#maybe they travel together the whole time

[your-hockey-mom]

Happy New Year!! Could you possibly do an imagine about kissing Q at midnight? Ty!!

10:43pm. 

Was it really New Year's Eve already? It was incredible how quickly the year had flow. So much had happened between Quinn and yourself; some for the better and worse. Right now, things were bad again. Not between the two of you, but with the team and with his ability to stay healthy. After healing fully from the high-sticking, you thought Quinn was going to get back to his old self, sniping wristers from the blue line and stacking up points for a back-to-back Norris run. Sadly, he was looking at another two to three weeks of off-ice rest, not counting the time off during Christmas. 

Quinn hadn't traveled to Calgary with the rest of the Canucks and you could feel the effects of Quinn not being with his boys while you sat beside him in his living room. He hadn't said a whole lot today, nor had you pressed him for conversation. If he wanted to talk, he knew you were available. Other than that, you had left him alone. However, it was nearing an hour from the new year and you were itching for something to do. 

"Wanna get dressed up and take a walk downtown?" You turned toward him on the sofa, crossing your legs up under you. You weren't sure how your proposition was going to over, but you would remain hopeful nonetheless. 

Quinn sighed deeply, "Not really. I'm not in a 'going out' mood. I'm sorry, sweetheart." He would look up from his phone and give you a sympathetic glance. It was all over his face that he had no interest in leaving his apartment that evening. Normally, you'd share that same sentiment, but New Year's was once a year, and it wasn't often that Quinn was home for the holiday. You just thought that maybe he would want something to get his mind off the raincloud over his head.

You both had watched the game together. He was tense the entire time, like he was on the bench and completely powerless to command this team. Everything was a struggle, but when they had finally tied it up there was some hope that they could still turn it around. Unfortunately, the score would end with a 3-1 Canucks loss and Quinn shaking his head. This was two games without their captain they would lose, and another two points they wouldn't be going home with. 

Leaving him alone with his thoughts and whatever business he was doing on his phone, you tried to keep yourself awake and the collective mood in the apartment from completely going to shit. Watching any kind of movie was out, because you knew his mind would be elsewhere, but what could you do where it wouldn't be back in the arena, replaying plays and fixing errors? You'd pout as you bounced from idea to idea before you felt your stomach grumble. 

"Wanna bake some cookies?"

This would cause him to put his phone down, like it had been the magic words he didn't know he needed to hear. "I'd actually love that."

You'd give him a warm, beaming smile before hopping to your feet and excitedly hurrying to the kitchen. Now, you nervously hoped that you actually had everything needed for cookies! 

"What do you need me to do?" Quinn would ask, looking at you on your tip-toes, going through the cabinet before finally getting up to help you. 

"Can you grab the eggs and butter? We should have enough eggs.... I hope so anyway!" You remarked nervously. 

"Sure," he replied flatly, taking a moment to scan the interior of the fridge. "Anything else?"

"Nope! That's it for the cold stuff, thank you."

"Mhm."

Quinn would shuffle around to the island, taking a seat while you messed about, adding more and more ingredients to the space in front of him. You knew he was trying his hardest to come off as happy, but you knew he was having a hard time. You wouldn't press him to cheer up, and if he had wanted to go back to the living room, leaving you to finish them, it wouldn't have bothered you.

"Sorry I'm not much help," he mumbled, like he had read your mind. 

"What? Oh, you're okay, baby! I'm glad you're here, that's enough!" Your smile had brought a little glimmer to his eyes while he continued to sit and watch. Quinn had been the only boyfriend you had had where just being in the same space with him brought you joy even if you were both doing different things. You could feel him watching you, making you smile more when you had your back to him. The slight squeak of him moving back his chair had been the only indication that he was on the move. 

"What can I do to help?" He would say, snuggling in tightly to your body, making it near impossible to move anywhere. 

You'd take a minute to think of what you could have him do, but you also didn't want to take him out of his comfort zone. 

"Can you just keep doing what you're doing?"

"Just...holding you?"

"Mhm!" You giggled, reaching for the sack of flour and measuring cups, struggling to reach due to Quinn's grasp. "I'm not asking for too much, am I?"

"Not at all. I just feel guilty watching you do everything." His voice was low, and sprinkled with the sound of depression and anguish. You knew that's how he had felt watching the games he couldn't participate in: hopeless and useless. 

"Well, I can't hold myself," you laughed, overlapping your hands on his at your waist. "You're doing a great job."

Quinn would playfully scoff at you giving him a verbal gold star, but deep down, he was so thankful that you didn't ridicule him when he got in these moods. He knew he could be so hard to deal with and the fact that you took every one of them at stride meant so much. Tonight was no different. 

The minutes would tick by quickly as you measured numerous ingredients into varying bowls before finally combining them into one, homogeneous mixture resembling chocolate chip cookie dough. From time-to-time, Quinn would dip a single finger into the dough, and each time you would softly tap him on the hand.

"Baby!"

"Quality control test," Quinn teased.

"You've said that three times now! Don't make yourself sick!"

He would let his arms fall from around your body, when you hinted that you needed to move away from where you had been standing. He seemed to be in a slightly lighter mood, having peppered you with delicate kisses the whole time you worked. How you loved having him home with you, just doing silly little domestic things like a normal couple did. However, having a partner like Quinn, and his profession, you never took the little things for granted. 

"Okay, fifteen to seventeen minutes," you said, putting the filled pans into the already hot and ready oven. You'd set the timer and walk back to him as he leaned against the counter. Quinn smiled at you, taking your hands in his at his sides. 

"Now we wait?" He asked, blinking slow, like he was fighting sleep despite being awake at this time rather often. 

"Mhm, come on, baby. You look exhausted," you confessed, trying to drag him back towards the direction of the living room. 

"I'm okay. I'm afraid if I sit down I'm going to fall asleep."

You acknowledged the truth in his words before another brilliant idea came to your mind. "Oh! I know! Wait right here, 'kay?"

Regrettably, you'd let go of his hands so you could cross the room and dim the kitchen lights to a low, golden glow. 

"Alexa, play Moonlight Serenade," you'd ask, returning to Quinn's arms. 

"Playing Moonlight Serenade, by Glenn Miller on Amazon Music."

Quickly, the apartment was filled with the crackling of a vintage record recording and the 1940s orchestra that was responsible. It was an easy enough waltz to sway to in the comfort of each other's company, there in the kitchen while the cookies bubbled and baked in the oven. Quinn would smile over your shoulder the whole time, having finally been able to shake off the feelings of failure. 

"Everybody loves somebody sometime~," Dean Martin would croon through the apartment's speakers. "And although my dream was overdue, your love made it well worth waiting for someone like you~

You couldn't help but giggle. It was like the song was saying what you were feeling and Quinn held the same sentiment. Silently, you two would continue to dance together to the love songs of old until the beeping of the timer pulled you apart. You'd both turn to see that the clock also read 12:00. 

"Happy New Year's, baby," Quinn would say first, tipping your chip up towards his awaiting lips. 

"Happy New Year's!" You replied, your lips just hovering next to his. The kiss was long, and sweet and everything you wanted to welcome in the new year with. Neither of you would let the other go for several minutes after, sharing multiple more affections until Quinn reminded you of the cookies.

"I'd really hate for your hard work to go to waste. We can always finish this later," he chuckled, pulling you in for one more heartfelt kiss. 

"Well, we'll have another fifteen to seventeen minutes," you winked, taking the pans out of the oven. "Does that work for you?"

"Oh, absolutely."

[abbinurmel]

This whole post and all its concepts is SUCH an awesome idea. For not just Dnd alone, but also ALL fantasy media. I confess I was having my own dorky set of ideas on rebooting lizardfolk. But nowhere as good as this one.

I was considering a very different spin: what if one took ALL of the negative stereotypes associated with lizards? All the problematic irl political reptilian conspiracies, the outdated “cardboard brute savage” inherent in lizardfolk and similar races in DND, all the true and untrue stuff known to science about real dinosaurs, the phobia of modern reptiles and how venomous snake bites work, and the cool lore/less cool but interesting Creationist ideas of dragons, and their depictions in myth, AND the cavemen who lived with Dinos Creationism falsehoods, AND the depictions of lizard kaiju like Jurassic Park/Godzilla…

...what if one was to actually push them ALL into together, into one crazy stew, and made up an absurd tight knit DND origin concept, as the Lizardfolk backstory?…all the eugenics and Nazi propaganda, and Creationist/Aryan theorist dinosaur origins AND the popular myths about reptiles as animals that are false(they are ‘icky’ or ‘slimy’ and they ‘don’t have feelings’)- what if we mix them ALL and yet go in all of the VERY POLAR OPPOSITE OF DIRECTIONS, philosophically? What if we took lies and disinfo and use them from a reverse *positive* slant, as tropes. By going so ABSURD over the top it thumbs the nose at people who make all these bad ideas about reptiles, Jews/gays/the Liberals who they represent them by, both figuratively and literal. What if we steal these bad ideas, creatively mashed them til it becomes unrecognizable, if not wholesome and completely unique fantasy lore, separated from the original inspirations, and one plays it as a means of taking our collective identities back, thinking about different spiritual and secular philosophies, and just mainly for creative funny laughter?

One example: There was once a specific race, of gigantic, scaly, godlike long lived creatures…DRAGONS…they were ‘aliens’ or like angels, or the Urskek from the Dark Crystal. Great mysterious cosmic beings of vast, vast power and knowledge, but still, at heart, an expressive and inherently ‘flawed’ race, not an all knowing divine one. Basically High Elves, with added space travel or dimension hopping. They are a platoon of ‘Space Lizards’, if you will. (Reptiloids)

They came to your fantasy realm using superior tech/magic, and inhabited a world that before our time, was pure wilderness. Then humans, dwarves and other races, of much smaller lifespans and intellect, all started to evolve. The High Ones also start to breed with them….(Angels/Demons in biblical and other religious myth.)…this leads to things like Naga and Kobolds and even goblins and maybe other established creatures.

Some of them abide this, some do not, as wars or schisms of philosophy are thrust upon them. Some squabbles and scandals. Dragons as a whole are often growing less harmonic, less interested in Enlightenment, more so in teams of selfish power, cult worship and pushing who is the real head honcho/has the better fate of humanity idea and the fate of Magic itself. Soon baser, more material desires emerge, and Dragons are fighting each other more, and trying to outdo each other both in forms of magic, enhanced bodies for greater strength, and soon learn of the concept of Greed, and Worship, knowing how having often more gold attracts followers or charity beggars /more bribery of kings and armies/more access to magical artifacts and natural land sources of great power for themselves. The Dragon ideology shrinks in scope as the dragons once ethereal more long lived cosmic forms become ‘baser’, for better or for the worse. They grow to hoard gold, but also now get to understand ideas of Art and Beauty and Flamboyance. They learn to fight and even eat each other. But thru this also understand the concepts of now ‘Standing for the Greater Good in Defense of our beloved humanoids/A noble good god who sacrifices their life in fighting the Evil god’s imperialist destruction/humanoids are NOT inferior or to be made to be our pets or study lab animals, they deserve our Love and Guidance but not OUR WORSHIP and RULE over their life./Individualism vs Collective Spirituality/Equality for All to Mix and severance of old cultural ways and religious ties vs. the need for Ancestral Pride and in more negative way, Bigotry.’

(Fantasy quests, More Ancient Aliens and loose ideas of creation myths, the Fall of Man and Biblical story archetypes, all of real human history, the prehistoric dinosaurs. Human History Misinformation. Evolutionary competition between reptiles and earl tribes.)

Supposed fears of Dragons ‘de-evolving’ and ‘loss of our magics/our pure lizard genes’ concerns arise, both fabricated and grossly exaggerated and yet, some mildly based in fact alike. To a degree, as dragons mix, THEY DO grow small and more humanoid and less long lived, less toughly powerful, both physically and magically….but they ALSO get more CLEVER….they develop war machines, and languages, and technologies that never have been seen before. And let’s not exclude all the actual learned concepts of Love and Carnal Sex that do emerge out of these dalliances with the other creatures.

All of this, it is neither good, or bad, it is just inherently NEW, and for the Old Dragons, the really really BIG ones who still remain of the ancient ones and bear their ways, and those whom are of the younger generations but who admire the ancient ways and the size and powers of the ones before who came to this land, they wonder if the humanoids and/or they can ever ‘ascend’, or return back to the spirituality/might/actual plane of reality they supposedly once held. Some dragons create whole spiritual schools of thought around this, and develop ways of living in harmony with the world, to purify the soul and raise one’s consciousness back to a higher reality and Love for all things. (Founders of major religion and schools of thinking like Taoism, Kabbalah, Buddhism, Christianity, the New Age religious guru figures, martial arts and spiritual meditation and psychedelic practices as rituals to get cosmic oneness or feel linked back with nature/achieve a better sense of identity and wholeness in therapy,…and on the negative side, the dark con artists and cults who manipulate these ideas. There are those whom worship in the service of a god who believe in lifes of simplicity, shunning Hate and Material needs, and in offering constant shelter, aid and merciful kind advice to others, like certain orders of real world monks, and the friars and nuns of the Medieval ages who weren’t concerned with status or war, just being able to harbor the sick and the poor, and the undertrodden… and those who claim to be about this, yet take it so far, it becomes a dragon who demands HUMANOID SUFFERING, mental or physical, to achieve their ‘enlightenment’/bring this dragon its twisted warped idea of ‘being true enlightened overlord beings again.’ Anyone who questions the dragon’s authority or beliefs, shall be brainwashed, sacrificed and eaten or violently tortured to be made an example of.(MesoAmerican human sacrifice, the majority of religious history, witch trials. Evolutionary competing again, predator animals using mimicry and biological trickery such as pheromones, hypnotic voices, other DND magic macguffin plots,to lure followers to their cult and also gain prey.) These deceptions ESPECIALLY work on Kobolds and the eventual denizens of the tinier Lizardfolk, who grew from aforesaid hybrids of Dragon/other monster species.

“WAIT” I hear you ask, I thought ya said Early Dragons are HUGE, cosmic beings. How did they FUCK primitive man….yknow, size wise.

AH, but you see, that’s the beauty of being *magical lore* with SpaceLizards/religious allegory/real world evolution and science. All that shit is GOOFY, and all KINDS OF crazy manifested things happen! …why, just look at starfish and fungi and sea squirts and special worms, tell me HOW IN THE WORLD, do you get US, somehow ALSO being closely by DNA being related to THAT.

And, tell me ALSO another wacky common alien/myth trope?

We don’t actually *fuck* the Dragons. We later fuck their descendants, who bear humanoid organs and size proportions, but the so-called REAL Dragons. These dragons simply mated with us via technology, thru alien SCIENCE(coff I mean magic) aka Grey Aliens aboard a ship we I mea, A COOL FLOATING SKY CASTLE LAIR, probes style OR, as a ritual on a dream plane or psychotropic spirit plane style…. Maybe, maybe, the whole Jesus getting put into the Virgin Mary…IS AN ALIEN DRAGON REPTILOID GOD THING. (YEAH I AM GOING THERE, BRO, COME SHARE THIS BONG WITH ME!)

Just kidding. I do not take any of this seriously. You can like all DND stuff take or leave whatever makes sense and whatever does not.

ANYWHOOZ. These Parents of Lizardfolk. These dragons, they see this crazy debauchery going on, and some see it as an excuse to spread their seed far and wide, establishing whole nations and tribes of Kobold and Lizard people to either far or dotingly worship them/pursue glorious wisdom or science along to honor them, and, for some OTHER ones, all of this stuff is only ‘modern child garbage’ and even frightening. Remember, these guys can live for CENTURIES, so all these games of Humanity, are like, watching someone play GTA all day and all night. Quaint and inoffensive at first, sorta novel and interesting, but by a certain point it gets boring and stupid at lowest, unhealthy and unnerving at the middle end, ans HOLY SHIT STOP WITH THE VIDEOGAMES , I MUST CRUSADE A STOP TO THIS MONSTROSITY THAT IS POISONING OUR YOUTHS….and, like with all things, to some extent, they are correct, to some extent, they are very misguided and very very wrong. Dragons are USED to being the supposed top apex predators, and when the humanoids began to be sapient, as powerful idols of holy guidance. Many of the original cosmic High Council decided ‘Let’s aid these poor struggling souls/teach them not to fuck around with magic SO badly so they don’t present us with a rivaling threat, but, let us teach them enough about the secrets of the universe some of them can still be more useful and propagate ’, and so, they teach them of great ideas, give them language and symbols. Some extra special humanoids even get to flaunt their power or wealth in return for being such a good servant/literal hybrid born bastard child of theirs/religious recruiter. Some could become kings or heads of state, or belong to special enlightened / “enlightened” societies and clubs, that don’t REALLY know everything yet THINK they do, and will behind the scenes pull all the strings of humanity. (Warmongers, Illuminati, Reptiloids again, Cults/pagan societies during the Age of Reason and The Enlightenment Period in Europe, The Masons, Knights Templar and other similar groups, the rise of established universities, corporations, scientists with guarded military secrets, Popes, global alien conspiracy, missionaries, and much, much more….)

We start to rebel against our ‘gods’. Often. A lot. It often isnt pretty. We hunt them, they hunt us. We try to beg for reason, they try to beg us to see reason. Sometimes it works, if a Lizard or Kobold acts as an ambassador/holy priest. Sometimes, the dragon just says ‘fuck off, my ungrateful children, imma gonna eat ya now.’

But remember, the dragons, THEY ARE NOT gods, and the Lizardmen are also not children of gods, they are just LIZARD ALIENS. They do flawed things and lizard folk do flawed mundane things too. They build many different cultures and types of villages, they try to achieve a lack of humanoid emotion, to varying result. And also to varying result, some may have xenophobic ideas about breeding with mammals and some make efforts to be as nonhuman as able by living naturally in the wilds, or in lairs which are spiritual attempts at matching the giant mysterious alien aesthetic and structures and vehicles their ancestry supposedly had. Some might even go so obsessive as to dig up and preserve the bones of their dragon idols and worship them like holy relics, or just put on glorious prominent display, like in science museums, to objectively marvel at and study. (Giant ancient alien chunks again, paleontology.)

They can like real lizards do shed molts, and they and dragons alike need to both eat, and they get weaker without heat source. Hence Lizards I can see flocking to mostly warmer climates, such as deserts, and tropics, with all the inherent tropes associated with such geography irl, and their functions. Cold and food scarcity, and habitat destruction, all these things affect both the macro and the micro, and so, the dragons suffer more and more from the crutches of mortal society and growth, just as much as any great wild beasts do, in real life. When the humans begin to rebel, they lose ground, and habitat, and as result, dragons get small, rarer, meaner. (Bear, sharks, crocs, any larger apex predators being reduced in modern times. The phases of evolution and the modern climate change and other Extinction events destroying reptiles irl.)

As the products of spreading their wisdom and technology changes, so too does the land, and, heck, why not just for completion sake THROW IN A MAGICALLY MANIFESTED ASTEROID OR AN ICE AGE TOO…some human wizard goofed up big time, or maybe some other dragon did, and ruined a lot of people’s days….the dragons start due to the cold going into hibernation, which turns into death, as the permafrost doesn’t leave, all except the mightiest die, who seal themselves in ice, to sleep dormant, for thousands of years….(myths and games again. Actual fossils being discovered of dinosaur and mammoth. Perhaps their bones and preserved remains can be used for DND plot item macguffins.)

As the dragons in this period are dying off, the lizardmen begin to also slow down in brain activity and heighten in aggression and survivalist Spartan qualities. They panic at the way they lose numbers and grow desperate, breeding whenever they can, leading to incest, which makes them MORE stupid…they turn to wandering, bloodthirsting, rough edged brute conquerors, like old classic Orc and Goblin stereotypes, except a bit more cunning, and a bit more magical. Years pass, and their brains are growing more sluggish and stupid, and empathy is stunted, due to the cold, and their once flowering wise cultures, their vast empires, generations crush them into becoming more primitive in style and simple in aesthetic and need, as they go from New Upper Egypt level civilization levels to nomadic tundra climate clans(Mongolian horsemen, Russian pagans, and tiny pockets of hillbilly folk, or cannibal Pulp comic tribes, just little pockets of sneaky predatory buggers, just eating and fucking and scheming and barely struggling to keep their humble rural societies alive, in the face of nonstop filthy human invaders, constant fighting over game, wood to make fires, and shelters to keep sane and alive. All in the face of serving any last straggler dragons who beg and DEMAND worship and fire fuel, to stay alive.

Lizardmen at reclusive because the endangerment of dragons is akin to that of real actual dangerous exotic wild beasts that once roamed and owned the WHOLE PLANET, like sharks, bear, wolves and tiger. They are all now being reduced into smaller wild places in exile, whenever humanoids subvert them, or start to rebel and hunt them, for sport. So Lizardfolk aren’t cold dumb heartless monsters for evil sake. They just are SICK OF THE WORLDS SHIT.

Humans for centuries now are responsible for erasing their gods and destroying their culture, and while it all mostly was for the sake of getting rid of their dragon overlords tyranny, it is also which led to our usual pursuing of gold and the mere spectacle of trophy hunting, and stealing their hoarded precious magical artifacts and inventions…(King Arthurian legends, Eastern Asian myths about certain yokai and forest spirit.) Thus, when dealing among to those who dare show their ass in THEIR FORMER WORSHIPPING TEMPLE RUIN, or THEIR LONELY CAVE SHELTER which is their last resort refuge from both human knights AND other competitive dragons….the more cold hearted ones, who decide to say a big FUCK YOU to the world. Hence, you get ‘chaotic evil’ perceived races, tales like The Hobbit with Smaug.

The bitter dragons get smaller and meaner, more bad ‘clever’ solutions are thought of, and all the while, generations of primordial cosmic wisdom are lost, INCLUDING WHERE THE DRAGONS ALL ORIGINALLY CAME DROM OR WERE LIKE ONCE, IN THE FIRST PLACE. They have come to this planet with the intent to breed and fill it (The Garden of Eden). But instead, they LOST in numbers, as humanoids overtook them and changed them (Replacement theory), and hence MOST dragons, they only grew more solitary and antisocial. More darker magics, more bitter hearts, stupider selfish minds, and more material desires. They know they lost SOMETHING and yet, rarely can claim it, for the very egotistic urge to be MORE, and to pursue, at all cost, to become PERFECT, and never just accept humble surrender, is what clouds the minds most with animalistic behavior and Wants, not Wisdom and Magical Higher Insight. (Buddhism, Monotheism, and Zen again.) Instead of teaching humanity the greatest secrets of the Unvierse….We, made THEM more like US. Dragons, and now as an offshoot, Lizard folk, all follow OUR ideals and act like our fellow wild creatures. Lizardfolk, by extension, are as obsessed with their origins as Dragons, just as clueless, and just as uninhibited as man. All the kinder enlightened unselfish one’s, want peace and harmony, and they share with the humans and other mammalian beings all their wisdom to survive better against their other hateful SpaceLizard enemies. (Eugenics revisionst theories, Ancient Alien Conspiracies, both fanciful and harmless and actually bigoted ones.) They rule over the kingdoms with a dogmatic, parental approach, which like most any council of rulers TRIES to mean mostly well, but like most authoritative figures or parents, gets their charges reaaaaal sick of them telling us what to do and all of their hypocritical other bullshit after a while.

Thus, we generate in their DND world all these cultures and the ideas of ‘Kind Gods’ and ‘Evil Gods.’ (Egyptian and similar animist faiths which use crocodiles and dragons and other elemental beings who act on a spectrum of Kind to Wicked, to Bored Fey/Blue and Orange Ambiguous Mischief.)

…..say where did all the time go, I was supposed to be checking on my car appraisal.

Hey friends, I was thinking of taking a crack at doing an oft requested "monsters reimagined" for lizardfolk in the next little while, but I found myself stalled out on creating an alternative pitch for their lore.

The problem is that there's so little to work with in the " Ignorant primordial savage" role that they've been pigeonholed into that I'm having genuine trouble finding inspiration.

As such, I figured I'd encourage you all to write your own favourite take on the lizardfolk in the replies/comments, and we'll see if we can't brainstorm our way to an awnser.

Here's some of my own thoughts to get you started:

Lizardfolk as they are presented primarily exist to fufill the role of stock primitive antagonists, a one step more fantastical version of the jungle dwelling cannibals often encountered like pulp heroes like Indiana Jones/Doc Savage/Conan the Barbarian.

In many ways they are the epitome of the "fill in the blank baddie", with everything from their culture to their religion to their motivations being wholly based on the fact that they're lizardy lizards who like to do lizard things and could never be anything but. This is flat and boring, and needs to change if we have any hope of doing something with them.

The whole "uninterested in knowledge", " think with their stomachs", "don't have emotions, just instinct" is one of d&d's most glaring examples of biological determinism. It assigns lizardfolk the concept of "spear chucking savages" and then works backwards to justify why they remain savage while detouring through 19th century race science talking points.

When dealing with any kind of anthropomorphic reptile we're inevitably going to get into the "lizard people" conspiracy theory milieu, with all the baked in antisemitism. On top of that, we're also open to ancient aliens style conspiracy theories given how often Lizardfolk are typecast as "ruin dwelling primitives descended from civilizations long before recorded history".

[mister-eames]

Secret Saito 2024

Happy Secret Saito to you all, I hope you're having a great holiday season x

This is my @secretsaito gift for @motionalocean, whose prompt was lurid. I hope you enjoy this darling <3 thank you for the prompt!

Prompt: lurid Pairing: Arthur/Eames Word Count: 5.4k Warnings: Alcohol, post-break-up, make-up, miscommunication, some angst but with a happy ending, mild drunkenness and anxiety, blink-and-you'll-miss characters and references from dated 90's movies, trust me they live happily ever after.

----

Eames tugs the lapels of his jacket and squares his shoulders, projecting an air of confidence that he isn't quite sure he really feels. Knows he doesn't, in honesty, otherwise he wouldn't be trying it on.

But it doesn’t matter, really; he can fake anything for long enough to fool who counts. Eames once convinced the Prime Minister of Australia that he was raised by a red kangaroo in the red soils of the outback after being abandoned by his mother. He once convinced a travelling group of tourists that he was the next in line for the throne. No doubt about it, if he's assured of anything, it's that Eames can convince a bunch of people he doesn't even know that he is a confident, wealthy, self-made man.

Two out of three isn't bad.

He pushes the door to the ballroom open and feels his mouth stretch into the genial smile of a man with his shit together.

---

The noise around Arthur is near deafening. A live band plays a rotation of top forty hits from the last several decades and the countless surrounding conversations of too-loud family make for an incomprehensible cacophony. He’s only been here for an hour but his head is already pounding like a pick into an ice-shelf.

The venue is noisy. The decorations are showy, a riot on the senses. It's all very gauche. Very Cohen family. Very Aunt Edith, who he must lovingly admit this is very fitting.

By means of having attended here alone Arthur has found himself in the orbit of some group of people he only vaguely recognises, three drinks in already, trying to politely refrain from checking his watch for the right time to excuse himself. Although he’s long tuned out, he’s still nodding at all the right places, interjecting with the odd "Oh, really?"

Hand to god he's not normally such a drinker in social settings, especially not the bottom-shelf spirits and wine that this bar is serving, but—well. He tips his drink back, emptying the flute in a single gulp. It doesn't bear thinking about.

"And what do you do for work?" a young woman holding a full flute of champagne asks Arthur.

"I'm a freelance consultant."

"Nice," she says, eyeing him up and down with interest. "In what industry?"

The reply rolls practiced off his tongue. "Quantum technology."

Arthur doesn't even know who he's talking to anymore. His third cousin's second born partner, maybe. Could be. Aside from his immediate family Arthur couldn't name most of the people here. It’s sloppy of him, perhaps. At least from a security standpoint, maybe. But Arthur isn’t on the job anymore, and he’s grown weary of watching all the exits and having eyes in the back of his head for events like family birthdays all the damn time. His nerves are so burned out they're beyond resurrection.

"Who's that?" someone asks.

He looks to the entrance. His stomach drops to his feet.

"What the hell is he doing here," Arthur mutters under his breath, feeling his face heat up. Someone grabs his arm and shakes it.

"Eames is here," his Uncle Sandy says excitedly. "I thought you said he wasn't coming!"

"He said he couldn't make it," Arthur says through his teeth. He said he wasn't going to be here. 

He watches as Eames takes an offered glass of an amber drink, smiling widely as he is greeted by relatives and their partners, people who Arthur, still, can hardly name. He looks hale and healthy and whole, shoulders relaxed, making easy conversation like it's his own party.

By the time he's noticed, Eames has already looked up and met his gaze.

Eames raises a toast to him.

He barely refrains from raising his middle finger in return.

Arthur is going to kill him, that little fucking liar. Arthur is going to kill him in front of everyone here. There will be so many witnesses and Arthur will go to jail but it will be so worth it. That smarmy, little prick, look at him. Schmoozing and disrupting Arthur’s entire night like the little liar he is.

He tosses back his own drink, finding it somehow already empty.

Easy fix, Arthur thinks, unlike everything else. He abandons whoever is speaking to him to march over to the bar and orders a martini.

---

It takes all of five minutes for Eames to lazily wander over and side up next to Arthur, gesturing to the bartender for a second drink. He is wearing a suit Arthur has never seen him in; something so immaculately tailored and well-made that it can't be new.

"You said you weren't coming."

"Actually what I said was that I'd rather masturbate into a cheese grater than show up, but as you would know," Eames affects an air of disinterest, "changes of heart are just so common." 

“You really should have done yourself a favor and gone with the first idea.”

“Yes, well. After very little deliberation I came to the realisation that I have as much right to be here as you do."

"It's my family."

"Funny," says Eames humourlessly. "I thought I was family too."

Arthur clenches jaw, retort dying in the back of his throat. Eames isn't wrong. Eames is practically part of the furniture at his family functions, and has been for over ten years. Up until---

"Besides," says Eames. "Aunty Edith likes me best. And I have her gift."

"Whatever," Arthur pulls the lapels of his jacket, squaring his shoulders. "Just stay out of my way."

"I intend to," Eames replies.

"You better."

"I will."

"Good."

"Great."

Arthur turns his body away, his skin crawling like a horde of ants were underneath it. "You can go back to your corner of the room now."

"Ta ta," Eames says, easily plucking the olive from Arthur's martini glass. "Pleasure seeing you, Arthur.  Parting is such sweet sorrow, etcetera."

"Go find yourself that cheese grater." 

Eames leaves with a satisfied glint in his eyes. Arthur sips his oliveless martini, uncaring. He hates olives, anyway.

---

“Why aren’t you here with Arthur?”

A fabulous question, really, considering no one here is a blood relative of his, or even a friend, besides the birthday girl.

"Well," Eames tells Arthur's drunk cousin, Barry, perhaps a little drunk himself. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "But we had a falling out recently, see. We're not together anymore."

"Really?"

Eames nods. "Over post-it's, if you'd believe."

The crowd of four he's speaking with pause in unison, aghast, as they no longer pretend they're not eavesdropping. 

"Post-it's?" Someone repeats, incredulous. 

Emerging from the bathrooms, draped in a fabulous red feather boa is the birthday woman of the hour. Arthur’s Great Aunt Edith. She is resplendent amongst pomp and circumstance, a withering cigarette in one hand, wine in the other. She spots Eames and waves him over.

"Long story," Eames says, downing his drink. "Anyway, nice seeing you." He waves back to Edith and heads over.

"Eames, my dear," Edith embraces him. "So good to see you."

"And you, my lovely lady," he kisses her flushed cheeks, feeling a knot in his upper back come loose. "I hear it's your eightieth birthday," he pulls back, assessing her. "You don't look a day over fifty."

"Oh, stop," she swats him away. "Where's Arthur? I've hardly seen him all night."

"Ah...I'm sure he's about," Eames smiles mildly, immediately feeling the knot coming back. "You know how he is. Can't sit still, that one. Anyway, tell me what you've been up to."

As he eagerly anticipated, she puts on a show, eyes widening with all of her witnessed tales: The headliner: Distress, despair, drama. She clutches his arm, steering him away from the crowd.

"Oh, Eamsie, darling, where do I even begin."

---

It's been two whole hours. Arthur hasn’t stuck around a family function this long since his youngest cousin’s Bar Mitzvah in ‘02.

"I haven't seen you since you were this high," his aunt Michele exclaims, gesturing to her bra-line. "Still, you barely look a day over twenty, you Cohens and your genes. I'm so jealous. Who are you wearing, Armani?" 

"Tom Ford," he blinks. 

"And what are you doing here all by your lonesome, hmm? Where's your beau?"

"My ex, you mean" he says, a little more drunkenly than he intends to, wiping his sweaty palm down his tie. He turns around on his stool and picks Eames out by the far end of the room and points to him. Luckily, Eames doesn't notice, or doesn't acknowledge this.

"No. When did you break up?" She looks genuinely sad.

"Like, yesterday."

"Oh my god."

"Yep."

"You two were, like, so cute together. What happened?"

"Post-it's,” Arthur mutters murderously. “Post-it's happened." 

"Huh?"

"Pretty ballsy of Eames to show up here at a family function like that if you’re not together," Barry says, cutting in. “Y’know. Considering.”

"...He is family," Arthur says quietly, eyes sliding to the small crowd Eames has amassed, each lured and falling to his natural charm. He fits right in, he always has. Like a missing piece of a prevailingly incomplete puzzle; he's as much a branch of the family tree as Arthur is. "...Even if he and I are not... anyway. Leave him be."

He lets that hang in the air and slides off his stool, and heads to the bathroom. Eames seems to have wandered off elsewhere, Arthur notes. Not that he was looking or anything.

---

Eames has just received a dollop of fancy-smelling soap in the palm of his left-hand when the bathroom door swings open. He's lathering it over his fingers when he looks up at the mirror and meets Arthurs gaze.

A thunderous look overtakes Arthur's features as he stalks to the urinals at the far wall, looking pale and unsteady despite his visible agitation.

Well, whatever. Ignoring him, Eames waves his hand uselessly in front of the sensor tap, failing to elicit a stream of water, Eames can't help himself, Arthur is fucking swaying on the spot. "Had a bit much, have you?"

The reply is instant.

"Fuck off."

He fucking hates these things. By the time Arthur has finished taking the world's longest piss Eames is still wriggling his soapy fingers towards the sensor without success. 

It prompts a huff and a bitchy "Jesus christ," before Arthur is leaning over and waving his hand under the stupid handlebar structure that Eames thought was decorative, eliciting a stream of cold water.

"Stupid fucking things," Eames mutters, dipping his hands under the spray.

There's an awkward moment where they finish washing their hands at the same moment and reach for the same paper towel dispenser.

"New suit?" Arthur gruffs, wiping his hands roughly.

"It is actually," Eames mutters, heart drooping like a forsaken house plant. He'd bought it six months ago, intended for their anniversary next month. He'd been hoping to surprise Arthur with it. 

In a way, he supposes he has. Just not the way he'd envisioned.

He checks the state of his hair in the reflection. "Not up to your high standards, Arthur?"

In the mirror Arthur rolls his eyes as he bunches up his paper towel. "I just didn't take you for a bow-tie man, is all."

Arthurs hair is down; long and curly, just the way Eames likes it. Used to like it. Compliments and insults gather and tangle amongst themselves on the tip of his tongue. He wants to say something between fuck you and you look unfairly lovely in that suit. He wants to say he's sorry, that he wishes more than anything he could reach his hands into time and reverse the clock, to go back and not say the things he did.

"You always did profess to know me better than you do," is what he says instead.

Ten years down the fucking drain. He turns then and, much like he did not so long ago, leaves. 

---

Arthur thinks his suit might be too tight.

Or maybe his tie is too close to his throat. Maybe someone has sucked all of the air out of the room, there's too many people. It's hot in here, too hot. In any case, Arthur is finding it harder to breathe than he did twenty minutes ago.

Trembling fingers worry with the knot of his tie for the nth time as he attempts to draw in a deep, heaving breath but finds his lungs refusing to expand to capacity. And it's as if someone has turned his hearing up to a hundred; the ballroom both quiet and deafening at once, he's sure everyone here can hear his galloping heartbeat, they all seem to be looking at him. Maybe he's making all the noise. He can't remember.

Maybe he has had too much to drink. 

Arthur has always been a bit of an outlier in his family. Never like his cousins. Too trapped in his own head. And now he's turned up to this party and everyone knows he's been unable to save his marriage, that it's back to baseline at his age when all of his cousins are having kids. Arthur is at one of these things alone again even with Eames swanning about, avoiding each other like they are strangers.

Intimacy has a fatal backlash, and this is it.

He has to get out of here.

Pasting on a smile, he finds Edith by the bar. She's graciously shared half of her feather boa with Aunt Michele as they speak.

"I'm heading out," he interrupts them, embracing Edith. "Happy Birthday, again. Thank you for inviting me."

"Oh, Arthur dearest," she says, her hands finding his shoulders, her rouged lips sloping into a frown. "So soon?"

"I have an early morning," he lies. "A work thing."

She shares a look with Michele. "Could you please do one thing for me before you leave?"

"Sure."

"I'm feeling a bit of a chill. Would you be able to retrieve my coat from the cloak room?"

It's the least he could do dipping out early on her special day. "Of course."

"Number sixteen,” she passes him a paper ticket. “Lime leopard print, you can't miss it."

The cloak room, if he recalls correctly, was in the grand hall, out of the ballroom, towards the entrance.

So close, but so far, he thinks wryly, heading in.

---

It's quite stuffy in here, generously sized for a glorified closet, he has less room than he'd like, but it's hot work, rummaging around the large coats and jackets.

It's as he's spotted the lime leopard print monstrosity, way at the back, when he hears a tell-tale snick.

He drops the item and lunges for the door handle. It doesn't open. 

“No, no, no…” He jigs the handle, twisting it this way and that, bile rising up his throat. It's locked. He can't open it. Either this is a huge mistake or some fucker has just locked him in here. "Is anyone there?"

He calls out again, louder. No one answers him.

Then he kicks the door.

It doesn't budge. He pulls his phone out with nervous, shaking hands, desperate enough to call Eames to get him the fuck out of here. Not even Eames is petty enough to leave him in the lurch in a situation like this. He tries, but it goes to voicemail for each time Arthur tries.

No service. Of fucking course. Why would anything go right for him.

His eyes slip shut briefly and suddenly he is in an elevator; a tiny, cramped elevator that is going to descend and crash at any moment. A wave of vertigo washes over him so suddenly that his knees buckle, taking him to the floor.

The tie is loosened, and wrested from his person and thrown to the ground.

"Fuck," he says to himself. He buries his head in his hands and laughs, eyes burning, suddenly very, very sober.

---

If asked, Eames would generously say he is mostly a fan of Arthur's family. His mom, bless her memory, was a darling. Sandy, Michele, Edith, all gold star members of the Cohen clan, whether outsourced or made in-house. But some of them, however, are insufferable.

A dominant Cohen trait, it would seem.

He's been stuck speaking to some old fart who is drunkenly admitting to having a mistress while some other, older fart next to him nods and openly shares stories of sneaking gropes of the younger women who work in his office. 

"Well, that's depressing," he mutters, downing the rest of his champagne, skin feeling greasy simply by proximity. "Nice talk, chaps."

He leaves that circle of degeneracy to find someone more up to his speed. But as he turns, and turns, and turns, there doesn't seem to be anyone to fit that brief. He can't even see Arthur. Perhaps he left already. Without saying goodbye, or even a middle finger, that scoundrel. Not that Eames cares. 

He smooths a hand down the front of his shirt and considers that it is perhaps time to leave.

The birthday girl finds him before he finds her.

"Oh, Eamesie," she kisses his cheeks again. "You heading out, are you?"

"I am," he takes her hands in his, pressing a kiss to the back of each one. "Early morning, see."

"Worst news of the night! You'll come visit me soon, won't you?"

"Of course. We have to do happy hour."

"Of course! Can you do one thing for me before you leave?"

He smiles, fond, a happiness to indulge her blooming brightly in the cracks inside of him. "Of course."

Her shoulders shake with a theatrical shiver. "I'm feeling a bit of a chill... would you be able to retrieve my coat from the cloak room? Number sixteen."

---

Arthur estimates that he's been sat on the floor, staring into nothingness, for at least twenty minutes when the door to the cloak room opens.

He's instantly on his feet, a thank god on his lips, when he sees that it's Eames who's come to his rescue.

Eames is staring at him, dumbly. "What are you doing in here?" he asks, the yellow light of the bulb above his head giving him a halo. “Did you pass out or something?”

“What?” Arthur pauses. "What are you doing here? Then it occurs to him exactly what Eames is doing in here. The blood rushes out of his upper body. Then he says, "Fuck."

Snick.

“Did—?”

Hysteria wells up where hope has vacated as he watches Eames whirl around and re-enact the same thing that Arthur had done earlier in trying to get the door open.

"It's locked," Arthur informs him.

"It's locked," Eames exclaims as if he hasn't heard him, roughly shaking the door handle. "Arthur, it's fucking locked. We're locked in." He pounds on the door and calls out, but no one comes, even when Eames resorts to bellowing for help.

Arthur sighs, head pounding.

Eames whirls around, anger writ over his face. "Are you going to fucking help or what, Arthur?" He takes his phone out of pocket, "Useless. I'll just fucking---" he taps the screen roughly. "No service? How is there no fucking service?"

"I've already tried that."

Eames rummages through the racks of coats, trying to look for something. "Surely there is something to jimmy that fucking door open." He pats himself down in a panic. "I don't have my fucking kit with me. The one day I don't have my goddamn kit."

Arthur knows. He left his lockpicking kit at their house, along with all of his other possessions.

"Did Edith ask you to get her coat?"

Pausing his assault on the door Eames sends a suspicious, caged look. "How did you know? Did you fucking plan this?"

"What the fuck?" Arthur blinks, taken aback. "Why would I plan this? Do you think I want to be stuck here with you?"

"I don't know, do you?"

"I don't want to be anywhere fucking near you," he snaps. Unbelievable. “This is the last place I want to be in." He punctuates this by pressing himself to the furthest wall, a whole four feet away from Eames. "Edith asked me the same thing," he swears. "What did you tell her?"

"I didn't fucking tell her anything, just that we split up."

"And what else?"

"I didn't tell her to lock me in a fucking closet with you if that's what you're asking," Eames snaps. "No doubt this is her idea of a joke."

More like her idea of a daytime soap. "I'm not laughing," Arthur mutters darkly.

"I suppose you wouldn't be," Eames says, mouth twisted in a facsimile of amusement. "Can't run away when someone's got you locked in."

Arthur strips his jacket off in angry motions, suddenly very warm, and drops it to the floor beside his tie. Beads of sweat roll down his back as the walls seem to close in with every verbal jab. 

"Rich coming from you. I'm not the one who ran away."

"I left after you left me." Eames adds.

"I didn't fucking leave you!" Arthur snaps, wishing he were anywhere else, that the floor would open and swallow him whole. He's so sick of talking about this. "God, you're so self-absorbed! You can't ever be wrong, can you?"

“Oh, are we doing this now?” Eames' arms cross over his chest. "What part am I wrong about—"

"—All of it—"

"—was it the note you left on the PASV that said 'I can't do this anymore'? Or was it the second that said 'I'm leaving?'".

"Leaving for a job for fucks' sake!" Arthur frustratedly wipes his hands down his face. "You weren't back from Berlin yet!"

"You'd been ignoring my calls for an entire week," Eames says. “If that’s not precisely what you meant, what was I supposed to think? That you’d announced your departure for milk and eggs down the shops?"

"You were supposed to ask me! Like, 'Hey, Arthur, what's this about?'"

"So you could break up with me to my face?"

Arthur shakes his head. "You always do this. You always cut the goddamn cord when you think someone is going to let the other end go first. I wasn't breaking up with you, asshole. You misunderstood."

"Yes, well," Eames huffs defensively, "it was only a matter of time, wasn't it? It was always going to end this way. It always does."

Arthur doesn't think so, but is too angry to bother refuting him. His fingers, slippery with sweat, struggle to unbutton his cuffs. He gets there and pushes his sleeves up messily, then works on the first few buttons of his shirt. He takes hold of the fabric and pulls it away from his chest, using it to fan himself.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm--" he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "It's too hot. I can't breathe." The room is too small. The room is too fucking small, there isn’t enough air—the elevator is falling—

"...sit down." Eames voice is muffled. "...sit down, Arthur."

His legs abruptly collapse beneath him at the command, knees buckling like a puppet that had its strings cut. Curling in on himself Arthur buries his head in his shaking hands again so he doesn't have to see.

Several long, quiet moments pass before he hears Eames shuffle and sit in front of him, clothes shifting noisily before him.

"Do you remember when we broke up over stamps that one time?" Arthur says into his hands when it feels like he’s not going to fall anymore, when there is a little more oxygen in the room. 

“Yeah.”

"I thought that was the dumbest reason for anyone to break up and nothing could ever top it.” He huffs darkly, laughing a little. “I was wrong."

"To be fair, they were my Uncle Micks' stamps."

"Your Uncle Mick was an asshole."

"Yeah but his collection was worth a mint. Until you threw them out."

"I didn't realize what it was,” he says sadly. “I thought it was trash."

"You misunderstood."

He presses his fingernails into his hairline until it hurts. "Yeah, I guess I did."

---

Every second that it takes for Arthur’s breathing to even out Eames counts out. Each of those seconds he wishes the closet door would magically open and give them both what he can’t, a solution to everything wrong between them.

"You're never going to forgive me about following Dom, are you?" Arthur says after a long time. 

"It's not that I haven't forgiven..." Eames swallows, tracing a line over the curve of his thumbnail. "There was never... I've forgiven you. Long ago."

“Then why did you say—? Yesterday. Why did you...”

Maybe Arthur was right, that it was Eames looking for an out this entire time. Maybe he wants some benevolent force to open that door so Eames can flee for good, unable to stand this peeling back of his skin, the under surface exploration that has never become easier, even after all this time.

Finding the right words is like digging for gold in a bargain bin at a discount store. In all of the white noise he tries to find the words; but they come out clumsy; insufficient. "When you left that time. It was...it felt..." He feels stupid even saying it, "...it hurt so tremendously that I think it took out a part of me."

"Eames."

"And the only way I could cope with that was to shut off that part of myself that cares with the same ferocity. To just turn it all off. I think I never put myself back together quite right. And every time I start thinking you're going to leave again..."

"You do what you think you need to to protect yourself. "

He shrugs, profound shame heating his face. "I do it before I know I've done it. I can't feel left behind if I convince myself I don't love you anymore."

"And you don't?"

"I only convince myself long enough to get out the door," Eames admits for the first time out loud. "It's pride that he keeps me from walking back in. I don't know if I can fix it."

"I wasn't going to leave."

It’s been forty hours of the same argument. Eames is beyond tired of this. "Then what the fuck does 'I can't do this anymore' and 'I'm leaving' mean, Arthur?"

Out of the corner of his eye Arthur looks awful, more awful than he did when Eames walked in. Ten years older and barren of any human vitality; smaller. "I was leaving for another job. It was going to be my last because I'm quitting."

Eames blinks. "You are not."

"I'm done. No more dreaming, no more consulting. None of it."

"You wouldn't last five minutes without it."

"I knew that's what you would say," Arthur fiddles with his hands, not meeting his eyes. "But I am. I mean, aren't you tired of it?"

"I was tired of it five years ago, Arthur. Remember, before you pulled me back in for the Fischer job?"

"I wish I'd quit then. Right after Mal." He laughs, darkly. "I wasted so much time. I fucking regret it. We could have had more time; now look at us."

"I can't believe you wrote that on fucking post-its," Eames wipes a hand down his face. "Why didn't you write 'let's quit dreamshare', you stupid idiot."

"It was only a first draft. You were home earlier than I expected. You weren’t meant to find them."

A long silence passes between them, taking up all of the available space in the tiny cloak room.

"You're right," Eames nudges their knees together, heart breaking a little. "This is way more stupid than the stamps break-up. Or the time with the bagel."

"I hadn't eaten in three days," Arthur says, ire momentarily flaring like a stoked fire as Eames knew it would, bringing a bit of life back to him. "Fuck. I was so mad when you ate that. I was so hungry."

"It was a stale bagel, for what it's worth."

"...I'm sorry you found the notes like that. I didn't think-- I didn't think. I was just trying to plan what to say. I was scared it was going to be a deal breaker."

"I suppose it was, in a way."

"Yeah."

An uncomfortable silence passes between them. In the far distance the can hear echoes of the ballroom music, but no voices, or footsteps.

"Eames?"

"Mm?"

"I..." Arthur visibly appears to take a moment to measure his words. "When you said yesterday that I was a flake looking for the next out... I'm not a flake."

Regret slides down Eames throat in a hard, solid lump. "I shouldn't have said that. I know you're not."

"And I shouldn't have said that you weren't in this to begin with."

"I was, you know," he says.

"Yeah."

"But this up and down thing," Eames says, finally loosening his bow-tie, the old aches in his knees and the small of his back making themselves known. "I had it wrong, but I had it right. We can't keep doing this.” 

“No.”

An air of sadness and finality permeates the room so thickly that Eames can't take it. He isn't going to let post-its of all damn things be their end. So he does what he does best, and takes a gamble.

“...We'd need to do something different."

The dividends are paid out in Arthur blinking at him in surprise, the ghost of a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. 

"Yeah,” he agrees. “Like... not working in an industry we resent?"

"Or not getting mad over stamps."

"Or bagels."

"Or not seeing family you like often enough."

"Not explaining things clearly," Arthur concedes, inching closer. "I was wrong, Eames. I messed up, big time. I am an idiot."

"Will you write that on a post-it?"

"A hundred times over."

"I do love you, very much, for what it's worth." Eames tells him. "I can't unlove you. I've tried. It doesn't stick."

Eames did try. But in a rush of blinding colour Eames can see at once the worth of the immaterial; the cost of his own self-preservation, or the risk of further turbulence with Arthur. A lifetime of missing the shape of him, of waking up beside him. Of being known by him. No part of Eames has known or longed for another since Arthur; and he feels it still, at this moment, pressed thigh to thigh, alone together, two inches and two thousand miles apart. Eames would be okay without Arthur, but he's so much better with him.

"Me too." Fingers thread through his. Arthur’s palm is slick and his fingers faintly tremble with lingering adrenaline.

Despite all of it, this simple point of contact threads some part of Eames back together. 

"Fourth time has to be the charm, don't you think?"

"I'll do it as many times as needed," Arthur says, his other hand coming up to cup Eames cheek. 

A chaste kiss is pressed to his mouth.

"Which coat is the best to shag on, do you think?" he mumbles against Arthur's lips after a moment, dirtying up the kiss with a swipe of his tongue.

"There should be some genuine mink in here, I think," Arthur tugs on Eames' bow-tie. "It's a shame we're going to crumple this suit. It's gorgeous."

Eames doesn't think it's a shame at all. It was the purpose of him buying it in the first place, after all. It was always intended to end up in a rumpled, crinkled pile on the floor.

And it does.

---

One year later.

"Oh, don't you two look cute," is the first thing his Aunt Michele says at Edith's 81st birthday party.

"I'd prefer devastatingly handsome," says Eames, linking his arm with Arthurs.

Michele blinks. "Okay. Nice seeing you!" Then she's off, chasing another woman calling her name.

"I prefer dapper," says Arthur, looking at Eames, seemingly somewhat offended. He gestures to their suits. "This is not cute."

"Au contraire, my dear," Eames begins walking them forward, waving across the room to some of Arthur's cousins, "we are the cutest. I could pinch our cheeks."

Arthur fixes him a look that halts a hand wandering downwards that intends to do just so. Recovering, Eames only smiles placidly at him as they approach the bar, where Edith is already flirting with the bartender. This year she's in a studded leather jacket and a red sequinned dress with a dramatic, sultry slit up the side. It’s tacky. It’s as lurid as the rest of the venue. It’s perfect.

"Didn't think either of you would show up," Barry mutters into his drink, face scrunching up as if he'd just tasted something sour.

"Oh honestly, how many times must we apologise for that little incident," Eames waves him off, referring to the previous room when Barry was the one to find them in the cloak room, post-coitus, having thoroughly defiled the gaudiest of outerwear.

"You haven't even apologized once."

"Well, if we're honest, nothing about that incident was little," says Arthur.

"Right you are," says Eames.

"I'm leaving," says Barry.

"Oh, how I missed you two," Edith smiles brightly welcoming them into her embrace as Barry departs. She kisses both of their cheeks. “Tell me, darlings, what’s news?”

Arthur shares a look with Eames.

It hasn’t been a year without setbacks; to be expected, of course, when quitting dreamshare and recharting the trajectory of their lives. Not without quibbles and slammed doors, sneers and snarls and fucking spectacular make-up sex. But it’s been the best year of Eames’ life, so far, he would put good money on saying, full of making up things as they go and plain old making up and out, over and over. Growing up and older together, more stable than they’ve ever been before. 

Arthur squeezes his fingers.

Eames slips his other hand into his pocket, feeling for the folded up piece of paper he knows is in there. A post-it that simply reads I love you.

“We’re thinking of relocating nearby,” he announces. “A change of pace.”

Edith's gasp is genuine in its delight. “Oh, that is the best news of the night!”

Arthur’s voice is soft. “Yeah,” he catches Eames gaze, smiles fondly. “We’re pretty damn happy.”

They are.

[beautifulterriblequeen]

would love to see Runaan retire from assassining and take up something softer. Maybe being a ranger like the other guardians of the Silvergrove, as they're called in the Xadia game. Especially since he's soft for animals, and sometimes you get rangers with animal companions as they move through the wild.

What does he range around for? Just Silvergrove defenses? Nah, not our boy. He's got Guilt! He loves Xadia and he still wants to protect it, and he's also got all these precision violence skills. How to use them effectively without continuing the Cycle, though?

Well. There are all these horrible nighttime ghosts flitting around every night now. And arrows can strike them, as we've seen. And the Xadia game had a whole plot arc centered on what happens when restless spirits return (hint: you kill them a couple more times, really good and dead for suresies). And I think Runaan would be pretty good at such a job.

It's got angst and sorrow - he'd have to range all over Xadia, whether Ethari comes with him or not (he's coming with him), and spend his time dwelling on those who died violent deaths and had unfinished business - things Runaan's assassin job directly contributed to. His hands really could make his amends, by putting to rest these angry spirits to protect the living, and looking his past deeds in the eye while he does it.

Some of the spirits he encounters may be people he killed, even. And that's where things get interesting. In order to save people from avenging spirits, he'd have to shoot someone he already shot. And that's pretty angsty. Will he still be hard enough not to hesitate? Or will he get caught up in the guilt and shame of his place in this grand engine? Would he let them hurt him, would he even be able to stop them if they tried, if they recognized him specifically? Ohoho. Ohohohoho.

*steeples fingers* Yes good, I would deeply enjoy seeing ghost hunter Runaan and wardcrafter Ethari taking on a seemingly endless array of tormented souls armed with what I can only imagine are truly inspired haunt-proof trinkets and weapons specifically tailored to control and take out ghosts.

Not least because it would mean Runaan gets a new outfit. 😇

[turtledotjpeg]

@hxhbigbang24 time!!

I drew for this fic which made me SAD and also made my HEART WARM!! I will not say too much to avoid spoiling future chapters, but I illustrated a few moments from this scene near the end of the story that I loved!

[profoundmakerdreamerss-blog]

Tomarry AU time travel but with a twist

— where Tom and Harry are best friends but Harry ends up falling for Tom — and Tom? He rejects him. Because Tom isn't ready. Because he thinks relationships are a waste of time — and believes what he and Harry has is better. And, Harry? Though hurt, accepts his answer. Though there is some residual awkwardness — they go back to being friends.

But— now, Tom is more aware of Harry. Now, that he knows Harry is okay with having a romantic relationship with him, he starts noticing things that he hasn't before. He starts thinking about Harry more than he did before (which basically means he thought about him every second now, back then it was one thought per ten seconds but anyways—) and having realizations about himself that he has been ignoring before due to always thinking about the future. After all he is a busy man with a grand plan — he was just too busy to have time for something mundane like introspection, am I right?

Unfortunately, though before Tom could do something about his emotions derailing his plans — Harry dies. For him. To save him

Tom being Tom, through his all consuming grief and regrets — breaks time conventions to save Harry and ends up travelling back on the day Harry came to Hogwarts. And as Tom tries to make amends for his mistakes by trying to befriend Harry, who is the new transfer student earlier than before, he realizes how strange Harry used to be.

How he would act skittish around Tom or glare at him with so much hatred that would make him stumble. Because Harry never did that, or did he? That didn't matter though, because Tom would win him over anyways — because he is the one whom Harry loves loved. So, he is one who would end up winning him anyways — not Black or Longbottom for that matter.

So this au is basically time travelling harry and time travelling tom but both of them from different points of time, trying to do their best — trying to save the world (for Tom, it's Harry and is that my way of implying Harry was his world? Yes.)

[bluuscreen]

working on my own little “the master doesn’t die and joins the doctor after lotl” au so here’s voyage of the damned outfits if i got to do the costume design [plus a couple silly bonus sketches under the cut]

[swordmaid]

i am wide awake thinking about that post canon jb au again when I should be sleeping …!!! such is the nature of the jbrainrot…

[ambagel]

Wait hold on, in his anniversary video Barbatos mentions the mc being the brother's attendant?

But in the other videos, it's implied that they don't remember the mc leaving (which is actually something im very disappointed about and really hope isnt the case in the actual story)

In these two specifically, it seems like they aren't aware of the mc's presence in the past/alternate timeline/whatever it is. The only other person who seems like they know is Lucifer

Which also lines up with the end of lesson 40, where he's the only one who says welcome back? So like?? Do only him and Barbatos know? Did they not tell anyone?? Diavolo would probably know as well but I haven't seen anything to show that yet. Anyways I don't really like where this is going, I would really prefer they not make everyone forget the mc disappeared

[bonksoundeffect]

The born in Eastern Europe curse of knowing you were doomed from the start

[tennessoui]

omg time traveler ahsoka au! she gets obi-wan to leave the order for satine in the hopes that he’d be weird with someone else but anakin gets sent on a mission to mandalore and wow there’s this handsome duke he has to look after. what a shame he’s married and definitely wouldn’t leave his wife for this jedi he feels immediately weird about

hmmmmmmm this is one of Ahsoka’s closest attempts because obi-wan’s personal sense of loyalty wouldn’t let him cheat on his wife, and he’s spent so long building a family and a life on Mandalore that he would never toss it aside to be romantically involved with a kid (read: 22yo) that he doesn’t even know even though he feels a very strong pull towards him….obi-wan is adept at lying to himself

It gets easier to lie to himself when he realizes that Skywalker is also married, though secretly…..it offends part of Kenobi, but that’s just because Skywalker is making a mockery of the Jedi order with his secret marriage!! Kenobi is no longer a Jedi of course but he still has great respect for the Order!!!

That’s the only reason he feels so strange when he thinks of Skywalker’s marriage even long after Skywalker and the senator he was guarding as she came to a celebratory feast on Mandalore leave again.

(Ahsoka tenses on her reset button as anakin makes his way back to mandalore a few months later, but they’re being….normal…this anakin requests to study ancient mandalorian and Jedi texts that are housed in the capital city and it’s weird because he’s never really cared about history but he’s being very…respectful….and master obi-wan is also being very respectful if a little stand offish….he accompanied him down to read the texts and they spend hours down there together but as far as Ahsoka can tell there is nothing inappropriate happening —she has gotten very good at telling when something inappropriate is happening between her old masters—they really are just…talking and reading and they’re being…sort of weird…but sort of normal….it’s the closest they’ve come to the original timeline in fact…Ahsoka relaxes on her reset button)

War breaks out anyway of course and obi-wan lasts only a month or so after anakin is pulled to the front lines before donning an old beat up and anonymous suit of mandalorian armor and flying to fight with him. The Duchess of Mandalore offers no comment. The official story is that her husband is sick in bed from a nasty case of Flafu flu. No one knows that it’s the Duke of mandalore in the red armor, supporting Skywalker’s troops.

Ahsoka wonders if Anakin knows, up until the moment some droid gets a lucky shot in and obi-wan goes down on the battlefield and anakin levels an entire field of droids to get to him looking half out of his mind with worry and rage….then she knows he knows and maybe that he’s always known

She’s tensed up over the reset button again, but after obi-wan’s been seen to by the medic, anakin sends him back to his wife on mandalore and, miraculously, after 2 years fighting to be by anakin’s side, obi-wan…stays, but he looks so beaten down over it, so without half his heart, like he’s suddenly aged 20 years and lived in a desert for all of them. But he stays.

The war ends eventually and the Jedi triumph. Ten years later, leia runs through Anakin’s study with an old red helmet over her head as Luke runs after her, playing war. anakin gently takes it off her and sets her on the ground. He cradles the helmet though in battle worn hands, but thankfully before either of them can ask, padmes speeder arrives and they shoot off to go welcome their mom home - anakin stays for a second longer, just staring at the helmet with such a naked expression of wistfulness longing heartbreak and acceptance that Ahsoka almost wants to turn away. Before she does she sees anakin touch his forehead to the helmet’s once before rising and putting it away, turning instead to go greet his wife

and it leaves Ahsoka with such a WEIRD feeling in her own heart that she’s pressing the reset button before she can think it through because she wants them to be apart and she wants the Jedi to win the war and everyone to get their happy endings but…but not like this…not if they’re not happy….she gets 1 reset where she gets to be selfish ok she’s gone through thousands now probably.

[phagodyke]

ykw actually I am angry + disappointed w them. I've been pushing how I feel aside and trying to make it my own fault so it's all contained but I think theyve just been mean. and they really should know me better ik I try to pretend I don't expect more from them so I feel less hurt when they do things that upset me but we've been friends for years by this point. like come on.

[benetnvsch]

Bones took a lotta liberties with this episode but I am quite fond of them actually DLSKAKA-

[brunchable]

𝙄 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝘽𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 [ 2 ]

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: Friends to Lovers. SMUT: Touch Hungry Bucky, Kiss Hungry Bucky, Bucky just not getting enough of you, fingering, cunnilingus, Oral [M&F], unprotected piv, creampie. Just PURE making love, no kinks. Summary: It's only been a few hours since you've become official and Bucky want to show you just how much you mean to him. A/N: 2 of 2. And I must say. . . JAYSUS. BON APETITIDDIES.

Part One

You were stiff. You were sore. Your arm was asleep. And you felt fucking fantastic.

Maybe in the movies people woke up entwined in each other's arms after a night of spirited lovemaking, but for you, reality was much more awkward. Your head had somehow become wedged behind Bucky’s shoulder, and both his legs were about to slide off the couch altogether. You untangled yourself as best you could, looking down at him as you moved his limbs out of the way.

Bucky was sleeping peacefully, his dark lashes lying flat against the skin beneath his eyes. They fluttered slightly as you pulled free of him, and he stirred.

"Five more minutes," he mumbled, and turned over so he was facing the back of the couch, still caught in mid-slide towards the floor.

You tried not to laugh. God, he was adorable.

You sat up, arching your back to stretch out the sore muscles. Then your breath caught. What time was it? Holy hell, I’m going to be late.

You stood up quickly, and was seized by an ache between your legs so unfamiliar that you nearly sat back down again. Holy crap. It had been way too long. You almost felt like a virgin again. You rose again shakily, noticing that your whole groin felt sore, and so did your hips—probably from throwing your legs up around his waist. God, what a wanton hussy you were, you thought happily.

You went quietly towards the bathroom, checking the clock on the stove as you walked by. It was nearly eight-thirty. Crap. You were supposed to be at work by nine, or nine-thirty at the latest. you'd  have to make the shower a quick one.

You stood under the hot water, letting it pour over your sore muscles. You washed out your hair, lathered up your body and massaged your sore hips as random images from last night invaded your thoughts. Even now you weren't entirely convinced it hadn't all been a dream. Has it really happened? The soreness was real enough. And so were the images flashing through your mind.

Bucky’s body on yours, looming over you, holding your wrists, kissing you with abandon. Taking each breast in his mouth, teasing you with his fingers. Sliding into you, tilting your back and thrusting deeper, faster, harder.

Suddenly a blurry figure appeared on the other side of the glass door. The door slid open and he stood there, looking disheveled from sleep but adorably sexy. And naked, too.

"Hi," he said, a seductive smile curving his lips. His eyes traveled down your naked body, pausing at your breasts and then sliding down to the between your legs where rivulets of water coursed and ran together.

You flushed at the frank inspection but willed yourself not to try to hide from him. You shifted your weight, jutting your hip out provocatively and smiled.

His eyes returned to yours, desire glinting in them. "May I join you?"

You pushed the door back and invited him in. Bucky stepped in and crowded you, not unpleasantly, until your back was up against the tiles. He braced his hands on the wall behind you, and let the water flow over him as he leaned down and kissed you.

You opened to him and kissed him back, winding your hands around his waist and sliding them down his ass, squeezing appreciatively. He smiled into the kiss, enjoying your wandering hands, then pushed forward so your bodies were pressed together, the water slick and warm between you.

"So," he murmured in your ear, his voice barely a whisper above the sound of the water. "So much for that idea."

"What idea was that?" you whispered back, kissing his ear.

"The idea that we could ever be just friends," he said, catching your jaw with his lips as you turned your head. He covered your neck with slow, lingering kisses, trailing his mouth down your and cupping your breast with his hand.

"Oh, I don't know, I think it's a great idea so far," you said coquettishly. "Besides," you joked. "I do this with all my male friends."

He mocked a scowl at you, and gave you  that smile that had always melted you. "Well, that's going to have to stop. You're mine now."

He kissed you slowly, his tongue tangling with yours as he teased and tasted, enjoying your mouth.

You kissed him back, licking and tasting and enjoying him until you felt rather than heard a hum of desire, of pure carnal lust, vibrating through him. He was growing hard against your belly, his cock pressing against you urgently.

He lowered his head further and took your  nipple into his mouth, licking the soft nub until it grew hard beneath his tongue. Pleasure shot through you, and he turned to lavish the same attention on your other breast. You writhed against the cold tiles at your back, arching into him and sinking your fingers into his hair to hold him to you. He smiled as you moaned with pleasure, and laughed softly when he took your nipple between his teeth and made you suck in a sharp breath.

His cock was as hard as it had been a few hours ago, and it surged in your hand as he took your breasts. You gathered some suds into your palm and grasped him again, feeling the iron-hardness of him beneath the silky skin. You began to stroke, gliding fast and smooth, and he groaned from the pleasure of it, collapsing against you and kissing you between his soft, low sounds of pleasure and need.

You kept stroking and teasing, gliding over him in a steady rhythm, and felt yourself growing warm and slick at how hard he was beneath your fingers. You loved that you were doing that to him, making him want you so much. He groaned, his breath jagged and shallow. He tried to kiss you through his mounting pleasure but he had to break off to breathe, to lose himself in the sensation.

"God, baby," he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "So good."

You tried not to focus on him calling you baby, knowing it was only his arousal talking. You focused instead on the intense pleasure that was making him say it. You continued stroking him, changing your hand position so that you pulled up with each stroke, teasingly pulling his skin up over the head each time and sinking down to the base, pleasuring every inch of him. Your other hand cupped his balls and caressed him, gently rolling him around in your fingers as he tensed and surged and seemed to fight against you, against the unbearable pleasure you were causing him.

After a few torturous moments he stopped your hand, his breathing so fast and ragged that he could hardly speak. 

“You—don't want—this to end too soon, do you?” he warned, kissing you in between breaths. “Because, my God, you could make me come in seconds if you wanted to.”

“That might be fun,” you said, kissing the edges of his mouth, licking at his lips and his tongue when he opened his mouth to you again.

“For me, yes,” he breathed, breaking away from you. “But I'm not nearly finished with you yet.”

He slipped his hand into your hair and held your head, kissing you with such raw passion, such naked need that you felt a surge of warmth flood between your legs in spite of the cooling effects of the water. He had wrung a soul-shattering orgasm out of you just a few hours ago and yet here you were again, eager for him again. Wanton hussy indeed.

"Do you remember that night, two years ago?" he asked, his voice low and deep. "At the party, when I played that song on the guitar for you, and you asked whether it hurt my fingers to play the steel strings?"

He was watching his own fingers trail over your breasts, over your tightened nipple, down past your navel, as the water trickled over you both.

"Mmm hmmm," you murmured, your eyes closed, lost in the sensation of the water coursing down your body and his hand moving over you.

“And you touched my fingertips…”

Of course you remembered; you'd run your  fingers over the roughened pads of his fingertips, and had watched in delight as he'd twitched a little, and then trembled, just a little, at your touch. You'd kept your touch feather-light and soft, drifting over his fingertips and down his fingers a little, feeling the shiver of heightened awareness in your  own hands.

Maybe you'd been a little too suggestive, a little too lingering, whispering-touching those parts of him that were supposedly hardened against such sensations—but you'd been unable to stop yourself. His hands had been warm and strong and eminently male, and when he'd stiffened and held his breath, as if willing himself not to react to your seductive touch, you'd felt that shiver of awareness deepen into an intense desire.

Such a seemingly innocent touch, just a friend examining the time-worn calluses of a guitar player's fingertips. . .and yet in that moment, even amongst their friends, even with the music playing loud and the laughter soaring above it, you'd felt like it had been just the two of you in that room, touching each other intentionally for the very first time, your hand tentatively reaching out for his, and his reaching to meet your half way.

“You drove me wild.” he said, leaning to kiss your neck. “I got so hard, I was afraid to move. And after that, I kept thinking of all the things I wanted to do to you with these fingers.” He slipped his hand between your  legs and caressed your folds, parting them gently and sliding inside you. “Like this, for instance.”

You moaned and leaned your head against his shoulder, letting him touch you wherever he wanted. His fingers explored you, caressed you, possessed you, expertly as though they, too, knew you were his.

“I just had to touch you,” you breathed against him. “And believe me, this is what I was thinking about too.”

“You stopped me last night,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your neck. “I wanted to feel you come for me. To finish what you started that night.”

You groaned at the sound of his voice, so low and sexual, so heated with his own desire.

“Let me feel you come for me, baby,” he whispered into your ear, licking your  earlobe. “Please.”

He gripped your hip and lifted you up against the wall slightly, positioning you so he could slide his fingers deep inside you. He held you firmly around the waist, bracing you against the wall, and thrust into you gently, with first one finger, then two, sliding deeper and deeper each time, stretching you, mimicking the size and power of his cock. His thumb played over your clit, sending shocks of pleasure through you as he pressed his forehead to yours and gazed down into your  eyes. You gasped and cried out from the overwhelming pleasure of it even as you squirmed beneath his fingers and ached for more.

He braced you against his thigh and pressed against you while his arm steadied you from behind, holding you completely in his grasp. Bucky had such a way of holding you, letting you know that you were going nowhere, making sure you had no desire to be anywhere but in his arms. You felt safe, and secure, and above all, worshiped.

Bucky bent down and kissed you, sliding his fingers into your with a wild, sensuous rhythm that matched the increasing speed of his thumb as it stroked and rubbed and swirled around your aching clit. His hand was so strong, his fingers curving inside you to caress you, to find that super-sensitive inner spot even as he plunged and drove and took. With his thumb circling your clit in a relentless rhythm and his fingers deep inside you, stretching you, claiming you, you felt completely owned by him, by the hand that possessed every inch of you.

His tongue slipped into your mouth, matching the rhythm of his fingers, swirling, tasting, mutely revealing that he had had another  fantasy, too. The thought of his mouth on you, his tongue tasting you, torturing you, swirling over your clit as you writhed beneath it made you go weak in the knees.

Bucky broke away from the kiss and began trailing kisses down your neck, your breasts, lowering himself to his knees in front of you  while bracing your hips against the tiles with his strong hands.

"Did I mention what it did to me the first time your tongue touched mine?" he whispered devilishly.

He looked up at you so intently, his beautiful blue eyes blazing as the water streamed over his shoulder and down the contours of his chest. You gazed down at him, and for the second time this morning questioned whether  all this could actually be happening. This gorgeous, virile man gripping you, kneeling before you, gazing at you like you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It couldn't be real, could it?

Then he lowered his lips to your and you knew it was.

Sensation tore through your touch, so delicately gentle at first, and you arched against the wall with a startled cry. You reached down and gripped his shoulder, steadying yourself on one foot as he brought you to your leg up slowly, gently and eased it over his shoulder. The sight of it alone nearly made you come. He moved so languidly, so sensuously, positioning you better so he could enjoy your all the more.

He closed his mouth over your clit and kissed it luxuriously, his lips moving as though he were kissing your mouth. His tongue swirled over you in large, sensuous circles and he groaned against you, tightening his grip on your hip as you moaned against the sudden overwhelming pleasure of it. The tip of his tongue darted out to flick against your  rapidly as he looked up at you again, watching your pleasure, his eyes smiling at you as if he knew precisely how good he was making you feel. Then he fell on you again, his tongue roaming over you, tasting you, luxuriating in your folds and dipping to lap at your entrance.

“Oh my, g-god. Bucky—”

You bucked against him and cried out as his tongue slipped into your and pulsed there, gently, savouring you. Your hand sank into his wet hair and as you gripped his head, you were rewarded with a muted chuckle and a more intense forward surge of his tongue inside you. He liked the moans he wrought from you. He liked being able to make your  cry out and seize him, your head thrown back in agonizing pleasure.

And fuck did you like it, too.

"Oh God," you breathed, your heart thundering in your chest. "My God, that feels so good..."

He withdrew from your and slid his tongue up to torture your aching clit, and just when you began to miss the feel of him inside your he gently pushed his fingers into your again and began to thrust.

Pleasure soared through you and you cried out even louder, and the leg draped over his shoulder began to tremble. His tongue circled your clit again, deliciously slowly, as his fingers slid into you over and over again, a sensual, primitive rhythm that made you  want to grind your hips against the pleasure.

“I'm coming,” you whispered urgently. “You're going to make me come…”

His fingers thrust deeper and faster and he began to lick you so quickly, with such a throaty groan of pleasure that you felt your  orgasm rise, terrifyingly fast and sharp, making you cry out in increasing, panting breaths until you shattered, coming violently around his fingers and that sensuous, irresistible tongue. You shuddered with an aching cry and trembled from the spasms he sent rippling through you. Your body curled forward as you gripped him tighter, your  fingers pulling on his hair from the pressure.

He removed your leg from his shoulder gently as you continued to shudder, feeling aftershocks of pleasure shiver through you. He got to his feet and helped you stand, pressing himself against your  and nuzzling your neck.

“Holy shit,” you whispered, your voice shaking. your  whole body shaking. “That was incredible.”

“That...was just the prelude,” he whispered, kissing you. “I haven't even started pleasuring you yet.”

God, he was going to kill you. Death by orgasm, you thought happily. What a way to go.

He leaned to turn off the water, but he stilled his hand. He looked back at you with a questioning expression, and then understood. You pulled him back towards yourself and he went willingly, stepping back under the stream of water, kissing you deeply, his hands roaming greedily over your  body.

You weren't done with him. He had made you feel like a goddess, worshiped, cherished, adored.

You broke off the kiss and began trailing your  lips down his neck, his collarbone and chest, enjoying the warmth of the water trickling past your mouth. His chest muscles tensed as you kissed them, and as you moved your  lips slowly down his abdomen you felt his whole body go rigid with anticipation. You sank to your knees in the tub and brushed kisses along his navel, his hip bones, and he put his hands on your shoulders to steady himself. Water coursed over both of you, and you delighted in it, closing your eyes against the spray.

“Baby,” Bucky said softly, barely audible above the water.

You opened your eyes and looked up at him. He was about to say something but you smiled and glanced away, focusing instead on the head of his cock, hard and urgent in front of you. He was thick and beautiful, and still as hard, maybe even harder, than he had been when you'd teased him with your  hands.

“I want to taste you,” you said playfully. “All of you.”

You leaned forward and gently licked the swollen tip of his cock. He inhaled sharply, his whole body tensing, and you smiled up at him, letting him know this was for your  pleasure as much as for his. You swirl your  tongue around the head, taking it into your  mouth and suckling gently, teasing it. The skin was soft and smooth, stretched deliciously tight from the hardness of his erection.

You let your tongue play over it, dipping into the opening, making him moan. You drifted your tongue along the ridge, and down to the sensitive skin just beneath the head, licking and tasting, nipping and kissing.

You looked up at him, and his dark eyes were wild with desire. You smiled, and ran your  tongue up and down the length of him, ending at the head and flicking at it delicately, teasingly. He moaned softly, his breathing starting to grow rapid. You rose up slightly to take the whole length of him into your mouth and sucked him, long and hard.

He let out a gasp and braced himself against the wall with one hand, his other  hand gripping your  shoulder.

“Oh fuck—Baby...”

You slid your mouth over his shaft, deeper, deeper, and slid back up the length of him. Your hands came around and gripped his ass, pulling him towards you. He staggered forward slightly as you took him into your  mouth again, luxuriously taking in his entire length, sucking, licking, tasting as you went. The sensation of him in your mouth was almost as overwhelming as his first entrance into your body had been, so unfamiliar but so right at the same time.

You caressed his balls with one hand as you played your tongue over his cock. He groaned, his breathing jagged now, his cock harder than ever. His hand moved from your  shoulder to sink into your wet hair, and he gripped your head with barely restrained urgency. Gently he guided your head closer to him as you sucked. You lowered yourself onto him and slowly sucked your way back up, your mouth gripping him, your cheeks hollowing, as your tongue slid over him with each pass.

His hips began to move as he started to match your rhythm, thrusting into you, meeting your mouth. Bucky gripped your head more firmly and held your head still, driving into you gently.

You let your hand fall and you sat back on your haunches, enjoying the feeling of him sliding in and out of your mouth, controlling his own pleasure, taking what he wanted, and what you were so willing to give. Yet you could tell he was holding back, wanting to thrust harder and faster but restraining himself and settling for a smoother, slower pace.

For you. Bucky was holding back for your sake. This passionate, soulful, virile man was holding back his own pleasure because he wanted to be gentle with you.

The very thought of it excited you, and you increased your own rhythm, encouraging him, moaning with pleasure as he drove into you. You sucked harder, faster, turning your  gaze up to him with an urgent plea in your  eyes. Faster. Deeper. Now, my love.

And he understood.

Bucky groaned, and stepped forward. His hand clenched in your hair and he began to move, faster and harder, plunging deeper, holding your head as he thrust into your  mouth with urgent, rhythmic strokes. He slid in and out of your mouth as if through warm honey, and you felt and heard his pleasure mounting with every ratcheted breath and every desperate moan that escaped his lips.

His eyes watched your with rapt adoration and abject lust, and you could tell that the sight of your taking him fully into your mouth, of your sucking him with pure, greedy abandon and complete acceptance, was pushing him closer to the edge as much as the intense pleasure of your tongue on his cock was. Or more.

He tensed as his rhythm grew faster, his breathing harder, until you felt him tighten and strain so much that you felt certain he was going to spill himself into your mouth. But at the last moment he cried out and pulled back, his cock slipping out of your  mouth quickly. He stood still, breathless, his eyes closed as if willing his orgasm to retreat. Water sliced down his neck and chest, and finally he let out a slow, jagged moan of a breath and opened his eyes. He looked down at you wildly, and reached for you,helping you to your feet.

“Jesus,” he said breathlessly, staring at you as he tried to catch his breath. “I can't...I can't believe how goddamn good that felt. You brought me so close, so fast, I almost couldn't stop it.”

“Why did you?” you asked, running your  finger along his jaw. “I wanted to feel you come for me.”

He groaned against you, his hands roaming over your  body. “I told you, I'm not nearly done with you yet.”

He kissed you hungrily, his cock surging against your violently as your bodies met. you could feel him moving against you, his cock rubbing against you,and you knew how badly he wanted to be inside you again.

As badly as you wanted him inside you again.

He stepped back, his breath still ragged, and pressed his forehead to yours as he closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

“You're not done yet, huh?” you teased gently, letting your fingers sink into his wet hair as you kissed his neck.

“Not nearly.”

“But I have to go to work. Maybe if I'm lucky you'll be here when I get home?”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

He reached to turn off the water and stepped out of the shower, turning to help your step over the wall of the tub. You threw your robe on and cinched the belt as he dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist. You caught him grinning at you, and it was so clear what he was thinking that it made your  laugh.

“What?” you demanded, squeezing the excess water out of your hair with a hand towel. “What are you smiling at?”

Bucky wetted his lips with his tongue, “Fuck it. You're just going to have to be late for work. Come here…”

“Hey!” your eyes widened playfully, jumping away from him. “Are you trying to kill me? Stop!”

Bucky untied your robe and you yelped, trying to slap his hands away. He just kept advancing on you, grinning devilishly. You turned and scampered away from him with a squeal of delight.

He followed behind, still grasping for the robe. You shrieked and laughed and ran towards the bedroom, and he followed, catching up to you and pushing you onto the bed with a resounding crack of the bed frame.

You laughed as he tumbled on top of you, but he silenced you with his mouth, kissing you hungrily as he impatiently pushed your robe aside. His breath was ragged as he nudged your legs apart with his knee, his need too great for the slow, sensual lovemaking of last night. He held his cock against your entrance and smoothly thrusts into you and moaned against your mouth, and you wrapped your legs around him to draw him deeper.

He plunged into you, covering your body and your mouth with the same hungry possession. You were still so warm and wet, so exquisitely ready for him that he filled you easily, driving you relentlessly as he tasted your tongue, your lips, your neck, and groaned from the pleasure your body was giving him.

You tensed around him and he moaned breathlessly, a throaty, male sound of pure ecstasy. He pounded into you, falling into a steady rhythm born of raw, primitive need. Your body tightened around him with every thrust, and waves of pleasure rippled through you, building in intensity up to an almost unbearable pressure, a delicious heat that made you moan into his mouth as he kissed you.

He rose up, his arms braced beside you, to look down as he stroked and withdrew and breathed out his pleasure while his eyes glowed pure heat. He grabbed your rear, tilting one hip up towards him, entering you  on such an angle that a new kaleidoscope of pleasure bloomed throughout you. He gripped you possessively, driving you deeper and faster and harder. His eyes burned, glowing like obsidian, hot and wild and almost frenzied with desire.

“Baby,” he groaned, his eyes pinning you, claiming you, as though he were branding you with your heat.

You're mine...

You're mine...

Your first time together had only been hours ago, but it was as if you had been lovers for years...every fluid flexing of his hips against you hit just the right spot, every deep, powerful thrust of his cock stretched your pussy with a familiar, almost expected surge of pleasure.

“Yes—oh god yes, Bucky—fuck me,” you breathed.

Two simple words and suddenly he was on the edge...buried so deep inside you, thrusting, plunging, your breasts pressed against his chest, the pleasure roaring through his body.

Suddenly he wanted to take you, hard. He wanted to fuck you with abandon, the eyes-closed, head-back, moaning-out-loud kind of sexual abandon that he had so rarely experienced in his life, but which was crashing through his body and mind right now.

He wanted this woman...he wanted to own you, to take you, to claim your body as his....he wanted to fuck you until he'd emptied his balls into you, feeling your pussy clenching and spasming in orgasm around his cock as he came, as you came, as you came together.

He withdrew from you quickly, barely able to catch his breath, and, as if you could read his thoughts, you turned onto your stomach just as his trembling hands guided your hips over. Your hair spilled over your bare back and your ass curved out so seductively it was all he could do not to cum right there, all over your smooth skin. But his cock knew what it wanted, and he pulled you forward to slide into the heaven of your pussy, so wet and tight and swollen for him.

He cried out when he took your again, his cock parting your folds and filling you so completely. The feel of him stretching you, the crest of his head pressing against your  from this new angle...you felt a tremor of pleasure ripple through you and knew you were close, as close as he was. When he leaned over you and began to kiss your  shoulders you shuddered, and when he began to thrust you buried your face in the pillow and moaned.

Your moans of pleasure filled the room and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to last, begging his aching cock not to explode just yet. . .this pace, these quick short strokes as his hips slapped against your ass, your body moving with his every thrust. . .It was almost too much to bear. Bucky buried his faced in your sweet-smelling hair and let his cock plunge as it would, faster and faster, making him shake, making him breathless, making him feel like nothing but a desperate cock as he fucked you.

And fucked you. And fucked you, as you had begged him to...

You could only whimper now, lost to the pleasure of his man taking you like this, fucking you so wildly, almost savagely. The pleasure he was taking from your body, his moans and groans and the growls of pleasure you could feel against your back and in the warm breath at your ear. . . it was pure, primal lust.

You felt worshiped beneath him, as if every thrust of his hungry cock was a tribute to you, every growl and sharp breath an oath. He was fucking you, mindlessly, and yet every part of him was attuned to you, touching you, adoring you.

As his pace grew even faster, his thrusts shallower, you could sense he was about to come, and you felt your muscles tighten around him to heighten his pleasure and hers. His thrusts were so powerful that you felt the orgasm rising in you and you closed your eyes, lifting your head back so he could slide his hand into your hair, gently holding your neck and kissing your jaw with breathy, open-mouthed kisses.

“Oh, God Bucky...I'm coming,” you moaned. “I'm coming.”

“Yes...cum for me baby....cum on my cock.”

“Cum with me....please....I want you to cum inside me, please....please....”

And he could withstand it no more.

Pleasure detonated through him as his orgasm spasmed throughout his body, wracking him with wave after wave of euphoric release. He cried out your name as he thrust and bucked against your flesh, driving his cock deeper and deeper as he came and came and came. It felt like he would never stop cumming, and when he felt your orgasm tear through your pussy and clench his cock in waves, he thought he might black out from the sheer ecstasy of it.

You slammed back against him as the first spurts of cum began to fill you, and felt your  ravaged pussy begin to spasm again and again, milking his cock, pulling his cum deeper into you, flooding you with ripples of pleasure. You moaned and writhed, riding the crest of one orgasm only to feel a second one begin to climb and then crash over you. Breathless, almost sobbing from the pleasure, you let him hold you as he continued to pound into you, draining his balls into you at his will, lost in the utter bliss of a man taking a woman in the most primal way.

When he could bear it no longer, when his exquisitely sensitive cock throbbed within you and the pleasure bordered on pain, he stilled, finally, and shuddered. Sharp spasms of pleasure shot through him as his cock surged one last time within you, his aching balls emptying every last ounce of come. Bucky was almost lightheaded, his chest heaving, sweat glazing his skin as he withdrew his hand from your hair and ran it down the center of your back, needing to touch you, needing to feel your heated skin. You were breathless too, your back moving beneath his hand as you lay your head down and tried to catch your breath.

You felt him withdraw from you, and your  pussy rebelled, clenching to keep him there, as if pleading with him not to go. Bucky groaned softly against your ear as he pulled out and fell on the bed beside you, his arms surrounding you and pulling your back against him. You fit perfectly together, and every muscle in your body relaxed as you snuggled into him and breathed out a contented sigh. You felt his lips on the shell of your ear, kissing softly, felt his slowing breath against your skin as his soft sounds of contentment and pleasure hummed in his throat.

This is heaven, you thought. Pure heaven. your pussy twitched and tingled as you felt his warm come beginning to slip down your  inner thighs. His strong arms surrounded you, his soft lips murmured and whispered and kissed, his spent cock nestled against the curve of your ass.

“There was something I wanted to tell you, remember?” he murmurs, his words brushing warmly against your skin as he kisses a path down to your shoulder. “Last night… something I wanted to say to you. Something I wanted you to know.”

You shift slightly, turning to look at him, your heart pounding as you search his eyes, barely able to breathe. 

“Tell me,” you whisper, your voice almost a plea.

His gaze softens, an unmistakable warmth filling his expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. 

“I love you.”

The words settle between you, simple but perfect, like they were always meant to be there. Your heart feels like it’s soaring, every nerve in your body alive with the thrill of it, of finally hearing what you’d been aching to hear.

You break into a smile, biting your lip, feeling giddy and light, and without a second thought, you lean forward, kissing him softly, your hand finding his as you whisper back, “I love you too.”

And as he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you with a tenderness that feels like home, you realize that, for the first time, everything feels right.

tags: @cereal6666 @thatesqcrush @cl7ire @bighappypiels @mostlymarvelgirl

@winchestert101 @winterslove1917 @hzdhrtss @mcira @elvenrin

@xunquish-blog @meetmeattheapt

[tanadrin]

And God said, "Behold! I have created the fourth primordial force: the weak interaction!"

And the angels all clapped and nodded politely, and there was a long silence; and finally Verchiel, the Angel of Grace, spoke up and asked, "Er, what exactly does it do, O Fashioner?"

And God said, "What do you mean, 'what does it do?' It's the fourth fundamental force of the universe."

And Verchiel said, "You mentioned that. Um. But it's just that the other three sort of have a brand, you know? Gravity helps build large-scale structures, acts over vast cosmic distances, shapes time and space. The strong force is secret, hidden, binding together quarks and all that. Electromagnetism, very cool stuff, somewhere in between. We're all big fans of the whole magnetic monopole double bluff, very clever. But, er. What does this 'weak interaction' do?"

And God said, "It mediates radioactive decay. Sort of."

And Verchiel said, "Radioactive decay? All radioactive decay?"

And God said, "No. Just some kinds."

And Zephaniel, the Chief of the Ishim spoke, and he said, "A whole independent force just to mediate some kinds of radioactive decay?"

And God said, "Well. Not totally independent. Technically it's related to electromagnetism."

And Zephaniel said, "Wait, it's not even a real force?"

And God said, "It's totally a real force. It's just that it's one aspect of a combined electromagnetic and weak force. An electro-weak force, if you will."

And Metatron, the Celestial Scribe, scratched his head at this, but said nothing.

And Cambiel, the Angel of Transformation, said, "Maybe you can walk us through it from the top."

And God Sighed an immense Sigh, and said, "All right, fine.

"So the way it works is that all of space and time is permeated by a field that has imaginary mass."

And Cambiel said, "Imaginary mass, O Generous Provider?"

And God said, "Yes, imaginary mass. It's tachyonic, d'you see?"

And Sarathiel, the Angel of Discipline, said, "Wait a minute, I thought we agreed nothing was going to travel faster than light? All that 'c' business and the whole Lorentz transformation thing. What's happening with that?"

And God said, "Let me finish. The field is tachyonic. The particles in the field all move slower than light."

And Sarathiel had to think about this for a second.

And God said, "The point is, a field with imaginary mass has a non-zero vacuum expectation value."

And this really gave Sarathiel trouble, since he had never been very good at math.

And God, seeing this, went back to explain. "Most fields, like the electromagnetic field, have no effect when they are at their lowest energy state. It's like they're not there at all. If you give a field imaginary mass, then it vanishes only when it's at a very high energy state, and at a low energy state, it has a nonzero value everywhere."

And Sarathiel nodded, but he was confused, because he didn't understand why God would create such a thing.

But Verchiel thought he saw where God was going with this, and he was amazed.

"Truly, you are cunning beyond measure, O Only One Certainly Sound and Genuine in Truth! Only now do I understand your design! For in order to make the universe homogenous and isotropic, it is necessary that all large-scale fluctuations in temperature and mass must be evened out early in the history of the cosmos; and therefore, you have designed a field which will rapidly expand space after the Big Bang, many orders of magnitude in brief moments, and then swiftly and spontaneously decay as it gives up the energy it began with, giving rise to radiation and particles of all kinds as it does, which will condense into the material universe! It is a wonder to behold."

And God said, "What? No. I mean I did, but this isn't the inflaton field I'm talking about. This is something else."

And Verchiel said, "Wait, it's not?"

And God said, "No, I'm going to use a different field to drive cosmic inflation. The properties of this field are totally different."

And now Verchiel was also confused, and lapsed into silence.

And God said, "Like I was saying, this field is a scalar field with imaginary mass, and it does spontaneously decay to a ground state with a non-zero value. But it's not the inflaton field. Instead it combines with the W1, W2, W3, and B bosons."

And Metatron began to flip back through the pages of the Heavenly Record trying to figure out where he'd lost the thread.

And Zephaniel said, "The what bosons?"

And God said, "The W1, W2, W3, and B bosons. I'm sure I mentioned them. You know, the massless bosons?"

And Zephaniel said, "I'm pretty sure we only talked about the W+, W-, and Z0 bosons. All of which you said were going to have mass, O Owner of All Sovereignty."

And God said, "Yes, but this is how they get them, you see. Once this field acquires a nonzero value everywhere, the massless bosons interact with it and get mass. Well, some of them do. They turn into the W+, W-, and Z0 boson. And the photon."

And Zephaniel said, "…and the photon, O Accepter of Invocation?"

And God said, "Well, I did say I was going to unify the electromagnetic force and the weak interaction, didn't I? This is how. Above the critical temperature--right now I'm thinking 10^15 K, but I'm open to feedback on that one--electromagnetism and the weak force act as a single unifying force. Below that temperature, the field gets a nonzero value, you get three massive bosons to mediate the weak interaction, and the photon pops out seperately."

And Zephaniel said, "That seems… a bit overly complicated, doesn't it, O Reinstater Who Brings Back All?"

And God said, "No, it's exactly what we need. Look, that way the W and Z bosons have something to do, but the weak interaction still only travels short distances. Gravity is still the star of the show on cosmic scales, as it were. But now quarks and leptons can swap their flavor!"

And Zephaniel said, rather weakly, "Their… flavor, O Source of Good?"

And God said, "It's this new quantum number I'm trying out, to give the three generations of matter more unique identities."

And Cambiel said, "Three generations of matter? Now I'm really confused."

And God said, "I'm sure I mentioned this. You've got the lightest quarks and leptons, and then two heavier versions of each that can decay into the lighter versions."

And Cambiel said, "What do they do? New kinds of chemistry, is it?"

And God said, "Well, no. Mostly they just decay in a couple microseconds. Or even faster."

And Zephaniel began to rub his temples, and Cambiel sniffed.

And Cambiel said, "This all seems a bit ad hoc to me. Not really the stuff of an elegant and obviously ordered Creation. Why not have four generations of matter? Why not a trillion?"

And God began to grow irritable, and said, "Well, that's not really up to you, now is it? We're going to have three generations of matter, and the electroweak force, and that's that!"

And Zephaniel said, "As long as we are unifying fundamental forces, perhaps we could somehow also unify the electroweak interaction with the strong interaction, or even gravity."

And God hesitated saying, "Well, I haven't decided about that yet. I'm not sure I want gravity to be quantized, you know? Seems to take some of the geometric elegance out of general relativity."

And now it was Zephaniel's turn to sigh, and he bowed his head. "As you wish, O Possessor of Authority of Decisions and Judgement."

[oldmanlusting]

Okay gamers I need your help should I push for sharing a hotel room OR a cottage with my crush because apparently we might have Options