#mf would be carrying all the dirt and rock he steps on but still wearing pretty white gloves for some reason

[wasyago]

i love your thoughts about qmariana and his gloves... does qslime wear gloves for any specific reason as well?

kind of? its not angsty

I imagine as a person made of slime its quite difficult to maintain a complex shape with lots of details and bends and curves, because slime as a substance generally tries to take the simplest shape possible. Its more like- thought and energy consuming than anything.

Thats why Slime looks like a blob pretty much: no ears, no facial features, no joints or knees or elbows, no muscle structure, no hair details, no nothing. And he's okay with that, appearances are not that important really. But having fingers is important. So to make it easier for himself he wears gloves that remove a lot of the thinking process from the whole thing and give him a clear shape to fill in!

also because the first time i drew him (a while ago) i took a lot of inspiration from old cartoons and sonic, that's pretty much where the gloves came from. i still like this detail so i decided to keep it

[avengerscompound]

The Ritual

The Ritual: A Captain America Fanfic

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count:  2026

Rating:  E

Square filled: @star-spangled-bingo​ - Shaving Kink

Warnings:  Smut (MF vaginal sex, shaving kink I guess)

Synopsis: When Steve gets home from a mission, he has a ritual to help him feel more like himself.  The two of you get a little more out of it than just him getting clean.

The Ritual

The sound of the door opening startled you.  You hadn’t expected Steve home so soon and as he came through the door you jumped up and ran to him, throwing yourself into his arms.  He let out a soft huff as you crashed into him and laughed softly as he closed his arms around you.

“You know,” he said as he lifted you off your feet and carried you inside.  “If you make coming home so good, I’ll just end up going away a lot more regularly.”

“No, that’s not how it’s supposed to work,” you said, nuzzling at his neck.

He was a little worse for wear.  Not beaten up exactly.  He’d come home in pretty bad shape on occasion.  Bruised or broken ribs were a pretty common injury.  As were gashes that required a few stitches.  Often on his head.  More than once you’d been called into the medbay because he’d been knocked unconscious.  So for Steve, it wasn’t so bad.  Mostly he was dirty and he looked exhausted.  You assumed he probably hadn’t slept or showered much or even at all since he left.  He had at least a week's worth of beard grow in.  Not really enough to say it was a beard, but it was more than just a shadow of facial hair.

He set you back down on your feet and leaned in and kissed you deeply.  His scruff scratched your skin making your lips tingle and feel a little numb.  He had that pungent caustic smell of sweat and dirt and you pulled back and wrinkled your nose.

“Honey…” you hummed, running your hands down his sweat-stained compression shirt.

He knew what you wanted right away.  Not that it was going to be an unreasonable request.  This little almost-ritual you’d developed had started because it was always the first thing he wanted to do when he got home and you had just injected yourself into it.

He chuckled and turned you around.  “Yes, you can.  I’ll shower first though,” he said.  “You go get the towel and chair while I’m in there.”

You clapped your hands and skipped off to the kitchen to boil some water.  By the time you’d steamed a towel, dragged a chair into the bathroom and set up everything, Steve was stepping out of the shower.

The room was full of steam because Steve always showered hot, and he dripped water on the floor as he grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist.  It sat low on his narrow hips so that the defined lines of his Adonis’ belt drew your eyes down, leaving only your memory of what was under the white cotton.

He drew you close to him as he still dripped with water and left a wet handprint in the middle of your back to balance the entirety of the front of your clothes as he pressed you against his unyielding form.

“You smell good,” you hummed as you breathed him in.  It was soap and sandalwood and salt.  He kissed your neck just under your ear and grazed his teeth over your skin.

“You taste good,” he mumbled against your skin.

“Steve,” you moaned his name like it was the lyric of a song and pushed him back towards the chair.  “Not yet.”

Steve sat and looked up at you and you grabbed the hot towel and wrapped it around his face.  He hummed and leaned his head back, his muscles visibly relaxing.

You pulled your straight razor and began stropping it along the leather strap you’d attached to the chair.

Steve liked a clean shave.  He always had and despite how much you might like the feel of his facial hair against the soft skin on the insides of your thighs, he hated growing it in.  When you met him he always shaved with the shitty disposable razors you could buy at gas stations and dollar stores - ten to a pack.  You would sit on the vanity and watch as it methodically removed any trace of hair from his face trying to reason with him that he could maybe let it grow in a little.

There was something about watching the razor slide over his skin though.  The deadly sharp blade dragging over such exposed areas, again and again, was sexual in its own way.  One day you'd asked if he'd let you do it and he'd agreed.  And despite the fact, you'd nicked him in four different spots and you'd run the razor in the wrong direction he seemed to quite enjoy it.

You'd really enjoyed it.  The intimacy of it.  The trust involved.  The sound of the blades cutting the hair.  Even the smell of the shaving cream.  It had this strange level of eroticism you had not expected and after you'd wiped the last of the cream from his face, you'd ended up fucking him right there on the bathroom counter.

After that, you'd gotten really into shaving.  You'd looked up tutorials and bought books about it.  You'd invested in equipment.  And if using one of the cheap plastic razors had turned you on it was nothing compared to how it felt to use a straight razor.

You put the blade back in its holster and unwrapped the towel on Steve’s face.  He looked up at you with a sleepy content expression and you grabbed your cup of shaving cream and the brush and began applying the cream to his face.  It had a strong astringent scent, but there was an undertone of lemon and cedar to it too.

When there was a thick lather on his face you took out the razor and began to shave.  You started with the tricky little spots.  Under his nose and near his ear.  You then began to shave his cheeks.  The blade slid smoothly over Steve’s skin making a soft scratching sound as it sliced through the coarse facial hair.  There was such an odd and specific mixture of things at work that blended together to be such a turn-on for you.  The blade itself and the way it was used was incredibly sexy.  From the thick leather stop that you used to realign the edge.  To the shape of the razor, the shine of the blade.  No one would argue that the aesthetics weren’t appealing.

The cut of the razor was incredibly sexy too.  There was a reason why a straight razor was used as a murder weapon in so many films.  It was deadly sharp as well as aesthetically pleasing.  When you ran the blade down his skin it cut the hair so close there wasn’t even the shadow of it showing.

The main thing that got to you - the thing that went right to your core - was how he trusted you.  You tilted his head back and ran the blade down his throat.  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed and his towel tented at his waist.  He trusted you.  He trusted you to not intentionally hurt him, which was good in itself.  Steve had a lot of reasons not to trust people.  If you were some kind of sleeper agent you were in the perfect position right now to take out Captain America.  It wasn’t just that though.  He also trusted in your skill.  He knew you weren’t going to accidentally hurt him either.  That you handled that razor like an expert.  That… that’s what really did it for you.  This was something that Steve thought was important and he knew you were the best person to do it.  Not only that, but your competence turned him on.

By the time you were running the blade down the last patch of skin, Steve was rock hard and you were dripping for him.  You cleaned up the stray areas you might have missed and wiped the little spots of shaving cream from his face.  He opened his eyes and looked up at you as you grabbed the aftershave balm.  The usual light blue of his eyes was blown out completely.  You began to massage the thick, honey-scented balm onto his skin, soothing it.  He hummed contentedly and reached up, cradling your jaw as he looked up at you.  You smiled down at him and grazed your teeth over your bottom lip.  “Feel like you again?”  You asked.

“Mmm… nearly,” he said and guided you down to kiss him.

It was tender and loving but there was a heat to it.  His tongue teased your lips apart and you flicked yours out to meet it, dancing them together.  You moved around him without really breaking the kiss, just repositioning your lips in small increments until you were in front of him, straddling his lap and bracing your hands on his shoulders.

He pulled you down into his lap and ground his erection up into you.  You rolled your hips against it.  Your panties soaked through with your arousal as the two of you kissed and moved against each other.

Steve pulled back slowly, dragging his teeth over your bottom lip and he looked up into your eyes.  “I missed you,” he said in a breathy growl.  He picked up the straight razor and flicked it open again.

Your tongue flicked out, brushing over your bottom lip.  “I missed you too,” you breathed as he collected the fabric of your dress in his hand.  He pulled it out away from your body and then used the razor to cut the fabric right down the middle.

You gasped and your cunt clenched as a shiver ran through you.  “Steve,” you said, the sound somewhere between a moan and scolding.  “You’ve ruined my dress and my razor.”

He chuckled and carefully put the razor away again.  You nuzzled at his neck and ran your hands over the hills and valleys of his muscular form.  When the razor was safely in its holster he ran his hands down your back and over your ass.  You hummed and kissed him, letting your lips graze over his.  He tilted his head and deepened it.  It became frantic and hungry and you rutted your hips in his lap wanting nothing more than his cock inside you.

Without any warning, he lifted you and slammed you into the wall.  You braced your feet against the cold tiles as his hips rutted into you.

“Please, Steve,” you mewled, your fingers digging into the thick muscles in his shoulders.  “Give it to me.”

He reached a hand between you and tore the crotch out of your underwear and with a snap of his hips he was inside of you, his cock stretching you and filling you completely.  You adjusted to him quickly.  Your bodies used to each other, fitting together like puzzle pieces.  He felt like home.

He began to thrust his hips, rolling them with every forward movement, pushing you into the wall and swirling his cock inside you.  You kissed hungrily, your head feeling light from the lack of oxygen, and your lips going numb and tingling against his.  Your body responded to his.  Ached for it.  You fell apart with each movement he made.

He broke the kiss and bowed his head.  You thrust your chest out and he pulled a nipple into his mouth as he slipped a hand between the two of you and began to rub your clit.

It was too much.  A hot current tore straight through your core and all your muscles clenched at once, your fingers clawing at his back.  With a loud cry, you threw your head back and came hard.  Your body seizing up and clenching around Steve’s cock.

He grunted and picked up his pace, fucking your through your orgasm, dragging it out so that it was all you were.  You buried your face in his neck and whimpered as you cunt fluttered and squeezed his shaft, milking him.

He grunted and released inside you, moaning and pushing you hard against the wall.  “Fuck,” you gasped, tugging on his hair.

He hummed and pressed his lips against your neck, slowly slipping from within you and setting you back on your feet.  You kissed your way down his neck and over his collarbone.  “Feel like you now?”

Steve smiled and wrapped his arms around you, holding you closely against him.  “Yes.  Now I feel like me.”

[ecotone99]

Why Honor [MF]

Town: Stoneforge

The child trainees, fresh from their morning exercises, assembled on the valley's training ground where golden light washed over them. They were dressed in simple wool trousers, sleeveless wool shirts, and wore basic shoes.

Instructor Ryesis approached with an older student at his side, and the assemblage stood as straight as possible with arms at their sides. The student was dressed similarly to the trainees, but the instructor was wearing leather trousers, a leather vest tied by string in the middle, and light boots. The crest of the Stoneforge warriors adorned the left breast of his vest.

“Trainee Devin will be joining us for training today. He is set to graduate in a few months and is among the best of his class,” Ryesis explained, then stepped to the side of the field to observe, leaving Devin in charge.

The older student pointed to a trainee and indicated for him to step forward.

“I challenge you to single combat.”

“I accept.”

Each took a wooden sword and shield from a table beside the field, then faced off in the center. The remaining members of the class never moved, or even flinched.

Three years older than his opponent, Devin practically towered over him, causing any sane observer to conclude the boy didn't have a chance. Still, he faced his challenger without fear, and touched sword to forehead in a flawless salute.

They circled each other, Devin supremely confident while the boy warily looked for any opening, any advantage he could find in this mismatched duel.

Shouting, Devin raised his sword high and swung it down hard. The boy took the blow on his shield, but it was too powerful for him, and he fell back into the dirt. Devin then kicked the shield away and held the tip of his sword to the boy's throat, winning the duel.

“Part of being a warrior is knowing when not to fight,” Ryesis lectured as Devin helped the boy up. He continued as the defeated duelist put away his equipment and returned to the line.

“The code states, 'There is no dishonor in refusing a challenge you cannot beat, and there is no honor in accepting a challenge knowing you will lose.'. If this were real, Terrice would be dead now. He should have accepted he had no hope of victory and refused the challenge.”

“I'm not sure they understand, Master,” Devin remarked as he stared at one trainee in particular.

“Then teach them.”

“You, come here,” Devin commanded, pointing at a boy with his sword. This boy was bigger and looked stronger than Terrice, but still didn't measure up to the older boy as was made clear when he walked up to him.

“I challenge you to single combat.”

“I accept.”

The new duelist made his way to the table as Ryesis let out a sigh loud enough for all to hear.

“Clearly, Roldan still believes he can best someone with more training, and height, than himself. Watch and see where his arrogance leads him.”

Unperturbed by the instructor's chastisement, Roldan picked up a wooden sword from the table and returned to Devin at center field.

“You forgot your shield,” Devin mocked, but Roldan didn't react.

“Begin,” Ryesis called out, and the duelists saluted each other, then started circling in much the same manner as the first fight.

Devin swept his opponent's sword aside with his shield, then thrust with his own sword, but Roldan deftly spun to the side and jabbed an elbow into the older boy's back in the same motion.

He stumbled forward from the blow, more from surprise than anything else, then he recovered and turned to face the upstart again, anger flashing in his eyes.

The younger boy smiled self-satisfactorily, causing Devin to shout in rage and charge him, but he easily stepped to the side and tripped him with an outstretched foot. When he fell face first into the dirt, Roldan placed the tip of his sword at the back of his neck, winning the duel.

“The code should say something about inferior warriors not issuing challenges in the first place,” Roldan taunted.

“Roldan!” a deep voice called out from the other end of the field, and the boy instantly tensed up, his face twisting into a mixture of fear and anger.

“Step away from him and face me!” the voice demanded, and he did as he was told, turning to find his father towering over him. Instructor Ryesis helped Devin to his feet as Franc glowered at his son.

“How dare you humiliate that boy? Another student, and a more advanced one at that?”

“He may be older, but he's obviously not more advanced.”

That remark earned him a backhand to the face, snapping his head around to his right. He endured the blow, and returned his gaze back to his father's eyes, refusing to show pain.

“You have natural talent, Roldan, but you need more than that to be a warrior. What you did not only embarrassed Devin, but it damaged the lesson I was teaching you and the others. You must learn patience and humility,” Ryesis explained somberly.

“He's going to learn humility. Since you're so sure you already know everything, there's no need for you to be in training. You'll spend the rest of this day working in the quarry,” Franc decreed.

“No! I'm a warrior, not a stoneworker!”

“You're nothing! Nothing but a disobedient child! Get to the quarry before I decide to bury you in it!”

Roldan threw his sword down, then stomped away.

Stoneforge Quarry

A final heavy blow finally broke loose the block of stone, and it slid forward to come to rest a few feet down the gentle slope. His breathing heavy and sweat pouring down his face, Roldan stared at it and imagined it to be a vanquished foe, but felt no satisfaction from the deed.

“Hey, get back to work!”

He turned to see a group of shirtless older boys stomping towards him with an attitude of needing to put him in his place, carrying their pickaxes in both hands or on a shoulder. They gathered around and stared down at him, awaiting a response, but he declined to give them one. Each one was heavily muscled from years of working in the quarry, but he did not fear them.

“Didn't you hear me, boy? Stop standing around and get to work!”

He gave no reaction.

“Are you deaf?”

“I've never seen this one before. Should he even be here?”

“I know who he is. He's one of the warrior trainees,” one of them revealed as he stepped to the front of the group. A flurry of surprised whispers passed between them, then they fell silent to stare at him again, this time with mixed expressions.

“What are you doing here, whelp?” the boy who had recognized him questioned.

“I will be a warrior one day, bringing great prestige and wealth to this town. You will never be anything more than what you are now. Show some respect,” Roldan finally answered, causing the group to burst into laughter.

“Warriors don't get tossed into the quarry. The only reason for you to be here is if you failed your training. You show some respect.”

“That isn't the only reason. Your small mind simply cannot imagine the others.”

The teasing mood of the boys evaporated to be replaced by seething anger. Some had shown confusion and reluctance upon hearing he was a trainee, but now all expressions hardened into hatred.

“Looks like we're going to have to teach him some manners,” the leader commented, then tossed away his pick. The others threw theirs aside as well, and Roldan let his drop to the ground, then they closed in around the younger boy, ready to pounce.

“All of you to fight one of me. Brave of you.”

A fist swung out towards him, but he ducked under it and punched its owner in the gut, then spun around behind him and pushed him hard. He fell to the ground in the center, momentarily blocking the path of his mates.

Someone grabbed both his arms from behind, but he stomped down hard on his assailant's foot and wriggled free when his grip loosened. Screaming in pain, the boy held his injured foot in one hand and hopped away on the other.

The rest converged on him as one unit, attempting to pin him to the ground, but he took advantage of his smaller size to squeeze through them and come out on the other side of them.

He stood there and watched while they pressed the attack as if he were still between them, then laughed out loud when they finally realized he'd escaped and fought to disentangle themselves.

One chucked a rock at him, but he caught it and threw it back, striking the thrower in the forehead. The boy grabbed his face and stumbled backward, blood running through his fingers.

His friends charged Roldan again and he stepped to the left to avoid them, but then he was grabbed from behind and lifted into the air. He kicked behind him, but his foot found nothing but air. The group halted where it was when they saw who was holding their target.

The newcomer threw him to the ground, and he rolled over so he could get up and face his enemy but was stopped by a sword to his throat.

When he looked up, he saw that the sword's owner was a veteran warrior whose expression left no room for argument. Finally admitting he couldn't fight, Roldan yielded by slowly raising his hands.

The warrior sheathed his sword with a grunt, then grabbed the front of the boy's shirt with one hand and hauled him up to hold him as if he were a freshly caught game rabbit.

“Get yourselves cleaned up and back to work,” the man spat at the stoneworkers, then he marched out of the quarry holding Roldan up before him.

Chief Instructor's Office

The veteran tossed Roldan through the door towards the chief's desk, where he fell into a heap on the floor. Franc stormed in behind them, having seen his comrade with his son and already knowing the latter was causing trouble again.

“What did he do this time?” he asked as the boy climbed to his feet. The chief surveyed the scene from his chair with his chin resting on his hands, his face unreadable.

“Got in a fight with several older boys in the quarry. Nearly killed one of them.”

“That's a lie!” Roldan protested. Franc moved to strike him for the disrespect, but the chief waved him off.

“What's a lie?” he questioned.

“I could have killed all of them if I'd wanted, but didn't come close!”

“What makes you say otherwise?” the chief inquired of the veteran.

“He threw a rock which hit the boy in the face. He was bleeding good.”

“It barely scratched him!”

This time Franc did backhand the boy. The blow spun him into the chief's desk, where he stayed with his hands upon it and turned away from the others.

“That's enough of your disrespect!”

To his credit, Roldan actually stayed silent for once.

“You can leave us now,” the chief told the vet, then he got up and stood between father and son.

“The reports I have received about you today are most troubling, Roldan. I was already considering punishing you for what happened this morning, beyond what your father had already decided. Now I'm wondering if I should remove you from warrior training altogether,” he declared.

The child spun to face him, mouth open to speak, but the chief silenced him by simply raising his hand, palm forward.

“That is what will happen if you refuse to learn respect, but I'm not ready to go that far yet. Remember this the next time you decide to prove you are better than everyone else, and reconsider that decision.

“For now, you are to be banished to the wilderness for one week. You will be taken there now, and will be required to survive with nothing but what you currently have on you. If you survive and return to us at the end of that week, you will be allowed back into warrior training. Do you understand?”

Roldan nodded, a mixture of fear and anger in his eyes, and Franc was ordered to take him out of town.

Stoneforge Canyon

“I know you dream of being a great warrior one day and believe you'll be the greatest there's ever been, but that will never happen unless you complete your training. The only way that will happen is by learning respect. Respect for your elders and peers, and above all, respect for the code,” Franc lectured his son as they traversed the narrow canyon which provided easiest access to the valley. All the other paths were so difficult that it was essentially the only access.

“I don't need anyone else. No one can keep up with me, so I'm better off alone,” Roldan argued. His jaw was set firmly and his eyes distant, as if he were looking at the world beyond the forest.

“The Stoneforge name carries a lot of weight in this land, and many people won't hire anyone else. Those who do either can't afford our services or are criminals, neither of whom can bring you the recognition you seek.”

“Then I will make my own name.”

“How many will you kill for that name?”

No answer.

“Such a path leads only to death, never glory. You will kill many people in your quest for fame, and the rest will curse your name until the end of time. A warrior's strength can only do good when used in the service of others. That is why the code exists, to keep our strength from destroying everyone, including ourselves,” Franc explained.

They'd reached the end of the canyon, so they stopped and gazed upon the thick forest before them, with only a small path leading through it.

“I have no doubt you will survive this ordeal. Everyone knows your talent. There is no need to constantly remind us,” Franc commented, then turned and headed back into the canyon.

Two Days Later

The sun rose on the third day of Roldan's banishment to find him standing waist deep in a creek holding high a spear in his right hand as he stared into the water.

He thrust the spear down then pulled back just as quick to reveal a large fish squirming on the end. Smiling, he waded out of the water as he held the fish high, then dropped it onto the bank where he used a rock to end its struggles.

The fire ring was already prepared, so he used a pair of stones to light the fire, then cleaned the fish, skewered it, then hung it over the flames.

A rustling in the brush caught his attention, and he instinctively crouched into a fighting position.

A man wearing nothing but a pair of pants which stopped above the knees stepped out a moment later and looked at the boy in surprise. His skin was stretched back over his bones and his eyes were hollow, without hope. He obviously wasn't a threat, so Roldan straightened up to face him.

The only town for hours in any direction was Stoneforge, but he would recognize anyone from there, so he briefly wondered where such a beggar could have come from. Either he was a traveler who had gotten lost or a vagabond who'd been driven out by exasperated townsfolk.

When the man spotted the fish, he moved to grab it, but Roldan stepped in front of him.

“Give me that!”

“No. Go catch your own.”

“I haven't eaten in days!”

“This is my breakfast. Get your own,” Roldan insisted, pointing at the creek.

“Out of my way, boy!” the man shouted, then attempted to shove him out of the way, but was too weak. Roldan easily grabbed his arm, twisted it behind him, then forced him to the ground, his face inches from the fire.

He screamed as the heat seared his face, and Roldan let him go in surprise, expecting him to get up and run away, but he didn't. Instead he propelled himself forward, grabbed the fish, then came out on the other side where he proceeded to devour it while running away, seemingly oblivious to his injuries.

The boy watched him plunge back into the trees and pondered what had just happened. He could have defeated him easily, and had in fact hurt him without meaning to, but had it been worth it?

It was a simple matter to catch another fish. Why kill a starving man just to keep the one he already had?

One Week Later

“What have you learned?” the chief instructor questioned. The boy who stood before him was filthy and his clothes were tattered rags, but he was still strong.

“I will do whatever is required of me to complete my training, and I will obey the code.”

​

Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B01FYQ7R1E

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