

Steve’s vaguely aware that he’s pissed enough that the light around his head is brighter than usual, and he’s glad when Tommy struggles to look at him, blinking at the glare, “fuck this, whatever.”

“Thanks Steve,” Dustin says, before loping off to go and stand with Eddie. Turns out Eddie was watching the entire thing, and his and Steve’s eyes briefly meet, Eddie’s slitted pupils contracted against the light, but he doesn’t look away until Dustin tugs at his jacket.

Steve sits again, curious now, “Max?” she looks at him as she’s ripping into beef jerky with her fangs, he indicates the tiny baby horns sticking from high up on her forehead, “they grow in when something bad happens, right?”

She swallows a huge piece of meat in one go, “not necessarily bad...just, you know. Enough to change you. I hope I’m fucking angry when mine happens.”

“Yeah?”

She hums, gnawing on the meat, “makes em spikey.”

Steve looks at Eddie, his horns curl back and down, like a ram, all smooth and dark, almost containing his fluffy curls, “and what do Eddie’s mean?”

Max looks over, then looks back, shrugging, “grief, I guess.”

Eddie’s sitting alone a week later, and Steve feels like he has to check in with the guy, at least, “I’m just going to say hi to Munson.” Robin smiles up at him, squeezing his fingers, “what?”

“You’re just...that’s a good thing, I’m proud of you Steve.”

He rolls his eyes to hide how that has made him feel, tickling the chins of a couple of her snakes and making her giggle as a distraction before he heads over. Eddie’s got a book open on the table and he’s scribbling in a notebook, “Dungeons and Dragons, right?”

Eddie blinks up at him, “how the fuck do you know that?”

Steve takes it as enough of an invitation to at least perch on the opposite bench, “I do listen when the kids talk. Sometimes.”

It gets a little half smile out of Munson, a fang poking out that’s kind of attractive. His pupils are black slits, but the iris is a lovely, honey brown. There’s flames moving in the depths, shifting shades of brown. The whole thing is kind of attractive, Steve can’t help but notice. Eddie seems to have suddenly grown into himself over the summer. His wings look bigger too; stronger, dark black and leathery, folded neatly against his back.

Steve can feel his own wings tipping, feathers fluffing. He can see them moving out of the corner of his eye, wing joints dipping low and wing tips fluttering, and can’t help but look betrayed by them.

Eddie’s wings spread in answer, large, joint tips held high. Dominant.

Well, shit.

Somewhere far away, Steve is very vaguely aware of Robin producing a wolf whistle and then Dustin’s puppy howl joining in.

He wants the ground to open up and swallow him when Eddie raises an eyebrow, “something you want, sweetheart?” His fangs flash.

Steve figures he’s all in, he can’t hide what his body apparently wants, and half the school has probably seen this little display, “are you, you know, doing anything later?”

“Yeah,” Eddie leans closer over the table, resting on his elbows, “hopefully I’ll be <i>doing</i> something alright.”

“Come over. Six ish,” Steve manages to get out before he flees for his life.

Eddie has him pinned to the door and is kissing the life out of him before Steve really registers what’s happening. Eddie’s a bitey kisser, and it’s all Steve can do to keep up. Eddie grips both Steve’s wrists in one hand, pins them above his head and Steve just...melts. Lets Eddie have it, the control, the everything. Eddie grabs a handful of Steve’s feathers and tugs...ever so gently. It’s enough to summon a moan of pleasure from Steve.

“Bed,” Eddie growls against his mouth, fangs pressing to Steve’s plush lip without splitting skin, “please, tell me we’re going to bed.”

Steve nods frantically, and Eddie gets the memo and lets him go, following as Steve takes the stairs two at a time.

Eddie’s skin is pale and dotted with tattoos. The happy trail from his tummy button is soft brown fur, it spreads out to his hips, his goat legs ending in shiny black cloven hooves. The leaking, red head of his penis is starting to emerge from it’s furred sheath. Below it, Eddie’s ridiculously large balls hang heavy; it makes Steve’s mouth water. Steve is delighted to find Eddie had a tiny little wisp of a tail; it’s barely long enough to cover the tight pucker of Eddie’s asshole, and it wags, brushing against Steve’s fingers, as Steve investigates the tight ring of muscle with a dry fingertip.

It wags faster when Steve starts to rub gentle circles. Eddie tolerates Steve’s touches for a moment before spreading his wings and manhandling Steve onto the bed. Steve has to spread his wings to they don’t get smushed under him, and he lands with a happy, “oof.”

Eddie’s on him immediately, kissing and licking and sucking at every square inch of bare skin. He works his way down, kneeling on the floor and hooking Steve’s thighs with his arms before dragging him down the bed. Steve’s thighs land on Eddie’s shoulders and before Steve knows it, his ass is being lifted, cupped in Eddie’s hands, as Eddie spreads him and finds Steve’s hole with his mouth.

Steve cries out in pleasure, Eddie’s tongue is sinuous and broad and he works it into Steve’s hole, licking and moaning. Eddie’s eyes are closed, and Steve can’t help but look down his own body to watch, some of Eddie’s face obscured by Steve’s own erection. There’s the soft noise of Steve’s wings shifting, and Steve white knuckle grips the covers, fighting the urge to just straight up fuck himself down onto Eddie’s tongue.

Eddie’s ridiculously long, talented tongue.

“I want to hold your horns while I ride you.”

Eddie’s eyes blink open, and he pulls back, smirking, “that can most definitely be arranged.”

Steve shifts, giving Eddie space to get on the bed, Steve climbing over him before he even really settles. Eddie fur is soft on Steve’s thighs, and the curve of his goat legs means Steve has an extra comfy dip to sit in.

Eddie’s bare cock is hard and leaking everywhere, the skin red and shiny and flush, his sheath completely rolled down now, a little furry pouch at the base. If they get the chance to do this again, Steve wants to nuzzle those heavy looking balls.

Eddie grips him by the hips, his wings come up too, the joints resting against Steve’s ribs for extra stability. Steve flares his own wings for balance, pleased when Eddie’s eyes flick across to drink in the snowy white feathers. Steve slips a hand between his thighs, gentle where he holds Eddie’s turgid flesh, and slowly eases his body down. He’s wet and messy and open from Eddie’s tongue, and the pointed shape slips in easy enough. Eddie’s big though, big enough that the stretch burns a little, quickly soothed by the copious amounts of pre come Eddie is leaking.

“Okay,” Eddie breaths, “not even so much a question. His fingertips are digging into Steve’s flesh from the effort of holding still, so Steve puts them both out of there misery and starts to rock, leaning forward a little to grip Eddie’s horns, pinning him to the bed.

The soft tickle of Eddie’s fur against Steve’s ass is wonderful, the feel of wing leathery wing wrapping tight to Steve is even better. Steve’s wings curve down to lay over Eddie’s without his permission, and Steve catches Eddie staring at where the white feathers sit next to the black skin.

Eddie likes it.

Steve likes it too.

Eddie reaches down, wrapping a hand around Steve’s dripping cock, giving Steve something to fuck into as he rocks up and down. If Eddie minds Steve using his horns for leverage, he doesn’t show it. At all.

Steve pulls a hand up, slaps it over Eddie’s eyes, “I’m close. It’ll get bright, I- I- Eddie. Eddie I’m gonna’ come-”

Eddie pulls Steve’s hand away, “I can take it,” he says, breathless, something big tugging at Steve’s rim, more pressure trying to push inside, Steve wants it, knows it’ll make him come.

The pressure breaks, slips past Steve’s rim with a pop, Steve is suddenly so full, so stretched, the room is bathed in bright light but Eddie watches him anyway, slit pupils made paper thin to stave off any damage. His mouth hangs open, forked tongue and fangs on display.

Steve’s come paints Eddie’s stomach as his orgasm pulses through him, ass grinding into the soft fur in the cradle of Eddie’s hips. He can feel wave after wave of heat as Eddie comes inside him; it feels endless.

Steve is panting and sweaty as they come down from it together, Eddie fingers skating carefully across Steve’s skin, shifts to his wings to pet his feathers, when Steve tries to shift though, Eddie freezes, eyes wide with shock...and then pleasure as he ruts upward uncontrollably, movements sloppy, Steve can feel the hot pulse of more come inside him.

Steve too; he can’t move, Eddie’s cock lodged inside him.

“What is that?”

Eddie frowns now, and then he looks away, suddenly very uncomfortable. Steve doesn’t like that look on Eddie’s face, “I think I’ve knotted you,” he mumbles.

Steve’s not even sure what that is, “how long does it last?”

“I, ah, don’t know, it’s never happened before.”

Steve wriggles his hips, enjoying the tug of Eddie’s knot at his rim, likes the hot splash in his gut as Eddie ruts helplessly, coming again, skin flushed pink and eyes sliding closed with a moan of pure bliss.

“Never?”

“No,” Eddie pants out, blinking up at Steve once he gets himself under control again, “it, it only happens when we find out mates,” Eddie breaths the words out all together, and his eyes slide away, like he’s embarrassed.

Steve tugs him back by the curve of his horn, makes him look at Steve, “you think my wings bow to just anyone?”

Eddie looks thrilled when he realises what Steve must mean, smile big and happy before it collapses back into itself, “but surely you, I mean, what about another Angel? What about...you know, a real life? A family?”

“What, you think a life with you wouldn’t be a real one-?”

“You know what I mean-” Eddie hisses as his half deflated knot suddenly slips free. Steve groans, and is very, very fucking aware of the flood of come that drips right back out of him.

“We can have kids, if you want them.”

Eddie swallows, he doesn’t seem a jot bothered by the small lake of bodily fluids that must be soaking into the fur of his crotch and thighs, “adoption, or something?”

Steve nods, “if you want to. But I am an angel. I’m a literal vessel Eddie. If you want babies, I can carry them.”

Eddie blinks up at him, slitted pupils turning wide with surprise as he looks up at Steve, “I didn’t know that, thought you guys were vessels for, holy light, or something,” Eddie’s eyes are filled with fire. Not gold, like Steve’s, but a shimmer in his natural brown, hidden until you know where to look. It’s beautiful.

Steve nods, “we don’t even have to have sex, it’s just a little bit of my soul, a little bit of yours-”

“I don’t-” Eddie looks away, again, swallows thickly, “I don’t have one.”

Steve has to pull him back again, gently, this time, a soft touch to Eddie’s cheek until he finally looks back up at Steve through his lashes, “is that what they tell you?”

Eddie nods, Steve shakes his head.

“It’s not true baby, you have one, I see it, burning bright.”

Eddie smiles, clearly pleased, rolling them so they can snuggle together, their wings hanging off either side of the bed. They kiss. Soft and slow, the very tinniest hint of Eddie’s fangs. Steve loves the brush of Eddie’s fur against his legs.

“Your light...that thing go away when you’re sleeping?”

Steve laughs, “nope.”

Eddie sighs, “you’re the big spoon then, no way in Hell I’ll be sleeping with that nonsense shining right in my face.”

[dwntwn-strnlo]

laser tag. [m.st.]

── ⟡˙ ̟ matthew sturniolo x gn!reader

↳ synopsis. — laser tag with matt

↳ a/n. — first post!

↳ requested? — no

getting the call from matt to get ready and be outside within the next five minutes, you will admit- a little nerve wracking.

but none the less, you still quickly get dressed and fix your makeup, just in time for your boyfriend to start honking the car horn from your driveway. you walk out and see matts car in park, and nick and chris sitting in the backseat.

you lock the door and make your way down the path to the van, hopping in the front passenger side.

"hey y/n!" chris yells from the back.

you turn around to meet him with an outstretched hand, "whats good," you smile, dapping both chris and nick up.

turning back in your seat, matt leans over to press a quick kiss to your lips. "hi baby."

"what are we doing?" you queried, a soft smile resting on your face.

"laser tag!" chris exclaimed enthusiastically, cutting matt off before he can answer, causing you to laugh.

matt rolls his eyes amusedly, pulling the vehicle into drive and heading presumably in the direction of laser tag.

walking into the building, matt takes your hand in his as the two of you follow behind his brothers.

"teams or solo?" the worker asks when it's your turn.

"teams," you say, but matt shakes his head with a small grin on his face.

"solos," he argues.

you roll your eyes amusedly before agreeing with him.

the four of you are put together with another small group, so that the game lasts longer. you're given your vests and guns, and immediately split up from each other. all finding different spots and waiting for the announcer to start the game.

as the horn blares over head, you start thinking tactics. ultimately deciding to camp out in the area you're currently in.

you here loud pangs, and a 'what the fuck, matt!' before the announcer goes back over the intercom. "player 7, eliminated."

"shit." you mumble to yourself. the yelling was close, meaning matt had to be nearby too, considering he just got one of his brothers out.

you look around you, before quickly running to another wall. but as you reach the wall, your wrist is grabbed and you're shoved into a corner.

matt stands close to you, close enough that his body heat radiates against you. a devious smirk sitting on his face. "hi y/n,"

he leans down, pressing you against the wall, and his lips on to yours. your lips work perfectly in sync as he kisses you in the dark corner. "you're not very good at this," he giggles, pulling away for just a second before kissing you again.

you furrow your eyebrows. "what the hell does that mean?"

he takes a small step back before raising his laser gun, shooting you on the center of your vest.

"player 2, eliminated,"

"you get distracted too easily," he smirks. but before you can protest, he walks away, leaving you in the dark as your vest turns off, and your gun flashes 'dead' at you.

[omniblades-and-stars]

ANY ship with Zaeed + #20 I am nothing if not predictable

From this ask meme here.

CW: Brief mention of suicidal threats/ideation.

Blue light seeped in underneath the curtains.

One. Two. Three seconds.

She had been counting since the first rumbling warning. And still, the thunder made her jump.

The nights with the storms were the worst. When thunder boomed and the echoes of it bounced between mountain peaks, nestling into the valleys just as lightning illuminated the night sky with the kind of intensity only available to it by the total lack of light pollution. No city lights to dampen the way it seared her vision, leaving a lasting impression in auras that remained even when she closed her eyes tight against it.

The distant rumbling was a threat. It pulled her away from her home, to where thunder became the explosive cacophony of anti-aircraft artillery and that guttural and unnatural growl of Reaper destroyers. Lightning transformed into devastating laser canon fire and that horrible, bright-burning beam that by all rights should have led her to her death. But the galaxy didn't see fit to give in to her exhaustion and let her go to her final rest just yet.

On nights like this, she wished it had.

Jane sat in the night dark living room, curtains drawn and head buried in her hands because her skull felt like it was in a vice. She hated how something so simple, so natural as a thunderstorm turned her into a quaking, crying child. Like her legendary courage turned heel and ran - not so courageous after all in the face of nature. But she couldn't shoot at a storm, couldn't direct a counter attack from within the safety of the Normandy's hull and shields.

Blue light splashed across her hunched back and shaking shoulders.

One. Two seconds.

Jane jumped again.

She tried it once, shooting at the storm. Terrified and angry that she was scared, she found her old Predator and unloaded an entire thermal clip into the clouds, screaming her rage and desperation to just not feel fucking scared anymore as she did so. It was stupid. And worse, it didn't even make her feel better.

Being soaked in the torrential downpour made it easier for her and Zaeed to both hold onto the fiction that she wasn't crying when he rushed outside, fearing something much worse than that display of Shepard's rapidly declining mental state.

Jane didn't know where any of the guns were anymore. For all she knew, Zaeed got rid of every last one, even Jesse. He never said as much, but she knew he worried that the next thing she pointed a gun at when this happened would be herself.

Jane wanted to be angry about it. She wanted to turn the storm raging against her own chest and unleash it at Zaeed in a gale force torrent for daring to show concern so quietly. It should have been a blowout, heated words to each other they couldn't take back so she could justify the way she hated herself at times. If he hated her for being weak and scared too, then at least there was a reason for the heat in her lungs, the monster with angry claws scraping grooves in the bone inside her skull - trapped in a casket of its own making.

Blue light flashed twice, visible now from the little window in the kitchen, lighting up the sink beneath it, banishing the darkness for only a moment.

One second.

Jane jumped to her feet.

Knowing the storm was getting closer did not make up for how much louder it was in the holler. It was no longer over the ridge where the low mountain peak would dampen the sound. The aftershocks grumbled out across the shallow river down the hill as if the storm was somehow inconvenienced by the geography it found itself hanging over.

It shook the floor as she turned for the steps that would lead up to her own bedroom. The place that was meant to be her solace, her solitude. In the dark, it was a yawning cavern, the echoes of her worst memories bounced off the walls, the walls that seemed to shift with the distant flash of far off lightning. The warped shadows played too many tricks with her mind when she was there alone.

There was a different door, an open threshold only a few short steps away, an offer of comfort, even if a quiet, unspoken one. There was a barrier there, visible only to herself. Timid footsteps brought her to it, stopping just shy of the frame.

Electric blue filled the room, framing a specter in the doorway with an otherworldly glow. A wraith lingered there, thinner than she'd ever been, hair tangled, no longer bound by regulations or the need for practicality, she was an echo herself, wreathed so briefly in that eerie light.

The resounding bang rattled the creaking bones of a house and a woman in concert.

Jane trembled.

"You're not a ghost, Janey. Stop looming like one and get in bed already," Zaeed's characteristically prodding words belied the quiet, gentle way he only ever spoke when she had one boot on the battleground again. Jarring, not because they were rough words, but because they weren't.

She hesitated.

Before, when life wasn't assured, when her entire universe was cut down to two possibilities, win or everything ends, it had been easy to fall into his bed. Easier for both of them. It wasn't serious they told themselves. Stress relief, entertainment, a warm fucking body to sleep next to on the rare occasion more than a couple of hours of sleep was to be had between battles and negotiations and chasing lead after lead while barreling head first into oblivion. A body who knew the flashbacks, the paranoia, the changes, and didn't make a fuss about it. It wasn't supposed to be serious. Wasn't supposed to be anything more than it was on the outside - comfort when there wasn't any to be had anywhere else.

An illusion.

After? When she woke up with new scars, new ghosts, and the closest thing to a guarantee of a naturally long life as she was likely to get? Everything was changed all at once. She held onto the narrative that there wasn't anything else because it felt safer than ... what?

Another streak of light filtered in through half-drawn blinds.

One second.

The rumbling ground urged her feet forward, past her imaginary barrier, a staggering rhythm that shattered her precious illusion. Cracks formed in the fragile shell she built up around herself, fault lines growing in her one-sided resolve to close herself away.

It was stupid.

And worse, it didn't even make her feel better.

Blue light flickered long shadows across the bed as she gracelessly struck her knee on the simple wooden frame and fell forward, blinded by the spots burned in her vision.

One. Two seconds.

She froze, eyes clenched tight against the retreating but noisome onslaught of Mother Nature. A warm hand wrapped over her shoulder, guiding her under the blanket, an offering of shelter. Her earlier hesitation fallen by the wayside as she scrambled towards safety, not unlike rolling for cover under fire. If cover was a warm, breathing man that she'd lived with for months pretending that also didn't mean anything.

He'd provided cover under fire for her before, and that made this whole endeavor feel so ridiculous that if she'd been in a better mind state, she might have laughed. As it was, she allowed Zaeed to pull her in tight against his chest, closing her eyes in a vain attempt to keep tears of relief from streaking down already glistening cheeks.

Fainter now, flickers of light played shadow puppet branches across the wall.

One. Two. Three seconds.

She felt, as much as could through the scarring left behind when that horrible inferno blast hit her face, replacing the intricate webs left behind by Cerberus with thick welts, rough lips press against her cheek.

"Storm's almost gone, Janey. Get some sleep."

Jane exhaled, letting free the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding.

The flash was fainter now, doubtless the storm had moved further over the ridge.

One. Two. Three. Four seconds.

Jane slept.

[hopelessromantic423]

Same Time, Next Mission

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x agent!reader

Summary: You and Bucky keep running into each other during missions. What happens when a little flirting gets added into the mix?

Warning: teasing, flirting, fluff. No smut. Reader is kind of bad at their job. Time hops.

It was a normal mission. At least, it started off as a normal mission. You were currently situated on the left side of this huge warehouse where illegal weapons were being stored. Your task was to get a specific flash drive that held all the blueprints to these guns and lasers etc.

The room was in sight. A single small room with glass windows meant easy access. You heard your teammate whisper something into your earpiece which caught you off guard.

"What do you mean there’s a guy running around in blue spandex?" you whispered back in confusion.

Like clockwork, your eyes caught Steve Rogers running across the walkway from the other side of the facility. His shield caught the overhead lights beaming downward as he sprinted from one hiding place to the next. "Why is he here," you whispered to yourself while standing up from your hiding spot.

You mapped out your next move but you didn't go far when a loud thunk sound clamored behind you. Swiftly, you turned around to spot a man you had never seen before. He wasn't wearing the facilities uniform, so you took a wild guess and connected him to Captain America.

His blue eyes shot daggers into yours as you grabbed your knife from its holster. "Hey, buddy," was all you could speak before the man with short brunette hair started throwing punches at you. You huffed out an, "excuse me!" while continually fighting the mystery man. You couldn't lie, he was a damn good fighter. "I'm a good guy," you blurted out while dodging one of his knife jabs.

The man finally eased up and took a step back, still ready to pounce at any moment. "I work for SHIELD," you said as calmly as possible. It didn't go as planned when he rolled his eyes and went back to swinging.

"SHIELD is dead," he grunted out while gliding his leg behind you, kicking both of your legs from under you.

"No, it's not! Can we talk like normal people for five seconds," you negotiated while standing up from the cold metal floor. "Jeez, my ass hurts."

"Fine," he huffed, taking a step back and crossing his arms.

"Hi," you stated calmly. "I still work for Nick Fury, you know guy with one eye? Scary as hell?"

"Yea, yea. I know him. Keep talkin'," the man huffed again with a slight New York accent showing through his speech pattern. He looked so unamused, but it was better than dodging a solid metal arm for the next five minutes.

"Newly reformed SHIELD. Blah, blah, blah, you get the gist. I'm here to get info, not get in your way."

A look of frustration still covered the brunette's face as he stared at you like he was trying to read you like a newspaper. "How do I know you're not corrupt like the rest of them?" For the first time in the last ten minutes, his tone was a little softer and more humanistic. He actually wanted to know.

"You're with the Avengers mumbo jumbo," you questioned while sliding your knife back into its holster.

"Maybe," the brunette replied with crossed arms and a look that screamed, "yes but I'm not telling you".

"I used to work with your friend Sam, Air Force."

After one last exchange of glances, you brushed past the mystery man who had an amusing dumbfounded look on his face. "Nice to meet you too asshole," you murmured close enough so he could hear you and kept walking to finish your mission.

The next time you caught up with the mystery brunette was in Paris, France of all places. The city was absolutely beautiful, the only time it wasn't pleasant was when a familiar face made an unexpected cameo.

"Hey watch it!" Feeling a figure close behind you, you couldn't help but yelp while standing on the roof of a nearby pâtisserie. "You again," you sighed taking one glance at him and then turning back to your station.

"I believe it was an asshole to you, (Y/L/N)," the brunette said in a charming tone. You couldn't lie to yourself, your knees buckled slightly as he smiled at you.

Taking a few steps toward him, your hands found themselves fiddling with the straps on the chest of his suit. "You did your research, that's cute," you cooed in a teasing manner.

"Are you going to help or what?" The heavy rope you were currently trying to tie up to the building was giving you trouble and the help happened to be the charming man standing beside you. He jumped right into the action, knotting it in less than five seconds.

"Perfect, see you later James," you stated while using the rope to slide down to the second-floor balcony, leaving him dumbfounded with rosy cheeks.

You had done a little research of your own

The most recent time you had seen James "Bucky" Barnes, famed super soldier and the former assassin was at a gala in New York. Home turf.

Standing near the dance floor with a champagne flute in hand, you eyed the crowd looking for a specific mob boss that you needed to speak with privately. Everything was going smoothly, keyword: was.

"Would you like to dance agent," Barnes whispered right beside your ear with a smart-ass smirk on his face. His short hair was slicked back and he switched his navy leather suit for a sleek all-black tux for the night. He looked like a million bucks.

“We have to stop running into each other like this,” you chuckled while setting your drink down on a nearby table and allowing Bucky to guide you to the dance floor by the small of your back.

“Ditched the mission suit?”

“You could say that,” you murmured.

Bucky smirked, pulling you closer to him while swaying back and forth. His cheek brushed against yours as he whispered, “for a spy, you’re not very subtle (Y/N).”

You thought you had died and gone to heaven at that moment. Luckily, you stayed on your own two feet and continued eyeing the crowd from behind Bucky’s shoulder.

“When’s your next mission?” Bucky’s deep blue eyes found yours as he questioned.

“Why do you want to know? Planning to sabotage that one too?”

Bucky chuckled while spinning you away from him and back. “I was hoping to take you out on a real date. No bad guys or top secret weapons, just us.”

“I’d like that very much.” A smile plastered on your face as you glanced up at him. Your glance made its way to Bucky’s lips, hoping he’d take the hint. "You'll be the death of me won't you,” he smirked while leaning toward you.

Just as his lips brushed yours, he pulled away making you glance up in confusion. "I think I'll save that for later,” he smiled while wrapping his hand around your waist. You sighed while shaking your head, hoping that your rosy cheeks had disbanded at that point.

"Thanks for the dance, I've got eyes on the target,” you whispered pulling away from Bucky’s grasp. “Pick me up at 6 tomorrow night?"

"I don't know where you live,” Bucky mentioned trying to suppress his smile.

"You'll find it," you said fixing his tie so that it lay flat against his chest. "Good luck," you sang while turning to walk away. Your heels clicked as the distance between the two of you grew further, but you gave him one last glance only to see him staring at you still in awe.

Before Bucky could make the next move, Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers had made their way to each side of him. Sam gave his shoulder a shake just to make sure he was still mentally available.

"I've got a date tomorrow," Bucky said blatantly while turning to Sam.

"Really?" Steve's tone was surprised. "With who?"

"Agent (Y/L/N), from SHEILD."

"How did you manage that?" Sam looked utterly shocked.

"Should I back out?"

"No!" The two men screamed in unison as if the world was ending.

"I asked her out and she shot me down like no tomorrow. Tony couldn't even get her to look in his direction,” Steve mentioned, trying to save his ego.

"Did you trick her? Blackmail?" Sam’s tone was urgent as he questioned.

"No," Bucky chuckled defensively. His hand came up to his mouth to hide his smile. "We just kept running into each other. Maybe it was fate."