#red head wedge anchor

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

we can produce M6-M30 wedge anchors

[graves4girls]

☆ my love mine all mine | johnny cage

✮ wc. 1.09k ⚠︎ warning(s): fem!reader needed some soft johnny so this is completely self-indulgent ⟡ be sure to check out my work on ao3 → gravesforgirls !!

You enjoyed the quiet moments between the flirty quips and cocky remarks, ones where the only sounds are the candle flames flickering around the bathtub, painting the room in a warm sunset of oranges and yellows, or the crashing waves in the early hours of the morning, cold air whipping through your hair and seagulls crooning overhead as you walk along the rocky coast. 

His head is resting on your chest, cheek smooshed over your heart with an arm lazily tossed across your stomach, his other arm tucked underneath his pillow. He's got a leg tangled around your own, soft snores slipping past his parted lips. 

You wake first, the arm draped over his back twitching as the warm sun cuts through the curtains and falls over your face, and before you can realize he's trapped you against the mattress, you attempt to roll onto your side. It's futile, his heavy limbs pinning you exactly where you lay, a sleepy mumble protesting your effort to pull away. You slowly peel your eyes open, gaze falling to your prisoner when your pupils adjust to the bright room, and you gently card your fingers through his hair, your other hand crawling over his arm to settle over his strong bicep, fingertips carefully feeling along the taut muscle as you listen to his slow breaths. It's refreshing, moment's like this, where everything seems to be still, almost stuck in time with how serene it all feels. 

His hand curls under your waist, striving to pull you closer as he scoots into you, tilting his head up to nuzzle his nose against the underside of your jaw, the quiet hum of his snores halting for a moment, and you think for a tick that he'd woken up, but he only sniffles, and his lips part once more, hushed breaths spilling out. Your hand tucks itself into the nook where his shoulder meets his trapezius, eyelids falling shut as you drink up the cozy rays of sun folding over the covers and leaking onto the exposed skin along your arm. 

He stirs a while later, wedging his hand out from beneath you to stretch his arm out, a soft groan reaching your ears as he strains the tight muscles. He takes his time untucking his face from the comfy spot in your neck, humming when you slide your hand over his shoulder, tracing over the dusting of freckles spattered on his bare skin like paint flicked onto a canvas, completely mindless and messy, yet still gorgeous, even in it's chaos. 

The tip of his nose prods into the fat of your cheek when he presses a feather-light kiss to your jaw bone, eyelids still anchored with sleep as he mutters into your skin, big hand smoothing over your stomach atop the duvet. "Morning." His voice is coated thick with his lingering exhaustion, gravelly and deep as it rumbles in his chest. 

"Morning," you parrot, short nails stroking over his shoulder blade as you tip your head down to look at him. 

He offers you a sweet little smile, his cheeks flushed the softest shade of red from the warm nest of blankets that heats him up, eyes dancing across your delicate features for an instant before they settle back on your own gaze. He brings his hand up to nudge your chin toward him, sticking a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth, another to your cheek, one to the tip of your nose, until he's littering your entire face in light kisses, pulling hushed giggles from your throat as the hand holding his bicep comes up to try and push him away. His hand slides down to the back of your neck when he presses a sweeter kiss to your lips, and you relax against him, flattening your palm over his chest as his lips move carefully against your own, his slow movements still tethered to the tempting bliss of sleep. 

You loved when he was sleepy like this. He's always clingy and mushy when he first wakes up, griping when you slip out from his grasp to start your day. He'll lay in bed and whine as he watches you shuffle about the room, begging you to come back and cuddle up in the warm covers with him, and he pouts when you shoot him down. He tries to pull you down when you drop one more kiss to his lips before you leave the room, but you know his routine by now, so it's not a very effective tactic. 

"Do we have anything planned for today?" He hums when he finally pries himself from your lips, propped up on his elbow as he looks down at you, stroking his thumb over your cheek.

"Not that I can think of."

You can see his eyes practically light up at your words, and his fingers brush some hair away from your face as he grins down at you. "You mean I get you all to myself all day? I'm not still dreaming, am I?"

You roll your eyes with a soft chuckle. "You're so unbelievably corny." Your hand slips out from around his neck, slicking back the messy strands of hair that frame his face, and you shift your body to better face him.

"And yet, you still married me. What does that say about you, hm?" He garnishes the taunt with a raised hand, presenting the silver band to you, as if it were the first time you were ever seeing it, that stupid smug grin plastered to his face.

"That I love to torture myself."

His hand falls to lay over your ribs as he leans in to steal another long kiss, a low hum vibrating in his chest when your hand cradles his jaw, thumbing over his cheekbone as he chuckles. "Yeah, you must hate me."

You nestle your head into his chest when he snakes both arms around you, enveloping you in his body heat and just a twinge of the cologne lingering on his skin, and your arms curl around his waist to keep him pressed against you, not that he'd ever try to part from you in the first place. One of his hands caresses the crown of your head, lazily petting down your hair as you breathe out a long, tired sigh, eyelids falling shut as your body threatens to slip back into unconsciousness, the other hand running up and down the side of your waist and over your hip to lull you further into that ever-so enticing sleep.

[hidden-ember]

homecoming

🗯 pairing: captain john price x gender neutral reader

🗯 tags: nsfw - mdni, oral sex, penetrative sex, biting kink (giving), teasing, praise

a/n: baby's first fic!! i've been a long time smut and fic reader for several different fandoms, but thanks to captain price brainrot i have finally caved and started my own writing journey with this one. any feedback is welcome.

Captain John Price of the SAS found himself homebound after what was supposed to be a low stakes intel gathering operation went south and left him injured. The injuries he sustained were thankfully non life-threatening but were going to keep him out of commission for a while regardless. After nearly two months away from home, the captain was more than willing to take the excuse to be reunited with you. 

Flashes of light occasionally illuminated the otherwise dark room, television tuned into the late night news as they reported a convenience store robbery in the town over, warning about a potential spike to cases of theft as the holidays were approaching. Rain thrumming on the roof and the low droning of the news anchor threatened to lull you to sleep. You stretched your arms and legs, hoping to shake off the sleepy feeling, knowing your boyfriend would be home any minute now.

The sound of a car door slamming pulled your attention away from the television. Headlights beamed into the window as a taxi rolled away from your flat. Heartbeat pounding in your chest, your eyes locked onto the door expectantly. 

The knob twisted and in staggered your boyfriend, looking weary from travel. His cheeks red from the cold, beanie pulled over the tips of his ears, you couldn’t help but find the state of him pitiful as he dropped his bag on the floor with a thud. He carefully closed the door behind him, gentle eyes taking in your form as you rose from the couch.

“Thought I told ya to keep this locked when ’m not ‘round, hmm?” he murmured. The sound of Price’s familiar, gruff voice felt like it was actively soothing the ache in your heart that formed whenever he went away.

“Was expecting someone,” you smiled brightly, pattering over to him.

“That so?” The corner of his lips curled upwards, his own smile growing the closer you got to him. 

“Mhm. And a pretty special someone, I might add.” You wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, drawing him nearer.

“Lucky someone, more like,” he replied, his voice cracking, tears welling in his eyes as he felt your touch for the first time in weeks. Slightly chapped from the harsh winter air, but soft and warm all the same, his lips came crashing down onto yours. The taste and smell of tobacco filled up your senses as Price’s tongue made its way into your mouth.

Within minutes of his arrival you found yourselves on the couch hastily stripping each other of clothing. You placed sloppy, errant kisses on each newly uncovered area of skin until all of your clothes lay discarded on the floor. Your eyes roamed his naked form, mouth slightly agape as if you were in disbelief that he was actually sitting next to you right now.

Price couldn’t help but chuckle at the way you ogled his muscled chest like you were seeing him for the first time. Taking your time to study the peaks and valleys of his toned torso, your fingers ran lightly through his chest hair. You noticed him not-so-subtly flexing his muscles under your touch, and your eyes darted up to meet his.

“Conceited bastard,” you shook your head, laughing at him. 

“I’ll have you know I prefer the term egomaniac.” He matched your playfulness with a smirk. “Besides, ya seemed rather pleased with the show. Now c’mere, you.” 

You clambered onto his inviting lap and his smirk split open into a delighted grin. Wrapping his good arm around your waist, he pulled you tightly against his torso. 

Feeling his warmth surround you, your body began to ache for more of him. As if sensing your thoughts, his erection throbbed from where it sat wedged between your stomachs.

You kissed him with purpose now, tongue slipping between his parted lips. Before long you were lowering yourself onto his engorged cock. The sounds of your simultaneous moaning drowned out the television as the head of his cock pushed into your entrance. 

Warm hands grasped your hips with such strength it caused you to let out a gasp. He guided you slowly down his length, praising you all the while for how good you were taking him, telling you how adorable you looked when his words of approval caused your cheeks to flush.

Price thrust up into you lazily, matching your pace as you rode him. Not wanting to be too aggressive with your injured boyfriend, you braced yourself on the back of the couch, nails digging into the cushions.

Price could practically feel his exhaustion dissipate as he lost himself to the sensations. He was home now —  deep inside of you, your walls enveloping him better than any house could. Neither of you lasted very long before you felt your climaxes rapidly approaching.

Your eyes slammed shut once your orgasm hit, moaning in ecstasy as you felt his body tense beneath you. Price groaned as his thick, warm seed spilled out of his cock.

“Did so good,” he managed between breaths.

Chest heaving, you buried your face into his neck. He cradled the back of your head with his large hand, fingers splayed through your hair. His hot breath tickled your ear as he whispered to you affectionately. 

“Missed you somethin’ awful, darlin’.” Your heart swelled at the sound of your favorite pet name, and in that moment you were certain you would never tire of welcoming him home like this. 

After reluctantly pulling out and disentangling his body from yours, Price awkwardly reached down to the floor for something out of your view. He sat back up with his crumpled boxers in hand. You let out a sigh of contentment as he gently patted your entrance, carefully cleaning his spend from you so as not to make a mess on the couch.

Once you had caught your breath and the aftershocks of your orgasm subsided, you anxiously looked him over. You asked him several times if he was alright and if you had hurt him, not stopping until he grabbed your chin, angling your face to have you look directly into his eyes.

“Stop worryin’, okay? I’m not so fragile, love.” He spoke the words with confidence to reassure you, but the look in his eye suggested he needed the reminder himself. 

Price stretched awkwardly, letting out a big yawn as he stood up from the couch. Some of his joints cracked as he extended them. He reached down to gather his clothes, handing you his t-shirt before tugging his sweats back on. 

A puzzled expression spread across your face as you looked down at your own clothes strewn about the floor. Price followed your gaze, letting out a hearty laugh at your confusion.

“No need to bother with those. ‘M not done with you yet, pet” he winked, pushing the shirt further towards you. “This’ll do for now.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his insistence. The intensity of his gaze while he watched you pull his t-shirt over your head sent shivers running down your spine. Your lover gave you a once over, giving a satisfied nod as the shirt fell to just above your knees.

He tugged delicately on your hand, pulling you along behind him before letting go to grasp the railing as he started up the stairs. You watched nervously as the old stairs creaked, Price relying heavily on the railing for support when his braced knee threatened to buckle under his weight. 

It hurt your heart to see the man in such a state. No matter how minor the knee sprain and dislocated shoulder were, they were reminders to both Price and yourself that he was not as invincible as you’d like to believe. 

Perhaps even worse than the physical damage was the hit his pride took. You knew he needed to take it easy and had the perfect idea for tending to his bruised ego.

Price was a dominant man, both in combat and out. Giving him head normally turned into a sloppy mess, tears and drool streaming down your face as he stuffed your throat with his thick cock. 

He wasn’t the only one who initiated these kinds of blowjobs; you quite enjoyed getting your face fucked— as often as Price was willing, as a matter of fact. The way the older man would take control of you, holding your head still as he took what he wanted from your obedient mouth turned you on to no end. 

Price always returned home from deployments worked up and desperate for your attention, unsatisfied until he had used each of your holes. As thrilling as a rough face fucking sounded after going weeks without it, you settled for suggesting he lie back and let you suck him off. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, an eyebrow raising at your proposition. Price brought his uninjured arm up, fingers running through his thick facial hair as he scratched his chin, as if deep in contemplation over the matter. 

“Well, love, if that’s what ya really want then what kinda boyfriend would I be to not indulge you?” His amusement reached the corners of his eyes, highlighting the crow’s feet that you had come to adore. He shuffled backwards further onto the bed, the strain his movements placed on his injured limbs causing him to wince slightly. 

Your brows furrowed with concern, but he cut you off as you opened your mouth to check on him. 

“‘M fine.” He gestured with his head toward the bed, “Get over ‘ere.” 

The mattress dipped further under your weight as you crawled up to him on your knees. You placed a soft kiss on his lips once you reached him. Price hummed contentedly when you broke the kiss, tugging at his bottom lip with your teeth. 

He tugged his t-shirt off of you before tossing it onto the floor. 

“Now that’s a better view,” he winked at you.

Taking care to not disturb his injuries, you planted your hands on his bare chest and pushed him back into a lying position. 

As you lowered yourself down to his abdomen, he lifted his hips at an awkward angle, trying not to place too much pressure on his injuries. 

Making quick work of pulling sweats down to his knees to spare him any unnecessary pain, you eagerly watched as his semi-hard cock fell free from its confines. 

“Someone’s excited,” you teased before bringing your mouth to his happy trail. You planted tender kisses along it, slowly working your way lower. When you reached right above his hardening length, you nuzzled your face into the coarse hair. 

You were very grateful that your boyfriend was not one for “manscaping;” the thick hair running from his belly button down to his genitals was one of your favorite features of his, and you let it be known on numerous occasions. 

“You have no idea how much I missed this,” Price let out a low long breath as your lips trailed lower, your pace tantalizingly slow. 

To his credit, he remained patient for quite some time as you lost yourself in the sensation of his body hair prickling your face, but when you showed no signs of beginning the blow job you promised, his restraint faltered. 

“More,” he groaned — the word a command rather than a request. 

“Be patient, baby,” you hummed softly against his skin, planting a firm kiss on his pubic bone. 

Price’s breath hitched as your gaze met his. He brought his large hand down to grab a loose fistful of your hair, urging you on.

“You’ve had enough fun now,” Price grumbled before softening his tone in an attempt to level with you. “Please.”

“Oh, you sound so pretty when you beg.” You couldn’t help but smirk as you echoed words you’d heard from him several times before. 

Price would argue that the way his face flushed red was due to his frustration, but you knew he was blushing from being called pretty. 

Turning your attention to his inner thighs, you nipped lightly at his sensitive flesh, earning another moan from your beloved boyfriend. You kissed the spot softly in an effort to soothe the now tender skin, glancing upwards to meet his gaze. Icy blue eyes shot daggers back at you. 

In your periphery you could see his now fully erect cock standing at attention, but you weren’t done playing quite yet. You grinned wickedly once more before burying your canines into his thigh, this time using more force. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” Price arched his back off the bed, his hand moving from your head to grip the sheets tightly. His cock twitched expectantly, beginning to leak pre-cum.

“Come now, darlin’,” he panted, voice ragged with need. 

“We both know those pretty little lips belong wrapped ‘round my cock.” 

It was almost enough for you to give in. Almost. 

You chuckled at his attempts at flattery and grabbed his thighs, taking care to not disturb his leg as you spread them further apart, granting access to your mouth’s next target. 

You brought your lips to his scrotum, sucking on the bit of skin between his testicles before popping one into your mouth. Your tongue swirled around it as you sucked gently on the sensitive appendage. 

“Aaahhh, fuck," Price moaned as he felt your warm mouth wrap around him, though it wasn’t where he wanted your mouth most. "Don't tease me like this, darlin’.”

You chuckled, sending vibrations through his balls. It startled you when Price let out something similar to a growl, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. Eyes widening, you pulled away from him, a string of saliva trailing behind.

“Okay, okay,” you surrendered as you could sense his frustration threatening to boil over. 

Grabbing the base of his shaft, you moved to lightly swirl your tongue around the head of his cock. The lack of pressure was killing Price. His hips jerked upwards, begging for you to take him into your mouth.

“Ah ah,” you tutted, pushing him back down onto the mattress. 

“Don’t strain yourself, baby,” you said in mock concern. 

You let go of his cock and placed your tongue at the base of his shaft before slowly dragging it up his length. Halting at his slit, you held your tongue in place while looking up at him teasingly.

Price’s hand shot up to grasp the headboard behind him, knuckles whitening and jaw clenching.

“Sweetheart, you’re not bein’ very nice,” he hissed, ignoring the pain in his leg as his hips bucked again.

He began rutting against your tongue, the tip of his cock pushing against your top lip in a steady rhythm. 

“Be good for me, won’t you?” He pleaded, his voice hoarse with desire.

Taking a deep breath to regain his composure, Price stopped his movements, allowing you to start to slowly take him into your mouth.

Teasing him was fun, but above all else you wanted to please him. You loved when your boyfriend would praise you and were determined to earn them the best way you knew how. 

Your eyes never left his as you continued to wrap your mouth around his needy cock. His hand found its way down to grasp your hair once more, this time gently holding the back of your head as you lowered yourself down his shaft. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Price whispered, head falling back onto the pillow as he felt you start to take his cock into your throat. 

Price’s eyes rolled back in his head as he felt your warm, wet mouth engulf him. His hips bucked, this time meeting no resistance from you.

Tears welled in your eyes as he bottomed out deep in your throat. Holding your lips against his pubic bone, you moaned softly.

“Oh, god, yes,” Price groaned, the sensation of your moaning caused a shiver to run through his body. His hips jerked again and you gagged around his length, which only drove him more mad.

“Just like that,” he grumbled as you began moving your head once more. His hands slid down your back, gently kneading the flesh while you bobbed up and down on his cock. 

Price’s reassuring touch and words of encouragement fueled you further – you sucked more aggressively now, increasing your pace.

Unable to hold back any longer, the sound of Price’s rhythmic grunting filled the room as you continued to milk him. You enjoyed hearing how vocal he was becoming, enjoyed the power you held over him when you worked his cock like this. 

When you reached his head once more, you paused, briefly removing your mouth to catch your breath. You ran your tongue around the tip rapidly as you held Price’s gaze. The change in pressure and the sight of your drool running down his cock caused his head to start spinning. 

“Goddamnit,” he hissed. His hands quickly returned to your head. You shot him a look as he started to push your head down his shaft, but you obliged, taking him deeper.

Reaching your hands beneath him, you dug your fingers into his glutes with a firm grip as your mouth kept a steady pace on his cock.

A strangled moan left Price’s lips as he felt your fingers digging into his toned ass. It was the perfect combination of pleasure and pain, driving him closer to the edge, his cock throbbing in anticipation.

Price felt the familiar tingle at the base of his spine, the one that always signaled he was about to lose control. He thrust his hips wildly against your mouth.

“‘M close,” he rasped. “Don’t stop.” 

“Swallow it, yeah?” Price asked, his voice strained as he watched you obediently suck him off.

You hummed in response and you felt his body tense in your grasp. The tears flowed freely down your face now as you took him deeply time and time again.

Price’s body went rigid, his muscles tightening, eyes slamming shut. His hips jerked once more, pushing himself as deep into your throat as he could before he finally erupted with a long, low moan. His hot seed filled your mouth, his moans turning into gasps for air.

You swallowed, your throat working to accommodate the thick, warm flood of his release as his cock twitched. When he was finished, you didn’t pull away. Instead, your mouth moved up and down his shaft, cleaning him off until he was fully spent, his body shuddering.

His eyes opened slowly, meeting yours through the haze of lust and pleasure. 

“My god…” he groaned as you lifted your mouth off of his cock with a loud pop. “You’re incredible, love.”

You released your hold on his backside, moving to lie on his chest as he pulled you into a warm embrace. Price planted a kiss on top of your head before relaxing back into the pillow as he caught his breath.

“Welcome home, baby,” you murmured, nuzzling further into him. 

Price let out a small sigh of contentment, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on your back. He was sure to be sore in the morning after tonight’s exertion, but at the moment he couldn’t care less. Your boyfriend knew you’d have him back on the mend in no time.

“S’good to be back,” he whispered softly, feeling the exhaustion of the day and the aftermath of his release catching up to him.

He made promises to return the favor to you before drifting off into slumber, holding you tightly as he felt your warmth seep into him. The sound of Price’s slowing heartbeat and the rain falling lightly on the roof lulled you to sleep shortly after. The mess the two of you had made and his unpacked bag remained downstairs, now long forgotten.

[fanaticsnail]

Téir Abhaile Riú

Oh my goodness, I have been working on this for the past few hours. It is currently a little over 1am right now and I know I'm going to be up soon but I am so happy with the way this little plot developed for our favourite, pink-haired cadet.

Word Count: 5,173

Now that I've got this one out, I feel like I can really focus on the main Buggy story I've got in development currently.

Her auburn hair whipped wildly behind her, flowing freely in the sea breeze. She sprinted, skirts in hand, and barrowed towards the dock with the haste of a hare upon seeing a hunting ferret. Bounding against her back, a large hurdy gurdy sway in her movements as it bounced side to side at each of her hastened skips.

“Keep up!” She cried gleefully behind her back with a small shriek, “they’re nearly here!”

You giggled at her giddy excitement as you clasped one hand on your layered skirts and held tight to the wooden handle of your many symbolled tambourine. You looked behind you to see your fellow minstrel attempting to hold his wide bodhran in one hand and his double ended beater in the other as he too expressed glee at the playful taunt from the leader of your troop. Looking further behind him, you noticed in the distance your bouzouki player struggled to keep the hastened pace.

The three of you, four if you include the relatively far off bouzouki player, plunged into town with rocks picking up under your feet. Your belled silver anklet tinkled with each step of your right foot, reverberating and melodically harmonizing with the anklet of your leader who nearly collided with a wagon with her haste. You quickly side stepped the large wagon while your bodhran clad friend performed a large leap over the wooden frame.

“You ruddy kids! Where’s your Da?” the vendor called after you as you giggled and continued your swift pace in response.

As you continued down the dirt mountain side, you saw the stretched sails of a dark boat approaching the docks. The figurehead was an intimidating bulldog with a broad piece of bone wedged between their teeth.

“Looks like Garp,” the bodhran player informed you, panting to keep up his rapid momentum. You hummed in response, continuing to run past several shop fronts to make your way through the mountainside city to set up as the marines came to port.

You skipped on your right foot as you halted in front of a grocer, stopping your sudden rapid movement.

“What are you doing?” called your red-head leader.

“I’m getting Saoirse! She needs to sing with us!” you called to your leader, “I’ll be down with her as soon as I break her out!”

The redhead again laughs in glee before calling to you, “we’ll dance until you two join us!”

You nodded before unceremoniously swinging wide the entrance to the near empty grocer, the bell above the door rattling with a loud clang to inform your entrance. Making eye contact with the blonde behind the counter, her smile first started in her eyes before bringing her lips up into a wide grin.

“Sailors?” she asked you, untying her apron from around her back.

“Marines,” you corrected her with a mischievous glint in your eyes, extending your unburdened hand to retrieve hers, “come on! Let’s get going!”

She swung her counter bar back and it hit the wooden benchtop with a loud thump and promptly sped through the shop door while grasping your hand; flipping the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’. You nearly collided with your bouzouki player as he continued making his merry way down to the docks.

“Gee, you young ones are speedy!” he commented with a rough huff of his voice as he struggled to still his breathing. Both you and Saoirse laughed elatedly in response as you continued to hold back your pace to arrive alongside him.

The ship had finally made its way into dock, many ropes being thrust into the air to meet the open arms of the boat-hands as they awaited their receival of them. The anchor was weighed with the rattle of a loud chain before plunging into the dark sea. You took into your sights heavy damage on the fore topmast, the fore topsail limply hanging against the foremast beneath it. You narrowed your eyes slightly at the knowledge that there may be injured marines aboard, but continued towards where your red-headed leader and bodhran player had began to drum and dance a jig while lilted with one another with their voices.

You continued grasping the hand of the blonde at your side as you flittered down the hill to meet the sandy shore. Saoirse began lilting her voice to join the other two voices in harmony with a broad smile adorning her features. Your eyes twinkled at the tri-part harmony as you released her hand from your grip and began to use your thumb and smallest finger to flick against the symbols of your tambourine to keep rhythmic harmony with your bodhran player, your skirts swaying as you spun and danced in time to the beat. Your belled anklet twinkled jingled against your gleeful leaps as you continued to dance. Finally, hunching over slightly to catch his breath momentarily, your bouzouki player created a place to sit atop a barrel as he began to strum to the beat.

This is how it was with the five of you: “The Merry Mellifluous Quint”, as the town referred to you. The twins: the red-headed songstress and her brother, the bodhran player began their musical journey accompanying their recently widower father: the bouzouki player. The most recent additions to the team were Saoirse, who began courting the bodhran twin; and yourself.

The marines began to march down their extended boat ramp and bring heavy boots to thump against the dock. You continued to laugh and dance to the tune produced, linking your arms with Saoirse and routinely skip and turn to the beat before joining with the auburn-haired leader and weaving your way between them. Although aware of their decent and their attention, you chose to pay their individuality no heed as you continued to dance with your musically-adoptive sisters and drum your tambourine to accompany their triune lilting.

The bodhran player halted his vocal arrangement and gestured for you to add your voice to the troop as the bouzouki was struck by the widower. You closed your eyes, halting your dance and tambourine administrations and held it firm against your chest as you called from the recesses of your soul the tune to fully embrace the harmonies of the other two women in the troop. You heard the bouzouki player exhale a loud gleeful laugh at this arrangement, pleased at how the improvisational melody had come to fruition.

Upon de-crescendoing the tune and concluding the arrangement, you opened your eyes and smiled as your sights were set on the approaching marines. You went to clasp your hands within the two other songstresses and curtseyed in respect to the arriving military men and women as they halted under the command of their Vice-Admiral.

“Thank you for your welcome, ladies,” he thanked, before turning to the other two members of the quint, “and gentlemen.”

“You’re most welcome,” the widower exclaimed, “we’re more than happy to be at the beck and call for entertaining fine sea-worn folk such as yourselves.”

“Well,” admiral Garp began, “by all means, continue your jolly lilting as we journey on our way into town.”

With a smile, the bodhran player counted in as the red-head brought the hurdy-gurdy from its place strapped against her back down onto her lap and began to crank the handle. The strings sprung to life under the rosin reverberating against the strings. She struck the pegs to alternate between the notes as you and Saoirse vocally harmonised with one another.

As you sung your jolly tune, you made eye contact with one of the marines trailing behind the Vice-Admiral. He had broad, circular-brimmed glasses atop his nose; pink hair stuffed beneath his marine cap. His blue eyes joined with yours as he remained stationary, enchanted by your melodical display. You softened your eyes as you continued, halting your dance movements to keep him bewitched with your skilled voice.

His eyes trailed over your features, focussing on your lips as they continued their melodical ornamentation of trills within augmented tones. You subtly approached the small marine, stalking ever so closer to him as you enjoyed his attention holding on you; before a loud order cut through the air.

“Come along, cadet!” the Vice-Admiral ordered, prompting you to jump slightly at the command alongside the pink-haired cadet.

“Yes, sir!” the cadet called out with a salute. His soft, almost hesitant voice held you as transfixed as the soft irises of his eyes did once they initially met with yours. The marine, although acknowledging his command with verbal affirmation; remained stationary as his eyes continued to trail with yours.

“Koby!” Garp again called, alerting Koby again to his duty to fall in line.

“Y-yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” he called before shaking his head to flitter his gaze between the Vice-Admiral and you before he followed in line with the other marines.

As you began again your melody, you rolled within your mind ‘Koby, Koby, Koby’ as if to test the way your brogue could handle spilling it from betwixt your lips. You smiled as a warmth spread throughout your chest and crept with a tingly giddiness up towards your face as you continued to become transfixed on the retreating form of the short cadet.

You again concluded several tunes, much to the delight of the fishermen as they brought in their catch. In reward of your merry tunes, they produced several varieties of sea-bearing food to your troop as you all began to pack up your instruments and begin to return into town. All the while you packed up your instruments and conversed with the fishermen, you continued to think about the beautiful orbs hidden behind the rounded framed glasses on the marine’s face.

You bid the men and women on the shore good evening as you walked back into town. You linked arms with the bouzouki player and led him up the beach, following the echoing laughter of his children and his soon to be daughter in law.

“Oh, my dear,” he began with a small glint in his eye, taking your linked hand within his other one and holding it there, “that was some melody today.”

“Thank you, Hamish,” you smiled at him, continuing to lead him along into town.

“You even caught the attention of the young marine,” he teased you slightly, squeezing on your hand slightly, “and a handsome one at that.”

“That’s not hard to do, Hamish. They’re at sea for long, unable to have much music I imagine. I’m sure he was more taken with the tune and the liveliness than anything else,” you shrugged, trying to embrace the words you were saying to not assume anything untoward. Your cheeks at the mention of Koby began to pigment with a more rose tone as the blush slowly crept to your face.

“That’s no small feat, lassie. Marine’s are trained to avoid all distractions. That one was completely taken with you,” he added with a knowing smile,

You pursed your lips and continued to walk on your way, following behind your red-headed leader. You did notice how beautiful he was. He had an air of innocence surrounding him; something that immediately connected with you. You, yourself, tried to seek out more playfulness and mischievousness in life and opted for keeping blissfully ignorant to any sense of seriousness.

“What are we doing? Where are we going now?” Saoirse asked her beau, leaning on his shoulder in comfort.

“Where do you think?” called the redhead from the head of the troop, turning and beginning to walk backwards with a mischievous look in her eyes. Hamish laughed at her tone, while continuing to walk toe to toe with you.

“To the pub!” Called her drumming twin in glee.

You all had a small spring in your step as you head into town towards the well-lit town centre. Several young men and women were lining up to the entrance to the large pub, which was now riddled with marines – spilling almost from the rafters. You and your jolly troop of musicians walked past the line awaiting entrance to the pub and walked directly up to the doorman who was all smiles as he saw you all.

“Ladies, laddies,” he called, opening the doors to bring forth the warmth from within the pub. Hamish released your interlocked hand from the crook of his elbow as he clapped a hand warmly upon the doorman’s shoulder in familiarity. You followed behind the trio, walking directly behind the troop.

A group of regulars were engaging in a joyous, fast-paced melodic tune; the lyrics revolving around getting drunk and leaving a maiden high and dry upon their departure. You laughed at the verses and began to aid their tune with your voice as one of the younger members of their group took to his feet and began to engage in a rhythmic jig with you.

You felt eyes trailing you as you spun and interlocked arms with the young man, enjoying the carefree and expectation-less encounter as he spun you for the final time before taking a seat. He left you in the centre of the room as you all broke into the final chorus of the tune and laughed together. A final “hooray” was cheered throughout the room as flagons were thrust into the air. You cheered, clapping your hands in response to the song.

You turned to bring your gaze to meet with the bewildered stare of the marine cadet you shared a moment in time with earlier in the day. You quirked your head to the side and offered him a soft smile, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. You trailed your gaze over his uniformed form, flittering between his pink hair and his too-large uniform before bringing your eyes up to meet with his eyes. You held your eyes on his face, looking at him through half-hooded eyes up through your eyelashes before the remainder of your troop came to thrust a drink into your arms and challenging you to throw it back faster than one another.

He watched you as your eyes widened with glee at the beverage as you held your breath and downed the drink with haste with your friends.

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

“You’re off duty, Cadet,” a gruff voice was presented to the air, breaking Koby out of his trance.

“Sir?” he asked, turning to meet the gaze of his Vice-Admiral as he sat in front of him; Bogard at his side. The Vice-Admiral rose his flagon to his lips; bringing the cold, yeasty brew to his lips before removing it to leave behind a white foam atop his silver moustache.

“You’re quick thinking, lad. I’ll give you that,” he said, bringing his thumb and forefingers up to wipe the foam from his upper lip, “but you’re pretty clueless when someone holds a candle to you.”

Bogard offered a small chuckle at the Vice-Admiral’s jest, bringing his own tankard to his lips. Koby darted his eyes around the table to focus on anything other than the Vice-Admiral, falling once more on your form as you released the drink from your lips and shuddered with a melodical laugh falling from your mouth.

“Go on, lad,” the Vice-Admiral jested with a small tap on his shoulder, “go get her a drink before someone else does.”

Immediately Koby springs to his feet, nervousness bringing a small tremble to his hands as he turns towards the bar.

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

You turn to see the young marine no longer seated with his Vice-Admiral, furrowing your brows slightly and pursing your lips in disappointment. You noticed an almost playful glint in the Vice-Admiral’s eyes as he rose his beverage in a slight salute to you, a gesture which you politely returned with your empty glass.

You turned to go back to the bar before a hand pulled you into the group of bar regulars.

“Go on, lass,” called one of the members, “get your troop to give us a proper wee tune!”

You laughed, shrugging off the hand that was clasping you and turned to the other minstrels and shrugged in question. Hamish laughed before picking up his bouzouki and fixing it on his lap.

“Go on: Saoirse, Isla, Lauchlan. Go up with her and let’s give these fine folk a proper drinking song!” he called out, prompting the other three members of your party to quickly down their refreshened drinks and place the empty tankards on a table near the setting.

There was a small stage at the rear of the room, littered slightly with empty barrels of rum and ale. You asked the nearest able-bodied marine to aid you in clearing the stage as your troop made their way to the space you were making. You kicked off your shoes as you enjoyed the feeling of the wooden floor on the souls of your feet when you sang and danced to your jaunty tunes, prompting Saoirse to do the same in turn.

Isla began winding her Hurdy-Gurdy and Lauchlan started beating his bodhran with the double ended beater to start a lively rhythm. The three of you began to take turns in singing the verses before your voices joined together in a lilted harmony in the chorus. The tune of the chorus was quickly picked up by those in the pub who joined your voices in the lyrics, some providing a less than adequate melody but their enthusiasm was welcome regardless.

As you were given the final verse of the song, the beats of the bodhran halted alongside the winding of the hurdy-gurdy and the plucking of the bouzouki to have every syllable you produced be able to be articulated through your lips. You searched the crowd, eyes softened as you continued your storytelling through the lyrics before your gaze found Koby. You eyes flittered at him slightly as you cocked your head shyly to the side and continued singing the verse before the pub erupted with one last chorus of the song.

As the song ended, cheers and clanging of tankards were heard resounding the polished wooden walls. You laughed and gave a small curtsey alongside the rest of “The Merry Mellifluous Quint” as each of the names of the troop were also yelled in celebration; the last of all your own.

Koby, upon hearing your name, had it repeating circularly within his mind: much as you did with his own earlier. He closed his eyes as he focussed on the way it sounded before opening his eyes to once more find your gaze awaiting him from your distance across the room.

You bit your lip slightly to hesitantly stifle the arising feeling in your chest as you brought your attention towards Koby. You noticed his eyes trail to your bottom lip, prompting you to remove it from between your teeth and leave them slightly parted instead.

“Give us one more!” the crowd called to your troop.

Hamish laughed with his whole body merrily.

“Come on, lads! We were on the beach for a good while and we’re parched. Give us an ale and we’ll see about another!” He chuckled, prompting several pub-goers to approach the bar.

Koby looked down at his hands, already holding two tankards of ale from prior to the beginning of the first song. He quickly shook off any uneasy nervousness and approached the troop with determination. You smiled at his approach, tilting your head to the side fondly. You stepped down from the risen stage and brought yourself closer to the approaching cadet.

“Are one of those for me, Marine?” you asked him shyly, looking to the floor before looking back to his eyes. His blue orbs revealed both a hesitancy and an eagerness to please you; a combination you had not been accustomed to in some time.

As an entertainer: many sailors, marines and travellers, even regulars most days, made their desires for you known with unfiltered words and unprompted gestures. Most of the time Hamish and Lauchlan managed to keep the unwanted attention from you and the other two women in the troop and only the reciprocated connections were chaperoned. In your time venturing with the troop, you were yet to engage with entertaining the affections of a fan; only ever dancing with the odd one or two here or there.

“Yes, miss,” he said, bowing his head slightly in a nod while offering you one of the tankards in his hands. You smiled at him, receiving the tankard with a polite nod. Your hands brushed against his fingertips as you accepted the vessel containing ale and you relished in the warm tingle it shot up your arm. You could see a pink hue akin to his shrouded locks appear over his face at that slight touch. This little response from him prompted you to throw all apprehension aside and boldly propose a game onto him.

“I have a suggestion, Marine,” you playfully smirked at him, “Koby, was it?”

“Yes, Miss,” he said with a nod, anxiously awaiting your suggestion.

“First one to reach the bottom of their tankard gets a prize,” you scrunched your nose up in a taunting smile.

“A prize?” he asked, knitting his brows together.

“Yes!” you gleefully exclaimed.

“What could I possibly have that you would want? I’m just a cadet, I have nothing that’s not miliary – besides my glasses, but I kind of need those,” he began to hastily list, prompting you to giggle.

“If I win,” you say with a mischievous grin, “I get to wear your hat for the next set.”

He sucked in a small breath through his teeth at the request.

“And if I win?” he asked, gulping slightly in apprehension.

“What could I possibly have that you would want, Koby?” you asked him, biting your lip and swaying slightly.

He trailed his eyes over your form, taking in your bare feet with your bell-riddled anklet to your skirts and blouse before settling his sights on your eyes. He flittered his eyes between them slightly, triangulating down to settle on your lips before answering.

“A kiss,” he whispered through parted lips, “I would like a kiss.”

“A kiss?” you asked him with a small smile. You stepped yourself closer to him before bringing the tankard closer to your lips, “first one to the bottom, Koby.”

As soon as you uttered those words, the small marine raised his tankard to his lips and began to overzealously drain the contents of the vessel almost before you could even begin drinking from your own. You almost spluttered a laugh in your tankard, but chose to focus solely on drinking from your own. He quickly dropped the hand holding his empty tankard to the side of himself and swayed slightly at the speed the alcohol entered his body as you continued to drink yours.

As you finished the dregs of the tankard and released the container from your lips, Koby searched your eyes for permission to claim his prize from your lips. You began to step yourself closer to him and tilted your head to make to press a kiss against his lips when a call bellowed from the stage.

“Alright, let’s all prepare for The Merry Mellifluous Quint as we perform our next song!” you heard Hamish say, halting your movement. You were so close to claiming those soft lips of his, you could almost taste the cool residual remnants of the ale from his breath. Your eyes fluttered shut as you restrained yourself at the call of the elder musician in your troop.

You stepped your body away from his, opening your eyes to find his fluttered closed. You could find yourself staring at him for eternity; his slightly anxious nature and his naive innocence brought together with how truly beautiful you found him beneath his rounded spectacles.

“Forgive me, Koby,” you whispered, “I promise I will make true your reward after this next song.”

You turned and stepped your body away from his as his eyes flittered open, a sad expression displayed in his eyes. Before you could truly halt your movements, you reached up your right hand and caressed his soft cheek; a small sigh of desire escaping through your lips.

Koby felt every part of his body seize up at that small touch, your hand igniting a powerful feeling from within his own body.

“Come on, miss,” called a pub-goer from beside you, “we ain’t got all night. Give us a song, then you can have your Marine, alright?”

You widened your eyes in shock at the comment, a blush creeping up your face as you truly comprehended the amount of eyes trailing both yourself and Koby. You swallowed and shook your head, immediately returning to the stage. Hamish’s playful expression with a glint of mischief pronounced in his eyes led your blush to deepen slightly to beet-red.

“Alright, this one is for all the sailors. We’ve got some fine men and women in this town for you to occupy your night with, should you desire it!” Hamish called with a bellowing laugh, prompting the room to flood with contagious laughter, “let’s get the night started!”

The music flooded the room, voices harmonising together and trilling between the notes. You kept your eyes fixated on Koby’s as you noticed his look of pure and unbridled adoration as he listened to your melody.

You swayed to the music, gesturing to the crowd ever so often to agree with the lyrics you expressed. Isla and Saoirse also added their flare to the song, lilting with the chorus. A call and response from the crowd occurred, prompting a good rapport from the audience as you continued on your tune.

As the final notes of the melody concluded, a loud cheer erupted the hall and tankards again began freely pouring from the bar and thrust to the stage in gratitude. You paid them no mind, focussing on the pink-haired Marine who was yet to tear his gaze from your own.

You leapt gracefully from the stage and almost skipped over to Koby, extending your hand to escort him. He took your hand with his own, his other bracing his hat slightly as you brought him to the exit of the pub. You pushed on the doors to open them, the sea air overcoming your senses as the star-lit sky danced above the shore. The moon trailed its beam over the horizon as wind whispered in the sails of the secure Marine ship.

Once out of the exposing lights of the pub, you turned your gaze to Koby’s before releasing his hand from your own and pressing his back against the darkened external wall of the pub. You brought your hands to his neck and laced them behind his scruff and holding him with a firm grip before bringing your lips up to meet with his own.

His lips were everything you thought they would be. They were soft and melted immediately into the kiss you were bestowing upon him. You opened your mouth slightly to deepen the kiss, prompting a gasp to escape into your mouth at your fervour. You could feel his inexperience at this type of affection, but found him to be a fast learner. He held the flesh just above your hips and pulled your body to rest flush against his. You continued to hold him against the wall, completely in control of the kiss you were sharing. You felt his large, circular glasses graze against the apple of your cheek, prompting you to smile into the kiss. He snaked his arms around your waist and maneuvered his hands to cradle the small of your back as he savoured the attention you were giving to him.

You brought your hands up to intertwine with his soft, pink locks; wondering momentarily how a sailor exposed to sprays of seawater kept his hair so soft to the touch. You removed his hat from his head with one of your hands and continued to maneuver his head to deepen the kiss you were sharing together. You began to release his lips, opting to press a flurry of kisses to the corner of his mouth before trailing down, over his jaw. He gasped in a shaky breath as his eyes fluttered to savour every moment. Your lips met with a space below his ear and you focussed a deep kiss on that point, swirling your tongue and tasting the exposed skin.

Koby panted slightly at your administrations before seeking your lips out once more with his own. While unbreaking this new kiss, he swiped your arms from atop his hair and brought his own to cradle your face. He walked with the kiss forward before spinning you to push you against the pub wall. You gasped in surprise at this sudden display of dominance as he continued to press kiss after kiss against your lips, jaw and now in turn your neck.

Your eyes fluttered open in surprise before resting in a half-lidded, glazed over state as you enjoyed each other in this sudden display of passion. You remained blissfully unaware of your surroundings, only being brought back as the doors of the pub flew open to reveal a small bustling group of regulars exiting from the door; drunkenly repeating the verse of the final song you sang as they stepped lightly down the steps.

This sudden drunken stupor brought your attention back to where you were and what you were actively engaging in. Although completely under the shroud of darkness and relatively hidden, a wave of slight embarrassment overcame the two of you as you almost jumped out of the arms of one another. Koby’s eyes were wide in shock as he trailed the group on their ascension back towards the town. You were the first to snap out of your momentary anxiety, raising a hand to seek out the cheek of Koby and turn his attention back to you.

“Are you ok, Marine?” you asked him in a voice above a whisper.

“I-I think so,” he stuttered as he allowed you to turn his head back to face you. You smiled warmly at him and traced the outside of his lips with your thumb.

“You’re quite good at that, you know,” you praised him, “I almost feel like I was the one rewarded.”

He chuckled slightly, flittering his eyes down to your hand then meeting your face again. He brought his own hand to your cheek and caressed you, his eyes half closed as he dreamily gazed into your eyes.

“Come on, Marine,” you jested to him, releasing his cheek from your hand and reaching it down to claim his unoccupied one, “I think it’s my turn to buy you a drink.”

He laughed at your offer before releasing your cheek and accepting gleefully.

Masterlist

He stepped in front of you, leading you back to the entrance of the pub while you placed atop your head the hat you had successfully removed during the passionate encounter moments prior with a mischievous smile.

Mini Part 2

[hazbininlove]

Hopelessly Devoted - Chapter 5

-3.8k words. Setting up for some bigger moments!

Previous Chapter

Esther is the first to wake. She blinks blearily as she feels her cheek rested against a hard surface.

The last thing she remembers is sitting on the couch talking to Lucifer.

She lifts her head and looks down at what she’s sleeping on. Stripes and red and white meet her gaze, and when she looks up, she catches sight of Lucifer underneath her.

They’d clearly shifted at some point during the night. He’s laying mostly on his back, head against the armrest and one arm falling off the couch. Esther is tucked against the back of the couch, one of his arms is trapped under her and snakes around her waist, and one of her legs is tossed over both of his. Her long dress looks like a blanket over him, and you smile at the thought.

One of her hands is around his waist, holding him close to her. Esther lets him go, but doesn’t move her leg as she really has nowhere else to put it. She moves her hand that isn’t trapped under her to move to his chest and rests her head again with a soft sigh.

It feels nice to be close to him like this again. It reminds her of easier times when they’d lay together on their sphere of Venus, brainstorming different ideas for the Earth that was still being planned. All those afternoons spent lazing around and laughing to themselves.

Everything was easier then. There was no Earth, no sin, no evil. Lucifer’s role as Samael was limited because there was no one to truly tempt besides the angels who frowned at his antics. He’d never been serious, but it was his job to make tempt and punish any who should be tempted. He could just be Lucifer, the Seraphim of Creation. The one God bestowed one of his greatest strengths to.

She feels his chest rise and fall under her. She knows his neck will likely hurt when he wakes up, it’s probably already hurting, and she wants to wake up, but she also just wants one moment of this bliss before she has to get up and make him work for forgiveness.

She’s almost ready to give it. Everything he’s already told her felt sincere, and she can’t be mad about Charlie. Well, she can be upset about how Charlie came to be but she can’t be mad about or at Charlie herself. The girl is too sweet, and she reminds Esther of Lucifer in all the best ways.

She almost hates how weak her heart is for this man. Creator forgive her, he could’ve made her heart just a bit stronger if Lucifer’s fall had been in his plans.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she mumbles. She looks up at his eyes still closed in blissful sleep and she lifts her head. She tries to move as slowly as possible to not wake him, trying to anchor herself with the arm beneath her. The couch isn’t large and she’s pressed against the back of it to make space for Lucifer, her arm wedged into the space between cushions.

She shifts a bit more, frowning when she accidentally jostles them a bit. She pauses, watching to see if Lucifer will wake. He stirs a bit, sighing deeply for settling back into an even rhythm quickly. Esther lets out her own sigh of relief and continues to move but by bit.

When she’s mostly upright, she shifts the leg bent over Lucifer’s leg until it’s straightened a bit to stretch. She lifts herself a bit on the leg still on the couch, thankful that it’s not also on top of him, and tries to plant her other foot on the floor.

As Esther shifts, almost off the couch now, Lucifer shifts underneath her. The arm that’s been around her waist moves as if to grab her but falls to his abdomen. He hums a bit and his neck turns, and it’s then when his eyes twitch. He groans and tries to stretch a bit. His leg hits her inner thigh since she’s basically hovering over him with one knee holding her up on the couch and one foot on the floor.

Lucifer’s yawn turns into a whine at the pain in his neck and he moves a hand, seemingly reaching for her again, but comes up empty. His frown deepens and her eyes slowly blink open.

It takes a moment for his eyes to focus, and Esther stares down at him almost hoping he’ll fall back asleep.

He blinks a few times, before his eyes widen a bit at the sight of her basically straddling him.

“I’m not complaining but I didn’t think we were that far into this reconciliation,” he says, voice raspy with sleep. Esther blushes a bit at his words and flicks his nose in retaliation.

He whines and reaches his hands to hold his abused nose, all dramatics because she certainly didn’t hit him hard at all, but when he moves his neck the pain turns real and she chuckles a bit at his consequences.

Now that Lucifer is awake, she can get up without worry, and she’s nearly off the couch when she feels something wrap around her waist.

Lucifer’s hands are still at his neck, trying to massage the pain away. She looks down and sees a black tail with a spade shaped tip and red heart in the middle wrapped around her waist.

She looks around and finds no animal, so this must be a new feature of Lucifer’s that’s become a product of his fall.

“This is new,” she says. He opens an eye and looks at her, a smirk on his face despite the discomfort in his neck.

“Like it?”

“It’s cute. I like the heart on it,” she replies. He hums, pleased with himself. “Any other changes?”

“Besides my eyes being yellow and red, and my teeth being razor sharp now? I’ve got horns,” Lucifer replies.

Esther moves so that she’s sitting on the couch again, one leg under her and the other still over Lucifer’s legs. He clearly isn’t going to let go over her right now, and she’s curious.

“Can I see them?”

He looks up at her with furrowed brows.

“Are you just asking about the horns or are you trying to see the whole demonic change?”

“If you’re willing to show the full change, I’d like to see it,” she says.

He stares a bit before sighing. “Too early for that. I’ll show you later when I take you around Pentagram City. I’m sure a sinner will piss me off enough so you’ll get the chance to see it.”

She flicks his nose again. “We’re not going into the city. We’re focusing on the hotel,” she replies.

Lucifer scrunches up his nose. “Au contraire. I talked to Azrael yesterday and we’re already working on a way to get sinners a retrial which will probably involve Cassiel. So jokes on you, until we get those answers, you’re free to do whatever you want.”

He gives her a wide grin and she narrows her eyes at him.

“Then I suppose you can use the time I work with Charlie on other things to work on your dance.”

He looks confused at her reply.

“Sweetheart, we danced last night,” he says.

“Yes, we did. However, we danced together. You did not do a dance first to court me or give me a show of feathers,” she replies.

He chuckles at her words. “Oh, so you’re being literal about this. I wasn’t sure.”

“I told you I wouldn’t make this easy,” Esther says back.

Lucifer grins at her mischievously. “You realize that ducks do that for mating, right? Does that mean a good show of feathers is gonna get me something extra?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she replies quickly, frowning at him. “Focus on forgiveness first, then you can worry about anything else.”

He wisely keeps his mouth shut, not wanting to push his luck. He knows a few jokes he could make about that, mainly about the implication that something more could happen once he’s forgiven.

It’s nothing they'd ever done before. As much as Lucifer enjoyed making fun of Adam, Charlie’s creation really was the first time he’d done anything with anyone. Eve’s temptation had truly just been convincing her to eat the apple, nothing more than that.

With the exception of his own hand and his imagination, Lucifer was pretty inexperienced, and knowing Esther, she’d never done anything at all.

What a pair they truly were.

“I’d appreciate it if you'd let go of me now. I would like to go to the bathroom,” Esther says. Lucifer relents and retracts his tail, hiding it away again. He moves his legs to allow Esther to easily get up before making himself comfortable on the couch again while he waits.

He’s definitely going to convince Charlie to take Esther out into the city. Not that there’s anything great to see. The sinners plague every corner of the city with their chaos. Few overlords actually keep their areas clean too. It’s genuinely concerning when the cleanest part of the city is Cannibal Town of all places. The cannibals there are quick to eat up anyone who dies on their streets and clean up the remains. The overlord who runs the place makes sure to keep her area nice, according to Charlie.

Maybe a few cannibals would want to join the hotel. Though he doesn’t know if getting them to adjust to proper food would be easy. And considering that Alastor lives here and is a cannibal himself, he knows the man would constantly attempt to destroy their progress.

He hears the bathroom door open again and looks up to see Esther coming out. Her robes are the same, but definitely a fresh new one since the other had been so wrinkled.

“Aren’t you going to get up?” She asks. He gives her a smile and stands, taking a moment to crack his neck and finally get rid of the ache. He quickly creates a portal and beckons her closer.

He holds her hand as they step through it together into his own bedroom.

“Did I have to come with you?” She asks, an eyebrow raised.

“I didn’t make you take my hand. Which means you wanted to spend more time with me too,” he replies cheekily. He snickers to himself as she huffs and he slips into the bathroom for a quick shower.

Esther looks around the room. It’s not as messy as his workshop. There’s a few rubber ducks here and there, but the room isn’t overly decorated. A few circus motifs, which Esther has noted throughout the entire hotel. It didn’t escape her notice that Lucifer dresses like a ringmaster in a circus either. Not what she’d expected of his attire as the king, but Lucifer has always been a showman, she isn’t entirely shocked.

The walls are mostly bare, save for a few pictures. Most of them are of Charlie and different phases of her life. Esther chuckles at her awkward teen phase with the braces and strip of dyed black hair.

Her eyes land on a picture of Charlie, Lilith, and Lucifer. Charlie is sitting in a chair with Lucifer and Lilith on either side of her.

She can’t help but stare at Lilith’s picture. She’s beautiful, no doubt about that. Her violet eyes are sharp and light pink skin is clear. Her hair flows down to the floor and her figure is curvy.

There’s nothing romantic about the painting. It’s a family portrait and Lilith is nowhere near Lucifer, they aren’t even looking at each other. But Esther stares at the image and all she can think is that this is a family portrait. They were a family, happy around each other, while she was alone wishing her partner was anywhere but the arms of another woman.

She faintly hears the bathroom door open but she can’t look away from the portrait.

“Alright, Es, I’m all done! I- oh,” she hears. She tears her eyes away from the portrait to look at Lucifer. His expression has turned a bit sad as he approaches her, and Esther wishes she could say that her expression is any better but she’s never been great at hiding how she feels. It’s why she tends to hide her face with her wings. But her wings aren’t out now so her expression is open for him to see and she hates how it ruins his previously chipper demeanor.

“It’s a lovely painting,” she says. She manages a smile as she looks back at the portrait, this time focusing more on Charlie and Lucifer and forcing herself to keep her eyes away from Lilith.

“I can take it down, if it makes you uncomfortable,” Lucifer replies. Esther quickly shakes her head. That wasn’t an acceptable choice to her.

“They’re family to you, Lucifer. I’d never force you to hide that away for me.”

He frowns at her and looks at the painting. “I wouldn’t call it hiding. It’s not like I don’t have any other pictures of Charlie and I,” he replies.

Esther turns to him with a sad smile. “I know you’re just friends, but Lilith is your family too. It’ll just take some getting used to for me, I suppose. Where is she, by the way? Does she have her own room? I haven’t seen her in any of my visits.”

Lucifer shakes his head. “She’s not here. I’m actually not sure where she is. We haven’t exactly gotten along well for a few decades. Difference in how to raise Charlie and all that. She officially left seven years ago and I haven’t seen her since. She doesn’t even talk to Charlie anymore.”

Esther doesn’t like the happiness she feels that Lilith isn’t in the picture anymore. She doesn’t hate the woman, not knowing what she knows now, but she doesn’t think she can be around her after thousands of years of comparing herself to the woman and wondering what she’d done wrong for Lucifer to seek someone else.

The happiness, however, doesn’t win over the anger that Lilith won’t even contact her own daughter. She understands being upset with Lucifer, truly she does, but to not contact your own daughter who’s innocent in all of this?

“What mother wouldn’t want to see their own child?” she asks herself. She feels Lucifer’s head rest on her shoulder.

“I don’t have one, so I don’t know. And sinners down here are gross but there’s really not many kids here besides the hellborn. Pretty rare to see a child sinner.”

“There are some families of winners,” Esther says, her expression somber. It’s nice that they can be together, but it pains me that a life so young was taken. And the poor mothers that arrive who didn’t survive giving birth. I don’t know how Azrael manages to stay so calm through it. My heart hurts just thinking of it.”

A thought clicks in her head at the mention of mothers.

“Oh,” she exclaims. Lucifer’s head leaves her shoulder to stare at her with wide eyes. “I almost forgot! I must speak with Charlie! She mentioned before that she was concerned about Alastor and I thought of the perfect way to redeem him!”

She grabs Lucifer’s hand and drags him towards the door, ignoring his sputtering.

“That guy?! There’s no way he’s getting redeemed! I have a better chance of going up to Heaven than him! And I’m the devil!!”

Esther hushes him as she drags him towards the lobby where the others are.

“Can we at least have breakfast first?”

She ignores him as she continues on. It doesn’t take long to get to the lobby where the others are bustling around. As soon as Esther catches sight of Charlie, she lets go of Lucifer and rushes over to her.

“Good morning, everyone! Charlie, may I have a word with you in private?”

“Esther! Husk told me you came back last night! It’s so good to see you,” Charlie says, showing her enthusiasm right back. She’s already leading them out of the room when Vaggie looks to Lucifer who shrugs and shakes his head at her.

“I wanted breakfast and to take her out to the city. But noooo, she wants to work on the hotel,” he complains loudly, walking towards the kitchen.

He can’t be too upset that Esther wants to spend time with Charlie, but it feels weird feeling jealous that his daughter is spending more time with Esther than he is.

“So, you and the good lady spent the night together?” Angel Dust says, sliding up to where he stands at the counter, debating what to have. Lucifer cranes his neck up to scowl at it, hating how tall the demon is. Who needs to be 8 feet tall?

“Make a sexual remark about her and see what happens,” he challenges back. All of the spider’s hands come up defensively, a smirk still on his face.

“I didn’t say nothing! Just askin’ a simple question, yeesh,” Angel replies. Lucifer’s eyes narrow at him, not believing it for a second. “Listen, I may know all about sex, believe me! But you and her? That’s different, anybody could see that. And it’s crazy too cuz until Charlie said something, I really thought you and the Queen were married.”

Lucifer makes a face at that. “Hell no. I mean, not that Lilith wasn’t a great person but never that way. Not for me at least. And I wasn’t gonna marry her while still hung up on someone else. Also the paperwork for a divorce? Argh.”

He wouldn’t lie and say he never thought about it, about what it’d be like if he’d let himself lose all hope and maybe had fallen for her. But then he reminds himself that Lilith had never been too keen on romance. Other things, sure. She’d spent enough time down in the Lust Ring hidden away with Ozzie’s help for that but that seemed to have been the extent of it. As far as he was aware, anyway. He never pried too much into her life like that, never cared to, and she never opened up about it. What she did on her own time was her business. After Charlie was born, as long as it didn’t affect Charlie, he didn’t really care.

“I wouldn’t know. I died during a time when being gay was probably the biggest sin anyone could think to commit up there. I knew guys that were perfectly okay with murder but kissin’ another guy? No way!”

Yeah, that’s another thing Lucifer doesn’t like about humans. Of all the things to be man about, they really think his dad is gonna care too much about being gay? There’s bigger things to worry about, like the literal root of evil that Lucifer accidentally allowed on Earth.

“Ah yes, the crazy big believers. Centuries ago they were even worse. Gotta say though, it was kinda funny seeing their faces when they realized that being a shit person did not make them a winner,” Lucifer replied, cackling to himself.

He’d told Husk before that Hell was as much his punishment as it was for sinners and he meant it. Lucifer has always hated the sinners, but he will admit that there’s a simple joy in seeing the terror on their faces when they realize their attempts to make themselves look better while being horrible to others in the name of his Father did, in fact, lead to the damnation they’d threatened others with.

Not that he interacted with sinners much. But the few times he has, it’s been an interesting experience. It’s even best when they’re freshly descended into Hell.

Angel Dust laughs at his words and Lucifer gets back to making some breakfast for himself and Esther. He knows Charlie already ate because she’s an early riser and he doesn’t care too much to focus on the others. They can fend for themselves unless Charlie asks him to make more. He can hear them approaching, Charlie practically hopping with each step as she drags Esther back over. Neither of them mention what they’d been talking about, but both of them look happy so Lucifer won’t pry.

It warms his heart too much to see his two favorite people getting along.

He sets Esther’s plate in front of her with some coffee and sits across from her. Charlie declines any food, having eaten earlier with Vaggie, but she sits with them at the table with Vaggie at her side. She stays on Esther’s side of the table too, the two of them clearly comfortable with each other.

They plan their day out as they eat. When he mentions to Charlie that Esther should have a tour of Hell, at least of Pentagram City, she lights up.

Esther tries to decline, but between Lucifer and Charlie’s pleading, she’s forced to concede.

“Oh it’ll be so fun! We can take you to Cannibal Town to meet Rosie and the entertainment district, and-“

“Babe, slow down,” Vaggie says, please a hand on Charlie’s arm. “Let’s take it slow. Heaven is really different from Hell, maybe let’s just stick to a place like Cannibal Town. They’re nicest there.”

“My thoughts exactly!” Lucifer happily agreed.

“Should I be concerned that a place called ‘Cannibal Town,’ is supposedly the nicest place?”

Before Lucifer can explain, he sees the shadows shift in the corner of his eyes. The room fills with a familiar static that usually surrounds a certain staff member.

“Not at all dear! In fact, I’d be happy to escort you on this fine day! I just happened to be on my way there. They have my favorite butcher shop. I could give you a proper tour of the place,” Alastor says, announcing his arrival to the room.

Lucifer scowls at him, not trusting him for a single moment, but Charlie lights up at the idea. It’s likely because he’s the one that introduced her to the place.

“That’s a great idea!”

“Uh, hell no! That’s a terrible idea!”

Esther stays quiet during the exchange. She’s already caught on to Lucifer’s hatred of Alastor, but she also wants to know the Radio Demon more, to see if her plan could actually work.

“Well, why not make a day of it? Each resident can show off their favorite place in the city,” she offers. It seems like the best way to ensure that no resident is left out, but also guarantee that Lucifer doesn’t have to deal with Alastor so closely.

When she looks at him, the scowl on his face contrasting the sparkle in Charlie’s eyes tells her that there’s little chance of making both of them happy in this scenario.

—————————————————

Woo! Another chapter! A day late, I apologize. Last week was very busy and the weekend even busier. Plus, I’m working on two new oneshots. One is the Lucifer x Eve!Reader x Lilith one (prepare for fluff, angst, and smut) as well as another OC story! Haven’t committed to a name for her yet, but she will be Charlie’s younger sister! No romance planned for that one, more so just a family fluff/hurt and comfort story.

In terms of this story, I don’t think there’s any chance that Alastor is getting redeemed. At all. BUT, besides looking through more Christian websites than I ever expected to, I’ve also been through the the Hazbin Hotel: Journey to the Light wiki and I’ve learned a LOT through that. I wish I could find the original story, but it seemed a lot darker.

But I’ll see you guys next chapter for the adventure through Pentagram City!

Taglist: @dreamcatcher62 @art3misa635 @cimadreamer @avadakadabra93

[nelapanela94]

“Look at this one, Honey bun!” You grab the set and turn around, pushing it onto Levi’s chest, making him wobble on his limp. “I think they will look great with the set of coasters we got last week.”

After the commotion that almost toppled him over, he takes a look at the set of placemats that swept you off your feet at first sight. More flowers, he notices, round and festooned with hand-painted sunflowers. Then, his eyes flick to the price tag, and his lunch lurches back to his throat.

You clasp your hands together, interweaving your fingers, pulling out your best puppy eyes.

Cheater.

He hands over the set over to you. The plastic bag crinkles like cellophane.

“It’s limited edition.” You insist.

He tips his hat, anchoring a hand to his hip, and lets out a long breath, before quirking up the corners of his lips. “Let’s take it home, if that’s what you want.”

Yawping, you squeeze him in a hug, piercing his eardrums and wrinkling his favorite suit, the one he wears for you when you go together anywhere. After lunch, you lured him to the home décor fair and have been ambling the labyrinth-like exposition at the pace his gait sets, bumping into the masses, wedging through the sea of people.

You nose bump him and steal a kiss from his lips, then capture his hand and pull him through the throng towards the check-out point. But suddenly his chest crashes against your back at the abrupt stop. He follows your widening eyes to the display of mixers, and just before you open your mouth he drapes an arm around you, to use for support because his leg is almost waving the white flag, and because he doesn’t want to bleed his wallet empty, and ushers you to the line.

“Did you see those standing mixers?” You shove a thumb over your shoulder. “I’d bake every day.”

“You want to make me fat.”

“We could share with Gaby and Falco.” You tap a finger on your chin. “Onny can come too.”

“I’m not sharing MY cupcakes with those brats.” She grumbles, casting a scowl at you, wheedling a fit of giggles from you.

“Don’t give me that face, Levi.” It no longer suits you." You drop a kiss on the scar on his cheek. “Time has weathered your temper.”

You wait in line, you are looking at sales, turning your head around like a pigeon while Levi smiles. Your eyes sparkling like a kid’s in a candy store. You look beautiful in that summer dress that billows around your knees and the red lipstick that frames your smile. Your dimpled smile that mellows his days. He has vowed that his remaining years will be spent protecting that smile. Your happiness has become his north star, illuminating the path he walks, its glow warming even the coldest corners of his soul.

And your birthday is in three months.

"What color do you want your mixer?"

[radioactivepeasant]

Free Day Thursday:

"Responsible Adults", the sequel: Jak tries to do a regular Jak Stunt and is shocked that it doesn't go over well

(Roughly a week after this one ends. Long post warning, as most of these are lol)

Night terrors were not an uncommon experience for Jak. They may not have been his nightly companions anymore, but when he did have them, they were intense. He woke up in a corner of his room, wedged beneath the sink. There was a vague sense that he was taking cover from something, or someone.

Blessedly, he remembered no details of the nightmare. But the terror still sent his guts quivering the way they had in the prison. Huddled under the cot both for warmth and silently praying the boots wouldn't stop at his door. That he wouldn't end up Tyber's new punching bag when he got bored of the old man in the cell above Jak's.

Tyber is dead. Errol is dead. Praxis is dead. I watched them die.

Jak repeated the words like a mantra until he could move his limbs again. He crawled out from beneath the sink, but the lingering fear made his room feel claustrophobic. Smaller than it really was.

At least he hadn't woken Daxter this time.

Jak put on his boots, but didn't bother getting fully dressed. He didn't even know what time it was. Why bother if the doctor and the king guy were just going to nag him about being sleep-deprived anyway?

It must have been early morning, before dawn; the moon had vanished and people were outside doing repair work on houses and fog-catchers.

Early morning was the best time to get any outdoor work done in Spargus. A small girl led a flock of caprids out of the stables and towards one of the other districts to graze on the cactus there, and a gang of trainees only a little older than Jak were taking advantage of the temperature to do an endurance run around the city.

Personally, Jak didn't see the good of such things. You learned to be fast enough or smart enough to escape your enemies, or you didn't. He'd learned through life and death experience, not a footrace with no winners.

"Easy with the straps there!" A stocky man backed into Jak, calling up to a team of three people.

"Ope-! Scuse me there, pipsqueak." The Wastelander stepped to the side as if Jak was barely worth noticing.

"Howland, that thing ain't cinched tight enough!"

They seemed to be trying to remove a corroded beam from the supports of one of the multi dwelling houses. It was already leaning at a precarious angle, as big around as a grown man. If that beam came down the wrong way, it would take a lot of the adobe structure -- and probably a lot of people -- with it.

"It's fine, Daru!" Howland complained, "I just cinched it!"

"Well cinch it again! That sucker’s leanin'!"

Jak frowned, but let his curiosity wash away the dregs of the night terrors.

"What's wrong with it?"

The unofficial foreman tugged at a bushy red mustache and shook his head. "Don't rightly know yet. Could just be age. Sand storms and salt air will do a number on this kind of metal after a while."

Jak wondered if that had anything to do with Sandover using wood and stone almost exclusively. He was about to ask why it had been anchored to a mud wall when there was a loud metallic clang. The last bracket holding the beam snapped under the weight, and the straps weren't enough to hold it.

Jak didn't remember moving. But then he was there, with the beam on his shoulders and the foreman on the ground, having narrowly avoided being crushed to death. Cold metal dug into his hands, pressed down against his head, and Jak knew that by rights he should've been dead.

There was a thrill of revulsion in his chest when he reluctantly acknowledged that the only reason he was standing right now was that the dark eco experiments had lengthened his muscle strands to twice the size of a normal hu'men's. It wasn't just in his dark form. That element of...unnatural...was just with him. Every moment.

"Frith! Oh my- HOWLAND! GET DOWN HERE!" Daru roared, "YOU COULDA KILLED SOMEBODY!"

"I got it," Jak said through gritted teeth. "Is there a place to put this thing down?"

"Not yet," Howland admitted as he shimmied down a ladder.

"We were going to cut it into pieces once it was secure, transport it that way to be recycled."

Jak craned his neck, but the motion jarred the beam. Hastily, he adjusted his grip.

"What's- What's around me?"

"Too much," said Daru grimly. "Just- Hold on, kid."

He winced at the boy's flat stare.

"Er...no pun intended. We're gonna, gonna get you out from under there, I promise!"

"Get it cut up first," Jak grunted, "And you won't have to worry about getting me out."

"And what if your hands get sweaty, huh?" Daru demanded, "Fat chance, little man! We're going to find something to hold this up!"

The other two men hurried down from the roof with saws in hand.

Oh gods. Handsaws. This was going to take a while.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Honestly, Damas should have been expecting trouble when he didn't start his day with a free heart attack after seeing eyeshine in the kitchen. The kid was diametrically opposed to the concept of sleep, so he wouldn't have been in bed. If he was off his routine -- and by now Damas had learned to dread something interrupting the kid's self-imposed routine -- then there was probably going to be trouble later.

When he refilled the fuel in the Beacon, fed the birds, and actually had a cup of coffee uninterrupted, he was suspicious.

When the sun rose and there were no echoes of truncated curses in the halls from guards running into Jak, he started to wonder if the kid had decided to work outside. Unusual, but as long as he didn't do anything that would make Dr. Petros yell at them both, more power to him.

But when the talking ottsel showed up in the throne room about an hour after dawn, frantically demanding to know where Jak was, Damas was concerned.

Those two were attached at the hip! Jak wouldn't have gone to look for work without Daxter.

There was a small crowd forming by the time Damas stepped outside. People were shouting encouragements, or conflicting advice about pulleys and snatchblocks. Had something fallen? Damas hadn't heard any impacts. As he began to pick his way through the crowd, the shouts took on new meaning.

"He's slipping! Somebody get under there!"

"How many more hands do you want? There's ten people holding the beam up!"

"Why won't he just let go?!"

"Standing this long, maybe his arms locked up-?"

A beam? People holding a beam-?

An accident. There'd been an accident and night watch hadn't caught it.

Thoughts of crushed citizens and mangled houses circled Damas’s imagination as he pushed through the rest of the crowd, close enough to hear the rasp of handsaws and the buzz of a lone angle grinder.

"Get the cart back in!" Someone yelled, "Next piece is almost off!"

From the looks of things, a crew of four had reduced a two-story high support beam by a third.

Ten Wastelanders were beneath the colossal pole, hands and shoulders braced against the metal as it shrieked and groaned. If even one of them slipped-!

Damas threw down his staff without thinking to join them, racing to catch the end beginning to slide.

"What happened?" he demanded, straining with the others to keep it from crushing the houses and themselves.

"Tie straps broke!" a man three people down called back, "If it weren't for the kid, it woulda come down right through the roofs of a couple houses!"

Kid?

Oh gods don't tell me...

Jak was standing in the very center of the line. His arms trembled, and sweat poured down his face. He didn't seem to hear anything happening around him, too focused on keeping his grip. He was beginning to pale.

"What's he doing here?!"

"Dunno!" A woman to the left answered. "He was already there when me and the girls showed up, but that was two hours ago."

"Hours?!"

Jak had been out here for hours, trapped, and Damas had been none the wiser?

"Why hasn't anyone gotten him out yet?!"

"We tried! The poor kid froze up!"

Damas gritted his teeth and pushed away images of the kid standing alone under that crushing weight for hours until help had woken up.

"Get a truck and winch out of the pit!" He ordered, "Forget damage to the streets, we'll fix it later! I want this thing taken care of now."

It took a full twenty minutes to get the Dozer through the narrow streets of the tower district. By that time, those who had been holding the beam first had cycled out for fresh arms to allow for water and eco. All except Jak. He'd accepted some water that someone poured into his mouth earlier, but still seemed to be unable to let go. He was at the fulcrum point, he insisted, and he wasn't going to let it tip. (Not that he thought he'd actually be able to move at this point.)

Fifteen people attached pulleys and cables to the beam from above, careful not to dislodge the hands of those below. When the cables had all been hooked to the Dozer's winch, the weight began, at last, to lessen.

There was a ragged cheer from the assembled Wastelanders as the end of the beam tipped up and the rescuers eased the other end to the ground. There would be extensive damage to infrastructure to deal with. But nobody had died, and there were no major injuries, and Damas would count that as a victory. Shaking out aching arms, he hurried to the center of the line, where someone was physically holding Jak upright. Damas took hold of the boy's stiff arms carefully.

"It's gone," he said, easing the limbs down, "It's gone, let go, Jak. Come on, you're done."

The kid made a sound, a soft rasping whine that might’ve been words. Then he collapsed.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

When the world drifted back into focus, Jak didn't know where he was. The smell of eco lingered around him, confusing the other scents that could have identified his location. He couldn't move his arms. Why couldn't he move his arms?!

It took a massive effort just to pry his eyelids up. Jak’s breath caught harshly between his teeth as he forced himself onto his side.

Well, that explained the lack of mobility in his arms. He ached like he'd been fighting beyond his limits again. The injection sites would be agitated again, he knew without looking. The pain radiated from his shoulders to his fingertips, skin, muscle, and bone.

The room was a blur. Brown and yellow slowly settled into more colors, ending in something either white or pale blue in front of his nose. The longer he stared at it, the more detail he could see. Pills of thread, clinging to loosely woven fabric. The texture and shape of the warp and weft shifted as he tried to move his hand.

He hissed in pain.

"Well that's what happens when you try to make a career as a load-bearing wall."

Jak tensed. Not alone. Not with Daxter.

Biting down on the pain, he dug his fingers into the pallet beneath him and forced himself upright.

This wasn't the hospital -- small blessings -- but it wasn't his room either. There was a low wooden bedframe on a wall a few feet away, on the other side of some kind of half partition full of plants.

"Where...?"

"Well you're about to think of it as prison," Damas answered from the opposite direction.

He was sitting at a table, hunched over a cup of coffee. The empty pot beside him was a story of its own.

"By the way, you're grounded."

"What?!" Jak sputtered. He started to get up, but fell back onto the pallet with a grunt of pain.

"Like rot!"

Damas glanced back over his shoulder. "Take it up with the doctor. He put you on bedrest, not me. Better yet, blame your own self! You could've let go at any time once the rest of the district turned up to help!"

"The whole...district?"

Jak blinked.

"I don't...remember that..."

Damas sighed and peered into into his mug.

"You've been sleeping most of the day, I'm not surprised. Even with the eco you'll probably be sore for a while."

"How -- ow! -- long was I out there?"

Jak cringed at the look in Damas’s eyes when the man turned around fully.

"Four. Hours. Four hours! Why didn't you let go when others arrived?!"

Was this a trick question? It had to be a trick question.

"Be...cause...I'm not supposed to let other people get hurt?" Jak answered with slow confusion.

Damas stared in complete silence for several seconds. Then,

"You're insane. My foster-son is insane. That's insane! In what world is "throw the youngest under the pillar" a rational solution?!"

"Uh. Haven?" Jak muttered peevishly. He tried to sit up again. "Look, just. Tell me which way my room is and I'll get out of your hair."

Damas pushed his chair back with a scraping sound.

"Mn. No. What part of "bed rest" didn't you hear?"

In brusque motions, he knelt and pulled the blanket back over Jak.

"You are not to do anything even mildly strenuous, or Petros will strangle me. And since I apparently can't trust you not to willingly walk into harm's way unsupervised, you get to camp out in here, and I get to work from home for the next few days to make sure you don't go try to lift a car or something!"

Jak was appalled. "You can't do that!"

Dry as dust, Damas retorted, "First of all, I'm king. Secondly, I'm your legal guardian. Yes I can."

Jak groaned in frustration.

"Where's Daxter?"

"Not grounded."

"Oh come on!"

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Please do the Chris Evans pottery fic! I legit have always thought about for years! Like him taking a night class or a private class for anxiety or hobby (that Scott guilted him to take) so he doesn’t get recognized and the reader (please preferably male) vaguely knows who he is and doesn’t care and teaches him and he falls in love with reader. Like a slow burn. Bro please I’m on my knees begging 🙏 your writing is god tier for Chris fics

related to this

First and foremost I have to say, goddamn, you really went back into the archives to find that post 💀💀 don't get me wrong, I appreciate the hell out of you for that but, also, oof, have I already been on Tumblr for 3 fucking years!?

What? When?

Second, I actually never thought too much about that idea haha. I just couldn't get past the idea of Chris using his hands in that way 🥴 because look, I'm much more of a sculptor than a potter, but it has never been lost on me (a) how much skill it takes to throw on the wheel, and (b) how fucking hot it can look lmao

So, because I never thought too deep about the idea beyond the look, I have to say That's A 👏🏻 Top 👏🏻 Notch 👏🏻 Idea 👏🏻

I love that idea, like:

Chris rolls up to a night pottery class with a baseball cap pulled down real low, trying not to be noticed, squeezing his shoulders in to be less big and noticeable.

You notice him though--he looks a little funny, trying so hard not to stand out and obviously not realizing that a long sleeve, chunky cardigan is 100% the wrong thing to wear when you're about to be playing with clay. But, you don't care about him being Mr. Movie Star (or dressed badly for this activity lol) because, obviously, if he's here for a class, he wants to learn

(Later you'll learn that Scott was the one to push him into it, telling him, lovingly, to quit just talking about beginning to work with his hands and actually Do It)

and so, he's gonna learn.

You are the teacher though, so... it's your duty to keep the secret that Captain America is in their midst.

(But that won't keep you from teasing him subtlety by asking him if he'd perhaps like a blue or red or clear glaze)

Chris might not pick up the skill of throwing as quickly as some of the others (mostly because he's never messed with clay before while many of the other students have even if it was years ago in high school or college or wherever), but he's dedicated.

He puts his all into learning throwing.

You learn quickly, instructing Chris, that he has this tendency to squeeze a little too hard and over-correct the clay. The strength he's got comes in handy with wedging clay and assisting in reconstructing the electric kilns by putting in the heavy shelves, but, when on the wheel, it's not about how hard you can press the clay, how hard you can squeeze it, or anything like that (unless you're working on huge, HUGE projects with massive amounts of clay... but, these students are not there yet). It's about letting your hands glide over the clay, it's encouraging the clay to stretch and compress delicately.

Pottery very much more finesse than force.

And you tell him that a lot in the beginning, "relax, for now, don't try to control it too much. Try to let go and just feel. Keep your elbows anchored in your hips and thighs, but, otherwise, stay loose and relaxed. Breath out. Sink into it, y’know? Relax."

Chris laughs, looking up at you from the little mound of clay he's been centering on his wheel head, "I didn't know this would be so... spiritual? I mean, shit, this feels like therapy."

"Ha," you say, "just be glad it's therapy and not Ghost."

Chris chuckles, "are those my only two options?"

"Right now, rookie? Yes." You point back at his unattended and still spinning wheel, "now, please put your nose back to the grindstone before I'm forced to saddle up behind you. I don't need to be shot in the streets before I get hands-on with my teaching"

You swear, under that cap and beard, Chris blushes. But. He also gets back to work, so... you can't be sure you're not just seeing things 👀

There are a lot of little moments like that throughout the class. Flirting. Maybe. Maybe not. Chris might just be that charming. You can't be too sure.

It's very charming to watch Chris pick up his wobbly creations after they've been put through the bisque kiln and laugh at their unstable bumps and lumps as he tries to set them flat on the table. Plus, when he sands his pieces, he murmurs to himself, talking about all the silly mistakes he finds. Nail marks. Dips. Bulges. Extra bits of clay he missed when trimming. You swear you hear him call himself a "meatball" once...

That is a challenge to not laugh at, but, you don't because you don't want him to know you're paying such close attention to him. (You can't have favorite students after all 😘)

And later, it's very sweet to watch him admire his first glazed pieces. He's very gentle with them, running his fingers back and forth, back and forth, over the smooth glaze. He seems to enjoy the smooth sensation.

Also, listen, I have no proof but I feel like Chris is gonna be the type of potter that gets Really Messy. Like, clay and slip all over his hands, of course, but also all up his forearms and flecks of it on his face and in his hair. His poor apron and shoes.

Also, I think Chris would be the type of potter that wipes their hands on their thighs over their apron 😮‍💨

Chris takes one class then another and another. He's getting much, much better.

But, he still looks like he's watching you perform magic when you quickly throw a vace or pie platter for a demonstration. It's really endearing. You'd love to see more of his face while watching you work, but, no matter how good you are at pottery, you can't do it without looking. Not yet... maybe someday, if you keep practicing.

And eventually, I'd like to think that you exchange numbers. Chris no longer takes your class and so it's fair game.

He comes over to your place and you cook a meal together because you already know each other well enough. So, you skip the more public dates that are better for strangers.

Chris seems mystified by the fact that ALL your plates, bowls, mugs, etc. are things you've made. Thrown on the pottery wheel. He just thinks it's very cool and personal. Also, he swears because of taking your class that he can't look at a factory-made plate or bowl or mug the same. They look so plain and lifeless now. In return, you tease that you'd offer to make him a set for his own home as a present (maybe for his birthday or Christmas) but, you're gonna insist that he at least try to make a set himself first.

And, hey, if he needs more encouragement maybe that Ghost option could come true...

Sorry, this is so short but I just had to get some real quick thoughts out between study sessions lol

Thank you so much for bringing this up again and thank you for reading!!

[noblebs]

find the word

tagged by @fortunatetragedy here, thank you! I actually got near some of my favorite little bits from chapters 3&4 with these :)

OPEN TAG! if you want to do this, here are your words: red, carry, sight, shirt

could:

Orion remembers seeing photos when the story broke: grainy opportunistic action shots sandwiched by columns of text reporting the monstrous operative of a heretofore poorly understood government agency crashing a diplomatic convention. The most prominent and well-distributed of the photos was of the agent himself, a dark, broad figure towering over everyone else in the shot. It's the low angle and the camera's zoom, she always thought, that lent him such an imposing height. As it turns out, there couldn't be a camera operator in the world who could make a demon standing 8 feet tall with arching horns to top it off less imposing.

time:

Orion groans and pats himself down until he finds his cigarette holder. He left his pack in the car, but the unyielding bakelite between his teeth is itself a small comfort, a point of firm pressure he can roll against his tongue instead of the choice words he could spit on this damned man. He's been backed into a corner, he could rip Devilant's throat out for sheer spite, but he'd be stunting his own investigation at the same time, and this smug bastard must be relishing in it. Humiliating that Orion can't even cling to the satisfaction of getting the last word in. He turns on his wedged heel. "I'll be outside. Hurry up."

all:

"Hey." A deep, husky voice drags him out of his spiral. Startling, he looks up to find her angular face hovering close to his shoulder. All at once, within reach. Close enough to see the crow's feet bracketing eyes as cold and gray as the shoreline in winter. Close enough to smell the clean pine of her conditioner. His breath grows thorns to catch inside his throat. "Do you mind if I sit here?" She waves a hand at the stool beside him. Orion shakes her head. The other woman sits sideways to face her, one elbow leaned atop the bar. She winces as she settles. Beneath her jacket is a black sweater and tight jeans. A steel piercing glints beneath her left eye, anchored near the peak of her cheekbone. She has a stark, earnest air about her, something imminent but alluring in the way she gazes at Orion, like the blade of a perfectly crafted knife. "You're not from here," she says, a statement.

back:

Orion takes a deep breath, still unsteady and distracted by the tension winding up inside her chest, but manages to smirk and dutifully take a sip. She lights a cigarette just to give her other hand something to hold: a tether to the here and now, a leash to draw her back from swallowing Madrigal whole in public. "I don't recall making you do anything. You came over here begging for a reason to talk to me." "Begging?" Madrigal straightens her posture and frowns severely. "I wouldn't be caught dead. I took pity on you." Orion scoffs. "Your pity put you out seventeen dollars for one glass, so I hope it was worth it."

[duckapus]

When she actually has time to think about it later, she'll realize that it should've been impossible. All foreign code, from entire cities to a Pingas Head to something as small and inconsequential as a pen she'd borrowed from Wareach and forgotten to return, was supposed to have been left behind (and likely fizzle out of existence in the code-dense space between servers, if it hadn't been for a few particularly powerful visitors. not that Jayin knew that. not that she'd have cared if she did know) when the Connected Cosmos Company took GP's copy of the game back.

And yet, she'd found it, wedged in the bottom of the passenger seat collecting dust. A little red-and-white metal ball, scuffed and scratched from years of adventures with a tiny half-faded yellow lightning bolt painted on the front just above the button.

Most of the time, she has no idea what it is, what significance it holds. It's just a neat little curiosity, something to pull out of the glove compartment and fidget with when she needs to Do Something with her hands besides just steer but it's not safe enough outside to stop driving and tinker with the van. With how hectic things get sometimes she'll forget she even has it for days on end.

But in those rare moments, when the memories of her other life burst out of their cage, jumbles and raging and straining so hard at the chains pulling them back that it hurts and she can barely breathe, it becomes one of her last links to reality.

She takes shaky, shallow gulp of air, clutching Pikachu's Pokeball to her chest, and once again does her best to sort through the memories for as long as she still has them.

"M-my name is...Tulip Orpheus.

I am... seventeen years old.

I ran away from home when I was sixteen.

I'm... I am a... video game character...

Seven years ago, my game was...was filled with memes via a mod pack...to b-bring it to life.

I was seventeen when that happened. I am still seventeen because that is the age my character model was designed to be, and the people who modded my game haven't had a reason to change it yet.

I am an-an Avatar. I am the seventh Avatar.

This means that I am an anchor-point that keeps my game stable. If I... die, so does the rest of the world.

I have...two partners, who came with the mod pack. They help me st-stay alive, and they make art with the memes. This also keeps the game stable.

Their names are Super Meme Guardian 7 and Super Meme Guardian 10. They usually just use their initials because that's a mouthful.

There are currently...twenty? Yeah, t-twenty Avatars. But only across seventeen games. Two of them turned out to be evil and are in prison. Three of them died, but one came back. Two are...complicated. There was another complicated one, but that was fixed a few months ago.

I am friends with the other Avatars. I'm closest with a half-genie dancer named Shantae, a Pokemon trainer named Ash Ketchum, and a space-traveling alien delivery man named Captain Ol-Olimar.

I am being trained to defend myself by a Keyblade wielder named Sora."

Another, slightly steadier breath.

"My game...was created by the Connected Cosmos Company.

They took my copy of the game back, and put its data in a new game.

I don't know for sure, but I think they did it to three of the other Avatars too.

They tried to make me forget my time as an Avatar.

It only partially worked.

I don't know why.

I...I am alone." her vision gets blurry. She doesn't stop the tears, "I am not supposed to be alone anymore.

I am alone, I am in danger, and I am scared."

She feels the memories slipping away again, and grips the ball tighter.

"I... I am... real.

My memories are real.

My friends are Real.

MY FAMILY IS REAL!

They're real, and they're coming for me, and nothing will stop them.

And when they find me, I will never be alone again."

The bit of fire she found inside herself burns up far too soon, and she rapidly goes from determined to desperate as the cage door closes once more, "Please let them be real..."

A moment later, she looks around in confusion. She doesn't know why she's sitting on the floor of the van, or why she's been crying, or why she's holding that weird ball.

What she does know, is that she needs to get ready for another hard day of surviving the nightmare her world's become.

Not like someone's gonna swoop in and save her from it, after all.

[hekateinhell]

♡ + Armand/Daniel in Our House

omg I'm excited, I have so much lore for them I haven't written into the fic yet! Our House is my Armand/Daniel human AU in case none of this makes sense 🫣🫣🫣

• Who is the most affectionate?

In public, it's Armand 100%. He does not know the meaning of the term 'boundaries.' From day one he was all up in Daniel's business, the most possessive and territorial body language you've ever seen -- almost like a guard dog with its owner. Arm around his waist or clinging to the crook of his elbow. Armand's always one 'overly flirtatious look from the cute college barista aimed at Daniel' away from baring his teeth and hissing.

In private, Armand doesn't feel the need to put on such a show and his clinginess manifests more as cuddling into Daniel's side and curling into his lap at any given opportunity. He spent most of his early life in an orphanage before The Bad Stuff™️, so he's been touch starved with only a couple exceptions over the years and he's making up for the lost time.

• Who initiates the handholding?

Armand prefers to hang on directly to a limb like it's an anchor, so it's actually Daniel that will attempt to initiate the handholding not only to give himself more freedom of motion (RIP) but also to remind Armand that he's aware of his needs and he's trying (and wants) to meet them.

• Who worries more for the other?

LOL. Daniel, bless him. Being married to Armand right now is fucking stressful. 🤧

• Who is more likely to ask for help?

Neither of them, things have to get pretty bad before they get there. They're both used to being independent and having to survive shitty environments with minimal support, so it's hard to recognize when it's time for 'Hey, I need help.'

That being said, Daniel was the one to enforce the condition that Armand begin therapy if they were going to move forward as a couple and he did do AA -- so I guess Daniel. His American mentality was much more open to it as well, versus Armand's Eastern European mindset. It took Armand a minute and it was essentially a gun-to-his-head type situation; he is rather fond of Dr. Lydia now though.

• Who is the one always losing the keys?

Daniel. He has about 20 different things to worry about on any given day, and keys are just not one of them. Thankfully Armand's OCD comes into effect here and he always has a spare and a spare-spare, as well as a spare-spare-spare that he's wedged under a loose brick by the window near the fire escape.

So best case scenario if Armand's not home, Daniel will ideally scale up five flights of the fire escape, retrieve the keys, then go back down and enter through the doors like a civilized person. In reality, he totally jiggles that window open with his pocket knife like a burglar. It upsets the cats; the neighbors are used to it, happens at least once every 2-3 months.

• Who leaves little love notes for the other?

Armand.

He's old-fashioned like that and slips a Post-It into Daniel's backpack with either some obscure darkly romantic line from a poem that's mildly unsettling, or something superficially innocent like 'I think I'm ovulating today... xxx A'.

Anyone accidentally glimpsing that on Daniel's desk when it tumbles out as he's rummaging between notebooks and his laptop wouldn't be too surprised, unless they knew Daniel was married to a man and if he wasn't presently blushing red like a tomato from his face to his shirt collar.

• Who can't sleep unless the other is there?

Armand, no one's shocked. He's an incredibly deep sleeper but he has the worst time actually falling asleep if Daniel isn't home (i.e., visiting his family). He usually ends up curled underneath a blanket on the couch with the TV on in the background, more passing in and out of consciousness due to exhaustion than really sleeping, with the cats on his chest and his belly.

Daniel noticed early on during their sleepovers that Armand tends to deep sleep in the fetal position with his arms curled against his chest as if he were holding something. Naturally, Daniel sort of awkwardly/very sweetly gifted him a little stuffed animal so Armand had something to hold when he's not around -- Armand has slept with it every night since. Daniel doesn't travel alone unless it's extenuating circumstances.

• Who is more likely to propose to the other?

Technically, Armand looked that man in the eye mid-fuck in the men's room with his back pressed up against the wall, knees to his shoulders, and announced in complete and utter seriousness within an entire month of dating: 'You're going to marry me.'

To which Daniel, twenty-four years old, in a state of perpetual horniess combined with a healthy smidgen of fear, responded: 'Yeah sure, baby... fuck... You close?'

• Who introduced the other to their family first?

Armand doesn't have any living family, so Daniel.

His parents were superficially nice until it became obvious Armand was fucking their son in a decidedly homoerotic fashion. Armand tries not to let on how much it hurts because he understands the fraught relationship Daniel has with his parents, but it cuts deep because he always hoped if he was fortunate enough to fall in love again, his partner's family would become his own.

He is close to Daniel's baby sister, Caroline. She's too young for Armand to really talk to her about much, but they do text often and she always looks forward to spending a week at 'Danny and Army's' in Brooklyn when Daniel flies her up during semester break to get her out of their parent's house.

• Who is more likely to play with the other's hair?

Daniel loves getting his hands tangled up in Armand's hair, especially when he lets it let long and unruly. Daniel's a fidgety guy when he's working through something in his head (a story, a crisis, why none of the movies Armand loves ever seem to make any sense), and twirling Armand's hair and boinging his curls is a fun tactile distraction.

• Who makes sure the other has meals/stays hydrated?

They both do this. Armand tends to neglect himself when he's depressed and Daniel neglects himself when he's stressed. Armand's big thing is making sure Daniel eats 'like a person.' Daniel's big thing is making sure Armand does basic things like get out of bed, drink water, eat something, anything.

When things get bad, bad, but the show has to go on (i.e., Daniel can't quit his job and life to force-fed Armand a cracker and juice), they implement a simple 'you have to do X by 11am and text me you've completed X' system. It might not work for everyone, but it appeals to Armand's desire to please his husband and receive praise, and it's a small measure of accountability.

• Who is more likely to stand up to anyone for the other?

I think they're equally feral and protective when it comes down to it. Because he knows Armand's past, Daniel is already to go to bat at the slightest provocation.

Armand once took a bite out of a guy for calling Daniel a slur when they were out in public. Yes, Armand does have a somewhat impressive rap sheet.

• Who is the most likely to prepare a surprise for the other?

Daniel can't keep a secret to save his life. As soon as Armand even raises an eyebrow at him, he's in stitches -- no poker face, zero composure.

Armand lives to plan surprise parties and the Big Romantic Gestures that take at least a month and a $1, 000 to pull off.

• Who makes the other pinky promise not to do certain things?

Daniel, and he takes it so seriously. Armand thinks it's childishly charmingly and it gives him butterflies when Daniel crushes his much smaller pinkie against his.

• Who puts a blanket over the other when they fall asleep on the couch?

Armand -- he knows Daniel worries a lot between him and his family and all his editorial deadlines so when he passes out on the couch approximately 10 minutes after dinner, Armand carefully removes his glasses, kisses his forehead, and tucks him in with the rainbow afghan Daniel's granny knitted him decades ago and he's been lugging around ever since he left for college.

[unknownjpegs]

gecko

When Maran returns from an incredibly awkward encounter in Innsmouth’s only general store, his arms laden by paper bags filled to the brim with all manner of American confectionary (and other dietary necessities, else Benji gets on his case), there is a man standing on his dock. 

All right, technically the dockmaster’s dock, but Maran’s paying a fucking arm and leg to anchor there. It’ll be his dock for as long as those payments are coming out of his pockets.

The man outstretches a black-gloved hand for Maran as he approaches, but it’s not meant for Maran to clownishly balance bags to take and swing in an enthusiastic handshake. Which he does — and then immediately feels fucking daft for doing.

“I meant,” the stranger says, cheeks folding agreeably with the force of his amused, sneering grin, “for you to hand off one of the bags.”

“I can handle it,” Maran says, hoping none of the peeved annoyance or pout makes its way into his tone. “Don’t even know who you are, mate.”

He’s blond, judging from the light color of his facial hair. He’s wearing a red beanie, discolored from the soak of the ocean spray directly next to them, that obscures the rest. Maran would like to know if his hair is as pale as his eyes. 

“Benson.” He responds, and then forcibly takes a nearly-tearing bag away from Maran’s wrist. “I g-go by Benny.’ 

“Oh, shit.” Maran laughs. He stumbles forward toward the boat without any other preamble, immediately at ease. “You’re Benji’s —“ Maran scrunches his nose, tilts his head at the other man. “Well, dunno. Never clear about that. Didn’t want to presume.”

“I’m Innsmouth’s coroner b-before I’m Benji’s anything but problem,” Benny chirps goodnaturedly. Maran immediately understands why he had any sort of rapport with Benji at all. Both of them were pricks.

“Okay, Innsmouth’s coroner Benny Benson, problem of Benji, visitor on my dock.” Maran declares, nudging a bag higher with his knee. “Help me get these inside, then stay for a cuppa?”

“W-What’s with the name?”

Maran leans slightly off the dock, one converse easily balanced against wet plank and the other hanging casually in the air above the churning water. He peers at the golden cursive — never gets old to read. Life Insurance.

“Most support thing the old man did for me, croakin’,” he quips with a sharp do not ask about him grin. “Wanna meet the first mate? Ain’t a talker, but I think you’ll like ‘em.” 

*

When Maran peeks his head into the cabin, he lets out a sharp gasp. Behind him, he feels Benny jump at the sound.

“Sorry, sorry,” Maran’s laughing as he wedges himself into the door, drops the bags. He’s holding up a finger as he disappears into the orange-glow of the boat. “Just one second — he’s not — he’s gotta be right here for it to work, hold on, sorry.” 

He emerges a moment later, shutting the door and leaning back against it. The boat rocks softly on the residual waves from the storm, and Maran sways fluidly with it. Muscle memory and strong legs, which Benny seems not to be as skilled at; clearly, he’s been on ships before. Have to be, right, growing up in a place like Innsmouth. Maran watches him sway, strands of blond hair under the edge of his beanie stuck to his jaw by the spray and humidity in the air. 

“You going to let me see inside?”

It strikes Maran as a particularly funny thing to say from someone in Benny’s profession. So he laughs, loud and unapologetic. He makes a sawing motion in the air between them, tongue tucked between his teeth.

“Say that before crackin’ every poor lad open?”

To his delight, the dark joke lands. A twitchy little curve of the mouth, one brow disappeared into the edge of that red beanie, a cheeky eye roll. Lands a little too well, maybe, because Benny leans forward. More into Maran’s space. His eyes, unavoidable this close, are the same stormy blue as the sky where it hasn’t been filtered by clouds. He stares into the peculiar shade. For some reason, Maran’s smile slips a bit. His mouth goes dry. He wonders when the last time he’d had a drink was, and winces internally at how Benji would react to that little piece of information. 

But all thoughts of his best friend flit from him in the next second, because Benny lifts a hand to push aside Maran’s wrist from his hip, worms his hand along his torso. His fingers sweep over the small of his back, the touch briefly electrifying before the doorknob twists behind him and Maran stumbles back into the cabin.

“Only the cute ones,” Benny says. He takes slow, purposeful steps across the threshold. For a moment, he stands broad-shouldered against the brackish sky. Maran is staring again. He can feel it.

“Morbid.” He laughs nervously, tucking his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. He looks away when the coroner moves properly into the cabin, boots heavy on the paneled wood floor. He has to look away. Benny’s — not frightening, no. Maran thinks he’s a fine read of somebody, and the fact that Benji knows and tolerates him or more, the fact that he hasn’t yet tossed Maran overboard to steal the vessel? 

Means he’s decent, at the very least. So it isn’t fear that shivers up his spine in a creeping tickle, makes his palms feel moist enough to rub dry on his thighs, Operation game his heart off beat with a loud buzzing zap! — but it’s something close to fear. Maran doesn’t watch. Being unable to name that fear-adjacent thing has him nervous. Having a relative stranger set him off course as much as Benny has? Yeah, that’s something about that is too big, too strong, too strange for him to spare another thought towards. And Benny, for some reason, is too much for him to watch come forward.  

He isn’t sure why. 

Benny winks at him and scrunches two fingers together, showing Maran the barest amount of pace in between. Yeah, sure, morid. But only a little. Maran hasn’t got a single doubt in his mind that the man is capable of worse jokes. Has to be, in his line of business. Innsmouther, by choice or not; has to have some form of equilibrium on a ship. Coroner, by trade; has to cope with sick fucking jokes. He’d like to hear some of them, as long as they aren’t that nasty.

“Is this what you w-wanted to show me?” Benny asks. 

He brushes past Maran, whose eyes have flitted to a tomato soup stain he’d meant to clean off the ceiling months ago, and stands in front of the massive enclosure that eats up the whole east wall of the cabin. There used to be a little loveseat built into the wall there, but Maran had spent the first summer he’d bought the Life Insurance building the roomy living space for his first mate. Well — Maran had spent the whole summer watching Benji build Geico’s enclosure, more to the point. He was better at DIY, didn’t mind being in the stuffy interior for a bit of manual labor. Rather, he seemed to despise Marna’s whining about the heat only slightly more than he than he did experiencing it for himself.

“Who.” Maran clarifies, one finger raised. He bends at the waist to put himself down eye-level with Geico. The gecko is now properly poised in his usual spot, the heated rock in the corner. Maran’s drawn and taped a little top hat and cigar to the spot, so it looks as if he’s really relaxing when he rests there.

“What is he?” Benny leans down as well, hands tucked into his jacket. His shoulder brushes Maran’s, who tries very hard not to twitch. “Or she. They?” 

“Dunno if geckos have gender.” Maran says thoughtfully. Geico blinks one eye at a time, and Maran grins. “That’s what he is, by the way. Not an iguana, not a fuckin’ lizard. He’s a gecko.”

A single breath leaves the other man. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh, purposefully bisected in a breathy cleave that takes most of the noise. Maran wonders if Benny is self-conscious of his laugh, too. 

“I knew that. I mean what kind.”

Maran, delighted by the shared thread of interest, beams. “Satanic Leaf-Tailed.” 

His flannel’s sleeve gets caught in the jacket as he tosses it, yanking up the fabric. Ben, now seated at the kitchen table that Maran has also been meaning to clean up  and restain, makes a thoughtful noise. 

“Like those.”

Maran blinks at him owlishly from where he stands at the stove, chin tilted over his shoulder. Benny gestures with one finger at his own arm encased in a black sweater.

“Octopus.” He hesitates, expression pinching for the briefest second. “I mean, the s-s-sleeve, not just the octopus. The wh-whole thing is really good work.”

“Oh!” Maran says, running an absent-minded hand up his forearm. “Hah, sometimes I forget they’re there. Never wanted ‘em until — well, it’s more Benji’s speed, right? Tattoos. You know that. Anyway, his friend helped come up with a cool design, and I just…kinda went for it.”

Benny’s eyebrows raise. “That your only one?” 

Maran shakes his head and wanders back over to the table, slipping into the bolted-down boothseat across from him. He pushes the sleeve of his left arm up, bunching it tight around the elbow. It cuts the whole of the piece in half, but there’s enough action sketched into his forearm that the full spread of that sleeve is suggested.

“I think they look kind of funny,” Maran admits quietly. He hasn’t let that one slip to anybody but the twin in the mirror. “They stop right at the shoulder, and I just — I dunno. Need more or something to look...not like a poser.” He says that in Benji's tone. Then laughs and shakes his head. “Oof. Swear. In my head today, sorry.”

“No w-worries,” Benny responds quietly. He’s looking at the swirl of shapes on Maran’s skin when he says: “I like them. Besides that’s the kind of shit sailors do, right? Get m-massive, p-permanent tattoos? Makes you steer better.”

Maran grins, feeling suddenly shy. Thankfully, the kettle goes off at that moment. He retrieves it and goes about sorting decent amounts of instant coffee into the two mugs he’d set out. 

“M’not a sailor.”

Benny deliberates between the two outstretched ceramic mugs, and settles for the smaller of the two. A massive, fading visage of the donkey from Shrek has been printed on the side. He’s got an ear and and eye missing, the paint mostly chipped away from too many runs with the elements. 

“So, what are you?”

It’s a good question. It’s a question for which Maran feels, even on a fantastic day, that he lacks a proper answer for.

He shrugs. “Just a guy, I s’pose. Guy with a boat.” 

“Hm.” He peers silently at from the rim of his mug. Maran swears there’s a little smirk on his lips as they part for coffee. He taps the back of Maran’s hand, which is still for some reason stretched across the table into his space.

“Any more?” 

Maran shakes his head again, finding his tongue too thick in his mouth to answer verbally. Benny nods again thoughtfully, then puts the cup back down. The ship lurches suddenly to the side, a dull thunk resonating up from beneath. Maran shoots out to catch both of their mugs before they fly off the side. Maran has the mind to worry about the noise and possible damage for a second, but only barely, and — yeah, only for a second. He’s glued in place, both physically and mentally, by Ben’s icy, shrewd gaze. 

“I would really love,” Ben says as he reaches across the table, fingers lightly coasting up Maran's wrist. “To see the rest of these s-sometime.” His eyes flick up to Maran’s again, the brief reprieve from his deliberation about that tattoos cut short. 

“Yeah, sure,” Maran responds thinly. The air winds tight in chest, because long, pale fingers step up his forearm. He could swear the touch seems more exploratory than appreciative of the art, but that would be mad — 

Wouldn’t it? 

So many things about Innsmouth already felt mad, anyway.

[brianbrianbrain]

unironically i should just use cards to a certain parent to do art therapy. bam like 10 minutes, weirdly cathartic

ID. A digital illustration of a green fir tree with reddish brown roots stabbing through and wrapping around a black and white outline of a car anchored to the dirt by green vines. The car has 6 windows red head and tail lights. The tree is adorned with yellow strings. The bottom center of the card reads "Holidays! 2023." End ID.

this one was also just fun. i love her

ID. A digital illustration of a half peeled orange on a surface depicted by black lines. The top half of the peel has a red bow around the green stem that has leaves attached, one of which casts shade over half of the orange. 3 little stick figures stand atop the orange. From left to right: figure leaning to the right with hands on hips and legs spread on the top of the leftmost wedge, figure facing leftwards with arms wide 3 wedges away, figure sliding down the outside curve of the rightmost wedge. The background is a muted and textured pink pastel. End ID.

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

wholesale wedge anchor

Click here to see more of this product

[jangofctts]

Dying For (Adrian Chase/Vigilante x fem!reader)

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 6.2k 

Warnings: smut, explicit language, mentions of stalking, Adrian has a praise kink (also a bit of a sub here), mentions of blood/injury, stitches, mentions of violence, vaginal fingering, handjobs, blowjobs, thigh riding, (lmk if I missed anything please!!)

You awake to the sound of shattering glass.  

Fucking great. 

The one time you’re home alone, house sitting for you parents, shit like this happens—

You throw your comforter off in a great flourish and vault from your bed. Goobie, your parent’s old, wrinkly basset hound, one wrong breath away from yeeting off this mortal coil, begins to bay at the foot of your bed. Chilly air caresses your bare thighs, the hardwood floors turning your toes to ice. You grab your brother’s baseball bat that rests besides your dresser as Goobie howls at the door. More glass splinters and cracks, stemming from the living room.    

A life in Evergreen is never overwhelmingly busy—especially without a job. Only thing you frequently find yourself doing nowadays is participating in a long standing rivalry between you, a broom, and and the congregation of overly curious raccoons that have sequestered themselves in your backyard. One night—one fucking night you left out a box of Cheez-Its and now they think it’s easy pickings—  

They’ve grown bold, you think, to physically manifest inside your living room. It’s fine. Totally cool. 

Except—

As you open your door, dressed in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a pair of shitty underwear, prepared to beat back the surge of grubby, little thieves, you’re met with—

Well…you’re not really sure what you’re looking at, to be quite frank. 

Something, or rather someone is crawling through your living room window. They’re muttering curses under their breath, swiping away glass that clinks to the floor and flopping around like a strange fish as they try to wedge themselves into the frame. The strangest part, and not that break-ins are necessarily normal, is that the perpetrator in question is dressed in a black and blue tactical suit.  

Oh, this is way worse than the fucking raccoons—   

You’ve seen this fucker on the news. 

His thigh gets stuck, flung forward by momentum then hangs by his calf, head skimming the floor. “Should’ve skipped leg day,” he grumbles to himself. With his other boot, he pushes against the inside frame and heaves himself in—he falls to the floor in a tangled heap, a wheezy oof following the mass of limbs and scuffed armor.   

Why you let this man fully break into your house instead of just cutting to the chase and beating the ever loving shit out of him? A wonderful question that no doubt needs some serious psychological review on your part.  

You smack the light switch as Goobie yips and wags his tail. The man startles. “Wait—”

Panic kickstarts your heart as Vigilante struggles to his feet, raising his hands in surrender. Still groggy with sleep, punchy with adrenaline, and overwhelmed by Goobie’s animated howling—it’s a lovely cocktail of stupidity. 

You launch yourself forward and swing your bat. The carbon fiber whizzes over his head—he ducks and whips his head towards you. The red visor glints as he jabs an accusing finger in your direction. “Not cool!” 

In the blink of an eye, his rough glove latches to your wrist, the other posting under your forearm. The delicate bones and tendons compress and twist as Vigilante squeezes your wrist. The bat clatters to the floor. You throw an elbow back that connects with his ribs. He grunts, readjusts his grip, and throws you to the floor. Vigilante goes down with you. 

He wrestles you into a headlock—both arms hooked under yours, his hands using your head as an anchor to keep you from wiggling free. You screech and kick your legs back—he readjusts by interlacing his leg over on of yours and pulling it back towards him. Your heart pounds, blood roaring in your ears. You’re completely immobilized—

“Y’know, you could’ve seriously maimed me,” Vigilante gripes right beside your ear.  

“That was the point, asshole!”

He clicks his tongue. “That sounds salty. Kinda like kettle corn—”

You test the man’s hold. Not a budge and Goobie is no help. “Kettle corn?”

“Yeah!” He agrees. “Because you’re also sweet—jeez. Don’t you even eat kettle corn?” 

What the fuck! Here, you are, getting choked out while your assailant compares you to fucking kettle corn. Hot tears prick at your eyes, panic welling in your chest that squeezes around your lungs like a vice.     

Goobie, the betrayer, waddles over, non-plussed about this entire misfortunate event. His droopy face and rheumy, brown eyes slide into view above you. Strings of drool dribble out of his jowls and land over your forehead. Goobie whines and then uses your head as a step stool, the force of his wagging tail making his entire body wiggle. He presses his little, black nose to Vigilante’s mask, right where the outline of his ears stick out under the fabric, and sniffs. An excited boof rumbles through Goobie’s chest, pink and black spotted tongue rolling over the man’s covered face.

Vigilante jerks his head to escape Goobie’s affectionate kisses. “Blegh—Goobie, your breath is rank—”

Goobie harrumphs, steps off your head and toddles away, trimmed nails clicking on the hardwood floor. How in the fuck— 

Wait—you know that voice. 

You stop struggling. 

“Adrian?”

“One and only,” Adrian Chase confirms. You can hear the smile in voice as cool relief surges through your veins. “Seriously, Ducky—what are you feeding him? Your boy’s got a mad case of ball breath—wait—fuck.” Adrian drops his voice to a comical drawl and backtracks. “Who’s Adrian—Vigilante could be any—"

As Adrian’s grip relaxes, you claw yourself out of his headlock, spin around and throw your arms around his neck. Adrain wheezes, pinned between the floor and your body, head tucked right under his chin. He’s stiff, at a loss for words and action—but slowly and surely, his arms fold over your body to return the haphazard hug. His palm gingerly smooths over your shoulder blade as he tucks his head over yours. Adrain’s breathing skips into a choppy cadence. He’s never been an expert at returning sudden physical affection—it’s gotten better throughout the years growing up though. 

Just as he tightens the hug, you break away and assist him into a sitting position. He still wears his mask. You frown and reach up to cup his covered face—you can’t see past his visor. “Adrian…are these prescription?” 

He nods, shoulders perking. “Uh, yeah—of course they are. What else would I use? Contacts? Those things melt to your eyes, y’know.”  

Your brows furrow. He’s been reading those shitty tabloids again—or found his way onto Reddit. God forbid. “They don’t…whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

Adrian pulls his mask off his head. Your heart twists inside your chest. He hasn’t changed at all—soft brown hair that sticks up at odd angles due to the mask, dimples, his quirky smile you think about a little too much. He reaches around his belt to fish out his glasses from one of the compartments. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his arched nose, smiles, and waves his hands in a sort of ta-da motion. “Surprise! It was me all along!” 

Your eyes rove over your long time friend. It should concern you, terrify you even, that there is dried blood beneath Hello Kitty band-aids that litter his skin, some of it from his split knuckles and some of it from unknown origins. Fists like rusted switchblades in search for infamy, justice, something wild and deeper than skin. It’s always been there, Adrian’s warrior heart, nestled between an ivory ribcage and a righteous soul. And in the same breath, he’s forever been a sweet kid—a little odd, granted, but you love him just the same. This violence…is nothing but a negative output of Chris Smith’s direct influence and Adrian’s devotion. 

Secrets, you’ve found, do not hide in shadows. They hide in the glaring light of day and pass unnoticed due to willful ignorance that you too have fallen victim to. You should’ve known. It makes sense that Adrian and Vigilante are one and the same.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Ducky?” Adrian asks, butting through your thoughts. He’s adopted the idea that justice proceeds any sort of cost. You work your jaw. “Do I have something in my teeth?”   

Adrian scrubs a gloved finger over his teeth. He kills people. And yet…it doesn’t scare you. Doesn’t entice you to call the police or worry for your own life. You run a hand over your face, rubbing away the last dregs of sleep. You sigh. Curse your compassionate soul.   

“Adrian,” you begin, heart jumping as he smiles, “what the actual fuck are you doing in my house?”

His brows furrow. “Didn’t you read my text?”

“It is three in the morning, dude.” 

Adrian makes a noise of discontent and fishes his phone out of his utility belt. He scoots closer to you and presents his phone. His lock screen is a strange, poorly photoshopped, collage of his face, Chris’, yours and Matt (your older brother). All of his favorite people, he once explained to you. He slides his thumb up the screen and shows you the evidence. You quirk a brow. The text is just a bunch of emojis.

“How would I even begin to decipher that?” You ask, puzzled. 

Adrian rolls his eyes and points to each one as if this were common sense and not a shitty game of pictograph. “C’mon, dude, it’s simple! Coming to your house. Need medical attention. Going through window.”

You blink and scratch at your jaw. “So instead of going to a hospital you broke in?” 

“You’re a doctor,” he says, satisfaction lacing his words.   

“I am a veterinarian—those are not the same,” you huff in disbelief. You cross your arms over your chest, eyeing him with a stern glare. “You scared the shit out me—and you broke my window.”    

Adrian shrugs. He knows you won’t ever set your foot down when it comes to him—not entirely. “I’ll just buy you a new one—by the way, you should really get a security system or something. Who knows who’ll crawl through your window next.”  

You fix him with a long, tired stare. “Well, gee—I sure hope it’s not a masked madman.” 

“That’s what I’m saying!” Adrian cries, throwing up his hand. The jokes flies over his head, as does most sarcasm. “I can’t let my best friend get hurt.” He pauses for a second. “Don’t tell Peacemaker I said that—he still thinks I’m his number one BFF.” 

You pause for another moment and bite your tongue. Adrian mutters under his breath about his back needing stitches, how the fabric of his suit will probably stain.  

“Fine. Let’s fix you up,” you sigh as if this is more trouble than it’s worth. It’s not. “Stay here while I get my stuff.”  

You grab your medical supplies from the bathroom down the hall. When you return, you startle and throw your hand over your eyes. Adrian Chase has stripped all the way down to his unicorn patterned boxers and pink ankle socks. He reclines on your couch like some sort of sexy fireman calendar. “Oh, dude—what the fuck?”

“What?” Adrian scoffs, not in the least bit embarrassed. You peek through your fingers. “I got slashed in the back—how are you supposed to stitch me up without seeing my bod, Ducky? Xray vision? Also—you’re literally just wearing underwear. We’re twinning now.”

Adrian makes a fair argument. You grumble a curse under your breath and wander to his side. He’s just another patient, nothing more. Right. You set your med bag onto the coffee table with a plunk and settle behind him. The couch gives under your weight. Oof—whoever did this—they got him good. Nothing you can’t fix, though. 

You sterilize the area, curiosity brewing in your mind. With a little prompting, Adrian will gladly share. He’s bad at keeping secrets—at lying too. “What happened?”

Adrian cranes his neck to look at you. You gently order him not to move so much as you clean up the smaller cuts. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you! Ugh, I’m such a silly goose. Peacemaker is out of jail! And now we’re on a task force saving the—well that’s private information. Definitely not for plebs or civilians like you. Not that you’re a pleb—you’re way cooler than that.”

You sour at the mention of Chris. Didn’t he have a thirty year sentence? Last time you checked, it’s only been four years since he was arrested. “You’re working with Chris?”

You don’t mean for your words to hold such venom. Adrian shoots you a look and holds up his lean hands. “Woah, hold your horses sourpuss. I’m sensing some unresolved tension here.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumble. You rub your eyebrow with the back of your hand and stick a bandaid onto a bleeding cut right under his left scapula. “I just…I don’t like how he treats you.”

It’s a strange relationship you have with Chris. You grew up with the guy, following your brother and Adrian around as they followed him. It’s where the nickname comes from—little ducky always waddling after the the gaggle of boys. Always looking after them because your mother told you so. A piteous effort to save Chris from his own family that never really worked out in the end. He’s never been grateful for the extended hands offering salvation. He’d rather use and take advantage of friends and keep them in a six foot radius, fending everyone off with a red-hot poker.

The surface anger still lingers. You don’t understand why Adrian can’t see that Chris would first sacrifice him then think of the consequences, of Adrian as a living, breathing person—just another bloodstain on the hem of Chris’ sleeve. Chris is an open wound with no intention of getting better, but even still, deep in your heart, you hope he finds peace.          

“Well it’s not like I could hang out with anyone else, Ducky,” Adrian sighs, muscle and sinew coiling under his freckled skin as he exhales. His shoulders pull forward. His words sting your heart, bitter guilt welling upon your tongue. “Matt left, and then you did too.”

“Yeah,” you admit quietly. “I did.”

You walked right through that door while Adrian kept keeping one the wrong side of the street, and believing in the make believe. Adrian is easy to forgive and forget, but even so, the silver knife of your absence cut deeper into his heart than you ever intended. 

You stuck around as long as you could stomach—Evergreen is a backwater shithole in the buttfuck middle of nowhere Washington. Once you earned enough credits you fled to Gotham, got into the university’s uppity veterinarian school, and scored a job right out of school. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to you, the whole fucking animal clinic had been a money laundering guise for Roman Sionis. Worst fucking mistake you ever made in your entire life. You were nothing short of a hostage, employed to care for all of his and his minion’s exotic pets. 

Thank god for Harley Quinn. Your unlikely hero. 

And now you’re back—

You hated the city anyway…plus your best friend is here too. That doesn’t sound too bad, does it?

You sigh. “I got fired, y’know,” not the whole truth. You don’t want to stress him out. “You don’t have to worry about me leaving again.”  

“Well that’s stupid—I bet you were way too sexy to work there anyway.”

You laugh and focus your attention on the wound that needs stitching. 

Adrian bounces his leg, jumpy under your touch as you clean the edges of the wound with alcohol wipes. It’s a force of habit to run the flat of your palm down his side—all your patients are animals—soothed by gentle pats and kind words. It’s not your fault you regress into muscle memory. You mistake the rush of goosebumps covering Adrian’s back and the rigid way he holds himself, to be fear. Apprehension of the needle—        

You rub your palm in gentle circles over the little bump at the top his spine. “Relax, Adrian.”

A harsh stream of air punches free from his diaphragm. “Sorry—I’m not scared—I pinky promise. This is like a paper cut. Your hands are just…your hands are cold. You need some of those hand warmer thingies.”

They are a bit chilly. Nonetheless, Adrian does eventually settle amidst his stream of babbling. As the sharp needle hooks into his skin, you blunt the pain with something equally as soft; “Good boy.”

His entire body tenses, ramrod stiff. Adrian audibly gulps, deft hands clawing into the flesh of his thighs. His nails leave behind moon shaped indents. Hm. You cruise through suturing up his wound, mumbling little praises here and there. You finish by taping a gauze pad over the wound.  

“All done,” you chirp, patting his shoulder. Adrian says nothing, a little hunched, muscle and sinew pulled taught. Another set of goosebumps erupt under your hand as your thumb rubs circles over a patch of freckles. “Are you ok?”

Adrian jerks to attention. His green eyes side eye you. “What? Me? Yeah, totally—just peachy. A-ok—fantastic in fact. No problemo. How’re you?”

His hands slide into his lap, shielding something from your keen eyes. Oh. You get it now. Fuck—you’re an idiot. Even in high school, the mildest positive comment had Adrian blushing redder than a tomato. Yet, in high school you weren’t exactly rubbing your hands all over his bare back while whispering praise, easily misinterpreted as dirty talk. 

You chew the inside of your cheek. You’re faced with the tipping point, a pivotal decision laid out before you. You could walk away, feign innocence and pretend this never happened. Or…      

“Adrian,” you hum, gliding you fingers down his shoulder. You launch yourself from the edge of a knife and into the flames of the unknown below. Dangling your beating heart above his blunt teeth—you know he’ll bite down. You risk mouthing a kiss to the freckled skin over the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He jumps, bitting back a groan. “Tell me what’s going on.”   

It’s as if a dam cracks and bursts from his mouth. “Shit—my dick has never been this hard in my entire life. It’s so fucking unfair how pretty your voice is. ‘Specially when you say sweet shit to me—“

Adrian twists his head around and catches you off guard with a haphazard kiss. His glasses bump against your cheek. It’s brief due to the awkward angle, but fuck. It’s scalding—instantly addicting and leaving you craving for more. He kisses your jawline, hot breath fanning over your flushed skin. “Seriously. You could talk about anything and I’d get turned on—you ever think about being a phone girl? I’d call you all the time—“

You roll your eyes and slide your hand around his chest. Your fingers travel down his firm chest and down the muscled outline of his abdomen. Adrian’s words hiccup. You smirk. “Do you want something?” 

You can only see a bit of his face from this angle, pressed against his back, careful to avoid his freshly stitched wound. His chest contracts with a stuttered exhale. You hear him loud and clear as he opens his mouth, voice barely above a breath but still firm in nature.  “Yeah. Go lower—fuck, please go lower.”

Arousal ricochets through your veins. Slowly, your fingers whisper down the sharp protrusion of his hip bone to toy with is his boxers. A quick adjustment, and he’s bare enough to not hinder you. Your hand tickles down his navel, then wraps around his flushed cock. Both of Adrian’s hands instantly punch out to grab the couch in a death grip. He releases a tight, longing moan, and you feel almost as desperate as he sounds. You swallow—the tips of your fingers barely touch. He’s long too—the velvety skin sliding up his hardened cock as you glide your hand up to the tip. You roll the pad of your thumb over the leaking slit. Your palm comes away slick.

Thick and heavy in your hand, he’s already throbbing, pale chest heaving. “Oh, fuck—goddamn.”

Your tongue laves over his cherry red ear and later your teeth nip at the rounded cartilage. His hips are jumping to meet the warm pressure of your fist, but with a gentle coo, Adrian melts. “That’s it—there’s no rush.”

Your fingers rest gently along his pulsing shaft. You slide your thumb up to the tip, just barely angled to delicately brush up under his frenulum. Adrian shudders and makes a choking noise behind clenched teeth. “I take it back—you’re nothing like kettle corn. You’re like…fuck—I can’t even think right now.”

You start to slowly work the length of him and squeeze his cock a bit more firmly. You flatten your other palm over his stomach and trail it up to his chest, fingers finding his perked nipples. Adrian whines, cock twitching in your hand as you pinch his nipples between your finger and thumb. “You look so nice like this, Adrian.”  

“Ducky,” he whimpers. He pants into the crook of your neck. “I used to…I used to watch you through your window. You’re so fucking hot, I couldn’t help myself.” 

The admittance isn’t surprising. Everyone and their mom knows about Adrian’s long standing infatuation with you. “I know. You always wore that dumb sweatshirt—you looked like a goon.”

“Your brother got so mad,” Adrian gasps up at you, eyes tightly shut and handsome features screwed up in ecstasy. “It really threw the vibes off for the next D&D session—worth it though. You got a stellar ass.”

You bite your lip, cunt clenching between your legs, feeling oh so empty. Your wetness dampens the fabric of your underwear and it takes every ounce of your willpower not to swing your leg over his thighs and ride him. This is for Adrian. An apology of sorts. “So do you.” 

“Fuck,” he groans, slumping further against your chest. You fall into an easy pace of rolling your fist up and down his cock, eased by the precum dribbling over your knuckles. “Fuck, this feels so good—can we do this all the time?”

You nod and press kisses into his hairline and dip your head to nuzzle into his neck. You smirk and touch your lips to his unsuspecting throat and bite down upon his flesh right under his jaw. Adrian’s hands fly behind him to claw at your legs, his adam’s apple bobbing along the arching line of his throat as he groans and twists his head to the side. His cock jumps in your grip as you squeeze him at the base. “I’m gonna cum—Jesus Christ, you’re driving me fucking crazy. Usually it takes longer when I’m the one jerking myself off.” 

You chuckle and lave your tongue over the purple teethmarks you’ve created. You hold him like this, not budging an inch no matter how much he twitches and whines for you to bring him to his end. “Just breathe,” you encourage. He mellows out. “Such a good boy for me.” 

It’s a damn near impossible task to uncurl your fingers from Adrain’s cock—what with the way a long, pained whine leaves his chest. “No—please. I’m your good boy, right? Fuck, I’ll do anything for you—”

“Chill out,” you say, shoulders bouncing in a quiet laugh. “I’m gonna make this better for you.”

“Better?” Adrian scoffs, allowing you to slide out behind him and position his back against the couch cushions. “I don’t know what’s better than a sexy vet touching my dick—”  

You grab him by the cheeks and crash your lips onto his. Everything falls away—you’ve never gotten so lost in a kiss before. The tender space between you explodes in a symphony of golden light and childhood wishes.Your heart keeps missing beats and your hands cannot bring him close enough You both moan as he parts his lips, tenderly exploring the taste of your tongue. The overly sugary taste of a blue raspberry slushy lingers on his tongue—his favorite treat to have on Thursdays. The kiss overall is a little sloppy and unpracticed—drool stains your chin and sometimes your teeth clack together, but fuck. You don’t care. It’s sweet and addicting— 

His hands find your shoulders, pushing you back far enough so that he can see you. Fuck, he’s wrecked. Messy curls, teased by your clawing fingers hang over his forehead, a rosy flush over his skin, glasses fogged up in the bottom corners. You cup his cheek—he leans into your touch and plants a fleeting kiss over your palm. 

“You’re so pretty, y’know that?” You blurt—and it’s true. So devastatingly true. 

Adrian blinks. A wide, goofy grin splits across his face revealing his dimples. “I know, right? I’m basically an 80s Hollywood heartthrob.”

“You were born in the 90s,” you snicker, leading him into another kiss. You part and trail a lazy path full of kisses and flicks of your tongue down his toned body You slide to the floor, nestling between his spread legs. “What movie were you thinking?” 

You touch a tentative palm over his knee. Adrian’s tongue flicks over his bottom lip. “Die Hard—only the best Christmas movie there ever is—obviously.”

Tracks. 

You glide your palm over his inner thigh—Adrian’s inhale is sharp when your fingers meet the crease of where his thigh meets his groin. “Holy shit—are you gonna blow me?”

You huff, glad it’s finally clicked in his brain. “Yes, Adrian.” 

“Wicked.”

His leg jolts as your teeth descend over the meat of his inner thigh, little nips and fluttering kisses that trail up towards your prize. The tip of his cock is flushed a scarlet red, leaking and begging for your touch. There’s a light blue vein that runs on the underside of his cock and ends right below the head. Your thighs clench together.  

Adrian’s moan echoes loudly through the house as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks and swallow him down. His fingers aren’t gentle as they fist into your hair, like he’s trying to stave off the urge of shoving you down on him and fucking your mouth. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and whine, the ache in your jaw spreading up throughout the joints as you take him deeper, the tip brushing against the soft pallet of your soft throat. He is not a small man. Adrian’s legs twitch as he rolls his head back agains the couch. “Feels s’good—you’re so fucking good at giving head.”

Your muffled moan rattles through your vocal cords in response, the overworked tendons pulling at the added stress. Adrian’s babbling encouraging your drive to take him all the way—make him spiral into madness all in the name of you. 

Adrian whimpers his approval and rolls his hips, pushing the rest of himself into your mouth. Your nose brushes against his groin as he combs his shaking fingers through your hair, an inch away from imploding or cumming—maybe both.

You pull back, a burst of cool air rushing back into your lungs. You pump his cock, shinning with your saliva, and rest your head on his thigh. Adrian’s head tips forward, eyes hazy and pupils blown wide with arousal. His lips part, Adam’s apple bobbing. You smile. “Feel good?”

Adrian bobs his head. “Fuck yeah it does—I’m so fucking in love with you—I want your mouth on me all the time.”

You snicker and slip his cock back into your mouth. You take it slow this time—taking only half of him while your hand does the rest. Adrian rocks his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace. Saliva drips down his cock and over your hand, pooling onto the couch. You can’t find it in you to give a singular fuck—you just pray no one will pay any mind to it later.

Both your hands sweep up to explore the taught, flexing muscles of his thighs then around to the swell of his hips. Adrian swears, words slurring as you squeeze his hips, dragging him closer. Adrian murmurs your name, the pitch of his words reduced to an airy beg. Your eyes roll up to meet his half opened eyes. “Ah, fuck—I’m cumming—shit!”

You blink and swallow around him, grunting at the abrupt jolt of his hips. You can feel his cock twitching over you tongue. A couple more choppy thrusts and he’s gone. You rest the head of his cock on the bed of your tongue—his eyes screw shut, soft mouth hanging open as his hands tangle and twist in your hair. Adrian’s entire body shudders as warm streams of his release spurt against the roof of your mouth.

“Fuck—fuck,” Adrian hisses, arching his hips to chase after the last dregs of his pleasure. “You’re amazing—so fucking hot with my dick in your mouth—Christ.”

His release is thick and plentiful and dribbles out of your mouth and over his groin. You swallow it all. When the last few jittery rolls of his hips come to a complete stop, his chest heaves as he mutters out a litany of praise, his hands falling lax. You slip him out of your mouth, a proud smile lingering on your lips. 

The ache between your legs nearly hurts with how worked up you’ve gotten. Underwear soaked through and ruined. Fuck—this isn’t about you. You stumble to your feet—Adrian grabs your arm and wrenches you down to meet him in an obscene kiss. It’s wet, probing and uncaring that he can taste himself on your tongue. Sparks of raw energy, crackles through your abdomen as he pulls you onto his lap, devouring whatever you have to offer him. His forehead, humid with perspiration, rests on yours as his breath fans over your lips. 

Adrian’s hands find the swell of your ass and give the rounded globes a solicitous squeeze. “Your mouth is perfect for blowjobs—only mine though. I don’t really want to share you—I’ve had dibs on you since, like, middle school—“

You silence Adrian with a kiss. It does the trick. Yet, as Adrian moans into your mouth, kiss growing more heated, your willpower at denying yourself pleasure extinguishes like a candle to wind. You drop your mouth to the crook of his neck, bite at his throat while reaching for his stationary hand. Adrian allows you to drag his fingers to the crux of your thighs, he curses upon feeling your slickness. 

“Look how wet you got me, baby,” you whine into his ear. He shivers and runs his fingertips along the wet fabric—the pressure is torturous. It’s a shame he’s still soft and recovering from his previous orgasm. Fingers are well and good, but you’d prefer something thicker. An idea pops into your head. “Lemme ride your thigh.”

“Hell yeah,” Adrian agrees. He keeps his hands on any part of you he can reach as you adjust and slide your soaked panties off your legs. You straddle one of his thighs. “Who knew you were such a horndog, Ducky—it’s always the quiet ones, huh.” 

“You’re the horndog,” you mutter as a fierce blush heats your cheeks. He parts his lips, but you’re quicker on the draw. You stuff the fabric of your underwear into his mouth. His eyes widen. “Shut up—good boys are quiet.”

His groan is muffled by the fabric, eyes fluttering shut. With an irritated huff you plant one hand on his chest, the other against the back of the couch as you give your hips an experimental roll. The hard surface of his leg is instantly coated with your wet heat. Your teeth clamp down onto your bottom lip, your arousal is surging and overflowing your entire being as you receive the friction your body craves.

Your cunt drags over the rock solid muscle, squeaking every time Adrian bounces his leg. Bastard. Slowly, you careen into the edges of madness and your desire. Honey sweet and golden, you’d liver in this moment if you could. Your fluid movements are harshly interrupted as Adrian looses his patience. His large, calloused hands clamp over the swell of your hips, setting a rougher pace; brutal and choppy that’s got you reeling in a burst of dizzying ecstasy. You’re not doing much at this point—fuck—he’s forcing out your pleasure with each lecherous pull of your cunt against his thigh. You can feel your own sticky warmth coating his skin and giving away just how fucking wrecked you are.

Your head rolls back onto your shoulders as your eyes squeeze shut. “Adrian—this—fuck.”

The touch of his fingers against your aching clit sends an electric volt from the base of your spine to your brain. Holy shit. You never stop rocking back and forth against Adrian’s thigh, keening as Adrian’s index and middle finger act as the perfect toy to grind on. Your clit, swollen and throbbing catch on the digits and fuck—this feels so fucking good. 

You still as his two fingers slide past your clit and press at your entrance, circling around your clenching cunt. You whimper and fall forward into his chest, digging your nails into Adrian’s firm chest. He huffs through your panties still stuffed in his mouth.

“Making me feel so good, Adrian—fuck. Put your fingers in me.”

You don’t care that you sound desperate and fucked out. All you care about are those thick, calloused fingers pushing into your cunt. Your lower half is twitching, yearning for him as he finally does so. 

It doesn’t take you long—you’re more worked up than you thought. Adrian’s fingers are long and curl deliciously against that electric patch of nerves. It’s all he does for you, allowing you to fuck yourself onto the digits as his thumb rubs a patterned shape over your clit. He mumbles your name, distorted by the fabric.

Everything tightens up stiffer than a fucking rod of steel as your tumble off that aching cliff of white hot pleasure. It doesn’t start from your toes and steadily work its way up—no. It’s raw, sparking off like firecrackers and burning you from the inside out. Your core clamps down on his fingers, your thighs shaking as you curl inward as if he punched you in the fucking gut. It feels like he did. Shit—it feels like you were thrown into a vat of molten lava.

Your face is smooshed against his chest, involuntary tears pricking at your eyes as the last little waves of pleasure fan out and fry the rest of your nerves. You whine as he removes his hand from your pulsing core, reaching up to remove his makeshift gag to taste his arousal slick fingers. Adrian’s appreciative moan, rumbles thorough his chest. 

“Sit on my face next time,” he all but begs. “You taste so fucking good.” 

You breathe out a laugh. “Whatever you want, Adrian.”   

“I already told you,” he says matter of factly. “I want you."

You nuzzle into his neck, breathing in his scent. You press a kiss to his collarbone. He has a scar there, still pink. “You already have me, silly.” 

“Oh.” 

A rare, comfortable silence blankets the both of you. You draw patterns into his skin while he buries his nose into your hair and runs his hands down your back, still covered by your shirt. You can still feel the warmth of his palms. You try not to think of the dangers that come with loving him. This goofy, dangerous man living a second life, hungry mouth burning for a scrap of praise, blazing for a shard of love. To move inches from a bonfire is always a risk, but you have never been one to shy away from something that needs tending to. Clever, tender, hands that stitch up needing skin. You’ll always be his and he yours. It’s just how things go—how they have always been.      

Adrian shifts his arm and thumbs the lace on the seam of your underwear. “I’m keeping these.” 

Hm. 

[nelapanela94]

Hi beautiful, lovely souls!!

This Sunday on June 19th we celebrate father's day in my country, thus I decided (last minute) to write a few DadVi drabbles to post throughout the week. These are going to be set in Marley after the war.

Let the fluff swaddle you!!

t.w: fluff, hurt/comfort, angsty, Levi doubting of his parenting skills, pregnant reader.

❤️

The set of keys rattle as Levi yanks it out of his pocket and fits the blue one into the lock. It twists and clicks open.

Your heavy panting echoes down the hallway. He gazes at the staircase and your glowing puffy face comes in sight.

“A limping man beat you,” he huffs, and wedges open the door with his walking aid, casting a teasing haughty smile at you.

“You’re not the one carrying a baby Ackerman in your womb.” You scoff, rubbing a hand gently over your eight-months-pregnant belly. Your shoulders sag, one hand anchored to your waist. You suck in a deep breath, and snap a finger on Levi’s shoulder before coming in. Levi follows inside and the door thuds close behind him.

Finally, home. You and him in your cocoon, away from the crowded and lively streets. It’s Father’s Day, and restaurants, parks, and shopping malls are bursting at the seams.

A sigh whiffs off his lips.

He takes his hat off, hangs in on the coat hanger and shakes his head, running his fingers through. Then he turns around and spots you, already plopped down on the entryway cushioned bench, your purse dangling behind you from the hook on the wall.

You bend to take off your shoes, grunting, leaning over your belly to reach your feet.

“Tch. Let me do it.” He leaves his cane slanting against the bench and bends down on one knee, wincing and hissing at the stabbing wave of pain surging through his leg.

“Levi, I’ve told you, don’t push yourself.” You roll the eyes, lacing your fingers trough his hair, your fingertips felt like silk on his scalp. Ever since the moment you told him you were pregnant, he’s been so overprotective that sometimes you couldn’t breathe. Cooking, cleaning, doing groceries, plus running the tea shop. Such demand on himself was taking a toll on him.

The ankle straps slip free from the buckles and a drop of relief spread through your legs. Blood fizzes all the way to your toes. He slips your sandals off and you feel his fingers rub over the red marks where the strips of leather strangled your swollen feet.

“You know I’m pregnant, not sick.”

“That just means I have to take care of two now. Hopefully the brat won’t turn out as stubborn as their mom.” He presses a kiss on your knee and gazes up, meeting your eyes.

“Don’t call them brat.”

“What’s the point of having a brat of my own and not call them brat?”

Your flimsy caresses tickle the large scar that stretches from above his eye down to his chin. Remnants of war etched in his skin. Your thumb tugs down his bottom lip and he simpers.

“When will you tell me?” He muses and grips the rim of the bench for support to haul himself back to his feet.

“What?”

“Tch.” His eyes blank. He offers a hand; you take it, and he tugs you up. Your toes hammer the wooden floor. Levi snatches his cane and winds his left arm around you, pulling you close to him, and together, you trudge to your room.

“It was so nice from Oni, Gabi and Falco,” you mutter, tilting your head to look at him. "Taking us for lunch and celebrate Father's day."

“Yeah.” He gazes down, his lips curve into a forced smile.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just tired.”

You step into your bedroom, and Levi unhooks from you, heading to his side of the bed and sits down at the edge. He looks down to the left side of his chest and snorts.

The pin of the button badge snaps and Levi pries it off his shirt. ‘Soon to be Papa Levi!’ he reads and puts it on his nightstand. It must’ve been Gabi’s idea.

You cross the room toward the window and sweep the curtains open. In the afternoon, the sun slants in the opposite direction. Cottony clouds amble sluggishly in the cerulean blue sky.

A man around his fifties walks his dog in the park across the street. Peter. He lost his wife and children three years ago, during the war. His family was crushed to death during the rumbling, and he managed to survive for two days under the rubble until the rescue squad found him.

He's a recurrent customer at the teashop and lives in the building at the end of the street.

Your eyes droop, and a compassionate smile tugs at the corners of your lips. A stinging sensation pricks in your chest, and you look over your shoulder at Levi, who is wiggling off his shirt. The scars carved in his skin. Eternal reminders.

What if…

Your teeth bore into your lower lip.

You shake the what ifs away and wipe off a pricking tear with your knuckle. You turn your head back to the window and glide up the bottom sash and lock it in place. Your hair billows in the soft breeze, caressing your face.

“Hey.”

You spin around and stride to the bed, wafting a kiss to him, a smooching sound dribbles from your puckered lips. He's wearing an old navy blue tshirt.

You fling the sheets off your side of the bed, and you slip in, curling next to him.

His folded arm is tucked beneath his head, his good eye staring blankly at the ceiling.

“I love you.” You purr and drape an arm over his chest, snuggling your cheek on his shoulder. Your knee bent over his thigh. His fingers meander languidly over your upper arm.

“I love you too.” His eye flickers to you, and then back to wooden beams.

“What’s bugging you, my cinnamon roll?” You raise a brow in concern. Levi can’t hide from you. He knows you can read him well, dig past his dull steel gray eyes and soul.

“It’s just…” he exhales and shuffles onto his side to face you. “What if the baby doesn’t like me? What if they think I’m a monster? What if I’m not a good dad?” He holds his right hand before you, waggling his remaining fingers.

So that’s what’s been nagging him.

You’ve noticed the way kids stared at him. Some would shriek and lurk behind their parents’ legs; sometimes parents would rush them away or encourage them to look in another direction.

He does what he does best and pretends it doesn't hurt.

Levi shifts down and nuzzles his face on your shoulder, his toes holding captive yours, his hand sneaks under your dress and flips the skirt up to unveil your belly. You look at him soft-heartedly.

“They won’t think you’re a monster, Levi.” You wrap a curl of silky ebony hair around your finger, lazily toying with it. “The baby will love you, and they can’t be luckier to have the most caring and loving dad in the world.”

“But–“

You sweep away the tear streaming down his scarred cheek with your thumb. Your own tears well up in your eyes. He sniffs, nibbling on his salty lips.

“What if I’m not good enough?” His chest was heaving. Kenny abandoned me for not being good enough.

He clings to you in a hug, his tears seeping into your dress, and he burrows his face so don’t see him crying. A moist darker blue stain spreads over your shoulder, and the linen sticks to your flesh. His sobs hang in the room, and you let him unbosom what’s been twisting in his chest.

Humanity’s strongest soldier can cry too. And it’s ok. You told him the first time he shattered in your arms.

After a long, heavy sniffle, his sobs falter. Your palm warms his cheek. “Look at me,” you croon. His eye scoots to you and he gulps. “You’ll do a great job. And don’t forget we’re in this together, my sweet pie.” Your velvety fingers massage his head. “It’s ok to be scared. I’m scared too,” you susurrate. “But you have me and I have you, and together we can face anything. We’ve always have.”

He nods and flimsily caresses your belly. A new life, half you and half him blooming inside you. You and he created something together.

“I fucking love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too, Levi.” You pinch his nose between two knuckles and untangle from him, slipping off the bed.

“Where are you going?”

Levi hauls up into a sitting position, tilting his head to the side, and his gaze follows you to the closet. He watches you rummage through it, and seconds later you come out, lugging a bulky box draped in a shimmery golden wrapping paper that skims above your knees. A bone-white ribbon glued on the top.

Levi leaps of the bed and rushes to you. “What is this?” He doesn’t grant time for you to push it towards the bed. He kneels down and flips the dangling card. His gold band glints around his ring finger.

‘Happy Father’s day.’

He glances up to you. He rises and limps to fetch a chair for you. You sit and he crouches again, ignoring the flaring pain in his leg.

You fold your arms over your chest and shake your head. One leg crossed over the other.

“It’ll be the last time. I promise.”

“You said that the other day.” You scoff.

His fingers slit under the tapes, deliberately, and your foot swings in the air, impatiently.

You would’ve ripped it off already.

“Tea…set?” he mumbles for himself, and furrows his eyebrows, ’44 piece tea set’ he reads, then his eyes flick to you.

You lean forward, hands grappled at the rim of the chair.

“I know she won’t be able to play until she’s three…”

She?

“But when I spotted it in the toy store I saw you and her having tea parties in the living room and… Levi?”

He's staring at you, eyes wide, his left pupil dilated, quailing, beaming with white sparkling specks, and that’s when it strikes you like a lightning bolt.

You slap a hand over your mouth, mentally cursing at yourself. You weren’t revealing the baby’s gender. It was going to be a surprise for Levi until the day she was born.

“The brat is a girl? I’m having… we’re having a girl?” his voice quavers. Flabbergasted, he drags himself to you on his knees, and wraps his arms around you, pressing his cheek on your belly.

You let out a deep sigh at your mindlessness and shove your fingers in his hair.

“Yes, Levi, it’s a girl.” You giggle, your forefinger lingers down along his scar to under his chin, and tips his head up to you.

“A girl,” he mutters again as if he’s still trying to believe it. Tear-fringed eyelashes glitter as he droopily stares at you, one corner of his lips quirks up. Levi stands, his hands rest on your shoulders, and he reels forward, crashing his mouth on yours, telling you in a gentle kiss what he can’t put into words.

His lips taste like salt, yours like honey. Your lips always taste like honey. A moan wrings off your throat and he inches back. His palm settles on your face, stroking your cheek with the thumb, and your hand swallows his.

“Thank you,” he spews, chin trembling, “thank you, Y/N.”

For making me the happiest man in the world.

I promise to protect her as I promised to protect you.

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